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2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/27.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_26_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 27 | chapter 27 | null | {"name": "Chapter 27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady45.asp", "summary": "Isabel loves Rome and has a very happy time exploring it with her friends. One day, Isabel sits down to rest alone and is met by Lord Warburton, just returned from a six month journey to the east. His looks very handsome and English. He tells her he has written to her many times but has never sent the letters. He tells her he cant stop thinking of her. He promises to leave the matter to rest, but it is clear he wishes he could continue to press his case with her. He will be in Rome for a week or so. Isabel feels it is awkward to have Lord Warburton in Rome, but theres nothing to be done about it. One day, they go to Saint Peters and just as she is walking with Lord Warburton, she turns around to find Gilbert Osmond. He tells her he came to be with her and she blushes, worrying Lord Warburton will have heard this. Ralph and the others come out of the church and join them. Then Ralph and Lord Warburton walk off together and discuss the possibility of Isabel falling in love with Gilbert Osmond. Ralph says Isabel wants nothing either of the two of them can give her.", "analysis": "Notes Chapter 27, the last chapter of Volume I, brings all the satellite figures together around Isabel Archer. It ends on the discussion of Ralph Touchett and Lord Warburton about the likelihood of Isabels falling in love with Gilbert Osmond."} |
I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's response
to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the
pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the
threshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her impression was
such as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and her
eagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was history
in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an
imagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she
turned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her,
but moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talked
less than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking
listlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her an
intensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; she
would even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest she
was ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her,
but that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give it
wings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixed
that she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her,
and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often
in the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet
not seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph
said, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing
tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into
solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains
in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the
corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers.
Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to
look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been
for some time previous largely extended. They had descended from the
modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered
with a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each.
Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been
paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the
deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled
iron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun had
begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken
column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta
wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to
her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralph
addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive
ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover about
the place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his
lesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing
to impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the
Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the signori
to go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The
proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much
wandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity
while she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much
to her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly
went off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column
near the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but
she was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged
relics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the
corrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her
thoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a
concatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to
regions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman
past to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imagination
had taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles over
the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she
bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs covering
the ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approaching
footsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. She
looked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come back
to say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled as
she was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly pale
surprise.
"Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose.
"I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you."
She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my companions have just
left me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there."
"Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in the
direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had
recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly.
"Don't let me disturb you," he went on, looking at her dejected pillar.
"I'm afraid you're tired."
"Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat down again.
"Don't let me interrupt you," she added.
"Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had no
idea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only passing
through."
"You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who had learned from
Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England.
"Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I've been
in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens." He managed
not to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer look at the
girl he came down to nature. "Do you wish me to leave you, or will you
let me stay a little?"
She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton;
I'm very glad to see you."
"Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?"
The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a
resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for
a highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class
seated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he
had asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as
he put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching
the answer; had given her too some information about himself which was
not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once
that he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the
encounter touched him in a way that would have made preparation
advisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of things
to their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their being
impossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had
been burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting,
heterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands
is wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with
his pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its
seasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general air
of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of
the British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by those
who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad she
had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, every
one of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of great
decent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixtures
and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only by
some whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order;
her uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her
winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the
summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own
adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. At
last there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said
that it scarce needed his final words. "I've written to you several
times."
"Written to me? I've never had your letters."
"I never sent them. I burned them up."
"Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than I!"
"I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicity
that touched her. "It seemed to me that after all I had no right to
trouble you with letters."
"I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped
that--that--" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in the
utterance of her thought.
"I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always remain good
friends." This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat
enough; but then he was interested in making it appear so.
She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of all that"; a
speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other.
"It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion exclaimed with
force.
"I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still as
she sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on
the answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was
pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than
he. But her answer remained.
"It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in your
power," she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation.
"I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt
to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain's
greater than the pleasure." And she got up with a small conscious
majesty, looking for her companions.
"I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I only
just want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as it
were. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I
expressed to you last year; I couldn't think of anything else. I tried
to forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in
somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty.
I didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as far
away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't
distract mine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw
you. I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I
said to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you
shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably
charm me. There--I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist;
it's only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few
minutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon
my honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were." He had
recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He
might have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly and
clearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a
paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And
the committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.
"I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel answered. "You may
be sure I shall always do that." And she added in a tone of which she
tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: "There's no
harm in that on either side."
They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters
and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment
no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into
shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave
Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad
it was still so distant.
"Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?" she
enquired with some anxiety.
"Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one would
treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to
stop a week or two."
"Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!"
His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You won't like
that. You're afraid you'll see too much of me."
"It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to leave
this delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of you."
"Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful."
They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. "Poor
Lord Warburton!" she said with a compassion intended to be good for both
of them.
"Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful."
"You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can't allow."
"If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it." At
this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'll never say a word
to displease you."
"Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end."
"Perhaps some day--after a while--you'll give me leave."
"Give you leave to make me unhappy?"
He hesitated. "To tell you again--" But he checked himself. "I'll keep
it down. I'll keep it down always."
Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss
Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the
mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into
sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy
qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice "Gracious,
there's that lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the
austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet,
and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt
traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. "I don't
suppose you remember me, sir."
"Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I asked you to come
and see me, and you never came."
"I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answered coldly.
"Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master of Lockleigh.
"If you do I'll go; so be sure!"
Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling
had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion
to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly "Oh, you here,
Bantling?" and a hand-shake.
"Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!"
"I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling rejoined
facetiously.
"I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you."
"Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warburton laughed
again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of
relief as they kept their course homeward.
The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long
letters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in
neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected
suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon
all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians)
follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's; and it had been
agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great
church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton
presented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the two
ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The
visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to
keep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and
frank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left
her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his
travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him
whether it would "pay" for her to visit those countries assured her they
offered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but
she wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by
proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt
her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the
trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and
nothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover
his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong
sort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on
bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter's
and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply
that he must follow his convenience.
In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the
first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior
tourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter's and find it smaller
than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern
curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found
herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down
through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of
marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose
and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed
and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to
the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint
Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end
by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet
begun, but at Saint Peter's there is much to observe, and as there is
something almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant
as much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures
and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their
various intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid
immensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel
and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta
was obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered
by comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed
her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its more
accentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the
circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir
on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borne
to them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside
the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed
in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while
they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta
and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond
the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by
clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope
through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing
stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her.
Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted
with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short
distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appeared
to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place.
"So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand.
"Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They
told me you had come here, and I looked about for you."
"The others are inside," she decided to say.
"I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned.
She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard
this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the
morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond's
words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not
the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to
each companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr.
Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour
and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately,
but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on
perceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take
the case as not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however,
from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence,
that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had
met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say
to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr.
Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris.
"I don't know what it's in you," she had been pleased to remark, "but
for a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood's
the only one I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don't
appreciate."
"What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond was meanwhile
enquiring of our young lady.
"It's very large and very bright," she contented herself with replying.
"It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom."
"Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?" she
asked with rather a liking for her phrase.
"I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody.
But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else."
"You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remembering something
he had referred to in Florence.
"Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond.
Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled
away together. "Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?" his lordship
demanded.
"His name's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence," Ralph said.
"What is he besides?"
"Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that--he's so
little of one."
"Has he known Miss Archer long?"
"Three or four weeks."
"Does she like him?"
"She's trying to find out."
"And will she?"
"Find out--?" Ralph asked.
"Will she like him?"
"Do you mean will she accept him?"
"Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's what I
horribly mean."
"Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph replied.
His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we must be
perfectly quiet?"
"As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph added.
"The chance she may?"
"The chance she may not?"
Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. "Is he
awfully clever?"
"Awfully," said Ralph.
His companion thought. "And what else?"
"What more do you want?" Ralph groaned.
"Do you mean what more does SHE?"
Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others.
"She wants nothing that WE can give her."
"Ah well, if she won't have You--!" said his lordship handsomely as they
went.
| 5,878 | Chapter 27 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady45.asp | Isabel loves Rome and has a very happy time exploring it with her friends. One day, Isabel sits down to rest alone and is met by Lord Warburton, just returned from a six month journey to the east. His looks very handsome and English. He tells her he has written to her many times but has never sent the letters. He tells her he cant stop thinking of her. He promises to leave the matter to rest, but it is clear he wishes he could continue to press his case with her. He will be in Rome for a week or so. Isabel feels it is awkward to have Lord Warburton in Rome, but theres nothing to be done about it. One day, they go to Saint Peters and just as she is walking with Lord Warburton, she turns around to find Gilbert Osmond. He tells her he came to be with her and she blushes, worrying Lord Warburton will have heard this. Ralph and the others come out of the church and join them. Then Ralph and Lord Warburton walk off together and discuss the possibility of Isabel falling in love with Gilbert Osmond. Ralph says Isabel wants nothing either of the two of them can give her. | Notes Chapter 27, the last chapter of Volume I, brings all the satellite figures together around Isabel Archer. It ends on the discussion of Ralph Touchett and Lord Warburton about the likelihood of Isabels falling in love with Gilbert Osmond. | 262 | 40 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/28.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_27_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 28 | chapter 28 | null | {"name": "Chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady46.asp", "summary": "VOLUME 2 Chapter 28 The next evening Lord Warburton goes to the opera where he looks for Isabel and the others. He sees Isabel sitting in the opera box with Gilbert Osmond and feels sick at the sight. He meets Ralph on the stairs. Ralph looks dejected and tells him he feels very low. He stays only a short time with the others and then leaves. Gilbert Osmond asks Isabel about Lord Warburton. She tells him Lord Warburton is irreproachable. Henrietta Stackpole adds information about his wealth and his ideas. Isabel indicates that she is not interested in Lord Warburton, though she likes him. Ralph ironically notes Isabels tendency to call Warburton \"poor Lord Warburton\" is a way of coping with having hurt him. Lord Warburton finds Isabel a day later and tells her he plans to leave Rome early since he cant do as she has asked him to do-- not talk about his wish to marry her. She is by turns cold to him and kind to him. He leaves. As she is sitting alone looking at the Roman statues around her, Gilbert Osmond comes up. He asks her about Lord Warburton. She indicates the Lord Warburton has been gone for some time. He thinks to himself that it will be good to have Isabel among his \"collection of choice objects\" since she has turned down a British noble. He has always been peeved at fate for not having made him a noble, so he likes the idea of winning a woman who turned one down.", "analysis": "Notes Volume 2 begins on an ominous note as Isabel Archer says good- bye to the noble Lord Warburton and turns to Gilbert Osmond and he, for his part, thinks to himself the ignoble thought that he will be happy to add Isabel to his collection of rare treasures. Since he has always felt cheated by the universe for not having given him an English dukedom, he can gloat about the thought that his wife turned an English peer down."} |
On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his
friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they
had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying
them a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when
he had obtained his admittance--it was one of the secondary
theatres--looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act
had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After
scanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest
of these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was
seated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box;
and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They
appeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their
companions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative
coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting
pair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At
last he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined
him. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper
regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his
hat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were.
"I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely
and want company," was Ralph's greeting.
"You've some that's very good which you've yet deserted."
"Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn't want me. Then
Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice--Miss
Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn't think they wanted me either.
The opera's very bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like
peacocks. I feel very low."
"You had better go home," Lord Warburton said without affectation.
"And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over
her."
"She seems to have plenty of friends."
"Yes, that's why I must watch," said Ralph with the same large
mock-melancholy.
"If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me."
"No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about."
Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome was as to a
friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer
temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr.
Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who, after he
came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating competence in
the subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor
that Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a
slight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing,
quickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he may have been
mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence
of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to
indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties. Poor
Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had discouraged him,
formally, as much as a woman could; what business had she then with
such arts and such felicities, above all with such tones of
reparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but why play
them on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera
began again. The box was large, and there was room for him to remain
if he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so for half an
hour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward, his elbows
on his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from
his gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young
lady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When there was
another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isabel, and Lord
Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short time, however;
after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said
nothing to detain him, but it didn't prevent his being puzzled again.
Why should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong one--when she
would have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? He was
angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry for being angry.
Verdi's music did little to comfort him, and he left the theatre and
walked homeward, without knowing his way, through the tortuous, tragic
streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under
the stars.
"What's the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked of Isabel after
he had retired.
"Irreproachable--don't you see it?"
"He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta remarked.
"That's what they call a free country!"
"Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!" said Gilbert Osmond.
"Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human beings?"
cried Miss Stackpole. "He owns his tenants and has thousands of them.
It's pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are enough for me.
I don't insist on flesh and blood and minds and consciences."
"It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr. Bantling suggested
jocosely. "I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as you do me."
"Lord Warburton's a great radical," Isabel said. "He has very advanced
opinions."
"He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by a gigantic
iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta announced for the
information of Mr. Osmond. "I should like him to converse with a few of
our Boston radicals."
"Don't they approve of iron fences?" asked Mr. Bantling.
"Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were
talking to YOU over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass."
"Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?" Osmond went on,
questioning Isabel.
"Well enough for all the use I have for him."
"And how much of a use is that?"
"Well, I like to like him."
"'Liking to like'--why, it makes a passion!" said Osmond.
"No"--she considered--"keep that for liking to DISlike."
"Do you wish to provoke me then," Osmond laughed, "to a passion for
HIM?"
She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a
disproportionate gravity. "No, Mr. Osmond; I don't think I should ever
dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate," she more easily
added, "is a very nice man."
"Of great ability?" her friend enquired.
"Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks."
"As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-looking. How
detestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever and
handsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your
high favour! That's a man I could envy."
Isabel considered him with interest. "You seem to me to be always
envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it's poor Lord
Warburton."
"My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don't want to
destroy the people--I only want to BE them. You see it would destroy
only myself."
"You'd like to be the Pope?" said Isabel.
"I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But
why"--Osmond reverted--"do you speak of your friend as poor?"
"Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after they've
hurt them; that's their great way of showing kindness," said Ralph,
joining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism so
transparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent.
"Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows
as if the idea were perfectly fresh.
"It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta while the curtain rose
for the ballet.
Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four
hours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she
encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the
lion of the collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come
in with her companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert
Osmond had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase,
entered the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her
alertly enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery.
"And I'm leaving Rome," he added. "I must bid you goodbye." Isabel,
inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps
because she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was
thinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret,
but she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which
made him look at her rather unlightedly. "I'm afraid you'll think me
very 'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop."
"Oh no; you could easily change your mind."
"That's what I have done."
"Bon voyage then."
"You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship quite
dismally.
"Not in the least. But I hate partings."
"You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully.
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Ah," she said, "you're not keeping your
promise!"
He coloured like a boy of fifteen. "If I'm not, then it's because I
can't; and that's why I'm going."
"Good-bye then."
"Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you again?"
Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: "Some
day after you're married."
"That will never be. It will be after you are."
"That will do as well," she smiled.
"Yes, quite as well. Good-bye."
They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among the
shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of
these presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their
beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence.
It is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of
Greek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude;
which, as with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on
the spirit the large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially,
because the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The
golden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so
vivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw
a solemn spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows
of the Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made
them more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm
of their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their
absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would
sound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the
polished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all
before, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater
because she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however,
her attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional
tourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and
then passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pavement. At
the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared, apparently in advance
of his companions. He strolled toward her slowly, with his hands
behind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite appealing smile. "I'm
surprised to find you alone, I thought you had company.
"So I have--the best." And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun.
"Do you call them better company than an English peer?"
"Ah, my English peer left me some time ago." She got up, speaking with
intention a little dryly.
Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to the interest
of his question. "I'm afraid that what I heard the other evening is
true: you're rather cruel to that nobleman."
Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. "It's not true. I'm
scrupulously kind."
"That's exactly what I mean!" Gilbert Osmond returned, and with such
happy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained. We know that he was
fond of originals, of rarities, of the superior and the exquisite; and
now that he had seen Lord Warburton, whom he thought a very fine example
of his race and order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of
taking to himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in
his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. Gilbert
Osmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate; not so
much for its distinction, which he thought easily surpassable, as for
its solid actuality. He had never forgiven his star for not appointing
him to an English dukedom, and he could measure the unexpectedness of
such conduct as Isabel's. It would be proper that the woman he might
marry should have done something of that sort.
| 3,337 | Chapter 28 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady46.asp | VOLUME 2 Chapter 28 The next evening Lord Warburton goes to the opera where he looks for Isabel and the others. He sees Isabel sitting in the opera box with Gilbert Osmond and feels sick at the sight. He meets Ralph on the stairs. Ralph looks dejected and tells him he feels very low. He stays only a short time with the others and then leaves. Gilbert Osmond asks Isabel about Lord Warburton. She tells him Lord Warburton is irreproachable. Henrietta Stackpole adds information about his wealth and his ideas. Isabel indicates that she is not interested in Lord Warburton, though she likes him. Ralph ironically notes Isabels tendency to call Warburton "poor Lord Warburton" is a way of coping with having hurt him. Lord Warburton finds Isabel a day later and tells her he plans to leave Rome early since he cant do as she has asked him to do-- not talk about his wish to marry her. She is by turns cold to him and kind to him. He leaves. As she is sitting alone looking at the Roman statues around her, Gilbert Osmond comes up. He asks her about Lord Warburton. She indicates the Lord Warburton has been gone for some time. He thinks to himself that it will be good to have Isabel among his "collection of choice objects" since she has turned down a British noble. He has always been peeved at fate for not having made him a noble, so he likes the idea of winning a woman who turned one down. | Notes Volume 2 begins on an ominous note as Isabel Archer says good- bye to the noble Lord Warburton and turns to Gilbert Osmond and he, for his part, thinks to himself the ignoble thought that he will be happy to add Isabel to his collection of rare treasures. Since he has always felt cheated by the universe for not having given him an English dukedom, he can gloat about the thought that his wife turned an English peer down. | 355 | 80 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/30.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_29_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 30 | chapter 30 | null | {"name": "Chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady48.asp", "summary": "Isabel returns to Florence along with Ralph. She is to stay in Florence for three days before leaving with her aunt. She speaks to Madame Merle of her promise to visit Gilbert Osmonds daughter. Madame Merle says she too wants to visit her. Isabel is disappointed since she wanted to make \"her small pilgrimage\" in solitude. Madame Merle seems to sense this and tells her she wont go with her. She warns her, however, that it isnt quite proper for a young woman to go visit a single mans home even in his absence. Isabel thinks this is ridiculous. She feels as though theres a note of falsehood in Madame Merles tone. When she gets to the Osmonds house, she finds Pansy practicing at the piano. She wonders at \"how prettily has been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! \" She even wonders for a moment if Pansy is ingenuous or if she is more self-conscious of the impressions she gives other people. Pansy tells her all of her life issues. One of these includes her curiosity about what her father plans to do with her. She says that one of her good friends at the convent was taken away a year earlier so her family could save the money for her dowry. She wonders if her father is doing this himself. When Isabel leaves, she embraces Pansy and looks at her a long time. She tells her to \"be very good and give pleasure to father. \" Pansy tells her thats just what she lives for. She adds that her father is a sad man. Isabel feels a strong urge to get Pansy to say more about her father, but thinks this would be taking advantage of Pansy. When she says good- bye, she looks at Pansy almost with envy. She thinks of how much pleasure she would get out of discussing Gilbert Osmond with Pansy. Instead she kisses Pansy good-bye and leaves. She tells Pansy shes right to obey her father and that hell never ask her to do anything unreasonable.", "analysis": "Notes Isabels visit to Pansy gives Henry James a way to demonstrate indirectly for the reader how Isabel feels about Gilbert Osmond. When Pansy says her father is a sad man, Isabel feels a strong urge to get her to say more of her father, but holds herself back. When Pansy repeats her fathers instructions over and over and her own eagerness to obey them, Isabel agrees eagerly that Pansy should obey everything he tells her and assures the girl that her father will never tell her to do anything that isnt reasonable. In her attraction to this kind of upbringing for a girl, the reader might be puzzled. Isabel herself received a vastly different kind of education. Instead of being treated as if she were a blank page to be written on, she was left to herself to decide for herself what she wanted to read and do. Why is Isabel so quick to valorize this kind of upbringing for a girl? One reason might be Isabels own childhood. Though she doesnt seem to have found it a problem, the adults around her found her father negligent in his duties towards her and her sisters and even neglectful. One incident is repeated twice in the novel of the time in Isabels childhood when she and her sisters were abandoned by their governess and left at an Inn. When people tried to help them, they couldnt find the girls father anywhere. The girls seem to have thought of it as some sort of adventure, but everyone else thought it was a scandal. Perhaps the neglected daughter, essentially abandoned by her distracted father, is fascinated by a daughter who is so strictly cared for that she is given detailed instructions for almost every hour of the day."} |
She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin's escort, and
Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought
very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried
his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's
preference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme
of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little
trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabel was
to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs.
Touchett's departure, and she determined to devote the last of these
to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for
a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame
Merle's. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the
point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle
in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that
country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, "forever")
seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense
crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious
privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had
asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn't mention that he had
also made her a declaration of love.
"Ah, comme cela se trouve!" Madame Merle exclaimed. "I myself have been
thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I
go off."
"We can go together then," Isabel reasonably said: "reasonably" because
the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had
prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like
it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic
sentiment to her great consideration for her friend.
That personage finely meditated. "After all, why should we both go;
having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?"
"Very good; I can easily go alone."
"I don't know about your going alone--to the house of a handsome
bachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!"
Isabel stared. "When Mr. Osmond's away what does it matter?"
"They don't know he's away, you see."
"They? Whom do you mean?"
"Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify."
"If you were going why shouldn't I?" Isabel asked.
"Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young woman."
"Granting all that, you've not promised."
"How much you think of your promises!" said the elder woman in mild
mockery.
"I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?"
"You're right," Madame Merle audibly reflected. "I really think you wish
to be kind to the child."
"I wish very much to be kind to her."
"Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I'd have
come if you hadn't. Or rather," Madame Merle added, "DON'T tell her. She
won't care."
As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding
way which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wondered what her friend had
meant by no one's being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals,
this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of
the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous
quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for
the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose
that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly
done? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something which
in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had
time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts
of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming
at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr.
Osmond's drawing-room; the little girl was "practising," and Isabel was
pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately
came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father's
house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an
hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the
pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, but
conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's affairs
that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her;
she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower
of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our
admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned;
and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel
was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding,
as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her,
up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not
really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection
of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor,
or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that
Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windows
had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there,
through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a
gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interview
with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this
question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface,
successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor
talent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a
friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new
frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could
be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to
resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified,
easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to
cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave
to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on
several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her
father's intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety
of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally
expect.
"Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame
Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time.
Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education;
it isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can do with me
more; but it appears it's far from finished. Papa told me one day he
thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the
convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa's
not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for
me, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quickly enough,
and I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes--especially when it's
pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who
was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she
was fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. You
don't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wished
to keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that that
papa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!"
Pansy went on with a sigh; "I think papa might make that economy. At
any rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for any
gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like
to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some
strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might
think, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always been
principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you
must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry,
and he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best.
That's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was
very kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm really
as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When
did YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know
how old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At the
convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do
anything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly
taught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left
directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off
that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not
to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful.
In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I
practise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wish
very much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I should
hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's
what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall
never have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like the
squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes."
Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down
to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white
hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child
good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good," she said;
"give pleasure to your father."
"I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has not much
pleasure; he's rather a sad man."
Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it
almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged
her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in
her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say
to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her
pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner
became conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with
horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was of
this she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air where
he might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed
state. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She
rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a
moment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child's sweet
slimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged
to confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure in
talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who
was so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once
again. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that
opened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather
wistfully beyond. "I may go no further. I've promised papa not to pass
this door."
"You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anything unreasonable."
"I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?"
"Not for a long time, I'm afraid."
"As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl," said Pansy, "but
I shall always expect you." And the small figure stood in the high, dark
doorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear into
the brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider dazzle as it
opened.
| 3,018 | Chapter 30 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady48.asp | Isabel returns to Florence along with Ralph. She is to stay in Florence for three days before leaving with her aunt. She speaks to Madame Merle of her promise to visit Gilbert Osmonds daughter. Madame Merle says she too wants to visit her. Isabel is disappointed since she wanted to make "her small pilgrimage" in solitude. Madame Merle seems to sense this and tells her she wont go with her. She warns her, however, that it isnt quite proper for a young woman to go visit a single mans home even in his absence. Isabel thinks this is ridiculous. She feels as though theres a note of falsehood in Madame Merles tone. When she gets to the Osmonds house, she finds Pansy practicing at the piano. She wonders at "how prettily has been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! " She even wonders for a moment if Pansy is ingenuous or if she is more self-conscious of the impressions she gives other people. Pansy tells her all of her life issues. One of these includes her curiosity about what her father plans to do with her. She says that one of her good friends at the convent was taken away a year earlier so her family could save the money for her dowry. She wonders if her father is doing this himself. When Isabel leaves, she embraces Pansy and looks at her a long time. She tells her to "be very good and give pleasure to father. " Pansy tells her thats just what she lives for. She adds that her father is a sad man. Isabel feels a strong urge to get Pansy to say more about her father, but thinks this would be taking advantage of Pansy. When she says good- bye, she looks at Pansy almost with envy. She thinks of how much pleasure she would get out of discussing Gilbert Osmond with Pansy. Instead she kisses Pansy good-bye and leaves. She tells Pansy shes right to obey her father and that hell never ask her to do anything unreasonable. | Notes Isabels visit to Pansy gives Henry James a way to demonstrate indirectly for the reader how Isabel feels about Gilbert Osmond. When Pansy says her father is a sad man, Isabel feels a strong urge to get her to say more of her father, but holds herself back. When Pansy repeats her fathers instructions over and over and her own eagerness to obey them, Isabel agrees eagerly that Pansy should obey everything he tells her and assures the girl that her father will never tell her to do anything that isnt reasonable. In her attraction to this kind of upbringing for a girl, the reader might be puzzled. Isabel herself received a vastly different kind of education. Instead of being treated as if she were a blank page to be written on, she was left to herself to decide for herself what she wanted to read and do. Why is Isabel so quick to valorize this kind of upbringing for a girl? One reason might be Isabels own childhood. Though she doesnt seem to have found it a problem, the adults around her found her father negligent in his duties towards her and her sisters and even neglectful. One incident is repeated twice in the novel of the time in Isabels childhood when she and her sisters were abandoned by their governess and left at an Inn. When people tried to help them, they couldnt find the girls father anywhere. The girls seem to have thought of it as some sort of adventure, but everyone else thought it was a scandal. Perhaps the neglected daughter, essentially abandoned by her distracted father, is fascinated by a daughter who is so strictly cared for that she is given detailed instructions for almost every hour of the day. | 477 | 296 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/32.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_31_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 32 | chapter 32 | null | {"name": "Chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady50.asp", "summary": "Isabel is waiting for Caspar Goodwood. She feels older after her travels, as if in some sense she is \"worth more.\" She has been dreading the scene she expects with Caspar Goodwood. He comes in \"straight, strong, and hard.\" He tells her he came as soon as he got her letter telling him she was engaged to marry Gilbert Osmond. She tells him only he and Madame Merle know of the engagement. She feels angry at points in the conversation. His questions about Gilbert Osmond irritate her. She tells him Gilbert Osmond is a nobody, from no where, who does nothing. Caspar says he came all the way to see her just so he could see her and hear her voice. He reminds her that she told him two years before that she would probably never marry and he had believed her sincerity. She says she couldnt have foreseen her choice then and insists that she never made him any promises. He tells her hed prefer that she never married than to marry another man. He admits his selfishness. Finally, he leaves and when he does, Isabel bursts into tears.", "analysis": "Notes In his usual oblique way, Henry James announces Isabel Archers engagement to Gilbert Osmond with a scene between her and the sad but stiff Caspar Goodwood. The oblique way pays off in several respects. First, the reader sees Isabel Archers ambivalence about Caspar Goodwood. She feels guilty for rejecting him. She feels as if she has betrayed him, though she knows that in a strict sense of things, she hasnt really done so. Second, the reader gets another description of Gilbert Osmond. This description is special since it is told to Caspar Goodwood, his exact opposite. Isabel says over and over again that Gilbert Osmond is a nothing, that he does nothing, that he thinks nothing of America, and that he is from nowhere. Such an odd description of ones finance warrants some attention. Why would someone of Isabels lively temperament be so taken with someone whom she describes as a nonentity? Perhaps the answer can be found in the contrast between Gilbert Osmond and Caspar Goodwood. Caspar Goodwood is often described as having such a forceful personality that Isabel feels weighed down by him, even oppressed by his presence. For someone who wants to exercise self-determination, a man who doesnt exert such a force, but is instead a vague gentlemen, who wants to make art out of life and stand picturesquely on his hill on the outskirts of Vienna with his perfect daughter at his side, is the more likely choice."} |
It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stood
at the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of any
of the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past,
but to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene,
and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what she
should say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. What
he would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothing
in the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the conviction
doubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, all
clearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walked
in no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much,
and as if she were "worth more" for it, like some curious piece in an
antiquary's collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her
apprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on his
tray. "Let the gentleman come in," she said, and continued to gaze out
of the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had
heard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she
looked round.
Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to
foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered
a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel's
we shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to
her critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight,
strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke
positively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor
weakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same
voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in
it of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled
hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This
gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: "Poor fellow, what great things
he's capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his
splendid force! What a pity too that one can't satisfy everybody!" It
gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: "I can't tell
you how I hoped you wouldn't come!"
"I've no doubt of that." And he looked about him for a seat. Not only
had he come, but he meant to settle.
"You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, and generously,
as she thought, to give him his opportunity.
"No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?"
"Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?"
"Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express.
These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral."
"That's in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to bury
me!" And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their
situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly
clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all
this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she
was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked
at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such
a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on
her as a physical weight.
"No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish I
could!" he candidly declared.
"I thank you immensely."
"I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another man."
"That's very selfish of you!" she returned with the ardour of a real
conviction. "If you're not happy yourself others have yet a right to
be."
"Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your saying so.
I don't mind anything you can say now--I don't feel it. The cruellest
things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you've
done I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shall
feel all my life."
Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness,
in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over
propositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than
touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave
her a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure
of this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. "When did
you leave New York?"
He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago."
"You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains."
"I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had been
able."
"It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she coldly smiled.
"Not to you--no. But to me."
"You gain nothing that I see."
"That's for me to judge!"
"Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself." And then, to
change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole.
He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of
Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young
lady had been with him just before he left America. "She came to see
you?" Isabel then demanded.
"Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I
had got your letter."
"Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.
"Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood simply; "I didn't want to do that. She'll
hear it quick enough; she hears everything."
"I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold me," Isabel
declared, trying to smile again.
Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. "I guess she'll come right
out," he said.
"On purpose to scold me?"
"I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly."
"I'm glad you tell me that," Isabel said. "I must prepare for her."
Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last,
raising them, "Does she know Mr. Osmond?" he enquired.
"A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to
please Henrietta," she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar
if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn't
say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To
which she made answer that she didn't know yet. "I can only say it will
be soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an old
friend of Mr. Osmond's."
"Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded.
"I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends."
He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions,
doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert
Osmond?"
"Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable
man. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He's not rich; he's not known
for anything in particular."
She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she
owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor
Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at
her. "Where does he come from? Where does he belong?"
She had never been so little pleased with the way he said "belawng." "He
comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy."
"You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a native place?"
"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy."
"Has he never gone back?"
"Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. "He has
no profession."
"He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United
States?"
"He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contents
himself with Italy."
"With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and
no appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" he
added abruptly.
"That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied while her
patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. "If he had done
great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood;
I'm marrying a perfect nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him.
You can't."
"I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in
the least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you think
he's great, though no one else thinks so."
Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion,
and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render
perceptions she had never taken for fine. "Why do you always come back
to what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you."
"Of course not," said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his air
of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were
nothing else that they might discuss.
"You see how little you gain," she accordingly broke out--"how little
comfort or satisfaction I can give you."
"I didn't expect you to give me much."
"I don't understand then why you came."
"I came because I wanted to see you once more--even just as you are."
"I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later
we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been
pleasanter for each of us than this."
"Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn't want to do.
You'll be different then."
"Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see."
"That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood grimly.
"Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you in order to
help you to resign yourself."
"I shouldn't care if you did!"
Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the
window, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round
her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again
and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just
quitted. "Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better for
you perhaps than for me."
"I wished to hear the sound of your voice," he said.
"You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet."
"It gives me pleasure, all the same." And with this he got up. She had
felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in
Florence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She
had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his
messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better
pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy
implications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights,
reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change
her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed;
and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's
remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that
irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart
beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself
that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the
wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness
to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a
little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no
propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden
horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an
opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him
a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her
engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire
to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part to
desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile
held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which
she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused
her: "I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!"
"Yes, I know that," said Caspar.
"I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose."
"You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner
that I pretty well believed it."
She considered this an instant. "No one can be more surprised than
myself at my present intention."
"You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe
it," Caspar went on. "I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I
remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and
that's partly why I came."
"If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soon done. There's
no mistake whatever."
"I saw that as soon as I came into the room."
"What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?" she asked with a
certain fierceness.
"I should like it better than this."
"You're very selfish, as I said before."
"I know that. I'm selfish as iron."
"Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll see you again."
"Don't you call me reasonable now?"
"I don't know what to say to you," she answered with sudden humility.
"I shan't trouble you for a long time," the young man went on. He made
a step towards the door, but he stopped. "Another reason why I came was
that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having
changed your mind."
Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. "In explanation? Do you think
I'm bound to explain?"
He gave her one of his long dumb looks. "You were very positive. I did
believe it."
"So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?"
"No, I suppose not. Well," he added, "I've done what I wished. I've seen
you."
"How little you make of these terrible journeys," she felt the poverty
of her presently replying.
"If you're afraid I'm knocked up--in any such way as that--you may be
at your ease about it." He turned away, this time in earnest, and no
hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them.
At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. "I shall leave
Florence to-morrow," he said without a quaver.
"I'm delighted to hear it!" she answered passionately. Five minutes
after he had gone out she burst into tears.
| 3,730 | Chapter 32 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady50.asp | Isabel is waiting for Caspar Goodwood. She feels older after her travels, as if in some sense she is "worth more." She has been dreading the scene she expects with Caspar Goodwood. He comes in "straight, strong, and hard." He tells her he came as soon as he got her letter telling him she was engaged to marry Gilbert Osmond. She tells him only he and Madame Merle know of the engagement. She feels angry at points in the conversation. His questions about Gilbert Osmond irritate her. She tells him Gilbert Osmond is a nobody, from no where, who does nothing. Caspar says he came all the way to see her just so he could see her and hear her voice. He reminds her that she told him two years before that she would probably never marry and he had believed her sincerity. She says she couldnt have foreseen her choice then and insists that she never made him any promises. He tells her hed prefer that she never married than to marry another man. He admits his selfishness. Finally, he leaves and when he does, Isabel bursts into tears. | Notes In his usual oblique way, Henry James announces Isabel Archers engagement to Gilbert Osmond with a scene between her and the sad but stiff Caspar Goodwood. The oblique way pays off in several respects. First, the reader sees Isabel Archers ambivalence about Caspar Goodwood. She feels guilty for rejecting him. She feels as if she has betrayed him, though she knows that in a strict sense of things, she hasnt really done so. Second, the reader gets another description of Gilbert Osmond. This description is special since it is told to Caspar Goodwood, his exact opposite. Isabel says over and over again that Gilbert Osmond is a nothing, that he does nothing, that he thinks nothing of America, and that he is from nowhere. Such an odd description of ones finance warrants some attention. Why would someone of Isabels lively temperament be so taken with someone whom she describes as a nonentity? Perhaps the answer can be found in the contrast between Gilbert Osmond and Caspar Goodwood. Caspar Goodwood is often described as having such a forceful personality that Isabel feels weighed down by him, even oppressed by his presence. For someone who wants to exercise self-determination, a man who doesnt exert such a force, but is instead a vague gentlemen, who wants to make art out of life and stand picturesquely on his hill on the outskirts of Vienna with his perfect daughter at his side, is the more likely choice. | 267 | 243 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/33.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_32_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 33 | chapter 33 | null | {"name": "Chapter 33", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady51.asp", "summary": "After finishing crying, Isabel goes to tell her aunt of her engagement with Gilbert Osmond. Mrs. Touchett has guessed it. She immediately realizes she has been deceived by Madame Merle who promised to help prevent the engagement thereby keeping Mrs. Touchett from action. Mrs. Touchett says she might not have acted to prevent it, but perhaps Ralph would have had something to say. Mrs. Touchett asks Isabel why shes so interested in someone like Gilbert Osmond--\"theres nothing of him.\" Isabel responds, \"Then he cant hurt me.\" Ralph arrives two days later. Isabel knows he has been told and waits for him to bring the matter up, but he doesnt. He looks dreadful ill. She has never thought of his illness as being so dangerous as now. She dismisses his low opinion of her engagement--which she only guesses--as conventional. For her, all cousins are supposed to be critical of ones marriage. In the meantime, Isabel sees Gilbert Osmond every day. They meet each other in the Cascine, a park outside of Florence.", "analysis": "Notes This short chapter serves to give the reader Ralph Touchetts insight into the engagement of Isabel and Gilbert. He hates the news. It seems in fact to sicken him further. Yet he knows he cant say anything since it wont change Isabels mind and because it wont it would only cause problems between them. On the other hand, he also cant bring himself to congratulate her. So he goes for three days without saying anything to her. In regard to the Madame Merle-Gilbert Osmond plot, the chapter brings more to light. Mrs. Touchett is quite sure of the scheme and says as much to Isabel. In this way, the idea of the scheme is brought out in the open. Isabel rejects it now, but later will recall it and realize its true."} |
Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had
vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this
expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased;
Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She
had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact
public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about
it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a
somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more;
she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the
mid-day breakfast, and then she began. "Aunt Lydia, I've something to
tell you."
Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. "You
needn't tell me; I know what it is."
"I don't know how you know."
"The same way that I know when the window's open--by feeling a draught.
You're going to marry that man."
"What man do you mean?" Isabel enquired with great dignity.
"Madame Merle's friend--Mr. Osmond."
"I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that the
principal thing he's known by?"
"If he's not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done for
him!" cried Mrs. Touchett. "I shouldn't have expected it of her; I'm
disappointed."
"If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement
you're greatly mistaken," Isabel declared with a sort of ardent
coldness.
"You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman's
having had to be lashed up? You're quite right. They're immense, your
attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she
hadn't put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he
was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him."
"He has taken a great deal for himself!" cried Isabel with a voluntary
laugh.
Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. "I think he must, after all, to have
made you like him so much."
"I thought he even pleased YOU."
"He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him."
"Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl.
"Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for this
that you refused Lord Warburton?"
"Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, since
others have done so?"
"Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There's
nothing OF him," Mrs. Touchett explained.
"Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel.
"Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in such doings,
you should know."
"I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?"
"What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as
they go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnership
you'll bring everything."
"Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talking about?"
Isabel asked.
"He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such
things and I have the courage to say it; I think they're very precious.
Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some
other reason."
Isabel hesitated a little. "I think I value everything that's valuable.
I care very much for money, and that's why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a
little."
"Give it to him then; but marry some one else."
"His name's good enough for me," the girl went on. "It's a very pretty
name. Have I such a fine one myself?"
"All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen
American names. Do you marry him out of charity?"
"It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's my duty
to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able. So please don't
remonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can't
talk about it."
"I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of
intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle."
"You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've been very
considerate."
"It was not considerate--it was convenient," said Mrs. Touchett. "But I
shall talk to Madame Merle."
"I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good
friend to me."
"Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me."
"What has she done to you?"
"She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your
engagement."
"She couldn't have prevented it."
"She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I knew she
could play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I
didn't understand that she would play two at the same time."
"I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabel said;
"that's between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and
devoted."
"Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me
she was watching you only in order to interpose."
"She said that to please you," the girl answered; conscious, however, of
the inadequacy of the explanation.
"To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased
to-day?"
"I don't think you're ever much pleased," Isabel was obliged to reply.
"If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by
insincerity?"
"She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you
were marching away, and she was really beating the drum."
"That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and
even if she had given the alarm you wouldn't have tried to stop me."
"No, but some one else would."
"Whom do you mean?" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs.
Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained
her gaze rather than returned it. "Would you have listened to Ralph?"
"Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond."
"Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much
for you."
