Beowulf explains Grendel’s escape, keeps speaking plainly

Posted on 2015/08/13 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Beowulf Covers his Tracks with Grendel’s
Just Three Simple Words
Closing

Beowulf wraps up his story of the struggle with Grendel, excusing himself from killing the creature by saying that god will deal with him.

“‘Nevertheless he relinquished his hand
as a protection of life and as a thing to leave behind,
arm and shoulder; not in any way did that
wretched being find comfort here;
nor will the hateful attacker be afflicted
with a long life of sin, but he knew pain
while tightly squeezed in my inexorable grip,
the deadly fetter; where he goes he shall await
with men bespeckled with crimes the great judgment,
what for them resplendent God will allot.'”
(Beowulf ll.970b-979)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

The conclusion of Beowulf’s version of his fight with Grendel is fitting for one who’s trying to be more than just some slaughterer himself. Beowulf’s story of how Grendel escaped, but was mortally wounded, works so well because it takes Beowulf out of the role of killer and leaves that to god. This is important because it suggests that Beowulf’s strong enough to beat these monsters, but simply defeating them isn’t enough to fully vanquish them. As such it’s better to leave that to god itself, the one who sits in judgment over all those “bespeckled with crimes” (“maga mane fah” (l.978)).

But that’s not to say that deferring responsibility for Grendel’s death to god is a way for Beowulf to get out of blame if Grendel comes back. I think he’s well aware that he needs to cover for having let Grendel escape. But the fact that Grendel left his arm behind as a memento (“as a thing to leave behind” (“last weardian”(l.971))), really works in Beowulf’s favour. After all, what kind of creature could survive having its arm — including the shoulder — torn off?

Though, weirdly, Beowulf also sounds like one who’s aware that Grendel should have a more long lasting punishment when he says

“nor will the hateful attacker be afflicted
with a long life of sin, but he knew pain
while tightly squeezed in my inexorable grip”

“no þy leng leofað laðgeteona,
synnum geswenced, ac hyne sar hafað
mid nydgripe nearwe befongen”
(ll.974-976)

Here Beowulf’s basically saying “look, he won’t suffer for very long, but while I held him in my grip he knew the meaning of the word pain, so don’t worry about it.” I’m sure that as Beowulf said this audiences would imagine him gesturing up to the arm and maybe saying something like “after all, no one’s going to survive after that – have any of you ever had your arm torn off?”

So, as before we really see Beowulf flex his rhetorical muscle here, as he addresses the major concerns that the Danes might have with his performance since there’s no body to show for his victory (unlike that time when he fought sea monsters by night and woke up surrounded by corpses, perhaps something closer to what some Danes wanted). Grendel suffered, and though he ran off, he’s definitely doomed to die. Very soon, as Beowulf’s speech ends, Grendel will face the ultimate death at the judgment of god, where the wretch will have just punishment doled out to him. As if death wasn’t just enough, right?

It is, however, strange that Beowulf should refer to Grendel’s leaving his hand behind as a “protection of life” (ll.971). The entire first two lines are tricky to translate into Modern English, but the sense seems to be that Grendel left his arm behind in the same way that a lizard might leave its tail behind when a predator grabs onto it. Though there was definitely more pain and trauma in Grendel’s losing his arm than a lizard’s losing its tail. I get the feeling from these lines that Beowulf refers to the arm as a “protection of life” to imply that Grendel was a coward ultimately and just couldn’t stand up to the Geat’s own incredible power.

Why do you think Beowulf makes such a big deal of Grendel’s continuing to suffer after he escaped from Heorot?

Beowulf’s diction doesn’t drastically change from the first half of his speech to the second. So we still get a bunch of compounds, though they’re still pretty grounded. All three of those I’m writing about here are exclusive to Beowulf, too.

On line 971, we meet the first of the bunch: “lifwraðu.” This word means “protection of life” and combines “lif” (“life,” “existence,” “life time”) and “wraðu” (“prop,” “help,” “support,” “maintenance”) to get there. It seems that “protection of life” might not be 100% what you’d expect these two words combined to mean, but I think that’s what’s meant to come out of the word’s context.

After all, the implication is that Grendel left his arm behind so that he could escape. His fate is sealed, and he will die (even after he escapes to the fens), but the idea that Beowulf’s trying to get across here is that rather than face the judgment of death, Grendel fled his sure quick death at Beowulf’s hands to go and suffer through a few more hours of life out in the wilds. So not only is Grendel a terrible monster, he doesn’t even die honourably. Or rather, he doesn’t even have the decency to die with grace.

The word laðgeteona (from line 974), meaning “hateful attacker,” “hateful giant,” or “enemy” is next up.

This combination of “lað” (“hated,” “hateful,” “hostile,” “malignant,” “evil,” “loathsome,” “noxious,” “unpleasant,” “pain,” “harm,” “injury,” “misfortune,” “insult,” “annoyance,” or “harmful thing”) and “geteona” (“giant,” “monster,” or “enemy”) speaks for itself. Another compound that is more about intensifying a single meaning rather than combining meanings to create a hybrid, “laðgeteona” is definitely an Old English word that loses little to nothing being translated into Modern English. Sure, the reference to giants (“geteona”) might not work today, but “hated enemy” is still a clear concept, even across the variations that combining these two words might afford you.

As far as weird words go, this last one’s not quite there, either.

Line 976’s “nid-gripe” means “coercive grip.” Simple enough. So, too, are its constituent parts.

This third compound combines “nyd” (from “nied,” meaning “need,” “necessity,” “compulsion,” “duty,” “errand,” “business,” “emergency,” “hardship,” “distress,” “difficulty,” “trouble,” “pain,” “force,” “violence,” “what is necessary,” “inevitableness,” “fetter,” or the “name for the rune ‘n'”) and “grip” (“grip,” “grasp,” “seizure,” or “attack”).

One neat thing that jumps out at me about “nid-gripe” is that one of the senses of “nyd” is “fetter” and Beowulf refers to his grip as “the deadly fetter” (“balwon bendum” (ll.977)). Just a little thing to notice. But, otherwise, the only thing I can really say about this compound is that it carries the weight of being inevitable not just because that’s one of the senses of “nyd,” but because many of the senses of the word carry urgency. So Beowulf sees his grip’s power as inevitable, perhaps as the power of inevitability that ultimately brings all mortals what they deserve.

Anyway, it’s not a bad crop of words. There’s just nothing stand out about any of them to me.

Weigh in in the comments: Do this passage’s words stand out from your usual Old English? Or do you think they’re just the standard for one of Beowulf’s speeches?

In the next part of the poem, the poet dwells on the silence that falls after Beowulf’s speech and the arm he refers to.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

Beowulf as storyteller, words sharp and simple (ll.957-970a)

Posted on 2015/08/06 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Beowulf Embellishes Grendel
Rich and Simple Compounds
Closing

Beowulf speaks of his fight with Grendel and the monster’s god-defying strength.

“Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow:
‘We that brave deed did with much good will,
carried out the fight, daringly risked ourselves
against strength unknown. Wish I very much
that thee thyself might have seen it,
the enemy entangled and exhausted to the point of death!
I swiftly grasped him tight and thought
to bind him then and there to his death bed,
so that for my handgrip he should
lie struggling for life, but his body slithered out.
For I might not, though god willed it not,
prevent him from going, nor could I then firmly enough grasp him,
that deadly foe.'”
(Beowulf ll.957-970a)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

The first thing that struck me about this passage is Beowulf’s first word. He says that “we” defeated Grendel (l.958).

He doesn’t put the brunt of the glory on himself, but on his team of Geats. His team that was, as far as the poet told us, not even really around for the start of the fight and not really all that effective by the time that they came in to help. Yet Beowulf spreads the credit around. Almost as if, being a warrior but not yet a leader with a castle and treasure of his own, all he has to share out among his band is that glory.

It’s a curious idea, if you think about it. I mean, it’s what would happen with Anglo-Saxon social groups with treasure, so why not with glory, too? After all, the actions of the leader reflect upon that leader’s followers. So Beowulf’s defeating Grendel suggests that his fellow Geats are also quite powerful and formidable.

Though not so powerful as Grendel is made out to be.

Because as a boaster and storyteller Beowulf knows his way around suspense, we’re told by our hero that he had Grendel in a grasp designed to kill the fiend. Yet, the monster’s “body slithered out,” suggesting that he lithely escaped Beowulf (l.967). Though there’s the implication that Grendel’s morale took a serious hit. What I’ve translated as “body” is “lic”, after all, a word that is hard to disassociate from the notion of a physical form (since it generally means “body” or “corpse” and is the root of the Modern English word “lich,” referring to a sort of zombie). So Grendel’s body slithered out, but his spirit might not have escaped quite so easily.

