Winter Is Coming

Beowulf Challenge, Week Three

Photo by Jonny Caspari on Unsplash

The hall falls silent as the scop finishes his poem and puts down his small harp.

Pause. One beat. Two.

And then . . . a slow . . . clap. The tension lifts as others join in.

This is how I always imagine that moment in Beowulf when the poet has made the strange choice to celebrate the hero’s victory over Grendel by delivering a grim story of revenge, female suffering, and slaughter, complete with a funeral—the burning of the corpses described in disturbing detail:

This is the Finnsburg episode. It is one of those moments, as Seamus Heaney remarks, when it feels like we have been “channel-surfed” into another poem. The first selection on the hall-poet’s playlist had been more appropriate: the tale of Sigemund, dragon-killer, contrasted against the wicked Heremod, who in turn is contrasted against the beloved Beowulf, another slayer of monsters. After all, we are celebrating a man who has brought Heorot out of the darkness—for a moment, at least.

So why is this here—this tragic, obscure narrative of Finn, Hnaef, Hengest, and—above all—Hildeburh? There is a convenient reconstruction of events in this sequence by Daniel Donoghue in the back of the Norton Critical Edition, which may serve as a guide for the perplexed. It seems that this was a well-known story to the poem’s original audience, since the poet does not find it necessary to explain everything. Another extant fragment of a poem, a single manuscript page, tells an earlier part of the story, as Hnaef speaks to inspire his men as they join the fight that will take his life. This other poem serves as evidence that this was a more widely known story.

It all seems like a holiday visit gone very, very wrong. Hnaef and the Danes have come to Frisia, apparently to visit Hildeburh, his sister, who is married to the Frisian king Finn. For unknown reasons, some Jutes are there (another tribe from what is now modern Denmark), and they attack the Danes. In the skirmish, both Hnaef and Hildeburh’s son are killed. In the aftermath, Finn tries to patch things up and makes a truce, as a funeral pyre is prepared for the dead of both sides.

But then winter sets in.

This means that travel back home, over the sea, is not possible, and the Danes are stuck there, as resentment festers and desire for revenge grows. In the end, when spring comes, the Danes, led by Hengest, attack and kill Finn, pillage the hall, and take Hildeburh back to her childhood home.

It’s bleak.

Now, on the one hand, this was an eventual Danish victory, and so one could argue that this is the reason the poet chooses the story for a celebration. But on the other hand, if this were meant as a pep talk for the Danes, then why begin with and focus on Hildeburh’s sorrow and describe the funeral in such an excruciating manner?

In any case, it seems to go over well, since “a pleasant murmur / started on the benches” after the poet finishes (lines 1159-1160). That’s when I imagine the slow clap.

I propose that there is something more significant going on here than a simple celebration of Danish victories. Once again, our poet is working through juxtaposition, or apposition (narrative rather than grammatical), as he leaves the interpretive work to the reader.

Let’s contextualize the moment. After the song of Sigemund, Hrothgar speaks eloquently about Beowulf’s victory and adopts the Geat “as a dear son” (line 946). The feast begins, and the poet delivers his narrative of Hildeburh. But then, notice who appears next, the first person named after the hall-poet’s conclusion:

. . . and Wealhtheow came to sit
in her gold crown between two good men,
uncle and nephew, each one of whom
still trusted the other . . . (lines 1161-1164)

Note Heaney’s choice of “still,” which implies that this will not be the case forever. The “two good men” are Hrothgar and Hrothulf, his nephew, and we already know that family strife will bring down the hall. Wealhtheow speaks and expresses surprise that Hrothgar has adopted Beowulf as a son. Like Hildeburh, she is a queen who is protective of her sons and can envision their vulnerability in this dangerous world of the blood feud. She reminds Hrothgar that he already has two sons—as Beowulf sits on the bench between them. In this moment, the Geat’s position could be construed as either threatening or supportive. The queen may think that Beowulf “has their back” or, conversely, that he is positioning himself to take their place. (I always like to imagine Beowulf with an arm around the shoulder of each of the brothers.)