"I know he does," said Isabel; "and I shall feel the value of it now,
for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason."
"He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it,
and he argued the other way."
"He did it for the sake of argument," the girl smiled. "You don't accuse
him of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?"
"He never pretended he'd prevent it."
"I'm glad of that!" cried Isabel gaily. "I wish very much," she
presently added, "that when he comes you'd tell him first of my
engagement."
"Of course I'll mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. "I shall say nothing
more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others."
"That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better the
announcement should come from you than from me."
"I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!" And on this the aunt
and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her
word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence,
however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an
hour before.
"From an old friend--an American gentleman," Isabel said with a colour
in her cheek.
"An American gentleman of course. It's only an American gentleman who
calls at ten o'clock in the morning."
"It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this
evening."
"Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?"
"He only arrived last night."
"He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?" Mrs. Touchett cried.
"He's an American gentleman truly."
"He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what
Caspar Goodwood had done for her.
Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs.
Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed
at first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of
his health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been
shocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten
how ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she
wondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed
to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to
conventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently
complete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural
oddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and
still ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper
and unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the
exorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was
altogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion of
relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; his
hands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled and
shuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It was
perhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than
ever as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his own
disabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed with
Ralph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking his
view of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence was
past finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness
had become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association; they
struck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to be
charming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill had
hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed
not a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved him
from all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury of
being exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful;
he had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to
consent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally
sick. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin; and when she
had pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good deal
she had allowed him a certain amount of compassion; but she always had
a dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to the
giver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibility
to feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it should
be. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illumination
of wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying.
Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people,
and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now
promised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph was
not pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite of
her affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not
even prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for
it would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to find
fault with any step she might take toward marriage. One's cousin always
pretended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; it
was a part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph was
nothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other things
being equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please any
one, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice should
square with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretended
to believe she had better have married Lord Warburton; but this was
only because she had refused that excellent man. If she had accepted
him Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took the
opposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of a
marriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she only
give her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She had
other employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of the
care. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He must
have seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing.
After three days had elapsed without his speaking our young woman
wearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go through
the form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily
believe that during the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo
Crescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had
literally greeted him with the great news, which had been even more
sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph was shocked
and humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in the
world in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about the
house like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden
of the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his head
thrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the
heart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what could
he say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it?
To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt should
succeed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in the
man to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet only
in the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have
damned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to
dissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope.
Meanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair were
daily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himself
little at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere,
as she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. She
had taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt
for the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved,
and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness,
during the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady,
joined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a while
through the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.
| 3,634 | Chapter 33 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady51.asp | After finishing crying, Isabel goes to tell her aunt of her engagement with Gilbert Osmond. Mrs. Touchett has guessed it. She immediately realizes she has been deceived by Madame Merle who promised to help prevent the engagement thereby keeping Mrs. Touchett from action. Mrs. Touchett says she might not have acted to prevent it, but perhaps Ralph would have had something to say. Mrs. Touchett asks Isabel why shes so interested in someone like Gilbert Osmond--"theres nothing of him." Isabel responds, "Then he cant hurt me." Ralph arrives two days later. Isabel knows he has been told and waits for him to bring the matter up, but he doesnt. He looks dreadful ill. She has never thought of his illness as being so dangerous as now. She dismisses his low opinion of her engagement--which she only guesses--as conventional. For her, all cousins are supposed to be critical of ones marriage. In the meantime, Isabel sees Gilbert Osmond every day. They meet each other in the Cascine, a park outside of Florence. | Notes This short chapter serves to give the reader Ralph Touchetts insight into the engagement of Isabel and Gilbert. He hates the news. It seems in fact to sicken him further. Yet he knows he cant say anything since it wont change Isabels mind and because it wont it would only cause problems between them. On the other hand, he also cant bring himself to congratulate her. So he goes for three days without saying anything to her. In regard to the Madame Merle-Gilbert Osmond plot, the chapter brings more to light. Mrs. Touchett is quite sure of the scheme and says as much to Isabel. In this way, the idea of the scheme is brought out in the open. Isabel rejects it now, but later will recall it and realize its true. | 259 | 133 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/35.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_34_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 35 | chapter 35 | null | {"name": "Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady53.asp", "summary": "Isabel never tells Gilbert Osmond of her family and friends opposition to the marriage. She feels as if in loving him, she is forced to break all her other ties. For his part, Gilbert Osmond is elated with his success. He feels that Madame Merle has given him an enormous gift in giving him Isabel Archer. She is intelligent enough to reflect back his own thoughts in a flattering way. Se is like a silver platter that reflects his ideas to perfection. One day as they are walking in he park, he mentions that he realizes her family disapproves of him. He says he has never strived for money and so they shouldnt think hes marrying Isabel for this reason. He tells her he is a better man for loving her. He says he used to want many things and had \"morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire.\" He says now a long summer afternoon of life awaits the two of them and they will have his charming daughter to entertain them. When he finally tells Pansy, she expresses her pleasure in having Isabel as a \"beautiful sister. \" One day Isabel meets pansy at the Countess Geminis. Pansy greets her sweetly, telling her shell be happy to have her as a stepmother. Isabel tells her she will always be kind to her and suddenly feels a sense of chill as if she realizes for a moment that some day Pansy will need her help. The Countess Gemini comes in and chatters on for a long time about her feelings in hearing about the news and her sense that Isabel will improve their family. She says she wants to tell Isabel some things about marriage and Pansy should leave the room. Isabel tells her she wants Pansy to stay because she doesnt want to hear anything Pansy cant hear.", "analysis": "Notes Isabel is isolated from all her usual sources of moral guidance. She seems to like this state of affairs at the moment. It makes her engagement to Gilbert Osmond even more romantic. Henry James relates only a bit of the kind of love talk she and Gilbert Osmond engage in during their walks in the park. He comes across as charming and loving and sweet. Isabel is also charmed by Pansy, whose innocence Isabel continues to admire. At one point, however, there is a note of foreboding when Isabel tells Pansy she will always be kind to her. She gets a sense that there will be a point at which Pansy will need such affection very much. This foreboding however is stifled like all the others. The reader notes it and sees Isabel note it but pass it by as is expected of anyone about to get married. When Isabel meets the Countess Gemini, it is clear that the Countess has been subdued by Madame Merle in her early intention of warming Isabel away from Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmonds machinations. She treats her to her usual flow of chatter. The last image of the chapter is of Isabel putting herself on the same plane as Pansy, asking to be left innocent of anything the Countess might want to relate to her of the horrors of marriage."} |
Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse
to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The
discreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin
made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was
simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming
to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to
throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she
married to please herself. One did other things to please other people;
one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel's satisfaction
was confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was
in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright
days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his
hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief
impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the
passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the
loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever
known before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope
that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her
not having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of
anecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late,
on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly
console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from
her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she
was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk
about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for
a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry
at all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the
spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made
him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel
flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the
more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little
free or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident,
in fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert
Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She
tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious,
almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed
and possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed
virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one's
right was always made of the wrong of some one else.
The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted
meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on
his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of
men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,
made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten
and dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he
never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which
presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions.
He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him
a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live
with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness
be all for one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired
the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than
a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one's
thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought
reproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred
it to be freshened in the reproduction even as "words" by music. His
egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this
lady's intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a
plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give
a decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served
dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he
could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew
perfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little
favour with the girl's relations; but he had always treated her so
completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary
to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one
morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. "It's the difference in our
fortune they don't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with your
money."
"Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?" Isabel asked. "How do you
know what they think?"
"You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett
the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I
should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you
rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course
when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.
I don't mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having
the shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothing
think--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never so
concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I
have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretend
I'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that's
yours--whether it be money or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow,
but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I've
sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life
tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than
most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's their
business to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole they
should. They'll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.
Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to
be thankful for life and love." "It has made me better, loving you," he
said on another occasion; "it has made me wiser and easier and--I won't
pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want
a great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them.
Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself
I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to
have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm really
satisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as when
one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the
lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and
finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it
properly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you
how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon
awaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,
and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,
the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you
love to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We've
got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the faculty
of admiration and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we're
not mean, we're not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness.
You're remarkably fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poor
child to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for her. It's
all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring."
They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal
of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live
for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had
been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy
should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old
acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her
a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire
for unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense
that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one's
energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had "seen life" in a year
or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of
that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations,
her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient
conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed
in a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away
numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the
situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the
stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the
fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be
of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she
could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was
giving.
He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who
was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she
would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who
held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to
go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore
a short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her.
She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the
end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an
appeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance
had the personal touch that the child's affectionate nature craved.
She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on
them--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render,
part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the
childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new
relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. "She doesn't
know," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't guess; she thinks it perfectly
natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good
friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it's
the way I like her to be. No, I'm not a failure, as I used to think;
I've succeeded in two things. I'm to marry the woman I adore, and I've
brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way."
He was very fond, in all things, of the "old way"; that had struck
Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. "It occurs to me that
you'll not know whether you've succeeded until you've told her," she
said. "You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she
may be jealous."
"I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own account. I
should like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will
come into her head that if we're not engaged we ought to be."
Isabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view, as it
somehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence--her own appreciation of it being
more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told
her a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter,
who had made such a pretty little speech--"Oh, then I shall have a
beautiful sister!" She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not
cried, as he expected.
"Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel.
"Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it
would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her
good manners are paramount. That's also what I wished. You shall see for
yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person."
The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini's, whither
Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come
in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning
that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the
visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been
ushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her
aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady,
who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in
company. It was Isabel's view that the little girl might have given
lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified
this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself
while they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision, the
year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive
the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her
theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.
"Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marry him," said this
excellent woman's pupil. "It's very delightful; I think you'll suit very
well."
"You think I shall suit YOU?"
"You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will
suit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious. You're not so
quiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you're more quiet than many
others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She's
always in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you'll see when she
comes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,
but I suppose there's no harm if we judge them favourably. You'll be a
delightful companion for papa."
"For you too, I hope," Isabel said.
"I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what I myself
think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I
think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You'll be
my model; I shall try to imitate you though I'm afraid it will be
very feeble. I'm very glad for papa--he needed something more than
me. Without you I don't see how he could have got it. You'll be my
stepmother, but we mustn't use that word. They're always said to be
cruel; but I don't think you'll ever so much as pinch or even push me.
I'm not afraid at all."
"My good little Pansy," said Isabel gently, "I shall be ever so kind to
you." A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need
it had intervened with the effect of a chill.
"Very well then, I've nothing to fear," the child returned with her
note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to
suggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded!
Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini
was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room
with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead
and then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite.
She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of
turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand
before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to
a composition of figures already sketched in. "If you expect me to
congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't suppose you care
if I do or not; I believe you're supposed not to care--through being so
clever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell
fibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to be
gained. I don't see what's to be gained with you--especially as you
wouldn't believe me. I don't make professions any more than I make paper
flowers or flouncey lampshades--I don't know how. My lampshades would be
sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm very
glad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretend
I'm glad for yours. You're very brilliant--you know that's the way
you're always spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking and
original, not banal; so it's a good thing to have you in the family.
Our family's very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and
my mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne.
But we're dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick us up.
I've great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to
talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think
they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose
Pansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has come to me
for--to acquire the tone of society. There's no harm in her knowing what
horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had
designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the
strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be
disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was
enchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By the way, you
won't respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate.
I should like it, but you won't. Some day, all the same, we shall be
better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and
see you, though, as you probably know, he's on no sort of terms with
Osmond. He's very fond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraid
of you. In the first place I don't care what he does. In the second, you
won't care a straw for him; he won't be a bit, at any time, your affair,
and, stupid as he is, he'll see you're not his. Some day, if you can
stand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go
out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir."
"Let her stay, please," said Isabel. "I would rather hear nothing that
Pansy may not!"
| 4,638 | Chapter 35 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady53.asp | Isabel never tells Gilbert Osmond of her family and friends opposition to the marriage. She feels as if in loving him, she is forced to break all her other ties. For his part, Gilbert Osmond is elated with his success. He feels that Madame Merle has given him an enormous gift in giving him Isabel Archer. She is intelligent enough to reflect back his own thoughts in a flattering way. Se is like a silver platter that reflects his ideas to perfection. One day as they are walking in he park, he mentions that he realizes her family disapproves of him. He says he has never strived for money and so they shouldnt think hes marrying Isabel for this reason. He tells her he is a better man for loving her. He says he used to want many things and had "morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire." He says now a long summer afternoon of life awaits the two of them and they will have his charming daughter to entertain them. When he finally tells Pansy, she expresses her pleasure in having Isabel as a "beautiful sister. " One day Isabel meets pansy at the Countess Geminis. Pansy greets her sweetly, telling her shell be happy to have her as a stepmother. Isabel tells her she will always be kind to her and suddenly feels a sense of chill as if she realizes for a moment that some day Pansy will need her help. The Countess Gemini comes in and chatters on for a long time about her feelings in hearing about the news and her sense that Isabel will improve their family. She says she wants to tell Isabel some things about marriage and Pansy should leave the room. Isabel tells her she wants Pansy to stay because she doesnt want to hear anything Pansy cant hear. | Notes Isabel is isolated from all her usual sources of moral guidance. She seems to like this state of affairs at the moment. It makes her engagement to Gilbert Osmond even more romantic. Henry James relates only a bit of the kind of love talk she and Gilbert Osmond engage in during their walks in the park. He comes across as charming and loving and sweet. Isabel is also charmed by Pansy, whose innocence Isabel continues to admire. At one point, however, there is a note of foreboding when Isabel tells Pansy she will always be kind to her. She gets a sense that there will be a point at which Pansy will need such affection very much. This foreboding however is stifled like all the others. The reader notes it and sees Isabel note it but pass it by as is expected of anyone about to get married. When Isabel meets the Countess Gemini, it is clear that the Countess has been subdued by Madame Merle in her early intention of warming Isabel away from Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmonds machinations. She treats her to her usual flow of chatter. The last image of the chapter is of Isabel putting herself on the same plane as Pansy, asking to be left innocent of anything the Countess might want to relate to her of the horrors of marriage. | 427 | 228 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/36.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_35_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 36 | chapter 36 | null | {"name": "Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady54.asp", "summary": "In the autumn of 1876, Edward Rosier calls on Madame Merle to ask her to put in a good word for him with Gilbert Osmond. He wants to marry Pansy Osmond. He tells Madame Merle that he wants to speak to Mrs. Isabel Osmond about it also and feels that Mrs. Osmond will be a help to him. Madame Merle advises against his speaking to Mrs. Osmond since the Osmonds take opposite views from each other in everything. She mentions that Mrs. Osmond had a son two years ago who died when he was six months old. She intimates that he cant expect any dowry money from Mrs. Osmond, who will probably save it all for her own future children. She warns Mr. Rosier again not to consult with Mrs. Osmond, because in \"setting her going\" he will certainly spoil his chances. She tells him he should be friendly to Mrs. Osmond, though, since she doesnt get along well with her new friends and therefore needs all the old ones she can find. He leaves her house and fears that he has gone to the wrong person. He hadnt realized how naive he was being in thinking that just because she was charming with him when he met her in Paris, that Madame Merle would speak on his behalf to Mr. Osmond. He goes to Mrs. Osmonds \"evening\" which she has every Thursday evening. They live at the Palazzo Roccanera, the name of which reminds one of a fortress. He thinks of Pansy as being immured in this place as if it were a dungeon. When he first started coming here, he had noticed all the good things in the house. As a collector, he was extremely interested to see that the Osmonds have better Parisian things than the Parisians do. Tonight, though, he has realized that he must be serious since he has learned that he will encounter serious opposition to marrying Pansy.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter is set three years later. The reader finds out about Isabel Archer and Gilbert Osmonds marriage through innuendo. During the conversation between Edward Rosier and Madame Merle, we find out that Isabel and Gilbert Osmond are not a happy couple and that they seem to have been conducting a sort of a war since they got married. We learn that Isabel had a baby boy two years ago who died when he was six months old. We learn also that Isabel is given no family status by virtue of her marriage. Madame Merle tells Rosier that Gilbert Osmonds \"wife can scarcely be termed a member of family.\" Last, we learn that they have moved to Rome and set up house where Isabel entertains every Thursday evening and Gilbert slowly acquires more art for the house. In setting up the marriage in this way, that is, in retrospect, James steps past the need to describe Isabels realization that she was fooled into the marriage and her gradual acceptance of her sad fate as serving as nothing more than a money maker and a social hostess for her husband. The next time we see Isabel, we will see her radically more mature, someone whose eyes have been sadly opened to the depravity of people who were supposedly trustworthy and who has been forced to continue to live amongst them. In light of this insight on the readers part, the actual subject of the chapter--Edward Rosiers attempt to win approval to marry Pansy--is thrown into light. The suit for Pansys hand is doomed at the outset. Edward has an inkling of this when he suspects that he was impolitic to have gone to Madame Merle for help. In terms of plot development, this new twist seems to be here mainly to put Isabel into action. If she loves Pansy, perhaps she will do something to help her marry someone she loves. In doing so, she will have to stop submitting to her husbands rule."} |
One afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a young man of
pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment on the third
floor of an old Roman house. On its being opened he enquired for Madame
Merle; whereupon the servant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face
and a lady's maid's manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room
and requested the favour of his name. "Mr. Edward Rosier," said the
young man, who sat down to wait till his hostess should appear.
The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier was an
ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may also be remembered
that he sometimes vanished from its horizon. He had spent a portion of
several winters at Pau, and as he was a gentleman of constituted habits
he might have continued for years to pay his annual visit to this
charming resort. In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him
which changed the current not only of his thoughts, but of his customary
sequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadine and encountered at
Saint Moritz a charming young girl. To this little person he began to
pay, on the spot, particular attention: she struck him as exactly the
household angel he had long been looking for. He was never precipitate,
he was nothing if not discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare
his passion; but it seemed to him when they parted--the young lady to go
down into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under
bonds to join other friends--that he should be romantically wretched if
he were not to see her again. The simplest way to do so was to go in
the autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr.
Rosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it
on the first of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for the
young man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise. He might
expose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Roman air, which in
November lay, notoriously, much in wait. Fortune, however, favours the
brave; and this adventurer, who took three grains of quinine a day, had
at the end of a month no cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to
a certain extent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain
to finding a flaw in Pansy Osmond's composition. She was admirably
finished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummate piece.
He thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal as he might have
thought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the
bloom of her juvenility, had a hint of the rococo which Rosier, whose
taste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to appreciate.
That he esteemed the productions of comparatively frivolous periods
would have been apparent from the attention he bestowed upon Madame
Merle's drawing-room, which, although furnished with specimens of every
style, was especially rich in articles of the last two centuries. He
had immediately put a glass into one eye and looked round; and then "By
Jove, she has some jolly good things!" he had yearningly murmured. The
room was small and densely filled with furniture; it gave an impression
of faded silk and little statuettes which might totter if one moved.
Rosier got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending over
the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with
princely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before
the fireplace with his nose very close to the great lace flounce
attached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately,
as if he were smelling it.
"It's old Venetian," she said; "it's rather good."
"It's too good for this; you ought to wear it."
"They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation."
"Ah, but I can't wear mine," smiled the visitor.
"I don't see why you shouldn't! I've better lace than that to wear."
His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. "You've some very
good things."
"Yes, but I hate them."
"Do you want to get rid of them?" the young man quickly asked.
"No, it's good to have something to hate: one works it off!"
"I love my things," said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed with all his
recognitions. "But it's not about them, nor about yours, that I came
to talk to you." He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: "I
care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!"
Madame Merle opened wide eyes. "Did you come to tell me that?"
"I came to ask your advice."
She looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin with her
large white hand. "A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice."
"Why not, if he's in a difficult position? That's often the case with a
man in love. I've been in love before, and I know. But never so much as
this time--really never so much. I should like particularly to know what
you think of my prospects. I'm afraid that for Mr. Osmond I'm not--well,
a real collector's piece."
"Do you wish me to intercede?" Madame Merle asked with her fine arms
folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left.
"If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly obliged. There
will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unless I have good reason to
believe her father will consent."
"You're very considerate; that's in your favour. But you assume in
rather an off-hand way that I think you a prize."
"You've been very kind to me," said the young man. "That's why I came."
"I'm always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It's very rare
now, and there's no telling what one may get by it." With which the
left-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouth gave expression to the joke.
But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently
strenuous. "Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!"
"I like you very much; but, if you please, we won't analyse. Pardon me
if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I
must tell you, however, that I've not the marrying of Pansy Osmond."
"I didn't suppose that. But you've seemed to me intimate with her
family, and I thought you might have influence."
Madame Merle considered. "Whom do you call her family?"
"Why, her father; and--how do you say it in English?--her belle-mere."
"Mr. Osmond's her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed
a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying
her."
"I'm sorry for that," said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. "I
think Mrs. Osmond would favour me."
"Very likely--if her husband doesn't."
He raised his eyebrows. "Does she take the opposite line from him?"
"In everything. They think quite differently."
"Well," said Rosier, "I'm sorry for that; but it's none of my business.
She's very fond of Pansy."
"Yes, she's very fond of Pansy."
"And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves
her as if she were her own mother."
"You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor
child," said Madame Merle. "Have you declared your sentiments?"
"Never!" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. "Never till I've
assured myself of those of the parents."
"You always wait for that? You've excellent principles; you observe the
proprieties."
"I think you're laughing at me," the young man murmured, dropping back
in his chair and feeling his small moustache. "I didn't expect that of
you, Madame Merle."
She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things as she saw them.
"You don't do me justice. I think your conduct in excellent taste and
the best you could adopt. Yes, that's what I think."
"I wouldn't agitate her--only to agitate her; I love her too much for
that," said Ned Rosier.
"I'm glad, after all, that you've told me," Madame Merle went on. "Leave
it to me a little; I think I can help you."
"I said you were the person to come to!" her visitor cried with prompt
elation.
"You were very clever," Madame Merle returned more dryly. "When I say I
can help you I mean once assuming your cause to be good. Let us think a
little if it is."
"I'm awfully decent, you know," said Rosier earnestly. "I won't say I've
no faults, but I'll say I've no vices."
"All that's negative, and it always depends, also, on what people call
vices. What's the positive side? What's the virtuous? What have you got
besides your Spanish lace and your Dresden teacups?"
"I've a comfortable little fortune--about forty thousand francs a year.
With the talent I have for arranging, we can live beautifully on such an
income."
"Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you
live."
"Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris."
Madame Merle's mouth rose to the left. "It wouldn't be famous; you'd
have to make use of the teacups, and they'd get broken."
"We don't want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should have everything
pretty it would be enough. When one's as pretty as she one can
afford--well, quite cheap faience. She ought never to wear anything but
muslin--without the sprig," said Rosier reflectively.
"Wouldn't you even allow her the sprig? She'd be much obliged to you at
any rate for that theory."
"It's the correct one, I assure you; and I'm sure she'd enter into it.
She understands all that; that's why I love her."
"She's a very good little girl, and most tidy--also extremely graceful.
But her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing."
Rosier scarce demurred. "I don't in the least desire that he should. But
I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man."
"The money's his wife's; she brought him a large fortune."
"Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do
something."
"For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!" Madame Merle
exclaimed with a laugh.
"I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it."
"Mrs. Osmond," Madame Merle went on, "will probably prefer to keep her
money for her own children."
"Her own children? Surely she has none."
"She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago,
six months after his birth. Others therefore may come."
"I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She's a splendid woman."
Madame Merle failed to burst into speech. "Ah, about her there's much to
be said. Splendid as you like! We've not exactly made out that you're a
parti. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income.
"Pardon me, I think it may be," said Rosier quite lucidly.
"You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!"
"I think you underrate me."
"You're not so innocent as that? Seriously," said Madame Merle,
"of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a
combination to be considered. I don't say it's to be jumped at, but
there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond, however, will probably incline
to believe he can do better."
"HE can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can't do better
than marry the man she loves. For she does, you know," Rosier added
eagerly.
"She does--I know it."
"Ah," cried the young man, "I said you were the person to come to."
"But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her," Madame
Merle went on.
"In such a case there's no need of asking and telling; as you say, we're
an innocent couple. How did YOU know it?"
"I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I'll find
out for you."
Rosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. "You say that rather coldly.
Don't simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be."
"I'll do my best. I'll try to make the most of your advantages."
"Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I'll say a word to Mrs. Osmond."
"Gardez-vous-en bien!" And Madame Merle was on her feet. "Don't set her
going, or you'll spoil everything."
Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess HAD been
after all the right person to come to. "I don't think I understand
you. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to
succeed."
"Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the
better, for she doesn't get on very well with some of her new. But don't
for the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband
may have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you
not to multiply points of difference between them."
Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand
of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste
for proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which
he concealed under a surface suggesting that of a careful owner's "best
set" came to his assistance. "I don't see that I'm bound to consider Mr.
Osmond so very much!" he exclaimed. "No, but you should consider HER.
You say you're an old friend. Would you make her suffer?"
"Not for the world."
"Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I've taken a few
soundings."
"Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I'm in love."
"Oh, you won't burn up! Why did you come to me, if you're not to heed
what I say?"
"You're very kind; I'll be very good," the young man promised. "But I'm
afraid Mr. Osmond's pretty hard," he added in his mild voice as he went
to the door.
Madame Merle gave a short laugh. "It has been said before. But his wife
isn't easy either."
"Ah, she's a splendid woman!" Ned Rosier repeated, for departure.
He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of an aspirant who was
already a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he
had given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself
in spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected
constantly on what his adviser had said to him, and turned over in his
mind the impression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her
de confiance, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he had been
precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash--he had
incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had
known Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her
a delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for
assuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms,
gracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. She had
indeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of consideration
among the girl's people, where she had a rather striking appearance
(Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being
intimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these
advantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble
for him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt
rather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her on the
ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely--though she had
appeared to say it in joke--she was really only thinking of his
bibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three
of the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss
Osmond he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say
so to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like
her to believe it.
It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond's,
Mrs. Osmond having an "evening"--she had taken the Thursday of each
week--when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of
civility. The object of Mr. Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in
a high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure
overlooking a sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese
Palace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived--a palace by Roman measure,
but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of
evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious
father he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in
a kind of domestic fortress, a pile which bore a stern old Roman name,
which smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which
was mentioned in "Murray" and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague
survey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio
in the piano nobile and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the
wide, nobly-arched loggia overhanging the damp court where a fountain
gushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he
could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered
into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on
settling themselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this
habitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough,
and though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamels
he could see that the proportions of the windows and even the details
of the cornice had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the
conviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up
there to keep them from their true loves, and then, under the threat of
being thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There
was one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he
found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which
were on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very
strong in "good things." It was a taste of Osmond's own--not at all of
hers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when,
after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had even
better "French" than he in Paris, he was obliged on the spot to admit
that they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman
should, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of
her treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a
large collection before their marriage and that, though he had annexed
a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved his
greatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice.
Rosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own.
For "advice" read "cash," he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert
Osmond had landed his highest prizes during his impecunious season
confirmed his most cherished doctrine--the doctrine that a collector may
freely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented
himself on a Thursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls
of the saloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really
yearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme
seriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, he looked about
for the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted
a gentleman whose smile, as he crossed a threshold, always took
everything comfortable for granted.
| 5,095 | Chapter 36 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady54.asp | In the autumn of 1876, Edward Rosier calls on Madame Merle to ask her to put in a good word for him with Gilbert Osmond. He wants to marry Pansy Osmond. He tells Madame Merle that he wants to speak to Mrs. Isabel Osmond about it also and feels that Mrs. Osmond will be a help to him. Madame Merle advises against his speaking to Mrs. Osmond since the Osmonds take opposite views from each other in everything. She mentions that Mrs. Osmond had a son two years ago who died when he was six months old. She intimates that he cant expect any dowry money from Mrs. Osmond, who will probably save it all for her own future children. She warns Mr. Rosier again not to consult with Mrs. Osmond, because in "setting her going" he will certainly spoil his chances. She tells him he should be friendly to Mrs. Osmond, though, since she doesnt get along well with her new friends and therefore needs all the old ones she can find. He leaves her house and fears that he has gone to the wrong person. He hadnt realized how naive he was being in thinking that just because she was charming with him when he met her in Paris, that Madame Merle would speak on his behalf to Mr. Osmond. He goes to Mrs. Osmonds "evening" which she has every Thursday evening. They live at the Palazzo Roccanera, the name of which reminds one of a fortress. He thinks of Pansy as being immured in this place as if it were a dungeon. When he first started coming here, he had noticed all the good things in the house. As a collector, he was extremely interested to see that the Osmonds have better Parisian things than the Parisians do. Tonight, though, he has realized that he must be serious since he has learned that he will encounter serious opposition to marrying Pansy. | Notes This chapter is set three years later. The reader finds out about Isabel Archer and Gilbert Osmonds marriage through innuendo. During the conversation between Edward Rosier and Madame Merle, we find out that Isabel and Gilbert Osmond are not a happy couple and that they seem to have been conducting a sort of a war since they got married. We learn that Isabel had a baby boy two years ago who died when he was six months old. We learn also that Isabel is given no family status by virtue of her marriage. Madame Merle tells Rosier that Gilbert Osmonds "wife can scarcely be termed a member of family." Last, we learn that they have moved to Rome and set up house where Isabel entertains every Thursday evening and Gilbert slowly acquires more art for the house. In setting up the marriage in this way, that is, in retrospect, James steps past the need to describe Isabels realization that she was fooled into the marriage and her gradual acceptance of her sad fate as serving as nothing more than a money maker and a social hostess for her husband. The next time we see Isabel, we will see her radically more mature, someone whose eyes have been sadly opened to the depravity of people who were supposedly trustworthy and who has been forced to continue to live amongst them. In light of this insight on the readers part, the actual subject of the chapter--Edward Rosiers attempt to win approval to marry Pansy--is thrown into light. The suit for Pansys hand is doomed at the outset. Edward has an inkling of this when he suspects that he was impolitic to have gone to Madame Merle for help. In terms of plot development, this new twist seems to be here mainly to put Isabel into action. If she loves Pansy, perhaps she will do something to help her marry someone she loves. In doing so, she will have to stop submitting to her husbands rule. | 462 | 335 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/44.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_43_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 44 | chapter 44 | null | {"name": "Chapter 44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady63.asp", "summary": "The bored Countess Gemini is happily surprised with a visit from Henrietta Stackpole whom she remembered from her connection to Isabel. She has just received an invitation to visit her brother and Isabel in Rome. Since she is always eager to visit Rome and sad to be kept away from it by reason of a lack of funds, she is very excited about the trip. Henrietta tells her she plans to go see Isabel in Rome because she has been alarmed by Isabels letters. Her letters say nothing much and it is in their emptiness that Henrietta reads Isabels unhappiness. She is shocked when the Countess relates the gossip to her that Lord Warburton is hanging around Isabel in Rome with a romantic interest. After a short time of conversation, both women realize they dont like the other very much. Henrietta leaves the Countesss house and goes to leave a note at Caspar Goodwoods hotel that he should meet her that evening. She then goes to the Tribune to see her favorite work of art, a Corregio of Mary playing with the baby Jesus. At the door, she is surprised to find Caspar Goodwood. She tells him she wants to ask him a favor. He is reluctant to talk to her since she always brings up Mrs. Osmond, but he is too much of a gentleman to deny her. She asks him to reconsider if it is a good idea that he go to Rome to see Isabel. She asks him to be a true friend, not a selfish friend. He says he will go to Rome. She tells him shes leaving the next day. He doesnt want to travel with her, but he is too much of a gentleman to \"insult an unprotected woman\" by not putting himself out for her. He offers to accompany her and she takes this as a matter of course.", "analysis": "Notes It seems that whenever James wants to bring out all of Isabels qualities or send her into action, he gathers around her a cast of characters who are conducive to action. These are, firstly, Henrietta Stackpole, Caspar Goodwood, but also Lord Warburton and Ralph Touchett. This chapter serves mainly as a set-up for further action. In it we learn that Caspar Goodwood still thinks a good deal of Isabel, though he doesnt like to admit it, that Henrietta Stackpole also thinks a good deal of Isabel and has now proposed to save her in some way."} |
The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own phrase,
to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she
struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an
unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town,
where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose
talent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an
obliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who
won from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in
Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without
currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very
dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared
to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness
needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her
eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that she
had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had
been allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that
there were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been
there at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say.
Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much
more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated
Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter's. They
are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually
summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City
and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The
Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with
her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more
interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening
parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one
had heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impatience had greatly
increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than
herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual
enough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and the catacombs, not
even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the
scenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about
her sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful
time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which
she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a
week there during the first winter of her brother's marriage, but she
had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't want
her--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the
same, for after all she didn't care two straws about Osmond. It was
her husband who wouldn't let her, and the money question was always
a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her
sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel's
personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with
clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could
never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the really
clever ones--always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that,
different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she
had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet
upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should
both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived,
with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was
constantly expecting that Isabel would "look down" on her, and she as
constantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it would
begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she
cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law
regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor
Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would as
soon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a
grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband's sister, however;
she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought
her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she
was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably
pink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle
was apparently the Countess's spiritual principle, a little loose nut
that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too
anomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there
was no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage,
had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst
species--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said
at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she
had given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake.
The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to
the Countess's going again to Rome; but at the period with which this
history has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend
several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond
himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very
quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had
put into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any
terms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her
former visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the
marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious
thoughts--if any of the Countess's thoughts were serious--of putting
her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was
reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an
easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it
seemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the
taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether
Isabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see
Osmond overtopped.
Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the
card of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription "Henrietta C.
Stackpole." The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she
didn't remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant
then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the
Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on
seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact
reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett's;
the only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the only
modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She
recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole
seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly
good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that
sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account
of her mother--whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother
was not at all like Isabel's friend; the Countess could see at a
glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received
an impression of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly in
distant countries--in the character (the professional character) of
literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown
over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet
(oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of
glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of
her "Creole" ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal
and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see,
was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something
brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost
conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever
vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The
Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer
was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained
that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she
knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to
see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett,
but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence
Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett
was not one of her admirations.
"Do you mean by that that I am?" the Countess graciously asked.
"Well, I like you better than I do her," said Miss Stackpole. "I seem to
remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don't
know whether it was an accident or whether it's your usual style. At
any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it
afterwards in print."
"Dear me!" cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; "I had no idea
I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time."
"It was about the position of woman in this city," Miss Stackpole
remarked. "You threw a good deal of light upon it."
"The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And
you wrote it down and published it?" the Countess went on. "Ah, do let
me see it!"
"I'll write to them to send you the paper if you like," Henrietta said.
"I didn't mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I
quoted your views."
The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped
hands. "Do you know I'm rather sorry you didn't mention my name? I
should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my
views were; I have so many! But I'm not ashamed of them. I'm not at all
like my brother--I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of
scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he'd never
forgive you."
"He needn't be afraid; I shall never refer to him," said Miss Stackpole
with bland dryness. "That's another reason," she added, "why I wanted to
come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend."
"Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to think what I
knew about you."
"I'm quite willing to be known by that," Henrietta declared. "But that
isn't what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my
relations with Isabel."
"Don't permit it," said the Countess.
"That's what I want to talk about. I'm going to Rome."
"So am I!" the Countess cried. "We'll go together."
"With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I'll mention you
by name as my companion."
The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside
her visitor. "Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won't like it,
but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn't know how to read."
Henrietta's large eyes became immense. "Doesn't know how to read? May I
put that into my letter?"
"Into your letter?"
"In the Interviewer. That's my paper."
"Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?"
Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess.
"She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered
that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason."
The Countess listened with extreme interest. "The reason's Osmond," she
pregnantly remarked.
"Isabel ought to make a stand," said Miss Stackpole. "I'm afraid she has
changed a great deal. I told her she would."
"I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn't
my brother like you?" the Countess ingenuously added.
"I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to like me;
I don't want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some
people did. A journalist can't hope to do much good unless he gets a
good deal hated; that's the way he knows how his work goes on. And it's
just the same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of Isabel."
"Do you mean that she hates you?" the Countess enquired.
"I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome for."
"Dear me, what a tiresome errand!" the Countess exclaimed.
"She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see there's a
difference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpole went on, "I should
like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take."
The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. "I know
very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn't like me
any better than he appears to like you."
"Yet you're not a lady correspondent," said Henrietta pensively.
"Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invited me--I'm
to stay in the house!" And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her
exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole's
disappointment.
This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. "I shouldn't have gone if
she HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn't; and I'm glad I hadn't
to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I
shouldn't have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn't have
been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that's
not all."
"Rome's very good just now," said the Countess; "there are all sorts of
brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?"
"Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?"
Henrietta enquired.
"I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand seigneur. He's
making love to Isabel."
"Making love to her?"
"So I'm told; I don't know the details," said the Countess lightly. "But
Isabel's pretty safe."
Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said
nothing. "When do you go to Rome?" she enquired abruptly.
"Not for a week, I'm afraid."
"I shall go to-morrow," Henrietta said. "I think I had better not wait."
"Dear me, I'm sorry; I'm having some dresses made. I'm told Isabel
receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you
at your pension." Henrietta sat still--she was lost in thought; and
suddenly the Countess cried: "Ah, but if you don't go with me you can't
describe our journey!"
Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking
of something else and presently expressed it. "I'm not sure that I
understand you about Lord Warburton."
"Understand me? I mean he's very nice, that's all."
"Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?" Henrietta
enquired with unprecedented distinctness.
The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: "It's certain
all the nice men do it. Get married and you'll see!" she added.
"That idea would be enough to prevent me," said Miss Stackpole. "I
should want my own husband; I shouldn't want any one else's. Do you mean
that Isabel's guilty--guilty--?" And she paused a little, choosing her
expression.
"Do I mean she's guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that
Osmond's very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great
deal at the house. I'm afraid you're scandalised."
"No, I'm just anxious," Henrietta said.
"Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more
confidence. I'll tell you," the Countess added quickly: "if it will be a
comfort to you I engage to draw him off."
Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her
gaze. "You don't understand me," she said after a while. "I haven't the
idea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraid for Isabel--in that way. I'm
only afraid she's unhappy--that's what I want to get at."
The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and
sarcastic. "That may very well be; for my part I should like to know
whether Osmond is." Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.
"If she's really changed that must be at the bottom of it," Henrietta
went on.
"You'll see; she'll tell you," said the Countess.
"Ah, she may NOT tell me--that's what I'm afraid of!"
"Well, if Osmond isn't amusing himself--in his own old way--I flatter
myself I shall discover it," the Countess rejoined.
"I don't care for that," said Henrietta.
"I do immensely! If Isabel's unhappy I'm very sorry for her, but I can't
help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I
can't tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and
marry him for? If she had listened to me she'd have got rid of him. I'll
forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she
has simply allowed him to trample upon her I don't know that I shall
even pity her. But I don't think that's very likely. I count upon
finding that if she's miserable she has at least made HIM so."
Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful
expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond
unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of
fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose
mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a
capacity for coarseness even there. "It will be better if they love each
other," she said for edification.
"They can't. He can't love any one."
"I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for
Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow."
"Isabel certainly has devotees," said the Countess, smiling very
vividly. "I declare I don't pity her."
"It may be I can't assist her," Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were
well not to have illusions.
"You can have wanted to, at any rate; that's something. I believe that's
what you came from America for," the Countess suddenly added.
"Yes, I wanted to look after her," Henrietta said serenely.
Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an
eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come.
"Ah, that's very pretty c'est bien gentil! Isn't it what they call
friendship?"
"I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better come."
"She's very happy--she's very fortunate," the Countess went on. "She
has others besides." And then she broke out passionately. "She's more
fortunate than I! I'm as unhappy as she--I've a very bad husband; he's a
great deal worse than Osmond. And I've no friends. I thought I had, but
they're gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you've done for
her."
Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She
gazed at her companion a moment, and then: "Look here, Countess, I'll do
anything for you that you like. I'll wait over and travel with you."
"Never mind," the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: "only
describe me in the newspaper!"
Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her
understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her
journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On
quitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno, the sunny quay beside
the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand
all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of
Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able
to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms
the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the
left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the
hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth
a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after
meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over
her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: "Could
I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?"
Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with
this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up
his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home.
The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about
twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged
it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her
course along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which
she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings.
Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the
upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with
antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an
empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble
floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but
scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of
artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had
after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the
little Correggio of the Tribune--the Virgin kneeling down before the
sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands
to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special
devotion to this intimate scene--she thought it the most beautiful
picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she
was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that
they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite
work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it
involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn
into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a
little exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.
"I've just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card for you."
"I'm very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant
it.
"It was not to honour you I did it; I've called on you before and I know
you don't like it. It was to talk to you a little about something."
He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. "I shall be very glad
to hear what you wish to say."
"You don't like to talk with me," said Henrietta. "But I don't care for
that; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come
and see me; but since I've met you here this will do as well."
"I was just going away," Goodwood stated; "but of course I'll stop." He
was civil, but not enthusiastic.
Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was
so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on
any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the
pictures.
"All I want to. I've been here an hour."
"I wonder if you've seen my Correggio," said Henrietta. "I came up on
purpose to have a look at it." She went into the Tribune and he slowly
accompanied her.
"I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don't
remember pictures--especially that sort." She had pointed out her
favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to
talk with him.
"No," said Henrietta, "it's about something less harmonious!" They
had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to
themselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus.
"I want you to do me a favour," Miss Stackpole went on.
Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at
the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man
than our earlier friend. "I'm sure it's something I shan't like," he
said rather loudly.
"No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be no favour."
"Well, let's hear it," he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious
of his patience.
"You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a favour.
Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you'd let me I'd gladly do
you one." Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect,
had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rather
a hard surface, couldn't help being touched by it. When he was touched
he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed,
nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more
directly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued
therefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. "I may say
now, indeed--it seems a good time--that if I've ever annoyed you (and
I think sometimes I have) it's because I knew I was willing to suffer
annoyance for you. I've troubled you--doubtless. But I'd TAKE trouble
for you."
Goodwood hesitated. "You're taking trouble now."
"Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it's better on the
whole that you should go to Rome."
"I thought you were going to say that!" he answered rather artlessly.
"You HAVE considered it then?"
"Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it. Otherwise
I shouldn't have come so far as this. That's what I stayed in Paris two
months for. I was thinking it over."
"I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because
you were so much attracted."
"Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood demanded.
"Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next."
"Oh, it won't do HER any good! I don't flatter myself that."
"Won't it do her some harm?--that's the question."
"I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But
if you want to know, I do want to see her myself."
"Yes, and that's why you go."
"Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?"
"How will it help you?--that's what I want to know," said Miss
Stackpole.
"That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking about
in Paris."
"It will make you more discontented."
"Why do you say 'more' so?" Goodwood asked rather sternly. "How do you
know I'm discontented?"
"Well," said Henrietta, hesitating a little, "you seem never to have
cared for another."
"How do you know what I care for?" he cried with a big blush. "Just now
I care to go to Rome."
Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression.
"Well," she observed at last, "I only wanted to tell you what I think;
I had it on my mind. Of course you think it's none of my business. But
nothing is any one's business, on that principle."
"It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your interest,"
said Caspar Goodwood. "I shall go to Rome and I shan't hurt Mrs.
Osmond."
"You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that's the real
issue."
"Is she in need of help?" he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.
"Most women always are," said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness
and generalising less hopefully than usual. "If you go to Rome," she
added, "I hope you'll be a true friend--not a selfish one!" And she
turned off and began to look at the pictures.
Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered
round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. "You've heard
something about her here," he then resumed. "I should like to know what
you've heard."
Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this
occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after
thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. "Yes, I've
heard," she answered; "but as I don't want you to go to Rome I won't
tell you."
"Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Then
inconsistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added.
"Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed.
"I hope not. When do you start?"
"To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?"
Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss
Stackpole's company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the
same character as Gilbert Osmond's, but it had at this moment an equal
distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole's virtues than a
reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant,
and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged.
Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of
things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters
he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But
it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss
Stackpole didn't take so much for granted. She took for granted that he
was always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when
they met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had
repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no
wish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was NOT always thinking of
her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least
colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashing
her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn't
care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him,
that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now
made other reflections--which show how widely different, in effect, his
ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond's. He desired to go immediately to
Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the
European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee
to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found
one's self objecting with all the added vehemence of one's wish to have
the window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, at
least at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But
he couldn't take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the
morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected
woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait
longer than he had patience for. It wouldn't do to start the next day.
She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in
a European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of
irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to
put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that;
it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some
moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a
tone of extreme distinctness, "Of course if you're going to-morrow I'll
go too, as I may be of assistance to you."
"Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta returned
imperturbably.
| 8,298 | Chapter 44 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady63.asp | The bored Countess Gemini is happily surprised with a visit from Henrietta Stackpole whom she remembered from her connection to Isabel. She has just received an invitation to visit her brother and Isabel in Rome. Since she is always eager to visit Rome and sad to be kept away from it by reason of a lack of funds, she is very excited about the trip. Henrietta tells her she plans to go see Isabel in Rome because she has been alarmed by Isabels letters. Her letters say nothing much and it is in their emptiness that Henrietta reads Isabels unhappiness. She is shocked when the Countess relates the gossip to her that Lord Warburton is hanging around Isabel in Rome with a romantic interest. After a short time of conversation, both women realize they dont like the other very much. Henrietta leaves the Countesss house and goes to leave a note at Caspar Goodwoods hotel that he should meet her that evening. She then goes to the Tribune to see her favorite work of art, a Corregio of Mary playing with the baby Jesus. At the door, she is surprised to find Caspar Goodwood. She tells him she wants to ask him a favor. He is reluctant to talk to her since she always brings up Mrs. Osmond, but he is too much of a gentleman to deny her. She asks him to reconsider if it is a good idea that he go to Rome to see Isabel. She asks him to be a true friend, not a selfish friend. He says he will go to Rome. She tells him shes leaving the next day. He doesnt want to travel with her, but he is too much of a gentleman to "insult an unprotected woman" by not putting himself out for her. He offers to accompany her and she takes this as a matter of course. | Notes It seems that whenever James wants to bring out all of Isabels qualities or send her into action, he gathers around her a cast of characters who are conducive to action. These are, firstly, Henrietta Stackpole, Caspar Goodwood, but also Lord Warburton and Ralph Touchett. This chapter serves mainly as a set-up for further action. In it we learn that Caspar Goodwood still thinks a good deal of Isabel, though he doesnt like to admit it, that Henrietta Stackpole also thinks a good deal of Isabel and has now proposed to save her in some way. | 432 | 97 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/46.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_45_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 46 | chapter 46 | null | {"name": "Chapter 46", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady65.asp", "summary": "Lord Warburton stays away from the Osmonds for four days. Gilbert Osmond finally asks Isabel what has happened to him. Isabel realizes that Gilbert is accusing her of being untrustworthy and he says just that. As they are talking, Lord Warburton is announced. He is clearly unhappy to find Gilbert there, but he recovers and stays to chat for a while. He says he is on his way home to England and wanted to come by to say good-bye to them and Pansy. When he keeps staying, it becomes obvious that he wants to speak to Isabel alone. Gilbert leaves the room. Warburton tells her he wants to see Pansy. They agree that it is best that it will be the last time since he doesnt care enough for Pansy and she doesnt care for him. Pansy comes in and accepts Warburtons good words with grace. Then he leaves. Pansy thanks Isabel for being her guardian angel. She says her father just came to get her and kissed her tenderly on the head. She thinks Isabel spoke to him about Pansy. Isabel assures her that she had nothing to do with Gilberts behavior. She realizes it is part of Gilberts idea of himself. Even in defeat, he can play the role of the magnanimous father. That evening they go out to dinner and then to an entertainment. When they get back, Pansy goes to bed and Gilbert asks Isabel to remain in the parlor to talk to him. He tells her he believes she is trying to humiliate him. He says it is obvious that she had played him for a fool in making him want Lord Warburton as a son in law and them pushing Lord Warburton away. Isabel is fascinated at the working of his \"morbid passion.\" She denies his accusations, but to no effect. Isabel looks like an angel of disdain as she gets up to leave. As she leaves, she says, \"Poor little Pansy!\"", "analysis": "Notes The ugly scene between Isabel and Gilbert only confirms what the reader has been led to expect. At Lord Warburtons withdrawal, Gilbert has blamed Isabel of maneuvering to get him away. Henry James ahs set up the characters of Gilbert and Isabel carefully enough that their response to this latest change is predictable. The scene shows Gilbert as a cruel man who seems to believe his own fantasies about the depravity of Isabel and it shows Isabel trying to remain true to her most noble image of herself."} |
Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for several
days, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that her husband said nothing
to her about having received a letter from him. She couldn't fail to
observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy and that,
though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their
distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four
days he alluded to his absence.
"What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a
tradesman with a bill?"
"I know nothing about him," Isabel said. "I saw him last Friday at the
German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you."
"He has never written to me."
"So I supposed, from your not having told me."
"He's an odd fish," said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel's making
no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship five
days to indite a letter. "Does he form his words with such difficulty?"
"I don't know," Isabel was reduced to replying. "I've never had a letter
from him."
"Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate
correspondence."
She answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation
drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the
afternoon, her husband took it up again.
"When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you
say to him?" he asked.
She just faltered. "I think I told him not to forget it.
"Did you believe there was a danger of that?"
"As you say, he's an odd fish."
"Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so good as to remind
him."
"Should you like me to write to him?" she demanded.
"I've no objection whatever."
"You expect too much of me."
"Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you."
"I'm afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel.
"My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment."
"Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself!
If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them
yourself."
For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: "That
won't be easy, with you working against me."
Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of
looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of
her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully
cruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable
necessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a presence.
That effect had never been so marked as now. "I think you accuse me of
something very base," she returned.
"I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after all come
forward it will be because you've kept him off. I don't know that it's
base: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I've no
doubt you've the finest ideas about it."
"I told you I would do what I could," she went on.
"Yes, that gained you time."
It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once thought him
beautiful. "How much you must want to make sure of him!" she exclaimed
in a moment.
She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her
words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made
a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had
once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich
enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her--a
horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her
that none of the force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing
otherwise, however; he only said quickly: "Yes, I want it immensely."
At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was followed
the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing
Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress;
a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a
perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English
address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element
of good-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving
transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel
remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking
about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn't known
what was become of him--they had been afraid he had gone away. "No,"
he explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; "I'm only on the point of
going." And then he mentioned that he found himself suddenly recalled
to England: he should start on the morrow or the day after. "I'm awfully
sorry to leave poor Touchett!" he ended by exclaiming.
For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back
in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him; she could only fancy
how he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor's face, where they were
the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them.
Yet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she would have found it
expressive. "You had better take poor Touchett with you," she heard her
husband say, lightly enough, in a moment.
"He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburton answered. "I
shouldn't advise him to travel just now."
He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon
see them again--unless indeed they should come to England, a course
he strongly recommended. Why shouldn't they come to England in the
autumn?--that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such
pleasure to do what he could for them--to have them come and spend a
month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but
once; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure and
intelligence. It was just the country for him--he would be sure to get
on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what
a good time she had had there and if she didn't want to try it again.
Didn't she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really
very good. Touchett didn't take proper care of it, but it was the sort
of place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn't they
come and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn't
asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch!--and Lord Warburton promised to
give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a
mere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with
Touchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the
people they must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord
Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told
him that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a
country she deserved to see. Of course she didn't need to go to England
to be admired--that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense
success there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He asked
if she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Not that he liked
good-byes--he always funked them. When he left England the other day he
hadn't said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had half a mind
to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What
could be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things
one wanted--one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other
hand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't, simply from a sense
that one had to say something. Such a sense was upsetting; it muddled
one's wits. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced
on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't think he spoke as he ought she must set
it down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond.
He was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her
instead of calling--but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a
lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left
the house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh.
If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in the
announcement of his departure it failed to come to the surface. Lord
Warburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no other
manner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat he was
capable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him; she liked
him quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He
would do that on any occasion--not from impudence but simply from the
habit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's power to
frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there, went on
in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor; said what was
proper to him; read, more or less, between the lines of what he said
himself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had found her
alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of Osmond's emotion.
She felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of
loss without the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, and now, as
he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl
his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly; he
treated their friend on the whole to as vacant a countenance as so
clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of Osmond's
cleverness that he could look consummately uncompromised. His present
appearance, however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was
simply a part of Osmond's habitual system, which was to be inexpressive
exactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had been intent on
this prize from the first; but he had never allowed his eagerness to
irradiate his refined face. He had treated his possible son-in-law as he
treated every one--with an air of being interested in him only for his
own advantage, not for any profit to a person already so generally, so
perfectly provided as Gilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an
inward rage which was the result of a vanished prospect of gain--not
the faintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any
satisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction;
she wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same
time she wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton.
Osmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the
advantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but it
was something almost as good--that of not attempting. As he leaned back
in his place, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly offers and
suppressed explanations--as if it were only proper to assume that they
were addressed essentially to his wife--he had at least (since so little
else was left him) the comfort of thinking how well he personally had
kept out of it, and how the air of indifference, which he was now able
to wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It was something to be
able to look as if the leave-taker's movements had no relation to his
own mind. The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond's performance was
in its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position was after
all an easy one; there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't leave
Rome. He had had beneficent inclinations, but they had stopped short
of fruition; he had never committed himself, and his honour was safe.
Osmond appeared to take but a moderate interest in the proposal that
they should go and stay with him and in his allusion to the success
Pansy might extract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but
left Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration.
Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the great vista
which had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind, with Pansy's little
figure marching up the middle of it.
Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither
Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the air of
giving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small chair, as if
it were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed
and stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She believed it
was not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he would
rather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone--he had
something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she
was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly dispense
with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got up, like a man of good
taste to whom it had occurred that so inveterate a visitor might wish
to say just the last word of all to the ladies. "I've a letter to write
before dinner," he said; "you must excuse me. I'll see if my daughter's
disengaged, and if she is she shall know you're here. Of course when
you come to Rome you'll always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you
about the English expedition: she decides all those things."
The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little
speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the whole
it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he
left the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, "Your
husband's very angry"; which would have been extremely disagreeable to
her. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: "Oh, don't be
anxious. He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!"
It was only when they had been left alone together that her friend
showed a certain vague awkwardness--sitting down in another chair,
handling two or three of the objects that were near him. "I hope he'll
make Miss Osmond come," he presently remarked. "I want very much to see
her."
"I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel.
"So am I. She doesn't care for me."
"No, she doesn't care for you."
"I don't wonder at it," he returned. Then he added with inconsequence:
"You'll come to England, won't you?"
"I think we had better not."
"Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were to have come
to Lockleigh once, and you never did?"
"Everything's changed since then," said Isabel.
"Not changed for the worse, surely--as far as we're concerned. To see
you under my roof"--and he hung fire but an instant--"would be a great
satisfaction."
She had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that occurred.
They talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy came in,
already dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in either cheek.
She shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up into his
face with a fixed smile--a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship
probably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears.
"I'm going away," he said. "I want to bid you good-bye."
"Good-bye, Lord Warburton." Her voice perceptibly trembled.
"And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy."
"Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered.
He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. "You ought to be very
happy--you've got a guardian angel."
"I'm sure I shall be happy," said Pansy in the tone of a person whose
certainties were always cheerful.
"Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it should
ever fail you, remember--remember--" And her interlocutor stammered a
little. "Think of me sometimes, you know!" he said with a vague laugh.
Then he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and presently he was gone.
When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her
stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very different.
"I think you ARE my guardian angel!" she exclaimed very sweetly.
Isabel shook her head. "I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm at the most
your good friend."
"You're a very good friend then--to have asked papa to be gentle with
me."
"I've asked your father nothing," said Isabel, wondering.
"He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a
very kind kiss."
"Ah," said Isabel, "that was quite his own idea!"
She recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and she
was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn't put
himself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and after
their dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it was not till
late in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him
before going to bed he returned her embrace with even more than his
usual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that his
daughter had been injured by the machinations of her stepmother. It was
a partial expression, at any rate, of what he continued to expect of his
wife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she
would remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked about the
drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak.
"I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a moment. "I should
like to know--so that I may know how to act."
"Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired."
"Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there--take a
comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of cushions that were
scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was not,
however, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest chair.
The fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few. She drew
her cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. "I think you're trying to
humiliate me," Osmond went on. "It's a most absurd undertaking."
"I haven't the least idea what you mean," she returned.
"You've played a very deep game; you've managed it beautifully."
"What is it that I've managed?"
"You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again." And he
stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at
her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know
that she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of
thought.
"If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation to come back
you're wrong," Isabel said. "He's under none whatever."
"That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll come back I don't
mean he'll come from a sense of duty."
"There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome."
"Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible." And Osmond
began to walk about again. "However, about that perhaps there's no
hurry," he added. "It's rather a good idea of his that we should go
to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I
think I should try to persuade you."
"It may be that you'll not find my cousin," said Isabel.
"I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as
possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told
me so much about at one time: what do you call it?--Gardencourt. It must
be a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to the memory
of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to
see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was
right. Pansy ought to see England."
"I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel.
"But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond continued;
"and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you
think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked.
"I think you very strange."
"You don't understand me."
"No, not even when you insult me."
"I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of certain
facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's not mine.
It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own
hands."
"Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'm very tired of
his name."
"You shall hear it again before we've done with it."
She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that
this ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a
fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange,
too different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of his morbid
passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in
what light he saw himself justified. "I might say to you that I judge
you've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing," she returned in a
moment. "But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would be
worth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse
me."
"Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those words
plain enough?"
"On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when
you told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I
accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it."
"You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me
more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get
him out of the way."
"I think I see what you mean," said Isabel.
"Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her husband
demanded.
"I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him."
"You stopped it on the way," said Osmond.
Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered
her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first
cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine--!" she
exclaimed in a long murmur.
"I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted. You've
got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you've placed
me in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has
tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed."
"Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isabel said.
"That has nothing to do with the matter."
"And he doesn't care for Pansy."
"That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this
particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "you might have taken some
other. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous--that I have
taken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very quiet.
The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he liked her
before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you."
"Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend
to such things yourself."
He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thought you were very
fond of my daughter."
"I've never been more so than to-day."
"Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that
perhaps is natural."
"Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a candle
that stood on one of the tables.
"Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?"
"I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had another
opportunity to try to stupefy me."
"It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high."
"Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.
| 6,091 | Chapter 46 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady65.asp | Lord Warburton stays away from the Osmonds for four days. Gilbert Osmond finally asks Isabel what has happened to him. Isabel realizes that Gilbert is accusing her of being untrustworthy and he says just that. As they are talking, Lord Warburton is announced. He is clearly unhappy to find Gilbert there, but he recovers and stays to chat for a while. He says he is on his way home to England and wanted to come by to say good-bye to them and Pansy. When he keeps staying, it becomes obvious that he wants to speak to Isabel alone. Gilbert leaves the room. Warburton tells her he wants to see Pansy. They agree that it is best that it will be the last time since he doesnt care enough for Pansy and she doesnt care for him. Pansy comes in and accepts Warburtons good words with grace. Then he leaves. Pansy thanks Isabel for being her guardian angel. She says her father just came to get her and kissed her tenderly on the head. She thinks Isabel spoke to him about Pansy. Isabel assures her that she had nothing to do with Gilberts behavior. She realizes it is part of Gilberts idea of himself. Even in defeat, he can play the role of the magnanimous father. That evening they go out to dinner and then to an entertainment. When they get back, Pansy goes to bed and Gilbert asks Isabel to remain in the parlor to talk to him. He tells her he believes she is trying to humiliate him. He says it is obvious that she had played him for a fool in making him want Lord Warburton as a son in law and them pushing Lord Warburton away. Isabel is fascinated at the working of his "morbid passion." She denies his accusations, but to no effect. Isabel looks like an angel of disdain as she gets up to leave. As she leaves, she says, "Poor little Pansy!" | Notes The ugly scene between Isabel and Gilbert only confirms what the reader has been led to expect. At Lord Warburtons withdrawal, Gilbert has blamed Isabel of maneuvering to get him away. Henry James ahs set up the characters of Gilbert and Isabel carefully enough that their response to this latest change is predictable. The scene shows Gilbert as a cruel man who seems to believe his own fantasies about the depravity of Isabel and it shows Isabel trying to remain true to her most noble image of herself. | 449 | 89 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/52.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_51_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 52 | chapter 52 | null | {"name": "Chapter 52", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady73.asp", "summary": "Before Isabel leaves Rome, she goes to see Pansy at the convent. When she arrives, she is greeted by Madame Merle. She doesnt want to see this person, but knows she must for the sake of appearances. She realizes as she stands there that Madame Merle has sensed her knowledge. She is surprised to recognize that Madame Merle is, for the first time, at a loss for what to say. When she sees Pansy, she cant help but think of the convent as a refined prison. Pansy says her father doesnt think shes had enough confinement, but that she thinks she has had enough. She says she will do anything now that he asks of her. Isabel thinks it is a good thing that Edward Rosier retained a few of his precious keepsakes. Pansy wonders why Isabel looks so intense. Isabel tells her she must leave for England and doesnt know when she will return. Pansy asks her to come back to be with her. She says she will have to obey her father but that if Isabel is there it will be easier to do so. As they part, she tells Isabel she doesnt like Madame Merle. Isabel tells her she must never say that. They embrace and Isabel assures her that she wont desert her. As she goes down the stairs, Pansy calls out to her \"Youll come back?\" Isabel replies, \"Yes-- Ill come back.\" Isabel is displeased to find out that Madame Merle is still waiting for her. When she says good-bye to Madame Catharine, the nun tells her they all think Pansy has had enough of confinement. Isabel reluctantly goes in to see Madame Merle, who reveals that it was Ralph who arranged for his father to give Isabel her fortune. She says she has just realized it. As Isabel leaves, she says, \"I believed it was you I had to thank.\" Madame Merle says she knows Isabel is unhappy but she is more so. She says she is going to America.", "analysis": "Notes The visit to the convent reveals the next greatest plot complication in the novel. If it werent for her ties to Pansy, Isabel could leave Gilbert and Rome forever. She loves Pansy, though, and knows that she is the only part of Pansys life that is not mean-spirited, manipulating, and selfishly cruel. Pansys last appeal, \"Youll come back?\" is answered quickly by Isabel in the affirmative. Pansy is her daughter in spirit and Isabel it seems will sacrifice her last chance at escape in order to comfort Pansy in her confinement. The chapter is framed by two interviews with Madame Merle. Isabel reluctantly confronts Madame Merle. She realizes that Madame Merle sees her knowledge in her manner. Madame Merle loses her composure momentarily, the only bit of revenge Isabel gets. In the second part of the frame, Madame Merle reveals that it was Ralph who made it so that Isabel would inherit her fortune from her uncle. Since Madame Merle is the one who seized on the opportunities the money provided, it is only right that it would be she who would guess the origins of the money. Strangely, Madame Merles last words are that she will go to America. Its hard to imagine someone like Madame Merle in America, though she is American in origin. It seems as if this last destination is to be regarded as a defeat. All her schemes of marrying a noble or marrying her daughter to a noble have failed. She has realized that Gilbert Osmond is capable of cruelty to their daughter and she has no standing in her daughters life."} |
There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the
Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with
her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought
(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;
from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had
given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five
o'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza
Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and
obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had
come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,
and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that
the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she
disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for
the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more
than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not
possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature
had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary
effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.
The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she
went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.
The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a
large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax
flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures
on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome
than like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment
only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned
at the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got
up, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her
extreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect
was strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision
that her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully,
seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her
falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these
dark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the
room. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of
handwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It
made Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot
she would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to
her; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to
Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were
never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off
not only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was
different from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and
Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her
habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she
had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a
peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw
that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the
whole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her
young friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a
cold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their
last meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had
been irritated then, she was reconciled now.
"You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes
this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who, after
noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let
her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished
never to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here,
and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't see
why I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I've
been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." There
was none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply
and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could
not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've not
been sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long
with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon
that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.
It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I
can't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the
chance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well;
still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good
woman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I
stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not
in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged
it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my
business, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have a
maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears
a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see
Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't
find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most
coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly
like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says
it's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint of
heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame
Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the
signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me
go and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you
that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was
of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I
requested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she
supposed I would treat you!"
So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had
long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases
and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel's
ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not
proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse
in her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle
modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely
new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in
the space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in
the space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person
who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a
very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was
tremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of
women faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the
conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed
on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had
the end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with
a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her
will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying
herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice
refused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself say
she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able
only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.
Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large
clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might
have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and
saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge,
this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a
moment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with
her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side
of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she
saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.
She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become
a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in
which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry
staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool,
as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the
bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if
she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during
which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that
would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous
vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world
standing there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to
think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--to
leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there
for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last
seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of
helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame
Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see
what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse
her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the
opportunity to defend herself.
"I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go to
England to-night."
"Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and
looking up at her.
"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."
"Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance
to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?"
"Yes; without my husband."
Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the
general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry
he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"
"Yes; she has returned from America."
"She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have
changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a
moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!"
"I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.
"Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I
know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I
don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle added; "but
I should like to give my love to the place."
Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."
While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and
admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet
smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump
white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she
had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss
Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly
and said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to her
myself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.
"Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to be
here."
"You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowing
laugh.
She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long
staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean;
so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine
gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor;
then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and
embraced.
"She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And she
placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement
to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this dear child
look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.
"She looks pale," Isabel answered.
"That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la
maison," said the good sister.
Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was
perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me--they
think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to
accommodate.
"We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherine
remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and
whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with
a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender
of a personality, the authority of the Church.
When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid
her head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while
Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and
looking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've
everything I have at home."
"It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew what
she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she had
come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend
to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: "I've come to
bid you good-bye. I'm going to England."
Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come back?"
"I don't know when I shall come back."
"Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had
no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.
"My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to see
him," Isabel said.
"Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa
go?"
"No; I shall go alone."
For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she
thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never
by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed
them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel
was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands
and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet
even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle
stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have
stood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the
saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted
heads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would
(for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon,
so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her
own. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on.
"Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel
explained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you."
"Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often."
"I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing
with me. I can't amuse you."
"I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."
"Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England."
"You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy.
"Not very. But it doesn't matter."
"That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to
come out."
"I wish indeed you might."
"Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently.
Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you come
away with me now?" she asked.
Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?"
"No; it's my own proposal."
"I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?"
"I don't think he knew I was coming."
"He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies are
very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some
very little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for
yourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished
me to think a little--and I've thought a great deal."
"What have you thought?"
"Well, that I must never displease papa."
"You knew that before."
"Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything," said
Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into
her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been
vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels!
Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated
easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her
look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's
momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only
her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others,
but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no
vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of
sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her
pretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful.
Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!
Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I leave
Rome to-night."
Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's
face. "You look strange, you frighten me."
"Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel.
"Perhaps you won't come back?"
"Perhaps not. I can't tell."
"Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!"
Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I do
for you?" she asked.
"I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you."
"You can always think of me."
"Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me."
"You must not say that," Isabel observed.
"Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it
more easily."
Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, my
child."
Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two
sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor
to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she remarked
as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "I
don't like Madame Merle!"
Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that--that you don't
like Madame Merle."
Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a
reason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said with exquisite
gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it
appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which
Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she
reached the bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?" she
called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.
"Yes--I'll come back."
Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of
the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I won't
go in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you."
At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking
if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexion
assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her
desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm
very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said
in French and almost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en
pensez-vous?"
"About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you."
"We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she
pushed open the door of the parlour.
Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so
absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame
Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been
thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full
possession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait for you," she
said urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy."
Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame
Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame Catherine says
it's enough."
"Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about
poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to believe that
he's really at his last?"
"I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a
probability."
"I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Are
you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as her
utterance.
"Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."
She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurred
to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit
of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never
guessed it?"
"He has done me many services."
"Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman."
"HE made me--?"
Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more
triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required
to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank." She
stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.
"I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money."
"Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He
brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!"
Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by
lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't know what
you know."
"I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that."
Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment
with her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: "I
believed it was you I had to thank!"
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud
penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so."
"Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again."
Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietly
remarked while Isabel passed out.
| 5,820 | Chapter 52 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady73.asp | Before Isabel leaves Rome, she goes to see Pansy at the convent. When she arrives, she is greeted by Madame Merle. She doesnt want to see this person, but knows she must for the sake of appearances. She realizes as she stands there that Madame Merle has sensed her knowledge. She is surprised to recognize that Madame Merle is, for the first time, at a loss for what to say. When she sees Pansy, she cant help but think of the convent as a refined prison. Pansy says her father doesnt think shes had enough confinement, but that she thinks she has had enough. She says she will do anything now that he asks of her. Isabel thinks it is a good thing that Edward Rosier retained a few of his precious keepsakes. Pansy wonders why Isabel looks so intense. Isabel tells her she must leave for England and doesnt know when she will return. Pansy asks her to come back to be with her. She says she will have to obey her father but that if Isabel is there it will be easier to do so. As they part, she tells Isabel she doesnt like Madame Merle. Isabel tells her she must never say that. They embrace and Isabel assures her that she wont desert her. As she goes down the stairs, Pansy calls out to her "Youll come back?" Isabel replies, "Yes-- Ill come back." Isabel is displeased to find out that Madame Merle is still waiting for her. When she says good-bye to Madame Catharine, the nun tells her they all think Pansy has had enough of confinement. Isabel reluctantly goes in to see Madame Merle, who reveals that it was Ralph who arranged for his father to give Isabel her fortune. She says she has just realized it. As Isabel leaves, she says, "I believed it was you I had to thank." Madame Merle says she knows Isabel is unhappy but she is more so. She says she is going to America. | Notes The visit to the convent reveals the next greatest plot complication in the novel. If it werent for her ties to Pansy, Isabel could leave Gilbert and Rome forever. She loves Pansy, though, and knows that she is the only part of Pansys life that is not mean-spirited, manipulating, and selfishly cruel. Pansys last appeal, "Youll come back?" is answered quickly by Isabel in the affirmative. Pansy is her daughter in spirit and Isabel it seems will sacrifice her last chance at escape in order to comfort Pansy in her confinement. The chapter is framed by two interviews with Madame Merle. Isabel reluctantly confronts Madame Merle. She realizes that Madame Merle sees her knowledge in her manner. Madame Merle loses her composure momentarily, the only bit of revenge Isabel gets. In the second part of the frame, Madame Merle reveals that it was Ralph who made it so that Isabel would inherit her fortune from her uncle. Since Madame Merle is the one who seized on the opportunities the money provided, it is only right that it would be she who would guess the origins of the money. Strangely, Madame Merles last words are that she will go to America. Its hard to imagine someone like Madame Merle in America, though she is American in origin. It seems as if this last destination is to be regarded as a defeat. All her schemes of marrying a noble or marrying her daughter to a noble have failed. She has realized that Gilbert Osmond is capable of cruelty to their daughter and she has no standing in her daughters life. | 450 | 269 |
2,833 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/53.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_52_part_0.txt | Portrait of a Lady.chapter 53 | chapter 53 | null | {"name": "Chapter 53", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady74.asp", "summary": "Isabel is greeted by Henrietta Stackpole at Charring Cross railway station. She remembers that five years ago she had walked from this station into the crowd with so much confidence. Now she feels overwhelmed by the mass of people and holds onto Henriettas arm for safety. When she sees Mr. Bantling, she feels relieved. He seems so stable and sure. Henrietta tells her she will be staying the night in London instead of going directly to Gardencourt. Mr. Bantling tells her he just received a wire that day from Gardencourt that Ralph was doing well enough. That evening Henrietta tells her she will be marrying Mr. Bantling. She feels a little disappointed in this news. It seems such an anti-climax for Henrietta. It seems such a departure from what seemed like such an original relationship between a man and a women. Henrietta has been invited to see Lady Pensil, who cant figure her out. She thinks she should be either bad or good. She doesnt understand the modern woman that Henrietta is. The next morning when they arrive at the station and Isabel congratulates Mr. Bantling.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter gives the reader a bit of a respite from the more eventful preceding ones. Its news, that Henrietta Stackpole will marry Mr. Bantling and live in London, is surprising, but not shocking as the news Isabel has been receiving of late about her husband. Perhaps the main function of placing this bit of news here in the novel is that the reader gets a chance to see Isabels jaded response to news of a wedding. She finds it anti-climactic and is a bit disappointed in her original friend."} |
It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other
circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel
descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the
arms, as it were--or at any rate into the hands--of Henrietta Stackpole.
She had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had not
definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt
her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from
Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question
the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took
little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they
were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their
course through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless
lands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed,
a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but
it was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind.
Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of
memory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at their
will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by a
logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now
that she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much
concerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt
to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things,
their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their
horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She
remembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity
of a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that
they had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after
all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of
use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all
desire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge.
Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers
it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in
her strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place had
been a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph
his dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect
of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything
more--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble
tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.
She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as
good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive,
simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and
regret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures
couched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regret
now--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of
her repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle
had been so--well, so unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped,
from literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been.
Whatever it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and
doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she was
going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she
should never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into
the future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She
saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who
had her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of
the present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,
further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege was
evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetite
for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for a
long time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost
enlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was a
proof she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to live
only to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things
might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury
of life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable,
too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid
to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to be
valuable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of precious things?
Wasn't it much more probable that if one were fine one would suffer? It
involved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; but
Isabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow
of a long future. She should never escape; she should last to the end.
Then the middle years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain of
her indifference closed her in.
Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid
she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd,
looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she
wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped.
She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in an
arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station,
the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her
with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's. She
remembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty
spectacle in which there was something that touched her. She remembered
how she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded
streets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the
incident came before her as the deed of another person.
"It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henrietta, looking
at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the
proposition. "If you hadn't--if you hadn't; well, I don't know,"
remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of disapproval.
Isabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on another
figure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a moment
she recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little
apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about
him to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that of
abstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed their
embraces.
"There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely
caring much now whether she should find her maid or not.
"Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!" Henrietta
exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smile
tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. "Isn't it lovely she
has come?" Henrietta asked. "He knows all about it," she added; "we had
quite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would."
"I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. She felt she
could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's brave
eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her to
remember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, that
it was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought of him,
extravagantly, as a beautiful blameless knight.
"Oh, I always agree," said Mr. Bantling. "But she doesn't, you know."
"Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?" Henrietta enquired.
"Your young lady has probably remained at Calais."
"I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never
found so interesting.
"Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded, leaving the two
for a moment together.
They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel
how it had been on the Channel.
"Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to her
companion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've been to
Gardencourt, I know."
"Now how do you know that?"
"I can't tell you--except that you look like a person who has been to
Gardencourt."
"Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you know."
"I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind,"
said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed to her she
should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.
Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed
a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue,
and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. "You can ask Miss
Stackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago."
"Did you see my cousin?"
"Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had been
there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he
was in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he can't speak,"
Mr. Bantling pursued. "He was awfully jolly and funny all the same. He
was just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched."
Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. "Was
that late in the day?"
"Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you'd like to know."
"I'm greatly obliged to you. Can I go down tonight?"
"Ah, I don't think SHE'LL let you go," said Mr. Bantling. "She wants you
to stop with her. I made Touchett's man promise to telegraph me to-day,
and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. 'Quiet and easy,'
that's what it says, and it's dated two o'clock. So you see you can wait
till to-morrow. You must be awfully tired."
"Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again."
"Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "We were certain you would like the last news."
On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed after all to
agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caught
in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of
losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress's
luggage, so that the latter was now at liberty to leave the station.
"You know you're not to think of going to the country to-night,"
Henrietta remarked to her. "It doesn't matter whether there's a train
or not. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't a
corner to be had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn't
a Roman palace, but it will do for a night."
"I'll do whatever you wish," Isabel said.
"You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish."
"She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?" Mr.
Bantling enquired jocosely.
Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I see you're
in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington Station
to-morrow morning at ten."
"Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel.
"He'll come for mine," Henrietta declared as she ushered her friend into
a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do her
justice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to which
she had alluded at the station. "Did your husband make you a scene about
your coming?" That was Miss Stackpole's first enquiry.
"No; I can't say he made a scene."
"He didn't object then?"
"Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a scene."
"What was it then?"
"It was a very quiet conversation."
Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have been hellish,"
she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had been hellish. But
she confined herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy,
as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no
new information. "Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, "I've only one
criticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go
back."
"I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I did then."
"If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return."
Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another."
"You'll certainly never find a good one."
"In default of a better my having promised will do," Isabel suggested.
"Yes; that's why I hate it."
"Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was a
complication, but what will going back be?"
"You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" said
Henrietta with much intention.
"He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the scene of a
moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life."
For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and
then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested,
announced abruptly: "I've been to stay with Lady Pensil!"
"Ah, the invitation came at last!"
"Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me."
"Naturally enough."
"It was more natural than I think you know," said Henrietta, who fixed
her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly:
"Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why? Because I
criticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at
least, was born on the other side!"
It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so
modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not
possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with
a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately
recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity,
"Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up your
country?"
"Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the fact
in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in
London."
"It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.
"Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I think
I know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain."
"One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And yours doesn't
need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle."
"No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He
has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for many
years and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a good
prospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the
other hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in
the United States."
"Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've ever
heard you say anything against your native land."
"I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after
all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change a
good deal to marry."
"I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something
of the inner life."
Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to the
mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good
a right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly
diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta,
after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she
had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was
a disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was
subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had
not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her
marrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to
Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A
little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was
original. But she didn't see how Henrietta could give up her country.
She herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been her
country as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she had
enjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil.
"Oh yes," said Henrietta, "she didn't know what to make of me."
"And was that very enjoyable?"
"Very much so, because she's supposed to be a master mind. She thinks
she knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of my modern
type. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better
or a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she thinks it's my duty
to go and do something immoral. She thinks it's immoral that I should
marry her brother; but, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'll
never understand my mixture--never!"
"She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "He appears
to have understood."
"Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "I really
believe that's what he wants to marry me for--just to find out the
mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a kind of
fascination."
"It's very good in you to humour it."
"Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've something to find out too!" And Isabel
saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She
was at last about to grapple in earnest with England.
Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington
Station, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company both
of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his
perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had found
out at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting
in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had
been on his guard against this deficiency.
"Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as she gave him
her hand.
"I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied, resting on
his neat umbrella.
"Yes, I think it awfully odd."
"You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather liked
striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.
| 4,812 | Chapter 53 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady74.asp | Isabel is greeted by Henrietta Stackpole at Charring Cross railway station. She remembers that five years ago she had walked from this station into the crowd with so much confidence. Now she feels overwhelmed by the mass of people and holds onto Henriettas arm for safety. When she sees Mr. Bantling, she feels relieved. He seems so stable and sure. Henrietta tells her she will be staying the night in London instead of going directly to Gardencourt. Mr. Bantling tells her he just received a wire that day from Gardencourt that Ralph was doing well enough. That evening Henrietta tells her she will be marrying Mr. Bantling. She feels a little disappointed in this news. It seems such an anti-climax for Henrietta. It seems such a departure from what seemed like such an original relationship between a man and a women. Henrietta has been invited to see Lady Pensil, who cant figure her out. She thinks she should be either bad or good. She doesnt understand the modern woman that Henrietta is. The next morning when they arrive at the station and Isabel congratulates Mr. Bantling. | Notes This chapter gives the reader a bit of a respite from the more eventful preceding ones. Its news, that Henrietta Stackpole will marry Mr. Bantling and live in London, is surprising, but not shocking as the news Isabel has been receiving of late about her husband. Perhaps the main function of placing this bit of news here in the novel is that the reader gets a chance to see Isabels jaded response to news of a wedding. She finds it anti-climactic and is a bit disappointed in her original friend. | 277 | 91 |
16,328 | true | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/16328-chapters/chapters_1_to_98.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Beowulf/section_1_part_0.txt | Beowulf.chapters 1-98 | 1-98 | null | {"name": "1-98", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920112844/https://www.novelguide.com/beowulf/summaries/line1-98", "summary": "Beowulf begins with the legends of the warrior kings of the Danes. The most famous was Shield Sheafson, the founder of the ruling house. He was revered by his own subjects, and outlying clans were forced to pay tribute to him. Shield had a son named Beow, who became famous throughout the region for his exploits. Shield died while still at the height of his powers. His warriors placed his body in a boat, piled it up with treasure, weapons and armor, and sent it out to sea. No one knows, the poet says, who salvaged all the treasure. After Shield's death, it was Beow's job to defend the Danish forts. He was well respected and ruled for a long time. He was succeeded by Halfdane, who had three sons, Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga, and an unnamed daughter who was married off to Onela the Swede. Hrothgar was an extremely successful king. People flocked to his service and he created a large army. He decided to build a huge hall, and intended it to be one of the wonders of the world. He called the hall Heorot. It was a magnificent, towering building. The poet states, however, that in the future it would be burned down during a battle between members of the same family. The poet introduces the story by giving some background information about the Danish warrior kings. This a way of introducing Hrothgar, who plays an important role in the story. In 1939, archeologists discovered at Sutton Hoo, in Suffolk, England, a buried ship of treasure dating probably from the seventh century A.D. The find included a warrior's sword, a great gold buckle, silver serving vessels, and other items. It showed that warriors and kings from this period were indeed buried with their riches, just as the poet describes in the lines about the death of Shield.", "analysis": ""} |
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SCYLD.
