1746; *2076 [‘Handshoe’]
With the MS Þær wæs Hondscio hilde onsǽge cf. *2482–3 Hæðcynne wearð . . . gúð onsǽge (2087–8 ‘upon Hæðcyn . . . war fell disastrous’). The sense is therefore ‘(death in) battle fell on Handscioh’, and the emendation to hild necessary and certain. The scribe probably (as some editors since) could not believe in a man named Handshoe = Glove, and so took the line to mean ‘a glove (i.e. the glóf of *2085, ‘pouch’ 1753) fell with war (hostile intent) [hilde] upon the doomed man.’
There is however no need to doubt the name. It does not occur elsewhere in Old English, but is evidenced in German, e.g. in the place-name Handschuhes-heim, and is paralleled by the Norse name Vϙttr ‘glove’. At the same time we gather that there were many stories and named characters associated with the courts of Hrothgar and Hygelac in Old English of which we only get hints in Beowulf. Here we must suspect a fairy-tale element: that a man called ‘Handshoe’ should go into a ‘glove’ is remarkable enough70 (and has a Grimm sound!) – and not less so when we observe that Handshoe is only recorded here, and only here is glóf used apparently as a ‘bag’.
In fact Grendel’s ‘bag’ must here be meant to be ‘glove’. As originally conceived Grendel was so large that a man could go inside his glove. Compare the adventure of Þórr inside the giant Skrýmir’s glove in Gylfaginning.71
1767 ff. There was mirth and minstrelsy . . .; *2105 þǽr wæs gidd ond gléo . . .
This passage is obviously both interesting and important for literary history. The author of Beowulf has a poet’s special interest in his craft. Compare the reference to the technical side of verse in *867–74 [see the note to 705–10]. Here we evidently have a reference to forms of composition: ‘genres’; and to matter. Unfortunately the extremely scanty records of Old English verse and prose make it difficult to interpret the passage clearly.
What is preserved is (a) in verse: mainly scholarly polished verse written, and preserved in careful book-hand in a few survivors of the costly books of ancient England. Except for the major example of The Battle of Maldon – clearly of a freer, hastier, and more topical kind, with looser metrical laws, but probably representing a kind that was practised at all times – and a few scraps (such as verses in the Chronicle, or the charms), what we have gives only an indirect glimpse at the minstrelsy of the English hall. Caedmon’s Hymn is all that we have preserved that is certified as extempore.72
(b) in prose: we have no tales, no ‘sagas’, little or nothing of the work of the þyle [see the note to line 3] – except the gloss þylcræft = rhetoric, and probably early royal genealogies, and probably the matter behind some of the entries for the early years of the Chronicle (such as those on Hengest and Horsa). Again there is one exception: the compressed ‘saga’ episode about Cynewulf and Cyneheard in the Chronicle entry for the year 755, which stands out (in manner and matter) as derived from (not actually one) a told tale.
Points that we can note, nonetheless, are as follows. The fact that the king himself plays and recites. For England we have little evidence (except the late tale, apocryphal and impossible, concerning Alfred’s visit to the Danish camp); but that nobles and kings practised minstrelsy is well known in Scandinavia. Indeed the Norse skáld was usually a man of a great house, and also a warrior.
Note. Beowulf expressly says that this took place on the night after Grendel’s defeat, and before Grendel’s mother came. He places it after the King had given him gifts. It refers therefore to the time described previously between *1063 and *1237, 867–1025. But there is no mention there of Hrothgar’s singing or harp-playing. This is not necessarily a ‘discrepancy’. It is an obvious method of enlivening the double account, to tell some things in the narrative and others in the report. ‘Discrepancy’ would only be present if it were impossible to fit in Hrothgar’s performances [i.e. into the earlier account of the occasion]. A northern feast lasted long. Hrothgar’s performances (not all at a stretch: hwílum . . . hwílum *2107–13, 1769–74), can hardly have occurred at *1063–5, 867–9 when only singing and playing in the presence of (fore) Hrothgar is mentioned. It is Hróðgáres scop, not the King, who sings of the Fréswæl (*1066, 870). But it can have occurred at *1160, Gamen eft ástáh (952–3 ‘Merry noise arose once more’), and in the long interval, after Wealhtheow’s perambulation, passed over briefly, *1232–3 Þær wæs symbla cyst, druncon wín weras, 1021–2.
