Let us take one prime point: weaving. Though related activities, weaving and spinning are quite distinct operations (of wholly different imaginative suggestion). What is more: weaving needs a more or less elaborate machine (loom) and tools; it was not a specially female operation – it remained largely a masculine craft down to Bottom and beyond. The picture of three old sisters sitting at a loom (or three looms?) to determine the length of a man’s life cannot have been a primitive notion. On the other hand spinning (the production of threads) was far more ancient, and was specially associated with women (as still the ‘distaff side’ and ‘spinster’ remind us). [The Greek names of the Fates (Moirai, Latin Parcae) were Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho is ‘the Spinner’ who spins the thread of life;] Lachesis ‘allotting, lot’ is this thread’s determined length; but Atropos [the ‘unturnable’] simply represents the inexorability of the allotment, which no human will can alter. In any case the allegory deals primarily with length of human life, and is not a general ‘historical’ allegory at all. We do not know about ancient Italic ‘mythology’. But the Italic ‘weaving’ words do not appear ever in any such area of thought. The literary uses are derivative from Greek. Latin Parca was originally singular. According to Walde, with probability, it is the name of a divinity concerned with birth (parere) – the ancestress, so to say, of the fairy godmother at christenings!
569 ff.; *696 ff.
[The commentary here is more easily followed from the Old English text, which I set out here together with my father’s translation.
700
705
Ac him Dryhten forgeaf
wígspéda gewiofu, Wedera léodum,
frófor ond fultum, þæt híe féond heora
ðurh ánes cræft ealle ofercómon,
selfes mihtum. Sóð is gecýþed,
þæt mihtig God manna cynnes
wéold wídeferhð. Cóm on wanre niht
scríðan sceadugenga. Scéotend swǽfon,
þá þæt hornreced healdan scoldon,
ealle bútan ánum. Þæt wæs yldum cuþ,
þæt híe ne móste, þá Metod nolde,
se scynscaþa under sceadu bregdan,
ac hé wæccende wráþum on andan
bád bolgenmód beadwa geþinges.
569 Yet God granted them a victorious fortune in battle, even to those Geatish warriors, yea succour and aid, that they, through the prowess of one and through his single might, overcame their enemy. Manifest is this truth, that mighty God hath ruled the race of men through all the ages.
There came, in darkling night passing, a shadow walking. The spearmen slept whose duty was to guard the gabled hall. All except one. Well-known it was to men that, if God willed it not, the robber-fiend no power had to drag them to the shades; but he there wakeful in his foe’s despite abode grimhearted the debate of war.]
It should be noted that there is not a break or ‘jerk’ at bregdan *707 [a reference to the punctuation in Klaeber’s text: bregdan; -]: ac refers precisely to what is there said, even though he is of course the ‘one’ (ánum *705) who alone kept awake and watchful. Þæt wæs yldum cúþ is not a mere tiresome repetition of the same idea as that already expressed in *700 ff., Sóð is gecýþed . . . The poet’s moralizing may not be according to our taste, generally, or in this particular place. I would prefer that he had not inserted Þæt wæs yldum cúþ . . . under sceadu bregdan into his remarkable description of the approach of Grendel. Nonetheless the insertion has a point. It is part of the characterization of the hero Beowulf, and goes with Wyrd oft nereð etc. [see note to 465–6]; and at the same time it reinforces *696–9 (above): the reflexion that God works through men and their powers (which He provides). Sóð is gecýþed is an ‘exclamation’ of the author to you, who are supposed to share his religion, though possibly not to have reflected much upon it. But we then re-enter the story: Þæt wæs yldum cúþ means ‘it was then generally recognized’, and so by Beowulf himself. But he believed in ellen [see note to 465–6 at p. 257], and he did not merely lie down ‘resigned’; his strength was God’s gift (‘God’s grace to him’ 546–7, Metodes hyldo *670), and he meant to use it, even if in the last resort the issue was in God’s hands. It was part of his ellen that his heart was not filled with fear, but with wrath; anything more that he had learned about the monster since his arrival had made him hate Grendel more, and more resolved to overcome him.
