Beowulvian Saints

The Twelve Apostles as traditional Germanic heroes in Andreas

There’s a certain theory, popular in nationalist circles, according to which the Christian religion was fundamentally altered by adaptation to the barbarian cultures of early medieval Europe. Supposedly, Christianity entered northern Europe as a ‘world-denying’ Semitic priestly cult and ended up becoming a ‘life-affirming’ Germanic warrior creed, in much the same way as some jagged irritant in an oyster’s shell might be smoothed into a pearl by successive coatings of nacre. Thus, apparently, there need be no contradiction between the defence of Christian cultural heritage and a hostile attitude towards the actual religion, for all that is being defended is the cultural substance of Europe that attached itself to Christianity. It’s a principled argument for missing the point – for admiring, Narcissus-style, everything in the great Gothic cathedral other than the figure of Christ upon the Cross.¹

The Anglo-Saxon poem Andreas looks at first glance like an item of evidence for this theory. It begins with these words, strongly redolent of the opening of Beowulf:

Hwæt we gefrunan on fyrndagum

Twelfe under tunglum tireadige hæleð

þeodnes þegnas…

(O how we have heard, in the elder days,

of twelve beneath the stars, thanes of the king,

Glory-blessed heroes…)

Yet after some more Beowulvian bombast about the clashing of war-standards and the hefting of shields in battle, it turns out that these twelve thanes are none other than the Twelve Apostles of Jesus. Their lord is the High King of Heaven (heofena heahcyning), and the cause in which they do valiant deeds is the carrying of the gospel to the gentiles. The poem will go on to unfold a heroic story in which St. Matthew (or Matthias) is imprisoned in a city full of cannibals, and must be rescued by St. Andrew by means of various miracles and divine interventions.

However, this is no repurposed Germanic legend, but a loose translation from a piece of early Christian apocrypha (which can be read here). Nor are the saints presented as engaging in warfare, or otherwise behaving as warriors, in ways that would deviate from the content of the original text. They preach the gospel, they suffer persecution, they pray, they perform miracles, and that is their thaneship and battle and heroism.

What we are seeing here, in my view, is not the alteration of Christian material but its translation into the Old English epic-poetic language. Since that language had not yet degenerated into an empty meter, but was still largely made up of fixed themes and formulas, this translation could not be accomplished by precise literalism. It depended on the reuse of inherited heroic material to narrate the deeds of the saints.² And this required the poets to draw various analogies between the saintly and heroic paths – between the King of Heaven and the king of the hall, between suffering and battle, between conversion mission and military campaign, and so on.

This reliance on analogies may not be ideal, but it is basically viable, because there is in fact a natural analogy between saint and hero. These, after all, are the two ideal types suited to the two traditional ruling classes: the ‘priests’ who hold spiritual-intellectual authority and the ‘warriors’ who hold military-political power. Both possess a rare gravitas, stemming precisely from what is called ‘world-denial’ by the spiritually bourgeois, servile or feminine – that is to say, the willingness to face death, and the desire for some form of immortality over physical life. In sum, hero and saint have much more in common with each other than with the low hobbit-sentiment of nationalism that would tame the one and exterminate the other.³

That said, many of these analogies are worked out more subtly in other Anglo-Saxon religious poems, such as the Wanderer and Seafarer. The fact that Andreas has neither the finesse of these works, nor the Germanic verisimilitude of Beowulf, has caused it to be somewhat overlooked outside the academy. For that reason, it has (to my knowledge) never been translated in its original meter; so I have decided to fill that gap, with the help of a few references, having learned a few things about Old English and its poetic language from working through the entirety of Beowulf. So far I have completed the first ‘fitt’, or canto, reproduced in full below.

Note that while most lines contain four strong stresses (e.g. Such were that people’s unpeaceful ways), there is one six-stressed ‘hypermetric’ line (Destroyed with the sword’s edge, yet all despite in his breast), which I have flagged up by means of italic text. Note also that, although I have loosened up the rules of stave-rhyme by assimilating some sounds to others – such as th-sounds to t-sounds, v-sounds to f-sounds, and h- to vowel-sounds – I have opted not to use the full range of assimilations employed in previous posts. The leisure of literary composition allows for more precision.

