BEOWULF. DESCRIPTION OF THE GERMANS. ANCIENT FUNERAL RITES
UNDATED, PROBABLY OCTOBER 15, 19661
In our last class, I said that today we would discuss the epic poem, Beowulf. As we shall see, the protagonist is a knight who embodies all the virtues held in high regard during the Middle Ages: loyalty, bravery—this is all in the book by the Venerable Bede. But let’s dig into Beowulf. The name in itself is a metaphor that means “bee-wolf,” in other words “bear.” It is truly a long poem: it contains a little fewer than 3,200 lines, all of which follow the law of Germanic versification: alliteration. Its language is intricate; it makes constant use of what is called “hyper-baton,” that is, the alteration of the logical sequence of words in a sentence. We know this was not the usual form of the Germanic language, and much less so of its poetry, because another fragment that has been preserved, the Finnsburh Fragment, employs very direct language.
It was previously believed that the style of Beowulf belonged to a primitive, barbaric stage of poetic creation. Subsequently, however, a Germanist discovered that lines from the Aeneid were woven into the poem, and that elsewhere, passages from that epic poem were brought in, then interspersed in the text. Hence, we have realized that we are not dealing with a barbaric poem, but rather with the erudite, baroque experiment of a priest, that is, someone who had access to Latin texts, and who studied them.
The author took an ancient Germanic legend and turned it into an epic poem that follows the syntactic rules of Latin. Thanks to those few interpolated lines, we can see that the author set out to compose a German Aeneid. One clear indicator of this is the aforementioned contrast with the direct language used in the heroic Finnsburh Fragment and the other texts we have from that era (such as incantations, etcetera). But the author faced a problem in attempting to carry out his intention: according to the decorum of the time, he could not praise the pagan gods. In the eighth century, the pagan era was quite recent, and still very much alive among the populace. It was not until the seventeenth century, almost ten centuries later, that we see Góngora speak calmly, without qualms, about the pagan gods.2 However, [the author of Beowulf] could not speak about Christ and the Virgin, either. The fact is, he never names them anywhere. But two concepts make their appearance, and we do not know if the author understood that they contradicted each other. The word “god” appears, as does wyrd or “fate.” Fate, in Germanic mythology, was a power greater than even the gods themselves. We know this from Norse mythology. Wyrd has survived in modern English: Shakespeare uses it in Macbeth to speak of the witches, though it probably did not have the same meaning. In any case, the word [in Beowulf] is not “witch,” but “emissary of fate,” “weird sister,” “sister of fate.”3 Throughout Beowulf, the concepts of God—the new God, and the old one, the one of wyrd—are woven into the text and used indiscriminately.
The Germanist Ker has criticized Beowulf, for he considers the plot to be childish.4a>The idea of the hero who kills an ogre, that ogre’s mother, and then a dragon, belongs to a children’s tale. But these elements are, in fact, inevitable; they are there because they must be. Once he chose that legend, the author could not possibly omit the ogre, the witch, or the dragon. The public expected them, because it knew the legend. Moreover, these monsters were symbols of the powers of evil; they were taken very seriously by that audience.
One of the poem’s most curious aspects is that it takes place first in Denmark and then in southern Sweden. This indicates that after three hundred years of living in new lands, the Anglo-Saxons still felt homesick for their old homelands on the Baltic Sea; this further suggests that there is a strong affinity between the Norsemen and Anglo-Saxons. The characters in the poem are Scandinavian. The hero himself is a Swedish prince. This might tempt some scholars to claim that the lore of the Goths contains the legend of their origins, which says they come from Northern Europe. But there is no proof of this. (We actually know that the first news of these people has them hailing from south of the Danube.) However, Charles XII of Sweden believed this. So much so that during a conflict with the pope, he wrote to him [the pope], warning him not to feel too secure; he said his ancestors had already entered Rome once, and their descendants were no less brave. He was hinting at a possible invasion that would repeat the Gothic invasions of Italy. (Now, if we look closely at the word “Geats,” we see that it can easily be associated with “Goths.”5a> Hence, if we identify the Geats with the Goths, the Spaniards would be relatives of the Norsemen. Hence, all descendents of the Spaniards would be relatives of Beowulf!)
