Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives

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1/15

Names and NarrativesAuthor(s): W. F. H. NicolaisenSource: The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 97, No. 385 (Jul. - Sep., 1984), pp. 259-272Published by: American Folklore SocietyStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/540609.

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2/15

W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

Names and Narratives*

IN HIS PRESIDENTIAL

DDRESS

o the

Modern Humanities

Research

Association,

read

at

University

College,

London,

on

January

6, 1978,

the

eminent

Cam-

bridge literary

scholar

Leonard

Forster,

in

contemplating

the

notion

of

"Literary

Studies as

Flight

from

Literature,"

comments on the ebb and

flow

of

scholarly

ashionsand

approaches y

suggesting

that "each

generation

seeks

to

correct the

onesidednessof

its

predecessors,

but

succumbsto its

own

one-

sidedness. This in its

turn becomes

a

gospel"

(Forster

1978:xxii).

In a

later

passage,

he

elaborateson

this theme

by

observing

that,

"What seems

at

first

to be a turn towardshumanconcreteness s in fact seento be a flight into the

abstract-a

flight

from

the

text,

for

attention

to actual

texts

might

endanger

the

doctrine"

(Forster

1978:xxvii).

While

it is

not

my

intention

to

probe

the

distinct

possibility

that much

folklore

study

today

may

be

a

flight

from

folk-

lore,

although

that

possibility

should

not be

rejected

out

of

hand,

the

under-

lying

assumption

of

what

I

wish to

say

is

that texts

matter

more

than doc-

trines,

that as

folklorists

we

must

remain

committed to

folklore

or,

if

necessary,regain

that

commitment,

and

that the

creation,

recovery,

and

con-

frontation of

texts is

by

no

means a

horse

flogged

to

death

by

generations

of

our scholarlyancestors. It is only when we turn our backs on

ideological

squabbles,

genre-mongering

and the

bewildering

assault

of

"barely mutually

intelligible"

(Forster

1978:xxvii)

metalanguages

that

we

can

develop

the

gracious

ntellectual

olerance hat

allows

genuine

methodological

pluralism

n

the

exploration

of

texts,

to

the

enrichment

of our

discipline

and a

fuller

realiza-

tion of

its

potential.

We

must

build

bridges,

not burn

them;

we

must

mediate,

not

divide;

we

must

delight

in the

creativity

of

positive

tensions,

not

pander

o

their

destructive

powers.

We

must

be

agents

of

healing

in an

ailing

world of

minds.

The title

of

my

own

small

contribution

to this

process

is

therefore

more

than an

alliterative

whim.

It

epitomizes,

in

a

way,

a

personal

attempt

at recon-

ciling

those

two areas

of

personal

scholarship

hat

have

held

my

attention

and

*

Presidential

Address,

Annual

Meeting

of the

American

Folklore

Society,

Nashville,

Tennessee,

Oc-

tober

29,

1983.

Journal

of

American

Folklore,

Vol.

97,

No.

385,

1984

Copyright

1984

by

the

American

Folklore

Society

0021-8715/84/3850259-14$1.90/1

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3/15

W.

F.

H.

NICOLAISEN

shaped my

thinking

during

the last

30

years

or

so,

and

that,

at

times,

have

seemed to

be without connection or evenantipatheticandincongruent

n

their

principles

and

demands. "Names and

Narratives"

are

products

of

two

of

the

most

essential

speech

acts in the human

repertoire,

hose

of

naming

and narra-

tion.

One,

through

the device

of

identifying

reference,

gives

structure to a

chaotic

world;

the

other,

through story,

creates

pasts

which

inform

the

pres-

ent and

take

the

sting

out of the future.

Homo

nominans

nd homonarranseem

to

be at odds with

each

other

and

yet

strive toward

the same

goal,

respond

to

the same need: the humanism

of

satisfying,

strategic

survival. The

isolating

function of

names,

their

exclusivity

in

contrast

to the

inclusivity

of

words,

and

the storying1revelationof not just believable but indubitablytrue pasts are

perhaps,

after

all,

not

as

incompatible

as

might

seem at first

glance.

And

the

personal,

almost anecdotal

alliteration

of the title

convenientlyforegrounds

an

existential

chaining

that

might prove

examinable n less

personal,

more

general

fashion.

To

exploit

the

examinability

of that linked

relationship

s the

purpose

of this

presentation;

t is not

intended,

and

therefore should

not

be

expected,

to

startle

through

its innovative

fervor but

rather to invite

quiet

reflection

n

reaction

to the

synthesized

distillation

of scattered

houghts

that

I

have,

over

the

years, expressed

n

this

place

and

that,

but

never,

I

fear,

with

persuasive

cohesion. It may not be the "Gospel accordingto St. William," but it is a

kind

of

personal

credo

nevertheless.

"Names

and Narratives"

may,

in the

first

place,

be

safely

andmost

simply

construed

as "names

in

narratives,"

that

is,

onomastic

texts

as

integral,

struc-

turing,

illuminating

webs

within

tory

texts,

and,

as our

concern,

these

names

are

the narrative

responses

of

the

folk-cultural

register;

this

means names

in

folktales,

legends,

ballads,

anecdotes,

jokes, personal

experience

stories,

and

the

like.

Paradoxically,

names,

wherever

they

occur

in such narrative

nviron-

ments,

may

either

be

employed

because

heir

lexical

meaning

s

transparent

nd

therefore

accessible

o

both

storyteller

and

listener or because

of their

ability

to

function

perfectly

well

as

names while

being

meaningless

on

the lexical

level.

When

the latter

is the

case,

their

available

content

variesfrom virtual

empti-

ness

to

generous

characterization,

nd the

degree

of

knowability

and delinea-

tion

of

identity

of

place

or

person

depend

to

a

large

extent

on the

provision

of

such

content.

