H ISTORICAL N ARRATIVES AND C HRISTIAN

IDENTITY ON A EUROPEAN PERIPHERY

 MEDIEVAL TEXTS AND CULTURES OF NORTHERN EUROPE

Editorial Board under the auspices of the

Centre for Medieval Studies, University of Hull

Wendy Scase, Chair, University of Birmingham

Adrian P. Tudor, Secretary, University of Hull

John H. Arnold, Birkbeck College, University of London

Julia Barrow, University of Nottingham
Lesley A. Coote, University of Hull
David Crouch, University of Hull
Paul Hardwick, Leeds Trinity and All Saints
Alan Hindley, University of Hull

Advisory Board

Andrew Ayton, University of Hull

David Bagchi, University of Hull
Keith Busby, University of Wisconsin–Madison
Olle Ferm, Stockholms universitet
Wim Hüsken, Stedelijke Musea Mechelen
Gerhard Jaritz, Central European University, Budapest
Peter Meredith, University of Leeds
Veronica O’Mara, University of Hull
Nigel F. Palmer, St Edmund Hall, Oxford
Brigitte Schludermann, University of Hull
Michel Zink, Collège de France, Membre de l’Institut

Previously published volumes in this series are listed at the back of this book

VOLUME 26
H ISTORICAL N ARRATIVES AND C HRISTIAN
IDENTITY ON A EUROPEAN PERIPHERY

Early History Writing in Northern, East-Central,

and Eastern Europe (c. 1070–1200)

Edited by

Ildar H. Garipzanov

H
F
 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Historical narratives and Christian identity on a European periphery : early history writing
in Northern, East-Central, and Eastern Europe (c. 1070–1200). – (Medieval texts and
cultures of Northern Europe ; v. 26) 1. Historiography – Scandinavia – History – To
1500. 2. Historiography – Europe, Eastern – History – To 1500. 3. Historiography –
Europe, Central – History – To 1500. 4. Christianity and literature – Scandinavia –
History – To 1500. 5. Christianity and literature – Europe, Eastern – History – To
1500. 6. Christianity and literature – Europe, Central – History – To 1500. 7.
Identification (Religion) – History – To 1500. 8. Christian literature, Latin (Medieval
and modern) – Europe – History and criticism. 9. Literature and history – Europe –
History – To 1500.
I. Series II. Garipzanov, Ildar H.
809.9'3382'09021-dc22

ISBN-13: 9782503533674

© 2011, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.

D/2011/0095/218
ISBN: 978-2-503-53367-4

Printed in the E.U. on acid-free paper

 CONTENTS

List of Abbreviations vii

List of Contributors xi

Introduction. 1
History Writing and Christian Identity on a European Periphery
ILDAR H. GARIPZANOV

1. Christianity and Paganism in Adam of Bremen’s Narrative 13

ILDAR H. GARIPZANOV

Part One. Early Scandinavian Historical Narratives in Latin

2. Two Early Twelfth-Century Views of Denmark’s Christian Past: 33

Ailnoth and the Anonymous of Roskilde
MICHAEL H. GELTING

3. Historia Norwegie and Sven Aggesen: Two Pioneers in Comparison 57

LARS BOJE MORTENSEN

4. Theodoricus Monachus: 71
The Kingdom of Norway and the History of Salvation
SVERRE BAGGE
 Part Two. Early Scandinavian Historical Narratives in Old Norse

5. The Two Ages in Ágrip af Nóregs konunga so3 gum 93

THEODORE M. ANDERSSON

6. Íslendingabók: The Creation of an Icelandic Christian Identity 111

ELSE MUNDAL

7. Whetting the Appetite for a Vernacular Literature: 123

The Icelandic Hungrvaka
JONAS WELLENDORF

Part Three. Early Historical Narratives in East-Central Europe

8. A New Chosen People? 145

Gallus Anonymus’s Narrative about Poland and its Rulers
ZBIGNIEW DALEWSKI

9. Christian Identity in the Chronicle of the Czechs by Cosmas of Prague 167

JÁNOS M. BAK

10. ‘More paganismo’: Reflections on the Pagan and Christian Past 183
in the Gesta Hungarorum of the Hungarian Anonymous Notary
LÁSZLÓ VESZPRÉMY

Part Four. Early Historical Narratives in Eastern Europe

11. Christian Chronology, Universal History, 205

and the Origin of Chronicle Writing in Rus’
OLEKSIY P. TOLOCHKO

12. Pagan Past and Christian Identity in the Primary Chronicle 229
DONALD OSTROWSKI

13. Christian Identity in the Early Novgorodian Annalistic Writing 255

TIMOFEY V. GUIMON

Index 277
 ABBREVIATIONS

Adam, Gesta Adam of Bremen, Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae

pontificum, ed. by Bernhard Schmeidler, MGH SRG, 2
(Hannover: Hahn, 1917).
Aggesen, Brevis historia Sven Aggesen, Brevis historia regum Dacie, ed. by
Martin Clarentius Gertz, in SMHD, I, 94–141.
Ágrip Ágrip af Nóregskonungaso3 gum: A Twelfth-Century
Synoptic History of the Kings of Norway, ed. and trans.
by Matthew J. Driscoll (London: Viking Society for
Northern Research, 1995).
Ailnoth, Gesta Ailnoth, Gesta Swenomagni regis et filiorum eius et
passio gloriosissimi Canuti regis et martyris, in Vitae
sanctorum Danorum, ed. by Martin Clarentius Gertz
(Copenhagen: Gad, 1908–12), pp. 77–136.
Christianization Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy:
Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus’ c. 900–1200, ed.
by Nora Berend (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2007).
Chronicon Roskildense Chronicon Roskildense, ed. by Martin Clarentius Gertz,
in SMHD, I, 14–33.
Cosmas, Chronica Die Chronik der Böhmen von Cosmas von Prag, ed. by
Bertold Bretholz and W. Weinberger, MGH SRG ns,
2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1923; repr. Munich: MGH,
1980).
viii Abbreviations

DD Diplomatarium Danicum, 4th series (Copenhagen,

1938–2002).
Gallus, Cronicae Galli Anonymi Cronicae et gesta ducum sive principum
Polonorum, ed. by Karol Maleczyński, Monumenta
Poloniae Historica n. s., 2 (Cracow: Polska Akademia
Umieje3 tności, 1952).
Gesta Hungarorum Die Gesta Hungarorum des anonymen Notars: Die
älteste Darstellung der ungarischen Geschichte, ed. by
Gabriel Silagi (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1991).
GPP Gesta principum Polonorum: The Deeds of the Princes of
the Poles, ed. and trans. by Paul W. Knoll and Frank
Schaer, Central European Medieval Texts, 3 (Budapest:
Central European University Press, 2003).
Historia Norwegie Historia Norwegie, ed. by Inger Ekrem and Lars Boje
Mortensen, trans. by Peter Fisher (Copenhagen:
Museum Tusculanum, 2003).
Hungrvaka Biskupa sögur, II, ed. by Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Íslenzk
fornrit, 16 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag,
2002), pp. 1–43.
Íslendingabók Íslendingabók, ed. by Jakob Benediktsson, Íslenzk forn-
rit, 1. 1 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968),
pp. 3–28.
Making of Christian Myths
The Making of Christian Myths in the Periphery of
Latin Christendom (c. 1000–1300), ed. by Lars Boje
Mortensen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum,
2006).
MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica
MGH AA Auctores antiquissimi
MGH SRG Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum
MGH SRG ns Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, nova series
MGH SS Scriptores (in folio)
Abbreviations ix

PSRL Polnoje sobranije russkikh letopisej, 44 vols to date (St

Petersburg, Leningrad, and Moscow: Akademija Nauk
SSSR; Moscow: Jazyki slavianskoj kul’tury, 1908–).
PVL The Povest’ vremennykh let: An Interlinear Collation,
comp. and ed. by Donald Ostrowski, 3 vols, Harvard
Library of Early Ukrainian Literature, 10 (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute, 2003).
SMHD Scriptores minores historiæ Danicæ medii ævi, ed. by
Martin Clarentius Gertz, 2 vols (Copenhagen: Gad,
1917–22; repr. Copenhagen: Selskabet for Udgivelse af
Kilder til Dansk Historie, 1970).
SRH Scriptores rerum Hungaricarum tempore ducum
regumque stirpis Arpadianae gestarum, ed. by Emericus
Szentpétery, 2 vols (Budapest: Regia Universitas,
1937–38).
Theodoricus, Historia Theodoricus Monachus, Historia de antiquitate regum
norwagiensium, in Monumenta Historica Norvegiae:
Latinske kildeskrifter til Norges historie i middelalderen,
ed. by Gustav Storm (Kristiania: Brøgger, 1880; repr.
Oslo: Aas & Wahl, 1973), pp. 1–68.
 CONTRIBUTORS

Theodore M. Andersson is Professor Emeritus of Germanic Studies at Indiana

University, Bloomington. He has specialized in Norse-Icelandic studies and early
German literature, and is currently working on Carolingian poetry. His most recent
book is The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280) (2006).
Sverre Bagge is Professor of Medieval History and Director of the Centre for
Medieval Studies at the University of Bergen. He has published extensively on
medieval historiography and political thought and Scandinavian medieval history,
including Kings, Politics, and the Right Order of the World in German
Historiography c. 950–1150 (2002) and From Viking Stronghold to Christian
Kingdom (2010). He was awarded the Møbius Prize 2008.
János M. Bak is Professor Emeritus of Medieval History at the University of
British Columbia, Vancouver, and the Central European University, Budapest. He
has worked extensively on medieval kingship and Central European medieval
history. He is currently one of the general editors of the Medieval Laws of Hungary
and of the series ‘Central European Medieval Texts’, which will include a bilingual
edition of the Chronicle of Cosmas of Prague.
Zbigniew Dalewski is Professor of Medieval History at the Institute of History of
the Polish Academy of Sciences, Warsaw, and at the University of Bialystok. He
specializes in the issues of political culture and historiography in medieval East-
Central Europe. His publications include Ritual and Politics: Writing the History
of Dynastic Conflict in Medieval Poland (2008).
Ildar H. Garipzanov is Senior Researcher at the Centre for Medieval Studies, Uni-
versity of Bergen, where he runs the research project ‘The “Forging” of Christian
Identity in the Northern Periphery’ (2007–12). He has wide research interests in
xii Contributors

early medieval European history and the social and religious history of Scandinavia
in the period 750–1150, and authored The Symbolic Language of Authority in the
Carolingian World (2008).
Michael H. Gelting is Senior Research Archivist at the Danish National Archives
(Rigsarkivet) in Copenhagen and Professor of Scandinavian Studies at the Uni-
versity of Aberdeen. His current research concentrates on the history of medieval
Denmark from the tenth to the fourteenth centuries, especially legal history.
Among his publications is a commented Danish translation of the Chronicle of
Roskilde (2002).
Timofey V. Guimon is Senior Researcher at the Institute of Universal History of
the Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow. He specializes in medieval chronicle
studies, with a particular focus on early Rus’ and Anglo-Saxon chronicle writing,
which is the main topic of his forthcoming monograph Istoriopisanie rannesred-
nevekovoi Anglii i Drevnei Rusi: Sravnitel’noe issledovanie (History writing in early
medieval England and early Rus’: a comparative study) (2011).
Lars Boje Mortensen is Professor of Ancient and Medieval Cultural History at the
University of Southern Denmark, Odense, and Professor II in Medieval Latin at
the University of Bergen. He is presently a co-organizer of the major international
collaborative project ‘Literary Interfaces of Medieval European Societies’. He has
published in the fields of medieval Latin philology and the history of medieval
learning and literature, and co-edited a bilingual edition of Historie Norwegie
(2003).
Else Mundal is Professor of Old Norse Philology at the Centre for Medieval
Studies, University of Bergen. Her main areas of research are Old Norse saga
literature, Eddic and skaldic poetry, Old Norse mythology, the relationship between
oral tradition and written literature, and the impact of Christianization on Old
Norse culture. She has published widely within all these fields.
Donald Ostrowski is Research Advisor in Social Sciences and Lecturer in History
at Harvard University’s Extension School. With research interests in the textual
and cultural history of Kievan and Moscovite Rus’, his publications include The
Povest’ vremennykh let: An Interlinear Collation and Paradosis (2003).
Oleksiy P. Tolochko is Director of the Center for Kievan Rus’ Studies at the
Institute of Ukrainian History, National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, Kiev.
His research has addressed various topics of medieval and early modern history of
Eastern Europe. His most recent book is Kratkaia redaktsiia Pravdy Russkoi:
Contributors xiii

proiskhozhdenie teksta (The Short Version of ‘Pravda Ruskaia’: the origin of the
text) (2010).
László Veszprémy is Director of the Institute of Military History, Budapest. His
research interests lie in the field of military history and Latin historiography and
palaeography. He has co-edited several Central European medieval texts, most
recently a bilingual edition of The Deeds of the Hungarians of the Hungarian
Anonymous Notary (2010).
Jonas Wellendorf is Research Fellow at the Centre for Medieval Studies, Uni-
versity of Bergen. He is especially interested in interplays between vernacular and
Latin literatures and languages in the Scandinavian Middle Ages. His publications
deal with medieval Scandinavian literature, mythology, and conceptions of the past,
and include Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition (Christian visionary
literature in Old Norse tradition) (2009).
 Introduction

H ISTORY W RITING AND

C HRISTIAN IDENTITY ON A E UROPEAN P ERIPHERY

Ildar H. Garipzanov

T
he Northern, East-Central, and Eastern European realms officially con-
verted to Christianity during the tenth and early eleventh centuries; in
practice this meant the conversion of kings, princes, and other leading
figures. Christian identity, affiliated in these early stages with the powerful, became
a social category that structured the recently converted societies along new lines of
division and collaboration. In this early period of Christianization, many people
may have sought conversion, and hence a new form of religious identification,
because of religion’s role in interpersonal social networks: the hubs of Christian
networks — such as the residential halls of kings and the high aristocracy, episcopal
centres, and monasteries — were also the centres of social power. Being linked to
high social status and political power, Christian networks fostered in-group
commitment and provided a strong degree of support for this new religious
identity in society at large.
For people — both clergy and lay elite — involved in these networks, Christian
rituals and written and liturgical discourses were directed towards defining and
redefining in-group Christian identification and its juxtaposition with out-groups
such as pagans, Jews, or deviant Christians. The first Christian historical texts
produced in these countries played an important role in this process of identity
formation, although the narrative strategies they employed often varied consid-
erably. Many of those early works tended to construct a dichotomy of Christians
versus Others, depicting the latter in negative terms; thus, reading audiences would
associate themselves with a positively described Christian identity and reaffirm
such self-identification. Some early Christian narratives written on the north-
eastern periphery of medieval Europe presented this dichotomy as divided by space
2 Ildar H. Garipzanov

or time — the glorious Christian present replacing the ignominious heathen past.
Another strategy was to relegate the ‘pagan’ period to a level of no historical im-
portance or to omit it altogether and focus on the converting efforts of the first
Christian rulers and the time thereafter. Some narratives defined Christian
identity in institutional or national terms and relegated hostile neighbours, ‘bad’
Christians, or Jews to the role of the Others. But even those authors who presented
a particular ‘nation’ as the driving force of their narratives described them, first and
foremost, as Christian ‘nations’.1 Furthermore, many early Christian narrators
wrote their works close to the centres of political power as loyal servants of ruling
dynasties, and dynastic loyalty led some writers to take a more positive view of a
particular dynasty’s pagan past. Still, such narratives emphasized the Christian
nature of ruling dynasties and their proximity to the Lord. Albeit diverse in their
narrative strategies, the early historical works from the north-eastern periphery of
Christian Europe can be studied together as typologically similar texts: regardless
of the languages used, their clerical authors were writing local pasts into the
established Christian master-narrative and presenting their regions, ‘nations’, and
ruling dynasties as immanent elements of the City of God.
The surviving early historical narratives in Northern, East-Central, and Eastern
Europe were composed during the twelfth century, usually a century or more after
the official conversions. The official conversion of Denmark took place in the mid-
tenth century, and the earliest Danish historical narratives, Ailnoth’s text on King
Swenomagnus and St Canute (c. 1110–20) and the Chronicle of Roskilde (c. 1138),
were written more than a century and a half later. The same time span divides the
earliest Christian historical texts in Norway — the Historia Norwegie, Ágrip, and
the history by Theodoricus Monachus — from the Christianizing efforts of Olav
Tryggvason (995–1000) and St Olav (1015–30). Although Íslendingabók was
written earlier (between 1122 and 1133) than these Norwegian narratives, it ap-
peared more than a century after the Icelanders officially accepted Christianity in
the year 999/1000. The chronicles of Gallus Anonymus and the Primary Chronicle
appeared in the 1110s, more than a century after the official conversion, corre-
spondingly, in Poland (in the last third of the tenth century) and early Rus’ (988).
The chronicle of Cosmas of Prague was written c. 1119–25, more than two cen-
turies after Bohemia was converted. Thus, these historical narratives were written
many generations after the conversions, when actual memories of these acts had
already become blurred and elusive. These narratives therefore reflected and

1
Cf. Norbert Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung im Europa der ‘nationes’: Nationalgeschichtliche
Gesamtdarstellung im Mittelalter, Münstersche Historische Forschung, 8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995).
HISTORY WRITING AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 3

actively reshaped the remembrance of the distant past within twelfth-century audi-
ences, and this dynamic process of the reconfiguration of the past was conditioned
by various twelfth-century historical contexts and concomitant literary culture.2
The Christian historical narratives selected for this volume can also be viewed
as typologically different from the second wave of history writing in these lands. In
the second stage, historical writers such as Saxo Grammaticus in Denmark,
Wincenty Kadlubek in Poland, and Snorri Sturluson in Iceland developed a
different attitude towards the pre-Christian past, tending to exonerate its non-
Christian features, and thus incorporated glorious pagan times into their texts in
a romantic style similar to that of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Lars Boje Mortensen
has suggested that this historiographic change took place in Hungary around 1200,
in Denmark c. 1170, and in Norway in the early thirteenth century, which suggests
the year 1200 as an approximate dividing line for such a change in Northern, East-
Central, and Eastern Europe.3 Of course, this literary shift could occur in a
particular country of the north-eastern periphery slightly earlier or later, depending
on the time of initial conversion and hence the degree to which a local society and
its written culture was affected by Christianization and historical traditions from
the core regions of Christian Europe. The discussion of some narratives in this
volume — such as those by Cosmas of Prague, the Hungarian Anonymous Notary,
and Sven Aggesen — demonstrates this variation quite clearly.
The contributions to this volume, whilst discussing these constructions of social
memory and processes of remembrance, address how classical and biblical models,
historical narratives from the central regions of medieval Europe, and earlier hagio-
graphic works informed the composition and structure of the texts themselves. Such
an approach allows for a better picture of how early Christian historical discourse
was transmitted across the north-eastern periphery of medieval Europe and how
the literary cultures of neighbouring Christian centres influenced that process.
This approach also allows us to overcome established divisions in the treatment
of the early historical narratives written in these three regions. These early narra-
tives have been traditionally studied separately within different historiographic
traditions. Early Scandinavian historical texts have been studied in connection

2
On the interplay between the text and social context, see especially Gabrielle M. Spiegel, The
Past as Text: The Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Uni-
versity Press, 1997), especially chaps 1 and 6 (pp. 3–28 and 99–110).
3
Lars Boje Mortensen, ‘Sanctified Beginnings and Mythopoietic Moments: The First Wave
of Writing on the Past in Norway, Denmark, and Hungary, c. 1000–1230’, in Making of Christian
Myths, pp. 247–73 (pp. 259–60).
4 Ildar H. Garipzanov

with the historical discourse of Western Europe, as have the early narratives in
East-Central Europe. By contrast, the early historical texts in early Rus’ have been
mainly analysed within the framework of Byzantine and Slavonic literary cultures.
Furthermore, scholarly works on early history writing in those regions have
been shaped by different methodological premises. Recent studies of early his-
torical narratives in early Scandinavia and East-Central Europe demonstrate a clear
awareness of new concepts developed by literary scholars. An illustrative example
of this new trend is the collective volume The Making of Christian Myths in the
Periphery of Latin Christendom, edited by Lars Boje Mortensen, which approaches
early Scandinavian and East-Central European historical and hagiographic works
as literary foundational stories (hence myths) for early Christian kingdoms in those
regions.4 Methodological developments of this kind have had less of an effect on
Eastern European works which discuss early history writing in Kievan Rus’; most
of these are still shaped by the traditional tenets of Russian ‘textology’ 5 and have
been based on the assumption that extensive historical narratives appeared sud-
denly soon after the conversion of Kievan Rus’ (988). Scholars working within this
tradition thus have spent much energy reconstructing hypothetical historical
works of the eleventh century and have been less inclined towards a literary analysis
of the earliest surviving historical texts composed in the early twelfth century.
Hence, a comparative study applying similar methodological approaches to the be-
ginnings of history writing in Kievan Rus’, East-Central Europe, and Scandinavia
may help to overcome existing historiographic discrepancies.
Finally, following the works of Hayden White, the interplay between narra-
tivity and history writing and the nature of the historical narrative have become
topics much discussed in historiographical studies, even though his insistence that
a text requires a moralizing framework and closure in order to count as ‘narrative’
has been rejected by most scholars working with medieval historical texts.6

4
For a strong appeal to study medieval hagiographic and historical texts as basically the same
kind of narratives — at least prior to the twelfth century — see Felice Lifshitz, ‘Beyond Positivism
and Genre: “Hagiographical Texts” as Historical Narrative’, Viator, 25 (1994), 95–113.
5
For more details, see Donald Ostrowski, ‘Introduction’, in PVL, I, pp. xvii–lxxiii (pp. xlv–liii).
6
Hayden White, ‘The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality’, Critical Inquiry,
7. 1 (1980), 5–27; Louis O. Mink, ‘Everyman his or her Own Annalist’, Critical Inquiry, 7. 4
(1981), 777–83; Marilyn Robinson Waldman, ‘“The Otherwise Unnoteworthy Year 711”: A
Reply to Hayden White’, Critical Inquiry, 7. 4 (1981), 784–92; Hayden White, ‘The Narrativi-
zation of Real Events’, Critical Inquiry, 7. 4 (1981), 793–98; Roger Chartier, ‘Four Questions for
Hayden White’, in On the Edge of the Cliff, trans. by Lydia G. Cochrane (Baltimore: John Hopkins
HISTORY WRITING AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 5

Furthermore, textual scholars have also rejected White’s distinction between

proper historical narratives and ‘less developed’ historical forms like annals and
chronicles; as Sarah Foot puts it, ‘if sets of annals are read entire […], they convey
significant narratives’.7 White’s concept of narrative was further questioned in the
recent volume Narrative and History in the Early Medieval West, edited by Eliza-
beth M. Tyler and Ross Balzaretti.8 Also, interestingly, the editors and contributors
to that volume deal with a much wider range of texts — not only with saints’ lives,
but also with charters and poetic works9 — than one might expect if following the
classic works on medieval historiography, such as R. W. Southern’s essays on ‘As-
pects of the European Tradition of Historical Writing’.10 Yet such a broader scope
allows some of the volume’s authors to look at the nature of narrativity within a
broader written–oral continuum.
The present volume follows a more traditional distinction between the forms
of historical narrative: it limits itself to histories, chronicles, and annals11 (and in
some cases relevant hagiographic works).12 What makes it less conventional is a

University Press, 1996), pp. 28–38 and 169–70; Hayden White, ‘A Response to Professor Char-
tier’s Four Questions’, Storia della Storiografia, 27 (1995), 63–70; and Nancy Partner, ‘Hayden
White: The Form of the Content’, History and Theory, 37 (1998), 162–72.
7
Sarah Foot, ‘Finding the Meaning of the Form: Narratives in Annals and Chronicles’, in
Writing Medieval History, ed. by Nancy Partner (London: Hodder, 2005), pp. 88–108 (p. 102).
8
Narrative and History in the Early Medieval West, ed. by Elizabeth M. Tyler and Ross
Balzaretti, Studies in the Early Middle Ages, 16 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006).
9
See especially contributions by Ross Balzaretti and Sarah Foot on charters, Catherine Cubitt
on oral stories, and Elizabeth Tyler and Judith Jesch on poetry.
10
History and Historians: Selected Papers of R. W. Southern, ed. by Robert J. Bartlett (Oxford:
Blackwell, 2004), pp. 11–83.
11
The question whether a meaningful distinction between annals and chronicles can be made
is less important for the present volume. On the problematic nature of such a distinction, see David
Dumville, ‘What Is a Chronicle?’, in The Medieval Chronicle II: Proceedings of the 2nd International
Conference on the Medieval Chronicle, Driebergen/Utrecht 16–21 July 1999, ed. by Erik Kooper,
Costerus New Series, 144 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002), pp. 1–27.
12
Many contributions in Making of Christian Myths emphasize the importance of the earliest
hagiographic narratives for early history writing on the north-eastern periphery of Latin Christen-
dom. This volume does not question this point, and its chapters shall be viewed in close relation
with the above-mentioned collection and a more focused discussion of some relevant early
hagiographic works in Saints and their Lives on the Periphery: Veneration of Saints in Scandinavia
and Eastern Europe (c. 1000–1200), ed. by Haki Antonsson and Ildar H. Garipzanov, Cursor
Mundi, 9 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010).
6 Ildar H. Garipzanov

choice of textual evidence less familiar to English-speaking academia. This volume

presents the first comprehensive overview of the main historical narratives created
in Northern, East-Central, and Eastern Europe in the twelfth century, with each
chapter providing a concise introduction to the narrative in question. At the same
time, the volume is much more than a digest of various narratives. Despite having
been written in such different languages as Latin, Old Norse, and Old Church
Slavonic, these texts played similar roles in the formulation of — and reflection
upon — Christian identities for their audiences in the lands recently converted to
Christianity. The contributors to this volume, whilst employing a variety of meth-
odological premises, all contemplate the extent to which this identity formation
affected the nature of narrativity in the early historical works and their dynamics.
By doing so, the authors intend to offer a comparative study of early history writing
in the above-mentioned regions of medieval Europe.

In the first essay of this collection, Ildar Garipzanov deals with the History of the
Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen by Adam of Bremen, traditionally evoked in the
context of early history writing in Scandinavia. Garipzanov provides an overview
of the specific historical contexts within which this specimen of gesta episcoporum
was written and argues that Adam’s narrative centres on a dramatic confrontation
between paganism and Christianity and may have reflected a millennialist
expectation of this confrontation’s ultimate resolution in the near future. The
dramatic nature of Adam’s narrative was partly due to his institutional Christian
identity linked to the archbishopric of Hamburg-Bremen and its northern mission,
which was, in Adam’s eyes, close to completion. This institutional aspect hardly
appealed to the first Christian narrators in Scandinavia, although many of them
quarried his work for helpful historical data; even the genre of Adam’s work could
be occasionally imitated (in Iceland in particular) but not, however, his agenda.
This kind of adaptive use is also found with the major surviving Latin narratives
from twelfth-century Scandinavia, discussed in the first part of this volume.
Michael Gelting offers a comparative study of the two earliest narratives from early
twelfth-century Denmark, Ailnoth’s work on St Canute and the anonymous
Chronicle of Roskilde, and discusses particular historical contexts which triggered
the writing of both texts. These two narratives are focused on the Christian period,
with the preceding pagan past left in oblivion. Because of this conscious
suppression of the memory of the pagan past — which Gelting considers a general
phenomenon in twelfth-century Denmark — its history is presented as nothing
but a Christian history, although the two narratives do this in different ways:
Ailnoth drastically shortens this Christian past by focusing on the history of King
HISTORY WRITING AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 7

Sven II and his sons, while the chronicler of Roskilde, by contrast, extends it as far
back as possible to discredit Hamburg-Bremen’s claim to metropolitan authority
over the Danish church. Thus Gelting emphasizes that, in spite of the dependence
of the Chronicle of Roskilde on Adam of Bremen’s text in terms of historical evi-
dence, its anonymous author rejected Adam’s institutional agenda altogether.
Lars Boje Mortensen presents a comparative study of two historical narratives
written in Denmark and Norway in the second half of the twelfth century, the
Short History of the Kings of Denmark by Sven Aggesen and the anonymous His-
toria Norwegie, in which the pagan past was already incorporated within the
corresponding national narrative for the first time. On the other hand, paramount
Christian events such as the martyrdoms of the two Olavs in Norway and of the
two Canutes in Denmark still constitute the crucial events of corresponding local
histories, and it was this Christian model that influenced local vernacular history-
writing in the thirteenth century. With these two features, Aggesen’s history and
the Historia Norwegie are symptomatic of a twelfth-century Scandinavian discourse
that had to relate the local past to universal history. Mortensen links the two works
with local ecclesiastical centres and emphasizes that both narratives were ‘institu-
tional products’ written for insiders: tiny intellectual elites. This factor led to a very
thin transmission history of each text, which suggests that a number of similar texts
with limited circulation might have perished before the modern age.
Sverre Bagge discusses The Ancient History of the Norwegian Kings by Theodo-
ricus Monachus and the narrator’s awareness of a clear distinction between
hagiography and history in the late twelfth century. Theodoricus consciously wrote
the latter and tried to follow the contemporary standards of political history. Bagge
also analyses the role of biblical simile and some classical and medieval models in
this process. Theodoricus was affiliated with the monastery of St Victor in Paris,
and its library provided him with many models to follow, including Siegebert of
Gembloux and Hugh of St Victor. Furthermore, similar to Mortensen’s discussion
of the concurrent Scandinavian historical narratives, Bagge considers the sections
dealing with the reigns of the first Christian kings of Norway — Olav Tryggvason
and St Olav — crucial for Theodoricus’s text, and provides a close textual analysis
of the methods and techniques used by the narrator to weave the history of
Norway into the narrative of salvation.
The second part of the volume presents the earliest historical narratives written
in Scandinavia in Old Norse. Theodore Andersson demonstrates that the impor-
tance of the two Olavs — noticeable in the twelfth-century Norwegian historical
works — is typical of Ágrip (a Twelfth-Century Synoptic History of the Kings of Nor-
way) too; and he explains this literary fixation on the kings by suggesting that their
8 Ildar H. Garipzanov

conversion efforts first became the subject of historical writing at the time when
Ágrip — as well as the Historia Norwegie and Theodoricus Monachus’s history —
was written. Andersson also emphasizes Ágrip’s distinction between a wicked
heathen age and a superior Christian age and argues that this textual model of the
two successive stages — earlier exemplified by Orosius’s history — must have been
easily available to the cleric authoring Ágrip and could have suggested to him how
the succession of Norwegian kings might be organized into a narrative form.
Else Mundal explores the earliest surviving text in Old Norse from Iceland,
Íslendingabók, written by the priest Ari the Wise. Mundal notes that, even though
the title of the book indicates the history of Iceland and the Icelanders as the main
topic (hence some chapters describe such secular matters as the settlement in Ice-
land and the establishment of Icelandic legal and administrative institutions), the
text nonetheless centres on the Christianization of Iceland and the history of the
bishops in Skálholt; Adam of Bremen’s history might have provided Ari with a
useful model. Furthermore, Mundal argues that the story of the official conversion
in 999/1000 constitutes a climax in the narrative and provides a clear watershed
dividing pagan and Christian times. Mundal argues that the narrative focus on
conversion was due to Ari’s agenda: in Íslendingabók, he attempted to write the
Icelandic past into Christian history and thus to define an Icelandic identity first
and foremost as the identity of a Christian people led by their bishops.
The latter aspect was further developed in a later Icelandic text written at the
see of Skálholt around 1200, namely Hungrvaka, which Jonas Wellendorf discusses
in the next chapter. This pecular text was the first gesta episcoporum in the vernac-
ular and the only one in Old Norse. Moreover, Hungrvaka is the only surviving
synoptic history of bishops in Old Norse, and as such it can be compared to Ágrip.
In both texts, the narrative plots deal with leaders of ‘independent nations’ —
kings in Ágrip and the spiritual and semi-royal leaders of the Icelanders (their
bishops) in Hungrvaka. Wellendorf argues that Adam of Bremen’s narrative served
as a literary model for the Icelandic text, but that this imitation was mainly due to
especially tight institutional links between the bishopric of Skálholt and northern
Germany. Similar to the gesta episcoporum from Saxony, the anonymous author of
Hungrvaka communicates to his readers an institutional Christian identity, one
connected to the Church of Skálholt.
The third part of the volume provides a comprehensive analysis of the three
early historical texts written in East-Central Europe. Zbigniew Dalewski examines
the Deeds of the Princes of the Poles, written in the early twelfth century by a
western cleric known to modern scholars as Gallus Anonymus. Dalewski argues
that this western peregrinator must have written his historical text near or at the
HISTORY WRITING AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 9

court of Duke Boles³aw Wrymouth of Poland with the purpose of legitimizing his
power at a time of political crisis. This particular aim left a noticeable imprint on
the narrative. In this text, the Poles are presented as a Christian nation dearer to
God than its neighbours. Yet Dalewski argues that they are not described exactly
as a new chosen people in the biblical sense. Gallus’s concept of divine election is
rather connected to the Polish ruling dynasty, the Piasts. They were chosen by the
Lord to rule over Poland even when they were still pagan, and it is only through
them that God’s grace has been reaching its people throughout its history. This
‘dynastic’ perspective, according to Dalewski, determines the narrative’s treatment
of the Polish pagan past. Hence, the juxtaposition of the pagan past with the
Christian period is complemented by the opposition between the period before the
Piasts and their own age, since Gallus makes it clear that with the first Piast ruler,
God became directly involved in the history of Poland.
János Bak expertly analyses the Chronicle of the Czechs by Cosmas of Prague (a
student of Master Franco in Liège and later the dean of the cathedral church of
Prague), which was written just after the text of Gallus Anonymus was composed
in Poland. Similarly to other narrators who received some education in Western
Europe, Cosmas demonstrates a good knowledge of major classical and Christian
texts, which provided him with ready narrative models; among them, Bak empha-
sizes the influence of Regino of Prüm. Bak argues that Cosmas did not care much
about the genre of his narrative, which presents a mixture of chronicle, annals, and
exempla. Furthermore, Bak discusses the narrator’s hierarchy of identities and
argues that by the early twelfth century, Christianity was established in Bohemia
so firmly that there was no need for a literary propagation of Christian identity
among Cosmas’s readers. Thus Bak concludes that for Cosmas, national and Chris-
tian identities were almost identical: this explains, among other things, his negative
attitude to such an out-group as the Jews of Prague.
László Veszprémy discusses the earliest surviving historical narrative from
Hungary, the Deeds of the Hungarians, written by an anonymous cleric c. 1200.
Veszpremy addresses in particular the question of why this narrative is so preoccu-
pied with the pagan past and pagan rituals and argues that such an interest was
partly due to the fact that the Hungarian Christian past had been already discussed
in royal saints’ lives, and the pagan origins of the Hungarians remained the only
unexplored topic left for a narrator. At the same time, the medieval author por-
trayed his pre-Christian Hungarians as a people guided by the Holy Spirit, living
in agreement with Christian customs, and settling the division of political power
by means of a semi-Christian blood contract. As emphasized by Veszprémy, the
Hungarians are never referred to in the narrative as pagans. Pagan customs (more
10 Ildar H. Garipzanov

paganismo) are the main device used to present them as pagans, but even these cus-
toms did not project to the authentic pagan past. They were collected by the
author from the oral traditions and countryside practices of concurrent Christian
Hungary, and hence were a matter of curiosity rather than of contempt.
The final, fourth part of the volume is dedicated to early history writing in
Kievan Rus’, which — unlike in Scandinavia and East-Central Europe — started
in a language (Old Church Slavonic) different from Byzantine Greek, the language
of its cultural metropolia (Byzantium). Due to this linguistic difference, as Oleksiy
Tolochko shows, the more general question of the origins of history writing in
eleventh-century Rus’ does not have an obvious answer. While addressing this
question, he confronts the methodological tenets of Russian textologists and argues
that the development of history writing in early Rus’ was similar to other regions
of Europe: from short annals to larger chronicles and histories in the twelfth cen-
tury. Tolochko argues that three sources were especially important in the shaping
of chronicle writing in Kievan Rus’ at the turn of the twelfth century and its first
specimen, the Primary Chronicle of Abbot Sylvester of St Michael’s Monastery in
Vydubichi: local Easter tables with historical notes, Byzantine universal chronicles
with their concept of Christian chronology, and local hagiographic and liturgical
texts, such as the earliest works related to the cult of Boris and Gleb and Ilarion’s Ser-
mon on Law and Grace. Tolochko concludes that, all in all, Christian chronology
was the most important aspect in terms of shaping chronicle writing in early Rus’.
A more detailed discussion of the early twelfth-century Kievan Primary Chron-
icle as it has survived in the manuscript tradition is provided by Donald Ostrowsky.
He discusses the complicated structure of this narrative and, contrary to Tolochko,
argues that it was compiled by a monk, Vasilii, in the Kievan Caves Monastery
between 1113 and 1116. In the narrative itself, Ostrowski discerns two ‘virtual past
attitudes’, each represented by different modes of emplotment: the first (Comedy)
from the beginning of the narrative to 1051, and the other (Romance) from 1051
to 1114. He links the second mode of emplotment with Vasilii and the first with
an earlier clerical chronicler working between 1054 and 1078, whose text and
agenda were incorporated into the Primary Chronicle. Ostrowski also argues that,
although pagans are an integral component in both parts of the narrative, their role
changes after 1051. Before that date, the descriptions of pagans are used to explain
the development of Rus’ from pagan ignorance to Christian knowledge, though
without denigrating the pagan past. After 1051, the pagan Others — especially the
Polovtsians — are repeatedly invoked as God’s tool punishing sinful Christians.
Early history writing in Novgorod, the northern urban centre connecting
Kievan Rus’ with Scandinavia, can be attested at the same time as the Primary
HISTORY WRITING AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 11

Chronicle was composed in Kiev. Timofey Guimon examines the early Novgo-
rodian annals as preserved in the Elder and Younger Versions of The First Novgorod
Chronicle and attempts to reconstruct its earliest stage in the eleventh and twelfth
centuries. He suggests that although some short annalistic records must have been
written in Novgorod in the eleventh century, it is only in 1115 that the first
compilation combining these historical notes with Kievan materials was assembled
in Novgorod, and it was thereafter continued with the archiepiscopal Novgorodian
annals — written by clerics on the archbishops’ staff, such as Cyric the Novgo-
rodian and German Voyata — on a more-or-less regular basis throughout the
twelfth century. The combination of these materials allowed the narrative both to
define the place of Novgorod in universal history and to record the minutes of
events, useful in practical matters. This combination also reflected a hierarchy of
identities shared by the twelfth-century annalists and their readers: a political
identity attached to Christian Rus’, a regional Novgorodian one, and, finally, insti-
tutional Christian identities linked to the archbishopric of Novgorod and to
smaller ecclesiastical communities of particular annalists.

Although contributions to this volume were written in response to a common set

of questions discussed at a joint workshop in Kiev in 2008,13 attentive readers may
notice some discrepancies in style and conclusions. After all, the authors of the
following chapters represent academic communities and identities as diverse as
those of the narrators about whom they have written. Yet this diversity has been
an immanent aspect of both modern and medieval historiographies, and the
awareness of such polyphony helps us to better understand both modern medieval
studies and medieval literary culture. From this perspective, the discussion of the
early Christian historical narratives created on the north-eastern periphery of
twelfth-century Europe will be of benefit not only to the students of Scandinavian
and East-Central and Eastern European history and literature, but also to those
interested in medieval history writing — in particular, in the nature of narrativity
and the interplay between a text and identity in the Middle Ages.

13
This workshop and some preliminary work on this volume have been financed by the YFF
project ‘The “Forging” of Christian Identity in the Northern Periphery’, funded by the Norwegian
Research Council.
 Chapter 1

C HRISTIANITY AND P AGANISM

IN A DAM OF B REMEN ’S N ARRATIVE

Ildar H. Garipzanov

T
he History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen is a historical narrative
written by Adam of Bremen, the magister of the cathedral school, in c.
1072–76. The text consisting of four books is well known to students of
Ottonian and early Salian Germany and Viking Age and early medieval Scandi-
navia, and a great number of German and Scandinavian historians have discussed
various aspects of this text and the evidence that it provides.1 The narrative belongs
to the genre of gesta episcoporum (the deeds of bishops) and in this respect is dis-
tinct from texts describing the deeds of kings or the history of gentes.2 The author
has identified himself personally with the archbishopric and its history — espe-
cially when he describes its mission, legatio gentium, and narrates its relations with

I would like to thank Hans-Werner Goetz for his helpful comments on this paper.
1
For recent overviews of related historiography, see Volker Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde:
Identität und Fremdheit in den Chroniken Adams von Bremen, Helmolds von Bosau und Arnolds
von Lübeck, Orbis mediaevalis: Vorstellungswelten des Mittelalters, 4 (Berlin: Akademie, 2002),
pp. 29–37.
2
For an overview of the genre, which appeared in the early Middle Ages, see Michel Sot, Gesta
episcoporum, gesta abbatorum, Typologie des sources du Moyen Âge occidental, 37 (Turnhout:
Brepols, 1981). Cf. Reinhold Kaiser, ‘Die Gesta episcoporum als Genus der Geschichtsschreibung’,
in Historiographie im frühen Mittelalter, ed. by Anton Scharer and Georg Scheibelreiter, Veröffent-
lichungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 32 (Vienna: Oldenbourg, 1994),
pp. 459–80, for a more differentiated approach to the gesta episcoporum, emphasizing diversity
within the genre.
14 Ildar H. Garipzanov

neighbouring bishoprics as well as Saxon dukes.3 Such self-identification is

especially important, since Adam’s historical account differs from other works of
this genre in that it presents the history of a missionary archbishopric oriented
outwards towards northern lands as much as inwards. This specific institutional
context left a recognizable imprint on the text, and in the past fifty years a number
of scholars have emphasized the importance of the northern mission of Hamburg-
Bremen in terms of the structure of this narrative and for the institutional identity
of its author.4 Thus, it is this ‘missionary Christian identity’ that the narrator
conveys to his readers. Direct addresses to the reader make it clear that it was the
clergy of the archbishopric, and especially in Bremen, that Adam envisioned as his
audience,5 and he accentuates the importance of the northern mission for their
institutional identity.
The time period the text was written in provides another specific historical
context that some scholars such as Hans-Werner Goetz have pointed to: following
the disastrous pontificate of Adalbert (d. 1072), the archbishopric in general and
its northern mission in particular entered a time of crisis. Adam’s work, written for
a new archbishop, Liemar (1073–1101), and other potential clerical readers in late
eleventh-century Bremen, was a literary response to this crisis, which presented a
historical claim to a specially elevated status for the archbishopric of Hamburg-
Bremen, connected to its northern mission.6 Gerd Althoff has also noted that
Liemar was elevated to the archbishopric without consultation with the cathedral
chapter and that Adam must have written his book in order to urge the new

3
See for instance Carl F. Hallencreutz, Adam Bremensis and Sueonia, Acta Universitatis
Upsaliensis (Uppsala: Almquist and Wiksell, 1984), p. 13; and Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde,
pp. 47–58.
4
See especially Aage Trommer, ‘Komposition und Tendenz in der Hamburgischen Kirchen-
geschichte Adam von Bremens’, Classica et mediaevalia: Revue danoise de philologie et d’histoire, 17
(1956), 207–57 (pp. 211–38); and Hans-Werner Goetz, ‘Constructing the Past: Religious
Dimensions and Historical Consciousness in Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae
pontificum’, in Making of Christian Myths, pp. 17–51.
5
While describing the deeds of St Rimbert, Adam addresses the reader: ‘Quid autem dicimus
interim nostrum fecisse archiepiscopum? Require in Gestis eius, capitulo XX’. Adam, Gesta, I. 39,
p. 42.
6
Hans-Werner Goetz, ‘Geschichtsschreibung und Recht: Zur rechtlichen Legitimierung des
Bremer Erzbistums in der Chronik Adams von Bremen’, in Recht und Alltag im Hanseraum: Fest-
schrift für Gerhard Theuerkauf zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. by Silke Urbanski and others (Lüneburg:
Deutsches Salzmuseum Lüneburg, 1993), pp. 191–205; and Goetz, ‘Religious Dimensions and
Historical Consciousness’, pp. 39–40.
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 15

Archbishop to protect the interests of his see.7 Furthermore, as emphasized

recently by Volker Scior, by the time that Adam was writing his narrative, the
ecclesiastical authority of the archbishopric over the northern dioceses had been
threatened by attempts by Scandinavian kings such as Emund and Harald
Hardrada to establish national churches independent of Hamburg-Bremen, and
by the support given to these plans by Gregory VII.8 In this situation, the legal right
of the archbishopric to supervise northern churches needed to be defended with
reference to the historical past.
From these specific institutional and historical contexts, which have been
thoroughly discussed by students of Adam’s text, I would like to go a step further
and emphasize that the crucial role of a northern mission for the history of the
archbishopric noticeably influenced the structure of Adam’s text and its dynamics
as a literary narrative. Among other things, this influence led to the constant
juxtaposition of Christianity (first and foremost associated with the archbishopric
of Hamburg-Bremen) and paganism (taking various forms). Any missionary nar-
rative, regardless whether it belongs to the genre of missionary hagiography or the
history of mission, needs these two protagonists, whose constant struggle would
provide a driving force for the narrative from its outset to the final page. In Adam’s
history, these antipodes coexist in the universe as two essential phenomena, Good
and Evil, in accordance with divine design. Thus relapses into paganism among
neighbouring gentes happen time and again since, in the eyes of Adam, they are the
way by which the Lord ‘confounds our faithlessness’.9 Paganism thus exists not
only as a passive target of missionary activity, but also to test and strengthen the
faith of the Christians. As a missionary narrative, Adam’s history does not con-
struct a simple diachronic antithesis of the pagan past and Christian present:
although the forces of Christianity gradually prevail over those of paganism, they
are deemed to oppose each other from the outset of missionary history all the way
to Adam’s time. As a result, the constant struggle between Christianity and pagans,
pagan reaction, and relapses into paganism ‘emplot’ the narrative from the moment

7
Gerd Althoff, ‘Causa scribendi und Darstellungsabsicht: Die Lebensbeschreibungen der
Königin Mathilde und andere Beispiele’, in Litterae medii aevi: Festschrift für Johanne Autenrieth
zu ihrem 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Michael Borgolte and Herrad Spilling (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke,
1988), pp. 117–33 (pp. 128–30).
8
For more details and bibliography, see Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 60–64.
9
While talking about the relapse into paganism among the Slavs living between the Elbe and
the Oder in the early eleventh century, Adam states: ‘ille, inquam, modicam gentilium portionem
nunc indurare voluit, per quos nostra confunderetur perfidia’. Adam, Gesta, II. 44, p. 105.
16 Ildar H. Garipzanov

the archbishopric was established in Saxony in the late eighth century to the time
when the narrative was written in the 1070s.
Volker Scior has recently emphasized that the confrontation between Chris-
tians and pagans is narrated by Adam as one between the Christians of the
archbishopric of Hamburg-Bremen and the pagan peoples targeted by missionary
activity. Hence, the connection between Christianity, nostra fides and nostra
religio, on the one hand, and the archbishopric and its identity, on the other, is
crucial throughout the narrative.10 This institutional self-identification lays the
basis for a specific in-group identity unifying clergymen of the archbishopric. Thus,
the presentation of the history of the archbishopric as a constant struggle between
the two protagonists becomes the main mechanism by which the author conveys
an institutional ‘missionary Christian identity’ to his primary readers, Liemar and
the clergy of Bremen.

The Structure and Plot of the History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-

Bremen

The significance of the juxtaposition between Christianitas and paganismus in

Adam’s text has been recently stressed by David Fraesdorff, who argues that this
distinction closely corresponds in the narrative to geographical and climatic differ-
ences between Christian Europe and the pagan north: Christianity is associated
with the warm, light, and ‘friendly south’, and paganism with the cold and dark
north hardly suitable for living.11 Fraesdorff also emphasizes that the concept of the
north in the narrative is not purely geographical, since it referred to the regions of
Northern and Eastern Europe that were subject to the mission of the archbishopric
and populated by Scandinavians and Slavs. In this sense, the term ‘north’ (aquilo
in Latin) becomes shorthand for paganism in the text, and this emphasis on the evil
nature of the north is of course inspired by a prophecy of Jeremiah: ‘Then the Lord
said unto me, Out of the north an evil shall break forth upon all the inhabitants of
the land’ ( Jeremiah 1. 14). Furthermore, Fraesdorff stresses that the juxtaposition

10
Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, p. 87.
11
David Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden: Vorstellungen und Fremdheitskategorien bei Rim-
bert, Thietmar von Merseburg, Adam von Bremen und Helmold von Bosau, Orbis mediaevalis: Vor-
stellungswelten des Mittelalters, 5 (Berlin: Akademie, 2005), pp. 261–66 and 271–72; and David
Fraesdorff, ‘The Power of Imagination: The Christianitas and the Pagan North during Conversion
to Christianity (800–1200)’, Medieval History Journal, 5. 2 (2002), 309–32 (pp. 317–19).
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 17

of the christiani and pagani in the narrative is not simply religious but also cultural
(ritus) and ethical (mores). The pagans belong to the world of barbarians, to cul-
tural alterity, and vice versa the lack of Christian virtues such as humanitas and
misericordia and the manifestation of vices such as crudelitas qualify a person as
pagan.12
Yet Fraesdorff’s thesis of the opposition between the friendly Christian south
and the hostile pagan north is mainly based on the fourth and final book in which
Adam describes northern lands. In the first book, Christianity and paganism meet
on the territory where the archbishopric was founded, and their confrontation
establishes the main plot of the narrative. So the text starts with the conquest of
Saxony by the Franks in the late eighth century — when that land was delivered to
the worship of God (‘divino cultui’).13 Adam first provides an ethnographic
digression on Saxony, whose description, as Scior notes, corresponds to the terri-
tory of the future archbishopric and its missionary activity. 1 4 Although the pre-
Christian Saxons are presented as a people worshipping pagan gods, Adam stresses
that, in regard to their morals, they tried to follow many useful and noble norms,
according to the law of nature (‘secundum legem naturae honesta’). So their only
deficiency was the ignorance of the Creator and of the truth of His worship,15 and
the establishment of the archbishopric naturally resolved this problem.
While establishing the narrative’s plot, Adam quotes a charter of Charlemagne,
which probably had been forged not long before Adam wrote his text. The forged
charter dates the establishment of the see at Bremen to 788 and the beginning of
the archbishopric’s mission just to the time when the conversion of the Saxons, the
starting point of the narrative, takes place.16 So here is a clear example showing how
Adam’s institutional identity and the literary plot affected his active remembrance
of the eighth- and ninth-century history of the region. Furthermore, he states (I. 16)
that in 832 Hamburg was chosen as the metropolitan see for the Danes, Swedes,
and Slavs, which corresponds to the wider geographical scope of his narrative,

12
See Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden, pp. 272–90.
13
Adam, Gesta, Prologus, p. 3.
14
See Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 81–86. In agreement with Fraesdorff’s point,
Christian Franks are described in this digression as located to the south from pagan Saxony.
15
Adam, Gesta, I. 6, p. 8: ‘quae eis ad veram beatudinem premerendam proficere potuissent,
si ignorantiam creatoris sui non haberent et a veritate culturae illius non essent alieni’.
16
Adam, Gesta, I. 12, pp. 14–17. On this forgery, its origin from the circles of Archbishop
Adalbert in 1056–62, and related bibliography, see Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 41–43.
18 Ildar H. Garipzanov

including the cosmographic description in Book IV.17 These examples thus illustrate
well that Adam of Bremen had a clear concept visible throughout the text; namely,
that the archbishopric, the history of which he was narrating, was ultimately tied
to and therefore defined by its mission among the northern peoples and Slavs.
The first book deals with the missionary activity of the archbishopric up to the
year 936, and its second part narrates the numerous raids by Vikings into the
Frankish lands and the territory of the archbishopric in particular. This early phase
is presented as a constant struggle between Christians and northern pagans, espe-
cially the Danes. Periods of successful missionary work are interrupted by periods
of pagan reaction. Denmark is the main battleground in this phase, and — similar
to the other northern regions — the Christian mission in the Danish lands is pre-
sented as a long-lasting and laborious process, where success and regress coincide.
Hence, while speaking of Danish kings in the early tenth century, Adam concludes:
Nobis hoc scire sufficiat omnes adhuc paganos fuisse, ac in tanta regnorum mutatione vel
excursione barbarorum christianitatem in Dania, quae a sancto Ansgario plantata est,
aliquantulam remansisse, non totam defecisse.18
[It will suffice for us to know that up to this time they all were pagans, and that amidst
such changes in rulers and the assaults of barbarians a little of the Christianity which had
been planted by St Ansgar survived in Denmark and did not entirely disappear.]

The second book starts with the establishment of Danish dioceses under the
supremacy of Hamburg-Bremen, the institutional change that indicates, in the eyes
of Adam, the establishment of Christianity in Denmark. Yet the struggle between
the two protagonists continues to drive the narrative, since most political events
in this region are still presented within this paradigm. So, for instance, the con-
spiracy of King Sven Forkbeard against his father Harald Bluetooth is presented
as a Danish conspiracy to renounce Christianity.19 The same approach is visible in
the description of Norwegian and Swedish kings, some of whom relapsed into
paganism after initial conversion.20 As a result, by the end of Book II, Norway and
Sweden remain the target of the Christian mission. At the same time, Adam makes
it clear that paganism was still present within the archbishopric itself. It survived
in its remote marshy lands in the form of pagan customs (‘ritus paganicos’), and in
the early eleventh century Archbishop Unwan (1013–29) is said to have uprooted

17
For details and more examples, see Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 44–46.
18
Adam, Gesta, I. 52, p. 53.
19
Adam, Gesta, II. 27, p. 87.
20
For example, see the description of Eric the Victorious: Adam, Gesta, II. 38, p. 99.
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 19

sacred pagan groves there and built new churches in their stead.21 Furthermore,
Adam accuses the Saxon duke Bernard of driving the gens Winulorum to paganism
by his cruel oppression and points to ducal avarice as the main reason for that
relapse.22 The latter point is reiterated later in the narrative, with generalizing
remarks on the greed of Saxon princes hindering the conversion of Slavs.23
The significance of the mission and the juxtaposition of Christianity and
paganism for Adam’s narrative should not obscure the fact that he writes in the
genre of gesta episcoporum,24 and in accordance with the genre his narrative is struc-
tured by the pontificates of the archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen. This structural
principle becomes especially important for Book III, which has been sometimes
described as the biography of Archbishop Adalbert (1043–72), since it narrates his
deeds and character. At the time Adam was writing his text, Adalbert must have
been remembered differently among the clergy of the archbishopric, and his
posthumous fame still remained a controversial matter. Such a situation explains
the importance of this personage for the narrative, especially as Adam is clearly
critical of the Archbishop and his actions and blames him for the crisis within the
archbishopric the narrator was witnessing in the 1070s.
At the same time, the biographical description of Adalbert and his pontificate
is still set within the main narrative plot: Christianity and paganism confronting
each other. In addition to these two protagonists, Adam adds pseudo-Christians
(pseudochristiani), who together with pagans inflict damage upon true Christians.25
These pseudo-Christians oppose right Christians not only inside the archbishopric
but also in the north, like the vagabond Bishop Osmund usurping ecclesiastical

21
Adam, Gesta, II. 48, p. 108.
22
Adam, Gesta, II. 48, p. 109: ‘gentem Winulorum crudeliter opprimens ad necessitatem
paganismi coegit’.
23
In regard to this gens, ‘si conversionem gentis avaricia principum non prepediret’, Adam,
Gesta, II. 71, p. 133. In regard to the Slavs east of Saxony, ‘populos Sclavorum iamdudum procul
dubio facile converti posse ad christianitatem, nisi obstitisset avaricia Saxonum’, Adam, Gesta, III.
23, p. 166.
24
In the Prologue, he directly states that his book is about the deeds of the archbishops of
Hamburg-Bremen, who elevated that Church and spread Christianity among pagan peoples:
‘sanctissimorum patrum, per quos ecclesia exaltata et christianitas in gentibus dilatata est, gesta
revolvo’. Adam, Gesta, Prologus, p. 2.
25
Adam, Gesta, III. 1, p. 143: ‘Quoniam vero difficile est omnes viri actus aut bene aut pleniter
aut in ordinem posse diffiniri a me, precipua gestorum eius summatim quaeque delibans affectu
condolentis ad eam pervenire desidero calumpniam, qua nobilis et dives parrochia Hammabur-
gensis et Bremensis altera vastata est a paganis, altera discrepta est a pseudochristianis.’
20 Ildar H. Garipzanov

authority in Sweden.26 Thus, the pseudo-Christians introduced by Adam in

Book III are those who confront the archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen and their
northern mission, and the actions of the former are presented as leading to the
revival of paganism in one way or another. For instance, Adam mentions that
Harald Hardrada had bishops in Norway consecrated in Gaul and England, not in
Hamburg-Bremen, which effectively made them pseudo-Christians. As a result,
tyrannical trends of his rule are transformed in Adam’s account with the contrast
of Harald as a semi-pagan ruler with his saintly brother, St Olav. Hence, according
to the narrator, Harald Hardrada not only destroyed Christian churches and
tortured many Christians to death, but also was engaged in magical arts;27 the latter
activity, of course, equated the cruel King with pagan magicians.
The juxtaposition of Christianity and paganism as moral antipodes affects not
only the depictions of historical events and personages in Book III, but also the
presentation of Archbishop Adalbert. His character is ambivalent from the very
beginning, and Adam’s positive remarks are mixed with episodes showing the
Archbishop’s submissiveness to secular authorities or his liturgical innovations
deviating from the traditional Latin rite.28 Later in the book, Adam compares royal
courts, where Adalbert spent much of his time, to another kind of idolatry (‘veluti
secundam ydolatriam’).29 Starting with Chapter 36, moral shortcomings in Adal-
bert’s character are emphasized even further, and here Sallust’s moralizing style
provides a textual model. More importantly, these shortcomings are described in
a way that suggests some sinful or even pagan inclinations. For instance, Adam
mentions that Adalbert is said not only to have entertained himself through listen-
ing to fables while in bed and interpreting dreams after awakening, but also to have
practised auspices whenever he travelled.30 The latter practice must have been
considered by many clerical readers a suspiciously pagan practice. Although Adam
rejects this opinion, he still blames the pseudo-Christian entourage of Adalbert for
deflating his morals and reputation.31 Furthermore, Adam reports of a certain
visionary woman publicly professing that Archbishop Adalbert will die within two

26
Adam, Gesta, III. 15, pp. 155–56.
27
Adam, Gesta, III. 17, p. 159.
28
Adam, Gesta, III. 5, p. 147; and III. 27, p. 170.
29
Adam, Gesta, III. 55, p. 199.
30
Adam, Gesta, III. 39, p. 182: ‘Quare dicitur eum morem insuevisse, ut, dum cubitum ibat,
fabulis delectaretur, cum expergisceretur, somniis, quotiens vere iter incepit, auspiciis.’
31
Adam, Gesta, III. 63, p. 208.
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 21

years unless he is converted (‘nisi forte converteretur’).32 Of course, the absurdness

of this condition is signalled in the text by the use of the clause nisi forte; but after
reporting about Adalbert’s death and his last positive deeds, Adam states that the
Archbishop left other signs of his repentance and conversion in the last year of his
life.33 So, such ambiguous remarks and hints suggest to the attentive reader that
Adalbert’s morals may have deviated from Christian virtues to pagan vices and that
he had experienced inner spiritual conversion only at the end of his life.
This image of Adalbert corresponds to another story in Book III, Chapters
46–50, in which relapse into paganism is viewed as part of divine drama. Among
his wrongdoings, Adalbert stripped his churches of their sacred liturgical objects
made of gold and silver in order to pay dues to lay authorities. Holy crosses were
melted down and, in Adam’s eyes, God responded to this sacrilegious act with the
full might of His divine vengeance: Adalbert was expelled from the royal court, and
lay princes plundered the ecclesiastical property of the archbishopric. Also signifi-
cantly, the Slavs living to the east of the Elbe relapsed into paganism, and some lay
princes and clerics were killed there. This relapse into paganism and the incursion
of the pagan Slavs are presented in the narrative as acts of great vengeance (‘vindic-
tae magnitudo’) and thus as a necessary element in the contemporary divine
order.34
The final seven chapters of Book III (III. 72–78) in the MGH edition of
Bernhard Schmeidler present a major textual problem for Adam’s narrative. After
a study of the preserved manuscript tradition, Anne Kristensen persuasively argued
in 1975 that this part of Adam’s work in fact constituted the first chapters of his
original Book IV (IV. 1a–7a). 35 This section discusses the unfulfilled plans of
Adalbert to travel to Scandinavia with missionary goals in order to expand his
archiepiscopal authority in those regions. As Volker Scior has emphasized, placing
these chapters at the beginning of Book IV changes its concept considerably: the
book then is not simply an ethnographical and geographical overview of northern

32
Adam, Gesta, III. 64, p. 210.
33
Adam, Gesta, III. 70, p. 217: ‘Nam et alia multa reliquit signa penitentiae vel conversionis
suae.’
34
Adam, Gesta, III. 50, p. 193.
35
Anne K. G. Kristensen, Studien zur Adam von Bremen Überlieferung (Copenhagen: Det
historiske Institut ved Københavns Universitet, 1975). See also Tore Nyberg, ‘Stad, skrift och stift:
Några historiska inledningsfrågor’, in Adam av Bremen: Historian om Hamburgstiftet och dess
biskopar, trans. by Emanuel Svenberg (Stockholm: Proprius, 1984), pp. 295–339 (pp. 301–06);
Hallencreutz, Adam Bremensis, pp. 18–19; and Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, p. 34, n. 33.
22 Ildar H. Garipzanov

lands, but rather a description connected to a missionary trip planned by Adalbert

but left to be fulfilled, in Adam’s opinion, by Archbishop Liemar. Book IV there-
fore describes the missionary space (Missionsraum) of the archbishopric of
Hamburg-Bremen and stresses the need to maintain and extend its authority in the
north. This interpretation corresponds to the final book’s content, which not only
describes northern lands but also explains the customs of northern gentes so that
Liemar, the receiver of the book, would be able to accomplish the missionary
voyage that Adalbert left unfulfilled.36 The route to the north is described in detail,
and at some points Adam slips in his narrative to addressing the reader — and
Liemar in particular — directly, as in the following passage: ‘if you pass through
Jutland into Fyn, your route is a straight way to the north’.37
The difference between the first three parts of Adam’s history and its final book
is important not only for defining the main dramatic plot of the narrative, but also
for understanding its ending. Book IV provides no resolution to the text and thus
allows us to define it as a dramatic history with an open ending.

Adam’s Narrative as a Dramatic History

Unlike tragedy and comedy, which conclude with a definite (negative or positive)
outcome, drama with an open ending is always ambivalent; its resolution lies in the
future and depends on the reader. These characteristics nicely apply to the final
part of Adam’s narrative.
The struggle between paganism and missionary Christianity does not find its
ultimate resolution at the end of Adam’s text — in contrast to the concluding re-
marks in the final Chapter 44 where Adam states that the Danes, Norwegians, and
Swedes have already learnt how to sing alleluia in the praise of God, and that in
their lands the altars of the demons have been destroyed and churches are being
erected in various places.38 In spite of this triumphant conclusion, Book IV

36
See Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 68–72 and 137.
37
Adam, Gesta, IV. 4, p. 232: ‘si per Iudland in Finem tenderis, directam in septentrionem
viam habes’. The English translation is from Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops of
Hamburg-Bremen, trans. by Francis J. Tschan, 2nd edn by Timothy Reuter (New York: Columbia
University Press, 2002), p. 189.
38
Adam, Gesta, IV. 44, p. 280: ‘Ecce illa ferocissima Danorum sive Nortmannorum aut Sueo-
num natio, quae iuxta verba beati Gregorii “nihil aliud scivit nisi barbarum frendere, iam dudum
novit in Dei laudibus alleluia resonare”. […] Ecce patria illa horribilis, semper inaccessa propter
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 23

describing contemporary Scandinavia is probably richer and more dramatic in the

description of pagan northern lands than all the preceding books. Scior argues that
Adam’s narrative always distinguishes our world (noster orbis) from the other world
(alter mundus).39 The latter is associated with Sweden and Norway as well as the
lands beyond, while Denmark functions as a kind of intermediary. Yet this juxta-
position of the Christian world and the pagan alterity visibly increases in the final
book.
In the geographical digressions of this book, the farther lands lie from Christen-
dom the more they exhibit peculiar abnormalities and monstrosities, some of
which derive from the reports of classical geographers concerning remote southern
lands. Of course, the increasing numbers of monsters on the farthest edge of the
alter mundus can be interpreted as an indication that the end of the human world
is close. At the same time, this feature of the narrative brings the opposition
between paganism and Christianity to a dramatic, unresolved ending. It is up to its
main reader, Archbishop Liemar, to resolve this conflict through a missionary trip
to the north.
The chapter (III. 72) describing Adalbert’s unfulfilled plan of a missionary trip
all the way to the farthermost lands of the north states that by doing so he would
have become the fourth evangelist following the path of the other three — namely,
Ansgar, Rimbert and Unni.40 According to Kristensen, this chapter opens Book IV
and is thus important for its concept (IV. 1a). The reference to the three mission-
aries as evangelists in this chapter is not accidental. Earlier in Book I, Ansgar is
referred to as ‘evangelista noster’ (our evangelist) and Unni as ‘evangelista Dei’
(evangelist of God).41 By cancelling his missionary voyage, Adalbert failed to
become the fourth evangelist, and Book IV encourages Liemar to take up the task
and complete the Gospel (and history) of the northern mission.42 Thus, the end of
history for Adam potentially lies in the near future and depends on his primary
reader. Yet for a Christian author the end of missionary history would have been

cultum ydolorum, […] deposito iam naturali furore predicatores veritatis ubique certatim admittit,
destructisque demonum aris ecclesiae passim eriguntur, et nomen Christi communi ab omnibus
effertur preconio.’
39
Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 103–34.
40
Adam, Gesta, III. 72, pp. 219–20: ‘[…] primum fuisse Ansgarium, deinde Rimbertum, postea
Unni, se [i.e. Adalbert] vero quartum evangelistam postulari’.
41
Adam, Gesta, I. 26, p. 32; and I. 62, p. 59.
42
In this perspective, the final chapter of Book IV (see note 38) can be interpreted as indicating
that the northern lands are ready for such a mission.
24 Ildar H. Garipzanov

associated with the Apocalypse. Adam knew the words of Jesus speaking of the end
of the world in Matthew 24. 14: ‘And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached
in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.’ In this
perspective, the sharp distinction between monstrous paganism and missionary
Christianity in the final book definitely acquires some apocalyptic overtones.43
The three missionary evangelists differ from the other archbishops of
Hamburg-Bremen not only by their extensive missionary activity in the north but
also by their visits to central Sweden and its centre, Birka; Unni even died and was
buried there. So, the place definitely plays an important role for the narrative —
but what is that role? Adam seems to provide an answer when first mentioning
Birka in Book I (Chapter 26): he identifies the Swedes with the biblical Gog and
Magog and recalls the prophecy of Ezechiel, which was fulfilled by Ansgar’s mission
to them: ‘And I will send a fire on Magog, and among them that dwell carelessly in
the isles: and they shall know that I am the Lord’ (Ezechiel 39. 6).44 The domi-
nance of Gothic peoples in contemporary Sweden provides Adam with the key for
such an identification, since many early medieval writers starting with Ambrose of
Milan identified Gog and Magog with the Goths.45 That is why at the end of
Book I Adam describes Birka as a stronghold of the Goths located in the middle
of Sweden.46
Adam, with his profound knowledge of the Bible and patristic authors, also
knew well that Gog and Magog had also been mentioned in the Book of Revela-
tions in connection with the Apocalypse:
(7) And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison, (8)
And shall go out to deceive the nations which are in the four quarters of the earth, Gog,
and Magog, to gather them together to battle: the number of whom is as the sand of the
sea. (Revelations 20. 7–8)

In the course of the narration, the region around Birka has been converted by the
three ‘evangelists’ time and again, but in the final description the Swedes are even

43
On eschatological features of the north in Adam’s work, see Fraesdorff, Der barbarische
Norden, pp. 309–17.
44
Adam, Gesta, I. 26, pp. 31–32.
45
For more details on this medieval tradition starting with Ambrose, see Fraesdorff, Der
barbarische Norden, pp. 312–16.
46
Adam, Gesta, I. 60, p. 58: ‘Birca est oppidum Gothorum in medio Suevoniae positum.’ See
also Nyberg, ‘Stad, skrift och stift’, pp. 314–17; and Carl F. Hallencreutz, ‘Missionstrategie och
religionstolkning: Till frågan om Adam av Bremen och Uppsalatemplet’, in Uppsala och Adam av
Bremen, ed. by Anders Hultgård (Nora: Nya Doxa, 1997), pp. 117–30 (pp. 128–29).
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 25

more plagued by pagan superstitions. The millennialist simile with Gog and Magog
is further emphasized in Book IV as well by references in Chapter 25 to human
monsters living next to the Swedes like the Amazons, Cynocephali, Cyclops, and
Hymantopodes. Furthermore, the narration of monsters is followed by the famous
description of the Uppsala temple, which is presented as the symbolic centre of the
pagan north.4 7 This shrine of Gog and Magog shall be confronted by the fourth
evangelist in order to complete the Gospel and history of the mission. Conse-
quently, the temple of Uppsala and related rituals exemplify the pagan alterity
(‘caput est supersticionis barbaricae’),48 and it is with reference to this symbolic role
of the temple that its description has to be approached.

The Temple of Uppsala

The importance of this temple for Adam’s history became the leitmotif of the
dissertation published by Henrik Janson in 1998. He argues that the receiver of the
book, Liemar, was an active member of the anti-Gregorian faction. In the same
years, Gregory VII supported the development of the Swedish church independent
of the archbishopric of Hamburg-Bremen. Based on these developments and on
little evidence for the existence of pagan temples in Sweden (including in Uppsala)
in this period, Janson concludes that Adam’s grotesque image of the pagan temple
hides his representation of Gregory VII as the Antichrist and his criticism of a
Gregorian faction in Uppsala at the time.49 There is no room in this chapter to
discuss this concept in detail. It is sufficient to say that, even though Janson’s
elegant interpretation brings into consideration the rich historical context of the
investiture conflict, it can hardly be corroborated by Adam’s text itself. A few
hidden references to the Gregorians and Gregory VII postulated by the Swedish
scholar are too vague to support such an identification, and they belong to the
stock of metaphorical accusations used by medieval Christian authors against their
opponents. Moreover, if Adam had been such an ardent opponent of the
Gregorians as Janson suggests, one would have expected to find a more direct and
explicit criticism of them in the narrative.

47
Adam, Gesta, IV. 26–27, pp. 257–60.
48
Adam, Gesta, IV. 30, p. 262.
49
Henrik Janson, ‘Templum nobilissimum’: Adam av Bremen, Uppsalatemplet och konflict-
linjerna i Europa kring år 1075 (Goteborg: Göteborgs universitet, 1998).
26 Ildar H. Garipzanov

Unlike the alleged hidden political aims of Adam, his Christian agenda is much
more obvious in defining the dynamics of the text. In this perspective, the image
of the pagan temple and its significance fits well with the main plot of the narrative
and in particular the identification of the Swedes with the biblical Gog and Magog.
The symbolic role of the Uppsala temple does not mean that it must have existed
in reality,50 especially since its description puts as much stress on an adjacent sacred
grove as on the temple itself. More importantly, pagan practices in Birka were
mentioned in some previous authoritative works known to Adam, such as the Life
of Ansgar, and this knowledge could have been supported by some hearsay about
‘pagan’ practices in Uppsala. Based on this fragmentary evidence, Adam could
easily complete the picture of the pagan stronghold in the north, with reliance on
available classical prototypes. Timothy Bolton points, for example, to two probable
models: Tacitus’s description of the religious beliefs of Germani and Orosius’s
passage dealing with the pagan practices of the Cimbri in 106.51
The possible influence of classical authors on some elements in the description
of the Uppsala temple corresponds to the influence of the moral approach of an
author such as Sallust on the presentation of material and to the numerous textual
quotations from him and other classical authors such as Vergil and Lucan.52 In
Book IV, for instance, Adam relies heavily on Orosius, Martianus Capella, Solinus,
and Macrobius.53 At the same time, the Bible provides another crucial point of ref-
erence for the described events: biblical references are as numerous in the narrative
as classical ones, and some biblical prophecies guide Adam in his reading of the
hidden meanings of historical events.54 In this perspective, the use of the number

50
On the absence of archaeological evidence for this temple in Uppsala, see Else Nordahl, …
‘templum quod Ubsola dicitur’ … i arkeologisk belysning (Uppsala: Societas Archaeologica Upsa-
liensis, 1996); and Anne-Sofie Gråslund, ‘Adams Uppsala – och arkeologins’, in Uppsala och Adam
av Bremen, ed. by Hultgård, pp. 102–15. For a more recent archaeological report, similar in its
conclusions to the previous two, see Magnus Alkarp and Neil Price, ‘Tempel av guld eller kyrka av
trä? Markradarundersökningar vid Gamla Uppsala kyrka’, Fornvännen, 100 (2005), 261–72.
51
Timothy Bolton, ‘A Textual Historical Response to Adam of Bremen’s Witness to the
Activities of the Uppsala-Cult’, in Transformasjoner i vikingtid og norrøn middelalder, ed. by Gro
Steinsland (Oslo: Unipub, 2006), pp. 61–89.
52
For details, see Rudolf Buchner, ‘Adams von Bremen geistige Anleihen bei der Antike’,
Mittellateinishes Jahrbuch, 2 (1965), 96–101.
53
Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, p. 89.
54
The MGH edition and Tschan’s translation trace these borrowings in detail. See also Anders
Piltz, ‘Adam, Bibeln och auctores: En studie i literär teknik’, in Adam av Bremen, trans. by
Svenberg, pp. 340–53.
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 27

‘seventy-two’ in the description of pagan sacrifices at the Uppsala temple, which

occurred once every nine years, is particularly interesting:
Sacrificium itaque tale est: ex omni animante quod masculinum est, novem capita
offeruntur, quorum sanguine deos [tales] placari mos est. Corpora autem suspenduntur in
lucum qui proximus est templo. Is enim lucus tam sacer est gentilibus, ut singulae arbores
eius ex morte vel tabo immolatorum divinae credantur. Ibi etiam canes et equi pendent
cum hominibus, quorum corpora mixtim suspensa narravit mihi aliquis christianorum
LXXII vidisse [fuisse B1].55 (my emphasis)
[The sacrifice is of this nature: of every living thing that is male, they offer nine heads, with
the blood of which it is customary to placate gods of this sort. The bodies they hang in the
sacred grove that adjoins the temple. Now this grove is so sacred in the eyes of the heathen
that each and every tree in it is believed divine because of the death and putrefaction of the
victims. Even dogs and horses hang there with men. A certain Christian told me that there
had been seventy-two bodies suspended all mixed together.56

Bolton argues that the following motifs — the inclusion of humans as well as
animals among victims, the use of pagan groves, and the suspension of bodies —
must have been influenced by relevant passages in Tacitus and Orosius.57 As to the
specification of the number and gender of sacrificial victims, they, in his opinion,
might have been a local detail. Yet the number ‘seventy-two’, which loses its signifi-
cance in Tschan’s translation as used by Bolton, does not quite fit the description
of the pagan ritual, since a reference to every living being would have implied more
than eight species. This discrepancy in numbers probably felt strange soon after the
text had been written, and an unknown author added a scholion to this passage
explaining that the feast lasted nine days and every day a man and other living
beings were sacrificed, so that there were seventy-two animalia in total.58
As noted by Tschan, the reference to nine heads of each kind bears resemblance
to a passage in Genesis 7. 2, in which God orders Noah to take to the ark seven of

55
Adam, Gesta, IV. 27, pp. 259–60.
56
The English translation is from Adam, History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen, trans.
by Tschan, p. 208, with my correction of Tschan’s final sentence: ‘A Christian seventy-two years
old told me that he had seen their bodies suspended promiscuously.’ My correction is similar to
Trillmich’s German translation of this sentence: ‘ein Christ hat mir erzält, er habe 72 solche
Leichen ungeordnet nebeneinander hängen sehen’. Adam von Bremen, Bischofsgeschichte der Ham-
burger Kirche, trans. by Werner Trillmich, in Quellen des 9. und 11. Jahrhunderts zur Geschichte der
hamburgischen Kirche und des Reiches, ed. by Werner Trillmich and Rudolf Buchner (Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2000), pp. 136–503 (p. 473).
57
Bolton, ‘A Textual Historical Response’, p. 75.
58
Adam, Gesta, Scholion, 141 (137), p. 260.
28 Ildar H. Garipzanov

every kind of clean animal, a male and female, and two of every kind of unclean
animal, a male and female.59 Biblical symbolism might have also inspired the use of
the number ‘seventy-two’. According to Luke 10. 1–10, Jesus sent seventy-two
disciples ahead to minister in Judea.60 More significantly, based on the list of grand-
sons of Noah in Genesis 10, patristic authors such as Augustine stated that all
humankind was divided into seventy-two nations.61 A medieval erudite like Adam
definitely knew the biblical symbolism of the number ‘seventy-two’, and hence it
is not surprising that this number appeared in his description of the sacred ritual
in Uppsala. As mentioned earlier, the Uppsala temple functions in the narrative as
the centre of pagan alterity, as the holy place of Gog and Magog. So it is hardly
accidental that the number of sacrificial victims offered there matches the number
of the nations on the earth, although the exact meaning of this symbolic correspon-
dence remains obscure.

Conclusion

How do these observations in regard to Adam’s history relate to the general ques-
tions this volume addresses? The first and most obvious conclusion is that Adam’s
Christian agenda resulted in his active remembrance and reconstruction of past
events. This historical reconstruction is based on direct and hidden quotations
from and references to biblical and classical sources, and Adam demonstrates inge-
nuity in his masterful exploitation of both. Furthermore, the two crucial elements
of his Christian agenda were an institutional ‘missionary Christian identity’ and
the dramatic plot of the narrative. The first element is expressed in the narrative
by presenting Hamburg-Bremen as a New Jerusalem and describing the arch-
bishopric and its flock as the embodiment of Christianity and Christians. The
second dramatic element of Adam’s agenda is expressed through the presentation
of the history of the archbishopric and its northern mission as a constant conflict
between Christian Good and pagan Evil. Consequently, this historical narrative
is not constructed through the antithesis of the pagan past and the Christian

59
‘ex omnibus animantibus mundis tolle septena, septena masculum et feminam, de
animantibus vero non mundis duo, duo masculum et feminam’.
60
The traditional editions of the Bible use the number ‘seventy’, while the manuscript evidence
favours ‘seventy-two’. See International Standard Bible Encyclopedia, ed. by Geoffrey W. Bromiley,
rev. edn, 4 vols (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1979–95), IV , 427.
61
De civitate Dei, XVI. 9–11.
CHRISTIANIT Y AND PAGANISM IN ADAM OF BREMEN’S NARRATIVE 29

present. These cardinal forces coexist within the narrative temporal space and,
albeit with a general trend towards conversion in the narrative, their conflict is
expected to be ultimately resolved in the near future. This expectation may well
reflect the influence on Adam of some concurrent millennialist ideas, although
such a suggestion is difficult to ascertain. These specific elements of Adam’s Chris-
tian agenda seem to have made his historical narrative quite different from most
preceding early medieval narratives in Western Europe and from the narratives
written in the twelfth-century northern and eastern peripheries of medieval
Europe. More importantly, his agenda was probably quite alien to the first Chrisian
narrators of Scandinavia. They used some historical evidence from Adam’s text,
but his historical concept hardly appealed to them. It is also noteworthy that the
genre of his narrative was not imitated in the Scandinavian mainland. It was only
in Iceland that Adam’s work might have inspired an anonymous author of
Hungrvaka to write in the same genre, though in a more modest and conceptually
different way.62

62
For more details, see Jonas Wellendorf’s chapter in this volume.
 Part One
Early Scandinavian Historical Narratives in Latin
 Chapter 2

T WO E ARLY T WELFTH -C ENTURY V IEWS

OF D ENMARK ’S C HRISTIAN P AST :
A ILNOTH AND THE A NONYMOUS OF R OSKILDE

Michael H. Gelting

I
t was not until the first half of the twelfth century that authors in Denmark
began writing texts in a historical vein about the Danish past — about a cen-
tury and a half after Denmark’s official Christianization c. 963, and more than
a century after a general conformity to Christianity had been achieved throughout
the kingdom.1 There was no longer any living memory of the pagan past, neither
as a source of information for the authors themselves nor as a frame of reference for
their audiences. In fact, it is impossible to tell from their texts whether any tradi-
tions about tenth-century Danish pagan culture had survived to their day. Their
constructions of a Danish Christian identity were profiled against a background,
not of pagan darkness, but rather of a huge void.
This becomes particularly clear if we look at the two earliest chronicles written
in Denmark, both from the early twelfth century: Ailnoth’s Gesta Swenomagni
regis et filiorum eius et passio gloriosissimi Canuti regis et martyris (The Deeds of King
Swenomagnus and of his Sons and the Passion of the Most Glorious Canute, King and
Martyr) and the Chronicle of Roskilde.2 Both texts defy easy classification. Ailnoth’s

1
Michael H. Gelting, ‘The Kingdom of Denmark’, in Christianization, pp. 73–120 (pp.
80–83). Michael H. Gelting, ‘Poppo’s Ordeal: Courtier Bishops and the Success of Christianiza-
tion at the Turn of the First Millennium’, Viking and Medieval Scandinavia, 6 (forthcoming).
2
Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 77–136. The title of the work occurs in the two earliest manuscripts, both
from the beginning of the thirteenth century; Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 77, cf. pp. 45–47. The Chronicle
of Roskilde is edited as Chronicon Roskildense. No medieval title for this chronicle is known.
34 Michael H. Gelting

work is a curious mixture of chronicle and hagiography, while the Chronicle of

Roskilde is a history of the Danish realm intertwined with a diocesan chronicle.

Ailnoth’s Gesta: Historical Background

Ailnoth’s Gesta is not only the earlier of the two texts, but also the more learned
and articulate one. A short presentation of its historical background and a dis-
cussion of the author’s identity and the date of the text are necessary in order to
appreciate the nature of this work. The old Jelling dynasty — descended from
Gorm (d. c. 962?), the last pagan king of Denmark, and his son Harald I (c.
962–86/87?), the first Christian king — became extinct in the male line at the
death of Harald’s great-grandson, Hardeknud (Harthacnut), in 1042. The dynasty
not only had united Denmark, but had also ruled England since the Danish con-
quest of 1013–16, and at times had also held a more uncertain sway over Norway.
The end of the dynasty sparked a conflict for mastery over Denmark between the
Norwegian king Magnus and his successor Harald on the one side, and on the
other side King Hardeknud’s cousin Sven II, son of Estrid, who was the sister of
Hardeknud’s father Cnut II, king of Denmark and England. After initial setbacks,
Sven was able to maintain control of Denmark from Magnus’s death in 1047 to his
own death in 1076. For almost the next sixty years, Sven was succeeded on the
Danish throne by five of his sons: Harald III (1076–80), Knud IV (1080–86),
Oluf (1086–95), Erik I (1095–1103), and Niels/Nicholas (1104–34).3
Of these five royal brothers, Knud IV came to have a special place in the Danish
royal dynasty by becoming the first Danish royal saint and the first Danish saint to
be officially canonized by the pope. Already at their father’s death in 1076, Knud
had attempted to attain the throne instead of his elder brother Harald, but failed.
However, when Harald died in 1080, Knud was elected as his successor. His reign
is obscure: the hagiographical sources are to some extent mutually contradictory,

3
I refrain from citing the nicknames or epithets by which the medieval kings are usually
designated in scholarly literature. Most of these epithets are of dubious authenticity and, moreover,
frequently difficult to translate. For informational purposes, King Gorm is usually called ‘the Old’,
Harald I ‘Blåtand’ (Bluetooth), Cnut II ‘the Great’ (even though medieval texts prefer to call him
‘Gamle-Knud’ (Old Knud)), Sven II ‘Estridsen’ (Son of Estrid, even though the title of Ailnoth’s
work might suggest ‘the Great’ as a more authentic epithet), Harald III ‘Hén’ (Soft Whetstone),
Knud IV ‘the Holy’, Oluf ‘Hunger’ (Famine), and Erik I ‘Ejegod’ (Evergood). No epithet is known
for King Niels. Similarly, the Norwegian kings Magnus and Harald are usually called ‘the Good’
and ‘Hårderåde’ (Hard Rule), respectively.
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 35

and there is little other evidence to supplement them. Nevertheless, it does seem
plausible that Knud was protecting the still fairly weak Danish church and
supporting it both with generous gifts and by attempting to introduce the full
payment of tithes, at the same time as he was strengthening his own kingship by
enforcing the king’s peace. These policies caused resentment in broad sections of
the lay aristocracy and the free peasantry.
King Knud’s most ambitious project, however, was in foreign policy. In 1085,
he assembled a large fleet in the Limfjord in northern Jylland ( Jutland), intending
to invade England. The intention was no doubt to reclaim the English throne —
which his predecessors had held — from William the Conqueror, such as his father
had already attempted in the early years of the Conqueror’s reign. King William
is known to have taken the threat very seriously, but in the end the expedition
came to naught. Knud was delayed in Schleswig (Slesvig) by a threatening situation
on Denmark’s southern border, and in the meantime his brother Oluf was engaged
in a plot against him. No doubt encouraged by the conspirators, the fleet dis-
banded. King Knud captured his brother and sent him in fetters to Knud’s father-
in-law, Count Robert of Flanders, whereupon the King proceeded to levy fines on
his disobedient men. It seems likely that this was the incident that triggered the
rebellion that broke out in the northernmost province of Jylland, Vendsyssel; yet
the deeper causes of the revolt should probably be sought in the widespread dis-
satisfaction with the King’s fiscal and jurisdictional policies. King Knud fled
southwards, then east to the island of Fyn (Funen), where the rebels finally caught
up with him in the city of Odense. There, he and his few remaining faithful men
were massacred in St Alban’s Church on 10 July 1086.
Knud was followed on the throne by his enemy brother Oluf, whose reign was
marked by a series of crop failures, famines, and epidemics.4 The Danish Church
interpreted this as God’s punishment of the Danish people for its sacrilegious

4
Passio Sancti Kanuti regis et martiris, c. 8, in Vitae sanctorum Danorum, ed. by Martin
Clarentius Gertz (Copenhagen: Gad, 1908–12), pp. 62–76 (p. 70): ‘Idcirco uindicta dei,
correctionis gratia subsecuta, totam fere Daciam tempestate, ferali pestilencia, fame et alimentorum
inopia tam diu perturbauit.’ According to the Chronicle of Roskilde (c. 1138, cf. below), the famine
lasted for all of the nine years of Oluf’s reign (Chronicon Roskildense, c. 11, p. 24). This is likely to
be an exaggeration, but a comparison with the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle does suggest the occurrence
of such dismal conditions immediately after King Knud’s murder; the chronicle (text E) mentions
severe crop failures, epizootics, and epidemics in England in both 1086 and 1087: The Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle: A Revised Translation, ed. by Dorothy Whitelock and others, 2nd edn (London: Eyre
and Spottiswoode, 1965), p. 162.
36 Michael H. Gelting

murder of the Church’s royal protector.5 Although King Oluf is unlikely to have
been inclined to see things in such a light, the Danish bishops elevated the mur-
dered King’s bones and proceeded to authenticate them as relics by testing them
with fire in the spring of 1095; the earliest account leaves no doubt that this was
a proper canonization by local ecclesiastic authorities, such as it was still commonly
practised in late eleventh-century Europe.6 The Danish clergy saw a further confir-
mation of Knud’s sanctity in the death of his enemy King Oluf in August of the
same year, and Erik I, Oluf’s brother and successor, was an ardent adherent of the
new royal cult. Some time between 1095 and 1100, he approached the English king
William II (Rufus) and asked him to send twelve Benedictine monks from the
abbey of Evesham to Denmark to establish a priory, which became the cathedral
chapter of the see of Odense, but whose primary function was to ensure the cult of
the new saint.7

5
For a largely convincing interpretation of the function of Knud’s canonization on the
background of the Church’s precarious position in traditional Danish society in the late eleventh
century, see the important thesis of Carsten Breengaard, Muren om Israels hus: Regnum og
sacerdotium i Danmark 1050–1170 (Copenhagen: Gad, 1982), pp. 122–49.
6
Passio Sancti Kanuti, c. 9, pp. 70–71. This has not been sufficiently recognized in previous
Danish research. The matter is treated in depth in Kim Esmark, ‘Hellige ben i indviet ild: Den
rituelle sanktifikation af kong Knud IV, 1095’, in Gaver, ritualer og konflikter: Ett rettsantropologisk
perspektiv på nordisk middelalderhistorie, ed. by Hans Jacob Orning, Lars Hermanson, and Kim
Esmark (Oslo: Unipub, 2010), pp. 161–210. For a short conspectus of the development of the
procedures of canonization from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, see André Vauchez, La
Sainteté en Occident aux derniers siècles du Moyen Âge d’après les procès de canonisation et les
documents hagiographiques, 2nd edn, Bibliothèque des Écoles Françaises d’Athènes et de Rome, 241
(Rome: École Française de Rome, 1988), pp. 25–37.
7
For the date, see the editors’ commentary to DD, 1st ser., vol. II: 1053–1169, ed. by Lauritz
Weibull and Niels Skyum-Nielsen (Copenhagen: Ejnar Munksgaard, 1963), no. 24, p. 55.
According to the fifteenth-century chronicle of Evesham in London, British Library, MS Harley
3763, the monks were sent to Odense already during the abbacy of Robert, who died in 1096
(Chronicon abbatiæ de Evesham, ad annum 1418, ed. by William Dunn Macray (London:
Longman, Roberts, and Green, 1863), p. xliv, n. 1; for the date of the manuscript, see p. xxxvi).
William Rufus’s agency is only mentioned there, too. As pointed out by the editors of DD, 1st ser.,
II, 24, the authority of this evidence is questionable. However, they seem to have been aware only
of the sixteenth-century extracts from MS Harley 3763 in London, British Library, MS Cotton
Vespasian B XV, and they do not appear to have noticed that the number (twelve) of the monks
sent to Odense is confirmed by a list of the monks and servants of Evesham from the twelfth or
thirteenth century in London, British Library, MS Cotton Vespasian B XXIV. It is this list that
in MS Harley 3763 is dated to the abbacy of Robert (Chronicon abbatiæ de Evesham, ed. by Macray
p. xliv, n. 1, cf. pp. xxxv–xxxvi). Both William Rufus’s intervention and the number of monks sent
to Denmark are plausible, but it seems prudent to agree with DD’s editors that the dating of the
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 37

Still, the idea of Knud’s holiness was far from being unanimously accepted; the
rebels were still alive, and they were unwilling to abandon their old grudges.8 That
may have been one of the reasons why King Erik opened up negotiations with the
papacy in order to have his murdered brother’s sanctity recognized by the highest
authority through the fairly new procedure of papal canonization. He succeeded
in this, and in 1100 or 1101 the remains of King Knud were translated to the altar
in a new and larger church in Odense.9 The official Latinization of the new saint’s
name was Canutus, which in Latin means ‘grey-haired’; his hagiographer interpreted
this as referring to the maturity of King Knud’s understanding and behaviour.10
As a template for the liturgy of the royal saint, a short and fairly simple passio was
written at the church of Odense, probably shortly after King Oluf’s death in 1095.11

list to Abbot Robert’s time may be no more than guesswork by the fifteenth-century compiler. The
date 1095 × 1096 for the founding of the priory of Odense is accepted by Peter King, ‘The
Cathedral Priory of Odense in the Middle Ages’, Kirkehistoriske Samlinger, 7th ser., 6 (1965–68),
1–20 (p. 3), with reference to Dom David Knowles, The Monastic Order in England: A History of
its Development from the Times of St Dunstan to the Fourth Lateran Council (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1949), p. 164, n.1; but see Knowles’s reservations there.
8
Breengaard’s arguments for denying the continuous existence throughout the twelfth century
of attitudes hostile to Knud’s actions as king, although admitting his sanctity because of his
repentance in the hour of death, fly in the face of the evidence; Breengaard, Muren om Israels hus,
pp. 53–56 and 130–31.
9
On 19 April 1101 according to Ailnoth, who was present at the ceremony; Ailnoth, Gesta,
cc. 35–36, pp. 133–34. Most scholars have accepted the argument of P. D. Steidl, ‘Hvornaar blev
Knud Konge skrinlagt?’, Varden, 5 (1907), 391–97, that the year 1101 must be wrong, since in that
year Good Friday fell on 19 April, and the translation of a saint could not be performed on that day
of compunction. Thus the year should be corrected to 1100; e.g. Niels Skyum-Nielsen, Kvinde og
Slave, Danmarkshistorie uden retouche, 3 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1971), p. 16, cf. p. 12.
Steidl’s arguments are undeniably strong; yet the emphasis in the first Passio of St Knud (c. 1096,
cf. below) on the parallels between the King’s ‘martyrdom’ and Christ’s death on the cross (M. Cl.
Gertz, ‘Knud den Helliges Martyrhistorie særlig efter de tre ældste Kilder: En filologisk-historisk
Undersøgelse’, in Festskrift udgivet af Kjøbenhavns Universitet i Anledning af Hans Majestæt Kongens
Fødselsdag den 3. Juni 1907 (Copenhagen: [University of Copenhagen], 1907), pp. 70–72) might
have encouraged the Danish bishops to stress the analogy by performing the translation on Good
Friday. Thus Ailnoth’s date might be correct after all.
10
Ailnoth, Gesta, c. 33, p. 131: ‘ob sensus caniciem et gestorum maturitatem’. Cf. Georg
Søndergaard, ‘Canutus – historien om et navn’, in Knuds-bogen 1986: Studier over Knud den
Hellige, ed. by Tore Nyberg and others, Fynske studier, 15 (Odense: Odense Bys Museer, 1986),
pp. 157–80 (pp. 158–59).
11
Edited by Gertz in ‘Knud den Helliges Martyrhistorie’, pp. 6–25 (with parallel Danish trans-
lation), and again in Vitae sanctorum Danorum, pp. 62–71; these editions improve upon that by
38 Michael H. Gelting

However, after the papal canonization it is likely that the need was felt for a more
elaborate and dignified text. That need was met by Ailnoth’s Gesta.