{The famous race of Spear-Danes.}
Lo! the Spear-Danes' glory through splendid achievements
The folk-kings' former fame we have heard of,
How princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle.
{Scyld, their mighty king, in honor of whom they are often called
Scyldings. He is the great-grandfather of Hrothgar, so prominent in the
poem.}
Oft Scyld the Scefing from scathers in numbers
5 From many a people their mead-benches tore.
Since first he found him friendless and wretched,
The earl had had terror: comfort he got for it,
Waxed 'neath the welkin, world-honor gained,
Till all his neighbors o'er sea were compelled to
10 Bow to his bidding and bring him their tribute:
An excellent atheling! After was borne him
{A son is born to him, who receives the name of Beowulf--a name afterwards
made so famous by the hero of the poem.}
A son and heir, young in his dwelling,
Whom God-Father sent to solace the people.
He had marked the misery malice had caused them,
15 [1]That reaved of their rulers they wretched had erstwhile[2]
Long been afflicted. The Lord, in requital,
Wielder of Glory, with world-honor blessed him.
Famed was Beowulf, far spread the glory
Of Scyld's great son in the lands of the Danemen.
[2]
{The ideal Teutonic king lavishes gifts on his vassals.}
20 So the carle that is young, by kindnesses rendered
The friends of his father, with fees in abundance
Must be able to earn that when age approacheth
Eager companions aid him requitingly,
When war assaults him serve him as liegemen:
25 By praise-worthy actions must honor be got
'Mong all of the races. At the hour that was fated
{Scyld dies at the hour appointed by Fate.}
Scyld then departed to the All-Father's keeping
Warlike to wend him; away then they bare him
To the flood of the current, his fond-loving comrades,
30 As himself he had bidden, while the friend of the Scyldings
Word-sway wielded, and the well-loved land-prince
Long did rule them.[3] The ring-stemmed vessel,
Bark of the atheling, lay there at anchor,
Icy in glimmer and eager for sailing;
{By his own request, his body is laid on a vessel and wafted seaward.}
35 The beloved leader laid they down there,
Giver of rings, on the breast of the vessel,
The famed by the mainmast. A many of jewels,
Of fretted embossings, from far-lands brought over,
Was placed near at hand then; and heard I not ever
40 That a folk ever furnished a float more superbly
With weapons of warfare, weeds for the battle,
Bills and burnies; on his bosom sparkled
Many a jewel that with him must travel
On the flush of the flood afar on the current.
45 And favors no fewer they furnished him soothly,
Excellent folk-gems, than others had given him
{He leaves Daneland on the breast of a bark.}
Who when first he was born outward did send him
Lone on the main, the merest of infants:
And a gold-fashioned standard they stretched under heaven
[3] 50 High o'er his head, let the holm-currents bear him,
Seaward consigned him: sad was their spirit,
Their mood very mournful. Men are not able
{No one knows whither the boat drifted.}
Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside,[4]
Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied.
[1] For the 'aet' of verse 15, Sievers suggests 'a' (= which). If
this be accepted, the sentence 'He had ... afflicted' will read: _He_
(_i.e._ God) _had perceived the malice-caused sorrow which they,
lordless, had formerly long endured_.
[2] For 'aldor-lease' (15) Gr. suggested 'aldor-ceare': _He perceived
their distress, that they formerly had suffered life-sorrow a long
while_.
[3] A very difficult passage. 'Ahte' (31) has no object. H. supplies
'geweald' from the context; and our translation is based upon this
assumption, though it is far from satisfactory. Kl. suggests
'laendagas' for 'lange': _And the beloved land-prince enjoyed (had) his
transitory days (i.e. lived)_. B. suggests a dislocation; but this is
a dangerous doctrine, pushed rather far by that eminent scholar.
[4] The reading of the H.-So. text has been quite closely followed;
but some eminent scholars read 'sele-raedenne' for 'sele-raedende.' If
that be adopted, the passage will read: _Men cannot tell us, indeed,
the order of Fate, etc._ 'Sele-raedende' has two things to support it:
(1) v. 1347; (2) it affords a parallel to 'men' in v. 50.
SCYLD'S SUCCESSORS.--HROTHGAR'S GREAT MEAD-HALL.
{Beowulf succeeds his father Scyld}
In the boroughs then Beowulf, bairn of the Scyldings,
Beloved land-prince, for long-lasting season
Was famed mid the folk (his father departed,
The prince from his dwelling), till afterward sprang
5 Great-minded Healfdene; the Danes in his lifetime
He graciously governed, grim-mooded, aged.
{Healfdene's birth.}
Four bairns of his body born in succession
Woke in the world, war-troopers' leader
Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga the good;
10 Heard I that Elan was Ongentheow's consort,
{He has three sons--one of them, Hrothgar--and a daughter named Elan.
Hrothgar becomes a mighty king.}
The well-beloved bedmate of the War-Scylfing leader.
Then glory in battle to Hrothgar was given,
Waxing of war-fame, that willingly kinsmen
Obeyed his bidding, till the boys grew to manhood,
15 A numerous band. It burned in his spirit
To urge his folk to found a great building,
A mead-hall grander than men of the era
{He is eager to build a great hall in which he may feast his retainers}
Ever had heard of, and in it to share
With young and old all of the blessings
20 The Lord had allowed him, save life and retainers.
Then the work I find afar was assigned
[4] To many races in middle-earth's regions,
To adorn the great folk-hall. In due time it happened
Early 'mong men, that 'twas finished entirely,
25 The greatest of hall-buildings; Heorot he named it
{The hall is completed, and is called Heort, or Heorot.}
Who wide-reaching word-sway wielded 'mong earlmen.
His promise he brake not, rings he lavished,
Treasure at banquet. Towered the hall up
High and horn-crested, huge between antlers:
30 It battle-waves bided, the blasting fire-demon;
Ere long then from hottest hatred must sword-wrath
Arise for a woman's husband and father.
Then the mighty war-spirit[1] endured for a season,
{The Monster Grendel is madly envious of the Danemen's joy.}
Bore it bitterly, he who bided in darkness,
35 That light-hearted laughter loud in the building
Greeted him daily; there was dulcet harp-music,
Clear song of the singer. He said that was able
{[The course of the story is interrupted by a short reference to some old
account of the creation.]}
To tell from of old earthmen's beginnings,
That Father Almighty earth had created,
40 The winsome wold that the water encircleth,
Set exultingly the sun's and the moon's beams
To lavish their lustre on land-folk and races,
And earth He embellished in all her regions
With limbs and leaves; life He bestowed too
45 On all the kindreds that live under heaven.
{The glee of the warriors is overcast by a horrible dread.}
So blessed with abundance, brimming with joyance,
The warriors abided, till a certain one gan to
Dog them with deeds of direfullest malice,
A foe in the hall-building: this horrible stranger[2]
50 Was Grendel entitled, the march-stepper famous
Who[3] dwelt in the moor-fens, the marsh and the fastness;
The wan-mooded being abode for a season
[5] In the land of the giants, when the Lord and Creator
Had banned him and branded. For that bitter murder,
55 The killing of Abel, all-ruling Father
{Cain is referred to as a progenitor of Grendel, and of monsters in
general.}
The kindred of Cain crushed with His vengeance;
In the feud He rejoiced not, but far away drove him
From kindred and kind, that crime to atone for,
Meter of Justice. Thence ill-favored creatures,
60 Elves and giants, monsters of ocean,
Came into being, and the giants that longtime
Grappled with God; He gave them requital.
[1] R. and t. B. prefer 'ellor-gaest' to 'ellen-gaest' (86): _Then the
stranger from afar endured, etc._
[2] Some authorities would translate '_demon_' instead of
'_stranger_.'
[3] Some authorities arrange differently, and render: _Who dwelt in
the moor-fens, the marsh and the fastness, the land of the
giant-race._
GRENDEL THE MURDERER.
{Grendel attacks the sleeping heroes}
When the sun was sunken, he set out to visit
The lofty hall-building, how the Ring-Danes had used it
For beds and benches when the banquet was over.
Then he found there reposing many a noble
5 Asleep after supper; sorrow the heroes,[1]
Misery knew not. The monster of evil
Greedy and cruel tarried but little,
{He drags off thirty of them, and devours them}
Fell and frantic, and forced from their slumbers
Thirty of thanemen; thence he departed
10 Leaping and laughing, his lair to return to,
With surfeit of slaughter sallying homeward.
In the dusk of the dawning, as the day was just breaking,
Was Grendel's prowess revealed to the warriors:
{A cry of agony goes up, when Grendel's horrible deed is fully realized.}
Then, his meal-taking finished, a moan was uplifted,
15 Morning-cry mighty. The man-ruler famous,
The long-worthy atheling, sat very woful,
Suffered great sorrow, sighed for his liegemen,
[6] When they had seen the track of the hateful pursuer,
The spirit accursed: too crushing that sorrow,
{The monster returns the next night.}
20 Too loathsome and lasting. Not longer he tarried,
But one night after continued his slaughter
Shameless and shocking, shrinking but little
From malice and murder; they mastered him fully.
He was easy to find then who otherwhere looked for
25 A pleasanter place of repose in the lodges,
A bed in the bowers. Then was brought to his notice
Told him truly by token apparent
The hall-thane's hatred: he held himself after
Further and faster who the foeman did baffle.
30 [2]So ruled he and strongly strove against justice
Lone against all men, till empty uptowered
{King Hrothgar's agony and suspense last twelve years.}
The choicest of houses. Long was the season:
Twelve-winters' time torture suffered
The friend of the Scyldings, every affliction,
35 Endless agony; hence it after[3] became
Certainly known to the children of men
Sadly in measures, that long against Hrothgar
Grendel struggled:--his grudges he cherished,
Murderous malice, many a winter,
40 Strife unremitting, and peacefully wished he
[4]Life-woe to lift from no liegeman at all of
The men of the Dane-folk, for money to settle,
No counsellor needed count for a moment
[7] On handsome amends at the hands of the murderer;
{Grendel is unremitting in his persecutions.}
45 The monster of evil fiercely did harass,
The ill-planning death-shade, both elder and younger,
Trapping and tricking them. He trod every night then
The mist-covered moor-fens; men do not know where
Witches and wizards wander and ramble.
50 So the foe of mankind many of evils
Grievous injuries, often accomplished,
Horrible hermit; Heort he frequented,
Gem-bedecked palace, when night-shades had fallen
{God is against the monster.}
(Since God did oppose him, not the throne could he touch,[5]
55 The light-flashing jewel, love of Him knew not).
'Twas a fearful affliction to the friend of the Scyldings
{The king and his council deliberate in vain.}
Soul-crushing sorrow. Not seldom in private
Sat the king in his council; conference held they
What the braves should determine 'gainst terrors unlooked for.
{They invoke the aid of their gods.}
60 At the shrines of their idols often they promised
Gifts and offerings, earnestly prayed they
The devil from hell would help them to lighten
Their people's oppression. Such practice they used then,
Hope of the heathen; hell they remembered
65 In innermost spirit, God they knew not,
{The true God they do not know.}
Judge of their actions, All-wielding Ruler,
No praise could they give the Guardian of Heaven,
The Wielder of Glory. Woe will be his who
Through furious hatred his spirit shall drive to
70 The clutch of the fire, no comfort shall look for,
Wax no wiser; well for the man who,
Living his life-days, his Lord may face
And find defence in his Father's embrace!
[1] The translation is based on 'weras,' adopted by H.-So.--K. and Th.
read 'wera' and, arranging differently, render 119(2)-120: _They knew
not sorrow, the wretchedness of man, aught of misfortune_.--For
'unhaelo' (120) R. suggests 'unfaelo': _The uncanny creature, greedy and
cruel, etc_.
[2] S. rearranges and translates: _So he ruled and struggled unjustly,
one against all, till the noblest of buildings stood useless (it was a
long while) twelve years' time: the friend of the Scyldings suffered
distress, every woe, great sorrows, etc_.
[3] For 'syethethan,' B. suggests 'sarcwidum': _Hence in mournful words it
became well known, etc_. Various other words beginning with 's' have
been conjectured.
[4] The H.-So. glossary is very inconsistent in referring to this
passage.--'Sibbe' (154), which H.-So. regards as an instr., B. takes
as accus., obj. of 'wolde.' Putting a comma after Deniga, he renders:
_He did not desire peace with any of the Danes, nor did he wish to
remove their life-woe, nor to settle for money_.
[5] Of this difficult passage the following interpretations among
others are given: (1) Though Grendel has frequented Heorot as a demon,
he could not become ruler of the Danes, on account of his hostility to
God. (2) Hrothgar was much grieved that Grendel had not appeared
before his throne to receive presents. (3) He was not permitted to
devastate the hall, on account of the Creator; _i.e._ God wished to
make his visit fatal to him.--Ne ... wisse (169) W. renders: _Nor had
he any desire to do so_; 'his' being obj. gen. = danach.
[8]
BEOWULF GOES TO HROTHGAR'S ASSISTANCE.
{Hrothgar sees no way of escape from the persecutions of Grendel.}
So Healfdene's kinsman constantly mused on
His long-lasting sorrow; the battle-thane clever
Was not anywise able evils to 'scape from:
Too crushing the sorrow that came to the people,
5 Loathsome and lasting the life-grinding torture,
{Beowulf, the Geat, hero of the poem, hears of Hrothgar's sorrow, and
resolves to go to his assistance.}
Greatest of night-woes. So Higelac's liegeman,
Good amid Geatmen, of Grendel's achievements
Heard in his home:[1] of heroes then living
He was stoutest and strongest, sturdy and noble.
10 He bade them prepare him a bark that was trusty;
He said he the war-king would seek o'er the ocean,
The folk-leader noble, since he needed retainers.
For the perilous project prudent companions
Chided him little, though loving him dearly;
15 They egged the brave atheling, augured him glory.
{With fourteen carefully chosen companions, he sets out for Dane-land.}
The excellent knight from the folk of the Geatmen
Had liegemen selected, likest to prove them
Trustworthy warriors; with fourteen companions
The vessel he looked for; a liegeman then showed them,
20 A sea-crafty man, the bounds of the country.
Fast the days fleeted; the float was a-water,
The craft by the cliff. Clomb to the prow then
Well-equipped warriors: the wave-currents twisted
The sea on the sand; soldiers then carried
25 On the breast of the vessel bright-shining jewels,
Handsome war-armor; heroes outshoved then,
Warmen the wood-ship, on its wished-for adventure.
[9]
{The vessel sails like a bird}
The foamy-necked floater fanned by the breeze,
Likest a bird, glided the waters,
{In twenty four hours they reach the shores of Hrothgar's dominions}
30 Till twenty and four hours thereafter
The twist-stemmed vessel had traveled such distance
That the sailing-men saw the sloping embankments,
The sea cliffs gleaming, precipitous mountains,
Nesses enormous: they were nearing the limits
35 At the end of the ocean.[2] Up thence quickly
The men of the Weders clomb to the mainland,
Fastened their vessel (battle weeds rattled,
War burnies clattered), the Wielder they thanked
That the ways o'er the waters had waxen so gentle.
{They are hailed by the Danish coast guard}
40 Then well from the cliff edge the guard of the Scyldings
Who the sea-cliffs should see to, saw o'er the gangway
Brave ones bearing beauteous targets,
Armor all ready, anxiously thought he,
Musing and wondering what men were approaching.
45 High on his horse then Hrothgar's retainer
Turned him to coastward, mightily brandished
His lance in his hands, questioned with boldness.
{His challenge}
"Who are ye men here, mail-covered warriors
Clad in your corslets, come thus a-driving
50 A high riding ship o'er the shoals of the waters,
[3]And hither 'neath helmets have hied o'er the ocean?
[10] I have been strand-guard, standing as warden,
Lest enemies ever anywise ravage
Danish dominions with army of war-ships.
55 More boldly never have warriors ventured
Hither to come; of kinsmen's approval,
Word-leave of warriors, I ween that ye surely
{He is struck by Beowulf's appearance.}
Nothing have known. Never a greater one
Of earls o'er the earth have _I_ had a sight of
60 Than is one of your number, a hero in armor;
No low-ranking fellow[4] adorned with his weapons,
But launching them little, unless looks are deceiving,
And striking appearance. Ere ye pass on your journey
As treacherous spies to the land of the Scyldings
65 And farther fare, I fully must know now
What race ye belong to. Ye far-away dwellers,
Sea-faring sailors, my simple opinion
Hear ye and hearken: haste is most fitting
Plainly to tell me what place ye are come from."
[1] 'From ham' (194) is much disputed. One rendering is: _Beowulf,
being away from home, heard of Hrothgar's troubles, etc_. Another,
that adopted by S. and endorsed in the H.-So. notes, is: _B. heard
from his neighborhood (neighbors),_ i.e. _in his home, etc_. A third
is: _B., being at home, heard this as occurring away from home_. The
H.-So. glossary and notes conflict.
[2] 'Eoletes' (224) is marked with a (?) by H.-So.; our rendering
simply follows his conjecture.--Other conjectures as to 'eolet' are:
(1) _voyage_, (2) _toil_, _labor_, (3) _hasty journey_.
[3] The lacuna of the MS at this point has been supplied by various
conjectures. The reading adopted by H.-So. has been rendered in the
above translation. W., like H.-So., makes 'ic' the beginning of a new
sentence, but, for 'helmas baeron,' he reads 'hringed stefnan.' This
has the advantage of giving a parallel to 'brontne ceol' instead of a
kenning for 'go.'--B puts the (?) after 'holmas', and begins a new
sentence at the middle of the line. Translate: _What warriors are ye,
clad in armor, who have thus come bringing the foaming vessel over the
water way, hither over the seas? For some time on the wall I have been
coast guard, etc_. S. endorses most of what B. says, but leaves out
'on the wall' in the last sentence. If W.'s 'hringed stefnan' be
accepted, change line 51 above to, _A ring-stemmed vessel hither
o'ersea_.
[4] 'Seld-guma' (249) is variously rendered: (1) _housecarle_; (2)
_home-stayer_; (3) _common man_. Dr. H. Wood suggests _a man-at-arms
in another's house_.
THE GEATS REACH HEOROT.
{Beowulf courteously replies.}
The chief of the strangers rendered him answer,
War-troopers' leader, and word-treasure opened:
{We are Geats.}
"We are sprung from the lineage of the people of Geatland,
And Higelac's hearth-friends. To heroes unnumbered
{My father Ecgtheow was well-known in his day.}
5 My father was known, a noble head-warrior
Ecgtheow titled; many a winter
He lived with the people, ere he passed on his journey,
Old from his dwelling; each of the counsellors
Widely mid world-folk well remembers him.
{Our intentions towards King Hrothgar are of the kindest.}
10 We, kindly of spirit, the lord of thy people,
The son of King Healfdene, have come here to visit,
[11] Folk-troop's defender: be free in thy counsels!
To the noble one bear we a weighty commission,
The helm of the Danemen; we shall hide, I ween,
{Is it true that a monster is slaying Danish heroes?}
15 Naught of our message. Thou know'st if it happen,
As we soothly heard say, that some savage despoiler,
Some hidden pursuer, on nights that are murky
By deeds very direful 'mid the Danemen exhibits
Hatred unheard of, horrid destruction
20 And the falling of dead. From feelings least selfish
{I can help your king to free himself from this horrible creature.}
I am able to render counsel to Hrothgar,
How he, wise and worthy, may worst the destroyer,
If the anguish of sorrow should ever be lessened,[1]
Comfort come to him, and care-waves grow cooler,
25 Or ever hereafter he agony suffer
And troublous distress, while towereth upward
The handsomest of houses high on the summit."
{The coast-guard reminds Beowulf that it is easier to say than to do.}
Bestriding his stallion, the strand-watchman answered,
The doughty retainer: "The difference surely
30 'Twixt words and works, the warlike shield-bearer
Who judgeth wisely well shall determine.
This band, I hear, beareth no malice
{I am satisfied of your good intentions, and shall lead you to the
palace.}
To the prince of the Scyldings. Pass ye then onward
With weapons and armor. I shall lead you in person;
35 To my war-trusty vassals command I shall issue
To keep from all injury your excellent vessel,
{Your boat shall be well cared for during your stay here.}
Your fresh-tarred craft, 'gainst every opposer
Close by the sea-shore, till the curved-necked bark shall
Waft back again the well-beloved hero
40 O'er the way of the water to Weder dominions.
{He again compliments Beowulf.}
To warrior so great 'twill be granted sure
In the storm of strife to stand secure."
Onward they fared then (the vessel lay quiet,
The broad-bosomed bark was bound by its cable,
[12] 45 Firmly at anchor); the boar-signs glistened[2]
Bright on the visors vivid with gilding,
Blaze-hardened, brilliant; the boar acted warden.
The heroes hastened, hurried the liegemen,
{The land is perhaps rolling.}
Descended together, till they saw the great palace,
50 The well-fashioned wassail-hall wondrous and gleaming:
{Heorot flashes on their view.}
'Mid world-folk and kindreds that was widest reputed
Of halls under heaven which the hero abode in;
Its lustre enlightened lands without number.
Then the battle-brave hero showed them the glittering
55 Court of the bold ones, that they easily thither
Might fare on their journey; the aforementioned warrior
Turning his courser, quoth as he left them:
{The coast-guard, having discharged his duty, bids them God-speed.}
"'Tis time I were faring; Father Almighty
Grant you His grace, and give you to journey
60 Safe on your mission! To the sea I will get me
'Gainst hostile warriors as warden to stand."
[1] 'Edwendan' (280) B. takes to be the subs. 'edwenden' (cf. 1775);
and 'bisigu' he takes as gen. sing., limiting 'edwenden': _If
reparation for sorrows is ever to come_. This is supported by t.B.
[2] Combining the emendations of B. and t.B., we may read: _The
boar-images glistened ... brilliant, protected the life of the
war-mooded man_. They read 'ferh-wearde' (305) and 'guethmodgum men'
(306).
BEOWULF INTRODUCES HIMSELF AT THE PALACE.
The highway glistened with many-hued pebble,
A by-path led the liegemen together.
[1]Firm and hand-locked the war-burnie glistened,
The ring-sword radiant rang 'mid the armor
5 As the party was approaching the palace together
{They set their arms and armor against the wall.}
In warlike equipments. 'Gainst the wall of the building
Their wide-fashioned war-shields they weary did set then,
[13] Battle-shields sturdy; benchward they turned then;
Their battle-sarks rattled, the gear of the heroes;
10 The lances stood up then, all in a cluster,
The arms of the seamen, ashen-shafts mounted
With edges of iron: the armor-clad troopers
{A Danish hero asks them whence and why they are come.}
Were decked with weapons. Then a proud-mooded hero
Asked of the champions questions of lineage:
15 "From what borders bear ye your battle-shields plated,
Gilded and gleaming, your gray-colored burnies,
Helmets with visors and heap of war-lances?--
To Hrothgar the king I am servant and liegeman.
'Mong folk from far-lands found I have never
{He expresses no little admiration for the strangers.}
20 Men so many of mien more courageous.
I ween that from valor, nowise as outlaws,
But from greatness of soul ye sought for King Hrothgar."
{Beowulf replies.}
Then the strength-famous earlman answer rendered,
The proud-mooded Wederchief replied to his question,
{We are Higelac's table-companions, and bear an important commission to
your prince.}
25 Hardy 'neath helmet: "Higelac's mates are we;
Beowulf hight I. To the bairn of Healfdene,
The famous folk-leader, I freely will tell
To thy prince my commission, if pleasantly hearing
He'll grant we may greet him so gracious to all men."
30 Wulfgar replied then (he was prince of the Wendels,
His boldness of spirit was known unto many,
His prowess and prudence): "The prince of the Scyldings,
{Wulfgar, the thane, says that he will go and ask Hrothgar whether he will
see the strangers.}
The friend-lord of Danemen, I will ask of thy journey,
The giver of rings, as thou urgest me do it,
35 The folk-chief famous, and inform thee early
What answer the good one mindeth to render me."
He turned then hurriedly where Hrothgar was sitting,
[2]Old and hoary, his earlmen attending him;
The strength-famous went till he stood at the shoulder
40 Of the lord of the Danemen, of courteous thanemen
The custom he minded. Wulfgar addressed then
His friendly liegelord: "Folk of the Geatmen
[14]
{He thereupon urges his liegelord to receive the visitors courteously.}
O'er the way of the waters are wafted hither,
Faring from far-lands: the foremost in rank
45 The battle-champions Beowulf title.
They make this petition: with thee, O my chieftain,
To be granted a conference; O gracious King Hrothgar,
Friendly answer refuse not to give them!
{Hrothgar, too, is struck with Beowulf's appearance.}
In war-trappings weeded worthy they seem
50 Of earls to be honored; sure the atheling is doughty
Who headed the heroes hitherward coming."
[1] Instead of the punctuation given by H.-So, S. proposed to insert a
comma after 'scir' (322), and to take 'hring-iren' as meaning
'ring-mail' and as parallel with 'gueth-byrne.' The passage would then
read: _The firm and hand-locked war-burnie shone, bright ring-mail,
rang 'mid the armor, etc_.
[2] Gr. and others translate 'unhar' by 'bald'; _old and bald_.
HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF.
{Hrothgar remembers Beowulf as a youth, and also remembers his father.}
Hrothgar answered, helm of the Scyldings:
"I remember this man as the merest of striplings.
His father long dead now was Ecgtheow titled,
Him Hrethel the Geatman granted at home his
5 One only daughter; his battle-brave son
Is come but now, sought a trustworthy friend.
Seafaring sailors asserted it then,
{Beowulf is reported to have the strength of thirty men.}
Who valuable gift-gems of the Geatmen[1] carried
As peace-offering thither, that he thirty men's grapple
10 Has in his hand, the hero-in-battle.
{God hath sent him to our rescue.}
The holy Creator usward sent him,
To West-Dane warriors, I ween, for to render
'Gainst Grendel's grimness gracious assistance:
I shall give to the good one gift-gems for courage.
15 Hasten to bid them hither to speed them,[2]
To see assembled this circle of kinsmen;
Tell them expressly they're welcome in sooth to
The men of the Danes." To the door of the building
[15]
{Wulfgar invites the strangers in.}
Wulfgar went then, this word-message shouted:
20 "My victorious liegelord bade me to tell you,
The East-Danes' atheling, that your origin knows he,
And o'er wave-billows wafted ye welcome are hither,
Valiant of spirit. Ye straightway may enter
Clad in corslets, cased in your helmets,
25 To see King Hrothgar. Here let your battle-boards,
Wood-spears and war-shafts, await your conferring."
The mighty one rose then, with many a liegeman,
An excellent thane-group; some there did await them,
And as bid of the brave one the battle-gear guarded.
30 Together they hied them, while the hero did guide them,
'Neath Heorot's roof; the high-minded went then
Sturdy 'neath helmet till he stood in the building.
Beowulf spake (his burnie did glisten,
His armor seamed over by the art of the craftsman):
{Beowulf salutes Hrothgar, and then proceeds to boast of his youthful
achievements.}
35 "Hail thou, Hrothgar! I am Higelac's kinsman
And vassal forsooth; many a wonder
I dared as a stripling. The doings of Grendel,
In far-off fatherland I fully did know of:
Sea-farers tell us, this hall-building standeth,
40 Excellent edifice, empty and useless
To all the earlmen after evenlight's glimmer
'Neath heaven's bright hues hath hidden its glory.
This my earls then urged me, the most excellent of them,
Carles very clever, to come and assist thee,
45 Folk-leader Hrothgar; fully they knew of
{His fight with the nickers.}
The strength of my body. Themselves they beheld me
When I came from the contest, when covered with gore
Foes I escaped from, where five[3] I had bound,
[16] The giant-race wasted, in the waters destroying
50 The nickers by night, bore numberless sorrows,
The Weders avenged (woes had they suffered)
Enemies ravaged; alone now with Grendel
{He intends to fight Grendel unaided.}
I shall manage the matter, with the monster of evil,
The giant, decide it. Thee I would therefore
55 Beg of thy bounty, Bright-Danish chieftain,
Lord of the Scyldings, this single petition:
Not to refuse me, defender of warriors,
Friend-lord of folks, so far have I sought thee,
That _I_ may unaided, my earlmen assisting me,
60 This brave-mooded war-band, purify Heorot.
I have heard on inquiry, the horrible creature
{Since the monster uses no weapons,}
From veriest rashness recks not for weapons;
I this do scorn then, so be Higelac gracious,
My liegelord beloved, lenient of spirit,
65 To bear a blade or a broad-fashioned target,
A shield to the onset; only with hand-grip
{I, too, shall disdain to use any.}
The foe I must grapple, fight for my life then,
Foeman with foeman; he fain must rely on
The doom of the Lord whom death layeth hold of.
{Should he crush me, he will eat my companions as he has eaten thy
thanes.}
70 I ween he will wish, if he win in the struggle,
To eat in the war-hall earls of the Geat-folk,
Boldly to swallow[4] them, as of yore he did often
The best of the Hrethmen! Thou needest not trouble
A head-watch to give me;[5] he will have me dripping
[17]
{In case of my defeat, thou wilt not have the trouble of burying me.}
75 And dreary with gore, if death overtake me,[6]
Will bear me off bleeding, biting and mouthing me,
The hermit will eat me, heedless of pity,
Marking the moor-fens; no more wilt thou need then
{Should I fall, send my armor to my lord, King Higelac.}
Find me my food.[7] If I fall in the battle,
80 Send to Higelac the armor that serveth
To shield my bosom, the best of equipments,
Richest of ring-mails; 'tis the relic of Hrethla,
{Weird is supreme}
The work of Wayland. Goes Weird as she must go!"
[1] Some render 'gif-sceattas' by 'tribute.'--'Geata' B. and Th.
emended to 'Geatum.' If this be accepted, change '_of_ the Geatmen' to
'_to_ the Geatmen.'
[2] If t.B.'s emendation of vv. 386, 387 be accepted, the two lines,
'Hasten ... kinsmen' will read: _Hasten thou, bid the throng of
kinsmen go into the hall together_.
[3] For 420 (_b_) and 421 (_a_), B. suggests: aer ic (on) fifelgeban
yethde eotena cyn = _where I in the ocean destroyed the
eoten-race_.--t.B. accepts B.'s "brilliant" 'fifelgeban,' omits 'on,'
emends 'cyn' to 'ham,' arranging: aer ic fifelgeban yethde, eotena ham =
_where I desolated the ocean, the home of the eotens_.--This would be
better but for changing 'cyn' to 'ham.'--I suggest: aer ic fifelgeband
(cf. nhd. Bande) yethde, eotena cyn = _where I conquered the monster
band, the race of the eotens_. This makes no change except to read
'_fifel_' for '_fife_.'
[4] 'Unforhte' (444) is much disputed.--H.-So. wavers between adj. and
adv. Gr. and B. take it as an adv. modifying _etan: Will eat the Geats
fearlessly_.--Kl. considers this reading absurd, and proposes
'anforhte' = timid.--Understanding 'unforhte' as an adj. has this
advantage, viz. that it gives a parallel to 'Geatena leode': but to
take it as an adv. is more natural. Furthermore, to call the Geats
'brave' might, at this point, seem like an implied thrust at the
Danes, so long helpless; while to call his own men 'timid' would be
befouling his own nest.
[5] For 'head-watch,' cf. H.-So. notes and cf. v. 2910.--Th.
translates: _Thou wilt not need my head to hide_ (i.e., thou wilt have
no occasion to bury me, as Grendel will devour me whole).--Simrock
imagines a kind of dead-watch.--Dr. H. Wood suggests: _Thou wilt not
have to bury so much as my head_ (for Grendel will be a thorough
undertaker),--grim humor.
[6] S. proposes a colon after 'nimeeth' (l. 447). This would make no
essential change in the translation.
[7] Owing to the vagueness of 'feorme' (451), this passage is
variously translated. In our translation, H.-So.'s glossary has been
quite closely followed. This agrees substantially with B.'s
translation (P. and B. XII. 87). R. translates: _Thou needst not take
care longer as to the consumption of my dead body._ 'Lic' is also a
crux here, as it may mean living body or dead body.
HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF.--_Continued_.
{Hrothgar responds.}
Hrothgar discoursed, helm of the Scyldings:
"To defend our folk and to furnish assistance,[1]
Thou soughtest us hither, good friend Beowulf.
{Reminiscences of Beowulf's father, Ecgtheow.}
The fiercest of feuds thy father engaged in,
5 Heatholaf killed he in hand-to-hand conflict
'Mid Wilfingish warriors; then the Wederish people
For fear of a feud were forced to disown him.
Thence flying he fled to the folk of the South-Danes,
[18] The race of the Scyldings, o'er the roll of the waters;
10 I had lately begun then to govern the Danemen,
The hoard-seat of heroes held in my youth,
Rich in its jewels: dead was Heregar,
My kinsman and elder had earth-joys forsaken,
Healfdene his bairn. He was better than I am!
15 That feud thereafter for a fee I compounded;
O'er the weltering waters to the Wilfings I sent
Ornaments old; oaths did he swear me.
{Hrothgar recounts to Beowulf the horrors of Grendel's persecutions.}
It pains me in spirit to any to tell it,
What grief in Heorot Grendel hath caused me,
20 What horror unlooked-for, by hatred unceasing.
Waned is my war-band, wasted my hall-troop;
Weird hath offcast them to the clutches of Grendel.
God can easily hinder the scather
From deeds so direful. Oft drunken with beer
{My thanes have made many boasts, but have not executed them.}
25 O'er the ale-vessel promised warriors in armor
They would willingly wait on the wassailing-benches
A grapple with Grendel, with grimmest of edges.
Then this mead-hall at morning with murder was reeking,
The building was bloody at breaking of daylight,
30 The bench-deals all flooded, dripping and bloodied,
The folk-hall was gory: I had fewer retainers,
Dear-beloved warriors, whom death had laid hold of.
{Sit down to the feast, and give us comfort.}
Sit at the feast now, thy intents unto heroes,[2]
Thy victor-fame show, as thy spirit doth urge thee!"
{A bench is made ready for Beowulf and his party.}
35 For the men of the Geats then together assembled,
In the beer-hall blithesome a bench was made ready;
There warlike in spirit they went to be seated,
Proud and exultant. A liegeman did service,
[19] Who a beaker embellished bore with decorum,
{The gleeman sings}
40 And gleaming-drink poured. The gleeman sang whilom
{The heroes all rejoice together.}
Hearty in Heorot; there was heroes' rejoicing,
A numerous war-band of Weders and Danemen.
[1] B. and S. reject the reading given in H.-So., and suggested by
Grtvg. B. suggests for 457-458:
waere-ryhtum u, wine min Beowulf,
and for ar-stafum usic sohtest.
This means: _From the obligations of clientage, my friend Beowulf, and
for assistance thou hast sought us_.--This gives coherence to
Hrothgar's opening remarks in VIII., and also introduces a new motive
for Beowulf's coming to Hrothgar's aid.
[2] _Sit now at the feast, and disclose thy purposes to the victorious
heroes, as thy spirit urges_.--Kl. reaches the above translation by
erasing the comma after 'meoto' and reading 'sige-hreethsecgum.'--There
are other and bolder emendations and suggestions. Of these the boldest
is to regard 'meoto' as a verb (imperative), and read 'on sael': _Think
upon gayety, etc_.--All the renderings are unsatisfactory, the one
given in our translation involving a zeugma.
UNFERTH TAUNTS BEOWULF.
{Unferth, a thane of Hrothgar, is jealous of Beowulf, and undertakes to
twit him.}
Unferth spoke up, Ecglaf his son,
Who sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings,
Opened the jousting (the journey[1] of Beowulf,
Sea-farer doughty, gave sorrow to Unferth
5 And greatest chagrin, too, for granted he never
That any man else on earth should attain to,
Gain under heaven, more glory than he):
{Did you take part in a swimming-match with Breca?}
"Art thou that Beowulf with Breca did struggle,
On the wide sea-currents at swimming contended,
10 Where to humor your pride the ocean ye tried,
{'Twas mere folly that actuated you both to risk your lives on the ocean.}
From vainest vaunting adventured your bodies
In care of the waters? And no one was able
Nor lief nor loth one, in the least to dissuade you
Your difficult voyage; then ye ventured a-swimming,
15 Where your arms outstretching the streams ye did cover,
The mere-ways measured, mixing and stirring them,
Glided the ocean; angry the waves were,
With the weltering of winter. In the water's possession,
Ye toiled for a seven-night; he at swimming outdid thee,
20 In strength excelled thee. Then early at morning
On the Heathoremes' shore the holm-currents tossed him,
Sought he thenceward the home of his fathers,
Beloved of his liegemen, the land of the Brondings,
The peace-castle pleasant, where a people he wielded,
[20] 25 Had borough and jewels. The pledge that he made thee
{Breca outdid you entirely.}
The son of Beanstan hath soothly accomplished.
Then I ween thou wilt find thee less fortunate issue,
{Much more will Grendel outdo you, if you vie with him in prowess.}
Though ever triumphant in onset of battle,
A grim grappling, if Grendel thou darest
30 For the space of a night near-by to wait for!"
{Beowulf retaliates.}
Beowulf answered, offspring of Ecgtheow:
"My good friend Unferth, sure freely and wildly,
{O friend Unferth, you are fuddled with beer, and cannot talk coherently.}
Thou fuddled with beer of Breca hast spoken,
Hast told of his journey! A fact I allege it,
35 That greater strength in the waters I had then,
Ills in the ocean, than any man else had.
We made agreement as the merest of striplings
Promised each other (both of us then were
{We simply kept an engagement made in early life.}
Younkers in years) that we yet would adventure
40 Out on the ocean; it all we accomplished.
While swimming the sea-floods, sword-blade unscabbarded
Boldly we brandished, our bodies expected
To shield from the sharks. He sure was unable
{He _could_ not excel me, and I _would_ not excel him.}
To swim on the waters further than I could,
45 More swift on the waves, nor _would_ I from him go.
Then we two companions stayed in the ocean
{After five days the currents separated us.}
Five nights together, till the currents did part us,
The weltering waters, weathers the bleakest,
And nethermost night, and the north-wind whistled
50 Fierce in our faces; fell were the billows.
The mere fishes' mood was mightily ruffled:
And there against foemen my firm-knotted corslet,
Hand-jointed, hardy, help did afford me;
My battle-sark braided, brilliantly gilded,
{A horrible sea-beast attacked me, but I slew him.}
55 Lay on my bosom. To the bottom then dragged me,
A hateful fiend-scather, seized me and held me,
Grim in his grapple: 'twas granted me, nathless,
To pierce the monster with the point of my weapon,
My obedient blade; battle offcarried
60 The mighty mere-creature by means of my hand-blow.
[1] It has been plausibly suggested that 'sieth' (in 501 and in 353)
means 'arrival.' If so, translate the bracket: _(the arrival of
Beowulf, the brave seafarer, was a source of great chagrin to Unferth,
etc.)_.
[21]
BEOWULF SILENCES UNFERTH.--GLEE IS HIGH.
"So ill-meaning enemies often did cause me
Sorrow the sorest. I served them, in quittance,
{My dear sword always served me faithfully.}
With my dear-loved sword, as in sooth it was fitting;
They missed the pleasure of feasting abundantly,
5 Ill-doers evil, of eating my body,
Of surrounding the banquet deep in the ocean;
But wounded with edges early at morning
They were stretched a-high on the strand of the ocean,
{I put a stop to the outrages of the sea-monsters.}
Put to sleep with the sword, that sea-going travelers
10 No longer thereafter were hindered from sailing
The foam-dashing currents. Came a light from the east,
God's beautiful beacon; the billows subsided,
That well I could see the nesses projecting,
{Fortune helps the brave earl.}
The blustering crags. Weird often saveth
15 The undoomed hero if doughty his valor!
But me did it fortune[1] to fell with my weapon
Nine of the nickers. Of night-struggle harder
'Neath dome of the heaven heard I but rarely,
Nor of wight more woful in the waves of the ocean;
20 Yet I 'scaped with my life the grip of the monsters,
{After that escape I drifted to Finland.}
Weary from travel. Then the waters bare me
To the land of the Finns, the flood with the current,
{I have never heard of your doing any such bold deeds.}
The weltering waves. Not a word hath been told me
Of deeds so daring done by thee, Unferth,
25 And of sword-terror none; never hath Breca
At the play of the battle, nor either of you two,
Feat so fearless performed with weapons
Glinting and gleaming . . . . . . . . . . . .
