SOURCE: "Hartmann's Ironic Praise of Erec," in The Modern Language Review, Vol. 70, No. 4, October, 1974, pp. 795-807.

[The Schroeder Professor of German at Cambridge University, Green has written several books and articles on medieval German literature, including Irony in the Medi-eval Romance (1979) and The Art of Recognition in Wolfram's "Parzival" (1982). In the following excerpt, Green suggests that irony in the narrator's comments renders Erec a criticism of the courtly ideal.]

The merest suggestion of irony in connexion with Hartmann von Aue is likely to invoke immediate rejection on the grounds that he, of all poets of the courtly period, was so idealizing in his style and so serious in his didacticism that to seek for any reservations of criticism in his attitude is mistaken in principle. If anywhere in his work, we may hope to find critical reservations in his legends where … doubts about the absolute claims of the courtly ideal have a justified place and may therefore involve the use of irony. My purpose will be to suggest that such irony occurs not merely in the two legends, but also in the romances, more especially in Erec where at one point, under the guise of what appears to be superlative praise, Hartmann is in fact subtly insinuating criticism of his hero.

The technique of suggesting blame at the moment of praise is certainly no stranger to the poet's two legends. In Der arme Heinrich, for example, the prologue (verses 1-28) leads over to a laudatio of the hero (29-81) which, for all its length and pile-up of superlatives, is swiftly undermined by the mention of Heinrich's Hôchmuot (82 f.), by the uncomplimentary comparison with Absalom (84-90) and the ascetic reminder that media vita in morte sumus (91-6). Of the nature of this laudatio there can be little doubt, for the positive qualities which the poet bestows so generously on Heinrich are precisely the virtues which any knight with secular responsibilities might be hoped to possess. In a first approach we are told of his noble birth and riches, of his equality with princes and of his êren, but these qualities are then specified in greater detail: he has forsworn all dishonesty and boorishness, his worldly honours are unsurpassed, he possesses the gift of youth and of bringing joy to all, he is a model of loyalty and good breeding, a refuge for those in need and a protection for his kinsmen, generous, honourable and helpful, skilled in love poetry, deservedly renowned, courtly, and wise. Some of these qualities may be reconcilable with Christian virtues (honesty, loyalty, generosity, and helpfulness), whilst others are, within the context of a legend, either neutral (youthfulness, a source of joy) or even downright suspect (worldly honours, love poetry, courtliness). This spread of qualities suggests clearly enough that the laudatio is conceived in secular, courtly terms, so that when the blow falls and Heinrich is cast from werltlîcher wünne (79) and humbled, this divine intervention (compare verses 116 and 120) strikes down a man who is none other than a model of all that the courtly world held dear. This is not to say that Hartmann ascetically rejects all courtly values as necessarily flawed, but rather that, as he later makes clear (1430 ff.), these values are no secular absolutes but must be seen as gifts of God. This is not expressly stated in the laudatio, and it is this unvoiced criticism, lurking behind the surface brilliance of his many virtues, which is more relevant to the position in which Heinrich finds himself. His virtues really are virtues and the panegyric is literally true, but much more important is the devastating, but unspoken criticism which this passage conceals. Only retrospectively are we allowed to suspect that the reference to worldly honours (57) and worldly pleasure (79) may not be such unqualified goods in the Christian legend as they are in the courtly romance.

A similar undermining of apparent praise also occurs in Hartmann's other legend, although he uses this technique differently in his Gregorius by repeating it on several occasions. The brother and sister who later become the hero's incestuous parents are sketched in positive terms in their affection for one another and in the joy they share (296: man enmac in anders niht gejehen, / er enphlœge ir alsô wol / als ein getriuwer bruoder sol / sîner lieben swester. / noch was diu liebe vester / die si im dâ wider truoc. / wünne heten sî genuoc). Here again this laudatio (however brief) is placed at a very critical point, since it is immediately followed by the temptation scene so that we are shown the short-lived vanity of this idyll just as effectively when the devil intervenes in this case to bring about their fall (303 ff.) as when God strikes Heinrich with the punishment of leprosy. Even more telling than this clash between idyll and fall is the manner in which Hartmann forewarns us of what is to happen. With Heinrich it was the easily overlooked adjective werltlîtch, but in this case it is the passage introducing the laudatio which hints to us how we are to read what follows. We are told that brother and sister were close in all things and rarely apart (the narrator even gives his approval to this, 291: daz gezam vil wol in beiden); but then is added si wâren ungescheiden / ze tische und ouch anderswâ (292 f.). The unspecific anderswâ is then suspiciously restricted in the next sentence (294: ir bette stuonden alsô nâ … ) and, alerted now to what may be at stake, we recognize that the phrase ze tische und ouch anderswâ indirectly refers to the legal double formula 'bed and board'. The ironic force of anderswâ must therefore colour our reading of the apparently innocuous love between brother and sister, so that this supposedly laudatory passage is by now preparing us for the catastrophe soon to come.