Ailnoth’s Gesta: Its Date and its Author

Of the author’s identity, we only know what he tells of himself in his dedicatory
letter to King Niels and in the epilogue to the Gesta.12 Both the author’s name
Ailnoth and his own explicit statements show him to have been an Englishman. He
tells that he was from Canterbury, and he also says that at the time of his writing
he had been living in Denmark for almost twenty-four years.13 Hence the question
of his identity is closely connected to the problem of the date of his text.
The current consensus is that Ailnoth must have written his Gesta between the
accession of King Niels in 1104 and 1117, when Pope Paschal II confirmed the
King’s privilege to the church of Odense, since Ailnoth’s exhortation to the King
to show generosity towards his sainted brother’s resting place must antedate that
privilege.14 It seems possible to narrow this dating even further. Ailnoth mentions
two of King Knud’s chaplains as being bishops at the time of his writing. One of
them is Arnold, bishop of Roskilde, who died in 1124 or 1125; the other is called
Gerold.15 This Gerold must be identified with Bishop Jareld of Ribe, who

Joannes Baptista Sollerius, Acta sanctorum, Julii, 3 (Antwerp, 1723), pp. 121–23, which was based
on a faulty transcription of the sole surviving manuscript (cf. Vitae sanctorum Danorum, ed. by
Gertz, p. 37).
12
In addition to Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 77–82, the dedicatory letter is edited in DD, 1st ser., II, no.
31, pp. 68–73. Epilogue: Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 135–36.
13
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 77: ‘Ailnothus, Cancia Anglorum metropolitana urbe editus, iam uero
Dacie partibus quatuor quinquenniis et bis fere binis annis demoratus’. Cf. Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 135:
‘ego [...] Ailnothus, Anglorum orbe editus.’
14
King Niels’s privilege does not carry any date: DD, 1st ser., II, no. 32, pp. 73–76 (there dated
to 1104–17); Pope Paschal’s privilege of 13 October 1117: DD, 1st ser., II, no. 42, pp. 88–90. Ail-
noth’s exhoration to the King: Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 81: ‘Tanti igitur germani pignora regia condignis
adornet donis potentia, edis sacrê decus amplificet, spiritualis normê uiros cultui ibidem diuino
iugiter insistentes solidando corroboret.’ The arguments for the currently accepted date of Ailnoth’s
text are set out in DD, ser. 1, II, no. 31, commentary p. 69. The date c. 1122 advocated by Ailnoth’s
translator Hans Olrik and editor Martin Clarentius Gertz may still be encountered occasionally;
Hans Olrik, ‘Studier over Ælnods skrift om Knud den hellige’, Historisk Tidsskrift (Danish), 6th
ser., 4 (1892–94), 205–91 (p. 205); and Gertz, ‘Knud den Helliges Martyrhistorie’, p. 84, n. 1.
15
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 95. For the date of Arnold’s death, see Rolf Große, ‘Roskildis (Roskilde)’,
in Britannia, Scotia et Hibernia, Scandinavia, vol. II: Archiepiscopatus Lundensis, ed. by Helmuth
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 39

according to the early thirteenth-century Chronicle of the Church of Ribe had sold
the possessions of his church and secretly fled with the proceeds.16 On 6 April
1113, he witnessed a charter of the German emperor Henry V in Worms.17 As
pointed out by Niels Skyum-Nielsen, that day was Easter, when Gerold ought to
have been celebrating Mass in his cathedral, and this would seem to indicate that
Gerold was in exile in Germany by then. 18 It is unlikely that Ailnoth would have
mentioned Gerold’s episcopal dignity after his absconding. Thus the Gesta may be
assumed to have been written before 1113. On the other hand, Ailnoth says that
he writes down for posterity what he has learned from credible persons about King
Knud’s deeds, but he does not claim any personal knowledge of the King’s reign.19
This suggests that he must have arrived in Denmark after the King’s murder in
1086. Hence, being in the twenty-fourth year of his stay in Denmark at the time
of his writing, Ailnoth could not have written his text earlier than 1110. While
admitting that these arguments are somewhat hypothetical, I would thus favour a
date for Ailnoth’s Gesta of around 1111/12.
It is usually assumed that Ailnoth, who calls himself a priest, was attached to the
service of the cathedral of Odense and possibly was a monk in St Canute’s priory
there. However, the arguments for this view do not hold up to closer scrutiny.
They are based on a much too literal, sometimes even contrived, reading of

Kluger, Series episcoporum ecclesiae catholicae occidentalis ab initio usque ad annum MCXCVIII,
ed. by Odilo Engels and Stefan Weinfurter, 6th ser. (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1992), pp. 76–95
(p. 84, n. 128).
16
‘Ribe Bispekrønike’, ed. by Ellen Jørgensen, Kirkehistoriske Samlinger, 6th ser., 1 (1933–35),
23–33 (p. 27): ‘propter regios sumptus possessiones ecclesiæ alienauit et collecta pecunia clam
discessit’. For the likelihood that this text preserves some authentic traditions about the early
bishops of Ribe, see Michael H. Gelting, ‘Cronica ecclesiæ Ripensis (Chronicle of the Church of
Ribe)’, in Medieval Nordic Literature in Latin, ed. by Lars Boje Mortensen and others (forth-
coming); cf. Michael H. Gelting, ‘Elusive Bishops: Remembering, Forgetting, and Remaking the
History of the Early Danish Church’, in The Bishop: Power and Piety at the First Millennium, ed.
by Sean Gilsdorf, Neue Aspekte der europäischen Mittelalterforschung, 4 (Münster: Lit, 2004),
pp. 169–200 (p. 184).
17
‘Geraldi Rifensis [episcopi]’, in Urkundenbuch zur Geschichte der jetzt die Preussischen
Regierungsbezirke Coblenz und Trier bildenden mittelrheinischen Territorien, vol. I, ed. by Heinrich
Beyer (Coblenz: J. Hoelscher, 1860), no. 426, p. 489.
18
Skyum-Nielsen, Kvinde og Slave, p. 31.
19
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 79: ‘quê de gestis religiosi principis et deo dilecti martyris probabilibus
personis utriusque sexus et ordinis referentibus agnoui [...] posterorum memoriê reseruanda
apicibus contradidi’.
40 Michael H. Gelting

Ailnoth’s text.20 There is good reason to take a fresh look at A. D. Jørgensen’s old
hypothesis that Ailnoth might have belonged to the king’s chapel.21 Jørgensen did
not argue this point very closely, but his main argument against Ailnoth having
been a monk of Odense is convincing: the way he wrote of the monks of St Canute
asking him to compose the saint’s life definitely shows him to have seen the monks
as a group entirely distinct from himself.22 Jørgensen’s argument for Ailnoth’s con-
nection to the royal chapel, on the other hand, is incapable of carrying the weight
he lays on it: ‘diuini officii ministrorum infimus’ (the least of the ministers of the
Divine service) is not an expression indicating royal service.23 Although A. D.
Jørgensen’s idea had been dismissed by later scholars, it was taken up again in 1931
by Ellen Jørgensen (no relation), with the argument that Ailnoth could hardly have
gained his thorough knowledge of the laws and governance of Denmark by living
as a cloistered monk.24 This argument was not without merit, but it failed to affect
the prevailing consensus. Nevertheless, the hypothesis of the two Jørgensens is
plausible. The institutional development of the Danish Church was still fairly rudi-
mentary in the early twelfth century, and besides the royal court there were few
places susceptible of housing a cleric of Ailnoth’s level of education; only the
cathedrals of Lund, Roskilde, and Viborg had cathedral chapters, and no Ailnoth
is mentioned in what survives of their necrological traditions.25 Moreover, if the
monks of Odense were looking for a patron who could broker influence with the

20
The arguments are marshalled in Olrik, ‘Studier over Ælnods skrift’, pp. 207–09. For Ail-
noth’s characterization of himself as a priest, see Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 77: ‘Diuini officii ministrorum
infimus Ailnothus’; p. 135: ‘ego sacerdotum infimus Ailnothus’.
21
A. D. Jørgensen, Den nordiske kirkes grundlæggelse og første udvikling, vol. II (Copenhagen:
Selskabet for Danmarks Kirkehistorie, 1878), p. 879 with n. ***.
22
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 79: ‘religiosi habitus uiri, Ihesu Christo ibidem insignique triumphatori
deseruientibus, obnixe suffragantibus posterorum memoriê reseruanda apicibus contradidi’ (at the
insistent pleas of the men of religious garb who are serving Jesus Christ and the glorious victor [i.e.
St Canute] there, I have committed [St Canute’s deeds] into writing in order to preserve them for
commemoration by posterity).
23
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 77; cf. above, note 20.
24
Ellen Jørgensen, Historieforskning og Historieskrivning i Danmark indtil Aar 1800
(Copenhagen: Den Danske Historiske Forening, 1931), p. 21.
25
The earliest surviving necrology from the cathedral of Lund was begun in 1123: Necrologium
Lundense: Lunds domkyrkas nekrologium, ed. by Lauritz Weibull (Lund: Berlingska boktryckeriet,
1923). The lost necrology of Roskilde Cathedral was painstakingly reconstructed from early
modern excerpts by Alfred Otto, Liber Daticus Roskildensis: Roskilde Gavebog og Domkapitlets
Anniversarieliste (Copenhagen: Levin and Munksgaard, 1933). Nothing has survived of the
necrological traditions of Viborg Cathedral.
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 41

king, they are likely to have turned to someone who already held a position at
court. It would not have been unusual for the court of the Danish king to include
an exiled Anglo-Saxon cleric: for a decade after the failed rebellions and Danish
invasions of England from 1069 to 1071, two high-ranking Anglo-Saxon eccle-
siastics found exile in Denmark, and they are unlikely to have been alone.26
This might be more than a chance analogy. If I am correct in my hypothesis that
Ailnoth wrote c. 1111/12 (more precisely, between 1110 and early 1113), and he
had been in Denmark for almost twenty-four years at the time, he must have ar-
rived in Denmark between 1086 and 1089. The revolt against King Knud erupted
a few months after the King’s abortive invasion of England. It is likely that such an
ambitious expedition had been prepared through cooperation with sympathizers,
agents, and informants in England. Is it possible that the Canterbury priest Ail-
noth, whose virulent hatred of the Normans is clear from his writings,27 had been
active as a Danish agent, and that he felt his safety in England compromised after
the failure of the invasion?
This can be no more than a tantalizing suggestion, and it is better to turn to
what we may surmise about his English background. Ailnoth tells that he was from
Canterbury.28 If, as I suggest, he arrived in Denmark in the late 1080s, he must have
been serving under the Lombard-born Norman Lanfranc, who became Archbishop
of Canterbury in 1070;29 perhaps he had also received his education during
Lanfranc’s archiepiscopate. Although Lanfranc as archbishop no longer taught per-
sonally, he oversaw the cathedral school of Canterbury, making it conform to the
model of the school he had created himself at the abbey of Bec in Normandy. Bec
came to have an extraordinary influence upon the Anglo-Norman intellectual and
political world through the combined effect of its high standards and Lanfranc’s
influence with William the Conqueror.30 Lacking the necessary philological

26
Timothy Bolton, ‘English Political Refugees at the Court of Sveinn Ástriðarson, King of
Denmark (1042–1076)’, Mediaeval Scandinavia, 15 (2005), 17–36 (pp. 21–30).
27
Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 96–97.
28
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 77: ‘Ailnothus, Cancia Anglorum metropolitana urbe editus’.
29
On Lanfranc, see Margaret Gibson, Lanfranc of Bec (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978).
30
Gibson, Lanfranc, p. 177; Raymonde Foreville, ’L’École du Bec et le “studium” de Canter-
bury aux XIe et XIIe siècles’, Bulletin philologique et historique (jusqu’à 1715) du Comité des Travaux
Historiques et Scientifiques, 1955–56 (1957), 357–74 (pp. 357–70); Sally N. Vaughn, ‘Lanfranc,
Anselm and the School of Bec: In Search of the Students of Bec’, in The Culture of Christendom:
Essays in Medieval History in Commemoration of Denis L. T. Bethell, ed. by Marc Anthony Meyer
(London: Hambledon, 1993), pp. 155–82.
42 Michael H. Gelting

training for carrying out the close textual analysis that might show the Bec affilia-
tion of Ailnoth’s work, I must leave that task to others; but such an affiliation
would explain not only Ailnoth’s literary ambition — his lofty style, interspersing
his prose with verse, and his frequent classical references — but also his focus on
history.31 At least by the early thirteenth century — the date of the two earliest
manuscripts — Ailnoth’s text carried the title The Deeds of King Swen the Great
and his Sons and the Passion of the Most Glorious King and Martyr Canute.32 The
prologue — distinct from the dedicatory letter to King Niels — and the first three
chapters (in the printed edition nine out of seventy pages)33 are devoted to the
history of Denmark before the accession of the future saint, whereas the usual
account of the saint’s childhood and education is totally absent. Probably there was
not much of edification to tell about the latter subject, but it is remarkable that
Ailnoth chose to ignore, rather than to expatiate upon, the earlier Passion’s short
and stereotypical description of Knud’s precocious proficiency in the Christian
virtues.34 Ailnoth’s St Canute enters the scene as a grown man, a privileged member
of his dynasty rather than a person singled out for sainthood from his earliest
years.35 The attention and space devoted to the general history of the kingdom is
remarkable; 36 it seems to reflect the considerable weight placed upon history as a
model and norm for future action in the educational tradition of Lanfranc and his
successor St Anselm.37

31
Cf. N. Lukman, ‘Ælnod: Et Bindeled mellem engelsk og dansk Historieskrivning i 12. Aarh.’,
Historisk Tidsskrift (Danish), 11th ser., 2 (1947–49), 493–505.
32
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 82: ‘Incipit proemium in gestis Swenomagni regis et filiorum eius et
passione gloriosissimi Canuti regis et martyris.’
33
Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 82–91.
34
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 63.
35
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 90, in Ailnoth’s account of the struggle for the throne between Knud and
his elder brother Harald.
36
Cf. the discussion of Ailnoth’s Gesta as a mixture of hagiography and chronicle in Tue Gad,
Legenden i dansk middelalder (Copenhagen: Dansk Videnskabs Forlag, 1961), pp. 158–59.
37
Sally N. Vaughn, ‘Anselm of Bec: The Pattern of his Teaching’, in Teaching and Learning
in Northern Europe, 1000–1200, ed. by Sally N. Vaughn and Jay Rubenstein, Studies in the Early
Middle Ages, 8 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), pp. 99–127; Sally N. Vaughn, ‘The Concept of Law
at the Abbey of Bec, 1034–1136: How Law and Legal Concepts were Described, Taught and Prac-
tised at Bec in the Time of Lanfranc and Anselm’, in Law and Learning in the Middle Ages:
Proceedings of the Second Carlsberg Academy Conference on Medieval Legal History 2005, ed. by
Helle Vogt and Mia Münster-Swendsen (Copenhagen: DJØF, 2006), pp. 167–80.
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 43

Thus Ailnoth, while bitterly resenting the destruction of the world of his
Anglo-Saxon ancestors, seems to have been deeply influenced by the teachings of
the new (Italo-)Norman masters of the English church. Even in exile, he remained
a vivid testimony to the woes and contradictions of the profound transformation
that English society was going through in the late eleventh century.

Ailnoth’s View of Denmark’s Christian Past

Hence, while Ailnoth certainly wrote for a wide Danish audience, beginning with
King Niels and the Benedictines of Odense, and his long residence in Denmark
must have familiarized him thoroughly with the country and its inhabitants, his
perspective remained that of a well-educated foreign resident. That is particularly
clear in his prologue, where the story of King Sven II and his sons is placed in the
grand context first, very briefly, of the conversion of the Roman Empire, and then
of a comparative account of the process of conversion in the various Nordic
countries. With two exceptions, the comparison is made in general terms, without
alluding to specific historical events. Rather, the varying degree of success of the
Christianization of the Nordic countries is attributed to geographical factors. The
Swedes and the Goths — in Ailnoth’s time, these two main components of medi-
eval Sweden were still considered to be separate peoples, and their political union
in one kingdom was highly unstable38 — the Norwegians and the Icelanders were
slower to adopt the faith because missionaries were reluctant to travel there, due
both to the difficulty of obtaining food and provisions and to the wildness and
innate hardness of the barbarians. The Danes, by contrast, living closer to the
French and the Saxons and in a much more fertile country, had received the faith
before any of the other Nordic countries and kept it steadfastly ever since. The
number of churches in Denmark grew constantly, and through the power and
counsel of the noble Danish kings they were provided with bishops and priests.39
Ailnoth goes on to illustrate the course of Christianization in each country, and
this is where his two specific examples are adduced. The Danes’ steadfastness in the
faith is credited to the ordeal of Bishop Poppo, whereby he proved Christ to be the
only true God.40 This ordeal took place c. 963 and was first recorded by the Saxon

38
Peter Sawyer, När Sverige blev Sverige, trans. and revised by Birgit Sawyer (Alingsås: Viktoria,
1991), pp. 24–63.
39
Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 82–84.
40
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 83.
44 Michael H. Gelting

historian Widukind of Corvey some five years afterwards,41 but in Ailnoth’s

account, Poppo’s original ordeal of carrying a red-hot iron in his hand is doubled
by having him also walking unscathed on red-hot iron plates, and Poppo has been
promoted from priest to bishop (which he did not become until afterwards).42
The Swedes and the Goths, on the other hand, were as fickle as the Danes were
faithful. When their affairs prospered, they would outwardly honour the Christian
faith, but when things went wrong — whether it was crop failure, drought, storms,
enemy incursions, or conflagrations — they would turn against the Christians and
attempt to drive them from the land. As an example of this, Ailnoth mentions the
martyrdom of the English missionary Eskillinus, who was killed by the ferocity and
insanity of the barbarians.43 This is certainly a reference to the founder of the see
of Strängnäs, St Eskil, whose violent death probably occurred during the last major
pagan reaction in Sweden, in the 1080s.44
Finally, the Norwegians and the Icelanders, Ailnoth has to admit, did keep the
Christian faith, but because of the infertility of their lands and the lack of food-
stuffs they defiled the fasting days — both weekly and during Lent — by eating
illicit food. This prompts Ailnoth to cite (approximately) the prophet Jeremiah:
‘From the north shall an evil break forth upon the figure of the entire earth’.45
Indeed, Ailnoth sees the coldness of the North reflected in the obstinacy of the
Norwegians and the Icelanders in maintaining their old laws and customs even
when they were contrary to the Faith and to God’s justice. Whereupon, elaborat-
ing on the theme of coldness, he concludes his prologue by wishing for the south

41
Gelting, ‘Kingdom of Denmark’, p. 80. Gelting, ‘Poppo’s Ordeal’.
42
For the complicated development of the tales about Poppo’s ordeal, see Sture Bolin, Om
Nordens äldsta historieforskning: Studier över dess metodik och källvärde, Lunds universitets årsskrift,
n.s., Section 1, 27, 3 (Lund: Håkan Ohlssons boktryckeri, 1931), pp. 63–116; Ailnoth’s account
is discussed at pp. 69–79, concluding that he was using a lost source that had also been known to
Adam of Bremen. Lene Demidoff, ‘The Poppo Legend’, Mediaeval Scandinavia, 6 (1973), 39–67
(pp. 46–49), argues that Ailnoth was relying on oral tradition rather than on a written text.
43
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 83.
44
Nils Blomkvist, The Discovery of the Baltic: The Reception of a Catholic World-System in the
European North (AD 1075–1225), The Northern World, 15 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), pp. 601–02;
Nils Blomkvist, Stefan Brink, and Thomas Lindkvist, ‘The Kingdom of Sweden’, in Christiani-
zation, pp. 167–213 (pp. 183 and 193–95).
45
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 84: ‘Ab aquilone enim, ut per prophetam dominus commemorat, pandetur
malum super faciem uniuersê terrê.’ Jeremiah 1. 14: ‘et dixit Dominus ad me: ab aquilone pandetur
malum super omnes habitatores terrae’ (Douay-Rheim’s translation: ‘And the Lord said to me:
from the north shall an evil break forth upon all the inhabitants of the land’).
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 45

wind of the Song of Songs to bring the warmth of spiritual grace that will chase
away the coldness of torpor and iniquity.
The result of this comparison is to draw the boundary between Christian civ-
ilization and semi- or pseudo-Christian barbarity exactly at the northern frontier
of Denmark. As to when exactly the Danes were included in that civilization,
Ailnoth remains rigorously silent. Poppo’s ordeal is placed in an indeterminate
past, since no mention is made of the king at whose court it took place, Harald I,
and the spatial location of the event is just as vague as the temporal reference.
Neither does Ailnoth name the ‘noble kings’ who so decisively furthered the
growth of the Church in Denmark. Christianization seems to be placed in an
almost mythical, timeless past.
The significance of this obscuring of the chronology of Denmark’s Christian-
ization becomes clear when we look at the first chapters following Ailnoth’s
prologue. The historical narrative begins with the protracted wars for mastery over
Denmark between King Sven II on the one hand and, first, King Magnus (the
Good) of Norway and Denmark and, after his death in 1047, King Harald
(Hardrada) of Norway, ending with the battle of Nissan in 1062.46 All of this is still
placed in a quasi-mythical, indefinite time and space. No indication of date or
duration is provided, and curiously, the two initial adversaries — Magnus of
Norway and Sven of Denmark — are described as, respectively, ‘duke’ (or ‘leader’)
‘of the men of the north and of the west’ and ‘of the men of the east and of the
south’.47 The ‘men of the north’ were Norwegians, obviously, but Ailnoth’s use of
the term aquilonales obscures this identification rather than clarifying it. King
Sven’s long struggle for his kingdom seems to acquire an almost cosmic dimension.
Ailnoth’s equally curious error in calling Harald Hardrada by the epithet of the
founder of the Norwegian kingdom, Harald Fairhair,48 is probably a simple
misunderstanding, but it does contribute to the reader’s feeling that the historical
narrative is emerging from a timeless, mythical past.
Once securely installed on his throne, King Sven is depicted as an ideal Christian
ruler, with special weight being placed on his support of the Church and of the poor,
promoting the churches that were already in existence and building churches where
none had been before, increasing the numbers of the clergy and of the episcopate.49

46
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 85.
47
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 85: ‘conflictus inter Magnum, aquilonalium et occidentalium, et
Suegnonem, Magnum etiam nuncupatum, orientalium et australium ducem’.
48
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 85: ‘Haroldum coma pulchrum’.
49
Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 85–86.
46 Michael H. Gelting

Ailnoth compares him both to the biblical King David50 and to the Homeric King
Priam of Troy;51 the latter parallel may have been inspired by the large number of
King Sven’s offspring by various women, a feature he shared with the Trojan king.
Sven’s inordinate appetite for women is the only openly critical note that Ailnoth
introduces into his portrait of the King.52 In the middle of his account of King
Sven, the author inserts a rather lengthy disquisition on salvation, the main point
of which is that only he who despairs of salvation and of the remission of his sins
is irremediably, eternally damned. It does not appear to have reference to any
element of Ailnoth’s portrait of Sven, nor to any known episode in the King’s life.
Rather, this piece of moral theology should be seen as intimately connected to the
comparison between King Sven and the biblical King David that follows
immediately upon it: even though Sven II was described as an ideal king, he was
still, like David, a sinful soul and no saint; yet, like David against Goliath, King
Sven fought the good battle against the forces of the Antichrist.53 At the same time,
it may have been intended that King Sven’s David-like figure be interpreted as an
allegorical prefiguration of St Canute and his Christ-like death, just as King David
in the Bible was interpreted as a prefiguration of Christ.54
Finally, King Sven’s name in Ailnoth’s text merits some attention. Upon his
first mention of the King, Ailnoth calls him ‘Sven, also called Magnus’,55 thereby
making it clear that this was a case of the double naming that seems to have been
frequent in eleventh- and twelfth-century Denmark — the child receiving a
traditional, indigenous name at birth and a Christian name at baptism.56 However,
after that initial explanation Ailnoth invariably calls Sven ‘Swenomagnus’, thus
conflating the two names into one, with the similarity to the designation of the
first Frankish emperor as Charlemagne probably being intentional. Thus this ‘Sven
the Great’ is depicted as the founding father of the Danish kingdom, and his

50
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 88.
51
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 85.
52
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 89: ‘luxui illecebrosi appetitus admodum cedens numerosê prolis sobolem
in regni sibi iura successuram emisit’.
53
This parallel is drawn out explicitly and at length; Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 88.
54
For all of this interpretation, see Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, ‘Om Ælnoth og hans bog’,
in Ælnoths Krønike, trans. and comm. by Erling Albrectsen (Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag,
1984), pp. 115–39 (pp. 130–31).
55
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 85: ‘Suegnonem, Magnum etiam nuncupatum’.
56
Johannes Steenstrup, ‘Dobbelte Navne: Erik Lam—David’, Historisk Tidsskrift (Danish),
6th ser., 4 (1892–94), 729–41.
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 47

foundational role seems to be stressed by Ailnoth providing an exact date for his
death, the fourth of the Kalends of May 1074.57 We have now moved from
mythical to historical time.
In the following chapter, Ailnoth does not attempt to conceal that King Sven’s
succession was contested between his eldest son Harald and another son, Knud, the
future St Canute. Simply, Knud’s defeat is described as a voluntary withdrawal in
the interest of peace and as part of God’s plans for the future saint.58 Thereafter,
the account of the short reign of Harald III is centred upon his legislative activity.
This is described in these terms:
Haroldus patrium nactus imperium populi uotis admodum fauere eisque leges et iura non
tam, quê uellent, eligere, immo, quê uel quales elegissent, posteris seruandas regali studebat
auctoritate decernere.59
[Harald took care […] not only to choose for [the people] such laws and rights as they
wanted, but rather to decree by royal authority that those laws and rights which they chose
should be kept for future generations.]

The Danes still in Ailnoth’s time required from candidates to the throne that they
should confirm the laws that had been sanctioned by King Harald, who himself
was held in high esteem as ‘the provider of public peace and freedom’.60 After Sven
the Great, the founder of the Danish church, his son Harald thus was the founder
of Danish law.
It is beyond the scope of this chapter to analyse the subsequent, main part of
Ailnoth’s text, the Life of St Canute, properly speaking. By now, the point of his

57
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 89. From Ailnoth the dating of King Sven’s death to 1074 went on to all
of the medieval historical writing in Denmark, and for a long time it was also commonly accepted
by modern Danish historians. However, contemporary Anglo-Saxon chronicles have 1076 as the
year of Sven’s death, whereas Ailnoth was writing almost forty years later. Nowadays most Danish
historians have accepted 1076 as the correct year. The arguments for this view were marshalled
already by Johannes Steenstrup, ‘I hvilket Aar døde Svend Estridssøn?’, Historisk Tidsskrift
(Danish), 6th ser., 4 (1892–94), 722–29. For the subsequent acrimonious debate, see references
in Otto, Liber daticus Roskildensis, p. 169; and Aksel E. Christensen, ‘Tiden 1042–1241’, in
Danmarks historie, ed. by Aksel E. Christensen and others, vol. I: Tiden indtil 1340 (Copenhagen:
Gyldendal, 1977), pp. 211–399 (pp. 236–37) — both adhering to 1074.
58
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 90.
59
Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 90–91.
60
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 91: ‘Unde leges ab eo sancitas Dani usque in hodiernum ab electis et
eligendis sibi regibus expetunt, eumque ueluti pacis ac libertatis publicê prouisorem pro concessis
ab eo legibus laude et fauoribus extollunt.’
48 Michael H. Gelting

semi-mythical interpretation of Denmark’s early Christian history should stand

out reasonably clearly. It is important to remember that the old royal dynasty,
usually called the Jelling dynasty after its tenth-century place of burial and com-
memoration, had become extinct in the male line with the death of King Harde-
knud of Denmark and England in 1042. Sven II, who succeeded him after the
short-lived Norwegian takeover under Magnus, was Hardeknud’s cousin, being the
son of Cnut/Knud II’s sister. Sven was the origin of a new royal male line. What
Ailnoth was achieving with his total obliteration of the memory of the Jelling
dynasty, including that of Harald I, the king who claimed to have converted the
Danes in the 960s, was to legitimize the new dynasty by portraying its first two
kings as the real founding fathers of civilized Denmark, in almost archetypical
roles.61 Ailnoth cast St Canute himself in a no less archetypical role, that of proto-
martyr, drawing explicit parallels between the King’s death and the stoning of St
Stephen, the first Christian martyr.62 Ailnoth may even have conceived of his audi-
ence seeing a trinitarian allegory in the first three kings of the dynasty: the father,
Sven (whom Ailnoth likened to King David), founding the Christian kingdom;
the son, Harald, giving it new laws; and St Canute reaching the level of the spirit
by attaining martyrdom and sainthood.
In all of this, nothing whatsoever was told about the pagan past that went be-
fore Christianization. Only the very first sentence of Ailnoth’s prologue explicitly
tells that the Nordic realms once were pagan.63 However, since this is followed im-
mediately by the author’s short reference to Rome’s conquests and the subsequent
conversion of its empire, it seems to include the North in a common, ancient

61
Cf. Meulengracht Sørensen, ‘Om Ælnoth og hans bog’, pp. 120–24; Nanna Damsholt,
‘Tiden indtil 1560’, in Danmarks historie, ed. by Søren Mørch, vol. X : Historiens historie (Copen-
hagen: Gyldendal, 1992), pp. 11–51 (pp. 21–23).
62
Ailnoth, Gesta, pp. 97–98: ‘omnia disponens et cuncta diiudicans [i.e. God] [...] Danis de
principe patronum, de rege prothomartyrem efficere disponebat’. The explicit parallels to St
Stephen Protomartyr are at pp. 107 and 118. St Canute was already called protomartyr in the
earlier Passio: Vitae sanctorum Danorum, ed. by Gertz, p. 60. Both authors conveniently forget the
earlier canonization of St Theodgar of Vestervig. On the importance of St Stephen Protomartyr
also in the legends of the holy kings of Norway and Hungary, St Olav and St Stephen, see Lars Boje
Mortensen, ‘Sanctified Beginnings and Mythopoietic Moments: The First Wave of Writing on
the Past in Norway, Denmark, and Hungary, c. 1000–1230’, in Making of Christian Myths, pp.
247–73 (pp. 262–63).
63
Ailnoth, Gesta, p. 82: ‘Regna aquilonis, in remotis mundi partibus abdita, longe diuque
paganis tenebantur ritibus dedita, quousque ea de profundo erroris et infidelitatis diuina extraxit
clementia.’
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 49

paganism rather than indicating anything specific about the past beliefs of the
Nordic peoples. If the first century of Denmark’s Christian history was reduced to
a semi-mythical, timeless past, the old Nordic paganism was tacitly relegated to
limbo. Denmark’s history was emphatically a Christian history, and nothing but
that.

The Chronicle of Roskilde and its View of Denmark’s Christian Past

The same conclusion emerges from a consideration of the second text that I want
to introduce here, if in less detail. It is the Chronicle of Roskilde, written around
1138 by an author whose name is unknown, but who was certainly a canon of the
cathedral chapter of Roskilde.64 It is the earliest chronicle to have been preserved
from medieval Denmark, and we may be fairly sure that it was also the first to have
been written: it does not show any trace of its author having used native narrative
sources or any other written sources from Denmark apart from the archives of
Roskilde Cathedral and, probably, the ‘house tradition’ of the cathedral chapter.
Until the 1070s, when the cathedral chapter was founded65 and its archives began,
the anonymous author of Roskilde based his account of Danish history essentially
upon the historical narrative of Adam of Bremen.66 Only in expanding Adam’s
limited information on the Viking raids in England in the ninth century did the

64
Michael H. Gelting, ‘Chronicon Roskildense’, in Medieval Nordic Literature in Latin, ed.
by Mortensen and others; Roskildekrøniken, trans. and comm. by Michael H. Gelting, 2nd edn
(Højbjerg: Wormianum, 2002); and Michael H. Gelting, ‘Da Eskil ville være ærkebiskop af
Roskilde: Roskildekrøniken, Liber daticus Lundensis og det danske ærkesædes ophævelse
1133–1138’, in Ett annat 1100–tal: Individ, kollektiv och kulturella mönster i medeltidens
Danmark, Centrum för Danmarksstudier, 3 (Göteborg: Makadam, 2004), pp. 181–229 (pp.
181–202); Anne K. G. Kristensen, Danmarks ældste Annalistik: Studier over lundensisk Annalskriv-
ning i 12. og 13. Århundrede, Skrifter udgivet af Det historiske Institut ved Københavns Universi-
tet, 3 (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1969), pp. 39–41 and 121–26. For a severely critical overview of
earlier interpretations of the Chronicle of Roskilde, see Breengaard, Muren om Israels hus, pp. 51–72.
65
J. O. Arhnung, Roskilde Domkapitels Historie, vol. I : Tiden indtil 1416 med Altrenes og
Kapellernes Historie (Roskilde: Erh. Flensborg, 1937), pp. 4–5, showed conclusively that the
chapter must have been in existence before the death of King Sven II in 1076 (not 1074 as assumed
by Arhnung, cf. above). Arhnung’s arguments pp. 6–7 for the existence of a cathedral chapter since
the creation of the see in the early 1020s are unsubstantiated; the founding of the chapter is likely
to have been connected to a large donation by King Sven’s mother Estrid 1072 × 1075 (DD, 1st
ser., II, no. 9, pp. 18–19; there dated 1072 × 1073 on the assumption that King Sven died in 1074).
66
For more details on this text, see the previous chapter by Ildar Garipzanov.
50 Michael H. Gelting

chronicler draw extensively upon other sources, of which the most important one
seems to have been Henry of Huntingdon’s History of the English People.67
However dependent on Adam of Bremen for his facts, the anonymous author
of Roskilde was no faithful abbreviator. On the contrary, his short chronicle may
even be called ‘anti-Adam’ insofar as the period covered by Adam of Bremen is
concerned. Master Adam wrote in the 1070s, when the fortunes of the arch-
bishopric of Hamburg-Bremen were at a low ebb: Archbishop Adalbert’s short
flirtation with the highest reaches of power as a tutor of the young German king
Henry IV had ended in defeat and humiliation, and the episcopal city of Bremen
itself was the target of attacks by neighbouring enemies; the recently created suf-
fragan sees among the western Slavs had collapsed during a great Slavic rebellion;
and the archbishop’s authority over the Danish bishops, let alone those of Sweden
or Norway, was hardly more than a sham, being in practice entirely dependent
upon the good will of the kings. Adam’s work was a remarkable reinterpretation
of history in order to stress the archbishopric’s paramount role in spreading the
Faith among the Scandinavians and the Slavs and its continuous exercise of its
authority over the wide missionary field that had belonged to it since its founda-
tion. It was the vindication of the prestige of the archbishops in the face of serious
challenges to their see’s authority, potentially even to its survival as a separate
archdiocese.68
In contrast, the Chronicle of Roskilde was written at the end of a short, fleeting
moment of revival of Hamburg-Bremen’s authority over the Danish church. In
1103, Pope Paschal II had promoted the Danish diocese of Lund to the archi-
episcopal dignity, with authority over all of the Nordic countries. As might be
expected, the archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen did not acquiesce passively to this
radical diminishing of their province, and during the following half-century they
made repeated attempts at having Paschal’s decision reversed. In 1133, the particu-
lar circumstances of the German king Lothar III’s support of Pope Innocent II
during the Anacletan schism enabled the Archbishop of Hamburg to obtain papal
letters renewing the subjection of Lund and the rest of the Nordic dioceses to the

67
Gelting, ‘Chronicon Roskildense’. Henry of Huntingdon’s chronicle is edited in Henry,
Archdeacon of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum: The History of the English People, ed. by Diana
Greenway (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996).
68
Gelting, ‘Elusive Bishops’. The interpretation of the chronicle as a conscious ‘anti-Adam’ was
first proposed by Lars Hemmingsen, ‘By Word of Mouth: The Origins of Danish Legendary
History. Studies in European Learned and Popular Traditions of Dacians and Danes before A .D .
1200’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Copenhagen, 1996), esp. pp. 260–62.
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 51

metropolitan authority of Hamburg-Bremen. This decision must have taken full

effect upon the death of the old Archbishop Asser of Lund in May 1137. Within
a year of that event, however, both Lothar — now emperor — and the antipope
Anaclet II were dead, and uncertainty about the succession in Germany tem-
porarily freed Pope Innocent from his dependency upon the German ruler. One
result thereof was his tacit abrogation of his decision of 1133, by conceding the
pallium to Archbishop Asser’s successor in the see of Lund, Eskil, in the summer
of 1138.69
The negotiations terminating the conflict about the election to the see of Lund
between Eskil and the cathedral chapter’s choice, Bishop Rico of Schleswig, are
precisely the last events recorded in the original part of the Chronicle of Roskilde.
However, it is likely that the writing of the chronicle was begun somewhat earlier,
that is, during the time when the abolition of Lund’s metropolitan status was in
full effect. Hence, it must have been written under the auspices of Bishop Eskil of
Roskilde, the man who in 1138 succeeded to the archiepiscopal see of Lund. The
particular way in which the anonymous chronicler used Adam of Bremen’s work
should be seen in the context of the wish of the Danish church in general to regain
its status as a separate metropolitan province independent of Hamburg-Bremen,
and in particular of Bishop Eskil’s ambition to follow his uncle Asser in the
archiepiscopal dignity.70
The chronicler of Roskilde subverted Adam’s message of the paramount role
of the see of Hamburg-Bremen in the Christian mission to the north by stitching
bits and pieces from Adam together into a picture of a Danish kingdom that had
essentially been governed by Christian kings since the exiled King Harald (Klak)
was baptized in Mainz in 826. Significantly, while the chronicler took the account
of this foundational event from Adam, he emphasized that the Danish king was
baptized by Archbishop Otgar of Mainz; this piece of information is found neither
in Adam nor in the Frankish annals upon which Adam drew at this point. The
chronicler of Roskilde must have had access to some annalistic source in order to
know the year of this event, which he could not have derived from Adam. How-
ever, it seems impossible to tell whether that source also mentioned Archbishop

69
Gelting, ‘Da Eskil ville være ærkebiskop af Roskilde’, pp. 184–97.
70
Gelting, ‘Da Eskil ville være ærkebiskop af Roskilde’, pp. 197–202. My hypothesis there, that
the chronicle was written in support of a re-erection of the Danish metropolitan see, but in
Roskilde instead of Lund, has not gained acceptance in Danish scholarship; Stefan Pajung, review
of Ett annat 1100-tal, ed. by Peter Carelli and others, in Historie: Jyske Samlinger, 2003, pp.
479–82. This point is of secondary importance in the present context.
52 Michael H. Gelting

Otgar’s role, or if the chronicler combined his annalistic source with a list of the
archbishops of Mainz.71 To him, the essential point seems to have been to stress
that the first Christian Danish king did not owe his baptism to an archbishop of
Hamburg-Bremen. The chronicler did not omit the fact that, at least according to
Adam, several of the subsequent Danish kings were baptized by archbishops of
Hamburg-Bremen,72 nor did he entirely suppress Adam’s mentions of the expul-
sion of priests and the destruction of churches upon the accession of new kings
who were inimical to Christianity;73 nevertheless, all of these enemies of the Faith
were invariably converted and baptized, so that the overall impression is that of a
kingdom which had been ruled continuously by Christian kings since the baptism
of King Harald in 826 at Mainz, hence without assistance from Hamburg, and in
fact even before the founding of the episcopal see there. The continuity of Chris-
tian kingship in Denmark for three centuries since 826 must have been a potential
argument against Hamburg-Bremen’s pretensions to exercise a missionary
authority towards Denmark still in the 1130s.
The Chronicle of Roskilde is not a strikingly subtle work. Its style is pedestrian,
and in assembling his material from different parts of Adam’s chronicle and from
other sources, the anonymous author tended to proceed cumulatively rather than
synthetically. Hence the sequence of the first three kings of the Jelling dynasty —
Gorm, Harald, and Sven — turns up twice, even with both Haralds reigning for
fifty years each; a side-effect hereof is that poor King Ethelred the ‘Redeless’ of
Wessex is multiplied into three different persons.74
Under these circumstances, a close analysis of the chronicle like the one I have
attempted here for Ailnoth’s text is not a particularly promising prospect. How-
ever, if we look for the representation of paganism in the Chronicle of Roskilde, the
result is much the same as for the Life of St Canute. The history of the Danish

71
Chronicon Roskildense, c. 1, p. 14. Adam, Gesta, I. 15, p. 21. Otgar was archbishop of Mainz
from 826 to 847. It is not clear on what grounds Albert Hauck, Kirchengeschichte Deutschlands, vol.
II (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1890), p. 693, claimed that Archbishop Otgar of Mainz performed the
baptism; the Archbishop’s intervention is not mentioned in any of the sources cited by Hauck in
n. 7 to p. 692.
72
Hericus Puer (ninth century), Chronicon Roskildense, c. 2, p. 15; Frothi (legendary king,
presumably during the archiepiscopate of Unni of Hamburg-Bremen, 919–36; not mentioned by
Adam), Chronicon Roskildense, c. 4, p. 17; Harald I and his son Sven, Chronicon Roskildense, c. 5,
p. 18; Knud (Cnut), Chronicon Roskildense, c. 7, p. 20.
73
Hericus Puer, Chronicon Roskildense, c. 2, p. 15.
74
Chronicon Roskildense, cc. 4–7, pp. 17–20.
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 53

kingdom and church begins with the first Christian king; whatever might have
gone before him is entirely obliterated. How several of his successors could initially
have been enemies of Christianity is not explained. Some of them are described as
‘most cruel’ or ‘fierce’, but strictly speaking none of them is explicitly characterized
as a pagan. 7 5 Just as in Ailnoth’s account, the pagan past is entirely relegated to
oblivion.

A General Denial of the Pagan Past

This total suppression of the pagan past appears to have been a general phenom-
enon in twelfth-century Denmark. This does not mean that no tales were being
told of kings and events belonging in the pre-Christian centuries. In the eleventh
century, according to Adam of Bremen, King Sven II still knew a fairly detailed
tradition reaching back to the early tenth century,76 and at least part of this lore
was still available to the great late twelfth- and early thirteenth-century chroniclers
Sven Aggesen and Saxo Grammaticus.77 However, if we believe Saxo’s statements
in his preface, they were dependent upon Icelandic rather than native tradition for
such tales.78 There is independent evidence of tales that were circulating about
ancient legendary kings in the curious text usually called the Chronicle of Lejre,
which is likely to have been written in the late twelfth century, and which is pre-
served as part of the late thirteenth-century Annals of Lund.79 Its series of legendary
kings is largely in accordance with Saxo’s, although the latter fleshed out his

75
Hericus Puer, Chronicon Roskildense, c. 2, p. 15: ‘Ad quem ueniens sanctus Ansgarius [...]
crudelem tyrannum de feroci leone mansuetissimum conuertit in agnum’; Gorm, Chronicon
Roskildense, c. 5, p. 18: ‘Gorm, crudelissimus rex’.
76
The first time Adam quotes King Sven as his source is in mentioning some obscure Danish
kings, who may be dated roughly around 900; Adam, Gesta, I. 48, p. 48. Adam claims that King Sven
remembered all the deeds of the barbarians as if they had been written: Adam, Gesta, II. 43, p. 103.
77
Aggesen, Brevis historia; Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum — Danmarkshistorien, ed. by
Karsten Friis-Jensen, Danish trans. by Peter Zeeberg, 2 vols (Copenhagen: Det Danske Sprog- og
Litteraturselskab & Gad, 2005), written c. 1185–1215.
78
Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, Praefatio 1. 4, pp. 74–76; Saxo also claims to have
translated ancient heroic poetry from runic inscriptions (Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum, ed. by
Friis-Jensen, Praefatio. 1. 3, p. 74), but that tells more about his imagination than about his
learning.
79
Chronicon Lethrense de antiquissimis Danie regibus, ed. by M. Cl. Gertz in SMHD, I, 43–53.
The chronicle is stylistically dependent on the Chronicle of Roskilde.
54 Michael H. Gelting

account with numerous other kings from other traditions. However, the tales
about those kings in the Chronicle of Lejre frequently differ from the ones in Saxo’s
history, and some of them smack definitely more of folktales than of epic poetry.
They may possibly reflect a native tradition.
Thus we have substantial fragments of a rich and diversified tradition about
pre-Christian times that was still alive and well in twelfth-century Denmark.
Nevertheless, even in these tales any mentioning of the paganism of the legendary
kings was studiously avoided. Saxo did mention the gods of the old Nordic
pantheon, but characteristically he euhemerized them into mortal kings who by
their artful deception made people believe that they were gods.80
Right from the beginning of historical writing in Denmark in the early twelfth
century, the memory of the old pagan religion was most effectively suppressed.
There was no attempt to contrast the old and the new religion: Danish history was
exclusively and emphatically a Christian history. Tales were still being told of
legendary kings who could not possibly have been Christian; but their pagan beliefs
— even the very notion that the Danes had once adhered to a pagan religion —
were lost in a resounding void.
This total silence may perhaps contribute towards explaining the remarkable
lack of interest in missionary saints in medieval Denmark. The great missionary
saint of the see of Hamburg-Bremen, Ansgar, did occur in the liturgical calendar
at least in some Danish dioceses, but his cult does not seem to have been promi-
nent;81 and even in the legends about Denmark’s only ‘indigenous’ missionary
saint, the obscure St Theodgar of Vestervig, the pagan cult which he presumably
must have opposed is curiously absent.82
Both of the authors examined in the present chapter made an important contri-
bution towards this loss of historical memory. Each of them reinterpreted the past
in order to make it fit the needs of his time. For Ailnoth — in all likelihood a
courtier cleric — one major goal was to enhance the legitimacy and prestige of the

80
Saxo, Gesta Danorum, ed. by Friis-Jensen, 1. 7. 1–7. 3, pp. 112–14 (Odin); 3. 1. 1–4. 13, pp.
190–210 (Høder, Balder, and Odin).
81
Ellen Jørgensen, Helgendyrkelse i Danmark: Studier over Kirkekultur og kirkeligt Liv fra det
11te Aarhundredes Midte til Reformationen (Copenhagen: Hagerup, 1909), p. 9. I am grateful to
Dr Knud Ottosen for information about the occurrence of St Ansgar in Danish liturgical calendars.
82
Sanctus Theodgarus confessor, in Vitae sanctorum Danorum, ed. by Gertz, pp. 3–26. Theodgar
was born in Thuringia, but educated in England, and he had served the Norwegian king Olav
Tryggvason (995–1000). After the latter’s death, he settled in Thy in northernmost Jylland as a
missionary.
T WO EARLY T WELFTH-CENTURY VIEWS 55

ruling dynasty. As a result, not only was the old paganism radically effaced, but
even the actual process of conversion was relegated to an indeterminate, semi-
mythical past. Ailnoth drastically foreshortened Denmark’s Christian history,
identifying it essentially with the history of King Sven II and his sons. The chron-
icler of Roskilde, inversely, strove to extend the Christian history of Denmark as
far back as possible in order to delegitimize Hamburg-Bremen’s claim to exercise
metropolitan authority over the Danish church. This authorial strategy was no less
efficient than Ailnoth’s, not only in avoiding any mention of the ancient pagan
cult, but also in totally confusing the memory of the Christianization of Denmark.
These attitudes appear to have been typical of the first generation of historical
and hagiographic writers in the recently converted kingdoms in the eleventh and
twelfth centuries. To them, it was vitally important to affirm their country’s and
their people’s Christian credentials. Subsequent writers — in Denmark repre-
sented by Sven Aggesen, Saxo, and the anonymous author of the Chronicle of Lejre
— could take a new interest in the pre-Christian past of their nation.83 Yet even in
their accounts, the old paganism remained almost invisible.
If we listen to the Danish voices of the early twelfth century, the Danish people
that was converted in the past was godless rather than heathen, ignorant rather
than adhering to a pagan religion.

83
Cf. Mortensen, ‘Sanctified Beginnings and Mythopoietic Moments’, pp. 259–62 and 269.
 Chapter 3

H ISTORIA N ORWEGIE AND SVEN A GGESEN :

T WO P IONEERS IN C OMPARISON

Lars Boje Mortensen

W
hen I began reading medieval Norwegian works of history some fifteen
years ago, I was startled to find that the nice little Latin booklet
written about 1180 by Theodoricus Monachus had not been com-
pared to its obvious Danish counterpart, the huge Latin volume by Saxo
Grammaticus. Both authors projected a pioneering spirit; they had produced the
first works of their kind — a survey of national history framed by Latin learning
acquired in northern France. They were contemporaries, and they were both in all
probability canons, each working for his own archbishop; they were also both
highly interested in how the past of their own nation fitted into the greater scheme
of biblical and Roman history. At that time, I published an article in which I drew
attention to a number of similarities between the two — in spite of the obvious
difference in scope and ambition.1 More specifically, I pointed to twelfth-century
learning as the basis for their works and to their shared interest in Roman history.
Theodoricus was explicitly referring to the model value that Roman history had for
understanding the Norwegian past; for instance, by explaining the late baptism of
King Olav Haraldsson (who converted the Norwegians) with the even later
baptism of the Christian emperor, Constantine. Saxo’s way of presenting the
Danes as Romans was more indirect and elaborate, but the point was simply to

1
Lars Boje Mortensen, ‘Det 12. århundredes renæssance i Norge: Teoderik munk og
Romerriget’, in Antikken i norsk litteratur, ed. by Øivind Andersen and Asbjørn Aarseth, Skrifter,
4 (Bergen: Det norske institutt i Athen, 1993), pp. 17–35. On Theodoricus Monachus, see Sverre
Bagge’s contribution in the present volume with further references.
58 Lars Boje Mortensen

show that both authors played on the Roman past as a natural point of departure
for their respective first attempts at conceptualizing local history.
This chapter will deal with the first national histories of Denmark and Norway
in a similar comparative way, but will discuss two entirely different and less-known
Latin works: the anonymous Historia Norwegie and Sven Aggesen’s Short History
of the Kings of Denmark. The following discussion will also offer some lessons in
regard to the representativity of our earliest preserved chronicles: were there in fact
other smaller historical works in twelfth-century Scandinavia besides those that
have survived to the present day? This question relates to the more general issue of
the nature of Nordic elite discourse on the national past towards the end of the
twelfth century: was the work put into the formation of this discourse — of which
our surviving chronicles are symptomatic — intended for purposes external or
internal to the elite who produced it?

Historia Norwegie

The anonymous work Historia Norwegie (or rather, Historia Norwagensium,

History of the Norwegians) has come to us as only a torso. What we have is the
first part, comprising a prologue, a geographical introduction, and the first book
of historical narrative — all in all about twenty-five pages in a modern edition.2
The text brings us to the year 1015, when Olav Haraldsson — the later saint —
returned from England to seize the throne of Norway and to begin converting the
Norwegians. As the author promises to treat kings and the status of conversion up
to his own day (some time in the later twelfth century), we can assume that at least
a second book was written, and perhaps even more, allowing for the well-known
mechanism of broadening the narrative as one approaches contemporary events.
The original thus ran to at least fifty pages, but may easily have exceeded a hundred.
Among the most important features of the text as we know it is a learned
geographical introduction clearly expanding upon and correcting the one given by
Adam of Bremen a century earlier. In various ingenious ways, the Norwegian lands
and the North Sea islands are described by our author in terms that connote the
sacred space of biblical geography and the imperial space of the Roman mare

2
Historia Norwegie. Another English translation, by Devra Kunin, came out in 2001 in A His-
tory of Norway and The Passion and Miracles of the Blessed Óláfr, ed. by Carl Phelpstead (London:
Viking Society for Northern Research, 2001), with substantial notes by Phelpstead.
HISTORIA NORWEGIE AND SVEN AGGESEN 59

nostrum.3 In this connection, we are given an elaborate account of a shamanic

séance among the pagan Sami — no doubt to emphasize the presence of paganism
in the Norwegian realm and of the very real missionary duties of Norwegian kings
and bishops even in the late twelfth century. The subsequent genealogy of Nor-
wegian kings has also attracted much scholarly attention, as this seems to be the
first written version of the lineage of the so-called Ynglinga kings, which plays an
important role in later vernacular texts. Finally, the narrative opens up with a
glorification of the two missionary Olavs, Tryggvason and Haraldsson, the former
preparing for the latter as John the Baptist paved the way for Christ. The style of
the work is more complex than that of Theodoricus’s History; in terms of scope as
well as level of elaboration, the Historia Norwegie seems to have been a more ambi-
tious undertaking.
How do we know that the Historia Norwegie was actually the first comprehensive
history of Norway? Well, simply put, we do not know. While it is uncontroversial
that Theodoricus wrote his work around 1180, the best we can say with similar
confidence about the Historia Norwegie is that it dates from the second half of the
twelfth century (and was composed in an uncertain place — a point to which I shall
return). In addition, there are arguments that favour a date in the 1160s or 1170s,
which would then make the Historia Norwegie (rather than Theodoricus’s work)
a pioneering text.4 That both authors felt like pioneers is clear; and they believed
this in good faith, as there are no signs whatsoever that they knew of each other.

Sven Aggesen

For the Danish text of Sven Aggesen, we are, by contrast, almost pampered with
information: we know the author (and another work by him) and the date of the
text, which has survived in its entirety.5 Sven’s ancestors belonged to the highest

3
I have given a closer analysis of the geographical discourse in Lars Boje Mortensen, ‘The
Language of Geographical Description in Twelfth-Century Scandinavia’, Filologia mediolatina, 12
(2005), 103–21.
4
See Historia Norwegie, pp. 11–24.
5
Aggesen, Brevis historia, pp. 94–141, in two separate versions. I am quoting from the superior
X-version, which is also used in the Danish and English translations: Sven Aggesøns historiske
Skrifter, trans. by Martin Clarentius Gertz (Copenhagen: Det Schønbergske Forlag, 1916–17), and
The Works of Sven Aggesen, Twelfth-Century Danish Historian, trans. by Eric Christiansen (Lon-
don: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1992); in his introduction (pp. 1–4) and appendix (pp.
141–45), Christiansen also gives the best account of Sven’s life, works, and family.
60 Lars Boje Mortensen

echelon of Danish society; his grandfather and father had been elite warriors of
heroic reputation, and his uncle was none other than Denmark’s second arch-
bishop, Eskil (1138–78). Like his younger contemporary Saxo, Sven must have
studied in northern France — this is generally assumed from his exquisite learning.
His other work, Lex castrensis (The Law of the Retainers), reveals his legal training
as well as his identification with the military ethos of his family. He seems to have
become archdeacon at the cathedral chapter of Lund, and thus wrote from a very
central and high position both institutionally and in terms of family. His literary
work cannot be interpreted as that of a servant or a mouthpiece of the king,
Church, or aristocracy; he should rather be seen as the creative voice of an elite
class that had branched out into royal and ecclesiastical functions (see further
below concerning this aspect).6
Sven Aggesen’s Short History of the Kings of Denmark spans Danish history
from the mythical king Skjold — the ancestry also known from Beowulf, the
Scyldings (Skjoldunger) — up to 1185, when the Danish king Knud VI, son of the
recently deceased Valdemar the Great, forced the Pomeranian duke Bugislav to pay
him tribute and homage (incidentally this is the same triumphal juncture at which
Saxo would later conclude his Danish history). Scholars usually agree that Sven
must have written just after this event.7
It is a well-composed and charming little narrative of about twenty-five pages
written in a modern — which is to say a somewhat difficult and manneristic —
Latin. The first seven chapters deal with pre-Christian kings and the remaining
thirteen with the Christian period from Harald Bluetooth to Sven’s own time. A
few striking features deserve to be mentioned. Two episodes from the pagan past
receive special attention through Sven’s narrative skills, including a brilliant ora-
tory on the part of the protagonists. One episode is the story of the desperate old

6
Cf. Works of Sven Aggesen, ed. by Christiansen, p. 4; on the elite and literature, see also Lars
Boje Mortensen, ‘The Nordic Archbishoprics as Literary Centres around 1200‘, in Archbishop
Absalon of Lund and his World, ed. by Karsten Friis-Jensen and I. Skovgaard-Petersen (Roskilde:
Roskilde Museum, 2000), pp. 133–57.
7
Cf. Sven Aggesøns historiske Skrifter, trans. by Gertz, p. xiv; and Works of Sven Aggesen, trans.
by Christiansen, pp. 25–26. The latter adduces several textual and political arguments for placing
the composition between 1185 and 1189. But, as he admits, they all are circumstantial, and there
is no hard evidence against a date into the 1190s. I agree that the tone of the last remark in the
chronicle, ‘We rowed home with immense jubilation. May the Ruler of all things order this con-
clusion in His peace’, is a good pointer to a date shortly after the events of 1185 (Works of Sven
Aggesen, trans. by Christiansen, p. 25). I am grateful to Michael Gelting for having raised the issue
of dating.
HISTORIA NORWEGIE AND SVEN AGGESEN 61

and blind king Vermund, who is under pressure from an imperial army and is chal-
lenged to put up his best man for a duel. His own son, Uffe, has always been mute
and equally useless in war. Through an unexpected turn of events, the son suddenly
speaks, picks up his father’s favourite sword, and slays a German warrior. The other
episode vents the same anti-German and anti-imperial morale.8 The German em-
peror, Otto, asks for the hand of the energetic and attractive Danish queen, Thyra.
She pretends to agree, but buys time and receives money from the Emperor, using
various excuses. She uses the means to build Danevirke, the defensive line that
separates Jutland from the Empire. When Otto finally comes to claim his wife-to-
be, he is ridiculed at Danevirke in Thyra’s speech and is not allowed to enter through
the gates — which have just been built at his own expense. This was the ultimate
putdown of the great Emperor by the Queen of a small neighbouring country!
In the Christian part of the story, Sven emphasizes the importance and sanctity
of the two Canutes, St Canute the King (d. 1086) and St Canute Lavard the Duke
(d. 1131), the father of Valdemar the Great. Unlike the author of the Historia
Norwegie and Saxo, Sven did not provide a geographical introduction to his work;
it would have probably been too pompous an introduction for such a short work.
But his powerful summary of Valdemar the Great’s achievements corresponds to
the missionary and territorial aspects present in the Historia Norwegie: Valdemar
subdued and Christianized the Vends at Rügen; he provided for a permanent
watch-post at the island of Sprogø, thus making the Great Belt secure against
pirates; and he fortified Danevirke (the border fortification thus gets thematized
in Sven’s work by pointing out its long-lasting importance for pagan as well as
contemporary Christian Danish identity).

Pagan Past in Christian History

The Historia Norwegie and Sven’s brief history are certainly the first texts in each
country in which an account of the pagan past is integrated with a national
narrative. In both texts, one can discern a rhetorical register different from the later
narrative. In the Historia Norwegie, the author seems to have been restricted by a
list-like genealogy (perhaps transmitted orally in a metrical form), but he does
achieve a comparatively smooth transition from this material into a broader

8
For a recent contextualized assessment of Saxo’s and Sven’s ‘anti-German’ attitudes, see
Thomas Foerster, Vergleich und Identität: Selbst- und Fremddeutung im Norden des hochmittel-
alterlichen Europa, Europa im Mittelalter, 14 (Berlin: Akademie, 2009), on Sven pp. 128–30.
62 Lars Boje Mortensen

narrative. Sven Aggesen seems to have had a freer hand in developing the anecdotes
of Vermund and Uffe and of Thyra and the Emperor than he did in the parts of the
work we term historical. But neither the anonymous author of the Historia Nor-
wegie nor Sven hints in any way that we are dealing with mythical or otherwise
uncertain or fictional stories. What they report about pagan times should be taken
by the reader as history in the same way as the later narrative is. In that sense, the
pagan past is completely integrated into both narratives.9
This feature was an important historiographical development in itself, and
symptomatic as a secondary phase after the primary Christian pedigree of the
country had been well established, mainly in the form of the saintly figures of the
two Olavs (in Norway) and the two Canutes (in Denmark).10 Again, our authors
are the first to stress in unequivocal terms that their martyrdoms are the crucial
historical facts in local Christian history. Constructing the past around these
martyria became the dominating model in thirteenth-century vernacular history
writing, as witnessed by Heimskringla for Norway and Knýtlinga saga for
Denmark. The honour for this development should definitely not go to our two
present authors — rather, they gave voice to a cultural memory that had been
firmly accepted by the elite during the twelfth century (and for the Olavs, probably
already in the eleventh century).
To exemplify the flavour and agenda of both texts, let us look at a couple of
passages from them. A defining moment in twelfth-century Danish dynastic his-
tory was the slaying in 1131 of Knud/Canute Lavard, the father of Valdemar the
Great (1157–82), by his cousin Magnus, a son of King Niels (1104–34). This story
constitutes the central passage of Sven’s narrative:
Tempore illo prefatus Canutus Ringstadiensis, uir prudens, discretus, facetus, strenuus
omnique uirtutis probitate pollens, dux factus Slesuicensis claruit. Nam et mire strenuitatis
preualentia Slauorum efferam rabiem compescuit mirificaque uirtute sue iurisdictioni
subiugauit. Cuius uirtutibus M. eclipsatus languescere cepit inuidia, que caput assolet in
prosperis alterius rebus dimittere; [Gertz has conjectured several words here, for instance the
name of M(agnus), not accepted by Christiansen in whose translation a lacuna is indicated
instead]letum cepit timida ei machinari ambitione, ne regno ipse priuaretur momentaneo,

9
Analysed in Lars Boje Mortensen, ‘The Status of the “Mythical” Past in Nordic Latin
Historiography (c. 1170–1220)’, in Medieval Narratives between History and Fiction: From the
Centre to the Periphery of Europe, c. 1100–1400, ed. by Panagiotis Agapitos and Lars Boje
Mortensen (forthcoming).
10
Lars Boje Mortensen, ‘Sanctified Beginnings and Mythopoietic Moments: The First Wave
of Writing on the Past in Norway, Denmark, and Hungary, c. 1000–1230’, in Making of Christian
Myths, pp. 247–73.
HISTORIA NORWEGIE AND SVEN AGGESEN 63

corona si ille non ditaretur eterna. Semper enim regibus suspecta est probitas, ‘omnisque
potestas / impatiens consortis erit’. Ita ‘periit fas iusque bonumque / uite mortisque pudor’.
Spreto namque consanguinitatis uinculo, adhibitis secum eiusdem Canuti ducis consangui-
neo, Henrico uidelicet Skatelar, aliisque, de cede Canuti clandestina uelut super arduo regni
negotio in conclaui captabant consilia. Nam in silua penes Haraldstathæ locum illi determi-
nabant colloquii. Quibus solius fidelitatis sibi conscius Christi athleta occurrere non
detrectauit intrepidus: unius sancte crucis insignitus uexillo, non clipeo protectus aut galea,
duobus tantum comitatus satellitibus, ibi luporum rabiem agnus prestolabatur. Sceleris post
modicum succedere autores, lupi ouinis induti exuuiis, loricas et galeas caputiis contegentes
et cappis. Nec mora, uerum Israëlitam suumque consobrinum trucidare pacis emuli
festinant, et animam celo satagunt transmittere, que carnis prius ergastulo extitit inclusa.
Cuius corpus postmodum exanime Christi deferunt fideles humandum Rinstadiam, ubi
multis cernentibus a christo domini diuina potentia multa patrata sunt miracula.11
[During the time of that same king [Niels], Knut of Ringsted [Canute Lavard], a man who
was wise, discriminating, courteous, energetic and strong in the virtue of honesty, became
famous as the duke of Schleswig. He cowed the wild fury of the Slavs by his wonderful
vigour and prudence and brought them under his jurisdiction by his extraordinary virtue.
Envy meditated on his virtues […] and began to grow sick, for her head is apt to hang low
at the prosperity of others. With timorous ambition, Magnus began to plot his death, so
that he would not be deprived of the transient kingdom even if he failed to win the ever-
lasting crown. For goodness is always suspect to kings: ‘[…] all power will be / impatient of
a consort […]’ and thus: ‘Right, law and goodness perish, / and all respect for life and death.’
For they put aside the ties of kinship and joined together with the same Duke Knut’s
kinsman — that is, with Henrik the Lame — and took counsel for the killing of Knut in
covert conclave, as if it were a high matter of state. So they appointed a place in the wood
at Haraldsted to confer with him. And the fearless champion of Christ, conscious of his
own good faith alone, did not hesitate to meet them. Marked out only by the banner of the
Holy Cross, protected neither by shield nor by helmet and escorted by no more than two
guards, the lamb stood there ready for the furious wolves. The criminals arrive later, wolves
in sheep’s clothing, with hoods and cloaks concealing coats of mail and helmets. Without
delay the enemies of peace make haste to slaughter the ‘Israelite indeed’, their own cousin,
and occupy themselves in sending to Heaven the soul that had previously been held captive
within the prison of the flesh. Followers of Christ afterwards bear his lifeless body to
Ringsted for burial, where by the divine power of the Lord many miracles were worked by
Christ before numerous witnesses.]12

Three features of this passage deserve to be noted. First, it is clear that Sven
plays out the narrative against a complex textual backdrop of quotations and

11
The Latin text I quote is from Gertz’s somewhat reconstructed X-text (Aggesen, Brevis
historia, pp. 130–32); except for one case I have glossed over Gertz’s conjectures in this passage
(conjectures which, in fact, have some manuscript authority).
12
Works of Sven Aggesen, Chapter 13, trans. by Christiansen, pp. 68–69.
64 Lars Boje Mortensen

allusions to biblical, classical, and recent liturgical writing.13 The first hagiographic
and liturgical writing on St Canute the Duke has only been preserved in a very frag-
mentary state, but there is hardly any doubt that Sven borrows and develops motifs
from that literature. The quotations from classical literature (one from Lucan’s
epic poem Civil War) add another dimension — we are dealing both with events
which are inscribed into sacred history as well as with a conflict on the magnitude
of that of Caesar and Pompey.
As a second feature in this careful composition, we may note a hagiographic
motif that achieves a certain ambiguity when placed in a continuous historical
narrative. St Canute is the poor and innocent victim of a family feud, and he gives
away his life due to an unfortunate and good-hearted lack of protection — a tragic
historical accident with wide-ranging effects for the future of Denmark. There is
thus a clear moral condemnation of Magnus’s behaviour — that the world would
have been a better place without this event. But the condemnation balances against
the divine necessity of Canute’s martyrdom. His peaceful arrival to the meeting
was already part of the divine plan to make him a martyr (and eventually the
forefather of the Valdemarian dynasty ruling when Sven was writing). This tension
between morality and necessity is not resolved in the text, and it becomes more
acute with the mixture of liturgical and historical aspects.
Related to this is a final trait that should be highlighted. Sven manages to
balance the complex intertextuality and the ambiguous status of Canute’s martyr-
dom in a way that brings to the reader a sense of drama and passion, even if this is
only a small vignette compared to the liturgical literature. It was obviously impor-
tant to Sven (as well as to Saxo and other contemporaries) to consolidate and effec-
tively repeat what was such an important part of the ruling elite’s cultural memory:
that Duke Canute Lavard, the father of Valdemar the Great, had died a martyr’s
death. Sven could take for granted that people knew the outline of the story, but
his task as a narrator was to create or rekindle emotions in the audience. The
murder of Canute had taken place half a century earlier, and thus an emotional re-
creation of the scene could be necessary to enforce dynastic and national memories.
Like the two Canutes in Denmark, the two Olavs became an undisputed part
of the Norwegian narrative concerning the presence of Christian sanctity in
national history. The Norwegian kings preceded the Canutes by approximately a
century, and it is almost impossible to catch glimpses of the early (eleventh-

13
For references to all the allusions and notes on textual difficulties in this passage, see the
critical apparatus in Gertz’s edition in SMHD, I, 130–32 and the notes by Christiansen in Works
of Sven Aggesen, pp. 130–32.
HISTORIA NORWEGIE AND SVEN AGGESEN 65

century) phase of the formation of the related cultural memory. What we can see
is that the later twelfth century was, apparently, the period in which the crucial
parts of the larger historical narrative were consolidated and elaborated to a great
degree. A small passage from the Historia Norwegie shows how this textual ‘canoni-
zation’ could be done. This is a peculiar summary of Olav Tryggvason’s missionary
successes placed in the text just before the narrative of his mysterious death at the
battle of Svolder (1000):
Interim Olauus Regi regum reconsilians omnes compatriotos suos in maritimis, et si quos
ipse episcopus spirituali gladio nequiuit, rex adhibito materiali nobilem cum ignobili, lac-
tentem cum homine sene Christi subiugauit imperio. Sicque factum est ut infra quin-
quennium omnes tributarios, id est Hatlendenses, Orchadenses, Fereyingenses ac Tilenses,
fide preclaros, spe gaudentes, caritate feruentes redderet Christo. Vnde currus Dei decem
milibus multiplicatus ac quadriga Christi gratuita eiusdem saluacione referta per hunc
mirificum regem ueluti ualidissimo equo usque in fines orbis terre circumducti retrogrado
cursu ad patriam Paradisum reuehuntur.
[In the meantime Olav brought all those of his compatriots who lived along the seaboard
into union with the King of Kings, and if the bishop was unable to achieve this with his
spiritual sword, the king, applying his earthly weapon, led captive into Christ’s empire the
noble and ignoble, the babe at the breast and the greybeard. This was effected in such a way
that within five years he made all the tributary territories, that is, Shetland, the Orkneys,
the Faroes and Iceland, remarkable in their devotion, joyous in their expectations and glow-
ing in their affection for Christ. Hence God’s triumphal car, increased by ten thousand
souls, and Christ’s chariot, filled with His freely-granted deliverance, were drawn by this
wonder-working monarch as if by a powerful steed right to the ends of the earth till they
turned around in their course and drove back to our homeland, which is Paradise.]14

As in Sven’s description of St Canute the Duke, this is clearly no small matter.

On the individual, local, and universal scale, Olav Tryggvason makes an enormous
difference. The intertwining of physical and spiritual geography is striking, and the
whole passage presents a poetic highpoint of the Historia Norwegie (that is, of its
surviving small part). Four biblical passages are woven in to frame Olav’s historical
and spiritual impact, one of which is well known in missionary discourse, ‘to the
ends of the earth’ (in fines orbis terre), taken from Psalm 18.15 Peter Fisher’s
translation brings forth some of the elaborate nature of the passage, as well as the
author’s highly alliterative style (‘the babe at the breast and the greybeard’).
The poetics and the biblical allusions elevate the text almost out of concrete
history, but only almost. One could say that a tension similar to the one in Sven’s

14
Historia Norwegie, c. 17, pp. 30–32.
15
For precise references, see the commentary in Historia Norwegie, pp. 147–48.
66 Lars Boje Mortensen

text between concrete condemnation and divine necessity is found here. In a way,
this is a creative contradiction throughout all of Christian history: the specifics of
history do matter, but they are constantly in danger of dissolving in the face of
salvation and eternity.

The Authors and their Institutional Contexts

Another area where our two texts lend themselves to comparison is the social and
institutional positions of their authors. How close were they to royal, archiepis-
copal, or episcopal power, and what does that imply for our understanding of their
versions of the national past? How representative were they? Here is an oppor-
tunity to quickly review two sets of scholarly problems in which, incidentally, one
can observe two extremes of research strategy: in the case of the Historia Norwegie,
the authorial context of which is so little known, it has been very tempting to sug-
gest links to well-known persons and learned environments. In the case of Sven, of
whom we know so much, attempts to dissociate him from the well-known environ-
ment that he himself mentions have for some reason prevailed.
During the late nineteenth and most of the twentieth century, a series of
fanciful ideas were launched to identify the dedicatee of the Historia Norwegie,
Agnellus, and suggestions were put forward for locating the text in all sorts of
places from Orkney to Lund in Denmark. In her studies from the late 1990s, Inger
Ekrem took a different approach: she coupled the Historia Norwegie to the best-
known learned environment in twelfth-century Norway, namely the emergent
archiepiscopal see in Trondheim.16 Her ideas were that the work’s contents could
convince the papacy that Norway was ready for a church province of its own and
that, perhaps, the author was none other than the second archbishop Eystein
Erlendsson. While she was right that the Historia Norwegie certainly extols Norway
and the two Olavs in a way that tallies very well with the establishment of the new
province in 1152/53, her date, place, and causa scribendi fail to convince me,
precisely because we know the official Trondheim ideology as set out in a number
of other works, not least the Passio Olavi and Theodoricus’s history dedicated to

16
Inger Ekrem, Nytt lys over Historia Norwegie: Mot en løsning i debatten om dens alder?
(Bergen: Universitetet i Bergen, IKRR, Seksjon for gresk, latin og egyptologi, 1998); Inger Ekrem,
‘Historia Norwegie og erkebispesetet i Nidaros’, Collegium Medievale, 11 (1998, publ. 1999),
49–67; and Inger Ekrem, ‘Om Passio Olavis tilblivelse og eventuelle forbindelse med Historia
Norwegie’, in Olavslegenden og den latinske historieskrivning i 1100-tallets Norge, ed. by Inger Ekrem
and others (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2000), pp. 108–56.
HISTORIA NORWEGIE AND SVEN AGGESEN 67

Eystein himself. If these writings and the Historia Norwegie were indeed written
within such a restricted circle, then the lack of direct textual references between
them is very odd — regardless of whether we date the Historia Norwegie before or
after Theodoricus’s work.
Admittedly, we cannot link the Historia Norwegie directly to a particular
bishop or king. But this lack of precision should not lead to complete agnosticism.
We have learned from more recent scholarship in European historical literature
and book culture that in the twelfth century an ambitious learned work like this
must have been associated with the elite.17 There is no chance that a chronicle of
this sort is an inept school exercise, as was suggested by some twentieth-century
scholars.18 There are good indicators pointing towards eastern Norway, possibly
the bishoprics of Oslo or Hamar. This suggestion would also explain the lack of
connections to the contemporary Trondheim textual landscape — even if the
overall national frame is very similar. So my conclusion is that the author was close
to episcopal and princely power, but was not coordinated with Eystein in Trond-
heim and his contemporary efforts to formulate a national memory and identity.
For the Danish history of Sven Aggesen, we find ourselves, paradoxically, in the
opposite situation. To my mind, everything points to the coordination with a
national project centred around Lund, Archbishop Absalon, and King Valdemar,
as well as with the subsequent grand history of Saxo Grammaticus. Yet the crucial
passage (in this regard) in Sven’s narrative has been interpreted differently:
Quorum gesta plenarie superfluum duxi recolere, ne crebrius idem repetitum fastidium
pariat audientibus, cum, illustri archipresule Absalone referente, contubernalis meus Saxo
elegantiori stilo omnium gesta executurus prolixius insudabat.19
[I have deemed it superfluous to recount their deeds in full, lest they should be repeated too
often and weary my readers, for the noble Archbishop Absalon informed me that my

17
Cf. e.g. Karl Ferdinand Werner, ‘Gott, Herscher und Historiograph: Der Geschichts-
schreiber als Interpret des Wirken Gottes in der Welt und Ratgeber der Könige (4.–12. Jahr-
hundert)’, in Deus qui mutat tempora: Menschen und Institutionen im Wandel des Mittelalters:
Festschrift für Alfons Becker zu seinem fünfundsechzigsten Geburtstag, ed. by Ernst-Dieter Hehl and
others (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1987), pp. 1–31; Norbert Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung im
Europa der ‘nationes’: Nationalgeschichtliche Gesamtdarstellungen im Mittelalter, Münstersche His-
torische Forschung, 8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995); and Hans-Werner Goetz, Geschichtsschreibung und
Geschichtsbewusstsein in hohen Mittelalter (Berlin: Akademie, 1999), esp. chap. 4, pp. 243–409.
18
Anne Holtsmark, ‘Om de norske kongers sagaer’, Edda, 38 (1938), 145–64 (p. 162).
19
Aggesen, Brevis historia, c. 10, p. 124.
68 Lars Boje Mortensen

colleague Saxo was working to describe at greater length the deeds of them all in a more
elegant style.]20

All scholars who have discussed this passage acknowledge that Absalone refe-
rente can be understood either as ‘Saxo writes, as Absalon informed me’ or as ‘Saxo
writes his history based on Absalon’s account’. The eminent Danish philologist
from the beginning of the twentieth century, Martin Clarentius Gertz, who pro-
duced a groundbreaking edition and translation of Sven, was convinced that
contubernalis must refer to a lay status as a fellow retainer (a member of the royal
bodyguards), and he used the passage to show that Sven would not have known of
Saxo’s work unless Absalon had told him.21 In an important article in 1989,
Karsten Friis-Jensen showed that contubernalis within the ecclesiastial hierarchy
could also mean ‘fellow canon’ or something similar.22 But he still follows Gertz —
like the English translator of Sven’s narrative, Eric Christiansen — in creating dis-
tance between Sven and Saxo: Absalon had to inform Sven that there was actually
somebody else working on a national history. I find myself in uncomfortable
disagreement with three of the finest specialists of Danish medieval Latin, but
problems with their interpretation are too serious to simply be discarded. Firstly,
to whom does Sven address this strange passage? Is it to someone who knows
Absalon, or to someone who knows Saxo? Secondly, an alternative interpretation
would make better sense: Absalon was indeed the main source for Saxo’s account
in his later books. That is a true and relevant statement to make for any reader in-
terested in Danish history. Finally, it seems wholly improbable that two canons at
Lund (if we accept Friis-Jensen’s reading of the evidence), the older Sven and the
younger Saxo, had not coordinated their efforts under the aegis of Absalon. So it
is difficult to avoid the conclusion that discussions about Danish history took place
at the see of Lund around 1180, with Sven setting out to write a brief account
within a short time span and Saxo embarking on a more ambitious project, which
resulted in at least three decades of painstaking work.

20
Works of Sven Aggesen, trans. by Christiansen, p. 65.
21
Gertz’s own translation of the passage to Danish, Sven Aggesøns historiske Skrifter, 66–67:
‘Disses Bedrifter har jeg imidlertid anset det for overflødigt at genkalde udførligt i Erindringen, for
at ikke en for hyppig Gentagelse af et og det samme skal vække lede hos Tilhørerne; thi efter hvad
den berømmelige Ærkebiskop Absolon meddelte mig, anstrengte min Hirdfælle Saxo sig just da
ivrigt med at ville skildre alle disses Bedrifter vidtløftigere i en finere Stil.’
22
Karsten Friis-Jensen, ‘Was Saxo a Canon of Lund?’, Cahiers de l’Institut du moyen-âge grec
et latin, 59 (1989), 331–57.
HISTORIA NORWEGIE AND SVEN AGGESEN 69

It would seem then that we are dealing in both cases with a very restricted elite
who would be the primary audience for these historical works, and that the Danish
authors were very close to both lay and ecclesiastical authorities. However, the
uncertain position of the Historia Norwegie and the somewhat surprisingly super-
fluous character of Sven’s work — taken together with a very thin textual trans-
mission in both cases — should remind us that more works of this kind have been
lost. No one had guessed at the existence of something like the Historia Norwegie
when it sensationally surfaced in a Scottish library around 1850, and because of
Saxo’s magisterial account no one would have missed Sven’s history had it not
survived.
We would do well both by placing historiographical efforts like these very close
to the highest authorities and by admitting that at least a few more similar works
must have been produced by and for the Norwegian and Danish elites in this
period. In other words, the learned historical discourse in the late twelfth and early
thirteenth century was richer than we can see.
One way to approach the contemporary significance of the Historia Norwegie
and Sven’s Short History of the Kings of Denmark is, of course, to look at traces of
their use in the late twelfth and the thirteenth centuries. As already noted, their
transmission is equally thin: no medieval copy of either text exists, and we cannot
deduce from later copies the existence of more than two or three medieval codices
in each case. Sven’s history was no doubt used by Saxo — even though he states in
his preface that his own work is the first of its kind — and there is some evidence
that points to Saxo’s knowledge of the Historia Norwegie as well. Speculations
about the possible impact of the lost books of the Historia Norwegie on the kings’
sagas were also made in the good old days of Quellenforschung, but these suggestions
seem not to have attracted any interest recently.23 Thus we are easily led to an
assumption that the two works were both failures: their message does not seem to
have spread outside narrow ecclesiastical circles and they were rather quickly
forgotten.

Yet it is somewhat anachronistic to pronounce them as failures due to an ap-

parently restricted readership. Perhaps they actually did the job they were supposed

23
Monumenta historica Norvegiae: Latinske kildeskrifter til Norges historie i middelalderen, ed.
by Gustav Storm (Kristiania: Brøgger, 1880; repr. Oslo: Aas & Wahl, 1973), pp. xxix–xxx. See,
however, Karsten Friis-Jensen ‘Olav den Hellige hos Saxo’, in Olavslegenden og den latinske histo-
rieskrivning i 1100-tallets Norge, ed. by Ekrem and others, pp. 250–62 (p. 260), and Mortensen in
the introduction to Historia Norwegie, p. 33, both pointing to Saxo as a possible user of the text.
70 Lars Boje Mortensen

to do; namely, to represent in book form the ideological and intellectual work done
by parts of the Danish and Norwegian elites during the twelfth century in order to
define their own chronological, geographical, and sacred position in the world.
They are symptomatic of a discourse which had to relate local history to universal
history, and in so doing they both integrated the pre-Christian past in a plausible
manner and codified the very special status of the two Olavs and the two Canutes,
respectively. The elites already subscribed to their unassailable sanctity; this was the
backbone of their cultural memory. The basics of this discourse were shared by
literate and non-literate members of the elite. The specifics had to be worked out
by highly learned men, and even if the texts in question were not copied widely, the
contents must have been discussed and retold both before and after the process of
written composition. Our two pioneering works were mainly institutional prod-
ucts concerned with forging national identities through serious ideological and
intellectual work. They were not written in order to convince outsiders of the
legitimacy of the present status of the two kingdoms (of Norway and Denmark)
and their ecclesiastical institutions. They were written to convince the insiders that
the specifics of the local past could actually be codified in a narrative mode — in
the same way as other Christian ‘nations’ had already done — and to assure them
that such literary codifications were to be found on the shelves of relevant epis-
copal libraries. Historia Norwegie and Sven Aggesen’s Short History of the Kings of
Denmark thus inscribed the national narrative into the greater and eternal book
of universal Christian history.
 Chapter 4

T HEODORICUS M ONACHUS: T HE K INGDOM

OF N ORWAY AND THE H ISTORY OF S ALVATION

Sverre Bagge

H
istorical writing in Norway began in the late twelfth century, clearly as
the result of European influence, first through the conversion to Chris-
tianity (in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries) and then as the
result of the introduction of European learning, particularly from the mid-twelfth
century in connection with the foundation of the Norwegian church province in
1152/53. There is thus nothing to suggest that any such works or any longer texts
were composed in the pre-Christian period, despite the existence of the runic
alphabet. However, an oral tradition existed, partly in the form of skaldic poetry
praising kings and princes and partly in the form of storytelling, both of which
influenced later historical texts.
Theodoricus Monachus’s history of the Norwegian kings is one of the first
extant works on the history of the country,1 possibly even the first, and as such pro-
vides important evidence both for the actual history of Norway and for the devel-
opment of historical narrative and literature in general. Theodoricus’s work must
have been written between 1177 and 1188 — the year of the death of the pretender
Eystein Meyla, which is mentioned in the work, and that of Archbishop Eystein
Erlendsson, to whom it is dedicated. The name Theodoricus is probably a Latini-
zation of the Old Norse Þórir (Tore in modern Norwegian). Two contemporary
bishops had this name: the Bishop of Hamar (1189/90–96) and the Archbishop
of Nidaros (1205–14). Both had connections with the monastery of St Victor in
Paris, from which the author is likely to have derived much of his learning.2 Of

1
Theodoricus, Historia, pp. 1–68. A new edition is now being prepared by Egil Kraggerud.
2
The two are mentioned respectively as frater noster and canonicus noster in the obituary of the
Augustinian house of St Victor in Paris.
72 Sverre Bagge

these two, the later archbishop is the more likely candidate. The dedicatee, Arch-
bishop Eystein, a central figure in the cultural as well as the political life of the
country, probably also had such a connection.3
Thus, Theodoricus belonged to the Norwegian clerical elite as an Augustinian
canon at the time of writing and later as a bishop or archbishop. Admittedly,
‘Monachus’ in the incipit is not the normal term for an Augustinian, but as the
work is only preserved in some transcripts from the seventeenth century,4 the title
may well be a later addition. The Augustinian link is also evident from the work
itself. Already in the prologue, Theodoricus quotes Hugh of St Victor (d. 1141),
one of the greatest intellectuals of the order. His work also contains other quota-
tions from Hugh and other Victorines and shows evidence that Theodoricus used
the library of St Victor for many of the texts he quotes or paraphrases.5
In his prologue Theodoricus, like many of his contemporaries, pays consid-
erable attention to the question of sources. He has composed his work in
accordance with what he has been able to find out ‘by carefully seeking information
from those among whom the memory of these matters is believed to have been
particularly strong, whom we call Icelanders, who commemorate these famous
deeds in their ancient songs’.6 He has thus used skaldic poetry, of which there is
actually evidence in his work. Most scholars have also concluded from this and
other statements that he only had oral information, which would then mean
information from Icelandic storytellers, possibly the same as the skalds. However,
it seems strange for Theodoricus to refer only to Icelandic oral evidence; there
must have been plenty of oral storytelling in Norway as well. As a matter of fact,
Theodoricus never states unequivocally that he only had oral sources. His state-
ment that he will start his work with Harald Fairhair because he had no written

3
Erik Gunnes, Erkebiskop Øystein: Statsmann og kirkebygger (Oslo: Aschehoug, 1996), pp.
31–40.
4
Monumenta historica Norvegiae: Latinske kildeskrifter til Norges historie i middelalderen, ed.
by Gustav Storm (Kristiania: Brøgger, 1880; repr. Oslo: Aas & Wahl, 1973), pp. iii–v.
5
Arne Odd Johnsen, Om Theodoricus og hans Historia de antiquitate regum norwagiensium
(Oslo: J. Dybwad, 1939), pp. 56–60; Sverre Bagge, ‘Theodoricus Monachus: Clerical Histori-
ography in Twelfth-Century Norway’, Scandinavian Journal of History, 14 (1989), 113–33 (pp.
114–15); Lars Boje Mortensen, ‘Det 12. århundredes renæssanse i Norge: Teoderik Munk og
Romerriget’, Antikken i norsk litteratur, ed. by Øyvind Andersen and Asbjørn Aarseth (Bergen:
University of Bergen, 1993), pp. 17–35 (pp. 24–29).
6
Theodoricus, Historia, Prologus, p. 3: ‘prout sagaciter perquirere potuimus ab eis, penes quos
horum memoria præcipue vigere creditur, quos nos Islendinga vocamus, qui hæc in suis antiquis
carminibus percelebrata recolunt’.
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 73

evidence of the previous period suggests the opposite, and some other passages
point in the same direction.7 Theodoricus may thus have known the earliest his-
tories of Norway by the Icelanders Sæmundr (d. 1133) or Ari (1068–1148) or both
of them, but as these works are lost we cannot know this for sure, nor can we know
how much he derived from them if he knew them. The only written source to
which he directly refers is an otherwise unknown Catalogus regum, apparently a
kind of genealogy or brief account of the reigns of the kings.
Concerning the reason for composing his work, Theodoricus points to the
importance for a country of having its history written down: ‘And because almost
no people is so rude and uncivilized that it has not passed on some monuments of
its predecessors to later generations, I have thought it proper to record for posterity
these relics of our forefathers, few though they are’.8 Like Saxo a little later, he does
not disguise his patriotic sentiments, quoting Hugh of St Victor as well as Siegebert
of Gembloux on the Normans’ terrible devastation in France. Thus, an important
motive for Theodoricus is patriotic pride, which even extends to his ancestors’
barbarous behaviour in Christian countries. Patriotism is no unusual motive for
writing history in the twelfth century or even earlier; most ‘new’ peoples had their
history written some time after the introduction of Christianity and literacy.9
However, Theodoricus does not really exploit the possibility of elaborating on his
ancestors’ great deeds in his actual narrative, which is mostly terse and dry, almost
annalistic. Anyone familiar with the Icelandic kings’ sagas will have the feeling of
entering a completely different world when opening the pages of Theodoricus’s

7
Theodoricus, Historia, Prologus, p. 3: ‘non quia dubitaverim etiam ante ejus ætatem fuisse in
hac terra viros […] conspicuos, quos […] scriptorum inops delevit opinio’; cf. ibid., p. 4. See also
Theodore M. Andersson, ‘Kings’ Sagas (Konungaso3gur)’, in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: A
Critical Guide, ed. by Carol J. Clover and John Lindow (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985),
pp. 197–238 (pp. 210–11); and Sverre Bagge, ‘The Making of a Missionary King: The Medieval
Accounts of Olav Tryggvason and the Conversion of Norway’, Journal of English and Germanic
Philology, 105 (2006), 473–513 (pp. 485–90 with references). Theodoricus’s commonplace
assertion that he has written what he has heard, not seen (‘non visa sed audita’), which has often
been understood as a denial of having used written sources, clearly refers to the distinction between
being an eyewitness or relying on information from others; see Bernard Guenée, Histoire et culture
historique dans l’occident médiéval (Paris: Aubier, 1980), pp. 77–78.
8
Theodoricus, Historia, Prologus, p. 3: ‘Et quia paene nulla natio est tam rudis et inculta, quæ
non aliqua monumenta suorum antecessorum ad posteros transmiserit, dignum putavi hæc, pauca
licet, majorum nostrorum memoriæ posteritatis tradere.’
9
Norbert Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung in Europa der ‘nationes’: Nationalgeschichtliche Gesamt-
darstellungen im Mittelalter, Münstersche historische Forschungen, 8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995).
74 Sverre Bagge

work, and most modern scholars have also regarded him as inferior to Snorri and
other saga authors as a writer. He also differs from the other contemporary Latin
chronicle, Historia Norwegie,10 which is written in a highly rhetorical style aiming
at dramatic effect, thus resembling the slightly later Gesta Danorum by the Dane
Saxo Grammaticus, one of the masterpieces of medieval Latin historiography.
Although Theodoricus does not lack patriotism, this is not his main reason for
writing — at least it is not patriotism in the same sense as the one we find in the
vernacular saga literature. Theodoricus is above all concerned with the relationship
between the history of his country and universal history. Most of the new king-
doms that came into being as the result of the expansion of Western Christendom
in the tenth and eleventh centuries developed their own national historiography,
in which the origin of the people or the dynasty was a crucial issue. This seems
natural enough against the background of the radical changes that took place
through the conversion to Christianity, the formation of a larger kingdom or prin-
cipality, and the introduction of literacy, the Latin language, and a learned culture
with a long tradition. Joining the Christian commonwealth and adapting to its
culture might be interpreted as a change from darkness to light, but the shift would
also imply that the new peoples were barbarians who had to accept the higher
culture of the old Christian kingdoms. The national histories produced in the
‘new’ countries may therefore be regarded as answers to this problem. How should
the converted peoples adapt to the new situation and grasp the opportunities pre-
sented by the common Christian culture without regarding themselves as inferior?
How should they relate to their own past and how should this past be related to the
common Christian history of salvation from the New Testament, via the conver-
sion of the Roman Empire to the formation of the contemporary Christian
commonwealth?
A usual way of solving these problems was to trace one’s own people back to
some mythical past, either in order to show its origin in some famous people — like
the Trojans or the Romans — or to point to a parallel history to that of the Romans
or of contemporary Christian nations. Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, dealing with skaldic
poetry and ancient myths, traces the Norwegians and their kings back to the
Trojans,11 but otherwise the alternative strategy seems more prominent in Scandi-
navian historiography. Thus, Saxo Grammaticus traces the origins of Denmark at

10
Historia Norwegie.
11
Snorri Sturluson, Edda, I: Prologue and Gylfaginning, ed. by Anthony Faulkes (London:
Viking Society, 1988), pp. 4–6.
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 75

least as far back as that of Rome and points to numerous parallels between Danish
and Roman history, though without even mentioning the Romans: the Danes have
always been independent, never submitting to the Roman Empire.12 In a similar
way, the anonymous author of the Historia Norwegie finds the origin of the dynasty
in the pagan gods, whom he regards as kings who were worshipped as gods by later
generations.13 The source for this genealogy is an extant poem, Ynglingatal, prob-
ably composed in the Viking Age. The entire prehistoric genealogy comprises
twenty-eight generations. According to the normal rule of one generation per
thirty years this means 840 years, which brings the origin of the dynasty back to the
time of the birth of Christ, although this is not stated explicitly. The genealogy is
continued until Harald Fairhair, the first ruler of the whole of Norway. Later,
Snorri Sturluson (1179–1241) in his Heimskringla (c. 1230) gives a more detailed
but largely similar account of the early history of the dynasty, with extensive
quotations from Ynglingatal. Snorri depicts the god Odin as the founder of the
dynasty: Odin was actually a king who after his death was regarded as a god by his
people. He lived at a time when the Romans were conquering the Mediterranean
and understood that he had to establish his own kingdom in the north.14 Thus,
Snorri, like Saxo, succeeds in creating a parallel history to that of the Romans while
securing his dynasty’s independence from them.
In rejecting the evidence for Norwegian history before the reign of Harald
Fairhair, Theodoricus has to refrain from this way of integrating the history of
Norway into universal history and must find another one. He states in the pro-
logue that, according to ancient models, he has inserted digressions into his work,
which in his opinion ‘are not without value in serving to delight the mind of the
reader’.15 Together with some other passages in the text, these digressions show a
quite impressive knowledge of classical and medieval Christian literature. There
are quotations and allusions to Plato, Chrysippus, Pliny, Sallust, Lucan, Horace,
Vergil, Ovid, Jerome, Eusebius, Augustine, Boethius, Isidore, Bede, Remigius, Paul
the Deacon, Siegebert of Gembloux, and Hugh of St Victor, most of whom

12
Karsten Friis-Jensen, ‘Saxo Grammaticus’s Study of the Roman Historiographers and his
Vision of History’, in Saxo Grammaticus: tra storiografia e letteratura: Bevagna, 27–29 settembre
1990, ed. by Carlo Santini (Rome: Calamo, 1992), pp. 61–81.
13
Historia Norwegie, cc. 9–11, pp. 74–81.
14
Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla, ed. by Finnur Jónsson, 4 vols (Copenhagen: Møller,
1893–1901), I, 10–22.
15
Theodoricus, Historia, Prologus, p. 4: ‘non inutiles, ut arbitramur, ad delectandum animum
lectoris’.
76 Sverre Bagge

Theodoricus must have read in the library of St Victor.16 These texts do not simply
serve as a show of learning, but are Theodoricus’s main means of linking the history
of Norway to the main history of salvation through a series of typological
parallels. 1 7 In this way, Theodoricus’s focus is on the religious significance of the
events rather than on the events themselves. Moreover, he pays particular attention
to the time when these two strands of history — the universal and the national —
converged through the conversion to Christianity, which thus becomes a major
theme in the work, dealt with in the accounts of the two missionary kings: Olav
Tryggvason (995–1000) and above all St Olav Haraldsson (1015–30). Although
Theodoricus has little to tell about the ancient history of his people, he is con-
cerned with its relationship to the rest of Christendom. Let us look more closely
at Theodoricus’s historical narrative by examining his account of this latter king,
who was regarded by most authors, including Theodoricus himself, as the most
important figure in Norwegian history.