Andreas (Fitt I)

O how we have heard,    in the elder days,
Of twelve beneath the stars;    thanes of the king,
Glory-blessed heroes.    Their arms never failed
In the tide of conflict,    at the clash of standards,
When they scattered as apportioned    by their selfsame Lord,
When the heavens' high King    declared their lots.

They were much-immortalized    men upon earth,
Valiant knights,    when on the field of hosts
Hands and shields    helms defended,
On the measuring-plain.    Matthew was one,
Who began amidst the Jews    the gospel first
In words to write    with wondrous skill.
The holy Lord to him    the lot ordained
To wend unto that wetland,    where no man
From a foreign homeland    could a home enjoy,
Or happiness either;    the hands of murderers
On the field of hosts    would hurt him cruelly.
All that borderland    was bound in murder
And enemies' treachery –    that tribestead of men,
That land of heroes.    Not a loaf to feast on
For the dwellers in that place;    nor a drink of water
Could be found to refresh them;    but of flesh and blood,
The skin and the bones    of strangers come to them,
That tribe partook.    That was their custom:
That each and every    outlander
They made unto their food,    when meat they wanted,
Whoever to that wetland    from without did come.

Such were that people's    unpeaceful ways:
By the violence of those savages    the sight of one's eyes –
By those bloodthirsty enemies –    his head-jewels,
Would be gouged out with spears    by the ghastly-minded.
Then they would mix for him    a mordant brew –
Warlocks through witchcraft –    a wicked drink
To overturn the wits    and intelligence of men,
And the hearts in their breasts.    Their heads would be turned,
So that never would they hanker    after human joys –
Those blood-greedy hardmen! –    but hay and grass
They would worry at in weariness    for want of food.

Then did Matthew    to that town most famous
Come within the city-walls.    A clamour rose
Through Mermedonia    from the murderous gang –
The tumult of the damned.    Once the devil's thanes
Had found out the errand    of the highborn man,
Then they marched against him – gore-spears toting,
Swiftly under shields –    not slow at all
Were those furious spearmen    the fight to seek.
Then they the holy one's    hands bound
And fastened tightly    with fiendish skill,
Hell-ready heroes;    and his head-set gems
Destroyed with the sword's edge.    Yet all despite in his breast,
He praised in his heart    heavendom's Guardian,
Although he had partaken    of the terrible poison.

Resolute and blessèd,    courageously
He worshipped still in prayers    the Prince of Glory,
Heavendom's Guardian;    in a hallowed voice
From carcerating prison.    Christ's greatness
In the locker of his soul    was set full fast.
He then, weeping,    with weary tears,
To his Victory-Lord    in a voice of sorrow,
Addressed the Man-Chief    in dire lament –
Wealgiver of Hosts –    these words he spake:
"O how these strangers,    with shackles of malice,
A wicked web have woven me!    For will of Thine
On everywhich way,    I have always been
Eager in my heart;    now in utter sorrow
I must do all things    like the dumb beasts.
Thou only knowest    the thoughts of men,
Measurer of mankind;    how moves each heart;
If thy will be thus,    Ward of Glory,
That these breakers of faith    with blades' edges,
With swords, should slay me,    I am straight prepared
To endure whatever thing    that Thou, my Lord,
Goodsgiver of angels,    to this homeless one,
Thou Vanguard of veterans,    see fit to deem.
Grant me as a grace,    God Almighty,
Some light in this life;    lest that I,
Blinded in this fort-town    by blade-harrowings,
By hate-decrees    of the carnage-hungry
Hostile tribe-spoilers,    thole too long
Contemptuous insult.    On Thee alone,
O middle-earth's Guardian,    do I ground my heart,
My firm life-love.    And Father of angels,
Bliss-Giver bright,    I bid that thee
Will not to me apportion,    among persecutors
And wrong-wreaking criminals,    the wretchedest –
O Deemer of redoubtables –    death upon earth."

