(Cf. the note to 367, Fate goeth ever as she must!) This as it stands is about as completely an ‘illogical’ reference to Fate as could be devised. Fate often preserves (from Fate?) a man not at the time fated to die, when his courage does not fail – preserves him from what – death (already fated)!
This requires a considerable note to elucidate. To go to the kernel of the matter at once: emotionally and in thought (so far as that was ever clear) this is basically an assertion not only of the worth in itself of the human will (and courage), but also of its practical effect as a possibility, that is, actually a denial of absolute Fate. It is no doubt a ‘saying’ not first devised by our author, but a saying that would appeal to and be likely to come from such a character as his Beowulf, young, strong, fearless. I myself think that it is a saying ultimately from popular rather than ‘heroic’ or aristocratic language: and that its ‘illogicality’ is much reduced if, in that light, we realise that wyrd is (or was) not philosophic Fate, but fortune or chance, and unfǽgne probably does (or did) not mean ‘not doomed to die’, but ‘undaunted by circumstances, not unnerved’. ‘Fortune (as oft is seen) saves an undaunted man, when his vigour does not fail’ does not seem so absurd.
As for ellen, ‘vigour’ is about right: it is not a purely poetic word, though most used in heroic verse. Though it sometimes appears in contexts where ‘strength’ might fit, it does not mean ‘physical strength’, not the bodily instrument but the strength and heat of spirit driving a man to vigorous action. Not limited to modern ‘courage/valour’, since it was not solely exhibited in situations of danger or the conquest of fear. Basically ellen referred to the competitive, combative spirit of proud individuals. A runner in a race must show ellen. Even Unferth’s envy and malice showed ellen.
As for wyrd, ‘the turn of events, how things go’, this sense is found in ‘heroic poetry’ (e.g. in Beowulf, hé ne léag fela wyrda né worda, ‘he did not conceal anything of what had occurred or been said’ [cited in the note to 367]). But it is not there the usual sense; and a meaning equivalent to ‘chance’ or ‘fortune’ must be regarded as mainly belonging to more popular language, less concerned with high destinies.
As for unfǽge: fǽge is a difficult word, but in all probability was in origin a popular (even agricultural) word without reference to doom or Fate: ‘ripe (to fall), gone soft, rotten’. Even in heroic poetry the sense ‘doomed to die’ is rather contextual than contained in the word itself, and in many cases ‘near death’ is all that it really means. In popular language a fǽge man was not so much a man ‘doomed’ as a man without (or who had lost) pith or vigour, whose ellen ne déah. Unfǽge is only found in this apophthegm (*572–3) and again in *2291 [translation 1929–30 ‘one whose fate is not to die’]. In the apophthegm the popular sense ‘not enfeebled’ will fit well, as we see. In *2291 the precise sense is less certain, since it refers to the man who raided the dragon’s hoard and so roused him to fury, and was instrumental in causing Beowulf’s death. But unfortunately, both from the tantalizingly allusive way in which this story is told, and from the grievous damage to the manuscript which has made the account of the raid on the hoard illegible (*2226–31, 1875–8), we are in doubt about the tale and the character of the man. If he was a man who showed resolution, and at least the will and courage of desperation in his dreadful feat, then unfǽge in *2291 may agree with *573. I think this is probable. He had actually gone forward to this place with cunning stealth (dyrnan cræfte *2290, 1928), stepping close to the dragon’s head. So a resolute man by the grace of God (Waldendes hyldo *2292–3, ‘the favour of the Lord’ 1931) may well escape unharmed!
We learn that the raider did not plunder the hoard of his own accord (Nealles mid gewealdum *2221, ‘By no means of intent’ 1869): he was a fugitive slave who had committed some crime (synbysig *2226, ‘a man burdened with guilt’ 1873–4) and fled from heteswengeas (*2224, ‘the lashes of wrath’ 1872–3) probably implying being killed rather than a frightful beating. If as seems most likely the next words are ærnes þearfa ‘lacking any shelter’, then, as what can be read of the badly damaged passage suggests, he did not know until he got inside that he had entered a dragon’s lair and hoard. ðám gyste gryrebróga stód *2227 (‘upon the trespasser dire terror fell’ 1875–6); but this does not make him a feeble coward. He showed desperate courage. In spite of his appalling situation, he saw how he might turn it to his advantage. Evidently he did not give way to panic, nor shriek (as one fǽge) which would have been the end of him. He seized a great gold-plated goblet (1922, fǽted wǽge *2282) and made off, took it to his master, and with it bought his pardon. The act of a pretty tough man. One deduces that his crime had been a violent one, and also that the fǽted wǽge was of immense value! That later he is called hæft hygegiómor (*2408, ‘a captive with gloomy heart’ 2026) and is forced to go héan and ofer willan (‘in shame’ and ‘against his will’) as guide back to the lair, does not detract from this at all. He was now accused of rousing a dragon who had burned and ravaged the land, and destroyed the king’s house and throne: he might well now be hygegiómor.