In the Odyssey and the Iliad, we see that the bloody and bellicose events are the most paramount. The poet of Beowulf was interested in hospitality, manners, gift-giving, and minstrels more than in military feats; in other words, he was interested in what we would now call “social life.” All of these things were valued at that time and must have been quite appealing to the Saxons, who lived in a violent era and in inhospitable lands. Europe was colder then. We know this because research has shown that the animals who lived at that time in the south of Europe now live in the north. For example, reindeer used to live in Germany and are now found only in Scandinavia. England was a marshy land. The Germans considered it to be a terrible, noxious place. They populated all those swamps with evil beings, devils. Moreover, the psychology of these people is revealed by the fact that they counted the years by the winters, and the days by the nights. The cold that prevailed in that land is what constantly shows up in these texts; always mentioned are the terrors of the snow, the hardships of winter. The arrival of spring was welcomed as a great event.
Returning to the poem, the first episode deals extensively with the mythic king of Denmark, Scyld Scefing, which means “shield with the sheaf.” This name is derived from the legend of his origins. One day, a baby arrives on the coast of Denmark in a mysterious ship. There was nobody manning the ship, and the child is lying on the bottom, on a bed of weapons, sheaves of wheat, and jewels. This prodigious child becomes king and was so strong that he made his people great. This is, in the concept of the era, a “good king”: one who terrifies his neighbors, is strong, and is a warrior, and whose men fear and respect him. Time passes and the king grows old; he feels that the hour of his death is upon him. So he plans his funeral and gives orders for it to be carried out according to his instructions. These include building a ship exactly like the one he came in and placing him next to the mast surrounded by weapons and jewels, then pushing him out to sea.
All peoples have believed that the territory of death lies beyond the sea. Life was associated with the course of the sun; since the sun is born in the east and dies in the west, a parallel was drawn to human life. It was believed that when it was over, one went to the land where the sun dies, to the west, beyond the sea. Hence, in the Celtic legends, paradise was thought to be in the west. In Greek mythology, the kingdom of death was beyond the water, and one had to cross the water to reach it. So, this ship they push out to sea has that meaning. Next comes a description of the ship and the king lying next to the mast, and then of the subjects crying, pushing the ship out to sea. This is one of the most powerful scenes in the poem.6 We cannot know if in the mind of the poet—who genuinely felt this scene—if this king being pushed out to sea (in the ship he arrived in) is a symbol of man mysteriously returning to the place from which he mysteriously came. In any case, this ritual of launching the ship is not an invention of this poet but rather a Germanic custom. Ships containing the skeletons of men and animals have been found at the bottom of the sea. We can deduce from this that they not only pushed the dead out to sea, but on their last trip, they were accompanied by their servants and their favorite animals. It was a Germanic custom to bury the dead with their dogs at their feet. In the book Beau Geste, the hero says that he “had his Viking’s funeral with a dog at his feet.”7 He was talking about a sergeant who had been buried. There is an ancient text that also says that after the ship was launched, it would be set on fire.
The author [of Beowulf] intentionally described different burial rites of the Germanic people. This can be seen at the end of the poem, with Beowulf’s funeral next to the sea, on a pyre so high it can be seen by sailors out at sea, and that is heaped with weapons, shields, and helmets. This detail also appears in the Odyssey, where there is also a funeral rite.
In the next class we will continue our study of Beowulf and probably examine the Finnsburh Fragment.
CLASS 3
BEOWULF. BRAVERY AND BOASTFULNESS:BEOWULF AS COMPARED TO THE COMPADRITOS.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1966
In the previous class, we discussed the epic poem Beowulf. Today, we will pick up where we left off. I recounted one of the most poetic episodes of the poem: the one about the child who arrives mysteriously on the coast of Denmark, who becomes king and instills fear in his enemies. The poet notes that he is a good king because what is expected of a king is that he be strong and warlike and that his neighbors fear his people. Then the years pass and when death approaches, he gives instructions for his funeral. So they prepare the funeral ship.