Afterwords was shown to him    a sign of glory,
Hallowed from heaven –    like th' unhidden sun,
Cast upon the prison –    so 'twas clearly known
That holy God    had granted help.
Then was heard    the Heavenking's voice,
Wondrous under welkin –    the word-music
Of the King renownèd    to his noble thane
In hard durance.    Health and succour
He proclaimed to the courage-famed    in crystal tones:
"O Matthew;    I grant thee
My friendship under heaven.    Be not feared in heart,
Nor mournful in mind.    I'll remain with thee,
And from these limb-fetters    loose thee free,
And all the multitude    amongst thee there,
In perilous oppression.    To thee Paradise,
The brightest of pleasances,    the palace fairest,
The home of all thy hopes,    by the holies' might
Is lucently unlocked –    where the length of thy days
Thou mayst partake of honours    to content of thy heart.
Thole this tribe's attacks;    the time is not long
In which those breakers of faith,    in bonds of torment,
Sinful ones, through wicked wiles,    may sorely vex thee.
I to thee urgently    shall Andrew send,
As shelter and as succour    in this savage town;
It is he who shall free thee    from the hate of this folk.
There's a measure of time    until that hour
Extending in sooth    to seven and twenty
Numbered nights,    ere thou from knots of bonds,
Vexed round with sorrows,    victory-honoured,
From downtroddenment mayst turn    to protection of God."

He left then, the Holy One,    Lord of all beings,
Creator of angels,    for his uppermost
Homeland-kingdom.    He is King by right
And steadfast Helmsman    in every place.

Translation Notes

Two words, igland and hæleð, presented some difficulty. The first, according to Bosworth-Toller, means an ‘island’; but in North and Bintley’s edition of Andreas, from which I am working, it is pointed out that Mermedonia does not seem to be an island and is described elsewhere as a ‘borderland’ (mearcland). This of course puts one in mind of the region inhabited by Grendel and his mother in Beowulf, which is also geographically indeterminate (a moor? a fen? a mountain range?) and described as a borderland, and would seem to represent the abode of unhumans or savages in the Anglo-Saxon imagination. Noticing that ig can mean not only ‘isle’ but also ‘dry land in a marsh’ (see Wiktionary), I opted in the end for wetland, which can be conceived as low-lying land near a swamp or simply as land adjacent to water.

The second, hæleð, is related to German Held and usually translated as hero. It is frequently used for the Mermedonians, and I have no qualms about translating it as ‘heroes’ (a word that originally denoted greatness with no necessary connotation of goodness), but in one instance it is interjected in an awkward place and so I have opted for ‘hardmen’ to avoid confusion. North and Bintley suggest that the Andreas-poet uses the word satirically, as part of an anti-pagan riposte to the Beowulf-poet’s favourable view of heathen heroes, and point out many other instances in which the language of this poem seems to satirize that of Beowulf. ‘Seems’ is the operative word here, as the phrases may simply be those of the common and traditional word-hoard, but this possibility is one more reason to stick to the default translation of hæleð.

1. This theory is articulated at length in James C. Russell’s Germanization of Early Medieval Christianity. For an overview and critique of its contents, see here.

2. Another example would be the Heliand, written in Old Saxon (not the same as Old English) on the Continent with traditional heroic formulas reused in much the same way, suggesting that the hero-saint analogy came easily to Christians of Germanic heritage (and thus was no sophisticated literary conceit).

3. I should perhaps hasten to add here that I am of course no aspiring saint or hero, and much more inclined towards the ‘low hobbit-sentiment’ of the nationalists. What I cannot stand is the element of boorish nearsightedness that circumscribes their worldview, in which the saint is outlawed as a ‘logocentric’ threat to social order and the hero attenuated to a guard-dog of his ethnos (as opposed to the sort of wandering glory-seeker often found in Germanic mythology). It’s no wonder they are so culturally sterile.