SOURCE: Resler, Michael. Introduction to Der Stricker: Daniel of the Blossoming Valley (Daniel von dem Blühenden Tal), translated by Michael Resler, pp. xi-lii. New York: Garland Publishing, 1990.

[In the following introduction to his translation of der Stricker's Daniel of the Blossoming Valley, Resler encapsulates what is known of the poet's life, explores the literary influences on his Daniel, and surveys the poem's artistic achievement as a work of romance that departs from numerous conventions of Arthurian narrative.]

Sometime during the early decades of the thirteenth century—probably between the years 1210 and 1225—a German poet, der Stricker, set about composing an Arthurian romance, Daniel of the Blossoming Valley (Daniel von dem Blühenden Tal). He wrote his story in Middle High German, a language which had already become the vehicle for a great flowering of German chivalric literature during the high Middle Ages.

While falling short of the lofty literary achievement of his two great Arthurian predecessors in Germany—Hartmann von Aue and Wolfram von Eschenbach—der Stricker nevertheless earned his place in the annals of German medieval literature. For he appears to have formulated his tale in a radically new fashion. Prior to der Stricker's Daniel, German poets writing about King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table had for several decades been relying upon French models for the basic outlines of their own works. In fact, the earliest German Arthurian romance—Hartmann's Erec (ca. 1185)—was a free adaptation of Chrétien de Troyes' Old French Erec et Enide. With Daniel, however, der Stricker established an abrupt break with this imitative pattern, since no French source has ever been uncovered for Daniel. Indeed, despite der Stricker's claim—in the prologue—that he derived his story from the French poet Alberich de Besançon, scholars are convinced that the story of Daniel was largely the product of poetic phantasy. … [The work is] thought to be the first original, freely invented Arthurian romance in the German tradition.

THE POET

We possess very few hard facts about the life of der Stricker. Indeed, this holds true for most of the German poets of the high Middle Ages, even the most prominent among them. For generally they were not accorded any degree of celebrity status during their lifetimes, nor did they have biographers to record the external details of their lives. As for der Stricker, even his name appears to be an assumed one, and there have been numerous attempts to explain its origins. Goedeke (p. 105), for instance, attempted to derive Stricker from the verb strîchen (“to rove about,” “to wander”). This would, of course, call to mind a vagus or travelling poet. But the name attested in the manuscripts is strickære, and not strichære, which Goedeke's strîchen would demand (Pfeiffer, p. 498). Instead, there is a general consensus that this nom de plume, if it is that, was intended to suggest not an “itinerant,” but rather a “weaver” or a “knitter.” Among those who ascribe to this theory, Pfeiffer (p. 498) was the first to propose that such a pseudonym may have referred to the function of the poet as a weaver of stories.

But was the name necessarily a pseudonym, or might it perhaps have been the patronymic of an historically traceable family? In fact, a document uncovered by Pfeiffer (p. 499) makes mention of a certain Heinricus Strichaere, who was attested ca. 1190 in Austria. Meier (p. 220) proffered a further possibility in the person of Godefridus Stricker, whose name was listed in 1216 in a document from the parish of Adenau in the Eifel. The various forms of evidence therefore suggest two possible interpretations of the name: it may have been a family name, or it may simply have been an adopted pseudonym. Most scholars lean towards the latter theory, but in the final analysis both possibilities remain open.

It is nonetheless certain that der Stricker must have spent at least some part of his life in Austria. Several allusions in his later poems to events in that region of the German-speaking world provide the basis for this theory. For example, in the poem “Klage” (ed. Moelleken, Kleindichtung, vol. 5, pp. 189-218), the poet states:

min chlage ist ein ursprinc,
dar uz manic chlage fliuzet
und so grozlich begiuzet,
daz min chlage wirt erchant
noch verrer denne in osterlant.

(vv. 40-44)

My lament is a fountain
from which many a lament flows
and [which] pours forth so much water
that my lament is recognized
much farther than in Osterlant.

“Osterlant,” as Pfeiffer (p. 499) points out, refers generally to eastern lands, but more specifically to the area beginning around Melk and continuing along the Danube—in other words, to parts of present-day Austria. However, it is conceivable that this passage could be interpreted in two different ways: (1) as Pfeiffer maintains: “I shall raise my lament that it be heard far beyond here in Austria,” indicating that the poet was speaking in Austria; or (2) “I shall raise my lament that it be heard even farther away from here than in Austria,” here implying that der Stricker himself was far from Austria, and that he would be pleased if persons in Austria and beyond could hear his lament.

The second interpretation of the cited passage notwithstanding, other references do make it appear highly probable that der Stricker actually did live in Austria. In the poem “Die Gauhühner” (ed. Moelleken, Kleindichtung, vol. 2, pp. 264-71), for example, he refers to the castle Kirchling, which he says in this warning to the nobility, had been stormed by angry peasants (Pfeiffer, p. 499). Kirchling(en), the present-day Kierling, is situated near Vienna, in the vicinity of Klosterneuburg (Pfeiffer, p. 499). Moreover, the story of the blind Herzog Heinrich (ed. Hahn, Kleinere Gedichte, pp. 51f.), which der Stricker tells as an admonition against superstitious beliefs, points to Austria—particularly if one accepts Lachmann's view that this Heinrich was the younger of the Medlinger Heinrichs († ca. 1227-29). Finally, the poem “Die Herren zu Österreich” (ed. Moelleken, Kleindichtung, vol. 1, pp. 149-56) makes unambiguous reference to Austria and provides further testimony to corroborate the theory that der Stricker spent perhaps a considerable part of his lifetime there.

But was der Stricker also native to Austria? Or might he have been born elsewhere and have travelled to Austria at some later point? Any attempt to address these questions must first consider additional evidence. For one thing, it is generally accepted—despite the unlikelihood of the etymology: “Stricker” < strîchære (“itinerant”)—that der Stricker was a professional travelling poet. Convincing proof of this can be found in a number of his writings (see Rosenhagen, Untersuchungen, p. 110; and Bartsch, ed. Karl, p. xxxi). Perhaps the most frequently cited passage in this regard is the following, from the poem “Frauenehre” (ed. Moelleken, Kleindichtung, vol. 1, pp. 15-91):

Ditz ist ein scho(e)n mere,
daz ouch nu der strickêre
die vrowen wil bekennen.
[…]
sin leben und vrowen pris,
die sint ein ander unbekant.
ein pfert und alt gewant,
die stunden baz in sinem lobe.

(vv. 137-45)

This is a nice piece of news:
that even der Stricker
now wishes to acknowledge the ladies.
[…]
His [der Stricker's] habits and the praise of ladies
are strangers to one another.
A horse and an old piece of clothing
would be a more fitting topic for his praise.

These words are spoken in the poem by an adversary of der Stricker, who indirectly characterizes our poet as a wandering minstrel; for two objects are mentioned here which are typical of the sort of rewards thought to have been offered such professional artists: “a horse and an old piece of clothing.” Further evidence to support the notion that der Stricker was an itinerant poet is found in a passage (p. 157) near the end of Daniel, in which der Stricker states, through the voice of his narrator:

There is one thing which shall ever amaze me: that King Arthur was so generous and the lords nowadays are so miserly. King Arthur did well to relinquish a land as wealthy as Cluse.

This lament, which is reminiscent of similar utterances by Walther von der Vogelweide, seems to bespeak a wandering poet dependent upon the generosity of the various lords at whose courts he performed. Thus, it is entirely conceivable that, as a wandering poet, der Stricker may have travelled to Austria, where he then remained for a time. This, in turn, leaves open the possibility that he may not, as was long assumed, necessarily have been Austrian by birth.

Gustav Rosenhagen, through his inquiries into the dialect of Daniel, first brought to light compelling linguistic evidence that located der Stricker's roots outside of Austria. In fact, Rosenhagen's greatest service with regard to der Stricker's language lies in his rebuttal of the long-standing belief that (1) the dialect of Daniel was Austrian, and (2) der Stricker was a native Austrian. Rosenhagen (Untersuchungen, p. 35) pointed out that numerous early scholars (e.g., Bartsch, ed. Karl, p. i; Pfeiffer, pp. 498f.; Jensen, p. 30; and Khull, p. 313) had simply mouthed the traditional opinion that der Stricker's language bore strong Austrian characteristics—often without any sound factual basis for such claims. Of course, der Stricker's references to events and places in Austria are unmistakable, but it does not necessarily follow from this that he also composed in an Austrian dialect. As a result of his examination of the Daniel manuscripts, Rosenhagen (Untersuchungen, pp. 42f.) uncovered certain Middle German traits in the language. (In this context, “middle” is not a chronological designation [as in “Middle High German”], but rather a geographical term indicating a more centrally located region lying to the north of Austria.) On the basis of Rosenhagen's evidence, there is every reason to believe that Daniel was originally written in one of the Middle German dialects.

At one point in his treatment of this question, Rosenhagen is prudent enough to emphasize the “impossibility of making any more precise determination within the Middle German region” (Untersuchungen, p. 43). Yet several pages later he departs from this cautious stance and attempts to link der Stricker with the Franciscan Lamprecht von Regensburg, who lived and wrote in eastern Franconia (an area which falls within the rather comprehensive parameters of “Middle Germany”). In any event, any conclusion that der Stricker was born in eastern Franconia and that the local dialect of that area influenced Daniel is—while not altogether implausible—at this point still unsubstantiated.

