Even taking the past on its own terms and not imposing our modern understanding, it is impossible not to look at the Middle Ages and be constantly aware of how different the world was six hundred and more years ago. There are moments where a reader of medieval literature can easily find familiarity, but those moments are greatly overshadowed by the largely overlooked differences.
The Middle Ages form an other simply in the fact that that era is past and no scholar of the present can identify with it fully. We are outsiders looking in, but there's a thick pane in the glass of time that we just can't get past. Does our interest make the Middle Ages less of an other, because we so often seek and find ourselves in the people of our past? Or does our fascination reverberate with a further othering, because we cannot fully understand? Perhaps we are intrigued by the Middle Ages the way the Roland poet or the Beowulf poet seem fascinated with a religious culture not their own, and yet fail to fully prevent their self-understanding from color how they understand that other.
I am constantly reminded by the people I know who aren't medieval scholars that this era that fascinates me has no hold on their interest. My peers in the theatre department were teasing me just this morning for knowing the meaning of the -wright in playwright as 'to make' or 'to build.' It seems every little thing I know has something to do with Middle English, which one friend jokingly imitates by mumbling through his beard incoherently. If I am in some small way othered by my study of the Middle Ages, then to the general population outside our small world of medievalists, how much of an other must the era itself be?
Perhaps in some ways it is monstrous too. Life was terrible then, people say. No indoor plumbing, no central heating, the plague, low life expectancy. Every child who wants to be a princess or a knight eventually grows up to realize that in the Middle Ages they probably would have been a peasant and dead in their twenties or thirties. It's frightening to imagine living then. The Middle Ages are monstrous to us indeed, even if those who study it are perhaps desensitized to it. Why else would we equate the Middle Ages positively as just the time between better eras, and negatively as the Dark Ages?
Showing posts with label Leah Pope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Leah Pope. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Margery Kempe's Monstrous Otherness
At first I didn't find anything odd about reading a book by a woman in a class about the monstrous and the other. Femininity was a massive point of othering, so of course it makes sense to read something exploring that group. But the more I read of Margery's book, the more clear it becomes that Margery is not really a part of 'that group.' She is not othered just because she is a woman, she is othered even from women by being almost monstrously different.
A large part of what makes Margery 'not quite right' to those whom she writes as her contemporaries is the fact that she does not behave as a woman should. She screams in church, she refuses to sleep with her husband, she goes off traveling, she claims knowledge of God. Some of what she does may even be slightly less weird because she is a woman - we would all be raising our eyebrows a little higher if a man was writing about being wedded to the Godhead. But most of Margery's oddities would be a problem for a man as much as for a women. Pilgrims who want a jolly supper would probably have been just as unfriendly to a man trying to talk about solemn church things all the time, and they probably would have been even less gentle kicking him out of their company. If a man screamed in church, the parishioners would be just as annoyed. If a layman was claiming direct access to God, he would have been dubbed just as much a false Lollard as Margery was.
Margery's experience is not what anyone would call that of a normal or average woman in late medieval England. So if she is not part of an othered group, can she still be an other? Or is it when a definite other cannot be grouped in with others of its ilk that it becomes - as perhaps Margery does - a monster?
A large part of what makes Margery 'not quite right' to those whom she writes as her contemporaries is the fact that she does not behave as a woman should. She screams in church, she refuses to sleep with her husband, she goes off traveling, she claims knowledge of God. Some of what she does may even be slightly less weird because she is a woman - we would all be raising our eyebrows a little higher if a man was writing about being wedded to the Godhead. But most of Margery's oddities would be a problem for a man as much as for a women. Pilgrims who want a jolly supper would probably have been just as unfriendly to a man trying to talk about solemn church things all the time, and they probably would have been even less gentle kicking him out of their company. If a man screamed in church, the parishioners would be just as annoyed. If a layman was claiming direct access to God, he would have been dubbed just as much a false Lollard as Margery was.
Margery's experience is not what anyone would call that of a normal or average woman in late medieval England. So if she is not part of an othered group, can she still be an other? Or is it when a definite other cannot be grouped in with others of its ilk that it becomes - as perhaps Margery does - a monster?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Silence in the Romance Thereof
It feels fairly obvious that Silence is not so named for nothing. I feel the need to use male pronouns when talking about Silence's outward life, because Heldris has thus far only used feminine pronouns when Silence is having a crisis of identity and is about to decide to live as a woman.
