The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm's Son
Page 2
There are dead enough around. Were he a Dane, mind you,
I'd let you boast—and there's lots abroad
not far away, the filthy thieves:
I hate 'em, by my heart, heathen or sprinkled,
the Devil's offspring.
Tor.
The Danes, you say!
Make haste! Let's go! I'd half forgotten.
There may be more at hand our murder plotting.
We'll have the pirate pack come pouring on us,
if they hear us brawling.
Tíd.
My brave swordsman!
These weren't Northmen! Why should Northmen come?
They've had their fill of hewing and fighting,
and picked their plunder: the place is bare.
They're in Ipswich now with the ale running,
or lying off London in their long vessels,
while they drink to Thor and drown their sorrow
of hell's children. These are hungry folk
and masterless men, miserable skulkers.
They're corpse-strippers: a cursed game
and shame to think of. What are you shuddering at?
Tor.
Come on now quick! Christ forgive me,
and these evil days, when unregretted
lie mouldering, and the manner of wolves
the folk follow in fear and hunger,
their dead unpitying to drag and plunder!
Look there yonder! There's a lean shadow,
a third of the thieves. Let's thrash the villain!
Tíd.
Nay, let him alone! Or we'll lose the way.
As it is we've wandered, and I'm bewildered enough.
He won't try attacking two men by himself.
Lift your end there! Lift up, I say.
Put your foot forward.
Tor.
Can you find it, Tída?
I haven't a notion now in these nightshadows
where we left the waggon. I wish we were back!
They shuffle along without speaking for a while.
Walk wary, man! There's water by us;
you'll blunder over the brink. Here's the Blackwater!
Another step that way, and in the stream
we'd be like fools floundering—and the flood's running.
Tíd.
We've come to the causeway. The cart's near it,
so courage, my boy. If we can carry him on
few steps further, the first stage is, passed.
They move a few paces more.
By Edmund's head! though his own's missing,
our Lord's not light. Now lay him down!
Here's the waggon waiting. I wish we could drink
his funeral ale without further trouble
on the bank right here. The beer he gave
was good and plenty to gladden your heart,
both strong and brown. I'm in a stew of sweat.
Let's stay a moment.
Tor.
(After a pause.)It's strange to me
how they came across this causeway here,
or forced a passage without fierce battle;
but there are few tokens to tell of fighting.
A hill of heathens one would hope to find,
but none lie near.
Tíd.
No more's the pity.
Alas, my friend, our lord was at fault,
or so in Maldon this morning men were saying.
Too proud, too princely! But his pride's cheated,
and his princedom has passed, so we'll praise his valour.
He let them cross the causeway, so keen was he
to give minstrels matter for mighty songs.
Needlessly noble. It should never have been:
bidding bows be still, and the bridge opening,
matching more with few in mad handstrokes!
Well, doom he dared, and died for it.
Tor.
So the last is fallen of the line of earls,
from Saxon lords long-descended
who sailed the seas, as songs tell us,
from Angel in the East, with eager swords
upon war's anvil the Welsh smiting.
Realms here they won and royal kingdoms,
and in olden days this isle conquered.
And now from the North need comes again:
wild blows the wind of war to Britain!
Tíd.
And in the neck we catch it, and are nipped as chill
as poor men were then. Let the poets babble,
but perish all pirates! When the poor are robbed
and lose the land they loved and toiled on,
they must die and dung it. No dirge for them,
and their wives and children work in serfdom.
Tor.
But Æthelred'll prove less easy prey
than Wyrtgeom was; and I'll wager, too,
this Anlaf of Norway will never equal
Hengest or Horsa!
Tíd.
We'll hope not, lad!
Come, lend your hand to the lifting again,
then your task is done. There, turn him round!
Hold the shanks now, while I heave the shoulders.
Now, up your end! Up! That's finished.
There cover him with the cloth.
Tor.
It should be clean linen
not a dirty blanket.
Tíd.
It must do for now.
The monks are waiting in Maldon for us,
and the abbot with them. We're hours behind.
Get up now and in. Your eyes can weep,
or your mouth can pray. I'll mind the horses.
Gee up, boys, then. (He cracks a whip.) Gee
up, and away.
Tor.
God guide our road to a good ending!
There is a pause, in which a rumbling and a creaking of wheels is heard.
How these wheels do whine! They'll hear
the creak for miles away over mire and stone.
A longer pause in which no word is spoken.
Where first do we make for? Have we far to go?
The night is passing, and I'm near finished …
Say, Tída, Tída! is your tongue stricken?
Tíd.
I'm tired of talk. My tongue's resting.
"Where first" you say? A fool's question!
To Maldon and the monks, and then miles
onward to Ely and the abbey. It'll end sometime;
but the roads are bad in these ruinous days.
No rest for you yet! Were you reckoning on bed?
The best you'll get is the bottom of the cart
with his body for bolster.
Tor.
You're a brute, Tída.
Tíd.