[22] . . . . . . . . . . . . I utter no boasting;
{You are a slayer of brothers, and will suffer damnation, wise as you may
be.}
30 Though with cold-blooded cruelty thou killedst thy brothers,
Thy nearest of kin; thou needs must in hell get
Direful damnation, though doughty thy wisdom.
I tell thee in earnest, offspring of Ecglaf,
Never had Grendel such numberless horrors,
35 The direful demon, done to thy liegelord,
Harrying in Heorot, if thy heart were as sturdy,
{Had your acts been as brave as your words, Grendel had not ravaged your
land so long.}
Thy mood as ferocious as thou dost describe them.
He hath found out fully that the fierce-burning hatred,
The edge-battle eager, of all of your kindred,
40 Of the Victory-Scyldings, need little dismay him:
Oaths he exacteth, not any he spares
{The monster is not afraid of the Danes,}
Of the folk of the Danemen, but fighteth with pleasure,
Killeth and feasteth, no contest expecteth
{but he will soon learn to dread the Geats.}
From Spear-Danish people. But the prowess and valor
45 Of the earls of the Geatmen early shall venture
To give him a grapple. He shall go who is able
Bravely to banquet, when the bright-light of morning
{On the second day, any warrior may go unmolested to the mead-banquet.}
Which the second day bringeth, the sun in its ether-robes,
O'er children of men shines from the southward!"
50 Then the gray-haired, war-famed giver of treasure
{Hrothgar's spirits are revived.}
Was blithesome and joyous, the Bright-Danish ruler
Expected assistance; the people's protector
{The old king trusts Beowulf. The heroes are joyful.}
Heard from Beowulf his bold resolution.
There was laughter of heroes; loud was the clatter,
55 The words were winsome. Wealhtheow advanced then,
{Queen Wealhtheow plays the hostess.}
Consort of Hrothgar, of courtesy mindful,
Gold-decked saluted the men in the building,
And the freeborn woman the beaker presented
{She offers the cup to her husband first.}
To the lord of the kingdom, first of the East-Danes,
60 Bade him be blithesome when beer was a-flowing,
Lief to his liegemen; he lustily tasted
Of banquet and beaker, battle-famed ruler.
The Helmingish lady then graciously circled
'Mid all the liegemen lesser and greater:
[23]
{She gives presents to the heroes.}
65 Treasure-cups tendered, till time was afforded
That the decorous-mooded, diademed folk-queen
{Then she offers the cup to Beowulf, thanking God that aid has come.}
Might bear to Beowulf the bumper o'errunning;
She greeted the Geat-prince, God she did thank,
Most wise in her words, that her wish was accomplished,
70 That in any of earlmen she ever should look for
Solace in sorrow. He accepted the beaker,
Battle-bold warrior, at Wealhtheow's giving,
{Beowulf states to the queen the object of his visit.}
Then equipped for combat quoth he in measures,
Beowulf spake, offspring of Ecgtheow:
75 "I purposed in spirit when I mounted the ocean,
{I determined to do or die.}
When I boarded my boat with a band of my liegemen,
I would work to the fullest the will of your people
Or in foe's-clutches fastened fall in the battle.
Deeds I shall do of daring and prowess,
80 Or the last of my life-days live in this mead-hall."
These words to the lady were welcome and pleasing,
The boast of the Geatman; with gold trappings broidered
Went the freeborn folk-queen her fond-lord to sit by.
{Glee is high.}
Then again as of yore was heard in the building
85 Courtly discussion, conquerors' shouting,
Heroes were happy, till Healfdene's son would
Go to his slumber to seek for refreshing;
For the horrid hell-monster in the hall-building knew he
A fight was determined,[2] since the light of the sun they
90 No longer could see, and lowering darkness
O'er all had descended, and dark under heaven
Shadowy shapes came shying around them.
{Hrothgar retires, leaving Beowulf in charge of the hall.}
The liegemen all rose then. One saluted the other,
Hrothgar Beowulf, in rhythmical measures,
95 Wishing him well, and, the wassail-hall giving
To his care and keeping, quoth he departing:
[24] "Not to any one else have I ever entrusted,
But thee and thee only, the hall of the Danemen,
Since high I could heave my hand and my buckler.
100 Take thou in charge now the noblest of houses;
Be mindful of honor, exhibiting prowess,
Watch 'gainst the foeman! Thou shalt want no enjoyments,
Survive thou safely adventure so glorious!"
[1] The repetition of 'hwaeethere' (574 and 578) is regarded by some
scholars as a defect. B. suggests 'swa aer' for the first: _So there
it befell me, etc._ Another suggestion is to change the second
'hwaeethere' into 'swa aer': _So there I escaped with my life, etc._
[2] Kl. suggests a period after 'determined.' This would give the
passage as follows: _Since they no longer could see the light of the
sun, and lowering darkness was down over all, dire under the heavens
shadowy beings came going around them_.
ALL SLEEP SAVE ONE.
{Hrothgar retires.}
Then Hrothgar departed, his earl-throng attending him,
Folk-lord of Scyldings, forth from the building;
The war-chieftain wished then Wealhtheow to look for,
The queen for a bedmate. To keep away Grendel
{God has provided a watch for the hall.}
5 The Glory of Kings had given a hall-watch,
As men heard recounted: for the king of the Danemen
He did special service, gave the giant a watcher:
And the prince of the Geatmen implicitly trusted
{Beowulf is self-confident}
His warlike strength and the Wielder's protection.
{He prepares for rest.}
10 His armor of iron off him he did then,
His helmet from his head, to his henchman committed
His chased-handled chain-sword, choicest of weapons,
And bade him bide with his battle-equipments.
The good one then uttered words of defiance,
15 Beowulf Geatman, ere his bed he upmounted:
{Beowulf boasts of his ability to cope with Grendel.}
"I hold me no meaner in matters of prowess,
In warlike achievements, than Grendel does himself;
Hence I seek not with sword-edge to sooth him to slumber,
Of life to bereave him, though well I am able.
{We will fight with nature's weapons only.}
20 No battle-skill[1] has he, that blows he should strike me,
To shatter my shield, though sure he is mighty
[25] In strife and destruction; but struggling by night we
Shall do without edges, dare he to look for
Weaponless warfare, and wise-mooded Father
25 The glory apportion, God ever-holy,
{God may decide who shall conquer}
On which hand soever to him seemeth proper."
Then the brave-mooded hero bent to his slumber,
The pillow received the cheek of the noble;
{The Geatish warriors lie down.}
And many a martial mere-thane attending
30 Sank to his slumber. Seemed it unlikely
{They thought it very unlikely that they should ever see their homes
again.}
That ever thereafter any should hope to
Be happy at home, hero-friends visit
Or the lordly troop-castle where he lived from his childhood;
They had heard how slaughter had snatched from the wine-hall,
35 Had recently ravished, of the race of the Scyldings
{But God raised up a deliverer.}
Too many by far. But the Lord to them granted
The weaving of war-speed, to Wederish heroes
Aid and comfort, that every opponent
By one man's war-might they worsted and vanquished,
{God rules the world.}
40 By the might of himself; the truth is established
That God Almighty hath governed for ages
Kindreds and nations. A night very lurid
{Grendel comes to Heorot.}
The trav'ler-at-twilight came tramping and striding.
The warriors were sleeping who should watch the horned-building,
{Only one warrior is awake.}
45 One only excepted. 'Mid earthmen 'twas 'stablished,
Th' implacable foeman was powerless to hurl them
To the land of shadows, if the Lord were unwilling;
But serving as warder, in terror to foemen,
He angrily bided the issue of battle.[2]
[1] Gr. understood 'godra' as meaning 'advantages in battle.' This
rendering H.-So. rejects. The latter takes the passage as meaning that
Grendel, though mighty and formidable, has no skill in the art of war.
[2] B. in his masterly articles on Beowulf (P. and B. XII.) rejects
the division usually made at this point, 'a.' (711), usually rendered
'then,' he translates 'when,' and connects its clause with the
foregoing sentence. These changes he makes to reduce the number of
'com's' as principal verbs. (Cf. 703, 711, 721.) With all deference to
this acute scholar, I must say that it seems to me that the poet is
exhausting his resources to bring out clearly the supreme event on
which the whole subsequent action turns. First, he (Grendel) came _in
the wan night_; second, he came _from the moor_; third, he came _to
the hall_. Time, place from which, place to which, are all given.
[26]
GRENDEL AND BEOWULF.
{Grendel comes from the fens.}
'Neath the cloudy cliffs came from the moor then
Grendel going, God's anger bare he.
The monster intended some one of earthmen
In the hall-building grand to entrap and make way with:
{He goes towards the joyous building.}
5 He went under welkin where well he knew of
The wine-joyous building, brilliant with plating,
Gold-hall of earthmen. Not the earliest occasion
{This was not his first visit there.}
He the home and manor of Hrothgar had sought:
Ne'er found he in life-days later nor earlier
10 Hardier hero, hall-thanes[1] more sturdy!
Then came to the building the warrior marching,
{His horrid fingers tear the door open.}
Bereft of his joyance. The door quickly opened
On fire-hinges fastened, when his fingers had touched it;
The fell one had flung then--his fury so bitter--
15 Open the entrance. Early thereafter
The foeman trod the shining hall-pavement,
{He strides furiously into the hall.}
Strode he angrily; from the eyes of him glimmered
A lustre unlovely likest to fire.
He beheld in the hall the heroes in numbers,
20 A circle of kinsmen sleeping together,
{He exults over his supposed prey.}
A throng of thanemen: then his thoughts were exultant,
He minded to sunder from each of the thanemen
The life from his body, horrible demon,
Ere morning came, since fate had allowed him
{Fate has decreed that he shall devour no more heroes. Beowulf suffers
from suspense.}
25 The prospect of plenty. Providence willed not
To permit him any more of men under heaven
To eat in the night-time. Higelac's kinsman
Great sorrow endured how the dire-mooded creature
[27] In unlooked-for assaults were likely to bear him.
30 No thought had the monster of deferring the matter,
{Grendel immediately seizes a sleeping warrior, and devours him.}
But on earliest occasion he quickly laid hold of
A soldier asleep, suddenly tore him,
Bit his bone-prison, the blood drank in currents,
Swallowed in mouthfuls: he soon had the dead man's
35 Feet and hands, too, eaten entirely.
Nearer he strode then, the stout-hearted warrior
{Beowulf and Grendel grapple.}
Snatched as he slumbered, seizing with hand-grip,
Forward the foeman foined with his hand;
Caught he quickly the cunning deviser,
40 On his elbow he rested. This early discovered
The master of malice, that in middle-earth's regions,
'Neath the whole of the heavens, no hand-grapple greater
{The monster is amazed at Beowulf's strength.}
In any man else had he ever encountered:
Fearful in spirit, faint-mooded waxed he,
45 Not off could betake him; death he was pondering,
{He is anxious to flee.}
Would fly to his covert, seek the devils' assembly:
His calling no more was the same he had followed
Long in his lifetime. The liege-kinsman worthy
{Beowulf recalls his boast of the evening, and determines to fulfil it.}
Of Higelac minded his speech of the evening,
50 Stood he up straight and stoutly did seize him.
His fingers crackled; the giant was outward,
The earl stepped farther. The famous one minded
To flee away farther, if he found an occasion,
And off and away, avoiding delay,
55 To fly to the fen-moors; he fully was ware of
The strength of his grapple in the grip of the foeman.
{'Twas a luckless day for Grendel.}
'Twas an ill-taken journey that the injury-bringing,
Harrying harmer to Heorot wandered:
{The hall groans.}
The palace re-echoed; to all of the Danemen,
60 Dwellers in castles, to each of the bold ones,
Earlmen, was terror. Angry they both were,
Archwarders raging.[2] Rattled the building;
[28] 'Twas a marvellous wonder that the wine-hall withstood then
The bold-in-battle, bent not to earthward,
65 Excellent earth-hall; but within and without it
Was fastened so firmly in fetters of iron,
By the art of the armorer. Off from the sill there
Bent mead-benches many, as men have informed me,
Adorned with gold-work, where the grim ones did struggle.
70 The Scylding wise men weened ne'er before
That by might and main-strength a man under heaven
Might break it in pieces, bone-decked, resplendent,
Crush it by cunning, unless clutch of the fire
In smoke should consume it. The sound mounted upward
{Grendel's cries terrify the Danes.}
75 Novel enough; on the North Danes fastened
A terror of anguish, on all of the men there
Who heard from the wall the weeping and plaining,
The song of defeat from the foeman of heaven,
Heard him hymns of horror howl, and his sorrow
80 Hell-bound bewailing. He held him too firmly
Who was strongest of main-strength of men of that era.
[1] B. and t.B. emend so as to make lines 9 and 10 read: _Never in his
life, earlier or later, had he, the hell-thane, found a braver
hero_.--They argue that Beowulf's companions had done nothing to merit
such encomiums as the usual readings allow them.
[2] For 'reethe ren-weardas' (771), t.B. suggests 'reethe, renhearde.'
Translate: _They were both angry, raging and mighty_.
GRENDEL IS VANQUISHED.
{Beowulf has no idea of letting Grendel live.}
For no cause whatever would the earlmen's defender
Leave in life-joys the loathsome newcomer,
He deemed his existence utterly useless
To men under heaven. Many a noble
5 Of Beowulf brandished his battle-sword old,
Would guard the life of his lord and protector,
The far-famous chieftain, if able to do so;
While waging the warfare, this wist they but little,
Brave battle-thanes, while his body intending
{No weapon would harm Grendel; he bore a charmed life.}
10 To slit into slivers, and seeking his spirit:
That the relentless foeman nor finest of weapons
Of all on the earth, nor any of war-bills
[29] Was willing to injure; but weapons of victory
Swords and suchlike he had sworn to dispense with.
15 His death at that time must prove to be wretched,
And the far-away spirit widely should journey
Into enemies' power. This plainly he saw then
Who with mirth[1] of mood malice no little
Had wrought in the past on the race of the earthmen
20 (To God he was hostile), that his body would fail him,
But Higelac's hardy henchman and kinsman
Held him by the hand; hateful to other
{Grendel is sorely wounded.}
Was each one if living. A body-wound suffered
The direful demon, damage incurable
{His body bursts.}
25 Was seen on his shoulder, his sinews were shivered,
His body did burst. To Beowulf was given
Glory in battle; Grendel from thenceward
Must flee and hide him in the fen-cliffs and marshes,
Sick unto death, his dwelling must look for
30 Unwinsome and woful; he wist the more fully
{The monster flees away to hide in the moors.}
The end of his earthly existence was nearing,
His life-days' limits. At last for the Danemen,
When the slaughter was over, their wish was accomplished.
The comer-from-far-land had cleansed then of evil,
35 Wise and valiant, the war-hall of Hrothgar,
Saved it from violence. He joyed in the night-work,
In repute for prowess; the prince of the Geatmen
For the East-Danish people his boast had accomplished,
Bettered their burdensome bale-sorrows fully,
40 The craft-begot evil they erstwhile had suffered
And were forced to endure from crushing oppression,
Their manifold misery. 'Twas a manifest token,
{Beowulf suspends Grendel's hand and arm in Heorot.}
When the hero-in-battle the hand suspended,
The arm and the shoulder (there was all of the claw
45 Of Grendel together) 'neath great-stretching hall-roof.
[1] It has been proposed to translate 'myrethe' by _with sorrow_; but
there seems no authority for such a rendering. To the present
translator, the phrase 'modes myrethe' seems a mere padding for
_gladly_; i.e., _he who gladly harassed mankind_.
[30]
REJOICING OF THE DANES.
{At early dawn, warriors from far and near come together to hear of the
night's adventures.}
In the mist of the morning many a warrior
Stood round the gift-hall, as the story is told me:
Folk-princes fared then from far and from near
Through long-stretching journeys to look at the wonder,
5 The footprints of the foeman. Few of the warriors
{Few warriors lamented Grendel's destruction.}
Who gazed on the foot-tracks of the inglorious creature
His parting from life pained very deeply,
How, weary in spirit, off from those regions
In combats conquered he carried his traces,
10 Fated and flying, to the flood of the nickers.
{Grendel's blood dyes the waters.}
There in bloody billows bubbled the currents,
The angry eddy was everywhere mingled
And seething with gore, welling with sword-blood;[1]
He death-doomed had hid him, when reaved of his joyance
15 He laid down his life in the lair he had fled to,
His heathenish spirit, where hell did receive him.
Thence the friends from of old backward turned them,
And many a younker from merry adventure,
Striding their stallions, stout from the seaward,
20 Heroes on horses. There were heard very often
{Beowulf is the hero of the hour.}
Beowulf's praises; many often asserted
That neither south nor north, in the circuit of waters,
{He is regarded as a probable successor to Hrothgar.}
O'er outstretching earth-plain, none other was better
'Mid bearers of war-shields, more worthy to govern,
25 'Neath the arch of the ether. Not any, however,
'Gainst the friend-lord muttered, mocking-words uttered
{But no word is uttered to derogate from the old king}
Of Hrothgar the gracious (a good king he).
Oft the famed ones permitted their fallow-skinned horses
[31] To run in rivalry, racing and chasing,
30 Where the fieldways appeared to them fair and inviting,
Known for their excellence; oft a thane of the folk-lord,[2]
{The gleeman sings the deeds of heroes.}
[3]A man of celebrity, mindful of rhythms,
Who ancient traditions treasured in memory,
New word-groups found properly bound:
35 The bard after 'gan then Beowulf's venture
{He sings in alliterative measures of Beowulf's prowess.}
Wisely to tell of, and words that were clever
To utter skilfully, earnestly speaking,
Everything told he that he heard as to Sigmund's
{Also of Sigemund, who has slain a great fire-dragon.}
Mighty achievements, many things hidden,
40 The strife of the Waelsing, the wide-going ventures
The children of men knew of but little,
The feud and the fury, but Fitela with him,
When suchlike matters he minded to speak of,
Uncle to nephew, as in every contention
45 Each to other was ever devoted:
A numerous host of the race of the scathers
They had slain with the sword-edge. To Sigmund accrued then
No little of glory, when his life-days were over,
Since he sturdy in struggle had destroyed the great dragon,
50 The hoard-treasure's keeper; 'neath the hoar-grayish stone he,
The son of the atheling, unaided adventured
The perilous project; not present was Fitela,
Yet the fortune befell him of forcing his weapon
Through the marvellous dragon, that it stood in the wall,
55 Well-honored weapon; the worm was slaughtered.
The great one had gained then by his glorious achievement
To reap from the ring-hoard richest enjoyment,
[32] As best it did please him: his vessel he loaded,
Shining ornaments on the ship's bosom carried,
60 Kinsman of Waels: the drake in heat melted.
{Sigemund was widely famed.}
He was farthest famed of fugitive pilgrims,
Mid wide-scattered world-folk, for works of great prowess,
War-troopers' shelter: hence waxed he in honor.[4]
{Heremod, an unfortunate Danish king, is introduced by way of contrast.}
Afterward Heremod's hero-strength failed him,
65 His vigor and valor. 'Mid venomous haters
To the hands of foemen he was foully delivered,
Offdriven early. Agony-billows
{Unlike Sigemund and Beowulf, Heremod was a burden to his people.}
Oppressed him too long, to his people he became then,
To all the athelings, an ever-great burden;
70 And the daring one's journey in days of yore
Many wise men were wont to deplore,
Such as hoped he would bring them help in their sorrow,
That the son of their ruler should rise into power,
Holding the headship held by his fathers,
75 Should govern the people, the gold-hoard and borough,
The kingdom of heroes, the realm of the Scyldings.
{Beowulf is an honor to his race.}
He to all men became then far more beloved,
Higelac's kinsman, to kindreds and races,
To his friends much dearer; him malice assaulted.--
{The story is resumed.}
80 Oft running and racing on roadsters they measured
The dun-colored highways. Then the light of the morning
Was hurried and hastened. Went henchmen in numbers
To the beautiful building, bold ones in spirit,
To look at the wonder; the liegelord himself then
85 From his wife-bower wending, warden of treasures,
Glorious trod with troopers unnumbered,
Famed for his virtues, and with him the queen-wife
Measured the mead-ways, with maidens attending.
[1] S. emends, suggesting 'deop' for 'deog,' and removing semicolon
after 'weol.' The two half-lines 'welling ... hid him' would then
read: _The bloody deep welled with sword-gore_. B. accepts 'deop' for
'deog,' but reads 'deaeth-faeges': _The deep boiled with the sword-gore
of the death-doomed one_.
[2] Another and quite different rendering of this passage is as
follows: _Oft a liegeman of the king, a fame-covered man mindful of
songs, who very many ancient traditions remembered (he found other
word-groups accurately bound together) began afterward to tell of
Beowulf's adventure, skilfully to narrate it, etc_.
[3] Might 'guma gilp-hladen' mean 'a man laden with boasts of the
deeds of others'?
[4] t.B. accepts B.'s 'he aes aron ah' as given by H.-So., but puts a
comma after 'ah,' and takes 'siethethan' as introducing a dependent
clause: _He throve in honor since Heremod's strength ... had
decreased_.
[33]
HROTHGAR'S GRATITUDE.
Hrothgar discoursed (to the hall-building went he,
He stood by the pillar,[1] saw the steep-rising hall-roof
Gleaming with gold-gems, and Grendel his hand there):
{Hrothgar gives thanks for the overthrow of the monster.}
"For the sight we behold now, thanks to the Wielder
5 Early be offered! Much evil I bided,
Snaring from Grendel:[2] God can e'er 'complish
Wonder on wonder, Wielder of Glory!
{I had given up all hope, when this brave liegeman came to our aid.}
But lately I reckoned ne'er under heaven
Comfort to gain me for any of sorrows,
10 While the handsomest of houses horrid with bloodstain
Gory uptowered; grief had offfrightened[3]
Each of the wise ones who weened not that ever
The folk-troop's defences 'gainst foes they should strengthen,
'Gainst sprites and monsters. Through the might of the Wielder
15 A doughty retainer hath a deed now accomplished
Which erstwhile we all with our excellent wisdom
{If his mother yet liveth, well may she thank God for this son.}
Failed to perform. May affirm very truly
What woman soever in all of the nations
Gave birth to the child, if yet she surviveth,
20 That the long-ruling Lord was lavish to herward
In the birth of the bairn. Now, Beowulf dear,
{Hereafter, Beowulf, thou shalt be my son.}
Most excellent hero, I'll love thee in spirit
As bairn of my body; bear well henceforward
The relationship new. No lack shall befall thee
25 Of earth-joys any I ever can give thee.
Full often for lesser service I've given
[34] Hero less hardy hoard-treasure precious,
{Thou hast won immortal distinction.}
To a weaker in war-strife. By works of distinction
Thou hast gained for thyself now that thy glory shall flourish
30 Forever and ever. The All-Ruler quite thee
With good from His hand as He hitherto did thee!"
{Beowulf replies: I was most happy to render thee this service.}
Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's offspring:
"That labor of glory most gladly achieved we,
The combat accomplished, unquailing we ventured
35 The enemy's grapple; I would grant it much rather
Thou wert able to look at the creature in person,
Faint unto falling, the foe in his trappings!
On murder-bed quickly I minded to bind him,
With firm-holding fetters, that forced by my grapple
40 Low he should lie in life-and-death struggle
'Less his body escape; I was wholly unable,
{I could not keep the monster from escaping, as God did not will that I
should.}
Since God did not will it, to keep him from going,
Not held him that firmly, hated opposer;
Too swift was the foeman. Yet safety regarding
45 He suffered his hand behind him to linger,
His arm and shoulder, to act as watcher;
{He left his hand and arm behind.}
No shadow of solace the woe-begone creature
Found him there nathless: the hated destroyer
Liveth no longer, lashed for his evils,
50 But sorrow hath seized him, in snare-meshes hath him
Close in its clutches, keepeth him writhing
In baleful bonds: there banished for evil
The man shall wait for the mighty tribunal,
{God will give him his deserts.}
How the God of glory shall give him his earnings."
55 Then the soldier kept silent, son of old Ecglaf,
{Unferth has nothing more to say, for Beowulf's actions speak louder than
words.}
From boasting and bragging of battle-achievements,
Since the princes beheld there the hand that depended
'Neath the lofty hall-timbers by the might of the nobleman,
Each one before him, the enemy's fingers;
60 Each finger-nail strong steel most resembled,
The heathen one's hand-spur, the hero-in-battle's
Claw most uncanny; quoth they agreeing,
[35]
{No sword will harm the monster.}
That not any excellent edges of brave ones
Was willing to touch him, the terrible creature's
65 Battle-hand bloody to bear away from him.
[1] B. and t.B. read 'staole,' and translate _stood on the floor_.
[2] For 'snaring from Grendel,' 'sorrows at Grendel's hands' has been
suggested. This gives a parallel to 'laethes.' 'Grynna' may well be gen.
pl. of 'gyrn,' by a scribal slip.
[3] The H.-So punctuation has been followed; but B. has been followed
in understanding 'gehwylcne' as object of 'wid-scofen (haefde).' Gr.
construes 'wea' as nom abs.
HROTHGAR LAVISHES GIFTS UPON HIS DELIVERER.
{Heorot is adorned with hands.}
Then straight was ordered that Heorot inside[1]
With hands be embellished: a host of them gathered,
Of men and women, who the wassailing-building
The guest-hall begeared. Gold-flashing sparkled
5 Webs on the walls then, of wonders a many
To each of the heroes that look on such objects.
{The hall is defaced, however.}
The beautiful building was broken to pieces
Which all within with irons was fastened,
Its hinges torn off: only the roof was
10 Whole and uninjured when the horrible creature
Outlawed for evil off had betaken him,
Hopeless of living. 'Tis hard to avoid it
{[A vague passage of five verses.]}
(Whoever will do it!); but he doubtless must come to[2]
The place awaiting, as Wyrd hath appointed,
15 Soul-bearers, earth-dwellers, earls under heaven,
Where bound on its bed his body shall slumber
{Hrothgar goes to the banquet.}
When feasting is finished. Full was the time then
That the son of Healfdene went to the building;
[36] The excellent atheling would eat of the banquet.
20 Ne'er heard I that people with hero-band larger
Bare them better tow'rds their bracelet-bestower.
The laden-with-glory stooped to the bench then
(Their kinsmen-companions in plenty were joyful,
Many a cupful quaffing complaisantly),
25 Doughty of spirit in the high-tow'ring palace,
{Hrothgar's nephew, Hrothulf, is present.}
Hrothgar and Hrothulf. Heorot then inside
Was filled with friendly ones; falsehood and treachery
The Folk-Scyldings now nowise did practise.
{Hrothgar lavishes gifts upon Beowulf.}
Then the offspring of Healfdene offered to Beowulf
30 A golden standard, as reward for the victory,
A banner embossed, burnie and helmet;
Many men saw then a song-famous weapon
Borne 'fore the hero. Beowulf drank of
The cup in the building; that treasure-bestowing
35 He needed not blush for in battle-men's presence.
{Four handsomer gifts were never presented.}
Ne'er heard I that many men on the ale-bench
In friendlier fashion to their fellows presented
Four bright jewels with gold-work embellished.
'Round the roof of the helmet a head-guarder outside
40 Braided with wires, with bosses was furnished,
That swords-for-the-battle fight-hardened might fail
Boldly to harm him, when the hero proceeded
{Hrothgar commands that eight finely caparisoned steeds be brought to
Beowulf.}
Forth against foemen. The defender of earls then
Commanded that eight steeds with bridles
45 Gold-plated, gleaming, be guided to hallward,
Inside the building; on one of them stood then
An art-broidered saddle embellished with jewels;
'Twas the sovereign's seat, when the son of King Healfdene
Was pleased to take part in the play of the edges;
50 The famous one's valor ne'er failed at the front when
Slain ones were bowing. And to Beowulf granted
The prince of the Ingwins, power over both,
O'er war-steeds and weapons; bade him well to enjoy them.
In so manly a manner the mighty-famed chieftain,
[37] 55 Hoard-ward of heroes, with horses and jewels
War-storms requited, that none e'er condemneth
Who willeth to tell truth with full justice.
[1] Kl. suggests 'hroden' for 'haten,' and renders: _Then quickly was
Heorot adorned within, with hands bedecked_.--B. suggests 'gefraetwon'
instead of 'gefraetwod,' and renders: _Then was it commanded to adorn
Heorot within quickly with hands_.--The former has the advantage of
affording a parallel to 'gefraetwod': both have the disadvantage of
altering the text.
[2] The passage 1005-1009 seems to be hopeless. One difficult point is
to find a subject for 'gesacan.' Some say 'he'; others supply 'each,'
_i.e., every soul-bearer ... must gain the inevitable place_. The
genitives in this case are partitive.--If 'he' be subj., the genitives
are dependent on 'gearwe' (= prepared).--The 'he' itself is disputed,
some referring it to Grendel; but B. takes it as involved in the
parenthesis.
BANQUET (_continued_).--THE SCOP'S SONG OF FINN AND HNAEF.
{Each of Beowulf's companions receives a costly gift.}
And the atheling of earlmen to each of the heroes
Who the ways of the waters went with Beowulf,
A costly gift-token gave on the mead-bench,
Offered an heirloom, and ordered that that man
{The warrior killed by Grendel is to be paid for in gold.}
5 With gold should be paid for, whom Grendel had erstwhile
Wickedly slaughtered, as he more of them had done
Had far-seeing God and the mood of the hero
The fate not averted: the Father then governed
All of the earth-dwellers, as He ever is doing;
10 Hence insight for all men is everywhere fittest,
Forethought of spirit! much he shall suffer
Of lief and of loathsome who long in this present
Useth the world in this woful existence.
There was music and merriment mingling together
{Hrothgar's scop recalls events in the reign of his lord's father.}
15 Touching Healfdene's leader; the joy-wood was fingered,
Measures recited, when the singer of Hrothgar
On mead-bench should mention the merry hall-joyance
Of the kinsmen of Finn, when onset surprised them:
{Hnaef, the Danish general, is treacherously attacked while staying at
Finn's castle.}
"The Half-Danish hero, Hnaef of the Scyldings,
20 On the field of the Frisians was fated to perish.
Sure Hildeburg needed not mention approving
The faith of the Jutemen: though blameless entirely,
{Queen Hildeburg is not only wife of Finn, but a kinswoman of the murdered
Hnaef.}
When shields were shivered she was shorn of her darlings,
Of bairns and brothers: they bent to their fate
25 With war-spear wounded; woe was that woman.
Not causeless lamented the daughter of Hoce
The decree of the Wielder when morning-light came and
She was able 'neath heaven to behold the destruction
[38] Of brothers and bairns, where the brightest of earth-joys
{Finn's force is almost exterminated.}
30 She had hitherto had: all the henchmen of Finn
War had offtaken, save a handful remaining,
That he nowise was able to offer resistance[1]
{Hengest succeeds Hnaef as Danish general.}
To the onset of Hengest in the parley of battle,
Nor the wretched remnant to rescue in war from
35 The earl of the atheling; but they offered conditions,
{Compact between the Frisians and the Danes.}
Another great building to fully make ready,
A hall and a high-seat, that half they might rule with
The sons of the Jutemen, and that Folcwalda's son would
Day after day the Danemen honor
40 When gifts were giving, and grant of his ring-store
To Hengest's earl-troop ever so freely,
Of his gold-plated jewels, as he encouraged the Frisians
{Equality of gifts agreed on.}
On the bench of the beer-hall. On both sides they swore then
A fast-binding compact; Finn unto Hengest
45 With no thought of revoking vowed then most solemnly
The woe-begone remnant well to take charge of,
His Witan advising; the agreement should no one
By words or works weaken and shatter,
By artifice ever injure its value,
50 Though reaved of their ruler their ring-giver's slayer
They followed as vassals, Fate so requiring:
{No one shall refer to old grudges.}
Then if one of the Frisians the quarrel should speak of
In tones that were taunting, terrible edges
Should cut in requital. Accomplished the oath was,
55 And treasure of gold from the hoard was uplifted.
{Danish warriors are burned on a funeral-pyre.}
The best of the Scylding braves was then fully
Prepared for the pile; at the pyre was seen clearly
The blood-gory burnie, the boar with his gilding,
The iron-hard swine, athelings many
60 Fatally wounded; no few had been slaughtered.
Hildeburg bade then, at the burning of Hnaef,
[39]
{Queen Hildeburg has her son burnt along with Hnaef.}
The bairn of her bosom to bear to the fire,
That his body be burned and borne to the pyre.
The woe-stricken woman wept on his shoulder,[2]
65 In measures lamented; upmounted the hero.[3]
The greatest of dead-fires curled to the welkin,
On the hill's-front crackled; heads were a-melting,
Wound-doors bursting, while the blood was a-coursing
From body-bite fierce. The fire devoured them,
70 Greediest of spirits, whom war had offcarried
From both of the peoples; their bravest were fallen.
[1] For 1084, R. suggests 'wiht Hengeste wieth gefeohtan.'--K. suggests
'wieth Hengeste wiht gefeohtan.' Neither emendation would make any
essential change in the translation.
[2] The separation of adjective and noun by a phrase (cf. v. 1118)
being very unusual, some scholars have put 'earme on eaxle' with the
foregoing lines, inserting a semicolon after 'eaxle.' In this case 'on
eaxe' (_i.e._, on the ashes, cinders) is sometimes read, and this
affords a parallel to 'on bael.' Let us hope that a satisfactory
rendering shall yet be reached without resorting to any tampering with
the text, such as Lichtenheld proposed: 'earme ides on eaxle
gnornode.'
[3] For 'gueth-rinc,' 'gueth-rec,' _battle-smoke_, has been suggested.
THE FINN EPISODE (_continued_).--THE BANQUET CONTINUES.
{The survivors go to Friesland, the home of Finn.}
"Then the warriors departed to go to their dwellings,
Reaved of their friends, Friesland to visit,
Their homes and high-city. Hengest continued
{Hengest remains there all winter, unable to get away.}
Biding with Finn the blood-tainted winter,
5 Wholly unsundered;[1] of fatherland thought he
Though unable to drive the ring-stemmed vessel
[40] O'er the ways of the waters; the wave-deeps were tossing,
Fought with the wind; winter in ice-bonds
Closed up the currents, till there came to the dwelling
10 A year in its course, as yet it revolveth,
If season propitious one alway regardeth,
World-cheering weathers. Then winter was gone,
Earth's bosom was lovely; the exile would get him,
{He devises schemes of vengeance.}
The guest from the palace; on grewsomest vengeance
15 He brooded more eager than on oversea journeys,
Whe'r onset-of-anger he were able to 'complish,
The bairns of the Jutemen therein to remember.
Nowise refused he the duties of liegeman
When Hun of the Frisians the battle-sword Lafing,
20 Fairest of falchions, friendly did give him:
Its edges were famous in folk-talk of Jutland.
And savage sword-fury seized in its clutches
Bold-mooded Finn where he bode in his palace,
{Guthlaf and Oslaf revenge Hnaef's slaughter.}
When the grewsome grapple Guthlaf and Oslaf
25 Had mournfully mentioned, the mere-journey over,
For sorrows half-blamed him; the flickering spirit
Could not bide in his bosom. Then the building was covered[2]
{Finn is slain.}
With corpses of foemen, and Finn too was slaughtered,
The king with his comrades, and the queen made a prisoner.
{The jewels of Finn, and his queen are carried away by the Danes.}
30 The troops of the Scyldings bore to their vessels
All that the land-king had in his palace,
Such trinkets and treasures they took as, on searching,
At Finn's they could find. They ferried to Daneland
The excellent woman on oversea journey,
{The lay is concluded, and the main story is resumed.}
35 Led her to their land-folk." The lay was concluded,
The gleeman's recital. Shouts again rose then,
Bench-glee resounded, bearers then offered
{Skinkers carry round the beaker.}
Wine from wonder-vats. Wealhtheo advanced then
Going 'neath gold-crown, where the good ones were seated
[41]
{Queen Wealhtheow greets Hrothgar, as he sits beside Hrothulf, his
nephew.}
40 Uncle and nephew; their peace was yet mutual,
True each to the other. And Unferth the spokesman
Sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings:
Each trusted his spirit that his mood was courageous,
Though at fight he had failed in faith to his kinsmen.
45 Said the queen of the Scyldings: "My lord and protector,
Treasure-bestower, take thou this beaker;
Joyance attend thee, gold-friend of heroes,
{Be generous to the Geats.}
And greet thou the Geatmen with gracious responses!
So ought one to do. Be kind to the Geatmen,
50 In gifts not niggardly; anear and afar now
Peace thou enjoyest. Report hath informed me
Thou'lt have for a bairn the battle-brave hero.
Now is Heorot cleansed, ring-palace gleaming;
{Have as much joy as possible in thy hall, once more purified.}
Give while thou mayest many rewards,
55 And bequeath to thy kinsmen kingdom and people,
On wending thy way to the Wielder's splendor.
I know good Hrothulf, that the noble young troopers
{I know that Hrothulf will prove faithful if he survive thee.}
He'll care for and honor, lord of the Scyldings,
If earth-joys thou endest earlier than he doth;
60 I reckon that recompense he'll render with kindness
Our offspring and issue, if that all he remember,
What favors of yore, when he yet was an infant,
We awarded to him for his worship and pleasure."
Then she turned by the bench where her sons were carousing,
65 Hrethric and Hrothmund, and the heroes' offspring,
{Beowulf is sitting by the two royal sons.}
The war-youth together; there the good one was sitting
'Twixt the brothers twain, Beowulf Geatman.
[1] For 1130 (1) R. and Gr. suggest 'elne unflitme' as 1098 (1) reads.
The latter verse is undisputed; and, for the former, 'elne' would be
as possible as 'ealles,' and 'unflitme' is well supported. Accepting
'elne unflitme' for both, I would suggest '_very peaceably_' for both
places: (1) _Finn to Hengest very peaceably vowed with oaths_, etc.
(2) _Hengest then still the slaughter-stained winter remained there
with Finn very peaceably_. The two passages become thus correlatives,
the second a sequel of the first. 'Elne,' in the sense of very
(swiethe), needs no argument; and 'unflitme' (from 'flitan') can, it
seems to me, be more plausibly rendered 'peaceful,' 'peaceable,' than
'contestable,' or 'conquerable.'
[2] Some scholars have proposed 'roden'; the line would then read:
_Then the building was reddened, etc._, instead of 'covered.' The 'h'
may have been carried over from the three alliterating 'h's.'
BEOWULF RECEIVES FURTHER HONOR.
{More gifts are offered Beowulf.}
A beaker was borne him, and bidding to quaff it
Graciously given, and gold that was twisted
Pleasantly proffered, a pair of arm-jewels,
[42] Rings and corslet, of collars the greatest
5 I've heard of 'neath heaven. Of heroes not any
More splendid from jewels have I heard 'neath the welkin,
{A famous necklace is referred to, in comparison with the gems presented
to Beowulf.}
Since Hama off bore the Brosingmen's necklace,
The bracteates and jewels, from the bright-shining city,[1]
Eormenric's cunning craftiness fled from,
10 Chose gain everlasting. Geatish Higelac,
Grandson of Swerting, last had this jewel
When tramping 'neath banner the treasure he guarded,
The field-spoil defended; Fate offcarried him
When for deeds of daring he endured tribulation,
15 Hate from the Frisians; the ornaments bare he
O'er the cup of the currents, costly gem-treasures,
Mighty folk-leader, he fell 'neath his target;
The[2] corpse of the king then came into charge of
The race of the Frankmen, the mail-shirt and collar:
20 Warmen less noble plundered the fallen,
When the fight was finished; the folk of the Geatmen
The field of the dead held in possession.
The choicest of mead-halls with cheering resounded.
Wealhtheo discoursed, the war-troop addressed she:
{Queen Wealhtheow magnifies Beowulf's achievements.}
25 "This collar enjoy thou, Beowulf worthy,
Young man, in safety, and use thou this armor,
Gems of the people, and prosper thou fully,
Show thyself sturdy and be to these liegemen
Mild with instruction! I'll mind thy requital.