So he is obviously named Silentius for the secrecy he lives under. Although he is regularly unsure of whether he should remain a he, his silence and that of his parents and friends is what keeps it going. But the very name calls our attention not only to other uses of the word silence, but also points where sound in incongruous with it.
At Silence's naming, Cador says, 'Silence relieves anxiety' (2069). That is fairly straightforward, 'silence' serves as both the child and calmness, peace. But then, after hearing of Silence's disappearance, when Heldris is describing the grief of Cador and Eufemie, he mentions it being 'appropriate to keep silent' over one's grief (3032). Is the reference to the cause of their grief her intended? The jongleurs, shortly thereafter, are silenced that Silence might play (3158). How odd it is, that Silence is in fact the only one permitted to not be silent!
A final set of weighty uses of Silence's name top off the first half of the poem. While Silence is overhearing the plots against him, 'Silence was listening and heard them' (3403). And, 'Silence didn't want to utter a word' (3410). And yet, it is through sound that Silence, who, with a capital S, reads more like the embodiments of Nature and Nurture than any other character, easily sends the treacherous jongleurs on their way.
So he is obviously named Silentius for the secrecy he lives under. Although he is regularly unsure of whether he should remain a he, his silence and that of his parents and friends is what keeps it going. But the very name calls our attention not only to other uses of the word silence, but also points where sound in incongruous with it.
At Silence's naming, Cador says, 'Silence relieves anxiety' (2069). That is fairly straightforward, 'silence' serves as both the child and calmness, peace. But then, after hearing of Silence's disappearance, when Heldris is describing the grief of Cador and Eufemie, he mentions it being 'appropriate to keep silent' over one's grief (3032). Is the reference to the cause of their grief her intended? The jongleurs, shortly thereafter, are silenced that Silence might play (3158). How odd it is, that Silence is in fact the only one permitted to not be silent!
A final set of weighty uses of Silence's name top off the first half of the poem. While Silence is overhearing the plots against him, 'Silence was listening and heard them' (3403). And, 'Silence didn't want to utter a word' (3410). And yet, it is through sound that Silence, who, with a capital S, reads more like the embodiments of Nature and Nurture than any other character, easily sends the treacherous jongleurs on their way.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
What Alan Leaves Out
Alan of Lille gives what seems to be an extensive list of animalia when describing the cloak and vestments of Nature in The Plaint of Nature. His structure to this leaves vast room for analysis of how each creature merited importance and what apparently did not.
Alan goes through the birds first, listing at least 34 by my count. It includes birds of prey, exotic birds, commonplace birds, domestic birds, woodland birds, mountain birds, you name it. Aside from considering a bat to be a bird, for which we must forgive Alan given the knowledge of his time, the list is fairly comprehensive. Only 16 fish are named, but they span salt and fresh water, edible and not - also fairly comprehensive.
The land animals less so. We have 27... mammals. Alan gets a good range in, from elephants to squirrels and including even the fanciful unicorn, and yet he only considers the furry critters among us to be worth mention. Why does Alan leave out reptiles, amphibians and - possibly the least forgivable - bugs? It seems that insects and arachnids, etc should be plenty noticeable to Alan, so he does not have the excuse that perhaps lizards and frogs were not present in his mind. Is Alan suggesting by omission that such creatures are not so much within the domain of nature? Or was it merely something he overlooked?
On a tangentially related note - why is it that Alan never mentions Helen of Troy by name? She becomes the Curly's wife of The Plaint of Nature. But while he seems to have no problem with direct name-dropping, why does Alan shy from using hers? Virgil, too, is brought up by periphrasis, though not repeatedly like Helen. Paris and Aeneas, matching to each, are mentioned easily - so why not these?
Alan goes through the birds first, listing at least 34 by my count. It includes birds of prey, exotic birds, commonplace birds, domestic birds, woodland birds, mountain birds, you name it. Aside from considering a bat to be a bird, for which we must forgive Alan given the knowledge of his time, the list is fairly comprehensive. Only 16 fish are named, but they span salt and fresh water, edible and not - also fairly comprehensive.