It's only plain language. If a poet sang you:
"I bowed my head on his breast beloved,
and weary of weeping woeful slept I;
thus joined we journeyed, gentle master
and faithful servant, over fen and boulder
to his last resting and love's ending",
you'd not call it cruel. I have cares of my own
in my heart, Totta, and my head's weary.
I am sorry for you, and for myself also.
Sleep, lad, then! Sleep! The slain won't trouble
if your head be heavy, or the wheels grumble
He speaks to the horses.
Gee up, my boys! And on you go!
There's food ahead and fair stables,
for the monks are kind. Put the miles behind!
The creaking and rattling of the waggon, and the sound of hoofs, continue for some time, during which no words are spoken. After a while lights glimmer in the distance. Torhthelm speaks from the waggon, drowsily and half dreaming.
Tor.
There are candles in the dark and cold voices.
I hear mass chanted for master's soul
in Ely isle. Thus ages
pass,
and men after men. Mourning voices
of women weeping. So the world passes;
day follows day, and the dust gathers,
his tomb crumbles, as time gnaws it,
and his kith and kindred out of ken dwindle.
So men flicker and in the mirk go out.
The world withers and the wind rises;
the candles are quenched. Cold falls the night.
The lights disappear as he speaks. Torhthelm's voice becomes louder, but it is still the voice of one speaking in a dream.
It's dark! It's dark, and doom coming!
Is no light left us? A light kindle,
and fan the flame! Lo! Fire now wakens,
hearth is burning, house is lighted,
men there gather. Out of the mists they come
through darkling doors whereat doom waiteth.
Hark! I hear them in the hall chanting:
stern words they sing with strong voices.
(He chants) Heart shall be bolder, harder be purpose,
more proud the spirit as our power lessens!
Mind shall not falter nor mood waver,
though doom shall come and dark conquer.
There is a great bump and jolt of the cart.
Hey! what a bump, Tída! My bones are shaken,
and my dream shattered. It's dark and cold.
Tíd.
Aye, a bump on the bone is bad for dreams,
and it's cold waking. But your words are queer,
Torhthelm my lad, with your talk of wind
and doom conquering and a dark ending.
It sounded fey and fell-hearted,
and heathenish, too: I don't hold with that.
It's night right enough; but there's no firelight:
dark is over all, and dead is master.
When morning comes, it'll be much like others:
more labour and loss till the land's ruined;
ever work and war till the world passes.
The cart rumbles and bumps on.
Hey! rattle and bump over rut and boulder!
The roads are rough and rest is short
for English men in Æthelred's day.
The rumbling of the cart dies away. There is complete silence for a while. Slowly the sound of voices chanting begins to be heard. Soon the words, though faint, can be distinguished.
Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.
Introibo in domum tuam: adorabo ad templum
Sanctum tuum in timore tuo.
(A Voice in the dark):
Sadly they sing, the monks of Ely isle!
Row men, row! Let us listen here a while!
The chanting becomes loud and clear. Monks bearing a bier amid tapers pass across the scene.
Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.
Introibo in domum tuam: adorabo ad templum
sanctum tuum in timore tuo.
Domine, deduc me in isutitia tua: propter
inimicos meos dirige in conspectu tuo viam meam.
Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto: sicut
erat in principio et nunc et semper et in
saecula saeculorum.
Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.
They pass, and the chanting fades into silence.
III. Ofermod
This piece, somewhat larger than the Old English fragment that inspired it, was composed primarily as verse, to be condemned or approved as such.[4] But to merit a place in Essays and Studies it must, I suppose, contain at least by implication criticism of the matter and manner of the Old English poem (or of its critics).
From that point of view it may be said to be an extended comment on lines 89, 90 of the original:ða se eorl ongan for his ofermode alyfan landes to fela laþere ðeode, "then the earl in his overmastering pride actually yielded ground to the enemy, as he should not have done". The Battle of Maldon has usually been regarded rather as an extended comment on, or illustration of the words of the old retainer Beorhtwold, 312, 313, cited above, and used in the present piece. They are the best-known lines of the poem, possibly of all Old English verse. Yet except in the excellence of their expression, they seem to me of less interest than the earlier lines; at any rate the full force of the poem is missed unless the two passages are considered together.
The words of Beorhtwold have been held to be the finest expression of the northern heroic spirit, Norse or English; the clearest statement of the doctrine of uttermost endurance in the service of indomitable will. The poem as a whole has been called "the only purely heroic poem extant in Old English". Yet the doctrine appears in this clarity, and (approximate) purity, precisely because it is put in the mouth of a subordinate, a man for whom the object of his will was decided by another, who had no responsibility downwards, only loyalty upwards. Personal pride was therefore in him at its lowest, and love and loyalty at their highest.