At one extreme

of this

onomastic

spectrum

stands

he

creature alled

by

such

names

as

"Rumpelstilzchen,"

"Tom

Tit

Tot,"

"Whuppity

Stoorie,"

"Skaane," "Tvester," "Purzinigele," "Mimi Pinson," "Tambutoe,"

"Knirrficker,"

or

"Ekke

Nekkepenn"

in AT 500 "The

Name of

the

Helper"

(Marshall

1973;

Christiansen

1964:6-7;

Hubrich-Messow

1981:20).

His various

bizarre

names

not

only

bear

witness

to

his

other-worldliness,

with

occasional

hints

of his

small

size,

but

also

apparently

guarantee

ack of

detect-

able

identity

and

therefore

promise

nvulnerability:

"Little kens

our

guid

dame

at

hame/That

Whuppity

Stoorie

is

my

name"

(Petrie:1950).

Since

nameless-

ness

is,

under

the

circumstances,

not

permissible

or even

possible,

the

creature

thus

singled

out

through

its unusual

and

seemingly

unknowable

name has

to

260



4/15

NAMESAND

NARRATIVES

keep

the name

alive

hrough

hyming epetition

n its own

quiteseparate

nd

quite

secludedhabitat.

It

is

not foolishness r exultant

self-assurance

hat

makeshim

pronounce

is

name,

therefore

endering

im

vulnerable,

ut

the

necessity

f

keeping

ne's

namealive

hrough

ontinued

sage.Giving

a

name

or

having

a

name s not

enough;

t must also

be

used.

Usage,

n

turn,

invari-

ably

eads o

recognition,

hat nevitable

oncomitant f

identity,

even

when

a

name s

intended o conceal ather han

reveal uch

dentity.Gaining

ccess

o

another

person

throughknowing

his

unknowablename

produces

imitless

power

and,

in terms

of folktale

retribution,

an

mean

complete

destruction:

"in his

anger

he

stamped

with

his

right

foot so hard

that

it

went

into

the

groundabovehisknee,thenhe seizedhis left footwith both handsn sucha

fury

that he

split

n

two,

and

that was

the

end of

him"

(Grimm

1963:62).

t

can

alsomean

disappearance:

Well,

when that

heard

her,

that

gave

an

awful

shriek

and

away

that

flew

in

the

dark,

and she

never

saw

it

any

more"

(Thompson

968:162).

We

exorcizeas

well

as

attract he

forcesof the

other

world

by

knowing

and

pronouncing

heir

names,

always isky,

but when

con-

ducted

properly,

liberating

ndertaking

n

dealings

with

the

numinous.

Thereare

ew

other

stories,

f

any,

that

focus

on a

namewith such

ntensity

and

weavesucha

dense

narrativeroundt.

Knowing

or

not

knowing

names

s

not alwayssucha matterof life anddeath.Indeed, f a recentanalysis f

Schleswig-Holstein

olktales s

anything

o

go by,

half the

folktalesand a

quarter

f

all

folktale

ypes

do

not

contain

any

personal

ames t all

(Hubrich-

Messow

1981).

If

they

do

occur

and

are not in the

"Will,"

"Tom,"

and

"Jack"

category,

hat

s,

if

they

are

not

naming

ypes

without

ndividualizing

them,

their

exical

meaning

requently

efers

o

outward

characteristics,

ike

"Snow

White,"

"Katie

Woodencloak,"

"Cinderella,"

"One-Eye,"

"Two-Eyes,"

and

"Three-Eyes,"

"Tom

Thumb,"

"Goldmarie"

and

"Pechmarie,"

"Hold-up-Mountain,"

"Oak-twister,"

"Boots,"

"Green

Feather,""Yellow Feather"and "BlackFeather,""Little Red

Riding-

Hood,"

"Esben-Ash-Rake,"

Dornrdschen,"

nd

so on. In

several f

these

instances,

he

name

erves

s a

linguistic

loak hat

provides

emporary

isguise

but

hides

the real

identity.

This is

particularly

oticeablen

versions

of AT

510B

n

which the

female

protagonist,

while

nameless s

a

princess,

ears he

nameof

the

rough

and

unbecoming

oat she

has to

wear

as a

fugitive

rom

persecution;

he

consequently

as to

live

out

her

new

coat-given

dentity

by

being

relegated

o

do the

most

menialtasks.

One

cannotbe

a

princess

or

beautiful r

both

when

one

bears

humble

or

even

uglynames uchas "Katie

Woodencloak,"

"Donkey

Skin,"

"All-kinds-of-fur,"

Cap

o'

Rushes,"

"Ruuchklaas,"

or

"Catskin."

Such

folktale

characters,

specially

protag-

onists,

wear

their

names

s

well

as

their

clothes,

whether

permanently

r

tem-

porarily

nflicted

with

them.

Their

names

auntand

teaseat

times,

n

contra-

diction o

their

normal

projecting

unction.

What is

particularly

oteworthy

here s

that,

like

the

revealing

et of

names

mentioned arlier

nd

others

ike

them,

these

concealing

ames

more

often

than not

serveas

the

titles of

the

stories n

which

they

occur.In

this

eponymous

ole,

they

are

only

matched

y

261



5/15

W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

the

ubiquitous

"Jack"

and

his

counterparts

n other

languages

and

cultures,

with

the

difference hat

"Jack"

does

not

individualize

but rather"is

the folk-

tale hero

par

excellence of our

western

folk-narrative radition"

(Nicolaisen

1978:32).

He is

infinitely

adaptable

nd fulfills

whateverrole

the

story

or

story-

teller

has

in

mind

for

him,

since he

survives

n

the

selective

realizationof

his

multiple

traits.

