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Cultural Contexts and Cultural Change: The Werewolf in Classical, Medieval, and Modern Texts

by

Renee Michelle Ward

A thesis submitted to the Faculty of Graduate Studies and Research in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

in English

Department of English and Film Studies

©Renee Michelle Ward Spring 2009 Edmonton, Alberta

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1*1 Canada Dedicated to my father, John William Ward (1941-2006).

Thank you. For everything.

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

-John Lennon, "Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)" Abstract

Cultural Contexts and Cultural Change: The Werewolf in Classical, Medieval, and Modern Texts makes original contributions both to werewolf studies and to Harry

Potter criticism; its chapters support the overarching argument that lupine figures defy any single interpretation and must, therefore, be approached as sites of potentially varied meanings within their relevant historical and cultural contexts. Each wolf or werewolf is examined as an independent literary figure rather than as an example of a specific type or traditional category of lycanthropy based upon a human-beast dichotomy.

The project's first two sections ("Antiquity" and "The Middle Ages") treat sources and analogues in which lupine figures articulate political commentary on transgressive or threatening social behaviours—especially those associated with specific groups or individuals who are responsible for the order and security of a nation—early theriomorphic belief systems and rituals, and creation and destruction myths (classical and medieval). It includes narratives such as the classical tales of the Arcadian king,

Lycaon (for instance, Ovid's "Lycaon" in Metamorphoses), medieval tales of sympathetic werewolves (for instance, the alliterative William ofPalerne), and medieval

Norse myths of the cataclysmic figure Fenriswolf. These discussions provide the foundations for the final section ("The Harry Potter Series"), which examines J. K.

Rowling's werewolf figures, Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback. This section demonstrates the ingenuity of Rowling, her ability to take something familiar, something already invested with myriad meanings, and to reshape it in a new and meaningful manner. It demonstrates that, like her literary predecessors, Rowling negotiates, through the use of the werewolf figure, the concepts of identity and difference, particularly those connected to issues of violence and the boundaries between the human and the animal.

More importantly, however, it concludes that Rowling uses her werewolf figures and narratives to effect change, to challenge accepted concepts of identity and difference and to challenge readers' expectations and understandings of the world around them. In short, it demonstrates that Rowling fulfills the role of the maker outlined by Alberto Manguel: she illuminates, "to constantly induce us, the readers, to redefine our beliefs, enlarge our definitions, and question our answers" (22). Acknowledgements There are many people to whom I owe thanks for the support they have given me throughout my graduate studies. While I cannot possibly thank everyone here, I would like to thank those who have had the biggest impact overall on my doctoral work. First and foremost, I thank my supervisor, Stephen Reimer, for his ongoing support, and for his extensive feedback and guidance. Steve has always pushed me to do more and to think more critically, but he has always done so with a positive, encouraging tone. I thank Steve, most of all, for his patience, compassion, and understanding over the past three years, which, for personal reasons, have been the most difficult part of the journey. His supervision has been a beacon throughout my doctoral work, and it goes without saying that any errors or oversights within this project are entirely my own. Likewise, I thank my committee members, Garrett Epp and Chris Gordon-Craig, for their support, feedback, and patience. Garrett also, in my first year, made me feel especially welcome; he made me feel as though the University of Alberta was the right place for me. Chris has continually provided me with new (and fun) items to read, for which I am grateful. I also thank my external examiner, Roderick McGillis (University of Calgary), and my internal examiner, Margaret Mackey (Information and Library Sciences), for their insightful questions and feedback during my defence. I owe a special thanks to James Weldon (Wilfrid Laurier University). I have known Jim in many capacities over the past seventeen years. I have been Jim's student (both undergraduate and graduate), his Research Assistant, and his Teaching Assistant; I have worked with Jim on the board for the Canadian Society of Medievalists, and I have known him through other medieval organizations, such as the Interdisciplinary Medieval Studies Group at Laurier. Most importantly, however, Jim has been an unwavering supporter and a good friend. He is the one who, when I was an undergraduate, introduced me to medieval literature and medieval studies, and he is the one who encouraged me to pursue further studies in this area. He also introduced me to the concept and importance of having a sharp weapon in one's office, and, I am pleased to say, while he has his sword, I now have both a sword and an axe. Jim has had a profound influence on me as a person and on my academic career. I am forever in his debt. I owe special thanks to Michael Fox (University of Alberta) and Andrea Schutz (St. Thomas University). Mike has been supportive and encouraging, and has given me much valuable advice over the course of my studies. He has also been a good friend, and I thank him especially for the support he gave in times of crisis. Likewise, Andrea has been both a friend and colleague. We share a passion for werewolves and for Harry Potter, and we have had many fruitful conversations on both topics. I also owe Andrew Wawn (University of Leeds) much thanks because he introduced me to the reality that academic work on the relationship between medieval literature and modern fantasy literature was viable. Quite literally, the title of the course I took with Andrew (Medieval to Modern) represents the type of research that I love, pursue, and teach. The members of my writing group—Sheila Christie and Elyssa Warkentin— deserve enormous thanks. They saw much of my work in its earliest (and most deplorable) stages, and have provided me with valuable feedback over the past several years. Truly, this community was what kept me sane during some of the most difficult writing stages. I also owe thanks to the team at Campus Recreation (Department of Physical Education and Recreation), with whom I have worked for the past seven years. Campus Recreation is like an extended family, and I especially thank the program coordinator, Jocelyn Chikinda, for all of the support and flexibility that she gives her instructors, including me. Likewise, I thank all of the members of The Nice Wantons, especially Lesley Peterson, Aimee Morrison, Claire Campbell, and Ernst Gerhardt, with whom I have shared many moments of release and laughter. I thank the administrative staff in the Department of English and Film Studies at the University of Alberta: Kris Calhoun, Kim Brown, Mary Marshall Durrell, Marcie Whitecotton-Carroll, Leona Erl, Carolyn Preshing, Elisabeth Kuiken, Shamim Datoo, Linda Thompson, Nicole Kent, Susan Henry, and Shari Kasinec. They are the backbone of the department, and the success of much of what I do relies upon their work and knowledge. I owe special thanks to a number of other people, individuals who have provided support and love in many ways over the past seven years: Jillian Garrett, for the companionship, the laughter, the tears, the wine ... I couldn't ask for a better friend; Magali Sperling, for much the same, including those Cyndi Lauper and Good Vibrations moments; Megan Powell-Jones, for endless long-distance phone calls and visits, both of which have helped me to remain focused on all that was good and important; and Susan MacNeill, for sharing moments of insanity, misery, and truthiness. I owe my partner, Daren Cuffley, more than I can ever express or repay. He has been patient, understanding, and loving through all of the stages of my graduate work, at both the masters and doctoral levels. Over the past ten years, he has born more than most of my suffering and frustration, and he has never once wavered in his support and encouragement. I could not have done this without him. Finally, I thank my parents Diane and John Ward, both of whom made huge sacrifices when I was a child, sacrifices that gave me more opportunities than I ever could have hoped for. There are no words to truly express the love and gratitude I have for them. I know they are proud. I only wish my father were here to share this moment with us. This work is dedicated to him, as a thank you for the opportunities and inspirations that he and my mother provided me. Table of Contents

Chapter 1: General Introduction

1.1 Why Harry Potter? (A Story of Conversion) 1

1.1.1 Harry Potter: Critical Perspectives 4

1.1.2 Harry Potter and Industry 10

1.1.3 Harry Potter in the Academy 13

1.2 Why the Werewolf? 23

1.2.1 Traditional Interpretations and Classifications 29

1.2.2 Traditional Interpretations and Classifications Problematized .... 39

1.2.3 The Purpose and Scope of this Project 45

Chapter 2: Antiquity

2.1 Introduction 52

2.2 Werewolves and Lupine Figures in Classical Narratives 62

2.2.1 Herodotus, Cannibalism, and Rites of Passage 62

2.2.2 Poetic Accounts: Theocritus and Virgil 69

2.2.3 The Aesopic Fables 81

2.2.4 Petronius and Tyranny 88

2.3 King Lycaon and his Lot 94

2.3.1 Stories of Arcadia 95

2.3.2 The Poet, the Philosopher, and the Werewolf 108

2.4 Conclusion 130 Chapter 3: The Middle Ages

3.1 Introduction 137

3.2 Werewolves and Lupine Figures in Medieval Narratives 148

3.2.1 Northern Lupine Figures 150

3.2.2 Bestiaries and Fables 162

3.3 The Knight as Werewolf in Medieval Romance 175

3.3.1 Bisclavret 178

3.3.2 Guillaume de Palerne 201

3.3.3 Mellon 209

3.3.4 Blclarel 227

3.3.5 William of Palerne 237

3.3.6 Arthur and Gorlagon 244

3.4 Conclusion 253

Chapter 4: The Harry Potter Series

4.1 Introduction , 260

4.2 Remus Lupin 272

4.2.1 Classical and Medieval Resonances 273

4.2.2 The Werewolf and the Grim 290

4.2.3 What's in a Name? 305

4.2.4 The Werewolf and the Animagi 311

4.2.5 Community and Identity 319 4.3 Fenrir Greyback 344

4.3.1 Classical and Medieval Resonances 352

4.3.2 Parallels with Remus Lupin 358

4.4 Conclusion 366

Chapter 5: General Conclusion 372

Works Cited

Manuscripts 378

Primary Sources 378

Secondary Sources 393 List of Abbreviations

DME A Concise Dictionary of Middle English

DRBO Douay-Rheims Bible Online

ODEE The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology

OED The Oxford English Dictionary

OFED Old French—English Dictionary 1

Chapter 1: General Introduction

I find it moving that no literary text is utterly original, no literary text is completely unique, that it stems from previous texts, built on quotations and misquotations, on the vocabularies fashioned by others and transformed through imagination and use. Writers must find consolation in the fact that there is no very first story and no very last one. (Manguel 139)

1.1 Why Harry Potter? (A Story of Conversion)

"Die, Harry Potter! Now, die, die, die, die, die!" This quotation, this somewhat altered Shakespearean line, was my mantra for most of 2001} J. K. Rowling's Harry

Potter and the Goblet of Fire had been released the previous year, and from Christmas

2000 on, Pottermania was in full swing. I was disgusted. Every shop shelf and every shop window was laden with Harry Potter merchandise: Harry Potter stationery; Harry Potter lunch-boxes and school bags; Gryffindor scarves; Hogwarts posters; Harry Potter scratch-and-sniff colouring books; even glow-in-the-dark Harry Potter pajamas. I had not, at this point, read any of the books, but I was overwhelmed and put-off by the sheer volume of merchandise available. Everything, everywhere, was Harry Potter. I was convinced, as was Jack Zipes, that the unusual success of the novels was "driven by commodity consumption" {Sticks and Stones 172). I didn't bother to ask the crucial chicken or egg questions: Which came first? The success of the books or the success of the merchandise?

Unfortunately (or so I thought at the time), and in the midst of all the hype, I was required to read Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire; it was an assigned text for a course

1 The quotation is an adaptation of Bottom's line (as Pyramus) in the play within a play from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Bottom (Pyramus) says, after he stabs himself, "Now, die, die, die, die, die" (5.1.302). 2 to which I had been assigned as a Teaching Assistant. Reluctantly, I picked up my copy of the text, positioned myself in a comfortable reading chair, and began reading.

My life changed.

In less than twenty-four hours, I was on the phone with my sister-in-law, begging her to lend me the first three Harry Potter novels immediately. I couldn't put them down!

I was hooked. I laughed. I cried. I turned each page with anticipation. Then, when I reached the third book, Harry Potter and the Prisoner ofAzkaban, my life changed again.

I had always been fascinated with shape-shiftings and with shape-shifters, especially with werewolves, and I had also always been fascinated by the relationship between medieval romance and modern fantasy literature. These interests were my prime motivation for attending graduate school and would be, I hoped, my area of research at the doctoral level. Rowling's series solidified these interests; her books interlaced medieval motifs and themes with modern concerns in an almost effortless manner. She reworked familiar material and made it new for the modern reader. Moreover, her werewolf character

Remus Lupin was unlike any other werewolf character I had encountered in either medieval literature or modern fantasy; he was an unique combination of sources, skillfully manipulated to reflect and comment upon issues and concerns paramount in modern western society. Here, then, was my purpose: to explore his character in full, to examine his relationship to previous werewolf figures, and to demonstrate the ingenuity and originality of J. K. Rowling in her adaptation of myriad sources, medieval and classical.

This dissertation is the result of these life-altering moments. Over the past six and a half years I have studied werewolves at large, with an eye towards understanding 3

Rowling's Remus Lupin. When Rowling's sixth book was released, Harry Potter and the

Half-Blood Prince, my study expanded to include a second werewolf character, Fenrir

Greyback. Ultimately, both characters are, as Alberto Manguel would say, evidence that

"no literary text is utterly original, no literary text is completely unique, that it stems from previous texts, built on quotations and misquotations, on the vocabularies fashioned by others and transformed through imagination and use" (139). Yet, both are also characters of ingenuity, of difference; they upset readers' expectations and force them to question their assumptions and beliefs, especially those about identity and difference.2 While the werewolf is, most certainly, an ubiquitous figure in folklore, myth, literature, and popular culture, Rowling's werewolves are unique in both their presentation and in their overall effect on the reader.3 Hence, this study.

"Identity" is, at best, a polymorphous term, and therefore one that requires the establishment of parameters. For the most part, I understand identity primarily as defined by Caroline Walker Bynum in Metamorphosis and Identity. Bynum outlines three basic concepts of identity, and although, as she confesses, the boundaries between these concepts sometimes blur, they are useful tools for understanding the theme in both texts and society. First, Bynum lists "individuality or personality. . . . [T]hat which makes me particularly, distinctively, even uniquely me" (163). Often, this first category suggests agency on the part of the individual—his or her ability to enact choice or free will. The second category Bynum lists is "identity position. . . . [T]hat which signals group affiliation—often race or biological sex but sometimes also statuses generally understood as more socially shaped, such as class, language group, or religion" (163). These identity- position categories may vary from society to society or culture to culture, but they all typically exist within a hierarchical system established and perpetuated by an elite minority who have access to positions of power. Finally, Bynum lists "spatiotemporal continuity. . . . [T]he fact that I am the same person I was a moment ago"; (163). In another, Lockean sense, one could understand this as psychological continuity, the continuity over space and time of a particular mind despite any changes to the physical form that embodies that mind. 31 understand folktale and myth in the manner outlined by Peter Orton in "Pagan Myth and Religion," although I recognize that Orton's definition is somewhat limited because it does not allow for the possibility of comtemporary tales. Folktale, Orton suggests, "is essentially fictional, set in the past but not usually in any particular time or place, and often having conspicuous moral implication and purpose" (par. 16); myths, he 4

1.1.1 Harry Potter: Critical Perspectives

Since the release of J. K. Rowling's first novel Harry Potter and the

Philosopher's Stone {Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in the US edition) in 1997, criticism of the Harry Potter series, in varying forms, has grown exponentially. The extant critical works range from book reviews and magazine articles to conference proceedings and book length studies or monographs. Much of the early criticism focuses on the unexpected popularity and success of the series and, frequently, on the author herself. Versions of Rowling's life story, the hardships she faced as a single mother, and her status as a struggling author are frequently exaggerated into full-blown Cinderella narratives. One news article begins with the headline "£100,000 success story for penniless mother," and goes on to contrast the hardships of Rowling's life in Edinburgh to the vast sum Scholastic Press offered her for the U.S. publishing rights to Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Reynolds). Another piece describes Rowling's success as a

"rags-to-riches" story and argues that her struggle epitomizes the economic myths promoted by the recent U.S. and British governments (Stephen 24). Rowling's story, author Andrew Stephen states, "is vindication of the notion that hard work is all that is required for success" (24). It is no surprise, then, that the biography entitled Triumph of

continues, are "considered to be true by the societies that preserve them, though their action typically takes place in an almost unimaginably remote past, and their characters are often animals, culture-heroes, or deities operating not primarily in the terrestrial world of everyday experience, but in a cosmography where the ordinary rules of nature to do apply" (par. 16). "Popular culture" is another one of those nebulous terms. I understand it in the manner outlined by Dustin Kidd, as "the people's culture" or "folk culture" (71), as something that enjoys "widespread" and particularly "commercial" success (72), or as something that can be understood as "common," something that "goes beyond tangible cultural products to include widely shared values and beliefs" (72). 5 the Imagination: The Story of Writer J. K. Rowling (2003) was published by Chelsea

House as a part of their "Overcoming Adversity" series.

To counter the iconic status that Rowling holds because of her so-called overnight success, she has at various times attempted to demystify the exaggerations and untruths that permeate the received version of her story. In a special Christmas interview in 2001 with the BBC's Jeremy Paxman, Rowling emphatically denies exaggerations that she wrote in cafes to escape an unheated flat and that she was forced to write on napkins because she could not afford paper:

[C]ould I just say for the record once and for all 'cause it's really irritating

me: I did not write in cafes to escape my unheated flat, because I am not

stupid enough to rent an unheated flat in Edinburgh in mid-winter.

Let's not pretend here, let's not pretend I had to write on napkins because I

didn't. They [the media] started sort of adding little bits and pieces that

just weren't necessary, because the stark reality was bad enough.

Another way that Rowling tries to contain or correct rumours or exaggerations about her life and her work is through the J. K. Rowling website, , which facilitates the author's direct contact with fans. The website includes a brief biography by

Rowling, updates on her work, and, more importantly, bulletin boards ("News" and

"Gossip") that address or correct current news stories and gossip. 6

Interest in Rowling's personal life also includes interest in her religious beliefs, primarily from Christian critics who seek to find religious significance in her books.4

Some religious critics argue that the Harry Potter series teaches Paganism or Satanism through its focus on witchcraft and sorcery in the Hogwarts educational system and as a way of life in the wizard world. Richard Abanes, author of Harry Potter and the Bible, accuses the series and Rowling of moral and ethical negligence. Abanes argues that her texts promote "unbiblical values" (6), and that the "morals and ethics," the "Potterethics" outlined in the series, "are at best unclear, and at worst, patently unbiblical" (33). Harry,

Abanes states, is the most unbiblical character of all, and more often than not, self-interest rather than Christian values drives his actions (33). Inez Fitzgerald Stock similarly argues that "glorification of the occult and [the] rejection of rules" abound in the Harry Potter novels (104). Rowling presents the magical elements within the series seductively, leading children to become involved "in the occult," while Harry's rebelliousness, his

"flaunting of the regulations" of Hogwarts school, sets a negative example for children

(105, 104).5

4 Amanda Cockrell suggests that the majority of detractors are "generally American" (25). In her article "Harry Potter and the Witch Hunters," she comments, "Christian Potter-phobia is primarily an American phenomenon" (29nl). 5 Such criticism arises, primarily, from the series's (supposed) violation of the following biblical passages: Deuteronomy 18.10-11, "There shall not be found among you [any one] that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, [or] that useth divination, [or] an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, Or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer"; Exodus 22.18, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live"; 1 Samuel 15.23, "For rebellion [is as] the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness [is as] iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the LORD, he hath also rejected thee from [being] king." For similar arguments, see Abanes, Harry Potter, Narnia, and the Lord of the Rings, Michael O'Brien, "Harry Potter and the Paganization of Children's Literature," and Joseph Chambers, "Harry Potter and the Anti- Christ." All quotations from the Bible in relation to the Harry Potter series (unless included in a direct quote from another scholarly source) are taken from the electronic 7

As a result of such interpretations, numerous organizations have lobbied, with limited success, to remove the Harry Potter series from their local schools and libraries.6

In 1999, the American Library Association's Office for Intellectual Freedom listed the then published Harry Potter books, the Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets and the Prisoner ofAzkaban, in the top ten of their most challenged books (Rogers). By 2000, the books were among the "top 100 most challenged books of the 1990's," and by 2001 the number of complaints, primarily concerning the series' witchcraft content, had tripled from 1999 (Gupta 18). While the majority of protests against the series occur in the

United States, protests also occur in other areas such as Canada (for example, the Durham

Region School Board), and even in England, where Catholic and Church of England schools have protested against the series (Gupta 19; Abanes, Bible 5).

The religious arena, however, is not without pro-Harry Potter voices. Connie

Neal's The Gospel According to Harry Potter argues directly against critics such as

Abanes who condemn the series as unbiblical or unchristian and suggests, instead, that

Rowling's series perpetuates positive Christian messages such as those articulated in the

Gospels. Elswhere, Neal responds to religious critics who focus on the frequent violation of the biblical passage 1 Samuel 15.23, that rebellion (or rule-breaking) violates the word of God. Neal points out that biblical characters, including Jesus Christ, often break

(biblical) rules when such an action serves a greater good.7 John Granger, in The Hidden

version of the King James Bible published by the University of Virginia's Electronic Text Centre, . 6 Two such organizations are Focus on the Family, , and Family Friendly Libraries, . 7 Neal provides the example of the Pharisees, whom Jesus finds "picking grain on the Sabbath" ("Guarding Your Child" par. 29). She explains that "Although they broke a 8

Key to Harry Potter, similarly suggests that many Christians misinterpret the series, which is, he argues, "profoundly Christian" in its message and teaches readers moral and

socially responsible behaviour (xiii). He argues that the Harry Potter series has a

"hidden" (and Christian) message: "[T]he Potter books are meant to 'baptize the imagination' in Christian imagery and doctrine" (xi).8

Other moderate views exist. For example, Deborah J. Taub and Heather L.

Servaty address the issue of religion within the series as well as other controversial issues such as the occult, death, and realism versus fantasy.9 They outline the basic opposing arguments for such controversial themes but then proceed to offer a list of guidelines for adults (parents and teachers) who desire or require aid in helping children negotiate the content and contexts of the novels. Ultimately, Taub and Servaty suggest that it is wisest

rule, Jesus told the Pharisees there are times when lower rules are overruled by a greater moral law (Mat-thew [sic] 12:1-8)" (par. 29). This example, Neal suggests, helps readers understand Harry's actions in Philosopher's Stone when, despite instructions to stay on the ground, he mounts his broom and chases Draco Malfoy. Harry, she argues, breaks the rules because he is "following a more important rule—protecting a weaker person from a bully" (par. 26). 8 Granger actually borrows this expression from C. S. Lewis, who first used it when commenting upon the change that George MacDonald's Phantastes wrought in him. In the Preface to George MacDonald: An Anthology, Lewis explains that "What it actually did to me was to convert, even to baptize . . . my imagination" (xxxiii). In other words, Phantastes reintroduced Lewis to the wonder of the world around him. He continues, "The quality which had enchanted me in his imaginative works turned ou to be the quality of the real universe, the divine, magical, terrifying, and ecstatic reality in which we all live" (xxxiv). 9 In "Harry Potter and the Witch Hunters," Cockrell similarly provides a useful synopsis of the major arguments against the series and remarks, "Deploring Harry Potter is big business" (25). She argues that there are a number of reasons why the series has received so much negative attention. First, she argues, the series has had unprecedented popularity, which consequently renders it vulnerable (24); second, she suggests that censorship concerns have shifted "from sex to the occult" (24); third, she notes that the realism of the series is problematic. "Harry is too close to home," she writes, and "[He] lives in our world, making him more of a threat" (25). Finally, she continues, "Harry's detractors are skilfully parodied in Harry's books" (25). 9 to read the texts and engage in an informed discussion with children about the controversial themes rather than to outright ignore or condemn them.10 Marguerite Krause likewise provides a more moderate mediated approach to the issue of religion in the series. While Krause insists that the books, overall, fail to demonstrate any concern for or practice of religion, she also posits that they present a strong moral system, one based upon individual choices. "[I]n Rowling's universe," she writes, "each person is completely responsible for his or her own fate. . . . [T]he way each person responds to events is entirely up to them. Individuals must live with the consequences of their actions" (65). She concludes that while this aspect of the novels is problematic because it contradicts the structured and regulated systems of modern societies, it also, simultaneously, provides hope because it "encourages us to change the way we think about religion, about ethics, and personal responsibility" (67). As the final section of this dissertation demonstrates, Rowling's ability to force readers to rethink their current beliefs is, indeed, an integral part of the series's lessons.

Now that she has completed the series, Rowling herself feels more capable of speaking freely about the issue of religion or faith within the books. Moreover, she asserts that the texts have a clear religious aspect. In an interview with Meredith Vieira about the final volume of the series (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows), Rowling confessed

Taub and Servaty insist that, even if they do not read the novels, "Because the books have become part of American popular culture, children will be exposed to them" (67). Therefore, action should be taken to equip children with the tools to manage the content of the series. See "Controversial Content in Children's Literature" for further details of Taub and Servaty's argument as well as for their list of guidelines. Krause makes repeated comments upon the lack of religion within the series. For example, she writes, "Religion in Harry Potter's world is not merely irrelevant; it literally doesn't exist" (62), and "There's no doubt that Harry exists in a godless world. He does not believe in the omnipotence of a single deity or give any indication that religious faith has a place in his life" (66). 10 that the books reflect her own struggle "to keep believing" ("The Final Chapter"). When asked by an audience member if the novels had religious overtones, Rowling replied,

[TJhere clearly is a religious—undertone. And— it's always been difficult

to talk about that because until we reached Book Seven, views of what

happens after death and so on, it would give away of lot of what was

coming. So . .. yes, my belief and my struggling with religious belief and

so on I think is quite apparent in this book. ("The Final Chapter")

Regardless of the debates surrounding the books, Rowling sees her works as having an intrinsic spiritual message, one that reflects not just the presence of faith within our world, but the challenges that many people face in finding or practicing their chosen faith on a daily basis.

1.1.2 Harry Potter and Industry

Outside of the focus on Rowling's story and the religious controversy, early criticism focuses on the impact of the Harry Potter series on children and youth's literacy, and on the series's impact on the children's literature industry. Nicholas Tucker posits that the "video game" or "virtual reality" quality of the books, the colourful characters and fast-paced events, entice children and youths back to the written page

(231). Andrew Blake expresses a similar sentiment when he describes Harry Potter as a

"global hero" (4) and a "cultural icon" (66) because of "his effect on children's reading habits" (31). Children read Harry Potter, and because the characters in the series read, children keep reading (31). Sales numbers confirm Blake's argument that the series

Blake's point is useful, but needs some correction. Blake argues, "Harry becomes a willing reader as soon as he is introduced into a world in which books and reading are important" (31), and "The characters read in order to act" (37). While Harry 11 encourages reading activity and impacts the publishing industry. After the release of the

Philosopher's Stone, the children's literature industry as a whole, in the United States and

Great Britain, grew "by over 25 per cent" (Blake 72). As of 2002, "almost 140 million copies" of Harry Potter books had been sold (Gupta 15), and the Philosopher's Stone had been translated "into forty-seven languages" (Blake 1). These numbers have continued to grow. As of September 2008, the Harry Potter books have been "distributed in over 200 territories and [have been] translated into 65 languages" ("Meet Author J. K. Rowling").

The last four books of the series have also broken records. In fact, each subsequent volume has broken the record of its predecessor. When the Goblet was published in 2000, it had "a record first print run of 1 million copies for the UK and 3.8 million for the US"

("Meet Author J. K. Rowling"). Book 7, Deathly Hallows, "is the fastest selling book in the UK and USA and sales have contributed to breaking the 375 million copies mark worldwide" ("Meet Author J. K. Rowling").

Titles such as Blake's The Irresistible Rise of Harry Potter or Tucker's "The Rise and Rise of Harry Potter" gesture towards the overwhelming permeation of the series within the publishing industry. In 1999, the first three volumes of Harry Potter occupied

does read, his reading in the series is often primarily out of necessity. Hermione is, actually, the character that has a voracious appetite for knowledge and therefore willingly researches and reads regularly. These behaviours earn her a reputation, within the series, as someone with incredible book-smarts. Harry and Ron read when forced to do so for school assignments or to find an answer to their latest mystery, but this, also, is usually at Hermione's insistence. For example, in Philosopher's Stone, when the three seek the identity of Nicolas Flamel, Hermione instigates visits to the library and suggest that Harry check the restricted section over the Christmas holidays (146). Likewise, in the Goblet of Fire, Harry procrastinates in his preparation for the third task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament and only ends up in the library at the last minute. He completely misses the book Moody gives Neville on marine plants and only succeeds in the third task because Dobby, the house elf, provides him with Gillyweed (426). Harry, then, actually resists reading at various stages throughout the series. 12 the top three spots on the New York Times Book Review Bestseller List. This monopoly led to the creation of the bestseller list for children's literature, a category that creates as much controversy as the series itself. While a number of authors or people working in the publishing industry support the new list and argue that it provides "free advertising" and a forum for the promotion of a "new generation" of children's literature writers, others worry that the creation of the children's bestseller list ghettoizes authors such as Rowling because the new list "is the equivalent of moving from a penthouse into a basement apartment" (Bolonik par. 4). The placement of Rowling's works on the children's list suggests that the books are only for children and that the texts are of lesser quality than their adult counterparts on the original bestseller list, points that many would argue are simply not true. Concern also exists over the tracking of reader numbers, particularly as a large portion of the Harry Potter readers are adult, and, if adults are also reading the books, argument can be made for their presence on both the adult fiction and the children's literature bestseller lists. Indeed, the fact that Scholastic and Bloomsbury provide print runs with separate jacket covers for adult and child or youth versions of the books suggests that the adult audience is as important as the younger audience to sales.

The controversy does not stop here, however. In 2004, the New York Times Book Review created another new Bestseller List, this time for children's series books. As Dwight

Garner explains, the series list "ignore[s] the sales of individual titles and instead track[s]

1 "X Kera Bolonik's article includes contrasting statements from authors and people within the publishing industry on the controversy surrounding the creation of the children's literature bestseller list and its relationship to the Harry Potter series. Bolonik cites Barbara Marcus, president of Scholastic Children's Book Group, for her comment that the books should be on both lists, and for noting, "30 percent of the first three Harry Potter books were purchased by and for a reader 35 or older" (par. 8). 13 each series as a whole" (par. 4). Yet despite this constant relocation of the Harry Potter novels, Rowling's name remained on the Bestseller List, in some manner, for a decade.14

1.1.3 Harry Potter in the Academy

The unheralded popularity and commercial success of Rowling's series, and the creation of the children's bestseller list are, according to Jack Zipes, "troubling sociocultural trends" (172), or symptoms of "the Phenomenon of Harry Potter" (Sticks and Stones 170). In fact, Zipes uses the term "phenomenon" to refer to all of the areas of

Harry Potter criticism up until the release of his own book in 2001: the story of J. K.

Rowling's struggle, the initial rejection of the first novel, its subsequent (surprising and outstanding) success, the appeal of the series to readers of all ages, and the controversies surrounding it. Furthermore, Zipes uses the term in a derogatory manner, and suggests that the texts receive an undeserved amount of attention from readers and, more significantly, from the media and large corporations.15 "Commodity consumption," Zipes argues, the power of "corporate conglomerates," drives the children's literature industry:

Today the experience of reading for the young is mediated through the

mass media and marketing so that the pleasure and meaning of a book will

often be prescripted or dictated by convention. What readers passionately

14 Garner declares, "After a 10-year run, and less than a year after the seventh and final book in J. K. Rowling's series was published, the Harry Potter books have fallen— as of the May 11 issue of the Book Review, which went to press last night—off The Time's best-seller list" (par. 1). However, a review of the Children's Series Books list on 20 September 2008 still lists the series as number seven on the list of the top ten series. 15 Zipes adopts the term "phenomenon" from the editor of The Horn Book, Roger Sutton, who complains that the children's literature industry has become "All About Harry." Sutton explains, "I'm not feeling suckered—neither by the book nor by the publisher, but by the cosmic forces that have ordained that this likable but critically insignificant series became widely popular and therefore news, and therefore something I'm supposed to have an opinion about" (qtd. in Zipes 188). 14

devour and enjoy may be, like many a Disney film or Barbie doll, a

phenomenal experience and have personal significance, but it is also an

induced experience calculated to conform to a cultural convention of

amusement and distraction. (172)

Commercial viability, a viability determined by the producers themselves, not literary quality, propels sales, and, in the case of Harry Potter, commercial viability supersedes and negates literary quality: the books cannot have literary merit precisely because they are a commercial success (Zipes 172-76). Despite its negative view of the series, however, Zipes's argument marks a significant turn in Harry Potter criticism. "The

Phenomenon of Harry Potter, or Why All the Talk," Chapter 9 of Zipes's book Sticks and

Stones: The Success of Children's Literature from Slovenly Peter to Harry Potter (2001) moves consideration of Rowling's series from the popular critical realm, from magazine and news articles and internet websites, to the academic realm of criticism and debate. As

Zipes condemns the series, he simultaneously gives it an authoritative presence. By including Harry Potter in his text, and, more significantly, within the text's title, Zipes renders the series worthy of criticism; he opens the door for further studies and endorses the series's presence within academia.

In the same year as Zipes's book, 2001, the Harry Potter series also received attention in a special issue of the Chesterton Review, a journal named for the Edwardian journalist and novelist G. K. Chesterton. The February-May issue presents a symposium titled "George MacDonald and the Sacramental Imagination," in which writers assess

16 Philip Nel's J. K. Rowling's 'Harry Potter' Novels was also released in 2001. Nel's volume is brief but provides useful commentary on the significance of Rowling's works. However, because the volume was published in 2001, it only considers the first four books of the series. 15

Rowling's successful or unsuccessful use of what MacDonald (a Victorian fantasist)

refers to as "a wise imagination." An eclectic collection overall, the symposium offers

seven brief, informal, and frequently subjective essays that abound with generalizations

and vague references.17 For example, in "A Right Imagination," Steven S. Tigner writes,

"Rowling's imagination falls in with the divine order of things," but then he also adds that

he lacks room in his article to expand upon this statement (103). Gertrude M. White

("Harry Potter and the Spell of Love") is similarly inadequate when she suggests that "the

characters in the wizard world, adult or adolescent, are depicted and distinguished from

one another with precise and telling detail" (107), but then she fails to provide examples

of said precision and detail. Such unsupported statements leave the reader unconvinced.

Another difficulty with the collection arises from its focus on MacDonald's imagination theory, which ultimately places the discussion in the religious realm.18 A "wise," "right,"

or "Sacramental" imagination, MacDonald suggests, is one that "being the reflex of the

creation, will fall in with the divine order of things" (qtd. in Tigner 102). Similarly, Stock defines MacDonald's "wise imagination" as, primarily, "one capable of distinguishing between good and evil" (104).19 Any approach to Rowling's work, then, based upon foundations such as these, inevitably falls into a discussion of the good versus evil dichotomy, and rarely moves beyond this parameter. The volume does, however, have

1 n t David Dooley provides a concise summary of each symposium article m "Harry Potter: Pro and Con." In his essay "The Imagination," MacDonald describes the wise imagination as "the presence of the spirit of God ... the best guide that man or woman can have" (28). Imagination is the human parallel to divine creation, and it connects us to the higher power. He further explains that "[a] right imagination, being the reflex of the creation, will fall in with the divine order of things" (35). In other words, if the imagination works properly, it will bring the individual who possesses it closer to God. 19 Stock's criticism of Rowling and the Harry Potter series is outlined above. 16 useful content. Owen Dudley Edwards, for example, one of the first people to consider the mythic aspects of the Harry Potter series, provides a brief discussion of "the tradition of the hero finding fosterage or pupillage" epitomized in Greek mythology (115).20

Edwards's informed consideration of Rowling's classical sources and her use of them contributes significantly to the argument set forth later in this dissertation.

In 2002, the first significant volume of critical essays on Harry Potter was

~) 1 released. Edited by Lana A. Whited, The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter offers a range of approaches to the series. While the collection's final section focuses on those areas outlined by Zipes as comprising the Harry Potter phenomenon, the remaining sections consider issues such as Rowling's use of language, gender, and authority. The first three sections consider the series within the realm of other fantastic children or youth's literature, and, in particular, make comparisons between the Harry Potter series and its literary antecedents (such as Ursula K. LeGuin's A Wizard ofEarthsea or T. H. White's

The Sword in the Stone) or contemporaries (for example, Jill Murphy's Worst Witch series or Anthony Horowitz's Groosham Grange). A number of essays explore Harry's status and development as an (epic) hero; examine "taboo themes and reversals" (Whited,

"Craze" 9); discuss, similar to other critical works, Rowling's impact on child and youth

Overall, however, Edwards' article lacks a cohesive argument. He begins, as the title suggests, with a consideration of the subject of History within the series, but he then moves, sporadically, to a number of other topics: Rowling's place in the history of literature, the Christian aspects of her work, the mythical or classical element (as mentioned), Rowling's increasing improvement as a writer, her relationship to Chesterton, MacDonald, and C. S. Lewis, and the lack of development of Harry as a "full character" (117). 21 A number of other monographs deserve mention, but their inclusion in the above discussion would be excessive as they dedicate only a portion of their narratives to Rowling and her work. See, for instance, Colin Manlove, From Alice to Harry Potter: Children's Fantasy in England, or Deborah O'Keefe, Readers in Wonderland: The Liberating Worlds of Fantasy Fiction from Dorothy to Harry Potter. 17 literacy; address the debate surrounding Rowling's use of language, particularly in the context of text translation; or evaluate the texts under the rubric of feminism.

While this volume is the first collection of academic essays on the Harry Potter series, it is, despite its topical range, somewhat limited. A number of the articles, for instance, reduce Rowling's work to an exploration of binaries, to a synopsis of the struggles between good and evil, light and dark, or the animal and the spiritual. In "Harry

Potter: Fairy Tale Prince, Real Boy, and Archetypal Hero," M. Katherine Grimes suggests that the themes present in the series "include the duality of human nature, comprising both the animal-spiritual and the good-evil dichotomies, movement toward autonomy, and even birth-death" (91). Mary Pharr's description, in "In Media Res: Harry Potter as

Hero-in-Progress," of the hero as "a figure who represents the intense human struggle for power and wisdom, recognition and introspection, grandeur and honour" (54) articulates an approach also based upon binaries, as does Amanda Cockrell's explication of the series' narrative structure:

It is duality that gives the Harry Potter books their power: a duality both of

Voldemort and Harry, or dark and light forces, and of tone, of dark and

light storytelling alternating, ranging from the dark retelling of the Lucifer

legend with Voldemort as the fallen sorcerer angel to the whimsical

inventions of Rowling's magical world. ("Harry Potter and the Secret

Password" 22)

The existence of such binaries within the series cannot be denied, but studies that limit their examinations to dualistic interpretations overshadow the complexity of the series.

Rowling often elides the boundaries between binaries in her depictions of characters, 18 particularly, as we shall see, in her development of Harry and those closest to him.

Indeed, it is the very elision of these boundaries that causes concern amongst those who criticize the moral and ethical teachings of the books.

Since the release of The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter, other volumes have appeared and continue to appear. For the most part, they build upon and broaden the work presented in Whited's volume, and they also present their essays in a similar format: there are sections and essays on child development, myth and genre, and the phenomenon of the series. In the introduction to Reading Harry Potter, for example, Giselle Liza Anatol addresses Zipes's condemnation of Rowling's work as part of the (negative) mainstream of serialized, commercialized literature. She argues, "it is exactly because the series has become so widely popular that it is both critically significant and should be taken seriously" (xiv), and goes on to suggest that the Harry Potter series "could become some of this generation's most formative narratives" because it is so widely read, by children and adults alike, and because the massive commercial industry that accompanies it (the very industry that Zipes argues negates the series' literary merit), permeates all facets of our world (xiv-xv). Reductive approaches to the series, and to the field of children or youth's literature as a whole, Anatol posits, overlook the social and cultural issues reflected and commented upon in these works. To under-theorize or treat condescendingly texts such as Rowling's is to deny their "effect on the intellectual and social development of today's children and tomorrow's adults" (xv). Reading Harry

22 Because of the proximity of dates between the Whited volume (2002) and the Anatol volume (2003), I believe it is fair to say that Anatol's criticism of previous reductive approaches to the Harry Potter series does not include the Whited volume. These two, and Harry Potter's World, were more than likely fairly concurrent in their conception and development, demonstrating the trend started by Zipes. 19

Potter thus not only echoes the format of Whited's volume but also it reflects contemporary theoretical trends through its inclusion of essays on social and cultural issues within and contextualizing Rowling's texts: racism, ethnicity, class, and social hierarchies. Another volume, Harry Potter's World: Multidisciplinary Critical

Perspectives, follows these same theoretical trends and divides its essays into four sections: Cultural Studies Perspectives; Reader Response and Interpretive Perspectives;

Literary Perspectives: The Hero, Myth, and Genre; and Critical and Sociological

Perspectives.24 The editor, Elizabeth E. Heilman, reiterates in her introduction Anatol's point that texts not only reflect and comment upon society, but also that they shape their readers.

Some essay titles from the volume that demonstrate this range are Elaine Ostry, "Accepting Mudbloods: The Ambivalent Social Vision of J. K. Rowling's Fairy Tales"; Bryccan Carey, "Hermione and the House-Elves: The Literary and Historical Contexts of J. K. Rowling's Antislavery Campaign"; Lisa Hopkins, "Harry Potter and the Acquisition of Knowledge"; Rebecca Stephens, "Harry and Hierarchy: Book Banning as a Reaction t the Subversion of Authority"; and Susan Hall, "Harry Potter and the Rule of Law: The Central Weakness of Legal Concepts in the Wizard World." Harry Potter's World was recently reedited and republished as Critical Perspectives on Harry Potter, 2nd ed. (The text is already available, though the copyright date inside the book is 2009.) The new edition maintains a large portion of the original material, although this material has been moved around and expanded with newer articles. The sections presented in the second edition are: Perspectives on Identity and Morality; Critical and Sociological Perspectives; Literacy Elements and Interpretations; Cultural Studies and Media Perspectives. Heilman writes: Readers cannot read in a void. Readers' and authors' interpretations are intimately tied up with all previous experiences, including experience of other texts. It may be equally plausible to suggest that, instead of understanding each reading as the creation of a new text, we should think of texts and interpretation as primarily derivative. Anytime we understand something, it is because we related it to an idea, or category we have already seen. Thus, each text and each reading of text is actually intertextual. (Harry Potter's World, "Introduction" 4) 20

The same year as the Anatol and Heilman volumes (2003), Edmund M. Kern

released The Wisdom of Harry Potter, which examines the Harry Potter series

specifically as a type of Stoic literature. Kern argues throughout his book that the novels

grapple with important ethical questions and offers solutions for child and adult readers

alike as to how to face daily difficulties with Stoic values of faith, love, and discipline; he

concludes that the books demonstrate "that moral constancy remains the best way to

confront fate and the evils that it may bring" (245). Harry Potter and Philosophy

similarly includes morality as one of its focal points, although its collection engages,

overall, with a variety of issues such as friendship, identity, and, even, metaphysics. Other

areas of study, such as fan-fiction, pedagogical applications of the series, and psychology,

arise in volumes such as the ones edited by Mercedes Lackey {Mapping the World of

Harry Potter), Cynthia Whitney Hallett (Scholarly Studies in Harry Potter), and Neil

Mulholland (The Psychology of Harry Potter), while material is still being published on the financial success of what is now known as the Harry Potter brand as well as on the

success of Rowling as an author and the chronology of her successes in relationship to the

Oft release of each book in the series. In fact, now that the last book has been released,

77 earlier critical volumes are being updated and re-released. In 2005, one could readily

Heilman's statement echoes Manguel's statement (the one at the start of this chapter); both Heilman and Manguel, however, refer to the concept of "intertextualite" outlined by Kristeva in her 1967 article "Le Sens et la mode." 26 See, for instance, Susan Gunelius's Harry Potter: The Story of a Global Business Phenomenon or Scott Thomas's The Making ofPotterverse: A Month-by-Month Look at Harry's First 10 Years. Other recently revised and republished titles include Amy Sickels's Mythmaker: The Story of J. K. Rowling, Colleen A. Sexton's J. K. Rowling, and Connie Neal's The Gospel According to Harry Potter. 21 count the number of critical volumes on Harry Potter that were available, whereas now one is overwhelmed by the vast selection.

One of the frequent criticisms of Rowling's work that appears in this plethora of critical volumes is that the Harry Potter novels provide an insufficient treatment of social and cultural issues. For example, Elaine Ostry, in her essay in Reading Harry Potter, posits that Rowling's texts try to teach racial tolerance, but ultimately fail because their representation of minority groups is non-specific. Rowling's failure to make her hero or one of the series's "major players" a race other than Anglo-Saxon (that is, western

Caucasian), she argues, demonstrates her "color-blind attitude: race does not matter, so the difference should not be noticed, much less discussed" (93-94). Ostry also argues that

Rowling sidelines half-breed races such as werewolves (Remus Lupin) and half-giants

(Hagrid) to the "underclass of the wizarding world" (95) by perpetuating the stereotypes of ferocity or lack of "self-control" traditionally associated with such figures (96). Thus,

Ostry concludes, Rowling undermines her attempts to critique the racial intolerance perpetrated by human characters towards non-human figures. Heilman's analysis of

Rowling's use of race reinforces that of Ostry. In "Images of the Privileged Insider and

Outcast Outsider," Heilman and co-author Anne E. Gregory echo Ostry's argument.28

They determine that although Rowling creates a world in which there exists a system of insiders and outsiders based upon a "wide range of signifiers" (gender, social class, peer group affiliations, race, culture, and nationality), she provides only a "moderate amount

All references to Heilman and Gregory's article are from Harry Potter's World (the first edition). 22 of social critique" (242).29 Like Ostry, Heilman and Gregory cite Remus Lupin as an example of Rowling's inability to resolve race (and class) issues. "Although Lupin's character is the most developed of the magical creatures," they write,

little narrative space is spent on describing what it means to be a werewolf

or describing the persecution he feels from within the wizarding

community. Again, this suggests that it is perfectly acceptable to fear

differences among people, and that there are differences that make certain

people better than others. (253)

The attention Ostry, Heilman and Gregory pay to Remus Lupin precipitates one of the central issues of this current project, the status of the werewolf figure within Rowling's series. My dissertation challenges conclusions such as those of Ostry, Heilman and

Gregory through its examination of this secondary character—the werewolf—and its argument that this secondary character is integral to Rowling's subversion of exclusionary hegemonic systems. Rowling's secondary characters are, after all, peripheral, and, like Harry, frequently fall into the category of social outsider, but also, like Harry, they move back and forth between worlds and between insider and outsider status.

Ultimately, my work arises from the intersection of two significant trends in

Harry Potter criticism. Specifically, it arises at the point at which studies of medieval

Drawing upon Althusser and Foucault, Heilman and Gregory explain that ideologically driven systems of power (hegemonies) establish relationships of power between different social groups. Within these systems, certain groups hold and exert power over other groups, primarily through established institutions and cultural practices. Those that hold and exert power, usually to their own benefit, can be understood as the privileged, or as "insiders"; those that are affected by the actions of the insiders, usually negatively, can be understood as "outsiders" (Heilman and Gregory 241-43). 23 motifs and figures meet cultural approaches to the series. My project enters uncharted critical territory by focusing on Rowling's adaptation of medieval sources, and subsequently, the classical sources to which the medieval ones allude. I examine how classical and medieval sources may inform Rowling's secondary characters Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback, and I argue that the Harry Potter novels, like other works of fiction,

"do not simply portray or reflect the world. They elicit, precisely by the way of their fictional modes of representation, attitudes to the world that enable—or disable—forms of understanding" (Prendergast 15). In other words, through her secondary characters such as the werewolf, Rowling challenges her readers to reconsider their understandings and assumptions about the world around them, and, consequently, she encourages them to change these understandings and assumptions.

1.2 Why the Werewolf?

I spent the first part of my life in England, where wolves have been extinct since

"the end of the Middle Ages" (Plukowski 7) and, yet, remain greatly feared. The fear of wolves is not isolated to countries in which they are extinct, however. Canadian wolves, for instance, are frequently threatened by farmers, by hunters, and "by people who kill them because they don't like them" (Theberge 279). As Canadian biologist John B.

Theberge remarks, "Myth, folklore, fable, and outright lies plague the wolf as no other species. No more controversial animal lives. None is so hated, none so misunderstood"

(1). The fear of wolves is also closely connected to the fear of werewolves, humans with

An eleven-year study of the Algonquin wolves by the John B. Theberge and Mary T. Theberge, a husband and wife research team from Waterloo, Ontario, demonstrates just how persecuted the Canadian wolf population is. In the synopsis of their study, the Theberges note, "Between 1989 and 1993, the population declined by 43 per cent, followed by three years of increase, then a 28 per cent decline in 1997, and a 24 the ability to transform into lupine figures by various means, magical or otherwise. In fact, despite contemporary dismissal of the werewolf as a fictional figure of folklore or myth, human belief in werewolves is evident in many epochs and geographical locations.

For example, Kathryn A. Edwards suggests, "The werewolf is just one example of the supernatural, preternatural, and at times unnatural presences which early modern

Europeans believed shared their world" (xv). Likewise, Barry Holstun Lopez provides the

Navajo as an example of persistent cultural belief in werewolves. "[BJelief in werewolves," he explains, provides explanations for otherwise inexplicable (to them [the

Navajo]) phenomena" (123). Werewolves, like wolves, are commonly understood through associations with negative characteristics or behaviours. They are often portrayed and interpreted as an expression of duality, of the conflict between the rational (and therefore human) and irrational (and therefore inhuman or bestial) selves. They are also frequently paired with the vampire, a "malignant, preternatural creature (most often a dead person reanimated) that sucks blood to nourish itself and to inflict harm"

(Murgatroyd 5). Adam Douglas refers to the vampire as a "close cousin of the werewolf

(163), and explains that vampires, like their lupine fellows, are often believed to have metamorphic abilities. In fact, the vampire's metamorphic form, he says, is occasionally the wolf. The association of the lupine form with the vampire resonates with folkloric beliefs of Eastern European countries where, Ian Woodward argues, the werewolf and the

stable low population in 1998. Mortality rates, estimated from the deaths of yearling and adult radio-collared wolves, have been up to 61, 55, and 36 per cent in various years. These figures are low because they do not include wolves killed and collars smashed without our knowledge" (278). A similar case has also been made for the America wolf population. Lopez, in Of Wolves and Men, devotes an entire chapter to the tradition of wolf-hunts in America and other countries such as Russia. See Chapter 8, "Wolfing for Sport" (153-66). 25 vampire are either "known collectively as one creature" or where tradition says that if a werewolf is not exorcised, "it will become a vampire" (150).31 Whatever the connection, both are typically understood as creatures of the night, of darkness, death, and duality.

The werewolf proliferates in literary texts, in all periods and genres, from classical fables or tales such as Ovid's account of the Arcadian king Lycaon in Metamorphoses and Petronius's account of the soldier-werewolf in the Satyricon, to medieval tales such as the story of the knight Bisclavret in Marie de France's lay of the same name or the priest's account of a dying werewolf in Gerald of Wales's Topography of Ireland. The werewolf is no less popular in literature from the nineteenth to the twenty-first centuries, appearing in short stories such as Robert Louis Stevenson's "Olalla" (1885), Saki's (H. H.

Munro's) "Gabriel-Ernest" (1930), and Ursula Le Guin's "The Wife's Story" (1982).

Werewolves also proliferate in other media, especially in film. Adaptations of literary texts abound, such as the cinematic version of Guy Endore's 1933 novel, The Werewolf of

Paris and the 1961 cinematic follow-up, Curse of the Werewolf. More recently, werewolves have been the focus of sci-fi fantasy films such as Underworld or horror films such as Ginger Snaps and Ginger Snaps 2 and 3.

Duality—in this case the existence of both human and animal within a single being—is the most frequently portrayed aspect of the werewolf in both literary and cinematic adaptations of the werewolf story. In fact, this interpretation of the werewolf is as ubiquitous as the werewolf itself. Stories such as Endore's The Werewolf of Paris,

Angela Carter's "Wolf-Alice," one of the three werewolf tales in The Bloody Chamber

Connections between the werewolf and the vampire are common in literary texts. For example, in his short story "Dracula's Guest," Bram Stoker interlaces the story of a werewolf with that of his notorious vampire, Dracula. 26

(1979), or Kelly Armstrong's Bitten (2001) all emphasize the dual nature of the werewolf, as do countless films from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The most famous cinematic interpretation of the werewolf as a dual being is probably George Waggner's

Wolfman (1941), starring Lon Chaney, but other titles abound.32 For instance, films ranging from the 1923 French silent film Le Loup Garou and the 1935 film Werewolf of

London to Angela Carter's The Company of Wolves (1984) and the adaptation of Stephen

King's novella Cycle of the Werewolf Silver Bullet (1985) all perpetuate the human-beast dichotomy. A number of werewolf studies echo the focus on this duality through their titles. The titles of studies such as Frank Hamel's Human Animals (1915) and Douglas's

The Beast Within: Man, Myths and Werewolves (1992) (studies that are almost eighty years apart) demonstrate not only how explicitly this connection is usually made but also how persistent this interpretation is.

Another frequent interpretation, one that again links the werewolf to the vampire, is that of the werewolf as sexual deviant or predator. Yet, as Woodward notes, the werewolf is usually portrayed as "a crude and aggressive rapist" rather than the somewhat sadistic yet erotic predator (155). A recent example of negative sexuality associated with a lupine figure is David Slade's Hard Candy (2005), which inverts the Little Red

Riding Hood story in its articulation of the unnatural and often violent behaviours of sexual predators and pedophiles. Such intrepetations of the wolf or werewolf as an expression of repressed desires, especially sexual ones, abound. For instance, Catherine

A modern remake of Waggner's Wolfman, starring Benicio del Toro, is currently in post-production with an expected release date of 2009. ' 33 Although Woodward's comment predates it by over a decade, one can't help but think of Gary Oldman's performance as the eroticised vampire in Francis Ford Copolla's 1992 production of' Dr• acuta. 27

Orenstein's book Little Red Riding Hook Uncloaked argues that lupine figures, primarily male but increasingly female, are used in folktales, literature, and other media such as advertisements to explore or exploit issues of female sexuality. In a similar manner, Denis

Duclos argues that perpetuation of the werewolf myth in American culture is "a necessary motivation for self-repression" (210), one that, if not rejected, could lead to cultural destruction. Duclos argues,

The werewolf culture is America's signature culture. It is the collective

expression of a people that lends no credence to the idea that its

suppressed urges have been sublimated, perhaps because objects command

a greater fascination in this society, which is still based on conquest, an

enthusiastic use of physical force, competition, and takeovers. (119)

Throughout his study, he draws parallels between American history and culture and

Norse history and mythology; he posits that American culture's fascination with and idolization of criminal figures such as serial killers represents American society's

"fundamental pessimism" (210) towards the world. The werewolf, then, in Duclos's opinion, represents our deepest desires and our deepest fears.

Caroline Walker Bynum's Metamorphosis and Identity (2001), while concerned more broadly with understandings and representations of both hybridity and metamorphosis within texts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, also includes detailed discussions (especially within Chapters 2 and 4) of werewolf narratives from antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the twentieth century. In these discussions, Bynum's focus is primarily the Ulster werewolves of Gerald of Wales's Topography, but she also examines, in less detail, other narratives such as Ovid's "Lycaon" and the werewolf tales 28 from Carter's The Bloody Chamber. Although Bynum's study provides some of the foundations for this dissertation, it does have its limitations; it frequently assigns werewolf figures to simplistic categories, and, more importantly, it overlooks the complexity of modern narratives such as Rowling's Harry Potter series.34

A number of other studies exist, although many of them are too broad in their scope to offer any detailed analyses of specific texts. The 1986 volume A Lycanthropy

Reader: Werewolves in Western Culture edited by Charlotte F. Often is a useful tool in that it brings together a large number of texts concerning the werewolf, ranging from medical cases and historical trial records to theological treatises and literary accounts.

Further, it includes a selection of critical essays that relate back to the different genres included. Designed specifically as a reader—that is, as a collection of texts concerning the werewolf—it offers a range of readings that introduce students and scholars alike to the vast field of werewolf studies but it lacks detailed analyses in any one area. David

Gordon White's The Myths of the Dog-Man (1991), although not specifically about werewolves, does occasionally overlap its study of dog-men with lupine figures. White includes brief discussions on associations of the werewolf with outlaws and with military fraternities that are insightful, if brief. Another excellent introduction is Douglas's The

Beast Within. Douglas includes brief discussions of werewolf figures within text, folklore, film, and popular culture from around the globe, from as early as 75,000 BC to as recent as 1991 (the book was published in 1992). Although Douglas's volume suffers from the

The quotations presented at the start of each chapter in this dissertation, all of which are from Metamorphosis and Identity, reflect the simplistic categories and shortcomings of Bynum's study. 35 White also includes brief (and, again, insightful) notes on the Dog Star, Sirius, which figures prominently in Chapter 4 of this dissertation. same problem as Otten's Reader—it presents too much material to offer any detailed analyses—it does include an invaluable chronology that lists dates for significant historical events, records, and literary texts in which the werewolf is recorded.

1.2.1 Traditional Interpretations and Classifications

Overall, the corpus of werewolf studies is immense. However, the types of studies are wide-ranging. Some studies, such as the volume edited by Edwards, Werewolves,

Witches, and Wandering Spirits, focus on folklore and folk-beliefs; other studies, such as

Lopez's Of Wolves and Men or John Pollard's Wolves and Werewolves, explore a variety of aspects about wolves and werewolves such as biological studies and literary references. Surveys of lupine transformation accounts also exist, such as Hamel's Human

Animals, as do collections of fictional narratives such as the volume Werewolf!, edited by

Bill Pronzini. Sociological studies, such as those by Orenstein and Duclos, often focus on the werewolf, as do psychological studies. Freud's documentation of his Russian patient, the Wolfman, is perhaps one of the most famous examples of a psychological study in which wolves are associated with repressed memories, particularly those concerned with sexuality.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, werewolf narratives, particularly those of the classical and early modern periods, received a great deal of

Freud's "Wolfman," at a young age, repeatedly dreamt about a small pack (half a dozen) of white wolves. In the dream, the wolves were sitting in the branches of the large walnut tree outside of the patient's bedroom window; he would awake, screaming, from the dream, presumably out of a fear of being consumed by the wolves. Freud suggests that the dreams represent repressed memories and/or sexual desires. He links them directly to an instance in the patient's infant years, when he awoke in the middle of the night and witnessed the "primal scene": his parents having intercourse. For details on the Wolfman, see Freud's The Case of the Wolf Man: From the History of an Infantile Neurosis. 30 scholarly attention. Two seminal works provide a starting point for the examination of werewolf narratives: Kirby Flower Smith's "An Historical Study of the Werewolf in

Literature" (1894) and Montague Summers's The Werewolf'(1933).37 Smith's article is broad in scope, touching on aspects of the werewolf from mythological sources to etymological meanings and variants to a range of literary sources, classical and medieval, primarily from the west. Smith concludes that the werewolf figure arises not from a singular myth or legend, but rather from the intersection of a number of items such as classical ritual sacrifices associated with the figure and stories of the Arcadian king

Lycaon; a number of related but separate man-wolf figures common in classical tales; etymological and mythological associations of the wolf or werewolf with outlawry; medical and physical conditions; and the tricks or illusions of medicine-men (40).

Smith's primary concern, however, is anthropological; he strives to uncover the earliest possible folkloric antecedents for mythical and literary accounts of the werewolf.

He pays particular attention to ancient cultures, especially those that display some type of ritual, or acts of religious significance, associated with the wolf god, Zeus Lykaios, or

TO with the Arcadian king, Lycaon. In his study, Smith outlines two primary categories of

Most subsequent discussions draw upon the works of Smith and Summers and recognize their works as a starting point for examinations of the werewolf, even if those examinations depart from the trends established by Smith and Summers. 381 understand ritual to be a prescribed series of events enacted by a society as a whole, by a select group determined by the society at large as its representatives, or by an individual, whether associated or not with a larger community. The ritual can be, and more often than not is when associated with an entire society, religious in nature. Ancient ritual frequently involves some reference to an animal deity, thus reflecting the theriomorphic beliefs of some early societies. Sacrifice (which will appear in later discussions) is, perhaps, the most powerful religious ritual. Rituals enacted by unassociated individuals may be related to magic but do not necessarily have the same religious overtones as rituals associated with entire societies. There are numerous accounts in classical literature of a cult and of rituals associated with Zeus, Mount Lycaon 31 werewolf: the "voluntary" werewolf and the "involuntary" werewolf. Within these categories he also distinguishes two other sub-categories, the "constitutional" werewolf and the werewolf "by magic." The voluntary werewolf, Smith explains, is a person who can transform at will into the form of a wolf through either constitutional means, "a gift inborn," or through magical means, "the use of certain magic arts" (8, 4). The constitutional werewolf changes at any time without aid, through his or her own personal desire to transform; no stimulus is needed other than this desire and no tools or apparatus

"in are required to bring about transformation. The werewolf by magic, however, requires the aid of a magical device to transform, whether it is an enchanted garment such as a cloak, belt, or shirt, or a magical substance such as a salve or potion. In these instances, the individual must put on the enchanted garment, rub the salve over his or her body, or drink the potion. Usually, these processes require that the individual remove his or her clothing, an act which signifies the abandonment of humanity and the civilized world, and entrance into the non-human, uncivilized realm. The involuntary werewolf, unlike the voluntary werewolf, can only ever be a werewolf by magical means: the individual cannot control the method of transformation or the transformation itself. Instead, an individual suffers from a charm or curse placed upon him or her by "some outside power" (Smith 7).

(in the Peloponnese region of Greece), and the temple of the same name. The spelling of the name or names varies as much as the accounts. For example, any one of the following combinations may appear: (Zeus) Lykaios, Lycaon, or Lycaeus. Wherever possible, I use the standard form "Lycaon," but during my discussions of specific texts, I use the spelling provided by the original. 3 Early scholars typically use the male pronoun "he" or associate the werewolf with the male figure. For the most part, I utilize the male and female pronouns, but, when necessary, I follow the pattern of other scholars. My decision is not based upon any particular gender bias; rather, it is based upon the prevalence of the male werewolf in werewolf narratives. Indeed, there are few examples of female werewolves until we reach the mid- to late twentieth-century literature. I note, within the dissertation, when these rare examples occur. 32

This outside power can be a sorcerer, a witch, or, as in many classical instances of transformation, one of the gods. Quite often, the transformation of an involuntary werewolf will be tied to or triggered by lunar cycles, seasons, or recurring ritual practices of his or her respective society.

The matter of free will separates the involuntary and the voluntary werewolf, and

Smith makes it clear that those who transform at will are more monstrous than those who are at the mercy of an outside power. The voluntary werewolf

retains the intelligence and cunning of his human form, more or less

clouded or modified by the bestial ferocity which takes possession of him

at the moment of transformation, and in which he "outwolves" the very

wolves themselves. It is this wolfish instinct in the man which is the

motive of transformation. (4)

Smith considers the voluntary werewolf to be the true werewolf because transformation occurs through choice. His description, quoted above, suggests that the human intellect within the lupine body actively seeks to transgress the species boundaries in both a physical and a behavioural manner: the individual assumes a non-human form and engages in behaviours not commonly associated with or accepted by humans, but which also exceed the expected behaviours of animals. Specifically, Smith identifies "ravening hunger and bestial ferocity" (2), desires frequently manifested in acts of impiety (usually the slaughter or sacrifice of an innocent child) or cannibalism (the consumption of human flesh) as characteristics of the voluntary werewolf.

Smith argues that examples of the voluntary, constitutional werewolf are "rare in folk-lore" (8), and gives as his primary example the tale told by Niceros in "Trimalchio's 33

Banquet," from Petronius's Satyricon (c. AD 61). Niceros relates the tale of two men, a freeman and a soldier, who venture out one evening to the house of the freeman's mistress. En route, the two stop at the side of the road near some gravestones. Here, the soldier removes his clothing, piles it up, and urinates in a circular pattern around the pile.

He then transforms into a wolf, howls, and runs into the woods. The freeman attempts to remove the soldier's clothing but finds that it has turned into a pile of stones, which is fixed in place. Perplexed and afraid, the freeman continues to his mistress' house, where he learns that a wolf has just been present and has ravaged the stock. When the mistress explains that the wolf received a spear in the neck but managed to escape, the freeman rushes back to the pile of clothes or stones only to find that it is gone. He returns home to find the soldier in bed, being treated by the doctor for a wound in his neck. This ending,

Smith suggests, is "the favourite denouement" of werewolf tales stories because it is "the means by which the culprit is finally discovered" (9). The nature and placement of the wound on the human reveal his or her relationship to the wolf. Transformations of this kind evoke greater terror precisely because the lupine form houses both the bestial and the human, and, more importantly, the bestial part of the soul overrules that which is considered human. The voluntary werewolf terrifies because he or she willingly transgresses species boundaries and engages in activities that are considered irrational or bestial.

Conversely, the involuntary werewolf is an "innocent victim," devoid of the malice and ferocity of his voluntary counterpart (5). The involuntary werewolf remains innocent despite his or her transgression of the species boundary because the transgression is not one of choice. Further, Smith observes that the involuntary werewolf 34 remains "kindhearted" and "beneficent" despite transformation, and is ultimately released from the transforming enchantment (5). Unfortunately, Smith does not cite any classical examples of the involuntary werewolf. Instead, he cites the medieval William ofPalerne as an example, but fails to pursue any further discussion of this narrative or werewolf figure. He returns, later in his essay, to the topic of the involuntary werewolf when he discusses Marie de France's Breton lay "Bisclavret." Because Marie "looks upon the

Bisclavret's transformations as an unfortunate necessity," Smith concludes, readers can conclude that the knight is not "voluntarily a murderous wolf (13) and that Bisclavret "is to be pitied as an innocent victim" (13).40

More expansive in scope and detail than Smith's article, Montague Summers's monograph provides a comprehensive background on the figure in literature, with an emphasis on the late sixteenth, early seventeenth, and nineteenth centuries. While

Summers cites Smith on a number of occasions, he condemns such studies of the werewolf that operate as catalogues of tales or that use an anthropological approach. He does not outright suggest that such studies unimportant, but instead he considers them inadequate because they "disregard the science of God for the science of man" (xii).

Ironically, Summers's own work suffers limitations similar to those he suggests riddle the anthropological studies. He confesses early on that his work is "entirely from the theological and philosophical point of view" (xii). Indeed, a large portion of Summers's work devotes itself to a discussion of the connections between lycanthropy and/or werewolfery with witchcraft, or between lycanthropes and/or werewolves and witches

Chapters 3 of this dissertation examines the medieval werewolf narratives in depth. 35 and/or sorcerers. Summers pays particular attention to the Malleus Maleficarwn and other texts that record such connections.

Summers's work, however, is highly valuable for its extensive history of the etymology of the word "wer(e)wolf," arid for its cataloguing of previous werewolf studies. Summers presents countless variants of the word, ranging from Low and High

German (werwulf), French (loup-garou) and Old Northern French (garwall, garouT) to

Norwegian (varulv), West Frisian (waeriil, warule), Icelandic (vargr, varg-ulfr), and

Italian (lupo mannaro) and multiple Sicilian forms derived from the Italian. In fact, the first part of his initial chapter, "Lycanthropy," is taken up entirely with a discussion of the etymological variants and meanings of the word, covering almost if not all of the western languages, modern and classical, including the "Gaelic fear, Welsh gwr, [and the]

Sanskrit vird" (4). Summers lists, in his extensive exploration of etymological variants, a variety of sources for his etymological study, the two most prominent being Verstegan's

(a.k.a. Richard Rowlands)^ Restitution of Decayed Intelligence (1605) and Professor

Ernst Weekley's More Words Ancient and Modern (1927). Whatever the source, though, the etymology is fairly consistent; the first half of the word, "wer(e)" and its variants, denotes "man," the second half of the word, "wulf" and its variants, denotes "wolf (3-4).

Besides providing a detailed etymological account, Summers's The Werewolf catalogues and outlines the content of a large number of studies on the werewolf, ranging from the sixteenth to the early twentieth centuries. Most of these studies are determined by the nature of his work and are, therefore, theological or philosophical. He cites only a few literary sources outside of these parameters, most of which appear in his brief and limited chapter "A Note on the Werewolf in Literature." Summers insists, however, that, 36 while he lists a large number of studies, most lack originality because they refer to "the same classical authorities and cite the same examples" (xi). There is, he suggests, only one monumental study of the werewolf, Jean Bodin's De la Demonomanie des Sorciers

(1580), which inspired four other original and insightful studies: Johannes Fridericus

Wolfeshusius's De Lycanthropia (1591), Claude Prieur's Dialogue de la Lycanthropie

(1596), Sieur de Beauvois de Chauvincourt's Discours de la lycanthropie (1599), and Dr.

Jean de Nynauld's De la Lycanthropie, Transformation, et Extase des Soriers (1615).

Summers also commends a few nineteenth- and early twentieth-century studies: Dr.

Wilhelm Hertz's Der Werwolf '(1862), "a careful survey which contains much that is of value" (xi); Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould's The Book ofWere-wolves, Being an Account of a

Terrible Superstition (1865), a text he suggests is written "graphically and with vigour" if, perhaps, somewhat fictional or sensationalized at times (xi); and Mr. Elliott

O'Donnell's Werwolves (1912), which offers "a number of interesting histories of lycanthropy" (xi).41

Summers follows Smith's basic werewolf categories, recognizing the primary categories of the voluntary and involuntary werewolf. The werewolf is, Summers explains,

a human being, man, woman or child (more often the first), who either

voluntarily or involuntarily changes or is metamorphosed into the apparent

shape of a wolf, and who is then possessed of all the characteristics, the

41 Although Summers does not cite them, two letters (1831 and 1832) by Algernon Herbert (1792-1855) to Lord Cawdor (John Frederick Vaughan Campbell, 1817-98) should be included in this list. The letters catalogue various reports of werewolves and lycanthropy and discuss the etymologies of the word "werewolf." Both are reprinted in Madden's edition of William and the Werewolf. 37

foul appetites, ferocity, cunning, brute strength, and swiftness of that

animal. (2)

Summers emphasizes the human origins of the werewolf and the negative characteristics generally associated with wolves and embodied by the werewolf figure, regardless of whether the werewolf is voluntary or involuntary. Summers also points out that

"[w]erewolfery is hereditary or acquired," and it is "a horrible pleasure born of the thirst to quaff warm human blood, or an ensorcelling punishment and revenge" (2). This latter statement gestures to the element of free will that Smith identifies as the primary, incriminating mark of the voluntary werewolf: the individual allows his or her desires to overrule rational thought and behaviour.

Unlike Smith, Summers considers all types of werewolves equally unsympathetic.

He suggests that all categories of werewolf, regardless of means, are negative and, furthermore, inherently evil because "all such transformations are effected by diabolical power" (118). Summers's consideration of both the involuntary and voluntary werewolf as inherently evil arises from one of the major themes in his work, the relationship between the werewolf figure and geotic, or black, magic. The first two chapters of

Summers's text examine the varied magical (and demonic) methods by which an individual transforms into or out of werewolf form, whether the transformation is self- induced or brought about by the magic of a sorcerer, witch, or demon. The conclusions of these chapters subsequently inform Summers's readings of werewolf narratives as a whole, regardless of the culture or period from which an individual narrative comes.

While Summers accepts the categories of voluntary and involuntary werewolf, the concept of a constitutional werewolf does not rest easily with him. He frequently 38 emphasizes texts that connect the word "werewolf to Satan or the devil. For example, he cites Matthew 7.15, "Beware of false prophets, who come to you in the clothing of sheep, but inwardly they are ravening wolves" (7), and a passage from the Ecclesiastical

Ordinances of King Cnut in which a spiritual deceiver (or, as in Matthew, a false prophet) is described as "wodfreca werewolf," an "audacious were- wolf (4). In fact, in the concluding pages of his second chapter, Summers outlines several pertinent points

"concerning werewolfism or shape-shifting, the metamorphosis of men into animals"

(118). In addition to his conclusion that all such transformations are diabolical, Summers suggests that transformation can be brought about in three particular ways. "The first method," he begins, "is by a glamour caused by the demon so that the man changed

(either voluntarily or under the influence of a spell) will seem both to himself and to all who behold him to be metamorphosed into the shape of a certain animal" (119). In the second method, the "sorcerer is thrown into a mesmeric trance, whilst the familiar

[Satan's agent] prowls abroad" (120). The final method of transformation is actually more of a cloaking than the metamorphosis of a body. Summers uses the words of a seventeenth-century Italian priest Francesco Guazza (from his Compendium

Maleficarum) to explain this process: "the demon surrounds a witch with an aerial effigy of a beast, each part of which fits on to the correspondent part of the witch's body . . . but this only happens when they use certain ointments and words" (qtd. in Summers 121). In

Summers's opinion, the methods by which an individual may become (voluntarily or

42 The Latin Vulgate Matt. 7.15 reads "Adtendite a falsis prophetis qui veniunt ad vos in vestimentis ovium intrinsecus autem sunt lupi rapaces" Throughout this study, all Latin quotations of the Vulgate are taken from Weber's Biblia sacra Vulgata; English translations of the Latin text are indicated as either my own translation or as from the Douay-Rheims Bible Online (from < http://www.drbo.org/>). involuntarily) a werewolf are diabolical in nature and entirely wrought through magic.

Ultimately, he suggests that the werewolf is a loathsome creature, "one of the most terrible and depraved of all the bond-slaves of Satan" (123).43

1.2.2 Traditional Intrepretations and Studies Problematized

As mentioned above, Summers's interpretation of the werewolf as a diabolical creature informs the discussions of subsequent chapters of his book. In one instance he describes the activities of the cult of Zeus Lykaios as parallel to "the worship of

Satanists" and argues that "sorcery and witchcraft were rife" (143) in ancient Arcadian society. Classical accounts of the cult (which typically worshipped a deity whose name reflects an association with Zeus and a wolf god) usually include impious behaviours such as human sacrifice, cannibalism, and frequently a defiance of the power of the god or gods. Summers lists other classical examples of wolf god worship, including a following at Delphi and tales connecting Apollo to the wolf figure. Such accounts of societies and rituals surrounding the wolf god figure, Summers remarks, demonstrate the widespread influence of the wolf figure in antiquity, and provide "a half-glimpse of these abominations" (145). This latter statement sets accounts of cults associated with the wolf god (or rituals that include a wolf figure) in a derogatory light and negates the social importance of ritual and belief in pre-Christian cultures. Summers's inability to consider pre-Christian sources within their respective historical contexts renders his work insufficient; these narratives need to be reconsidered within their historical contexts in order for their meanings and purposes to be uncovered and understood.

Summers's explanation of instances of metamorphoses as illusion draws heavily upon the theories of philosophers and theologians such as Saint Augustine, whose views are discussed in the Introduction to Chapter 3. Smith's work, like Summers's, presents difficulties, the most paramount of which is structural. The article opens with the heading "General Introduction," and the only other heading given, "The Werewolf by Magic," occurs two-thirds of the way into the article. While the General Introduction sets up Smith's study by outlining the differences between the voluntary and involuntary werewolves, a number of the narratives explored in this section are, in fact (according to Smith's criteria), werewolves by magic. For example, Smith clearly states that Marie de France's "Bisclavret" falls into the involuntary werewolf category. Yet his treatement of this tale appears under the first heading of the article rather than in the section on the werewolf by magic, where (since

Smith's criteria suggest that the involuntary werewolf cannot be constitutional) we would expect to encounter it. The article also demonstrates a disregard for historical or cultural context; Smith uses medieval tales interchangeably with classical tales regardless of their different contexts. The first section alone covers narratives ranging from Petronius's

Satyr icon and variant tales of the Arcadian King Lycaon to medieval accounts of werewolves by Gerald of Wales (Topography of Ireland) and Gervase of Tilbury

(Recreation for an Emperor). The consideration of classical narratives alongside medieval ones can be useful, but such an approach is insufficient if the cultural contexts, which both shape the narratives and are reflected by the narratives, are not addressed.

Smith's study has one other significant problem, which is connected to his established categories of the werewolf and werewolf narratives. The misplacement of

Marie de France's tale suggests that, although Smith develops a system for identifying and categorizing werewolf narratives, he is unable to adhere to this system. His treatment of Petronius's Satyricon provides further evidence of this. In Smith's system, the 41 constitutional werewolf, as noted above, is a werewolf who transforms through innate rather than magical means. Smith categorizes Niceros's account of the soldier who transforms into a wolf in "Trimalchio's Banquet" as constitutional because there is no mention of a magical device. Yet while the man in Niceros's tale needs no magic salve, cloak, or skin to turn into a werewolf, Smith's categorization of the soldier as an example of a constitutional werewolf is unsubstantiated. In this tale, transformation is a ritual, a series of necessary acts: the soldier must strip naked, place his clothes neatly in a pile, urinate in a circular pattern around the clothes, transform, howl, then enter the wilderness.

The care taken to follow this sequence suggests that all steps in the process are required in order to bring about transformation; the omission of one step would render the process useless. Further, the transformation of the soldier's clothing into a pile of stones evidences the presence of magic, for there is no other explanation possible for their transformation. Petronius's soldier is more an example of werewolf by magic than an example of the constitutional werewolf. Yet, it is the only narrative Smith identifies in his study as an example of the constitutional werewolf. His failure to provide a more appropriate or fitting example of a constitutional werewolf suggests that this category itself may not be adequate for a discussion of the different types of werewolves and werewolf narratives.

Ultimately, the problems that arise from these seminal works, Smith's essay and

Summers's book, indicate a need for werewolf scholars to move beyond systematic categorization of the werewolf figure and narratives. Such as system may operate as a starting point, as a springboard for further exploration, but, alone, it is insufficient. 42

Scholars need to seek a more flexible or fluid manner of approach, one more sensitive to the cultural and historical context of each account.

In his recent article, "The Ever-Changing Nature of the Beast: Cultural Change,

Lycanthropy, and the Question of Substantial Transformation (from Petronius to Del

Rio)," Jan R. Veenstra moves towards a more suitable approach to the werewolf figure and narratives. Veenstra insists that werewolf narratives should be considered within their respective cultural contexts. He suggests, for instance, that the account in Petronius's

Satyr icon reflects the "decadent years of Nero's reign. The werewolf tale not only betrays the period's taste for the macabre, it also gives us a reinterpretation of obsolete beliefs and archaic myths" (139). The first part of this statement gestures to the tyranny and bloodshed of Nero's reign; the latter part of this statement suggests that, by the time of

Petronius's Satyricon, beliefs that link wolf figures with deities (such as Zeus or Apollo) and religious rituals were dated, no longer in practice, and the werewolf figure thus worked his way into folklore and myth. Indeed, Veenstra argues that such a change occurred as "Greek religion changed from partly theriomorphic to wholly anthropomorphic," and changing religious views "cast a completely new light on man- beast transformations" (143-44). Cultures with theriomorphic religious beliefs are more open to the possibility of human to animal metamorphosis than cultures with anthropocentric beliefs.

Although Veenstra's study is an improvement over those of Smith and Summers, the presence of categories still presents a problem. Veenstra employs a broader system than those of Smith and Summers, but it is still a system of categories. He identifies the first category as "metamorphosis ... brought about by magic, performed by a magician" 43

(135). Such an account exists in Virgil's Eclogues, where Alphesiboeus sings a song

about Moeris, one who, he claims, knows a magic plant that will transform him into a

wolf:

These poisons and these herbs gathered for me in Pontus

Moeris himself has given (plenty grow in Pontus);

Moeris with these has turned wolf often and disappeared

Into the woods. (95-98)44

The second category Veenstra identifies includes transformations brought about by "the

forces of destiny," which "instill a duplicity of nature in the lycanthropes. They transform

because the Fates, or nature, or even the moon bring it about periodically" (136).

Veenstra cites Petronius's Satyricon (the tale told by Niceros in "Trimalchio's Banquet")

as an example of the werewolf controlled by fates or nature. The soldier transforms only

after the narrator has related how "the moon was shining bright as noon" (Petronius 46), a

detail that suggests the moon is full.45 Interestingly, this is an aspect of the tale that Smith, in his discussion, overlooks, but nevertheless is tied to the soldier's transformation. "The

avenging and punishing deity," Veenstra writes, constitutes the third motivating force for transformation (136). In his Description of Greece, Pausanias's account of Lycaon, his transgressions, and Zeus's wrath provides an example of this category: Lycaon perverts the sacrificial practice of incinerating honey-cakes upon the altar dedicated to Zeus by

The Latin text states "[H]as herbas atque haec Ponto mihi lecta uenena / ipse dedit Moeris (nascuntur plurima Ponto); / his ego saepe lupum fieri et se condere siluis" (95-97). All quotations, English and Latin, are from Guy Lee's facing page translation of Virgil's Eclogues. "[L]una lucebat tamquam meridie" (56). English quotations from the Satyricon are from Sarah Ruden's translation; Latin quotations are from Konrad Mueller's edition of Satyricon Reliquiae. 44 slaughtering a human child and pouring its blood over the altar. He was immediately turned into a wolf for his sacrilege (Pausanias 372). Veenstra's fourth and fifth categories are more psychological than magical. He describes the fourth category as instances of

"psychic disorders" (136) and cites accounts from the works of Paulus Aegineta (Aigina), a Byzantine physician, as such an instance. Indeed, the seventh-century physician from

Alexandria encountered lycanthropy in his practice, and his voluminous encyclopedia of medicine "analyzes the disease, attributing its causes to brain malfunction, humoral pathology, and hallucinogenic drugs" (Often 13). The final, and fifth category, Veenstra describes as "[a] form of mental alienation" (137) and, turning from classical to medieval sources, he suggests that Augustine's discussions of lycanthropy as "demonic illusion"

(137) provide an example of this category.