The poet says that this ship was “isig ond utfus.” The first word means “frozen,” and is related to the English word “iced” and the German word eisig. But we don’t know if the ship is covered with ice (it is strange that the poet hadn’t spoken of ice earlier), or if he meant “resplendent,” “shimmering,” “as clear as ice.” The third word is difficult to translate because fusmeans “eager” and ut means “out.”1 In other words, the ship was eager to leave, as if it were a living being. Then the ship is described; the poet says that it flew a flag made of gold fabric, and that the king was placed in a seated position, leaning against the mast: “The powerful one against the mast.” Then his vassals, crying, push the ship out to sea, and then we have these lines that I know by heart: “Nobody, neither the counselors in their assemblies nor the heroes under the heavens, knows who received that cargo.” And it is said that the ship was pushed far away by the power of the sea: “Under the power of the sea, it traveled far.” Now, an ancestor is also mentioned, who is also called Beowulf, like the eponymous hero of the poem, but he is a different Beowulf. And this lets us imagine that there is a connection between the royal house of Denmark and the royal house of the Geats—that tribe that is a bit mysterious—which some have identified with the Jutes who invaded England, and others, with the Goths, in other words, the ancestors of the Spaniards, who were the Visigoths. But there is a lot of disagreement about this.
One peculiar feature of Beowulf is that the story we are looking at is a primitive one—even puerile, according to some. Yet the atmosphere in which this barbarous and primitive fable takes place is not the fantastical atmosphere of a fairy tale even if the events that take place are. The story abounds in realistic details, especially regarding the genealogy of the characters. It has, as the English Germanist Ker has said, the solid atmosphere of a realist novel.2The events are fantastical, but we feel the characters as real, as garrulous as if they were right there, and given to oratory; they are characters who like good manners, conviviality, ceremony. It is true that all of this was highly valued during that dangerous era, a violent era when people perhaps did not much like violence; it was a barbarous era that nonetheless was drawn to culture, that enjoyed culture.
The poet lists the names of the kings of the royal house of Denmark, until he gets to a king named Hrothgar. These consonant clusters are common in Anglo-Saxon, but have since been lost: hr, and the runic letter following it, can be transcribed as th.3 We have another example in the Anglo-Saxon word for “ring.” In German and, I think, in Scandinavian languages, it is ring, whereas the Anglo-Saxons said hring, and there are other analogous sounds. For example, “neigh” in English is the verb hnægan in Anglo-Saxon.4 There are other consonant clusters we cannot pronounce, because we don’t know how they were pronounced. For example, for “haughty” they said wlanc. I don’t know how the wl should be pronounced. It’s possible the W was pronounced as a U. But let’s return to the poem.
The poet names several kings until he finally gets to Hrothgar, the king of Denmark, who builds a palace called Heorot. And this palace, the poet tells us, is the most splendid of palaces, though we should imagine it built of wood. I have seen beautiful houses in the United States, luxurious houses—the house of Longfellow, the house of Emerson—houses that are three hundred years old, and these houses are built of wood. Currently, in Buenos Aires, to say “a wood house” is to mean a shack. This is not the case in New England: a wood house can be very beautiful, with many floors, a salon, a library, and they are well built so there are no drafts.
The king builds the palace, and the poet tells us that this is the palace that shines over all the neighboring kingdoms; in other words, it is famous. We can imagine a large central hall where the king meets with his vassals and where he dines. I assume they ate pork and deer and drank beer from drinking horns; wine was quite rare, as it had to be brought from the south. In the poem, there is a minstrel who livens up the banquets singing and accompanying himself on the harp. The harp was the national instrument of all the Germanic peoples. The music would be, undoubtedly, very simple.