A more prolonged eulogy is given when Gregorius is described in the perfection of his youth (1235-84). He has been formed by vrouwe Sœlecheit herself and is accordingly handsome and strong, loyal, kind and patient, skilled and well-bred, not given to anger, but adept in making and keeping friends, moderate, willing to learn and generous, bold and cautious as the occasion demanded, experienced beyond his years and far from rash, and never needing to be ashamed of his behaviour. Lest this seem too good to be true (as in the case of Heinrich), the poet then expressly adds that Gregorius never lost sight of God (1260: er suochte gnâde unde rât / zallen zîten an got / und behielt starke sîn gebot) and that Perfection itself (der Wunsch) fashioned him with God's approval. Yet despite this string of superlatives we are given a glimpse that all is not as it seems to be, when the narrator shows us Gregorius as those around him at this stage see him, since, as with the young Tristan when he first comes unknown to Marke's court, people find it difficult to believe that one so perfect should be the son of the fisherman who has brought him up (1273-7) and regard it as a pity that he should not be of noble birth (1278: ez wœre harte schedelîch / daz man in niht mähte / geprîsen von geslâhte). With that they have of course unwittingly hit upon the truth, so that through their eyes we have been shown that there are dimensions to this description that elude us, as they do Gregorius himself since, when he learns the facts of his birth, he feels completely alienated from his former self (1403: ich enbin niht der ich wânde sîn). This suggestion that he has lost his bearings has wider implications, however, since it introduces the scene in which Gregorius decides to seek knightly adventures, a decision which takes him, in disastrous ignorance of himself, to incest with his mother. This is the narrative reality so soon to be disclosed after this extensive laudatio—again, none of these admirable qualities protects him from what providence has in store for him and his virtues are simply irrelevant to this testing, but the slight element of doubt in this eulogy prepares us for what is to come.

Hartmann employs the same method (praise on the brink of disaster) as the catastrophe draws closer. When Gregorius's quest for adventure leads him to the conventional situation where he offers his services to a besieged lady, this typical motif of the romance is called into question by the fact that the lady is his mother. We are informed of this in advance (1935 ff.), so that the lines in which the growth of their mutual attraction is sketched are undermined for us in a way not true of the normal romance (1955: nû behagete im diu vrouwe wol / als einem manne ein wîp sol / an der nihtes gebrast: / ouch behagete ir der gast / baz danne ie man getœte). The laudatory words sol and baz danne ie suggest that events are following the usual ideal course, whereas we know that this is far from being so, that the Devil is again at work (1960-62) and that Gregorius's praiseworthy striving for chivalric renown (1967 f.) is mocked by the situation in which he finds himself, naîvely believing that God has simply conducted him to an opportunity to prove his chivalric worth (1868: sô bin ich rehte komen. / daz ist des ich got ie bat / daz er mich brœhte an die stat / dâ ich ze tuonne vunde …). Similarly, when mother and son marry, their happiness is first conventionally summed up in hyperbolic terms (2251: ez enwart nie wünne merre / dan diu vrouwe und der herre / mit ein ander hâten, / wande si wâren berâten / mit liebe in grôzen triuwen), but then destroyed in a one-line narrator's forecast (2256: seht, daz ergie mit riuwen), just as Gregorius's ideal qualities as a ruler, the gifts of justice and liberality (2257: er was guot rihtœre, / von sîner milte mœre. / swaz einem manne mac gegeben / ze der werlde ein wünneclîchez leben, / des hâte er gar des wunsches wal) are similarly undercut (2262: daz nam einen gœhen val) in terms that recall Heinrich's fall from courtly grace.