Veenstra's categories perpetuate the use of a structured system that requires the identification of each narrative as a particular thing or type. The tale told by Niceros in

Petronius's Satyricon, however, demonstrates how such categorization creates conflict.

Smith, as we saw above, identified this tale as an example of the constitutional werewolf because the soldier (according to him) does not require any magical aid to transform;

Veenstra places the same narrative under his second category, the "forces of destiny" because the narrative suggests that the full moon brings about transformation. Neither

Smith nor Veenstra recognizes the element of ritual process that suggests the presence of magic. Petronius's account cannot be understood in any singular way; it resists definitive categorization. 45

1.2.3 The Purpose and Scope of this Project

Veenstra's approach, despite its limitations, provides the springboard so desperately needed for werewolf studies. Veenstra's argument that werewolf narratives

should be understood as both cultural artifacts that reflect their contexts and as narratives that operate as markers of cultural change works as a new methodology, one that avoids the dilemmas of categorization and that refrains from imposing categories upon werewolf narratives. As Veenstra explains,

The history of lycanthropy can be read as an index of cultural change and

intellectual development; the literature recording this mythology, is always

marked by a "change of heart" and by the ensuing tension between old

loyalties and new obligations, former beliefs and current doubts, past

prospects and present despair, or earlier superstitions and current

convictions. (138)

Werewolf figures persist in literature of various genres from antiquity to the present, and, as this project demonstrates, werewolf narratives frequently reflect the values of the culture or society from which they arise. Wolves and werewolves are ubiquitous in folklore, myth, and literature, particularly in the classical and medieval periods, as well as in the modern era. Further, at different times and in different contexts, they embody a myriad of meanings.

Writers from various epochs employ lupine figures in a multitude of genres in order to articulate religious beliefs (both pre-Christian and Christian), social and cultural practices or rituals, or understandings of identity and difference. In many of the latter instances, the werewolf is, in some way, associated with physical features or behaviours 46 that do not conform to the expected or accepted norms of a given society or culture. In such instances, the werewolf becomes a marker of difference, of otherness. However, what constitutes accepted norms or unaccepted difference varies depending upon the culture and period. If we consider werewolf narratives, synchronically, within their original cultural contexts we can uncover what each culture at the time the narrative was written considered as normative or transgressive. Further, if we consider the werewolf figure and narratives as markers of change and examine them diachronically, we can uncover how a culture changes over time and how its expression of difference may or may not simultaneously alter.

The purpose of this project, then, is to examine lupine figures in both a chronological and in a descriptive, rather than prescriptive, manner. Taking as its starting point the werewolves of antiquity, it moves forward to those of the medieval period, and culminates with the werewolves of J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. In doing so, it establishes the foundations of Rowling's werewolf figures; it provides the background and context from which Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback arise, and demonstrates how

Rowling's work "stems from previous texts," how it builds on "quotations and misquotations, on the vocabularies fashioned by others," and how it transforms the literary figure of the werewolf "through imagination and use" (Manguel 139). However, this study is not exhaustive; the narratives examined within have been selected for specific reasons, the most important of which is often their relationship to Rowling's

Harry Potter series and werewolf figures. An understanding of the classical and medieval narratives discussed in Chapters 2 and 3 is, therefore, necessary in order for the reader to 47 appreciate fully the complexity of Rowling's werewolves, Remus Lupin and Fenrir

Greyback.

The chapters of this dissertation reflect its scope and chronological approach.

Chapter 2, "Antiquity," focuses on classical texts and establishes my argument that no werewolf figure or narrative can be given a single, definitive label or interpretation. In order to demonstrate the breadth of lupine figures in the classical period, the narratives examined here derive from a variety of genres and cover a span of almost six centuries.

The first part of the chapter focuses primarily on lupine figures in histories, poetry, and fables. Starting with Herodotus's Histories, it examines the taboo most often associated with lycanthropy—cannibalism—as well as cultural and social practices in which wolves and werewolves figure prominently. It also examines the remnants of pre-Christian philosophical and religious beliefs within histories, as well as within poetic works by

Theocritus and Virgil. Finally, it examines the various interpretations of lupine figures within the Aesopic fables and within Petronius's Satyricon, and it pays particular attention to the association of wolves and werewolves with tyranny, violence, and bloodshed.

The second part of the chapter focuses specifically on narratives that recount the

Greek myths of Arcadia and its ruler, King Lycaon. Like the narratives discussed in the first part of the chapter, these narratives span centuries; they range from Apollodorus's

Library of Greek Mythology in the second century BC to Pausanias's Description of

Greece in the second century AD. This section concludes with a detailed discussion of

Ovid's werewolf narrative "Lycaon" (from the Metamorphoses), and identifies Ovid's tale as the quintessential werewolf narrative of the classical period because it embodies 48

all that the other classical narratives evoke. It is connected to the cultural myths of

creation and destruction; to stories of physical and social transformation; to the

articulation of social norms, taboos, and transgressive behaviours; and to explorations of

death and immortality, particularly to the issue of soul transmigration. Ultimately, and

contrary to much of the previous scholarship in the field of classical lycanthropy, which

focuses on the anthropological aspects of the tales or categorizes the type of

metamorphosis a werewolf undergoes, I conclude that classical werewolf narratives

operate on many levels, and that in order to appreciate or to understand them fully,

readers must approach them as sites of potentially varied meanings, as sites of tension

that reflect the evolving philosophical views, cultural practices, religious beliefs, and

mythical tenets of a period that spans centuries.

Chapter 3, "The Middle Ages," builds upon the argument established in Chapter

2, that narratives with lupine figures or with accounts of human to lupine metamorphosis

should be approached as texts that reflect the evolving philosophical views, cultural practices, historical contexts, religious beliefs, and mythical tenets of a period (this time

the medieval period) that spans centuries. The first part of the chapter examines narratives that demonstrate continuity with their classical antecedents through either similar content

(the inclusion of pre-Christian materials, whether mythic, religious, or folkloric) or

similar concerns (such as the associations of wolves and werewolves with death,

destruction, or difference). Starting with northern narratives such as the Eddie poem

Voluspd and the Icelandic Volsunga Saga, it examines the role of lupine figures in mythic

accounts of destruction and creation as well as in accounts of social practices such as

initiation rituals, especially martial initiation rituals. Here, also, it examines lupine figures 49

as markers of physical and behavioural difference, as representative of conditions of

social exile or outlawry. The first part of the chapter then expands its discussions to

include two other, closely related, medieval genres, the bestiary and the fable. Like the

northern narratives, bestiaries and fables demonstrate continuity with their classical

predecessors, although this time this continuity arises from the fact that medieval authors,

while creating bestiaries and fables, adapt and rework classical materials from the

classical fables of the Aesopic tradition as well as materials from natural philosophy texts,

frequently with the purpose of promoting Christian doctrine or of presenting social

criticisms. In doing so, they create tension in the narratives between the existing

meanings associated with the texts and the newly created ones.

The second part of the chapter examines the lupine figures in werewolf romances

from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries. These narratives arise at a critical turning

point in the medieval period, the twelfth-century renaissance, and demonstrate the impact

of conflicting philosophical views of change on literary genres. They are in stark contrast

to their classical predecessors through their depiction of the werewolf as a sympathetic

character, as an individual who undergoes physical change but retains his human mind or

capacity for intelligence and reason. Yet, while these narratives seek to distance their

lupine figures from those of previous periods or other genres, they share with these

antecedent and contemporary narratives a number of overt concerns; they articulate

definitive understandings of identity, difference, the soul, and soul transmigration, and they articulate explicit concern over the role of martial figures and their capacity for unabated violence, as well as for the maintenance of a just society. In short, the werewolf 50

romances provide social commentary on the medieval figure of the knight and the need

for this figure to employ restraint or control in everything he does.

Ultimately, these discussions provide the foundations for Chapter 4, which

discusses the werewolf figures of J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. This chapter

examines Rowling's texts alongside their classical and medieval antecedents, while

simultaneously explaining her adaptation of these sources in relation to the contemporary

culture that her texts reflect and comment upon. The first part of the chapter argues that

Rowling blends classical and medieval werewolf narratives such as Ovid's "Lycaon" and

Marie de France's "Bisclavret" not only with each other but also with the folkloric tale of

the Grim in order to create an unique werewolf figure, Remus Lupin. Through this unique

creation of a werewolf character, and through his relationship with Harry, Rowling upsets

readers' expectations; she challenges them to rethink the assumptions that they bring with

them to the texts, and she challenges them to rethink their own cultural contexts,

particularly social structures and hegemonies based upon categories of difference. The

second part of the chapter reinforces the argument established through the examination of

Remus Lupin; it argues that Rowling similarly draws upon northern mythology,

specifically Norse myths of Fenriswolf, in order to create another complex werewolf

figure, Fenrir Greyback. Like Remus Lupin, Fenrir Greyback challenges readers'

expectations and demands that they reconsider their own cultural contexts. Ultimately, the

Lupine figures appear in texts beyond the medieval period, especially in the seventeenth, nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Discussion of the connections between Rowling's series and later literature, however, is beyond the scope of this project. This project focuses on medieval and classical antecedents in particular because while countless similarities or parallels between sources from these periods and Rowling's texts have been drawn, the discussions in which these parallels are noted rarely examine how and why Rowling modifies her sources, and what purpose they serve. The introduction to Chapter 4 outlines such discussions. 51 chapter concludes that like her predecessors, Rowling negotiates concepts of identity and difference, particularly those connected to issues of violence and the boundaries between the human and the animal, through the werewolf figure. More importantly, however, it concludes that Rowling uses her werewolf figures and narratives to effect change—to challenge accepted concepts of identity and difference and to challenge readers' expectations and understandings of the world around them. Rowling plunders her classical and medieval sources in order to invent a new way of thinking for her readers.

Through her texts and characters, she elicits new "attitudes to the world that enable—or disable—[new] forms of understanding" (Prendergast 15). 52

Chapter 2: Antiquity

The classical werewolf is "Ferocious, hairy, dripping with blood, a devourer of human beings ... an emblem of the periodic eruption of the bestial from within the human." (Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity 94)

2.1 Introduction

In The Beast Within: Animals in the Middle Ages, Joyce Salisbury suggests that

during the classical period divisions between species were considered "illusory": animals

and humans were regarded as "closely related" (4). The frequency with which

metamorphosis occurs in classical myths and literature, Salisbury explains, proves that the classical world was one in which "all elements were connected" (159). When metamorphosis occurred, it revealed the relationship between or shared characteristics of the human and animal forms as well as the permeable nature of these forms.

Metamorphosis "made manifest the bestial nature that had been within" (159).

Marina Warner, in Fantastic Metamorphoses, Other Worlds, makes a similar argument, and she cites the tale of Lucius from Apuleius's The Golden Ass as an example of the connection between human and animal forms. In The Golden Ass, Lucius, a young man, becomes trapped in the form of an ass when he rubs a salve on his body that he believes will transform him into a bird. Lucius's transformation, while a shock to him, seems appropriate to the reader, for throughout the tale he exhibits stupidity and dull-

Apuleius's text is also known as the Metamorphoses. However, as I discuss Ovid's text by that title throughout my dissertation, I shall refer to Apuleius's work only by the title The Golden Ass. It is difficult to pinpoint an exact date for the text, although it was written most likely in the second century AD. The Oxford Dictionary of the Classical World does not note a date for the text; it records Apuleius's birth date as c. AD 125 and notes that "nothing is known of him after 170" ("Apuleius"). 53 witted behaviour, characteristics commonly associated with the ass or donkey. A group of bandits kidnap the equine Lucius, who then embarks upon a series of adventures in which he learns to correct the ignorant and hubristic behaviours that led to his transformation. Warner argues that metamorphic tales such as this, classical or otherwise, render the relationships between human and animal forms part of the self-realization process:

The traditional storytelling of a hero or heroine who journeys through

numerous ordeals, through misprisons and neglect, finally to arrive at

selfhood, follows this model of metamorphosis: the protagonist's true self

generates itself in its proper character after undergoing several

transformations; the larger transformation of their circumstances and the

appearance of the person's fullness of being unfolded through several

smaller transformations. (85)

Lucius's period in his non-human form reveals to him the error of his previous behaviours, while the burdens he endures as an ass teach him patience and understanding.

Only through his metamorphosis can he become the person he is at the tale's conclusion.

2 The association of the donkey or ass with pride and/or stupidity is a common motif that has endured, particularly in literature of the fantastic. See, for instance, the infamous donkey-headed Bottom in William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream; the character Rabadash in C.S. Lewis's The Horse and his Boy, whom Asian turns into an ass; or even the more recent bumbling and overly talkative character "Donkey" in the animated Shrek films. Not all donkeys or asses, however, are portrayed as stupid. The story of Balaam (Numbers 22.21-35) provides an example of an intelligent or wise ass. Balaam defies the will of God, who then sends an angel to block his path. Balaam is unable to see the angel, but his ass can see it. When the ass steers away from the angel on three separate occasions (and, therefore, away from his owner's intended path), Balaam beats it. Eventually, the angel, speaking through the ass, demands to know what the beast has ever done to deserve such treatment. God opens the eyes of Balaam, who then sees that he has sinned and repents. 54

The process of metamorphosis, then, is a vehicle for self-discovery and personal growth.

Lucius is able to uncover and overcome his shortcomings, and to evolve into a better human being, only through his experiences in an appropriate animal form.

While Warner's example validates the argument that both she and Salisbury make, other classical narratives demonstrate that tales of metamorphosis do not always reveal or reflect a vision of the world in which all things are connected or in which an individual achieves self-realization through his or her metamorphosis into an animal form. The fact that narratives of metamorphosis even exist as works of literary fiction in the classical period suggests that the species boundaries are not as illusory as Salisbury believes. In fact, if the species boundaries were illusory or non-existence, the narratives that articulate such a boundary transgression would not be successful as literary fictions; they would not require the reader to suspend his or her disbelief and, as J. R. R. Tolkien would say, enter the "Secondary World" ("On Fairy Stories" 37). Using his own experiences, Tolkien argues that the Secondary World (particularly that of fantasy or fairy stories) does not represent what is real or possible; rather, it represents what is desired. "Belief," he writes,

depended on the way in which stories were presented to me, by older

people, or by the authors, or on the inherent tone and quality of the tale.

But at no time can I remember that the enjoyment of a story was dependent

on belief that such things could happen. . . . Fairy-stories were plainly not

primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability. (40-41)

In Tolkien's terms, the presence of narratives that express an elision of the species boundaries suggests that such an elision was precisely what intrigued readers or what 55

readers desired; it suggests entirely the opposite scenario argued for by Salisbury and

Warner.

Antiquity, as an historical epoch, cannot therefore be as easily categorized or

explained as Warner and Salisbury attempt to do. Such attempts to characterize an entire

historical epoch may have heuristic value, but evidence to the contrary suggests that these

characterizations are also oversimplifications. Some classical thinkers, for example, were

greatly preoccupied with the task of separating the species and delineating the boundaries

between them. Both Plato (c. 428-347 BC) and Aristotle (384-322 BC), throughout their

works, insist upon the difference between humans and all other living things because of

the intellective capacity. Plato, in his Republic (436b-441c), outlines a tripartite

understanding of the soul with three elements: Reason, Desire, and Spirit. Reason is the

faculty that allows one to engage with logos, the structured and ordered system of

philosophical understanding endowed upon the rational part of the mind. Desire is the

faculty connected to the more basic needs, the bodily needs of a being. Desire is a wide-

reaching category that encompasses the appetites: basic items such as hunger as well as

items such as lust or greed. Spirit is the balancing element; it ensures that Desire does not

overrule Reason, thus maintaining equilibrium.

Aristotle similarly stratifies living things into three primary categories (vegetative

beings, non-vegetative beings, and humans) and insists that only humans are endowed

with thought or "reasoning power" {On the Soul 3.3.427b). In his History of Animals, he

also goes to great lengths to categorize and stratify all living beings, whether plant,

Aristotle explains that "thought belongs to no animal which has not reasoning power" ["[KJat ou&evi vnaqx^ &> \ri\ KCU Aoyos"] {On the Soul 3.3.427b). All quotations (English and Greek) are from W. S. Hett's facing page translation of the text. 56 animal, or human (with plant life occupying the lowest place and human life occupying the highest place in the hierarchy).4 He bases his classification of flora and fauna upon the inherent features or characteristics of each species and sub-species, and, in doing so, he develops a system that articulates "what each thing's essence is (the feature which provides fundamental account of its other genuine properties), of how things should be defined (in terms of their basic explanatory features)" (Charles 54). This system suggests that Aristotle was determined to find ways to establish and maintain the differences between entities rather than entertain the notion that these boundaries may be permeable.

Aristotle also argues that each item's essence has a teleological purpose, whether intrinsic or extrinsic. Certain types of things have certain types of souls specific to both their bodies and to their purpose of being. In On the Soul, he uses the example of an axe to explain this theory. "Suppose that an implement, e.g. an axe," he writes, "were a natural body; the substance of the axe would be that which makes it an axe, and this would be its soul; suppose this removed, and it would no longer be an axe" (2.1.412b).5

For Aristotle, the soul is not "an immaterial entity which 'inhabits' the body" (Durrant 7); rather, it is "an inner material substance" (7) that exists in concordance with the body that houses it. The Aristotelian soul is an embodied soul: "a soul is always the soul of something or other (man, animal, plant) and hence ... a soul cannot exist in separation from that of which it is the soul" (8). The soul (form) is the essence of a being—the

4 Books 7-10 of On the History of Animals provide the most detailed elaboration of Aristotle's system. 5 "TOUTO be TO TL fjv elvai TGJ TOLcpbi. ow\xaxi, KaGdrcep £i TL TGJV OQydvcov

distinctive feature that all examples of a type of being share—and is always determined by the body (matter) that accompanies it and by its teleological purpose.

By arguing for an embodied soul, Aristotle distinguishes himself from his predecessors, especially from Plato. He is not shy about this distinction. At the start of On the Soul's Book 2, Aristotle declares that he wants to dismiss the theories of his predecessors and "start afresh" on determining "what the soul is" (2.1.412a). Aristotle argues that this question, the question asked by his predecessors, is inappropriate. He suggests, instead, that to allow for the various beings and for the various teleological functions of those beings, it is more appropriate to ask, "What is the soul of each individual, for instance of the plant, the man, and the beast?" (2.3.414b).6

Aristotle's interpretation of the soul suggests that species boundaries are fixed and that any type of boundary transgression is impossible. In Book 1 of On the Soul, Aristotle directly refutes previous theories that consider the soul as an entity separate from the body, capable of self-motivated movement from one place (body) to another. He argues,

"it is not merely untrue that the essence of the soul is such as those describe it to be who say that the soul moves or can move itself, but it may be quite impossible that movement should be characteristic of the soul at all" (1.3.405b-406a).7 Any possibility that the soul can move of itself would be unnatural because such a movement would be a "departure

'TMAiv 5' cooTiEQ eC vna.Qxi]c, £7xavicoLX£v, 7i£LQco|aevoL bioQiom xi EOTL x|nj>xr] KaL xic, av etrj KOLVOXOCXCK; Aoyoc; avxf\c," (2.1.412a); "Aia xiva 5' aixiav xco £cb£<;fjc; ouxaxj EXOIXTI, aK£7ix£ov" (2.3.415a). 7 ""Iacoc; yaq ov jaovov \Jjeu&6g £oxi xo xr]v ovoiav avxf\c, xoLauxrjv ELVCU o'iav (paoiv ol A£yovx£g xbuxnv Elvai xo KLVOUV eauxo f] 5uvdja£vov KLVEL, dAA' £v XL xcov cocuvaxarv xo VTUXQXZW avxr\ Kivr]aiv" (1.3.405b-406a). 58

from its [the soul's] essential nature" (1.3.406b). This is not to say that the soul cannot

experience movement of a sort. Aristotle suggests that while the soul can experience

movement, this movement is always incidental. The soul does not move itself: it is moved

by the vessel that houses it (the matter to which it is intrinsically bound). In Aristotle's

view, "the living creature does not appear to be moved by the soul in this way, but by

some act of mind or will" (1.3.406b), by the sensory capacities: locomotion, growth, and

diminution.9 In Aristotle's system, then, the migration of a soul from body a (with one set

of features and a specific teleological purpose) to body b (with a different set of features

and a different teleological purpose) is implausible. A human soul cannot possibly exist

within a non-human body because such a body would not correspond with the human

soul's features or teleological purpose.

Yet the concept of the embodied soul proves problematic for the philosopher. In

On Generation and Corruption, for instance, he articulates the concepts of coming-to-be

and passing-away (or ceasing-to-be), which take place when the substance of one thing

disappears and the substance of another thing arises. For example, the action of water

evaporating into air constitutes coming-to-be and ceasing-to-be: water becomes air

through the same process that it ceases to be water. With coming-to-be and ceasing-to-be,

Aristotle suggests that a being's matter is mutable. Such an assertion calls into question

8 Such movement would '"H \\)VXf] £<;Lcrxaix' av EK xf]<; ovoiac," (1.3.406b). 9 T ""OAcoa 5' ovx ovxco cfjalvexai KLVELV r\ IJJUX1! ° Cwov, dAAd bux nQoaiQEOEGdc, xivoc; Kal vorjaeax;" (1.3.406b). 10 In On the Soul, Aristotle uses the concept of substance to refer to the combination of an entity's form and matter. This terminology, however, becomes problematic when he starts using it in his new theory. See On Generation and Corruption (1.3.319a) for a detailed summary of Aristotle's argument on coming-to-be and passing- away (ceasing-to-be). All quotations of Generation and Corruption are from E. S. Forster's facing page translation of the text. 59 his previous insistence in On the Soul that a being's matter and teleological purpose are intrinsic to its form.

Aristotle seeks to resolve this paradox through the introduction of a new concept, the substratum, and through an articulation of the difference between alteration and coming-to-be and ceasing-to-be. Substratum refers to something other than substance. It is a being's prime matter, "an imperceptible substratum which persists through substantial change" (C. J. F. Williams xv). Prime matter exists, persists, as potentiality rather than actuality, hence its imperceptible nature. Whether or not a substratum perceptibly persists throughout change determines whether the change a being undergoes is alteration or coming-to-be and ceasing-to-be. Perception is primary in distinguishing the different processes:

[Alteration occurs when the substratum, which is perceptible, persists, but

there is change in its properties, which are either directly or intermediately

contrary to one another: for example,... the bronze is spherical and then

again angular, remaining the same bronze. But when the thing as a whole

changes, nothing perceptible persisting as identical substratum (for

example, when the seed as a whole is converted into blood, or water into

air, or air as a whole into water), such a process is coming-to-be—and a

passing away of the other substance—particularly if the change proceeds

from something imperceptible to something perceptible (either to touch or

to all the senses). {Generation and Corruption 1.4.319b)

11 [A]AAOLCOGI<; \xi\ Ecrxiv, oxav LmoiaEvovxoc; xov U7ioK£L|a£vou, aiaGrjxoi) ovxog, (^£xa|3aAAr) EV xolg aixou naQeoiv, f\ ivavzioic, oftaiv f\ \JL£T(X£,V, ... Kai 6 X«AKOC; axpoyytjAog, 6x£ be ycoviOEibr\c, 60

Thus, alteration occurs when something perceptible persists throughout change, while coming-to-be and ceasing-to-be occur when nothing perceptible persists throughout change. Yet, even if there is nothing perceptible persistent in the change, the substratum remains unchanged precisely because it is imperceptible in nature.

The fact that Aristotle struggled with the delineation of species boundaries and with the concept of change suggests, overall, that this was an area of concern for some classical philosophers. Boundaries existed and the transgression of these boundaries was firmly denied, but the possibility of transgression itself was enough to cause discomfort.

Similar concerns appear in a number of tales of metamorphosis from the classical period, especially tales of werewolfery, which abound in classical histories and ethnographies, as well as in poetry and fables. An examination of this particular instance of metamorphosis

(transformation from human to lupine form) reveals that varied and sometimes contradictory interpretations of the relationship between living things existed during the classical period, as well as that lupine metamorphosis itself similarly took on varied and sometimes contradictory meanings. Narratives that include lupine figures but not necessarily accounts of transformation also demonstrate the various meanings presented in the accounts of werewolfery and reinforce the argument that classical accounts of werewolves and lupine figures are not singular in meaning; rather, they are multi-faceted.

6 avxoc, ye cov. oxav 5' 6Aov |aexa|3dAAr] urj imojaevovxoc; aia6r)TOu xivoc; coc, u7iOK£i|j.£vot> xou auxou, dAA' olov £K xfjg yovfjg alpa 7idor]g fj ££, vbaxoc, cri)Q f\ ££. aeqoc; navibc, vbcoq, yeveoic, f\br\ xo XOLOUXOV, XOO 5£ cbBopd, jadAiaxa &£, av f] |_i£xa|3oAr] yivr\xai eB, dvaia0r|xoij> E'IC; ala0r]x6v fj dcjyrj fj naoaic, rale; aioQr\oeoiv. (1.4.319b) This chapter, which has two sections, demonstrates the diverse nature of lupine

narratives. The first section explores classical narratives that include or highlight lupine

figures and werewolf characters. The narratives are discussed chronologically; they

include a variety of genres, from histories to poetic works, and cover a span of almost six

centuries. Because lupine figures (of whatever sort) are pervasive in classical literature,

the sample of narratives examined here is not exhaustive. Rather, the sample includes

narratives that display the breadth or diversity of the lupine figure in classical literature.

Moreover, a number of the narratives included are discussed specifically because they

have received either limited or unsatisfactory treatment in previous studies. The first

section of the chapter therefore expands the study of these narratives and suggests new

readings of them, while the second section focuses on a more cohesive group of

narratives, specifically narratives that recount the Greek myths of Arcadia and its ruler,

King Lycaon. Like the former part of the chapter, this part is organized chronologically

and expands the existing conversation about lupine figures through close readings and the

consideration of cultural and historical contexts. It also focuses on Ovid's interpretation

of the Lycaon myth in his Metamorphoses. Overall, the section demonstrates that narratives with lupine figures or with accounts of human to lupine metamorphosis should be approached as sites of potentially varied meanings, as sites of tension that reflect the

evolving philosophical views, cultural practices, historical contexts, religious beliefs, and mythical tenets of a period that spans centuries. Finally, the chapter overall provides the foundations for subsequent chapters: it provides background information pertinent to an understanding of the medieval narratives discussed in Chapter 3, many of which derive from, adapt, or seek to differentiate themselves from their classical predecessors; it also, 62 more importantly, provides background information essential to an understanding of J. K.

Rowling's Harry Potter series, which is the focus of Chapter 4. The narratives discussed in this chapter, along with the traditions they reflect and/or comment upon, ultimately provide both sources and contexts for Rowling's werewolf figures Remus Lupin and

Fenrir Greyback.

2.2 Werewolves and Lupine Figures in Classical Narratives

Richard Buxton remarks that "Stories of ancient werewolf belief are . . . scarce, although there is ... a certain amount of material from Greece" (68), but his comment is something of an understatement. To say that there exists "a certain amount of material" is to overlook the prevalence of lupine figures (of whatever sort—wolf, werewolf, or human with wolfish characteristics) in classical narratives. In fact, as Paul M. C. Forbes Irving points out, "werewolf stories are a common feature in the European folk-tale; they are found frequently in late Antiquity and probably existed in Arcadia" (56). The first section of this chapter concurs with Forbes Irving: lupine references abound in antiquity in a variety of sources—from histories and poetry to fables—and they demonstrate how much the idea of the wolf permeated classical thought. The following pages subsequently explore what lupines figures represent in a variety of classical texts, ranging from the fifth century BC to the first century AD.

2.2.1 Herodotus, Cannibalism, and Rites of Passage

In early antiquity, the Greek historian Herodotus (484-425 BC) penned one of the earliest catalogues of peoples or races and provided one of the earliest classical accounts 63 of werewolfery.1 In his Histories, Herodotus includes a short entry on an entire race of people that engage in lupine transformation. He explains, "once a year every one of the

Neuri is turned into a wolf, and after remaining so for a few days returns again to his former shape" (4.105). Two things in particular stand out about this account, despite its brevity. The first is that this is the only account (that I have uncovered) that specifies explicitly that all members of a community transform. As demonstrated by the narratives discussed below, transformation is usually limited to an individual or a select group of individuals from a given society, often chosen by lot. Further, Herodotus specifies that the

Neuri remain in wolf form for only a short period. This is common in a number of stories of individual transformation, such as the soldier in the Satyr icon, but, in such instances, transformation is limited to a shorter period of time (the span of an evening, for example) dependent upon an external feature such as a full moon. The accounts in the following section that identify werewolfery as a communal practice often specify longer periods of transformation, typically seven or nine years. Also, Herodotus does not impose conditions upon the transformations he discusses. While he speculates that "It may be that they [the

Neuri] are wizards" (4.105), he does not further specify or elucidate upon the means by which they transform. The second notable feature of this narrative is its overall placement in the text: it is followed by a number of entries concerning unusual races. The

1 In fact, the nature of Herodotus's work, specifically his method of cataloguing of races, resembles but also predates the accounts of Pliny the Elder's (AD 23-79) famous and voluminous work the Natural History (Historia Naturalis), as well as Isidore of Seville's (c. AD 560-636) Etymologies (Etymologiae). 2 "[A]eyovxaiya.Q imo EKUGECOV KCLI 'EAAf|vcov xcov ev xf\ EKUSLKTJ KaTOLKT]|j.£vcov cog £T£o<; kKaoTOV anaE, xclrv Neupcov EKaaxoc; AUKOC; yivezai f]|a£Qag dAiyac, KO1 avxic, OTLIOCO £g xcbuxo Kaxtaxaxai" (4.105). All quotations (English and Greek) are from A. D. Godley's facing page translation of the Histories. Citations specify Book and Chapter. 3 "[K]LvSuv£uoucri5£ oi avQQConoi oi)TOiy6r]TEc, etvai" (4.105). 64 entry that directly follows the entry on the Neuri is about "The Man-eaters," who "are of all men the most savage in their manner of life; they know no justice and obey no law"

(4.106).4 Buxton argues that Herodotus's placement of the Neuri before the cannibals is

"wholly logical" (68). The Neuri, because of their transformative abilities, are as marginal as the cannibals they precede. In other words, they display or enact cultural practices that differentiate them or place them outside of the realm of accepted norm.

Yet, the entry on the Cannibals also states, "they are the only people of all these that eat men" (4.106).5 The cannibal is the ultimate other or outsider, and cannibalism is the "quintessential symbol of alterity, an entrenched metaphor of cultural xenophobia"

(Goldman l).6 The cannibal exists outside of the known and central world, whether geographically, as an inhabitant of a distant land, or historically, as a member of a

"precosmic" or primordial society that "predate[s] human civilization" (Goldman 7-8).

Cannibalism is also, as Bynum explains, the ultimate taboo, the "ultimate metamorphosis

(human eating human—that is, turning another person not just into food but into himself)" {Metamorphosis and Identity 169). Cannibalism violates "the boundary between human and human" (169) because the body consumed ceases to be what it was and becomes part of something else. Cannibalism collapses the system of differentiation

"AvbgocfxiYoi Se ayQiwxaxa navxoov dv6omarv EXOIXJL f)0£a, ouxe 5LKT]V vojaiCovTxg ouxe vo\xcp OUSEVL XQSCOjaevoi" (4.106). 5 "[A]v5pocj)aY£OuaL5£ |uouvoi TOUTOTV" (4.106). 6 Not all forms of cannibalism are the same. In fact, anthropologists identify three distinct types of cannibalism. The first, "survival cannibalism,^ occurs when humans consume "human flesh in emergency starvation situations" (Goldman 14). "Exocannibalism" occurs when a community or individual consumes the flesh of another human that is an "outsider" to his or her community (14). "Endocannibalism" occurs when the flesh of a human from within an "insider" community, such as a peer group or family member, occurs (14). Most non-cannibalistic cultures, however, consider all forms of cannibalism to be equally horrific. 65 that separates individuals from each other while it also simultaneously removes any chance the spirit has to ascend or to be liberated from its material body (D. Williams 145-

46). The processes of consumption and digestion turn the original person into part of a new person. What the consumed flesh once was ceases entirely to exist as either form or matter.

For the ancient Greeks, cannibalism was therefore "abhorrent" (Renehan 255) on

several levels. First, Greek society, the pinnacle of human civilization, depended upon

"preserving man's place in the hierarchy between beasts and god" (Segal 291). Humans held a place over beasts while gods held a place over humans. Humans inhabited an ordered, civilized world, while beasts inhabited a disordered, uncivilized world, and anyone who behaved like a beast transgressed the boundary between these worlds (301).

Essentially, Cannibalism elided the difference between humans and beasts because it confounded "physis, the state of nature, with nomos, the ordered structure of human

society" (305); to engage in cannibalism was to leave the ordered, civilized and, therefore, human realm for the world of uncivilized chaos inhabited by beasts.7

Cannibalism was also abhorrent to ancient Greeks because it erased the largest differentiating factor between humans and beasts, the "capacity for intellectual activity"

(Renehan 240). Therefore, if a human engages in cannibalism, the act is a choice and a transgression of social mores that is wittingly made. To put it more simply, a human knows that cannibalism is wrong while a beast does not, and if a human chooses to engage in cannibalism, then he or she chooses to abandon the civilized, ordered world and enter a life of savagery.

7 The Greek abhorrence of cannibalism reinforces this chapter's argument that species boundaries were not categorically illusory, as Salisbury and Warner posit. 66

Finally, cannibalism was problematic for the ancient Greeks because it interfered

with the natural processes of death, particularly with the soul's ability to enter the

afterlife. Ceremonial rites, whether involving burial or cremation, represented the soul's

continued journey within the social order or civilized community. According to Jan

Bremmer,

[A] proper funeral functions as a rite of passage for the dead into an

afterlife. In the Archaic period a funeral was not simply the burial or

cremation of the body; there were a series of rites that were thought to aid

the dead soul in its passage from the world of the living to the world of the

dead. (89)

Cannibalism denies the body and thus the soul of the deceased the proper processes that

ensure the soul's safe arrival in Hades. If the dead body is desecrated, consumed, or

treated improperly in any way, then the soul is denied integration into the society or

community of the afterlife (93). Instead, it is forced to remain in a "liminal state . . .

neither part of the world of the living nor part of the world of the dead" (93).

Here, Bremmer draws upon Arnold van Gennep's and Victor Turner's theories of

liminality and rites of passage. According to van Gennep, rites de passage are "rites

which accompany every change of place, state, social position and age" (qtd. in Turner

94). Both van Gennep and Turner suggest that during rites of passage (of which initiation rituals are one type) individuals experience "a common pattern of separation from family

and society, a liminal period often associated with a reversal of status (and sometimes including a disguise or disfigurement) and a final reintegration into society" (Forbes

Irving 51). The overall process endows upon the individual "a special magico-religious 67 quality" (van Gennep 82), a type of wisdom or chastening, physical and/or spiritual, that is revered by society at large when he or she is reintegrated.8 Yet, while in process, liminal people, or "threshold people," are "neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, convention, and ceremonial"

(Turner 94). Those who have died but whose bodies have not undergone the appropriate rites, become and remain liminal. Thus, as Bremmer suggests, "Funeral rites belong to the rites of incorporation" (92); they allow the soul to remain connected to a human community in death (a community in Hades, or the afterlife) as it is in life despite the fact that it has been forcibly exiled from its original community through the very act of death.9

The guarantee of this inclusion in human community (even if a human community in the afterlife) ensures that the soul does not run the risk of becoming a part of the disordered, uncivilized world, even when separated from its mortal body.

The ancient Greek views of the soul and cannibalism, then, suggest that

Herodotus's distinction between the Neuri and the Cannibals is an important one. No account is made at all in the entry on the Neuri of cannibalism; in fact, their juxtaposition with the Cannibals and the author's comment that the latter group is the only group to engage in cannibalism suggest that the Neuri do not participate in any such behaviour, even when in lupine form. While the Neuri may be different or liminal, they are not fully

An example of such reverence or special quality is, Turner suggests, "The medieval knight's vigil, during the night before he receives the accolade, when he has to pledge himself to serve the weak and the distressed and to mediate on his on own unworthiness. His subsequent power is thought partially to spring from this profound immersion in humility" (105). 9 Indeed, even today, the living often ensure the perpetual inclusion of the dead within the community through ancestor worship, prayers for the dead, and other communal activities such as the leaving of flowers or food on the grave site of the deceased. 68 equal to the Cannibals because they do not consume human flesh. Instead, the collective nature of their transformation actually confirms a type of inclusion or incorporation that cannibalism outright denies. The collective transformation renders all members of the social structure liminal at the same time; there is no actual division within the society.10

The ability to transform and the annual participation in this ritual can be seen as the defining characteristic of the society: one is considered Neurian precisely because one engages in recurring transformations. In this sense, werewolfism is the foundation of

Neurian society; it is the process that identifies and unites all members of the community.

Buxton may be right that Herodotus's placement of the Neuri next to the Cannibals is

"wholly logical" because both are groups that have cultural practices outside of the norm for Greek society, but it would be an injustice to the Neuri to elide the differences between them and the Cannibals that Herodotus clearly insists upon. Herodotus's view of the Neuri is actually quite neutral in contrast to his view of the Cannibals. He displays little or no concern for the method or reason of the Neuri transformations, and the werewolfism that he outlines is ambiguous: it is not cannibalistic or morally wrong, and it is never definitively explained.

This is actually an interesting example of a society that engages rites de passage and the liminal stage associated with these rites because the collective nature of the liminality suggests that the Neuri conform to Turner's theory that there are two social models, one a structured "hierarchical system of politico-legal-economic positions with many types of evaluation, separating men in terms of 'more' or 'less,'" the other an "unstructured or rudimentarily structured and relatively undifferentiated comitatus, community, or even communion of equal individuals" (96). Typically, Turner suggests, these systems exist in opposition to each other or as alternating systems. The Neuri, as a group, move back and forth between the structured society and the comitatus, between the normative and the liminal, and in doing so create an unusual equality amongst the society's members; no one person is exiled or removed, rendered other or different from the rest. They become liminal together and they return to regular society together. 69

Finally, Herodotus confesses his own disbelief in the metamorphic process when

he declares, "For myself, I cannot believe this tale; but they [the Scythians] tell it

nevertheless, yea, and swear to its truth" (4.105)." He records that the Scythians (the

neighbours to the Neuri), who told him of the Neuri, whole-heartedly believe the accounts

of transformation, but he remains firm that the accounts are implausible. His distancing of

himself from the material suggests that what fascinated Herodotus about the Neuri was

not the possibility of werewolfery as a veritable cultural practice, if a harmless and

unusual one, but rather the belief in the existence of such a practice as a common

communal cultural experience. He records the account because it interests him

anthropologically, but he remains sceptical about the physical transformations of which

the Neuri are supposedly capable.

2.2.2 Poetic Accounts: Theocritus and Virgil

Approximately one hundred and seventy five years later, the Greek poet

Theocritus (c. 310-250 BC) ventured into the realm of werewolfery in his Idylls, a

collection of short pastoral poems. As Smith points out in his study, Theocritus's "Idyll

14," a dialogue between two friends on the topic of unrequited love, reflects the

superstition that a person seen by a wolf before he or she sees the wolf will be struck dumb. In the Idyll, Aeschinas loses the affections of Cynisca, the woman with whom he is besotted, to another man. During a drinking toast that requires each person present to identify his or her loved one in a toast, Cynisca fails to speak Aeschinas's name. In jest, one of the other participants asks her if she has seen a wolf and thus has been struck

"Ti|a£ jaev virv xavxa Aeyovxeg ou neiQovoi, Aeyouai be ovbev fjaaov, Kal 6[_iucri be Aeyovxec;" (4.105). 1 /

dumb. Smith's treatment of "Idyll 14" ends with this observation. Like Smith, Summers

references Theocritus only in a discussion of the folkloric belief that the sight of a wolf

can strike a person dumb. Adam Douglas follows suit and comments that "Theocritus

does not mention lycanthropy in the poem" (56). While this is true—"Idyll 14" does not

have an account of metamorphosis—there are significant lupine references that these and

other critics have previously overlooked.

A close reading of the poem reveals that the wolf figures far more prominently in

the narrative. Aeschinas, who is already suspicious of Cynisca, reveals to his companion

Thyonichus, "There is a wolf, you see, my neighbour Labes's son Wolf (24), and he

admits that he has heard rumours about an affair (27). After the drinking toast, one of the revellers sings the song "O Wolf, My Wolf." While the content of the song is not disclosed, the fact that it is sung in the context of a night of drinking suggests that the

content is lewd, at best. When Cynisca bursts into tears, Aeschinas concludes that there is,

indeed, another man; further, because of the title of the song, he surmises that the lover is, in fact, his neighbour's son. He continues his complaint to Thyonichus, bemoaning that for Cynisca, "It's all Wolf now, and the door's open for Wolf, even at night" (47).14 This new lover, the man responsible for igniting Cynisca's "grande passion" (26), and for wooing her away from Aeschinas, is described as "Tall, smooth-skinned, and handsome"

12 In their Greek-English Lexicon, Liddell and Scott explain the proverb "AUKOV L5£LV" ("to see a wolf) as "to be struck dumb, as was vulgarly believed of any one at whom a wolf got the first look" (1064). 13 ""Eaxi AuKog, Auicog ioxi, Ad(3a xcb yeiTOvoc, ulog" (24); "xd|-uv TOUTO bi CJTOC, lyevTO nox dovxqi ouxcog" (27). All English quotations are from Anthony Verity's translation of the Idylls; all Greek quotations are from A. S. F. Gow's edition of Bucolici Graeci. 14 "AuKog vuv ndvxa, AVKCO Kai VUKTOC; dvcoKxai" (47). 71

(25);15 his sexual appeal is apparent. While not lupine in an external or physical manner

(he lacks the usual hairiness of a lupine figure), Wolf is lupine because of his sexual appetite and predatory behaviour. Theocritus's "Idyll 14" thus identifies the lupine figure with humans; more specifically, it identifies the lupine figure with the excessive—and therefore negative and abnormal—sexual behaviours exhibited by the humans. Further, while Wolf is clearly driven by his carnal desires, Cynisca's ready response to his advances, her readiness to be unfaithful to Aeschinas, suggests that she is partly responsible for Wolfs seduction of her, and therefore that she is indirectly included in the lupine metaphor. She is, in a way, as much a wolf as her (new) lover. Wolf is a sexual predator with an insatiable sexual appetite, and Cynisca is his female counterpart.16

Wolf and Cynisca, however, are not the only interesting characters in "Idyll 14."

Aeschinas also displays some notable features that suggest a lupine connection. In the opening lines, Thyonichus complains to Aeschinas, "you need a good shave, and your hair's / All long and scraggy!" (4).17 Aeschinas also suggests that his psychological condition is one in which his employment of his rational faculties is at risk: "Only a hair's

1 Q breadth separates me from madness, you know" (9). Presumably, the lovesick

Aeschinas neglects his physical hygiene because of his near-madness. Aeschinas's near- 15 "[E]u|adicr]g, anaAoc,, 7TOAAOL<; 6OK£CJV KaAog fjjaev / TOUTCO TOV KAi3|a£vov KaxECJ^QuyeTO xfjvov £QWTa" (25-26). 16 Interestingly, Verity reinforces Cynisca's inclusion in the lupine metaphor by translating "£|aov KCUCOV" (36) as "bitch." His choice of words here suggests that Cynisca is the female canine, and given the implications of the perpetually open door, one could assume that she is also a bitch in heat. However, the line can be translated more literally as "my misfortune" or "my wicked one." Aeschinas uses this expression to identify Cynisca while he is talking to her, specifically when he bemoans his own downfall at the loss of her love. In this context, an understanding of the passage as "my misfortune" would be more appropriate. 17 "[X]cb \jLVoraE, noAvc, OOTCK;, dvoxaAEOi bk KIKLVVOL" (4). 18 "[Ajaocb bk \jLoveic, TLOKCL, 0QU; ava \A.£OOOV" (9). 72 madness, his loss of his rational faculty, actually aligns him more closely to beasts than to other humans, while his dilapidated state suggests that he has strayed from a civilized, human manner of living.19 Further down, Thyonichus also aligns Aeschinas's dilapidated state with the mendicant philosophers of the classical period, who were frequently satirized in literature. "A Pythagorist was here the other day," he says, "looking / Just like you, pale and barefoot" (5-6). While this reference is clearly derogatory and is meant to emphasize the negative state that Aeschinas has allowed himself to fall into, the features seen here—an unshaven face, shaggy hair, pale skin—appear in other narratives, such as

Ovid's "Lycaon," and are explicitly linked to characters who transform into wolves. It is possible that Aeschinas's condition, with its own lupine overtones, could actually be an attempt to recapture the heart of Cynisca. If she once fell for a "wolf of sorts, perhaps she could do so again.

Thyonichus's suggestion that Aeschinas looks like a mendicant philosopher, specifically like Pythagoras, also connects his lupine appearance to dated philosophical beliefs and cultural practices. He refers here to Pythagoras of Samos, a mathematician and philosopher born in the mid-sixth century BC. Pythagoras established a community in

Magna Graecia that was "bound together by common cult practices" ranging from burial rites and dietary requirements to the abandonment of personal property (Kahn 6, 8-9).

Although Pythagoreanism includes the study of "mathematics, music, and astronomy"

(153)—a branch of thought that, ultimately, influenced much Platonic thought—as a field

19 This departure from human behaviour into the realm of uncivilized behaviour evokes the distinction that Greek philosophers made between humans and animals; specifically, it evokes the association of reason or the rational faculty with humans and the association of baser desires with animals. 9A "[TJOIOUTCN; Tcpcoav TIC; a

* 91

overall it "was not highly regarded" (Solodow 164). Joseph B. Solodow suggests that

other areas of Pythagorean thought, the belief in metempsychosis and the subsequent

advocation for vegetarianism, were considered the basic tenets of Pythagoreanism and

were "generally held in ridicule" by Pythagoras's contemporaries and by later classical

thinkers (165). Metempsychosis, or transmigration, is the transmigration of the soul from

one body to the next, regardless of species, upon the death of the current body.22 Because

the soul could move indiscriminately between species, it is possible for a human soul to

be housed in a non-human form.23 This possibility, for the Pythagoreans, suggested a

"kinship" between "all living things" and created the potential for "murder or patricide"

in the killing of animals (Kahn 151), hence the Pythagorean practice of vegetarianism.

91 Kahn identifies three branches of Pythagorean thought, although the latter two receive far more attention from critics. The first branch is the "tradition of the occult and the supernatural," accounts of the wise man or sage and the miracles associated with him (139). The second branch encompasses the study of music, mathematics, and astronomy, while the third branch focuses on the belief in the immortality of the soul and the connectedness of all living beings. Pythagoreanism influenced Plato in a number of areas, especially in the areas of "number theory" and "mystical thought" (Hawkins 734-35). Plato also perpetuated the Pythagorean belief in the immortality and the connectedness between living things. In the Republic (614b-621d), he articulates a vision of the soul and its many reincarnations that does not discriminate between animal and human life forms. While the rational faculty of the soul (Reason) is associated with that which is human, this association does not prevent the soul from being reborn into a non-human form in subsequent incarnations. It is precisely this understanding of the soul that Aristotle rejects when, in On the Soul, he establishes a stratified system that separates humans from other living things. 99 I use the terms "metempsychosis" and "transmigration" interchangeably. 23 As Warner points out, Plato provides examples of such soul migration. Plato provides examples of human souls transmigrating to non-human forms and, in doing so, choosing forms that provide an ironic correspondence between each soul's previous and new incarnations, some human to human, some human to non-human. For example, "Atalanta, the swift runner, chooses to become a male athlete," while Orpheus, Ajax, and Agamemnon choose, respectively, the forms of a swan, a lion, and an eagle {Fantastic Metamorphoses 205). See the Republic (10.620a-620b). 74

Numerous literary examples support Solodow's claim that the Pythagorean sect

suffered frequent ridicule. Two of the most notable examples are contemporary with

Pythagoras. An excerpt in Xenophanes mocks Pythagoras, who, encountering a man

beating a dog, exclaims, "Stop beating that dog! From his cries I recognize the ghost

(psyche) of a friend" (qtd. in Kahn 11). Heraclitus, another contemporary, wrote that,

although Pythagoras was well educated, he "made a wisdom of his own, much learning

(polymatheie), artful knavery (kakotechnie)" (qtd. in Kahn 2). Heraclitus implies that

Pythagoras's theories, despite being grounded in solid learning, are preposterous and

certainly false. Other accounts, by Athenian writers in the fourth century BC, are particularly humourous in their treatment of Pythagoras and his followers, depicting the

lifestyle of the Pythagorean sect in a negative manner while representing Pythagoras as a

somewhat deranged wise man. One text portrays Pythagorists as "unwashed, barefoot vegetarians" (Kahn 49), and "fragments of a dialogue by Aeschines [exist] in which

Socrates converses with a Pythagorean named Telauges, who is dressed like an eccentric hippie" (49). Likewise, Theocritus's portrayal of the dilapidated Aeschinas participates in the ridicule of Pythagorists. In Thyonichus's opinion, a Pythagorist is someone who adheres to a simple lifestyle and appears uncivilized by societal standards (Hunter 103).

Thus in one character—Aeschinas—Theocritus combines elements of dated philosophical beliefs and cultural practices with lupine references that represent physical and behavioural difference. Further, Theocritus provides two possible and contradictory representations of the wolf, reinforcing my notion that interpretations of lupine figures are not singular. The character explicitly named Wolf is clean-shaven (and, therefore, well kept), whereas Aeschinas, like the more prevalent lupine figure in classical narratives, is 75 unshaven and hairy, even bordering on the furry. Theocritus thus suggests that lupine figures can be identified by various and differing physical and behavioural characteristics.

Virgil's Eclogues (37 BC), which adapt material from Theocritus's Idylls, also introduce a werewolf figure.24 In "Eclogue 8," Damon and Alphesiboeus sing songs on the topic of unrequited love. Alphesiboeus reworks the story of Simaetha, who, in

Theocritus's "Idyll 2," performs a series of magical spells in order to re-ignite the passions of her absent lover. In Alphesiboeus's song, Simaetha reveals her connection to a sorcerer-werewolf figure when she outlines her plans to regain, through magical means, the lost love of Daphnis. She first identifies the series of magical tools that she will engage in order to "Draw Daphnis back from town,. .. draw Daphnis home" (68).25 Her list describes a ritual including an altar, wool, vervain, and incense; a Venus knot spell made with three different coloured threads; a fire hot enough to liquefy wax and solidify mud; and, finally, a ritual including a plant with magical qualities that grows abundantly in Pontus. 6 Simaetha explains how an individual named Moeris transforms into a wolf

The Latin poet Virgil (Publius Vergilius Maro) lived from 70-19 BC. "[Dlucite ab urbe domum, mea carmina, ducite Daphnin" (68). Fetch water and around this altar wind soft wool And burn the sappy vervain and male frankincense,

First with these triple threads in separate colours three I bind you, then about the alter thrice I bear Your puppet self...

Tie the three colours, Amaryllis, in three knots; Just tie them and repeat "The Venus knot I tie"

As this wax liquefies and this mud solidifies In one and the same fire, so Daphnis in our love. Sprinkle the meal and burn the brittle bay with pitch. (64-65, 73-75, 77-78, 80-82) 76

through the use of this plant, and that he gave her a quantity of this plant for her own use.

Near the song's close, she instructs her companion to enact a short ritual with the ashes of

the magical plant: "Take out the ashes, Amaryllis, and throw them into / The stream over

your shoulder—don't look back. With these / I'll get at Daphnis (101-103).27 This ritual,

although not one that will bring about Simaetha's physical transformation, should bring

about the transformation of Daphnis's feelings towards her.

Although Moeris occupies a secondary role in the song, his influence on Simaetha

illustrates the latter's firm belief in magic and transformation, particularly the possibility

of physical transformation. She says as much in the song when she compares her own

magic to the magic of Circe, the sorceress who turned "the shipmates of Ulysses" into

swine (70).28 Further, when she complains that Daphnis cares nothing "for gods and

spells" (103), she suggests that she and her lost love do not share the same type of

Effer aquam et molli cinge haec altaria uitta uerbenasque adole pinguis et mascula tura,

terna tibi haec primum triplici diuersa colore licia circumdo, terque haec altaria circum effigiem duco;...

necte tribus nodis ternos, Amarylli, colores; necte, Amarylli, modo et 'Veneris' die 'uincula necto'

limus ut hie durescit, et haec ut cera liquiescit uno eodemque igni, sic nostro Daphnis amore. sparge molam et fragilis incende bitumine lauros. (64-65, 73-75, 77-78, 80-82) 97 • "[F]er cineres, Amarylli, foras ruioque fluenti / transque caput iace, nee respexeris. his ego Daphnin adgrediar" (101-103). Simaetha's instructions to Amaryllis recall the proverb about the wolfs first look. Amaryllis should not look back for fear of being struck dumb by the wolf. 28 "[C]arminibus Circe socios mutauit Vlixi" (70). 77

spiritual or religious beliefs. The processes Simaetha uses in her attempt to re-woo

Daphnis (the same processes used by the werewolf-magician Moeris) are the remnants of

an archaic belief system, one in which Daphnis clearly does not participate.

Veenstra includes this episode of Virgil's Eclogues within his first category of

causes of transformation, "metamorphosis brought about by magic, performed by a

magician" (135). Veenstra briefly discusses Moeris, the sorcerer-werewolf figure of poem, in the context of magical arts once related to religious rites. Alphesiboeus's

Simaetha explains that "Moeris with these [plants] has turned wolf often and disappeared

/ Into the woods, has often called up ghosts from graves / And spirited (I've seen it) crops to other fields" (97-99). This passage confirms Veenstra's argument that Greek religion underwent a process of change from a "partly theriomorphic to [a] wholly

anthropomorphic" system (143), a change that was closely related to another "change of culture whereby ancient hunting societies changed into agricultural and later urban communities" (144). The totemism suggested by Moeris's magical performance (and thus by the magic enacted by Simaetha) reflects ancient rituals that were, by the time of Virgil,

"no longer a medium for communicating with the gods" (143). Moeris's presence within the narrative is thus a marker of this cultural change.

While Veenstra's treatment of the Eclogue ends at this point, there are other features of the narrative worth exploring that relate both to the lupine figure and to the argument that its presence in the text reflects a context of cultural change. Damon also makes reference, albeit briefly, to a wolf in his song, in which he recounts the story of a

29 "[N]ihil ille deos, nil carmina curat" (103). 30 "[H]is ego saepe lupum fieri et se condere siluis / Moerim, saepe animas imis excire sepulchris, / atque satas alio uidi traducere messis" (97-99). 78

goatherd Tityrus, whose beloved (Nysa) has scorned him for another man.31 Tityrus,

unlike Alphesiboeus's Simaetha, recognizes that, despite his song, it is improbable that

Nysa will return his love. He sings,

Let wolves now run away from sheep, let the hard oak

Bear golden apples, let narcissus bloom on alder,

Let tamarisks exude rich amber from their bark,

And owls compete with swans, let Tityrus be Orpheus. (52-55)32

This list of improbable, even unnatural occurrences, suggests that Tityrus recognizes the futility of both his song and his love for Nysa. The chance that she will return his love is as unlikely as the wolf fleeing from sheep. Tityrus's reference to the wolf, within the list of inversions, also reinforces the perception that the wolf is predatory in nature, and that, as a predatory being, it preys upon gentler creatures such as sheep.

Damon's choice of song also echoes Theocritus's "Idyll 14," particularly to the somewhat lupine character Aeschinus. In the song, Tityrus bemoans Nysa's marriage to

Mopsus and provides, perhaps unwittingly, the reason she scorned him. He sings,

O what a worthy man you've wed, while you despise

Us all, and while my pan-pipe and my little goats

And shaggy brows and jutting beard are your disgust,

And you believe no god cares for humanity. (32-35)

31 Damon's song, like Alphesiboeus's, reworks a specific Theocritan Idyll, this time "Idyll 3." In "Idyll 3," however, the name of Tityrus's loved one is Amaryllis, a name that actually appears in Simaetha's song. 32 [N]unc et ouis ultro fugiat lupus, aurea durae mala ferant quercus, narcisso floreat alnus, pinguia corticibus sudent electra myricae, certent et cycnis ululae, sit Tityrus Orpheus. (52-55) The shaggy beard and eyebrows create a physical parallel between Tityrus and

Aeschinus. In addition, the references to goats and the shepherd's pipe have negative

sexual overtones: Tityrus's association with goats suggests a lascivious sexuality similar to Theocritus's Wolf, but, in this instance, the negative sexual behaviour is bestiality. The

goatherd's pipe operates as a symbol for a penis, and it is likely that Nysa rejects Tityrus

because of his repulsive physical appearance (specifically, his shaggy hair) and his

negative sexual behaviour (his bestiality). The passage also recalls the above inversions in

which the wolf appears. Tityrus cries, "let Tityrus be Orpheus" (56), the mythical figure whose music had magical qualities and could charm flora and fauna, as another potential

unnatural event to parallel the unlikelihood that Nysa will love him.34 Tityrus not only

suggests self-reference because of its basic meaning of "shepherd" (or goatherd), but also because of its meaning in Greek myth. In Greek myth, the Tityrus is a hybrid being; it is

"a fictitious monster supposed to be bred between a sheep and a goat" (OED). As a

shepherd or goatherd, Tityrus spends his time among sheep and goats, and, as his self- portrait above suggests, he shares physical features with the animals he tends. The self- reference and the mythical creature it evokes also reinforce the potential sexual relationship suggested above between Tityrus and his flock while simultaneously reminding readers about the sheer futility of his enterprise.

[O] digno coniuncta uiro, dum despicis omnis, dumque tibi est odio mea fistula dumque capellae hirsutumque supercilium promissaque barba, nee curare deum credis mortalia quemquam. (32-35) 34 Orpheus was so gifted and magical in his singing and music that "the birds and beasts, and even inanimate rocks and trees, would follow him in enchantment" (Hard 551). 80

Ultimately, in "Eclogue 8," Virgil brings together the themes presented in

Theocritus's "Idyll 14": love, lust, and lupine connections. Alphesiboeus sings about

Simaetha, who, in order to procure the return of her lost love, needs to engage the same magical process that the werewolf Moeris uses to transform into a wolf; likewise,

Damon's song emphasizes the physical appearance and negative sexuality of Tityrus and thus aligns him with Theocritus's lupine characters Aeschinus and Wolf. While Virgil's narrative does not directly concern the werewolf, it employs the figure tangentially as a marker of cultural change and cultural difference. Specifically, Virgil employs the lupine figure as an explanation for Simaetha's knowledge and employment of plants with magical qualities, as a reference to archaic beliefs and practices, and as a model for non- normative physical appearances and behaviours.35

Veenstra's theory that the lupine figure exists as a marker of cultural change also resonates in Virgil's Eclogues when the contexts of the poems are considered. Virgil's choice of the pastoral form, derived from Theocritus, is no accident. The pastoral form allows the poet to yearn for an idealized existence, much as Damon's Tityrus and

Alphesiboeus's Simaetha yearn for Nysa and Daphnis. The form also allows the poet to yearn for an idealized past, which we see in the ancient rituals evoked by Simaetha and the mythic references made by Tityrus. Tityrus's comment that Nysa has little faith in gods ("you believe no god cares for humanity") also suggests that he, like Simaetha,

Douglas comments that Virgil's reworking of Theocritus's material "stays close to the original story line" (56). He also suggests that Virgil's "most significant addition is the introduction of a werewolf' (56-57) because it is "the first appearance in literature of a lycanthrope who has transformed himself voluntarily" (57). Interestingly, though, he considers Moeris a "sympathetic character" rather than a "terrifying werewolf (57), a view that separates him from other critics such as Smith and Summers, who tend to vilify the categorical voluntary werewolf. The invention of pastoral poetry is attributed to Theocritus (Lee 4; Clausen xv). 81

clings to older religious beliefs while Nysa, like Daphnis, does not. In addition, the themes and images of "Eclogue 8," especially the ones discussed above, provide insight to Virgil's experience of the world around him. Virgil lived in a period of great upheaval: he lived in the period of Caesar's assassination, "when Italy was torn by civil war and the

Mediterranean world split between contending Roman factions" (Lee 3). As Guy Lee

suggests, "Virgil's pastoral world ... mirrors the disturbances of his real world, the

Waste Land of the dying Roman Republic, his themes of dispossession, unrequited love, poetry, friendship and rural peace" (3-4).37 It is no surprise, then, that poet turns to the pastoral form to express his desires for a world that once was, to reflect the clash between old and new cultural practices, or that he would draw upon the lupine figure and its multi- faceted nature in order to do so.

2.2.3 The Aesopic Fables

The lupine figure is prominent in other literary genres of antiquity, especially in the rather nebulous genre of the Aesopic fable. In his introduction to an edition of

Caxton's Fables, G. K. Chesterton writes, "The truth is, of course, that iEsop's Fables are not iEsop's fables, any more than Grimm's Fairy Tales were ever Grimm's fairy tales"

TO

(vii). Indeed, most of the fables associated with the somewhat slippery if

"semilegendary" (Widdows xv) figure have diverse and debatable origins, ranging anywhere from the sixth century BC to the medieval and early modern periods.

David Ferry concurs. He writes, "The Eclogues demonstrate patterns of political attitudes, attitudes toward power, and specifically toward the Julia house, the house of Julius Caesar and Octavian (Augustus)" (xi). 38 Caxton started printing Aesopic fables in 1483, initially printing "his translation of the French translation of Steinhowel's fables" (Lenaghan 4). 39 For information on the debate surrounding the identity of Aesop, the origins of the tales, and the various authors and editors associated with them, see Patterson, Chapter 82

However, the popularity of various collections of Aesopic fables during the classical period is generally agreed upon. Likewise, two specific collections can be attributed to two particular authors with some certainty. The chief collections of Aesopic fables are

"those of Babrius, a hellenized Roman whose Greek fables were probably composed in the latter half of the first century AD, and of Phaedrus, a Roman writer whose Latin verse

fables were composed toward the middle of the same century" (Lenaghan 3).40 Despite the fact that fables existed prior the period in which these two lived, they were "the first writers to bring a disconnected series of Aesopic fables on to that avowedly artistic plane of literature, as an independent form of writing" (Perry xii). Phaedrus, the earlier of these two writers, stands out in particular because of his self-conscious adaptation of the Greek tales he translated. He not only collected and translated Greek tales, but he also adapted them, perhaps liberally, in the process, and gestured to his contributions or originality at various instances in his Prologues.

1; Perry, "Introduction"; R. T. Lenaghan's "Introduction" to Caxton's Aesop; P. F. Widdows's "Introduction" to The Fables of Phaedrus; and Joseph Jacobs's The Fables of Aesop, which has an excellent tree diagram of the various editions and authors associated with the fables. 4 Phaedrus's collection, Phaedri Augusti Liberti, fabularum aesopiarum libri [The Books of Aesopic Fables by Phaedrus, the Freedman of Augustus], is one of the earliest collections of fables, surviving in a ninth century manuscript, the Codex Pithoeanus (Widdows xi). However, Widdows dates Phaedrus (and, therefore, his collection) to a much earlier period, the first half of the first century AD, and suggests that he was probably alive from 31 BC, the start of Augustus's rule, until AD 37, the end of Tiberius's rule (xi). A manuscript including Babrian fables was not recovered until, in 1840, "Minoides Menas, a Greek commissioned ... to search among the monasteries of his native land, found a MS. containing 123 Babrian fables in the convent of St. Laura on Mount Athos" (Jacobs 20). 41 For example, Phaedrus writes: Aesop is the author, the original inventor Of the fables that follow, which I have refined in the form of verse.

What follow are fables fabricated in fun. (Prologue, 1.1-2, 7) 83

Wolves are prevalent the Aesopic fables. A perusal of Phaedrus's collection uncovers numerous tales that include a lupine character. Usually, these tales demonstrate some type of moral or lesson. For example, "The Wolf and the Lamb" teaches that tyrants are unjust and will do as they please, whatever the consequences to others. In the tale, a wolf seeks an excuse to eat a lamb. Although the lamb outwits the wolf (and should, therefore, be safe), the wolf still eats him. In "The Wolf and the Crane," a wolf, while choking on a bone from his current meal, seeks the help of a crane. The crane sticks her head down the wolfs throat and removes the bone. When the crane asks what her reward will be for this good deed, the wolf replies that her life should be reward enough.42 Thus, the fable teaches that one should not expect rewards if helping those who are evil. In fact, the fable suggests that, in such instances, one should be happy to have one's life, if nothing else. Other well-known Aesopic fables with lupine figures (not included in

Phaedrus's collection) include "The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing" and "The Shepherd's Boy and the Wolf (commonly referred to as "The Boy Who Cried 'Wolf!'"). "The Wolf in

Sheep's Clothing" tells the story of a wolf who, because disguised as a sheep (in order to attack the sheep), is accidentally taken to slaughter by a shepherd, while "The Shepherd's

Aesopus auctor quam materiam repperit, Hanc ego polivi versibus senariis.

Fictis iocari nos meminerit fabulis. (Prologue, 1.1-2, 7) English quotations are from Widdows's translation of the fables; Latin quotations are from Antonius Guaglianone's edition of the Liber Fabularum. For a discussion of Phaedrus's comments on Aesop and on his reinvention of the Aesopic fables, see Widdows (xix-xx) and Perry (lxxxiv-xc), respectively. All citations specify book, fable number, and line. The Latin edition provides separate line numbers for each Prologue, so I have noted this when necessary. 42 For instance, the last line of this fable, as it appears in Caxton 's Aesop, states, "And thus it appiereth by the fable how no prouffitte cometh of ony good whiche is done to the euyls" (79). 84

Boy and the Wolf tells the story of a young shepherd who fails to garner any aid when a wolf attacks his flock because he has, in the past, lied about wolf attacks.

These tales all associate the lupine figure with negative and predatory behaviours.

Although the wolf in "The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing" meets his demise at the hands of the shepherd, the threat that he represents when he enters the flock in disguise is real: his intention is to kill the sheep he impersonates. As Buxton remarks, the wolf is a

"tremendously widespread predator" (60), one that repeatedly comes "into conflict" with humans because of its interest in the types of livestock humans raise (61).43 "The Wolf in

Sheep's Clothing" speaks directly to this conflict; much like Tityrus's comments on the natural behaviour of wolves in Virgil's "Eclogue 8," the fable reflects the threat to human subsistence that the wolf presents. Like Buxton, Warner points out that when humans inhabit rural areas or borderlands, these areas frequently become a site of conflict between humans and animals. She writes, "in times of scarcity and hard winters, bears and wolves [come] in from the wild to prey on towns and villages" (From the Beast to the

Blonde 299). Wolves evoke fear because they enter human areas and threaten the survival of a community by preying upon its resources, if not upon the inhabitants themselves.

The other negative characteristics that the fables associate with the wolf—tyranny, evil, and trickery—are connected to its identity as a predatory creature. In the fables, the

43 Buxton points out that the wolf is not, in some areas, the threat that it has been in the past because of human attempts to eradicate it. In some areas, such as Britain, humans have driven the wolf into extinction. Buxton does remark, however, that one of the few places in which the wolf remains prevalent, and indeed remains difficult to assess in terms of population sizes, is Greece (61). He states that, despite the fact that, in Greece, wolves are killed at a rate of "about 600 - 700 per year," the number of kills cannot lead to a "reliable inference ... on the whole wolf population" (61). The radical depletion of wolf populations in other areas does raise the question of why, in Greece, it remains prevalent. It is possible that its connection to Greek creation myths (discussed in the following section) saved it from the severe human attacks seen elsewhere. 85

wolf often represents the tyrant, the unjust ruler, and the trickster—the figure who puts

himself and his needs above the needs of others, even at the cost of the lives of others. In

this respect, as Annabel Patterson argues, the fable is an effective "medium of political

analysis and communication" (2).44 The first two fables mentioned above, for instance,

articulate struggles between those in a position of power and those who exist at the mercy

of those in power. In "The Wolf and the Lamb," the lamb's superior wit is overshadowed

by the unjust treatment he receives at the hands of the wolf, which is likened, in the

fable's moral, to an unjust tyrant or oppressor who takes advantage of those under him.45

Similarly, "The Wolf and the Crane" focuses on the unjust treatment that those who are

weaker or less fortunate receive at the hands of tyrants. The fable's moral advises its

audience,

If you reckon on a reward for services rendered

From scoundrels, you're a dupe and doubly deluded:

You're aiding dastards who don't deserve it;

And you've little likelihood of escaping unscathed. (1.8.1-3).46

Both of these fables thus exhibit the generic trait that Patterson assigns to them: they both

effectively reflect "unequal power relations" (15) between different classes (animal or

human).

Although Patterson focuses primarily on how the fables function in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, she also suggests that in its earliest form, the genre had a political purpose. See the Introduction and Chapter 1 of her study, Fables of Power: Aesopian Writing and Political History. 45 The fable's moral reads, "This fable is fashioned to fit those oppressors / Who trump up pretexts to entrap the innocent" ["Haec propter illos scripta est homines fabula, / Qui fictis causis innocents opprimunt"] (1.1.14-25). 4 "Qui pretium meriti ab improbis desiderat, / Bis peccat: primum quoniam indignos adiuvat; / Impune abire deinde quia iam non potest" (1.8.1-3). 86

Joseph Jacobs suggests that such political underpinnings exist in the fables because Aesop himself lived during an epoch of tyranny. The connection between

Aesop's name and the fables associated with him, he argues, arises from the genre's

"application to political controversy under despotic government" (38). Here, Jacobs advocates not so much for Aesop's actual authorship of the fables as he does for a reason that the name of a particular historical figure (a certain slave from Samos) would be appropriate if assigned to the fables. Aesop, as a slave, would be the perfect example of a member of the social underclass, and, subsequently, the perfect figurehead of the fable genre, especially the beast fable, if it were utilized as a tool of political commentary. A slave, even when freed, would not hold citizenship, and therefore would remain a member of the lower class, in some instances considered no better than a mere beast.47 Ultimately, the fable as a literary genre allows for political commentary without explicit reference to those in power, which, subsequently, protects those making the commentary. Patterson concurs, declaring that the fable as a mode of political expression was frequently utilized by "those without power" in power relations (15). It allowed those being oppressed or treated unjustly to express their opinions without fear of negative repercussions.

The idea that a slave is less human than a full citizen appears in classical philosophical texts. For example, Aristotle writes, "The usefulness of slaves diverges //r little from that of animals" [ H yaq TLQOC, xdvauKala xw a

While the debate surrounding the authorship and provenance of the Aesopic fables

makes it impossible to assign definitively any political agenda to the fables as

independent tales, Phaedrus's confession, in the Prologue to Book 1, that he manipulates the narratives he presents, suggests that his collection may have some contemporary

political content. Phaedrus lived during the reigns of both Augustus and Tiberius.

Therefore, he would be no stranger to tyranny and bloodshed, to the negative behaviours highlighted by a number of the wolf fables in his collection.49 Augustus's reign was plagued with strife, and it included, according to the biographer and antiquarian

Suetonius, "a few instances of vindictive severity towards individuals" (qtd. in Malitz

162).50 Tiberius was equally notorious. He was notorious for his debauchery and for his quick elimination of rivals when he first came to power (Malitz 26). In fact, Suetonius describes the reign of Tiberius as one of the "most flagrant acts of licentiousness and perverted authority" (qtd. in Malitz 162). In one fell swoop, Suetonius categorically condemns Tiberius, along with his successors Caligula and Nero: "The most abominable lust, the most extravagant luxury, the most shameful rapaciousness, and the most inhuman cruelty constitute the general characteristics of those capricious and detestable tyrants" (162). The assignation of predatory and tyrannical behaviours to the lupine figures within Phaedrus's collection, then, reflects the cultural contexts of its author, and the assignation of negative characteristics to the lupine figures within Aesopic fables overall reinforces these connections. Wolves were often considered, in antiquity, literal

49 In addition to "The Wolf and the Lamb" or "The Wolf and the Crane," "The Wolf and the Fox Receive Judgment from the Ape" also focuses on negative behaviours in relation to the lupine figure. 50 Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus (AD 75-160) is known primarily for his famous compendium The Lives of the Caesars (De vita Caesarum). 88 predators (they endangered the lives and the subsistence of the humans with whom they often shared territory) as well as metaphorical predators (they represented tyrants and oppressors in literary texts).

2.2.4 Petronius and Tyranny

Like Phaedrus, Gaius Petronius, or Petronius Arbiter (first century AD), was also influenced by the upheaval of the period in which he lived. Petronius was not only a writer, but he was also a "competent consul and provincial administrator" during the

Neronian period (Malitz 86-87).51 His Satyricon, which enjoyed widespread popularity in late antiquity, provides a witty, satirical commentary on the world around him (Walsh xxxv). As the General Introduction to my study suggests, many of the previous examinations of Petronius's narrative are limited by their need to categorize the werewolf or by their inability to articulate all that the figure represents. Even Veenstra, who presents a much more viable interpretation of the werewolf than scholars such as Smith and Summers, still perpetuates a categorical system by identifying the tale as an example of "the forces of destiny that instil a duplicity of nature in the lycanthropes" (136).

Similar to the narratives explored above, Petronius's tale operates on several levels. First, the presence of the werewolf within the narrative recalls ancient cultural

51 Nero ruled from the death of his adopted father, Claudius (d. AD 54), until he took his own life (AD 68). Satyricon can be translated as "A recital of lecherous happenings" (Walsh xv), the equivalent of a series of "satyr" plays. The title Satyricon ("a genitive plural with libri understood") also appears frequently under the ("neuter plural") title Satyrica (xv). To recap the story, briefly, the soldier inNiceros's tale (in "Trimalchio's Banquet") is transformed under the full moon after completing a ritual process; he attacks the livestock at the farm of Niceros's mistress, where he is wounded in the neck by a spear. Niceros returns home to find the soldier, attended by a doctor, with a wound in the same location as the reported wound on the wolf. He concludes that he has avoided the werewolf-soldier ever since. 89

practices and religious beliefs similar to those evoked by Virgil's Eclogues. As Veenstra

suggests, metamorphic figures often reflect "prehistoric animal magic and shamanistic

beliefs from the religious life of ancient communities" (133). Secondly, and more

importantly, Veenstra argues that the presence of the werewolf in Petronius's narrative

reflects the extravagance and bloodshed of Nero's reign (139). Another critic, P. G.

Walsh, notes, the story-telling episode of "Trimalchio's Banquet" is Petronius's comment

on both the rule and the society of his time. The figure of Trimalchio, Walsh suggests,

evokes Nero as well as previous rulers such as Claudius and Augustus (xxx), while the

themes of the narrative, the "vulgar abuse of wealth, pretentious claims to learning, and

debilitating religious superstition," evoke the society of Nero's court and rule (xxvii).

Nero was one of the most notorious rulers of antiquity, and while he was, especially in his

later years, far more interested in activities that became the focus of his quinquennial

Neronia, he was also involved in countless murders and atrocities.53 Nero arranged the

murder of his stepbrother Britannicus, his mother Agrippina the Younger, his first wife

Olivia, and countless other nobles and political figures, including Petronius.54 Nero's

reign was plagued by conflict, from the military engagements of the empire to the strife

The quinquennial Neronia, which were instituted in AD 60, consisted of "competitions in poetry, music, athletics and racing" (Shorter 48), the primary interests of Nero outside of his love for the theatre. 5 Petronius was greatly envied by Tigellinus, one of Nero's closest advisors. Through Tigellinius's scheming, Nero came to suspect Petronius's involvement in a plot to overthrow his rule and, subsequently, ordered his death (Malitz 87). In AD 66, "Most of Petronius's household were imprisoned and Petronius himself retired, slicing his veins and slowly bleeding to death" (Veenstra 139). Petronius, however, did not go as quietly as some of Nero's other victims. Malitz explains: "As a final greeting to Nero he did not fill his will with flatteries, as other victims of Nero had invented in an effort to save at least some of their fortunes for their descendants. Instead, he wrote a personal letter to the princeps listing all of the sexual extravagances that Nero fancied" (87; cf. Walsh xv). This letter, ironically, operates as a parallel to Petronius's text because its content is in agreement with the meaning of the text's title. and bloodshed within the capital. For example, after the Great Fire of Rome (18-19 July,

AD 64), rumours abounded that Nero and his advisors had deliberately arranged the fire

in order to flatten the city and create an opportunity and support for new "construction

plans" (Malitz 68). In order to deflect this negative criticism, Nero had the city's

Christian sect, albeit small, rounded up and "executed as alleged arsonists" (xi). The

punishment for arson was particularly brutal: individuals were "condemned to death in

garments soaked in pitch to make them into living torches" (70).

Yet Petronius's identification of the werewolf specifically as a soldier is a detail

that Veenstra, among others, overlooks. As a martial figure, the soldier is responsible for the maintenance of justice. The soldier is an extension of his ruler, but an extension that has direct contact with the people; he protects the citizens from external threats and ensures that civic life is secure and orderly.55 Petronius's soldier, however, is the

antithesis of this. In fact, Petronius's soldier, as the werewolf, represents the greatest threat of all: an internal threat to the livelihoods and lives of the citizens of the state.

The threat embodied by Petronius's soldier-werewolf parallels the threat presented by those individuals within the Roman government who both advised Nero and enacted his rule. For example, Ofonius Tigellinus, a man of "dubious" background (Malitz 79), was renowned for his corruption and cruelty. Tigellinus, who exerted a large influence over Nero, fell under suspicion himself when the secondary blaze of the Great Fire was found to have originated in his garden. Jurgen Malitz points out that Tigellinus is one of the officials suspected of advising Nero to scapegoat the Christian community for the fire

5 This connection between the werewolf and a martial figure reappears in the medieval period, specifically in medieval romance, and constitutes the basis of my discussion in the second section of Chapter 3. 91

in order to deflect the anger and suspicions of the citizens away from the state and from

himself (68-69). Further, Tigellinus was not only an advisor to Nero, but he was also

Nero's Praetorian Prefect; he managed the emperor's personal body-guard and

commanded the troops stationed in the empire's capital, Rome. He was therefore directly

connected with the internal threat that the martial arm of Nero's rule presented. Petronius,

as a citizen and as a member of Nero's court, was all too aware of the fact that, during

Nero's reign, especially in the later years, even those expected to keep order and protect the citizens of the state were suspect and corrupt. The Satyr icon, overall, is a testament to this fact. Within this context, then, the soldier-werewolf of "Trimalchio's Banquet"

embodies the reality that, quite literally, the very foundations of order and justice in Rome were rotten.

Petronius's werewolf also resonates with philosophical beliefs of the classical period concerning the soul and metamorphosis, although this aspect of the tale is often overshadowed by its reflection of Nero's reign. The philosophical aspect of the tale arises from the denouement outlined by Smith—the corresponding nature and placement of a wound on the human and the wolf. Indeed, Niceros reveals that the similarity in wounds between the wolf and the soldier is how he determines that the soldier is a werewolf. The telling wound of Petronius's soldier suggests a degree of continuity between lupine and human forms. In turn, this continuity suggests that the soldier-werewolf s transformation is not a case of transmigration (where the soul moves from one bodily form to the next); rather, it is something else.

The corresponding wound of the soldier-were wolf s lupine and human forms resonates with Aristotle's theory of alteration. Although the soldier's form changes from 92

human to lupine and back again, it houses an underlying and immutable substratum. The

corresponding nature of the wound on the soldier and the wolf attests to the pair's

essential oneness or unity. Petronius thus suggests continuity or synonymity between the

soldier's different states of being, and, consciously or not, through his inclusion of the

werewolf in his Satyricon, he evokes aspects of the philosophical debates of antiquity;

more specifically, he evokes questions of the soul and of the soul's ability to transmigrate

from one form to another, particularly those explored by Aristotle in various works.