What’s more, Beowulf doesn’t let this example of Grendel turning the tables on him work as an example of his own mortal weakness. No. Beowulf quickly moves on to the point that he didn’t want Grendel to escape and that he did so even “though god willed it not” (“þe Metod nolde” (l.967)). So, first off Grendel was a bit more of a slippery guy than Beowulf imagined. And he was strong enough to openly and effectively defy god itself. In this single line, Grendel is made into the ultimate outlaw. Even if you don’t buy the idea that Beowulf is the instrument of God’s justice in the world of the poem, at the very least Grendel’s escape from our hero is said to go against god’s own will. According to Beowulf, anyway.

He is, after all, the one retelling this story.

And that in itself is neat.

Here (and elsewhere in the poem) Beowulf is framed as a hero not just because he’s got the strength and the poise for the job, but because he’s also an experienced speaker and storyteller. So he can do the deed, sure, but he can then head back to the hall and spread the word about that deed himself. It’s like he’s a self-publishing author writing a novel and then going out and shouting about it himself rather than relying on someone else to cover marketing. Here, though, his duality of fighter and storyteller is mildly threatening to the poet writing this epic and to every poet before or since – poets after all were said to be the ones with the ultimate power, no matter what the strength of a hero, since it was the poets who made and kept the detailed records of their deeds.

Do you think that Beowulf is a reliable story teller? He’s a known boaster, sure, but does that mean that his retellings of events will always be embellished?

This passage is rich in compound words. So, let’s get right to them.

Up first is line 962’s “fyl-werigne.” This is a straightforward compound, especially if you can wrap your mind around the words “fyl” and “werigne” and sort of sense by linguistic intuition, that the compound brings together a word generally meaning “very” and another meaning “weary.” More specifically, “fyl” (a form of “fyllu” meaning “fulness (of food),” “fill,” “feast,” “satiety,” or “impregnation”) and “werig” (“weary,” “tired,” “exhausted,” “miserable,” “sad,” or “unfortunate”). The one thing to note here is that the Old English word for weary doesn’t just encompass physical weariness, as Modern English’s “weary” seems to (you can be “weary in spirit” or “weary of heart” but need to specify as much in most instances), it also includes more emotional or spiritual weariness as well. So when someone or something is “fyl-werigne” you know that they’re simply done.

Next up is another straightforward word (it seems that Beowulf is laying rhetoric on thick, but keeping it simple, too – maybe as a courtesy to a Hrothgar who’s just woken up?): “wael-bedd.” This word just means “slaughter bed.” That’s it. Even the combinations across the different senses of “wael” (“slaughter,” or “carnage”) and “bedd” (“bed,” “couch,” “resting place,” “garden bed,” or “plot”) come out to this (though there could be a bit of a horticultural slant to some combos). So, onto number three.

The word “lif-bysig” isn’t entirely what it seems. At first glance you might think that it refers to having a busy life or some such, but there’s a bit of a spin that seems to have been lost over millennia. Indeed, this word does bring “lif” (“life,” “existence,” or “lifetime”) and “bysig” (“busy,” “occupied,” or “diligent”) together, but the result is a word meaning “struggling for life.” This word is exclusive to Beowulf, and definitely sounds like something a performer could’ve come up with on the fly or to fill out a line. Either way, it’s neat how this word demonstrates the compound’s power to be more than the sum of its parts.

Actually, the next word in my list does something similar. And this one’s exclusive to Beowulf; it’s the word “feorh-geniðlan.” This word means “mortal foe.” And it comes to that meaning through a combination of “feorh” (“life,” “principle of life,” “soul,” or “spirit”) and “nið” (“strife,” “enmity,” “attack,” “war,” “evil,” “hatred,” “spite;” “oppression,” “affliction,” “trouble,” “grief”). So, much like “lif-bysig,” “feorh-geniðlan” takes its parts and twists them together to create its compound meaning rather than just sticking two concepts together. By combining the concept of life and struggle this compound refers to something or someone that is striving against the principle of life or oppressing it in a major way. Hence “mortal foe.”

Do you think that Beowulf’s going easy on the compound words because Hrothgar’s just waking up, or is there another reason for his relatively simple diction?

In the next passage Beowulf finishes his account of the fight with Grendel, and declares his opponent painfully dead.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

Missionary Beowulf, propaganda, words plain and poetic (ll.928-942a)

Posted on 2015/07/17 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Beowulf as Beefy Missionary or Hrothgar’s Propaganda
Poetic Compounds found in Poetry
Closing

Hrothgar makes a speech thanking god – and so far only god – for ridding the Danes of Grendel.

“For this sight to the almighty thanks
be given immediately! Great grief I endured,
the affliction of Grendel; always may god work
wonder after wonder, the shepherd of glory!
It was not long ago, that I expected never
to meet anyone who could soothe
my miseries, when blood-bedecked
stood the best of halls gory from battle,
wide-reaching woe knew everyone so that
none would venture near, so that for a long time
the people in their stronghold had to hold out against
hated demons and evil. Now shall we have through
the might of god this deed done,
a thing requiring skill that that none before
may have even conceived of.”
(Beowulf ll.928-942a)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

In this passage, or rather, in this the first half of Hrothgar’s speech, Beowulf is suspiciously absent. Instead, this god character gets top billing.

So what’s the deal with this?

I mean, Beowulf makes mention of god and god’s favour and help in his boasts and stories of past deeds, but Hrothgar really doesn’t say much of anything about god up until now. The way I see it, this could mean that Beowulf is an Anglo-Saxon twist on a missionary – think Rambo crossed with an evangelist – or that Hrothgar has converted (or just always been quietly Christian) and is now using Beowulf’s victory as a bit of propaganda to stir his people to conversion.

In the first instance, Beowulf makes for an archetypically macho missionary. And, the first half of the poem definitely supports this interpretation.

With the Danes you’ve got a people at their wits end. Their own gods have done nothing to help them and none who have come to deal with Grendel have succeeded for the last twelve years. Then this Beowulf fellow shows up and suddenly that Grendel problem’s dealt with. Of course, if in this analogy Grendel represents something like wrong belief or vile practices or the perceived wickedness that comes from being a non-Christian, then things are definitely sped up for dramatic effect. Though the speed at which missionary Beowulf turns his audience toward his message can be found in other stories, like that of Saint Boniface, who chopped down a sacred oak tree in one swing and replaced it with an evergreen, unwittingly setting up what would become the Christmas tree and, according to the story, converting crowds. Of course, Christianity has always brought its own host of problems to the various places it’s been taken, either because of the people bearing it or the way in which it melded or failed to meld with the target peoples’ beliefs. Still. With Beowulf as a super hero missionary who spreads the Word through his thirty-men strong grip, things getting done quickly is unsurprising.

What’s more when it comes to this missionary reading, though, is that if we jump ahead to the instance with Grendel’s mother, we can then read that as Beowulf facing off with powerful and seductive temptation. In which case Grendel’s mother represents the possible feelings that Beowulf has for Wealhtheow and/or vice versa, feelings that could lead to a terrible scandal. But, when he defeats Grendel’s mother, Beowulf proves himself to be so good at what he does that he’s able to overcome that potential scandal, too.

The alternative reading, that Hrothgar is just using Beowulf’s victory as a way to do some preaching himself, digs up a thing or two, as well. Namely that Hrothgar may have been so dejected when we first meet him because he’d converted but his people hadn’t followed since it alone hadn’t rid them of Grendel. But with the defeat of Grendel at the hands of Beowulf – a warrior who entrusts himself to fate and to god – Hrothgar sees an opportunity to put Christianity into a positive light and proceeds to do so by saying that without god none of this would be possible. It wouldn’t even be conceivable (ll.941-942a).

In the light of these two possible readings of this passage I think it’s important to note that I feel I can get away with these sorts of analyses because Beowulf would’ve been written down by someone who had at least experienced the Church’s educational system. In other words, whatever this story was when it was simply being told, it took on a few Christian elements in its being written down. And maybe the possibility of reading Beowulf as a missionary or Hrothgar as a Christian propaganda opportunist are just products of it having been written that way. Maybe.

What do you think is happening with religion here? Is Beowulf a macho missionary? Is Hrothgar a propagandist? Or are both true?

I’m not sure if prolonged exposure to Beowulf has made me a little jaded when it comes to Anglo-Saxon compound words or what. But this passage’s crop of them just isn’t doesn’t stack up to previous passages’. Gone are the combinations of words with almost opposite meanings, or senses that you’d normally not put together. Instead we have stuff that’s much more straightforward, but that still carries the quirk of age.