The History of St Olav

St Olav is clearly the central figure in Theodoricus’s work. He is the subject of the
longest account of any single king, which covers nineteen out of sixty-seven pages
in the modern edition and contains a cluster of digressions — four out of twelve.
The account of Olav is also placed in the middle of the work, that is, Chapters
15–20 out of thirty-four chapters. The chapter division is most probably original.18
St Olav is introduced for the first time in connection with his predecessor, who
is said to have baptized him. Theodoricus tells that Olav Tryggvason met St Olav
— who was then three years old — with his mother,19 and according to some
(‘secundum quosdam’) baptized both of them, whereas others maintain that St
Olav was baptized in England. Theodoricus then states that he has read in the

16
See the list of correspondences in Johnsen, Om Theodoricus, pp. 56–57, and his discussion
of the whole series of allusions and quotations (pp. 29–60). Johnsen shows convincingly that
Theodoricus in many cases must have known these authors quite well, but does not discuss the
extent of their influence on his historical thought.
17
Bagge, ‘Theodoricus’, pp. 117–23.
18
Bagge, ‘Theodoricus’, pp. 122–23.
19
Theodoricus, Historia, 13, p. 21: ‘ibique tunc puerulum Olavum trium annorum […] invenit
cum matre Asta’; cf. Matthew 2. 11, ‘et intrantes domum invenerunt puerum cum Maria matre
eius’, on the magi finding the newborn Christ.
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 77

Historia Normannorum (by William of Jumièges) that Olav was baptized in

Rouen. Indicating his preference for one of the two latter opinions, namely that
Olav was baptized as an adult and not as a child, he concludes that the question
remains open, pointing to the discussion about Constantine’s baptism as a parallel.
Theodoricus here refers to earlier accounts of St Olav’s baptism, which are later to
be found in the so-called Legendary Saga and Snorri Sturluson’s Heimskringla.20
Although Theodoricus does not draw any firm conclusion, he seems to side with
those who believed that Olav was baptized as an adult and most probably with
William of Jumièges. Moreover, he uses this discussion to make another important
point, that there is similar doubt regarding Emperor Constantine’s baptism. Thus,
it is no wonder that there is uncertainty about Olav’s baptism in a country without
ancient sources, when even Jerome, who lived not long after Constantine, had no
certain information concerning his baptism.21 Theodoricus here, as in some other
places, emerges as the critical historian who knows the uncertainty of ancient tradi-
tions and is reluctant to make a definite conclusion when the sources are divergent
and unreliable. However, the reference to Constantine serves another purpose as
well. Constantine converted the Roman Empire to Christianity and is therefore
the parallel in universal history to Olav in Norwegian history. This discussion,
therefore, also has a similar typological importance as the digressions.
An awkward problem for Theodoricus is his reference to Olav Tryggvason
meeting Olav on his journey to convert Oppland. If the traditional information
about Olav’s baptism as a child is wrong, it would be difficult to accept this part of
Theodoricus’s account of Olav Tryggvason’s mission. Did Olav Tryggvason not get
as far as Olav Haraldsson’s home, or did he meet him without baptizing him? The
place of this passage in Theodoricus’s text also seems awkward. Why did he not
include it in the story of Olav? Actually, this arrangement may serve as evidence of
Theodoricus’s consciousness of writing history rather than biography, arranging
his narrative according to the kings’ reigns, not their births.22 Placing Olav’s

20
Óláfs saga hins Helga: Die ‘Legendarische Saga’ über Olav den Heiligen, ed. and trans. by Anne
Heinrichs and others (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1982), c. 8, p. 38; Sturluson, Heimskringla, ed. by
Finnur Jónsson, I, 373.
21
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 13, p. 23: ‘Nec mirum de Olavo hoc contigisse in illa terra, ubi nullus
antiquitatum umquam scriptor fuit, cum idem scribat beatus Hieronimus de Constantino magno.’
22
Whereas a clear distinction between history and biography existed in classical Antiquity, the
genres tended to merge in the Middle Ages, except in the case of hagiography, by far the most
important biographic genre; see J. Gruber and F. Brunhölzl, ‘Biographie’, in Lexikon des Mittel-
alters, vol. II (Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuchverlag, 2002), pp. 199–203. In some cases, however,
78 Sverre Bagge

baptism as an episode in Olav Tryggvason’s missionary activity allows Theodoricus

to create a continuous story of shifting regimes rather than a series of royal biog-
raphies, this in contrast to Heimskringla later. Theodoricus has the same arrange-
ment of the early history of Olav Tryggvason. He mentions the persecution of the
newborn Olav in connection with Harald Greycloak’s reign and then returns to
Olav Tryggvason when Earl Hakon tries to entice him from England to Norway.23
Theodoricus leaves out most of the information on Olav’s upbringing and early
life. Thus, he once more focuses on history rather than biography. He also leaves
out Olav’s Viking activities, instead portraying him as the one who reconciled King
Ethelred of England with his brothers.24 In contrast to some other versions — and
most probably to what actually happened — he also states that Olav fought on the
English side against King Cnut of Denmark, not on Cnut’s side against the
English.25 He probably had ideological reasons for this; he did not want to portray
Olav as a Viking. Nor does he repeat the information about Olav’s baptism in
Rouen, probably because of his adherence to the genre of history. In any case, the
account of the young Olav as a peacemaker and defender of the legitimate rulers
serves as a good background for his own legitimate claim to Norway. Finally, Theo-
doricus tells that Olav visited a holy hermit in England who told him about the
grace the Lord would grant him and about the death he would suffer. A similar
story is usually told about Olav Tryggvason;26 only the Legendary Saga has a similar

there seems to have been a distinction between vita and gesta, as expressed for instance in the
difference between Wipo’s Gesta Chuonradi, devoted to Conrad II’s reign, and the anonymous
Vita Heinrici Quarti, with a stronger focus on Henry as a person; cf. Sverre Bagge, Kings, Politics
and the Right Order of the World in German Historiography c. 950–1150 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp.
189–90 and 313–27.
23
Theodoricus, Historia, cc. 4 and 7, pp. 9–11 and 13–14. See Bagge, ‘The Making’, p. 495.
24
His source for this is probably a stanza by Óttarr; see Ove Moberg, Olav Haraldsson, Knut
den store och Sverige: studier i Olav den helliges förhållande till de nordiska grannländerna (Lund:
Gleerup, 1941), pp. 46–49 (p. 61); cf. Den norsk-islandske Skjaldedigtning, ed. by Finnur Jónsson
(Copenhagen: Villadsen og Christensen, 1912–15), A I, 292; and BI, 269, stanza 8.
25
Actually, it seems most likely that Olav fought on Cnut’s side, as maintained by Moberg,
Olav Haraldsson, pp. 25–87, with references to earlier literature; see Sverre Bagge, ‘Mellom kilde-
kritikk og historisk antropologi: Olav den hellige, aristokratiet og rikssamlingen’, Historisk tidsskrift,
81 (2002), 173–212 (pp. 179–84). An alternative opinion is in Olav Tveito, ‘Olav Haraldssons
unge år og relasjonen til engelsk kongemakt: Momenter til et crux interpretum’, Collegium
Medievale, 21 (2008), 158–81.
26
This story occurs in Historia Norwegie and Ágrip, which on several occasions has an
alternative version to that of Theodoricus and Oddr (Bagge, ‘The Making’, pp. 495–503). The
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 79

story as Theodoricus’s about St Olav, with the addition — as in the stories about
Olav Tryggvason — that Olav tried to cheat the hermit by letting one of his men
dress like himself, but that the hermit saw through the deceit.27 It is not clear
whether Theodoricus omitted this addition or did not know it. An argument in
favour of deliberate omission is Theodoricus’s focus on history rather than
biography and above all on his essential point — Olav’s return to Norway in
response to God’s call.
The background of Olav’s conquest of Norway is sketched in the previous
chapter of Theodoricus’s narrative.28 After Olav’s predecessor Olav Tryggvason
had been killed in the battle of Svolder in the year 1000, his enemies — the kings
of Denmark and Sweden and the Norwegian earl Eirik — had taken control of the
country. In practice Eirik and his brother Svein became the rulers, partly on their
own behalf and partly on that of the two kings. Shortly before Olav’s arrival, Eirik
had joined the Danish king Cnut in England and left his young son Hakon in
charge of his part of Norway.
The following narrative of Olav’s accession to the throne can — in all the
sources, including Theodoricus — be divided into three main episodes: (1) Olav
capturing the young Earl Hakon jarl in Saudungssund; (2) Olav’s visit to his
mother and stepfather in Oppland to gain further support; and (3) the battle of
Nesjar, where Earl Svein is defeated.
Concerning the first of these episodes, Theodoricus relates that Olav, having
arrived in Norway, sailed to a place called Saudungssund (in Sunnfjord in western
Norway), where he learned that the young earl was on his way with two ships: one
small — called scuta in Norwegian — and one larger, which the ancients called
liburna and which Horace mentions in one of his epodes from which Theodoricus
quotes. Olav now devises a ruse, laying his ships on each side of the narrow sound
with a rope between them to catch the young Earl’s ships unaware and thus to
avoid bloodshed. The ruse succeeds; Hakon is captured, gives up his lordship in
Norway, and leaves for England.29 Theodoricus’s account is also relatively detailed.
He relates that both Olav and Hakon had two ships, and even bothers to inform
his readers on the size of Hakon’s ships, despite the fact this is of no importance for

corresponding story in the two latter is Olav being saved from an ambush by invoking Christ and
later seeing a pious abbot on the Scillies.
27
Óláfs saga hins Helga, ed. and trans. by Heinrichs and others, chap. 18, p. 64.
28
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 14, pp. 24–25.
29
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 15, pp. 26–27.
80 Sverre Bagge

his story. His reference to Horace, which is equally irrelevant, is characteristic of

his tendency to refer to the classics as often as possible, no doubt with the aim of
integrating his history of Norway into the mainstream of universal history.
Although his exact account of the ruse is not very detailed, he makes it perfectly
clear to the reader how the Earl was captured. The most characteristic feature in
Theodoricus, compared to the later sagas, is the lack of drama; there is no attempt
to describe what happened when the ships capsized or when the Earl was brought
aboard Olav’s ship.30 Theodoricus also writes a simple, matter-of-fact Latin with-
out rhetorical embroidery — Saxo would have made much more out of this passage
had he included it in his work. More important to Theodoricus than drama and
rhetoric is the moral aspect. From Theodoricus’s point of view, the episode does
not portray the saintly king in a very favourable light: Olav attacks the Earl without
any declaration of war or feud and gives him no chance to defend himself. Olav
may clearly be accused of unchivalrous behaviour, but Theodoricus has an excuse
ready for his hero: he wants to avoid bloodshed.
After this victory, Theodoricus lets Olav spend the winter with his mother and
stepfather ‘in superiorem provinciam’, which probably means the region called
Oppland in the vernacular, meaning the inner parts of eastern Norway. The later
sagas give a number of details about this visit that Theodoricus may well have
known but chose not to include. However, he does hint at Olav’s aim, namely to
gather men for the decisive battle against his other enemy — Earl Svein — that
took place the following spring at Nesjar, along the south-eastern coast, and ended
in Olav’s victory. The battle is celebrated in a skaldic poem by Sigvatr, the most
prominent of Olav’s skalds, on which all later narratives seem to be based, includ-
ing that of Theodoricus.31 Theodoricus’s description is very brief, mainly stating
that Olav was victorious, but it does include the statement that Svein — upon
seeing that he was defeated — wanted to die with his men rather than withdraw
but was dragged away by his brother-in-law Einar and left for Rus’. This episode is
described in greater detail in the later sagas, which also give more information
about the fighting. Sigvatr tells that the battle was fought on Palm Sunday, which
in the Legendary Saga is developed into a story of Olav trying to postpone the
battle to avoid fighting on a holiday, but being forced to do so by Svein, who

30
Sverre Bagge, ‘Nordic Uniqueness in the Middle Ages? Political and Literary Aspects’, Gripla,
20 (2009), 49–76 (pp. 57–58).
31
Den norsk-islandske Skjaldedigtning, ed. by Jónsson, A I, 228–32; and BI, 217–20; and
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 15, p. 28.
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 81

rejected his proposal.32 Such a story would fit in well with Theodoricus’s aim as
well, but he is silent on the matter, either because of respect for the lack of mention
of this in the poem or for the sake of brevity.
Theodoricus deals extremely briefly with Olav’s reign, confining himself to a
general passage on Olav as an excellent ruler and legislator and on his work in con-
verting the people to Christianity, summarizing the relationship between him and
his namesake and predecessor Olav Tryggvason in the statement that what the first
Olav had planted, the second, taught by the Holy Spirit, watered.33 Theodoricus’s
brevity regarding these matters forms clear evidence that he had little information;
he would have undoubtedly given more details about Olav’s work for the Chris-
tianization of Norway if he had known anything about it. The later sagas are
somewhat more detailed but do not appear to have had much authentic information;
the stories are mostly stereotypical and may easily have been invented by the authors
themselves.34 Then there follows a short passage on Olav’s marriage to a younger
daughter of King Olof of Sweden after his engagement with her elder sister had
been broken because of her father’s anger, a story that is told in greater detail in the
later sagas but was obviously known to Theodoricus. In the later sources, this story
is combined with a poem by Sigvatr describing an embassy to Sweden; but as this
poem says nothing about marriage negotiations, the combination is probably in-
vented by the saga writers.35 It is uncertain whether Theodoricus knew the poem,
and if so whether he interpreted it in the same way as his successors, but it is in any
case significant that the other Latin history, Historia Norwegie, places Olav’s mar-
riage in an entirely different context, namely during Olav’s stay in England.36

32
Óláfs saga hins Helga, ed. and trans. by Heinrichs and others, chap. 24, p. 74.
33
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 16, pp. 28–29: ‘ut quod ille magnifice plantaverat, iste sagaciter ut
a Dei spiritu doctus rigaret’.
34
Sverre Bagge, ‘Warrior, King and Saint: The Medieval Histories of St. Óláfr’, Journal of
English and Germanic Philology, 109. 3 (2010), 281–321 (pp. 295–97). The most detailed and
vivid of these stories is the one about Dale-Gudbrand; see Theodore M. Andersson, ‘Lore and
Literature in a Scandinavian Conversion Episode’, in Idee, Gestalt, Geschichte: Festschrift Klaus von
See. Studien zur europäischen Kulturtradition, ed. by Gerd Wolfgang Weber (Odense: Odense
University Press, 1988), pp. 261–84.
35
Sverre Bagge, Society and Politics in Snorri Sturluson’s Heimskringla (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1991), pp. 101–03. On the expedition described in the poem, see Curt Weibull,
Källkritik och historia (Lund: Aldus & Bonner, 1964), pp. 118–37; and Moberg, Olav Haraldsson,
pp. 88–147.
36
Historia Norwegie, c. 28, p. 104. A Swedish king (Lacman) is mentioned by William of
Jumièges as one of Cnut’s allies, together with Olav (Moberg, Olav Haraldsson, p. 45).
82 Sverre Bagge

Having thus summarized Olav’s thirteen years on the throne in approximately

half a page, Theodoricus turns to Olav’s fall, giving a condensed account of the
events from Cnut the Great’s claim on Norway to Olav’s exile in Rus’ in a chapter
with the heading ‘On the Blessed Olav’s flight to Russia’.37 Here he states that
Cnut, ‘a man desiring what belonged to others’38 and remembering that his father
had possessed a third of Norway and that his nephew Hakon had been exiled,
started to incite the magnates against Olav, bribing them to achieve his aim. Thus,
the Norwegian magnates who ought to have fought for Olav betrayed him. Theo-
doricus mentions the names of three of these men: Erling Skjalgsson of Sola, Kalv
Arnesson, and Tore Hund (Dog). Although it is impossible to know exactly how
much Theodoricus knew of the stories included in later works, notably Heims-
kringla, he certainly knew more than only the names. His abbreviation is
deliberate, determined by his emphasis on the moral aspect: Cnut wants what does
not belong to him, in contrast to Olav’s own behaviour in England, when he
unselfishly aided Ethelred to gain the throne.
The most prominent of the three magnates mentioned by Theodoricus was
Erling who, gathering a fleet, fought a battle against Olav in a place called Tunga.
Here he was killed — against Olav’s will — by his relative Aslak Fitjaskalle, who
was one of Olav’s men. The battle of Tunga and Erling’s death are celebrated in a
poem by Sigvatr,39 which is quoted in the Legendary Saga, Fagrskinna, and Heims-
kringla and has probably been used by all later writers, including Theodoricus. The
later sources recount that Erling pursued Olav, but that Olav managed to draw
Erling’s own ship away from the rest of his fleet and then attack him with a
superior force. Fighting bravely until all his men had been killed, Erling finally
surrendered, but was killed by Aslak. However, neither Sigvatr nor Theodoricus
seems to know the story of Erling being dragged away from the rest of his fleet; the
most likely interpretation of Theodoricus’s text is that we are dealing with an
ordinary battle between two fleets, although Sigvatr praises Erling’s heroic fight.
Sigvatr also blames Aslak for killing Erling but does not state that this was against
Olav’s order; this part of the story is probably a later addition. Theodoricus’s brief
reference must be based on a similar story to the one told in works like the
Legendary Saga and Heimskringla: Erling laid down his arms and surrendered in
return for receiving Olav’s pardon, but Aslak rushed forward and killed him, after

37
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 16, pp. 31–34.
38
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 16, p. 29: ‘homo cupidus alieni’.
39
Den norsk-islandske Skjaldedigtning, ed. by Jónsson, A I, 244–47; and A I, 228–31.
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 83

which Olav exclaimed: ‘Now you struck Norway out of my hand’. In accordance
with this, later sources, notably Heimskringla, regard Erling’s death as the main
cause of Olav’s exile. By contrast, Theodoricus’s explanation is King Cnut of
Denmark’s arrival shortly afterwards.40
As do the later sources, Theodoricus now relates that Olav travelled through
Sweden and arrived in Rus’, where he was well received by King Jaroslav and
Queen Ingegerd, Olav’s former fiancée. Having learned that Earl Hakon — Cnut’s
deputy in Norway — had drowned on his way back from England, Olav decided
to return. In contrast to the later sources, however, Theodoricus gives no details
of Olav’s journeys to Rus’ and back. However, he does list a number of men
accompanying Olav on his way back to Norway and participating in the battle of
Stiklestad, as well as giving some information on Olav’s adversaries.
Theodoricus also includes the basic facts about the battle. Bjørn — in later
sources known as Bjørn Stallari (Marshall) — who carried Olav’s banner, is killed
by Tore Hund, after which Olav is killed. Theodoricus states that Olav received an
immense wound, but refrains from going into further detail as there are various
accounts of who wounded Olav as well as of the number of wounds, and he does
not want to be caught in a lie.41 He thus knows more details than he refers to,
possibly the same as in the later sources, where it is said that Olav received three
wounds by three different men.42 Although Theodoricus differs from his successors
in letting Dag Ringsson take part in the whole battle,43 he has the same division
into two phases, with Dag renewing the attack after Olav’s death.
Once more Theodoricus comes forward as a historian in the classical tradition
through these details about the military aspect of the battle and as a critical his-
torian refusing to state exactly how Olav died, referring to diverging opinions
among his sources. However, his military emphasis is balanced by his portrait of

40
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 16, pp. 30–31; cf. Óláfs saga hins Helga, ed. and trans. by Heinrichs
and others, chaps 63–64, pp. 52–58; and Snorri, Heimskringla, II, 403–10.
41
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 19, p. 41: ‘nos nil temere affirmare volumus nec officioso mendacio
aliorum aures demulcere’ (‘we do not want to state anything without foundation nor flatter other
people’s ears with a courteous lie’).
42
The later sources, Legendary Saga, chap. 82, and Snorri, Heimskringla, II, 492–95, give the
names of the three men who gave Olav his fatal wounds as Tore Hund, Torstein Knarresmed, and
Kalv Arnesson or one of his anonymous relatives, but differ regarding their relative importance.
Both Theodoricus’s statement and those of his successors indicate that this was a sensitive issue
even in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries.
43
Cf. Storm’s comment on p. 41 of Theodoricus, Historia.
84 Sverre Bagge

Olav as a saint, his care for his enemies, and the moral and religious reasons that
made him go to war. The battle of Stiklestad represents a confrontation of the two
different sides of Olav: the warrior king and the Christian saint and martyr. A
martyr traditionally accepted death willingly, without resisting his killers.44 A king
killed fighting might not easily be considered a martyr, although death in battle
against pagans and heretics increasingly came to be regarded as martyrdom during
the period of the Crusades. The later sources, notably the Legendary Saga and
Heimskringla, solve this problem by letting Olav throw away his arms and accept
death willingly, despite the fact that he had fought actively as well as urging his men
to do so during the first phase of the battle.45
By contrast, Theodoricus is silent about Olav’s behaviour during the battle,
depicting him neither as fighting nor as willingly accepting death. His argument
for presenting Olav as a martyr is of a different kind, namely his purpose in fight-
ing. Theodoricus emphasizes that Olav was fighting for justice and only went to
war because he had no other option. Instead of Olav’s enemies sending the false
Kalv Arnesson to negotiate, as related in the later sources and possibly in the oral
tradition that may have been known to Theodoricus, he lets Olav send the honest
Finn, Kalv’s brother, to offer his enemies peace. Only when this offer is rejected is
Olav willing to fight. As in the meeting with Earl Hakon, Olav wants to avoid
bloodshed, whereas his adversaries add to their guilt by stubbornly refusing to
come to terms. Olav knew from divine revelation that he would die in the battle
— probably an allusion to the dream told in the later sources of Olav mounting a
ladder leading up to heaven.46 He gives money for Masses to be said for those of his
adversaries who die in the battle, in accordance with the biblical precept about
loving one’s enemies and following the example of the protomartyr Stephen, who
prayed for those who stoned him to death.

44
Erich Hoffmann, Die heiligen Könige bei den Angelsachsen und den skandinavischen Völkern:
Königsheiliger und Königshaus, Quellen und Forschungen zu Geschichte Schleswig-Holsteins, 69
(Neumünster: Karl Wachholz, 1975), pp. 58–89; Gabor Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed Prin-
cesses: Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, trans. by Éva Pálmai (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002), pp. 62–113; Haki Antonsson, ‘Some Observations on Martyrdom in Post-
Conversion Scandinavia’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society for Northern Research, 28 (2004), 70–94
(pp. 78–79); and Haki Antonsson, St Magnús of Orkney: A Scandinavian Martyr-Cult in Context,
The Northern World, 29 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), pp. 103–45 and pp. 221–25.
45
Óláfs saga hins Helga, ed. and trans. by Heinrichs and others, chaps 81–82; and Snorri,
Heimskringla, II, 486–95.
46
Óláfs saga hins Helga, ed. and trans. by Heinrichs and others, chap. 78, pp. 184–85; and
Sturluson, Heimskringla, II, 470–71.
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 85

The allusion to Stephen gives the same impression as the picture in the later
sources of Olav meekly and passively accepting his death, and may even be a direct
allusion to such an account. However, the main emphasis is on Olav’s reason for
fighting. Theodoricus adds an extra passage in which he insists on Olav’s saintly
character and explains why he had to go to war; namely, to prevent criminals and
unjust men from persecuting the good ones, to establish Christ’s laws, and even, if
it had been possible, to turn the hardest stones into the sons of Abraham.47 Al-
though in contrast to the Passio Olavi he does not regard Olav’s enemies as pagans,
he is in no doubt that Olav is fighting for justice against evil men, in accordance
with the doctrine of the just war propagated by Thedororicus’s superior and dedi-
catee, Archbishop Eystein.48 A biblical allusion serves to emphasize this interpre-
tation of the struggle: at Olav’s arrival, the people in the region of Trøndelag
‘gathered like one man against the Lord and against His Anointed’.49
Through his picture of Olav as the rex iustus and his death at Stiklestad as
martyrdom for the cause of justice, Theodoricus firmly places Olav’s life and reign
in the history of salvation. Turning directly to his audience, addressed as ‘universi
populi’, he points to his hero, born in the most faraway region to the north among
barbarous and uncivilized peoples, shining like a star in humility and brilliance
despite being a king and not a slave.50 Thus, the distant country that has recently
been included into Christendom has now been distinguished by a saint of equal
brilliance as those of the old Christian countries.
Olav’s importance and the turning point his death represents are further
emphasized through the digressions which fill more than half of Theodoricus’s
account of Olav. The first two of these come in connection with Hakon’s death at

47
An allusion to Luke 3. 8 where John the Baptist tells the Jews, who boast of being the sons
of Abraham, that God can turn stones into the sons of Abraham. Theodoricus turns the quotation
into a characterization of Olav’s missionary zeal, aiming at softening hearts of stone.
48
Antonsson, ‘Some Observations’, pp. 79–87; Sverre Bagge, ‘Den heroiske tid: kirkereform
og kirkekamp 1153–1214’, in Ecclesia Nidrosiensis 1153–1537: Søkelys på Nidaroskirkens og
Nidarosprovinsens historie, ed. by Steinar Imsen, Senter for middelalderstudier, NTNU Skrifter, 5
(Trondheim: Tapir, 2003), pp. 47–80 (p. 69).
49
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 19, p. 39: ‘convenerunt […] quasi vir unus adversus Dominum et
adversum christum ejus’; cf. Psalm 2. 1 and Acts 4. 26: ‘et principes convenerunt in unum adversus
Dominum et adversus Christum eius’.
50
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 19, p. 40: ‘Audite hæc, obsecro, universi populi: vir ist natus pæne
in ultimis partibus aquilonis inter barbaros et incultos. Videte quale sidus emicuerit, quam humilis,
quam sublimis, et hoc non in servili conditione, sed in regali fastidio.’
86 Sverre Bagge

the end of Chapter 16 and fill the whole of Chapter 17, serving to place the coming
struggle in the perspective of universal salvation history. On his return from
Norway to England, Hakon is driven by a gale into the maelstrom (Charybdis) of
Petlandsfjord, where he is shipwrecked and drowned. Theodoricus now turns to
an account of the nature of Charybdis which, with references to the Bible and
various classical authors, he describes as the deep waters located inside the earth.
One of his sources for this piece of information is Paul the Deacon, who has also
written about Pannonia and the people who invaded Italy from there, the Huns.
This in turn leads to another digression on barbarian peoples bursting forth from
one area in the same way as the waters within the earth and causing the martyrdom
of St Ursula and a multitude of others in Cologne.
The link between Charybdis and the Huns is not only that Paul the Deacon
happens to write about both of them, but also that they are both forces of disaster
bursting forth from some distant place, forces which are then shown to play a part
in God’s plan. God justly punishes Earl Hakon, who had earlier resigned his realm
in favour of Olav in return for his life, but had broken his promise and returned as
Cnut’s deputy at Olav’s exile. The forces of evil, human as well as non-human, may
thus be God’s instrument in punishing the wicked, but they may also turn against
the just who suffer martyrdom for God’s sake, like Ursula and her followers. How-
ever, martyrdom is a victory; Cologne is liberated thanks to the blessed virgins, and
the barbarian hordes turn away and flee. In this way, the digression prepares for
another martyrdom, that of Olav himself. Theodoricus ends by commenting that
defeat was turned into victory, as in the case of Cologne after Ursula’s martyrdom.
Olav’s martyrdom means the final victory for Christianity in Norway, and after a
brief interlude of Danish rule, Olav is succeeded by his son Magnus. Finally,
numerous miracles happen thanks to Olav’s intervention.
Moreover, in connection with the statement that Olav’s army consisted of
strong and tall men, Theodoricus turns to a new digression on the diminishing size
of men, an observation that is supported by a quotation from Pliny. This fact is in
turn an indication of the coming end of the world, which is developed in a later
passage in which Theodoricus — drawing on the doctrine of the four elements —
contrasts God’s eternal simplicity with the composite and therefore perishable
character of the world.51 Having given the exact date of Olav’s death as 1029

51
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 18, pp. 36–37. There is a similar passage in Otto of Freising, Ottonis
et Rahewini Gesta Frederici I Imperatoris, I. 5, ed. by Georg Waitz and B. von Simson, MGH SRG,
46 (Hannover: Hahn, 1912), pp. 16–23; cf. Sverre Bagge, ‘Ideas and Narrative in Otto of Freising’s
Gesta Frederici’, Journal of Medieval History, 22 (1996), 345–77 (p. 373); and Sverre Bagge, Kings,
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 87

according to the Roman calendar and the year of the incarnation, Theodoricus
turns to a new digression on reckoning the dates from the Creation of the world.52
He quotes several authorities — Eusebius, Isidore, Remigius, Jerome, and Hugh of
St Victor — who have calculated the time from the Creation to the birth of Christ,
but draws no conclusion, thus seemingly presenting a useless and irrelevant show
of learning. However, both digressions serve to emphasize Olav’s importance in the
context of universal history. Like the later saga writers, Theodoricus rarely uses the
‘absolute’, Christian chronology, keeping mostly to relative chronology based on
the kings’ reigns. In addition to the battle of Stiklestad, only two other events are
dated in this way: Harald Fairhair’s accession to the throne (852 or 858, according
to Theodoricus)53 and the battle of Stamford Bridge in 1066, where King Harold
Godwinson of England defeated the Norwegian king Harald. The former date
marks the beginning of Norwegian history proper; the latter concerns a crucial
event where the Norwegians intervened in the general history of Western Chris-
tendom. The battle of Stiklestad, which marks the birth of a Christian martyr as
well as the final inclusion of Norway into Western Christendom, is of even greater
importance than the two other events. Consequently, it necessitates not only a date
according to the Christian calendar but also a discussion about the origin of the
world and the general problem of chronology.
The end of the world is also a proper subject to discuss in connection with the
beginning of the world, but the main reason for introducing this subject in con-
nection with Olav’s death is the eschatological interpretation inherent in Theo-
doricus’s work. According to the Bible,54 the Gospel shall have reached all peoples
on earth before the end. The Christianization of Norway, a country on the utmost
edge of the inhabited land, might therefore be interpreted as a sign of the coming
end. The second half of Theodoricus’s work also contains features pointing in this
direction. The introduction of Christianity is not depicted simply as a change from
darkness to light. Theodoricus’s account of the hundred years following the battle
of Stiklestad depicts bad as well as good kings, but ends in a tone of deep

Politics, pp. 383–86. As Otto had also studied in Paris, the schools there, and particularly the one
of St Victor, seem to have been a likely source of inspiration for both authors. A closer examination
of historical writings at St Victor is a desideratum in future studies of Theodoricus, but cannot be
attempted here.
52
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 20, pp. 42–43.
53
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 1, p. 6. The year differs in the manuscripts; see Storm’s comment
on p. 6 and Bagge, ‘Theodoricus’, p. 114.
54
Matthew 24. 14.
88 Sverre Bagge

pessimism. Theodoricus abstains from continuing the story up to his own time
because of the disasters resulting from the dynastic struggles starting in the 1130s,
and ends his work with quotations from Ovid and Lucan on the disasters, respec-
tively, of the Iron Age and the civil wars in Rome.55
St Olav was one of the royal saints characteristic of the countries converted be-
tween the tenth and the twelfth centuries: Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Hungary,
and Bohemia — only Poland lacks a royal saint. Like his counterparts in the other
countries, Olav received his hagiography in the traditional style in the Passio Olavi,
but in addition there is also an unusually strong secular tradition about him, deal-
ing with numerous episodes from his life as a Viking as well as a king and focusing
on his qualities as a warrior and a leader of men. Most of the extant written ac-
counts try in various ways to reconcile this picture with that of the saint; the most
famous is Snorri’s version, where chronology plays a crucial part, giving three
successive portraits of Olav as, respectively, the Viking, the king, and the saint.56
Theodoricus solves the problem in a different way. Most of the exact facts men-
tioned in his work concern the ‘secular’ Olav: his stay in England, the way in which
he made himself the king of Norway, the battle of Tunga against Erling Skjalgsson,
and his death in the battle of Stiklestad. Unlike in the Passio Olavi, Theodoricus
does not try to hide the secular Olav, but he gives his secular career a thoroughly
religious interpretation. Olav the warrior fights for a just cause from the beginning,
starting with aiding King Ethelred of England to regain his throne. Olav’s own
conquest of Norway takes place as the result of God’s vocation. In trying to regain
his kingdom, he fights a necessary battle against evil men who want to destroy his
work for justice and Christianity. He consistently tries to avoid unnecessary
bloodshed, in Saudungssund, at Tunga, and at Stiklestad, only resorting to the use
of arms when there is no other possibility. Thus, Theodoricus does not write hagio-
graphy, but secular history with a religious interpretation.

Theodoricus as Historian

W. P. Ker has characterized the difference between Latin and Old Norse historio-
graphy in the following way:
These two books [Theodoricus’s history and the Historia Norwegie] might be picked out
of the Middle Ages on purpose to make a contrast of their style with the Icelandic saga. Th.

55
Theodoricus, Historia, c. 34, p. 67; and Bagge, ‘Theodoricus’, p. 122.
56
Bagge, Society and Politics, pp. 181–86.
THEODORICUS MONACHUS 89

[…] indulges in all the favourite medieval irrelevances, drags in the Roman historians and
the Platonic year, digresses from Charybdis to the Huns, and embroiders his texts with
quotations from the Latin poets.57

Ker adequately expresses the modern ideals of narrative style as well as good
historical writing, according to which Theodoricus fails completely in comparison
with the Icelandic kings’ sagas, with Snorri’s Heimskringla as the great masterpiece.
Although the previous examination has not attempted to diminish the difference
between Snorri and Theodoricus, it has argued for a more positive picture of the
latter.
In contrast to the Passio Olavi, his work is not pure hagiography, but contains
serious attempts at a factual account of ‘normal’ political history, based on reigns
rather than royal biographies, according to the classical tradition. He refuses to deal
with the history before Harald Fairhair because there is no certain information on
this period. He thus seems to deliberately reject the ancient poem Ynglingatal, used
by the author of the Historia Norwegie and later by Snorri. He sometimes presents
more than one version of the same story, adding that he does not know which one
is the true one. Above all, his work includes a surprising amount of facts — many
more than in the Historia Norwegie — such as names, places, and events, which are
only briefly mentioned with few if any details. He keeps to a dry and matter-of-fact
style, but has obviously known far more than he tells directly. His narrative gives
evidence that much of the material included in the longer, vernacular narratives of
Oddr Snorrason, Snorri, and others must have existed in oral or written form
around 1180. His genre is history or possibly chronicle, clearly distinct from hagio-
graphy,58 despite the ideological similarity between his work and the Passio Olavi.
Theodoricus presents a considerable amount of details about secular history,
attempting to sort out chronology and evaluate the evidence according to contem-
porary critical standards so as to arrive at correct information. He presents his
material according to clear criteria about relevance and avoids the repetitions and
inconsistencies of writers like Oddr Snorrason and the author of the Legendary
Saga. In this way, he aims at creating a consistent picture of the great king and

57
William Paton Ker, ‘The Early Historians of Norway’, in Collected Essays, 2 vols (London:
Macmillan, 1925), II, 131–51 (pp. 141–42).
58
Felice Lifshitz, ‘Beyond Positivism and Genre: Hagiographical Texts as Historical Narrative’,
Viator, 25 (1994), 95–113, rejects the distinction, at least before the twelfth century, when begin-
ning state formation made political history possible. However, despite a certain amount of over-
lapping in practice, the distinction is clearly stated e.g. in Einhard’s and Wipo’s prefaces; see Bagge,
Kings, Politics, pp. 23–24 and 190–91.
90 Sverre Bagge

saint. Most importantly, his digressions and biblical and classical allusions are not
random outbursts of useless learning, but rather attempts at a theological inter-
pretation of the history of his country and at integrating the life and reign of a saint
and ruler at the outskirts of the inhabited earth, unknown to most of his European
contemporaries, into the universal history of salvation. Theodoricus’s work is dia-
metrically opposed to that of Snorri, but together the two demonstrate the rich
historiographic tradition of the northern world.
 Part Two
Early Scandinavian Historical Narratives in Old Norse
 Chapter 5

T HE T WO A GES IN
Á GRIP AF N ÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM

Theodore M. Andersson

T
he research on Ágrip is in some respects in agreement and in other respects
quite divided. There is a fair consensus that the archaisms in the only extant
manuscript suggest a date in the first half of the thirteenth century, and the
language makes it reasonably certain that the manuscript is Icelandic, although a
few Norwegianisms have persuaded some scholars that the exemplar was Norwe-
gian.1 There is also general agreement that the book was probably composed in the
period 1190–1200 because, it has been argued, it is quoted not only in the great

1
The idea that the book is Norwegian goes back to Brudstykke af en gammel norsk kongesaga,
ed. by Peter A. Munch, Samlinger til det norske folks sprog og historie, 2 (Christiania: Samfundet
til det norske folks sprog og historie, 1834), p. 275. It was reinforced by Gustav Storm, Snorre
Sturlassöns historieskrivning: En kritisk undersøgelse (Copenhagen: Bianco Lunos Bogtrykkeri,
1873), pp. 24–26, and in his simultaneous paper ‘Yderligere bemærkninger om den skotske “His-
toria Norvegiae”’, Aarbøger for nordisk oldkyndighed og historie, 8 (1873), 361–85 (p. 85); and in
Ágrip af Noregs konunga sögum, ed. by Verner Dahlerup, Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk
litteratur, 2 (Copenhagen: Møller, 1880), p. xxxiii. It was argued in detail by Gustav Indrebø,
‘Aagrip’, Edda, 17 (1922), 18–65 (pp. 25–29, 46, 57–58, and 61). Icelandic origin was argued by
Finnur Jónsson in Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie, vol. II (Copenhagen: Gad,
1923), p. 619; in Finnur Jónsson, ‘Ágrip’, Aarbøger for nordisk oldkyndighed og historie, 3rd ser., 18
(1928), 312–14; and in Ágrip, ed. by Finnur Jónsson, Altnordische Saga-Bibliothek, 18 (Halle
[Saale]: Niemeyer, 1929), p. xiii. Finnur did not think that the few Norwegianisms in the manu-
script were significant (Ágrip, p. ix), but the view that the book is Norwegian has nonetheless per-
sisted, e.g., in Svend Ellehøj, Studier over den ældste norrøne historieskrivning (Copenhagen: Munks-
gaard, 1965), p. 198. In Ágrip af Nóregskonunga so3gum: Fagrskinna – Nóregs konunga tal, ed. by
Bjarni Einarsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 29 (Reykjavik: Hið Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1985), p. vi, Bjarni goes
only so far as to say that the exemplar of the extant manuscript was probably Norwegian.
94 Theodore M. Andersson

compendia Morkinskinna, Fagrskinna, and Heimskringla but also in the *Oldest

Saga of St Olaf (c. 1200) and in the Icelandic translation of Oddr Snorrason’s Óláfs
saga Tryggvasonar, which is often dated c. 1200.2 This dating of Ágrip seems, how-
ever, somewhat uncertain. There is no way to prove that the *Oldest Saga of St
Olav was written and Oddr Snorrason translated as early as 1200, and Gudrun
Lange believes that the author of Ágrip made use of both of these books rather than
vice versa. The fact that Ágrip is written in the vernacular, as opposed to the other
synoptic histories and the original of Oddr Snorrason’s book, might also tend to
favour a later date. It appears that in the 1180s and 1190s Latin was still a possible
medium, but that after 1200 everything was written in the vernacular.
In other areas the uncertainty is even greater. There has been much discussion
about how Ágrip is related to its closest congeners, the Historia de antiquitate
regum Norwagiensium by Theodoricus Monachus and the Historia Norwegie
(hereafter HN), and some disagreement about whether the author was Norwegian
or Icelandic. On the first point there is no doubt that the extensive verbal echoes
shared by these documents ensures a textual relationship, but scholars have differed
on whether the author of Ágrip made direct use of Theodoricus (and perhaps HN)
or whether the verbal correspondences are inherited from common sources.3 If

2
See Konrad Maurer, Ueber die Ausdrücke: altnordische, altnorwegische & isländische Sprache,
Abhandlungen der phil.-philol. Cl. der Königlich Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 21
(Munich: K. Akademie, 1868), pp. 620–40; Sigurður Nordal, Om Olaf den helliges saga: En kritisk
undersøgelse (Copenhagen: Gad, 1914), pp. 31, 35–38, and 44–46; Indrebø, ‘Aagrip’, pp. 23 and
60; Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie, p. 612; and Finnur Jónsson,
‘Ágrip’, pp. 295–96; Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Om de norske kongers sagaer, Skrifter utgitt av Det
Norske Videnskaps-Akademi i Oslo II. hist.-filos. klasse 1936 (Oslo: Jacob Dybwad, 1937), pp.
57–58; Jónas Kristjánsson, Um Fóstbræðrasögu (Reykjavik: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1972), pp.
149–50; and Gudrun Lange, Die Anfänge der isländisch-norwegischen Geschichtsschreibung, Studia
Islandica, 47 (Reykjavik: Bókaútgáfa Menningarsjóðs, 1989), pp. 123–24, 166, 171–73, and 176.
3
Sophus Bugge, ‘Bemærkninger om den i Skotland fundne latinske Norges krønike’, Aarbøger
for nordisk oldkyndighed og historie, 8 (1873), pp. 1–49 (pp. 2–4, 11, and 18), thought that Ágrip
and HN used a common source but that the author of Ágrip did not know Theodoricus. Storm,
‘Yderligere bemærkninger’, p. 368, thought that HN was a direct source for Ágrip and Storm,
Snorre Sturlassøns historieskrivning, pp. 22 and 27, that Theodoricus was also an immediate source
for Ágrip. Nordal, Om Olaf den helliges saga, pp. 30 and 41–42, thought that Ágrip made direct use
of Theodoricus and shared a common source with HN. Indrebø, ‘Aagrip’, pp. 46–47 and 49,
thought that Ágrip made direct use of Theodoricus and could have used HN directly or, alterna-
tively, a common source. Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie, pp.
615–16, and ‘Ágrip’, pp. 269–73 and 309, thought that Ágrip used neither Theodoricus nor HN
directly but that the common source for Ágrip and Theodoricus could have been Sæmundr. He
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 95

there is a new consensus in the making, it is that the author of Ágrip drew at least
on Sæmundr and Ari.
On the second point, the positing of Norwegian authorship rests not only on
the few Norwegianisms in the manuscript but also on the perception of a special
familiarity with the Trondheim region and even a hint of Norwegian patriotism.4
These factors are subject to some doubt because an Icelander could have been fa-
miliar with the Trondheim region and could also have had Norwegian sympathies.5
There is a certain afterglow of Norwegian national emergence in the emphasis on
Norwegianness, and the counterargument might be that most of what we know
about the writing on Norwegian kings in the twelfth century suggests Icelandic
authorship: Sæmundr Sigfússon, Ari Þorgilsson, Eiríkr Oddsson, Oddr Snorrason,
Gunnlaugr Leifsson, and Karl Jónsson were all Icelanders. In a case of doubt there
is therefore a certain weight of evidence in favour of Icelandic origin.
Scholars have made it quite easy to survey the material bearing on the sources
of Ágrip. Tor Ulset gives a succinct summary of earlier views, including a good
number not reviewed here, and prints the parallel passages in an appendix.6 There
may, however, be insufficient evidence to anchor his view that certain Latinisms

also thought that there was a common source for Ágrip and HN (Ágrip af Noregs konunga sögum,
ed. by Dahlerup, p. xii). Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Om de norske kongers sagaer, pp. 5 and 9–11,
thought that Ágrip made direct use of Theodoricus and could have used HN directly or made use
of a common source, though he leans to the common source. Ellehøj, Studier, pp. 199–200,
203–36, 238, 240–58, 263, and 265–66, believes that the author of Ágrip made direct use of
Theodoricus and shared a common source with HN that may well have been Ari’s konunga ævi,
though he also used Sæmundr. Tor Ulset, Det genetiske forholdet mellom Ágrip, Historia Norwegiae
og De Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium: En analyse med utgangspunkt i oversettelsesteknikk samt
en diskusjon omkring begrepet ‘latinisme’ i samband med norrøne tekster (Oslo: Novus, 1983),
reverted to the idea that Ágrip made direct use of both Theodoricus and HN. Theodore M.
Andersson, ‘Kings’ Sagas (Konungaso3gur)’, in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: A Critical Guide, ed.
by Carol J. Clover and John Lindow (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985; repr. Toronto:
Toronto University Press, 2005), pp. 197–238 (pp. 201–11), reviewed Ellehøj and suggested that
Ágrip used both Sæmundr and Ari, and Lange, Die Anfänge, pp. 123–24, 166, 170–73, 176, and
178, allowed for the use of both Sæmundr and Ari, but also counted the *Oldest Saga of St Olaf
and Oddr Snorrason among the sources of Ágrip.
4
Indrebø, ‘Aagrip’, was the most explicit and detailed on the Norwegian orientation. See
especially pp. 37–40.
5
See the tempering remarks provided by Finnur Jónsson, ‘Ágrip’, pp. 312–14.
6
Ulset, Det genetiske forholdet, pp. 16–42 and pp. 152–82.
96 Theodore M. Andersson

in Ágrip betray the direct use of Theodoricus and HN.7 He was also not yet aware
of all the arguments to the effect that Theodoricus could have used Icelandic
written sources also available to the author of Ágrip.8 Svend Ellehøj also made the
material accessible by printing the parallel passages with a full discussion, but his
own argument that the common source for Ágrip and HN was Ari’s konunga ævi
does not dispel all the uncertainties.9
The underlying problem in the analysis to date is that the verbal echoes in
Theodoricus, HN, and Ágrip are sufficient to persuade all scholars (with the
exception of Siegfried Beyschlag) that there is a scribal relationship, but that the
match in wording is never so close that direct copying imposes itself as the only
solution.10 The possibility that the echoes can be explained from the use of com-
mon written sources is always open. This latter explanation has become even more
plausible since the argument has been made that Theodoricus, despite his apparent
allegation of oral sources, may well have used written sources as well.
The problem is also connected with our view of where Ágrip was written. If
Ágrip is Norwegian, it might well be judged to be dependent solely on Theodoricus
and HN and quite independent of the Icelandic tradition represented by Sæmundr
and Ari. If, on the other hand, it is Icelandic, as the extant manuscript and the pre-
ponderant role of Icelanders in vernacular history writing might suggest, it is
difficult to imagine that an Icelander writing about Norwegian kings in the 1190s
or a little later would not have known Sæmundr and Ari. Oddr Snorrason, who
seems to have been contemporary with the author of Ágrip, refers to both
Sæmundr and Ari, and later writers knew them as well. The simplest solution to
the complex problem may therefore be that Theodoricus and the authors of HN
and Ágrip all knew and made use of Sæmundr and Ari, so that the verbal corre-
spondences reflect this use.

7
See the review of Ulset’s Det genetiske forholdet by Theodore M. Andersson in Scandinavian
Studies, 56 (1984), 372–74.
8
See Bjarni Guðnason, ‘Theodoricus og íslenskir sagnaritarar’, in Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi
Benediktssyni 20 júlí 1977, ed. by Einar G. Pétursson and Jónas Kristjánsson, 2 vols (Reykjavik:
Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1977 ), I, 107–20; and Theodore M. Andersson, ‘Ari’s konunga ævi
and the Earliest Accounts of Hákon jarl’s Death’, in Opuscula, vol. VI, Bibliotheca Arnamagnaeana,
33 (Copenhagen: Reitzel, 1979), pp. 1–17.
9
See Ellehøj, Studier, pp. 203–36; and Andersson, ‘Kings’ Sagas (Konungaso3gur)’, pp. 201–11.
10
See Siegfried Beyschlag, Konungasögur: Untersuchungen zur Königssaga bis Snorri. Die älteren
Übersichtswerke samt Ynglingasaga, Bibliotheca Arnamagnaeana, 8 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard,
1950), and the response by Ellehøj, Studier, pp. 200–02.
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 97

The present chapter is not, however, a renewed inquiry into the literary affilia-
tions of Ágrip. It proposes instead a reading of Ágrip as a whole. Despite impres-
sively detailed analyses notably by Gustav Indrebø, Finnur Jónsson, and Svend
Ellehøj there has thus far been no interpretive approach to the text, and that is
what I hope to remedy. One point on which all scholars seem to agree is that the
author of Ágrip was a cleric, and that will be my point of departure.11 The question
to be addressed is whether the author’s clerical outlook has a particular focus.12

The Shape of History in Ágrip

For the sake of articulation I will consider the narrative in three chronological sub-
sections: (1) the kings before the Olavs; (2) the Olavs; (3) the kings after the Olavs.
The 135 years in the first subsection and the 35 years in the second subsection (in-
cluding the Danish interregna 1000–15 and 1028–30) are roughly equivalent in
length, but the third subsection covering the years 1030 down to the hypothetical
concluding date of 1177 (a total of 147 years) was much longer. Exactly how much
longer we do not know because an unknown number of leaves is missing at the end
of the manuscript. Despite the relative brevity of the reigns of Olav Tryggvason
and Olav Haraldsson it is clear that they get more extensive coverage than the
earlier or later kings. We will also see that they are the pivot of the narrative and
that the early reigns differ greatly from the Olavian era and what follows.

The Period c. 860 to 995 from Harald Fairhair to Olav Tryggvason

The extant part of the first leaf in the manuscript begins with the death of Halfdan
the Black and the succession of Harald Fairhair. It tells of the curious alteration of
Harald’s cognomen from lúfa to hárfagri and is then oddly preoccupied with the
story of his marriage to the Finnish (Lappish) woman Snjófríðr, with whom he
becomes so infatuated and whose death he mourns so inordinately that he is

11
See Maurer, Ueber die Ausdrücke, p. 491; Storm, ‘Yderligere bemærkninger’, p. 385; Indrebø,
‘Aagrip’, pp. 19 and 55; Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie, p. 619;
Ágrip af Noregs konunga sögum, ed. by Dahlerup, p. x; Ellehøj, Studier, p. 198; Ulset, Det genetiske
forholdet, pp. 10–11; and Lange, Die Anfänge, p. 164.
12
The most palpable examples of a special Christian preoccupation in the text may be reviewed
in Matthew J. Driscoll’s edition: Ágrip, pp. 2, 8–10, 14–16, 24, 30, 34–36, 42, 46–48, and 72. It
can also be noted that the author regularly records in what churches the kings were buried.
98 Theodore M. Andersson

effectively disabled and must be restored to sanity by the wise counsel of Þorleifr
spaki. The implication is clearly that he is the victim of Lappish magic. The curi-
osity is not so much that the story is told but that it excludes all other information;
Harald’s epoch-making unification of Norway is relegated to a single sentence.13
The narrative then passes abruptly to Harald’s two sons Erik Bloodax and
Hakon the Good. The traditional epithet ‘the Good’, which we find for example
in Egils saga,14 is suppressed in Ágrip, but in the case of Erik the author again shows
a preoccupation with the cognomina of kings. His very brief account of Erik’s reign
focuses on an explanation of ‘Bloodax’ and attributes it to Erik’s killing of his
brothers. But he is also preoccupied with the baleful influence of women and
accounts for Erik’s murderous activities mostly on the basis of his wife Gunnhild’s
advice. The theme of malevolent women is also pursued in the life of Hakon. Since
he came of age in England, later histories celebrate him as a Christian before his
time, who was forced to make minor concessions to his pagan countrymen. The
author of Ágrip is concerned with his having made too many concessions:
En hann var kristinn ok átti konu heiðna ok veik mjo3k af kristninni fyr hennar sakar ok
fyr vildar sakar við lýðinn er á mót stóð kristninni.
[But he [Hakon] was a Christian who was married to a heathen wife and deviated greatly
from Christianity for her sake and to please the people who opposed Christianity.]15

Ágrip is the only source to mention a heathen wife and therefore the only one to
blame her for Hakon’s aberrations. The author goes on to say that after Hakon
participated in heathen ceremonies, everything went worse for him. He therefore
emerges as a backslider who pays a price for his apostasy.
Hakon ultimately falls in battle against his brother Harald Greycloak, who stages
a return from England to Norway with his mother Gunnhild. She again becomes
a central figure. With the use of sorcery she dispatches a servant boy to inflict a
fatal wound on Hakon with a bowshot. Hakon’s retainers offer to return his body
to the Christian land of England, but he is conscious of his apostasy and replies:
‘Ek em eigi þess verðr,’ kvað hann. ‘Svá lifða ek sem heiðnir menn í mo3rgu, skal mik ok fyr
því svá jarða sem heiðna menn. Vætti ek mér þaðan af meiri miskunnar af guði sjálfum en
ek sjá verðr.’

13
The disproportion has not gone unnoticed. See Nordal, Om Olaf den helliges saga, p. 30;
Finnur Jónsson, ‘Ágrip’, p. 282; and Ágrip, p. x.
14
Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, ed. by Sigurður Nordal, Íslenzk fornrit, 2 (Reykjavik: Hið
Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1933), p. 127.
15
Ágrip, p. 8.
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 99

[‘I am not worthy of that,’ he said. ‘In many ways I have lived like the heathens, and for that
reason I should be buried like the heathens. I should wish from now on for greater mercy
from God Himself than I am worthy of.’]16

This is not the end of Gunnhild’s role as power behind the throne. We learn
that she continues to guide Erik Bloodax’s destiny in Northumbria, where, at her
instigation, ‘he became once again so fierce and harsh toward his people that it
seemed they could hardly endure him’.17 Erik eventually succumbs on a raiding
expedition in Spain, and Gunnhild presides over the growth to adulthood of her
sons in Denmark. Among these sons Harald Greycloak is the leading figure, and
he succeeds Hakon on the Norwegian throne. He too suffers Gunnhild’s
domination and deals so harshly with the people that they rebel. His rule is
remembered as a time of famine and tyranny, clearly inspired by Gunnhild.
But Gunnhild is not the only embodiment of iniquity in the story. The Danish
king Harald (Bluetooth) Gormsson lures Harald Greycloak to the Limfjord and
incites his nephew Gull-Haraldr (Gold Harald) against him. Harald Greycloak falls
in the ensuing battle, but Gull-Haraldr in turn falls victim to Jarl Hakon (Sigurðar-
son), who now takes over the rule of Norway. The depth of the conspiracy between
Harald Gormsson and Jarl Hakon is revealed in detail only in later sources (notably
Fagrskinna), but deceit and duplicity clearly underlie the dynastic history of
Norway in Ágrip.
Jarl Hakon is indeed a mastermind of deception, to such an extent that he is
even able to outmanoeuvre the formidable Gunnhild by contriving a marriage
project for her with the Danish king, but no sooner does she arrive in Denmark
than her ostensible betrothed ends her days by sinking her in a swamp. It is a story
of deceit surpassed by greater deceit and ascending wickedness. Hakon would
appear to have no more heights of evildoing to scale and no more depths of de-
pravity to probe, but there is more to come. Unlike later sources that grant Hakon
an interlude of popular favour, Ágrip describes his rule as characterized by tyranny
and unpopularity from the outset and plunges him directly into the moral morass
occasioned by his predation on the women of his realm and leading to his demise
in a pigsty. Unlike other versions of the story, Ágrip does not even give him the
moral benefit of betrayal by a slave. Instead he volunteers his throat to be cut by his
slave: ‘and thus a man of filthy ways ended his days and rule in a house of filth’.18

16
Ágrip, pp. 14–16.
17
Ágrip, p. 16.
18
Ágrip, p. 24.
100 Theodore M. Andersson

Ágrip is the only text to employ this somewhat obvious moral metaphor. After his
death Hakon’s head is severed, exhibited in public, and pelted with stones. Thus
the early history of Norwegian royalty culminates in a pigsty and public disgrace.
There are clear threads in this historical exposition: autocracy, gynecocracy,
sorcery, apostasy, and political assassination. But the tone changes radically when
we come to the era of the Olavs. After the death of the petty king Tryggvi, who,
according to some, died by the evil counsel of Gunnhild, his widow escapes to
Orkney with her three-year-old son Olav. Fearing the reprisals of Gunnhild and
her sons or Jarl Hakon (still living at the time), she sends her son to Sweden in the
care of a faithful retainer. From here he is to be brought to Kiev, but on the way his
ship is captured by pirates, who kill his guardian and sell the boy into slavery.

The Era of the Olavs, 995 to 1030

With the advent of Olav Tryggvason the dense clouds of evil begin to lift and the
language takes on a new colour: ‘But God, who had chosen this child for great
deeds, arranged his release.’19 He is brought to Kiev after all, where he avenges the
slaying of his guardian and, despite the prevailing rules of sanctuary, is granted the
protection of the king. He in turn becomes a pirate and a raider, but this activity
is touched on lightly and leads him ultimately to a hermit who presides over his
conversion. The narrative is curiously lean: ‘Everything went according to this
prediction, and thus he came to the faith and then to Norway’ (a nice illustration
of the author’s taste for zeugma).20
The account of his reign amounts to no more than thirteen lines and tells only
that he spread the faith in Norway and converted five countries. Then the story
turns to the events leading up to Olav’s death, which is motivated by a falling out
with the Danish king and an ensuing naval ambush. The narrative as a whole is not
so much short as it is spare, embracing childhood, Christian mission, and death.
That is to say, the story adheres to the normal hagiographic pattern. Indeed, the
author reports that some believe that Olav ended his life in a monastery in the
Holy Land: ‘But however his life ended, it is likely that God has his soul.’21
Olav’s successors under the Danish king Cnut try to revive paganism and would
have succeeded if God had not shown his mercy with the arrival of Olav, the son

19
Ágrip, p. 28.
20
Ágrip, p. 30.
21
Ágrip, p. 34.
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 101

of Harald grenski (from Grenland). Later accounts tell at some length how this
Olav also began his career as a pirate and raider, but the author of Ágrip again
muffles this bad beginning in a single sentence: ‘Much is told about the wide extent
of Olav’s travels, but no matter how widely he traveled, he returned immediately
when it was God’s wish to make the realm open to him.’22 Thus the viking youths
of both Olavs are sanitized under the new dispensation. Olav Haraldsson’s capture
of Hakon Eiriksson at Saudungssund and his victory at Nesjar are summarized
briefly, but of greater moment is his strengthening of the realm ‘with Christianity
and all good values’.23 There follows a quite abbreviated report of Olav’s betrothal
to one Swedish princess and his marriage to another.
As in the case of Olav Tryggvason, the narrative now presses on rapidly to St
Olav’s latter days, King Cnut’s suborning of the Norwegian chieftains, the fateful
death of Erling Skjalgsson, and Olav’s overland escape to the East. There is also a
digression on the evil days that befall Norway under Alfífa and her son Sveinn, a
throwback to the gynecocratic era of preconversion history. Ultimately Olav
returns to Norway only to succumb in battle to his assembled enemies.
Unlike their pagan forefathers, both Olavs seem to be enveloped in a cloak of
sanctity. There is not a critical word on either, and both leave behind a spotless
reputation. Olav Tryggvason is described in the following terms:
Óláfr var mikill maðr, hár, sýniligr, hvítr á hárslit allan, rétthærðr ok manna snøriligastr ok
bezt at sér go3rr í allri korteisi.
[Olav was a large man, tall and good-looking, altogether blond and with straight hair, the
most vigorous of men and most accomplished in courtly manners.]24

Olav Haraldsson is no less outstanding:

Óláfr var fríðr sýnum ok listuligr, jarpt [0] hár hafði hann ok rauðara skegg, riðvaxinn
meðalmaðr, [00] ekki hár. Hann var á XX. aldri er hann kom í Nóreg, ok sýndisk vitrum
mo3nnum í Nóregi hann mikit afbragð í vizku sinni, ok o3llum vaskleik um hvern mann
fram.
[Olav was of fair and fine appearance, with dark hair and a redder beard, a compact man
of medium height, not tall. He was twenty years of age when he came to Norway, and he
struck the men of good judgement in Norway as outstanding in his intelligence and in
matters of valour in advance of all others.]25

22
Ágrip, p. 34.
23
Ágrip, p. 36.
24
Ágrip, p. 32.
25
Ágrip, p. 38.
102 Theodore M. Andersson

For the author of Ágrip both men are paragons, but later writers will sketch more
mixed portraits; Olav Tryggvason tortures his pagan countrymen, and Olav
Haraldsson harbours secret designs on Iceland and is not faultless in his dealings
with the Norwegian magnates. These shades are not visible in Ágrip, which is
clearly intent on maximizing the contrast between the Christian Olavs and their
morally flawed pagan ancestors.

The Later Kings, 1030 to c. 1130

The Christian premises persist in the narrative that follows. When God begins to
stage miracles in honour of St Olav, the Norwegians repent and send to Rus’ to
recall his son Magnus to the throne. At first Magnus deals harshly with the Nor-
wegians because of the violence done to his father, but God tempers his disposition
and inclines him to mercy, with the result that he gains great popularity and be-
comes known as ‘the Good’. With words reminiscent of those used to describe St
Olav’s reign, the author relates that Magnus promoted laws and all good customs
and strengthened Christianity.26 He also harbours resentment toward the Danes
for wrongs committed against his father, but good men intervene and bring about
a peaceful settlement. On the death of the Danish king, Magnus succeeds unop-
posed to the Danish throne, but he is challenged by Sven Estridsen (Sveinn
Úlfsson). Two great battles are fought at Helganes and on Hlýrskógsheiðr. Just
before the second encounter St Olav appears to Magnus in a dream and assures him
of victory; once again divine auspices loom large in the trajectory of history.
Not only the shaping of events but also the shaping of character seems to favour
the Norwegians. The most striking case of character reform is King Harald
Hardrada (Haraldr Sigurðarson), who appears in later sources as both unusually
deceitful and wilful. There is no hint of this detraction in Ágrip. Harald returns to
Norway and rules with Magnus in what appears to be perfect harmony. There is
no mention of his threatened defection to King Sven in Denmark or his persistent
tensions with Magnus during their joint rule, moments clearly profiled in later
versions. In particular there is no reference to his military ruses in the Medi-
terranean, his coveting of the Danish realm, or his assassination of Einarr
Þambarskelfir and Einarr’s son. His projected conquest of England is portrayed not
as an act of hubris but merely as a collaborative venture. In later sagas Harald is the
most ambiguous figure in early Norwegian dynastic history, but there is no trace

26
Ágrip, pp. 36 and 48.
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 103

of this ambiguity in Ágrip. There is, for example, no suggestion that his death at
Stamford Bridge might stand in some relation to his character. Nor is there much
indication that the long, peaceful, generous, and popular rule of his son Olav the
Quiet (Óláfr kyrri) should be seen as a calculated contrast to the rule of his father.
There is, however, one notable departure from the otherwise positive construc-
tion of King Harald’s career. The very short account of Olav the Quiet’s reign
includes a disproportionately long statement on the difference between Harald and
Olav in a phrasing attributed to Olav himself:
‘Hví,’ kvað hann, ‘skal ek nú eigi vera kátr, er ek sé bæði á lýð mínum kæti ok frelsi, ok sit
ek í samkundu þeiri er helguð er helgum fo3ðurbróður mínum. Um daga fo3ður míns þá var
lýðr undir aga miklum ok ótta, ok fó3lu flestir menn gull sitt ok gersimar, en ek sé nú at á
hverjum skínn er á, ok er þeira frelsi mín gleði.’
[‘Why,’ he said, ‘should I not be happy when I see in my people both happiness and
freedom and when I sit at this feast dedicated to my sainted uncle. In the days of my father
the people lived in great fear and terror and most people hid their gold and treasures, but
now I can see that whatever people have sparkles on their persons, and their release is my
joy.’]27

This comment suggests that there was a tradition in general circulation to the
effect that King Harald was a tight-fisted and authoritarian ruler, as indeed later
sources attest. It also suggests that elsewhere in his exposition the author went out
of his way to downplay this tradition and convey the overall impression that
Harald should be located in a series of peaceable and benevolent kings.
Olav’s son Magnus Bareleg (Magnús berfœttr) reverts to the vigour and adven-
turousness of his grandfather Harald, as the text explicitly states.28 But despite ten-
sions with his brother Sveinn and the chieftain Steigar-Þórir, his warrior qualities
are cast in a positive light. We learn that his campaigns are directed against outlaws
and vikings and are not a matter of domestic dissensions. Even his conflict with the
Swedish king Ingi is toned down and ends in a reconciliation sealed by his marriage
to Ingi’s daughter. The dramatic episode in Morkinskinna in which Magnus’s dele-
gate Sigurðr ullstrengr is discountenanced by the rebellious chieftain Sveinki
Steinarsson is not alluded to.29 Nor is his final raid in Ireland portrayed as foolhardy.

27
Ágrip, p. 60.
28
Ágrip, p. 66.
29
See Morkinskinna, ed. by Finnur Jónsson, Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur,
53 (Copenhagen: Jörgensen, 1932), pp. 307–10; and Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic
Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), trans. by Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen
Gade, Islandica, 51 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), pp. 292–94.
104 Theodore M. Andersson

After his death in Ireland Magnus is succeeded by his three sons Eystein, Sigurd,
and Olav. Once more, in contrast to later sources, the author has not an ill word
to say about any of them: ‘[They were] all good men, distinguished, quiet,
amenable, and peaceable, and there are many good and outstanding things to say
about them.’30 Olav dies young, and Sigurd, despite the allegation that he is ‘quiet
and peaceable’, departs on a famous voyage to Jerusalem. In other sources it is not
presented at all under the guise of a pilgrimage but rather as a distinctly aggressive
raiding expedition with a long succession of pitched battles culminating in a
grandiose reception at Constantinople.31 In the course of these adventures Sigurd
acquires a great quantity of gold and treasure, but in Ágrip the emphasis is on his
acquisition of a piece of the True Cross. What goes altogether unmentioned is his
tense relationship with his brother Eystein and his fits of insanity late in life. The
latter are referred to only in euphemistic terms: ‘In his days there was prosperity
both with respect to harvests and manifold other benefits, with the one exception
that he could not control himself when he was beset by discomfort in his later
years.’32 Here ‘discomfort’ renders the word óhœgyndi, which conveys no idea of the
mental instability attributed to Sigurd elsewhere.
Ágrip reports the arrival of Harald (Haraldr gilli), who claims to be the son of
Magnus Bareleg, but four missing leaves result in the omission of the story of his
rivalry with Sigurd Jerusalemfarer’s son Magnus. The story can be followed again
only when Harald’s sons Ingi, Sigurd, and Eystein succeed to the throne. At this
point the depiction of character takes an abrupt turn. Rather than being sanitized
like their predecessors, these three heirs to the throne are described just as we find
them in later accounts, Sigurd and Eystein in negative terms and Ingi in positive
terms. Sigurd has a shifting disposition and is ‘difficult and unruly’. And a little
later: ‘King Sigurd was an aggressive man in every way and a troublemaker even as
he was growing up.’ Eystein fares no better and is described as ‘outspoken, crafty,
deceitful, grasping, and acquisitive’. By contrast Ingi is ‘well liked and popular with
his men’.33 We must return to this new tone in a moment, but for the time being
the extant text ends with the killing of a certain Geirsteinn, who has pressed
unwanted attentions on a woman named Gyða.

30
Ágrip, p. 70.
31
Morkinskinna, ed. by Finnur Jónsson, pp. 337–52; Morkinskinna, trans. by Andersson and
Gade, pp. 313–25.
32
Ágrip, p. 74.
33
Ágrip, p. 78.
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 105

Preliminary Conclusions

The tripartite chronology adopted here appears to correspond to an understanding

of the stages in early Norwegian history. As already noted, the earliest history is
characterized by autocracy, gynecocracy, sorcery, apostasy, and political assassi-
nation. Not a single king in the period up to 995 emerges in a completely positive
light. But the moral darkness is swept aside with the advent of the Olavs, who are
portrayed not only as personally attractive but more importantly as the patrons of
Christianity. There seems to be a clear effort to distinguish the heathen and Chris-
tian eras in moral terms. The Christian impetus continues under Magnus the
Good, but Christian auspices are less overt under later kings, with the possible
exception of Sigurd Jerusalemfarer. Nonetheless the more positive characteriza-
tions and the clarified atmosphere stand in notable contrast to the dark days of
paganism. The message seems to be that Christianity ushered in a new and radically
improved historical era.
The exception to this trend is the critical characterization of the latest recorded
kings Sigurd and Eystein. We may wonder why such a clear and steady line of
improvement is interrupted in this way. The answer may be that Ingi’s popularity
was still in living memory some thirty years after his death when Ágrip was written.
That popularity would have subtracted from the reputation of his antagonistic
brothers. In the 1190s a certain realism about the recent past may have displaced
the perceived perfectibility of the Christian era.
As we saw at the outset of this paper, there has been no lack of surmises about
the sources of Ágrip. They have clustered around the relationship of Ágrip to HN
and Theodoricus’s Historia de antiquitate, but it has been argued further that both
Ágrip and HN could have made use of the lost kings’ lives by Sæmundr Sigfússon
and Ari Þorgilsson. Finally, Gudrun Lange has suggested that the author of Ágrip
may also have used the Latin version of Oddr Snorrason’s Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar
and the *Oldest Saga of St Olav. These investigations have been conducted on the
basis of textual echoes, but we may also inquire whether the diptych structure
discriminating a pre-Christian and a Christian age has any precedent in earlier
writings.
The individual lives of the two Olavs, even in the perhaps unlikely event that
they antedate Ágrip, do not locate their protagonists in a longer evolution from
heathen gloom to Christian light and could therefore not have served as models.
We can say almost nothing about the kings’ lives of Sæmundr Sigfússon, and a
reading of Ari’s extant Íslendingabók does not suggest that his minimalist narrative
would have allowed for an ambitious historical framework. The text most often
106 Theodore M. Andersson

proposed as a source for Ágrip is Theodoricus’s Historia de antiquitate,34 but Theo-

doricus is not much preoccupied with the history of good and evil. The very short
chapter on Harald Fairhair notes chronological difficulties and laments the lack of
written sources but has nothing to say one way or the other about Harald himself.
Erik Bloodax receives even more cursory treatment. His nickname is explained on
the basis of fratricide, and both he and his wife Gunnhild are described as cruel, but
no supporting evidence is adduced and no point is made of their cruelty. In opposi-
tion to the accusation of apostasy levelled against Hakon the Good in other
sources, Theodoricus describes Hakon only in positive terms. On the other hand,
Hakon’s successor Harald Greycloak, along with Gunnhild, is cast in a very nega-
tive light. That treatment extends to Jarl Hakon as well, although Gunnhild bears
much of the brunt of his deceitfulness, with the result that his outmanoeuvring of
Gunnhild is hardly counted against him. No mention is made of his womanizing,
which in Ágrip and later texts seems to be the chief source of indignation against
him. It is therefore fair to say that no uniformly sceptical picture of the early kings
emerges to contrast with the Christian enlightenment of the Olavs. The author’s
disapprobation seems in fact to be quite single-mindedly focused on Gunnhild
rather than on a generation of kings.35
The post-Olavian era described by Theodoricus is rather shorter than what we
find in Ágrip, extending only as far as Sigurd Jerusalemfarer. Magnus the Good is
portrayed as a peaceable man, although he fights campaigns against the heathens
and the Danes, the latter campaign involving an intra-Scandinavian conflict on
which Theodoricus would rather not dwell. Magnus’s division of the realm with
Harald Hardrada is depicted in terms that redound very much to his credit, but
when it comes to a characterization of Harald, the good and bad qualities are
equally balanced. His son Olav the Quiet, on the other hand, enjoys the most
unblemished approval allotted to any Norwegian king. His son Magnus Bareleg,
in turn, is judged to be unlike his father and more akin to his grandfather Harald
Hardrada. He becomes an inveterate raider and dies, not inappropriately, in the
course of such a raid. His two longest surviving sons, Eystein and Sigurd, are
glowingly described, although a somewhat less discreet reference to Sigurd’s fits of
madness than we find in Ágrip finally lowers him to a middle status. It should
therefore be evident that Theodoricus’s early period is not comparable to the
highly problematic counterpart in Ágrip and that the later period is significantly

34
On Theodoricus, cf. the preceding chapter by Sverre Bagge.
35
See Theodoricus, Historia, pp. 10–13.
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 107

more mixed. There is no structured contrast between a pre-Christian and a

Christian era.
On the contrary, Theodoricus concludes his epitome with the death of Sigurd
Jerusalemfarer looking ahead to a period of greater rather than less depravity:
Nos quoque hujus schedulae hic finem facimus, indignum valde judicantes memoriae
posterorum tradere scelera, homicidia, perjuria, parricidia, sanctorum locorum contami-
nationes, Dei contemptum, non minus religiosorum depraeditiones quam totius plebis,
mulierum captivationes et ceteras abominationes, quas longum est enumerare.36
[We too will put an end to this epitome, judging it to be very unworthy to transmit to
posterity the crimes, murders, perjuries, parricides, desecration of holy places, the contempt
for God, the depredations against the clergy no less than the whole people, the seizing of
women and other abominations, which would be long to enumerate.]

Far from seeing the evolution of history as a story of moral progress, Theodoricus
clearly views it as a trajectory of decline, a perspective opposed to what we find in
Ágrip.
Less clear cut is the situation in HN.37 Although the author announces in the
preface that he will lay out both ‘the arrival of Christianity and at the same time
the flight of paganism’, it is difficult to discover an overarching historical thesis.38
The narrative reaches only a short way into St Olav’s career and therefore signals
nothing about moral progress in the later kings. To be sure, Gunnhild is a baleful
presence,39 but not altogether so persistently as in Ágrip. The enchantment of
Harald Fairhair and his capitulation to sorcery are not to be found in HN. Hakon
the Good is the same apostate we encounter in Ágrip,40 and Jarl Hakon is consum-
mately evil although, as in Theodoricus, his womanizing is not mentioned.41
Altogether the failings of the early kings are less insistently recorded in HN. It is
therefore difficult to make a strong case for believing that Ágrip inherited its his-
torical concept from HN or a related source, although the fragmentary state of the
manuscript excludes any certainty. As the texts stand, however, the tacit idea that
the advent of Christianity led to both moral and material improvement seems
more likely to be original with the author of Ágrip.

36
Theodoricus, Historia, p. 67.
37
On this text, cf. the chapter by Lars Boje Mortensen in this volume.
38
See Historia Norwegie, p. 50.
39
Historia Norwegie, p. 82.
40
Historia Norwegie, pp. 82–84.
41
Historia Norwegie, pp. 88–90.
108 Theodore M. Andersson

Since the differentiation of ages in Ágrip cannot be traced to the other synoptic
histories, we should perhaps widen our focus beyond Norway and Iceland in the
hope of finding some other source for a history conceived of as a succession of two
ages before and after the conversion to Christianity. The idea is latent in Augus-
tine’s City of God and is elaborated more pointedly in Orosius’s Seven Books of
History against the Pagans, both widely read in the Middle Ages.42 Lars Boje Mor-
tensen, in his Introduction to the recent collaborative edition of HN, notes the
possibility that the author of that text may have known Orosius: ‘Also the placing
and the scope of the geographical introduction may have been inspired by other
texts than Adam alone. A strong candidate is Orosius’s popular Historiae adversus
paganos (finished 417) which opens with a large geographical canvas of the Roman
Mediterranean world.’ 4 3 That remark was indeed the original inspiration of the
present essay.
We have seen that what remains of HN does not show traces of the differen-
tiation of ages that we find in Ágrip, but it is precisely this differentiation that
Orosius emphasizes in the last paragraph of his book:
Explicui adiuuante Christo secundum praeceptum tuum, beatissime pater Augustine, ab
initio mundi usque in praesentem diem, hoc est per annos quinque milia sescentos decem
et octo, cupiditates et punitiones hominum peccatorum, conflictationes saeculi et iudicia
Dei quam breuissime et quam simplicissime potui, Christianis tamen temporibus propter
praesentem magis Christi gratiam ab illa incredulitatis confusione discretis.44
[With the help of Christ and according to your instruction, most blessed Father Augustine,
I have laid out the passions and punishments of sinful men, the struggles of this world and
the judgements of God from the beginning of the world down to the present day, that is
over a period of 5618 years, as briefly and as simply as I could, separating, however, Chris-
tian times from the confusion of unbelief because of the more prevalent grace of Christ.]

This is not the place to unfold once again Orosius’s optimistic trajectory of
progress from a dismal pagan past to a hopeful Christian present, even if I were
competent to do so. It must suffice to make reference to the standard works.

42
On the knowledge of Orosius in the Middle Ages, see Benoît Lacroix, Orose et ses idées
(Montréal: Institut d’Études Médiévales,1965; Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 1965), pp.
16–20; and Hans-Werner Goetz, Die Geschichtstheologie des Orosius, Impulse der Forschung, 32
(Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980), pp. 148–65.
43
Historia Norwegie, p. 28.
44
Paulus Orosius, Historiarum adversum paganos libri VII. Accedit eiusdem liber apologeticus,
ed. by Karl Zangemeister, Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum latinorum, 5 (Vienna: Gerold,
1882), pp. 563–64.
THE T WO AGES IN ÁGRIP AF NÓREGS KONUNGA SO3 GUM 109

Lacroix provides a brief summation and Goetz emphasizes the evolution towards
felicitas as well as noting the transition from paganism to an improved Christian
age at many points in his book.45
The argument advanced here is not that the author of Ágrip knew or directly
used Orosius, only that the idea of successive ages and Christian clarification was
easily available and could have suggested how the succession of Norwegian kings
might be organized.46 The author of Ágrip seems virtually certain to have had an
ecclesiastical affiliation. We may also bear in mind that he seems to have worked
during the period in which the two Olavs and their conversion activity first became
the subject of historical writing, most notably in Oddr Snorrason’s account of Olav
Tryggvason. This literary venture would have pinpointed the transition from a
pagan to a Christian age and would have enhanced a consciousness of how history
changed at precisely the time of the conversion. Whatever the details may have
been, the distinction between a wicked heathen age and a superior Christian age,
which seems peculiar to Ágrip, must lie somewhere in the continuum from
Augustine to Orosius and down to the twelfth century.

45
Lacroix, Orose et ses idées, pp. 163–67; and Goetz, Die Geschichtstheologie, pp. 30, 56, 71–107,
117, 120, 122, 125, and 141. See also Eugenio Corsini, Introduzione alle ‘Storie’di Orosio (Torino:
Giappichelli, 1968), pp. 111–34.
46
Paul Lehmann, ‘Skandinaviens Anteil an der lateinischen Literatur und Wissenschaft des
Mittelalters’, in Erforschung des Mittelalters: Ausgewählte Abhandlungen und Aufsätze, 5 vols (Stutt-
gart: Hiersemann, 1962), V , 275–429 (p. 341) (first published in Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen
Akademie der Wissenschaften, philos.-hist. Abteilung, 1936) indicates that Orosius was known in
Iceland but refrains from giving references ‘zumal eine sehr umständliche Quellenuntersuchung
nötig wäre, die allerdings einmal gemacht werden muss’.
 Chapter 6

ÍSLENDINGABÓK : T HE C REATION OF
AN ICELANDIC C HRISTIAN IDENTITY

Else Mundal

T
he subject for discussion in this chapter is the brief Icelandic text Íslen-
dingabók, a piece of literature of great interest, since it is the first known
text written in Iceland in the vernacular.1 In this brief history of the
Icelanders, the Christianization of Iceland and its Christian culture are the main
themes, and the way its author renders his story suggests that he considered it
important to present the Icelanders as choosing of their own free will to become
a Christian people. In the resulting narrative, Icelandic ‘national’ and Christian
identities are blended and linked to local bishops.
Not much is known about the life of its author, the priest Ari fróði
(1067/68–1148), who wrote Íslendingabók between 1122 and 1133.2 His father
Þorgils was drowned while still a young man,3 and Ari was brought up by his grand-
father Gellir. Gellir died when Ari was seven years old, and he was sent to Hallr

1
Íslendingabók has been published many times, first by Bishop Þórður Þórláksson in Skálholt
in 1688. The edition quoted in this chapter is Íslendingabók, pp. 3–28. English translation in
Íslendingabók, Kristni Saga: The Book of the Icelanders: The Story of the Conversion, trans. by Siân
Grønlie, Viking Society for Northern Research, Text Series (London: University College London,
2006), pp. 9–14.
2
Ari says that he showed Íslendingabók to the bishops Þórlákr and Ketill and to the priest
Sæmundr. Ketill became bishop of Hólar in 1122, and Bishop Þórlákr and Sæmundr fróði both
died in 1133. At least the draft, which was shown to the bishops and Sæmundr, must have been
finished in 1133 or before. It cannot be ruled out that the final version was completed after 1133,
but most likely the book was written in the middle of the 1120s.
3
The death of Þorgils Gellisson is mentioned at the end of Laxdœla saga, ed. by Einar Ól.
Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 5 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1934), p. 229.
112 Else Mundal

Þórarinsson in Haukadalr, where he stayed until he was twenty-one.4 Hallr had

established a school on his farm, which became an important centre of learning in
Iceland. Teitr Ísleifsson — a son of the first bishop in Iceland, Ísleifr Gizurarson,
and the brother of the second bishop, Gizurr Ísleifsson — was also fostered by
Hallr, and from his childhood on Ari established close contact with the family to
which the first two Icelandic bishops belonged. Teitr was a few years older than Ari
and became his tutor — Ari calls him fóstri (fosterer).
Ari was educated as a priest in Haukadalr. What happened to Ari after he left
Haukadalr is very unclear. It cannot be ruled out that he also studied or travelled
abroad, but no sources confirm this.5 He most likely worked as a priest in the
Snæfellsnes area at the Staðr (now Staðarstaður) farm, where his descendants later
lived. His byname, fróði, indicates that he was looked upon as a wise man and as an
authority, especially on history and knowledge of the past.
Íslendingabók is the only certain surviving piece of Ari’s works, but in its
prologue Ari himself mentions ‘ættartala’ (genealogies) and ‘konunga ævi’ (lives of
kings).6 It is also commonly believed that Ari had something to do with the first
Landnámabók, which is only preserved in later versions; ættartala could in fact be
identical with the first version of Landnámabók. Ari’s work regarding kings in all
likelihood consisted of short and concise entries containing the length of a king’s
reign and its important events. A few other works have been attributed to Ari,
among them a list of Icelandic priests, dated to 1143.7 Another work is the so-
called Ævi Snorra góða (The Life of Snorri Goði).8

4
This information is given by Ari himself in chap. 9 of Íslendingabók.
5
Aksel E. Christensen has argued that Ari had probably visited Lund. See his article ‘Om
kronologien i Ari’s Íslendingabók og dens laan fra Adam af Bremen’, in Nordiske studier: Festskrift
til Chr. Westergård-Nielsen på 65-årsdagen den 24. november 1975, ed. by Johannes Brøndum-
Nielsen and others (Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger, 1975), pp. 23–34.
6
Most scholars have argued that ættartala and konunga ævi are two parts of the Íslendingabók
which Ari showed to the bishops and Sæmundr fróði, and that these parts were omitted in the final
version of the book. Another theory, which goes as far back as to Árni Magnússon, the great collector
of Old Norse manuscripts, is that ættartala and konunga ævi are separate works, which Ari wrote in
addition to Íslendingabók. Arguments in favour of this theory are found in Else Mundal, ‘Íslending-
abók, ættar tala og konunga ævi’, in Festskrift til Ludvig Holm-Olsen på hans 70-årsdag den 9.juni
1984, ed. by Bjarne Fidjestøl and others (Øvre Ervik: Alvheim & Eide, 1984), pp. 255–71.
7
Printed in Diplomatarium Islandicum, vol. I (Kaupmannahöfn: Bókmentafélag, 1857), pp.
180–94.
8
Preserved in one of the manuscripts of Eyrbyggja saga and printed as an appendix to Eyrbyggja
saga, ed. by Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Íslenzk fornrit, 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka
fornritafélag, 1935), pp. 185–86.
ÍSLENDINGABÓK 113

Ari opens the prologue of Íslendingabók by saying ‘Íslendingabók gørða ek fyrst

byskupum órum, Þorláki og Katli, ok sýndak bæði þeim ok Sæmundi presti’ (‘I first
wrote the Book of Icelanders for our bishops Þorlákr and Ketill, and I showed it
both to them and to the priest Sæmundr’).9 The wording probably indicates that
Ari had been charged with the task of writing the book by the Icelandic bishops.
The third person to whom he showed the book, Sæmundr fróði, was an older con-
temporary of Ari, who according to Íslendingabók (chap. 9) had stayed in France.
According to later sources (Oddverja Annall), Sæmundr studied in Paris.10 He is
known to have written a work about Norwegian kings, which must have been
written in Latin, since Snorri in the prologues of Heimskringla and The Separate
Saga of St Óláfr states that Ari was the first one to write ‘frœði’ (history) in the
vernacular. Sæmundr is probably mentioned together with the bishops because he
was considered a great authority by his contemporaries. It is worth noticing that
all the men who had something to do with the creation of Íslendingabók belonged
to the clergy and were leading men in the Icelandic church at the time. In short, the
text was written by a priest, it may have been commissioned by the bishops, and the
bishops and another important Icelandic cleric gave the author their advice.
Íslendingabók exists only in two manuscripts from the seventeenth century,
both made by the priest Jón Erlendsson (AM 113 a and b).11 At the end of
AM 113 b, Jón writes that the copy was made in the year 1651 on the Monday
after Dominicam Jubilate (21 April). Both a and b are copies made from a very old
manuscript of around 1200, or even a few years earlier. AM 113 b is thought to
have been copied first, while AM 113 a seems to be a more accurate copy and
contains older forms than the other manuscript. How close the manuscript from
around 1200 was to Ari’s original work is impossible to say, since we only have
copies of one old manuscript — but it is commonly believed that the two later
copies give a good picture of Ari’s original work.
The title Íslendingabók is mentioned by the author in the prologue and must be
original. The title indicates that Ari meant to write a book about the Icelanders,
and Íslendingabók has normally been described as a short history of Iceland, which
of course is correct. It is, however, apparent that the climax of Ari’s short history

9
Íslendingabók, p. 3; Íslendingabók, trans. by Grønlie, p. 3.
10
Oddverja Annall is printed in Islandske Annaler indtil 1578, ed. by Gustav Storm (Christi-
ania: Grøndahl & Søns Bogtrykkeri, 1888), pp. 427–91. The entry on Sæmundr fróði is found
under the year 1077 (p. 471).
11
These manuscripts are now in the collection of manuscripts of the Stofnun Árna
Magnússonar (the Árni Magnússson Institute) in Reykjavík.
114 Else Mundal

about the Icelanders is the story of the conversion of Iceland in the year 1000,
when Christianity was approved by the Icelandic parliament, the Alþing. Further-
more, the last part of the book is in fact written as an episcopal chronicle narrating
the stories of the Icelandic bishops, with the main focus on the bishopric of
Skálholt.12 When writing his history about Iceland and Icelanders, the author of
Íslendingabók chose the history of Christianity in Iceland and the history of the
two Icelandic bishoprics as the backbone of the narrative. The bishoprics are seen
as the most important institutions in the country to which the history of Iceland
is connected. This feature of the narrative directly relates to the question of
whether Ari’s little book should be seen as a conscious construction of an Icelandic
Christian identity.

Old Norse authors are known for their ‘objective style’, meaning that they avoid
subjective, appraising judgements in their writings, and thus we find very few
condemnations of the pagan past in Old Norse texts. In this respect, Ari seems to
share a style of writing with the authors of the later saga genres. Ari’s Christian
identity comes into view through his positive appraisal of Christianity, not through
a negative attitude of heathendom. The pagan past of his people and his family is
not mentioned as a problem; in fact, Ari avoids bringing the paganism of the past
into focus.
Ari names himself, not in the Íslendingabók proper, but in a chapter following
Íslendingabók in both AM 113 a and b, where the ancestors of the bishops are
listed, as are the common forefathers of the royal Ynglinga family and Ari’s own
family. Here Ari traces his own family back to Yngvi Tyrkjakonungr (Yngvi, king
of the Turks), Njo3 rðr Svíakonungr (Njo3 rðr, king of the Swedes), and Freyr. These
three names at the end of the genealogy of Ari’s own family can be identified as Old
Norse gods, something of which Ari was of course conscious. But in this context
they are presented as humans, in accordance with the euhemeristic way of thinking,
and Ari can claim to be of the same noble descent as the members of the royal
houses in Scandinavia — who were known to have descended from gods — and at
the same time make the pagan origin of his family unproblematic. The fact that Ari
neither condemns Old Norse heathendom nor stresses the merits of his own Chris-
tian faith openly does not mean that he lacks a strong Christian identity, but rather
that he expresses his own Christian identity and that of his people in his own, calm,
Old Norse way.