[From this point the text continues for several further pages, I think clearly written at the same time as the preceding note, but these were separated off later by my father with this title:]
Excursus on references to the power of God as ordainer of events (Metod) in Beowulf with special regard to *700–9, [572–9]
[There is also a typescript of this text, headed only EXCURSUS, a copy of the manuscript of remarkable exactness and scarcely any deviation from it in any detail. That an amanuensis could do this seems almost as unlikely as that my father would copy a text of his without making the smallest alteration.]
There can be no doubt that, like the author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the author of Beowulf was deeply interested in the contemporary ‘code’ of the aristocratic class, its values and assumptions; and his whole story is told with these in mind, and with a critical attitude towards them. Also, like the later poet, he vividly realized the story he was telling (monster and all) as such, and told it very well,35 moralizing apart, with an equally clear grasp of character in his actors. But the difference between the two poems is, of course, very great. First of all they deal with wholly different points of morality and ‘code’; secondly, the later poet seldom addresses his audience, or comments. He was dealing with a problem much simpler, from the point of view of literary handling, addressing a ‘Christian’ audience, members of a religion established many hundreds of years, and was not concerned with its foundations, but with an excrescence or ‘heresy’ that was or had been current and ‘fashionable’; he was criticizing the picture of the ‘man of honour’ as it still appeared in the minds of men of birth and breeding. The tale he told, partly by its inherent character, and partly by his skill in shaping his version, was much more suitable to his purpose, and the ‘moral’ or ‘morals’ arose naturally from the actions and speeches of his characters. His personal intrusions are rare, and mostly those of a simple narrator saying ‘I will now tell this’, or ‘I will pass over that’ – with one major exception: the long passage 624–665,36 where the picture of the author’s ‘perfect knight’ is set up, and his ‘values’ described.
But the author of Beowulf was writing for a society in which Christianity had not long been established, a few generations perhaps, but kings and nobles knew and honoured the names of their pagan ancestors, not so far back. Their scops and þyles remembered and recounted still histories and tales, greater and less, out of a time of pure heathenism. Christianity had done little, in the noble class, to soften the sentiments behind the code of honour. Physical courage (and sheer strength of body), pride and a fierce individualism which would brook no humiliation, and the duty (and pleasure) of revenge, were the chief features of ‘the man of honour’. The fundamental tenets of One God, creator and ruler of all, inscrutable maybe in His decisions in this or that case, but still ‘benevolent’ to Men, and each man, and of a life hereafter, had not dethroned Fate, inexorable, unconcerned with good or ill in deeds, and the opposition to it of unbending pride, self-will, with the reward of dóm: glory, the praise of men (not of the Judge), now or hereafter. Fate and glory never have, of course, been completely dethroned, but it is a matter of degree.
The vividness of the ‘sentiment’ and its powers over actions and approval of actions among a warlike noble class still in (say) the early ninth century is one that can hardly now be appreciated. The story that the poet chose to tell (and all its background in personal and national feuds and hatreds) was threaded through with it. And so still was the very language that he had to use. It was a good tale, much of it already known and pop
ular with the kind of men that he addressed. But as is clear enough he retold it with a purpose. This ‘purpose’, and shift of valuation, which he had in mind might in brief be represented thus:
‘There is One God, supreme ruler of the world, and true King of all mankind. By Him all events (wyrd) are governed; [added later to the manuscript for He is the Metod, the Ordainer]. From Him proceed all good things and gifts (including courage and strength). This has always been so. It was so in the days of your fathers’ fathers. What is more, they knew it, even as all the descendants of Adam, unless seduced by the Devil, or falling into despair in evil times. Good and wise men of those days feared God and thanked Him.
‘Here is the great warrior Beowulf. You admire him. He was worthy of it. God gave him an astonishing gift of more than human strength – he recognized it as a gift. As a boy he was of course rash and heedless, and enjoyed showing off his strength. But now he comes to manhood. He is still proud and self-confident, not unnaturally in one so indomitable, but he is aware of God. You will observe that though he is eager for glory, and the approbation of good men, self-aggrandisement is not his main motive. He may earn glory by his deeds, but they are all in fact done as a service to others. His first great deed is the overcoming of a monster that had brought untold misery on Hrothgar and his people: Grendel, a féond mancynnes. His other deeds are done as a service to his king and his people: he dies in their defence. Beowulf does not come first with Beowulf. He is loyal, even to his own disadvantage. Loyalty you also admire, though it is today less practised than courage and emulation.