Take for instance “un-geara.” This isn’t a compound word in the truest sense, since it’s just the word for “yore,” “formerly, “in former times,” “once,” or “long since” with the prefix “un” stuck to it. But still, it’s pretty interesting to look at. I mean, this one means “not long ago” but literally translates as “not formerly.” You can clearly see the connection there, in that if something isn’t formerly, then it’s simply “not long ago.”

The word “heoro-dreorig” gets more straightforward as it’s just a combination of “heoro” (“sword”) and “dreorig” (“bloody,” “blood-stained,” “cruel,” “grievous,” “sad,” “sorrowful,” or “headlong?[sic]”). So it means “gory from battle,” though a more literal translation would be “sword gory.” I think it gets across its sense of the messy leavings of battle quite nicely. After all, even the sharpest knife, the most battle ready, is going to catch some of the gore, some of the blood on itself, and so too would anything that was the setting for battle, such as Heorot.

The word “wide-scofen” gets a little more poetic, thankfully. A combination of “wide” (“wide,” “vast,” “broad,” or “long”) and “scufan” (“shove,” “thrust,” “push,” “push with violence,” “urge,” “impel,” “push out,” “expel,” “deliver up,” or “display”) this word means “scattered far and wide.” A simple translation of the two words gives the sense of things being shoved or pushed wide apart, though. And I think the nuance here is important because unlike the modern English “scattered far and wide” to say that something’s been shoved far apart suggests a more forceful and immediate agency to me. It’s not that some invisible force from on high has scattered these things involved, but something more immediate, something that exercised force directly on them or on their surroundings has forced these things apart. Shoving things wide apart is just so much more evocative than the seemingly random sense of being “scattered far and wide”. So it goes without saying that this is my favourite compound of the passage.

Though “land-geweorc” is a close second. Combining “land” (“earth,” “land,” “soil,” “territory,” “realm,” “province,” “district,” “landed property,” “country as opposed to town,” or “ridge in a ploughed field”) and “weorc” (“work,” “workmanship,” “labour,” “construction,” “structure,” “edifice,” “military work,” or “fortification”), this word comes out as “fortified place,” though literally translated it means something like “earth structure.” So it’s not just some sort of structure built on the land, but there’s a very real sense here that this structure or fortification is built very much with the land in mind. Whether that means that it’s built into its area’s natural features or if it means that it’s simply taking advantage of those features, this combination really makes me think of something built cleverly rather than with a lot of sweat and labour. Actually, as with “wide-scofen” there’s a certain connotation of immediacy to this word which I find really interesting. Why? Because it carries with it a sense almost of being closer to the natural world and being able to take advantage of knowledge of its rhythms and patterns.

Why do you think old words like “wide-scofen” (which looks like “wide-shoved” if you think about it) changed to different phrases with similar meanings? Does this just reflect a change in taste, or is there something more at work in these changes?

In the next entry, Hrothgar’s speech continues and he mentions the man of the hour.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

A single half line of warning, a single word about patrimony (ll.907-915)

Posted on 2015/07/03 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Sin at the end of a Story
A Single Word on Inheritance
Closing

King Harold out for a hunt on the Bayeux Tapestry, no doubt a song was sung soon after. Image found at http://regia.org/research/misc/pastimes.htm.

The horseback poet wraps up his singing of Sigemund, Heremod, and Beowulf.

“That campaign was often a source of anxiety for
many wise men before the time of the king’s brash way of life,
it made those miserable who relied on him for relief,
those that wished the king’s son would prosper,
receive his patrimony, protect the people,
their stores and their strongholds, a man of might,
the ancestral home of the Scyldings. Just the same there,
the kin of Hygelac, to all man kind,
became a decorated friend; yet sin still slinked in.
(Beowulf ll.907-915)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

Maybe it’s because covering at least eight lines of Beowulf every week breaks some things up, but I’m not sure of what to make of this passage. It’s the end of the section of the poem that’s the horseback poet’s song about Sigemund, Heremod, and Beowulf. So, the question is, I suppose, what can we say about this ending?

Looking at the very last line of the passage, we see that it ends with a note of warning: “yet sin still slinked in” (“hine fyren onwōd” (l.915)). This half line suggests that though Beowulf is celebrated in this instance something still comes up to throw off the joy of Danes and Geats. Having read the poem a few times before, this half line could refer to a few things. First among them is the idea that Grendel’s mother, when she comes seeking revenge for her son, is the sin that still slinks in. Or it could be a reference to some sort of slip up on Beowulf’s part that lands him in the poor state he’s in when he faces the dragon at the poem’s end. More broadly, this half line warning could just be a comment that there is no perfect joy, and that there will always be some little niggling thing or other that brings down the most secure seeming happiness.

Of course, “yet sin still slinked in” is my own interpretation of this apparently crucial half line.

Seamus Heaney translates it simply as “But evil entered into Heremod” (l.915). Why Heaney pulled Heremod out for this line is unclear. It could be that he’s just following the poet’s example of making reference to not the most recent antecedent but to one related to the content of its clause instead. This sort of context-sensitive referring seems to be a big part of how the poets of Old English wove the language together since there have already been a few points in the poem where pronouns or implied subjects and antecedents are a few lines apart. And I can understand why Heaney would want to make this line about Heremod. The poem really does not give much context for the last half line of this passage, and leaving it vague as I did is ambiguous.

Though ambiguity does have its place in Beowulf and the bits of gnomic wisdom that crop up in the poem from time to time. The best example of these bits of wisdom being “fate goes ever as she shall!” (“Gæð a wyrd swa hio scel!” (l.455)). So a line like “yet sin still slinked in” shouldn’t necessarily be made specific just because it’s vague where scant lines earlier the poet was singing specifics. Since this is the end of the horseback poet’s song, I think a general statement, especially one that’s a warning makes sense.

Using such a statement is a great way to end off a story about someone still living, because that person’s story is still being written. Though if that’s what the poet’s going for, there are some heavy implications that to live is to sin, suggesting that already the Anglo-Saxons had adopted ideas of Catholic guilt. Or at least this poet and his audience had.

But I also think the general ending of this story makes sense because leading up to it is a bramble of clauses and words that gives the sense of the poet not so much reciting form something he knows as bringing out something based on inspiration. So capping off his ramble, from the fanned fire in his head, is a bit of prescience. Though it’s a prediction based on experience. Heremod was once grand, and yet he fell. Likewise, even though it’s not mentioned here, Sigmund ultimately falls in battle at the hands of attackers after Odin shatters his sword (inescapable divine disfavour, if ever I’ve seen it). Likewise, Beowulf, the real life mythical hero, falls in the end. Not only is this fall foreshadowed in the idea of sin still slinking in, but capping his story off with this bit of wisdom suggests that the poet is grounding his tale in reality both because of Beowulf’s being included and in its bittersweetness.

Why do you think poets in Old English bothered to make their language more complicated when describing things like battle or complex emotion?

This passage is sparser than any before it when it comes to compound words of interest. Even words of interest are in short supply here. But I make no promises about this section being short. I can be a bit like Rumpelstiltskin at times, spinning nearly nothing into quite a bit (though I won’t go so far as to say that I spin that nearly nothing into gold).

Anyway. The single stand out word in this passage is “faeder-aeþelum.” This word means “patrimony,” or “paternal kinship.” This meaning shouldn’t be too surprising since this compound is made up of the words “faeder” (“father,” “male ancestor,” “the Father,” or “God”) and “aeþeling” (“man of royal blood,” “nobleman,” “chief,” “prince,” “king,” “Christ,” “God;” “man,” “hero,” or “saint”). So the compound meaning is pretty much right there in the words involved.

But what makes this word stand out? Well, looking at the word itself, it’s interesting how self contained it is. We’ve seen our share of obvious compounds here at A Blogger’s Beowulf, but this one is neatly wrapped up in itself. This ouroboros like effect comes from both of the words being very similar in meaning. Sure, “faeder” is pretty limited to a sense of masculine power, but so too is “aeþeling.” Really, the biggest difference is that, to me at least, the latter carries a sense of youthfulness. Fathers, especially authoritative fathers, aren’t usually that young. So it’s like this word combines one part the power of youth and two parts the power of masculinity to come out with a word for male inheritance either of property and responsibility or of name and reputation or both. So, the effect of compounding “faeder” and “aeþeling” is more like an intensifying one than any sort of subtle modification.

