«Беовульф» Магия древнеанглийского языка. Том 1

his rage was enkindled. No respite now

for pact of peace! The poison-breath

of that foul worm first came forth from the cave,

hot reek-of-fight: the rocks resounded.

Stout by the stone-way his shield he raised,

lord of the Geats, against the loathed-one;

while with courage keen that coiled foe

came seeking strife. The sturdy king

had drawn his sword, not dull of edge,

heirloom old; and each of the two

felt fear of his foe, though fierce their mood.

Stoutly stood with his shield high-raised

the warrior king, as the worm now coiled

together amain: the mailed-one waited.

Now, spire by spire, fast sped and glided

that blazing serpent. The shield protected,

soul and body a shorter while

for the hero-king than his heart desired,

could his will have wielded the welcome respite

but once in his life! But Wyrd denied it,

and victory’s honors. – His arm he lifted

lord of the Geats, the grim foe smote

with atheling’s heirloom. Its edge was turned

brown blade, on the bone, and bit more feebly

than its noble master had need of then

in his baleful stress. – Then the barrow’s keeper

waxed full wild for that weighty blow,

cast deadly flames; wide drove and far

those vicious fires. No victor’s glory

the Geats’ lord boasted; his brand had failed,

naked in battle, as never it should,

excellent iron! – «Twas no easy path

that Ecgtheow’s honored heir must tread

over the plain to the place of the foe;

for against his will he must win a home

elsewhere far, as must all men, leaving

this lapsing life! – Not long it was

ere those champions grimly closed again.

The hoard-guard was heartened; high heaved his breast

once more; and by peril was pressed again,

enfolded in flames, the folk-commander!

Nor yet about him his band of comrades,

sons of athelings, armed stood

with warlike front: to the woods they bent them,

their lives to save. But the soul of one

with care was cumbered. Kinship true

can never be marred in a noble mind!

WIGLAF his name was, Weohstan’s son,

linden-thane loved, the lord of Scylfings,

Aelfhere’s kinsman. His king he now saw

with heat under helmet hard oppressed.

He minded the prizes his prince had given him,

wealthy seat of the Waegmunding line,

and folk-rights that his father owned

Not long he lingered. The linden yellow,

his shield, he seized; the old sword he drew: —

as heirloom of Eanmund earth-dwellers knew it,

who was slain by the sword-edge, son of Ohtere,

friendless exile, erst in fray

killed by Weohstan, who won for his kin

brown-bright helmet, breastplate ringed,

old sword of Eotens, Onela’s gift,

weeds of war of the warrior-thane,

battle-gear brave: though a brother’s child

had been felled, the feud was unfelt by Onela.

For winters this war-gear Weohstan kept,

breastplate and board, till his bairn had grown

earlship to earn as the old sire did:

then he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of battle,

portion huge, when he passed from life,

fared aged forth. For the first time now

with his leader-lord the liegeman young

was bidden to share the shock of battle.

Neither softened his soul, nor the sire’s bequest

weakened in war. So the worm found out

when once in fight the foes had met!

Wiglaf spake, – and his words were sage;

sad in spirit, he said to his comrades:—

«I remember the time, when mead we took,

what promise we made to this prince of ours

in the banquet-hall, to our breaker-of-rings,

for gear of combat to give him requital,

for hard-sword and helmet, if hap should bring

stress of this sort! Himself who chose us

from all his army to aid him now,

urged us to glory, and gave these treasures,

because he counted us keen with the spear

and hardy «neath helm, though this hero-work

our leader hoped unhelped and alone

to finish for us, – folk-defender

who hath got him glory greater than all men

for daring deeds! Now the day is come

that our noble master has need of the might

of warriors stout. Let us stride along

the hero to help while the heat is about him

glowing and grim! For God is my witness

I am far more fain the fire should seize

along with my lord these limbs of mine!

Unsuiting it seems our shields to bear

homeward hence, save here we essay

to fell the foe and defend the life

of the Weders’ lord. I wot «twere shame

on the law of our land if alone the king

out of Geatish warriors woe endured

and sank in the struggle! My sword and helmet,

breastplate and board, for us both shall serve!»

