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Vikings on the Potomac
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B E A R I N G S Vikings on the Potomac: by Jeff Sypeck 06.19.00 | In the first few lines of the Anglo-Saxon epic Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney’s new translation of the epic recently followed in Scyld’s path. Published in February, Heaney’s Beowulf made its surprising appearance on Washington, D.C., bestseller lists by March, prompting cautious commentary for several weeks as it moved among the likes of Danielle Steele, Deepak Chopra, and John Grisham. Traditionalists praised the return of a "classic"; others saw it as a sign that the reading public wasn’t quite so illiterate after all. But Beowulf will soon be gone from the lists, its reign as fleeting and as inexplicable as Scyld’s. Not surprisingly, Heaney’s Beowulf crept up the local bestseller list amid a berserker frenzy of Vikings in the media, including an exhibit at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History, a National Geographic cover story, and multiple PBS specials (click here and here). "They earned their brutal reputation," touts a Time magazine cover story, "but the Norse were also craftsmen, explorers, and believers in democracy." It’s nice to see the Vikings being portrayed as something other than barbarians in loincloths for a change. Some Washingtonians, however, may be overextending this new assessment of medieval Germanic culture with a decidedly inappropriate spin. "I’ve been interested to learn, for example," Hillary Clinton told a Smithsonian audience in April 1999, "that within Viking society, women had a good deal of freedom - to engage in trade and to become active participants in the political lives of their communities." Someone had apparently neglected to brief Clinton on the great Njal’s Saga, in which the wives of two best friends fuel decades of pointless rivalry with the blood of family members and hapless acquaintances. And perhaps no one filled her in on the Havamal, a collection of Germanic aphorisms and folk wisdom attributed to Odin that’s replete with observations like, "such is the love of women, of those with false minds; it’s like driving a horse without spiked shoes over slippery ice … or like steering, in a swift wind, a rudderless boat." And when should a woman be praised? "When she is cremated," advises the Havamal; anything else is premature. On the other hand, ambitious Washingtonians may find much to admire in Viking culture. "Cattle die, kinsmen die, the self must also die," cautions the Havamal, adding "I know one thing which never dies: the reputation of each dead man." Glory seeking, eagerness for fame, and acquisition of wealth were an essential part of Germanic culture. How much power do I have? How will I be remembered? "Glory never dies, for the man who is able to achieve it": what twitchy Capitol Hill aide or steel-eyed K Street attorney hasn’t secretly pondered his own soaring legacy with similar purpose? But Beowulf is not an uncritical take on Germanic culture. The anonymous poet, influenced by medieval Christianity, has clear and decisive thoughts on the ultimate uselessness of earthly glory - puzzling subject matter indeed for a bestseller in the nation’s capital.
The Washington Post recently referred to Beowulf as "a story about valor and courage even in the face of fading strength and daunting odds." Everyone knows the "daunting odds" part: that Beowulf, a warrior of the Geats (from what is now modern Sweden) responds to a distress call from Denmark, where the mead-hall of King Hrothgar is being ravaged nightly by the depredations of the monster Grendel. Beowulf defeats Grendel, and kills the creature’s vengeful mother soon thereafter. Beowulf the superhero - that’s the story most people dimly remember from their English classes. But the hero’s fading strength is a more significant component of Beowulf’s story - and the part that many Washingtonians may, if they read that far, find somewhat disquieting. Before Beowulf returns to Geatland, the Danes throw him a going-away party. The aged Hrothgar, reflecting on his life, casts a shadow over the festivities with grim admonitions for the departing hero. First, he reminds Beowulf of Heremod, a bloodthirsty Danish tyrant who killed his own people, before advising him of his priorities and responsibilities. His long speech, peppered with Christian references, ends with an ominous warning: Choose, dear Beowulf, the better part, Fame, strength, power, and money all fade, says Hrothgar - and something, whether battle or old age, will get you in the end. Sic transit gloria mundi. The entire last third of the poem vindicates Hrothgar’s warning about the transitory nature of life and the