There’s also the sense that this inheritance is something passed on only through the male parent or guardian. That it’s something that only the male parent can give to a child. That’s also something that strikes me as interesting. though not nearly as much as the sense of “faeder” as “god,” which at least hints at some notion of there being some sort of divine element to patrimony. And, maybe also to kingship itself, since that’s what’s at stake here. Though just in general, I can see it being a more divinely regarded thing, since Biblical stories about inheritance tend to be through the male line. Like the story of Jacob stealing Esau’s place as the inheritor of Isaac’s honour and divine favour, or of the parable of the prodigal son.

On the level of the word itself, there’s not much to say. It’s the first word in line 911, so there’s that, I guess. But otherwise, it looks like its primary function on the line is to alliterate with “onfōn” and “folc.” And, I’m not entirely sure of its significance, but there is the matter of the alliteration falling on the first, seventh, and eighth syllables of the line. Or its being in the first and last syllables of the first half line and the first syllable of the second half line. Whichever you prefer.

Point is, there’s some extra meaning packed into this word, and I think I’ve taken some of that out for inspection.

How much meaning do you think poets pack into single words? If we can look at a single word like I just did and pull out so much meaning, is it because the poet meant it that way, or is it just what the culture or context of the interpreter gets out of it?

In the next passage of Beowulf, the Danes continue their joy riding and Hrothgar steps out with a speech.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

The subversive power of the poet’s song, people and sadnesses (ll.898-906)

Posted on 2015/06/26 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
All Hail the King of the Danes
Peoples and Sorrows
Closing

King Harold out for a hunt on the Bayeux Tapestry, no doubt a song was sung soon after. Image found at http://regia.org/research/misc/pastimes.htm.

The poet’s song turns from Sigemund and his glorious victory to look instead at a man defeated: Heremod.

“His fame was pushed most widely
among the nations, protector of warriors,
for deeds of courage — he prospered from then after —
after Heremod retired from war,
his strength and courage; he against the Jutes
had his power stolen in ambush and his force
was quickly slain. His sorrow oppressed him
far too long; to his people he waned,
to all his nobles his life grew too full of care.”
(Beowulf ll.898-906)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

Although there’s no poet interjecting here to keep things from getting messy, this passage is dangerous.

Earlier, before this poet on horseback started to sing of Sigemunde, there was some noise made about everyone praising Beowulf, but being happy with Hrothgar as their king. In fact, the poet goes so far as to give Hrothgar one of the highest epithets: “that was a good king!” (“þæt wæs god cyning” (l.863)).

In light of this passage, though, there could be some sarcasm in that earlier statement.

Here we’re told how Sigemund’s fame grew after he beat the dragon and stole away its treasure, bringing it to his own people. In fact, it even sounds like Sigemund had some sort of happy homecoming because of his courageous deed. In fact, it sounds like he might have been in that far country where the poet alleged his story of the hero came from because of some sort of exile. And, what’s more, possibly exile at the hands of king Heremod. After the first three lines, the poet shifts over to this figure of lore.

Heremod is king of the Danes, and when we meet him here he is the very picture of melancholy. Having suffered a great loss when fighting the Jutes (maybe the giants? the word used is “eotena” which could mean either), Heremod falls into a depression and loses his warlike demeanour. He must’ve been some battler since his entire court is thrown into disarray when he no longer steps out to campaign or bring in treasure from raids.

As a reader of Anglo-Saxon culture as much as Anglo-Saxon poetry, this passage — the poet’s song on horseback in general — is supposed to show the two examples of great man that stand before Beowulf — the man triumphant in Sigemund and the leader who is shackled by shame and fear in Heremod. Later on, Hrothgar talks more explicitly about Heremod as a bad king (the kind Beowulf should not be), but right now this whole thing being an example for Beowulf is just implied.

But it’s really hard to not see it as a subversion of the poet’s saying “the people thought Beowulf was great! But, oh yeah, they still like Hrothgar, too.” I mean, you’ve got the young hero Sigemund who’s just reversed his fortunes by defeating the dragon and winning the treasure and that’s pretty much Beowulf. Sure, our hero hasn’t fought a dragon yet, but he’s beaten Grendel and won great fame that’s quickly spread thanks to the treasure that Grendel left: his arm and claw. Then you’ve got Heremod, the man who sits in his court and bemoans his defeat. Isn’t that too much like the Hrothgar of the last 12 years for any sort of analogy or parallel to be made?

So I think this passage is the poet insinuating that Beowulf could become the new ruler of the Danes. But we can’t know for sure until we get the rest of the story in the next part of the poem.

How subversive do you think the poem Beowulf is? Is it just some light entertainment? Or is it about the young overtaking the old? Or is Beowulf a Christianized Germanic hero bringing new vibrancy to an old tradition?

Maybe it’s because sorrow and pitched battle are involved in this passage, but compound words are coming back! Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if their reappearance was due more to the depression and sorrow of Heremod. If Anglo-Saxon poets wove their words into tangles to accurately represent war, then surely they could do the same to represent the complexities of the deep sadness the old king’s experiencing.

Anyway. Onto the words.

First in the passage, on line 899, is “wer-þeod,” a combination of “wer” (meaning “male being,” “man,” “husband,” “legal money-equivalent of a person’s life,” “a man’s legal value,” “dam,” “fish-trap,” “catch,” “draught,” “troop,” or “band”) and þeod (meaning “people,” “nation,” “tribe,” “region,” “country,” “province,” “men,” “war-troop,” “retainers,” “Gentiles,” “language,” or “fellowship”). This compound is taken to mean “folk,” “people,” or “nation,” and I can see why. It could literally be translated as “people of men.”

But, of course, there are some very interesting nuances to both of these words.

With “wer” we get a look into the Anglo-Saxon idea of the value of life in that the word can mean the “legal money-equivalent of a person’s life,” or “a man’s legal value.” Of course, it has to be noted that a monetary value was attached to human life in Anglo-Saxon society because of law makers’ attempts to control rampant feuding. So, if you happened to kill someone from that group over there, they wouldn’t have to come and kill you, you could just pay that group the value of the life you took and the feud would be called off (legally, anyway). This bunch of laws is an unfortunate imposition since it might’ve been used to turned a few lives into bits of silver, but still. This concept helped to keep people from endlessly feuding so they could do other things. Plus, I bet these laws had some repercussions on ideas of manliness that have resonated down through the centuries, too.

The other half of this compound similarly has some neat meanings. Like “Gentiles” or “language.” In combination with the former, the compound could mean the collection of those who weren’t Jewish, those who weren’t chosen by God. In light of the Anglo-Saxons trying to identify with the Jews of Exodus, a people in search of a homeland, referring to the Danes as Gentiles even through vague implication is interesting. And as a story about pre-Christian times, this meaning seems unlikely to be a coincidence. At the least, I can see the poet smiling after the fact and considering himself very clever indeed for using “wer-þeod where he has.

But combining “wer” with the “language” sense of “þeod” is where things really pick up. The sense of such a combination is that all of those who speak the same language are one group. That’s a really cool idea!

But I digress, since there’re other compounds to get to.

Like the less mysterious “sorh-wylmas.” This combination of “sorg” (“sorrow,” “pain,” “grief,” “trouble,” “care,” “distress,” or “anxiety”) and “wielm” (“boiling,” “swelling,” “surge,” “billow,” “current,” “stream,” “burning,” “flame,” “inflammation,” “fervour,” “ardour,” or “zeal”) means “wave of sorrow.” And its constituent parts don’t really make that meaning a secret. Though I suppose there’s a bit more colour to the idea of a wave of sorrow if you add in the sense of that wave being arduous or zealous. It’s not just a lazy lolling mass of sadness washing over you, but the sort of wave a ship in the middle of the sea might encounter while in a storm’s clutches.

Then, rounding out the bunch but being strangest of the three is “aldor-cearu” of line 906. Meaning “great sorrow,” this one combines “ealdor” (“elder,” “parent,” “ancestors,” “civil or religious authority,” “chief,” “leader,” “master,” “lord,” “prince,” “king,” “source,” “primitive,” “life,” “vital part,” “age,” “old age,” or “eternity”) with “cearu” (a form of “carig” carrying meanings like “sorrowful,” “anxious,” or “grievous”).

“Cearu” is pretty straightforward. But “ealdor” much less so. This one could combine with the former to mean a few shades of “great sorrow.” It could be old sorrow, implying that it’s the sort of sorrow that’s sat and festered for years; it could mean that it is a princely sorrow, a sorrow that comes with the responsibility of ruling over a people; or it could be seen as the sorrow that simply comes with age, the regret and feelings of inadequacy a person experiences as they inevitably compare their present selves to their younger, remembered as happier and stronger, selves. It’s definitely a worthy companion to the much simpler “sorh-wylmas,” though, since both carry a heavy weight with them.