The king has his court. And there he hands out gold rings and bracelets to his vassals. This is why one of the king’s titles is “ring-giver” or beahgifa. We find this word, beag, in French as bague, meaning “ring.” The king is very powerful, but the din of the court, or the music, frightens or disturbs a monster who lives nearby in an area full of swamps, marshes, and moors. Some believe that certain regions of England are recognizable in the description of where the monster, named Grendel, lived. Lincolnshire, for example. But this is pure conjecture. The monster is described as looking like a human being, but gigantic. He is an ogre and apparently belongs to ancient German mythology, but as the poet is Christian, he wanted to tie him to the Christian tradition, rather than the pagan tradition, so he tells us that he is a descendent of Cain. And this monster wanders around the moors and lives with his mother under a lake, so deep down that the hero swims for an entire day to reach the underground cavern where he lives with his mother, who is a witch. The poet calls her “the she-wolf of the sea,” “the sorceress of the sea.” There are also storms, which make this lake seem like the sea, and there is a description of the forests surrounding the lake. It says that crows are afraid to fly near the lake, for it is a zone of tempests, fog, solitude, and because of what could be called sacred horror. The description of the lake and its surroundings lasts about twenty lines. Now, this does not surprise us, but remember that the poem was written at the end of the seventh century or, according to the scholars, the beginning of the eighth, and it is full of sentiment for the natural world. This sentiment does not appear in other literatures until much later. One often says, too hastily—because in addition to Beowulf, there is also Shakespeare—that this sentiment for nature is the same as the romantic sentiment. In other words, the same as in the eighteenth century, about ten centuries after Beowulf. The truth is that there are books, notable books, in which the natural world as we feel it now makes no appearance. And to turn to the most famous example, I believe—I don’t know if I am certain—I suspect that in Don Quixote, it does not rain a single time. The landscapes described in Quixote have nothing in common with the landscapes of Castile: they are conventional landscapes, full of meadows, streams, and copses that belong in an Italian novel. On the other hand, in Beowulf, we sense nature as something fearsome, something that is hostile to man; the sense of night and darkness as fearsome, as it surely was for the Saxons, who had settled in an unknown country whose geography they discovered only as they were conquering it. Undoubtedly, the first Germanic invaders had no precise idea of England’s geography. It is absurd to imagine Horsa or Hengest arriving with a map. Completely unbelievable. We don’t even know if they would have understood Beowulf, which is written in a very contorted language and is full of metaphors that, undoubtedly, were not used by the Anglo-Saxons in their spoken language. In any case, these metaphors never appear in their prose. And in the Scandinavian Norse regions, those most closely connected to the Saxons, we find a very marked and deliberate division between prose, which can be very eloquent and full of pathos, but is very simple, and the language of poetry, which is filled with kennings, the name for those metaphors that, as we have seen, reached an extraordinary level of complexity.
So, King Hrothgar rules over Denmark. Naturally, nobody thought of empires at that time; the idea of empire is totally foreign to the Germanic mind. But he was a prosperous king, a victorious, opulent king, and his court’s jubilant celebrations—one of the metaphors for the harp is “wood of joy” or “party-wood”—upsets Grendel, who attacks the castle. The fable is poorly wrought, for at the beginning we have a very powerful king, and then this same king and his vassals and his troops, the only measure they take is to pray to the gods, to ask for help from their ancient gods, Odin, Thor, and the others. The poet tells us that all their prayers were in vain. The gods have no power at all against the monster. And thus, improbably, twelve years pass, and every few nights the ogre breaks down the castle’s double doors—there were no other doors—enters, and devours one of the men. And the king does nothing. Then news of the ogre’s attacks spreads. The ogre is gigantic and invulnerable to all weapons. The news reaches the neighboring country of Sweden. And in Sweden there is a youth, a prince, Beowulf, and throughout his childhood this prince has shown himself to be clumsy, slow, but he wants to gain fame with a great feat. He has already fought in a war against the Franks, but this isn’t enough for him, so he departs in a boat with fourteen companions.