[I give here the original text *2105–13 and my father’s translation 1767–74 of the passage in which Beowulf describes to Hygelac the performance of Hrothgar at the feast.
2105
2110
Þǽr wæs gidd and gléo; gomela Scylding
felafricgende feorran rehte;
hwílum hildedéor hearpan wynne,
gomenwudu grétte, hwílum gyd áwræc
sóð ond sárlíc, hwílum syllíc spell
rehte æfter rihte rúmheort cyning;
hwílum eft ongan eldo gebunden,
gomel gúðwiga gioguðe cwíðan,
hildestrengo;
1767
There was mirth and minstrelsy: the aged Scylding, full of ancient lore, told tales of long ago; now did he, once bold in battle, touch the harp to mirth, the instrument of music; now a lay recited true and bitter; or again, greathearted king, some wondrous tale rehearsed in order due; or yet again, warrior of old wars, in age’s fetters did lament his youth and strength in arms.]
We know little or nothing of the relation of harp-playing to verse, and recitation. The nature of Old English verse, such as that of Beowulf, makes it unlikely that it was ‘sung’ in the modern sense.73 The words feorran rehte *2106 (1769) seem to refer to relating lays or tales of ancient days: the same words feorran reccan are used of the scop who sang a ‘Creation’ lay (*91, 74). In *2107–8 we note that the harp is mentioned, as distinct from feorran reccan, and from gyd, syllíc spell, and from the concluding ‘elegy’.
gyd: (early West Saxon giedd, other dialects gedd) is a word of wide or vague application in Old English verse.74 It seems able to be used of any formal utterance, discourse, or recitation. Thus Hrothgar calls his discourse or sermon a gyd *1723 (‘considered words’ 1447), while Beowulf’s formal words when handing over the gifts to Hygelac are called gyd *2154 (‘appointed words’ 1810). But from various uses, and connexion with gléo (as gidd ond gléo *2105), it is plain that it can mean what we would call a lay. Note that the lay of Finn and Hengest is called gléomannes gyd *1160 (‘the minstrel’s tale’ 952). It is thus fairly plain that gyd . . . sóð ond sárlíc *2108–9 refers to a tragic heroic lay (dealing with historial legend): such as the Fréswæl.75
spell: it is thus very interesting to see gyd contrasted as sóð with syllíc spell ‘a marvellous tale’. Not that spell means a ‘fairy story’ – it means just an ‘account’, report, story. The minstrel’s song about Beowulf’s feat is a spel *873 (‘tale’ 710). But here there is plainly a distinction in matter between the sóð and the syllíc, which is probably not unlike the distinction we should draw between the ‘historical’ and the ‘legendary’ (or rather, marvellous, mythical). Sigemund and his dragon might be a case – a dragon was sellíc: cf. sellice sædracan *1426 (‘strange dragons of the sea’ 1189); but all that lost matter (which we call fairy-tale) of which only traces remain from the North – such as Grendel, and occasional hints in the Elder Edda, and of course more in the Edda of Snorri Sturluson, as in the tales about Thór – is probably meant. Yet note rehte æfter rihte *2110. It was not just a wild invention, but a known tale properly unfolded.