The land animals less so. We have 27... mammals. Alan gets a good range in, from elephants to squirrels and including even the fanciful unicorn, and yet he only considers the furry critters among us to be worth mention. Why does Alan leave out reptiles, amphibians and - possibly the least forgivable - bugs? It seems that insects and arachnids, etc should be plenty noticeable to Alan, so he does not have the excuse that perhaps lizards and frogs were not present in his mind. Is Alan suggesting by omission that such creatures are not so much within the domain of nature? Or was it merely something he overlooked?
On a tangentially related note - why is it that Alan never mentions Helen of Troy by name? She becomes the Curly's wife of The Plaint of Nature. But while he seems to have no problem with direct name-dropping, why does Alan shy from using hers? Virgil, too, is brought up by periphrasis, though not repeatedly like Helen. Paris and Aeneas, matching to each, are mentioned easily - so why not these?
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Question
The purpose of the Question is not so much for Parzival to know what the Question is, so much as to test whether he's the kind of person who would ask the Question. So why is Parzival still out of luck?
The little courtly training Parzival has had served to curb his natural inquisitiveness. The little Parzival who asked the knight if he was God probably would have asked so many questions during the Gral procession that he would have hit the right one eventually. But the more grown up Parzival - the very same knight who gets welcomed to the Table Round - has other things on his mind. After the Gral comes out, the first we hear of Parzival is only peripherally related to the Gral: "This tale declares that Parzival gazed and wondered on that lady intently who had brought in that Gral, and well he might, since it was her cloak that he was wearing" (125-126). Parzival's thoughts are at least in the right direction, but he is distracted by the gesture he received from the Gral-bearer. Would he have thought of the Question if she had not given him her cloak?
It seems Parzival is put more at a disadvantage by the reception of his hosts than by incapability to ponder. "...they had come to know heartfelt grief. Parzival was not made to know this in any way" (121). Sure, Parzival should notice that the lord of the castle is incredibly ill, but he specifically says that God crippled his body - how was Parzival to know that his compassion could remedy that misery?
If Parzival was supposed to be the kind of person who would as the Question, I am not convinced that not being that person makes him quite the terrible churl that Sigune and Cundrie declare him to be. Parzival was acting in a perfectly rational and polite way given the information that was presented to him, so why should he have to bear such insults because the folks at Wildenberg were disappointed after hardly giving him a chance?
The little courtly training Parzival has had served to curb his natural inquisitiveness. The little Parzival who asked the knight if he was God probably would have asked so many questions during the Gral procession that he would have hit the right one eventually. But the more grown up Parzival - the very same knight who gets welcomed to the Table Round - has other things on his mind. After the Gral comes out, the first we hear of Parzival is only peripherally related to the Gral: "This tale declares that Parzival gazed and wondered on that lady intently who had brought in that Gral, and well he might, since it was her cloak that he was wearing" (125-126). Parzival's thoughts are at least in the right direction, but he is distracted by the gesture he received from the Gral-bearer. Would he have thought of the Question if she had not given him her cloak?
It seems Parzival is put more at a disadvantage by the reception of his hosts than by incapability to ponder. "...they had come to know heartfelt grief. Parzival was not made to know this in any way" (121). Sure, Parzival should notice that the lord of the castle is incredibly ill, but he specifically says that God crippled his body - how was Parzival to know that his compassion could remedy that misery?
If Parzival was supposed to be the kind of person who would as the Question, I am not convinced that not being that person makes him quite the terrible churl that Sigune and Cundrie declare him to be. Parzival was acting in a perfectly rational and polite way given the information that was presented to him, so why should he have to bear such insults because the folks at Wildenberg were disappointed after hardly giving him a chance?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Kriemhild and Friends
It seems a bit odd to me that Kriemhild is described with so little detail for all that she is clearly the dominating female presence of The Nibelungenlied. We are told again and again that she is beautiful and “beyond all measure lovely” (17), et cetera, but we never really learn anything about what she actually looks like. In fact, it seems that as much detail is expended describing Kriemhild’s attendants as Kriemhild herself.
