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Wednesday
I’ve been teaching Beowulf as part of our church’s reading program and was struck, as I reread it, by the applicability of the Finn saga to America’s battles over “wokeism.” The woke character is Frisian king Finn in one of the stories within Beowulf that audiences would have known from elsewhere. It’s an episode that, in the past, I have applied to battles between Israelis and Palestinians, but unfortunately it fits our own internecine quarrels only too well.
The story is a little confusing to modern readers because it has gaps that the original audience could have filled in. Princess Hildeburh of the Danes has been married to the Frisian king in a diplomatic effort to patch up old quarrels. Unfortunately, these quarrels break out again when Hildeburh’s brother is visiting Finn, perhaps as part of continuing diplomatic efforts. Somehow some of the warriors in Finn’s court start taunting the Danes–or something along these lines–and a fight breaks out. In the end, both Hildeburh’s Danish brother on one side and her Frisian son on the other are killed.
Finn, who never wanted the fight in the first place—his desire for peace is the reason he married Hildeburh in the first place—now has a new problem on his hands. Neither side has prevailed and so, while a truce has been declared, he has on his hands angry Frisians and angry Danes. Furthermore, because it’s winter, the Danes can’t sail home, which means they all have to find a way to coexist peacefully. In other words, he’s ruling over fractious factions who, at the least provocation, are prepared to renew fighting. Is this beginning to sound familiar?
Finn’s solution is to go woke. Everyone will receive the same number of gold-wrought rings and no provocation, either by word (taunts or insults) or deed (punches thrown) will be permitted:
So a truce was offered
as follows: first
separate quarters
to be cleared for the Danes,
hall and throne
to be shared with the Frisians.
Then, second:
every day
at the dole-out of gifts
Finn, son of Focwald,
should honor the Danes,
bestow with an even
hand to Hengest
and Hengest’s men
the wrought-gold rings
bounty to match
the measure he gave
his own Frisians—
to keep morale
in the beer-hall high.
Both sides then
the Danish
sealed their agreement
with Oaths to Hengest t
Finn swore
openly, solemnly,
that the battle survivors
would be guaranteed
honor and status.
No infringement
by word or deed,
no provocation
would be permitted.
To back this up, Finn promises to execute his own warriors if they are at fault:
So if any Frisian
stirred up bad blood
with insinuations
or taunts about this,
the blade of the sword
would arbitrate it.
As I noted in my previous post, the stranded Danish warriors are spread through Friesland in a situation not unlike Jewish settlements on the West bank. And both Israelis and Palestinians, the Danes are harboring grievances:
Warriors scattered
to homes and forts
all over Friesland
fewer now, feeling
loss of friends.
Meanwhile, Hengest, who has taken command of the Danes after the death of Hildebuhr’s brother, must live in Finn’s hall. He too broods:
Hengest stayed,
lived out that
resentful, blood-sullen
winter with Finn,
homesick and helpless.
We are told that he longs for vengeance and “to bring things to a head.” All it takes is for one of his men to drop a sword in his lap and for a couple of others to remind him of old grievances:
So he did not balk
once Hunlafing
placed on his lap
Dazzle-the-Duel,
the best sword of all,
whose edges Jutes
knew only too well
And:
after Guthlaf and Oslaf
back from their voyage
made old accusation:
the brutal ambush,
the fate they had suffered,
all blamed on Finn.
It doesn’t take much for old rivalries to blaze into a conflagration, and that’s what happens:
The wildness in them
had to brim over.
The hall ran red
with blood of enemies.
Finn was cut down,
the queen brought away
and everything
the Shieldings could find
inside Finn’s walls —
the Frisian king’s
gold collars and gemstones —
swept off to the ship.
This, to be sure, is Danish wish fulfillment, a fantasy of totally annihilating your enemy. The real lesson here, however, is that a diplomatic marriage has failed to work, which means that violence will continue on unabated. The Frisians may be down but they’re not out, and the Danes can expect reprisals.
Later on in the poem, Beowulf notes the tenuousness of diplomatic marriage, observing,
But generally the spear
is prompt to retaliate when a prince is killed,
no matter how admirable the bride may be.
He goes on to describe a scenario very much like the one Finn is banning hate speech to avoid: formerly warring parties, supposedly brought together by such an alliance, will be unable to forget past animosities. As I read the following passage, I think of bar talk where, say, racial grievances—whether real or imagined—inflame imaginations. (Perhaps a person of color has landed a job a white speaker thought was rightfully his.) Today, people reach for keyboards—or occasionally guns—rather than swords, but the effect is to keep the wounds ever fresh:
Then an old spearman will speak while they are drinking,
having glimpsed some heirloom that brings alive
memories of the massacre; his mood will darken
and heart-stricken, in the stress of his emotion,
he will begin to test a young man’s temper
and stir up trouble, starting like this:
“Now, my friend, don’t you recognize
your father’s sword, his favorite weapon,
the one he wore when he went out in his war-mask
to face the Danes on that final day?
After Withergeld died and his men were doomed,
the Shieldings quickly claimed the field;
and now here’s a son of one or other
of those same killers coming through our hall
overbearing us, mouthing boasts,
and rigged in armor that by right is yours.”
And so he keeps on, recalling and accusing,
working things up with bitter words
until one of the lady’s retainers lies
spattered in blood, split open
on his father’s account.
So what would Beowulf do? At the very least, he provides his warrior society with a different model: he does not hold grudges, he shares what he gains freely, and he follows orderly procedure, awaiting his turn to be king rather than jumping the line. As the poet reports,
Thus Beowulf bore himself with valor;
he was formidable in battle yet behaved with honor
and took no advantage; never cut down
a comrade who was drunk, kept his temper
and, warrior that he was, watched and controlled
his God-sent strength and his outstanding
natural powers.
Once upon a time, Americans valued such qualities in a leader, although we might substitute “never cut down a comrade who was drunk” with “never used his office to unfairly enrich himself” or “never handed out corrupt pardons.”
The question is whether we will live into a modern version of the Beowulf model or whether we will suffer the fate of a Finn, who is unable to prevent the Danish-Frisian feud from killing everyone–brother, son, husband–that Hildeburgh loves. No one wins in the latter scenario.