If you agree that the language of the poem is intentionally more complex around descriptions of battles and of sorrow, what do you make of it? Is treating sorrow as the same sort of complex ordered mess as a battle accurate, or just a weak comparison? What do you think of all of this if you don’t agree that the language’s complexity is intentional?

In the next post, the story of Heremod wraps up.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

A mysterious start to a tale of Sig(e)mund (ll.874b-884a)

Posted on 2015/06/12 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
A Promise of Mysterious Tales
Mostly Simple Compounds
Closing

King Harold out for a hunt on the Bayeux Tapestry. Image found at http://regia.org/research/misc/pastimes.htm.

The singer begins to tell of Sigemund and deeds hitherto little heard about.

“Of everything he spoke,
what he of Sigemund had heard said,
deeds of courage, many not widely known,
the wrangling of Wælsing’s son, his wide wanderings,
where that warrior’s child was not often recognized
nor the feud and wicked deed, but to Fitela, the one with him,
when he would tell him of such things,
from uncle to nephew, as they were always
companions bound by need come every strife;
they had a great many of the giants race
slain with their swords.”
(Beowulf ll.874b-884a)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

In this passage the poem takes a break from Beowulf’s story to talk about a different hero: Sigemund (a.k.a. Sigmund). We’re not told much about this figure of mythic proportions yet, except that he travels with his nephew and has a darkened past. But is he trying to escape this past and the feuds and deeds it contains or is he just working with that as a feature of his story? The poet’s not at all clear about any of it. Actually, the poet seems to go pretty far to weave a curtain of mystery around Sigemund. And, to a lesser extent, Fitela. Or at least Fitela’s in there because the curtain’s just so damn big.

So this curtain of mystery (it’s too heavy to be a veil, I think), is made up of a few things. First the poet says that “many [of these deeds are] not widely known,” (“ellen-dædum, uncuþes fela” (l.876)). That’s straight forward enough. Maybe these stories aren’t widely known because they’re the ones that were told in the far country where Sigemund wasn’t very well known himself. No doubt he went on to make a name for himself in this country, but maybe that name was a pseudonym (maybe “Sigemund” is that pseudonym – not the cleverest, but hey, the extra syllable causes some confusion to this day). Or, maybe the locals that passed these stories on had a different angle on Sigemund’s deeds than most other tales about them. Whatever the case, this layer of the mystery curtain isn’t too far from being translucent.

But the next one is completely opaque.

When the poet moves onto the feuds and deeds that Sigemund apparently had some part in, he says that these things were as little known in the places he travelled to as he himself was. So, if these stories are coming from these countries, any information about these feuds and deeds will likely be scanty. What’s more though,is that we’re told that Sigemund only shared details about any of these things with Fitela.

Fitela is said to be Sigemund’s nephew (this checks out, the similarly named Sigmund travelled with his nephew/son (Norse mythology has some very racy bits), too). Fitela’s also said to be Sigemund’s companion in battle, maybe one who was so reliable that they always faced hardship together, or maybe one that just seemed to find Sigemund whenever he fell into difficulty. It’s hard to say. Whatever the reason for their partnering up, the fact that Sigemund only told these things to Fitela suggests that the only way the poet knows them well enough to sing about them is through Fitela. At some point, the nephew must’ve spilled it about his uncle. That is, if the poet is telling true stories or stories coming from a very close witness to these “deeds of courage” (“ellen-dædum” (l.876)).

Because this part of the poem is scant on details, maybe this poet knows these little known stories of Sigemund because he heard them not from Fitela but from this far country’s people. If that’s the case, then how far has this poet himself gone?

The question of how much the poet singing about Sigemund learned about his subject first hand is a tricky one. What do you think matters most in story telling – accurately relating facts, or action, intrigue, and suspense?

These story telling sections of the poem are always so vivid and direct that compound words take on a completely different function in them. Instead of seeing those that I’d call “high action” compounds, we’re given those that are plainer. Like “ellen-dædum.”

The parts of this compound, “ellen” and “dædum,” literally mean “zeal,” “strength,” “courage,” “strife,” or “contention” and “deed,” or “action,” respectively. The combined meaning of “deeds of courage” isn’t far from clear. Though mixing the “contention” or “strife” sense of “ellen” with “deed” gets so clear that it upends the glorious/courageous implications of “ellen-dædum” by suggesting a pretty plain Jane sort of performance in war. Applying such a word to someone would mean that person just did a “strife deed,” which sounds like something that you just do by default in combat.

The word “eal-fela” graces line 883, just about rounding out this section. And it might be the plainest compound of them all. Though it does demonstrate the intensifying formula of Old English (combine two like words, (including negatives)), since “eal” means “all,” “many,” or “much” and “fela” means “very,” or “much.” So “eal-fela” literally means “all much,” with the sense of something that’s all-encompassing. Or, as is the case in the poem, the sense of “mostly all” of the giants.

No, this passage doesn’t really offer complexity in its compounds. It’s more about the simple word combinations.

Except for “nyd-gestealla.”

Now, maybe I’m piecing this one together wrong, but “nyd” could be a form of “neod” (meaning “desire,” “longing,” “zeal,” “earnestness,” “pleasure,” “delight”) or “nied” (meaning “need,” “necessity,” “compulsion,” “duty,” “errand,” “business,” “emergency,” “hardship,” “distress,” “difficulty,” “trouble,” “pain,” “force,” “violence,” “what is necessary,” “inevitableness,” “fetter” or just being the name of the rune for “n”). For the most part the difference between these two words is negligible. But, there are some exceptions. The word “neod” suggests a sort of leisurely need, as its meanings include “pleasure” and “delight,” while “nied” comes across as more business like as it can mean “errand,” or “duty” (or, even, “business”). But the compound that “nyd” is a part of doesn’t get any simpler in its second half.

The word “gestealla” seems to break down into “steal” or “steall.” The difference between these two lies primarily in specificity. The former word just means “structure,” even “frame,” while the latter means “standing,” “place,” or “position.”

So is the companionship that “nyd-gestealla” describes one that’s structured on duty or on pleasure? Or is it one that’s putting those involved in a position of business or of pleasure? Or is it that it’s supposed to do both, the ambiguity coming in to add a sense of reciprocity to the relationship it’s describing?

Do you think there’s a connection between the tone of sections of Beowulf and the intensity of the compound words found in them? So far, this part of the poem is very light-hearted and the compound words here have mostly been straightforward, almost relaxed. Is there a connection between the two? If so, what could using a word like “nyd-gestealla” mean for this part of the poem? Is it being used as a reminder of hard times or as something else?

In the next passage, the poet begins to tell of Sigemund and Fitela’s victory over a dragon and the raid on its hoard.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

So relaxed, even the language reclines, and challenging a word (ll.864-874a)

Posted on 2015/06/05 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Suspiciously Low-Key
Being Made of Stories
Closing

King Harold out for a hunt on the Bayeux Tapestry. Image found at http://regia.org/research/misc/pastimes.htm.

The warriors keep riding and racing, while stories of Beowulf are told.

“Meanwhile the battle-reputed let the horses trot,
in contests the bay horses sped,
there they found the path quite fair,
they thought it best; around then one of the king’s thanes,
a man made of stories, mindful of many tales,
such that he was in old tradition
immersed, bound words one to the other
according to appropriate meter. The man began again
of Beowulf’s struggle to smartly sing
and quickly made a new narrative account,
wrangled words.”
(Beowulf ll.864-874a)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

I’ve kind of cut things off in the middle ending this passage at the first half of line 874. But I did it with good reason. This next section of the poem is a pretty lengthy bit of storytelling. Weirdly, actually, this is the last time we hear any mention of Beowulf’s story for a while.

But that’s not the case with this passage.

The passage from line 864 to line 874 is all about the lead in to all that story telling. As such, there’s not much going on here as far as what’s described. But even the language here is pretty plain.

In previous scenes, like Beowulf’s fight against Grendel, or even the events after the fight, the lines are heavy with words and tightly jammed together. The words themselves give the impression of a lot of quick, decisive action. But here the Old English and the English translation of it have a much lighter, open air sort of quality.

Which makes sense, since this passage sees the group racing across a beach while somebody renowned for storytelling is spinning yarns, and all things are pretty cheerful. On the language side of things, all this leisure time leaves the poet’s sentences to repeat with variation. A lot of clauses in this section just wind down to their core meaning. Take for instance, the first three and a half lines. In the first of these lines we’re told about the men racing, then we’re told about the path they race on, and everything’s topped off with a generally positive comment about things being “best.” Ambiguity comes out to play again here, but in a much more light hearted way since the “it” on line 867 could be the path or the racing in general. Either way, what’s being thought “best” is pretty light stuff.