In the prelude to Siegfried and Kriemhild’s first meeting, “Uote appeared with Kriemhild, having chosen for company a hundred fair ladies or more, magnificently gowned, while her daughter, too, was attended by a troop of comely maidens” (47). In this instance, we have no description of how Uote and Kriemhild were dressed at all, and they are only bolstered by the grandeur of those they employ – as though having the lovelier attendants goes to proves one’s own beauty.
Kriemhild is constantly paired with this bevy of lovely ladies. When Siegfried and Gunther come to speak to her, “the lovely girl dressed herself exquisitely … and now her train, too, were adorned becomingly” (55). It is as though the presence of her well-dressed train is substitute for a description of her exquisite clothing. Yet, in some places we are told specifics of what people wear, and thus we can take those incidents therefore to have the greater weight for being so rare. These moments include descriptions of the clothing made for Gunther’s sojourn to Brunhild as being made of silk from fanciful Arabian cities.
But perhaps more interesting is the moment Kriemhild appears without her cohorts. The night of Gunther and Brunhild’s wedding, “Kriemhild was summoned before the King, and she appeared at the foot of the hall with her comely maidens in attendance: but at once Giselher leapt down the stair. ‘Tell these girls to withdraw – only my sister is to remain with the King!’ and so Kriemhild was ushered into the royal presence…” (85). Kriemhild has practically been asked to appear without her clothes.
It is not until the scene of Kriemhild’s legal marriage that she is permitted to appear without accompaniment, and it seems this is because she has gained some kind of new stature. After this scene she immediately begins appearing without attendants (mostly at night, with Siegfried), which leads me to conclude that once she is officially Siegfried’s bride, she no longer needs this lovely accompaniment to testify to her own beauty. Perhaps it is only in marriage that Kriemhild is finally made beautiful without question.
In the prelude to Siegfried and Kriemhild’s first meeting, “Uote appeared with Kriemhild, having chosen for company a hundred fair ladies or more, magnificently gowned, while her daughter, too, was attended by a troop of comely maidens” (47). In this instance, we have no description of how Uote and Kriemhild were dressed at all, and they are only bolstered by the grandeur of those they employ – as though having the lovelier attendants goes to proves one’s own beauty.
Kriemhild is constantly paired with this bevy of lovely ladies. When Siegfried and Gunther come to speak to her, “the lovely girl dressed herself exquisitely … and now her train, too, were adorned becomingly” (55). It is as though the presence of her well-dressed train is substitute for a description of her exquisite clothing. Yet, in some places we are told specifics of what people wear, and thus we can take those incidents therefore to have the greater weight for being so rare. These moments include descriptions of the clothing made for Gunther’s sojourn to Brunhild as being made of silk from fanciful Arabian cities.
But perhaps more interesting is the moment Kriemhild appears without her cohorts. The night of Gunther and Brunhild’s wedding, “Kriemhild was summoned before the King, and she appeared at the foot of the hall with her comely maidens in attendance: but at once Giselher leapt down the stair. ‘Tell these girls to withdraw – only my sister is to remain with the King!’ and so Kriemhild was ushered into the royal presence…” (85). Kriemhild has practically been asked to appear without her clothes.
It is not until the scene of Kriemhild’s legal marriage that she is permitted to appear without accompaniment, and it seems this is because she has gained some kind of new stature. After this scene she immediately begins appearing without attendants (mostly at night, with Siegfried), which leads me to conclude that once she is officially Siegfried’s bride, she no longer needs this lovely accompaniment to testify to her own beauty. Perhaps it is only in marriage that Kriemhild is finally made beautiful without question.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Beheading Game
The beheading challenge in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight presents the immediate and obvious problem that the Green Knight should not have survived Gawain's blow. It seems both cruel for Gawain to accept and silly not to - after a single strike he will have won. He will have secured his reputation as being up for any challenge, and he will have expelled that creepy green fellow from the court.