12
See Else Mundal, ‘Íslendingabók vurdert som bispestolskrønike’, Alvíssmál, 3 (1994), 63–72.
ÍSLENDINGABÓK 115

Ari opens Chapter 1 by mentioning the settlement of Iceland in the time of

King Harald Fairhair. This paramount event in Icelandic history from pagan times
is dated with reference to the death of an English saint and Christian chronology
(years after the birth of Christ); from the very beginning of the book, Old Norse
history runs parallel to Christian history, until they converge in the year 1000 with
the formal conversion of Iceland. This event is a turning point in history, and even
things which happened earlier — for instance, the settlement of Greenland in
Chapter 6 and the baptism of Hallr á Síðu in Chapter 9 — are related to this
chronological point. It is also worth noticing that Ari mentions in Chapter 1 that
Irish monks lived in Iceland before immigrants from Norway settled there. He says
that the settlers found books, bells, and crosiers — holy objects that told them that
the people who had found Iceland before them were Christians. As I have argued
previously, one reason why Ari mentions this small detail may be that these sacred
objects, as he sees it, sanctify the land. It was only a matter of time before the return
of Christianity.13
In the first chapters of Íslendingabók, the author provides an account of the
development of the Icelandic institutions and the legal system. In the second
chapter, four settlers — one from every quarter of Iceland — are mentioned, and
the division of the land into fjerðingar (quarters) is thereby anticipated. The same
chapter mentions that the first Icelandic law, Ulfljótslo3 g, was introduced by a cer-
tain Ulfljótr, who had modelled his law on the law of western Norway, the law of
Gulathing. The third chapter is devoted to the establishment of the Icelandic
parliament, the Alþing, which was a major event in the development of the Ice-
landic community. In the fourth chapter, we are told how the Icelanders worked
out how long a year ought to be; and in the fifth chapter, we hear of the division
of the country into quarters, with every quarter subdivided into things. We are
informed that Ulfljótr, the same man who brought the first law to Iceland, was the
first lo3 gso3 gumaðr (lawspeaker, the man who recited the law at the Alþing); and an
internal Icelandic chronology is established by counting the number of years each
lawspeaker occupied the office.
Chapters 2–5 thus describe the development of a society from the starting
point of groups of unorganized settlers to its final stage — a society with all ‘neces-
sary’ institutions in place. It is worth noticing that this development took place,

13
See Mundal, ‘Íslendingabók vurdert som bispestolskrønike’, p. 71; see also Pernille Hermann,
‘Íslendingabók and History’, in Reflections on Old Norse Myths, ed. by Pernille Hermann and others,
Studies in Viking and Medieval Scandinavia, 1 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 17–32, see especially
p. 25.
116 Else Mundal

and was completed, in heathen times. What function do these chapters fulfil
within the narrative of Íslendingabók, which reaches its climax in the description
of the conversion of Iceland in Chapter 7 and ends as a chronicle of bishops? One
possible answer could be that Ari was as interested in the institutions established
in pagan times as he was in the history of the Icelandic church. Yet if we take a
closer look at the text, it becomes obvious that only the last chapters of Íslendinga-
bók — from the chapter telling about the conversion onwards — present a co-
herent history. The preceding chapters are much more incongruent: there is no
causal connection between them, and the chronology in this part of Íslendingabók
is unclear, although it is indicated by the mentioning of lawspeakers in office. It
seems that the chapters at the beginning of Íslendingabók are more related to the
last part of the book than to each other, namely by their describing institutions and
issues that were as important for the Christian as they were for the pre-Christian
society.
Ari’s main reason for writing about law, the thing, the length of the year, and
the division of the country into quarters may have been that he wanted to under-
line that Christian society in Iceland was built upon the institutions of heathen
society. It was necessary to say something about the law, the thing, and the law-
speakers because in Iceland Christianity was accepted unanimously at the Alþing,
thanks to the wise behaviour of a lawspeaker who, in fact, was still a pagan at the
time. Christianity was approved as law, and the old law had to be changed. The
bishops, too, used the Alþing as their forum, both when they wanted to have new
laws passed and when they wanted to have a new bishop elected, as demonstrated
in Chapter 10.
The motivation for saying something about the division of the country into
quarters may have been that the borders of the Icelandic bishoprics followed the
borders of the already existing quarters. When Iceland was divided into two
bishoprics, the eastern, southern, and western quarters constituted one bishopric
(of Skálholt), and the northern quarter the other (of Hólar).
Ari may have written the chapter about how the Icelanders stipulated the
length of the year because this was an important issue in Christian culture; but his
main intention was probably to show that the Icelanders in pagan times had
managed to work out a way to reckon the length of the year that was different from
the Christian calendar, but in fact gave the same result. Similarities rather than
differences between the two cultures are thereby emphasized.
By showing that the Christian church in Iceland was built upon institutions
from pagan times and that Christianity was accepted in Iceland by following old
Icelandic laws and procedures, Ari managed to incorporate the heathen past into
ÍSLENDINGABÓK 117

his narrative in such a way as to demonstrate, on the one hand, that the change of
religion was a break in historical development and, on the other, that there was a
strong continuity between the pagan and Christian society. Conversion is depicted
as a turning point in history, both by making the conversion of Iceland the climax
of the story and by mentioning the baptism of individuals. 14 But he does not
describe the time before conversion and thereafter as qualitatively different. The
pagan past is not depicted as evil: on the contrary, it formed a good basis for a
Christian society.
The conversion of Iceland, as described by Ari in the fascinating story in Chap-
ter 7 of Íslendingabók, is special because it happened in a different manner from
that of similar processes in other countries. The story describes how the pagans and
the Christians ‘so3 gðusk hvárir ýr lo3 gum við aðra’ (‘each side […] declared itself
under separate laws’),15 and a fight nearly broke out between the two parties at the
Alþing. After having deliberated the problem under his fur bedcover for one day
and one night, the lawspeaker — who was still a pagan at the time — suggested a
compromise: all Icelanders should be Christians, but some heathen practices
should still be allowed. Ari adds that these pagan practices — such as the exposure
of children, the eating of horse meat, and sacrifices in secret — were prohibited

14
In the genealogies of the bishops following the Íslendingabók proper, there are Greek crosses
over the names of Hallr á Síðu, Þórðr hestho3 fði, and Guðmundr Eyjólfsson. As suggested by Jón
Jóhannesson in his introduction to Íslendingabók Ara Froda: AM 113 a and 113 b (Reykjavík:
Háskóli Íslends, 1956), pp. xvii–xviii, ‘The crosses can hardly mean anything else but that these
men were the first of their line to embrace Christianity’. In both copies of Íslendingabók crosses are
placed over these three names. There must also have been a cross over the name of Gizurr inn hvíti,
but this cross is missing in both manuscripts. This means that the cross over Gizurr’s name most
likely was missing in the manuscript from around 1200 that Jón Erlendsson copied, since it is not
likely that he would make the same mistake twice. The crosses over the three names could have
been added by someone who forgot to draw the fourth cross any time between 1200 and 1651, but
if the crosses existed in the medieval manuscript from the very beginning, and their meaning was
to point out the first men who converted to Christianity in every genealogical line, there was a fault
already in the manuscript from around 1200, and the drawing of the four crosses, which must have
been original, can be pushed even further back in time. It cannot be ruled out that Ari himself
placed the Greek crosses over the names of the men who converted to Christianity. That would
have been in accordance with the importance he attached to Christianization. This cannot, how-
ever, be proved, and it is perhaps more likely that the crosses tell us something about the reception
of Íslendingabók. The person who put crosses over some names — if it was not the author himself
— has signalled that the message of the book has been received: this is a book about Christianiza-
tion and Christian identity.
15
Íslendingabók, p. 16; Íslendingabók, trans. by Grønlie, p. 8.
118 Else Mundal

after a few years. The following story is one of the best known in Old Norse
literature:
En síðan es menn kvómu í búðir, þá lagðisk hann niðr Þorgeirr ok breiddi feld sinn á sik
ok hvílði þann dag allan ok nóttina eptir ok kvað ekki orð. En of morguninn eptir settisk
hann upp ok gørði orð, at menn skyldi ganga til lo3 gbergis. En þá hóf hann to3 lu sína upp,
es menn kvómu þar, ok sagði, at hónum þótti þá komit hag manna í ónýtt efni, ef menn
skyldi eigi hafa allir lo3 g ein á landi hér, ok talði fyrir mo3 nnum á marga vega, at þat skyldi eigi
láta verða, ok sagði, at þat mundi at því ósætti verða, es vísa ván vas, at þær barsmíðir gørðisk
á miðli manna, es landit eyddisk af. […] ‘En nú þykkir mér þat ráð,’ kvað hann, ‘at vér látim
ok eigi þá ráða, es mest vilja í gegn gangask, ok miðlum svá mál á miðli þeira, at
hvárirtveggju hafi nakkvat síns máls, ok ho3 fum allir ein lo3 g ok einn sið. Þat mon verða satt,
es vér slítum í sundr lo3 gin, at vér monum slíta ok friðinn.’ En hann lauk svá máli sínu, at
hvárirtveggju játtu því, at allir skyldi ein lo3 g hafa, þau sem hann réði upp at segja.Þá vas þat
mælt í lo3 gum, at allir menn skyldi kristnir vesa ok skírn taka, þeir es áðr váru óskírðir á landi
hér; en of barnaútburðr skyldu standa en fornu lo3 g ok of hrossakjo3 tsát. Skyldu menn blóta
á laun, ef vildu, en varða fjo3 rbaugsgarðr, ef váttum of kvæmi við. En síðarr fám vetrum vas
sú heiðni af numin sem o3 nnur.
[And later, when everyone had returned to their booths, Þorgeirr lay down and spread his
cloak over himself, and rested all that day and the following night, and did not speak a
word. And the next morning, he got up and sent word that people should go to the Law-
Rock. And once people had arrived there, he began his speech, and said that he thought
people’s affairs had come to a bad pass, if they were not all to have the same law in this
country, and tried to persuade them in many ways that they should not let this happen, and
said it would give rise to such discord that it was certainly to be expected that fights would
take place between people by which the land would be laid waste. […] ‘And it now seems
advisable to me,’ he says, ‘that we too do not let those who most wish to oppose each other
prevail, and let us arbitrate between them, so that each side has its own way in something,
and let us all have the same law and the same religion. It will prove true that if we tear apart
the law, we will also tear apart the peace.’ And he brought his speech to a close in such a
way that both sides agreed that everyone should have the same law, the one he decided to
proclaim. It was then proclaimed in the laws that all people should be Christian, and that
those in this country who had not yet been baptised should receive baptism; but the old
laws should stand as regards the exposure of children and the eating of horse-flesh. People
had the right to sacrifice in secret, if they wished, but it would be punishable by the lesser
outlawry if witnesses were produced. And a few years later, these heathen provisions were
abolished, like the others.]16

Ari’s story about the conversion of Iceland later became the ‘canonical’ version, so
to speak, and is retold in many texts. It is interesting that this story presents the
events as if the Icelanders Christianized themselves. It is mentioned in the opening

16
Íslendingabók, pp. 16–17; Íslendingabók, trans. by Grønlie, p. 9.
ÍSLENDINGABÓK 119

of Chapter 7 that King Olav Tryggvason ‘kom kristni í Norveg ok á Íslandi’

(‘brought Christianity to Norway and Iceland’),17 and that the King’s missionary,
Þangbrandr, was sent to Iceland. But the final step towards becoming a Christian
people was taken by the Icelanders themselves.
This very special conversion story in all likelihood must have formed the basis
for a Christian identity, which was an Icelandic identity at the same time, since the
conversion process in Iceland was not shared with other peoples. The fact that a
people, with about half of them pagan and led by a heathen lawspeaker, made the
collective decision to become Christians made it very easy to incorporate the pagan
past into the history of the country. The pagan past could in fact be incorporated
with pride.
Ari fróði wrote at a time when he had few if any Icelandic models to build
upon. For a Christian author the Bible would, of course, be an obvious model to
follow, and Pernille Hermann has read Íslendingabók in the light of Christian
typology and interpreted the two parts — the chapters before and after Christiani-
zation — as modelled after biblical texts.18 The problem with such an interpre-
tation is that it is difficult to find elements in the text itself clearly indicating that
the author wrote his narrative with biblical stories and typology in mind.
Ari may, however, have known of works written by foreign authors, which he
could have used as models for his writing. Previously I have argued that Ari knew
Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, and that this work
served as a model for Íslendingabók.19 Ari’s brief history and Adam’s much longer
text are two narratives that are so different from each other in style and extent that
the parallels are not easy to see — especially in the extensive text of the Gesta Ham-
maburgensis. But upon closer look there are in fact some striking similarities.
Ari opens Íslendingabók by stating that Iceland was settled from Norway during
the reign of King Harald Fairhair. This opening may seem to be obvious — nearly
the only possible opening for a book about the Icelanders — but this is perhaps
partly because we know of such an opening as being the standard in a great number
of the sagas of Icelanders. However, at the time when Ari wrote Íslendingabók,
there were no written sagas of Icelanders and no model in Icelandic literature for
the opening chapter of Íslendingabók. Seen against this background, it becomes

17
Íslendingabók, p. 14; Íslendingabók, trans. by Grønlie, p. 7.
18
Hermann, ‘Íslendingabók and History’, pp. 17–32.
19
Mundal, ‘Íslendingabók vurdert som bispestolskrønike’. For more details on Adam of
Bremen’s text, see Ildar Garipzanov’s chapter in this volume.
120 Else Mundal

more interesting that, when Adam of Bremen starts the Gesta Hammaburgensis by
writing about Saxony, one of his main themes is to establish where the Saxons had
originated.20
In connection with the Saxons’ migration into Saxony, Adam also mentions
that another people, the Swebes, lived there earlier and emigrated prior to the
Saxons’ arrival. It is perhaps not a very close parallel, but it may have given Ari the
idea that he had to mention the fact that the Norwegians who settled in Iceland
were not the first people in that land and that Irish monks had lived there before
them.
In the following chapters (I. 8–11), Adam describes how the Saxons were con-
verted to Christianity. He first states that this happened on the command of the
Frankish king Pippin, then Adam mentions the missionaries, and finally he tells
how the Saxons decided to convert to Christianity and were baptized. Thereafter,
the proper episcopal chronicle starts. In Chapter 7 of Íslendingabók, we recognize
the same steps. First Ari states that the Norwegian king Olav Tryggvason brought
Christianity both to Norway and Iceland, then he mentions the missionary Þang-
brandr, and finally he tells how the Icelanders agreed to convert to Christianity and
were baptized. Thus, the material and the sequence of events that the two authors
have chosen to include are strikingly similar.
In a document — admittedly false — that Adam quotes in his text (I. 12), it is
stated that tithing was introduced, that the episcopal seat in Bremen was founded,
and that landed property was allocated to it. In Chapter 10 of Íslendingabók, we are
likewise told that Bishop Gizurr introduced tithing in Iceland, that he founded the
episcopal seat in Skálholt, and that he endowed it with landed property. This is of
course information about Bishop Gizurr that we should expect Ari to report. It is,
however, striking that the Gesta Hammaburgensis records the same type of
information and in the same order. Such parallels make it very likely that Adam’s
work served as a model for Ari. And Ari’s choice of a gesta episcoporum as a model
for Íslendingabók, the first history about the Icelanders, is particularly interesting
seen in relation to the question of what kind of Christian identity he wanted to
create and communicate to the Icelanders.
In most other countries of medieval Europe, the history of a people was con-
structed around their kings, but for good reasons the history of Iceland could not
be written in this way. The Icelanders had founded a society without royal
leadership, an exception in Europe at the time. Yet Ari did not have to write his

20
Adam, Gesta, I. 3–4.
ÍSLENDINGABÓK 121

history about the Icelanders as a chronicle about bishops or a bishopric — that was
his own choice. Ari may have got this idea from reading Adam of Bremen. In his
Gesta Hammaburgensis (IV. 36), Adam praises the Icelanders to the skies and says
that they look upon their bishop as a king. This idea was adopted in Iceland at
some point and is clearly expressed in a later Icelandic work called Hungrvaka (The
Appetizer).21 But even though this view is not expressed in clear words in
Íslendingabók, there is no doubt that Ari describes a society in which the bishops
played a leading role. For Ari, a priest himself, for those bishops who probably
commissioned Íslendingabók, and for the priest Sæmundr, who together with the
bishops gave Ari advice in regard to this narrative, a society where the bishop
played the role of a king may have been the ideal Christian society.
There are reasons to believe that Ari consciously gave a more idealized picture
of the Icelandic bishops’ position in society than historical conditions seem to
justify. It is known from later sources, for instance from Hungrvaka, that the first
Icelandic bishop, Ísleifr, encountered many problems in his relations with the
chieftains, who did not always accept his authority. These problems are not
mentioned by Ari at all, with the result that the picture of an Icelandic Christian
identity as closely connected to the bishops as leaders of the Icelanders is more
visible in Íslendingabók than it was in reality. Ari is known to be a reliable author,
but what he chose to tell and what he chose not to perhaps show his ideology more
than his attitude to truth.

21
For more details on this text, see the following chapter in this volume by Jonas Wellendorf.
 Chapter 7

W HETTING THE A PPETITE FOR A V ERNACULAR

L ITERATURE: T HE ICELANDIC H UNGRVAKA

Jonas Wellendorf

H
ungrvaka (The Appetizer) is an anonymous chronicle in the vernacular of
the first five bishops of Skálholt and is one of the pioneering works of
Icelandic historiography. The date of composition is not known with
certainty; many scholars believe it was written in the first decade of the thirteenth
century,1 but the text may have been written slightly earlier. The narrative covers
the pontificates of the first five bishops of Skálholt, 120 years in total: namely,
Ísleifr Gizurarson (1056–80), Gizurr Ísleifsson (1082–1118), Þorlákr Runólfsson
(1118–33), Magnús Einarsson (1134–48), and Klǿngr Þorsteinsson (1152–75). The
preserved versions of the text all end with a section forming an introduction to the
life of St Þorlákr Þórhallsson (1178–93), the sixth bishop of Skálholt.2 It seems likely
that this section linking the two texts resulted from a revision of the earlier original,
but this is impossible to determine with any certainty, especially considering that
chronicles of bishops were often revised and updated with new sections.3

1
See Biskupa sögur, II, ed. by Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Íslenzk fornrit, 16 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka
fornritafélag, 2002), pp. xxiv–xxxi, for a presentation of various views on the dating. Sveinbjörn
Rafnsson, Páll Jónsson Skálholtsbiskup, Ritsafn sagnfræðistofnunar, 33 (Reykjavík: Sagnfræðistof-
nun Háskóla Íslands, 1993), p. 10, suggests that Páll Jónsson, the seventh bishop of Skálholt
(1195–1211), might have been the author. An English translation of Hungrvaka was published by
Gudbrand Vigfusson and F. York Powell, Origines Islandica: A Collection of the More Important
Sagas and Other Native Writings Relating to the Settlement and Early History of Iceland, vol. I
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1905), pp. 425–58, and a Danish translation can be found in Agnete
Loth, To islandske bispekrøniker (Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag, 1989), pp. 31–58.
2
After Þorlákr’s death miracles were reported, and five years later the Icelandic national
assembly endorsed his veneration as a saint.
3
The most recent editor of both texts, Ásdís Egilsdóttir (Biskupa sögur, II, 42, n. 2), believes
that the present arrangement — with Hungrvaka being followed immediately by the life of Þorlákr
124 Jonas Wellendorf

Skálholt was the older and more important of the two Icelandic dioceses, and
Hungrvaka is the only known historical narrative about the cathedral, besides the
lives of individual bishops. It was used as a source in Kristni saga (‘The Saga about
[the introduction of] Christianity’) written not long before 1250,4 but otherwise
there appear to be few traces of the text before the seventeenth century, when the
five surviving manuscripts with so-called individual textual value and one excerpt
were written down.5 Jón Helgason, who edited the text in 1938, argued that these
manuscripts all derived from a common ancestor kept at Skálholt or in its vicinity
in 1601, and furthermore characterizes this lost archetype as a fairly recent
manuscript from around 1500 at the earliest.6 In other words, Hungrvaka does not
appear to have been a widely disseminated text; but the lack of early copies can also
be explained by the fact that the library/archive of the cathedral at Skálholt was
damaged several times by fires.7
During the pontificate of Gizurr the Icelandic diocese was split into two, since
the northerners wanted an episcopal see of their own. St Jón O 3 gmundarsson
became the first bishop (1106–21) in the newly established northern diocese of
Hólar and was promoted to sainthood in 1200, two years after Þorlákr.8 This Ice-
landic habit of venerating bishops as their first saints was in contrast to mainland
Scandinavia, where the first indigenous saints were kings and many of the later
saints were somehow connected to ruling dynasties too. 9 Since the Icelanders had
no kings — at least not before Iceland was subjected to the Norwegian crown in
1262 — some other figures of authority had to represent the divine and connect
the Icelanders with God. So in the absence of kings, Icelanders had recourse to

— is the original one, whereas others, such as Gabriel Turville-Petre, Origins of Icelandic Literature
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1953), p. 204, argue that the two texts were linked at a later stage.
4
Between 1237 and 1250 according to Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Kristni saga, Biskupa sögur, I,
Íslenzk fornrít, 15.1 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornrítafélag, 2003), pp. lv–clx (p. cliv).
5
A significant number of secondary manuscripts, derived from known manuscripts are
preserved as well.
6
Jón Helgason, Byskupa so3gur, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, 13.1 (Copenhagen: Det kgl.
nordiske Oldskriftselskab, 1938), pp. 26–39 (pp. 36–39).
7
Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Biskopsstóll í Skálholti’, in Saga biskupsstólanna: Skálholt 950 ára
– 2006 – Hólar 900 ára, ed. by Gunnar Kristjánsson (Hólar: Bókaútgáfan Hólar, 2006), pp.
21–243 (p. 27).
8
Later Bishop Guðmundr of Hólar was venerated as a saint as well.
9
The same was the case with the Orkney Islands, where Earl Magnús Erlendsson (d. 1116)
began to be venerated as a saint not too long after his death.
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 125

their bishops. An awareness of this lack of kings (and royal saints) and the impor-
tance of the bishops is well attested in medieval literature, and indeed, Hungrvaka
reports that when Bishop Gizurr returned from abroad after his consecration,
svá vildi hverr maðr sitja ok standa sem hann bauð, ungr ok gamall, sæll ok fátœkr, konur
ok karlar, ok var rétt at segja at hann var bæði konungr ok byskup yfir landinu meðan hann
lifði.
[every man would sit or stand as he [Gizurr] bade, young or old, rich or poor, women or
men, and it is true to say that he was both king and bishop over the land as long as he
lived.]10

Gizurr was just a bishop, but he nevertheless had the status equivalent of a king. So
Gizurr possessed the two chief powers of the time: the royal and ecclesiastical. That
a certain person has all the qualities that would be required of a king of Iceland is
a theme that occurs from time to time in later Old Norse literature,11 but in
Hungrvaka the bishop is not only deemed fit to be a king, but is also said to be both
king and bishop. This note about Gizurr is particularly interesting, because Adam
of Bremen in the 1070s makes a somewhat similar statement about the Icelanders
in his History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen:
Episcopum suum habent pro rege; ad illius nutum respicit omnis populus; quicquid ex
Deo, ex scripturis, ex consuetudine aliarum gentium ille constituit, hoc pro lege habent.12
[They hold their bishop as king. All the people respect his wishes. They hold as law
whatever he ordains as coming from God, or from the Scriptures, or even from the worthy
practices of other peoples.]13

The similarity between these two statements is evident,14 and the possibility that
there is some sort of connection between Adam’s work and Hungrvaka becomes

10
Hungrvaka, p. 16. The English translation is from Vigfusson and Powell, Origines Islandicae,
p. 435.
11
See Theodore M. Andersson, ‘The King of Iceland’, Speculum, 74 (1999), 923–34.
12
Adam, Gesta, IV. 36, p. 273.
13
Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen, trans. by Francis J. Tschan
(New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), pp. 217–18.
14
In Topographia Hibernica (1188) Gerald of Wales makes a similar remark about the Ice-
landers: ‘Gens hæc eodem utitur rege quo sacerdote; eodem principe quo pontifice. Penes enim
episcopum tam regni quam sacerdotii jura consistunt’. Giraldi Cambrensis opera, ed. by D. S.
Brewer, Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores, 21 (London: Her Majesty’s Stationary Office,
1867), p. 96. ‘This people [the Icelanders] considers the same person king as well as priest, the same
princeps as well as pontifex. The royal and the sacerdotal powers are in the hands of the bishop.’
126 Jonas Wellendorf

even more likely when one takes another, even more striking, parallel into consid-
eration. Adam writes of a certain John who had been ordained as bishop in Ireland
and then sent to the Orkneys (III. 70). Later, this John the Irishman (Scotus), at
that time the Bishop of Mecklenburg, was captured and killed by pagan Slavs:
truncatis manibus ac pedibus, in platea corpus eius proiectum est, caput vero eius desectum,
quod pagani conto prefigentes in titulum victoriae deo suo Redigost immolarunt.15
[his hands and feet were lopped off and his body was thrown upon the road. Cutting off
his head, the barbarians fixed it on a spear and offered it to their god Redigast in token of
their victory.]16

In a similar manner, Hungrvaka mentions a certain Jón írski (‘John the Irishman/
Scot’) among the first foreign missionary bishops in Iceland:
Jón byskup inn írski, ok hafa þat sumir menn fyrir satt at hann fœri síðan til Vinðlands ok
sneri þar mo3rgum mo3nnum til Guðs, ok var síðan tekinn ok barðr ok ho3 ggnar af bæði
hendr ok fœtr en ho3fuð síðast ok fór með þeim píningum til Guðs.17
[Bishop John the Irishman; and some men hold for true that he afterwards went to Wend-
land and that there he turned many to God, and at last he was taken and flogged, and both
his hands and feet cut off, and last of all his head, and in such torment he departed to
God.]18

These two parallels between Hungrvaka and Adam’s history have already been
noticed,19 but I will emphasize that the author of Hungrvaka in all likelihood not
only knew Adam’s narrative, but that he also to some degree used Adam’s work as
a literary model. Considering the fact that Iceland originally belonged to the arch-
diocese of Hamburg-Bremen, it is not unlikely that a copy of or some excerpts from
Adam’s work had made their way to Iceland already before 1200, and Old Norse
excerpts from Adam’s history have in fact been preserved in two Icelandic manu-
scripts, the oldest of which is dated to c. 1310.20 Furthermore, the fabulous Yngvars

15
Adam, Gesta, p. 194.
16
Adam, History of the Archbishops, trans. by Tschan, p. 157.
17
Hungrvaka, p. 11.
18
Vigfusson and Powell, Origines Islandicae, p. 431.
19
See for example Turville-Petre, Origins of Icelandic Literature, p. 204.
20
The Old Norse translation/excerpt covers Chapters 3–41 of the second book, and even
though it is much abbreviated it is without doubt based on Adam’s work. The excerpts begin as
follows: ‘Svá segir í Hamborgar historia, ok kallask sá meistari, er gert hefir bókina, flest alt hafa ritat
eptir fyrirso3gn Sveins Ulfssonar’ (‘Thus it is said in the Historia of Hamburg, and the master who
wrote the book says that he has written almost everything in accordance with the dictation of
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 127

saga, possibly first written in Latin shortly before 1200, quotes a passage from a
Gesta saxonum that seems to be identical to Adam’s work as well.21
Adam’s text belongs to the rather heterogeneous genre of the deeds of bishops,
gesta episcoporum.22 Although Hungrvaka is the sole preserved text of this genre in
Norwegian and Icelandic contexts, it is a clear witness to the cultivation of the genre
in the North.23 A number of vernacular lives of individual Icelandic bishops have
been preserved and they form a separate sub-genre — biskupa so3 gur (the episcopal
sagas or biographies)24 — but Hungrvaka is the sole synoptic work narrating about
a series of bishops. In this sense it can be compared with Ágrip, one of the early ver-
nacular Old Norse kings’ sagas, which is also a synoptic text dealing with a number
of kings in a more concise way than the more detailed biographies of King Sverre or
the Olavs.25 In other words, Hungrvaka occupies the same position in relation to the
remaining bishops’ sagas as Ágrip does to the remaining kings’ sagas.26 The high
status of the bishops in Iceland is in this way reflected not only by the Icelanders’

Sveinn Ulfsson’). The excerpts are preserved in the manuscript Reykjavík AM 415 4°. The text is
edited by Kr. Kålund, Alfræði íslenzk: Islandsk encyclopædisk litteratur, vol. III: Landalýsingar m. fl.,
Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur, 45 (Copenhagen: Møller, 1917–18), pp. 59–62.
The date of the manuscript is from the index volume of Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog
(Copenhagen: Arnamagnæan Commission, 1989).
21
Yngvars saga is preserved in Old Norse. Dietrich Hoffmann, ‘Die Yngvars saga víðfo3rla und
Oddr munkr inn fróði’, in Speculum norroenum: Norse Studies in Memory of Gabriel Turville-Petre,
ed. by Ursula Dronke and others (Odense: Odense University Press, 1981), pp. 188–222, argued
that the preserved version of Yngvars saga is a translation from Latin. Some references to the
ensuing discussion are given by Carl Phelpstead, ‘Adventure-Time in Yngvars saga víðförla’, in
Fornaldarsagaerne: Myter of virkelighed, ed. by Agneta Ney and others (Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanum, 2009), pp. 331–46 (p. 338).
22
For more details on Adam of Bremen’s text, see Ildar Garipzanov’s chapter in this volume.
23
See, Biskupa sögur, II, ed. by Egilsdóttir, pp. xii–xiii. It has been argued by Else Mundal, ‘Íslen-
dingabók vurdert som bispestolskrønike’, Alvíssmál, 3 (1994), 63–72, that Ari fróði’s Íslendingabók
is also a text written along the lines of an episcopal chronicle, but Hungrvaka is a more obvious
candidate for an Old Norse specimen of the genre of gesta episcoporum.
24
The lives of Icelandic bishops are conveniently edited in Biskupa sögur, I– III, Íslensk fornrit,
15–17 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1998–2003). A fourth volume containing the various
redactions of the life of St Guðmundr of Hólar is still pending.
25
For more details on Ágrip, see Theodore Andersson’s chapter in this volume.
26
Pernille Hermann, ‘Hungrvaka og islændingesagaer: Traditionalitet og konventionalitet’,
Maal og Minne, 2004, 21–40, discusses whether Hungrvaka is to be classified as a saga or as frǿði
‘(learned) knowledge’. She concludes that it must belong somewhere in between, but one may say
as well that it is both a saga and frǿði.
128 Jonas Wellendorf

preference for episcopal saints, but also by the texts they wrote about their spiritual
leaders. Thus their bishops became, in a way, the first ‘kings’ of Iceland.27

The Prologue and its Metaphors

Hungrvaka begins with a prologue that has been characterized as ‘unusually long
and learned’,28 at least by Old Norse standards. It shows that the author was
trained in the tradition of Latin literature and had a good knowledge of how a
prologue should be structured. It begins by naming the work itself:29
Bœkling þenna kalla ek Hungrvo3ku, af því at svá mun mo3rgum mo3nnum ófróðum ok þó
óvitrum gefit vera, þeim er hann hafa yfir farit, at miklu myndu gørr vilja vita upprás ok ævi
þeira merkismanna er hér verðr fátt frá sagt á þessi skrá.30
[I call this little book Hungrvaka (The Appetizer), because many unlearned and unknowl-
edgeable men, who have read through it, will want to know even more about origins and
lives of these notable men of whom only little is said in this writing.] (author’s translation)

The anonymous author thus wants to whet his readers’ appetite for knowledge of
the early bishops of Iceland. This kind of alimentary metaphor was as common in
medieval times as it is now,31 and to a medieval audience the biblical use of such

27
The kinglike status of the Icelandic bishops is also discussed by Ármann Jakobsson, Í leit að
konungi: Konungsmynd íslenskra konungsasagna (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 1997), pp. 291–300.
That bishops in general share many traits with kings and ‘dioceses looked a lot more regal, a lot
more “state-like” than did most kingdoms at the time [around 1000]’ is emphasized by Timothy
Reuter, ‘Bishops, Rites of Passage, and the Symbolism of State in Pre-Gregorian Europe’, in The
Bishop: Power and Piety in the First Millennium, ed. by Sean Gilsdorf, Neue Aspekte der
europäischen Mittelalterforschung, 4 (Münster: Lit, 2004), pp. 23–36 (p. 23).
28
‘óvenjulega langur og lærður’, so Sverrir Tómasson, Formálar íslenskra sagnritara á miðöldum:
Rannsókn bókmennntahefðar, Rit, 33 (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1988), p. 385.
29
Other Old Norse examples of this convention are listed by Sverrir Tómasson, Formálar
íslenskra sagnritara á miðöldum, p. 180. The introduction of the Old Norwegian King’s Mirror,
Konungs skuggsjá, can be added to this list.
30
Hungrvaka, p. 3.
31
We might thirst after knowledge, and a medieval writer could say, as one indeed did in the
Old Norwegian Homily Book: ‘Greed knows no limits and can not be satisfied, even if it devours
everything. Greed is always hungry.’ Gamal norsk homiliebok, ed. by Gustav Indrebø (Oslo: Univer-
sitetsforlaget, 1966; 1st pub. 1931), p. 19: ‘Ágirni kann eigi hátt ok eigi kann hon seðjask, þó at hon
svelgi alla hluti. Hungruð er hon ávalt.’ See Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin
Middle Ages, trans. by Willard R. Trask (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), pp. 134–36.
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 129

metaphors might have resonated particularly powerfully, such as ‘Blessed are those
who hunger and thirst for justice, at some time they will be satisfied’ from the
Sermon on the Mount.32 Ideally, the readers of Hungrvaka would hunger for
knowledge when they were done reading.
The anonymous author goes one step further and twists this metaphor cleverly
in the second part of his prologue, where he compares his work with the horn ma-
terial from which a spoon can be made (hornspánar efni). The composition of a
literary work was often thought of in terms of building a house,33 and the substance
out of which a literary work is made is materia, ‘(building) material’, in Latin and
efni in Old Norse. The author of a work might then express his conventional
humility by saying that he has only collected or prepared the material, and that he
leaves it for someone else to finish it or to actually build the house. This topos can
be varied in a number of ways. One example can be found in Jerome’s commentary
on the Book of Jeremiah. Jerome writes to the recipient of the work that he pro-
vides him with the warp, the weft, and the leash, and that now it’s up to the
recipient to make a beautiful garment and thus complete it.34 Comparing the work
to the horn material of which a spoon can be made might be a specific Icelandic
take on the topos, but the idea that a beautiful finished result lies latent in the
material and just needs to be brought forth by a skilled hand can of course be found
elsewhere. One interesting example can be found in the Ars versificatoria (The Art
of Versification, c. 1175) by Matthew of Vendôme:
Siquidem, sicut in rebus materialibus materia statuae rudis est et nullo pretio insignita,
donec sedulitate artificis melius placeat expolita, similiter in metro verborum materia rudis
est et inconcinna donec artificiali appositione alicujus scematis vel tropi sive coloris rheto-
rici depingatur.35
[Just as, when dealing with material things, the material of which a statue can be made is
raw and seemingly worth nothing, before it becomes more pleasing by being polished by
the assiduity of a craftsman, in the same way, concerning poems the verbal material is raw

32
‘Beati qui esuriunt et sitiunt iustitiam quoniam ipsi saturabuntur’ (Biblia sacra iuxta
vulgatam versionem, Mt 5. 6, ed. by Robertus Weber and others, 4th edn (Stuttgart: Deutsche
Bibelgesellschaft, 1994).
33
A few examples from the Old Norse as well as the Latin tradition are given by Tómasson,
Formálar íslenskra sagnritara á miðöldum, pp. 149–50.
34
See Tore Janson, Latin Prose Prefaces: Studies in Literary Conventions, Studies Latina
Stockholmiensia, 13 (Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell, 1964), p. 151.
35
Les Arts poétiques du XIIe et du XIII e siècle, ed. by Edmond Faral (Paris: Librairie Honoré
Champion, 1958), pp. 167–68.
130 Jonas Wellendorf

and awkward before it has been decorated with the artful addition of some figure, trope,
or rhetorical ornament.]

In the case of Hungrvaka, the author has a splendid source of material at hand
(forkunnar efni),36 namely the history of the bishops of Skálholt. If the result is not
as grand as one may expect, the inferior skills of the craftsman or author are to
blame, and readers who find his work faulty are asked to improve upon it rather
than ridicule it.37 The author himself will also try to embellish the work and patch
it up (bǿta) as long as he is still capable of doing so.38
These two metaphors — the appetizer and the spoon — naturally go quite well
together, and both can be seen as expressions of humility on behalf of the author.39
The ambition of the author is only to whet the appetite of the reader, not to satisfy
it, and his work is only the tool (spoon) with which one can eat, for instance, the
porridge; it is not the porridge itself.
In the final two sentences of the prologue the author explains how he has struc-
tured his text, and now uses the house analogy. He justifies the way he has chosen
to structure the narrative by quoting an otherwise unattested Old Norse proverb:
‘It is an old saying that the house holds the residents. Therefore I will first tell of
how the farm at Skálholt was built and later about those who have been the keepers
of the place.’40 Medieval prologues often contained an overview of the work’s

36
Hungrvaka, p. 5.
37
This is one of the standard exordial topoi of medieval historiography, and Adam of Bremen
makes a somewhat similar statement in his preface: ‘sed quod bene ego non potui, melius scribendi
ceteris materiam reliqui’, Adam, Gesta, Praefatio, p. 3 (‘that which I myself could not do well I left
for others to write about better’, Adam, History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen, trans. by
Tschan, p. 5).
38
Hungrvaka, p. 5.
39
In a similar vein, Hermann, ‘Hungrvaka og islændingesagaer’, pp. 25–26.
40
Author’s translation of Hungrvaka, p. 5: ‘En þat er forn orðskviðr at hús skal hjóna fá. Segi
ek af því fyrst hversu bœrinn hefir byggzk í Skálaholti, en síðan frá þeim er staðinn hafa varðveittan.’
Hermann, ‘Hungrvaka og islændingesagaer’, pp. 27–32, argues that the proverb functions as a
truism whose ‘funktion er at danne forståelsesbaggrunden for argumentationen i værket’ (p. 27).
The use of such truisms was a common way to begin a written work, and such use of truisms or
proverbs is described and recommended in medieval manuals of composition such as Matthew of
Vendôme’s Ars versificatoria (Les Arts poétiques, ed. by Faral, pp. 113–16), Geoffrey of Vinsauf’s
Poetria Nova (Les Arts poétiques, ed. by Faral, pp. 201–03), and elsewhere. One Old Norse example
could be the versified prologue to Duggals leizla (c. 1300), a translation of the Visio Tnugdali. The
text describes the pleasures or pains that await each and every person after death, and commences
with the statement that one will reap whatever one has sown. This sentiment of biblical origin
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 131

structure as well as some justification for the latter, so it is not surprising to find
this technique used in Hungrvaka. It is, however, interesting that Hungrvaka seems
to echo a statement found in the prologue to the chronicle of the archbishops of
Magdeburg, Gesta archiepiscoporum Magdeburgensium.41 The brief preface of that
chronicle states that because important personages such as Julius Caesar, Charle-
magne, and Otto the Great all contributed to the development of Magdeburg, the
narrative ought to begin with these founders rather than with the bishops of
Magdeburg: ‘Therefore I considered it appropriate to begin with these founders
and then turn to the bishops.’42 The Magdeburg chronicle does not contain a
saying similar to the above-mentioned passage of Hungrvaka, but the basic idea is
the same: first is the vessel, then its contents.43 By applying the old saying, the Old
Norse text adds an extra metaphorical dimension, which cannot be found in the
chronicle of Magdeburg. The dwellers of Skálholt are of course first and foremost
the bishops, but the Old Norse word used in the proverb, hjón — translated ‘resi-
dents’ above — often means household or a married couple. This connects well
with the widespread notion that the bishop is married to his cathedral or diocese,
which can be found elsewhere in Hungrvaka and in other texts believed to have
been written at Skálholt or in its immediate vicinity. When Bishop Magnús
enlarges his cathedral and invites all the important people of Iceland to the feast of
its dedication, this feast is called a wedding (brullaup).44 As Jón Helgason has
argued, this is not a reference to an actual wedding between a man and a woman,

forms a fitting introduction to a text whose overall theme is reward or punishment. If the proverb
that introduces Hungrvaka is more than a justification for the structure of the text, its meaning in
all likelihood is that the house (the cathedral or diocese) is primary to its dwellers (the bishops), and
that as long as the house stands there will also be bishops. The importance of the ‘house’ is
underlined several times in the text when it describes how the bishops rebuilt and enlarged the
cathedral.
41
It was in Magdeburg that Bishop Gizurr was consecrated (see below).
42
Gesta archiepiscoporum Magdeburgensium, ed. by Wilhelm Schum, MGH SS, 14 (Hannover:
Hahn, 1883), pp. 376–415 (p. 376): ‘quapropter ab eisdem fundatoribus dignum duxi exordium
sumere et exinde ad pontifices me transferre’.
43
Interestingly, one manuscript version of Hungrvaka (called D) has instead of the prologue
only the following sentence: ‘I fyrstu vil ek nú segja frá því hversu bǿrinn hefir byggzk í Skálholti,
ok síðan frá þeim er hann hafa haldit’, Hungrvaka, ed. by Jón Helgason, in Byskupa so3gur, pp.
72–115 (p. 72) (‘I will first tell of how the farm at Skálholt was built and later I will tell about those
who have been the keepers of the place’; author’s translation).
44
Hungrvaka, p. 30.
132 Jonas Wellendorf

but the wedding of the bishop and his cathedral.45 One good example from a Latin
text the author of Hungrvaka could have been familiar with can be found in Adam
of Bremen’s versified epilogue to his narrative. There Adam addresses the dedicatee
of the work, Archbishop Liemar, as follows:
Et confido etiam, quia commendatio scripti
Carior inde [tibi] manet, dum nil ibi fictum
Externumque vides, sed quaevis pagina veram
Ecclesiae laudem canit hystoriamque Bremensem.
Omne decus sponsi [est], ubi fertur gloria sponsae.46
[I am confident that your commendation of the writing will remain even more lovable,
when you see that it contains nothing fictitious or irrelevant, but that each and every page
sings the true praise of the church and the history of Bremen. Every honour befalls the
groom when the glory of the bride is extolled.] (author’s translation)

Adam, like the author of Hungrvaka, thus compares the relationship between the
archbishop and his archdiocese to the liaison between a husband and wife. There is
a long tradition of such nuptial metaphors in Christian as well as in non-Christian
contexts. In pagan times the Old Norse skald Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld repeated in
mythological terms no less than four times how the ruler (Earl Hakon) married/
subdued Norway personified by a female giantess.47 Within the Christian sphere
there is a well-established tradition of interpreting the biblical Song of Songs as an
allegory of the relationship of Christ (the bridegroom) and the Church (the bride).48
It is likely that the author of Hungrvaka was familiar with the poetry of Hallfreðr,
since it belongs to the canon of the skaldic tradition, and using the nuptial meta-
phors would be yet another way of cementing the status of the bishops as the kings
of Iceland; but the Christian tradition certainly chimes in loudly as well. As justi-
fication for the structure of the narrative and the use of marital metaphors, the
Hungrvaka author did not need to be inspired precisely by the episcopal chronicles
of Hamburg-Bremen and Magdeburg; but, as will be shown below, it is exactly
these two Saxon archdioceses with which the cathedral at Skálholt had close ties.

45
Jón Helgason, ‘Et sted i Hungrvaka’, in Opuscula, vol. I, Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana, 20
(Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1960), pp. 352–53. Jón Helgason provides two similar examples from
the sagas of the bishops of Skálholt.
46
Adam, Gesta, p. 281.
47
Hákonardrápa, st. 3–6, in Den norsk-islandske skjaldedigtning, BI, ed. by Finnur Jónsson
(Copenhagen: Gyldendalske boghandel, 1908), pp. 147–48; Folke Ström, ‘Hieros gamos-motivet
i Hallfreðr Óttarssons Hákonardrápa och den nordnorska jarlavärdigheten’, Arkiv för nordisk
filologi, 98 (1983), 67–79.
48
Most famously in Bernard of Clairvaux’s sermons on The Song of Songs.
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 133

The Model and the Message

In Icelandic literature, Hungrvaka is without counterparts.49 Since there seems to

have been no obvious Icelandic models for this narrative, we can turn our gaze
towards foreign models. As mentioned above, the author of Hungrvaka is likely to
have known and used Adam of Bremen’s history. Both narratives belong to the
genre of gesta episcoporum, even if some sections of Adam’s work extend beyond the
scope of the shorter works of this genre. From the papal biographies in the Liber
pontificalis, the gesta episcorum had inherited a relatively fixed structure.50 The main
organizing principle of such gesta was the order of the various pontificates and the
passing of time. Certain elements were almost always present in the descriptions
of the individual bishops, and they were presented in a rather schematic way: the
descent of the bishops, the date of their consecration, the length of their pon-
tificate, and the date of their death. This catalogue-like information regarding the
beginning, end, and extent of their offices was usually supplemented with infor-
mation about some of their deeds while they were in office, such as the erection of
churches, the introduction of liturgical novelties, the consecration of other
bishops, and other notable events.51 These are precisely the elements found in
Hungrvaka, where the presentation of biographical details is structured in exactly
the same way every time a new bishop is introduced. They begin with an introduc-
tion, which describes a bishop’s descent, youth, character/looks, circumstances of
election, and journey abroad, as well as the person consecrating him and the date
of this consecration.

49
The first of the Latin fragments edited in Biskupa sögur, II, as Latinubrot I (pp. 341–45) is
often tentatively thought of in terms of a gesta episcoporum, thus Biskupa sögur, II, ed. by Egilsdóttir,
p. cxii, but there is not much evidence to support this idea, and the preserved parts deal mainly with
St Þorlákr. Indeed, the chapter with the heading De sancto Thorlaco episcopo et aliis episcopis nostris
(p. 342), ‘About St Þorlákr and Our Other Bishops’, rather indicates that these other bishops were
dealt with rather briefly and in relation to St Þorlákr.
50
On the gesta episcoporum, see Michel Sot, ‘Local and Institutional History’, in Historiography
in the Middle Ages, ed. by Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 89–114; and
Bert Roest, ‘Later Medieval Institutional History’, in ibid., pp. 277–315. See also Michel Sot, Gesta
episcoporum, gesta abbatum, Typologie des sources du moyen âge occidental, 37 (Brepols: Turn-
hout, 1981); and Reinhold Kaiser, ‘Die Gesta episcoporum als Genus der Geschichtsschreibung’, in
Historiographie im frühen Mittelalter, ed. by Anton Scharer and Georg Scheibelreiter, Veröffent-
lichungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 32 (Vienna: Oldenbourg, 1994),
pp. 459–80.
51
See Kaiser, ‘Die Gesta episcoporum’, p. 465.
134 Jonas Wellendorf

Similarly, the sections describing the final years of all the bishops follow the
same pattern and order, with a few exceptions: they discuss the duration of office,
the election of a successor, events at the deathbed, a bishop’s age at the time of
death, the place of his burial and its date, and finally a section with annalistic infor-
mation is provided. The language and the sentence structure approach the formu-
laic in some of these sections, in particular in the annalistic part.52
The middle sections, where the actual deeds of the bishops during their pontifi-
cates are described, are more loosely structured. During Ísleifr’s pontificate the
dominant themes are the complicated financial situation of the bishop and the
disobedience of the Icelandic people:
Hann hafði nauð mikla á marga vegu í sínum byskupsdómi fyrir sakir óhlýðni manna. Má
þat af því merkja no3kkut í hverjum nauðum hann hefir verit fyrir sakir ótrú ok óhlýðni ok
ósiða sinna undirmanna, at lo3g[so3gu]maðrinn átti mæðgur tvær, ok þá lo3gðusk sumir menn
út í víking ok á herskap, ok mo3rg endemi tóku menn þau til o3nnur, þau er nú myndi
ódœmi þykkja ef menn hendi slíkt.53
[He had much trouble in many ways in his bishopric because of the disobedience of men.
And it may be somewhat of a token of what need he hath been in by reason of the lack of
faith, and the disobedience, an evil conversation of those under him, that the Law-speaker
had to wife mother and daughter. And in those days some men lay at sea on wicking cruises
and in war ships, and many betook themselves to many other abominations which would
now be thought shocking if men were to commit them.]54
It will be remembered that Adam of Bremen described how the Icelandic bishops
were respected as kings (and that Hungrvaka echoes this). Since Adam wrote in the
1070s, he could not have known of any other Icelandic bishops than this Ísleifr,
who it will be remembered ruled until 1080 and whose tribulations were quoted
above. Adam of Bremen does not concur with the information given in Hungrvaka
on the disobedience of the Icelanders towards Ísleifr — rather, he takes the oppo-
site view — and it therefore seems reasonable to assume that the Icelandic text has
magnified the troubles of Ísleifr in order to enlarge the importance and success of
his son and successor Gizurr, who is presented as the one who solved these prob-
lems. When elected as bishop by Icelanders, Gizurr refuses the position until the
chieftains promise him complete obedience. The financial situation of the

52
The events that are considered noteworthy in these annalistic sections are primarily the
deaths of kings or other notable persons. Two volcanic eruptions and an earthquake are also
mentioned and, as the only information of that kind, the translation of the relics of St Nicholas
from Myra to Bari.
53
Hungrvaka, p. 8.
54
Vigfusson and Powell, Origines Islandicae, p. 429.
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 135

cathedral is also improved because Gizurr inherits a large amount of land, which
he donates to the cathedral. On this estate he establishes Skálholt as the permanent
location of the bishop. Finally, with the help of two prominent Icelanders —
Sæmundr the Learned and the lawspeaker Markús Skeggjason — he manages to
introduce the payment of tithe in Iceland: ‘And there hath been no such founda-
tion in Scal-holt for wealth and profit as this tithe-tax, which was laid on by reason
of the popularity and power of bishop Gizor.’55 The difference that Hungrvaka
draws up in this way between the two bishops, Ísleifr and Gizurr, alerts us to the
fact that the narrative is far from being a simple record of events and deeds, but
that it has also received a more literary finish: Ísleifr had to struggle with disobe-
dience and financial problems during his pontificate, but his son Gizurr overcame
these problems after being elected bishop by the very same chieftains with whom
his father Ísleifr struggled. Hungrvaka also briefly outlines how Gizurr was elected:
at first, when Ísleifr died the chieftains had appointed a certain priest by the name
of Guthormr, who reluctantly accepted ‘if there were thought to be no better
choice’.56 What nobody knew at the time was that the son of Ísleifr, Gizurr, had
just returned from a journey abroad and was hiding on his ship so as to not inter-
fere with the election. But as soon as Guthormr learned that Gizurr had returned
to Iceland, he publically renounced his position. The entire populace (alþýðan)
now manages to convince the equally reluctant Gizurr that he should become
bishop instead of Guthormr.
Although every bishop is described in positive terms in the chronicle,57 Gizurr
is definitely the focus point of Hungrvaka, and he is only eclipsed by the later St
Þorlákr.58 Before Gizurr became bishop, he journeyed abroad and visited important
people who all thought highly of him. When the Norwegian king Harald Hardrada
saw Gizurr, he is reported by Hungrvaka to have said that Gizurr would be most

55
Vigfusson and Powell, Origines Islandicae, p. 436. Hungrvaka, p. 17: ‘ok hefir eigi annarr slíkr
grundvo3llr verit auðræða ok hœgenda í Skálaholti sem tíundargjaldit, þat er til lagðisk þá fyrir
vinsælð ok sko3rungskap Gizurar byskups’.
56
Vigfusson and Powell, Origines Islandicae, p. 434. Hungrvaka, p. 15: ‘ef eigi þœtti o3nnur fo3ng
vildari á vera’.
57
Some of them work wonders as well, and the body of Magnús was unharmed by the fire in
which he and eighty-two other men died.
58
The greatness of Gizurr is a theme met elsewhere in the literature of the period. See Stefán
Karlsson, ‘Fróðleiksgreinar frá tólftu öld’, in Stafkrókar: Ritgerðir eftir Stefán Karlsson, ed. by Guð-
varður Már Gunnlaugsson (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 2000), pp. 95–118 (pp.
105–07).
136 Jonas Wellendorf

suited to bear whichever rank he might get.59 This judgement of the Norwegian king
is echoed and amplified in a later Icelandic kings’ saga, Morkinskinna (c. 1220):
Þá er Gizurr Ísleifsson kom á fund Haralds konungs var rǿtt um at hann væri merkiligr
maðr. Þá sagði Haraldr konungr: ‘Svá er þat sem ér segið, en þar má gera vel af þrjá menn.
Hann má vera víkingaho3fðingi ok er hann vel til þess fenginn. Þá má hann ok vera konungr
af sínu skaplyndi ok er vel fengit. Með þriðja hætti má hann vera byskup, ok þat mun hann
helzt hljóta ok mun vera inn mesti ágætismaðr.’60
[When Gizurr Ísleifsson came to King Haraldr, the king was told that he was a distin-
guished man. Then King Haraldr said: ‘What you tell of him could be made into three
men. He could be a viking chieftain, and has the makings for it. Given his temperament,
he could be a king, and that would be fitting. The third possibility is a bishop, and that is
probably what he will become, and he will be a most outstanding man.’]61

Gizurr’s magnificence is not only corroborated by the approval of a foreign king,

but also underlined by the fact that his death is followed by a terrible storm, a great
famine, and other disasters. It was as if the country itself was mourning the death
of the bishop:
Svá hugðisk at inum vitrustum mo3nnum, at svá þótti drúpa Ísland eptir fráfall Gizurar
byskups sem Rómaborgarríki eptir fall Gregorii páfa.62
[And it was the belief of the wisest men that it looked as if Iceland was drooping after the
death of bishop Gizor, as the realm of the city of Rome did after the fall of pope Gregory.]63

Here Gizurr is explicitly compared to another great bishop, Pope Gregory the
Great. The theme of nature going awry at the death of an important person is a
well-known theme in medieval literature64 and is found a number of times in Old

59
Hungrvaka, p. 14: ‘Haraldr konungr Sigurðarson var þá konungr í Nóregi, ok mælti hann
þeim orðum við Gizur at honum kvazk svá sýnask til at hann myndi bezt til fallinn at bera hvert
tignarnafn sem hann hlyti.’
60
Morkinskinna, ed. by Finnur Jónsson, Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur,
53 (Copenhagen: Jörgensen, 1932), p. 251.
61
Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), trans.
by Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade, Islandica, 51 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
2000), p. 255.
62
Hungrvaka, p. 21.
63
Vigfusson and Powell, Origines Islandicae, p. 439.
64
Cf. Jonna Louis-Jensen, ‘Ari og Gregor’, in Con amore: En artikelsamling udgivet på 70-
årsdagen, ed. by Michael Chesnutt and Florian Grammel (Copenhagen: Reitzel, 2006; 1st pub.
1976), pp. 29–37 (p. 34, n. 14).
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 137

Norse as well. In other words, this is yet another example of a passage where the
author moulds the material in hand according to a recognizable pattern.
Hungrvaka is quite an inward-looking chronicle. Domestic Icelandic matters of
importance to the Church, such as the introduction of tithe or the establishment of
the northern diocese of Hólar, are recorded.65 But even though Iceland was situated
far from the rest of the world, it was nonetheless a part of that world as well, and
during the period of time covered by Hungrvaka important changes took place. One
of them was that the archbishop moved continually closer to Iceland: at first Skálholt
was under the rule of the Archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen, but in 1104 the Nordic
archdiocese of Lund was established and later on in 1152/53 the archdiocese of
Nidaros. Even though these changes must have influenced the life and administra-
tion at Skálholt significantly, nothing is told about this in the text. In the earliest
phase the Icelanders naturally had close connections with Saxony. Hungrvaka men-
tions that the first bishop, Ísleifr, had received his schooling in Herford, Westphalia
— where there was a famous nunnery and school at the time66 — and later he paid
the German emperor a visit and presented him with a polar bear. The second
bishop, Gizurr, also received his schooling in Saxony, even if we are not told where,
and he was consecrated in Magdeburg by Archbishop Hartwig.67 From this point
in time the continent vanishes from the text, save for some of the annalistic entries.
No less than six Icelandic bishops were consecrated in Denmark, and the last bishop
mentioned in Hungrvaka — Brandr of Hólar — was consecrated by Archbishop
Eystein in Nidaros. Jón O 3 gmundarson of Hólar might have been the first bishop
to be consecrated by the new Scandinavian archbishop,68 but our author is not
interested in this fact. Narrating about Gizurr, the author does explain that the
Archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen at the time, Liemar, had been suspended from
his office, so that Gizurr had to go to Magdeburg to be consecrated by Archbishop

65
Being the older of the two bishoprics, Skálholt was considered the primary Icelandic diocese.
Adam of Bremen regularly mentions the bishops in his neighbouring archdiocese of Magdeburg
in a similar manner; see Gerhard-Peter Handschuh, Bistumsgeschichtsschreibung im ottonisch-
salischen Reichkirchensystem: Studien zu den sächsischen Gesta episcoporum des 11. bis frühen 13.
Jahrhunderts (Tübingen: [n.pub.], 1982), p. 44.
66
On Ísleifr’s continental schooling, see Roland Köhne, ‘Wirklichkeit und Fiktion in den
mittelalterlichen Nachrichten über Isleif Gizurarson’, Skandinavistik, 17 (1987), 24–30.
67
Even though the chronicle of the archbishops of Magdeburg does mention some of the
bishops Hartwig consecrated, no mention is made of Gizurr. Gesta archiepiscoporum Magde-
burgensium, ed. by Schum, pp. 361–486 (p. 406).
68
Peter Foote, ‘Aachen, Lund, Hólar’, in Aurvandilstá: Norse Studies, ed. by Michael Barnes
and others (Odense: Odense University Press, 1984; 1st pub. 1975), pp. 101–20 (p. 107).
138 Jonas Wellendorf

Hartwig. But besides their roles as consecrators, these foreign metropolitans only
appear to play a very minor part in the day-to-day business of the Icelanders. Ozur
of Lund is the only archbishop listed among those important people who died during
the rule of one of the bishops of Skálholt, and it is also told that he gave advice
when the Icelandic Christian laws were composed. Adalbert of Bremen forbids for-
eign bishops to go to Iceland, but otherwise Hungrvaka does not record any inter-
ference of the Church at large with Icelandic ecclesiastical matters. The Icelanders
appear to have been left to decide upon all matters, great or small, on their own.
The narrative Hungrvaka told about the Icelanders, the island, and their bishops
in this way is a story about an independent nation ruled by bishops, comparable to
the kings’ saga Ágrip. There is even an incipient hereditary system, since Gizurr was
the son of Ísleifr. Hungrvaka thus describes Iceland as a kingdom in the making, even
though this process has never been completed.69 In some respects the bishops were
like kings, but in contrast to kings the bishops of Iceland were elected by the
people. Hungrvaka continuously emphasizes that it is at the national assembly that
the bishops are elected, and that the elections are the result of the will of the people.
Whereas Christianization in Norway was intrinsically connected with the kings
who had first united the kingdom of Norway, the process in Iceland was almost the
opposite. The Icelandic Christian identity that Hungrvaka seeks both to form and
to perpetuate is one of a people who are intrinsically united, and when after the
conversion the time comes, a bishop naturally — as if by the force of nature —
takes the position of local authority. The difference between the images of Norway
and Iceland that are drawn up by medieval texts is in this regard conspicuous.
The identity of the Icelanders as an independent Christian nation presented in
Hungrvaka can effectively be compared to another kingless northern society, that
of Greenland. Grœnlendinga þáttr, ‘The Tale about the Greenlanders’,70 presents
a perhaps more realistic picture of how a small community on the edge of the world
first acquired a bishop of its own. This tale about a conflict in Norse Greenland
between, on the one hand, the Bishop of Garðar (Greenland) and the Greenlanders
and, on the other, some Norwegian merchants begins with a short story describing
how the Greenlanders got a bishop of their own.71 One day Sokki Þórisson, one of

Gizurr had many sons, but only one, Bo3ðvarr, survived him. Hungrvaka does not tell what
69

happened to him. His daughter Gróa was married to Ketill Þorsteinsson, who became the second
bishop of Hólar.
70
Also known as Einars þáttr Sokkasonar, ‘The Tale of Einar Sokkason’.
71
No precise dates are given in the text, but other sources tell that the Greenlanders got their
first bishop in 1124.
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 139

the most powerful men of Greenland, summoned the Greenlanders to an assembly

and expressed his opinion that it would be better if Greenland was no longer without
a bishop. Everybody agreed, and Sokki’s son was sent to the Norwegian king, Sigurd
Jerusalemfarer, in order to get his support in this matter. The King saw the Norwe-
gian priest Arnaldr as suitable to become Bishop of Greenland and appointed him.
The Greenlanders and the initially reluctant Arnaldr then travelled to the Arch-
bishop of Lund to have him consecrated in Denmark.72 In this tale, which is tradi-
tionally (but tentatively) dated to the late twelfth century,73 the picture of the small
North Atlantic settlement is radically different from that of Hungrvaka. The Green-
landers, having realized that it would now be fitting for them to have a bishop, send
a delegation to the Norwegian king in order to secure his support, and the King then
provides the Greenlanders with a suitable candidate. This is very far from the Ice-
landic way of doing things as described in Hungrvaka. When the Icelandic national
assembly had appointed Ísleifr, he set out on a journey not to the Norwegian king,
but to the pope. On his way Ísleifr visited the court of the German emperor, but
— as Hungrvaka relates it — did so simply out of courtesy, not in order to receive
permission or support from the emperor. The Icelanders of Hungrvaka can act on
their own, whereas the Greenlanders have to consult the king.
Even if Hungrvaka in this way stresses the independence of the Icelanders and
more than hints at the identity of Iceland as a kingdom in spe, there must have been
a continuing and strong influence from the outside world. The Saxon area disappears
from Hungrvaka when a Nordic archbishopric is founded, but if we look to other
sources we see some quite tangible indicators of a continuing Saxon or German influ-
ence on Iceland. I should like to mention three. First, the earliest preserved Icelandic
manuscripts clearly show that Icelandic script in the main is based on a continental
script, whereas the earliest Norwegian script has a strong insular imprint.74 Second,

72
Grœnlendinga þáttr, ed. by Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Íslenzk fornrit, 4
(Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), pp. 271–92 (pp. 273–75).
73
See Ólafur Halldórsson, ‘Einars þáttr Sokkasonar’, in Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclo-
pedia, ed. by Phillip Pulsiano (New York: Garland, 1993), p. 160. More recently Else Ebel, ‘Der
Grœnlendinga Þáttr – aktuelle oder antiquarische Geschichtsperspektive?’, in Die Aktualität der
Saga: Festschrift für Hans Schottmann, ed. by Stig Toftgaard Andersen, Ergänzungsbände zum
RGA, 21 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999), pp. 13–25, has advanced good arguments for a date of com-
position around the middle of the thirteenth century. The text has been preserved only in the late
fourteenth-century manuscript of Flateyjarbók.
74
See Hreinn Benediktsson, Early Icelandic Script as Illustrated in Vernacular Texts from the
Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (Reykjavík: Manuscript Institute of Iceland, 1965), pp. 18–40.
140 Jonas Wellendorf

among the manuscripts that the great Icelandic manuscript collector Árni Magnús-
son got from the cathedral at Skálholt was a psalter with a prefixed calendar. It is
well known that Árni Magnússon was not particularly interested in psalters and
other liturgical manuscripts — and that from time to time he used them for pur-
poses we would not approve of today — but he did cut out and keep the calendars
that were usually in the same codices as the psalters. These calendars were spared
because names of Icelanders and northern saints were included there from time to
time. One such calendar is Reykjavík AM 249b fol. from around 1200, contem-
porary with the writing of Hungrvaka. Among the saints entered in this calendar
is the feast of the quite obscure St Pusinna on 23 April. What makes Pusinna inter-
esting in this context is that she never appears to have been widely venerated
outside Herford, where her relics were kept in the church of St Mary and Pusinna.
This is exactly the place where Ísleifr, and in all likelihood also Gizurr, received their
schooling. This might of course be a coincidence, but it is very tempting to think
that one of the two bishops had brought a calendar with him when he returned
from Herford, which was later copied, or that the Icelanders continued to keep in
touch with Herford after the two first bishops had left the school at Herford.75
Finally, the mere existence of an Icelandic text in the genre of gesta episcoporum
indicates ties with Germany. The writing of episcopal chronicles seems to have
especially flowered in Saxony at the end of the eleventh and the beginning of the
twelfth century.76 Some of these Saxon chronicles were continued later on as well,
and it has been argued that the later texts are characterized by a ‘decline accentu-
ated by a loss of wider perspective and a movement towards more local and modest
bishop catalogues’.77 The wider outlook of the gesta episcoporum was a natural
consequence of the important political position of the bishops within the Empire
and their close relations with the emperor. But once this political significance was
reduced with the collapse of the imperial episcopal system, it seemed natural to
narrow down the scope of the chronicles.78 The bishops of Iceland, albeit impor-
tant on their remote island, never had any wider political significance. So although

75
Lilli Gjerløw, Liturgica islandica I. Text, Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana, 35 (Hafniæ: Reitzel,
1980), pp. 189–208, studied this calendar, and she concluded that the selection of saints mainly
reflected continental practice, but that some insular saints who were not commonly venerated on
the continent were included too.
76
Sot, ‘Local and Institutional History’, pp. 106–07.
77
Roest, ‘Later Medieval Institutional History’, p. 286.
78
Roest, ‘Later Medieval Institutional History’, p. 286.
WHETTING THE APPETITE FOR A VERNACULAR LITERATURE 141

the endeavours of the author of Hungrvaka are similar to those of the authors of
the larger Saxon gesta episcoporum, the inward-looking character of the Icelandic
text and the lack of imperial focus can be explained by the simple fact that Iceland
was not part of an empire. Hungrvaka might also rather be connected with the
younger and more modest continuations of the gesta episcoporum than with the
earlier more ponderous texts. In either case, the inspiration and model for
Hungrvaka is in all likelihood to be sought in the German territory.79 Thus these
examples suggest a continuing German influence in Iceland around 1200 when
Hungrvaka was written.

Conclusion

The identity the author himself projects in Hungrvaka is determined by his close
connection to the cathedral of Skálholt and the bishops there and is thus primarily
an institutional identity. In the prologue of the chronicle he states that he feels an
obligation to write the history of the cathedral and the bishops, since he has ‘by the
grace of God gotten from them all my furtherance in this world’;80 and it is the
local cathedral that defines a wider perspective throughout the text. Besides Ísleifr’s
initial problems with the disobedient chieftains, the Icelanders seem to have
respected the sovereignty of the bishops, and the author therefore puts more effort
into projecting an image of Iceland as a people ruled by bishops and no other
worldly power.
The independent status of the island is also underlined by the choice of lan-
guage made by the author. He wrote in the Icelandic vernacular, which was quite
an unusual choice for this kind of literature at the time. It was in fact so unusual
that he felt it required a justification:
Þat berr ok annat til þessa rits at teygja til þess unga menn at kynnisk várt mál at ráða, þat
er á norrœnu er ritat, lo3g eða so3gur eða mannfrœði. Set ek af því heldr þetta á skrá en annan
fróðleik, þann er áðr er á skrá settr, at mér sýnisk mínum bo3rnum eða o3ðrum ungmennum

79
Some episcopal chronicles are known from Denmark and Sweden as well, but they are later
than Hungrvaka and much more modest in scope. The only work that is partly comparable to
Hungrvaka is the Chronicon ecclesiæ ripensis (c. 1220), but it is much shorter and less ambitious than
Hungrvaka.
80
Vigfusson and Powell, Origines Islandicae, p. 426. Hungrvaka, p. 4: ‘ek hefi með Guðs
miskunn alla gæfu af þeim hlotit þessa heims’.
142 Jonas Wellendorf

vera í skyldasta lagi at vita þat eða forvitnask, hvernig eða með hverjum hætti at hér hefir
magnazk kristnin ok byskupsstólar settir verit hér á Íslandi.81
[Another purpose with this writing is to entice the young to learn how to read our lan-
guage, what is written in Norse, laws and stories and genealogical lore. I will rather write
this kind of learning, than that which has been committed to writing earlier because I think
that my children and other young people are obliged to or should be eager to learn how and
in which way Christianity has gained strength here and the episcopal sees have been
established here in Iceland.] (author’s translation)

He says that he writes Hungrvaka in the vernacular in order to stimulate interest

for vernacular texts. Up until his time the vernacular had been used for certain
kinds of literature (laws, stories, and genealogy), but apparently this is not exciting
enough to get young readers into the habit of reading in their own language. At the
cathedral, where the author presumably lived and wrote, Latin would at this time
have been the language the students were taught. By using the vernacular in the
prestigious genre of ecclesiastical historiography, the author wanted not only to
stimulate interest in literature in the vernacular but also to increase the status of
the written vernacular vis-à-vis Latin. One of the overall goals of the text thus
seems to have been to define the Icelanders as an independent people ruled by
kinglike bishops and using their own language.
As time passed the Icelanders had to submit to Norwegian rule, and the influence
of the archbishops of Nidaros on the election of Icelandic bishops became increas-
ingly visible. From 1236 onward, most of the bishops in Iceland were foreigners,82
but the language and the vernacular literature lasted for centuries. Despite the
meagre transmission of Hungrvaka, it was an important step in the process of
vernacularization. If the Old Icelandic literature is compared with the literature
produced in other European countries, it is evident that the use of the vernacular
for literary purposes increased after Hungrvaka. The vernacular as a medium for
literature was in fact so successful that only a few humble remnants of Latin litera-
ture written in Iceland are preserved today.8 3 By contrast, there is a very sizeable
amount of vernacular literature, enough to satiate even the most voracious readers.

81
Hungrvaka, pp. 3–4.
82
See Elizabeth Ashman Rowe, The Development of Flateyjarbók: Iceland and the Norwegian
Dynastic Crisis of 1389, Viking Collection, 15 (Odense: University of Southern Denmark Press,
2005), pp. 230–34.
83
See Gottskálk Þ. Jensson, ‘The Lost Latin Literature of Medieval Iceland: The Fragments
of the Vita sancti Thorlaci and Other Evidence’, Symbolae Osloenses, 79 (2004), 150–70.
 Part Three
Early Historical Narratives in East-Central Europe
 Chapter 8

A N EW C HOSEN P EOPLE? G ALLUS A NONYMUS’S

N ARRATIVE ABOUT P OLAND AND ITS R ULERS

Zbigniew Dalewski

T
he chronicle of an anonymous author referred to as Gallus is the earliest
narrative describing the history of Poland from mythical pre-Christian times
to the second decade of the twelfth century.1 It was composed in the 1110s,
in all likelihood at the court of Duke Boles³aw III Wrymouth of Poland (1102–38),
or at least with the inspiration and commission of the Duke’s intimate milieu.2 Its
composition was most probably connected to the deep political crisis that occurred
in Poland as a result of dynastic conflict between Boles³aw and his elder half
brother, Zbigniew. Probably in 1111, Boles³aw — who had driven Zbigniew out
of the country a few years earlier — treacherously recalled him from exile and then
imprisoned and blinded him. This bloody deed met with a negative reaction in
public opinion, and Boles³aw was forced to undergo a humiliating public penance.3

1
Gallus, Cronicae; and GPP.
2
The dedicatory letter of Book I, where the author mentions the names of all the Polish
bishops, allows us to date the time of the chronicle’s composition to the years 1112–18. The
anonymous chronicler himself also emphasizes the role played in the chronicle’s creation by
Boles³aw Wrymouth’s chancellor Michael. He calls him ‘cooperatori suo […] cepitque laboris
opfici’ (‘his helper […] the maker of the task embarked upon’); Gallus, Cronicae, I. Ep., p. 1; GPP,
pp. 2–3; see e.g. Marian Plezia, Kronika Galla na tle historiografii XII wieku, Rozprawy Wydzia³u
Historyczno-Filozoficznego, 2nd ser., vol. II, 47 (Cracow: Polska Akademia Umiejêtnoœci, 1947),
p. 136 and pp. 182–95; and Norbert Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung im Europa der ‘nationes’:
Nationalgeschichtliche Gesamtdarstellungen im Mittelalter, Münsterische Historische Forschungen,
8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995), pp. 491–99.
3
See generally Karol Maleczyñski, Boles³aw III Krzywousty (Wroc³aw: Ossolineum, 1975), pp.
70–78.
146 Zbigniew Dalewski

In these circumstances, actions were undertaken at the Duke’s court aiming at

restoring Boles³aw’s undermined authority and legitimizing his power; Gallus
Anonymus’s Chronicle was one of these actions.4 It created an image of Boles³aw
as the sole rightful ruler summoned by God to exercise monarchical governance
and presented him as an heir to a dynasty that had reigned over Poland since time
immemorial. These current political relations and the needs of the ducal court
defined to a large extent the nature of Gallus’s work and influenced his account on
the history of Poland. One should not, however, treat the Chronicle of Gallus
exclusively as a product of pure propaganda aimed at relieving tensions caused by
dynastic conflict, since it seems that Gallus’s vision of the past of Poland and of the
dynasty ruling over it was shared by a considerable number of political elites. The
Chronicle reflected their own perception of themselves and determined their
identity.5

Anonymus and his Chronicle

Whereas we may determine more or less precisely the time and circumstances of
the Chronicle’s composition, we are not able to say much about its anonymous
author, commonly referred to as Gallus, consistent with a tradition entrenched in
the sixteenth century.6 We may only say with absolute certainty that he was not a
Pole, and that he was probably a monk.7 We may only guess where he came from

4
See e.g. Jan Adamus, O monarchii Gallowej (Warsaw: Towarzystwo Naukowe Warszawskie,
1952); Thomas N. Bisson, ‘On not Eating Polish Bread in Vain: Resonance and Conjuncture in
the Deeds of the Princes of Poland’, Viator, 29 (1998), 275–89; and Zbigniew Dalewski, Ritual
and Politics: Writing the History of a Dynastic Conflict in Medieval Poland (Leiden: Brill, 2008).
5
Cf. recently Przemys³aw Wiszewski, ‘Domus Bolezlai’: W poszukiwaniu tradycji dynastycznej
Piastów (do oko³o 1138 roku) (Wroc³aw: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wroc³awskiego, 2008).
6
He was first identified by this name by the sixteenth-century Polish historian Martin Kromer,
who placed on one of the manuscripts of the chronicle the following short annotation: ‘Gallus hanc
historiam scripsit, monachus, opinor, aliquis, ut ex proemiis coniicere licet, qui Boleslai tercii
tempore vixit’ (‘Gallus wrote this history, probably a monk, who lived in days of Boles³aw III, as one
may conclude from the forewords’). See Gallus, Cronicae, p. 1; GPP, p. xxv; see also Pierre David,
Les Sources de l’histoire de Pologne à l’époque des Piasts, 963–1386 (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1934),
p. 49; and Plezia, Kronika Galla, p. 13.
7
In his dedicatory letter addressed to the Polish clergy at the beginning of Book III, the
chronicler describes himself as ‘exul apud vos et peregrinus’ (‘an exile and a sojourner among you’)
and expresses the hope that, after the completion of his work, he will be able to return ‘ad locum
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 147

and when he came to Poland. A hypothesis linking our anonymous author with
Provence, and especially with the monastery of St Gilles, seems to be the most
accepted one.8 However, there are also arguments in favour of his possible connec-
tions with Flanders,9 while other arguments seem in turn to point to his possible
connections with Venice.10 Based on stylistic similarities and on the approach to
structuring the narration, attempts have been made recently to attribute to Gallus
— in addition to the Chronicle — authorship of the anonymous translatio of St
Nicholas, compiled at the monastery of St Nicholas on the Lido, and to connect
the author of both texts with Dalmatia, and especially with Zadar.11 On the other
hand, in view of the resemblance between the rhythmical prose used by Gallus and
the contemporary writing style used in central France in the region of Tours and
Orléans, it is possible that he was educated there.12 Given his knowledge of Hun-
garian affairs and presumable knowledge of contemporary Hungarian sources, it
is quite possible that he also spent some time in Hungary, probably at the Benedic-
tine monastery in Somogyvár, a daughter house of St Gilles Abbey.13 However, all
these varied attempts to identify the author and to specify the milieu from which
he may have originated have not yet led to conclusive findings and remain more or
less strongly grounded hypotheses.14

mee professionis’ (‘to the place of my profession’); Gallus, Cronicae, III. Ep., p. 120; GPP, pp.
210–11.
8
David, Les Sources, p. 47; and Plezia, Kronika Galla, p. 180.
9
Karol Maleczyñski, ‘Wstêp’, in Gallus, Cronicae, p. lxxxix; see also Johannes Fried, ‘Gnesen
– Aachen – Rom. Otto III. und der Kult des hl. Adalbert: Beobachtungen zum älteren Adalberts-
leben’, in Polen und Deutschland: Die Berliner Tagung über den ‘Akt von Gnesen’, ed. by Michael
Borgolte (Berlin: Akademie, 2002), pp. 235–80 (pp. 267–69).
10
Danuta Borawska, ‘Gallus Anonim czy Italus Anonim’, Przegl¹d Historyczny, 56 (1965),
111–19.
11
Tomasz Jasiñski, O pochodzeniu Galla Anonima (Cracow: Avalon, 2008).
12
Marian Plezia, ‘Nowe studia nad Gallem Anonimem’, in Mente et litteris: O kulturze i
spo³eczeñstwie wiekówœrednich, ed. by Helena Ch³opocka (Poznañ: Wydawnictwo Naukowe
Uniwersytetu im. Adama Mickiewicza, 1984), pp. 111–20.
13
Plezia, Kronika Galla, pp. 149–78; and Dániel Bagi, Królowie wêgierscy w Kronice Galla
Anonima (Cracow: Polska Akademia Umiejêtnoœci, 2008).
14
Recently another attempt has been made at determining Gallus’s origin and identifying him
with Bishop Otto of Bamberg; see Johannes Fried, ‘Kam der Gallus Anonymus aus Bamberg?’,
Deutsches Archiv, 65 (2009), 497–545.
148 Zbigniew Dalewski

Likewise, the time and circumstances of Gallus’s arrival in Poland are a matter
of conjecture. He most likely came to Poland to write his Chronicle in Boles³aw
Wrymouth’s entourage during the Duke’s return from his penitential pilgrimage
to Hungary, made after his bloody crackdown on Zbigniew. However, of course,
one cannot exclude the possibility of Gallus’s earlier arrival to Poland.15
The political aim of the Chronicle determined to a great extent the genre and
the composition of Gallus’s work. The chronicle was written, as its author put it,
‘gratia cuiusdam gloriosissimi ducis ac victoriosissimi nomine Bolezlaui’ (‘in honour
of one of the most glorious and victorious of dukes, by name Boles³aw’).16 Further
on, the chronicler once again explained the purpose of his work, this time in a more
detailed manner: ‘Est autem intencio nostra de Polonia et duce principaliter
Bolezlao describere eiusque gratia quedam gesta predecessorum digna memoria
recitare’ (‘Our intention is to tell of Poland and in particular of Duke Boles³aw,
and for his sake to recount some of the deeds of his forebears that are worthy of
record’).17 The chronicle’s entire arrangement, as well as its mode of presentation
and selection of the described events, was subordinate to this basic aim: demon-
strating the greatness and glory of Boles³aw Wrymouth and his predecessors.18
In Book I, Gallus presents the history of the ducal dynasty — the Piasts — from
the moment of their seizing power over Poland till the birth of Boles³aw Wry-
mouth and describes the glorious deeds of his hero’s ancestors. In his presentation,
Poland’s history becomes inextricably linked to the histories of the members of the
princely dynasty, and the Piast dukes are portrayed as the sole rightful rulers — the
true ‘natural lords’ summoned by God to wield power over Poland, whose rule
guarantees the well-being of Poland and the Poles. In the subsequent two books,
the chronicler focuses his attention on presenting the magnificent deeds of
Boles³aw Wrymouth, who since his earliest years demonstrated exceptional virtues
and who scored major victories against numerous enemies, pagan and Christian
alike. In this way, Gallus expressly notes that power over Poland should justly fall
to Boles³aw as the real heir to the great Piast rulers described in Book I — primarily
his namesakes Boles³aw I the Brave (992–1025) and Boles³aw II the Bold
(1058–79) — and not to his brother Zbigniew.

15
David, Les Sources, p. 47; and Plezia, Kronika Galla, p. 180.
16
Gallus, Cronicae, I, Prohemium, p. 6; GPP, pp. 10–11.
17
Gallus, Cronicae, I, Prohemium, p. 9; GPP, pp. 14–15.
18
Cf. Plezia, Kronika Galla, pp. 62–76.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 149

In this respect, the Chronicle of Gallus is similar to other narratives composed

at the turn of the eleventh and twelfth centuries in Western Europe devoted to
propagating the glory of princely dynasties. Similarly to Gallus’s chronicle, many
of them were composed in response to dynastic crises threatening the stability of
princely dominions and served to overcome such crises and to legitimize dynastic
power. Like Gallus, the authors of these narratives focused on the deeds of their
heroes and presented them as the builders and defenders of principalities, fighting
against many enemies, both pagan and Christian. In their renditions the great
princely deeds were represented as the foundation of legitimate rulership, proving
the rights of the princes to wield a real, monarchal power.19 It does not, however,
mean that we can treat the chronicle of Gallus — written by an author whose most
likely place of origin was Western Europe — as a work that was connected exclu-
sively with Western literary tradition and its typical narrative patterns. Gallus’s
work was written with the participation of Boles³aw Wrymouth’s most intimate
milieu and was composed with Polish recipients in mind. Therefore, his Deeds of
the Princes of the Poles, though strongly rooted in the Western tradition of the
princely gesta, also to a great extent referred to the perceptions of their Polish
recipients and presented their vision of legitimate ducal power.

A Chosen Duke

In his narration about the glorious deeds of Boles³aw Wrymouth, Gallus devoted
much attention to events that took place in 1109 during the siege of the Pome-
ranian stronghold of Nak³o by Boles³aw’s troops. On St Lawrence’s Day, a forty-
thousand-strong Pomeranian army — which had arrived to the relief of Nak³o —
broke the truce that had been concluded earlier and unexpectedly attacked
Boles³aw’s troops, counting less than a thousand knights. In the dogged fight,
Boles³aw’s knights defeated the Pomeranians, with 27,000 Pomeranian warriors
falling on the battlefield and the remaining having to find a way to escape and be
rescued. While describing the battle of Nak³o, Gallus has no doubt that Boles³aw,
in spite of his extraordinary bravery and exceptional military skills, could not have

19
Thomas N. Bisson, ‘Princely Nobility in an Age of Ambition (c. 1050–1150)’, in Nobles and
Nobility in Medieval Europe: Concepts, Origins, Transformations, ed. by Anne J. Duggan (Wood-
bridge: Boydell, 2000), pp. 101–13; see also Thomas N. Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth Century:
Power, Lordship, and the Origins of European Government (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
2009), pp. 183–91.
150 Zbigniew Dalewski

won such a wonderful victory himself; it became possible only thanks to the sup-
port of God. God did not let the pagan Pomeranians triumph over Christians. He
came to his believers’ rescue and brought defeat upon their enemies: the Pome-
ranians died, as the chronicler put it, ‘non humana, sed manu divina’ (‘at God’s
hand not the hands of men’).20
The idea of God’s care of Boles³aw and His support of the Polish ruler and via
Boles³aw of the entire Polish community is developed by Gallus Anonymus more
widely in the description of the invasion of Poland by Emperor Henry V. In this
case, as the chronicler attempts to prove, God once again did not leave Boles³aw on
his own but instead came to the rescue and caused his enemies to be defeated, even
though this time Boles³aw had to fight not against pagans, but against the Chris-
tian emperor.
Boles³aw was informed of Henry’s attack soon after the above-mentioned vic-
tory over the Pomeranians. Without heeding his knights’ exhaustion, the Duke
immediately went back to his country in order to square up to the new opponent.
Having a small army at his disposal, Boles³aw decided not to engage Henry in bat-
tle but instead started harassing the Emperor’s troops. Soon panic started spreading
in the ranks of the imperial army constantly being attacked by Boles³aw, and some
German knights appreciating the bravery and courage of the Polish ruler even
started singing a song to his glory, in which they admitted that ‘Deus est cum eo
faciens victoriam’ (‘God is on his side and gives to him victory’). Hearing this, some
men of worth and prudence — as Gallus puts it — said:
Nisi Deus hunc hominem adiuvaret, numquam tantam de paganis victoriam ei daret,
neque nobis ita viriliter contra staret. Et ni Deus eum ita potencialiter exaltaret, numquam
eum noster populus sic laudaret.
[If God were not with this man, he would never grant him so great a victory over the
pagans, nor would he stand against us so stoutly. If God did not exalt him so powerfully,
our people would never sing his praises like this.]

In the end, even the Emperor himself recognized that he was unable to resist divine
will and would not manage to overcome a ruler supported by God. After an un-
successful attempt at inducing Boles³aw to conclude a peace treaty, the defeated
Henry had to return home in disgrace, carrying back the corpses of his knights
instead of tribute from Boles³aw. In this way — as Gallus sums up his report on

20
Gallus, Cronicae, III. 1, pp. 126–29; GPP, pp. 220–27.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 151

Henry’s expedition — a ‘iustus iudex’ (‘righteous judge’) punished the pride of the
Emperor and defended Poland’s ancient freedom.21
The chronicle of Gallus contains information about the support given to
Boles³aw Wrymouth’s rulership by God in other ways besides the above-described
events of 1109. In Gallus’s presentation, the bonds between God and Boles³aw did
not come down to an act of one-time divine intervention on behalf of the Duke
fighting for a good cause. They had a much more complex character and resulted
— as the chronicler seems to suggest — from the special plans of divine Providence
towards the Polish duke, and consequently also towards the community subject to
his authority.22
Even the birth of the hero of Gallus’s chronicle happened as the result of Provi-
dence, for Boles³aw’s birth was a true gift of God granted not only to his parents
— who had been fruitlessly waiting for a son for many years — but also to all their
subjects. Earlier, God granted John the Baptist to Zachary and gave a son to Abra-
ham and Sarah; now He decided likewise to give to the Polish duke W³adys³aw a
son for whom He had special plans. Boles³aw, who was born thanks to God, ‘Deum
timeret, sanctam ecclesiam exaltaret, iustitiam exerceret, ad honorem Dei et
salutem populi regnum Polonie detineret’ (‘should fear God, exalt Holy Church,
exercise justice, and, above all, hold the kingdom of Poland to the honor of God
and the salvation of people’).23
The exceptional character of the ties linking God with Boles³aw found a par-
ticularly visible expression during events accompanying the young Duke’s knight-
ing. As Gallus presents it, Boles³aw’s father, Duke W³adys³aw ‘videns quia puer
etate florebat, gestisque militaribus prepollebat […] eum accingi gladio […] dispo-
suit’ (‘seeing that the boy was in the prime of his life and had a special gift for
soldiering […] decided that he should be girded with the sword’). 2 4 When the
celebration of Boles³aw’s knighting had been completed, pagan Cumans invaded
Poland. Having plundered the country and taken rich spoils, they finally decided
to retreat, but suddenly
Deus, christianorum conservator, sueque vigilie vindicator, paucorum fidelium audaciam
in multorum perniciem paganorum suscitavit, quibus irruentibus dominice diei in Gloria
sue patencie brachio triumphavit.

21
Gallus, Cronicae, III. 3–15, pp. 130–42; GPP, pp. 228–47.
22
See e.g. Roman Micha³owski, ‘Restauratio Poloniae dans l’idéologie dynastique de Gallus
Anonymus’, Acta Poloniae Historica, 52 (1985), 5–43 (pp. 25–30).
23
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 30, p. 57; GPP, pp. 104–05.
24
Gallus, Cronicae, II. 18, p. 86; GPP, pp. 152–53.
152 Zbigniew Dalewski

[God, protector of Christians and avenger of His vigil, roused the courage of a few of the
faithful to the destruction of the vast number of pagans, and triumphed as they fell upon
them in the glory of the Lord’s day and in might of His arm.]

The Cumans, crushed as the result of divine intervention, fell into such terror that
‘regnante Bolezlauo videre Poloniam non sunt ausi’ (‘they did not dare to set eyes
to Poland again during Boles³aw’s reign’).25 The meaning of the events that took
place during the Cuman invasion was explained in the opening sentence of Gallus’s
report on the victory over pagans, won thanks to divine support: ‘Bolezlauo itaque
milite noviter constituto, in Plaucis Deus revelavit, quanta per eum operari debeat
in futuro’ (‘So Boles³aw had just been made a knight when God revealed in the case
of the Cumans what great exploits He was to perform through him in the
future’).26 A miracle that God performed in defeating the Cumans occurred — as
the chronicler convinces us — due to Boles³aw. It was him that God chose, and He
connected to the chosen one the fulfilment of His plans. Only on Boles³aw’s
account did God decide to directly interfere with history and to reveal His will.
Further on in his narrative, Gallus even more firmly highlights his conviction
regarding the exceptional role that the Polish ruler was to play in God’s plans.
According to our chronicler, during Boles³aw’s knighting — which in Gallus’s
presentation plays the role of the inaugural ritual bestowing upon the princeling
the right to rule27 — one of its participants was supposed to turn to Boles³aw’s
father with the following speech:
Domine dux […] Wladislaue, pius Deus hodie regnum Polonie visitavit, tuamque senec-
tutem et infirmitatem totamque patriam per hunc hodie factum militem exaltavit. Beata
mater, que talem puerum educavit. Usque modo Polonia fuit ab hostibus concultata, sed
per istum puerulum erit ut antiquitus restaurata.
[My lord Duke W³adys³aw, […] today the good Lord has visited the kingdom of Poland,
and has exalted your old age and your infirmity and our whole country by his knighting
today. Blessed is the mother who raised such a son. Until now Poland was trodden down
by her enemies, but this young lad will restore her as she was in times of old.]28

The words of this anonymous knight — told, as the chronicler emphasizes, with
the spirit of prophecy — contained a clear message. Distinct allusions to the text

25
Gallus, Cronicae, II. 19, pp. 86–87; GPP, pp. 154–55.
26
Gallus, Cronicae, II. 19, pp. 86–87; GPP, pp. 154–55.
27
See Zbigniew Dalewski, ‘The Knighting of Polish Dukes in the Early Middle Ages’, Acta
Poloniae Historica, 80 (1999), 15–43 (pp. 25–28).
28
Gallus, Cronicae, II. 20, p. 87; GPP, pp. 154–55.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 153

of the Gospels included within them (Benedictus (Luke 1. 68–79) and Magnificat
(Luke 1. 46–55)) brought to mind explicit associations for the relationship be-
tween Boles³aw and God. In Gallus’s rendition, Boles³aw seems almost to manifest
the personality of the Son of God.29 With Boles³aw’s birth and his knighting,
divine grace surrounding the chosen ruler also fell on Poland and its people, en-
abling them to participate in the glory attached to Boles³aw and guaranteeing them
God’s help and care. A Poland ruled by a duke chosen by God became a chosen
land beloved by God and supported by Him, the land with which He associated
His plans in an exceptional way.
As Gallus Anonymus notes, during the reign of Boles³aw Poland was destined
first of all to disseminate Christianity among the neighbouring pagan peoples;
above all the Pomeranians, but also the Prussians and even the Cumans. The Poles
were to turn them back from a path leading towards eternal damnation and to
divert them towards salvation. In fragments of the chronicle devoted to Boles³aw’s
fights against the pagan people, Gallus strongly stresses the religious aspect of this
struggle. Of course, Boles³aw’s expeditions against Pomerania brought the Duke
and his warriors glory and rich spoils; but they also, if not above all, contributed to
the expansion of the borders of the Christian world. Describing the Duke’s
expedition against the Pomeranian castle of Czarnków, the chronicler points out
that Boles³aw not only ‘suo dominio mancipavit’ (‘subjected it to his lordship’) but
also ‘ad fidem multos ab infidelitate revocavit, ipsumque dominum castelli de fonte
baptismatis elevavit’ (‘turned many from paganism to the faith and raised the lord
of the castle himself from the baptismal font’).30
In the description of the fights against the Pomeranians, Prussians, or Cumans,
Gallus constantly appeals to the dichotomy of Christians and pagans or Christians
and barbarians — identifying the knights of Boles³aw, the Poles, with the Christian
people confronted by the pagan barbarians.31 In the context of the struggle against
the pagans, Christianity constitutes — according to Gallus — a basic indicator of
the group identity of the Poles; it grants a sacred dimension to the battles fought
by them and places them within the framework of the history of salvation. God
chose Boles³aw, and through him He also chose his country (Poland) and his
subjects (the Poles) so that Christianity would reach peoples opposed to accepting
the real faith and who followed the errors of paganism. That is why He supported

29
Micha³owski, ‘Restauratio Poloniae’, pp. 28–30.
30
Gallus, Cronicae, II. 44, p. 114; GPP, pp. 200–01.
31
See e.g. Gallus, Cronicae, III. 1, pp. 127–29; GPP, pp. 220–25.
154 Zbigniew Dalewski

Boles³aw and his knights in this struggle and, according to the announcement
made during Boles³aw’s knighting, directly intervened many times on the battle-
field in bringing defeats upon their enemies.
Poland was surrounded — as Gallus wrote in the ‘geographical’ introduction
to his Chronicle — not only by pagan people, but also by numerous Christian na-
tions.32 This community of faith, however, did not guarantee friendship and peace.
Poland was invaded by its Christian neighbours many times, and they — especially
the Czechs — sometimes attacked Poland in no less a treacherous way than pagans
did. Yet Boles³aw, and together with him the Poles, could count on God’s help
during these fights as well. Admittedly, in numerous battles fought by Boles³aw
(mainly against the Czechs) God did not, according to Gallus, intervene directly
on behalf of the Polish duke and his knights, as was the case when they were fight-
ing against pagans. However, the victories won by Boles³aw were also indicative
enough of God’s support. There were no doubts that God stood on the side of the
Polish duke and constantly helped him during his military undertakings.33 Only
in the above-mentioned account about Henry V’s invasion did Gallus decide to
point directly to God’s support of Boles³aw in the fight against the Emperor. It is
possible to think that in reminding readers of the exceptional character of the ties
linking the Polish duke and God in the context of the struggle against the Chris-
tian emperor, the chronicler wanted to highlight more clearly his ideas regarding
the exceptional role of Boles³aw and the chosen nature of the community subjected
to his power. God did not leave Boles³aw and his people alone even during their
struggle against the Emperor, but instead came to their rescue and brought defeat
upon their enemy. It is therefore not strange that a few years later, in order to
expiate the crime committed against his half-brother Zbigniew, Boles³aw,
non ducatum, sed regnum magnificum gubernaret ac de diversis et christianorum et
paganorum nationibus hostium dubitaret, semet ipsum regnumque suum servandum
divine potentie commendavit et iter peregrinacionis […] summa devotione consumavit.
[although he ruled not a duchy but a magnificent kingdom and had to fear from diverse
enemy nations, Christian and pagan alike, commended himself and his realm to the care
of God’s power and with deepest devotion undertook a journey of pilgrimage.]34

32
Gallus, Cronicae, I, Prohemium, pp. 6–9; GPP, pp. 12–15.
33
See e.g. Norbert Kersken, ‘God and the Saints in Medieval Polish Historiography’, in Making
of Christian Myths, pp. 153–94 (pp. 160–63).
34
Gallus, Cronicae, III. 25, p. 158; GPP, pp. 276–77.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 155

Boles³aw knew that God would not permit the kingdom, left in his care, to meet
with misfortune; God — as Gallus proves — had made a covenant with the dynasty
governing Poland and its subjects and had promised always to take care of them.
In order to understand the significance of God’s miraculous interventions on
Boles³aw Wrymouth’s behalf, it is necessary to put them into the wider context of
Gallus’s narrative about the history of Poland and its rulers. In the chronicler’s ren-
dition, Boles³aw Wrymouth’s reign — although very special because of the Duke’s
exceptional virtues — was only the culmination of a long period of successful rule
by consecutive Piast rulers who had also experienced acts of divine intervention.35
Of course, there is no doubt that God supported Boles³aw Wrymouth in a special
way; God provided care for him not only because He had taken a special liking to
Boles³aw, but above all this support resulted from the plans that the Lord had for
the whole dynasty ruling in Poland. In this context, it is worth giving special atten-
tion to a dynastic legend told by our chronicler describing the events that
accompanied the seizing of power over Poland by the Piast kin.