Nonetheless, even localizing the language of Daniel somewhere within the very broad Middle German dialect region may offer some important clues as to where der Stricker was born. The reasoning for this is quite simple. As we shall see, Daniel was one of his early works, if not his very first. As such, it was more likely than the later poems to retain the seminal dialect features of the poet's birthplace. (The later stories, especially if written elsewhere, would have been more subject to the natural linguistic “contamination” which arises from travelling—and especially living—in other areas.) Thus, since Daniel is an early work and if it is written in a Middle German dialect, then it follows from this that der Stricker may very well have been born somewhere in the Middle German region.

The entire question of dialect—in Daniel as well as in the poet's other works—is enormously complicated by the fact that virtually no extant Stricker manuscript is written in the dialect of the original work. Scholars are therefore almost solely dependent upon rhyme analysis in unravelling the enigmas surrounding der Stricker's dialect. For now, the most that can be said with relative certainty concerning this question of locale and dialect is: (1) that Daniel very likely was originally composed not in Austrian dialect, but in one of the dialects of the Middle German region; (2) that der Stricker may possibly have been born in this same region; and finally (3) that our poet then lived or travelled in Austria, perhaps even acquiring certain dialect habits there which surface in his later works. A great deal of the conjecturality attending these various hypotheses could be alleviated by a comprehensive and definitive study of der Stricker's dialect—in itself a formidable task which has yet to be undertaken.

Despite the uncertainty surrounding the dialect of der Stricker, the fact remains that—wherever his birthplace and whatever his native idiom—he crafted his version of Middle High German into numerous poems and tales. For Daniel is by no means the only story for which der Stricker is noted. On the contrary, he composed a large number of other works—a total of nearly 170, according to one tally (Wailes, “Stricker and Prudentia,” p. 136). Moreover, the wide variety of different genres in which he wrote is quite striking. His only other long work was the 12,000-line epic Karl der Große, an adaptation of Pfaffe Konrad's Rolandslied (ca. 1170), which in turn was a German version of the French Chanson de Roland. Most of der Stricker's other writings—with the exception of Pfaffe Amîs (the comic story of a priest named Amis) and several medium-length stories—are significantly shorter. Among these are prayers, beast fables, numerous didactic poems and sixteen Mären (“stories” or “tales”).

Der Stricker's present-day reputation as a poet rests more upon his shorter tales than upon his two lengthy works Daniel and Karl (though the latter is transmitted in more than forty manuscripts—a fairly reliable barometer of its popularity during the Middle Ages). Modern readers are most likely to be acquainted with the Mären—a particular form of literature for which der Stricker is widely regarded as having laid the groundwork in Germany. Der Stricker's Mären tend to focus on the comical side of everyday life; they often deal with such topics as ludicrous misunderstandings or the conflict between husband and wife. And most of the Mären contain an underlying—or sometimes more overtly expressed—moral or philosophical message. In fact, der Stricker's Mären and other short poems, in particular, leave the firm impression that this poet must have been a man of some education, for he betrays here a knowledge of theological issues and of legal niceties, as well as a grounding in the principles of rhetoric.

It would therefore not be surprising that a poet who evinced such learning would be welcome at the courts of prominent patrons. In fact, many of the major German poets of the high Middle Ages wrote under the aegis of wealthy lords, who commonly accorded them various sorts of material assistance. However, unlike many of his contemporaries der Stricker left no firm clues as to just who his patrons might have been. Certainly it is difficult to imagine that his longer works, in particular, could have been undertaken without some such support. But precisely who those sponsors were, we simply cannot say. In a very general sense, der Stricker's many religiously oriented poems have given rise to speculation that he might have composed under the sponsorship of an ecclesiastical patron (indeed, his name has been linked—albeit somewhat tenuously—to both the Franciscan and the Dominican orders [Wailes, “Stricker and Prudentia,” p. 137]). On the other hand, his secular works seem to speak more in favor of a noble (perhaps even princely) backer. In the final analysis, there is no compelling reason to exclude either possibility: for given the widely varying themes which der Stricker treats in his many works, it appears altogether plausible that he may have written for diverse audiences under the auspices of various patrons. Yet no single identifiable name has yet emerged incontrovertibly as a patron of our poet.

Der Stricker's period of florescence, on the other hand, is subject to somewhat more precise conclusions: those poems which can be dated fall roughly into the first half of the thirteenth century—in other words, into the latter portion of the great golden age of Middle High German literature, which lasted from about 1170 to 1240. This means that der Stricker was probably born towards the end of the twelfth century. And virtually all scholars concur that the two longer works, Daniel and Karl, probably constitute the poet's early literary production, and that the shorter fables and verse narratives make up his later work. However, uncertainty arises when one attempts to establish a sequence within either of these two larger groupings, or indeed when one endeavors to assign specific dates of composition to the shorter works (with the exception of those few poems which can be dated on the basis of explicit reference to topical events or persons).

Early critics, in their attempts to fix a relative chronology among the shorter stories, often based their findings upon simplistic and ultimately specious principles: for instance, that the comical tales—by virtue of their levity—must have stemmed from der Stricker's youth, and conversely that the religiously oriented writings were necessarily the fruit of an older, more contemplative poet. Such conjectures can be dismissed on numerous grounds. For one thing, they involve sweeping generalizations—and rather shaky assumptions—concerning human nature. And in any event we possess a paucity of firm biographical information about der Stricker. In a broader sense, however, because medieval literature is largely non-confessional in nature, it is risky at best to attempt to allocate thematically different writings to different “periods” in the life of a poet of the Middle Ages. Instead, as Wailes (“Der Stricker,” p. 493) correctly points out, we have to imagine that der Stricker—in his role as a professional travelling poet—was dependent “to some degree on the tastes of others [i.e., of his patrons]” for his choice of subject matter. Thus, he may well have composed “prayers for a religious community” and “comic tales for a bourgeois audience”—all within more or less the same span of time.

If it is virtually impossible to establish even a relative sequence—much less absolute datings—for most of der Stricker's later writings, the problem is not quite so intractable for the earlier Daniel and Karl. First of all, on the basis of parallel passages, Rosenhagen (Untersuchungen, p. 103) established the fact that der Stricker must have been acquainted with Wirnt von Grafenberg's romance Wigalois. Since Wigalois was completed by 1210, Daniel must therefore have been written sometime after the year 1210. Furthermore, another of der Stricker's contemporaries, Rudolf von Ems, makes express reference to Daniel in his Willehalm. Because Rudolf's Willehalm was finished by 1243 at the latest, Daniel must likewise have been written prior to that year (Bartsch, ed. Karl, pp. iii-viii; and “Margarete,” pp. 3f.).

Similarly, modern scholars have been able to date der Stricker's Karl to within the years 1217 and 1225. The first of these two dates rests upon Schnell's thesis (pp. 78-80) that Wolfram's Willehalm exerted an influence on Karl. Since Willehalm is thought to have been completed by ca. 1217, Karl must therefore have originated sometime after that. Schnell arrives at the latter date, 1225, by linking certain events in Karl to the historically documented marriage of Emperor Friedrich II in November of the same year. Further inquiries—by J. Singer (pp. 97-99) and von der Burg (p. 355)—have likewise placed Karl within this general time span of 1217-1225.

Since der Stricker's two longer works—Karl and Daniel—stand in close chronological proximity to one another, scholars have long been divided as to which was written first. However, there are at least some promising clues for arriving at a firm answer. For example, a recent analysis of certain stylistic characteristics of both Daniel and Karl (specifically, the various ways in which the direct discourse of the characters is incorporated into the narrative) has shown that, in all likelihood, Daniel was the earlier of the two (Resler, “Datierung”). With this in mind, it is possible to correlate the dating for Karl (1217-1225) with that for Daniel (1210-1243) and thereby to narrow appreciably the time span for Daniel's composition: quite simply, since Daniel is older than Karl, Daniel must have been written sometime before 1225, the latest possible year for Karl. Thus, it can be deduced that Daniel was composed between the year 1210 (after Wirnt's Wigalois) and the year 1225 (again, prior to the latest possible date for Karl).

Thus, one must imagine der Stricker working on his Daniel as a relatively young man (or at least early in his career), probably at some point during the second or third decades of the thirteenth century. Though he was never again to return specifically to the Arthurian mythology for his inspiration, der Stricker's later writings still resonate incontestably with one important feature prominent in the Daniel story: the same moralizing and didactic voice of the Daniel narrator finds its way into many of the later works and serves as a link between the initial, somewhat tentative stirrings of der Stricker's literary muse and the subsequent ripening of his art.

One final piece may be added to what is still a rather fuzzy and tenuous biographical mosaic: unlike Hartmann and Wolfram—indeed, unlike many of the German courtly poets of the high Middle Ages—der Stricker appears not to have been a knight. Evidence for this can best be unearthed by appealing directly to the text of Daniel. For in contrast to the romances of both Hartmann and Wolfram, which fairly teem with the daily minutiae of the chivalric way of life, Daniel contains precious little “insider's knowledge” of the nuts and bolts of chivalry. Such knowledge—which, if present in Daniel, might lead to the conclusion that der Stricker was a member of the knightly order—is simply not evident. Instead, as we have already established, it is probably best to picture der Stricker in the role of an itinerant professional poet.