Through slaughter-reek strode he to succor his chieftain,

his battle-helm bore, and brief words spake:—

«Beowulf dearest, do all bravely,

as in youthful days of yore thou vowedst

that while life should last thou wouldst let no wise

thy glory droop! Now, great in deeds,

atheling steadfast, with all thy strength

shield thy life! I will stand to help thee.»

At the words the worm came once again,

murderous monster mad with rage,

with fire-billows flaming, its foes to seek,

the hated men. In heat-waves burned

that board to the boss, and the breastplate failed

to shelter at all the spear-thane young.

Yet quickly under his kinsman’s shield

went eager the earl, since his own was now

all burned by the blaze. The bold king again

had mind of his glory: with might his glaive

was driven into the dragon’s head, —

blow nerved by hate. But Naegling was shivered,

broken in battle was Beowulf’s sword,

old and gray. «Twas granted him not

that ever the edge of iron at all

could help him at strife: too strong was his hand,

so the tale is told, and he tried too far

with strength of stroke all swords he wielded,

though sturdy their steel: they steaded him nought.

Then for the third time thought on its feud

that folk-destroyer, fire-dread dragon,

and rushed on the hero, where room allowed,

battle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth

closed on his neck, and covered him

with waves of blood from his breast that welled.

«Twas now, men say, in his sovran’s need

that the earl made known his noble strain,

craft and keenness and courage enduring.

Heedless of harm, though his hand was burned,

hardy-hearted, he helped his kinsman.

A little lower the loathsome beast

he smote with sword; his steel drove in

bright and burnished; that blaze began

to lose and lessen. At last the king

wielded his wits again, war-knife drew,

a biting blade by his breastplate hanging,

and the Weders’-helm smote that worm asunder,

felled the foe, flung forth its life.

So had they killed it, kinsmen both,

athelings twain: thus an earl should be

in danger’s day! – Of deeds of valor

this conqueror’s-hour of the king was last,

of his work in the world. The wound began,

which that dragon-of-earth had erst inflicted,

to swell and smart; and soon he found

in his breast was boiling, baleful and deep,

pain of poison. The prince walked on,

wise in his thought, to the wall of rock;

then sat, and stared at the structure of giants,

where arch of stone and steadfast column

upheld forever that hall in earth.

Yet here must the hand of the henchman peerless

lave with water his winsome lord,

the king and conqueror covered with blood,

with struggle spent, and unspan his helmet.

Beowulf spake in spite of his hurt,

his mortal wound; full well he knew

his portion now was past and gone

of earthly bliss, and all had fled

of his file of days, and death was near:

«I would fain bestow on son of mine

this gear of war, were given me now

that any heir should after me come

of my proper blood. This people I ruled

fifty winters. No folk-king was there,

none at all, of the neighboring clans

who war would wage me with «warriors’-friends’

and threat me with horrors. At home I bided

what fate might come, and I cared for mine own;

feuds I sought not, nor falsely swore

ever on oath. For all these things,

though fatally wounded, fain am I!

From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me,

when life from my frame must flee away,

for killing of kinsmen! Now quickly go

and gaze on that hoard «neath the hoary rock,

Wiglaf loved, now the worm lies low,

sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved.

And fare in haste. I would fain behold

the gorgeous heirlooms, golden store,

have joy in the jewels and gems, lay down

softlier for sight of this splendid hoard

my life and the lordship I long have held.»

I have heard that swiftly the son of Weohstan

at wish and word of his wounded king, —

war-sick warrior, – woven mail-coat,

battle-sark, bore «neath the barrow’s roof.

Then the clansman keen, of conquest proud,

passing the seat, saw store of jewels

and glistening gold the ground along;

by the wall were marvels, and many a vessel

in the den of the dragon, the dawn-flier old:

unburnished bowls of bygone men

reft of richness; rusty helms

of the olden age; and arm-rings many

wondrously woven. – Such wealth of gold,

booty from barrow, can burden with pride

each human wight: let him hide it who will! —

His glance too fell on a gold-wove banner

high o’er the hoard, of handiwork noblest,

brilliantly broidered; so bright its gleam,

all the earth-floor he easily saw

and viewed all these vessels. No vestige now

was seen of the serpent: the sword had ta’en him.