A Chosen Dynasty

From Gallus’s account we learn that two mysterious wanderers arrived at the city
of Gniezno, where Duke Popiel then ruled. Driven away from the gates by inhabi-
tants of the city, they found shelter in a suburb, in a cottage of the Duke’s poor
ploughman Piast and his wife Rzepka, and were invited to stay there. The strangers
at […] pauperis invitationi gratanter inclinantes et hospitalitalis tugurium subeuntes: ‘bene,
inquiunt, nos advenisse gaudeatis et in nostro adventu bonorum copiam et de sobole
honorem et gloriam habeatis’.
[accepted the poor man’s invitation with pleasure and, as they entered the hut, they said:
‘May you truly be glad we have come, and may our arrival bring you abundance of good
things, and honor and glory in your offspring!’]

As it turned out, the wishes given by the wanderers would come true in an
unexpected way. Despite his poverty, Piast not only let the strangers in, but also
put at their disposal the modest supplies of food he had gathered for the celebra-
tion of his son’s hair-cutting. To the amazement of everyone, the food and drink
multiplied in abundance, so the poor ploughman could invite to the banquet not
only the strangers and his friends and neighbours, but also the Duke himself and

35
Cf. Micha³owski, ‘Restauratio Poloniae’, pp. 35–43.
156 Zbigniew Dalewski

his retinue. ‘Visis igitur Patz et Repca miraculis que fiebant, aliquid magni presagii
de puero sentiebant’ (‘When Piast and Rzepka saw these miraculous things hap-
pening, they realized that something of great significance was being foretold for the
boy’). In the end, ‘hospites illi puerum totonderunt, eique Semouith vocabulum
ex presagio futurorum indiderunt’ (‘the two guests cut the boy’s hair, and in pre-
sage of the future they gave him the name Siemowit’). Further on, Gallus describes
the events accompanying the collapse of the rule of Popiel — who was eaten by
mice — and the acquisition of the ducal throne by Siemowit, with whom the reign
of the Piast dynasty over Poland began.36
In the case of the Piast dynastic legend written down by Gallus, we deal, with-
out doubt, with a compound story, drawing on different traditions.37 Without
discussing the issue of its origins, it is worth observing that in our chronicler’s
account one can discern a clear attempt at placing the story about the beginnings
of the Piasts within the framework of Christian tradition.38 It is not only a matter
of Gallus using biblical themes in a more or less direct way;39 of more importance
is the great significance the chronicler attached to the direct participation of God
in events leading to the seizing of power by the first, still pagan, representative of
the Piast dynasty. The mysterious strangers arrived in Gniezno — as Gallus empha-
sizes — ‘ex occulto Dei consilio’ (‘by God’s secret plan’).40 The multiplication of
the food in Piast’s cottage similarly resulted from ‘Dei magnalia’ (‘the marvelous
works of God’) and ‘divinis beneficiis’ (‘divine goodness’).41 An award that Piast
and his son were to receive according to the announcement of the strangers also
resulted from the will of God, who ‘temporaliter pauperum humilitatem aliquo-
ciens exaltat et hospilitatem etiam gentilium remunerare non recusat’ (‘exalts the
poor and humble in this world and does not disdain to reward even pagans for

36
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 1–3, pp. 9–13; GPP, pp. 16–25.
37
See Jacek Banaszkiewicz, Podanie o Piaœcie i Popielu: Studium nad wczesnoœredniowiecznymi
tradycjami dynastycznymi (Warsaw: Pañstwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1986); and Czes³aw
Deptu³a, Galla Anonima mit genezy Polski: Studium z historiozofii i hermeneutyki symboli
dziejopisarstwa œredniowiecznego (Lublin: Redakcja Wydawnictw Katolickiego Uniwersytetu
Lubelskiego, 1990).
38
Cf. Micha³owski, ‘Restauratio Poloniae’, pp. 11–14.
39
Deptu³a, Galla Anonima, pp. 219–64; see also Wiszewski, ‘Domus Bolezlai’, pp. 174–89.
40
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 1, p. 9; GPP, pp. 16–17.
41
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 2, pp. 10–11; GPP, pp. 20–21.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 157

their hospitality’).42 Gallus seems to suggest that together with the arrival of the
mysterious strangers, God became involved in the life of the community of the
Poles. Popiel and the dwellers of Gniezno did not grasp the meaning of the miracle
and the divine intervention taking place before their eyes, and did not accept the
strangers who arrived by God’s plan. By contrast, Piast answered God’s summons
and invited His envoys to stay in his house. Christianity reached Poland, admit-
tedly, much later, and Piast and his family remained pagans. However, as Gallus
seems to suggest, during the celebration of young Siemowit’s hair-cutting — with
the abundance of God’s miracles — not only did the Piasts get in touch with God
for the first time, but also the humility and hospitality of the poor ploughman
enabled them to win God’s favour and consequently to seize power.43 In regard to
the Lord’s participation in handing power over to the Piast kin, Gallus had no
doubt: ‘rex regum et dux ducum eum Polonie ducem […] ordinavit et de regno
Pumpil cum sobole radicitus exstirpavit’ (‘King of Kings and Duke of Dukes […]
made him [Siemowit] duke of Poland, and He rid the kingdom once and for all of
Popiel and all his progeny’).44
In Gallus’s narrative, however, the miraculous events that took place in Piast’s
cottage led not only to the change of the dynasty ruling Poland, to the divine
deposition of Popiel, and to the appointment of Piast’s offspring to the throne; as
the chronicler seems to suggest, the history of Poland and the Poles in fact began
with this act of divine intervention, which made Siemowit’s seizure of ducal power
possible. The narrator’s point is not only that Siemowit ‘suis principatus fines
ulterius quam aliquis antea dilitavit’ (‘extended the boundaries of the realm farther
than anyone previously’)45 and gave the Duchy of Poland its final territorial shape;
at the same time, by handing the ducal power over to Siemowit and then to the
following Piast rulers, the Lord entrusted them with the task of leading the com-
munity of the Poles into the history of salvation. In Gallus’s presentation, the
process of placing Poland via the Piast rulers within the framework of christianitas
began already with the seizure of power by Siemowit. During the reign of the first

42
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 2, pp. 10–11; GPP, pp. 20–21.
43
Banaszkiewicz, Podanie o Piaœcie, pp. 149–55; and Deptu³a, Galla Anonima, pp. 219–25.
44
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 3, p. 12; GPP, pp. 22–23. See Brygida Kürbis, ‘Sacrum and Profanum in
Polish Medieval Historiography: Views on Social Order’, Questiones Medii Aevi, 2 (1981), 19–34;
and Zbigniew Dalewski, ‘Vivat princeps in aeternum: Sacrality of Ducal Power in Poland in the
Earlier Middle Ages’, in Monotheistic Kingship: The Medieval Variants, ed. by Aziz Al-Azmeh and
János M. Bak (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2004), pp. 215–30.
45
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 3, p. 13; GPP, pp. 24–25.
158 Zbigniew Dalewski

three Piast dukes known to Gallus — Siemowit, his son Leszek, and his grandson
Siemomys³ — Poland remained, of course, a pagan state. Yet in some way, thanks
to a covenant made in Piast’s cottage between God and the Piast kin, God’s pres-
ence could already be felt in Poland in those early times. Gallus juxtaposes in an
explicit way the time before the Piasts, which was ‘memoriam oblivio vetustatis
abolevit et quos error et ydolatria defedavit’ (‘stained by error and idolatry, lost to
memory in the oblivion of ages’), and the time of the Piast rulers ‘que fidelis recor-
datio meminit’ (‘whose memory has been preserved in faithful record’).46 The
Piasts, though they were still pagans, had special relations with the sacred, and
through them their subjects were also able to gain divine favour. In his account,
Gallus disposed of the pagan pre-Piast past doomed to oblivion outside of memo-
rable time. The Piasts’ Poland was from the very beginning connected to God and
chosen by Him.47
There is no doubt that the covenant between God and the Piast kin and the
entire community of the Poles was later complemented and deepened by the
baptism of the fourth Piast ruler, Mieszko I, a son of Duke Siemomys³. Only with
Mieszko’s baptism could God’s plans for the Piast dynasty and Poland be defin-
itively carried out.
In this context, it is worth examining more carefully Gallus’s account concern-
ing the miraculous restoration of vision to seven-year-old Mieszko, blind from
birth.48 In the description of our chronicler, the miracle of Mieszko regaining his
eyesight is presented as an announcement of his future conversion and the enlight-
enment of Poland by a duke enlightened by a divine miracle. For God ‘visum prius
Meschoni corporalem restituit, et postea spiritalem adhibuit, ut per visibilia ad
invisibilium agnicionem penetraret’ (‘first restored to Mieszko his corporeal vision
and then gave him spiritual sight, so that he might pass from visible things to the
understanding of invisible ones’). In this way, ‘quia eo credente Polonica gens de
morte infidelitatis es exempta’ (‘when Mieszko came to believe, the people of
Poland were saved from the death of unbelief’).49 Nevertheless, in Gallus’s

46
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 3, p. 13; GPP, pp. 24–25.
47
Cf. Deptu³a, Galla Anonima, pp. 224–25.
48
Deptu³a, Galla Anonima, pp. 319–21; cf. Jacek Banaszkiewicz, ‘Podanie bohaterskie o
Mieszku I zanotowane w Kronice Galla Anonima (I, 4)’, in Homines et societas: Czasy Piastów i
Jagiellonów, ed. by Tomasz Jasiñski and others (Poznañ: Wydawnictwo Poznañskiego Towarzystwa
Przyjació³ Nauk, 1997), pp. 35–45; see also Wiszewski, ‘Domus Bolezlai’, pp. 193–95.
49
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 4, pp. 13–14; GPP, pp. 26–29.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 159

rendition, the miraculous regaining of eyesight by Mieszko and his future conver-
sion were linked to other meanings.
Witnesses of the miracle were supposed to explain its meaning in the following
way:
Ipsi vero per cecitatem Poloniam sic antea fuisse quasi cecam indicabant, sed de cetero per
Meschonem illuminandam et exaltandam super naciones contiguas prophetabant.
[Their explanation was that as he had once been blind, so too Poland had, as it were, been
blind before; but in time to come, they prophesied, Poland would be illuminated by
Mieszko and exalted over all the neighboring nations.]50

The chronicler puts these words into the mouths of pagan advisers to Mieszko’s
father, Duke Siemomys³, who could not yet fully understand divine intervention
taking place before their eyes. However, this does not mean that Gallus distances
himself from them; it is quite the opposite. Gallus adds his own comment to the
above-mentioned words of Siemomys³’s advisers regarding Poland’s exaltation over
other nations: ‘quod et ita se habuit’ (‘and indeed, this is what came to pass’).51 For,
as he adds even further, ‘suo tempore et per eum oriens ex alto regnum Polonie
visitavit’ (‘in Mieszko’s day and through him the dayspring from on high visited
the kingdom of Poland’).52 To Duke Mieszko, glorious Boles³aw the Brave was
born; after his father’s death he ruled with God’s favour, and his virtues gilded the
whole of Poland. Boles³aw defeated all neighbouring nations, both Christians (the
Czechs, Hungarians, Ruthenians, and Saxons) and pagans (the Pomeranians and
Prussians, whom he converted to the Christian faith).53

50
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 4, p. 14; GPP, pp. 26–27.
51
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 4, p. 14; GPP, pp. 26–27.
52
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 6, p. 16; GPP, pp. 30–31.
53
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 6, pp. 16–17; GPP, pp. 30–33: ‘Numquid non ipse Morauiam et Bohe-
miam subiugavit et in Praga ducalem sedem obtinuit, suisque eam suffraganeis deputavit. Numquid
non ipse Vngaros frequencies in certamine superavit, totamque terram eorum usque Danubium
suo domino mancipavit. Indomitos vero tanta virtute Saxones edomuit, quod in flumine Sale in
medio terre eorum meta ferrea fines Polonie terminavit. Quid igitur est necesse victorias et trium-
phos de gentibus incredulis nominatim recitasse, quas constat eum quasi sub pedibus conculcasse.
Ipse namque Selenciam, Pomoraniam et Prusiam usque adeo vel in perfidia persistentes contrivit,
vel conversas in fine solidavit’ (‘Did not he conquer Moravia and Bohemia and win the seat of the
duchy of Prague and appointed his suffragans to it; was it not he who time and again defeated the
Hungarians in battle and made himself master of all their lands as far as the Danube? The indomi-
table Saxons were not a match for his valor; hence in the middle of their country an iron boundary
sign in the River Saale marked Poland’s boundaries. What need is there then to list by name his
160 Zbigniew Dalewski

In this way, as Gallus seems to emphasize, the promise made in the cottage of
Piast of the future glory of the descendants of the poor ploughman was ultimately
fulfilled. The use of the words of the Gospel in Gallus’s description of the great
achievements of Boles³aw the Brave explicitly placed these events in the framework
of the history of salvation, and at the same time pointed to their appropriate mean-
ing.54 God once again became involved in the history of the dynasty and through
this the history of Poland and the Poles — this time permanently. The Lord’s new
involvement in Poland’s history was, however, not simply an announcement of the
greatness and glory of the Poles in an eschatological perspective, as in the case of
other Christian nations. Gallus clearly shows that according to God’s plans, the
Poles were supposed to attain greatness and glory already on the earth. According
to those plans, the Poles were destined to dominate not only over the pagan people,
whom Poles had to convert to Christianity, but also over other Christian nations
who had to recognize their superiority.55

A Chosen People?

Developing his narration, Gallus sometimes refers to examples from the Old Testa-
ment, comparing the Poles and their rulers to the ancient Israelites. As already
mentioned above, while writing about Boles³aw Wrymouth’s miraculous birth, he
compared it to the birth of Isaac.56 The chronicler again returned to the issue of the
resemblance between Boles³aw and Isaac when presenting the Duke’s elder
brother, Zbigniew. Explaining why he gives his attention to the history of Duke
W³adys³aw’s son born out of wedlock, he stated that also ‘in historia principali duo
filii Abrahe memorantur’ (‘in the account of the beginnings two sons of Abraham
are spoken of’).57 In another passage, while mentioning the birth of his hero once
again, Gallus referred to another Old Testament analogy. In the rhymed Epilogue

victories and triumphs over heathen nations, nations which, one may say, he trampled under his
feet? For when Selencia, Pomorania, and Prussia persisted in their perfidy he crushed them, and
when they converted he strengthened them in their faith’).
54
Deptu³a, Galla Anonima, pp. 320–23.
55
Cf. Alheydis Plassmann, ‘Origo gentis’: Identitäts- und Legitimitätsstiftung in früh- und
hochmittelalterlichen Herkunftserzählungen (Berlin: Akademie, 2006), pp. 312–19.
56
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 30, p. 57; GPP, pp. 104–05.
57
Gallus, Cronicae, II. 3, p. 67; GPP, pp. 122–23.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 161

to Book I, he additionally and more powerfully emphasized the resemblance of the

history of Poland and its rulers with the history of the ancient Israelites:
Sic puer ille nascitur,
Qui Bolezlauus dicitur,
Quem Wladislaus genuit
Dux, sicut Deus voluit.
Genitrix Iudith nomine,
Fatali forsan omine,
Iudith salvavit populum
Per Olofernis iugulum.
Ista peperit filium,
Triumphatorem hostium,
[And so is born the longed-for-son,
His name as Boles³aw is known,
The offspring of Duke Wladislas,
As God eternal willed for us.
And Judith was his mother’s name
(A fateful sign?), as hers the same
Who Israel’s salvation wrought
By cutting Holofernes’ throat.
A mighty son our Judith bore
Who conquered all our foes in war.]58

In this way the chronicler seems to suggest that Duke Boles³aw is supposed to
resume the work of the biblical Judith. Whereas she saved Israel by killing Holo-
fernes, he is now to crush the new enemies and to lead his people — a New Israel?
— to salvation.
Gallus returns twice more to the issue of the resemblance between Boles³aw
Wrymouth and the Old Testament heroes and between the Poles and the ancient
Israelites. Describing the struggle of the Duke with the Pomeranians and Czechs,
the chronicler remarks that Boles³aw ‘sicut Machabeorum imitator, diviso exer-
citur et patrie defensor extitit et iniurie vindicator’ (‘imitating the Maccabees, he
divided his host so as to be able to defend his country and avenge his injury’) in
order to face up to both enemies at the same time.59 Gallus emphasizes specific
parallelism in the fates of Poland and Israel even more clearly in his description of
the invasion of the Pomeranians of Mazovia. Using the Old Testament analogy,
he refers this time not to Boles³aw Wrymouth’s deeds but to deeds of the entire

58
Gallus, Cronicae, I, Ep., pp. 5–6; GPP, pp. 8–11.
59
Gallus, Cronicae, II, 34, p. 103; GPP, pp. 180–81.
162 Zbigniew Dalewski

community subjected to the Duke’s rule. As Gallus presents these events, comes
Magnus, who was then ruling Mazovia, set off with a small army against the Pome-
ranians plundering the province:
ubi Deus suam omnipotenciam revelavit; namque de paganis ibi plus quam sexcentos aiunt
interisse, predamque totam illis et captivos Mazouienses abstulisse; residues quoque vel capi
non est dubium, vel fugisse. Quippe Symon, illius regionis presul, oves suas lupinis morsibus
lacerates luctuosis vocibus cum suis clericis infulis indutus sacerdotalibus sequebatur et,
quod armis sibi materialibus non licebat, hoc armis perficere spiritalibus et orationibus
satagebat. Et sicut antiquitus filii Israel Amalechitas orationibus Moysi devicerunt, ita nunc
Mazouienses de Pomoranis victoriam, sui pontificis adiuti precibus, habuerunt.
[Here God revealed His omnipotence, for in the battle they say that more than six hundred
pagans lost their lives, and the Mazovians seized all their plunder and the captives — either
were captured or fled. For Simon, the bishop of those parts, donned his priestly vestments
and in company with his clerics followed his sheep who had been torn by the teeth of the
wolves, mourning loudly, and strove to accomplish with spiritual arms and prayers what
he was not permitted to do with material weapons. And as in ancient days the sons of Israel
smote the Amalekites through the prayers of Moses, so now the Mazovians won victory
over the Pomeranians with the help of their bishop’s prayers.]60

Do all these examples prove that Gallus, in intertwining the history of ancient
Israel with the history of Poland, perceived the latter as a New Israel and intended
to present the Poles as the Chosen People in a biblical sense? Indeed, the idea of
divine election was attractive for the peoples who had accepted Christianity rela-
tively late and been located in the peripheries of the Christian world. The notion
of God’s elect enabled them to incorporate their histories into the history of sal-
vation and legitimized on a religious level their convictions about their exceptional
and special nature.61 In the early Middle Ages among some peoples, especially the
Franks, the concept of divine election served to create and strengthen a notion of
group identity, defined the character of relations with the outer world and God,
and explained their role in history.62 In the epoch of the Crusades in the twelfth
century, the idea of divine election was resumed in a new changed form, leading to
the recognition of all the crusaders as elect and to the identification of Christianity

60
Gallus, Cronicae, II, 49, pp. 118–19; GPP, pp. 206–09.
61
See generally Mary Garrison, ‘Divine Election for Nations: A Difficult Rhetoric for Medieval
Scholars?’, in Making of Christian Myths, pp. 275–314.
62
Cf. Mary Garrison, ‘The Franks as the New Israel? Education for an Identity from Pippin
to Charlemagne’, in The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Yitzhak Hen and Matthew
Innes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 114–61.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 163

with Israel.63 Echoes of the crusading ideas also seem to be heard clearly in Gallus’s
work.64 In these circumstances, it would seem natural that our chronicler would
transfer the idea of divine election onto the Poles — who also fought, as the cru-
saders did, in the defense of Christianity against the pagans, Pomeranians, Cumans,
and Prussians — and that he would identify them with the Chosen People.65
Yet the matter is much more complex, and it is hard to settle it only on the basis
of references to the Old Testament included in the Chronicle. They need not have
carried absolutely direct associations with the idea of divine election and the con-
cept of a New Israel.66 Besides the examples taken from the Old Testament, Gallus
also repeatedly refers to examples and comparisons taken from classical authors,
and he does not hesitate to use various mythological allusions.67 It seems, therefore,
that in order to appropriately understand the character of the vision developed by
Gallus of the special place of Poland and the Poles in God’s plans, it is necessary to
take into consideration the specific ‘dynastic’ nature of his Chronicle.
In Gallus’s presentation, the fate of Poland and its people intertwined inex-
tricably with the fate of the Piast dynasty. Only after the seizure of power by the
first Piast ruler did God become involved in the history of Poland and of the Poles,
and only after Duke Mieszko’s baptism were the Poles saved from the perdition of
paganism.68 The link between the Poles and God came true only via the dynasty.
God had taken care of the Poles at first as a result of Piast’s decision to receive His
envoys; and then, as a result of Mieszko’s decision to accept Christianity, the path
was open before them, leading to salvation and earthly glory. The Piast dynasty was

63
See e.g. Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusade and Idea of Crusading (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991), pp. 130–52.
64
See Andrzej F. Grabski, ‘Polska wobec idei wypraw krzy¿owych na prze³omie XI i XII wieku:
“Duch krzy¿owy” Anonima Galla’, Zapiski Historyczne, 26 (1961), 37–64.
65
Cf. Kersken, ‘God and the Saints’, pp. 170–72.
66
Cf. Garrison, ‘Divine Election’, pp. 283–84. E.g. with regard to comparisons with the Macca-
bees, see Hagen Keller, ‘Machabaeorum pugnae: Zum Stellenwert eines biblischen Vorbilds in
Widukinds Deutung der ottonischen Königsherrschaft’, in Iconologia Sacra: Mythos, Bildkunst und
Dichtung in der Religions- und Sozialgeschichte Alteuropa: Festschrift für Karl Hauck zum 75.
Geburtstag, ed. by Hagen Keller and Nikolaus Staubach, Arbeiten zur Frühmittelalterforschung,
23 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1994), pp. 417–37; and Jean Dunbabin, ‘The Maccabees as Exemplars in
the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries’, in The Bible in the Medieval World: Essays in Memory of Beryl
Smalley, ed. by Katherine Walsh and Diana Wood (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), pp. 31–41; see also
Wiszewski, ‘Domus Bolezlai’, p. 306.
67
Cf. Plezia, Kronika Galla, pp. 122–34.
68
Cf. Plassmann, ‘Origo gentis’, p. 299.
164 Zbigniew Dalewski

a guarantor of the auspiciousness of the country and its inhabitants, resulting from
the support God gave to them. It was only out of consideration for the Piast rulers
that God provided His care for the Poles and decided to elevate them over other
nations. Without the Piasts’ mediation the link between the Poles and God breaks
away.
Gallus elaborates this thought particularly clearly in the description of tragic
events that took place in the 1030s. The driving of Duke Casimir I the Restorer
out of the country by the rebels brought a real disaster to Poland and the Poles.
Rulers of neighbouring kingdoms started invading Poland and incorporating its
land into their own dominions. At the same time, the inhabitants of Poland also
started destroying their own country. ‘Nam in dominos servi, contra nobiles
liberati se ipsos in dominium extulerunt’ (‘For serfs rose against their masters, and
freedman against nobles, seizing power for themselves’). What is more,
a fide katholica deviantes, [...] adversus episcopos et sacerdotes Dei seditionem inceperunt,
eorumque quosdam gladio quasi dignos peremerunt, quosdam vero quasi morte dignos
viliori lapidibus obruerunt. Ad extremeum autem tam ab extraneis, quam ab indigenis ad
tantam Polonia desolationem est redacta, quod ex toto pene diviciis et hominibus est exuta.
[they turned aside from the Catholic faith and rose against their bishops and the priests of
God, some they deemed worthy to be put to death by the sword, some by baser death of
stoning. In the end foreigners and her own people had between them reduced Poland to
such desolation that she was stripped of almost all of her wealth and population.]69

Only the return of Casimir, who was again recognized by the Poles as their ruler,
changed the situation and enabled the reconstruction of the kingdom. Casimir
‘totam Poloniam a Pomoranis et Bohemicis aliisque finitimis gentibus occupatam
liberavit, eamque suo dominio mancipavit’ (‘freed the whole of Poland from the
occupation of the Pomeranians, Czechs, and other neighboring peoples and made
himself master of it’).70 According to Gallus, the rejection by the Poles of the Piast
duke chosen by God resulted in their defeat both in earthly (Poland began to be
ravaged by enemies) and eschatological (renouncing their faith, they were doomed
to eternal damnation) terms. God turned His back on the ones who did not remain
faithful to His chosen one, and He did not leave the latter alone. In the end,
Casimir returned with God’s help to his country, and with his return Poland and
the Poles regained divine support: the state was rebuilt and its enemies were
defeated.

69
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 19, pp. 42–43; GPP, pp. 78–79.
70
Gallus, Cronicae, I. 19, p. 44; GPP, pp. 80–81.
A NEW CHOSEN PEOPLE? 165

Thus, in Gallus’s narrative, the idea of God’s elect acquires a peculiar dynastic
character. God chose the Piasts and through them decided to accomplish great
deeds. As a result, the glory of the Lord given to the Piast rulers also partly fell upon
their subjects, the Poles. However, the point of reference for God’s action was,
according to the narrator, not the Poles but the Piast dynasty. The Poles could take
part in God’s plans only thanks to the covenant made between the Lord and his
chosen dynasty, the Piasts, and only as long as they remained loyal to these rulers.

Conclusion

In Gallus’s chronicle, we may discern some levels of Christian identities. They are
hierarchically ordered and at the same time they permeate each other and impose
on themselves. All these identities find a point of reference in the conviction con-
cerning the special character of the bonds linking God with Poland, the Poles, and
especially with the Piast dynasty, and regarding God’s permanent presence in their
history. This conviction determined the character of the vision of the Polish past
and present developed in the Chronicle. The Poles are Christians, and like all
Christians they are the Chosen People; but the Poles’ Christianity has a specific
nature. The point is not that Poland became a Christian country relatively late and
that its Christianity is not yet solidly rooted; in fact, it is just the opposite. In
Gallus’s rendition, Poland’s Christianity is in some way better and deeper than in
other Christian countries, and Poland is to play a special role in God’s plan. For
Poland is surrounded by pagan peoples, and the Poles have to fight against them
in defence of the entire Christian community, as well as in order to convert them
and to expand the borders of the Christian world. This special role for the Poles
with reference to their pagan neighbours defines the nature of their relations with
God and their Christian neighbours. Because of their leading role in the spread of
Christianity, God has provided special care for the Poles. They are, as Gallus seems
to suggest, more chosen than other Christian nations. Whether our chronicler
intended to present the Poles as a New Israel is not absolutely clear. To be sure, in
his chronicle there are some allusions that may indeed suggest his intent to identify
the Poles with the ancient Israelites and to present them as a new Chosen People
in a biblical sense. However, it seems that Gallus does not settle this matter
definitively and leaves his text open to various interpretations, since Poland and
the Poles are not the centre of his attention as much as the Piast dynasty ruling
them. Above all, it is with the Piasts that Gallus associates his concept of divine
election. As the chronicler convinces us, the Piasts are those whom God decided
166 Zbigniew Dalewski

to choose and with whom He connected His plans. The Poles can participate in
God’s plans only through their dukes. This ‘dynastic’ perspective of Gallus’s
chronicle also determined to a large extent his attitude towards Poland’s pagan
past. The connection between God and the Piasts did not begin only with the
baptism of Mieszko. Mieszko’s baptism only complemented the longer process of
forming an alliance between God and the Piasts that had been initiated in pagan
times. Therefore, in Gallus’s presentation the opposition between the pagan past
and the Christian present, typical of Christian narratives, is complemented by the
opposition between pre-Piast times and the Piast age. From the very beginning of
that age, with the first Piast ruler’s appointment to the throne, God became
involved in the history of the community subjected to the power of His chosen
rulers, and led it to heavenly and earthly glory.
 Chapter 9

CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE

CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS BY COSMAS OF PRAGUE

János M. Bak

In memoriam Dušan Tøeštík (1933–2007)

T
he Chronicle of the Czechs is the oldest surviving narrative on the history of
Bohemia, covering its mythical origins to the first quarter of the twelfth
century. While its genre is not as uniform as that of some other ‘national
histories’, it fits well into the age when such histories were written, beginning with
the origo gentis and becoming more elaborate for the times of their authors (Zeit-
geschichte).1 The last lines of the surviving text testify to the death, on 21 October
1125, of Cosmas, canon and dean of the cathedral church of Prague, who seems to
have worked on the text until his last days. (The last date mentioned is 20 May
1125, the death of Emperor Henry IV.) Earlier parts of the Chronicle, especially the
dedications of the first and second books, suggest that he started writing it some
years before; thus the date of writing should be something like AD 1119–25.
The Chronicle was ‘popular’ in the sense that it was continued by clerics of the
same circle for almost another century. Fifteen manuscripts survived, the oldest
ones from the turn of the twelfth to the thirteenth century, the youngest from the
late sixteenth.2 Moreover, Cosmas’s narrative came to be known to a wider

1
On these, in a comparative framework, see Norbert Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung im Europa
der ‘nationes’: Nationalgeschichtliche Gesamtdarstellung im Mittelalter, Münstersche Historische
Forschung, 8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995); on Cosmas esp. pp. 573–82.
2
On the manuscript tradition, see the Introduction by Bretholz, in Cosmas, Chronica, pp.
xlv–lxxxv.
168 János M. Bak

audience (or readership) by its being included in the fourteenth-century vernacular

history of the Czechs, referred to as the Dalimil.3

Author and Work

Cosmas is one of the relatively few authors of his age about whom we know a fair
amount from his chronicle itself. As he calls himself an octogenarian in the 1120s,
his birth date must have been some time around 1045 — depending on whether at
the time of writing he had just entered the eighth decade or was already past eighty.
He was born in Prague, probably into a family of some standing at court or in the
city. That he was a Czech (or at least of none of the neighbouring nations) is more
than obvious from the derogatory remarks he makes about Germans, Poles, Jews,
and Hungarians. After some basic education at home, he left for studies relatively
late some time after 1074 and spent years in Lüttich/Liège, where he was a pupil of
Master Franco, known to have taught there in the 1070s and 1080s. He may have
studied elsewhere as well, but returned to his country around 1091 and became a
canon of the cathedral chapter of Prague. Married to Božetìcha — whose death he
lamented in 1117 — Cosmas had at least one son, Henry. Henry may have achieved
some position in society, as a retainer of his is mentioned in the chronicle; that
suggests that he was a knight or some other privileged person. Cosmas was
consecrated priest in 1099 and became finally dean of the cathedral chapter. A few
references to travels indicate that he accompanied his bishops on important trips
and that he once represented the chapter in a matter regarding their properties in
Moravia.
In the words of Dušan Tøeštík (who knew this chronicle better than anyone and
should have written this piece had death not taken him away from us):
Cosmas lived a peaceful life with his eyes open in the very centre of political events at Prague
castle, where he met the dukes, noblemen, and bishops on a daily basis. This unobtrusive
canon saved in his memory all which he saw and heard, upon which he later reflected. He
tried to put his knowledge into perspective in order to reveal its meaning. His views on Czech
history were primarily a reaction to the dismal conditions in Bohemia after 1100, when
incessant struggles of the Pøemyslid princes for the throne were utilized by German and
Polish rulers in order to interfere in Czech internal affairs […]. It was precisely his thinking
about the dire conditions of the Czech lands that must have moved Cosmas to write a
chronicle wherein he would show his contemporaries how glorious and strong the Czech

3
Staroèeská kronika tak øeèeného Dalimila, ed. by J. Dañhelka and others, 2 vols (Prague:
Academia, 1988).
CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS 169

people were in the time of their ancestors and what mistakes were to be avoided so that the
land can flourish once again.4

The three books of the Chronicle cover very different time periods. The first starts
with the mythical beginnings of the Czech people, wanderers after the Flood, who
arrived in a ‘promised land of milk and honey’ and then obtained their first prince,
the plowman Pøemysl. It continues the story into historical times, down to AD 1038.
The second book covers the reigns of Bøetislav I (1034–55) and his sons Spytihnìv
(1055–61) and King Vratislav II (1061–92). The third is entirely devoted to times
that the author witnessed himself, from 1092 to the year of his death. Accordingly,
style and format are different as well. The mythical beginnings are narrated in a
colourful style, with strong leanings to Old Testament prose, reflecting some kind
of oral traditions, at least of the Pøemyslid court. Many elements of the story about
ancient times beyond the memory of men are variants on common themes of histo-
riography in East and West alike. The earlier historical times are covered unevenly,
often only by quite terse annalistic entries, mostly culled from other historians, above
all from the Chronicon of Regino of Prüm and annals.5 Annalistic lines appear later
as well, but vanish entirely from the third book, which is the most detailed in
reporting the day-to-day conflicts and confrontations, with quite a few political-
moralizing comments. While narrating the story of the Czech people Cosmas also
wrote a kind of gesta principum, describing and characterizing the dukes (and the
two kings) of the first centuries of Bohemia (and Moravia); not, however, without
a critical attitude towards their reigns. Moreover, the Chronicle has a gesta episco-
porum also embedded in it: all the bishops of Prague up to his own times were
discussed in detail, and most of them received nice obituaries from Cosmas.
As a former student of a famous university, Cosmas knew among several other
Latin authors his Vergil, Ovid, Sallust, and Statius well (from the original or from
university texts or florilegia), and as a cleric he was conversant with the Bible and
some Christian authors, such as Sedulius Scottus and Boethius. He made extensive
use of both kinds of literary models, classical and Judaeo-Christian, in a free man-
ner: sometimes quoting verbatim, sometimes culling a word or two or paraphrasing.
A good example of Cosmas’s handling of biblical texts is the speech he put into the
mouth of the judge and seer Libuše warning the people of the consequences of

4
Dušan Tøeštík, ‘O Kosmovi a jeho kronice’, in Kosmova kronika èeská (Prague: Pasek, 2005),
p. 5, trans. by Petra Mutlová. See also Martin Wihoda, ‘Kosmas a Vratislav’, in Querite primum
regnum Dei: sborník spøíspìskùk poctì Jany Nechutové (Brno: Matice moravská, 2006), pp. 367–81.
5
See Quellen zur karolingischen Reichsgeschichte, ed. by Reinhold Rau, 3 vols, Freiherr vom
Stein Gedächtnisausgabe, 5–7 (Berlin: Rütten & Loening, 1960), III, 179–319.
170 János M. Bak

electing a duke. It is based entirely on the prophet Samuel’s admonition to the

Israelites when they insisted on having a king over them, but with only very few
verbatim quotes.6 Some fine hints at biblical passages would have been appreciated
by his fellow clerical readers. The head of a treacherously murdered child (about
whom there is more below) is being presented on a dish (‘caput in disco’) just like
that of John the Baptist.7 A nice ‘parallel’ to Christ’s Passion can be detected in the
chapter about the murder of Duke Vratislav in 1100. The good Duke is reported
to have foretold his companions at a table (the Last Supper?) his inevitable fate.
Then, upon returning from his last hunt he is received by his men coming out ‘with
lanterns and torches’ (verbatim from John 18. 3 on the betrayal of Jesus). The
fatally wounded Duke fell like the Angel Lucifer (with no negative implication)
from heaven, while his murderer was ‘sent by the Devil’ and is also styled minister
Satane.8 It is hardly surprising that a summary ‘mirror of princes’, formulated as the
(of course, fictive) deathbed address of Duke Boleslav (d. 999), is elegantly put
together from passages of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes from the Old Testament. True,
it continues with lines from the Disticha Catonis (misunderstood by Cosmas),
which he expanded into a warning against the debasing of coinage, surely a
reflection on the misuses of his own times.9
His Latin is good, occasionally quite elegant and witty, although when he wants
to display his familiarity with Graeco-Roman mythology he occasionally gets into
deep waters. The Chronicle is rich in rhymed and rhythmical prose, and is in a
number of places — according to the custom of prosimetrum — interspersed with
pieces of poetry ten to fifteen lines long. Hexameters one or two lines long
abound.10
Cosmas consciously avoided repeating hagiographical texts, such as the lives of
St Wenceslas and St Adalbert (with which he was clearly familiar, occasionally

6
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 5, pp. 14–15, cf. I Samuel 11–18; nicely analysed in comparative context
by Bernhard Töpfer, Urzustand und Sündenfall in der mittelalterlichen Gesellschafts- und Staats-
theorie (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1999), pp. 133–39. See also Lisa Wolverton, Hastening toward
Prague: Power and Society in the Medieval Czech Lands (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania
Press, 2001), pp. 17–18, with note on p. 289.
7
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 13, cf. Matthew 14. 8.
8
Cosmas, Chronica, III. 13, p. 173. I am indebted to Pavlína Rychterová for drawing my
attention to this feature.
9
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 33, pp. 57–60.
10
A detailed analysis of style and form is offered by Bretholz in the MGH edition, pp.
xxxvi–xlv.
CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS 171

quoting them verbatim), and ‘sent’ his readers to them. He argued that it is tedious
to read something already told by others, thus implying that his readers were well
familiar with the legends of the treacherously murdered Duke and the martyred
missionary Bishop. By his time of writing several vitae of these saints existed and
may have been propagated through liturgy and sermon. Moreover, the early Slavic
life of Wenceslas would have been accessible to a wider audience not trained in
Latin. Cosmas described the ‘national holiday’ at the feast day of St Wenceslas: at
such an occasion, ‘all Czechs’ (an expression he used more than once) would have
heard recited the deeds and merits of the martyr-duke. He included, however, the
story of the five eremitical brethren, murdered by robbers in Poland, with very
elaborate and poetic praises of their asceticism. They too would have been known
to the faithful, as their earthly remnants — together with those of St Adalbert and
his brother, Bishop Gaudentius — had been transferred to Prague from Gniezno
after the Czech raid on Poland in 1038/39. Their legends may not have been easily
available in other writings; thus Cosmas decided to include them in his narrative.11
Besides, there are several miracles reported in the Chronicle, connected partly to the
patron saints Wenceslas and Adalbert (some of them not included in the earlier
vitae), partly to other holy persons. The report about the miraculous apparition of
a prisoner liberated by Radim/Gaudentius (who was not formally canonized,
though Cosmas implied his sanctity) was, of course, also connected to the relics of
that bishop kept in the Prague cathedral.12
The moral (including political) code of Cosmas is not different from many
authors of his age. Once the ‘golden age’ of simple life was replaced by greed and
power, society tends to become worse as time passes.13 (In his case, as mentioned
above, an additional age of prosperity under the first dukes appears to have been
destroyed by the sins of those of his own age.) A good ruler is a devout Christian,
a supporter of churches, but also victorious in wars of conquest or defense against
external enemies. (Of course, the latter is seen as a proof of divine approval.) He

11
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 38, pp. 68–72. Actually, Cosmas and his contemporaries may not have
known Bruno Querfurtensis, Vita quinque fratrum eremitarum (seu) Vita uel passio Benedicti et
Iohannis sociorumque suorum auctore Brunone Querfurtensi, ed. by Jadwiga Karwasiñska, Monu-
menta Poloniae Historica, 2nd ser., 4, 3 (Warsaw: Pañstw. Wydaw. Nauk, 1973), the now best-
known life, considering that it survived in a single manuscript. Cosmas could have had some other
source about their life and death.
12
Cosmas, Chronica, II. 34, pp. 130–31.
13
See e.g. Töpfer, Urzustand, passim.
172 János M. Bak

takes counsel with his supporters and honours both clergy and leading freemen.14
A good cleric — most of those presented were bishops of Prague or Olomouc or
leaders of his cathedral chapter — is self-effacing, even ascetic, keen to perform
deeds of mercy, and keeps his church in good order.

Causae scribendi, or, Cosmas’s Concerns

The author himself does not say much about his intentions. In the Preface to
Book I, he merely states that
Igitur huius narrationis sumpsi exordium a primis incolis terre Boemorum et perpauca, que
didici senum fabulosa relatione, non humane laudis ambitione, sed ne omnino tradantur
relata oblivioni, pro posse et nosse pando omnium honorum dilectione.15
[I have started this account with the first inhabitants of the land of the Czechs, and, to the
extent of my ability and knowledge, I relate for the pleasure of all good people the few things
I have learned from the fanciful tales of old men, not striving for human praise but to prevent
the stories from wholly falling into oblivion.]

The moralizing purpose comes through quite a few times, when Cosmas compares
his contemporaries — vainglorious and servile — to the upright and honest
ancients. However, to present a glorious past and teach the present generations
about models to follow and errors to avoid was a common concern of all medieval
historians (and maybe of modern ones as well). Cosmas was no exception.
Modern readers and scholars have many different views about the main concerns
of Cosmas. Dušan Tøeštík saw Cosmas’s aim as above all to present a continuity of
the state of the Czech people — and he underlined the people, not only the land or
its rulers. He wrote:
The origins, as described by Cosmas, play a key role in Czech history. His statement that the
Czechs settled in an empty land meant that they as its first inhabitants were the rightful
owners of the country. The election of the first ruler had an equally important meaning
whereby the people gave up their freedom and fully submitted to the duke’s authority. The
election was to attest to the age-long rights of the Pøemyslid dynasty to reign over the land
while at the same time sanctioning the principle of monarchy: allegedly already Pøemysl
determined that only one person of his family should reign.

14
See among others, most recently, Anna M. Kuznetsova, ‘Obshchestvennaia mysl’ Chekhii
epokhi rannego srednevekovía’, in Obshchestvennaia mysl’ slavianskikh narodov v epokhu rannego
srednevekovía, ed. by B. Floria (Moscow: Rukopisnye pamiatniki drevnei Rusi, 2009), pp. 265–92.
15
Cosmas, Chronica, Ad Gervasium magistrum prefatio, p. 3.
CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS 173

As long as this rule was observed, so Tøeštík continued, there was harmony in the
dynasty, peace and prosperity in the land, and Bohemia’s standing in the world was
strong. The borders of the country expanded into what is now Poland, the German
emperor had only formal rights to a set tribute, and the dukes were victorious
against all external enemies. In Tøeštík’s reading, Cosmas wished to present that
the Czech nation was not united only by the knowledge that they had come from a common
ancestor (which is something every primitive tribe always and everywhere imagined), but by
the fact that they concluded some sort of a ‘social contract’ with the ruling dynasty.
Therefore the Czechs were not only a tribe, but a community of people […] not connected
through ‘blood’ but through politics. Cicero would call them a populus — politically active
citizens.16

In her recent translation, Lisa Wolverton summarized Cosmas’s intentions in

similar words: ‘Politics was what motivated Cosmas to write and politics was what
he wrote about. The result is an account of the Czech past grounded in its present,
set off from other peoples, meant as an exhortation to contemporaries to set a new
political course for the future’.17
These views can be augmented by underlining the Chronicle’s main thread of
narrative: the sequence of Pøemyslid dukes, good and bad ones, and the lament (as
mentioned before) over the conflicts within the dynasty.18 Other scholars empha-
sized Cosmas’s concern for ‘repatriating’ St Adalbert, the Slavnikid Vojtìch and
briefly bishop of Prague, whose remains the Czechs robbed from Gniezno (as
mentioned above) and whom he wanted to build up as a second protecting saint
besides St Wenceslas, whose ‘servant’ he was.19
His ‘clerical agenda’ was above all the fate of the bishopric (and the cathedral
chapter) of Prague and its properties: the only full-text charter quoted by him (and
a few, now unknown ones, referred to) relate to its foundation, expanse, and

16
Tøeštík, ‘O Kosmovi’, pp. 12–14. See also his other studies, such as Kosmas: studie s výbìrem
z Kosmovy Kroniky (Prague Svobodné slovo, 1966), pp. 113–20; Poèátky Pøemyslovcù (Prague:
Nakl. Lidové Noviny, 2008), pp. 99–116; and Mýty kmene Èechù (7.–10. století): Tøi studie ke
starým povìstem èeským (Prague: Nakl. Lidové Noviny, 2003).
17
Cosmas of Prague, The Chronicle of the Czechs, trans. by Lisa Wolverton (Washington, DC:
Catholic University of America Press, 2009), p. 11.
18
Emphasized by Marie Bláhová, Staroèeská kronika tak øeèeného Dalimila v kontextu
støedovìké historiografie latinského kulturního okruhu a její pramenná hodnota [Staroèeská kronika
tak øeèeného Dalimila, III] (Prague: Academia, 1995), pp. 97–101.
19
So Oldøich Králík, Kosmova kronika a pøedchozí tradice (Prague: Vyšehrad, 1976), pp.
206–38.
174 János M. Bak

properties.20 Words put into the mouths of some leading men of the realm suggest
that he was also concerned about the promotion of foreigners to church dignities,
although he acknowledged the merits of several German or Saxon prelates. True,
he underlined in more than one instance that they spoke the Slavic language.
Cosmas’s remarks about surviving pagan customs (on which there is more below)
are clearly those of a churchman dissatisfied with the level of Christian observance
among the people, but otherwise he did not seem to have a ‘crusading soul’ as did
the anonymous author of the Gesta principum Polonorum21 or, for that matter,
much of an obvious missionary zeal.

Christian Community and the Other

As Tøeštík pointed out, Cosmas was above all Czech. That he was Christian is self-
evident, not merely from the fact that he was a canon of Prague cathedral, but also
from his aforementioned repeated references to the Bible and his religious concerns.
However, he had the ‘bad luck’ that the enemies of the Czechs and the disturbers
of the peace and quiet of the community were all — with the exception of the
Prague Jews, on whom there is more below — also Christians. He had plenty of
depreciative words for Poles, Hungarians, and Germans, but none of these were
non-Christians. (In this sense, the anonymous author of the Gesta principum Polo-
norum or the Hungarian chroniclers were ‘better off’, as Pomeranians, Prussians,
Cumans, and other enemies were clearly definable as pagans in contrast to the
Christian ‘in-group’.)
Moreover, his identification with the community of Czechs is not identical with
a ‘Christian community’. In concert with his clerical concerns, he more than once
wrote that many of his countrymen were still practising pagan rites and thus were
hardly active members of a Christian community. Speaking about the legendary
sorceress Thetka, who taught the people all kinds of demon worship, he added:
‘Thus even up to this day some villagers are like pagans: some worship springs or
fires, some revere groves and trees or stones, some sacrifice to hillocks or mountains,

20
Marie Bláhová, ‘Die Beziehungen Böhmens zum Reich in der Zeit der Salier und früihen
Staufer im Spiegel der zeitgenössischen böhmischen Geschichtsschreibung’, Archiv für Kulturge-
schichte, 74 (1992), 23–48 (p. 27), regards Cosmas as a spokesman of the clerical circles of the
Prague cathedral.
21
This expression was used by A. F. Grabski, ‘Polska wobec idei wypraw kry¿owych na
prze³omie XI i XII w.: “Duch kry¿owy” Anonima Galla’, Zapiski Histryczne, 26 (1961), 37–64.
CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS 175

others pray to mute and deaf idols made by themselves and implore them to guard
their houses and them.’22 Then, for the year 1093, he wrote:
Item supersticiosas instituciones, quas villani, adhuc semipagani, in pentecosten tertia sive
quarta feria observabant, offerentes libamina super fonts mactabant victimas et demonibus
immolabant, item sepulturas, que fiebant in silvis et in campis, […] has abhominationes et
alias sacrileges adinventiones dux bonus, ne ultra fierent in populo Dei, exterminavit.23
[The good Duke rooted out the superstitious practice of the still half-pagan peasants
observed on Tuesday or Wednesday after Pentecost when they made libations at wells and
ate sacrifices offered to demons; the burial of the dead in woods and fields; […] abominable
and sacrilegious things that should not happen among the people of God.]

Still, there are a few rare passages that one may read as an assertion of the identity
of ‘all Czechs’ with a Christian community. The closest to this may be the descrip-
tion of a ‘national holiday’ in 1110: ‘When, during the next year, Duke Vladislav
and all the Czech people were celebrating the birthday of their patron Wenceslas
with joy and happiness […]’ (‘Eodem anno duce Wladizlao et universa plebe Boe-
morum cum iocundidate et leticia sui patroni Wencezlai celebrantibus natalicia
[…]’). However, only a few lines further, Cosmas quotes messengers alerting the
Czechs to the danger of an enemy attack and saying for the sake of classicizing
‘Mars calls you to fight’ (‘Mars vocat vos ad prelia’), thus freely mixing pagan-
Roman mythology with the festivities of the holy martyr.24 Or should one count the
repeated references to the people crying Kyrie Eleison (or, in a corrupted form,
Krelessu) upon the election of a duke or similar occasion as an identification of the
Czechs with a Christian community? I think this is hardly conclusive.
Cosmas must have been aware of the growing myth of St Wenceslas as ‘eternal
ruler’ of Bohemia and the Czechs as his familia.25 Although the transfiguration of
St Wenceslas into a heavenly knight ‘leading’ the Czech army to victory arose only
after Cosmas’s time, the expulsion of the Poles from Prague in 1002 was assigned
by him to the ‘intercession of St Wenceslas’. 2 6 In another episode, a prisoners’
liberation miracle dated to the year 1091 is credited to the two patron saints.

22
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 4, p. 10. However, the ‘description’ of the pagan customs is mainly
borrowed from Sedulius, Carm. Pasch. 1. 295.
23
Cosmas, Chronica, III. 1, p. 161.
24
Cosmas, Chronica, III. 35, p. 206.
25
See e.g., Wolverton, Hastening, pp. 148–75; and Gábor Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed
Princesses: Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, trans. by Éva Pálmai (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2002), esp. pp. 100–08 and 163–66 (both with extensive bibliography).
26
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 36, p. 64.
176 János M. Bak

Cosmas connected this to the peace made between King Vratislav and his son
Bøetislav, who were ready to meet in battle, thus avoiding ‘the greatest crime com-
mitted since the foundation of Prague’ (‘post conditam urbem Pragam pessimum
facinus patratum fuisset’).27 Thus, one may argue that the idea of holy patrons of
the Czechs intervening in their fate did establish a framework for a Christian
community above and beyond the political unity as underlined by Tøeštík, even if
this aspect was not exactly central to Cosmas’s concerns.
As mentioned above, there is, however, one group of people that he was eager
to identify as non-Christian enemies of the Czechs, expressly identified with the
agents of Satan: the Jews of Prague. In the first instance, he put words into the
mouth of Wirpirk, wife of Conrad of Bohemia, suggesting to the Duke an alter-
native to attacking Moravia:
Nam quecumque hic longe in tuis finibus spolia queris habenda, ostendam tibi potiora in
medio tui regni posita. Nusquam enim melius ditaberis nec amplius magnificaberis quam in
suburbio Pragensi et vico Wissegradensi. Ibi Iudei auro et argento plenissimi, […] nusquam
magis Vulcanum videbis furentem, quam cum utramque urbem predictam videas ardentem.28
[For whatever spoils you seek to get there — far away from your boundaries — I can show
you more precious ones lying in the centre of your kingdom. Because nowhere can you
enrich or exalt yourself more than in the suburb of Prague and in the town of Vyšehrad.
There are the Jews, most rich in gold and silver […], nowhere else will you see Vulcan raging
more than if you set both of the said towns on fire.]

Then about the troops of the First Crusade: ‘Since their army was so numerous that
they could not take one route, some of them, while crossing our country attacked,
with God’s permission, the Jews, forcibly baptized them, and killed those resisting’
(my emphasis).29 But most elaborately for 1098, Cosmas recorded that when the
Duke was informed that some of the Jews fled and took their wealth with them in
secret, some to Poland and others to Hungary, he sent his chamberlain with a few
warriors to ‘rob them from head to toe’ (‘ut eos a vertice usque ad talos
expoliarent’). The chamberlain spoke to them thus, and Cosmas found it appro-
priate to break out in verse:
O gens progenita manzeribus Ismahelita,
Ut sibi dicatis, dux mandat cur fugiatis

27
Cosmas, Chronica, II. 47, pp. 154–55.
28
Cosmas, Chronica, II. 45, p. 152.
29
Cosmas, Chronica, III. 4, p. 164: ‘Qui quoniam propter multitudinem exercitus una via
simul ire non poterant, quidam ex eis per hanc nostram terram dum transirent, permittente Deo
irruerunt super Iudeos et eos invitos baptizabant, contradicentes vero trucidabant.’
CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS 177

Et partas gratis cur gazas attenuatis?

Interea quecumque mea sunt, sunt mea cuncta.
Nullas de Solimis res divitiasve tulistis.
Uno pro nummo ter deni Vespasiano
Cesare proscripti, sparsi sic estis in orbe.
Macri venistis, macri quo vultis eatis.
[You sons of Israel, bastards of whores,30
You have to tell the Duke, he orders, why you flee
And take away the freely gotten treasures?
For all is mine, mine is here everything.
You took nothing, no wealth from Jerusalem
When sold by Vespasian, the Caesar, three for a coin31
And scattered you were all over the world;
Poor you arrived and poor you may depart.]32

Then they broke into the houses, searched them, and took all treasures and all the
better furniture they found there. ‘Oh, how much money was taken on that day
from the wretched Jews’ — concluded Cosmas — ‘not even from burning Troy
were such riches gathered up on the shores of Euboeia.’33
And finally, for the year 1121, Cosmas was pleased to report that
Dei virtus et Dei sapientia cuncta suo nutu gubernans subsistencia hanc terrulam dignatus est
sua eruere clemencia a laqueo Satane et eius filii Iacobi Apelle. Cuius picea dextra quecumque
tetigerit, inquinat, et oris anhelitus ceu basilisci fetidus, quos afflat, necat; de quo etiam
plurimi testantur veridici homines, quod sepe visus sit Sathan in humana effigie eius lateri
adherere atque sua obsequia exhibere. […] Quod autem dux gratia Dei instructus Christiana
mancipia ab omnibus Iudeis redemit et, ut nullus ultra christianus serviret eis, interdixit,
‘Amen, amen’, inquam […].
[the power and wisdom of God that governs all that exist by its wink deigned to rescue by
His clemency this little country from the snares of Satan and his son, Jacob the Jew.34 His

30
Cf. Deuteronomy 23. 2: ‘A mamzer, that is to say, one born of a prostitute’.
31
This goes back to the apocryphal gospel Vindicta Salvatoris § 17 (ed. by Constantin Tischen-
dorf (Leipzig: Medselsohn, 1876), p. 478) but Cosmas may have known it rather from Wipo,
Gesta Chuonradi, c. 33, in Die Werke Wipos, ed. by Harry Breslau, MGH SRG, [61] (Hannover:
Hahn, 1915), p. 53.
32
Trans. by Dr Barbara Reynolds.
33
Cosmas, Chronica, III. 5, pp. 165–66: ‘O quantum pecunie miseris Iudeis illa die est sub-
latum, nec ex succensa Troia tantum diviciarum in Euboyco littore fuit collatum.’ Cf. Vergil,
Aeneid, 9. 70.
34
On this, see Samuel Steinherz, ‘Der Sturz des Vicedominus Jacob (1124)’, Jahrbücher der
Gesellschaft für die Geschichte der Juden in der Èechoslovakischen Republik, 2 (1930), 17–49.
178 János M. Bak

pitch-black hand stains everything it touches and with the breath of his mouth, stinking like
that of the basilisk, he kills whatever he blows at. Several trustworthy men testify having seen
Satan in human form accompany him as his follower. […] And the duke, instructed by the
grace of God, bought the Christian servants of all Jews free and prohibited that henceforth
any Christian may serve them 35 — to which I say Amen, Amen.]

Cosmas regretted that other Jews managed to free Jacob from jail, but adds a praise
of Mary Magdalene, on whose day the ‘fiend’ was unmasked.36
To be sure, anti-Semitism is a well-known device through which one can define
a visible out-group, but hardly sufficient to establish the cohesion of the in-group.
While Cosmas’s views were widespread in medieval Europe, it is worth noting that
they do not appear in the twelfth-century (and even later) narratives of the region.37
It is true, however, that the Prague Jewish community was one of the most
important ones in Europe. Nonetheless, it would be an overstatement to regard the
Chronicle’s anti-Jewish passages as serious attempts by Cosmas to strengthen the
Christian identity of the non-Jews.

Pagan Past — Christian Present

Another approach to finding out about the author’s attempt at identifying his
readership — of which we know nothing more than the few names of fellow
intellectuals (as Tøeštík calls them) to whom the book is dedicated38 — with a
Christian community might be to look at the description and characterization of
persons whom Cosmas identified, implicitly or explicitly, as non-Christians. These
include the vaguely described group of wanderers following the Babelian split of
mankind, the ancient ancestors of the Czechs; the predecessors of the dynasty’s
founder, the legendary ploughman Pøemysl himself; and his immediate successors,
who preceded the first baptized ruler. One may argue that if they are all presented
in a negative light, this would indicate a fairly clear dissimilarity to ‘us’, the Chris-
tian readers or listeners. Alas, we cannot find such an unequivocal distinction.

35
The prohibition of Christians serving Jews is a recurrent item in medieval legislation and
goes back to the Theodosian Code (3. 1. 5. 1. 128), repeated in Justinian’s Codex (1. 10. 2. 11. 62).
36
Cosmas, Chronica, III. 57, pp. 231–32.
37
See Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe, ed. by Michael A. Signer and John van
Engen (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 2001).
38
Provost Severus/Šebíøof Mìlnik, Master Gervase, probably schoolmaster of St Vitus cathe-
dral in Prague, and Clement, abbot of Bøevnov.
CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS 179

The ‘vagabonds’ under the leadership of a certain Bohemus, also known as Èech,39
are clearly pagans. They have gods in plural and carry around their penates. When it
comes to naming the new land, they choose ‘quasi ex divino […] oraculo’ the name
Bohemia. Thereupon their leader raised his hands to the sky and wished that the
land would nourish them from generation to generation. Surely, a man whose name the
country carried ever since could not have been despised by his late Christian
descendants. Writing about the first — clearly pagan — inhabitants of the land,
Cosmas prefaces the passage with one of his ‘comparatist-moralizing’ sentences:
Quorum autem morum, quam honestorum vel quante simplicitatis et quam ammirande pro-
bitatis tunc temporis fuerint homines quamque inter se fideles et in semetipsos misericordes,
cuius etiam modestie, sobrietatis, continentie, si quis his modernis hominibus valde contraria
imitantibus pleno ore narrare temptaverit, in magnum deveniret fastidium. Propterea hec
pretermittimus et pauca ac que sunt vera illius prime etatis de qualitate dicere cupimus. Felix
nimium erat etas illa, modico contenta sumptu nec timido inflata fastu.40
[Anyone who tried to describe fully to modern folk how these people lived, would come in
for much scorn, as they do the very opposite: how honest, simple, admirably noble, faithful
among themselves and merciful to each other, how modest, sober, and restrained they were.
Therefore, we leave these aside and wish only to say a few but truthful things about the
quality of that first age. Very happy was that age, content with modest fare and not puffed up
with swollen pride.

And so on. The virtuous legendary heathens as opposites of the contemporary

depraved Christians. What more?
The father of the three important sisters (one of whom was Libuše), Krok, is
characterized with words borrowed from Genesis, where they stand for Noah.41
Krok is by no means a negative figure, and the author even commiserates with him
for having only daughters and even these being seers and sorcerers. His daughter
Libuše, the last judge of the ruler-less Czechs, is a difficult case. Once the men who
are discontent with her judgement are made out to be ridiculous, but more than
once she is denounced as a sorceress. As mentioned above, her fictive sermon to the
Czechs about the evils of electing a ruler has good biblical credentials. And then, she
was the one who named the founding father of the dynasty as well as pointing out
the site of Prague, the caput regni. Thus, divine (or at least otherworldly) desig-
nation of the ruler and the capital were mediated by Libuše.

39
So in the Dalimil, ed. by Dañhelka and others, p. 105.
40
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 3, pp. 7–8.
41
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 3, p. 9: ‘Vir fuit hic in suis gernarationibus ad unguem perfectus’; cf.
Genesis 6. 9.
180 János M. Bak

The mythical ploughman Pøemysl is even more problematic. He was clearly a

good man (just as Piast, the Polish ploughman, was42 ). We find out only en passant
a propos his death that he had worshipped Pluto all his life. As the founder of the
reigning dynasty and the author of the laws by which the Czechs are supposed to
still live,43 he cannot be a negative figure. His wise predictions, accompanied by such
miracles so as to remind the reader of the Rod of Aaron,44 are very much in concert
with Christian ethics. Moreover, while explaining the significance of his poor
sandals to be kept in Vyšehrad, Pøemysl is recorded to have said that they be kept
so that future dukes be reminded ‘not to unjustly and with pride oppress the people
given to them by God because we were all born equal’ (‘neu homines a Deo sibi
commissos iniuste opprimant per superbiam, quia facti sumus omnes equales per
naturam’). I believe this is quite a Christian-style ‘political theory’, if we may call it
thus. All told, he surely cannot be cast out of the community, for that would risk
blackening the origins of the princely family, whose faithful chronicler our author
intended to be.45
The situation is somewhat easier regarding the seven mythical princes who are
supposed to have followed Pøemysl and to have preceded the first baptized ruler,
Boøivoj. Their lives and times were summarily dismissed, not only because there was
no authentic information available about them but because ‘they were, like cattle,
given over to gorging and slumber, unlearned and uncultured, for whom, contrary
to nature, the body was a source of pleasure, the soul a burden’.46 (Words quite
similar to those can be found in the Gesta principum Polonorum about the early
princes of the Poles,47 who, however, may have been real persons.) In spite of this

42
See GPP, I. 1–2, pp. 18–21.
43
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 9, p. 21.
44
Pøemysl’s staff bloomed and grew branches in front of the people’s messengers; the message
of this miracle was not (as in Aaron’s case) to prove pre-eminence, but to underline the monarchic
principle which was, as we saw, disregarded in Cosmas’s times; see Cosmas, Chronica, I. 6, pp.
16–17; cf. Numbers 17. 16–24.
45
František Graus pointed out the dual legitimization of the Pøemyslid dynasty consisting of
pre-Christian (pagan, magic) and Christian elements in ‘Kirchliche und heidnische (magische)
Komponenten der Stellung der Pøemysliden: Pøemyslidensage und St Wenzelslegende’, in Siedlung
und Verfassung Böhmens in der Frühzeit, ed. by František Graus and Herbert Ludat (Wiesbaden:
Harrasowitz, 1976), pp. 148–61, with extensive bibliography.
46
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 9, p. 21: ‘ventri et somno dediti, inculti et indocti assimilati sunt
peccori, quibus profecto contra naturam corpus voluptati, anima fuit oneri’; cf. Sallust, Catilina,
1. 1, and 2. 8.
47
GPP, I. 3, pp. 22–25. On that text, see the preceding chapter by Zbigniew Dalewski.
CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE CZECHS 181

disclaimer, one of them, Duke Neklan, is described in some detail. First, he is

characterized as ‘lepore pavidior et Partho fuga velocior’,48 but later displays positive
traits. When the son of his enemy (the duke of the Luèané) was captured, Neklan,
‘even though a pagan, moved with mercy toward him49 […] spared him, as if he were
a good catholic’.50 Thus, a pagan could behave as a good Christian; and at the end
of the story, the pagan Duke is again showing positive characteristics, punishing the
perfidious murderer of the aforementioned boy, who hoped for reward for his deed.
The ‘evil Sorb’ chooses to hang himself on a tree — just like Judas (and Cosmas
called him Iudas secundus). In summary, then, the contrast between pagans and
Christians cannot be said to be clear and definitive enough to establish a Christian
community in contrast to its heathen predecessors.
True, a definite discontinuity between the pagan past and Christian history is
emphasized in the Chronicle. The fact that Duke Boøivoj was baptized (with one
passage claiming that this was done by no less a figure than St Methodius, which is
chronologically impossible) is mentioned twice.51 Moreover, all events preceding
this are undated, while the subsequent narrative is systematically dated (even in
years for which there is no entry) by the ‘year of the Incarnation of Our Lord’. Thus
a formal caesura is marked out between these two epochs. Yet nothing similar to the
story of the miraculous enlightenment of Mieszko in the Gesta principum
Polonorum52 or the rather detailed description of the Christianization of the people
by St Stephen in Hungarian narratives53 has a parallel in Cosmas. Besides the
baptism of Boøivoj, the Christianization of the Czech people is passed over by
referring to other — partly known, partly unknown — texts, such as the ‘Privilege
of the Moravian Church’ and so on. Then, later, Bishop Thietmar is reported to
have summarily ‘converted many pagans’54 but, as we saw, all this was not quite
completely successful, or at least not to the standards of Dean Cosmas.

48
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 12, p. 26. Cf. Horace, Carmina, 2. 13. 17.
49
Luke 7. 13.
50
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 13, p. 29: ‘quamvis paganus, tamen ut catholicus bonus misericordia
super eum motus […] pepercit’.
51
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 10, p. 22; and again I. 34, p. 32, dated to 894.
52
GPP, I. 4, pp. 26–29.
53
Not only in the lives of St Stephen and Bishop Gerard, but also in the so-called National
Chronicle (Chronici Hungarici compositio saeculi XIV, cc. 64–67 and 70, ed. by Alexander
Domanovszky, in SRH, I, 313–18 and 321–22).
54
Cosmas, Chronica, I. 24, p. 46.
182 János M. Bak

All in all, it seems that among the several ‘identities’ of Cosmas, his being Czech
and intending to convey a cohesive communal feeling to ‘all Czechs’ was para-
mount. Within this category, his devotion to St Wenceslas and St Adalbert and his
intention to strengthen this devotion in his readers served the same purpose. That
he and his people were Christians was so self-evident that it needed no emphasis.
To underline the Christian character of the Czechs as the heroes of his story may
not have appeared necessary to him, even if he complained about some members of
the ‘nation’ not being exactly perfect in the faith. Some two hundred years after the
beginning of the Christianization of the people, that they were Catholics seems to
have been taken for granted, especially since the enemies abroad — the most explicit
‘out-group’ — were all also Christian peoples; thus religion was unsuitable for lines
of demarcation. In the ‘hierarchy of identities’ of Cosmas, fidelity to the Pøemyslid
dukes, more or less identical with the Czech ‘nation’, was another important
element. One may add that he was a man of Prague: the city and its bishopric was
his ‘home’. These loyalties, and the claim of the continuous settlement of the
Czechs since times immemorial in the country ‘girded on all sides by a ring of
mountains’, precluded making any sharp distinction between pagan ancestors —
such as the first settlers, the mythical founder of the dynasty, or the seer who
designated Prague as caput regni — and their Christian descendants. Thus it is
difficult to judge to what extent the Chronicle worked to establish or strengthen
Christian identity. The readers to whom the work was dedicated certainly did not
need any encouragement in this matter. ‘All good men’, for whom Cosmas wrote,
were implicitly parts of the Christian community. Enemies within were either
fellow Christians, such as the most hated ‘evil kindred’ called by him the Vršovci,55
or the most widely known Others of medieval Europe, the Jews. As we have seen,
he did have strong feelings about the latter, and regarded them as agents of Satan,
fiends of the Czechs and, more or less explicitly, of all Christians. But his language
of denunciation used against Poles, Hungarians, and even the German emperor was
not much milder and served more the ‘Czech’ than the ‘Christian’ identity of his
own people.

55
Cosmas, Chronica, passim (see Index, p. 278, s.v. Wrissovici). However, Wolverton, Hasten-
ing, pp. 48–49, was unable to establish a kin-group with this name from the surviving records.
 Chapter 10

‘M ORE PAGANISMO’: R EFLECTIONS ON THE P AGAN

AND C HRISTIAN P AST IN THE G ESTA H UNGARORUM
OF THE H UNGARIAN A NONYMOUS N OTARY

László Veszprémy

A
mong the medieval narrative sources in Hungary, the oldest surviving text
is the Gesta Hungarorum (GH) by the Anonymous Notary (often cited as
‘Anonymus’) from the years around 1200–10.1 This short chronicle con-
sisting of fifty-seven chapters is dedicated entirely to the pagan past of the Hun-
garians, to their history before the Christian conversion: wanderings, land-taking,
fights with local dukes, and raids in Europe. We know only the first letter of the
author’s name; that is why he is also called ‘P. dictus’ master. He was the notary of
a certain King Béla, mostly identified as Béla III (d. 1196), and he probably studied
as a cleric in France or Italy. His chronicle is the first written source in Hungary
naming Attila the Hun as the ancestor of the Árpád royal dynasty. He widely used
oral traditions as well as written sources, such as the Bible, the chronicle of Regino
of Prüm, and the histories of Troy and of Alexander the Great, with the final result
of such a blending being rather fable-like. The anonymous narrator provides a very
detailed geographic description of Hungary, connecting concurrent place names
with fictive heroes of the past, without any historical authenticity for those of the

1
Anonymus (P. Magister), Gesta Hungarorum, ed. by Dezsõ Pais, in SRH (an updated repr.
with a bibliography, ed. by Kornél Szovák and László Veszprémy (Budapest: Nap Kiadó, 1999)),
I, 13–118; and Gesta Hungarorum. I am grateful to Prof. Martyn Rady for using his draft of the
English translation of the Gesta, directly sent to me, and now available in Anonymous, Notary of
King Béla, The Deeds of the Hungarians, Master Roger’s Epistle to the Sorrowful Lament about the
Destruction of Hungary by the Tartars, ed. by János M. Bak, Martyn Rady, and László Veszprémy,
Central European Medieval Texts, 5 (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2010).
184 László Veszprémy

ninth and tenth centuries. His work in translated and facsimile editions is still a
bestseller in Hungary and Romania, and even now an impressive amount of aca-
demic publications have been dedicated to this chronicle.2
The GH was preceded by what has been considered the first chronicle in Hun-
garian historiography, namely the original Gesta, or Urgesta, which has not sur-
vived. This Hungarian Gesta was probably written around the turn of the twelfth
century, but the exact date is difficult to establish because it has come down to us
in the form of the reconstructed ‘National Chronicle’, dating from the middle of
the fourteenth century (Chronici Hungarici compositio) and preserved in several
manuscripts forming two basic families.3 The oldest of these is the Illustrated (or
Pictorial) Chronicle written c. 1358.4 The latter is very important because it may
contain the earliest accounts of the years after 1000, and thus the history of the
emergence of Christian Hungary. There are close textual relationships between the
GH of the ‘anonymous notary’ (c. 1200–10), preserved in a contemporary copy
from the middle of the thirteenth century, the Gesta of Simon of Kéza (c. 1282),
preserved only in a modern copy, and the ‘National Chronicle’ edition; but these
textual relations are of little help in reconstructing the lost ‘original’ Urgesta.5
Due to these difficulties, we have only vague ideas about the content of its sec-
tions deriving from the eleventh century. According to the convincing arguments
of Elemér Mályusz and later those of Gyula Kristó, a history of Hungary would
have begun with St Stephen, since the primary concern of the ancient authors was

2
Kornél Szovák, ‘Wer war der anonyme Notar? Zur Bestimmung des Verfassers der Gesta
Ungarorum’, Ungarn-Jahrbuch, 19 (1991), 1–16; and István Kapitánffy, ‘Der ungarische Anon-
ymus und Byzanz’, in Byzance et ses voisins: mélanges á la mémoire Gy. Moravcsik, ed. by Teréz
Olajos (Szeged: JATE, 1994), pp. 69–76.
3
Chronici Hungarici compositio (‘National Chronicle’), ed. by Sándor Domanovszky, in SRH,
217–504. A facsimile edition of the Chronicle of Buda was ed. by Erzsébet Soltész (Budapest:
I,
Magyar Helikon, 1973).
4
A facsimile edition of the Illustrated (Pictorial) Chronicle was ed. by Dezsõ Dercsényi (Buda-
pest: Corvina, 1964, with German and English translations in 1961 and 1969).
5
For the Hungarian medieval narrative literature, see Norbert Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung im
Europa der ‘nationes’: Nationalgeschichtliche Gesamtdarstellungen im Mittelalter, Münstersche His-
torische Forschung, 8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995); Péter Kulcsár, Inventarium de operibus litterariis
ad res Hungaricas pertinentiis ab initiis usque ad annum 1700 (Budapest: Balassi, 2003); Kornél
Szovák, ‘L’Historiographie hongroise à l’époque arpadienne’, in Les Hongrois et l’Europe: conquète
et intégration, ed. by Sándor Csernus and Klára Korompay (Paris: L’Institut Hongrois de Paris,
1999), pp. 375–84; and Simonis de Kéza, Gesta Hungarorum, ed. by László Veszprémy (Budapest:
Central European University Press, 1999), also ed. by Sándor Domanovszky, in SRH, I, 129–94.
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 185

certainly to describe the emergence of the Christian Hungarian kingdom.6 Even

the sole surviving early medieval Hungarian annals, the Annals of Pressburg/
Bratislava (Annales Posonienses), began with the activities of St Adalbert.7 Charac-
teristic of the first centuries of Hungarian historiography was the shaping and con-
tinuous enlargement of the core of the ‘National Chronicle’, whose continuators
repeatedly tampered with the parts of the passages written earlier. That is why the
early Hungarian royal legends, especially the three legends of St Stephen written
between c. 1070 and c. 1100, are so precious. The Legend of St Gerard has also pre-
served contemporary eleventh-century historical traditions, although its surviving
form dates only to the fourteenth century.8 Consequently, it is only in the GH that
we can see how a Hungarian medieval writer first confronted the pagan past.

The Conversion

Hungarian narrative sources are somewhat reticent on the conversion to Chris-

tianity, an indication in itself of a reluctance to view it as a radical turn.9 This

6
For the arguments of Mályusz and Kristó, see Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung, pp. 652–57. Márta
Font has argued recently that some parts about the Urheimat of the Hungarians and their descent
from the biblical Cham should refer in some way to a lost first chronicle redaction. Márta Font,
‘Keresztény krónikások – pogány hagyomány’, in Memoria rerum: Studies in Honour of Bán Péter,
ed. by Teréz Oborni and László Á. Varga (Eger: Heves Megyei Levéltár, 2008), pp. 179–96; András
Róna Tas, ‘Ethnogenese und Staatsgründung: Die türkische Komponente in der Ethnogenese des
Ungarntums’, in Studien zur Ethnogenese, 2 vols, Abhandlungen der Rheinisch-Westfälischen
Akademie der Wissenschaften, 78 (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1998), II, 107–42.
7
Annales Posonienses, ed. by Imre Madzsar, in SRH, I, 119–28 (p. 125).
8
Legenda S. Stephani regis maior et minor atque ab Hartvico episcopo conscripta, ed. by Emma
Bartoniek, in SRH, II, 363–440. Hartvik’s legend was translated into English by Nora Berend, in
Medieval Hagiography: An Anthology, ed. by Thomas Head (New York: Garland, 2000), pp.
375–98, and translated into German by Thomas Bogyay, in Die heiligen Könige, pp. 25–71.
Legenda S. Gerhardi episcopi, ed. by Imre Madzsar, in SRH, II, 461–506; translated into German
by Gabriel Silagi, in Die heiligen Könige, pp. 73–85. For the Hungarian royal saints, see Gábor
Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses: Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, trans. by
Éva Pálmai (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Gábor Klaniczay and Edit Madas,
‘La Hongrie’, in Hagiographies: histoire internationale de la littérature hagiographique latine et
vernaculaire en Occident des origines à 1550, ed. by Guy Philippart, 2 vols (Turnhout: Brepols,
1996), II, 103–60; Die heiligen Könige: Legenden und Mahnungen aus der Arpadenzeit, ed. by
Thomas Bogyay and others (Vienna: Böhlau, 1976).
9
For a general overview, see László Veszprémy, ‘Conversion in Chronicles: The Hungarian
Case’, in Christianizing Peoples and Converting Individuals, ed. by Guyda Armstrong and Ian N.
186 László Veszprémy

attitude was prompted by the eleventh-century political and military conflicts be-
tween the Hungarians and the Germans. In their arguments, the Germans claimed
that loyalty to their emperor (fideles regis/imperatoris) was equivalent to loyalty to
the Christian Church.10 Consequently, Christians who rebelled were therefore
subject to punishment by the Church. At the end of the eleventh century, this
claim received a further boost from the bloody clashes with armies of the First
Crusade as they marched through Hungary (the Hungarian royal forces attacked
three contingents) — an event which did nothing to improve the reputation of the
Kingdom of Hungary in Europe.11
Since medieval authors traced the history of the Hungarian people to long
before the Christian era, blurring the sharp dividing line between the pagan and
Christian ages helped justify the extended discussion of Hungarian prehistory.
Interestingly, legends and chronicles are similar in this regard. This is partly be-
cause both genres belonged to court literature in Hungary, and commissioners
expected the authors to apply the ideological and legal arguments prevalent in the
court. The Greater Legend of St Stephen bears out continuity just as the chronicles
do. The former makes explicit mention of the fact that imperial Rome had been
pagan before it became Christian, just as the pagan Hungarians ravaged Christian
Europe upon divine afflatus before their conversion. This statement was meant to
prove that the German emperors professing continuity with the Roman Empire
had no grounds on which to reproach the Hungarians for their pagan past.12
The sources do, of course, make references to the Hungarians’ pagan past. The
Greater Legend of St Stephen mentions ‘sons of perdition and ignorance, rude and
errant people’;13 and the Minor Legend tells of ‘barbaric people captured by the
error of infidelity, who followed vain and sacrilegious superstitions according the
practice of the pagans’.14 According to the legend of St Emeric, ‘Pannonia was

Wood (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), pp. 133–46; Nora Berend, József Laszlovszky, and Béla Zsolt
Szakács, ‘The Kingdom of Hungary’, in Christianization, pp. 319–68.
10
Arnold Angenendt, Kaiserherrschaft und Königstaufe: Kaiser, Könige und Päpste als geistliche
Patrone in der abendländischen Missionsgeschichte (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1984), pp. 313–14.
11
John France, Victory in the East: A Military History of the First Crusade (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 90–95.
12
Veszprémy, ‘Conversion in Chronicles’, pp. 133–46.
13
Legenda S. Stephani regis, ed. by Bartoniek, p. 378: ‘filios perditionis et ignorantiae, populum
rudem et vagum’.
14
Legenda S. Stephani regis, ed. by Bartoniek, p. 394: ‘barbarica gens errore infidelitatis sue
teneretur, et ritu gentilium vanas sacrilegasque superstitiones sequeretur’.
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 187

polluted with shameful pagan practices’.15 However, the main motive for stressing
continuity must have been a defence against foreign accusations, which started in
the eleventh century. Both papal and imperial propaganda expressed doubts several
times as to whether the Hungarians had completely and thoroughly converted, and
the pagan revolt of 1046 gave them some justification. For example, the Annales
Altachenses state that the persons who in 1046 blinded King Peter of Hungary,
friendly to the Germans, were ‘pagani et ignominiosi’ (pagan and ignominious)
Hungarians.16 In the eleventh-century German-Polish historiographical polemics,
the German writers identify the Poles’ disobedience to the German emperor as a
rebellion against the Christian Church, bringing up their recent and superficial
Christianity as proof. Thietmar of Merseburg (1018) referred to Boles³aw the
Brave — who had risen against the Germans — as the foe of all believers, just as
Gerhoh of Rechersperg or Otto of Freising found correlation between the Hun-
garians’ infidelity and anti-German sentiments in the twelfth century. The latter
even doubted that King Stephen deserved the status of saint, despite the wide-
spread reverence for him at that time. These German authors also spoke of a con-
tinuity of pagan and barbaric traditions in Hungarian history. The argumentation
of the Hungarian chroniclers and legend writers was presumably a defence against
such ideological accusations. That is why they must have stressed the continuity of
Hungarian history and its historical redemption, and the rapid and complete
success of the conversion by St Stephen.17

15
Legenda S. Emerici ducis, ed. by Emma Bartoniek, in SRH, II, 441–60 (p. 451): ‘Pannonia
fedis paganismis ritibus fedata.’
16
For the conflicts of the theory on ‘fidelis Dei et regis’, see Angenendt, Kaiserherrschaft, p. 313.
On the different contemporary opinions on Hungarian Christianity, see the text of Gerhoh in
Catalogus fontium historiae Hungariae aevo ducum et regum ex stirpe Arpad descendentium ab anno
Christi DCCC usque ad annum MCCCI, ed. by Ferenc Albin Gombos, 3 vols (Budapest: Szent
István Akadémia, 1937–38), II, 1030–31. Gerhoh, Commentarius in psalmum LXIV, c. 58. Libelli
de lite, imperatorum et pontificum, vol. III, ed. by Ernst Dümmler and others (Hannover: Hahn,
1897; repr. 1957), p. 463: ‘in terra Hungarica et barbarica vix nomine tenus Christianorum prin-
cipum dominio subdita’. For Otto of Freising, see his Cronica, 6. 27.
17
Even in the fifteenth century, some chroniclers revoked the memory of the pagan uprisings,
as Thomas Ebensdorfer in his Chronicon Austrie. He stated that the double cross referred to the fact
that the Hungarians were converted for the second time after pagan revolts. Dalimil explained the
Hungarian cross in a similar way. Iván Bertényi, ‘A magyar heraldika a 13–19. századi
szépirodalomban’, Turul, 74 (2001), 77–82.
188 László Veszprémy

The Anonymous Notary’s View on Pagan Matters

The anonymous author clearly drew on examples of pagan customs from his own
time and projected them back to the age of the Conquest; the expression more
paganismo appears a total of seven times. These could have been living customs or
rituals preserved in the oral tradition or even in the everyday practice in or outside
the country. The author describes with fine perception the nomadic custom of
entering into a contract, the Covenant of Blood (Chapters 5 and 10), horse
sacrifice (16 and 22), pagan burial — on which he does not go into detail (15) —
and martial affairs (7 and 25).
It is clear that before their conversion, the Hungarians were regarded by chron-
iclers as pagans with no knowledge of the possible Pannonian continuity of Chris-
tianity or even the Jewish faith of the Khazars. Firm commitment to the Christian
faith was a recurring theme in the literature of political argumentation in the elev-
enth century, but it gradually lost its relevance during twelfth-century consolida-
tion, so that by 1200 a radically altered, solidly Christian image of the Hungarian
monarchy appeared in Western Europe. The country and its kings were mentioned
in a favourable way by famous troubadours who accompanied the Princess of Ara-
gon to Buda around 1200 (Vidal, Faidi, and Raimon). 1 8 Perhaps the horseman
statue of unidentifiable origin in the cathedral of Bamberg had already been ‘dis-
covered’ as the figure of the Holy King Stephen. It was here that a relative of the
next Hungarian queen (Gertrude), during his tenure as priest and later bishop
(1206–42), solemnly commemorated St Stephen in liturgy. By then, in France —
where the Hungarians had previously been referred to in the Song of Roland as
pagan Saracens — Hungary was finally admitted as a legitimate Christian king-
dom. Boncompagno da Signa, professor of rhetoric at the University of Bologna
around 1170, correctly writes that sons of foreign dignitaries were sent to receive
an upbringing at the Hungarian court.19

18
László Veszprémy, ‘Ungarn im Europa des frühen 13. Jhs.’, in Elisabeth von Thüringen: Eine
europäische Heilige. Aufsätze, ed. by Dieter Blume and Matthias Werner (Petersberg: Michael
Imhof, 2007), pp. 59–66; Zoltán Falvy, Mediterranean Culture and Troubadour Music (Budapest:
Akadémiai, 1986); and Ferenc Zemplényi, Az európai udvari kultúra és a magyar irodalom (Buda-
pest: Universitas, 1998), pp. 68–91.
19
Maren Zerbes, ‘Reiterskulptur’, in Bayern, Ungarn, Tausend Jahre, ed. by Wolfgang Jahn and
others (Augsburg: Haus der Bayerischen Geschichte, 2001), pp. 47–49; Luise Abramowski, ‘Der
Bamberger Reiter: Vom Endkaiser zum heiligen König Stephan von Ungarn’, Zeitschrift für
Kunstgeschichte, 98 (1987), 206–29; Hannes Möhring, ‘Der Bamberger Reiter’, in Ausstellungs-
katalog: Saladin und die Kreuzfahrer, ed. by Alfried Wieczorek and others (Mainz: Zabern, 2005),
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 189

Thus, the author of the GH was entirely justified in confining his work to the
history of the pagan Hungarians, and occasionally stressed this by reference to the
more paganismo. (This may be regarded as tongue-in-cheek, since throughout his
chronicle the Hungarians appear solely in the pagan stage.) He does not criticize
their pagan past at all, although he used the singular in reference to their marital
practices (‘every man kept only to his wife’, and not ‘habebant uxores’ (had wives),
as his original source, the Exordia Scythica, had done) to avoid the supposed repre-
hension of polygamy;20 or while discussing their raids, he informs us without any
comments about the Hungarians’ ‘violence and monstrous fury’ in Lombardy and
their ‘doing many bad things’ (in Chapter 53, quoting the chronicle of Regino of
Prüm’s Continuator).21 It cannot be a coincidence that the GH was written at
almost the same time as Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum, although Saxo
discussed the legendary pagan past in much greater detail. What they definitely
have in common, however, is that they both begin with the earliest legendary dukes
and kings.22
The anonymous notary is unique among Latin historiographers of Hungary in
his classification of certain customs, often as more paganismo, despite the fact that
the entire Gesta is confined to the prehistory (i.e. the pre-Christian past) of the
Hungarians — he makes just a few references to their conversion. In this sense, the
author is the Hungarians’ first geographer, setting down an astonishingly high
number of place-names (but, with one exception, never the seats of bishoprics or
monastic sites), and also their first ethnographer.

p. 423; Sándor Csernus, ‘La Hongrie, les Français et les premières croisades’, in Les Hongrois et
l’Europe, ed. by Csernus and Korompay, pp. 411–26; and Kornél Szovák, ‘Boncompagnus: Adalék
a 13. század eleji magyar történet külföldi forrásaihoz’, in ‘Quasi liber et pictura’: Studies in Honour
of András Kubinyi, ed. by Gyöngyi Kovács (Budapest: Eötvös Loránd Tudományegyetem, 2004),
pp. 503–11.
20
Exordia Scythica, in Chronica minora, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, MGH AA, 11 (Munich:
MGH, 1894; repr. 1981), p. 319.
21
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 122. For Regino, see Reginonis abbatis Prumiensis Chronicon cum
continuatione Treverensi, ed. by Friedrich Kurze, MGH SRG, 50 (Hannover: Hahn, 1890; repr.
1978), p. 148.
22
For Saxo Grammaticus, see Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung, pp. 444–57. For the Central
European pagan narrative tradition, see Font, ‘Keresztény krónikások’, pp. 179–96; and Dániel
Bagi, ‘Heidentum und Christentum in den Urgeschichtsdarstellungen der ersten historischen
Synthesen Ostmitteleuropas im Mittelalter: Eine historische Region und zwei Modelle’, Zeitschrift
für Ostmitteleuropa-Forschung, 54 (2005), 159–73.
190 László Veszprémy

Pagan Burials and Banquets

Significantly, he regarded the omission of Christian burial as a part of the pagan

tradition, mentioning burials that did not take place around a church, as in Chap-
ter 15:
Ubi etiam longo post tempore ipse Ketel et filius suus Tulma more paganismo sepulti sunt,
sed terram illam, que nunc Ketelpotaca vocatur, posteritas eius usque ad tempora Andree
regis.23
[A long time later, Ketel and his son, Tulma, were buried there in pagan manner, but his
descendants had that land, which is now called Ketelpotaca, to the times of King Andrew.]