For this "northern heroic spirit" is never quite pure; it is of gold and an alloy. Unalloyed it would direct a man to endure even death unflinching, when necessary: that is when death may help the achievement of some object of will, or when life can only be purchased by denial of what one stands for. But since such conduct is held admirable, the alloy of personal good name was never wholly absent. Thus Leofsunu in The Battle of Maldon holds himself to his loyalty by the fear of reproach if he returns home alive. This motive may, of course, hardly go beyond "conscience": self-judgement in the light of the opinion of his peers, to which the "hero" himself wholly assents; he would act the same, if there were no witnesses.[5] Yet this element of pride, in the form of the desire for honour and glory, in life and after death, tends to grow, to become a chief motive, driving a man beyond the bleak heroic necessity to excess—to chivalry. "Excess" certainly, even if it be approved by contemporary opinion, when it not only goes beyond need and duty, but interferes with it.
Thus Beowulf (according to the motives ascribed to him by the student of heroic-chivalric character who wrote the poem about him) does more than he need, eschewing weapons in order to make his struggle with Grendel a "sporting" fight: which will enhance his personal glory; though it will put him in unnecessary peril, and weaken his chances of ridding the Danes of an intolerable affliction. But Beowulf has no duty to the Danes, he is still a subordinate with no responsibilities downwards; and his glory is also the honour. of his side, of the Geatas; above all, as he himself says, it will redound to the credit of the lord of his allegiance, Hygelac. Yet he does not rid himself of his chivalry, the excess persists, even when he is an old king upon whom all the hopes of a people rest. He will not deign to lead a force against the dragon, as wisdom might direct even a hero to do; for, as he explains in a long "vaunt", his many victories have relieved him of fear. He will only use a sword on this occasion, since wrestling singlehanded with a dragon is too hopeless even for the chivalric spirit. But he dismisses his twelve companions. He is saved from defeat, and the essential object, destruction of the dragon, only achieved by the loyalty of a subordinate. Beowulf's chivalry would otherwise have ended in his own useless death, with the dragon still at large. As it is, a subordinate is placed in greater peril than he need have been, and though he does not pay the penalty of his master's mod with his own life, the people lose their king disastrously.
In Beowulf we have only a legend of "excess" in a chief. The case of Beorhtnoth is still more pointed even as a story; but it is also drawn from real life by a contemporary author. Here we have Hygelac behaving like young Beowulf: making a "sporting fight" on level terms; but at other people's expense. In his situation he was not a subordinate, but the authority to be obeyed on the spot; and he was responsible for all the men under him, not to throw away their lives except with one object, the defence of the realm from an implacable foe. He says himself that it is his purpose to defend the realm of Æthelred, the people, and the land (52-3). It was heroic for him and his men to fight, to annihilation if necessary, in the attempt to destroy or hold off t
he invaders. It was wholly unfitting that he should treat a desperate battle with this sole real object as a sporting match, to the ruin of his purpose and duty.
Why did Beorhtnoth do this? Owing to a defect of character, no doubt; but a character, we may surmise not only formed by nature, but moulded also by "aristocratic tradition", enshrined in tales and verse of poets, now lost save for echoes. Beorhtnoth was chivalrous rather than strictly heroic. Honour was in itself a motive, and he sought it at the risk of placing his heorðwerod, all the men most dear to him, in a truly heroic situation, which they could redeem only by death. Magnificent perhaps, but certainly wrong. Too foolish to be heroic. And the folly Beorhtnoth at any rate could not wholly redeem by death.
This was recognized by the poet of The Battle Maldon, though the lines in which his opinion are expressed are little regarded, or played down. The translation of them given above is (I believe) accurate, in representing the force and implication of his words, though most will be more familiar with Ker's: "then the earl of his overboldness granted ground too much to the hateful people".[6] They are lines in fact of severe criticism, though not incompatible with loyalty, and even love. Songs of praise at Beorhtnoth's funeral may well have been made of him, not unlike the lament of the twelve princes for Beowulf; but they too may have ended on the ominous note struck by the last word of the greater poem: lofgeornost "most desirous of glory".
So far as the fragment of his work goes, the poet of Maldon did not elaborate the point contained in lines 89-90; though if the poem had any rounded ending and final appraisement (as is likely, for it is certainly not a work of hot haste), it was probably resumed. Yet if he felt moved to criticize and express disapproval at all, then his study of the behavior of the heorðwerod, lacks the sharpness and tragic quality that he intended, if his criticism is not fully valued. By it the loyalty of the retinue is greatly enhanced. Their part was to endure and die, and not to question, though a recording poet may fairly comment that someone had blundered. In their situation heroism was superb. Their duty was unimpaired by the error of their master, and (more poignantly) neither in the hearts of those near to the old man was love lessened. It is the heroism of obedience and love not of pride or wilfulness that is the most heroic and the most moving; from Wiglaf under his kinsman's shield, to Beorhtwold at Maldon, down to Balaclava, even if it is enshrined in verse no better than The Charge of the Light Brigade.
Beorhtnoth was wrong, and he died for his folly. But it was a noble error, or the error of a noble. It was not for his heorðwerod to blame him; probably many would not have felt him blameworthy, being themselves noble and chivalrous. But poets, as such, are above chivalry, or even heroism; and if they give any depth to their treatment of such themes, then, even in spite of themselves, these "moods" and the objects to which they are directed will be questioned.