Then, I heard, the hill of its hoard was reft,

old work of giants, by one alone;

he burdened his bosom with beakers and plate

at his own good will, and the ensign took,

brightest of beacons. – The blade of his lord

– its edge was iron – had injured deep

one that guarded the golden hoard

many a year and its murder-fire

spread hot round the barrow in horror-billows

at midnight hour, till it met its doom.

Hasted the herald, the hoard so spurred him

his track to retrace; he was troubled by doubt,

high-souled hero, if haply he’d find

alive, where he left him, the lord of Weders,

weakening fast by the wall of the cave.

So he carried the load. His lord and king

he found all bleeding, famous chief

at the lapse of life. The liegeman again

plashed him with water, till point of word

broke through the breast-hoard. Beowulf spake,

sage and sad, as he stared at the gold. —

«For the gold and treasure, to God my thanks,

to the Wielder-of-Wonders, with words I say,

for what I behold, to Heaven’s Lord,

for the grace that I give such gifts to my folk

or ever the day of my death be run!

Now I’ve bartered here for booty of treasure

the last of my life, so look ye well

to the needs of my land! No longer I tarry.

A barrow bid ye the battle-fanned raise

for my ashes. «Twill shine by the shore of the flood,

to folk of mine memorial fair

on Hrones Headland high uplifted,

that ocean-wanderers oft may hail

Beowulf’s Barrow, as back from far

they drive their keels o’er the darkling wave.»

From his neck he unclasped the collar of gold,

valorous king, to his vassal gave it

with bright-gold helmet, breastplate, and ring,

to the youthful thane: bade him use them in joy.

«Thou art end and remnant of all our race

the Waegmunding name. For Wyrd hath swept them,

all my line, to the land of doom,

earls in their glory: I after them go.»

This word was the last which the wise old man

harbored in heart ere hot death-waves

of balefire he chose. From his bosom fled

his soul to seek the saints’ reward.

IT was heavy hap for that hero young

on his lord beloved to look and find him

lying on earth with life at end,

sorrowful sight. But the slayer too,

awful earth-dragon, empty of breath,

lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure,

could the writhing monster rule it more.

For edges of iron had ended its days,

hard and battle-sharp, hammers’ leaving;

and that flier-afar had fallen to ground

hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near,

no longer lusty aloft to whirl

at midnight, making its merriment seen,

proud of its prizes: prone it sank

by the handiwork of the hero-king.

Forsooth among folk but few achieve,

– though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me,

and never so daring in deed of valor, —

the perilous breath of a poison-foe

to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall,

whenever his watch the warden keeps

bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid

the price of death for that precious hoard;

and each of the foes had found the end

of this fleeting life. Befell erelong

that the laggards in war the wood had left,

trothbreakers, cowards, ten together,

fearing before to flourish a spear

in the sore distress of their sovran lord.

Now in their shame their shields they carried,

armor of fight, where the old man lay;

and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat

at his sovran’s shoulder, shieldsman good,

to wake him with water. Nowise it availed.

Though well he wished it, in world no more

could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles

nor baffle the will of all-wielding God.

Doom of the Lord was law o’er the deeds

of every man, as it is to-day.

Grim was the answer, easy to get,

from the youth for those that had yielded to fear!

Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan, —

mournful he looked on those men unloved:—

«Who sooth will speak, can say indeed

that the ruler who gave you golden rings

and the harness of war in which ye stand

– for he at ale-bench often-times

bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate,

lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear

which near of far he could find to give, —

threw away and wasted these weeds of battle,

on men who failed when the foemen came!

Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms

venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder,

God, gave him grace that he got revenge

sole with his sword in stress and need.

To rescue his life, «twas little that I

could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made

(hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman.

Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck

that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly

flowed from its head. – Too few the heroes

in throe of contest that thronged to our king!

Now gift of treasure and girding of sword,

joy of the house and home-delight

shall fail your folk; his freehold-land

every clansman within your kin

shall lose and leave, when lords highborn

hear afar of that flight of yours,

a fameless deed. Yea, death is better

for liegemen all than a life of shame!»

That battle-toil bade he at burg to announce,

at the fort on the cliff, where, full of sorrow,

all the morning earls had sat,

daring shieldsmen, in doubt of twain:

would they wail as dead, or welcome home,

their lord beloved? Little kept back

of the tidings new, but told them all,

the herald that up the headland rode. —

«Now the willing-giver to Weder folk

in death-bed lies; the Lord of Geats

on the slaughter-bed sleeps by the serpent’s deed!

And beside him is stretched that slayer-of-men

with knife-wounds sick: no sword availed

on the awesome thing in any wise

to work a wound. There Wiglaf sitteth,

Weohstan’s bairn, by Beowulf’s side,

the living earl by the other dead,

and heavy of heart a head-watch keeps

o’er friend and foe. – Now our folk may look

for waging of war when once unhidden

to Frisian and Frank the fall of the king

is spread afar. – The strife began

when hot on the Hugas Hygelac fell

and fared with his fleet to the Frisian land.

Him there the Hetwaras humbled in war,

plied with such prowess their power o’erwhelming

that the bold-in-battle bowed beneath it

and fell in fight. To his friends no wise

could that earl give treasure! And ever since

the Merowings’ favor has failed us wholly.

Nor aught expect I of peace and faith

from Swedish folk. «Twas spread afar

how Ongentheow reft at Ravenswood

Haethcyn Hrethling of hope and life,

when the folk of Geats for the first time sought

in wanton pride the Warlike-Scylfings.

Soon the sage old sire of Ohtere,

ancient and awful, gave answering blow;

the sea-king he slew, and his spouse redeemed,

his good wife rescued, though robbed of her gold,

mother of Ohtere and Onela.

Then he followed his foes, who fled before him

sore beset and stole their way,

bereft of a ruler, to Ravenswood.

With his host he besieged there what swords had left,

the weary and wounded; woes he threatened

the whole night through to that hard-pressed throng:

some with the morrow his sword should kill,

some should go to the gallows-tree

for rapture of ravens. But rescue came

with dawn of day for those desperate men

when they heard the horn of Hygelac sound,

tones of his trumpet; the trusty king

had followed their trail with faithful band.

THE bloody swath of Swedes and Geats

and the storm of their strife, were seen afar,

how folk against folk the fight had wakened.

The ancient king with his atheling band

sought his citadel, sorrowing much:

Ongentheow earl went up to his burg.

He had tested Hygelac’s hardihood,

the proud one’s prowess, would prove it no longer,

defied no more those fighting-wanderers

nor hoped from the seamen to save his hoard,

his bairn and his bride: so he bent him again,

old, to his earth-walls. Yet after him came

with slaughter for Swedes the standards of Hygelac

o’er peaceful plains in pride advancing,

till Hrethelings fought in the fenced town.

Then Ongentheow with edge of sword,

the hoary-bearded, was held at bay,

and the folk-king there was forced to suffer

Eofor’s anger. In ire, at the king

Wulf Wonreding with weapon struck;

and the chieftain’s blood, for that blow, in streams

flowed «neath his hair. No fear felt he,

stout old Scylfing, but straightway repaid

in better bargain that bitter stroke

and faced his foe with fell intent.

Nor swift enough was the son of Wonred

answer to render the aged chief;

too soon on his head the helm was cloven;

blood-bedecked he bowed to earth,

and fell adown; not doomed was he yet,

and well he waxed, though the wound was sore.

Then the hardy Hygelac-thane,

when his brother fell, with broad brand smote,

giants’ sword crashing through giants’-helm

across the shield-wall: sank the king,

his folk’s old herdsman, fatally hurt.

There were many to bind the brother’s wounds

and lift him, fast as fate allowed

his people to wield the place-of-war.

