Skaldic Verse and the Poetics of Saga Narrative

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SKALDIC VERSE AND THE POETICS OF SAGA NARRATIVE

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SKALDIC VERSE AND THE POETICS OF SAGA N A R R AT I V E HEATHER O’DONOGHUE

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford ox2 6dp Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With ofﬁces in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York © Heather O’Donoghue 2005 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2005 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available ISBN 0–19–926732–4 978–0–19–926732–3 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Typeset by SNP Best-set Typesetter Ltd., Hong Kong Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Biddles Ltd. King’s Lynn, Norfolk

for Ursula Dronke

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I am, of course, deeply grateful to Ursula Dronke. It has been a privilege to enjoy her wisdom, scholarship, and generous support throughout the writing of this book. Very many others have contributed in different ways: my students and colleagues, my family, the staff at Oxford University Press; it would be invidious to name only most of them. But special thanks are due to my colleague Jess Smith, who put so much of her time and expertise into helping me with the preparation of the typescript. Heather O’Donoghue, Oxford 2005

CONTENTS Abbreviations Introduction

viii 1

1 The Role of Verses in Norse Historical Works

10

2 The Community and the Individual in E YRBYGGJA SAGA

78

3 Speech, Silence, and Subjectivity in G ÍSLA SAGA

136

4 G RETTIS SAGA and the Fictionalization of Biography

180

Epilogue: H RAFNKELS SAGA and the Hero without Verse

228

Bibliography

242

Index

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A B B R E V I AT I O N S Ágrip Bjarnar saga Eyrbyggja saga Fagrskinna Flateyjarbók Fóstbrœðra saga Gísla saga Grettis saga Heiðarvíga saga Hkr I, II, III Hrafnkels saga Legendary Saga Morkinskinna

Skj

Bjarni Einarsson (ed.), Ágrip af Noregs konunga sögum. Fagrskinna. Nóregs konunga tal, Íslenzk fornrit, 29 (Reykjavík, 1984). Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, in Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Borgﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 3 (Reykjavík, 1938). Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Pórðarson (eds.), Eyrbyggja saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 4 (Reykjavík, 1935). See Ágrip. Guðbrandur Vigfússon and C. R. Unger (eds.), Flateyjarbók, 3 vols. (Oslo, 1860–8). In Björn K. Pórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Vestﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 6 (Reykjavík, 1943). Gísla saga Súrssonar, in Björn K. Pórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Vestﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 6 (Reykjavík, 1943). Guðni Jónsson (ed.), Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit, 7 (Reykjavík, 1936). In Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Borgﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 3 (Reykjavík, 1938). Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (ed.), Heimskringla, Íslenzk fornrit, 26–8 (Reykjavík, 1941–51). Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða, in Jón Jóhannesson (ed.), Austﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 11 (Reykjavík, 1950). Anne Heinrichs et al. (eds. and trans.), Die ‘Legendarische Saga’ über Olaf den Heiligen (Heidelberg, 1982). Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade (eds.), Morkinskinna: The Earliest Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), Islandica, 51 (Ithaca, NY, 2000). Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Den norske–islandske Skjaldedigtning, A I–II Tekst efter Håndskrifterne, B I–II Rettet Tekst (Copenhagen, 1912–15).

INTRODUCTION All the major genres of Old Norse–Icelandic prose which are based on native sources—kings’ sagas, family sagas, and legendary sagas ( fornaldarsögur)—contain works in which verses are quoted in the prose narrative. In this, Old Icelandic literature belongs to an ancient and widespread European tradition, which embraces the early Irish and Welsh sagas, and the prosimetrum of medieval Latin writings. Vernacular Scandinavian usage and that of learned Latin meet in Saxo Grammaticus.1 A full investigation of the origins of mixed verse and prose narrative in European tradition is beyond the scope of this book. The form certainly goes back to pre-Germanic times, and it has been argued that it is the earliest form of Indo-European narrative.2 The use of verse in early Irish prose narrative is remarkably similar to Old Norse–Icelandic tradition, and the mixed form in Irish used to be regarded as a survival of ‘a partial or arrested form of a literary evolution which has run its full course in Indian literature’.3 Prosimetrum in Icelandic literature might then be understood as the result either of a similarly ‘arrested development’, or even of direct inﬂuence from the neighbouring Celtic tradition. But more recent scholars have challenged the supposed Sanskrit roots of early Irish literature, preferring to look at Latin and biblical models,4 and the primacy of prosimetrum in Sanskrit literature has itself been 1 For a summary of prosimetrum in Latin works of the early Middle Ages, see Karsten Friis-Jensen, Saxo Grammaticus as a Latin Poet (Rome, 1987), 29–38. 2 Ernst Windisch, Die Geschichte der Sanskrit-Philologie und indischen Altertumskunde, Grundriss der indo-arischen Philologie und Altertumskunde, i (Strasburg, 1917), ii (Berlin/Leipzig, 1920). 3 Proinsas Mac Cana, ‘Notes on the Combination of Prose and Verse in Early Irish Narrative’, in Stephen N. Tranter and Hildegarde L. C. Tristram (eds.), Early Irish Literature—Media and Communication. Mundlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit in der frühen irischen Literatur, Script Oralia, 10 (Tübingen, 1989), 125–47. Mac Cana is here summarizing not his own views, but the position of scholars such as Windisch. His survey in this article of the range of verse function in early Irish provides an excellent illustration of how similar it is to the Old Norse–Icelandic tradition. 4 See e.g. ch. 1, ‘Medieval scholars and modern nativists’, in Kim McCone, Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature (Maynooth, 1990), esp. 13–16.

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INTRODUCTION

re-examined.5 As Jan de Vries points out, it seems to be inherent in the human literary condition that ‘poetry precedes prose, and not the other way round’, a view he characterizes as ‘almost obvious’.6 Thus, according to de Vries, it is likely that the earliest forms of both Norse and Irish story-telling were in verse, and gradually ‘dissolved’ into prose, perhaps leaving behind traces of the poetry which might then form part of new prosimetrical narratives. Whatever its ultimate origins, it is clear that prosimetrum was established as a literary mode right from the beginnings of Old Norse–Icelandic as well as Irish literature, and that the earliest authors of extant saga narratives most probably inherited an oral model of such mixed narration. For instance, in his excellent survey of the extent of prosimetrum in Old Norse–Icelandic literature, ‘The Prosimetrum of Icelandic Saga and Some Relatives’, Joseph Harris considers whether what we now know as Eddaic verse may have been ‘internally prosimetrical’, rather than its Begleitprosa, or framing prose, being ‘a phenomenon pertaining only to the written stage’—that is, explicatory material added by the compilator of the manuscript.7 Harris also discusses the prosimetrum of the fornaldarsögur, suggesting that the original form of extant fornaldarsögur with verses must have been itself prosimetrical.8 A detailed analysis of the relationship between the verse and the prose in both Eddaic material and fornaldarsögur in an attempt to establish whether or not they may be regarded as the end products of a long tradition of pre-literary narration would make an important contribution to our understanding of the early stages of Old Norse–Icelandic prosimetrum. But my purpose here is different. Though the authors of Norse historical writings and family sagas may well have been inﬂuenced by such prosimetrical story-telling traditions, their works cannot be part of any continuum in the transmission of timehonoured narratives, since their primary subject matter—expressed in both their narrative prose and their skaldic verses—belongs not to the distant past of legendary or even mythical times, but to a rela5 For a recent account of the debate, see Michael Witzel, ‘Sarama and the Panis: Origins of Prosimetric Exchange in Archaic India’, in Joseph Harris and Karl Reichl (eds.), Prosimetrum: Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Narrative in Prose and Verse (Cambridge, 1997), 387–409. 6 Jan de Vries, Heroic Song and Heroic Legend, trans. B. J. Timmer (London, 1963), 92. 7 8 Harris and Reichl (eds.), Prosimetrum, 131–63 (133). Ibid. 146.

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tively recent historical period. These are new narratives, with a clear terminus ante quem. And as de Vries points out, the verses in such sagas are not the primary carrier of the main body of the narrative: they are secondary to the prose, fulﬁlling either a corroborative or an ornamental role.9 There is a fundamental distinction between verses which corroborate what is stated in the prose, so functioning as a footnote to the narrative, and those which, broadly speaking, ornament it—most often, by serving as the direct speech of the characters in the narrative, ‘having the character partly of lyrics, partly of dialogues’ as de Vries puts it.10 This has often been noted.11 But whether the verses function in a corroborative or an ornamental way, the important point is that in Norse historical writings and in family sagas, they are not remnants of age-old story elements, but purposeful additions to new narratives, and exactly what these introduced verses contribute to the narrative—especially those which function as lyric or dialogue—is the focus of this book. How and when such dialogue verses were incorporated in the extant saga narratives can be a very difﬁcult question. When verses function as corroborating footnotes, a clear distinction between the verses and the prose in terms of authorship, provenance, and age is apparent and, as we shall see, authors of Norse histories will often provide such information in an explicit way by naming the author of the verse and the long poem from which it has ostensibly been taken. But when the verses function rather as dialogue in the narrative, they are almost always absorbed into their new uniﬁed—if prosimetrical—textual context. It may be that verse and prose do actually share authorship, provenance, and age—that is, that the dialogue verses may have been invented or commissioned especially for their enclosing narrative. But in many if not most cases, it seems likely that a 9 De Vries, Heroic Song, 92. As Friis-Jensen points out (Saxo Grammaticus, 50), Andreas Heusler was the ﬁrst to draw attention to the vital importance of this distinction. See Andreas Heusler, ‘Der Dialog in der altgermanischen erzählenden Dichtung’, in Kleine Schriften, ii (Berlin, 1969), 611–89. 10 De Vries, Heroic Song, 92. 11 For two seminal discussions of this distinction, see Bjarni Einarsson, ‘On the Role of Verse in Saga Literature’, Medieval Scandinavia, 7 (1974), 118–25, and Alois Wolf, ‘Zur Rolle der Vísur in der altnordischen Prosa’, in Osmund Menghin and Hermann M. Ölberg (eds.), Festschrift Leonhard C. Franz zum 70. Geburtstag (Innsbruck, 1965), 459–84. Joseph Harris uses the terms ‘evidential’ and ‘dramatic’ to characterize the two varieties, in Harris and Reichl (eds.), Prosimetrum, 131–63.

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INTRODUCTION

pre-existing verse—together, perhaps, with an accompanying prose framework—has been freshly incorporated into saga narrative. In such cases, the verse is deracinated from whatever original context it may once have had; its autonomy is effaced and its provenance is lost. The saga author takes it over and implicitly attributes its composition to the saga character he depicts as speaking it, and its genesis to that moment in the saga narrative. Once this textual strategy has been accomplished, it is of course very difﬁcult to distinguish preexisting skaldic stanzas from those which have been created especially for their narrative context, or a verse’s traditional prose framework from later saga prose. Attempts to consider whether the skaldic verses in saga narratives pre-date or post-date the composition of the prose—an exercise Russell Poole has called ‘textual stratigraphy’12—may have vital implications for reconstructing the genesis of saga narratives, and thus for understanding their compositional origins.13 But the question I want to address here is not the origin of the saga author’s materials, but the effect that has been achieved with them. My focus is on the aesthetic contribution of the poetry in written saga narratives, that is, the role of verse in the poetics of saga composition. The Icelandic saga is, as Russell Poole well describes it, ‘an uncertain and shifting blend of Story and History’,14 and the distinction between corroborative verses and ornamental verses corresponds broadly (though not exactly, as we shall see) to a distinction between the historical and the ﬁctional in Icelandic literature, a difﬁcult borderline—or better, perhaps, interface—which lies at the very heart of saga writing. Thus, close attention to the ways in which verses are incorporated into saga narrative can help us track varying degrees of historicity and ﬁctionality in a work. As I shall discuss more fully in due course, the terms ‘historical’ and ‘ﬁctional’ are clearly problematic ones: in what follows I use them to refer to modes of textual 12 ‘The Relation between Verses and Prose in Hallfreðar saga and Gunnlaugs saga’, in Russell Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Berlin and New York, 2001), 125–71 (125). 13 See Russell Poole, ‘Compositional Technique in some Verses from Gunnlaugs saga’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 80 (1981), 469–85, and Heather O’Donoghue, The Genesis of a Saga Narrative: Verse and Prose in Kormaks saga (Oxford, 1991). 14 ‘Verses and Prose in Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu’, in John Tucker (ed.), Sagas of the Icelanders: A Book of Essays (New York, 1989), 160–84.

INTRODUCTION

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presentation, rather than engaging with the distinction between actual, accurate history on the one hand, and the creation of a wholly imaginary world on the other. An area of particular interest is the interplay of the two modes in individual texts. For example, while the documentary use of verses is certainly characteristic of Norse historical writing, Norse historians did not conﬁne themselves to such usage, and some verses in historical narrative function in patently ﬁctional ways, as I shall show. As a corollary, authors of family sagas by and large quote verses as the dialogue of their saga characters, and this will be the central concern of the later chapters of this book. But in some family sagas verses may on occasion be used in an apparently documentary role— a technique which may itself be an artiﬁce, a device to convey the illusion of historicity to a ﬁctional narrative, or to emphasize the historical element in a ﬁctionalized one. Since the role of court poets was to record for posterity the achievements of their lordly patrons,15 the skaldic strophes quoted in Old Norse–Icelandic historical prose may be almost contemporary with, or at least not very much younger than, the events which the narrative recounts, which is why skaldic verse has a special status as documentary evidence in such narratives, and might be used to authenticate the substance of the prose—thus giving the appearance of substantiating its actual historicity. But the quotation of verse may also serve to show off a writer’s learning, as is so often the case with those histories which include snippets of classical Latin verses in their text—plainly an ornamental rather than a documentary function. There is also scope for a wide range of artistic effects. Just as dialogue may enliven any historical recreation of a scene, even if not authentic by modern historiographical standards, so the speaking of a verse may add a sudden vivid, and apparently authentic, immediacy to historical writing, conveying the atmosphere and drama of another era with a voice from the past apparently speaking in the narrative. Given that skaldic poets were present at the courts of their patrons, then an individual stanza perhaps originally composed as part of a long praise poem may easily be presented in narrative as if 15 But see Anthony Faulkes’s lecture ‘What was Viking Poetry for? Inaugural lecture delivered on 27th April 1993 at the University of Birmingham’ (Birmingham, 1993), 26, for a playful challenge to this orthodox view: ‘Even when overtly praising the king, Icelandic poets . . . devote a lot of space in their poems to selfassertion.’

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INTRODUCTION

it had been recited on the spot, even composed impromptu, by the poet in question. It may equally be the case that the recitation of a long poem, or drápa, did actually take place, or that an account of the recitation of even a single verse has been preserved in an oral anecdote, and incorporated into a historical saga by an author with an eye for a lively and diverting story. It is clear that in Old Norse histories, alongside the relatively simple technique of using verses as either source material or corroboration for a text, there existed both oral and literary traditions of using verses as dialogue, in all of the ways I have outlined above.16 In both histories and family sagas, the particular stylistic qualities of saga prose and skaldic verse may also be exploited in the mixed form. Nothing could be more different from the colloquial, spare, restrained style of family saga writers than the dazzlingly ornate, cryptic, and sometimes even passionate quality of skaldic verse. The virtue of simple contrast between two such different media leads to the possibility of verses being used to pace a narrative, to create tense climaxes or halt the inexorable ﬂow of narrative cause and effect with a collection of strophes.17 The expression of personal and deeply felt emotion in a skaldic strophe may provide a dimension to the men and women in a saga narrative which the saga prose, typically functioning as externally focalized narrative, does not. The crypticism of a verse may also be used as a puzzle in the narrative, for instance as an obscure confession to a killing which takes narrative time to be decoded. I hope to illuminate a full range of textual relationships between skaldic verse and saga narrative in order to demonstrate the purposeful artistry of saga writing and the conscious and selfconscious interplay of forms by saga authors.18 16 The historian’s use of verses as source material may also involve another kind of literary ﬁction: authors may elaborate or apparently even invent interpretations for verses which are obscure, or deﬁcient in relevant detail. Naturally, since what one might call the ‘good faith’ of the author is at issue here, we can rarely make a dogmatic distinction between using verses as sources and inventing narrative on the basis of them. 17 The effect of verses on the pacing of the narrative may also have been very evident in oral delivery; for a useful discussion see Hallvard Magerøy, ‘Skaldestrofer som retardasjonmiddel i islendingesogene’, in Einar G. Pétursson and Jónas Kristjánsson (eds.), Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni 20. júlí 1977, ii (Reykjavík, 1977), 586–99. 18 For a very useful brief account of the artistic contribution of verses to saga narrative, see Guðrún Ingólfsdóttir, ‘Um hlutverk vísna í Íslendinga sögum’, Skáldskaparmál, 1 (1990), 226–40.

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The effects of verse quotation in narrative, which I have just outlined, are concerned with the surface texture of prosimetrical narrative—the literary craft of expressing material in prosimetrical form. But the alternation of the two media can be used for more than textual, textural effect: it can enable an author to explore a range of relationships between himself, his characters, and his audience. In learned Latin prosimetrum, represented by such works as Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy and Martianus Capella’s Marriage of Philology and Mercury, we are dealing not with the traditional skills of a story-teller, but with the exposition of complex ideas. In his masterly study of prosimetrum, Peter Dronke analyses the literary effects of the interaction of the two media in a wide range of early European cultures and languages.19 He begins his study with Menippean satire, fragments of high-spirited, irreverent texts, in which changes of media and register are part of a playful textual plurivocality, and he sees those shifts in viewpoint as the lasting legacy of Menippus to European prosimetrum.20 This—to return to Boethius, for example—does not mean that prosimetrum is invariably wild and carnivalesque. Dronke’s conclusion outlines a far subtler and more reﬁned literary quality. Speaking of the two ﬁrstperson voices which can be distinguished in a number of mixed narratives, he writes: ‘It is not as though the one “I” belonged to the prose and the other to the verse . . . Yet the alternation between prose and verse is always bound up, in more complex, less predictable ways, with the authors’ strategies of shifts of perspective, shifts of voice, shifts of the “I”, shifts in the way the authors see themselves— in their means towards self-discovery.’21 It may seem a long way from this highly self-conscious sense of text, self, and authorship to the studied artlessness of saga prose. But I shall argue that Icelandic saga authors could and did explore the same complex hermeneutical issues, and that they are explored in the same way—through the interplay of verse and prose. 19 Verse with Prose: A Study of the Mixed Form from Petronius to Dante (Cambridge, Mass., 1994). 20 In an as yet unpublished doctoral thesis, ‘Dialogues on Sainthood: A Bakhtinian Reading of Saints’ Lives in the Icelandic Kings’ Sagas’ (Oxford, 1998), Carl Phelpstead applies the Bakhtinian model of dialogic discourse—which Bakhtin himself traces back to Menippus—to Norse historical writings on royal saints, in which dialogism, sometimes represented by the interplay of prose and verse, allows the saga author to present both the violence and the piety of his leading characters. 21 Dronke, Verse with Prose, 114.

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INTRODUCTION

The shift from narrative prose to verse dialogue may create fairly simple artistic effects: as in Old Irish sagas, for instance, the change in form will create a change in register, and the poetry will thus ‘mark any heightening of the mood—love, anger, death’.22 But the key point is that such heightening is achieved at the expense of naturalism. We are of course quite used to accepting the poetic licence of non-naturalistic utterances in a wide range of artistic contexts: Shakespearian soliloquy, operatic aria, and so on. What makes the shift into such heightened, stylized discourse so signiﬁcant—and even unsettling—in saga narrative is precisely the indeterminate position family sagas in particular take up between history and ﬁction. This means that the literary illusion of characters speaking in verse constitutes a sudden breach of verisimilitude. Writing about dramatic soliloquy, Una Ellis-Fermor usefully distinguishes verisimilitude and reality: though we do not mistake a given speech for the words that would be uttered in the actual life we know, we are so deeply engaged by the signiﬁcant reality that our sense of relative value prevails and we accept without cavil (often without consciousness) some convention such as chorus or soliloquy which, by sacriﬁcing verisimilitude, immeasurably enriches our experience of reality.23

I would argue with regard to Icelandic family sagas that it is not so much an enrichment of our ‘experience of reality’ that we stand to gain, as precisely those shifts of voice, perspective, and authorial self-consciousness which Peter Dronke has noted in the great Latin prosimetra. In the case of family saga narrative, the sacriﬁce is considerable, because the action of family sagas takes place not in a selfevidently ﬁctional world, but in a semi- and pseudo-historical one; saga characters behave like ‘real’ people in every respect except that they sometimes speak to each other—or themselves—in verse. I shall argue that the gain is commensurately great. Thus, having explored the small but signiﬁcant degree of nondocumentary verse function in Norse histories, which seems likely to derive not only from earlier narrative techniques in Norse storytelling, but also from the corroborative practices of learned Latin historians, I hope to demonstrate the mature control of both modes by the author of Eyrbyggja saga, as his narrative delicately negotiates 22 Myles Dillon, ‘The Archaism of Irish Tradition’, Sir John Rhys Memorial Lecture for 1947 (London, 1948), 9. 23 Una Ellis-Fermor, The Frontiers of Drama, 2nd edn. (London, 1964), 99.

INTRODUCTION

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the borderline between historicity and ﬁctionality in his work. But in the next two chapters, I shall examine Gísla saga and Grettis saga as contrasts to Eyrbyggja saga, for the verses in these two works are used in a fully ﬁctional, almost theatrical way, to create psychological special effects in the narrative. In Gísla saga, the inner torment of Gísli’s premonition of his own violent death is conveyed in the riddling but powerful medium of his strange, visionary poetry, and the saga author presents some of these verses as soliloquy as he explores ways of representing Gísli’s subjectivity. In Grettis saga, Grettir, like Pórarinn in Eyrbyggja saga, expresses his dislocation from society through his elevated, uncompromisingly oblique skaldic discourse—a discourse which comes to dominate and control the whole saga even as it alienates Grettir from the other characters within the saga narrative. These two sagas push the use of skaldic verse in narrative to the limits of its expressiveness. Finally, as an epilogue, I shall look at a saga which needs no skaldic verse to express its themes and action or control its narrative pace. In Hrafnkels saga, the structure of the narrative and the characterization and dialogue of its personages are so fully developed and reﬁned that they can carry the themes and dramatic climaxes of the narrative without the technical safety valve of verse. But the resulting narrative, though elegant and assured in its narrative homogeneity, should not necessarily be regarded as the culmination of a literary tradition, the ﬁnal literary distillation of earlier histories, ﬁctions, and traditions in verse and prose. My analysis of the literary, or aesthetic, dimension that verses bring to saga literature may move from the least to the most ﬁctional effects—that is, from histories to family sagas. But it is crucial to bear in mind that, as one might infer from the coexistence of contrasting modes of verse use in historical texts, this movement does not necessarily reﬂect the development of Icelandic literary traditions through time.24 The central aim of this book, rather, is to show how the archaic artiﬁce of the mixed tradition can be used to encompass new ﬁctional dimensions in the most ambitious and sophisticated examples of saga writing. 24 Joseph Harris has suggested a chronology of verse use in family sagas: ‘In general, then, the older sagas have more verse, and the custom of composing sagas independent of verse grows, unevenly, in strength; but the “revised sagas” reﬂect the earlier style’, Harris and Reichl, (eds.), Prosimetrum, 149. This conclusion, valuable though it is, inevitably rests on the ultimate uncertainty of dating, and of inferring statistics from a small and perhaps unrepresentative sample of extant texts.

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introduction: littérarité and history Skaldic verse was an invaluable source of contemporary and nearcontemporary evidence for Norse historical writers. Snorri Sturluson makes this debt to verse very clear in his prologue to Heimskringla: A bók tessi, lét ek rita fornar frásagnir um höfðinga . . . sem ek heﬁ heyrt fróða menn segja, svá ok nökkurar kynslóðir teira eptir tví, sem mér heﬁr kennt verit, sumt tat, er ﬁnnsk í langfeðgatali, tar er konungar eða aðrir stórættaðir menn hafa rakit kyn sitt, en sumt er ritat eptir fornum kvæðum eða söguljóðum, er menn hafa haft til skemmtanar sér. In this book, I had written down old stories about chieftains . . . as I have heard wise men relate them, and also some of their lineages, as I had been taught them: some is that which is to be found in genealogies, where kings or other high-born men have traced their descent, and some is written from old poems, or narrative lays, which men have had for their entertainment.1

In the preface to his Historia de antiquitate regum Norwagiensium, the Norwegian monk Theodoricus also acknowledges the value of skaldic verse for the preservation of historical traditions, speaking of Icelanders ‘qui haec in suis antiquis carminibus percelebrata recolunt’ (who preserve them as much celebrated themes in their ancient poems),2 although, unlike Snorri, he does not quote any skaldic stanzas in his Latin text. The author of Ágrip quotes seven passages of verse in his work, but refers his reader to further verses which he does not quote.3 If a historian neither quotes verses in his text nor 1 Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (ed.), Heimskringla, Íslenzk fornrit, 26–8 (Reykjavík, 1941–51); Hkr I, 3–4. Further references to this edition are given in the form Hkr I, II, or III. The word ‘söguljóð’, which I have translated as ‘narrative lay’, is a hapax legomenon. Wolf (in ‘Zur Rolle der Vísur’, 460 n. 9), suggests that Snorri is distinguishing between skaldic verse (kvæði) and Eddaic lay (söguljóð). 2 Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium, in Gustav Storm (ed.), Monumenta Historica Norvegiae (Christiania, 1880), 3–68 (3); translation from David and Ian McDougall, Theodoricus Monachus: The Ancient History of the Norwegian Kings, Viking Society for Northern Research (London, 1998), 1. 3 See e.g. ch. 15 of Ágrip, in which the reader is referred to Eyvindr skaldaspillir’s Háleygjatal, in Bjarni Einarsson (ed.), Ágrip af Noregs konunga sögum. Fagrskinna,

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makes acknowledgement in a preface, as is the case with the Historia Norvegiae,4 it is obviously difﬁcult to be sure what part, if any, verses may have played in its composition, but it is nevertheless not unlikely that verse has been used as source material.5 In such vernacular Norse histories as Heimskringla, Morkinskinna, Fagrskinna, and the Legendary Saga of St Óláfr, skaldic verses are quoted copiously in the prose, and the most common procedure is to introduce the verse as an authority to which the reader or listener may be referred. Many of the skaldic strophes quoted in Heimskringla, for instance, are part of longer poems, drápur or ﬂokkar, and even if Snorri is not quoting the whole poem, he will usually refer to both the poet and the long poem from which the extract is taken. In O´ láfs saga Tryggvasonar, for example, this technique is used in almost every instance.6 The primary role of the verses in Norse historical writings is thus a dual one: to provide source material for the author of the prose, and often, at least in vernacular texts, to be quoted as evidence, ostensibly corroborating what is said in the saga prose. However, even though quoting verses in the text as evidence or ostensible corroboration is the most common way of incorporating skaldic verse into historical prose, it is not the only role the verses Nóregs konunga tal, Íslenzk fornrit, 29 (Reykjavík, 1984). All further references to Ágrip are to this edition, unless otherwise speciﬁed. 4 Storm (ed.), Monumenta, 69–124. 5 Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Om de norske kongers sagaer (Oslo, 1936), 20–9, does not rule out skaldic verse as source material, arguing that written sources have been the basis of most of the text. But see also Anne Holtsmark, ‘Om de norske kongers sagaer’, Edda, 25 (1938), 145–64 (161), for a contrary view. Bjarne Fidjestøl, Det norrøne fyrstediktet, Nordisk Intitutts skriftserie, 11 (Øvre Ervik: Alvheim & Eide, 1982), argues that skaldic verse has played a major part in the transmission of historical material in Norse, and he gives some instances of skaldic phraseology having apparently inﬂuenced Snorri’s prose text in ‘Skaldenstrophen in der sagaprosa. Bemerkungen zum Verhältnis zwischen Prosa und Poesie in der Heimskringla’, in Alois Wolf (ed.), Snorri Sturluson: Kolloquium anlässlich der 750 Wiederkehr seines Todestages, Script Oralia, 51 (Tübingen, 1993), 77–98, and translated as ‘Skaldic Stanzas in Saga Prose: Observations on the Relationship between Prose and Verse in Snorri’s Heimskringla’, in Odd Einar Haugen and Else Mundal (eds.) and Peter Foote (trans.), Bjarne Fidjestøl: Selected Papers (Odense, 1997), 255–76. There is also a useful discussion of the use of skaldic sources in Gudrun Lange, Die Anfänge der isländisch–norwegischen Geschichtsschreibung, Studia Islandica/Íslenzk fræði, 47 (Reykjavík, 1989). 6 See e.g. pp. 249–51. Only one verse in the saga is presented as the dialogue of a saga character, Hallfreðr’s verse thanking the king for the gift of a sword, and I shall discuss this exception later on in this chapter.

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play. Skaldic stanzas may also be presented as part of the narrative, most often serving as the dialogue of characters in the saga. The difference between these two roles is plainly evident in saga prose: as Bjarni Einarsson’s classic distinction makes clear, verses which are presented in the text as evidence are introduced with such formulae as ‘svá segir’ (as [the poet] says), while verses which serve as dialogue are introduced by such phrases as ‘Pá kvað’ (then [he] spoke [a verse]).7 What interests me most about verses which are incorporated into historical narrative in this latter way, as dialogue, is that this method necessarily involves a degree of what we may call ﬁctionality, or better littérarité—that is, put simply, that authors who present their characters as speaking their dialogue in dróttkvætt are, with certain important caveats, (re)producing a textual illusion for literary effect, rather than relating a naturalistic event. One simple reservation to be established at the outset is that not all reports of verse recitation in saga prose need be ﬁctional. The actual, historical circumstances of the recitation of court poetry (so far as we can establish them) mean that in some instances a recognized poet delivering a formal praise poem to his patron—that is, speaking verse in the saga narrative—may very well represent a historical event, that is, an event which might, at least, have happened. Thus, for example, the author of Egils saga narrates the story of Egill’s recitation of the poem Höfuðlausn to King Eiríkr blóðøx,8 Whether such scenes do represent some historical reality, or whether they are ﬁctional but none the less naturalistic re-creations of possible scenes by the saga author, is not at issue here. The distinction I am concerned to make is between the unremarked textual shift from narrative prose to dialogue verse as a character speaks in skaldic verse, on the one hand, and the report of a recitation of a skaldic verse or poem, on the other. The term ‘ﬁctionality’, especially when used in relation to historical texts, can be confusing. I shall prefer littérarité, which relates to artistic or literary method and style rather than addressing the boundary between historical and ﬁctional substance. For the same reasons, the word ‘historicity’ is also problematic, implying as it does certain standards of actuality and accuracy: inconsistent or inaccurate historical writing is not the same as ﬁction, and the distinction between 7 8

Bjarni Einarsson, ‘On the Role of Verse in Saga Literature’, 118. Sigurður Nordal (ed.), Egils saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 2 (Reykjavik, 1933), 185.

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failed scholarship and creative writing does not rest solely on the vexed question of intentionality, but can be inferred from style and method. It is a critical truism that we as readers cannot assert any deﬁnitive knowledge of an author’s intention: broadly speaking, we can only describe its presumed end product, the extant text. We must beware of asking ourselves unanswerable questions: Did the author deliberately distort his facts for literary effect? Did he genuinely misunderstand the phrasing of the stanza? Furthermore, we must always be conscious of very different historiographical standards in different social and cultural contexts.9 The saga author’s provision of (prose) dialogue, one of the most striking and attractive features of Norse vernacular histories, need not be regarded as either breaching the allowably historical or attempting the self-consciously ﬁctional. In what follows, I shall try to distinguish historicizing or historical style and method, corresponding to and contrasting with littérarité, rather than pass judgement on whether an event in saga narrative ‘actually’ happened or not. And ﬁnally, in using the term ‘author’ we must keep in mind the possibility that the author of any section of saga narrative, verse and/or prose, may have been not the ﬁnal author of the whole work, but the author of the immediate or even antecedent source of the text in question. Sometimes, for instance, what is in essence an autonomous prosimetrical anecdote is in fact likely to have been inherited with a prose framework.10 ‘Author’ will 9 For a very helpful brief account of some of these differences, see Diana Whaley, Heimskringla, Viking Society for Northern Research (London, 1991), especially 128–35. For fuller discussions see William Brandt, The Shape of Medieval History: Studies in Modes of Perception (New Haven, 1966) or Monika Otter, Inventiones: Fiction and Referentiality in Twelfth-Century English Historical Writing (Chapel Hill, NC, 1996). 10 The form in which saga authors inherited their verses has been much debated. Some scholars, such as Klaus von See (‘Skaldenstrophe und Sagaprosa’, Medieval Scandinavia, 10 (1977), 58–82, and ‘Mündliche Prosa und Skaldendichtung’, Medieval Scandinavia, 11 (1982), 82–91, argue that the verses must have had a previous existence in a poetic context and been freshly incorporated into their present location. Russell Poole (Viking Poems on War and Peace (Toronto, 1991)) has done some very valuable work on excerpted verses in historical works. Dietrich Hofmann, however, has argued that verses must either always have had a prose framework, or that one developed at a very early stage in their oral transmission, which may then have been elaborated by the saga author (‘Vers und Prosa in der Mittelalterlichen Erzählkunst’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 5 (1971), 135–75, and ‘Sagaprosa als Partner von Skaldenstrophen’, Medieval Scandinavia, 11 (1982), 68–81). Neither Hofmann nor von See can envisage the continued intelligibility of skaldic strophes without some supporting framework. The theory of oral Begleitprosa at the heart of the kings’ sagas is developed by Siegfried Beyschlag in ‘Möglichkeiten mündlicher

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be used as a convenient term but can hardly distinguish between the different ﬁgures which may ultimately have been responsible for the phrasing or shaping of the extant narrative. Bearing in mind these caveats and reservations, then, it is clear that the inclusion of verses presented as the dialogue of saga characters is a major site of littérarité in Norse historical writings and, as I shall show, there are often compelling reasons for recognizing not only the littérarité but also the patent ﬁctionality of the verse recitation. The way in which an author disposes the verses—whether they are documentary verses or dialogue verses—to pace and structure his narrative, to realize the potential of verse to ‘heighten the mood’ as well as to authenticate important factual detail, and to explore the interplay of both, may also reveal littérarité. Finally, there is the quotation of verse simply on grounds of artistic merit: the saga author includes verses because of what he perceives as their inherent value. Theodore M. Andersson, in the introduction to his translation of Morkinskinna, draws a valuable distinction between the practice of the Morkinskinna author on the one hand, and that of Snorri and the author of Fagrskinna on the other, in the way verses in Morkinskinna ‘reﬂect the tastes of one speciﬁc individual, namely, a delight in battle descriptions’, while such verses are omitted and replaced in the two later works; in Fagrskinna and Heimskringla, Andersson shows, ‘only stanzas that provided concrete information with a direct bearing on the events narrated in the prose’ were felt worthy of inclusion, while the author of Morkinskinna seems to have enjoyed and included the verses for their own sake.11 the beginnings of prosimetrum in norse historical writings Oral antecedents I suggested in my introduction that prosimetrum is likely to have been an established form in pre-literary Norse narrative, and Überlieferung in der Königssaga’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 68 (1953), 109–39. It seems to me that there is no need to conﬁne the compositional origins of historical narrative to any one of these models, but that historians must have inherited their source materials in many different forms. I shall consider the compositional origins of prosimetrical anecdotes individually whenever it is relevant. 11 Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade (eds.), Morkinskinna: The Earliest Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), Islandica, 51 (Ithaca, NY, 2000), 26 and 57. Further references to this edition are given in the form Morkinskinna.

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there seems no reason to doubt that such oral narrative would have inﬂuenced the writers of what were after all the earliest extant Norse literary narratives—historical texts. Evidence of oral narrative is by its nature hard to come by, but Porgils saga ok Haﬂiða describes the telling of two sagas—one certainly ﬁctional—with verses at a wedding feast in Reykjahólar in 1119.12 For literary historians these remarks are of the utmost signiﬁcance, since they are a testimony to a ﬂourishing tradition of reciting narrative in verse and prose. The passage is, however, tantalizingly uncertain in interpretation.13 The saga author tells us that one of the sagas recited at the wedding celebrations was about Hrómundr Gripsson, and had many verses with it—‘margar vísur með’. King Sverrir is said to enjoy this story, which he calls a lygisaga (lying saga). This *Hrómundar saga is now lost, but there is a seventeenth-century saga about Hrómundr based on a late medieval rhymed version of the material which itself may have been derived from the lost saga.14 The saga author insists that Hrómundr himself is no mere ﬁction, regardless of the ﬁctionality of the saga about him, because men trace their genealogies back to him. Hrólfr, who is said to have recited the saga, is also described as the one who had ‘put it together’, but the phrase ‘setja saman’ may be applied to both historical and ﬁctional writing.15 Another narrative said to have been recited is an unknown saga about the poet Ormr Barreyarskáld. This too had many verses and its climax was a ﬂokkr (a skaldic sequence) composed by Ingimundr the priest. It may have been the case that Ingimundr composed not only this skaldic epilogue, but also the strophes in the body of the text.16 The saga author concludes his remarks by declaring that many learned people believed the saga about Ormr to be true, though whether he cites this as conﬁrmation of the saga’s historicity, or as evidence of the gullibility of even learned listeners, is not clear. This passage is clearly persuasive testimony to the oral performUrsula Brown [Dronke] (ed.), Porgils saga ok Haﬂiða (Oxford, 1952), 17–18. The very authenticity of this passage has been questioned. For a defence of its authenticity, and a detailed interpretation, see Peter Foote, ‘Sagnaskemtan: Reykjahólar 1119’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society, 14 (1955–6), 226–39, repr. in Michael Barnes, Hans Bekker Nielsen, and Gerd Weber (eds.), Aurvandilstá (Odense, 1984), 58–83, and also Judith Jesch, ‘Hrómundr Gripsson Revisited’, Skandinavistik, 14: 2 (1984), 89–105. 14 See Ursula Dronke, ‘The Saga of Hrómund Gripsson and Porgilssaga’, SagaBook of the Viking Society, 13 (1946–53), 51–77. 15 16 See Foote, ‘Sagnaskemtan’, 72 n. 16. Ibid. 71. 12 13

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ance of entertaining and light-hearted prosimetrum in the early twelfth century, in which verses were part of the ﬁction of the saga. Although the extant fornaldarsögur are late medieval texts, and used to be thought to be late, even decadent, examples of saga composition,17 these written fornaldarsögur are probably the product of a long oral tradition which continued alongside the composition of Heimskringla and the family sagas, but which pre-dated them in its origins.18 Evidence about an unwritten literary tradition will always be uncertain, but extant fornaldarsügur often contain verses which are much older than the prose, as Joseph Harris points out,19 and these verses are almost always quoted as dialogue. Harris concludes his analysis of the prosimetrum of Friðtjófs saga, in which the verses generally function as the dramatic speech of Friðtjófr himself, as follows: ‘It is impossible to imagine the original form of Friðtjófs saga as other than something resembling the surviving prosimetrum, with verses somewhat more stable than the prose.’20 Harris also suggests the possibility of an inherited literary convention behind Snorri’s quotation of the whole of Eyvindr’s Hákonarmál at the end of Hákonar saga góða in Heimskringla: it ‘reminds us of the “good ﬂokkr at the end of the saga” by Ingimundr’.21 Another traditional prosimetrical form may well have been the anecdote centred on a verse, in which the verse functioned as either the core or the punchline of the episode. Material such as this, orally transmitted with relatively little scope for change over time, would perhaps have seemed particularly appropriate for inclusion in Norse histories, rather like 17 See e.g. the dismissive comments of scholars such as Sigurður Nordal and Finnur Jónsson collected in the opening paragraph of Marianne Kalinke’s essay ‘Norse Romance (Riddarasögur)’, in Carol J. Clover and John Lindow (eds.), Old Norse–Icelandic Literature A Critical Guide, Islandica, 45 (Ithaca, NY, 1985), 316–17. 18 For an excellent survey of verse use in the fornaldarsögur see Friis-Jensen, Saxo Grammaticus as a Latin Poet, 40–51. Friis-Jensen, following Ursula Brown [Dronke] suggests that the way some single verses are quoted evidentially in these sagas shows that later, written versions of fornaldarsögur have been inﬂuenced in their turn by the histories, 52. 19 Harris, ‘The Prosimetrum of Icelandic Saga’, 146. 20 Ibid. 148. 21 Ibid. 141. On the other hand, since Eyvindr’s poem deals mainly with Hákon’s reception into Valhöll, and concludes with a lyrical lament about the impossibility of replacing such a ﬁne king, it is clear that Snorri would not have been able to incorporate individual strophes into his prose as corroboration of the facts of Hákon’s last battle. But there is no doubt that Hákonarmál provides a stirring ﬁnale to the saga.

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the stanzas themselves, and of course signiﬁcant events would be likely to attract the formation of such nuggets of tradition. In conclusion, then, it seems likely that Norse historians compiled their kings’ sagas against a background of prosimetrical story-telling in which the littérarité of saga characters speaking their dialogue in verse was well established in a variety of contexts, and the inﬂuence of the fornaldarsögur was probably particularly strong. As FriisJensen concludes, ‘the heroes of the remote past [i.e. in the fornaldarsögur] have an even more pronounced disposition to speak in verse than later generations of kings, skalds and Icelandic farmers’.22 However, the possible inﬂuence of oral vernacular models is not immediately evident in the very earliest Old Norse histories. The supposed Liber by Ari Porgilsson which seems to have preceded the extant Libellus—Íslendingabók—would also have preceded any of the Norse historical writings under consideration in this chapter, but since it is not extant we cannot know whether or not Ari quoted verses in it, let alone whether the verses were corroborative or not. The one snippet of verse quotation in Íslendingabók is not corroborative, but constitutes an event in the hostilities before the adoption of Christianity at the Alting (Hjalti’s mockery of the goddess Freyja); the verse is quoted in several other texts,23 but differently contextualized in Kristni saga,24 which suggests its independent currency as a memorable scrap of oral tradition. Later in the twelfth century, the monk Oddr Snorrason, in his Latin life of Óláfr Tryggvason, which survives only in translation,25 seems likely to have paraphrased one skaldic stanza in his Latin prose; the Icelandic versions quote the verse in Oddr’s Latin, as well as what looks like the original Norse stanza.26 The verse is introduced corroboratively, as are the many skaldic stanzas which have been inserted at a later date into the Icelandic translations. The extant fragments of the so-called Oldest Saga of St Óláfr 22

Friis-Jensen, Saxo Grammaticus as a Latin Poet, 51. See Jakob Benediktsson (ed.), Íslendingabók: Landnámabók, Íslenzk fornrit, 1 [2] (Reykjavík, 1968), 15 n. 7. 24 B. Kahle (ed.), Kristni saga (Halle, 1905), 30. 25 For a detailed account of Oddr’s work see Siân Duke, ‘Recreating History: Literary Depictions of Iceland’s Conversion to Christianity, 1100–1300’, D.Phil. thesis (Oxford, 2001), ch. 2, section I. 26 Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Saga Óláfs Tryggvasonar af Oddr Snorrason munk (Copenhagen, 1932), 194–5. For a discussion of this verse, see Friis-Jensen, Saxo Grammaticus as a Latin Poet, 40. 23

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consist almost entirely of a series of prosimetrical anecdotes which relate to exchanges between poets and patrons.27 However, there is no reason to believe that the author of the Oldest Saga conﬁned his incorporation of verses to this particular mode, even though examples of it are the only surviving evidence of his prosimetrum. Jónas Kristjánsson has argued that the Oldest Saga in its complete form corresponded quite closely to the extant Legendary Saga,28 and it is clear that the sections of it which survive themselves correspond to a section of the Legendary Saga in which such anecdotes are collected. In other words, had the fragments from another portion of the older saga been preserved, this consistency of theme and form would not have been evident. Furthermore, it is no longer believed that the so-called Oldest Saga does in fact pre-date other material on St Óláfr,29 but that the earliest extant vernacular Norse history is Ágrip, which is generally dated to around 1190.30 The author of Ágrip quotes verses in its prose text, but does not focus on poets and their patrons. Its author uses verses both as dialogue and as documentary corroboration, and presents a surprisingly wide and varied range of relationships between verses and prose. In the absence of extant literary Norse predecessors to Ágrip, then—that is, works on Norwegian history for which skaldic verse would have provided natural source material—we should turn to non-native models of verse use which might have inﬂuenced its author. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and histories in Latin The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle does of course quote a handful of verses in its text—most famously the Battle of Brunanburh—but the use of native verse as source material was perhaps greater than the extent 27 Gustav Storm (ed.), Otte brudstykker af den ældeste saga om Olav den hellige (Oslo, 1893), but see n. 29, below. 28 See Jónas Kristjánsson, ‘The Legendary Saga’, in Guðni Kolbeinsson et al. (eds.), Minjar og Menntir Afmælisrit helgað Kristjáni Eldjárn 6. desember 1976 (Reykjavík, 1976), 281–93 (292). Jónas suggests that though the author of the Legendary Saga generally shortened his source, he also added some chunks of material about Óláfr’s miracles. 29 Fragments 7 and 8, on which Storm based his arguments for dating the Oldest Saga, have been shown not to be part of the Oldest Saga (see Jonna Louis-Jensen, ‘Syvende og ottende brudstykke. Fragmentet AM 325 4to’, in Opuscula, iv, Bibliotheca Arnamagnaeana, 30 (Copenhagen, 1970), 31–60, and Jónas, ‘The Legendary Saga’, 284. 30 Ágrip, pp. x–xii.

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of quoted verse might suggest, as Antonia Gransden and Michael Lapidge have suggested.31 In the case of the Battle of Brunanburh, information contained in the poem itself is not repeated in any of the chronicles which quote the poem; the poetry does not corroborate information already given in the prose.32 In his edition of a reconstructed Abingdon Chronicle, Patrick Conner notes that every poem in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle is located in those parts of the MS C which he associates with Abingdon, and suggests that at Abingdon there was a distinctive understanding ‘of what kinds of text were appropriate and under what circumstances’ in a historical record.33 James Campbell has suggested that accounts of regal pomp and ceremony, as well as celebrations of battle, were traditionally the province of native verse, and having perhaps found form in verse were for that very reason not included in monastic chronicles.34 Clearly, Norse historians did not model their quotation of verses on vernacular Anglo-Saxon models. If we turn to learned Latin histories, the question of language becomes a primary issue. The Latin text of Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica, for example, does not include its most celebrated verse quotation—Cædmon’s Hymn—in the vernacular.35 And the twelfthcentury Norse historian Theodoricus claims to have used skaldic verse as source material for his Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium, and fulsomely acknowledges his debt in a preface, but does not actually quote the skaldic verses in the text—whether as corroboration or dialogue—most probably because the prose text is in Latin, as with the Historia Norvegiae.36 However, such twelfthcentury historians do quote classical Latin verse in their texts, and the way the quotations are incorporated in the text provides a signiﬁcant comparison with Old Norse vernacular histories. 31 Antonia Gransden, Historical Writing in England c.550–c.1307 (London, 1974), 37, and Michael Lapidge, ‘Some Latin Poems as Evidence for the Reign of Athelstan’, Anglo-Saxon England, 9 (1981), 61–98. 32 See G. N. Garmonsway (trans.), The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (London, 1953), 106–10. 33 The Abingdon Chronicle, in Patrick W. Conner (ed.), The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: A Collaborative Edition, x (Cambridge, 1996), pp. lxxxii–lxxxiii. 34 Personal communication with the author. 35 See Allen J. Frantzen, Desire for Origins (New Brunswick, NJ, and London, 1990), 146, for a discussion of the suggestion that the Old English Hymn is actually a translation from the Latin. 36 Storm (ed.), Monumenta, 3.

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For obvious reasons, Latin verse was of no use to clerical historians as evidence of source material, but seems to have functioned as a learned embellishment of the text. Gabriel Turville-Petre has suggested that Theodoricus, for example, was just showing off his Latin learning by quoting snippets of classical verse.37 Theodoricus writes, for instance, that Hákon Eiríksson had two ships, ‘una parva, quam nos vocamus scuta, altera longa, quam antiqui vocabant liburnam, unde ut Horatius: “Ibis liburnis inter alta navium | amice, propugnacula” ’.38 This is evidently a brief little display of learning, adding nothing in the way of information relevant to Norse history. But Theodoricus also quotes classical Latin in a more immediately relevant way: he corroborates the sentiments of his prose with a snippet of Latin verse which bears out the general implications of a particular event or passage of character description. For example, Theodoricus writes of Hákon Haraldsson, ‘Hic regnavit in pace annis decem et novem; post hoc insurrexunt contra eum ﬁlii fratris eius, ut ait Lucanus: “pugna est de paupere regno”, et in alio loco idem: “Omnisque potestas | impatiens consortis erit” ’.39 Neither quotation could have provided source material, but the corroborative effect— of a moral truism, of course, rather than of historical fact—is clear from the second at least. It is clear that this method of using verses in a prose historical text was standard practice amongst twelfth-century clerical historians. The English historian William of Malmesbury ﬁlls his Latin text with brief references to an enormously wide range of classical authors.40 Mostly, he is simply echoing the substance of his own moralizing, as, for instance, with the phrase from Ausonius in the following passage: ‘Ita si quid accidit probri non tacetur, si quid prosperi parum in cronicis notatur . . . cum sit bonorum breuis gratia, “aeternum quae 37

Gabriel Turville-Petre, Origins of Icelandic Literature (Oxford, 1953), 170. Storm (ed.), Monumenta, 26–7: ‘one a small vessel of the type we call “skúta”, the other a longship, of the type the ancients called “a Liburnian”; whence Horace says: “You will go, my friend, in Liburnian galleys | amid ships like towering fortesses” ’ (translation from McDougall, Theodoricus Monachus, 20). 39 Storm (ed.), Monumenta, 9–10: ‘He ruled in peace for nineteen years. After that the sons of his brother rose up against him, in the words of Lucan: “That is a ﬁght for a poor kingdom”, and as the same author says in another passage: “All power will be impatient of a consort” ’ (McDougall, Theodoricus Monachus, 7). 40 R. A. B. Mynors (ed. and trans.), completed by R. M. Thompson and M. Winterbottom, Gesta Regvm Anglorvm. The History of the English Kings. William of Malmesbury, i (Oxford, 1998) and ii (Oxford, 1999). 38

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nocuere dolent” ’ (It is always so: disgraces are never forgotten, good fortune barely ﬁnds a mention in the chronicles . . . for the memory of beneﬁts is short, while ‘damage rankles aye’).41 But William is behaving more like a historian than a classical scholar when he quotes verse in corroboration of matters of fact; the following passage is especially interesting because William tells us that the verse quotation comes from memory: ‘Bonefatio successit Lullus . . . de cuius sanctitate et uita beati Goaris loquitur, et hi uersus, quos iam inde a puerita memini me audisse, protestantur’ (Boniface was succeeded by Lull . . . whose saintliness is attested by the Life of St Goar, and by these lines, which I remember hearing since my boyhood).42 William’s apparent procedure here is strikingly comparable with that of a Norse historian recalling and then quoting a skaldic strophe which bears out some aspect of his prose text— though William may have felt that the additional corroboration of a verse quotation was especially necessary here: Lull met his death when the boys he was teaching stabbed him with their pens; in such circumstances his saintliness may have needed a little emphasis. Equally familiar is the care taken by William to identify the source of quotations, a practice comparable with the Norse habit of specifying the longer poem from which an individual strophe is taken. In the following example, the verse in question—an epitaph for Iohannes Scottus (John the Scot)—is not recalled from memory but is inscribed on a tombstone: ‘cum celebrem eius memoriam sepulchrum in sinistro latere altaris et epitaphii prodant uersus, scabri quidem et moderni temporis lima carentes, sed ab antiquo non adeo deformes’ (for his memory is kept warm by a tomb on the left side of the altar and an epitaph in verse—rough verse, and lacking the ﬁnish of our modern day, but not too much distorted from the ancient pattern).43 William’s concern for the stylistic quality of his quotation—the literary status of his evidence—is worth noting here. 41

Ibid., i. 36. Ibid. 120–1. 43 Ibid. 220–3. William also quotes two long stretches of tenth-century Latin hexameters, the ﬁrst describing the coronation feast of King Athelstan, and the second commemorating the battle at Brunanburh (ibid. 145–6 and 151–2). These two sections are believed to have come from a lost life of Athelstan, and it is uncertain whether the whole work was originally in verse, or just these passages, and perhaps others like them (see Gransden, Historical Writing, 53–5). In view of their subject matter—pomp and warfare—it may be worth recalling James Campbell’s 42

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Passages of Latin verse are also quoted in Orderic Vitalis’s twelfthcentury Ecclesiastical History. These verses are eulogistic epitaphs for monastic leaders, and offer corroboration for what is stated in the prose—again, not exactly corroboration of matters of biographical fact, but more generally, of the worth and prestige of the dead man. Sometimes the verse quoted is said to be inscribed on the late monk’s tomb, as, for example, in the case of Gunther of Thorney: ‘Epitaphium uero paucis uersibus super illo editum eius esse breuiter intimat sic noticiae legentium: Aecclesiae clarus Tornensis conditor huius Hac iacet in tumba Gunterius inclitus abba.’44

Sometimes the verse in question is said to have been composed by another monk as a tribute to or commemoration of the dead man, as is the case with Roger of Noyon, ‘de quo quidam amicus illius breue carmen cecinit: Rogerius quartus Nogionensis prior almus Nuper uicena luce Decembris obit.’45

Orderic’s practice is here very like the reference Norse historians make to skaldic memorial lays. What is most like the practice of vernacular Norse historians who quote verses in their texts is the explicit recognition by these clerical historians that the verses are independent of their own narrative prose, imported quotations rather than authorial shifts of mode and register. This contrasts to some extent with the relationship between the verse and the prose in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, in which there is no clear dividing line between an imported quotation—such as the speculations about the subjects felt to be most aptly expressed in poetry, and to conclude that these passages originally formed verse set pieces in the lost life. Both stretches of verse are very clearly in the characteristic idiom of Anglo-Saxon heroic poetry, with their description of feasting on benches, and the passing round of brimming ale-cups, or the traditional imagery of battle, and may even have originated in Old English, though Lapidge (‘Some Latin Poems’) has presented a strong case to the contrary. 44 M. Chibnall (ed. and trans.), The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, vol. vi, bk. XI (Oxford, 1969–80), 152: ‘The epitaph composed on him was only a few couplets long; it brieﬂy informs readers of what manner of man he was: Here in this tomb lies Gunther, famous abbot | And noble builder of the church of Thorney.’ 45 Ibid.: ‘One of his friends commemorated him in this short poem: Roger, fourth prior of Noyon, of holy life | Died lately, on December’s twentieth day.’

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Battle of Brunanburh—and an authorial shift into rhythmical and alliterative prose, as is the case with the entry recounting the martyrdom of Archbishop Ælfheah, which laments his capture by the vikings in stylized prose echoing the forms and rhythms of the poetic half-line.46 Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, written around the end of the twelfth century and using Icelandic material as a source, is unique amongst the Latin histories in presenting verse—in Latin—exclusively as dialogue.47 We might regard his work as marrying the techniques of pre-literary Icelandic prosimetrum—in so far as we can infer them from extant fornaldarsögur—with the traditions of Latin learning. This brief look at twelfth-century literary practice reveals that the move to write historical narrative in the vernacular must have raised very forcibly the issue of whether and how to quote verses which had provided source material for the text. There seems to have been no single model that the earliest Norse vernacular historians might have imitated, since Latin historians did not quote vernacular verses. And yet, in their use of medieval Latin epitaphs and eulogies to enhance their account of the qualities of a ﬁne colleague, rather than in their moralizing displays of classical learning, these Latin historians might well have provided a partial model for a technique which their vernacular successors could develop. The presentation of verse as dialogue is likely to have been a deeply rooted story-telling technique in ﬁctional narratives, and did ﬁnd its way into the historical tradition, as we see in Saxo. But perhaps more congenial to the Norse historians would be the incorporation of verse-centred anecdotes, orally transmitted and thus with some degree of historical value attaching to them. If we now turn to what may be regarded as the ﬁrst extant Norse history written in the vernacular—Ágrip—we ﬁnd that its author uses verses in an unexpectedly wide range of ways which seems to draw on all of these precedents. Verse and prose in Ágrip There is no evidence that an extended meaning of the word ‘ágrip’— abridgement, or shortened version—applies to the extant Ágrip’s relationship with some earlier, longer work. The text in the thirteenth-century Icelandic manuscript AM 325II 4to, an incomplete 46 47

Garmonsway (trans.), Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 142. Friis-Jensen, Saxo Grammaticus as a Latin Poet, 54.

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short history of the kings of Norway from the ninth to the mideleventh century, was given the title Stutt ágrip af Noregs konúnga sögum (a short synopsis of the history of the kings of Norway) in the nineteenth century by its second editor, and it has been known by most scholars as Ágrip ever since.48 Given its length—even allowing for two evident lacunae—the aptness of its short title is immediately obvious, especially in contrast with the compendious Norse histories which followed it. The possible direct antecedents of Ágrip have been the subject of a great deal of scholarly speculation, but this has tended to centre on the text’s close relationship with two equally short Latin histories, the Historia de Antiquitate Regum, dedicated to Bishop Eysteinn and therefore datable to between 1177 and 1188, and the anonymous Historia Norvegiae. Critical consensus seems now to favour Ágrip’s dependence on Theodoricus’s history (itself perhaps derived from earlier work(s) which the Historia Norvegiae may have used independently), but beyond some tentative speculation about the extent of Ari Porgilsson’s inﬂuential but now lost Liber Islandorum (as opposed to the shortened Libellus) there is no trace of a large, detailed history of the kings of Norway of which Ágrip, or indeed Theodoricus’s Historia, might have been a summary. In fact, short as it is, Ágrip does not give the impression of being a systematic abridgement of a longer text. While the reigns of some kings are recorded in a few terse details, space is continually given over to disproportionately detailed anecdotes. The text as we have it, for example, opens with an etymological digression on the derivation of the word ‘Jól’ (Yule) which interrupts the account of Haraldr’s succession from Hálfdan, apparently prompted by the detail that Hálfdan died on his way home from a winter feast. The story of Haraldr’s own crazed grief following the death of his wife Snjófríðr—he sits over her unburied body for three years—is a compelling piece of narrative, and Snorri includes it in much the same form in Heimskringla, but in Ágrip this episode is longer than the whole of the rest of the account of Haraldr’s reign. For material such as this the author of Ágrip probably relied on Norwegian oral tradition, and the alternation of terse summary and more leisurely relation in the narrative may be the result of the interpolation of it. 48 Stutt ágrip af Noregs konúnga sögum, edited by Finnur Magnússon in Sveinbjörn Egilsson et al. (eds.), Fornmanna sögur, x (Copenhagen, 1835), 377–421.

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Ágrip may be regarded, then, as a very early—if not the earliest— experiment in Norwegian vernacular written history, for which skaldic verse would have been an obvious source and might also be quoted in the narrative. Bjarne Fidjestøl duly credits the author with introducing the practice of verse quotation in historical sagas: ‘han kanskje er den som har innført skikken med å sitere strofer i norrøn historieskrivning’ (he may be perhaps be credited with introducing the practice of citing strophes in Norse historical writing), and thus began ‘ei første trivlande utnytting av skaldediktinga som kjeldemateriale for kongesogene’ (the ﬁrst shaky use of skaldic verse as source material for the kings’sagas).49 But the author does not shift his practice completely over to this historical mode. In fact, he presents an extraordinarily representative selection of the ways in which verses may be incorporated in prose narrative. Almost all possible relations between the two media are represented in this short text with its handful of verse quotations. Three of the verses quoted do apparently corroborate what is stated in the narrative (though one of them plainly constitutes the source of the prose, rather than being independent corroboration of it), and are introduced with some version of the corroborative formula ‘svá segir’. But two snippets of verse are presented as part of the dialogue of the text—the speaker of the verse is also its author and its recitation is an event in the narrative. The remaining verses occupy a middle ground, a grey area between these two poles. Two verses are attributed to a recognized poet—in this case, Sigvatr Pórðarson— but while one of them is presented corroboratively—‘sem heyra má í vísu tessi er Sigvatr kvað’ (as may be heard in this verse which Sigvatr composed)—the other is presented as an event in the narrative, at least recited, if not explicitly composed, on the spot by the poet himself. One other verse, which is also a dialogue verse, is attributed to a character in the narrative, Steigar-Pórir, and another to King Sigurðr Jórsalafari, but the remaining three verse quotations are anonymous, though one of them is said to come from an otherwise unknown poem called Oddmjór (Spearpoint Slender). This verse is also notable because the author of the prose seems to have misunderstood the strophe, construing a kenning for leader as a proper name. There is no other apparent discrepancy between the verses and their prose contexts. 49

Fidjestøl, Det norrøne fyrstediktet, 20.

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Three of the quotations are found nowhere else apart from Ágrip. Three others clearly constitute praise for a ruler, but of those one is not courtly, one laments the miseries suffered during the misrule of Sveinn and Ælfgyfu, and the third is one of Sigvatr’s Bersöglisvísur (the Plain-Speaking verses) addressed in rebuke to King Magnús inn góði. As we have seen, one verse is attributed to the ruler himself, Sigurðr Jórsalafari. Finally, Eyvindr skáldaspillir is mentioned in the text as the author of the poem Háleygjatal, but no verses from this long poem are quoted in Ágrip; strophes do survive from it in Heimskringla, Fagrskinna, and Snorri’s Edda—but not, apparently, any of those to which the Ágrip author refers. While the verses are at least all alike in their metre (all the verse quotations are in dróttkvætt), they are not all full strophes (there are two full strophes, two helmingar, and three two-line quotations, one of which is described in the prose as a kviðlingr, or satirical verse).50 Thus the verse quotations in Ágrip illustrate almost every possible variation in terms of attribution, the way they are incorporated into the prose, the function they serve in the narrative, and their place in Norse literary history outside Ágrip. I want next to examine individually each of the seven verse quotations in Ágrip to show in more detail this extraordinary degree of variation they exhibit. I shall begin by considering the overall texture of the prosimetrum in the work as a whole; then the use of verses as corroboration of the prose; then the presentation of verse as dialogue, with its possibility of pre-existing prosimetrical anecdote; and ﬁnally, the extrapolation of prose narrative from a difﬁcult verse. The overall disposition of verses in Ágrip The opening leaf of the Ágrip manuscript has been lost; the text as we have it begins with the end of the reign of Hálfdan inn svarti and the succession of King Haraldr inn hárfagri, and one helmingr of a skaldic strophe is quoted ostensibly to corroborate Haraldr’s triumph at the battle of Hafrsfjörðr (I shall discuss this verse and its prose context shortly). King Haraldr was succeeded by Eiríkr blóðøx, his eldest son, who was driven out of Norway by Haraldr’s youngest son, Hákon, foster-son of King Athelstan of England. These two reigns are recounted without any quotation of verse. This is especially 50 I know of no way to determine whether or not two- or four-line quotations are partial strophes or complete entities.

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strange in the case of Hákon, because his last, fatal battle, and imagined reception by Óðinn, are movingly depicted in Eyvindr skáldaspillir’s memorial eulogy Hákonarmál, and the author of Ágrip mentions the poet Eyvindr twice: once in his account of Hákon’s last battle, and once in an allusion to another long poem by Eyvindr, Háleygjatal.51 It is of course perfectly possible that the author of Ágrip did not know Hákonarmál, which in any case does not offer very much in the way of factual detail about Hákon’s last battle, focusing on a description of the moments before battle began, on an impressionistic depiction of the tumult of weapons, and, most stirringly, on Hákon’s digniﬁed but uncertain response to Óðinn’s valkyries, who arrive to convey him to Valhöll. The poem ends with a eulogy for Hákon including a famous allusion to the Eddaic poem Hávamál.52 In Hákonar saga góða in Heimskringla Snorri quotes some strophes from Hákonarmál in his account of the battle but the poem is also quoted as a whole, without intervening prose, at the very end of the saga, as if to underline its unsuitability for illustrating speciﬁc details of the battle.53 However, a small handful of lausavísur by Eyvindr do refer to distinct episodes in the battle, and one alludes to the killing of the semi-berserkr Eyvindr skreyja, an episode which is dramatically recounted in Ágrip.54 Snorri uses this strophe and others in his account of the battle, as well as three lausavísur by Porðr Sjáreksson from a poem celebrating the bravery of Pórálfr sterki, whose role in the battle also ﬁgures in Ágrip.55 But for whatever reason, the author of Ágrip does not include any verse quotations in his relatively long account of the life and especially death of King Hákon. After quoting a two-line snippet in corroboration of the striking physical appearance of Hákon’s successor, Haraldr gráfeldr, the saga author moves to an account of the reign of Hákon jarl, Haraldr’s successor, who never took the title of king. His reign was marked by a powerful renaissance of pagan observance, and he was the patron of a large number of skalds whose poetry, rich in mythological allusion, 51 Ágrip, 10 and 18; for Háleygjatal see Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Den norske–islandske Skjaldedigtning, A I–II Tekst efter Håndskrifterne, B I–II Rettet Tekst (Copenhagen, 1912–15); B I, 60–2. Further references to this edition are given in the form Skj B I or II. 52 Skj B I, 57–60. 53 Hkr I, 186–8 and 193–7. 54 Ágrip, 9–10; for the lausavísa see Skj B I, 63, v. 4. 55 Hkr I, 187, 191–2.