cwíðan: Here we have the ‘elegiac’ strain of lament – of which Old English provides us with more examples: there are traces in Beowulf itself. The passage (for instance) *2247 ff. Heald þú nú, hrúse . . . , 1892 ‘Keep thou now, Earth . . .’ is in the manner of a set lament – and is actually offered as the lament of the last survivor of a race of kings. Cf. *2444 ff. Swá bið geómorlíc . . ., 2057 ff. ‘In like wise is it grievous . . .’, though
this is not presented as an actual lament. The most successful and moving lines of Beowulf itself, *3143, 2639, to the end, are a lament. And parts of The Wanderer and The Seafarer naturally come to mind. Indeed the likeness of Hrothgar’s words *1761–8 (1479–84) to part of The Seafarer, already noted [see p. 309 and the editorial note], is so close that we are justified in deducing that the kind of poetic utterance our author had in mind in *2112 [referring to Hrothgar, see p. 347] was not unlike: yldo him on fareð, onsýn blácað, gomelfeax gnornað, wát his iúwine, æðelinga bearn eorþan forgiefene76 (The Seafarer 91 ff.); that in fact such lines derive from a very ancient variety of Northern poetic expression. But the special situation of the English – a people amid the ruins, cut off from the old lands, the lands of the heroes of their ancient songs, and gradually as their knowledge grew feeling themselves indeed to be in the Dark Ages after the departure of the glory of Rome77 – gave a special poignancy to this feeling, and special pictorial vividness to it. Both of the passages from Beowulf cited above are filled with the vision of deserted and ruined halls; gesyhð . . . wínsele wéstne, windge reste réte berofene, rídend swefað, hæleð in hoðman *2455–8, ‘he sees . . . the hall of feasting, the resting places swept by the wind robbed of laughter – the riders sleep, mighty men gone down into the dark’ 2064–7. So also is The Wanderer. Nobody would have better understood or been better able to play Hrothgar’s part than Alfred – who won his mother’s praise for poemata saxonica – the lays of his northern heroic fathers – and yet felt himself almost alone in the Dark Age, attempting to save from the wreck of time some sparks surviving from the Golden Age, from Rome and the mighty Cáseras and builders of the fallen world.
1857 ff. then into Beowulf’s hands came that broad realm . . .; *2207 ff. syððan Béowulfe brade ríce on hand gehwearf . . .
At Beowulfe we begin on folio 179r a sadly dilapidated page, mutilated as usual at the right edge, but also faded badly, and ‘freshened up’ where visible by some later (and unauthorized) hand: the hand of someone either ignorant of Old English or much at sea as to the drift of the passage. A pity: here the poet leaps straight into the dragon-story and the thrilling adventure of the fugitive hiding in a cave by chance, discovering it to be a treasure-hoard, and nearly stepping on the dragon’s head (*2290, 1929) in the dark as he rummaged about. And this is badly spoilt; *2226–31 (1875–8) are practically unintelligible. Allowing for the Old English manner this is a very moving treatment of this ‘fairy-tale’ situation – remarkable for the ‘sympathy’ shown by the author for both the wretched fugitive and the dragon. But it is characteristic of that manner that the narrative is not ‘straight’. First we hear of the dragon. Then, that ‘someone’ got into the barrow, and took a cup. Then, that the nearby folk soon learned of the dragon’s rage. Then we hear more of the intruder: he was a fugitive slave (master unknown). Then some precious details of his experience in the barrow are lost; but it is not until *2289–90 (1929) that we get the detail that he had trodden close to the worm’s head. It is also characteristic of our poet (and of Old English as we know it as a whole) that the scene in the barrow passes at once into an elegiac retrospect on the forgotten lords who placed their gold in the hoard, and then died one by one until it was left masterless, an open prey to the dragon.
But this is not inartistic. For one thing, it occupies the ‘emotional space’ between the plundering of the hoard, and the curiously vivid and perceptive lines on the dragon snuffling in baffled rage and injured greed when he discovers the theft: lines which gain greatly from the concluding words of the interjected ‘elegy’: ne byð him wihte ðý sél *2277 (‘no whit doth it profit him’ 1918) – the last word on dragonhood. Also, of course, the feeling for the treasure itself, and this sense of sad history, is just what raises the whole thing right above ‘a mere treasure story, just another dragon-tale’. The whole thing is sombre, tragic, sinister, curiously real. The ‘treasure’ is not just some lucky wealth that will enable the finder to have a good time, or marry the princess. It is laden with history, leading back into the dark heathen ages beyond the memory of song, but not beyond the reach of imagination. Not till its part in the actual plot is revealed – to draw the invincible Beowulf to his death – do we learn that it is actually enchanted, iúmonna gold galdre bewunden *3052 (‘the gold of bygone men was wound about with spells’ 2564), in which the quintessence of ‘buried treasure’ is distilled in four words, and accursed (*3069–73, 2579–84).