However, as Veenstra points out, in the Satyricon, "The werewolf is also a clear

literary fiction and [Petronius] shows us the kind of psychological reactions it is meant to

provoke" (139). In other words, the narrative is an obvious piece of fiction; the account is

not meant to be understood as truthful. Rather, the werewolf s presence in the text

functions as a tool to evoke fear or terror in the audience. The placement of the werewolf

narrative within "Trimalchio's Banquet" also increases the distance between the audience

and the events of the text and simultaneously suggests that the text itself is self-conscious

of the fiction it presents. The story of the werewolf appears specifically within a story­

telling contest that exists within an even larger, overall story about unseemly or lecherous

events. Ultimately, then, Petronius creates tension in his text by including an account that

suggests the possibility of real change and evokes the philosophical debates of antiquity

within a narrative that clearly identifies its contents as ficticious, a point that would

therefore discount any such possibility. In a sense, like Aristotle, Petronius creates a

literary paradox. In doing so, Petronius recalls Herodotus's account, in the Histories, of the Neuri. Both texts present, as veritable, an account of metamorphosis, but they then 93

undermine the veracity of the account with contextual material, whether it be direct

authorial commentary or the text's awareness of its fictitious nature.

The narratives discussed above provide a window into classical culture; they

reveal a number of points about the perception of lupine figures and their narrative

purpose in antiquity. Wolves had a particularly high status as beasts of prey because they

often inhabited the same spaces as humans and, therefore, competed with the humans for

resources (land, wild game). Moreover, in times of hardship, this competitive relationship

could turn into a predatory one—wolves threatened the survival of human communities

by preying upon their resources (domestic game such as sheep, for instance) and,

possibly, upon the humans themselves. The wolfs already tentative position made it an

easy target and choice for further cultural appropriation; behaviours deemed unnatural or

unacceptable to a human community, displayed by individuals within that community,

constituted a threat to social order equal to that of the external figure of the wolf. Thus the

two became synonymous: negative and threatening human behaviours equalled lupine

behaviours. This association extended to social and historical contexts. When the order

and justice of society was threatened internally by corruption, strife, or bloodshed, lupine

figures emerged as an embodiment of these threats.

Lupine figures also provide an example of Greek culture's early theriomorphic

roots and its evolution into an anthropocentric and more urban culture. Authors utilize them to create tension in their writings through the juxtaposition of archaic belief systems

to sceptical commentary based upon a more anthropocentric view of the world. In many

of these instances, lupine figures become, as Veenstra suggests, markers of cultural

change; they are associated with ancient or dated philosophical beliefs and cultural or 94 religious practices. Finally, what is striking about these narratives is what they do not do.

While they clearly demonstrate that classical thought and texts associate lupine figures with an array of behaviours and practices, none of them represent the singular and stereotypical interpretation of the classical werewolf, the werewolf that is "Ferocious, hairy, dripping with blood, a devourer of human beings" (Bynum, Metamorphosis and

Identity 94). Herodotus even goes to great lengths to separate his werewolves from this tradition. The classical werewolf, then, cannot be so singularly defined, even though, as the next section demonstrates, the feral emerges in connection with the myths of the

Arcadian King Lycaon and his issue.

2.3 King Lycaon and his Lot

The Arcadian narratives are those narratives that associate the lupine figure with a specific geographical region of Greece, Arcadia, which lies in the southern Peloponnese region. More specifically, the narratives are associated with the geographical location

Mount Lykaion, as well as with its ancient ruler King Lycaon and his children.1 Mount

Lykaion has particular significance in Greek mythology, for it is one of the supposed birthplaces of Zeus and was (according to Pausanias) the original location of annual festivals and athletic games in honour of the god. The name Lykaion is also both an

Despite the location's significance, until recently it has received very little archaeological attention. Two limited surveys and excavations took place approximately one hundred years ago, the first in 1897 and the second in 1902. However, in 2004, a new and more detailed survey and excavation started as a collaborative effort between the University of Arizona, the Thirty-Ninth Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities, Tripolis, and the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. The anticipated completion of the excavation, including the study phase, is 2010. See the project website (which also includes a list of literary references to Mount Lykaion, sorted by both author and subject): . 2 Although most accounts identify Kronos as the birthplace of Zeus, a number of narratives identify other locations. The "Arcadian tradition" identifies Mount Lykaion as 95

epithet for Zeus and a variant of the root form word for wolf, "lukos."3 The etymology of

the mount's name thus creates a direct link between the god, the Arcadian ruler, and

lupine figures. In fact, the Arcadian king is, literally, the wolf king, just as Zeus Lykaios

is, literally, the wolf god. References to Mount Lykaion and to the Arcadian King Lycaon

in connection with lupine figures are prevalent in Greek literature and myth; the

discussion below offers a sampling of these narratives and is followed by a more detailed

discussion of Ovid's version of the Lycaon myth, in his Metamorphoses!1

2.3.1 Stories of Arcadia

Plato's Republic includes one of the earliest references to the Arcadian King in

connection with sacrilege and lupine transformation. Like some of the narratives in the

previous section (for example, the Aesopic fables), the Republic also links the lupine

figure explicitly to tyrannical and unjust behaviour. In Book 8, a dialogue on just rule and

forms of government, Socrates asks Glaucon, "What, then, is the starting-point of the

transformation of a protector into a tyrant?" (8.565d).5 He answers his own question: "Is

Zeus's birthplace and suggests that he was raised by "three local nymphs, Neda, Theisoa and Hagno" (Hard 66). 3 Liddell and Scott identify "Lykaios" ["AuKalog"] as an epithet of Zeus and provide variants on the root word "AUKOC;" {Lexicon 1064-65). 4 The number of references in Greek myth and literature to Mount Lykaion and the Arcadians is enormous; to discuss them all would require a project of much narrower scope and much greater length than this dissertation. The selections discussed here, however, engage with the examination of the lupine figure already established in the previous analyses. 5 Tig CLQyj] ovv |a£xa|3oAf]g £K npoaxaxou £m xupavvov; f\ bf\ov oxi £7T£iSav xauxov aQ£.r)xai 5pav 6 nQaoxaxx\q, TCO £V xcp |au0, 6g nepl xo £v 'Aq>Ka5ia xo xou Aide; xou Auicaiou lepov Aeyexai; Tig c £CJDT]. Qg qiQa 6 y£Voa\jL£voc, xoi3 avSpamivoi; onAayyyov, EV aAAoig dAAcov LEQELWV £vog kyKaTaTET[ir\\j.£evov, avdyKr) 5f] TOVTCX) AUKO) Y£V£a0ai. (8.5645d-565e) All quotations (English and Greek) are from Paul Shorey's facing page translation. 96 it not obviously when the protector's acts begin to reproduce the legend that is told of the shrine of Lykaion Zeus in Arcadia?" (8.565d). Glaucon, however, requires further explanation from Socrates. The philosopher continues, "The story goes that he who tastes of the one bit of human entrails minced up with those of other victims is inevitably transformed into a wolf (8.565d-e). For Socrates (and, hence, for Plato), the tyrant is someone who originally ensures order and just rule, but over time becomes corrupt and willingly sheds the blood of others, particularly the blood of innocents or kinsmen. The ruler undergoes a transformation from his position as a protector of the people to his position as a tyrant. The story of Lycaon thus provides the perfect analogy, for the king not only experiences behavioural transformation from the protector to the tyrant, but he also experiences a parallel physical transformation that embodies his new, brutal and blood-thirsty behaviours.

Other early references to the Arcadians come from Marcus Terentius Varro (116-

27 BC), the Roman scholar and librarian. Most of Varro's writings are lost, but part of his

Plato similarly refers to the Arcadians (along with the Carthaginians) and their practice of sacrifice and slaughter in his Minos. The companion says to Socrates: With us, for instance, human sacrifice is not legal, but unholy, whereas the Carthaginians perform it as a thing they account holy and legal, and that too when some of them sacrifice even their own sons to Cronos, as I daresay you yourself have heard. And not merely is it foreign peoples who use different laws from ours, but our neighbours in Lycaea and the descendants of Athamas—you know their sacrifices, Greeks though they be. (315c) Tmel auxixa f]jalv |a£V ov v6|aog EOTLV avQoconovc, Qveiv dAA' dvoouov, Kapxn&oviOL&e Guouaiv cog oaiov 6v Kalv6|aL|aov auxolg, KaL xavxa EVLOI auxcov Kai xoug auxarv vielc, xco KQOVCO, cog locog Kai ov dKT|Koag. Kai \xr\ OXL (3do|3aQOL av0QCO7ioi f]|acov aAAoig v6|aoig xQ^vxai, dAAd Kai oo £v xrj AVKOLWL OI3XOL Kai ol xou 'A0d|Liavxog EKyovoi o'iac, Qvoiac, Guouaiv "EAATJVEC; 6vx£g. (315c). 97

work is preserved in Augustine's City of God.1 The accounts appear in Book 18 of

Augustine's City, under the chapter heading "What Varro says of incredible

transformations of men" (18.17).8 Augustine explains that Varro describes a cultural

practice in which the Arcadian community chooses an unspecified number of individuals

by lot to swim "across a certain pool" (18.17). While swimming in the pool the

individuals transform into wolves; they then remain on the other side of the pool in "the

deserts of that region with wild beasts like themselves" (18.17).9 If an individual refrains

from the consumption of human flesh for a period of nine years (while in wolf form), he

may return across the pool at the end of that period, and while swimming back across, he will return to human form. Immediately following this note on the Arcadians, Augustine

relays Varro's second account of werewolfery, which concerns the individual

Damaenetus, who transforms into wolf form for a prolonged period. Damaenetus

consumes the flesh of a young boy offered in sacrifice to the Arcadian god Lycasus. Upon his consumption of human flesh, Damaenetus turns into a wolf, a form he remains in for ten years. The account does not specify whether or not Damaenetus knowingly or willingly commits the sacrilege of cannibalism. Further, while Damaenetus remains in lupine form for ten years, there is no report of what happens to him during that period,

7 Saint Augustine of Hippo (AD 354-430). My primary concern here is the account of werewolfery reported by Varro, not Augustine's interpretation of Varro's account. All English quotations are from Marcus Dods's translation of The City of God, while all Latin quotations are from Dombart and Kalb's edition of De civitate Dei. Citations specify book and chapter. Q g "De incredibilibus commutationibus hominum quid Varro tradiderit" (18.17). 9 "[D]e Arcadibus, qui sorte ducti tranabant quoddam stagnum atque ibi convertebantur in lupos et cum similibus feris per illius regionis deserta vivebant" (18.17). 98 although the prolonged period suggests that it operates as a form of penance.10

Eventually, in his tenth year of lupine existence, Damaenetus returns to his human form.

Once he returns to human society, he proceeds to train "as a pugilist" and is victorious at the Olympic games (18.17).11 Augustine completes his account of Varro by reporting that the latter ascribes the association of the name Lycasus to the gods Pan and Jupiter (Zeus) to the Arcadian cultural practice of metamorphosis and that the tradition of the Roman

Luperci (young nobles who participated in a running event during the Roman festival,

1 9

Lupercalia) arises from the same tradition (18.17). Thus the king and Arcadian society become associated with deities and with the celebratory practices in their honour.

Varro's first account of werewolfery recalls Herodotus's report of the Neurian society in which all members transform for a short period into lupine form, although

Varro's account has two distinct differences. The first difference is that individuals are selected by lot to transform; the second difference is that the period of transformation is

This account bears strong resemblance to the story of the mad-man or wild-man that appears in countless narratives such as the biblical account of Nebuchadnezzar (Daniel 4.26-34), whose pride leads to a seven year sojourn of madness in the wilderness, after which he recognizes the majesty of God and returns to the civilized world, or the epic Gilgamesh, in which a king learns to rule justly by embracing his counterpart, the uncivilized Enkidu. Damasnetus "in lupum fuisse mutatum et anno decimo in figuram propriam restitutum pugilatum sese exercuisse et Olympiaco vicisse certamine" (18.17). 12 Augustine writes, "And the same historian [Varro] thinks that the epithet Lycasus was applied in Arcadia to Pan and Jupiter for no other reason than this metamorphosis of men into wolves, because it was thought it could not be wrought except by divine power.... He says also that the Roman Luperci were as it were sprung of the seed of these mysteries" ["Nee idem propter aliud arbitratur historicus in Arcadia tale nomen adfictum hominum mutationem, quod earn nisi vi dicitur divina fieri non putarent. . . . Romanos etiam Lupercos ex illorum mysteriorum veluti semine dicit exortos"] (18.17). Varro's assertions about the Luperci and the Lupercalia are based upon the etymological links of the festival and its participants to lupine figures. Like the English word "wolf and the Greek word "lukos," the Latin word "lupus" (from which the words "Lupercali" and "Lupercalia" derive) is descended from the hypothesized Indo-European root word "wlqwos" (ODEE 1011; cf. Liddell and Scott 1064). 99 prolonged for nine years. Herodotus reported that even if he did not believe in the possibility of metamorphosis, the Scythians (his reported source) did. Further, he included the account because of its possible veracity as a cultural practice. Augustine's closing comments to the entry suggest that Varro recorded his account under circumstances very close to those of Herodotus. Augustine comments that even if Varro did not believe in the possibility of actual transformation, he did believe that the various myths or accounts of werewolfery were explicitly linked to interlaced social and religious practices. Indeed, while no god is named or connected to the metamorphic practice in Varro's first account, the connection between the Arcadians and the god Lycasus in the subsequent account suggests that the connection exists. In addition, the actual process of choosing individuals by lot to be removed from the society for an extended period of time, along with the challenge these individuals face during their period of exile (the injunction to not consume human flesh for the duration of the transformation), represents precisely the rites de passage outlined by van Gennep and Turner. The chosen individuals are separated from their society and enter a liminal period or existence until they are reintegrated into society at a later date.13 The second account, the story of Damaenetus, includes an account of human sacrifice performed by the Arcadians, suggesting that the

Arcadians engaged in a number of different rites or practices in honour of their god. The story of Damsenetus also conforms to the ritual process outlined above. As Forbes Irving writes, Damaenetus's period in lupine form is part of a process that prepares him for

"successful reintegration into society as a highly honoured citizen" (54-55). Damsenetus

13 As mentioned above, the liminal individual, when restored to society, brings, with him or her, a "magico-religious quality" (Turner 82) or a type of "wisdom" (103) from which the entire community benefits. 100

can only become a highly honoured citizen by leaving society for a period and then

returning after new experiences. Varro's accounts therefore present a number of

interpretations and representations of the lupine figure, including the possibility of

ancient, theriomorphic beliefs through the inclusion of religious practices associated with

wolves and through references to the wolf deity (Lycasus) and the association of the name

with other ancient gods.14

The wording of Varro's account also reflects the less divisive species boundaries

of theriomorphic beliefs and early classical philosophy when it explains that those who

swim across the lake will live "with wild beasts like themselves" (City 18.17).15 This

statement suggests a belief in some kind of pre-existing synonymity between humans and wolves, one that also reflects, philosophically, the connectivity of all living things discussed earlier. It is not a reference to what the chosen individuals become after transformation; it is a reference to what they already are. Furthermore, Damasnetus's

14 Forbes Irving argues that Varro's account (which he identifies as Augustine's story) "has no link with Mount Lycaeon or with any rite, and in particular it misses out the human sacrifice that is a vital part of the other story" (55). He bases his argument on three points. First, he notes that "there is no archaeological evidence that people ate each other on Mount Lycaeon" (55); second, he argues that the association of the Arcadian king and initiatory rites is weak because Lycaon does not fit the pattern of the other divine or heroic figures typically associated with such rites, such as Apollo (56); third, he argues that Lycaon's transformation is permanent, not temporary, and that his crime is "murder and abusing the rules of hospitality, never cannibalism" (56). While he is correct that no evidence exists for actual cannibalism (unless the current excavation and survey uncovers something new), the evidence presented above demonstrates that such events, particularly of the rituals associated with the geographical location, the Arcadian ruler, and Zeus, were believed to have existed. 15 Augustine's very next chapter in the City, which is titled "What we should believe concerning the transformations which seem to happen to men through the art of demons" ["Quid credendum sit de transformationibus, quae arte daemonum hominibus videntur accidere"] (18.18), discusses the possibility or impossibility of transformations such as those of the Arcadians (as outlined by Varro). This point is discussed further in the introduction to Chapter 3. 101

success as a boxer suggests that some physical traits—primarily agility and strength, traits

often associated with wolves—persist despite his return to humanity: his human physical

prowess derives from his time in lupine form. This feature reinforces the possibility of the

belief in a degree of continuity, even synonymity, between the human and lupine forms in

Varro's account. Dama^netus becomes a wolf because he engages in a type of ferocious,

bloodthirsty behaviour (even if unwittingly) and subsequently succeeds at the Olympics

because he is still, to some degree, wolf-like, even if no longer in lupine form.

Like Plato, the Latin writer Gaius Julius Hyginus (c. 64 BC - AD 17) attributes a

sacrilegious event specifically to the Arcadian ruling house and, again like Plato, focuses

on the role of the ruler or protector. In his Myths Hyginus explains that, when Jove paid a

visit to the Arcadian king's home, Lycaon's sons decided to test him to see "whether he

was a god or not" (176.2). The sons mix "human flesh with other meat, and set it before

him at a banquet" (176.2).16 Angered, Jove overturns the feast table and strikes the sons

down with a thunderbolt. Despite the fact that "The chief guilt in this story belongs to

Lycaon's sons" (Grant 136), Hyginus's subsequent report that Jupiter changes Lycaon

into "the form of a wolf' (176) suggests that the king bears some responsibility for the

i n behaviour of those he rules, especially his sons. As the ruler or king, Lycaon has a

"[S]ed Lycaonis filii Iouem tenare uoluerunt, deusne esset; carnem humanam cum cetera carne commiscuerunt idque in epulo ei apposuerunt" (176.2). All references to Hyginus identify the myth/fable number and line number. English quotations are from The Myths of Hyginus, trans. Mary Amelia Grant. Latin quotations are from H. I. Rose's edition, Hygini Fabulae. 17 * Interestingly, in another volume, Hyginus presents contradictory accounts of the Lycaon story. Further on in the Myths, Hyginus reports that the king himself is the one who defies Jupiter by presenting him with the meat of the slaughtered Areas, the son of Jove and Callisto. Jupiter strikes the house with a thunderbolt, turns Lycaon into a wolf, and restores the slaughtered Areas to the living. See the Poetica Astronomica 2.4, which is included in Grant's translation-edition of the Myths. 102

responsibility to provide an orderly and just society for his subjects. The fact that his sons

are able to engage in such sacrilegious behaviour suggests that his ability to perform this

task has eroded. He may not have performed the sacrilege himself, but his inability to rule

effectively created an environment in which others could.

Some years after Hyginus, Pliny the Elder (Gaius Plinius Secundus, AD 23-79)

included different reports of lupine figures in his Natural History. Pliny first reports the

superstition seen in Theocritus's "Idyll 14" when Cynisca is unable to speak Aeschinas's

name—that individuals can be struck dumb by the sight of a wolf.18 After a brief note on

the characteristics of wolves in different regions or climates, he moves on to an account

from the Greek author Evanthes.19 According to Pliny, Evanthes describes a tradition in

which an individual is chosen by lot to live amongst the wolves in the wilderness for nine years. Similar to Varro's account, Evanthes's report specifies that the individual must refrain from the consumption of human flesh in order to return to his former state (albeit nine years older) and position in society. Evanthes's account also echoes that of his contemporary Petronius because it specifies that like the soldier in "Trimalchio's

Banquet," the selected individual must remove all of his clothing in order to transform.20

Pliny writes, "But in Italy also it is believed that the sight of wolves is harmful, and that if they look at a man before he sees them, it temporarily deprives him of utterance" ["Sed in Italia quoque creditur luporum visus esse noxius, vocemque homini quern priores contemplentur adimere ad praesens"] (8.34.80). All quotations, English and Latin, are from H. Rackham's facing-page translation of the Natural History [Historia Naturalis]. It is possible that Pliny refers to Evanthes, the Greek historian from Samos, but the latter's identity is not confirmed (Schmitz 59). Also, no firm identity can be fixed for Pliny's other source, Apollas; neither his works nor details on his life survive. Pliny explains that Evanthes . . . writes that the Arcadians have a tradition that someone chosen out of the clan of a certain Anthus by casting lots among the family is taken to a certain marsh in that region, and hanging his clothes on an 103

Next, Pliny includes accounts (from Apollas, he says) of the Arcadian sacrifices to the

god Lycaean Jove and of the instance in which "Daemenetus of Parrhasia tasted the vitals

of a boy who had been offered as a victim and turned himself into a wolf (8.34.82).21

After explaining that Daemenetus manages to return to human form and become an

Olympic boxer, he describes the magical qualities of the wolfs tail, which can be used to

make a love potion, and the existence of an unusual specimen of wolf in Gaul, called a

99

"stag-wolf (8.34.84). Overall, the entries constitute a series of items of curiosity. While

they do all concern lupine figures, the range of items included—from folkloric beliefs

about seeing wolves and the magical qualities of wolves' tails to literary accounts of

transformation—reflect the nature of Pliny's work overall rather than an interest in the

philosophical questions that accompany reports of metamorphosis or the debate over what

constitutes just rule. Pliny's primary concern is to collect diverse accounts about lupine

oak-tree swims across the water and goes away into a desolate place and is transformed into a wolf and herds with the others of the same kind for nine years; and that if in that period he has refrained from touching a human being, he returns to the same marsh, swims across it and recovers his shape, with nine years' age added to his former appearance. (8.34.81) Euanthes . . . scribit Arcades tradere ex gente Anthi cuiusdam sorte familiae lectum ad stagnum quoddam regionis eius duci vestituque in quercu suspenso tranare atque abire in deserta transfigurarique in lupum et cum ceteris eiusdem generis congregari per annos ix; quo in tempore si homine se abstinuerit, reverti ad idem stagnum et, cum tranaverit, effigiem recipere, ad prinstinum habitum addito novem annorum senio. (8.34.81) 1 "Daemenetus of Parrhasia tasted the vitals of a boy who had been offered as a victim and turned himself into a wolf, and furthermore he was restored ten years later and trained himself in athletics for boxing and returned a winner from Olympia" ["Demaenetum Parrhasium in sacrificio quod Arcades Iovi Lycaeo humana etiamum hostia faciebant, immolati pueri exta degustasse et in lupum se convertisse, eundem x anno restitutem athletice se exercuisse in pugilatu victoremque Olympia reversum"] (8.34.82). 22 "[C]ervarii" (8.34.84). The notion that a wolfs tail contains the ingredients for a love-potion recalls the narratives of Theocritus and Virgil, especially the themes of lost love and the magical attempts to procure love. 104

figures and record them in his Natural History, a thirty-seven volume encyclopaedia of

materials ranging from geography and ethnography to mathematics, botany, and

agriculture.

Two later accounts return to the Arcadian myths seen in earlier narratives.

Apollodorus, writing in the second century AD, focuses on King Lycaon and his lot in the

Library of Greek Mythology}^ Like Hyginus's account, this entry focuses on the "pride

and impiety" of Lycaon's fifty sons, who slaughter a child and mix "his bowels with the

sacrifices" (3.8.1), which they then serve to Zeus.24 According to Apollodorus, Mainalos,

Lycaon's oldest son, instigates this sacrificial act. In anger, Zeus strikes both Lycaon and his sons with a thunderbolt and destroys all but the youngest, who is saved when Ge

intercedes and stays Zeus's hand (3.8.1). In approximately the same period as

Apollodorus, the geographer Pausanias, in his Description of Greece, presents an account

The Library was originally attributed to the second century BC Greek writer and grammarian, Apollodorus of Athens, but the possibility of his authorship has been discounted for various reasons, including text date, content and style. The date of the text is difficult to specify, although it is likely from the second century AD. Subsequently, the author of the Library is frequently referred to as Pseudo-Apollodorus. Smith and Trzaskoma suggest that this convention is unnecessary "because the writings of the genuine Apollodorus have been lost to us and there is little chance for confusion" (xxix). I follow this practice and use the name Apollodorus only to identify the author of the Library. For further details on the authorship and date of the Library, see Smith and Trzaskoma (xxix-xxx). 24 OL be auxov eni £,£via KaAEcravxEc;, acj)d^avx£g eva xarv £7uxo)QLv nalba, xolg Lepolg xd xouxou onXdy^ya auvava|ai£,avx£g naqeQeaav, ov^ovAevoavxoc, xou 7iQ£a|3ux£QOU d&£Acboi3 MaivdAou. Xevc, be <|uuaaxcj)£ic;> xf]v ja£v TQaneCav avezqe^ev, evQa vuv Toa7i£Coi)<; KaA£ixai 6 XOTIOC;, AuKaova 6£ iced xoug xouxou nalbac, EKeqavvcooe, X^pit; xou vEcoxdxou NUKXLJUOU. (pQaoaoa yap r\ Tf\ Kal xfjg beside, xou Aiog £cj}ai[)a|^£vr) xrjv dQYf|v ycaienavoe. (3.8.1) All quotations (English and Greek) are from Frazer's facing-page translation of the Library. in which the guilt of sacrilege is transferred directly to the Arcadian King. "Lycaon," he

writes, "brought a human baby to the altar of Lycaean Zeus, and sacrified it, pouring out

its blood upon the altar, and according to the legend immediately after the sacrifice he

was changed from a man to a wolf (8.2.3).25 Pausanias also provides a detailed account

of a ritual practice in connection to both Lycaon's sacrilege and to lupine transformation.

He explains that each year, "at the sacrifice to Lykaean Zeus," an individual would be

turned into a wolf and would remain in that form for a period of nine years. At the end of

that period, the individual could return to human form only if he had refrained from the

consumption of human flesh (8.2.6).26 This event, Pausanias insists, is a direct result of

the transgression of Lycaon: the annual sacrifice and exile are ongoing atonements for his

sacrilege.

Apollodorus and Pausanias also connect the Arcadian narrative to creation myths.

Apollodorus connects Lycaon, his family and his society to creation myths through two

methods. First, the account appears the Library in 3.8, which states as its focus "Pelasgus,

who Acusilaus says, was a son of Zeus and Niobe, as we have supposed, but Hesiod

declares him to have been a son of the soil" (3.8.1). Pelasgos is the equivalent of the

"AVKOCCOV be eni xov (3coja6v xou AuKaiou ALOC; |3Q£C(XX; f\veyKev dvGpamou KCU £0ua£ TO |3o£cboc; Kai £0"7i£iaev eni xov (3co|aoi3 TO ai\\a, Kai auxov auTLKa eni TT\ Qvoia Y£V£a0ai AUKOV cjxxoiv dvxi dvGoamou" (8.2.3). All quotations (English and Greek) are from Jones's facing page translation of Pausanias's Description of Greece. 25 Aeyovoi yaq br\ cog AuKdovog voxeqov deixu; e£, dvBodmou Auicog yivoLTO £7ii TT] Qvoia xou AUKCUOU ALOQ YLVOLTO be OUK ec, anavza xov |3iov. d7iox£ 5E elr] AuKog, ei |a£v KQECOV dnoaxoixo dv0Q6J7iLvcov, uax£Qov EXEL &£Kaxcp cjjaalv auxov avQic, av0Qcoxov £K AUKOU YLVficxGai, Y£uadja£vov be ec, aei |a£V£iv 0T]QLOV. (8.2.6) 27 '"E7iavdYCi)|a£v 5£ vuv 7idAiv Enlxov FlEAao-yov, 6v 'AKOuaiAaog jaev ALO<; AEYEL Kai NLOpr]^ Kadaneq U7i£0£|^£v, 'Hoio5oc; be auxox0ova" (3.8.1). 106

Adam figure in Judeo-Christian theology: he the son of a god (Zeus) and he is, like

Adam, described as autochtonous. He and his son Lycaon are the progenitors of the

Arcadian (and thus human) race. Further on in the chapter, Apollodorus recounts that the

"flood in the age of Deucalion" (3.8.1) comes and decimates Arcadian society when

Lycaon's youngest son, Nyctimus, takes the throne. The flood, he writes, was "occasioned

• » 98

by the impiety of Lycaon's sons" (3.8.1). Thus the impiety of Lycaon's sons brings

about the end of their civilization and connects the Arcadian race not only with creation,

but also with destruction.

Pausanias's account similarly makes the connection between Lycaon and the

creation myth explicit. Lycaon is again identified as the son of Pelasgos, the creator of the

Arcadian race. Pausanias cites an excerpt from the Samian poet Asios (c. 500 B. C.) to

introduce Pelasgos, whose physical presence reflects the earth that gives birth to him:

"The godlike Pelasgus on the wooded mountains / Black earth gave up, that the race of • 90

mortals might exist" (8.1.4). As the son of Pelasgos and as the father of fifty sons,

Lycaon is tied to the birth of his race, but his association with creation does not end here.

Pausanias continues with an account of how Lycaon "founded the city Lycosura on

Mount Lycaeus, gave to Zeus the surname Lycaeiis and founded the Lycaean games"

"NITKTL^OU be xf]v |3aaiAeuxv naQaAafiovTOC, 6 eni AEUKOALGJVCX; KaxaicAuaiaog eyevexo. xouxov evioi 5ia xf]v xarv AUKOCOVOC; rcaiScov 5iX7a£|3£iav el7iov yeyevf\oQai" (3.8.1). 29 "'AvxiGeov be riEAaayov iv uijm<6|aoiaiv OQEOOI/ yala |a£Acuv' dv£5a)K£V, Iva Svrjxcov v£vog Eir\" (8.1.4). It could be argued that because the account describes Pelasgos as "god-equalling," Pelasgos holds a status that equals only the pre- lapsarian Adam, for, after the fall, Adam loses a degree of his divine status. 107

(8.2.1). Lycaon, like his father, is instrumental in creation: he establishes a civic centre for his people, a religion, and an enormous cultural institution, a series of games similar to the Olympic games run by his contemporary Kekrops, the Athenian king. Later in

Book 8, Pausanias reinforces Lycaon's association with the creation of civilization when he explains that "of all the cities that the earth has ever shown, whether on mainland or on islands, Lycosura is the oldest, and was the first that the sun beheld; from it the rest of mankind have learned how to make them cities" (8.38.1).31 The power of creation extends to Lycaon's sons, who leave Lykosoura and establish cities of their own. Nyktimos,

Lycaon's oldest son, succeeds his father, but his brothers spread across the land and, with the founding of their own societies, establish a highly sophisticated and networked civilization.

In both accounts, then, Lycaon's creation (or destruction) of both a race and a culture operates as transformation: the creation out of chaos of something ordered, whether it be a race or culture, is, in fact, the transformation of that chaos. Likewise, the reversion back to chaos is the transformation of order. Cultural myths, myths of creation and destruction, then, are also myths of transformation, and in the Arcadian narratives, they are linked explicitly to the wolf or werewolf figure through their association with

Lycaon and his progeny.

Overall, in these accounts, Arcadians (whether the king or his sons) are associated with divine retribution, whatever form it takes; they also specifically link transgressive

30 "AvKoaoupdv xe yaq rcoAiv cpKLcev ev xco OQEI TW AuKaico Kai Ala cov6[iaoE AUKOLOV Kai aycova e9r]K£ AuKaia" (8.2.1). 31 "LloAecov be, onooac; kni xr\ f]7i£iQcp ibei^E yf\ Kai ev VT\OOIC„ AVKOOOVQCI eon nQEofiwzaTV\, Kai TauTr]v EISEV 6 r\Aioc, nQ(bvr\v. and zavxr]c; 5£ oLAoi7toL7TOi£la6ai7r6A£ic; ja£^a6r|KaaLV av0QCO7ioi" (8.38.1). 32 See Pausanias 8.3.1 ff. for a list of possible societies included in this network. 108

behaviours, specifically impiety and sacrilege, with the lupine figure. These references

reflect the increasingly divisive species boundary and the association of non-human, non-

rational forms with negative and socially unacceptable behaviours. The lupine figure or

lupine characteristics represent alterity, including the ultimate taboo of cannibalism. In

addition, the accounts link lupine figures, whether through an account of human to lupine transformation or through the human demonstration of negative lupine characteristics, to

the cultural myths of creation and destruction. Ultimately, the Arcadian narratives are the

quintessential werewolf narratives of the classical period: they foreground what constitute

normative and transgressive behaviours while simultaneously reflecting philosophical

concerns and social practices. In doing so, they demonstrate the cultural significance of

the lupine figure in classical narratives.

2.3.2 The Poet, the Philosopher, and the Werewolf

If the Arcadian werewolf narrative constitutes the quintessential werewolf narrative, then Ovid's tale "Lycaon" is the epitome of all Arcadian werewolf narratives.

Like its counterparts, Ovid's tale operates on several levels: it delineates normative and transgressive behaviours; it explores questions of identity, of the soul, and of soul transmigration; and it engages in the mythic through its association of the Arcadians with creation and destruction. Forbes Irving suggests that "Ovid's story of Lycaon ... is simplified," and that the king "becomes simply an outrageous villain" (95). However, this interpretation overlooks one of the key aspects of Ovid's narrative. What sets Ovid's tale apart from similar tales is its function within the framework of the Metamorphoses. As an opening narrative within the larger work, it introduces the thematic concerns of the entire text, concerns encountered in the other narratives explored in the previous sections— creation, transformation, death, and immortality (S. Myers 133-34, 166)—and it builds a

bridge to the text's final book, in which the poet introduces his representation of the

philosopher Pythagoras and explores tenets of Pythagorean doctrine. The final book's

focus on Pythagoras and Pythagoreanism also links the poet and his work explicitly to

their historical context and to the concept of immortality.

Ovid's Lycaon, before metamorphosis, displays negative behavioural

characteristics, especially pride and blood thirst. A tyrannical king "well known for

savagery" (1.198), Lycaon refuses to believe that the god Jove has taken a human form

and walks amongst the people. He mocks the piety of the "common folk" (1.220) who

worship this visible Jove, and decides to test the divine status of the god with an attempt

to kill him while he sleeps.34 To further test the god, the king slaughters a Molossian

hostage and mixes his flesh into the meal to be served that night. Lycaon's actions

transgress social norms and upset the systems of differentiation that separate deities from

humans and humans from animals. His refusal to belief in Jove's presence and his

subsequent attempt to kill Jove transgress the boundary that separates gods from mortals.

Further, his perversion of the sacrificial act that is meant to pay homage to the god results

in a "desecration of the table" or feast that Jove attends (Forbes Irving 93). Lycaon's attempt to engage the god in cannibalism also transgresses species boundaries, for it is the

"delicate balance of meat eating and the blood sacrifice" (93) that prevents humans from

"[N]otus feritate" (1.198). All quotations from the Metamorphoses, Latin and English, are taken from Frank Justus Miller's facing page translation of the text. All citations specify the book and line number. 34 Jove tells the other gods, "I gave a sign that a god had come, and the common folk began to worship me. Lycaon at first mocked at their pious prayers" ["signa dedi venisse deum, vulgusque precari / coeperat: inridet primo pia vota Lycaon"] (1.220-21). 110 being unjust, or cannibalistic, like the non-rational beasts.35 Lycaon's impious behaviour thus threatens social order. In his pride, he assumes that his position as a mortal king equals that of the gods. The king transgresses the religious hierarchies of his society by denying Jove's presence and power, and perverts ritual religious practice and transgresses the boundary that separates one human from another through the slaughter and presentation of human flesh.

Jove's response to Lycaon's transgressive behaviour and perversion of religious practice is immediate: he demolishes the king's home with a thunderbolt. Although the text does not explicitly place responsibility for Lycaon's transformation upon Jove, the transformation's concurrence with the demolition of Lycaon's house suggests that the two are related, that Jove's anger results in a domino-effect punishment. The account of

Lycaon's transformation emphasizes the continuity of both behavioural and physical characteristics as the king transforms. The narrative, in a manner that recalls Varro's account of Damaenetus as well as Aristotle's explanation of alteration, emphasizes the similarity of Lycaon's human and lupine forms. When Jove destroys Lycaon's home, the king flees in terror, and

with his accustomed greed for blood he turns against the sheep, delighting

still in slaughter. His garments change to shaggy hair, his arms to legs. He

turns into a wolf, and yet retains some traces of his former shape. There is

Forbes Irving writes, "eating is one of the main ways of characterizing the social order of the community on the one hand arid the world of primitive man and the animals on the other: the latter are seen in a positive way as vegetarians or a negative one as cannibals" (93). Ill

the same grey hair, the same fierce face, the same gleaming eyes, the same

picture of beastly savagery. (1.234-49)36

As Bynum suggests, "Ovid's wolf carries traces of a former self on his skin"

(Metamorphosis and Identity 172). Physical transformation only externalizes the perduring nature of the king's inner being: before and after metamorphosis, Lycaon is ferocious and blood thirsty. Like Aristotle's account of the bronze that remains the same whether it is rounded or squared, Lycaon's external substance alters but the underlying substratum persists, and, more importantly, remains perceptible. The similar, perceptible physical traits attest to the continuity of substance (his external shell), while the persistence of negative behaviours attests to the continuity of essence (his inner self).

Jove's punishment extends beyond Lycaon and his home to the entire human race.

Originally distraught by the rebelliousness of humankind, Jove declares that the human race is a cancer that needs to be eradicated. He suggests, "all means should first be tried, but what responds not to the treatment must be cut away with the knife, lest the untainted

* ^7 part also draw infection" (1.190-91). Jove's original visit to Lycaon, whom he considers to be the worst possible example of this "cancer," is an attempt to treat the disease through means other than "the knife." Unfortunately, this attempt fails. Convinced that

[CJupidine caedis vertitur in pecudes et nunc quoque sanguine gaudet. in villosi abeunt vestes, in crura lacerti: fit lupus et veteris servat vestigia formae; canities eadem est, eadem violentia vultus, idem oculi lucent, eadem feritatis imago est. (1.234-39) 37 "[Cjuncta prius temptanda, sed immedicabile curae / ense reddendum, ne pars sincera trahatur" (1.190-91). 112 the sins of mankind are irredeemable, Jove destroys the human race "beneath the waves and .. . rain from every quarter of the sky" (1.260-61), that is, with a flood.38

Jove's description of the cancer that plagues the earth and its subsequent and necessary eradication suggests that transgressive behaviours such as impiety and sacrilege can infect human society in the same way that disease infects an individual, physiological body. In Purity and Danger, Mary Douglas argues that the body operates as "a symbol of society," and describes it as "a model which can stand for any bounded system. Its boundaries can represent any boundaries which are threatened or precarious" (115). In

Ovid's narrative, cancer (impiety and sacrilege) infects human society. Lycaon, as the ultimate transgressor, represents not just the cancer but also the centre or origin of the disease. Jove's use of physical transformation as punishment is an attempt to control or diminish the threat the king presents to the bounded system of Arcadian society. By changing the bounded system of Lycaon's physical body, Jove hopes to change the bounded system of Arcadian society associated with it. The king transforms into a predatory wolf, a form considered more suitable for the negative behaviours he displays; this change should, theoretically, lessen the threat Lycaon presents to human society because he is no longer a part of that society. Further, Lycaon is now physically marked or identified; his inner being is represented on his outer body, and his fellow Arcadians

Rather than use thunderbolts to destroy the human race, [Jove] "poena placet diversa, genus mortale sub undis / perdere et ex omni nimbus demittere caelo" (1.260-61). The association of Lycaon and his house with the destruction of mankind reminds the reader of both Apollodorus and Pausanias, but, of course, Ovid predates both of these writers. It is likely that Ovid's version of the myth, in the Metamorphoses, influenced the accounts in the Library and the Guide, respectively. 113 can now identify him as a potential threat and thus avoid him.39 However, as king, the primary figurehead for his people, Lycaon (and thus his body) inextricably represents

Arcadian society as a whole, and the physical and behavioural characteristics that persist despite the king's transformation suggest that the boundaries and strictures that delineate

Arcadian society have been irrevocably transgressed. In fact, Lycaon's transgressions, particularly those that pervert religious practice and ritual sacrifice, affect Arcadian society at its very core. Lycaon's slaughter of the Molossian hostage and attempt to engage a god in a cannibalistic act pervert the act of ritual sacrifice; they destabilize the very ritual that purportedly provides order for Arcadian society.40

Lycaon's transformation and the destruction of his home are therefore not sufficient to reverse or correct the damage already done to society. In order to remove the cancer, the gods must perform a cleansing, a ritual act in itself; they must eradicate the infection—the human race—from the greater body, the planet or cosmos. Through this event, then, the destruction of Arcadian society and of the human race, and through the association of this event with the Arcadian king, Ovid, links his werewolf figure to a cultural myth, specifically the myth of destruction. Unlike his counterparts Apollodorus and Hyginus, who identify the sons of Lycaon as the initial transgressors, Ovid renders the king entirely culpable. ' In the Metamorphoses, Lycaon is the ultimate transgressor who deserves his transformation into lupine form. Lycaon is the reason for the flood; he is

This physical marker of difference recalls the mark that God gives Cain so that all will know who he is and will refrain from harming him (See Genesis 15). 4 Indeed, the later account in Pausanias concerning the annual sacrifice and the selection and exile of an individual from society demonstrates an attempt to reorder the chaos that Lycaon's sacrilege sets upon the world. 41 Pausanias follows Ovid in this detail. 114

the catalyst of destruction as well as the scapegoat for the reestablishment of social and

cosmic order.

While Ovid does not recount the creation of Arcadian society or attribute it to

Lycaon and his progeny, he does connect the king to the cultural myth of creation through

his placement of the narrative within the text overall. Book 1 of the Metamorphoses

opens with an account of creation and a brief description of each of the ages, Gold

through Iron, the latter of which gives birth to evil, war, and strife, and sees the last of the

immortals flee from the earth. Lycaon arises from this age, "the age of hard iron" (1.127),

and embodies all of its negative characteristics.4 Sara K. Myers argues that the

Metamorphoses contains stories that are "aetiological in focus"—they concern the

"origin[s]" of "natural and cultural object[s]" (viii). Lycaon's presence in Book 1 is no

accident; it foreshadows the aetiological and thematic content of subsequent narratives.

Moreover, Lycaon is the first identified mortal in Ovid's text and is the first example of

human transformation. By naming him, associating him with the creation myth, and by

rendering him the catalyst for the flood, Ovid places Lycaon directly within the greater

"cosmic history" that he writes (S. Myers 133).

Ovid's narrative also contributes to the structural and thematic unity of the

Metamorphoses as a whole by linking the text's opening, Book 1, to its closing, Book 15.

The central themes of Ovid's text culminate in Book 15 and are inextricably linked to the

figure of Phythagoras the philosopher. Ovid's Pythagoras occupies a large portion of

Book 15; his speech (also known as an hymn) is one of the largest in the text at over four

hundred lines. Through Pythagoras's speech, Ovid explores the rise and fall of nations,

"[D]e duro est ultima ferro" (1.127). 115

death and immortality, the Pythagorean theories of anamnesis and metempsychosis, and

the related doctrine of vegetarianism. These explorations indirectly reflect upon the

Lycaon narrative of Book 1. However, critical opinion about Ovid's inclusion of the

philosopher Pythagoras and the doctrines associated with him varies greatly, and the

status of his speech within the work as a whole is frequently disputed by scholars. Several

critics focus on the philosopher's speech, especially on his lengthy exposition of

metempsychosis and the related doctrine of vegetarianism, and surmise that these items

are either insignificant within the greater work or are superseded by other concerns.

While such interpretations are well argued, they have shortcomings.

For instance, Solodow argues that too many critics connect the overall meaning of

Ovid's text to Pythagoras's speech. This occurs, he suggests, because of the apparent link

between the stories (many of which overlap or have similar plots), the text's thematic

focus (metamorphosis), and Pythagoras's famous lines "everything changes" and "all

things are in flux" (163).43 Solodow posits that the examples of permanent

metamorphoses found in Ovid's text reflect neither the content of Pythagoras's speech

nor the Pythagorean theory of a "divine origin or divine essence for the soul" (164).

Because Ovid's tales lack any mention of divine inspiration or motivation for

metamorphosis, they outline the manipulation of only the outer form, or what Solodow

refers to as "mere change" (167).44 Solodow also argues that the lack of a connection to

43 "[0]mnia mutantur" and "cuncta fluunt" (15.165; 15.178). The above translation is Solodow's. For Latin citations, Solodow, like Warner and myself, relies on the Miller edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 44 Transmigration is a hierarchical process: there are, essentially, two types of transmigration. The first type is a simple movement of an impure soul upon the death of its current body to a new body. This is transmigration in its base form: the soul remains bound to the material world in whatever form houses it. The second type of 116 the divine, an essential element of Pythagorean theory, renders Pythagoras's speech a useless tool used for comic effect, and, consequently, "stands Pythagoreanism on its head" (165). Despite the almost unprecedented length of Pythagoras's speech and its notable location in the last book of the text, he surmises that the hymn is a "red herring"

(163-64).45 Finally, as discussed above in the first section, Solodow considers Pythagoras

a comedic figure in the classical literary tradition.

John F. Miller shares Solodow's scepticism, and describes Ovid's Pythagoras as a

"single-minded, somewhat rambling . .. windbag" (477). Ovid, Miller suggests, uses the philosopher's speech to "invert, if not trivialize, the logic of Pythagorean doctrine" (477).

Yet, unlike Solodow, Miller does not dismiss the character of Pythagoras and his speech.

Rather, he argues that the presence of the philosopher and his doctrine has a greater purpose than just ridicule: their presence evidences Ovid's "playfulness" as a writer

(477). The real focus of the Pythagorean discourse lies not in the arguments for metempsychosis and vegetarianism, but in the literary allusions created through the philosopher's character. Pythagoras's anamnesis, his recollection of previous lives, especially his claim to have lived an earlier life as Euphorbus, the hero who dies at Troy, creates a "metaliterary resonance" (476): it recalls similar narratives of Troy by Ovid's contemporaries Horace and Diodorus Siculus and by his predecessors Virgil and Homer

transmigration is ascendant: the soul attains purity and an elevated status that releases it from any material form and allows it to ascend to the divine realm, the heavens or stars (Kahn 52; Colavito 7). 45 Solodow points out that only two other narratives in the text match the length of Pythagoras'speech, which is over four hundred lines long: the story of Phaethon and "the debate over Achilles arms conducted by Ajax and Ulysses" (163). 117 I

(474-75). The importance of Pythagoras's anamnesis, Miller argues, lies not in the

memories themselves but in the erroneous nature of those memories. Pythagoras's

recollection of his life as the warrior Euphorbus, particularly of his death at the hands of

Menelaus, is imperfect. Miller explains that in Homer's Iliad 17, Menelaus deals

Euphorbus his deathblow—he drives a spear point through the base of his throat.47 Ovid's

Pythagoras, however, recalls the mortal blow as a blow to his breast (476). Miller' s

interpretation makes sense if one accepts that Ovid's purpose is to participate in the

literary tradition that ridicules the philosopher and if one considers Homer's version to be

an accurate rendering of the event. Indeed, Miller confesses to the latter point when he

describes Homer's Iliad as "the authoritative, 'objective' account of what happened to

Euphorbus" (476). Yet Homer's version, like Ovid's (or Pythagoras's), is only an

interpretation of a mythical event; it may be no more factually accurate than any other

account of the same event. Pythagoras's memory, then—indeed, his erroneous memory—

must have a greater purpose. If, Ovid is being playful (as Miller claims), it is just as likely

that he consciously alters specific details of his source within Pythagoras's speech in

See Miller for a detailed explanation of the literary allusions to texts by these authors. 47 Citing the Iliad (17.47-9), Miller argues that the passage's "double reference to the neck area leaves no doubt about what kind of wound terminated the Trojan hero's life" (476). In a note, he explains: "Exouaxcx; can refer to the gullet, which might seem to make the wound in Homer's passage much closer to the pectus mentioned by Pythagoras. But the meaning 'neck' is assured here both by the accompanying avyyoq and by the fact that <3Tb\mypq clearly denotes the neck in all of its other Homeric occurrences (77. 3.292 and 19.266)" (476). 8 Miller provides a lengthy counter-argument to naysayers, emphasizing the numerous places in which Ovid highlights the questionable tenets of Pythagoreanism (477-79). However, as the discussion below indicates, the Pythagorean content of Book 15 connects to Book 1 and has a specific role within the Metamorphoses as a whole, one that suggests the presence of the philosopher and his speech are not included for their comedic value alone. 118

order to comment upon the inadequacy of any literary interpretation to represent

completely and accurately a mythical event such as Euphorbus's death.

Miller also argues, that despite their erroneous nature, Pythagoras's recollections

have "structural importance both in the sprawling speech as a whole and in the lecture's

relation to the stories that surround it" (474).49 Ovid's ultimate purpose, Miller posits, is

to emphasize the unavoidable rise and fall of nations, and to highlight the parallels

between Troy and Rome. This theme, Miller continues, is what connects the Pythagorean

speech to the rest of the text, and constitutes the core of Ovid's work. Nations, like

bodies, inevitably undergo change.

Miller's focus on the rise and fall of nations indirectly validates the argument put

forth by S. Myers that Ovid writes a cosmic history: the nations themselves, as they rise

and fall, constitute part of this history. The emphasis on nations and bodies as similar

entities also reinforces the comparison between Troy and Rome as nations that undergo

change. Yet the concept of a nation that will rise and fall also evokes Book 1 and suggests a comparison between Rome and Arcadia. Such a relationship initially appears in Book 1, when Jove presents Lycaon's impiety and negative influence on the human race to the other gods. The god creates a parallel between Arcadia and Rome when he suggests that the results of Lycaon's transgressions equal the outcome of Julius Caesar's murder. Jove

states that the condition faced by Arcadian society is the same as "when an impious band was made to blot out the name of Rome with Caesar's blood, the human race was dazed

The structural importance of Pythagoras's speech (as discussed below) is enough to suggest that his inaccurate memory may have greater meaning and purpose than pure ridicule, but Miller fails to explore this possibility. Instead, he creates a contradiction in his argument. 119 with a sudden fear of mighty ruin, and the whole world shuddered in horror" (1.200-03).50

Lycaon's impiety and Caesar's murder are both transgressive acts that result in the downfall of a nation. In both cases, the physical body directly represents society; the corruption or elimination of one results in the corruption or elimination of the other.

The parallel between Arcadia and Rome (or between Lycaon and Caesar) highlights other connections between Book 1 and Book 15, connections related to

Pythagoras and his speech. Within his speech, Pythagoras describes the celestial realm to which the pure soul ascends through metempsychosis; his description recalls the opening narratives of the text. In Book 1, Ovid introduces the dwelling place of Jove, the "Palatia of high heaven" (1.176), where the gods gather to judge the human race and hear Jove's account of Lycaon's sins.5 In order to reach the Palatia, the gods traverse a galactic highway, the constellation "The Milky Way" (1.169). This galactic highway, along with the celestial dwelling of Jove, foreshadows Pythagoras's reference in Book 15 to the

"starry firmament" (15.147-48) as the realm of the ascended soul. These references to the celestial realm also foreshadow the next section of Book 15 in which the poet

[S]ic, cum manus inpia saevit sanguine Caesareo Romanum exstinguere nomen, attonitum tantae subito terrore ruinae humanum genus est totusque perhorruit orbis. (1.200-03) 51 "[M]agni.. . Palatia caeli" (1.176). 52 Ovid writes, There is a high way, easily seen when the sky is clear. 'Tis called the Milky Way, famed for its shining whiteness. By this way the gods fare to the halls and royal dwelling of the mighty Thunderer. (1.168-71) Est via sublimes, caelo manifesta sereno; lactea nomen habet, candore notabilis ipso, hac iter est superis ad magni tecta Tonantis regalemque domum. (1.168-71) 53 "[A]lta/astra" (15.147-48). recounts the apotheosis of Caesar. Ovid refers to the achievements of Caesar and suggests that, despite his horrendous and untimely death, because of his accomplishments and glory, he is "changed to a new heavenly body, a flaming star" (15.749).54 Ovid highlights the apotheosis of Caesar again, four hundred lines later. Jove, in his address to Cytherea, suggests that the Emperor Augustus (Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus) may achieve the same fate as Caesar (ascension to the fiery aether) if he can accomplish feats similar to those of his predecessor—peace, just rule, leadership by example, and the preparation of an heir.55 The god refers indirectly to Caesar when he suggests that "not till old age, when his [Augustus's] years have equalled his benefactions, shall he attain the heavenly seats and his related stars," and commands Venus to "catch up this soul [Caesar's] from the slain body and make him a star in order that ever it may be the divine Julius who looks

[QJuem Marte togaque praecipuum non bella magis finita triumphis resque domi gestae properataque gloria rerum in sidus vertere novum stellamque comantem. (15.746-49) Jove says, When peace has been bestowed upon all lands he [Augustus] shall turn his mind to the rights of citizens, and as a most righteous jurist promote the laws. By his own good example shall he direct the ways of men, and, looking forward to future time and coming generations, he shall bid the son, born of his chaste wife, to bear his name and the burden of his cares. (15.832-37) Pace data terris animum ad civilia vertet iura suum legesque feret iustissimus auctor exemploque suo mores reget inque futuri temporis aetatem venturorumque nepotum prospiciens prolem sancta de coniuge natam ferre simul nomenque suum curasque iubebit. (15.832-37) forth upon our capital and Forum from his lofty temple" (15.838-42). Caesar is, for

Ovid, an example of the metempsychosis of a pure soul.

The account and reminder of Caesar's apotheosis explicitly recalls his murder, the subsequent downfall of Rome, and the relationship established by Jove in Book 1 between Rome and Arcadia as fallen nations. Furthermore, the evocation of the relationship between Rome and Arcadia recalls the transgressions of the Arcadian king and emphasizes that while Caesar attains the fiery aether Lycaon does not. These narratives thus provide a structure to Ovid's text at large: the Metamorphoses opens and closes with accounts of departed rulers and fallen nations. Because of their placement, these narratives are in contrast with each other in a way that emphasizes the importance and results of just rule. The different fates of Lycaon and Caesar attest to this fact; unjust rule leads to confinement in the earthly realm, even to destruction, while just rule leads to ascension to the heavenly realm.

[N]ec nisi cum senior Pylios aequaverit annos, aetherias sedes congataque sidera tanget. hanc animam interea caeso de corpore raptam fac iubar, ut semper Capitolia nostra forumque divus ab excelsa prospectet Iulius aede! (15.838-42) The concern for just rule and the linking of just rule with stellification recalls "The Dream of Scipio" by Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC), which itself "echoes" Plato's Myth of Er in the Republic (Zetzel 223). In the "Dream," Cicero recounts the advice Scipio the Younger receives from both his grandfather (Africanus) and his father (Paulus) on his responsibilities as a leader. Paulus tells Scipio to "cherish justice and righteousness" because They are of the utmost importance in one's responsibility to his country. That pattern of life is the path to heaven and to the company of those who have lived their lives and now, released from their bodies, inhabit the region you see over there (a brightly glowing circle, glowing with glorious light among the flames) which you call, deriving the name from the Greeks, the Milky Way. (299-300) [S]ed sic, Scipio, ut auus hie tuus, ut ego qui te genui, iustitiam cole et pietatem, quae cum magna in parentibus et propinquis, turn in patria 122

Ovid's interest in Caesar's apotheosis is also reflected in the poem's closing lines,

which express the poet's desire for an immortality of his own. Ovid writes,

let that day come which has no power save over this mortal frame, and end

the span of my uncertain years. Still in my better part I shall be borne

immortal far beyond the lofty stars and I shall have an undying name.

Wherever Rome's power extends over the conquered world, I shall have

mention on men's lips, and, if the prophecies of bards have any truth,

through all the ages shall I live in fame.

(15.873-879)58

The poet desires an immortality that not only matches the Pythagorean attainment of the

fiery aether achieved by Caesar but that also exceeds it. He desires an immortality that,

although it will be spread throughout the world by Rome's rule, will also persist beyond

the fall of the empire. In order to achieve such immortality, he has composed the

maxima est; ea uita uia est in caelum et in hunc coetum eorum qui iam uixerunt et corpore laxati ilium incolunt locum quern uides (erat autem is splendidissimo candore inter flammas circus elucens), quern uos, ut a Grais accepistis, orbem lacteum nuncupatis. (6.16) English quotations are from Bovie's translation of the text; Latin quotations are from Zetzer's edition. Cicero's "Dream" originally appeared as a portion of his De republica, a text that was, until the nineteenth century, considered lost. Although a copy of the text was recovered, it remains fragmented. Prior to its recovery, then, there was only one available source for Cicero's "Dream": Commentary on the Dream ofScipio by Macrobius (Ambrosius Theodosius), a fifth-century writer and philosopher. Many medieval writers—for instance, Chaucer in The Parliament of Fowls—thus accessed Cicero's text out of its original context. [I] 11a dies, quae nil nisi corporis huius ius habet, incerti spatium mihi finiat aevi: parte tamen meliore mei super alta perennis astra ferar, nomenque erit idelebile nostrum, quaque patet domitis Romana potentia terris, ore legar populi, perque omni saecula fama, siquid habent veri vatum praesagia, vivam. (15.873-79) Metamorphoses. In doing so, Ovid also connects his own act as a writer to his

representation of Pythagoras in Book 15. Pythagoras's faulty anamnesis, his inaccurate

account of his life as the Trojan hero Euphorbus, highlights the imperfect nature of

human memory and suggests that memory itself may not always be reliable. Rather than

trust the memories of contemporary or future individuals, Ovid creates a tangible artefact

through which he will be remembered. He specifically evokes the power of his text in the

lines that directly precede those above. He declares, "And now my work is done, which

neither the wrath of Jove, nor fire, nor sword, nor the gnawing tooth of time, shall ever be

able to undo" (15.871-72).i9 Unlike the subjects of the Metamorphoses, ever-changing

bodies or nations that rise and fall, the text itself, and thus the name of the author, will

persist. Ovid, through crafty design, guarantees his own immortality; the poet's work is

his fiery aether.

He declares, "Iamque opus exegi, quod nee Iovis ira nee ignis / nee poterit ferrum nee edax abolere vetustas" (15.871-72). 60 This is not the only place that Ovid directly refers to his desire for immortality and his intention to achieve this goal through his poetry. In his Amores, for instance, he also declares his desire for "undying fame" ["fama perennis"] (1.15.7), and states, in the elegy's final couplet, Therefore beyond the last devouring flame I too shall live—in the body of my work. (1.15.41-42) ergo etiam cum me supremus adederit ignis, uiuam, parsque mei multa superstes erit. (1.15.41-42) Indeed, Ovid has achieved an immortality of sorts. His text has undergone many retellings and reinterpretations at the hands of other poets or authors in subsequent periods. Countless translations, rewritings and adaptations of the Metamorphoses exist, and, thus, perpetuate the memory of his name and fame, from the medieval French Ovid moralise, a heavily glossed and moralized reinterpretation of the Ovidian narratives, to more recent adaptations, such as Italo Calvino's Cosmicomics (1965), Yoko Tawada's Opium pour ovide (2002), and a collection of twenty-four tales retold by Ted Hughes (1997). Also, as Warner points out, Ovid's "stories have inspired . . . wave upon wave of different reinterpretations and approaches" (3). She lists, as recent examples of "tales of metamorphosis" (210), After Ovid: New Metamorphoses (ed. James Lasdun and Michael Hoffman), Christopher Logue's War Music, and Seamus Heaney's The Cure at Troy. For As discussed above, Solodow and Miller argue that the presence of Pythagorean

doctrine in the form of metempsychosis and vegetarianism is non-essential if not

irrelevant to the matter of the Metamorphoses. Yet the many connections between Book 1

and Book 15, the many evocations of Lycaon's cannibalism, and the comparison of

Lycaon and Caesar, or of Rome and Arcadia, suggest that the philosopher's speech must

have a purpose other than ridicule. One final connection between Book 1 and Book 15

highlights the importance of the philosopher and his doctrine, and, ultimately, returns us

to Lycaon and to the question of soul transmigration.

Pythagoras evokes Book 1 when he derides the human race for its consumption of

animal flesh. He explains that this practice began "after someone, an ill exemplar,

whoever he was, envied the food of lions, and thrust down flesh as food into his greedy

stomach, he opened the way for crime" (15.103-06).61 While Pyth agoras refers to the

consumption of animal, not human flesh, the description of "an ill exemplar" who

greedily consumes flesh, and who is connected to the beginnings of crime in the world,

recalls the sacrilege and cannibalism of the Arcadian king Lycaon, and the ultimate

demise of Arcadian society and the human race. Pythagoras reinforces this connection when he explains that "iron" (15.107) is used to slaughter the animals that are being consumed. The use of steel weapons or tools suggests that the initial consumption of

a detailed discussion on Ovid's desire for and attempts to secure his own immortality, see Boyd's Ovid's Literary Loves (especially Chapter 5, "Ovid's Narrative of Poetic Immortality," 165-202). All Latin quotations from Amores are from McKeown's edition; all English quotations are from Lee's facing-page translation. "[PJostquam non utilis auctor / victibus invidit, quisquis fuit ille, leonum / corporeasque dapes avidum demersit in alvum, / fecit iter sceleri" (15.103-06). 62 "[FJerrum" (15.107, my translation above). Justus Miller translates "ferrum" as steel, but this is inaccurate; the word is translated more accurately as "iron." Given the 125 animal flesh, the moment from which all other crimes arise, occurs during the Iron Age, the age previously identified as giving birth to evil and to the impious Lycaon.

A large portion of the Pythagorean speech concerns metempsychosis and the related doctrine of vegetarianism, and reminds the reader that many of Ovid's tales concern individuals who have been transformed into non-human forms, particularly forms that would be considered fit for human consumption (the heifer, the stag, and so forth).

The philosopher subtly reminds the reader of those individuals transformed or trapped in non-human forms, and recalls the cultural taboo of cannibalism that leads to the condemnation of Lycaon in Book 1. Pythagoras stresses that the animal flesh humans consume may house a soul once housed in a human form. In fact, the philosopher emphasizes this very point:

We should permit bodies which may possibly have sheltered the souls of

our parents or brothers or those joined to us by some other bond, or of men

at least, to be uninjured and respected, and not load our stomachs as with a

Thyestean banquet! What an evil habit he is forming, how surely is he

impiously preparing to shed human blood, who cuts a calf s throat with the

knife and listens all unmoved to its piteous cries! (15.459-65)63

context of the passage (the subsequent reference to the Iron Age) a translation of "ferrum" as "iron" makes more sense. Pythagoras refers to souls (animas) [CJorpora, quae possint animas habuisse parentum aut fratrum aut aliquo iunctorum foedere nobis aut hominum certe, tuta esse et honesta sinamus neve Thyesteis cumulemus viscera mensis! quam male consuescit, quern se parat ille cruori inpius humano, vituli qui guttura ferro rumpit et inmotas praebet mugitibus aures. (15.459-65) The message, to avoid "Lycaon-esque" cannibalistic behaviour, is unequivocal, and is entrenched in the reference to Thyestes. Thyestes seduced the wife of his brother Atreus, stole his golden fleece, and usurped the throne. He then unknowingly consumed the flesh of his sons, whom his brother slaughtered and served to him in an act of revenge.64

Pythagoras suggests, that to avoid the consumption of human flesh, one should refrain from the consumption of all flesh, whether human or non-human in origin. As Pythagoras suggests, one can unwittingly break the taboo against cannibalism, particularly as the body of an animal (a calf, in Pythagoras's example) can readily house a human soul.

Rather than commit such a violation of social mores, rather than become a savage beast like Lycaon, one should refrain from the consumption of animal flesh entirely.65

If metempsychosis is a possibility within Ovid's text, and indeed, the poet's emphasis on the apotheosis of Caesar, his own immortality, and the connections between the Pythagorean speech and the tale "Lycaon" suggest that it may be, perspectives on the

Pythagorean speech other than those of critics such as Solodow and Miller must be considered. Likewise, my earlier interpretation of Ovid's werewolf narrative, a reading inspired by Solodow and Miller's arguments, must be expanded. As suggested earlier,

Lycaon undergoes a process similar to the Aristotelian concept of alteration; he undergoes a perceptible change to his external matter but retains his inner form or substratum.

Further, while Lycaon's transformation may be attributed to Jove, the text itself makes no explicit connection between the king's inner self (or soul) and a divine origin, a point that

Solodow considers crucial to the Pythagorean doctrine of metempsychosis. Maria

64 See Greaves (374-80) for further details on Thyestes. 5 Although Lycaon did not himself engage in cannibalism in Ovid's narrative, his actions demonstrate an intended cannibalism; his savagery and impiety suggest that he is entirely capable of breaking this ultimate taboo. 127

Maddalena Colavito's study, The Pythagorean Intertext in Ovid's Metamorphoses: A

New Interpretation, provides a different perspective on the question of Pythagoreanism within the Metamorphoses, one that informs this reading of Ovid's narrative.66

Colavito stresses the tiered nature of Pythagorean metempsychosis. The impure soul remains bound to the earthly world, moving, upon the death of one form which houses it, into another bodily form. Conversely, the pure soul attains a celestial form in the fiery aether. In this system, only one type of metempsychosis is directly related to a divine essence, that of the pure soul. The impure soul remains outside of the divine and celestial realm precisely because it is impure. Colavito also explains that, while metempsychosis and metamorphosis are not the same thing, they are closely related. In fact, they "can be coexistent in that the result of metempsychosis for the impure soul is metamorphosis, namely another form" (8). Colavito suggests that the metempsychosis of the impure soul, the "translocation of the internal soul" from one bodily form to another, is synonymous with metamorphosis, the "rearrangement of the external form" (3), or what Solodow refers to as "mere change" (167).

A brief consideration of the Greek myth of Callisto, another tale from Ovid's

Metamorphoses, helps us negotiate these differences. Although variations of the tale exist, the Ovidian narrative recounts how Jove tricks Callisto into forsaking the vow of chastity she makes to Diana. The goddess, upon discovering Callisto's resultant

Colavito's study focuses on Ovid's interlacement of Pythagorean doctrine throughout his entire text. The Metamorphoses, she argues, reflects Ovid's awareness and engagement with "Pythagorean epistemology" (1) on several levels. Colavito explores the relationship between Ovid's tales of transformation—as tales of "philosophical activity" (1)—and the Pythagorean ideas of harmony, proportion, metempsychosis, and anamnesis. Further, Colavito examines how Pythagorean "number theory," which connects the material world to the divine, informs Ovid's creation myth. Ovid, Colavito argues, uses Pythagoras's number theory to explain "how creation works" (1). pregnancy, punishes her with exile. Shortly thereafter, Juno (the now angry wife of Jove) transforms Callisto into a bear as further punishment. Areas, Callisto's son, unknowingly hunts his mother in her ursine form, but Jove prevents his matricide by transforming both mother and son into the constellations Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.67

In Pythagorean terms, Callisto achieves the desired celestial form (the fiery aether) when Jove transforms her into a constellation. We can assume, then, that her soul ascends the heavens (via Jove) and that it has reached a state of purity. Juno confirms

Callisto's ascension when she bemoans, "She whom I drove out of human form has now become a goddess!" (1.97).68 In contrast, Callisto's prior transformation, from human to bear, while brought about by Juno, reflects her impious behaviours: her transgression of the strictures of Diana's cult and her participation (even if unwillingly) in an adulterous act. This initial transformation, then, is an example of the movement of an impure soul from one bodily form to another. Callisto's original transformation is punitive, hence merely metamorphosis or the lower form of metempsychosis. In addition, both of

The story of Callisto appears in Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book 2, and, interestingly, can be connected to the story of Lycaon in several ways. First, Callisto is the daughter of Lycaon, and like her father, she transgresses the strictures of a bounded society, this time the society of Diana's cult. Further, in her reverence of Diana, Callisto negates the power of Jove. When she initially meets Jove, who is disguised as Diana, she greets her/him: "Hail thou, my goddess, greater far than Jove, I say, though he himself should hear" ['"salve numen, me iudice' dixit, 'audiat ipse licet, maius love'"] (2.428- 29). Callisto's transformation from human to bear also recalls her father's transformation from human to wolf in that "her human feelings remained though she was now a bear" ["mens antiqua tamen facta quoque mansit in ursa"] (2.485). Both exhibit the continuity in form despite a change in matter. Finally, Callisto's story involves an account of cannibalism, albeit one that is prevented at the last minute by the intervention of Jove. The potential matricide and cannibalism of Areas, as he hunts and prepares to kill his mother (who is in bear form), creates a bridge to the intended cannibalism of Lycaon. One cannot help but recall the story of Arcadia's fall from Book 1 while reading the story of Callisto in Book 2. 68 "[E]sse hominem vetui: facta est dea!" (2.521). Callisto's transformations are unilateral; there are no reverse processes from either new state (bear or constellation), which suggests that, in fact, the previous forms that house her soul cease to be. Each previous bodily form (human and bear) dissipates with transmigration. Thus both metamorphoses—Callisto to bear and bear to celestial being— can be considered truly metempsychotic, if to varying degrees: transformation from human to bear demonstrates the metempsychosis of an impure soul, while transformation from bear to constellation demonstrates the metempsychosis of a pure soul.

In all but three of the werewolf narratives explored within this chapter, the werewolf (if actual transformation occurs) returns to a human form. This return suggests that metempsychosis has not occurred; rather, metamorphosis has taken place. The three narratives that do not include an account of the werewolf s return to his original, human form—in Hyginus, Pausanias, and Ovid—all, notably, are variations of the Arcadian myth and the story of Lycaon. And, in all three accounts, most especially in Ovid's, the king's transformation from human to lupine form is, like Callisto's original transformation into a bear, punitive: it is part of the punishment by the god or gods.

Furthermore, the connections between Book 1 and Book 15 that create a comparison between Rome-Arcadia and Caesar-Lycaon suggest that the Arcadian king's transformation is final; his sins are too great for him to move beyond the material realm.

In this way, then, Lycaon's transformation from human to wolf can be understood as metamorphosis or the lower form of metempyschosis. It is both the "mere change" that

Solodow argues for as well as "coexistanf' other form, "metamorphosis," that Colavito advocates. Ultimately, the structural purpose of the connecting narratives of Books 1 and

15 are integral to Ovid's work as a whole; they demonstrate, as Bynum suggests, that 130

"The whole range of metamorphoses in Ovid is situated in a Pythagoreanism that views

all of nature as perpetual transformation and return" {Metamorphosis and Identity 178).

2.4 Conclusion

From the above discussions, a number of conclusions can be drawn about the

overall purpose or meaning of werewolf narratives in the classical period. Warner

suggests, "tales of metamorphosis often arose in spaces (temporal, geographical, and

mental) that were crossroads, cross-cultural zones, points of interchange on the intricate

connective tissue of communications between cultures" (Fantastic Metamorphoses 17).

The narratives with lupine figures explored in this chapter demonstrate this very point;

they exist as sites of tension that reflect the various and evolving philosophical views,

cultural practices, and religious beliefs of a period that spans centuries.

The wolf and werewolf figures frequently represent individuals who deviate from

the accepted norms of a society, either through physical appearance or through the

participation in unsanctioned or excessive behaviours. Any physical traits or behaviours

that are different, unaccepted, or that defy a society's delineation of species boundaries

may, in narrative, become associated with wolves or werewolves. The goatherd Tityrus in

Virgil's "Eclogue 8" and the lascivious Wolf of Theocritus's "Idyll 14" are such

examples. Werewolf narratives can also depict the reality of existence for a society, whether it be, as Veenstra suggests, reflections of war and bloodshed, or, as Warner

suggests, the threat and incursion of wild, predatory beasts (wolves) upon a human

community, both of which exist in numerous narratives such as Petronius's Satyricon and the Aesopic fables of Phaedrus. Religious beliefs similarly influence narratives: tales may reflect a belief in pagan or archaic religious practices, particularly those that are based 131

upon a belief in connections between the human and animal worlds or a belief in magic.

Religious beliefs in the classical period, however, were not static, a fact that many of the

accounts reflect through their juxtaposition of theriomorphic and anthropocentric values

within the narrative. The account in Herodotus evidences such influence and tension, as

do Petronius's account and Varro's reports (via Augustine) of Damsenetus and the

Arcadians.

Many of the narratives reflect the philosophical concerns of the age, particularly

those surrounding the soul and soul transmigration. Interestingly, only three of all of the

narratives discussed fail to specify that the individual who transforms into a wolf returns

at a later date to human form. These accounts, in Hyginus, Pausanias, and Ovid, concern the Arcadian King Lycaon, suggesting that he alone must endure indefinitely the lupine

form. All other accounts include a return to human form for the individual or individuals

who transform, suggesting that, for the most part, transmigration is not actually occurring.

Rather, for those who transform and return or who undergo cyclical transformation, an

alteration of their exterior bodies (matter) takes place while the soul (form) housed by the body persists. Varro's Dam^netus and Petronius's soldier, for example, demonstrate this continuity within change. The majority of the narratives, with the exception of Herodotus

(who predates Aristotle), reflect tenets of Aristotelianism, specifically belief in the immutable soul and the possibility of alteration, or change of the physical body.

Finally, werewolf narratives frequently border on or participate in the mythic: they provide an explanation for a society or race's creation, acts of violence, and destruction.

Lycaon, in several accounts, is credited with the creation of Arcadian society. He establishes the social values, institutions, and hierarchies that constitute Arcadian culture. 132

However, Lycaon is also often associated with everything that harms his society:

violence, impiety, and sacrilege. In such instances, Lycaon (or another individual)

operates as a representative of and resolution for his society's ills. His guilt and

persecution absolves the society at large of its own disorderly behaviour. Philosopher-

anthropologist Rene Girard calls this the scapegoat effect: "the strange process through

which two or more people are reconciled for whatever ails, disturbs, or frightens the

scapegoaters" ("Mimesis and Violence" 12). The scapegoat allows the larger community

to focus on the eradication of a greater, external threat (the threat is externalized by

becoming the scapegoat), thereby diminishing the threat of any internal conflict or

violence.

In Chapter 7 of The Girard Reader, James G. Williams explains the importance of the scapegoat in myth. He writes,

myth camouflages scapegoating even as it represents patterns of meaning

in stories of gods, ancient heroes, foundations of social order and ritual,

etc.. .. The two chief referents are a victim (or victims) who are both

blamed for the crisis and, in archaic societies, credited with the peace and

harmony that are restored once the lynching has taken place. (97)

Girard's theory of the scapegoat and its connection to social disorder and destruction provides further illumination of werewolf narratives, especially the Arcadian narratives.

Girard suggests that myths typically arise from moments of crisis such as conflict

(internal or external), or the "removal of the differences and hierarchies which constitute the community in its wholeness" (Things Hidden 141). Such moments of conflict result in the selection and persecution of a scapegoat—one or more individuals who are to be 133

punished by the collective (society at large) for the society's ills. "Victimage" thus occurs

when "society and even nature appear as a whole being put in order, or in which order is

being re-established" (143). In the narratives discussed above, the punishment of Lycaon

(or his sons) restores order to Arcadian society. Further, the associated ritual processes of

sacrifice and exile by lot guarantee the maintenance of this order in subsequent years,

once Lycaon and his sons are themselves gone.

Sacrifice, Girard argues, is the ultimate mimesis (appropriative re-enactment) of

the original violence that threatens a community. "Real or symbolic," he writes, "sacrifice

is primarily a collective action of the entire community, which purifies itself of its own

disorder through the unanimous immolation of a victim" ("Mimesis and Violence" 11).

Pausanias's account of the Arcadians exemplifies Girard's theory. Lycaon commits the

initial violent act when he slaughters a child (rather than incinerating honey-cakes) and

pours the child's blood over the altar of Zeus. The god punishes Lycaon directly, by

transforming him into a wolf, but the society takes its own precautions to avoid further

similar acts. Each year, at the ritual sacrifice (the burning of the honey-cakes), the society

chooses an individual to replace Lycaon. The scapegoat, the chosen and exiled individual,

protects the society against the possibility of a veritable re-enactment of the former king's transgression.

The scapegoat effect can also work in the opposite manner: it can attribute to an

individual the creation or restoration of order in a way that actually deifies him or her

(even if he or she is ultimately sacrificed). Girard explains that, in some Native American cultures, the capture and temporary enslavement (prior to execution) of an animal or 134 individual taken in battle represents the concept of a "living god"—the individual or animal is

treated "royally," or "divinely," for a period of time, then executed. . . .

[W]e can understand the death of the victim in these situations as shedding

light on the beginnings of human culture and as potentially meaningful in a

number of directions, one of them being kingship. ("Anthropology" 270-

71)1

A similar, original violence appears in the Arcadian narratives when Lycaon (and

Pelasgos) are credited with the creation of the human race and culture. The creation of culture—literally, the transformation or chaos into order—constitutes an act of violence in itself, an original violence that does not arise from victimage or the scapegoat effect.

"In the story of the creation of the world," Girard writes, "the founding moment comes at the beginning and no victimage is involved" (Things Hidden 143). Lycaon is the living god, the individual deified only to be later sacrified, as retribution not only for his own violence (impiety and sacrilege) but also for the original violence of creation.

Apollodorus's Arcadian narrative takes the scapegoat process one step further. In this account, Lycaon and his progeny are not only associated with society's creation and

James G. Frazer, in The Golden Bough, provides a similar example of such a process. He cites "the historian Beosus,... a Babylonian priest," who describes a ritual in which the prisoner is substituted for the king and then executed as part of the annual Babylonian festival "Sacaea" (1.226). In the same section of his study, Frazer also identifies similar practices such as the conflation of religious and monarchical figures into one person, the annual replacement of the king, and the immediate replacement of any king-god figures that display signs of physical weakness. Such weaknesses are detrimental to the society. "The man-god," Frazer writes, "must be killed as soon as he shows symptoms that his powers are beginning to fail, and his soul must be transferred to a vigorous successor before it has been seriously impaired by the threatened decay" (1.215). See Frazer's chapter on "Killing the God" (Golden Bough, Vol. 1, Chap. 3; 1.213-39). 135

disorder but also with its destruction. Girard identifies the flood motif as one of the

primary "metaphors of crisis" (Things Hidden 143), one that in the western theology

represents "the dissolution of all differences: giants are born, the progeny of a

promiscuous union between the sons of the gods and the daughters of men" (148). In the

Arcadian narratives, the dissolution of differences occurs on two levels. First, Lycaon

and/or his sons assume and defy the powers of the gods by believing that they can trick

Zeus or Jove into the consumption of human flesh; they elide the difference between

mortals and gods. Second, by engaging in cannibalism (or suggesting that a god engage in

cannibalism), they elide the difference between humans (the human consuming and the

human consumed) and between humans and animals (by acting in a manner considered

animalistic). In Apollodorus's narrative, the transgressions committed are so great that

society cannot be saved, even with ongoing ritual sacrifice exile: hence the flood.

Ovid's werewolf narrative embodies all that the other lupine narratives evoke. It is

connected to the cultural myths of creation and destruction; to stories of physical and

social transformation; to the articulation of social norms, taboos, and transgressive

behaviours; and to explorations of death and immortality, particularly those associated

with the Pythagorean doctrine of metempsychosis. Furthermore, Ovid's werewolf narrative, as the first narrative of human transformation within the text, and as a narrative with multiple connections to the text's final book, provides both structural and thematic unity to the Metamorphoses. In short, Ovid's werewolf narrative resists any definitive categorization or interpretation. Instead, and like its counterparts, it operates on multiple levels and allows varied, often conflicting interpretations to coexist. It is the epitome of all classical werewolf narratives. Finally, Ovid's "Lycaon," and the overall discussion of 136

lupine figures within this chapter, provides the foundations for the discussion in

subsequent chapters. Many of the medieval narratives discussed in Chapter 3 build upon,

rework, or respond to the classical narratives or understandings of lupine figures outlined

in this chapter. This chapter thus provides a context for the discussion of medieval

narratives with lupine figures. It also, more importantly, and, in conjunction with the

discussion of Chapter 3, provides the foundations for Chapter 4's discussion of the werewolf figures of J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, Remus Lupin and Fenrir

Greyback. Rowling manipulates classical and medieval representations of lupine figures

in her series to create new werewolf figures and to explore many of the same themes or

issues associated with them in the classical narratives: identity, difference, violence,

species boundaries, and change. 137

Chapter 3: The Middle Ages

Medieval werewolves "are what scholars have called 'sympathetic' werewolves—victims who are changed into wolves,. . . but who retain the 'intelligence and memory' of rational human beings" (Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity 94-95).

3.1 Introduction

Lupine figures are as proliferate and as varied in the Middle Ages as they are in

Antiquity, and, like their classical predecessors, they appear in various genres, from early

theological and philosophical texts or folkloric and mythological narratives to fables and

bestiaries or late medieval romances. Also, like their classical predecessors, medieval

lupine figures often defy a singular interpretation. In fact, many lupine figures occur in

narratives that are characterized by the juxtaposition of Christian doctrine with older

mythic and folkloric beliefs.