All in all, relatively few concrete facts are known about this poet: His real name may or may not have been Stricker—more likely not. Born in the late twelfth century—probably in Middle Germany and, within that broad region, perhaps in Franconia—he appears to have later lived and plied his trade for some considerable time in Austria. Since the last of the relatively few poems which can be reliably dated seem to cluster around the mid-point of the thirteenth century, we are probably justified in assuming that he died about 1250. A reasonably well educated man, his learning shines through in many of his writings. Der Stricker was clearly not a knight (in fact, it is commonly accepted that he was not even a member of the nobility, but that he belonged instead to the middle class). Nor was he a wealthy man, as he seems to have depended for his livelihood upon the generosity of certain unnamed patrons—some of whom may have been secular lords, others perhaps attached in some way to the church. And finally, while der Stricker never attained the soaring heights of a Wolfram or the stylistic polish of a Gottfried von Strassburg, he displayed an uncommon originality and a broad versatility in his prodigious literary efforts.

SOURCES AND INFLUENCE

At first glance it would appear that one need not look very far in order to find the direct source for der Stricker's Daniel. For in his prologue, the poet states (p. 3), quite plainly and straightforwardly:

Master Alberich of Besançon has brought to me a story from the French which I have translated that it might be heard in German whenever entertainment suits the occasion. Let no one criticize me: for only if Alberich has lied to me, do I pass falsehood on to you.

Yet as indicated previously, modern scholars have been virtually unanimous in their rejection of this claim. In fact, the notion that a French work by Alberich of Besançon served as der Stricker's prototype is now believed to be fully as improbable as is Wolfram's celebrated appeal to a certain Kyot as the precursor for his Parzival.

The question now arises: why is it that we do not simply take der Stricker at his word when he names Alberich as the source for his story? For one thing, there is no evidence whatsoever that Alberich, who is known chiefly for his romance Alexander, ever even composed a Daniel. Moreover, der Stricker appears to have lifted the passage in which he refers to Alberich almost verbatim from the German Alexanderlied of Pfaffe Lamprecht. Writing around the middle of the twelfth century, Lamprecht states in his prologue:

Alberich of Besançon has brought this song to us. He wrote it in Welsh [i.e. French], and now I shall report it to you in German. Let no one criticize me, for only if he [Alberich] has lied, do I also lie.

The extent of der Stricker's borrowing from the German Alexanderlied is evident when one compares these lines with the passage cited from Daniel. Yet why is there this apparent equivocation on the part of der Stricker? One possible explanation lies in the fact that, by this point in the development of the courtly romance in Germany, the appeal to a source had become virtually canonical among poets. Hence der Stricker's claim in this passage can probably best be viewed primarily as a formulaic necessity. (Seen from a much broader perspective, of course, the careful appeal to auctoritas, or established authority, is very much characteristic of medieval composition.) At any rate, what matters most in the final analysis is that scholars have never been able to unearth any Romance version of the Daniel story. Thus, in a sense, part of the significance of der Stricker's Daniel lies in the simple fact that it was—the reference to Alberich of Besançon notwithstanding—freely invented and not based upon a French model.

This is not to say that der Stricker was unaware of either contemporary or earlier literary traditions, both inside and outside of Germany. Much to the the contrary. For, while apparently fabricating the general story-line of Daniel, der Stricker drew liberally and broadly from the motifs, episodes and at times even specific wordings both of Middle High German works of his own age and of various legends and stories from classical antiquity. Rosenhagen, in his Untersuchungen and in the ancillary notes to his edition, documents in some detail the individual passages which most specifically point to der Stricker's close acquaintance with (and extensive borrowings from) Middle High German literature. Chief among the poets and stories which contributed in this fashion to Daniel are: Pfaffe Konrad, whose Rolandslied supplied much of the imagery and vocabulary for the mass battle scenes in Daniel (and which was later to provide the direct impetus for der Stricker's Karl der Große); Hartmann von Aue, who with his two pioneering Arthurian romances Erec and Iwein, had set the stage for both der Stricker and the other subsequent Arthurian poets in Germany; Wirnt von Grafenberg, whose Arthurian romance Wigalois is echoed in a number of different passages in Daniel; Heinrich von Veldeke, who with his early courtly epic Eneide (an adaptation of Virgil's Aeneid) had explored the demonic, destructive side of love—a motif which plays a significant role in Daniel; and Ulrich von Zazikhoven, whose Lanzelet seems to have had a direct bearing upon—among many other things in Daniel—the wondrous fountain standing at the entrance to Cluse and King Arthur's custom of refusing all food until hearing of some marvelous adventure.

Of all of these more or less contemporary works, Hartmann's Iwein has been shown (see Rosenhagen, Untersuchungen; and Kern) to have exerted by far the single most pervasive influence upon Daniel. In addition to numerous similarities in the prologues of the two works and in their respective depictions of the Arthurian court and its cast of characters, certain other prominent features point incontrovertibly to der Stricker's deep indebtedness to Hartmann's Iwein. In both romances, for example, the action is initially launched into motion by a report of adventure: in Iwein this comes from the story told by the knight Kalogrenant, and in Daniel from the lengthy account by the messenger giant. Moreover, both heroes set out alone and unnoticed from the Arthurian court in order to take up the trail of adventure. Also, the statue of the wailing beast standing beneath a lime tree near the entrance to Cluse fulfills a strikingly similar function to that of the magic fountain (likewise situated beneath a lime tree!) in Iwein. Indeed, even the effects are the same once the two fountains have been activated: in each case, there quickly ensues an ominous storm with a paralyzing display of lighting and thunder, whereupon the lord of the land angrily rides up, ready to do battle with all intruders. Moreover, in both stories, the hero, just on the verge of embarking upon a perilous adventure, is delayed by another petitioner and is faced with a wrenching choice between conflicting obligations. There also exist notable points of overlap between Daniel's adventure with the dwarf Juran and Iwein's struggle against the giant Harpin (see Kern, pp. 34-36). And finally, both heroes—Daniel and Iwein—ultimately rule over the kingdoms of their defeated opponents and marry (after remarkably hasty reconciliations) the widows of those same knights.

The broad and pervasive range of influence on Daniel from the classical literature of antiquity was first detailed by Bartsch (ed., Karl, pp. xxxivf.). For one thing, the blinding of Matur's giant by the knights of the Round Table is a clear echo of the saga of Polyphemus, the Cyclops from the Odyssey who is robbed of his eyesight by Odysseus and his men. Furthermore, the lethal head (the mere sight of which is enough to inflict death on any beholder) is an apparent allusion to the head of Medusa. And the diseased creature who terrorizes the Land of the Green Meadow, and whose voice robs victims of their senses, is reminiscent of the Sirens; likewise, the sorceress Circe appears to have been a model for the capacity of this same monster to transform human beings into various sorts of animals. Finally, the notion that bathing in human blood can have a certain curative quality is a motif central to various legends of ancient times (and indeed one which was still quite popular during the high Middle Ages). Given the demonstrably pervasive influence on Daniel by classical literature, the question arises as to just how der Stricker might have established his contact with these various stories. The answer to this question is quite simple: at the time of Daniel's composition, the literature of ancient Greece and Rome was familiar in many learned and aristocratic circles in Germany. Thus, der Stricker could readily have become acquainted with all of these legends, in one form or another, at the courts where he in all likelihood plied his trade.

From all of this there emerges the inevitable assessment that, while Daniel marks an important break with compositional tradition in Germany, it is clearly not a work which arose in a literary vacuum. By the same token, der Stricker did not fail to grasp—and exploit for purposes of his story—the enchantment with things French which had captivated German courtiers of the high Middle Ages. For he seems consciously to have set about investing his tale with certain trappings of the exemplary French romances. Nowhere is this more evident than in his choice of proper names in Daniel. In fact, some of the more non-Germanic sounding names appear to have come down to der Stricker from French romances of the day. In the notes to his Daniel edition, Rosenhagen proffers possible sources for some of these manifestly Francophone names. In addition, much new information can also be adduced to supplement Rosenhagen's findings. For instance, Linval (v. 248) may have derived from Marie de France's Lanval (Rosenhagen, Daniel, p. 181); however, the name also occurs in yet another work, Les Merveilles de Rigomer (vv. 4494 and 7087), thought to date from sometime during the first half of the thirteenth century. Rosenhagen also offers possible models for the Dark Mountain (Daniel, p. 179); to these must be added the mont dolereus contained in Chrétien's Erec (v. 1694) and in Guillaume le Clerc's Fergus (though the latter may possibly have postdated Daniel). The dwarf Juran, for whose name Rosenhagen is unable to offer an explanation, may well have come to der Stricker by way of the late twelfth-century Folie Tristan d'Oxford, in which a giant named Urgan appears. Furthermore, Danise—the widow of King Matur and Daniel's eventual queen—is in all likelihood a name designedly chosen by der Stricker to correspond phonetically to Daniel (Rosenhagen, Daniel, p. 181); and yet even here an altogether plausible French model offers itself in Dyonise, one of the damsels at the court (vv. 6331 and 6525) in Durmart le Galois, which dates from the first third of the thirteenth century. Even more compelling—and likewise overlooked by Rosenhagen—is the origin of the name Beladigant, which is attested in Le Bel Inconnu from the early thirteenth century; in this instance the name survives virtually unaltered from the French work, in which, significantly, the eponymous character is one of King Arthur's knights.

The name of the title hero Daniel is likewise clearly non-Germanic in origin. Although der Stricker is generally thought to have derived the name Daniel from the Bible rather than from contemporary courtly literature (Rosenhagen, Daniel, p. 179), the name can also be accounted for by searching among literary documents. In the second continuation of Perceval, for example, a knight named Daniaus is listed among the members of King Arthur's court. While some doubt persists as to whether this work was composed before or after Daniel, the two at any rate are chronologically close to one another. Hence the name might well have been in general circulation. As such, der Stricker could have encountered it in one form or another. One could even pursue this line of conjecture further and imagine that, with the Biblical name in the back of his mind, der Stricker might then have modified Daniaus to Daniel.