But Eofor took from Ongentheow,

earl from other, the iron-breastplate,

hard sword hilted, and helmet too,

and the hoar-chief’s harness to Hygelac carried,

who took the trappings, and truly promised

rich fee «mid folk, – and fulfilled it so.

For that grim strife gave the Geatish lord,

Hrethel’s offspring, when home he came,

to Eofor and Wulf a wealth of treasure,

Each of them had a hundred thousand

in land and linked rings; nor at less price reckoned

mid-earth men such mighty deeds!

And to Eofor he gave his only daughter

in pledge of grace, the pride of his home.

«Such is the feud, the foeman’s rage,

death-hate of men: so I deem it sure

that the Swedish folk will seek us home

for this fall of their friends, the fighting-Scylfings,

when once they learn that our warrior leader

lifeless lies, who land and hoard

ever defended from all his foes,

furthered his folk’s weal, finished his course

a hardy hero. – Now haste is best,

that we go to gaze on our Geatish lord,

and bear the bountiful breaker-of-rings

to the funeral pyre. No fragments merely

shall burn with the warrior. Wealth of jewels,

gold untold and gained in terror,

treasure at last with his life obtained,

all of that booty the brands shall take,

fire shall eat it. No earl must carry

memorial jewel. No maiden fair

shall wreathe her neck with noble ring:

nay, sad in spirit and shorn of her gold,

oft shall she pass o’er paths of exile

now our lord all laughter has laid aside,

all mirth and revel. Many a spear

morning-cold shall be clasped amain,

lifted aloft; nor shall lilt of harp

those warriors wake; but the wan-hued raven,

fain o’er the fallen, his feast shall praise

and boast to the eagle how bravely he ate

when he and the wolf were wasting the slain.»

So he told his sorrowful tidings,

and little he lied, the loyal man

of word or of work. The warriors rose;

sad, they climbed to the Cliff-of-Eagles,

went, welling with tears, the wonder to view.

Found on the sand there, stretched at rest,

their lifeless lord, who had lavished rings

of old upon them. Ending-day

had dawned on the doughty-one; death had seized

in woful slaughter the Weders’ king.

There saw they, besides, the strangest being,

loathsome, lying their leader near,

prone on the field. The fiery dragon,

fearful fiend, with flame was scorched.

Reckoned by feet, it was fifty measures

in length as it lay. Aloft erewhile

it had revelled by night, and anon come back,

seeking its den; now in death’s sure clutch

it had come to the end of its earth-hall joys.

By it there stood the stoups and jars;

dishes lay there, and dear-decked swords

eaten with rust, as, on earth’s lap resting,

a thousand winters they waited there.

For all that heritage huge, that gold

of bygone men, was bound by a spell,

so the treasure-hall could be touched by none

of human kind, – save that Heaven’s King,

God himself, might give whom he would,

Helper of Heroes, the hoard to open, —

even such a man as seemed to him meet.

A PERILOUS path, it proved, he trod

who heinously hid, that hall within,

wealth under wall! Its watcher had killed

one of a few, and the feud was avenged

in woful fashion. Wondrous seems it,

what manner a man of might and valor

oft ends his life, when the earl no longer

in mead-hall may live with loving friends.

So Beowulf, when that barrow’s warden

he sought, and the struggle; himself knew not

in what wise he should wend from the world at last.

For princes potent, who placed the gold,

with a curse to doomsday covered it deep,

so that marked with sin the man should be,

hedged with horrors, in hell-bonds fast,

racked with plagues, who should rob their hoard.

Yet no greed for gold, but the grace of heaven,

ever the king had kept in view.

Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan:—

«At the mandate of one, oft warriors many

sorrow must suffer; and so must we.

The people’s-shepherd showed not aught

of care for our counsel, king beloved!

That guardian of gold he should grapple not, urged we,

but let him lie where he long had been

in his earth-hall waiting the end of the world,

the hest of heaven. – This hoard is ours

but grievously gotten; too grim the fate

which thither carried our king and lord.

I was within there, and all I viewed,