For example, as seen in Chapter 2, Varro's accounts of werewolfery, which

include the story of the Arcadians (who collectively transform into lupine forms for a

period of nine years) and the story of Damasnetus (the pugilist who underwent a period of ten years in lupine form as punishment for sacrilege), articulate pre-Christian philosophical and religious beliefs and practices; yet, his accounts are framed by a

narrative that is explicitly concerned with Christian beliefs about the soul and soul transmigration. Augustine's inclusion of Varro's accounts in his City of God does not

suggest that he believes in such transformations. In fact, as Bynum suggests in her

summary of the City's Book 18, although Augustine describes the "incredible tales" told by Varro, he considers the "metamorphosis of human beings into animals . . . impossible"

{Metamorphosis and Identity 102). Traditional Augustinian doctrine denies the possibility 138 of theriomorphic metamorphosis and stresses that only God has the power to bring about real and miraculous change.

Augustine explains that while "Almighty God can do whatever He pleases" (City

18.18), accounts of transformation provided by classical authors such as Varro are spurious. "I cannot," he writes, "believe that even the body, much less the mind, can really be changed into bestial forms and lineaments" (18.18).1 He suggests, however, that the illusion of such transformation can be brought about by a phantasm procured by a demon. Demons are not, like God, capable of enacting real change; they "do not create real substances, but only change the appearance of things created by the true God so as to make them seem to be what they are not" (18.18). When humans are overlaid by the powers of others or by sleep, Augustine continues, demons can cause a phantasm

"embodied in the shape of some animal, [to] appear" (18.18), which may deceive individuals into believing that they are capable of change or which may deceive some people that they have seen another person undergo human to animal transformation.

Veenstra suggests that Varro's narratives receive a place in Augustine's City because of their religious views, for it is the worship of pagan gods, "the excess of idolatry" (145), that the philosopher seeks to correct in his own text. Indeed, the nature of the final chapters of Book 22, the final book of the City, confirm this point. In many of the final chapters (for example, chapters 25 through 28), Augustine refutes the views of

"Non itaque solum animum, sed ne corpus quidem ulla ratione crediderim daemonum arte vel potestate in membra et liniamenta bestialia veraciter posse converti" (18.18). Augustine writes, "Nee sane daemons naturas creant, si aliquid tale faciunt, de qualibus factis ista vertitur quaestio; sed specie tenus, quae a vero Deo sunt create, commutant, ut videantur esse quod non sunt" (18.18). Demons cause "phantasticium autem illud veluti corporatum in ahcuius animalis effigie appareat" (18.18). 139

classical (pagan) thinkers such as Plato and Porphyry, and comments upon the

inaccuracies of works by historians such as Varro. Elsewhere in the City, he uses similar

discussions to teach his fellow Christians how to interpret ancient texts. The philosopher

instructs readers to question the veracity of sources that report human to animal transformation or that report unusual races or beings, and he argues that classical pagan

writers lacked the skills and knowledge that their Christian successors possess. Yet while

accounts such as those by Varro report events that are physically impossible, those who recorded the events may have believed them and, thus, would not necessarily be

intentionally recording untruths. Early writings, Augustine suggests, should therefore be examined closely and intelligently, for misinterpretation can lead to grave error. When reading accounts of unusual races, one must be able to ascertain whether or not the race in question truly is a divergent form of human being or if it is merely a previously unrecorded animal.4

Augustine's insistence that theriomorphism is impossible unless wrought by God

(and, therefore, a miracle) reinforces his focus on the state of the human soul and on the

Christian values that should inform an individual's comportment in life. While physical deformity, or hybridity for that matter, may externalize internal vices or sin, it does not render a being inhuman. Augustine writes,

but whoever is anywhere born a man, that is, a rational mortal animal, no

matter what unusual appearance he presents in colour, movement, sound,

4 Augustine suggests that "if we were not aware that apes, and monkeys, and sphinxes are not men, but beasts, those historians would possibly describe them as races of men, and flaunt with impunity their false and vainglorious discoveries" ["Nam et simias et cercopithecos et sphingas si nesciremus non hominess esse, sed bestias, possent illi historici de sua curiositate gloriantes velut gentes aliquas hominum nobis inpunita vanitate mentiri"] (City 16.8). 140

nor how peculiar he is in some power, part, or quality of his nature, no

Christian can doubt that he springs from that one protoplast. (City 16.8)5

One should never question the outside appearance of another individual, particularly if it

seems odd or unusual, because by focusing on these oddities, one might fail to discover the true nature of that being, especially its rationality and derivation from Adam.6

Augustine writes, "Verum quisquis uspiam nascitur homo, id est animal rationale mortale, quamlibet nostris inusitatam sensibus great corporis formam seu colorem sive motum sive sonum sive qualibet vi, qualibet parte, qualibet qualitate naturam"(16.8). 6 This idea that all rational beings, regardless of external appearance, are descended from Adam is epitomized by the Biblical account of Cain. When Cain kills his brother Abel, God says to him, "Now, therefore, cursed shall you be upon the earth" ["nunc igitur maledictus eris super terrain"] (Gen. 4.11, my translation). In addition to cursing Cain, God physically marks him: "And the Lord placed upon Cain a sign, that none of those who came upon him would kill him" ["posuitque Dominus Cain signum ut non eum interficeret omnis qui invenisset eum"] (Gen. 4.15, my translation). This sign, frequently interpreted as some sort of physical deformity, identifies Cain as a sinner, as a perpetrator of fratricide. For example, the notes from the Doauy Rheims Bible Online (DRBO) explain that traditional interpretations of Genesis 4:15 understand the mark to be "a trembling of the body; or a horror and consternation in his countenance" (). Further, the deformity renders Cain monstrous, and reinforces the likely humanity of reported monstrous beings or races argued for by Augustine in Book 16, particularly those with animalistic features. While the Vulgate simply explains that, in Genesis 4.23, Lamech laments to his wives, "I have slain a man" ["occidi virum," my translation], the DRBO identifies, in a note, the connection between the fallen or sinful man and irrational animals as the reason for Cain's death: "It is the tradition of the Hebrews, that Lamech in hunting slew Cain, mistaking him for a wild beast" (). Cain is thus, in the Western tradition, the original and ultimate outsider, and, as Friedman suggests, the monstrous races, through their physical deformities, were connected to Cain: he was "their first parent" (31), and "the races partook of Cain's curse and promise of eternal torment in hell" (31). This connection appears, for instance, in the Anglo- Saxon Beowulf, in the exiled characters Grendel and Grendel's mother. The narrator connects Grendel to Cain when describing Grendel's mother as a physically deformed entity, a "monster-woman" (1259) who had dwelt in dreadful waters, the cold streams, ever since Cain killed with his blade his only brother, his father's kin; . . . From him [Cain] awoke 141

Descent from Adam separates humans from animals, and it is a key factor in salvation

because it reinforces the Christian belief that "only men with a rational soul can suffer the

disordering effects of sin. Animals who do not know right from wrong cannot do so"

(Friedman 187). Only the human soul can sin because it has the capacity of reason.7 As

Dennis M. Kratz points out, "[rjationality is central to the Christian concept of human

nature" (67), and Augustine's argument that this characteristic delineates the boundary

between humans and animals, along with his argument that human to animal

transformations are impossible, informs Christian thought "steadfastly and vigorously"

(66) as the Middle Ages progress.

This traditional doctrine becomes a subject of debate, however, in the late Middle

Ages, particularly from the twelfth century onwards, when understandings of the body, of

the soul, and of species change were greatly impacted by the recovery of Aristotle's

corpus. Over the course of the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, Aristotle's

many a fateful spirit—Grendel among them. (1260-66) se be wasteregesan wunian scolde cealde streamas sib5an Cam wearS to ecgbanan angan breber, fasderenmasge;... morbre gemearcod mandream fleon, westen warode. I>anon woe fela geosceaftgasta; waes basra Grendel sum. (1260-66) As Fulk, Bjork, and Niles point out in the annotations ofKlaeber 's Beowulf, 4th edition (from which all Old English quotations are taken), the manuscript of Beowulf, at line 1260, actually states "camp" not "Cain" (44). The latter is an accepted reading of the former. All modern English quotations are from R. M. Liuzza's translation. Augustine's argument, of course, resonates with tenets of Platonism or Aristotelianism that specifically seek to establish boundaries between species and to assign to humans the intellective capacity. 8 The twelfth century, overall, was a period of immense upheaval for medieval Europe, one characterized by political, economic, and social change. C. H. Haskins refers to this period, along with its various changes, as the Twelfth-Century Renaissance, although R. N. Swanson (building upon Haskins's argument) suggests that the real works were translated by scholars into medieval Latin, first from Arabic translations and commentaries but eventually from Greek sources, and by 1150 new translations were available of most of his works. As theological and philosophical studies became increasingly influenced by Aristotelianism, they became increasingly scientific and, as they did, drew further and further away from the original pursuit of a "sacramental or symbolic form of knowledge" (Brown 191). Aristotle's On Generation and Corruption in particular had a profound affect on medieval thinkers. On Generation introduced new theories of change and provided a new way of thinking about species differentiation; it presented medieval thinkers with the philosopher's struggle to reconcile his beliefs in the immutable nature of the embodied soul with his beliefs in the possibility of real change, the change of a being from one thing to another.9 Thinkers in the Latin West now faced the possibility that change was indeed possible, and this possibility consequently brought into question the very nature of humanity. Bynum writes,

once Aristotle's analysis of generation and corruption was understood and

adopted, no theologian would any longer hold that the much discussed

Veritas humanae naturae [the truth, or the true matter of human nature]

can be a core of matter, handed down from Adam to his descendants,

multiplied by itself into the adult body, and presented in the grave until the

end of time. {Resurrection 231) historical period of change occurred from 1050-1250 and should, therefore, be referred to as the "long twelfth century" (viii). For further information on the Twelfth-Century Renaissance, see the studies by Haskins or Swanson. 9 Bynum points out that Aristotle's theory of change, as articulated in On Generation, was not entirely unknown in the twelfth century because it received mention in the Categories (197). However, because this material was only available indirectly and in summary form, it had little influence in the early medieval period (197). For further details on Aristotle's Generation and Corruption, see the Introduction to Chapter 2. 143

What constituted humanity had to reside in something other than the physical body if that

physical body was susceptible to change. If one were human precisely because one was

rational and descended from Adam, the key components of humanity could not be

material.10

Medieval writers grappled with these complex and often competing views, and, in

order to do so, frequently turned to the lupine figure, whose multivalent nature leant itself

to a range of purposes. Gerald of Wales (c. 1146-c. 1223), for instance, provides an

example of a medieval writer's struggle with the contradictions of the twelfth century. In

his Topography of Ireland (1186-1187)—a collection that is "part history, part marvels,

part miracle story and part topography" (Mittman 197)—Gerald recounts a tale about a

priest who encounters two werewolves while traveling in Ireland.11 Gerald uses the

Thomas Aquinas (1225-74), for instance, grappled extensively with Aristotelian concepts within the framework of Christian doctrine, and he was unable to solve definitively the question of the importance of the material body (matter) to essence, and, therefore, to identity and continuity. Bynum writes, "One the one hand, Aquinas suggests that soul is a self that carries all our structure and integrity packed into it. . . . On the other hand Aquinas argues that soul without body is a fragment... . Aquinas can be read both as eclipsing and as guaranteeing the ontological significance of body" {Resurrection 269). Aquinas's theories proved problematic for more conservative thinkers, especially those theories that made "continuity of the fleshy stuff of body unnecessary" (10), and, ultimately, they were included in the great condemnation of 1277. The account of the werewolf is in Distinction (Book) 2 of the Topography, in Chapter 19, "Of the Prodigies of our Times; and First, of a Wolf Which Conversed with a Priest" ["De mirabilibus nostril temporis. Et primo, de lupo cum sacerdote loquente"]. One evening, as the priest sits by his fire in the woods, a male wolf approaches and requests that he provide the rites of the church for his perilously ill female partner. The wolf explains that he and the female wolf are actually humans from Ossory but that they have been cursed by the abbot to live in the form of wolves for a period of seven years. At the end of those seven years they may return home and resume their human forms, at which point another couple will replace them. The male wolf demonstrates an impressive knowledge of matters of faith and the priest agrees to visit his ailing partner. When asked to provide the last communion, however, the priest refuses. The male wolf then tears off, from head to navel, the skin or pelt of the other wolf and reveals, underneath, an aged woman. Beseeched by both the male and female wolf, and in great fear, the priest agrees 144 priest's account of the werewolves to explore the relationship between the body and the soul and to question the possibility of theriomorphic metamorphosis. In fact, he revised the Topography repeatedly throughout his life (for a total of four editions), gradually expanding the werewolf narrative to almost twice its original length. Both the number and the nature of Gerald's revisions gesture towards the difficulty he had in resolving the matter of the werewolves. As Bynum points out, the first recension focuses "squarely on the nature of the wolves (are they animal or human?) and on the attendant question of the legal status of the priest's decision to administer the sacrament" {Metamorphosis and

Identity 15). As Gerald reworks his material, however, he transforms it into "an explicit and complex discussion of what it means for something to become something else" (16).

Drawing upon biblical passages, Augustine's City, and other classical and medieval sources, Gerald explores theories and examples of metamorphosis such as Apuleius's The

Golden Ass and the story of Lot's wife (whom God turns into a pillar of salt). He provides examples of metamorphoses believed to be both illusionary and real, but falters when he reaches the topic of the Eucharist. "Of that apparent change of the bread into the to provide the female with communion. Gervaise of Tilbury's Recreation for an Emperor [Otia Imperiala], which is generically similar to Gerald's Topography in that it is comprised of various historical, cosmographical, and geographical materials (Banks and Binns xli), also includes references to werewolves. In Book 1, Chapter 15, Gervaise refers to wolves in his discussion of sin and the ability of women to transform into serpents; in Book 3, Chapter 120, Gervaise discusses an outlawed knight's transformation into and out of lupine form in order to demonstrate that salvation for the damned soul is possible. Like Gerald, Gervaise focuses on the relationship or role of transformation within.Christian doctrine, although, unlike the latter, he has little difficulty accepting either accounts or the possibility of transformation. This is no surprise given the original context of the narrative. Gerald explains to the reader that the priest's abbot (to whom the priest has made a confession of the matter) invited him to attend a synod convened to determine how to interpret the event and what, if any, course of action should be taken. Gerald comments that he was unable to attend the synod, but that he suggested that the priest and the synod counsel seek instruction from the Vatican. 145 body of Christ," he writes, "I have thought it safest not to treat; its comprehension being far beyond the powers of the human intellect" {Topography 2.19).13

Bynum describes Gerald's ruminations on metamorphoses as "energetic and

confused" and as "typical of the late twelfth century" {Metamorphosis and Identity 18).

Indeed, his discussion both accepts and rejects the possibility of transformation while it

also simultaneously explains and denies the ability to understand the process.14 More

importantly, with the exception of the Eucharist, which he declares is beyond his comprehension, Gerald foregrounds and accepts accounts of metamorphosis that are

"uniquely Christian" (Salisbury 162). As Salisbury explains,

In Christian metamorphosis, the exterior changed to reveal some animal­

like characteristics of the human, but the human essence, the interior,

remained unchanged. This was consistent with the patristic position that

humans cannot be changed into animals, so it offered a way to accept a

compromise form of metamorphosis. (162)

Such accounts of metamorphosis attempt to reconcile the conflicting forces of change and continuity, especially when those conflicting forces represent the dichotomy of the body and the soul. The former may change; however, the latter may not. This type of metamorphosis—external change with internal continuity—is, as Bynum suggests, common in shape-shifting narratives of the twelfth century. It is especially common in

Gerald writes, "De ilia vero speciali panis in corpus Christi mutatione,. . . quoniam supra humanam longe intelligentiam alta nimis et ardua est ejus complexion" (2.19). 4 As mentioned above, Gerald refuses to address the most difficult instance of transformation known to him (the Eucharist), suggesting that it differs from the others examples in his discussion because "while the outward appearance remains the same, the substance only is changed" {Topography 2.19). the romances of the twelfth to fourteenth centuries, narratives in which the already prevalent lupine figure burgeoned, and it creates what Bynum refers to as the "werewolf renaissance of the twelfth century" {Metamorphosis and Identity 94), renewed interest in wolves and werewolves, particularly in medieval entertainment literature.

The werewolves of the medieval romances are in stark contrast to their classical predecessors. In fact, as Bynum notes, scholars commonly refer to the romance werewolves as "'sympathetic' werewolves—victims who are changed into wolves,... but who retain the 'intelligence and memory' of rational human beings" {Metamorphosis and Identity 94-95). Salisbury argues that the sudden rise in the twelfth century of werewolf narratives "reveals a fear of the beast inside overwhelming the human qualities of rationality and spirituality, leaving only the animal appetites of lust, hunger, and rage"

(163). Like Gerald of Wales's Topography, the werewolf romances grapple with the conflicting philosophical and theological views of the twelfth century and the subsequent insecurities or fears created by these conflicting views. Each romance's insistence upon the humanity of the werewolf is meant to assuage its audience's fears that the animalistic side of human nature will overcome the civilized and rational side. Yet the romances articulate more than just the philosophical and theological debates of their period; they also articulate social concerns and critiques, and they delineate normative and non- normative social behaviours. Likewise, the lupine figures within these narratives operate on several levels; they are tools for the exploration of philosophical and theological debates, and they are tools for social criticism and for the delineation of social norms.

Overall, lupine figures are as multi-faceted in the Middle Ages as they are in the classical period: they appear in various genres and serve various purposes. This chapter, then, like the previous one, explores the many dimensions of lupine figures within medieval narratives; it examines wolves and werewolves within a variety of genres, from northern myths and sagas to continental and British romances, and concludes that medieval representations of lupine figures, like their classical predecessors, defy any singular definition. The first part of the chapter explores northern narratives, starting with narratives from the Eddie tradition and from the sagas. These narratives demonstrate the greatest similarity to classical narratives through their inclusion of pre-Christian content

(mythic, religious, and folkloric), as well as through their articulation of pre-Christian cultural practices, especially those associated with initiation rituals and outlawry. The first part of the chapter also explores continental narratives—specifically, bestiaries and fables—that, like the northern examples, perpetuate some of the traditions of their classical predecessors. This continuity derives, in part, from the medieval adaptation of classical fables from the Aesopic tradition and of material from classical texts on natural philosophy. However, medieval writers rework their classical sources and, in doing so, create tension in the narratives between the existing meanings associated with the texts and the newly created ones. Medieval writers rework classical fables in particular to promote Christian values and doctrine. The anthropomorphized animal figures of both bestiaries and fables operate as exemplars for their human readers. Medieval adaptations of fables also function as critiques of contemporary society, and focus especially on issues surrounding the social hierarchy and those at the top of the hierarchy. The second part of the chapter examines the lupine figures of the werewolf renaissance, specifically the werewolf romances from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries. These narratives, at first, are in stark contrast to their classical predecessors through their depiction of the 148

werewolf as a sympathetic character. However, as this study demonstrates, the romance

narratives are closer to their classical predecessors than they initially appear because they

demonstrate an overt concern with martial figures and their capacity for unabated

violence, as well as for the maintenance of a just society by the society's figurehead.

This chapter builds upon the argument presented in Chapter 2, that narratives with

lupine figures or with accounts of human to lupine metamorphosis should be approached

as sites of potentially varied meanings, as sites of tension that reflect the evolving philosophical views, cultural practices, historical contexts, religious beliefs, and mythical

tenets of a period (this time the medieval period) that spans centuries. In addition, it

extends the groundwork established by Chapter 2 for the examination, in Chapter 4, of

Rowling's Harry Potter series. The narratives discussed in this chapter, along with the traditions they reflect and/or comment upon, provide both sources and contexts for

Rowling's werewolf figures Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback. Rowling, like her medieval predecessors, reworks antecedent werewolf narratives; she reshapes lupine figures to reflect and comment upon the cultural context in which she writes. Therefore, in order to understand fully how her narratives both perpetuate and deviate from traditional representations, one must understand the sources from which they derive.

3.2 Werewolves and Lupine Figures in Medieval Narratives

Wolves and werewolves are prevalent in medieval narratives. As outlined later in this chapter, they are common figures in bestiaries and fables, where they often appear as exemplars of human behaviour. Within these genres, lupine figures are frequently the locus of juxtaposed beliefs or doctrines: classical lupine figures that are adapted by medieval writers carry with them early beliefs, even as they are given new interpretations within new contexts. Each adaptation and new interpretation is informed by previous understandings, especially if the reader or audience is aware of the previous understandings and contexts of the newly presented material.

Wolves and werewolves are also common in northern literature.1 Indeed, as

Aleksander Pluskowski points out, "wolves feature relatively frequently in Old Norse literature" (26), whether it be in myth (often relayed in Eddie poetry) or saga. Most of the northern narratives were recorded in the Christian period, primarily in the thirteenth century, and are preserved in collections such as the Codex Regius (c. 1280), the

Icelandic manuscript that preserves the Eddie poems (Lindow 9). Much of the material within the narratives derives from or depicts pre-Christian myths, especially stories about

"the creation of the cosmos, the identity of the gods and goddesses,.. . and finally

Ragnarok and its aftermath" (Lindow 13), and, like many of the classical narratives, reflect ancient religious beliefs and social practices (Orton par. 17). The narratives, overall, are sites of potentially varied and possibly conflicting meanings.

A5alhei5ur Gu5mundsdottir identifies thirteen indigenous Icelandic sources and two Norwegian texts "known and read in Iceland" with lupine figures ("The Werewolf in Medieval Icelandic Literature" 278). Her study focuses primarily on a group of sagas that have received little or no scholarly attention in the past (see 278 for a list of these sagas, and pages 289-90 and 294ff for details). GuSmundsdottir's purpose is to examine the previously unconsidered sagas "in light of Einar 6l. Sveinsson's theories concerning the variants and origins of the werewolf motif in the Icelandic tradition" (279). My purpose, however, does not require such exhaustive discussion; my goal is to provide exempla of the various meanings lupine figures held in northern narratives. As Peter Orton suggests, Although the eddic poems contribute greatly to our knowledge of Scandinavian pagan mythology, they survive in manuscripts written long after the conversion of Iceland, and contain very little clear indication of their age and origins.... Scholars have long assumed that these poems represent transcriptions of oral compositions which are older than the manuscripts in which they survive, and some still believe that a few of them were actually composed in pagan times. It is, of course, possible that 150

3.2.1 Northern Lupine Figures

In Norse mythology, lupine figures are often associated with death, destruction,

and social collapse. In the Norse poem Voluspd, for example, the Seeress (the speaker)

highlights the association of the wolf with death and war. In verse 38, she describes how

"the wolf tore men" who have previously slain each other, identifying it specifically as a

scavenger of war and as a creature that craves human flesh.3 Later, in verse 44, the

Seeress refers to Ragnarok as the "wolf-age," and once again evokes the image of wolves

ravaging bodies of the dead on the battlefield.4 The Seeress also mentions the wolf who

will "be a moon snatcher" (39), and, thus, will help to darken the world in preparation for

Ragnarok.5 Further, she identifies this wolf as one of "the broods of Fenrir" (39), the

most important lupine figure in Norse mythology.6

some of the stories preserved in these poems are largely unchanged from much older versions, but there is no reliable procedure for identifying features of the narrative that have been grafted on during either oral or written transmission. Perhaps all we can be certain of is that any story involving pagan deities has its roots in pre-Christian times, (par. 7) 3 "[S]leit vargr vera" (38). All passages from Voluspd are cited by verse. Both Old Norse and English quotations are from Ursula Dronke's facing-page translation and edition of the text. 4 "[V]argold" (44). H. R. Ellis Davidson similarly notes, "In the Viking Age the wolf haunted the battlefield, and was one of those which along with birds of prey feasted on the dead, so that he was an even more sinister figure" (137). 5 "[TJungls tiugari" (39). Snorri Sturlason identifies the moon-snatcher as the wolf Hati Hrodnitnisson and explains that he and Skoll, the devourer of the sun, will darken the world in preparation for the last battle. See Gylfaginning, in The Prose Edda. 6 "Fenris kindir" (39). Despite the Seeress's identification of the moon-snatcher as one of Fenrir's offspring, this paternity is questionable. As John Lindow remarks, Many scholars accept that Hati's father Hrodvitnir is the Hrodrsvitnir mentioned in Lokasenna, stanza 39. Either name (or both forms of the name) would mean something like "famous wolf." In Lokasenna that famous wolf is clearly the wolf Fenrir. We have, however, no other indication that Fenrir had offspring, and since he was bound from an early age until Ragnarok, we may wonder. (163) 151

In Norse, the word "fenrir" means both "fen-dweller" and "wolf (Orchard 42-

43).7 The fens are marshy, low-level lands of wilderness that usually lie on the outside of civilized areas; they are also undesirable for habitation because of their swamp-like conditions and because they are impassable at high tide. However, the fens are also the perfect place for outlaws to gather and hide: they are isolated, difficult to navigate, and offer a natural defense system. For example, the fens of Eastern England provided refuge for Hereward, the leader of one group of Anglo-Saxon resistance fighters to the Norman

Invasion of 1066. Hereward (now primarily referred to as Hereward the Wake, but also known as Hereward the Outlaw or Hereward the Exile) used Ely—which was, at the time, an island in the fens—as the base for his resistance.8 The fens are both muddy and humid, and if one gets caught in them (particularly at high tide), it is almost impossible to get out without help. They are one of nature's death traps. Further, the fens (or bogs in general) are frequently associated with death and are often the site in which the remains of the dead are buried or discarded. Stories and discoveries of bog-men and bog-women

(corpses from eras as early as the iron age that have been preserved by the acidic soils of the fens) are common in places such as Denmark, England, and Ireland.9

Although the name Fenrir appears frequently in Norse mythology, to avoid confusion, I reserve the use of this name specifically for Rowling's character (whom I discuss in Chapter 4); I refer to the Norse Fenrir consistently as Fenriswolf. Pluskowski similarly notes, "the wolf is associated with fens, heaths, and marshes" (27). Q t In the last several hundred years, the majority of the English fens have been drained and been built upon, although flooding remains a persistent and increasingly destructive problem for the region. Countless studies on bog people exist, especially studies of particular figures such as the Lindow Man, the Grauballe Man, and the Tollund Man. See, for example, "European Mummies" (161-246) in Spindler et al., or "Bog Bodies" (39-62) in Lynnerup, Andreasen, and Berglund. 152

Bog or fen-dwellers are common in literature and usually appear as exiles of a

particular society. They are individuals who have been cast out by their society for some perceived or actual transgression of a social norm or law; they have become, through

their exile, lawless and uncivilized monsters. The most famous medieval fen-dwellers

are, perhaps, Grendel and his mother in the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf. The two

characters inhabit vast moorlands and are associated with wolves on more than one

occasion. When Hrothgar confesses to Beowulf (after the latter has slain Grendel) the

existence of a second creature, he tells the warrior that there have been rumours and reports of two "great march-stalkers holding the moors, / alien spirits" (1348-49).10 He

further describes "[t]hat murky land / they hold" as "wolf-haunted slopes, windy

1 1 headlands, / awful fenpaths" (1357-59). Grendel and his mother inhabit the lands

outside of the town, the civilized space of human society. In fact, they inhabit the same

spaces as other wild beasts such as wolves and are explicitly identified as outcasts when 1 9

Hrothgar explains that they march "the exile's path" (1352). Further, they are physically deformed. Hrothgar describes Grendel as "misshapen" (1351), and says that although he 1 T has "the form of a man,... he is larger than any other" (1352-53). While the king

suggests that Grendel's mother has "the shape of a woman" (1351), the narrator later describes her as a less than human being, first as a "she-wolf of the sea" (1506), and then

[MJicle mearcstapan moras healdan, ellorgasstas. (1348-49) Hie dygel lond warigeaS, wulfhleobu windige naessas, frecne fengelad. (1357-59) "[W]raeclastas"(1352). on weres wasstmum ... he wass mara bonne aenig man o5er. (1352-53) 153 as both a "water-witch" (1518) and "a great mere-wife" (1519).14 Grendel and his mother represent physically the uncivilized spaces that they inhabit. They threaten the inhabitants of Heorot through their physical and behavioural differences, especially through their cannibalism, and because of their status as outsiders.15 Their entrance into the hall thus endangers the perceived purity of the civilized space. In this sense, they constitute what

Mary Douglas calls a "social pollution" (122). More specifically, they are an external force that threatens the established boundaries between the external world (the wilderness) and the internal world (the civilized space). Their very existence is in itself a threat, then, but this threat is compounded when they enter the hall and bring the external world into the internal world through their presence, their physical difference, and their actions. As Douglas suggests, "Physical crossing of the social barrier is treated as a dangerous pollution.. . . The polluter becomes a double wicked object of reprobation, first because he crossed the line and second because he endangered others" (139).

The Norse Fenriswolf shares with Grendel and Grendel's mother the outcast's status in society; in fact, he embodies all that the etymology of his name suggests: uncivilized spaces, outlawry, death and destruction. Despite his semi-divine status

(Fenriswolf is one of the three children of the god Loki and the giantess Angrboda),

Fenriswolf is exiled from society because the gods fear him. In Gylfaginning, Snorri

14 "UJdese onllcnaes" (1351); "brimwyl[f]" (1506); "grundwyrgenne" (1518); and "merewlf mihtig" (1519). 15 When Grendel faces Beowulf, the narrator explains that it was not his fate to taste any more of the race of mankind after that night. (734-36) Ne waes bast wyrd ba gen bast he ma moste manna cynnes Sicgean ofer ba niht. (734-36) 154

Sturlason details the reasons for the gods' fear. "The ^Esir," he writes, "brought up the wolf at home, and it was only Tyr who had the courage to approach the wolf and give it food.... [T]he gods saw how much it was growing each day, and all prophecies foretold that it was destined to cause them harm" (27).[ Fearful, the gods isolate Fenriswolf and ensnare him with the magical fetter Gleipnir. He remains bound, with "an upright sword thrust between his jaws, until the cataclysmic time of Ragnarok" (Orchard 43).

Fenriswolf s size and might and the expectation of destruction associated with him through the prophecies result in his exile from society before he actually enacts any harm.

Fenriswolf is ostracized before he even acts, because of what others perceive he is or will be, because of what he is identified to be by others. However, once free, Fenriswolf fulfills the prophecies about him, and, thus, fulfills the expectations of those who feared him. Ultimately, Fenriswolf represents death. More specifically, he represents both the death of Odin and the death of society or the end of the world in which he resides. Snorri describes the wolf as he breaks free from Gleipnir: his mouth is "agape," his "upper jaw against the sky and [his] lower one against the earth. . . . Flames . . . burn from [his] eyes and nostrils" (Gylfaginning 53). Fenriswolf, fully grown, is enormous and fierce. His jaw is massive enough to envelop the earth; it is also the tool that he uses to kill Odin, the

16 "Tjifinn faeddu aesir heima, ok haf5i Tyr einn djarfleik at ganga til at gefa honum mat. En er goSin sa, hversu mikit harm ox hvern dag, ok allar spar sogSu, at harm myndi vera lagSr til skada beim" (47). All English quotations are from Anthony Faulkes's translation and edition of the Edda; all Old Norse quotations are from Gu5ni Jonsson's edition of the text. 17 "[E]n Fenrisulfr ferr me5 gapanda munn, ok er inn ne5ri kjoftr vi5 jor5u, en inn efri vi5 himin. . . . Eldar brenna or augum hans ok nosum" (88). 155

"Alfddr ['all-father']" (Orchard 122), or father of the gods. As Snorri explains, "The wolf

will swallow Odin. That will be the cause of his [Odin's] death" (54).18

Fenriswolf contributes to the collapse of society through his participation in

Ragnarok. In her preface to Voluspd, Carolyne Larrington suggests that Ragnarok is

characterized by war, chaos, death and destruction. She points out that particular sections

of the poem signify "the end of the world" through their "images of punishment and

social collapse" (3). In several verses, the Seeress describes her visions of a world torn

apart by betrayal and bloodshed. The weather is "treacherous" (40), and the summer skies

have turned to black (40); corpses litter battle-fields and the gods' homes are painted

"with crimson gore" (40).' These images culminate in verse 44, where the Seeress

describes the age as one in which

Brothers will fight

and kill each other,

sister's children

will defile kinship.

It is harsh in the world,

whoredom rife

—an axe age, a sword age

—shields are riven—

a wind age, a wolf age—

before the world goes headlong.

18 "Ulfrinn gleypir Odin. VerSr pat hans bani" (89). 19 "Black become the sun's beams / in the summers that follow, / weather all treacherous" ["Svort verSa solskin / of sumor eptir, / ve5r oil valynd" (40); "[R]auSom dreyra" (40). 156

No man will have

mercy on another. (44)20

Ragnarok is the end of an age, the death of a world, and culminates in the final battle in which Odin is destroyed.

Yet Ragnarok also brings about the birth of a new world. Much like the classical narratives about Lycaon and Arcadian society, the myth of Ragnarok suggests lifecycles rather than complete annihilation. As John Lindow suggests, "Ragnarok has two parts, and the second part involves rebirth. The earth arises from the sea, and a new generation of gods inhabits it" (257). The death of Fenriswolf is part of this cycle of regeneration.

Lindow explains this connection:

Fenrir is a creature who spends time among the gods, is bound or cast out

by them, and returns at the end of the current mythic order to destroy

them, only to be destroyed himself as a younger generation of gods, one of

them his slayer, survives into the new world order. (Lindow 114)

Although Fenriswolf swallows Odin and, thus, brings about the end of the world, he himself is killed when one of the younger gods, Vidar, avenges Odin. Vidar survives into the next generation of the world, but carries with him the knowledge of the past. Thus, in

Broe5r muno beriaz ok at bonom ver5a[z], muno systrungar sifiom spilla. Hart er i heimi, hordoMr. mikill —skeggold, skalmold —skildir ro klofnir— vindold, vargold— a5r verold steypiz. Mun engi ma5r oSrom byrma. (44) 157

Norse mythology, both the life and the death of Fenriswolf have a definitive purpose; they are part of the life-cycle of creation and destruction myths.21

Associations of the wolf with outlawry and exile also appear in the medieval

Norse and Icelandic sagas. As Pluskowski suggests, in Old Norse literature, "the wolf, particularly in the context of the woodland, appears as a metaphor for outlaw" (27). In fact, as numerous critics point out, "the word vargr, wolf, was used as a legal term for an

99 outlaw" (Davidson 136). The most notable example of the association between the outlaw and the wolf exists in the thirteenth-century Volsunga saga?1. In fact, their relationship is repeatedly emphasized within Volsunga saga's narrative. Chapters 5, for instance, contains an episode that links outlaws or exiles explicitly with lupine figures;

Chapter 8 perpetuates this association while it simultaneously links the wolf both to initiation rites similar to those found in numerous classical sources and to an individual's degree of martial prowess.

This aspect of Fenriswolf s character recalls the role of King Lycaon in many of the Arcadian myths, especially Ovid's interpretation of it in the Metamorphoses, as discussed in Chapter 2. 99 GuSmundsdottir, for instance, notes that the term "vargr" represented those "who had forfeited their rights to participate in human society" (282). She also remarks that "[t]he notion of the outlaw as a wolf (werewolf) was widespread among the Germanic and related peoples and can be traced back to the mythology of antiquity, well beyond the bounds of the Germanic cultural field" (282n21). Similarly, the Old English word "wearg" means "criminal, felon" (Mitchell and Robinson, "Glossary" 360), and an outlaw in later medieval England who had a bounty on his head was called "wolues-heed, wolfs head" (DME 260). 23 As Veenstra suggests, although the saga was recorded in the thirteenth century, it probably relies "on older material" (152). Most of the sagas, like Volsunga saga, were recorded in the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, but "they contain borrowings from earlier oral literature which, depending on the content, may be dated to the late Viking Age" (Pluskowski 26). 158

In Chapter 5, when Signy's brothers are condemned to death, she convinces

Siggeir to put them instead into stocks as punishment.24 Siggeir agrees, but nine of the ten brothers still die because each night

at midnight an old she-wolf came to them out of the woods as they sat in

the stocks. She was both large and grim-looking. She bit one of the

brothers to death and then ate him all up.... [F]or nine nights in a row

that same she-wolf came at midnight and each time killed and ate one of

the brothers until all but Sigmund were dead. (41)25

The wolf, therefore, is the means by which the brothers or outlaws are persecuted. To protect her only surviving brother, Sigmund, Signy smears honey on his face. When the wolf approaches Sigmund that night, she delays her killing of him in order to lick him clean of the honey. Sigmund uses this delay to bite out her tongue and then escape.

Sigmund angered Siggeir during the wedding feast of Siggeir and Signy when he rudely refused an offer from the other man for the blade that Odin buried in Barnstock. Sigmund is the only man who can release the blade. This sequence, which parallels Arthur's ability to remove Excalibur from the stone, emphasizes the Volsung connection to both the god and wolves. The Volsungs are also known as "Ylfingar—'Wolflings'" (GuSmundsdottir 284), and Sigi, Sigmund's great-great-grandfather (also an outlaw), was Odin's son. En at mi5ri nott pa ylgr ein or skogi gomul at beim, er beir satu i stokkinum. Hun var basSi mikil ok illilig. Henni var5 J)at fyrir, at hun bitr einn beira til bana. Sidan at hun pann upp allan. . . . Niu nastr i samt kom sja in sama ylgr um midnastti ok etr einn peira senn til bana, unz allir eru dauQir, nema Sigmundr einn er eftir. (118-19) The saga also says, slightly further on, "And some men say that she-wolf was Siggeir's mother, who had assumed this shape through witchcraft and sorcery" (42) ["En \>dX er sogn sumra manna, at sii in sama ylgr vaeri m65ir Siggeirs konungs ok hafi hun brugSit a sik bessu liki fyrir trollskapar ok fjolkynngi" (119)]. This is one of the rare instances in medieval literature in which the lupine figure is actually female rather than male. English quotations from the Volsunga Saga are from Jesse L. Byock's translation; Old Icelandic quotations are from GuSni Jonsson's edition of the text. 159

Sigmund, although free, remains an exile and now roams the forest. While he is exiled, Signy sends both of her sons to live with him, one at a time. Neither son proves to be an appropriate companion for her brother, and he kills each of them in turn. Signy next sends her son Sinfjotli —who is, unbeknownst to Sigmund, his son through incest—to live with Sigmund.26 Sinfjotli proves a hardier companion than his half-brothers.

Together, Sigmund and Sinfjotli roam the forest, until they come across a hut in which two men are asleep. Above the sleeping men are two wolf pelts; Sigmund and Sinfjotli don the wolfskins and are transformed into wolves.27 They venture out into the wild once more, this time as wolves, and agree to part ways for the period of their transformation so long as they call upon each other for aid if they had to battle a group of men numbering seven or more. However, when Sigmund discovers that Sinfjotli has battled and slain a group of eleven men, he becomes angry and bites his son's throat.28 A nearby raven brings a leaf with healing qualities to the pair, and Sinfjotli is saved.29

While this episode reinforces the identification of Sigmund, the outlaw or exile, as a lupine figure, it also demonstrates the frequent association of wolves with both

When her first two children are revealed as inadequate, Signy disguises herself as a sorceress, spends the night with Sigmund, and begets Sinfjotli. See Chapter 7 of the saga. 27 The wolf pelts can be removed only every tenth day. Interestingly, in Chapter 9, Sinfjotli engages in a word battle with Granmar, during which Granmar accuses him of having lupine or vampiric attributes. When Granmar accuses Sinfjotli of consorting with wolves and of engaging in fratricide, he says, "you who have sucked the blood of many cold corpses" (49) ["er margt kalt hras hefir sogit til bl65s" (131)]. Although it is Sigmund who bites Sinfjotli in the throat (an act which, in itself, suggests the wolfs attack as well as vampirism), it is the latter who is then accused of sharing in the practice so commonly assigned to this creature of the night. Grammar's accusation also evokes the frequent association of werewolves with cannibalism (discussed in Chapter 2) and the frequent association of werewolves with vampires (discussed in the General Introduction). 29 The raven's presence reinforces the link between the Volsungs and Odin because it is one of the god's creatures (GuSmundsdottir 284). 160 initiation rituals and with martial prowess. As H. R. Ellis Davidson notes, "those who lived a warrior's life in Scandinavia must have received some kind of training" (135).

The pattern of the nephews or son joining Sigmund, the uncle-father, in the forest evokes the tradition of "young heroes living like wolves in the forest and learning how to support themselves by robbery and killing" (136). In addition, although Sinfjotli is younger and less experienced than his father, he has no difficulty battling and defeating a larger group of opponents. Sigmund appropriately wears the wolf pelt or physically transforms into a wolf because an exile; Sinfjotli does so because he is learning how to be a warrior, and the wolf-skin implies both his ritual training and his success in martial arts.31 Indeed, as

The wolf-pelts again reinforce the connection between the Volsungs and Odin because, as Grundy notes, the wolf "is certainly . . . connected with Odinn" (114). Gudmundsdottir also comments, "The wolf is OSinn's animal and as a scavenger—along with his ravens—the appropriate symbol and agent of the god of war. . . . [T]he wolf could also be understood as symbolic of the power that brings victory, according to ancient Norse and Germanic belief (285). 31 Extensive research exists on the relationship between animal pelts and northern warrior cultures and traditions as well as on the shamanistic and/or magic rituals associated with both. Such research usually extends to the bear-man figure and the association of bears with warriors, and it also typically includes a discussion of whether actual shape-changing was believed to take place or not. See, for instance, Davidson, Glosecki, and Grundy. Also, as both Davidson (132) and Glosecki (32) remark, individual and family names (particularly those of warriors or of individuals with unusual abilities or behaviours) were also often associated with bears and wolves. An example of such an association exists, for example, in Egil's saga. Egill Skalla-Grimsson's grandfather's name, Kveldulf, means "evening-wolf (Davidson 134). The saga's opening chapter describes how "every day towards evening he [Kveldulf] would grow so bad-tempered that few people dared even address him. He always went to sleep early in the evening and woke up early in the morning. People claimed he was a shape-shifter" (8) ["En dag hvern, er at kveldi lei5, pa gerSist hann styggr, sva at fair menn mattu orSum vi5 hann koma. Var hann kveldsvasfr. Eat var mal manna, at hann vasri mjok hamrammr" (2)]. Grundy suggests that Kveldulf s nightly episodes are actually "berserkr-fits" that leave him "weak and listless," and that the text's use of the word "hamrammr. (hide- strong)" suggests that Kveldulf actually underwent physical transformation (108). In slight contrast, Davidson points out that "hamr" means "shape" (126), and suggests that the word "hamrammr' should be understood as "shapestrong" (126), a meaning that slightly alters the meaning of the passage from Egil 's saga. Rather than having a strong 161

GuQmundsdottir suggests, "Sigmundr takes Sinfjotli out to the woods on purpose, to accustom him to hardship and [to the fact] that as a fully trained warrior (Volsungr)

Sinfjotli must come to know his animal nature, the wild animal within him" (284).32 In this manner, Sinfjotli's excursion in the forest operates as part of the rites of passage that can be associated with the classical werewolf narratives (as outlined in Chapter 2). He is separated from society and placed within the liminal space of the woods, forming a type of comitatus or community of liminal individuals with his already exiled father. The transformation into lupine form is the disguise or disfigurement that often accompanies liminality and is connected to the task he must complete, in this case survival and conquest in battles against large groups of humans.

The examples from Norse myth and Icelandic literature demonstrate Salisbury's conclusion that "[t]he Nordic tradition of shape-shifting that survives in myths and sagas points to another bestial side of people—violence. People in these stories most often magically turned into bears or wolves to acquire the animals' strength and luck in battle"

(160). In the northern examples above— Voluspd, Gylfaginning, and Volsunga Saga— violence is closely associated with the figure of the wolf, particularly violence enacted by warrior figures, within battle sequences, and connected to creation and destruction myths.

Thus, wolves and werewolves, in the northern tradition, evoke multiple meanings, from the bestial side of human nature to the life-cycles of the cosmos at large. hide or skin, Kveldulf has a strong shape or form; in other words, his ability for shape- shifting is strong. For information on berserkers and on the etymology of shape-shifting in the sagas, again, see Davidson, Glosecki, and Grundy. English quotations from Egil 's saga are from Scudder's translation, found in The Sagas of the Icelanders; Old Icelandic quotations are from GuSni Jonsson's edition. 32 GuSmundsdottir's comment echoes Salisbury's claim that the presence of theriomorphic shape-shifting suggests an awareness of the animal within all humans, an awareness of the fluid boundaries between the species. 162

3.2.2 Bestiaries and Fables

Depictions of the wolf as a violent and rapacious creature also appear in two

other, closely related medieval genres, both of which have their roots in classical

narratives and folklore: the bestiary, a book or manuscript that presents images of birds,

animals, or other creatures (actual or imagined) along with interpretive and moralizing

narratives, in the basic structure of "description, moral, meaning" (Barber 13), and the

fable, a moralized story about anthropomorphized birds and/or beasts.

Many of the narratives and images within medieval fables and bestiaries derive

from the Latin prose Physiologus, "a Greek work believed to have been composed in

Alexandria as early as the second century" (Hassig 5-6). Primarily a theological work, the

Physiologus is comprised of moralized animal tales that articulate Christian themes and

concerns. As Richard Barber suggests, the text articulates a specifically Christian

meaning for materials drawn from its classical and folkloric sources. He describes the

Physiologus as "an attempt to redefine the natural world in Christian terms" and

identifies, as some of its sources, material "drawn from the Greek philosophers and their

Latin followers, notably Aristotle, Pliny and lesser luminaries such as C. Julius Solinus

Debra Hassig argues that there are several basic types of image are found in bestiaries: framed or unframed "Portraits," images that "usually lack background elements except of the decorative kind" (10); "Narrative" images, which "generally correspond to an accompanying textual anecdote or represents an action or characteristic described as typical of the animal" (11); and "Allegorical" images, which supply "extratextual interpretations of the beasts described, although they may also correspond to specific allegories recounted in texts" (12). Hassig admits, however, that the boundaries between these types often blur and that an image may simultaneously include characteristics from one or more types (15-16). For a more detailed discussion of medieval bestiaries, see Hassig as well as the studies by Florence McCulloch or Wilma B. George and Brunsdon Yapp. For a detailed discussion of classical fables, see Chapter 2, and for a discussion of the transmission of classical fables to the Middle Ages, via Phaedrus and Babrius, see Charles Bruckner (1-11) or Harriet Spiegel (6-7). 163

and Lucan" (9).34 Thus, within the text, entries about birds and beasts from classical

catalogues such as Aristotle's treatise On the History of Animals or Pliny's encyclopedia,

the Natural History, are reimagined in a theological rather than scientific manner.

Medieval monastic communities preserved copies of the Physiologus because

they were useful educational tools. Along with fables, they were used "as models for

rhetoric" (Spiegel 6) in monastic classrooms, and as didactic material for sermons. In

such instances, the animals functioned as "human exemplars" for the members of the

religious order or for the church community at large (Salisbury 114). In the twelfth

century, earlier versions of the Physiologus were expanded through the inclusion of new

chapters on various birds and animals as well as through the integration of material from

Isidore of Seville's Etymologies. These expanded versions (which became known

specifically as bestiaries) had a greater popularity than their predecessors, and versions

began to appear outside of the monastic realm in vernacular languages, especially in

French and English. Yet despite their movement into the vernacular and their popularity

with non-monastic audiences, fables and bestiaries perpetuated a didactic purpose. As

Frederich Tubach explains, both genres strove "to discover in each narrative event,

character, situation, or act a paradigmatic sign that would . . . substantiate religious

beliefs and church dogma" (qtd. in Hassig 176). For example, the mid-twelfth-century

MS Bodley 764, known simply as the Bestiary, opens with an account of men and

beasts—of how Adam named the beasts—and then introduces its first beast, the lion. The

4 Hassig similarly remarks that "the Physiologus sought to legitimize pagan lore about animals by recasting and reusing it for Christian didactic purposes" (170). 35 There are, unfortunately, only two extant manuscripts of the Physiologus, both from the ninth century (Salisbury 114). Salisbury considers the lack of further manuscripts evidence that the text was not, initially, particularly popular outside of monastic communities and outside of its educational purposes (114). 164

bestiary explains, using biblical passages, that the lion represents Christ because the two

share three important characteristics: both outwit their enemies, whether they are hunters

in the wilderness or the devil; both appear to sleep and yet remain awake; and both have

the ability to return the dead to the living (Bestiary 24-25).36 Other animal entries within

the bestiary depict acceptable Christian behaviours (virtues) or unacceptable non-

Christian behaviours (vices). For instance, "the ant and the bee display the virtues of

humility, obedience and industry," while "the viper warns against the sin of adultery"

(Barber 10).

The Bodleian Bestiary also includes, among its many entries, an illuminated

image of a wolf, which is accompanied by a fairly lengthy textual entry. The image—

which depicts a wolf slowly approaching a flock of sheep—reflects the entry's emphasis

on the negative characteristics associated with lupine figures, and, in doing so,

The entry on the lion makes the comparison to Christ using numerous biblical passages, including the Song of Songs 5.2, "I sleep, but my heart waketh," Psalm 121.4, "He who keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep," and Genesis 49.9, "He couched as a lion; who shall rouse him up?" (Bestiary 24-25; the Bestiary actually omits the phrase "and as a lioness," which precedes the latter part of the Genesis 49.9 passage). All quotations from the Bestiary are from Barber's translation and edition. Barber notes, in his introduction, that the Latin of the manuscript is "distinctly problematic" (14) and that "the author quotes scriptural examples . . . freely" (15). He also admits that his rendering of the textual content is "colloquial" (14) and somewhat shorter than the original (15). He points out, as well, that "There is no critical edition of the later versions of the bestiary to which the translator can turn, and the first task was indeed to establish a working Latin text" (15), but he does not include the Latin text in his edition. A facsimile of the Latin manuscript, edited by Christopher de Hamel, has just been released (September 2008) by the Bodleian Library, but I have not yet managed to see the volume. 37 George and Yapp remark that the wolf "is not a Physiologus beast but, the wolf being widespread in Europe, lupus was an obvious addition for the medieval bestiary makers" (50). While studies of bestiaries abound, there are currently no studies dedicated entirely to lupine figures within bestiary texts. George and Yapp include only a short, primarily descriptive entry in their study (50-51); likewise, McCulloch's entry is brief and primarily descriptive. The placement, illustration, and textual accompaniments of lupine figures in medieval bestiaries (Latin, French, and English), therefore, are areas that require further study. 165

demonstrates its participation in Christian didacticism as well as its indebtedness to

Isidore's Etymologies (and through Isidore's text to classical narratives and to folk

belief). Most obviously, the image reflects the common identification of Christians as

sheep, as the flock that Christ shepherds or leads. In this version, however, the flock is

threatened by the advancing wolf, which represents Satan. If the reader is unable to

interpret this meaning from the image alone, the accompanying text makes such a reading

explicit. "The wolf," the entry states, "is the devil, who is always envious of mankind,

and continually prowls round the shepherds of the Church's believers, to kill their souls

and to corrupt them" (70). The Bestiary thus provides its readers with a warning, that they

should be wary of becoming corrupt and therefore giving their souls to the devil.

The image and its accompanying text also draw directly upon two entries from

Isidore's Etymologies, both of which reinforce the importance of the wolf in folk belief

established in the earlier discussion of classical narratives (Chapter 2), especially those by

Theocritus and Virgil. In Book 12 of his text, Isidore discusses, first, the etymology of

the word "lupus" and explains that the cognate Greek word, "X,uKoq," evokes the wolfs

desire to slaughter "whatever it finds in a frenzy of violence" (12.2.23). Shortly

thereafter, he reinforces this image of the wolf as a bloodthirsty creature when he writes,

"It is a violent beast, eager for gore" (12.2.24).40 Isidore explains the origins of the wolfs

great strength and then recounts the folk belief that if a wolf sees someone before he or

she sees the wolf, he or she will be struck dumb. If the wolf is seen first by the human,

The image of the wolf approaching a flock or pen of sheep is common in bestiaries. For example, it also appears in British Library Royal MS 12 C.xix (f. 19r), the Aberdeen Bestiary, Aberdeen MS 24 (f 16v), and St John's College Oxford MS 61 (f. 22). 39 "[QJuod rabie rapacitatis quaequae invenerit trucidet" (12.2.23). 40 "Rapax autem bestia et cruoris appetens" (12.2.24). 166 however, Isidore explains, "he puts aside his bold ferocity" (12.2.24).41 Isidore continues his entry by outlining both the mating and feeding patterns of wolves, and he concludes by describing a rare breed of wolf in Ethopia that has a mane about its neck. The opening lines of the Bestiary similarly emphasize the ferocity of the wolf. "Wolves," the entry states, "kill everything they find when they are ravenous" (69); several lines later the entry reinforces this comment by noting that "The wolf is a ravenous beast, and thirsts for blood" (69). These comments echo Isidore's notes in Book 12, as do the other descriptions, of how the wolf hunts at night, of its cunning hunting practices, of its mating practices, of the folk belief that a person can be struck dumb at the sight of the wolf, and of the magical qualities found in the hair of a wolf s tail.

The Bestiary also draws upon another section of Isidore's work that discusses lupine figures. In Book 18 of the Etymologies, Isidore highlights the "rapacity of the wolf (Kratz 57) through a female figure. Isidore explains that the brothel is also commonly referred to as "a whorehouse (lupanar, plural lupanaria) because of those same prostitutes who are called she-wolves (lupa) from the loose conduct of their widely- shared bodies" (18.42.2). "Prostitutes," he continues, "are called she-wolves for their rapaciousness, because they seize upon wretches and ensnare them" (18.42.2).42 The men who seek out the prostitutes are less to blame than the women who service them because

41 "[D]eponit feritatis audaciam" (12.2.24). Isidore writes, Idem vero theatrum, idem et prostibulum, eo quod post ludos exactos meretrices ibi prostraretur. Idem et lupanar vocatum ab eisdem meretricibus, quae propter vulgate corporis levitatem lupae nuncupabantur: nam lupae meretrices sunt a rapacitate vocatae, quod ad se rapiant miseros et adprehendant. (18.42.2) His focus on the female's rapacious nature also recalls the associations of Cynisca from Theocritus's "Idyll 14" with insatiable (and, therefore, lupine) physical desires. 167 the prostitutes (the female sinners) sell their bodies because they are overcome both by their greed for financial gain and by their greed for carnal pleasure. The entry for the wolf in the Bestiary includes similar commentary on the lascivious nature of prostitutes. "Just as the wolf gets its name from its rapacity," the entry states, "so we call whores 'she- wolves,' because they destroy the wealth of their lovers" (69). Prostitutes are referred to as she-wolves because, like their animal name sakes, they have an insatiable appetite

(only for carnal pleasure rather than for blood).

Like bestiaries, medieval fable collections were derivations of classical sources that had been preserved primarily in monastic centres. Part of the rhetoric curriculum included the study of a collection of Latin elegies (known as the Avionnet) by the fourth- century writer Avianus, which were adaptations of Babrius's Greek verse fables (Spiegel

6). Another influential source was a fourth-century prose collection of Phaedrus's fables called Romulus (7). Numerous versions of Romulus survive, including one particular branch of "prose manuscripts called the Romulus NilantiF (7). In fact, the Romulus

Nilantii is a source for one of the most famous collections of medieval fables in French, the Fables of the twelfth-century writer Marie de France.43 A number of Marie's fables,

Little can be ascertained about the identity or dates of Marie de France. She lived from the late twelfth century to the early thirteenth century, and "the approximate period of her literary activities" can be identified as approximately 1160 to approximately 1215 (Harming and Ferrante, "Introduction" 1). She self identifies in her works, and "from her name and comments in her writings, [we can derive] that she was of French birth but wrote at or for the English court" (1). Marie wrote her Fables sometime between 1155 and 1189 (Salisbury 117). Spiegel suggests, "Some of Marie's fables are associated with a learned and written tradition, others with a folk and oral tradition" (7). C. Bruckner makes a similar, albeit more detailed, comment. "The Fables of Marie de France," he writes, "can be divided into three groups: the first forty [tales] derive from Romulus Nilantinus; of the other sixty-two [tales], the larger group go back, according to the last analysis, to Antiquity, [and] the minority are from popular and folkloric origins" ["les fables de Marie de France se divisent en trios parties: les quarante premieres derivent du like the bestiaries, reinforce Christian morals and values. For example, her fable "The

Wolf and the Sheep" comments that those overcome by gluttony or lechery "will not

keep vows or promises" made to others (28), while another fable, "The Hare and the

Deer," suggests that those covetous of what others have often engage in behaviours that

only, ultimately, worsen their lot.44

Medieval fables and bestiaries not only depicted Christian values, but also they

delineated other social norms and transgressions, or, as Tubach puts it, "social ills and

human foibles" (qtd. in Hassig 176). The birds and beasts within both genres frequently

represented particular social figures or classes such as kings (who were usually depicted

as lions) or the members of the peasant class (who were usually depicted as sheep). Marie

de France's Fables, although derived from various sources, including classical fables and

popular folktales, both reflect and provide political commentary on the values and

concerns of the twelfth-century aristocratic society for which Marie wrote. Indeed, this

characteristic demonstrates her ingenuity as a writer and sets her tales apart from their

Latin sources. Within Fables, Marie places a great deal of attention on the structure of

Romulus Nilantinus; des 62 autres, la majeure partie remonte, en derniere analyse, a l'Antiquite, une minorite est d'origine populaire et folklorique"] (6, my translation). 44 The final line of "The Wolf and the Sheep" ["Le Loup et le mouton"] reads "ne gardera vou ne pramesse" (28). The French title of "The Hare and the Deer" is "Le Lievre et le cerf." English quotations are from Spiegel's facing-page English translation of Fables; Old-French quotations are from C. Bruckner's facing-page modern French translation and edition of the text. Both Spiegel and Bruckner use MS A of the Fables as their base text. All citations indicate the line number within the respective fable. 45 Jan Ziolkowski notes that, in the twelfth century, fables in particular moved from "ethical criticism ... to social criticism of both the high and low estates" (14). 46 C. Bruckner comments that "It is very often the presentation of social realities that distinguishes Marie's narrative from those of the Latin fables.. . . Marie adds the social rank of the mentioned characters; moreover, this is often done through the form of an adjective, one designed to support the logic of the narrative" ["C'est tres souvent la presentation des realites socials qui differencie le recit de Marie de celui des fables 169

feudal society. She divides the animals within the text into three distinctive categories in

order to represent particular social groups: "predators (the ruling classes), prey

(commoners as victims), and domestic animals (also commoners and treated mostly as

supporting characters)" (Salisbury 129). Through these divisions, Marie explores

relationships between the classes while simultaneously critiquing individuals or groups

who behave in a manner atypical of or unacceptable for their designated social identities.

In "The Hare and the Deer," Marie tells the story of a hare who covets the antlers

of a deer and beseeches the Creator to endow him with a pair. The Creator explains that

the hare is not designed for such adornment, but when the hare insists that he is, she

places "horns atop his head" (16).47 The weight of the antlers is, of course, unbearable for

the hare and he becomes immobile. While this tale articulates a moral about the

consequences of covetous behaviour, it also provides commentary on medieval social

structures. In particular, it explicitly criticizes those who are discontent with their

economic or social realities and who therefore engage in activities that "They think will

raise their social class" (24). Desires for upward social mobility and the actions inspired

by such desires, Marie remarks, display only "foolishness" (25);4 individuals should be

satisfied with their lot in life rather than seeking to alter their social status.

Marie frequently turns to lupine figures to explore social relationships and

responsibilities such as those expressed in "The Hare and the Deer." In fact, the wolf

latines. . . . Marie precise le rang social des personages evoques, d'ailleurs souvent sous la forme d'un adjective, destine a appuyer la logique de recit"] (17, my translation). 47 "[0]t cornes al chief (16). In this fable, the Creator figure is female. Marie refers to her both as "the Creator" ["la Sepande"] (7) and as "the goddess" ["La Deuesse"] (12). 48 "[E] si se veulent eshaucer" (24). 49 "[U]trage" (25). appears in no less than 19 of the 103 moralized animal narratives within Fables. Within these 19 tales, the wolf frequently appears as an exemplum of nobility "gone astray"

(Salisbury 130), as an example of a ruling figure corrupted by bloodlust and greed who engages in tyrannical behaviours in order to satiate his or her desires.

The most notable example of the wolf as a tyrannical leader appears in the collection's longest fable "The Wolf King."51 Marie recounts the story of how, when an heirless lion decides to retire from his position of rule and leave his kingdom, the other beasts select a wolf as their new leader. Before the wolf assumes his new position, he must (at the lion's behest) swear an holy oath that he will refrain from consuming the flesh of his fellow beasts. Although he swears to refrain from eating his subjects, the wolf is quickly overcome by his desire for flesh and devises a plan that will allow him to slaughter and devour a roe-deer that he covets. After deceiving his counselors in order to consume two consecutive deer, the wolf has a monkey that he craves brought before him.

The monkey, however, at first outwits the wolf, who then feigns a severe illness and declares to his doctors that the only remedy for him is "some monkey flesh" (102).

Finally, the wolfs barons and doctors agree that the only way to save their leader is for

The group of lupine fables includes adaptations of Latin narratives such as "The Wolf and the Lamb" ["Le Loup et l'agneau"] and "The Wolf and the Crane" ["Le Loup et la grue"], as well as a number of tales of "unknown origin" ["Source inconnue"] (C. Bruckner 309, 323, 325) such as "The Preacher and the Wolf ["Le Pretre et le loup"], "The Two Wolves" ["Les Deux Loups"], and "The Fox and the Wolf ["Le Loup et le renard"]. 51 Only two of the tales within the Fables exceed 100 lines: "The Wolf King" (122 lines) and "The Peasant and the Snake" (116 lines). The prevalence of the wolf within the Fables and its presence in the collection's longest narrative suggests that the issues associated with lupine figures within her fables (primarily injustice, tyrannical rule, greed, and bloodlust) are of particular concern to Marie, and, therefore, to the aristocratic audience for which she wrote. 52 "[CJharde singe" (102). 171 him to consume what he desires. The wolf, hearing their consensus, "seized the monkey and he ate it" (112).53

The moral to this fable expresses Marie's belief that all parts of society have a responsibility to ensure that justice is achieved. Members of society must not "A wicked man e'er make signior, / Nor show to such a one honour" (117-18) because

His loyalty's as much pretence

With strangers as with his close friends.

And towards his people he will act

As did the wolf, with his sworn pact. (119-22)54

A ruler needs to avoid corruption by resisting bloodthirsty desires and vices such as greed, and he needs to rule his subjects in an honest and just manner. Yet, rulers—in the case of Marie's fable, the monarch—are not the only members of society responsible for the preservation of justice. Other social classes—in this case those ruled, or the commoners—are equally responsible and are equally culpable if a just society is not maintained. The beasts in Marie's tale are partially responsible for the unjust manner in which the wolf treats them because they made a poor choice in their selection and preservation of him as their leader. Thus, through "The Wolf King," Marie highlights

"the obligation of a ruler to be aware of his people's needs and to respond to them, and

"[L]e singe prist, [e] sil manga" (112). [FJelun hume fere seignur ne tree le a nul honur: ja ne gardera leaute plus a P estrange que al prive; si se demeine envers sa gent cum fist li lus del ser[e]ment. (117-22) 172 the people's awareness of what constitutes a beneficent kingship and their obligations of loyalty to a good ruler" (Spiegel 9-10).55

As seen in Marie's Fables, the negative behaviours typically associated with lupine figures in classical and early medieval narratives and reinforced within the bestiaries and fables preserved in monastic communities, were of interest and concern to both writers and audiences "well beyond cloistered boundaries" (Hassig xvi). Indeed, "by the turn of the fourteenth century," the bestiary and fable genres were firmly entrenched

"within the realm of secular literature" (177). Within the secular realm, writers, especially fabulists, adapted materials from the bestiary and fable genres, including depictions of the wolf as "evil, greedy, gluttonous, [and] murderous" (Salisbury 130).

For instance, Richard de Fournival, in his mid-thirteenth-century Bestiary of Love, reworked bestiary materials, including stories associated with wolves, and juxtaposed them to materials derived from the traditions of love literature (usually poetry).56 As

Jeanette Beer remarks, "the shock of the two irreconcilables necessarily jarred both, forcing a reexamination of all the accepted truths by misusing them" ("Preface" xiv). An example of such jarring juxtaposition occurs through Richard's use of the lupine figure and his adaptation of the folk belief commonly depicted in bestiaries that an individual seen by a wolf will be struck dumb. In Richard's version, however, it is the lover that is struck dumb by his beloved when that beloved perceives that she is loved. Putting

55 Spiegel notes that in "The Wolf King," Marie "emphasize[s] the Tightness of social order with the lion as 'nature's' king. The Latin version presents a lion as a wicked king; Marie makes the wicked king a wolf (19n21). The fable thus, like "The Hare and the Deer," asserts that society has a structured order or hierarchy and that deviation from this hierarchy results in disaster (or injustice). 56 Hassig writes, "Richard expounds upon the nature of many animals described in the Physiologus, using new material in the style of the contemporary love poetry popular at court during this time" (18). 173

himself in the position of the lover (which is the voice he assumes throughout the

Bestiary of Love), Richard declares to his love, "And since I was first to be observed, I

am bound, in conformity with the nature of the wolf, to lose my voice as a result" (4).57

Richard, however, turns the folk belief on its head by implying that he, the individual

struck dumb, is equal to the wolf. The "loss of voice" experienced by the wolf-human

thus becomes one of the "hazards" of love (Beer, Beasts of Love 21).58 While in this

passage Richard likens himself to the wolf, he also explicitly likens the female beloved to

the wolf because it is she who has, like the wolf, rendered the lover, like the man, dumb.

This inversion therefore reinforces the jarring juxtaposition of the bestiary and love

literature materials because readers' expectations are subverted not once, but twice.

Yet not all of the associations made within the Bestiary of Love are shocking or

unusual. In fact, Richard repeats the association established above between the female

and the wolf when he draws upon examples of this connection from earlier writers such

as Isidore. Like his predecessor, Richard compares women to wolves in order to

emphasize their negative qualities. To start, he outlines what he considers to be the three

key characteristics of the wolf: its rigid physical body, its inability to hunt close to its lair,

and its tendency to self-punish if it gives away its presence while hunting (5-6). Next, he provides examples of three specific characteristics in women that parallel these lupine traits. First, he suggests that a woman "cannot give herself in any way but totally" (6), a

"Et puis que je fui premerains venus selonc la nature del leu, je doi bien perdre la voiz" (6). English quotations are from Beer's translation of the Bestiary; Old French quotations are from Hippeau's edition of the text. 58 Richard's statement also echoes Isidore's explanation that the wolf who is first seen by a human will be deprived of his bold and ferocious behaviour. See the discussion above on the Etymologies 12.2.24. 174 fact that demonstrates her lascivious nature.59 Beer suggests that Richard interprets the parallel between the wolf and the woman here as evidence that the latter is governed "by her senses and by lust" {Beasts of Love 28). Richard's second point of comparison is a complaint that a woman can only ever be inconsistent in love (29). "If it happens that she loves a man," Richard writes, "she will love him with the utmost passion when he is far away from her, yet when he is nearby she will never show a visible sign of love"

{Bestiary of Love 6).60 Finally, Richard describes the female figure as deceptive. "She knows," he remarks, "how to use words to disguise and undo the fact that she has gone too far" (6).61 As Beer suggests, this final parallel demonstrates the "woman's desire to conceal and her capacity for reversing herself {Beasts of Love 29). In Richard's eyes, the woman is an incompatible partner for the man because she is, like her lupine counterpart, a being consumed by vices; she is rapacious, fickle, and deceitful. Women present as great a threat to a man's soul and virtuous constitution as does the other famous figure frequently associated with wolves, the devil.

Overall, Richard's Bestiary of Love demonstrates the continued influence and prevalence both of pre-Christian and folkloric as well as Christian understandings of the wolf in medieval literature. It also demonstrates how readily lupine figures are integrated into literary genres, such as courtly love literature, which were popular with aristocratic audiences (Hassig 177). In fact, Richard is not the only medieval author to utilize the

59 "[E]le ne se puet doner se tout ensamble non" (9). 60 "[S]i est que s'il avient q'ele aint 1 home quant il est loing de li, si l'amera trop durement, et quant il est pries, si n'en fera ja nul semblant" (9). 61 "[E]le par force de parole viut racovrir ce q'ele a trop avant ale" (9). 62 Beer comments that this tripartite association between the wolf, the woman, and the devil, "was hardly revolutionary and [Richard's] public would perhaps find it acceptable, given Eve's long association with the serpent and her reputation as the Tempter's mouthpiece" {Beasts of Love 30). 175 figure of the wolf within a text that emphasizes the theme of courtly love; medieval romances, especially from the mid-twelfth to the mid-fourteenth centuries, frequently include and foreground lupine figures within their narratives, especially the werewolf.

3.3 The Knight as Werewolf in Medieval Romance

The romances that constitute the largest part of what Bynum refers to as "the werewolf renaissance" {Metamorphosis and Identity 94) are Marie de France's Bisclavret, the anonymous Guillaume de Palerne and its fourteenth-century English translation

William of Palerne, the anonymous Melion, the tale Biclarel, by the Clerk of Troyes

(included in Le Roman de Renart le Contrefait), and the Latin romance Arthur and

Gorlagon. These romances, whether the early romances of the French courts or the more popular romances of the English alliterative tradition "all address the concerns of the gentry and the upper classes... . [T]hey emerge from an elite culture" (Cooper 13).1

1 As Helen Cooper suggests, the term "popular" is "somewhat misleading, since anything written down in the Middle Ages has by definition at least something elite about it" (13). Cooper uses the term, however, to separate the romances that are "written in English, not French or Anglo-Norman, and so mark themselves as linguistically accessible to all social classes" (13). She also applies the term to late medieval romances that "were 'popular' almost by definition in the sense conveyed by the shift from individual manuscript copies to entire printed editions" (13). Hahn and Symons make a similar point when they describe alliterative romances as narratives that play upon the contrast of "popular and elite,... at once bridging and deepening the gap between high and low" (345). The term "popular" can be readily applied to one of the romances of this study, William of Palerne, because of the tale's generic identity (alliterative romance in English), its appeal to both aristocratic and lay audiences, and its continued popularity as a narrative in print, both in prose and verse, "in various countries of Western Europe from the 13th to the 17th century" (Bunt 20). For information on the tale's intended audiences, see Bunt 14-19; for information on later variants of the tale in manuscript and print, see Bunt 20-29. 176

Marie de France's lays, for example, including Bisclavret, "were immensely popular with

men and women in aristocratic circles" (Burgess and Busby ll).2

In all of these romances, the werewolf is specifically identified as a knight or as a

royal figure (prince or king), a status which, consequently, also identifies him as a knight.

The werewolf s identity as a knight, whether as a vassal or lord, is crucial to each text's

meaning; more specifically, each narrative's articulation of the werewolf s

metamorphoses reveals something of how certain portions of medieval society, especially

the aristocratic class to which the knight typically belonged, viewed the knight as a

martial figure, and how views of knights changed over a period of approximately two

hundred years, from the mid- to late-twelfth century to the mid-fourteenth century.3

The werewolf romances are most often interpreted as narratives about the human

ability to overcome uncivilized or irrational (and, therefore, animalistic) urges. For

instance, Ralph Harming and Joan Ferrante describe Marie de France's Bisclavret as "a

parable about the forces of bestiality that exist within human nature and how they should

(and should not) be confronted, used, or transcended" (101). An individual's ability to

overcome his or her animalistic urges is also frequently connected to understandings of

2 Likewise, Marie's contemporary (the individual most frequently associated with the romance genre) Chretien de Troyes wrote for "the aristocratic elite in the great courts of northern France" (Owen xx). The changes reflected by the werewolf romances also encompass geographic, linguistic, and generic changes. The romance genre, which flourished in France during the twelfth century, diminished in the thirteenth. However, it resurfaced and blossomed again in the thirteenth century in Britain, where writers adapted or reintrepreted much of the French material in Middle English. Derek PearsalPs "The Development of Middle English Romance" provides a comprehensive review of the early English romances, although his study is somewhat limited because it considers these narratives, for the most part, inferior to their French counterparts. For more recent and more favourable assessments of Middle English romances, see, for example, Bradbury's article "Literacy, Orality, and the Poetics of Middle English Romance," or Ad Putter's "Introduction" to The Spirit of Medieval English Popular Romance. 177

social norms, of acceptable and unacceptable social practices and behaviours. Leslie A.

Sconduto makes such a connection in her discussion of the late-twelfth-century romance

Guillaume de Palerne. The romance has, she suggests, a didactic purpose, and overall it

operates as "a handbook for chivalric behaviour" ("Introduction" 9). She writes,

The Guillaume poet sets up the protagonists of his romance as a model for

others to follow and offers them a lesson; more specifically, he attempts to

influence the attitudes of his audience by arguing for the willing

subordination of the aristocrats to an ideal and, ultimately, to a king who

embodies that ideal.... [T]he romance demonstrates a noble code of

behaviour which combines virtue with prowess and to which knights are

expected to conform. (9)

Sconduto argues that the Guillaume's werewolf (Alphonse) is the quintessential knight.

His overall comportment—his humanity, his gentle demeanour, his loyalty, and his ability

to control his acts of violence—render him the knight "par excellence'" (9). He enacts all

of the appropriate behaviours expected of knights and, in doing so, provides a model for

his ward, Guillaume.5

In the introduction to his edition of Guillaume, Alexendre Micha makes a similar suggestion. He writes, "Right from the start the romancer demonstrates in his prologue the [narrative's] didactic intentions" ["D'entee de jeu le romancier affiche dans son prologue des intentions didactiques"] (34, my translation). 5 Sconduto also argues that in Guillaume, the werewolf s suffering, his divine motivation and his "Christ-like quality" ("Blurred" 124), render him the epitome of Christian knighthood. For further details on Sconduto's argument for the Christian qualities of the werewolf in Guillaume, see her article "Blurred and Shifting Identities" as well as her recently released monograph, Metamorphoses of the Werewolf. I would like to thank Dr. Sconduto for providing me with a quick note on the content of her new book prior to its release; I am still awaiting my copy of the text and will, naturally, have to consider any relevant material from its contents as further context for my own discussion. 178

Yet, as with other lupine narratives, the werewolf romances defy any singular

definition. While they all, indeed, perpetuate an understanding of the immutability of

what is human despite physical change, they also articulate other concerns about social

relationships and obligations. In particular, the romances demonstrate a concern

specifically with the figure of the knight as both a figure of order and as a figure of chaos.

As the remainder of this chapter demonstrates—starting first with Marie de France's

Bisclavret and then examining subsequent romances in a chronological order—the

association of lycanthropy with the figure of the knight is not arbitrary. The identity of the

knight as a werewolf allows the poet or author to articulate specific concerns about the

threat of excessive violence that is associated with medieval knights as well as concerns

about the complex relationship between the knight and his lord and about the latter's

sanctioning of excessive violence.

3.3.1 Bisclavret

In Bisclavret, Marie introduces a noble, handsome knight, one who is "close to his

lord, / and [is] loved by all his neighbors" (19-20). The knight, however, disappears for

three days of every week without explanation. When pressed by his wife, who suggests

that his absences arise from infidelity, he reluctantly reveals that he is a werewolf.

Horrified, the wife convinces a previously scorned suitor to steal her husband's clothes,

6 "De sun seignur esteit privez / e de tuz ses veisins amez" (19-20). The commonly accepted composition date range for Marie's lays is 1155-70 (Harming and Ferrante, "Introduction" 7). For information on the extant manuscripts of the Lays, see the introductions by Hanning and Ferrante and Harf-Lancner. English quotations are from Harming and Ferrante's translation; Old French quotations are from Warnke's edition, which is included in Harf-Lancner's modern French facing-page translation of Lais. 179

thus trapping Bisclavret in his lupine form.7 For a year, the wolf-knight roams the deepest

parts of the forest, until one day he encounters his King, who is out with a hunting party.

Although chased by hunting dogs, Bisclavret approaches the king and kisses or licks his

stirrups. Amazed, the king cries out to his companions,

Look at this marvel-

this beast is humbling itself to me.

It has the mind of a man, and it's begging me for mercy!

This beast is rational. (152-54, 157)s

When Bisclavret kisses the king's stirrups, he acknowledges him as his lord, and, in doing

so, confirms his capacity for human reason despite his non-human form. The knight

returns to the court with the king and his company, and continues to display love and

dedication to his lord; he accompanies him everywhere, and eventually earns the affection

of the entire court through his loyal and gentle behaviour. In fact, the wolfs behaviour fulfills the traditional requirements of human "cortoisie," what Constance Brittain

Bouchard defines as "polite and virtuous behaviour," or "the knowledge of how to behave

7 This aspect of the tale is cognate with the folk-tale of the selkies or seal peoples common in northern regions such as the Orkey and Shetland Islands (and it is also the obverse of the earlier examples of humans who transform into lupine form by donning a wolfs skin). Folklore suggests that the selkies' natural forms are human but that they take on seal skins in order "to pass through the waters from one region of air to another" (Briggs, "Selkies" 354). Although male selkies are known for their amorous natures and frequently seek out human lovers, female selkies are more reserved. They "do not seem to seek for human lovers, but are captured unwillingly by the theft of their skins" (Briggs, "Selkies" 354). o [E] ceste merveille esguardez, cum ceste beste s'umilie! Ele a sen d'ume, merci crie. Ceste beste a entente e sen. (152-54, 157) 180 correctly" (103). Indeed, the wolfs only act of impolite or ungentle behaviour, that is, of uncourtly and therefore inhuman behaviour, occurs when he encounters and attacks those that betray him—his wife and her suitor—and, as Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner points out, the knight's uncourtly behaviour remains "within the limits of human justice" (262), for it is motivated by a desire for vengeance against those who broke the social codes of love and trust in their betrayal of him.9 In addition, Bisclavret's attacks restore balance to society. As Leslie Dunton-Downer argues, when the court recognizes the wolfs attacks as justified acts of aggression, his "violence is not only humanized but even judicially sanctioned (and witnessed by the king) as a form of revenge" (208). The king exiles the wife, whose nose is bitten off by the wolf, along with her companion, and he restores the knight Bisclavret his rightful social position. Thus justice is served.

The lay's conclusion ultimately confirms Bisclavret's identity and humanity.

Although the king presents Bisclavret with his previously stolen clothes (which the wife has surrendered), the werewolf ignores the gesture. A wise man of the court interprets his behaviour for the king, telling him that "This beast wouldn't, under any circumstances, /

Leslie Dunton-Downer similarly suggests that when Bisclavret attacks his wife's new husband "The court. . . decides that the wolfs behaviour must be rational since he [the wolf] has never been violent" (206). 10 Michelle Freeman suggests that the wife, not the knight, is "the real werewolf, or garvalf, of the story" (294) because she is the one that engages in adulterous and treacherous behaviour. When Bisclavret attacks the wife and bites off her nose, he makes her "outward appearance fit her inner reality" (Freeman 298). As M. T. Bruckner points out, such interpretations of the lay as an example of "the misognynistic appropriation of woman as symbol for the negative side of human nature, the inclination to the sins of the flesh" (265) are common. Glyn Burgess similarly emphasizes the role of female characters within the lays overall. He pays specific attention to the way the characters act appropriately within their given relationships, especially when the relationship in question connects to what he considers the lays' central theme, love. See chapters 6 and 7 of The Lais of Marie de France: Text and Context. 181 in order to get rid of his animal form, / put on his clothes in front of you" (284-86).n The man suggests that the king remove wolf and the clothing from the realm of the court and place them in his bedchamber instead. The king agrees, and upon his return to the bedchamber shortly thereafter, he finds the knight fully clothed, asleep on the bed. The wise man also informs the king that the wolf, or knight, is "too ashamed" (288) to change or transform in public. This detail is a critical point for Harming and Ferrante. "Before his final metamorphosis," they write, "the werewolf demonstrates a final civilized virtue, shame: he refuses to don his clothes in public" (104). In order for Bisclavret to traverse the threshold from man to wolf, or vice versa, he must shed or don his clothes and in between become naked. According to Kathryn Holten, nudity, or the shedding of one's clothes, is "a necessary element of the return to a feral state" (197). Clothing—that is human clothing—represents the civilized, human world, while nudity represents the

1 ^ untamed wilderness or natural world. Bisclavret is reluctant to appear naked in front of his peers because his nudity would place him below the civilized and socially acceptable standard of the court. His reluctance is, as Harming and Ferrante suggest, "a mark of human social awareness, of sensitivity to others" (104).