Then we come to the description of the storyteller. Of whom there’s not much to say. Though the same narrowing device seen at the start of the passage is used again: we start with a description of the teller and then wind up with a very straightforward bit about how he tells his stories.

Really, the only truly odd part of this passage is that directly after the final sentence, from the next passage onward, the poet tells of how this story teller recounts the deeds of Sigemund the dragon slayer and his partner Fitela. What I take from this is that Beowulf‘s original audience was already familiar with this other song of Beowulf, the storyteller is the poet’s self-insertion character, or to an Anglo-Saxon audience Beowulf was closely associated with Sigemund.

That last possibility stands out from the rest for me. In my thinking, for an audience to associate two characters so closely, they’d need to be familiar with each character’s story. In the case of Beowulf and Sigemund, this familiarity would mean that the audience would already know that both characters slew dragons. Sure, Beowulf beating Grendel might be reminiscent of a Nordic hero defeating a dragon, but Beowulf’s actually doing the same much later on in the poem would make the association more concrete. Plus, I think throwing in a story about dragon slaying here is too on the nose for mere foreshadowing. There’s more to why this story is told than that, especially since there’s such a shocking switch from mentioning this new song about Beowulf’s deeds to a story about someone completely different.

How does this the tone of this entry’s passage strike you? Does it feel more open and free roaming than those of past passages, or is it just more business as usual?

Much as was the case in my last post, the words in this passage are pretty straightforward. In fact, from line 869 onwards, the poet stops using compounds completely. And, in keeping with last week’s post, the compounds that are used are pretty straightforward.

We’ve got “heaðo-rōfe,” meaning “famed in war, brave” (a combo of “heaþo” (“war”) and “roofe” (“vigorous,” “strong,” “brave,” “noble,” “renowned,” “array,” or “number”)). You might pull something out of mixing “war” with a word that can mean “number,” but I think, in context, this combination means the same as joining “war” with “strong” or “renowned”; the person you’re talking about has been in many wars. And, since the Anglo-Saxons fought pitched battles rather than those based in trenches or with remote arsenals, to survive many wars suggests prowess or luck. And either of those qualities could make for a famed warrior.

Then there’s “fold-weg.” As a combination of “fold” (“earth,” “ground,” “soil,” “terra firma,” “land,” “country,” “region,” or “world”) and “weg” (“way,” “direction,” “path,” “road,” “highway,” “journey,” or “course of action”), this word could be literally translated as “earthen path.” But, its general translation simplifies this to “path” or “road,” which I’m perfectly okay with.

Now, the last two compounds that appear in this passage are a little more interesting. The word “gilp-hladen” claims this status because Clark Hall and Meritt somehow completely misrepresent it as “boastful.”

If we take it apart, though, we can see that “gilp-hladen” is a combo of “gielp” (“boasting,” “pride,” “arrogance,” “fame,” or “glory”) and “laedan” (a form of “hladan” meaning “lade,” “draw,” “take in water,” “heap up,” “lay on,” “build,” “load,” or “burden”). My translation of this compound word to “made of stories” might seem overly poetic, especially because “gielp” apparently doesn’t include “story” as an interpretation. But I think that underlying all of the meanings that Clark Hall and Meritt give the word is the concept of a story. None of those attributes are possible without a story. A person who is proud or arrogant feels that way because of how they perceive their actions and abilities, and the way that they relate those things to themselves and others is their story. Likewise, fame and glory are absolutely reliant on a story (or, sometimes stories) of the famed or glorious person spreading. So I consider the stuff of all of the listed meanings of “gielp” to be story; that is their essence. Hence, “made of stories” instead of something like “boast laden.”

The final compound for this post’s passage is “eald-gesegena” (combining “eald” (“old”) and “gesegena” (a variant of “gesegen” meaning “sayings”)). The neat thing here is that the tradition (of story telling, or at least of lore) is referred to by the short hand “sayings.” Not only are these old stories that the storyteller’s familiar with, but they’re things that people often quote or relate to each other or to themselves. That sort of detail is cool because it not only works well as a short hand for tradition (what could be more traditional than things that may, at least to cynics, be clichés or tropes?) but also very lovingly conveys the down-to-earth nature of this tradition, a word which itself refers to things that are earthy and of foggy origin.

Up until now we’ve seen a lot of compound words. Do you think the poet’s using fewer compound words in this passage is supposed to reflect a change in the poem’s tone?

In the next entry, the singer sings a song of Sigemund.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

On Grendel’s soul and joyous but plain compound words (ll.853-863)

Posted on 2015/05/28 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Getting to Grendel’s Soul
Three Not Weird Words
Closing

King Harold out for a hunt on the Bayeux Tapestry. Image found at http://regia.org/research/misc/pastimes.htm.

Beowulf, the visiting chiefs, and the young warriors of Heorot go out for a celebratory ride. Along the way tales of Beowulf’s glory are told.

Afterwards the old war-wagers went out,
so too did many youths go on that merry journey,
from the sea high spirited horses they rode,
warriors on their steeds. There was Beowulf’s
glory retold; many oft spoke of it,
that in neither north nor south between the two seas
there was no other on all the face of the earth
and under the sky’s expanse was no better
shield bearer, one worthy of kingship.
Though they indeed found no blame with their lord and friend,
gracious Hrothgar, for he was a good king.
(Beowulf ll.853-863)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

Okay. Two things.

First off, in line 855, it’s really unclear if the horses that Beowulf and the gang are riding are high spirited or if the riders are. Admittedly, my Old English grammar isn’t perfect, but I think this ambiguity (mostly from word order, as far as I can tell, as little importance as that usually has in Old English) says something important about the spirit of this ride.

I think the idea isn’t that either the horses or the men are in high spirits, but that both are. I think this is a bit of pathetic fallacy before Shakespeare and other giants of English literature put the device to wide use. You see, in my mind the horses are in high spirits because the defeat of Grendel has restored the natural order; there’s nothing binding the horses’ spirits, there’s no shadow of the fens holding them back. Further, as part of this restoration of the balance the connection between man and beast has been restored. There’s no more conflict between the two because Grendel the freak has been killed and is no longer able to terrorize either.

Of course, this interpretation being subtextual adds a layer to it. After all, implying the restoration of what might have been understood as the natural order of things (including a belief in humanity’s having a place over animals) with the death of Grendel seems harsh. After all, not but a few lines ago the poet suggested that Grendel was a creature that may well have had a soul like a human’s and that seemed to have been empathized with by the poet. I’m no Anglo-Saxon philosophy expert, but maybe this relates to an idea of a soul being granted or manifesting at the time of death. Maybe the poet’s even getting at an idea that the soul boils down to a matter of will power.

Perhaps those who die honourably within the social structure of Anglo-Saxon civilization do so knowing full well that they’ve died honourably and so they die willingly. They willingly let go of their life, of their consciousness, of their soul. On the opposite end of things, those who die dishonourably, assuming that they know that they’re dying in such circumstances and they’re aware of the consequences might struggle more against death, though their body can no longer sustain it. Then, maybe the knowingly dishonourable person’s unwillingness to die or their rejection of it forms a sort of makeshift soul. Maybe that’s all that Grendel’s was, a manifestation of the pain he endured as he struggled back to the fen.

The other thing that’s important to mention in this passage comes in the last few lines. As you probably noticed, one line after the poet mentions that Beowulf is truly worthy of being king in line 861, he goes back on it faster than someone married to a jealous partner caught flirting with a super model. This is perhaps less metaphysical than the matter touched on above, but I still think it bears mentioning, since it shows the Danes’ loyalty to Hrothgar, since there’s no greater endorsement of something than turning something that seems better down, right? Though later on, we’ll have a similar pro-King Beowulf sentiment from Hrothgar himself.

What do you think the nature of the soul is? Is it something you’re born with? something you earn? Or is it something that only manifests itself in the way you die?

In his joyous revelry, the poet doesn’t use many compound words. And, really, even those that he does use don’t really have any weird hidden meanings.

Still.

First up, on line 853, the poet gives us “eald-gesið meaning “old comrade.” Though I’ve translated it as “old war-wagers” because of the alliteration and the weirdly light lilt of a noun for combative folk fits the jaunty tone of this passage.

The “old” part of this compound is definitely straightforward, since “eald” translates directly and literally to “old”. And, likewise, “sið” (the root of “gesið)” just means “comrade,” “companion,” “follower,” “retainer,” “warrior,” “count,” “thane.” So there’s no realy surprise there. This compound is just a handy combo that can be busted out for purposes of alliteration and convenience.