And yet there is a hovering what if. What if the Green Knight survives to strike a return blow in a year's time? Aside from common knowledge asserting that the Green Knight will die... what about his personage suggests that he won't survive? He's part giant, perhaps a bit elvish in appearance, and as such is massive. He comes shoeless, without armor and bearing a holly bough, asserting peace, but also carrying the axe for his own beheading. Even disregarding the fact that he's green, I don't think this stranger ought to be trusted and he certainly does not come across as the kind of idiot who would get himself killed. In fact, I should think that in all cases of beheading challenges, the challenged party would get a little suspicious that the knight offering up his own neck would have something up his sleeve.
Given this reasonable mistrust, I am not at all surprised that Gawain flinched while receiving his own blow. Why would this enchanted Green Knight magick his way out of his own beheading only to teach Gawain a lesson? So of course Gawain fully expected to die... And of course the poet needed him to flinch in order to further teach the lesson that he should have faced his own death bravely.
I have to wonder though, if the Green Knight (and his enchantress backer who will remain unnamed lest I spoil the end) has such magic that he can survive his own beheading, would he have been able to make Gawain survive a beheading as well? Would living through what he expected to be his death be a much more effective method of teaching bravery? Or would subjecting Gawain to such a supernatural experience take away from his (more or less) untainted perfection of chivalry?
And yet there is a hovering what if. What if the Green Knight survives to strike a return blow in a year's time? Aside from common knowledge asserting that the Green Knight will die... what about his personage suggests that he won't survive? He's part giant, perhaps a bit elvish in appearance, and as such is massive. He comes shoeless, without armor and bearing a holly bough, asserting peace, but also carrying the axe for his own beheading. Even disregarding the fact that he's green, I don't think this stranger ought to be trusted and he certainly does not come across as the kind of idiot who would get himself killed. In fact, I should think that in all cases of beheading challenges, the challenged party would get a little suspicious that the knight offering up his own neck would have something up his sleeve.
Given this reasonable mistrust, I am not at all surprised that Gawain flinched while receiving his own blow. Why would this enchanted Green Knight magick his way out of his own beheading only to teach Gawain a lesson? So of course Gawain fully expected to die... And of course the poet needed him to flinch in order to further teach the lesson that he should have faced his own death bravely.
I have to wonder though, if the Green Knight (and his enchantress backer who will remain unnamed lest I spoil the end) has such magic that he can survive his own beheading, would he have been able to make Gawain survive a beheading as well? Would living through what he expected to be his death be a much more effective method of teaching bravery? Or would subjecting Gawain to such a supernatural experience take away from his (more or less) untainted perfection of chivalry?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wealhtheow the Slave-Servant
Knowing what we do about Wealhtheow (particularly regarding her prominence in Hrothgar's court and her contrast to Grendel's mother), how can we explain a name like Wealhtheow?
While at least one scholar has noted that this could be a nickname, I have to contest - what kind of nickname is a literal combination for "slave/foreigner" and "servant?" The possibility that someone consciously applied that name to this woman (whether it was the poet or someone who knew her)suggests that we may extrapolate from that name deeper knowledge of her character and position in both Danish society and the poem. As I mentioned previously, Wealhtheow seems to present an example of a strong queen. How, then is she slave, foreigner or servant?
It seems more logical that the "Weal-" portion of her name suggests that she is a foreigner, an outsider to this culture. From all that we have seen presenting women as peace-weavers in this culture, Wealhtheow could easily have been born leagues upon leagues away and married to Hrothgar to seal some sort of peace accord. In that sense, although made immediately royal by her status among the Danes, she is a slave to that self-same peace. In the seventeenth fit, Wealhtheow comes forward immediately following the story of how Hildeburh lost brother, husband, son, everything through the pitfalls of her own peace-weaving, and we see that Wealhtheow is aware of this because she presently defends the rights of her sons. Although the individual composing Wealhtheow's nickname may have intended the meaning 'foreigner,' 'slave' seems to be just as appropriate to her tightly locked position in Hrothgar's hall, in which she has very little freedom at all.
The fact that her name/nickname concludes "-theow" or "servant" perhaps should not surprise us, especially if we consider Wealhtheow an example of what a good hall-wife should do: serve her people and her guests. Wealhtheow is clearly described passing the mead cup from highest- to lowest-ranking thanes in Heorot and finally to Beowulf. Additionally, she serves Beowulf in presenting him with gifts. And on a bawdier note, she clearly serves Hrothgar when he wishes to seek his queen's bedchamber (664-665).