Naturally, the poet makes the sea stormy, so that the trip won’t be easy, so it will be difficult, and Beowulf lands in Denmark. The king’s sentinel comes out to greet him, an aristocrat like Beowulf, a prince. Beowulf says that he has come to save the country and is received courteously by the court. There is one character, however, who questions Beowulf’s personal courage, so Beowulf proposes a kind of contest, a swimming race, which improbably lasts ten days, a competition against another famous swimmer named Breca. The two swim for ten days and ten nights. They fight against sea monsters, who drag Beowulf to the bottom of the sea, where he kills them with his sword or chases them away. Then he surfaces, keeps swimming, and wins the race.
Now, we find ourselves up against a modern custom, a modern prejudice that distances us from the poem. Today we say, or better, we have the idea, that a brave man should not be a braggart. We think that all bragging is like that of the Miles Gloriosus, of the Latin comedy, who is a coward.5 But, generally speaking, this idea did not exist in antiquity. Heroes boasted of their deeds, and were permitted to do so. In fact, doing this gave them courage. I’d like to recite here some couplets of the compadritos[toughs, braggarts] from the beginning of the century in Buenos Aires. I don’t think anybody would think a man was a coward because he said:
Soy del barrio ’e Monserrá
donde relumbra el acero,
lo que digo con el pico,
lo sostengo con el cuero.
[I am from the Monserrat neighborhood, / where blades abound, / what I say with my lips, / I back up with my hide.]
or:
Yo soy del barrio del norte,
soy del barrio del Retiro,
yo soy aquel que no miro
con quién tengo que pelear,
y aquí en el milonguear
ninguno se puso a tiro.
[I’m from the northern neighborhood, / I’m from Retiro, / I never stop to look / at who I have to fight, / and here in the fray / nobody was up to the dare.]
or:
Hágase a un lao, se lo ruego,
que soy de la Tierre ‘el Fuego.
[Step aside, if you please, / for I am from Tierra del Fuego.]
That is, from the neighborhood around the penitentiary.
In any case, Beowulf had a lot in common with our compadritosfrom Monserrat or Retiro. Beowulf wanted to boast about how brave he was. And no one thought he was a coward. To find a more famous example, we can turn to the Iliad, in which the warriors state who they are, and their reputations do not suffer. On the contrary, they are enhanced. It is a necessary prelude to combat, their way to warm up. They could even insult each other, too, and could accuse each other of cowardice.
In Beowulf, after the swimming race and the battle against the sea monsters, everyone goes to bed and falls asleep. This is another poorly wrought episode: they are expecting the ogre’s attack, yet they sleep peacefully. The only one who stays awake is Beowulf, and Beowulf is unarmed, because he knows that no weapon can harm the monster. Moreover, he has confidence in his physical strength, which is extraordinary. The poet tells us that he has in his fist the strength of thirty men.
Then the monster arrives, circles the castle, and although the door is locked with strong iron bars, he breaks it down, surprises the first sleeping warrior he comes upon, and devours him whole, raw. Also, he devours the warrior’s hands and feet, then rashly approaches Beowulf. And then Beowulf, who has not yet risen, grabs the ogre’s hand and breaks it. And the two begin to fight—a fight others do not participate in—which allows the hero to show off even more. And Beowulf, with only the strength of his hands—imagine we have before us a northern Hercules—pulls off the ogre’s arm and shoulder. As they fight, they shout. This is realistic. For example, when infantrymen charge, they shout. There is a poem by Kipling that describes this. So, they are both shouting. The entire palace of Heorot trembles, it is about to collapse, but finally the ogre receives a mortal wound and runs off to die in his swamp. The next day, they celebrate the death of the ogre and hang his arm in the hall as a trophy. There is another banquet, but that night the ogre’s mother, who is a witch and also very strong, comes to recover her dead son’s arm, and she takes it and kills a warrior. Then Beowulf decides to look for the swamp where the ogre lives, and that’s where we get the description of the swamp, one of the classic passages in the poem. Some men want to accompany Beowulf, but he is the hero: it is better for him to perform his feats alone, as Hercules did centuries before. And he sees pieces of flesh, human flesh, possibly the ogre’s, in the swamp. And there is also foam, which seems to be bloody. The hero dives in and swims for a whole day before he reaches the cavern. The cavern is dry; it is illuminated by a supernatural, magical light. And there is the ogre’s mother, horrible, as strong as the ogre himself. Beowulf fights her and is on the verge of being defeated: she is actually stronger than her son. But [Beowulf] manages to grab a sword hanging on the wall. The ogre’s mother is not invulnerable to iron; he kills her with the sword, but the sword melts because the witch’s blood contains some kind of poison. Then, Beowulf takes the ogre’s head and also the hilt of the sword, though not the blade, which has melted. On shore, they are waiting for him anxiously. He rises to the surface with this trophy, and here the poet invents an incidental detail: the giant’s head is so heavy that two men are needed to carry it. Then Beowulf, covered in blood, wounded and triumphant, returns to Hrothgar’s palace, where Hrothgar thanks him for what he has done and showers him with gifts—accepting these gifts is not dishonorable—and Beowulf returns to his own kingdom, in the south of Sweden.