Line 854’s “gamen-waþe” is kind of similar.

Combining the word “gamen” (“sport,” “joy,” “mirth,” “pastime,” “game,” “amusement”) and the word “wað” (meaning “wandering,” “journey,” “pursuit,” “hunt,” “hunting,” “chase”), we get “merry journey.” Yes, it almost sounds like a town in Newfoundland. But there’s not a whole lot more to say here. Even though the Old English “wað” includes meanings like “pursuit,” “hunt,” “hunting,” “chase,” and the Modern English “merry journey” doesn’t really get that part of the word’s meaning across, I think it still works. Why? Well, maybe it’s a bit of a romantic notion on my part, but I really think that part of any merry journey in Anglo-Saxon England would be a casual hunt. After all, if you were a noble out joy riding on your estate and you happened across a boar or a stag – even a rabbit – I’m sure you’d probably chalk the encounter up to your continuing good fortune and then put arrow to bow and take aim. It’s almost as if a “gamen-waþe” encompassed hunting as well as just riding in high spirits, while Modern English has separated the two concepts out into separate words.

Then we get to “eormen-grund” (l.859). Like the other two compound words for this entry, there’s nothing really all that weird here. Sure, you could try to bring “abyss” or “hell” into your interpretation, but I can’t see that getting too far. Though I like the sound of “between hell and here,” which, loosely, might work in a really liberal translation. But I stand by my own “face of the earth” because of the wideness implied in “eormen” since thinking about ears of corn or waves immediately puts images of expanses of corn swaying in a breeze or waters from horizon to horizon chopped with waves.

Honestly, the weird thing here is that “eormen” seems to be a conjugation of the word “ēar” which is a name of the rune for “ea.” It seems that none of the Old English words derived from rune names are very clear, which, in my mind (well, maybe more so my imagination) makes it seem like a mysterious word that has secrets even Clark Hall and Meritt haven’t dreamed of.

What do you think of Old English compound words? Are they a thing because the Anglo-Saxons liked the convenience of combining words to come up with new ones with varied meanings, or are they just useful for poets trying to alliterate?

In the next entry, one of the riders begins to tell a tale of yore.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

Grendel’s end told again, and an Anglo-Saxon take on leadership (ll.837-852)

Posted on 2015/05/21 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Lingering on Grendel
Leaders Tug and Monsters Trail Blood
Closing

Beowulf, Grendel, Old English, Anglo-Saxon

An illustration of Grendel by J.R. Skelton from Stories of Beowulf. Grendel is described as “Very terrible to look upon.”Stories of beowulf grendel” by J. R. Skelton – Marshall, Henrietta Elizabeth (1908) Stories of Beowulf, T.C. & E.C. Jack. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

The poet turns again to Grendel, though Beowulf’s beaten him.

“It was that morning, as I have heard,
when to that gift hall came warriors many;
chieftans marching from regions ranging
far and near to see that wonder,
the remnants of the resented one. None of those there
thought upon that one’s death sorely,
where the trail of the fame-less transgressor showed
how he went with weary-heart on his way,
that evil was overcome, to the watersprites of some pond,
the fated and fugitive leaving a trail of lifeblood.
There the water swelled with blood,
there repulsive waves surge, all mingling,
hot with gore, sword-blood tossing;
there the fated to die hid, when he, joy less,
in fen refuge laid aside his life,
his heathen soul; from there hell took him.”
(Beowulf ll.837-852)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

I thought that this poem was called Beowulf for a reason. But it seems that here the poet’s forgotten about that temporarily as he shifts back to Grendel’s final moments. It could be that this is simply the poet waxing on about Grendel as an extended description of his severed arm and what it means. That’s definitely a part of what’s going on here since in lines 843-844 we’re told that the arm tells the story of how Grendel was beaten by Beowulf and forced to limp back to the fens.

But I can’t get past the way this extended description starts. The poet doesn’t preface it with something like “oh, wonder of wonders, the arm showed true/Grendel’s wretched final hours,” or “that arm hanging there, gruesomely suspended,/ told the final tale of Grendel/how the gore-spattered one limped home to hell.” Instead the poet says “None of those there/thought upon that one’s death sorely” (“No his lifgedal/sarlic þuhte secga ænegum” (ll.841-842)). The phrasing of this sentence is a little weird with “sore” being used as an adverb to describe “thought upon,” but I think the meaning here is that none of the people who came to see it thought, with sorrow at heart, about Grendel’s final hours as one defeated and fated to die. But why even mention the idea that no one felt bad about Grendel? Simply to contrast with the obvious emotions of joy or triumph that are coursing through the spectators’ minds and hearts?

I still think that this focus on Grendel amounts to a sort of lament. Maybe it’s even foreshadowing the lament over Beowulf at the end of the poem. Or, at the least, maybe it’s a lament for a fallen monster because even as a monster, Grendel was close enough to being human. And, given his demi-human nature and the Abrahamic god’s tendency to forgive when asked, maybe Grendel could have found salvation had he been able to veer away from his wickedness.

I mean, that’s what I get from where this passage ends, too. Grendel is noted as having a soul and that he went to hell. Surely, poetic license with language aside, this connection of Grendel and a soul suggests that he wasn’t supposed to just be some wild humanoid animal.

It’s been noted that Grendel is a member of the Anglo-Saxon humanoid classification of monsters (I’d give the source, but it’s lost in my Twitter feed). I think the most distinct property of this monster category is that they’re practically human beings. There’s just some minor difference in the things in this category that marks them as monstrous. So, could this sort of monster also still be human enough to have a soul?

Do you think that the poet’s constantly returning to Grendel’s plight and sorry end is meant to be taken as a call for pity for the beast? Or is it just the poet being poetic and aggrandizing the death of a foe that was equally aggrandized through wide-spread stories of his terror?

This week’s passage is full of compound words. But, most of these compounds are just combinations of two words that literally translate into their Modern English equivalences and are left at that. These simpler compounds include words like “gif-heal” (a combination of the word “gift” or “to give” and “hall” meaning “hall in which gifts were made/given”) (l.838); “guðrinc” (a combination of the word for “war” or “strife” and a word for “man” or “hero” meaning “warrior”) (l.838); “tir-leas” (a very neatly straightforward combination of the word for “fame” or “glory” with the suffix meaning “less” tacked onto it) (l.843); “heoru-dreore” (which combines words for “sword” and “blood” to mean “sword blood/gore”) (l.849); and “fen-freoðu” (a word that combines the literal words for “fen” and “refuge” to mean “fen refuge”) (l.851).

Of course, this wouldn’t be a passage of Beowulf if all the compounds were so neat and tidy. Two in particular stand out as strange and difficult.

The first of these appears on line 839, “folc-togan.” This word takes the Old English cognate of Modern English’ “folk” and jams it together with a really weird word, “togan.” As far as I can tell there are a few possibilities for this word. It could be a form of “toh” meaning “tough,” “tenacious,” or “sticky.” It could be a form of “togu” simply meaning “traces of a horse” (where “traces” refers to the straps, ropes, or chains that attached a horse to a carriage or wagon). Or this word could be a variation of “tog” meaning “tugging,” “contraction,” “spasm,” or “cramp.”

The thing is, if “folc-togan” means “chieftan” or “commander,” then all three of these interpretations of “togan” are possibly right. A leader of a people needs to be tough and tenacious, and, I guess, sticky when it comes to what they stand for and to what of their people they’re supposed to represent. But a leader could also be considered to tug their people along with them – after all, a single person isn’t going to be able to cover all of their peoples’ desires and beliefs. So these multifarious ideologies and such get tugged along behind a single leader who, hopefully, embodies at least what everyone considers the most important things among their beliefs.

Then there’s the equally mysterious “feorh-laestas,” or “step taken to preserve life, flight?[sic].” Yep, this is another one that even Clark Hall and Meritt of A Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary fame aren’t sure about.

If we take it apart we quickly find that their tentative definition works fairly well. The word “feorh” means “life,” or “principle of life” and “laestas” means “leaving,” “step,” “trail,” or “footprint.” So there’s definitely some reference to something being left behind. Maybe, in the case of Grendel, the poet’s actually referring to the trail of blood that the monster is leaving as he drags himself back to the fen. Since Grendel’s mortally wounded, it’s not just any blood he’s leaking, but it’s his very life blood, the loss of which seals his doomed fate.

Why do you think the combination of a word for “folk” and “tough” or “tugging” means “leader” in Anglo-Saxon? Does it suggest anything about what the Anglo-Saxons thought about people who lead? What about the combination of the word for “life blood” and “trail” meaning “step taken to preserve life” or “flight”?