For all that Wealhtheow is a prominent figure in these first two-thirds of the poem (she is the only woman exposed to the grisly spectacle of Grendel's head, for example, in lines 1648-50), she is not necessarily a dominant character. As weird as is feels to jokingly (or heaven forbid - tenderly) call someone your dearest slave-servant, the name certainly fits.
While at least one scholar has noted that this could be a nickname, I have to contest - what kind of nickname is a literal combination for "slave/foreigner" and "servant?" The possibility that someone consciously applied that name to this woman (whether it was the poet or someone who knew her)suggests that we may extrapolate from that name deeper knowledge of her character and position in both Danish society and the poem. As I mentioned previously, Wealhtheow seems to present an example of a strong queen. How, then is she slave, foreigner or servant?
It seems more logical that the "Weal-" portion of her name suggests that she is a foreigner, an outsider to this culture. From all that we have seen presenting women as peace-weavers in this culture, Wealhtheow could easily have been born leagues upon leagues away and married to Hrothgar to seal some sort of peace accord. In that sense, although made immediately royal by her status among the Danes, she is a slave to that self-same peace. In the seventeenth fit, Wealhtheow comes forward immediately following the story of how Hildeburh lost brother, husband, son, everything through the pitfalls of her own peace-weaving, and we see that Wealhtheow is aware of this because she presently defends the rights of her sons. Although the individual composing Wealhtheow's nickname may have intended the meaning 'foreigner,' 'slave' seems to be just as appropriate to her tightly locked position in Hrothgar's hall, in which she has very little freedom at all.
The fact that her name/nickname concludes "-theow" or "servant" perhaps should not surprise us, especially if we consider Wealhtheow an example of what a good hall-wife should do: serve her people and her guests. Wealhtheow is clearly described passing the mead cup from highest- to lowest-ranking thanes in Heorot and finally to Beowulf. Additionally, she serves Beowulf in presenting him with gifts. And on a bawdier note, she clearly serves Hrothgar when he wishes to seek his queen's bedchamber (664-665).
For all that Wealhtheow is a prominent figure in these first two-thirds of the poem (she is the only woman exposed to the grisly spectacle of Grendel's head, for example, in lines 1648-50), she is not necessarily a dominant character. As weird as is feels to jokingly (or heaven forbid - tenderly) call someone your dearest slave-servant, the name certainly fits.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Power behind Hrothgar's Throne
Who is Wealhtheow? She is Hrothgar's queen, we know that much. But aside from numerous qualities praising her to this extent, that is all we know. And yet she is vastly important. For all that she is relationally ambiguous, she is hugely important to the first two parts of the story. Hrothgar rarely appears without her, and her presence is much more than just silent feminine existence.
Notably, in a passage following the fatal injury of Grendel, Hrothgar "strode glorious / from the women's chambers" (is this a shameful place to be? this is where he has been in hiding) "with a great entourage, / a chosen retinue, and his royal queen with him / measured the meadhall-path" (lines 921-924). In the day of victory, Wealhtheow emerges triumphant alongside Hrothgar. It would seem that during a time of danger, he was actually taking refuge in the women's quarters, in her domain where she would assume a dominant protective role. We are told earlier that "The war-chief wished to seek Wealhtheow, / his queen's bedchamber" (lines 664-664). Whether there is a sexual refuge implied here or not, Wealhtheow is definitely given the authority of being Hrothgar's safe space when he doesn't want to die a horrible death at Grendel's hands.
Additionally, during the celebratory feasting, it is Wealhtheow that we hear speak, far more than anyone else. We are told of the gifts Hrothgar gives to Beowulf, but it is Wealhtheow who provides the poet with commentative narrative within the story. She is the character strong enough to present gifts along with compliments and well-wishes for their use. "Beowulf, beloved warrior, wear this neck-ring..." (line 1216). Et cetera.
The real clincher in her position as a powerful female figure in her community is her behavior as hostess. She concludes the short speech begun above thus: "The troop, having drunk at my table, will do as I bid" (line 1231). This is her party, and she knows it.
It seems that Hrothgar is as much defined by his queen - and by her constant strong presence - as he is by Heorot or the persecution from Grendel. She is quite literally the power behind his throne.