Since unfǽgne (*573) is the first occurrence of fǽge in Beowulf, I append a note on this word, with special reference to the assertion of its ‘original meaning’ (above).
It seems to me that the etymologists are here probably right. fǽge derived from Germanic *faigī did not in origin mean ‘fated’. It probably meant, as I have said, ‘ripe’ or ‘over-ripe’ (of fruit, etc.) > ‘rotten, crumbling’ > (of men) ‘near the end of their time, at the point of death’. This is really the sense in this passage in the Old English poem Guthlac (which is hardly less ‘illogical’ in appearance than Beowulf *572–3): Wyrd ne meahte in fǽgum leng feorh gehealdan . . . þonne him gedémed wæs (‘Fate could not any longer keep life in the man than was ordained for him’). Saint Guthlac was dying of a mortal disease and was ‘at death’s door’. However, fǽge had a curious sense-development. It partly remained on the old level; but it was also affected by two things: current (vague and hardly philosophical) notions of Fate, especially as governing the time of a man’s death; and actual observation of the moods and behaviour of men. When used of men it moved from the sense ‘rotten, etc.’ > ‘soft, sluggish, inert, poor-spirited’. But this might be blended with the observation in what seems to them to be an inevitable situation – especially if their notions of ‘Fate’ are held strongly enough to make them ‘fatalistic’: they ‘throw in their hand’, yield to circumstances, make no effort to save themselves; or in some cases act wildly and irrationally, becoming ‘fey’, and making disaster certain by their own actions. It is to this ‘loss of nerve’ – a form of cowardice (in the Germanic view a loss of ellen, though not mere timidity, which would seek flight, if possible) – that fǽge and unfǽge often refer. The links in the sense-development (which must go far back) are now largely lost. But that the sense ‘spiritless, unnerved, ellenléas’ existed in Old English, apart from passages where ‘Fate’ is mentioned, is seen in the formula (ne) forht ne fǽge ‘neither timid nor irresolute’.
512 ff. fair words he said: . . .; *630 ff. [Béowulf] gyddode . . .
gyddode ‘uttered a gidd’. This is often translated ‘lay, song’, but though it could refer to things ‘sung’, its meaning was wider. It meant any form of words (short33 or long) of composed or premeditated style, or speech on a formal occasion. In the last case the rhetorically skilled would no doubt be able impromptu to adorn words with alliteration and other graces, but the essential thing that made a gidd was probably the use of a reciting tone, which we should probably call ‘sing-song’ rather than ‘singing’ – rhetoric (‘making a speech’), recital (of a tale), and in later times reading aloud (as e.g. in vernacular addresses or sermons) were probably far more alike then than now. A colloquial conversational tone was probably not admired. On the other hand the natural rise and fall of the voice and its emphases were not disregarded or distorted as in modern singing: they were, rather, enhanced, the pace slowe
d, and the enunciation more ‘orotund’. The gyddum of *151 (121 ‘in songs’) implies that knowledge of the troubles of Heorot was not just popular rumour or talk, but that formal ‘tales’ – in verse or otherwise – had been composed on the topic. Here it may be noted that Beowulf’s gidd (513–19, *632–8) exactly fills seven lines, is natural and straightforward in construction, and very little altered or ‘adorned’ to fit into verse: probably not very different from the actual words that a man of courtly breeding could produce on such an occasion impromptu. [See further pp. 347–8.]
524–30; *644–51
[I give here the Old English text of this passage together with my father’s translation as given in this book.