Now, Beowulf was not actually Swedish. The Swedes belonged to a different tribe. The Geats were enemies of the Swedes. . . . Well, in this way, five years passed . . . excuse me, fifty years, “fifty winters,” the poet says. The Saxons counted time by winters because of the harshness of the climate. In the meantime, Beowulf performs many military feats, but the poet mentions them only in passing because he is interested only in Beowulf’s first and last feat. It has been said that one of the aims of the poem was to portray an exemplary prince, according to the concept of the time. That is, one who is strong—supernaturally strong, for he has the strength of thirty men—as well as a slayer of monsters who are a danger to everyone—again this coincides with Hercules—and also just. Because when he dies at the end of the poem, he invokes God and says that he never dealt out death to a single relative in the great banquet hall. And this is considered to be a rather extraordinary fact, and it probably was at the time.
Fifty years pass, fifty years of victories, and, finally, a triumphant peace, and then another character appears, a dragon who has lived for time immemorial in a cave guarding treasures. The idea of the dragon as a guardian of treasures is common in ancient Germanic myth. We remember the case of Sigurd, or Siegfried, and the dragon; and there was also the griffin in Pliny’s Natural History, who guards mountains of gold and fights against the one-eyed Arimaspians.6The idea of the dragon as the guardian of treasures is so common that in Norse poetry one of the most common metaphors for gold—immediately understood by everybody—was “the dragon’s bed.” That is, people imagined the gold, and the dragon lying on top of it, sleeping on it in order to guard it better. The poet tells us about an escaped slave who enters the cave when the dragon is asleep and steals a golden pitcher. Then the slave disappears from the fable. The following day, the dragon awakes, notices that the golden pitcher is gone, and leaves his cave, thinking he must take revenge for the theft. Then we see a human trait: before destroying the Geats’ land, he goes back into the cave and carefully looks through everything, just to make sure the pitcher isn’t there somewhere. But he doesn’t find it, so he terrorizes the kingdom of the Geats, just as the ogre, half a century before, had done in Denmark. Then the news of what is happening reaches old Beowulf, and again he decides to fight a monster. And if we want to use our imaginations a little, we can see this as a story about a man pursued by a fate: to fight a monster and die. The dragon is, in some way—and whether or not it is understood this way by the poet, it really shouldn’t matter to us because an author’s intentions are less important than the success of his execution—the dragon is yet another encounter with his fate. That is, the dragon is again the ogre of Denmark. And the king goes there with his men, who want to help him, but he says no, he’ll manage on his own as he did fifty years before with the ogre and the ogre’s mother. He reaches the mouth of the cave of the dragon, who has been described with many metaphors—he has been called “spotted horror of dusk” and “guardian of gold”—and Beowulf challenges him. The dragon emerges, and they engage in battle. There is a rather bloody description of the battle; Beowulf slays the dragon, but the dragon breathes fire, and Beowulf knows that this fire will poison him. And there is a servant named Wiglaf, the only one who has accompanied him there; and the king says that he is going to offer his soul to the Lord—this paragraph is Christian—and he knows he will be going to heaven because his life has been righteous, and he gives instructions for his funeral. The funeral is not like the one we saw earlier: there will be no funeral ship. He tells them to erect a pyre and pile it high with helmets, shields, and shining armor—“Helmum behongen, hildebordum, beorhtum byrnum, swa he bena wæs.” Helmum behongen means “adorned with helmets”—the Germanic word helm is the same. And hildebordum is “battle board”: that’s what the shield was called, which was round, made of wood, and wrapped in leather. And then beorhtum byrnum means “bright armor,” and swa he bena wæs means “just as he ordered.” Then they lie him out on top of the pyre and set it on fire, and he has instructed them to build a burial mound that can be seen from the sea, so that people will remember it. He is then buried in the burial mound, and twelve warriors on horseback ride circles around the king’s tomb and sing his praises and celebrate his brave deeds.