Repeatedly Hartmann has made use of this ironic technique, praising perfection on the brink of disaster, in both his legends, implying thereby that courtly qualities, however praiseworthy in their own limited sphere, are no absolute values and have no bearing on the testing which the hero of a Christian legend has to undergo. This point has been briefly made in [U. Pörksen's Der Erzähler im mittelhochdeutschen Epos: Former seines Hervortretens bei Lamprecht, Konrad, Hartmann, in Wolframs Willehalm und in den 'Spielmannsepen' (1971)], whose author has however made the further comment that this procedure is not employed by Hartmann in his Arthurian romances. I do not believe this judgement to be correct and wish to look more closely at a passage where Erec, victorious at his wedding tournament before he returns in triumph to Karnant, is also praised in superlative terms:

Êrec der tugenthafte man
wart ze vollem lobe gesaget,
den prîs hete er dâ bejaget,
und den sô volleclîchen
daz man begunde gelîchen
sîn wîsheit Salomône,
sîn schœne Absolône.
an sterke Samsônes genôz.
sîn milte dûhte si sô grôz,
diu gemâzete in niemen ander
wan dem milten Alexander.

Pörksen has seen in this an example of straightforward praise—having nothing in common with the ironic praise of the legends—and others have agreed with him on this. Erec's achievement is here related to an ideal model not just once, but four times in quick succession. Is this meant as emphatic praise, fit for this climax at the end of the first part of the work, or are we meant to feel that the narrator may be protesting a little too much? Are we to take this praise as the narrator's opinion, or are we to detect his distance from what persons in the narrative think about Erec (man begunde gelîchen or sîn milte dûhte si sô grôz)? In short, are we to read these lines literally or ironically?

A first point to make concerns the division of Hartmann's narrative into two structurally similar parts (conflict, adventure[s], return to Arthur's court), for this has important ironic implications for the first part: the subsequent course of events (the crisis at Karnant) shows that Erec's 'crowning success' at the close of the first part was only superficial, provisional, incapable of meeting the demands made on it. If Erec's success were as complete as it seems to be at this stage, then his verligen would have been impossible and there would have been no subsequent narrative. The very existence of a second part must therefore lead us to view the appearance of success in the first part with some reservations. This also has a wider literary implication, since the first part is constructed essentially on the pattern of a fairytale (a young hero of noble birth challenges an opponent whom nobody has defeated before, gains victory and the hand of a poor, but noble maiden), so that the climax of this part (Enite is acknowledged as the most beautiful and Erec as the bravest at Arthur's court, both marry and 'live happily ever after') seems to be the conventional ending of a fairytale. But it is here that Hartmann disappoints our expectations (and ironizes the happy ending of the fairytale), since this marriage, far from being the happy conclusion of the narrative, leads quickly to a crisis and jeopardizes all that has gone before. The climax of this first part is therefore a false climax, any praise of Erec at this point is shown by subsequent events to be ironic praise, either untrue or irrelevantly true. Several considerations lead to the conclusion that the latter is the case here: Erec is indeed all that is said of him, but what is said is incomplete and conceals another truth about his position.

In the first place, we can be sure that Hartmann is ready to bestow ironic praise on his hero in the context of Karnant, for he does this three times in quick succession, thereby drawing attention to his procedure. After he has just mentioned Erec's neglect of chivalry because of his marriage, he hastens to add that he nonetheless generously provided his followers with the means to attend tournaments themselves (2954: dô Erec fil de roi Lac / ritterschefte sich bewac, / der tugende er dannoch wielt, / dâ er sich schône an behielt, / swie er deheinen turnei suochte, / daz er doch beruochte / sîne gesellen alle gelîche / daz si vil volleclîche / von in selben mohten varn. / er hiez si alsô wol bewarn / als ob er selbe mit in rite. / ich lobe an im den selben site). There is something forced about this eulogy, as if Hartmann had found it difficult to find a positive point to make, since the context into which this praise of a detail is inserted is hardly flattering to Erec: his behaviour cost him his êre (2969 f.) and he brought disgrace on his court (2989 f.), a judgement which is confirmed by those who had once praised, but now blame him (2985-8) and which is expressed in deeds as his vassals, heedless of his liberality in equipping them for tournaments but not taking part himself, desert his court (2977-9). We are to judge this scene in the same way as they do and recognize that Erec's generosity towards them is much less significant than his own inactivity. To praise him over a trivial detail merely highlights the more important point where he certainly merits no approval. That this praise is meant ironically is confirmed by the recurrence of ironic praise in the immediately following passage describing his followers' reaction to Erec's verligen (2974: des begunde mit rehte / ritter unde knehte / dâ ze hove betrâgen). The words mit rehte tell us that these followers' reaction has the narrator's approval (we are therefore justified in seeing this episode in the same light as they), but also that praise of these knights amounts to criticism of the lord whose behaviour scandalizes them, just as praise of Erec's generosity drew attention to his failure to set them a chivalric example. Finally, soon after this, Hartmann sums up the judgement of the court on Erec's downfall (2980: wan ez enhâte wîp noch man / deheinen zwîvel dar an, / er enmüeste sîn verdorben: / den lop hete er erworben). The use of lop here to describe a negative reputation (verdorben, cf. schande in v. 2990) is clearly ironic, but no more so than to praise Erec for a minor virtue whilst withholding any condemnation for a major offence. Three such cases of ironic praise in short compass are a clear indication that the Karnant episode has ironic implications in the poet's eyes and suggest the possibility that he may have prepared the way for this by similarly praising Erec instead of blaming him just before the crisis of Erec's verligen. The passage with which we are concerned comes barely 100 lines before this verligen—does it likewise convey blame under the appearance of praise?