So this passage rivals the exordium on ship-burial (*32–52, 25–40) as that very rare thing, an actual poetic expression of feeling and imagination about ‘archaeological’ material from an archaeological or sub-archaeological period. Many such mounds existed in Scandinavia, and even in England in the eighth century, already ancient enough for their purpose and history to be shrouded in mist. Here we learn what men of the twilight time thought of them. And, of course, the writing and the elegy are good in themselves, and not misspent – since the ashes of Beowulf himself are now to be laid in a barrow with much of this same gold (though much also is to melt in the fire, *3010–15, 2530–4), and pass down into the oblivion of the ages – but for the poet, and the chance relenting of time: to spare this one poem out of so many. For this, too, almost fate decreed: þæt sceal brond fretan, æled þeccean: that shall the blazing wood devour, the fire enfold. Of the others we know not.
SELLIC SPELL
Introduction
The only general statement by my father about his work Sellic Spell that I have found is the following very rushed note in pencil, difficult to read:
This version is a story, not the story. It is only to a limited extent an attempt to reconstruct the Anglo-Saxon tale that lies behind the folk-tale element in Beowulf – in many points it is not possible to do that with certainty; in some points (e.g. the omission of the journey of Grendel’s dam) my tale is not quite the same.
Its principal object is to exhibit the difference of style, tone and atmosphere if the particular heroic or historical is cut out. Of course we do not know what precisely was the style and tone of these lost Old English things. I have given my tale a Northern cast of expression by putting it first into Old English. And by making it timeless I have followed a common habit of folk-tales as received.
As far as Beowulf goes I have attempted to [?draw] a form of story that would have made linking with the Historial Legend easiest – especially in the character of Unfriend. And also a form that will ‘explain’ Handshoe and the disappearance of the companions in the tale as we have it. That the third companion ‘Ashwood’ is in any way related to the coastguard is a mere guess.
The only daughter comes in as a typical folk-tale element. I have associated her with Beowulf. But here the original process was evidently actually more intricate. More than one tale (or motive of tales) was associated with the Danish and Geatish royal houses.
This was certainly written after the final text of Sellic Spell was achieved, as is shown by the reference to ‘the journey of Grendel’s dam’ (i.e. her attack on Heorot, absent from the final text) and by the name ‘Unfriend’ (which only displaced ‘Unpeace’ on the typescript D). A note written on the same page at the same time may be mentioned here:
Bee-wolf: to my mind the most likely etymology is a kenning - quite apart from the evident surviving ‘bearish’ characteristics of Beowulf (e.g. Dæghrefn).
(On Dæghrefn see the commentary on Beowulf p. 236).
The formation of the text
The textual history of Sellic Spell is simple to set out, but extremely complex in detail. There is an initial manuscript, which I will call ‘A’: but this remained my father’s working text, in which he developed the story in stages, rewriting many passages and introducing new material at different times, but (as it seems) not necessarily reverting to earlier stages to accommodate changed elements in the narrative. Thus A as it stands is a confusing and (at first sight, at any rate) inconsistent patchwork. But in the nature of the case the ‘imagined
story’ offered such a multitude of choices as to give great scope to his tendency to withdraw from too ready an appearance of finality.
There is also a partial, roughly written manuscript ‘B’, in which the story of the attack of the monster on the Golden Hall was developed from the account in A into a new structure. This was not written into A, but aspects of it were entered as marginal additions and alterations; and I think it virtually certain that my father intended manuscript ‘B’ to be a very lengthy rider to the manuscript A. On this view the whole evolution of Sellic Spell was in fact reached in this one, overburdened manuscript; and from it was derived directly a good manuscript ‘C’, lightly emended here and there, setting out clearly the final form of the story.
The manuscript C was closely followed by a careful typescript ‘D’ that in all probability I made at the same time as my typescript of the translation of Beowulf; and that in turn by a professional typescript ‘E’, an exact copy of D as corrected, and with a very few further authorial alterations.
It seems to me that to set out in full detail the textual development would be uncalled for, but that a more brief account may be found interesting. I give here therefore, first, the final text of Sellic Spell, as represented by the typescript E, but follow it with a comparison of the earliest and latest versions, and the Old English text.
Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary, together with Sellic Spell Page 31