Notably, in a passage following the fatal injury of Grendel, Hrothgar "strode glorious / from the women's chambers" (is this a shameful place to be? this is where he has been in hiding) "with a great entourage, / a chosen retinue, and his royal queen with him / measured the meadhall-path" (lines 921-924). In the day of victory, Wealhtheow emerges triumphant alongside Hrothgar. It would seem that during a time of danger, he was actually taking refuge in the women's quarters, in her domain where she would assume a dominant protective role. We are told earlier that "The war-chief wished to seek Wealhtheow, / his queen's bedchamber" (lines 664-664). Whether there is a sexual refuge implied here or not, Wealhtheow is definitely given the authority of being Hrothgar's safe space when he doesn't want to die a horrible death at Grendel's hands.
Additionally, during the celebratory feasting, it is Wealhtheow that we hear speak, far more than anyone else. We are told of the gifts Hrothgar gives to Beowulf, but it is Wealhtheow who provides the poet with commentative narrative within the story. She is the character strong enough to present gifts along with compliments and well-wishes for their use. "Beowulf, beloved warrior, wear this neck-ring..." (line 1216). Et cetera.
The real clincher in her position as a powerful female figure in her community is her behavior as hostess. She concludes the short speech begun above thus: "The troop, having drunk at my table, will do as I bid" (line 1231). This is her party, and she knows it.
It seems that Hrothgar is as much defined by his queen - and by her constant strong presence - as he is by Heorot or the persecution from Grendel. She is quite literally the power behind his throne.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Triumph over the Mind and Spirit
The Song of Roland seizes upon conversion as an opportunity to triumph over pagans, not just in killing them (triumph through death) but also is asserting that their truth of God and eternity is correct (triumph through life?). And when asked which is worse, to be beaten in death or beaten – perhaps more accurately, captured – in life, Roland definitely leans toward the greater victory being in the one that lasts (infinitely) longer.
The Archbishop Turpin is praised for two skills: that of battle and that of conversion. Roland himself praises the more highly (placing it last of his eulogy before a final blessing) that “Since the apostles there was never such a prophet / For maintaining the faith and winning men over” (v. 2255-2256). Previous to this point we have witnessed Turpin slay countless pagans in battle, but it is this quality that Roland ultimately praises, as if to say that it is far more worthy of praise than mere victory in battle.
The conversion of Bramimonde, perhaps appropriately, begins with the defeat of her husband in battle. She despairs of her gods (which the poet completely inaccurately names as Muhammad, Turvagant and Apollo – but who ever said that medieval Christians had a completely accurate view of Islam?), casting her idols into ditches and otherwise defacing them on pp. 110-111. The emir, Baligant, makes the same transition during his fight with Charlemagne – he “begins to realize / That he is wrong and Charlemagne is right” (v. 3553-3554). It seems that victory in the physical realm is only a stepping stone to victory in the spiritual realm. On the next page (p. 143) the emir attempts to assert feudal lordship by urging Charles to give in and become his vassal, but Charlemagne responds by urging Baligant to give in and accept Christianity, showing that Charlemagne values spiritual dominance over feudal (or martial) conquest.
As the clinching point for his victory, rather than forcibly baptizing Bramimonde along with the hundred thousand pagans left in Saragossa, Charlemagne decides that she will be persuaded to convert. “She will be taken as a captive to fair France; / The king wishes her to become a convert through love” (v. 3673-3674). What he intends is something more than a triumph over someone in battle (through killing them) or a triumph over someone’s free will (by forcing them to be baptized). It is a triumph over the mind and spirit and the ultimate vindication that he is in the right. And indeed, the poem cannot be complete until the last page whereon Bramimonde “has heard so many sermons and parables” (v. 3979) that she desires Christianity actively, not just as an alternative to death. It is the last line of the contained story (before a final epilogue-esque bit about Charlemagne) that “She is a Christian, convinced of the truth” (v. 3987) – this is the symbolic victory Glyn Burgess speaks of in the Introduction, and it is vastly more cathartic to the end of the story than the less than satisfactory (due to the loss of Roland) actual, physical victory over paganism.
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