We can approach this problem first through the figure of Absalom … For the Middle Ages he was a conventional prototype of human, especially masculine beauty (compare II Samuel 14. 25) and it is this which Hartmann has in mind in comparing Erec with him in respect of schœne. But this positive aspect is only part of the picture, since the biblical figure is himself complex: Absalom was beautiful, but he also killed his half-brother (II Samuel 13. 1 ff.) and rebelled against his father, David (II Samuel 15. 1 ff.), so that he could come to be regarded as a typical rebel. This figure was therefore a Janus-like topos and could be fittingly employed in ambiguous situations whenever an author wished to suggest negative features behind positive ones or to indicate that certain virtues are irrelevant if they are not backed up by other qualities. This is precisely what Hartmann does in the case of Absalom in Der arme Heinrich, where he praises the hero's virtues at the opening, just as he praises Erec's at the close of the first part of the romance. But just when he reaches his climax (80: er was vür al sîn künne / geprîset unde gêret), Hartmann mentions the hôchmout which led to his fall and compares him with Absalom (84: an im wart erzeiget, / als ouch an Absalône, / daz diu üppige krône / werltlîcher süeze / vellet under vüeze / abe ir besten werdekeit). It is because this eulogy of Heinrich concealed the pride which led to his fall that he can be compared with Absalom. If we apply this Janus-reading to the eulogy of Erec, this does not mean that Erec must be guilty of the same sin as Heinrich and Absalom, but rather that Absalom is a figure of human achievement on the brink of disaster. This is confirmed by the similar situations in which Heinrich and Erec are depicted. Heinrich is praised at length (50-81), he is compared with Absalom (85), he is struck by the disaster of leprosy (112 ff.), whilst Erec is praised in terms which include a comparison with Absalom (2811-21), but this comes immediately before his fall, the verligen at Karnant (2924 ff.). The conventional figure of Absalom serves therefore as a warning that Erec's positive features have their ambiguous implications too, for they protect him against a fall as little as Absalom's beauty shielded him. The comparison with Absalom suggests that Hartmann is about to turn the coin and show us the reverse side of Erec's apparent success.

There is a parallel to this use of ironic ambiguity in the English romance, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. At an early stage of the narrative the poet describes Gawain's heraldic device, the pentangle, and its allegorical significance: it symbolizes the hero's chivalric ideal (trawpe), a meaning which the poet advances on the authority of Solomon himself (625 f.). But Solomon is drawn into the story as an exemplar on a second occasion at the conclusion when Gawain, convinced of his moral failure (brought about by the wiles of the lady of the castle), attacks womankind at large and lists Solomon as a traditional example of a man brought low by women (2414 ff.). It is noteworthy that Solomon, who had previously acted as the patron of the pentangle, the emblem of Gawain's perfect loyalty, should reappear here, after the hero's failure, as an example of the imperfection of fallen man. In this respect the English romance and Hartmann's Erec have much in common. The English poet compares Gawain with Solomon with regard to their common quality of loyalty, but belatedly we realize that the comparison goes further than we had suspected, that both are also victims of the wiles of women. Hartmann compares Erec with Absalom with regard to beauty, but Erec is also in the same situation as Absalom, he is on the brink of declining from his apparently perfect peak of success. Both poets use irony to suggest more than is immediately apparent to us, they entice us into a state of false security—which we share with the hero.

The parallel with Sir Gawain has suggested that Solomon, like Absalom, could also be regarded as an ambiguous exemplar in the Middle Ages, as a prototype of good and evil. Yet Hartmann also compares Erec with Solomon and other figures, so that it is necessary to look at these further prototypes and consider their implications for Erec's situation. All four are conventional prototypes in medieval literature and they can also be frequently mentioned together. Commonly, the three biblical examples occur together as prototypes of respective qualities and although this group is the basic medieval pattern, examples are not restricted to three figures (we also find two or four, as with Hartmann) or to biblical figures only (they can be replaced by classical counterparts). Or we find a mixture of biblical with classical figures, as with Hartmann. In other words, Hartmann's comparison is quite conventional within medieval literature, but what we have to ask is whether he is employing this topos conventionally or devoting it to ironical purposes (as in his parody of the fairytale convention at the close of the first part).