Of course, we know that Beowulf is not interested in taking over; after Hygelac dies, he refuses the kingship of the Geats, even though Hygd, Hygelac’s widow, entreats him to accept it. No, the threat will come from someone closer—like the connection between Finn and Hnaef. Will we, once more, be left with a Danish queen in mourning and with no agency to do anything but mourn? It seems likely.

In the Finn episode, the poet is showing us a cycle of violence that appears inescapable. While Beowulf can eradicate these nightmarish monsters, he cannot do anything about the ways in which humans can be monstrous to each other. He serves as a counter-example to such internecine strife: when given the opportunity to hold a grudge, in the case of Unferth’s insults, for example, he does not give in to the temptation to violence. On the contrary, he befriends Unferth and exchanges swords with him. This is why, at the end of the poem, the Geats call him “manna mildust,” the mildest of men.

But, unfortunately, as the examples of Heremod, Hengest, Onela, and Hrothulf show us, this mildness is not the norm in this hypermasculine world, in which men always carry weapons and are quick to take offense. It will not be a monster that brings down Heorot or that will pillage the land of the Geats. It will be people who do the damage.

Actual photo of Grendel’s mother, taken just before the photographer was eaten. Photo by Tomasz Sroka on Unsplash

Grendel’s Mother and Beowulf’s Philosophy

Wealhtheow is not the only female figure that the poem places in juxtaposition to Hildeburh. That very night, Grendel’s mother, another mourning “woman,” attacks. It is a different kind of attack, however, from what we are used to with her monstrous son. It is targeted and deliberate rather than chaotic and ravenous. She kills Aeshere, Hrothgar’s right-hand man. It is a killing that actually follows the law of the blood feud—a “proportionate response.”

Because of her monstrousness, however, and her gender, the rules of this homosocial society do not apply to her. We have seen the lack of agency for other women whose children are killed. This is the poem’s one example of a female figure who attempts to participate in this masculine system as an equal player. She pays the price. (We will, by the way, witness one more response to the killing of a son next week—this one from a father.)

It is the agency of revenge that Beowulf himself invokes in response to Hrothgar’s despair upon the death of Aeshere:

Wise sir, do not grieve. It is always better
to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.
For every one of us, living in this world
means waiting for our end. Let whoever can
win glory before death. When a warrior is gone,
that will be his best and only bulwark. (Lines 1384-1389)

Beowulf not only gives us his ethos as a “man of action” here, but also his ontology and ethics. He does not look to a heaven or a life after this one. We all have a time limit imposed by fate. We are nothing more than the sum of our actions in this world. If this sounds to you like Sartre or Beauvoir, then I think you’re on the right track. Beowulf is an existentialist. He even has the angst and the nausea—or at least he will before the end.

The fight against Grendel’s mother is also different from Beowulf’s encounter with her son: it takes place in the enemy’s lair; he wears armor; he uses a weapon. These differences seem to match the specifics of the monster in this case: like her, he is deliberate and careful rather than wild and instinctive. There is no “berserker rage” in this case.

He is also, apparently, more hard-pressed, saved at one point by only his armor from the monster’s knife, and briefly at a loss when the famous sword lent to him by Unferth does not bite. It is at this point when modern readers, who are used to the conventions of literary realism, are amused to find that there just happens to be a sword there in Grendel’s mother’s lair, which is the only weapon that may harm her and which only Beowulf is strong enough to wield. This seems like a cartoon moment—Bugs Bunny pulling a giant mallet from behind his back to smack Elmer Fudd. It just happens to be there.

It is important, however, to understand that the original audience would not have viewed it this way. They were not familiar with the novels of Henry James and would have had no such qualms about extraordinary coincidence in a narrative. In a classic article, Morton Bloomfield explains this moment as an invocation of judicium Dei, the judgment of God.¹ Indeed, the poet tells us as much: “holy God / decided the victory” (lines 1553-1554).