His

versatility

and almost

slipperymany-sidedness

o

not

permit

"Jack"

to

appear

unaccompanied

s

a titular

hero;

in

each

instance

his

name is

amplifiedby

a

character

rait,

a

task to

be

done,

a

reference o

antagonists,

the

summary

of an

action,

the

indication of a

location,

and

so on.

"Jack"

as a

name here

no

longer

denotes but shares

with words their

connotative

poten-

tial. Nevertheless,it alsogives us, like realnames,the kindof onomasticfocus

which,

through

the

severe condensation of its

associations,

integrates,

delimits,

and releases textual

patterns

in

narrative

gestures helpful

to

story-

tellers and their audiences.

Despite

these

more

sophisticated

byplays,

however,

lexically

transparent

names such as the ones

discussed exhaust themselves in

comparatively simple

narrative

functions,

mainly through

their

capacity

to

orient,

to

texture,

and

to contrast.

It

may,

at first

glance,

seem

inconsistent,

surprising,

or

even

perverse

hat

names

play

a

much

more

important

role in narrativeswhen

they

are

seman-

ticallyopaqueand when theirlexicalmeaningis not at stake. It is in theirvery

interchangeability

hat

they

serve

narrativesbest and demonstrate

their

true

role.

Let

me cite some

examples

rom the stories n

song.

The

ballad hat Fran-

cis

James

Child

included

in

his canon of

English

and

Scottish

Popular

Ballads

as

No.

81 has been

given

the title

"Little

Musgrave

and

Lady

Barnard"

(Child

1965:242-260).

In its

many

variants,

the

name

of the illicit lover

is

compara-

tively

stable

in

its

phonological

core,

with variations

ranging

from

"Musgrave,"

"Mousgrove,'

"Musgray,"

"Massgrove,"

"Mossgrey,"

"Mousgray," "Munsgrove," "Mushiegrove," "Musgove,"

via

"MacGroves,"

"McGrover,"

"Grover,"

"McGrew,"

"Magrue,"

"Lagrue,"

"Magrove"

and

"LaGrove,"

to

the

reinterpreted

inary

"Matha

Grove,"

"Mathe

rove,"

"Massy

Groves,"

"Matthy

Groves,"

"Matty

Groves,"

"Mathew

Grove,"

"Mat

Groves,"

"Moth

Grone,"

"Ned

Grove,"

"Mose

Groves,"

"Mattha

Grow,"

"Marshal

Grones,"

"Maddy

Gross" and

their

ilk

(Child

1965:242-260;

Bronson

1959-72:267-315;

Nicolaisen

1981:30).

It

appears

o

be

quite legitimate,

therefore,

to select

a

name

form

such as

"Musgrave"

for the first

half

of the title since all

other

names are clearlyetymologicalcognates or derivatives,despite their strange

reshapings,

in

attempts

to

conform with

other well-known

names or

name

structures,

or

to

inject

some

sort

of

meaning

into

the

lexically

meaningless,

he

semantically

opaque.

The choice

of "Lord

Barnard"

as the

name

of the cuck-

olded and

bloodily

revengeful

husband

is,

apart

from its

antiquity,

less

straightforward,

when

one

goes beyond

such obvious

variations

as

"Barnett,"

"Barnet,"

"Burnett,"

"Barnaby,"

"Barnabas,"

"Barlibas,"

"Barney,"

"Barnswell"

or even

"Bengwill,"

"Banner,"

"Benner" and

"Vanner,"

to

unrelated

versions such

as

"Daniel,"

"Dannel,"

"Donald,"

"Darnel,"

262



6/15

NAMESAND NARRATIVES

"Darnell,"

"Diner,"

"Arnold,"

"Orland," "Arnol,"

"Allen,"

"Vanover,"

"Valley"

and

even

"Thomas."

The

point

that I am

trying

to make

(and

my

excuse for these

long

lists of

names)

is that it is almost

irrelevantwhat

the chosen

name is as

long

as it

fits

rhythmically,

has,

in the

perspectives

of

singers

and

listeners,

the

appropriate

aristocratic

ssociations,

and

can be filled with the

right

kind of content.

That

it

might

be

possible

for the balladscholar o construct out of these variations

a

genealogical

chart useful in the

reconstructionof

the

family

tree of

Child 81

is

not

important

in this

context,

since our current concern is with the

ways

in

which

these

names

function

in

the

ballad

story,

that

is,

with their

narrative

role. This

role,

I

would

claim,

is fulfilled

whether

Little

Musgravesleepswith

Lady

Barnard,

Little

Mossgrey goes

to bed with

Lady

Barnabas,

Matthy

Groves crawls into the sheets

with

Lady

Arnold,

little

Ned Grove deceives

Lord

Valley,

or

young

McGrew

enjoys

the

nightly

company

of

Lady

Banner

during

her

husband's

absence. The

onomastic device works

successfully

because t

produces

he

intended

degree

of

pseudo-historicityby

proclaiming

a

past

as

true,

at least while the

performance

of the ballad

lasts,

through

the

plausibility

of

narration.

Naturally,

this

principle

does not

just

apply

to the names

of

characters n

ballads but also to the names of ballad locations. Thus, in the same Child

ballad,

it is of no

consequence

whether the

places

to

which the absent

ord has

gone

can be

identified

(Dundee,

England,

St.

James's

Castle,

Newcastle,

Ken-

tucky)

or

not

(Hampshire

Court,

Convention,

Redemption,

indemption,

con-

demsion).2

What is of

essential

significance

s

that the

absent

ord-whether

at

King Henry's

court in

London,

in the

very

north

of

Scotland,

in

Dundee,

in

some

foreign

land,

at

sea,

at convention or

redemption,

or

elsewhere-should

be far

enough away

to

give

the

secret lovers

at least a

night's

respite,

and

yet

close

enough

to be

warned and

fetched

by

a

determined,

fast-running

page

beforedawn breaks.These namesand even theirunnamed

equivalents

serve as

persuasive tructuring

devices

that do not

remove

the

troublesome

husbandto

a

particular

place

in order to

convince

audiences

through

historicity

but rather

to a

conveniently

distant location

that invites

duplicity

while

threatening

discovery

and

revenge.