From the outset, from the lay's opening lines, Marie distinguishes her werewolf from the other werewolves of legend, especially of Norman legend, by identifying the former as "the Bisclavret" in a field of the usual werewolves, or "Garwaf[s]."14 Marie

"Cist nel fereit pur nule rien, / que devant vus ses dras reveste / ne mut la semblance de beste" (284-86). 12 "Mult durement" (288). 13 Jorgensen similarly remarks that the clothes "represent... an accepted social convention, and as such are a symbol of civilized man" (26-27). 14 Garulf, ceo est beste salvage; tant cum il est en cele rage, 182 describes the "Garwaf'—the typical werewolf—as "a savage beast" (9) who "eats men,

[and] does much harm" (11), and then continues, "But that's enough of this for now: /1 want to tell you about the Bisclavret" (13-14). By using a different name for her werewolf, Marie sets him apart, and her later characterization of him reinforces his separation from the commonly known Norman werewolf. Throughout the lay, then, Marie purposely emphasizes the uniqueness of her werewolf.15

These aspects of the lay reinforce Harming and Ferrante's claim that the narrative concerns "the human capacity to manifest nobility under the most trying conditions and

humes devure, grant mal fait, es granz forez converse e vait. Cest afaire les ore ester; del Bisclavret vus vueil cunter. (9-14) 15 Marie's emphasis on the humanity of her werewolf also reflects her own status as a female writer within a male dominated profession. As suggested in this chapter's earlier discussion of fables, Marie was highly literate in classical texts, from the fables of Phaedrus to the major Ovidian works such as the Amores. In her collection of lays, however, Marie rejects such classical sources for the oral, folkloric tales of Brittany. While it was not unusual for medieval poets to transform, sometimes quite liberally, classical sources, it was less common for poets to reject outwardly materials that were supposed to endow them with a degree of authority. SunHee Kim Gertz notes, "Medieval poets transformed classical texts in any number of ways, often feeling at liberty to change even critical narrative elements in the process" (99). She refers, here, to the difference in roles between the medieval compiler and author. The compiler (compilator) does precisely what his or her title suggests: he or she compiles compendiums of other people's works (usually those of the classical authors); in contrast, the author (auctor) not only compiles, he or she also glosses, provides exegetical commentary on, or adapts the material of others. In the Prologue to her Lays, Marie comments that a translation of Latin sources would fail to bring her fame because "too many others [other poets] have done it" ["itant s'en sunt alter entremis"] (32). By refusing to draw upon classical sources, Marie sets herself apart from both her predecessors and, more importantly, from her contemporaries (with the notable exception of Chretien de Troyes, who also turns to Breton tales as source material for his romances). For a detailed discussion on the medieval notions of the compiler and the author, see Alastair J. Minnis's study, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages. For discussions on Marie's efforts to create a new space for herself as a female writer in the male-dominated literary world, see, for instance, the studies by Gertz, Freeman, and Frese. 183

thus to transcend the animal part of our nature" (101). Yet, while Harming and Ferrante

argue that Bisclavret transcends his "animal" self, they also confess that his werewolf

status, his lycanthropy, is a condition "beyond his control" (102). Further, they emphasize

the required nudity of Bisclavret's metamorphoses and link it to the culture of shame,

"the unwillingness to fall below a certain level of behaviour in the presence of [one's]

peers" (104). Bynum echoes Harming and Ferrante's sentiment when she describes

Bisclavret as "a tale of the regaining (not the loss) of civilization and nobility"

{Metamorphosis and Identity 170). Like Harming and Ferrante, Bynum also points out that Bisclavret's need for privacy arises from the "shocking act of metamorphosis" (172),

although for Bynum, it is the twelfth century's horror at the prospect of change which requires that the werewolf return to his human form "offstage" (95). Indeed, as Ana Pairet

suggests, the most terrifying aspect of the werewolf s metamorphosis—the moment of

change or passage—is often tamed through a process or ritual that involves the separation of the metamorphic individual from the community to which he belongs.

These arguments, however, create a conundrum for readers. First, if the werewolf s animal nature or self is truly beyond his control, he will never be able fully to transcend it. Second, if he does, in some manner, transcend his animal self, the capacity for shameful behaviour should simultaneously be eradicated. The existence of such problematic elements creates narrative gaps within the lay, instances where details are

Pairet argues that metamorphosis is usually attached to specific words or specific objects that bring about transformation. The words or objects allow the narrative to diminish the potential danger of metamorphosis. She writes, "A travers revocation de ce rituel, les texts narratifs apprivoisent laspect le plus terrifant de la metamorphose: le moment du passage. ... La plupart des examples evoquent la separation physique de la personne qui se metamorphose avec le groupe social auquel elle appartient" (93, emphasis added; my translation above). 184

omitted or remain unexplained or unresolved. The first gap resides in Bisclavret's status

at the lay's conclusion. While the knight is released from a long entrapment in his wolf

form, as David B. Leshock points out, there is no suggestion that his original werewolf

condition has been reformed or removed (159).17 Similarly, M. T. Bruckner describes

Bisclavref's ending as "problematic" because the knight "may be loved by the king and

all his court, but he is still a werewolf (252).18 Although Marie strives to set her

werewolf apart from his classical predecessors by emphasizing his capacity for reason, an

informed courtly audience (especially one with knowledge of classical authors such as

Ovid) would be aware of the great range of meanings that the werewolf could and did

represent in earlier narratives. Marie's audience would be familiar with the werewolf s

association with negative or socially unacceptable behaviours, particularly those of the blood thirsty and violent nature.1 The second gap resides in the knight's metamorphoses

Leshock comments, "There is no evidence of change in his [Bisclavret's] character. From what the text provides, he has been neither 'cured' nor reformed of his werewolf attributes, and we must assume that his capacity for eating humans and creating much harm has not ended with the completion of the narrative" (159). Leschock makes a useful argument, one similar to mine: he suggests that the role of the werewolf in the lay can be understood through cultural contexts, especially those surrounding the figure of the knight. His argument has difficulties, however. It is fairly brief and does not expand or explore the questions raised by the knight's association with the werewolf (this issue is, of course, the focus of this section of my chapter). Also, Leshock considers many of the extant critical works on the lay over-simplifications. This view hinders any reading of the text as a site of varied and multiple meanings, an approach that this dissertation establishes. 18 M. T. Bruckner concludes that the lay is about the duality of human nature overall and that both the knight and his wife must learn to control their baser instincts. She suggests that the unresolved nature of the werewolf is outweighed by the fact that he has learned to exile his inappropriate behaviours to a place "beyond the civilized society of the court" (264). Ultimately, like many other critics, Bruckner is unable fully to resolve Bisclavret's problematic status. 9 As Leshock writes, "Bisclavret is a werewolf, an association that carries overwhelmingly negative implications" (157). The content of this dissertation's second chapter attests to Leshock's point. 185 and their noticeable absence from both the realm of the court and from the narrative itself.

Bisclavret only ever transforms outside of the civilized public space of the court, primarily in the forest, and his transformations are never witnessed by other characters within the lay or by the reader, for the poet never describes them. The audience knows only what the knight tells his wife, that he becomes a werewolf and that in order to do so he becomes stark naked; he does not explain or describe the actual process of transformation itself or the reasons behind his transformations. The missing content highlights how much detail some of the classical narratives provide. For instance, the stories of Damasnetus and Moeris provide information on why and how the individuals transform and what kinds of activities they engage in prior to/during, and after transformation. In contrast, Bisclavret tells his wife only that he retreats to the deepest part of the forest and lives on the prey he hunts. No further details are provided.

These narrative gaps culminate in the lay's conclusion, when, again, the details of the knight's transformation remain absent while his status as a werewolf persists. When provided with his clothing, the werewolf refuses to transform back into human form within the public space of the court. While his behaviour here does participate in the culture of shame, Bisclavret's desire to remove himself from the court has greater implications. The knight's removal of his clothing signifies a departure from the human

Bisclavret tells his wife, My dear, I become a werewolf: I go off into the great forest, in the thickest part of the woods, and I live on the prey I hunt down. (63-66) Dame, jeo devienc bisclavret. En cele grant forest me met al plus espes de la gualdine, sT vif de preie e de ravine. (63-66) 186 world, from the society of the court, and marks an entrance into the untamed wilderness, but, as mentioned above, the lycanthropy is "beyond his control" (Harming and Ferrante

102). Further, Bisclavret's nudity is a necessary condition of transformation: he cannot enter into or return from his lupine form without being unclothed. The necessity of nudity, its association with the uncivilized world, and the knight's subsequent fear of falling below a socially acceptable standard all suggest that during metamorphosis,

Bisclavret's feral or animal nature surfaces, that the knight's body and behaviour, like his lycanthropy, are beyond his control. No matter how successful the knight is at transcending his animal self, at behaving in an appropriate, courtly manner while in lupine form, he cannot guarantee this comportment while naked or during the related metamorohic Drocess.

The knight's metamorphic body is therefore a significant element of the lay, one filled with meaning. As explored above and in Chapter 2, the body operates as a "symbol of society" (Mary Douglas 115), and the limits of the body demarcate the limits of the society that regulates that body. This metaphor appears frequently in the Middle Ages, particularly in connection with monarchs, whose political bodies (or bodies politic) represent the kingdom and are usually comprised of representations of the three estates.

As Frederic W. Maitland explains, "medieval thought conceived the nation as a

91 community and pictured it as a body of which the King was the head" (132). John of

21 Both Maitland (134ff) and Ernst Kantorowicz (in The King's Two Bodies) draw upon various passages from the Reports by the Elizabethan lawyer Edmund Plowden (1518-1585) to explain the concept of the king's dual bodies, the body natural and the body politic. This concept informs the image of the nation as a body with the king as its head. For example, Plowden writes, For the King has in him two Bodies, viz., a Body natural and a Body politic. His Body natural (if it be considered in itself) is a Body mortal, 187

Salisbury (c. 1120-1180), for example, in his Policraticus, describes the prince (or ruler)

as "the head of the body of the commonwealth" and the soul of the body as "those who

preside over the practice of religion" (5.2.540b). The remainder of the body is comprised

of the other layers, the largest of which is the third estate, including "Financial officers

and keepers" and the labourers or "husbandmen" (5.2.540c).22 In addition, John dedicates

a large portion of his text to didactic material. At the end of Book 3, in a manner similar

to Plato's Republic, he addresses the issues of just rule and tyranny. Then, in Book 4, he

focuses explicitly on the role of the Prince in society. How the Prince should rule, how he

should behave, and how he should act in accordance with the Church and Christian ideals,

are all items of discussion. In short, the Polleratus outlines how both the ruler and the

subject to all Infirmities that come by Nature or Accident to the Imbecility of Infancy or old Age, and to the like Defects that happen to the natural Bodies of other People. But his Body politic is a Body that cannot be seen or handled, consisting of Policy and Government, and constituted for the Direction of the People, and the Management of the public weal, and this body is utterly void of Infancy, and old Age, and other natural Defects and Imbecilities, which the Body natural is subject to. (qtd. in Kantorowicz 7) Kantorowicz expands his discussion to talk about the other type of duality associated with the king, his status as the "persona mixta, the 'mixed person'" (43). This title applies to the king in a religious and political sense because as the head of the state and as a subject of the church he represents "the blending of spiritual and secular powers and capacities united in one person" (43). However, Kantorowicz stresses that the duality of the persona mixta is separate from the king's body natural and body politic (45). 22 "Princeps uero capitis in re publica optinet locum" (5.2.540b); "Illos uero, qui religionis cultui praesunt, quasi animam corporis" (5.2.540b); "Quaestores et commentarienses" and "agricolae" (5.2.540c). All citations specify book, chapter, and section. English quotations are from the Murray F. Markland's abridged edition of translations by Joseph B. Pike (Books 1-3; 7, 1-16 and 22-24; 8, 1-16 and 24-25) and John Dickinson (Books 4-6; 7, 17-21 and 25; 8, 17-23). Latin quotations are from the Clemens C. I. Webb's edition of the text. 23 Overall, the Policraticus (and especially Book 4 of the text) functions as a speculum, as a mirror for princes. It is an instructional text, and, although it was addressed to Thomas a Becket, the content "speaks to all governors and perhaps in particular to Henry II" (Markland ix). For information on the concept of the mirror for 188

members of the commonwealth should behave. What any body is, what it can be or do,

where it goes, and how it appears: these things are all determined by social systems (such

as the commonwealth outlined in the Policraticus), and the king's body is the ultimate

exemplum of how the nation's people should behave.

In Purity and Danger, Mary Douglas explores the uses and limitations of this

body-as-society metaphor, arguing that transitional states, particularly transitional states

of the body (for example puberty, menstruation, or, for this study, metamorphosis)

present the greatest threat to the regulating society. "Danger," she writes, "lies in

transitional states simply because transition is neither one state nor the next, it is

undefinable. The person who must pass from one to another is himself [or herself] in

danger and emanates danger to others" (97).24 The fixed laws of a social system that

requires categories and boundaries in order to operate cannot regulate an undefinable

body. That body, therefore, calls into question the very laws and the system that seek to

control it. As a man or wolf, Bisclavret can be classified and subsequently regulated by

society, subjected to its laws and hierarchies, especially as he displays human rationality

in both forms and places himself firmly within the social system overseen by the king and the court. But the knight's metamorphoses render his body undefinable. During transformation, Bisclavret's physical being is neither wolf nor man. It is, rather, a state of process defined only by its transitory physicality. Bisclavret's dual body—his human

princes, see Bradley, "Backgrounds of the Title Speculum in Mediaeval Literature," or Born, "The Perfect Prince." 24 Douglas's theory is an extension of Turner and van Gennep's ideas of liminality and of rites de passages. 25 Bynum writes, "Metamorphosis goes from an entity that is one thing to an entity that is another. ... At the beginning and end, where there is no trace of the 189

and lupine forms—can be regulated, but the metamorphic state in between defies

categories and boundaries, defies the laws of the system that seeks to regulate it, and

renders him a danger to himself, to society, and to others within the society.26

Following Mary Douglas's argument that the body is a "symbol of society,"

Bisclavret's dual body can be read as a body that demarcates the boundaries of the courtly

and non-courtly worlds of medieval feudal society. In this system, the knight's weekly

excursions into and year-long residence within the forest, the untamed wilderness, need to

be considered. In "The Wilderness in the Medieval West," Jacques Le Goff suggests that

in courtly romances, the world of the court, usually Arthur's court, can be read as

analogous to the "world," or the "organized society" of the western world (58). Further,

while the court is analogous to "organized society," the medieval forest operates as "a

frontier" as well as "a refuge" (52), much like the fenlands of the Hereward story

discussed earlier. As a frontier, the forest provides space for knights and adventurers to

test and prove their prowess against each other and against the natural world; as a refuge,

the forest provides sustenance and shelter for those who live "on the fringes of society:

fugitive serfs, murderers, soldiers of fortune, [and] brigands" (52). Corinne Saunders,

who shares Le Goff s view of the forest as a multi-faceted space, suggests that the act of

setting forth into the forest also corresponds to one of the "concepts of the limen"

otherness from which and to which the process is going, there is no metamorphosis; there is metamorphosis only between" {Metamorphosis and Identity 30). 26 Interestingly, the dual nature of the werewolf s body parallels the duality of the king's two bodies. Furthermore, the king's other body—that sacred, intangible body of the persona mixta—can be seen as a potential third body or third state of being that parallels the werewolf s metamorphic or transitional state. The parallels between the king and the knight-werewolf highlight the bond between the two as well as the importance of the knight as an extension of the king's rule or justice. This aspect of their relationship will be explored in greater detail later in this chapter. 190

particularly to "the transition period within ritual movement from one state to another"

(xii). The knight's adventures and demonstrations of prowess thus occur in a realm that,

like the actual testing process the knight undergoes, is liminal. Also, in the romance

tradition, the forest is frequently inhabited by supernatural beings. As Harf-Lancner

suggests, it is "the fairies who haunt the deepest depths of the forest" (Les Fees 8).

Within the forest, one encounters creatures such as giants, fairies, and white harts, and the

appearance of these beings frequently occurs because the human world shares borders and

spaces with the supernatural world. The presence of the white hart in particular—the

ambassadorial creature of the forest—often signifies that one has entered the threshold

area that traverses these two worlds. Inhabited by social outcasts, nature's beasts, and

supernatural beings, the forest is a liminal space, one that elides and calls into question

the boundaries between the human, civilized world, the untamed wilderness, and the other

world or the supernatural realm. It is the ideal (liminal) realm for the knight's

metamorphic (and, therefore, liminal) body.

The liminality of the forest is essential to the character of the knight. In her study

of medieval tales of the wild man, Dorothy Yamamoto, like Holten, stresses the

connection between nudity and the wilderness, particularly in relation to the role of the

knight in medieval feudal society. Yamamoto explains that the knight and the wild man

are often "inextricably linked" (187), and necessarily so. In wild man narratives, clothing

often covers or disguises what is beneath. To clothe the wild man creates "a play with his

Harf-Lancner writes, "les fees . . . hantent les forets profondes" (Les Fees 8, my translation above). In its use here, the word fairy (fee) denotes supernatural beings rather than the common interpretation of a particular winged being. 28 Harf-Lancner describes "Le Blanc Cerf" as an "envoye de 1'autre monde" (Les Fees 222, my translation above). 191

liminal identity, [one] poised between animal and human" (168). Like the werewolf, the

wild man traverses boundaries between the civilized world and the untamed wilderness.

This liminality, this ability to crossover, is central to the figure of the knight. Yamamoto

writes,

In real life, we can see that a knight of perfect politesse—like Gawain,

perhaps—would never actually do any fighting and would thus forfeit

his raison d'etre. Knights need an infusion of wild-man to launch them

into battle. (187)

Acceptable courtly behaviour does not actually include acts of physical aggression or

violence—quite the contrary. The court, as the realm of gentilesse ox politesse, demands

courtesy and gentle manners, the kind of courtoisie displayed by the knight in Bisclavret.

Yet the knight, in his martial role, requires the capacity for (and indeed the successful

ability in) wild or uncivilized—that is, in churlish and, sometimes, violent—behaviour.

Those knights that live for a time as wild men, who spend time in the wilderness—

Lancelot, Gawain, Sir Orfeo, or Orson, for example—are reputably the most successful

knights.29

Le Goff similarly notes, "Violence and courtliness went together, in the twelfth century at any rate" ("Warriors and Conquering Bourgeois" 174). The contrast here between wildness and civility often overlapped with two other areas of concern in medieval romance, the conflict between Christian and non-Christian behaviours, and the delineation of behaviours according to gender. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, for instance, Gawain struggles to enact a type of chivalry that balances his martial duties, his Christian faith, and his "aristocratic masculine identity" (Gustafson 620). For further reading on the question of Christian values or on gender issues in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, see, for example, Gordon M. Shedd, "Knight in Tarnished Armour: The Meaning of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight"; Gerald Morgan, "The Significance of the Pentangle Symbolism in Sir Gawain and the Green KnighF; Sheila Fisher, "Taken Men and Token Women in Sir Gawain and the Green Knighf; or Clare R. Kinney, "The (Dis)embodied Hero and the Signs of Manhood in Sir Gawain and the Green KnightT 192

Orson, one of the protagonists in the romance Valentine and Orson, exemplifies

the relationship between the wild man and the knight, between the uncivilized brute and

the cultured knight. ° He is a pinnacle of the wild-man-knight relationship.31 Raised in the

wilderness by a female bear, Orson "grows up hairy, ferocious, and unable to speak. He

lives a totally bestial life, eating raw flesh and attacking any creature that ventures into his

domain" (Yamamoto 188-89).32 Orson eventually meets his long-lost twin brother

Valentine in battle; the latter takes the former back to the court and introduces him to

human society and civilized behaviours. Yet Orson retains part of his wildness throughout

most of the narrative. Indeed, it is this characteristic that allows him to demonstrate fully

his martial prowess. After an extended period at court, Orson allies "his native ferocity

with the human qualities of reason and intelligence" (195), and, because he does, he

overcomes the fearsome opponent that even his valiant brother Valentine is incapable of

defeating, the Green Knight.

Bisclavret is not like Orson; he is not an example of the wild man. However, he

requires a similar balance between his courtly and knightly behaviours, and his

The motif of the need for the union of the wild man and the civilized man can be traced as far back as the seventh century BC, to The Epic ofGilgamesh, the story of the Mesopotamian ruler of the same name. T 1 Orson stands out amidst other wild-man figures because of his upbringing. Most knights who become wild-men do so after "the breaking of a particular relationship" (Yamamoto 176), usually a relationship with a female lover. In this sense, then, the typical wild-man provides a second parallel to the werewolf-knights discussed in this dissertation, all of whom enter either a period in lupine form or an extended period (entrapment) in a pre-existing and cyclical metamorphic existence because of a break in their marital relations. Indeed, Yamamoto links the relationship split explicitly to the knight's venture into wilderness and incivility. "From that lost relationship," she writes, "and implicitly too from all the attachments and obligations of a courtly way of life, the knight flees into the wilderness" (177). 32 Orson's name evokes his bestial nature through its etymology: Orson derives from the French noun "ors," which means "bear" or "bearskin" (OFED 459), and from its cognates "orsel" and "orsetel," both of which mean "young bear, bear-cub" (459). 193

metamorphic werewolf body provides him with a cyclic opportunity for forays into the

wilderness similar to his wild-man counterpart. Bisclavret traverses the threshold between

the civilized and the untamed worlds, and his ability to do so provides him with the

wilderness "infusion" necessary for military prowess. His werewolf condition renders

him suitable for knighthood and secures his position as a knight within the feudal system.

Indeed, this is, perhaps, the reason why his status remains unresolved at the lay's

conclusion. Although restored to his human form after a year-long entrapment in wolf

form, Bisclavret is not, at the lay's conclusion, cured or relieved of his werewolf

condition. As Gilmore explains, he "openly" retains the ability to "return, as in, turn and

turn again, from one aspect of his being to the other" (81). The knight unquestionably

remains, throughout and at the lay's end, a werewolf, and both the king and the court

accept his status as such and his presence in either lupine or human form.

The knight's continued status as a werewolf, however, is not as problematic as the

lay's other narrative gap, the missing details of the knight's transformations. As Bynum points out, Bisclavret's metamorphoses remain, throughout the lay, "undescribed" or unwitnessed (172-73); the points of the narrative at which the knight's behaviour may fall below socially acceptable levels are noticeably absent. This absence places Bisclavret physically outside of the public realm of the court and outside of the narrative itself. The knight's body, during metamorphosis (that dangerous transitional state), is never actually described; while the knight retains his social position at court, as both a man and as a wolf, the dangerous transitional state of his body is excluded. In fact, the closest the courtiers and the audience ever come to Bisclavret's metamorphoses is his retreat to the king's bedchambers at the lay's conclusion. While the king's bedchambers are not as 194 isolated or as removed from society as the forest—indeed, they are often occupied and entered by a variety of people, from the king to his advisors and his household staff or members—they are still less public and less accessible than the actual court. More importantly, the lay makes it explicit that Bisclavret retreats to the king's bedchambers unaccompanied. Although the knight transforms within the civilized world, he still transforms in a space that is removed from other humans and from the very public realm of the court, and, ultimately, his metamorphosis remains unwitnessed.

This exclusion requires a movement, very briefly, outside of the more traditional critical approaches to Bisclavret, into the realm of the fantastic, a move that is not without precedent. In "Miracles and Marvels: The Limits of Alterity," Bynum discusses medieval narratives such as Gerald of Wales's account of the priest who met two werewolves.34

Bynum utilizes Tzvetan Todorov's theory of the fantastic, specifically his distinction between the marvelous, the uncanny, and the fantastic, in her analysis of such medieval narratives. A large part of Bynum's discussion concerns the medieval treatment and frequent conflation of mirabilia (marvels, or "all things at which we might feel wonder because we did not understand") and miracula (miracles, or "those things which were

The wise man suggests to the king that they leave Bisclavret "alone for a while" ["une grant piece"] (291) in the bedchambers in order that he may transform. 34 See the Topography of Ireland, Book 2, Chapter 19, as well as the brief discussion on Gerald's werewolf narrative in the introduction to this chapter. Todorov distinguishes between those things that are marvelous (those things that have supernatural explanations), that are uncanny (those things that can be rationalized), and that are fantastic (those things that exist as the state in between-before one of the other two is determined as the cause). See The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, especially Chapters 2 and 3. In Medieval Romance, John Stevens applies Todorov's idea of the marvellous to medieval romance. He argues that elements of the marvellous (such as the magical and the miraculous) "describe and distinguish events out of the ordinary which are part of the mechanics, or, in medieval terms, the matiere, of romance" (102). See Stevens (especially Chapter 5, "Man and Supernature: The Marvellous in Romance"). 195

contrary to or beyond nature") ("Miracles and Marvels" 803). She argues that medieval

writers and philosophers frequently expressed the marvelous and miracles as the uncanny,

and as a result flattened or naturalized them.36 Elsewhere, when discussing Bisclavret,

Bynum suggests that although Marie's werewolf changes morally—he "learns discretion

and trust and teaches those around him" (Metamorphosis and Identity 172-73)—he

persists in his identity as a human despite physical transformation. "[I]n Marie," she

writes, there is "a suggestion of over and under, inner and outer, of a person under the

shaggy wolf (172). Marie, then, follows the pattern set out by other medieval writers

when she insists on the continuity of the human within the lupine form. Although change

occurs within her narrative, according to Bynum's system, this change is still couched in

a type of flattening or rationalization because Bisclavret retains his human identity and

his transformation is not a miracle or marvel.

In a similar vein, the work of Rosemary Jackson informs a reading of Bisclavret.

In Fantasy: The Literature of Subversion, Jackson describes the genre of fantastic

literature ("fantasy") as the "literature of desire, which seeks that which is experienced as

absence and loss" (3). Those things that are absent or lost usually evoke fear, and are,

consequently, "subject to cultural taboo" (70). Drawing upon Freud's theories of the

repressed as outlined in Totem and Taboo, Jackson explains, "Taboos are the strongest

inhibitions which a culture imposes to guarantee its survival" (70). Consequently, taboos,

See Section 3, "Flattening and Naturalizing the Marvelous," of Bynum's article. 37 Bynum does recognize, however, that this is also not an instance in which "the [wolf] skin is only covering or disguise" {Metamorphosis and Identity 172). It is a case of actual change or transformation, both in a physical and psychological sense, even if something, as she would say, perdures. 196 or, more specifically, the desires to break taboos, are repressed rather than acted out.38

When culture (including literature) attempts to articulate those taboo subjects "which are otherwise silenced" (72), however, they often return in a grotesque or horrific manner.

Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde provides an example of a text that attempts to reintegrate that which has been repressed. "Hyde,"

Jackson writes, "is able to fulfil Jekyll's desires to steal, love, be violent.... He threatens late Victorian London with his horrid laughter, theft, sexuality, criminality: he breaks every social taboo" (114-15). No specific description of Hyde is ever provided in Jekyll and Hyde, but references appear throughout that evoke a grotesque physical appearance.

For instance, he is described as "pale and dwarfish," as giving "an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation" (16), and as "ape-like" (22). The text's overall lack of specificity concerning Hyde's physical appearance demonstrates Jackson's point that the fantastic ultimately denies signification because it cannot be adequately represented linguistically {Fantasy 69). Hyde is an embodiment of repressed desires, of things expelled from society that cannot be articulated without transgressing social norms, and, as a result, he is monstrous, less than human.

Within Jackson's paradigm, Marie's Bisclavret would not constitute a fantasy because as a text it suppresses rather than expresses key moments, specifically those

TO Jackson points out that Freud identifies the major taboos as "incest (a desire for the mother) and death (a desire to touch or make contact with corpses)" (70). However, as Chapter 2 suggests, the taboo of cannibalism is also often a defining characteristic of societies and is frequently associated with the figure of the werewolf. For the sake of this study, it, too, should be considered a "major" taboo. Indeed, Jekyll both confesses his repression of socially unacceptable behaviours and details the consequences of those repressed desires in the text's closing chapter, "Henry Jekyll's Full Statement of the Case." 40 Hyde's sub-human status reminds readers of those famous exiles, Grendel and his mother. 197 instances in which the knight transforms, the moment in which the knight's body is rendered dangerous, liminal, and potentially grotesque because of its instability or undefinable state. Further, there is no attempt in the lay to articulate those things that would be considered transgressive or taboo, especially the cannibalism so frequently expected of or associated with the werewolf. In fact, Marie goes to great lengths to suggest that her werewolf is not the werewolf readers expect; she outright denies the possibility of her werewolf s association with any such behaviours. In the lay's opening,

Marie explains that her werewolf is the Breton "Bisclavret" (2, 3, 14) not the Norman

"Garwaf' (4), who is "a savage beast.. . . [H]e eats men, does much harm" (ll).41

Bisclavret is not the ferocious Ovidian werewolf, nor is he the werewolf associated with cannibalism that is found in the Norman tradition.42

Yet despite Marie's attempts to place her werewolf firmly in a safe and rational realm, an air of ambiguity is still attached to him and to his metamorphic condition because he confesses to his wife that, when he transforms, he enters the deepest part of the forest (that liminal space) and hunts in order to survive (63-66). No further details about his time in lupine form or his forays into the forest are provided. Like his actual metamorphoses, this information remains outside of the narrative; it has been left out,

41 "[C]eo est beste salvage;... humes devure, grant mal fait" (11). That Marie names her werewolf "Bisclavret" three times in the opening passage gestures to how strong her desire is to separate him from the more violent werewolf of the "Garwaf tradition. 42 Leshock argues, "we must assume that [Bisclavret's] capacity for eating humans and creating much harm has not ended with the completion of the narrative" (159), because he interprets him as an example of the "beste salvage" described above. In doing so, Leshock confuses the Norman "Garwaf with the Breton "Bisclavret," and ignores the clear distinction between Marie's werewolf and the tradition to which she compares him. This is one of the largest oversights in his article and it is one that greatly weakens his argument. 198

made absent. These absences, however, provide a new entry point to Marie's story; an

examination of them uncovers new meaning in the lay. During his metamorphoses, during

those instances that remain outside of the narrative and outside of the public space of the

court, Bisclavret becomes part of what Jackson describes as the "unsaid" or the "unseen"

of culture: "that which has been silenced, made invisible, covered over and made

'absent'" (4). If, as seen above, Bisclavret's position as a knight necessitates the existence

of his animal or feral self as well as his forays into the wilderness, one must ask, then,

what demands that his transitional body be placed outside of culture, that it become,

through its absence, part of the unseen or the unsaid? What is it that the narrative refuses

to represent when it exiles Bisclavret's metamorphoses?

The answer to this question lies in Bisclavret's status as a knight. "Knights,"

Yamamoto explains, "do not merely have to act: they have to attune their actions to a

specific social code. And the key to that code is restraint" (172). We have seen that

restraint in Bisclavret through the knight's ability to retain his human rationality while in

his non-human form—through his appropriate fealty to the king, his noble comportment

at the court, and his acts of vengeance against those that betray him. As someone with

license to enact violence, he controls that violence; he controls any urges to engage in

violent acts unless they are justifiable and are warranted. In short, he represses any urges

or desires to behave in an excessive or unacceptable manner, and, in doing so, he

maintains social order and even contributes to the delivery of justice. Contrarily, a knight who behaves without restraint threatens the social structure of the feudal system that his

actions are supposed to uphold, even idealize. Excessive behaviour endangers not only those governed by the knight, such as the manorial serfs, but also the lord to whom the 199 knight has pledged allegiance. As Holten points out, "Individual knights had the power to mass, turn against the king, create turmoil in the countryside, and upset the social balance" (203). When a knight ignores or overturns his social obligations, chaos ensues.43

Examples of lawless or corrupt knights abound in the late Middle Ages, during the

Crusades as well as during periods of conflict between nations or between warring factions within a single nation. Maurice Keen remarks that "The devastation and social disruption caused by the passage of armies in the late middle ages" was often considered, by observers and recorders, "a factor of social and economic importance at least comparable with the effect of the plague" (228).44

Keen pinpoints two primary reasons why martial forces were difficult to control.

The first is economic and concerns "the costs of war" and "the lure of booty" (229).

Many of the knights sought compensation for the risks they took in their enterprises.

Further, many of them also needed a degree of wealth to maintain their estates and their manner of living, especially those who were also younger sons not destined to inherit their fathers' estates and were, therefore, seeking fortunes of their own; others, who came from less fortunate backgrounds, sought financial and social advancement through the

This point creates another parallel between the knight and his king, both of whom have specific obligations to uphold the peace and security of their nation. As Plato and John of Salisbury suggest, the ruler who abuses his power and position becomes a tyrant, an internal threat to the realm's ordered existence. Likewise, the knight who abuses his position and power, especially his capacity for violence, becomes tyrannical. 44 Keen lists, among others, William of Tyre, Peter of Blois, Orderic Vitalis as critics of the lawless and plundering knights. For details on these critics, see Keen, Chivalry (233-37) or "Huizinga, Kilgour and the Decline of Chivalry" (5-6). Le Goff, in "Social Realities and Ideological Codes in the Early Thirteenth Century," also identifies James of Vitry as an important critic of the chivalric orders. Vitry's Historia Occidentalis, Le Goff explains, "is remarkable in that it links all seven deadly sins to a single social group: knights" (183); Vitry's text explicitly identifies as corrupt those knights "who oppress churches and the poor rather than protect them" (183). 200 procurement of military achievement and its connected economic gain (229). The second reason that the knights were often difficult to control was the transient and mercenary nature of their work. As knights moved from employer to employer, often venturing far from their homelands, they required economic means to survive, and these means were usually found in the economic gains of their military campaigns. In short, the transient nature of their employment "strengthened their dependence on pillaging for survival" (230). Thus the knight, while representing justice and order on the one hand, also represents, on the other hand, the threat and potential for "unabated violence"

(Leshock 160). As Leshock explains, "The strength and military skill of the knight, which he learnt in order to become part of the feudal system, are the very attributes that make him a dangerous participant" (161). Although Bisclavret comports himself appropriately within the court, underlying his status as a knight, as a perpetrator of moderate and necessary martial action, lingers the potential for unrestrained behaviour, especially excessive violence.

Yet Keen points out that lawless behaviours were not restricted to just the minor nobility or the "professional mercenaries" (230); members of the higher nobility were just as culpable. For example, in the twelfth century, Henry II of England employed "the dreaded Brabancons," a large company of mercenaries, in his campaigns (231), while in the fourteenth century, "an expedition of the Black Prince's great chevauchee across Languedoc in 1355 had among its principal objects the wasting of the countryside with fire and sword and the acquisition of booty" (230). "Booty," Keen writes, "was no less attractive to the 'genuine' knight than it was to the mercenary" (231). In fact, members of the gentry frequently appear in medieval literature in connection with outlawry, usually as disenfranchised nobles who turn to pillaging and thievery in order to survive (for instance, stories of Hereward the Wake or Robin Hood revolve around disenfranchised nobles who turn to outlawry as a way to either reverse their fortunes or to take revenge upon those that have disenfranchised them). For more on medieval outlaws, see Spraggs, Hanawalt, and Knight and Ohlgren. 46 Richard W. Kaueper similarly suggests that while knights did maintain or restore order and protect the realm, they also, simultaneously, "fought each other as enthusiastically as any common foe," and they often "brought violence to villagers, clerics, townspeople, and merchants" (8). 201

While Bisclavret's "sen," or reason, controls his behaviour, he may dwell within society, within the public space of his lord's court. The metamorphic cycles of his werewolf body give him license to enter the forest, that liminal and untamed realm beyond the civilized world, to receive regular "infusions" of wilderness. In turn, these infusions enable him to fulfill his social obligations. Yet, the same metamorphic body, the body that renders Bisclavret capable of his position and places him firmly within society, also renders him an outsider and a threat to that society. The dangerous transitional state of his body—its liminal state—remains undefinable, beyond the control of the social system that classifies and regulates the knight's human and lupine forms. While in its transitional state, Bisclavret's body represents the repressed urges that a knight may experience, unrestrained behaviour and excessive violence, and therefore threatens the very system that requires it. Thus, during metamorphosis, Bisclavret is exiled, placed outside of the public space of the court and outside of the narrative in an effort to diminish or control the danger that his transitional body represents. 7

3.3.2 Guillaume de Palerne

Marie's tale is not the only twelfth-century romance that insists upon the humanity of the werewolf while simultaneously evoking the knight's potential for excessive violence; the anonymous Guillaume de Palerne similarly includes a rational werewolf figure and similarly demonstrates, through the werewolf, concerns about the figure of the

That Bisclavret's only transformation within the human realm occurs within the king's bedchamber suggests that the king is aware of, perhaps even permits or encourages, the knight's ability to access these excessive behaviours. The two figures are, after all, parallel; the knight functions as a part of the king's rule, as his martial arm. knight. The story focuses on a werewolf s abduction of Guillaume, the young prince of

Sicily, and then on the events of the prince's life up until his reconciliation with his family. Throughout the tale, the werewolf—whom the reader eventually learns is the prince of Spain (Alphonse), enchanted into lupine form by his jealous stepmother—acts as a protector and provider to the Sicilian prince. The werewolf watches over the prince when he is adopted by the cowherd, and then again when the Emperor discovers

Guillaume and takes him to court. When Guillaume and the Emperor's daughter Melior fall in love, they flee Rome disguised in bearskins. The werewolf continues to protect and provide for the prince, as well as his lover; he finds them new disguises as deer when

The accepted date of composition for Guillaume is c. 1194-1197 (Dunn 141; Micha 23), although critics also recognize that, based on information known concerning the Countess Yolande (to whom the tale was dedicated), it could have been written in any of the years leading up to 1220. For further information on the text's composition, its dedication, date, language, and manuscript, see the study by Dunn, the introductions by Micha and Sconduto, or the preface by Michelant. 49 In Guillaume, the werewolf operates within the tale as a provider and protector, much like the lupine figure or what Charles W. Dunn identifies as the "Romulus Type" (88) in folklore: the werewolf that operates as a tutor or guardian for a foundling or lost child. Dunn suggests that the "Romulus Type" is a "combination of the Fair Unknown and the Wolfs Fosterling" archetypes (88). He devotes an entire chapter to this argument, exploring folklore analogues for Guillaume and building upon previous arguments that the werewolf s rescue of Guillaume parallels "the fostering of Romulus and Remus by the wolf of Roman legend" (87). See Dunn, Chapter 4, "The Folklore Analogues." See also, McKeehan (especially 793-96). The "Romulus Type" motif of Guillaume carries over to William ofPalerne, as translation of Guillaume, as well. Tibbals, in her study, describes the werewolf in William as a "guardian angel" (359). In fact, Tibbals remarks that, "Although William ofPalerne bears the title role in this romance, he is not, in my opinion, the real hero of the story. Alphouns, the Werwolf,... is undoubtedly its [the narrative's] most interesting, indeed its central, character" (355). Bunt disagrees with Tibbals about the werewolf s status in the tale, but concurs that he participates in "the Wolfs Fosterling" or "Helpful Animal" motif characteristic of numerous tales, including the Romulus story (105). their bearskins become too well known, and, eventually, he guides them to Palermo, back

to Guillaume's home and family.50

Like Marie, the Guillaume poet repeatedly insists that his werewolf is a gentle,

noble, and most certainly human creature. Unlike Marie, however, he includes in his

narrative the two episodes in which the werewolf transforms: the first, when Alphonse's

stepmother Brande turns him into a werewolf, and the second, when she disenchants him.

Both of these episodes are brief. The first episode highlights the werewolf s humanity

through its emphasis on the gaping mouth with which he attacks his step-mother; the

second episode, the return metamorphosis, highlights the werewolf s humanity through

his participation in the culture of shame when he transforms in front of his stepmother

and reappears, in human form, stark naked.51 Yet despite his inclusion of the werewolf s

The basic plot outlined here also applies to the English alliterative romance William ofPalerne, a translation of Guillaume, which is discussed later in this chapter. 51 The Guillaume poet draws the reader's attention directly to the ferocity of the werewolf s maw and its contrary lack of cannibalistic activity by repeatedly describing the werewolf's mouth as "gaping open" or as "stretched open," especially in episodes where the wolf demonstrates aggressive behaviour. For example, when the werewolf abducts Guillaume in the tale's opening, he "jumps out, his mouth gaping open" ["Saut uns grans leus, goule baee"] (86) and snatches the young prince. Yet, the werewolf refrains from inflicting even the slightest harm upon the prince. Micha emphasizes the gentleness of Guillaume's lupine companion. The werewolf, he notes, "doesn't manifest any cruel nature, except when he attacks his cruel [step-] mother, at the moment when he becomes an animal, then after the removal of his ensorcellment: reactions entirely forgivable" ["Alphonse ne manifeste aucune nature cruelle, sauf quand il attaque sa maratre, au moment ou il devient un animal (314-317), puis apres son desensorcellement (7634-7649): reactions toutes pardonnables"] (26, my translation). Alphonse's transformation into lupine form is also one of the instances in which the poet emphasizes his ferocious maw. After Brande enchants him, "Toward her he runs, his mouth stretched open" ["Seure li cort guile estendue"] (315). When Brande enters the court at Palermo, the werewolf recognizes her and "At top speed, his mouth gaping open, / He runs as fast as he can to seize her" ["Tot a eslais, goule baee, / Laisse corre por li aerdre"] (7638-39). Like Bisclavret, Alphonse enacts violence only when it is motivated by a desire for justice against those who have wronged him. Alphonse's participation in the culture of shame also parallels that of Bisclavret. When Alphonse returns to human form, "He sees metamorphoses and his emphasis on the werewolf s rational or human behaviours, the

Guillaume poet still raises some of the same issues in his narrative that are seen in

Bisclavret; he creates tension in the text in relation to the figure of the werewolf-knight.

Throughout the narrative, the poet blurs species boundaries between the human and the animal—that is, between the human and the wolf—through his depiction of the

symbiotic relationship between the knight and the werewolf. As Pairet argues, the narrative presents "the beast [as] a metaphor for the knight" (67).52 The interlaced stories of Alphonse and Guillaume provide examples of appropriate knightly conduct: the

Sicilian prince learns how to be a knight through his relationship with the werewolf.

However, they also demonstrate, through Guillaume, the extensive violence that a knight may enact, and they also suggest that this capacity for violence derives from the knight's potential for predatory behaviour and from his connected association with a lupine figure.

The poet blurs species boundaries early in the text, when the werewolf first abducts the young prince. Amidst the description of the warm and secure conditions that the werewolf provides for the young prince appears one very significant line: "And in this manner he tamed [aprivoisies] the son of the king" (184, emphasis added).53 The French verb "apprivoiser," when applied in a human context, suggests that one wins over the favour of another person. When applied in a situation with animals, it suggests that one tames the animal; in other words, one gentles that which is wild. The poet's use of the verb in this passage blurs the boundary between animal and human. The generally

his appearance and his body / That was totally without clothing and naked /... He is so ashamed that he becomes violently agitated" ["Cil voit son samblant et son cors / Qui tous sans dras et nus estoit /... Tel honte en a tos en tressue"] (7758-59, 7761). 52 "La teste est devenue une metaphore du chevalier" (67, my translation above). 53 "Si est de lui aprivoisies" (184). understood meaning of a human taming an animal is reversed; the werewolf either wins over or tames the human. As the narrative continues and the reader become increasingly aware of the werewolf s humanity, this passage becomes even more ambiguous. For if the werewolf is more human than animal, the meaning of the passage—an understanding of who "tames" whom—becomes increasingly blurred, and, subsequently, the differences between the werewolf and the knight are elided.

The blurring of the boundaries between the two continues throughout the narrative. When Guillaume confesses to the werewolf, "I will never be safe without you"

(4372), he demonstrates how integral the lupine figure is to his own being.54 He reinforces his dependency on the werewolf when Queen Felise grants him arms. The

Queen inquires of her new knight what type of shield he would like and he replies:

—My lady, so that God might protect my body,

A shield of gold, but in the middle

Let there be a painted portrait of a wolf

Great and corpulent with a fierce face. (5394-97)55

Even though he has been returned to human form and no longer lives as a hunted animal

(whether bear or deer), he still relies upon the werewolf as a protective force. The two are irrevocably connected: Guillaume receives his prowess from lupine figures (both the werewolf and the wolf painted on his shield). Further, when he enters the battle against the Spanish, he creates the type of slaughter and bloodshed that the reader initially

54 "Jan e puis je garir sans toi" (4372). 55 Guillaume says, -Dame, se Diex mon cors garisse, .1. escu d'or, mais qu'en mi lieu I ait portrait et paint .1. leu Grant et corssu et fier de vis. (5394-97) expects to find connected to the werewolf: he engages in brutal carnage. Indeed, the

narrator remarks that those watching would see Guilluame, with his sword,

Slice through heads and brains,

Spill entrails and bowels,

Slash limbs and feet and hands,

Unseat from their horses the bodies of vassals. (5727-30)56

Guillaume is a fierce, dangerous, and highly effective killing machine, so much so that

the narrator believes that "in the world there is none [Guillaume's] equal" (5735).57 He is,

ultimately, the beast that the reader expects the werewolf to be. In fact, Guillaume's

animalistic nature, already gestured to by the ambiguity surrounding the "taming" passage, is evoked in other battle sequences. The very first time he enters battle, when he

defeats the Saxons for the Emperor, the narrator describes him as both a dragon and a

lion. He is completely "transformed" by "[t]he great fierceness of his intentions" (2040,

2044) and becomes more animal than human.

The narrator explains how witnesses will see Guillaume Trenchier et testes et cerviax, Espandre entrailles et boaix, Menbres et pies et poins couper, Cors de vassal desenseler. (5727-30) Dunn notes that "the romancer, like his contemporaries, does not shun bloodshed, and he highly admires the prowess of his hero" (132). Similarly, Micha writes, "The battles occupy an important place [in the narrative], nearly 2000 verses, and resemble the epic romance" ["Les combats occupent une grande place, presque deuxs mille vers, et apparentent ce roman a l'epopee"] (32, my translation). 58 In the midst of battle, Guillaume's [E]yes are red like those of a dragon, His face is fierce like that of a lion Inflamed with anger and rage. He has completely transformed his color. (2037-40) Les iex vermax comme dragons, Le vis a fier comme lions The blurring of the boundaries between the werewolf and the knight—between the

animal and the human—thus creates tension in the narrative. Although neither the

werewolf nor Guillaume behave in an unseemly manner within the tale, and although

both enact courtliness as appropriate, they both still, like Bisclavret, embody the potential

for something more excessive and brutal than the behaviour they enact. The narrator's

description of Guillaume on the battlefield gestures towards this potential. However,

Guillaume's ability to control his violence and to enact it only in appropriate situations

(i.e., in battles) does not diminish either his actual capacity for that violence or the

audience's awareness of his capacity. In fact, the narrative's detailed articulation of

Guillaume's martial prowess heightens the audience's awareness and frequently reminds them of the threat that he presents. While Guillaume embodies chivalric ideals, he

simultaneously demonstrates the very actions that society fears.

The tension created by the blending of the animal and human is also brought out,

subtly, by a small and almost unnoticeable passage near the tale's end. When the werewolf enters the hall and displays fealty to the Spanish king, Guillaume, the Queen,

and the maidens, Guillaume prohibits any members of his society from harming him.

Further, when the court wonders at the werewolf s behaviour, the King of Spain

speculates that the werewolf is more than likely his long-lost son, Alphonse. Yet given the increased likelihood of his humanity, the werewolf does not seem to have the same freedom and mobility as the werewolf in Marie's tale. In Bisclavret, the werewolf is perpetually joined to his lord: he remains by his side at all times, in the court, on

D'ire et de mautalent espris. Tos s'est en autre color mis. (2037-40) Shortly thereafter, the narrator refers to Guillaume again as an animal, this time as "[l]ike a wild boar" ["Comme sanglers lor livre estal"] (2213). excursions, and in the king's private chambers. In short, he moves about freely. The werewolf in Guillaume appears to have the same privileges. He and his ward "are both peers and companions. / They do not go far from each other night and day" (7622-23).59

However, Alphonse does not roam quite so freely as Bisclavret. The narrator's language emphasizes this point. Once the messengers have been sent for Queen Brande, the werewolf does not venture "outside of the palace; / Thus he was in such a manner and in the same way / Imprisoned [Emprisones] among the people" (7616-18, emphasis added).60 The use of the word "emprisones" suggests that the werewolf, despite being a close companion to Guillaume, is also restricted in his movements. Despite the fact that, as Sconduto notes, "the gentleness of the beast [is] the key that unlocks the door to his human identity" ("Rewriting" 33), the werewolf is incarcerated within the palace and may not venture outside into the city or into the wilds. His actions are limited even though he has proven time and again that he is not a threat to society.

The language in this passage suggests that, even if Guillaume and the King of

Spain recognize the humanity of the werewolf, not all members of the court or city are comfortable with his lupine presence. The werewolf, despite his humanity, cannot be fully reintegrated into society until he regains his human form, regardless of how well he behaves. The lupine form, as seen through the connection with Guillaume, represents the capacity for violence and evokes the threat that the knight represents when he engages in excessive violence. Despite its frequent blurring of the werewolf and the knight, the narrative still insists that only one of these forms—the human form—can be fully

59 "Si sont et per et compaignon, / Ne s'entre'eslongnent nuit et jor" (7622-23). 60 "N'avoit fors el palais este; / Ains fu autresi faitement / Emprisones entre la gent" (7616-18). integrated into the civilized world. As with Marie's tale, the knight's werewolfery

embodies his potential for negative and excessive behaviours. Even though the werewolf

does not engage in any negative behaviours, the narrative ultimately expresses an

underlying fear or concern that he can or will.

3.3.3 Melion

Like its predecessors, the late twelfth- or early thirteenth-century anonymous lay

Melion revolves around the figure of a knight who has been transformed or trapped in

lupine form by a female figure. 1 In the lay's opening lines, Melion declares that he will

never love a maiden,

No matter how noble or beautiful,

Who [has] loved any other man

Or even [has] spoken of any. (19-22)62

The knight's oath earns him disfavour among the ladies of the court, and he falls into a

depression. Arthur subsequently endows Melion with a fiefdom on the coast, to which the

knight retires. While out hunting one day, the recovered Melion encounters a beautiful

maiden, a princess from Ireland, who declares her love for him and claims that she has

loved and will love no other man but him. Immediately enamoured, Melion takes the

princess as his wife; they live in marital bliss for the next three years and the princess

bears two sons. The marital bliss ends, however, when the couple is hunting one day and the princess swoons at the sight of a handsome stag. Driven by his wife's desire for the

61 For details on the extant and lost manuscripts, language, composition date, authorship, and audience of Melion, see Tobin 289-92 or Hopkins 7-10. 62 II dist ja n'ameroit pucele, Que tant seroit gentil ne bele, Que nul autre home exist ame, Ne que de nul exist parle. (19-22) 210 stag, Melion reveals his metamorphic ability, and, with the help of his wife, he transforms into a wolf. The princess then flees, taking her husband's squire with her, and returns to her father's court. Melion follows his wife to Ireland, where he roams the countryside alone and with other wolves, wreaking havoc wherever he goes. Arthur eventually travels to Ireland, seeking a peace treaty with the Irish king. Melion recognizes Arthur and ingratiates himself to his king through his displays of unusual (human) behaviour. Over time, the werewolf s true identity is revealed and the knight is restored to human form.

Melion makes more explicit the subtle tensions that exist in Bisclavret and

Guillaume through its emphasis on the knight's own shortcomings and his excessive violence. The lay's opening highlights Melion's ignorance of the ideas of love and chastity, which are linked to his inability to behave appropriately as a knight and as a member of Arthur's court. Melion's desire for a partner chaste of body, heart, and mind not only sets an impossibly high standard, but it also sets a standard that equates virginity with chastity and denies the possibility of passion or desire, a necessary component of courtly love. In Melion's mind, chastity is the absence of all sexual activity; there is no room in his approach to love for the concept of chastity as faithfulness or monogamy between two lovers.63 Melion's claim that he will love no woman who has even spoken of

Interestingly, Melion's understanding of chastity recalls part of Gratian's explication of the laws on sex and marriage in his Decretum (c. 1140). James Brundage explains, "Digamy, or ecclesiastical bigamy, as Gratian called it, consisted in having had sex with more than one woman or in having relations with a woman who had slept with another man.. . . The physical act of intercourse with a woman who had known another man or with more than one woman was a bar to clerical orders, as Gratian read the law" (252). Gratian's consideration of women who have had physical relations with more than one man as unchaste, regardless of the circumstances surrounding those relations, suggests that while Melion's understanding of chastity may be extreme or naive, it may also not be entirely unusual. However, the knight's declaration that no woman is worthy unless she is entirely chaste of heart and mind as well as of body sets an impossible 211 another man likewise equates the previous desires of a woman, whether acted upon or not, with impurity. In both cases, Melion demonstrates that he misunderstands love as well as the social ritual or "game" (Ferrante, "Cortes' Amor" 688) of courtly love that the men and women of the court engage in for personal and spiritual betterment.64

The impossible standards Melion puts forth earn him the disfavour of the ladies of the court and lead to his emotional depression. Melion's emotional change subsequently interferes with his ability to perform his martial duties and undermines his social position

standard, one that denies the female figure any emotional capacity and independence of the mind from the body. Further, the subsequent scorn that Melion suffers at the hands of the ladies of the court suggests that "such an innocent lady may be difficult to find" (Hopkins 34); the lay thus implies that women are, by nature, variable and inconsistent in their attentions and desires, impure in their actions and thoughts. The lay repeats this sentiment when, in the closing lines, Melion reinforces his negative view of women with what Hopkins refers to as an "open denunciation" (34) of the female sex. He reflects upon his experience and remarks that It will never fail to happen That he who believes his wife completely Will be ruined in the end; He should not believe all she says. (587-90) Ja ne faldra Que tot sa feme kerra, Qu'en la fin ne soit malbaillis; Ne doit pas croire tos ses dis. (587-90) Melion, of course, refers to his wife, who does indeed declare that she loves only him and has never loved another, but who also ultimately betrays him without evident cause. The knight's message is clear: women should not be trusted lest they bring about the demise of their husbands, and men should be wary of placing too much trust in their wives, or in any woman, for that matter. 64 Melion misses two key points of the courtly love convention (both of which are central to Andreas Capellanus's The Art of Courtly Love), that the process is about the ennobling of the individual and that the love itself often remains unconsummated. For more on courtly love conventions in medieval literature see recent discussions such as the volume edited by Helen Cooney, Writings on Love in the English Middle Ages, especially Bernard O'Donoghue's chapter, "The Reality of Courtly Love"; Burnley's chapter, "Courtley Love"; Ferrante's article, "Cortes' Amor in Medieval Texts"; or Saunders's "Love and the Making of the Self: Troilus and Criseyde." See, also, earlier (and more dated) approaches such as C. S. Lewis's The Allegory of Love, Alexander J. Denomy's "Courtly Love and Courtliness," or E. Talbot Donaldson's The Myth of Courtly Love. 212

as a knight. In other words, Melion's unrealistic standards are directly connected to, even

lead to, his inability to function in his assigned role as a knight. Further, Melion's reaction

to his disfavour among the ladies of the court—one of shock or surprise—suggests that

his ideals are somewhat hubristic because he allows his desire for an impossibly idealized

woman (along with its subsequent rejection by the ladies of the court) to supersede his

social responsibility to the king. The knight allows his emotions to interfere with his

martial duty.

Melion's marriage to the Irish princess further demonstrates the knight's

inexperience and his inability to gauge appropriate behaviour. Melion meets the princess

while out hunting, and he weds her almost immediately after she declares that she never

has nor ever will love anyone but him. Melion's speedy marriage demonstrates that he

has forgotten his status as a vassal of the king and suggests that he neglects his feudal

obligations. There is no mention in the text that Arthur is present at the wedding nor is there any suggestion that the king is even aware of his knight's marriage. When Melion returns to the castle with the princess, he sends "for all his people" (121), but the

suggestion is that the knight seeks approval from all of those who are under his command rather than from those to whom he himself owes allegiance. Melion's impetuous nature resurfaces when he and his wife see the handsome stag while on a hunt. Melion uses his most prized skill, his werewolfery, to serve his wife's desire, and, consequently, is betrayed and trapped in lupine form.66 Once transformed, the knight again breaks his

social contract. Trapped in lupine form, the knight pursues his wife to Ireland, and, thus,

65 "[A] tote sa gente mandee" (121). Interestingly, this is the one point of the narrative at which Melion behaves as a true courtly lover, putting the needs and desires of his love before his own, doing all which he can in the service of love. 213 abandons his home and all within his fiefdom who rely on him for governance (those very same people from whom Melion seeks approval when he takes the princess as his wife).

Melion's inability to make appropriate decisions, whether illustrated through his behaviour towards women or through his repeated disregard for his lord or liege, the king, contributes to the articulation of what is, ultimately, the lay's primary concern: the figure of the knight within society and the knight's status as a perpetrator of violence. Melion's poor judgement suggests that, although he has the capacity for reason, it is not a faculty he necessarily exercises. In fact, the lay suggests that the knight requires an outside force or authority, one that regulates and keeps in check the behaviour and actions of the knight as a martial force.

Contrary to the evidence of Melion's displays of poor judgement, the narrator insists that, once transformed into lupine form, Melion retains his human reason, and that

Melion's behaviour, when initially transformed, confirms that there exists in him some intelligence and grasp of appropriate behaviour, even if limited. Although the knight transforms into a wolf in order to catch the handsome stag for his wife, and, indeed, he is successful in the task, he himself does not immediately partake of the venison. Instead, he carries a large chunk of meat in his mouth and returns to the spot where he had left his wife. Transformation into lupine form does not render the knight a senseless, bloodthirsty beast; rather, it enhances his martial prowess and enables him to satisfy his wife's desire. Further, Melion's retention of human reason and memory enables him not only to realize that he has been betrayed but also to devise a plan that may secure his return to

Melion's behaviour here, his ability not to decline into bestiality, recalls Bisclavret, who, Marie insists, refrains from engaging in any of the bloodthirsty behaviours normally associated with the werewolf. 214

human form. He stows away on the ship to Ireland and takes with him, as sustenance, the

large chunk of the venison that he had secured for his wife. When the werewolf arrives in

Ireland, however, his actions change, as does the lay's language, and both connect the

knight with excessive and unrestrained violence.

When Melion disembarks from the ship, the crew shouts at him and throws oars at >

him. Melion becomes a fugitive on foreign soil, attacked by the native inhabitants. He

manages to escape only by entering the wilderness, specifically a mountain forest. In a

manner, Melion returns to the environment that restored him to his proper knightly self when he became despondent earlier in the tale. The wilderness is, for the knight, a refuge

from those who attacked him as well as a place where he excels in his martial role. Like

Bisclavret, Melion receives from the forest an "infusion" (Yamamoto 187) that enhances his martial prowess. While on the mountain, the knight performs a kind of military reconnaissance, observing the lay of the land "where he knew his enemies to be" (248).68

Further, Melion makes a strategic move against his attackers when he stumbles across livestock, their cows and oxen, and "kill[s] and strangle[s] many of them" (254-55).69 The knight's targeting of the livestock deprives his opponents of sustenance and weakens their potential as a fighting force.

Although these episodes suggest that Melion, as a rational being despite his lupine form, acts in a manner appropriate for one of his station—that is, for a knight—it is not long before his behaviour slides into excess. The lay stresses this point and its overall concern for excessive violence through its increasing use of martial language. The

"Molt a regarde le pai's / Ou il savoit ses anemis" (247-48). 69 "En une forest est ales, / Vaches et bues i a trouves. / Molt en ocit et estrangla" (253-55). 215

identification of the Irish as "enemies" (248) delineates a clear, martial boundary between

the knight and the land's inhabitants, and renders Melion the invading force.70 Melion's

status as the invading force is reinforced several lines later, when he slaughters the cows

and oxen and, as the poet suggests, "There began his war" (256).71 This line marks a

turning point in the lay's narrative and for the knight's behaviour; from this moment on,

Melion's martial prowess is in full force, to the excess, as it has never been before.

After his initial attack on the country folks' livestock, Melion delves further into

the forest, into the uncivilized and unknown areas. He delves so deeply into the wild that

he encounters a pack of wolves, over which he quickly assumes command. As a solitary

wolf, Melion engages in strategic attacks against the Irish opponents motivated by self-

preservation, but as a commanding force—as the leader of the pack—he exerts his will

over the other wolves and brings about senseless and brutal carnage:

[H]e was joined by ten wolves;

He coaxed and persuaded them so much

That he took them with him

And they did all he wished.

They went roaming through the countryside

And attacked men and women.

Matters remained like this for a full year:

They laid waste all the country,

/u "[Ajnemis" (248). 71 "Iluec sa guerre comencha" (256). This line also foreshadows a fact revealed later in the lay, that England and Ireland are actually at war. Arthur's motivation for visiting the Irish king is "to make a peace treaty" ["une pais faire"] (338) in order to gain Irish support for the English campaign against the Romans. 216

Killed men and women

And ravaged all the land. (269-78)72

When Melion gains command over this fighting force (the pack of wolves), the nature of the violence against the Irish worsens. Rather than attacking livestock and depleting the enemy's stores, Melion and his pack directly attack the inhabitants of the land who are, as far as the reader can tell, innocent victims. Further, the knight and his followers not only attack but also kill countless of these innocents. Hopkins insists that Melion's "lupine ferocity is controlled" and that the lay's author avoids "any implication that the wolf-

Melion himself kills any humans" (37). This distinction is important for Hopkins because it allows her to argue that Melion, like Bisclavret, retains his reason and is therefore not

"indiscriminately savage" like the wild wolves with which he runs (37). Yet her argument glosses over the fact that it is the will of Melion that the wolves enact: he coaxes and persuades the pack to enact his wishes. Regardless of whether or not Melion participates in the bloodshed, as the one who orchestrates the attacks and as the commander of the other wolves, he is ultimately responsible. In this moment, then, Melion's actions extend beyond strategic military tactics and become acts of gratuitous violence and bloodshed.

The frequency of and prolonged period over which this carnage is enacted also highlights how completely senseless and gratuitous the werewolf s violent behaviour has become.

72 [A] .X. leus s'acompaigna: Tant les blandi et losenga Que avoec lui les a menes, Et font totes ses volentes. Par le pais molt se forvoient, Homes et femes malmenoient. Un an tot plain ont si este: Tot le pai's ont degaste, Homes et femes ocioient; Tote la terre destruioient. (269-78) Mellon and his pack of wolves roam the countryside, terrorizing its inhabitants for an

entire year before they are caught.

This episode demonstrates another key aspect of Melion's status as a knight. As

the knight moves further and further away from both human civilization and his

appropriate social role as a liegeman to King Arthur, he becomes less able to restrain

himself from excessive violence, less able to allow his reason to rule his actions. The

knight's easy integration into the wolf pack reinforces this point. Melion encounters the

pack in a remote region when he roams "far through the forest, / Through the mountains

and the wasteland" (267-68).73 The pack has not been in contact with civilization or

humans—it lives in an isolated part of the wilderness—and an unknown wolf, especially

one that is human in its behaviour and intelligence, would be considered an outsider,

viewed with suspicion or greeted with hostility. While Melion's easy transition to the

alpha position may suggest that his humanity allows him to assume leadership over an

inferior group of beings, it also suggests that at this point in the narrative the knight is

closer in nature to the wolves of the remote wilderness and wasteland than he is to his

human self. His ability to integrate himself so wholly into the pack suggests that the

further away from civilization, indeed the further away from his home and his lord that he roams, the less likely he is to be ruled by his reason.74

73 "Tant a ale par la forest, / Par montaignes et par dessert" (267-68). 74 The idea that Melion is removed from civilization plays upon the idea that Ireland is geographically peripheral and, therefore, inhabited by monstrous beings. Gerald of Wales, for instance, describes Ireland as a "backward and feeble country" {Topography, "First Preface" 7) whose inhabitants are imperfect and monstrous. However, Melion's actions also reinforce an understanding of Britain itself as peripheral and its inhabitants as monstrous. As Asa Simon Mittman explains, until the twelfth century, Britain was frequently depicted in the same manner that Gerald of Wales depicts Ireland, even by its own authors. He cites both Bede and Gildas as examples of British 218

Me lion's capacity for rationality, while not perhaps the primary force guiding his

actions, persists throughout his time with the wolves, and it is the only thing that saves

him when the pack is captured and killed.75 Melion survives precisely because of his

capacity for human intelligence and reason, but because it has not been his primary

guiding force for the past year, he also suffers a heavy loss: the loss of his companions.

The knight recognizes what devices are being used to capture the wolves and is thus able

to determine how to avoid capture himself, but he fails to recognize the danger of the

hounds and nets before it is too late for the pack. Further, his failure to be more vigilant in

the first place, to set guards or a watch, reinforces the fact that his human intelligence and

reason have not been the primary forces guiding his actions. A good military commander

does not put his troops (human or lupine) in such a vulnerable position. The year-long

campaign of unnecessary attacks and bloodshed renders Melion a weak and ineffective

martial force. His excessive violence, at first a sign of increased martial prowess,

ultimately suggests its demise.

The knight, mourning the loss of his companions, retreats once again to the

wilderness. The loss of the pack is equal to the loss of companions-in-arms for Melion,

and he becomes "unhappy and troubled / About his wolves, which he had lost. / For a long time he suffered" (333-35).76 Melion is so distraught by the loss of his companions

writers who identified their home specifically as a marginal realm (97). In this sense, then, Melion is capable of violence and excess because he is already, as an inhabitant of a marginal realm, monstrous. His movement from Britain to Ireland, then, would only serve to increase this negative aspect of his being. Melion's behaviour reflects the nature of the land or lands that he inhabits. 75 As the narrator notes, Melion "escaped by his ingenuity" ["Pae engine lor est escape"] (322). 76 "Molt fu dolans, molt li pesa / De ses leus que il perdu a. / Molt a traveillie longement" (333-35). 219 that he ceases all martial activity: there are no further accounts of attacks on the peasants or their livestock. Without a pack to lead, Melion becomes, once again, the lone fugitive, and he is, as he was at the lay's opening, so overcome by emotion that he is incapable of

77 martial activity. Balance is returned to the knight's behaviour only by the appearance of

Arthur on the shores of Ireland. The English king's arrival restores the feudal social system that the knight abandoned when he pursued his wife. Further, the king, through his presence, displaces the knight as the paramount martial leader in a foreign land. Melion expresses his fealty to Arthur in a manner similar to that used by Bisclavret. He enters the king's lodgings without hesitation, and approaches him as quickly as possible. When the werewolf reaches Arthur, he falls at his feet and refuses to move from this position. The king recognizes that this is unusual behaviour for a wolf and declares that the wolf must be tame for its behaviour is a marvel. The wolfs unusual and tame behaviour is reinforced when the king offers him both meat and wine and he readily consumes this human fare. The king and his knights recognize that the wolf is, as Gawain suggests,

"completely unnatural" (430)—that is, unnatural because tame and civilized—and they accept him into their company.78

Melion's reintegration into a social system in which he serves his lord as one among many peers (Arthur brings with him a retinue of twenty knights) reminds him of his appropriate position and behaviour within the civilized world, and it is in stark contrast to his behaviour while he is within his previous community, the pack of wolves.

The knight's fealty to the king, along with his consumption of human food, reveals that

77 Interestingly, Melion experiences grief in both instances. In the lay's opening, he grieves because he has been scorned by the ladies of the court. In this instance he grieves because he has lost, even has been responsible for the loss of, his companions. 78 "[T]ous desnatures" (430). Arthur s presence has restored the knight's ability to let reason and intellect rule his

behaviour, and, despite his lupine form, Melion behaves according to his social position.

He accompanies the king everywhere, even lies at the king's feet while he is asleep.

When Arthur enters Dublin the next morning to confer with the King of Ireland, Melion

accompanies him, travelling at his stirrup while he is in the saddle and resting at his feet

while he is seated in the hall. The knight acts, in every way, as the proper retainer or

martial companion for his king; he even holds up the edge of Arthur's robe as he climbs

the stairs to the Irish king's keep.

Yet the knight's behaviour is not entirely reformed. While in the Irish king's keep,

he sees his former squire (the one who fled with his wife), whom he attacks and maims.

Melion's attack demonstrates that he is still capable of violence, albeit the violence

against the squire, similar to the violence enacted by Bisclavret against his wife and her

lover, can be read as a somewhat just act. Melion simply seeks to reverse the misfortune

that has been brought against him and to punish those responsible for that misfortune.

However, the narrative makes it clear that it is the wife who instigates the abandonment

of the knight, and there is no suggestion that the squire has committed adultery with the princess. The wolfs attack on the squire is therefore less understandable than Bisclavret's

attack on his wife's lover. The knight's desire for a hasty return to human form also reveals that he has not been entirely reformed. Once the events that brought about the knight's transformation and his subsequent presence in Ireland have been revealed, the

Irish king seeks out his daughter and demands that she turn over the magical ring that Melion requires to transform. The Irish king then hands the ring over to Arthur, and

Melion, as soon as he sees the ring, "recognized it well; / He went to the king, fell on his

knees / And kissed both his feet" (534-36).80 Unlike Bisclavret, Melion does not think to

remove himself from the public realm in order to transform. Melion, eager to transform,

ignores the fact that he is in a public space peopled not only by members of Arthur's

court, but also by members of the Irish court. He forgets what constitutes appropriate behaviour.

At first, Melion's desire for immediate transformation regardless of location does

not seem strange because both his squire and his wife witnessed the original transformation. Melion's method of transformation requires that at least one other person

be present in order to wield the ring, but the original transformation, although witnessed,

occurred within the forest, outside of the civilized space of the court. Incapable of making this distinction himself, Melion only avoids inappropriate behaviour because a fellow knight intervenes. When Melion kneels before him,

King Arthur wanted to touch him,

But Gawain would not permit it.

"Good uncle," he said, "don't!

Take him to a chamber

She does so, but only after her father has "cajoled and persuaded" her (530). Interestingly, the language used to describe the king's persuasion of the princess is precisely the language that describes Melion's manipulation of the wolves: "blandi et losenga" (270, 530). This linguistic parallel also creates a parallel between the racial other, the Irish king, and the lupine form of the knight, recalling the previously expressed idea that, in the early Middle Ages, both Britain and Ireland were considered by some peripheral regions potentially peopled by monstrous beings. 80 "Melion l'a bien coneii; / Al rois vint, si s'ageoilla / Et andeus les pies li baisa" (534-36). 222

In absolute privacy

So that he is not shamed in front of people." (537-42)81

As the quintessential knight, the knight of ultimate prowess and gentility, Gawain recognizes how inappropriate it would be for Melion to transform in front of the court, especially in front of a foreign court. He intervenes in order to prevent both his king and his fellow knight from acting in a way that would be unseemly and inappropriate for the civilized realm. In fact, he prevents Arthur and Melion from jeopardizing the martial negotiations that originally motivated the king's visit to Ireland. Gawain realizes that transformation within the public realm would bring shame to both Melion and Arthur, and that any inappropriate behaviour on the part of the English retinue could jeopardize negotiations between the English and the Irish, for the Irish (even if "other" and therefore less civilized than the English) would not ally themselves with a king and state that could not comport themselves in an appropriate and civilized manner.

In addition to these two instances, Melion proves one more time that he is incapable of restraint. Although Melion has already physically attacked the princess, when she is brought before him, he demonstrates that revenge remains paramount in his thoughts. His immediate desire is to touch the princess with the ring and trap her in lupine form: he wishes to mete out to her a punishment equal to his own suffering. Arthur prevents Melion from doing so by pleading with him for the sake of his children, who would suffer greatly from the loss of their mother. Melion concedes and decides instead

81 Li rois Artus le vout touchier; Gavains nel volt pas otroier. 'Biaus oncles,' fait il, 'non feres! En une chamber Ten menres, Tot seul a seul priveement, Que il n'ait honte de la gent. (537-42) to leave his wife in Ireland while he returns, with his children, to England with Arthur.

The narrator, however, makes it clear that Melion is still consumed by violent thoughts

and feelings when he thinks of his wife:

He left his wife in Ireland.

He commended her to the devil;

She would never again be loved by him

Because she had mistreated him so badly,

As you have heard in this tale.

He never wished to take her back,

He would like to have let her burn or be dismembered. (580-86)8

Burning and dismemberment are excessive violent acts that evoke the carnage that

Melion and his pack of wolves spread during their year-long campaign in Ireland. The

death penalty was not unheard of in medieval adultery cases, but it was discouraged as

excessive and unchristian, particularly by members of the church. Similarly,

Sa feme en Yrlande laissa: A deables l'a commandee; Jamais n'iert jor de li amee, Por ce qu'ele l'ot si bailli, Con vos aves el conte oi'. Ne le volt il onques reprendre, Ains le laissast ardoir u pendre. (580-86) Brundage writes, "although folklaw might permit a husband to slay his wife if he discovered her in bed with another man, canon law absolutely denied him this right. Thomas of Chobham asserted, on the basis of John 8:3-11, that Jesus himself had abolished the death penalty for adultery" (388). When scribes and Pharisees bring an adulterous woman before Jesus for punishment, Jesus says "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her" ["Qui sine peccato est vestrum, primus in illam lapidem mittat"] (John 8.7). None can do so, and, eventually, all of the men depart. Jesus remarks to the woman that she is free to go because no one condemned her, but he also advises her to "sin no more" ["noli peccare"] (John 8.11). See, also, Thomas of Chobham's commentary in Summa Confessorum (7.2.9.3). dismemberment was not a typical punishment for adultery. Regular punishments ranged

from excommunication to separation, and "it was usual to mete out other punishments,

such as shaving the heads of adulterous women, parading them ignominiously with torn

clothes through public places, and whipping them publicly" (Brundage 388).84 In most

cases in which the woman was the adulterer, the woman lost her dowry and was also cast

out of her home (388-89). Melion's desire to have his wife burned or dismembered, then,

suggests that the potential for excess continues to reside within the knight. Only Arthur's

initial intervention curbs Melion's vengeful behaviour and bloodthirsty desire. Indeed,

Arthur's intervention indirectly results in a more appropriate punishment for the knight's

wife: she is cast out of Melion's home and separated from her children.

Arthur thus exerts his authority over the knight, and the werewolf is reintegrated

into the feudal society of which Arthur is the head. In fact, the lay's language emphasizes

specifically a relationship of property and ownership, identifying the knight as the object

The practice of altering or marring a woman's physical appearance in order to identify or mark her as an adulteress is seen in Bisclavret when the werewolf bites off his wife's nose. In Marie's tale, however, this physical marker of difference or adultery goes beyond the wife because females born to the wife's line "were actually born without noses, / and lived out their lives noseless" ["c'est veritez, senz nes sunt nees / e si viveient oi'e"] (313-14). Citing William Sayers and Glyn S. Burgess, Dunton-Downer suggests, "Historical approaches have discovered in the episode evidence of the contemporary practice punishing adulteresses by cutting off their noses, so that Bisclavret's violence acts within a recognizable judicial discourse" (209).Literary evidence also exists that suggests such punishment was used in treason cases. For instance, in La3amon's Brut, Arthur punishes the men, the women, and the future generations related to the man who initiates a riot in his hall at Yuletide. He commands specificially that "I>e wimmen pat ye findeb of his nexste cunne. / kerueS of hure nose and so hi solle go to lose. / and pus ich wolle fordon [p]at he of com. (11398-11400). Thus, as in Bisclavret, noselessness permanently identifies not only a specific woman, but also a specific family, as treacherous. As Barron and Weinberg suggest in their edition of the "Arthur" section of La3amon's Brut, "The punishments are those for treason, an act of violence in the sovereign's presence threatening the stability of the state ... are extended to kinsmen and womenfolk on the accepted basis that treason is an inheritable taint in the blood" (xxx). All quotations from Brut are from ms Otho, from Brook and Leslie's edition of the text. owned and the king as the possessor. When Arthur mounts his horse to travel to the Irish king's hall, the narrator explains how he "took good care of his wolf; / He did not wish to leave him behind" (468-69, emphasis added). Several lines later, a similar reference appears. When Arthur seats himself in the Irish king's hall, he "look[s] at his wolf; / He call[s] him near to the table" (479-80, emphasis added). When Melion attacks the squire, he is immediately set upon by the Irish king's servants, who most certainly would have killed the wolf if not for Arthur's intervention. When the servants threaten Melion with

"sticks and cudgels" (498), Arthur cries out, "Woe betide anyone who touches him ... by my faith! / Know that this wolf is mine''' (501-02, emphasis added).85 Once Arthur has realized the truth, that the wolf is indeed the knight Melion and that Melion's wife and the squire abandoned the knight once he had transformed into lupine form, Arthur expresses, once again, the relationship of possession that he and Melion share by referring to the wolf as "my baron" (523). Arthur recognizes that the wolf and the man are one in the same. Further, the king not only protects the wolf, but he also lays claim to him specifically as a vassal.

Melion's behaviour throughout the lay suggests that the knight requires the control of an outside force or authority, specifically that of the king. When the knight is

S3 "Fus . . . et gamais" (498); '"Mar ert touchies,' fait il, 'par foi! / Sachies que li leus est a moi'" (501-02). 86 The passages that indicate Arthur's possession of the wolf-knight are as follows (all emphases mine): "Se son leu a pris bon conroi. / Ne le voloit mie laissier" (468-69); "Li rois a son leu regarde; / Joste le dois l'a apele" (479-80); '"Mar ert touches,' fait il, 'par foi! / Sahies que li leus est a moi"' (501-02); and "mon baron" (523). Kittredge comments upon the ownership expressed in this passage when he writes, "Arthur and the Irish King are sitting together, and the wolf is with them. He sees the servant who had carried off his wife, and attacks him forthwith. The bystanders would have killed the beast, but Arthur says he is his wolf (184). However, Kittredge fails to identify this marker of possession as a larger, linguistic pattern within the lay and to explore its significance. close to his lord, he can be monitored and kept in check, even when he displays

inappropriate behaviours. We see this pattern in the lay's opening sequence when Melion

allows his desire for an inexperienced partner to become so extreme that it hampers his

social position and impedes his martial ability. Arthur steps in, reminds the knight of his

responsibilities, of what constitutes appropriate conduct, and provides him with the tools

(a retinue of knights, a castle, and lands) necessary for his return to health (an appropriate

and knightly demeanour and martial ability). When Melion travels to Ireland, he removes

himself from the king's authority or surveillance, and once again engages in inappropriate behaviour. As a martial force, Melion becomes uncontrollable without governance.

Further, when he assumes control over his own martial force, the pack of wolves,

Melion's inability to self-govern or to govern others is foregrounded by the carnage that he and his companions enact. The lay therefore reinforces the feudal system to which the knight belongs. Within this system, the king is the mediator between justice and injustice; he monitors the acts of his vassals and restrains or controls their capacity for excessive behaviours and unabated violence. Without the king, this control and the system break down.

However, the lay also gestures towards Arthur's failings as a king.87 The fact that, in the scene where Melion is about to return to human form, Gawain must intervene and prevent both his fellow knight and his king from making a grave mistake sheds light on

Arthur's shortcomings. Gawain recognizes the inappropriateness of the situation even

Arthur's failings, or human frailities, are, of course, a key part of the Arthurian legend. They lead him to engage (even if unwittingly) in incest and in the subsequent slaughter of innocent children, and they also influence his complex relationship with his two greatest loves, Guenevere and Lancelot. Ultimately, Arthur's failings set in motion a series of events that bring about the demise of Camelot and Arthurian society. 227 when his fellow knight and king do not. This fact suggests that the reason for Melion's inability to rehabilitate properly or entirely the first time in the lay (in the episode where he retreats to the fiefdom) lies not just with the knight, but also with the king. If Arthur is unable to judge what is appropriate in the return transformation scene, it is possible that he was unable to judge what was an appropriate method of rehabilitation for his knight in the earlier episode. Further, Arthur's reasoning to Melion concerning the punishment of the Irish princess is not entirely sound. When Melion expresses his desire to trap the princess in lupine form, Arthur argues that this method of punishment would be too harsh because it would effectively separate her from her children. Yet, when Melion leaves his wife behind, the same effect is achieved: the princess is isolated from her children. The lay, then, ultimately presents an image of both the knight and his lord as fallible, and demonstrates how an inability to rule or behave properly in either of these figures can result in disastrous consequences for all members of a society.

3.3.4 Biclarel

The fourteenth-century Biclarel recalls other narratives discussed earlier in this chapter, particularly the those of Marie de France; the story is an extract from Le Roman de Renart le Contrefait, a medieval collection of Aesopic fables, albeit a collection that functioned as an exposition of hypocrisy more than as a redaction of the classical tales.