Now, in a medieval text about the history of the Goths, by Jordanes, Attila’s burial and the same ritual is described: the pyre, the burial mound, and the warriors who ride circles around it singing praises of the king.7 It is clear that the poet was an erudite poet: in his poem he wanted to describe the various funeral rites of the Germanic peoples. (They considered Attila to be one of their own, even though he was a Hun, because many Germanic kings were his vassals.) The poem ends with praise of Beowulf, and this praise is quite odd. Though I don’t agree, some have believed it to be an interpolation, for one might expect there to be mention of the ogre, as well as of the dragon, and of the other Swedes against whom he fought, and his victories, but none of this is mentioned. The penultimate line says that he was manna mildust, the mildest of men, the kindest of men, and one most eager for praise. This also contradicts our current sensibility, because we live in an era of propaganda: a man’s desire to be famous is not seen as an admirable characteristic. But we have to remember that this poem was written in the Middle Ages. In the Middle Ages, it was believed that all praise was just: that men wished to be praised, deserved to be praised. The poem ends with these words: “the mildest of men and the most eager for praise.” Nothing is said about his courage. However, we have seen that courage exemplified throughout the entire poem.
There’s another curious aspect of this poem, and this is the appearance of a minstrel, and this minstrel sings—but doesn’t finish—a Germanic legend predating Beowulf: the story of a princess from Denmark named Hildeburh. Her name means “castle of war” or “castle of the battle.” Now, this fragment as sung by the minstrel might not be the same as the song—the old ballad—because the language is like the rest of Beowulf. That is, it is in rhetorical language with an abundance of metaphors, and undoubtedly Germanic primitive poetry was much simpler. We can see this, for example, in The Lay of Hildebrand; although composed more or less at the same time as Beowulf, it corresponds to a much more primitive era, for there are few alliterations, and I believe there is only one metaphor, and even that is a dubious one: armor is called “battle vestments,” or “war vestments,” which may or may not be a metaphor. It is far from the complexity of “weave of men” for “battle,” as we find among the Norsemen, or “swan-road” for “sea.”