"Lord

Arnold has

gone

to the

Hampshire

Court,

King

Henry

for

to

see"

sings

one

narrator,

"Lord

Dannel's

gone

to

Kentucky,

King

Georgie

for

to

view"

sings

another

(Nicolaisen

1982:209-210).

Despite

their

differences,

both

singers

provide

their

ballad

versions with

the

kind of

geography

that

is

neededto

put

their

narrativesn

their

places,

so

to

speak,

and

to

give

them

the

sort of

onomastic

underpinning

hat

silences he

doubters

and

reassures he

believers.

Whereas

Child

81

ostensively,

almost

ostentatiously,

proclaims

n

its title

a

story

of

human

conflict

molded

in

the

age-old

triangular

ashion

(and

is

there-

fore

less

concerned

with a

sense of

place

than

with a

sense of

social

constella-

tions

and

their

infraction),

there

are

several

other

ballads

hat

either link

their

protagonists

with

particular

places

or

have

nothing

but

place-names

n

their

titles.

These

include

such

ballads

as

"The

Braes o'

Yarrow"

(Child

214),

263



7/15

W. F. H.

NICOLAISEN

"Rare Willie Drowned

in

Yarrow"

(Child

215),

"John

of

Hazelgreen"

(Child 293),

"The Lads of

Wamphray" (Child 184),

"The

Wife

of

Ushers

Well"

(Child 79),

or the

martially

oriented "Battle of Otterburn"

(Child

161),

"Battle of Harlaw"

(Child

163),

or "Flodden

Field"

(Child

168).3

In

these

instances,

and

others

like

them,

the

ballad

story

is

strongly

linked with

the

places

referredto both

in

the title and often over and

over

again

in

the

ballad text.

In

some of

them that connection is so

strong

that

the

names

in

question

are

repeated

n stanzaafter stanza

and

thus,

after

melody,

refrain,

and

rhyme,

become the most

repetitive

element in the

unfolding

of the

narrative,

reinforcing

a

definite

sense of location

through

that

very

repetition,

whether

simplyor incrementally.That the intention hereis not, as has sometimesbeen

suggested

(Richmond

1946),

to "lend

credibility"

to the

singers'

tales,

except

for the

most

local

or

regional

of audiences

who

have

a

close

acquaintance

with

the

topography

of

their

ballads,

becomes obvious when one

considers

hat

the

majority

of

ballad

singers

and listeners does

not

know

exactly

where

these

places

are

and

what

they

look

like.

When this

happens,

two

majorchanges

can

occur

with

completely

different

results.

The

first

possibility

s that

place-names,

bereft

of their

denotativefunc-

tion

and

without real

geographical

significance,

can,

as structural

elements,

enter the most formulaicof all formulaicballadlanguage, the refrain.In this

process,

virtually meaninglessnames-meaningless,

that

is,

both

lexically

and

onomastically-unselfconsciously

take their

place

beside,

or

take the

place

of,

nonsense

syllables.

Their

presence

becomes

especially

notable,

perhaps

even

perplexing,

since

the refrain

has

such an

important

role

in

the

singer-audience

relationship

n

an actual

performance,

n

addition

to

its

formal,

morphological

function:

There

were

two sisters

in ae

bow'r,

Edinbrough, dinbrough;

There

were

two

sisters in ae bow'r

Stirling or

ay;

There

were

two

sisters

in ae

bow'r,

There came

a

knight

to be their

woor,

Bonny

Saint

Johnston

tands

upon

Tay.

[Bronson 1959]

No

one

would

claim that this

tripartite

refrain,

which

is of course

repeated

within

every

stanza,

somehow

mimics

a

journey

from the Scottish

capital

via

Stirling to Perth. The three place-nameshere serve without any semantic

burden

and

provide

the audience

with

familiar

but near-nonsense

ound

se-

quences

in their nonnarrative

participation

n the ballad

performance.

The

other,

diametrically

opposite

consequence

of

the semantic

emptying

of

place-names

hat

outside

the ballad

world

have

very

full

onomastic

meaning

is

the creation

of

a

new

toponymic

iconography

(Nicolaisen

1974),

a

filling

of

new wine

into

old

bottles,

a

kind of

linguistic

transfusion.

As a

result,

it

does

indeed

no

longer

matter

where

exactly

these

places

are

and what

they

look

264



8/15

NAMES

AND

NARRATIVES

like;

we

can smoothour furrowed

rowsbecausewe do not need

pictures

f

the real

Yarrow,

he

real

Wamphray,

he real

Harlaw,

wherever

nd

whatever

they

may

be.

They

are

now the

ballad-Yarrow,

he

ballad-Wamphray,

nd he

ballad-Harlaw;

ndwe do not carewhetherUshersWell andBinnorie

eally

exist

or

not,

for fiction

and

reality

areno contrastsn the

topography

f the

ballad.

ScarletTown

has more

reality

n its fictionthan

most

places

of com-

parable

ize canmuster

n the actualworld.

The RiverYarrowhad ittle fame

until

the

ballad

ang

of

manly

ombat

and

subsequent

ereavementn its braes

or of a

drowning ragedy

n its

waters.

In

"BonnyBabyLivingstone"

Child

222)

the

(real)

place-names

Auchingour"

nd

"Glenlion"havebecome

ym-

bolsfor thekidnapper'serritorywhichthegirl, forgoodreason,s noteager

to enter. "Annan

Water,"

in the

moving

ballad

of

that

title,

ceases

o

be

simply,

or

altogether,

he Scottish iver

hat

rises

nearHartfellMountain

n

the Peeblesshire

order,

and

after

lowing

south for

49

miles

through

Dum-

friesshire nd

having

received

he

tributary

waters

of

Evan,

Moffat,Kinnel,

Dryfe,

and

Milk,

enters

he

Solway

Firth,

one and

three-quarter

iles

below

the town of Annanwhich

itself

was

namedafter he watercourse.