To be convinced of the presence of irony we need to be shown a common feature, shared by Solomon, Absalom, Samson, Alexander, and also by Erec, exposing them all to Hartmann's criticism, even at the moment when he appears to be praising the first four for their separate qualities (wisdom, beauty, strength, generosity) and Erec for possessing all these attributes together. We find this clue in the reference to the negative example of Solomon in Sir Gawain, for Solomon, despite his wisdom, fell victim to his concubines and committed the sin of idolatry (I Kings ll. 1 ff.). Yet this is true also of Absalom, whose beauty made him fit to be a victim of the omnipotence of love and who therefore belongs to the 'slaves of love' so frequently invoked in medieval literature. Samson, as the victim of Delilah, also fittingly belongs here—he is a favourite example with the Church fathers and with all secular poets who wish to moralize on the power of love, especially useful as a warning to warriors and therefore relevant to Erec's neglect of his chivalry. Finally, Alexander is included here because of his experience with Candace, his dalliance with her can be compared with Samson's with Delilah, or his fate as a victim of women can be compared with Absalom's. Similarly, Samson and Solomon can be compared because of their identical weakness in the same kind of situation. These four figures therefore all share this one feature: they were all enslaved by love and by a woman. Yet this is precisely what Hartmann's narrative, within 100 lines of this eulogy of Erec, is about to depict in the case of Erec, namely his verligen at Karnant. In other words, Erec may be wise like Solomon, beautiful like Absalom, strong like Samson, and generous like Alexander, but in addition, and again like them, he is weak before the power of love and his fall will be brought about (unwittingly) by a woman. The force of Hartmann's comparison goes much further than we first suspect and covers a negative feature common to Erec and these positive exemplars. Behind this praise, behind this comparison with such worthy figures there lurks Erec's failure, still invisible to us, but soon to be revealed. This passage prepares the way by its use of irony.

If this is so, then Hartmann must implicitly qualify and relativize this eulogy of Erec's achievement at this turning-point in the narrative, because only by thus undercutting it can he account for Erec's fall from grace. It is the merit of [Studien Zum Stil von Hartmanns Erec] by R. Endres to have shown us that the poet accomplishes this with regard to two of the qualities for which Erec is praised at this point (his wîsheit and milte) by making use of two methods: by prompting us to ask what are the actual exploits which qualify Erec for such praise (so that he insinuates the further question as to whether this praise is indeed justified) and by the contrast between this praise at the close of the first part and the crowning eulogy of the hero at the conclusion of the whole work (if the latter outshines the former, then again we are led to question whether the superlatives used on the earlier occasion are at all apposite, at least at this provisional stage in Erec's career). Hartmann does in fact imply that the early praise of Erec at the wedding tournament is superficial and external—perhaps because his achievement at this point is still only superficial and external, if not in the eyes of the world which lavishes such praise upon him, then at least to the omniscient poet who alone knows of his hero's true potential.

It is in this passage that the quality of wîsheit is attributed to Erec for the first time, but the comparison with Solomon is made expressly as a result of the prîs which the hero has won for himself (2813: den prîs hete er dâ bejaget, / und den sô volleclîchen / daz man begunde gelîchen / sîn wîsheit Salomône). In other words, because he has gained prîs, he is praised for his wîsheit. But for what reasons has Erec gained prîs, what are the occasions when his exploits lead others to praise him? This occurs for the first time when he unhorses five knights in the preliminary skirmish on the eve of the tournament (2452: vil wol wart er geprîset dâ); then he gains renown because he is heavily engaged in this skirmish, being the first on the field and the last off (2473: Êrec den prîs gewan / des âbendes ze beiden sîten; 2485: im was des âbendes geschehen / dâ von er prîs bejagete); when on the following morning Erec quickly disposes of fifteen spears in preliminaries this again brings him renown (2519: … waz Êrecke wœre geschehen / zêren und ze prîse; 2536: sus machete er im vriunde mê / und stuont ze prîse baz dan ê); and the same is true when, in the main tournament, he unhorses many knights and drives the opposing side back almost singlehanded (2805: vil sêre prîste Êrecken daz, / wan er hâtes êre). In short, it is through his strength, bravery, and knightly skill that Erec gains prîs, and his wîsheit is therefore praised. But this can only mean that Hartmann is interpreting this wîsheit that Erec displays purely by externals ('skill') and heightens the superficiality of this judgement by his purposely inept comparison with Solomon's wîsheit (where the word must mean something very different, such as 'wisdom, justice'). By means of what is revealed as an unjustified comparison with Solomon's ideal wisdom Hartmann points up the restricted nature of Erec's wîsheit.