30 Thou hast brought it to pass that far and near
Forever and ever earthmen shall honor thee,
Even so widely as ocean surroundeth
The blustering bluffs. Be, while thou livest,
[43] A wealth-blessed atheling. I wish thee most truly
{May gifts never fail thee.}
35 Jewels and treasure. Be kind to my son, thou
Living in joyance! Here each of the nobles
Is true unto other, gentle in spirit,
Loyal to leader. The liegemen are peaceful,
The war-troops ready: well-drunken heroes,[3]
40 Do as I bid ye." Then she went to the settle.
There was choicest of banquets, wine drank the heroes:
{They little know of the sorrow in store for them.}
Weird they knew not, destiny cruel,
As to many an earlman early it happened,
When evening had come and Hrothgar had parted
45 Off to his manor, the mighty to slumber.
Warriors unnumbered warded the building
As erst they did often: the ale-settle bared they,
'Twas covered all over with beds and pillows.
{A doomed thane is there with them.}
Doomed unto death, down to his slumber
50 Bowed then a beer-thane. Their battle-shields placed they,
Bright-shining targets, up by their heads then;
O'er the atheling on ale-bench 'twas easy to see there
Battle-high helmet, burnie of ring-mail,
{They were always ready for battle.}
And mighty war-spear. 'Twas the wont of that people
55 To constantly keep them equipped for the battle,[4]
At home or marching--in either condition--
At seasons just such as necessity ordered
As best for their ruler; that people was worthy.
[1] C. suggests a semicolon after 'city,' with 'he' as supplied
subject of 'fled' and 'chose.'
[2] For 'feorh' S. suggests 'feoh': 'corpse' in the translation would
then be changed to '_possessions_,' '_belongings_.' This is a better
reading than one joining, in such intimate syntactical relations,
things so unlike as 'corpse' and 'jewels.'
[3] S. suggests '_wine-joyous heroes_,' '_warriors elated with wine_.'
[4] I believe this translation brings out the meaning of the poet,
without departing seriously from the H.-So. text. 'Oft' frequently
means 'constantly,' 'continually,' not always 'often.'--Why 'an (on)
wig gearwe' should be written 'anwig-gearwe' (= ready for single
combat), I cannot see. 'Gearwe' occurs quite frequently with 'on'; cf.
B. 1110 (_ready for the pyre_), El. 222 (_ready for the glad
journey_). Moreover, what has the idea of single combat to do with B.
1247 ff.? The poet is giving an inventory of the arms and armor which
they lay aside on retiring, and he closes his narration by saying that
they were _always prepared for battle both at home and on the march_.
[44]
THE MOTHER OF GRENDEL.
They sank then to slumber. With sorrow one paid for
His evening repose, as often betid them
While Grendel was holding[1] the gold-bedecked palace,
Ill-deeds performing, till his end overtook him,
5 Death for his sins. 'Twas seen very clearly,
{Grendel's mother is known to be thirsting for revenge.}
Known unto earth-folk, that still an avenger
Outlived the loathed one, long since the sorrow
Caused by the struggle; the mother of Grendel,
Devil-shaped woman, her woe ever minded,
10 Who was held to inhabit the horrible waters,
{[Grendel's progenitor, Cain, is again referred to.]}
The cold-flowing currents, after Cain had become a
Slayer-with-edges to his one only brother,
The son of his sire; he set out then banished,
Marked as a murderer, man-joys avoiding,
15 Lived in the desert. Thence demons unnumbered
{The poet again magnifies Beowulf's valor.}
Fate-sent awoke; one of them Grendel,
Sword-cursed, hateful, who at Heorot met with
A man that was watching, waiting the struggle,
Where a horrid one held him with hand-grapple sturdy;
20 Nathless he minded the might of his body,
The glorious gift God had allowed him,
And folk-ruling Father's favor relied on,
His help and His comfort: so he conquered the foeman,
The hell-spirit humbled: he unhappy departed then,
25 Reaved of his joyance, journeying to death-haunts,
Foeman of man. His mother moreover
{Grendel's mother comes to avenge her son.}
Eager and gloomy was anxious to go on
Her mournful mission, mindful of vengeance
For the death of her son. She came then to Heorot
[45] 30 Where the Armor-Dane earlmen all through the building
Were lying in slumber. Soon there became then
Return[2] to the nobles, when the mother of Grendel
Entered the folk-hall; the fear was less grievous
By even so much as the vigor of maidens,
35 War-strength of women, by warrior is reckoned,
When well-carved weapon, worked with the hammer,
Blade very bloody, brave with its edges,
Strikes down the boar-sign that stands on the helmet.
Then the hard-edged weapon was heaved in the building,[3]
40 The brand o'er the benches, broad-lindens many
Hand-fast were lifted; for helmet he recked not,
For armor-net broad, whom terror laid hold of.
She went then hastily, outward would get her
Her life for to save, when some one did spy her;
{She seizes a favorite liegemen of Hrothgar's.}
45 Soon she had grappled one of the athelings
Fast and firmly, when fenward she hied her;
That one to Hrothgar was liefest of heroes
In rank of retainer where waters encircle,
A mighty shield-warrior, whom she murdered at slumber,
50 A broadly-famed battle-knight. Beowulf was absent,
{Beowulf was asleep in another part of the palace.}
But another apartment was erstwhile devoted
To the glory-decked Geatman when gold was distributed.
There was hubbub in Heorot. The hand that was famous
She grasped in its gore;[4] grief was renewed then
[46] 55 In homes and houses: 'twas no happy arrangement
In both of the quarters to barter and purchase
With lives of their friends. Then the well-aged ruler,
The gray-headed war-thane, was woful in spirit,
When his long-trusted liegeman lifeless he knew of,
{Beowulf is sent for.}
60 His dearest one gone. Quick from a room was
Beowulf brought, brave and triumphant.
As day was dawning in the dusk of the morning,
{He comes at Hrothgar's summons.}
Went then that earlman, champion noble,
Came with comrades, where the clever one bided
65 Whether God all gracious would grant him a respite
After the woe he had suffered. The war-worthy hero
With a troop of retainers trod then the pavement
(The hall-building groaned), till he greeted the wise one,
{Beowulf inquires how Hrothgar had enjoyed his night's rest.}
The earl of the Ingwins;[5] asked if the night had
70 Fully refreshed him, as fain he would have it.
[1] Several eminent authorities either read or emend the MS. so as to
make this verse read, _While Grendel was wasting the gold-bedecked
palace_. So 20_15 below: _ravaged the desert_.
[2] For 'sona' (1281), t.B. suggests 'sara,' limiting 'edhwyrft.' Read
then: _Return of sorrows to the nobles, etc_. This emendation supplies
the syntactical gap after 'edhwyrft.'
[3] Some authorities follow Grein's lexicon in treating 'heard ecg' as
an adj. limiting 'sweord': H.-So. renders it as a subst. (So v. 1491.)
The sense of the translation would be the same.
[4] B. suggests 'under hrof genam' (v. 1303). This emendation, as well
as an emendation with (?) to v. 739, he offers, because 'under'
baffles him in both passages. All we need is to take 'under' in its
secondary meaning of 'in,' which, though not given by Grein, occurs in
the literature. Cf. Chron. 876 (March's A.-S. Gram. Sec. 355) and Oro.
Amaz. I. 10, where 'under' = _in the midst of_. Cf. modern Eng. 'in
such circumstances,' which interchanges in good usage with 'under such
circumstances.'
[5] For 'neod-laethu' (1321) C. suggests 'nead-laethum,' and translates:
_asked whether the night had been pleasant to him after
crushing-hostility_.
HROTHGAR'S ACCOUNT OF THE MONSTERS.
{Hrothgar laments the death of AEschere, his shoulder-companion.}
Hrothgar rejoined, helm of the Scyldings:
"Ask not of joyance! Grief is renewed to
The folk of the Danemen. Dead is AEschere,
Yrmenlaf's brother, older than he,
5 My true-hearted counsellor, trusty adviser,
Shoulder-companion, when fighting in battle
Our heads we protected, when troopers were clashing,
{He was my ideal hero.}
And heroes were dashing; such an earl should be ever,
An erst-worthy atheling, as AEschere proved him.
10 The flickering death-spirit became in Heorot
His hand-to-hand murderer; I can not tell whither
The cruel one turned in the carcass exulting,
[47]
{This horrible creature came to avenge Grendel's death.}
By cramming discovered.[1] The quarrel she wreaked then,
That last night igone Grendel thou killedst
15 In grewsomest manner, with grim-holding clutches,
Since too long he had lessened my liege-troop and wasted
My folk-men so foully. He fell in the battle
With forfeit of life, and another has followed,
A mighty crime-worker, her kinsman avenging,
20 And henceforth hath 'stablished her hatred unyielding,[2]
As it well may appear to many a liegeman,
Who mourneth in spirit the treasure-bestower,
Her heavy heart-sorrow; the hand is now lifeless
Which[3] availed you in every wish that you cherished.
{I have heard my vassals speak of these two uncanny monsters who lived in
the moors.}
25 Land-people heard I, liegemen, this saying,
Dwellers in halls, they had seen very often
A pair of such mighty march-striding creatures,
Far-dwelling spirits, holding the moorlands:
One of them wore, as well they might notice,
30 The image of woman, the other one wretched
In guise of a man wandered in exile,
Except he was huger than any of earthmen;
Earth-dwelling people entitled him Grendel
In days of yore: they know not their father,
35 Whe'r ill-going spirits any were borne him
{The inhabit the most desolate and horrible places.}
Ever before. They guard the wolf-coverts,
Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses,
Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains
'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles,
40 The stream under earth: not far is it henceward
Measured by mile-lengths that the mere-water standeth,
Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered,[4]
[48] A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow.
There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent
45 A fire-flood may see; 'mong children of men
None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom;
Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for,
{Even the hounded deer will not seek refuge in these uncanny regions.}
Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer,
Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth,
50 His life on the shore, ere in he will venture
To cover his head. Uncanny the place is:
Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters,
Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring
The weathers unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy,
{To thee only can I look for assistance.}
55 And the heavens lower. Now is help to be gotten
From thee and thee only! The abode thou know'st not,
The dangerous place where thou'rt able to meet with
The sin-laden hero: seek if thou darest!
For the feud I will fully fee thee with money,
60 With old-time treasure, as erstwhile I did thee,
With well-twisted jewels, if away thou shalt get thee."
[1] For 'gefraegnod' (1334), K. and t.B. suggest 'gefaegnod,' rendering
'_rejoicing in her fill_.' This gives a parallel to 'aese wlanc'
(1333).
[2] The line 'And ... yielding,' B. renders: _And she has performed a
deed of blood-vengeance whose effect is far-reaching_.
[3] 'Se e' (1345) is an instance of masc. rel. with fem. antecedent.
So v. 1888, where 'se e' refers to 'yldo.'
[4] For 'hrimge' in the H.-So. edition, Gr. and others read 'hrinde'
(=hrinende), and translate: _which rustling forests overhang_.
BEOWULF SEEKS GRENDEL'S MOTHER.
Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's son:
{Beowulf exhorts the old king to arouse himself for action.}
"Grieve not, O wise one! for each it is better,
His friend to avenge than with vehemence wail him;
Each of us must the end-day abide of
5 His earthly existence; who is able accomplish
Glory ere death! To battle-thane noble
Lifeless lying, 'tis at last most fitting.
Arise, O king, quick let us hasten
To look at the footprint of the kinsman of Grendel!
10 I promise thee this now: to his place he'll escape not,
To embrace of the earth, nor to mountainous forest,
Nor to depths of the ocean, wherever he wanders.
[49] Practice thou now patient endurance
Of each of thy sorrows, as I hope for thee soothly!"
{Hrothgar rouses himself. His horse is brought.}
15 Then up sprang the old one, the All-Wielder thanked he,
Ruler Almighty, that the man had outspoken.
Then for Hrothgar a war-horse was decked with a bridle,
Curly-maned courser. The clever folk-leader
{They start on the track of the female monster.}
Stately proceeded: stepped then an earl-troop
20 Of linden-wood bearers. Her footprints were seen then
Widely in wood-paths, her way o'er the bottoms,
Where she faraway fared o'er fen-country murky,
Bore away breathless the best of retainers
Who pondered with Hrothgar the welfare of country.
25 The son of the athelings then went o'er the stony,
Declivitous cliffs, the close-covered passes,
Narrow passages, paths unfrequented,
Nesses abrupt, nicker-haunts many;
One of a few of wise-mooded heroes,
30 He onward advanced to view the surroundings,
Till he found unawares woods of the mountain
O'er hoar-stones hanging, holt-wood unjoyful;
The water stood under, welling and gory.
'Twas irksome in spirit to all of the Danemen,
35 Friends of the Scyldings, to many a liegeman
{The sight of AEschere's head causes them great sorrow.}
Sad to be suffered, a sorrow unlittle
To each of the earlmen, when to AEschere's head they
Came on the cliff. The current was seething
With blood and with gore (the troopers gazed on it).
40 The horn anon sang the battle-song ready.
The troop were all seated; they saw 'long the water then
{The water is filled with serpents and sea-dragons.}
Many a serpent, mere-dragons wondrous
Trying the waters, nickers a-lying
On the cliffs of the nesses, which at noonday full often
45 Go on the sea-deeps their sorrowful journey,
Wild-beasts and wormkind; away then they hastened
{One of them is killed by Beowulf.}
Hot-mooded, hateful, they heard the great clamor,
The war-trumpet winding. One did the Geat-prince
[50] Sunder from earth-joys, with arrow from bowstring,
50 From his sea-struggle tore him, that the trusty war-missile
{The dead beast is a poor swimmer}
Pierced to his vitals; he proved in the currents
Less doughty at swimming whom death had offcarried.
Soon in the waters the wonderful swimmer
Was straitened most sorely with sword-pointed boar-spears,
55 Pressed in the battle and pulled to the cliff-edge;
The liegemen then looked on the loath-fashioned stranger.
{Beowulf prepares for a struggle with the monster.}
Beowulf donned then his battle-equipments,
Cared little for life; inlaid and most ample,
The hand-woven corslet which could cover his body,
60 Must the wave-deeps explore, that war might be powerless
To harm the great hero, and the hating one's grasp might
Not peril his safety; his head was protected
By the light-flashing helmet that should mix with the bottoms,
Trying the eddies, treasure-emblazoned,
65 Encircled with jewels, as in seasons long past
The weapon-smith worked it, wondrously made it,
With swine-bodies fashioned it, that thenceforward no longer
Brand might bite it, and battle-sword hurt it.
And that was not least of helpers in prowess
{He has Unferth's sword in his hand.}
70 That Hrothgar's spokesman had lent him when straitened;
And the hilted hand-sword was Hrunting entitled,
Old and most excellent 'mong all of the treasures;
Its blade was of iron, blotted with poison,
Hardened with gore; it failed not in battle
75 Any hero under heaven in hand who it brandished,
Who ventured to take the terrible journeys,
The battle-field sought; not the earliest occasion
That deeds of daring 'twas destined to 'complish.
{Unferth has little use for swords.}
Ecglaf's kinsman minded not soothly,
80 Exulting in strength, what erst he had spoken
Drunken with wine, when the weapon he lent to
A sword-hero bolder; himself did not venture
'Neath the strife of the currents his life to endanger,
[51] To fame-deeds perform; there he forfeited glory,
85 Repute for his strength. Not so with the other
When he clad in his corslet had equipped him for battle.
BEOWULF'S FIGHT WITH GRENDEL'S MOTHER.
{Beowulf makes a parting speech to Hrothgar.}
Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son:
"Recall now, oh, famous kinsman of Healfdene,
Prince very prudent, now to part I am ready,
Gold-friend of earlmen, what erst we agreed on,
{If I fail, act as a kind liegelord to my thanes,}
5 Should I lay down my life in lending thee assistance,
When my earth-joys were over, thou wouldst evermore serve me
In stead of a father; my faithful thanemen,
My trusty retainers, protect thou and care for,
Fall I in battle: and, Hrothgar beloved,
{and send Higelac the jewels thou hast given me}
10 Send unto Higelac the high-valued jewels
Thou to me hast allotted. The lord of the Geatmen
May perceive from the gold, the Hrethling may see it
{I should like my king to know how generous a lord I found thee to be.}
When he looks on the jewels, that a gem-giver found I
Good over-measure, enjoyed him while able.
15 And the ancient heirloom Unferth permit thou,
The famed one to have, the heavy-sword splendid[1]
The hard-edged weapon; with Hrunting to aid me,
I shall gain me glory, or grim-death shall take me."
{Beowulf is eager for the fray.}
The atheling of Geatmen uttered these words and
20 Heroic did hasten, not any rejoinder
Was willing to wait for; the wave-current swallowed
{He is a whole day reaching the bottom of the sea.}
The doughty-in-battle. Then a day's-length elapsed ere
He was able to see the sea at its bottom.
Early she found then who fifty of winters
25 The course of the currents kept in her fury,
Grisly and greedy, that the grim one's dominion
[52]
{Grendel's mother knows that some one has reached her domains.}
Some one of men from above was exploring.
Forth did she grab them, grappled the warrior
With horrible clutches; yet no sooner she injured
30 His body unscathed: the burnie out-guarded,
That she proved but powerless to pierce through the armor,
The limb-mail locked, with loath-grabbing fingers.
The sea-wolf bare then, when bottomward came she,
{She grabs him, and bears him to her den.}
The ring-prince homeward, that he after was powerless
35 (He had daring to do it) to deal with his weapons,
But many a mere-beast tormented him swimming,
{Sea-monsters bite and strike him.}
Flood-beasts no few with fierce-biting tusks did
Break through his burnie, the brave one pursued they.
The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern
40 Where no water whatever anywise harmed him,
And the clutch of the current could come not anear him,
Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming
Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent.
The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster,
{Beowulf attacks the mother of Grendel.}
45 The mighty mere-woman; he made a great onset
With weapon-of-battle, his hand not desisted
From striking, that war-blade struck on her head then
A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then
{The sword will not bite.}
The sword would not bite, her life would not injure,
50 But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened:
Erst had it often onsets encountered,
Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor:
'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel
Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after,
55 Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory,
Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry
Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels
That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed;
{The hero throws down all weapons, and again trusts to his hand-grip.}
He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy.
60 So any must act whenever he thinketh
To gain him in battle glory unending,
And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats
[53] (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder[2]
The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle
65 Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled,
That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple
{Beowulf falls.}
She gave him requital[3] early thereafter,
And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors
Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces,
{The monster sits on him with drawn sword.}
70 Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest
And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing,
For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn.
{His armor saves his life.}
His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder;
It guarded his life, the entrance defended
75 'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there
Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen,
In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given,
Close-woven corslet, comfort and succor,
{God arranged for his escape.}
And had God most holy not awarded the victory,
80 All-knowing Lord; easily did heaven's
Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice;[4]
Uprose he erect ready for battle.
[1] Kl. emends 'wael-sweord.' The half-line would then read, '_the
battle-sword splendid_.'--For 'heard-ecg' in next half-verse, see note
to 20_39 above.
[2] Sw., R., and t.B. suggest 'feaxe' for 'eaxle' (1538) and render:
_Seized by the hair_.
[3] If 'hand-lean' be accepted (as the MS. has it), the line will
read: _She hand-reward gave him early thereafter_.
[4] Sw. and S. change H.-So.'s semicolon (v. 1557) to a comma, and
translate: _The Ruler of Heaven arranged it in justice easily, after
he arose again_.
BEOWULF IS DOUBLE-CONQUEROR.
{Beowulf grasps a giant-sword,}
Then he saw mid the war-gems a weapon of victory,
An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty,
Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest,
Only 'twas larger than any man else was
[54] 5 Able to bear to the battle-encounter,
The good and splendid work of the giants.
He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings,
Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword,
Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her,
10 That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled,
{and fells the female monster.}
Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her
Fate-cursed body, she fell to the ground then:
The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted.
The brand was brilliant, brightly it glimmered,
15 Just as from heaven gemlike shineth
The torch of the firmament. He glanced 'long the building,
And turned by the wall then, Higelac's vassal
Raging and wrathful raised his battle-sword
Strong by the handle. The edge was not useless
20 To the hero-in-battle, but he speedily wished to
Give Grendel requital for the many assaults he
Had worked on the West-Danes not once, but often,
When he slew in slumber the subjects of Hrothgar,
Swallowed down fifteen sleeping retainers
25 Of the folk of the Danemen, and fully as many
Carried away, a horrible prey.
He gave him requital, grim-raging champion,
{Beowulf sees the body of Grendel, and cuts off his head.}
When he saw on his rest-place weary of conflict
Grendel lying, of life-joys bereaved,
30 As the battle at Heorot erstwhile had scathed him;
His body far bounded, a blow when he suffered,
Death having seized him, sword-smiting heavy,
And he cut off his head then. Early this noticed
The clever carles who as comrades of Hrothgar
{The waters are gory.}
35 Gazed on the sea-deeps, that the surging wave-currents
Were mightily mingled, the mere-flood was gory:
Of the good one the gray-haired together held converse,
{Beowulf is given up for dead.}
The hoary of head, that they hoped not to see again
The atheling ever, that exulting in victory
40 He'd return there to visit the distinguished folk-ruler:
[55] Then many concluded the mere-wolf had killed him.[1]
The ninth hour came then. From the ness-edge departed
The bold-mooded Scyldings; the gold-friend of heroes
Homeward betook him. The strangers sat down then
45 Soul-sick, sorrowful, the sea-waves regarding:
They wished and yet weened not their well-loved friend-lord
{The giant-sword melts.}
To see any more. The sword-blade began then,
The blood having touched it, contracting and shriveling
With battle-icicles; 'twas a wonderful marvel
50 That it melted entirely, likest to ice when
The Father unbindeth the bond of the frost and
Unwindeth the wave-bands, He who wieldeth dominion
Of times and of tides: a truth-firm Creator.
Nor took he of jewels more in the dwelling,
55 Lord of the Weders, though they lay all around him,
Than the head and the handle handsome with jewels;
[56] The brand early melted, burnt was the weapon:[2]
So hot was the blood, the strange-spirit poisonous
{The hero swims back to the realms of day.}
That in it did perish. He early swam off then
60 Who had bided in combat the carnage of haters,
Went up through the ocean; the eddies were cleansed,
The spacious expanses, when the spirit from farland
His life put aside and this short-lived existence.
The seamen's defender came swimming to land then
65 Doughty of spirit, rejoiced in his sea-gift,
The bulky burden which he bore in his keeping.
The excellent vassals advanced then to meet him,
To God they were grateful, were glad in their chieftain,
That to see him safe and sound was granted them.
70 From the high-minded hero, then, helmet and burnie
Were speedily loosened: the ocean was putrid,
The water 'neath welkin weltered with gore.
Forth did they fare, then, their footsteps retracing,
Merry and mirthful, measured the earth-way,
75 The highway familiar: men very daring[3]
Bare then the head from the sea-cliff, burdening
Each of the earlmen, excellent-valiant.
{It takes four men to carry Grendel's head on a spear.}
Four of them had to carry with labor
The head of Grendel to the high towering gold-hall
80 Upstuck on the spear, till fourteen most-valiant
And battle-brave Geatmen came there going
Straight to the palace: the prince of the people
Measured the mead-ways, their mood-brave companion.
The atheling of earlmen entered the building,
85 Deed-valiant man, adorned with distinction,
Doughty shield-warrior, to address King Hrothgar:
[57] Then hung by the hair, the head of Grendel
Was borne to the building, where beer-thanes were drinking,
Loth before earlmen and eke 'fore the lady:
90 The warriors beheld then a wonderful sight.
[1] 'aes monige geweareth' (1599) and 'hafaeth aes geworden' (2027).--In a
paper published some years ago in one of the Johns Hopkins University
circulars, I tried to throw upon these two long-doubtful passages some
light derived from a study of like passages in Alfred's prose.--The
impersonal verb 'geweorethan,' with an accus. of the person, and a
aet-clause is used several times with the meaning 'agree.' See Orosius
(Sweet's ed.) 178_7; 204_34; 208_28; 210_15; 280_20. In the two
Beowulf passages, the aet-clause is anticipated by 'aes,' which is
clearly a gen. of the thing agreed on.
The first passage (v. 1599 (b)-1600) I translate literally: _Then many
agreed upon this (namely), that the sea-wolf had killed him_.
The second passage (v. 2025 (b)-2027): _She is promised ...; to this
the friend of the Scyldings has agreed, etc_. By emending 'is' instead
of 'waes' (2025), the tenses will be brought into perfect harmony.
In v. 1997 ff. this same idiom occurs, and was noticed in B.'s great
article on Beowulf, which appeared about the time I published my
reading of 1599 and 2027. Translate 1997 then: _Wouldst let the
South-Danes themselves decide about their struggle with Grendel_. Here
'Sueth-Dene' is accus. of person, and 'guethe' is gen. of thing agreed on.
With such collateral support as that afforded by B. (P. and B. XII.
97), I have no hesitation in departing from H.-So., my usual guide.
The idiom above treated runs through A.-S., Old Saxon, and other
Teutonic languages, and should be noticed in the lexicons.
[2] 'Broden-mael' is regarded by most scholars as meaning a damaskeened
sword. Translate: _The damaskeened sword burned up_. Cf. 25_16 and
note.
[3] 'Cyning-balde' (1635) is the much-disputed reading of K. and Th.
To render this, "_nobly bold_," "_excellently bold_," have been
suggested. B. would read 'cyning-holde' (cf. 290), and render: _Men
well-disposed towards the king carried the head, etc._ 'Cynebealde,'
says t.B., endorsing Gr.
BEOWULF BRINGS HIS TROPHIES.--HROTHGAR'S GRATITUDE.
{Beowulf relates his last exploit.}
Beowulf spake, offspring of Ecgtheow:
"Lo! we blithely have brought thee, bairn of Healfdene,
Prince of the Scyldings, these presents from ocean
Which thine eye looketh on, for an emblem of glory.
5 I came off alive from this, narrowly 'scaping:
In war 'neath the water the work with great pains I
Performed, and the fight had been finished quite nearly,
Had God not defended me. I failed in the battle
Aught to accomplish, aided by Hrunting,
10 Though that weapon was worthy, but the Wielder of earth-folk
{God was fighting with me.}
Gave me willingly to see on the wall a
Heavy old hand-sword hanging in splendor
(He guided most often the lorn and the friendless),
That I swung as a weapon. The wards of the house then
15 I killed in the conflict (when occasion was given me).
Then the battle-sword burned, the brand that was lifted,[1]
As the blood-current sprang, hottest of war-sweats;
Seizing the hilt, from my foes I offbore it;
I avenged as I ought to their acts of malignity,
20 The murder of Danemen. I then make thee this promise,
{Heorot is freed from monsters.}
Thou'lt be able in Heorot careless to slumber
With thy throng of heroes and the thanes of thy people
Every and each, of greater and lesser,
And thou needest not fear for them from the selfsame direction
25 As thou formerly fearedst, oh, folk-lord of Scyldings,
[58] End-day for earlmen." To the age-hoary man then,
{The famous sword is presented to Hrothgar.}
The gray-haired chieftain, the gold-fashioned sword-hilt,
Old-work of giants, was thereupon given;
Since the fall of the fiends, it fell to the keeping
30 Of the wielder of Danemen, the wonder-smith's labor,
And the bad-mooded being abandoned this world then,
Opponent of God, victim of murder,
And also his mother; it went to the keeping
Of the best of the world-kings, where waters encircle,
35 Who the scot divided in Scylding dominion.
{Hrothgar looks closely at the old sword.}
Hrothgar discoursed, the hilt he regarded,
The ancient heirloom where an old-time contention's
Beginning was graven: the gurgling currents,
The flood slew thereafter the race of the giants,
40 They had proved themselves daring: that people was loth to
{It had belonged to a race hateful to God.}
The Lord everlasting, through lash of the billows
The Father gave them final requital.
So in letters of rune on the clasp of the handle
Gleaming and golden, 'twas graven exactly,
45 Set forth and said, whom that sword had been made for,
Finest of irons, who first it was wrought for,
Wreathed at its handle and gleaming with serpents.
The wise one then said (silent they all were)
{Hrothgar praises Beowulf.}
Son of old Healfdene: "He may say unrefuted
50 Who performs 'mid the folk-men fairness and truth
(The hoary old ruler remembers the past),
That better by birth is this bairn of the nobles!
Thy fame is extended through far-away countries,
Good friend Beowulf, o'er all of the races,
55 Thou holdest all firmly, hero-like strength with
Prudence of spirit. I'll prove myself grateful
As before we agreed on; thou granted for long shalt
Become a great comfort to kinsmen and comrades,
{Heremod's career is again contrasted with Beowulf's.}
A help unto heroes. Heremod became not
60 Such to the Scyldings, successors of Ecgwela;
He grew not to please them, but grievous destruction,
[59] And diresome death-woes to Danemen attracted;
He slew in anger his table-companions,
Trustworthy counsellors, till he turned off lonely
65 From world-joys away, wide-famous ruler:
Though high-ruling heaven in hero-strength raised him,
In might exalted him, o'er men of all nations
Made him supreme, yet a murderous spirit
Grew in his bosom: he gave then no ring-gems
{A wretched failure of a king, to give no jewels to his retainers.}
70 To the Danes after custom; endured he unjoyful
Standing the straits from strife that was raging,
Longsome folk-sorrow. Learn then from this,
Lay hold of virtue! Though laden with winters,
I have sung thee these measures. 'Tis a marvel to tell it,
{Hrothgar moralizes.}
75 How all-ruling God from greatness of spirit
Giveth wisdom to children of men,
Manor and earlship: all things He ruleth.
He often permitteth the mood-thought of man of
The illustrious lineage to lean to possessions,
80 Allows him earthly delights at his manor,
A high-burg of heroes to hold in his keeping,
Maketh portions of earth-folk hear him,
And a wide-reaching kingdom so that, wisdom failing him,
He himself is unable to reckon its boundaries;
85 He liveth in luxury, little debars him,
Nor sickness nor age, no treachery-sorrow
Becloudeth his spirit, conflict nowhere,
No sword-hate, appeareth, but all of the world doth
Wend as he wisheth; the worse he knoweth not,
90 Till arrant arrogance inward pervading,
Waxeth and springeth, when the warder is sleeping,
The guard of the soul: with sorrows encompassed,
Too sound is his slumber, the slayer is near him,
Who with bow and arrow aimeth in malice.
[60]
[1] Or rather, perhaps, '_the inlaid, or damaskeened weapon_.' Cf.
24_57 and note.
HROTHGAR MORALIZES.--REST AFTER LABOR.
{A wounded spirit.}
"Then bruised in his bosom he with bitter-toothed missile
Is hurt 'neath his helmet: from harmful pollution
He is powerless to shield him by the wonderful mandates
Of the loath-cursed spirit; what too long he hath holden
5 Him seemeth too small, savage he hoardeth,
Nor boastfully giveth gold-plated rings,[1]
The fate of the future flouts and forgetteth
Since God had erst given him greatness no little,
Wielder of Glory. His end-day anear,
10 It afterward happens that the bodily-dwelling
Fleetingly fadeth, falls into ruins;
Another lays hold who doleth the ornaments,
The nobleman's jewels, nothing lamenting,
Heedeth no terror. Oh, Beowulf dear,
15 Best of the heroes, from bale-strife defend thee,
And choose thee the better, counsels eternal;
{Be not over proud: life is fleeting, and its strength soon wasteth away.}
Beware of arrogance, world-famous champion!
But a little-while lasts thy life-vigor's fulness;
'Twill after hap early, that illness or sword-edge
20 Shall part thee from strength, or the grasp of the fire,
Or the wave of the current, or clutch of the edges,
Or flight of the war-spear, or age with its horrors,
Or thine eyes' bright flashing shall fade into darkness:
'Twill happen full early, excellent hero,
{Hrothgar gives an account of his reign.}
25 That death shall subdue thee. So the Danes a half-century
I held under heaven, helped them in struggles
'Gainst many a race in middle-earth's regions,
With ash-wood and edges, that enemies none
On earth molested me. Lo! offsetting change, now,
[61]
{Sorrow after joy.}
30 Came to my manor, grief after joyance,
When Grendel became my constant visitor,
Inveterate hater: I from that malice
Continually travailed with trouble no little.
Thanks be to God that I gained in my lifetime,
35 To the Lord everlasting, to look on the gory
Head with mine eyes, after long-lasting sorrow!
Go to the bench now, battle-adorned
Joy in the feasting: of jewels in common
We'll meet with many when morning appeareth."
40 The Geatman was gladsome, ganged he immediately
To go to the bench, as the clever one bade him.
Then again as before were the famous-for-prowess,
Hall-inhabiters, handsomely banqueted,
Feasted anew. The night-veil fell then
45 Dark o'er the warriors. The courtiers rose then;
The gray-haired was anxious to go to his slumbers,
The hoary old Scylding. Hankered the Geatman,
{Beowulf is fagged, and seeks rest.}
The champion doughty, greatly, to rest him:
An earlman early outward did lead him,
50 Fagged from his faring, from far-country springing,
Who for etiquette's sake all of a liegeman's
Needs regarded, such as seamen at that time
Were bounden to feel. The big-hearted rested;
The building uptowered, spacious and gilded,
55 The guest within slumbered, till the sable-clad raven
Blithely foreboded the beacon of heaven.
Then the bright-shining sun o'er the bottoms came going;[2]
The warriors hastened, the heads of the peoples
Were ready to go again to their peoples,
{The Geats prepare to leave Dane-land.}
60 The high-mooded farer would faraway thenceward
Look for his vessel. The valiant one bade then,[3]
[62]
{Unferth asks Beowulf to accept his sword as a gift. Beowulf thanks him.}
Offspring of Ecglaf, off to bear Hrunting,
To take his weapon, his well-beloved iron;
He him thanked for the gift, saying good he accounted
65 The war-friend and mighty, nor chid he with words then
The blade of the brand: 'twas a brave-mooded hero.
When the warriors were ready, arrayed in their trappings,
The atheling dear to the Danemen advanced then
On to the dais, where the other was sitting,
70 Grim-mooded hero, greeted King Hrothgar.
[1] K. says '_proudly giveth_.'--Gr. says, '_And gives no gold-plated
rings, in order to incite the recipient to boastfulness_.'--B.
suggests 'gyld' for 'gylp,' and renders: _And gives no beaten rings
for reward_.
[2] If S.'s emendation be accepted, v. 57 will read: _Then came the
light, going bright after darkness: the warriors, etc_.
[3] As the passage stands in H.-So., Unferth presents Beowulf with the
sword Hrunting, and B. thanks him for the gift. If, however, the
suggestions of Grdtvg. and M. be accepted, the passage will read:
_Then the brave one (_i.e._ Beowulf) commanded that Hrunting be borne
to the son of Ecglaf (Unferth), bade him take his sword, his dear
weapon; he (B.) thanked him (U.) for the loan, etc_.
SORROW AT PARTING.
{Beowulf's farewell.}
Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's offspring:
"We men of the water wish to declare now
Fared from far-lands, we're firmly determined
To seek King Higelac. Here have we fitly
5 Been welcomed and feasted, as heart would desire it;
Good was the greeting. If greater affection
I am anywise able ever on earth to
Gain at thy hands, ruler of heroes,
Than yet I have done, I shall quickly be ready
{I shall be ever ready to aid thee.}
10 For combat and conflict. O'er the course of the waters
Learn I that neighbors alarm thee with terror,
As haters did whilom, I hither will bring thee
For help unto heroes henchmen by thousands.
{My liegelord will encourage me in aiding thee.}
I know as to Higelac, the lord of the Geatmen,
15 Though young in years, he yet will permit me,
By words and by works, ward of the people,
Fully to furnish thee forces and bear thee
My lance to relieve thee, if liegemen shall fail thee,
And help of my hand-strength; if Hrethric be treating,
[63] 20 Bairn of the king, at the court of the Geatmen,
He thereat may find him friends in abundance:
Faraway countries he were better to seek for
Who trusts in himself." Hrothgar discoursed then,
Making rejoinder: "These words thou hast uttered
25 All-knowing God hath given thy spirit!
{O Beowulf, thou art wise beyond thy years.}
Ne'er heard I an earlman thus early in life
More clever in speaking: thou'rt cautious of spirit,
Mighty of muscle, in mouth-answers prudent.
I count on the hope that, happen it ever
30 That missile shall rob thee of Hrethel's descendant,
Edge-horrid battle, and illness or weapon
Deprive thee of prince, of people's protector,
{Should Higelac die, the Geats could find no better successor than thou
wouldst make.}
And life thou yet holdest, the Sea-Geats will never
Find a more fitting folk-lord to choose them,
35 Gem-ward of heroes, than _thou_ mightest prove thee,
If the kingdom of kinsmen thou carest to govern.
Thy mood-spirit likes me the longer the better,
Beowulf dear: thou hast brought it to pass that
To both these peoples peace shall be common,
{Thou hast healed the ancient breach between our races.}
40 To Geat-folk and Danemen, the strife be suspended,
The secret assailings they suffered in yore-days;
And also that jewels be shared while I govern
The wide-stretching kingdom, and that many shall visit
Others o'er the ocean with excellent gift-gems:
45 The ring-adorned bark shall bring o'er the currents
Presents and love-gifts. This people I know
Tow'rd foeman and friend firmly established,[1]
After ancient etiquette everywise blameless."
Then the warden of earlmen gave him still farther,
{Parting gifts}
50 Kinsman of Healfdene, a dozen of jewels,
Bade him safely seek with the presents
His well-beloved people, early returning.
[64]
{Hrothgar kisses Beowulf, and weeps.}
Then the noble-born king kissed the distinguished,
Dear-loved liegeman, the Dane-prince saluted him,
55 And clasped his neck; tears from him fell,
From the gray-headed man: he two things expected,
Aged and reverend, but rather the second,
[2]That bold in council they'd meet thereafter.
The man was so dear that he failed to suppress the
60 Emotions that moved him, but in mood-fetters fastened
{The old king is deeply grieved to part with his benefactor.}
The long-famous hero longeth in secret
Deep in his spirit for the dear-beloved man
Though not a blood-kinsman. Beowulf thenceward,
Gold-splendid warrior, walked o'er the meadows
65 Exulting in treasure: the sea-going vessel
Riding at anchor awaited its owner.
As they pressed on their way then, the present of Hrothgar
{Giving liberally is the true proof of kingship.}
Was frequently referred to: a folk-king indeed that
Everyway blameless, till age did debar him
70 The joys of his might, which hath many oft injured.
[1] For 'geworhte,' the crux of this passage, B. proposes 'geohte,'
rendering: _I know this people with firm thought every way blameless
towards foe and friends_.
[2] S. and B. emend so as to negative the verb 'meet.' "Why should
Hrothgar weep if he expects to meet Beowulf again?" both these
scholars ask. But the weeping is mentioned before the 'expectations':
the tears may have been due to many emotions, especially gratitude,
struggling for expression.
THE HOMEWARD JOURNEY.--THE TWO QUEENS.
Then the band of very valiant retainers
Came to the current; they were clad all in armor,
{The coast-guard again.}
In link-woven burnies. The land-warder noticed
The return of the earlmen, as he erstwhile had seen them;
5 Nowise with insult he greeted the strangers
From the naze of the cliff, but rode on to meet them;
Said the bright-armored visitors[1] vesselward traveled
[65] Welcome to Weders. The wide-bosomed craft then
Lay on the sand, laden with armor,
10 With horses and jewels, the ring-stemmed sailer:
The mast uptowered o'er the treasure of Hrothgar.
{Beowulf gives the guard a handsome sword.}
To the boat-ward a gold-bound brand he presented,
That he was afterwards honored on the ale-bench more highly
As the heirloom's owner. [2]Set he out on his vessel,
15 To drive on the deep, Dane-country left he.
Along by the mast then a sea-garment fluttered,
A rope-fastened sail. The sea-boat resounded,
The wind o'er the waters the wave-floater nowise
Kept from its journey; the sea-goer traveled,
20 The foamy-necked floated forth o'er the currents,
The well-fashioned vessel o'er the ways of the ocean,
{The Geats see their own land again.}
Till they came within sight of the cliffs of the Geatmen,
The well-known headlands. The wave-goer hastened
Driven by breezes, stood on the shore.
{The port-warden is anxiously looking for them.}
25 Prompt at the ocean, the port-ward was ready,
Who long in the past outlooked in the distance,[3]
At water's-edge waiting well-loved heroes;
He bound to the bank then the broad-bosomed vessel
Fast in its fetters, lest the force of the waters
30 Should be able to injure the ocean-wood winsome.
Bade he up then take the treasure of princes,
Plate-gold and fretwork; not far was it thence
To go off in search of the giver of jewels:
[66] Hrethel's son Higelac at home there remaineth,[4]
35 Himself with his comrades close to the sea-coast.
The building was splendid, the king heroic,
Great in his hall, Hygd very young was,
{Hygd, the noble queen of Higelac, lavish of gifts.}
Fine-mooded, clever, though few were the winters
That the daughter of Haereth had dwelt in the borough;
40 But she nowise was cringing nor niggard of presents,
Of ornaments rare, to the race of the Geatmen.