644 oþ þæt semninga
sunu Healfdenes sécean wolde
ǽfenræste; wiste þǽm áhlǽcan
tó þǽm héahsele hilde geþinged,
siððan híe sunnan léoht geséon meahton
oþðe nípende niht ofer ealle,
scaduhelma gesceapu scríðan cwóman
wan under wolcnum. Werod eall árás.
524 until on a sudden the son of Healfdene desired to seek his nightly couch. He knew that onslaught against that lofty hall had been purposed in the demon’s heart from the hours when they could see the light of the sun until darkling night and the shapes of mantling shadow came gliding over the world, dark beneath the clouds. All the host arose.
In a lengthy discussion in his lectures on the textual cruces in Beowulf he wrote that ‘the general meaning of the passage is in brief clearly: “Hrothgar knew that Grendel would come (as every night) at the determined time, i.e. when darkness came.”’ He was now opposed to Frederic Klaeber’s interpretation, that ‘lines *648 ff. plainly mean: “from the time that they could see the light of the sun, until night came” . . . The king knew that fight had been in Grendel’s mind all day long: Grendel had been waiting from morning to night to renew his attack on the hall.’ He believed that *648–9 should not be taken in this way to refer to Grendel’s thought and purpose, but on the contrary must give the time and reason for Hrothgar’s sudden departure, followed by the break-up of the assembly (Werod eall árás). In that case (he wrote),‘siððan means “as soon as” > shading as it often does into “since” = “because”; oþðe does not mean “until”; and geséon meahton is probably corrupt.’ On this last point I cite his text in full.]
However the rest is construed this last must refer to a sign of oncoming night (for Grendel’s determination was to come after daylight, as much as Hrothgar’s desire to leave the hall was then aroused). Unless híe sunnan léoht geséon meahton can be made without emendation to be such a sign, a negative must have been omitted.34
I used to suggest that the words meant ‘they could see the sun shining into the hall, because it had sunk so low that it was on a level (say) with the west windows’. But even if it were a matter of common knowledge that Heorot was so placed and built as to make this possible, it would be very far-fetched and to an Old English poet an unnatural thing to say; while the oþðe clause which continues and elaborates the picture refers to common observation of sunset and nightfall out of doors.
The ne has been omitted: without it the line has a very much louder ‘false ring’ than with it. ‘Logical’ scholars are always very shy of admitting that a negative has been omitted; to insert one makes a great logical difference! But looked at either palaeographically or psychologically omission is a likely event that may easily happen. ne is a small word. In such a case as this it follows n. Phonetically it was reduced to nә, n in colloquial pronunciation, and was in fact often hardly audible or indeed phonetically omitted – hence the habit, already growing strong in Old English, of reinforcing pre-verbal ne with another negative adverb: ná, etc.
[With regard to the meaning of oþðe ‘or’ my father noted: ‘It is undoubted that oþðe can be used sometimes not for ‘or’ as an exclusive alternative, but to introduce an alternative (and more emphatic) mode of expression, or to add some point implied but not previously said.’ Here he would translate it ‘or to say more’, ‘and what is more’. He proposed the following translation: ]
until suddenly Healfdene’s son (Hrothgar) was eager to go to his bed at evening, knowing that it was due time for the monster to come on a raid to the high hall, since they (he and all people in that place) could not see the light of the sun, and more, darkling night over all, shapes of mantling shadow were coming stalking gloomy under the clouds. All the host arose.
[It will be seen that he had now rejected the translation (lines 527–8) ‘from the hours when they could see the light of the sun until darkling night . . .’, but he did not change the typescript C in this respect.]
549 esquire; *673 ombihtþegne
The ombihtþegn must have been one of the Geats. Nothing is said about the differences of rank and function among the fifteen Geats when they set out. But it is gradually made clear to us that (whatever folk-lore research may say about supposed origins) the conception that the author had, and evidently expected his audience to have, of Beowulf was that of a ‘prince’: a young man of high rank in his own court, sister-son of a powerful king, in addition to his personal valour. He thus has a þegn attached to his personal service, as ‘esquire’. The duty of such a man was to care for the arms, and produce them when required. The word ‘esquire’ is derived from Latin scútum ‘shield’ (scútárius ‘shield-bearer’ > Old French esquier), which with the development of heraldry, and of panoplied knights on horseback, became both a more personal and symbolic thing, and also larger and heavier. Here the ombihtþegn has as special care the costly and ornamented sword – the most precious and personal item of armament. This is brought into connexion with Beowulf’s vow to eschew weapons: immediately after handing over his sword he repeats it; but as Old English sweordbora = esquire shows, the sword was in any case at that date the chief care of such a person.