Although

its

quick

idesmake t a

dangerous

iver,

often

resulting

n

the kindof

tragedy

that

the ballad

story

narrates,

his initial

appropriateness

s

no

longer

ap-

plicable.Perhapst neverwas,forperformancesf thisballad ave o beunder-

stood

not as the balladistic

ecounting

f

a

particular

rowning,

but as

the

presentation

n narrative

ong

of the

death

of the lover

trying

o

reach

his

be-

loved

from

whom

he is

separated.

ust

as

the

fast-flowing

iver

becomes he

symbol

or the

separating

bstacle,

o

"Annan

Water,"

as the name

of

that

river,

akeson the role

of

metaphor

n this

context,

heightened

n the

worldof

ballad

olk

belief

by

the

roaring

f

the water

kelpy-not only

a

metaphor

or

the

painfulphysical

eparation

f

two

lovers,

but also

of

the human

ragedy

thatbefallswhen one

of

the two

attempts

o reduce hat

separation

n the face

of

adversity.

AnnanWater s the

unbridged

iver

hat

keeps

wo

lovers

apart,

when

togetherness

s what

they

needmost

of all

for their

physical

alvation.

No wonder hat the refrain

ings

n

powerful,

challenging

epetition:

And

wae

betide

ye,

Annan

Water,

This

night

that

ye

are a

drumlie

river

For over thee I'll

build a

bridge,

That

ye

never more true love

may

sever.

Ironically,reven

symptomatically

nd

perhapsortunately,

hename"An-

nan Water" has a

major

variant in

"Allan Water"

in other

versions

of

the

same

ballad,

a

name

attached

o

severalrivers on the

actualScottish

map,

each

with its

own

characteristics,

very

different from

the Annan

and from

each

other. On

the

map

of

ballad

country,

however,

both

"Allan" and

"Annan"

serve

the

same

iconographic

function and

play

the same

semantic role of

the

river as

dividing

boundary

and fateful

separation

nviting

parted

overs to

fatal

attempts

at

reunion.

Beyond

all

this,

it is a

symbol

for

everything

that

divides,

265



9/15

W. F. H.

NICOLAISEN

separates

nd

disrupts,

a

poignant

eminderhat all is not well in

this

world

and that

so

much that is broken

and fractured till has to

be healed.

Either

namehelpsto narrate hat conditionandto rehearsets tragicconsequences.

Leaving

he

ballad

map

behind,

wish

to

takeus

to

legend ountry

ince t is

best

suited

to

show that

there s

an even more essential

onnection

etween

namesandnarratives

hanthe

focusing

presence

f the former n

the latteror

the

structuring,

conographic

orce of

onomastic tems

in

narrative nviron-

ments. The text

within

the text has

other,

even

more

mportant

imensions.

What I have

n

mind

s the

by

no

means

evolutionary

bservation

hat

stories

createnames

and

names

reate tories.Our

compendia

f

legends

re ull of in-

stances

of both

kinds,

especially

f the

story-creatingower

of

names.That

our actual

maps

alsocontain

many

namesthat are the resultsof stories s

perhaps

ess

well knownbut

ust

as

easily

demonstrated. ere

s

a

Scottish x-

ample

hat

firstmade

me

aware

of the

compatibility

f

my

own dual nterests

in folkloreand

names:

A lowland

sentry,

who had

been

stationed

at the

head

of the Pass of

Killiecrankie,

irst knew

the result of

the battle

[of

Killiecrankie

on

July

27th,

1689]

by

seeing

a

party

of

Highlanders

rushing

down

upon

him. He

ran before

them and

when

they

were

overtaking

him,

and

had

ac-

tually

wounded

him in the

shoulder,

he

leapt

across the River

Garry

where the

gorge

is nar-

rowest

and

so

escaped,

for

they

dared not

leap

after him.

The

place

is called the

"Soldier's

Leap,"

and

every

visitor

to the

pass

has a look at it. The soldier lived

many

years

afterwards

and was

employed

by

General

Wade who

began

to make

roads

in the

Highlands

thirty-five

years

later. The soldier often told

his

story

and showed

the

wound

he received n

the

moment

of

the

leap. [Nicolaisen 1968]

As one

who

has stood

exactly

where

the

commentator

magines

"every

visitor

o the

pass"

to

stand,

can

verify

both

the

location nd

he name. also

know

that

insteadof

onlylooking

at the

chasm,

most

visitors,

myself

nclud-

ed,

tendto

contemplate,

r evendiscusswith

others,

whether hewounded

soldier-whose

name

s

given

as DonaldMacBean

n

certain raditions-could

have

umped

t

in

his weakened

ondition,

and,

if

he

did,

whether

we would

be able

to imitate

his feat.

I

also know that

many

similar

tories

havecreated

many

similar

place

names

lsewhere,

rom

McGregor's eap

n

Perthshire

nd

the

Tinker's

Loup

n

Kirkcudbrightshire

o

Brady'sLeap

n

Ohio,

and that

personal

xperience

arratives

nd

egendary

ccounts

re,

as

happens

o

often,

hard o

separate

n

the

analysis

f thesestories.

Not

that this

in

any

way

in-

validatesheevidence.Far rom t. Whethermemoraterfabulate,he stories

in

question

arebehind he

names

n

question,

and

there

s little doubt

that

a

motif

such

as

F1071,

"Prodigious

ump,"

is

in a

large

number

of

these

in-

stances

esponsible

or the

name

of the location

at

whichthe

event

s

supposed

to

havetaken

place.