{Offa's consort, Thrytho, is contrasted with Hygd.}
Thrytho nursed anger, excellent[5] folk-queen,
Hot-burning hatred: no hero whatever
'Mong household companions, her husband excepted
{She is a terror to all save her husband.}
45 Dared to adventure to look at the woman
With eyes in the daytime;[6] but he knew that death-chains
Hand-wreathed were wrought him: early thereafter,
When the hand-strife was over, edges were ready,
That fierce-raging sword-point had to force a decision,
50 Murder-bale show. Such no womanly custom
For a lady to practise, though lovely her person,
That a weaver-of-peace, on pretence of anger
A beloved liegeman of life should deprive.
Soothly this hindered Heming's kinsman;
55 Other ale-drinking earlmen asserted
That fearful folk-sorrows fewer she wrought them,
Treacherous doings, since first she was given
Adorned with gold to the war-hero youthful,
For her origin honored, when Offa's great palace
60 O'er the fallow flood by her father's instructions
She sought on her journey, where she afterwards fully,
Famed for her virtue, her fate on the king's-seat
[67] Enjoyed in her lifetime, love did she hold with
The ruler of heroes, the best, it is told me,
65 Of all of the earthmen that oceans encompass,
Of earl-kindreds endless; hence Offa was famous
Far and widely, by gifts and by battles,
Spear-valiant hero; the home of his fathers
He governed with wisdom, whence Eomaer did issue
70 For help unto heroes, Heming's kinsman,
Grandson of Garmund, great in encounters.
[1] For 'scawan' (1896), 'scaethan' has been proposed. Accepting this,
we may render: _He said the bright-armored warriors were going to
their vessel, welcome, etc_. (Cf. 1804.)
[2] R. suggests, 'Gewat him on naca,' and renders: _The vessel set
out, to drive on the sea, the Dane-country left_. 'On' bears the
alliteration; cf. 'on hafu' (2524). This has some advantages over the
H.-So. reading; viz. (1) It adds nothing to the text; (2) it makes
'naca' the subject, and thus brings the passage into keeping with the
context, where the poet has exhausted his vocabulary in detailing the
actions of the vessel.--B.'s emendation (cf. P. and B. XII. 97) is
violent.
[3] B. translates: _Who for a long time, ready at the coast, had
looked out into the distance eagerly for the dear men_. This changes
the syntax of 'leofra manna.'
[4] For 'wunaeth' (v. 1924) several eminent critics suggest 'wunade'
(=remained). This makes the passage much clearer.
[5] Why should such a woman be described as an 'excellent' queen? C.
suggests 'frecnu' = dangerous, bold.
[6] For 'an daeges' various readings have been offered. If 'and-eges'
be accepted, the sentence will read: _No hero ... dared look upon her,
eye to eye_. If 'an-daeges' be adopted, translate: _Dared look upon her
the whole day_.
BEOWULF AND HIGELAC.
Then the brave one departed, his band along with him,
{Beowulf and his party seek Higelac.}
Seeking the sea-shore, the sea-marches treading,
The wide-stretching shores. The world-candle glimmered,
The sun from the southward; they proceeded then onward,
5 Early arriving where they heard that the troop-lord,
Ongentheow's slayer, excellent, youthful
Folk-prince and warrior was distributing jewels,
Close in his castle. The coming of Beowulf
Was announced in a message quickly to Higelac,
10 That the folk-troop's defender forth to the palace
The linden-companion alive was advancing,
Secure from the combat courtward a-going.
The building was early inward made ready
For the foot-going guests as the good one had ordered.
{Beowulf sits by his liegelord.}
15 He sat by the man then who had lived through the struggle,
Kinsman by kinsman, when the king of the people
Had in lordly language saluted the dear one,
{Queen Hygd receives the heroes.}
In words that were formal. The daughter of Haereth
Coursed through the building, carrying mead-cups:[1]
[68] 20 She loved the retainers, tendered the beakers
To the high-minded Geatmen. Higelac 'gan then
{Higelac is greatly interested in Beowulf's adventures.}
Pleasantly plying his companion with questions
In the high-towering palace. A curious interest
Tormented his spirit, what meaning to see in
25 The Sea-Geats' adventures: "Beowulf worthy,
{Give an account of thy adventures, Beowulf dear.}
How throve your journeying, when thou thoughtest suddenly
Far o'er the salt-streams to seek an encounter,
A battle at Heorot? Hast bettered for Hrothgar,
The famous folk-leader, his far-published sorrows
30 Any at all? In agony-billows
{My suspense has been great.}
I mused upon torture, distrusted the journey
Of the beloved liegeman; I long time did pray thee
By no means to seek out the murderous spirit,
To suffer the South-Danes themselves to decide on[2]
35 Grappling with Grendel. To God I am thankful
To be suffered to see thee safe from thy journey."
{Beowulf narrates his adventures.}
Beowulf answered, bairn of old Ecgtheow:
"'Tis hidden by no means, Higelac chieftain,
From many of men, the meeting so famous,
40 What mournful moments of me and of Grendel
Were passed in the place where he pressing affliction
On the Victory-Scyldings scathefully brought,
Anguish forever; that all I avenged,
So that any under heaven of the kinsmen of Grendel
{Grendel's kindred have no cause to boast.}
45 Needeth not boast of that cry-in-the-morning,
Who longest liveth of the loth-going kindred,[3]
Encompassed by moorland. I came in my journey
To the royal ring-hall, Hrothgar to greet there:
{Hrothgar received me very cordially.}
Soon did the famous scion of Healfdene,
50 When he understood fully the spirit that led me,
Assign me a seat with the son of his bosom.
[69] The troop was in joyance; mead-glee greater
'Neath arch of the ether not ever beheld I
{The queen also showed up no little honor.}
'Mid hall-building holders. The highly-famed queen,
55 Peace-tie of peoples, oft passed through the building,
Cheered the young troopers; she oft tendered a hero
A beautiful ring-band, ere she went to her sitting.
{Hrothgar's lovely daughter.}
Oft the daughter of Hrothgar in view of the courtiers
To the earls at the end the ale-vessel carried,
60 Whom Freaware I heard then hall-sitters title,
When nail-adorned jewels she gave to the heroes:
{She is betrothed to Ingeld, in order to unite the Danes and Heathobards.}
Gold-bedecked, youthful, to the glad son of Froda
Her faith has been plighted; the friend of the Scyldings,
The guard of the kingdom, hath given his sanction,[4]
65 And counts it a vantage, for a part of the quarrels,
A portion of hatred, to pay with the woman.
[5]Somewhere not rarely, when the ruler has fallen,
The life-taking lance relaxeth its fury
For a brief breathing-spell, though the bride be charming!
[1] 'Meodu-scencum' (1981) some would render '_with mead-pourers_.'
Translate then: _The daughter of Haereth went through the building
accompanied by mead-pourers_.
[2] See my note to 1599, supra, and B. in P. and B. XII. 97.
[3] For 'fenne,' supplied by Grdtvg., B. suggests 'facne' (cf. Jul.
350). Accepting this, translate: _Who longest lives of the hated race,
steeped in treachery_.
[4] See note to v. 1599 above.
[5] This is perhaps the least understood sentence in the poem, almost
every word being open to dispute. (1) The 'no' of our text is an
emendation, and is rejected by many scholars. (2) 'Seldan' is by some
taken as an adv. (= _seldom_), and by others as a noun (= _page_,
_companion_). (3) 'Leod-hryre,' some render '_fall of the people_';
others, '_fall of the prince_.' (4) 'Bugeeth,' most scholars regard as
the intrans. verb meaning '_bend_,' '_rest_'; but one great scholar has
translated it '_shall kill_.' (5) 'Hwaer,' Very recently, has been
attacked, 'waere' being suggested. (6) As a corollary to the above, the
same critic proposes to drop 'oft' out of the text.--t.B. suggests: Oft
seldan waere after leodhryre: lytle hwile bongar bugeeth, eah seo bryd
duge = _often has a treaty been (thus) struck, after a prince had
fallen: (but only) a short time is the spear (then) wont to rest,
however excellent the bride may be_.
BEOWULF NARRATES HIS ADVENTURES TO HIGELAC.
"It well may discomfit the prince of the Heathobards
And each of the thanemen of earls that attend him,
[70] When he goes to the building escorting the woman,
That a noble-born Daneman the knights should be feasting:
5 There gleam on his person the leavings of elders
Hard and ring-bright, Heathobards' treasure,
While they wielded their arms, till they misled to the battle
Their own dear lives and beloved companions.
He saith at the banquet who the collar beholdeth,
10 An ancient ash-warrior who earlmen's destruction
Clearly recalleth (cruel his spirit),
Sadly beginneth sounding the youthful
Thane-champion's spirit through the thoughts of his bosom,
War-grief to waken, and this word-answer speaketh:
{Ingeld is stirred up to break the truce.}
15 'Art thou able, my friend, to know when thou seest it
The brand which thy father bare to the conflict
In his latest adventure, 'neath visor of helmet,
The dearly-loved iron, where Danemen did slay him,
And brave-mooded Scyldings, on the fall of the heroes,
20 (When vengeance was sleeping) the slaughter-place wielded?
E'en now some man of the murderer's progeny
Exulting in ornaments enters the building,
Boasts of his blood-shedding, offbeareth the jewel
Which thou shouldst wholly hold in possession!'
25 So he urgeth and mindeth on every occasion
With woe-bringing words, till waxeth the season
When the woman's thane for the works of his father,
The bill having bitten, blood-gory sleepeth,
Fated to perish; the other one thenceward
30 'Scapeth alive, the land knoweth thoroughly.[1]
Then the oaths of the earlmen on each side are broken,
When rancors unresting are raging in Ingeld
And his wife-love waxeth less warm after sorrow.
So the Heathobards' favor not faithful I reckon,
35 Their part in the treaty not true to the Danemen,
Their friendship not fast. I further shall tell thee
[71]
{Having made these preliminary statements, I will now tell thee of
Grendel, the monster.}
More about Grendel, that thou fully mayst hear,
Ornament-giver, what afterward came from
The hand-rush of heroes. When heaven's bright jewel
40 O'er earthfields had glided, the stranger came raging,
The horrible night-fiend, us for to visit,
Where wholly unharmed the hall we were guarding.
{Hondscio fell first}
To Hondscio happened a hopeless contention,
Death to the doomed one, dead he fell foremost,
45 Girded war-champion; to him Grendel became then,
To the vassal distinguished, a tooth-weaponed murderer,
The well-beloved henchman's body all swallowed.
Not the earlier off empty of hand did
The bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of evils,
50 Wish to escape from the gold-giver's palace,
But sturdy of strength he strove to outdo me,
Hand-ready grappled. A glove was suspended
Spacious and wondrous, in art-fetters fastened,
Which was fashioned entirely by touch of the craftman
55 From the dragon's skin by the devil's devices:
He down in its depths would do me unsadly
One among many, deed-doer raging,
Though sinless he saw me; not so could it happen
When I in my anger upright did stand.
60 'Tis too long to recount how requital I furnished
For every evil to the earlmen's destroyer;
{I reflected honor upon my people.}
'Twas there, my prince, that I proudly distinguished
Thy land with my labors. He left and retreated,
He lived his life a little while longer:
65 Yet his right-hand guarded his footstep in Heorot,
And sad-mooded thence to the sea-bottom fell he,
Mournful in mind. For the might-rush of battle
{King Hrothgar lavished gifts upon me.}
The friend of the Scyldings, with gold that was plated,
With ornaments many, much requited me,
70 When daylight had dawned, and down to the banquet
We had sat us together. There was chanting and joyance:
The age-stricken Scylding asked many questions
[72] And of old-times related; oft light-ringing harp-strings,
Joy-telling wood, were touched by the brave one;
75 Now he uttered measures, mourning and truthful,
Then the large-hearted land-king a legend of wonder
Truthfully told us. Now troubled with years
{The old king is sad over the loss of his youthful vigor.}
The age-hoary warrior afterward began to
Mourn for the might that marked him in youth-days;
80 His breast within boiled, when burdened with winters
Much he remembered. From morning till night then
We joyed us therein as etiquette suffered,
Till the second night season came unto earth-folk.
Then early thereafter, the mother of Grendel
{Grendel's mother.}
85 Was ready for vengeance, wretched she journeyed;
Her son had death ravished, the wrath of the Geatmen.
The horrible woman avenged her offspring,
And with mighty mainstrength murdered a hero.
{AEschere falls a prey to her vengeance.}
There the spirit of AEschere, aged adviser,
90 Was ready to vanish; nor when morn had lightened
Were they anywise suffered to consume him with fire,
Folk of the Danemen, the death-weakened hero,
Nor the beloved liegeman to lay on the pyre;
{She suffered not his body to be burned, but ate it.}
She the corpse had offcarried in the clutch of the foeman[2]
95 'Neath mountain-brook's flood. To Hrothgar 'twas saddest
Of pains that ever had preyed on the chieftain;
By the life of thee the land-prince then me[3]
Besought very sadly, in sea-currents' eddies
To display my prowess, to peril my safety,
100 Might-deeds accomplish; much did he promise.
{I sought the creature in her den,}
I found then the famous flood-current's cruel,
Horrible depth-warder. A while unto us two
[73] Hand was in common; the currents were seething
With gore that was clotted, and Grendel's fierce mother's
{and hewed her head off.}
105 Head I offhacked in the hall at the bottom
With huge-reaching sword-edge, hardly I wrested
My life from her clutches; not doomed was I then,
{Jewels were freely bestowed upon me.}
But the warden of earlmen afterward gave me
Jewels in quantity, kinsman of Healfdene.
[1] For 'lifigende' (2063), a mere conjecture, 'wigende' has been
suggested. The line would then read: _Escapeth by fighting, knows the
land thoroughly_.
[2] For 'faeethmum,' Gr.'s conjecture, B. proposes 'faerunga.' These three
half-verses would then read: _She bore off the corpse of her foe
suddenly under the mountain-torrent_.
[3] The phrase 'ine lyfe' (2132) was long rendered '_with thy
(presupposed) permission_.' The verse would read: _The land-prince
then sadly besought me, with thy (presupposed) permission, etc_.
GIFT-GIVING IS MUTUAL.
"So the beloved land-prince lived in decorum;
I had missed no rewards, no meeds of my prowess,
But he gave me jewels, regarding my wishes,
Healfdene his bairn; I'll bring them to thee, then,
{All my gifts I lay at thy feet.}
5 Atheling of earlmen, offer them gladly.
And still unto thee is all my affection:[1]
But few of my folk-kin find I surviving
But thee, dear Higelac!" Bade he in then to carry[2]
The boar-image, banner, battle-high helmet,
10 Iron-gray armor, the excellent weapon,
{This armor I have belonged of yore to Heregar.}
In song-measures said: "This suit-for-the-battle
Hrothgar presented me, bade me expressly,
Wise-mooded atheling, thereafter to tell thee[3]
The whole of its history, said King Heregar owned it,
15 Dane-prince for long: yet he wished not to give then
[74] The mail to his son, though dearly he loved him,
Hereward the hardy. Hold all in joyance!"
I heard that there followed hard on the jewels
Two braces of stallions of striking resemblance,
20 Dappled and yellow; he granted him usance
Of horses and treasures. So a kinsman should bear him,
No web of treachery weave for another,
Nor by cunning craftiness cause the destruction
{Higelac loves his nephew Beowulf.}
Of trusty companion. Most precious to Higelac,
25 The bold one in battle, was the bairn of his sister,
And each unto other mindful of favors.
{Beowulf gives Hygd the necklace that Wealhtheow had given him.}
I am told that to Hygd he proffered the necklace,
Wonder-gem rare that Wealhtheow gave him,
The troop-leader's daughter, a trio of horses
30 Slender and saddle-bright; soon did the jewel
Embellish her bosom, when the beer-feast was over.
So Ecgtheow's bairn brave did prove him,
{Beowulf is famous.}
War-famous man, by deeds that were valiant,
He lived in honor, beloved companions
35 Slew not carousing; his mood was not cruel,
But by hand-strength hugest of heroes then living
The brave one retained the bountiful gift that
The Lord had allowed him. Long was he wretched,
So that sons of the Geatmen accounted him worthless,
40 And the lord of the liegemen loth was to do him
Mickle of honor, when mead-cups were passing;
They fully believed him idle and sluggish,
{He is requited for the slights suffered in earlier days.}
An indolent atheling: to the honor-blest man there
Came requital for the cuts he had suffered.
45 The folk-troop's defender bade fetch to the building
The heirloom of Hrethel, embellished with gold,
{Higelac overwhelms the conqueror with gifts.}
So the brave one enjoined it; there was jewel no richer
In the form of a weapon 'mong Geats of that era;
In Beowulf's keeping he placed it and gave him
50 Seven of thousands, manor and lordship.
Common to both was land 'mong the people,
[75] Estate and inherited rights and possessions,
To the second one specially spacious dominions,
To the one who was better. It afterward happened
55 In days that followed, befell the battle-thanes,
{After Heardred's death, Beowulf becomes king.}
After Higelac's death, and when Heardred was murdered
With weapons of warfare 'neath well-covered targets,
When valiant battlemen in victor-band sought him,
War-Scylfing heroes harassed the nephew
60 Of Hereric in battle. To Beowulf's keeping
Turned there in time extensive dominions:
{He rules the Geats fifty years.}
He fittingly ruled them a fifty of winters
(He a man-ruler wise was, manor-ward old) till
A certain one 'gan, on gloom-darkening nights, a
{The fire-drake.}
65 Dragon, to govern, who guarded a treasure,
A high-rising stone-cliff, on heath that was grayish:
A path 'neath it lay, unknown unto mortals.
Some one of earthmen entered the mountain,
The heathenish hoard laid hold of with ardor;
70 * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
[1] This verse B. renders, '_Now serve I again thee alone as my
gracious king_.'
[2] For 'eafor' (2153), Kl. suggests 'ealdor.' Translate then: _Bade
the prince then to bear in the banner, battle-high helmet, etc_. On
the other hand, W. takes 'eaforheafodsegn' as a compound, meaning
'helmet': _He bade them bear in the helmet, battle-high helm, gray
armor, etc_.
[3] The H.-So. rendering (aerest = _history, origin_; 'eft' for 'est'),
though liable to objection, is perhaps the best offered. 'That I
should very early tell thee of his favor, kindness' sounds well; but
'his' is badly placed to limit 'est.'--Perhaps, 'eft' with verbs of
saying may have the force of Lat. prefix 're,' and the H.-So. reading
mean, 'that I should its origin rehearse to thee.'
THE HOARD AND THE DRAGON.
* * * * * * *
He sought of himself who sorely did harm him,
But, for need very pressing, the servant of one of
The sons of the heroes hate-blows evaded,
5 Seeking for shelter and the sin-driven warrior
Took refuge within there. He early looked in it,
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
[76] * * * * * * when the onset surprised him,
{The hoard.}
10 He a gem-vessel saw there: many of suchlike
Ancient ornaments in the earth-cave were lying,
As in days of yore some one of men of
Illustrious lineage, as a legacy monstrous,
There had secreted them, careful and thoughtful,
15 Dear-valued jewels. Death had offsnatched them,
In the days of the past, and the one man moreover
Of the flower of the folk who fared there the longest,
Was fain to defer it, friend-mourning warder,
A little longer to be left in enjoyment
20 Of long-lasting treasure.[1] A barrow all-ready
Stood on the plain the stream-currents nigh to,
New by the ness-edge, unnethe of approaching:
The keeper of rings carried within a
[2]Ponderous deal of the treasure of nobles,
25 Of gold that was beaten, briefly he spake then:[3]
{The ring-giver bewails the loss of retainers.}
"Hold thou, O Earth, now heroes no more may,
The earnings of earlmen. Lo! erst in thy bosom
Worthy men won them; war-death hath ravished,
Perilous life-bale, all my warriors,
30 Liegemen beloved, who this life have forsaken,
Who hall-pleasures saw. No sword-bearer have I,
And no one to burnish the gold-plated vessel,
The high-valued beaker: my heroes are vanished.
The hardy helmet behung with gilding
35 Shall be reaved of its riches: the ring-cleansers slumber
Who were charged to have ready visors-for-battle,
And the burnie that bided in battle-encounter
[77] O'er breaking of war-shields the bite of the edges
Moulds with the hero. The ring-twisted armor,
40 Its lord being lifeless, no longer may journey
Hanging by heroes; harp-joy is vanished,
The rapture of glee-wood, no excellent falcon
Swoops through the building, no swift-footed charger
Grindeth the gravel. A grievous destruction
45 No few of the world-folk widely hath scattered!"
So, woful of spirit one after all
Lamented mournfully, moaning in sadness
By day and by night, till death with its billows
{The fire-dragon}
Dashed on his spirit. Then the ancient dusk-scather
50 Found the great treasure standing all open,
He who flaming and fiery flies to the barrows,
Naked war-dragon, nightly escapeth
Encompassed with fire; men under heaven
Widely beheld him. 'Tis said that he looks for[4]
55 The hoard in the earth, where old he is guarding
The heathenish treasure; he'll be nowise the better.
{The dragon meets his match.}
So three-hundred winters the waster of peoples
Held upon earth that excellent hoard-hall,
Till the forementioned earlman angered him bitterly:
60 The beat-plated beaker he bare to his chieftain
And fullest remission for all his remissness
Begged of his liegelord. Then the hoard[5] was discovered,
The treasure was taken, his petition was granted
{The hero plunders the dragon's den}
The lorn-mooded liegeman. His lord regarded
65 The old-work of earth-folk--'twas the earliest occasion.
When the dragon awoke, the strife was renewed there;
He snuffed 'long the stone then, stout-hearted found he
[78] The footprint of foeman; too far had he gone
With cunning craftiness close to the head of
70 The fire-spewing dragon. So undoomed he may 'scape from
Anguish and exile with ease who possesseth
The favor of Heaven. The hoard-warden eagerly
Searched o'er the ground then, would meet with the person
That caused him sorrow while in slumber reclining:
75 Gleaming and wild he oft went round the cavern,
All of it outward; not any of earthmen
Was seen in that desert.[6] Yet he joyed in the battle,
Rejoiced in the conflict: oft he turned to the barrow,
Sought for the gem-cup;[7] this he soon perceived then
{The dragon perceives that some one has disturbed his treasure.}
80 That some man or other had discovered the gold,
The famous folk-treasure. Not fain did the hoard-ward
Wait until evening; then the ward of the barrow
Was angry in spirit, the loathed one wished to
Pay for the dear-valued drink-cup with fire.
85 Then the day was done as the dragon would have it,
He no longer would wait on the wall, but departed
{The dragon is infuriated.}
Fire-impelled, flaming. Fearful the start was
To earls in the land, as it early thereafter
To their giver-of-gold was grievously ended.
[1] For 'long-gestreona,' B. suggests 'laengestreona,' and renders,
_Of fleeting treasures_. S. accepts H.'s 'long-gestreona,' but
renders, _The treasure long in accumulating_.
[2] For 'hard-fyrdne' (2246), B. first suggested 'hard-fyndne,'
rendering: _A heap of treasures ... so great that its equal would be
hard to find_. The same scholar suggests later 'hord-wynne dael' = _A
deal of treasure-joy_.
[3] Some read 'fec-word' (2247), and render: _Banning words uttered_.
[4] An earlier reading of H.'s gave the following meaning to this
passage: _He is said to inhabit a mound under the earth, where he,
etc._ The translation in the text is more authentic.
[5] The repetition of 'hord' in this passage has led some scholars to
suggest new readings to avoid the second 'hord.' This, however, is not
under the main stress, and, it seems to me, might easily be accepted.
[6] The reading of H.-So. is well defended in the notes to that
volume. B. emends and renders: _Nor was there any man in that desert
who rejoiced in conflict, in battle-work._ That is, the hoard-ward
could not find any one who had disturbed his slumbers, for no warrior
was there, t.B.'s emendation would give substantially the same
translation.
[7] 'Sinc-faet' (2301): this word both here and in v. 2232, t.B.
renders 'treasure.'
BRAVE THOUGH AGED.--REMINISCENCES.
{The dragon spits fire.}
The stranger began then to vomit forth fire,
To burn the great manor; the blaze then glimmered
For anguish to earlmen, not anything living
[79] Was the hateful air-goer willing to leave there.
5 The war of the worm widely was noticed,
The feud of the foeman afar and anear,
How the enemy injured the earls of the Geatmen,
Harried with hatred: back he hied to the treasure,
To the well-hidden cavern ere the coming of daylight.
10 He had circled with fire the folk of those regions,
With brand and burning; in the barrow he trusted,
In the wall and his war-might: the weening deceived him.
{Beowulf hears of the havoc wrought by the dragon.}
Then straight was the horror to Beowulf published,
Early forsooth, that his own native homestead,[1]
15 The best of buildings, was burning and melting,
Gift-seat of Geatmen. 'Twas a grief to the spirit
Of the good-mooded hero, the greatest of sorrows:
{He fears that Heaven is punishing him for some crime.}
The wise one weened then that wielding his kingdom
'Gainst the ancient commandments, he had bitterly angered
20 The Lord everlasting: with lorn meditations
His bosom welled inward, as was nowise his custom.
The fire-spewing dragon fully had wasted
The fastness of warriors, the water-land outward,
The manor with fire. The folk-ruling hero,
25 Prince of the Weders, was planning to wreak him.
The warmen's defender bade them to make him,
Earlmen's atheling, an excellent war-shield
{He orders an iron shield to be made from him, wood is useless.}
Wholly of iron: fully he knew then
That wood from the forest was helpless to aid him,
30 Shield against fire. The long-worthy ruler
Must live the last of his limited earth-days,
Of life in the world and the worm along with him,
Though he long had been holding hoard-wealth in plenty.
{He determines to fight alone.}
Then the ring-prince disdained to seek with a war-band,
35 With army extensive, the air-going ranger;
He felt no fear of the foeman's assaults and
He counted for little the might of the dragon,
[80] His power and prowess: for previously dared he
{Beowulf's early triumphs referred to}
A heap of hostility, hazarded dangers,
40 War-thane, when Hrothgar's palace he cleansed,
Conquering combatant, clutched in the battle
The kinsmen of Grendel, of kindred detested.[2]
{Higelac's death recalled.}
'Twas of hand-fights not least where Higelac was slaughtered,
When the king of the Geatmen with clashings of battle,
45 Friend-lord of folks in Frisian dominions,
Offspring of Hrethrel perished through sword-drink,
With battle-swords beaten; thence Beowulf came then
On self-help relying, swam through the waters;
He bare on his arm, lone-going, thirty
50 Outfits of armor, when the ocean he mounted.
The Hetwars by no means had need to be boastful
Of their fighting afoot, who forward to meet him
Carried their war-shields: not many returned from
The brave-mooded battle-knight back to their homesteads.
55 Ecgtheow's bairn o'er the bight-courses swam then,
Lone-goer lorn to his land-folk returning,
Where Hygd to him tendered treasure and kingdom,
{Heardred's lack of capacity to rule.}
Rings and dominion: her son she not trusted,
To be able to keep the kingdom devised him
60 'Gainst alien races, on the death of King Higelac.
{Beowulf's tact and delicacy recalled.}
Yet the sad ones succeeded not in persuading the atheling
In any way ever, to act as a suzerain
To Heardred, or promise to govern the kingdom;
Yet with friendly counsel in the folk he sustained him,
65 Gracious, with honor, till he grew to be older,
{Reference is here made to a visit which Beowulf receives from Eanmund and
Eadgils, why they come is not known.}
Wielded the Weders. Wide-fleeing outlaws,
Ohthere's sons, sought him o'er the waters:
They had stirred a revolt 'gainst the helm of the Scylfings,
The best of the sea-kings, who in Swedish dominions
70 Distributed treasure, distinguished folk-leader.
[81] 'Twas the end of his earth-days; injury fatal[3]
By swing of the sword he received as a greeting,
Offspring of Higelac; Ongentheow's bairn
Later departed to visit his homestead,
75 When Heardred was dead; let Beowulf rule them,
Govern the Geatmen: good was that folk-king.
[1] 'Ham' (2326), the suggestion of B. is accepted by t.B. and other
scholars.
[2] For 'laethan cynnes' (2355), t.B. suggests 'laethan cynne,' apposition
to 'maegum.' From syntactical and other considerations, this is a most
excellent emendation.
[3] Gr. read 'on feorme' (2386), rendering: _He there at the banquet a
fatal wound received by blows of the sword._
BEOWULF SEEKS THE DRAGON.--BEOWULF'S REMINISCENCES.
He planned requital for the folk-leader's ruin
In days thereafter, to Eadgils the wretched
Becoming an enemy. Ohthere's son then
Went with a war-troop o'er the wide-stretching currents
5 With warriors and weapons: with woe-journeys cold he
After avenged him, the king's life he took.
{Beowulf has been preserved through many perils.}
So he came off uninjured from all of his battles,
Perilous fights, offspring of Ecgtheow,
From his deeds of daring, till that day most momentous
10 When he fate-driven fared to fight with the dragon.
{With eleven comrades, he seeks the dragon.}
With eleven companions the prince of the Geatmen
Went lowering with fury to look at the fire-drake:
Inquiring he'd found how the feud had arisen,
Hate to his heroes; the highly-famed gem-vessel
15 Was brought to his keeping through the hand of th' informer.
{A guide leads the way, but}
That in the throng was thirteenth of heroes,
That caused the beginning of conflict so bitter,
Captive and wretched, must sad-mooded thenceward
{very reluctantly.}
Point out the place: he passed then unwillingly
20 To the spot where he knew of the notable cavern,
The cave under earth, not far from the ocean,
The anger of eddies, which inward was full of
Jewels and wires: a warden uncanny,
[82] Warrior weaponed, wardered the treasure,
25 Old under earth; no easy possession
For any of earth-folk access to get to.
Then the battle-brave atheling sat on the naze-edge,
While the gold-friend of Geatmen gracious saluted
His fireside-companions: woe was his spirit,
30 Death-boding, wav'ring; Weird very near him,
Who must seize the old hero, his soul-treasure look for,
Dragging aloof his life from his body:
Not flesh-hidden long was the folk-leader's spirit.
Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son:
{Beowulf's retrospect.}
35 "I survived in my youth-days many a conflict,
Hours of onset: that all I remember.
I was seven-winters old when the jewel-prince took me,
High-lord of heroes, at the hands of my father,
Hrethel the hero-king had me in keeping,
{Hrethel took me when I was seven.}
40 Gave me treasure and feasting, our kinship remembered;
Not ever was I _any_ less dear to him
{He treated me as a son.}
Knight in the boroughs, than the bairns of his household,
Herebald and Haethcyn and Higelac mine.
To the eldest unjustly by acts of a kinsman
45 Was murder-bed strewn, since him Haethcyn from horn-bow
{One of the brothers accidentally kills another.}
His sheltering chieftain shot with an arrow,
Erred in his aim and injured his kinsman,
One brother the other, with blood-sprinkled spear:
{No fee could compound for such a calamity.}
'Twas a feeless fight, finished in malice,
50 Sad to his spirit; the folk-prince however
Had to part from existence with vengeance untaken.
{[A parallel case is supposed.]}
So to hoar-headed hero 'tis heavily crushing[1]
[83] To live to see his son as he rideth
Young on the gallows: then measures he chanteth,
55 A song of sorrow, when his son is hanging
For the raven's delight, and aged and hoary
He is unable to offer any assistance.
Every morning his offspring's departure
Is constant recalled: he cares not to wait for
60 The birth of an heir in his borough-enclosures,
Since that one through death-pain the deeds hath experienced.
He heart-grieved beholds in the house of his son the
Wine-building wasted, the wind-lodging places
Reaved of their roaring; the riders are sleeping,
65 The knights in the grave; there's no sound of the harp-wood,
Joy in the yards, as of yore were familiar.
[1] 'Gomelum ceorle' (2445).--H. takes these words as referring to
Hrethel; but the translator here departs from his editor by
understanding the poet to refer to a hypothetical old man, introduced
as an illustration of a father's sorrow.
Hrethrel had certainly never seen a son of his ride on the gallows to
feed the crows.
The passage beginning 'swa bieth geomorlic' seems to be an effort to
reach a full simile, 'as ... so.' 'As it is mournful for an old man,
etc. ... so the defence of the Weders (2463) bore heart-sorrow, etc.'
The verses 2451 to 2463-1/2 would be parenthetical, the poet's feelings
being so strong as to interrupt the simile. The punctuation of the
fourth edition would be better--a comma after 'galgan' (2447). The
translation may be indicated as follows: _(Just) as it is sad for an
old man to see his son ride young on the gallows when he himself is
uttering mournful measures, a sorrowful song, while his son hangs for a
comfort to the raven, and he, old and infirm, cannot render him any
kelp--(he is constantly reminded, etc., 2451-2463)--so the defence of
the Weders, etc._
REMINISCENCES (_continued_).--BEOWULF'S LAST BATTLE.
"He seeks then his chamber, singeth a woe-song
One for the other; all too extensive
Seemed homesteads and plains. So the helm of the Weders
{Hrethel grieves for Herebald.}
Mindful of Herebald heart-sorrow carried,
5 Stirred with emotion, nowise was able
To wreak his ruin on the ruthless destroyer:
He was unable to follow the warrior with hatred,
With deeds that were direful, though dear he not held him.
[84] Then pressed by the pang this pain occasioned him,
10 He gave up glee, God-light elected;
He left to his sons, as the man that is rich does,
His land and fortress, when from life he departed.
{Strife between Swedes and Geats.}
Then was crime and hostility 'twixt Swedes and Geatmen,
O'er wide-stretching water warring was mutual,
15 Burdensome hatred, when Hrethel had perished,
And Ongentheow's offspring were active and valiant,
Wished not to hold to peace oversea, but
Round Hreosna-beorh often accomplished
Cruelest massacre. This my kinsman avenged,
20 The feud and fury, as 'tis found on inquiry,
Though one of them paid it with forfeit of life-joys,
{Haethcyn's fall at Ravenswood.}
With price that was hard: the struggle became then
Fatal to Haethcyn, lord of the Geatmen.
Then I heard that at morning one brother the other
25 With edges of irons egged on to murder,
Where Ongentheow maketh onset on Eofor:
The helmet crashed, the hoary-haired Scylfing
Sword-smitten fell, his hand then remembered
Feud-hate sufficient, refused not the death-blow.
{I requited him for the jewels he gave me.}
30 The gems that he gave me, with jewel-bright sword I
'Quited in contest, as occasion was offered:
Land he allowed me, life-joy at homestead,
Manor to live on. Little he needed
From Gepids or Danes or in Sweden to look for
35 Trooper less true, with treasure to buy him;
'Mong foot-soldiers ever in front I would hie me,
Alone in the vanguard, and evermore gladly
Warfare shall wage, while this weapon endureth
That late and early often did serve me
{Beowulf refers to his having slain Daeghrefn.}
40 When I proved before heroes the slayer of Daeghrefn,
Knight of the Hugmen: he by no means was suffered
To the king of the Frisians to carry the jewels,
The breast-decoration; but the banner-possessor
Bowed in the battle, brave-mooded atheling.
[85] 45 No weapon was slayer, but war-grapple broke then
The surge of his spirit, his body destroying.
Now shall weapon's edge make war for the treasure,
And hand and firm-sword." Beowulf spake then,
Boast-words uttered--the latest occasion:
{He boasts of his youthful prowess, and declares himself still fearless.}
50 "I braved in my youth-days battles unnumbered;
Still am I willing the struggle to look for,
Fame-deeds perform, folk-warden prudent,
If the hateful despoiler forth from his cavern
Seeketh me out!" Each of the heroes,
55 Helm-bearers sturdy, he thereupon greeted
{His last salutations.}
Beloved co-liegemen--his last salutation:
"No brand would I bear, no blade for the dragon,
Wist I a way my word-boast to 'complish[1]
Else with the monster, as with Grendel I did it;
60 But fire in the battle hot I expect there,
Furious flame-burning: so I fixed on my body
Target and war-mail. The ward of the barrow[2]
I'll not flee from a foot-length, the foeman uncanny.
At the wall 'twill befall us as Fate decreeth,
{Let Fate decide between us.}
65 Each one's Creator. I am eager in spirit,
With the winged war-hero to away with all boasting.
Bide on the barrow with burnies protected,
{Wait ye here till the battle is over.}
Earls in armor, which of _us_ two may better
Bear his disaster, when the battle is over.
70 'Tis no matter of yours, and man cannot do it,
But me and me only, to measure his strength with
The monster of malice, might-deeds to 'complish.
I with prowess shall gain the gold, or the battle,
[86] Direful death-woe will drag off your ruler!"
75 The mighty champion rose by his shield then,
Brave under helmet, in battle-mail went he
'Neath steep-rising stone-cliffs, the strength he relied on
Of one man alone: no work for a coward.
Then he saw by the wall who a great many battles
80 Had lived through, most worthy, when foot-troops collided,
{The place of strife is described.}
Stone-arches standing, stout-hearted champion,
Saw a brook from the barrow bubbling out thenceward:
The flood of the fountain was fuming with war-flame:
Not nigh to the hoard, for season the briefest
85 Could he brave, without burning, the abyss that was yawning,
The drake was so fiery. The prince of the Weders
Caused then that words came from his bosom,
So fierce was his fury; the firm-hearted shouted:
His battle-clear voice came in resounding
90 'Neath the gray-colored stone. Stirred was his hatred,
{Beowulf calls out under the stone arches.}
The hoard-ward distinguished the speech of a man;
Time was no longer to look out for friendship.
The breath of the monster issued forth first,
Vapory war-sweat, out of the stone-cave:
{The terrible encounter.}
95 The earth re-echoed. The earl 'neath the barrow
Lifted his shield, lord of the Geatmen,
Tow'rd the terrible stranger: the ring-twisted creature's
Heart was then ready to seek for a struggle.
{Beowulf brandishes his sword,}
The excellent battle-king first brandished his weapon,
100 The ancient heirloom, of edges unblunted,[3]
To the death-planners twain was terror from other.
{and stands against his shield.}
The lord of the troopers intrepidly stood then
'Gainst his high-rising shield, when the dragon coiled him
{The dragon coils himself.}
Quickly together: in corslet he bided.
[87] 105 He went then in blazes, bended and striding,
Hasting him forward. His life and body
The targe well protected, for time-period shorter
Than wish demanded for the well-renowned leader,
Where he then for the first day was forced to be victor,
110 Famous in battle, as Fate had not willed it.
The lord of the Geatmen uplifted his hand then,
Smiting the fire-drake with sword that was precious,
That bright on the bone the blade-edge did weaken,
Bit more feebly than his folk-leader needed,
115 Burdened with bale-griefs. Then the barrow-protector,
{The dragon rages}
When the sword-blow had fallen, was fierce in his spirit,
Flinging his fires, flamings of battle
Gleamed then afar: the gold-friend of Weders
{Beowulf's sword fails him.}
Boasted no conquests, his battle-sword failed him
120 Naked in conflict, as by no means it ought to,
Long-trusty weapon. 'Twas no slight undertaking
That Ecgtheow's famous offspring would leave
The drake-cavern's bottom; he must live in some region
Other than this, by the will of the dragon,
125 As each one of earthmen existence must forfeit.
'Twas early thereafter the excellent warriors
{The combat is renewed.}
Met with each other. Anew and afresh
The hoard-ward took heart (gasps heaved then his bosom):
{The great hero is reduced to extremities.}
Sorrow he suffered encircled with fire
130 Who the people erst governed. His companions by no means
Were banded about him, bairns of the princes,
{His comrades flee!}
With valorous spirit, but they sped to the forest,
Seeking for safety. The soul-deeps of one were
{Blood is thicker than water.}
Ruffled by care: kin-love can never
135 Aught in him waver who well doth consider.
[88]
[1] The clause 2520(2)-2522(1), rendered by 'Wist I ... monster,' Gr.,
followed by S., translates substantially as follows: _If I knew how
else I might combat the boastful defiance of the monster_.--The
translation turns upon 'wiethgripan,' a word not understood.
[2] B. emends and translates: _I will not flee the space of a foot
from the guard of the barrow, but there shall be to us a fight at the
wall, as fate decrees, each one's Creator._
[3] The translation of this passage is based on 'unslaw' (2565),
accepted by H.-So., in lieu of the long-standing 'ungleaw.' The former
is taken as an adj. limiting 'sweord'; the latter as an adj. c.