All of this demonstrates that, not unlike the older classical literature, the French courtly romances constitute an entire body of poetry which der Stricker might have come to know, most probably through contact with fellow poets at the German courts. Certainly such stories were at this time very much in fashion in Germany. However, it remains wholly within the realm of conjecture as to whether der Stricker was himself able to read Old French, or whether he had perhaps heard the Old French romances performed in Germany. It is of course also conceivable—though this appears even less compelling, for lack of any tangible supporting evidence—that he may have actually been in France himself. Nonetheless, whatever the mode of contact and whatever the level of his proficiency, it seems a reasonably safe conclusion that der Stricker was to some degree conversant with the French literature of his day. Indeed, in his incorporation of French elements—most especially certain proper names—into his Daniel, he betrays the same pattern of broad eclecticism which comes to light in his extensive borrowings from contemporary German literature and from the works of classical antiquity.

At first blush the Romance names in Daniel might seem to offer encouragement to those wishing to resurrect the theory, despite all evidence to the contrary, that a French source existed for Daniel. Certainly this is what der Stricker would have had his audience believe. However, any argument for a French Daniel du Val Florissant—as Paris (p. 136) envisioned the title for this apparently non-existent romance—is patently fallacious if based solely upon the presence of French names in the German version. For one thing, Arthurian romance was originally a French genre and as such was invested—virtually of necessity—with a full array of Romance trappings (including just such features as proper names). Moreover, since der Stricker had expressly claimed a French source for his story, it seems that his assigning Romance names to many of his characters was a conscious attempt to align his self-conceived work more convincingly with the French tradition. Indeed, a further purpose of the Francophone names in Daniel might have been to induce audiences to accept more readily the assertion of a French source.

It is apparent from all of this that the outside sources feeding into the story of Daniel were both many and diverse. This fact alone is evidence of the poetic and organizational difficulties with which der Stricker must have had to grapple while working on Daniel. In the final analysis, der Stricker perhaps most convincingly earned his poet's laurel for the double role which he played in composing Daniel: as integrator and as innovator. For not only did he face the task of weaving all of the diverse motifs and episodes together into a cohesive story, he also achieved something—despite his open disavowal of that achievement—which few other poets in Germany at this time were inclined to undertake: he engaged in a sort of inventive fictionalizing which was very nearly taboo among courtly storytellers of the high Middle Ages.

Such were the various impulses which informed and helped to generate Daniel. But what about the reception of this romance by medieval poets and audiences? In order to arrive at any firm conclusions concerning this issue, we must first consider certain factors external to the story itself. For instance, the manuscript transmission is often an authoritative yardstick for the popularity of a work during its own age. And in the case of Daniel, it is both sparse and late. Only five Daniel manuscripts survived into the twentieth century; and all of these date from the mid- to late fifteenth century, a good 200 or 250 years after the composition of the story. Despite this relative paucity of manuscripts, however, der Stricker's sole Arthurian romance was not entirely without resonance during the Middle Ages. For one thing, a contemporary poet, Rudolf von Ems, refers twice—in his two romances Alexander and Willehalm von Orlens—to der Stricker and to Daniel with a distinct measure of admiration. In Willehalm von Orlens (ed. Junk, p. 37) Rudolf states:

Och heti úch der Strikære
Bas danne ich berihtet,
Wold er úch han getihtet
Als Daniel vom blŭnden tal.

(vv. 2230-33)

In addition, der Stricker would have
reported to you better than I [would have],
had he wished to compose poetry for you
as [did? as he did with?] Daniel of the Blossoming Valley.

While the final line of this passage is somewhat enigmatic (and even suggests that Rudolf may have mistaken “Daniel” for a fellow poet, instead of a story!), nonetheless it is clear that Rudolf intended to offer his praise to der Stricker. However, these lines and the more or less similar passage from Alexander together constitute the only truly contemporary external references to Daniel.

Nevertheless, during the later Middle Ages the story appears by no means to have fallen into oblivion. For sometime during the latter half of the thirteenth century (perhaps around 1260-1280), another German-speaking poet, der Pleier, appropriated the same tale and reworked it into Garel vom blühenden Tal. Der Pleier, who has been linked with the region around Schärding in Austria, composed three quite lengthy Arthurian romances, the other two being Tandareis und Flordibel and Meleranz. Apparently the earliest of the three, Garel betrays affinities to Daniel which extend well beyond the nearly homologous names of the two heroes. In fact, there can be no doubt that der Pleier knew Daniel first-hand and consciously undertook to imitate—and significantly revise—the story. Indeed, the evidence is striking. As in Daniel, the action is first set in motion by the arrival of a messenger giant. Also, in one of his adventures Garel must defend himself against a creature armed with a lethal head ostensibly modelled on the Gorgon-like head carried about in Daniel by the intruder in the Land of the Bright Fountain. And at one point in Garel the warfare is waged on a massive scale, just as we find in der Stricker's story. Even a casual reading of Garel makes it abundantly clear that der Pleier borrowed from his predecessor both the overall story and a number of individual episodes and motifs.

However, along with the striking similarities, there are also some major and noteworthy points of divergence between Daniel and Garel. In contrast to Daniel, in which King Arthur plays an unusually prominent role, in Garel it is the title hero himself who occupies center stage for most of the story. King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table recede into the background and assume a more supporting role. Moreover, the hero Garel is—unlike Daniel—very much subject to the power of love; and his chivalric feats are accomplished not so much by the power of list (or cunning), to which Daniel resorts time and again, but rather by the more traditional virtues of physical force and knightly prowess. (It is not known for certain whether der Pleier was himself, unlike der Stricker, a knight; the fact that he consciously undertook to restore to the tale of Daniel some of the prime chivalric features which are so notably lacking in der Stricker's version might tend to indicate that he did belong to the knightly order.) Finally, the very name of the protagonist—Garel—has less of a Biblical, otherworldly ring than does Daniel; quite simply, it “sounds” more like the sort of name which an Arthurian knight ought to bear.

These and the myriad other alterations which der Pleier undertook vis à vis der Stricker's Daniel appear to share common ground: namely a purposeful design to bring the Daniel/Garel story more into line with the established conventions of the earlier, classical Arthurian romances (see below, Artistic Achievement). For up until the time of der Stricker's Daniel, a German audience listening to an Arthurian romance had already come to expect certain fixed ingredients within that story: among other things, that King Arthur should be chiefly a passive background figure, that the hero be at the center of the action, and that his feats should be motivated by love for his spouse. In these (as well as in numerous other) details, der Stricker had missed the mark. Thus, a great many of the changes which der Pleier introduced in his retelling of the tale can be said to constitute a correction of “the violations of norm which der Stricker commited [sic] in his construct” (D. Müller, p. 178). In the simplest terms, der Pleier endeavored to bring the story back into line with the by then familiar conventions of the genre. And it seems that der Pleier's recasting of Daniel into Garel must have found some measure of resonance among later generations. The best evidence for this are the Garel frescoes in Runkelstein Castle near Bolzano in South Tyrol. Dating from around the year 1400, these drawings illustrate scenes not from der Stricker's Daniel, but from the later, more typically “Arthurian” version by der Pleier.

While der Pleier's Garel certainly substantiates most strikingly the survival of the Daniel story during the Middle Ages, it is not the only such evidence. At some point after the reworking by der Pleier (perhaps during the second half of the fourteenth century, although the dating entails some considerable conjecture), a Swabian poet by the name of Konrad von Stoffeln wrote a brief Arthurian romance entitled Gauriel von Muntabel. Not only is one of the men of the Round Table identified in Gauriel as “Daniel von Plüental” (v. 3867), but, as Rosenhagen (Untersuchungen, p. 119) points out, another of the knights bears the name Limual, a possible reminiscence of the knight Linval from Daniel (v. 248). And perhaps most significantly, the name of the hero Gauriel appears to be—as Rosenhagen (Untersuchungen, p. 119) suggests—an amalgamation of Daniel and Garel.

One final and barely audible echo of Daniel emanates from the mid-fifteenth century, in the poem Der Spiegel. Once mistakenly attributed by earlier scholars to Meister Altswert, this work is now believed to have been written by the Swabian knight/poet Hermann von Sachsenheim. At one point in his tale (ed. Holland and Keller, Meister Altswert, p. 164) Hermann says:

Reht als dem konig Matter
Was mir myn hertz versnytten,
Do in hett überstritten
Von Blumendal herr Danyel.

(vv. 28-31)

Just as [was the case] with King Matur,
my heart was torn apart
after he [Matur] had been defeated by
Sir Daniel of the Blossoming Valley.

This very brief passage demonstrates that Daniel—despite its apparent failure to achieve outright acclaim during the golden age in which it was composed—was nonetheless resilient and memorable enough to have lived on in the collective literary domain of subsequent generations. Moreover, not only did Daniel thus endure beyond its own day for a good two centuries and more; it also appears (based upon the allusion in Der Spiegel to the conflict between Daniel and King Matur) that even some of the particular details of the story were still in circulation during the fifteenth century (Rosenhagen, Untersuchungen, p. 119).