In this case, it is likely that the grave of the founding father of the Ketel clan was
still known around 1200–10 to be on ancient land, which by implication was not
adjacent to any church. The custom of isolated burials — not in the vicinity of a
church — may have continued for some time, as proven by the reambulatio sections
of the charters. These burial sites (probably mounds) must have been clearly visible,
because they were of use as landmarks during the riding of the borders, from the early
tenth to late thirteenth centuries. But no finds have survived, reminding one of the
stone-stela (Steinstele) similar to those in Mongolia. That is why the vernacular
variant of the burial place (Hung. sírhely), sometimes called heathen grave (Hung.
pogánysír, Lat. sepulchra paganorum), are among the first Hungarian words recorded
in documents.24 It is highly possible that the word bálvány (later meaning ‘pagan
idol’) referred to the same natural or artificial pieces or columns of stone (men-
tioned for the first time in the Deed of Pannonhalma, 1001/02).25 It seems that the
custom of an individual burial far away from churches survived among the rich up
to the late twelfth century.26 The first written testimony of stone or wooden
memorial posts (‘in positione lapidum seu lignorum in signum monumenti’)27

23
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 60.
24
For an overview of the burial places mentioned in medieval charters, see Gyula Kristó,
‘Sírhelyekre vonatkozó adatok korai okleveleinkben’, Acta Universitatis Szegediensis. Acta Historica,
71 (1981), 21–27. For the burial place dated to 1055, see Diplomata Hungariae antiquissima, vol.
I: 1000–1131, ed. by György Györffy (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1992). For the charter of 1075 stating
‘ad sepulchrum Gunreidi in monticulo, ubi antiquorum corpora sunt sepulta’, see p. 215.
25
Diplomata Hungariae, ed. by Györffy, p. 41.
26
For an example of such a grave dated to 1181, see Kristó, ‘Sírhelyekre’, pp. 26–27.
27
Monumenta ecclesiae Strigoniensis, 3 vols, ed. by Nándor Knauz and others (Esztergom:
Buzárovits, 1874–1924), III, 13; cited by Pál Lõvei, ‘Temetõi sírjelek a középkori Magyarországon’,
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 191

came from 1322; later, wooden fences around graves were also mentioned. On the
other hand, many tombstones of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries represent
crosses set on mounds, probably burial mounds. Recently, more than thirty
cemeteries dated from the eleventh to fourteenth centuries have been discovered,
in which hundreds of graves were covered with a stone slab or block, roughly made
and lacking any decoration.28
Later, some Roman stone remains may have been included among these, as can
be deduced from a mention in Simon of Kéza’s chronicle.29 These Roman altars,
burials, or milestones were not higher than one or two meters, but even in the
nineteenth century some original sepulchres existed in Western Hungary in their
original significant height.30 Simon of Kéza reports, for instance, that after a battle
the Huns ‘gathered the bodies of the companions and solemnly buried them and
their captain Keve [Keve means ‘stone’ in old Hungarian] according to Scythian
rites (more Scitico) at a place by the highway where a stone statue (statua lapidea)
is erected’.31 The same stone is probably mentioned in the Anonymi Descriptio
Europae Orientalis (c. 1308):
Ungari […] in signum victoriae perpetuum erexerunt ibi lapideam marmoreum permaxi-
mum, ubi est scripta prefata victoria qui adhuc perseverat usque in hodiernum diem.32
[The Hungarians […] erected here a huge marble statue commemorating and describing
their eternal victory, and it is preserved to this day.]

in ‘... a halál árnyékának völgyében járok’: A középkori templom körüli temetõk kutatása, ed. by Ágnes
Ritoók and Erika Simonyi (Budapest: Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum, 2005), pp. 77–84 (p. 78).
28
For an excellent overview, see Lõvei, ‘Temetõi sírjelek a középkori Magyarországon’; and
Milan Hanuliak, ‘Gräber unter Grabsteinen im 11–14. Jahhundert’, Slovenska Archeologia, 27
(1979), 167–86.
29
de Kéza, Gesta Hungarorum, ed. by Veszprémy, pp. 36–37. Probably the same altar stone is
mentioned in the Anonymi Descriptio Europae Orientalis, ed. by Olgierd Górka (Cracow: Academia
Litterarum, 1916), pp. 44–45, from c. 1308.
30
Die römische Inschriften Ungarns, ed. by Jenõ Fitz and others, 6 vols (Budapest: Akadémiai,
2001), VI, no. 1383, which survived in the church of Szentiván; for the milestones, see III, no. 3020.
An altar dedicated to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva is 120 cm high. Even the famous stone of Dzsingis
— now in the Hermitage, St Petersburg — is not higher than 210.5 cm; see Dovdoi Bayar,
‘Gedenkstätten und Steinskulpturen der Alttürkischen Zeit’, in Dschingis Khan und seine Erben:
Der Weltreich der Mongolen (Schallaburg: Hirmer, 2006), pp. 69–74, and also see Catalogue, p. 27.
31
de Kéza, Gesta Hungarorum, ed. by Veszprémy, c. 9, pp. 36–37.
32
Anonymi Descriptio, ed. by Górka, pp. 44–45.
192 László Veszprémy

The Church struggled against this custom in several ways. According to The
Legend of St Gerard, chapels were erected on non-ecclesiastical burial sites (‘ex post
baptism of non-Christian burial sites’ as János Bak puts it).33 The early church
council of 1092 prescribed burial beside churches,34 clearly an attempt to link the
living community to a church via reverence for the dead. A similar case is men-
tioned by the Swedish Vita sancti Botvidi and the Bohemian chronicle of Cosmas
of Prague, and the topic frequently recurred in laws throughout Europe.35
The Hungarian Chronicle mentions pagan burial in connection with pagan re-
bellion when telling the story of Prince Levente (Chapter 86), ‘who, if he had lived
longer and attained royal power, would have spoiled all of Hungary with idolatrous
paganism (paganisma ydolatria)’. 3 6 It is also said that he lived in a non-Catholic
manner and was buried beside his grandfather, who was buried in the pagan manner
(more paganismo). The Hungarian Chronicle takes an openly hostile and condemna-
tory approach to these examples, unlike the less emotional description in the GH.
Interestingly, the church-building tradition described in the GH was invoked
to sanctify the grave of the founder of the dynasty, Árpád (Chapter 52):
dux Arpad […] honorifice sepultus est supra caput unius parvi fluminis, qui descendit per
alveum lapideum in civitatem Atthile regis, ubi etiam post conversionem Hungarorum
edificata est ecclesia, que vocatur Alba, sub honore beate Marie virginis.37
[Árpád […] was buried with honour at the head of a small river that flows through a stone
culvert to the city of King Attila where, after the conversion of the Hungarians was built
the church that is called Alba, to the honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary.]

There are similar stories from contemporary Europe: in Denmark, the father of
Harald Bluetooth had a Christian reburial, and in Rus’ pagan princes were posthu-
mously baptized and reburied.38

33
János M. Bak, ‘Signs of Conversion in Central European Laws’, in Christianizing Peoples, ed.
by Armstrong and Wood, pp. 115–24 (pp. 119–20).
34
Decreta regni mediaevalis Hungariae, 1000–1301: The Laws of the Medieval Kingdom of
Hungary, 1000–1301, ed. by János M. Bak and others, 3 vols, 2nd edn (Idyllwild: Schlacks, 1999),
I, 57.
35
Nils Blomkvist, Stefan Brink, and Thomas Lindkvist, ‘The Kingdom of Sweden’, in Chris-
tianization, pp. 167–213 (pp. 186–88); and Petr Sommer, Dušan Tøeštik, and Josef Žemlièka,
‘Bohemia and Moravia’, in Christianization, pp. 214–62 (pp. 232–33). For Cosmas, see Bak, ‘Signs
of Conversion’, p. 120; and Cosmas, Chronica, p. 88.
36
Chronici Hungarici compositio, in SRH, ed. by Domanovszky, p. 344.
37
Gesta Hungarorum, pp. 120–21.
38
Nora Berend, ‘Introduction’, in Christianization, pp. 1–46 (p. 19).
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 193

The author is also on the right road regarding the offering of animal sacrifices
at celebrations, thanksgivings, and sacrificial meals as belonging to the system of
pre-Christian beliefs. In Chapter 16, the valiant warriors, after successfully climb-
ing a mount, look around in their joy and ‘loving that place more than can be said
they made a great sacrifice [using the ancient Hungarian phrase magnum aldamas],
killing the plumpest horse’. Similarly, in Chapter 22, delighted over reinforcing the
borders between Hungary and Transylvania, they ‘made sacrifice [again with the
word aldumas] in pagan manner’.39 The sacrifice, and especially the sacrifice and
subsequent eating, of a horse was linked to paganism across Europe and was
contended with from Iceland to England in texts from the Irish penitentials or
Heimskringla of Snorri Sturluson, to the history of Adam of Bremen or the
Norwegian Gulathing Law.40 The problem was not with the kind of meat, but
rather the fact that it resulted from a sacrifice.41 Giving horses to churches as a mor-
tuarium or as an oblatio pro anima was also common in the West, although in
Hungary it was in some way more closely connected to the former pagan customs.
Even servi (torlo or dusnok) were donated to churches up to the early fourteenth
century in order to support the clerics with meat, bread, and alcohol for the yearly
memorial service and banquets.42

What Has the GH Neglected?

It is interesting, however, that the author of the GH missed out on several things
included in the Hungarian Chronicle (Chapter 82) and the Legend of St Gerard:

39
Gesta Hungarorum, pp. 61–62 and 72. That is why in Zilah (today Zalau, Romania, men-
tioned by Anonymus in Chapter 22), a pagan altar dedicated to Tuhutum was erected by the
famous sculptor János Fadrusz in 1902. It became a symbol of the Hungarian presence in
Transylvania and was demolished by the Romanian security forces in 1968.
40
Robert Bartlett, ‘From Paganism to Christianity in Medieval Europe’, in Christianization,
pp. 47–72 (pp. 63–65); and Sverre Bagge and Saebjorg Walaker Nordeide, ‘The Kingdom of
Norway’, in Christianization, pp. 121–66 (pp. 124–25).
41
Bartlett, ‘From Paganism’, p. 69; and Berend, Laszlovszky, and Szakács, ‘Kingdom of
Hungary’, p. 321, agree that horsemeat eaten simply as food could lack any religious connotation.
For a broader view, see Csanád Bálint, ‘Les Tombes à ensevelissement de cheval chez les Hongrois
aux IX e– XIe siècles’, Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi, 2 (1982), 5–36.
42
László Solymosi, ‘Das kirchliche Mortuarium im mittelalterlichen Ungarn’, in Forschungen
über Siebenbürgen und seine Nachbarn: Festschrift für Attila T. Szabó und Zsigmond Jakó, ed. by
Kálmán Benda and others, 2 vols (Munich: Ungarisches Institut, 1987), I, 51–66.
194 László Veszprémy

‘in accordance with the rebellious pagan custom (ritu paganorum) he [the pagan
rebel, namely Vata] shaved his head and wore his hair in three plaits (cincinnos per
tres partes)’.43 The latter sources also mention the wizards and fortune-tellers
(phitonissae, magi, aruspices, and deae) among the rebels of 1046 (later 1061), one
of whom (a dea) chewed off her leg in prison and died. They also tell us that Chris-
tians were prohibited from marrying blood relatives of the pagan rebels called Vata
and John. This tale was also present in the older, now-lost version of the chronicle,
which therefore must have prominently featured confrontations with paganism.
The Legend of St Gerard adds to all of this the eating of horseflesh and sacrifice to
evil spirits, and the laws of Ladislas mention ‘sacrifices next to wells, giving offer-
ings to trees, fountains, and stones according to heathen rites’.44 The GH is silent
on all these.
On the contrary, the GH actually asserts that pagan Hungarians were actively
supported by divine grace assisting them in the unchallenged acquisition of ancient
lands (Chapter 17). ‘Their descendants (Ed, Edumen) have, with the aid of divine
grace, been worthy to keep the lands till now.’45 The author, emphasizing that these
people are still pagans, resorts to archaizing: ‘they made great sacrifices to the im-
mortal gods (diis inmortalibus)’.46 The author finds an even more interesting form
of expression in Chapter 33, where he notes that the Slavs along the River Ipoly
(Ipel in Slovakian) feared the Hungarian warriors because ‘divine grace was with
them’. He also adds that the former were all the more afraid because
audierant ducem Arpadium filium Almi ducis ex progenie Athile regis descendisse […]
tunc omnes Sclaui […] propter timorem eorum se sua libera sponte subiugaverunt eis.47
[they had heard that Duke Árpád, son of Duke Álmos, was descended of the line of King
Attila. […] Then all the Slavs […] for fear of them subordinated themselves to them of their
own free will.]

Consequently, we can speak of a dynastic identity based on Christianity and the

genealogy deriving from Attila. It is as if the author was correcting himself, realiz-
ing that the fear of the Hun king was more authentic in terms of the logic of the
passage and its pagan context than the grace of God. But divine grace returns to the

43
Chronici Hungarici compositio, ed. by Domanovszky, pp. 337–39; and Legenda S. Gerhardi,
ed. by Madzsar, p. 501.
44
Decreta regni mediaevalis Hungariae, ed. by Bak and others, I, 56–58.
45
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 64.
46
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 56.
47
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 84.
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 195

narrative in Chapter 37, also in connection with the Slavs, ‘because the grace of
God went before them, they not only conquered [the Slavs] and took all their cas-
tles […] but also still hold them’.48 It is as if pagan power might be enough to
capture anything, but that Providence itself, through some kind of divine judge-
ment, was necessary for a prolonged possession.
This attitude is somewhat at odds with the description of the decisive battle
(Chapter 39), when we are told that before the battle, Árpád, ‘whose helper was
the Lord of All, besought God tearfully’.49 In Chapter 44, they managed to cross
the River Temes (Timiº in Romanian) with ease because it was ‘as if God’s grace
was with them’,50 but a few words later this statement becomes more definitive:
‘because God with His grace went before the Hungarians, He gave them a great
victory’.51

Military Pagan Customs

The author of the GH also provides an intriguing discussion of military customs

and techniques. Despite attempts by the Hungarian royal court, Western-type
heavy armour did not become prominent in Hungary in the Middle Ages, and the
bow and arrow always remained a traditional element of the Hungarian arma-
ment.52 Yet the nomadic peoples (the Pechenegs) who settled after the Conquest
and the auxiliary forces they provided may have led to the distorted view that fight-
ing with mounted archers was a peculiarly pagan affair. The anonymous notary
describes a tournament held in Árpád’s court (using the words turnamentum and
dextrarius) and contrasts the people involved there with ‘the other young men
played in pagan manner with bows and arrows’.53

48
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 90: ‘Et quia gratia dei antecedebat eos, non solummodo ipsos
subiugaverunt, verum etiam omnia castra eorum ceperunt […] usque modo.’
49
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 94.
50
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 104: ‘sicut divina gratia erat eis previa’.
51
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 104: ‘Et quia deus sua gratia antecedebat Hungaros, dedit eis vic-
toriam magnam.’
52
Maximilian Georg Kellner, Die Ungarneinfälle im Bild der Quellen bis 1150 (Munich:
Ungarisches Institut, 1997); and The Ancient Hungarians: Exhibition Catalogue, ed. by István
Fodor (Budapest: Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum, 1996).
53
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 110.
196 László Veszprémy

An obscure aspect of Anonymus’s treatment of military customs is his contra-

dictory comments on the use of the bow and arrow. In Chapter 25, he speaks about
the Vlachs and Slavs as ‘the basest people (viliores homines) of the whole world,
because […] they had nothing else for arms but bows and arrows’.54 This is perhaps
the only place in the book where a kind of archaizing may be detected: in the
prehistoric retrospection of the first chapter, he speaks of the unmatched archery
of the Hungarians/Scythians. The comments in Chapter 25 (as well as in Chapter
46) set against the earlier remark are somewhat surprising.
Yet it is very likely that the narrator makes a distinction between the bows and
arrows used by the Slavs and the ‘ballista’ mentioned as a weapon of the Hun-
garians (Chapter 51). Several authors, including myself, have noted a possible
meaning of ballista as ‘crossbow’. Support for this appears in Anonymus’s usage:
in Chapter 46, he identifies the bow (arcus or sagitta) as the nomads’ weapon more
paganismo, which makes sense only if the author is thinking of the crossbow as a
modern weapon.55 This recurs in Chapter 36: the weapons of the seven Hungarian
tribes — their bows — were something the Slavs had never seen, and must have
been of a higher technical standard:
Hoc cum vidissent Sclaui et Boemi […], quod isti, qui dicuntur Hetumoger, talibus
uterentur armis, timuerunt valde, quia talis armatura nunquam visa fuit eis.56
[When the Slavs and Bohemians […] saw how those who were called Hetumoger [that is
the seven Hungarian tribes] used such arms, they feared greatly, because such weaponry
(armatura) had never been seen by them.]

The author’s respect for arms is manifest from his account of Kadocsa defeating
Zobor with his lance, in which the wording, associated with the turnamentum,
reflects the spirit of chivalry. It is interesting that Anonymus includes such aspects
of warfare in his discussion of the pagan tradition (more paganismo). Likewise, in
Chapter 7 a river crossing presented in a finely conveyed account is referred to as
a pagan custom: ‘they swam across the River Etyl sitting on leather bags [called here
tolbu] in pagan manner’.57 Rubruk’s description of thirteenth-century Tartar

54
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 76: ‘habitatores terre illius viliores homines essent tocius mundi, quia
essent Blasii et Scauli, quia alia arma non haberent, nisi arcum et sagittas’.
55
László Veszprémy, ‘A számszeríj használatának kezdetei Magyarországon’, in Lovagvilág
Magyarországon, ed. by László Veszprémy (Budapest: Argumentum, 2008), pp. 136–45.
56
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 88.
57
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 42: ‘et fluvium Etyl super tulbu sedentes ritu paganismo transnata-
verunt’. SRH, I, 41. n. 5: ‘Vocabulum tulbou, quod hoc uno loco reperitur quodque tulbou legitur,
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 197

customs corroborates the veracity of this description.58 Perhaps our author was an
eyewitness of such a river crossing, if he travelled widely in Eastern Europe.

The Covenant of Blood

The anonymous notary similarly considered the Covenant of Blood to be a part of

the historical tradition not requiring further comment. This was the act by which
the chiefs of the seven tribes swore allegiance to each other and their leader,
Álmos.59 The author may have had a general knowledge of the fundamentally
different blood-covenant ceremony followed by Eastern peoples, possibly obtained
from nomads settling in Hungary or in the course of foreign travels, perhaps among
the Cumans. In Chapter 10, the Cumans swore allegiance to the Hungarians, and
‘they […] confirmed in pagan manner with a sworn pledge’, about which no further
detail is given; and the Hungarians reciprocated.60
The Covenant of Blood also has significance for subsequent Hungarian consti-
tutional law: the Hungarian chieftains accepted Árpád’s father and his successors
on mutual terms, but with a pledge of obedience. This is fortunately described in
more detail in Chapter 5: ‘the aforesaid men swore an oath […], confirmed in
pagan manner with their own blood spilled in a single vessel’.61 This must have
been fairly common among nomads, because it clearly formed the basis of the
Western image of blood-drinking ‘brutish barbarians’, an image sometimes applied
to the Hungarians themselves, including the GH, where it is borrowed from the

e lingua Turcorum sumptum esse et significationem “uter”, Hungarice “bõrzsák, tömlõ” habere
videtur.’
58
Felföldi Szabolcs, ‘A nomád hadviselés egyik jellegzetes problémája: a folyón való átkelés’, in
Fegyveres nomádok, nomád fegyveresek Fegyveres nomádok, nomád fegyverek, ed. by László Balogh and
László Keller (Budapest: Balassi, 2004), pp. 75–91.
59
Harry Tegnaeus, Blood-brothers (Stockholm: Philosophical Library, 1952); Henry Serruys,
‘A Note on Arrows and Oaths among the Mongols’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 78
(1978), 279–93; László Vajda, ‘Ruchlose und heidnische Dinge’, in Explanationes et tractationes
Fenno-Ugricas in honorem Hans Fromm, ed. by Erhard F. Schiefer, Finnisch-Ugrische Bibliothek,
3 (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1979), pp. 373–403; Klaus Oschema, ‘Blood-brothers: A Ritual of
Friendship and the Construction of the Imagined Barbarian in the Middle Ages’, Journal of
Medieval Studies, 32 (2006), 275–301; and Gesta Hungarorum, p. 144.
60
Gesta Hungarorum, pp. 48–50: ‘Hoc etiam […] fide iuramenti more paganismo firmaverunt.’
61
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 40: ‘Tunc supradicti viri […] more paganismo fusis propriis sangui-
nibus in unum vas ratum fecerunt iuramentum.’
198 László Veszprémy

Exordia Scythica. The Belgian traveller Father Monstaert, who in the 1940s de-
scribed a similar ritual among the Mongols, is usually cited as the source of evi-
dence for blood-brotherhood in the East.62 Anonymus apparently is familiar with
the view common in Western medieval literature that pagans, owing to their
ignorance of the Christian God, did not keep their word. On the other hand, the
author states that the Covenant was made for eternity: ‘though pagans, they
nevertheless kept the oath that they made among themselves until they died’.63
It is well known that the Covenant of Blood was also incorporated into the
customs of Western chivalry. This was known to Western chroniclers as a practice
by which alliances were made with Orientals during wars in the Holy Land, but it
is interesting that in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Western Europe, the
Covenant of Blood was also adopted into the ceremony of swearing brotherhood
in chivalrous fraternities, as witnessed in one of the Lancelot romances.64 It still
retained a certain oriental exotic character: Matthew of Paris associated it with the
native Irish, and Joinville mentioned it as taking place between the Byzantines and
the Cumans, and elsewhere between the princes of the Holy Land and the Sara-
cens. Members of chivalrous confraternities symbolized their becoming one body
or blood relations, not usually through this ritual so much as by breaking the
Blessed Sacrament into several pieces and sharing it amongst themselves, as
Maurice Keen pointed out. The anonymous notary seems not to have known of
this Western European background, and mentions it among what he categorizes
as more paganismo; but of course he may still have heard of chivalrous rituals,
perhaps in Italy.

The White Horse Story

Our author also makes critical references to the oral heritage of epic songs and
tales, as in the case of Botond, who — according to the Hungarian tradition — cut

62
Hansgerd Göckenjan, ‘Eid und Vertrag bei den altaischen Völker’, Ural-Altaische Jahrbücher,
n.s., 16 (1999/2000), 11–31.
63
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 40: ‘Et licet pagani fuissent, fidem tamen iuramenti, quam tunc
fecerant inter se, usque ad obitum ipsorum servaverunt tali modo.’
64
Maurice Keen, ‘Brotherhood in Arms’, History, 47 (1962), 1–17; repr. in Maurice Hugh
Keen, Nobles, Knights, and Men-at-Arms in the Middle Ages (London: Hambledon, 1996), pp.
43–62.
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 199

the Golden Gate of Constantinople with his axe (Chapter 42).65 But instead of
telling the story, which is recorded only later in a fourteenth-century chronicle, he
states:
Sed ego, quia in nullo codice hystoriographorum inveni, nisi ex falsis fabulis rusticorum
audivi, ideo ad presens opus scribere non proposui.66
[But as I have found this in no book of historians, and have heard it only from the spurious
tales of countryfolk, I do not propose so to write in the present work.]

But in other cases he believed what he heard. There is a well-known story that
the Hungarians bought their country from the Moravian (Bulgarian in the GH)
prince by giving gifts like horses in exchange for land, grass, and water — thus, for
the whole country. This story can be linked to the nomadic practice of making
covenants and oaths. Further complicating the issue is that Anonymus found the
pattern for this legal arrangement in the story of Troy — which he finds more
convincing than folk tradition — following its details and expanding on the story.
He talks in Chapter 14 of twelve white horses, twelve camels, and many other gifts.
Nonetheless, he lays out the story of acquiring the land by trickery: the Slavic
chieftain — whom Anonymus presents to us as a ‘Bulgarian’ vassal of the Byzan-
tines while the chronicles portray him as the Moravian Svatopluk — is not familiar
with the significance of nomadic gift-giving for property or land acquisition.67 The
symbolic meaning of land, water, and grass in the account of pledges made in a
pagan manner is also verifiably ancient; it is referred to in a peace treaty made
between the Onugur chieftain Omurtag and Byzantine emperor Leo V in 815.68
Accounts similar to the story of the white horse may have been found in Widu-
kind, where the Saxons acquire their country by deceit: a Saxon youth purchases
dust from Thuringian land in exchange for gold, sprinkles the dust around the
perimeter of some land and, regarding it as his own, takes it by armed force.69 Jor-
danes, another classical source, tells of a similar ploy by which the Onogurs acquire

65
Johannes de Thurocz, Chronica Hungarorum, vol. II: Commentarii, part 1: Ab initiis usque
ad annum 1301, ed. by Elemér Mályusz, with Julio Kristó, Bibliotheca Scriptorum Medii
Recentisque Aevorum, 8 (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1988), pp. 236–39; and Simonis de Kéza, Gesta
Hungarorum, ed. by Veszprémy, pp. 100–01.
66
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 100.
67
Gesta Hungarorum, pp. 58–60.
68
Göckenjan, ‘Eid und Vertrag’, p. 16.
69
Widukind of Corvey, Rerum gestarum Saxonicarum, ed. by Georg Heinrich Pertz, MG H
SS, 3 (Hannover: Hahn, 1839), p. 418.
200 László Veszprémy

land through the purchase of a horse.70 Yet the influence of examples from West-
ern historiography cannot be proved philologically, and it is not the chronicle of
Anonymus that preserves this story in its fullest form, but the later Hungarian
chronicles.71 Simon of Kéza, who was familiar with Jordanes’s Getica, interestingly
omits his story about the Onogurs’ purchase of land with a horse and does not
compare it with the Hungarian oral tradition, which indicates the vitality of the
Hungarian tradition even in the late thirteenth century. There is some disagree-
ment as to when this story was first introduced into the chronicle, but what seems
certain is the importance of the oral tradition being preserved.72
Contrary to the chronicle’s focus on the pagan past, but no doubt in line with
the author’s intentions, the text ends with a reference to Christianity, albeit in an
unexpected way. Modern readers tended to interpret literally the last lines which
narrate that the incoming Pecheneg chieftain Thonuzoba was ‘vain in belief, re-
fused to be a Christian, and he was buried alive with his wife’, in some kind of cruel
nomadic custom rather than a figurative sense as ‘not being converted’.73 But it is
known from Apostle Paul’s letter to the Romans (Romans 6. 3–11) that pagans
buried themselves in the tropological sense; and in a similar vein, the Historia
abbreviata consulum Andegavorum, a chronicle contemporary with the GH, stated:
‘Vale, vive, precor, sed vive Deo, nam vivere mundo mors est, sed vera est est vivere
vita Deo’ (‘May [God] bless you, may you live long, but I beseech you to live in
devotion to God, for to live for this world is death; true life is in God’).74

Conclusion

The Hungarian chroniclers around the year 1200 had a hard time when it came to
writing the pre-Christian history of their people. They probably could find

70
Jordanes, Getica, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, MGH AA, 5.1 (Hannover: Hahn, 1882), p. 63.
71
Chronici Hungarici compositio, in SRH, ed. by Domanovszky, I, 287–90.
72
Mályusz-Kristó, Johannes de Thurocz, I, 152–55; and Gesta Hungarorum, p. 156.
73
Gesta Hungarorum, p. 162; and Gábor Kiss, ‘Két szomszédos Árpád-kori temetõ Szombath-
elyen’, in A halál árnyékának, ed. by Ritoók and Simonyi pp. 151–62. A cemetery situated far away
from the church but without any special ‘pagan’ archaeological characteristics was probably used
by the Pechenegs, who guarded the military border in Szombathely.
74
Historia abbreviata consulum Andegavorum: Chroniques d’Anjou, ed. by Paul Marchegay and
André Salmon, 2 vols (Paris: Jules Renouard, 1856; repr. 1965), I, 363; and János Bollók,
‘L’Authenticité historique de la légende de Thonuzoba’, Annales Universitatis Scientiarum Budapes-
tiensis de R. Eötvös nominatae: Linguistica, 11 (1980), 31–42.
‘MORE PAGANISMO’ 201

nothing on the subject in earlier chronicles and only brief allusions in the legends
of the indigenous saints. Hence the author’s strategy was to portray the Hun-
garians from the outset as being a people led by the Holy Spirit and living in
accordance with Christian customs. In keeping with this, they held chivalrous
jousts, used crossbows against the simple bows of the previous inhabitants of Pan-
nonia, and forever settled the division of power between the kings and nobility by
a blood contract in a way fitting for a Christian kingdom.
The author never refers to the Hungarians as pagans. He merely permits the
inference by mentioning that in the era of St Stephen, the descendants of the
story’s heroes converted to Christianity under their first king. For an author
working around 1200, reconstructing the actual changes in religion and in the way
of life for pagans who had converted to Christianity long before would have been
a difficult task. He himself was a cleric — several scholars have suggested he was a
bishop — living in a mature Christian society. If the Hungarians were not to be
expressly presented as pagans, they had to at least have some pagan customs, so as
to afford some distance — a distance consciously minimized by the author —
between their Christian age and the pre-Christian past. They were therefore
described with the customs that the author called more paganismo, judiciously
selected from an oral tradition and possibly influenced by the author’s own travels
across Eastern Europe. Thus, the GH was an undertaking unparalleled in medieval
Hungarian historiography: to write the story of the pagan Hungarians embedded
in the salvation history, as if they were just waiting to be converted. That he suc-
ceeded is beyond doubt: after all, his story not only was adopted by Simon of Kéza
in the late thirteenth century and later repeated in the ‘National Chronicle’, but
also was considered authentic and credible by Hungarian historians until the turn
of the twentieth century.
 Part Four
Early Historical Narratives in Eastern Europe
 Chapter 11

CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY,

AND THE ORIGIN OF CHRONICLE WRITING IN RUS’

Oleksiy P. Tolochko

The Primary Chronicle and the Preceding Chronicle Writing in Rus’

T he earliest extant Rus’ chronicle, the Povest’ vremennykh let — or the

Primary Chronicle, as it came to be known in Western scholarship — was
most likely created in 1116 in the Kievan Vydubychi monastery of St
Michael by its father superior Sylvester, under the patronage of the Kievan prince
Volodimer Monomakh.1 Had chronicle studies been obliged to deal with real texts
only, then that would probably mean that history writing as we now know it
emerged in Rus’ at roughly the same time as in the Polish or Czech lands — with
the Primary Chronicle as an inaugurating work similar to the historical texts of
Gallus Anonymus and Cosmas of Prague. Yet since the early twentieth century,
there has been a consensus among scholars dealing with the chronicles of early Rus’
that the Primary Chronicle is but the culmination of a long development, a master-
piece of the genre that originated considerably earlier than the turn of the twelfth
century. When chronicle writing first emerged in Rus’, was it indeed the initial mode
of history writing? If not, what the earliest attempts at writing history may have
looked like or were styled after is a matter of considerable dispute, with several
hypotheses suggested so far. A critical overview of them can be found in the
following pages, but I am far from hoping to offer definitive answers to the debated

1
For details, see Aleksey Tolochko, ‘Perechityvaia pripisku Silvestra 1116 g.’, Ruthenica, 7
(2008), 154–65. Cf. Aleksey Gippius, ‘K voprosu o redaktsiiakh Povesti vremennykh let. I’, Slavi-
anovedenie, 2007.5, 20–44; and Aleksey Gippius, ‘K voprosu o redaktsiiakh Povesti vremennykh
let. II’, Slavianovedenie, 2008.2, 3–24, with the previous literature on this issue. Cf. Donald
Ostrowski in the following chapter.
206 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

questions, which for all we know may forever remain obscure and controversial. Yet
their discussion in this chapter will serve as a useful introduction to early East
European chronicle writing.
Reasons, ideological as well as emotional, for the dating of the ‘first chronicles’
to an earlier period are obvious. It has seemed somehow unfair that there existed
such a conspicuous gap between the conversion of Rus’ to Christianity in 988 and
the much later date of the first surviving chronicle. Moreover, to acknowledge such
an outstanding breach would mean rendering the earliest Kievan history — from
the ninth to eleventh century — as essentially legendary, with no support in con-
temporaneous sources and without a hope of ever being rescued from the domain
of medieval fiction, a sacrifice no one has been ready to make. The obvious trouble
here, however, is that no textual tradition earlier than the Primary Chronicle and
independent of it has survived, if it indeed existed. Yet the gap of roughly 130 years
between the conversion and the Primary Chronicle has been bridged with nume-
rous hypothetical chronicles whose manuscript tradition was presumably lost at a
very early stage, but not before they had contributed their materials to the Primary
Chronicle, thus forming a substantial part of its body. To recover their content (if
not their exact wording) from the text of the Primary Chronicle has been a search
for the Holy Grail of East European chronicle studies. Two principal techniques
have been employed for the task: the internal critique of the Primary Chronicle’s
text and the collation of it with the later chronicles of Novgorod, believed to have
preserved a tradition earlier than the one witnessed in the Primary Chronicle. The
combination of the two yielded a scholarly construction consisting of an impressive
succession of chronicles stretching from the late eleventh century all the way back
to the times immediately after the conversion. It is now believed that the Primary
Chronicle was based on an earlier chronicle composed in the 1090s in Kiev (termed
the ‘Initial Compilation’),2 which drew on an even earlier work of the 1070s
(labelled as the ‘Nikon Compilation’), which in turn incorporated the chronicle
of the 1030s (named the ‘Ancient Compilation’). Before the latter date, ‘no man’s
land’ stretches, with scholars virtually unrestricted in their conjectures as to the
nature of the historical texts produced and their possible subject matters. The
majority vote, it seems, goes towards small-scale and purely narrative pieces on
either pagan times or on events leading to the conversion.

2
For a very sober discussion of the ‘Initial Compilation’ and various associated problems, see
Alan Timberlake, ‘The Redactions of the Primary Chronicle’, Russkii jazyk v nauchnom osvesh-
chenii, 1 (2001), 196–218.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 207

Historically, the bulk of the scholarly effort has produced numerous discussions
on what these hypothetical chronicles may have looked like, how many of them
existed, and what kind of textual relationships they could have possibly shared. Pre-
dictably, opinions have been plentiful and diverse. I will not go into the discussion,
as fascinating as it is, of this hall of mirrors, for it will take us away from our imme-
diate topic on the ‘Heart of Darkness’ of Russian textology. In short, I am rather
skeptical about the existence of these hypothetically postulated chronicles (at least in
the manner they are being imagined in academic literature), and think that most of
them have been created for the convenience of scholars unable or unwilling to work
with the actual texts. All that said, however, there can be little doubt that there
existed a chronicle tradition prior to the Primary Chronicle, and that in certain
segments the Primary Chronicle is a faithful witness to it. A compelling set of
evidence can be produced in support of the view that continuous annals were kept
in Kiev since at least the 1040s if not earlier through the eleventh century, which
would account for the abundance of precise dating in the Primary Chronicle —
including the exact date, weekday, and sometimes even the hour.

The Problem of Models

For the benefit of the readers not intimately acquainted with the chronicle tradition
of Eastern Europe, let me offer a reminder of the basic structure of the Primary
Chronicle and indeed any Rus’ chronicle. It is, essentially, annalistic: on the left side
of a page an uninterrupted row of years is noted, to which entries describing an
event or events of a particular year are attached to the right. The entries may vary
in length, detail, and the level of a narrative component, yet this basic structure is
never abandoned or significantly altered. Indeed, it constitutes the core of history
writing as practised in medieval Rus’. With one notable thirteenth-century excep-
tion (the Galician-Volhynian Chronicle3), the chronicle is the only type of historical
writing known in Eastern Europe until the mid-sixteenth century. As in any
annalistic history, some of the year numbers have no corresponding entries and are
left blank. The year numbers are noted nevertheless, so as not to interrupt the con-
tinuous flow of time. This rigid and stable structure should suggest that chronology
is invested with primacy over the entries and their accidental content,4 and that

3
The name is traditional and might be quite misleading; see note 5.
4
The inspiration here is an unlikely authority for things medieval, namely Hayden White and
his penetrating analysis of the nature of annalistic history writing. See Hayden White, ‘The Value of
208 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

chronicle writing is neither conceivable nor indeed possible if divorced from

chronology.5
The uniformly annalistic structure of the Rus’ chronicles — apparently intrinsic
for the whole enterprise — challenges historians with the problem of its possible
origin and defies attempts to establish its source culture. For one, it creates tension
between the allegedly Byzantine origins of the Rus’ Christian culture and an
annalistic mode of history writing. This contradiction has been noted (if not fully
acknowledged) by the very first students of the early chronicles. Still, it remains not
quite appreciated as being important for the understanding of the early Rus’
chronicle’s origin.
Byzantium, which furnished Rus’ with the Christian faith and hence is gen-
erally viewed as the ultimate source of the Rus’ culture and book learning, was not
able to provide a ready model for the inception of a chronicle as an annalistic
project. As Cyril Mango convincingly demonstrated a while ago, Byzantium had
nothing to offer to Rus’ in that respect. Byzantine historiography evolved along an
entirely different path, and the annalistic type of history writing never enjoyed
popularity there.6 Greek-speaking Byzantine authors styled themselves after their
classical predecessors and preferred a narrative mode of history writing for which
absolute chronology (in contrast to the relative chronology of described events)
was rather superfluous.
Around the time of the Rus’ conversion, the Byzantines practised two principal
types of historical writing. One is a large universal chronicle stretching from the
Creation to (preferably) the author’s own times. Another type is history, composi-
tions smaller in scope with the focus on a well-defined subject, be it the rule of an
emperor or a certain war or something similar. None was structured in an annalistic
mode — the way the Rus’ chronicle was — relying heavily on the narrative discourse.

Narrativity in Representation of Reality’, in The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and
Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), pp. 1–25.
5
Even at a much later stage, historical compositions devoid of chronological grid were viewed
as inadequate and lacking an essential component for being considered a proper history. In the
thirteenth century, the so-called Galician-Volhynian Chronicle (and this is the exception mentioned
above) was composed in imitation of the narrative history of a Byzantine style. It was a radical inno-
vation at the time. In the early fifteenth century, however, an uncompromising editor ‘improved’ it
by imposing his own and rather artificial chronological grid on the text. See Aleksey P. Tolochko,
‘Proiskhozhdenie khronologii Ipatievskogo spiska Galitsko-Volynskoi letopisi’, Paleoslavica, 13
(2005), 81–108.
6
Cyril Mango, ‘The Tradition of Byzantine Chronography’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies, 12–
13 (1988–89), 360–72.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 209

The absence of contemporaneous Byzantine models easily transferable after the Rus’
conversion leads one to speculate whether a certain specimen of the so-called minor
chronicles (arranged in a chronological sequence of events) somehow influenced the
emergence of the genre in Rus’. Indeed, a type of historical texts approaching the
annalistic mode existed in Byzantium, but their published corpus7 makes one won-
der if their heyday was not too late to be of any importance for the Rus’ chronicle. In
any case, none of the ‘minor chronicles’ turns up in Slavonic translations.8
The absence of models in Byzantium is puzzling and forces one to look else-
where. The Latin West with its far-reaching tradition of annalistic writing is, of
course, a prime suspect here. Unfortunately, cultural (in contrast to political or
matrimonial) exchange with the West has left virtually no traces in available evi-
dence. Besides, regions immediately bordering Rus’ to the west, like Poland or
Hungary (which could have potentially served as transmitters), did not develop an
annalistic tradition of their own until much later times.9 Moving further west (and
north-west), August Ludwig Schlözer, a scholar who introduced the critical method
in the study of chronicles in the late eighteenth century, pointed to a striking affinity
that the early Rus’ chronicle shares with the Anglo-Saxon annals. A reasonable
‘conspiracy theory’ can be advanced in support of the two being somehow related,10
but both the distance and the linguistic barrier make any direct influence highly im-
probable.11 Whatever similarities may have existed between the Western annals and
the early Rus’ chronicle, there simply was no culturally influential Latin-educated
milieu in Kiev capable of introducing the annalistic idea into Slavonic writings. Of
course, chances are that even a single manuscript accidentally imported (and

7
Peter Schreiner, Die byzantinischen Kleinchroniken, 3 vols, Corpus fontium historiae Byzan-
tinae, 12. 1–3 (Vienna: Österriechischen Academie der Wissenschaften, 1975–79).
8
There seems to be no reason for Slavonic translators to get interested in these texts with their
narrow chronological focus and local attachments. And, of course, the Siriac tradition never made it
into Slavonic writings.
9
For an overview of early medieval history writing in Poland and Hungary, see Norbert
Kersken, Geschichtsschreibung in Europa der ‘nationes’: Nationalgeschichtliche Gesamtdarstellungen
im Mittelalter, Münstersche Historische Forschung, 8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995), pp. 484–522 and
pp. 652–85.
10
Incidentally, Prince Volodimer Monomakh of Kiev, the sponsor of the Primary Chronicle
and himself a writer, was married to Gytha, a daughter of the last Anglo-Saxon king, Harold.
11
With its better-preserved manuscript tradition and vernacular language, the Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle, however, remains important for comparative studies of the Rus’ chronicle-writing; see
the pioneering study by Timofey Guimon, ‘Povest vremennykh let v svete anglo-saksonskikh
parallelej’, Drevniaja Rus’: Voprosy medievistiki, 33 (2008), 18–19.
210 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

subsequently lost) could have inspired an imitation. Yet it is safer to remain within
the documented range of texts.
What samples of history were, theoretically, accessible around the time that
chronicle writing commenced in Rus’? For our purposes, only those available in
Slavonic translations are of interest.12 Two chronicles, the sixth-century Chrono-
graphia by John Malala13 and the ninth-century Chronicle by George Hamartolus,
are the first to be mentioned. Both are large-scale universal chronicles and were
valued precisely for their accounts on ancient and biblical history. The third item on
the list is the early ninth-century Chronographikon syntomon by Nikephoros,
patriarch of Constantinople. It presents the lists of biblical patriarchs, Hebrew and
Persian kings, and Roman and Byzantine emperors — with an indication of the
number of years each lived or ruled and concise notices on the events that happened
in their times. This work is perhaps the closest to the annals, yet not quite: it lacks a
general chronological grid (either in the form of anno mundi or Olympiads). Two
more items on the list have an uncertain status: The Jewish War by Josephus Flavius14
and the Alexander Romance15 were definitely in circulation by the twelfth century.
They apparently were part of the received canon, but their availability for chron-
iclers in eleventh-century Rus’ remains doubtful.
Curiously, those few Byzantine histories that were organized around chronol-
ogy, like the Paschal Chronicle,16 were never translated. We do not need to blame the
eleventh-century Kievites for this omission, for the choices were not even theirs to
make. What they had in their hands was part of the received canon established by
the tenth-century Bulgarian translations and transplanted to Rus’.

12
For a recent survey of the Byzantine chronography in Slavonic translations, see Evgenij
Vodolazkin, Vsemirnaja istorija v literature Drevnej Rusi (na materiale khronograficheskogo i
palejnogo povestvovanija 11–15 vekov) (St Petersburg: Pushkinskij dom, 2008).
13
On the Slavonic tradition of John Malala, see most recently Simon Franklin, ‘Malalas in
Slavonic’, in Byzantium – Rus – Russia: Studies in the Translation of Christian Culture, Variorum
Collected Studies Series, 754 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), pp. 276–87.
14
Most recently published as Istoria iudeiskoi voiny Iosifa Flavia: Drevnerusskii perevod, 2 vols
(Moscow: Jazyki slavianskoj kultury, 2004).
15
Published by V. Istrin as Aleksandria russkikh khronografov: Issledovanie i tekst (Moscow,
1893).
16
We may glimpse the reason why the Paschal Chronicle was never translated into Slavonic
from Warren Treadgold’s remarks on its idiosyncratic standing within Byzantine history writing. Its
surviving manuscripts are rare, and it seems that even in Byzantium it found very few readers; see
Warren Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians (New York: Palgrave, 2007), pp. 340–49.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 211

The Current Paradigm

The matter is further confused by a specific set of ideas developed during the last
century within the discipline of East European chronicle studies. The current
research paradigm in this field was established in the early twentieth century by the
great Russian philologist Aleksey A. Shakhmatov. When his works started to appear
in the early 1900s, they were immediately recognized as groundbreaking. An
impressively broad command of primary texts and a dazzling talent for combination
inspired awe in contemporaries and an almost religious following in the next
generations of scholars. It was instantly accepted that with Shakhmatov, the study of
chronicles reached an unprecedented technical and theoretical sophistication.
Shakhmatov’s major contribution to the theory, indeed a revolutionary one that has
influenced subsequent scholarship the most, was a completely new notion about the
nature of the chronicle. Unlike his predecessors, who viewed the chronicle largely as
the product of an annalistic type of history writing, Shakhmatov advanced the idea
of chronicles being a specific type of compilation whose author’s job was not simply
to update the text of his predecessor but rather to completely rewrite the work he
had inherited, so as to create, in effect, a completely new narrative. The production
of a compilation so envisaged involved, as a rule, the consulting of numerous
preceding chronicles, whose texts an author was supposed to weave into his own
story line. Also, a chronicler was supposed to interfere liberally with the texts of his
sources, cutting them down, amending them, or even creating his own variants to
replace those found in his copy text. The image of a chronicler as a passive copyist
and continuator was substituted for the one in which he appeared to be an
accomplished writer and ideologist. As a result, the chronicle appeared to be a much
more complex phenomenon than previously accepted.
Within this interpretative model, the Primary Chronicle was viewed as a con-
tainer of all previous chronicles and, as the matryoshka doll, it could be opened to
reveal an earlier chronicle, which (if opened) would expose an even earlier one, and
so on down to the earliest text. Shakhmatov insisted that this method had a sound
textological foundation.17 Yet if he was right about the nature of the chronicle, then
to recover from the Primary Chronicle the text of a preceding author would be a

17
Within the Russian historiographic tradition, a discussion of the early chronicle-writing
requires the handling of all the shifts and slightest shades in Shakhmatov’s ideas, and they are all too
many. For a Western readership, however, a reference to the scholar’s principal work where the
method is sufficiently exposed would suffice: Aleksey A. Shakhmatov, Razyskania o drevneishikh
russkikh letopisnykh svodakh (St Petersburg: M. A. Aleksandrov, 1908).
212 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

task as monumental in its complexity and as risky in its exercise as the recovery of
Cassiodorus’s exact wordings from Jordanes’s Getica would be.18 However, Shakh-
matov’s speculations about the lost chronicles have come to be viewed as the only
legitimate goal of any inquiry into the early chronicles, at the expense of real texts.
It can be argued that it was Shakhmatov’s early classical training that compelled
him to impose an image borrowed from classical historiography — with its nume-
rous lost texts of known authors, known only because someone made use of them in
surviving works — on the literary tradition of early Rus’. It is also with classical
authors in mind that Shakhmatov picked up the image of an authorial compilation
with a clear ideological message and the idea of each consecutive chronicler substan-
tially revising the work of his predecessor.
Shakhmatov himself was very vague as to the models for his type of chronicle.
Influenced by the ‘light edition’ Slavophile ideas — still fashionable at the time —
but also mindful of the absence of models, he postulated that some unspecified
tenth-century Bulgarian chronicles had presumably served as models for the emerg-
ing genre of the Rus’ chronicle. No such chronicle has been discovered since, and it
is now increasingly more apparent that, astonishing cultural achievements not-
withstanding, the First Bulgarian State never developed indigenous history writing.
Whatever historic curiosity was there, it was satisfied by those Byzantine chronicles
that were available in Slavonic translations.
The inadequacy of Shakhmatov’s ideas for explaining the genesis of chronicle
writing soon became apparent to even his most loyal followers. They had to either
accept that chronicles appeared as deus ex machina, a fully formed and highly
developed genre, or to explore some other options. They did not, however, revert to
the much-ridiculed idea of annalistic writing. Rather, they opted for a more ambi-
tious and, for students of literature, certainly a more attractive alternative to the

18
The analogy is not accidental. In a way, the treatment of the Primary Chronicle follows the
pattern established for Jordanes in historiography. In Walter Goffart’s words, ‘[a]n observed ten-
dency of research into Germanic antiquities has been to minimize the directly accessible texts,
which are usually late in date, and to subordinate them to “the better antecedents” — the vanished
tales or writings of earlier date whose vestiges are deemed to be incorporated, in debased form, in
the materials that survive. Jordanes fits perfectly into this pattern of deprecating the time-bound
text we have and preferring the lost precursor of which much may be imagined. If Jordanes’s Getica
is the “ruin” of the preferable Gothic history of Cassiodorus, every trait indicating conscious com-
position in Justinian’s Constantinople may be disregarded, and whatever fragments seem attractive
in a Germanistic perspective may be attributed to the Ravenna prototype. Imagination is best
served by treating the Getica as a collection of extracts, and not as a planned literary design’: Walter
Goffart, The Narrators of Barbarian History (AD 550–800): Jordanes, Gregory of Tours, Bede, and
Paul the Deacon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), p. 31.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 213

narrative mode. In the late 1940s, Dmitry S. Likhachev suggested that the earliest
attempt to write history was not a chronicle but rather a composition undivided
into annual entries, termed by him ‘The Tale on the Spread of Christian Faith’.
Later, it presumably served as the core for the chronicle and provided it with the
story line and the basic facts. Others, like Mikhail N. Tikhomirov, suggested dif-
ferent plots for the ‘first history’: an account on the first princes termed by
Tikhomirov as ‘The Tale on the Rus’ Princes’ or ‘The Tale on the Origin of Rus’’.
Still others, like Aleksey A. Gippius, extended the scope of this tale to include the
conversion of Volodimer.
Yet the idea that the very first endeavours to record one’s past were made in the
narrative mode and produced plot-based compositions is vulnerable. For one, it has
no foundation whatsoever in the surviving texts, which is no accident. Narrative
history telling, so easily accepted in modern practice as to appear naturally and
spontaneously, is in fact the result of a long development. Such a literary convention
presupposes a certain level of culture and highly sophisticated literary techniques
not normally developed without external stimuli. It is hard to imagine how it could
be invented without an engagement with traditions in which narrative history
telling had been established for some time.
This consideration brings another problem. Unlike other emerging traditions in
the peripheral regions of Christendom, Rus’ chronicle writing was separated from
possible Byzantine (or Latin, for that matter) models by a linguistic barrier: their
authors wrote in Old Church Slavonic. A consensus seems to have now been
reached that the chroniclers knew no Byzantine Greek and thus were limited to
only those texts that had been available in Old Church Slavonic translations. They
were therefore unable to tap directly into the vast Greek historiography, either
classical or Byzantine, and to pick a model at their own discretion, even if they had
been equipped enough to appreciate it. True, even the Slavonic translations —
tedious and obscure in terms of style as they are — would teach chroniclers some
basics of the craft of story telling. Yet the idea that translations existed and were
theoretically accessible does not necessarily mean they were indeed used by the very
first local annalists in early Rus’. We know of the existence of translations only
because they feature in the Primary Chronicle, which, as everyone agrees, is a late
development. It would seem that chroniclers started to pay them attention only
after the basic structure of the Rus’ chronicle had already been developed and firmly
established as the only way of writing history. To interact in a sensible way with the
Byzantine chronography and to use it for one’s own ends are signs of maturity and
confidence, rather than of apprenticeship.
214 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

The Chronicle as Annals

It stands to reason that if history writing existed in newly converted Rus’ — which
lacked proper literature of its own — it would assume the form of what might be
termed ‘elementary notations’. Rather than expecting sophisticated historia-type
compositions, we would be better off looking for some undemanding records whose
aim was simply to set an event in time. Such ‘elementary notations’ appear in the
form of a marginal note in a manuscript or a colophon to a text, or a series of dated
notes adduced on the blank pages at the end of a book.19 These notations do not
record the past, least of all some distant past. Their aim, rather, is to fix the present,
so that it would not vanish from memory. If a fair number of such notations were
made, they could constitute ‘Kleinechronik’ — local or family — or cloister annals.
Such jottings of historical character are well attested in later times, and it is perhaps
only due to the poor survival rate of pre-Mongol manuscripts that we do not know
of them from Kievan times.
But let us consider the following segment of the Primary Chronicle, which runs
from AD 998 to 1014 and was made clearly ‘visible’ within the structure of the Pri-
mary Chronicle by flanking lengthy narrative pieces. The section has been discussed
several times for various purposes, but still has not received the attention it really
deserves.20 The segment starts around the turn of the millennium and runs as follows:
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . sʼ . [6506 (998)]
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . . ɡʼ . [6507 (999)]
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɢʼ . [6508 (1000)] ɉɪɟɫɬɚɜɢɫʠ Ɇɚɥɴɮɪɢɞɶ . ȼ ɫɟ ɠɟ ɥʜ ɬͻ ɩɪɟɫɬɚɜɢɫʠ ɢ
Ɋɨɝɴɧʜɞɶ ɦɬʼɢ ˂ɪɨɫɥɚɜɥʠ ;
ȼ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ʬʼ . [6509 (1001)] ɉɪɟɫɬɚɜɢɫʠ ɂɡʠɫɥɚɜɴ ʚɰʼɶ Ȼɪʠɰɶɫɥɚɜɥɶ . ɫɧʼɴ
ȼɨɥɨɞɢɦʜɪɶ .
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . Õʼ . [6510 (1002)]
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɚʼÕ . [6511 (1003)] ɉɪɟɫɬɚɜɢɫʠ ȼɫɟɫɥɚɜɴ . ɫɧʼɴ ɂɡʠɫɥɚɜɥɶ ɜɧɭɤɴ
ȼɴɥɨɞɢɦʜɪɶ .
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ. ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɜʼÕ . [6512 (1004)]
ȼɴ 47 ɥʜɬͻ. ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɝʼÕ . [6513 (1005)]

19
Or even a dated inscription, of which many have survived on the walls of pre-Mongol
churches. Some of them are obviously of a ‘chronicle’ nature, as an inscription on the death of Prince
Jaroslav of Kiev or an inscription on the truce agreed between princes in St Sophia Cathedral in
Kiev.
20
I have dealt with this fragment elsewhere, see Oleksiy Tolochko, ‘Kievan Rus’ around the Year
1000’, in Europe around the Year 1000, ed. by Przemyslaw Urbanczyk (Warsaw: DiG, 2001), pp.
123–40.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 215

ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɞʼÕ . [6514 (1006)]

ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɟʼÕ . [6515 (1007)] ɉɪɢɧɟɫɟɧɢ ɫɬʼɢɢ ɜɶ ɫɬʼɭɸ Ȼɰʼɸ ;
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . sʼÕ . [6516 (1008)]
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɡʼÕ . [6517 (1009)]
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ. ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɢʼÕ . [6518 (1010)]
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ʬʼÕ . [6519 (1011)] ɉɪɟɫɬɚɜɢɫʠ ɰɫͻɪɰɢ ȼɨɥɨɞɢɦɟɪʠɚ . Ⱥɧʼɧɚ
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . . ɮʼ . . ɤʼ . [6520 (1012)]
ȼ ɥʜɬͻ . ʻsʼ . ɮʼ . . ɤʼɚ . [6521 (1013)]21
[In the year of 6506.
In the year of 6507.
In the year of 6508. Malfred died. In this year died also Rogned, Yaroslav’s mother.
In the year of 6509. In this year died Izyaslav, son of Volodimer and father of Bryachislav.
In the year of 6510.
In the year of 6511. In this year died Vseslav, son of Izyaslav and grandson of Volodimer.
In the year of 6512.
In the year of 6513.
In the year of 6514.
In the year of 6515. The saints were brought to the Church of the Holy Virgin.
In the year of 6516.
In the year of 6517.
In the year of 6518.
In the year of 6519. The empress Anna, wife of Volodimer, passed away.
In the year of 6520.
In the year of 6521.]22
The fragment has a clear structure of classical annals: a date and an attached brief
notice; some years are left ‘empty’. It is impossible to picture how this fragment
could be obtained from a narrative composition. There is no story here to be told.
The ‘characters’ have not acted before and will never appear in the story again. We
would never learn, for example, just who Malfred was and why she (if it was indeed
a woman) was so important as to have her death recorded in the royal chronicle.
Similarly, we would never learn which saints — or rather which relics — were trans-
ferred to the Tithe Church. Even the personalities whose identities are known (as
are the two wives of Volodimer, Rogned and Anna, or his son Iziaslav and grandson
Vseslav) make their first and last appearance in our fragment (that is, beyond the
legendary accounts). Actually, this is the only ‘documentary’ evidence for their mere
existence. It is also hard to imagine how the events could have been recorded

21
PSRL, II, col. 114.
22
The Russian Primary Chronicle, ed. and trans. by Samuel Cross, Harvard Studies and Notes
in Philology and Literature, 12 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1930), p. 212.
216 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

generations after. On the contrary, the names and events could only have meant
something to a contemporary, and the next generation was probably as lost as we are
while deciphering them.
This fragment also demonstrates that the concept of the chronicle first emerging
as an unbroken story, only to be later divided artificially into annual entries, is
vulnerable. How would a later editor know the chronological distance between the
events and hence the amount of ‘empty’ years needed? To set them apart, he would
need another source with supposedly ‘accurate’ chronology, which means that an
annalistic mode must have preceded narrative compositions after all.23
The events like those presented above could only have been put into writing as
they happened or shortly thereafter; and the nature of the recorded events is pre-
cisely what we should expect to find in the annals of a royal church: deaths in the
royal family and major events in the church. Thus our segment apparently repre-
sents the vestiges of the earliest Rus’ chronicle set in an annalistic mode.
While moving in the text of the Primary Chronicle from the entry of 1015 on-
wards, we discover a large narrative on the passions of St Boris and St Gleb inserted
into the text of an earlier chronicle sometime in the second half of the eleventh
century. By subtracting the fragments associated with this story as well as some other
demonstrably later additions, we end up again with a continuous string of concise
annals (mostly births and deaths in the royal family, wars, natural disasters, and the
construction of churches) stretching well into the 1040s.
These annals appear to represent the earliest form in which the Rus’ chronicle
existed, continuously kept at either the princely court or (which is more probable) at
the royal Tithe Church. The question, however, still remains: how could an annal-
istic chronicle have evolved in the absence of direct external influences?
In fact, there is a fairly good answer, since there existed a device producing under
certain circumstances annals in diverse and seemingly unconnected traditions. In
the mid-nineteenth century, the noted Russian Slavist Izmail Sreznevsky suggested
on purely theoretical grounds that, given the chronicle’s affinity with the genre of

23
In fact, there is a documented sample of a continuous story later broken into yearly entries,
the Galician-Volhynian Chronicle mentioned above. We have a fairly good idea of how the later
editor went about this task and what sort of result he achieved. We know, for example, that in order
to establish an absolute chronology, he would need another text with a chronological grid (an
annalistic chronicle). We also know that for the sections of the text to which there was no parallel
annalistic account, the editor had no idea of how big a time gap there might have been between the
events: for him, they followed one right after another. Thus, he ended up with no ‘empty’ years in
his chronology.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 217

Western annals, it must have had a similar genesis in the Easter tables. An Easter
table where occasional notes on present or past events are inserted is easily converti-
ble into annals.24 Such Easter or Paschal tables with annalistic entries — sometimes
called ‘Paschal annals’ — are indeed well known in the early medieval West.25 It was
one of those very rare instances in humanities when a prediction is later confirmed
by a discovery. Sreznevsky was not able to produce any proof to substantiate his ob-
servations. However, Mikhail Sukhomlinov, a student of his and a noted historian
of old literature in his own right, did discover a Paschal table of the mid-fourteenth
century with chronicle-like notices appended.26 The notes are inserted into the
corresponding cells of the table that stand for a particular year. If we convert the
table into a row of entries (the procedure which Sukhomlinov actually performed),
we would end up with the following chronicle:27
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6805. In the year of 6805.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6806. ɞɦɢɬɪɢɢ ɪɨɞɢɫʠ In the year of 6806. Dmitry was born.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6807. In the year of 6807.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6808. In the year of 6808.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6809. In the year of 6809.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6810. ɛɨɪɿɫɴ ɩɪɽɫɬ ɤɧʠɡɶ In the year of 6810. Prince Boris died.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6811. ɬɚɥɚ˃ ɡɢɦɚ In the year of 6811. A warm winter.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6812. ɚɧɞɪʜɢ ɤɧʼɡɶ ɩɪɟɫ In the year of 6812. Prince Andrew passed away.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6813. In the year of 6813.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6814. In the year of 6814.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6815. In the year of 6815.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6816. In the year of 6816.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6817. In the year of 6817.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6818. In the year of 6818.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6819. In the year of 6819.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6820. ɬɨɤɬɚ ɨɭɦɪɽ In the year of 6820. Tokhta died.

24
Izmail I. Sreznevky, Statii o drevnikh russkikh letopisiakh (1853–1866) (St Petersburg, 1908),
pp. 15–17.
25
See Rosamond McKitterick, ‘Constructing the Past in the Early Middle Ages: The Case of
the Royal Frankish Annals’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 6th ser., 7 (1997), 101–29
(pp. 110–11), with the literature on the dependence of the annals on the Easter tables.
26
Edited most recently by Timofey Guimon as an appendix to the new issue of the First
Novgorod Chronicle: PSRL, III, 578–79. On this Paschal table, see Timofey Guimon, ‘K tipologii
zhanrov drevnerusskogo istoriopisanija 11–14 vv.’, Ruthenica, 2 (2003), 172–80.
27
Mikhail I. Sukhomlinov, Issledovania po drevnei russkoi literature (St Petersburg, 1908), pp.
40–49.
218 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6821. ɢɡɛʠɤɴ ɫʜɞɽ In the year of 6821. Uzbeck sat [on the throne]
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6822. In the year of 6822.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6823. ɬɨɪɠɟɤɴ ɜɡʠɬɴ In the year of 6823. Torzhek was captured.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6824. ɧɚ ɥɨɜɨɬɢ ɫɬɨ˃ɥɢ In the year of 6824. On the river Lovot was a standoff.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6825. ɤɚɜɚɞʜɽɜɨ In the year of 6825. Kavadeevo.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6826. ɦɢɯɚɢɥɨ ɨɭɛɢɬɴ In the year of 6826. Michael is killed.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6827. ɞɨɪɨɝɨ ɦɨɪɴ In the year of 6827. High mortality.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6828. In the year of 6828.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6829. ɫɥɧʼɰɽ ɩɨɝɢɛɥɨ In the year of 6829. The sun perished.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6830. In the year of 6830.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6831. ɞɦɢɬɪɢɢ ɫʜɥɴ In the year of 6831. Dmitry sat [on the throne].
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6832. In the year of 6832.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6833. In the year of 6833.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6834. ɞɦɢɬɪɢɢ ɨɭɛɢɬɴ In the year of 6834. Dmitry is killed.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6835. ɲɟɜɤɚɥɴ ɨɭɛɢɬɴ In the year of 6835. Shevkal is killed.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6836. In the year of 6836.
ȼɴ ɥʜɬͻ 6837. In the year of 6837.
The resulting chronicle is strikingly similar to the fragment of the Primary
Chronicle discussed above. It contains the comparable amount of ‘empty’ years and
analogous events whose significance escapes us; it records deaths, battles, and
natural phenomena. Translated into Latin, it would have been indistinguishable
from Western annals.
The bond between the Paschal tables and the annals (or comparable works on
history) is witnessed for various traditions.28 As its very name suggests, the Byzan-
tine Paschal Chronicle, for example, evolved from its anonymous author’s deep in-
terest in the chronology and calculations of Easter dates.29 On the other fringe of
Christendom, the Irish annals with their peculiar dating system of the calends of
January and ferial (previously thought to have been an Irish invention) borrowed

28
Dáibhí Ó Cróinín, ‘Early Irish Annals from Easter Tables: A Case Restated’, Peritia, 2
(1983), 74–86. Cf. McKitterick, ‘Constructing the Past in the Early Middle Ages’, pp. 112–29;
Rosamond McKitterick, History and Memory in the Carolingian World (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004), pp. 97–100. She advocates the reverse relationship whereby the ‘Paschal
annals’ borrow their notices from the actual annals. In her interpretation, she seems to proceed from
the belief that for any given annalistic chronicle there must have been a Paschal table serving as a
supplier of raw material. While this indeed may not be the case in every instance, the Paschal tables
still are the best explanation for the emergence of the genre of the annals.
29
Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, p. 341.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 219

their chronological apparatus from a particular kind of the Paschal tables, the fifth-
century latercus by Sulpicius Severus, followed by some of the early Irish churches.30
Even from these few examples, it is obvious that the Paschal tables were an ex-
tremely powerful and efficient tool, allowing a historian to devise with relative ease
an absolute chronology for his particular accounts. Yet their importance was not
only technical, since they also provided a link between history and liturgy.
For a newly converted people, chronology must have been a discovery of immense
proportions and significance. It was not only the skill of counting and playing with
numbers. Chronology was important because it was Christian chronology. As such,
it was loaded with deep religious meanings and a specific understanding of the world
and its history. Christian chronology is the only ‘full’ one in the sense that it encom-
passes the totality of human experience, from the Creation to the Last Judgement.
To provide a date for an event meant at the same time to acknowledge this stretch of
time and to attest to a specifically Christian understanding of the past as well as the
future. In Rosamond McKitterick’s words, with chronology time became Christian-
ized,31 and, at least initially, chronology might have been enjoyed for its own sake as
a manifestation and confirmation of Christian self-awareness. A steady marching of
‘God’s years’ in a chronicle was a visible manifestation of the Almighty’s presence in
the world reassured by an annually performed liturgical cycle.
Chronology is crucial for the Christian understanding of history.32 It is in
relation to the linear time stretching from the Creation through the Incarnation to
the Last Judgement that a particular event in local history receives its proper mean-
ing. It is true that due to the influence of classical models, narrative histories survived
in the Middle Ages. Eusebius of Caesarea was able to convert what had been viewed
as an essentially pagan type of history writing into a respectable Christian enterprise.
Yet it is also true that devoid of Christian chronology, narrative history writing
lacked something very important from a Christian perspective, and the same
Eusebius of Caesarea complemented his narrative Church History with the Church
Chronicle, where primacy was given to chronology and not story telling.

30
Daniel McCarthy, ‘The Chronology and Sources of the Early Irish Annals’, Early Medieval
Europe, 10 (2001), 323–41.
31
McKitterick, ‘Constructing the Past in the Early Middle Ages’, pp. 104–06.
32
As Hans-Werner Goetz usefully reminds us, the strong link between Christian chronicles and
chronology stems from the fact that time is God’s creation and history is thus completely integrated
into God’s providence for human salvation; Hans-Werner Goetz, ‘Constructing the Past: Religious
Dimensions and Historical Consciousness in Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammburgensis ecclesiae
pontificum’, in Making of Christian Myths, pp. 17–51 (pp. 23–24).
220 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

Early medieval historians, as well as their readers, felt somewhat uneasy when
their story was not somehow related to universal chronology. A few instructive exam-
ples will do. Paul the Deacon dedicated his Roman History to Adalperga, daughter
of the last Langobard king, Desiderius. In a dedicatory letter, Paul explains the ori-
gins of his work: he first suggested to Adalperga the reading of the Roman History,
or Breviary, of Eutropius, but she found it too pagan. She then commissioned Paul
to expand Eutropius with insertions from the Holy Scripture so as to give greater
clarity to the author’s original chronology: ‘The obscurity that needed clarification
was the equivalence of Eutropius’s Roman dates to biblical ones. The “harmony”
easily achieved by the intermittent insertion of lines from Jerome’s Chronicle, is all
that Paul deemed it necessary to supply.’33 A bit earlier, Jordanes too thought it ne-
cessary to preface the Getica with the account of world history that placed his main
story of the Goths into the framework of accepted Christian chronology.
We may conclude this section with the following set of questions, which by now
seem rather rhetorical: is it possible to start writing history with no regard to chro-
nology or history detached from any chronological framework? This, of course, is
but one aspect of a larger question: what constituted history for a Christian monk,
and to what extent was chronology an essential part of the enterprise? Was it pos-
sible (for this imagined monk) to view a story as history if no chronological markers
were attached to it?
To the last question at least, the author of the Primary Chronicle gave a negative
answer by offering at the very beginning of his work the following chronological com-
putation, which linked the history of the Rus’ princes with Christian chronology:
ɬʜɦɶ ɠɟ ɢ ʸɫɟɥʜ ɩɨɱɧɟɦͻ . ɢ ɱɢɫɥɚ ɩɨɥɨɠɢɦͻ . ˃ɤɨ ʸ Ⱥɞɚɦɚ ɞɨ ɩɨɬɨɩɚ . ɥʜɬͻ . ʻɜʼ . ɫʼ . ɦʼ . ɜʼ .
ɚ ʸ ɩɨɬɨɩɚ ɞɨ Ⱥɜɪɚɦɚ. ɥʜɬʼ. ʻɚʼ. ɩʼ . . ɜʼ. ʸ Ⱥɜɪɚɦɚ ɞɨ ɢɫɯɨɠɟɧɢ˃ Ɇɨɢɫʜɽɜɚ . ɥʜɬɴ . ɭʼ . ɥʼ . ʸ
ɢɫɯɨɠɟɧɢ˃ Ɇɨɢɫʜʚɜɚ . ɞɨ Ⱦɜʼɞɚ . ɥʜɬʼ . ɯʼ . ɚʼ . ʸ Ⱦɜʼɞɚ ɢ ɞɨ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɰɫͻɪɬɜɚ ɋɨɥɨɦɨɧʠ . ɞɨ
ɩɥʜɧɟɧɢ˃ ɂɽɪɫͻɥɦɨɜɚ . ɥʜɬͻ . ɭʼ . ɦʼ . ɢʼ . ʸ ɩɥʜɧɟɧɢ˃ ɞɨ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɚ. ɥʜɬͻ . ɬʼ . ɢʼÕ . ʸ
Ʌɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɚ ɞɨ ɏɫͻɜɚ ɪɠɫͻɬɜ . ɥʜɬͻ . ɬʼ . ɥʼ . ɝʼ . ʸ ɏ ɫͻɜɚ ɪɨɠɶɫɬɜɚ ɞɨ Ʉɨɫɬʠɧɬɢɧɚ . ɥʜɬͻ . ɬʼ . ɢʼÕ . ʸ
Ʉɨɫɬʠɧɬɢɧɚ ɠɟ ɞɨ Ɇɢɯɚɢɥɚ ɫɟɝɨ . ɥʜ ɬͻ . ɮʼ . ɦʼɜ . ʸ ɩʜɪɶɜɚɝɨ ɥʜɬɚ Ɇɚɯɚɢɥɚ ɫɟɝɨ . ɞɨ
ɩʜɪɜɚɝɨ ɥʜɬͻ ʙɥɝɨɜɚ . Ɋɭɫɤɚɝɨ ɤɧʼɡʠ . ɥʜɬͻ . ɤʼʬ . ʸ ɩʜɪɜɚɝɨ ɥʜɬͻ ʙɥɝɨɜɚ . ɩɨɧɟɥʜɠɟ ɫʜɞɟ ɜ
Ʉɢɽɜʜ . ɞɨ ɩʜɪɜɚɝɨ ɥʜɬɚ ɂɝɨɪɟɜɚ . ɥʜɬͻ . ɥʼɚ . ʸ ɩʜɪɜɚɝͻ ɥʜɬͻ ɂɝɨɪɟɜɚ . ɞɨ ɩʜɪɜɚɝɨ ɥʜɬͻ
ɋɬʼɨɫɥɚɜɥʠ . ɥʜɬͻ . ɥʼɝ . ʸ ɩʜɪɜɚɝɨ ɥʜɬɚ ɋɬʼɨɫɥɚɜɥʠ . ɞɨ ɩʜɪɜɚɝɨ ɥʜɬͻ ˂ɪɨɩɨɥɱɚ . ɥʜɬͻ . ɤʼɢ .
˂ɪɨɩɨɥɤɴ ɤɧʠɠɢ ɥʜɬͻ . . ɢʼ . ȼɨɥɨɞɢɦɟɪɴ ɤɧʠɠɢ ɥʜɬͻ . . ɥʼɡ . ˂ɪɨɫɥɚɜɴ 17 ɤɧʠɠɢ ɥʜɬͻ . . ɦʼ .
Ɍʜɦɶ ɠɟ ʸ ɫɦʼɪɬɢ ɋɬʼɨɫɥɚɜɥʠ ɞɨ ɫɦʼɪɬɢ ˂ɪɨɫɥɚɜɥɢ . ɥʜɬͻ . . ɩʼɟ . ʸ ɫɦʼɪɬɢ ˂ɪɨɫɥɚɜɥɢ . ɞɨ
ɫɦʼɪɬɢ ˂ɪɨɩɨɥɱɢ . ɥʜɬͻ . ʨʼ . ɇɨ ɦɵ ɧɚ ɩɪɟɞͻɥɟɠɚɳɟɽ ɜɴɡɴɜɪɚɬɢɦɫʠ . ɢ ɫɤɚɠɟɦɴ ɱɬɨ ɫʠ
ɨɭɞʜ˃ɥɨ ɜ ɥʜɬɚ ɫɢ . ˃ɤɨ ɠɟ ɩɪɟɠɟ ɩɨɱɚɥɢ ɛʠɯɨɦɴ . ɩʜɪɜɨɽ ɥʜɬɨ Ɇɢɯɚɢɥɚ . ɢ ɩɨ ɪʠɞɭ
ɩɨɥɨɠɢɦɴ ɱɢɫɥɚ.34

33
Goffart, Narrators of Barbarian History, pp. 347–50.
34
PSRL, II, col. 13.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 221

[Hence we shall begin at this point and record the dates. Thus from Adam to the Flood,
2242 years elapsed; from the Flood to Abraham, 1082 years; from Abraham to the Mosaic
Exodus, 430 years; from the Mosaic Exodus to David, 601 years; from David and the
beginnings of the reign of Solomon to the captivity of Jerusalem, 448 years; from the cap-
tivity to Alexander, 318 years; from Alexander to the birth of Christ, 313 years; from the
birth of Christ to Constantine, 318 years; and from Constantine to Michael, 542 years.
Twenty-nine years passed between the first year of Michael’s reign and the accession of
Oleg, prince of Rus. From the accession of Oleg, when he took up his residence in Kiev, to
the first year of Igor’s principate, thirty-one years elapsed. Thirty-three years passed between
Igor’s accession and that of Sviatoslav. From the accession of Sviatoslav to that of Iaropolk,
twenty-eight years passed. Iaropolk ruled eight years, Vladimir thirty-seven years, and
Iaroslav forty years. Thus from the death of Sviatoslav to the death of Iaroslav eighty-five
years elapsed, while sixty years separate the death of Iaroslav from that of Sviatopolk. But we
shall now return to the subject […] and we shall record the dates in order.]35

Chronicle as an Offspring of Universal History

It is obvious that whatever its ultimate roots were, the Primary Chronicle is a historical
composition much more complex than simple annals. It not only records the deeds
of Christian princes of the Kievan house, but also inserts their stories into a larger
framework of universal history, starting with the Flood and the story of Babel. In
this component, the Primary Chronicle followed the universal Byzantine histories,
with the chronicle of George Hamartolus being the principal source. It was also noted
on numerous occasions that the role played by the universal histories in shaping the
Primary Chronicle’s text must have been so great that the very first dated accounts
on the Rus’ past now resemble but a gloss on Byzantine history. They are introduced
by the standard formula ‘in the days of the Emperor’, while the reigns of several Byzan-
tine emperors serve as anchor points for the chronicle’s own chronological grid.
The dilemma of whether this ‘Byzantine’ component was simply a later adorn-
ment to an already existing set of annalistic entries or whether perhaps the chroni-
cle’s very origin was somehow linked to Byzantine chronography seems to have been
a legitimate one for many commentators. In the 1920s, the great Russian student of
Byzantine chronicles in Slavonic translations, Vasily Istrin, approached the problem
of the origin of the Primary Chronicle from a Byzantine, as it were, perspective. It
was clear for him that the idea of history writing did not occur naturally. As does any
human invention, it migrates from culture to culture, and usually a compelling
impulse is required to launch this innovative genre. Istrin postulated that the very

35
The Russian Primary Chronicle, ed. by Cross, p. 144.
222 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

idea of writing history in Rus’ emerged from the reading and annotating of Byzan-
tine universal histories, and that the first attempts must have been glosses on local
matters appended to these chronicles. At a certain point in the second half of the
eleventh century, these glosses were extracted, put together in chronological order,
and thus formed the core of what later became the Primary Chronicle.36
Istrin, it turns out, had a great intuition. His hypothesis, however, seemed so
speculative that its commentators had a hard time accepting it as a plausible
scenario, especially since Istrin produced no source material to prove that such a
transition from the universal Byzantine chronicles to a local historical tradition was
indeed possible. This omission on Istrin’s part was rather strange, for such proof did
exist then and was known to him.
In the early fourteenth century, a Slavonic translation of the twelfth-century
Byzantine chronicle of Constantine Manasses was produced in Bulgaria. Manasses’s
concise chronicle set in the so-called political metre enjoyed great popularity, which
perhaps determined its choice as a translation. All the manuscripts of its Slavonic
translation are of a Balkan provenance. The prominence for the translation was
ensured by the lavishly illuminated Vatican codex produced perhaps for royal
consumption.37
For us, the most interesting feature of this Slavonic translation is its numerous
glosses on local Bulgarian history appended to Manasses’s original text. They are all
quite visible, being located on the outer margins, while in the Vatican codex they are
inserted into the main body of the text but visibly highlighted with red ink. Most
glosses are rather substantial in terms of size, and they start with the formula ‘in the
days of the Emperor’ familiar from the Primary Chronicle.
If we apply the procedure anticipated by Istrin’s scenario — that is, if we extract
glosses from the text and line them up in chronological order — we would end up
with a decent Bulgarian chronicle covering principal events in the history of the
country. The editors of the 1988 edition did just that and published the resulting
chronicle in an appendix to the text.
Unfortunately, no similar East European manuscript exists, and those com-
pilations from Byzantine chronography that do include Rus’ events postdate the

36
Vasily M. Istrin, Zamechania o nachale russkoho letopisania (Leningrad, 1924).
37
The Vatican codex was published in facsimile as Letopista na Konstantin Manasi: Fototipno
izdanie na Vatikanskia prepis, ed. by Ivan Dujcev (Sofia: Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, 1963).
The Slavonic translation was most recently edited as Srednebolgarskii perevod Khroniki Konstantina
Manassii v slavianskikh literaturakh, ed. by Dmitry Likhachev and Ivan Dujcev (Sofia: Bulgarian
Academy of Sciences, 1988).
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 223

Primary Chronicle. Yet it turns out that the scenario suggested by Istrin was not
entirely imaginary, and the much-abused argument of the poor survival ratio of the
pre-Mongol manuscripts applies here with perhaps more legitimacy than elsewhere.

Hagiography as History

Apparently, it is not essential for a Christian to read his own local (to escape its
definition as ‘national’) history. History in the Middle Ages, in the East and West, is
ultimately about salvation. Not every author needed to be explicit on the subject,
and yet each knew about history’s finality and its exact date — the year 7000.
Eschatological perspective is clearly evident in the Primary Chronicle and even re-
ferred to on several occasions. Since history is a revelation of God’s will on a human
level, a Christian mind is quite content with the reading of sacred history as told by
the Bible or its numerous renderings in the form of universal chronicles. In other
words, readings on the Old Testament Jews or the Acts of the Apostles would be no
less ‘one’s own history’ than the history of the Slavs.
What makes local history important is something that would suggest its special
relation to sacred history: a relic of a prominent saint or, better yet, a story of the
martyrdom of a local saint. It has been recently argued that, for the early period at
least, the border between history and hagiography is permeable and easily crossed in
both directions.38 As Lars Boje Mortensen demonstrates, in realms without a
previous older tradition to build upon, historical self-awareness may start with the
production of lives of local martyred rulers (St Stephen, St Canute, and St Olav)
and the first public festivities related to those saints. 39 Hagiography thus appears to
have been the initial form of literature on the local past, only later followed by
‘proper’ historical works.
Chronologically, the first and by far most important saints of Rus’ were Boris
and Gleb — sons of Prince Volodimer the Great — martyred in 1015. Two
principal versions of their lives were produced following their martyrdom: the so-
called Anonymous Tale and the Vita and Passions by Nestor, the monk of the Caves

38
Patrick Geary, ‘Reflections on the Historiography and the Holy: Center and Periphery’, in
Making of Christian Myths, pp. 323–30 (p. 324).
39
Lars Boje Mortensen, ‘Sanctified Beginnings and Mythopoetic Moments: The First Wave of
Writing on the Past in Norway, Denmark, and Hungary, c. 1000–1230’, in Making of Christian
Myths, pp. 247–69.
224 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

Monastery.40 The story of the two young princes treacherously murdered by their
elder brother Sviatopolk in a struggle for princely succession had great appeal both
in terms of a general Christian sentiment and also within the dynastic ideology of
kinship-based rulership. The exact date of their canonization is not known, and
scholarly opinions vary considerably. While some maintain that it happened rather
late, in 1072 when their relics were installed into a new church in Vyshgorod, others
would allow some time for a local veneration to build up, thus moving its origins to
the 1030–50s.
The two vitae tell the story in great detail by far exceeding the ‘normal’ standard
expected in hagiography. Unfortunately, their exact dating is vague and is still a
matter of controversy. Yet chances are that these two (or the Anonymous Tale at
least) were the first accounts of the Rus’ past set in a narrative mode. For the chroni-
cle, the story of the two martyred princes also proved tremendously important. The
account of their passions — the most detailed and lengthy narrative in its ‘historical’
part — was incorporated into the existing chronicle and now features as the entry of
1015. It is assumed that the variant that eventually found its way into the chronicle
is the oldest one prepared in anticipation of the times when canonization becomes
possible and formally recognized by church officials. Hagiography, with its estab-
lished literary canon and a set of common narrative devices, appears to have been a
suitable training ground for the emerging historical literature in a narrative mode.
The two vitae are mirrored by the two important events in the history of the
ruling dynasty and the Church: the translation of the saints’ relics in 1072 and again
in 1115. Both are described minutely in the chronicle; and, not incidentally, the
latter instance was the event with which the author of the Primary Chronicle sym-
bolically chose to end, marking the exact centenary since the martyrdom of the holy
brothers. It thus appears that according to the author’s vision, the history of Chris-
tian Rus’ and its Christian dynasty stretched from the martyrdom to the final
transmission of the saints’ relics in a church specially built for this occasion.

40
For the European context of the saints’ cult, see Gabor Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed
Princesses: Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, trans. by Éva Pálmai (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002), pp. 108–13. For the English translation of the vitae, see The Hagiography
of Kievan Rus’, trans. by Paul Hollingsworth, Harvard Library of Early Ukrainian Literature:
English Translations, 2 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992).
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 225

Rhetoric as History

Yet it seems that the very first surviving composition that made explicit references to
the Rus’ past and offered an integral vision of its history, as well as its place within
the history of Christendom, was not a saint’s life but a sermon. Its author, Ilarion, is
a notable figure: he was a preacher at the courtly church of the Holy Apostles and
was appointed by Prince Jaroslav (‘the Wise’) in 1051 to the metropolitan see of
Kiev, the first and (for the next century) only native to hold the office. Ilarion was an
expert writer and an accomplished theologian. Sometime in the late 1040s, most
probably in the newly built St Sophia Cathedral of Kiev, he delivered before the
entire princely family what became known as the Sermon on Law and Grace, an
Easter homily. This is the earliest known attempt to explain to the ruling dynasty
their once-pagan past, their concomitant Christian present, the difference between
the two, and the way of their reconciliation.
The Sermon on Law and Grace is an immensely complex piece of theology,
betraying an accomplished — even by Byzantine standards — exegete in its author.41
It is believed that the homily was occasioned by the rather rare coincidence of two
feasts, Easter and Annunciation. For his theme, therefore, Ilarion chose the problem
of correlation between God’s Law (equated with the Old Testament) and Christ’s
Grace (equated with the New Testament), and the relation of the Old Testament
history to Christians.
Simplifying considerably, it may be said that Ilarion develops his argument
through a succession of oppositions: the law was first, and the grace came next. The
law equals the Old Testament, the grace the Gospels. Likewise, the Jews of the Old
Testament were first, and then came those blessed with the grace of the New Testa-
ment. The pagans were first, and then came the Christians. But there were also old,
as it were, Christians, while ‘new’ Christians appeared later. In each pair, the second
element is superior to the first in value and is a fulfilment of the first. Yet the first
component is not bad either, for it prepares a higher state and any advance is
unattainable without it.
Having sufficiently prepared his audience, Ilarion then switches to the local
dynasty and their realm. Of course, the bulk of the praise goes to Prince Volodimer,
who baptized Rus’ and thus brought God’s grace upon it. Yet not unexpectedly,
Ilarion also reserves some very nice words for the pagan ancestors of the concurrent

41
On the Sermon on Law and Grace, as well as for the translation of the text, see Sermons and
Rhetoric of Kievan Rus’, trans. by Simon Franklin, Harvard Library of Early Ukrainian Literature:
English Translations, 5 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991).
226 Oleksiy P. Tolochko

prince, Jaroslav. Before the conversion, Volodimer was, of course, pagan. So was the
current prince, Jaroslav, the addressee of the sermon. It is only his sons who represent
the first generation born into the Christian faith. This makes the ruling family a
replica of Ilarion’s larger themes: the law and grace. Only the younger ones were
born Christians — does that make their ancestors’ lives worthless? It is true that
Rus’ embraced Christianity late, but does this make it somehow inferior and its pre-
vious past of no value? To cut off their pre-Christian ancestors would have been
impossible for the Rus’ princes, because their only legitimacy lay in kinship and their
proximity to the traditional ruling clan.
Ilarion’s dialectics rescue him from a delicate situation. His previous argument
mirrors the role of the Old Testament Jews with that of the recent pagans: both
preceded the Christians and also made them possible. Ilarion can now praise the
pagan ancestors of the ruling prince without any reservation. Volodimer was a
grandson of ‘old’ Igor and a son of the famous Sviatoslav, whose fame reached many
countries. Pagan princes are not a liability, but worthy rulers well known beyond
their realm. They created a renowned country heard of ‘in all the four ends of the
world’. Without them there would not have been Volodimer, who converted Rus’ to
Christianity, and the Christian dynasty listening to the Easter sermon. So, somehow,
even though these ancient rulers were pagan, they are not damned and they are
definitely not to be ashamed of for Jaroslav. The universal Christian history can,
after all, redeem the pagans.

Conclusion

Abbot Sylvester gave the Primary Chronicle the title Povest’ vremnnykh let. All the
sophisticated interpretations of its meaning notwithstanding,42 the simplest and
most literal one seems to be the best: ‘the tale [consisting] of the numbered years’.
Vremennoje leto has a parallel in vremennoje chislo (‘an annal’) in the Bulgarian trans-
lation of the Chronicle of Constantine Manasses.43 Such a title would be consistent
with Sylvester’s own description of his endeavour: ‘ɩɨ ɪʠɞɭ ɩɨɥɨɠɢɬɢ ɱɢɫɥɚ’ (‘to
line up the numbered years’), as well as the generic name for a chronicle,

42
See most recently Horace Lunt, ‘Povest vremennykh let’, Paleoslavica, 5 (1997), 317–26; and
Aleksey Gippius, ‘“Povest vremennykh let”: o vozmozhnom proiskhozhdenii i znachenii nazvania’,
in Iz istorii russkoj kultury, vol. I: Drevniaja Rus’ (Moscow: Jazyki slavianskoj kultury, 2000), pp.
440–60.
43
Srednebolgarskij perevod, ed. by Likhachev and Dujcev, p. 148.
CHRISTIAN CHRONOLOGY, UNIVERSAL HISTORY 227

‘ɥʜɬɨɩɢɫɟɰɶ’ (literally, the annals). This suggests that chronology was at the core of
Abbot Sylvester’s understanding of history writing and that he saw himself as a
successor of the annalistic tradition maintained in Kiev since the early decades of the
eleventh century. Yet in that very same century the historical past was described in
other literary forms, including hagiography and sermons. By the early twelfth
century, all those forms had converged to produce the East European chronicle as
we know it now, of which the Primary Chronicle was the first specimen.
 Chapter 12

P AGAN P AST AND C HRISTIAN IDENTITY

IN THE P RIMARY C HRONICLE

Donald Ostrowski

T
he Povest’ vremennykh let (Tale of Bygone Years, otherwise popularly known
as the Primary Chronicle) is an early twelfth-century Rus’ chronicle. It
provides a clerical chronicler’s virtual past exposition of the early Rus’ prin-
cipalities.1 Insofar as a chronicler can be understood to be a historian, I took as my
task in this chapter to identify what that virtual past was in the chronicler’s mind
in regard to pagans and in regard to Rus’ Christianity’s relationship to them. In the
process, I found two interlocking emplotments, each representing the outlook of
a different narrator.
The Primary Chronicle was compiled from various earlier chronicles, treaties,
eyewitness accounts, quotations from the Bible, and, in parts, the chronicler’s own
observations. The chronicler may have incorporated, to an extent, the attitudes of
previous chroniclers and authors of sources used with or without editing them to
conform to his own views. With that in mind, we can tentatively determine two
virtual past attitudes, both of which involve the relationship of Rus’ Christianity
to paganism. These two attitudes are represented by differing but complementary
archetypal emplotments of the narrative. Thus, one emplotment can be detected
from the beginning of the narrative (following the biblical Flood) through the
reign of Jaroslav (d. 1054) including the appointment of Ilarion as metropolitan
of Rus’ s.a.1051 but without the ‘Tale of the Founding of the Caves Monastery’.
The author of this first emplotment we can call ‘Narrator A’. Another emplotment
begins with placing the ‘Tale of the Founding of the Caves Monastery’ under 1051,

1
One can define the ‘virtual past’ as ‘the construct in the mind of the historian’. See Donald
Ostrowski, ‘The Historian and the Virtual Past’, The Historian, 51 (1989), 201–20 (p. 201).
230 Donald Ostrowski

then continues from 1054 to the end of the narrative (s.a. 1114). The author of
this second emplotment we can call ‘Narrator B’. In both emplotments, the pagan
Other is embraced as a necessary component of the narrative. Thus, neither of the
strategies of ‘early Christian narratives written on the north-eastern periphery’ as
described in the ‘Introduction’ to this volume (i.e. ‘glorious Christian present re-
placing the ignominious heathen past’ and ‘to relegate the “pagan” period to a level
of no historical importance or to omit it altogether’)2 is adopted by either of the
narrators in the Primary Chronicle. To be sure, they consider the Christian period
of the Rus’ to be superior to its pagan period, as they do Christianity to paganism,
but one finds little in the manner of denigration or demonizing of the pagan
period. Various scholarly views have been expressed regarding when and by whom
the Primary Chronicle was written. Awareness of these various views helps us to
understand better the characteristics and concerns of the compiler/narrator, but
first we should look at the manuscript evidence.

Manuscript Branches of the Primary Chronicle

The earliest extant manuscript copy of the Primary Chronicle dates to 1377 (the
Laurentian copy). Other manuscript copies that attest to the archetype are the
Hypatian (c. 1425), Radziwi³³ (1490s), Academy (end of 15th c.), and Khlebnikov
(16th c.). We also have the pages of a typeset edition of the first few folios (up to
the entry for 906) of another manuscript, the Trinity, which was being prepared
for publication when the manuscript was lost in the Moscow fire of 1812.3 Other
chronicle copies that contain all or part of the Primary Chronicle derive from these
six manuscript witnesses. Their readings group them into two branches: the
Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch and the Laurentian-Trinity-Radziwi³³-Academy
branch, which further subdivides into the Laurentian-Trinity sub-branch and the
Radziwi³³-Academy sub-branch. By working back through the readings attested to
by the sub-branches and branches, one can reconstruct the archetype. In addition,
three copies (the Commission, Novgorod-Academy, and Tolstoi) of the First
Novgorod Chronicle of the Younger Redaction contain text of the Primary Chronicle
that derives from the hyparchetype of the Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch.4 Thus, its

2
See Ildar Garipzanov’s Introduction to this volume, pp. 1–2.
3
M. D. Priselkov, Troitskaia letopis’: Rekonstruktsiia teksta (Moscow: Akademiia nauk SSSR,
1950), pp. 51–65.
4
On the First Novgorod Chronicle, see the following chapter by Timofey Guimon.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 231

readings are useful for determining the textual archetype of the Primary Chronicle
only when they agree with Laurentian-Trinity-Radziwi³³-Academy branch against
the Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch.5
The last entry in the Laurentian-Trinity-Radziwi³³-Academy branch of the
Primary Chronicle is s.a. 1110, but in that entry we find reference to an event that
occurred ‘in the following year’ (i.e. 1111). The Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch de-
scribes fully that subsequent event. It is likely that the Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch
better represents the conclusion of the Primary Chronicle and that, as Cross sug-
gested, that ending was ‘also present in the prototype of the Laurentian redaction,
but that several leaves were lost at the conclusion, while the colophon of Sylvester
was on a separate leaf or on the binding, and was thus preserved’.6 Further modifi-
cations occurred in the Hypatian-Khlebnikov line between the first copying of its
hyparchetype (probably by 1118) and the time of the earliest extant copy (c. 1425).
The standard view, which is based on A. A. Shakhmatov’s conjectures, sees three
redactions of the Primary Chronicle being composed between 1111 and 11187 and
a pre–Primary Chronicle redaction, the ‘Initial Compilation’ (Nachal’nyi svod),
being composed between 1093 and 1096.8 Cross questioned that intense redaction

5
See Donald Ostrowski, ‘Introduction’, in PVL, I, pp. xvii–lxxiii (pp. xxxviii–xlv); and Donald
Ostrowski, ‘Scribal Practices and Copying Probabilities in the Transmission of the Text of the
Povest’ vremennykh let’, Palaeoslavica, 13. 2 (2005), 48–77 (pp. 51–58).
6
Samuel Hazzard Cross, ‘Introduction’, in The Russian Primary Chronicle: Laurentian Text,
trans. and ed. Samuel Hazzard Cross and Olgerd P. Sherbowitz-Wetzor (Cambridge, MA:
Medieval Academy of America, 1953), p. 284, n. 387. Although Cross seems to have ascribed to
the lost folia idea, he ended his translation with the ending and colophon found in the Laurentian-
Trinity-Radziwi³³-Academy branch. Previously I accepted the view that the entry for 1110 was the
end of the Primary Chronicle, but as a result of the research for this chapter, I have come to a
different conclusion. Timberlake has suggested that Sylvester may have made a conscious decision
to omit certain passages in the Primary Chronicle. Alan Timberlake, ‘Redactions of the Primary
Chronicle’, Russkii iazyk v nauchnom osveshchenii, 1 (2001), 196–218 (p. 201).
7
For the first redaction, Shakhmatov proposed variously 1111 (A. A. Shakhmatov, Povest’
vremennykh let. Vvodnaia chast’: Tekst. Primechaniia (Petrograd: A. V. Orlov, 1916), pp. xv and
xviii), 1112 (Shakhmatov, Povest’ vremennykh let, pp. xxi and xxxvi), and 1113 (Aleksey A.
Shakhmatov, Razyskaniia o drevneishikh russkikh letopisnykh svodakh (St Petersburg: M. A.
Aleksandrov, 1908), p. 2) as composition dates. For the second redaction, he proposed 1116 and
for the third, 1118.
8
A. A. Shakhmatov, ‘Predislovie k Nachal’nomu Kievskomu svodu i Nestorova letopis’,
Izvestiia Otdeleniia russkogo iazyka i slovesnosti Imperatorskoi Akademii nauk, 13. 1 (1908), 213–70
(p. 226); cf. Shakhmatov, Razyskaniia, p. 11; and Shakhmatov, Povest’ vremennykh let, p. xxiii:
‘around 1095’.
232 Donald Ostrowski

activity in a short period of time.9 But it may not have been an intense creation of
three Primary Chronicle redactions in relatively rapid succession. Instead, one must
give serious consideration to Alan Timberlake’s proposal that the Laurentian and
Hypatian branches represent traditions rather than redactions.10 The Primary
Chronicle was probably composed sometime between 1114 and 1116, when Sylves-
ter made his copy. The most likely place of its composition was in the Kievan Caves
Monastery.11 The chronicler displays concern about the Polovtsians, especially in
regard to the safety of the Caves Monastery. From this concern and his continual
return to matters related to that monastery,12 one can surmise that the chronicler
was a monk at the Caves Monastery. Then it was copied at least twice, once in
1116 by Hegumen Sylvester in St Michael’s Monastery in Vydubichi, and a second
time by an unknown copyist of the hyparchetype of the Hypatian-Khlebnikov
branch probably also in the Caves Monastery by 1118. Thus, two copies, each
leading to a different developmental line, were made of the Primary Chronicle
within two to four years of its initial composition. Neither of these copyings cre-
ated what we can call a different redaction since there is insufficient evidence to
justify the claim of an intentional, systematic effort to redact the chronicle in either
copying.