Hopkins notes that the overall function of Le Contrefait, despite its name— contrefaire means to counterfeit or to imitate—is to provide "a critique of society" (8). In other words, the author's purpose was not to reproduce a literal likeness of the original text; rather, the author's purpose was to manipulate the text to reveal the discordance between literary idealism and actual social practice. In this sense, then, the text recalls Phaedrus's edition of the Aesopic fables, discussed in Chapter 2. Three redactions of the text survive in various manuscripts, all of which date from the first half of the fourteenth century. Little is known about the author, although he self-identifies as a "clerc de Troyes" and explains that he left his ecclesiastical post for a woman (a decision he In her recent edition of Melion and Biclarel, Hopkins explains, "[fjew scholars have

explored Biclarel in any detail, and those who mention it treat it as a mere imitation of

Marie's text" (22). Indeed, the basic story line closely resembles that of Bisclavret. Yet

while Biclarel can be identified as "an analogue of Bisclavref (Hopkins 12), the

narrative's articulation of the violence associated with the knight is explicit and actually

aligns the tale more with Melion.

Biclarel transforms into a wolf and disappears into the forest for two to three days

of each month. After repeated inquiries from his wife, who suspects that he is being

unfaithful, the knight reveals the secret of his lycanthropy. When Biclarel next

transforms, his wife steals his clothes, thus trapping him in lupine form. She then marries

her lover, whom she tells her previous husband is dead. Eventually, Biclarel sees King

Arthur out hunting; he approaches the king, and displays his human intelligence through

his actions. Arthur adopts the wolf and returns with him to the court. While at Arthur's

court, Biclarel sees and attacks his wife on two separate occasions, which leads others to

suspect that he is the missing knight. Arthur has the wife tortured, and, subsequently, she

returns his clothing. Once his identity is confirmed and his clothing is returned to him,

Biclarel returns to human form.

Overall, Biclarel is an exposition of the figure of the knight, of the social contract

in which he participates, and of the violence associated with him. The narrator provides a

glimpse of the knight as a werewolf early in the lay when he explains how Biclarel

Would live as a beast in the forest;

appears to regret), and subsequently took up writing "in order to alleviate boredom" (10). For details on the authorship, dates, and manuscripts, as well as on modern editions of Le Contrefait, see Hopkins's Introduction. He would dwell amongst other beasts

And eat the raw flesh of beasts,

And in the form of a big, strong wolf,

With a sturdy hide and bony limbs. (40-44)89

While the knight "did not lose his wits . . . / Nor his memory or his intelligence" (45-46)

because of his metamorphosis, the poet provides a considerable amount of information on

how the knight looks and behaves while in lupine form.90 Further, the details evoke the

wanderings of Melion, his integration into the wolf pack (a community of wild beasts),

and the carnage he enacts while in lupine form. Biclarel reinforces the narrator's

description of his lupine form when he explains to his wife that during his absences he

lives as "a wild beast in the woods" (228), eating "[r]aw flesh, like other beasts" (230).91

The reference to wild beasts and raw flesh indicates his bloodthirsty and ferocious nature

and evokes the knight's overall potential for violence.

Demouroit beste par le bois: Avec autres bestes onjoit Et char de beste crue manjoit Et conme loups grans et corsus, Fort cuir et de mambres ossus. (40-44) This description reappears in the text, when the narrator explains that, once Biclarel realized that his wife had deceived him, "he withdrew into the woods, / And lived like a beast / As best as he could" ["ou bois se retrai' / Et conme beste se maintint / Au miaux que il pot se contint"] (282-84). All quotations, Old French and English, are from Hopkins's edition of Biclarel (2005), which is based upon Redaction A of Le Roman de Renart le Contrefait. 90 "Ne pour ce ne perdoit son san, / Sa memoire ne son asan" (45-46). 91 Biclarel tells his wife he lives as a "Beste sauvaige par le bois; / Et tant con g'i suis, ge manjue / Conme autre beste [la] char crue" (228-30). The knight's capacity for violence resurfaces when he encounters his wife in the

king's hall. Unlike Bisclavret, who first attacks his wife's new husband, Biclarel attacks

only his wife. When the werewolf sees her, finely dressed and honoured by the court,

It grasped her in its teeth by the hair,

And gave her a great blow in the middle of her face:

And nearly mutilated her face.

And pushed her right down to the ground;

It would have soon killed her. (372-76)93

The knight's attack not only recalls Bisclavret's mutilation of his wife's face (his biting

off her nose) but also it equals a predatory beast's attack on its prey. As the wolf maims

the wife and pushes her to the ground, the reader anticipates the killing blow, the bite

through to the jugular. In this moment, the werewolf is more the wild beast enacting a kill

than the wronged husband enacting vengeance. The wolfs second attack on the wife

presents a similar analogy. Although the wife has already mounted a horse in order to

flee, the wolf pounces, throwing

Itself at her chest, grasping her with its teeth;

It knocked her from the horse to the ground

And very quickly leapt on her.

The lover does not share the wife's punishment because he did not directly participate in the deception or trickery of the knight. Although the lover shares a degree of responsibility with the wife because their adultery is a mutual act, the narrator downplays the lover's participation by focusing solely on the acts of the female figure. This focus confirms Hopkins's reading of the lay as an example of medieval misogyny. 93 Par les treces l'a aus dans prisse, Grant col li fiert an mi la face, Par po le vis ne li efface. A la terre l'a estandue; Ja li etist mort randue. (372-76) 231

It would soon have killed and devoured her. (421-24)94

Here, the wolf is more explicitly aligned with wild beasts because it not only would have

killed the wife but also would have devoured her. The wife almost becomes an example

of the raw flesh upon which the knight feeds while in the forest in his lupine form.

In both of these instances the death of the wife is prevented only by the

intervention of other human beings—the king's knights in the first attack and the townsfolk in the second attack. And, in the first attack, it is the king that prevents the

knights from harming the wolf. By saving Biclarel from violence at the hands of the other knights, the king lays claim to the wolf as a vassal. While he does not, as in Melion, make

a direct statement of ownership, the king's protection of the wolf makes clear the lord- vassal relationship that they have. The wolf serves the king as a loyal and trustworthy

companion; in turn, the king offers the wolf protection and an opportunity for vengeance.

The narrator emphasizes the social contract between the king and the knight immediately after the wolfs first attack. The king hypopthesizes that the wolfs behaviour is not random, that it must have been provoked, and decides to test this theory at the evening

supper. The narrative makes clear the lord-vassal relationship between Arthur and

Biclarel when it recounts how "The king commanded that the beast / Should roam amidst the feast" (397-98), and the wolf complies.95 The hierarchy embedded in the lord-vassal relationship is also made clear by the fact that the other knights neither question nor

Au piz li lance, aus dans la serre; Dou cheval l'abat jus a terre, [Et] sus li lance a grant alee. Ja l'eiist morte et devouree. (421-24) "Li rois conmande que la beste / Alast autour par mi la feste" (397-98). disobey the king's orders. Instead, all is "done as the king said" (401). The knight is, as in the other romances, an extension of the king's partial power, and his lycanthropy is a tool perfectly suited to his function as a martial force and perpetrator of violence.

In fact, within the tale, Biclarel is the only knight who has difficulty recognizing the king's authority. Thus, when Biclarel allows his marriage to usurp his relationship with the king, he suffers dire consequences: like Melion, he is betrayed and trapped in lupine form. Despite Biclarel's later reintegration into the courtly world—albeit in lupine form—he remains unable to recognize fully his subservience to his lord. Both attacks on the wife would have ended in her death—a death that is, at this point in the narrative,

• 07 unsanctioned by the king. While the knight is clearly capable of behaving in an appropriate manner and is clearly loyal to the king, he is also clearly not able always to recognize the appropriate boundaries of his commitments to others and of his use of violence. Biclarel, like Melion, needs the authority of the king and the society of the court constantly to keep his behaviour in check.

The role of shame in the narrative reinforces this point. In Bisclavret, the knight experiences shame in relation to the actual process of transformation, in relation to the required nudity of his transformation, and in relation to the potential for violence that transformation represents. In Biclarel, however, shame is not associated with the act of metamorphosis itself, with any subsequent nudity, or with excessive violence. In fact, the actual process of transformation is virtually glossed over in Biclarel. While the knight describes the process to his wife, little is made of the transformation itself in the narrative.

96 "Ansinc fu con li rois le dist" (401). 97 Ironically, of course, if Biclarel were successful in killing and devouring his wife, he would remain permanently trapped in lupine form for she would be unable to reveal her treachery. When Biclarel initially transforms into lupine form we are told only that he "left for the

woods" (258) and that the wife, who follows her husband, "saw clearly his method and

his manner" (264). Likewise, when Biclarel's clothes are returned to him at the tale's

end, we are told only that he "scrambled into them and became a man" (450). In addition,

the second transformation occurs in front of the king, the members of the court, and the

townsfolk; yet, the public nature of the transformation arouses no concern in any of the

witnesses, nor does the narrator comment upon it. As Hopkins observes, the knight

"transforms himself in public with no hint of shame or modesty" (21n27)

Instead, in the tale's opening lines, the narrator associates shame with the knight's

inability to behave in accordance with his social contracts. That he is unable to keep the

secret of his lycanthropy from his wife demonstrates that he is unable to recognize that

his commitment to the king takes precedence over his commitment to his wife." Further

on, the knight confesses that his inability to keep his lycanthropy secret will bring him

shame. He explains to his wife that if he reveals his secret, he "should nevermore have

honour, / Nor ... be esteemed in any court" (152-53). The narrative's repeated

emphasis on the garrulous nature of women suggests that it is not so much the matter of the knight's secret that brings him shame as it is the fact that he reveals it to the person who can least be trusted to keep it: his wife.101 The wife's own words reveal this fact

"[BJiclarel ou bois se resmut" (257); "Bien vit sa maniere et sa guisse" (264). See the opening lines of the narrative (especially 1-8). 100 Biclarel says, "Que james jor honneur n'aroie / N'an nulle court n'iere prisiez" (152-53). 101 The tale's opening and epilogue, as well as the length and content of the wife's speech to the knight, emphasize the garrulous nature of women. For instance, after recounting the tale of Biclarel, the narrator concludes, Thus you see how stupidly he behaves Who reveals to his wife 234 when she says to Biclarel, "I should prefer to lose my life / Than to reveal your secret / Or ever cause you shame" (204-06).102 Also, the knight's reluctance to reveal his secret is not primarily motivated by any shame in his actual lycanthropy; rather, his reluctance is primarily motivated by a fear that he may be deceived or may be trapped permanently in lupine form. He confesses as much to his wife when he says

But anyone who took my clothes away from me

Would cause me very great hardship,

For I should remain a beast

Until I regained them

Or until I had to die,

Since no one would be able to save me.

And for that reason I set out secretly,

Secrets that should be hidden, If he does not wish them revealed to everyone. (457-60) Don't voiz tu que folemant ouvre Qui a sa fame se descouvre Dou secre qui fait a celer, S'a touz ne le viaut reveler. (457-60) The wife's speech and actions reinforce the narrator's point that women are untrustworthy, contrary creatures. Hopkins points out that the wife "dominates the early part of the narrative" (42). Indeed, the wife's speech is 132 lines long, almost a third of the text. Within the speech, the wife admonishes Biclarel for not sharing his secret with her, and accuses him of bringing her shame by not trusting her with his secret and therefore not honouring their marriage vows. While the wife's plea sounds similar to that of the wife's in Bisclavret—that is, the wife similarly implies that the knight's failure to confide in her the reasons for his absences suggests that he has another love—the narrator's language in Biclarel highlights the wife's manipulation and deceit of her husband. The narrator describes the wife's speech as a negative assault on the character of the knight. She coerces him into sharing his secret through "guile" ["faintise"] (57), and she "tackles" him with "deception" ["par faus samblant atouchie"] (58). Ultimately, her argument cannot be trusted because it is founded upon untruths. 102 The princess says, "Miaux ameroie perdre la vie / Que vos secrez vous descouvrisse /Ne que ja vostre honte ouvrisse" (204-06). 235

So that no-one steals my clothes from me. (233-40)

These words, along with the wolfs search for his wife at the Pentecost feast, demonstrate that the knight's revelation of his lycanthropy, not the lycanthropy itself, is the true source

of shame. The narrative confirms this point when, during the wolfs search, the wife is

identified as the one "who had stripped [him] of all honour" (406).104

The tale's ending is both ambiguous and problematic, and it potentially reinforces the knight's ability for excessive violence. The closing lines outline the fate of Biclarel's wife. The knight "petitioned that she be killed, / And consequently she was placed between walls / From which she could never come out" (453-55).105 In her discussion of the text, Hopkins identifies "between the walls" (454) as ambiguous.106 She asks, "does it mean imprisonment, or a particularly gruesome method of execution?" (44). The actual meaning, however, is not Hopkin's concern. She recognizes that the phrase could mean either imprisonment or a gruesome execution technique, but pursues the matter no further.

Instead, she turns her focus back to the tale's misogynistic message about the untrustworthy and garrulous nature of women. These lines, though, provide additional insight into the knight's inability to gauge correctly his violent actions as well as the

Mez qui ma robe m'osteroit Trop grant durte il me feroit, Car a toujours beste ceroie Jusqu'atant que ge la ravroie Ou j usque ge devroie morir, Que nulz ne m'an pourroit garir. Et pour ce me met ge an repost Que nulz hon ma robe ne m'ost. (233-40) 104 "Qui d'onnor l'a tout decevre" (406). 105 "Si requiert qu'elle soit occisse, / Et lors fu elle antre murs mise / Dont onques puis el n'issi hors" (453-55). 106 The Old French word "murs" may be translated as "wall" or "battlement" (OFED 438). supremacy of the king in the lord-vassal relationship and the king's role in the knight's violent behaviour.

If the passage is interpreted as the first possible option, as an expression of general imprisonment, then the punishment meted out to the wife seems appropriate for her crime. She is disenfranchised—cast out of her home and denied her material possessions—and separated from her family, both common penalties for adultery. Yet, if the passage is interpreted as the second possible option, the tale presents a much darker conclusion. If the wife really is placed "between walls" to "never come out"—literally encased within walls—her punishment is excessive.107 This is not just a death sentence; it is a form of extended torture and prolonged execution. The wife will suffer death by either asphyxiation or starvation. Given that the wife has already suffered two mutilating wolf attacks as well as torture ordered by the king, such an end is overtly cruel and is far beyond what would be appropriate for her crime of adultery.108

This latter interpretation reinforces a reading of the text similar to the above reading of Melion; it suggests that the knight is capable of excess, particularly excessive violence. Further, it associates the king with this excess through his relationship with the

Her encasement, on one level, serves as a reminder to the other members of the community of what is appropriate and inappropriate behaviour for a wife or woman, and of what type of punishment the transgressive and indiscrete female may face. Yet, on another level, her encasement, her immurement within the physical structures of the society, suggest that the female figure, however transgressive, is absolutely necessary for the furtherance of society. In short, her reproductive capacity renders her part of the foundations of society. 10R It could be argued that the wife's punishment is, actually, appropriate because her actions border on or qualify as treason. By betraying her husband, she indirectly harms the king and the state; she deprives them both of a necessary martial force and governing figure. As noted above, in the discussion on Melion, such a scenario, extreme torture and execution, would not be an unusual penalty. However, the tale places emphasis on how the wife has wronged her husband; it does not suggest that her actions constitute treason. Thus, adultery is her crime. 237

knight and through his own behaviour. After the knight discovers his wife and attacks her

a second time, the king orders that she be seized and tortured to death unless she reveals

the truth about the identity of the wolf and the reason for his attacks. The violence against

the wife, in this instance, is not questioned or interrupted by other knights or by the

townsfolk precisely because it is ordered and sanctioned by the king. When Biclarel

returns to human form, he "petition[s]" that his wife "be killed" (453). The poet's

language here, his use of "petitioned" ["requiert"] implies that the knight makes a plea for

action to the king as if in a court of law, and that the king makes a ruling and grants the

knight's request. While the knight attacks his wife and later petitions for her death, the

king chooses how and when she will die. Her death sentence establishes the king as the

ultimate power, both martially and legally, and identifies him as a figurehead for

excessive violence.

3.3.5 William ofPalerne

The narratives discussed so far thus connect the dual figure of the werewolf- knight to violence; they articulate the violence associated with this figure and, more

importantly, that violence is increasingly represented as excessive and as a threat to social

order. The fourteenth-century English alliterative romance William ofPalerne, however,

does not, initially, appear to fit this pattern.109 Like its source, the French Guillaume de

Palerne, William insists upon the humanity of the werewolf and repeatedly demonstrates

Although the poet self-identifies as "William" in line 5521, nothing else is known about the author of the romance except that his patron was "Humphrey IX de Bohun, son of Humphrey VIII and Elizabeth, daughter of Edward I" (Bunt 14). The accepted and approximate date of composition for William is between 1335-36 and 1361 (3). that the werewolf is human rather than animal.11 Also as in Guillaume, in William the

only two episodes in which the werewolf enacts violence of any sort are both connected

to Brande, the step-mother who entraps him in lupine form. Yet, as suggested above, the

Guillaume poet describes the relationship between the knight and the werewolf as

symbiotic: Guillaume receives his martial prowess from his connection to lupine figures.

The Guillaume poet repeatedly blurs the boundary between human and animal through

the language of the tale's opening sequence, through Guillaume's confessed dependence

on lupine figures, through his explicit identification as various animals, and through the

brutal and animalistic details of his behaviour during battle.

In William, the knight and the werewolf are similarly related. William, like

Guillaume, identifies his connection to the werewolf when he requests a shield "wel and

faire wibinne a werwolf depeynted, / pat be hious and huge" (3217-18), and he is soon recognized on the battlefield by this image. For example, during the battle against the

Spanish, the steward's nephew easily recognizes William "bi be werwolf in his scheld"

In fact, G. H. V. Bunt posits that the English version of the narrative places greater emphasis than the French on the werewolf s enactment of appropriate behaviours. Bunt draws heavily upon both Kaluga's 1881 analysis and Simms's (1969 and 1973) edition of William and much of what he presents is really a synopsis of their arguments. Drawing upon Kaluza, for instance, Bunt suggests that William "gives a more explicit and circumstantial account of the werwolf s attempts to learn what has become of his foster- child" (33) when the young prince goes missing from his forest den. He cites the differences between the English tale's description of how the werewolf approaches the cowherd's home and peeks through the hole and the French tale's description as evidence of the former's "more explicit and circumstantial account." While I agree that the English tale alters the passage, I do not completely agree with Bunt (and thus with Kaluza) that it provides a more explicit account. While the English passage he identifies is slightly longer (the French passage occupies 20 lines while the English passage occupies 29 lines), the details of the accounts are quite similar. In fact, the werewolf s approach towards the house and his search for a peephole is almost identical in both accounts; the difference is that the English text specifies that he walked around the house's perimeter (a minor detail) to find the peephole. The greatest difference in this episode is actually the werewolf s reaction when he discovers that his fosterling is missing. (3434). Later in the battle, the narrator identifies William specifically as a werewolf. The

narrator remarks that, when the Spanish king saw that all of his soldiers were slain, he

realized that "non mi3t be werwolf conquere in no wise" (3911). However, these images

or references increase William's identity as a noble figure rather than associating him

explicitly with animalistic violence or bloodshed. In fact, as Bunt notes, the poet's

descriptions of William's battle scenes are "considerably" reduced (32). Further, they are

often considerably altered, and the poet's alterations, not his reductions, are more

revealing of his intentions.

The battle sequences in William, while reduced, are also frequently sanitized: they

lack much of the explicit detail of bloodshed and gore found in the French source.

William defeats his enemies—he slays his opponents easily—but the details of

decapitations and cleavings found in the French tale are absent in the English tale. For

example, the first time William enters battle, the narrator emphasizes his prowess by

describing how, within a short while, "he slow six of be grettes, sob forto telle, / and bat

dottiest were of dede of be dukes ost" (1196-97). The narrator continues by explaining

that, of the six, one was the duke's nephew, another was his steward, and that the rest

were some of the best lords of the land, but the details of how William slew these men are

absent from the narrative. The closest the narrator comes to the French source in his

description is when he refers to William as a "frek out of witte" (1190), as a warrior

overcome by battle fury. n

The only passage that comes close to echoing the gore and bloodshed of the French source occurs much later in the tale, when William faces the Spanish prince and his forces in battle (3600-51). Another notable difference exists between William and Guillaume, in the passage that describes the werewolf while he waits for his step-mother to arrive at the court. As seen earlier, the language of the French tale suggests that the court and society are not capable of fully reintegrating Alphonse until he returns to his human form. While he remains a wolf, no matter how human his behaviour, his lupine form continues to embody a threat to society, and he is, therefore, sequestered away. In the English tale, the werewolf also awaits his step-mother's arrival within his companion's chambers, but the language of the passage is not suggestive of the incarceration or misery implied in the

French. Rather, it emphasizes how the werewolf happily remains confined within

William's chamber, "in blis bi ni3tes and daies" (4329).112

The English poet, then, goes to great lengths to maintain a degree of separation between his werewolf-knight and excessive violence. Even though the violence of the

French narrative is contained specifically within battle episodes, the English poet still strives to remove most of the gore and brutality of his source. In addition, the poet carefully rewrites the French source's implied incarceration of the werewolf while he awaits his step-mother's arrival. By doing so, he suggests that, because his werewolf is less connected to extreme violence, he can be more integrated into society while in lupine form. Although the werewolf remains within William's chambers, it is more a choice and a pleasure than a forced confinement. Yet the poet's choice to reduce or edit out the

119 Bunt suggests that the werewolf s movements are less restricted in the English tale because, in lines 4019-21, "the werwolf, on entering the hall and paying his respects to the king of Spain and others of royal blood, goes out again at the hall door whider him god liked; the French merely implies this" (33). While this is true, the response to the werewolf s presence in the court is still the same in both tales: members of the court are initially afraid and take up arms as if to chase and attack the wolf. Only William's intervention prevents this. detailed accounts of bloodshed and gore or the threat that the knight presents while in

lupine form does not suggest that these things were inconsequential to him or to his

audience. In fact, it suggests precisely the opposite, that the poet was especially sensitive

to the amount of violence and bloodshed connected to knightly figures and therefore

sought to downplay the references of his source in his own version of the tale.

Simms's "Introduction" to his edition of William provides insight as to the reason

for which the English poet would be concerned to reduce or edit out the violence of his

source. Simms argues for a specific composition date for the text as "the winter season of

1347-1348" (xxvi). This date, he suggests, is plausible, because of the relationship

between the man to whom it was dedicated—Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford—

and the king of England, Edward III. The winter of 1347-1348 was a significant period

for Edward III. The British had recently defeated the French at both Crecy (1346) and

Calais (1347), and had thus secured both treasure and a port city on the French shore (26-

27).U3 On St. George's Day, 1348, the King held "victory celebrations" during which he

established his renowned confraternity, the Order of the Garter. Simms suggests that

William could, perhaps, be understood as a "laudatory" poem for the King (27).114

However, Simms posits that, despite his status and his vast land holdings, the Earl

may not have been in good standing with the King nor may he have been supportive of

1 1 "X Simms also remarks that the English were celebrating the rumours that Edward was being considered as a replacement for the recently deceased Holy Roman Emperor, Louis IV (Ludwig of Bavaria) (27). 114 Simms points out that, if the tale "was performed at a feast in honor of this English celebration [the St. George's Day celebration during which the Order was established], many details of the poem can be understood as laudatory of the king. William's rustic beginnings and rise to the title of Roman Emperor through a series of chivalric adventures would praise the king, who began his life in the darkness of his father's crimes but rose to the heights of power and prestige by his own courtesy and prowess" (27). 242

England's martial activities overseas. Humphrey de Bohun was one of the Welsh Marcher

barons, and he held the "lordships of Brecon, Huntington and Hay, and the mesne

lordship of Caldicot" (Bunt 15).115 But despite his status, Simms notes, the Earl had been

noticeably absent during the recent "summer-long siege of Calais" (26), and was "[o]ne

of the very few members of the nobility not inaugurated into the new order of

knighthood" (27). The absence of the Earl at Calais and the king's failure to extend to

him an invitation to join the Order suggests that a poem dedicated to Humphrey de Bohun

was more than likely not meant for Edward. Simms speculates that the Earl was actually

one of the Marcher barons who "feared invasion by the Scots and Welsh more than by the

French" (28) and, therefore, opposed the king's overseas martial activities; English war

efforts overseas, to "many Northern and West Midland barons," were considered

"dangerous" and "vainglorious" (28). Many of the conflicts against the French, including

the battle at Crecy, resulted in extremely high fatalities on both sides, and, although these

fatalities were often "disproportionate on the losing side" (Housley 222), many English

lives were also lost.116 Overall, overseas conquests were costly: they deprived the country

of its wealth and of the security needed to defend other closer unstable fronts.117

115 The Earl also had manors in "Haresfield, Wheatenhurst (or Whitminster) and Southam" as well as in "Wiltshire, Hertfordshire, Middlesex and Essex" (Bunt 15). 116 Housley identifies Crecy, among others, as one of the bloodiest of the Anglo- French battles. He also notes that in the later conflict at Poitiers in 1356 (another battle for which Edward III is renowned), "some 40 percent of the French cavalry forces may have perished—that is to say of the gentlemen, the knights and the esquires" (222). 117 As Simms also notes, a petition was made during the Parliament of January 1348 that called for "an end to high taxes, relaxation of wartime economic controls, and a curtailment of costly foreign adventures" (28). Overall, Edward Ill's martial campaigns, especially those from 1344-1347 against the French, resulted in an "expenditure of over £242,000 for the Wardrobe alone" (Housley 436). Moreover, martial resources (i.e. knights or soldiers) became increasingly scarce and economic tensions in Britain only worsened from 1348 on because of the outbreak of the Black Death. 243

Simms ultimately concludes that while the Earl did not attend the celebrations on

St. George's Day, he "may have held his own counter-celebration at Hereford in the winter of 1347-1348 during which William of Palerne might have been performed" (28).

If Simms is correct—if the poem was written as part of a counter-celebration—the conflict between the Earl and other Marcher barons and the King provides an explanation for the changes noted above between William and its French source, Guillaume. If the

Earl and his borderland peers regarded the escapades of Edward as vainglorious or as a threat to their own security and to the security of their nation, it is highly unlikely that a poem would be written extolling the virtues of war with detailed descriptions of bloodshed and violence. The Guillaume poet's werewolf-knight figure and the poem's lengthy and brutal battle sequences would resonate too greatly with the behaviour and reputation of the English king and his martial activities. In short, the protagonist of the

French poem would hardly be an acceptable role model or protagonist for the Earl's court because he embodied the negative behaviours associated with Edward III. It would be no surprise, then, that the English poet would eliminate or reduce the gruesome details of battle found in his source; nor would it be a surprise that he would go to greater lengths than his source to create a protagonist who embodies all of the idealized qualities of the knightly figure: nobility, prowess, generosity, love, and even clemency. So, while the

William poet reduces or eliminates many of the connections between knightly figures and violence seen in his French source, his reduction or elimination of these things is precisely what captures the attention of his aristocratic audience, which would likely have some knowledge of the French original; the poet reveals unease concerning this connection through his attempts to remove or reduce it. The English narrative, then, articulates its unease through an absence rather than a presence of the very thing that

creates this unease: the association of the knight with excessive violence.

3.3.6 Arthur and Gorlagon

The final werewolf romance examined in this study is the fourteenth-century Latin

1 1 Q

tale Arthur and Gorlagon. Of all of the werewolf romances, Arthur and Gorlagon is

the most gruesome. In this narrative, the werewolf is explicitly connected to brutal

carnage and bloodlust, and to a type of tyranny that threatens an entire society. Moreover,

the story stands out amongst its counterparts because the majority of the narrative's

violence is enacted by the king himself.

The tale is, as with all Arthurian narratives, the tale of a quest. When Guenevere,

contrary to Arthur's claims, suggests that the king does not know "either the nature or the

heart of a woman," the king pledges that he "will never taste food until by good hap [he]

Although it is in Latin, the tale is directly connected to the Welsh branch of Arthurian legend through its narrative techniques. As Echard points out, "Kittredge believed it [Arthur and Gorlagon] to be a direct translation of a Welsh text" (Arthurian Narrative 205). However, as Echard suggests, the tale's similarities to other Welsh narratives could also be "the product of someone thoroughly familiar with Welsh literature" (205). Arthur and Gorlagon [Narratio de Arthuro Rege Britanniae et Rege Gorlagon lycanthropo] occupies pages 55-64 of the fourteenth century Bodley MS Rawlinson B. 149. Echard notes that Arthur and Gorlagon "has been largely ignored, with the exception of a few arguments by folklorists in the first half of [the twentieth] century over the ultimate origins of the werewolf tale contained in the Arthurian frame" (204). The romance was first edited and published in 1903 by G. L. Kittredge, and it was translated into English and annotated by Frank A. Milne and Alfred Nutt, respectively, in 1904. Kittredge suggests that based upon the date of the manuscript, Arthur and Gorlagon is "as old as the fourteenth century and ... we may feel confident is much older, even in its Latin form" (265). For details on and arguments about the manuscript, authorship, sources, and analogues, see the studies by Kittredge, Krappe, Bennett, and Loomis. Mildred Leake Day also recently (2005) published a facing-page translation of the text. While her translation is useful, much of her critical introduction (which is quite short) simply summarizes existing scholarship on the tale and on werewolf studies. Further, her brief treatment of both Bisclavret and Melion is weak: she makes errors in her summaries of basic plot elements, especially fox Melion. As Echard suggests, "parts of the book, then, should be approached with caution" ("Rev." 91). fathom[s] them" (234). ] And so, Arthur sets out on his quest, which takes him to the

kingdoms and courts of three separate kings—Gorgol, Torbeil, Gorlagon—who are, the

1 90

reader discovers, brothers. Gorgol and Torbeil claim to have the information that

Arthur seeks, but each entices Arthur to join his feast and delay the acquisition of the

desired knowledge until the following morning. Arthur succumbs to both invitations, thus

twice breaking his vow to abstain from food until achieving success in his quest. On the

following mornings, both Gorgol and Torbeil confess that they do not have the

information that Arthur seeks, leaving Arthur empty-handed except for the advice to visit

another king. At the third court that Arthur visits, however, the king resists numerous

invitations to join the feast and eventually hears the story of a werewolf who has been

betrayed by his wife.

King Gorlagon tells Arthur the story of a king who guards a magical sapling that

has the ability to transform a human into a wolf. Each day, the king visits the sapling,

sometimes several times, and he will not partake of food until he has done so. His wife,

Guenevere says to Arthur, "te nunquam uel ingenium mentemue femine compensse," and he responds with his oath: "Omnia celi obtestor numina, si me actenus latuere, dabo operam, nee labori indulgens nunquam cibo fruar donee ea me nosse contingat" (150). The question of what women want appears elsewhere in medieval literature. For instance, it is the focus of Alison's story in Chaucer's The Wife of Bath's Tale, as well as in the analagous narrative The Weddyng of Syr Gawen and Dame Ragnell for Helpyng ofKyngArthoure. English quotations of Arthur and Gorlagon are from Milne's translation, which is included in Charlotte F. Otten's Lycanthropy Reader. Latin quotations are from Kittredge's edition of the Latin text. 1 90 In the introduction to his modern French translation of Arthur and Gorlagon, Philippe Walter speculates, "beneath the surface the three names, Gorgol, Torbeil (or Gorbeil), Gorlagon, are probably from the same root (Gor) and are the structure of one and the same myth. . .. Mythologically speaking, they seem to be the decomposed form of a divine trinity, of a tricephalous [three-headed] god, comparable to the Greco-Roman Hermes-Mercury" ["derriere ces trios noms, Gorgol, Torbeil (ou Gorbeil), Gorlagon, il y a probablement un meme mythe.... Mythologiquement parlant, ils semblent etre la forme decomposed d'une triade divine, d'un dieu tricephale, comparable a l'Hermes- Mercure gallo-romain"] (9, my translation). 246

enthralled by the son of another king, seeks to learn her husband's secret; she accuses him

of meeting with his mistress in the garden and insists that she will never eat until he has

revealed his secret.121 Once she learns of the tree and its magical properties, the queen

plots to transform her husband so that she may be with her lover. However, she makes a

significant error when she performs the spell of transformation. As she taps her husband

on the head with a branch from the sapling, she cries "Be a wolf, be a wolf and follows

this with "have the understanding of a man" instead of "have the understanding of a wolf

1 77

(239). The queen next sets hounds on the wolf, and they chase him out of the court and

into the forest. She then brings her lover to the court, marries him, and makes him ruler of

the kingdom. Gorlagon continues the story, explaining to Arthur what happens to the

wolf, and how, eventually, he is restored to his human form and rightful position in • 17^ society. After hearing Gorlagon's tale, Arthur joins the feast, but he remains, even

171 Of course, the refusals of both the king and his wife to partake of food remind the reader of Arthur's oath and his inability to keep it. According to Echard, this is part of the parodic nature of the text. See Chapter 6 of Arthurian Narrative for a detailed discussion of how the text operates as a parody. 1 77 The spell should be, "Sis lupus, sis lupus,... habeasque sensum lupi!" However, the wife erroneously says, in the latter part of the spell, "habeasque sensum hominis"(154). 1 7"5 Arthur and Gorlagon is, in fact, an extremely layered tale. Part of the werewolf s story recalls Melion's adventures in Ireland, while another part recalls Bisclavret's reunion with his king. Two main differences exist, however. First, the werewolf is a king not a knight, although like Bisclavret and Melion, he seeks the protection and company of a king while in lupine form. Second, while at the court of the king who adopts him, the werewolf attacks a human and his attacks lead to the uncovering of his identity, la. Arthur and Gorlagon, though, it is the king's lover that the werewolf attacks, not his own wife or her lover. When the king prepares to depart on a journey, the queen demands that the wolf be chained while he is absent. She claims that she is afraid of the beast, but, truthfully, she fears his wisdom not his ferocity (i.e., she fears that he will discover her adultery). While the king is away, the queen consorts with her lover. The wolf, forced to bear witness to their encounter and to the betrayal of the king, becomes enraged and breaks free of his chains. He attacks the lover, leaving him half-dead. In revenge, the queen hides her son and tells the king that the wolf devoured upon his return to his own court, as Gorlagon repeatedly suggests, "little the wiser" (237)

for the information he receives.

Gorlagon's werewolf-king spends two years trapped in lupine form, wandering in

the deepest parts of the forest. Eventually, he creates a new community for himself when

he meets "a wild she-wolf, and be[gets] two cubs by her" (240).125 The fact that the king

mates and raises cubs with another wolf, especially with a "wild she-wolf," suggests that,

like Melion, the king behaves in a manner lupine enough that he can easily and

completely integrate himself into a wolf community, albeit a limited one. His human

mind, however, ultimately drives him to return to civilization and to seek revenge upon

his former wife. Taking his mate and his two cubs, the werewolf approaches a nearby

fortress in hopes of finding his wife. Instead, he comes across two small children, whom

he knows to be the offspring of his wife and her lover, playing unsupervised under the

fortress tower. Although these children themselves had never directly harmed him, the

king "attacked and slew them" (240) before retreating, with his own family, back into the

forest.127 Shortly thereafter, he and his family return, and this time encounter the queen's

brothers at the palace gates. The werewolf immediately attacks, killing them both.

him and then turned on the seneschal (her lover), who tried to protect the child. Eventually, the truth is uncovered: the wolf finds the child, who is sequestered away, and those who betrayed the king are punished accordingly. 124 Gorlagon says, "cum inde tibi retulero parum inde doctor habeberis" (154). "[S]e lupe agresti coniunxit, duosque ex ilia catulos progenuit" (154). 126 While the image of the lone wolf is common in folklore and literature, wolves are by nature pack animals. Wolves really roam independently only when they have been cast out of their pack. The identification of the "wild" she-wolf may just refer to her difference from her mate, but it may also imply that, like the king, she is an outcast. Her status as an outcast would make her an ideal mate for the werewolf. The werewolf "inuadit inuasosque crudeliter discerpens interimit" (155). His act of killing innocent children recalls Arthur's attempt to destroy his own child by incest through the slaughter of countless innocents. This episode, of course, also recalls Herod's 248

While the werewolf s actions may not immediately appear as excessive or vicious—the queen's children and brothers are, afterall, potential successors to the crown and therefore are threats to the king's social position, which is now occupied by the queen's new husband—the language used to describe his actions suggest the degree to which he is consumed by his rage and his desire for revenge. When the werewolf attacks the queen's children, he does so by "tearing them cruelly limb from limb" (240); when he meets the queen's brothers, he attacks them, "tearing out their bowels [and giving] them over to a frightful death" (240). Both attacks are brutal: through dismemberment and disembowelment, the werewolf delivers painful and prolonged deaths to all of his victims, none of whom have directly harmed or acted against him. Further, in both cases, the werewolf s actions are deliberate. When he encounters the queen's children, it is because he has gone looking for an opportunity to take his revenge; when he returns to the fortress

(and subsequently encounters the queen's brothers), he does so "thinking that he was not yet satisfied" (240) with the revenge already meted out. The deaths of the queen's young children were not enough to satisfy his bloodlust and desire for revenge.

The second visit to the fortress results in further misfortune for the werewolf when

1 ^0 his own offspring are caught and hanged. Moreover, the deaths of the cubs send the werewolf deeper into the cycle of violence he has already begun. He is so overcome by slaughter of the innocents in his attempt to find and kill Jesus, who has been foretold as his downfall. 128 "[E]os extractics visceribus neci horrende tradidit" (155). 129 "[N]on sibi adhuc satisfactum existimans" (155). 130 Like Melion, whose human intelligence saves him from the trap that kills his wolf pack, the werewolf s intelligence saves him from the same fate as his young. Interestingly, however, the narrative makes no mention of the fate of the she-wolf, the mother of the young cubs, although it is clear that she has accompanied her mate to the fortress. 249 grief and sorrow that he begins "nightly forays against the flock and herds of that province, and attack[s] them with such great slaughter that all the inhabitants, placing in ambush a large pack of hounds, met together to hunt and catch him" (241).I31 Eventually, he is pushed out of his kingdom into subsequent, adjacent kingdoms, where he continues his violent rampage. In the second kingdom, he repeats his attacks on livestock, but in the third kingdom, "he beg[ins] to vent his rage with implacable fury, not only against the beasts but also against the human beings" (241). 32 Here, the narrative repeatedly stresses the monstrosity not only of the werewolf s actions, but also of his physical being. He is described as "greedy for bloodshed," as well as "enormous," so large that the inhabitants of the kingdoms he savages "had never seen any of so vast a size" (241).I33 This werewolf is not the same type of werewolf as those seen in the other werewolf romances; he is not just a human trapped in a lupine form, a sympathetic werewolf. He is a ferocious and bloodthirsty beast bent upon revenge, an animal so consumed by violence that he recalls Ovid's Lycaon, or an animal so vast and ferocious that he evokes the enormous

Fenriswolf of the Norse myth of Ragnarok.

When Gorlagon finishes his tale, Arthur asks him who the woman sitting opposite him is, informing the reader simultaneously that this woman kisses a severed, bloody, and embalmed head each time Gorlagon kisses his own wife. Gorlagon then reveals that he is actually the werewolf of his tale and he identifies this woman as the previous queen, explaining to Arthur that, as punishment for her betrayal, his former wife must remain at

131 "[NJocturnis excursibus in domesticas pecudes illius prouincie tanta cede grassatus est ut omnes comprouinciales, canum collocate multitudine, ad eum inuestigandum et capiendum conueniunt" (155). 132 "[I]n pecudes sed etiam in hominess impacabili rabie seuiebat" (155). 133 "[CJedibus inhians" (155); "immanem . . . lupum . . . (numquam enim aliquem tante magnitudinis uiderant)" (156). 250 court and witness his affection for his new bride.134 The previous queen's punishment,

Gorlagon continues, also requires that each time he kisses his new love, she must "imprint kisses on him for whose sake she had committed her crime " (250).135 That is, each ti me

Gorlagon kisses his new queen, the old queen must kiss the severed, bloody, and embalmed head of her now deceased lover, the man for whom she trapped her husband in lupine form.

Like the other werewolves, Gorlagon ultimately is restored to his human form and appropriate social position. Also, like the other werewolves, Gorlagon exacts revenge upon his adulterous wife. However, the revenge he enacts suggests his own continued delight in all things gruesome. The queen's punishment is a public spectacle, one in which the king takes repeated and continual pleasure. The revenge enacted upon the queen outweighs the revenges meted out in the other werewolf romances. She loses her children, her brothers, and her lover, and is condemned to be perpetually intimate with the mouth of a corpse. Further, she is denied the finality of death or exile that her counterparts receive.13 Gorlagon's tyranny, then, continues even after he has returned to his human form. He is, at the tale's end, an example of unjust rule and coraipt kingship despite the fact that he himself has similarly been a victim.

Echard argues that this gruesome detail is part of the parody because it creates shock. It jolts the reader "into an awareness of narrative conventions, a situation which is hardly conducive to the suspension of disbelief which would be necessary in a straightforward narrative of this sort" (Arthurian Narrative 212). 135 Gorlagon explains to Arthur, "ipsa eadem oscula imprimat cuius gracia illud nefas commiserat" (162). 136 There is one exception to this statement. If, as discussed earlier in the chapter, Biclarel's wife is buried alive within the fortress or castle walls, she also suffers a drawn out punishment similar to that of Gorlagon's ex-queen. However, Biclarel's wife, if buried alive, will eventually find death (and therefore an end to her suffering). The same cannot be said of Gorlagon's ex-wife. 251

It is also possible that Gorlagon's cruelty goes beyond even what is outlined above. Jeff Massey, in a recent unpublished article, argues that previous transcribers and editors of Arthur and Gorlagon have misread and thus mistranscribed an important word

I "1*1 in the manuscript. The word in question is contained within Gorlagon's description of his ex-wife's punishment; in fact, it is the word previously read as a masculine pronoun in order to identify the severed head of the ex-queen's lover. Close examination of the manuscript, Massey suggests, reveals that the Latin word "eadam"—which, he adds, both

Kittredge and Day emend to "eadem" in order to create a grammatically correct sentence—reads "more clearly" as "cadaverv" (9). Previous editors, he concludes, have ignored "unmistakable" superscripts that clearly alter the meaning of the sentence (9). If one accepts Massey's reading o£"cadaverF instead of the "eadam" transcribed by both

Kittredge and Day, the severed head repeatedly kissed by Gorlagon's ex-wife belongs to a rotting cadaver. This change, Massey argues, "further emphasize[s] the gruesome nature of [Gorlagon's] ex-wife's punishment. It is, if anything, a more barbaric scene than

Kittredge was willing to admit, and further contrasts the intrusive barbarism of the werewolf s tale within Arthur's allegedly courtly quest" (10). If Massey is correct, then

Gorlagon is, indeed, more cruel and gruesome than scholars have previously admitted.138

The king as werewolf, then, embodies the greatest threat associated with knightly figures. In his lupine form, Gorlagon turns on the members of his own kingdom by

137 Massey, like Echard, considers Arthur and Gorlagon a parody, although he argues that it is a far more gruesome parody than scholars have realized. I would like to thank Dr. Massey for generously sharing with me his article, "The Case of the Missing Cadaver: A Medieval Dinner Theatre Mystery," prior to its publication. 1 I present Massey's argument here as a convincing one (and as one that reinforces my own reading of the text); however, I leave my treatment of it as tentative because I have not, as of yet, seen the manuscript myself and confirmed his reading of "cadevir" for "eadem." 252 brutally attacking the livestock that sustains them: by threatening their livestock, he threatens the very people themselves. Further, Gorlagon's attacks spread from livestock directly to innocent people when he is driven from one nation to the next. The narrative's insistence that the werewolf retains his human intelligence only intensifies the gruesome and violent nature of his behaviour, especially when he turns his attention to humans. As a sympathetic werewolf, as a beast with a human mind, he should be aware of the injustice of his behaviours and he should be able to control his violent urges. Yet

Gorlgaon's gruesome and perpetual punishment of his ex-wife demonstrates how excessive violence is deeply ingrained in his human self The threat that Gorlagon the werewolf represents is also compounded by his specific identity as a king rather than just as a knight, for it is the king who is supposed to keep the figure of the knight in check.

The knight is a tool of the king and exercises the king's martial law, but, ultimately, the king is responsible for the security of his nation and people through his decisions, orders, andactions? Gorlagori, then, embodies king, an example of the tyrannical ruler outlined by John of Salisbury in the Policraticus; his lupine body represents his corruption, his overwhelming desire and capacity for bloodlust and violent behaviours.

The romances of the werewolf renaissance, those romances that portray a sympathetic werewolf, articulate anxieties about the medieval knight, about his identity as both a figure of order and a figure of chaos. As a martial figure, the knight has the ability to maintain and restore order to society; yet, the very martial skills that deem him a figure of order simultaneously deem him figure of chaos, one capable, through the perpetration of excessive and unabated violence, of threatening the very order that he is bound to 253 uphold. This anxiety is amplified by the knight's frequent association with lupine figures and with his specific identity, within these narratives, as a werewolf, another figure similarly capable of excessive violence. A number of the romances (Melion and Arthur and Gorlagon, for instance) make explicit such anxiety through their inclusion of descriptions and details of the werewolf s metamorphoses or the violence and bloodshed enacted by the werewolf-knight. Other romances (Bisclavret and William ofPalerne, for instance) likewise make explicit this anxiety over the knight, but they do so by excluding information or moments that would articulate the violence evoked by the figures of the knight and the werewolf. Whether an account of violence is included or excluded, however, the narratives all express such anxieties. In addition, a number of the werewolf romances also express anxieties about the king or lord's participation in or sanctioning of excessive violence through either the knight's relationship with his lord or through the king's identity as werewolf. Ultimately, while medieval werewolf romances can, as previous critics have argued, be considered tales of human transcendence over the animal self, such an interpretation is not entirely adequate. It does not reflect each narrative's inability to fully reconcile the conflicting natures of wildness and civility that coalesce in the figure of the knight and that are embodied by his identity as a werewolf. The werewolf romances, then, need to be considered narratives in which anxieties over the role of the knight and his potential for "unabated" violence reside, and remain unresolved.

3.4 Conclusion

From the above discussion, a number of conclusions can be made about the overall purpose or meaning of lupine figures and werewolf narratives in the medieval period. First, the medieval narratives often adapt or repeat material from their classical antecedents. Like their predecessors, they operate as sites of tension, and they reflect various social norms, religious beliefs, and cultural practices of a period that spans centuries.

A number of the narratives identify lupine figures with social outcasts or exiles.

For example, Beowulf, Volsunga Saga, and Gylfaginning all associate outlaws specifically with or as wolves, and, frequently, this outlaw status or lupine identity is also coupled with physical deformity. Both Grendel and his mother, in Beowulf, are described as physically sub-human, while Fenriswolf, in Gylfaginning, is described as being of immense proportions, as a supra-lupine being, if you will. In Volsunga Saga, the exiled

Sigmund inhabits the same space (the wilderness) as wild animals such as wolves, and he transforms into a wolf when he dons a magical wolf pelt. While this incident closely aligns wolves with human outlawry, it also, simultaneously, evokes pre-Christian beliefs and cultural practices, particularly those connected to initiation rites or rites of passage.

Sigmund's son, Sinfjotli, also dons a wolf pelt and transforms into a wolf, but, for

Sinfjotli, this process is part of his journey from adolescence to adulthood, from child to warrior. His ability to easily best his father's martial skills gestures towards the initiatory and martial purpose of his transformation.

In addition, other medieval narratives, particularly the Eddie poems, recall classical narratives such as Ovid's "Lycaon" because they participate in the mythic: they provide an explanation for acts of violence as well as for the destruction of one society and the creation of another society. Both Gylfaginning and Voluspd recount the mythic

Ragnarok, and both emphasize the importance of Fenriswolf to this apocalyptic event; his life and death are pivotal to the death and birth of societies. Like the Arcadian king Lycaon, Fenriswolf is a scapegoat for destruction and creation. His life and death are catalysts for the death and birth of societies.

Yet beyond these parallels, the medieval narratives also demonstrate a progression of beliefs and practices from one period to the next. As Veenstra suggests, lupine figures and accounts of lycanthropy can be understood as "an index of cultural change and intellectual development," as an articulation of the tension created by the meeting of "old loyalties and new obligations, former beliefs and current doubts, past prospects and present despair, or earlier superstitions and current convictions" (138).

Indeed, early medieval narratives such as Augustine's City of God articulate

Christian doctrines, but these doctrines are often in tension with pre-Christian beliefs.

Augustine, for instance, utilizes lupine figures found in the works of the classical writer

Varro to create contrast, to demonstrate how reports of lycanthropy have been misunderstood by pre-Christian authors. Varro's accounts thus become a didactic tool: they are an exemplum for the Christian reader of how to read pre-Christian texts.

Augustine also utilizes lupine figures to explain Christian doctrines on the soul and soul transmigration. Accounts of theriomorphic metamorphosis, he insists, may be reported as true, but are actually the works of demons; they are illusions cast upon individuals who then believe that they have themselves transformed or that they have seen another transform. Again, an individual well educated in Christian belief will have the skills necessary to discern an illusion from a true act of transformation (or a miracle).

Medieval adaptations of classical genres such as the Aesopic fables and natural philosophy also operate as indices of cultural change. Medieval authors, in bestiaries and fables, rework narratives and creatures from these traditions as human exemplars for 256 medieval audiences. The reworked narratives outline acceptable and unacceptable social behaviours, primarily those considered either Christian or non-Christian in nature. In such cases, lupine figures frequently take on the negative characteristics frequently associated with them in the classical narratives, although, in the new narratives, these negative characteristics typically represent either the devil himself or behaviours that are explicitly identified as sinful. Moreover, the negative behaviours outlined and criticized in these genres, especially in the fables, are frequently manipulated in order to articulate social criticisms. Marie de France, for example, uses her Fables to criticize all sectors of the social hierarchy and to suggest that all individuals and social groups have a role to play in the maintenance of a just society.

Similar to the beliefs of the classical period, however, medieval beliefs are fluid; they do not remain fixed, even if they remain informed primarily by Christian doctrine. In particular, the recovery of Aristotle's corpus in the twelfth century and the subsequent study of the classical philosopher's theories of change create rifts in theological sectors.

Different theories of change or even of the possibility of change plague medieval thinkers. Writers such as Gerald of Wales grapple with conflicting theories of change through the figure of the wolf. In fact, the twelfth century saw the birth of a new werewolf character, the sympathetic werewolf. This new werewolf, which burgeons primarily in medieval romance, is a response to both the conflicting theories of change that trouble the period as well as to the more traditional negative depictions of lupine figures that permeate extant medieval narratives and their classical antecedents.

Sympathetic werewolves experience external change but retain their inner selves; they are evidence of the human ability to transcend or overcome bestial or animalistic desires, and, 257 as such, they confirm a Christian belief in the continuity or immutability of that which makes us human: the soul. Moreover, sympathetic werewolves within the context of the romance genre itself also operate as another index of cultural change. As the late Middle

Ages progress, specifically from the late-twelfth to the mid-fourteenth centuries, anxieties about the social figure of the knight became increasingly prevalent within the romance genre and are articulated specifically through the knight's connection to lupine figures.

While other genres such as philosophical and theological treatises insist on firm boundaries between species, and while the romances at first appear to reinforce these boundaries through the figure of the sympathetic werewolf, the romances also frequently elide the division between the wolf and the knight, and render the two intrinsic through shared attributes and behaviours.

The romances also reflect their social context. As the Middle Ages progress, depictions of the knight within the werewolf romances become explicit about the knight's capacity for excessive behaviours, especially excessive violence. The early romances emphasize the humanity of the werewolf and gesture towards what his metamorphic body represents through contained displays of violence or through the removal from the narrative of moments that represent the knight's potential for violence. Later narratives are more explicit about the knight's status as a figure of chaos and violence. This change reflects two things about the late medieval period. First, it reflects the aristocracy's increased anxiety about knights, particularly as the success of the crusades diminished, and, second, it reflects the subsequent increase in criticism of the crusaders themselves.

As Elizabeth Siberry points out, there were no less than "eight major expeditions and many minor ones" between 1095 and 1274 (1). Although crusades persisted throughout 258

the fourteenth century, their diminishing success increased the negative public opinion of

the crusaders. Critics and chroniclers of the crusades sought "explanation[s] for the series

of Christian defeats" (218), and often found them in the negative behaviours of the

knights. Indeed, the crusades were often the force behind the excesses of the knights. As

Le Goff notes, "the fanaticism of holy war led the crusaders on to the worst excesses,

from the pogroms perpetrated on their journeys to the massacres and sackings as those of

Jerusalem in 1099 and Constantinople in 1204" {Medieval Civilization 66-67). As knights

increasingly became involved in such behaviours, critics and chroniclers increasingly

associated them, in their documents, with "pride, avarice, sexual incontinence and

extravagance in dress and demeanour" (218); the knights who enacted such negative

behaviours, who lived beyond the accepted bounds of chivalry and courtoisie, were

deemed the reason for the failed martial (and holy) expeditions. The romances, then, as

they progress from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries, similarly reflect this

understanding of and concern about the figure of the knight as both a figure of order and a

figure of chaos. The knight's association with lupine figures is a part of this process.

Ultimately, then, the werewolf romances are as layered in meaning as their antecedent

and contemporary narratives; they reflect the philosophical, social, and martial concerns

of their time.

Overall, this chapter reinforces the argument put forth in the previous chapter that

wolves and werewolves defy singular interpretations. Rather, narratives with lupine

figures or with accounts of human to lupine metamorphosis should be approached as sites

of potentially varied meanings. This chapter also demonstrates how lupine figures and narratives also, through their varied meanings, operate as indices of cultural change. Even as stones or figures are reworked in various genres, they retain or evoke part of their original context and meaning, and, thus, create tension in the text. This aspect of lupine figures and narratives is crucial to an understanding of the werewolves found in J. K.

Rowling's Harry Potter series, which is the focus of the next chapter. This chapter, then, and the previous chapter, provide the foundations for the dissertations examination of

Rowling's werewolf figures Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback. It is to these figures that

I now turn. 260

Chapter 4: The Harry Potter Series

[W]e surely need a more labile and problematic understanding of identity, one that will not force us to choose between mind and body, socialization and biology, genes and desire, one not figured primarily in terms of transplants, splits and dichotomies. ... [We need] images, metaphors, and stories that imagine a self possessing both individuality and identity position, a self that really changes while remaining the same thing. (Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity 165-66)

4.1 Introduction

J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series is one of the most significant works of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Widely read, widely discussed or debated, and widely viewed in film format by children, adults, and scholars alike, it has become a common cultural reference around the world. Rowling's series also constitutes part of the modern era's fascination with historical periods such as the Middle Ages. Like J. R. R.

Tolkien's Lord of the Rings or C. S. Lewis's The Chronicles ofNarnia (to both of which it is often compared), the Harry Potter series is an example of modern medievalism; it adapts and interlaces motifs and characters from ancient stories and folklore with modern ideas and images in order to explore contemporary concerns.

Yet, Rowling has been criticized for her use of ancient and medieval materials. In

Sticks and Stones, Zipes lambastes Rowling for her interpretation of medieval motifs and figures, arguing that her description of the Dursley family's attitude towards magic as

"very medieval" (Prisoner 2-3) actually "misinterprets history" (Zipes, Sticks and Stones

178). People in the medieval period, he continues, believed in magic, while the Dursleys do not (178). Such careless use of sources, in Zipes's opinion, reveals mediocrity. Zipes's criticism, however, is limited by the very narrow interpretation of language and history of which he accuses Rowling. Rowling's description of the Dursley family's attitude as 261

"very medieval" refers less to the parallel belief (or lack there) in magic found in the

Middle Ages than to the tongue-in-cheek colloquial meaning that something "very medieval" is uninformed, uneducated, or unenlightened, an idea based upon generic (and extremely ill-informed) references to the medieval period as the Dark Ages. The Dursleys are "very medieval" in that they are, and insist that they remain, ignorant of the wizarding world, to the point that they try, especially Vernon Dursley, to stamp out its existence.

Further, Rowling's choice of words is precise. The Dursleys are medieval in their beliefs.

In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Petunia Dursley's response to

Dumbledore's Howler and her awareness of the magic protecting Harry's life attest to her awareness that magic is, indeed, very real.1 The Dursleys, therefore, can be accused of not only being embarrassed by magic, but also of fearing its existence. As Amanda Cockrell observes, "Coarse, pragmatic materialists the Dursleys are, but medieval they are also.

They believe in magic, and therefore fear it deeply" ("Harry Potter and the Witch

Hunters" 28).

Zipes is not the only critic to falsely accuse Rowling of inaccurately using medieval material. Both Edmund M. Kern and Alessandra Petrina, while providing, overall, more positive and thorough assessments of Rowling's works, note that she makes a basic error in her references to the witch-hunts of the early modern period by referring to them specifically as a medieval phenomenon. Indeed, the essay that Harry works on in

1 Earlier in the the Order (Chapter 2), Dumbledore sends Harry's aunt a Howler with the following message: "Remember my last, Petunia" (41). The effect is immediate. Despite Vernon's insistence that Harry leave the Dursley home (as punishment for what he thinks is an unwarranted attack by Harry on Dudley), Petunia recognizes Dumbledore's voice and firmly states, "the boy will have to stay" (41). In this moment, then, despite all of her criticism of Harry and denunciations of magic in general, Petunia recognizes the existence and dangers of the wizarding world; she accepts that Harry's life depends upon his ability to return to the Dursley home each year until he is of age. 262 the opening chapter of Harry Potter and the Prisoner ofAzkaban is supposed to be about medieval witch-hunts, which, as Kern points out, is an historical inaccuracy because the witch-hunts occurred primarily in the early modern period and peaked somewhere between 1580 and 1640 (185-86). Petrina similarly cites the same example as an instance in which Rowling's "handling of pointedly medieval material may appear lame" (98).

However, Kern and Petrina also argue that Rowling's use of myths and legends, including medieval myths and legends, are what make her narratives so appealing and effective.

Kern describes Rowling's work as "historical fantasy" (180) and suggests that ultimately, the tenets of antecedent narratives inform the Harry Potter series in an important way.

"Rowling," he writes,

takes up big issues rooted in the past and explores them in the present. . . .

She takes elements of very old tales, which have never really gone away,

and reshapes them for a present day audience that is eager (if only

unconsciously) to encounter them in new and contemporary contexts.

(189)

Likewise, Petrina favours the positive results of Rowling's use of antecedent materials over the slight historical errors the latter makes in her use of the medieval witch-hunt

2 In Prisoner (Chapter 1), Harry works on his summer homework, an essay based upon the topic "Witch-Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless" (7). As Kern notes, there were only "a small number of trials directed against those accused of sorcery in the earlier centuries, [though] the prosecution of presumed witches reached a new intensity and fervor by the fifteenth. . . . All told, scholars estimate, between 1435 and 1760, approximately one hundred thousand people became suspects in witchcraft trials" (185). For information on witchcraft and the witch trials, see, for instance, Robin Briggs's article ("Dangerous Spirits") or Richard Kieckhefer's study, European Witch Trials. 3 Such criticism overlooks the fact that Rowling's works are not intended to be historically accurate. Rather, they are fictional interpretations of aspects of figures of the Middle Ages. As pointed out earlier, they are a form of modern medievalism. reference. She argues that Rowling "does not strive for historical accuracy" (98); rather, she gleefully plunders "the enormous amount of material the 'medievalistic' tradition offers her," and draws upon sources such as "bestiaries, classical epic poems, [and]

Germanic lore" (98). Petrina also likens Rowling's Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find

Them to a medieval bestiary, and suggests that the text "represents a good instance of

Rowling's uninhibited ransacking of her sources" (98).4

The material that Rowling plunders is as much a source of interest to modern readers as the series itself. Harry Potter companion texts and compendiums, texts designed to help readers more fully appreciate the series (especially its settings, creatures, and characters), abound in bookstores and libraries as well as on the Internet.5 These

4 Rowling wrote Fantastic Beasts under the pseudonym Newt Scamander as a fundraiser for the charity Comic Relief. The text is one of the named textbooks used by students at Hogwarts within her series. Rowling has also confessed that she may or probably will eventually compile an Hogwarts encyclopedia, which, if she does, no doubt will be an interesting collection that expands upon the figures, myths and legends of Fantastic Beasts. See "The Final Chapter" for Rowling's comments on this future project. I am also aware of an article, by Gail Orgelfinger, that explores Rowling's use of medieval bestiaries in her series, although it is not yet available. The article, "J. K. Rowling's Bestiary," is forthcoming in Defining Medievalism (2009). 5 The Harry Potter Lexicon, for instance, a website created by Steve Vander Ark, offers an alphabetized list of characters, magical beasts, places, spells, and so forth. It is an invaluable resource for Potter fans and scholars; even Rowling herself has admitted to using the site to look things up (see , "Fan Sites"). However, the Lexicon has also been something of a hot topic in the press recently because of a court ruling in favour of J. K. Rowling and Warner Brothers that blocks Vander Ark and a small American publisher from releasing the web site's contents in print format. Vander Ark and Roger Rapoport (the publisher) plan to appeal the court's decision. The press is filled with numerous reports of the case. See, for example, the articles by Eligon or Askari, in the New York Times and Detroit Free Press, respectively. 264

resources often focus on magical, mythical, and legendary figures, particularly on unusual

figures from the classical and medieval periods.6

One of the earliest print companions, Allan Zola Kronzek and Elizabeth

Kronzek's The Sorcerer's Companion: A Guide to the Magical World of Harry Potter

(2001), provides an alphabetical list of items, ideas, and names, ranging from Amulet and

Arithmancy to Werewolf, Yeti, and Zombie. The volume, the Kronzeks write, reveals

"the wealth of real mythology, folklore, and history that shimmers just beneath the

surface" of the Harry Potter series (xiii). They confess, though, that it is limited primarily

to items that derive from the "Western magical tradition, which emerged from the ancient

empires of the Middle East, Greece, and Rome" (xiv). The Companion also includes a

comprehensive bibliography and interesting illustrations, including some reproductions of

early modern woodcuts depicting the werewolf and witches. Another companion text is

David Colbert's The Magical Worlds of Harry Potter: A Treasury of Myths, Legends, and

Fascinating Facts (2001). Similar to the Kronzeks, Colbert claims to "decode" Rowling's

language, especially her use of names, in order to reveal the "artfully hidden meanings"

of people, places, and things within the series (15). However, Magical Worlds uses

question-formatted chapter headings instead of alphabetical entries. To search the items within, one must ask questions such as "Which Is the Least Likely Magical Creature?"

(the Hippogriff) or "Who Really Wrote the Book on Divination?" (Cassandra Vablatsky).

6 While I have identified these volumes as "companion" texts, it is important to note that this is not a title or status endorsed by Warner Bros., Company, which owns the rights to the Harry Potter trademark. 265

The text's information, then, is more scattered in its presentation and, thus, less accessible than the Kronzeks' Companion.1

While the Companion and Magical Worlds identify the presence of medieval figures and motifs within the Harry Potter series, they are, primarily, catalogues or compendiums rather than analyses of Rowling's use of this information. Other works, exist, however, that attempt to move beyond mere cataloguing. In 2002, the International

Literary Conference included Harry Potter in its theme and title, "20th Century Fantasy

Literature: From Beatrix to Harry," as well as in its publication of the conference proceedings (under the same title). The conference proceedings include a paper by

Deborah Bice (who also edits the volume), "From Merlin to Muggles: The Magic of

Harry Potter, the First Book." Bice's paper considers Rowling's wizarding world a modern day parallel to the mythical world of Camelot, and the young Harry a parallel to the young King Arthur (35). The success of Rowling's Harry Potter series, Bice argues,

lies in its recognizable, recycled metaphysical representations and motifs.. .

These wondrous tales within their enchanting landscapes mesmerize

because they reintroduce heroes, villains, archetypes, and assorted

representations who embody the eternal quest for the metaphoric grail. (31)

Yet Bice's discussion of this parallel is, at best, superficial. She identifies figures, objects, and places, and explains briefly how they derive from the Arthurian world, but she never engages with the significance of these derivations. Her paper, then, falls short as a critical

7 Colbert followed up his first volume with a smaller text, The Hidden Myths in Harry Potter, which was released in July 2005. Hidden Myths has a large, colourful map of Britain and Western Europe. On the map are images of different mythical or historical people and figures. The map comes with a small volume that provides a brief explanation of each person or figure's name and history. work, and belongs instead in the compendium or catalogue genre exemplified by the

Companion and Magical Worlds.

More recent works contribute to both the trend of cataloguing and to the increased

discussion of these items. Kern's study includes a large number of list-like references to

sources that influence Rowling, both historical and mythological or legendary. He

identifies, among many examples, "the seventeenth-century guide to medicinal plants,

Culpeper 's Complete Herbal as Rowling's source for the names of "magical plants,

ingredients, and even characters" (181), as well as the romance-epic Orlando Furioso by

Ariosto (1474-1533), as Rowling's source for the character of Buckbeak and the species

of the Hippogriff (201). Petrina similarly provides a number of parallels between

medieval narratives and the series, and she pays particular attention to Rowling's use of

Arthurian legend, especially Arthurian settings that inform the spaces of the Harry Potter novels such as castles and forests. Rowling's depiction of Hogwarts castle and the adjacent Forbidden Forest, she argues, is replete with "complex Arthurianism" (101).

Both settings are liminal; they exist as the crossroads between the magical and the mundane, and are spaces crucial to the hero's development and eventual success. Petrina draws several parallels between Hogwarts with its Forbidden Forest and medieval romances such as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Chretien de Troyes's Erec et

Enide. For example, she suggests that the ceremony of feasting and the setting of the

Great Hall at Hogwarts evoke the high table and hall arrangement of Camelot, and thus identify Dumbledore and Arthur as kings in the respective realms. She also posits that

The Great Hall also, and, perhaps, moreso, reflects common boarding school practices and parallels settings from British school stories such as Tom Brown's School 267 the forest in particular is a dangerous space in which Harry meets "dangerous adventures, or particularly terrifying animals" as well as, more importantly, "his true self (105). As seen later in this section, the forest, along with the creatures that inhabit or are associated with it, is, indeed, influential in Harry's development.

Two other fairly recent articles, co-written by Heather Arden and Kathryn Lorenz, examine medieval antecedents for the Harry Potter series and, in doing so, establish

Rowling's indebtedness to the medieval romance tradition.9 More specifically, Arden and

Lorenz examine Harry alongside the French medieval romance heroes Perceval and

Guigemar. In their first article, "The Ambiguity of the Outsider in the Harry Potter Stories and Beyond," they emphasize Harry's position as an outsider, particularly his orphan status and his lightning-bolt scar, markers that connect and even, in some ways, identify him with Voldemort. These characteristics, Arden and Lorenz argue, separate Harry from others and give him "special status" (430). Their second article, "The Harry Potter Stories and French Arthurian Romance," extends this argument to the figure of Guigemar, another medieval knight. Harry's links to Perceval and Guigemar, they argue, lie in his outsider status and in Rowling's use of its associated themes. They write,

[m]any of these themes concerning the outside, in particular the movement

between two worlds, meeting with marvels and dangers, the importance of

the family, the hero's separation and return to his community, and the

hero's remarkable feat, are found in traditional tales about heroes,

Days. For information on the Harry Potter series as a school story, see, for instance, the studies by David K. Steege and Karen Manners Smith. 9 The fact that Rowling studied French and Classics at Exeter University is general knowledge, and is often considered the origin of her widespread repertoire of classical and medieval stories. 268

especially the romances of Celtic origin, such as the Arthurian romances.

(432)

Arden and Lorenz refer here to Joseph Campbell's monomyth, the separation-initiation- return phases that ultimately transform the protagonist of a story into a hero (or heroine).10 This pattern forms the narrative structure of each of the Harry Potter novels, as well as the narrative structure for thousands of other hero stories, including medieval romances such as Chretien de Troyes' Le Conte du Graal {The Story of the Grail), in which we meet Perceval, and Marie de France's lay Guigemar, in which we meet the hero of the same name.11

Yet, while Arden and Lorenz break new critical ground, their discussion relegates significant secondary characters (i.e., the "not Harries") to the periphery and perpetuates the tradition of focusing upon the hero. Secondary characters, however, are an integral part of the Harry Potter series precisely because they are peripheral, and because, like

Harry, they frequently fall into the category of social outsider. Harry learns about the world and about himself through his relationships with secondary characters.

"The standard path of the mythological adventure of the hero," Campbell explains, is a magnification of the formula represented in the rites of passage: separation-initiation-return: which might be named the nuclear unit of the monomyth. A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man. (30) 11 Indeed, it forms the basic narratorial framework of the werewolf narratives discussed in Chapters 3 and recalls van Gennep's and Turner's theories of rites of passage discussed in Chapters 2. 269

One such peripheral or secondary character is the werewolf. In fact, Rowling introduces two werewolves in her series: Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback. Lupin in particular plays an important role in Harry's development and eventual success against

Voldemort. More importantly, he forms the basis of Rowling's social critique, her subversion of exclusionary hegemonic systems. Like Harry, Lupin is an outsider and he is repeatedly ostracized by wizarding society for his physical and behavioural differences.

Rowling uses Lupin and Lupin's relationship with Harry to call into question social hierarchies that are based upon falsely constructed understandings of identity built upon categories of difference such as gender, race, and class. Further, Rowling constructs a series of interlaced communities within which the werewolf finds acceptance. These communities, culminating in the Order of the Phoenix, bring together individuals who share a position on the threshold of society through their choice to transgress the strictures of the cultural hegemony. Rowling takes the traditionally marginalized werewolf and renders him a social insider to a community of liminal characters, a community that, in its very formation and inclusiveness, subverts the insider-outsider system based upon

1 Rowling also mentions, briefly, a third werewolf in her series, in the Order of the Phoenix. Arthur Weasley, while in St. Mungo's hospital, is on the same ward as an individual who was recently bitten by a werewolf. When Mrs. Weasley discovers that one of the other patients is a werewolf, she becomes alarmed and questions whether it is safe for him to be in a public ward. Andrea Schutz suggests that Mrs. Weasley's reaction is an important one. "That it should be Molly Measley who reacts like this," she writes, is more telling: she is the ersatz-mother for all the lost and lonely, particularly Harry; generosity, protectiveness and deep affection are her chief characteristics. She also really respects Lupin. But she can utter a gross sensitivity like this and not even realize how much she (subconsciously) fears a man she knows and (consciously) trusts. (6nl 1) Overall, the nameless werewolf s role is minimal, but his presence highlights the negative attitude that wizarding society at large has towards werewolves overall. See the Order (Chapter 22), "St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries" (431-32) and the discussions that follow in this section. 270 categories of difference. Rowling continues to examine and question social hierarchies and concepts of identity through her second werewolf, who both contrasts and parallels

Lupin in his behaviour, his desires, and his status as an outsider. Although Greyback never achieves the type of inclusion he desires or the type of inclusion that Lupin finds, he reinforces Rowling's critique of exclusion based upon difference.

This chapter, then, examines Rowling's werewolf figures alongside their classical and medieval antecedents, while simultaneously explaining her adaptation of these sources in relation to the contemporary culture that her texts reflect and comment upon.

The first part of the chapter argues that Rowling blends classical and medieval werewolf narratives such as Ovid's "Lycaon" and Marie de France's "Bisclavret," not only with each other, but also with the folkloric tale of the Grim, in order to create an unique werewolf figure, Remus Lupin. The second part of the chapter argues that Rowling draws upon northern mythology in order to create another complex werewolf figure, Fenrir

Greyback. Both discussions demonstrate that, through these characters, Rowling, like her predecessors, negotiates concepts of identity and difference, particularly those connected to issues of violence and the boundaries between the human and the animal, through the peripheral figure of the werewolf. Ultimately, this chapter argues that Rowling plunders her classical and medieval sources in order to invent a new way of thinking for her readers. As Umberto Eco suggests, "The Middle Ages are the root of all our contemporary 'hot' problems, and it is not surprising that we go back to that period every time we ask ourselves about our origin" (65). A return to older periods and narratives, he argues, gives us greater understanding not only of that older period but also of our own.

Eco cites the early medieval philosopher and logician Boethius as an example of someone 271 who revisits the past to change the present or future. "Boethius," he writes, "is not repeating from memory the lesson of the past but is inventing a new way of culture" (75).

This remaking through rewriting is precisely what Rowling does. She uses her werewolf figures and narratives to effect change—to challenge accepted concepts of identity and difference, and to challenge readers' expectations and understandings of the world around them. In short, she invents "a new way of culture" (Eco 75). 272

4.2 Remus Lupin1

In Book 3 of the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Prisoner ofAzkaban,

Rowling foregrounds the figure of the werewolf through her character Remus Lupin.

Lupin, Rowling's first werewolf figure of the series, recalls aspects of the werewolf narratives and figures discussed in the first two sections of this dissertation, such as the

classical stories of the Arcadian king, Lycaon, or examples of the sympathetic werewolf,

such as Bisclavret and Guillaume de Palerne. Yet Lupin simultaneously confounds readers, for he does not fully conform to any one understanding of what the werewolf is or represents. Rowling not only combines classical and medieval antecedents to create her werewolf, but she also combines them with another well-known folkloric figure, the black dog (or the Grim). By creating a werewolf out of several different literary and folkloric antecedents, Rowling challenges readers' expectations, and, through her use of this shape- shifting figure, explores questions of identity. Lupin is closely tied to Harry through his status as a friend both of Harry's father and his godfather, and as a member of Order of the Phoenix. Further, he is inextricably linked to Harry's understanding of identity and

Much of the material in the following sections has been presented at conferences and, subsequently, published. I am grateful to both Andrea Schutz, with whom I shared a panel and many ideas, and to the audiences at the various conferences for the questions and comments while this material was a work in progress. I would also like to thank Gwendolyn A. Morgan (editor) and the journal The Year's Work in Medievalism for allowing me to reproduce material from my article "Remus Lupin and Community: The Werewolf Tradition in J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter Series." Rowling continually emphasizes shape-shifting and the contrast between appearances and reality throughout the series. For example, Hogwarts itself is an ever- changing environment with staircases that move, secret passages, and rooms that disappear or reappear in various guises, as they are needed. Likewise, the wizarding world is replete with individuals who have shape-changing abilities (such as Animagi and Metamorphmagi), as well as with magical spells and enchantments that enable one to change his or her appearance (such as Polyjuice Potion, invisibility cloaks, and disillusionment charms). 273

difference, and to Harry's understanding of social hierarchies that are based upon

categories of difference. Lupin is intrinsic to Harry's own developing sense of identity

and the communities that surround him. Through Lupin and his relationship with Harry,

Rowling calls into question cultural hegemonies based upon categories of difference such

as gender, race, ethnicity, and class that have traditionally ostracized those members of

society that, like the werewolf, display physical and/or behavioural differences.

4.2.1 Classical and Medieval Resonances

Lupin first appears in Harry, Ron, and Hermione's compartment on the Hogwarts

Express, where his physical appearance is suggestive of his identity as a werewolf and a

social outcast. He wears "an extremely shabby set of wizard's robes which had been darned in several places," and he looks "ill and exhausted" (Prisoner 59). Lupin bears the

signs of someone who lives a poverty-stricken life, one riddled with great strain and perhaps a severe and debilitating illness. His shabby robes are evidence of his poverty,

Indeed, Rowling herself suggests the importance of this aspect of Lupin's character. "He's a damaged person," she explains, "literally and metaphorically. I think it's important for children to know that adults, too, have their problems, that they struggle. His being a werewolf is really a metaphor for people's reactions to illness and disability" (qtd. in Kern 98). The association of Lupin's character with specific diseases, especially sexually transmitted diseases, has received some critical attention. See, for instance, Casey A. Cothran, who posits that through Lupin, "Rowling may be referencing ... the hidden and traumatic effects of a disease like AIDS. The fact that Lupin must take a complicated 'cocktail' of medications at frequent and regular intervals, just like real-life individuals who are undergoing treatment for HIV, furthers such conclusions" (127). Francois Suard makes a similar connection in his study of "Bisclavret" and other werewolf tales. He suggests, however, that the aggressive and cruel behaviours frequently associated with werewolves are "without a doubt a metaphor for sexual violence" ["cette violence ... est sans doute metaphore de la violence sexuelle"] (271, my translation). Interestingly, when I recently gave a paper on Fenrir Greyback and explored the undercurrents of sexual deviancy (discussed below) associated with his character, a member of the audience posited that similar connections or conclusions (specifically, the connections to HIV, AIDS, and to the often related area of homosexuality) could be while his physical condition suggests that he frequently suffers ill health. This image of

destitution plagues Lupin throughout most of the series. When he and a group of wizards

arrive at the Dursley household at the start of the Order, Lupin is again described as

looking "tired and ill; he had more grey hairs than when Harry said goodbye to him and his robes were more patched and shabbier than ever" (47). Lupin looks even worse at

Christmas of Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts: he is "thinner and more ragged-looking"

(Half-Blood Prince 309-10) than he has ever been. By Book 7, the image of an aged and destitute wizard comes to mind as soon as the reader sees Lupin's name in the opening chapter, and is reinforced when he visits Harry, Ron, and Hermione at #12 Grimmauld

Place, with a "prematurely lined face, framed in thick but greying hair" (Deathly Hallows

174).

A number of the figures described in the classical werewolf narratives of Chapter

2 share the scruffy or unkempt physique presented by Lupin, and, in all cases, this physique indicates some sort of behavioural difference that sets the characters apart from their respective societies. Both Aeschinas, in Theocritus's "Idyll 14," and Damon, the drawn for Rowling's second werewolf as they are for her first werewolf. It is an avenue of inquiry that, although beyond the scope of this project, deserves attention. 4 Lupin's dilapidated physical condition is also evocative of his identity as a werewolf because it suggests that his condition—or, more specifically, his attempts to control his condition—cause weaknesses in the rest of his system. Overall, Lupin's body is in a permanent state of imbalance that can be understood through classical and medieval understandings of phsyiology, particularly those outlined by the Greek biologist Galen (AD 129—c. 200). Galen posits that the body's health, or lack thereof, can be assessed and treated through an understanding of its "psychic pneuma" (Nutton 234). As Vivian Nutton explains, this pneuma is a "tripartite physiological system" that consists of "consciousness, sensation, and voluntary movement" (234). Galen's tripartite system recalls the Platonic and Aristotelean theories (discussed in Chapter 2) in which the soul is understood as having three parts: the nutritive, the animalistic, and the intellective, or rational. Indeed, as Nutton points out, the three parts can also be understood as the "animal, natural, and vital spirits" (304), an identification system that more closely resembles those of Galen's predecessors. companion of Alphesiboeus in Virgil's "Eclogue 8," are described has having long, shaggy hair.5 Aeschinas is also described as being pale, a characteristic that suggests he has some type of physical ailment. Aeschinas and Damon share an emotional condition that affects their physical condition: they are both lovesick.6 Subsequently, they neglect their physical health, their appearance, and their hygiene. Aeschinas's shaggy state arises from his desire to be more wolf-like so that he may re-woo a lost lover who is, according to the Idyll, a woman of sexual licentiousness. The former lover and her new beau, Wolf, are set apart from their community by their excessive sexual desires. In his attempts to regain his lost love, Aeschinas engages in behaviours that visibly set him apart from his community. Damon's condition also gestures towards behavioural difference, one again associated with improper sexuality. While Aeschinas loses a love to a more lupine character, Damon fails to gain one because of his unkempt appearance and, more significantly, because of his bestiality with goats. Although Lupin is not, himself, identified as sexually deviant, as are Aeschinas and Damon, he shares the physical characteristics that identify the former as different. Likewise, Lupin suffers from an emotional condition, though his condition is social rather than sexual. Lupin has an unrequited desire or longing for social acceptance. In an interview with Stephen Fry,

Rowling admits that this is Lupin's greatest desire as well as his greatest flaw. She

5 The unkempt and shaggy hair of these characters parallels the hirsuteness, or furiness, of Lupin's lupine form. In all instances, the excess of hair is associated with negative and excessive (and, therefore, animalistic, or non-rational) behaviours. For a discussion on the significance of hair or hairiness within the Galenic and Galenic-based medical systems of Antiquity, see Elizabeth C. Evans, "Physiognomies in the Ancient World." 6 The dilapidated appearances of Aeschinas and Damon also resonate in the character of Nymphadora Tonks, whose behaviour, physical appearance, and magical ability are drastically altered by her own love-sickness. A more detailed discussion of Tonks's condition appears later in this chapter. 276

remarks, "though he's a nice man and a wonderful teacher . . . Lupin's failing is he likes

to be liked. That's where he slips up—he's been disliked so often he's always pleased to

have friends so cuts them an awful lot of slack" ("Royal Albert Hall"). Lupin's desire for

acceptance and his repeated exile from society mars him physically; it contributes to his

poverty and to his physical dilapidation.