Other than these limited and rather faint reverberations, however, the story of Daniel lay dormant and forgotten for some time, before it was finally brought back to life by philologists of the nineteenth century. What emerges from all of this is the realization that der Stricker's Daniel failed to play a major role in the development or dissemination of the Arthurian legend within Germany. Inasmuch as Daniel was the work of a poet whose real genius lay in a genre other than Arthurian romance, one can, in a sense, hardly be surprised at this. Furthermore, the relative lack of sweeping appeal which Daniel seems to have held for audiences of the Middle Ages is, to some extent, part of a larger circumstance: namely that, by the time der Stricker set about composing Daniel, the towering and truly enduring Arthurian romances of the Middle High German language had already been written. All who followed in the footsteps of Wolfram and Hartmann were to fall short, to a greater or lesser measure, of their eminent predecessors. To be sure, the decline in the intrinsic literary merit of the later stories was neither as profound nor as universal as early critics liked to maintain. And yet despite what appears nonetheless to have been a certain degree of erosion, the genre continued to flourish in Germany and more and more Arthurian romances were composed. Indeed, even after most poets had long since turned their attention to other subjects, the tales already recorded about King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table still held the attention of audiences for much of the remainder of the Middle Ages. Wolfram's Parzival, for instance, still enjoyed enough residual popularity to find its way from manuscript form onto the printed page as late as the year 1477 (J. Schultz, p. 3). But in the larger perspective Arthurian romance (along with most other things characteristically medieval) was destined to fall wholly out of fashion with the advent of the post-medieval era, in which reason and scientific inquiry began gradually to supplant the older, more rigid ways of thinking ingenerate in the chivalric literature of the Middle Ages.

ARTISTIC ACHIEVEMENT

While the tale of Daniel did not find major resonance during its own age, what reaction it did evoke was, as we have seen, generally favorable. The same cannot be said of Daniel's reception by scholars of the nineteenth century, who almost unanimously disparaged it as a poor imitation of the romances of Hartmann. The key to an understanding of this initial derogation of Daniel is the word “post-classical”—a term which carries a strong hint of the pronouncedly judgmental attitude of the early scholarship. In effect, critics placed high upon a pedestal the three great German Arthurian romances—Hartmann's Erec and Iwein, and Wolfram's Parzival. Along with the five Old French romances of Chrétien de Troyes, these three German works were viewed as the “classical” examples of the genre.

The problem inherent in this canonical approach is that it made so few representatives of the genre into a universal yardstick by which all other Arthurian stories were to be evaluated. Of course, if no further romances had been written in Germany, then such narrow standards might perhaps have been sufficient to define the whole genre (J. Schultz, p. 5). However, a total of twelve to fifteen German Arthurian romances have come down to us from the high Middle Ages. Nevertheless, it was perhaps inevitable that early critics, by focusing their attention on the ways in which Daniel and the other subsequent stories deviated from the “classical” norm, would downgrade these later poets who had also ventured onto the turf of Arthurian romance.

By contrast, more modern scholarship has to a large extent cast off the shackles imposed by these initial devaluations of Daniel. Indeed, the often heard charge that Daniel lacks any cohesive structure or consistent message has been directly addressed and to a certain degree refuted. For instance, Henderson (Werkstruktur) has demonstrated that Daniel possesses very highly defined structural characteristics—a finding which belies early notions that it was a primitive, disjointed story. Furthermore, Brall, who examines Daniel within its social and historical parameters, uncovers evidence that der Stricker may have composed his romance in direct response to incipient conflicts among different strata of the Austrian nobility. With such reevaluations in mind, it is perhaps most meaningful to return at this point to the original indictment levelled against Daniel by earlier scholars: that it is a story which utterly failed to capture the essence of Arthurian romance.

To begin with, it is a patent fact that Daniel is markedly different from the stories of Chrétien, Hartmann and Wolfram. To this limited extent the critics were right. However, it is quite another thing to assert (as did early scholarship) that der Stricker therefore must necessarily have misunderstood the spirit of Arthurian literature. As was previously established (see above, Sources and Influence), der Stricker unquestionably knew intimately and borrowed liberally from the works of Hartmann von Aue. Yet by the same token, the mere fact that der Stricker took the liberty of introducing his own changes does not necessarily mean that he had utterly misread the ethos of Arthurian romance. Instead, it appears altogether conceivable that der Stricker simply went about adapting and reshaping the genre to fit his changed purposes and circumstances.

By examining—non-judgmentally—the various ways in which Daniel differs from the accepted norm, one can best uncover some of the unique and admittedly unconventional features of this highly entertaining tale. Such an inquiry will reveal that a strictly conventional Arthurian romance may never have been der Stricker's goal in Daniel. Instead, the poet seems to have been intent upon incorporating into Daniel a thoroughly different set of ideas—some of them rooted in certain non-Arthurian literary traditions, others more germane to der Stricker's own later writings.

Yet despite the overall unorthodoxy of Daniel, it ought to be noted that nothing egregiously “un-Arthurian” occurs during the first eight hundred or so verses. On the contrary, the introduction is quite traditional: a newcomer, Daniel, gains acceptance into King Arthur's fellowship of knights—among whom, characteristically, is the brash and taunting Keii, who meets with humiliating defeat at the hands of the initiate. Even the giant's challenge, which serves to motivate the ensuing plot, corresponds largely to the sort of initial impulse which typically sets Arthurian romances into motion. But then der Stricker's deviation from tradition sets in: during Arthur's council with his men, Gawein proposes that they invite the giant to remain at court for seven days; after this they would then follow him back to his homeland, Cluse, and answer the challenge of his master King Matur. This, at least, is what they are to tell the giant. Gawein's real plan, however, is to muster an army of knights during those seven days, so as to boost their chances in the anticipated battle against Matur's men.

With the introduction of this delusive stratagem, der Stricker severs his initial dependence upon the familiar conventions of the genre. For in place of the more traditional knightly virtues of courage and valor, an element of cunning or trickery now steps to the forefront: the stalling technique is misrepresented to the giant as an opportunity for King Matur to secure a double victory—a victory not only over Arthur himself, but over all of the men of the Round Table as well. As King Arthur himself says to the messenger giant: “They [my followers] ought all to witness the moment when I surrender my land into your lord's hand, such that they—as well as I—may become his vassals” (p. 20). No mention is made of the plot whereby these “vassals” are to form an attack force. Moreover, a second point of departure from convention is embedded in this same scheme: the very fact that King Arthur assembles an army in preparation for the march on Cluse constitutes in itself a sharp break from traditional Arthurian romance. For while King Arthur typically travels about in the company of a large retinue of combat-ready knights, it is nearly always within the parameters of individual, one-on-one encounter that battle is done, whether for sport or in earnest. And in a third area—not yet evident at this early juncture in the story—der Stricker further rejects Arthurian convention, i.e. in the wholesale lack of courtly love (minne) as a motivating impulse for his protagonist Daniel.

In summation, der Stricker's chief points of deviation from the established genre can be seen as threefold: (1) cunning (list) in place of valor, (2) mass warfare instead of dueling, and (3) absence of minne. In effect, these aberrations (as they were initially seen) provided the basis for early denigration of der Stricker's Daniel. However, a closer examination will yield some insight into the fact that it may well have been conscious poetic design—and not mere ignorance of convention—which prompted der Stricker to rethink and to recast certain features of the genre.

First of all, the prominence of list in Daniel (a topic dealt with in some detail by modern scholars, in particular by de Boor [“Daniel und Garel”], Ragotzky [“Handlungsmodell”] and Moelleken/Henderson) is such that fully seven discrete instances of cunning can be delineated during the course of the story: (1) Gawein's plan to gather an army of knights (pp. 18f.); (2) Daniel's duel with the dwarf Juran (pp. 30-34); (3) Daniel's encounter with the bellyless monster (pp. 38-40); (4) the skirmish between King Arthur's knights and the second giant (pp. 64f.); (5) Daniel's killing of the diseased creature (pp. 85-90); (6) Daniel's activation of the beast's deafening cry so as to dispatch the remaining four armies (pp. 106-108); and (7) Daniel's use of the invisible net to capture the giants' father (pp. 134-140). It is clear from all of this that list occupies a remarkably significant position in der Stricker's tale. And at the very least, these repeated applications of cunning stand out as quite “surprising in a chivalric romance” (Wailes, “Stricker and Prudentia,” p. 152).

At the same time, however, it ought to be emphasized that the more standard Arthurian reliance on knightly strength and valor is not entirely lacking either. For example, in the passage (p. 49) in which Daniel struggles mightily to survive the torrent of water (unleashed when the Count of the Bright Fountain disappears inside the mountain tunnel) we glimpse a typically Arthurian knight in his single-handed bout with adversity. A variation on this can be found in the adventure (pp. 75-77) in which Daniel, with the aid of his invincible sword, duels with a knight protected by the impenetrable skin of a mermaid. In this latter episode, since each combatant possesses a supernatural weapon, the advantages, so to speak, cancel each other out, so that Daniel's eventual victory over this knight can be seen as proof of his superior chivalric prowess. And in a later adventure it is Daniel alone among all of the men of the Round Table who is able to endure the din of the wailing beast long enough to gag it; this act of raw courage—undiluted by any resort to guile—stills the unbearable sound, thereby saving King Arthur and his knights (pp. 55f.). All of these examples demonstrate that, despite the prominence of cunning and trickery, at certain points in the story Daniel does indeed display those chivalric virtues which the genre more typically demands.