This can be confirmed by another consideration. Hartmann praises Erec at the end of the first part (with what I take to be dubious, relativizing praise), but then again at the close of the romance when Erec gains his final, lasting success, where such qualifications are no longer relevant. Whereas at the end of the first part Erec's wîsheit was restricted to one line only (2816) and was displayed in externals, at the close of the whole work it is described over fully thirteen lines (from 10085, er tete sam die wîsen tuont, down to 10097) and is specifically seen at its profoundest level as consisting in the right relationship between Erec and God (10086: die des gote genâde sagent / swaz si êren bejagent / und ez von im wellent hân). If wîsheit therefore attains its full proportions only in this concluding passage, this implies that it was still deficient and restricted when it was first applied to Erec, at any rate far removed from the Solomonic wisdom with which the poet compared it in what is now revealed as an unjustified exaggeration which served rather to raise our doubts.

Something similar is true of another ideal attribute of Erec, his generosity. This is applied to him explicitly for the first time at the end of the first part by the comparison with Alexander (2819-21), but if again we look for evidence to support this claim we find nothing but the fact that, at the tournament, Erec was not interested in booty and gave away the horses he had won from his defeated opponents (2615: … wande er den mântac / maneges ros erledegete dâ. / diu liez er von der hant sâ, / daz er ir deheinez nam, / wan er dar niene kam / ûf guotes gewin; 2634: als er von dem rosse gesaz, / ein soldier nam daz / und seite ims genâde unde danc; 2704: daz dritte ros gap er hin. / harte schœnen gewin / hete sîn geselleschaft begân. / des âne in niht enwœre getân; 2783: nû erbeizete von rosse sâ / der tugenthafte Erec / unde gap daz enwec) … What is more, it is also modest by comparison with Hartmann's praise of Erec's generosity at the end of the work, where his milte has acquired the dimensions of Christian charity towards the poor (9980: dô er von dem hove schiet, / dô trôste er nôtige diet / die sînes guotes ruochten, / und ob siz nimmer gesuochten, / nâch iegelîches ahte / und als erz haben mahte). This contrast, serving to put Erec's earlier milte in its proper place as an admittedly positive quality, but one which still falls far short of his potential, is confirmed by the reaction of other people. The beneficiaries of Erec's generosity with the horses simply thank him on the secular level and spread his good name abroad (2711: des wart im dô genâde gesaget / und gezam si deste mêre / ze sprechen sîn êre), but at the end of the work this is raised to a metaphysical level as those who receive his gifts now bless him and entrust his êre, but also his soul, to God (9986: … alsô daz si einen gemeinen segen / mit triuwen tâten über den degen, / daz got sîner êren wielte / und im die sêle behielte). This heightening of Erec's praise at the close of the work does not have the effect of belittling his earlier achievement in any absolute terms, but it does show how this earlier achievement (and the praise bestowed upon it) fell short of Erec's own potentialities, as realized later in the narrative. It is part of Hartmann's ironic technique to reveal this falling-short to us by an apparent praise of his hero at this premature stage.

One other point may best be treated by comparing Hartmann with Chrétien. The French author has a similar passage at the corresponding point in his narrative (2266-70) which makes essentially the same point as in the German version, but then, a little later (just after the couple have returned to Erec's kingdom), he applies his ironic technique to Enide as well. He does this in a similar way, first by praising her at length (2413-33), but then by leading over immediately to Erec's recrêantise for her sake (2434-42). Chrêtien indeed goes so far as to say that there was no blemish in Enide (2420: Onques nus ne sot tant d'aguet, / Qu'an li poïst veoir folie / Ne mauvestiê ne vilenie) and that nothing bad could hence be said of her (2430: De li nus rien ne mesdisoit; / Car nus n'an pooit rien mesdire). This is certainly an intentional overstatement, allowing us to see that the truth is otherwise, for when Erec immediately falls into his recrêantise his knights are not slow to place the blame on Enide, as she herself realizes (2559: Et por ce m'an poise ancor plus / Qu'il m'an metent le blasme sus; / Blasmee an sui, ce poise moi, / Et dïent tuit reison por quoi, / Que si vos ai lacié et pris / Que tot an perdez vostre pris, / Ne ne querez a el antandre). As with Erec, Enide's superlative praise is later revealed as unfounded, but the illusion is more quickly dispelled here since we are now on the actual brink of the crisis. Indeed, Chrétien's sudden switch from his panegyric of Enide to Erec's recréantise (2434 f.) is part of his ironic shock effect.