In the next entry Beowulf and the visiting chieftans go for a celebratory ride.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

Beowulf’s fame grows while words do curious things (ll.825-836)

Posted on 2015/05/15 by NSCZach

Abstract
Translation
Recordings
Beowulf Unnamed, but Still Widely Famed
Looking at Regular Compounds Three
Closing

Grendel has been defeated and Beowulf (as well as the Danes) get ready to celebrate.

“That place had been cleansed, after that one from afar arrived,
clever and brash, at the hall of Hrothgar,
rescued it from strife. Gladdened by his night work,
fodder for the flame of fame for courage. That man of Geatish
folk had fulfilled his boast to the Danes,
had cured a great wound,
parasitical sorrow, that had earlier been a daily part
of the misery they were to suffer —
no little grief. It was an open token,
when the war-fierce one placed the hand,
arm and shoulder — there was all together
Grendel’s grip — under the broad roof.”
(Beowulf ll.825-836)

Old English:

{Forthcoming}

Modern English:

{Forthcoming}

Getting back to the Danes’ wishes, in this entry’s passage we see that Beowulf’s wishes are also fulfilled in his deed. After all, in Anglo-Saxon culture it was one thing to boast and completely another to make good on a boast. Doing the former without the latter cost people dearly. Obviously Beowulf’s made good on his boast. So now, like a self-publishing author whose audience draws big publishers’ attention, he’s got a sure fire reputation.

And, actually, that’s pretty much it for this passage. Really. Beowulf wins, he gets what he wanted (well-earned fame) and the Danes get what they wanted (a Grendel-free Heorot).

Except something curious is happening around the passage’s third line (line 827).

On this line we finally get a bit of what’s going on inside Beowulf’s head. We’re told that he was “gladdened by his night work/fodder for the flame of fame for courage.” (“nihtweorce gefeh” (ll.827-828)). But that’s it. The rest of the passage states that Beowulf rid the Danes of their sadness, describes the Danes’ reactions, and then explains how Beowulf hung Grendel’s arm under the roof of Heorot for all to see.

Contrasted with Grendel, Beowulf has very little of his mind and motivation examined; it’s almost as though Beowulf’s such a stock hero that the poet doesn’t see the need to elaborate on him or to flesh him out at all. Beowulf’s gladdened and that’s it. Perhaps this can be chalked up to some sort of stoic element in what the ideal Anglo-Saxon man was. Maybe emotions were to be kept to a minimum and thoughts were to be minimized over deeds. That certainly makes Grendel all the more wretched for all of his fear and his long thinking about his final moments.

What’s weirder, though, is that Beowulf isn’t even mentioned by name in this passage. It might kind of odd if the poet just slammed down a line like “Then Beowulf was gladdened by/his victory over Grendel, kin of Cain,” but not once do we get his name in this celebratory section. But the absence of his name is conspicuous.

When someone becomes famous – especially for doing something – they become associated with that deed that made them famous. In the minds of the public you could say that they become “[whatever their name is], doer of [that deed].”

In Beowulf’s case, his name might be omitted because the poet is trying to emphasize that Beowulf has specific desirable traits by establishing three attributes.

In line 825 the poet calls Beowulf “that one from afar” (“se þe ær feorran com”) This epithet builds the mystery around Beowulf by moving his origin to some far away place. In doing so, the poet gives him the power of being an outsider, a risky power that Beowulf managed quite well since people hearing the full story would also hear of how he got Hrothgar to trust him enough to legally grant him Heorot for the night.

Then, in lines 828-829, Beowulf’s ancestry is roughly given (“that man of Geatish/folk” (“Geatmecga leod”)), establishing Beowulf as a member of a group and removing any possible mislabelling of him as some sort of exile.

Most important of these attributes, perhaps is that Beowulf is identified as the “war-fierce one” (“hildedeor” (l.834)). Though along with being important, its placement as the final of these epithets for our hero is just as important. Assured of Beowulf’s identity, the poem’s audience is then free to feel secure in his war fierceness. He’s not some kin-less mercenary who’s fighting for the wrong reasons, nor is he an established enemy of the Danes. Plus, being war-fierce was pretty much the only thing on Beowulf’s CV when he first appeared among the Danes. Repeating this attribute here cements that part of his reputation.

Thus, I think the poet’s dropping “Beowulf” from the text here is his way of establishing what makes Beowulf a stable hero (and maybe gives audiences some epithets for the Geat).

Also, in keeping with the importance of tying boasts to deeds, it’s interesting to note that all of these attributes are tied to actions (more or less): Beowulf is “that one from afar,” implying that he’s hearty and savvy enough to travel long distances; he is “of the Geatish folk,” establishing that he’s a representative member of a whole people (and implying that the Geats themselves have enough faith in him to let him go and be such a representative); and he is “war-fierce,” an adjective that is entirely active.

What do you make of the poet’s leaving Beowulf’s name out of this passage? Is he trying to bring more variety to his alliterations? Working to show Beowulf’s reputation growing? Or something else entirely?

To try to keep this section from running too long, I’ve chosen three compound words to wonder about in this entry.

First up is line 827’s “niht-weorc.” This word, as it looks and sounds, just means “night work,” as in work done at night. Maybe, if you stretch it, the word could also be used to describe the amount of work that can be done in a night.

So. Why am I picking on this word when there are other compounds in this entry’s passage?

Well, because according to Clark Hall and Meritt’s dictionary “niht-weorc,” a compound that seems like it should have pretty wide applications, appears only in Beowulf. If you look at the line on which it appears, it seems like the poet may have made it up for the occasion, since it mirrors the first half of the line’s “wið niðe” as far as initial consonants go, making for a sort of reflective alliteration. But, even so, why doesn’t “niht-weorc” show up elsewhere? I mean, surely people picked up on this word, saw its practical application and used it to describe things fairly frequently. Perhaps this one word is definitive evidence for Beowulf‘s being written down (or at all) at some point in the eleventh century, making it too late for such a word to really get into everyday use since the conquering Norman’s Old French terms were already coming into vogue.

This entry’s second word is “ellen-maerðu”. Again, this word’s fairly straightforward since ellen means “zeal,” “strength,” “courage” “strife,” or “contention,” and “maerðu” means “glory,” “fame,” or “famous exploit.” So the word’s general meaning is just a reversal of the Old English words’ order, really. What makes this word noteworthy, though is that it’s the only word in its half line, which is why I embellished my translation of it so much. After all, I feel like an appropriate image for being famed for anything is a fire since it gives off a great light and some smoke, both of which draw people’s attention. But fame is also something that needs to be tended to, lest it go out.

Third is another somewhat lacklustre compound. This word is the combination “inwit-sorge” meaning “sorrow.” But that translation misses the mark.

The word “inwit” means “evil,” “deceit,” “wicked,” or “deceitful” and “sorge” means simply “sorrow.” So there’s more to “inwit-sorge” than just “sorrow.” I get the impression that this word refers specifically to the kind of sorrow that isn’t just a temporary, passing thing, but that’s almost parasitical. It’s the kind of sorrow that lingers and poisons all that you do. It’s not quite depression, but it’s close. After all, to my mind, depression is more about a negative outlook and just a general negative feeling without much awareness as to why. But an “evil sorrow” is something that is more active and that you probably know the cause of and are aware of but can’t shake. That’s why I’ve punched the simple “sorrow” that “inwit-sorge” is translated as in Clark Hall and Meritt to “parasitical sorrow.”

How much alteration do you think is necessary when it comes to translating things like compound words from one language to another? Are literal translations better than figurative ones? Or vice versa?

In the next entry the Danes party as people come from afar to see Grendel’s arm and the beast itself meets his end.

You can find the next part of Beowulf here.

A Blogger's Beowulf

An Old English enthusiast's translation of Beowulf. Plus a little bit about Beowulf's impact on modern culture.

Tag Archives: Old English

Beowulf explains Grendel’s escape, keeps speaking plainly

Beowulf as storyteller, words sharp and simple (ll.957-970a)

Missionary Beowulf, propaganda, words plain and poetic (ll.928-942a)

A single half line of warning, a single word about patrimony (ll.907-915)

The subversive power of the poet’s song, people and sadnesses (ll.898-906)

A mysterious start to a tale of Sig(e)mund (ll.874b-884a)

So relaxed, even the language reclines, and challenging a word (ll.864-874a)

On Grendel’s soul and joyous but plain compound words (ll.853-863)

Grendel’s end told again, and an Anglo-Saxon take on leadership (ll.837-852)

Beowulf’s fame grows while words do curious things (ll.825-836)