'gueth-cyning': _The good war-king, rash with edges, brandished his
sword, his old relic._ The latter gives a more rhetorical Anglo-Saxon
(poetical) sentence.
WIGLAF THE TRUSTY.--BEOWULF IS DESERTED BY FRIENDS AND BY SWORD.
{Wiglaf remains true--the ideal Teutonic liegeman.}
The son of Weohstan was Wiglaf entitled,
Shield-warrior precious, prince of the Scylfings,
AElfhere's kinsman: he saw his dear liegelord
Enduring the heat 'neath helmet and visor.
5 Then he minded the holding that erst he had given him,
{Wiglaf recalls Beowulf's generosity.}
The Waegmunding warriors' wealth-blessed homestead,
Each of the folk-rights his father had wielded;
He was hot for the battle, his hand seized the target,
The yellow-bark shield, he unsheathed his old weapon,
10 Which was known among earthmen as the relic of Eanmund,
Ohthere's offspring, whom, exiled and friendless,
Weohstan did slay with sword-edge in battle,
And carried his kinsman the clear-shining helmet,
The ring-made burnie, the old giant-weapon
15 That Onela gave him, his boon-fellow's armor,
Ready war-trappings: he the feud did not mention,
Though he'd fatally smitten the son of his brother.
Many a half-year held he the treasures,
The bill and the burnie, till his bairn became able,
20 Like his father before him, fame-deeds to 'complish;
Then he gave him 'mong Geatmen a goodly array of
Weeds for his warfare; he went from life then
Old on his journey. 'Twas the earliest time then
{This is Wiglaf's first battle as liegeman of Beowulf.}
That the youthful champion might charge in the battle
25 Aiding his liegelord; his spirit was dauntless.
Nor did kinsman's bequest quail at the battle:
This the dragon discovered on their coming together.
Wiglaf uttered many a right-saying,
Said to his fellows, sad was his spirit:
{Wiglaf appeals to the pride of the cowards.}
30 "I remember the time when, tasting the mead-cup,
We promised in the hall the lord of us all
[89] Who gave us these ring-treasures, that this battle-equipment,
Swords and helmets, we'd certainly quite him,
Should need of such aid ever befall him:
{How we have forfeited our liegelord's confidence!}
35 In the war-band he chose us for this journey spontaneously,
Stirred us to glory and gave me these jewels,
Since he held and esteemed us trust-worthy spearmen,
Hardy helm-bearers, though this hero-achievement
Our lord intended alone to accomplish,
40 Ward of his people, for most of achievements,
Doings audacious, he did among earth-folk.
{Our lord is in sore need of us.}
The day is now come when the ruler of earthmen
Needeth the vigor of valiant heroes:
Let us wend us towards him, the war-prince to succor,
45 While the heat yet rageth, horrible fire-fight.
{I would rather die than go home with out my suzerain.}
God wot in me, 'tis mickle the liefer
The blaze should embrace my body and eat it
With my treasure-bestower. Meseemeth not proper
To bear our battle-shields back to our country,
50 'Less first we are able to fell and destroy the
Long-hating foeman, to defend the life of
{Surely he does not deserve to die alone.}
The prince of the Weders. Well do I know 'tisn't
Earned by his exploits, he only of Geatmen
Sorrow should suffer, sink in the battle:
55 Brand and helmet to us both shall be common,
[1]Shield-cover, burnie." Through the bale-smoke he stalked then,
Went under helmet to the help of his chieftain,
{Wiglaf reminds Beowulf of his youthful boasts.}
Briefly discoursing: "Beowulf dear,
Perform thou all fully, as thou formerly saidst,
60 In thy youthful years, that while yet thou livedst
[90] Thou wouldst let thine honor not ever be lessened.
Thy life thou shalt save, mighty in actions,
Atheling undaunted, with all of thy vigor;
{The monster advances on them.}
I'll give thee assistance." The dragon came raging,
65 Wild-mooded stranger, when these words had been uttered
('Twas the second occasion), seeking his enemies,
Men that were hated, with hot-gleaming fire-waves;
With blaze-billows burned the board to its edges:
The fight-armor failed then to furnish assistance
70 To the youthful spear-hero: but the young-aged stripling
Quickly advanced 'neath his kinsman's war-target,
Since his own had been ground in the grip of the fire.
{Beowulf strikes at the dragon.}
Then the warrior-king was careful of glory,
He soundly smote with sword-for-the-battle,
75 That it stood in the head by hatred driven;
Naegling was shivered, the old and iron-made
{His sword fails him.}
Brand of Beowulf in battle deceived him.
'Twas denied him that edges of irons were able
To help in the battle; the hand was too mighty
80 [2]Which every weapon, as I heard on inquiry,
Outstruck in its stroke, when to struggle he carried
The wonderful war-sword: it waxed him no better.
{The dragon advances on Beowulf again.}
Then the people-despoiler--third of his onsets--
Fierce-raging fire-drake, of feud-hate was mindful,
85 Charged on the strong one, when chance was afforded,
Heated and war-grim, seized on his neck
With teeth that were bitter; he bloody did wax with
Soul-gore seething; sword-blood in waves boiled.
[1] The passage '_Brand ... burnie_,' is much disputed. In the first
place, some eminent critics assume a gap of at least two
half-verses.--'Urum' (2660), being a peculiar form, has been much
discussed. 'Byrdu-scrud' is also a crux. B. suggests 'bywdu-scrud' =
_splendid vestments_. Nor is 'bam' accepted by all, 'beon' being
suggested. Whatever the individual words, the passage must mean, "_I
intend to share with him my equipments of defence_."
[2] B. would render: _Which, as I heard, excelled in stroke every
sword that he carried to the strife, even the strongest (sword)._ For
'onne' he reads 'one,' rel. pr.
[91]
THE FATAL STRUGGLE.--BEOWULF'S LAST MOMENTS.
{Wiglaf defends Beowulf.}
Then I heard that at need of the king of the people
The upstanding earlman exhibited prowess,
Vigor and courage, as suited his nature;
[1]He his head did not guard, but the high-minded liegeman's
5 Hand was consumed, when he succored his kinsman,
So he struck the strife-bringing strange-comer lower,
Earl-thane in armor, that _in_ went the weapon
Gleaming and plated, that 'gan then the fire[2]
{Beowulf draws his knife,}
Later to lessen. The liegelord himself then
10 Retained his consciousness, brandished his war-knife,
Battle-sharp, bitter, that he bare on his armor:
{and cuts the dragon.}
The Weder-lord cut the worm in the middle.
They had felled the enemy (life drove out then[3]
Puissant prowess), the pair had destroyed him,
15 Land-chiefs related: so a liegeman should prove him,
A thaneman when needed. To the prince 'twas the last of
His era of conquest by his own great achievements,
[92]
{Beowulf's wound swells and burns.}
The latest of world-deeds. The wound then began
Which the earth-dwelling dragon erstwhile had wrought him
20 To burn and to swell. He soon then discovered
That bitterest bale-woe in his bosom was raging,
Poison within. The atheling advanced then,
{He sits down exhausted.}
That along by the wall, he prudent of spirit
Might sit on a settle; he saw the giant-work,
25 How arches of stone strengthened with pillars
The earth-hall eternal inward supported.
Then the long-worthy liegeman laved with his hand the
{Wiglaf bathes his lord's head.}
Far-famous chieftain, gory from sword-edge,
Refreshing the face of his friend-lord and ruler,
30 Sated with battle, unbinding his helmet.
Beowulf answered, of his injury spake he,
His wound that was fatal (he was fully aware
He had lived his allotted life-days enjoying
The pleasures of earth; then past was entirely
35 His measure of days, death very near):
{Beowulf regrets that he has no son.}
"My son I would give now my battle-equipments,
Had any of heirs been after me granted,
Along of my body. This people I governed
Fifty of winters: no king 'mong my neighbors
40 Dared to encounter me with comrades-in-battle,
Try me with terror. The time to me ordered
I bided at home, mine own kept fitly,
Sought me no snares, swore me not many
{I can rejoice in a well-spent life.}
Oaths in injustice. Joy over all this
45 I'm able to have, though ill with my death-wounds;
Hence the Ruler of Earthmen need not charge me
With the killing of kinsmen, when cometh my life out
Forth from my body. Fare thou with haste now
{Bring me the hoard, Wiglaf, that my dying eyes may be refreshed by a
sight of it.}
To behold the hoard 'neath the hoar-grayish stone,
50 Well-loved Wiglaf, now the worm is a-lying,
Sore-wounded sleepeth, disseized of his treasure.
Go thou in haste that treasures of old I,
Gold-wealth may gaze on, together see lying
[93] The ether-bright jewels, be easier able,
55 Having the heap of hoard-gems, to yield my
Life and the land-folk whom long I have governed."
[1] B. renders: _He_ (_W_.) did not regard his (_the dragon's_) _head_
(since Beowulf had struck it without effect), _but struck the dragon a
little lower down.--_One crux is to find out _whose head_ is meant;
another is to bring out the antithesis between 'head' and 'hand.'
[2] 'aet aet fyr' (2702), S. emends to 'a aet fyr' = _when the fire
began to grow less intense afterward_. This emendation relieves the
passage of a plethora of conjunctive _aet_'s.
[3] For 'gefyldan' (2707), S. proposes 'gefylde.' The passage would
read: _He felled the foe (life drove out strength), and they then both
had destroyed him, chieftains related_. This gives Beowulf the credit
of having felled the dragon; then they combine to annihilate him.--For
'ellen' (2707), Kl. suggests 'e(a)llne.'--The reading '_life drove out
strength_' is very unsatisfactory and very peculiar. I would suggest
as follows: Adopt S.'s emendation, remove H.'s parenthesis, read
'ferh-ellen wraec,' and translate: _He felled the foe, drove out his
life-strength_ (that is, made him _hors de combat_), _and then they
both, etc_.
WIGLAF PLUNDERS THE DRAGON'S DEN.--BEOWULF'S DEATH.
{Wiglaf fulfils his lord's behest.}
Then heard I that Wihstan's son very quickly,
These words being uttered, heeded his liegelord
Wounded and war-sick, went in his armor,
His well-woven ring-mail, 'neath the roof of the barrow.
5 Then the trusty retainer treasure-gems many
{The dragon's den.}
Victorious saw, when the seat he came near to,
Gold-treasure sparkling spread on the bottom,
Wonder on the wall, and the worm-creature's cavern,
The ancient dawn-flier's, vessels a-standing,
10 Cups of the ancients of cleansers bereaved,
Robbed of their ornaments: there were helmets in numbers,
Old and rust-eaten, arm-bracelets many,
Artfully woven. Wealth can easily,
Gold on the sea-bottom, turn into vanity[1]
15 Each one of earthmen, arm him who pleaseth!
And he saw there lying an all-golden banner
High o'er the hoard, of hand-wonders greatest,
Linked with lacets: a light from it sparkled,
That the floor of the cavern he was able to look on,
{The dragon is not there.}
20 To examine the jewels. Sight of the dragon
[94] Not any was offered, but edge offcarried him.
{Wiglaf bears the hoard away.}
Then I heard that the hero the hoard-treasure plundered,
The giant-work ancient reaved in the cavern,
Bare on his bosom the beakers and platters,
25 As himself would fain have it, and took off the standard,
The brightest of beacons;[2] the bill had erst injured
(Its edge was of iron), the old-ruler's weapon,
Him who long had watched as ward of the jewels,
Who fire-terror carried hot for the treasure,
30 Rolling in battle, in middlemost darkness,
Till murdered he perished. The messenger hastened,
Not loth to return, hurried by jewels:
Curiosity urged him if, excellent-mooded,
Alive he should find the lord of the Weders
35 Mortally wounded, at the place where he left him.
'Mid the jewels he found then the famous old chieftain,
His liegelord beloved, at his life's-end gory:
He thereupon 'gan to lave him with water,
Till the point of his word pierced his breast-hoard.
40 Beowulf spake (the gold-gems he noticed),
{Beowulf is rejoiced to see the jewels.}
The old one in sorrow: "For the jewels I look on
Thanks do I utter for all to the Ruler,
Wielder of Worship, with words of devotion,
The Lord everlasting, that He let me such treasures
45 Gain for my people ere death overtook me.
Since I've bartered the aged life to me granted
For treasure of jewels, attend ye henceforward
{He desires to be held in memory by his people.}
The wants of the war-thanes; I can wait here no longer.
The battle-famed bid ye to build them a grave-hill,
50 Bright when I'm burned, at the brim-current's limit;
As a memory-mark to the men I have governed,
[95] Aloft it shall tower on Whale's-Ness uprising,
That earls of the ocean hereafter may call it
Beowulf's barrow, those who barks ever-dashing
55 From a distance shall drive o'er the darkness of waters."
{The hero's last gift}
The bold-mooded troop-lord took from his neck then
The ring that was golden, gave to his liegeman,
The youthful war-hero, his gold-flashing helmet,
His collar and war-mail, bade him well to enjoy them:
{and last words.}
60 "Thou art latest left of the line of our kindred,
Of Waegmunding people: Weird hath offcarried
All of my kinsmen to the Creator's glory,
Earls in their vigor: I shall after them fare."
'Twas the aged liegelord's last-spoken word in
65 His musings of spirit, ere he mounted the fire,
The battle-waves burning: from his bosom departed
His soul to seek the sainted ones' glory.
[1] The word 'oferhigian' (2767) being vague and little understood,
two quite distinct translations of this passage have arisen. One takes
'oferhigian' as meaning 'to exceed,' and, inserting 'hord' after
'gehwone,' renders: _The treasure may easily, the gold in the ground,
exceed in value every hoard of man, hide it who will._ The other takes
'oferhigian' as meaning 'to render arrogant,' and, giving the sentence
a moralizing tone, renders substantially as in the body of this work.
(Cf. 28_13 et seq.)
[2] The passage beginning here is very much disputed. 'The bill of the
old lord' is by some regarded as Beowulf's sword; by others, as that
of the ancient possessor of the hoard. 'AEr gescod' (2778), translated
in this work as verb and adverb, is by some regarded as a compound
participial adj. = _sheathed in brass_.
THE DEAD FOES.--WIGLAF'S BITTER TAUNTS.
{Wiglaf is sorely grieved to see his lord look so un-warlike.}
It had wofully chanced then the youthful retainer
To behold on earth the most ardent-beloved
At his life-days' limit, lying there helpless.
The slayer too lay there, of life all bereaved,
5 Horrible earth-drake, harassed with sorrow:
{The dragon has plundered his last hoard.}
The round-twisted monster was permitted no longer
To govern the ring-hoards, but edges of war-swords
Mightily seized him, battle-sharp, sturdy
Leavings of hammers, that still from his wounds
10 The flier-from-farland fell to the earth
Hard by his hoard-house, hopped he at midnight
Not e'er through the air, nor exulting in jewels
Suffered them to see him: but he sank then to earthward
Through the hero-chief's handwork. I heard sure it throve then
[96]
{Few warriors dared to face the monster.}
15 But few in the land of liegemen of valor,
Though of every achievement bold he had proved him,
To run 'gainst the breath of the venomous scather,
Or the hall of the treasure to trouble with hand-blows,
If he watching had found the ward of the hoard-hall
20 On the barrow abiding. Beowulf's part of
The treasure of jewels was paid for with death;
Each of the twain had attained to the end of
Life so unlasting. Not long was the time till
{The cowardly thanes come out of the thicket.}
The tardy-at-battle returned from the thicket,
25 The timid truce-breakers ten all together,
Who durst not before play with the lances
In the prince of the people's pressing emergency;
{They are ashamed of their desertion.}
But blushing with shame, with shields they betook them,
With arms and armor where the old one was lying:
30 They gazed upon Wiglaf. He was sitting exhausted,
Foot-going fighter, not far from the shoulders
Of the lord of the people, would rouse him with water;
No whit did it help him; though he hoped for it keenly,
He was able on earth not at all in the leader
35 Life to retain, and nowise to alter
The will of the Wielder; the World-Ruler's power[1]
Would govern the actions of each one of heroes,
{Wiglaf is ready to excoriate them.}
As yet He is doing. From the young one forthwith then
Could grim-worded greeting be got for him quickly
40 Whose courage had failed him. Wiglaf discoursed then,
Weohstan his son, sad-mooded hero,
{He begins to taunt them.}
Looked on the hated: "He who soothness will utter
Can say that the liegelord who gave you the jewels,
The ornament-armor wherein ye are standing,
45 When on ale-bench often he offered to hall-men
Helmet and burnie, the prince to his liegemen,
As best upon earth he was able to find him,--
[97]
{Surely our lord wasted his armor on poltroons.}
That he wildly wasted his war-gear undoubtedly
When battle o'ertook him.[2] The troop-king no need had
50 To glory in comrades; yet God permitted him,
{He, however, got along without you}
Victory-Wielder, with weapon unaided
Himself to avenge, when vigor was needed.
I life-protection but little was able
To give him in battle, and I 'gan, notwithstanding,
{With some aid, I could have saved our liegelord}
55 Helping my kinsman (my strength overtaxing):
He waxed the weaker when with weapon I smote on
My mortal opponent, the fire less strongly
Flamed from his bosom. Too few of protectors
Came round the king at the critical moment.
{Gift-giving is over with your people: the ring-lord is dead.}
60 Now must ornament-taking and weapon-bestowing,
Home-joyance all, cease for your kindred,
Food for the people; each of your warriors
Must needs be bereaved of rights that he holdeth
In landed possessions, when faraway nobles
65 Shall learn of your leaving your lord so basely,
{What is life without honor?}
The dastardly deed. Death is more pleasant
To every earlman than infamous life is!"
[1] For 'daedum raedan' (2859) B. suggests 'deaeth araedan,' and renders:
_The might (or judgment) of God would determine death for every man,
as he still does._
[2] Some critics, H. himself in earlier editions, put the clause,
'When ... him' (A.-S. 'a ... beget') with the following sentence;
that is, they make it dependent upon 'orfte' (2875) instead of upon
'forwurpe' (2873).
THE MESSENGER OF DEATH.
{Wiglaf sends the news of Beowulf's death to liegemen near by.}
Then he charged that the battle be announced at the hedge
Up o'er the cliff-edge, where the earl-troopers bided
The whole of the morning, mood-wretched sat them,
Bearers of battle-shields, both things expecting,
5 The end of his lifetime and the coming again of
The liegelord beloved. Little reserved he
Of news that was known, who the ness-cliff did travel,
But he truly discoursed to all that could hear him:
[98]
{The messenger speaks.}
"Now the free-giving friend-lord of the folk of the Weders,
10 The folk-prince of Geatmen, is fast in his death-bed,
By the deeds of the dragon in death-bed abideth;
Along with him lieth his life-taking foeman
Slain with knife-wounds: he was wholly unable
To injure at all the ill-planning monster
{Wiglaf sits by our dead lord.}
15 With bite of his sword-edge. Wiglaf is sitting,
Offspring of Wihstan, up over Beowulf,
Earl o'er another whose end-day hath reached him,
Head-watch holdeth o'er heroes unliving,[1]
{Our lord's death will lead to attacks from our old foes.}
For friend and for foeman. The folk now expecteth
20 A season of strife when the death of the folk-king
To Frankmen and Frisians in far-lands is published.
The war-hatred waxed warm 'gainst the Hugmen,
{Higelac's death recalled.}
When Higelac came with an army of vessels
Faring to Friesland, where the Frankmen in battle
25 Humbled him and bravely with overmight 'complished
That the mail-clad warrior must sink in the battle,
Fell 'mid his folk-troop: no fret-gems presented
The atheling to earlmen; aye was denied us
Merewing's mercy. The men of the Swedelands
30 For truce or for truth trust I but little;
But widely 'twas known that near Ravenswood Ongentheow
{Haethcyn's fall referred to.}
Sundered Haethcyn the Hrethling from life-joys,
When for pride overweening the War-Scylfings first did
Seek the Geatmen with savage intentions.
35 Early did Ohthere's age-laden father,
Old and terrible, give blow in requital,
Killing the sea-king, the queen-mother rescued,
The old one his consort deprived of her gold,
Onela's mother and Ohthere's also,
[99] 40 And then followed the feud-nursing foemen till hardly,
Reaved of their ruler, they Ravenswood entered.
Then with vast-numbered forces he assaulted the remnant,
Weary with wounds, woe often promised
The livelong night to the sad-hearted war-troop:
45 Said he at morning would kill them with edges of weapons,
Some on the gallows for glee to the fowls.
Aid came after to the anxious-in-spirit
At dawn of the day, after Higelac's bugle
And trumpet-sound heard they, when the good one proceeded
50 And faring followed the flower of the troopers.
[1] 'Hige-meethum' (2910) is glossed by H. as dat. plu. (= for the
dead). S. proposes 'hige-meethe,' nom. sing. limiting Wiglaf; i.e. _W.,
mood-weary, holds head-watch o'er friend and foe_.--B. suggests taking
the word as dat. inst. plu. of an abstract noun in -'u.' The
translation would be substantially the same as S.'s.
THE MESSENGER'S RETROSPECT.
{The messenger continues, and refers to the feuds of Swedes and Geats.}
"The blood-stained trace of Swedes and Geatmen,
The death-rush of warmen, widely was noticed,
How the folks with each other feud did awaken.
The worthy one went then[1] with well-beloved comrades,
5 Old and dejected to go to the fastness,
Ongentheo earl upward then turned him;
Of Higelac's battle he'd heard on inquiry,
The exultant one's prowess, despaired of resistance,
With earls of the ocean to be able to struggle,
10 'Gainst sea-going sailors to save the hoard-treasure,
His wife and his children; he fled after thenceward
Old 'neath the earth-wall. Then was offered pursuance
To the braves of the Swedemen, the banner[2] to Higelac.
[100] They fared then forth o'er the field-of-protection,
15 When the Hrethling heroes hedgeward had thronged them.
Then with edges of irons was Ongentheow driven,
The gray-haired to tarry, that the troop-ruler had to
Suffer the power solely of Eofor:
{Wulf wounds Ongentheow.}
Wulf then wildly with weapon assaulted him,
20 Wonred his son, that for swinge of the edges
The blood from his body burst out in currents,
Forth 'neath his hair. He feared not however,
Gray-headed Scylfing, but speedily quited
{Ongentheow gives a stout blow in return.}
The wasting wound-stroke with worse exchange,
25 When the king of the thane-troop thither did turn him:
The wise-mooded son of Wonred was powerless
To give a return-blow to the age-hoary man,
But his head-shielding helmet first hewed he to pieces,
That flecked with gore perforce he did totter,
30 Fell to the earth; not fey was he yet then,
But up did he spring though an edge-wound had reached him.
{Eofor smites Ongentheow fiercely.}
Then Higelac's vassal, valiant and dauntless,
When his brother lay dead, made his broad-bladed weapon,
Giant-sword ancient, defence of the giants,
35 Bound o'er the shield-wall; the folk-prince succumbed then,
{Ongentheow is slain.}
Shepherd of people, was pierced to the vitals.
There were many attendants who bound up his kinsman,
Carried him quickly when occasion was granted
That the place of the slain they were suffered to manage.
40 This pending, one hero plundered the other,
His armor of iron from Ongentheow ravished,
His hard-sword hilted and helmet together;
{Eofor takes the old king's war-gear to Higelac.}
The old one's equipments he carried to Higelac.
He the jewels received, and rewards 'mid the troopers
45 Graciously promised, and so did accomplish:
The king of the Weders requited the war-rush,
Hrethel's descendant, when home he repaired him,
{Higelac rewards the brothers.}
To Eofor and Wulf with wide-lavished treasures,
To each of them granted a hundred of thousands
[101] 50 In land and rings wrought out of wire:
{His gifts were beyond cavil.}
None upon mid-earth needed to twit him[3]
With the gifts he gave them, when glory they conquered;
{To Eofor he also gives his only daughter in marriage.}
And to Eofor then gave he his one only daughter,
The honor of home, as an earnest of favor.
55 That's the feud and hatred--as ween I 'twill happen--
The anger of earthmen, that earls of the Swedemen
Will visit on us, when they hear that our leader
Lifeless is lying, he who longtime protected
His hoard and kingdom 'gainst hating assailers,
60 Who on the fall of the heroes defended of yore
The deed-mighty Scyldings,[4] did for the troopers
What best did avail them, and further moreover
{It is time for us to pay the last marks of respect to our lord.}
Hero-deeds 'complished. Now is haste most fitting,
That the lord of liegemen we look upon yonder,
65 And _that_ one carry on journey to death-pyre
Who ring-presents gave us. Not aught of it all
Shall melt with the brave one--there's a mass of bright jewels,
Gold beyond measure, grewsomely purchased
And ending it all ornament-rings too
70 Bought with his life; these fire shall devour,
Flame shall cover, no earlman shall wear
A jewel-memento, nor beautiful virgin
Have on her neck rings to adorn her,
But wretched in spirit bereaved of gold-gems
75 She shall oft with others be exiled and banished,
Since the leader of liegemen hath laughter forsaken,
[102] Mirth and merriment. Hence many a war-spear
Cold from the morning shall be clutched in the fingers,
Heaved in the hand, no harp-music's sound shall
80 Waken the warriors, but the wan-coated raven
Fain over fey ones freely shall gabble,
Shall say to the eagle how he sped in the eating,
When, the wolf his companion, he plundered the slain."
So the high-minded hero was rehearsing these stories
85 Loathsome to hear; he lied as to few of
{The warriors go sadly to look at Beowulf's lifeless body.}
Weirds and of words. All the war-troop arose then,
'Neath the Eagle's Cape sadly betook them,
Weeping and woful, the wonder to look at.
They saw on the sand then soulless a-lying,
90 His slaughter-bed holding, him who rings had given them
In days that were done; then the death-bringing moment
Was come to the good one, that the king very warlike,
Wielder of Weders, with wonder-death perished.
First they beheld there a creature more wondrous,
{They also see the dragon.}
95 The worm on the field, in front of them lying,
The foeman before them: the fire-spewing dragon,
Ghostly and grisly guest in his terrors,
Was scorched in the fire; as he lay there he measured
Fifty of feet; came forth in the night-time[5]
100 To rejoice in the air, thereafter departing
To visit his den; he in death was then fastened,
He would joy in no other earth-hollowed caverns.
There stood round about him beakers and vessels,
Dishes were lying and dear-valued weapons,
105 With iron-rust eaten, as in earth's mighty bosom
A thousand of winters there they had rested:
{The hoard was under a magic spell.}
That mighty bequest then with magic was guarded,
Gold of the ancients, that earlman not any
The ring-hall could touch, save Ruling-God only,
[103] 110 Sooth-king of Vict'ries gave whom He wished to
{God alone could give access to it.}
[6](He is earth-folk's protector) to open the treasure,
E'en to such among mortals as seemed to Him proper.
[1] For 'goda,' which seems a surprising epithet for a Geat to apply
to the "terrible" Ongentheow, B. suggests 'gomela.' The passage would
then stand: '_The old one went then,' etc._
[2] For 'segn Higelace,' K., Th., and B. propose 'segn Higelaces,'
meaning: _Higelac's banner followed the Swedes (in pursuit)._--S.
suggests 'saecc Higelaces,' and renders: _Higelac's pursuit._--The
H.-So. reading, as translated in our text, means that the banner of
the enemy was captured and brought to Higelac as a trophy.
[3] The rendering given in this translation represents the king as
being generous beyond the possibility of reproach; but some
authorities construe 'him' (2996) as plu., and understand the passage
to mean that no one reproached the two brothers with having received
more reward than they were entitled to.
[4] The name 'Scyldingas' here (3006) has caused much discussion, and
given rise to several theories, the most important of which are as
follows: (1) After the downfall of Hrothgar's family, Beowulf was king
of the Danes, or Scyldings. (2) For 'Scyldingas' read
'Scylfingas'--that is, after killing Eadgils, the Scylfing prince,
Beowulf conquered his land, and held it in subjection. (3) M.
considers 3006 a thoughtless repetition of 2053. (Cf. H.-So.)
[5] B. takes 'nihtes' and 'hwilum' (3045) as separate adverbial cases,
and renders: _Joy in the air had he of yore by night, etc_. He thinks
that the idea of vanished time ought to be expressed.
[6] The parenthesis is by some emended so as to read: (1) (_He_ (i.e.
_God_) _is the hope of men_); (2) (_he is the hope of heroes_). Gr.'s
reading has no parenthesis, but says: ... _could touch, unless God
himself, true king of victories, gave to whom he would to open the
treasure, the secret place of enchanters, etc_. The last is rejected
on many grounds.
WIGLAF'S SAD STORY.--THE HOARD CARRIED OFF.
Then 'twas seen that the journey prospered him little
Who wrongly within had the ornaments hidden[1]
Down 'neath the wall. The warden erst slaughtered
Some few of the folk-troop: the feud then thereafter
5 Was hotly avenged. 'Tis a wonder where,[2]
When the strength-famous trooper has attained to the end of
Life-days allotted, then no longer the man may
Remain with his kinsmen where mead-cups are flowing.
So to Beowulf happened when the ward of the barrow,
10 Assaults, he sought for: himself had no knowledge
How his leaving this life was likely to happen.
So to doomsday, famous folk-leaders down did
Call it with curses--who 'complished it there--
[104] That that man should be ever of ill-deeds convicted,
15 Confined in foul-places, fastened in hell-bonds,
Punished with plagues, who this place should e'er ravage.[3]
He cared not for gold: rather the Wielder's
Favor preferred he first to get sight of.[4]
{Wiglaf addresses his comrades.}
Wiglaf discoursed then, Wihstan his son:
20 "Oft many an earlman on one man's account must
Sorrow endure, as to us it hath happened.
The liegelord beloved we could little prevail on,
Kingdom's keeper, counsel to follow,
Not to go to the guardian of the gold-hoard, but let him
25 Lie where he long was, live in his dwelling
Till the end of the world. Met we a destiny
Hard to endure: the hoard has been looked at,
Been gained very grimly; too grievous the fate that[5]
The prince of the people pricked to come thither.
30 _I_ was therein and all of it looked at,
The building's equipments, since access was given me,
Not kindly at all entrance permitted
{He tells them of Beowulf's last moments.}
Within under earth-wall. Hastily seized I
And held in my hands a huge-weighing burden
35 Of hoard-treasures costly, hither out bare them
To my liegelord beloved: life was yet in him,
And consciousness also; the old one discoursed then
Much and mournfully, commanded to greet you,
{Beowulf's dying request.}
Bade that remembering the deeds of your friend-lord
40 Ye build on the fire-hill of corpses a lofty
Burial-barrow, broad and far-famous,
As 'mid world-dwelling warriors he was widely most honored
While he reveled in riches. Let us rouse us and hasten
[105] Again to see and seek for the treasure,
45 The wonder 'neath wall. The way I will show you,
That close ye may look at ring-gems sufficient
And gold in abundance. Let the bier with promptness
Fully be fashioned, when forth we shall come,
And lift we our lord, then, where long he shall tarry,
50 Well-beloved warrior, 'neath the Wielder's protection."
{Wiglaf charges them to build a funeral-pyre.}
Then the son of Wihstan bade orders be given,
Mood-valiant man, to many of heroes,
Holders of homesteads, that they hither from far,
[6]Leaders of liegemen, should look for the good one
55 With wood for his pyre: "The flame shall now swallow
(The wan fire shall wax[7]) the warriors' leader
Who the rain of the iron often abided,
When, sturdily hurled, the storm of the arrows
Leapt o'er linden-wall, the lance rendered service,
60 Furnished with feathers followed the arrow."
Now the wise-mooded son of Wihstan did summon
The best of the braves from the band of the ruler
{He takes seven thanes, and enters the den.}
Seven together; 'neath the enemy's roof he
Went with the seven; one of the heroes
65 Who fared at the front, a fire-blazing torch-light
Bare in his hand. No lot then decided
Who that hoard should havoc, when hero-earls saw it
Lying in the cavern uncared-for entirely,
Rusting to ruin: they rued then but little
70 That they hastily hence hauled out the treasure,
{They push the dragon over the wall.}
The dear-valued jewels; the dragon eke pushed they,
The worm o'er the wall, let the wave-currents take him,
[106] The waters enwind the ward of the treasures.
{The hoard is laid on a wain.}
There wounden gold on a wain was uploaded,
75 A mass unmeasured, the men-leader off then,
The hero hoary, to Whale's-Ness was carried.
[1] For 'gehydde,' B. suggests 'gehyethde': the passage would stand as
above except the change of 'hidden' (v. 2) to 'plundered.' The
reference, however, would be to the thief, not to the dragon.
[2] The passage 'Wundur ... buan' (3063-3066), M. took to be a
question asking whether it was strange that a man should die when his
appointed time had come.--B. sees a corruption, and makes emendations
introducing the idea that a brave man should not die from sickness or
from old age, but should find death in the performance of some deed of
daring.--S. sees an indirect question introduced by 'hwar' and
dependent upon 'wundur': _A secret is it when the hero is to die,
etc_.--Why may the two clauses not be parallel, and the whole passage
an Old English cry of '_How wonderful is death!'?_--S.'s is the best
yet offered, if 'wundor' means 'mystery.'
[3] For 'strude' in H.-So., S. suggests 'stride.' This would require
'ravage' (v. 16) to be changed to 'tread.'
[4] 'He cared ... sight of' (17, 18), S. emends so as to read as
follows: _He (Beowulf) had not before seen the favor of the avaricious
possessor._
[5] B. renders: _That which drew the king thither_ (i.e. _the
treasure_) _was granted us, but in such a way that it overcomes us._
[6] 'Folc-agende' (3114) B. takes as dat. sing. with 'godum,' and
refers it to Beowulf; that is, _Should bring fire-wood to the place
where the good folk-ruler lay_.
[7] C. proposes to take 'weaxan' = L. 'vescor,' and translate
_devour_. This gives a parallel to 'fretan' above. The parenthesis
would be discarded and the passage read: _Now shall the fire consume,
the wan-flame devour, the prince of warriors, etc_.
THE BURNING OF BEOWULF.
{Beowulf's pyre.}
The folk of the Geatmen got him then ready
A pile on the earth strong for the burning,
Behung with helmets, hero-knights' targets,
And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them;
5 Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain,
Their liegelord beloved, laid in the middle.
{The funeral-flame.}
Soldiers began then to make on the barrow
The largest of dead-fires: dark o'er the vapor
The smoke-cloud ascended, the sad-roaring fire,
10 Mingled with weeping (the wind-roar subsided)
Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces,
Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit
They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin;
And mournful measures the much-grieving widow
15 * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
20 * * * * * * *
{The Weders carry out their lord's last request.}
The men of the Weders made accordingly
A hill on the height, high and extensive,
Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance,
And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was,
25 In ten-days' space, with a wall surrounded it,
As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it.
They placed in the barrow rings and jewels,
[107]
{Rings and gems are laid in the barrow.}
All such ornaments as erst in the treasure
War-mooded men had won in possession:
30 The earnings of earlmen to earth they entrusted,
The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth
As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras.
'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle,
Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people,
{They mourn for their lord, and sing his praises.}
35 More would they mourn, lament for their ruler,
Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure,
Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements
Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his
Liegelord in words and love him in spirit,
40 When forth from his body he fares to destruction.
So lamented mourning the men of the Geats,
Fond-loving vassals, the fall of their lord,
{An ideal king.}
Said he was kindest of kings under heaven,
Gentlest of men, most winning of manner,
45 Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor.
[109]
ADDENDA.
Several discrepancies and other oversights have been noticed in the H.-So.
glossary. Of these a good part were avoided by Harrison and Sharp, the
American editors of Beowulf, in their last edition, 1888. The rest will, I
hope, be noticed in their fourth edition. As, however, this book may fall
into the hands of some who have no copy of the American edition, it seems
best to notice all the principal oversights of the German editors.
~From ham~ (194).--Notes and glossary conflict; the latter not having been
altered to suit the conclusions accepted in the former.
~aer gelyfan sceal dryhtnes dome~ (440).--Under 'dom' H. says 'the might
of the Lord'; while under 'gelyfan' he says 'the judgment of the Lord.'
~Eal bencelu~ (486).--Under 'benc-elu' H. says _nom. plu._; while under
'eal' he says _nom. sing._
~Heatho-raemas~ (519).--Under 'aetberan' H. translates 'to the Heathoremes';
while under 'Heatho-raemas' he says 'Heathoraemas reaches Breca in the
swimming-match with Beowulf.' Harrison and Sharp (3d edition, 1888) avoid
the discrepancy.
~Fah feond-scaetha~ (554).--Under 'feond-scaetha' H. says 'a gleaming
sea-monster'; under 'fah' he says 'hostile.'
~Onfeng hraethe inwit-ancum~ (749).--Under 'onfon' H. says 'he _received_
the maliciously-disposed one'; under 'inwit-anc' he says 'he _grasped_,'
etc.
~Nieth-wundor seon~ (1366).--Under 'nieth-wundor' H. calls this word itself
_nom. sing._; under 'seon' he translates it as accus. sing., understanding
'man' as subject of 'seon.' H. and S. (3d edition) make the correction.
~Forgeaf hilde-bille~ (1521).--H., under the second word, calls it instr.
dat.; while under 'forgifan' he makes it the dat. of indir. obj. H. and S.
(3d edition) make the change.
~Brad~ and ~brun-ecg~ (1547).--Under 'brad' H. says 'das breite Hueftmesser
mit bronzener Klinge'; under 'brun-ecg' he says 'ihr breites Hueftmesser
mit blitzender Klinge.'
[110]
~Yethelice~ (1557).--Under this word H. makes it modify 'astod.' If this be
right, the punctuation of the fifth edition is wrong. See H. and S.,
appendix.
~Selran gesohte~ (1840).--Under 'sel' and 'gesecan' H. calls these two
words accus. plu.; but this is clearly an error, as both are nom. plu.,
pred. nom. H. and S. correct under 'sel.'
~Wieth sylfne~ (1978).--Under 'wieth' and 'gesittan' H. says 'wieth = near, by';
under 'self' he says 'opposite.'
~eow~ (2225) is omitted from the glossary.
~For duguethum~ (2502).--Under 'dugueth' H. translates this phrase, 'in
Tuechtigkeit'; under 'for,' by 'vor der edlen Kriegerschaar.'
~aer~ (2574).--Under 'wealdan' H. translates _aer_ by 'wo'; under 'motan,'
by 'da.' H. and S. suggest 'if' in both passages.
~Wunde~ (2726).--Under 'wund' H. says 'dative,' and under 'wael-bleate' he
says 'accus.' It is without doubt accus., parallel with 'benne.'
~Strengum gebaeded~ (3118).--Under 'strengo' H. says 'Strengum' = mit
Macht; under 'gebaeded' he translates 'von den Sehnen.' H. and S. correct
this discrepancy by rejecting the second reading.
~Bronda be lafe~ (3162).--A recent emendation. The fourth edition had
'bronda betost.' In the fifth edition the editor neglects to change the
glossary to suit the new emendation. See 'bewyrcan.'
| 67,286 | 1-98 | https://web.archive.org/web/20200920112844/https://www.novelguide.com/beowulf/summaries/line1-98 | Beowulf begins with the legends of the warrior kings of the Danes. The most famous was Shield Sheafson, the founder of the ruling house. He was revered by his own subjects, and outlying clans were forced to pay tribute to him. Shield had a son named Beow, who became famous throughout the region for his exploits. Shield died while still at the height of his powers. His warriors placed his body in a boat, piled it up with treasure, weapons and armor, and sent it out to sea. No one knows, the poet says, who salvaged all the treasure. After Shield's death, it was Beow's job to defend the Danish forts. He was well respected and ruled for a long time. He was succeeded by Halfdane, who had three sons, Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga, and an unnamed daughter who was married off to Onela the Swede. Hrothgar was an extremely successful king. People flocked to his service and he created a large army. He decided to build a huge hall, and intended it to be one of the wonders of the world. He called the hall Heorot. It was a magnificent, towering building. The poet states, however, that in the future it would be burned down during a battle between members of the same family. The poet introduces the story by giving some background information about the Danish warrior kings. This a way of introducing Hrothgar, who plays an important role in the story. In 1939, archeologists discovered at Sutton Hoo, in Suffolk, England, a buried ship of treasure dating probably from the seventh century A.D. The find included a warrior's sword, a great gold buckle, silver serving vessels, and other items. It showed that warriors and kings from this period were indeed buried with their riches, just as the poet describes in the lines about the death of Shield. | null | 451 | 1 |
Subsets and Splits