Authorship of the Primary Chronicle

The Primary Chronicle begins with this statement:

9
Cross, ‘Introduction’, p. 15: ‘it would appear something of a tour de force to explain this
appearance of three versions of the same monument within seven years’.
10
Timberlake, ‘Redactions of the Primary Chronicle’, pp. 201–03.
11
Cf. the preceding chapter by Oleksiy Tolochko.
12
There are at least seventeen separate mentions of the Caves Monastery or one of its monks
in the narrative between 1051 and 1111: PVL, 155,29–160,24 (1051) description of its founding;
181,23 (1072) Feodosii as hegumen of; 183,16 (1073) founding of Caves Church; 183,21 (1074)
passing of Hegumen Feodosii; 198,16 (1075) completion of Caves Church; 207,23 (1088) passing
of Hegumen Nikon; 207,25 (1089) consecration of Caves Church; 226,23–226,27 (1094) Bishop
Stefan, former hegumen of the monastery, died; 232,16 (1096) Polovtsian attack on the monastery;
281,14 (1106) Elder Ian’s tomb in the monastery’s chapel; 282,15 (1107) brethren of monastery
rejoice because Polovtsian siege raised; 283,8 (1108) refectory of monastery completed; 283,12
(1108) Feodosii’s name inscribed in synodikon; 283,22 (1108) mention of Stefan, former hegumen
of the monastery; 283,25 (1109) body of Eupraksia Vsevolodovna laid in monastery; 284,6 (1110)
fiery pillar over monastery; Hypatian 268,20–24 (1111) reference to fiery pillar seen previous year.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 233

Ïîâ±ñòü âðåìåíüíûõú ë±òú ÷üðíîðèçüöà Ôåîäîöèåâà ìàíàñòóðÿ ïå÷åðüñêàãî, îòúêóäó

åñòü ïîøüëà ðóñüñêàÿ çåìëÿ è êúòî âú íåè ïî ÷àëú ïüðâ±å êúíÿæèòè, è îòúêóäó
Ðóñüñêàÿ çåìëÿ ñòàëà åñòü. (0,1–0,4)13

[The Tale of bygone years of a monk of Feodosii’s Caves Monastery, from where came the
Rus’ land and who in it first began to rule, and from where the Rus’ land began.]

Two points can be drawn from this introduction: (1) what ensues was intended as
a narrative, a tale (povest’) explaining the origins and development of the Rus’ land;
and (2) the author of this narrative was a monk of the Kievan Caves Monastery.
A possible contradiction to authorship claimed in the introduction occurs in
a colophon extant in the Laurentian-Trinity-Radziwi³³-Academy branch, which
states that Sylvester (Sil’vestr), the hegumen of St Michael’s Monastery, wrote or
copied the text and asks to be remembered in people’s prayers:
Èãóìåíú Ñèëèâåñòðú ñâÿòàãî Ì èõàèëà íàïèñàõú êúíèãû ñè ˱òîïèñüöü, íàä±ÿ ñÿ îòú
Áîãà ìèëîñòü ïðèÿòè, ïðè êúíÿçè Âî ëîäèìèð±, êúíÿæàùþ åìó Êûåâ±, à ìúí±
èãóìåíÿùþ ó ñâÿòàãî Ì èõàèëà âú 6624, èíäèêòà 9 ë±òà; è èæå ÷üòåòü êúíèãû ñèÿ, òú
áóäè ìè âú ìîëèòâàõú. (286,1–286,7)14

13
All citations from the Primary Chronicle, as are all the column and line numbers, are given
according to PVL. These column and line numbers are based, in turn, on the column and line
division in E. F. Karskii’s 1926 edition of the Laurentian Chronicle for the Full Collection of
Russian Chronicles series, PSRL, I (1926). Karskii’s column numbers are indicated in Cross’s trans-
lation of the Primary Chronicle into English and in Ludolf Müller’s translation of the Primary
Chronicle into German. Cross’s translation first appeared in print in 1930: Samuel H. Cross, ‘The
Russian Primary Chronicle’, Harvard Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature, 12 (1930),
75–320. The translation was reissued by Sherbowitz-Wetzor in 1953 with additional notes by
Cross as The Russian Primary Chronicle: Laurentian Text. Müller’s translation appears as the last
volume of a four-volume manual for the Primary Chronicle. Die Nestorchronik, trans. by Ludolf
Müller, in Handbuch zur Nestorchronik, ed. by Ludolf Müller, 4 vols (Munich: Wilhelm Fink,
1977–2001), vol. IV . See Ludolf Müller, ‘Die Überschrift de “Povest’ vremennych let”’, Trudy
Otdela drevnerusskoi literatury, 55 (2004), 3–8. For an analysis of Müller’s translation, see Aleksei
Gippius, ‘O kritike teksta i novom perevode-rekonstruktsii “Povesti vremennykh let”’, Russian
Linguistics, 26 (2002), 63–126. For Müller’s response, see Ludolf Müller, ‘K kritike teksta, k tekstu
i perevodu Povesti vremennykh let’, Russian Linguistics, 30 (2006), 401–36. For a response to both
articles, see Donald Ostrowski, ‘The Naèal’nyj Svod Theory and the Povest’ vremennykh let’,
Russian Linguistics, 31 (2007), 269–308. For a discussion of the title of the Primary Chronicle, see
Donald Ostrowski, ‘The Text of the Povest’ vremennykh let: Some Theoretical Considerations’,
Harvard Ukrainian Studies, 5 (1981), 28–29; Ostrowski, ‘Introduction’, pp. lx–lxi; and Donald
Ostrowski, ‘The Title of the Povest’ vremennykh let Redux’, Ruthenica, 6 (2007), 316–21.
14
Priselkov proposed in his reconstruction that the wording of this colophon also appeared in
the Trinity copy. Priselkov, Troitskaia letopis’, p. 205.
234 Donald Ostrowski

[Hegumen Sylvester of Saint Michael’s wrote down this chronicle book, hoping to receive
mercy from God, during the time of Prince Volodimer who reigns in Kiev, and to me
hegumen at Saint Michael’s in 1116, in the ninth year of the indiction; may whosoever
reads this book remember me in prayers.]

The ambiguity comes with the word ‘íàïèñàõú’, which can be either ‘I wrote’ or
‘I copied’ (literally, ‘wrote down’). Previously, as Oleksiy Tolochko does in this
volume, I accepted the former meaning and attributed the authorship of the
Primary Chronicle to Sylvester.15 If, however, we take the second meaning of
‘íàïèñàòè’ and accept that Sylvester copied an already existing text, then we have
to look elsewhere for the author/compiler. Since the Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch
does not derive from the Sylvestrian version (in which case, if it did, one could
argue the colophon was omitted in it), but derives from an exemplar earlier than
the Sylvestrian, one has to conclude that Sylvester copied from an exemplar — the
archetype of the Primary Chronicle — the same exemplar from which the
Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch derives.
The Khlebnikov manuscript claims that the monk Nestor, who is also credited
with writing The Tale and Passion and Eulogy to the Holy Martyrs Boris and Gleb
(Skazanie i strast’ i pokhvala sviatuiu mucheniku Borisa i Gleba) and the Life of the
Venerable Feodosii (Zhitie sviatogo Feodosiia), was the author of the Primary
Chronicle. A number of scholars, including Shakhmatov, have accepted this state-
ment as correct.16 Although that attribution would provide a name for the monk
of the Caves Monastery otherwise unidentified in the title of the other five main
manuscript witnesses of the Primary Chronicle, accepting it is problematic. Stem-
matics requires that we reject any lectiones singulares unless we have positive
justification to accept it. Here not only is that positive justification absent, we have
positive justification not to accept it. As Cross has pointed out, other texts attrib-
uted to Nestor differ in style from the Primary Chronicle and provide details that
contradict those of the Primary Chronicle.17 The nature of the stylistic differences
and contradictory details makes it highly unlikely the Nestor who is credited with
composing the Tale of Boris and Gleb or the Life of Feodosii was the author/com-
piler of the Primary Chronicle. It is probable that the inclusion of the name Nestor
in the Khlebnikov copy was merely a conjecture on the part of the manuscript’s

15
Ostrowski, ‘Introduction’, p. xvii.
16
Shakhmatov, Razyskanie, p. 2; and L. V. Milov and others, ‘Kto byl avtorom “Povesti
vremennykh let”?’, in Ot Nestora do Fonvizina: Novye metody opredeleniia avtorstva, ed. by L. V.
Milov (Moscow: Progress, 1994), pp. 40–69.
17
Cross, ‘Introduction’, pp. 6–11.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 235

sixteenth-century scribe as to which monk of the Caves Monastery was the author
of the Primary Chronicle.
Another proposal was made in 1954 by the French scholar André Vaillant that
a certain Vasilii, who is mentioned in the text, was the author of the Primary
Chronicle. Vaillant identified Vasilii with Hegumen Sylvester and saw him as being
responsible for the narrative section from 1051 to 1110.18 The idea that Vasilii was
the author was renewed apparently independently in 2003 by the Russian scholar
V. N. Rusinov. Unlike Vaillant, he did not identify Vasilii with Sylvester, but he
did see Vasilii as responsible for the narrative from 1051 to 1117.19 A. A. Gippius
expressed objections to this proposed attribution,20 so we need to look closer at the
claim. Rusinov derived his evidence for the attribution from fifty-four passages in
the text,21 but two are of particular significance for our concerns. First, s.a. 1051,
in the description of the founding of the Kievan Caves Monastery, the narrator
uses the first person but does not identify himself by name:
Ôåîäî ñèåâè æå æèâóùþ âú ìàíàñòûðè, [… ] êú íåìóæå è àçú ïðèäîõú, õóäûè è
íåäîñòîèíûè ðàáú, è ïðèÿòú ìÿ, ë±òú ìè ñóùþ 17 îòú ðîæåíèÿ ìîåãî. Ñå æå íàïèñàõú
è ïîëîæèõú, âú êîå ë±òî ïî÷àëú áûòè ìàíàñòûðü, è ÷üòî ðàäè çîâåòü ñÿ Ïå÷åðüñêûè.
(160,16–160,24)
[While Feodosii lived in the monastery, […] I, a poor and unworthy servant, came to him,
and he accepted me in my seventeenth year. Hence I wrote down and certified in what year
the monastery was founded and for what reason it is called ‘Caves’.]

Feodosii died in the year 1074, so the narrator had to be born before 1057 (1074
– 17 = 1057). Second, s.a. 1097, the narrator identifies himself by name,

18
André Vaillant, ‘La Chronique de Kiev et son auteur’, Prilozi za Knjizhevost, jezik istorijy i
folklor, 20 (1954), 169–83 (pp. 178–83).
19
V. N. Rusinov, ‘Letopisnye stat’i 1051–1117 gg. v sviazi s problemoi avtorstva i redaktsii
“Povesti vremennykh let”’, Vestnik Nizhegorodskogo universiteta im. N. I. Lobachevskogo. Seriia
Istoriia, 1. 2 (2003), 111–47.
20
A. A. Gippius, ‘K voprosu o redaktsiiakh Povesti vremennykh let. I’, Slavianovedenie, 2007.5,
20–44 (pp. 20–22); and A. A. Gippius, ‘K voprosu o redaktsiiakh Povesti vremennykh let. II’,
Slavianovedenie, 2008.2, 3–24 (p. 9).
21
Rusinov identifies nine passages in the narrative between 1051 and 1114 where the narrator
refers to himself in the first person, fourteen passages between 1068 and 1115 that refer to personal
Christian characteristics, seventeen passages between 1051 and 1114 where the course of the
narrative is referred to, seven passages between 1051 and 1115 where he refers to the time of the
chronicler, and seven passages between 1068 and 1111 where the narrative describes military clashes
between the Rus’ and the Polovtsians. Rusinov, ‘Letopisnye stat’i’, pp. 123–38.
236 Donald Ostrowski

è ìúí± òó ñóùþ, âú Âîëîäèìèðè, âú åäèíó íîùü ïðèñúëà ïî ìÿ êúíÿçü Äàâûäú. È

ïðèèäîõú êú íåìó, è ïîñàäèâú ìÿ è ðå÷å ìè: ‘[… ] Äà ñå, Âàñèëþ, øüëþ òÿ, èäè êú
Âàñèëüêîâè, ñú ñèìà îòðîêîìà.’ (265,7–265,17)

[while I was myself there at Volodimir [-Volynsk], Prince David [Igor’evich] sent for me
during a certain evening. I came to him, and after seating me, he said to me, ‘[…] I choose
you, Vasilii, as my messenger. Go to your namesake Vasil’ko.’]

Shakhmatov proposed that the Primary Chronicle author/compiler was quoting

a priest named Vasilii in this passage or had incorporated Vasilii’s written account
of the event.22 But there is no marker or indicator that another person is being
quoted as elsewhere in the text when the narrator quotes other eyewitness ac-
counts, such as those of Ian, son of Vyshata (1071 (175,17–175,19)) and Giuriata
Rogovich of Novgorod (1096 (234,23–234,25)). One needs to seriously consider
the likelihood that when the narrator writes, ‘while I was myself there at Volo-
dimir’ and ‘I entered his presence’, he is referring to himself. The subsequent words
of Prince David, ‘I choose you, Vasilii, as my messenger’, would seem to be a clear
and direct identification of the name of the monk who is our Narrator B, but he
is probably not the ‘monk of Feodosii’s Caves Monastery’ referred to in the
introduction to the text.

The Narrative Evidence

The narrative begins after the biblical Flood with the dividing up of the earth
among Shem, Ham, and Japheth, the sons of Noah. This first part of the Primary
Chronicle is without year markers (1,2–17,24) and contains two lengthy excerpts
from the Greek Chronicle of George Hamartolus.23 In the annalistic part of the
Primary Chronicle (i.e. entries arranged according to years), four shorter excerpts
from the Chronicle of Hamartolus appear.24

22
A. A. Shakhmatov, ‘“Povest’ vremennykh let” i ee istochniki’, Trudy Otdela drevnerusskoi
literatury, 4 (1940), 9–150 (pp. 27–28); Shakhmatov, Povest’ vremennykh let, pp. xxxi–xxxvi.
23
For the standard edition of the translation of the Chronicle of George Harmatolus into
Slavonic, see V. M. Istrin, Knigy vremen’nyia i obraznyia Georgiia mnikha: Khronika Georgiia
Amartola v drevnem slavianorusskom perevode, 3 vols (Petrograd: Izdatel’stvo Otdeleniia Russkogo
iazyka i slovesnosti Rossiiskogo Akademii nauk, 1920–30), vol. I [hereafter GA]. The excerpt that
appears in PVL, 1,2–3,15 corresponds to GA 58.20/25–59.20, and the excerpt in PVL,
14,15–16,11 corresponds to GA 49.25–50.22.
24
These are PVL, 21,12–22,2/3 = GA 511.7–511.21; PVL, 29,7–29,11 = GA 530.4–530.7;
PVL, 32,22–32,23 = GA 541.12; PVL, 39,18–42,2 = GA 305.9–306.23.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 237

The annalistic part of his narrative begins s.a. 852, which the chronicler
considered to be the beginning of the reign of the Byzantine emperor Michael. He
starts with Michael, he says, because the Rus’ are first mentioned ‘in the Greek
Chronicle’ (‘âú ë±òîïèñàíèè Ãðüöüñêîìü’) during his reign when they attacked
Constantinople (17,25–17,29). Here the chronicler made a mistake of ten years
in that Michael began his reign in 842, not 852.25 V. M. Istrin and Timberlake used
the accompanying princely chronology, which ends with the death of Sviatopolk
Iziaslavich (1113), in conjunction with references to the death of David Igor’evich
(1112) in the entries for 1097 and 1100, as evidence that the ‘editorial event’, as
Timberlake calls it, that was the compilation of the Primary Chronicle occurred
not earlier than 1113.26 The original version of the chronology, however, probably
ended with the death of Jaroslav (1054):
à îòú ïüðâàãî ë±òà Ñâÿòîñëàâëÿ äî ïüðâàãî ë±òà ßðîïúë÷à ë±òú 28. ßðîïúëêú êúíÿæè
ë±ò 8; à Âîëîäèìåðú êúíÿæè ë±òú 37; à ßðîñëàâú êúíÿæè ë±òú 40. T±ìü æå îòú
ñúìüðòè Ñâÿòîñëàâëÿ äî ñúìüðòè ßðîñëàâëè ë±òú 85. (18,16–18,20)

[From the first year of Sviatoslav to the first year of Jaropolk, twenty-eight years [passed].
Jaropolk ruled eight years, Volodimer ruled thirty-seven years, and Jaroslav ruled forty years.
Thus, from the death of Sviatoslav to the death of Jaroslav eighty-five years [passed].]

The phrase that follows, ‘while from the death of Jaroslav to the death of Sviatopolk
sixty years [passed]’ (‘à îòú ñúìüðòè ßðîñëàâëè äî ñúìüðòè Ñÿòîïúë÷è ë±òú 60’;
18,20–18,21) was most likely added later since Sviatopolk Iziaslavich’s name does

25
Shakhmatov provided an explanation that indicates where the calculation that appears in
the Primary Chronicle went astray. A. A. Shakhmatov, ‘Iskhodnaia tochka letochisleniia Povesti
vremennykh let’, Zhurnal Ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia, 310 (1897), 217–22. Cf. Cross,
‘Introduction’, p. 30.
26
V. M. Istrin, ‘Zamechaniia o nachale russkogo letopisaniia: Po povodu issledovaniia A. A.
Shakhmatova v oblasti drevnerusskoi letopisi’, Izvestiia Otdeleniia russkogo iazyka i slovenosti
Rossiiskoi akademii nauk, 27 (1922 [1924]), 207–51 (p. 220): ‘after 1112; probably […] before the
death of Sviatopolk (1113)’; and Timberlake, ‘Redactions of the Primary Chronicle’, pp. 201–03.
Priselkov first dated the composition of Primary Chronicle to the period 1114–16, then to 1113.
See M. D. Priselkov, Nestor letopisets: Opyt istoriko-literaturnoi kharakteristiki (Petrograd:
Brokgauz-Efron, 1923), p. 89; and M. D. Priselkov, Istoriia russkogo letopisaniia XI– XV vv.
(Leningrad: Leningradskii gosudarstvennyi universitet, 1940), p. 16. Cherepnin proposed 1115
when the relics of Boris and Gleb were translated. L. V. Cherepnin, ‘Povest’ vremennykh let, ee
redaktsii i predshestvuiushchie ei letopisnye svody’, Istoricheskie zapiski, 25 (1948), 293–333 (p.
309). Aleshkovskii also proposed 1115 as the year of composition of the Primary Chronicle. M. Kh.
Aleshkovskii, ‘Pervaia redaktsiia Povesti vremennykh let’, in Arkheograficheskii ezhegodnik za 1967
g. (Moscow: Nauka, 1969), pp. 13–40.
238 Donald Ostrowski

not appear in the earlier part of the chronology. This circumstance suggests two nar-
rators at work here: Narrator A, who wrote the original form of the chronology, and
Narrator B, who added the last line. The pre-existing chronology, that of Narrator
A, was probably written sometime during the reigns of Iziaslav Jaroslavich (1054–68,
1069–73, 1076–78). Fitting this timeframe is Shakhmatov’s proposal of a hypo-
thetical compilation of 1073 that he attributed to the Caves monk Nikon.27
The account of the calling of the Rus’ by the Chuds, Krivichians, Ves’, and
Slovenians and their choosing of three brothers, Riurik, Truvor, and Sineus, to rule
over them appears s.a. 862. Narrator A understood the Rus’ at this time to be
pagans, for he does not identify them here as Christians and later in the narrative
refers to them as pagans (83,10 (s.a. 983)). One of the ongoing controversies in
Eastern Slavic studies is whether the Riurik of the Primary Chronicle can be iden-
tified with the Rorik of Dorestad (or Jutland) in Western medieval sources.28
According to two letters written by Hincmar of Reims in 863, Rorik of Dorstad
was a Christian.29 Simon Coupland supposed that he must have ‘recently been
converted and baptized’.30 If so and if the Riurik of the Primary Chronicle is Rorik
of Dorestad, then the Riurik of the Primary Chronicle may have been a Christian
by the time he and his brothers were chosen. In any case, that possibility is not
mentioned by the chronicler.
The Primary Chronicle and its sources are dealing with three categories of
pagans: (1) Scandinavians, mostly Vikings/Varangians; (2) the Slavs before Chris-
tianization and those Slavs who engage in pagan or pagan-like practices often along
with their Christianity, and (3) steppe people, usually of Turkic origin.

Scandinavians, Mostly Vikings/Varangians

Inclusion in part or in the whole of four treaties (s.a. 907, 912, 945, and 971)
between the pagan Rus’ and the Byzantine Greeks would not have been necessary

27
Shakhmatov, Raszyskanie, pp. 420–60.
28
See, e.g., N. Beliaev, ‘Rorik Iutlandskii i Riurik Nachal’noi letopisi’, Seminarium Kondako-
vianum, 3 (1929), 215–70; and Norman W. Ingham and Christian Raffensperger, ‘Ryurik and the
First Ryurikids: Context, Problems, Sources’, American Genealogist, 82 (2007), 1–13 (pp. 11–13).
29
Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis ecclesiae, ed. by J. Heller and G. Waitz, MGH SS, 13
(Hannover: Hahn, 1881), pp. 529 and 541.
30
Simon Coupland, ‘From Poachers to Gamekeepers: Scandinavian Warlords and Carolingian
Kings’, Early Medieval Europe, 7 (1998), 85–114 (pp. 98–99).
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 239

or even desirable if Narrator A had been trying to denigrate the pagan past. Instead,
the recounting of the contents of the treaties, in two cases (s.a. 912 and 945) article
by article, indicates the equal level on which the pagan Rus’ negotiated with Chris-
tian Byzantine emperors. It contributes to the chronicler’s effort to explain how
the Rus’ land came about, in particular in its relationship to Byzantium. The
treaties with the Greeks provide an insight into the paganism of the Rus’.
In the treaty s.a. 907, we find only two categories of individuals mentioned,
Greeks and Rus’. In the subsequent three treaties, we find a third category added:
Christians. These categorizations imply that some of the Rus’ may already have
been Christian and that there was an attempt to extend the protection of Byzan-
tium to Rus’ Christians. For example, the treaty of 912 states:
àùå óêðàäåòü Ðóñèíú ÷üòî ëþáî ó õðüñòèÿíà, èëè ïàêû õðüñòèÿíèíú ó Ðóñèíà, è ÿòú
áóäåòü òîìü ÷àñ± òàòü, åãäà òàòüáó ñúòâîðèòü, îòú ïîãóáèâúøàãî ÷üòî ëþáî, àùå
ïðèãîòîâèòü ñÿ òàòüáû òâîðÿè, è óáèåíú áóäåòü, äà íå âúçèùåòü ñÿ ñúìüðòü åãî íè îòú
õðüñòèÿíú, íè îòú Ðóñè. (34,29–35,5)

[If a Rus’ steals something from a Christian, or if a Christian from a Rus’, and he is caught
red-handed or when about to perform the theft, and is killed, then neither the Christian
nor the Rus’ may exact [compensation] for the death.]
Similarly, one of the articles of the treaty of 945 begins: ‘If a Christian kills a Rus’
or a Rus’ a Christian’ (‘Àùå óáèåòü õðüñòüÿíèíú Ðóñèíà èëè Ðóñèíú
õðüñòüÿíèíà’; 51,22–51,23), but another article begins, ‘if a Rus’ assault a Greek
with a sword, spear, or using another weapon, or a Greek a Rus’ ’ (‘àùå óäàðèòü
ìå÷üìü èëè êîïèåìü, èëè êàö±ìü èíûìú ñúñóäîìú Ðóñèíú Ãðü÷èíà èëè
Ãðü÷èíú Ðóñèíà’; 52,2–52,4) seemingly to imply a distinction between Rus’ who
remained pagan and those who had converted to Christianity.
No names of the Rus’ are given in the parts of the treaties reported s.a. 907 and
971. The names of the Rus’ given in the treaty of 912 are predominantly
Scandinavian.31 Likewise, in the treaty of 945, the names of the Rus’ envoys and
merchants are predominantly Scandinavian.32 Although we may have no other

31
PVL, 32,28–33,4: ‘Ì û îòú ðîäà Ðóñüñêàãî, Kàðëû, È íüãåëäú, Ôàðëîôú, Âåðüìóäú,
Ðóëàâú, Ãóäû, Ðóàëäú, Kàðíú, Ôðåëàâú, Ðþàðú, Àêòåâó, Tðóàíú, Ëèäóëü, Ôîñòú, Ñòåìèäú, èæå
ïîñúëàíè îòú Îëüãà, âåëèêàãî êúíÿçÿ Ðóñüñêàãî ’ (‘We from the Rus’ clan, Karl, Ingjald, Farulf,
Vermund, Hrollaf, Gunnar, Harold, Karni, Frithleif, Hroarr, Angantyr, Throand, Leithulf, Fast,
and Steinvith, are sent from Oleg, great prince of Rus’ ’). For the Latin alphabet equivalents of the
names rendered in Cyrillic in the treaties of 912 and 945, I am following The Russian Primary
Chronicle: Laurentian Text, ed. by Cross and Sherbowitz-Wetzor, pp. 65–66 and 73.
32
PVL, 46,20–47,12: ‘Ì û îòú ðîäà Ðóñüñêàãî pîñúëè è ãîñòèå: Èâîðú, ñúëú È ãîð åâú,
âåëèêàãî êúíÿçÿ Ðóñüñêàãî, è îáüùèè ïîñúëè: Âóåôàñòú Ñâÿòîñëàâëü, ñûíà Èãîðåâà; Èñêóñåâè
240 Donald Ostrowski

evidence of these deities by these names in Scandinavian sources, one can surmise
that the deities they swear by are at least in part or mostly Scandinavian in origin.
The alternative, that individuals with Scandinavian names are swearing by Slavic
deities that are otherwise unattested in Slavic sources, is possible but less likely. A
combination of Scandinavian and Slavic deities may, however, be possible.
The Primary Chronicle mentions the names of seven pagan deities — Perun,
Volos, Khors, Dazh’bog, Stribog, Semar’gl, and Mokosh — but does not say much
about them. Topping the list is Perun, who is mentioned seven times.
• In regard to the treaty s.a. 912, ‘Oleg and his men, making an oath by the Rus’
law, swore by their weapons and by Perun, their god, and by Volos, the god of
tribute, and affirmed the peace’.33
• In the treaty inserted s.a. 945, the stipulation in regard to anyone who violates
the treaty states, ‘if any of them are not baptized, may they receive help neither
from God nor from Perun’.34

Îëüãû êúíÿãûíÿ; Ñëóäû Èãîðåâú, íåòèÿ Èãîðåâà; Ó ë±áú Âîëîäèñëàâëü; Kàíèöàðú

Ïðåäúñëàâèíú; øèãúáåðíú Ñôàíäðú, æåíû Óë±áîâû; Ïðàñò±íú Tóðúäóâè; Ëèáè Àðúôàñòîâú;
Ãðèìú Ñôèðêîâú; Ïðàñò±íú ßêóíü, íåòèÿ Èãîðåâú; Kàðû Tóäêîâú; Kàðøåâú Tóäîðîâú; Åãðè
Åðëèñêîâú; Âîèñòú Èêîâú; Èñòðú ßìèíúäîâú; ßòâÿãú Ãó íàð åâú; Ø èáðèäú Àëäàíü; Kîëú
Këåêîâú; Ñòåããè Åòîíîâú; Ñôèðêà; Àëâàäú Ãóäîâú; Ôóäðè Tóëáîâú; Ì óòîðú Óòèíú; êóïüöü
Àäóíü, Àäîëáú, Àíãèâëàäú, Óë±áú, Ôðóòàíú, Ãîìîëú, Kóöè, Åìèãú, Tóðáðèäú, Ôóðú, Ñò±íú,
Áðóíû, Ðîàëäú, Ãóíàñòðú, Ôðàñò±íú, Èíãåëäú, Tóðáåðíú è äðóãûè Tóðáåðíú, Óë±áú, Tóðáåíú,
Ì îíû, Ðóàëäú, Ñâ±íü, Ñòèðú, Àëäàíú, Tèëèè, Àpóáêàðü, Ñâ±íü, Âóçåë±âú Èñèíêî Áèðè÷ü,
ïîñúëàíèè îòú Èãîðÿ, âåëèêàãî êúíÿçÿ Ðóñüñêàãî, è îòú âüñåÿ êúíÿæèÿ è îòú âüñ±õú ëþäèè
Ðóñüñêèÿ çåìëÿ ’ (‘We from the Rus’ clan envoys and merchants, Ivar, envoy of Igor’, great prince
of Rus’, and the general envoys: Vefast representing Sviatoslav, son of Igor’; Isgaut for the Princess
Ol’ga; Slothi for Igor’, nephew of Igor’; Oleif for Vladislav; Kanitzar for Predslava; Sigbjorn for
Svahild, wife of Oleif; Freystein for Thorth; Leif for Arfast; Grim for Sverki; Freystein for Haakon,
nephew of Igor’; Kari for Stoething; Karlsefni for Thorth; Hegri for Egfling; Voist for Voik; Eistr
for Amund; Iatving for Gunnar; Sigfrid for Halfdan; Kill for Klakki; Steggi for Jotun; Sverki;
Hallvarth for Guthi; Frothi for Throand; Munthor for Ut; the merchants Authun, Authulf,
Ingivald, Oleif, Frutan, Gal, Kussi, Heming, Thorfrid, Thor, Stein, Bruni, Hroald, Gunnfast,
Freystein, Ingjald, Thorbjorn, and the other Thorbjorn, Oleif, Thorbjon, Manni, Hroald, Svein
Styr, Halfdan Tirr, Aksbrand, Svein, Visleif, Sveinki Borich, sent by Igor’ great prince of Rus’ and
from each prince and all the people of the Rus’ land’).
33
PVL, 32,4–32,7: ‘Îëüãà âîäèâúøå è ìóæà åãî íà ðîòó ïî Ðóñüñêîìó çàêîíó, êëÿøà ñÿ
îðóæ èåìü ñâîèìü, è Ïåðóíúìü, áîãúìü ñâîèìü, è Âîëîñúìü, ñêîòèåìü áîãúìü, è óòâüðäèøà
ìèðú.’
34
PVL, 47,27–47,28: ‘åëèêî èõú íå êðüùåíî åñòü, äà íå èìóòü ïîìîùè îòú Áîãà, íè îòú
Ïåðóíà ’.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 241

• In the same treaty we find a statement in regard to ‘whoever of the princes or

people of Rus’, whether Christian or non-Christian, who violates what was
written on this parchment, they will merit death with their own weapons and
will be cursed by God and by Perun’.35 The formulation of this article of the
treaty is further evidence that some of the Rus’ had become Christian.
• In the treaty s.a. 971 concluded between the Rus’ prince Sviatoslav and the
Byzantine emperor John Tzimiskes, Sviatoslav swears that ‘if we do not main-
tain any of these stipulations I and those under me will be cursed by the gods
in whom we believe, in Perun and in Volos, the god of tribute, and we will be
yellow like gold, and slain with our own weapons’.36
• The report s.a. 980 states that ‘when Volodimer began to rule alone in Kiev, he
set up idols on the hill outside the towered court: a wooden Perun but a silver
head and gold mustache, and others of Khors, Dazh’bog, Stribog, Semar’gl, and
Mokosh’.37
• After Volodimer was baptized, he returned to Kiev s.a. 988 and had the idols
destroyed, but
ordered that Perun should be tied to the tail of a horse and dragged down from the hill
along the Borichev to the Ruchai. He designated twelve men to beat it with branches not
because he thought the wood felt it, but to insult the demon who had deceived man in this
guise that he might receive retribution from man. […] While the idol was being dragged
along the Ruchai to the Dnepr, the unbelievers wept over it, for they had not yet accepted
baptism. After dragging it, they cast it into the Dnepr. Volodimer said, ‘If it halts anywhere,
then push it out from the bank, until it goes over the falls, then let it loose’. They obeyed
his order. When the men let it go, it passed through the rapids and the wind cast it out on
the bank, which to this day is called Perun’s Bank.38

35
PVL, 53,11–53,15: ‘Àùå ëè æå êúòî îòú êúíÿçü è îòú ëþäèè Ðóñüñêûõú, èëè õðüñòèÿíú
èëè íå õðüñòèÿíú, ïðåñòóïèòü ñå, åæå íàïèñàíî íà õàðàòüè ñåè, è áóäåòü äîñòîèíú ñâîèìü
îðóæ üåìü óìðåòè, è äà áóäåòü êëÿòú îòú Áîãà è îòú Ïåðóíà.’
36
PVL, 73,11,–73,16: ‘Àùå ëè îòú ò±õú ñàì±õú ïðåæåðå÷åíóõú íå õðàíèìú, àçú æå è ñú
ìúíîþ è ïîäú ìúíîþ, äà èì±åìú êëÿòâó îòú áîãà, âú íåãîæå â±ðóåìú, âú Ïåðóíà è âú Âîëîñà,
áîãà ñêîòèÿ, äà áóäåìú çëàòè, ÿêî çëàòî ñå, è ñâîèìü îðóæ üåìü äà èñ±÷åíè áóäåìú.’
37
PVL, 79,11–79,15: ‘È íà÷à êúíÿæèòè Âîëîäèìèðú âú Kûåâ± åäèíú, è ïîñòàâè êóìèðû
íà õúëìó, âúí± äâîðà òåðåìüíàãî: Ïåðóíà äðåâÿíà, à ãëàâó åãî ñüðåáðÿíó, à óñú çëàòú, è Õúðñà
è Äàæüáîãà è Ñòðèáîãà è ѱìàrüãëà è Ì îêîøü .’
38
PVL, 116,22–117,13: ‘Ïåðóíà æå ïîâåë± ïðèâÿçàòè êîíåâè êú õâîñòó è âëåùè ñú ãîðû
ïî Áîðè÷åâó íà Ðó÷àè, 12 ìóæà ïðèñòàâè áèòè æüçëüåìü. Ñå æå íå ÿêî äðåâó ÷þþùþ, íú íà
ïîðóãàíèå á±ñó, èæå ïðåëüùàøå ñèìü îáðàçúìü ÷åëîâ±êû, äà âúçìüñòèå ïðèèìåòü î òú
÷åëîâ±êú. “Âåëèè åñè, Ãîñïîäè, ÷þäüíà ä±ëà òâîÿ!” Âü÷åðà ÷üñòèìú îòú ÷åëîâ±êú, äüíüñü
242 Donald Ostrowski

• Again s.a. 988, when Volodimer ordered that churches be built where the idols
had been, ‘he founded the Church of St Basil on the hill where the idol of
Perun and the others had stood, and where the Prince and the people had
offered their sacrifices’.39
From the foregoing, it seems that the Primary Chronicle author/compiler is
trying to suggest that these gods were imposed on the Slavic people by the pagan
Rus’ princes. A few scholars assert that Perun can be identified with Thor.40 N. K.
Chadwick posited that Volos/Veles may be Freyr of Norse origin and that the
second component of the phrase bog skotiia should be understood as a Slavonic
rendition of Old Norse skattr (tribute), Old English sceatt, and Gothic skatts
(dinarion). In addition, she glosses the Slavonic Kh’’rs as Anglo-Saxon hors, Old
Norwegian hross (horse).41 B. D. Grekov suggested Mokosh may be a Finnish
deity.42 But these are isolated theories. Otherwise, we have widespread speculation
and imaginative attempts to claim a Slavic origin for them, although little can be
concluded in that regard with any confidence.43

The Slavs before Christianization and those Slavs who Engage in Pagan or
Pagan-like Practices Often Along with their Christianity

We find virtually nothing in the Primary Chronicle about the paganism of the pre-
Christian Slavs. We can, however, identify two chronological phases to the names
of princes in the Primary Chronicle. In the first chronological phase (to the ascen-
sion of Sviatoslav in 945), the princes and princesses have Slavic versions of

ïîðóãàåìú. Âëåêîìó æå åìó ïî Ðó÷àåâè êú Äúí±ïðó, ïëàêàõó ñÿ åãî íåâ±ðüíèè ëþäèå, åùå áî
íå áÿõó ïðèÿëè êðüùåíèÿ. È ïðèâëåêúøå, âúðèíóøà è âú Äúí±ïðú. È ïðèñòàâè Âîëîäèìèðú,
ðåêú: “Àùå êúäå ïðèñòàíåòü âû òî îòð±âàèòå åãî îòú áåðåãà, äîíüäåæå ïîðîãû ïðîèäåòü, òúãäà
îõàáèòå ñÿ åãî”. Îíè æå ïîâåë±íîå ñúòâîðèøà. ÿêî ïóñòèøà è, ïðîèäå ñêâîç± ïîðîãû, èçâüðæå
è â±òðú íà ð±íü, ÿêî è äî ñåãî äüíå ñëîâåòü Ïåðóíÿ бíü.’
39
PVL, 118,20–118,23: ‘è ïîñòàâè öüðêúâü ñâÿòàãî Âàñèëüÿ íà õúëì±, èäåæå ñòîÿøå
êóìèðú Ïåðóíú è ïðî÷èè, èäåæå òðåáû òâîðÿõó êúíÿçü è ëþäèå ’.
40
S. Rozniecki, ‘Perun und Thor’, Archiv für slavische Philologie, 23 (1901), 462–520; and
Aleksander Brückner, Mitologia Slava (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1932), p. 72.
41
Nora Kershaw Chadwick, The Beginnings of Russian History: An Enquiry into Sources
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1946), pp. 83–90.
42
B. D. Grekov, Kiev Rus (Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1959), p. 516.
43
For a discussion of the problem, see Myroslava T. Znayenko, The Gods of the Ancient Slavs:
Tatishchev and the Beginnings of Slavic Mythology (Columbus: Slavica, 1980).
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 243

Scandinavian names: Oleg (< Helgi); Igor’ (< Ingvar); Ol’ga (< Helga). These
names are sometimes used in the second chronological phase. Beginning with
Sviatoslav in 945, the names of most of the princes in the Primary Chronicle are
non-Christian Slavic (perhaps, initially, reign) names: Jaroslav (Fierce Glory),
Jaropolk (Fierce Regiment), Iziaslav (Notable Glory), Sviatopolk (Sacred Regi-
ment), Sviatoslav (Sacred Glory), Vseslav (All Glory), Mstislav (Revenge Glory),
Vsevolod (Ruler of All), Volodimer (World Ruler). Even after the Christianization
in 989 when the princes received Christian names, they are still called by their non-
Christian Slavic names in the Primary Chronicle, not their Christian names: for
example, Volodimer (Sviatoslavich) instead of Vasilii; Jaroslav (Volodimerovich)
instead of Iurii; Vsevolod (Jaroslavich) instead of Andrei; Vsevolod (Mstislavich)
instead of Gavril/Gabriel; and Iziaslav (Mstislavich) instead of Panteleimon.44
Of significant concern to the Primary Chronicle author/compiler are sorcerers
(volkhvy), who he sees as an indigenous non-Christian threat to the Christianized
people of Rus’. The sorcerers are described s.a. 1024 as appearing in Suzdal’ when
Prince Jaroslav had travelled to Novgorod. The Primary Chronicle reports, ‘they
killed old people by satanic inspiration and devil worship, saying that they would
spoil the harvest’ (‘èçáèâàõó ñòàðóþ ÷àäü ïî äèÿâîëþ íàó÷åíèþ è á±ñîâàíèþ,
ãëàãîëþùå, ÿêî ñè äüðæàòü ãîáèíî’; 147,24–147,25). It looks as though the
sorcerers had followed through on their threat because famine forced the people
of the region to go to the Bulgars to buy grain. The Primary Chronicle tells us,
Ñëûøàâú æå ßðîñëàâú âúëõâû, ïðèäå Ñóæäàëþ; èçúèìà âúëõâû, ðàñòî÷è, à äðóãûÿ
ïîêàçíè, ðåêú ñèöå: ‘Áîãú íàâîäèòü ïî ãð±õîìú íà êóþæüäî çåìëþ ãëàäúìü, èëè
ìîðúìü, èëè âåäðúìü, èëè èíîþ êàçíèþ, à ÷ëîâ±êú íå â±ñòü íè÷üòîæå’.
(147,29–148,5)
[When Jaroslav heard of the sorcerers, he went to Suzdal’, seized the sorcerers and dispersed
them, but punished others, saying, ‘In proportion to its sins, God inflicts upon every land
hunger, pest, drought, or some other punishment, and man has no understanding thereof’.]

The sorcerers are, thus, placed in the same category as pagans; that is, they are ig-
norant (which allows them to be deceived by the Devil) and they act unknowingly
as agents of God’s punishment (see below).
The chronicler describes how Vseslav’s mother bore him by enchantment and
that sorcerers told her to bind the caul he was born with to him, which he wore ‘to
this day on himself’ (‘è äî ñåãî äüíå íà ñîá±’; 155,14) (Vseslav died in 1101). The

44
A. F. Litvina and F. B. Uspenskii, Vybor imeni u russkikh kniazei v XI– XVI vv.:
Dinasticheskaia istoriia skvoz’ prizmu antroponimiki (Moscow: Indrik, 2006), pp. 461–626.
244 Donald Ostrowski

chronicler explains that ‘for this reason he [Vseslav] is so pitiless in bloodshed’

(‘ñåãî ðàäè íåìèëîñòèâú åñòü íà êðúâîïðîëèòèå’; 155,14–155,15 (1044)). Of the
remaining nine references to sorcerer(s), eight occur s.a. 1071: how a sorcerer
inspired by the Devil misled the people (174,24); how sorcerers deluded themselves
(175,22); how sorcerers deceived the Novgorodians (181,4); in two cases people
capture the sorcerers (176,14 and 181,7–181,8); one reference to Simon Magus
(180,14); one reference to a sorcerer in Novgorod (180,24); and one reference to
a sorcerer who claimed omniscience before Gleb slew him (181,9–181,15). The
ninth reference occurs s.a. 1091 about a sorcerer in Rostov who died shortly after
appearing (214,23). The narrator is clearly interested in any appearance of sorcerers
in the land even when he does not report that any harm occurred, but he does not
explicitly characterize their activities as pagan, just Devil inspired and self-
delusional.

Steppe People, Usually of Turkic Origin

A method of getting at the attitude expressed in the Primary Chronicle towards

pagans is to see how the specific terms ‘pagan(s)’, ‘Godless’, and ‘lawless’ are used.
There are thirty-two appearances of the term ‘pagan(s)’ in the Primary Chronicle.
• Thirteen times it is used as a synonym for the Polovtsians: 172,15 (1068);
219,11 (1093); 219,13 (1093); 226,15 (1094); 228,22 (1095); 228,24 (1095);
230,2 (1096); 230,8 (1096); 230,9 (1096); 263,25 (1097); 264,6 (1097);
264,10 (1097); and 285,7 (1110).45
• Seven times it refers to pagan invasions.
– Six of those times it is used in reference to God’s punishing Christians for
their sins through pagan incursions: 167,19 (1068) ‘God let loose the pagans
upon us because of our sins’ (‘Ãð±õü æå ðàäè íàøèõú ïîïóñòè Áîãú íà íû
ïîãàíûÿ’); 167,28–168,1 (1068) ‘When any land has sinned, God punishes
them by death or famine or pagan invasion’ (‘Çåìëè æå ñúãð±øèâúøè êîòîð±è
ëþáî, êàçíèòü Áîãú ñúìüðòèþ, ëè ãëàäúìú, ëè íàâåäåíèåìú ïîãàíûõú’);
222,8 (1093); 222,11 (1093) pagans are the ‘scourge of God’ (‘áàòîãú Áîæèè’);
223,27–223,28 (1093) ‘May the incursions of pagans with their torments allow
us to come to know the Lord’ (‘Äà íàõîæåíèåìü ïîãàíûõú ìó÷èìè Âëàäûêó
ïîçíàåìú’); and 233,12 (1096).

45
In the Testament of Volodimer Monomakh, we find an additional two cases where the term
‘pagans’ is a synonym for the Polovtsians (249,19 and 254,26).
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 245

– One of those seven is in regard to a portent, a large star, that presaged pagan
invasions of the Rus’ land: 164,11 (1065).
• Two times the Primary Chronicle indicates that the pagans are ignorant because
they do not know the light of Christianity — 32,17 (907) and 83,10 (983) —
the latter in regard to the pre-Christian Rus’.
• Once God saves the Christians from the pagans, in this case, the Törks: 163,9
(1060).
• Four times it is used to describe particular individuals among the pagan Rus’:
54,4 (945), Igor’ and his people took an oath (at least such as were pagans); 61,1
(955), Ol’ga says that she is still a pagan; 61,29 (955), Ol’ga says that her people
and her son are pagans; and 63,27 (955), Sviatoslav ‘followed pagan ways’
(‘òâîðÿøå íðàâû ïîãàíüñêûÿ’).
• Once it refers to ‘the Krivichians and other pagans’ (‘Êðèâè÷è è ïðî÷èè
ïîãàíèè’; 14,13 (n.d.)).
• Once it stipulates that it is not appropriate for Christians to marry pagans (in
reference to Princess Anna’s proposed marriage to Volodimer): 110,4 (988).
• Once it appears in an appeal to the martyrs Boris and Gleb to ‘subject the
pagans to our princes’ (‘ïîêîðèòà ïîãàíûÿ ïîäú íîç± êúíÿçåìú íàøèìú ’;
139,8 (1015)).
• In one reference, the term ‘pagan’ is used four times where the chronicler
admonishes his readers not to ‘call ourselves Christians as long as we live like
pagans’ (‘íå ñëîâúìü íàðèöÿþùå ñÿ õðüñòèÿíè, à ïîãàíüñêû æèâóùå’; 170,3;
170,4; 170,7; and 170,15 (1068)).
• Once the Primary Chronicle says that two Rus’ princes, ‘Oleg [Sviatoslavich]
and Boris [Viacheslavich] led the pagans to attack the Rus’ land’ (‘ïðèâåäå
Îëüãú è Áîðèñú ïîãàíûÿ íà Ðóñüñêóþ çåìëþ’; 200,5–200,6 (1078)).
The first part of the Primary Chronicle (i.e. through 1054) displays towards the
pagans a relatively moderate attitude that is remarkable for a work compiled and
written by a Christian monk. If we assume that writing came into Rus’ with the
conversion to Christianity, then very little, if any, pagan writing should be evident
in the Primary Chronicle, and that is the case.46 Thus, the somewhat moderate
attitude of Narrator A is unlikely to have derived from any pagan sources.
Another term that one might expect to see associated with pagans is ‘Godless’.
There is one reference in the Primary Chronicle to the Rus’ being ‘Godless’

46
Likhachev discusses oral traditions of the pre-Christian Slavic people in the Primary
Chronicle. D. S. Likhachev, ‘Istoriko-literaturnyi ocherk’, in Povest’ vremennykh let, ed. by D. S.
Likhachev, 2 vols (Moscow: Akademiia nauk SSSR, 1950), II, 60–63.
246 Donald Ostrowski

(áåçáîæíèè) before Christianization (21,24 (866)). Three times it is used as a

synonym for the Polovtsians: 163,14–163,15 (1061) ‘This was the first evil from
the pagan and Godless foes’ (‘Ñå áûñòü ïüðâîå çúëî îòú ïîãàíûõú è áåçáîæüíûõú
âðàãú’); 232,21 and 234,1 (1096) ‘Godless sons of Ishmael’ (‘Áåçáîæüíèè æå
ñûíîâå Èçìàèëåâè’ and ‘áåçáîæüíèè ñûíîâå Èçìàèëåâè’).47 Once it is used in
reference to a specific Polovtsian, Boniak: 232,10 (1096) ‘Godless and mangy thief’
(‘áåçáîæüíûè, øîëóäèâûè, îòàè õûùüíèêú’).
In contrast, the term ‘lawless’, which one might expect to be applied mainly to
pagans because they do not have the Christian law, is, instead, applied a majority
of times to Christians who transgress the law. It is applied four times to pagans
(14,17; 16,1; 224,30; and 233,5), once to Muslims (86,17), three times to
Sviatopolk Volodimerovich (the Damned) in 1015 (132,17; 133,2; and 135,22)
and once to the murderers of Boris as the ‘lawless wretches’ (‘áåçàêîíüíèöè’)
(135,2), three times in regard to Christian lawlessness in general (213,21; 222,7;
and 223,22), and four times to ancient Israelites (three of those in quotations from
the Bible) (98,2; 98,6; 137,6; and 224,9).
In the introductory part, the Primary Chronicle quotes Hamartolus: ‘Among
all nations, there are some who have a written law, while others observe customs,
for, without law, ancestral usage is accepted’ (‘Èáî êîìóæüäî ÿçûêó îâ±ìú çàêîíú
èñïèñàíú åñòü, äðóãûìú æå îáû÷àÿ, çàíå áåçàêîíüíûìú îòü÷üñòâèåìü ìüíèòü
ñÿ’; 14,15–14,18). The quotation goes on to cite examples of nations that follow
fixed customs of ancestral usage: the Seres, Bactrians, Chaldeans and Babylonians,
Geleans, those in Britain, and the Amazons. Narrator B adds the Polovtsians, a
steppe people, to Hamartolus’s list:
ÿêîæå ñå è íûí± ïðè íàñú Ïîëîâüöè çàêîíú äüðæàòü îòüöü ñâîèõú: êðúâü ïðîëèâàòè,
à õâàëÿùå ñÿ î ñåìú, è ÿäóùå ìüðòâü÷èíó è âüñþ íå÷èñòîòó, õîì±êû è ñóñúëû , è
ïîèìàþòü ìà÷åõû ñâîÿ è ÿòðúâè, è èíû îáû÷àÿ îòüöü ñâîèõú. (16,12–16,16)

[Even so, now during our time, the Polovtsians maintain the law of their fathers in the
shedding of blood and in glorifying themselves about this, as well as in eating dead and all
unclean things, hamsters and marmots. They marry their mother-in-law and their sisters-
in-law, and observe other usages of their fathers.]

47
Chekin uses the appearance of this term in the Primary Chronicle to characterize the general
Rus’ attitude towards the Tatars from the eleventh through the thirteenth centuries. Leonid S.
Chekin, ‘The Godless Ishmaelites: The Image of the Steppe in Eleventh–Thirteenth-Century
Rus’ ’, Russian History, 19 (1992), 9–28. But it is used only twice in the Primary Chronicle, both
s.a. 1096 and then only specifically in reference to the Polovtsians.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 247

The chronicler compares this reliance on custom to Christians, who ‘have but one
law’ (‘çàêîíú èìàìú åäèíú’; 16,19). The intent of the chronicler is clear even if his
use of ‘law’ is ambiguous. He seems to be contrasting the one written law of the
Christians with the separate regional customs and laws of the pagans.48
When the Polovtsians first appear in Rus’, according to the Primary Chronicle
s.a. 1061, Narrator B refers to them as ‘pagan and Godless foes’ (163,14–163,15).
In contrast to the description of the Polovtsians, when the Primary Chronicle
describes the Pechenegs, another steppe people, who first entered the Rus’ land s.a.
915, no reference to their being Godless or pagan was made. They were simply
described as making peace with the Rus’ prince Igor’ and moving on to the Danube
(42,12–42,14). Here Narrator A could not make a distinction between pagan and
Christian because at the time the Rus’ were also pagan. Yet, he does not make a
distinction between the Pechenegs and the Greeks or Bulgarians, who were Chris-
tian, when the Greeks wanted to enlist the aid of them against the Bulgarians.

Metahistorical Analysis of the Narrative

To understand better the virtual past of the narrators in the PVL, I have under-
taken a metahistorical approach, as delineated by Hayden White in his epic
Metahistory (1973).49 White asserted that historians prefigure the emplotment of
the narrative:50 they are writing according to their ideological position51 towards

48
On the pitfalls of lexicographical analysis of the unstable meanings of law (çàêîí ) and custom
(îáû÷àé or îòå÷åñòâèå ) specifically in relation to their usage in the PVL, see Simon Franklin, ‘On
Meanings, Functions and Paradigms of Law in Early Rus’, Russian History, 34 (2007), 63–81 (pp.
63–64).
49
Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973).
50
Following Northrop Frye’s theory of the archetypal Mythos, White identified four master
narrative emplotments: Comedy, Romance, Tragedy, and Satire or Irony. See Northrop Frye, ‘The
Archetypes of Literature’, in Fables of Identity: Studies in Poetic Mythology (New York: Harcourt
Brace, 1963), pp. 7–20; and Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton: Prince-
ton University Press, 1971), especially ‘Archetypal Criticism: Theory of Myths’, pp. 131–239. Each
of the four archetypal Mythoi or generic plots, according to Frye, has six possible phases, three of
which it shares with the preceding Mythos and three with the succeeding, for a total of twelve
phases or, if we were to use White’s terminology, narrative sub-emplotments.
51
White, Metahistory, pp. 22–23, defined four ideological positions taken by those committed
to a rational defence of their worldview: Conservatism, Anarchism, Radicalism, and Liberalism. He
248 Donald Ostrowski

the subject matter. Each type of emplotment involves an ‘elective affinity’ for a
particular mode of argument (explanation)52 and dominant rhetorical trope.53 In
the resultant ‘quadruple tetrad’54 typology of historical narrative, White lined up
the ideological positions, types of emplotment, modes of argument (or explana-
tion), and dominant rhetorical tropes this way:
Conservative / Comedic / Organicist / Synecdoche
Anarchist / Romantic / Formist / Metaphor
Radical / Tragic / Mechanistic / Metonymy
Liberal / Satirical or Ironic / Contextualist / Irony55
Thus, liberals would emplot the narrative of, say, a history of their country in a
Satirical or Ironic mode with a Contextualist argument and Irony as the dominant
rhetorical trope. Radicals, in contrast, would emplot the same history in a Tragic
mode with its accompanying argument and dominant trope. When one does not
know a particular historian’s ideological position towards the subject matter, as is
the case with the Primary Chronicle, then identifying the emplotment, mode of
argument, and dominant trope of the narrative may help one discern the ideo-
logical position of the narrator. In the Primary Chronicle, I found two successive
emplotments, which implies either the narrator adopted different ideological

adopted and modified a typology found in Karl Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia: An Introduction
to the Sociology of Knowledge (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1936), especially ‘The
Utopian Mentality’, pp. 192–263.
52
According to White, Metahistory, p. 11, ‘in addition to the level of conceptualization on
which the historian emplots his narrative account of “what happened”, there is another level on
which he may seek to explicate “the point of it all” or “what it all adds up to” in the end’. This level
of ‘explanation by formal argument’ adopted Stephen C. Pepper’s four ‘world hypotheses’:
Organicist, Formist, Mechanist, and Contextualist. Stephen C. Pepper, World Hypotheses: A Study
in Evidence (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957), especially ‘Part Two: The Relatively
Adequate Hypotheses’, pp. 141–314. Cf. White, Metahistory, pp. 14–18.
53
White identified four master rhetorical tropes: Synecdoche, Metaphor, Metonymy, and
Irony. White, Metahistory, pp. 31–38.
54
The term ‘quadruple tetrad’ is Hans Kellner’s. See his ‘A Bedrock of Order: Hayden White’s
Linguistic Humanism’, History and Theory, 19 (1980), 1–29 (p. 1).
55
For a discussion of these affinities applied to four narratives other than the ones White used,
see Donald Ostrowski, ‘A Metahistorical Analysis: Hayden White and Four Narratives of “Rus-
sian” History’, Clio, 19 (1990), 215–36. White’s affinities must be understood mainly as heuristic
and non-determinative devices. In his Metahistory, three of the four historians he uses as examples
‘transcended’ his typology.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 249

positions towards chronologically different subject matter or, as is more likely, we

have two narrators.
The beginning of the narrative of the Primary Chronicle (i.e. just after the
biblical Flood) occurs at a low point in human history, when humankind has barely
escaped complete destruction. The Primary Chronicle narrative then follows an
upward trajectory. The high point of the narrative is the events leading up to the
baptism s.a. 988 of Volodimer Sviatoslavich (reigned 980–1015) in a chiasmic
relation of five story lines,56 which unfolds, after a succession conflict with Sviato-
polk the Damned, into the supreme reign of Volodimer’s son Jaroslav the Wise
(Primudryi). The narrative thus far follows a generally upward direction, from the
point of view of the author/compiler, a trajectory leading from the Hebrews to the
birth of Christ and from there to the reign of Constantine eventually leading to the
baptism of Ol’ga and of her grandson Volodimer. Another high point is reached
with the reign of Jaroslav Volodimerovich (1019–54); in particular, the appoint-
ment of the first indigenous Slavic metropolitan of Kiev, Ilarion, s.a. 1051. We
might see the narrative to this point as following the Mythos of an archetypal
Comedy. For the most part, it focuses on human agency, not direct intervention
by divine or supernatural forces. Oleg, Igor’, and Sviatoslav sign treaties with the
Greeks. Ol’ga outsmarts the Byzantine Emperor as well as the Derevlians. Princess
Anna is the one who brings Volodimer to baptism. Jaroslav makes Kiev a centre of
Christian learning. The corresponding Comedic phase or sub-emplotment is
phase 3: existent society replaced by a happy society (pagan Rus’ society replaced
by a Christian Rus’ society). The ‘blocking agent’ (in Frye’s terminology), which
every comedic emplotment has and which must be overthrown for the happy end-
ing to occur, can be seen to be the belief in pagan deities. The narrator refers to this
residual belief in the description of the carrying of the idol of Perun to the Dnepr
River (see above). This Comedic Mythos is typified by anagorisis; in this case, the
change from pagan ignorance to Christian knowledge. The process results in the
realization of a newborn society. See, for example, Volodimer’s appeal s.a. 988 for
God to ‘look on this new people’ (‘ïðèçüðè íà íîâûÿ ëþäè ñèÿ’; 118,13). Al-
though the affinities of the trope of Synecdoche and the Organic mode of explana-
tion are missing in the narrrative, the ideological implication of Conservativism is
there in terms of the long historical development (from the biblical Flood) to the

56
Donald Ostrowski, ‘The Account of Volodimir’s Conversion in the Povest’ vremennykh let:
A Chiasmus of Stories’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies, 31 (2007), 567–80.
250 Donald Ostrowski

most realistic form of utopia (the reign of Jaroslav the Wise).57 It is likely that this
emplotment was in an earlier chronicle (perhaps the hypothetical compilation of
1073 that Shakhmatov attributed to the monk Nikon) that carried the narrative
through the reign of Jaroslav and was incorporated into the Primary Chronicle, as
we know it, with interpolations by the Primary Chronicle author/compiler.
Then things begin to get more difficult with the coming of the Polovtsians s.a.
1061. While the narrative for the next fifty years or so has its ups and downs, the
trajectory is generally even. The lack of unity among the princes that the chronicler
descries is one of the major causes of the pagan/Polovtsian depredations, and thus
must be counted high among ‘our sins’. In that sense, this second emplotment
corresponds rather neatly with one of the common plots of Romance wherein a
dragon lays waste to a land ruled by a helpless old king. The Romantic phase, or
sub-emplotment, it corresponds to is phase 4: happy society resists change (in this
case, the threat from the pagan Polovtsians to overrun Christian Rus’). The
Romantic Mythos represents conflict (agon, in ancient Greek drama as the scripted
struggle between characters underlying the action of the play). The hero of the
romance in this case is Volodimer Monomakh, who is mentioned almost at the
beginning of the second narrative s.a. 1053 as being born ‘from the Greek princess’
(‘îòú öüñàðèö± Ãðüêûí±’; 160,30–160,31),58 but who ascends the throne of Kiev
almost at the end of the narrative s.a. 1113. Among other indications that he is the
hero of the romance is the appeal of the people of Kiev to him s.a. 1097 through
Vsevolod’s widow and Metropolitan Nikola ‘to guard the Rus’ land and to have
battle with the pagans’ (‘áëþñòè çåìëè Ðóñüñêîè è áðàíü èì±òè ñú ïîãàíûìè’;
264,5–264,6).
The chronicler does not hold out much optimism for overcoming the pagans/
Polovtsians without divine intervention. A case in point is the entry s.a. 1110. The
princes Sviatopolk Iziaslavich, David Sviatoslavich, and Volodimer Vsevolodovich
set forth to go against the Polovtsians but return after they reach the Voin’ about
thirteen kilometres south of Pereiaslavl’ on the left bank of the Dnepr, not far into
the steppe. The narrative ends with a description of a Polovtsian campaign that
resulted in their taking a settlement near Pereiaslavl’.
The chronicler then describes ‘a sign’ (‘çíàìåíèå’) at the Caves Monastery:

57
White, Metahistory, p. 25.
58
On this ‘Greek princess’, see Alexander Kazhdan, ‘Rus’-Byzantine Princely Marriages in the
Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies, 12–13 (1988/89), 414–29 (pp.
416–17).
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 251

ÿâè ñÿ ñòúëïú îãíüíú îòú çåìëÿ äî íåáåñå, à ìúëíèÿ î ñâ±òèøà âüñþ çåìëþ, è íà
íåáåñè ïîãðüì± âú ÷àñú 1 íîùè; âüñü ìèðú âèä±. Ñü æå ñòúëïú ñòà íà òðàïåçüíèöè
êàìÿí ±è, ÿêî íå âèä±òè êðüñòà áÿøà, è ñòîÿ ìàëî, ñúñòóïè íà öüðêúâü, è ñòà íàäú
ãðîáúìü Ôåîäîñèåâûìü, è ïî òîìü ñòóïè íà âüðõú, àêû êú âúñòîêó ëèöüìü, è ïî òîìü
íåâèäèìú áûñòü. (284,7–284,15)

[A pillar of fire appeared that reached from the land to the sky; lightning illumined the
whole countryside, and thunder was heard in the sky at the first hour of the night. The
whole populace beheld the miracle. The pillar first stood over the stone refectory, so that
its cross could not be seen. Then it moved a little, reached the church, and halted over the
tomb of Feodosii. Then it rose, as if facing to the eastward, and soon after became
invisible.]

The chronicler asserts that ‘this portent was not an actual pillar but an angelic
manifestation’ (‘Ñå æå áÿøå íå îãíü ñòúëïú, íú âèäú àíãåëüñêú’; 284,15–284,16).
Since humans cannot see angels directly, these ‘servants’ (‘ñëóãû’) of God are sent
forth as ‘a flaming fire’ (‘îãíü ïàëÿùü’). The chronicler then contends that this sign
was an omen:
Tàêî è ñå ÿâëåíèå êîòîðîå ïîêàçûâàøå, åìóæå á± áûòè, åæå è áûñòü: íà âúòîðîå áî
ë±òî íå ñü ëè àíãåëú âîæü áûñòü íà èíîïëåìåíüíèêû ñóïîñòàòû, ÿêîæå ðå÷å: ‘Àíãåëú
ïðåäú òîáîþ ïðåäúèäåòü’, è: ‘Àíãåëú òâîè áóäè ñú òîáîþ’? (285,2–285,7)

[This apparition indicated an event that was destined to take place, and its presage was later
realized. For in the following year, was not an angel the guide of our princes against the
foreigners, even as it is said, ‘An angel will go before you’ (Exodus 23. 23) and ‘Your angel
be with you’?]

Thus, the fiery pillar is a metaphor for an angel, and Metaphor is the dominant
trope of Romance in White’s typology.
So we might see the post-1054 narrative as following the archetypal emplot-
ment of Romance, with the various elective affinities that implies: Anarchist ideo-
logical implication (the lack of central authority in the early Rus’ principalities);
Formist mode of explanation (the author’s Christian Neo-Platonic theology); and
the trope of Metaphor (an angel manifested as a fiery pillar). In keeping with the
fairy-tale motif of Romance, utopia is on a non-temporal plan and could be realized
at any time59 as soon as the pagans are defeated. We see interest in the post-1054
narration in unusual natural phenomena, such as the Volkhov River flowing back-
wards, any large stars that shine brightly for several days then disappear, or unusual
births, that might be manifesting themselves as portents, and supernatural occur-
rences, such as a demon riding on a pig or invisible demons riding horses. Between

59
White, Metahistory, p. 25.
252 Donald Ostrowski

s.a. 1063 and s.a. 1114, we find nineteen of these phenomena and occurrences
described in the Primary Chronicle.60 In contrast, the pre-1054 narrative mentions
no portents at all (i.e. the primary focus is on human agency).61
The two emplotments are complementary, which is particularly significant even
if one does not accept the contention that the two narratives were written by two
separate chroniclers — the narration to 1054 by Nikon; the narration from 1054
to the end by Vasilii. Within Frye’s typology, each of the four master Mythoi —
Comedy, Romance, Tragedy and Irony/Satire — corresponds respectively to times
of day (morning, afternoon, evening, and night), seasons of the year (spring, sum-
mer, autumn, and winter), and passages of a human life (youth, maturity, old age,
and death), so the Mythos of Romance follows that of Comedy as afternoon fol-
lows morning, summer follows spring, and maturity follows youth, which is what
we would expect when two adjacent emplotments are found combined in chrono-
logical succession.

Conclusion

To sum up, the Primary Chronicle was most likely compiled/composed in the
Kievan Caves Monastery between 1114 and 1116. The author was a monk of that
monastery who is identified in the text as Vasilii. At least two copies were made,
one in 1116 by Hegumen Sylvester of St Michael’s Monastery in Vydubichi, and
another by an unknown scribe probably in the Kievan Caves Monastery by 1118.
These two copies became the respective hyparchetypes of the two extant branches

60
PVL, 163,21 (1063) Volkhov flowed backward; 164,6–11 (1065) large star as though made
of blood; 164,14–18 (1065) malformed child; 164,19–20 (1065) sun like the moon; 190,13–14
(1074) demon in the guise of a Pole; 191,2–5 (1074) demon riding on a pig; 192,21–27 (1074)
demons in the guise of two youths with radiant faces; 214,14 (1091) solar eclipse; 215,7 (1091)
demons in Polotsk running about like men; 215,8 (1091) same demons invisible on horseback;
215,12 (1091) large circle in middle of the sky; 276,10 (1102) fiery ray shining day and night;
276,14–15 (1102) portent in the moon; 276,15–18 (1102) rainbows surrounding the sun; 280,21
(1104) sun in a circle in middle of a cross; 280,24 (1104) portent in the sun and moon for three
days; 284,15–16 (1110) pillar of fire; PSRL, II, col. 268 (1111) pillar of fire; and PSRL, II, col. 274
(1113) sign in the sun.
61
The Laurentian branch does indicate an unusual astronomical phenomenon s.a. 1028: ‘a sign
[Radziwi³³ and Academy copies: of a snake] appeared in the sky for all the land to see’ (‘Çíàìåíèå
[Radziwi³³ and Academy copies: ‘çìèåâî’] ÿâèñÿ íà íåáåñè, ÿêî âèä±òè âüñåè çåìëè ’ [149,21]),
but this appears to be an interpolation most likely made by Sylvester.
PAGAN PAST AND CHRISTIAN IDENTIT Y 253

or traditions (not redactions) of the Primary Chronicle copies. The Primary Chron-
icle author/compiler also included a great deal of material from previous chronicle
writing and other sources to narrate his virtual past understanding of Rus’ history.
A metahistorical analysis allows us to determine two emplotments of that
narrative. The first emplotment, a Mythos of Comedy, begins with the ending of
the biblical Flood and the dividing of the world among the sons of Noah and
culminates with the appointment of Ilarion as Metropolitan of Rus’ by Jaroslav
and a coda to the end of Jaroslav’s reign. This emplotment was most likely that of
an earlier chronicler made during the reign of Iziaslav Jaroslavich (between 1054
and 1078). The second emplotment, a Mythos of Romance, begins s.a. 1051 with
description of the founding of the Caves Monastery, then jumps to 1054, and
extends through the entry for 1114 in the Hypatian-Khlebnikov branch/tradition.
In both emplotments the pagans are embraced as an integral part of the narrative.
In the part emplotted as Comedy, the pagans are included in the narrative to help
Narrator A (possibly the monk Nikon) fulfill the task he set for himself in the title
of the work; that is, to explain ‘from where the Rus’ land began’. He then describes
the rise of the Rus’ from pagan ignorance and custom to Christian knowledge and
law. In the part emplotted as Romance, the pagans, in the form of the Polovtsians,
represent to Narrator B (probably the monk Vasilii) a supernatural threat as divine
agents to punish the Rus’ Christians for their sins. Only another divine agent, an
angel sent by God and manifesting itself as a fiery pillar, can save the Rus’ land and
the Caves Monastery and lead the Rus’ princes to victory over the pagan Other.
 Chapter 13

C HRISTIAN IDENTITY IN
THE E ARLY N OVGORODIAN A NNALISTIC W RITING

Timofey V. Guimon

N
ovgorod was an important political centre as well as a centre of writing in
the north-west of Rus’, and the first annalistic records in Novgorod were
made as early as the eleventh century.1 In the twelfth century the annals
were kept there systematically, year by year, and were sponsored by the local arch-
bishops. These annals were the continuation of a compilation created in 1115,
which was based on the Kievan Primary Chronicle (presumably a version earlier
than the ‘classical’ Povest’ vremennykh let2) and on earlier Novgorodian materials.

1
It is better to call the historical texts produced in Novgorod in the eleventh and twelfth
centuries ‘annals’, not ‘chronicles’. The Russian word ‘ëåòîïèñü’ (letopis’) means a historical text
with the chronological framework and ‘empty years’, but not necessarily brief. This word is usually
translated into English as ‘chronicle’ (especially in the names of particular texts: the Primary Chron-
icle, the First Novgorod Chronicle, etc.). Some scholars prefer not to distinguish between ‘annals’ and
‘chronicles’ at all (David Dumville, ‘What is a Chronicle?’, in The Medieval Chronicle II: Proceed-
ings of the 2nd International Conference on the Medieval Chronicle, Driebergen/Utrecht 16–21 July
1999, ed. by Erik Kooper, Costerus New Series, 144 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002), pp. 1–27; and
Sarah Foot, ‘Finding the M eaning of Form: Narrative in Annals and Chronicles’, in Writing
Medieval History, ed. by Nancy Partner (London: Hodder Arnold, 2005), pp. 88–108), but if one
does so, the texts produced in Novgorod would be closer to annals. A good Western European
parallel to the annals of Novgorod is the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Contrary to its traditional name,
the latter text is an example of elaborated annals, containing brief and extended entries, ‘empty
years’ and poetic narrations, all united by the chronological framework. See Cecily Clark, ‘The Nar-
rative M ode of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle before the Conquest’, in England before the Conquest:
Studies in Primary Sources Presented to D. Whitelock, ed. by Peter Clemoes and Kathleen Hughes
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), pp. 215–35.
2
Povest’ vremennykh let is a traditional designation for the common text of the Laurentian,
Hypatian and R adzivill chronicles up to the 1110s. M any scholars agree that this Kievan chronicle
256 Timofey V. Guimon

Being thus a derivative of the Kievan source, the annals of Novgorod nonethe-
less deserve a separate interest. The Kievan text was augmented in Novgorod with
some important additions concerning this northern city, which resulted in a
‘Kievo-Novgorodian’ narrative on the earliest history of Rus’, including the
conversion of Kiev and Novgorod. The section for the eleventh century is also of
special interest since it contains notes on the foundation of St Sophia Cathedral
of Novgorod, which were later revised (at least twice) by Novgorodian annalists.
The text of the Novgorodian archiepiscopal annals updated yearly from 1115 is
well preserved in the surviving manuscripts, and due to recent studies we know
more about the upkeep of this ‘living chronicle’ than about any other historio-
graphical tradition of early Rus’. Moreover, the archiepiscopal annals were copied
for the needs of Novgorodian monasteries; there were at least two such cases. Thus,
one can see how historical texts copied in local ecclesiastical communities differed
from the major annals of the northern city-state.
In this chapter, I will discuss how the Christian identity, the identity of Nov-
gorod as a separate polity, and the local identities of the clerics from various
religious houses interacted in the early annalistic writing of Novgorod in the
eleventh and twelfth centuries. It is, however, difficult to analyse the Novgorodian
annalistic records made in the eleventh century, since there are only some traces of
them in surviving texts. That is why the following analysis will focus on the Nov-
gorodian compilation of 1115 (which united the Kievan chronicle with the earlier
Novgorodian materials), the subsequent yearly annalistic writing, the revision of
the early section made in the 1160s, and the usage of the archiepiscopal annals by
local religious communities. All of these stages are important if we study the iden-
tities of Novgorodian annalists; as well, the famous laconicism and business-like
style of the Novgorodian annals, in which only a few things are expressed explicitly,
make the study of textual history and narrative structure the key methods in such
an analysis.

The Manuscript Tradition

The earliest surviving manuscript of Rus’ chronicles was created in Novgorod. This
is the Synodal codex of the First Novgorod Chronicle (the so-called Elder Version of

of the 1110s was based on earlier annalistic texts, but the details are the subject of a long-standing
discussion. For details, see Oleksiy Tolochko’s and Donald Ostrowski’s contributions in this
volume and below in this chapter.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 257

this chronicle), which belongs partly to the thirteenth and partly to the fourteenth
century.3 The manuscript lacks its first sixteen quires and abruptly starts with the
annal for 1016. The first part of the manuscript dealing with the period from 1016
to 1234 was written by one scribe in the thirteenth century, probably in or soon
after 1234.4 The second part, including the records for the years 1234–1330, was
written by another scribe in or soon after 1330. Three flyleaves were added there-
after, containing contemporary additions by four scribes for 1330–33, 1337, 1345,
and 1352.5 These later materials indicate that the manuscript was written in St
George Monastery, the main religious house in the suburbs of Novgorod.
The Synodal MS is not our only witness to the early annalistic writing in
Novgorod. The so-called Younger Version of the First Novgorod Chronicle is repre-
sented by two mid-fifteenth-century manuscripts (Commission MS and Academy
MS) and several later copies.6 The text of the Younger Version is close to that of the
Elder Version for the years 1075–1330. There are a number of substantial differ-
ences between them, but in general the text is basically the same. As for the shorter
sections for 1016–74 and 1330–52, the relationships between the two versions are
more complicated.7
Other witnesses to the early annalistic writing of Novgorod are some fifteenth-
century and later annalistic compilations, which preserve the Novgorodian annals
mixed with material from non-Novgorodian sources: these are the First Sophian
Chronicle, the Fourth Novgorod Chronicle, the Novgorod Karamzin Chronicle, the
Chronicle of Avraamka, the Tver’ Compilation, and some others. All of these texts
are important, for they do not derive from either version of the First Novgorod

3
It is now kept in the State Historical M useum in M oscow (M S Synodal 786). Its facsimile
edition is available in Nogorodskaja kharatejnaja letopis’, ed. by M ikhail N. Tikhomirov (M oscow:
Nauka, 1964); a critical edition in Novgorodskaja pervaja letopis’ starshego i mladshego izvodov, ed.
by Arsenij N. Nasonov (M oscow: Izdatel’stvo AN SSSR , 1950; repr. PSRL, III), and an English
translation in The Chronicle of Novgorod, 1016–1471, trans. by R . M ichell and N. Forbes (London:
Camden Society, 1914).
4
Timofey V. Guimon and Aleksey A. Gippius, ‘Novyje dannyje po istorii teksta Novgorodskoj
pervoj letopisi’, Novgorodskij istoricheskij sbornik, 7 (1999), 17–47 (pp. 31–41).
5
See Timofey V. Guimon, ‘Pripiski na dopolnitel’nykh listakh v Sinodal’nom spiske Nov-
gorodskoj I letopisi’, in Norna u istochnika Sud’by: Sbornik statej v chest’ E. A. Mel’nikovoj, ed. by
Tatiana N. Jackson (M oscow: Indrik, 2001), pp. 53–60.
6
For description of these manuscripts, see PSRL, III, pp. v–vii and 7–12. The text is printed
on pp. 103–427.
7
For 1016–76, see below; for 1330–52, see Guimon, ‘Pripiski’.
258 Timofey V. Guimon

Chronicle and thus can confirm their readings.8 These later compilations also con-
tain some additional Novgorodian material for the eleventh century.

The Archiepiscopal Annals of Novgorod

The general similarity of the two versions of the First Novgorod Chronicle is explained
by the assumption that both derive from the archiepiscopal annals of Novgorod,
which were kept at St Sophia Cathedral from the early twelfth to the fifteenth
century.9 The starting point for these annals was perhaps the year 1115. In this year
an annalistic compilation was created in Novgorod, in which the text of the Kievan
Primary Chronicle and some earlier Novgorodian records were brought together.
From that time onwards, the archiepiscopal annals were kept on a yearly basis.
The place where they were updated — as shown by Mikhail Pogodin with cer-
tainty10 — was the Cathedral of St Sophia. As demonstrated by Aleksey Gippius,
the linguistic, stylistic, and other features of the First Novgorod Chronicle, as well
as some visual peculiarities of the Synodal MS, provide much information on how
the annals were kept. It is even possible to divide the text into sections written by
various individuals, and the boundaries between these sections normally coincide
with the changes of archbishops at this northern see. This means that almost every
new archbishop must have entrusted the business of keeping annals to a new
person (unless he did this himself).11 The scribes who updated these annals were
probably on archbishops’ staffs as secretaries, while at the same time being clerics
in one of the Novgorodian religious houses. At least one such figure can be identi-
fied in the thirteenth century: a certain Sexton Timofey of St Jacob’s Church of
Novgorod — who, according to Gippius’s linguistic data, kept the annals from
1226 to 1274 (and refers to himself s.a. 1230) — wrote official documents (treaties

8
See the analysis of readings for the thirteenth century: Timofey V. Guimon, ‘Redaktirovanie
letopisej v XIII–XV vv.: raznochtenija mezhdu spiskami Novgorodskoj 1 letopisi’, Trudy Otdela
drevnerusskoj literatury, 57 (2006), 112–25.
9
Aleksey A. Gippius, ‘K istorii slozhenija teksta Novgorodskoj pervoj letopisi’, Novgorodskij
istoricheskij sbornik, 6 (1997), 3–72 (pp. 12–19).
10
M ikhail P. Pogodin, ‘Novgorodskie letopisi’, Izvestija po russkomu jazyku i slovesnosti, 1. 3
(1857), cols 209–33.
11
Aleksey A. Gippius, ‘Novgorodskaja vladychnaja letopis’ XII–XIV vv. i ee avtory (istorija i
struktura teksta v lingvisticheskom osveshchenii). I’, in Lingvisticheskoe istochnikovedenie i istorija
russkogo jazyka,2004–2005, ed. by Aleksandr M . M oldovan (M oscow: Drevlekhranilishche, 2006),
pp. 114–251.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 259

between Novgorod and the prince) and copied liturgical books (one of which has
a colophon with Timofey’s name).12
The original manuscript of the archiepiscopal annals did not survive, but we can
imagine it as being something similar to the Irish Annals of Inisfallen 13 or the
Scottish Chronicle of Melrose14 — a book where scribal hands and inks changed
many times. Some sections of this original manuscript could be replaced by new
ones. According to Alexey Gippius, this was done twice: in the 1160s with the early
section and c. 1199 with the last quire. But the manuscript as a whole was probably
never replaced with a new one.15
Another question — one that Aleksey Shakhmatov asked in 1908 — is how
these annals were updated by those archiepiscopal annalists. Were new records
added to it immediately after the events happened, or were the annals updated
once a year or more seldom without any system?16 This question cannot be an-
swered with certainty, since the original text of the annals has not survived. Yet
there are several ways to tackle this problem: to analyse the distribution of precise
dates, chronological shifts, breaches of chronological sequence of events, regulari-
ties in the order of the items inside one year, paragraphing in the surviving earliest
manuscript (Synodal MS), and so on. The resulting picture seems to be very
diverse; the manner of updating annals depended on the personality of an annalist
and on particular circumstances. For example, one can observe several groups of
annals, each of which was written almost certainly within a short time frame, after
a preceding long break in keeping annals.17 It is important that between 1115 and

12
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 8–12.
13
The Annals of Inisfallen (MS R awlinson B 503), ed. by S. M acAirt (Dublin: Dublin Institute
for Advanced Studies, 1951). See the facsimile a t <http://image.ox.ac.uk/show?collection
=bodleian&manuscript=msrawlb503>.
14
The Chronicle of Melrose from the Cottonian Manuscript, Faustina B.ix in the British
Museum: A Complete and Full-size Facsimile in Collotype, ed. by A. O. Anderson and others
(London: Humphries, 1936).
15
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 24–28; and Aleksey A. Gippius. ‘K kharakteristike novgorodskogo
vladychnogo letopisanija XII–XIV vv.’, in Velikij Novgorod v istorii srednevekovoj Evropy: K 70-letiju
V.L. Janina, ed. by Aleksey A. Gippius and others (M oscow: Russkie slovari, 1999), pp. 345–64.
16
Aleksey A. Shakhmatov, Istorija russkogo letopisanija (St Petersburg: Nauka, 2002), I. 1, 139
(Origin a l e dition: R azyskania o drevneishikh russkikh letopisnykh svodakh (St Petersburg:
Tipografija M . A. Aleksandrova, 1908).
17
See Timofey V. Guimon, ‘Kak velas’ novgorodskaja pogodnaja letopis’ v XII veke?’, in
Drevnejshie gosudarstva Vostochnoj Evropy, 2004, ed. by Tatiana N. Jackson (M oscow: Vostochnaja
literatura, 2005), pp. 316–52; and Timofey V. Guimon, ‘Novgorodskoe letopisanie pervoj chetverti
260 Timofey V. Guimon

the beginning of the thirteenth century, the Novgorodian archiepiscopal annalists

never used additional sources when updating their annals.18 This contrasts signifi-
cantly with the pre-1115 text of the First Novgorod Chronicle, which is based on a
Kievan source (see below).
The style of the archiepiscopal annals is very businesslike; the annalists do not
like to give detailed narrations or express their opinion, as in the following passage:
Âú ëåòî 6635. Çàëîæè öåðêîâü êàìÿíó ñâÿòîãî Èîàííà Âñ±âîëîäú Íîâ±ãîðîä±, íà
Ïåòðÿòèí± äâîð±, âú èìÿ ñûíà ñâîåãî. Âú òî æå ë±òî ïàäå ìåòûëü ãóñòú ïî çåìëè è ïî
âîä± è ïî õîðîìîìú, ïî 2 íîùè, à ïî 4 äíè. Òîìü æå ë±ò± îáëîæè òðüïåçíèöþ êàìÿíó
Àíòîíú èãóìåíú Íîâåãîðîä±. Òîìü æå ë±ò± âîäà áÿøå âåëèêà âú Âîëõîâ±, à ñí±ãú
ëåæà äî ßêîâëÿ äíè; à íà îñåíü óáè ìîðîçú âüðüøü âñþ è îçèìèö±; è áû ãîëîäú è
öåðåñú çèìó, ðúæè îñìèíêà ïî ïîëóãðèâí±.19
[In the year 6635 [1127]. Vsevolod founded St John’s Church in Petryata’s Court in Nov-
gorod, in the name of his son. In the same year dense mayflies fell on the ground, on the
water, and on the houses, for two nights and four days. In the same year Abbot Anthony
reconstructed the stone refectory in Novgorod. In the same year it was great water in
Volkhov, and snow lay until St Jacob’s day, and in the autumn the frost destroyed all the
grain and the winter crops, and there was a famine during the winter, and the eighth of
bread cost half a grivna.]

More detailed descriptions are given for some events, mostly political and mili-
tary, but the descriptions were not very long in the twelfth century. It is only in the
records for the thirteenth century that some more elaborated narratives can be
found. For example, more ‘literary’ are the annals of Archbishop Anthony —
which according to Gippius include the entries for 1211–26 — and those of
archbishops Spiridon and Dalmat (for 1226–74), written by Sexton Timofey.20
The annals for the early thirteenth century also incorporate such extended narra-
tives as the Tale of the Capture of Constantinople in 1204 and some others. This

veka: Khronologija i protsess popolnenija letopisi’, in Srednevekovaja Rus’, ed. by Anton A.

XIII
Gorskij, vol. VI (M oscow: Indrik, 2006), pp. 80–118.
18
In the beginning of the thirteenth century, on the contrary, the annals of Novgorod bor-
rowed some material from the annals of Vladimir and some stylistic features from the annals of
Kiev. See Guimon, ‘Novgorodskoe letopisanie’, pp. 101–02; and Aleksey A. Gippius, ‘K voprosu
o kontaktakh regional’nykh traditsij v russkom letopisanii pervoj treti XIII v.’, in Vostochnaja Evropa
v drevnosti i srednevekov’e: XXI chtenija pamjati chl.-korr. AN SSSR V.T. Pashuto: Mat-ly konf., ed.
by Elena A. M el’nikova (M oscow: Institut vseobshchej istorii Rossijskoj akademii nauk, 2009),
pp. 70–77.
19
PSRL, III, 21.
20
Gippius, ‘Novgorodskaja vladychnaja letopis’’.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 261

thirteenth-century ‘literary expansion’ was curtailed in the late thirteenth and four-
teenth centuries when the Novgorodian annals returned to a brief, annalistic style.

The Early Section of the First Novgorod Chronicle (up to 1115)

What is the origin of the text of the First Novgorod Chronicle up to 1115 (which
was continued by the archiepiscopal annals)?
Our oldest surviving manuscript — the Synodal MS — as has already been
mentioned, lost its first quires and now starts only with the annal for 1016. The
number of the lost quires was sixteen, and this is approximately the same volume
of text as is contained in the Younger Version up to 1016. Thus, we can assume that
the Synodal MS had more or less the same early section as the Younger Version.21
The two versions differ substantially only for 1039–74: the Synodal MS reflects the
earlier text, while the Younger Version is secondary.22 Thus, the text of 1115 can be
reconstructed from the Synodal MS (from 1016 onward) and from the Younger
Version (up to 1016).
What was this text? Certainly it was a compilation of at least two sources. Most
of its text is Kievan, but it has some substantial differences with the‘classical’ Primary
Chronicle (Povest’ vremennykh let), which isrepresented by the Laurentian, Hypatian,
and other non-Novgorodian manuscripts. Aleksey Shakhmatov supposed that the
First Novgorod Chronicle reflects a variant of the Primary Chronicle earlier than the
‘classical’ one. He argued that the Younger Version preserved for us the Kievan
chronicle of c. 1095, the immediate source of the Povest’ vremennykh let, which
Shakhmatov called Nachal’nyj svod (‘Initial Compilation’).23 Shakhmatov’s hy-
pothesis has been the subject of scholarly discussion: some scholars accept it, while
others argue that the Novgorodian Younger Version is a secondary text in relation

21
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, p. 59. Even if it was not so (see doubts in Valentin L. Janin, ‘K voprosu
o roli Sinodal’nogo spiska Novgorodskoj letopisi v russkom letopisanii XV v.’, in Letopisi i khroniki,
1980 g., ed. by Boris A. Rybakov (M oscow : Na uk a , 1981), pp. 153–81 (pp. 166–67); and
Tatiana L. Vilkul, ‘Novgorodskaja pervaja letopis’ i Nachal’nyj svod’, Palaeoslavica, 11 (2003), 5–35
(p. 10)), the text of the Younger Version up to 1016 was written no later than the 1160s (Gippius,
‘K istorii’, pp. 34–70).
22
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 45–55; and Vilkul, ‘Novgorodskaja pervaja letopis’’, pp. 5–35.
23
Shakhmatov, Istorija, I. 2, 20–31.
262 Timofey V. Guimon

to the ‘classical’ Primary Chronicle.24 This is not the place to discuss this debate,
but I find the argument of Shakhmatov and his followers more convincing.25 The
text up to 1016 in the Younger Version has only a few Novgorodian additions,
which will be discussed below.
The text for 1017–1115 in the Synodal MS is extremely brief. Its earliest part
(scarce notes from 1017 to the 1040s) may represent brief Kievan annals that
might have been one of the sources for the Primary Chronicle.26 The text from the
1040s onwards consists of short excerpts from the Primary Chronicle (probably
from the ‘Initial Compilation’, not from the ‘classical’ Povest’ vremennykh let) and
of some notes on Novgorodian events.
Some annalistic records were certainly made in Novgorod in the eleventh cen-
tury, but what they looked like originally is uncertain. The traces of these records
can be found in the Synodal MS, the Younger Version, and the later compilations.
According to Shakhmatov, ‘Novgorodian chronicles’ of 1017 and 1036 were super-
seded by a ‘Novgorodian compilation of 1050’, which united earlier Novgorodian
and Kievan materials and which was later updated with new records.27 This inter-
pretation (as well as its modifications by later scholars28) seems to be too compli-
cated, and some of the notes on Novgorodian events of the eleventh century in the
Younger Version and in the later compilations may not be genuine.29 Shakhmatov
also saw traces of early Novgorodian annals in the Kievan Primary Chronicle, but
this has been convincingly disproved by Dmitry Likhachev.30 It is much more prob-
able that the annalistic writing in eleventh-century Novgorod started as brief, non-
systematic historical notes31 (maybe in Easter tables), or as additions to a Kievan

24
See Vilkul, ‘Novgorodskaja pervaja letopis’’, pp. 5–35; and Aleksey P. Toloc h k o,
‘Perechityvaja pripisku Sil’vestra 1116 g.’, Ruthenica, 7 (2008), 154–65.
25
See for example Aleksey A. Gippius, ‘Dva nachala nachal’noj letopisi: K istorii kompozitsii
Povesti vremennykh let’, in Verenitsa liter: K 60-letiju V.M. Zhivova , e d. by Aleksandr M .
M oldovan (M oscow: Jazyki slavjanskoj kul’tury, 2006), pp. 56–96 (pp. 58–60).
26
Timofey V. Guimon, ‘K voprosu o novgorodskom letopisanii XI – nac h a la X II v.’, in
Vostochnaja Evropa, ed. by M el’nikova, pp. 63–69 (pp. 65–66).
27
Shakhmatov, Istorija, I. 2, 128–82, 275–80, 328–50, and 431–49.
28
See references in Guimon, ‘K voprosu’, p. 64.
29
Svetlana I. Sivak, ‘O derevjannoj Sofii v Novgorode’, Russia mediaevalis, 7. 1 (1992), 9–15.
30
Dmitrij S. Likhachev, ‘Ustnye letopisi v sostave Povesti vremennykh let’, in Istoricheskie
zapiski (M oscow: Nauka, 1945), pp. 201–24.
31
Compare Petr P. Tolochko, Russkie letopisi i letopistsy X–XIII vv. (St Petersburg: Aleteja,
2003), p. 179.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 263

text, or/and as an extended list of archbishops.32 This complicated question needs

further investigation.33
The Younger Version, as it was already said, differs from the Synodal MS for the
years 1039–74 and represents a compilation of the text reflected in the Synodal
MS, the Primary Chronicle, and additional Novgorodian materials. According to
Gippius, this compilation should be dated to the 1160s, because in the annal for
1049 of the Younger Version an annalist mentions a ‘íûí± ’ (now) built church of
St Boris and Gleb, which was in fact founded in 1167.34

Christian Identity in the Early Secti on : The Kievan Text and the Nov-
gorodian Additions

As it was already said, the First Novgorod Chronicle up to 1016 contains the full text
of the Kievan Primary Chronicle in its very early version. Thus Novgorod did not
create its own, alternative account of the early history of Rus’ and its conversion, but
used a Kievan text that already contained some information on paganism and the
stories about Olga, the first Rus’ martyrs (two Varangians), Volodimer the Great, the
conversion itself (which includes the famous Choice of Religion and the Speech of the
Philosopher summarizing the biblical history), and the martyrdom of Boris and Gleb
(s.a. 1016). Most of these events took place in the south of Rus’, far from Novgorod.
It seems significant that the Novgorodian compiler of 1115 used the Kievan text
in full up to 1016, and then started to abbreviate it to very short annals.35 Perhaps
he wished to emphasize the early period, the emergence of the state and the dynasty,
the conversion of Rus’, and its first martyrs. He regarded the period up to 1016 as
a common history of Rus’, and then preferred to reduce his account to a very brief
outline of the main events in the south and north of Rus’. Thus, according to the
Novgorodian compiler, from 1017 the history of Kiev was no longer the common
history of Kiev and Novgorod. It became sufficient for Novgorodians to have only

32
The latter idea was suggested in M ark Kh. Aleshk ovskij, ‘K tipologii tekstov “Povesti
vremennykh let”’, in Istochnikovedenie otechestvennoj istorii, 1975 (M oscow: Nauka, 1976), pp.
133–67 (pp. 158–59).
33
See preliminary analysis in Guimon, ‘K voprosu’, pp. 63–69.
34
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 45–58. For another point of view (that these annals were composed
in the fifteenth century), see Sivak, ‘O derevjannoj Sofii’; andVilkul, ‘Novgorodskaja pervaja letopis’’.
35
The Kievan Primary Chronicle (whatever version used) had an extended text describing
events after 1016, and this text had to be available to the Novgorodian compiler.
264 Timofey V. Guimon

short notes on Kievan events, and no detailed narratives were borrowed from the
text of the Primary Chronicle. The notes on eleventh-century Novgorod, though
not numerous, stood out well against this background.
There are also some Novgorodian additions to the text up to the year 1016.
Firstly, the preface to the annals (for the most part written in Kiev) has a Nov-
gorodian insertion.36 It is promised to describe in the annals, ‘êàêî èç á ð à Áî ãú
ñ òðàíó íàøó íà ïîñë±äí±å âðåì ÿ, è ãðàäû ïî÷àøà áûâàòè ïî ì ±ñòîì , ïðåæå
Íîâãîðîä÷êàÿ âîëîñòü è ïîòîì Êèåâñêàÿ ’37 (‘how God chose our country for the
last age,38 and towns started to appear at places, firstly the Novgorodian land, and
then the Kievan one’). The Novgorodian compiler declares the seniority of his part
of Rus’, which was the country chosen by God ‘for the last age’.
Secondly, an important Novgorodian innovation was the addition of some
material immediately after the account of the conversion of Rus’ (in the annal for
988). The annal for 989, which was very brief in the Kievan chronicle, became
extended in the Novgorodian one. It starts like this: ‘Êðåñòèñÿ Âîëîäèì èðú è âñÿ
ç å ì ëÿ Ðóñêàÿ; è ïîñòàâèøà â Êèåâ± ì èòðîïîëèòà, à Íîâóãðàäó àðõèåïèñêîïà,
à ïî èíûì ú ãðàäîì ú åïèñêîïû è ïîïû è äè à êî íû; è áûñòü ðàäîñòü âñþäó ’39
(‘Volodimer was baptized along with all the land of Rus’, and a metropolitan was
ordained to Kiev and archbishop to Novgorod, and bishops, priests and deacons
to other towns, and joy was everywhere’). This phrase is followed by a brief account
of the conversion of Novgorod, with an anecdotal story of the wooden idol of
Perun. After the idol had been beaten, humiliated, and thrown into the river, a
resident of one of the Novgorodian suburbs saw it being washed ashore. He pushed
the idol away with a pole and said: ‘òû […] Ïåðóøèöå, äîñûòè åñè ïèëú è ÿëú, à
íûí± ïîïëîâè ïðî÷ü!’40 (‘You, Perun, have already eaten and drunk enough, and
now — float away!’).

