Beowulf (c.1000)
Anonymous (Pearson Longman, 2004; trans. Sullivan & Murphy)
271 p. Second reading.
Some time ago I caught wind of the impending release of a new film version of Beowulf (which, such being my canny instincts in these matters, opens today), and though the eagerness of my anticipation has been worried from within by the knowledge that Angelina Jolie had been cast as — what? Grendel’s mother? — I nonetheless look forward to seeing it. It occurred to me that in preparation I might re-read the poem itself, and so I have done so.
Nobody really knows when Beowulf was composed (Michael D. C. Drout tries to summarize the possible datings here), but we can say with confidence that it was after about 520 AD (since it alludes to the death of Hygelac, king of the Geats and uncle of Beowulf, which took place in that year) and before about 1000 AD (when the single manuscript in which the poem survived was written). Though the poem was written in Anglo-Saxon England, the events narrated are set in what is now Denmark and southern Sweden. It is a poem, then, that looks back at the history and culture of “the old world”, the land from which the Anglo-Saxons had migrated — a medieval analogue of a Henry James novel, if I may be permitted such an incongruous comparison.
The story is straightforward enough, and falls into three main chapters. In the first, the mead-hall of Hrothgar, king of the Danes, is terrorized by a humanoid monster called Grendel. Beowulf, a Geat who lives across the water, hears of the horrible business and sees an opportunity for glory. He packs up a boat-load of his fellows and they set off to rescue the Danes from their danger. Beowulf confronts Grendel and literally tears into him, bringing the crisis to a satisfactory resolution. So much for Grendel. But their subsequent festivities are interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Grendel’s mother, who seems to believe that grief is best managed by wreaking mayhem and death. Beowulf pursues her to her cave and slays her. He and his companions then return triumphantly home, which brings the second chapter to a close. In the third and final sequence, fifty years have passed and Beowulf has become king. One day a hapless adventurer steals some gold from a dragon’s lair, and in response the enraged dragon sows destruction far and wide over the countryside. Beowulf sets out to slay the dragon, and succeeds, but suffers a mortal injury in the process. He is buried by his companions amid songs of praise.
It’s a good story, if a little more structurally disjoint than we have been trained to expect from modern literature. Part of its interest derives from the light it casts on Anglo-Saxon culture. There are clear Christian influences in the poem (numerous references to one Almighty God, or Grendel’s parentage traced to Cain, for instance), but none of the characters identify themselves as Christians, and bursting from the poem’s heart is the very foreign culture of Germanic paganism, a warrior culture. There is an impressive raft of characters, many sporting pronunciation-defying names like Ecgtheow, Yrmenlaf, or Daeghrefn, the strangeness of which serves as a reminder of the immense historical significance of that arrow that pierced the eye of Harold at the Battle of Hastings. The cultural aspect was especially interesting to me on this reading on account of my fairly recent visit to the British Museum in London where I saw the Sutton Hoo treasure, a fantastic collection of artifacts recovered from an Anglo-Saxon burial mound very much like the one to which Beowulf’s body is consigned at poem’s end.
In its day, it is likely that the poem would have been recited, or perhaps sung, by a “scop” in public performance. I have found a short video of medieval specialist Benjamin Bagby singing a portion of the poem. I don’t know how authentic the melody is, but he plays a small stringed instrument similar to one discovered at the Sutton Hoo site.
My good intentions to learn Old English have not progressed beyond the intentional stage, so of course I was obliged to read the poem in “translation”. This version, completed jointly by Alan Sullivan and Timothy Murphy, is excellent. I have nothing but praise for it. For instance, consider this passage, from Part III, in which the dragon discovers that a thief has stolen something from its lair:
the hoard-guard hunted
his hall while he slept.
but out in that wasteland
was not to be found.
how fit for battle!
he tracked the intruder
with glorious gold.
the dragon waited
The rage-swollen holder
was plotting reprisal:
Then day withdrew,
would linger no longer
His onset was awful
and a cruel ending
(ll. 2023-37)
It is true that this does not follow a strict Anglo-Saxon poetic pattern (perhaps those readers — or that reader, and he knows who he is — with a good grasp of such things can point out how it deviates), but nonetheless I think it’s quite strong, and captures the feel of Old English verse, which is arguably want I, as a reader, want. For purposes of comparison, here is the same passage as rendered by Seamus Heaney in his popular translation from several years ago:
The hoard-guardian
scorched the ground as he scoured and hunted
for the trespasser who had troubled his sleep.