What

is

significant

s that

in all these

examples

arrative

preceded

ame,

he

speech

ct

of narration

ame

before

he

speech

ct

of nam-

ing.

As a

result,

the

place-name

as

become

a

crystallization

f

the

narrative,

almost

a

shorthand

or

story,

and

by

situating

his

story

on the

map

among

other

names

t has

given

it

a

topographic

dentity

hat

amounts o

veracity.

266



10/15

NAMES

AND NARRATIVES

Since the name is attachedto such and such a

place,

the

past

must have

been

the

way

the

story

tells

it. The

name,

in

addition

to

other narrative unctions

in

this context, takes on the role of verification,of

precisely

ocating

the truth.

The

exact

opposite

happens

when names

are not the resultsbut the cause

of

stories,

when narratives re created o

interpret

or

reinterpret

otherwise

mean-

ingless

onomastic

items,

a

process

which used to

be called somewhat

con-

descendingly"folk-etymology,"

but which is

really

a

linguistic aspect

of

that

urge

so

prominently

displayed

n

the folk-cultural

register

of

coming

to

terms

with

the

meaningless

or

accounting

for

something particularly

dd and out of

the

ordinary.

In

doing

so,

secondary

toponymic

reinterpretation

requently

employs a device not found in primarynaming processes:the intentionalor

chance utterance

of a

person,

often

of

different

ethnic

or

cultural

origin

(Nicolaisen

1977b).

Two

examples

of

this

very

extensive

genre

must suffice.

The

first concerns the

name "Menan" in Idaho:

In

the

early days

of SnakeRiver

Valley

settlement the

mosquitos

were as

big

as

eagles

and were

often

reported

to

have carried

people

away

from their farms. One

day

near dusk a farmerwas

working

in

a field near the

present

site of

Menan,

Idaho,

and was

picked up

by

a

passing

mos-

quito.

The farmercalled for

help

to his wife and she

quickly

ran and

got

his

rifle.

As she was

aiming

the rifle to shoot the

large

insect out of the air she heard her husbandcall, "Don't

shoot,

it's

me,

Nan." So the

place

has

always

been known as

Menan.s

The second

story

narrates

an

incident that is

supposed

o have

been

respon-

sible for the

coining

of

the

name

"Perth

Amboy"

in

New

Jersey,

which is said

to have

got

its

name when the

Earl

of

Perth

first

came to

Amboy.

Residents,

Indians,

and officialswent down to the shore

to

greet

him.

Being

a

Scot,

Perth

wore

the kilt. When he came

ashore,

the Indian

chief took one

long,

hard ook

at the kilt and those

knobby

knees

and

exclaimed,

"Perth

am

girl "

"No,"

the Earl

replied,

"Perth am

boy"

(Quimby

1969:257).

Tall

tale and

cultural

put-down

here

serve

not

only

to

provide

semantic

transparency

where

only

opacity

exists,

but

also to

cope

with

a

puzzlesome,

sometimes

threatening, past;

despite

their

brevity,

their

local

narrative

enter-

tainment value

(and

their

humorous

appeal

s

decidedly

ocal)

lies

precisely

n

these

characteristics.

Occurring singly,

they may

not

be

great

stories to

excite

the

student

of

folk

narrative,

hey

may

not lead to the

kind

of

etymology

that

satisfies

he historical

linguist,

but

they

are

valuable

pointers

to

an

age-old

nar-

rativetradition,the full force and societal role of which undoubtedlydeserve

much

greater

scholarly

attention than

they

have

received so

far.

As

a

body,

they

help

us to

understand

what makes the folk

laugh,

especially

at the

expense

of

the

stranger.

Also,

together

with

their

much more

serious

counterparts,

they

reveal

names

to

be

strong

originating

forces

in

the

creationof

stories

(see

Nicolaisen

1976,

1977a).

In

folktale,

ballad

and

legend,

dicta

such as

narrare

necesse st

and

nominare

ecesse

st

become

virtually

synonymous,

while

life's

meaning

and

purpose

are

entrusted to

both.

If one

were to be

solely

interested

n

the

embedding

of

names in

narratives

267



11/15

W. F. H. NICOLAISEN

and

ts

many

andmanifold

mplications,

his

might

not

havebeena

badcon-

cluding

sentence,

but there

s

to be

one

furtherarea

of

concern hat I would

like to

explore

briefly,

even if it takesus

beyond

he narrow onfinesof our

alliterative

opic.

The

reason s

that

I cannotthink

of

names,

cannotcom-

prehend

heir

meaning

and

unction,

without

thinking

of

individuality,

nd

I

cannot

ully

substantiate

nd

legitimize

my very genuine

plea

for a

renewed

commitment

o

folklore exts

without at

the same

time

advocating

new

awareness

f

the

inviolability

f all

individual

exts

and,

above

all,

of all in-

dividual

narrators,

rtisans,

radition

earers,

ctive

andcreative

gents

n

the

realm

of folk culture.

What this

alsomeans

s

that,

when

thus

perceived,

he

deliberateinkingof namesandnarratives, f individual toryteller ndin-

dividual

erformance

reating

n ndividual

ext,

raises

question

hat

hasbeen

on

my

mind

for a

long

time

andto which

I want to

drawattention.

f I fre-

quently

use the

term

"artisan,"

t

is because

am

ooking

or a term

o

depict

the creative

rtist,

n

both verbal

andnonverbal

ontexts,

andbecause

agree

with

Walter

Benjamin

1968)

that

storytelling

elongs

o

the

age

of

the

ar-

tisan.