Hartmann, however, has no such passage of ironic praise of Enite. Instead, he transfers Chrétien's example to Erec, whose status he therefore undermines twice. Hartmann's second passage occurs fairly soon after his first, after his couple have left Arthur's court and have returned to Erec's kingdom. The poet now recapitulates his earlier praise of Erec, compressing it into two weighty lines (2924: Êrec was biderbe unde guot, / ritterlîche stuont sîn muot), but now that the crisis is rapidly approaching he quickly adds his vital qualification (2926: ê er wîp genœme / und hin heim kœme). There follows a description of his verligen and we quickly realize the deficiency of this short eulogy, as we may not have done in the case of the earlier passage praising Erec's virtues. Hartmann differs from Chrétien therefore in giving us two passages apparently in praise of Erec at this point, but in reality pointing out his moral shortcomings as a knight. The reason for Hartmann's change is clear—unlike Chrétien, he does not attribute any major guilt to Enite and, in any case, his theme is the progression of Erec from verligen to his final and lasting success, so that his criticism and irony are fittingly directed against Erec alone. At any rate, by switching this second passage from Enite to Erec the German poet shows that the technique of ironic undercutting possesses critical implications for him, a realization that the person concerned has fallen short of Hartmann's ideal of chivalry. There is therefore no essential contradiction between his idealistic didacticism and his use of irony in passages like these.

In Iwein too we find the ironic use of praise to hint at a forthcoming disaster (so that this technique is by no means confined, as Pörksen suggests, to Hartmann's legends), but this time the praise is bestowed not on an individual, but on the supposedly happy marriage which is celebrated by the couple at the end of the first part of the romance and which, as in Erec, is about to be overshadowed by the dissension between Iwein and Laudine. None of this is expressed bluntly when the narrator adopts his guise of panegyrist during the marriage festivities (2426: an swen got hât geleit / triuwe und andern guoten sin, / volle tugent, als an in, / und den eins guoten wîbes wert, / diu niuwan sînes willen gert, / suln diu mit liebe lange leben, / den hât er vreuden vil gegeben. / daz was allez wœnlich dâ). Just when all seems to be well (and should be well, according to the conventional fairytale pattern), doubts are insinuated (and it is part of this same procedure when, only two verses later [2435 ff.], the dead husband is tactlessly allowed to disturb the appearance of harmony). Doubts are raised whether the conditions mentioned as necessary for marital happiness are to be fulfilled: with Iwein because his volle tugent has hardly been displayed in his brutal killing of Askalon, with Laudine because a readiness to comply with her husband's wishes (diu niuwan sînes willen gert) is hardly prominent among her virtues. These reservations are confirmed by the syntactical structure of these lines, for they are made up of a lengthy generalizing statement, consisting of three conditional clauses and a concluding main clause of one line (2432), so that the conditions which have to be met outweigh the Statement of fact. Furthermore, this suggestion of doubt overshadowing certainty is then carried over to the concluding one-line statement which is meant to reassure us that all is as it should be (daz was allez wœnlich dâ), where the adverb betrays the narrator's refusal to commit himself. Nor are we left in doubt for long, for the disagreement between Iwein and Laudine which soon comes about tells us that the narrator was a shrewd judge of the situation in hinting at such reservations when eulogizing their married state.