Hot and savage, he kept circling and circling
the outside of the mound. No man appeared
in that desert waste, but he worked himself up
by imagining battle; then back in he’d go
in search of the cup, only to discover
signs that someone had stumbled upon
the golden treasures. So the guardian of the mound,
the hoard-watcher, waited for the gloaming
with fierce impatience; his pent-up fury
at the loss of the vessel made him long to hit back
and lash out in flames. Then, to his delight,
the day waned and he could wait no longer
behind the wall, but hurtled forth
in a fiery blaze. The first to suffer
were the people on the land, but before long
it was their treasure-giver who would come to grief.
(ll.2295-2309)
After reading Sullivan and Murphy, this feels wordy and flat-footed. Perhaps it is more faithfully literal, but even so I prefer Sullivan and Murphy, for theirs is more compact, muscular, and alliterative, and the rhythms are sprung delightfully, all of which are features I consider to be virtues in this repertoire. Bravo, gentlemen!
This edition has other merits besides the translation. It is filled out with a variety of supplementary materials: maps and genealogical charts that help with the reading of the poem itself, but also a wide selection of excerpts from Old English and Old Norse poetry and prose, and translations from Latin historical texts making reference to events or people mentioned in the poem, all of which serve to illuminate the context of the poem and the literary culture in which it was produced. I didn’t read all of this material, but I did look through it, and I’m glad to have it available. But perhaps my favourite part of the supplementary material was a section comparing prior translations of the poem. The authors juxtaposed nine different versions of the first twenty-five lines, in English translations dating from the first (1805) to recent times. It was fascinating to see how the different translators attempted, each in their own way, to render this wonderful poem for the benefit of interested readers, among whom I am happy to count myself.
November 16, 2007 at 12:08 pm
Both the translations deviate from both the metre and the rules of alliteration of Old English poetry. The metre, rather than the alliteration, is the most important feature in this type of verse. It is based on the weight of syllables, as opposed to the accent, which is what modern English poetry uses. The stress patterns are quite well defined and both these translators do not follow them strictly. They seem, to my ear, to adopt a more (though not strictly or overtly) iambic rhythm. This may have been their intention, but in my opinion, this really stifles the essential quality of the original verse.
The alliteration does have ornamental purposes, and good poems like Beowulf use them to full effect. (They can build up intricate patterns that link lines together — The Wanderer uses this to great effect.) But the chief function of alliteration is to highlight the rhythm. There are strict rules about what should alliterate and what should not. For example, the last stressed syllable in the second half-line should never alliterate. Both translations you have quoted do so frequently, so the authors have made a conscious decision not to heed that rule.
When it comes down to it, it is impossible to translate poetry. It is especially difficult from Old English to modern English because they are so closely related. I would agree with Craig that the version he read seems better than Heaney’s (but only based on the passages you have shown). But ultimately, I will always be disappointed with translations.
One final point: the original verse is much more compact: in this passage, for example, the original has at most six words in a line, while six words is the fewest in both of these translated passages. This is largely due to the more inflected nature of Old English: the modern language requires many more prepositions, articles and conjunctions. But I think a good approach to translating might be to try and pare down the word count as much as possible. Maybe I’ll give this passage a go sometime in the near future if I have time.
Both Tolkien and C.S. Lewis have good introductions to Old English metre. Tolkien’s is called “On Translating Beowulf” and can be found in the anthology The Monsters and the Critics. (He began a translation of Beowulf which looked very promising, but never finished it, unfortunately.) C.S. Lewis’s is called “The Alliterative Metre” and is in Rehabilitations and Other Essays.
November 16, 2007 at 10:06 pm
Thank you, Adam, for that explanation. I have The Monsters and the Critics on hold at the library, and I’ll be picking it up this weekend. I look forward to reading the essay you mention.