Graduate Work

Beowulf and Beyond
Scott Hays

‘The Wanderer’

Upon my first reading of The Wanderer, I was immediately struck by what I considered to be basic Christian tenets scattered throughout a poem purportedly written down during the early part of the 10th century; for example, the issue of man’s struggle to find favor, refuge, and comfort in something greater than himself. It then surprised me to learn that many literary critics think the poem was written by two separate individuals: one Anglo-Saxon from a pagan, heroic culture, the other most likely a Christian. And that any proclamations of faith in God were merely afterthoughts by the Christian writer—bookends, if you will—insofar as they stood in sharp contrast to the style and tone of that part of the text (mostly the body) with an overwhelming lack of faith.

This particular argument seems counterintuitive to me. I’m of the opinion the entire poem was written by one person, not two, and most likely someone new to the Christian faith, and that there’s this wonderful blending of pagan and Christian culture throughout the entire text.

Early Anglo-Saxon Christians had to face the historical fact that Christianity itself was not particularly old, writes Thomas D. Hill, The Christian Language and Theme of Beowulf. Christianity was introduced in England nearly 400 years earlier than when The Wanderer was purportedly written. Hill argues that one of the ways medieval writers dealt with the problem of paganism and its consequences was to “pretend that the history of their nation began with the conversion to Christianity.”

Although we don’t have the full corpus of Anglo-Saxon literature, Hill’s observation seems to carry significant weight when one executes a traditional reading of The Wanderer.

For openers, it seems clear to most critics that the narrator is indeed struggling with a lack of faith in something more than himself, something more than the worldly possessions from his pagan culture. To darkness he had lost his lord (lowercase “L”)—for whom he devoted his life—and thus wanders aimlessly across the seaways and through his share of “winters in this world” (The Wanderer 66) in search of another. . . lord.

This would not be an incorrect reading. But something deeper is going on here as the poet presupposes a pagan, heroic nation with a prior conversion to Christianity. For example, the last sentence of the opening stanza speaks of his fate (and perhaps the fate of those reading his narrative), and how it has been established—preordained, if you will—by God. Or toward the end of the poem when the wanderer speaks of hardships on this Middle-Earth. /All is the earth-realm laden with hardship, fate of creation turns world under heaven/ (107-108).

Doubtless, the poet is trying to appeal to the reader’s cultural connection to himself by evoking this sense that wyrd (or unknowable fate) and God behave much in the same way. There’s a sense that the wanderer has become an extended metaphor for all members of his pagan society who have lost faith in the old, traditional conventions of life that ultimately could bring favor, refuge, and comfort. And so when the poet speaks of fate (four references in the Jonathan A. Glenn translation), he speaks equally of God.

Furthermore, the wanderer states up front that “Among the living none now remains to whom I dare my inmost thought clearly reveal” (9-11). What exactly are these innermost thoughts, and why can’t he share them with the living? It appears as though he’s feeling sorrow at having lost his lord (lowercase “L”), his comitatus or hall-warriors, and his treasure-taking. He also has lost his ability to share memories of communal consciousness in the mead-hall, and thus it would be shameful for him to show weakness or lack of courage as a warrior by revealing these other, Christian thoughts.

If the only thought in the wanderer’s mind is that he wishes to be back with his fellow warriors, what reason would he have to stop himself from expressing exactly this? Yes, he’s had his hard times, his memories of battles and death. But the wanderer must be thinking something else, something that he feels he truly should not express, at least not openly. This particular strategy would seems to endear him as someone who should be admired by other members of his Anglo-Saxon society.

Here’s yet another example where the wanderer is slowly coming to terms with the idea that spirituality will eventually be his ultimate savior—not wealth or glory-seeking, not even the kind of “feast” he once shared with the hall-warriors from his past.

It should be noted, by the way, that the wanderer uses this word “feast” not once, but twice in the poem: once to express how the friends among his youth once received him at the feast (37), and a second time as he longs for the “feast-seats” of his past (94).

When I first read these lines, they reminded me of the handful of references in the Bible that use the word feast, and in comparable handling. Consider this line from Proverbs 15:15 (King James Version): “All the days of the afflicted are evil: but he that is of a merry heart hath a continual feast”; or this line from John 7:37 (King James Version): “In the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried, saying, ‘If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink.’”

Do not these passages from the Bible serve well the wanderer's journey toward his new Lord (uppercase “L”)? The implication here is that our wanderer, in effect, still yearns for the hall feasting but that his underlying impulse is to gain a place at God’s table, even if he doesn’t voice this specific request. The wanderer, in effect, surrenders in silent prayer to an attitude the author would have his readers reach, as well—that God is almighty, and that the possessions of the Anglo-Saxon culture are fleeting, at best.

The overall narrative structure of this poem allows the wanderer to both epitomize the heroic warrior of Anglo-Saxon society, and serve as the conduit from that pagan society to a Christian one. The wanderer doesn’t acknowledge any heavenly power such as God, per se. But clearly he’s searching—dare I say, even longing—for someone else to whom he can offer his devotion and allegiance. Why, then, should it surprise us when toward the end of the poem, when our lonely wanderer has lost everything on this Middle-Earth, he finds his new Lord (uppercase “L”), a “Father in Heaven” who can offer him the favor, refuge, and comfort he’s been seeking, but apparently unable to find.

Consider carefully Jonathan Glenn’s translation of lines 109-111: /Here goldhoard passes, here friendship passes, here mankind passes, here kinsman passes: all does this earth-frame turn worthless./

Our wanderer’s life has, in fact, become idle and empty.

The entire poems seem to epitomize a permanent journey into the Christian culture. Being exiled was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to the wanderer, for he now has an understanding of life which will guide him during his remaining time on earth. Toward the end of the poem, the wanderer says, /All is the earth-realm laden with hardship, fate of creation turns world under heaven/ (107-108).