Although Hartmann employs this technique both in his legends and in his romances, it is certainly not a monopoly of his, as can be shown by a passage in Wolfram's Parzival … If Hartmann ironically inserts a panegyric at the point when all seemed perfect, but which was really on the brink of his hero's downfall, we may expect to find a comparable example in Book VI, containing the scene in which Parzival's renown is both confirmed by his admission to the Round Table and destroyed by Cundrie's accusation. This is in fact the case with the long eulogy of his renown and beauty (311, 9-29) which seems to promise that his knightly strivings are at last crowned with success. In saying that Parzival's nobility offered no disappointment (311, 9: als mir diu âventiure maz, / an disem ringe nieman saz, / der muoter brust ie gesouc, / des werdekeit sô lützel trouc) the narrator is implying an agreement between character and renown which seems to justify his acceptance by Arthur's court and the favour which he immediately finds there (311, 29: Man und wîp im wâren holt). The rest of this panegyric concentrates on the hero's beauty, however: it is so pure and so much like a mirror that it has the power to compel ladies to constancy and banish all thought of zwîvel. These are high claims indeed, but is there anything about them to suggest that, as frequently with Wolfram's hyperbole, they are purposely so inflated as no longer to be fully credible? Here the context of this passage offers guidance. Parzival has just been admitted into Arthur's circle, but although Arthur is fully aware of the new member's exploits and renown the first words he addresses to him show that for him the mirror of Parzival's character is not completely unclouded (308, 12: ir habt mir lieb und leit getân). The same point is taken up and clarified by Guinevere's similarly mixed reception (310, 27-30), for she finds it necessary, in the act of kissing Parzival, to forgive him his killing of Ither. This is the shadow which is cast over this scene: we know of Parzival's guilt and must wonder whether he merits such absolute praise. These reservations are then strengthened by what follows as well, since the narrator's eulogy passes over to the arrival of Cundrie (311, 30: sus het er werdekeit gedolt, / unz ûf daz siufzebœre zil. / hie kom von der ich sprechen wil … ) and her violent tirade against the hero. Here if anywhere is revealed doubt about the claim just made of him (des werdekeit sô lützel trouc), for the Round Table's expectations on behalf of their new member could not be more rudely shattered than by her criticism. Where the favour which he found with Arthur's court seemed to set the seal of social approbation on his werdekeit, Cundrie sees only a reputation based on falseness (317, 16: an prîse ir sît verdorben; 318, 1: Nu ist iwer prîs ze valsche komm). Where the court saw Parzival's beauty and drew positive conclusions from this as to his character, Cundrie can only curse his false appearance (315, 20: gunêrt sî iwer liehter schîn / und iwer manlîchen lide) and draw an insulting contrast between him and herself (315, 24: ich dunke iuch ungehiure, / und bin gehiurer doch dann ir). Where the narrator, in introducing his apparently perfect knight to Arthur, idealized him even in nearly angelic terms (308, 1: Dô truoc der junge Parzivâl / âne flügel engels mâl / sus geblüet ûf der erden), Cundrie undermines the expectations raised by such flattery in showing that, for her, Parzival is rather a fallen angel and destined for hell (316, 7: gein der helle ir sît benant / ze himele vor der hôhsten hant). Like Hartmann, Wolfram carefully places his highest praise just before the hero's downfall, thereby accentuating the dramatic impact of the crisis and employing irony to induce in us a sense of false security which parallels that of the hero. With both authors the bipartite structure of the Arthurian romance (a first part where all seemed to lead to fairytale success, followed by a second part where all had to be won again) assisted them in their task and made of the eulogy at the end of the first part a critical turning-point. In this the romance follows a pattern close to, but different from Hartmann's legend, for in Der Arme Heinrich praise of the hero introduces the work, with no preceding narrative, whilst in Gregorius the repeated use of ironic praise at intervals underlines the sense of an inescapable testing by providence, but weakens any possible turning-point. It is because these romances hinge upon such a point that the irony of praise placed precisely there is even more effective than in the case of the legends.

If this technique of ironic praise is more widespread than has been suspected in the past, it would be fitting to conclude with one piece of evidence from the rhetorical handbooks which suggests how well known it was to the classical and medieval theoreticians. By this I mean that some of the rhetorical definitions of ironia illustrate it by the example of apparent praise when in reality blame is meant (or vice versa). Classical grammarians quote in this context the reproach made to Venus by Juno in the Aeneid, where her criticism is couched in what seem to be laudatory terms (Aeneid, IV. 93 f.). Iulius Rufinianus refers to this passage when defining irony (  ñùí ßá est figura sententiae, laudis et orationis et magnificandi, / non sine derisu in contrarium tendens), whilst Quintilian quotes ironic praise from Cicero in his definition (et laudis assimulatione detrahere … concessum est) and Isidore of Seville draws on figures from Roman history (ironia est, cum per simulationem diversum quam dicit intellegi cupit; fit autem … cum laudamus eum quem vituperare volumus). In the thirteenth century an Italian teacher of rhetoric still conceives irony in the same manner, as criticism purporting to be praise (Yronia enim est plana et demulcens verborum positio cum indignatione animi et subsannatione … Ceterum vix aliquis adeo fatuus reperitur qui non intelliget si de eo quod non est conlaudetur). The vernacular authors considered in this essay did nothing other than what was recommended in the rhetorical handbooks when they voiced their criticism obliquely, but they exploited the potentialities of this technique to the full when they used it at so telling a position in the romance as the hero's first success, so soon to be revealed as deceptive and no more than provisional.