555–6 Nought doth he know of gentle arms; *681 nát hé þára góda
[My father argued that the meaning of this was ‘Grendel does not know what is right and proper (for a knight), so as to answer me with stroke of weapon’. ‘The word þára does not refer back to anything previously said, but is an example of the definite article used of what is well-known, or customary – similar to our use of ‘the’ with an adjective (now usually singular) as in ‘the good’ = ‘what is good’ – but góda is here the genitive plural of the noun gód.’ He made no mention in this note of his translation ‘gentle arms’ (556), used in the sense ‘noble, honourable’, which is found in both texts.]
567 Nay, they had learned . . .; *694 ac híe hæfdon gefrúnen . . .
How had they learned this? [that a bloody death had ere now in that hall of wine swept away all too many of the Danish folk.] Clearly the line does not refer to the reports of Grendel that had reached Geatland. The band did not set out on a ‘forlorn hope’ or a suicidal venture. As the story is told the Geatish witan supported Beowulf in his desire to pit himself against Grendel, and believed the feat to be within his measure. Success, and the hope of return, depended for his companions primarily on Beowulf, and they cannot have despaired of his ability from the outset. The reference is thus evidently to conversation in the hall. Though, as I have suggested [see pp. 211, pp. 229], Beowulf’s companions were probably not sitting with him, near the king, but together on a bench further down the hall, they certainly heard Hrothgar’s (intentionally alarming) account of Grendel’s raids, 381–95, *473–88. If they heard it, they would not be much impressed by Unferth’s sneer, 427–31, *525–8, but it can hardly be doubted that their Danish neighbours and companions in the hall had further elaborated the gruesome tale, for the saving of Danish ‘faces’. Indeed after Beowulf’s speech, which though primarily addressed to Unferth steadily rises in anger and loudness of utterance to the challenging conclusion, there would, one feels, be quite a number of Danes willing to make the companions of the cocky young Geatish captain shudder at the thought of a nig
ht in Heorot.
569–70 a victorious fortune in battle; *697 wígspéda gewiofu
[The conclusion of this note is very rough and hastily written, and I have introduced a short passage attempting to repair an apparently broken text.]
wígspéda gewiofu is a remarkable phrase. It means evidently: ‘(had granted to them) destinies of victories’, apparently plural because a grant was made to each man individually (Hondscioh being left out of account [see 1745 ff., *2076 ff.])
The word gewife is a verbal derivative, of which the original meaning was ‘product of weaving (together)’. It is only found, however, as seen above in the figurative sense of ‘design, fate, fortune’. It is remarkable that this apparently ‘mythological’ (or allegorical) word should only be found in Beowulf among literary texts, although other words belonging to the same region of thought (e.g. wyrd) are frequently used. This probably indicates that the pictorial ‘figure’ of weaving, in connexion with ‘fate’, was obsolescent, and soon ceased to be current.
Klaeber says: ‘As the context shows, the concept of the ‘weaving’ of destiny (by the Parcae, Norns, Valkyries – here he gives references to Grimm and others) has become a mere figure of speech’. Personally, I doubt very much that the use of ‘weave’ in this connexion had ever been anything more. There has been a great deal of mystification, inaccuracy, and fanciful ‘web-weaving’ in all discussions of ‘mythology’, supposed primitive or common Germanic mythology not least; and the works cited by Klaeber are no exception. Grimm (Deutsche Mythologie) in particular provides a wonderful nexus of citations and references, but I think that anyone approaching his treatment of the ‘Fates’, and kindred matters, critically will feel that in general his ‘evidences’ do not support his theories, even when they do not actually disprove them. His great work is now, alas! antiquated, inevitably: it is vitiated (1) by his, naturally for his time, inaccurate linguistics; (2) by his desire to see as much ‘heathendom’ as possible everywhere; (3) by his refusal to give weight to the fact that nothing got written down in Germanic languages until people acquainted with Greco-Latin learning got to work; and (4) by confusing matters that, though maybe akin, are nonetheless different in origin, purpose, and imagination: e.g. the Fates and Valkyrjur; or weaving and spinning.
Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary, together with Sellic Spell Page 24