‘He was the king’s cousin. When Hygelac threw away his life and most of his fighting force in a rash raid into Frankish territory, he left only a boy heir, Heardred. Beowulf was the chief noble and greatest warrior in the kingdom, but he (unlike Hróðulf whom stories make much of) did not attempt to set him aside, though a desperate struggle with the Swedes was imminent. He succeeded to the throne only when the Swedes had slain Heardred; he helped to re-establish the kingdom; and he died in ridding it of a monster greater and more terrible than Grendel.
‘This then is a story of a great warrior of old, who used the gifts of God to him, of courage, strength and lineage, rightly and nobly. He may have been fierce in battle, but in dealing with men he was not unjust, nor tyrannical, and was remembered as milde and monðwǽre [in the last lines of the poem]. He lived a long while ago, and in his time and country no news had come of Christ. God seemed far off, and the Devil was near; men had no hope. He died in sorrow fearing God’s anger. But God is merciful. And to you, now young and eager, death will also come one day, but you have hope of Heaven. If you use your gifts as God wills. Brúc ealles wel!’37
But to present this ‘message’ in his day the poet had constantly to point his story, by reminder of God as Ruler, Giver, and Judge. He may have done this more than necessary, or more than we feel is necessary, in places even unseasonably, but he did not write for us. There can be little doubt that what he wrote made a powerful impression in his time, and continued to be read long after. A reward (which he can hardly have expected) was granted him: that his work should be the major piece of Old English verse that has survived the wrecks of time – still profitable for men to read in its own right, quite apart from its acquired value as a window into the past. A punishment for its small defects (which he did not deserve) is that ignorant men, even of his own faith, should scoff at it, or call it ‘small beer’. That his work cannot now be read at all without trouble, nor understood and valued in detail without sustained effort, is due under God to wyrd, the doom of men to live briefly in a world where all withers and is forgotten. The English language has changed – but not necessarily improved! – in a thousand years. Wyrd has swept away to oblivion nearly all its kin; but Beowulf survives: for a time, for as long as learning keeps any honour in its land. And how long will that be? God ána wát.38
627 a ghastly fear; *769 ealuscerwen
The general meaning of the passage is clear, and the contextual meaning of ealuscerwen is defined within fairly close limits: it must mean something like ‘horror’. But it is a good example of the difficulty that is sometimes met in discovering the etymology and original significance, and the contemporary meaning and associations, of a word that (by chance, probably) occurs only once in Old English. ‘On all the Danes, on dwellers in the town, on every bold heart, on every man, fell ealuscerwen.’ We note that, as usual, the narrator inserts into the middle of description of what is happening inside the hall a brief ‘snapshot’ of what is happening outside. There is a terrible din in Heorot. It is heard in all the houses of the royal burg clustered in the neighbourhood. The Danes, however céne they may be, hearing it feel ealuscerwen. Then the noise, after a lull while Beowulf and Grendel wrestle, bursts out afresh, and the Danes feel atelíc egesa (*784, ‘dread fear’ 639–40). ealuscerwen, therefore, probably means something like atelíc egesa ‘horrible dread’.
But how does this word, a compound that has as its first element ealu ‘ale’ arrive at such a sense? Does ealu here mean ‘ale’?