Lupin's greying hair similarly evokes the image of Lycaon in Ovid's

Metamorphoses, who transforms into a wolf with shaggy, grey hair (1.19). Unlike

Aeschinas and Damon, however, Lycaon's lupine form signifies sacrilege and bloodlust,

defiance of the gods, and cannibalism, rather than a deviant sexuality.7 Yet this behaviour

still, in Lycaon's world, is unacceptable, and it earns the king his lupine form. Lupin's

account of his physical transformation into lupine form furthers the connection to Lycaon

and also creates a bridge to medieval werewolves such as Melion and Gorlagon. Lupin

refers to his lupine self as a "fully fledged monster" {Prisoner 258), and evokes the pain

and terror of his monthly transformations:

[m]y transformations in those days—were terrible. It is very painful to turn

into a werewolf. I was separated from humans to bite, so I bit and

scratched myself instead. The villagers heard the noise and screaming and

thought they were hearing particularly violent spirits. (258-59)

Lupin's words suggest the physical suffering he undergoes during transformation. As he repeatedly inflicts pain upon himself, he recalls the cannibalism and violence of Lycaon,

Melion, and Gorlagon, werewolf figures that enact animalistic violence by viciously attacking and/or killing others and by committing cannibalism. Further, his comment

7 Yet, all of these behaviours are signs of an imbalance in which the rational soul is weakened and is overcome by animalistic desires. 277

upon the reactions of the villagers to the sounds coming from the Shrieking Shack

increases the sense of terror associated with his lycanthropy.

Yet Lupin also tells Harry that, when he was a student at Hogwarts, his monthly

retreat to the Shrieking Shack reduced the risk he presented to others when transformed

because it separated him "from humans to bite" (259). It is only because he is contained

within the Shrieking Shack that his violence—his biting and scratching—is acted out on himself rather than on innocent victims. Although he is prone to the same behaviours as his classical and medieval predecessors, Lupin avoids wreaking havoc upon innocents through his confinement. Instead, he turns his violence upon himself, thus breaking the

"sequence of invasion, metamorphosis, and fusion" (Jackson 58) that characterizes the werewolf myth. As Rosemary Jackson explains, in this sequence, "an external force

enters the subject, changes it irreversibly and usually gives it the power to initiate similar transformations" (58). Indeed, as Newt Scamander explains in Fantastic Beasts and

Where to Find Them, "Humans turn into werewolves only when bitten" (41). Lupin, then, through his repeated self-mutilation (his constant biting and scratching), redirects the threat he constitutes to others towards his own body in an act of self-cannibalism: he bites himself instead of new victims.

After another werewolf, Fenrir Greyback, attacks Bill Weasley, Lupin provides

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the Weasleys with additional information on the nature of

8 Dumbledore even encourages the Hogsmeade villagers to believe that "particularly violent spirits" inhabit the Shack in the hope that they will avoid the location and, therefore, ensure the safety of both themselves and Lupin {Prisoner 259). 9 Drawing upon Todorov's identification of two primary "fantastic themes, those dealing with the T and those dealing with the 'not-I,' or the 'other,'" Jackson identifies Bram Stoker's Dracula and other vampire narratives as exempla of this type of myth, the "source of metamorphosis external to self (59). Like the vampire, the werewolf becomes what he or she is through the bite of another like being. werewolf bites, and once again evokes classical werewolf narratives. Although

Greyback was not in lupine form when he attacked and bit Bill, he still transfers some

elements of his werewolfery to his victim. Lupin explains, first to Harry, Ron, and

Hermione, and then to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, that Bill has no doubt been contaminated.

"Those are cursed wounds," he says, "They are unlikely ever to heal fully" (Half-Blood

Prince 572). Lupin's choice of the word "cursed" suggests that Bill's wounds are an

irrevocable physical marker and burden that Bill must carry for the rest of his days; the wound is a sign of his participation in the war between the Order and Voldemort, one that reminds his fellow witches and wizards (as well as readers) of his connection to werewolves. Indeed, the permanence of Bill's wounds parallels the punishment of

Damaenetus, the pugilist described by Varro in Augustine's City of God, who (wittingly or not) commits cannibalism; as punishment for his sacrilege, Damaenetus is transformed into lupine form for a period often years. When he returns to human form, however, he retains characteristics of his lupine form such as agility and strength. Like Bill, he carries with him a permanent reminder of his encounter with werewolfery.

This chapter touches on Bill Weasley briefly, in a few places. However, Bill represents a type of human-werewolf hybrid different from the full werewolf figure of his friend and his attacker. Because he is not a fully-fledged werewolf further discussion of his character is not included in this dissertation. Such a study, though, is one of my future research plans. 1' Like Cain, or even Grendel, Bill is marked with a physical deformity or difference that should identify him as someone who has, somehow, sinned or transgressed a social norm. However, this is not the case. Rowling uses Bill's physical marker in the same way that she uses Lupin's character: to call into question readers' expectations about appearances and realities, and, thus, about identity. i -j The difference is, of course, that Damaenetus's permanent markers endow him with positive traits, while Bill's mark him as other or as different; they set him apart from other members of society. Bill survives Greyback's attack but becomes a liminal character like the werewolf because he is infected and because his face is not a fully human face. The choice of residence that he and Fleur make evokes his liminal status. The identification of Bill's wounds as a type of contamination or curse once again

recalls the impiety and cannibalism of the Arcadian king Lycaon.13 The fact that Bill's

wounds will never fully heal suggests that his face will remain a sort of bloody pulp—a

wounded or half-eaten piece of flesh similar to those created by the savagery of the

Arcadian king. Bill's cursed wounds create another connection to Lycaon because the

king, like Dama^netus, was punished for his sacrilege. Lycaon's impiety and cannibalism

result not only in the king's transformation into lupine form, but also in Jove's

condemnation of humankind. Lupin's description of Bill's wounds as a contamination or

curse are similar to Jove's description of humankind as a type of cancer, a disease that

must be scourged from the body of civilization as well as the earth if it cannot be cured or

reformed.

Lupin is not the only character in the series to evoke the connection between

werewolves in the wizarding world and the cursed werewolves of antiquity. In the

opening chapter of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Lord Voldemort's derogatory remarks about Lupin and Tonks echo Jove's speech about humanity. While mocking

Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy, who are now, through the marriage of their niece Nymphadora Tonks to Lupin, related to a werewolf, Voldemort says,

[m]any of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time. ...

You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those

Once married, the couple moves to Shell Cottage, which stands "alone of a cliff overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells and whitewashed. It was a lonely and beautiful place" {Deathly Hallows 406). 13 Both the physical deformity of Cain and the savagery of Melion and Gorlagon are likewise suggested here. 280

parts that threaten the health of the rest. ... [W]e shall cut away the canker

that infects us until only those of the true blood remain. (16-17)

Voldemort describes the newlyweds as a disease, as a cancer that must be cut out in order for the wizarding world to be pure. He considers Lupin, and Tonks by association, as impurities that must be eradicated in order to save society at large.14

Throughout the series, then, Lupin is closely associated with the savage and impious werewolves of antiquity through his physical appearance, his transformations, and his explanations of werewolfery to his companions. Moreover, these items mislead the reader; they suggest that Lupin is, in fact, like his classical counterparts. The reader expects Lupin, especially when he first appears in the Prisoner, to be like Lycaon— insane and savage. The reader expects him to become a bloodthirsty and violent beast at the full moon. Yet, he is not and he does not. Rowling toys with her readers, undermining their expectations of what Lupin is and how he will act in either human or lupine form.

Despite his many evocations of violent and bloodthirsty werewolves, Lupin ultimately displays a greater similarity to the medieval sympathetic werewolf. Although

Lupin informs Harry, Ron, and Hermione that his transformations render him a savage beast, the Lupin they know is more akin to Marie de France's werewolf, Bisclavret, or to the werewolves of Palermo (Guillaume and William). Despite his description of himself as a "fully fledged monster" {Prisoner 258), Lupin tells Harry, Ron, and Hermione that

Of course, in Voldemort's eyes, Tonks is a triple offender: not only does she marry Lupin, but she is also a member of the Order as well as the daughter of a muggle- born (and thus not a pure-blood) parent, Ted Tonks. Ted Tonks is tormented in Deathly Hallows because of his status as a muggle-born wizard and because he refuses to register as such. See, for example, the episode in the chapter entitled "The Goblin's Revenge" (especially 243). 281

the recent invention of the Wolfsbane potion allows him to resist the violent urges that

accompany his metamorphoses. He says,

[t]he potion that Professor Snape has been making for me is a very recent

discovery. It makes me safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week

preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I transform[.] ... I am able

to curl up in my office, a harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane

again. (258)

Under the influence of the Wolfsbane potion, Lupin retains his human mind and refrains

from engaging in normal werewolf activity, that is, in attacking and devouring other

human beings, or even, in his case, himself. Like the Shrieking Shack, the Wolfsbane

DOtion helos to contain Luoin's werewolferv. A A A --

The image of Lupin as a harmless wolf, curled up in his office, reminds the reader

of Bisclavret, who appears at the feet of his lord and who sleeps (presumably, because he

is a canine creature, in a similar curled up position) among the lord's knights. Moreover,

Lupin the harmless, sleeping werewolf recalls Bisclavret at his most vulnerable moment,

lying peacefully asleep on his king's bed.13 Lupin is, indeed, the modern counterpart to

Bisclavret in a number of ways. Like Bisclavret, Lupin has the ability (thanks to the

Wolfsbane potion) to retain his human mind despite his human form. Furthermore,

Lupin's transformations, like the medieval knight's, occur in private or secluded places.

Bisclavret transforms either in the woods, outside of society, or within the king's personal

15 Melion and Biclarel are also often reported to appear at the feet of their respective lords, or to curl up and sleep close to their lords (as discussed above, in Chapter 3). 282

bedchamber. Lupin transforms within the confines of the Shrieking Shack or his office— both personal and private spaces reflecting ideas of containment and control.16

Much like Bisclavret, Lupin is also frequently associated with justice. In Marie de

France's tale, Bisclavret attacks those that betray him: his wife and her lover. As seen in

Chapter 3, the werewolf-knight's behaviour in this episode is a sign of his rationality, of his humanity. The violence he enacts—his attack on the wife and her lover—is, as M. T.

Bruckner points out, "within the limits of human justice" (262) because it punishes those within the community that betray a social contract, specifically, the social contract of marriage. The knight's actions contribute to the lay's resolution of conflict because they inflict punishment upon the wife and her lover. Thus Bisclavret provides a type of mediation between the king and those who have behaved unacceptably; he identifies his wife and her lover, and ensures that they are brought to justice by the court. He both mediates for and acts on behalf of his king.

Lupin similarly works as a symbol of justice through both his calm and rational demeanour and his frequent role as the mediator in difficult situations. At the start of the

Order, Mrs. Weasley and Sirius have an explosive argument in the kitchen of #12

Grimmauld Place over whether or not Harry should be informed of what the Order of the

Phoenix is and what it does. Sirius wants to tell Harry everything and to include him in the Order; he argues that Harry is old enough and, more importantly, that "he's dealt with as much as most in the Order,. . . and more than some" (84). Mrs. Weasley accuses Sirius of being irresponsible and of confusing Harry with his late father, James. She feels that

16 Although we assume that Lupin undergoes transformation elsewhere, we are only ever privy to knowledge of his transformations within the Shrieking Shack and his office. The one exception to this is Lupin's transformation at the end of Prisoner, which I discuss later in greater detail. 283

Harry should not be given any information about the doings of the Order at all. Although

Mr. Weasley sides with Sirius and suggests that Harry should, at least, be given some information, Mrs. Weasley is not persuaded. Before she can continue her tirade against

Sirius, however, Lupin intervenes:

"Personally," said Lupin quietly, looking away from Sirius at last, as Mrs.

Weasley turned quickly to him, hopeful that finally she was about to get an

ally, "I think it better that Harry get the facts—not all the facts, Molly, but

the general picture—from us, rather than a garbled version from ...

others." (85)

Lupin makes a reasonable argument, a compromise of sorts, and Mrs. Weasley, who trusts his opinion, acquiesces.17 Harry's response to this episode reveals further information about Lupin. Harry recognizes that Lupin's wish for him to receive some information may arise from the belief that Harry is old enough and capable enough to be included in the Order. Yet Harry simultaneously recognizes that Lupin's opinion is also formed by the knowledge that Harry will get some version of the purpose and doings of the Order, regardless of whether or not its members provide that information directly to him. After Lupin speaks his opinion, Harry feels "sure that Lupin, at least, knew that some Extendable Ears had survived Mrs. Weasley's purge" (85). Of all of the adults,

Lupin is the only one astute enough to realize that, if the Order does not directly give

Harry information, he will more than likely get information that is inaccurate or

Lupin mediates again later in the book when Harry informs him and Sirius that he is no longer taking Occlumency lessons with Snape. Sirius, enraged that Snape is no longer willing to teach Harry, threatens to go to Hogwarts and "have a word" (592) with his fellow Order member. Lupin restrains Sirius and suggests that if anyone is going to speak to Snape, it should be him. 284 incomplete at best through other means such as using Fred and George Weasley's eavesdropping invention, Extendable Ears. Lupin's decision is thus informed by a desire for Harry to receive a portion of controlled and accurate information rather than "garbled" misinformation, the latter of which could lead Harry and his friends to act unnecessarily or irrationally. His intervention in this scene ultimately results in a compromise that is fair to the wishes and needs of both Mrs. Weasley and Harry.

In a manner similar to Marie de France, who insists throughout her lay that

Bisclavret is not the savage garvalf of Norman legend, Rowling repeatedly reminds the reader that Lupin is not the monstrous werewolf, that he is not, especially while in human form, savage. In fact, quite the opposite is true. Lupin frequently displays a high degree of rationality and pragmatism, even at a young age. Rowling reveals, in the Order, that

Lupin (like Ron and Hermione) received a Prefect's badge prior to his fifth year at

Hogwarts. Both Siruis and Lupin confirm that Lupin earned this post because of his reputation as a responsible student. Sirius remarks to Harry, "No one would have made me a prefect. I spent too much time in detention with James. Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge" {Order 155), and Lupin adds, "I think Dumbledore might have hoped I would be able to exercise some control over my best friends" (155). While Lupin confesses that he was unsuccessful in this endeavour (155), he does not deny that the

1 O t Indeed, we see the consequences of misinformation and mistrust more than once in the Order. Harry's failure to learn Occlumency leads to his mistaken conviction that Lord Voldemort captured and tortured Sirius. This in turn leads members of Dumbledore's Army to head out on a rescue mission to the Ministry of Magic, thus playing into Lord Voldemort's hand. Further, Dumbledore revealed to Harry at the end of the book that his own mistrust contributed to a series of events (resulting in the death of Sirius) that could have been avoided if he had only confided in Harry. 19 The irony here is, of course, that Lupin later reveals that in his last year at Hogwarts he behaved in an entirely irresponsible manner by roaming the school-grounds at night when transformed. Prefect's badge was given to him because he was a more responsible student than his peers or because he could act as role model for others.

Not only does Lupin display a high degree of responsibility, but he also keeps his composure in the most trying of situations. When, in the Prisoner, a Dementor moves into the compartment shared by Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Lupin on the Hogwarts

Express, Harry—drawn into the icy world of despair that surrounds and permeates the

Dementors—collapses. Lupin immediately and efficiently banishes the Dementor and then administers the appropriate treatment to a resuscitated Harry: chocolate. Lupin's actions subsequently earn him the approval of Madam Pomfrey, the school matron. When

Harry informs her after the Dementor episode that Lupin has already given him some chocolate, Madam Pomfrey remarks, "So we've finally got a Defence Against the Dark

Arts teacher who knows his remedies" {Prisoner 70). Lupin also maintains a calm and collected demeanour when harried by Peeves, the school poltergeist, even though Peeves ridicules him with a nickname "loony, loopy, Lupin" (99) that comes dangerously close to revealing Lupin's identity as a werewolf. Instead of being ruffled by Peeves's taunts,

Lupin smiles and gives the poltergeist some sage advice about how he should avoid upsetting the caretaker, Filch. Indeed, Andrea Schutz argues that this episode highlights how completely calm and rational Lupin is. "Most adults," Schutz writes, "are irritated by Peeves—Filch is easily rendered apoplectic. Yet Lupin turns a humiliating and potentially dangerous taunt into a very satisfying teaching moment, instead" (9nl5).

In her conference paper "Beings and the Beast: Free Will, Destiny and Contagion for Animagi and Werewolves," Schutz makes a compelling argument for Lupin's status as a rational "being" over his status, as a werewolf, as a mere "beast." Schutz argues that Lupin's choices throughout the series (up to Book 6), bestow an identity upon him that is far greater and more meaningful than the identity which has Lupin refuses to be angered by Peeves, a feat that even the stern and composed Professor

McGonagall frequently fails to achieve.21 Lupin's ability to control his irritation (the

emotions of his animal soul, especially those that might reveal his identity, such as fear)

parallels his ability to control, to a degree, his physical transformations and his actions

while in lupine form. His restraint is both physical and psychological: he confines himself

to the Shrieking Shack or to his office and with the Wolfsbane potion, and he maintains

an almost impervious demeanor, one that gives away nothing of his actual emotional

state. He is the epitome of self-control.

been given to him by the majority of wizarding society, that of the "beast" or savage werewolf. 21 Professor McGonagall appears to express an increasing amount of frustration with Peeves as the series progresses. In the first two books, McGonagall expresses only low levels of irritation towards Peeves. In Philosopher's Stone, for example, when McGonagall introduces Harry to Oliver Wood (captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team), she "barked" "Out, Peeves!" to the poltergeist, indicating that she required an empty classroom in which to talk to Harry and Oliver (112). The same language ("barked") describes her interactions with Peeves in the Chamber (152), even though the circumstances in this episode are dire (this is the episode in which Justin Finch-Fletchley is found petrified). By the Goblet, however, McGonagall openly expresses anger towards Peeves. When the students first arrive at Hogwarts, Peeves bombards them in the Entrance Hall with water balloons. McGonagall yells at Peeves in "an angry voice" and shouts at him that she will call the Headmaster (GF 153). In fact, Dumbledore is the only person besides Lupin who manages to remain calm, whatever Peeves's antics may be. See, for instance, "Flight of the Fat Lady" in Prisoner, when students find the Fat Lady's portrait ripped to shreds. Peeves hovers above the crowd gathered in front of the entrance to the Gryffindor tower, taking delight in "wreckage or worry" (121) below him. Although the poltergeist would rather exacerbate the situation, Dumbledore remains calm, and his response actually deflates Peeves's antagonistic behaviour (121). 22 Amy M. Green argues that Lupin is confined by "propriety and passivity" (87) and considers the self-control that he repeatedly displays to be, instead, "lack of agency and [a] passive-aggressive nature" (99). His greatest shortcoming, she suggests, "lies in his ability to stand up for himself, and his lycanthropy becomes the means by which Rowling expresses the dichotomy of the character. Remus is more than just exceptionally polite: his civility and deference to others borders on domestication" (100). Overall, Green makes a number of useful observations. However, her insistance the Lupin is a character to be understand as dual or, more specifically, as passive overlooks the Another parallel between Bisclavret and Lupin exists in their relationships with

figures of authority. Bisclavret is bound to his king and shares the reciprocal relationship

of a knight and his lord. Lupin shares a similar relationship with Dumbledore.

Dumbledore makes it possible for Lupin to attend Hogwarts: he accepts him as a student

despite his werewolf status, and installs the Whomping Willow and the Shrieking Shack

in order that Lupin may transform in safety. Dumbledore's endowment of Hogwarts and

the Shrieking Shack upon Lupin equals the endowment of a fiefdom that the medieval

king would bestow upon his knight. In return, both the medieval king and Dumbledore

receive a type of service. Bisclavret's service to his king is martial—as a knight, the

werewolf enters combat on his king's behalf whenever necessary. Lupin's service to

Dumbledore is the same.

Lupine serves Dumbledore in several ways. First, he re-enters society after a prolonged period of marginalized existence to take up the difficult post of Defence

Against the Dark Arts teacher.23 Second, he contributes to the Order of the Phoenix.24 At the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Dumbledore, despite Cornelius Fudge's protestations and denials, recognizes that Lord Voldemort has, indeed, returned. He immediately takes action to reassemble the Order, his inner circle of strategists and counsellors that will advise him as the wizarding world enters a period of war.25 Lupin is

complexity of his character as well as the importance of his ability to choose and the choices he makes while in lupine form, as discussed in this chapter. As explained below, Lupin's time as a teacher at Hogwart's has profound meaning for Harry. 4 The Order of the Phoenix reinforces the connections between Rowling's series and medieval narratives or contexts because it recalls the confraternities such as the Order of the Garter. The Order parallels Voldemort's own inner circle of followers, the Death Eaters, though the latter's relationship with his followers is extremely different than that 288 included in this inner circle, and his home is actually where the members of the Order gather and wait for further instruction. Dumbledore requests that Sirius "set off at once" and "alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher—the old crowd" {Goblet

628). He tells Sirius to gather these people together and "Lie low at Lupin's for a while, I

Oft will contact you there" (628). Rowling reveals in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood

Prince that Lupin has been working as a spy for Dumbledore, infiltrating an underground werewolf society. He tells Harry, "I've been underground,. . . Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was . . . ready-made" (313). Moreover, Lupin recognizes that this is the most appropriate service he can provide for the Order. Despite the slightly bitter tone to his voice, he reassures Harry, "I am not complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it better than I?" (313). Lupin willingly undertakes the mission despite the fact that it puts his own life at risk, and, in doing so, fulfills his side of the reciprocal relationship with

Dumbledore. The closeness of the bond between Dumbledore and Lupin is highlighted when Lupin overhears that the headmaster has been killed. When Ginny informs Ron that

Dumbledore is dead, Lupin cries out:

"No!" Lupin looked wildly from Ginny to Harry, as though hoping the

latter might contradict her, but when Harry did not, Lupin collapsed into a

chair beside Bill's bed, his hands over his face. Harry had never seen

Lupin lose control before; he felt as though he was intruding upon

something private, indecent. (Half-Blood Prince 572-73) between Dumbledore and the Order members. Dumbledore's inner circle provides counsel and strategic planning; Volemort's inner circle, however, is more a group of operatives. The members enact Voldemort's will rather than advise him. Dumbledore's reference to "the old crowd" also reminds us that this is not the first time that the Order has convened and that wizarding society has been at war. 289

This is Lupin as Harry, indeed, as readers have never seen him before—unrestrained or uncontrolled—and it is disquieting. As Harry's response suggests, this is a side of Lupin that others are not supposed to see.

Lupin loses control because he is now, like the forest-bound werewolves of the medieval narratives, a knight without a lord, a military force without a leader. This is a

stark contrast to Lupin as he usually appears in the series—as a "rational and calm, quiet and controlled" individual (Schutz 9)—yet it is not surprising. When Dumbledore dies,

Lupin loses someone "who has seen his capacity for both control and violence, and who trusts the control more than the danger" (10). Lupin grieves for the loss of a friend as well as for the loss of a person who gives him a place and a purpose in society.

As the above passage also suggests, Lupin looks to Harry for confirmation of

Dumbledore's death. His need for Harry, rather than any other member of the Order, to confirm Dumbledore's death, suggests that Lupin looks to Harry as a potential replacement for the now deceased Headmaster, and, in doing so, reminds both Harry and the reader that, despite his usual calm and rational demeanour, the potential for violence and loss of control still resides within him. Lupin makes his potential for violent behaviour evident in Deathly Hallows when he asks Harry, Ron, and Hermione to confide in him what their mission is. When Harry replies that they cannot do this, Lupin says, "I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to" (174). In a move that echoes his previous relationship with Dumbledore, Lupin offers Harry his services, reminding him that he has, within him, the capacity for extreme violence, and can use that violence as a tool in order to protect Harry and his companions. Just as the medieval knight occupies a liminal social position, one balanced between provider of justice (order) and perptrator of violence (chaos), so, too, does Lupin. He

represents, as does Bisclavret, the potential for "unabated violence" (Leshock 172). In this, Lupin also resembles Melion, for it is the authority figure that keeps the werewolf s

excess in check. While in contact with his King, Arthur, and the king's court, Melion's

violence is curbed and acted out in appropriate manners; while away from the king and the society of the court Melion becomes uncontrollable and enacts excessive violence.

Similarly, while connected to Dumbledore, Lupin remains in check; his violence is

curbed by means such as the Shrieking Shack and the Wolfsbane potion, as well as by

Lupin's own desire to be included and accepted. When Lupin seeks to replace

Dumbledore with Harry, Harry continues this tradition; he refuses Lupin the opportunity to join the mission in the capacity of a perpetrator of violence. Instead, he reinforces

Lupin's rationality and reminds him of his duties as a husband and a father. Harry, like

Dumbledore, prevents Lupin from becoming the fully-fledged monster he once declared himself to be.

4.2.2 The Werewolf and the Grim

Lupin's character, while closely connected to classical and medieval werewolf figures, also has strong ties to the folkloric figure of the black dog, or the Grim. In a manner similar to her blending of classical and medieval antecedents, Rowling uses the folkloric figure of the Grim to further confound readers' expectations and understandings of the werewolf. Neither the werewolf nor the black dog is what it at first appears to be.

In the opening chapters of the Prisoner, Rowling's description of Sirius Black identifies him, more so than Lupin, with the savage and bloodthirsty werewolf Lycaon or 291

with the uncontrolled werewolves Melion and Gorlagon. He first appears on the evening

news as a "gaunt face ... surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle" of hair (18), an

image repeated when he appears in the Daily Prophet as "a sunken-faced man with long,

matted hair" (33). In addition, the Daily Prophet states that he is "mad. He's a danger to

anyone who crosses him" (33). This is precisely how Harry, Ron, and Hermione interpret

Sirius when they first meet him in the Shrieking Shack. After the black dog drags Ron

and Scabbers under the Whomping Willow and through the tunnel into the Shack, he

transforms. Harry and Hermione follow and are shocked when they find Ron in the Shack

with Sirius; Harry turns on Sirius and encounters the same man he has seen in the news, a

man with

[a] mass of filthy, matted hair [that] hung to his elbows. If eyes hadn't

been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse.

The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked

like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a grin. {Prisoner 248)

Sirius's appearance here shares features with Lupin's appearance when Harry, Ron, and

Hermione first encounter him on the train, although taken to the extreme in Sirius's case: both have long, unkempt hair, both have pale skin, and both exhibit an overall state of physical dilapidation. 7 In fact, Sirius's appearance in this scene brings images to mind of the violent and bloodthirsty werewolves discussed above and in the earlier chapters of this dissertation, far more so than any episode concerning Lupin.

Sirius's appearance suggests that, like Lupin, his vital energies are being expended by the animalistic aspects of his being, especially those concerned primarily with survival. 292

Yet Sirius's appearance also aligns him directly with the Grim, a figure with an

extensive background, primarily in folklore. Associated with liminal spaces such as

crossroads, gateways, hollow trees, and other places that "can be seen as passages

downwards to the World of the Dead," the Grim is often interpreted as a harbinger of

death (Brown 47). Sirius's appearance evokes this connection; his deep, dark eyes and

corpse-like physique render him almost skeletal. Indeed, the description above, which

suggests that he is so emaciated that his head resembles a skull, makes the connection explicit. Moreover, when Harry sees Sirius in his Grim form, he usually sees him at night, in the shadows, in laneways, or on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, places that have connections to darkness and, potentially, death.

The first time Harry encounters the Grim is after he has fled Privet Drive. He feels rather than sees that he is being watched as he stands on the side of the road searching his trunk. Harry feels "A funny prickling on the back of his neck," and, when he finally illuminates his wand, he sees, between the house wall and garage of number two Privet

Drive, "the hulking outline of something very big, with wide, gleaming eyes" {Prisoner

30). Although he does not know what exactly he sees—he tells Stan Shunpike that he may have seen a large dog—the event creates a degree of fear and anxiety in Harry.

Several days later, Harry enters Flourish and Botts in Diagon Alley and finally discovers what it is he has seen when he comes across the book Death Omens: What to Do When

You Know the Worst is Coming. On the cover of the book is a picture of the Grim.

Distracted, Harry makes his purchases, but quickly retreats to his room at the Leaky

The prickling on the back of Harry's neck, his goosebumps, evoke that age-old saying that, when you get a shiver or a chill (things that similarly create goosebumps), someone has just walked over your grave. 293

Cauldron, trying to calm himself by insisting, out loud, that he has not seen a death omen

{Prisoner 46-47).

Unfortunately, Lord Voldemort's previous attempts to kill Harry prevent him from truly believing that he has not seen a death omen. Further, Harry's relationship to

Voldemort encourages others to believe what Harry himself tries to deny. When Professor

Trelawney reads the tea leaves in the bottom of Harry's tea cup, she sees the Grim and predicts his death {Prisoner 82). The fact that Professor McGonagall assures Harry that the prediction is meaningless, by pointing out that Trelawney predicts the death of at least one student per year, does very little to assuage Harry's fears. In fact, the only student who appears to be unmoved by Trelawney's prediction is Hermione.

The Grim continues to haunt Harry throughout his third year at Hogwarts. It appears in the bleachers at the Quidditch match just prior to Harry's second encounter with Dementors. After Harry ends up in the hospital wing after a bad fall from his broom, he concludes that the two events must be connected and that the Grim does, indeed, portend his death. He considers the evidence and concludes that

it [the Grim] had now appeared twice, and both appearances had been

followed by near-fatal accidents; the first time he had nearly been run over

by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from his broomstick. Was

the Grim going to haunt him until he actually died? Was he going to spend

the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast? {Prisoner 237)

Harry espies the Grim again on Hogwarts property, late at night at the edge of the

Forbidden Forest in the company of none other than Hermione's cat, Crookshanks (224). 294

Yet, although the sight of the Grim in Crookshanks's company leads him to question whether or not it is truly a Grim, it is not enough fully to eradicate his fears.

Harry encounters the Grim one more time before he meets Sirius, and this encounter reinforces his belief that it is somehow connected to death. As Harry, Ron, and

Hermione make their way back up to the castle after Buckbeak's narrow escape from execution, Ron's rat Scabbers struggles to get free. In the confusion surrounding Ron's attempts to subdue Scabbers, "Something was bounding towards them out of the dark— an enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog" (245). The dog pounces on Harry, knocking him to the ground and leaving him winded. As he falls to the ground, Harry feels "its hot breath" and sees its "inch-long teeth" (245). As he struggles to his feet, the dog attacks his companions, specifically Ron. At this point in the narrative, both Harry and the reader are convinced that this is the Grim and that it is absolutely connected to Harry and his imminent death. When Harry discovers that the Grim is, in fact Sirius Black in Animagus form, he is even more convinced that the black dog (even if not an actual Grim) portends his death because he believes that Sirius betrayed his parents to Lord Voldemort and then killed thirteen innocent people in an effort to escape. Everyone in the wizarding world, including Harry, believes that Sirius's remaining wish is to kill Harry Potter, the boy who lived. Despite being an Animagus rather than a folkloric figure, Sirius is still the Grim; he still, in this moment, portends Harry's death. Or so readers think.

In the moment when both Harry and the reader are most convinced about the identity of the Grim, Rowling turns everything upside down. As events unfold within the

Shrieking Shack, the reader, along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, discovers that it was actually Peter Pettigrew, not Sirius, who betrayed James and Lily Potter to Lord Voldemort. Further, Rowling reveals that Sirius is not actually after Harry; he is after

Pettigrew, who has been hiding in his Animagus form of a rat for the past thirteen years.

Finally, after the truth has been told, Sirius reveals to Harry that he is, in fact, his godfather. While in his Animagus form, Sirius has been acting as a Grim of sorts, but not the Grim that portends death. The folkloric figure of the Grim can also be interpreted as a warning that "only manifests itself visually at times of crisis—death, danger, illness"

(Brown 53), as well as a protector figure of graveyards and dead souls (Kronzek and

Kronzek 97). The association of the Grim with protection and warning is less common, but it exists nonetheless. Sirius has been operating as a protector figure—he is Harry's godfather after all—not as an omen of death.31 While he does, at different stages of the story, embody both roles, harbinger of death and protector figure, it is only the interpretations of the characters and the reader that separate the two. As the book progresses, Rowling manipulates the tradition of the Grim, mingling it with the tradition of the werewolf while simultaneously drawing upon its own dual nature in folklore.

The Grim is often referred to specifically as a Church Grim, "a guardian of dead souls that in England takes the form of a big, shaggy, black dog with fiery eyes.... According to English tradition, the church grim bears the heavy responsibility of protecting a graveyard from the Devil and witches" (Kronzek and Kronzek 97). Sirius's identity as a protective Grim foreshadows his presence and role in Book 7, when Harry faces his own death. Katherine Briggs includes several examples of "A Good Black Dog" in her "Black Dogs" entry for the Dictionary of British Folk-Tales (especially 13-14). 31 Ironically, it is Sirius who finds death in a later volume when he tries to protect Harry and is struck by a spell from Bellatrix Lestrange and then falls through the veil {Order 710-11). This death, however, was the subject of much speculation amongst readers. Any web search on the topic will reveal countless chat rooms and note boards where the consensus was that Sirius was not truly dead. However, the release of Book 7 confirmed that Sirius Black is truly dead since he appears, along with James and Lily Potter and Remus Lupin, when Harry uses the Resurrection Stone prior to his encounter with Lord Voldemort. This episode will be discussed more fully, below. Ultimately, she confuses not only her characters' expectations of who Sirius Black and

Remus Lupin are, but those of her readers as well.

The Prisoner is not the only book in the series in which Rowling creates confusion between Sirius and Lupin. Rowling misleads her characters and readers again in the Half-Blood Prince. When Harry first arrives at The Burrow with Dumbledore,

Tonks is in the kitchen with Mrs. Weasley. Harry immediately notices that she looks

"drawn, even ill, and there was something forced in her smile. Certainly her appearance was less colourful than usual without her customary shade of bubblegum-pink hair" (82).

When Harry and Dumbledore arrive, Tonks leaves, but not before thanking Mrs. Weasley for the "tea and sympathy" (82). In later episodes, Harry encounters Tonks and notices a continued change in character. After Tonks finds Harry on the departing Hogwarts

Express, stunned and covered by his Invisibility Cloak, he reflects on the severity and the cause of her new persona:

[l]ast year she had been inquisitive (to the point of being a little annoying

at times), she had laughed easily, she had made jokes. Now she seemed

older and much more serious and purposeful. Was this all the effect of

what had happened at the Ministry? He reflected uncomfortably that

Hermione would have suggested he say something consoling about Sirius

to her, that it hadn't been her fault at all, but he couldn't bring himself to

doit. (151 )32

Harry reflects upon the changes in Tonks more than once in this episode. When she first uncovers him on the train, he notes that "she was as mousy-haired and miserable looking as she had been when he had met her at The Burrow" {Half-Blood Prince 150). Just prior to this, as the two of them approach the school gates, Tonks sends off a

Patronus to alert Hagrid of their presence. Harry, who has never seen Tonks's Patronus, notices that it is "an immense silvery four-legged creature" (150). It is only when Snape

arrives to let them into the grounds that he discovers that this is a new Patronus for Tonks.

Although the meaning of the new Patronus is not initially apparent to Harry, it is not lost

on Snape, who tells Tonks that she was "better off with the old one. . . . The new one

looks weak" (153).

During the Christmas Holiday at The Burrow, Harry's suspicions about Tonks's new persona and Patronus take a more definitive form. When Mrs. Weasley asks Lupin if he has heard from Tonks, Lupin says no, and suggests that Tonks must be spending

Christmas with her family. Mrs. Weasley retorts that she thinks Tonks is actually

spending Christmas alone, and while saying this, gives Lupin "an annoyed look" (319).

This exchange reminds Harry about Tonks's new Patronus, and he proceeds to ask Lupin about it. Lupin, however, seems almost reluctant to answer. He chews and swallows his turkey, then says slowly, "Sometimes ... a great shock ... an emotional upheaval. . ."

(319). Harry explains the size and shape of Tonks's new Patronus, and is then "struck by a sudden thought" (319). He says quietly to Lupin, "Hey,... it couldn't be—?" (319).

Although Harry is not able to finish his thought or question because of the arrival of

Percy and the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, the direction of his thought is clear to the reader because of Harry's earlier concern that Tonks's grieves for Sirius. Harry believes that Tonks's new Patronus has taken the shape of Sirius's Animagus form, the black dog. Rowling provides subtle messages to the reader that this is not actually the case, however. In the early sequence at The Burrow, Mrs. Weasley tries to convince Tonks to join the Weasley family for dinner on the weekend by mentioning that both Mad-Eye and

Lupin will also be there.33 Tonks refuses. Although Harry assumes that the look of annoyance Mrs. Weasley shoots Lupin has more to do with Bill's decision to marry Fleur

(319), its connection to her questions and statements concerning Tonks, which are directed at Lupin, are not lost on the reader. Yet a later episode in the book suggests otherwise, and the reader is not sure which character (or four legged creature—the werewolf or the Grim) Tonks's new Patronus represents.

When back at Hogwarts, Harry encounters Tonks while she is wandering the halls of the castle looking for Dumbledore. She tells Harry that she wants to see Dumbledore because she heard that there had been some attacks.34 She next asks Harry if he has heard from anyone in the Order. He replies that "[n]o one from the Order writes to me any more,. . . not since Sirius—" (436), but stops mid-sentence when he notices that Tonks's

"eyes had filled with tears" (436). Harry attempts to make some consoling remarks to

Tonks about Sirius, but they go unnoticed by her, and she turns and wanders off. Shortly thereafter, Harry finally confirms his suspicions. "I had a thought," he asks Ron and

Hermione, "You don't think she can have been . . . you know ... in love with Sirius?"

(438). He explains the reason for his suspicions: "she was nearly crying when I

33 Mad-Eye's presence should be appealing to Tonks. Although an Auror herself, Tonks has only been in the position for a short time and has become a protege of Mad- Eye, with whom she is quite close. 34 Rowling reveals, several pages later (Half-Blood Prince 442), that there have been attacks. More significantly, she reveals that those attacks have been by the werewolf Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf that bit Remus Lupin and transferred werewolfery to him. It is not just the attacks that worry Tonks, but also the identity of the attacker and the nature of the attacks. She fears that Greyback has, again, targeted Lupin. 299 mentioned his name ... and her Patronus is a big four-legged thing now. ... I wondered whether it hadn't become . .. you know . .. him" (438). It is a plausible explanation— indeed, a convincing one—and it is not until the end of the book that both Harry and the reader discover that it is, however, an incorrect explanation.

After the attack of the Death Eaters and the death of Dumbledore, the members of the Order gather in the hospital wing around the bed of Bill Weasley. Mrs. Weasley and

Fleur have a brief altercation over Bill's condition and the future of his marriage to Fleur, and it is then that the truth about Tonks is revealed. When Fleur insists that she loves and will marry Bill regardless of the wounds he has suffered, Tonks looks directly at Lupin and challenges him. "You see!" she cries, "She [Fleur] still wants to marry him [Bill], even though he's been bitten! She doesn't care!" (582). Lupin, however, protests, claiming that Bill's situation is entirely different from his own. He says, "I've told you a million times,... that I am too old for you, too poor . .. too dangerous ..." (582). As if to justify his words, he then tells Mrs. Weasley that "Tonks deserves somebody young and whole" (582). The reader realizes that the earlier subtle hints were more accurate than

Harry's suspicions, and Harry finally understands the reasons for Tonks's down-cast appearance and her new Patronus. She is in love with Lupin, not Sirius, and grieves, not for her lost cousin, but for Lupin, who has denied her his love.

The confusion between Sirius and Lupin in the Half-Blood Prince is not the last time that Rowling misleads her reader; confusion regarding Lupin's character also exists

Harry finally puts all of the pieces together in this moment: "the meaning of Tonks's Patronus and her mouse-coloured hair, and the reason she had come running to find Dumbledore when she heard a rumour someone had been attacked by Greyback, all suddenly become clear to Harry; it had not been Sirius that Tonks had fallen in love with after all..." {Half-Blood Prince 582). in the last book of the series, Deathly Hallows. Rowling creates the foundation for the confusion in Deathly Hallows, however, in the Half-Blood Prince during the chapter "A

Very Frosty Christmas." While members of the Order are gathered at the Weasley residence for the holiday, Harry confides in Mr. Weasley about a conversation he overheard between Draco Malfoy and Snape. Harry is convinced that the Malfoys, especially Draco, are up to something and that Snape is somehow involved despite being a member of the Order. Mr. Weasley assures Harry that nothing illicit has been uncovered about the Malfoy family, and suggests that Snape is "pretending" to ally himself with Draco. Harry remains unconvinced, and continues to challenge Mr.

Weasley. Eventually, Lupin joins the conversation and points out thai, if Dumbledore trusts Snape, they should all trust Snape (311). At this, Harry appeals to Lupin's personal experiences with Snape in an effort to garner some mistrust of the Potions Professor. He asks Lupin if he "honestly" likes Snape, to which Lupin replies:

I neither like nor dislike Severus. . . . No, Harry, I am speaking the truth. . . .

We shall never be bosom friends, perhaps; after all that happened between

James and Sirius and Severus, there is too much bitterness there. But I do not

forget that during the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the Wolfsbane

Potion for me every month, made it perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as

I usually do at the full moon. (312)

This suspicion is, of course, one that persists throughout the series. Harry and Ron (Hermione rarely doubts Snape's trustworthinesss) frequently assume that Snape is trying to kill Harry and that, despite Snape's allegiance to the Order, he is still a Death Eater at heart. In the final chapters of Deathly Hallows, however, Rowling reveals just how wrong Harry, Ron, and other members of the Order have been about his loyalty to Dumbledore, to the Order, and even to Harry. When Harry points out that Snape was the one that "let it slip" that Lupin was a werewolf, Lupin responds, "The news would have leaked out anyway. We both know he wanted my job, but he could have wreaked much worse damage on me by tampering with the Potion. He kept me healthy. I must be grateful" (312).

When Snape kills Dumbledore at the end of the Half-Blood Prince, Harry's

suspicions appear to be confirmed. Further, the reader, like the members of the Order,

questions whether or not Dumbledore's judgement of Snape was sound. Subsequently,

Lupin's trust in Snape comes into question. When Deathly Hallows opens, Lupin's ambiguous feelings toward Snape, or at least his failure outwardly to loathe or dislike his colleague, calls his own character into question. When the Order moves Harry from

Privet Drive, they are ambushed by a large number of Death Eaters who appear to have known when Harry would be moved. As members rendezvous at The Burrow, they question each other, not only to ensure that they are actually who they appear to be, but also because they are all aware that someone within the group has betrayed them to Lord

Voldemort and his followers. Lupin himself says to Harry, after checking his identity,

"We've been betrayed. Voldemort knew that you were being moved tonight and the only people who could have told him were directly involved in the plan. You might have been an impostor" (63). Harry denies that anyone in the Order would have betrayed the plan to move him, but clearly someone has done just this.

As the other members of the Order arrive, Lupin takes control; he assumes a leadership position in the discussions that follow as they all bemoan the loss of Mad-Eye Moody and the disappearance of Mundungus Fletcher. When Harry insists, again, that none of the Order would have betrayed him, Lupin looks at him with an "odd expression," one that is "close to pitying" (72). Harry suggests that Lupin thinks he is a fool, but Lupin replies, "No, I think you're like James,... who would have regarded it as the height of dishonour to mistrust his friends" (72). Lupin's odd expression and comment to Harry instills a sense of mistrust in the reader, for it was not that long ago that Harry and Lupin's roles were reversed, when Lupin insisted to a disbelieving Harry that Snape should be trusted. Lupin's judgement has (the reader thinks) been proven unsound by his faith in Snape, and his insistance that there must actually be a spy within the Order suggests that perhaps he knows more than he is letting on. This episode, coupled with the fact that Lupin has already confessed to Harry that he remains grateful to Snape, suggests that the two (Lupin and Snape) may have been more closely aligned than anyone realized.

Although nothing definitive can be discerned about Lupin at this point, a later episode in Deathly Hallows again suggests that Harry and the reader alike should be wary of Lupin, that he is possibly the spy. While Harry, Ron, and Hermione take refuge at # 12

Grimmauld Place and plan their infiltration of the Ministry, Lupin appears with news of the outside world. At first, he does just this—he updates them on the actions of Lord

Voldemort, his followers, and the Ministry of Magic—but he then arouses Harry's suspicions (as well as the readers' suspicions) by trying to get Harry to tell him about the mission that Dumbledore left him. Lupin's immediate offer to accompany Harry, Ron, and Hermione when Harry refuses to reveal to him the nature of the mission increases

Lupin's behaviour in this episode provides further evidence that Green's assessment of him as a passive character is rather limited. their suspicion of him. When Hermione asks about Lupin about Tonks, he remarks that

she is at her parents' house, where she will be "perfectly safe" (174). He seems almost

indifferent to Tonks, who is now his wife, and there is "something strange in [his] tone; it

[is] almost cold" (174). Harry, Ron, and Hermione are further shocked at Lupin's

indifference and coldness to Tonks after he reveals that she is expecting. After the three

offer their congratulations,

Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace, then said, "So

... do you accept my offer? Will three become four? I cannot believe that

Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed me your Defence

Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. And I must tell you that I believe

that we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined."

(175)

Harry is incredulous; he cannot believe that Lupin would want to leave his wife and unborn child and join himself, Ron, and Hermione in what will presumably be a life- threatening endeavour. Like Harry, the reader is also confounded, and the possibility that

Lupin is, after all, a spy, resurfaces; it would certainly explain why Lupin appears to be

indifferent towards his wife and child, and why he so fervently wishes to join Harry's mission. Readers find themselves holding their breath, almost afraid to read on, in case their suspicions are confirmed. After all this time, could Lupin truly be an agent of the

Dark Lord, a well-disguised, ferocious, and bloodthirsty werewolf who has been biding the time until he could act against Harry?

Although the truth about who betrayed the Order's plans to move Harry is not revealed until much later in the book, Rowling does reassure Harry, Ron, and Hermione as well as the reader that Lupin's intentions in this episode are not to bring harm or death

TO to the three companions. Rowling reveals that Lupin's actions are brought on by his own insecurities about his relationship with Tonks, his status as a werewolf, and the implications of his identify for his now-expanding family. Ultimately, Lupin's actions in this scene are driven by his own sense of disconnect and despair, not by an underlying connection between himself and Lord Voldemort. Throughout the series, then, Rowling repeatedly misleads characters and readers about the nature of Remus Lupin, his werewolfery, and his identity.40 This confusion, however, has a purpose, for, through

Lupin, Rowling explores and challenges readers' understandings of identity. She suggests that the werewolf cannot have a singular and fixed identity, and, consequently, that identity itself as a concept cannot be easily defined or fixed. This becomes most evident in her contrast of Lupin to the Animagi, and in her construction of a series of interlaced communities within which he exists.

Rowling later reveals that there was never an actual spy in the Order. The Death Eaters knew about the plans to move Harry from Privet Drive, however, because Snape had confounded Mundungus. It is revealed in Deathly Hallows, in Chapter 33 ("The Prince's Tale"), that this is all actually a part of Dumbledore's plan to protect Harry. 39 Although, as discussed above, the opening chapter makes it quite clear that Voldemort holds Lupin in the lowest regard possible, this does not preclude the possibility that Lupin could be in his employ. We know, for instance, that, despite his disdain for werewolves, Voldemort has accepted the allegiance of Fenrir Greyback. 40 Indeed, this is one of Rowling's main narrative strategies. She frequently has Harry and other important characters misread or jump to incorrect conclusions about each other and/or about events. Through this technique, then, she also frequently confounds or misleads readers. Rowling's technique is similar to that of other sleuth or adventure writers such as Enid Blyton (author of The Famous Five series) or the collection of writers who penned the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series. For a discussion of the Harry Potter series within the genre of sleuth or adventure novels, see, for instance, Nikolajeva, "Harry Potter—A Return to the Romantic Hero." 4.2.3 What's in a Name?

Rowling admits that she has a penchant for names, and that many of the names in

her series have particular meanings. In an interview with Larry King in 2000, Rowling

confessed,

I am a bit of a name freak. A lot of the names that I didn't invent come

from maps. Snape is a place name in Britain. Dumbledore means—

dumbledore is an old English dialect word for bumblebee, because he is a

musical person. And I imagine him humming to himself all the time. ("The

Surprising Success")

Rowling's choice of a name for her headmaster, and the behaviour that she identifies with

him and his name, suggests that, within her series, names imply an already extant

meaning, and they firmly associate that meaning with the individual named. This is not,

by any means, an unusual or new practice. As John Block Friedman points out, "Antique

and medieval writers sought the meanings of objects in the etymologies of their names,

for they believed that the name of a thing, far from being arbitrary, was the key to its

nature" (109-10).41 In fact, names often imply a variety of already determined

characteristics or meanings. For instance, as Eliza T. Dresang suggests, Rowling's

Hermione is a multi-faceted character whose name draws upon existing meanings from

contexts in Greek myth, a famous Shakespearean play, and novels by two twentieth-

This is, for example, precisely the practice used by Aristotle in his History of Animals. For a brief discussion of Aristotle's use of names in his works, see the Introduction to Chapter 2. century writers. Rowling's use of the name evokes all previous uses and contexts in

myths and/or narratives by other writers.

Many of Rowling's other characters have names that imply something about their

natures, whether it is a physical feature or a personality trait.43 For example, if Lupin's

physical appearance and ailments are not enough to betray his identity as a werewolf, his

name gestures directly towards his non-human form. "Remus" recalls the myth of

Romulus and Remus, the twin sons of a mortal woman and the Roman god of War,

Mars.44 The twins' uncle, Amulius, deposed their grandfather, Numitor, and had the twins

thrown in the Tiber River because he feared they would overthrow him once fully grown.

The twins were saved from certain death when they were rescued from the shores of the

Tiber and suckled and brought back to health by a she-wolf. The twins were later adopted by a shepherd, and through a series of fortunate circumstances they discovered their true

identity, killed Amulius, and restored their grandfather to his throne.

The myth of Romulus and Remus, much like the Lycaon myth, is a story of both bloodshed and cultural origins. While Remus figures less prominently in the myth than

Dresang identifies several significant Hermiones: the daughter of Helen and Menelaeus from Greek mythology, Shakespeare's character in The Winter's Tale, the title character from H. D.'s HERmione, and one of D. H. Lawrence's characters in Women in Love. She ultimately concurs with David Lucking's remark about Shakespeare's Coriolanus, that "the history of a name will also be the history of an identity" (qtd. in Dresang 213). 43 Harry Potter scholars frequently identify this as an important aspect of the series through lists of names and meanings. Amanda Cockrell, for instance, identifies a plethora of names and meanings, including those of Filch the caretaker, Draco Malfoy and his father Lucius, Cornelius Fudge, and Voldemort. Lists of place names and people's names also appear in studies such as David Colbert's The Magical Worlds of Harry Potter. See Cockrell ("Secret Password" 23) or Colbert for details. 44 The story of Romulus and Remus is an example of what Stith Thompson, in his Motif-Index of Folk Lore, identifies as the "Culture Hero" motif, specifically, "Culture hero suckled by wolf (motif A.511.2.2.1). his twin, he is pivotal to the story; one could even call him the catalyst for the foundation

of Rome, as his criticism of Romulus's walls leads not only to his death but also to the

establishment of a city with only Romulus as its founder and namesake. When the twins

decide to build a city of their own, they argue about the height of the city walls (Remus tells Romulus that his walls are not sufficiently high to protect a city); angered by this

criticism, Romulus kills his twin. Fratricide is not Romulus's only violent act; under his rule, the event commonly referred to as the Rape of the Sabine Women also occurs. The

Romans, in need of wives and potential child-bearers, invite the Sabines to a celebratory

festival, but then, during the festival, they carry off the Sabine women. Romulus's

fratricide and orchestration of the abduction of the Sabine women, driven by a need to dominate and a need to multiply respectively, are acts akin to survival, acts ruled by

instinct more than reason.

Schutz argues that the name "Remus" signifies the humanity of its possessor.

"Remus," she writes, "is named after a human boy, raised by wolves, but nonetheless a human body. . . . Remus Lupin's name (human plus wolf adjective) begins with the human and adds the wolf afterwards" (8nl2). Indeed, Romulus appears to be more closely aligned with his non-human foster-mother, the she-wolf, through his violent behaviours, while Remus, with his sensible comments on the potential city wall, appears to be more closely aligned with his human counterparts because of his capacity for reason and sound judgement. Despite this distinction between the twins, however, their shared relationship with the she-wolf cannot be ignored. Further, the twins' differences in character, especially Romulus's negative characteristics, cannot simply be assigned to their association with the lupine. The image of a lupine mother suckling human children blurs the boundary between animal and human and suggests that the twins may be as

much lupine as human. Further, the image suggests that the boundaries between the

human and the animal are artificial. After all, the she-wolf was capable of rescuing and

restoring to health the twin babies, of protecting them from their murderous uncle, while

their human mother was not. The lupine figure in this story is not brutal and violent;

rather, she is gentle and nurturing. While Schutz is correct that Remus signifies "a human

body," the degree of humanity signified by the name is ambiguous at best, and is

diminished by the species transgression inherent in the myth of Romulus and Remus.45

Similarly, "Lupin" derives from the Latin word for wolf, "lupus," reinforcing the

connection to wolves and as the associated blurring of boundaries between animal and

human that "Remus" evokes. Moreover, the name "Lupin," through the addition of the

"n" sound, reminds us of the Latin word for the moon, "luna," and the lunar cycles

(particularly the full moon) associated with the werewolf s shape-shifting. Thus Lupin's name directly reflects his metamorphic abilities as well as his human and lupine forms.

Like Lupin's name, Sirius's name reveals information about his character. David

Colbert remarks that "[f]he name 'Sirius' comes from the name of a star often referred to as the Dog Star. It has that nickname because it is in the constellation known as the Great

Dog" {Magical Worlds 43). Colbert further explains that the Dog Star is also "the brightest star in the sky," and that, in Greek, the "word seirios means 'burning'" (43).

Thus Sirius's name, like Lupin's, makes explicit the non-human form assumed in transformation. Sirius's name also reinforces his connection to the Grim. Robert K. G.

Rowling reminds us of all of these connections in Deathly Hallows when Remus reports on Harry's status during a broadcast of the underground radio program "Potterwatch." His code name for the report is "Romulus." Temple suggests that the Dog Star was important, not just to the Greeks, but also to the

Egyptians, and he describes it as "the home of departed souls" (qtd. in Colbert 44). This

description reminds us of the Grim's frequent appearance is graveyards and at crossroads

as well as its dual status as both an omen of death and as a protector of souls.

Finally, the name "Sirius" gestures to the fate of its possessor. In the Order, Harry

and his companions enter the Department of Mysteries and come across an ancient

archway "hung with a tattered black curtain or veil" (682). Harry is mysteriously drawn to the archway, and is convinced that someone or something is present; as he draws nearer to it he hears "whispering, murmuring noises coming from the other side of the veil" (683). Harry encounters the archway again, a short time later, during the battle between the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix in which Sirius dies. Harry watches in disbelief as Bellatrix Lestrange hits his godfather with a killing curse:

It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall: his body curved in a graceful arc

as he sank backwards through the ragged veil hanging from the arch.

Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather's

wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and

disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a

high wind, then fell back into place. (710-11)

Luna Lovegood confirms for Harry that the murmurs and whispers he hears coming from the archway are, indeed, the voices of the dead, and she reassures him that someday he will be reunited with his lost loved ones (760-61). The dead, she explains, are "just lurking out of sight, that's all" (761). The archway is a passage to the realm of the dead, one similar to the places haunted by the Grim. Further, the collection of voices beyond 310

the veil suggests that the archway leads to a type of "Dog Star"—a home for the dead or

the departed souls. Thus, in death, Sirius falls beyond the veil and travels to the place of

his namesake.

The pattern of naming used by Rowling for both Sirius and Lupin suggests that

there is a degree of continuity between the human and animal forms of those who can

transform, that there is a perduring identity—an identity that persists despite physical

change. Further, Rowling suggests that there is a synonymity between the human and

physical forms an individual takes. Frequently, physical features carry over from one

form to the next. Both Professor McGonagall and Rita Skeeter in their Animagi forms

(the cat and the beetle, respectively), for instance, bear markings around their eyes in the

same pattern as the glasses that they wear as humans. A more distinct example would be

Peter Pettigrew, whose Animagus and human forms correspond on several levels. When

we first meet Peter as a human, forced out of his disguise by Sirius and Lupin, we are

introduced to

a very short man, hardly taller than Harry and Hermione. His thin,

colourless hair was unkempt and there was a large bald patch on top. He

had the shrunken appearance of a plump man who had lost a lot of weight

in a short time. His skin looked grubby, almost like Scabbers's fur, and

something of the rat lingered around his pointed nose, his very small,

watery eyes. (Prisoner 269)

Peter Pettigrew's behaviour, like his physical appearance, is vermin-like. His Animagus form evokes his literal role as the "rat," as the secret-breaker who brings about the deaths of Lily and James Potter, while his alliterative name calls to mind the Pied Piper of 311

Hamelin, who is likewise associated with rats and with the supposed deaths of

46 innocents.

Rowling thus appears to suggest that a name or sign fully represents its possessor, the being signified: Remus Lupin is the man-wolf; Sirius Black is the Grim and the Great

Dog; and Peter Pettigrew is the rat or oath-breaker. She also appears to suggest that continuity between forms is possible, that a singular identity perdures despite transformation. However, Rowling's exploration of identity is neither stable nor simple.

She also presents understandings of identity contrary to those outlined above, and consequently suggests that the concept of identity is slippery and mutable, something that cannot be contained or defined in any one way.

4.2.4 The Werewolf and the Animagi

Rowling complicates the concept of identity through her juxtaposition of the werewolf with the Animagi. Rowling's Animagi may transfigure into an animal form, but they retain their consciousness or rational minds while doing so. Rowling establishes this fact very early in the series—in the opening of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's

Stone—when we meet Professor McGonagall. Vernon Dursley first notices McGonagall, disguised in her feline Animagus form, sitting on the street corner, first reading a map, and then reading the street sign. McGonagall spends the entire day observing the Dursley family's behaviour, and, when Dumbledore arrives, questions its suitability as a foster- family for Harry. As we continue to read, we discover how unjust the Dursleys are in their treatment of Harry, and we have to concur with McGonagall. We trust

46 The Pied Piper, a rat-catcher, is purported to have bewitched and abducted the children of Hamelin after the townspeople refused to pay him for his services. The most widely known version of this German myth is probably that told by the Brothers Grimm, "The Children of Hamelin." 312

McGonagall's judgment, and, consequently, assign to her feline form the pragmatism and rationale of her human one. Other Animagi figures display behaviours that confirm the continuity of human consciousness despite transformation. In the Goblet, Rita Skeeter transfigures and blatantly disregards her banishment by Dumbledore from Hogwarts. In her Animagus form, she consciously eavesdrops on a private conversation between

Hagrid and Madame Maxime, and conducts an interview with Malfoy, Crabbe, and

Goyle. In both instances, the information she gathers gets twisted into sordid and malicious exaggerations for her articles in the Daily Prophet. Similarly, Sirius demonstrates the continuity of mind that characterizes the Animagi. While disguised in his Animagus form of the black dog, Sirius hides in the cave outside of Hogsmeade and scavenges, not only for food, but also for newspapers in order to stay informed of the events in the Tri-Wizard Tournament and of the wizarding world in general. He explains to Harry, Ron, and Hermione that he has been living mostly off of rats, because if he stole

47 too much food from Hogsmeade, he would draw attention to himself. Yet, in the same breath, he tells them that he has been "stealing the paper every time someone throws one out" (452-53). It seems odd that Sirius would be concerned about drawing attention to himself by scavenging for food, more so than his scavenging for newspapers, for surely the former is more characteristic of a stray dog than the latter. The scavenged newspapers demonstrate the overtly human aspect of his concern, and suggest that this over-rides the canine tendencies of his Animagus form.

I find it ironic that Sirius's choice of food here is the rat, particularly given the events in the previous volume {Prisoner) surrounding the discovery that Ron's pet rat (Scabbers) is, in fact, the Animagus Peter Pettigrew. Perhaps Sirius's diet of rats is a type of misdirected retribution. 313

But Lupin's metamorphoses are not like those of the Animagi. When transformed,

the Animagi's animal forms retain or share the consciousnesses of their human forms.

Lupin's identity, however, perdures only in its rhythmic division: its transformation at

each full moon. Lupin's mind or consciousness does not have the ability to persist in the

same manner as its Animagi counterparts. Only magical intervention brings about

continuity for the werewolf. Lupin tells Harry that, although his transformations turn him

into "a fully fledged monster once a month," with the help of the Wolfsbane potion he

can resist the loss of self that accompanies metamorphosis {Prisoner 258). He explains, in

a passage that we quoted earlier,

[t]he potion that Professor Snape has been making for me is a very recent

discovery. It makes me safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week

preceding the full moon, / keep my mind when I transform ... I am able to

curl up in my office, a harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane

again. (258, emphasis added)

Unlike the Animagi and despite the continuity suggested by his physical forms and his

name, Lupin does not remain the same during transformation. Only the Wolfsbane potion

ensures the continuation of Lupin's human consciousness, of his spatiotemporal

continuity, throughout the metamorphic process. Before the invention of the Wolfsbane potion, containment during transformation was the only safeguard available to the werewolf. Lupin tells Harry that, when he was a student at Hogwarts, his monthly retreat to the Shrieking Shack reduced the risk he presented to others when transformed because it separated him "from humans to bite" (259). Although Lupin also tells Harry that, once transformed, he became less of a "monster," less "wolfish," when accompanied by his 314

friends, who were, themselves, in Animagus forms (260), he also admits that their

Animagus forms determine the amount of influence they have over him. "Sirius and

James," he says, "transformed into such large animals, they were able to keep a werewolf

in check" (260). Had Sirius and James presented themselves to Lupin the wolf in their human rather than their animal forms, or, perhaps, in lesser forms than the stag and the black dog, their lives would have been in danger. Under normal circumstances, Lupin

does not, indeed cannot, as he says, keep his mind; he cannot retain his human

consciousness when he transforms. He turns, repeatedly, from man to wolf and back

again, existing as either one or the other, but remaining, outside of the metamorphic process itself, unable to exist as both simultaneously. Thus Rowling sets Lupin apart from the Animagi, apart, even, from the sympathetic werewolves of her medieval predecessors, by emphasizing his lack of continuous consciousness.

Rowling further complicates the issue of identity by suggesting that the continuity of the human characteristics during transformation is not necessarily permanent or guaranteed. Sirius admits that it is his Animagus form which keeps him sane during his incarceration in Azkaban. He tells Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Lupin that

when it all became ... too much ... I could trasform in my cell. ..

become a dog. Dementors can't see, you know. .. . They feel their way

towards people by sensing their emotions . . . they could tell that my

feelings were less - less human, less complex when I was a dog . .. but

they thought, of course, that I was losing my mind like everyone else in

there, so it didn't trouble them. (272) 315

As a dog, Sirius is not only less human in his physical being, but he is also less human in his emotional self. While he retains a degree of humanity, what remains is clearly diminished by transformation. This lessening of his human emotions ultimately allows

Sirius to escape Azkaban. He confesses, "I slipped past them as a dog ... it's so much harder for them to sense animal emotions that they were confused" (273). The Dementors are unable to detect him, to identify him as an escaping convict or even as a human being while he is in his canine form. Sirius's Animagus form, then, does not fully retain its human characteristics. 9

Rowling also undermines our initial understanding of Lupin's ability to retain his human mind during transformation. Lupin professes that, once transformed, he loses his human mind. He explains this much to Harry. Only the Wolfsbane potion prevents Lupin from becoming, as Scamander puts it in Fantastic Beasts, a "murderous beast" (42).

However, as Scamander also points out, one of the distinguishing features of the werewolf is its choice of prey. "Almost uniquely among fantastic beasts," Scamander writes, "the werewolf actively seeks humans in preference to any other kind of prey"

(42).50 Yet this is not a behaviour in which Lupin, as the werewolf, engages. In fact,

Lupin behaves in the exact opposite manner. As a student at Hogwarts, Lupin sequesters himself in the Shrieking Shack each month at the full moon. When he returns to Hogwarts

48 Green suggests that this diminished self characterizes Sirius overall. She describes Sirius, in Prisoner, "as a shell, a broken version of the vital young man glimpsed by Harry in the Pensieve" (94). 49 This possibility also suggests that we should revisit the scene in which Lupin and Sirius return Peter Pettigrew to his human form. We first assume that the resemblance of Peter's human form to his vermin form represents the continuity between them. Perhaps, however, the resemblance is a result of Peter's prolonged period in his Animagus form. After twelve years as Scabbers, Peter is more rat than human. 50 Fenrir Greyback, who is discussed later in this chapter, exemplifies this characteristic. 316

as a teacher, he sequesters himself in his office and drinks the Wolfsbane potion in order

to control his transformations. In all of these instances, his desire is to diminish the threat

he presents to others at the full moon and to remove himself from any direct contact with

potential victims. Even when, in the Prisoner, Lupin forgets to take his Wolfsbane potion

and, consequently, transforms under the full moon in the presence of Harry and others, he

maintains this behavioural pattern. When Sirius also transforms and tries to distract

Lupin, the werewolf breaks free. Yet rather than turning on Harry and his companions,

turning on human victims as readers might expect, he takes flight, "galloping into the

forest" (279) and away from any potential human victims. Lupin's actions suggest that he

chooses not to engage in the behaviour typically associated with werewolves; he chooses to flee rather than to attack. Lupin's ability to choose, even while in werewolf form,

suggests that some degree of rationality, of human consciousness, must persist despite transformation. Lupin could not make such a choice if his human consciousness or rationality were not available to him.

Lupin chooses to be the opposite of what he is expected to be or understood to be.

He chooses not to be the werewolf as defined by Scamander: he chooses not to be the

"murderous beast" which preys primarily upon innocent humans. Lupin's actions in this

scene, then, not only confirm his access to rationality, but also confirm the importance of choice or free will to the construction of identity. According to Schutz, Lupin epitomizes an understanding of identity in which free will is central. She writes, "That he is an

Of course, the difficulty for the werewolf is that he lacks free will or agency in the very act of transformation. Unlike the Animagi, who transform at will, the werewolf s transformations are dependent upon a force of nature, the cycles of the moon. This suggests that Lupin's access to free will or choice, while evident in this episode, is also limited and, perhaps, difficult to achieve. 317 intelligent rational person is clear throughout books three and five. ... He exercises choice about the kind of person he is: he chooses to be rational and calm, quiet and controlled" (8-9).52

Rowling foregrounds choice as one of, if not the defining factor in determining identity. We see the importance of choice early in the series, in Harry Potter and the

Chamber of Secrets, when Dumbledore explains to Harry, "It is our choices . . . that show what we truly are far more than our abilities" (245). As Schutz suggests, Dumbledore's words highlight the importance of choice to identity. "Choice,^ree choice," she writes,

"determines: the particular person is determined, shaped by the exercise of his or her ability to choose" (1). Dumbledore's words to Harry are reinforced by Lupin's actions

(and choices) in the Prisoner. In fact, although Dumbledore is the first one to suggest to

Harry that choice matters, it is Lupin, and to a degree Sirius, who ultimately teach Harry the importance of the Headmaster's words.

After his visit to Hogsmeade and the discovery that Black betrayed his parents,

Harry returns to his dormitory and examines his photo album. It has a profound effect, and "A hatred such as he had never known before was coursing through [him] like poison" (158). While Harry has previously experienced anger, indeed has been angered enough to torment his cousin, to attack Malfoy, or to blow up Aunt Marge, he has never expressed such hatred. These emotions escalate when he meets Black in the Shrieking

Shack:

[a] boiling hate erupted in Harry's chest, leaving no place for fear. For the

first time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, not to defend

52 Schutz's statement reminds us of the discussion earlier in this section that highlighted Lupin's role as the rational mediator and symbol of justice. 318

himself, but to attack ... to kill. Without knowing what he was doing, he

started forwards. .. . All Harry knew was that he wanted to hurt Black as

badly as he could and he didn't care how much he got hurt in return. (249)

In this moment, black emotions erupt from Harry's chest.53 These emotions are

compounded by his discovery that Lupin is a werewolf and by his belief that Lupin has

been working with Black to murder him. Angered and feeling betrayed, Harry is

consumed by the desire to kill. He becomes, in this instance, both the werewolf and the

grim: murderous beast and harbinger of death.

However, Hermione's cat Crookshanks jumps on Black's chest and deters Harry

from enacting his rage, and Harry ultimately cannot bring himself to kill Black. Harry's

murderous desires teach him that he is no better than Lupin or Black in their (apparently) bestial behaviours, and that to take another's life would make him no better than those he

condemns.54 His inability to kill teaches him that he has a choice, and when Lupin and

This is a very Jungian moment, much like Ged's creation of the shadow in A Wizard of Earthsea: Harry's emotions represent the dark side of his human nature just as Ged's shadow represents his. For a discussion of the Jungian aspects of Wizard, see Le Guin's comments in "The Child and the Shadow." The episode also creates a bridge between Harry, the werewolf, and the Grim, for it is these two latter figures that are so often associated with the shadow self or the dark side of human nature. In her article on Lupin and Sirius, Green makes similar, although Freudian, statements about the werewolf. "The werewolf aspect of Remus," she writes, "represents both his separation from the community and the suppressed aspects of his personality" (98). She expands upon the significance of the "suppressed" personality later in her paper, insisting that "The werewolf serves as the purest expression of Remus's id, giving form to all of the rage he feels at the iniquities he suffers, his fear of angering friends, and his hesitance to form any new bonds with those around him" (105). The id, like Jung's shadow, is the dark side: the instinctual force uncontrolled by rational thought and therefore associated with chaos and desire. For more on the id and its counterparts, the ego and the super-ego, see Freud's The Ego and the Id. 54 Harry thinks that Black is responsible for the deaths of his parents as well as the deaths of other innocent humans, and he believes that Lupin has betrayed him. We soon realize, though, that these beliefs are unfounded. 319

Black raise their wands to kill Peter Pettigrew, he intervenes, arguing that he does not think his dad "would've wanted his best friends to become killers" (275). Here then, ironically, Harry passes on to Sirius and Lupin the lesson he has just learned by preventing them from killing Pettigrew.55 He chooses not to engage in brutal acts such as murder, and, moreover, he chooses to prevent others from engaging in them. This episode is thus a significant stage of Harry's development; it enables him to recognize the truth that Dumbledore speaks and that Lupin exemplifies: the need to behave in a just manner and to realize that one's choices contribute to one's identity.

4.2.5 Community and Identity

Through the figure of Remus Lupin, Rowling not only forces readers to question different concepts about what constitutes identity, but she also forces them to examine social systems based upon the categories of difference associated with limited definitions of identity. Although, as we have seen, Lupin demonstrates his capacity for choice, the wizarding world does not recognize this ability in the werewolf. Schutz suggests that the werewolf presents a conundrum to the wizarding world precisely because the society does not see it as having a "singular identity" (2)—an identity ruled by human consciousness and, therefore, the ability to choose. If one lacks the ability to choose, the ability to engage free will, then one cannot be a human (or, to use the Ministry of Magic term, once cannot be a Being); rather, one must be a Beast.56 This conundrum is most evident in the

This episode is one of the rare moments in which we see Lupin's potential for violence (another episode occurs in Deathly Hallows). Despite Lupin's previous choices to be just and rational, he aligns himself with Sirius in the Shrieking Shack and is quite prepared to do away with Pettigrew, the rat {Prisoner 275). 56 This recalls Platonic and Aristotelian theories of the soul discussed earlier, in Chapter 2. 320

werewolf s ambiguous status at the Ministry of Magic, where, as Scamander explains, it

has

been shunted between the Beast and Being divisions for many years; at the

time of writing there is an office for Werewolf Support Services at the

Being Division whereas the Werewolf Registry and Werewolf Capture

Unit fall under the Beast Division, (xiii)

As Schutz points out, the existence of two "sub-departments" (4) concerned with the

werewolf s Beast status versus the existence of only one for its Being status confirms

that, overall, the wizarding world views the werewolf as a Beast and, therefore, as a threat

to be contained.

The wizarding world's perception that the werewolf is incapable of choice denies

him, while in his transformed state, the status of Being. Despite the inherent high level of

intelligence of the werewolf s human form, the potential threat of his lupine form

prevents him from being categorized as a Being. Instead, he is aligned with magical

creatures such as Acromantuals and Manticores, creatures that are "highly intelligent" but

are "classified as 'beasts' because they are incapable of overcoming their own brutal

natures" (Scamander xiii).57 In order for the Ministry of Magic to monitor and regulate

Scamander asserts in Fantastic Beasts that in 1811, the then Minister of Magic Gorgan Stump deemed "a 'being' [as] 'any creature that has sufficient intelligence to understand the laws of the magical community and to bear part of the responsibility in shaping those laws'" (xii). This definition is problematic, however. The werewolf, in human form, has sufficient intelligence to fulfill these requirements, but this does not necessarily mean that he will. Remus Lupin works very hard to fulfill this description in both his human and lupine forms, yet he is still denied the category of Being. Interestingly, as explained later in this chapter, Fenrir Greyback also displays "sufficient intelligence" while in human form to qualify as a Being. Yet, unlike Lupin, Greyback chooses to break repeatedly the laws of wizarding society rather than uphold them, 321 the activities of the werewolf, and, thus, presumably diminish the threat he presents while

CO in his transformed state, a Werewolf Register was created in 1947. However, the werewolf is not the only Beast or Being monitored by the Ministry. In fact, the act of transformation itself is highly regulated.

All Animagi must register with the Ministry, which monitors the teaching of transfiguration. In the Prisoner, Lupin explains to Harry, Ron, and Hermione that the

Ministry "keeps a close watch" on those who attempt to transfigure because "Animagus transformation can go horribly wrong" (259). Victor Krum's partial success with his shark transformation during the Tri-Wizard Tournament illustrates the difficulty of executing such magic even at the higher levels of wizarding education. Hogwarts, indeed the educational system of the wizarding world as a whole, thus teaches transfiguration in stages, regulating the knowledge of younger wizards as they study the skill until they eventually achieve its successful execution. The Ministry also requires all Animagi to register in order to prevent the abuse of the skill. For example, in the Goblet, Hermione discovers that Rita Skeeter is an unregistered Animagus who uses her skill inappropriately, transforming into her beetle form to gather material for her newspaper articles. Hermione threatens to report the journalist's lawless behaviour to the Ministry unless she promises to cease writing for a period of one year (632). The regulatory systems of the Ministry are, essentially, systems of power and control that contribute to the wizarding world's construction and stratification of identity positions. Indeed, wizarding society's hierarchies, whether under the rule of the Ministry or under the rule whether he be in human or lupine form. In doing so, he displays evidence of intelligence and free will. Like Lupin's actions, Greyback's actions are governed by choice. 58 Ironically, the Werewolf Register was created by Newt Scamander, author of Fantastic Beasts. of Voldemort, display characteristics akin to the two primary "ways of exercising power

over men, of controlling their relations, of separating out their dangerous mixtures"

(198)—separation and segregation—described by Michel Foucault in Discipline and

Punish.5 This compartmentalization of society and individuals evokes the Ministry's

compartmentalization of wizarding society's inhabitants and behaviours; it evokes the

types of regulation seen in the Ministry's attempts to classify the werewolf as well as in

its attempts to regulate and monitor certain magical processes such as transfiguration.

Hermione's threat to Skeeter is effective precisely because the journalist fears punishment

and exclusion from the regulated (and therefore accepted) social strata.

In Chapter 3 ("Panopticism") of Part 3 ("Discipline") of Discipline and Punish, Foucault describes these systems of separation and segregation. He describes how they function according to a double mode; that of binary division and branding (mad/sane; /harmless; normal/abnormal); and that of coercive assignment, of differential distribution (who he is; where he must be; how he is to be characterized; how he is to be recognized; how a constant surveillance is to be exercised over him in an individual way, etc.).(199) Using the examples of the leper and the plague during the Middle Ages, Foucault further explains the systems of separation and segregation. "The leper," Foucault writes, "was caught up in the practice of rejection, of exile-enclosure; he was left to his doom in a mass among which it was useless to differentiate" (198). In order to control the threat that the leper presents, society (or its governing/regulating bodies) labels and exiles those members afflicted with the disease. Wizarding society treats the werewolf similarly. Remus Lupin, as a werewolf, is labelled and exiled. In fact, the werewolf community created by Fenrir Greyback (discussed later in this chapter) also evokes the "mass" to which Foucault refers. Foucault also explains how plague-stricken towns underwent a process of "strict spatial portioning: the closing of the town and its outlying districts, a prohibition to leave the town on pain of death, the killing of all stray animals; the division of the town into district quarters, each governed by an intendant" (195). The plague- striken town is, Foucault observes, "a segmented, immobile, frozen space. Each individual is fixed in his place. And, if he moves, he does so at the risk of his life, contagion or punishment" (195). This system is, also, especially evoked by the social regulations that occur first under the Ministry and then (and to a greater degree) under Voldemort. The bodies of people and other beings are classified, registered, monitored, controlled, and, in many cases, exterminated. Although werewolves, like Animagi, must register with the Ministry, their transformations, unlike those of the Animagi, resist categorization and the regulatory systems designed to order society because they are not voluntarily (or fully) controllable.

Further, while we have seen evidence that Lupin makes conscious choices when transformed, the degree to which he retains or maintains his reason is ambiguous, and there is no guarantee that he will remain aware of or adhere to the Ministry's regulations.

Lupin's own words suggest that he is unique in his desire to conform or adhere to the

Ministry regulations. When, in the Half-Blood Prince, he describes to Harry his experiences as Dumbledore's spy in the underground werewolf community, he distinguishes himself from other werewolves. He suggests that his own "particular brand of reasoned argument" (314) is not a particularly effective tool in his efforts to create sympathy for, or turn other werewolves to, the Order's cause. In the eyes of other werewolves, Lupin is an oddity, and in the eyes of both other werewolves and the wizarding world at large, he remains a perceived threat. While the wizarding world fears the potential for violence within Lupin, other werewolves fear and shun him because he bears "the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards" (313). Thus, Lupin is doubly marginalized.

In an effort to diminish the threat that the werewolf presents, the Ministry invents the Wolfsbane potion. The potion is, in short, the Ministry's attempt to control the uncontrollable, to contain that which threatens categories and resists regulation; it is designed to eradicate the murderous tendencies of the werewolf. Lupin, when under the influence of the potion, is rendered a harmless creature; he curls up in his office and sleeps. Yet the existence of the potion does not guarantee that it will be used. Lupin tells Harry that the members of the underground werewolf community, led and influenced by

Fenrir Greyback, continue to transform and attack innocent people in defiance of the system that ostracizes them (Half-Blood Prince 314). Even Lupin, on one occasion in the

Prisoner, forgets to take his potion.

The invention of the Wolfsbane potion thus does nothing to reverse the marginal social position of the werewolf. When Lupin takes up his post at Hogwarts, he keeps his werewolf identity hidden. Further, after forgetting to take the potion, and subsequently placing the lives of those he loves in danger, he voluntarily resigns. He explains to Harry,

"This time tomorrow, the owls will start arriving from parents—they will not want a werewolf teaching their children, Harry. And after last night, I see their point. I could have bitten any of you . . . that must never happen again" (Prisoner 309). In order to minimize the threat implicit in his transformations, society ostracizes the werewolf.

Forced to the margins, Lupin lives an impoverished life. In fact, Lupin's brief foray back into wizarding society (his year as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at

Hogwarts) furthers his impoverishment. In the Order, Sirius explains to Harry that Lupin has had difficulty procuring any employment since his departure from Hogwarts. He explains that, when Lupin assumed his post at the school, Dolores Umbridge "drafted a bit of anti-werewolf legislation .. . that makes it almost impossible for him to get a job"

(271). The werewolves of the underground society live equally desperate lives. In the

Half-Blood Prince, Lupin describes their existence to Harry, explaining that they "live on the margins, stealing—and sometimes killing—to eat" (313). Over the course of Harry's years at school, then, society's view of the werewolf worsens, and, consequently, so does the werewolf s already impoverished and marginalized existence. Lupin's marginalized existence, however, is inconsistent, and, ultimately,

Rowling places him firmly within society. Rowling emphasizes the marginalized existence of the werewolf in order to question social systems that use identity position categories to create hierarchies in which those who are considered different are ostracized. In the wizarding world, labels such as "mudblood," "Muggle," "squib," and

"werewolf (to name a few) identify those who are categorized as different by an elite minority who have access to positions of power (people such as Dolores Umbridge), or who, because of their wealth and pureblood status, have influence over those with power

(people such as the Malfoys). Rowling undermines the social hierarchy that discriminates against those who are considered different by creating a number of interlaced communities for her werewolf Remus Lupin. Further, Lupin shares a number of these communities with Harry and, more importantly, plays an important role in Harry's own development. Lupin's communities and his relationship to Harry move him from the position of the marginalized werewolf to a key position within the group that will ultimately restore balance and equality to the wizarding world.