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celebrates the earl’s right to rule as a sacral monarch, and his success as measured by the fertility of his realm, and his martial exploits. The Ágrip-author’s account of his twenty-year reign is dominated by a disapproving account of Hákon’s rapacious womanizing: ‘hann lét sér konur allar jamt heimilar er hann fy´sti til, ok var engi kvenna munr í tví görr, ok engi grein, hvers kona hver væri, eða systir, eða dóttir’ (he felt that he had a right to possess any woman he was attracted to, and he made no distinction between women in this, and it made no difference whose wife, or sister, or mother, she might be).56 This prepares the way for a dramatic account of Hákon’s ignominious death in a pig-sty, betrayed by a woman he has tried to coerce, and hidden by his discarded but still loyal mistress Póra. Given that the skaldic verse associated with Hákon jarl was both explicitly pagan and powerfully eulogistic, it is not surprising that the author of Ágrip does not quote any strophes in his text. Hákon is presented as a powerful and gifted opportunist, rather than a divinely sanctioned heir. But the author of Ágrip goes on to concede that Hákon could number kings amongst his ancestors, and cites Eyvindr skáldaspillir’s Háleygjatal as evidence for this: a king with the unlikely name of Hersir (leader) wanted to kill himself because of his grief at the loss of his beloved wife, but cannot discover a precedent for a king ever having done this, though a ruler with the lesser rank of earl apparently had. So Hersir ritually de-thrones himself by rolling down from a burial mound, thus ‘rolling himself’ out of the kingship. Verses from Háleygjatal alluding to this story are not amongst the nine full and seven half stanzas now extant, though the surviving verses do detail the ancestors of Hákon jarl, going back to Óðinn, and how they met their deaths. The story of Hersir, as well as commenting obliquely on Hákon’s status and lack of title as king of Norway, also echoes, a little dimly, the earlier anecdote about Haraldr inn hárfagri’s blind grief for Snjófríðr. But its signiﬁcance for us lies in its indication, through the reference to Háleygjatal, that the author of Ágrip knew at least some verses expressing the highly charged pagan credentials of Hákon jarl, even if he was not prepared to quote them in his text. The long and respectful accounts of the reigns of Óláfr Tryggvason and Óláfr inn helgi are also uninterrupted by the quotation of skaldic verse, even though the achievements of both were celebrated 56

Ágrip, 16.

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in Christian memorial poems. It is perhaps fruitless to speculate why the author of Ágrip failed to quote any verses to accompany this important, central part of his history. It could be that the author had enough material for his writing. It would seem unlikely that he knew none of the relevant verses, especially since the poet Sigvatr, whom the author of Ágrip twice cites, himself composed a memorial poem about Óláfr inn helgi. Two strophes accompany the saga author’s accounts of the reigns of Sveinn Knútsson and Magnús inn góði, and I shall discuss both in due course. After Magnús inn góði, Norway was ruled by Haraldr harðráði, who was killed in England at the battle of Stamford Bridge. Although in the Skáldatal, or List of Poets, Haraldr is the royal patron with the greatest number of skalds writing for him,57 and a great number of verses are quoted by Snorri in his saga—including some by the king himself—the author of Ágrip does not include any verse in his account. In summary, the disposition of the verses throughout Ágrip shows some surprising, and some quite understandable, omissions. But as I have stressed, we cannot know either what sources, in verse, were available to the saga author, or his reasons for quoting or not quoting stanzas. On the evidence of the extant text, however, the quotation of verse seems sporadic and unpredictable, and there is little sense that the author is placing them in any systematic way, or in a way which makes a distinct contribution to the overall littérarité of his work. Corroborative verses Although the presentation of verses as corroboration of what is said in the prose narrative is by far the most common method in the longer Norse histories, of the seven verses in Ágrip only three are introduced with a version of the ‘svá segir’ (as [the poet] says) formula— although of course such a small sample can give no convincing indication of relative proportions. More signiﬁcantly, perhaps, the kind of corroboration such verses in Ágrip offer is not so much factual, as much more like the afﬁrmation of a moral truism we saw in the work of the twelfth-century monastic chroniclers. The ﬁrst verse in Ágrip, which ostensibly substantiates King Haraldr’s success at Hafrsfjörðr, is, in technique at least, the most straightforwardly 57

344.

Skáldatal in Guðni Jónsson (ed.), Edda Snorra Sturlusonar (Reykjavík, 1949),

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corroborative, but it presents special difﬁculties because of its unusual relationship with the introductory prose. After a brief summary of Haraldr’s reign, the prose author states that at the age of 20 he became king of all Norway, and moves on to mention his ﬁnal victory, the Battle of Hafrsfjörðr.58 According to this account, the battle was fought against a king called SkeiðarBrandr, who once defeated ﬂed to Denmark and was eventually killed ﬁghting against the Wends. The prose author maintains that these facts may be found in the poem Oddmjór, which is composed about a list of kings. This poem is otherwise unknown. Its name translates as ‘Spearpoint Slender’, which Bjarni Einarsson, in the introduction to his edition of Ágrip, suggests may refer to the shape of the whole poem, which might have ended abruptly. The common noun ‘oddr’ means spear- or weapon-point, and is regularly used in skaldic verse in compounds such as ‘oddregn’ (spearpoint rain, or battle), which might be appropriate in a poem with kings, and therefore battles, as its subject matter. But with no other trace of the poem beyond what is stated here, we can do no more than speculate about Oddmjór. What concerns us here, however, is the saga author’s care to name both poem and poet in his ostensible authentication of the verse itself: Skjöldungr rak með skildi Skeiðar-Brand ór landi; réð sá konungr síðan snjallr Nóregi öllum.59

The Scylding drove with a shield Skeiðar-Brand out of the country; he ruled, that king, thereafter, bold, the whole of Norway.

As we can see from his prose introduction to the verse, the author has understood the compound ‘Skeiðar-Brand’ as the accusative form of the name of a rival king, Skeiðar-Brandr, whom Haraldr, referred to here as ‘Skjöldungr’ (the Scylding, strictly a descendant of the royal house of Skjöldr, the founder of the Danish dynasty, but used in poetry as a synonym for ‘king’), has driven out of Norway. Although ‘Brandr’ is a familiar enough personal name, as a common noun it also denotes the ornamented pieces of wood which on a viking warship ran from the gunwhale up to the stem on either side 58 The author unusually uses the form Hafrsvágr for the placename; Finnur Jónsson suggests that the author arrived at this form via a Latin calque on Hafrsfjörðr; Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Ágrip af Noregs konungs sögum, Altnordische Saga-Bibliotek, 17 (Halle, 1929), 281. 59 Ágrip, 2.

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of the prow; these planks probably took their name from the standard meaning of ‘brandr’ as ‘blade (of a sword)’—they were bladeshaped, decorated, as sword-blades might be, and cut through the waves when the boat was at sea. Since ‘skeið’ is a name for a fast ship, the compound ‘skeiðar brandr’ would denote the prow (by extension) of a ship. This compound is not common in Old Norse. Apart from this verse, it is only found in a strophe by Arnórr Pórðarson, as part of a kenning for warrior: ‘skildir skeiðar brands’—the shield provider of the blade of the ship.60 But in place of the agent noun ‘skildir’, the Ágrip verse has the proper noun ‘Skjöldungr’; if that were understood as forming the subject of the ﬁrst helmingr (‘the Scylding of the ship’s prow’), there is no remaining object for the transitive verb ‘rak’ (drove). In any case, the manuscript is quite clear in reading the accusative ‘brand’ rather than the genitive. So although the author of Ágrip is usually regarded as having misunderstood his own quotation, if faced with the text as we have it, it is hard to see what else he would have made of it. What is really signiﬁcant is not so much his ‘mistake’— although Turville-Petre’s contention that no educated Icelander of the time would have failed to avoid such an ‘obvious’ pitfall has been central to arguments assigning Ágrip to a Norwegian author61—as the fact that he has apparently invented a brief story to go with King Brandr. He not only inserts Brandr into the well documented (or at least celebrated) battle of Hafrsvágr, or Hafrsfjörðr, usually regarded as the culminating victory in King Haraldr’s campaign to unify Norway under his rule, but provides a brief epilogue to Brandr’s career: after his defeat he ﬂed to Denmark, and met his death ﬁghting Wends. The author of Ágrip implies that the poem Oddmjór, which is otherwise unknown, supplies the necessary corroboration, although this helmingr, which is ostensibly quoted from it, does not. There is no question of reconstructing the Ágrip-author’s compositional process with any certainty here. But the possibility exists that he was unable to construe a difﬁcult, and perhaps corrupt, skaldic text, so he derived the name of a king from it, and invented a minibiography for his misreading. It is surely unlikely that he also invented the existence of the poem Oddmjór, but the origins of the helmingr he ostensibly quotes from it are quite complex. 60

Skj B II, 307 (Hrynhenda, 7).

61

Turville-Petre, Origins, 172–3.

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As we have seen, the compound ‘skeiðar brandr’, in the genitive case, as part of a kenning for warrior, also occurs in a verse by Arnórr. The relevant helmingr is in Arnórr’s poem Hrynhenda, numbered 7 in Diana Whaley’s edition: Ungan frá’k tik, eyðir, trøngva, ulfa gráðar, teira ráði: skildir stökk með skœðan tokka skeiðar brands fyr tér ór landi.62

I have heard that you when young constrained, O queller of wolves’greed, their course. The shield-provider bolted with baleful thought of the ship’s prow before you, from the land [my emphasis].

It has been noted ever since Ágrip was ﬁrst edited that there is a similarity between this helmingr by Arnórr and the helmingr from Oddmjór which goes beyond the simple recurrence of the problematic compound. In addition, the second couplet of the helmingr is strikingly reminiscent of another passage from Arnórr, the ﬁrst two lines of strophe 7 of his Magnússdrápa: Náði siklingr síðan snjallr ok Danmörk allri máttr óx drengja dróttins— dy´rr Nóregi at sty´ra.63

Attained the prince then, daring, with the whole of Denmark, —the strength of the warriors’ liege waxed— excellent, to rule Norway.

The four lines in Ágrip seem to be a conﬂation of both couplets by Arnórr. It would then be hard to decide whether it was the author of Ágrip or the author of the elusive Oddmjór who was responsible for the conﬂation, but there is certainly more than a chance similarity between Arnórr’s work and Oddmjór here. Although the helmingr as it stands in Ágrip appears nowhere else in Old Norse, the two related helmingar by Arnórr are found in varying contexts in a number of witnesses.64 But one fact stands out: 62 Diana Whaley, The Poetry of Arnórr jarlaskáld: An Edition and Study (Turnhout, 1998), 157–8. 63 Ibid. 197–8. 64 The Hrynhenda lines are quoted also in The Separate Saga of St Óláfr (O. A. Johnsen and Jón Helgason (eds.), Den store saga om Olav den hellige, ii (Oslo, 1941), 615), and in the story of Magnus inn góði in the Hulda-Hrokkinskinna compilation (printed in Sveinbjörn Egilsson et al. (eds.), Fornmanna sögur, vi (Copenhagen, 1831), 24)—though in each case they form the second helmingr of a full strophe. In Heimskringla, the ﬁrst helmingr of that strophe is combined with a different second helmingr (Hkr III, 8–9). The relevant four lines of Arnórr’s Magnússdrápa are not

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only in Ágrip is the verse associated with King Haraldr inn hárfagri. All the other texts quote the relevant lines to complement or corroborate accounts of the rule of Magnús inn góði. The texts may be divided as to whether they place the verse quotation at the beginning of Magnús’s career, to mark his triumphal progress through Norway, putting Sveinn Alfífuson to ﬂight, or whether the verse is quoted when Magnús goes on to subdue Denmark as well.65 But allowing for this entirely reasonable variation in the verses’ contexts, it is clear that there is no uncertainty whatever about the relevance of the strophes to the reign of Magnús inn góði. It is striking that one witness of Arnórr’s relevant Hrynhenda strophe reads ‘skjöldungr’ instead of ‘skildir’. Whaley rejects this reading: ‘skjöldungr is unacceptable since it leaves skeiðarbrands without function in the syntax’.66 This is of course the very problem the Ágrip author had to contend with. If ‘skjöldungr’ has indeed crept in through error, it is not surprising, since it is the opening word of two other strophes and a couplet in Hrynhenda (12, 13, and 20) and, as Whaley points out, is used ﬁve times by Arnórr with reference to Magnús.67 In any event, it seems very likely that the apostrophe ‘Skjöldungr’ was a memorable element in praise poetry for Magnús, and might easily have replaced a similar sounding twoquoted in Heimskringla, but are found in Flateyjarbók (Guðbrandur Vigfússon and C. R. Unger (eds.), iii (Oslo, 1868), 272; further references to this edition are given in the form Flateyjarbók) and the Hulda-Hrokkinskinna Magnúss saga (Sveinbjörn Egilsson et al. (eds.), Fornmanna sögur, iv (Copenhagen, 1829) 51). In both texts they are followed by the same second helmingr, but in the former, the full strophe is followed by the strophe numbered 6 by Whaley, while in the latter the order is reversed. 65 In Heimskringla, in which the Magnússdrápa with the reference to Denmark is not quoted, the alternative strophe from Hrynhenda comes right at the beginning of Magnús’s reign, as he ﬁrst travels through Norway to claim the throne. In HuldaHrokkinskinna, the helmingr from Hrynhenda accompanies the prose texts’ accounts of Magnús’s early triumph over Sveinn Álfífuson in Norway, while the helmingr from Magnússdrápa is quoted later, as Magnus extends his hegemony to include Denmark; Flateyjarbók also quotes its stanzas from Magnússdrápa at this point in Magnús’s reign. 66 Whaley, Arnórr jarlaskáld, 158. 67 In stanza 4 of Hrynhenda, it occurs as an apostrophe to King Magnús in close connection with the phrase ‘skeiðar húf’ (ship’s hull). Snorri in his Edda quotes a couplet attributed to Arnórr (though see Whaley, 181) in illustration of the way the name is used in poetry as a heiti for ruler; Whaley notes Roberta Frank’s suggestion that alluding to the celebrated Danish dynasty may have been Arnórr’s way of ﬂattering Magnús in his conquest of Denmark (150).

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syllable base word in oral transmission. But this, of course, makes it all the stranger that the author of Ágrip should have associated the verse with Haraldr. If, as Turville-Petre concludes, the author of Ágrip invented the story about King Skeiðar-Brandr in order to explain the reference to him in the verse, then we have here a clear instance of the appearance of corroboration while in fact the verse has provided source material for the prose, although it is not clear whether the author of Ágrip also derived the details of what happened to Brandr after the battle of Hafrsfjörðr from elsewhere in Oddmjór, or invented them as a likely probability. We may also never be able to determine whether the author of Ágrip inherited a garbled stray verse from a half-remembered poem—Oddmjór—or whether the poem itself was inherently unreliable and the Ágrip-author did his best with it, in good faith. Whatever the circumstances, the author of Ágrip has chosen a remarkably difﬁcult verse with which to corroborate his account of the celebrated reign of Haraldr inn hárfagri. For our purposes, however, the saga author’s procedure here is very signiﬁcant: we can see him (or a predecesor) elaborating saga prose—perhaps inventing King Skeiðar-Brandr, and developing a brief biography for him—all on the basis of a skaldic stanza. And yet, inextricably interwoven with this ﬁction is the saga author’s historicizing mode, in which he takes pains to identify both the poet and the longer poem from which, he claims, the strophe comes. Quoting strophes from longer poems and giving full information about their provenance is the most detached and ostensibly factually informative way of incorporating skaldic verse: the stanza acts as an independent footnote in the body of the narrative. This technique also makes evident the interval between the writing of the prose and the composition of the verse: the prose writer gives the impression of formally acknowledging the autonomy of the verse. It is ironic, then, that in Ágrip the verse which is most clearly incorporated in this way is involved in what may well be a ﬁctional relationship with its introductory prose. None of the other verses which are, broadly speaking, corroborative of Ágrip’s prose narrative, is as straightforwardly corroborative of factual detail as this strophe from Oddmjór, and, as we shall see, the formal independence of the verse from its prose context is nowhere else so explicitly stated. A good example is the verse which is quoted in the course of the brief account of the reign of Haraldr gráfeldr. The author of Ágrip praises him brieﬂy—‘[hann] var teira

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brœðr fremstr ok vænstr ok eina bezt at sér gerr’ (he was the most distinguished, promising, and handsome of the brothers)—and then quotes the verse: Æ standa mér augu of eld til Gráfeldar.68

My eye is always ﬁxed on Grey-cloak over the ﬁre.

The couplet is introduced with no indication of authorship or context; the phrase ‘tví var tetta kveðit’ (therefore this was composed) could hardly be less informative, and the verse is found nowhere else in Old Norse. In Heimskringla a number of strophes are quoted from Glúmr Geirason’s drápa about Haraldr, which is uncomplicatedly eulogistic,69 and there are also lausavísur by Eyvindr skáldaspillir, whose relations with the new king were, however, uneasy from the start, and soon broke down in dangerous acrimony.70 But there is no way of telling whether the Ágrip couplet might belong in either group. Snorri notes that the sons of Gunnhildr were all handsome men, but there is no verse corroborating this point.71 In essence, the verse in Ágrip is corroborative—the implication of the quotation is that Haraldr was handsome just as it says in the verse—but there is a sense that the saga author is recording a response from an unknown poet who has been moved to compose the verse at the sight of Haraldr. This is reinforced by the pleasing immediacy of the couplet, with its present tense, and its strong personal element; Haraldr is praised not merely objectively, but in terms of the effect his appearance has on the ﬁrst-person observer. The corroboration this couplet apparently offers is thus conﬁrmation of an opinion, rather than a simply factual substantiation. This is true too of the ﬁnal verse quoted in Ágrip, though this verse stands out because it is attributed to the king whose reign is being commemorated, Sigurðr Jórsalafari. It corroborates in only the most general way the success of Sigurðr’s rule in terms of his affection for his subjects: Búendr tykkja mér baztir, byggt land ok friðr standi.72

Farmers seem to me the best, settled land and steady peace.

The author of Ágrip describes this verse as a kviðlingr, or satirical composition, but it is not possible to attach this fragment to any 68 70

69 Ágrip, 12. For Gráfeldardrápa, see Skj B I, 66–8. 71 Ibid. 204. 72 Ágrip, 50. See Hkr I, 198–203.

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speciﬁc event or incident. Two other verses by Sigurðr are preserved elsewhere, both in anecdotal contexts.73 One refers to the ﬁrst meeting between Sigurðr and his poet Pórarinn stuttfeldr, ‘karl í feldi’ (a fellow in a cloak), who seems to be implicated in spoiling the singing of evensong; the anecdote is mildly humorous in tone, but far from fully coherent. The other is a boast by Sigurðr to the detriment of his brother Eysteinn, told in a perfunctorily anecdotal way—it has no more than a ‘negligible context’, as Theodore M. Andersson puts it.74 It is interesting that the Ágrip-author has not used these fragments, which are very reminiscent, both in their reference to relations between a king and his poet, and in their bare prose framework, of the scraps of material which have been collected in the Legendary Saga, perhaps from the so-called Oldest Saga, as Jónas argues.75 In his account of the reign of Óláfr Haraldsson—Óláfr inn kyrri (the gentle)—the author of Ágrip again uses a verse which corroborates in only the most general way the overall character of a reign. Óláfr, together with his brother Magnús, succeeds his father Haraldr harðráði, who was killed in England at the battle of Stamford Bridge. According to Heimskringla, the brothers are immediately faced by a threat from Sveinn Úlfsson, the Danish king. Sveinn’s claim is that now that King Haraldr is dead, the friendly agreement between the Norwegians and the Danes has come to an end. The sons of Haraldr and Sveinn gather forces to stand against each other, but agreement is reached without a ﬁght.76 This episode is also recounted in Morkinskinna,77 and in both texts the account of the stand-off between the sons of Haraldr and Sveinn is accompanied by several verses by Steinn Herdísarson, who composed a drápa about Óláfr. The author of Ágrip, however, makes no reference to this particular encounter. He merely notes that Magnús and his brother Óláfr shared the kingdom after Haraldr’s death, and that Magnús himself died shortly afterwards, leaving Óláfr as sole king. The Ágripauthor’s account of Óláfr’s reign bears out his nickname ‘inn kyrri’ (the gentle), since there is no mention at all of any ﬁghting otherwise. The account of Óláfr’s reign is all sweetness and light: 73 See e.g. Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Morkinskinna, STUAGNL, 53 (Copenhagen, 1932), 347 and 349. 74 Morkinskinna, 457 (ch. 73 n. 1). 75 76 Hkr III, 201–2. See n. 28. 77 Morkinskinna, 286–8.

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prosperity such as has not been seen since the days of Haraldr inn hárfagri, the building of a church in pious commemoration of St Óláfr, and a remarkable speech in which Óláfr rejoices in the freedom, peace, and prosperity of his subjects. In Heimskringla, Snorri too presents a picture of an unusually untroubled reign. The stand-off with Sveinn of Denmark is interestingly recounted as a postscript to the death of Haraldr, and so does not disturb the serenity of Óláfr’s story. One might, however, read a certain amount of criticism in his account of the copious drinking and extravagant fashions which seem to have characterized this period.78 The verse with which the author of Ágrip rounds off his account of Óláfr’s reign bears out the prose: Varði ógnar orðum Óláfr ok friðmálum jörð svá at engi torði allvalda til kalla.79

He defended with words of menace, Óláfr, and with peace-speeches the land so that no one dared, of rulers, to lay claim.

The only slight uncertainty here is that while the verse suggests that threats to Óláfr’s kingdom were made, even if Óláfr did securely head them off, there are no hints of any such threats in the Ágrip narrative. In Morkinskinna, as we have seen, the account of Óláfr’s reign does at least include the confrontation with Sveinn, but there the verse is placed—with a prose introduction almost word-for-word the same as in Ágrip—as a corroborative comment on Óláfr’s maintenance of peace during his rule. In the other texts, the verse is much more closely associated with the speciﬁc context of the confrontation. In Heimskringla, for instance, it is placed immediately after the account of Óláfr’s stand-off with Sveinn—that is, before the account of his untroubled reign. In the Hulda-Hrokkinskinna compilation, as in Morkinskinna, the author quotes a number of Steinn Herdísarson’s celebratory verses, but the quotation of the helmingr in question marks the successful resolution of the confrontation, and the slightly different text more precisely reﬂects this context: ‘svá at eigi torði | allvaldr til kalla’ (so that the ruler dared not lay claim).80 This gives us a speciﬁc reference to Sveinn as the single ruler in question, and does not raise the possibility of other such diplomatic triumphs being characteristic of the rest of Óláfr’s reign. The helmingr is thus 78 80

79 Hkr III, 205. Ágrip, 41. Sveinbjörn Egilsson et al. (eds.), Fornmanna sögur, vi. 437.

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presented as a verse composed to commemorate one particular occasion, rather than being loosely corroborative, as it is in Ágrip. In this, Ágrip differs from later versions of the material. As I have already noted, the author of the Ágrip does not quote any verses in recounting the reign of St Óláfr. But he breaks the long verse silence in his text in his account of the disastrous reign of Sveinn Knútsson and his mother Álfífu, in which the hardships endured by the people of Norway are described. The strophe quoted is attributed to the poet Sigvatr Pórðarson, and is introduced with a conventional corroboration formula: ‘sem heyra má í vísu tessi er Sigvatr kvað’ (as may be heard in this verse which Sigvatr spoke). The verse itself both decries Álfífu and praises Óláfr inn helgi: Álﬁfu mun ævi ungr drengr muna lengi er oxa mat átu inni skaf sem hafrar; annat var, tá es Óláfr ógnbandaðr réð landi, hverr átti tá hrósa hjalmar hlöðnu korni.81

The time of Álfífu will the young man long remember, when they ate the food of oxen at home, [and] peelings, like goats; it was otherwise, when Óláfr the fearsome ruled the country: each person could then boast piles of stacked corn.

This strophe is also quoted in the Legendary Saga82—perhaps, following Jónas Kristjánsson, indicating that it was also in the Oldest Saga83—and in Flateyjarbók.84 The content of the verse is not tied to any speciﬁc moment or event, but is more of a retrospective summing up of the miseries of Sveinn and Álfífu’s rule, contrasted with the beneﬁts of Óláfr’s reign. The wording of the prose introduction is almost exactly the same in the other texts, prose and verse together functioning as an illustrative narrative element which reﬂects as closely on the late Óláfr as on the new rulers. In fact, the Legendary Saga, like Ágrip, continues after the verse quotation with more details of St Óláfr’s age and regnal dates, so that one might even conjecture that the verse and its introductory prose were not 81

Ágrip, 31. Anne Heinrichs et al. (eds. and trans.), Die ‘Legendarische Saga’ über Olaf den Heiligen (Heidelberg, 1982), 208. All further references to the Legendary Saga are to this edition. 83 84 See n. 28. Flateyjarbók, ii. 393. 82

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originally put together by the author of Ágrip, but perhaps originally belonged in an early collection of oral material about the saint. The verse is not quoted in Heimskringla. In summary, then, we can see that the verses in Ágrip which are quoted in apparent corroboration of the text in fact offer a variety of complex relationships between the verse and the prose. The ﬁrst verse in the text, which is introduced in the most ostensibly scholarly way, in fact seems more likely to have given rise to ﬁction than to have been used to infer and corroborate historical events. Verses introduced as corroboration of the events of the reigns of Óláfr kyrri and Sigurðr Jórsalafari merely conﬁrm a broad impression of those reigns, and are reminiscent of the way learned writers use classical quotations to conﬁrm moral truisms in monastic chronicles. Indeed, the verse associated with the reign of Óláfr kyrri may originally have commemorated a speciﬁc incident, and has been used more generally by the Ágrip-author. The presentation of a couplet celebrating the good looks of Haraldr gráfeldr borders on the incorporation of skaldic verse not as a footnote independent of the prose narrative, but as part of the narrative itself. And ﬁnally, the strophe which condemns the evils of Sveinn and Álfífu, praising by contrast the virtues of St Óláfr, may derive, along with its accompanying prose, from another source, perhaps an oral one; it may well be that its corroborative use was not the initiative of our historian. Dialogue verses The verse which the author of Ágrip quotes in relation to the reign of Magnús inn góði is incorporated in the narrative in a way quite different from the corroborative verses: the strophe is presented as direct speech. Magnús, having driven Sveinn and his mother out of Norway, takes over the kingdom, but treats his subjects harshly. According to the author of Ágrip, Magnús abuses the men of Trondheim, from whom his father St Óláfr’s opponents were largely drawn. The author of Ágrip dramatically recounts how the Prœndir expressed disapproval and rebellion—‘stungu allir neﬁ í skinnfeld’ (they all stuffed their noses into their cloaks), refusing to respond to Magnús’s provocation. A man called Atli then makes a witty metaphorical remark about Magnús’s harsh taxation policy: ‘Svá skorpnar skór at fœti mér at ek má eigi ór stað komask’ (my shoe is so tight on my foot that I can’t move from the spot). At this crucial

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moment, according to the prose narrative, Sigvatr steps in with his verse, which he recited ‘tar tegar’ (then and there): Hætts tats allir ætla áðr skal við tví ráða, hárir menn, es ek heyri, hót, skjöldungi á móti. Greypts tats höfðum hneppta heldr ok niðr í feldi, slegit heﬁr tögn á tegna, tingmenn nösum stinga.85

It’s dangerous when all intend —this must be dealt with soon— old men, as I hear, a threat, [rebellion] against their king. It’s ominous, when they bow their heads [rather] and down into their cloaks —silence has seized the thanes— the assembly-men stick their noses.

This single strophe, which functions as the punchline of a short dramatic anecdote—the assembly breaks up as soon as it is recited, and the king adjourns the meeting until the morning, during which time he undergoes a miraculous reformation, and is known thereafter as Magnús the Good86—is in other texts one of a group of verses named in Heimskringla as the Bersöglisvísur (the Plain-Speaking verses); Snorri quotes eight others with it, and in Hulda and Flateyjarbók it is one of thirteen and sixteen respectively. Some of these verses are also quoted in Fagrskinna, without the name of the whole poem. Unless we are to believe that these later texts somehow invented more verses by Sigvatr to build up into longer sequences, or that this verse ‘was originally improvised on a separate occasion and only later added to the other stanzas to form the sequence as we know it today’,87 it must be the case that the author of Ágrip, or, of course, his source, excerpted one verse from the sequence Bersöglisvísur and reduced the scene in which Sigvatr delivers his warning rebuke to Magnús to a sharp and pithy anecdote. As Poole points out, the prose description of the men at the assembly expressing dissent by stuffing their heads under their cloaks is plainly derived from the substance of the verse, and it may be that the content of the verse also marked out this particular strophe, with the dramatic gesture at its heart, as the most suitable one to stand alone, as if the event itself 85

Ágrip, 33. We may compare this overnight conversion with Porgeirr the lawspeaker’s behaviour before announcing the ‘conversion’ of Iceland; Jakob Benediktsson (ed.), Íslendingabók, 16–17. 87 Poole discusses (and dismisses) these unlikely possibilities in favour of the verse having been excerpted from the longer sequence (Viking Poems, 9–10). 86

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might be felt plausibly to provoke the verse which is presented as being recited in response to it. Comparison with other versions of the episode is illuminating. Ágrip’s version of the conversion of King Magnús is, for example, very much more dramatic and striking than Snorri’s fuller version in Heimskringla. The quotation of a number of strophes from Bersöglisvísur represents the king’s change of heart as the inevitable outcome of a long process of nagging advice; after so many of Sigvatr’s verses, pleading from his subjects, and a meeting of the wisest men in the land, Magnús is moved to draw up the statutes known as Grágás, and becomes as a result the object of popular affection.88 Of course Snorri’s account of Magnús’s change of heart is the more plausible; whether or not it reﬂects the actual course of Magnús’s reformation, it certainly gives the impression of a naturalistic and rational account. However, Ágrip’s version is the more entertaining, and highlights the role of the poet and his individual response. We should note ﬁnally that Heimskringla, along with all the other later histories which quote the Bersöglisvísur, recounts an alternative—and much more plausible—occasion for the recitation of the verses: friends of Magnús, recognizing the growing discontent with his rule, meet to consider what best to do. They decide that the king must be told of the danger, and draw lots to decide to whom this unenviable task should fall. It falls to Sigvatr, who duly presents his advice to the king in verse—the Bersöglisvísur. Thus the recitation of the sequence is presented as a narrative event—not an impromptu response, however, but a prepared intervention. Poole rightly emphasizes that in speculating how an author came to treat excerpted verses as individual lausavísur, the author’s creative impulse—what I have termed littérarité—should not be discounted, even though a more mechanical explanation might be the pressure to abbreviate, especially in a synoptic summary such as Ágrip. But whatever the author’s approach, it is hard to believe that such a ﬁne and pointed anecdote could have been anything like a ﬁrst attempt at reﬁning a mass of material into one brief, forceful scene. Regardless of the early date of Ágrip, the author of the anecdote must have been aided in his paring down of incidents by the existence— probably oral—of pointed, polished anecdotes which he could use as models. If the introduction of verses as corroboration in Ágrip was 88

Hkr III, 31.

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uncertain and experimental, the presentation of verses as dialogue was not. The verse which the author of Ágrip quotes in relation to the reign of Magnús berfœttr is also presented as direct speech, and the anecdote of which it forms the kernel is repeated, in more detailed form, in Heimskringla, Fagrskinna and Morkinskinna,89 thus providing an excellent opportunity to compare different versions of what is evidently the same prosimetrical episode. After the death of Hákon Magnússon, who had been jointly ruling Norway with his cousin Magnús berfœttr, the chieftain Steigar-Pórir, who had been Hákon’s foster-father, withdrew his support for Magnús and rebelled against him. King Magnús defeats the forces of Steigar-Pórir, and when the traitor is captured, and led to the scaffold, he speaks a verse couplet as his last words: Várum félagar fjórir forðum, einn við sty´ri.90

We were comrades four, once, one at the helm.

The prose continues with a brief reference to Egill Askelssonr, who was hanged along with Pórir ‘tví at hann vildi eigi ﬂy´ja frá Ingibjörgu konu sinni’ (because he didn’t want to ﬂee and leave his wife Ingibjörg). As he executes Egill, King Magnús remarks, somewhat cryptically, ‘Illa koma hónum góðir frændr í hald’ (Fine kin are poor support for him). The other histories offer some explanation of Magnús’s comment: they all suggest that King Magnús implied in his words that he was expecting someone to plead for Egill’s life. As Matthew Driscoll notes, though Egill’s own family were not distinguished, his wife’s were well connected—even to Magnús himself, whose grandmother was Ingibjörg’s aunt,91 a connection which may well have lain behind Magnús’s remark. Morkinskinna also offers a gloss on Pórir’s verse couplet, explaining that he is alluding wryly to the fact that only two of them, himself and Egill, are left. Fagrskinna makes no attempt to explain Pórir’s verse, but both works include the striking detail that Pórir grinned as he spoke it. 89

Hkr III, 216; for Fagrskinna see Bjarni Einarsson (ed.), Ágrip af Noregs konunga sögum. Fagrskinna, Nóregs konunga tal, Íslenzk fornrit, 29 (Reykjavík, 1984), 304–6 (all further references to Fagrskinna are to this edition); Morkinskinna, 289–90. 90 Ágrip, 44. See Morkinskinna, 41, for a comment on the text. 91 M. J. Driscoll (ed.), Ágrip af Nóregskonungasügum, Viking Society for Northern Research Text Series, 10 (London, 1995), 67 n. 136.

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Morkinskinna, Fagrskinna, and Heimskringla include a good deal of material which the author of Ágrip does not touch on at all. They relate, for instance, a triumphant taunt from Pórir’s old adversary Sigurðr ullstrengr, ‘Ertu heill, Steigar-Pórir?’ (Are you well, SteigarPórir?). (According to Fagrskinna Pórir has actually been captured; in Morkinskinna and Heimskringla he is just about to be seized.) Pórir’s deﬁant reply, ‘Heill í höndum, en hrumr at fótum’ (My hands are ﬁne but my feet are feeble) is also included in all three accounts, although only Morkinskinna then quotes what is presumably the source for Pórir’s distinctly metrical utterance, a skaldic strophe which plainly states that Sigurðr asked Pórir how he was and that Pórir replied in exactly the terms recorded in the prose. In Heimskringla Pórir is said to be ‘gamall maðr ok tungfœrr’ (an old man, and not very mobile); Ágrip, along with the three other accounts, notes that in his ﬂight from Magnús, Pórir was carried in a litter. Pórir is jeered by those who have suffered at his hands in the past, and all three histories repeat the words of Viðkunnr Jónsson, who shouts, when Pórir, unsteady on his feet, fails to keep to the path, ‘Meir á stjórn, Pórir, nú meir á bakborða!’ (More to stern, Pórir, and now more to port!). Snorri has earlier prepared for this taunt by describing how Pórir burns Viðkunnr’s farm and ship, and how Pórir shouts mocking steering directions. On that occasion, Pórir shouted to Viðkunnr ‘More to the stern’, and Snorri explains that the ship leaned to one side as it burned.92 A verse about the burning of the farm is then quoted as a conclusion to this stage in the narrative. Morkinskinna and Fagrskinna do not tell this story in advance of the execution, and so have to explain retrospectively how Viðkunnr had had his home, and all he possessed, including a ﬁne ship, burned by Pórir, and that as the ship blazed, Pórir had shouted the same taunt to him, though Snorri’s explanation of the ship teetering to one side is not related. As in Heimskringla, a skaldic strophe alluding to the burning is then quoted in both accounts, though it does not mention a burning ship, but only the farm. Finally, Pórir is hanged; as his last utterance, he enigmatically announces, ‘Ill eru ill ráð’ (Bad counsels are a bad thing). Snorri’s explanation of Sigurðr ullstrengr’s ironic question about Pórir’s health is also more tidily presented than in the other two long histories. Like the author of Morkinskinna, Snorri has Sigurðr pose 92

Hkr III, 215.

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the question before Pórir has actually been captured, just after his ship has been rammed by the king’s men. Pórir’s uncertainty about the strength of his feet is therefore prophetic, since he is captured because he cannot run away fast enough. When he is about to be hanged, then, his stumbling on the way up to the gallows is appropriate after the double reference to his inability to run; and, as we have seen, Viðkunnr’s taunt about Pórir’s difﬁculty in steering a straight course does not need to be explained by retrospective reference to an earlier occasion, as it does in Morkinskinna and Fagrskinna. Snorri completes his account with the quotation of Pórir’s snippet of verse and his enigmatic remark about bad advice; the verse and the aphorism are not separated, as they are in Morkinskinna and Fagrskinna, by that retrospective explanation of Viðkunnr’s taunt. The account of this incident in Ágrip is much less detailed. But one interesting difference is that, alone of all the versions so far considered, the Ágrip-author frames Pórir’s two lines of skaldic verse as his very last words, with the remark ‘Ill eru ill ráð’ being placed before them. Further, while the other versions represent Pórir’s last words as a response to a death he recognizes as imminent and inescapable—‘er hann gekk at galganum’ (when he went to the scaffold), or ‘er Pórir var leiddr til gálga oc banan opinn ﬁre ser’ (when Pórir was led to the scaffold, and his death facing him)— the Ágrip-author markedly dramatizes the moment by stating specifically that Pórir spoke his verse ‘áðr hann væri hengðr ok snaran látin á hálsinn’ (before he was hanged, and the rope was placed around his neck).93 As in Heimskringla, the effect of the last words is already heightened because the two utterances are not separated by explanation; both are spoken at the very last moment. Richard Perkins has suggested that Steigar-Pórir’s couplet might be in origin a fragment of a children’s rhyme, perhaps itself based on a rowing chant.94 He notes that there is no reason to suppose that Steigar-Pórir actually composed the couplet on the spot, as opposed to simply reciting it, and that it does not bear any speciﬁc relation to the prose context. Perkins adds that in the longer histories, at least, the whole anecdote is peppered with maritime references and terminology: Pórir’s verse may be another such allusion. It seems likely 93

Fagrskinna, 305; Morkinskinna, 290; Ágrip, 44. Richard Perkins, ‘Steigar-Pórir’s Couplet and Steinn Herdísarson II: Notes and Queries’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society, 22 (1987), 109–15. 94

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that the story of Steigar-Pórir’s execution and last words was a popular anecdote, which perhaps became elaborated and added to with other ironic or deﬁant snippets of remembered or invented tradition. Of the longer accounts, Snorri’s is the most orderly, but it is striking that the account in Ágrip, while by far the shortest, leaves no point unexplained or in disorder. It is impossible to determine whether in the Ágrip account we have the ﬁrst unelaborated re-telling of an anecdote whose ramiﬁcations increased over time, or a skilfully abbreviated version of a cluster of narrative motifs. In spite of such discrete local successes, however, the use of verse by the author of Ágrip can hardly be said to make a major contributon to the littérarité of the prose text. Plainly his successors, and most prominently, Snorri, did not learn or perfect their art of combining historical account with literary effect from this example alone. By the thirteenth century, Snorri and his contemporaries had clearly developed full conﬁdence in the incorporation of verses as corroborative elements in their prose, and this has become the dominant mode of verse quotation. But there still remained the long, even archaic tradition of non-documentary verse use on which to draw, and as I shall show, Snorri in particular could not only employ both modes, but also juxtapose them for contrastive effect. In the remaining part of this chapter, then, I will offer some examples of how skaldic verse contributes to the littérarité of the narrative in the mature histories. the competing demands of historicity and LITTÉRARITÉ in historical works Dealing with discrepancy Snorri’s reference in his prologue to Heimskringla regarding verses as entertainment—‘til skemmtanar’95—touches on one of the primary difﬁculties of using skaldic verse as source material: such verse was not composed necessarily or solely to provide historical documentation, and its value in throwing light on historical events is limited. Its traditionally allusive style, with cryptic kennings and condensed forms of expression, is not designed for the straightforward communication of factual information. Snorri was evidently well 95

Hkr I, 4.

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aware of this difﬁculty himself: in the longer of the two prefaces to the Separate Saga of St Óláfr he notes that the best kind of substantiation is that ‘er berum orðum er sagt í kvæðum’ (which is said in plain words in poems), remaining discreetly silent about the alternative.96 But even when the meaning is transparent—or, at least, can be deduced to some extent, difﬁculties may remain. For instance, a poet may have been contemporary with events, but his sources of information may not have been good: Sigvatr’s Víkingarvísur commemorate King Óláfr Haraldsson’s successes in England, for example, but Sigvatr was not with him there, and must therefore have relied on hearsay. In Morkinskinna, King Haraldr himself is said to have provided information for his poets, but as Turville-Petre has pointed out, the claim in Sexstefja that King Haraldr himself captured eighty cities in Africa casts doubt on the objectivity of even ﬁrsthand information.97 In spite of Snorri’s objection that a poet’s over-praise of his patron to his face would be interpreted as mockery,98 it seems likely that ﬂattery could often be perfectly acceptable. Finally, given that verses composed in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries were probably not written down until a considerable period of time had elapsed, textual corruption may cause difﬁculties in interpretation, and perhaps even factual inaccuracy, again in spite of Snorri’s claim in the preface to his Separate Saga of St Óláfr that the intricacy of skaldic metres would prevent such distortion.99 It is of course important not to assume that the Norse historian necessarily experienced as much difﬁculty in assessing and interpreting the historically useful element in skaldic verse as the modern reader may do. On the other hand, the story of King Skeiðar-Brandr in Ágrip is a convincing example of the probable improvisation of narrative from an equivocal source verse. It is clear that later historians too had to face discrepancy and inconsistency arising from the uncertain historicity of the skaldic verses they used, and in what follows, I will examine in some detail the way Snorri in particular copes with Sigvatr’s Víkingarvísur, a sequence of strophes celebrating St Óláfr’s early viking career. 96 Hkr II, 422 (Appendix: Ór Óláfs sögu ins Helga inni Sérstöku). See also Johnsen and Jón Helgason (eds.), Den store saga i. 3. 97 Gabriel Turville-Petre, ‘Haraldr the Hard-Ruler and his Poets’, Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture (London, 1968), 13. 98 99 Hkr I, 3. Hkr I, 422.

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Norse accounts of King Óláfr Haraldsson’s campaigns in England are greatly indebted to Sigvatr’s Víkingarvísur. Alistair Campbell calls this series of strophes ‘one of the best historical documents transmitted to us from the Scandinavian north’,100 and notes that Sigvatr would have been exceptionally well-placed, as Óláfr’s court poet, to learn about those early campaigns which the verses celebrate. But Sigvatr was not in England with Óláfr, and in fact, Norse accounts of Óláfr’s English campaigns are full of uncertainties and inconsistencies. While these cannot by any means all be blamed on the verses, Campbell himself later conceded that the Víkingarvísur must have been based on ‘very imperfect information’.101 The major variable in the traditions about Óláfr’s career ﬁghting in England is the question of whose side he fought for. The strophes from Sigvatr’s Víkingarvísur which commemorate battles in England all plainly allude to Óláfr ﬁghting against the English, and each strophe unambiguously numbers and names a location for each battle—London Bridge is the sixth encounter, Hringmaraheiðr the seventh, Canterbury the eighth, and so on—a very clear and explicit framework for any prose historian to work from. But this is a completely inﬂexible chronological backbone; prose writers can, and do, quote strophes from the series singly in the text, but each one must be in its proper consecutive order, or the explicit numbering will betray the rearrangement. So while it is relatively easy to derive a prose account of Óláfr’s battles from the verses alone, it is very difﬁcult to accommodate the testimony of the verses to a version of the English campaigns which differs in any essential details. And it seems that Norse historians did indeed know more about Óláfr in England than might be derived from Sigvatr’s verses alone. Alistair Campbell has summarized these extras: that Óláfr became an ally of Porkell the Tall, who is mentioned often in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as a scourge of the English in the ﬁrst decade of the eleventh century; that Óláfr 100 Alistair Campbell (ed.), Encomium Emmae Reginae, Royal Historical Society, 72 (London, 1949), 76. 101 Alistair Campbell, ‘Skaldic Verse and Anglo-Saxon History’, Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture (London, 1970), 10. For a discussion of the Víkingarvísur and Óttarr’s Höfuðlausn as used by Norse historians, see Pamela Peters, ‘Skaldic Verse as a Historical Source’, Parergon, 22 (1978), 29–37, and Christine Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, in Ursula Dronke et al. (eds.), Speculum Norroenum: Norse Studies in Memory of Gabriel Turville-Petre (Odense, 1981), 106–22. See also Campbell (ed.), Encomium Emmae, 81, and Russell Poole, ‘Skaldic Verse and Anglo-Saxon History: Some Aspects of the Period 1009–1016’, Speculum, 62 (1987), 265–98.

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at some point helped Ethelred in his attempts to regain the English throne (both Snorri and the author of Fagrskinna quote a verse to this effect by Óttarr inn svarti, and Campbell argues that the wording in the Legendary Saga is derived from this same verse); and that, ﬁnally, Óláfr was involved in attempts by the Danish king Sveinn, and his son Knútr, to conquer England.102 It should also be noted that as well as Óláfr’s shifts between ﬁghting for the English and against them, the history of Porkell’s allegiances during this period is also uncertain.103 It may be that historians will never produce a conclusive account of this brief but exceedingly complicated stretch of Anglo-Scandinavian history. Nevertheless, I think it is possible to see, against this mass of complex and sometimes contradictory detail, just how the Norse historians go about trying to reconcile their legacy of Sigvatr’s dogmatic Víkingarvísur with these other traditions. Sigvatr’s verse commemorating Óláfr’s fourth battle at Suðrvík is not quoted in either Fagrskinna or the Legendary Saga. It is of course possible that neither author knew the verse. But perhaps it was deliberately omitted because of the uncertainty apparently surrounding the location of Suðrvík. While according to Fagrskinna the battle takes place in Denmark, before Óláfr travels to Kinnlimasiða and thence to England,104 according to the Legendary Saga Suðrvík is in England.105 In the Legendary Saga Óláfr is said to be ﬁghting there in alliance with Porkell the Tall: ‘En ta er tæir Olafr oc Porkiæll varo a Ænglande, ta atto tæir orrostu baðer saman i Suðrvic oc drapo mart manna oc toko mikit fe oc fengo gagn’ (And when Óláfr and Porkell were in England, then both together they had a battle at Suðrvík. And they killed many men and took much booty, and won victory).106 It can be established from English sources that early campaigns against the English were indeed led by Porkell the Tall:107 in the Legendary Saga Suðrvík has been included amongst them. But the price the author of the saga must pay for this otherwise neat 102

Campbell (ed.), Encomium Emmae, 79. Ibid. 75. It may be that Porkell spurned his Danish allegiance in 1012 after the notorious killing of Archbishop Alfheah (ibid. 74). See also John Earle and Charles Plummer (eds.), Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel (787–1001 A.D.), ii (Oxford, 1899), 189–90. See also Poole, Viking Poems, 100–8. 104 Fagrskinna, 167. 105 Legendary Saga, 42. 106 Ibid. 42. 107 Earle and Plummer (eds.), Saxon Chronicles, i. 139 and ii. 187. 103

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inclusion is an improbably contorted itinerary for Óláfr, who, having fought his third battle in Finland, travels to England for the fourth, Suðrvík, encounter and then skips back to Kinnlimasíða (which Snorri locates in Frísland) for the ﬁfth, before describing in some detail Óláfr’s return to England and subsequent alliance with Knútr. It is during the period of this alliance that the saga author quotes a stanza from the Víkingarvísur about the battle of London Bridge, the sixth encounter.108 In Heimskringla Snorri does quote Sigvatr’s verse commemorating the fourth battle at Suðrvík, and introduces it into his narrative in the usual corroborative way: ‘Svá segir Sigvatr’ (thus says Sigvatr): Enn kváðu gram Gunnar galdrs upphöfum valda, dy´rð frák, teims vel varðisk, vinnask, fjórða sinni, tás ólítill úti jöfra liðs á miðli friðr gekk sundr í slíðri Suðrvík, Dönum kuðri.109

Further they said the king made battle [the valkyrie’s song] start for a fourth time—I heard that glory was won by those who defended themselves well—when no little peace between the troops of kings was broken, out in dangerous Suðrvík, known to the Danes.

The verse itself gives little help about the whereabouts of Suðrvík. The phrase ‘Dönum kuðri’ (known to the Danes) is ambiguous; Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, cautiously endorsed by Fell, interprets it as signifying that Suðrvík was in Denmark.110 It is, however, just as likely to signify a place which Danes knew to their cost, as the blades of the sword Hunlaﬁng are said to be known to the Jutes in Beowulf.111 Danes were indeed notoriously defeated by Óláfr in his 108 It is perhaps possible that the author of the Legendary Saga thought that Suðrvík was in England because of the confusing similarity of the name Súðvirki (Southwark) associated with Óláfr’s sixth battle in England. In the manuscripts of Fagrskinna the place name in the verse commemorating the Southwark battle is spelt Suðrvirki, a combination of the two (see Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Fagrskinna, STUAGNL, 30 (Copenhagen, 1902–3), 141), but printed as Súðvirki in Bjarni Einarsson’s edition. For a lucid discussion of the problems raised by the placename Súðvirki, see Matthew Townend, English Place-Names in Skaldic Verse, English Place-Name Society, extra series, 1 (Nottingham, 1998), 72–4. 109 Hkr II, 12. See also Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, 113. 110 Hkr II, 12 n.; Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, 113. 111 F. Klaeber (ed.), Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, 3rd edn. (Boston, 1950), 43 (l. 1145). But note that this reference too may be ambiguous.

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later campaigns against Knútr at Suðvirki, and, as Campbell has pointed out, Sigvatr does mistakenly include other details from this later defence of London in the verse which commemorates Óláfr’s earlier (fourth) viking attack on it.112 Whatever the historical actuality of the location, Snorri follows the author of Fagrskinna in placing Suðrvík in Denmark. This gives Óláfr a much more plausible itinerary than he has in the Legendary Saga; he would sail south to Denmark (Suðrvík), on to Frísland (to ﬁght at Kinnlimasíða), and thence to England. But in describing the battle at Suðrvík as being an encounter ‘jöfra liðs á miðli’ (between the troops of kings), the strophe evokes a much more signiﬁcant battle than the viking skirmish which the prose accounts describe. That Snorri was aware of this inconsistency is clear from his explanatory introduction to the strophe: ‘En víkingar teir, er jafnan lágu úti ok réðu fyrir liði miklu, létu sik konunga kalla, tótt teir ætti engi lünd til forráða’ (And those vikings, who customarily lay out at sea, and had a great force at their command, had themselves called kings, even though they had no lands to rule over).113 Snorri also tries to reconcile the involvement of Porkell the Tall, who was known to have fought in England, and whom the Legendary Saga associates with an English Suðrvík, with the placing of Suðrvík in Denmark. In what is almost certainly an unhistorical synthesis— though not an improbable one, since Porkell was indeed Danish— Snorri tells us: ‘Pá sigldi Óláfr konungr til Danmerkr. Hitti hann tar Porkel inn háva, bróður Sigvalda jarls, ok rézk Porkell til ferðar með honum, tví at hann var tá búinn áðr at fara í hernað’ (Then King Óláfr sailed to Denmark. There he met Porkell the Tall, the brother of Earl Sigvaldi, and Porkell joined up with him, because he was at that time all ready to go raiding).114 As both Campbell and Fell point out, in the Separate Saga of St Óláfr Snorri does not link Oláfr and Porkell the Tall,115 so it is possible that Snorri is here elaborating or ‘improving’ his earlier version. This is the only instance in which a prose introduction to a verse differs between Snorri’s two sagas of 112

Campbell (ed.), Encomium Emmae, 77. Hkr II, 12. That vikings who had no lands to rule over were nevertheless known as kings is also claimed in Flateyjarbók (i. 90), in an account of how Óláfr Tryggvason was granted the title of king by his men when he ﬁrst went on viking raids at the age of twelve—in other words, a similarly self-justifying context. 114 Ibid. 12. 115 Campbell (ed.), Encomium Emmae, 81 n. 6, and Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, 112–13. 113

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St Óláfr. Further, Snorri is unique amongst the other historians in expanding the force of the word ‘úti’ (out at sea) in the verse by describing a sea battle. The signiﬁcance of this short passage is that we can see Snorri responding directly to the implications of a verse, not in a merely mechanical way, to incorporate it into the narrative, but creatively, so that verse and prose seem together to form a seamless, consistent body of information. It seems that Snorri has recognized certain discrepancies between the content of Sigvatr’s verses and what he may have learned from other sources, and he has modiﬁed his narrative accordingly. By way of contrast, it may be worth investigating an example of a completely different way of dealing with discrepancy in skaldic sources: the omission of awkward material. Fagrskinna and the Legendary Saga differ most markedly at the next stage in the narrative in that in the former Óláfr is said to be ﬁghting in England against the Danes, whilst in the latter his enemy are the English. After the battles at Suðrvík and Kinnlimasíða, which are reported in the prose of both accounts, though Sigvatr’s commemorative verses are not included,116 the author of Fagrskinna notes that Óláfr immediately travelled to England, and a sixth ﬁght took place at London Bridge ‘við Dani’ (against the Danes).117 In clear contradiction, the Legendary Saga, making a decisive break between the ﬁghting at Kinnlimasíða and the English battles, describes in detail how Óláfr allied himself with Knútr’s Danish forces in England. The crucial problem is that Sigvatr’s verse explicitly commemorating the sixth battle—‘sókn in setta’—which is quoted in both Fagrskinna and the Legendary Saga, makes unequivocal reference to the English as the enemy—‘snarr tengill bauð Englum | at . . . Yggs’ (the bold prince offered battle to the English).118 The verse thus supports the Legendary Saga version of events, but is at odds with Fagrskinna. How, then, does the saga author handle this discrepancy? First, the author of Fagrskinna ﬂatly contradicts the verse in the prose which follows it: ‘Par vörðu Danir borgina, en Óláfr sotti at ok veitti Aðalráði konongi lið’ (The Danes were defending the city 116

Legendary Saga, 42, and Fagrskinna, 167. Fagrskinna, 167. 118 Curiously, this controversial statement is missing from the prose re-ordering of the verse in Bjarni’s edition (Fagrskinna, 168, v. 124). 117

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there, but Óláfr attacked it, and he was helping King Ethelred). He goes on to introduce a verse by Óttarr inn svarti in additional support of the contention that Óláfr was ﬁghting on Ethelred’s behalf—and therefore against the Danes, not the English: Komtu í land ok lendir láðvörðr, Aðalráði. Pin naut rekka rúni, ríki framr, at slíku. Harðr vas fundr, sás foerðuð friðlands á vit niðja, réð áttstuðill áðan, Játmundar, tar grundu.119

You came to the land and assured Ethelred his realm, land-guardian. The close friend of warriors was your debtor, strengthened by might, in this. The battle was hard by which you brought Edmund’s kinsman back to a safe country. The pillar of his race ruled that land before.

Finnur Jónsson identiﬁes this strophe as being from the Höfuðlausn, a poem about Óláfr’s campaigns in England, which, according to Styrmir Kárason, Óttarr composed by basing his verses on information given to him by Sigvatr.120 As might be expected, the poem as a whole adds little to the information provided by the Víkingarvísur. However, this strophe refers explicitly to Óláfr’s support for the English king Ethelred. It seems likely that it actually commemorates what happened on Óláfr’s later series of English battles in 1014, when he fought against Knútr in East Anglia.121 But the inclusion of this strophe amongst verses which celebrate Óláfr’s successes against the English ﬁrmly counters their evidence and substantiates the prose’s alternative account that Óláfr was ﬁghting ‘við Dani’. This is the only verse of Óttarr’s which is quoted in Fagrskinna. The Legendary Saga appears to paraphrase it—but of course before Óláfr’s alliance with Knútr. Having boldly juxtaposed Sigvatr’s verse celebrating the sixth battle against the English with a verse by Óttarr asserting that Óláfr fought against the Danes on the side of the English king, Fagrskinna brieﬂy alludes to a battle at Hringmaraheiðr, but does not quote a verse. The narrative then moves on to the eighth battle at Canterbury, and its introductory prose is again quite explicit in naming the Danes as the enemy: ‘áttundu, er hann vann Kantaraborg ok var tá enn við Dani barizk ok Vinðr. Peir váru Danakonungs 119

Fagrskinna, 168. Skj B I, 269. The fragments of Styrmir Kárason’s writings on Óláfr, which survive in Flateyjarbók iii. 237–48, are also printed in Johnsen and Jón Helgason (eds.), Den store saga ii. 688–713. 121 Campbell (ed.), Encomium Emmae, 78–9. 120

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menn’ (the eighth [was] when he won Canterbury, and then again he was ﬁghting against the Danes, and the Wends—they were retainers of the Danish king). A half strophe is then quoted in support of the prose: Veitk, at víga mœtir, Vinðum háttr, enn átta, —styrkr helt vörðr at virki verðungar—styr gerði.122

I know that the confronter of battles, perilous to the Wends, caused an eighth uproar. The guardian of the host advanced, steadfast, against the stronghold.

The author of Fagrskinna has evidently understood the description of Óláfr as ‘Vinðum háttr’ (dangerous to the Wends) as being speciﬁcally relevant to the ﬁght at Canterbury, and has therefore interpreted the allusion to Wends over-literally, and brought them into the actual battle as retainers of the Danes. In the second helmingr of the same verse by Sigvatr, quoted in Heimskringla but not in Fagrskinna, Óláfr’s opponents seem to be English, which would contradict the prose: Sinn máttut bœ banna, borg Kantara, sorgar mart fekk prúðum Pörtum, portgreifar Áleiﬁ.123

The city ofﬁcials could not forbid Óláfr from entering their home, Canterbury. To the proud English, many things caused distress.

But since the second half of the verse is not quoted in Fagrskinna, no contradiction is evident. The Legendary Saga (which, incidentally, is now in step with Fagrskinna again in having the Danes as the enemy because Óláfr and Knútr have quarrelled) also quotes only the ﬁrst half strophe in exactly the same way as Fagrskinna; neither text includes the second helmingr, which contradicts the prose assertion that the Danes were the enemy.124 One might argue that the omission of a half strophe in this way is not necessarily evidence that the author of the prose was selectively censoring his material, but that it might simply reﬂect the availability to him of the verse material. However, both Fagrskinna and the Legendary Saga do exactly the same with the next of Sigvatr’s 122

Fagrskinna, 169, v. 126. See also Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, 117. Hkr II, 20, v. 16. See Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, 118, who notes ‘Partar is apparently a name for the English’; Russell Poole discusses the name in ‘In Search of the Partar’, Scandinavian Studies, 52 (1980), 264–77. For a full analysis, see Townend, English Place-Names in Skaldic Verse, 62–5. 124 Legendary Saga, 54. 123

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verses, the ninth encounter at Ny´jamóða. Both works quote only half of the strophe—in this case the second helmingr: Nú hefk orrostur, austan ógnvaldr, níu talðar. Herr fell danskr, tars dörrum dreif mest at Óleiﬁ.125

Now I have counted nine battles, O causer of terror from Norway [Óláfr]. The Danish force fell there where spears showered thickest against Óláfr.

The statement that a Danish force fell at Ny´jamóða in fact seems to support the prose in identifying them as Óláfr’s opponents, though it could just about be taken to mean that some of the followers of Óláfr’s Danish ally Porkell fell. At any event, the authors of both Fagrskinna and the Legendary Saga use this half strophe to substantiate their prose assertion that Óláfr was ﬁghting against Danes: ‘Níundu orrostu átti hann við Ny´amóðu, ok segir Sighvatr at hann barðisk tá enn við Dani’ (The ninth battle he fought at Ny´jamóða, and Sigvatr says that he fought against Danes).126 But the ﬁrst helmingr of the whole strophe, which is not quoted, is much clearer in its reference to an English enemy: Vann ungr konungr Englum ótrauðr skarar rauðar. Endr kom brúnt á branda blóð í Ny´jamóðu.127

The young king willingly coloured the hair of the English red. Dark blood again splashed on to swords at Ny´ jamóða.

This helmingr is quoted only in Heimskringla. It seems very likely that Fagrskinna and the Legendary Saga have quoted Sigvatr’s verses with careful selectivity in order to minimize the discrepancy between the tradition that Óláfr helped the English against the Danes—supported by a verse of Óttarr’s—and clear indications in the Víkingarvísur that the English were the enemy. Snorri’s version of Óláfr’s English campaigns, however, is very different. Brieﬂy, he produces as full an account as possible, and there is no evidence at all of the selectivity that I would argue characterizes the accounts in Fagrskinna and the Legendary Saga, even though at the outset he too describes in his prose how Óláfr is supporting Ethelred against the Danes. He quotes not only Sigvatr’s 125 Fagrskinna, 169, v. 127. See also Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, 118. The helmingr is quoted in the Legendary Saga, 56, and the full stanza in Hkr II, 21, v. 17. 126 Fagrskinna, 169. The Legendary Saga, 56, is virtually identical. 127 Hkr II, 21, v. 17 and Fell, ‘Víkingarvísur’, 118.

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verses, but also additional strophes from Óttarr’s Höfuðlausn, even where Óttarr’s verses add nothing to the information provided by Sigvatr. It could of course be argued that Snorri produces a fuller account because he had access to more source material than the authors of the other two works. This may well be the case. But the fact remains that, as Alistair Campbell notes tersely—and perhaps a little impatiently—‘Snorri does not face the discrepancy of the verses’.128 Snorri’s apparent policy of including everything, even to the extent of spoiling the coherence of the account, would seem to be characteristically ‘historical’, at least by modern standards—though he does not go so far as to draw attention to the inconsistencies. Such a full, even if inconsistent, account, would bear comparison with, for example, a variorum edition of a text. But sometimes, as with the quotation of the verse about Suðrvík, it seems that Snorri was concerned to smooth over discrepancies with an accommodating stretch of prose narrative, that is to say, to give priority to artistic considerations, thus allowing him to include contradictory material in spite of discrepancy. In coping with inconsistent source materials, then, it seems that Snorri is willing to elaborate, if necessary, but not to suppress. I would argue that this elaboration represents a leaning towards littérarité; it is not straightforwardly the invention of ﬁctional material, but rather a tactful explication of how these apparently discrepant details might ﬁt together. We can set alongside it the recreation of dialogue which, as Whaley points out, has been an acceptable and indeed admired feature of scholarly history until relatively recently.129 I want now to turn to the representation in Norse histories of dialogue not merely in prose, but in skaldic verse. Speaking in verse As we have seen, it is easy to distinguish between the use of verses in a documentary way, and the use of verses as dialogue. But although verses which function as direct speech stand out so markedly in saga narrative, we must not automatically assume the ﬁctionality of such dialogue, nor attribute the creation of the effect to the latest of the saga authors. It is possible, for example, that a poet actually did compose, or at least recite, his verse on the spot, 128 129

Campbell, ‘Skaldic Verse and Anglo-Saxon History’, 12. Whaley, Heimskringla, 133.

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and that the author of the prose is simply recording a possible, plausible event. I have already mentioned the possibility of a formal recitation before a royal patron as an example of the speaking of verse as a narrative event which may, but need not, be a ﬁction. To move one step further on, in assessing the ﬁctionality of any versespeaking event, the possibility that the poet was reciting a verse composed in advance must also be considered; the word ‘kvað’ does not distinguish between ‘replied’ (impromptu) and ‘recited’. However, even with all these caveats, it is clear that the Norse historians, Snorri amongst them, do represent the illusion that some saga characters— mostly, but not exclusively, recognized poets—speak verse as impromptu responses. Snorri, for instance, tells us that Sigvatr ‘var ekki hraðmæltr maðr í sundrlausum orðum, en skáldskapr var homum svá tiltoekr, at hann kvað af tungu fram, svá sem hann mælti annat mál’ (was not ﬂuent in speaking prose, but the art of versiﬁcation came to him so easily that it came off his tongue as if he were speaking the other discourse).130 This statement could be taken as evidence that Snorri did not necessarily regard impromptu composition by poets as a matter of literary ﬁction, though it should be noted that he is at this point in Heimskringla introducing a dramatic scene in which Sigvatr, returning to an uncertain welcome from Óláfr after spending time with Óláfr’s enemy Knútr, speaks two verses as impromptu responses, one to Óláfr’s stony silence, and the other to the king’s pointed enquiry about his loyalty. One might just as easily argue that Snorri is carefully preparing his audience for the implausibility of such composition, and by implication justifying it. On the other hand, the ability of Icelanders to compose skaldic strophes impromptu is deeply rooted in Icelandic tradition, and it may be that the difﬁculties of producing dróttkvætt at speed have been overestimated by non-native speakers. However, there are circumstances in which the impromptu composition of verses is especially unlikely— deathbed verses are a good example. I want now to consider some such combinations of verse and prose in Norse histories in which the element of ﬁctionality is particularly probable. Since impromptu verse-making may be presented as a poet’s tour de force, it is easy to see how accounts of what now seem to be daz130 Hkr II, 292. In ‘Skalds and Situational Verses in Heimskringla’ (in Wolf (ed.), Snorri Sturluson, 245–66) Whaley notes that the sharp retorts Sigvatr makes elsewhere in the prose belie Snorri’s disparagement of the poet’s ﬂuency in prose (249).

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zling verbal dexterity might have survived in oral form and come down to early historians as popular anecdotes, repeated simply for entertainment without regard for the actual circumstances of composition. In the Legendary Saga, for example, one self-contained episode tells of how King Óláfr—‘i hasæte sinu æinnhværn dag’ (sitting on his throne one day), a perfect anecdotal opening—ordered the poet Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld to compose a verse about what was embroidered on a wall-hanging. Pormóðr’s eye, as it seems, alights on a representation of Sigurðr killing the dragon Fafnir, and he at once speaks a verse describing the scene: Geisli stendr til grundar gunnar, jarðir, munna ofan fellr blóð á báðar baugs, seiðs, en gramr reiðisk; hristisk hjörr í brjósti hringi grœnna lyngva, en folktorinn fylkir ferr við steik at leika.131

The candle of battle [sword] stands in the mouth of the land ﬁsh [serpent]; blood falls down on both ring grounds [bodies] as the prince grows angry. The sword stirs in the breast of the snake, and the battle-brave leader sets about making roast meat.

The whole point of this episode is to demonstrate Pormóðr’s ability to compose a verse impromptu. But while it is conceivable that the incident as it stands in the saga does actually record what happened, it is more likely that the verse Pormóðr recites originally belonged to a long, formal poem of the kind composed about pictures on shields or wall decorations, such as Bragi’s Ragnarsdrápa or Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa.132 It is possible that this one strophe had lost its original context and has been incorporated into a prose narrative by being transformed into the kernel of an anecdote. In the Legendary Saga itself the verse is very corrupt, and the verse has been attributed to Porﬁnnr munnr, so that it does seem more likely that it represents a scrap of material which has suffered the inevitable effects of loss and corruption during the period of oral transmission than that it has been deliberately excerpted from a longer poem or sequence. The Legendary Saga is partly composed of a series of such anecdotes, often 131 Legendary Saga, 138. The story is also told by Styrmir Kárason in his Viðbœtir (Flateyjarbók iii. 244). The text in the Legendary Saga is extremely corrupt; I have substituted Finnur Jónsson’s emended version, which he attributes to Porﬁnnr munnr, as in Flateyjarbók, in Skj B I, 292. 132 Skj B I, 1–4 and 128–30 respectively.

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with skaldic strophes at their heart, all collected in a non-narrative sequence. Each one is introduced, incidentally, with a phrase such as ‘eitt sinni’ (on one occasion) or ‘tat var einn dag’ (it happened one day). The saga author’s artistic involvement with the presentation and organization of his material would seem to be at its most mechanical here, and it may be inferred that he inherited the anecdotes as readymade combinations of verse and prose. He has failed to transform scraps of traditional material into a continuous narrative, and as a consequence the form of the anecdotes remains undisturbed. Snorri’s Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar contains only one verse which is introduced as a spontaneous response—a dialogue verse.133 Like Pormóðr’s verse in the Legendary Saga, the strophe recited by Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld demonstrates his ability to compose impromptu in dróttkvætt.134 Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld is negotiating with King Óláfr about becoming his retainer. Hallfreðr insists that King Óláfr promise never to send him away, but King Óláfr, who already knows something of Hallfreðr’s reputation as a difﬁcult man, demurs. Óláfr dubs Hallfreðr ‘vandræðaskáld’ (troublesome poet), and Hallfreðr at once seizes the opportunity to demand a gift to go with his new nickname. Óláfr gives him a sword, and tells him to compose a verse with the word ‘sword’ in every line. Without mention of a pause, the prose tells us ‘Hallfreðr kvað’: Eitt es sverð, tats, sverða, sverðauðgan mik gerði. Fyr svip-Njörðum sverða sverðótt mun nú verða. Muna vansverðat verð verðr emk triggja sverða, jarðar leggs ef yrði umbgerð at tví sverði.135

A single sword of swords it is, which made me sword rich. Before sweeping Njörðrs of swords [warriors] it will be thick with swords. There will be no lack of swords; I am worth three swords if there might be a painted scabbard for this sword.

133 Diana Whaley uses the term ‘situational verse’ in a way which corresponds quite closely to my term ‘dialogue verse’ (see her ‘Skalds and Situational Verses’), but the correspondence is not complete, since a verse may be composed in response to a narrative situation, but not presented as dialogue in the saga narrative. This is precisely the case with Whaley’s second example of a ‘situational verse’ in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, which is an insult verse about Haraldr Gormsson and his steward Birgir; according to the prose, the níðvísa was originally composed as a response, 134 Hkr I, 331. but it is then quoted in the narrative as evidence (254). 135 The verse may be interpreted as an elegant request for a scabbard to go with the sword, since Óláfr does not give Hallfreðr a scabbard until the verse has been

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It is improbable that Hallfreðr could have composed this verse on the spot. Even though the strophe does not precisely fulﬁl Óláfr’s stipulations—one manuscript includes Óláfr’s sharp reaction to it, ‘Eigi er sverð í hverju vísuorðinu’ (The word ‘sword’ is not in every line) and Hallfreðr’s equally sharp rejoinder, ‘Tvau eru ok í einu’(There are two in one line)136—yet the exigencies of dróttkvætt require Hallfreðr not only to accommodate the word ‘sword’ on each line, but also to make four full and four half rhymes on the word, surely an impossible task for a poet working impromptu. Since this is the only verse in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar which is presented as an impromptu response, perhaps Snorri did not create the episode himself, but, as Russell Poole concludes, ‘the story of the sword is merely one moveable element in a series of episodes loosely attached to Hallfreðr’s early days with Óláfr’.137 Although, as Poole shows, Snorri produces a version of the story much shorter than its counterparts in other texts, none the less, it seems likely that he found it an episode so entertaining and humorous that he exceptionally turned from his usual documentary method of introducing and quoting strophes in this saga in order to include it. When a skaldic strophe is presented as the ﬁnal utterance of a dying character, the likelihood of impromptu composition is naturally very slight. There are many examples of such utterances in the family sagas; one of the more striking ones is the recitation by Hallmundr in Grettis saga of a whole drápa which he, dying, passes on to his daughter.138 Verses in Irish sagas and in the fornaldarsögur are used to convey dying words, and in Eddaic poetry Fafnismál consists almost entirely of the dragon’s dying words, while the action of its killing is compressed into a short prose passage. In short, one may associate dying words in verse with a decidedly ﬁctional, even fantastic context. It is therefore perhaps surprising to ﬁnd examples of the form in historical writings, but in Óláfs saga helga Snorri quotes a verse in just such a context. He is relating an unpleasant story about Jökull Bárðarson, a traitor whom King Óláfr orders to be executed. Jökull sits down and prepares himself for execution, but when he recited. For a ﬁne, detailed account of the various versions of this anecdote in Norse literature, see Poole, ‘Verses and Prose in Hallfreðar saga and Gunnlaugs saga’, 133–8. 136 Hkr I, 332 n. 1. 137 Poole, ‘Verses and Prose in Hallfreðar saga and Gunnlaugs saga’, 135–6. 138 Guðni Jónsson (ed.), Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit, 7 (Reykjavík, 1936), 203–4. All further page references to the saga are to this edition.

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hears the sound of the blade rushing towards him, he instinctively moves away, and is horribly wounded instead of neatly decapitated. The king, recognizing that Jökull has received a fatal wound, orders the executioner to leave him be, and he speaks a verse before he dies: Svíða sár af mœði. Setit hefk opt við betra. Und es á oss, sús sprændi ótrauð legi rauðum. Byss mér blóð ór tessi ben. Ték við trek venjask. Verpr hjalmgöfugr hilmir heiðsær á mik reiði.

Wounds pain me wearily. I have often been better placed. I have suffered a wound which spurted freely with red blood. Blood pours from this wound. I am growing used to endurance. The helmet honourable king, highly regarded, casts wrath at me.

This verse effectively constitutes not only Jükull’s last words, but also the end of the story, for the prose only adds, ‘Siðan dó Jökull’ (then Jökull died).139 It is unlikely, but perhaps not wholly inconceivable, that Jökull or anyone else would be able to extemporize a skaldic strophe in such circumstances. And yet if the strophe does not represent what a dying man actually uttered, its highly unusual number of end-stopped lines and simplicity of syntax and ﬁgurative language make it quite clear that it has been created in order to give the impression of a failing poet. The account of Jökull’s horrible death and his stirring response is a strikingly self-contained episode in Óláfs saga helga; Snorri prefaces it with the words, ‘Pat er hér skjótask af at segja er síðar varð mjök miklu’ (It is easiest to recount here something which happened a long time afterwards),140 an introduction which strongly suggests that the episode was present in Snorri’s mind as a separate entity when he was composing Óláfs saga helga. But Snorri was evidently very selective about the inclusion of such material: Styrmir Kárason’s ‘Viðbœtir’ (Fragments) of the Life of St Óláfr in Flateyjarbók contain a series of self-contained episodes centred around a skaldic strophe—a simple but entertaining collection of anecdotes,141 and it has been argued that the remnants preserved in Flateyjarbók are the sections Snorri rejected when he used the whole work in compiling Heimskringla; Turville-Petre criticizes Styrmir’s lack of discrimination in including such incidents in his work, and it may be that Snorri would have agreed.142 139 141

140 Hkr II, 332. Ibid. 331. 142 Flateyjarbók iii. 237–48. Turville-Petre, Origins, 220.

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Shaping the narrative The single verse I want now to turn another kind of littérarité—to some instances in which it seems likely that the author of the prose is artfully manipulating his verse quotation to exploit its potential for structuring and pacing the narrative, to create striking interludes or neat climaxes. Thus, for example, in Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga, Hárekr of Pióttá argues with King Óláfr about returning to Norway alone, instead of travelling as part of the king’s retinue. The king tries to persuade him, but Hárekr ends the altercation by speaking a verse: Ráðit hefk at ríða Rínleygs heðan mínum láðs dynmari leiðar löngum heldr an ganga.143

I have decided to ride from here on my long resounding steed of the liquid of the Rhine-ﬁre’s way rather than go.

After Hárekr’s verse there is nothing more to be said and the argument is over. It may be that Hárekr really did compose a verse on the spot, and reply to the king in this way—after all, he was the son of the celebrated skáld Eyvindr skáldaspillir. Or perhaps he knew the verse from another context, and could quote it appositely in the circumstances. But it is not the authenticity of the impromptu response which is at issue here. Rather, I am concerned with the possibility that Snorri placed this verse with an eye to the conclusive air of ﬁnality it can provide. Snorri’s intentions are for all practical purposes out of our reach—we can, as I have explained, only describe the text as we have it. But comparison with what is essentially the same material in another saga can reveal the distinctive quality of Snorri’s work. In contrast to family sagas, whose authors seem consciously to avoid duplication of material written up elsewhere, historical writings as a group constitute a dense and complex web of overlapping materials, the result of re-working, copying, elaboration, and shortening by a number of authors, compilators, and scribes. Though this poses tremendous problems for the scholar concerned with dating or source history, it is by contrast a gift to literary critics, who may compare differently crafted versions of what are essentially the same episodes—even if there is not much chance of establishing precedence or authorship. Thus, we can compare Snorri’s placing of Hárekr’s verse as the last word in an altercation with the placing of 143

Hkr II, 289 and note.

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the verse in the Legendary Saga,144 in which it is not given the same emphasis since no exchange between Óláfr and Hárekr is developed. With this simple example in mind, we can go on to compare Snorri’s prose framework for a verse by Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld with the verse’s prose context in the Legendary Saga and a very similar account in Fóstbrœðra saga to indicate that Snorri was well able to pace his narrative with emotional climaxes and use verses to this end. In Snorri’s account of the aftermath of the battle of Stiklarstaðir, Pormóðr speaks several verses. I will shortly examine the way Snorri and others use verses throughout their accounts of this climactic episode in Óláfr’s biography, but for the moment I shall conﬁne myself to considering just one of Pormóðr’s verses. Pormóðr has himself been wounded at the battle, and he goes to rest in a barn along with others who have been hurt. The men there enter into a discussion of who fought most bravely at the battle. According to Snorri’s account, ‘sumir nefndu aðra menn’ (some cited other men) but Pormóðr provides a decisive and ﬁtting conclusion to the debate with a verse: Ört vas Áleifs hjarta. Óð framm konungr blóði, rekin bitu stál á Stiklar stöðum, kvaddi lið böðvar. Éltolla sá ek alla Jalfaðs, nema gram sjalfan, reyndr vas ﬂestr í fastri ﬂeindrífu, sér hlífa.145

Óláfr’s heart was eager the king strode forward in blood; ornamented swords bit at Stiklar— staðir; he called for battle from the host. I saw all the trees of Óðinn’s blizzard, except for the king himself (most were tested in the hard arrow-storm), defend themselves.

This strophe not only provides a moving elegy to Óláfr, but also answers very appropriately the question being debated, with its mention of all the other warriors on the defensive, and only Óláfr being brave enough to advance. However, in both the Legendary Saga and Fóstbrœðra saga, Pormóðr speaks the verse not as the last word in a familiar debate about the quality of men, but simply in reply to a woman’s question, ‘Hversu gekk konungrinn fram?’ (In what way did the king advance?).146 In fact, the verse is one of a series spoken by 144

145 Legendary Saga, 148. Hkr II, 390. Fóstbrœðra saga, in Björn K. Pórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Vestﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 6 (Reykjavík, 1943), 271–2 (all further page references to the saga are to this edition) and the Legendary Saga, 200. 146

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Pormóðr in response to a series of questions asked by the woman in the shelter for the wounded. I shall shortly consider the signiﬁcance of the question and answer framework in the Legendary Saga and Fóstbrœðra saga, but for the moment I wish merely to highlight Snorri’s evident appreciation of the power of a skaldic strophe to provide a weighty and authoritative conclusion to a dialogue. ‘Ört vas Áleifs hjarta’ is particularly suitable to sum up Óláfr’s achievement. Not only does it answer the question under discussion, as we have seen, but it also conveys the mixture of glory and pathos at Stiklarstaðir. Its positive and uplifting opening line, followed by its description of the king powerfully striding into battle, a proud leader urging his troops with their magniﬁcent weaponry, seems to reﬂect the beginning of the battle itself, with its opportunity for action and glory. However, the strophe’s second helmingr evokes not the ﬁerce splendour of war, but its dangers and reverses. The kenning for warriors—‘éltollar Jalfaðs’ (ﬁr trees of the storm of Óðinn)— conjures up a picture of sturdy young trees battered and wind-blown in a sudden, sharp storm, and the reference to Óðinn provides an ominous note. Traditionally a ruthless and treacherous controller of the battleﬁeld, he is ﬁttingly associated with the dark forces behind the enemies of a Christian king. The kenning for battle—‘ﬂeindrífa’ (arrow storm)—extends the metaphorical expression of the hazards and pains of battle, and ﬁnally we see Óláfr’s men—though not Óláfr himself—on the grim defensive. It is by comparing Snorri’s introduction to this verse with those in the Legendary Saga and Fóstbrœðra saga that we can recognize Snorri’s distinctive manipulation of this verse for artistic effect. I would argue that he has picked this verse of Pormóðr’s because of its appropriateness to the pathos of the circumstances, and has carefully created an elegiac and markedly ﬁnal episode in his account of Óláfr’s career by means of his skilful disposition of it. The sequence of verses The reconstruction and deﬁnition of long poems behind groups of verse quoted individually in saga prose is beset with difﬁculties.147 It 147 Russell Poole has done some valuable work in this area: see his ‘Ormr Steintórsson and the Snjófríðardrápa’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 97 (1982), 122–37, and ‘The Origins of the Máhlíðingavísur’, Scandinavian Studies, 57 (1985), 244–85, as well as his Viking Poems. More recently Edith Marold has grouped the lausavísur in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa (‘The Relation between the Verses and the Prose in

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is very difﬁcult to postulate the existence of a long poem if it does not appear in its entirety elsewhere, and of course it must always remain a possibility that what modern scholars have reconstructed as drápur were in fact originally prosimetrical sequences. Even if a drápa is named and its contents inferred to some extent from a brief description of it—that it is, for example, a memorial lay about Óláfr, or an account of a poet’s travels—it is still hard to be certain that any one individual strophe originally formed a part of it. As we have seen, the numbering of each of Óláfr’s battles in Sigvatr’s Víkingarvísur gives us a compelling reason to regard the strophes as forming at least a sequence, if not a full-blown drápa. I would like to consider another relatively unproblematical instance of a long poem being incorporated into a continuous narrative by being broken up—the case of Sigvatr’s Austrfararvísur. This case is less difﬁcult than most others because the long poem is named in the text, and its name gives a relatively good indication of what the subject matter of the verses is likely to be (thus making identiﬁcation of individual strophes easier). But most signiﬁcantly, Snorri provides in his text several clues which shed light on his compositional method. In Óláfs saga helga Snorri splits Sigvatr’s long series of Austrfararvísur (Eastern Journey verses) into two sections, and recounts that Sigvatr made two journeys to the east.148 The ﬁrst journey is made in the company of Björn stallari, and the second as a spy for the king, investigating the trustworthiness of Earl Rögnvaldr. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, in the introduction to his edition of the saga, points out that it is unlikely that Sigvatr did in fact go twice to the east, or make up two sets of travel verses, and he argues that Snorri has been responsible for the division.149 Bjarni suggests that Snorri was concerned that there are references to making the journey on horseback in some of the verses, while in others Sigvatr speaks of travelling on foot, and so separated the long poem according to this principle. It seems rather an odd distinction to have made, but it is in fact striking how Snorri stresses the fact that Sigvatr and Björn were on horseback in each of the prose introductions to verses quoted in the account of the ﬁrst journey in chapter 71: ‘En teir ríðu upp á Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa’, in Russell Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas, 75–124) and Poole has done similar work in ‘Verses and Prose in Hallfreðar saga and Gunnlaugs saga’ in the same volume. 148 Sigvatr ﬁrst travels east in ch. 71, and for the second time in ch. 91. 149 Hkr II, pp. xxxi–xxxii.

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Gautland’ (When they rode up to Gautland); ‘En tau ríðu upp á Gautland sið um aptan’ (When they rode up through Gautland late one evening); ‘Pá ríða teir í kaupstaðinn’ (Then they rode into the market town)150—even though the ﬁrst two verses refer explicitly to the sea crossing. It is interesting that in Kny´tlinga saga it is said that King Eiríkr Sveinsson—‘Eiríkr inn góði’ (Eiríkr the Good)—walks to Rome on a pilgrimage, and visits many holy places ‘ok gekk jafnan’ (and always on foot).151 It is, however, hard to see what point Snorri might have been making here by dividing the long journey east into two separate trips. The ﬁrst journey to the east is ﬁtted into the narrative very awkwardly. Snorri rarely interrupts the narrative line of even so long and complicated a work as Heimskringla with material which is chronologically out of place, but although chapter 70 is concerned with Hjalti, who has gone on ahead to Sweden leaving Björn stallari behind with Rögnvaldr, and his dealings with the Swedish king Óláfr, chapter 71 turns abruptly back to Björn. The chapter’s opening sentence makes clear its retrospective reference: ‘Pat hafði verit, áðr Björn fór heiman, at hann hafði beðit Sigvat skáld til farar með sér— hann var tá með Óláﬁ konungi’ (It had happened, before Björn had set out from home, that he had asked Sigvatr the poet to go with him on the journey—he was with King Óláfr at the time). This is the ﬁrst we have heard of Sigvatr’s presence on the journey east. Having thus belatedly introduced him, Snorri quotes in this chapter a series of verses recited by Sigvatr, and then at the beginning of the next chapter turns back to the details of Hjalti’s mission at the court of the Swedish king, where he had left them in chapter 70. Sigvatr does not feature in this section of the narrative. The ﬁrst of the verses which Sigvatr recites is a tribute to Björn stallari and ﬁts in neatly with the prose, bearing out Snorri’s opening remark that Björn and Sigvatr were good friends. But one can see why Snorri might have found it difﬁcult to work the rest of Sigvatr’s verses quoted at this stage into an account of Björn’s diplomatic mission: they have no political content at all. They are light-hearted, even lyrical, and they say nothing of the daunting mission ahead— a mission for which ‘váru menn ekki fúsir’ (men were not eager),152 150

Ibid. 92–4. Kny´tlinga saga, in Bjarni Guðnason (ed.), Danakonunga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 35 (Reykjavík, 1982), 217. 152 Hkr II, 92. 151

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and so might have occupied Sigvatr’s thoughts at least to some extent. The verses mention Earl Rögnvaldr only once, and then only in passing, as Sigvatr tells of the admiring looks he and Björn will get from women as they ride to Rögnvaldr’s home: Út munu ekkjur líta allsnúðula prúðar ﬂjóð séa reyk, hvar ríðum Rögnvalds í bœ gögnum.153

Fine girls will look out with great haste, where we ride —the women see the cloud of dust— through Rögnvaldr’s town.

Sigvatr’s second journey to the east is ﬁtted into the narrative as awkwardly as the ﬁrst. Sigvatr has offered to visit Rögnvaldr to ﬁnd out if he is still loyal to Óláfr Haraldsson after the apparent breakdown of the marriage agreement with the Swedish king Óláfr. Sigvatr and Óláfr Haraldsson part in a formal, ceremonious way, and Sigvatr sets out on his journey, incidents along the way being marked by the recitation of verses. When Sigvatr meets Earl Rögnvaldr, he greets him politely in verse, tells him in verse how arduous the journey has been, and addresses a third verse to a woman who has commented on his dark eyes. Snorri’s prose then continues, ‘En er Sigvatr kom heim til Óláfs . . .’ (And when Sigvatr returned home to Óláfr . . .).154 No mention whatever has been made of the marriage negotiations, Sigvatr’s purpose in making this long and difﬁcult journey.155 Sigvatr recites more verses in greeting Óláfr, and then the narrative turns back very oddly to the beginning of the journey again with the words, ‘Öndurðan vetr fór Sigvatr skáld ok teir trír saman ór Borg ok austr um Markir ok svá til Gautlands, ok fekk í teiri ferð optliga illar viðrtekjur’ (At the beginning of winter, Sigvatr the poet, together with two companions, left Borg and went east through Markir and on to Gautland, and on their journey they often received bad treatment).156 Snorri passes quickly in this way over the journey itself (which has been described earlier in detail, accompanied by verses), makes brief reference to the fact that Sigvatr composed the Austrfararvísur about the journey, and then continues with a brief but lucid account of Sigvatr’s political mission, the brokering of the marriage 153

154 Hkr II, 94. Ibid. 140. As Fidjestøl notes (‘Skaldic Stanzas in Saga Prose’, 266), the Separate Saga offers a different order for this second journey; Sigvatr’s verses to Óláfr on his homecoming are at least placed after the prose account of the negotiations about Ástríðr (203–5). 156 Ibid. 144. 155

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to Ástríðr. In other words, in his account of this second journey, as with the ﬁrst, Snorri groups some Austrfararvísur, linked by a sketchy prose framework, into a separate journey narrative, and deals then with the mission itself, in prose. In his handling of the Austrfararvísur, then, Snorri keeps political history, and the documentary method appropriate to it, quite separate from lively prosimetric travelogue. And just as we would expect, each of the strophes in both eastern journey narratives is introduced into the narrative as if Sigvatr were speaking verse impromptu. Separating the verses off from the prose accounts of the diplomatic missions evidently caused Snorri some difﬁculties; he breaks up his narrative by skipping backwards and forwards in time, and repeats material.157 But he could not use them as a source. As they stand, they are inconsistent, as Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson points out in his preface,158 and are probably only the remnants of a much larger collection of verses which might have presented a clearer and more detailed picture had it survived. In any case, Snorri seems to have had other, excellent sources for his accounts of King Óláfr’s dealings with the Swedish king, and since he did himself travel to Gautland in 1215, he may even have included in Heimskringla information he learned during that time. Most importantly, as we have seen, the verses make only the barest reference to the purpose or context of the journeys. However, in spite of the difﬁculties, omissions, and superﬂuities, Snorri still quotes the Austrfaravísur in his text. Their great virtue, in spite of their deﬁciencies as source material, is that they are lively and entertaining. In his accounts of Sigvatr’s journeys, Snorri’s aim is evidently to entertain rather than to instruct.159 He makes a bold distinction between these two purposes—a distinction evident in the way the verses are introduced— even though this caused difﬁculties in the construction of the narrative; indeed, dividing the verses between two separate journeys—for whatever reason—forced these difﬁculties on Snorri twice. But he makes no attempt to dovetail the entertaining prosimetrum with the sober prose account of two delicate and 157 Bjarne Fidjestøl reluctantly acknowledges that Snorri has slipped from his usual high standards in this section of narrative (‘Skaldic Stanzas in Saga Prose’, 263). 158 Hkr II, p. xxxii. 159 Wolf stresses the distinction between the transmission of information and the entertainment value of a narrative (‘Zur Rolle der Vísur’, 498).

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dangerous diplomatic missions. In what follows, I want to examine a stretch of narrative in which verses incorporated both as dialogue and as documentary substantiation work together. conclusion: combining history and LITTÉRARITÉ at stiklarstad – ir In his account of the battle of Stiklarstaðir, at which King Óláfr was killed, Snorri reveals his ability to interweave the two basic modes of verse quotation—corroborative verse and dialogue verse—in a subtle and fruitful way, much as do the authors of family sagas— especially, for instance, Eyrbyggja saga, which I shall discuss in the next chapter.160 The battle of Stiklarstaðir was a momentous event in Scandinavian history, and it is only to be expected, therefore, that it has received particular attention from Norse historians, and that authors of both prose and verse have risen to the grandeur and pathos of the event in their celebrations of it. It is for these reasons that we may look to accounts of Stiklarstaðir for examples of distinctively artistic ways of combining verse and prose, and for evidence that authors were able to set off one technique against another. The Legendary Saga, Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga, and Fóstbrœðra saga all offer examples of distinctively creative relationships between the verse and the prose. All three accounts of the battle of Stiklarstaðir intersperse their narratives with the verse of Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld. However, Snorri quotes the work of several more poets in Óláfs saga helga (in keeping with his practice as evidenced for example in the description of Óláfr’s English campaigns, when he quotes Óttarr’s verses as well as Sigvatr’s), and he gives interesting emphasis to their ofﬁcial role as reporters of the action. The day before the battle, King Óláfr calls his poets together and tells them that they are to observe the battle from the defensive wall, the ‘skjaldborg’ (shield wall). Óláfr’s instructions to the poets have a special relevance to Snorri’s own work: ‘ “Skuluð tér,” segir hann, “hér vera ok sjá tau tíðendi, er hér gerask. Er yðr tá eigi segjandi saga til, tví at tér skuluð frá segja 160 Wolf (‘Zur Rolle der Vísur’) also bases his celebration of Snorri’s literary skills on an analysis of the blend of verse and prose in his account of the battle of Stiklarstaðir, but especially on the way in which the verses contribute a heroic dimension to the depiction of Óláfr and Pormóðr.

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ok yrkja um síðan” ’ (‘You are to stay here,’ he says, ‘and observe the events which take place here. You will not then need to be told about it, because you will tell of it yourselves, and compose poetry about it then’).161 According to Snorri, there are three poets in question: Pormóðr himself, Gizurr gullbrá, and Porﬁnnr munnr. After some gibing about the absence of Sigvatr (also a feature of the other accounts), each of the three poets is said to compose, or at least recite, a verse on the spot, as if to conﬁrm their ofﬁcial credentials; we are told that each of these verses is at once learned by heart. It should be noted that in the Legendary Saga the two verses which are attributed by Snorri to Gizurr and Porﬁnnr are both spoken by Pormóðr, and are not presented in the formal context I have just described, but in a quiet dialogue between Óláfr and Pormóðr which I shall discuss shortly.162 Thus Snorri establishes, right at the beginning of his account of the battle, in compelling terms, a fundamental historicity for his account. Ironically, this ‘evidence’ for skaldic reliability may well be invention—and most verses quoted later are by Sigvatr, who was not even at the battle. What is signiﬁcant here, however, is that Snorri took pains to create this impression of solid reliability. It will be useful to distinguish three phases in the accounts of Stiklarstaðir: prelude, action, and aftermath. These three phases demand different moods, and therefore different stylistic techniques: for the ﬁrst, a heightening of tension; for the second, an authoritative factuality; and ﬁnally, an elegiac close. The quotation of skaldic verse plays a major part in creating these different moods. Prelude All three accounts describe a scene just before the commencement of the battle in which King Óláfr asks his poet Pormóðr to entertain him. Pormóðr is said to recite the Bjarkamál, but in the Legendary Saga the presentation of the scene is rather different from that of the other two works. According to Snorri (and one version of Fóstbrœðra saga), Pormóðr recited the Bjarkamál ‘hátt mjök, svá at heyrði um allan herinn’ (very loudly, so that it might be heard throughout the whole army).163 Indeed, Snorri himself quotes two stanzas so that the reader too may hear it; here we have the historian presenting supporting evidence—‘er tetta upphaf’ (this is the beginning)—rather 161 163

162 Hkr II, 358. Legendary Saga, 192–4. Hkr II, 361; Fóstbrœðra saga, 261.

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than simply relating ‘what happened’. The men thank Pormóðr for his recitation, and dub the poem Húskarlahvöt—the exhortation of the household retainers.164 Pormóðr’s role is thus a distinctly public one. In the Legendary Saga, by contrast, the recitation of the Bjarkamál is presented as part of a quiet, intimate exchange between Pormóðr and the king. As in Óláfs saga helga, the king offers his poet a gift for his services, but in the Legendary Saga Pormóðr replies that he wishes no reward other than the privilege of serving and supporting the king; in what may be a revealing reﬂection of the heroic ideals expressed in the poem, Pormóðr concludes, ‘oc ægi villda ec æftir tik liva’ (And I would not want to live on after you).165 There follows in the Legendary Saga a private and personal dialogue between King Óláfr and Pormóðr. King Óláfr asks Pormóðr a series of questions about himself, including some touchingly humble enquiries such as ‘Hvat mindi nu vera titt rað, ef tu skilldir rað hava ﬁrir varo liði?’ (What would your plan now be if you were to have the command of our troops?).166 Pormóðr answers some questions in verse, though the verses which are presented as replies are not always appropriate in the circumstances—Pormóðr’s reply in this instance, for example, is a verse beginning ‘Brænnum oll . . . hværbiorg’ (Let us burn all the houses).167 Óláfs saga helga and Fóstbrœðra saga also show Óláfr and Pormóðr speaking together affectionately before the battle, and as in the Legendary Saga their exchange is represented in a dialogue in which Pormóðr answers Óláfr in verse. But the Legendary Saga goes further than the other two works in bringing into its account several verses which the others place in earlier and more appropriate contexts. It seems clear that the author of the Legendary Saga (or his immediate source) appreciated the potential of verse dialogue to ‘mark any heightening of the mood—love, anger, death’,168 and has collected together a series of verses to achieve such an effect. Snorri’s version of Óláfr’s talk with Pormóðr is much the briefest of the three; after Pormóðr has quoted the Bjarkamál and the king 164

165 166 Hkr II, 362. Legendary Saga, 182. Ibid. 186. This verse is also quoted in Óláfs saga helga and in Fóstbrœðra saga, but in both, King Óláfr rejects the suggestion in favour of Christian charity and mercy, and in any case the verse is in those two works spoken by Pormóðr as part of a council of war, in which Óláfr is discussing tactics with his chieftains, not in a quiet, personal exchange with the king. 168 Dillon, ‘The Archaism of Irish Tradition’, 9. 167

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has rewarded him, Pormóðr tells him, ‘Sú er bœn mín, konungr, at tú látir okkr hvartki skiljask lífs né dauða’ (It is my prayer, sire, that you will never let us be parted, in life or in death). The king speaks warmly to Pormóðr, reassuring him of his continued support, and Pormóðr concludes the exchange with a verse which touchingly restates his loyalty to his patron: Pér munk eðr, unz öðrum, allvaldr, náið sköldum —nær vættir tú teira?— tingdjarfr, of kné hvarfa. Braut komumsk vér, tó at veitim valtafn frekum hrafni, víksk eigi tat, vága viggruðr, eða hér liggjum.169

To you I will still—until, battle-brave king, you take another poet—(do you expect one soon?)—bend the knee; We shall survive even if we give carrion to the greedy raven— that can’t be changed, wood of the sea-steed—or else die here.

Here we may recognize a structural pattern characteristic of Snorri’s prosimetrical technique: a signiﬁcant exchange is rounded off with the quotation of a verse, and the scene then changes. One version of Fóstbrœðra saga continues with the king picking up Pormóðr’s veiled reference to Sigvatr in the verse—‘unz öðrum . . . náið sköldum’ (until you take another poet) and chiding Pormóðr for bringing up again the running theme of Sigvatr’s absence. Such a continuation greatly undermines the pathos of Pormóðr’s declaration of loyalty. The Legendary Saga quotes the whole of the strophe but fails to give it the sense of ﬁnality and drama which Snorri’s structuring of the scene achieves, since it is placed simply as the last of a series of verses spoken by Pormóðr. However, one of the Flateyjarbók fragments of Fóstbrœðra saga clearly appreciates the potential of the verse to mark an emotional climax, because it not only presents the verse as the culminating expression of Pormóðr’s loyalty, as Snorri does, but also turns dramatically, after the recitation of the verse, to a detailed description of Pormóðr’s appearance, formally introduced: ‘Pat hafa menn ok sagt, at Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld var tann dag í kyrtli rauðum, er hann bjósk til bardaga, ok drap upp blöðunum fyrir, en kyrtilinn var síðr mjök á bakit’ (And people have said that Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld was dressed that day in a red kirtle, when 169

Óláfr.

Hkr II, 363. ‘Wood of the sea-steed’ is a kenning for warrior, and here denotes

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he was ready for battle, which he tucked up at the front, and yet the kirtle was very long at the back).170 The technique of halting the narrative suddenly to present a vivid picture of the protagonist is familiar from other family sagas, perhaps the most celebrated example being the description of Egill Skalla-Grímsson as he waits at the court of King Æthelstan in the hope of receiving his due reward.171 The description effectively intensiﬁes the tension by halting the narrative, but also provides a moment of strikingly sharp focus which serves to increase the emotional impact of the scene. The prose in this instance continues with Pormóðr’s witty explanation of his dress: he intends, in true heroic fashion, to be advancing rather than retreating. Action In their descriptions of the battle itself, the three works—Óláfs saga helga, the Legendary Saga, and Fóstbrœðra saga—use the verses in distinctive ways, and we can again recognize each author’s characteristic method of proceeding. In essence, the Legendary Saga shows more interest in the spiritual implications of Óláfr’s death than in details of the battle; Snorri is full of factual detail; and the author of Fóstbrœðra saga focuses on the role of the poet Pormóðr. The Legendary Saga describes the course of the battle, including the fall of King Óláfr, in succinct prose. There is no detailed account of Óláfr’s last moments, although the circumstances of who killed him, and how, are brieﬂy related. Notice of Óláfr’s death is very simple: ‘Nu let Olafr konongr tar lif sitt’ (Now King Óláfr lost his life there) but the author achieves a pleasingly dramatic effect with his placing of the eclipse at this very point: ‘Pa varð sva mikil ogn, at solen fal gæisla sinn ok gerðe myrct—en aðr var fagrt veðr’ (Then a very terrifying thing happened in that the sun stopped shining and became dark, and yet previously the weather had been ﬁne).172 There are no verses in the Legendary Saga account of the ﬁghting itself. Snorri, by contrast, quotes several verses in his description of the battle. The great majority of these verses are said to be by Sigvatr, who was not present at the battle, and they are introduced corroboratively into the narrative with such phrases as ‘tess getr Sigvatr’ (Sigvatr mentions this) or ‘svá segir Sigvatr’ (thus Sigvatr says). Of 170 172

Fóstbrœðra saga, 266–7. Legendary Saga, 196.

171

Nordal (ed.), Egils saga, 143.

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course Snorri could not pretend that Sigvatr made up the verses on the spot, since in common with the other Stiklarstaðir narratives his account includes the other poets’ ironic reactions to Sigvatr’s absence from this crucial event. But the necessarily corroborative role of the verses creates a pleasing counterpoint to the vivid immediacy of the conversations and recitations of the poets who were at the battle, and lends the weight of retrospective authority to Snorri’s battle account. The modulation of these two ways of incorporating verses into the prose—as impromptu dialogue and as scholarly substantiation—is unusual, but is also to be found in Eyrbyggja saga, as I shall discuss in the next chapter, in which the essential historicity of the community is established with a series of corroborative verses, while individual strands of the story are enlivened by the illusion of impromptu composition. Snorri, concerned for the historicity of a great battle in Norse history, gives us by far the most detailed account of what happened and how individuals behaved. By contrast, Fóstbrœðra saga is primarily interested in the fate of Óláfr’s skald Pormóðr, and there is virtually no description of either the battle or the death of Óláfr himself. The author’s priorities are eloquently summed up in his ﬁnal remark on the battle: ‘Pat hafa menn at ágætum gört, hversu röskliga Pormóðr barðisk á Stiklastöðum, tá er Óláfr konungr fell . . .’ (Men have greatly admired how bravely Pormóðr fought at Stiklarstaðir, when King Óláfr fell . . .).173 Aftermath All three works present similar accounts of the aftermath of the battle of Stiklarstaðir, and of the death of Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, based largely on his own verses. All three separate Pormóðr’s epitaph on the battle from their accounts of his own death. It is interesting to compare, however, the accounts of Fóstbrœðra saga and the Legendary Saga on the one hand (they are very close indeed at this point in the narrative) and Snorri’s version on the other. After the battle, Pormóðr, himself badly hurt, goes to a barn where the wounded have retired from the ﬁghting. According to Snorri, there is a discussion going on about who fought best, and I have already analysed Snorri’s economical use of Pormóðr’s verse ‘Ört vas Áleifs hjarta’ which closes the discussion in an authoritative and moving 173

Fóstbrœðra saga, 266–7.

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way. After speaking this verse, Pormóðr goes to an inner chamber where the worst wounded are being treated, and speaks two verses to the women who are tending the injured men. Fóstbrœðra saga and the Legendary Saga, however, set Pormóðr’s tribute to Óláfr in an extended dialogue with one of the women tending the injured, and both present a very similar question and answer framework, with the woman eliciting the three verses from Pormóðr with leading questions. Thus, in answer to the woman’s query ‘Hvárt ertu konungsmaðr, eða ertu af bóndaliði?’ (Are you one of the king’s men, or are you on the side of the yeomen?), Pormóðr speaks a verse beginning ‘Á sér, at vér vörum | vígreifr með Áleiﬁ’ (It is evident that I, ﬁghtbrave, was with Óláfr). When the woman next asks ‘Hverir gengu bezt fram með konunginum í dag?’ (Who advanced best with the king today?), Pormóðr replies in verse ‘Haraldr vas bitr at berjask | böðreifr með Áleiﬁ’ (Haraldr was ﬁerce in his ﬁghting, battle-brave, with Óláfr). Finally, the woman asks the culminating question ‘Hversu gekk konungrinn fram?’ (In what way did the king advance?) and Pormóðr speaks the verse which Snorri quotes, ‘Ört vas Áleifs hjarta’.174 In the Legendary Saga the dialogue is almost precisely similar, except that the woman’s leading questions are framed in indirect speech; her ﬁrst question, for instance, is set out as follows: ‘Giængr kona hia Pormoðe oc spurði, með huarom er hann være’ ( A woman goes up to Pormóðr and asked which side he was on).175 Such a question and answer dialogue, with prose questions eliciting verses, is an elegant way of incorporating a series of single strophes into a narrative; the effect is seamless narrative, though in fact questions are likely to have been derived from the verses solely in order to introduce, and to appear to elicit, the verses. In theory, any long poem or series of stanzas might be broken down in this simple way and be thus transformed into a narrative dialogue. It is notable that several of the family sagas include such dialogues in prose and verse; the provision of leading questions is a simple, effective, and convenient way of incorporating a series of strophes into a prose narrative. It is especially interesting that the ﬁrst of the verses which Pormóðr speaks in reply to the woman actually includes an address Fóstbrœðra saga, 270–1. Legendary Saga, 198. For a comparison of these two accounts, see Jónas Kristjánsson, Um Fóstbrœðra sögu (Reykjavík, 1972), 201–8. 174 175

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to a woman—it apostrophizes her as ‘huit bruðr’ (bright lady).176 In fact, there is ample evidence that strophes, especially those in which the poet recalls a battle, duel, or other violent encounter, frequently address women. Sometimes, therefore, it is a woman who asks the questions, as in Eyrbyggja saga when Geirríðr asks Pórarinn about the ﬁght at Mávahlíð.177 Sometimes a woman who is otherwise unknown, and indeed never appears in the narrative again, is introduced to ask a question and elicit a verse.178 And sometimes the discrepancy of a verse which apostrophizes a woman and yet is addressed to a man is simply allowed to stand.179 The convention of poets apostrophizing women still awaits full explanation.180 Nevertheless, the implication remains that the verses were originally composed as a mixed verse/prose dialogue or, at least, that the verses were composed with a female audience presupposed.181 Both the Legendary Saga and Óláfs saga helga conclude their account of Pormóðr’s death with a story about a piece of iron lodged in his chest, and the woman’s struggle to remove it; one version of Fóstbrœðra saga also relates the story. Pormóðr’s words, as he sees particles of his own ﬂesh clinging to the piece of iron, provide him with a suitably stoical and witty dying speech: according to Snorri, Pormóðr loyally remarks ‘Vel heﬁr konungrinn alit oss. Feitt er mér um hjartarœtr’ (The king has treated me well. There is fat around the 176 Legendary Saga, 200 (v. 58). The verse in Fóstbrœðra saga in fact lacks this apostrophe, reading instead ‘hvítings’ which must then be taken as forming part of periphrasis for wound, ‘hvítings sár’. However, the unsatisfactory nature of the periphrasis, which can hardly be regarded as a kenning, suggests that the apostrophe ‘hvít bruðr’ is more likely as the original reading, and Jónas Kristjánsson adopts it in Um Fóstbrœðra sögu (205). 177 Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Pórðarson (eds.), Eyrbyggja saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 4 (Reykjavík, 1935), 38–9. All further page references to the saga are to this edition. 178 As e.g. in Kormáks saga, in Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.), Vatnsdœla saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 8, (Reykjavík, 1939), 279. 179 Eyrbyggja saga, 47 (v. 14). 180 For a rather circular argument about skalds addressing women (addressing a woman deﬁned their own masculinity) see Roberta Frank, ‘Why Skalds Address Women’, in Poetry in the Scandinavian Middle Ages: Proceedings of the Seventh International Saga Conference (Spoleto, 1988 (1990)), 67–83. 181 That the Legendary Saga and Fóstbrœðra saga are so very close in their presentation of this dialogue could suggest that Pormóðr’s verses did originally exist with a prose framework of questions from a woman, which both works adopted, although the hypothesis that one work was copied piecemeal from the other is perhaps the simpler explanation.

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roots of my heart).182 Snorri continues his saga with more recollections of and facts about the battle, and then goes on to tell of a miracle associated with Óláfr’s corpse. As we have seen, the priorities of the author of Fóstbrœðra saga were different, and with Pormóðr’s death his saga ends, but in Fóstbrœðra saga Pormóðr’s role as a loyal retainer to the king is eclipsed by his identity as a poet. In response to a question from the woman, ‘Hví ertu svá fölr?’ (Why are you so pale?) Pormóðr speaks his ﬁnal verse, which begins ‘Emkak rauðr’ (I am not ruddy). The prose continues, ‘Ok er hann hafði tetta mælt, tá dó hann standandi við bálkinn ok fell til jarðar dauðr’ (And when he had recited that, then he died standing against a wall, and fell to the ground dead).183 We must imagine that Pormóðr dies before he has quite had time to ﬁnish the strophe (indeed one version of Fóstbrœðra saga does quote the verse with its ﬁnal word missing) because the prose relates that Haraldr Sigurðarson completed the strophe for Pormóðr by supplying the very last word. Pormóðr’s end in Fóstbrœðra saga thus dramatically illustrates both aspects of Pormóðr’s role in the saga—he is at once the heroic warrior who dies on his feet, and the archetypal poet who dies with a verse on his lips. Pormóðr’s ﬁnal verse is a very good example of the structural pattern I discussed earlier, that of a strophe being used as dying words. And of course it raises the same questions about the plausibility of a poet composing or reciting in his last breath. It might be thought reasonable to regard such scenes as literary ﬁction; in this instance the issue is even clearer, since in the Legendary Saga and in Óláfs saga helga Pormóðr is presented as reciting the same verse at an earlier stage in the narrative. But this is not to suggest that littérarité may be equated, moralistically, with some sort of deliberate deception on the part of the saga author. As P. M. Sørensen has wisely suggested in his discussion of this incident, we might extend King Haraldr’s motivation for ﬁnishing off the verse—‘svá mundi skáldit vilja kveðit hafa’ (this is what the skald would have wanted to say) to that of the saga author himself.184 My own interest in the littérarité of historical writing is to illuminate and celebrate the author’s craft, rather than to cast doubt on the authenticity of his history. The 183 Hkr II, 393. Fóstbrœðra saga, 274–6. P. M. Sørensen, ‘The Prosimetrum Form: Verses as the Voice of the Past’ in Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas, 172–90 (189–90). 182 184

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author of Fóstbrœðra saga has reproduced the dramatic effect of last words in verse. Consideration of the way verses are incorporated into the narrative of Norse historical writings reinforces our appreciation of the littérarité of the histories—and, as we shall see in the next chapter, this fundamental distinction in the way the verses are used can also be used to highlight the ostensible historicity of the family sagas. It is of course not surprising that an author of Snorri’s stature should have at his command this mature littérarité in his deployment of verse and prose, writing as he does in the so-called ‘classical’ period of Icelandic literature. Such a degree of littérarité in the way verses are incorporated into a prose narrative is a quality which must have developed through time and come to full fruition in the thirteenthcentury high point of saga writing. But the two modes of presenting verses in narrative—as documentation and as dialogue—seem to have been present in Norse historical writings from their earliest beginnings.

2 THE COMMUNITY AND THE INDIVIDUAL IN EYRBYGGJA SAGA The great majority of the verses in Eyrbyggja saga—in direct contrast to those in the historical works examined in Chapter 1—are incorporated into the narrative as the dialogue of the saga characters. In fact, of the saga’s thirty-seven verses, only seven are introduced in documentary fashion, ostensibly corroborating the substance of the saga prose. As we have seen, the difference between these two modes is very evident in the text itself, and I have argued that the two modes reﬂect contrasting degrees of historicity and littérarité in saga narrative, that is, that their respective roles in the narrative are also in contrast. In the following analysis of the role of verse in Eyrbyggja saga, I shall argue further that these two modes of incorporating skaldic verse into the narrative contribute—in their sharply different ways—to the themes and structure of the whole saga. In brief, the documentary verses serve not only to convey an impression of the narrative’s fundamental historicity, but also, in the way they are disposed throughout the narrative, to outline the overall structure of the sequence of events in the community the saga depicts. The dialogue verses, on the other hand, do not mirror the phases of feuding which make up the prose narrative plot of the saga as I shall outline it. While the documentary verses are spread widely throughout the saga, and serve a structural purpose, highlighting the crucial turning points in the development of the feuds, the remaining groups of dialogue verses counterpoint, rather than match, the narrative structure of the saga.1 I shall argue that these verses, far from conﬁrming the essentially political, communal themes of the saga, provide a completely different dimension, and emphasize instead the personal and emotional lives of individual, even, in social terms, marginal, saga characters. 1 Paul Bibire, in a valuable article ‘Verses in the Íslendingasögur’, also draws a distinction between the role of the Hrafnsmál and Illugadrápa verses on the one hand, and the rest of the verses on the other, but does not explore at any length the contribution of the remaining verses. See Altjóðlegt fornsagnating: Reykjavík 2.–8. ágúst 1973: Fyrirlestrar, i–ii, Second International Saga Conference (Reykjavík, 1973), 28 pp., separately paginated in vol. i.

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The structure of Eyrbyggja saga has been the subject of much adverse criticism. The work has been described as ‘kaleidoscopic’,2 a tissue of tættir,3 as a ‘series of scenes and stories which follows the disordered course of life itself’,4 and even as a mere fragment of a ‘Snorra saga’.5 L. M. Hollander’s introduction to Schach’s translation of the saga, however, marks a turning point in this view of the work.6 In the text of his introduction, Hollander echoes traditional opinion about the saga’s structure, but in a footnote he boldly records that he has changed his mind, and refers to an article by himself which argues for the saga author’s mastery of narrative interlace technique.7 None the less, Theodore M. Andersson’s book on the structural principles of the Íslendingasögur returns to the view that Eyrbyggja saga is structurally amorphous,8 and in her book on narrative interlace in the sagas Carol J. Clover states that Eyrbyggja saga ‘of all the sagas . . . lies furthest from any discernible principle of structural unity’.9 While this supposed diffuseness in the saga’s structure has been adversely commented on, it has not usually been attributed to a lack of literary skill on the part of the saga author. On the contrary, critics have often applauded his attempts to keep under control all the threads in the saga; the tissue of tættir, for example, is said to be skilfully united,10 and Turville-Petre’s comparison of the narrative with ‘the disordered course of life itself’ at least suggests that the saga author has succeeded in creating a convincing naturalism in the structure of his work. In short, most scholars have felt about Eyrbyggja saga as Kenneth Sisam, just as questionably, felt about 2 G. N. Garmonsway, ‘Eyrbyggja saga’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society, 12 (1937–45), 81–92 (81). 3 Eyrbyggja saga, p. xxvi. 4 Turville-Petre, Origins, 242. 5 Eiríkur Magnússon (trans.), Eyrbyggja saga, Saga Library, 2 (1892), 15–28; Sigfús Blöndal, quoted by E. Ól. Sveinsson, Eyrbyggja saga, p. xxxvii. See also Regis Boyer, La Saga de Snorri Goði, Bibliothèque de Philologie Germanique (Paris, 1973). 6 Paul Schach (trans.), Eyrbyggja saga, with an introduction and verse translations by L. M. Hollander (Lincoln, Nebraska, 1959). 7 Ibid., p. xiv. 8 Theodore M. Andersson, The Icelandic Family Saga: An Analytic Reading, Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature, 28 (Cambridge, Mass., 1967), 160. 9 Carol J. Clover, The Medieval Saga (Ithaca, NY, 1982), 25. 10 Eyrbyggja saga, p. xxvi.

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Beowulf: ‘it has enough high qualities without the claim to structural excellence’.11 In my view, the complexity of the saga’s structure arises from the play and tension between two directly opposed but fundamentally linked themes in the saga: the development, through time, of the community, and the place of the outstanding (or ostracized) individual within it. As I shall show—and, indeed, as one might expect—the documentary verses follow and reﬂect the ﬁrst of these themes, and the groups of dialogue verses the other. documentary verses The authenticating, corroborative role of the seven documentary verses in Eyrbyggja saga is plainly apparent from the phrases used to introduce the verses in the prose: ‘svá kvað’ (thus spoke) or ‘svá segir’ (thus says). The saga author even names the drápur from which the verses are said to have come: two stanzas quoted in chapter 17, attributed to Oddr skáld, are assigned to the Illugadrápa (1–2) and of the ﬁve stanzas attributed to Pormóðr Treﬁlsson three are identiﬁed as coming from the Hrafnsmál. No verses from these two drápur other than those quoted in Eyrbyggja saga survive elsewhere, and we have no way of knowing how much of the two poems the saga author had available to him. The citation of verses in a scholarly way, ostensibly to conﬁrm the historicity of what is stated in the prose, is, as we have seen, familiar from historical writings, but the effect in a family saga is more striking. Verses incorporated in this way dispel the ﬁctional illusion usually created by a narrative; the author suddenly steps outside his role as story-teller and claims some objective historicity for his account. It does not matter whether the details in question are historically accurate or not—what is important is that the author chooses to interrupt his narrative by making such a claim of them. The result is a simple alienation effect, as we are guided by the author to an intellectual response to the narrative. All the other verses in the saga are used to create the illusion that their poet is speaking as a saga character, and his verses form part of the narrative’s dialogue. But Oddr skáld and Pormóðr Treﬁlsson are not characters in Eyrbyggja saga; they are external witnesses, cited rather than reciting. It is characteristic of Eyrbyggja saga that the author should shift 11

Kenneth Sisam, The Structure of Beowulf (Oxford, 1965), 66.

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his stance from story-teller to historian and back again throughout his prose. He carefully draws attention to period details when they play a part in his narrative, for instance. When the slave Egill is sent to kill one of the Breiðﬁrðingar, the author notes, ‘Egill hafði skúfaða skótvengi, sem tá var siðr til’ (Egill had tasselled shoe laces, as was the fashion then),12 to clarify how and why Egill tripped and fell, causing his assassination attempt to fail. Again, to explain why Pórir Gull-Harðarson is not badly hurt when Óspakr lands an axe-blow on his back, the saga author tells us ‘Pórir hafði haft tygilkníf á hálsi, sem tá var títt . . . ok hafði tar komit í höggit’ (Pórir had had a knife on a strap round his neck, as was the custom then . . . and the blow had struck that).13 All through the saga, the author is at pains to note any historical details relevant to the events in his narrative. But he also seems to be interested in historical detail for its own sake, and his keen interest in antiquarian matters has often been remarked.14 Eyrbyggja saga, in common with many family sagas, conﬁdently blends the historical and the ﬁctional, so that the setting lends substance and richness to the narrative, without hampering the author’s artistic freedom. That the saga author was aware of the degree of littérarité he could, paradoxically, achieve by taking a historical stance from time to time in his narrative is evident from, for instance, his presentation of Snorri goði’s advice to Víga-Styrr on how to deal with the berserks. The author adopts the role of a simple reporter of events by stating ‘gengu teir í fjallit upp ok sátu tar á tali allt til kvelds; vissi tat engi maðr, hvat teir töluðu’ (they [Snorri and Víga-Styrr] went up on to the mountain and sat talking there all the time until evening; no man knew what they said).15 By declining to exercise his authorial omniscience, the saga author achieves one familiar and one more subtle literary effect, for not only is the dramatic account of the fate of the berserks unspoiled by anticipation, but also the mystique surrounding Snorri’s invariably efﬁcacious advice is undisturbed by eavesdropping. His potent conspiracies remain inviolate. The littérarité achieved by a distinctively ‘historical’ use of certain verses is by and large twofold: ﬁrst, the verses serve to substantiate the historical basis of the saga, lending weight to an account of the 12

13 Eyrbyggja saga, 117. Ibid. 161. e.g. Turville-Petre, Origins, 243, or Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards (trans.), Eyrbyggja saga, New Saga Library (Edinburgh, 1973), 24. 15 Eyrbyggja saga, 72. 14

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fundamental development of a community, through hostility and feuding to eventual peace and stability; and secondly, the verses punctuate and thus mark out the major events in the course of that development, serving to structure the narrative and divide it into comprehensible stages. That these verses stand out so markedly from the others in the saga reinforces this basic structural role. The stanzas from the Hrafnsmál and the Illugadrápa are not aesthetically distinguished. Some of Pormóðr’s stanzas in particular are little more than bald statements of fact, combined with crude praise of Snorri goði. But the structural role they play is a crucially important one. It is possible to trace the plot of Eyrbyggja saga by following the succession and development of feuds, battles, and the shifting conﬁgurations of loyalties amongst the families in the district around Eyrr. Viewed in this way, the saga falls into four distinct phases and, as we shall see, the quotation of a skaldic stanza serves to corroborate the outcome or key features of each phase. The saga author begins his narrative with a pre-history of the main events which sets the scene for the series of feuds in the main body of the saga. The land on the northern side of Snæfellsnes is settled by two chieftains, Pórólfr mostrarskegg, the ﬁrst of the so-called Pórsnesingar, and Björn inn austrœni, whose descendants become known as the Kjalleklingar, after his son, Kjallakr. Even though the two original settlers are on good terms, their families move from bad feeling to bitter ﬁghting when Björn’s grandsons, the Kjalleklingar, plan to desecrate the Pórsnesingar’s assembly ground, the Pórsnessting. At the Pórsnessting battle, the Kjalleklingar and the Pórsnesingar are reconciled by Pórðr Gellir, the greatest chieftain in Breiðafjörðr, who is related to both sides. Phase One: taking sides Snorri goði, great-grandson of Pórólfr Mostrarskegg, and the brothers Víga-Styrr and Vermundr inn mjóvi, great-grandsons of Björn inn austrœni, are on friendly terms, notwithstanding the traditional hostility between their two families. However, feuding amongst other members of their clans conﬁrms and deepens the fundamental division between them: 1. Snorri’s brother-in-law Porbjörn accuses Geirríðr from Mávahlíð, mother-in-law of Vermundr inn mjóvi, of practising witchcraft

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against his son Gunnlaugr. Snorri and Porbjörn take out a case against the Mávahlíð people; Geirríðr is successfully defended by her brother Arnkell. 2. Snorri acts as the mediator between the Kjalleklingar and Illugi inn svarti, who have quarrelled about a dowry. 3. Snorri’s brother-in-law Porbjörn again quarrels with the Mávahlíð people, this time on account of the disappearance of Porbjörn’s horses, which he has blamed, wrongly, on them. In the ensuing ﬁght, Porbjörn is killed by Vermundr’s brother-in-law, Geirríðr’s son Pórarinn inn svarti. This conﬂict is known as the Máhlíðingamál. 4. Vigfúss from Drápuhlíð, who is related to the Kjalleklingar and the Mávahlíð people, takes Snorri to court after a ﬁght between his nephew and Snorri’s shepherd Helgi. Snorri kills Vigfúss. The ﬁrst two verses in the saga relate to a dowry quarrel involving Illugi inn svarti and his opponent Tin-Forni, two characters who do not play a large part in the narrative, and whose quarrel is incidental to the central feud in the saga between the Pórsnesingar and the Kjalleklingar. But even though it does not involve the two sides of the central feud in direct conﬂict, the dowry quarrel nevertheless reﬂects their opposition. The Kjalleklingar support their kinsman Tin-Forni, and although Snorri goði seems to play a neutral role as mediator between the two, after the settlement, Illugi offers him payment for what he has done. This incident thus marks the beginning of Snorri’s characteristically equivocal involvement in community affairs, as well as sustaining the awareness of division between opposing sides in the district. It is interesting that the two verses, though said to come from a drápa not about Snorri and the Pórsnes people, but about Illugi, allude clearly and speciﬁcally to the two elements in the affair which touch on the saga’s primary concerns: Pórsnes as the focal point of tension in the district—‘vestr vas tröng á tingi | Pórsness’ (there was a crowd west at the Pórsnes assembly; v. 1)—and the fact that Snorri played a decisive role in the encounter—‘kœmi . . . við seggi . . . griðum Snorri’ (Snorri brought about a settlement for men; v. 2).16 In the saga prose, the details of the quarrel itself are barely sketched in, and the precise nature of the dispute is not explained. The saga author was not concerned with such incidentals; the verses lend weight to an apparently immaterial 16

Eyrbyggja saga, 31–2.

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episode, because its real signiﬁcance in the saga is that it marks Snorri’s political début. According to Hauksbók, Pormóðr Treﬁlsson’s Hrafnsmál was a poem in praise of Snorri goði and his son Póroddr.17 It seems certain that all ﬁve of Pormóðr’s stanzas in Eyrbyggja saga belonged to it, even though only three of them are thus identiﬁed in the saga prose. The verses are similar in style and quality, and are all in the same simple but distinctive metre—haðarlag—which has been described as málaháttr decorated with dróttkvætt rhymes.18 Pormóðr’s verses are evenly and widely distributed throughout the saga—one each in chapters 26, 37, 44, 56, and 62—which in itself indicates the punctuating role they play in the narrative. Pormóðr’s verses are cited individually to mark each one of a series of violent denouements. The ﬁrst of Pormóðr Treﬁlsson’s verses to be quoted in the saga commemorates Snorri’s decisive act of violence in killing Vigfúss— the ﬁnal act in the ﬁrst phase of feuding. Vigfúss has demanded compensation from Snorri, who refuses to pay. When in the spring Vigfúss brings his case to the Pórsnessting, Snorri makes a countercharge and wins the case. The following autumn, Vigfúss pays a slave to kill Snorri, but the attempt fails and Snorri rides to Drápuhlíð and kills Vigfúss. The death of Vigfúss is followed in the saga prose by a verse from the Hrafnsmál: Felldi folksvaldi fyrst ens gollbyrsta velti valgaltar, Vigfús tann hétu; slíta tar síðan sára benskárar bráð af böð-Nirði, Bjarnar arfnytja.19

The leader of the people ﬁrst killed the warrior toppler of the golden-bristled slaughter-boar [warrior]; that man was called Vigfúss; wound-mews [ravens], there since then, tear the food of wounds [ﬂesh] from Njörðr [the battle-god], the heir of Björn.

Since Snorri is the hero of the Hrafnsmál, it is not surprising that the killing is commemorated in it as a triumph for Snorri. But Snorri’s personal triumph is not emphasized in the prose. Although in the verse Snorri is himself—the leader of the people—credited with the 17

Eyrbyggja saga, 67 n. E. O. G. Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry (Oxford, 1976), pp. xxxiv–xxxv. Eyrbyggja saga, 67 (v. 20). The slaughter-boar is a helmet, whose toppler is a warrior—Vigfúss. Vigfúss is the son of Björn. See also Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 73–4. 18 19

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murder of Vigfúss, the prose is oddly vague: ‘Peir kómu at teim Vigfúsi óvörum ok drápu Vigfús’ (They took Vigfúss and his companions unawares, and killed Vigfúss).20 Further, while the verse celebrates Snorri’s ﬁrst killing—‘felldi folksvaldi | fyrst’ (the leader of the people killed ﬁrst . . .) in the saga prose Snorri’s début in community politics has been marked by the Illugadrápa stanzas which commemorate his role as peacemaker in Illugi’s dowry quarrel. It is evident that the saga author was not dependent on the Hrafnsmál for his account of Snorri’s career, and that he signiﬁcantly adjusts the emphasis of the poem (this is even more striking in the case of the next Hrafnsmál stanza, as we shall see). Clearly the Hrafnsmál was of limited value as source material for an author who wished to write something more ambitious than a straightforward account of Snorri’s personal success as a killer. The real role of the verse, then, is not as genuine evidence, as quoted source material, but as a structural marker. A recurrent aspect of the several stages of feuding in Eyrbyggja saga is that the composition of opposing factions is slightly but signiﬁcantly altered by and after each conﬂict. What these changes ultimately demonstrate is how the warring families in the district resolve themselves into a uniﬁed community. The killing of Vigfúss is not merely one of Snorri’s conquests; its importance in the saga narrative lies in the way it calls up Snorri’s opponents. Vigfúss’s widow Porgerðr ﬁrst turns to her uncle Arnkell for support in bringing a case against Snorri. Arnkell advises her to enlist the help of the Kjalleklingar, who are distantly related to Vigfúss. But Víga-Styrr draws back because of a private agreement he has made with Snorri, and Vermundr passes her on to Steintórr of Eyrr. Steintórr sends her back to Vermundr, who in turn sends her to Arnkell, where she began. Porgerðr’s journey is fruitless, but as well as vividly illustrating one of the saga’s most pervasive themes—the irony of the continual reluctance of its characters to be involved in feuds—it also effectively sets out Snorri’s chief opponents. Vigfúss’s death thus marks the end of the ﬁrst stage of feuding, and the quotation of Pormóðr’s ﬁrst Hrafnsmál verse indicates this division. Phase Two: Snorri and Arnkell Snorri and Víga-Styrr have made a personal pact to cease enmity, and it seems that the ﬁrst phase in the feuding has been resolved as 20

Eyrbyggja saga, 66.

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Snorri helps Víga-Styrr to deal with two difﬁcult Swedish berserks, and Styrr refuses to take up a case against Snorri when approached by Vigfúss’s widow Porgerðr. But Vermundr’s advice to her to seek help from Arnkell, the brother of Geirríðr from Mávahlíð, ushers in the second phase of the feuding. The roots of the hostility between Snorri and Arnkell can be traced back to very early on in the saga, but it is after the killing of Vigfúss that the two men come into direct conﬂict. As ever, their relationship is marked by a mutual reluctance to carry hostility through to violence. Arnkell is the chief supporter of Pórarinn inn svarti, for instance, whom Snorri prosecutes for the killing of Porbjörn inn digri, but Arnkell declines to use violence against Snorri even when he is in an overwhelmingly strong position to do so, declaring ‘ok skal tola Snorra lög’ (and Snorri shall have the beneﬁt of the law).21 Such retarding of the violence, repeated throughout the saga, not only serves to increase the narrative tension, but also shows the poignancy of the characters’ hopeless struggles against the powerful currents of feuding. Arnkell, the son of Pórólfr bægifótr, emerges as Snorri’s chief rival and enemy. He reluctantly takes over the prosecution for the killing of Vigfúss though, since he is motivated more from a sense of family obligation than enmity to Snorri, he excepts Snorri himself from the prosecution. But Arnkell’s father maliciously persuades Snorri to take action against Arnkell because Arnkell has killed some slaves of his.22 (Pórólfr had sent the slaves to murder a neighbouring farmer.) Arnkell and his father are, however, reconciled because Pórólfr very shortly quarrels with Snorri. Pórólfr next tries to set Arnkell and Snorri against one another over some woodland. Again, Arnkell resists: he tells his father ‘en eigi mun ek svá búit deila um skóginn við Snorra’ (I’m not going to quarrel with Snorri about the wood at this stage), but the qualiﬁcation ‘svá búit’ (as matters stand, at this stage) is ominous.23 Arnkell kills Snorri’s friend Haukr; Snorri sends a slave to kill Arnkell but the attempt fails.24 Although the Kjalleklingar now act as mediators between the two, inevitably, Snorri himself leads a party of men and Arnkell is attacked and killed.25 21

22 23 Eyrbyggja saga, 56. Ibid. 85. Ibid. 90–1. Ibid. 96–8. It should be noted that Snorri is not explicitly said to have instructed the slave Porleifr to kill Arnkell; characteristically, all the saga tells us is that ‘töluðu teir mjök lengi’ (they had a very long talk together), 97. 25 Ibid. 102. 24

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Arnkell is a ﬁgure of great moral stature in Eyrbyggja saga. After his death, the saga author writes that Arnkell was ‘allra manna bezt at sér um alla hluti í fornum sið ok manna vitrastr, vel skapi farinn, hjartaprúðr ok hverjum manni djarfari, einarðr ok allvel stilltr’ (of all men in the old days [that is, before the Conversion] the most impressive in all respects, and wisest; good tempered, brave, bolder than any man, reliable and altogether the most moderate).26 His death is on these grounds alone a major event in the saga and, as we would expect, it is marked by the citation of one of Pormóðr’s verses. The ‘historical’ effect of the corroborative way the verse is introduced in the prose is interestingly echoed by the phrase ‘í fornum sið’ (in the old days) in the prose eulogy to Arnkell, and produces the same alienation effect, giving dignity and moment to the memorial and lifting it out of the narrative. But praise for Arnkell is naturally discordant with Hrafnsmál, a poem celebrating Snorri’s deeds, and here again we can see the saga author’s independence in his handling of the verse material, and the way he uses a verse for structural purposes without allowing its content to dominate the narrative. The stanza in question credits Snorri with a killing, rather than censuring him, and stresses that Snorri was personally responsible for the act: Fekk enn folkrakki, framðisk ungr sigri, Snorri sár-orra sverði gnógs verðar; laust í lífs köstu Leifa máreiﬁr unda gjalfrs eldi, tá’s hann Arnketil felldi.27

The battle-bold Snorri gave food in plenty to the wound-grouse [raven] with his sword—when young he won fame by victory. The gladdener of Leiﬁ’s mew [warrior] struck on the pile of life [body] with the ﬁre of the sea of wounds [sword] when he killed Arnkell.

The prose does not reﬂect this emphasis, but reports Arnkell’s death in more impersonal terms: ‘urðu tær málalykðir, at Arnkell fell’ (the end of the affair was that Arnkell was killed). The author of the saga is not merely recounting Snorri’s achievements, and takes a much more complex moral stance than Pormóðr Treﬁlsson. He presents a prose panegyric for Arnkell to balance the simple triumph 26 27

Ibid. 103. Ibid. 102 (v. 26). See also Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 74-5.

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contained in verse 26, and subtly diminishes Snorri’s personal involvement in Arnkell’s murder. Arnkell’s place in Eyrbyggja saga is very reminiscent of Gunnarr’s in Njáls saga: both are morally admirable characters, men of principle who meet untimely and lamented deaths halfway through their respective sagas. But in Njáls saga, Njáll, who takes over as protagonist after Gunnarr’s death, does not rise to pre-eminence through the murder of his celebrated rival, as Snorri goði does in Eyrbyggja saga. Stressing Arnkell’s moral distinction in Eyrbyggja saga occasions a rich ambivalence in the reader’s response to Snorri goði. It also serves to underline Snorri’s power and prestige, for there are no longer two distinguished men in the district, and Snorri is indisputably pre-eminent. Only Björn Breiðvíkingakappi challenges this pre-eminence and, as we shall see, Björn, although undefeated by Snorri, leaves Iceland after their dramatic confrontation. Snorri is left in full authority over the district, but it is signiﬁcant that Björn becomes a chieftain himself, although in mysterious circumstances in the New World, well out of Snorri’s ambit. Phase Three: the battles of Álptafjörðr, Vigrafjörðr, and Pórsnessting The battle of Álptafjörðr forms the climax of the whole movement of feuding in Eyrbyggja saga, and the battle is commemorated with the quotation of the third of Pormóðr’s verses. The roots of the conﬂict are surprisingly trivial, but the tension is ampliﬁed ﬁrst by the fact that the preliminary hostilities echo the central and long-held opposition between the Kjalleklingar and the Pórsnesingar, and second by the lengthy process of antagonism and reconciliation which precedes and retards the ﬁnal violence. Björn Breiðvíkingakappi’s brother Arinbjörn quarrels with Porleifr kimbi, one of the Porbrandssons from Álptafjörðr, hitting him on the neck with a porridge spoon.28 The people of Eyrr are drawn into the quarrel when Porleifr kimbi asks to marry the sister of Steintórr from Eyrr. Steintórr’s brother Pórðr blígr mocks Porleifr’s proposal by alluding to the porridge spoon incident,29 and the hostility soon gives way to a ﬁght, which is followed by an uneasy truce. The Porbrandssons are supported by Snorri goði: earlier in the saga they asked Snorri for help,30 and although he refused them on that occa28

Eyrbyggja saga, 106.

29

Ibid. 112.

30

Ibid. 90.

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sion, their request prepares the reader for the alliance between them and Snorri. It is Snorri who helps to achieve the precarious truce between the Álptafjörðr people, on the one hand, and the men of Breiðavík and Eyrr on the other. But again, his role as neutral peacemaker is slyly compromised by the saga author’s broad hints—‘Pat er sumra manna sögn’ (some people reckon) that he was responsible for the plan to send a slave to murder one of the Breiðavík men. Nevertheless, Steintórr, the leader of the Breiðavík and Eyrr factions, and Snorri, the guiding force behind their opponents, do not rush into violence, but declare, each with a speech parallel to the other’s, that they intend to deal with the matter within the law—exactly as Snorri and Arnkell did in the preceding stage of the narrative.31 Even when a ﬁght breaks out between Steintórr and one of the Porbrandssons, Snorri manages to check the violence, and Steintórr co-operates with him. But Snorri’s young son Póroddr has been hurt in this preliminary skirmish, and he names Steintórr as his assailant. Snorri is no longer willing to hold back, and the battle of Álptafjörðr begins. One can still see in the battle lines a partial reﬂection of the old hostility between the Kjalleklingar and the Pórsnesingar, with Snorri leading one side, and Víga-Styrr and Vermundr prominent on the other. But Víga-Styrr, who has maintained friendly relations with Snorri throughout the saga, has by this time become Snorri’s father-in-law. This is of crucial signiﬁcance in the battle of Álptafjörðr, because it means that Víga-Styrr is the maternal grandfather of the boy Póroddr, Snorri’s son. Snorri challenges Víga-Styrr with this connection during the ﬁght: ‘Svá hefnir tú Pórodds, dóttursonar tíns’ (This is the way you avenge Póroddr, your daughter’s son).32 Styrr acknowledges his divided loyalties and changes sides at once. The stanza by Pormóðr Treﬁlsson which commemorates the battle of Álptafjörðr in no way reﬂects this complex pattern of loyalties and hostilities between opposing sides, and within the factions themselves. Pormóðr declares: Saddi svangreddir sára dynbáru örn á ulfs virði 31

The feeder of the swan of the resounding wave of wounds [raven] sated the eagle on food of the wolf [carrion]

Ibid. 119 and 120 respectively.

32

Ibid. 122.

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í Álptaﬁrði; tar lét tá Snorri tegna at hjörregni fjörvi ﬁmm numna; svá skal fjandr hegna.33

in Álptafjörðr; there Snorri had ﬁve men deprived of life in the swordrain [battle]; thus shall a man punish his enemies.

Neither literary merit nor its provision of source material can have been the reasons behind the inclusion of this verse in the saga prose. Again, the stanza serves as a structural marker, ostensibly authenticating but actually marking out this momentous conﬂict. At the battle of Vigrafjörðr the Álptﬁrðingar continue their ﬁght with the people of Eyrr, and Vermundr—who after his brother’s remarkable change of sides at Alptafjörðr is no longer so straightforwardly associated with one or other faction—acts as arbitrator in the ﬁnal settlement, and the conﬂict is resolved. The saga turns to the coming of Christianity to Iceland and, by dramatic contrast, to the bizarre hauntings at Fróðá. But the violence is not completely burned out, for several years later Víga-Styrr is murdered, and Snorri prepares to take action over the killing.34 The constituency of Snorri’s support in the matter is very striking. Naturally Víga-Styrr’s brother Vermundr sides with Snorri, even though his family has had a long history of intense hostility to Snorri’s party. Steintórr from Eyrr joins them, in spite of his enmity at Álptafjörðr; his support is not entirely unexpected after the civilities he and Snorri exchanged both before and after the battle. The Porbrandssons, Snorri’s old allies, complete the troop. Snorri leads a (united) force from almost all the warring factions in the district. Only a Breiðavík representative is missing. This is surely the light in which we are to understand Snorri’s allusion to Kjartan Póroddsson’s real parentage—‘Fram sóttir tú nú mjök í dag, Breiðvíkingrinn’ (You have pressed hard in the ﬁghting today, Breiðavíkingr).35 The presence of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi’s son completes the range of Snorri’s support. The account of ﬁghting at the Pórsnessting is followed by the quotation of the fourth of Pormóðr’s verses: Meir vá enn móðbarri menn at hjörsennu tynir tjörreinar tvá fyr á sunnan; 33 34

And further, the brave one killed men in battle, the destroyer of the ground of the spear [warrior], two of them, south of the river;

Eyrbyggja saga, 124 (v. 33). See also Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 75. 35 Eyrbyggja saga, 153. Ibid. 155.

EYRBYGGJA SAGA lágu sjau síðan, slíks eru jarteignir, gífrs á grand-nesi gumnar fjörnumnir.36

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afterwards, seven lay dead —there are tokens of such on the headland of the troll-killer [Pórsnes]— men deprived of life.

The verse is speciﬁc about numbers, but not about names, so that prose, which the verse is ostensibly authenticating, has to supply the details itself: ‘um tessi tíðendi öll saman, víg Porsteins Gíslasonar ok Gunnars, sonar hans, ok síðan um bardagann á Pórsnesstingi, orti Pormóðr Treﬁlsson í Hrafnsmálum vísu tessa’ (about all these events—the killing of Porsteinn Gíslason and his son Gunnarr, and then about the ﬁght at the Pórsnes assembly—Pormóðr Treﬁlsson composed this verse in the Hrafnsmál). This illustrates very clearly how the author quotes in his text a verse which is more important for its form than for its content, more useful as a structuring device than as evidence of what took place. Phase Four: community Snorri’s last battle in the saga forms a ﬁtting conclusion to the long series of community feuds which have gradually resulted in the resolution of divisions in the district, and the consolidation of Snorri’s position as undisputed leader of the whole area. The district is terrorized by Óspakr Kjalleksson and his men, but he is driven out and killed by a party of men under Snorri’s leadership. The threat of violence has arisen not from within the community, but from an outside element: the community responds to defend its new stability, and succeeds. A verse from Pormóðr Treﬁlsson rounds off the incident: Böð varð í Bitru, bráð hykk tar fengu gørvi gnógs styrjar gjóðum sigrﬂjóða; lágu lífs vanir leiðendr hafreiðar trír fyr trekstœri; tar fekk hrafn væri.37

There was a battle at Bitra; I think that there food was provided by the maker of abundant battle [warrior] for the birds of the battle women [ravens]; lifeless lay leaders of the sea-chariot [sea-men] three of them, before the powerful warrior; the raven got food there.

The unfolding of loyalties and hostilities in the saga’s account of one district’s struggle for unity and stability is extraordinarily 36 Ibid. 156 (v. 34). The ground of the spear is a shield, whose destroyer is a warrior; Pórr is a troll-killer, so that the headland is Pórsness. 37 Ibid. 168 (v. 35). ‘The maker of abundant battle’ is a warrior—Snorri—and the ‘birds of the battle-women’ (valkyries) are thus ravens.

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complex, because the feuding spreads beyond the two original family groups to encompass the whole district, and to involve several sets of people in complicated, and sometimes conﬂicting, patterns of loyalty and obligation. Furthermore, the hostilities develop in two complementary ways: long-held grudges establish enmities, and then violence erupts after apparently trivial incidents. Finally, the progress of the feuding is paradoxically both uncertain and inexorable; in retrospect, its gradual growth, culminating in the two battles, has seemed unstoppable precisely because at times the major ﬁgures were unwilling to be drawn into it, were ﬁghting those they did not hate, and were even struggling to prevent it continuing. However, the overall movement of events is clear: Snorri, the leading ﬁgure in one of the two traditionally hostile families in the district, skilfully neutralizes his opponents the Kjalleklingar, and murders Arnkell, who has emerged as his chief opponent in their place. Thus Snorri establishes for himself a position of pre-eminence in the community, and consolidates this by leading a settled community to take united action against Óspakr, who represents a threat from outside it. This chain of events, from the desecration of Helgafell to the defeat of Óspakr, is unbroken in its causality, but it is not easy to trace and follow because it is interwoven with other narrative threads as well as itself involving a large number of characters and incidents. Pormóðr Treﬁlsson’s verses act as a clarifying and unifying device in the saga, for as I have shown, they chart decisive events in the development of the community, and stand out as a group in the saga because of the distinctively historicizing way they are incorporated into the text. As we have seen, their value as source material is not actually very great, but nevertheless they can be used to give the impression of independent corroboration of the events which take place. It is ironic that, although the verses are used to provide authentication in this way, they contain very little relevant factual detail, and the saga author himself on occasion must supply that detail in his prose introduction to the verse. Although the Hrafnsmál was a poem in praise of Snorri and thus directly relevant to the events in Eyrbyggja saga, the saga author’s prose is to a large degree independent of the substance of the verses, and one can see how he curtails and adjusts the Hrafnsmál’s uncomplicated emphasis on Snorri’s violent achievements. The saga author’s concern is not with Snorri as a saga hero, but with Snorri in relation to the development of political stability in the area. It is the

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nature of the relationship between the verse and the prose which directs us to the saga author’s purpose. However, as we shall see, the rest of the verses in the saga reﬂect not the development of the community, but the isolation of some of the individuals within it. dialogue verses The verses in Eyrbyggja saga which are presented as the dialogue of saga characters fall into distinct groups which are associated with either a single narrative thread, or a single scene or episode in the saga. There are seventeen stanzas by Pórarinn svarti, known as the Máhliðingavísur, and commemorating the Máhliðingamál, the Mávahlíð business (vv. 3–19). Seven stanzas are spoken by Björn Breiðvíkingakappi about his love affair with Snorri’s sister Puríðr (vv. 24–5 and 27–31). And while both Pórarinn and Björn are each, in their own way, characters isolated within and eventually excluded from Icelandic society, the speakers of the remaining stanzas represent yet more socially marginal voices: three stanzas are attributed to Víga-Styrr and to Halli and Leiknir, his Swedish berserks (vv. 21–3); a helmingr is uttered by a severed head before the battle of Álptafjörðr (v. 32); and two stanzas are spoken by Póroddr Porbrandsson’s old foster-mother about the ghostly and malevolent bull Glæsir (vv. 36–7). The voice of Pórarinn svarti The verses spoken by Pórarinn svarti, the son of Geirríðr of Mávahlíð, are collectively known as the Máhlíðingavísur, and the incident they are concerned with as the Máhlíðingamál, the Mávahlíð affair. The verses form an unbroken sequence in the saga, numbered 3–19, and are spread over chapters 18–22. The Máhlíðingamál and its verses thus forms a clearly discrete element in the saga. There are no other verses by Pórarinn in the saga, and he himself is introduced into the narrative very shortly before the affair. The verses follow directly on from the narrative account, and by the beginning of chapter 25 Pórarinn is said to be out of the saga henceforth. Such tightness of structure within this narrative element gives a strong impression of close association between the verse and the prose, but I hope in what follows to show how the saga author has ﬁtted the two together to produce this ﬁnely motivated and densely crafted episode.

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The most immediately evident contribution of the verses to the story of the Máhlíðingamál in Eyrbyggja saga is their illlumination of Pórarinn’s character. In the prose, Pórarinn is an enigmatic ﬁgure. His mother Geirríðr is said to be ‘margkunnig’ (skilled in witchcraft) and is regularly visited by Gunnlaugr, the son of Snorri’s brother-inlaw Porbjörn, ostensibly to learn about witchcraft, although the witch Katla from Holt coarsely refers to a sexual relationship between them.38 Tension arises between Pórarinn and Porbjörn because Geirríðr is accused of harming Gunnlaugr by witchcraft, and Porbjörn loses the ensuing case with dishonour. Pórarinn’s ancestry is strangely mixed: his grandfather is Pórólfr bægifótr, whose apparently motiveless malevolence inﬂames the conﬂict between his son Arnkell and Snorri goði, and after Pórólfr’s death his ghost terrorizes the district, so that Arnkell has to bury him as far away as the corpse will allow itself to be transported—and behind a high wall.39 On the other hand, Pórarinn’s uncle, Pórólfr’s son, is Arnkell, a noble and upstanding ‘goði’ who is drawn into conﬂict with Snorri, and whose killing is the major tragedy in the tangle of feuds and murders which make up the saga. After his death, the saga unusually includes a formal eulogy to him, beginning ‘var hann öllum mönnum harmdauði’ (all men were grieved by his death).40 Arnkell’s and Geirríðr’s mother was also called Geirríðr; she is said to have built her hall across a road so that every traveller on that route might partake of her hospitality.41 While Pórarinn is primarily associated with the ‘good’ side of his family, he is not a traditionally acceptable ﬁgure in social terms: he is ugly, silent, and not manly. The saga says: ‘Hann var mikill maðr ok sterkr, ljótr ok hljóðlyndr, vel stilltr hversdagliga; hann var kallaðr mannasættir. Hann var eigi fémikill ok hafði tó bú gagnsamt. Svá var hann maðr óhlutdeilinn, at óvinir hans mæltu, at hann hefði eigi síðr kvenna skap en karla. Hann var kvángaðr maðr, ok hét Auðr kona hans’ (He was a big man and strong, ugly, and of a quiet disposition, normally very placid; he was known as a peacemaker. He was not very rich, but he had a prosperous farm. He was a man so unwilling to involve himself in disputes that his enemies said that there was no less of a woman’s disposition in him, than a man’s. He was married, and his wife was called Auðr).42 Pórarinn is more 38 41

39 Eyrbyggja saga, 28. Ibid. 95. 42 Ibid. 13. Ibid. 27.

40

Ibid. 103.

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interested in settlement by law than in feuding and killing: this is considered by some of his contemporaries to suggest effeminacy. There is a striking parallel with the ﬁgure of Njáll, a man similarly anxious to meet violence with legality, and similarly taunted with unmanliness.43 The emphasis on Pórarinn’s usual placidity and taciturnity raises expectations in the reader which are amply fulﬁlled as Pórarinn is roused to violent action, and then expresses his response in verse. The Máhlíðingamál itself is preceded by an episode involving Snorri and the people of Mávahlíð which does not have direct repercussions on the central event, but which prepares the ground for the hostilities and increases the narrative tension. Geirríðr of Mávahlíð is accused of ‘witch-riding’ her young lover Gunnlaugr; the rumour that she is to blame is spread by Oddr, the son of Geirríðr’s rival Katla. Geirríðr is prosecuted by Gunnlaugr’s father Porbjörn, supported by Snorri goði. Arnkell defends Geirríðr and she is acquitted; Snorri and Porbjörn ‘fengu . . . af tessu óvirðing’ (were humiliated in this).44 This incident establishes hostility between the two families. The following autumn, Porbjörn inn digri misses some horses, and Oddr Kötluson maliciously casts suspicion on Porbjörn’s Mávahlíð neighbours. Pórarinn’s family, through Vermundr inn mjóvi and Víga-Styrr, is connected by marriage to the descendants of Björn inn austrœni, the Kjalleklingar. The Kjalleklingar, as we have seen, have been the traditional enemies of Snorri’s family, the Helgafell people, ever since the dispute with which the saga opens, the desecration of Helgafell. But it is important to recognize that in spite of this past history, there is no inevitable, or naturally arising, hostility between the two families; Oddr Kötluson contrives the conﬂict out of their perhaps uneasy, but only potentially unstable, coexistence. This is a central concern of the Máhlíðingamál and reﬂects a major theme in the saga as a whole. Pórarinn is temperamentally disinclined to ﬁght, and yet he is drawn into a violent conﬂict which has been artiﬁcially kindled. Throughout the saga, men are drawn with increasing unwillingness into feuds whose seeds lie in petty or trumped-up exchanges, further fuelled by the background of traditional rivalries. Such feuds gain an 43 See Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.), Brennu-Njáls saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 12 (Reykjavík, 1954), 229, where Hallgerðr mockingly nicknames Njáll ‘karl inn skegglausi’ (the beardless old man). 44 Eyrbyggja saga, 29–30.

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inexorable momentum from the inevitable causality of events and the implicating duties of kinship and loyalty in the saga. Pórarinn’s verses, and the saga prose into which they are set, express this unwillingness to embark on violent action, and the verses in particular offer a moving insight into the thoughts and feelings of a victim of the pressures of the feud. Pórarinn has to be goaded into responding violently, and after the event the verses express both a powerful revulsion for bloodshed, and perhaps also a subtle ambivalence about the success of his response. Porbjörn inn digri rides to Mávahlíð to confront Pórarinn about the theft of the horses. Pórarinn reacts to the demand to search the farm with a plea for legal niceties: ‘Er rannsókn tessi nökkut með lögum upp tekin, eða haﬁ tér nökkura lögsjándr til kvadda at skynja tetta mál, eða vili tér nökkur grið selja oss í rannsókn tessi, eða haﬁ tér nökkut víðara farit til rannsóknar?’ (Is this search undertaken legally, and have you called up any witnesses to enquire into this case, and will you offer us safe conduct during this search, and have you searched anywhere else?). Pórarinn tries to forbid the search, but Porbjörn says that he will take such an action to be evidence of guilt, and Pórarinn gives in, declaring ‘Gerið tat sem yðr líkar’ (go about things as you like).45 This resigned passivity is echoed later in the saga when Vermundr suggests that Pórarinn might enlist Arnkell’s support: ‘Pér skuluð ráða’ (It’s up to you) is Pórarinn’s response.46 With such small details the saga author builds up a consistent representation of Pórarinn’s character. Geirríðr’s attempt to provoke Pórarinn into action—‘Ofsatt er tat, er mælt er, at meir heﬁr tú, Pórarinn, kvenna skap en karla’ (It’s quite true what people say, that you, Pórarinn, have more of women’s disposition than men’s)47—is appropriately wounding, given what has been explicitly stated in the saga, and what may be inferred from Pórarinn’s behaviour. Pórarinn duly attacks Porbjörn and his men, but the ﬁght is a half-hearted and inconclusive affair, and its aim seems to be to break up the ‘door-court’ Porbjörn has set up to legalize the search, rather than to kill Porbjörn and his men. Although three servants are killed, the ﬁghting is bloodlessly described, and Pórarinn’s wife and the other women are able to stop the ﬁght by throwing clothes on the swords. Afterwards, though, a severed hand is found on the ground where 45

Eyrbyggja saga, 35.

46

Ibid. 47.

47

Ibid. 36.

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the ﬁghting took place. It is shown to Pórarinn, who at once asks where his wife Auðr is. The drama and emotion of the situation are conveyed in this remarkably spare account; Pórarinn goes to Auðr and ﬁnds that she has indeed been maimed. He then pursues Porbjörn and overhears Oddr Kötluson jeering that Pórarinn himself has cut off his wife’s hand. As the others greet Oddr’s taunt with laughter, Pórarinn and his men attack. These are the chief events of the Máhlíðingamál and represent all we know of Pórarinn apart from what is contained in his verses. A consideration of the verses conﬁrms, complements, and ampliﬁes the picture we have from the saga prose. But that Pórarinn should express himself as a poet has not been explicitly prepared for in the saga prose. Far from being verbally accomplished, Pórarinn is consistently presented as being tactiturn, and is in fact credited with little prose dialogue in the saga. Apart from the verses, his utterances are either passive and resigned, or else laconic statements reﬂecting the lengths to which he has been pushed, as when after his mother’s taunt he declares: ‘Eigi nenni ek nú lengr hér at standa’ (I cannot bear to stand here any longer).48 It is therefore appropriate and effective that his description of the ﬁghting should be in skaldic strophes; conversational discourse would be both uncharacteristic and anti-climactic. As I shall explore more fully in Chapter 4, a parallel may be drawn with Grettir; in the early stages of his saga he speaks almost exclusively in stylized discourse—either in verse or in proverbs—and this technique draws attention to his strange dislocation from the rest of society, and particularly his refusal to communicate in a normal way with his father. This linguistic isolation is soon physically realized in Grettir’s outlawry. Pórarinn is also in some ways outside acceptability in society, and in his direct replies in verse he is not being ‘poetic’, but rather, speaking in near enigmas, transforming his reaction to the killing into an oblique and highly metaphorical commentary on it. Having recited ﬁve verses in response to Vermundr’s questions in chapter 19, ‘eptir tat segir Pórarinn tíðendin’ (after that Pórarinn tells the news).49 The saga signs the shift back to ordinary discourse in the same way a little further on, in that, after responding in verse to Arnkell’s demand ‘at tíðendum’ (for news), Pórarinn is asked about the events which took place, and is said duly to relate them. The saga continues: ‘Ok er hann hafði frá sagt, sem var . . .’ (and when he had 48

Ibid.

49

Ibid. 44.

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related what happened . . .)50 and Arnkell’s next query provokes a verse. Speaking in verse is a powerful means of conveying the elevated and detached nature of Pórarinn’s response, as well as allowing access to his entirely personal reaction to the events. The strophes provide ample evidence of Pórarinn’s distaste for ﬁghting, expressing, both explicitly, in direct statement, and implicitly, through stylistic and metaphorical devices, his revulsion at the violence.51 He declares, ‘sleitka líknar leiki | lostigr’ (I did not break the game of peace willingly; v. 7), and ‘leið erum randa rauðra | regn’ (I detest the rain of red shields—blood, or battle; v. 14); in verse 16 he recalls how he used to be ‘hóglífa’ (quiet living), the ‘heiptar heptandi’ (restrainer of conﬂicts). Far from exulting in his triumph, he states in verse 15 ‘Vas til hreggs at hyggja | hrafn-víns í bœ mínum . . . uggligt’ (It was dreadful to think of the battle [storm of ravenwine, or blood] at my farm). The question and answer format in which the verses are set reinforces the impression that Pórarinn is unwilling to glory in his success, since the verses are spoken only in response to speciﬁc and persistent questioning, and are not spontaneous boasts—as indeed Pórarinn himself makes clear in verse 3: ‘mælik sjaldan hól af tví’ (I seldom speak boastfully of this). The strophes also present a distinctively defensive account of Pórarinn’s part in the battle. In verses 3 and 8 he explains that he was driven to defend himself against female reproaches—‘Varðak mik . . . kvinna fry´ju’ and ‘Urðum vér at verja . . . mik fry´ju’—but is proud that he ‘torði vega’ (dared to ﬁght). In verse 7 he complains: ‘Sóttu mik heim’ (they attacked me at home). Pórarinn never describes himself as the instigator of any action; whereas in stanza 5 he elaborately calls Vermundr ‘valfallins nás ásar niðbræði’ (the hastener of the hostility of the god of battle-fallen corpses), he designates himself by defensive shield-bearing kennings, as ‘geymir geira stígs’ (guardian of the way of spears) in stanza 7, or ‘baugs óðaldraugr’ (the tree of the land of the boss) in stanza 9. Pórarinn characteristically describes the ﬁghting in impersonal terms, a technique which also minimizes his own active role. Thus 50

Eyrbyggja saga, 48. I quote the texts of the Máhlíðingamál verses as in the Íslenzk fornrit edition of the saga, with any emendations suggested by Finnur Jónsson (Skj B I, 105–9) noted. Finnur has written on the Máhlíðingavísur in ‘Skjaldekvads Tolkning, Máhlíðingavísur’, Årbøger for nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie (1930), 1–64, discussing textual variants, emendations and the interpretation of the kennings. 51

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in stanza 8, for example, we have ‘sára ár varð driﬁn’ (the arrow of wounds was spattered), and in stanza 16 ‘opt kømr ævifúrs œðiregn ór dúri’ (often the furious rain of the sword arises from repose), an impersonal statement clearly alluding to Pórarinn’s own actions, as is evident from the comment which provokes the verse: ‘Reizk heﬁr tú nú, frændi, svá hógværr maðr sem tú ert’ (You have roused yourself now, kinsman, placid as you are).52 By corollary, the weapons assume an active role: in stanza 4 ‘slíðrbeittr hjörr knátti leita staðar und hetti’ (the razor-sharp sword sought out a place under the helmet); and in stanza 15 ‘Munins tuggu eldr turði of aldir’ (the ﬁre of the chewed mouthful of Muninn [Óðinn’s raven, thus carrion and ﬁnally therefore a weapon] swept over men). Again in keeping with what we know of him from the prose, Pórarinn insistently refers to the illegality and unfairness of what has happened: Snorri is ‘vitr vekjandi lögráns’ (the shrewd instigator of lawless dealing) in verse 5 and in verse 11 he calls his enemies ‘teirs ﬂœkja skil’ (those who distort fair dealing).53 In verse 6 Pórarinn declares that he is moved to make known how his enemies ‘heldu við mik lögum’ (maintained the laws against me), and ﬁnally in verse 19 he protests that if he is deprived of legal rights, he will not have deserved it—‘Esat . . . fyr glœpi’ (It is not because of a crime). In stanza 4 Pórarinn describes with extraordinarily close focus the killing of Porbjörn. His account is consonant with what is given in the prose: ‘Pórarinn . . . hjó með sverði í höfuðit ok klauf ofan í jaxla’ (Pórarinn . . . struck with his sword against the head and split it down to the jaw),54 but far exceeds the prose in its expression of Pórarinn’s revulsion at the deed: Knátti hjörr und hetti, hræﬂóð, bragar Móða, rauk of sóknar sœki, slíðrbeittr staðar leita; blóð fell, en vas váði vígtjalds náar skaldi, tá vas dœmisalr dóma dreyrafullr, of eyru.55 52 53 54

The sword of the poet [my sword] razor sharp, found a spot under the helmet; corpse-torrent [blood] ﬂowed over the warrior; Blood fell over [his] ears and yet the danger of the battle tent [sword] was near the poet. Then the judgement hall of decisions [the head] was full of gore.

Eyrbyggja saga, 48. See Finnur Jónsson, ‘Máhlíðingavísur’, 14–15. 55 Eyrbyggja saga, 37. Ibid. 39 (v. 4).

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The stanza is expressed in the third person, Pórarinn referring to himself as ‘skald’ (the poet) or ‘Móði-bragar’ (Móði of poetry). The sword itself seems to aim and strike. The role of the warrior-poet, perhaps most notoriously represented by Egill Skalla-Grímsson, for example, is foreign to Pórarinn’s temperament, and he is utterly disinclined to refer to his involvement, let alone to glory in the bloodshed. His fastidious disgust is strikingly evident in the statement that the sword, and, by grammatical implication, the ﬂow of blood, was ‘náar skaldi’ (near to the poet); his horror at ﬁnding himself in the midst of such violence is clear. The torrent of blood, a commonplace in skaldic verses, assumes a grotesque actuality through Pórarinn’s response to it, as he juxtaposes this with references to himself as a poet—a rational, creative being. The emphatic intercalary sentence sums up this dissonance: ‘tá vás doemisalr dóma | dreyrafullr’ (then was the judgement hall of decisions full of gore). In this one statement is encapsulated Pórarinn’s view of society, lawcreating and law-abiding, plunged into savagery, as he recalls how a quiet, legalistic farmer such as himself brutally split open a neighbour’s skull. Much of the force of Pórarinn’s verses arises from the remarkable tension between the traditional style and content of skaldic verses glorifying battle, with their harsh exultation in bloodshed and bizarre asides—the eagle enjoying a fresh corpse, for instance—and Pórarinn’s own manifest abhorrence of the whole business, which he expresses in this hostile and antithetical medium. The verses approach a contradiction in terms with the claim ‘mælik sjáldan hól of tví’ (I seldom speak boastfully of this; v. 3) in a strophe conventionally used for a boastful speech of triumph after a battle. In Pórarinn’s understatement about his role in the ﬁghting and his use of the conventional diction and imagery of heroic verse, it is sometimes possible to discern a note of satisfaction, of a certain pride in his achievements, which, when not ironically or contemptuously juxtaposed with statements of abhorrence, renders Pórarinn’s response more ambivalent. But the question and answer format into which the verses are set tends to add to our sense that Pórarinn is not proud of his victory, for as we have seen the verses are spoken only in response to speciﬁc and persistent questioning, and are thus not spontaneous expressions of triumph. In this way, the prose framework works with the verses to create a remarkable portrait of a reluctant combatant.

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However, in spite of the close association between the verse and the prose, most compellingly conveyed by the consistency with which Pórarinn’s character is portrayed in both media, there is good reason to believe that the two have not always belonged together. Russell Poole has convincingly argued that the verses, if considered separately from the prose, can be seen to form a structured sequence—a single long poem.56 In combining the two, the saga author has produced a strong and cogent prosimetrical narrative, but at the cost of introducing certain discrepancies between the two media, which serve to betray his compositional process. The compensatory value of this new prosimetrum—the interweaving of saga prose and what seems to be the voice of Pórarinn himself—is that the Máhlíðingamál is focalized through Pórarinn: the affair is told from his individual, distinctive, even eccentric, point of view. In theory, there are three versions of the Máhlíðingamál narrative: the initial prose account of the ﬁghting; the account in verse and prose of Pórarinn’s report of it (that is to say, the extant saga narrative); and the account transmitted by the verses alone, if they are read together, and separately, from the saga prose. This naturally suggests the following compositional method: having in mind the initial prose account without verses, the saga author redeploys a preexisting sequence of verses to create Pórarinn’s report—the saga narrative as it now stands. This new combination of verse and prose allows the saga author to present Pórarinn’s way of reciting the verses as a signiﬁcant narrative event in itself: as we shall see, the verses have to be coaxed out of him, and the order in which he speaks them forms its own carefully shaped narrative. The initial prose account of the ﬁghting falls into three main parts (excluding the prefatory ‘witch-riding’ episode which does not feature in the verses): 1. the ﬁght at the farm (Porbjörn and his men come to search Pórarinn’s farm; Pórarinn raises legal objections but accedes; Geirríðr taunts him about effeminacy; a ﬁght ensues which the women stop; Pórarinn ﬁnds a severed hand at the scene of the ﬁght); 2. the killing of Porbjörn (Pórarinn rides after Porbjörn and his men; hearing them laughing about Auðr’s hand he attacks them and kills Porbjörn); and 56

Poole, ‘The Origins of the Máhlíðingavísur’.

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3. the extraneous comedy of Nagli and the slaves (Nagli ﬂees from the ﬁght, and tells two of Pórarinn’s slaves that Porbjörn has won; Pórarinn rides after them, but he and the slaves mistake him for Porbjörn; the slaves jump off a cliff in terror).57 Pórarinn describes the ﬁghting in verse on three separate occasions, and in three separate localities: (i) at home, to his mother (vv. 3 and 4) and to Auðr (v. 5); (ii) to Vermundr (vv. 6–14); and (iii) to Arnkell (vv. 15 and 16). Three verses then bring the affair to a conclusion: Arnkell tells him that Porbjörn’s widow is less miserable than he is (v. 17); Arnkell’s servants predict a lawsuit at the Pórsnessting (v. 18); and Snorri comes to Arnkell’s farm to summons Pórarinn (v. 19). But Pórarinn does not merely repeat his account three times to these three sets of interlocutors, and neither does he assign one phase of the ﬁghting as related in the initial prose account to each of the three occasions. Instead, we can see a carefully ordered sequence of questions and answers, with the verses by Pórarinn apparently reﬂecting the changes of scene and interlocutor, although there are certain discrepancies between the verse and the prose which appear to be the result of the saga author’s re-arrangement of the material. But what is important is the way the report—a prosimetrical creation—offers us Pórarinn’s own perspective on the ﬁghting, and reveals his individuality. Pórarinn at home Pórarinn’s ﬁrst verse is recited as his mother Geirríðr ‘spyrr tá, hvé farizk heﬁr’ (then asks how things had gone). Pórarinn merely replies that he has cleared himself of her taunts, and Geirríðr has to press him with a more speciﬁc question ‘Segi tér víg Porbjarnar?’ (are you announcing the killing of Porbjörn?).58 Responding with verse 4, Pórarinn describes how he has indeed killed a man—I have outlined above how clearly his disgust at the deed is expressed in the verse—and Geirríðr acknowledges that her goading has been effective. On the following day, Auðr tells Pórarinn that she is anxious about the repercussions of the killing. Pórarinn’s reply in verse 5 neatly anticipates the forthcoming shift of scene to Vermundr’s, for 57 58

See Eyrbyggja saga, 34–6, 36–7, and 37–8 respectively. Ibid. 38–9.

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in it he tells Auðr that Snorri will not be able to outlaw him if he can enlist Vermundr’s help. Pórarinn and Vermundr Verse 6 is the ﬁrst of the stanzas which Pórarinn recites to Vermundr. Vermundr’s eliciting question is expressed in general terms and in indirect speech: ‘Pá spurði Vermundr tíðenda’ (then Vermundr asked the news).59 Pórarinn’s verse response is strongly reminiscent of an opening stanza to a formal drápa, with its call for silence—‘tegi herr meðan’ and its clear appeal to a wider audience than Vermundr alone: ‘Skalk trymviðum tremja | segja . . . frá tví’ (I shall make this known to the trees of the din of hilts—warriors). Its opening statement of what is to be recited is: hvé hjaldrviðir heldu, haldendr, við mik, skjaldar . . . lögum . . .

how battle-trees, shield holders [warriors] kept the laws with me.

This reﬂects Pórarinn’s abiding indignation that he has been treated illegally. It should be noted that it could refer not only to Porbjörn’s illegal behaviour in attempting to ransack the farm, before the actual ﬁght, but also to Snorri’s summonsing of Pórarinn to outlawry— an event which is foreseen by Auðr, and therefore referred to by Pórarinn in the previous verse, but which does not actually take place in the narrative until some time after Pórarinn has delivered these verses. It could then be argued that this stanza might well originally have opened a sequence of stanzas, but that the sequence has been transformed into part of a new narrative in which the events succeed one another in a chronological way, with Snorri’s outlawry reserved until the ﬁnal stages. Vermundr’s next question is a natural—and, given Pórarinn’s reticence, necessary—elaboration of the ﬁrst: ‘Hvat er tar frá at segja, mágr?’ (What more is there to say about it, kinsman?) Pórarinn replies ‘Sóttu heim . . . mik’ (They attacked me at home) and then describes again, as he did in verse 4, the killing: the naturally oblique, allusive syle of skaldic diction seems almost to reﬂect Pórarinn’s unwillingness to make a plain statement of the manslaughter: ‘gny´ljómi beit geymi | geira stígs at vígi’ (the noise-light [sword] bit against the guardian of the way of spears [warrior]). Guðny´, 59

Ibid. 41.

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Vermundr’s sister, is given an almost theatrical entrance—she ‘nam staðar á gólﬁnu’ (took the ﬂoor)—to ask a question appropriate to her person: ‘Heﬁr tú nökkut varit tik nú fry´juorðinu teira út tar?’ (Have you now cleared yourself at all of the questioning taunts out there?), since the taunts are said in the verses to come from women. Pórarinn repeats his claim to have cleared himself of the taunts, and Vermundr’s next comment ‘Brátt tykki mér sem tér haﬁð við ázk’ (You seem to me to have dealt quickly with them) invites Pórarinn to elaborate on his success. But another question is needed to provoke a more engaged and spirited response from Pórarinn, this time echoing the taunts he has suffered: ‘Hvárt vissu teir nú, hvárt tú vart karlmaðr eða kona?’ (Have they found out now, whether you are a man or a woman?). This question too marks the progress the questioning has made, asking about the results of the battle and not about its process.60 Vermundr’s next question ‘Hví fórtu tá eptir teim’ (why did you go after them then?) elicits from Pórarinn verse 11, which reﬂects the prose narrative in its allusion to Auðr’s injury—‘létu . . . at hjøggak | Hlín guðvefjar mína’ (they said that I injured my wife)—but is not precisely consonant with it, in that according to the prose, Pórarinn went after Porbjörn after Auðr’s hand had been found, but only heard Oddr accusing him of the act later. Finally, Vermundr asks about the slaves Nagli and Alfgeirr, and the responding verses 12 and 13 allude to the strange story of the slaves who jump off a cliff in their desire to ﬂee the ﬁght, giving that spot the name Prælaskriða (Slaves’ Scree). It seems clear that the initial prose narrative has been derived post factum from the verses; the incomplete action in verse 13— merskyndir myndi . . . vilja . . . á sjó hlaupa

The driver of mares would have wished to dive in to the sea

—is evidently the root of what ends up as a weakness in the narrative, but at least it reﬂects very aptly the circumstances alluded to in the verse—that Nagli would have jumped, but did not.61 Pórarinn speakes verse 14 as he and Vermundr set off to Bólstaðr to enlist Arnkell’s help in the Máhlíðingamál. It thus marks the end of the long series of verses spoken to Vermundr in response to his questions and comments about the ﬁghting. However, unlike the other 60

Eyrbyggja saga, 42–3.

61

Ibid. 44–6.

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verses, it is not addressed to Vermundr but to a woman, and, in the prose, it is said to have been recited ‘er teir váru á leið komnir’ (when they had set off). No woman is said to send them off, or accompany them on their way, but at least the direct contradiction between a verse containing the apostrophes ‘auðar töll’ (ﬁr tree of riches) and ‘hörGerðr’ (linen-Gerðr) and Vermundr as addressee, is avoided. Pórarinn does address verses 3, 4, and 5 to women; verse 14 is thus at odds only with its immediate context, and not the whole narrative. But the content of the verse shows why the saga author might not want to place it alongside the three verses recited to Geirríðr and Auðr. It provides both an effectively elegiac note on which to end the interviews with Vermundr, and also an allusion to the possibility of vengeful action from Snorri which the impending visit to Arnkell is designed to deﬂect: Muna munum vér at várum Vermundr glaðir stundum, auðar töll, áðr ollum auðvarpaðar dauða, nú séumk hitt, at hlaupa, hör-Gerðr, mynim verða, leið erum randa rauðra regn, fyr prúðum tegni.62

We will remember that we had, I and Vermundr, happy times, O ﬁr-tree of riches [lady] before I/we caused the death of the riches scatterer [man]; Now I am afraid of this, that we shall be forced O linen-Gerðr [lady] to run —I loathe the red shields’ rain [blood]— before the proud noble.

In terms of Pórarinn’s report of the ﬁghting, this is thus the perfect transitional verse, appropriate to the emotional line of the narrative with its expression of affection and nostalgia, as well as apprehension about the future, and a ﬁerce hatred of violence. The inconsistency in the two women kennings and its new immediate context is thus overshadowed by the aptness of the verse’s placing as a valedictory verse. It is clear that although the questions are merely devices to provoke verses, they do not simply echo random details from the verses as cues for recitation. They have a degree of order and causality which contributes to the momentum and coherence of Pórarinn’s report, and they impose that on the verses, which would not in themselves form a clear narrative sequence. 62

Ibid. 47 (v. 14).

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Pórarinn and Arnkell When Pórarinn goes to seek Arnkell’s support, he is again asked for news, and again answers in verse. He does not reply directly, but instead reﬂects on the horror of the events: Vas til hreggs at hyggja hrafn-víns . . . . . . uggligt.63

It was, to think of the rain of raven-wine terrible.

Pórarinn appears to be recalling the battle, prompted by Arnkell’s question not to a reply, but to a reﬂection. The effect of this slight obliqueness is startlingly sophisticated, and hardly counts as a discrepancy. But a clear case of discrepancy is evident in verse 19, which is addressed to a woman—‘mundar fagrvita grund’ (ground of the lovely light of hands)—and, like verse 14, is introduced into the narrative as if Pórarinn were addressing thin air: ‘Ok er teir [Snorri and his men] váru á brott farnir, kvað Pórarinn vísu . . .’ (and when they had gone away, Pórarinn spoke a verse . . .). Although no woman is evident, the direct contradiction of reciting the verse to Arnkell is avoided. It would be possible to incorporate this verse into the scene with Pórarinn’s wife and mother, since Auðr did at that stage bring up the possibility of Snorri pressing for outlawry, and because the verse itself refers to outlawry as a potential threat: Esat sem gráps fyr glœpi grund fagrvita mundar, fúra ﬂeygjáru frænings lögum ræni, ef sannvitendr sunnu, sék teira lið meira, oss megni goð gagni, Gauts tekju mik sekja.64

It is not as if for a crime, O ground of the lovely light of the hand [lady], that throwers of the ﬂame of the sleet of the sword [men] are robbed of the law, if true knowers of the sun of Óðinn’s roof [warriors] —I see they have more men— —may the gods make us powerful by victory— outlaw me.

However, the verse is evidently placed here to refer with precise top63

Eyrbyggja saga, 47 (v. 15). Ibid. 56 (v. 19). The ‘sun of Óðinn’s roof’ is a shield, whose knowers are warriors; the ‘sleet of the sword’ is battle, whose ﬁre is a weapon, whose throwers are thus warriors. 64

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icality to the summons which, according to the prose, Snorri has just come to Bólstaðr to deliver, a summons which brings with it the likelihood of outlawry. Verse 19 is the last of Pórarinn’s verses and separated from the main body of stanzas by a long stretch of narrative in which Arnkell puts to death Oddr and his mother, the witch Katla. Snorri does indeed outlaw Pórarinn, and all those involved in the killing with him—an extension perhaps suggested by the plural kenning for men in verse 19. Pórarinn goes to Norway, and thence to the British Isles; he is henceforth ‘out of the saga’. His ﬁnal appeal to the gods in the verse—‘oss megni goð gagni’—creates a ﬁnely sympathetic moment with which to conclude the episode. The question and answer dialogue into which Pórarinn’s account of the Máhliðingamál is cast constitutes a powerful element of littérarité in the saga prose, for we are presented with an event told from the point of view of one of the saga characters, an extended report whose very mode of telling—in a combination of carefully ordered prose questions, and answers in cryptic, foregrounded, non-naturalistic discourse—sets it apart from the body of the saga narrative. One of the effects is to deepen our understanding and appreciation of Pórarinn’s individuality in his response to violence. And in speaking verse, Pórarinn is set apart from his (prosespeaking) questioners. The role of verse as setting apart those who speak it as dialogue in saga narrative is one which will dominate both this and the two following chapters in this book. But before moving on to another striking instance of such marking out of an individual character by means of verses—the case of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi—I would like brieﬂy to revisit two of the issues raised in the previous chapter’s consideration of the historicizing use of verses. The difﬁculty facing the historical writer trying to derive factual substance from the medium of skaldic verse can be paralleled in Eyrbyggja saga in the saga author’s attempt to reframe a sequence of verses into the prosimetrical narrative account of the Máhliðingamál. As we have seen, minor discrepancies may arise as a result. But the use of kennings rather than proper names to designate the protagonists in the action on the one hand, and the characteristically allusive nature of the references in skaldic verse, can be problematic for the saga author too. Snorri and Porbjörn, although central to the Máhlíðingamál, are never mentioned by name in any of the Máhlíðingavísur. If it could

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be argued that distinctive kennings designate the two ﬁgures beyond reasonable doubt, then this avoidance of proper names would not present problems. But several of the kennings with which Pórarinn designates his opponents are conventional, anonymous warrior periphrases: ‘hjaldviðir’ (battle trees) or ‘skjaldar haldendr’ (shieldbearers) in verse 6, for example, or, more elaborately, but no more explicitly, ‘sannvitendr Gauts tekju sunni’ (true knowers of the sun of Óðinn’s roof ) in verse 19. There are several warrior kennings containing the element ‘sword’, and these could be held to set up a distinctive series. Thus, in their note to verse 7, the Íslenzk fornrit editors identify ‘sverða Priði’ (Óðinn of swords) as Porbjörn, and similarly, ‘Rakna remmiskóðs Móða’ (Móði of the ﬁerce weapon of Rakni) in verse 10. But in the same stanza another sword kenning, ‘Hildar götva síks sælingr’ (the rich man of the salmon of Hildr’s war gear) is taken to refer to Snorri—reasonably enough, since the signiﬁed of the other kenning fell in battle, but nevertheless, confusingly. Moreover, Finnur Jónsson points out that this is a very singular reference to Snorri, who is not normally associated with martial imagery, though Finnur ascribes this anomaly to the independence of the tradition about Snorri in Eyrbyggja saga on the one hand, and the Máhlíðingavísur on the other.65 Finally, even though Snorri is associated with the element ‘sælingr’ (rich man) in verse 10, the ‘auðvarpaðr’ (scatterer of riches) in verse 14 is said to be Porbjörn, an obvious identiﬁcation since his death is the concern of the reference. Sometimes the prose intervenes to impose an identiﬁcation: verse 4 does not mention Porbjörn by name, but its immediate context, Geirríðr’s question ‘Segi tér víg Porbjarnar?’ (Are you announcing Porbjörn’s death?) effectively identiﬁes the victim. Verse 5 refers to a ‘vitr vekjandi lögráns’ (shrewd instigator of lawless dealing) which Finnur Jónsson again notes as an unusually hostile description of Snorri,66 but in the prose introduction Auðr prophesies Snorri’s reactions to the death of Porbjörn and thus suggests the identiﬁcation. Verse 14 speaks of ﬂeeing ‘fyr prúðum tegni’ (before the proud noble); the prose more obtrusively adds ‘tessu veik hann til Snorra goða’ (he was referring to Snorri goði by this).67 Whether the second kenning in verse 10 is taken as ‘kennir borða kunnfáka’ (knower of the celebrated horse of planks, i.e. ship) 65 66 67

Finnur Jónsson, ‘Máhlíðingavísur’, 26–7. Ibid. 14–5. Eyrbyggja saga, 47.

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or as ‘kennir Rakna kunnfáka’ (knower of the celebrated horse of Rakni), it still seems a remarkably inappropriate designation for Porbjörn. Meissner maintains that kennings are not made up of elements which necessarily have any literal relevance to their subject;68 this is by no means certain, but in any event the collection of warrior kennings in these verses seems to be full of elements so random that identiﬁcation of individual characters is a matter of guesswork more, even, than of inference. Although there is, then, nothing in the verses which speciﬁcally identiﬁes Snorri and Porbjörn, verse and prose work together to make ordered, coherent sense. In fact, it might be felt that the obscurity of the verses affords the author of Eyrbyggja saga a useful degree of ﬂexibility in his littérarité. It has been said that attempts to seek out discrepancies between the verse and the prose in Eyrbyggja saga may be discounted,69 and certainly we need not expect the two media to be precisely consonant or overlapping in their coverage of events. This is especially true when there are elements in the prose narrative which are not reﬂected in the verses—for example, the major, malevolent role played by Oddr in the Máhliðingamál. But skaldic verse may also contain references which are simply too allusive to develop into narrative elements. One such case seems to be the mention of the rich man’s mistress in verse 10, in which Pórarinn states that he intended to free himself from slander, hvatki’s Hildar götva, hrafn sleit of ná beitu, síks við sína leiku sælingr umb tat mælir.

Whatever the man with swords, (the raven tore food from the corpse) richly endowed, says about that to his mistress.

The man designated by the kenning is identiﬁed as Snorri goði,70 although I have described the difﬁculties arising from the verses’ lack of proper names. The reference remains obscure whoever it is who is being referred to. The mention of a mistress, with the contemptuous use of the word ‘leika’ (mistress, or plaything) certainly does not ﬁt Snorri’s circumstances, and the suggestion that scurrilous stories about Pórarinn’s conduct are being repeated by Snorri has no foundation in the prose either. But there are several references in the prose to Pórarinn’s supposed effeminacy. In the introductory character 68 Rudolf Meissner, Die Kenningar der Skalden (Bonn and Leipzig, 1921; repr. 1984), 401. 69 70 Eyrbyggja saga, p. vi. Ibid. 44 (v. 10 n.).

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sketch, we are told that unspeciﬁed ‘óvínir’ (enemies) were saying that his temperament was womanish.71 It is precisely this taunt which Geirríðr picks up when she goads him to take action about Porbjörn. Finally, after Porbjörn and his men have tried to ransack Pórarinn’s farm, Pórarinn hears Hallsteinn, Porbjörn’s son, conceding that Pórarinn has cleared himself of ‘ragmælit’ (talk of his effeminacy).72 These three allusions are strongly suggestive of a continuing níð perpetrated by one faction in the community against an enemy in an opposing faction. The source of the abuse is unspeciﬁed and collective—talk, or what is commonly spoken of, by enemies. There may be a shadowy echo of this in Guðny´’s reference to taunts ‘út tar’ (out there).73 In the earlier verses there are references to taunting from a woman, or women. Thus in verse 3 Pórarinn alludes to ‘kvinna fry´ju’ and in verse 8, ‘Gefnar hjaldrsky´ja fry´ja’ (taunting from the goddess of the cloud of battle—that is, shield, and therefore a valkyrie, or woman). In verse 16 Pórarinn declares his newly demonstrated courage to a woman, and if we read ‘ævifúss’ (eager to enjoy life) to give an adjective qualifying the woman kenning in the verse,74 then we may tentatively identify the woman as Puríðr, Porbjörn’s widow, since in verse 17 Pórarinn alludes to a widow who is ‘öldrukkin’ (tipsy) and ‘hoppfögr’ (lovely-dancing). In the verse, Pórarinn declares that the woman will not be able to joke about his fear of violence. The verses are thus rather more speciﬁc about the slander current about Pórarinn. Introducing verse 17, Arnkell tells Pórarinn not to be so downcast, since he has heard that ‘ekkjan at Fróðá bæri vel af sér harmana’ (the widow at Fróðá was bearing up well under her grief).75 Pórarinn’s verse response, as we have seen, conﬁrms Arnkell’s suggestion that Puríðr is not as grief-stricken as one might expect. The implications about Puríðr’s conduct are obvious, and it may be that she is the ‘leika’ referred to in Pórarinn’s verse; it is after all not long in the saga narrative before she is deceiving her next husband, Póroddr 71

72 Eyrbyggja saga, 27. Ibid. 36. Ibid. 42. Vermundr elicits verse 10 from Pórarinn by asking if he has shown people which sex he is. Since in verse 10 Pórarinn alludes to the ‘klámorð’ one cannot be clear whether Vermundr’s mention of it is simply derived from the prose in order to seem to provoke an apt response, or whether it represents an independent tradition. The same might be said of Guðny´’s question, but the phrase ‘út tar’ is deﬁnitely extra to the content of the verse. 74 75 Ibid. 48 n. Ibid. 49. 73

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skattkaupandi, with Björn Breiðvíkingakappi.76 In Njáls saga, Hallgerdr is a sexually immoral woman who gibes at the effeminacy of a man (Njáll); the combination is psychologically convincing. The verses do not present a full enough picture to allow us to identify Puríðr as the source of the ‘klámorð’ against Pórarinn in the verses, but certainly the abuse referred to in the prose suggests rather a tradition of verbal feuding such as we ﬁnd in Sturla’s Íslendinga saga.77 Discrepancies, slight or major, deﬁnite or possible, deliberate or unavoidable, between the verse and the prose are signiﬁcant because they alert us to the author’s creative action in constructing his account of Pórarinn’s account of the battle, and its aftermath. The verses have been incorporated into the present saga narrative to create a new ﬁction from existing material.78 They are not included in the progress of the violence itself; and neither are they saved to the end and introduced as a free-standing sequence of strophes for climactic effect. Instead they are transformed into the major element in a series of ﬁctional scenes of skill and subtlety. The contribution of this section to the saga as a whole is its focus on the individual man, in terms of his personal, psychological response to violence, and also his separateness from the society which he belongs to, but is driven out of. In brief, this is what the author made of the verses; this is the result of his painstaking manipulation of them. The voice of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi The verses of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi do not commemorate a single event as the Máhlíðingavísur do, and the story of Björn himself is not conﬁned to one section of the narrative, but is woven intermittently through almost the whole of Eyrbyggja saga. His name is ﬁrst 76 It is perhaps worth noting that the kenning in verse 10 which is taken to refer to Snorri, ‘Hildar götva síks sælingr’ (the rich man of the ﬁsh of Hildr’s war-gear) is particularly appropriate to Póroddr, who is notably rich (76–7). But there is no suggestion in the saga prose that Puríðr was ever his mistress, or even that he knew her before his stay with Snorri at Helgafell. 77 Íslendinga saga, in Jón Jóhanneson et al. (eds.), Sturlunga saga, i (Reykjavík, 1946), 257–8 and 262–3. 78 It should be noted that if we assume that any of Pórarinn’s verses originally formed a sequence independent of prose narrative, then at least some sections of this poem must have been addressed to a woman. Responding to a woman’s taunts may indicate one reason for the tradition of addressing post-conﬂict verses to a woman.

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introduced in passing in chapter 15: the saga author, detailing the family of Porbjörn inn digri, mentions Porbjörn’s ﬁrst wife, and notes ‘hon var systir Bjarnar Breiðvíkingakappa, er enn kemr síðar við tessa sögu’ (she was the sister of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi, who comes into this saga still later on).79 Not until the saga’s penultimate chapter is Björn’s role concluded. The verses are concerned with Björn’s love affair with Snorri goði’s sister, Puríðr of Fróðá, the widow of Porbjörn inn digri, whom Pórarinn has killed; she is in due course married to Póroddr skattkaupandi. Even this one aspect of Björn’s life is drawn out through the narrative. The affair is ﬁrst introduced as mere rumour: after the death of Porbjörn, Snorri’s ﬁrst action—even before he summons Pórarinn—is to take Puríðr away from Fróðá and back to Helgafell with him, ‘tví at sá orðrómr lék á, at Björn, sonr Ásbrands frá Kambi, venði tangat kvámur sínar til glapa við hana’ (because a rumour was going about, that Björn, the son of Ásbrandr from Kambr, made a habit of paying visits to carry on with her).80 Björn’s affair with Puríðr comes to the fore of the narrative in chapter 29; he is then outlawed for three years, but takes up the affair again on his return in chapter 40. Verses 24 and 25 are recited before his outlawry, verses 27–31 on his return. The Máhlíðingavísur, and the ﬁghting they allude to, although conﬁned to one short section of the saga, lie at the centre of a tense web of hostility and feuding. Pórarinn, having killed Snorri’s brother-in-law Porbjörn, turns to his uncle Arnkell for support. The hostility between Snorri and Arnkell forms a major narrative element in the ﬁrst half of the saga, culminating in Arnkell’s death at Snorri’s hands. Further, Pórarinn’s ally and kinsman by marriage, Vermundr inn mjóvi, is one of the Kjalleklingar, the descendants of Björn inn austrœni, traditional rivals and opponents of the Helgafell people, whom Snorri leads. Pórarinn is thus caught up in the central movement of the feuding. Björn Breiðvíkingakappi, on the other hand, is not entangled in this mesh of hostilities. Surprisingly, his love affair with Snorri’s sister, in spite of the dangerous tensions it arouses, has no repercussions in the succeeding narrative of community relations. Once Björn leaves Iceland, the matter is ﬁnished. Björn only once becomes involved in a local feud, and not at all on his own account, but because of his brother Arinbjörn’s dispute with Porleifr kimbi, 79

Eyrbyggja saga, 27.

80

Ibid. 55.

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one of the Porbrandssons. In complete contrast to Pórarinn, Björn does not become an unwilling victim, caught up in the momentum of the feuding, but, in taking a personal, heroic, initiative in his confrontation with Snorri, he decisively halts the hitherto apparently inexorable escalation from tension to violence. Although like Pórarinn, he leaves Iceland, his appears to be a voluntary and not a forced exile. The news of his extraordinary life as a chieftain in the New World in the penultimate chapter of the saga conclusively marks him out as a ﬁgure who stands quite apart from the local concerns of Icelandic society. The verses about his adulterous love reﬂect this detachment from the community, not simply because they deal with an illicit, extra-marital relationship, but also because of the elevated and distinctive status the recitation of verses can confer. Björn’s seven verses fall into three distinct groups—two pairs and a ﬁnal group of three—and each group of verses accompanies one particular episode in his love affair with Puríðr. The verses seem to be closely bound to these three contexts: an ambush arranged by Pórir viðleggr; Björn’s response to the sight of his son Kjartan; and Björn’s refuge in a cave from a witch’s storm. There are, however, several discrepancies between the verses and their corresponding sections of saga prose which betray the possibility that the author of the ﬁnished saga was combining originally distinct elements. The ﬁrst episode in Björn’s love affair with Puríðr concerns an ambush. In chapter 29, conﬁrming the rumour alluded to in chapter 22, it is related that Björn is paying regular visits to Puríðr, now installed at Fróðá with her second husband Póroddr. Póroddr is passively suffering these visits, but Pórir viðleggr and his sons, neighbours of Póroddr’s, offer help in putting a stop to them. On one occasion when Björn is alone with Puríðr, she warns him of her husband’s plans for an ambush. Björn speaks verse 24 in reply: Guls mundu vit vilja viðar ok blás í miðli, grand fæ’k of stoð stundum strengs—tenna dag lengstan; alls í aptan, tella, ek tegumk sjalfr at drekka

We two would wish this day to be the longest between the golden forest and the dark[?]; I sometimes get pain from the prop of the ribbon [lady] for this evening, O tree of armserpent [lady] I shall make myself ready

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opt horﬁnnar erﬁ, armlinns, gleði minnar.81

to drink to the memory of my joy which has often passed.

The appropriateness of a love verse is immediately apparent in this context. Roberta Frank develops what she sees as consonance between verse and prose at some length: The verse is made to seem inseparable from the poet’s immediate personal situation, his subdued reaction to the news that an ambush is likely to occur on the way home: ‘at times I receive harm because of the woman’. The fatal associations of blár, the dark blue sea into which the sun sinks, reﬂect the poet’s apprehension at his departure: the ceremonial blue clothing worn for killings in the sagas, the blue metal of the burnie, shield and sword that greet a doomed man. The journey of the sun over the woods is— in its ﬁnality—like the riding of Múspell’s ﬂaming sons through Myrkviðr at Ragnarök.82

The saga author has evidently created a convincing impression of ﬁtness with the placing of Björn’s ﬁrst verse. But the consonance is in fact only approximate. What Roberta Frank calls the ‘emotional warmth’83 of the verse is certainly very apt in the circumstances, but a detailed analysis of the content of the verse reveals signiﬁcant discrepancies. Roberta Frank speaks of the sense of ‘ﬁnality’ which the verse conveys, and this seems implicit in the poet’s lyrical wish that the day he is sharing with Puríðr should be preternaturally long: a parting, or separation, seems to be heralded. Frank does not, however, hazard an explanation of the difﬁcult last three lines of the stanza, which develop the suggestion of separation. Turville-Petre glosses his translation—‘I shall make myself ready to drink to the memory of my joy which has often passed’—with the interpretation: ‘the poet implies that he has often visited his mistress, and joy has left him when he parted from her’.84 There is no inevitable sense of ﬁnality about this: the passing of the poet’s joy is transformed into a wearily familiar event, and the yearning for extra length to this day a general, rather than particular, response to the difﬁcult circumstances of the affair. Further, there is no reﬂection of Puríðr’s 81

Eyrbyggja saga, 78 (v. 24). The serpent of the arm is a bracelet, whose tree is thus a woman. See Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 64. 82 Roberta Frank, Old Norse Court Poetry (Ithaca, NY, and London, 1978), 165–6. 83 84 Ibid. 165. Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 64.

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warning that there may be an ambush waiting for Björn on his way home. Yet the word ‘erﬁ’ (funeral feast) surely suggests ﬁnality rather than recurrence, and in an editorial note on these lines the following interpretation is suggested: ‘gleðin er honum oft horﬁn, af tví að hún hvarf í svip í hvert skipti, sem tau Púríður skildu, en nú byst skáldið við, að gleðin muni hverfa sér að fullu og öllu’ (Joy has often left him, in that she was lost to his sight every time they parted, but now the skald prepares himself for the fact that the joy will be lost to him for good and all).85 According to this interpretation, a distinction is made between the regular misery of continual separations, and the intimation of a ﬁnal parting. I think this is the most satisfactory way of interpreting the verse. It suggests that Björn does foresee a ﬁnal separation, but if this is taken as alluding to the ambush, then his pessimistic assumption of defeat is quite at odds with his heroic attitude in the saga prose, and in the event entirely unfounded given that he sees off his attackers without much difﬁculty. Therefore, whichever reading is preferred, the imminent ambush referred to in the prose is either not alluded to at all, or at least not in the way we might expect Björn to react. Roberta Frank’s reading of the verse—that the general ‘sense of ﬁnality’ about the verse merely reﬂects the poet’s ‘apprehension at his departure’— casts an equally unheroic light on Björn’s determination and prowess. Frank sees another allusion to the ambush in the intercalary sentence in the ﬁrst helmingr—‘grand fæ’k of stoð stundum | strengs’ (I sometimes get harm from the woman).86 But this makes a nonsense of the adverb ‘stundum’ (at times, sometimes) and the word ‘grand’ could equally well mean pain or harm in a romantic rather than a physical sense: such anguish is a repeated sentiment in Kormákr’s love verses, for example. Taking verse 24 as a whole, it can be seen that in fact none of its three statements—‘We two would wish this day to be the longest’, ‘I sometimes get pain from the lady’, and ‘I shall . . . drink to the memory of my joy which has often passed’—speciﬁcally alludes to Puríðr’s warning about the ambush. The desire for a long day ﬁts the mood of the prose context, but if the note of apprehension is linked to the warning of an ambush, it is inappropriate to Björn. The 85

Eyrbyggja saga, 78 n.

86

Frank, Court Poetry, 166.

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allusion to the woman occasioning him harm might be appropriate to the ambush were it not for the qualifying adverb ‘stundum’ (sometimes). The reference to the often-vanished joy is best read as distinguishing one imminent ﬁnal parting from the day by day separations the lovers endure, and is, as I have shown, inappropriate to the context of an ambush; but, interestingly, this verse does not contradict the overall narrative context, but only its own immediate setting. Björn leaves Iceland twice, the last time quite ﬁnally; at ﬁrst sight verse 24 would seem movingly appropriate to his second departure, when he knows he will never see Puríðr again. But his noble, voluntary exile, as it is presented in the saga, would be undermined by a verse expressing unwillingness to leave Puríðr; certainly the generosity of his gentleman’s agreement with Snorri to relinquish Puríðr would be compromised. Björn’s next verse, stanza 25, is very different from stanza 24. He is indeed ambushed, but he kills the sons of Pórir viðleggr and puts Puríðr’s husband Póroddr to ﬂight. When he returns home, his father ‘spyrr, hversu farit hefði viðskipti teira’ (asks how his dealings with them had gone). Björn replies with verse 25: Munat hyrlesti hraustum hríðar mér at stríða, heldr hefk vígi valdit Viðleggs sona tveggia, sem vígbalkar válki valdr geymi-Bil falda, eða dalsveigi deigum Draupnis skatt at kaupa.87

Fighting a strong damager of the ﬁre of battle [me], will not be —I have rather caused the death of Viðleggr’s two sons— like, for the shield warrior, rolling about with a guardian-Bil of linen hoods [woman], or, for the cowardly bow bender, like trading in Draupnir’s tribute [gold].

This verse alludes appropriately to the killing of Pórir viðleggr’s sons, and makes mocking reference to Póroddr’s nickname ‘skattkaupandi’ (tribute-trader), which is explained in a long anecdote at the beginning of the chapter. In its contempt for the deceived husband, and the sexual jealousy evident in its coarse reference to Póroddr’s relations with Puríðr, it is strongly reminiscent 87 Eyrbyggja saga, 79 (v. 25). In this verse, Björn makes reference to Puríðr’s husband, Póroddr, by his use of the kenning ‘Draupnis skatt’ (the tribute of Draupnir, that is, gold, since Draupnir is the name of Óðinn’s ring which dripped eight more rings from itself every ninth night), thus playing on Póroddr’s nickname ‘skattkaupandi’ (tribute-trader).

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of Kormákr’s verses about Porvaldr tinteinn.88 The verse is entirely ﬁtting from the rival who is triumphant in battle but not in marriage. The prose account of the part played by the sons of Viðleggr in Póroddr’s ambush is comfortably consonant with the reference to them in verse 25, from which it is likely to have derived. But why these men took part in the ambush in the ﬁrst place is suspiciously unclear in the prose. Pórir viðleggr, who lost his leg and gained his nickname in the Máhlíðingamál, reappears in the saga as a neighbour of Póroddr’s. His grown-up sons ‘lögðu Póroddi til ámælis, at hann Polði Birni slíka skömm, sem hann veitti honum’ (blamed Póroddr for suffering such shame as Björn was causing him),89 and they offer to help Póroddr in the matter. No other reason for their involvement is given. It is therefore likely that their part in the saga prose is due simply to the mention of their deaths in the verse. By contrast, the verse’s reference to Póroddr skattkaupandi is matched by a relatively detailed anecdote in the prose whose substance is much fuller than anything that could have been derived from the verse allusion alone. While the traditions surrounding the ambush seem to have faded or become confused, and perhaps for that reason were not utilized by the saga author, the character of the husband remains sharp and well documented. There is one striking inconsistency between verse 25 and its prose context: the tense of the opening verb ‘munat’ (it will not) is quite inappropriate for reporting ‘what happened’ in response to Ásbrandr’s question: although he asked ‘hversu farit hafði viðskipti teira’ (how their dealings had gone), the killing of Pórir’s sons is mentioned only in passing in the verse. This verse would evidently be more appropriate as a pre-conﬂict threat. The killing of the sons of Pórir seems in Björn’s verse to be a separate incident from the projected conﬂict with Póroddr, but the saga author has conﬂated the two in his account of the ambush. Verses 24 and 25 are both placed at conventionally dramatic points in the narrative, verse 24 presaging a violent encounter, and verse 25 celebrating success in that encounter. But this positioning is at odds with the verses’ content, so that discrepancies are evident even though there is no fun88 See e.g. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.), Kormáks saga, 264 (v. 51) and 271 (v. 58), in Vatnsdœla saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 8, (Reykjavík, 1939). 89 Eyrbyggja saga, 77.

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damental contradiction of the overall narrative situation. The author’s rearrangement of his source material—and the literary effects achieved by that rearrangement—is clearly evident. The second episode in the love affair concerns Björn’s recognition that he is the father of the son born to Puríðr during his absence. Björn has been outlawed for three years following the killing of Pórir viðleggr’s sons, and in keeping with the naturalism of saga chronology, several episodes not connected with Björn intervene before the saga tells of his return—episodes which culminate in the killing of Arnkell by Snorri goði. Björn thus returns to a district dominated by Snorri alone. But the ﬁrst piece of news the saga mentions after Björn’s departure is that Puríðr has given birth to a boy. That Björn is the father of this child is not stated, but is clearly implied by the suggestive placing of the news in the midst of an account of Björn’s affairs: ‘Björn var sekr görr útan um trjá vetr, ok fór hann í brott samsumars. Pat sama sumar fœddi Puríðr at Fróðá sveinbarn, ok var nefndr Kjartan; óx hann upp heima at Fróðá ok var snimma mikill ok efniligr. En er Björn kom um haf, fór hann suðr til Danmarkar’ (Björn was outlawed and was to be abroad for three years, and he went away the same summer. That same summer Puríðr of Fróðá gave birth to a boy, who was named Kjartan; he grew up at home at Fróðá and was soon big and promising. And when Björn went over the sea, he travelled south to Denmark).90 When Björn returns to Iceland, verses 27 and 28, spoken by him in response to his sight of the boy Kjartan at the Haugabrekkur assembly, make clear the boy’s paternity. The two verses, recited in quick succession, seem to form a natural pair, but this impression is largely due to the saga author’s placing of them, and the way he uses the prose to frame them as a pair. In verse 27, Björn describes the boy as ‘iðglíkr mér’ (exactly like me) and declares that men ‘láta tat barn teygi kunna föður sinn’ (maintain that the boy does not know his father). Verse 28 is more explicit about Björn’s relationship with Puríðr: Pá mun töll en mjóva Pórodds aðalbjóra fold unni mér földu

Then will the slender ﬁr tree [woman] of the ﬁne wall-hanging —the ﬁeld of the headdress [woman] loved me, 90

Eyrbyggja saga, 80.

EYRBYGGJA SAGA fannhvít, getu sanna, ef áttgöfug ætti auðbrík sonu glíka enn emk gjarn til Gunnar gjalfrelda, mér sjölfum.91

119

the snow-white one—prove Póroddr’s guess true, if the noble woman were to have the board of riches [a son] like —I am still longing for Gunnr of the ﬁre of the roaring sea [her]— myself.

Both verse 27 and verse 28 appear in similar versions in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, there numbered 29 and 12, and attributed to Björn himself.92 There has been considerable discussion about the relationship between these two pairs of verses.93 What is important for our purposes is not so much the priority of one text over the other, but how both the verses themselves, and the way they are incorporated into the prose, match the themes of their respective sagas. As we might expect, the verses in Eyrbyggja saga are set in a much more detailed and fully realized narrative context: returning to Iceland after his period of outlawry, Björn, tight-lipped, sees a boy who is evidently his son, and is pressed into a cryptic but unequivocal response by persistent and insinuating questioning from Pórðr blígr. Björn’s evident unwillingness to comment, and, ﬁnally, the appropriateness of a response in verse, is precisely parallel to the scenes after the Máhlíðingamál as Vermundr and Geirríðr press Pórarinn for news about the ﬁghting. But perhaps even more striking is the difference in the tone of the two versions of this episode. The focus of Bjarnar saga is the bitter rivalry between husband and lover; Eyrbyggja saga centres on the the romantic relationship 91

Ibid. 108–9. Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, in Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Borgﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 3 (Reykjavík, 1938). All further references to the saga are to this edition. 93 W. H. Vogt discusses the problem at some length in his article on the verses in Bjarnar saga (‘Die Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi 37 (1921), 27–66 (50–1)), but still concludes that it remains unclear which of the two Björns produced which verses. He argues that stanza 27 in Eyrbyggja saga and 29 in Bjarnar saga are so similar that they probably represent two versions of the same verse, whereas 28 in Eyrbyggja saga and 12 in Bjarnar saga are sufﬁciently different to justify the hypothesis that they are two distinct strophes. See also Eyrbyggja saga, p. viii, and Finnur Jónsson, ‘Sagaernes Lausavísur’, Årbøger for nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie (1912), 1–57 (28). For an extended and insightful analysis of the issue, see Marold’s ‘The Relation between Verses and Prose in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa’. Marold concludes that the stanzas were revised by the author of Bjarnar saga (p. 115). 92

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between Björn and his mistress. Certain verbal differences between the two stanzas illuminate this signiﬁcant difference in emphasis. Stanza 12 in Bjarnar saga contains two allusions to Oddny´’s married state. The ﬁrst kenning for her, ‘tunnrar blæju töll’ (ﬁr tree of ﬁne cloth) uses the noun ‘blæja’ which means ‘ﬁne, coloured cloth’ but is used also for bed-cover, and in the phrase ‘koma unda eina blæju’ (literally, to go under the same cover) which means ‘to be married’.94 Björn next refers to Oddny´ as ‘Rindr mundar’, Rindr of the dowry. I have discussed the use of bridal elements in woman kennings in Kormákr’s love verses.95 There is no doubt that poets were aware of the grim appropriateness of such kennings in stanzas of adulterous love, and Marold notes further that Rindr was one of Óðinn’s sexual conquests, won by the exercise of the magic practices known as ‘seiðr’.96 But stanza 28 in Eyrbyggja saga is curiously free of such allusions. Puríðr becomes ‘töll en mjóva aðalbjóra’ (slender-ﬁr tree of the ﬁne wall-hanging) and then ‘fold földu’ (the ﬁeld of the headdress). This version of the verse concerns itself more with the paternity of Kjartan than with the cuckolding of the husband. Although in verse 25 Björn Breiðvíkingakappi’s sexual jealousy is expressed in his coarse reference to Póroddr, and compares with similar sentiments expressed by Björn Hítdœlakappi and by Kormákr, yet Puríðr’s husband Póroddr is, by this slightly later stage in the saga, of barely any concern to Björn Breiðvíkingakappi. After the recitation of verse 28, for example, when Björn is advised by Pórðr blígr to stay away from Puríðr, Björn tellingly identiﬁes the opposition as Puríðr’s brother, conceding: ‘við nökkurn mannamun sé at eiga, tar sem Snorri goði er, bróðir hennar’ (it will be dealing with something of an overmatch for me, where Snorri goði, her brother, is concerned).97 The animosity between Björn and Snorri culminates in the dramatic confrontation between them in chapter 47: this is the conﬂict the saga author is interested in developing, not the rivalry of husband and lover. Another signiﬁcant difference in emphasis between Eyrbyggja saga and Bjarnar saga which is reﬂected in their respective use of 94 J. Fritzner, Ordbog over de Gamle Norske Sprog, 2nd edn. (Christiania, 1886–96), s.v. ‘blæja’. As Marold notes, this kenning ‘highlight[s] the ideas of a sexual liaison’ (‘Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa’, 114) . 95 O’Donoghue, Genesis of a Saga Narrative, 50–1. 96 Marold, ‘Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa’, 114. 97 Eyrbyggja saga, 109.

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these verses concerns the role of the illegitimate son in each case. As we have seen, verse 12 in Bjarnar saga takes the form of a jeering taunt; that a boy might take after the lover instead of the husband would be a matter of triumph for Björn in the rivalry between the two men. The boy remains the victim of innuendo, as the emergence of the matter late in the saga suggests. The saga prose conﬁrms this impression: ‘Björn tœtti hríðum mæla um í vísum sínum’ (Björn seemed to refer to it from time to time in his verses).98 However, in Eyrbyggja saga, although Kjartan reacts angrily when Snorri makes reference to his parentage, the allusion is admiring rather than insulting. Snorri has been attacked by Porsteinn Porgilsson, and Kjartan rushes to his uncle’s defence, and ﬁghts bravely. Snorri thanks him with the words ‘Fram sóttir tú nú mjök í dag, Breiðvíkingrinn’ (you have pressed hard in battle today, Breiðvíkingr),99 and although Kjartan is angry at the words, there is no sense of the sly jeering characteristic of Bjarnar saga. The most important difference between Kjartan and Kolli, the child in question in Bjarnar saga, concerns the role they play in their respective sagas. It is signiﬁcant that we see Kjartan defending his father’s opponent Snorri, and in their different ways, Snorri and Kjartan emerge as celebrated ﬁgures. In Bjarnar saga, Kolli remains Pórðr’s son, and helps the attack against Björn at the end of the saga. But Kjartan not only joins forces with Snorri; he also achieves prominence as the only person capable of dealing with the bizarre hauntings at Fróðá. Just as Snorri leads his community, at last united, against Óspakr, who threatens the peace and stability of the district, so Kjartan defends it from supernatural attack. Björn Breiðvíkingakappi’s son is not a focus for scandal and gossip, but a respected ﬁgure playing his part for the good of the community. This difference in the role of the illegitimate son is entirely representative of the different ways the same basic circumstances are developed in the two sagas. In Eyrbyggja saga, the rivalry between husband and lover is minimized; the relationship between Björn and his mistress is elevated in tone; their son plays a valuable role in the development of a settled community. Against a background of rumour and suggestion provided by Pórðr blígr’s richly suggestive questioning, Björn’s verses in Eyrbyggja saga express pride about the boy and passion for Puríðr, emotions in keeping with the overall tenor 98

Ibid. 172.

99

Ibid. 155.

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of Björn’s love affair. Like verses 24 and 25, verses 27 and 28 lift Björn’s love above the petty gossip current in the district, and the question of the boy’s paternity is given prominence in the narrative without the undertones of triumph and malice evident in Bjarnar saga. The ﬁnal episode in Björn’s affair with Puríðr concerns a witch storm commissioned by her husband Póroddr—although Björn comes to regard Snorri as the major obstacle in the way of his affair with Puríðr, nevertheless his visits to Fróðá do at length provoke her husband to take action. Póroddr is afraid to take matters into his own hands and challenge Björn directly: ‘tó at Póroddi tœtti tat illa, tá tótti honum sér óhœgt vera bœtr á at ráða; talði tat í hug sér, hversu hart hann hafði af fengit, tá er hann hafði um vandat hagi teira, en hann sá, at Björn var nú miklu kraptameiri en fyrr’ (although Póroddr disliked [what was going on] he thought that it would not be easy for him to do anything about it; he thought over in his mind, what a hard time he had had, when he had objected to their relationship, and he recognized that Björn was now a much stronger man than before).100 Póroddr therefore engages the services of Porgríma galdrakinn to brew up a storm as Björn is crossing the moor between Fróðá and Kambr. On his way home from Fróðá, Björn is caught up in Porgríma’s malevolent blizzard, and takes shelter for the night in a cave. Whilst he is in the cave, he speaks two stanzas—verses 29 and 30—and on his eventual return home, he recites a third stanza—verse 31—in response to his servants’ enquiries about his whereabouts. The ﬁrst of these three verses corroborates the details given in the prose about Björn’s journey and the storm. Björn declares: Myndit Hlín of hyggja haﬂeygjar vel teygi, su’s berr i vá víða váðir, mínu ráði, ef eld-Njörun öldu einn vissi mik steina herðitöll í helli hafviggs kalinn liggja.101

Hlín of the glow of the sea [the woman] would not think well —she who spreads on a bed widely the woven cloth—of my condition, if Njörun of the ﬁre of the wave [she] knew that I, alone, in a cave of stones—I (guardian tree of the horse of the sea) [sailor]— cold, was/am lying.

The kenning with which Björn designates himself—‘hafviggs hirðitöll’ (guardian tree of the horse of the sea, i.e. sailor)—is not 100

Eyrbyggja saga, 109.

101

Ibid. 110 (v. 29).

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very topical at this point in the saga, but it is not discrepant with an earlier section of the prose which has recounted Björn’s journey to Norway three years earlier, and his recent return to Iceland. The dominant image in the stanza, that of Puríðr making a bed, makes delicate but clear reference to their sexual intimacy and also, in its cosy domesticity, presents a strong contrast to Björn’s present situation in the cave. The cave is explicitly mentioned at the end of the stanza. A clear impression of concordance is thus created. Between this stanza and the next one—verse 30—there is only the barest prose link: ‘enn kvað hann’ (he recited further): Sy´ lda skar ek svana fold súðum, tvít gæibrúðr ástum leiddi oss fast, austan með hlaðit ﬂaust; víða gatk vásbúð; víglundr nú um stund helli byggir hugfullr hingat fyrir konu bing.102

I cut the frozen land of swans [sea] with planks [the ship] for, in her love, the watchful woman drew me hard from the east with a laden craft; far and wide I found cold, wet lodging; now, for a time, the tree of battle, bold in spirit, occupies a cave here, instead of a woman’s bed.

There are some matching details, notably the allusion to the cave instead of a woman’s bed, and the ravages of the weather. But the differences are more striking, and it seems likely that this perfunctory introduction is a way of bringing an anomalous verse into a series, ‘under cover’, so to speak, of a more appropriate verse. The verse is not in the familiar dróttkvætt metre, but in hálfhnept. Each line ends in a monosyllable; the weak syllable which gives dróttkvætt its familiar trochaic line ending is missing. Stylistically, one might set the elaborate but conventional woman kennings in stanza 29 against the striking compound ‘gæibrúðr’ (thoughtful woman) here. The verse’s content is also at odds with the saga, although its own explicit reference to a cave seems to match it up with stanza 29. In stanza 29, Björn calls himself a sailor, and in this verse the nautical element predominates: Björn seems to be describing a winter sea journey back to the woman he loves. Whereas one could argue a certain un-topical aptness about the sailor kenning, one cannot in the same way justify the sea-journey references here, chieﬂy because in the prose Björn’s earlier journey is said to have taken place ‘tat sama 102

Ibid. 110–11 (v. 30). See also Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 65.

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sumar’ (that same summer).103 Without its prose setting, the verse would seem to connect the sea journey and the uncomfortable cave, both being part of the rigours of travelling abroad. But to make sense in this prose context, the verse must be taken as making only a general point about Björn’s love for Puríðr in its ﬁrst helmingr, by alluding to an event not actually mentioned in the prose, that is, the winter sea crossing. The saga author has however tried to strengthen the connection between the verse and the prose with his reference to Björn’s cave as ‘kalda búð’ (a cold lodging), echoing the use of ‘vásbúð’ in the verse. Love verses lamenting separation from the beloved also occur in Bjarnar saga and Kormáks saga, and there too they are discrepant with the narrative. In Bjarnar saga, for instance, there is stark contradiction between the prose context of Björn’s exploits in Constantinople and his verse declaration that he is separated from his mistress, though ‘harðla nær’ (very near) to her.104 Kormáks saga provides a very close parallel, since there too a verse lamenting separation is spoken on an arduous sea journey, according to both prose and verse, but again there is discrepancy between the two media, in this case concerning the ﬁgure to whom the verses are addressed.105 It seems likely that in all three sagas we have variations on the same basic situation, and the author of Eyrbyggja saga has evidently drawn on some available variants to create a version for his narrative. Stanzas 29 and 30 in Eyrbyggja saga do not form a consecutive pair, in spite of the impression created by the saga prose, and while verse 29 almost ﬁts its context, unlike verse 30, it would, however, accord slightly better with the setting of the sea voyage suggested by verse 30, because of its sailor kenning for Björn. Verses 29 and 30 are both expressed in the present tense, and verse 29 is explicit about the poet’s solitariness; he says he is lying ‘einn’ (alone) in the cave. This incident, with the recitation of verses at its heart, is thus manifestly and straightforwardly ﬁctional: the verses are recited as a spontaneous response to circumstances, and no one is present to hear them. Verse 31 is separated from 29 and 30 because it is recited in response to an enquiry when Björn returns home: it does not belong 103 105

104 Eyrbyggja saga, 106. Bjarnar saga, 121–2. O’Donoghue, Genesis of a Saga Narrative, 117–19.

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to the overtly ﬁctional episode of the cave. Verse 31 is quite explicitly retrospective: Spurðusk vár und vörðum verk Styrbjarnar merkjum; jarnfaldinn hlóð öldum Eirekr í dyn geira; nú traðk hauðr of heiði hundvillr, tvít fatk illa víða braut í vátri vifs gørninga drífu.106

They spoke of our deeds under Styrbjörn’s gold adorned banners. Iron helmeted, he felled men, Eirekr, in the din of spears [battle]; Now I trod the earth of the moor, quite lost, because I found with difﬁculty my way along the wide path in the witch’s storm.

The retrospective element is most evident in the verse’s opening recollection about Björn’s exploits abroad; in the prose, when Björn is ﬁrst exiled in chapter 29, we are told that he joined the Jómsvíkingar, and ‘var tá í Jómsborg, er Styrbjörn inn sterki vann hana . . . hann var ok í orrustunni á Fyrisvöllum, tá er Styrbjörn fell’ (was then in Jómsborg, when Styrbjörn the Strong took it . . . he was also at the battle of Fyrisvellir, when Styrbjörn was killed).107 In addition, like Kormákr’s verse about his ﬁrst sight of Steingerðr—‘Nú varð mér í mínu . . . jötuns leiði . . . ramma ást’ (Now came powerful love into my mind; v. 1)—in the second helmingr of verse 31 we have the unusual effect of ‘nú’ with a simple past verb, which, as I have discussed elsewhere, gives the impression that the verse is one of a series or sequence of autobiographical recollections.108 The strong retrospective element ﬁrmly distinguishes verse 31 from 29 and 30; it is thus signiﬁcant that verse 31 is the only one of the three to attribute the poet’s condition to a witch storm. Again, a cluster of verses collectively reﬂects several aspects of its prose context, but the stanzas can be distinguished as separately alluding to separate elements, and thus perhaps belonging to different traditions. If there were more stanzas in the pattern of Björn’s verse 31, and Kormákr’s ﬁrst verse to Steingerðr, it would be tempting to postulate the existence of a genre of the autobiographical drápa, in which the poet recollects and recounts the major events of his life, or love affair. Björn’s recollection of a glorious past in verse 31 is in stark contrast with his present miserable state, ‘hundvillr’ (completely lost) ‘í 106 108

107 Eyrbyggja saga, 111 (v. 31). Ibid. 80. O’Donoghue, Genesis of a Saga Narrative, 19–20.

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vatri gørninga drífu vífs’ (in the wet storm of the woman of spells). It is Björn’s last verse in the saga; its allusion to celebrated deeds abroad makes it a ﬁtting conclusion. In spite of the saga author’s evident control over his material, his ability to construct a convincing, onward-going narrative, and his painstaking incorporation of verses into the prose, it is clear from this analysis of the relationship between Björn’s verses and the saga prose that there is a considerable degree of discrepancy between the two. Every verse by Björn in Eyrbyggja saga touches on elements found, in varying degrees of similarity, in one or both of two other sagas which deal with adulterous love, Bjarnar saga and Kormáks saga, but if the saga author had simply adapted this material for his own purposes in Eyrbyggja saga, we would not expect the degree of discrepancy evident here. The saga author’s work has plainly been to combine scraps of heterogeneous material, and the story of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi’s love affair with Puríðr, with its attendant verses, is an authorial ﬁction, a patchwork. If we accept the essentially conglomerate quality of the story of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi’s love affair, we must move on to consider why the author took the trouble to piece together this narrative thread. The story of Björn is, in terms of plot, extraneous to the narrative structure of Eyrbyggja saga. Its links with the saga are based on thematic relevance, not on narrative causality, and the verses are central to this relevance. Saga authors could achieve a number of local effects through the incorporation of verses into their work, and I have drawn attention to the effects arising from the incorporation of Björn’s verses into the Eyrbyggja saga narrative: the verses underline the emotional currents in the narrative with powerfully expressed love verses; they mark a conﬂict with a familiar post-battle stanza of exultation; Björn’s verses conclude with a retrospective stanza recounting glorious deeds. But there is an overall effect deriving from Björn’s verses which may be seen as the major contribution to the saga as a whole from the narrative thread of Björn’s love affair. The extraneous quality of Björn’s role in the saga is enhanced and deepened by the attribution of verses. Björn is set apart from other members of the community, and his lofty and powerful verses mark him out as distinctively ‘other’ from his society. This is surely why this narrative element has been created. The saga author emphasizes Björn’s superior standing throughout the saga, for instance, by recounting his adventures with the

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Jómsvíkingar. I have shown how the verses about his son, which are set against a background of innuendo and scandal in Bjarnar saga, are so very differently presented in Eyrbyggja saga, and how Björn’s rivalry with Puríðr’s husband is subordinated to his much nobler and grander rivalry with Snorri goði. This conﬂict of wills is brought to a climax in the dramatic prose account of the confrontation between the two men. Björn agrees to leave Iceland, so that Snorri’s superiority in Iceland is unquestioned, but Björn’s bold gesture of walking right up to his attackers, and holding a knife to Snorri’s chest, again marks him out as an extraordinary individual.109 Björn’s elevated status is ﬁnally conﬁrmed in the penultimate chapter of the saga. An Icelandic trader, washed up on the shore of a strange land far to the west of Iceland, is captured by natives whose chieftain speaks Icelandic. The chieftain refuses to identify himself in straightforward terms, but describes himself wryly as one who ‘er meiri vinr var húsfreyjunnar at Fróðá en goðans at Helgafelli, bróðir henna’ (was more a friend of the [married] woman from Fróðá, than of her brother, the chieftain from Helgafell).110 The veteran of Fyrisvellir becomes a legendary ﬁgure in his own right. The key issue in the saga as a whole is the individual’s status vis à vis the community. Pórarinn inn svarti is an unwitting victim, caught up in the feuding. His verses reveal his idiosyncratic but deeply sympathetic response to violence. Björn’s verses mark him too as an outsider; he is a hero on a different plane, a man of nobler emotions than his neighbours—most notably, of course, Snorri goði, the pragmatist engineer of social cohesion. The voices of the supernatural The inclusion of accounts of supernatural beings and events in an otherwise sober and naturalistic narrative is characteristic of many sagas, and the tensions perceived by a modern reader may not have been so evident to an audience for whom the supernatural constituted just as much a part of ‘real life’ as, say, religious phenomena do today. But it should not be assumed that medieval authors perceived no fundamental distinction between the two. It is evident, in Beowulf, for instance, that the relationship between the monster ﬁghts and the tribal feuding is carefully contrived by the poet to illuminate the contrasting ways in which evil may be manifested in the world; the audience is continually invited to see the Grendel episodes in terms of 109

Eyrbyggja saga, 134–5.

110

Ibid. 179.

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human feuding, a device which highlights the sub-humanity of the monsters, but also reﬂects on the ‘historical’ warfare. Modern critics have always found difﬁculty in accepting the combination of such contrasting material in one work, however—most notably, perhaps, W. P. Ker, who complained of Beowulf that the important and signiﬁcant material lay at the edges of the poem, with the centre of the poem unbecomingly taken over by the unserious monsters.111 In these respects, Eyrbyggja saga is remarkably like Beowulf: the more sophisticated the account of Snorri goði’s career, or the analysis of Pórarinn’s revulsion when involved in violence, the more bizarre and unaccountable seem the hauntings at Fróðá, or the witch Katla’s conjuring tricks. Some of the supernatural incidents in Eyrbyggja saga are related to the naturalistic narrative in obvious ways. A good example of the relevance of one such episode to the concerns of the saga as a whole is Kjartan’s summonsing of the ghosts of Póroddr and his companions in chapter 55. The saga author is not sparing in his use of legal terminology: a court is held, charges are put forward, a jury is appointed, statements are made, the case is summed up and judgment and sentence are duly passed. This ghostly episode is thus a light-hearted variation on the saga’s central theme of the creation of civilized institutions in a new community. The ghosts are subjected to the new order of things, and are banished. However, other ghost stories in Eyrbyggja saga are not so obviously pertinent to the saga’s serious concerns, and the author does not always handle them with conviction. Arnkell’s search for Oddr Kötluson in chapter 20 shows many of the characteristics of a folk-tale—Arnkell returns to search Katla’s house three times, for instance—and may well have existed as an independent anecdote; it is not very well integrated into the saga narrative. Katla’s magic is unconvincingly and unimaginatively fortuitous: Oddr is changed ﬁrst into a distaff, then a goat, and ﬁnally a pig, in order that Arnkell and his men will not ﬁnd him. The saga author does not bring off the witchcraft with the spiritedness which is apparent in the equally extraordinary events of the Fróðá hauntings, and the result is ﬂat and lame. Moreover Arnkell, a ﬁgure of great distinction in Eyrbyggja saga, is demeaned by his involvement in Katla’s conjuring tricks, solemnly asking his men, ‘Hvart mun Katla eigi hafa heðni veift um 111

W. P. Ker, Epic and Romance (New York, 1957), 165.

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höfuð oss? ok heﬁr tar verit Oddr, sonr hennar, er oss syndisk rokkrinn’ (Has Katla not pulled the wool over our eyes? That was Oddr, her son, the thing that looked to us like a distaff).112 Einar Ól. Sveinsson includes the story of Katla’s witchcraft in his list of ‘unassimilated narrative threads’,113 with justiﬁcation, as we have seen, since the presence of characters who appear elsewhere in the saga is its only link with the narrative as a whole. But other episodes on Einar Óláfur’s list are the story of Víga-Styrr and his berserks, and of Póroddr and Glæsir the bull. These episodes include verses, and as a result, their distinction from the whole narrative is especially evident, because the verses, whilst not lending an exactly historical veracity to events, do give the impression that their speakers are voices from a past, and perhaps once had an existence independent of the saga narrative. They are certainly, in their associations with a world beyond the mundane one, voices from the margins of Icelandic society. Nevertheless, the saga author succeeds in relating these apparently extraneous episodes to his central narrative thread. Einar Ól. Sveinsson distinguishes as a tjóðsaga (popular narrative) the episode involving Póroddr’s old foster-mother, who prophesies in verse the fatal attack of the bull Glæsir on Póroddr Porbrandsson.114 But the saga author binds what may perhaps have originally been a distinct narrative element into his saga by suggesting that the killer bull embodies the malevolent spirit of Pórólfr bægifótr. Though this is never stated outright, it is very plainly implied: a cow licks the ashes where Pórólfr’s unquiet corpse has been cremated, and is said to have been seen with a mysterious grey bull not belonging to any of the farmers in the district.115 The calf born to the cow is also grey, and grows unnaturally large and ﬁerce. In this way the bull Glæsir is presented as another manifestation of Pórólfr bægifótr’s malevolence, but the link is not supplied by the verses, and is not an essential or integral part of the anecdote. The verse spoken by a severed head before the battle of Alptafjörðr is similarly integrated into the saga by being linked to Pórólfr bægifótr. The helmingr is one of two omens presaging the conﬂict. In the other, the slave who has been hired by the Porbrandssons to kill one of their opponents sees an eagle which seizes a deer-hound and ﬂies off with it in the direction of Pórólfr bægifótr’s grave. The 112 114

113 Eyrbyggja saga, 51–2. Ibid., p. xxiv. 115 Ibid., p. x. Ibid. 170.

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event is at once recognized as an omen: ‘[Porbrandr] kvað . . . vera mundu fyrir tíðendum’ (Porbrandr said that something was going to happen).116 When the severed head verse speaks: Roðin es Geirvör gumna blóði, hon mun hylja hausa manna

Geirvör is reddened with the blood of men: she will cover the heads of men

the same response is provoked; the old man Porbrandr pronounces it ‘tíðenda-vænligt’ (giving expectation of news).117 This omen, like the previous one, increases narrative tension before an important event, but the author is not content with leaving it as an isolated incident. He not only uses it as a device to amplify the prominence of the battle, but also associates it with Pórólfr bægifótr: directly, by its association with the phantom eagle which ﬂies back towards Pórólfr’s grave, and indirectly, by noting that the bull Glæsir is chased across the Geirvör scree after killing Póroddr.118 The effect of these connections is to extend the range of Pórólfr’s malevolence so that his evil inﬂuence constitutes a threat widespread throughout the community. In several ways, the story of Víga-Styrr and his berserks is comparable with the Glæsir story. The material seems to have had an independent existence, for instance—not only on internal evidence such as its structural extraneousness from the main body of the saga, and the conﬁdent circumstantiality of its narrative style, but also because an extremely similar account appears in Heiðarvíga saga.119 The story of Víga-Styrr and the berserks is introduced in Eyrbyggja saga with meticulous attention to plausibility and motive.120 Vermundr inn mjóvi has travelled to Norway in the course of rescuing Pórarinn inn svarti from the legal repercussions of the Máhlíðingamál (chapter 25). Whilst in the service of Hákon jarl he comes across two Swedish berserks who have been given to Hákon by King Eiríkr of Sweden. When Hákon offers Vermundr a gift for his services, Vermundr chooses the berserks, ﬁrst out of a simple desire to impress his neighbours at home in Iceland, and secondly because he 116

117 118 Eyrbyggja saga, 115. Ibid. 116 (v. 32). Ibid. 175–6. Heiðarvíga saga, in Nordal and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Borgﬁrðinga sögur, 216–24. All further page references to the saga are to this edition. 120 See Eyrbyggja saga, 60–4. 119

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is tired of being bullied by his overbearing brother Víga-Styrr, and imagines that with the support of the berserks, he will be more than a match for him. In Heiðarvíga saga we are given no reason for Vermundr’s trip to Norway, nor for Vermundr’s motives in choosing such an unmanageable gift. In Iceland, Vermundr soon ﬁnds the berserks difﬁcult to handle, and eventually succeeds in persuading Víga-Styrr to take them over. Vermundr’s hopes are ironically and humorously reversed: having expected to outshine his brother, he ﬁnds himself beholden to him, begging him to help him out. There is further humour in Vermundr’s attempt to pass the berserks on to Styrr as a generous gift, a ploy which is at once seen through by Styrr, who loftily and cunningly notes: ‘Annat mál er tat . . . at ek leysa vandræði titt, en hitt, at tiggja menn tessa af tér í vingjöf’ (My helping you out of your difﬁculty is a different matter from accepting these men from you as a gift). Víga-Styrr’s relations with the berserks are good until one of them, Halli, takes a fancy to Víga-Styrr’s daughter Ásdís.121 In Heiðarvíga saga the details are slightly different, for there Halli is interested in Vermundr’s daughter, and it is his comrade Leiknir who asks for Ásdís’s hand.122 The relationship between the accounts in the two sagas is very uncertain, because the ‘berserkr’ episode occurs in the part of Heiðarvíga saga recollected by Jón Oláfsson, and, since he was evidently familiar with Eyrbyggja saga it is hard to be sure that his knowledge of the later saga did not inﬂuence his memory of the earlier one, as well as to be sure that his recollections were complete and accurate.123 However, even without comparison with the thinner Heiðarvíga saga account, it is evident that the story of Víga-Styrr and his berserks is skilfully narrated in Eyrbyggja saga, and that the saga author enjoyed and appreciated the irony and humour of the events. The verses contribute greatly to that humour. The elegant dróttkvætt love stanzas recited by Halli and Leiknir are entirely unexpected from uncontrollably ﬁerce Swedish berserks, and Snorri’s cunning, brutal plan for killing them, although competently enough executed by Víga-Styrr, certainly does not justify Styrr’s heroically exultant stanza about his victory. Nothing could be more different from the 121 122

This episode is told in Eyrbyggja saga, 70–5. 123 Ibid., pp. xcviii–cxlvii. Heiðarvíga saga, 221.

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appearance of age and authenticity in the accounts in verse and prose of the old woman’s premonition, or the severed head’s prophecy. Even taking the gross disparity between the berserks and the stanzas they recite as a deliberate discordance for comic effect, there remains evidence of further discrepancy between verse and prose in this episode. The saga author recounts that Ásdís walks by the berserks wearing her best clothes, and that Halli declares: Hvert haﬁð, Gerðr, of görva gangfögr liðar hanga, ljúg vætr at mér, leygjar, línbundin, för tína; tvít í vetr, en vitra vangs, sákat tik ganga, hirðidís, frá húsi, húns, skrautligar búna.124

Where are you, Gerðr, intending, beautiful walker of the bracelet ﬂame (do not lie to me), linen bound one, to go? Because in the winter, I haven’t seen you walking O wise goddess of the chess piece [lady] out of doors more richly dressed.

That Ásdís should be dressed up is as inexplicable to the reader as it is to the berserks. Heiðarvíga saga offers some clariﬁcation: Ásdís is dressed for her wedding, which constitutes a crude but effective piece of dramatic irony, given the fate Styrr has in store for the berserks and their own contrasting expectation. But if the berserks are not shown as realizing that Ásdís is dressed for a wedding, the dramatic irony loses its point. Halli’s command ‘ljúg vætr at mér’ (do not lie to me) suggests that he suspects Ásdís’s involvement in the deceit, which the narrative does not allude to. Leiknir’s verse also seems to refer, with dramatic irony, to Ásdís’s being implicated in a half-perceived trick: Sólgrund Siggjar linda sjaldan hefr of faldit jafnhátt; öglis stéttar elds nú’s skart á tellu; hoddgrund, hvat by´ r undir, Hlín, oﬂæti tínu hy´rmælt, hóti ﬂeira hvítings, an vér lítum?125 124

The woman (ground of the sun of the island-belt) has seldom had a headdress as high; the ﬁr-tree of the hawk’s perch’s ﬁre [woman] is now ﬁnely dressed. O treasure ground [lady], what lies beneath your pride, Hlín, sweetly spoken, of the drinking vessel, more than we can see?

Eyrbyggja saga, 73 (v. 21).

125

Ibid. 73 (v. 22).

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The verses were clearly not invented by or for the Eyrbyggja saga author (or indeed the Heiðarvíga saga author) since both verses seem to allude to a deceit in which Ásdís is involved, while the narrative prose provides only an incomplete or abridged account. It is highly unlikely that a saga author who could handle so skilfully the rest of the account should simply fail to include an essential element if it existed in his source material. We can see, therefore, the saga author grappling with redactions of the story which had perhaps already slightly disintegrated.126 As in the case of the Björn Breiðvíkingakappi episodes, what we are dealing with is at least a third stage of saga composition, in which the saga author is working with literary traditions which have not been preserved whole and entire. And again, we must look at the purpose served in the saga by the inclusion of such material, especially since, like Björn’s love affair, the story of the berserks is technically extraneous to the central narrative thread. The episode of Víga-Styrr and the berserks can best be described as a mock heroic narrative—a brilliantly contrived burlesque for comic effect. Vermundr and Víga-Styrr try to behave like heroes of old, but cannot control the berserks and are in fact humorously apprehensive about them. Very signiﬁcant is Styrr’s setting of a gargantuan task for the berserks if Halli wishes to win Ásdís’s hand; Styrr is presented as being well aware of the pseudo- if not mock-heroic element in this, for he suggests that, if they go about the matter in this way, they will be behaving ‘sem fornir menn’ (like men in the old days; p. 72). The humour inherent in Víga-Styrr’s grandiose pretensions is clear. The whole episode is presented as a light-hearted play on the relationship between the heroic past and Snorri goði’s pragmatic present. The verses play their part in this, for they are presented as if the characters are speaking not from the saga age but in a way characteristic of an earlier, heroic time; the whole scene is openly a literary ﬁction. In speaking the verses, Víga-Styrr and his berserks are behaving ‘sem fornir menn’, but the inappropriateness of their behaviour is ludicrous in the circumstances, and this creates the comedy. Moreover, it may be that the fate Snorri devises for the berserks had a legendary basis: Einar Ól. Sveinsson notes that the wet ox-hide on which Halli slips, while not a necessary part of 126 For an account of this story in Old Norse, see Joseph Harris, ‘The Masterbuilder Tale in Snorri’s Edda and two Sagas’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 91 (1976), 66–101.

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the Eyrbyggja saga account, may have originated as a motif in Old Saxon heroic verse, which would reach Iceland via merchants and traders.127 The use of verses to contribute to a mock-heroic narrative completes the saga author’s range of effects to be derived from combining verse and prose. We have seen the combination used to present profound psychological insight, as with the Máhlíðingavísur, or verses introduced into the prose in a non-ﬁctional way, to substantiate the historical basis of the saga, as with the Hrafnsmál and the Illugadrápa stanzas. Verses associated with supernatural events are drawn into the central narrative and mark out the working of an ancient ghostly evil in the community. In the case of Björn Breiðvíkingakappi, we can appreciate the elevated status and moral grandeur the recitation of love verses can confer—even if the verses are concerned with adultery and illegitimacy. This is a remarkably wide and varied range of effects. But surprisingly, the author has succeeded in subordinating the variety of these effects to serve and illuminate the central concerns of his saga. Eyrbyggja saga is an account of a community’s development, from settlement, through feuding and rivalry, to stability and unity. Very often, episodes concerning verses can be seen to bring out a sense of the individual’s relationship to that community: Pórarinn, unwittingly caught up in the violence, or Björn, whose detachment from the community is emphasized at every turn in the narrative, but also constantly evident from his status as poet. Verses concerning the supernatural are carefully bound together so that each incident is shown to be another manifestation of a pervasive evil which threatens the whole community. The historical verses most obviously chart the progress of unity amongst the families in the district. But they also illustrate the saga author’s other major preoccupation in Eyrbyggja saga—the relationship between the past and the present. I have shown how the inclusion of verses in a historical way reﬂects the ever-present historical interests of the author: his concern with the way things were, and what trace of them remains. And, of course, the verses themselves—either ostensibly or authentically—are evidence of the saga age. The saga author knows how to use the verses in an ostensibly 127

Eyrbyggja saga, 74 (v. 22 n.).

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documentary way, but he is also evidently aware of the mock-heroic effects to be achieved from a playfully unhistorical use of verses. Like the authors of Gísla saga and Grettis saga, who each in their own way base their works on a carefully contrived evocation of a past, heroic age and the sort of hero who belonged to it through the quotation of verses in the text, the author of Eyrbyggja saga sees too that the speaking of verses can, though with widely differing degrees of irony, make his characters seem to behave ‘sem fornir menn’. Björn Breiðvíkingakappi is a hero of legendary status, who has no place in a modern community, while Pórarinn paradoxically uses the traditional mode of the exultant warrior—skaldic verse—to express a new, un-heroic sensibility. The old woman and the severed head, however, speak in the old way, and show that the supernatural can be only partly overcome by the newly established law and order. The saga author must have expected his audience to recognize the speaking of skaldic verse as itself a thing redolent of heroic glamour and old superstitions, for he uses skaldic verse not just as foregrounded dialogue for his characters, but to show the passing of a heroic era and the emergence of Snorri’s settled, civilized community, as well as, more simply, documenting the establishment of that new order.

3 SPEECH, SILENCE, AND SUBJECTIVITY IN GÍSLA SAGA As we have seen, the author of Eyrbyggja saga not only uses verses to corroborate the prose narrative, as historical writers do, when he is marking pivotal moments in the development of his narrative, but also works them into the prose as the dialogue of the characters. It is clear that in most cases we can associate the use of verse as dialogue with a shift into ﬁctionality, at least in the sense that in an otherwise highly naturalistic or even historical narrative characters speak not only in verse, but also in a cryptic and metrically highly elaborate poetic form. Most cases of dialogue verses in Eyrbyggja saga, and in the historical writings I have looked at, involve the apparently impromptu speaking of a verse, very often framed as a reply, and occasioning a shift which is not remarked upon by other characters in the narrative. The use of stylized discourse as dialogue in ﬁctional compositions is not at all unusual in other literary genres and modes. Thus, for example, though the elevated characters in Shakespearian drama speak in iambic pentameters, neither the audience nor the other characters in the play identify them for that reason as poets, recognizing the formal properties of blank verse as being part of the textual level of the play rather than being a feature of the world of the play, that is, as belonging to the diegetical level. In the same way, in opera we recognize the music as a part of the formal aesthetic of the work, and not as a signal which tells us something speciﬁc about the plot or the characters. But in both Shakespearian drama and in opera, there is scope for heightening still further what is already non-naturalistic discourse: the formal set speech in Shakespeare, and the aria in opera. This is, I think, analogous to characters in sagas moving from prose to verse dialogue. What makes the shift to heightened discourse so remarkable in family sagas is the degree or extent of that shift—the contrast between the naturalistic, pseudo-historical style of the prose narrative and the idiomatic, conversational prose dialogue on the one hand, and the ﬁctionality of responding in linguistically elaborate verse on the other. I have already discussed the case of the formal recitation of verses,

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in which there is no necessarily ﬁctional element (although the scene may, of course, be the saga author’s re-creation of an event which could have happened). This usually involves a character who is presented as a poet in the world of the narrative, on a diegetical level, and is thus implicitly recognized as such by the other characters in the saga: formal delivery of a public poem in a ruler’s court is perhaps the simplest and most obvious context for the naturalistic speaking of verse by a recognized poet in a saga narrative. But even in sagas in which the main characters are recognized poets, the occasion for such formal recitation may not arise. The action in the socalled skáldasögur (poets’ sagas)—Kormáks saga, Hallfreðar saga, Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, and Gunnlaugs saga—takes place primarily in a domestic context in which the scope for formal recitation is much more limited.1 One might mention the somewhat artiﬁcial set-up in Bjarnar saga in which the two rival poets Björn and Pórðr are invited to recite their poetic mockery of each other out loud, and in turn, in order that a legal settlement may be arrived at (unsurprisingly, this recitation does not promote a settlement), but such scenes are not common.2 Even in the poets’ sagas, then, the poets are usually presented as speaking their verses as impromptu replies, not as prepared recitations. Unless we are prepared to take at face value what Snorri says about the poet Sigvatr being able to compose in dro´ttkvœtt as ﬂuently as he can converse in prose,3 then we must see impromptu recitation as a ﬁctional technique. And yet, I would emphasize the distinction between attributing impromptu poetic utterance to a celebrated poet, and simply having a character speak in verse. In the former case, there is a strong sense that the shift to ﬁctionality is only a partial one, for the ﬁction may belong only to the presentation, the writing up, of the scene in question. After all, it might be argued, the poet may in actuality have been responsible for the composition of the verse, and the difference between the precise moment of its composition and the narrative point in time at which he is made to speak may seem little more than a technicality, a plausible re-creation of a 1 For a useful deﬁnition of these four sagas as ‘core’ skáldasögur, see Margaret Clunies Ross, ‘The Skald Sagas as a Genre: Deﬁnition and Typical Features’ in Russell Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Berlin and New York, 2001), 25–49. 2 Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, 189–90. 3 See Ch. 1, n. 130.

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(just) possible reality, on a par with the representation of conversation in historical writing. Peter Dronke, in a marvellously illuminating analogy, writes of a biographical ﬁlm about the composer Chopin which included Chopin’s musical compositions as events in the composer’s biography—which of course they are—but linking composition, recitation, and biographical moment in a way suggestively analogous to the quotation of a poet’s strophes as impromptu dialogue in skáldasögur: ‘no sooner had something cataclysmic happened to [Chopin] than he was there at the piano, transforming it directly into a sonata or ballade, polonaise or étude’.4 In poets’ sagas, then, reasons why verses might be quoted in the narrative are, on the face of it, self-evident. Surviving genuine verses would have provided source material about the events of the poet’s life, and might then have been quoted in the saga narrative. Dorena Allen Wright notes succinctly at the beginning of her article ‘The Skald as Saga Hero’ that if verses are used as source material, then saga heroes will tend to be poets; and no doubt the corollary—that if saga heroes are poets, verses will be quoted in the narrative—is equally true.5 If no genuine verse survived, but only a poet’s reputation for having composed some, then a saga author might naturally wish to compose (or perhaps commission) verses to supply the lack. And as P. M. Sørensen has argued, saga authors may well have felt this to be a perfectly natural thing to do, a justiﬁable recreation of how things used to be.6 I want therefore to turn from this set of poets’ sagas, in which the eponymous heroes are either established poets, or are modelled on such ﬁgures, such that we do not need to explain the reasons for the appearance of verse in the narrative (and in which even the fundamentally ﬁctional technique of impromptu recitation is to some extent to be expected) to consider the role of verses in Gísla saga, in which the verse is not part of its hero’s biographical record—actual or ﬁctional—and thus only barely part of the diegetical level of the narrative at all. As Ursula Dronke points out with reference to Gísla saga: ‘Gísli is never said to be a poet, so natural has the convention become that emotion, inmost thoughts, and visions, are to be expressed by any 4

Dronke, Verse with Prose, 53. Dorena Allen Wright, ‘The Skald as Saga-Hero’, Parergon, 6 (1973), 13–29. 6 P. M. Sørensen, ‘The Prosimetrum Form: Verses as the Voice of the Past’ in Skaldsagas, 172–90 (190). 5

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man (if expressed at all) in verse.’7 Outside his saga, there is no evidence that Gísli Súrsson was ever a poet, and yet thirty-seven verses are attributed to him in the saga narrative. It is just conceivable that the verses in the saga are genuine (in the sense that they are indeed the work of Gísli Súrsson, and date from the tenth century). But it is far more likely that, as most scholars now believe, most of the verses were composed at some time between the tenth century and the writing down of the saga as it now survives—Peter Foote’s argument for twelfth-century origins seems to me to be convincing8—and were attributed to Gísli at some stage during the process of the development and elaboration of literary traditions about him.9 In other words, whatever else about Gísli in the saga may be historical, his authorship of the verses is a probably a literary ﬁction; as Ursula Dronke asserts, ‘his verses were invented for him’.10 What, then, might it be about a saga character that would prompt a saga author (or, indeed, any one of an innumerable line of nameless predecessors) to attach verses to his story? In Gísla saga, the speaking of verse is very often used as a literary device to make manifest Gísli’s inner life. At this point we may recall Ursula Dronke’s insight about the purpose of the verses in Gísla saga: ‘Gísli becomes a skald so that the dimension of thought shall not be cut away from his actions . . . [The verses] intensify the prose narrative precisely because the author of them has conceived so deeply what the conscience of a man must be like who must do such deeds.’11 Having Gísli speak these verses directly in the saga narrative apparently offers direct access to his subjectivity, and, as Ursula Dronke perceives, the intense dilemmas of Gísli’s life which juxtapose an acute sense of honourable behaviour with a series of cold-blooded killings render that subjectivity an area of particular fascination. Is it the case, then, that saga heroes who speak verses as dialogue are all characters whose subjectivity is worth exploring? 7 Ursula Dronke, ‘The Poet’s Persona in the Skalds’ Sagas’, Parergon, 22 (1978), 23–8 (26). 8 Peter Foote, ‘An Essay on the Saga of Gisli and its Icelandic Background’, in George Johnston (trans.), The Saga of Gisli (Toronto, 1963). 9 The saga hero Gísli does have a sound basis in historical tradition. But it is worth noting here that even if he were a ﬁctional or semi-ﬁctional creation, the question of the attribution of verses to such a ﬁgure, at some stage in the development of tradition about him, would still be framed in the same terms. 10 11 Dronke, ‘The Poet’s Persona’, 26. Ibid.

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In Eyrbyggja saga, as I have shown, one of the effects of having certain characters speak dialogue in verse is to produce a silent, or at least unremarked, shift from naturalism into stylization. This shift underlines the individuality of those characters, emphasizing their separateness from the rest of society, both because verse is associated with an older, heroic ethos which has no place in the new order, and because one of the literary, textual effects of characters speaking in verse is to create a dramatic distinction between the poet’s inner world, with its hopes, fears, premonitions, and dreams, as articulated in the verses, and the world around him. Such psychological insight can reinforce the brief depiction of personality, which is customarily presented in saga prose when a saga character is introduced into the narrative. This is precisely the case with Pórarinn in Eyrbyggja saga. But verses may also offer a new and perhaps unexpected perspective on saga characters, giving depth and richness to their biographies. As I shall show in the next chapter, for instance, without Önundr’s skaldic strophes in Grettis saga, we would have no inkling of his sentiments about his disability, his emigration to Iceland, or his marriage. Egill Skalla-Grímsson’s verses also reveal his inner life: his withdrawn periods of intense emotional stress are both expressed and relieved by his poetry, perhaps most movingly in the Sonatorrek, in which frustrated rage and grief at the death of his sons is modulated into resignation to, if not acceptance of, the bereavement, tempered with a gradual understanding that the creative process can itself be part of the healing. And Gísli’s verses present the reader with compelling evidence about his psychological state—especially those verses in which he describes his strange, premonitory dreams. In family sagas such direct expression of emotion tends to be reserved for skaldic verse. One of the pleasures of saga narrative is the degree of participation required of the reader or audience, who must so often infer emotion, motive, or response from a character’s speech or action. This contrasts with so-called ‘classical’ narratives—most familiar, perhaps, from nineteenth-century novels—in which an omniscient author focalizes the narrative through one or more of the characters, thus creating the illusion of unmediated access to unarticulated thoughts and feelings. But in saga narrative the narrator typically assumes a much more detached stance, rarely intruding into his own narrative, and he presents characters and scenes as they might have been viewed by an observer. Thus sagas

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operate what narratologists call ‘external focalization’—that is, the action is not presented to us through the eyes, or from the point of view, of any of the characters in the narrative, and there is no explicit narratorial presence. As Gerald Prince deﬁnes the term, ‘the information conveyed is mostly limited to what characters do and say, and there is never any indication of what they think and feel . . . one of its consequences is that the narrator tells less than one or several characters know’.12 Prince’s lucid and simple deﬁnition will at once strike a chord with saga readers: we may recall the secret meeting between Snorri goði and Víga-Styrr in Eyrbyggja saga, in which Snorri’s conﬁdential advice on how to get rid of the troublesome berserks is revealed only when Víga-Styrr dramatically and successfully puts it into operation. Perhaps even more celebrated is the enigmatic account of the killing of Vésteinn in Gísla saga; the killer is never named because none of the characters sees who does it. It is important to stress the point that if a character such as Gísli expresses his fears and hopes in verse, and so long as a listener is provided by the saga author, then external focalization may still be said to operate. The verse may provide a memorable and distinctive medium for the expression of the emotion—a discourse ‘set aside from the currents of ordinary speech’,13 but although the saga author may be departing from naturalism by having a character speak in verse, external focalization—the saga narrative’s characteristic mode—is not breached if the character speaking the verse addresses an audience. But, to return to the Shakespearian analogy, the soliloquy is an entirely different matter. For here we have a double breach of naturalism: speech in blank verse, and the expression of thought aloud.14 Similarly in saga narrative, if there is no one to hear a verse, then we have the equivalent of a soliloquy; as well as nonnaturalistic dialogue, external focalization is transcended. So far, I have considered those characters in Eyrbyggja saga who are set apart from society by circumstance, personality, and, textually, the speaking of verse. Nevertheless, such ﬁgures as Pórarinn 12 Gerald Prince, A Dictionary of Narratology (Lincoln, Nebr., and London, 1988): s.v. ‘external focalization’. 13 Dronke, ‘The Poet’s Persona’, 9. 14 Note the slight discomfort of the playwright of the Wakeﬁeld Second Shepherds’ play, who has his soliloquizing ﬁrst shepherd add: ‘It dos me good, as I walk thus by myn oone, | Of this warld for to talk in maner of mone’; A. C. Cawley (ed.), The Wakeﬁeld Pageants in the Towneley Cycle (Manchester, 1958), 44 (ll. 46–7).

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from Mávahlíð and Björn Breiðvíkingakappi are usually provided with audiences for their verse recitations.15 I want now to focus on even more obviously isolated saga heroes. Egils saga, Grettis saga, Víga-Glúms saga, and Gísla saga form a group of sagas not usually considered together, or classiﬁed as ‘poets’ sagas’, perhaps because they do not share the narrative structure common to the core skáldasögur, and because their heroes are so very distinct from one another. But we do ﬁnd a marked similarity in the way these characters relate—or fail to relate—to their social context. That is, the eponymous heroes are ruthless, even violent ﬁgures with a dark side to their social natures; all four are cut off from society, physically set apart by their outlawry, or marked out by their obstinate refusal to accommodate themselves to the socially accepted norms of their family and neighbours. Egill, for instance, refuses to follow his brother Pórólfr and establish and maintain diplomatic relations with King Haraldr in Norway—relations which would entail compromising his independence and freedom. Even in Iceland, Egill shows his mischievous disdain for civilized community values, an attitude dramatically ﬁgured in his senile plan to disrupt the workings of the Alting by scattering gold coins before its participants, thereby exposing greed and anarchy behind the façade of national unity. The story of Gísli unfolds in a claustrophobic web of marital and sibling relationships, an inward-looking, over-bonded social group from which Gísli is alienated, being eventually outlawed and then hunted down. VígaGlúmr, though never outlawed, is an unattractive protagonist who, obsessed by his Norwegian origins and claim to an estate in Iceland, pits himself against his neighbours with increased malevolence in the course of the saga narrative, and comes to treat them with manipulative contempt; at length they succeed in driving him off his ancestral inheritance. Finally, Grettis saga is completely dominated by the ﬁgure of Grettir and his picaresque adventures as an outlaw. Within the world of the narrative, on a diegetical level, it is thus as anti-social characters that Gísli, Glúmr, Egill, and Grettir stand apart in their sagas, rather than as poets.16 In fact, like Gísli, Víga15 For an exception, see Björn’s verse (29) in Eyrbyggja saga, 110, in which he laments his cold and solitary state in a cave, and my discussion of this in Ch. 2. 16 Egill is something of a special case. Though he is celebrated as a poet, the saga does not follow the love-triangle pattern, and it should also be noticed that when the love-triangle poets are independently recognized as court poets (such as Kormákr,

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Glúmr’s status as a poet is not explicitly acknowledged in the saga narrative. One might then argue that such characters, all markedly dominant in their respective sagas, are particularly worthy of the psychological illumination which the speaking of verse facilitates and emphasizes. But Grettir and Gísli are special cases in another sense. As outlaws they are separated from their society not only by attitude, but also in physical actuality. And this bears directly and even urgently on the issue of external focalization: how can there be an audience for an outlaw’s verses? I shall try to show in this chapter how, in Gísla saga, ‘the subjectivity of the individual becomes an object of experimentation and representation’17—or, more simply, how the saga author experiments with verses to produce soliloquy. In presenting a lone hero, such as Gísli, the saga author can achieve the following effects in the narrative by means of his use of verse, all of which are technically beyond the reach of the traditional reportage style and stance of saga prose: 1. he can suggest, extra-diegetically, Gísli’s relationship with a literary past, that is, his place in Icelandic literary tradition; 2. he can depict how a non-naturalistic force, such as the power of fate, can affect the lives of his characters; 3. he can mark out certain characters—most often Gísli himself— as dominant voices in the narrative, both by attributing the speaking of verse to them, and by the interplay of speech and silence; 4. he can explore the subjectivity of Gísli; and 5. he can control the mood and pace of the narrative. gísli and the literary past In his wide-ranging and insightful article ‘Zur Rolle der Vísur in der altnordischen Prosa’, Alois Wolf notes that the verses in Gísla saga perform ‘eine deutlich erkennbare künstlerische Funktion’ (a clearly who is named in Skáldatal as one of the poets of King Haraldr) this aspect of their biography does not play a part in the saga, so that the opportunity for formal recitation as a narrative event does not so easily present itself. On the other hand, since Egill does enact the role of court poet in his saga, and since his poetry is independently attested, then the special relationship between a ‘real’ poet and the verses quoted in the saga exists, and therefore puts Egils saga outside the primary focus of this chapter. 17 M. M. Bakhtin, ‘Epic and Novel’, in Michael Holquist (ed. and trans.), The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays (Austin, Tex., 1981), 3–40 (37).

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discernible aesthetic function) in the narrative.18 As Wolf rightly says, part of this function is to point, or give weight, to important scenes in the saga. Even more interesting, and the focus of Wolf’s article, is how the verses can articulate—as the prose does not—a nonfactual dimension in the saga: in this case, a ‘mythical-heroic’ ethos relating primarily to Gísli himself. In other words, in speaking the verses, Gísli’s own status as a hero is enhanced. This effect is most fully developed in Grettis saga, and I shall discuss it in detail in the next chapter. But I do want to consider brieﬂy the way in which the verses in the ﬁrst part of Gísla saga—before Gísli is outlawed— complement the prose in conveying a sense not only of mythic antiquity and the heroic past, but also of all things beyond the realm of the here and now in Norway or Iceland, which are ostensibly the concern of the prose. The opening of Gísla saga is a prelude within a prelude. In both versions of the saga,19 the ﬁrst three chapters are set in Norway, before the protagonists of the saga move to Iceland, as is commonly the case in family sagas. But the ﬁrst of these three chapters tells its own self-contained story of three brothers, Ari, Gísli, and Pórbjörn; Ari is challenged to a duel by the berserkr Björn blakki, who kills him and then claims his wife, Ingibjörg. Gísli takes on the berserkr, borrowing a sword from his sister-in-law’s servant Kolr. Gísli is successful in killing Björn, but is unwilling to return the sword to Kolr. The two men ﬁght and both are killed. It is immediately obvious that the substance of the whole work is echoed in this ‘mini-saga’ in a number of ways: the three siblings; the willingness of one of them, Gísli, to defend to the death the family honour; and more loosely, but no less compellingly, the relationship between Gísli and his brother’s wife, which obliquely preﬁgures the tense and even passionate relationships between brothers, brothersin-law, and their wives in the rest of the saga. In the shorter version of the saga (though not in the longer one), this last preﬁguring is 18

Wolf, ‘Zur Rolle der Vísur’, 472. The two versions of the saga, as represented by AM 149 fol., and AM 556a 4to (edited separately and presented one after the other by Konrað Gíslason, Tvœr sögur af Gísla Súrssoni (Copenhagen, 1849)) are signiﬁcantly different only in the ﬁrst three chapters, in which AM 149 is considerably expanded, even though there is an apparently substantial lacuna. The primacy of the two versions has been much debated; for a survey of scholarship, see Theodore M. Andersson, The Problem of Icelandic Saga Origins (New Haven and London, 1964), 140–5, and Guðni Jónsson and Jónas Kristjánsson, ‘Gerðir Gíslasögu’, Gripla, 3 (1979), 128–62. 19

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emphasized with a brief but masterly piece of dialogue attributed to Ingibjörg: as she suggests to Gísli that he borrow her servant’s sword, she remarks, ‘Eigi var ek af tví Ara gipt, at ek vilda tik ekki heldr átt hafa’ (I wasn’t married to Ari because I wouldn’t rather have had you).20 This admission transforms the time-honoured dynastic practice of marrying a brother’s widow in order to hold together the family line and property into a coolly understated sexual drama; why did she not equip her husband with the helpful, even life-preserving sword? A preﬁgurative opening such as this one is not uncommon in family sagas, and is clearly a ﬁctional device.21 Indeed, Anne Holtsmark describes what she sees as its essential folk-tale quality behind the rather perfunctory ‘humanizing’ of the supernatural: Björn (the Bear) blakki, recalling the line from Atlakviða ‘birnir blakﬁallir’ (dark-coated bears);22 and the thrall Kolr (Coal-black), a barely transformed magical helper.23 The magic sword is the most signiﬁcant element of all, for it becomes the doom-laden weapon Grásíða, with which the two chief murders in the main body of the saga are committed, and it may still have been in existence in Iceland in the thirteenth century, since in Íslendinga saga a spear by the same name is said to have been one of the murder weapons in a battle which took place in 1221.24 In a sense, then, this ﬁrst prelude also provides a prehistory for Grásíða, locating its ﬁrst appearance in a distant time, which has barely emerged from folk-tale. The origins of this notorious weapon—like the mysterious prehistory of the sword which Beowulf brings back from Grendel’s mother—are very ancient. The weapon’s subsequent history links the far-off past in Norway to a time close to the present (for the saga author) via the action of the saga itself. 20 i.e. ‘because I preferred him to you’. See Gísla saga Súrssonar, in Björn K. Pórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson (eds.), Vestﬁrðinga sögur, 5. All page references to the saga are to this edition. 21 e.g. in Egils saga, Víga-Glúms saga, or, obliquely, Kormáks saga, whose opening I have described as ‘a set of perverse variations on the main themes of the saga’ (O’Donoghue, Genesis of a Saga Narrative, 2). 22 Atlavkviða (v. 11), in Ursula Dronke (ed.), The Poetic Edda, i. The Heroic Poems (Oxford, 1969), 3–12 (5). 23 See Anne Holtsmark, Studies in the Gísla saga, Studia Norvegia, 6 (Oslo, 1951), 7–9. In the longer version, Kolr’s status is elevated a little further: he is a high-born war-captive, not a thrall. 24 Íslendinga saga, in Jón Jóhanneson et al. (eds.), Sturlunga saga, i. 435.

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This preﬁgurative opening is, in terms of the action of the narrative, discrete and self-contained, though, as we have seen, its dominant elements reverberate through the rest of the saga. The only surviving brother, Pórbjörn, marries and has the three siblings who are to be the central characters of the saga: Gísli, Porkell, and their sister Pórdís. The action is still taking place in Norway, and so still functions as a prelude to the main action in Iceland. At this point, the two versions of the saga diverge markedly. In the longer version, Gísli kills Kolbeinn, a suitor of his sister’s; in the shorter, the victim is Bárðr. But in both cases, Gísli murders out of a sense of family honour, and in doing so crosses his brother Porkell, who has been friendly with the victim. Later on in the saga, Porkell allies himself more closely with his brother-in-law than with Gísli, and this ﬁssure in family solidarity is a deeply felt hurt throughout the saga. In the longer version of the saga, the text breaks off after the murder of Kolbeinn, and picks up much later in the story. The shorter version, however, tells how Porkell goes to stay with a relative of Bárðr’s, the celebrated dueller Skeggi, and encourages Skeggi to challenge Pórdís’s latest suitor, Kolbjörn, to a duel. The motivation for this is obscure, as it is also when Kolbjörn is later roped in to a revenge attack on Gísli’s family by the sons of Skeggi, whom Gísli has managed to defeat in the duel which Kolbjörn proved too cowardly to take on. Alan Berger has made a strongly worded case for the inferiority of what he sees as a ham-ﬁsted attempt to ﬁll in the lacuna of the longer text, noting amongst other things the implausible rate at which Pórdís gets through unsuitable suitors.25 Anne Holtsmark points out that the name of the latest suitor, Kolbjörn, is simply a conﬂation of the names of the two quasi-supernatural characters in the ﬁrst prelude, Kolr and Björn.26 All in all, this duel seems little more than a re-run of the earlier one in the folk-tale prelude, in which Gísli’s uncle and namesake kills Björn with Kolr’s sword— though crucially, this second duel takes place in what we might call ‘historical time’, just before Gísli moves to Iceland. If events preceding and following the duel are hazy, the central action is vivid and strong. In ribald mockery of Kolbjörn’s cowardice, Skeggi commissions the erection of a ‘níðstöng’, a wooden 25 Alan J. Berger, ‘Text and Sex in Gísla saga’, Gripla, 3 (1979), 163–8 (163). Berger is especially dismissive of the narrative on ‘moral’ grounds. 26 Holtsmark, Studies, 22.

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sculpture depicting two male ﬁgures in a posture suggesting homosexual relations. He then aims the ﬁrst blow in the duel, and his sword, Gunnlogi (battle-ﬂame), rings out loudly as he strikes at Gísli. Skeggi then speaks two short lines in fornyrðislag: ‘Gall Gunnlogi | gaman vas Söxu’ (Battle-ﬂame resounded; Saxa took pleasure in it). Gísli returns the blow, cutting off Skeggi’s leg, and replies in kind to Skeggi ‘Hrökk hræfrakki | hjók til Skeggja’ (Hræfrakki recoiled; I struck at Skeggi).27 According to the prose, Gísli is armed with a spear, or halberd, though it would be more usual to carry a sword to a duel. Anne Holtsmark, stressing the ﬁctionality of the episode, notes this discrepancy, pointing out that ‘Hræfrakki’ is certainly a sword name. She makes two suggestions: either the prose is simply wrong, or in Gísli’s verse reply, the sword’s movement—‘hrökk’—denotes that it has been knocked out of Skeggi’s hand, and that Gísli uses it to strike back at Skeggi with his own weapon—a crafted and purposeful parallel to an incident later on in the saga, when at a ball game Gísli tackles his opponent Pórgrimr, and throws the ball viciously back at him.28 Holtsmark’s close analysis of the weapon names in the two snippets of verse is especially interesting. She points out that as well as the weapon names Gunnlogi and Hræfrakki, the two other proper names in the verse, Saxa (used in the saga prose as the name of the island, Skeggi’s home, on which the duel takes place), and Skeggi itself, both play on weapon names: ‘sax’ (short sword) and, especially in the genitive form in which it actually appears in the verse, ‘skeggja’ (axe). Skeggi’s claim that Saxa took pleasure in the ﬁght recalls the grim conceit that a weapon with a blade (‘munnr’—literally, mouth) might kiss its victim. Holtsmark cites a verse from Íslendinga saga which commemorates a lethal blow from the sword Grásíða (the very weapon with which two murders are committed later on in Gísla saga): ‘Hvöss var hon heldr at kyssa’ (She [the sword Grásíða] was rather hard in her kisses).29 Holtsmark concludes that Saxa cannot really be the name of an island, and that the saga author made an ‘obvious misinterpretation’ of the verse when he used it to locate the duel in his prose. Though she does not go so far as to suggest that the personal name Skeggi 27 Gísla saga, 11. Björn Pórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson suggest that these two snippets of verse may be much older than most others in the saga, and possibly even of tenth-century date (ibid., p. x). 28 29 Holtsmark, Studies, 27. Ibid. 11.

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(which recalls the word for axe) did not originally ﬁgure in the verse, either, she does speculate very tellingly on how coherent the narrative would be if the duel with Skeggi were not included, and notes its parallels with the duel between Gísli and Björn blakki in the saga’s opening chapter—especially the remarkable coincidence that the two adversaries in that section of narrative are Kolr and Björn, while the man on whose behalf Gísli ﬁghts this duel is Kolbjörn. All these points seem to me to suggest that we have here a scrap of tradition, in verse, which the saga author has reused as the centrepiece of a ﬁctional duel narrative. The saga author may have created a narrative context out of misconstrued (deliberately or not) proper names in the narrative.30 Or we can imagine these two old scraps of verse surviving in oral transmission because of their grim and memorable wordplay, and acquiring in time some framing narrative prose, not necessarily reﬂecting very precisely any supposed ‘original’ context of the verses. Whatever its origins, the whole scene associates Gísli with weapons and violence. As the prose tells us, Gísli’s reputation—both as a ﬁghter and as a defender of his family’s honour, one may infer—is greatly enhanced. We may not be able to recreate the saga author’s intentions in order to determine why he has used these verses, but we can nevertheless describe their contribution to the opening of the saga: they add emphasis to an otherwise conventional encounter, a duel which binds Gísli into the prehistory of the narrative, and the origins of the weapon Grásíða, as well as looking forward to the killings in the main body of the saga. The verses thus point a pivotal moment in the saga narrative. And if the author has indeed misconstrued the proper names in the verses (or inherited a misconstruction which he was not able, or did not choose, to correct), then it is reasonable to assume that there attached to the verses a distinct and telling aura of antiquity—in their form, their substance, and their language. These two snippets of verse in fornyrðislag (old story metre) establish Gísli as an old-style hero, a match for the most celebrated duellist in Icelandic tradition, verbally as well as physically, and later in the saga, a similar effect is achieved by the use of verse in kviðuháttr. When Gísli is outlawed for the killing of Porgrímr, and 30 Holtsmark notes that the two proper names out of all those in the saga cause Magnus Olsen the most difﬁculty in his attempt to identify actual locations in Norway (Studies, 17).

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his supporters in the case, Vésteinn and Auðr’s uncles, conduct a notably inept defence, the saga author describes not only their incompetence, but also their shameful lack of resolve: ‘teim haﬁ næsta í allt skap komit’ (they almost broke down crying),31 and were afraid to tell Gísli about the collapse of the case. Gísli responds to news of this almost farcically unheroic behaviour with two kviðuháttr verses which are poetically uninspiring.32 But Gísli’s reference to Vésteinn’s heart being braver than his uncles’—that the sentence of outlawry would not have been passed ‘ef Vésteins | væri hjarta | Bjartmars sonum | í bróst legit’ (if Vésteinn’s heart had lain in the breast(s) of the sons of Bjartmar)—supplies an echo of Atlakviða, in which Gunnarr recognizes his brother Högni’s heart which Atli has brought to him on a platter because unlike a thrall’s heart it does not quiver; as Gunnarr proudly declares, ‘bifðiz svági miök | Pá er í brjósti lá’ (it quivered not even so much | when it lay in his breast).33 All this reinforces what must surely be the primary function of these verses: to mark the contrast between Gísli’s time-honoured heroics, and the feebly ineffective actions of his supporters. Gísli is thus associated with the form (if not quite the quality) of the elevated verse of his celebrated predecessors. These two verses in kviðuháttr are immediately followed by a skaldic stanza in which Gísli expresses his feelings about his outlawry. We can make a direct comparison with Grettir here: like him, Gísli does not discuss his deepest responses with anyone, and so, textually speaking, does not express them in prose dialogue. And rather than giving voice to anxiety or foreboding, Gísli uses the verse to threaten vengeance on his enemies, and express contempt for those without honour. the working of fate The ﬁrst ‘verse’ to be quoted in the main body of Gísla saga is evidently to some degree metrical, but its status as poetry is not 31

Gísla saga, 67. These verses are politely regretted by Gabriel Turville-Petre, who pointedly contrasts them with other great poems in the same metre: ‘This is the verse of Ynglingatal, of Háleygjatal and of Egill’s Arinbjarnarkviða and Sonatorrek. It is certainly one of the most ancient metres’; Gabriel Turville-Petre, ‘Gísli Súrsson and his Poetry: Traditions and Inﬂuences’, Modern Language Review, 39 (1944), 374–91 (389); repr. in Gabriel Turville-Petre, Nine Norse Studies, Viking Society for Northern Research (London, 1972), 118–53. 33 Atlakvíða (v. 25). 32

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unequivocal.34 Gísli’s brother Porkell has overheard his wife Ásgerðr and Gísli’s wife Auðr discussing their past affections, and especially the disclosure that Ásgerðr’s regard for Auðr’s brother Vésteinn is a continuing one. Porkell responds in a markedly stylized way: Heyr undr mikit heyr ørlygi heyr mál mikit heyr manns bana . . . eins eða ﬂeiri.35

Hear a great marvel hear a battle-doom hear a great affair hear the death of a man . . . of one, or more than one.

This response works on several levels in the narrative. Since Porkell is crouching alone, outside the women’s room, his words might seem to constitute a soliloquy—expressing very vividly to us, the saga audience, Porkell’s anger, disappointment, jealousy, and, most importantly, recognition of how momentous his discovery will prove to be. But the saga author allows Porkell’s utterance some diegetical space in the narrative—that is, a speciﬁc moment of time in the history of narrated events—because he speaks only when the women have paused in their conversation, and Auðr and Ásgerðr provide an audience within the narrative for it, since they register that they have been overheard. A character-based reading of Gísla saga would locate the central engine of the whole plot in Porkell’s jealousy of Vésteinn. There is no doubt at all that the eavesdropping is a crucial moment in the narrative and, as we may have come to expect, it is marked with a metrical utterance. It is, of course, no coincidence that such moments are often ones of high emotion, and verse is a time-honoured way of expressing this. One might contrast the very different saga technique of the laconic understatement in prose which may constitute a character’s last words. But Porkell is not just commenting, or describing—he is prophesying, and the heightened discourse of verse reﬂects this special status. There is no reason to suppose that the saga audience is to understand that Porkell has composed the verse himself, or is framing his own speech in verse: he may be quoting an appropriate fragment. Porkell’s speech suggests that a death will be inevitable— ‘fated’—and the way in which the saga author relates Vésteinn’s journey to Gísli’s home bears this out. Gísli’s messengers, sent to 34 35

Konrað Gíslason prints it as prose, for instance (Tvœr sögur, 15). Gísla saga, 31 (v. 1).

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warn Vésteinn not to come because of the hostility of Porkell and Porgrímr, miss him quite by chance when he and they take different routes to and from Gísli’s. But Vésteinn pauses on his journey to settle a dispute between two farmhands, and the messengers are able to catch up with him after all. Nevertheless, Vésteinn does not draw the obvious conclusion that fate has somehow meant him to be warned off, but instead submits to a power he feels to be greater than the mundane action of mere chance or coincidence. Commenting that he would have indeed turned back had chance not intervened to delay the warning, he recognizes a stronger, even elemental pull, remarking, ‘en nú falla vötn öll til Dy´rafjarðar, ok mun ek tangat ríða’ (but now all streams descend to Dy´rafjörðr, and I’m going to ride there).36 There is here perhaps an understated echo of the actions of Gunnarr and Högni in Atlakviða: their sister Guðrún’s well-meant warning to them not to visit Atli makes them honour-bound to accept an invitation they would have scorned to accept had they not been warned of some danger.37 The second example of a verse being used as the voice of fate is also a striking example of a skaldic strophe expressing what cannot—or at least, would not—be said in everyday speech: Gísli’s recitation of the verse in which he admits to the killing of Porgrímr, in chapter 18 of the saga. Scribal discomﬁture with the strange implausibility of Gísli’s self-incrimination is evident in what has been called a clear interpolation: Gísli spoke a verse ‘er æva skyldi’ (which he shouldn’t have):38 Teina sák í túni tál-gríms vinar fálu, Gauts tess’s geig of veittak gunnbliks táamiklu; nú hefr gny´ stœrir geira grímu Prótt of sóttan, tann lét lundr of lendan landkostuð ábranda.39

I saw shoots in the thawed homeﬁeld of harm-Grímr of the giantess’s friend, of Gautr of the battle-light— I hurt him badly; now has the noise-increaser of spears attacked Próttr of the hood, the land-hungry one to whom the tree of river-ﬁres gave land.

This is a very cryptic verse, even by skaldic standards. In the ﬁrst helmingr, there are two kennings for Porgrímr, one punning on his name—the Grímr who harms the giantess’s friend, that is, given the god Pórr’s celebrated antipathy to giants, Pórr-Grímr—and the other 36 38

37 Ibid. 40. Atlakviða (vv. 6–11). 39 Gísla saga, 58 n. 1. Ibid. 58 (v. 11).

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a simple warrior kenning, Gautr (or Óðinn) of the battle ﬂame. According to the saga, Porgrímr was a follower of the god Freyr, who protects his grave-mound from frost,40 which gives us a clear indication of whose ‘homeﬁeld’ Gísli is referring to in the verse. After two statements in the ﬁrst person in the ﬁrst helmingr, Gísli refers to himself in the third person in a warrior kenning—noise-increaser of spears—in the second helmingr, and plays again on Porgrímr’s name by calling him Próttr (or Óðinn) of the hood, since the word for hood, or mask, is ‘gríma’. Gísli’s ﬁnal taunt is that Porgrímr, who wanted land, has been given some of his own—a grave-mound. Perhaps Gísli does not expect the verse, with its elaborate wordplay, to be decoded by a listener. He does not seem to realize that he has been overheard; or perhaps he feels (mistakenly, as it turns out) that it would be safe to recite the verse in his sister’s hearing, since she would not betray him, though the prose does tell us that there were ‘margar aðrar’ (many other women) present. Joseph Harris, in an article which stresses the extreme crypticism of the verse, even by skaldic standards, makes the interesting suggestion that Gísli ‘must not have expected the audience of women to understand the verse’. That Gísli’s sister did understand it is therefore Gísli’s bad luck (or miscalculation).41 The saga audience knows that Gísli has committed the murder, so the articulation of his guilt is not technically necessary in the narrative, and of course Porkell too is aware of it; but it is vital that if Gísli is betrayed it will be by his sister rather than by his brother, since it is she who is caught between marital and natal loyalties, like her legendary predecessor Guðrún. This point is reinforced by the echoes of one of the two Eddaic elegies spoken by Guðrún, Guðrúnarkviða II, in the verse: Hugða ec hér í túni teina fallna, tá er ek vildigac vaxna láta.42 40

I saw here in the homeﬁeld fallen shoots, ones which I wanted to be allowed to grow up.

Gísla saga, 57. Joseph Harris, ‘Obscure Styles (Old English and Old Norse) and the Enigma of Gísla saga’, Mediaevalia, 19 (1996 for 1993), 75–99 (86). Harris goes on to ask, ‘Is the saga’s underlying fantasy that the unriddler [that is, Gísli’s sister] will be the destined match?’, alluding rather delicately to what he calls the ‘densely psychological erotic intricacies implicit in the saga’ (p. 90). 42 Turville-Petre notes these echoes; see ‘Gísli Súrsson’, 378–9. 41

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As Joseph Harris very acutely observes, ‘Gísli’s admission is made less implausible by certain formal features of the narrative: this is the culminating scene in a series, and Gísli’s hubris seems inevitable in the grip of the narrative logic’.43 In other words, the saga author overrides plausibility on a diegetical level; what determines Gísli’s verse utterance is the pattern of the narrative, rather than the naturalistic play of motivation. It is also signiﬁcant that the saga author sets Gísli’s confession in the midst of a series of mysterious supernatural events. Pórdís’s new husband Börkr pays a sorcerer to perform ‘seiðr’ for him; the prose adds that the sorcerer ‘fremr . . . tetta fjölkynngliga með allri ergi ok skelmiskap’ (carries this out with all possible sexual deviation and devilment). Furthermore, this is where we are told in the prose that the god Freyr seems to be demonstrating his particular favour towards the late Porgrímr in that snow will not settle and frost will not form on the side of his burial-mound. And following the recitation of the incriminating verse, a ball game takes place in which Gísli’s team-mate becomes involved in an argument with his opponent. His mother conjures up a witch storm which results in an avalanche burying the opposition’s farmhouse. She is ritually stoned to death, and Gísli in turn stones the sorcerer.44 It is thus in the middle of this unexpected ﬂurry of supernatural events that Gísli inexplicably speaks his incriminating verse. It may be, then, that Gísli is presented as being ‘fated’ to express his guilt, inﬂuenced by, indeed subject to, a power which works above and beyond naturalistic motivation. At this point we may recall again Vésteinn’s fatal journey to visit Gísli, when the play of chance—at ﬁrst preventing, and then enabling, a message to be conveyed to Vésteinn—is not enough to avert the workings of a stronger, overarching fate. And we should look ahead too, to Gísli’s own ﬁnal journey, when he inexplicably leaves a trail of wood shavings for his pursuers to follow.45 the sound of silence Vésteinn is killed when he is staying with Gísli, and darkness, combined with the fact that he and his sister are the only members of the household sleeping there at the time, mean that the identity of the 43 45

Harris, ‘Obscure Styles’, 83. Ibid. 109–10.

44

Gísla saga, 59–60.

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killer can be known by no one except Auðr; and we are speciﬁcally told that she awoke only after Vésteinn had been struck. The saga author maintains this dramatic anonymity with a carefully phrased impersonal construction: ‘Nú er gengit inn nökkut fyrir ly´sing, hljóðliga’ (Now, a little before dawn, [the house] is entered, silently).46 The effects of external focalization are very ﬁnely evident here: the saga audience knows no more than most of the characters, and of course less than the killer (and perhaps his conﬁdant(s)) himself.47 The two prime suspects are naturally Gísli’s brother Porkell, and their brother-in-law Porgrímr. At Vésteinn’s funeral, then, we have a volatile blend of powerful emotions—guilt, grief, suspicion, and the desire for vengeance—but the identity of the killer is still unknown, or at least unspoken. Porkell asks after Vésteinn’s sister Auðr, and whether she is crying a lot. In these tense circumstances, it seems a strange, even otiose query—Gísli certainly treats it as such, as his reply indicates: Auðr is taking it badly, ‘vita muntu tat tykkjask’ (exactly as you seem to expect). It may be, as has been suggested, that Porkell is cynically trying to ﬁnd out whether Auðr has seen anything.48 Alternatively, Porkell is perhaps trying to ﬁnd out whether in her grief Auðr is reverting to heroic type and urging Gísli to take revenge. But although this query does suggest some guilty anxiety on Porkell’s part about the killing of Vésteinn, it does not necessarily identify him as the killer; it could simply convey his unease about his close relationship with the other likely culprit, Porgrímr. Without any explicit confession, then, it seems that the general view—‘láta allólikliga, at nökkurr viti, hverr tenna glœp heﬁr gört’ ([they] reckon it very unlikely that anyone might know who has committed the crime)—is the last word.49 But Gísli unexpectedly claims that the identity of the killer has been revealed to him in a dream—though crucially, he declines to make it known. It is important at this stage to recognize the extent 46

Gísla saga, 43. Who killed Vésteinn has been the subject of much critical debate: see, e.g. Claiborne W. Thompson, ‘Gísla saga: The Identity of Vésteinn’s slayer’, Archiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 88 (1973), 85–90; Hermann Pálsson, ‘Hver myrti Véstein í Gísla sögu?’, Andvari, ns 17 (1975), 133–7; Eiríkur Björnsson, ‘Enn um vígið Vésteins’, Andvari, ns 18 (1976), 114–17. 48 Theodore M. Andersson, ‘Some Ambiguities in Gísla saga: A Balance Sheet’, in Bibliography of Old Norse–Icelandic Studies (Copenhagen, 1974), 7–42. 49 Gísla saga, 46. 47

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to which the saga author’s technique of external focalization may be used quite purposefully to raise questions, which are nevertheless unanswerable, about the killing and the characters most closely involved. The identity of the killer is the central unknown. But up to three other characters may know who did it: the killer himself, his close associate, and Gísli. Since the author does not intervene to guide the audience, we cannot know whether Gísli knows the identity for a fact, or has simply convinced himself.50 And perhaps more importantly, whatever the basis of Gísli’s knowledge, why is he unwilling to reveal it? There are two possible explanations. If he knows that Porkell killed Vésteinn, then possibly making the knowledge public would destroy what little remains of his relationship with his brother. If he knows that Porgrímr did it, then he may not wish to put him on his guard; if Porgrímr were established as the guilty party, then Gísli would surely kill him in revenge. Porgrímr’s safety—such as it is—depends on Porkell’s silence, which in itself incriminates Porkell. It should also be borne in mind that Gísli’s subsequent killing of Porgrímr does not unequivocally indicate that Gísli has identiﬁed him as the murderer. Since no one knows whom Gísli suspects, he may simply, in killing Porgrímr, be shifting the blame away from his brother Porkell, in a desperate show of family loyalty. Thus all three characters are held together in a tense web of uncertainty, an uncertainty in which the saga audience shares. But even though Gísli’s account of his premonitory dreams about Vésteinn’s death carefully avoids identifying the killer, his direct speech establishes him as the central, controlling intelligence in the scene: he knew what would happen and he tells people that he knows who did it. According to the saga prose, Gísli at ﬁrst remains silent about the content of his dreams; it is at this point that we become aware that he has more potential controlling power over events than the characters around him. Although he has no power to prevent the fulﬁlment of his dreams, he does have the power to control precisely how much of the content of the dream he will reveal, and it remains his decision not to make public the identity of the killer. Gísli recounts the central elements of his dreams—that in the ﬁrst one, a snake, and in the second, a wolf, killed Vésteinn—in direct speech, and the three verses he speaks express his deep affection for Vésteinn, and describe Auðr’s grief. Gísli’s closeness to 50 It is theoretically possible that he in fact does not know, but claims to as a ploy to ‘out’ the killer.

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Vésteinn51 is poignantly articulated in the ﬁfth verse: ‘Komskat maðr á miðli | mín né hans’ (no man ever came between me and him). Gísli says nothing about his grief in the prose. The two verses recited next describe Auðr’s grief, and again contrast markedly with Gísli’s prose report of her demeanour: ‘hon bersk af lítt, ok tykkir mikit’ (she betrays little, but suffers greatly).52 In the ﬁrst of these two verses, Gísli states rather paradoxically: Hylr á laun und líni linnvengis skap kvinna, gríðar leggs ór góðum, Gefn, ölkera svefni.53

She hides away under a veil womanly feelings, ... the goddess of gold.

The second describes Auðr’s weeping in closer focus: Hrynja lætr af hvítum hvarmskógi Gná bógar hrönn fylvingum hyljar hlátrbann í kné svanna; hnetr less, en treyr tessum, Pögn, at mærðar Rögni, snáka túns af sínu sjónhesli bölgrónu.54

Sorrow makes her let fall from the bright eye-lid forest, the goddess of the arm, a wave, as like nut-tears from a pool, to the woman’s knees; she gathers nuts—and yearns, the gold-goddess, for the praise-god [poet]— from her sight-hazelwood [eyelash], sprung from sorrow.

Turville-Petre notes of the verses that ‘this rich description of the weeping Auðr is unique in the scaldic poetry of the family sagas’.55 Gísli’s verses express what cannot be generally known, or seen: his feelings for Vésteinn, and Auðr’s private grief for him. Turville-Petre also points out echoes of the grief of Guðrún in these verses, as with verse 11, in which Gísli complains bitterly that his sister Pórdís has not shown him the loyalty Guðrún showed her brother in heroic legend. In all these instances, as Wolf has shown, the verses suggest a heroic parallel to the events of the saga which could not be expressed directly in the prose.56 51 Hermann Pálsson implies a homosexual relationship between the two men; according to him, Gísli is ‘inordinately fond of Vestein’ (‘Death in Autumn: Tragic Elements in Early Icelandic Fiction’ in Bibliography of Old Norse–Icelandic Studies (Copenhagen, 1973), 7–39 (19). 52 53 54 Gísla saga, 46. Ibid. 47 (v. 6). Ibid. 48 (v. 7). 55 Turville-Petre, ‘Gísli Súrsson’, 389. 56 Wolf, ‘Zur Rolle der Vísur’, 471–2.

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Put at its simplest, the prose conceals (either by means of external focalization, or because it purposefully recounts the silences and concealments of the characters themselves), and the verse articulates. The radical distinction between prose and verse in this respect is perhaps indicated in the introduction to verse 12: Pórdís has made known Gísli’s self-confessed killing of Porgrímr, and Gísli’s brother tells him that ‘upp er komit málit’ (the affair is spoken of publicly). Gísli’s response is like a microcosm of the whole saga; he ‘tagnar ok kvað vísu’ (falls silent and spoke a verse).57 Both here, and in the episode in which Porkell overhears talk of his wife’s partiality for Vésteinn, the prose shows how characters conceal their feelings and motives once some sort of modus vivendi has been established, when direct expression would upset this delicate balance. Porkell’s wife Ásgerðr reveals this very clearly when she states her terms for their continued relationship: ‘tú tak við mér ok lát sem ekki sé í orðit’ (have me back, and behave as if nothing has happened).58 Porkell, however, has already instinctively taken the same line, for he himself has held back from telling Gísli what he has overheard which upset him so much. And after the oblique exchanges between Gísli and Porkell, when Gísli declines to reveal the identity of the killer, but speaks verses which convey his and Auðr’s emotions after Vésteinn’s death, Porkell proposes the silence strategy: ‘Vilda ek, at tú létir tér eigi tetta svá mikils fá, at menn renni tar af tví grunum í’ (I wouldn’t want you to make so much of this that people become suspicious about it).59 Gísli is happy to comply. So far in the saga, there has been an inexorable build-up of powerful emotions, but expression of them has been vented within dreams and verses, which are both, primarily, Gísli’s realm. One of the most celebrated episodes in Gísla saga relates Gísli’s killing of Porgrímr, which takes place in darkness, in the silence of the night. Gísli’s cautious dimming of the lights in the bedchamber, and the moment at which a young man sleepily reaches out to put out the last light himself—the alert reader will wonder if this is in fact Gísli’s accomplice, Geirmundr—is a masterly piece of scene setting; the whispered intimacies of Porgrímr and his wife Pórdís—Gísli’s sister—before they too fall back to sleep, complete the picture. Porgrímr’s household automatically suspect Gísli of the murder, and when they send a deputation to his farmhouse, one of Gísli’s 57

Gísla saga, 62.

58

Ibid. 33.

59

Ibid. 49.

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servants—Pórðr inn huglausi (the coward)—is voluble about the emergency: ‘var . . . allmjök ﬂaumósi’ (his words rushed out in an absolute torrent).60 By striking contrast, Gísli says nothing but the laconic ‘tat er vel tá’ (ﬁne), and then recites a verse: Fell eigi ek fullum folkrunnr hjarar munni ráðit hefr margra manna morð, við hverju orði. Látum vér, tótt vága viggruðr hniginn liggi, kominn es tyss í tessa tjóð, of oss sem hljóðast.61

I don’t cave in completely (a battle-tree [warrior, i.e. Gísli] has caused the death of many men with the blade’s mouth) at a mere word. Let us conduct ourselves—even if the wave’s steed’s tree [warrior, i.e. Porgrímr] lie fallen— (tumult has come to this community) as silently as possible.

Given the saga’s steadily repeated alternation of speech and silence, it is appropriate that this verse should itself analyse the relationship between action, silence and speech. Though the deputation may be rowdy—‘kominn er tyss í tessa | tjóð’ (tumult has come to this community)—Gísli is not impressed by noise: ‘Fell ek eigi fullum . . . við hverju orði’ (I don’t cave in before mere words). Boasting of his previous killings, he tellingly refers to his weapon’s blade as its mouth, perhaps recalling the saga’s earlier references to the sword Grásíða.62 But in the end, Gísli advocates silence: ‘Létum vér . . . sem hljóðast’ (Let us conduct ourselves as silently as possible). The placing of this verse just as a hostile force from Porgrímr’s farm is seen making its way to Gísli seems to indicate that its function will be to point a violent encounter, that it will be the verse of a warrior deﬁant in the face of conﬂict. But no physical action ensues. In keeping with the spirit of the verse, there is no accusation, and no admission. In fact, there is barely any mention of the murder at all, for when Gísli (disingenuously) asks for news, Porkell simply describes it as bad, and asks for advice. The prose dialogue of both characters conceals their real knowledge and intentions. But Porkell knows very well who has killed Porgrímr, and he silently kicks out 60

61 Gísla saga, 55. Ibid. 55 (v. 10). The signiﬁcance of this metaphor is emphasized by a recent translation of the line ‘making my sword’s mouth speak’; see Bernard Scudder’s translation of verse 9 in Gisli Sursson’s Saga in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, ii (Reykjavík, 1997), 1–48 (20). 62

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of sight the visible evidence of Gísli’s guilt—his shoes, still wet and icy from his night-time expedition. Scholars have been united in feeling that verse 10 was not spoken in the circumstances presented in the narrative: some ‘actual’ context, perhaps a ﬁerce exchange of words, or delivery of threats, has been suggested.63 It may simply allude to an incident not recorded in the prose. But in place of this factual, or literal, discrepancy, we can recognize the more persuasive aptness of the verse’s content, with its self-reﬂexive stress on silent response. the exploration of subjectivity With Gísli’s outlawry begins the climactic part of the saga, the story of how Gísli is hunted down by his enemies. The saga has presented a strong, if mixed, picture of Gísli, and much of what we know of him comes from the verses, which not only mark emotional high points in the narrative, but also articulate what cannot be conveyed adequately, easily, or even at all, in the prose: speciﬁcally, Auðr’s grief, Gísli’s love for Vésteinn and visions of his murder, and his reaction to being outlawed. The speaking of verse in itself, together with, as Wolf has shown, the allusions to heroic legend contained in it, serve to link Gísli with a past, heroic age, and almost always in circumstances in which the present day does not measure up to the standards of heroic legend—as when Pórdís betrays him, or the sons of Bjartmar are tearful and fearful over his outlawry. Like Grettir, Gísli is a man out of tune with the world around him, as his surprise and outrage at his sister’s betrayal of him indicate: ‘mér heﬁr eigi hennar óvirðing betri tótt en sjálfs mín’ (her honour meant no less to me than my own).64 As an isolated ﬁgure, both because of his stubborn allegiance to ideals which his contemporaries repeatedly fail to live up to, and because of his actual status as an outlaw, Gísli is cut off from everyday social intercourse. But the saga author manages to maintain a powerful narrative of Gísli’s inner life, using verses to structure and explore the subjectivity of a ﬁgure more rooted in their past than in the narrative present. In chapter 22 the prose prepares the saga audience for what is to come: ‘Gísli var vitr maðr ok draumamaðr mikill ok berdreymr’ (Gísli was a wise man, and a great one for dreams, a man who had 63

Gísla saga, p. x.

64

Ibid. 62.

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dreams which signiﬁed things).65 Such an introduction is not entirely necessary, since we have already had evidence of Gísli’s dreams about the killing of Vésteinn, but the following sentence, which makes an explicit comparison between Gísli and Grettir as Iceland’s most celebrated outlaws—‘at Gísli haﬁ lengst allra manna í sekð gengit annarr en Grettir Ásmundarson’ (that Gísli has been an outlaw longer than any other man, with the exception of Grettir Ásmundarson) serves almost as a secondary introduction to a fresh beginning in the saga, the story of Gísli’s outlawry. Gísli’s dream verses are incorporated into the narrative in six distinct groups—that is to say, during his outlawry he dreams on six separate occasions, and each occasion is marked by a group of verses.66 In this part of the saga, we are not told of any dreams which are not accompanied by verses. I want to examine how, in his presentation of these dream verses and their accompanying prose, the saga author resists the constraints of an externally focalized narrative. The ﬁrst group of stanzas is incorporated into the narrative with every possible attention to the careful maintenance of external focalization. Even in the most perfunctorily externally focalized narrative, we cannot know what a character is dreaming unless he or she recounts the dream to a second party; authorial intervention or soliloquy will breach external focalization. In the previous chapter, it has been made clear that, in his outlawry, Gísli spends time with Auðr in Geirtjófsfjörðr, and she thus provides a natural audience for the ensuing verses. She asks him about his disturbed sleep, and he recounts in prose dialogue with her a dream vision he has had of the afterlife. He then recites four verses which effectively substantiate his prose account—that is, the verses repeat what has been said already in prose. This double presentation of material—a prose account followed by corroborative verses—is familiar from historical writings. In this case, the verses are arranged to form a neat narrative sequence. Gísli begins by addressing a woman—whom we naturally identify as Auðr—and describes his dream of being welcomed into a heroic hall: ‘Fold, komk inn tars eldar, | unnfúrs, í sal brunnu’ (O land of the wave-ﬂame [woman], I came into a hall where ﬁres burned).67 Gísli is greeted warmly by those sitting in the hall. 65 66 67

Gísla saga, 70. The groups are as follows: vv. 16–19; 20–2; 25–7; 29–31; 32–4; and 35–8. Gísla saga, 70 (v. 16).

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In the second verse, he describes how the dream woman explains to him that the number of ﬁres burning indicates the number of years he has left—seven—quoting her words, in which she addresses Gísli directly. The third verse also quotes the dream woman’s words, and then in the fourth various pieces of advice are simply addressed to Gísli—‘Vald eigi tú vígi’ (Don’t be ﬁrst to kill); ‘hjalp blindum’ (help the blind)—which we identify as the words of the dream woman. This is the only order in which the verses would make sense without an elucidating prose framework; either the saga author has arranged them with great care, or he is reproducing an original narrative sequence. Turville-Petre goes further: ‘these four strophes must be regarded as a single poem or ﬂokkr’.68 Auðr makes no response to Gísli’s recitation, which concludes the scene. What made the saga author paraphrase the content of the verses as Gísli’s prose dialogue before quoting them? Wolf, for instance, views this technique as a ﬂaw in saga writing, remarking that paraphrases in the prose tend to neutralize, or disarm the verses, which are better left to work as independent dialogue.69 It may be that the saga author felt that the verses needed some explanatory gloss—the fact that he himself appears to have misinterpreted the early duel verses would support the view that the verses might sometimes have seemed to be intractable little puzzles in the narrative. Or the saga author may have been introducing the ﬁctional shift into speaking dialogue in verse in gradual stages. As Wolf notes, the quotation of verse as dialogue is very often the ﬁnal stage in a linear pattern: indirect speech, direct speech, verse.70 A good example occurs in chapter 19: Porkell is said to tell Gísli what has happened, adds his own comment in direct speech, and then Gísli speaks verse 12.71 But this example does not involve the repetition of substance in any stage; the dialogue is ongoing. One ﬁnal possibility is that the saga author, conscious that his material—verses, dreams, and prophecies—by its very nature challenges the external focalization of a naturalistic narrative, is consciously echoing the sober, corroborative relationship between verse and prose characteristic of historical narrative. In any event, Gísli’s dream of the afterlife and his verses, in spite of their supernatural content, are ﬁtted into the prose narrative with easy naturalism and plausibility. But after this ﬁrst dreaming episode, the saga author begins to depart from detached reportage. 68 70

Turville-Petre, ‘Gísli Súrsson’, 139. 71 Ibid. 475. Gísla saga, 61–2.

69

Wolf, ‘Zur Rolle der Vísur’, 471.

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Gísli’s second group of dream verses is also spoken in Auðr’s presence; we are told that he and Auðr loved each other so much that he could not bear to be long apart from her. But as the winter draws near, the saga author—not Gísli himself—records that Gísli has repeated nightmares. It might be reasonable to regard this apparently insigniﬁcant breach of external focalization merely as a piece of information about Gísli’s life as an outlaw, a natural inference, given his previous dreams, or as a simple narrative anticipation of his forthcoming verses about dreaming. But the content or quality of dreams, like that of thoughts and ideas, is, strictly, beyond the reach of a nonomniscient author unless the character gives voice to it. And the saga author goes further with his next sentence. The dream woman previously described by Gísli himself is smoothly moved to the level of direct narrative; instead of hearing about her through Gísli’s reports about his dreams, we encounter her as an independent ﬁgure in the narrative: ‘ok kemr nú in verri draumkonan at honum’ (and now the worse dream woman comes to him).72 The saga author does not go so far as to report the substance of Gísli’s dreams in the narrative voice, instead restoring external focalization by having Auðr ask Gísli what he has dreamed. Again, prose and verse are sharply distinguished: ‘segir nú . . . hvat hann dreymði . . . ok kvað tá vísu’ (he now says what he has dreamed, and then spoke a verse). This ﬁrst verse in the group stands alone, without any prose paraphrase: Villa oss, ef elli oddstríðir skal bíða, mér gengr Sjöfn í svefna sauma, mínir draumar. Stendr eigi tat, teygi, tornreið, bragar greiði öl-Nanna selr annars efni, mér fyr svefni.73

They deceive me, if old age awaits the point-destroyer [warrior], (the goddess of seams comes to me in sleep) these dreams of mine. But that doesn’t prevent me, O brooch-chariot, (the poet is given by the ale-goddess no reason to think otherwise) from sleeping.

But before Gísli speaks the second and third verses, he is reported as giving Auðr a brief anticipation of their content: he describes how the evil dream woman behaves hideously, smearing him with gore, and the second verse seems to repeat this with its allusion to a woman ‘öll í manna blóði’ (all [covered] in human blood) who ‘oss tvær unda ﬂóði’ (washes us in the ﬂood of wounds). The third verse in the 72

Gísla saga, 75.

73

Ibid. 75–6 (v. 20).

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group is interestingly discrepant with the prose, opening with the claim that Gísli has told other warriors about his dream—‘Sagt hefk enn frá órum | oddﬂaums viðum draumi’ (I have said more about our dream to trees of the spear-eddy [warriors])—when there is no suggestion of this in the prose, or even, in the narrative, any opportunity for Gísli to have done so. The main statement of this strophe is a deﬁant threat that Gísli will take revenge: Verr hafa vápna snerru vekjendr, teirs mik sekðu, brynju hatrs ens bitra beiðendr, ef nú reiðumk.74

It will be the worse for the tumultmakers, those who outlawed me, bidders of the ﬁerce corselet-harm [warriors], if I now become enraged.

As with the ﬁrst group of verses, the recitation concludes the scene, and Auðr makes no comment. In his presentation of this group of verses, the saga author has thus signiﬁcantly relaxed the constraints of external focalization. His prose framework for Gísli’s verses also introduces a distinction between two dream women—one good, the other bad—which is not in fact nearly as clearly made, if at all, in the verses themselves. When Gísli ﬁrst speaks of his dreams, he tells Auðr that there are two women in them: ‘ok er önnur vel við mik, en önnur segir mér tat nökkut jafnan, er mér tykkir verr en áðr, ok spár mér illt eina’ (one is good to me, but the other always tells me something which makes things seem worse than they were before, and she prophesies only misfortune for me).75 But no single verse contains a reference to both women, and the verses themselves do not clearly distinguish between the good one and the bad. For instance, in the ﬁrst group of verses, the woman, unequivocally identiﬁed by Gísli as the good dream woman in the introductory prose, nevertheless prophesies his approaching death, though as we have seen she does describe his afterlife in attractively heroic terms. In short, the opposition between good and evil spirits is a construct of the prose narrative, and develops what is only an inference from the mixed messages of the verses. This is even clearer from the third group of verses: the introductory narrative prose states that the evil dream woman is Gísli’s most usual visitor, and yet the verses, with their seductive, and even erotic, visions, are neither nightmarish nor threatening. Just before Gísli recites his third group of dream verses, the dream 74

Ibid. 77 (v. 22).

75

Ibid. 70.

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women are again introduced into the prose narrative, but not, this time, in Gísli’s own direct or even indirect speech, but simply in the narrative prose, their actions reported by the saga author in exactly the same way as those of other, human, characters in the saga. The detailed description of one dream woman’s actions—riding a grey horse, she invites Gísli home with her, to a luxuriously furnished hall which she promises will be his to share with her in the afterlife—is now straightforwardly part of the prose narrative. The saga author has taken his audience right in to Gísli’s as yet unspoken dream. The prose continues: ‘ok nú vaknar hann ok kvað vísur nökkurar, eptir tví sem hann dreymði’ (and now he wakes up, and spoke some verses about what he had dreamed).76 The ﬁrst of these verses seems to substantiate what the prose narrative has told us, as the valkyrie-like dream woman rescues and restores her chosen one: Heim bauð með sér sínum saum-Hlökk gráum blakki, tá vas brúðr við beiði blíð, lofskreyti ríða; mágrundar, kvazk mundu, mank orð of tat skorðu, hneigi-Sól af heilu hornﬂœðar mik grœða.77

She invited to ride home with her, the sewing-goddess, on her grey horse —the woman was kind to the offerer— the fashioner of praise [poet]; She said she would —I recall her words about that— the ale-goddess, to health restore me.

The second verse, with its mention of downy pillows and a soft couch, extends the note of luxurious eroticism, and the third promises Gísli the enticing prospect of control over both the woman and material wealth: tá munt, Ullr, ok öllu, ísungs, féi tvísa, tat hagar okkr til auðar ormláðs, ok mér ráða.78

then, O helmet-god, you shall, as well as all this property (it turns out richly for us) rule over me.

In this account of Gísli’s third dreaming episode, the saga author has entirely discarded the structures used to maintain external focalization, and gives his audience direct, unmediated access into Gísli’s dream: the events of this dream have become part of the narrative. Further, although the episode locates Gísli in Geirtjófsfjörðr, where 76

77 Gísla saga, 94. Ibid. 94–5 (v. 25). Ibid. 96 (v. 27), second helmingr. For an explanation of the difﬁculties in accommodating all the kenning elements in this helmingr, see the notes on pp. 96–7. 78

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Auðr would be on hand to provide an audience for his verses, her previous role as interlocutor—prompting the verses by asking about the nightmares, and silently providing an audience for Gísli’s recitation—is now abandoned altogether. It is true that the transformation we can see here is, in technical terms, a very tiny one: it could be reduced to the difference between the presence or absence of the phrase ‘Gísli said to Auðr that . . .’. But combined with the dropping of Auðr as interlocutor, and reinforced by the fact that the verses themselves do not contain any apostrophe to a listener, the transformation is very signiﬁcant in literary terms: Gísli is speaking a soliloquy, addressing not an audience within the narrative, but us, as audience of the text. What is striking is that Auðr is so completely effaced from a scene in which Gísli soliloquizes about the dream woman’s distinctly erotic promises. Auðr’s role as interlocutor is restored when Gísli speaks his next— the fourth—group of verses: ‘spyrr Auðr, hvat hann hefði dreymt’ (Auðr asks what he had dreamed).79 In his prose reply, Gísli says that the evil dream woman has come to him, and has declared that she will undo all that the other woman has promised. If the verse were to echo this claim, then there would be evidence of Gísli’s verses making a distinction between two women, which I have argued against. But the verse which Gísli speaks has only a very oblique relation to this prose introduction: Skuluða it, kvað skorða skapkers, saman verja, svá hefr ykkr til ekka eitr góðmunar leitat. Allvaldr heﬁr aldar erlendis tik sendan einn ór yðru ranni annan heim at kanna.80

You two shall not, said the prop of the pitcher [woman], remain together, so has it brought you to sorrow, your passionate love. The almighty ruler of mankind has sent you from your foreign hall alone to explore another world.

Gísli’s introduction explains that this worse dream woman is proscribing his afterlife with the good dream woman, but this is a curiously uncomfortable interpretation to offer to Auðr, given Gísli’s poignantly steadfast relationship with her, and hers with him, in the waking world of the saga. Christian sentiment is overwhelmingly apparent in this verse, from the reference to the Allvaldr (Almighty One) to the mention of ‘erlendis rann’ (the hall in another world or 79

Ibid. 102.

80

Ibid. 102 (v. 29).

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land), a phrase reminiscent of the ‘elteodigra etel’ (the native land of foreigners) as a term for heaven in the Old English poem The Seafarer, and in keeping with the belief of those who died in faith in Hebrews 12: 13–16, that though they have been strangers and pilgrims on earth, God will call them to a heavenly city. Without the prose, this verse would seem to be a warning that Gísli is to be parted from Auðr by death, and being sent by God to another world, alone. The prose conveys the very different impression that the evil dream woman is forecasting Gísli’s separation from the good dream woman after death. The two remaining verses in this group are nightmarish premonitions of a bloody death, and are so shocking that Gísli wakes. To indicate Gísli’s continuing torment, however, the saga author refers again to the evil dream woman, independently of Gísli’s own words: ‘tegar hann leggr sín augu saman, tá sy´nisk honum in sama koma’ (as soon as he shuts his eyes, he sees the same woman [as was bringing him nightmares]).81 But neither this woman nor the nightmarish visions associated with her ﬁgure in the verses which follow. She has become an independent part of the saga author’s narrative, and mention of her activities does not have to be ﬁltered through Gísli’s reportage, or substantiated by his verses. Gísli’s vision of his last ﬁght against his enemies—accompanied by the ﬁfth group of verses—bears out what the saga prose related at the beginning of his outlawry: that he is ‘berdreymr’, prone to dreams with a patent, premonitory meaning—in this case, a vision of the fate which awaits him. This, Gísli’s penultimate dreaming episode, is narrated in a way which restores and sustains the appearance of external focalization. Gísli, the saga author tells us, slept badly, and Auðr asks him about his dreams. Gísli paraphrases his dream in direct speech, and then recites three strophes corroborating this account. Gísli’s introductory prose paraphrase includes speciﬁc details—‘væri Eyjólfr í för’ (Eyjólfr was in the party)82—while the ﬁrst verse is more general, alluding only to ‘enemies’ attacking: Vissak fjandr at fundi, fekk innan lið minna, ár tótt eigi værak andaðr, at mér standa, gætim vér, en væri, 81

I knew enemies in battle were (I had less support from home with me) —though I was not soon overcome—attacking me; we were to provide

Gísla saga, 104.

82

Ibid. 105.

GÍSLA SAGA valtafn í mun hrafni, fríðr í fögru blóði faðmr tínn roðinn mínu.83

167

corpse-prey for the raven’s mouth; in shining blood your lovely breast was reddened—mine.

The two subsequent verses in this group offer more detail about the envisaged battle, and in fact, without their prose context, the verses would seem to be describing an account of a battle in which Gísli has just taken part, because none of the verses refers speciﬁcally to the end of the conﬂict, that is, Gísli’s death. Instead, all the emphasis is placed on the power of Gísli’s defence: ‘ár . . . eigi værak | andaðr’ (I was not soon overcome; v. 32); ‘vér gætim valtafn’ (I [lit. we] provided corpse-prey; v. 32); ‘skjöldr kom mér at haldi’ (the shield protected me; v. 33). Apart from the subjunctive mood in the verbs, there is no explicit mention of the dream context in the verses themselves. This group of verses contrasts markedly with the sixth and ﬁnal group. In the ﬁnal group, Auðr is again present as Gísli’s interlocutor, but in the verses, reference is continually made to the dream context—‘Hugðak’ (I thought [I saw]; vv. 35, 36, and 37), or ‘slikt dreymir mik’ (this is how I dream; v. 35), and their content makes it quite clear that Gísli is envisioning his own death. Gísli describes his wounds in graphic terms: blood runs down over both shoulders; his two hands are lopped off; his head is split open. The note of deﬁance, and even grim humour, which is characteristic of the ﬁfth group of verses—as when Gísli observes in verse 34 that a man whose leg he severed ‘lost his footing’—is quite absent. Instead, a persistent tone of resignation sounds: ‘bíðum brodda hríðar’ (we await the storm of spearpoints; v. 35); ‘væri . . . lífs vánir mér gránar’ (there was poor expectation of life for me; v. 36); and perhaps most poignantly, the (presumably) rhetorical question: ‘Hvat hyggr mér váru und tví?’ (What does this seem to me to have meant?; v. 38). Gísli’s resignation borders here on helplessness. Because this ﬁnal group of verses is so much grimmer than its predecessor, the effect on the emotional current of the narrative is very powerful. The verses thus play an important part not only in heightening the emotional tension of the progress of events, but also in guiding the whole narrative towards a mood of inevitability: a ﬁne defence, as dreamed of in the ﬁfth episode, may be heroically memorable, but death is unavoidable, and draws inexorably nearer, as the 83

Ibid. 105 (v. 32).

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sixth and ﬁnal group makes clear. This cadencing also prepares the saga audience for the oddly fatalistic way in which Gísli’s hiding place is made known to his pursuers. Another autumn stretches ahead, and Gísli cannot sleep. With Auðr and Guðríðr he moves from the farm to one of his hiding places, and all three of them leave an evident trail behind them which their pursuers can easily follow from the farmhouse: the two women have long clothes which drag along the frosty ground, and Gísli is carving runes on a stick, so that the wood shavings leave a parallel trail. This could be understood as weary carelessness, a natural result of the pressures of years of outlawry coming to a head with Gísli’s ever intensifying premonitions and sudden, rash, night ﬂight. But it is important to recall Gísli’s night-time expedition earlier in the saga, when he sets out in the snow to murder Porgrímr at Sæból. Gísli makes his way to Sæból by walking in the stream which separates the two farms, and it is when he has returned home, and the people of Sæból look for tell-tale tracks in the snow, that Gísli’s ploy becomes clear: he has left no tracks because he has waded through water rather than walking through snow. But unlike the people of Sæból, Eyjólfr and his men see Gísli’s tracks immediately—‘sem vísat væri til’ (as if [they were] showing the way).84 Gísli has seen his death in his dreams; there is no point in taking elaborate precautions this time. The mood of the previous group of verses (the ﬁfth group) was oddly buoyant, and only this ﬁnal group can adequately prepare the audience for Gísli’s refusal to challenge his fate. The verses thus do a great deal more than offer insight into Gísli’s mental state and add psychological depth to the narrative. In what remains of this chapter, I want to explore the way the verses function throughout the narrative of Gísli’s outlawry and eventual, inevitable death, to control the mood and pace of the narrative, and to counterbalance the foregone conclusion of the whole saga—that Gísli will be overcome by his enemies after a resourceful outlawry and a stoical last stand against them. As one may see in many heroic works—Beowulf, for example, or some of the heroic poems of the Edda—the audience’s foreknowledge of what is to come may actually increase rather than defuse narrative tension. The key is the balance of two contradictory forces in the narrative—fate, 84

Gísla saga, 111.

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on the one hand, and the capacity for independent action, on the other—so that neither hopelessness nor false optimism may be allowed to dominate the mood. controlling the mood of the narrative The six groups of dream verses are not the only strophes to be quoted in this part of the saga, although they do dominate the narrative. The saga author also shows himself to be fully in control of the familiar effects of quoting single strophes to point, structure, and pace the narrative. These single strophes operate in counterpoint to the weighty groups of premonitory stanzas. A brief analysis of the story of Gísli’s outlawry with speciﬁc reference to how the saga author maintains the balance between Gísli’s freedom to act, and his submission to a preordained fate, will illustrate this. When Gísli is ﬁrst declared an outlaw, he spends three years quietly at home, and three years attempting (unsuccessfully) to enlist support. This deceptively slow start to the period of outlawry is concluded by the ﬁrst group of dream verses, in which Gísli recounts how a dream woman has warned him that his span of life is limited. But Gísli is offered a signiﬁcant degree of moral choice: his remaining time may be short, but he may still choose to spend it honourably if he takes her distinctly Christian advice to heart. From a Christian perspective, this chance to amend one’s life and prepare for death might even be counted a blessing. But as if to counteract the constructive, even positive, import of these verses, in the prose Gísli speaks of visitations from an evil dream woman who prophesies only bad things for him; there is no sign of her in these verses. It is after this ﬁrst group of verses that the hunting down of Gísli begins in earnest. Eyjólfr, a hired killer paid by Börkr, ﬁnds out from his spies that Gísli is at Geirtjófsfjörðr and mounts an expedition to ﬁnd him, even offering Auðr money to betray him. On this occasion, Eyjólfr is humiliated by his lack of success, but Gísli recognizes the signiﬁcance of his move: ‘tá skilr hann tó, at hann muni tekinn verða’ (but he realizes then that he will be captured).85 Gísli’s brother Porkell cannot be relied on for anything but the most minimal support, and Gísli’s only willing helper is Porgerðr, who points out 85

Ibid. 74.

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her own limitations: she can offer ‘kvenvælar einar’ (only a woman’s strategies).86 As one might expect, then, Gísli’s next group of verses is more ominous. But the third verse in the group contains a deﬁant threat to Gísli’s enemies, and a proud reference to the power of Gísli’s anger. Gísli’s outlawry is seen as the occasion for resistance, rather than resignation. As I have already noted, there is in the opening lines of this third verse an unsettling discrepancy with the prose; Gísli claims that he has related his dream to other warriors—‘Sagt hefk enn frá órum | oddﬂaums viðum draumi’. Here, then, as elsewhere in saga prose with verses, a subtle and precise ﬁtness of mood between verse and prose stands alongside factual discrepancy. Gísli makes one more attempt to enlist help from his brother Porkell, and when Porkell refuses to provide signiﬁcant support, Gísli prophesies that Porkell will be the ﬁrst of the two of them to die. He then stages his own disappearance by capsizing a boat which Porkell has lent him, and is unreservedly welcomed and helped by his cousin Ingjaldr on the island of Hergilsey. The tone of the narrative shifts markedly at this point. Eyjólfr’s spy is sent out to Hergilsey, and in a fabliau-like episode he pretends to be ill, and falls off a partition wall which he has clambered up in order to discover whether Ingjaldr’s wife is feeding an extra guest. When Eyjólfr and his men come to Hergilsey for Gísli, Ingjaldr’s advice is to make a heroic stand: ‘verjumsk, meðan vér megum upp standa’ (let us defend ourselves for as long as we are able to stand).87 But Gísli proposes instead a comical trick involving changing clothes with a thrall to fool his pursuers. Gísli then apes the behaviour of Ingjaldr’s mentally handicapped son, and is so successful that his pursuers do not recognize him. By contrast, Ingjaldr faces Eyjólfr and apparently imminent death in traditional heroic style with a carefully careless witticism: ‘Ek heﬁ vánd klæði, ok hryggir mik ekki, tó at ek slíta teim eigi gerr’ (I have threadbare clothes, and it won’t worry me if I don’t get the chance to wear them out altogether).88 Eyjólfr and his men have been thoroughly outwitted, and in a ﬁnal twist the saga author reports that it is said that Gísli got so much good help on Hergilsey because the original curse on any support he might get did 86 Gísla saga, 75. In Ch. 4 I shall discuss at some length the relationship between Grettir and the women who support him. 87 88 Ibid. 81. Ibid. 84.

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not extend to offshore islands, but would only operate on the mainland. This last touch completes an episode which has all the hallmarks of an elaborated anecdote, perhaps related orally and enjoyed for its simple but robust humour. It is entirely predictable that there should be a verse at its heart, spoken by Gísli to the serving woman, and completely appropriate to its context with its burlesque apostrophe to a female slave—‘O prop of the millstone’—and its mention of Ingjaldr: Ráðs leitar nú rítar ruðr, vekjum mjöð Suðra, skorð, tvít skiljask verðum skjaldsteins, frá Ingjaldi. Pó munk, hyrs, at hváru hafa, bláfoldar skaﬂa snyrtigátt, né sy´tik, snauð, tats mér verðr auðit.89

The shield-tree now seeks a plan (we are rousing the mead of Suðri [poetry]) because we have to part, O prop of the millstone, from Ingjaldr. And yet either way, O ﬁre of the dark blue land’s ﬁne pole [woman]—I’m not complaining— I’ll accept what’s allotted to me.

That Gísli himself speaks the verse—as diegetical dialogue, but, as usual, unacknowledged by its narrative audience—emphasizes that his is the controlling voice in the scene, making decisive and positive choices and directing the operation at the same time as recognizing the power of fate. There is no way of tracing the history of this episode, but it is perfectly likely that anecdotes about Gísli’s— or indeed any outlaw’s—adventures might be generated and circulated in oral form. Equally, the saga author may have composed it for his own purposes. But whether selected for inclusion, or purposewritten, this episode serves to show Gísli outwitting and even making fun of his pursuers. Gísli’s outlawry is presented here as an active, admirable period in his life, and justiﬁes the saga author’s summary—placed after this episode rather than later in the saga— that ‘er tat ok sannsagt, at eigi heﬁr meiri atgörvimaðr verit en Gísli né fullhugi’ (it is true what has been said, that no one has been more resourceful or determined than Gísli).90 In a second trick, Gísli hides in bed underneath a farmer’s wife who roundly abuses Gísli’s pursuers; they retire humiliated. In terms of the pace and mood of the narrative, these episodes provide a welcome light-heartedness before Gísli’s dreams become more 89

Ibid. 82 (v. 23).

90

Ibid. 88.

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urgent, and his fate closes in. But it is remarkable how many of the features in both of them—Ingjaldr’s proposed heroic stand against Eyjólfr, his declaration of absolute loyalty to Gísli, amounting almost to a surrogate brotherhood, the plucky and selﬂess help from one woman, and another’s humiliation of Gísli’s enemies—preﬁgure the darker elements at the close of the saga. Ingjaldr’s statement that he would rather die than not give his full help to Gísli stands in obvious contrast to the behaviour of Gísli’s brother Porkell, and in the next scene Porkell is murdered by Vésteinn’s sons.91 This is an episode with very carefully crafted external focalization of the narrative. The two boys are not explicitly identiﬁed, but their identity is not kept secret, for the saga author notes: ‘Pess verða menn vísir, at Gestr heﬁr launtal við sveinana’ (people notice, that Gestr [who is a relative of theirs] speaks secretly to the boys). In spite of the violent climax of the episode, the tone of the narrative is relaxed and humorous. The boys are asking their companion to identify all the most important men at the assembly, and in a comically simple piece of ﬂattery, the older boy asks: ‘Hverr er sá inn göfugligi, er hér sitr?’ (Who is that noble-looking man sitting here?). Porkell idiotically falls right into the trap: ‘Vel fara tér orð, en Porkell heiti ek’ (‘Well said. My name is Porkell’). The boy even fools Porkell into letting him handle his sword, and then strikes him with his own weapon. In the ensuing confusion, both boys escape, and obliquely reveal their identities: in answer to Börkr’s query about what all the noise is about, the younger boy replies: ‘Eigi veit ek, hvat teir tinga, en tat hygg ek, at teir træti um, hvárt Vésteinn hefði átt eptir dóttir einar eða hefði hann áttan son nökkurn’ (I don’t know what they’re going on about, but I think they may be discussing whether Vésteinn left only daughters, or whether he had any sons at all). Gerald Prince’s description of external focalization as having some characters in a scene knowing more than others, and some of them more than the reader or listener, is worth recalling here. The saga author describes the scene as it unfolds, and no single voice predominates. The role of Gestr in helping the boys to plan the killing is left as hearsay: ‘Pat hafa menn fyrir satt haft, at Gestr haﬁ verit í ráðum með sveinunum’ (people were pretty sure that Gestr had planned it with the boys). The saga author gives us no more author91

Gísla saga, 89–92.

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itative opinion. Such detachment is in marked contrast to the way the saga author presents Gísli as the controlling voice in the aftermath of the killing. In avenging Vésteinn by killing Porkell, Vésteinn’s sons have exposed Gísli’s impossibly divided loyalties. His response to the killing is expressed in verse, and this direct speech in heightened discourse contrasts with the evasiveness evident in the speech and behaviour of the others. But it contrasts even more dramatically with the almost unsayable conversation between Gísli and Auðr which frames it. Breaking the news to Gísli, Auðr begins obliquely: ‘Nú skiptir mik miklu, hversu tú vill til snúa’ (Now it matters very much to me which way you will turn).92 Auðr goes right to the heart of Gísli’s dilemma here: how can he celebrate the avenging of Vésteinn—his brother-in-law, blood-brother, and best friend—by the killing of his own brother Porkell, however distant their affection? Auðr sees herself as the pivot between the two sides; like her legendary predecessor Guðrún in the Edda she embodies the tense link between warring natal and marital families. Gísli knows at once what Auðr is referring to, and both take for granted the identity of the killers. She tells Gísli that the boys have come to Gísli looking for support, but this is a half-truth, because she has already sent them on their way. Given that Gísli believes that the boys are there at the farm, his response is remarkable for what it does not say: he cannot bear to see them, let alone join forces with them, but he does not immediately threaten vengeance on them, as if he has already assessed the impossible constraints of his position. The verse he speaks stands as an ostensible declaration of revenge for the death of Porkell. And yet it opens with the rhetorical instability and uncertainty of a question: Hverr of veit, nema hvassan hjaldrís dragi Gísli, átt mun fyrða frétta fœriván, ór spánum, alls sigrviðir segja snyrti hrings af tingi, dry´ gjum vér til dauða dáð, Porketil ráðinn.93 92

Who knows, but that Gísli may draw a sharp battle-ice [sword] (warriors will ﬁnd out about the chance) from its sheath, when victory-trees [warriors] tell the sword-adorner [Gísli] from the assembly (we will bring about fatal deeds) [the news that] Porkell is dead.

Ibid. 93.

93

Ibid. 93 (v. 24).

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All the customary rhetorical ﬂourishes are there—‘dáð’ (bold deeds), ‘sigrviðir’ (victory-trees, or warriors), and the grandness of referring to oneself in the third person—but an act of revenge remains only a possibility, a chance. The recitation of the verse gives the impression of immediate, unmediated discourse, but its actual content is as cautiously unrevealing as the prose dialogue. Its status as a statement of intent is in any case undermined since Auðr then reveals that the boys have already gone. Gísli has been given the chance to express his response, but not the opportunity to act on it. The verse does not cut through these unspoken concerns and halftruths with direct access to Gísli’s inner feelings; it is itself as equivocal and measured as the prose. There is no crude bluster about revenge. And again, when Auðr reveals that she has already sent the boys away, it is what Gísli fails to say which reveals most: he does not ask where they are (though the saga author has carefully speciﬁed the destination to which Auðr has sent them) and he makes no show of going after them. Auðr has allowed Gísli enough room to react honourably to the death of his brother, but now he can let matters stand: ‘Gísli sagði, at tann veg var ok allra bezt, at teir hittisk eigi’ (Gísli said that it would be best if they didn’t meet one another).94 This is a very subtle use of verse and prose to convey the dilemmas of both Gísli and Auðr, and the strength of their marital bond in spite of potentially destructive tensions. Since Gísli speaks in his verse of being told about Porkell’s death by other warriors, it seems likely that the saga author has conﬂated the news from the assembly with the prose narrative’s account of Auðr’s careful presentation of the dilemma facing them both, and that verse and prose have been put together purposefully to create this insightful picture of their relationship. But even as these tensions are negotiated, with due compromise and tact, on a naturalistic, day-to-day level, they are shown to be ever more insistently present in Gísli’s dream life. The saga author recalls the passing of Gísli’s limited lifespan, almost as if to jolt his audience out of any complacency arising from relief that he and Auðr have managed their responses to Porkell’s death, and Gísli has another set of dreams. But these dreams are far from being nightmarish. Gísli’s vision this time is not of a heroic afterlife, nor of a 94

Gísla saga, 94.

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gory death, but of a seductive homecoming to a woman who promises luxury and physical comfort. This is a deeply disturbing counterpoint to Auðr’s gritty, realistic loyalty in Gísli’s waking life: his subconscious both reﬂects and distorts reality, for the woman is both a dominant and a positive force. It is perhaps signiﬁcant that it is in the recitation of this group of verses that the saga author has effaced Auðr’s role as interlocutor: Gísli could hardly report these powerfully erotic visions to Auðr herself without a damaging incongruity becoming evident. The comic episode of the spy Helgi’s frustrated attempts to discover Gísli’s hiding place varies the narrative pace again, but Gísli’s next verse is an unequivocal and moving declaration of his absolute trust in Auðr. She has been offered money by Eyjólfr to betray Gísli, and when she seems to be giving some thought to Eyjólfr’s offer, her foster-daughter Guðríðr rushes to warn Gísli. Her prediction— ‘[Auðr] vill svíkja tik’ (Auðr is going to betray you)—is proudly and conﬁdently countered by Gísli: ‘eigi mun mér tat at fjörlesti verða, at Auðr blekki mik’ (my life will not be lost through Auðr betraying me).95 The verse is delicately placed not as the culmination of the episode, but before Gísli has been proved right, maximizing the effect of his justiﬁed conﬁdence in Auðr’s loyalty. It is interesting, then, that the verse does not quite echo the circumstances of the prose. For instance, it opens ‘segja menn’ (people say), but it is Guðríðr who has brought the news, and there is no suggestion anywhere else in the saga that anyone might have reason to doubt Auðr’s loyalty. Mention of her sitting weeping is not entirely implausible, but in this particular context it is not at all relevant to her controlled manipulation and humiliation of Eyjólfr. After Gísli’s equivocal verse response to the killing of Porkell, the certainty of this utterance is powerful, and the slight discrepancy in its content is easily overridden by the aptness of its placing. An overview of this section of the saga reveals that the saga author seems to have framed the verses in which Gísli describes his oddly disloyal erotic vision of an afterlife with a dream woman with Auðr’s masterly handling of the divided loyalty after Porkell’s death on the one hand, and Gísli’s conﬁdent expression of trust in her, on the other. But in spite of these successes, Gísli’s death is approaching. The next chapter opens with eloquent evidence of Gísli’s resignation: he 95

Ibid. 99.

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does not trouble to seek out another summer hiding place because the years allotted to him by the dream woman have run out, and he tells Auðr that his dreams are mostly of the evil woman. So far, I have argued that although the prose has repeatedly distinguished the good and evil women, only one verse has described a nightmarish vision. Gísli now tells Auðr that the evil dream woman has threatened to countermand everything that the other has promised. It has been suggested that such a threat would go against all the laws of folklore.96 But taken apart from its prose gloss, the content of the verse does not reﬂect this threat. Gísli is told that he is not destined to live with his beloved companion, but must leave his home alone, and come to know another home (or world). This suggests more naturally that the dream woman is prophesying an end to Gísli’s life with Auðr. Bizarrely, the distinction between Auðr in the real— that is, diegetic—world of the narrative and the woman of the metanarrative of Gísli’s ominous dreams—the dream woman—has become blurred. That the parting referred to in the verse may be interpreted as Gísli’s death is conﬁrmed by the next two verses, in which Gísli relates a vision of his head being drenched in blood—a nightmare so shocking that it wakes him. These dreams, in their urgency and graphic detail, convey the imminence of Gísli’s death. The pace of dreaming is now also stepped up: Gísli (now, like Grettir, afraid of the dark) cannot close his eyes without seeing hideous sights. But the next group of verses does not recount such visions; instead, as we have seen, Gísli foresees an encounter with Eyjólfr, and his death is not speciﬁcally alluded to. These verses taken together as a group not only stress Gísli’s steadfastness, and the success of his defence, but also display the rhetorical triumphalism of traditional battle-kennings: ‘hrælœkjar gafk hauki . . . munins tuggu’ (I gave the hawk of the corspestream the chewed mouthful of Muninn).97 References to what must be fatal wounds are ﬁnally gathered together in the ﬁnal group of verses, with streams of blood ﬂowing down Gísli’s sides, hands lopped off, and head split open. Gísli’s last verse in this group— describing a weeping woman tending his wounds—conﬂates the good dream woman and Auðr herself. The broad outlines of this premonitory vision of Gísli’s last ﬁght are reﬂected in the prose account of it which follows the verses: 96

Gísla saga, p. x.

97

Ibid. 106 (v. 34).

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essentially, we have a courageous, damaging defence, a heroic death, and a bereaved woman. But the precise content of the verses does not reﬂect the prose at all well. We need not expect the prose to repeat the content of the verses exactly, so that when, for example, Gísli foresees that he will slice in two the leg of an enemy, it may be enough for the prose to record that he inﬂicted many serious wounds in the course of the battle. It is perhaps also to be expected that none of the verses makes any mention of the contribution by Auðr and Guðríðr to the defence, although, according the prose, they wield their clubs to great effect. Gísli’s horrible vision of his own injuries conveys an overwhelming impression of powerlessness: with hands severed and head split open Gísli is nightmarishly denied both physical action and thought; we need not view these injuries literally. But the verses repeatedly mention Gísli being attacked with swords, while the prose is quite clear that Helgi attacks Gísli with an axe, as others thrust with spears. Memorable images in the prose—Gísli cutting Helgi in two so that the two halves of his body fall off the ridge, or Gísli’s powerful blow which smashes his own axe—are not alluded to in the verse, and in Gísli’s penultimate verse he forecasts a parting from Auðr while Auðr’s contribution to his defence is one of the most memorable elements in the prose. Finally, the prose alone records the near-mythic status of Gísli’s death—like Pórr at Ragnarök, or Beowulf and the dragon, he falls down dead with the opponent he has killed, thus closing a cycle of vengeance by avenging himself.98 In short, the verses and the prose narrative offer quite different perspectives on Gísli’s death: the verses convey Gísli’s own knowledge of the inevitability of his end, and his subjective response to this knowledge, while the prose presents Gísli as an impressive hero, undaunted in action, and worthy of his reputation. Gísli’s last verse is skilfully framed as his dying words. Like Kormákr, he dies apostrophizing his beloved, and there is no mention of the dream women or an afterlife: Fals hallar skal Fulla fagrleit, sús mik teitir, rekkilát at rökkum, regns, sínum vin fregna. Vel hygg ek, tótt eggjar ítrslegnar mik bíti; 98

The goddess of the hall-spear, the lovely one who delights me, will manfully ﬁnd out about the courage of her friend. I am glad, even if the cutting edges, nobly fashioned, injure me;

See also Kormáks saga, 299.

178 tá gaf sínum sveini sverðs minn faðir herðu.99

GÍSLA SAGA he gave to his son sword-resistance, my father.

The suggestion that Auðr will be proud to hear about how courageous Gísli has been contradicts the prose account of her active presence in the battle,100 but the saga author elegantly halts the ﬁghting to allow for a formal recitation of the verse: ‘Pá mælti Gísli, at teir skyldi bíða lítt tat’ (then Gísli said that they should pause for a little while). In calling for the pause, and in reciting the verse, Gísli is established as the controlling voice in the scene, and this is ﬁnely balanced with his passive resignation: ‘munu tér nú hafa tau málalok, sem tér vilduð’ (You will get the ending you wanted). Gísli is not a poet—his verses are part of the saga author’s poetics in presenting him as a character of unusual psychological intensity and depth. Attributing verses to him marks him out as a dominant, controlling voice in the narrative. In a modern narrative, Gísli would be the character through whom the narrative was focalized. But Gísli’s social isolation as an outlaw presents a saga author committed to external focalization with a technical problem: who is there to hear his utterances? As we have seen, Gísli’s wife Auðr shares his outlawry for much of the time, and provides an audience for his recital of verses describing his nightmarish premonitions. But it seems that the saga author found the constraints of external focalization too restrictive for his innovative attempts to represent Gísli’s subjectivity, and the dreams, along with his mysterious female messengers, become part of the narrative itself. Some of the verses in Gísla saga enable the articulation of those aspects of Gísli’s life which are inexpressible in an externally focalized narrative from which the author himself remains detached. Thus the verses in the early part of the saga with their echoes of heroic legend and Eddaic verse set up a pattern of repeated allusions to Gísli as an old-style hero, allusions which, at the very end of the saga, the author himself takes up in his narrative prose. The saga author’s representation of Gísli’s subjectivity cannot be contained within the traditional constraints of saga prose, and the saga author uses verses to express what is otherwise unsayable: 99

Gísla saga, 114 (v. 40). But Turville-Petre argues that ‘Auðr might still hear talk of Gísli’s valour, even if she had witnessed it herself’; ‘Gísli Súrsson’, 150. 100

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Gísli’s inner life and the author’s view of him as a hero out of joint with Icelandic life. Gísli is doomed, both by the inevitable end of his biography, and by his adherence to values which, as we have seen, the present moment no longer lives up to. But the degree to which the speaking of verse allows Gísli a measure of autonomy, of control over his life and the narrative itself, is fully exploited, so that the verses also counter Gísli’s inexorable, but paradoxically far from hopeless, progress towards his end. In Grettis saga too the saga author must manage the interiority of an outlaw. Like Gísli, Grettir speaks verses which function extradiegetically as the medium through which the saga audience—but not the other characters in the saga—learn about his mental state. But sometimes, Grettir does recite a verse as a diegetical event, and he is at times recognized in the narrative as a poet. In Grettis saga there is therefore a much more complex interplay between the diegetical and the extra-diegetical than in any of the other poet-hero sagas. The text of Grettis saga constitutes in itself an exploration of the role of poetic discourse, of what it means to be a poet and have a special relationship with language. It is in this sense that Grettis saga may be called self-reﬂexive ﬁction—a literary work which mirrors its own formal essence in its subject matter—and in the next chapter I shall investigate the extraordinary range of this literary self-consciousness in the saga.

4 GRETTIS SAGA AND THE F I C T I O N A L I Z AT I O N O F B I O G R A P H Y Grettis saga has been memorably described as ‘the last of the great Icelandic sagas’.1 However, some scholars have regarded the saga not as the consummation of a tradition, but as the ﬁrst evidence of its decline. In the early years of saga criticism, the accusation of decadence was based on hostility to the saga’s evident ﬁctionality— as Kathryn Hume neatly puts it, ‘the once prevalent feeling that [Grettis saga] is decadent because its history is contaminated by ﬁctitious nonsense’.2 William Craigie, for example, noted regretfully that the author’s object ‘was probably to compose a work of entertainment rather than of serious history’—or, as we might say of a saga with an eponymous hero, serious biography—adding that the verses are ‘mostly spurious and of little value’.3 But it is not only the ﬁctionality of the saga which has troubled its critics. Finnur Jónsson, for example, felt uncomfortable with the saga’s ‘efterklassisk romantisk følelse’ (post-classical romantic sentiment),4 of which the socalled Spesar táttr at the end of the saga is only the most obvious and striking manifestation. It is also the case that the saga’s afﬁnities with the themes and motifs of fornaldarsögur (for example, the various supernatural beings, or the episode of the grave-mound robbery in chapter 18), combined with a (now largely revised) chronology which placed the composition of the fornaldarsögur at the end of the family saga tradition, in the period of what was seen as an almost inexplicable falling off of literary taste and quality, contributed to earlier scholars’ unease with the distinctive register of Grettis saga. More recently, Jónas Kristjánsson has voiced an important and different, but perhaps related, dissatisfaction with the saga, discerning what he describes as ‘clear signs in Grettis saga that the art of saga 1

Denton Fox and Hermann Pálsson (trans.), Grettir’s Saga (Toronto, 1974), p. vii. Kathryn Hume, ‘The Thematic Design of Grettis saga’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 73 (1974), 469–86 (469). 3 William Craigie, The Icelandic Sagas (Cambridge, 1913), 65. 4 Finnur Jónsson, Den Oldnorske og Oldislandske Litteraturs Historie, 2nd edn. (Copenhagen, 1920–4), ii. 743. 2

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writing is in decline’, in the ‘superﬂuity of extravagances’ in the narrative and the many ‘contrarieties’ in Grettir’s character.5 It is certainly true that Grettis saga is unusually eclectic in both style and narrative episode. But just as readers have come to value what is literary as well as what may be historical in the family sagas, so in turn critics have begun to recognize the positive virtues of post-classical eclecticism. Peter Foote, for example, was amongst the ﬁrst to see behind Grettis saga an author who could ‘effectively combine the conventions of earlier saga narrative with a freedom of stylistic response like that allowed to a modern novelist’.6 Readers familiar with the freedoms of twentieth-century literary postmodernism—or even the new mannerist freedoms of fourteenth-century English literature7—may be more willing to regard as positive virtues the saga author’s constant juxtapostion of contrasting elements—old and new, comic and serious, high and low style, heroic epic and romance mode—and even the structural dislocations and disjunctions in the saga narrative which led its earliest critics to argue that the saga as we have it cannot be regarded as an integral whole, but is rather a mass of interpolations and distinct tættir.8 Finally, Laurence de Looze makes a direct link between the saga’s status as a ‘twilight production of the Family Saga period’ with its character as ‘a highly articulate literary production which is selfconsciously aware that it comes at the end of a long tradition’.9 This self-consciousness, or literary reﬂexivity, is a fundamental aspect of the explicit but mostly extra-diegetical recognition that Grettir is a poet, recognized as such by the saga audience, but only intermittently by his fellow saga characters. The verses make a fundamental contribution to the textual diversity evident in Grettis saga, most obviously in the contrast between their poetic form, with its verbal complexity and emotional intensity, 5

Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas (Reykjavík, 1988), 237. G. A. Hight (trans.), The Saga of Grettir the Strong, with an Introduction by Peter Foote (London, 1965), p. xiv. 7 John Burrow, Ricardian Poetry (London, 1971), 77–8. 8 See e.g. R. C. Boer (ed.), Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Altnordische SagaBibliotek, 8 (Niemeyer, 1900), or Guðbrandur Vigfússon (ed.), Sturlunga saga (Oxford, 1878), 48–50, esp. Guðbrandur’s quotation from Arni Magnússon, that Grettis saga is a mass of interpolations which ‘gengre naer fabulae en historiae’ (50). 9 Laurence de Looze, ‘The Outlaw Poet, the Poet Outlaw: Self-consciousness in Grettis saga Ásmundarson’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 106 (1991), 85–103 (92 and 102). 6

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and the narrative prose. A contrast in subject matter reiterates this division, as we have seen so markedly in Gísla saga, in which Gísli’s inner torments are articulated in the verse, as distinct from the apparently objective observations of the saga prose. In Grettis saga, as the purported utterances of Grettir himself, the verses also create that interplay of a voice from the past and the modern commentary of the saga author which gives such vivid immediacy to saga narrative with verses—especially, as we have seen, in historical writing such as Heimskringla. Because of their distinctive form and content, verses may also be used to pace and shape the sequence of events in a narrative; as in Eyrbyggja saga, strophes in Grettis saga seem to have been placed so as to mark off and characterize different phases or themes in the narrative. But the author of Grettis saga goes far beyond these basic contrastive effects in his narrative. The extraordinary degree of stylistic and structural freedom in Grettis saga is the result not simply of anarchic playfulness on the part of an author revelling in his sense of literary licence, nor of the saga being a compilation. As de Looze puts it, Grettis saga is ‘a drama of language’.10 The saga author is exploring through his narrative the status and effects of different forms of literary discourse—not only skaldic verse, but also proverbs, curses, and songs. Grettis saga is not so much ‘contaminated’ by ﬁctionality, as centred on it, a tireless and inventive exploration of its forms and effects. Naturally enough, the saga author concentrates his exploration of poetic utterance on the central ﬁgure of Grettir. I shall ﬁrst examine the saga author’s presentation of Grettir as a poet-hero, through his relationship with various forms of discourse and in his relations with and isolation from the other characters in the saga. Following that, I shall point out those features of the purposeful placing of verses for structural effects which we have come to recognize from other sagas, and show how the speaking of verse reﬂects the mood of the saga narrative and the changing fortunes of the hero, as we saw in Gísla saga. My abiding concern will be to clarify and illuminate the distinction between what goes on at the diegetic level—that is, amongst the characters in the narrative—and what belongs to the extradiegetical relationship between saga author and audience—that is, us, as readers. In the ﬁrst half of this chapter, then, I shall examine Grettir’s diegetical relationships—that is, how the voice of the poet 10

De Looze, ‘The Outlaw Poet’, 92.

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is shown to interact (or not!) with the other characters in the world of the saga. Then I shall turn to an investigation of how the saga author uses the verses to manipulate the response of the saga audience to his presentation of Grettir’s life story. For the saga audience, Grettir’s verses give expression to his inner life, but in the world of the narrative his verses are often recited aggressively, to hold intimacy at bay, not to conﬁde in his hearers. As an outlaw, he is by deﬁnition outside society in the world of the saga, and he is further cut off from everyday social interaction by his unlucky unsociability and aggressive instincts. In addition, by the narrative act of speaking verses, he is inevitably marked out and set apart from other characters in the narrative, on both the diegetic and the extra-diegetic level. He occupies a peculiar place in the saga: he is not only its subject but also ostensibly the author of some of the text; in Gísla saga this is implicit in Gísli’s recitation of verses, but in Grettis saga the saga author explicitly objectiﬁes his hero by appearing to quote his utterances, and attributing these ‘quotations’ to him, as if he were an actual biographical subject: ‘and this is what Grettir said . . .’. Disdaining ordinary conversational discourse with those around him in favour of cryptic, stylized, skaldic verse, Grettir is thus accorded a markedly separate stature. The fact that he speaks in verse, a discourse ‘kept remote from the trafﬁc of common speech’, as Ursula Dronke puts it,11 and his fondness for the oblique and timehonoured proverb, reﬂect his status as separate from that of the other characters in the narrative. And within the world of the narrative, in his relations with other saga characters, this isolation is reinforced through his distinctive discourse. For although the saga author does not record other characters’ alienated or infuriated responses to Grettir’s characteristically stylized speech, yet, as we shall see, Grettir only has relaxed, friendly relations with other poets—or at least, with characters who are willing to respond in kind to Grettir’s poetic discourse—and on occasion, with women. Otherwise, his relations with male characters in the saga, most obviously with his father, are invariably tense and hostile. I shall examine in detail how this ‘drama of language’ deﬁnes the following relationships, since they all bear on Grettir’s nature and status as a poet: his links with poetic ancestors; the failed relationship with his father; his successful 11

Dronke, ‘The Poet’s Persona’, 9.

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encounters with contemporaries who share his remote or elevated discourse; his relationships with women; his dealings with supernatural ﬁgures; and, ﬁnally, with his brothers. the voice of the poet Grettir’s poetic inheritance Grettis saga opens with Önundr, Grettir’s great-grandfather, ‘víkingr mikill’ (a great viking)12 whose most notable exploits are brieﬂy alluded to in the ﬁrst few chapters of the saga. We are not told that he has a reputation as a poet. He is, however, assigned four skaldic verses in the saga prose, and we can see in their function and placing many of the manipulative skills evident from other sagas with verses. When Önundr is ﬁghting against the forces of King Haraldr at Hafrsfjörðr, his leg is cut off below the knee; although he escapes with his life, he walks thereafter with a wooden leg and is nicknamed ‘tréfótr’. We are given no indication whatever of Önundr’s response to this injury until, some time after the ﬁghting, when he and his comrade Prándr are commiserating with other Norwegian exiles in the Hebrides, Prándr notices that Önundr ‘var hljóðr mjök’ (was very silent).13 We have just been told that Prándr’s father, who was exiled from his native Gautland because of a feud with the Swedish king, has given up viking expeditions and settled in Norway with a new wife. Prándr’s brother, Eyvindr, has settled in Ireland; he ‘hafði landvörn fyrir Írlandi’ (was in charge of the defence of Ireland), presumably a very prestigious new occupation for a retired viking. Eyvindr marries the daughter of the king of Ireland, and the saga author goes on to mention his celebrated descendants. The narrative context of Önundr’s silence is thus of what lies ahead for those vikings who have to start a new life in exile. Prándr asks Önundr why he is so withdrawn, and Önundr replies with a skaldic stanza, in which he expresses his state of mind, and his attitude towards his disability. The opening statement is, predictably, an expression of despondency—‘Glatt esat mér’ (I am not happy)—and Önundr’s fear is of what people will think about him—‘hykk at tegnum tykki . . . koma ﬂestum . . . til mín lítit’ (I think that I will seem of little importance to many people; v. 1). Önundr has broken his silence (both in the immediate context of his depression, and in the text itself, 12

Grettis saga, 3.

13

Ibid. 9.

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for he has not spoken yet in the saga narrative) with a verse, and there follows a delicate and perceptive interchange between Önundr and his friend. Prándr ﬁrst reassures Önundr about his enduring reputation as a ﬁghter, and then suggests that Önundr should marry and settle down. Nothing in the verse has suggested that Önundr is concerned about the future; the reader/audience is left to pick up this implication from the discussion about other enviable fresh starts placed just before this exchange. But Önundr reveals that the two things have indeed been connected in his mind, because he concedes that he may be seen as an undesirable match because of his injury. Prándr organizes a match for Önundr, although sure enough his potential father-in-law is worried about his disability. If we examine just the interplay of the literary modes used in this section of the narrative, rather than analysing its psychological currents, two things are immediately apparent. The ﬁrst is that the skaldic verse is used for the expression of deep feeling—in this case, humiliation and lack of self-esteem—and therefore serves to articulate the psychological tension in the character. The saga author does not attempt to convey anything of these feelings in the narrative prose. The second is that Önundr is not assigned any prose dialogue in this section at all: his replies to Prándr are all in the indirect speech of the third person, even his response to Prándr’s suggestion that they approach their comrade Ófeigr about his daughter Æsa—‘Önundr lézk tat ok vilja’ (Önundr said that he’d like to).14 Thus the speaking of the verse not only stands out in the narrative, but also distinguishes Önundr from the characters around him.15 Önundr is assigned no direct speech in verse or prose until his next verse, spoken in the following chapter. He and Prándr are challenged by two vikings from the Hebrides, and Prándr speaks on behalf of Önundr, in a striking mixture of direct and indirect speech: ‘Prándr segir, at hann var bróðir Eyvindar austmanns, “ok síðan er hér félagi minn, Önundr tréfótr” ’ (Prándr said that he was the brother of Eyvindr the Easterner, ‘and here is my comrade, Önundr tréfótr’).16 The vikings address a mocking verse to Önundr, and Önundr’s reply—‘Önundr kvað tat eigi vita mega, fyrr en reynt væri’ (Önundr said that one 14

Ibid. 10. It should be noted that Önundr is not distinguished in this way from the point of view of the other characters—the effect is evident to the reader/audience, but not remarked on by the other characters. 16 Grettis saga, 11. 15

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couldn’t know [what might happen] until it was tested out)17 is reported as indirect speech. It is only after the ensuing ﬁght, when one of the vikings has ﬂed, and the other is fatally wounded, that Önundr speaks directly, in a crudely and cruelly triumphant skaldic stanza beginning: ‘Séðu, hvárt sár tín blœða’ (Look and see if your wounds are bleeding; v. 3). The speaking of the verse also closes the episode in a dramatic and conclusive way. Önundr’s next verse again expresses despondency about his disability, this time as he undertakes a voyage to Iceland, where he is planning to settle. The voyage is a difﬁcult one, and the placing of this verse conforms to a pattern evident in both Kormáks saga and Bjarnar saga of the protagonist being moved to speak in verse at a time of physical danger.18 But there is also an emotional propriety about Önundr expressing misgivings about his ﬁtness and looking back to a time when he was a ﬁerce and fully able ﬁghter at this turning point in his life. Önundr’s ﬁnal verse is spoken as he surveys the stretch of as yet unclaimed land in Iceland which Eiríkr snara, who has already settled, is suggesting he make his home. The placing of the verse again highlights this major change in Önundr’s life as he gloomily contrasts what he has left in Norway with the inhospitable prospect before him: ‘kröpp eru kaup, ef hreppik | Kaldbak, en ek læt akra’ (Bargains are hard if I gain Kaldbak [literally, Coldridge] and give up my ﬁelds; v. 5). Clearly, positioning this verse as a response to the sight of the desolate mountain Kaldbak, which dominates the area which Eiríkr is pointing out, has an obvious psychological ﬁtness; but even apart from the vexed question of the plausibility of impromptu composition in dróttkvætt, one might feel that Önundr’s ﬂuent naming of a feature in the landscape he is viewing for the ﬁrst time shows the saga author rising above realistic detail for psychological effect. Önundr marries, twice, and lives at Kaldbak until he dies of old age. The saga author sums him up as follows: ‘hann heﬁr frœknastr verit ok ﬁmastr einfœttr maðr á Íslandi’ (he has been the bravest and most agile one-legged man in Iceland).19 There is no allusion to his ability as a poet, even though virtually all Önundr’s direct speech in 17 18 19

Grettis saga, 11. See Ch. 2, n. 105. Grettis saga, 25–6.

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the saga has been in verse.20 We have seen that these verses are all positioned to mark Önundr’s times of heightened emotion, and especially to express his feelings as he faces major turning points in his life, such as making a new settled existence in Iceland. And yet in the saga prose there is nothing to suggest that Önundr has this sort of inner life at all; we are presented with a conventional portrait of a man of action. The ‘víkingr mikill’, as he is ﬁrst introduced in the narrative, develops into an impressive and inﬂuential settler who is asked to negotiate a match for the grandson of Auðr in djúpúðga, and is called on to help his brothers-in-law with the lawsuit when Ófeigr Grettir is killed. It is only from the verses that we learn about the misery of his disability, his homesickness for Norway, or his continuing nostalgia for the sea voyages of his younger days. This depiction of Önundr at the beginning of Grettis saga emphasizes the difference in the literary techniques used by the saga author to depict the man of action on the one hand, and the reﬂective thinker on the other. Strictly speaking, we cannot call Önundr a poet, for he is not presented as such in the saga, and his speaking of verse is part of the fabric of the narrative, part of a diegetically unremarked shift in register and form directed towards the saga audience. But Önundr may still be seen as a preﬁguration of the poet Grettir in the main body of the saga. After Önundr’s death, two verses are quoted in the saga prose which refer to notably unheroic encounters amongst the settlers around Kaldbak. The ﬁrst mockingly commemorates an attack on Önundr’s son Porgeirr ﬂöskubakr (bottle-back), in which the attacker boasts about his axe blow without realizing that the weapon has not harmed Porgeirr, but has instead cut into a leather bottle on his back. The ﬁrst helmingr of the verse contrasts this contemporary farce with old-style heroism: Fyrr lauguðu frægir fránhvítinga rítar rausnar menn í ranni ræfrhvössu bensævar;21

Once upon a time the famous bathed glittering shield-ﬁshes [swords] —great men—in the hall of the wound-sea, steeply roofed.

20 The only exception is a brief, bitter speech regretting that one of King Haraldr’s earls was not killed in an attack, since that would have been some vengeance on Haraldr himself (p. 19); it is interesting that this fragment is not presented entirely conventionally as direct speech either, because it lacks any inquit instructions. 21 Grettis saga, 27 (v. 6). The ‘hall of the wound-sea’ is itself a wound; allusion to its steep roof vividly conveys the physical shape and depth of the injury.

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The rhetorical grandeur of the kennings in itself seems to echo the glory of a past age. The second verse alludes to an unedifying ﬁght which breaks out as men are cutting up a beached whale, and ends in squalid violence, an episode which the verse describes as ‘ímun óknyttin’ (a battle of dirty tricks; v. 7). Neither verse is attributed to a poet or a speaker; the effect is similar to the community history verses we have seen in Eyrbyggja saga. These two verses act as footnotes to the narrative, apparently documenting its historicity in a way familiar from the role of verses in historical writings such as Heimskringla. Their effect on the saga narrative is to establish the contrast between the unheroic real world of Iceland and Grettir’s own mythical-heroic status in the saga. Grettir and his father The saga’s account of Grettir’s childhood is dominated by his hostile relationship with his father Ásmundr. Ásmundr himself did not get on with his own father: he ‘vildi lítt vinna, ok var fátt um með teim feðgum’ (didn’t want to do much work, and relations between father and son were cool).22 The saga author introduces Grettir as difﬁcult (‘ódæll’) and slow to develop physically (‘ekki bráðgörr’).23 The celebrated exchanges between Grettir and his father when Ásmundr assigns him childish work around the farm bring to this introductory portrait of Grettir the third fundamental element in his make-up: his verbal power. Throughout the saga, as we shall see, physical and verbal strength are matched against one another; in early childhood Grettir is physically unprepossessing for his age, but verbally precocious. The jobs which Ásmundr gives him are disdained by Grettir as not beﬁtting a male youth, and his opposition to the work is expressed physically in childish, if sinister, pranks: killing goslings; scoring his father’s back with a comb; mastering the mare by a cruel trick. But on a verbal level Grettir’s response demonstrates at once his extraordinary relationship with language. Grettir almost invariably uses stylized discourse when he communicates with Ásmundr: the metrical aphorism, as when he dismisses minding the geese as ‘Lítit verk ok löðrmannligt’ (a menial task, ﬁt for a coward);24 skaldic verse; and elliptical proverbs. Such responses to his father—which are also Grettir’s ﬁrst utterances in the saga—are a clear example of Grettir using discourse 22

Grettis saga, 34.

23

Ibid. 36.

24

Ibid. 37.

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aggressively; paradoxically, to hold communication at bay rather than encourage or enable it. Their exchanges take the form of verbal duelling, although they do not entirely take the place of the violence they mimic. Thus, for instance, Grettir does kill the geese he has been set to mind, and he does mutilate the horse Kengala. The veiled violence in Grettir’s utterances is even more threatening, however. Of the geese, he recites: Pat gerik víst, es vetrar, vind ek hals á kjúklingum; enn tótt ellri ﬁnnisk, einn berk af sérhverri.25

I certainly do this when winter comes on: I wring the necks of little birds; even if older ones are among them I alone can prevail over each one.

The verbal echo of the duel—‘bera af’ (to get the better of)—underscores the verbal indeterminacy of Grettir’s reference to ‘ellri’ (older ones). In his second verse, which is addressed to his mother, Grettir moves from a vague threat in the ﬁrst helmingr to a gleeful dwelling on the injury he would like to do to Ásmundr in the second: Mik vill menja støkkvir mjök kennik tess, brenna, hodda grund, á höndum, höfugt ráð es tat báðum; lætk á hringa hreyti, hör-Gerðr, tekit verða gørr, sék gildra sára gögul, óskornum nöglum.26

The scatterer of necklaces wants —I feel this very much—to burn my (O land of treasure) hands which is bad for both of us; I will cause the ring-distributor (O linen-Gerðr) to be touched with —I see from great wounds the blood—uncut nails.

Very evident here is the contrast between the rather grandiose rhetoric in the terms for his mother and father and the backdrop in the saga prose of an old man having his back rubbed by the ﬁre. It is of course implausible that Grettir should recite and compose such verses at the age of 10, and the inappropriateness of the verses’s heroic-mythical register magniﬁes our sense of Grettir’s odd dislocation from his domestic setting. Grettir’s use of proverbs highlights another demonstration of power beyond his years: in quoting proverbs, Grettir does not only tap into time-honoured wisdom, but also reverses the father–son relationship, in that the passing on of age-old proverbs might be thought to be more natural from father to son. But there is also in 25

Ibid. 37–8 (v. 8).

26

Ibid. 39 (v. 9).

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some of Grettir’s proverbial thrusts a more naturalistic father–son antagonism. Ásmundr tries to assert his authority over Grettir after the killing of the geese, and picks up the competitive terminology Grettir has used: ‘Ok skaltu eigi lengr af teim bera’ (and you won’t be prevailing over them any more). Grettir acknowledges his father’s obscure threat with simple, if sarcastic, insolence: ‘Vinr er sá annars, er ills varnar’ (He is a friend, who warns another of trouble (in other words, thanks for the warning)).27 But his next response reveals again his mastery of language: Ásmundr, determined to get the better of him, promises that he will assign more tasks to him, and Grettir replies triumphantly, ‘Fleira veit sá, er ﬂeira reyna’ (the more one is tested the more is learned)—ostensibly, a sarcastically grateful response to more work, but also applicable to Ásmundr himself, who will learn more of what Grettir is capable of, the more he pushes an unwilling son. Grettir demonstrates to the saga audience his mastery over Ásmundr with such double-meanings and veiled threats, but we are not told whether or not Ásmundr understands their full implications. In effect, then, through Grettir the saga author is actually transmitting meaning to the saga audience, and speaking over the head, as it were, of the other characters—in this case, his father. This effect is even clearer with another of Grettir’s insolent responses. Ásmundr does not know that Grettir has mutilated Kengala to make her hypersensitive to the cold, and cannot understand why she huddles in her stable even though the bad weather which this behaviour would normally predict does not materialize. Ásmundr voices his (mistaken) view that at least the animal will be in good condition. Grettir’s jeer—‘Verðr tat, er varir . . . ok svá hitt, er eigi varir’ (what is expected happens . . . and also, what is not expected)28—is fully meaningful only to the saga audience; all Ásmundr can infer from it is that there is a surprise in the ofﬁng. Grettir and the saga audience share a moment of complicity; Ásmundr is suspended in ignorance. This is the ﬁrst of a number of occasions in the saga when Grettir, through his use of language, operates on a level quite distinct from that of the other characters in the narrative. It is perhaps surprising, given the link I have demonstrated between the speaking of verse and the assertion of dominance in the narrative, that Ásmundr himself speaks the ﬁnal skaldic verse in this scene. The 27

Grettis saga, 38.

28

Ibid. 41.

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verse apostrophizes a woman, and Ásmundr addresses it to Grettir’s mother Ásdís as an angry response to her mistaken assumption that Grettir has looked after Kengala well. Ásdís’s mistake provokes a sharp gibe from Ásmundr: ‘ﬂjóð eru ﬂest en prúðu | fullmálug’ (proud women are mostly very talkative; v. 10). In contrast to his sudden verbal attack on Ásdís, Ásmundr concedes in the verse that Grettir has bettered him—‘fær prettat mik’ (he has deceived me)—and that his paternal authority has been successfully challenged—‘víst mun venja ﬂestar | vitr drengr af sér lengi . . . kvaðningar mínar’ (certainly the wise man will for a long time wean himself off my commands). An oblique exchange in prose conﬁrms that a turning point in their relationship has been reached: Ásmundr will not give Grettir any more jobs, that is, he will stop trying to exercise parental authority over his son. But if he relinquishes parental authority, so too will he set Grettir free from the privileges of childhood: ‘en hafa skal hann viðgörning verra’ (but he will have worse treatment).29 Grettir understands at once the implication of this shift in family relations, as is clear from his response: ‘Teli tá hvarigir á aðra’ (then neither [of us] must provoke the other)—that is, that Grettir must now be regarded as an adult who will retaliate, perhaps violently, if provoked. This whole episode is a skilfully engineered and psychologically penetrating account of a signiﬁcant rite de passage. Beneath the surface of the narrative, there is also a strong sense of a sexual dynamic at work. Grettir objects to the ﬁrst two tasks assigned to him—minding the goslings and rubbing his father’s back—as jobs for cowards, when one might have expected him to object to them speciﬁcally as childish. But the tasks do seem to be associated with women’s work, and the well-established link in saga literature between cowardly behaviour and effeminacy shows that Grettir is signalling his transition from the domestic world shared by women and children.30 Looking after the mare, Kengala, is a different kind of job, however; Grettir calls it ‘kalt verk ok karlmannligt’ (a cold job, and a manly one),31 presumably in precise contrast to the ﬁreside back-rubbing. Grettir goes on to remark, ‘en illt tykki mér at treysta merinni’ (but trusting the mare seems a bad thing to me). 29

Ibid. 42. Carol J. Clover, ‘Regardless of Sex: Men, Women and Power in Early Northern Europe’, Speculum, 68 (1993), 363–87 is especially good on gender roles in saga society. 31 Grettis saga, 40. 30

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This is turns out to be literally applicable to the mare Kengala, whose behaviour, after Grettir’s mutilation, gives an untrustworthy weather forecast, but there is a strong echo of conventional medieval misogyny on the untrustworthiness of women. The term ‘mare’ is also used in Old Norse as a crude imputation of effeminacy in a man; it would seem too far-fetched to suggest that Grettir is hinting at an insult to Ásmundr were it not for the fact that Ásmundr has already insulted Grettir’s manliness; apparently without speciﬁc provocation he calls Grettir ‘mannskræfa’ (coward).32 In this tense tussle for supremacy, then, Ásmundr’s verse does not cap Grettir’s verbal mastery of the situation; rather, as I have shown, Ásmundr concedes it. Indeed nowhere in this episode does Ásmundr attempt to match Grettir’s language or answer him on his own terms. But Ásmundr’s verse does establish some verbal authority over Ásdís. She, like so many female characters in literature, must balance her loyalty to husband and son. We are told at the outset that Ásdís loved Grettir greatly, and after the power struggle with Ásmundr Ásdís comments with wry even-handedness ‘Eigi veit ek, hvárt mér tykkir meir frá móti, at tú skipar honum jafnan starfa, eða hitt, at hann leysir alla einn veg af hendi’ (I don’t know which seems worse to me: that you keep giving him jobs, or that he gets out of doing them all the same way).33 When Grettir leaves home, it is Ásdís who provides him with a weapon, his grandfather Jökull Barðarson’s sword. It is hard not to interpret the sword as a symbol of Grettir’s manhood, and thus especially signiﬁcant as his mother’s gift, withheld by his father. But Ásdís also makes clear the heroic ancestry of the weapon, and Grettir again ﬁnds himself at the end of a line of celebrated predecessors. He himself acknowledges the symbolic or at least sentimental value of the sword—as his mother’s gift it will be worth more to him than any more conventionally valuable treasure. Grettir’s relations with women (and with men who share his verbal skills) are markedly positive throughout the rest of the saga. It is as if the fundamental split in his relationship between his father on the one hand, and his mother on the other, is being constantly replayed. Grettir and other word-players Grettir’s physically aggressive instincts, and his characteristic tendency to speak in verse or proverbs, almost as an aspect of this aggres32

Grettis saga, 38.

33

Ibid. 41–2.

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sion, are evident early on in his relations with others.34 When he is 14, he becomes enraged about a ball game, and onlookers have to intervene to stop a ﬁght between Grettir and Auðunn, a boy some years older than Grettir, whom Grettir ﬁercely attacks because he believes he has been made a fool of in the game. The intervention is actually for Grettir’s beneﬁt because, although he has fought with a strength the others had not expected, Auðunn at length gets the better of him. But Grettir makes up for his physical inferiority with an authoritative verbal attack: ‘Præll einn tegar hefnisk, en argr engi’ (A coward never takes revenge, but only a slave takes immediate revenge). This proverbial utterance is accorded no response in the saga narrative. In fact, the drift of the ensuing narrative seems almost to disregard it, because we are told that the other players pressed for a reconciliation, and ‘helzk leikrinn sem áðr’ (the game went on as before). But Grettir’s proverb is not only not worked into the fabric of the incident as related in the saga narrative; it also completely transcends the bland reactions of the onlookers, because Grettir fulﬁls its oblique promise, and seeks out Auðunn years later to repay him for the humiliation.35 This is another clear instance of Grettir’s utterance operating on a different level from that of the characters around him in the world of the narrative, who may behave as if he has not said anything; only the ideal reader is aware of the signiﬁcance of his words. In chapter 16, Grettir’s encounter with Auðunn is alluded to as Grettir is travelling to the Alting; Grettir loses his food bag, and quarrels with a man called Skeggi over a bag which has been found. Skeggi mockingly reminds Grettir of the ﬁght with Auðunn, and Grettir kills him with an axe blow. The other men who are riding to the Alting ask Grettir what has happened to Skeggi, and Grettir replies with a verse: ‘Hygg ek, at hljóp til Skeggja | hamartroll’ (I think that a hammer/cliff troll attacked Skeggi; v. 11). In the intercalary statement at the end of the verse Grettir ironically remarks ‘Vask hjá viðreign teira’ (I was present at their encounter). Again, Grettir’s cryptic discourse goes over the heads of those around him; they almost comically take his strophe literally: ‘sögðu ekki mundu troll hafa tekit manninn um ljósan dag’ (they said that a troll would not have carried off a man in broad daylight).36 But the chieftain 34 De Looze (‘The Outlaw Poet’) rightly interprets Grettir’s tendency to speak in proverbs as ﬁguring his place in the tradition of ancient, proverbial wisdom; I would also stress the verbal superiority which goes with the crypticism of the proverb. 35 36 Grettis saga, 42–4 and 94–8. Ibid. 47.

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Porkell understands Grettir’s form of words and recognizes that Grettir is admitting the killing. Porkell asks Grettir what happened, and Grettir is said to give him a full account. This exchange with Porkell provides a good example of how Grettir fails, or refuses, to communicate in ways which are easily understood by his interlocuters, but will respond positively to those who have the linguistic ability to understand or even reply in verse to his own poetic utterances. Of course, Grettir has his freest exchanges with other poets, but there are characters in the saga whose facility with stylized discourse is sufﬁcient to put them on his level. Porkell is the ﬁrst of such ﬁgures in the saga; the most notable example is the seacaptain Haﬂiði. Grettir is sentenced to three years’ outlawry abroad, and his father Ásmundr arranges a voyage to Norway for him with Haﬂiði, who owns a ship. Ásmundr refuses to send Grettir off with a weapon, and gives him very little to go abroad with, while his mother Ásdís gives him a family sword, and her good wishes. When he arrives at the ship, he is met by Haﬂiði, who asks about his provisions for the journey—one assumes that he is puzzled by Grettir’s lack of goods. Grettir replies at once in verse, complaining about his father’s meanness, and he quotes a proverb in the verse itself, pointing out that his mother has proved the truth of the ‘forn orðskviðr’ (the old saying) that ‘bezt es barni . . . móðir’ (a mother is best for a child). Haﬂiði both understands the verse, and agrees with Grettir; it is clear from this moment that even though Haﬂiði is a male ﬁgure of authority, yet Grettir’s relationship with him is not set to reproduce the confrontational antagonism he had with his father. Grettir does not pull his weight on board ship, and his habit of reciting mocking verses to the other crew members leads them to threaten to throw him overboard. Grettir is simply deﬁant about this, but Haﬂiði takes a quasi-paternal line with him: ‘mun ek leggja ráð til með tér’ (I’m going to give you some advice). Unexpectedly, perhaps, Grettir is happy to listen to Haﬂiði’s plan, which, signiﬁcantly, involves verses: Grettir is to make up a mocking verse about Haﬂiði, who will tell his crew that if he can bear such mockery, then they too should be able to put up with it. Apart from Haﬂiði’s sympathetic response to Grettir’s verse about his father’s meanness, it is not clear why Grettir is happy to accept Haﬂiði’s quasi-paternal authority. Certainly, Haﬂiði shows that he is able to operate in Grettir’s poetic mode when he suggests a plan involving verses, but

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it is clear from his ﬁrst reaction to the plan that Grettir’s high opinion of Haﬂiði has already been formed: ‘ “Aldri kveð ek til tín,” sagði Grettir, “útan gott” ’ (Grettir said, ‘I will never say anything but good about you in a poem’).37 Haﬂiði is suggesting something more subtle than simple lampooning, however; he challenges Grettir to compose a verse which is ostensibly derogatory, but which, if skilfully interpreted, can be understood as complimentary. Grettir is delighted by this commission, which serves to reinforce his linguistic solidarity with Haﬂiði, and to dismiss the other members of the crew as inferior readers. As it happens, the resulting verse also remains obscure to modern readers: Haﬂiði is apparently mocked for eating ‘draﬂi’ (a sort of curdled milk, or yoghurt) at home in Iceland, when on board ship he can eat twice a day.38 But the plan works, and most signiﬁcant is the way Haﬂiði and Grettir play out the charade together, with Haﬂiði loudly threatening a bad end for Grettir, and Grettir taking his cue and speaking the controversial stanza. Haﬂiði then responds with his well rehearsed plea for forbearance.39 The two men recite their parts like actors; both share in manipulating discourse to fool those around them. Grettir does not work any harder, however, and ﬁnally Haﬂiði recites a skaldic stanza to him: ‘Stattu upp ór gröf, Grettir’ (Get up out of [your] pit, Grettir). Grettir gets up at once and replies ‘Stöndum upp’ (I’m getting up; vv.15 and 16). Grettir then offers to help the rest of the crew, though understandably perhaps they disparage his offer of help and he responds deﬁantly with a proverb: ‘Munr er at mannsliði’ (one man’s help can make a difference).40 But Haﬂiði steps in and Grettir sets to work. It would be simplistic to suggest that Grettir obeys Haﬂiði’s injunction because it is expressed in skaldic verse. Nevertheless, this stylized poetic exchange reﬂects in its symmetry the close, and exclusive, relationship between Haﬂiði 37

Grettis saga, 52. For an extended analysis of this difﬁcult verse (and others attributed to Grettir in the saga) and a survey of previous attempts to interpret it, see Russell Poole, ‘Lof en eigi háð? The Riddle of Grettis saga verse 14’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society, 27 (2003), 25–47. Poole concludes that ‘the solution . . . remains elusive’. 39 Haﬂiði does not suggest that the crew take no revenge, but only that they consider deferring it until they are ashore. This is reminiscent of Grettir’s own statement after the ﬁght with Auðunn, that it is not necessary for a brave man to take immediate revenge. 40 Grettis saga, 55. 38

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and Grettir, and their natural afﬁnity is reﬂected in, if not a direct result of, Haﬂiði’s poetic abilities. Later in the saga, Grettir has a second extended poetic exchange with the farmer Sveinn from Bakki. This light-hearted episode shows Grettir interacting freely and good-naturedly with another saga character. It is placed in the saga narrative, though, immediately following Grettir’s most serious setback. In chapter 46 Pórir of Garðr, whose sons have been killed in a ﬁre in Norway which was widely blamed on Grettir, demands at the Alting that Grettir be made an outlaw. Even though Skapti, the law speaker, argues against the injustice of bringing charges against an absent defendant, Pórir, who is a powerful chieftain, prevails, and Grettir is outlawed. When he returns to Iceland, therefore, he has a traumatic homecoming: ‘Pessi tíðendi kómu öll senn til Grettis, tat fyrst, at faðir hans var andaðr, annat tat, at bróðir hans var veginn, tat triðja, at hann var sekr görr um allt landit’ (Grettir learned all three of these pieces of news at once: ﬁrst, that his father had died; second, that his brother had been killed; and third, that he had been made an outlaw throughout the whole country).41 This is plainly a major turning point in Grettir’s life, and as one would expect, both from the conventions of mixed narrative in other sagas and from the example of his great-grandfather Önundr, Grettir speaks a verse: Allt kom senn at svinnum, sekð mín, bragar tíni, föður skal drengr af dauða drjúghljóðr ok svá bróður; tó skal margr í morgin, mótrunnr Heðins snótar, brjótr, of slíkar sútir, sverðs, daprari verða.42

Everything has come at once to the wise poet: my outlawry; for the death of a father a man shall be grief stricken; and for a brother the same. And yet in the morning shall many trees of the meeting of Heðinn’s consort (O breaker)—because of such sorrows— (of swords), be more downcast.

This verse seems to include an apostrophe to a listener (O breaker of swords) but there is no one in the saga narrative to hear it. Indeed, an audience would compromise its ‘remote[ness] from the trafﬁc of common speech’, to adapt Ursula Dronke’s phrase, because Grettir is careful to give no indication of his response to the shocking news to those around him: ‘Svá segja menn, at Grettir brygði engan veg 41

Grettis saga, 147.

42

Ibid. 147 (v. 30).

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skapi við tessar fréttir ok var jafnglaðr sem áðr’ (People say that Grettir made no change in his demeanour in response to what he had heard, but was as cheerful as ever). The saga author, ignoring the implications of the apostrophe contained in the verse, has Grettir express his feelings to the saga audience and disdain communication with those around him in the narrative. At this point, Sveinn, who lives at Bakki, is introduced abruptly into the narrative. We are told that he ‘kvað opt, svá at gaman var at’ (often made up verses for fun).43 The prose saga author turns back to Grettir, who disguises himself,44 sets off in the middle of the night, and steals a horse from the farm at Bakki to travel on northwards. Sveinn’s servants witness the theft, but when told of it Sveinn only laughs, and speaks a verse. The content of the verse does not suggest a humorous response—‘tjófr lét hönd of hrífa . . . Söðulkollu’ (a thief has laid hands on Söðulkolla; v. 31). Only the saga prose— ‘hann . . . brosti við’ (he grinned at it)—conveys any good humour. Grettir rides on, chased by Sveinn, and leaves a message in the form of a mocking stanza with a man called Halli. Sveinn reaches Halli, and questions him; again there is no note of humour in Sveinn’s verse, in which the thief is called ‘slœgr slyttimákr’ (sly lazybones; v. 33), and Sveinn calls on his neighbours to help deal with him. Grettir leaves his next verse with a woman at Deildartunga: he calls the stanza a ‘gamanvísa’ (fun verse). Sveinn questions the same woman, in verse, and eventually catches up with Grettir at Gilsbakki. He challenges Grettir with the theft of the horse, and Grettir, in verse, freely admits it, cheerily concluding ‘láttu okkr vesa sátta’ (let’s be reconciled). Sveinn agrees at once, apparently regarding the verses as a sort of compensation for the theft: ‘er fulllaunuð hrossreiðin’ (and the horse-theft has been fully paid back).45 The two men then repeat their verses ‘ok gerðu at tessa gaman mikit’ (and they had a lot of fun out of this). They name the sequence of verses after the horse in question, Söðulkolluvísur (Saddle-Head verses). This episode has been seen as mysterious and puzzling by some critics.46 But much of it is entirely explicable and indeed realistically plausible with close attention to the complexities of the saga plot. 43

Ibid. 148. Wearing a hood and a cloak reminds us of Óðinn’s disguised wanderings. Grettis saga, 152. 46 See e.g. Lotte Motz, ‘Withdrawal and Return: A Ritual Pattern in the Grettis Saga’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 88 (1973), 91–110 (97). 44 45

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Grettir leaves his ship under cover of darkness, and in Odinic disguise, because he knows he is now an outlaw. He tells no one of his plans (so that the saga audience can do no more than infer them from the narrative), not only because of his status as an outlaw, but also because he is isolated and solitary by nature; he operates alone. His night journey does not take him very far,47 and so he steals the horse because he is determined to get to Gilsbakki before his presence in Iceland becomes known. He is heading for Gilsbakki because Grímr Porhallsson, a trusted supporter of Grettir’s, lives there. But more to the point, Grímr is the brother of Gamli, Atli’s brother-in-law, and he was with Atli when they were both attacked by the sons of Pórir. Grímr and Atli killed the sons of Pórir in the attack, and Porbjörn øxnamegin, who originally planned the attack, is not satisﬁed by the ensuing legal settlement: Grímr is to leave the district, and Atli pays ﬁnes. Porbjörn takes matters into his own hands and murders Grettir’s brother Atli himself. The saga narrative continues: ‘Engi kómu fram fégjöld fyrir víg Atla, enda beiddisk engi bóta, tví at Grettir átti eptirmálit’ (There was no compensation paid for the killing of Atli, and no one claimed any compensation, because it was up to Grettir to take on the case). Thus in chapter 47 Grettir rides fast and in secret to Grímr to hear the whole story and to plan revenge. The saga author has not left any loose ends; it is only his habit of leaving such a lot to be deduced that gives the impression that the episode lacks a realistic base. But even if this episode is explicable in terms of motive and plot, it remains oddly incongrous in the saga narrative. First, there is a clear disparity between the tone of Sveinn’s verses, and the presentation of his responses in the prose. In the saga narrative, the whole affair is treated as a light-hearted romp, a game which no one, eventually, takes seriously. As I have pointed out, Grettir in verse 34 labels the strophe a ‘gamanvísa’ (fun verse) as he tells a woman at the farm to pass it on to Sveinn. And his verses are in general distinctly light-hearted and mocking in tone, notably verse 34 itself, with its suggestion of burlesque in the solemn apostrophe to the unnamed woman at the farmhouse—‘Vel borin vella dís’ (noble goddess of gold)—and the playful identiﬁcation of Grettir by himself as the horse-thief—‘lautar áll heﬁr gripit vigg’ (the eel of the hollow [snake, or dragon, i.e. ‘grettir’ (gri47 Guðni Jónsson notes the saga author’s detailed and accurate topography here (Grettis saga, 148 n. 2).

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macer)] stole the horse). But there is no good reason why the farmer Sveinn should be disposed to take the theft of a ﬁne horse with such good humour, and he gives the impression of being fully serious in his verses; especially ominous and threatening in the context of Grettir’s outlawry is his statement in stanza 33, ‘heraðsmenn skulu hvinni | hefning fyr tat nefna’ (the men of the district shall be avenged on the thief for that). That Sveinn is so swiftly molliﬁed by Grettir’s disarmingly free confession that he stole the horse, and his readiness to see the verses as recompense, is to some extent prepared for by the combined impression of Grettir’s sense of fun in the episode and the fact that the anger evident in Sveinn’s verses is not conﬁrmed in the saga prose. But there is an even more marked disparity between the Grettir’s light-heartedness and the tragedy of his circumstances in the overall narrative context. Immediately after the good-humoured recitation of the Saddle-Head verses, Grettir travels on to Grímr, and from there to a meeting with his grief-stricken mother. Grettir’s implacable response to her is characteristically proverbial: ‘Pat er fornt mál . . . at svá skal böl bœta, at bíð annat meira’ (It’s an old saying that the best cure for one misery is to suffer a worse one).48 Thus the merry episode of the Saddle-Head verses is set in the midst of Grettir’s deepest sorrows, and the note in the saga narrative that Grettir did not let his grief show, but ‘var jafnglaðr sem áðr’ (was as cheerful as before), does not nearly account for his change in manner. In broader narrative terms, there is an artistic justiﬁcation for an abruptly contrastive holding up of the inexorable momentum of the hero’s downfall—Shakespearian tragedy provides perhaps the most familiar and successful examples of this bold technique in, for example, the gravediggers’ scene in Hamlet or the porter at the gate in Macbeth. Once Grettir has killed Porbjörn in the next chapter, and announced the killing in a skaldic verse, there is effectively no possibility of an upturn in his fortunes. But to suggest that the placing of the Saddle-Head episode is the result of literary artiﬁce implies either that the saga author invented the episode, or that he re-placed it in the saga narrative at an artistically satisfying point. Guðni Jónsson remarks in his introduction to the saga that the Saddle-Head verses are fully consonant with the style and technique of the other strophes in the saga and that such narrative episodes as this one are inextricable from the main body of the saga, and very unlikely to 48

Ibid. 153.

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have had separate origins.49 I would be inclined to agree with him on both counts. The wordplay I have drawn attention to in verse 34, for instance, is characteristic of a number of Grettir’s verses elsewhere in the saga.50 There is a strong tie between the verses themselves and the saga narrative’s context of the ride to Grímr in Gilsbakki, for two separate strophes include the proper names as being Grettir’s destination on the stolen horse. But although, as I have just outlined, the horse-theft is plausibly and indeed convincingly integrated into the narrative of Grettir’s return to Iceland with his brother’s death to avenge, none of the verses alludes to Grettir’s actual reason, in the sense of motive, for stealing the horse. In other words, though the verses require that Grettir is on his way to see Grímr at Gilsbakki, they do not indicate what the occasion of the visit might be. Grímr offers Grettir support at various times during his outlawry, and I would argue that the theft of the horse might originally have belonged with traditions of Grettir’s exploits as an outlaw, and was not always necessarily associated with the very beginning of it. The saga author has, I would suggest, purposefully and boldly placed this episode in stark contrast to Grettir’s desolate personal circumstances, and even chosen to emphasize its gaiety. As an outlaw, Grettir might well have occasion to raid farms in the districts he hides out in, and Sveinn’s anger at the theft of his horse, his fears that the thief may present a continuing threat (v. 31) and his threatening suggestion that this is a problem that the district as a whole will have to deal with (v. 33) would all ﬁt very convincingly into such a narrative context. As I have shown, Sveinn is surprisingly easily won over by Grettir, but this may be a consequence of the generally unserious way the episode is presented in its present narrative frame. We might perhaps infer more resistance from Sveinn from Grettir’s invocation of Grímr’s backing in verse 37: ‘Heim reiðk hryssu at Grími, | hann’s gildr hjá kotmanni’ (I rode the horse to Grímr’s—he’s a big-shot next to a peasant). Grettir’s offer of reconciliation may originally have seemed to be one he did not expect Sveinn to be able to refuse. It is tempting to believe that the Saddle-Head episode came into existence in exactly the way described in the saga—the two poets settling their differences amicably enough, and collecting and framing the verses in a narrative episode, which was then transmitted orally, perhaps with other traditions about the events of Grettir’s 49 50

Grettis saga, p. xiii. e.g. v. 42, with its play on the name ‘Porbjörg’.

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outlawry. But even if one would not go so far as to claim such fundamental historical authenticity for the episode, I think it is beyond doubt that the episode had taken shape in stories about Grettir before the saga reached the ﬁnal form in which we have it—that is, that the saga author did not invent or radically rework it. The verses would have needed their prose framework during oral transmission—each verse is very ﬁrmly tied to the narrative situation, with the careful unfolding of the itinerary of Grettir’s ride, and the direct addresses to Halli and the woman at the farmhouse. The verses plainly belong together in that narrative sequence. But that is not to say that the saga author played no part in adapting the episode for his particular artistic aims in Grettis saga. As I have suggested, the positioning of the Saddle-Head episode at this critical point in Grettir’s life may well be due to the saga author’s powerful sense that Grettir’s slow downward progress through outlawry should be held back brieﬂy by an episode of emotional respite, causing the author to lift the SaddleHead verses from a place amongst Grettir’s outlaw exploits to this place of high narrative tension. It is also possible that the episode was at some stage not the collaborative venture the saga narrative suggests. I have pointed out the disparity between Grettir’s lighthearted, perhaps deﬁant mockery, and Sveinn’s less relaxed approach in his verses. A less attractive slant on the exchange might involve Grettir himself (or indeed, some early author who admired the bold outlaw) developing the incident comically as a fabliau-type narrative, more directly in mockery of the poor farmer who is distressed by the theft of his horse, but is no match for Grettir, and is in the end denied compensation for the theft as a result of Grettir’s powerful support and linguistic superiority. But this, to his credit, is not what would interest the author of the episode as it now appears in the saga. Here, Grettir is shown making a desperate attempt to ﬁnd out the circumstances of his brother’s death from Grímr before the news of his return to Iceland reaches his enemies. At the inception of his outlawry, at a time of unmitigated personal tragedy, the narrative halts for a light-hearted account of a poetic collaboration, one of Grettir’s few, but psychologically very signiﬁcant, periods of fellow-feeling and harmony with a fellow poet. Grettir and women Although Grettir responded so truculently to being assigned childish or female occupations when he was at home with his father, his persistent inability to coexist peaceably or constructively with male

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society naturally brings him into association with the society of women, with whom his relations are quite different. When he will not help the crew of Haﬂiði’s ship, for instance, they accuse him of spending too much time with the woman on board, taunting him with a crude distinction between ‘men’s work’ and dallying with women: ‘Pykkir tér betra . . . at klappa um kviðinn á konu Bárðar sty´rimanns en at gera skyldu tína á skipi’ (You like fondling the wife of Bárðr the steersman more than doing what you should on board ship).51 Haﬂiði deﬂects much of the crew’s animosity towards Grettir by acting out with him the charade about composing insulting verses. But Grettir is still not pulling his weight as a crew member, and Haﬂiði resorts to verse again, this time appealing to an oddly gallant streak in Grettir: his pleasure in impressing women. Haﬂiði suggests in a verse that the woman (whom we take to be Bárðr’s wife) will want Grettir to distinguish himself, and Grettir responds at once: ‘veitk, at víf mun láta | verr, ef ek ligg á knerri’ (I realize that the woman will not be pleased if I lie around the ship; v. 16). In contrast to the crew’s laddish ribaldry about Grettir’s dealings with the woman, the verses spoken by Grettir and Haﬂiði depict a somewhat courtly relationship: the woman is presented as the classic instigator of heroic action—in this case, hard work baling out the ship—and Grettir takes pride in impressing her. There is no suggestion of any sexual impropriety other than the gibing from the crew, and in the verses Haﬂiði refers to her with the customary elegance of skaldic diction as ‘hör-Nauma’ (linen-goddess) and Grettir calls her ‘aldygg kona’ (faithful, or worthy, woman). Both of these epithets may be taken to refer obliquely to her status as a married woman, without the least compromising undertone. Grettir’s habitual unsociability in male company is also very evident when he stays with Porﬁnnr of Háramarsey, where the ship he has been travelling in has gone aground. Porﬁnnr is described as a hospitable and cheerful man (‘hy´by´laprúðr ok gleðimaðr’), but Grettir ‘lét lítit um sik; hann var fátalaðr lengstum’ (was introverted; he said little for most of the time). When Porﬁnnr goes away visiting at Christmas, it is not surprising that Grettir does not accompany him, for we have already been told that Grettir ‘var honum ófylgjusamr ok vildi eigi ganga með honum líti á daginn’ (didn’t go about with him, and never wanted to go out with him during the day).52 51

Grettis saga, 51–2.

52

Ibid. 56–7.

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This unsociability with his own sex throws him again into the company of women and children: he stays at home with Porﬁnnr’s wife and his sick daughter. Recalling Grettir’s tense and distant exchanges with his father Ásmundr, his conversations with Porﬁnnr when he returns from breaking open the gravemound and bringing back its treasures—an exploit beﬁtting a hero of the literary past of the fornaldarsögur, or, indeed, Beowulf—are conﬁned to skaldic verses and proverbs. His only stylistically naturalistic reply to Porﬁnnr’s questions is heavy with prophetic signiﬁcance: Porﬁnnr tells him he must perform a deed of some heroic signiﬁcance to be allowed to keep for himself the sword he has recovered from the grave-mound, and Grettir replies that it is not clear who will beneﬁt most from that in the end. Given Grettir’s violent career, this might be taken to be a gloomily elliptical prophecy about the dangers of providing him with a weapon. But in the immediate narrative future, it predicts Grettir’s favour to Porﬁnnr in saving his womenfolk from the berserks, who arrive during Porﬁnnr’s Christmas absence. Grettir’s demeanour when the berserks turn up is altogether different from his social manner with Porﬁnnr. Their leader Pórir asks if Porﬁnnr is at home, and Grettir replies completely straightforwardly, chatting freely to them;53 as Pórir approvingly notes to his comrade, ‘turfu vér eigi at togask eptir orðum við hann’ (we don’t need to drag words out of him). Grettir even volunteers some manto-man information: the farmer’s wife and daughter are at home, so there is at the farmstead anything a man might want, ‘bæði öl ok annarr fagnaðr’ (both beer, and [any] other pleasure). Pórir joins in with this innuendo, assuring the women themselves that they will have no lack of men while Porﬁnnr is away, and Grettir approvingly endorses his suggestion: ‘Slíkt er karlmannligt talat’ (Spoken like a manly man). Here, of course, Grettir is disguising himself verbally, adopting the idiom of male camaraderie, even to the extent of joining in their joke-telling session, with ‘margar kátligar sögur’ (lots of funny stories). His control over the berserks is absolute as he masters the situation by acting a part, by performing a script written by himself. But the proverbs he recites perform a double function: in the context of the narrative, from the berserks’ point of view, they are part of Grettir’s cheery loquacity. But they are addressed to the 53

Ibid. 64–5.

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reader rather than to the berserks, whom Grettir is planning to overwhelm with drink: ‘Orða sinna á hverr ráð’ (Each person has power over their own words), and ‘Öl er annarr maðr’ (People are not themselves in drink). As in the scenes with his father, Grettir shares a knowledge with the audience which the other characters do not have and this complicity is achieved through the play on language. Grettir celebrates his triumph over the berserks with a verse— ‘einn namk öllum vinna | ótrauðr beran dauða’ (I alone eagerly brought about a quick death for all of them; v. 19), and includes a graceful apostrophe to the woman in acknowledgement of her praise, calling her ‘gulls vel borin selja’ (high-born willow-tree of gold). But the verse does not give expression to what we might call the ‘real’ Grettir beneath his assumed persona; on the contrary, it simply slots him into the familiar elevated rhetoric of praise poetry, in which farmers’ wives are goddesses, and heroes perform great deeds without help. When the woman tells Grettir that he has won great fame, he replies teasingly, ‘Ek tykkjumk nú mjök inn sami ok í kveld, er tér töluðuð hrakliga við mik’ (In my opinion I’m just the same person I was last night, when you spoke so badly to me).54 But Grettir does not need to assume a disguise—verbal or otherwise—to seem like a different person; he characteristically surprises other characters with his unsuspected potential. When he asks Porﬁnnr’s wife for weapons with which to attack the berserks, she is sceptical: ‘eru vápninu, en eigi veit ek, til hvers tér koma’ (there are weapons, but I don’t know what you’ll make of them). This is a plain echo of Ásmundr’s deprecation of Grettir as he leaves home: ‘veit ek ok eigi, hvat tú munir tat með vápnum vinna er tarft er’ (and I don’t know whether you will do what is needed with weapons).55 Although, unlike Ásdís, she has reservations, it is the woman, Porﬁnnr’s wife, who arms Grettir. When Grettir, now an outlaw, is lynched by a group of farmers from around Vatnsdalr, in the north of Iceland, his life is saved by a woman—the formidable matriarch Porbjörg in digri (the stout), the daughter of Óláfr pá, who ﬁgures so prominently in Laxdæla saga, and Porgerðr, the daughter of Egill Skalla-Grímsson. Porbjörg’s husband Vermundr is away at the Assembly, but Porbjörg, unlike Porﬁnnr’s wife, is powerful in his absence: she ‘hafði heraðsstjórn ok skipaði öllum málum’ (she had the authority over the district and 54

Grettis saga, 69.

55

Ibid. 67 and 49.

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made all the decisions).56 Grettir defers completely to her authority. He concedes that he has lost control of events, and in answer to her demand to know what he is doing in her district, remarks ruefully, ‘vera varð ek nökkur’ (I have to be somewhere). Porbjörg has nothing but contempt for the farmers—‘vesalmenn’ (wretched creatures)—who have ambushed Grettir. She, like Grettir, feels herself to be superior to them. They have used physical force to overcome Grettir—although it took ten of them to tie him down—but, as a woman, Porbjörg cannot use physical force against him or them, and in keeping with this verbal rather than physical strength, Porbjörg resorts to words to restrain Grettir, demanding from him an oath that he will leave off raiding in the area and not try to avenge his ambush. When Porbjörg’s husband Vermundr comes home, he accepts the wisdom of her intervention to save Grettir’s life. Grettir too accedes to her authority, as we have seen, and it is notable that in his replies to her he never uses verses or proverbs, a mark elsewhere in the saga of his establishment of superiority over or distancing of his interlocutor. In fact, he puts himself into her hands with unexpected humility: when she offers to save his life, and asks what conditions he might be prepared to accept, instead of stating any terms he replies submissively, ‘Hvat mælir tú til?’ (What are your conditions?) Porbjörg’s matriarchal authority does not exceed the bounds of naturalism in the saga prose, but it is given mythic reinforcement in the verses which Grettir speaks to Vermundr in praise of her. The second element of her name—‘björg’—means help, or protection, with a specialized sense of the support one might give to an outlaw. But in his verse Grettir plays on the ﬁrst element of her name, relating it riddlingly to the god Pórr by calling the woman ‘lofgróinn | lauﬁ sœmðar | reynirunn’ (Rowan, praise-grown with the leaf of honour),57 alluding to the story in Snorri’s Edda of Pórr’s struggle with the River Vimur: Pórr grasps a rowan bush to save himself and Snorri adds, ‘tví er lat orðtak haft, er reynir er björg Pórs’ (from this derives the expression that the rowan is Pórr’s deliverance [my 56

Ibid. 169. It is worth noting here how Grettir’s verse echoes the imagery of the ﬁrst stanza of Ragnarsdrápa, in which the poet uses organic terms such as ‘blað’ (leaf ) and ‘gróinn’ (grown) as elements in his allusion to the shield which supposedly occasioned the poem (Skj I B, 1), and also to Egill Skalla-Grímsson’s Sonatorrek, in which poetry is called ‘mærðar timbr | máli laufgat’ (the timber of praise, leafed with speech); see Turville-Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 31. Grettir’s imagery continues the traditions of the greatest early skalds. 57

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italics]). Not only does Grettir indulge in a riddling periphrasis to refer to Porbjörg; he also draws an implicit parallel between his deliverance and Pórr’s: even the god Pórr needed a helping hand such as Porbjörg has extended to Grettir. Vermundr seems to share his wife’s air of authority,58 and although Grettir responds to him in verse, there is no sense that Grettir is establishing his authority and distance with it, as there is elsewhere in the saga. In fact, Grettir is completely lacking in ﬁght up to this point, and his voice is not heard directly. The saga author steps very slightly outside the narrative to offer, indirectly, a comment on the situation by Grettir: ‘ok tá kvazk hann mest bundizk hafa sínu skaplyndi, at hann sló tá eigi, er teir hœldask við hann’ (and he then said himself that he had never tried so hard to keep his temper under control so as not to hit those who opposed him).59 Vermundr and Porbjörg discuss him in the third person, and it is only when Vermundr turns to him immediately before the verses are spoken that we realize he is present. The questions he asks of Grettir are evidently framed to elicit the verses. This is an unmistakable echo of the question and verse answer format used in Eyrbyggja saga, when Vermundr coaxes an account of the Máhlíðingamál from Pórarinn. The effect here, as there, is to shift the balance of power from poet to questioner, as if Vermundr is controlling the delivery of the verses which Grettir gives up to him. Vermundr’s authority is reinforced by his magisterial judgements on Grettir; he begins by expressing his sympathy for Grettir’s humiliation at the hands of the farmers, but adds sententiously ‘ok ferr svá jafnan óeirðarmönnum’ (this is what becomes of troublemakers), concluding with a lofty dismissal of Grettir and summarizing his verdict with grandly metrical prophecy of his own: ‘Mikil mun verða ævi tín ok erﬁð’ (Your life will be impressive but arduous).60 Grettir has no reply to offer. His status is here at its lowest ebb: humiliated by farmers, saved by a woman, patronized by her husband, and producing verses on demand. Only in one of these verses, with its allusion to the exploits of the god Pórr, is there a ﬂicker of Grettir’s own mythic status as a man both above and outside society. Grettir’s exchanges with Steinvör, the widow at Sandhaugar, are 58 Although in Eyrbyggja saga (ch. 25) he is most memorable for his plight in not being able to handle the berserks he has unwisely chosen as a gift from the king of Sweden, he does play a serious and responsible part in supporting Pórarinn inn svarti. 59 60 Grettis saga, 169–70. Ibid. 172.