This is an episode in which, as Tolkien described it, the pagan and Christian influences “touched and ignited.” What seems to Beowulf like a manifestation of the power of wyrd—fate—is, to the poet, the intervention of a divine hand. For the original audience, both of these world-views are present simultaneously.

Departure and Arrival

The celebration after Beowulf’s second victory is, understandably, more subdued than the previous feast. Hrothgar delivers what some critics have called his “sermon,” in which he praises Beowulf for his strength and goodness but also warns him about the transitory nature of life and the temptations of “overweening,” or pride. Once again, he invokes the counter-example of Heremod, whose reputation remains stained after his death because of the actions that he took during his life. He urges Beowulf to remember “eternal rewards.” This certainly sounds like a Christian admonition, but the vision of immortality here is the same as Beowulf’s: eternal rewards manifest in the poems that are sung in the hall about you after your death, in the way your people remember you, as “manna mildust” and as “lofgeornost” (more on this word next week).

Beowulf takes his leave and returns to his home and his lord. Wealhtheow need not have been concerned about his worldly ambitions.

As the poet tells us, in the fifty years that follow, “a lot was to happen” (line 2200). We hear about it, however, only in fragments, in flash-backs, memories, and regrets. Beowulf eventually becomes king of the Geats, but the poet does not immediately tell us how this happens. (We will find out a bit later.) He will keep the peace—until the dragon comes.

Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash

The Challenge: for Next Week

I would like us to consider, for next week, how the poem leaves us. What do we take from it in the end? It is a question that is certainly open for various interpretative perspectives. With that in mind, here are four translations of the same passage, lines 2417-2424, as Beowulf contemplates his forthcoming fight with the dragon, that provide us with some different interpretive options. You will also find the Old English along with an audio clip:

Roy Liuzza:

The battle-hardened king sat down on the cape,
then wished good health to his hearth-companions,
the gold-friend of the Geats. His heart was grieving,
restless and ripe for death—the doom was immeasurably near
that was coming to meet that old man,
seek his soul's treasure, split asunder
his life and his body; not for long was
the spirit of that noble king enclosed in its flesh.

Kevin Crossley-Holland:

Then the brave king sat on the headland,
the gold-friend of the Geats wished success
to his retainers. His mind was most mournful,
angry, eager for slaughter; fate hovered
over him, so soon to fall on that old man,
to seek out his hidden spirit, to split
life and body; flesh was to confine
the soul of the king only a little longer.

My (humble) translation:

The courageous king sat on the bluff;
wished good luck to his hearth-companions,
gold-friend of the Geats. His mind was mournful,
restless and ready for death, fate was very near;
it would come to the old man in the end,
seek the treasure of his soul, break apart
the soul and body; it was not for much longer
that the life of the king would be grasped in flesh.

Seamus Heaney:

The veteran king sat down on the cliff-top.
He wished good luck to the Geats who had shared
his hearth and his gold. He was sad at heart,
unsettled yet ready, sensing his death.
His fate hovered near, unknowable but certain:
it would soon claim his coffered soul,
part life from limb. Before long
the prince's spirit would spin free from his body.

Old English:

Gesæt ða on næsse niðheard cyning;
þenden hælo abead heorðgeneatum,
goldwine Geata. Him wæs geomor sefa,
wæfre ond wælfus, wyrd ungemete neah,
se ðone gomelan gretan sceolde,
secean sawle hord, sundur gedælan
lif wið lice; no þon lange wæs
feorh æþelingas flæsce bewunden.

How do these different translations affect how we view Beowulf at this moment? How do they differently frame the long speech that immediately follows, in which Beowulf tells the story of his youth and of King Hrethel?

Once again, please consider the comments section below your open thread to discuss the poem throughout the week. Next week, we will discuss the dragon and the aftermath.

Thanks for reading, from my fancy internet typewriter to yours.

Photo by Johnny Briggs on Unsplash

1. See Bloomfield, “Beowulf, Byrhtnoth, and the Judgment of God: Trial by Combat in Anglo-Saxon England,” Speculum 44 (1969): 545-59