In this regard it is interesting to note that Daniel, like most other chivalric romances, features a full compliment of supernatural objects: the impenetrable mermaid's skin, Daniel's sword, the invisible net and the magic salve. And although the realm of magic is closely allied with the concept of list (Moelleken and Henderson [p. 188], for instance, view magic as an integral component of the Middle High German noun list), it does not necessarily follow that the use of such supernatural articles in and of itself constitutes list. Indeed, of the seven instances of cunning cited above, those specifically involving one of the supernatural objects (numbers 2, 5, and 7) fall under the rubric of list not by virtue of the weapons alone. Instead, these three episodes entail something which transcends mere magic: namely, an artfully conceived plan to employ those weapons in a deceptive manner. It is this—and not the magic properties of the weapons—which embodies list. For example, in the episode in which Daniel slays the diseased creature with his magic sword, it is only by cunningly mimicking the derangement of the other captives that he is able to draw near enough to put that sword to use; indeed, it could be argued that from such close range any sword would probably suffice. The actual weapon per se, then, does not necessarily comprise this un-Arthurian virtue of list. Indeed, viewed from the larger perspective of the genre, supernatural objects are an altogether standard accoutrement of Arthurian romances. Hence it is not in the mere presence of such weapons in Daniel, but rather in the clever schemes involved in their application that der Stricker introduced a curious (or at least un-Arthurian) twist to his story.

Der Stricker's break with Arthurian convention is tellingly illustrated in the episode in which Parzival challenges the angry father of the two giants: foolishly placing his faith in the traditional Arthurian virtues of courage and valor, Parzival—that most illustrious of all German Arthurian knights—is helplessly (almost comically!) snapped up by his opponent and disgracefully cast down onto the ledge alongside King Arthur. Daniel, however, possessing the added virtue of list, is able to rescue both of his eminent comrades by means of a shrewdly executed ruse: by enticing the giants' father down the mountainside and straight into the invisible net, he almost effortlessly forces the intruder to capitulate.

Though quite rare in Arthurian romance, such artful scheming on the part of the protagonist is by no means unheard of in certain other genres of medieval literature. In fact, Daniel's frequent appeal to list brings to mind an earlier form of literature in Germany, the Spielmannsepik, which flourished during the latter half of the twelfth century. Variously translated into English as “minstrel's epic” or “minstrelsy,” the Spielmannsepen are heavily populated by heroes who rely, as does Daniel, just as heavily on cunning as on pure valor or physical strength. Seen in this light, the passage in which Daniel himself lauds the virtues of the intellect over those of the body is strikingly reminiscent of the Spielmannsepen: “A man can often accomplish with wisdom full many a thing which he could not achieve by relying upon strength alone” (p. 30). The final culmination of der Stricker's praise of cunning comes in the long didactic excursus in which he states (p. 140), among other things:

Whatever man has exquisite cunning at his command is deserving of all the more praise from everyone, both men and women alike. For one man alone can accomplish with cunning that which a thousand men, however strong they might be, could never do together.

In one sense, der Stricker's posture here appears to hark back in time to the Spielmannsepen. Yet at the same time it also anticipates the rise of the new and shorter genres such as beast fables and Mären, in which list plays so central a role. Indeed, as has already been established (see above, The Poet), der Stricker himself was to lay the foundations in Germany for these particular forms of literature. Thus, if Daniel's repeated reliance on list casts him in a somewhat odd light in the setting of Arthurian romance, this may not be due to der Stricker's nescient misreading of the role of the traditional Arthurian knight. Instead, it may simply betoken the fact that the poet was himself, as Wailes (“Stricker and Prudentia,” p. 153) puts it, “indifferent to physical hardihood and unimpressed by power.” Indeed, to the extent that Daniel can be seen as a forerunner of the later didactic poems, der Stricker's consistent design—in Daniel as well as in the subsequent shorter works—appears to have been “to extol reason and understanding in contrast to muscle and estate” (Wailes, “Stricker and Prudentia,” p. 153). Seen in this light, der Stricker's emphasis on list in Daniel evinces not any misconstruction of Arthurian literature on his part, but rather an articulation of his own very different Weltanschauung. Indeed, it seems that in this regard der Stricker was intent on placing his own personal stamp upon the courtly romance.

The mass battle scenes which der Stricker weaves throughout the middle sections of Daniel constitute a second very striking point of departure from established Arthurian convention. Early on, critics (Rosenhagen [Untersuchungen, pp. 94-96] and de Boor [Geschichte, II, 195]) noticed that der Stricker's depiction of large-scale warfare in Daniel is modelled, right down to his individual word choice, on the pre-courtly Rolandslied—a work which, as previously mentioned, would later provide the direct inspiration for der Stricker's epic Karl. Thus, although Daniel likely predates Karl (see above, The Poet), it would nonetheless appear that, while occupied with his fledgling work Daniel, der Stricker must already have established a rather close acquaintance with the Rolandslied.

At any rate, the scenes of mass combat in Daniel are directly related to the unaccustomed role played in the story by King Arthur. To be sure, in Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Brittaniae (a seminal work in the development of the Arthurian legend) King Arthur is portrayed as a vigorous general personally leading mighty armies of Breton warriors. But already in Chrétien—the real molder of Arthurian legend into Arthurian romance—this aspect had all but disappeared. In fact, with the exception of the Winchester siege in Cligés, Chrétien's Arthur is a passive, non-combatant monarch whose knights conduct their fighting individually, and not in concert with one another. Thus, German audiences of the early thirteenth century must surely have been somewhat startled not only by the frequent mentions of King Arthur's “army” (Daniel 492, 974, 1109, 2701 and 2960), but also by the extraordinary role which Arthur assumes in Daniel. For no longer is he the traditionally non-belligerent monarch. Instead, he emerges here as a robust commander piloting his troops into battle.

Once again, however, this is not to imply that the more commonplace Arthurian ingredients are entirely missing in Daniel. For instance, in addition to participating in the larger battles, the hero Daniel also engages in a series of chivalric duels. And even some of the terminology which der Stricker employs to refer to the mass battles is Arthurian in its roots; the first campaign against King Matur's men, for example, is characterized as a juste, or “joust” (v. 2964). Furthermore, the duel between Arthur and Matur, which results in Matur's death and which sets off the ensuing large-scale battles, contains elements both familiar and new. For although it is highly unusual for Arthur himself to engage in battle, the form of combat in Daniel is that of the traditional duel. What is more, even the wording of this passage (vv. 3007-71) betrays a demonstrable acquaintance on the part of the poet with conventional Arthurian terminology. Moreover, the duel between Matur and Arthur is fought to the end without the aid of list or of supernatural weapons; sheer valor and strength are the sole determining factors. In light of all of this, it can hardly be argued that der Stricker was ignorant of the conventions of comportment for an Arthurian knight in battle. Quite to the contrary, the poet knew and in certain passages even exploited those conventions—yet at the same time seems to have felt utterly unfettered by such constraints.

Nonetheless, it is the large-scale warfare in Daniel which stands out—by virtue of its very abnormity in Arthurian romance—as the more memorable mode of battle. Though rather extraordinary in an Arthurian story such as Daniel, such broad-based combat would later find more appropriate expression in der Stricker's long epic Karl, in which great armies of Christians engage the heathen infidels in battle. This observation brings to light a significant compositional proclivity on the part of the poet: namely that der Stricker, when departing from Arthurian tradition in Daniel, tended to utilize poetic stratagems which he would develop further in his later works. Simply put, many important features of the later stories are already prefigured in Daniel. In fact, we have already uncovered this pattern with regard to list; for just as cunning occupies a central position in Daniel, so too does it stand out as a prominent virtue in der Stricker's later poems. And as has just been mentioned, the pre-courtly forms of battle which characterize much of the fighting in Daniel would once again reappear in der Stricker's Karl.

It is interesting to trace some of the ways in which der Stricker treats these pre-courtly, even heroic battle scenes in his courtly romance Daniel. In his depiction of the first battle between the armies of King Arthur and of King Matur (Chapter VIII, pp. 56-68), he offers a lengthy (780 lines) and highly detailed account which is especially rich in metaphor (on this latter point, see I. Hahn [pp. 188-93]). By the time of the second battle (pp. 94-98), however, der Stricker seems to have lost some interest in the minute details of the actual skirmish, inasmuch as only 245 lines (roughly one third the number of the first battle) are devoted to its description. For the third clash (pp. 100f.), the narration is even more dramatically condensed, to a mere 37 lines. However, by the following day word of Matur's death has spread throughout the land, and all four of the remaining armies strike at once, rather than separately over the course of the next four days. As a result, King Arthur's men are sorely outnumbered, and the hardship of conducting battle under such adverse circumstances is reflected in the increased number of lines (238) allotted to this final encounter (pp. 98-102 and 103, or vv. 5468-689 and 5761-78). Of these 238 verses, the overwhelming bulk (221) depicts the first day of battle.

But before this final campaign has a chance to resume after an overnight cease-fire, list once again intrudes upon the story. For that same evening Daniel presents his plan to the council of knights: he proposes to loose the deafening wail of the beast-statue, thereby overwhelming the opposition forces (King Arthur's men would already have blocked their ears in protection). The ease with which Arthur's men then proceed to extract surrender from the deafened armies of Cluse is mirrored in the paltry seventeen lines necessary to record the event. Quite significantly, it is cunning—not the sword—which ultimately (indeed, almost effortlessly) wins the war for King Arthur's forces. And der Stricker, by expending such a scant time of narration on the actual reporting of the victory, underscores the ready facility with which this conquest is achieved, thereby implicitly reasserting his praise of list. Thus, in this fourth battle in particular we find a curious juxtaposition of heroic/pre-courtly elements (blood, for example, flows most profusely in the final contest: see pp. 99-102, or vv. 5518, 5585, 5628-30, 5669, 5680f.) and Daniel's special brand of cunning, which saves the day and which is again reminiscent of the Spielmannsepen.