The

intellectual

ilemma

hat we

have nherited

as ts

roots

n two

funda-

mentally

ery

different

iews

of

craft

and

olk

culture,

or while

the

ideaof

ar-

tisanshiprcraftsmanshipasalways mpliedndividualkillsandoneperson's

pair

of

hands,

he

notion

of "folk"

has

conjured

p

almost

nvariably

n

mage

of

community,

of

group,

of lack

of

individuality,

versince

t was

first

ntro-

duced

nto the

English

anguage

lmost

a

century

and

a half

ago.

Tradition,

that

key ingredient

n so

much

folk cultural

activity,

has been

equated

with

communal

reation

and

re-creation

n an

atmosphere

f

anonymity,

and

the

emphasis

has

been

on

the

transmission

f

knowledge,

customs,

and

beliefs

through

uch

anonymous

hannels

n an almost

mystical

ashion.

Forsome

un-

fathomable

eason,

his

perception

ascontinued

o

dominate

he

thinking

of

many

olklorists

venwhen

they

themselvesavebeen

engaged

n the

study

of

the tale

repertoires

f

individual

torytellers

r

of the

corpus

of

songs per-

formed

by

individual

ingers.

For

example,

out

of the

318

separately

n-

nounced

papers

t the

1983 American

olklore

Society

annual

meeting,

only

15,

according

o title

and

summary,

ppear

o deal

with individual

olk

artisans

of

all kinds.

That

s

fewer

han

ive

percent

f

the total

In

addition,

here

has

developed,

ver

the

years,

a hierarchical

erception

f

"folkness"

as a level

of

culture

and

of whole

homogeneous

olk societies

xisting

on that

level.

It is inevitablehatsucha stratifiediew of cultureeadsnot onlyto anar-

tificial

eparation

f

the

layers

nvisaged

ut

also

to an

unwarranted

erpetua-

tion

of

their

supposed

xistence

under

all conditions.

But it is difficult

o

see

how

such

a

hierarchical

tratification,

r

any

kindof stratification

or that

mat-

ter,

can

be

maintained

hen

the

focus

s on individual

uman

beings

and

heir

demonstrable

iversity

nstead

f

on

the

unity

of

theirbehavioral

esponses.

n-

deed,

with

this

kind

of

emphasis,

he

model

of

rigid

cultural

ayering

ot

only

becomes

nadequate

ut

rather

ontradicts

bservable

acts,

or

nobody

behaves

on

the

so-called

"folk

level"

(or

any

other

level)

all the

time,

nor

is

there

268



12/15

NAMESAND

NARRATIVES

anybody

whose

behavior s

never

of

the folk-culturalkind. This

is not

because

we

flit from

one cultural evel

to

another

almost

arbitrarily

nd

unpredictably

but rather

because,

in the absencef levels, we

respond

to

particular

ituations,

under

particular

circumstances,

n the

presence

of

particularpersons,

in

dif-

ferent

manners,

in the kind of

appropriate

responses

that

sociologists

and

sociolinguists

have

termed

"registers"-and

the

folk-cultural

register

s one

of

them

(Nicolaisen

1980a).

The

degree

of

frequency

and

intensity

to which

peo-

ple

respond

n

particular

egisters

varies

from

person

to

person,

from

locale

to

locale,

from

historical circumstance to historical

circumstance. Some

in-

dividuals

may

behave

like "folk"

on

most

occasions,

others

may hardly

ever

respond

in

the folk-cultural

register.

Most

of us

probably

fall

somewhere be-

tween these two extremes.

Assuming,

then,

that

it

is

possible

to

discern

peculiar

olk-cultural

qualities

and to differentiate hem from

other modes of

behavior-the

primitive,

the

normative,

the

sophisticated,

et us

say-what

is it

that

folk-cultural

responses

have

in

common and what makes

them

attractiveand

appropriate

nder cer-

tain

circumstances?

Speculatively,

I would

suggest

the

following

criteria.

In

the

broadest

sense,

they

allow for

individual

expression

within

the

framework

of

tradition,

thus

injecting

an

element of

variety

into a

process

of

repetition.

Put somewhat differently,the folk-culturalresponse providesa challengefor

individuationwhile at

the same time

supplying

the

shelter of social

bonding.

Naturally,

such

opportunity

would not

be

offered

through

definitive

texts,

mass-produced

drugs,

prefabricated

ouses,

syndicated

columns,

and the

like.

The

folk-cultural

response

s

also

almost

invariably

a

direct

one,

making

use of

whatever is

readily

availableand at

hand,

not

searching

or its

ingredients

n

faraway

places.

The

folk-cultural

response

offers the

expected

but-and this is

important-

while

shunning

startling

and

disconcerting

innovation,

leaves

room

for

judiciousimprovementandpersonalcreativity.It favors the statusquo,

prefers

circumscribed

individuality

o total

conformity

or

anarchic

haos,

shuns

eccen-

tricity

but

has room for

foolishness

and

wisdom;

it

lays

great

store

by

the

ac-

cumulated

common

sense of

generations

though

refracted

through

individual

prisms

and

takes

a

few

measuredrisks

within an

overall

atmosphere

of

securi-

ty.

In folk

culture

audacity

never

outstrips sagacity.

Tradition

prevails

but

not

without

change,

continuity

creates

balance

and

yet

there is

disruption,

some-

times

disconcerting,

sometimes

refreshing,

sometimes

both;

repetition

never

becomes

boring,

community

and

individual are

at

ease

with

each

other.

Perhaps

the

question

why

folk-cultural

responses

are

considered

attractive

and

appropriate

under certain

circumstances

inds at

least

one

answer in

these

definitions of

what

folk

culture

ideally-and,

I

believe,

also

practically-is.

The

reasons

for

the

continued

choice of

such

responses

are at

least

partially

embedded

n

what

that

choice

speaks

to: the

need for

self-expression

within a

predictable

and

comfortable

context;

the

desire for

acceptability

without

slavish,

imitative

conformity;

the

creative

urge

that

is

satisfiedto

be

fulfilled

within the

patterns

and

demands

of

tradition;

the

provision

of

identity

in

the

269



13/15

W. F. H.

NICOLAISEN

present

through

conscious

links

with the

past;

the

orientation

through

folk-

cultural

symbols

below and

beyond

the level

of

daily experience.