While we do not know the exact date upon which Lupin becomes a werewolf, we know that it is prior to his attendance of Hogwarts and, therefore, prior to his eleventh birthday. Lupin tells Harry, "I was a very small boy when I received the bite" (Prisoner

258). We also know that Dumbledore arranges for the Shrieking Shack to be built and the

Whomping Willow to be planted prior to Lupin's arrival at Hogwarts, and that it is

Dumbledore, as Headmaster, who invites Lupin to attend the school.60

Although it is common practice for the Headmaster to invite witches and wizards to attend Hogwarts upon their eleventh birthday (a practice that would make Lupin's invitation seem unimportant or usual), wizarding society's general attitude 326

Shortly after arriving at Hogwarts, Lupin establishes unexpected close friendships with James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew. Harry notices this air of surprise in

Lupin when he encounters a photograph of the Marauders in Sirius's bedroom at #12

Grimmauld Place. As Harry studies the photo, he notices that Lupin has an air of

"delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included" (Deathly Hallows 148). During their second year at Hogwarts, James, Sirius, and Peter discover that Lupin is a werewolf.

Rather than expressing shock and fear and shunning their friend, however, they accept his werewolfery. Moreover, they decide to join him in his transformations. Over the next few years, the three study transfiguration, and, finally, in their fifth year at the school, master the spell that allows them to transfigure into animal form. In their transformed states, the three join Lupin at the full moon. Together, the group, now self-named "The Marauders," roams the school grounds at night. The company of James, Sirius, and Peter in their

Animagi forms has a calming effect upon Lupin. "My body was still wolfish," Lupin explains to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, "but my mind seemed to become less so while I was with them" (Prisoner 260).

Rowling thus builds a community for her werewolf that, like him, transgresses the species boundary. James, Sirius, and Peter become Animagi in order to accompany Lupin in his transformed state. This small community is unique because it is, ultimately, a community of humans; it is an example of a werewolf surrounded by those who are supposed to be his most likely victims when he is transformed, and it is in contrast to the expected outcome of the werewolf s encounter with humans described by Scamander in

towards werewolves suggests that, if someone other than Dumbledore had been Headmaster when Lupin turned eleven, it is unlikely he would have been invited to attend the school. Fantastic Beasts. The Marauders are also a community of likeminded individuals. James,

Sirius, and Peter choose to become Animagi—unregistered Animagi, in fact—in order to

provide companionship for their friend. The three "train themselves in Transfiguration . ..

outside of the strictures of the classroom. .. . They risk persecution to create a community

within which the werewolf belongs, and through their transgression of the Ministry's

regulations, themselves become outlaws" (Ward, "Shape-shifting, Identity, and Change"

10). James, Sirius, and Peter are not only undeterred by Lupin's identity as a werewolf,

but also they place their friendship with him above the social hierarchies that marginalize

him and above the laws that regulate transfiguration. They join Lupin at a risk to

themselves, both by being in the company of the werewolf and by transgressing the

Ministry's regulation of transfiguration. l

Upon graduating from Hogwarts, The Marauders become part of a larger

community that similarly transgresses Ministry regulation and defies the rise and rule of

Voldemort: The Order of the Phoenix. While the Order represents only a fraction of the

wizarding world's population, it is still a substantial group. Before Harry returns to

Hogwarts for his fifth year, he receives a photograph of the original Order from Mad-Eye

Moody. Although the photo does not provide Harry with the positive treat that Moody

thinks it will, it reveals just how sizeable the Order originally was, as Moody identifies

almost two-dozen members in the photo.

61 The Marauders parallel Harry's later creation of Dumbledore's Army: both are secret societies formed around a key figure that is generally marginalized by the wizarding world at large. Lupin is marginalized because of his werewolfery, while Harry is marginalized, especially by the Ministry in Book 5, as a mentally unstable person who utters lies about the return of Voldemort. 62 Moody expects Harry to be gladdened by the photograph of the Order because his parents are in it. Sadly, however, the photo (and this episode overall) also highlights 328

The original Order is also an important group because it is not determined by

identity markers such as race, class or gender. The Order includes both men and

women, and its members come from diverse backgrounds. Within the Order are

individuals with pureblood ancestry such as Sirius Black and the Weasleys; individuals

with half-blood ancestry such as Albus Dumbledore; individuals with non-magical

ancestry such as Lily Potter; individuals who lack magical ability such as Mrs. (Arabella)

Figg; and individuals from different races such as Hagrid, who is a half-giant. A range of

class groups is also represented in the Order. For example, the Blacks are a prominent and

wealthy wizarding family, while the Weasleys (as we are continually reminded) are

considerably worse off financially; Mundungus Fletcher, another Order member, is of

dubious nature, being somewhat of a petty thief and hoodwink, but, as Sirius explains to

Harry, "He's useful.... Knows all the crooks.. . . [And] he's also very loyal to

Dumbledore" (Order 83). The members of the Order are united by their refusal to exclude

individuals from society because of their races, magical abilities, or classes. The reconstituted Order and its allies maintain the all-encompassing nature of the original

Order. For instance, one of the newer members, Kingsley Shacklebolt, is of African

ancestry, while Madame Maxime—who, like Hagrid, is part-giant—is French. Although

Madame Maxime is not an actual member of The Order, she collaborates with Hagrid and

Dumbledore to find the giants and to resist the rise of Voldemort. The Order, in both of its incarnations, stands in opposition to Voldemort's rule and society, which seeks a

the challenge the Order is up against and the seriousness of the fight, as most of the people in the photograph were killed by Voldemort and his followers (Order 158-59). For a detailed list of the original Order and the reincarnation of the Order, and for information on the status of each member, see The Harry Potter Lexicon, . 329 hierarchical world in which those who are different are not only excluded but also exterminated. The original Order is all-encompassing, and, ultimately, it provides a

considerably larger community for Lupin, the werewolf, to reside within.

Lupin's return to Hogwarts as the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor results in the creation of a new community for him as well as the partial restoration of one of his former communities. From the moment we meet him on the Hogwarts Express, he is integrated into a community with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, albeit somewhat inadvertently and unwittingly to start. Harry, Ron, and Hermione enter the compartment in which Lupin sleeps because it is the only available space on the train. However, their choice bodes well, for when Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle appear in the compartment doorway, it is Lupin's presence that curbs their taunts and insults. Later, Lupin wakes and banishes the Dementor that threatens Harry. He also resuscitates Harry and the others by administering the appropriate remedy: chocolate. The events on the train establish

Lupin's abilities and identity as the Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts while they simultaneously create a bond between the werewolf, Harry, and Harry's friends.

Lupin becomes both a protector figure and a mentor to Harry, teaching him as much outside of the classroom as within. 4 Lupin's presence curbs Malfoy's spiteful behaviour and actions towards Harry on more than one occasion, and it also helps Harry and Ron when they are in trouble with Snape. However, when Lupin intervenes on Harry and Ron's behalf with Snape, he also insists that Harry start behaving more responsibly.

He tells Harry, in a serious tone,

64 Interestingly, throughout Harry's time at Hogwarts, Lupin is the only truly competent Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Although Mad-Eye Moody teaches the students valuable information as well, we must remember that this is not actually Mad-Eye Moody—it is Barty Crouch, Jr. 330

[d]on't expect me to cover up for you again, Harry. I cannot make you take

Sirius Black seriously. But I would have thought that what you have heard

when the Dementors draw near you would have had more of an effect on

you. Your parents gave their lives to keep you alive, Harry. A poor way to

repay them—gambling their sacrifice for a bag of magic tricks. {Prisoner

213)65

Lupin reminds Harry that his actions place both his life and the lives of others at risk.

Lupin also meets with Harry outside of classroom and reassures him that his experience

with the Dementors is not a sign of mental instability. Instead, when Harry explains that

he is more afraid of the Dementors than Voldemort, Lupin suggests that Harry is wise to

fear fear itself (Prisoner 117). Eventually, Lupin gives Harry private lessons on the

Patronus charm, the charm that ultimately saves Harry and Sirius's lives.

As Owen Dudley Edwards suggests, Lupin perpetuates "the tradition of the hero

finding fosterage or pupilage among convenient animals or hybrids, a role the centaurs,

especially Chiron, undertook for sundry Greek heroes, or the wolf who nursed Romulus

and Remus made central to Rome" (115). 6 Lupin, Edwards argues, combines the

Of course, the irony here is that Lupin confiscates the Marauder's Map from Harry knowing full well that he himself is one of the Maruaders and one of the creators of the map. Lupin confesses that his rambles about the Hogwarts' grounds were irresponsible (Prisoner 260). His chastisement of Harry is, in a sense, a chastisement of his own previous behaviour. Harry and Ron use the map in the same way that Lupin and his friends did—to traverse the grounds (or to break the rules) without being caught. 66 Rowling plays upon this tradition even earlier, in Philosopher's Stone, when the centaur Firenze rescues Harry Potter from Voldemort, whom he stumbles across feasting on the blood of a dead unicorn. Firenze also acts, in this instance, as a tutor figure, when he tells him, "The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenceless to save yourself and you will have but a half life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips" (188). The werewolf as guardian and teacher also recalls the medieval 331

centaur-tutor and wolf-guardian figures through his name, Remus Lupin, his identity as a

werewolf, and his status as the professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts (115). Indeed,

Lupin's involvement in Harry's development, particularly in his understanding of identity

and identity positions, is paramount. When Lupin resigns from his post at Hogwarts,

Harry challenges his decision. "You're the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher

we've ever had!" he exclaims, and follows with a plea to Lupin, "Don't go!" (Prisoner

309). It is important to remember here that Harry has, at this point, witnessed Lupin's transformation into a werewolf (278-79); he has seen Lupin in his lupine form, the form

understood by wizarding society at large to be ferocious and bloodthirsty. Yet, despite

witnessing Lupin's transformation into a werewolf, Harry still wants him to remain the

Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. When Lupin explains how Snape "let it slip" that he was a werewolf, Harry exclaims, "You're not leaving just because of that!" (309).

Harry refuses to reduce Lupin's character to a single feature—the werewolf. Instead, he recognizes that identity is complex and that a person can have different aspects to his or her being. Moreover, Harry refuses to accept the identity position to which Lupin resigns himself, the marginalized position dictated by society. Harry's outcry at Lupin's resignation demonstrates just how firmly Lupin is entrenched within Harry's community and just how artificial the social system of the wizarding world is.

Lupin's return to Hogwarts also results in the partial restoration of two of his earlier communities. First, when he discovers Sirius in the Shrieking Shack and learns the truth about the deaths of James and Lily Potter, Lupin is reunited with one of the

narratives Guillaume de Palerne and William ofPalerne. Lupin, like Alphonse (in both the French and English romances), protects and instructs his young ward. Marauders. While the second community—the Order of the Phoenix—is restored later, at the end of the Goblet, it is initiated through this early reunion with Sirius and the related revelation to Dumbledore that Sirius is both an Animagus and innocent of the murder of Harry's parents. When Dumbledore learns from Harry that Voldemort is back, he reforms the Order of the Phoenix and clearly includes Lupin in its numbers. He instructs Sirius to gather the other members at Lupin's, where he will contact them (618).

Dumbledore's resurrection of the Order highlights the difficult social position

Lupin occupies. While Lupin is included in the Order, he is simultaneously cast as an outsider to it because of the task that he is given. Harry wonders, in the Half-Blood

Prince, why he has not heard from Lupin, especially since Sirius's death. When they meet at the Weasley's over the Christmas break. Lupin reveals the reason to Harry. He tells him, "I've been living underground . . . among my fellows, my equals,. . . Werewolves"

(313). When Harry fails to understand the statement, Lupin explains, "Nearly all of them are on Voldemort's side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was . . . ready-made"

(313). While Lupin is restored to his former community (with previous Order members) and to a new community (with new Order members), his role as a spy simultaneously

The reunion of Lupin and Sirius, in turn, contributes to the restoration of a familial community for Harry because Lupin vouches for Black, who is subsequently revealed as Harry's godfather. Like Lupin, Harry experiences the continual expansion of his communities throughout the series. Harry has surrogate familial communities with the Weasley family, Hagrid, Dumbledore, and (as I argue below) Lupin; a peer community within Gryffindor House; a sport community through his position as Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team; a secret community that is also a community of tutors with the formation of Dumbledore's Army; a romantic community, albeit interrupted at points, with Ginny Weasley; and, most importantly, a community of "companions of the heart" with Ron and Hermione. As Pharr suggests, this final community is essential to the hero's development and success; companions of the heart "let the hero laugh and feel normalcy otherwise denied him.. . . [T]he gift of such friendship is allowed the hero, it humanizes him" (62). These communities all aid Harry, in some way, in his quest. Without the experiences of these communities, Harry could not face and defeat Voldemort. 333 alienates him from these communities. Too much contact with members of the Order would endanger his life as well as the lives of those in the Order. In addition, and despite the fact that Lupin considers the other werewolves his "equals," Lupin has difficulty integrating himself into the underground society because he has lived "among wizards"

(313). His exposure to wizards actually limits his usefulness as a spy because the other werewolves do not trust him.

Lupin's belief that he is equal to the other werewolves informs his relationships.

As we saw in the Prisoner, Lupin believes himself a threat no matter what precautions or choices he makes. In fact, he has less faith in himself than those around him have, and this lack of faith further distances him from his community. Despite the fact that he has feelings for Tonks. he refuses Tat first) to enter into a romantic relationship with her.

When they meet in the hospital wing at the end of the Half-Blood_Prince, he protests when Tonks uses Bill and Fleur as an example of why she and Lupin should be together.

We know that Tonks and Lupin have discussed the possibility of a relationship before this because he says to her, "I've io\& you a million times,... I am too old for you, too poor . .

. too dangerous" (582). Lupin's refusal to meet Tonks's gaze and the fact that he has made similar remarks to her in the past suggest that he does indeed have feelings for her but is unwilling even to try having a relationship. He fears himself more than she does; he suffers from being the outcast for so long and has difficulty imagining himself in a normal relationship.

However, Tonks and Lupin appear together, holding hands, at Dumbledore's funeral {Half-Blood Prince 597), and the noticeable change in Tonks's hair colour, which has returned from mousy brown to its original vivid pink, suggests that things are going well. We also learn, in the opening of Deathly Hallows, that Tonks and Lupin have gotten married (44). Yet, even after Lupin enters into a relationship with Tonks, he doubts himself and regrets his decision. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione take refuge at #12

Grimmauld Place, Lupin arrives and offers to accompany them on their quest. While it first seems as though Lupin could possibly be the leak, the spy for Voldemort, the real reason for his presence is revealed. When Harry questions why Lupin would leave Tonks, especially after he learns that Tonks is expecting, Lupin replies, "You don't understand ..

.1-1 made a grave mistake marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgement and I have regretted it very much ever since" (175). Harry, unsatisfied with this response, questions Lupin again, and the latter erupts:

Lupin sprang to his feet: his chair toppled over backwards, and he

glared at them so fiercely, that Harry saw, for the first time ever, the

shadow of the wolf upon his human face.

"Don't you understand what I've done to my wife and unborn child? I

should never have married her, I've made her an outcast!"

Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned.

"You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under

Dumbledore's protection at Hogwarts! You don't know how most of the

wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction,

they can barely talk to me! Don't you see what I've done? Even her own

The various meanings of this episode are crucial to the reader's understanding of Lupin's character. As discussed earlier in this chapter, this episode lends itself to Rowling's repeated misdirection of the reader (it contributes to her confusion of the werewolf and the grim). The current discussion returns to this episode, however, to uncover what it can tell us about the werewolf in relation to the concept of communities. 335

family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their daughter to

marry a werewolf? And the child—the child—"

Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he looked quite

deranged.

"My kind don't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it—

how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own

condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me,

then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it

must always be ashamed!" (175-76, emphasis added)

This is Lupin as Harry, indeed readers, have never seen him before: loud, angry, and violent. He is even more out of control than he was at the news of Dumbledore's death. In this moment, Lupin is the closest that he has ever been to the stereotypical werewolf that

society believes him to be. There is something wild in Lupin's behaviour, and even Harry

notices a difference in the man he thought he knew when he recognizes "the shadow of the wolf upon [Lupin's] face" (175).

Yet even here, at his worst, Lupin is not the stereotypical werewolf. Lupin's rage

and violent behaviour are not driven by blood-thirst or desire to kill. Rather, they are driven by an anger born out of self-loathing. Lupin is angry with himself for giving in to his emotions and, in his view, for putting his wife and unborn child at risk. His life-long

social ostracization is so entrenched in his being that he now believes he is the creature others think him to be. Despite all of the communities that have integrated him, despite

Tonks's love for him, and despite the ability of others to love and accept him for the person he chooses to be, Lupin is still categorized singularly as a ferocious werewolf by 336 wizarding society at large and, therefore, remains a victimized and ostracized individual.

The effects of this long-term marginalization finally take their toll on him, and his time as a spy, living in the underground community of werewolves, undoubtedly exacerbates his frustration with his marginalized existence. If anything, Lupin's time among the underground werewolves must have made him feel that he was the odd-werewolf out, so to speak, simply because he chose not to be the bloodthirsty violent beast others made him out to be. The longer he was with other werewolves, the more he became doubly marginal, unable to live among either humans or werewolves. By the time Lupin rejoins the Order and marries Tonks, he is so used to being the outcast that he cannot adjust to a life of any other sort.

In fact, this is the reason that he appears at #12 Grimmauld Place and offers his services to Harry and his companions. Lupin's desire to accompany the three on their quest is driven by a desire to return to a lifestyle that has been, for him, normal: a lifestyle of the fugitive or outsider. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are now fugitives living under cover and running from the authorities (the Ministry of Magic, which is under the control of Voldemort). This is precisely how Lupin has lived the majority of his life, with the exception of his time at Hogwarts as a student and Professor. The life of the outlaw is the most familiar way of life for him; his marriage and pending paternity are new— frighteningly new—and he has difficulty adjusting. Lupin allows the negative view of the majority of society (the majority that outlaws and persecutes those who are different) to overshadow Tonks's personal opinions and her love for him.

Schutz argues that one of the telling traits of Lupin's identity is the calm and collected demeanor with which he always comports himself. She chooses the Shrieking 337

Shack scene from the Prisoner as the quintessential example of this trait. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione all express rage and fear with extreme volume in this episode, while Lupin

remains composed and speaks softly throughout. "It is crucial to notice," she writes,

that none of the noise in the Shrieking Shack comes from him; the contrast

between his stillness here and the naming of his prison [his werewolfery]

is telling. Aside from once shouting to be heard over Hermione's shrieks,

everything he says in the whole chapter is said "calmly," "quietly,"

"heavily," or "sadly." In other words, Remus Lupin is well able to keep his

emotions in check. (8)

The Lupin we see in the kitchen at #12 Grimmauld Place is far removed from the calm

and collected person outlined above by Schutz. The extreme difference between Lupin's

behaviour in these two scenes indicates just how greatly he is impacted by society's

ostracization of him, by his time with the other werewolves, and by his resulting fears and

insecurities. He is so far removed from the person he once was that we wonder if he will

be able to regain his previous composure.

The difference in Lupin's behaviour, however, is not the only difference between

these two scenes. In the scene in Azkaban, it is, as Schutz suggests, Lupin who remains

calm, while the children are highly vocal and agitated (8). The kitchen scene in Deathly

Hallows reveals how much the children have matured since their third year at Hogwarts.

Moreover, the scene reveals just how they feel about Lupin and how much they have

learned from him. When Lupin bemoans his marriage to Tonks and suggests that his unborn child would not only be ashamed of him but would also be better off without him, both Hermione and Harry respond. Hermione, in a tearful state, says to Lupin, "Don't say 338

that—how could any child be ashamed of you?" (176). As someone who has true

affection for her former Professor, Hermione empathizes with Lupin's distraught state;

she also recognizes that he is not the ferocious beast he fears himself to be. Hermione

respects and cares for Lupin, and she feels that he is someone of whom a child must be

proud precisely because of the choices he has made throughout his life and career.

Harry's response is more on par with Lupin's behaviour: it is aggressive and loud, and not

particularly pleasant. Harry accuses Lupin of abandoning his wife and unborn child, and

of trying to replace Sirius as the "daredevil" of the Order (176);69 further, he vehemently

says to Lupin, "I'd never have believed this ... The man who taught me to fight

Dementors—a coward" (176). Lupin is so angered by Harry's words that he actually

draws his wand and uses it on Harrv,

While Harry's words to Lupin appear unkind, and, indeed, even Ron confesses

that Harry's comment that Lupin is a coward is going too far (177), they are grounded in

a belief that Lupin himself has helped to cultivate in Harry. As in the Prisoner, Harry refuses to accept the negative image of the werewolf that society—and now Lupin—puts

forth. He knows better than anyone that Lupin is not the bloodthirsty beast. Moreover, the

loss of his own parents is paramount in Harry's mind as he criticizes Lupin. Harry recalls the loss of his own parents and their sacrifice to save him—a loss that Lupin himself has reminded Harry of in the past—and transfers this scenario to Lupin. Harry's primary concern is that Lupin's family will be vulnerable without him, more so than if he was to

Harry says to Lupin, "My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and you reckon he'd tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?" (176). remain with them. While he immediately regrets upsetting the already distraught Lupin with his harsh words, Harry also tells Hermione and Ron, "Parents ... shouldn't leave their kids unless—unless they've got to. . .. if it makes him go back to Tonks, it'll be worth it" {Deathly Hallows 177). Harry knows that Lupin's place is with his family, and he reminds Lupin of this when he is least able to recognize this for himself. Ultimately,

Harry's words, however harsh, remind Lupin of where he belongs, that he has a community that needs him, and that he is not the creature that he has so long been ostracized for being. A short while later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are relieved to hear

Lupin, sounding like his former self, on the underground radio program "Potterwatch."

During the broadcast, Lupin subtly thanks Harry and lets him know that things are going well. When Lee Jordan asks Lupin if he has a message for Harry (in case he's listening),

Lupin replies, "I'd tell him we're all with him in spirit. . . . And I'd tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right" (358). With these words, Lupin thanks

Harry for reminding him that his place is with his family, despite his fears that it should be otherwise.

Lupin's return to his family is a pivotal moment in the werewolf s integration into a community, and it triggers Lupin's active engagement in community building. When his son is born, Lupin appears at Shell Cottage (the home of Bill and Fleur Weasley) looking slightly stunned and happier than he ever has been:

Lupin fell over the threshold. He was white faced, wrapped in a travelling

cloak, his greying hair windswept. He straightened up, looked around the

70 Harry tells Lupin as much when he says, "If the new regime thinks Muggle- borns are bad ... what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father's in the Order?" (176). room, making sure who was there, then cried aloud, "It's a boy! We've

named him Ted, after Dora's father!" (415)

Lupin is ecstatic. Clearly, family life, once he accepts it, is good for him. As he

approaches Harry, who is sitting at the kitchen table, he is "dazed by his own happiness"

(415); he is "beaming" and looking "years younger than Harry had ever seen him" (416).

While at Shell Cottage, Lupin not only relays the happy news of his son's birth, but also

actively seeks to create an extended family for his son and for himself. As he releases

Harry from a huge hug, he asks him, "You'll be godfather?" When Harry stammers his

incredulity, Lupin replies, "You, yes, of course—Dora quite agrees, no one better" (416).

With the birth of his son, Lupin finds himself firmly ensconced in a family of his own and

in a community that formalizes the familial bond he has with Harry. He is still a

werewolf, but he is no longer an outcast.

There remains, however, one potentially troubling detail of Remus Lupin's story: he dies. The fact that Lupin dies during the final battle at Hogwarts suggests that the werewolf cannot be fully integrated into the wizarding world; that no matter how readily the Order and other communities integrate Lupin, his position within them cannot be

• 71 maintained. However, Lupin's death places him firmly within the most important community of all: Harry's family. Throughout the series, Rowling emphasizes the importance of community, particularly for her werewolf and, more importantly, for her protagonist. Harry's success against Voldemort is determined specifically by his ability to

Lupin's death thus creates another parallel between his story and those of the medieval werewolf narratives, especially Bisclavret, although, as explained below, Rowling (unlike her medieval predecessors) ultimately resolves the status of her liminal figure. 341

love and to have loving communities. 2 When Lupin asks Harry to be Teddy's godfather,

he formalizes their relationship, and, later, his death aids Harry in the final battle. Lupin's

influence on Harry is stronger in death that it is in life.73

As the battle at Hogwarts rages, Harry finally realizes that he must face

Voldemort and that by doing so he will also face his own death. He sneaks away from the

battle and heads towards the Forbidden Forest. As he nears the forest's perimeter, he

understands what the Horcrux that Dumbledore left him, the Resurrection Stone, is for: he

knows that the stone will return those that he has lost to him—or, as he thinks to himself,

"he was not really fetching them: they were fetching him" (560)—and that they will give

Harry's ability to love is the most important characteristic that separates him from Voldemort, and it saves him when the latter tries to possess him during the battle at the Ministry. Dumbledore explains to Harry that he has a "power the Dark Lord knows not" {Order 73), meaning, of course, love. It was love, Dumbledore tells Harry, specifically his mother's love, that protected him from the killing curse Voldemort used on him years ago (736). After the battle at the Ministry, Dumbledore remarks to Harry that the same power (love) "saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you" (743). The power of Lupin's death evokes the power of Obi-Wan Kenobi's death in Star Wars, Episode 4: A New Hope. Kenobi, who is a father-figure and tutor to Luke Skywalker much as Lupin is to Harry, tells Darth Vader, "You can't win Darth. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." Kenobi ultimately allows Darth to kill him, in sight of Luke, knowing full well that his death with integrate him with the Force and inspire Luke to continue his fight against the Emperor and the Dark Side. From within the force, Kenobi is able to communicate with Luke, and he tells him to flee to safety. Later, in the opening of Star Wars, Episode 5: The Empire Strikes Back, Kenobi speaks to Luke and advises him to seek the Jedi Master Yoda, in the Degoba System. Likewise, Lupin's death evokes the death and subsequent return of Gandalf in J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. In Book 2, Chapter 5 ("The Bridge of Khazad-dum") of The Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf the Grey falls to his death while battling the Balrog. He reappears as Gandalf the White, however, to the members of the Fellowship (to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli first) in Book 3, Chapter 5 ("The White Rider") of The Two Towers. him the strength to face Voldemort. He closes his eyes and "turn[s] the stone over in his

hand, three times" (560). When he opens his eyes, he sees before him the shades of his

lost family members: James, Lily, Sirius, and Lupin. Harry asks if they will remain with

him, until the end (his death), to which question James replies that they will be there

"Until the very end" (561). When Harry next asks if anyone else will be able to see them,

Sirius replies, "We are part of you. . . . Invisible to anyone else" (561). Without the four

of them, without James, Lily, Sirius, and Lupin, Harry would not have had the strength to

go forward into the Forest. Harry knows, as he travels deeper into the Forest, that "their

presence was his courage,... the reason he was able to keep putting one foot in front of

the other" (561). James, Lily, Sirius, and Lupin—Harry's lost family—make it possible

for him to face Voldemort and his own death. Thev cnye him the strength to face the

Dementors that surround Voldemort even though he no longer has the strength to produce

a Patronus; they become, in a sense, his Patronus, and a part of himself.75

When the shades appear before Harry and he sees Lupin, he tries to apologize to

him for his death, especially since Teddy will now never know his father. "I am sorry

too," Lupin replies, but he adds, "but he [Teddy] will know why I died and I hope he will

understand. I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life" (561).

The Resurrection Stone is one of the three Deathly Hallows originally given to the Peverell brothers (Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus). Harry, Ron, and Hermione learn about the Hallows from Luna's father, Xenophilius Lovegood, who refers them to the story of the Hallows written by Beedle the Bard, "The Tale of the Three Brothers." As the tale explains, the Resurrection Stone has "the power to recall the dead" (Deathly Hallows 332; see Chapter 21 of Deathly Hallows for further details). Interestingly, the Resurrection Stone is both Horcrux and Hallow. Voldemort uses the ring (which was originally one of the Hallows and was passed down through his family), within which the stone is set, as one of the Horcruxes for his soul. 3 This is no surprise, of course, given the fact that Harry's actual Patronus takes the form of the white stag, which is also his father's Animagus form. 343

Lupin knows that his death will serve a greater end than his life; it will give Harry the

strength to face and defeat Voldemort, which ultimately will make life better for all

members of the wizarding world, including others like himself who have been

marginalized in the past. This final scene, then, places Lupin firmly within the most

powerful community of all, and suggests that his death enhances rather than diminishes

both his integration into this community and his importance as a father figure and mentor

to Harry.76

Rowling thus moves her werewolf figure from a marginalized position to a central

position within her narrative, one integral to both the development and success of her

protagonist. She renders Lupin a character closely connected to positive social change

and places him within the ultimate insider communities, the community of like-minded

individuals that contributes to the downfall of Voldemort and Harry's familial

community. Rowling not only explores the problems of liminality associated with the

werewolf with which her classical and medieval predecessors grapple, but also, by

rendering her werewolf a key figure that is closely tied to her protagonist, she resolves

them. Ultimately, through Remus Lupin, Rowling questions socially constructed concepts

of identity and suggests, as Dumbledore explains to Harry, "It is our choices . . . that

show what we truly are far more than our abilities" (Chamber 245). The significance of this statement and its meaning—that choice is integral to identity—is reinforced in the

Harry's strength in the final episodes of Deathly Hallows, especially his acceptance of his own death and the good that it can bring, is, ultimately, a more powerful approach than the one Voldemort and his follows take throughout the series. Rather than fear or flee from death, Harry embraces it, recognizing that it is not the worst of all possible fates. His ability to do so suggests a wisdom that Voldemort, no matter how powerful, has failed to achieve. 344

series when Rowling introduces a second werewolf figure, Fenrir Greyback. Greyback,

then, is the focus of the remainder of the chapter.

4.3 Fenrir Greyback

In Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Rowling introduces her second

werewolf figure, Fenrir Greyback and, through his character, perpetuates the connections

between the Harry Potter series and classical and medieval werewolf narratives

established by her first werewolf figure, Remus Lupin. Greyback also is in contrast to

Lupin, and, subsequently, highlights how the latter challenges expectations, particularly

those of the wizarding world, of what the werewolf is or should be, as well as

expectations and understandings of what identity is and how it is constructed. Yet, while

Greyback initially appears to be the antithesis of Lupin, he is not entirely dissimilar to the

other werewolf, nor is he an entirely unsympathetic character. Like Lupin, Greyback falls

short of the expectations set up by his characterization, particularly those created through

his parallel to the Norse mythical figure Fenriswolf. Although Greyback engages in

behaviours that set him apart from Lupin, he is, like his fellow werewolf, marginalized by

wizarding society at large. Like Lupin, Greyback ultimately desires inclusion: he desires

acceptance or recognition from the rest of the wizarding world, as well as a community in

which he belongs. Further, he exercises choice in most aspects of his life. While

Greyback provides a contrast to Lupin, the parallels between the two werewolves are

crucial to our understanding of Rowling's series as social critique. Rowling uses

Greyback in the same way that she uses Lupin: to question cultural hegemonies based upon categories of difference such as gender, race, ethnicity or class that have 345 traditionally ostracized those members of society that, like the werewolf, display physical

and/or behavioural differences.

Even before Harry, Ron, and Hermione know about Greyback's character or

behaviour, his name evokes fear and foreboding. When the three friends follow Draco

Malfoy into Knockturn Alley, they hear Greyback's name for the first time. Malfoy enters the Dark Arts shop Borgin and Burkes, and makes arrangements with the shopkeeper,

Borgin, for the repair of some unknown Dark Arts object.1 When Borgin questions the authoritative tone that Malfoy takes with him while making the arrangements, Malfoy reveals an unseen item to him and then threatens him with a visit from Greyback.2 "Tell anyone," Malfoy says to Borgin, "and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir

Greyback? He's a family friend, he'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention" (121). Borgin protests that visits from

Greyback are unnecessary, but Malfoy cuts short his protest and states that Greyback's visits are not an issue of debate; they are, instead, something that will happen at Malfoy's discretion. Although readers, along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, do not yet know who

(or what) Greyback is, they can deduce that his name evokes enough fear that an adult wizard would take orders from an adolescent and under-age wizard. Malfoy's threat to

1 In Chapter 27 of the Half-Blood Prince, "The Lightning-Struck Tower," Malfoy reveals to Dumbledore that the magical object in question is actually a pair of Vanishing Cabinets. Malfoy uses the cabinets to sneak Death Eaters into Hogwarts. 2 Harry later (correctly) speculates that the item Malfoy reveals is, in fact, a Dark Mark—the mark that is branded into the forearm of Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters {Half-Blood Prince 125). 3 Malfoy is, at this point, sixteen years old and, therefore, still under-age. In the wizarding world, the age of majority is seventeen. This point comes up repeatedly in the series, but is particularly emphasized in the Goblet when the Ministry decrees that under­ age wizards and witches may not participate in the Tri-Wizard Tournament because it is too dangerous. Borgin is effective, and the shopkeeper acquiesces. When Malfoy leaves the shop,

"Borgin [makes] a bow as deep as the one Harry had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy"

(122). The shopkeeper, intimidated by the threat of Greyback's future visits, defers to the

young boy.

After this episode, Harry, Ron, and Hermione all but forget about Greyback, until

he becomes the topic of conversation when the Order gathers for the Christmas holidays

at the Weasley residence. Lupin, whom Harry has not seen or heard from since Sirius's

death, explains that he has been living in an underground community of werewolves,

trying to create sympathy for the Order and its struggle against Lord Voldemort. He

identifies Greyback as the leader of this underground community and describes to Harry

both his character and his relationship with Lord Voldemort:

Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He

regards it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people

as possible. . . . Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his

services. Greyback specializes in children. . . . Voldemort has threatened to

unleash him upon people's sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually

produces good results. (313-14)

Lupin thus not only confirms that Greyback is, indeed, one of Voldemort's agents, but

also he reveals that, like himself, Greyback is a werewolf. Further, Lupin reveals that

Greyback practices the type of werewolfery described by Newt Scamander in Fantastic

Beasts and that earned the werewolf the Ministry classification XXXXX, "Known wizard killer" (xxii): he preys upon humans. Lupin also highlights the extent of the horror

associated with his fellow werewolf. While Greyback preys upon humans, he specifically 347

targets children, victims considerably weaker and more vulnerable than adult wizards. For

example, in the Half-Blood Prince, Harry learns that Greyback attacked and killed the

five-year-old brother of his schoolmates, the Montgomery sisters. Ron tells Harry,

"[T]heir brother was attacked by a werewolf.... [T]he boy was only five and he died in

St Mungo's, they couldn't save him. . . . They sometimes kill. . . . I've heard of it

happening when the werewolf gets carried away" (442). Greyback is the worst nightmare

of the wizarding world: a ferocious and bloodthirsty werewolf who deliberately targets

the weak and the innocent.

When Harry finally encounters Greyback in person for the first time, the

werewolf s physical appearance corresponds with the descriptions of his behaviour.

Greyback appears at the top of the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, where Dumbledore

has been cornered and disarmed by Draco Malfoy. Harry, who is wearing his invisibility

cloak and has been immobilized by Dumbledore, remains merely an observer of the

events atop the Tower, but, subsequently, gets a close-up view of the werewolf. In human

form, Greyback is "a big, rangy man with matted grey hair and whiskers.... He had a

voice like none that Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat, and, unmistakably, of blood coming from him. His filthy hands had long, yellowish nails" (553-54). Rowling highlights Greyback's physical appearance again in Deathly Hallows, when Greyback and a small group of Death Eaters catch up with Harry, Ron, and Hermione at their hideout in the woods. Although he can barely see through his "swollen eyelids," Harry immediately recognizes Greyback's face, which is "covered in matted, grey hair and whiskers, with pointed brown teeth and sores at the corners of his mouth" (365). Even before seeing (albeit with limited vision) the

werewolf s face, Harry identifies the "horribly familiar, rasping voice" as belonging to

Greyback, and, if Greyback's voice and face are not enough to identify him to Harry, the

smell of "dirt, sweat and blood" (365) that accompanies his presence—the smell from the

"top of the Tower where Dumbledore had died" (265)—is.

While Greyback and Lupin's physical appearances suggest their identities as

werewolves and reflect their similar poverty-stricken and hunger-driven lifestyles,

Greyback's condition is far more dilapidated than Lupin's. Lupin is frequently described

as shabby, tired, or ill looking, but never, as is Greyback, as dirty, odour-ridden, blood

stained, or sweaty. Greyback's physical presence is far more feral than Lupin's and

suggests that he is more lupine than human. The difference between Greyback and

Lupin's voices reinforces this contrast. Lupin, as seen earlier in this chapter, is almost

always calm and rational in his tone, and he is the voice of reason in many heated

situations. Greyback's voice, however, evokes his animal or lupine side and his feral

lifestyle. When he talks, he rasps, snarls, growls, or barks. The verbs associated with

Greyback's speech all suggest his fierce animal identity, and, therefore, decrease his

status as a human. As Schutz suggests, "speech and reason are the two things which chiefly separate humans from animals" (9nl7), and these are the qualities most lacking in

Greyback. While Lupin and Greyback are both werewolves, Greyback is considerably more lupine or animal than his counterpart.

4 In an attempt to protect Harry's identity from the Snatchers, Hermione blasts Harry with what Lucius Malfoy laters suggests is a "stinging jinx" {Deathly Hallows 371). Greyback's conversation atop the Tower with Dumbledore confirms the ferocious and bloodthirsty nature that Harry has, until now, only heard about. As Greyback approaches Dumbledore, he grins, "showing pointed teeth. Blood trickled down his chin and he licked his lips slowly, obscenely" (554). In response, the headmaster speculates that the werewolf s taste for flesh has moved beyond the scope of his lupine form. He queries, "Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual;. . . you have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?" (554). Dumbledore's speculation heightens the ferocity of Greyback's character. As Scamander points out, the werewolf is normally, while in human form, a benevolent character (Fantastic Beasts 41). Greyback is more horrific than the werewolf detailed by Scamander—even more ferocious than we originally expect Lupin to be— because the bloodlust that characterizes his lupine form also characterizes his human form. Greyback confirms that his desire for human flesh permeates both of his forms when he responds to Dumbledore's question: "I wouldn't want to miss a trip to Hogwarts,

Dumbledore. ... Not when there are throats to be ripped out. . . delicious, delicious . . ."

(554). Further, as he utters his response, he leers at Dumbledore and picks "at his front teeth" with a "yellow fingernail" (554). Greyback clearly revels in his killings, and the blood trickling down his chin infers that he has come directly from a fresh kill or attack.

The obscene manner in which Greyback licks his lips while approaching

Dumbledore also gestures towards his potential as a sexual predator. Rowling reveals this aspect of his character in Deathly Hallows when he and the small group of Death Eaters catch up with Harry, Ron, and Hermione at their hideout in the forest. As the three

5 We later learn, of course, that he has just attacked and maimed Bill Weasley. fugitives are gathered up by the Death Eaters, Ron tries to protect Hermione. Greyback

turns on Hermione and considers her as potential prey. "Delicious girl," he says, "what a

treat.... I do enjoy the softness of the skin . .." (362). Several minutes later, after

demanding that the three reveal their identities, Greyback refers to Hermione as Harry

and Ron's "pretty little friend" (363). As Greyback utters these words, "Harry's skin

crawl[s]" (363) because of the "relish" in Greyback's voice. While the werewolf clearly

has a taste for the flesh of children, he demonstrates a vampire-like preference for the

flesh of young, attractive girls. In this moment, Greyback is not just the ferocious

werewolf; he is also a sexual predator with pedophiliac tendencies.7 Greyback's identity

as a sexual predator is reinforced later in the same chapter. When the group finally reaches Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix Lestrange orders that they be incarcerated, with the

exception of Hermione, whom she intends to torture for information. As he is dragged

away, Ron cries out that he wants to be substituted for Hermione. Greyback taunts Ron,

saying, "Reckon she'll let me have a bit of the girl when she's finished with her? ... I'd

say I'll get a bite or two, wouldn't you?" (375). Hermione is attractive to Greyback as potential prey, as flesh to be devoured both orally and sexually. His carnivorous appetite is also a sexual appetite, and the dual nature of his appetite renders him an even greater threat to society. Unlike Lupin, who protects the wizarding world's future generations

6 Greyback's desire for the flesh of young women recalls Bram Stoker's Dracula, who similarly has a penchant for young virgins (such as Lucy Westenra) or idealized innocents (such as Mina Harker). 7 Greyback's identity as a sexual predator recalls Charles Perrault's version of the Little Red Riding story. Perrault, in the moral of his tale, describes the most dangerous wolf as the male sexual predator. Such wolves, he writes, Ogle and leer, languish, cajole and glance, With luring tongues and language wondrous sweet, Following young ladies as they walk the street, Even to their houses and bedside. (31) 351

through his roles as a teacher and mentor, and through his work for the Order, Greyback

endangers adults and children alike. He is both a murderer and a sexual predator.

Greyback also endangers wizarding society through both his transformations and

his alliance with the Dark Lord. Unlike Lupin, who repeatedly seeks integration and

acceptance in the wizarding world, Greyback spurns and endangers society at large.

Lupin chooses to minimize the threat he presents to society while in lupine form (by using the Wolfsbane potion and by sequestering himself); contrarily, Greyback chooses to

position himself in a manner that will increase the threat he presents to others. Lupin

explains to Harry that he originally felt sympathy for the other werewolf, "thinking that

he had no control" {Half-Blood Prince 314). "But," he continues, "Greyback is not like that. At the full moon he positions himself close to victims, ensuring that he is near

enough to strike. He plans it all" (314). Although he is unable to control the act of transformation, Greyback manipulates the circumstances surrounding it; he deliberately goes out of his way to endanger other people.

Greyback's alliance with the Dark Lord allows him to attack victims without fear of penalty. Prior to Voldemort's return and infiltration of the Ministry of Magic, werewolves were not only monitored, through the Ministry's Werewolf Registry, they were also policed by the Ministry's Werewolf Capture Unit (Scamander xiii).

Voldemort's infiltration and widespread control of the Ministry suggests that the

Werewolf Capture Unit would be unlikely to seek out those working with or for him.

Thus, Greyback can operate without fear of being sought or captured by the Unit. Further, by working for Voldemort, Greyback has access to an almost unlimited supply of victims because the Dark Lord does away with all those he considers impure (non pure-blood 352 wizards), non-wizard beings (such as Muggles), and those who choose to oppose him.

Ultimately, Greyback consciously works to undermine the Ministry of Magic, and, therefore, the social system that it regulates.

4.3.1 Classical and Medieval Resonances

The aspects of Greyback's character explored above—his physical appearance, his cannibalistic and sexually predatory behaviour, his status as an outcast, and his efforts to undo the social structures of society—all link him to antecedent classical werewolf narratives. Greyback's physicality recalls classical narratives with lupine figures that are associated with negative traits such as an unkempt appearance or sexually deviant and predatory behaviour. Greyback's matted grey hair and beard, his excessively long and yellow fingernails and teeth, and his overall body odour of dirt, blood, and decay recall

Aeschinas from Theocritus's "Idyll 14" and Damon from Virgil's "Eclogue 8." Aeschinas and Damon are both lovesick characters that are scorned and ridiculed by the women that they desire. In Theocritus's text, Aeschinas loses his lover Cynisca to Wolf, the son of his neighbour Labes, and, subsequently, lets his physical appearance fall into a state of neglect. Further, while Wolf is not described as having the same dilapidated physicality that characterizes Aeschinas, he is described as a sexual predator with an insatiable sexual appetite. In Virgil's text, Damon is scorned not only for his dilapidated physical appearance, but also for his deviant sexual behaviour: his bestiality with goats.

Greyback's physical appearance, especially his lack of personal hygiene and his sexually suggestive remarks about Hermione, resonates with the negative traits exemplified by his classical predecessors. 353

Greyback's character also recalls Ovid's werewolf figure Lycaon, who, as he enters the forest and transforms into lupine form, is described as having shaggy, grey hair, a fierce face, and gleaming eyes, all of which, Ovid suggests, are evidence of his "beastly savagery" {Metamorphoses 1.19). While in his human form, Lycaon commits sacrilege: he slaughters an innocent child and presents it to Jove in an attempt to engage the god in cannibalism. His sin earns him exile and brings about the fall of the Arcadian society and the destruction of the Arcadian race. Greyback's character recalls Ovid's Lycaon in numerous ways. First, he is similarly associated with cannibalistic behaviour; he is a ferocious and bloodthirsty werewolf that preys upon the innocent and weak. Second, his physical description parallels Ovid's description of Lycaon, while his body odour—which is feral and evokes the elements, death, and decay—evokes his similar savage nature and his life of exile within uncivilized spaces. Finally, Greyback is also connected to moments of great social upheaval; he is connected to the attempted destruction of the

Ministry regulated society through both his alliance with Voldemort and through his perpetual preying upon the members of this society.

The negative aspects of Greyback's character that link him to classical werewolf narratives also link him—along with the Harry Potter series—to medieval narratives, specifically the interlaced Norse myths of the Fenriswolf and of the apocalyptic

Ragnarok. Greyback is explicitly linked to Norse mythology through his name. The synonymity of the wolf with a fen-dweller reminds us of Greyback's marginalized existence—his exile from the civilized spaces of the wizarding world while it simultaneously evokes Greyback's prominent, feral body odour of dirt, sweat, and blood or death. In addition, the dangerous nature of the fens—their status as one of nature's death traps—recalls the effort Greyback puts into his position at the full moon. By

placing himself within close proximity to his victims, he, too, becomes a death trap.8

Overall, Greyback embodies the outlaw status, the uncivilized space, and the death

implied by his name.

Greyback's cannibalism and bloodthirsty killings also resonate with the images

discussed in Chapter 3 of Fenriswolf as the ultimate destructive and devouring force. As

seen above, Greyback decidedly prefers human flesh; he functions as a type of scavenger

of war, as someone to whom Voldemort and his associates dole out potential victims and

bodies, dead or alive. Greyback parallels Fenriswolf on several levels: he is, as a werewolf or lupine figure, ostracized by society; he engages in consuming behaviour that not only evokes his name's sake, but also his namesake's off-spring; and, he operates as a harbinger of death.9 Greyback's rampant attacks and attempts to enlarge the werewolf population also recall the passage in Voluspd that refers to the destructive and monstrous offspring of Fenriswolf. Thus, both figures—Fenriswolf and Greyback—increase the number of other, similar, lupine figures in their respective worlds.

Greyback also parallels Fenriswolf through his contributions to the collapse of the

Ministry regulated wizarding society and through his participation in the final battle at

Hogwarts, both of which recall the Norse myth of Ragnarok. In fact, Rowling's Harry

Potter series describes a world increasingly similar to the chaotic society described in

Greyback functions as a death trap on two levels: first, he may kill his victim outright; second, he may bite and infect his victim, thus killing the victim in another sense, one that allows him or her to live, but as a werewolf rather than as a full human. 9 As a harbinger of death, Greyback fulfills the expectations set up by his characterization in a way that neither Lupin nor Sirius does. Voluspd} In the Goblet, for example, a number of unexplained and unresolved missing

persons incidents lead Dumbledore to suspect that the Dark Lord is, again, on the rise; in

the Order, the Ministry faces the possibility that the Dementors are no longer under their

control, first when two of them attack Harry in Little Whinging, and, later, when a

number of dangerous criminals escape from Azkaban. The opening chapter of the Half-

Blood Prince confirms that the wizarding world is on the brink of collapse and that the

events of the wizarding world bleed over into Muggle society. Also in this chapter, the

Muggle Prime Minister bemoans his fate as the Minister under whose rule all sorts of

catastrophes take place. He reviews a series of unfortunate events: the collapse of a fairly

new bridge (7); two "nasty and well-publicised murders" (8); a highly destructive "freak

hurricane in the West Country" (8); the unusual behaviour of certain government officials

(8); and, finally, the unnatural "chilly mist in the middle of July" (8). Cornelius Fudge,

the recently deposed Minister of Magic, appears in his office and confirms that these

incidents are all actually events of the magical world. Fudge reveals that the destruction

of the Brockdale bridge (and the subsequent loss of lives) was actually brought about by

Voldemort when Fudge refused Voldemort's demand that he step down. Next, Fudge

explains that the victims of the two high-profile murders were both powerful witches

(Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance), one of which was likely killed by Voldemort

himself, and that the hurricane in the west was actually a violent attack by Death Eaters

and, possibly, a giant. Finally, Fudge explains that the unusual, chilly mist is a sign that

the Dementors are propagating at an alarming rate. When Rufus Scrimgeour, Fudge's

successor, arrives shortly thereafter, he adds to this list by explaining that the government

10 The apocalyptic descriptions similarly parallel Christian accounts of the Apocalypse, such as those described by Jesus in Matthew 24 and Mark 13. official currently behaving unusually (Junior Minister Herbert Chorley) is actually

reacting to "a poorly performed Imperius Curse" that has "addled his brains" (23). As the

chapter closes, Fudge and Scrimgeour confirm for the Prime Minister that the wizarding

world is now, officially, at war.

The war reaches its pinnacle in the final chapters of Deathly Hallows, from

Chapter 31, "The Battle at Hogwarts," onwards. Like Ragnarok, it is an all or nothing

battle involving all of the peoples (or races) of wizarding society. Wizards and witches

are not the only magical beings present. Also present are Centaurs, giants, house-elves,

Dementors, Acromantulas, and werewolves. Among the latter, is, of course, Fenrir

Greyback. He appears more than once in the battle, but never in a positive position.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione encounter Greyback as they try to make their way out of the

castle and towards the Shrieking Shack. They see "a grey blur" that looks like a four-

legged animal speed across the castle entrance way "to sink its teeth into one of the

fallen" (519). They see, in fact, Greyback looming over the semi-conscious body of

Lavendar Brown, and, Hermione, with a "deafening blast from her wand," sends him

flying away (519).11 Greyback suffers a dual blow in this scene, as, immediately after

Hermione's blast, Sybill Trelawney attacks him. As he staggers to his feet after

Hermione's blast, "with a bright white flash and a crack, a crystal ball [falls] on top of his

head and he crumple[s] to the ground" (519). This blow knocks him out, but does not kill him. Later in the battle, as Harry works his way through the castle alone, he sees "Ron

and Neville bringing down Fenrir Greyback" (589). Like his name's sake, Greyback finds

11 Even in human form, Greyback is so wolf-like that he moves best with a quadrupedal gait rather than a bipedal one. Lupin's presence in the Battle of Hogwarts in his human form indicates that it is not a full moon, and, therefore, Greyback is not actually in his lupine form. his demise in the final battle when he is overcome by members of a younger generation.

The text suggests here that Greyback is defeated, but it remains ambiguous as to whether

or not the werewolf is, in fact, killed. Either way, however, the havoc he wreaks upon

society ends in this moment. Further, this younger generation is a type of new world

order. The Epilogue to Deathly Hallows, which provides the basic details about the

futures of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and their friends (including Neville), is a description of

a new wizarding society, one in which, as Harry reflects, "All [is] well" (607).

Despite all of his obvious connections to Fenriswolf, however, Fenrir Greyback

falls short of the parallel suggested by their shared name and similar characterizations.

Fenriswolf does not just participate in the final battle; his presence and participation are paramount to its occurrence. Fenriswolf is the crucial element of the myth because his

birth triggers the series of events that culminate in Ragnarok. Further, he is directly responsible for the death of Odin, the highest of all gods, the god around whom society is

structured and ordered. Greyback does not receive such honours. Although his actions contribute to social collapse, and although he participates in The Battle of Hogwarts, his role during the battle is significantly smaller than the role of Fenriswolf at Ragnarok.

Greyback does not kill any significant leaders or trigger any cataclysmic events. The episode in which Hermione espies him looming over the body of Lavender Brown actually suggests that he is behaving in a manner more aligned with the scavenger wolves of Norse mythology than Fenriswolf. He looks for already dead or maimed corpses to

Rowling used a similar term in her interview on Dateline, 29 July 2007, "'Harry Potter. The Final Chapter." In response to a question raised by Chelsea (one of the child interviewers), Rowling describes what Harry, Ron, and Hermione go on to do after Hogwarts. Rowling outlines the characters' respective careers and concludes, "they're all at the ministry, but it's a very new ministry. They made a new world." prey upon rather than seeking out and attacking important members of the opposition

(especially members of the Order). The ambiguity surrounding Greyback's death also

undermines the potential parrallel between Rowling's werewolf and his medieval name

sake. In Norse mythology, Fenriswolf s death is definitive and has purpose. The

ambiguous nature of Greyback's defeat (or death) lessens the significance of his

participation in the final battle.

The Battle of Hogwarts, then, upsets expectations, particularly those of the

readers, about who and what Greyback is. Quite simply, he fails to fulfill the role

suggested and anticipated by his name and his connections to Norse mythology. Thus, in the final chapters of book seven, Rowling demands that her readers reconsider their understandings of her second werewolf figure, and, subsequently, their understandings of

identity. In doing so, Rowling creates a parallel between Greyback and Lupin, one that is reinforced by several other subtle parallels, parallels that are, at first, overshadowed by

Greyback's connections to Fenriswolf and Ragnarok.

4.3.2 Parallels with Remus Lupin

Rowling suggests the possibility of a parallel between Remus Lupin and Fenrir

Greyback in the Half-Blood Prince when she first provides details about Greyback's character. During his conversation with Harry over the Christmas break (at the Weasley residence), Lupin reveals to Harry that he has a special connection to Greyback. He tells

Harry, "It was Greyback who bit me. ... My father had offended him. I did not know, for a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had attacked me" (314). The connection between the two werewolves is strengthened in Deathly Hallows, when

Rowling reveals more about Greyback's character. In particular, Rowling demonstrates that Greyback, like Lupin, is marginalized because of his status as a werewolf, and that,

consequently, he desires inclusion and a society in which he belongs.

As previously explained, the werewolf is marginalized by wizarding society; it is

repeatedly exiled by regulations and laws that seek to monitor and control its existence.

Fear and prejudice make it difficult for the werewolf to live within the wizarding society,

while anti-werewolf legislation makes it virtually impossible for the werewolf even to

attain the means by which to do so. Lupin and Greyback are equally ostracized and

pushed to the margins of society because of their status as werewolves, regardless of their

differences in character or behaviour. In addition, Lupin is doubly marginalized; his

fellow werewolves reject him precisely because he repeatedly attempts to inhabit the

same world as full humans. Greyback, too, is doubly marginalized. Although, at a first

glance, his alliance with Voldemort appears to integrate him into a society of sorts, this

integration is minimal. Greyback's alliance with the Dark Lord may give him license to

enter and inhabit wizarding society at large, but ultimately he remains a marginal figure.

Greyback works with a small group of low-level Death Eaters known as

Snatchers. When this small group captures Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Harry discovers that they have also captured his schoolmate Dean Thomas. Dean explains to Harry that the Snatchers seek out "truants to sell for gold" {Deathly Hallows 364). Snatchers hunt down, for a fee, anyone who runs from Voldemort and his society. The Snatchers are, essentially, a group of lower class thugs used by Voldemort for actions that would be considered beneath him or his inner circle of Death Eaters. The low status of the

Snatchers is revealed by a number of factors. First, they work for gold—they are primarily driven by a desire to gain monetary wealth rather than a desire to serve or 360 honour the Dark Lord. When Greyback realizes that he has caught Harry Potter and, subsequently, Harry's wand, he estimates that he will receive "two hundred thousand

Galleons" (368), and rather than just doing away with Ron and Hermione, whom he thinks are both Mudbloods, he posits that they will earn him at least "another ten

Galleons" (368). Second, the Snatchers in the small group that travels with Greyback remain, for the most part, unidentified. With the exception of one Death Eater named

Scabior, the Snatchers remain both nameless and faceless. Third, none of the Snatchers— including Greyback—bear the Dark Mark; they are unable to call Voldemort directly to them and must, instead, rely on other means to contact him. Finally, the one Snatcher that is identified—Scabior—is marked by his speech. Scabior's speech has two specific grammatical characteristics that identify him as a member of the uneducated lower class: he drops all of his initial "h"s and he uses grammatically incorrect abbreviations such as

"ain't." For example, when Harry is caught by the Snatchers, he initially tells them that his name is Vernon Dudley. He also identifies his Hogwarts house as Slytherin, and confirms the location of Slytherin common room as proof of his identity. In response,

Scabior says, "Well, well, looks like we really 'ave caught a little Slytherin. . . . Good for you, Vernon, 'cause there ain't a lot of Mudblood Slytherins" (365). Scabior's speech is in contrast to the speech of his captives, who enunciate their words fully and properly.

His coarse speech diminishes his status and marks him as socially different from

Voldemort's inner circle. Like Greyback, he is an outsider and functions only as a tool for the Dark Lord.

The discrimination Greyback suffers at they hands of Death Eaters within

Voldemort's inner circle also reinforces his low status. When Greyback takes his captives 361

to Malfoy Manor, he is treated poorly by Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy as well as by

Bellatrix Lestrange. Although, as Harry's experiences suggest, Greyback is an easily

identifiable character, when Narcissa Malfoy opens the door to Malfoy Manor, she fails

to recognize him. Given Draco Malfoy's comment to Borgin at the start of the Half-Blood

Prince that Greyback is a family friend, Narcissa's inability to recognize Greyback is a

surprise, and her inability to recognize the werewolf suggests that he is a figure of little

consequence within her social circle. While in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor,

Greyback confirms his low status among the Death Eaters. Although he protests when

Lucius and Bella argue about who should summon Voldemort to the Manor, Greyback

shows a slight deference to Lucius by addressing him as "Mr Malfoy" (373). While this

comment has a sarcastic tone and is meant to remind Lucius that he, too, currently ranks

fairly low with Voldemort, it simultaneously reveals that Greyback and Lucius are not on

a first name basis precisely because they are not equals within Voldemort's society.1

Even when disfavoured and under house arrest, Lucius maintains a status higher than

Greyback. Bellatrix's actions in this scene also confirm that Greyback and his

companions are the lowest minions of Voldemort's order. When Greyback protests her

interference with his potential reward, she calls him, with disgust, a "filthy scavenger,"

and differentiates herself from him by pointing out that she seeks honour rather than

monetary reward (373). Further, when one of the Snatchers refuses to relinquish the jewel-encrusted sword he carries to Bellatrix, chaos breaks out as the Snatchers overall

resist her efforts to take their bounty. In a single breath, Bellatrix overcomes them. She

13 Lucius Malfoy has been in poor standing with Voldemort for quite some time because he failed to secure the prophecy about Harry and Voldemort (at the end of the Order) and because his son also failed to complete the task he was given, which was to kill Dumbledore (at the end of the Half-Blood Prince). stuns all of the Snatchers except Greyback, whom she immobilizes in "a kneeling

position, his arms outstretched" (374). Bellatrix then threatens Greyback with the sword

that she has just confiscated, demanding to know where he found it.14 The werewolf

receives a slight reprieve, but only because he may have valuable information.

The Malfoys and Bellatrix Lestrange show little regard for Greyback's

accomplishment (capturing Harry), and seek only to use the event, however accidental it

may have been, for their own gains. They do not consider Greyback an equal, and thus

they practically ignore his presence and actions. The overall futility of Greyback's protests confirm just how little regard his allies have for him. He remains, in their eyes,

nothing more than a hired thug. Despite his inclusion—his alignment with Voldemort—

and his apparent integration into the Death Eaters, Greyback is still ostracized because he

is a werewolf. He is allowed to participate in the spread of Voldemort's rule, he is even

given license to kill and to shed blood, but he is still an outsider, a being considered by

others, particularly those such as Voldemort and his inner circle, to be less than human.

He is no more included by aligning himself with Voldemort and the Death Eaters than he was when the Ministry regulations and laws forced him to the margins of society.

Greyback is not oblivious to his marginal position within Voldemort's society, nor does he enjoy it. While there is no denying that he aligns himself with the Dark Lord in

order to feed his hungers (flesh and gold), his behaviour in Deathly Hallows also suggests that he seeks something more. The episode in which the Snatchers capture Harry, Ron, and Hermione suggests that Greyback desires recognition and status—a social position

This moment also provides another parallel to the medieval Norse myth of the Fenriswolf. Greyback—immobile, bound by a spell, and threatened by a sword—recalls Fenriswolf when he is fettered by Gleipnir with the sword thrust between his jaws. above the one he currently occupies. When Scabior questions Greyback's assessment that

their captive is, indeed, Harry Potter, the werewolf pulls rank. He roars his response to

Scabior, "Who's in charge here?" (368), and reasserts his position as the group's leader.

Only moments later, Greyback again reveals how important status is to him. When

Scabior asks him if he will summon Voldemort directly, Greyback almost reveals an

important detail about his status in Voldemort's forces, one that would diminish his

position among the other Death Eaters. He says to Scabior, "No. ... I haven't got—they

say he's using the Malfoy's place as a base. We'll take the boy there" (367). Harry

correctly guesses what it is that the werewolf almost reveals, that he [Greyback] "might

be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but only Voldemort's

inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback had not been granted this

highest honour" (368). Voldemort accepts Greyback's allegiance because he is a useful

killing tool, but he refuses to grant him any privileges. Yet it is the privileges and

recognition that Greyback ultimately wants. This is precisely why Greyback dismisses

Scabior's suggestion that they take the captives to the Ministry: he does not want to lose

an opportunity to further his position with Voldemort. "To hell with the Ministry,"

Greyback says to Scabior, "They'll take the credit and we won't get a look in. I say we

take him straight to You-Know-Who" (367-68). By taking his captives directly to the

Dark Lord, Greyback stands a better chance of being recognized and rewarded for his

success, even if it is an accidental one.

Greyback's desire for recognition again surfaces when he and his companions

reach Malfoy Manor. When Narcissa Malfoy, failing to recognize him, queries, "Who are you?" Greyback responds with "resentment" in his voice: "You know me! . . . Fenrir 364

Greyback!" (370). Greyback's desire for recognition also informs his outrage when

Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange overlook the obvious point that it is he who captures Harry. He protests their debate about how and when contact with Voldemort should be made. While, as Bellatrix suggests, he does not want to lose the potential rewards of flesh and gold, Greyback's struggle for control over the situation and his resentment when Bellatrix bests him is also tied to his desire for recognition. Despite the discrimination he suffers at the hands of the other Death Eaters, Greyback still wants to be considered equal among them, and his resentment at Narcissa's treatment of him and

Lucius and Bellatrix's belittling of his capture of Harry demonstrates that he expects and desires better treatment from those with whom he has allied himself. Ultimately,

Greyback wants to be included; he wants to be acknowledged by those below him and he wants to be considered equal by those above him.

In this respect, then, Greyback is no different than Lupin. Lupin's greatest flaw is his desire to be liked. Harry recognizes this aspect of Lupin's character when he espies the photograph of the Marauders on the wall in Sirius's bedroom (Deathly Hallows 148).

Greyback also wants to be included. In fact, Greyback's desire to be included informs his actions even before Voldemort's return. Repeatedly scorned and outcast by wizarding society at large, Greyback sets out to create a community in which he is considered normal and in which he is included. In the Half-Blood Prince, Lupin explains to Harry that Greyback's ultimate goal is to create an all-werewolf society. By biting or turning as many people as possible into werewolves, Greyback hopes to turn his minority status into a majority status. Further, by targeting children and then raising them, away from their families, "to hate normal wizards" (314), Greyback hopes to create a generation of werewolves that, like him, reject the normal society that originally shuns them. In short,

Greyback wants werewolves eventually to out-number and overcome the human wizards.

He works to create a new society, a new world order of sorts, in which the werewolf is a

central rather than marginal figure.'5

Greyback is reasonably successful in his aims. While readers are never given an

indication of how many werewolves exist within the wizarding world as a whole, Lupin's

comments to Harry suggest that a fair number of them have joined Greyback and have

formed a large underground community. Unfortunately, the underground community is

problematic because it remains, by choice, a marginal community. The underground

werewolves shun "normal society" (Half-Blood Prince 313); further, they consciously

enact the negative behaviours that are assigned to them by the wizarding world at large; they steal and sometimes kill in order to survive (314), and, by doing so, embrace and perpetuate the negative stereotype that originally led to their marginalization.17

Greyback's alliance with Voldemort suggests that even though he creates and shapes this society (successfully so, as well), it ultimately falls short of his desires. If he were truly interested in a society in which werewolves were the majority and in which the human wizards were usurped as the social elite, his status amongst his oppressors (whether it be the Ministry or Voldemort's Death Eaters) would make no difference to him. Despite his

15 One cannot but help recall the Norse Fenriswolf here. The death of the Fenriswolf leads to the birth of, as Lindow puts it, "a new world order" (114). 16 Greyback's werewolf society does not, to our knowledge, prosper or continue to have significance after the Battle of Hogwarts; there is no mention of it in the "Epilogue" to Deathly Hallows. 17 In this respect, the werewolves of Greyback's underground community differentiate themselves from Lupin; they insist upon remaining marginalized rather than seeking integration. 366 attempts to do so, Greyback cannot fully banish his desire to be included in the very society that excludes him.

Greyback's alliance with Voldemort and his creation of a werewolf community both highlight another aspect of his character that establishes a parallel between Lupin and himself. Although he cannot control the process of transformation, in all else that he does Greyback exercises free will. Like Lupin—who chooses to continually seek integration, to minimalize the threat he presents at the full moon, and to not enact the negative behaviours assigned to the werewolf stereotype—Greyback chooses. While

Lupin and Greyback clearly make different choices—their appearances, behaviours, and communities are evidence of this—it is important that they are both capable of choosing and that they both exercise this ability. Both Lupin and Greyback exercise choice in the construction of their identities. More importantly, they both make choices about how they will act or live—choices that contribute to how others see them. The ability to choose, along with the differences in the choices that they make, ultimately renders inadequate the singular definition of the werewolf that wizarding society indiscriminately assigns to both

Lupin and Greyback.

4.4 Conclusion

Rowling's desire to eradicate social hierarchies based upon categories of difference, especially those that result in exclusion, is most evident in the final chapters of her series. The final chapters of Deathly Hallows reinforce what Kern describes as

Harry's (and therefore Rowling's) "egalitarian ethic" (119). Kern comments that, throughout the series, 367

Harry always acts out of solidarity rather than a sense of obligation. . . .

This is important because obligation can imply a relationship between

persons who are unequal in status. Solidarity, in contrast, carries no such

connotation.... Harry never condescends even when he works on

Dobby's behalf, regrets the relative poverty of the Weasleys, consoles

Hagrid, or rescues Fleur's sister from the merpeople during the second task

of the Triwizard Tournament. (118)

Harry develops the ability to accept others for who they are and as they are, no matter what kind of drastic or dynamic changes their bodies or selves undergo. His refusal to marginalize Lupin, as does wizarding society at large, attests to his egalitarianism. Harry repeatedly works for and with others, whether they are house-elves, giants, hippogriffs, mud-bloods, witches, or wizards.

Harry's egalitarianism carries over into what is, ultimately, the denouement of the

Harry Potter series, The Battle of Hogwarts. A multitude of races and beings gather together to fight Voldemort, his forces, and his exclusive and hierarchical vision of society. The post-victory scene, though, is the most revealing scene of all: it emphasizes

Rowling's egalitarian vision, the one embodied in her protagonist. While it is significant that categories and differences are ultimately abolished by those who oppose

Voldemort—that is, all stand together united in the Battle of Hogwarts—it is even more significant that this social leveling, so to speak, persists in the Battle's aftermath. As the sun rises on the Great Hall, order is slowly restored, but it is a new kind of order:

McGonagall had replaced the house tables, but nobody was sitting

according to house any more: all were jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves, and Firenze lay

recovering in a corner, and Grawp peered in through a smashed window,

and people were throwing food into his laughing mouth. (597)

This vision, this single moment in the entire series, is a turning point for wizarding

society. It is the moment at which change begins. In this scene, race, house affiliation,

class, gender, and age are unimportant. What matters the most is, as Kern would say,

solidarity—solidarity and success against Voldemort.

Although the Epilogue to Deathly Hallows suggests that society reorders itself

somewhat over time, the social boundaries that are reestablished seem less important than

before. Hermione and Ron (albeit the latter perhaps begrudgingly) instruct their children

not to dislike or to judge Scorpius Malfoy (Draco Malfoy's son) before even meeting

him, while Harry advises his son Albus Severus that being in Slytherin is not necessarily

a negative thing. Harry reassures Albus by reminding him that one of the two men for

whom he was named (Severus Snape) was in Slytherin and that he was "probably the

bravest man" Harry had ever known (607). The Epilogue also demonstrates that Lupin's

son, Teddy, is fully grown and fully integrated into society, despite being the son of a

werewolf. In fact, Teddy's girlfriend is none other than Victoire Weasley, the daughter of

Bill and Fleur.1 The implicit normalcy of both Teddy and Victoire's lives suggests that post-Battle wizarding society is a world of greater equality, of greater tolerance, and of

greater hope.

The connection that each of these characters has to a werewolf figure undoubtedly contributes to their relationship. Teddy is the son of a werewolf; Fleur is the daughter of a human-werewolf hybrid. 369

Rowling admits that this is one of the main reasons for which she wrote the

Epilogue. In her interview with Meredith Vieira, she confessed that she wanted to

confirm for readers, "Lupin's son is obviously okay. That he has an ongoing relationship

with Harry and that he's—he must be quite happy and he's got a very good-looking

girlfriend because the person he's kissing in the epilogue is Bill and Fleur's eldest

daughter" ("The Final Chapter").2 When Vieira asked why this was important, Rowling

continued,

Because he's been orphaned. And I want—I want to show that he's okay.

And I want to show that because the world is a better place, he's having a

happier [life]. ... So obviously Teddy Lupin's very important to me. I

just—yeah. I—having killed both his parents, I really wanted him to be

okay. ("The Final Chapter")

Teddy Lupin, the son that Remus Lupin feared would be outcast, ostracized for being the

son of a werewolf, lives a happy and fulfilling life. In some ways, Teddy's life is more

normal overall than Harry's was before he went to Hogwarts, before he killed Voldemort.

Despite losing his parents at such a young age (like Harry), Teddy is fully integrated into

a loving family and into society. His father's death was not without purpose: it

contributed to this outcome.

Ultimately, then, the traditionally marginalized werewolf figure is crucial to

Rowling's explorations of identity. Through Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback, Rowling

The online transcription of this interview actually reads, "he must be quite happy and he's got a very good-looking girlfriend because I think he's kissing in the epilogue his—Bill and Fleur's eldest daughter" ("The Final Chapter"). I have silently amended the quotation above to represent correctly what Rowling says according to the film footage of the interview. 370

questions understandings of what specifically constitutes identity; she questions fixed

concepts of identity as well as definitions of identity based upon the mind-body

dichotomy or upon falsely constructed identity positions. Her juxtaposition of the

Animagi to the werewolf, even of the werewolf to himself if we consider the influence of

Wolfsbane potion on Lupin, suggests that, while identity can be determined by

psychological continuity, it does not necessarily have to be, nor is it specifically limited to

this continuity. She also suggests that an understanding of identity as identity position,

particularly an identity position determined by one's capacity for continuity, is equally as

limited. By adapting and reinventing the werewolf figures of her literary predecessors,

both classical and medieval, Rowling upsets her characters' and her readers' expectations;

she challenges them to rethink their own preconceived notions about identity and its

associated issues. Overall, through her werewolf figures and, especially through the

relationship of Lupin and Harry, Rowling illustrates the difficulties readers face when

grappling with identity. Moreover, she demonstrates that identity cannot—indeed, should

not—be contained by systems of regulation and defined by categories of difference, as

any such attempts inevitably result in the breach or transgression of boundaries.

Thus, in a period when the question of identity surfaces on a daily basis in all

aspects of culture, when issues of ethnicity, gender, class, and race, permeate our world,

Rowling's Harry Potter series provides an understanding of identity that is both "labile

and problematic," an understanding that "will not force us to choose between mind and body, socialization and biology, genes and desire, one not figured primarily in terms of transplants, splits and dichotomies" (Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity 165). Rowling creates precisely what Bynum seeks: "images, metaphors, and stories that imagine a self 371 possessing both individuality and identity position, a self that really changes while remaining the same thing" (165). Ultimately, Rowling resists the notion that identity is or should be fixed, and that difference should be the basis for exclusive and hierarchical social systems. Moreover, through her adaptation and reinvention of traditional werewolf figures, she shapes her imaginary world as well as the attitudes of her readers; she invents, as Umberto Eco would say, "a new way of culture" (75). Chapter 5: General Conclusion

The maker's essential function is to illuminate, to constantly induce us, the readers, to redefine our beliefs, enlarge our definitions, and question our answers. (Manguel 22)

Overall, this dissertation makes original contributions to both werewolf studies and Harry Potter criticism; its chapters all support the overarching argument that lupine figures defy any singule interpretation and must, therefore, be approached as sites of potentially varied meanings within their relevant historical and cultural contexts. It also demonstrates the ingenuity of J. K. Rowling, her ability to take something familiar, something already invested with a myriad of meanings, and to reshape it in order to challenge her readers' expectations and beliefs.

Traditional approaches to or studies of wolves and werewolves have been, as the

General Introduction suggests, inadequate: they frequently seek to define lupine figures with binaries or to specifically categorize them, often in a reductive or ill-fitting manner.

The approach taken in this dissertation moves beyond the parameters of such studies.

Within these pages, lupine figures are examined synchronically, within their relevant cultural and historical contexts; they are also examined diachronically, as markers of change within different cultural and historical contexts. Simultaneously, they are examined in a descriptive rather than prescriptive manner. Each wolf or werewolf is examined as an independent literary figure rather than as an example of a specific type or category of lycanthropy. Rather than imposing a predetermined meaning upon lupine figures, this study allows each figure to speak for itself, to lead the reader down the appropriate and necessary paths to gain insight into what it represents. The multi-faceted nature of lupine figures is a key argument in each chapter

within this study. Chapter 2, "Antiquity," establishes how varied lupine figures can be.

Within the classical period, lupine figures appear within a variety of texts, ranging from

histories and ethnographies to poetry, fables, and creation and destruction myths.

Moreover, the meanings of lupine figures are as varied as the genres in which they

appear. Their presence within a text can represent the historical realities of the text's

author or audience; humans and wolves inhabited, even competed for, some of the same

spaces, and wolves often threatened the subsistence of human communities, especially

during times of hardship and resource scarcity. Already deemed liminal or other because

of the threat they could present, wolves were also frequently appropriated to represent

threatening or negative behaviours and or characteristics in humans. Those individuals

who threatened social order or who transgressed social norms were identified as wolves.

Transgressive or threatening behaviours, ranging from excessive or deviant sexuality or

an undesirable physical appearance to violent and unjust rule, were articulated through the association of the individual who engaged in these behaviours with wolves.

Tyrannical leaders and corrupt martial figures, for instance, those who were supposed to maintain a just and ordered society but who, instead, threatened the communities and

individuals (citizens and non-citizens alike) that they were bound to protect, were

frequently assigned negative lupine features.

Wolves and werewolves could also, within the classical period, represent early religious and social practices, particularly those connected to fheriomorphic belief

systems and to the rituals connected to these systems. In addition, a number of the classical narratives that include such lupine figures juxtapose them with later, more anthropomorphic, belief systems. In such cases, tension exists within the text because the

lupine figures are evidence of both credulity and distrust in the specific cultural and

religious beliefs associated with the figures within the narrative. In short, they operate as

markers of cultural change, as evidence of what a society once believed and as evidence

of what it believes during the time in which the narrative was written. A number of the

classical lupine figures are also connected to magic and to social rituals designed to purge

a society of its ills, especially ills that arise from impiety, sacrilege or the taboo of

cannibalism. In such instances, transformation is often punishment for the human desire

to elide the differences or transgress the boundaries between humans and gods, between

humans and other humans, or between humans and animals. Such narratives often depict

the wolf or werewolf as the scapegoat figure, as the reason for a society's ills or as the

catalyst for a society's downfall. Yet, lupine figures are as frequently associated with

creation as they are with destruction. From the destruction that they bring about, a new

society usually arises; further, lupine figures are often identified as the founders of

organized societies and, hence, human civilization.

Classical narratives are not the only narratives to participate in the mythic; this

relationship also extends to the medieval period, which is the focus of Chapter 3, "The

Middle Ages." Some of the medieval Eddie poems, for instance, recount myths of

creation and destruction and frequently link these moments of transformation to lupine

figures. In a number of Eddie poems, both the life and death of a lupine figure are

catalysts for change, for the destruction of an old society and for the birth of a new

society. In these narratives, the lupine figure is, like his classical counterparts, cast out or exiled because of the cataclysmic event that he represents and because of his related 375 physical enormity or monstrosity. The association of exile or outlawry with lupine figures appears in other medieval narratives, and, frequently, such social statuses are assigned to individuals with outward and evident signs of either physical or behavioural difference.

Likewise, in Norse sagas, the status of exile or outlaw also appears in connection to ancient social rituals or practices, specifically rites of passage and/or rituals of martial initiation, and evokes pre-Christian and theriomorphic beliefs similar to those of the classical period. The lupine figures of the Eddie poems and of the sagas, then, are frequently connected to death and destruction, to negative events and to human behaviours such as violence.

These connections persist throughout the Middle Ages and appear in other genres such as the bestiary and the fable. Many of the lupine figures and their related narratives within bestiaries and fables resonate with various previous meanings associated with lupine figures, especially those of the classical sources from which much of the bestiary and fable material derived. In fact, these genres were fraught with the tension created by the adaptation of classical materials, which contained pre-Christian and folkloric interpretations of lupine figures, and the juxtaposition of these materials to newly crafted meanings, especially those derived from Christian doctrine.

Medieval writers also created tension within their texts by using lupine figures

(figures that, as we have seen, were already replete with myriad meanings) to upset their readers' or audience's expectations or to criticize their respective societies. Lupine figures could be used to challenge expectations through both the inversion of its traditional associations or through its inclusion in a narrative that broke generic conventions. In such instances, medieval writers forced their audiences to rethink or reexamine preconceived 376

notions about wolves, about themselves, and about their expectations of both within their

given society. Likewise, a number of medieval narratives, particularly fables, associate

specific individuals or social groups with wolves or with the negative behaviours assigned to wolves such as tyranny, violence, and bloodshed. Lupine figures appeared, also, in narratives that sought to reinforce the social hierarchy and to criticize those who either

desired more than their given lot or who failed to participate in the maintenance of a just

society through their own ill-informed decisions and actions.

Finally, martial figures and social leaders such as monarchs were frequently identified as wolves or werewolves. The relationship between martial figures and those to whom they owe allegiance is also frequently highlighted in medieval narratives, often in conjunction with the themes of excessive violence and unjust rule. Such narratives may, initially, suggest that their primary concern is philosophical or theological, to confirm for the audience that human rationality can champion bestial desires or urges or that the outward change of an individual is not indicative of an internal change; yet, many of these narratives simultaneously demonstrate an explicit concern over the role of the knight in medieval society and over the relationship between the knight and his lord. Both of these figures are instrumental to the maintenance of a just and ordered society, but they can also succumb to excess; both can be fallible, and, if they are, the results can be disastrous.

Chapter 3, then, reinforces Chapter 2's argument that lupine figures are multi-faceted, and it demonstrates once again that wolves and werewolves should be considered as sites of potential and varied meanings within their relevant historical and cultural contexts.

Chapters 3 and 4 provide the foundations for Chapter 4, "The Harry Potter

Series." This chapter demonstrates how crucial it is for lupine figures to be considered in a non-prescriptive or categorically motivated manner. Moreover, Rowling's characters

Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback demonstrate how historical and cultural contexts can greatly alter our perceptions of the werewolf as a literary figure. This chapter examines

Rowling's texts and werewolf figures alongside their classical and medieval antecedents while simultaneously explaining her adaptation of these sources in relation to the contemporary culture in which she writes. The chapter demonstrates that Rowling, like her predecessors, frequently negotiates, through the use of the werewolf figure, the concepts of identity and difference, particularly those connected to issues of violence and the boundaries between the human and the animal. More importantly, however, it concludes that Rowling uses her werewolf figures and narratives to effect change, to challenge accepted concepts of identity and difference and to challenge readers' expectations and understandings of the world around them. In short, Rowling fulfills the role of the maker outlined by Manguel: she illuminates, "to constantly induce us, the readers, to redefine our beliefs, enlarge our definitions, and question our answers" (22). Works Cited

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