Interspersed among the four battle scenes are episodes of widely varying origin. At the one extreme stand Daniel's individual adventures; although in many regards un-Arthurian in their essence, these are to a great extent clothed in a vocabulary highly typical of such romances. At the other extreme are the night scenes in King Arthur's encampment, which with its army-like atmosphere and with its absence of courtly ladies is curiously foreign to Arthurian tradition. Thus, in the course of the 2700 lines (32٪ of the work as a whole) between the beginning of the first battle (v. 3078) and the conclusion of the final one (v. 5778), we can discern an eclectic patchwork of diverse literary strains—including Arthurian, heroic, pre-courtly and spielmännisch.

Again, it has been argued that der Stricker—fledgling poet that he was at this point—simply misconstrued the fundamental nature of Arthurian literature. As partial evidence for this, critics have long cited his depiction, in Daniel, of the above-mentioned army of knights under the command of King Arthur. This charge—despite recent, more positive interpretations (Brall, W. Schmidt, Ragotzky [Gattungserneuerung] and Müller-Ukena)—has never been refuted in any fully definitive way. And yet it seems every bit as possible that the poet was cognizant that Daniel, his first work, was quite different from the romances of Hartmann and Wolfram. Indeed, this notion can be corroborated by appealing directly to the story itself. For in the scene where King Arthur attempts to bring about a reconciliation with Matur's widow, he explains to her councilors that he had acted only in self-defense, having been provoked into battle by the messenger giant. He then goes on to add: “I speak truthfully when I say that I would have gladly remained at my court, and that I was driven here contrary to my will” (p. 109). One possible interpretation of this passage is that it represents an apology (or at the very least, an acknowledgement) by der Stricker—an apology both for the highly un-Arthurian warfare waged in Daniel and for the unaccustomed conduct of King Arthur. To be sure, it is not utterly unprecedented for Arthur to deviate from his traditional role (for instance, he does battle with the White Knight Gasozein in Heinrich von dem Türlin's Diu Crône). However, he is more characteristically portrayed as a passive, seemingly “retired” monarch whose court the most illustrious knights use as a sort of headquarters from which to pursue their own individual adventures. In this passage from Daniel, Arthur seems to express his regret at having been forced to abandon that more usual posture. Similarly, the poet—through the voice of Arthur—appears to be declaring his own implicit cognizance that in a more conventional Arthurian romance the king would indeed have remained at home. But Daniel is not conventional, and der Stricker seems to have been aware of that fact.

In a third and final area—love—der Stricker likewise embarks upon a rather unorthodox path with his Daniel. Among the early scholars, both Bartsch (ed. Karl, p. xxxv) and Khull (p. 314) suggested that the absence of courtly love might have been the paramount reason for Daniel's failure to attain any enduring popularity during the Middle Ages. Indeed, this appears altogether plausible, given that so many poets of the high Middle Ages (and along with them, presumably, their audiences) seem to have been all but obsessed with love. By contrast, der Stricker shows precious little interest in such matters of the heart. Even in the relatively conventional beginning of his Daniel, the very first mention of female beauty (a virtual precondition for love in courtly romances) is made not by a member of King Arthur's court nor even by the narrator, but rather by the messenger giant (pp. 12f.), with reference to the women of Cluse.

As for Daniel himself, while it is true that he encounters and comes to the aid of numerous ladies (and even marries the widow of King Matur), at no point in the story is he ever struck down or even momentarily stunned by the power of minne. For instance, after he has heard the plight of the Lady of the Dark Mountain, Daniel's foremost concern is with his own reputation: he fears that, should he continue on to Cluse without stopping to assist her, his good name might perhaps be blackened. The lady and the crisis which she faces are of decidedly secondary import to Daniel. Even when she throws herself at his feet and offers him both her hand in marriage and Juran's magic sword if only he will deliver her from the dwarf, Daniel is still left unaffected by the prospect of possessing her—though he yearns to win the sword.

Moreover, the narrator himself is every bit as insensitive to minne as is his protagonist. For throughout this same episode even he, the narrator, withholds all comment on this noblewoman's beauty—comments which are virtually de rigeur in such circumstances. And as soon as Daniel has dispatched Juran, his thoughts center not on the lady, but on his newly-won weapon: “That he had acquired the sword from the dwarf pleased Daniel greatly, and he intended to determine conclusively whether it was capable of penetrating the giant's skin” (p. 34). It is precisely at this point in the adventure—when Juran is slain and the immediate peril of the moment has passed—that one might expect Daniel's thoughts to turn finally to the lady. Yet even here (p. 34) the narrator continues to profess ignorance of any possible amorous bonds between Daniel and the lady:

If the lady had possessed all the world, she would have deemed Daniel worthy of receiving it. And had he desired her hand, as the story relates it, those courtiers would not have refused him.

In this passage, der Stricker employs the contrary-to-fact subjunctive (“had he desired her hand …”) as an evasive rhetorical device. For he admits here—albeit only indirectly—that Daniel in fact did not desire the lady's hand. And this is as close as he ever comes to reporting Daniel's own feelings in this prickly situation. What is more, in these same lines the narrator distances himself even further from ‘he whole predicament by disclaiming any omniscience as to the true state of affairs. For instead of basing this part of the narrative on his own knowledge of the story, he takes refuge in his supposed source, with the words “as the story relates it.” Indeed, the Daniel narrator, here as elsewhere, seems averse to conceding any first-hand knowledge of such matters as marriage—or of its logical antecedent, love. Then, at the end of this adventure when Daniel finally takes his leave of the Lady of the Dark Mountain, the narrator appears almost indifferent towards her: he notes rather matter-of-factly that Daniel's departure “brought great sorrow to the lady and all her retinue” (p. 35).

If minne leaves Daniel wholly untouched, quite the opposite can be said of his opponent Juran, whose lust for the Lady of the Dark Mountain ultimately brings about his demise. For, faced with the prospect of finally winning her hand, the dwarf is so utterly blinded by desire that he rashly accepts Daniel's terms for combat, which preclude the use of his invincible sword. Of particular interest is the excursus (p. 31) on minne which is inserted at this very crucial juncture in the story; for here der Stricker considers solely the inimical side of love. Minne means for der Stricker not the sublime and ennobling (if largely inaccessible) courtly love, but rather a demonic and utterly destructive force. Even Solomon, he states, who was “the wisest man of whom I have ever heard tell” had “both his wisdom and his senses” destroyed by Lady Love (p. 31). In this regard it ought not to be overlooked that der Stricker's articulation here of an altogether cheerless view of minne is reminiscent of the Dido scenes in Heinrich von Veldeke's Eneide. Indeed, inasmuch as Veldeke depicts in his romance just this very sort of pernicious, ravaging love, scholars have long suspected that the Eneide may have exerted an influence—whether direct or indirect—on Daniel.

At any rate, Daniel continues, throughout the course of his adventures, to maintain an immunity to any amorous stirrings. For soon after leaving behind the Lady of the Dark Mountain, he encounters the Countess of the Bright Fountain, whose husband is being held captive by the bellyless intruder. As before, there is no indication of any sort of attraction between Daniel and the lady. In fact, this episode is, as Moelleken (“Minne und Ehe,” p. 49) points out, the precise antithesis of the scene from Hartmann in which Iwein slays Askalon and marries his widow. In sharp contrast to Hartmann's protagonist, Daniel expends every effort to rescue the husband and return him safely to his spouse! A similar pattern can be discerned in Daniel's third encounter with a lady, this time the Maiden of the Green Meadow. Once again the narrator fails to make note of her beauty. And again Daniel, his thoughts occupied by other pressing matters, stops to ponder whether a refusal to help her might imperil his own honor. The prospect of wooing her never enters his mind. Only when she threatens, in abject despair, to cut off her hair and to sacrifice herself to the diseased creature, does Daniel betray the slightest glimmer of awareness of her femininity: “Your tresses are radiant and blond […] you must not cut them off” (pp. 87f.), he says, finally consenting to assist her. Then, after Daniel has cut down the diseased creature, the lady's father offers him in effect whatever reward he desires (p. 92). Yet even now—quite characteristically—it never once occurs to him to ask for her hand: minne has still failed to touch Daniel.

And finally, Daniel's relationship to Danise—the queen of Cluse and his eventual consort—is equally devoid of amorous attachment. As a preliminary observation, it should be noted that, in the account of this lady's deep lamentation at the death of her husband (pp. 110-112 and 115), der Stricker again dwells upon the dark side of love, here of love lost to death. Then, once she has overcome her grief, she consents to accept Daniel as her second husband. This entire passage is very much at odds with the traditional portrayal of the courtly bliss of the betrothed. For as Moelleken (“Minne und Ehe”) has demonstrated, the ensuing marriage between Daniel and Danise is little more than a politically arranged alliance without the faintest trace of minne. Of prime significance here is the extent to which King Arthur, and not Daniel, negotiates the reconciliation with the widowed queen. Once both sides have made peace, Arthur says to her in almost legalistic fashion: “I wish to bestow [Daniel] upon you in atonement” (p. 117), i.e. for the hardship caused by the hostilities and by her subsequent bereavement. Daniel's role in the marriage, then, is little more than that of a reparation in the wake of war! Not insignificantly, the two of them—Daniel and Danise—are then wedded without having ever exchanged a single direct word with one another. And in the process of marrying her, Daniel receives from the officiating priest not only the lady, but also—and perhaps more importantly—“the kingdom and the crown [of Cluse] as well” (p. 118).