36
There is a theory that this preface was all written in Novgorod in the thirteenth century or
even later. I share Shakhmatov’s view (for which Gippius recently suggested a new argument) that
the preface is a Kievan text and belongs to the late eleventh century (see Gippius, ‘Dva nachala’, pp.
56–96). Since the Synodal M S has no text up to 1016, the Novgorodian addition can theoretically
be dated to any time before the middle of the fifteenth century. Gippius attributes it to the com-
piler of the 1160s (Gippius, ‘K istorii’, p. 58). It seems to me that the most economical idea is to
associate it with the first time the Kievan text was adopted in Novgorod, although Gippius’s dating
is possible as well.
37
PSRL, III, 103.
38
The wording ‘last age’ certainly has an eschatological sense here.
39
PSRL, III, 159.
40
PSRL, III, 160.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 265

This short account is followed by several lists: the princes of Kiev ‘after the holy
conversion’, the princes of Novgorod (also only ‘after the conversion’), metropoli-
tans of Kiev, archbishops of Novgorod, the dioceses of Rus’, and the posadniks (city
officials) of Novgorod. When these additions were made is a difficult question.
The lists certainly existed in the 1160s,41 but at least some of them could have been
created already by the compiler of 1115. This can be proved by some peculiarities
in the list of posadniks.42 To the best of my knowledge, this was the first attempt to
create such lists in Rus’, which perhaps was the first original Novgorodian contri-
bution to the genres of historical writing in Rus’.43
The traces of Novgorodian annals of the eleventh century (after 1017) —
which are found in the Synodal MS, the Younger Version, and the later compila-
tions mentioned above — do not mention pagans or paganism. They report several
times of wars with pagan peoples, but never even use the word ‘pagan’. As for
Christianity, the surviving fragments of early Novgorodian annals provide scarce
and not particularly religious information on the history of the see of Novgorod.
For example, from the Tver’ Compilation (s.a. 1077) one can find out the cause of
the death of Archbishop Theodore of Novgorod as ‘óÿäåíú îò ñâîåãî ïñà ’ (‘bitten
by his own dog’).44
Only a few notes among these eleventh-century Novgorodian records can be
associated with Christianity and Christian identity.45 Firstly, there are notes about
the fire destroying the wooden St Sophia Cathedral and the construction of the
stone church. The note in the Synodal MS is quite short, but it preserves the ear-
liest precise date in Novgorodian annalistic records:

41
See Gippius, ‘K istorii’, p. 47.
42
Timofey V. Guimon, ‘K kharakteristike letopisnogo perechnja novgorodskikh posadnikov’,
in Stolichnye i periferijnye goroda Rusi i Rossii v srednie veka i rannee novoe vremja ( XI–XVIII vv.):
Problemy kul’tury i kul’turnogo nasledija: Dokl. tret’ej nauch. konf. (Murom, 17–20 maja 2000 g.)
(M oscow: Drevlekhranilishche, 2003), pp. 128–36.
43
Another contribution, though not directly connected with religion, was the introduction
of the early laws (Pravda Russkaja) into the annal for 1017 (in the Younger Version, but not in the
Synodal M S). It could have been made either in the 1160s (Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 60–63) or in
the fifteenth century (Oleksiy Tolochko, ‘The Short Redaction of Pravda Ruskaia: A Reconsidera-
tion’, Palaeoslavica, 15 (2007), 1–56).
44
PSRL, XV , 173. Other sources report only the fact of Theodore’s death in this year.
45
I will omit here the Novgorodian annalistic records of the eleventh century found in the later
compilations (the First Sophian Chronicle, the Fourth Novgorod Chronicle, the Novgorod Karamzin
Chronicle, and the Tver’ Compilation), for some of these notes could have been written not in the
eleventh but in the fifteenth century.
266 Timofey V. Guimon

Âú ëåòî 6553. Ñúãîð± ñâÿòàÿ Ñîôèÿ, âú ñóáîòó, ïî çàóòðüíèè, âú ÷àñ 3, ì±ñÿöÿ ìàðòà
âú 15. Âú òî æå ë±òî çàëîæåíà áûñòü ñâÿòàÿ Ñîôèÿ Íîâ±ãîðîä± Âîëîäèìèðîìü
êíÿç±ìü.46
[In the year 6553 [1045] St Sophia burned down, on Saturday, after the matins, in the
third hour, on 15 M arch. In that same year St Sophia was founded in Novgorod by Prince
Volodimir.]47

The information on the foundation of St Sophia Cathedral was important for

Novgorod throughout the medieval period, although the records of that event in
the Youn ger Version — repeated in the later compilations — differ from the
Synodal MS:
 ëåòî 6553. Çàëîæè Âîëîäèìèðú ñâÿòóþ Ñîô±þ â Íîâ±ãîðîä±. [...]
 ëåòî 6557. Ì ±ñÿöà ì àðòà âú 4, âú äåíü ñóáîòíûè, ñãîð± ñâÿòàÿ Ñîô±ÿ;
á±àøå æå ÷åñòíî óñòðîåíà è óêðàøåíà, 13 âåðõû èì óùè, à òó ñòîÿëà ñâÿòàÿ
Ñîô±ÿ êîíåöü Ïèñêóïë± óëèö±, èäåæå íûí± ïîñòàâèëú Ñîòúêå öåðêîâü
êàì åíó ñâÿòîãî Áîðèñà è Ãë±áà íàä Âîëõîâîì ú.
 ëåòî 6558. Ñâåðøåíà áûñòü ñâÿòàÿ Ñîô±à â Íîâ±ãîðîä±, ïîâåë±íèåì ü êíÿçÿ
ßðîñëàâà è ñûíà åãî Âîëîäèì èðà è àðõèåïèñêîïà Ëóêû.4 8
[In the year 6553 [1045], Volodimir founded St Sophia in Novgorod. [...]
In the year 6557 [1049], in the month of M arch on the 4th, on Saturday, St Sophia burned
down. It had been constructed and decorated with honour, had thirteen tops, and St
Sophia had stood here, in the end of the Bishop Street, where now Sodko built the stone
church of St Boris and Gleb above the [river] Volkhov.
In the year 6558 [1050], St Sophia was completed in Novgorod, by the order of Prince
Jaroslav, his son Volodimir, and Archbishop Luke.]

The content of these notes in the Younger Version indicates that they must have
been written some time after the eleventh century. Several scholars have attributed
them to a later compiler (whose work they have dated between the twelfth and the
fifteenth centuries) who wished to highlight this important event and emphasize
some details that could be pleasing for a Novgorodian’s self-identification.49 As
suggested by Gippius, this later compiler must have worked in the 1160s.50 The

46
PSRL, III, 16.
47
Volodimir (1020–52), son of Jaroslav the Wise, ruled in Novgorod at that time.
48
PSRL, III, 181.
49
Valentin L. Janin, Ocherki kompleksnogo istochnikovedenija: S r edn evekovyj Novgorod
(M oscow: Vysshaja shkola, 1977), pp. 123–25; Sivak, ‘O derevjannoj Sofii’; Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp.
57–58; and Vilkul, ‘Novgorodskaja pervaja letopis’’.
50
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 45–64.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 267

compiler added Jaroslav the Wise to the list of people who ordered the construc-
tion of the cathedral (the Synodal MS mentions only his son Volodimir, so the
compiler provided the cathedral with a more prestigious founder) and included the
number of ‘tops’ — thirteen — of the wooden church. The number is significant
since the stone St Sophia of Kiev had twelve ‘tops’ — one ‘top’ less.51 Furthermore,
he localized the wooden church very precisely, in Bishop Street, which may be due
to the origin or another connection of the narrator to that part of Novgorod.52 If
the compiler of the 1160s was German Voyata,53 the priest of St Jacob’s Church in
the same part of the city,54 this trace of his local identity in the narrative would
have been understandable.
Another important note in the Synodal MS discussing Christian matters deals
with the effect on St Sophia Cathedral of a raid on Novgorod by Vseslav, prince of
Polotsk, in 1066. A slightly naive record of the Synodal MS describes the damage
he inflicted:
Ïðèäå Âñ±ñëàâú è âúçÿ Íîâúãîðîäú, ñú æåíàìè è ñú ä±òìè; è êîëîêîëû ñúèìà ó
ñâÿòûÿ Ñîôèå. Î, âåëèêà áÿøå á±äà âú ÷àñ òûè; è ïîíåêàäèëà ñúèìà.55
[Vseslav came and seized Novgorod with wives and children; and he took off the bells of
St Sophia. Oh, a great misfortune was in that time! And he took off the chandeliers!]
Three years later, in 1069, Vseslav attacked Novgorod again. This time, according
to the Synodal MS, ‘ïîñ î á è Áî ãú Ãë±áó êíÿçþ ñú íîâãîðîäöè ’ (‘God helped
Prince Gleb and the Novgorodians’). As in the record of 1045, the annalist dates
the victory very precisely and then concludes: ‘À íà çàóòðèå îáð±òåñÿ êð±ñò
÷åñòíûè Âîëîäèì èðü ó ñâÿò±è Ñîôèå Íîâ± ãî ð î ä± , ïðè åïèñêîï± Ôåäîðå ’56
(‘And the next day the honourable cross of Volodimir was found at St Sophia in
Novgorod, in the time of Bishop Theodore’).
These notes relating to St Sophia, though not numerous and extended, stand
out well against the background of brief excerpts from the Kievan chronicle. Per-
haps this was due to the intention of the compiler of 1115 to emphasize the major

51
Sivak, ‘O derevjannoj Sofii’, p. 13.
52
Janin, Ocherki, p. 125.
53
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 64–68.
54
Natalia L. Podvigina, ‘K voprosu o meste sostavlenija Sinodal’nogo spiska Novgorodskoj
pervoj letopisi’, Vestnik Moskovskogo universiteta, Ser. 9: Istorija, 1 (1966), 67–75.
55
PSRL, III, 17.
56
PSRL, III, 17.
268 Timofey V. Guimon

events of the early history of Novgorod, and the erection of St Sophia especially.
The latter aspect became even more important for the compiler of the 1160s, who
added to the account of the foundation of St Sophia some significant details,
pleasing for a Novgorodian.

Christian Identity in the Archiepiscopal Annals of the Twelfth Century

The Novgorodian annals for the twelfth century (from 1115 onwards) survived
much better than the earlier annals: the Synodal MS and the Younger Version
(going back independently to the original of these annals) have preserved the more
or less full text of the archiepiscopal annals of Novgorod, which were kept on a
yearly basis. As suggested by Gippius, this text was written by five annalists: the
annalist of Prince Vsevolod (annals 1115–32),57 the one of Archbishop Niphont
(1132–56), the one of Bishop58 Arcady (1157–63), the one of Archbishop Elias
(1164–86), and the one of archbishops Gabriel and Martyr (1187–99).59
These twelfth-century annals are brief and businesslike. They contain no ser-
mons or extended commentaries, and even the opinion of the annalist is hardly
expressed. The annalists do not instruct the audience (at least explicitly); they just
record events. Even biblical quotations are rare in the text.60 As mentioned above,
the twelfth-century annals of Novgorod were kept year by year, and they were not
created all at once with a general concept in mind.
The words ‘pagan’ or ‘paganism’ are not used at all in the text. Once and again
annalists report military conflicts with the peoples who were in fact pagans, such

57
According to Gippius, the first annalist was probably not a secretary of the archbishop but
a protégé of Prince Vsevolod (Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 41–42).
58
When the bishops of Novgorod became archbishops is a difficult question. The sources use
both terms for those who ruled the see of Novgorod in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Perhaps
the title of archbishop was recognized by the metropolitans of Kiev, but not by the patriarchs of
Constantinople. See Jarosla v N . Shchapov, Gosudarstvo i tserkov’ v Drevnej Rusi X–XIII vv.
(M oscow: Nauka, 1989), pp. 34–35 and 62–73. As for Arcady, he is called only ‘bishop’.
59
Gippius, ‘Novgorodskaja vladychnaja letopis’’.
60
For an attempt to connect many of the entries of the Novgorodian annals with the Bible,
see Ulrich Schweier, Paradigmatische Aspekte der Textstruktur: Textlinguistische Untersuchungen
zu der intra- und der intertextuellen funktionalen Belastung von Strukturelementen der frühen
ostslavischen Chroniken (M unich: Otto Sagner, 1995). See also a critical review of this work by
Aleksey A. Gippius, ‘Biblejskie paradigmy novgorodskoj letopisi’, Russian Linguistics, 22 (1998),
233–56.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 269

as the Chuds or the Polovtsians, but their religious affiliation is never mentioned:
instead, the annalists are preoccupied with military and political outcomes and
economic damages. These wars were probably seen as wars against pagans by con-
temporaries, but no trace of such an attitude is left in the text.
As for Christian matters, they are better represented in the annals. There is a
certain quantity of direct references to God, Christianity, Christians, holiness, and
so on. Yet they are not as numerous as one could expect: forty-three such references
in the First Novgorod Chronicle for the twelfth century. More than half of them
(twenty-two of forty-three) can be found in the last section of the twelfth-century
annals (1188–99), written by the annalist of the archbishops Gabriel and Martyr.
They become even more numerous in the records of the thirteenth century. As for
the text describing the years before 1187, there are only twenty-one references to
matters that can be defined as Christian; that is, around one such reference per
four annals.
The references in the annals for the years 1115–99 can be divided into several
groups:
1) references to misfortunes that took place ‘ïî ãð±õîì ú íàøèì ú ’61 (‘for our
sins’);
2) references to Divine help or mercy (God’s help to one of the sides in
battles;62 God’s help in preventing bloodshed between Christians and in
concluding peace;63 God’s mercy prevents the destruction of a church struck by
lightning;64 God’s mercy prevents unrest in the time of a famine65);

61
This is said on the occasion of a famine (s.a. 1128 and 1161), an epidemic (1158), a fire
(1194), and Archbishop Niphont’s burial in Kiev (the annalist regretted that Niphont was not
buried in Novgorod, 1156); PSRL, III, 22, 29–31, and 41.
62
S.a. 1135, 1164, 1169 (twice), and 1195. Once, s.a. 1169, it is said that the victory was
reached ‘ñèëîþ êðåñòüíîþ è ñâÿòîþ Áîãîðîäèöåþ è ìîëèòâàìè áëàãîâ±ðíàãî âëàäûêû Èëèå’
(‘because of the power of the Cross, and the Holy Mother of God, and the prayers of the good
believer Archbishop Elias’); PSRL, III, 24, 31, 33, and 42.
63
S.a. 1135, 1180, 1196, and 1198. In 1135: ‘è Áîæèåþ âîëåþ ñúìèðèøàñÿ’ (‘and reconciled
with each other because of God’s will’). In 1180: ‘íú Áîãú ñâîåþ ìèëîñòüþ áîëå êðúâè íå ïðîëüÿ
êðüñòüÿíüñò±è’ (‘but God, by His mercy, did not shed any more Christian blood’); PSRL, III, 24,
36, 43, and 44.
64
S.a. 1187: PSRL, III, 38.
65
S.a. 1188: PSRL, III, 39.
270 Timofey V. Guimon

3) notes that a newly constructed monastery ‘áûñòü êðåñòüÿíîì ü ïðèáåæèùå ’

(‘was a refuge for Christians’) or something similar to that;66
4) the use of ‘Christian’ words to characterize archbishops of Novgorod;67
5) the use of the wording ‘ðàáú Áîæèè ’ (‘slave of God’) in two cases;68
6) a single mention of God in an annalist’s prayer for the peace of a soul, 69 and
three mentions of God in a direct speech quoted in the annals;70
7) the annalist’s statement that he does not know if those who had been
accused of treason and executed were really guilty: ‘òâîðÿõóòü áî ÿ ñúâ±òú
äü ð æ à ùå íà ñâîþ áðàòüþ, à òî Áîãîâè ñóäèòè ’ (‘they accused them of a
treason of their brothers, but God must judge that’);71
8) the annalist’s statement that Archbishop Martyr ‘ïðèÿ öàðñòâî íåáåñíîå è
ðàäîñòü íåèñêîíüöÿåì ó âú â±êû, àì èíü ’ (‘received the kingdom of heaven and
the endless joy forever, amen’);72
9) a single (!) mention of a miracle. In the latter case, the recovery of their sight
by the princes Mstislav and Jaropolk, briefly recorded s.a. 1177, concludes with
‘è òó àáèå ñúïîñòèæå ÿ Áîæèÿ áëàãîäàòü è ñ â ÿ òûÿ Âëàäû÷èöÿ íàøåÿ
Áî ãî ð îäèöÿ è ñâÿòóþ íîâîÿâëåíîþ ì ó÷åíèêó Áîðèñà è Ãë±áà ’73 (‘and here
then the grace of God, and our Holy Lady, the Mother of God, and the new
holy martyrs Boris and Gleb reached them’). Eclipses and other mysterious

66
S.a. 1153, 1179, 1192, 1195, and 1198; s.a. 1196 it is said that the construction of a church
‘áûñòü ðàäîñòü êðåñòüÿíîìú’ (‘was joy for Christians’); PSRL, III, 29, 36, 40, 42, and 44.
67
New ly elected archbishops are called ‘wise’, ‘God-fearing’, ‘elected by God’, and even ‘saint’
(s.a. 1130, 1156, 1193, and 1199: PSRL, III, 22, 29, 40, and 44). For example, s.a. 1130 Archbishop
Niphont was blessed, and the annalist characterizes him as ‘ìóæà ñâÿòà è ç±ëî áîÿùÿñÿ Áîãà’ (‘a
saint, very much a God-fearing man’). When some actions of archbishops(for example, the erection
of churches) are described, they are defined as ‘well believing’, ‘loving God’, ‘loving Christ’ (s.a.
1153, 1169, 1170, 1180, 1191, 1195, and 1198: PSRL, III, 29, 33, 36, 39, 41, and 43), and once
even ‘saint’ (s.a. 1144: PSRL, III, 27).
68
In both cases the passages are about persons whose deaths are reported: they are the priest
German Voyata, who probably was a chronicler (s.a. 1188), and Archbishop M artyr (s.a. 1199):
PSRL, III, 39 and 44.
69
S.a. 1188: PSRL, III, 39.
70
S.a. 1134, 1137, and 1198: PSRL, III, 23, 24, and 43–44.
71
S.a. 1194: PSRL, III, 41.
72
S.a. 1196: PSRL, III, 42. This passage, according to Gippius, ‘K istorii’, p. 26, is a later
interpolation made after M artyr’s death in 1199.
73
PSRL, III, 35.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 271

natural phenomena are very often recorded, sometimes with an affective

commentary, but they are never explicitly connected to the divine.
In most of these cases we deal with standard formulas and commonplaces,
typical of all early Rus’ annals, as well as perhaps of any medieval Christian nar-
rative. One should note that all but one reference to Divine help or mercy describe
wars between Rus’ princes belonging to the same dynasty, not wars against
foreigners. The only exception is the victory of the Novgorodians over the Swedes
(1164); that is, against Latin Christians. Such references say more about a Nov-
gorodian regional identity than about a Christian identity.
The narrative can also be analysed in regard to the topics reported by the
annalists. If the annalists were contemporaneous with the events described, they
certainly knew more than they wrote. So what events did they choose to record?
The events described by the annalists must have reflected what they regarded as
‘theirs’ and as ‘alien’, and what was important enough for them to record and what
was not. Let us concentrate here on the ecclesiastical events.74
Firstly, the Novgorodian annalists reported changes of ecclesiastical leaders.
The changes of Novgorodian archbishops were written down very accurately; this
is, of course, not surprising for archiepiscopal annals. The changes of Kievan metro-
politans were written down rather seldom, usually in those cases when a
metropolitan died soon after the consecration of a Novgorodian archbishop.75 It
is especially interesting in comparison with the changes of Kievan princes, which
were reported by Novgorodian annalists much more systematically for most of the
twelfth century. Such an omission of the many changes of metropolitans may
reflect claims for the independence of the Church of Novgorod from the Church
of Kiev.
As for the abbots of numerous monasteries around Novgorod, the picture is
more complicated. The deaths and consecrations of such abbots, including the
major Novgorodian monastery of St George, seem to have been recorded without
any pattern. Only the changes of abbots at St Anthony’s Monastery of the Nativity
of Our Lady were written down more or less systematically. This was perhaps due
to the personalities of the annalists. At least one annalist is known to have been
connected with St Anthony’s Monastery: Cyric the Novgorodian, the annalist of

74
For a study of the topics interesting for the annalists of Novgorod, see Timofey V. Guimon,
‘Novgorodskoe letopisanie XII–XIII vv.: Problema otbora sobytij dlja fiksatsii’, in Obrazy proshlogo
i kollektivnaja identichnost’ v Evrope do nachala novogo vremeni, ed. by Lorina P. Repina (M oscow:
Krug’, 2003), pp. 334–48.
75
S.a. 1159, 1166, 1167, 1233, and 1237; see Guimon, ‘Novgorodskoe letopisanie’, pp. 338–39.
272 Timofey V. Guimon

Archbishop Niphont. It is quite possible that some other archiepiscopal annalists

of the twelfth century were monks of the same monastery. The only break in
recording the changes of the abbots at St Anthony’s lies in the period between
1162 and 1187, most of which is linked to the activity of the annalist of Arch-
bishop Elias — German Voyata, who wrote the annals for 1164–86. Voyata was
not a monk of St Anthony’s, but a priest of St Jacob’s Church in another part of
Novgorod. Thus, this exception further supports the hypothesis that most of the
twelfth-century annalists were affiliated with St Anthony’s.76 If this assumption is
correct, the annalists expressed not only a Novgorodian identity (as archiepiscopal
secretaries) but also their local identities, which for all of them but German Voyata
were attached to their home monastery.
Another important set of entries is dedicated to the construction of churches,
the foundation of monasteries, and similar events. These notes are very numerous
throughout the twelfth century. Their structure is quite regular, so that they can
even be analysed as charters or other official documents by the methods of formu-
laic analysis.77 This feature probably suggests that the writing down of an act of
church building in the annals was a kind of legal acknowledgement of the merits
and/or rights of the commissioner. Above all, these notes about the building of
churches were involved in the construction of individual and collective Christian
identities. The annalists gave to their potential reader information on the impres-
sive abundance of churches and monasteries in Novgorod and its suburbs, and at
the same time marked various districts of Novgorod by mentioning churches
constructed there.

Annals in Other Novgorodian Religious Houses

Some scholars have argued that the annals were created in Novgorod not only in
the archbishop’s court and St Sophia Cathedral but also outside of it: in suburban

76
See Timofey V. Guimon, ‘Atributsija i lokalizatsija letopisnykh tekstov pri pomoshchi
formal’nogo analiza tematiki soobshchenij (Anglija i Rus’)’, in Vostochnaja Evropa v antichnom i
s r edn evekovom mire: XV chtenija pamjati chl.-corr. AN SSSR V.T. Pashuto, ed. by Elena A.
M elnikova (M oscow: Institut vseobshchej istorii Rossijskoj akademii nauk, 2003), pp. 51–57 (pp.
54–56).
77
See Timofey V. Guimon, ‘Opyt formuljarnogo analiza letopisnykh izvestij o tserkovnom
stroitel’stve (Novgorod, XII – nachalo XIII veka)’, in Ad fontem – U istochnika: Sbornik v chest’
Sergeja M. Kashtanova, ed. by Sigurd O. Shmidt (M oscow: Nauka, 2005), pp. 187–204.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 273

monasteries, parish (‘street’) churches,78 and the princely court.79 Yet this argument
can hardly be corroborated by textual and historical evidence.80 At the same time,
in some cases we can be sure that some ecclesiastical communities of Novgorod had
annals among their manuscripts. First of all, there is a group of notes (mostly on
the construction of churches and changes of abbots) that are present in the Synodal
MS only and not found elsewhere. They all belong to the period 1144–95. As
suggested by Gippius, these notes were additions made in the copy of the archi-
episcopal annals that belonged to the monastery of St George.81 This was not an
ordinary monastery, but (at least from the late twelfth century) the archimandritia
of Novgorod, the centre of its monastic organization and the second (after the
Cathedral of St Sophia) religious house of Novgorod.82
The Synodal MS (our oldest surviving witness to early Rus’ annalistic writing)
was another copy of the archiepiscopal annals made for the monastery of St
George. This copy, first made in the thirteenth century, was updated in the four-
teenth century, again from the archiepiscopal annals. Having no recourses (and
perhaps no need of any) with which to compile their own annals, the monks of St
George still wished to have a copy of the archiepiscopal annals. In 1330–52, they
made some additions on the flyleaves, part of which described the events in their
own monastery.
Another example concerns the Annunciation Monastery near Novgorod. A copy
of the Studite monastic rule was written for this monastery in the late twelfth
century. On the last blank leaf of the manuscript, four annalistic notes were written
by two hands: about the foundation of the monastery (1170), the construction of
the stone church in it (1179), and the deaths of two Novgorodian archbishops who
founded the house (1186 and 1193). This small set of notes ends with a prayer for
‘äîì ú ñèè ’ (‘this house’). These historical notes (at least the ones for 1186 and
1193) were certainly copied from the archiepiscopal annals of Novgorod.83

78
This idea is based on the fact that two clerics of St Jacob’s Church mentioned themselves in
the Synodal M S (Priest German Voyata s.a. 1144 and Sexton Timofey s.a. 1230). But this is better
explained by the hypothesis that both of them updated the archiepiscopal annals while serving as
archiepiscopal secretaries; see Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 8–11.
79
For relevant bibliography, see Gippius, ‘K kharakteristike’, p. 354.
80
Gippius, ‘K kharakteristike’, pp. 354–57.
81
Gippius, ‘K istorii’, pp. 21–34.
82
Janin, Ocherki, pp. 136–49.
83
Lubov’ V. Stoljarova, ‘Zapisi istoricheskogo soderzhanija na Studijskom ustave kontsa XII v.’,
in PSRL, III, 562–68.
274 Timofey V. Guimon

Conclusion
To sum up, medieval Novgorod possessed archiepiscopal annals, which started
with the Kievan ‘Initial Compilation’ (up to 1016, with a few Novgorodian addi-
tions) and were continued from 1017 to 1115 with short excerpts from the Kievan
chronicle (perhaps the same ‘Initial Compilation’ and some brief annals) and notes
on Novgorodian events. From 1115 onwards the annals were updated year by year.
So, this text contained the account of the early history of Rus’ (with some elements
of universal history), its conversion and related events, the conversion of Novgorod
and the foundation of St Sophia of Novgorod, as well as notes on many other
events. The existence of these annals allowed Novgorodians, on the one hand, to
define the place of Novgorod in the history of Rus’ (and through it in universal
history) and, on the other, to record contemporary events.
The purposes of the archiepiscopal annals of Novgorod are difficult to ascer-
tain. They were not used for propaganda in a modern sense since manuscript
evidence does not indicate their circulation in many copies. Igor Danilevsky has
linked the early annalistic writing with eschatological expectations and the need
to ‘fix’ human sins and merits.84 Some scholars have suggested that recording
deaths (mostly of lay and ecclesiastical rulers) and the construction of churches was
intended for liturgical services.85 Furthermore, the annals could have been searched
for precedents in political interactions between the princes and/or republican
officials of Novgorod.86 These interpretations do not contradict each other: the
annals were probably a kind of minutes of the city-state, kept in Novgorod under
the patronage of the archbishops.87
At the same time, the very fact of having annals in a certain city or religious
house might have been significant for the identity of such an urban or religious

84
Igor’ N. Danilevskij, Povest’ vremennykh let: Germenevticheskie osnovy izuchenija letopisnykh
tekstov (M oscow: Aspekt, 2004), pp. 232–67.
85
See for example Aleksey V. Laushkin, ‘Tochnye datirovki v drevnerusskom letopisanii
XI– XIII vv.: Zakonomernosti pojavlenija’, in Vostochnaja Evropa v antichnom i srednevekovom mire:
XVI chtenija pamjati chl.-corr. AN SSSR V.T. Pashuto, ed. by Elena A. M elnikova (M oscow:
Institut vseobshchej istorii Rossijskoj akademii nauk, 2004), pp. 101–04 (pp. 103–04).
86
See for example M ark Kh. Aleshkovskij, ‘Povest’ vremennykh let’: Iz istorii sozda n ija i
redaktsionnoj pererabotki: Avtoref. dis. ... kand. ist. nauk (Leningrad:Leningradskij gosudarstabennyj
universitet, 1967), p. 19.
87
For relevant bibliography and some preliminary ideas, see Timofey V. Guimon, ‘Dlja chego
pisalis’ russkie letopisi?’, Zhurnal ‘FIPP’, 1 (1998), 8–16.
CHRISTIAN IDENTITY IN THE EARLY NOVGORODIAN ANNALISTIC WRITING 275

community88 and would have given it a place in the Christian world and universal
Christian history. The existence of such annals in Novgorod could have been
important vis-à-vis Kiev. Thus, though the annals of the archbishops of Novgorod
were based on a Kievan source, they had Novgorodian additions and continua-
tions. For the monks of the monastery of St George (the archimandritia of Nov-
gorod, the centre of its monastic organization), it was enough to have just a copy
of the archiepiscopal annals with a few additions. And for the identity of the com-
munity in the Annunciation Monastery (an ordinary house in the suburbs of
Novgorod), it was sufficient to add a very short set of annals on the last page of the
monastic rule they followed. The influence of such local identities can be seen not
only in the copies of the twelfth-century annals of Novgorod written in smaller
clerical communities, but also in the text written by archiepiscopal annalists. The
annalists affiliated with St Anthony’s Monastery systematically wrote down the
changes of its abbots and did not do so with the abbots of other Novgorodian
houses. Furthermore, in the 1160s the annalist of Archbishop Elias — German
Voyata, a priest of St Jacob’s Church — emphasized the location of the wooden St
Sophia (which pre-existed the stone cathedral) in the same district of Novgorod
where his church was situated.
Thus, the hierarchy of the annalistic narrative — Kiev, Novgorod as a whole,
the prestigious monastery of St George, and an ordinary suburban monastery —
reflected a hierarchy of identities shared by the annalists and their readers: a
political identity attached to Rus’ and its capital (though less powerful in the
twelfth century than in the eleventh), a regional one linked to the Novgorodian
land, an institutional one defined by major ecclesiastical institutions of Novgorod,
and finally an identity connected to a smaller monastic community or local church.

88
Cf. Dmitrij S. Likhachev, Poetika drevnerusskoj literatury, 3rd edn (M oscow: Nauka, 1979),
p. 65; and Aleksandr G. Bobrov, Novgorodskie letopisi XV veka (St Petersburg: Bulanin, 2001), p. 6.
 INDEX

Aaron, biblical figure, 180 Anglo-Norman, 41

Abraham, biblical figure, 85, 151, 160, 221 Anglo-Saxon, 35, 41, 43, 47, 209, 242, 255
Absalon, archbishop of Lund, 60, 67, 68 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 35, 209, 255
Adalbert, archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen, 14, Anna, Byzantine wife of Volodimer the Great,
17, 19–23, 50, 138 215, 245, 249
Adalbert (Vojt.ch), saint, 170, 171, 173, 182, Annales Altachenses, 187
185 Annales Posonienses, 185
Adalperga, daughter of Lombard king Deside- annalistic, 11, 51, 52, 73, 134, 137, 169, 207–9,
rius, 220 211, 212, 216–18, 221, 227, 236, 237,
Adam, biblical figure, 221 255–8, 261, 262, 265, 273–5
Adam of Bremen, 6–8, 13–29, 44, 49–53, 58, annals, 5, 9–11, 51, 169, 185, 207, 209, 210,
108, 119–21, 125–7, 130, 132–4, 137, 193, 214–18, 221, 227, 255–65, 268–75
219 Annals of Inisfallen, 259
ættartala, 112 Annunciation, 225
Ævi Snorra góða, 112 Annunciation Monastery, of Novgorod, 273,
Ágrip, 2, 7, 8, 78, 93–109, 127, 138 275
Ailnoth of Canterbury, 2, 6, 33, 34, 37–48, Anonymous Tale, 223, 224
52–5 Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury, 42
Alexander Romance, 210 Ansgar, missionary saint, 18, 23, 24, 54
Alexander the Great, 183 Anthony the Roman, of Novgorod, saint, 260
allegorical, 46 Antichrist, 25, 46
allegory, 48, 132 Apocalypse, 24
allusion/s, 64, 65, 75, 76, 84, 85, 90, 152, 163, apostasy, 98, 100, 105, 106
165, 201 apostate, 107
Álmos, legendary Hungarian duke, 194, 197 Aragon, 188
Amalekites, 162 Arcady, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 268
Amazons, 25, 246 archbishop/s, 11, 14, 15, 19–24, 41, 50–2, 57,
Ambrose of Milan, 24 66, 67, 71, 72, 85, 131, 132, 137, 138, 142,
Anaclet II, antipope, 51 258, 260, 263–6, 268–75
Anacletan schism, 50 archbishopric, 6, 11, 13–19, 21, 22, 25, 28, 50,
Andrew I, Hungarian king, 190 139
278 Index

archiepiscopal, 11, 21, 51, 66, 256, 258–61, Benedictine, monks, 36, 43; monastery 147
268, 271–5 Beowulf, 60
Ari the Wise (fróði), 8, 73, 95, 96, 105, Bernard, Saxon duke, 19
111–17, 119–21, 127, 136 Bible, 24, 26, 28, 46, 86, 87, 119, 163, 169, 174,
aristocracy, 1, 35, 60 183, 223, 229, 246, 268
Arnaldr, priest, 139 biblical, 3, 7, 9, 24, 26, 28, 46, 57, 58, 64, 65,
Arnold, bishop of Roskilde, 38 84, 85, 90, 119, 128, 130, 132, 156, 161, 162,
Árpád, legendary Hungarian duke; 192, 194, 165, 169, 170, 179, 185, 210, 220, 229, 236,
195, 197; Árpád dynasty, 183 249, 253, 263, 268
Ars versificatoria, 129, 130 biography/ies, 19, 77, 78, 79, 89, 127, 133
ascetic, 172 Birka, 24, 26
asceticism, 171 bishop/s, 8, 13, 20, 36–9, 43, 44, 50, 59, 65, 67,
Aslak Fitjaskalle, 82 71, 72, 111–14, 116, 117, 121, 123–8,
Asser, archbishop of Lund, 51 130–42, 145, 162, 164, 168, 169, 171–3,
Attila, 183, 192, 194 188, 201, 264, 268
audience/s, 1, 6, 14, 33, 43, 48, 64, 69, 85, 128, bishopric/s, 8, 14, 67, 114, 116, 121, 134, 137,
168, 171, 225, 268 173, 182, 189
Augustine, 28, 75, 108, 109 Bjørn Stallari, 83
Augustinian, house, 71; canon, 72 Boethius, 75, 169
auspices, 20, 51, 102, 105 Bohemia, 2, 9, 88, 159, 167–9, 173, 175, 179,
authority/ies, 7, 15, 20–2, 36, 37, 47, 50–2, 55, 192
63, 69, 87, 112, 113, 121, 124, 138, 146, 151, Bohemian, 192; Bohemians, 196
172, 207, 251 Bohemus (Èech), legendary figure, 179
autocracy, 100, 105 Boleslav I, Bohemian duke, 170
Boles³aw I the Brave, Polish king, 148, 159,
Babel, 221 160, 187
Babelian, 178 Boles³aw II the Bold, Polish king, 148
Babylonians, 246 Boles³aw Wrymouth, Polish duke, 9, 145,
Bactrians, 246 148–55, 160, 161
Balder, Norse god, 54 Bologna, 188
Balkan, 222 Boncompagno da Signa, 188
Baltic, 44 Boniak, Polovtsian khan, 246
Bamberg, 147, 188 Book of Icelanders, see Íslendingabók
baptism, 46, 52, 57, 77, 78, 115, 117, 118, 158, Boris and Gleb, Rus’ martyr princes, saints, 10,
163, 166, 181, 192, 241, 249 216, 217, 223, 234, 237, 245, 263, 266, 270
barbarian/s, 17, 18, 43, 44, 53, 74, 86, 126, Boris Viacheslavich, Rus’ prince, 245
153, 197 Boøivoj I, Bohemian duke, 180, 181
barbaric, 186, 187 Botond, Hungarian mythical hero, 198
barbarity, 45 Božetìcha, wife of Cosmas of Prague, 168
barbarous, 73, 85 Brandr, bishop of Hólar, 137
Bari, 134 Bratislava, 185
Basil, saint, 242 Bremen, 13, 14, 16, 17, 21, 24–7, 50, 112, 120,
Bec, abbey, 41, 42 132, 134, 138
Bede, 75, 212 brethren, 171, 232
Béla III, Hungarian king, 183 Bøetislav I, Bohemian duke, 169, 176
Index 279

Buda, 184, 188 Christianity, 1, 2, 6, 9, 15–20, 22–4, 28, 33, 52,

Bugislav, Pomeranian duke, 60 53, 71, 73, 74, 76, 77, 81, 86–8, 98, 101, 102,
Bulgaria, 222 105, 107, 108, 114–17, 119, 120, 124, 142,
Bulgarian/s, 199, 210, 212, 222, 226, 247 153, 157, 160, 162, 163, 165, 185, 187, 188,
Byzantine/s, 4, 10, 198, 199, 208–10, 212, 213, 193, 194, 200, 201, 206, 226, 229, 230, 238,
218, 221, 222, 225, 237–9, 241, 249, 250 239, 242, 245, 265, 269; Christianitas, 16
Byzantium, 10, 208–10, 239 chronicle/s, 2, 5–10, 33–6, 39, 42, 47, 49,
50–5, 58, 60, 67, 74, 89, 103, 114, 116, 120,
Caesar, 64, 131, 177 121, 123, 127, 131, 132, 135–7, 140, 141,
calendar/s, 54, 87, 116, 140 145–9, 151, 153, 154, 163, 165–71, 173,
canon/s, 49, 57, 68, 72, 132, 167, 168, 174, 178, 181–6, 189, 191, 192, 194, 199–201,
210, 224 205–22, 224, 226, 227, 229–38, 242–6,
canonization, 36–8, 48, 65, 224 248–50, 253, 255–7, 259, 261, 262, 264, 267,
Canterbury, 38, 41 274; universal chronicle/s, 10, 208, 210, 223
Canute (Knud) Lavard, saint, 7, 61–5, 70 Chronicle of Avraamka, 257
Canute (Knud) of Odense, saint, 2, 6, 34–9, Chronicle of Czechs, 9, 167, 173
40–2, 46–8, 52, 60–2, 64, 70, 223 Chronicle of Lejre, 53–5
Cassiodorus, 212 Chronicle of Melrose, 259
cathedral, 9, 39, 40, 49, 124, 131, 132, 135, Chronicle of Roskilde, 2, 6, 7, 33–5, 49–53
140–2, 167, 171, 174, 178, 188, 214, 225, chronicler/s, 7, 10, 50–3, 55, 145, 146, 148,
256, 258, 265–7, 272, 273, 275; cathedral 150–61, 163, 165, 174, 180, 187, 188, 198,
school, 13, 41, cathedral chapter, 14, 36, 40, 200, 210–13, 229, 232, 235, 237–9, 243–5,
49, 51, 60, 168, 172, 173 247, 250, 251–3, 270
Catholic/s, 44, 164, 173, 182 Chronicon Austrie, 187
Chaldeans, 246 Chronicon ecclesiæ ripensis, 141
Cham, biblical figure, 185 Chronographia, 210
chapel/s, 40, 192, 232 Chronographikon syntomon, 210
Charlemagne, 17, 46, 131 chronography, 210, 213, 221, 222
Charybdis, 86, 88 chronology, 10, 45, 87–9, 105, 115, 116, 207,
chieftain, 103, 136, 199, 200 208, 210, 216–20, 227, 237, 238; Christian
chosen land, 153; chosen people, 9 chronology, 10, 87, 115, 219, 220
Christian/s, 1–11, 14–20, 21, 23, 25–9, 33, 34, Chrysippus, 75
42–6, 48, 49, 51–5, 57, 60–2, 64, 66, 70, Chuds, 238, 269
73–5, 84, 85, 87, 97, 98, 100, 102, 105–9, church/es, 7, 9, 15, 19–22, 25, 35, 37–9, 43,
111, 114–21, 132, 138, 148–50, 151, 153, 45, 47, 50, 51, 52, 53, 55, 66, 71, 97, 113,
154, 156, 159, 160, 162, 165, 166, 169, 171, 116, 132, 133, 140, 167, 171, 172, 174,
174–6, 178–90, 192, 194, 198, 200, 201, 208, 190–2, 193, 200, 214, 216, 219, 224, 225,
210, 213, 219–21, 223–6, 230, 235, 238, 239, 242, 251, 263–7, 269, 270, 272–4, 273, 275;
241, 243, 244–7, 249–51, 253, 256, 265, church dedication, 131
267–72, 275; christiani, 17; Christian chron- Church Chronicle, 219
ology, see chronology; Christian history, see Church History, 219
history; Christian identity/ies, see identity; Cicero, 173
Christian past, 6, 9; Christian present, 2, 15, Cimbri, 26
108, 166, 225, 230 classical, 3, 7, 9, 23, 26, 28, 42, 64, 75, 77, 83,
86, 89, 90, 163, 169, 199, 208, 212, 213, 215,
280 Index

219, 255, 261, 262; classical authors, 26, 86, Dalmat, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 260
163, 212; classical geographers, 23 Dalmatia, 147
Clement of Bøevnov, abbot, 178 Dane/s, 17, 18, 22, 43–5, 47, 48, 50, 54, 57, 74,
clergy, 1, 14, 16, 19, 36, 45, 107, 113, 146, 172 75, 102, 106; Dani, 47
cleric/s, 8, 9, 11, 21, 40, 41, 54, 97, 113, 162, Danevirke, 61
167, 169, 172, 183, 193, 201, 256, 258, 273 Danish, 2, 7, 18, 33–43, 46, 47, 49–55, 57,
clerical, 2, 10, 14, 20, 72, 97, 170, 173, 174, 59–62, 67–70, 75, 79, 86, 97, 99, 100, 102,
229, 275 123
Cnut II the Great, Anglo-Danish king, 34, 48, Danube, 159, 247
52, 78, 79, 81–3, 86, 100, 101 David, biblical king, 46, 48, 221
coinage, 170 David Igor’evich, Rus’ prince, 236, 237
Cologne, 86 David Sviatoslavich, Rus’ prince, 250
Conrad I, Bohemian duke, 176 Deeds of the Hungarians, see Gesta Hungarorum
Conrad II, German emperor, 78 Deeds of the Princes of the Poles, see Gesta
Constantine I, Roman emperor, 57, 77, 221, principum Polonorum
249 demon/s, 22, 174, 175, 241, 251, 252
Constantine Manasses, 222, 226 Denmark, 2, 3, 6, 7, 18, 23, 33–6, 38–49,
Constantinople, 104, 199, 210, 212, 237, 260, 52–5, 58, 60, 62, 64, 66, 69, 70, 74, 78, 79,
268 83, 88, 99, 102, 137, 139, 141, 142, 192, 223;
conversion, 1–4, 8, 17–19, 21, 29, 43, 48, 55, Dania, 18
58, 71, 74, 76, 100, 108, 109, 114–19, 138, Derevlians, 249
158, 159, 183, 185–9, 192, 206, 208, 209, Descriptio Europae Orientalis, 191
213, 226, 245, 256, 263–5, 274 Desiderius, Lombard king, 220
Cosmas of Prague, 2, 3, 9, 167–82, 192, 205 Devil, 170, 243, 244
cosmographic, 18 discourse/s, 1, 3, 4, 7, 58, 59, 65, 69, 70, 208
court/s, 9, 20, 41, 45, 139, 145, 146, 168, 169, Disticha Catonis, 170
186, 188, 195, 216, 241, 272, 273; royal Dnepr, 241, 249, 250
court, 20, 21, 40, 195 ducal, 19, 146, 148, 149, 156, 157
Covenant of Blood, 188, 197, 198 duchy, 154, 159
Creation, 87, 208, 219 Duggals leizla / Visio Thugdali, 130
crown, 63, 124 duke/s, 14, 45, 60, 63, 148, 151, 153, 154, 157,
crudelitas, 17 158, 164, 166, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173,
Crusade/s, 84, 162, 163, 176, 186 175, 178, 180, 181, 182, 183, 189
crusaders, 162, 163 dynastic, 2, 9, 62, 64, 88, 99, 102, 145, 146,
Cumans, 151–3, 163, 174, 197, 198 149, 155, 156, 163, 165, 166, 194, 224
Cyclops, 25 dynasty/ies, 2, 9, 34, 42, 48, 55, 64, 74, 75, 124,
Cynocephali, 25 146, 149, 148, 155–8, 160, 163, 165, 172,
Cyric the Novgorodian, 11, 271 173, 178–80, 182, 183, 192, 224–6, 263, 271
Czarnków, 153
Czech/s, 154, 159, 161, 164, 168–76, 178–82, Easter, 10, 39, 217, 218, 225, 226, 262; Easter
205 table/s, 10, 217, 262
Ecclesiastes, 170
Dag Ringsson, 83 ecclesiastic/s, 36, 41
Dala-Gudbrand, 81 ecclesiastical, 7, 11, 15, 19, 21, 60, 69, 70, 109,
Dalimil, 168, 179, 187 125, 138, 142, 256, 271, 273, 274, 275
Index 281

Egils saga, 98 Evesham, Benedictine abbey, 36

Einarr Þambarskelfir, 102 exempla, 9
Einhard, 89 Exordia Scythica, 189, 198
Eirik, Norwegian earl, 79 Eyrbyggja saga, 112
Eiríkr Oddsson, 95 Eystein I Magnusson, Norwegian king, 104, 106
Elbe, 15, 21 Eystein II Haraldsson, Norwegian king, 104,
Elias, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 268, 269, 272, 105
275 Eystein Erlendsson, archbishop of Nidaros, 66,
Emeric, royal saint, 186 67, 71, 72, 85, 137
emperor/s, 39, 46, 51, 57, 61, 137, 139, 140, Eystein Meyla, 71
150, 154, 173, 182, 186, 187, 199, 208, 210, Ezechiel, biblical prophet, 24
221, 237, 239, 241
emplot, 15, 248 fable/s, 20, 183
emplotment, 10, 229, 230, 247–51, 253 Fagrskinna, 82, 93, 94, 99
Emund, Swedish king, 15 Faidi, troubadour, 188
England, 20, 34, 35, 37, 41, 48, 49, 54, 58, 76, Faroe Islands, 65
78, 79, 81–3, 86–8, 98, 102, 193, 255 felicitas, 109
English, 22, 27, 35, 36, 41, 43, 44, 50, 58, 59, Feodosii, hegumen of the Kievan Caves Mon-
68, 73, 78, 81, 111, 115, 123, 125, 183–5, astery, 232–6, 251
224, 225, 233, 242, 255, 257 Finn Arnesson, 84
episcopal, 1, 39, 50, 52, 66, 67, 70, 114, 120, Finnish, 97, 242
124, 127, 128, 132, 140–2 First Novgorod Chronicle, 11, 217, 230, 255,
eremitical, 171 256–8, 260, 261, 263, 269; Elder Version of,
Erik I Ejegod, Danish king, 34, 36, 37 256, 257; Younger Version of, 11, 257, 261–3,
Erik Bloodax, Norwegian king, 98, 99, 106 265, 266, 268
Erling Skjalgsson, 82, 88, 101 First Sophian Chronicle, 257, 265
eschatological, 24, 87, 160, 164, 264, 274 Flanders, 147
Eskil, bishop of Roskilde, archbishop of Lund, Flateyjarbók, 139, 142
51, 60 Flood, 169, 221, 229, 236, 249, 253
Eskil, saint, 44 florilegia, 169
Ethelred II the Redeless, Anglo-Saxon king, 52, Fourth Novgorod Chronicle, 257, 265
78, 82, 88 France, 57, 60, 73, 113, 147, 183, 186, 188
ethnographer, 189 Frankish, 18, 46, 51, 120
ethnographic/al, 17, 21 Franks, 17, 162
Euboeia, 177 freemen, 172
Europe, 1–4, 6, 8–11, 17, 29, 120, 121, 143, French, 43, 235
149, 178, 184, 186, 192, 193, 197, 198, 202, Freyr, Norse god, 114, 242
203, 207 Fyn, 22, 35
European, 1–11, 16, 29, 36, 42, 62, 84, 120,
128, 143, 149, 175, 178, 182–6, 188, 189, Gabriel, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 268, 269
192, 193, 197, 198, 201, 203, 207, 214, 219, Galician-Volhynian Chronicle, 207, 208, 216
224, 238, 247 Gallus Anonymus, 2, 8, 9, 145–66, 205
Eusebius of Caesarea, 75, 87, 219 Garðar (Greenland), bishopric of, 138
Eutropius, 220 Gaudentius (Radim), archbishop of Gniezno,
evangelist/s, 23–5 171
282 Index

Gaul, 20 Getica, 200, 212, 220

Geleans, 246 Giuriata Rogovich of Novgorod, 236
genealogy/ies, 59, 61, 73, 75, 112, 114, 117, Gizurr Ísleifsson, bishop of Skálholt, 112, 117,
142, 194 120, 123–5, 131, 134–8, 140
genre/s, 6, 9, 13–15, 19, 29, 77, 78, 89, 114, Gleb Sviatoslavich, Rus’ prince, 267
127, 133, 140, 142, 148, 167, 186, 205, 209, Gniezno, 155–7, 171, 173
212, 216, 218, 221, 265 God, 2, 9, 10, 17, 21–3, 27, 35, 43, 44, 47, 48,
gens Winulorum, 19 65, 79, 85, 86, 88, 99, 100–2, 107, 108,
gens/gentes, 13, 15, 19, 22, 158, 176, 186 124–6, 141, 146, 148, 150–66, 175–8, 180,
Geoffrey of Monmouth, 3 194, 195, 198, 200, 219, 223, 225, 234, 240,
Geoffrey of Vinsauf, 130 241, 243–5, 249, 251, 253, 264, 267, 269,
geographer, 189 270
geographical, 16, 17, 21, 23, 43, 58, 59, 61, 70. Godless, 244–7
108, 154, 183 Gog and Magog, biblical tribes, 24–6, 28
geography, 58, 65 Goliath, biblical figure, 46
George Hamartolus, 210, 221, 236, 246 Gorm, Danish king, 34, 52, 53
Gerald of Wales, 125 Gothic, 24, 212, 242
Gerard (Gellért) of Czanád, saint, 181 Goths, 24, 43, 44, 220
Gerhoh of Rechersperg, 187 grace, 9, 45, 78, 108, 141, 153, 178, 194, 195,
German/s, 13, 27, 39, 50, 51, 61, 78, 137, 139, 225, 226, 270
141, 150, 168, 173, 174, 186, 187 the Great Belt, 61
German Voyata, of Novgorod, 11, 267, 270, Greater Legend of St Stephen, 186
272, 273, 275 Greek/s, 10, 117, 213, 236, 237, 238, 239, 247,
Germani, 26 249, 250
Germanic, 73, 81, 212 Greenland, 115, 138, 139
Germany, 8, 13, 39, 51, 140, 174, 182, 184–7, Greenlanders, 138, 139
233 Gregorian/s, 25
Gerold/Jareld, bishop of Ribe, 38, 39 Gregory of Tours, 212
Gertrude, Hungarian queen, 188 Grenland, 101
Gervase of Prague, 178 Guðmundr Árason, bishop of Hólar, saint, 124
gesta, 78, 133, 149; gesta episcoporum, 6, 8, 13, Gulathing Law, 115, 193
19, 120, 127, 133, 140, 141, 169; gesta Gull-Haraldr, 99
principum, 169 Gunnlaugr Leifsson, 95
Gesta archiepiscoporum Magdeburgensium, 131, Guthormr, priest, 135
137 gynecocracy, 100, 105
Gesta Chuonradi, 78, 177 gynecocratic, 101
Gesta Danorum, 53, 54, 74, 189 Gytha of Wessex, wife of Volodimer Mono-
Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, 6, makh, 209
13–25, 27, 52, 53, 119–21, 125–7, 130, 132
Gesta Hungarorum, 9, 18, 85, 189, 190–201 hagiographic, 3–5, 10, 55, 64, 100
Gesta principum Polonorum, 8, 149, 174, 180, hagiography, 7, 15, 34, 42, 77, 88, 89, 223, 224,
181 227
Gesta Swenomagni regis et filiorum eius et passio Hakon Eiriksson, Norwegian earl, 79, 82–6,
gloriosissimi Canuti regis et martyris, 33, 34, 101
37–48 Hakon the Good, 98, 99, 106, 107
Index 283

Hakon Sigurðarson, Norwegian earl, 78, 99, historian/s, 13, 44, 47, 77, 83, 88, 146, 169,
100, 106, 107, 132 172, 199, 201, 208, 217, 219, 220, 229, 247,
Halfdan the Black, king, 97 248
Ham, biblical figure, 236 historiographic, 3, 4, 90, 211
Hamar, 67, 71 historiography/ies, 5, 11, 13, 74, 88, 123, 130,
Hamburg, 17, 50, 52 142, 169, 184, 185, 200, 201, 208, 212, 213
Hamburg-Bremen, archbishopric of, 6, 7, history/ies, 2–11, 13–18, 22, 23, 25, 28, 34, 42,
14–16, 18–20, 22, 24, 25, 28, 50–2, 54, 55, 49, 50, 52, 54, 55, 57, 59–81, 85–90, 96, 98,
126, 132, 137 99–102, 105–9, 111–17, 119–21, 126, 130,
Harald I Bluetooth, Danish king, 18, 34, 45, 132, 133, 141, 145, 146, 148, 152, 153, 155,
47, 48, 52, 60, 99, 192 157, 160–3, 165–8, 172, 183, 184, 186, 187,
Harald III Hen, Danish king, 34, 42, 47 189, 193, 200, 201, 205–14, 218–25, 227,
Harald IV (Haraldr gilli), Norwegian king, 104 248, 249, 253, 256, 263, 265, 268, 274; Chris-
Harald Fairhair, Norwegian king, 45, 72, 75, tian history, 6, 8, 48, 49, 54, 55, 62, 66, 70, 74,
87, 89, 97, 98, 106, 107, 115, 119 115, 181, 226, 275; history of salvation, 76,
Harald grenski, 101
85, 153, 157, 160, 162; local history, 58, 70,
Harald Greycloak, Norwegian king, 78, 98, 99,
219, 223; national history/ies, 57, 58, 64, 68,
106
74, 167; political history, 7, 89; Roman his-
Harald Hardrada (Haraldr Sigurðarson), Nor-
tory, 57, 75; secular history, 88, 89; synoptic
wegian king, 15, 20, 34, 45, 87, 102, 103, 106,
history/ies, 8, 94, 108; universal history, 7, 11,
135, 136
70, 74, 75, 77, 80, 87, 90, 221, 274
Harald Klak, king, 51, 52,
History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen,
Hardeknud, Anglo-Danish king, 34, 48
Harold Godwinson, Anglo-Saxon king, 87, 209 see Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum
Hartvik, bishop of Györ, 185 Høder, Norse god, 54
Hartwig, archbishop of Magdeburg, 137, 138 Hólar, bishopric of, 111, 116, 124, 127, 137,
Haukadalr, 112 138
heathen/s, 2, 8, 27, 55, 98, 99, 105, 106, 109, Holy Land, 100, 198
116–19, 160, 179, 181, 190, 194, 230 Holy Spirit, 9, 81, 201
heathendom, 114 Horace, 75, 79, 80, 181
Hebrew, 210 Hugh of St Victor, 7, 72, 73, 75, 87
Heimskringla, 62, 75, 77, 78, 81–4, 89, 94, humanitas, 17
113, 193 Hun/s, 86, 89, 183, 191, 194
Helganes, 102 Hungarian/s, 3, 9, 147, 159, 168, 174,
Henrik the Lame, 63 181–201
Henry, son of Cosmas of Prague, 168 Hungarian Anonymous Notary, 3, 183, 188,
Henry I, German king, 50, 167 193, 196, 199, 200
Henry IV, German emperor, 50, 78, 167 Hungarian Chronicle, 192, 193
Henry V, German emperor, 39, 150, 151, 154 Hungary, 3, 9, 10, 48, 62, 88, 147, 148, 176,
Henry of Huntingdon, 50 183, 184, 186, 188, 189, 191–3, 195, 197,
Herford, 137, 140 209, 223
hermit, 78, 79, 100 Hungrvaka, 8, 29, 121, 123–42
Hincmar of Reims, 238 Hymantopodes, 25
Historia Norwegie, 2, 7, 8, 58, 59, 61, 62, 65–7,
69, 70, 74, 75, 78, 81, 88, 89, 94–6, 105, 107, Ian, of the Kievan Caves Monastery, 232
108 Ian, son of Vyshata, 236
284 Index

Iceland, 3, 6, 8, 29, 65, 102, 108, 109, 111–28, Japheth, biblical figure, 236
131, 132, 135–42, 193 Jaropolk I Sviatoslavich, Rus’ prince, 237, 243
Icelanders, 2, 8, 43, 44, 72, 73, 95, 96, 111, Jaropolk Romanovich, Rus’ prince, 270
113–21, 124, 125, 127, 134, 135, 137–42 Jaroslav the Wise, Rus’ prince, 83, 214, 225,
Icelandic, 8, 53, 72, 73, 88, 89, 93–6, 103, 226, 229, 237, 243, 249, 250, 253, 266, 267
111–16, 119, 121, 123, 124, 126–9, 133, Jelling dynasty, 34, 48, 52
134, 136–42 Jeremiah, prophet, 16, 44, 129
identity/ies, 1, 6, 8, 9, 11, 16, 34, 38, 61, 67, Jerome, 75, 77, 87, 129, 220
114, 119, 138, 139, 141, 146, 153, 162, 165, Jerusalem, 104, 177, 221
175, 182, 194, 215, 256, 267, 271, 272, 274, Jesus Christ, 24, 27, 28, 37, 40, 43, 46, 59, 63,
275; Christian identity/ies, 1, 2, 6, 8, 9, 11, 65, 75, 76, 79, 85, 87, 108, 115, 132, 170,
14, 16, 28, 33, 111, 114, 117, 119–21, 138, 221, 225, 249, 270
165, 178, 182, 256, 265, 271, 272; insti- Jew/s, 1, 2, 9, 85, 168, 174, 176, 177, 178, 182,
tutional identity, 14, 17, 141; national 188, 210, 223, 225, 226
identities, 70 Jewish, 178, 188, 210
idol/s, 190, 175, 241, 242, 249, 264
Jewish War, 210
idolatry, 20, 158
John Malala, 210
Ilarion, metropolitan of Kiev, 10, 225, 226,
John the Baptist, saint, 59, 85, 151, 170
229, 249, 253
John the Irishman ( Jón írski), bishop of
imperial, 58, 61, 140, 141, 150, 186, 187
Mecklenburg, 126
Incarnation, 181, 219
John Tzimiskes, Byzantine emperor, 241
Ingegerd, wife of Jaroslav the Wise, 83
Joinville, 198
Ingi I Haraldsson, Norwegian king, 104, 105
Ingi the Elder, Swedish king, 103 Jón Ogmundarson, bishop of Hólar, saint, 124
institutional, 2, 6–8, 11, 14–18, 28, 40, 66, 70, Jordanes, 200, 212, 220
141, 275; institutional identity, see identity Josephus Flavius, 210
institutions, 8, 70, 114–16, 275 Judas, biblical figure, 181
Ipoly/Ipel, 194 Judea, 28
Ireland, 103, 104, 126 Judith, biblical figure, 161
Irish, 115, 120, 193, 198, 218, 219, 259 Juno, Roman goddess, 191
Isaac, biblical figure, 160 Jupiter, Roman god, 191
Ishmael, biblical figure, 246 Justinian I, Byzantine emperor, 178, 212
Isidore of Seville, 75, 87 Jutland, 22, 35, 54, 61, 238
Ísleifr Gizurarson, bishop of Skálholt, 112, 121,
123, 134, 135, 137–41 Kalv Arnesson, 82, 83, 84
Íslendingabók, 2, 8, 105, 111–21, 127 Karl Jónsson, 95
Israel, 161–3, 177 Ketel, 190
Israelites, 160, 161, 165, 170, 246 Ketelpotaca, 190
Italy, 86, 183, 198 Ketill Þorsteinsson, bishop of Hólar, 111, 113,
Iziaslav, son of Volodimer the Great, Rus’ 138
prince, 215 Keve, mythical figure, 191
Iziaslav Jaroslavich, Rus’ prince, 238, 253 Khazars, 188
Iziaslav Mstislavich, Rus’ prince, 243 Khors, East Slavic god, 240, 241
Kiev, 11, 100, 206, 207, 209, 214, 221, 225,
Jacob, saint, 260 227, 234, 241, 249, 250, 256, 260, 263–5,
Jacob the Jew, of Prague, 177, 178 267–9, 271, 275
Index 285

Kievan, 4, 10, 11, 205, 206, 214, 221, 224, 225, Legendary Saga of Saint Olaf, 77, 78, 80, 82–4,
232, 233, 235, 252, 255, 256, 258, 260–4, 89
267, 271, 274, 275 legitimacy, 54, 70, 223, 226
Kievan Caves Monastery, 10, 229, 232–6, 250, legitimate, 78, 149, 188, 212, 221
252, 253 Leo V, Byzantine emperor, 199
Kievites, 210 Leszek, Polish duke, 158
king/s, 1, 7, 8, 13, 15, 18, 34–6, 37, 40, 41, 43, Levente, Hungarian prince, 192
45, 46, 48, 50–4, 58–60, 61, 63, 64, 65, 67, Liber pontificalis (Book of Pontiffs), 133
69, 71, 73–7, 79–81, 84, 85, 87–100, 102, Libuše, legendary Bohemian ruler, 169, 179
103, 105–7, 109, 112, 113, 114, 120, 121, Lido, 147
124, 125, 127, 128, 132, 134, 135, 136, 138, Liège, 9, 168
139, 169, 170, 188, 189, 194, 201, 209, 210, Liemar, archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen, 14,
220, 250 16, 22, 23, 25, 132, 137
kingdom/s, 4, 24, 33, 42, 43, 45, 46, 48, 51–3, Life of Ansgar, 26
55, 63, 70, 74, 75, 88, 128, 138, 139, 151, Limfjord, 35, 99
152, 154, 155, 157, 159, 164, 176, 185, 188, literacy, 73, 74
201, 270 literate, 70
kingship, 35, 52 literature, 11, 34, 60, 64, 67, 71, 74, 75, 78,
kinship, 63, 226 111, 118, 119, 125, 128, 133, 135, 136, 141,
Klǿngr Þorsteinsson, bishop of Skálholt, 123 142, 184, 186, 188, 198, 205, 207, 210, 212,
Knud IV, Danish king, see St Canute (Knud) 214, 217, 223, 224
of Odense liturgical, 1, 10, 20, 21, 54, 64, 133, 140, 219,
Knud VI, Danish king, 60 259, 274
Kristni saga (Saga of the Conversion), 124 liturgy, 37, 171, 188, 219
Krivichians, 238, 245 Lombardy, 189
Krok, mythical Bohemian ruler, 179 Lothar III, German emperor, 50, 51
Lucan, 26, 64, 75, 88
Lacman, king, 81 Luèané, 181
Ladislas, Hungarian king, saint, 194 Lucifer, 170
Lancelot, 198 Luke, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 266
Landnámabók (Book of Settlements), 112 Lund, 40, 50, 51, 53, 60, 66, 67, 68, 137–9
Last Judgement, 219
Lateran, 37 Maccabees, 161, 163
Latin, 4–6, 16, 20, 31, 37, 39, 49, 57, 58, 60, Macrobius, 26
62, 63, 68, 74, 80, 81, 88, 94, 105, 113, Magdeburg, 131, 132, 137
127–9, 132, 133, 142, 169–71, 189, 209, magical, 20
213, 218, 239, 271 magicians, 20
law/s, 17, 40, 44, 47, 48, 63, 85, 102, 115, Magnus, count of Mazovia, 162
116–18, 125, 138, 142, 180, 192, 194, 197, Magnus IV Sigurdsson, Norwegian king, 104
225, 226, 240, 246, 247, 253, 265 Magnus Bareleg (Magnús berfættr), Norwegian
Law of the Retainers, 60 king, 103, 104, 106
Lawrence, saint, 149 Magnus Nielsson, Swedish king, 62–4
lawspeaker, in Iceland, 115–17, 119, 135 Magnus (Olafsson) the Good, Norwegian king,
Legend of St Gerard, 185, 192–4 34, 45, 48, 86, 102, 105, 106
286 Index

Magnús Einarsson, bishop of Skálholt, 123, Mongols, 197, 198

131, 135 monk/s, 10, 36, 39, 40, 115, 120, 146, 220,
Magnús (Erlendsson) of Orkney, saint, 124 223, 232–6, 238, 245, 250, 252, 253, 272,
Mainz, 51, 52 273, 275
Malfred, 215 monsters, 23, 25
Marian, 145, 147 monstrous, 24, 189
Markús Skeggjason, Icelandic lawspeaker, 135 Moravia, 159, 168, 169, 176, 192
Mars, Roman god, 175 Moravian, 181, 199
Martianus Capella, 26 more paganismo, 9, 188–90, 192, 196–8, 201
martyr/s, 48, 64, 84, 87, 171, 175, 245, 263, 270 mores, 17
Martyr, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 33, 42, Morkinskinna, 94, 103, 104, 136
268–70 Moses, prophet, 162
martyrdom, 37, 44, 48, 64, 84–6, 223, 224, 263 Mother of God, 269, 270
Mary Magdalene, 178 mounds, 190, 191
Matthew of Paris, 198 Mstislav Rostislavich, Rus’ prince, 270
Matthew of Vendôme, 129, 130 Mstislav Vladimirovich, Rus’ prince, 243
Maurice, Byzantine emperor, 198 Murom, 265
Mazovia, 161, 162; Mazovians, 162 Myra, 134
Mecklenburg, 126 myth/s, 4, 74, 175
Mediterranean, 75, 102, 108, 188 mythical, 45, 47, 60, 62, 74, 145, 167, 169, 180,
memory, 3, 6, 33, 48, 54, 55, 72, 105, 158, 168, 182; mythical past, 45, 74
169, 187, 214; cultural memory, 62, 64, 65, mythological, 132, 163
70; national memory, 67 mythology, 170, 175
Methodius, saint, 181
metropolitan, 7, 17, 51, 55, 138, 225, 229, 249, narrative/s, 1–11, 13–19, 21–6, 28, 29, 45, 49,
264, 265, 268, 271 58–65, 67, 68, 70, 71, 73, 76, 77, 79, 80, 89,
Michael, Polish chancellor, 145 97, 98, 100–2, 105, 107, 111, 114, 116, 117,
Michael III, Byzantine emperor, 237 119, 121, 123, 124, 126, 130–3, 135, 138,
Mieszko I, Polish duke, 158 145, 149, 152, 155, 157, 165–7, 171, 173,
Milan, 24 178, 181, 183–5, 189, 195, 206–8, 211,
millennialist, 6, 25, 29 213–16, 219, 224, 229, 230, 232, 233,
Minerva, Roman goddess, 191 235–8, 247–53, 256, 260, 264, 267, 271, 275
Minor Legend of St Stephen, 186 narrativity, 4–6, 11
miracle/s, 63, 66, 102, 123, 152, 157, 158, 159, narrator/s, 2, 6, 7, 9, 11, 14, 19, 20, 29, 64, 157,
171, 175, 180, 251, 270; miracula, 63 165, 183, 196, 229, 230, 235, 236, 238, 244,
misericordia, 17, 181 247–9, 267
mission, 13–19, 23–5, 51, 77, 100; northern Nativity, 271
mission, 6, 14, 15, 20, 23, 28 Neklan, mythical Bohemian ruler, 181
missionary, 14, 18, 21–4, 28, 44, 50, 52, 54, 59, Nesjar, 79, 80, 101
61, 65, 76, 78, 85, 119, 120, 126, 171, 174 Nestor, of the Kievan Caves Monastery, 223,
Mokosh, East Slavic god, 240–2 234, 237
monastery/ies, 1, 7, 71, 100, 147, 205, 232, New Israel, 161, 162, 163, 165
235, 252, 256, 270–3, 275 New Jerusalem, 28
monastic, 189, 273, 275 New Testament, 74, 225
Mongolia, 190 Nicholas, of Bari, saint, 134, 147
Index 287

Nidaros, 66, 71, 137, 142 Old Norse, 6–8, 71, 73, 88, 91, 95, 112, 114,
Niels, Danish king, 34, 38, 42, 43, 62, 63 115, 118, 125–31, 132, 136, 242
Nikon, of the Kievan Caves Monastery, 206, Old Norwegian Homily Book, 128
232, 238, 250, 252, 253 Old Testament, 160, 161, 163, 169, 170, 223,
Niphont, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 268–70, 225, 226
272 Oleg, Rus’ prince, 221, 239, 240, 243, 249
Nissan, 45 Oleg Sviatoslavich, Rus’ prince, 245
Noah, biblical figure, 27, 28, 179, 236, 253 Olga, Rus’ princess, 263
nobility, 201 Olof Skötkonung, Swedish king, 81
Nordic, 39, 43, 48–50, 54, 58, 60, 62, 80, 137, Oluf Hunger, Danish king, 34–7
139 Olympiads, 210
Norman/s, 41, 43, 73, 238 Omurtag, Onugur chieftan, 199
Normandy, 41 Oppland, 77, 79, 80
Norse, 8, 114, 127, 131, 137, 138, 142, 242 oral, 5, 10, 44, 71, 72, 84, 89, 96, 169, 183, 188,
North Sea, 58 198, 200, 201, 245
Northumbria, 99 origo gentis, 167
Norway, 2, 3, 7, 18, 20, 23, 34, 45, 48, 50, 58, Orkney, 65, 66, 100, 124, 126
59, 62, 66, 67, 70–3, 75, 76, 78–83, 86–9, Orléans, 147
98–102, 108, 115, 119, 120, 132, 138, 193, Orosius, 8, 26, 27, 108, 109
223 Oslo, 67
Norwegian/s, 2, 7, 8, 11, 18, 22, 34, 43, 44, 45, Osmund, Swedish bishop, 19
48, 54, 57–9, 64, 69–72, 74, 75–7, 79, 82, 87, Otgar, archbishop of Mainz, 51, 52
93–6, 99–103, 105, 106, 109, 113, 120, 124, Óttarr, skald, 78
127, 128, 135, 136, 138, 139, 142, 193, 242 Otto I, German emperor, 61, 131
Novgorod, 10, 11, 206, 236, 243, 244, 255–60, Otto of Bamberg, 147
262–75 Otto of Freising, 86, 87, 187
Novgorod Karamzin Chronicle, 257, 265 Ottonian, 13
Novgorodian/s, 11, 244, 255–8, 260–6, 267, Ovid, 75, 88, 169
268, 271–5 Ozur, archbishop of Lund, 138
nunnery, 137
pagan/s, 1, 2, 3, 6–10, 15–21, 23, 25–8, 33, 34,
oaths, 197–9, 240, 245 44, 48, 53–5, 59–62, 75, 84, 85, 98, 101, 102,
Oddr Snorrason, 78, 89, 94–6, 105, 109, 127 108, 109, 114–17, 119, 126, 132, 148–52,
Odense, 35–40, 43 153, 154, 156–60, 162, 163, 165, 166, 174,
Oder, 15 175, 179–83, 185–90, 192–7, 198, 199–201,
Odin, Norse god, 54, 75 206, 219, 220, 225, 226, 229, 230, 238–40,
Olav Haraldsson, Norwegian king, saint, 2, 7, 242, 243–7, 249, 250, 251, 253, 265, 268,
20, 48, 57, 59, 62, 64, 66, 70, 76–88, 94, 95, 269; pagan north, 16, 17, 23, 25; pagani, 17,
97, 100–2, 105–7, 109, 127, 223 126, 187, 198; pagan past, see past
Olav Magnusson, 104 paganism, 6, 15–24, 49, 52, 54, 55, 59, 100,
Olav the Quiet (kyrri), Norwegian king, 103 105, 107, 109, 114, 153, 163, 192–4, 229,
Olav Tryggvason, Norwegian king, 2, 7, 54, 59, 230, 239, 242, 263, 265, 268; paganismus, 16
62, 64–6, 70, 76–9, 81, 82, 97, 100–2, 105, Páll Jónsson, bishop of Skálholt, 123
106, 109, 119, 120, 127 Pannonhalma, abbey, 190
Old Church Slavonic, 6, 10, 213 Pannonia, 86, 186, 187, 201
288 Index

Pannonian, 188 Pomerania, 153

papacy, 37, 66 Pomeranian/s, 60, 149, 150, 153, 159, 161–4,
Paris, 7, 71, 87, 113, 198 174
Paschal Chronicle, 210, 218 Pompey, 64
Paschal table/s, 217–19 popes, 34, 136, 139
Passio Olavi, 66, 85, 88, 89 Gregory VII, 15, 25
passion/s, 64, 108, 216, 224 Gregory the Great, 136
past, 2, 3, 6–10, 14, 15, 28, 33, 45, 49, 54, 55, Innocent II, 50, 51
57, 58, 62, 66, 70, 74, 105, 112, 114, 116, Paschal II, 38, 50
119, 146, 158, 165, 166, 168, 172, 173, 183, Popiel, Polish duke, 155–7
189, 201, 213, 214, 217, 219, 221, 223–7, Poppo, missionary bishop, 33, 43–5
229, 230, 247, 253; pagan past, 2, 6, 7, 9, 10, power, 1, 2, 9, 43, 50, 63, 66, 67, 99, 135, 141,
15, 28, 33, 48, 53, 60–2, 108, 114, 117, 119, 146, 148, 149, 154–7, 163, 164, 166, 171,
166, 181, 183, 185, 186, 189, 200, 239 177, 192, 195, 201, 269
patristic, 24, 28 prayer/s, 162, 233, 234, 269, 270, 273
patron saints, 171, 175 pre-Christian, 3, 9, 17, 53–5, 60, 70, 71, 105,
Paul of Tarsus, apostle, saint, 200 107, 116, 145, 180, 189, 193, 200, 201, 226,
Paul the Deacon, 75, 86, 212, 220 242, 245
Pecheneg/s, 195, 200, 247 Pøemysl, legendary Bohemian plowman, 169,
penance, 145 172, 178, 180; Pøemyslid dynasty, 168, 169,
penitential/s, 148, 193 172, 173, 180, 182
Pereiaslavl, 250 Priam of Troy, 46
Persian, 210 priest/s, 8, 39–41, 43, 44, 52, 111–13, 121,
Perun, East Slavic god, 240–2, 249, 264 125, 135, 139, 164, 168, 188, 236, 264, 267,
Peter, Hungarian king, 187 270, 272, 275
Piast, legendary Polish plowman, 9, 155–8, priestly, 162
160, 180; Piast dynasty, 9, 148, 155–8, 163–6 Primary Chronicle, 2, 10, 205–7, 209, 211–16,
pilgrimage, 104, 148, 154 218, 220–7, 229–40, 242–50, 252, 253, 255,
Pippin the Short, Frankish king, 120 258, 261–4
Plato, 75 prince/s, 1, 19, 21, 71, 149, 168, 169, 170, 180,
Pliny, 75, 86 192, 198, 199, 205, 213, 214, 220, 221, 224,
plot, 17, 19, 22, 26, 28, 35, 63 226, 239–43, 245, 247, 250, 251, 253, 259,
Pluto, Roman god, 180 265, 267, 270, 271, 274
poem/s, 64, 75, 80–2, 89, 129 princely, 67, 148, 149, 180, 216, 224, 225, 237,
poetry, 5, 53, 54, 71, 72, 74, 132, 170 273
Poland, 2, 3, 9, 88, 145–8, 150–66, 171, 173, prophecy/ies, 16, 24, 26, 152
176, 209: Polonia, 148, 152, 164 Provence, 147
Pole/s, 9, 146, 148, 153, 154, 157, 158, 160–6, Proverbs, 170
168, 174, 175, 180, 182, 187, 252 Providence, 151, 195
Polish, 9, 145, 146, 149–52, 154, 157, 165, Provost Severus (Šebíøof Mìlnik), 178
168, 180, 205 Prüm, abbey, 9, 169, 183, 189
political theory, 180 Prussia, 160
Polotsk, 252, 267 Prussians, 153, 159, 163, 174
Polovtsian/s, 10, 232, 235, 244, 246, 247, 250, psalter/s, 140
253, 269 pseudo-Christian/s, 19, 20, 45
Index 289

Raimon, troubadour, 188 saga/s, 62, 69, 73, 74, 77, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 87,
Ravenna, 212 88, 89, 94, 98, 102, 105, 111, 112, 114, 119,
Regino of Prüm, 9, 169, 183, 189 127, 132, 136, 138
Reims, 238 saint/s, 34, 36, 37, 40, 42, 46, 47, 54, 58, 84,
relic/s, 36, 73, 134, 140, 171, 215, 223, 224, 85, 88, 90, 115, 123, 124, 173, 187, 223,
237 225, 270; local saints, 223
Remigius, 75, 87 St Alban Church, in Odense, 35
rex iustus, 85 St Anthony’s Monastery, of Novgorod, 271,
Ribe, 38, 39 272, 275
Rico, bishop of Schleswig, 51 St George Monastery, of Novgorod, 257, 271,
Rimbert of Corbie, 14, 23 273, 275
Ringsted, 63 St Gilles, abbey, 147
ritual/s, 1, 9, 25, 27, 28, 152, 188, 198; ritus, St Jacob’s Church, of Novgorod, 258, 267,
17, 18 272, 273, 275
Riurik, Rus’ prince, 238 St John’s Church, of Novgorod, 260
St Mary and Pusinna, church, 140
Robert I, count of Flanders, 35
St Michael’s Monastery in Vydubichi, 10, 205,
Rogned, wife of Volodimer the Great, 215
232, 233, 252
Roland, Song of, 188
St Sophia Cathedral, of Kiev, 214, 225, 267; of
Roman/s, 43, 57, 58, 74, 75, 77, 87, 88, 108,
Novgorod, 256, 258, 265–8, 272–5
151, 186, 191, 200, 210, 220; Roman Empire,
St Victor of Paris, abbey, 7, 71, 72, 76, 87
43, 74, 75, 77, 186; Roman history, see history
St Vitus, cathedral of Prague, 178
Romania, 184, 193
sainthood, 42, 48, 124
Romanian, 193, 195
Salian, 13
Rome, 36, 48, 75, 88, 136, 186 Sallust, 20, 26, 75, 169, 180
Rorik of Dorestad, 238 salvation, 7, 46, 66, 74, 86, 90, 151, 153, 161,
Roskilde, 7, 38, 40, 49–51, 55 163, 201, 219, 223; history of salvation, see
Rostov, 244 history
Rouen, 77, 78 Sami, 59
royal, 9, 20, 21, 34, 36, 37, 40, 47, 48, 60, 66, Samuel, prophet, 170
68, 78, 88, 89, 114, 120, 125, 183, 185, 186, sanctity, 36, 37, 61, 64, 70, 101, 171
192, 195, 215, 216, 222; royal court, see court Saracens, 188, 198
Rügen, 61 Sarah, biblical figure, 151
runic, 53, 71 Satan, 24, 176–8, 182
Russia, 82, 210, 262 satanic, 243
Russian/s, 4, 10, 207, 211, 215, 216, 221, 231, Saudungssund, 79, 88, 101
233, 235, 239, 242, 246–8, 255, 268 Saxo Grammaticus, 3, 53–5, 57, 60, 61, 64,
Ruthenians, 159 67–9, 73–5, 80, 189
Rzepka, wife of Piast, 155, 156 Saxon/s, 14, 17, 19, 43, 120, 132, 139–41, 159,
174, 199
Saale, 93, 159 Saxony, 8, 16, 17, 19, 120, 137, 140
sacrifice/s, 27, 117, 118, 174, 175, 188, 193, Scandinavia, 4–7, 10, 13, 21, 23, 29, 33, 38, 41,
194, 206, 242 44, 58, 59, 84, 114, 115, 124, 139
Sæmundr Sigfússon, 73, 94–6, 105, 111–13, Scandinavian/s, 3, 4, 7, 11, 13, 15, 16, 29, 31,
121, 135 50, 91, 106, 137, 238–40, 243
290 Index

Schleswig, 35, 51, 63 Spain, 99

the Scillies, 79 Spiridon, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 260
Scottish, 69, 259 Sprogø, 61
Scyldings, 60 Spytihnìv II, Bohemian duke, 169
Scythian/s, 191, 196 Staðr (Staðarstaður), 112
secular, 8, 20, 88, 89; secular history, see history Stamford Bridge, 87, 103
Sedulius Scottus, 169, 175 Statius, 169
Sermon on Law and Grace, 10, 225 Stefan, hegumen of the Kievan Caves Mon-
Sexton Timofey, 258, 260, 273 astery, 232
Shem, biblical figure, 236 Steigar-Þórir, 103
Shetland, 65 Stephen, protomartyr, saint, 48, 84, 85
Siegebert of Gembloux, 7, 73, 75 Stephen of Hungary, saint, 181, 184, 185, 187,
Siemomys³, Polish duke, 158, 159 188, 201, 223
Siemowit, Polish duke, 156–8 Stiklestad, 83–5, 87, 88
Sigurd Jerusalemfarer, Norwegian king, 104–7, Strängnäs, 44
139
Stribog, East Slavic god, 240, 241
Sigurðr ullstrengr, 103
Studite monastic rule, 273
Sigvatr Þórðarson, 80–2
Sulpicius Severus, 219
Simon, Mazovian bishop, 162
Sunnfjord, 79
Simon Magus, 244
superstitions, 25, 186
Simon of Kéza, 184, 191, 200, 201
Svatopluk, 199
Sineus, 238
Svein, Norwegian earl, 79, 80, 240
skald/s, 72, 80, 132
skaldic, 71, 72, 74, 80, 132 Sveinki Steinarsson, 103
Skálholt, bishopric of, 8, 111, 114, 116, 120, Sveinn, son of Cnut the Great, 101
123, 124, 130–2, 135, 137, 138, 140, 141 Sven II Estridsen, Danish king, 2, 7, 34, 43, 45,
Skjold, mythical king, 60 46, 48, 49, 53, 55, 102, 127
Slavnikids, dynasty, 173 Sven Aggesen, 3, 7, 53, 55, 57–60, 62–4, 67–70
Slavonic, 4, 209, 210, 212, 213, 221, 222, 236, Sven Forkbeard, Danish king, 18
242 Sverre, Norwegian king, 127
Slavophile, 212 Sviatopolk Iziaslavich, Rus’ prince, 237, 250
Slavs, 15–19, 21, 50, 63, 126, 194–6, 223, 238, Sviatopolk Volodimerovich, Rus’ prince, 224,
242 243, 246
Slavic, 50, 171, 174, 199, 238, 240, 242, 243, Sviatoslav Igorevich, Rus’ prince, 221, 226,
245, 249 237, 240–3, 245, 249
Slovenians, 238 Svolder, 65, 79
Snæfellsnes, 112 Swebes, 120
Snorri Sturluson, 3, 74, 75, 77, 81, 83, 84, Sweden, 18, 20, 23–5, 43, 44, 50, 79, 81, 83,
88–90, 96, 112, 113, 193 88, 100, 141, 192
Sokki Þórisson, 138, 139 Swedes, 17, 22, 24–6, 43, 44, 114, 271
Solinus, 26 Swedish, 18, 25, 81, 101, 103, 192
Solomon, biblical king, 221 Sylvester, hegumen of St Michael’s Monastery
Somogyvár, abbey, 147 in Vydubichi, 10, 205, 226, 227, 231–5, 252
Sorb, 181 symbolic, 25, 26, 28, 199
sorcerer, 244 Szentiván, 191
sorcery, 98, 100, 105, 107 Szombathely, 200
Index 291

Tacitus, 26, 27 Tulma, 190

Ta(r)tars/s, 196, 246 Tunga, 82, 88
Teitr Ísleifsson, 112 Turkic, 238, 244
Temes, 195
temple/s, 25–7 Uffe, son of Vermund, 61, 62
text/s, 1–11, 13–19, 21, 22, 25–7, 29, 33–5, Ulfljótr, Icelandic lawspeaker, 115
38–40, 42, 44, 46, 47, 49, 52, 53, 58, 59, Unni, archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen, 23, 24,
61–6, 69–72, 75–7, 82, 88, 97, 100, 103–8, 52
111, 113, 114, 116, 118–21, 123, 124, 127, Unwan, archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen, 18
128, 130–2, 134, 137–42, 147, 152, 165, Uppsala temple, 25–8
167, 169, 170, 180, 181, 183, 187, 193, 200, Ursula, saint, 86
205–14, 216, 221, 222, 225, 230, 233–6, Utrecht, 5, 255
252, 255–64, 268, 269, 274, 275
textologists, 10 Valdemar the Great, Danish king, 60–2, 64, 67
textology, 4, 207 Varangians, 238, 263
Vasilii, a monk of the Kievan Caves Monastery,
textual, 5–8, 20, 21, 26, 42, 60, 63–5, 67, 69,
10, 235, 236, 243, 252, 253
94, 105, 124, 184, 206, 207, 231, 256, 273
Vatican, 222
Theodgar (Thøgar) of Vestervig, saint, 48, 54
Vends, 61
Theodore, (arch)bishop of Novgorod, 265, 267
Vendsyssel, 35
Theodoricus Monachus, 2, 7, 8, 57, 59, 66, 67,
Venice, 147
71–90, 94–6, 105–7
Vergil, 26, 75, 169, 177
Theodosian Code, 178
Vermund, mythical king, 61, 62, 239
Thetka, legendary sorceress, 174 vernacular, 7, 8, 59, 62, 74, 80, 89, 94, 96, 111,
Thietmar, bishop of Prague, 181 113, 123, 127, 141, 142, 168, 190, 209
Thietmar of Merseburg, 187 vernacularization, 142
Thonuzoba, Pecheneg chieftan, 200 Vespasian, Roman emperor, 36, 177
Thuringia, 54 Vestervig, 48, 54
Thuringian, 199 Viborg, 40
Thy, 54 Vidal, troubadour, 188
Thyra, Danish queen, 61, 62 Viking Age, 13, 75
Tithe Church, in Kiev, 215, 216 Vikings, 18, 238
Topographia Hibernica, 125 Virgin Mary, 162, 178, 192, 215
topos, 129; topoi, 130 vita, 78; vitae, 171, 224
Tore Hund, 82, 83 Vita Heinrici Quarti, 78
Törks, 245 Vlachs, 196
Tours, 147 Vladimir, 260
Transylvania, 193 Vladislav, Bohemian duke, 175, 240
tribe/s, 173, 196, 197 Volkhov, 251, 252, 260, 266
Trier, 39 Volodimer Monomakh, Rus’ prince, 205, 209,
Trojan/s, 46, 74 250
Trøndelag, 85 Volodimer the Great, Rus’ prince, 213, 215,
Trondheim, 66, 67, 95 221, 223, 225, 226, 234, 237, 241–5, 249,
Troy, 46, 177, 183, 199 263, 264
Truvor, 238 Volodimir Jaroslavich, Rus’ prince of Nov-
Tryggvi Olavsson, 100 gorod, 266, 267
292 Index

Volos, East Slavic god, 240–2 Wipo of Burgundy, 78, 89, 177
Volynsk, 236 Wirpirk, wife of Conrad of Bohemia, 176
Vratislav, Bohemian duke, 170 W³adys³aw, Polish duke, 151, 152, 160
Vratislav II, Bohemian king, 169, 176 Worms, 39
Vršovci, kin-group, 182
Vseslav Briachislavich, prince of Polotsk, 243, Ynglinga dynasty, 59, 114
244, 267 Ynglingatal, 75, 89
Vseslav Iziaslavich, Rus’ prince, 215, 243 Yngvi Tyrkjakonungr, 114
Vsevolod Jaroslavich, Rus’ prince, 243, 250,
Vsevolod Mstislavich, Rus’ prince, 243, 260, Zachary, biblical figure, 151
268 Zadar, 147
Vulcan, 176 Zbigniew, Polish duke, 145, 148, 154, 160
Vyšehrad, 173, 176, 180 zeugma, 100
Vyshgorod, 224 Zilah/Zalau, 193
Zobor, 196
Wenceslas, saint, 170, 171, 173, 175, 182
Westphalia, 137 Þangbrandr, missionary, 119, 120
Widukind of Corvey, 44 Þorlákr Runólfsson, bishop of Skálholt, 123
William of Jumièges, 77, 81 Þorlákr Þórhallsson, bishop of Skálholt, saint,
William the Conqueror, English king, 35, 41 113, 123, 124, 133, 135
Wincenty Kadlubek, 3
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Titles in Series

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Forms of Servitude in Northern and Central Europe: Decline, Resistance, and Expansion, ed. by Paul
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Grant Risee? The Medieval Comic Presence / La Présence comique médiévale. Essays in Honour of
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Gautier de Coinci: Miracles, Music, and Manuscripts, ed. by Kathy M. Krause and Alison Stones
(2006)
The Narrator, the Expositor, and the Prompter in European Medieval Theatre, ed. by Philip
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Learning and Understanding in the Old Norse World: Essays in Honour of Margaret Clunies Ross,
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Essays in Manuscript Geography: Vernacular Manuscripts of the English West Midlands from the
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Parisian Confraternity Drama of the Fourteenth Century, ed. by Donald Maddox and Sara Sturm-
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Broken Lines: Genealogical Literature in Medieval Britain and France, ed. by Raluca L. Radulescu
and Edward Donald Kennedy (2008)
Laments for the Lost in Medieval Literature, ed. by Jane Tolmie and M. J. Toswell (2010)
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In Preparation

The Playful Middle Ages: Meanings of Play and Plays of Meaning. Essays in Memory of Elaine C.
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Emilia Jamroziak, Survival and Success on Medieval Borders: Cistercian Houses in Medieval Scotland
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Normandy and its Neighbours, 900–1250: Essays for David Bates, ed. by David Crouch and
Kathleen Thompson