Is he suggesting the hardships that men face here among the living are necessary for wisdom, maybe even for spiritual truth and maturity? Though the wanderer has reservations about letting go of the past—a past where earthly wealth was desirable and friends were the essence of living—he clearly espouses the extraordinarily Christian concept that there’s only one Lord who will never desert him and always be there when he needs him. He has now completed the cycle which he began in the beginning of the poem when he says /Well will it be to him who seeks favor, refuge and comfort, from the Father in heaven, where all fastness stands/ (115-117).

One could easily argue that the wanderer’s belief in a Christian God is not in question at any time. The poem itself seems to reflect upon a dying culture that can only survive with a new set of beliefs. Yes, there’s a total lack of hope in anything of the former way of life, yet in the end it’s exactly this lack of hope that I feel should compel readers to one and one only interpretation of the poem: that it was written by a Christian for those who have yet to embrace the new faith.

WORKS CITED

The Wanderer
Often the lone-dweller waits for favor,
mercy of the Measurer, though he unhappy
across the seaways long time must
stir with his hands the rime-cold sea,
tread exile-tracks. Fate is established! 5
So the earth-stepper spoke, mindful of hardships,
of fierce slaughter, the fall of kin:
Oft must I, alone, the hour before dawn
lament my care. Among the living
none now remains to whom I dare 10
my inmost thought clearly reveal.
I know it for truth: it is in a warrior
noble strength to bind fast his spirit,
guard his wealth-chamber, think what he will.
Weary mind never withstands fate, 15
nor does troubled thought bring help.
Therefore, glory-seekers oft bind fast
in breast-chamber a dreary mind.
So must I my heart--
often wretched with cares, deprived of homeland, 20
far from kin--fasten with fetters,
since long ago earth covered
my lord in darkness, and I, wretched,
thence, mad and desolate as winter,
over the wave's binding sought, hall-dreary, 25
a giver of treasure, where far or near
I might find one who in mead-hall
might accept my affection, or on me, friendless,
might wish consolation, offer me joy.
He knows who tries it how cruel is sorrow, 30
a bitter companion, to the one who has few
concealers of secrets, beloved friends.
The exile-track claims him, not twisted gold,
his soul-chamber frozen, not fold's renown.
He remembers hall-warriors and treasure-taking, 35
how among youth his gold-friend
received him at the feast. Joy has all perished!
So he knows, who must of his lord-friend,
of loved one, lore-sayings long time forgo.
When sorrow and sleep at once together 40
a wretched lone-dweller often bind,
it seems in his mind that he his man-lord
clasps and kisses, and on knee lays
hands and head, as when sometimes before 45
When the friendless man awakens again,
he sees before him fallow waves,
sea-birds bathing, wings spreading,
rime and snow falling mingled with hail.
Then are the heart's wounds ever more heavy, 50
sore after sweet--sorrow is renewed--
when memory of kin turns through the mind;
he greets with glee-staves, eagerly surveys
companions of men. Again they swim away!
Spirits of seafarers bring but seldom 55
known speech and song. Care is renewed
to the one who frequently sends
over the wave's binding, weary, his thought.
Therefore, I know not, throughout this world,
why thought in my mind does not grow dark 60
when the life of men I fully think through,
how they suddenly abandoned the hall,
headstrong retainers. This Middle-Earth
each of all days so fails and falls
that a man gains no wisdom before he is dealt 65
his winters in the world. The wise man is patient,
not too hot-hearted, nor too quick tongued,
nor a warrior too weak, nor too foolhardy,
neither frightened nor fain, nor yet too wealth-greedy,
nor ever of boasts too eager, before he knows enough. 70
A warrior should wait when he speaks a vow,
until, bold in mind, he clearly knows
whither mind's thought after will turn.
A wise man perceives how ghastly it will be
when all this world's weal desolate stands, 75
as now here and there across this Middle-Earth
blown on by wind walls stand
covered with rime, the buildings storm-shaken.
The wine-halls molder, the wielder lies down
deprived of rejoicing, warband all fallen, 80
proud by the wall. Some war took utterly,
carried on forth-way; one a bird bore off
over the high holm; one the hoar wolf
dealt over to death, one a warrior,
drear-faced, hid in an earth-cave. 85
Thus the Shaper of men destroyed this earth-yard,
until, lacking the cries, the revels of men,
old giants' work stood worthless.
When he with wise mind this wall-stone
and this dark life deeply thinks through, 90
the wise one in mind oft remembers afar
many a carnage, and this word he speaks:
Where is the horse? Where the young warrior? Where now the gift-giver?
Where are the feast-seats? Where all the hall-joys?
Alas for the bright cup! Alas byrnied warrior! 95
Alas the lord's glory! How this time hastens,
grows dark under night-helm, as it were not!
Stands now behind the dear warband
a wondrous high wall, varied with snake-shapes,
warriors fortaken by might of the ash-spears, 100
corpse-hungry weapons--famous that fate--
and this stone-cliff storms dash on;
snowstorm, attacking, binds all the ground,
tumult of winter, when the dark one comes,
night-shadow blackens, sends from the north 105
rough hailstorm in anger toward men.
All is the earth-realm laden with hardship,
fate of creation turns world under heaven.
Here goldhoard passes, here friendship passes,
here mankind passes, here kinsman passes: 110
all does this earth-frame turn worthless!
So said the one wise in mind, at secret conclaves sat him apart.
Good, he who keeps faith, nor too quickly his grief
from his breast makes known, except he, noble, knows how beforehand
to do cure with courage. Well will it be 115
to him who seeks favor, refuge and comfort,
from the Father in heaven, where all fastness stands.

Translation copyright © 1982, Jonathan A. Glenn

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