The actual depiction of the wedding is, in one respect, aligned with Arthurian tradition: the festival takes place at Whitsuntide and is replete with jousts, “flowers and clover” (p. 121), sumptuous garments, inexhaustible food and drink, and universal merriment. And yet love, a feature normally essential to such courtly festivals, is prominent here only for its absence. Even though der Stricker provides us in these lines with his most extended narratorial reflections on female beauty (p. 121), these observations are clothed in the most general of terms and make no reference to any specific female character in the story. Most tellingly, this same beauty also fails to exert the customary ennobling effect on the knights in attendance. And finally, it is surely significant that neither here nor elsewhere in the story does der Stricker's narrator report of any stirrings of love within Daniel—despite the fact that he does at numerous junctures in the work enter the mind of his protagonist so as to disclose Daniel's inner ponderings. Thus, one must conclude that Daniel is simply immune to the spell of love—a condition quite extraordinary in the chivalric romances of this age.

In seeking to account for the two other points of unorthodoxy (the large-scale warfare and the centrality of cunning) in Daniel vis à vis more conventional Arthurian romances, we have been able to uncover a certain pattern. That is to say, over the full course of der Stricker's career as a poet, the “aberrations” within Daniel have repeatedly reemerged as germane features of the later works: the mass warfare of Daniel is mirrored in Karl, and the practice of list reappears in the later beast fables and Mären. However, as regards minne—or more properly, the absence of minne—the situation is somewhat more complex. For one thing, it is certainly true that courtly love is hardly a hallmark of der Stricker's later works. Yet it would be sophistic to cite this fact as an “echo” of the lack of minne in Daniel. The reasoning for this is quite simple: while minne is normally endemic to chivalric romances, it is utterly foreign to the genres in which der Stricker later practiced his skills. Hence, it appears that an appeal to der Stricker's later writings will do little to account for his disinterest in the workings of love. Instead, it may in this instance be more efficacious to refer one final time to the rather fragmentary biography which we have pieced together for der Stricker. For if it is true that he was associated, in whatever fashion, with a religious order (and der Stricker has been very tenuously connected with both the Dominicans and the Franciscans; see above, The Poet), then the vow of celibacy incumbent upon any such community might possibly help to account for der Stricker's failure to articulate a personal interest in courtly love. Ultimately, of course, any such hypothesis as this rests heavily on conjecture. Nonetheless, it may offer some clue as to the remarkable absence in Daniel of that one central human affect which otherwise so conspicuously captivated the minds of poets and courtiers during the high Middle Ages.

In the final reckoning, der Stricker's Daniel leaves the overall impression of a kaleidoscopic hybrid—of a heterogeneous and variegated story seasoned with ingredients from diverse literary strains. While Arthurian in its basic construct, Daniel also bears the mark of a great many extra-Arthurian traditions: the pre-courtly Rolandslied, the heroic Germanic epic, the Spielmannsepen, the early courtly romance Eneide by Heinrich von Veldeke, even the beast fables and Mären which were to become der Stricker's own forte. At the same time, the strong dose of der Stricker's own poetic phantasy which feeds into the tale of Daniel must likewise be reckoned among the chief ingredients.

Frequently der Stricker has been labelled a poor epigone, even a reactionary for his melding of older, outmoded literary strains with the new and fashionable Arthurian romance. Yet once one discards the artificial standards of the century past, a realization emerges that Daniel—the first original, self-conceived German romance centering on the Arthurian legend—is fully able to stand alone and be judged on its own merits. Certainly there is much about Daniel that is decidedly un-Arthurian yet there is reason to believe that at least some of this was consciously and purposefully undertaken. In the final analysis, der Stricker, true to his apparent pseudonym as a “knitter” of tales, has skillfully woven together from widely divergent literary strands a patchwork of a story which, Arthurian or not, has lost none of its appeal despite the passage of nearly eight hundred years. In this vein, it is perhaps most fitting to allow the final word to der Stricker's contemporary Rudolf von Ems, who declares in his Alexander (ed. Junk, p. 119):

swenn er wil der Strickære
sô macht er guotiu mære.

(vv. 3257f.)

Whenever he wishes to,
der Stricker puts together a good story.

Unencumbered by the preconceptions of earlier generations, we are today in a better position to recognize that der Stricker has created with his Daniel precisely that: a good story.

Select Bibliography

I. Critical Editions and Translations

Daniel of the Blossoming Valley

Resler, Daniel: Resler, Michael, ed. Der Stricker: Daniel von dem Blühenden Tal. Altdeutsche Textbibliothek 92. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1983.

———, trans. “Middle High German. Der Stricker: Daniel of the Blossoming Valley.” The Romance of Arthur III. Ed. James J. Wilhelm. New York and London: Garland, 1988. 185-258. [Excerpts.]

Rosenhagen, Daniel: Rosenhagen, Gustav, ed. Daniel von dem blühenden Tal: ein Artusroman von dem Stricker. Germanistische Abhandlungen 9. Breslau: W. Koebner, 1894. Hildesheim and New York: Georg Olms, 1976.

Related Texts

Altswert, Meister. Meister Altswert. Ed. Wilhelm Holland and Adalbert Keller. Bibliothek des Literarischen Vereins in Stuttgart 21. Stuttgart: Literarischer Verein, 1850.

Konrad, Pfaffe. Das Rolandslied. Ed. Carl Wesle. Altdeutsche Textbibliothek 69. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1967.

der Pleier. Garel von dem blüenden Tal. Ein höfischer Roman aus dem Artussagenkreis von dem Pleier, mit den Fresken des Garelsaales auf Runkelstein. Ed. M[ichael] Walz. Freiburg im Breisgau: Fr. Wagner'sche Universitäts-Buchhandlung, 1892.

Püterich von Reichertshausen. Der Ehrenbrief. Ed. Fritz Behrend and Rudolf Wolkau. Weimar: Gesellschaft der Bibliophilen, 1920.

Rudolf von Ems. Alexander: ein höfischer Versroman des 13. Jahrhunderts. Ed. Victor Junk. Leipzig: Hiersemann, 1928-29. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1970.

———. Willehalm von Orlens. Ed. Victor Junk. Deutsche Texte des Mittelalters. Berlin: Weidmann, 1905.

der Stricker. Die bisher unveröffentlichten geistlichen Bîspelreden des Strickers. Ed. Ute Schwab. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1959.

———. Karl der Grosse. Ed. Karl Bartsch. Quedlinburg and Leipzig: Gottfried Basse, 1857.

———. Die Kleindichtung des Strickers, 5 Bände. Ed. Wolfgang Wilfred Moelleken [et al.]. Göppinger Arbeiten zur Germanistik 107 I-V. Göppingen: Kümmerle, 1973-1978.

———. Kleinere Gedichte von dem Stricker. Ed. Karl August Hahn. Bibliothek der gesammten deutschen National-Literatur von der ältesten Zeit bis auf die neuere Zeit 18. Quedlinburg and Leipzig: Gottfried Basse, 1839.

———. Liebe und Ehe: Lehrgedichte von dem Stricker. Mit Wortund Sacherklärungen. Ed. Wolfgang Wilfried Moelleken. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1970.

———. “Der Pfaffe Amîs.” Erzählungen und Schwänke. Ed. Hans Lambel. Deutsche Classiker des Mittelalters mit Sach- und Worterklärungen 12. Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1872.

———. Tierbîspel. Ed. Ute Schwab. Altdeutsche Textbibliothek 54. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1960.

———. Verserzählungen I. Ed. Hanns Fischer. Altdeutsche Textbibliothek 53. Tubingen: Niemeyer, 1967.

———. Verserzählungen II. Mit einem Anhang: Der Weinschwelg. Ed. Hanns Fischer. Altdeutsche Textbibliothek 68. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1967.

———. Von übelen wîben. Ed. Wolfgang W. Moelleken. Europäische Hochschulschriften. Reihe I: Deutsche Literatur und Germanistik 25. Bern: Lang, 1970.

II. Critical Writings and Related Works

Bartsch, Karl. “Alberich von Besanzon.” Germania. Vierteljahrsschrift für deutsche Alterthumskunde, 2 (1857): 449-464.

———. “Wetzels heilige Margarete.” Germanistische Studien. Supplement zur Germania. Ed. Karl Bartsch. Vienna: C. Gerold's Sohn, 1872. I, 1-30.

Jensen, Ludwig. Über den Stricker als Bîspel-Dichter, seine Sprache und seine Technik unter Berücksichtigung des “Karl” und “Amîs.” Inaugural-Diss. Marburg, 1885. Marburg: Universitäts-Buchdruckerei, 1885.

Pfeiffer, Franz. Rev. of Grundriss zur Geschichte der deutschen Dichtung by Karl Goedeke. Germania. Vierteljahrsschrift für deutsche Altertumskunde, 2 (1857): 498f.

Rosenhagen, Gustav. “Der Stricker.” Die deutsche Literatur des Mittelalters. Verfasserlexikon. Vol. 4. Ed. Karl Langosch. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1953. 292-99.

Rosenhagen, Untersuchungen:———. Untersuchungen über Daniel vom Blühenden Tal vom Stricker. Diss. Kiel, 1890. Kiel: C. Schaidt, 1890.

Wailes, Stephen L. Rev. of Resler, Daniel. Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 83 (1984): 406f.

III. Reference Works

Khull, Ferdinand. Geschichte der altdeutschen Dichtung. Graz: Leuschner & Lubensky, 1886.