I therefore

take the

phenomena

of folk culture to be

expressions

of the tension and in-

terplay

between

individual

and

society,

between

variationand

repetition,

be-

tween

isolated

self and communal

other.

Tradition,

in

this

process,

guides

and

safeguards

ontinuity

in a

world

of

change

without

restraining

or

jeopardizing

individual

ingenuity.

There

is

a

toughness

and

a

persistence

about

folk

culture

from

which

even the most

independently-minded

escape

only

with

difficulty.

Yet-and this

is the

fascinating

miracle

of all

folk

cultures-the

filter

of

individuality,

of

creative

identity, of recognizablepersonality, preventsthe productsof tradition from

becoming

faceless

and

interchangeable.

Naturally,

the extent

to

which

ar-

tisans,

both the

highly

competent

ones and

those whose

competence

is

less

developed,

explore

their

individual

freedom

or

cling

to traditional

bondage

varies

from

person

to

person.

In

May,

1978,

I had the

good

fortune

to

collect,

from

severaldescendants

f

old Council

Harmon

(1803-1896),

versions

of AT

1535

"The Rich and

the

Poor

Peasant,"

which

in

the

narrative radition

of

Beech

Mountain,

North

Carolina,

usually

goes

under

the

title of

"The

Heifer

Hide"

(Nicolaisen

1980b). In the courseof my recordings,I alsonotedwith greatinterestthe dif-

ferent

attitudes

that

the various

storytellers,

all

of them

related

to

each

other,

had

toward

their

stories

and

their

sources,

and I found

it

instructive

that,

for

example,

Ray

Hicks

and

Hattie

Hicks,

both

great-great-grandchildren

f old

"Counce,"

expressed

hat attitude

n

diametrically

pposite

ways.

Ray,

when

he

had finished

his

story,

asked

me

if

I had

noted certain

details.

When

I told

him

that I

had,

he

informed

me

with

great pleasure

hat

these

were

small

addi-

tions that

he himself

had

added

to the

story

as he had

heard

t

from his

grand-

father,

in

order

to

make it his own.

Hattie,

on the other

hand,

insisted

on tell-

ing

me severaltimes that her version was

exactly

as she had heard t from her

father-it

was

her

father's

story,

not her own.

The

contrasts,

therefore,

could

not have

been

greater,

but

the

important

thing

is that there

is room

for both

attitudes,

and

many

in

between,

in the

folk-cultural

register.

No

other

cultural

register

offers

that kind

of

symbiosis,

that

kind

of

opportunity

to

be

personal

and

yet

to

have the

exposure

that such

individualitybrings

mediated

by

the

shelter

of

the

group.

We

have,

in

this

brief

survey,

traveled

quite

a distance rom

Rumpelstiltskin,

Tom Thumb,

and

Donkey Skin,

via

"Little

Musgrave

and

Lady

Barnard,"

Redemption,

Usher's

Well,

Annan

Water,

The

Soldier's

Leap

and Perth

Am-

boy,

to

Ray

and

Hattie

Hicks

and

"The Heifer

Hide."

We have

encountered,

on the

way,

names

as

the

point

of

a

story,

names

as

narrative

ondensation

and

focus,

names

as cloaks

and

disguises,

names

as

structuring

devices,

names

as

verbal

cons,

names

as

metaphors,

names

as

truthful

ocation

of the

past,

names

as

the

result

of a

story,

names

as

narrative

auses,

names

as

individualizing

and

integrating

forces

(see

Ruberg 1982),

names

as texts

and

as texts

within

texts,

and

names

of

individual

storytellers.

270



14/15

NAMESAND

NARRATIVES

Whatever

their role

and

function,

whatever their

semantic status

and

onomastic

intent,

these

names

have

given

us

access

to

narrative

morphology,

structure,

and constraintsin a

very

special,

perhaps

even

unexpected

way.

Above

all,

they

have

helped

us

to

reestablish

he narrative

ext

as a

window

on

the

past

and its

narration

as

the

true

creation of

that

past.

There are

as

many

true chunks

of

past

as there are stories

told as true. The

alliterative

speech

acts

of

naming

and

narrating

have,

I

hope,

revealed hemselves

as

reconcilable win

approaches

o

human

individuality

n

its

enmeshings

with that

past.

Perhaps

they

even

encourage

a

vision of

the

study

of

folklore as

a

flight

toward

folklore,

for

despite

some

recent rumors to

the

contrary,

the last

I

heard

of

it,

there are still cascadesof texts out there and klondikes of folklore. I wish us

luck

with them.

Snip, snip,

snover,

My

story

is

over.

Notes

I

am

ndebted

or this term

o

John

A.

Robinson

1981).

I also ind

much

refreshing

ew

thinking

n

several

mportant

spects

f folk

narrative,

nd

especially

n

what

she terms

"groupsagas,"

n

Gillian

Bennett 1983).

2

For

a

full

range

of suchnames

ee

W. F. H. Nicolaisen

1982).

Some of the

points

made n

the

following

are

anticipated

n

that article.

3I

havediscussedhese

n more

detail

n

"Place-Names

n

Traditional allads"

Nicolaisen

973).

This

sectionof

my essay

s built on

that article.

4

From he

singing

of Mrs.

Margaret

MacArthur,Marlboro,

Vermont.

5

From he

Folklore

Archive n

BrighamYoung

University.

References

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Walter

1968

The

Storyteller.

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Arendt.

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Harry

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New York:

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Brace and World.

Bennett,

Gillian

1983

"Rocky

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an

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Bronson,

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1959-72 The

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Documents

Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives