Tolkien Die Schlacht von Maldon und Die Heimkehr von Beorhtnoth

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-3-608-12294-7
Verlag: Klett-Cotta
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Deutsch, Englisch, 304 Seiten

»Höher sei der Wille, das Herz kühner, der Mut umso mehr, wie unsre Macht schwindet.« England im 10. Jahrhundert. Bei der Stadt Maldon trifft ein Wikingerheer auf die Verteidiger von Essex. Hiervon erzählt ein altenglisches Gedicht, das kurz nach der Schlacht entstand. Es inspirierte J.R.R. Tolkien zu einem eigenen Versdrama: Die Heimkehr von Beorhtnoth Beorhthelms Sohn. Es ist Nacht. Zwei Männer stolpern über das Schlachtfeld. Der eine ein junger Bursche mit dem Kopf voller Träume. Der andere ein alter Bauer, der schon viele Kämpfe gesehen hat. Während sie im Dunkeln nach der Leiche ihres Herrn suchen, erkunden sie im Gespräch die Spannungen zwischen Jugend und Alter, von heidnischer und christlicher Weltsicht, die Ideale von Treue und Gemeinschaft und die Frage, was Heldentum bedeutet. Tolkiens dramatischer Dialog wird ergänzt durch seine Übersetzung der altenglischen Vorlage, Notizen und Essays aus dem Umfeld und eine frühe Fassung des Stücks in gereimten Versen. Dabei sind wissenschaftliche Arbeit und literarisches Schaffen untrennbar verbunden und führen am Ende weiter in die Welt von Der Herr der Ringe. Enthalten ist »Die Heimkehr von Beorhtnoth Beorhthelms Sohn« in der englischen Fassung und erstmals in deutscher Übersetzung. Ein Extrakapitel behandelt die »Tradition der Versbildung im Altenglischen«.

J.R.R. Tolkien wurde am 3. Januar 1892 geboren. Er gilt als einer der angesehensten Philologen weltweit, vor allem ist er jedoch als Schöpfer von Mittelerde und Autor des legendären Der Herr der Ringe bekannt. Seine Bücher wurden in mehr als 80 Sprachen übersetzt und haben sich weltweit millionenfach verkauft. Ihm wurde ein Orden des Britischen Empire (CBE) und die Ehrendoktorwürde der Universität Oxford verliehen. Er starb 1973 im Alter von 81 Jahren.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Tolkien, J.R.R.

Weitere Mitwirkende

Pesch, Helmut W.

Leseproben

(II) The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son
The sound is heard of a man moving uncertainly and breathing noisily in the darkness. Suddenly a voice speaks, loudly and sharply. TORHTHELM Halt! What do you want? Hell take you! Speak! TÍDWALD Totta! I know you by your teeth rattling. TORHTHELM Why, Tída, you! The time seemed long alone among the lost. They lie so queer. I’ve watched and waited, till the wind sighing was like words whispered by waking ghosts that in my ears muttered. TÍDWALD And your eyes fancied barrow-wights and bogies. It’s a black darkness since the moon foundered; but mark my words: not far from here we’ll find the master, by all accounts. Tídwald lets out a faint beam from a dark-lantern. An owl hoots. A dark shape flits through the beam of light. Torhthelm starts back and overturns the lantern, which Tída had set on the ground. What ails you now? TORHTHELM Lord save us! Listen! TÍDWALD My lad, you’re crazed. Your fancies and your fears make foes of nothing. Help me to heave ’em! It’s heavy labour to lug them alone: long ones and short ones, the thick and the thin. Think less, and talk less of ghosts. Forget your gleeman’s stuff! Their ghosts are under ground, or else God has them; and wolves don’t walk as in Woden’s days, not here in Essex. If any there be, they’ll be two-legged. There, turn him over! An owl hoots again. It’s only an owl. TORHTHELM An ill-boding. Owls are omens. But I’m not afraid, not of fancied fears. A fool call me, but more men than I find the mirk gruesome among the dead unshrouded. It’s like the dim shadow, of heathen hell, in the hopeless kingdom where search is vain. We might seek forever and yet miss the master in this mirk, Tída. O lord beloved, where do you lie tonight, your head so hoar upon a hard pillow, and your limbs lying in long slumber? Tídwald lets out again the light of the dark-lantern. TÍDWALD Look here, my lad, where they lie thickest! Here! Lend a hand! This head we know! Wulfmær it is. I’ll wager aught not far did he fall from friend and master. TORHTHELM His sister-son! The songs tell us, ever near shall be at need nephew to uncle. TÍDWALD Nay, he’s not here – or he’s hewn out of ken. It was the other I meant, th’ Eastsaxon lad, Wulfstan’s youngster. It’s a wicked business to gather them ungrown. A gallant boy, too, and the makings of a man. TORHTHELM Have mercy on us! He was younger than I, by a year or more. TÍDWALD Here’s Aelfnoth, too, by his arm lying. TORHTHELM As he would have wished it. In work or play they were fast fellows, and faithful to their lord, as close to him as kin. TÍDWALD Curse this lamplight and my eyes’ dimness! My oath I’ll take they fell in his defence, and not far away now master lies. Move them gently! TORHTHELM Brave lads! But it’s bad when bearded men put shield at back and shun battle, running like roe-deer, while the red heathen beat down their boys. May the blast of Heaven light on the dastards that to death left them to England’s shame! And here’s Ælfwine: barely bearded, and his battle’s over. TÍDWALD That’s bad, Totta. He was a brave lordling, and we need his like: a new weapon of the old metal. As eager as fire, and as staunch as steel. Stern-tongued at times, and outspoken after Offa’s sort. TORHTHELM Offa! He’s silenced. Not all liked him; many would have muzzled him, had master let them. »There are cravens at council that crow proudly with the hearts of hens«: so I hear he said at the lord’s meeting. As lays remind us: »What at the mead man vows, when morning comes let him with deeds answer, or his drink vomit and a sot be shown.« But the songs wither, and the world worsens. I wish I’d been here, not left with the luggage and lazy thralls, cooks and sutlers! By the Cross, Tída, I loved him no less than any lord with him; and a poor freeman may prove in the end more tough when tested than titled earls who count back their kin to kings ere Woden. TÍDWALD You can talk, Totta! Your time’ll come, and it’ll look less easy than lays make it. Bitter taste has iron, and the bite of swords is cruel and cold, when you come to it. Then God guard you, if your glees falter! When your shield is shivered, between shame and death is hard choosing. Help me with this one! There, heave him over – the hound’s carcase, hulking heathen! TORHTHELM Hide it, Tída! Put the lantern out! He’s looking at me. I can’t abide his eyes bleak and evil as Grendel’s in the moon. TÍDWALD Ay, he’s a grim fellow, but he’s dead and done-for. Danes don’t trouble me save with swords and axes. They can smile or glare, once hell has them. Come, haul the next! TORHTHELM Look! Here’s a limb! A long yard and thick as three men’s thighs. TÍDWALD I thought as much. Now bow your head, and hold your babble for a moment, Totta! It’s the master at last. There is silence for a short while. Well, here he is – or what Heaven’s left us: the longest legs in the land, I guess. TORHTHELM His voice rises to a chant. His head was higher than the helm of kings with heathen crowns, his heart keener and his soul clearer than swords of heroes polished and proven: than plated gold his worth was greater. From the world has passed a prince peerless in peace and war, just in judgment, generous-handed as the golden lords of long ago. He has gone to God glory seeking, Beorhtnoth beloved. TÍDWALD Brave words my lad! The woven staves have yet worth in them for woeful hearts. But here’s work to do, ere the funeral begins. TORHTHELM I’ve found it, Tída! Here’s his sword lying! I could swear to it by the golden hilts. TÍDWALD I’m glad to hear it. How it was missed is a marvel. He is marred cruelly. Few tokens else shall we find on him; they’ve left us little of the Lord we knew. TORHTHELM Ah, woe and worse! The wolvish heathens have hewn off his head, and the hulk left us mangled with axes. What a murder it is, this bloody fighting! TÍDWALD Aye, that’s the battle for you, and no worse today than wars you sing of, when Fróda fell, and Finn was slain. The world wept then, as it weeps today: you can hear the tears through the harp’s twanging. Come, bend your back. We must bear away the cold leavings. Catch hold of the legs! Now lift – gently! Now lift again! They shuffle along slowly. TORHTHELM Dear still shall be this dead body, though men have marred it. Torhthelm’s voice rises again to a chant. Now mourn forever Saxon and English, from the sea’s margin to the western forest! The wall is fallen, women are weeping; the wood is blazing and the fire flaming as a far beacon. Build high the barrow his bones to keep! For here shall be hid both helm and sword; and to the ground be given golden corslet, and rich raiment and rings gleaming, wealth unbegrudged for the well-beloved; of the friends of men first and noblest, to his hearth-comrades help unfailing, to his folk the fairest father of peoples. Glory loved he; now glory earning his grave shall be green, while ground or sea, while word or woe in the world lasteth. TÍDWALD Good words enough, gleeman Totta! You laboured long as you lay, I guess, in the watches of the night, while the wise slumbered. But I’d rather have rest, and my rueful thoughts. These are Christian days, though the cross is heavy; Beorhtnoth we bear not Béowulf here: no pyres for him, nor piling of mounds; and the gold will be given to the good abbot. Let the monks mourn him and mass be chanted! With learned Latin they’ll lead him home, if we can bring him back. The body’s weighty! TORHTHELM Dead men drag earthward. Now down a spell! My back’s broken,...

Über Autor(innen)

Tolkien, J.R.R.
J.R.R. Tolkien wurde am 3. Januar 1892 geboren. Er gilt als einer der angesehensten Philologen weltweit, vor allem ist er jedoch als Schöpfer von Mittelerde und Autor des legendären Der Herr der Ringe bekannt. Seine Bücher wurden in mehr als 80 Sprachen übersetzt und haben sich weltweit millionenfach verkauft. Ihm wurde ein Orden des Britischen Empire (CBE) und die Ehrendoktorwürde der Universität Oxford verliehen. Er starb 1973 im Alter von 81 Jahren.

J.R.R. Tolkien wurde am 3. Januar 1892 geboren. Er gilt als einer der angesehensten Philologen weltweit, vor allem ist er jedoch als Schöpfer von Mittelerde und Autor des legendären Der Herr der Ringe bekannt. Seine Bücher wurden in mehr als 80 Sprachen übersetzt und haben sich weltweit millionenfach verkauft. Ihm wurde ein Orden des Britischen Empire (CBE) und die Ehrendoktorwürde der Universität Oxford verliehen. Er starb 1973 im Alter von 81 Jahren.