uselessness of worldly concerns. Within just a few lines, two kings are dead and Beowulf, now an old man, has ruled the Geats for 50 years. (His reign is apparently uneventful; with faint praise, the poet touts the fact that Beowulf "never cut down a comrade who was drunk.") But wealth and greed complicate the hero’s twilight years. Ages earlier, the poet tells us, the anonymous last survivor of an ancient race buried his tribe’s treasures in the earth. In the end, it’s all useless to him; with his kinsmen dead, he "could look forward to nothing / but the same fate for himself: he foresaw that his joy / in the treasure would be brief." A dragon then finds the barrow and sits on it - after all, that’s what dragons do in Germanic mythology - but it is "to little avail," since the dragon can’t actually do anything with swords and shields and jewelry and coins except brood over them. When someone sneaks into the dragon’s lair and steals a single object, the greedy creature awakens and, in an orgy of mindless, raving destruction, sets Beowulf’s kingdom aflame - a blaze ignited by successive episodes of pointless acquisitiveness. The aged Beowulf, deserted by his shamefaced companions and sapped of his strength, dies defeating the dragon, and the poet’s final portrait of the hero as a man searching for a legacy is oddly relevant in Washington these days. The king has two dying requests: first, he wants to see the treasure he fought for; next, he asks that his people build a monument to him on a coastal headland, to "look over the horizon … and be a reminder among my people - so that in coming times crews under sail/will call it Beowulf’s Barrow, as they steer ships across the wide and shrouded waters." The Geats bury the dragon’s treasure beneath the monument, "gold under gravel, gone to earth, / as useless to men now as it ever was," memorializing Beowulf as "most gracious and fair-minded, / kindest to his people and keenest to win fame." The Anglo-Saxon poet had a single word for this last concept - lofgeornost - and it’s as damning a last word as any poem has seen. Hrothgar’s fame couldn’t protect him from Grendel; all the money in the world couldn’t assuage the loneliness of the last survivor; Beowulf’s status couldn’t protect him from the dragon. Power and wealth are irrelevant; all paths lead to the funeral pyre. Sic transit gloria mundi. Of course, few Washingtonians will read that far, through 3,300 lines of heroic diction and abstruse references to Germanic legend. Those who do may not fully appreciate Hrothgar’s message; those who have may not be quick to recommend the book to others. And thus the buzz dies down, and Beowulf quietly disappears from the bestseller list. Half-read copies, their covers sun-faded and pale, will quietly find their way onto yard-sale tables and the shelves of used bookstores. Ignoring this epic about the transitory nature of life and the futility of seeking earthly glory, Washington’s politicians, lawyers, business leaders, and all of their hangers-on will continue to gain and lose influence, accumulate and squander wealth, and seek power. Why, then, did Washington briefly rally around Seamus Heaney’s new translation of this somber epic in the first place? The answer may lie not in the most simplistic explanation - the shrill cry that "great literature," whatever that is, is timeless - but in the actual design and production of the book itself. This new edition includes the poem in its original language, obscure and incomprehensible to those without the benefit of either linguistic training or a graduate seminar on Old English. Cryptic Germanic padding effectively doubles the size of the book, justifying an otherwise unacceptable $25 price tag and adding to the weird allure of the whole package. The striking cover, showing the head and shoulders of a warrior enmeshed in chain-mail, touts this "bilingual edition," just above the shiny gold sticker reminding the purchaser that this Beowulf is "Winner of the Whitbread Award." It’s a handsome book by nearly any standard. In an age of vanity presses, desktop publishing, fanzines, and do-it-yourself Web pages, publishers Farrar, Straus and Giroux have turned back time. Heaney’s Beowulf is in 2000 what a finely crafted medieval manuscript was in its own day: a status object. Washington would be a fine place if we could praise our leaders simply because they didn’t slay their friends in drunken brawls. But it would be finer still if Beowulf were a bestseller in Washington for the right reasons. The poem reminds us that the pursuit of wealth and worldly power is self-deluding and ultimately pointless. Beowulf’s monument to himself, on the other hand, reminds us that it’s nothing new.
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