Yes, it does – that is, whether it meant ‘ale’ originally or not, ealu- was thought to be identical with the ordinary word ealu ‘ale’. This is shown by a passage in the poem Andreas [an apocryphal legend of St. Andrew]. This passage (Andreas 1524–7) describes the overwhelming of the heathen, cannibal Marmedonians by a miraculous flood: fámige walcan / mid ǽrdæge eorðan þehton; / myclade mereflód; meoduscerwen wearð / æfter symbeldæge [‘the foaming waves at dawn covered the earth; the flood of water grew great; there was meoduscerwen after the day of feasting’]. We cannot doubt that the expressions ‘mead’-scerwen and ‘ale’-scerwen, both describing ‘woe’ or ‘horror’ are related. Andreas clearly imitates Beowulf in places. This may be one of the places. In that case, the comparison would only show that the poet of Andreas knew ealuscerwen from Beowulf, took ealu as ‘ale’, and produced a variation meoduscerwen, relying on his audience’s knowledge of Beowulf.
But the situations in Andreas and Beowulf are not in fact similar. And we may go further: unless in ealuscerwen it was clearly felt by listeners to Old English verse how the sense ‘ale’ was related to the total sense ‘woe/horror’ of the compound, it would be frigid, not to say ridiculous, to coin a mere imitative variation with ‘mead’.
So the problem of interpretation is really unaffected by the relations of Andreas and Beowulf, or the question whether Andreas was merely imitating Beowulf, or whether both were drawing in common on the inherited stock of Old English verse-words, and Old English descriptions of fear and disaster – following after mirth and feasting. The key to the problem is, therefore, in scerwen.
[My father thought it probable that scerwen was an abstract noun derived from a verb scerwan, recorded only in a compound form be-scerwan ‘deprive’. Probably related verbs without the w-element, as O.E. scerian, scirian, have the meaning ‘allot, assign’. But noting that words that have the sense ‘take away, deprive, rob’ can add the prefix be- with change of construction rather than of sense, he concluded that a possible meaning of the element scerwen was ‘tearing away, robbing, depriving’, and gave it as his opinion that ealuscerwen and meoduscerwen both basically mean ‘cutting off, deprivation of ale or mead.’]
They got their sense of ‘horror and woe’ not just crudely because an announcement in an ancient English hall ‘no beer tonight’ would have caused horror and woe (or even panic), but because ealu and meodu were symbols of the mirth and pleasure of peace, and life at its brief and passing best. Thus at the opening of the poem Scyld is said to have ‘denied the mead-benches’ to his foes. This does not mean that he marched in and pulled away the seats from under his enemies; but that the whole life and peace and honour, each in their separate halls, of the kings and lords that opposed him was overthrown.
If this interpretation is correct then actually the use in Andreas is nearer to the original simpler use, and the use in Beowulf remoter; and the occurrence of these t
wo hapax legomena [words only once recorded] in Andreas and Beowulf is not evidence of the direct relationship of the poems. meoduscerwen æfter symbeldæge: a rude end to mirth after joy: that is the kind of phrase in which ‘deprivation of mead or ale’ got its sense of grief and horror. In Beowulf there had been a feast, but the description of it is many lines away. And ‘a rude awakening’ does not in fact suit the context too well. The coming of Grendel was expected. His raids had endured twelve years. What caused the ealuscerwen was his hideous cries and the din of the grim battle in the hall.
But other explanations fit even less well. For instance, ‘allotting of ale’ [see the editorial note above] – used ironically, as ‘a bitter drink’. Again the Andreas passage is much more suitable: the heathen are being drowned. But I still think this explanation impossible. meodu and ealu are good symbols and cannot just be used to mean the opposite. The Beowulf usage would be incredible. Had meoduscerwen meant ‘dealing out of mead’ then in such a context any Old English poet would have put in a negative, or a bad adjective, as indeed we see later in the same passage in Andreas, Þæt wæs biter béorþegu, 1533, ‘that was a bitter beer-drinking’.
687–8 had dragged his footsteps, bleeding out his life; *846 feorhlastas bær
‘bore his life-tracks’ – what does this mean? Probably, ‘dragged a trail marked by his life-blood’. feorh means vitals or life-principle, and any part or element in which this resides. Cf. *2981 wæs in feorh dropen, 2503 ‘he was stricken mortally’; and for a passage where feorh seems plainly to signify ‘blood’ cf. *1151–2 Ðá wæs heal roden féonda féorum, 944–5 ‘then was that hall reddened with the life-blood of their foes’.
Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary, together with Sellic Spell Page 25