Now, this story is told only in part, and it is the subject of the other ancient Anglo-Saxon epic fragment, Finnsburh Fragment, which contains about sixty lines and must be, I suspect, prior to Beowulfbecause of the directness of the language.8
The fable chosen by the author of Beowulf does not lend itself to pathos. In it we have two feats performed by the same hero. The two are separated by an interval of fifty years, and there is no conflict in the poem. In other words, Beowulf always fulfills his duty as a brave man, and that’s all. He dies bravely. The poem is full of pious pronouncements. Some are obviously pagan, for example, when it says that it is “better to avenge than mourn a dead friend.” This is clearly pagan. It belongs to an era when revenge was not only a right but a duty—a man was obliged to avenge the death of his friend. So there is no conflict. The story of Hildeburh, on the other hand, which is interpolated into Beowulf, contains conflict. This is the story. There is a princess in Denmark named Hildeburh, and there is discord between the Danes and the Frisians, the people from the Low Countries. And so it is decided that a princess, the princess of Denmark, will marry the king of the Frisians, so that through this alliance between the two royal houses, the conflict will be resolved. This practice was so common that one of the metaphors for the princess used in the Saxon poem is “peace-weaver,” not because she was particularly peaceful but because she served to weave peace between neighboring, rival nations. Hildeburh marries the king of the Frisians and then her brother comes to visit her, arriving at court with sixty warriors. They are received hospitably and given lodgings in rooms that surround a central hall with two doors. Identical, let’s say, to Hrothgar’s palace. But at night, the Frisians attack. The Danes defend themselves and fight for several days, during which the princess of Denmark’s brother kills his nephew. Finally, the Frisians realize that they are no match for the Danes. Both Anglo-Saxon poems express true sympathy for the Danes and for the Geats, that is, for the Norsemen. After a few days, when [the Frisians] realize that they can no longer fight, that they are unable to defeat them [the Danes], they propose a truce, which the princess’s brother accepts. He waits for the winter to be over to set sail—because during the winter, the sea was obstructed by ice—then he returns to his country. There he assembles a force larger than the one with sixty warriors that previously accompanied him. He returns, attacks the Frisians, kills the king, and carries his sister, the princess, back with him to his country.
Now, if this poem existed in its entirety—and we have to assume that it once did—we would have the possibility of a tragic conflict, because we would have the story of the princess whose son dies by the hand of his uncle. In other words, the poet would have more opportunity for pathos than in Beowulf, which simply recounts two brave feats, neither credible to us, against an ogre and a dragon. In the next class we are going to examine—and we can examine it in great detail—the Finnsburh Fragment. We’ll leave out the beginning of the fragment, because I’ve already told it. We will start from the moment the Danes realize that the Frisians have forcibly entered their rooms and are going to attack them, and we will continue until the Frisians realize they are no match for the Danes and that they have been defeated by them. We are going to analyze it almost line by line. There are about sixty lines. You will see how direct the language is, so different from the pompous language of Beowulf. Maybe its author was a man of action. In the case of Beowulf, on the other hand, we can imagine the author as a monk, from Northumbria, in the north of England, a reader of Virgil, who set himself the task, quite audacious at that time, to write a Germanic epic poem. And this brings us to a small problem, which is this: why is it that in the Germanic nations—and here I am thinking of Ulfilas, I am thinking of the Saxons, I am thinking later of Wycliff, and of England in the sixteenth century, of Luther—why were there translations of the Bible in the Germanic nations before the Latin nations?9There is a Germanist of Jewish origin, Palgrave, who had an answer, and the answer is this: the Bible that was read in the Middle Ages was the Latin Vulgate Bible, that is, it was a Latin text.10 Now, if anyone would have thought of translating the Bible into Provençal or Italian or Spanish—these languages are too similar to Latin for the translation not to run the risk of seeming like a parody of the original. On the other hand, the Germanic languages are so totally different from Latin that the translation could be undertaken without running that risk. What I mean is, in the Middle Ages, those who spoke Provençal or Spanish or Italian knew that they were speaking a language that was a variant or a corruption of Latin. So it would have seemed irreverent to go from Latin to Provençal. On the other hand, the Germanic languages were totally different. [Translations of the Bible] that were undertaken for people who knew no Latin did not run any risks. Now, maybe we can apply this to Beowulf. Why was Beowulf the first epic poem written in a vernacular language? Because that vernacular language was profoundly different from Latin, so that nobody reading Beowulfcould think that they were reading a parody of the Aeneid. On the other hand, quite a lot of time had to pass for the Romance-language minstrels to have the courage to try epic poetry in their own language.
In the next class, then, we will look at the Finnsburh Fragment, and at a much later Anglo-Saxon epic poem, and with that we’ll bring the first unit to an end.
PROFESSOR BORGES
A COURSE ONENGLISH LITERATURE