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not linguistically marked in any way—except, paradoxically, in that he does not use the proverbs and verses which characterize his speech elsewhere in the saga. Aside from his encounter with the trollwoman, of course, the positive relationships which Grettir enjoys with women reﬂect both a psychological and a sociological reality; that is, ﬁrst, the loving relationship with his mother, as opposed to the breakdown of relations with his father, and secondly, that as an outlaw, on the margins of society, Grettir is most likely to come into contact with women, whose husbands may be away—as Vermundr is—at an assembly, or dead, like Steinvör’s husband Porsteinn hvíti. When Grettir was a child, and ‘eigi bráðgörr’ (not well-developed for his age), his power lay in language, and in his mastery of verse. The episode with Porbjörg illustrates how women too may make up for what they lack in physical strength with verbal power. But it seems that when a woman lacks any way of taking control over her circumstances, like Steinvör, then Grettir feels no need to demonstrate any verbal superiority. Certainly, he converses perfectly normally with her. Porbjörg, with her impressive assumption of masculine authority while Vermundr is away, is the nearest Grettir comes to a constructive relationship with ordinary masculine social structures. He cannot relate to them on equal terms, only with what might be termed parallel societies. I have already discussed how he bonds easily and warmly with poets and wordsmiths, and de Looze has demonstrated that membership of this society moves outside the diegetical world of Iceland and Norway in the saga as Grettir is portrayed as a member of a literary, even ﬁctional group of poets which transcends place and especially time—the chronotope—of the saga itself.61 The saga makes not only numerous speciﬁc references to other sagas—some lost, like *Böðmóðs saga ok Grímolfs ok Gerpis; others extant, like Fóstbrœðra saga—but also many intertextual allusions to other sagas, as with Porbjörg, who is the granddaughter of Egill SkallaGrímsson. De Looze writes with great insight on the link between Grettir’s own ‘reutilization of a pre-existing discourse’ and the saga author’s own evident consciousness of its place in existing literary tradition. In just the same way, Grettir is the descendant of poets both diegetically speaking, in his great-grandfather Önundr, and extradiegetically, as the spiritual or literary heir of other poets in Icelandic 61

De Looze, ‘The Outlaw Poet’, 92.

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tradition—pre-eminently, Egill Skalla-Grímsson. Intertextuality is essentially a communication between saga author and audience, over the heads of the characters themselves. Therefore, for my purposes, the key signiﬁcance of the intertextuality of Grettis saga is that through it we can see the saga author producing a work which is self-consciously ﬁctional, a literary dialogue between author and audience. With external focalization, the main characters may be presented as knowing more than the saga audience, as when Gísli claims to know the identity of the murderer of Vésteinn, or Snorri goði gives Víga-Styrr secret advice about what to do with Vermundr’s berserks. In Grettis saga, the opposite is true; Grettir cannot possibly know that he is a literary ﬁgure, and the saga author communicates this extra-diegetically—over Grettir’s own head. Grettir and the supernatural Grettir’s other parallel society is that of the supernatural world. His ﬁrst encounters are aggressive ones: against the inhabitant of the burial-mound on Háramasey, for instance, and perhaps most famously against Glámr at Pórhallstaðir. Breaking into a gravemound is a common motif in fornaldarsaga and folk-tale, even ﬁnding its way into Icelandic texts in other genres, most notably Landnámabók and the Legendary saga of St Óláfr.62 Grettir’s exploit is acknowledged to be impressive in the saga itself—the farmer Porﬁnnr recognizes long-lost ancestral treasures amongst the booty Grettir brings back—but also serves as a signal to the saga audience about what kind of hero we can expect Grettir to be: one of a company of legendary ﬁgures who brings the past into the present— like Beowulf—by unearthing the treasure buried with the dead. Grettir’s second encounter—with the murderous revenant Glámr at Pórhallstaðir—serves to deﬁne the limits of Grettir’s physical strength, which have not been tested in his encounters with human opponents; his strength has so far seemed unpredictably limitless. But even though Grettir manages, barely, to vanquish his opponent, Glámr prophesies outlawry for him, and pronounces the curse which dogs Grettir for the rest of his life: ‘mun tér tá erﬁtt tykkja einum at vera’ (it will seem a trial to you to be alone).63 Glámr masters 62 See the story of Hjörleifr in Jakob Benediktsson (ed.), Landnámabók, 41, and the Legendary Saga, 32, in which Óláfr geirstaðaálfr gives Rane instructions on how to break into his own grave-mound. 63 Grettis saga, 121.

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Grettir with this curse; there are no verses associated with the episode. When Grettir has his ﬁrst encounter with Loptr, or Hallmundr, he is bettered both physically and verbally. Attempting to rob the stranger of his horse and goods, Grettir seizes the horse’s reins, but Loptr is the stronger of the two, and forces Grettir to let go. Grettir is left standing there as Loptr rides away, and his helplessness is reﬂected in his question ‘Hvert ætlar tú nú at fara?’ (Where are you heading for?).64 Loptr’s reply is in kviðuháttr, which, as we have seen, Turville-Petre characterizes as ‘the most ancient of metres’:65 Ætlak hreggs í hrunketil steypi niðr frá stórfrerum; tar má hœngr hitta grundar lítinn stein ok land hnefa.66

I intend [to go] to the stormresounding cauldron [cave] down below great downpouring snowsheets; there may the ﬁsh of the earth [Grettir] meet a little rock [hallr] and the place of the ﬁst [mundr].

The dramatic topographical details in this strophe conﬁrm the suspicion that Loptr is not a human person, but perhaps a ‘landvættr’, a spirit of the land or genius loci. This detail also plays on Loptr’s real name—Hallmundr—so skilfully that Grettir is bafﬂed: ‘Eigi er víst at leita eptir byggðum tínum, ef tú segir eigi ljósara’ (I won’t be able to ﬁnd where you live if you don’t speak more plainly).67 Loptr’s next verse simpliﬁes the directions considerably, giving straightforward placenames, but it is interesting that in it Loptr uses as a synonym for ‘men’ the word ‘bragnar’, which also means ‘poet’, after the proper name of the god of poetry, Bragi. The name Loptr—literally ‘air’—is used by the poet of Haustlöng, amongst others, as a nickname for the god Loki, notorious for mischief and shape-shifting.68 But the description of Loptr here, as a mysterious stranger with a hat obscuring his face, recalls much more vividly the ﬁgure of Óðinn. As we have seen, Grettir also disguises himself in Odinic mode, once wearing a hood to hide his face and trick his enemy Pórir (chapter 63), and once when he tells Steinvör 64

65 Ibid. 176. Turville-Petre, ‘Gísli Súrsson’, 389. 67 Grettis saga, 176 (v. 43). Ibid. 177. 68 Richard North (ed.), The Haustlöng of Pjóðólfr of Hvinir (Enﬁeld Lock, 1997), 5 (strophe 8). 66

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of Sandhaugar that his name is Gestr. The saga author is plainly presenting Hallmundr as a match for Grettir. But although Grettir does produce a verse in answer to Loptr, Loptr has already gone, and the verse is presented quite straightforwardly as a soliloquy, an effect underlined by the prose introduction which alludes to Grettir’s thoughts: ‘Sér Grettir tá, at hann heﬁr ekki aﬂ við tessum manni; tá kvað Grettir vísu’ (Then Grettir realizes that he has no power against this man; then Grettir spoke a verse). The verse itself is remarkable for its personal content: it sets Grettir’s encounter with Loptr alongside the most important relationships in his life: with his mother, which I have already discussed, and with his brothers, which I shall examine next. The verse both concedes Loptr’s superiority and expresses a degree of bravado and determination: Mér stóð malma skúrar mundangs hvatr ok Atli, staddr vildak svá sjaldan, snarr Illugi fjarri, tás ófælinn álar endr dró mér ór hendi, brúðr stry´kr horsk, ef hræðumk, hvarma, Loptr enn armi.69

They stood, in the shower of metals, Atli, brave in moderation (I never wanted to be placed thus) and bold Illugi, far from me when, undaunted, [he] the bridle pulled from my hand (the wise woman will wipe her eyes if I am afraid)—that wretched Loptr.

And when Grettir faces his next attack from his enemies, Hallmundr indeed shows himself to be one of Grettir’s most stalwart and loyal supporters. Grettir is defending a narrow pass (like Horatio, or Byrhtnoth), and he manages to hold off his attackers. The saga steps into his externally focalized narrative very slightly to note that Grettir was surprised—‘undraðisk’—that no one had thought to attack him from behind. But this is a misconception on Grettir’s part, for his opponent Pórir points out that in fact half as many more men are killed behind Grettir’s back than face to face with him. Pórir supposes that this is because Grettir is ‘fjölkunnigr’ (skilled in magic).70 In fact, this is almost true, because the supernatural ﬁgure Hallmundr is defending Grettir’s back—that is, he is acting like a brother to him. This is made fully clear during Grettir’s last stand on Drangey, in his ﬁnal proverb: ‘Berr er hverr á bakinu, nema sér bróður eigi’ (Without a brother, your back is exposed).71 69

Grettis saga, 177 (v. 45).

70

Ibid. 184.

71

Ibid. 260.

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In Iceland, Grettir not only ﬁnds Hallmundr a congenial associate in a hostile world, but also is identiﬁed with him. We have already seen that Grettir shares many identifying traits with Hallmundr: solitariness, poetry, Odinic disguise. Grettir is said to compose a poem in praise of Hallmundr, of which one strophe and a couplet are quoted, and Hallmundr’s own poem contains some stanzas which praise Grettir, and precisely corroborate the details of their meetings as recounted in the prose.72 But in this particular incident, it might almost be said that Hallmundr is Grettir’s alter ego—that they are, almost in a physical sense, two sides of the same coin. The identiﬁcation of Grettir and Hallmundr is also suggested in the saga’s account of the outlaw Grímr, who comes to stay with Hallmundr ‘í stað Grettis’ (in Grettir’s place).73 Grímr attacks Hallmundr with an axe, echoing the attacks Grettir himself is subject to when outlaws stay with him, especially another Grímr (chapter 55), and Hallmundr dies of his injury. Although Hallmundr in his dealings with Grímr has shown himself to be of superhuman strength, the ﬁrst strophe he speaks in response to his daughter’s anxious enquiry about his injury goes right to the heart of the tension maintained throughout the saga about the limitations of physical strength: ‘Pats mér sy´nt | at sínu má | engi maðr | aﬂi treysta . . . sem heill bilar’ (It’s clear to me that no man can trust in his own strength when luck fails; v. 50). This is almost a preﬁguration of Grettir’s own death. As his strength ebbs away, Hallmundr is said to recite the Hallmundarkviða, and the saga author indicates that he is citing in his text a selection of stanzas from it, apparently those most relevant to Hallmundr’s dealings with Grettir. Here again physical strength and verbal control are in inverse proportion. Hallmundr instructs his daughter to inscribe the poem in runes, providing in this way an enduring memorial to him, and the later reconciliation between Grímr and her (which is not presented with much care for psychological plausibility in the saga prose) also ensures the continuance of Hallmundr’s poetic fame, because Grímr is said to learn the whole poem off by heart. In short, Hallmundr, a ﬁgure with supernatural associations, superhuman strength, and poetic skills, lives outside society and dies as his strength and luck fail him, though he is 72

e.g. the verse says that between them they killed eighteen men, and the prose notes that Grettir killed six men, and Hallmundr twelve. 73 Grettis saga, 201.

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memorialized in textual form. The similarities with Grettir are very striking. Grettir’s identity is itself the object of a certain amount of playful manipulation in the saga, as we have seen. But the saga author also plays on the distinction between Grettir’s human and superhuman elements. As Ciklamini has shown,74 there is something of the troll in Grettir, and other characters in the saga conﬁrm this— as when, for instance, he swims across a stretch of sea to bring back ﬁre, ‘var hann furðu mikill tilsy´ndar, sem troll væri’ (he was an extraordinary sight, as big as a troll),75 or when he carries Steinvör across the river in spate: ‘hon sagðisk eigi vita, hvárt hana hefði yﬁr ﬂutt maðr eða troll’ (she said that she didn’t know whether she’d been carried over by a man or a troll).76 As in Beowulf, the distinction between the man and the monster he ﬁghts is often purposefully blurred. Grettir is much more than just a character in the world of the narrative: he belongs to a literary world of poets, to a folk-tale world of trolls and monsters, and, as we shall see in an analysis of his relationship with his brothers, to the cultural world of saga rather than romance. Grettir and his brothers Grettir’s older brother Atli is irreproachable in his behaviour throughout the saga. He is introduced as Grettir’s opposite: ‘hann var gegn maðr ok gæfr, hœgr ok hógværr; við hann líkaði hverjum manni vel’ (he was a straightforward man, easy-going, quiet, and gentle; everyone liked him).77 When their father does not feel up to going to the Assembly one summer, he tells a friend that Atli is so useful on the farm that he cannot be spared to go in his father’s place, and when Grettir makes his second trip to Norway, his father is feeble in old age but the farm is still prospering under Atli’s management: ‘tótti tat mikit batna, tví at hann var gæfr ok forsjáll’ (it seemed that everything had got much better, because he [Atli] was easy-going and prudent).78 In contrast to Grettir, Atli is settled, socialized, and prosperous. He becomes involved in violence in Iceland through a combination of his brother’s aggression—Grettir has killed Porbjörn ferðalangr, whose friend and relative Porbjörn øxnamegin urges men 74 Marlene Ciklamini, ‘Grettir and Ketill Hængr, the Giant Killers’, Arv, 22 (1966), 136–55. 75 76 Grettis saga, 130. Ibid. 211. 77 78 Ibid. 36. Ibid. 125.

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to ambush and kill Atli—and his own success, for the saga author notes that Porbjörn øxnamegin is spurred on by envy: he ‘lék öfund á vinsældum Atla’ (was envious of Atli’s popularity).79 Atli’s brave death—his spirited last words, ‘Pau tíðkast nú in breiðu spjötin’ (broad spear blades are in fashion now)80 are among the most widely quoted in saga literature—is much mourned by Grettir, who, as we have seen, expresses his grief in verse. The saga author notes that while Grettir is away in Norway, Atli remains unavenged, because vengeance, or a demand for legal compensation, is a brother’s duty where there is no father or son to take it on. Grettir’s younger brother, Illugi, exempliﬁes the ideal of unconditional support one may expect from a brother in life. When Grettir decides that his only option is to go to the island Drangey, Illugi at once begs to go with him: ‘Ek mun fara með tér, bróðir, en eigi veit ek, at tér sé fylgð í mér, útan tat, at trúr mun ek tér vera ok eigi renna frá tér, meðan tú standa uppi’ (I mean to go with you, brother, and I don’t know how much use my support will be to you, except that I will be loyal to you, and never desert you as long as you live).81 Illugi’s vow of loyalty also clearly echoes the heroic formulation of loyalty between a thane and his lord. In fact, on Drangey, Illugi is better than his word: after defending bravely until Grettir is at last overcome and killed, Illugi is offered the chance of saving his life if he will promise to relinquish a brother’s duty of vengeance for Grettir. He refuses the offer, and, like the legendary Högni in Atlakviða, laughs at the prospect of his imminent death: ‘Nú réðu tér tat af, er mér var nær skapi’ (Now you’ve decided on the plan nearest to my own heart [that is, to kill me]).82 Although Atli and Illugi are both mentioned by Grettir in one of his verses, their relationship with Grettir is not marked in any special linguistic way. They do not share in his poetic world, but rather represent, in their different ways, the world outside Grettir’s social and psychological isolation. Atli, the prosperous, conventional farmer, serves as a foil for Grettir’s eccentric waywardness, and Illugi is the epitome of fraternal loyalty, an element of Grettir’s world untainted by his miasma of lucknessness, which lives up to his expectations 79

80 Ibid. 139. Ibid. 146. Ibid. 223. Note that the last verb which Illugi uses, ‘standa uppi’, may be translated as ‘live’ but is plainly ominous in its literal meaning of ‘stand up’, given the manner of Grettir’s death. 82 Ibid. 263. 81

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and does not let him down. By contrast, Grettir’s half-brother Porsteinn is carefully drawn into the saga author’s complex poetic and literary presentation of Grettir. Porsteinn is the son of Ásmundr’s ﬁrst wife Rannveig, and though only Grettir’s half-brother, he duly takes on the duty of avenging Grettir’s death—in Byzantium. This in itself is a gentle piece of literary playfulness: some saga heroes enhance their fame by going to Byzantium;83 Grettir increases his celebrity by being avenged there. Porsteinn’s revenge, and the events which follow from it, are commonly known as the *Spesar táttr, named after Porsteinn’s lover, the lady Spes, and reﬂecting the sense many early critics had that the ending of the saga is somehow a separate and separable episode, a táttr, though few would now concur with W. P. Ker’s dismissal of it as ‘an imbecile continuation’.84 It is true that Porsteinn’s future role as Grettir’s avenger is announced relatively early on in the saga; in chapter 41 Grettir is amicably teasing Porsteinn about how skinny and feeble his arms are compared with Grettir’s own, and Porsteinn unexpectedly predicts that, in spite of his physical frailty, he will avenge Grettir. There is here an echo of the saga’s continual play with the balancing of physical and verbal strength: Porsteinn’s unlikely prophecy turns out to be more enduring than Grettir’s strength. As has been pointed out, the romance quality of the *Spesar táttr may be interpreted as providing a fruitful and purposeful contrast to the native Icelandic ethos of the main body of the saga.85 The saga author shows how ‘the last of the great Icelandic sagas’ rubs up against the new literary fashion for romance. Porsteinn, as the hero of the *Spesar táttr, is a character who functions in both of these literary worlds, thus bridging them. As we have seen, he commands little physical strength, but shows prophetic skill early on. When he is ﬁrst introduced into the saga, we are told that he is nicknamed ‘drómundr’, a word which may be a classical loan word (Guðni Jónsson suggests that it has come into Icelandic through Old French),86 meaning ‘galleon’, and thus apparently allud83 See Joyce Hill, ‘Pilgrimage and Prestige in the Icelandic Sagas’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society, 23 (1993), 433–53. 84 Ker, Epic and Romance, 195. 85 See Hume, ‘The Thematic Design’, 478–80, and esp. de Looze, ‘The Outlaw Poet’, 90–1. 86 Grettis saga, 34 n. 4.

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ing to Porsteinn’s slow pace. It might be argued, then, that even Porsteinn’s nickname bridges two linguistic worlds.87 And whereas Grettir, whilst being taciturn when young, demonstrates a precocious poetic ability in the saga, Porsteinn is described as ‘raddmaðr mikill’ (a ﬁne singer).88 Grettir is a skald, like his ancestors; Porsteinn is a singer who, when imprisoned in Byzantium for a time-honoured duty—the murder of Grettir’s killer—is saved by his singing: like Richard Lionheart, his voice attracts attention and he is released from his dungeon. There is also a clear echo—perhaps with a moral undertone— between Porsteinn’s successful attempt to exculpate himself with an oath and Grettir’s unsuccessful attempt at the court of King Óláfr. Grettir swears that he did not deliberately light the ﬁre which killed the sons of Pórir, and agrees to ratify the oath by undergoing an ordeal, but fate, in the shape of a small boy who provokes Grettir to violence in the church in which the ordeal is to take place, intervenes, and the king dismisses him. Porsteinn, on the other hand, is indeed guilty of an adulterous liaison with Spes, but his engineering of a false oath—a trick often used in romance tradition—is effective, and he and Spes live happily ever after. The ability to deceive people with a false oath—Porsteinn dresses as a beggar, and carries Spes across some mud so that she can then swear that no man but the beggar has touched her—might be seen as a skill inherent in native Icelandic as well as romance tradition. We may be reminded of Víga-Glúmr’s verbal trickery, and, ultimately, of Óðinn. It is certainly an example of mastery by verbal rather than physical means. Porsteinn also demonstrates his ability to compose verse in the Icelandic tradition, for when Spes asks him about Grettir, Porsteinn replies with a skaldic strophe. The response to this strophe is signiﬁcant: ‘ “Mikil ágæti eru slikt”, sögðu teir, er skilðu vísuna’ (‘Such things are very impressive’, said those who understood the verse [my italics]).89 Skaldic verse is a strange and distant form, associated in the mind of the saga audience with heroes in Iceland rather than with the patterns of romance. This sense of two 87 By a curious coincidence, the English place-name ‘Dromonby’ was recorded in the Domesday Book as ‘Dragmalebi’, and Gillian Fellows-Jensen suggests that the name must have derived from the nickname ‘dragmál’ (slow-speaking). See Gillian Fellows-Jensen, ‘The Vikings and their Victims: the Verdict of their Names’, Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture (London, 1995), 24. 88 89 Grettis saga, 34. Ibid. 276.

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worlds transcends the boundary between the diegetical and the extradiegetical: Iceland and Byzantium are worlds apart in the saga narrative, whilst saga and romance are worlds apart in literary history. The two worlds are emblematized by corresponding pairs—Grettir: Porsteinn, skaldic verse: popular song. It is of course to celebrate Grettir’s remarkable pre-eminence in Iceland that Porsteinn delivers his (only) skaldic verse; it is in all ways a ﬁtting epitaph, a backward look, and a voice from the past. Thus the verses attributed to Grettir mark him out as an isolated protagonist, a distinctive voice from the past whose whole essence is detached from saga society, just as the skaldic verses he recites form a sharply distinctive element in the saga narrative. This close, extra-diegetical relationship between the ﬁgure of Grettir and his association with verses means that the placing of the stanzas themselves—that is, where the saga author chooses to quote them in his narrative—will naturally have a similarly close relationship with the depiction of Grettir as hero, especially since, as I have shown, Grettir seems to establish power and distance by his use of verses; thus the verses tend to trace the ﬂuctuations in Grettir’s power, strength, and control in the saga narrative. As I have shown in my analysis of Gísla saga, the overall shape of the narrative is not an issue, because it is in a sense pre-ordained: Grettir, like Gísli, is an outlaw and, as is repeatedly predicted throughout the narrative, faces a life of hardship, pursuit, loneliness, and eventual defeat. And yet there is undeniable potential for an element of glamour in the literary portrayal of the life of an outlaw, and even of the deeds which eventually lead to his expulsion from law-abiding society. The opportunity is there for Grettir to demonstrate—and stories about him to produce variations on—his daring exploits on the fringes of society. The verses in Grettis saga play a remarkable part in controlling the mood of the narrative, reﬂecting the buoyancy or otherwise of Grettir’s ability to act independently and effectively, and assert himself as victor rather than as victim. verses and the mood of the narrative I have already discussed in detail the ﬁrst four groups of verses in the saga. The ﬁrst group consists of ﬁve strophes which establish Önundr tréfótr as Grettir’s poetic antecedent, a man who reveals little

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about himself in dialogue other than in the deeply felt skaldic strophes attributed to him. Önundr ﬁnally settles successfully in Iceland, so that this part of the saga serves as a conventional prologue to the story of Grettir himself. The next two strophes (vv. 6–7) then perform a quite opposite function: they are unattributed, and are presented not as dialogue, but as part of the documentation, in evidential verse, of a community. It is signiﬁcant that they commemorate two farcical, squalid encounters. They certainly do not celebrate individual bravery or distinction. The three verses following (vv. 8–10) form the dialogue in Grettir’s unhappy and unpleasant stand-off with his father. Grettir speaks two verses which contain veiled threats of violence, and I have suggested that the third verse, spoken by Ásmundr, establishes male authority over Ásdís while at the same time conceding Grettir’s independence. The verses in this episode reinforce and intensify Grettir’s determination to get the upper hand. In the fourth group of verses (vv. 12–16) Grettir builds up a positive relationship with Haﬂiði, who understands Grettir’s cryptic utterances, agrees with him about the unsatisfactoriness of fathers, and plays poetic games with him. Thus far, all signiﬁcant episodes in the saga have been accompanied by verses,90 and with Grettir the saga author has decisively established both the separateness and the verbal mastery of the poet amongst other saga characters. The saga author has also begun to use single or paired verses to ‘point’, or emphasize, Grettir’s individual exploits. Grettir speaks verse 11, a cryptic account of the axe blow with which he killed Skeggi—‘Hygg ek, at hljóp til Skeggja | hamartroll’ (I think that a hammer-troll went for Skeggi)—as an oblique admission, or boast, that he was the culprit: ‘vask hjá viðreign teira’ (I was present at their encounter). This verse also underlines Grettir’s verbal élitism, in the inability of most onlookers to understand the import of the verse, and to take it literally. And after Grettir has broken into the grave-mound on Porﬁnnr’s island, he answers Porﬁnnr’s questions about where the treasure has come from with a triumphant boast: ‘tó sék hitt, at Hrotta | hríð-Ullr muni síðan | fár at Fáfnis my´ri | fullteitr tannig leita’ (yet I see that few gods of the storm of swords [warriors] would be quite happy to seek out what the dragon sits on [gold] 90 It is important to recognize, however, that the availability of verses to the saga author may well have determined the inclusion of these narrative episodes, and that their distinction may in itself be a product of the verses.

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there; v. 17). In the next verse, Grettir uses the cryptic quality of skaldic verse to make an oblique request for the gift of a sword as a reward for his daring deed. This request recalls the incident of King Óláfr and Hallfreðr vandræðaskald in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, when Hallfreðr composes a stanza in exchange for the gift of a sword,91 thus adding to the number of allusions to celebrated poets in the saga, and also recalls the heroic ethos of the gift-exchange relationship between a ruler and the retainers in his service. Porﬁnnr sustains this impression with his demand that, in folk-tale style, Grettir must perform some notable deed to earn his reward.92 When Grettir duly kills the berserks who raid Porﬁnnr’s farm, he boasts of this latest victory in verse to a woman, Porﬁnnr’s wife. This verse sets Grettir’s verbal seal on a long narrative episode which has ended in triumph for him. Verses 21 and 22 also point to individual acts of violence: in verse 21 Grettir boasts that he has killed a bear when Björn has failed to; because the name Björn means ‘bear’, this verse also contains a threatening veiled prophecy and, although the two men are persuaded not to ﬁght on this occasion, Grettir’s next verse ushers in the actual killing. The killing of Björn is the ﬁrst in a series of violent acts in Norway which alienate Sveinn jarl, and others soon follow. Grettir and his supporters struggle to persuade the earl not to take action against him, and it is signiﬁcant that Grettir does not speak any verses boasting of these exploits. The earl is persuaded to spare Grettir’s life by three inﬂuential men: Porﬁnnr, Porsteinn drómundr, and Bersi Skáld-Torfuson. Grettir is allowed to return to Iceland, and speaks three strophes gratefully and graciously acknowledging the help he has been given by these men (vv. 22–4). Grettir’s poetic skills are here deployed to produce praise poetry, with ﬂattering and skilful wordplay on each of their names. But Grettir is celebrating his patrons, and not his own acts, which have brought him close to disaster. The recitation of these three verses marks the end of Grettir’s ﬁrst Norwegian interlude. Back in Iceland, the focus shifts from Grettir to his father’s involvement in a complex set of feuds with Porgils Arason and Porgeirr Hávarsson. Verse 25 is quoted (like verses 6 and 7) to 91

Hkr I, 330–2 (see also Ch. 1 above). See my discussion in Ch. 2 of the episode of Víga-Styrr and the berserks in Eyrbyggja saga; Víga-Styrr remarks that this is to behave ‘sem fornir menn’ (like men of old), 72. 92

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corroborate what is recorded in the saga prose; it is attributed to Porgeirr’s foster-brother Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, but is not spoken by him in the saga narrative, being introduced by the familiar corroborative formula ‘svá segir’, and identiﬁed as a strophe from the long poem Porgeirsdrápa. Like verses 6 and 7, then, it serves to establish the facts of the social situation in Iceland. Verse 26 also links the saga narrative’s present with what has been happening in Iceland, this time with reference to Auðunn, whom Grettir threatened to kill, in due course, at the beginning of the saga. But Grettir is dissuaded from killing Auðunn, and so the verse marks what turns out to be an abortive encounter. This episode is followed by a long stretch of narrative without verses, detailing the gathering of Grettir’s enemies, and some of his skirmishes with them. It has begun to seem like a long time since Grettir has recited a triumphant verse in praise of his own physical superiority. Grettir’s next confrontation is also aborted; his opponent Barði simply refuses to take up Grettir’s challenge that they test each other’s strength: ‘Legit hafa mér andvirki nær garði en at berjask við tik fyrir sakleysi’ (I’ve got better things to do than to ﬁght with you for no reason).93 Grettir tries hard to provoke him, but Barði will not take him on. Grettir ponders whether to attack him, but with unexpected caution decides that there are too many in Barði’s party. Icelandic society seems to have suppressed Grettir’s violent individuality, and accordingly his voice has been silenced. Almost as if to redress the balance, the saga author suddenly introduces Grettir’s own opinion on events even more directly than having him speak a verse: ‘Svá haﬁr Grettir sagt, tat hann tóttisk øruggr til vigs við ﬂesta menn, tó at trír væri saman, en hann myndi eigi ﬂy´ja fyrir fjórum at óreyndu, en tví at eins berjask við ﬂeiri, nema hann ætti hendr sínar at verja’ (Grettir has said that he wouldn’t be afraid to be outnumbered in a ﬁght, if three men were against him, and that he wouldn’t run away from four without trying it out, but that he wouldn’t take on more, unless he had to ﬁght for his life).94 This statement is simply derived from verse 27, which follows on from it. The verse is introduced as ostensible corroboration for what is stated in the prose—‘sem segir í tessi vísu’ (as [Grettir] says in this verse). Here we have an extraordinary instance of the saga author using a verse in documentary mode apparently to authenticate 93

Grettis saga, 106.

94

Ibid. 107.

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Grettir’s opinion about fair odds in a ﬁght. This has the effect of establishing Grettir’s views as both authoritative and, more signiﬁcantly, as a matter of independent record. For a time, the saga author is purporting to treat the hero—or, at least, material about him—as the source of his narrative, rather than as its creation. This odd effect is intensiﬁed by the saga author’s earlier summing up of his account of Grettir and Barði: ‘Ekki áttusk teir Barði ok Grettir ﬂeira við, svá at tess sé getit’ (Barði and Grettir had no more dealings with each other, so far as it is told [my italics]).95 But overall, the force of Grettir’s voice is beginning to fade, and the account of his ﬁght with Glámr has no verses in it. While it may well be that the lack of verses is simply a feature of the source material, it is also true to say that in his encounter with Glámr, although he demonstrates physical superiority, Grettir is overmastered by Glámr with a curse which remains active throughout his lifetime, and is in the end fatally effective: Grettir’s fear of being alone in the dark. It is worth noting that the saga author again creates the impression that Grettir’s own words are being quoted—‘svá heﬁr Grettir sagt sjálfr’ (as Grettir has said himself)96—to reassert his voice in the narrative, but the sound of his voice is eclipsed by Glámr’s subsequent recitation of the curse. As if to restore the old order of Grettir’s verbal presence in the saga, the next verse quotation ﬁts the familiar pattern of an individual verse pointing to a single act of violence. Grettir is taunted by Porbjörn ferðalangr, and in response recites a verse which is both threat and prediction: ‘tví kømr tar til sumra | tung hefnd fyrir’ (thus heavy vengeance falls on some people; v. 28). Grettir duly kills Porbjörn and leaves Iceland for Norway. In Norway, as we have seen, Grettir is defeated by a superior force—the inexorable power of fate—and speaks no verses. In fetching a light for his shipwrecked companions by swimming across an icy-cold sea channel, Grettir accidentally sets a house ablaze, and is blamed for the ﬁre. His attempts to establish his innocence are thwarted when he is roused to violence by a mysterious small boy who provokes him; King Óláfr declares that Grettir’s ill-luck can never be overcome. But after this grim judgement, the narrative returns once more to the pattern of violence and verses: Grettir kills 95

Grettis saga, 106–7.

96

Ibid. 121.

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a berserk, and records his triumph in verse. However, the episode is very perfunctory—no more than an unremarkable reworking of Grettir’s earlier encounters—and I would suggest that its inclusion in the narrative is due to the part it plays in establishing the rhythm of Grettir’s ﬂuctuating fortunes: verseless setbacks interspersed with minor triumphs commemorated with verses. While Grettir is in Norway, his brother Atli becomes entangled in feuding in Iceland and is killed. Grettir’s actual absence is underlined by the absence of verses in this detailed narrative episode, which ends with the comment that Atli’s death remains unavenged because Grettir is out of the country. I have already discussed the ﬁrst verse Grettir speaks on his return from Norway, to ﬁnd that his father has died, his brother has been killed, and he himself has been outlawed. For the ﬁrst time in the saga we are offered access, through the recitation of a verse, to Grettir’s misery, even though the strophe also contains a threat of vengeance: ‘tó skal margr í morgin . . . daprari verða’ (but in the morning many will be [even] more downcast; v. 30). Here at last we have a fulﬁlment of the saga’s prologue, in which Grettir’s great-grandfather Önundr expresses his misery only in verse. Önundr, however, conﬁdes his verse to a hearer; Grettir speaks alone, in soliloquy. This verse by Grettir seems to me to mark a turning point in the saga. A balance has been maintained so far between stretches of narrative in which events have gone against Grettir and judgements made against him, and those episodes in which Grettir’s conﬁdent, deﬁant voice has come through in verse as he celebrates minor triumphs which offset the setbacks. But now the verse functions as apparent access to Grettir’s inner feelings. This turning point is emphasized by the placing of the SaddleHead verses (vv. 31–7) next. As I have already shown, the whole episode creates, with its gaiety and light-heartedness, an extraordinary contrast with Grettir’s present circumstances and future prospects. For a moment, it seems, time stands still, and the saga’s narrative progress—towards Grettir’s demise—is halted. The Söðulkolluvísur are immediately followed by a simple celebratory stanza spoken once Grettir has fulﬁlled his mission to avenge his brother Atli by killing Porbjörn øxnamegin. The stanza is addressed to Grettir’s mother Ásdís, but she undermines its triumph by articulating what the rhythm of verse and prose in the saga has prepared the saga audience for: ‘en tó mun tetta upphaf ok undirrót sekða

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tinna’ (and yet this will be the beginning and the root cause of your outlawry).97 From now on, Grettir’s verses about his ability to overcome opponents do not punctuate the narrative with such rhythmic regularity, and the saga author begins to do very different things with the verses he quotes. Grettir’s next confrontation—with the foster-brothers Porgeirr and Pormóðr—is, like his conﬂict with Barði earlier in the saga, checked by a third party, in this case their host at Reykjahólar, Porgils Arason. And in exactly the same way as in the account of Grettir’s failure to ﬁght Barði, the saga author introduces into the prose a quotation purportedly of Grettir’s own words: ‘var hann spurðr at, hversu honum hefði likat vistargørðin eða vetrvistin á Reykjahólum. Hann svarar: “Par heﬁ ek svá verit, at ek heﬁ jafnan mínum mat orðit fegnastr, tá er ek náða honum” ’([Grettir] was asked how he had enjoyed the food and the stay at Reykjahólar. He answers, ‘My condition there was that I was always delighted to get my food, that is, when I was able to get it [at all]’).98 Grettir does not speak a verse, but we do seem to hear his voice, and the effect is quite different from diegetical dialogue. The impression is of an authentic quotation from a biographical subject. After Grettir has been ambushed by the farmers of Vatnsdalr, and rescued by Porbjörg, he speaks four verses (vv. 39–42) which pay tribute to Porbjörg herself. Grettir owes his life to her, even though he was only overcome by the farmers because he was greatly outnumbered. Naturally, then, his verses can scarcely make a claim for success on his own account, and indeed even deﬁance would seem like bluster. But Grettir’s acknowledgement of powerlessness is strongly reinforced by the way Vermundr elicits these verses from him by questioning him, as I have shown. Grettir does not even speak the verses of his own volition. This episode also makes mention of the poem Grettisfœrsla, which, signiﬁcantly enough, is a poem about Grettir, rather than by him.99 This is an important new departure for the saga author, and conﬁrms Grettir’s status as a biographical subject, an independent ﬁgure whose saga—this text—is only one amongst a number of existing literary representations of him. The next group of verses (vv. 43–5) marks Grettir’s ﬁrst meeting with Loptr/Hallmundr, in which Grettir is again bettered, this time 97

98 Grettis saga, 155. Ibid. 162–3. See Óláfur Halldórsson, ‘Grettisfœrsla’, Opuscula, i, Bibliotheca Arnamagnaeana, 20 (Copenhagen, 1960), 49–77. 99

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both verbally—he cannot understand Loptr’s riddling verse—and physically. Grettir’s contribution to the group of stanzas concedes his defeat. In his lonely exile, Grettir kills outlaws who have been sent by his enemies to kill him on two separate occasions, but he does not celebrate his success with verses; these killings can hardly be called successes, in fact, since each one reinforces Grettir’s feelings of hopelessness. He cannot bear to live alone, because of Glámr’s curse, but he cannot afford to trust a companion, and the saga author rounds off his account of each killing by stressing Grettir’s dilemma afterwards, moving beyond external focalization to convey Grettir’s state of mind for the saga audience: ‘At engu tótti Gretti meira mein en myrkfælni’ (nothing seemed to Grettir a greater harm than fear of the dark), and ‘vildi Grettir aldri við skógarmönnum taka, en tó mátti hann varla einn saman vera’ (Grettir would never have outlaws to live with him, and yet he could scarcely bear to live alone).100 Grettir’s next verses praise Hallmundr, and allude speciﬁcally to his own vulnerability: ‘Hallmundr, es komk undan’ (Hallmundr, who saved me; v. 47). Grettir has not yet come to the end. He humiliates a boastful trader who tries to kill him, crudely celebrating his victory in verse 48, and he ﬁghts off more attackers, recording his success in a conventional address to a woman who asks for news (v. 49). But after relating these brief interludes, and a peaceful but lonely stay in Pórisdalr, the saga author moves on to the death of Grettir’s friend and alter ego Hallmundr. Stanzas from the poem Hallmundarkviða, which is a review of Hallmundr’s life, like an autobiographical memorial lay, a pre-emptive erﬁdrápa, are quoted and these stanzas (vv. 50–6), all refer to his dealings with Grettir. The quotation of the stanzas produces the effect of an anticipatory memorial lay for Grettir himself, especially given the blurring of identity between the two ﬁgures. The ﬁnal stanza in the group seals this: Hallmundr’s boast, ‘Svá alfa kind | ok óvættum | nær hefk öllum | ótarfr verit’ (Thus I have been a scourge to the race of elves and almost all evil creatures; v. 56), could almost apply to Grettir’s own achievements in ridding districts of trolls and revenants. The quotation of a group of verses has a powerful retarding effect on the pace of the saga narrative, but Grettir rallies again after the Hallmundarkviða. Instead of killing his next attackers, led by Pórir, 100

Grettis saga, 180 and 183.

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he plays a trick on them: disguised as a vagrant he misdirects his pursuers and they spend a day stuck in boggy ground. Grettir reports the success of this trick to an unnamed companion, but his claim is merely to have escaped his enemies—‘ferk einn á brautu’ (I alone get away; v. 57), and ‘Hnekkik frá’ (I hold back; v. 58). He speaks a third verse to Pórir’s daughter: she is told to report to her father that Grettir has dared to ride past his farmstead. This is the boast of a slippery outlaw, not of a ﬁgure of heroic stature. Grettir’s last great heroic deed is the killing of the trolls at Sandhaugar, in a section of the narrative well known as an analogue to the heroic deeds of Beowulf. We as saga audience have come to expect that Grettir will commemorate his victory in verse, and, given that the householder for whom he performs the feat is the young widow Steinvör, the scene is set for a conventional boast to a woman after a conﬂict. But Grettir’s verses (vv. 60–1) are not presented as a recitation, but as being carved on a rune-stick, ‘forkunnliga vel’ (with excellent craftsmanship).101 Presenting the verses in this way has a striking effect in the narrative. Grettir’s voice is silenced; the illusion that he is speaking in the narrative is lost. However, this is replaced by the clear indication of physical permanence about his utterance: Grettir’s poetry and hence, in a sense, his voice, has been preserved and memorialized. The poem Grettisfœrsla which the farmers composed about Grettir, and the Hallmundarkviða, both went some way towards creating this effect of a literary memorial to Grettir, but the runic inscription achieves it fully. Important too is the ethos of a runic inscription: Grettir’s verse is recorded in the old Germanic alphabet which is next used in the saga by the old woman Puríðr to carve a malevolent spell on Grettir, an inscription she chants over, and smears with blood in a pagan ritual. When the log is washed up on Drangey, Grettir chops at the log with his axe, and wounds himself. That the wound should turn septic, and the infection so weaken Grettir that he cannot properly withstand his enemies’ last attack, is only to expected, whether a saga audience takes a superstitious or a naturalistic view of the blood-smeared runes. In thematic terms, though, we can say unequivocally that Grettir has at last been overcome by a form of language, either a pagan spell or a contaminated carving. Grettir’s own verses on the rune-stick offer a clear contrast to this: Grettir’s physical existence may be erased by language, but he is immortalized 101

Grettis saga, 216.

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by the physical inscription of his poetry. Such modulation of the physical and the symbolic is also reﬂected in the description of the runestick, on which Grettir’s elaborate verses are said to be beautifully carved; Grettir, like Gísli, is a craftsman. Grettir’s next attacker is Póroddr, the son of Snorri goði. Grettir refuses to be provoked by him, and the scene is a telling reversal of his encounter with Barði earlier in the saga: this time it is Grettir who chooses not to ﬁght. Grettir overcomes his temper and his hitherto uncontrollable urge for violent action. Instead, he rationalizes the implications of such action: ‘ekki hræðumk ek, at tú verðir mér at bana, en hræðumk ek hærukarlinn Snorra goða, föður tinn, ok ráð hans’ (I’m not afraid that you will kill me—what I am afraid of is old man Snorri goði, your father, and his plans).102 There is no verse, and Grettir’s next move is to take up his defensive position on Drangey. His refusal to harm Póroddr is his last potentially violent encounter before his death on Drangey, but he still has two minor triumphs to come, one linguistic and the other sexual; both are commemorated with verses. The ﬁrst is his light-hearted encounter with the men of the Hegranes assembly, whom he fools into an elaborate, rhetorically stylized formal declaration of safe conduct for himself before revealing his identity to them and speaking two mocking verses. Fortunately, the power of formal language survives this mockery, and the farmers keep their word. Grettir’s second foray away from Drangey is equally light-hearted: after swimming over to Reykjanes, and bathing in the hot springs there, he falls asleep, and two women laugh at how disproportionately small his genitals are. Grettir answers the criticism with verses (vv. 64–5), and substantiates his claims with appropriate action. In three manuscripts103 these verses are Grettir’s last in the saga, and his ﬁnal defence on Drangey has no verses associated with it. The verses which are quoted in AM 551 A, 4to are spoken by Grettir as he recognizes that Puríðr’s spells are beginning to take effect. Verse 66 brings together the three killings Grettir committed in Norway, which have been separately treated in the saga narrative, and the following three verses (vv. 67–9) refer to the killing of Torﬁ Vébrandsson, who is not mentioned in the saga prose. Verse 70 summarizes, alluding without more speciﬁc reference to Grettir’s 102 103

Ibid. 221. AM 556 A, 4to, AM 152, fol., and Delagardie 10, fol., Uppsölum.

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success as a ﬁghter. Plainly, it has been thought inappropriate that Grettir, whose life has been so closely associated with verse, should end his life without further recitation. But silence from Grettir is in some ways in keeping with the rhythm of the saga narrative so far, in which, as Grettir’s outlawry wears on, his voice ﬁrst concedes his vulnerability and misery, and then either fades, or becomes detached from him, apart from the odd, brief episode of light-hearted respite. Throughout the saga, Grettir’s verses express his sociopathic nature, his inability to ﬁt in. Even in the last two verse episodes—the fooling of the men of Hegranes and the horseplay with the girls at Reykir, Grettir drops into Icelandic society as if from another world, demonstrating superiority and then disappearing back to Drangey. But in his ﬁnal ﬁght with Porbjörn and his men, it is a male social group which overcomes him. Grettir’s death is a silencing of his verses in the sagas, not an occasion for deﬁance or regret. Before the saga ends, there are three more verses to be quoted, none of them by Grettir. After Grettir’s death, Porbjörn öngull, who led the attack on him, and killed Illugi, travels to Bjarg where Ásdís lives, with Grettir’s head. Placing Grettir’s head on the ﬂoor, in front of Ásdís, Porbjörn öngull proposes, in verse, that it should be preserved in salt—a grotesque extension of the physical preservation of Grettir’s memory and verses we have already seen in the saga narrative. As de Looze has pointed out, there is a gruesome echo of Egils saga here, with its head-ransom poem Höfuðlausn, and its link to Grettir through Porbjörg, Egill’s granddaughter, who saves Grettir.104 Perhaps too there is an allusion to the head of Mímir, Óðinn’s oracle, and to Egill’s metaphorical play on the physical and metaphysical natures of his own head in Höfuðlausn. But much more disturbing is the echo of Beowulf bringing back Grendel’s head to Heorot, to Wealhtheow’s distress. Ásdís’s verse in deﬁance of Porbjörn, however, mocking him, is an echo of Grettir’s own verbal mastery, and the fulﬁlment of her role as Grettir’s loyal support in the saga. And the ﬁnal verse in the saga, ﬁttingly, is Porsteinn’s elegiac tribute to Grettir recited in Byzantium: Eigi máttu átta eggtings boðar, hringa Grund, ór Grettis hendi 104

Eight bidders of the blade-assembly [warriors] could not, O land of rings, from brave Grettir’s hand

De Looze, ‘The Outlaw Poet’, 90.

GRETTIS SAGA geðrakks koma saxi, áðr hvardyggvir hjuggu herðendr fetils gerðar axlarfót af y´ti unnblakks hugar rökkum.105

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prise the short sword, before the valiant hardeners of the strap of the scabbard [warriors] struck the limb of the shoulder [arm] from the brave sea-steed rider [Grettir].

In substance, this verse relates directly to the aftermath of Grettir’s courageous defence against his enemies on Drangey, just as it is recounted in the prose. In its sentiment and expression—even in its apostrophe to a woman—it is completely standard as a commemorative battle strophe. There is nothing at all remarkable about it. But, of course, its very typicality is the point. Its signiﬁcance lies in its form, not in its substance; its value is all symbolic. Like Grettir’s own utterances in the saga, it represents a voice from another time, another place, another literary tradition. 105

Grettis saga, 275 (v. 73).

EPILOGUE: HRAFNKELS SAGA AND THE HERO WITHOUT VERSE In my analysis of the role of verse in Gísla saga and in Grettis saga, I have tried to show not only that the speaking of verse—especially as a soliloquy—may offer unique access to a character’s inner life, but also that it can establish the speaker as a character with a special relationship with the saga author and his audience. The clearest example is the way Grettir speaks some of his verse more in dialogue with the saga audience than with other characters around him in the world of the saga. Such complicity sets Grettir apart from the other saga characters, situating him on a different narrative level from them: the saga author presents his biographical subject directly, even self-consciously, to his audience. At the same time, the speaking of verse by both Gísli and Grettir establishes each of them as the dominating consciousness in each saga—as, in short, the character through whom the narrative would be focalized if the saga author were a novelist. There is another important aspect of each hero’s distinction from the saga world around him: both Gísli and Grettir are marked out as heroes from another literary and cultural context. Gísli is a ﬁgure who shares more in the grand heroic ethos of the legendary ﬁgures of Germanic story, as we see from the allusions to Eddaic verse in his skaldic strophes, than in the more down-to-earth ethics of the characters around him, and Grettir is himself a voice from the past, whose own genealogy reaches back to the legends of Beowulf and Ragnarr Loðbrók, and whose skaldic strophes are symbolically superseded by the new popular song of his half-brother Porsteinn. However, as I shall argue, the author of Hrafnkels saga is not concerned with the presentation of an old-style hero. By contrast, Hrafnkell is a ‘new man’, arriving from Norway with his father but without any other Norwegian prehistory. He is shown to build his power and reputation without any backward glance at previous authority. Hrafnkels saga is a story about the exercise of power in a community. Its hero Hrafnkell establishes authority over a district in Iceland far from the national centre of power in the south-west of the

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country. His autocracy is challenged by a neighbour, who is initially successful, but then ﬁnds himself unable to maintain this usurped authority; Hrafnkell reasserts himself, and establishes an even more powerful control over an even wider area. Hrafnkell’s relationships with other characters in the saga are largely, then, a function of his position as an autocrat: he acts alone, and there can be no doubt about his status as the central protagonist in the saga. And Hrafnkell’s own authority is real and effective in the world of the saga; it is not the extra-diegetical authority of Gísli or Grettir, who stand pre-eminent in the saga narrative through the literary art of their respective saga authors. In his centrality and his isolation Hrafnkell is comparable with Gísli and Grettir. But he is no poet, and there are no verses in his saga. He expresses himself almost wholly through dialogue and action, and there is little illumination of his inner life. In this brief epilogue I want to examine how, in the absence of verses, the saga author establishes Hrafnkell as a ﬁgure of authority set apart from the other characters in the saga, a ﬁgure who looks forward, and not back. I should make it clear at the outset that I am not making any claim that the absence of verses in Hrafnkels saga is necessarily the result of an exercise of literary choice on the part of the saga author—that he conceived the idea of creating a particular type of hero, and for that reason avoided skaldic stanzas. Neither would I claim that the saga author found himself without verses and developed a hero and a narrative method to compensate for the lack. All this would be to venture too far into the swamps of intentionality. The simplest explanation for the absence of verses in the saga is of course that there were none attaching to the subject matter in question (although if we allow the possibility—as seems overwhelmingly likely with regard to Gísla saga, for instance—that the verses may not have originally belonged to the saga hero, but were, at some stage in the development of the material, invented for their purpose, then one might argue that lack of traditional verses need not have hampered a saga author). But my concern here is not with speculation about the origins of the material which now forms the basis of the saga, but simply to examine how such a narrative operates without those effects—the presentation of a character’s subjectivity, or the sense of a voice speaking from the past—which we have come to associate with the quotation of skaldic verse in a saga narrative. Hrafnkels saga, like so many other family sagas, begins with a

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genealogy.1 It is not, however, a genealogy of Hrafnkell’s forebears, but a familiar and apparently widely current brief account of the antecedents of King Haraldr inn hárfagri. It situates the saga’s opening at a clear point in history (unlike Gísla saga, which, as we have seen, begins in a distant pseudo-folk-tale time) and it does not take the genealogy back into the mythic origins of the Scandinavian ruling dynasties (unlike Grettir’s genealogy with its roots in the legendary past). The saga fails to elaborate on any causal relationship between Haraldr’s rule in Norway and the emigration to Iceland of Hallfreðr, Hrafnkell’s father; there is no explicit suggestion, for instance, that Hallfreðr leaves Norway in response to Haraldr’s newly established hegemony. This is not surprising, since Hallfreðr is not identiﬁed as a member of the Norwegian landed class who, according to saga convention at least, especially resented the prospect of living under the overlordship of Haraldr, but it is unusual not to relate a settler to that social context. We should also notice here that the saga has no Norwegian ‘prelude’ such as we ﬁnd in Gísla saga and Grettis saga. There is however, a self-contained prefatory episode which takes place in Iceland. It concerns Hallfreðr’s settlement of his new home, and it seems to be closely related to a similar story in Landnámabók.2 A close comparison of the two versions reveals differences between them which may direct our interpretation of the saga narrative. In Landnámabók, the original settler is Hrafnkell Hrafnsson. Like Hallfreðr in the saga, he arrives ﬁrst into Breiðdalr, where he makes his ﬁrst stay. According to Landnámabók, this happens ‘síð landnámatíðar’ (late in the land-taking period); in the saga, however, Hallfreðr is not a late settler, and this is vital to his son Hrafnkell’s prosperity later in the story, when the empty district in which he has established authority only then becomes heavily settled. But it is the central episode in this short prelude which differs most signiﬁcantly from the Landnámabók account. According to Landnámabók, Hrafnkell Hrafnsson, after spending his ﬁrst Icelandic winter in Breiðdalr, makes his way inland, pausing to rest in Skriðudalr (Landslide Valley). Plausibly enough, after a taxing journey over the mountain, Hrafnkell falls asleep, and dreams that he is approached by a mys1 Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða, in Jón Jóhannesson (ed.), Austﬁrðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 11 (Reykjavík, 1950), 1. All following page references to the saga are to this edition. 2 Jakob Benediktsson (ed.), Landnámabók, 299.

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terious ﬁgure who warns him to move on as quickly as possible. Hrafnkell wakes up and follows this advice; he does not get far before the location lives up to its name and the mountainside collapses, narrowly missing him but crushing a boar and a bull which he has left behind, presumably in his haste to leave. One might expect a saga narrative to make much of such a dramatic incident, but the author of Hrafnkels saga reduces the drama considerably. In the saga, having moved on from Breiðdalr, Hallfreðr settles (rather than simply resting) in Geitdalr, and is similarly told to move by a ﬁgure in a dream. There is no suggestion of a hair’s breadth escape; Hallfreðr is advised to move house rather than to get out of the way of an imminent landslide, though his farm is buried the day he moves out. The animals—in this version, a boar and a billy goat—are crushed because Hallfreðr has for some reason left them behind, even though the dream ﬁgure has not urged an immediate move, but has suggested rather the preferability of the new location than the immediate perilousness of the old one. Throughout Iceland, in locations such as Skriðudalr, people must occasionally have missed landslips by inches or minutes, and it is easy to see how popular stories would have arisen about such narrow escapes, or, indeed, how the place-name itself might have given rise to them. But the emphasis of the saga is quite different: the new settler is not so much rescued, as guided to a long-term, ﬁnal settling place by a ﬁgure we may identify as a ‘landvættr’, a guardian spirit of the place. Hallfreðr and his descendants are thus cast as privileged newcomers, favoured on arrival by the resident spirits. Their future prosperity is assured not by recourse to the traditions of the country left behind, for unlike such saga settlers as Björn Ketilsson or Unnr in Laxdœla saga, or Pórólfr Mostrarskegg in Eyrbyggja saga—or indeed Iceland’s very ﬁrst settler, Ingólfr—Hallfreðr has no Norwegian chieftain’s high seat pillars to guide his choice of settlement. He is guided by the guardian spirits of his new home, not his old. It is perhaps an extension of this clean break from the Norwegian past that the saga author, in marked contrast to the author of Landnámabók, offers fresh ‘historical’ explanations for the place-names in his story. Arntrúðarstaðir, Hallfreðr’s ﬁrst settlement, is said (rather implausibly) to have been named after a foreign female servant who died there during that ﬁrst winter. Geitdalr is said to have taken its name from the livestock buried by the landslide. And Hallfreðr’s new home has no past history: he simply calls it

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Hallfreðarstaðir. This would be unremarkable without the contrast with Landnámabók: there, Hrafnkell Hrafnsson moves to Hrafnkelsdalr, but his farm already has a name—Steinrøðarstaðir—and this unexplained name suggests a prehistory for the settlement independent of, and preceding, Hrafnkell’s occupation of it. In Hrafnkels saga Hallfreðr names his own virgin territory and new farms. This pattern is repeated when his son Hrafnkell grows up: he sees an uninhabited valley leading off from Jökulsdalr, and at once establishes independence from his father, setting up his own farm with the notably grand name of Aðalból—‘The Manor’—rather than inheriting his father’s settlement. All this makes it quite plain that it could not be part of the saga author’s purposes to present Hrafnkell as a hero who speaks verses—the discourse of the heroic past. Hrafnkell’s own rise to power is recounted very swiftly in the saga. The saga author makes no attempt to explain how he manages to exert his authority over the whole of this new district. He simply ‘byggði allan dalinn ok gaf mönnum land, en vildi tó vera yﬁrmaðr teira ok tók goðorð yﬁr teim’ (settled the whole valley, and gave people land on condition that he should be their superior, and established himself as their ‘goði’ [priest-chieftain]).3 Hrafnkell does not inherit this authority, but just assumes it. In fact, one detail—that Hrafnkell somehow compels allegiance from the men living in Jökulsdalr even though he treats them unfairly, in contrast to his kindness with the people from his own valley—actually mystiﬁes Hrafnkell’s assumption of power, rather than offering any explanation of it. Hrafnkell operates in solitary pre-eminence; the distance he keeps from the society of those around him is as marked as the isolation of Grettir and Gísli as outlaws. Hrafnkell has no conﬁdants. No siblings are mentioned in the saga, and though his wife is named, she plays no part whatever in the saga narrative, unlike Auðr in Gísla saga. The only exception is suggested in the account of the friendly relationship between Hrafnkell and his father. Interestingly, Hrafnkell seems quite free from the shadow of parental authority—their frequent visits to each other suggest more the easy coexistence of equals, and might be contrasted with Grettir’s unhappy relationship with his father. Hrafnkell is not even constrained by the law, refusing to recognize the requirement to pay compensation for anyone 3

Hrafnkels saga, 99.

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killed in a duel with him. He behaves not as an outlaw, but as one above the law. In purely practical terms, then, there is little scope for Hrafnkell to reveal his thoughts and feelings to other saga characters, but more signiﬁcantly, I shall argue that the saga author continues to develop and deepen a theme we have already seen to be aired in the narrative: the mystiﬁcation of Hrafnkell’s access to and disposition of power over his neighbours. Hrafnkell’s unfettered autonomy in the exercise of his power is borne out by the account of his dealings with the shepherd Einarr, whom he kills for disobeying a prohibition on riding Hrafnkell’s sacred horse Freyfaxi. Einarr’s father Porbjörn, showing a lack of foresight which is later in the saga revealed to be a key aspect of his character, has sent his son to look for work outside the home farm, but not in time for the usual hiring period. When Einarr goes to Hrafnkell to ask for work, Hrafnkell at once points this out to him, explaining that he has only the meanest, lowest-status job still unﬁlled: herding sheep and gathering ﬁrewood. Hrafnkell does not make any special provision for Einarr, even though he concedes that had Einarr come looking for work in time, he would have been glad to employ him. In fact, Hrafnkell takes pains, when warning Einarr not to ride Freyfaxi, to let him know that he will not be treated any differently from the other shepherds: ‘En tó vil ek skilja á við tik einn hlut sem aðra smalamenn mína’ (But I’ll make one thing clear to you just as (I have) to my other shepherds).4 Perhaps precisely because Einarr is not a natural shepherd, he attempts to chase after sheep which have gone missing (in apparent ignorance of the nursery rhyme advice: ‘Leave them alone, and they’ll come home’). He rides the forbidden horse Freyfaxi, tempted by the stallion’s uncharacteristic availability, and his mares’ equally uncharacteristic shyness, and thus activates Hrafnkell’s sworn revenge. There are two key choices to be made here: Einarr’s decision whether or not to ride the stallion, in spite of the clear prohibition, and Hrafnkell’s decision whether or not to carry out his threat to kill anyone who does, in view of his solemn oath. Neither character can discuss his decision with anyone else; Einarr’s isolated existence herding sheep in the mountains above Aðalbol approaches the situation of an outlaw in all practical respects and, as we have seen, Hrafnkell habitually acts alone. In such circumstances, in 4

Ibid. 101.

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another saga, we might expect the use of a verse to express each man’s dilemma. But here the saga author simply breaches external focalization, and recounts, in the manner of an omniscient author, what the two of them were thinking as they each came to their fateful decision. Einarr reasons with himself, we are told, that Hrafnkell will not ﬁnd out about it even if he does ride Freyfaxi. This simple, practical reasoning—on the face of it, a sensible enough judgement—provides the saga audience with a vital insight into Einarr’s character, and hence his function in the saga. He makes no casuistical attempt to reinterpret his understanding of Hrafnkell’s prohibition, nor to convince himself that Hrafnkell may not after all carry out the threat. Most signiﬁcantly, he makes no attempt at any self-justiﬁcation; he does not, for example, argue that Hrafnkell might rather have his sheep recovered that have his horse unridden. Einarr is shown to be perfectly well aware that he is doing wrong; but he expects not to be found out. This motivation plays an important part in clarifying our understanding of Einarr’s guilt—the saga author takes the trouble to intervene, but not the opportunity to provide Einarr with any mitigating rationale. This ensures that the issue is not complicated by sympathy for Einarr and an equivalent sense of grievance against Hrafnkell. Hrafnkell also faces a dilemma. He goes some way towards expressing it when he confronts Einarr: ‘munda ek hafa geﬁt tér upp eina sök, ef ek hefða eigi svá mikit um mælt’ (I would have forgiven you one offence, if I hadn’t sworn such a solemn oath about it). But once again the saga author turns to omniscient representation to express Hrafnkell’s motivation: ‘En við tann átrúnað, at ekki verði at teim mönnum, er heitstrengingar fella á sik, tá hljóp hann af baki til hans ok hjó hann banahögg’ (And in the belief that no good comes to people who break solemn oaths, then he leapt at him from his horse and killed him).5 Again, one brief moment of insight tells the audience a great deal about Hrafnkell. Most obviously, he takes no pleasure in killing; nor does he show any degree of self-righteousness by suggesting as justiﬁcation for the killing that Einarr deserved his punishment, and brought it on himself, while he, Hrafnkell, had done his bit by giving Einarr due warning. Hrafnkell is presented simply as ﬁnding himself caught in a trap of his own making. Hrafnkell’s devo5

Hrafnkels saga, 105.

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tion to heathenism, a faith which led him to build a large temple at Aðalból, to be given the nickname ‘Freysgoði’ (priest of Freyr), and ﬁnally, to consecrate the horse itself to the god, has forced his hand. We learn from the saga author’s intervention that Hrafnkell is not, as he seemed to be, answerable to no one. He feels bound by his oath to Freyr. Absolute freedom of action must await his rebuilt life in the second half of the saga. The killing of Einarr, far from freeing Hrafnkell from his selfimposed dilemma, initiates a process which embroils Hrafnkell in his neighbours’ demands for compensation for the killing, a process which ends in his humiliation and exile. Hrafnkell’s exercise of power in the saga up to this point has not been expressed by verbal display; we have seen a distant, solitary autocrat, our only glimpse of his inner life being the saga author’s revelation of his conviction of a religious imperative behind the execution of Einarr. The motivation is articulated for him by the saga author. Thus, Hrafnkell’s power has not been reﬂected in any verbal mastery. But when his enemies get the better of him, they prove unable to assume his autocratic status, and their relative lack of ability to exercise power freely is revealed through the symbolism of speech and silence. I have already noted that the death of Einarr is ultimately the result of his father Porbjörn’s lack of foresight in not sending him to look for work in time. It is easy, especially on ﬁrst acquaintance with the saga, to take Porbjörn’s poverty as a ‘given’ in the saga narrative, and to see Porbjörn as a man of low status who is taken advantage of by those in power, such as Hrafnkell. But we should remember Porbjörn’s brother, Bjarni, a prosperous farmer with high-achieving sons—ﬁrst cousins of the downwardly mobile Einarr. It is Porbjörn’s inability to run his family efﬁciently—essentially, to exercise effective patriarchal power—which is his deﬁning feature; his poverty is a function of this. Porbjörn’s refusal to accept Hrafnkell’s materially generous offer of compensation for the killing of Einarr is entirely predictable in the light of a distinction between root cause—ineffectuality—and surface effect—poverty. Hrafnkell’s offer ostensibly addresses Porbjörn’s poverty, but actually represents an incisive response to the deeper problem: in offering to provide for Porbjörn for the rest of his life, to set up his sons and daughters (precisely as he himself had failed to do for Einarr) and to take in the whole household when farming becomes too onerous to be enjoyable, Hrafnkell is acknowledging Porbjörn’s real weaknesses, and giving him the

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chance to relinquish all his power and authority (and, presumably, dignity) as the head of his own household. Porbjörn is not prepared to accept the implications of Hrafnkell’s offer: he refuses to be patronized and insists that he and Hrafnkell go through the due legal processes as equals. Hrafnkell is simply astonished that Porbjörn should consider himself his equal. Although Porbjörn manages to enlist the help of his lawyer nephew Sámr, the two men need the support of a powerful chieftain in order to take on the chieftain Hrafnkell, although ostensibly he is their legal equal. The very fact of this necessity reveals the relative powerlessness of Sámr and his uncle. Their relationship with the Pjóstarssynir, powerful brothers from the north of Iceland, conﬁrms it, and the ﬁrst intimations of it are revealed in the verbal play of the characters: Porkell Pjóstarsson, when approached by Sámr for support, takes full advantage of Sámr’s subordinate position by giving teasingly unhelpful replies to Sámr’s earnest and anxious questions. The sense that Porkell is playing with Sámr is conﬁrmed when Porkell sets up an elaborate and obscurely comic scene apparently designed to persuade Porkell’s brother to help in the case against Hrafnkell.6 The unpromising tactic which Porkell proposes is that Porbjörn should stumble over the brother’s sore foot, which is tender after a nasty boil. Just as Hrafnkell recognized Porbjörn’s mental weakness—lack of foresight—Porkell sets his scene around its actual physical counterpart, noting ‘Mér sy´nisk hann mjök hrymðr bæði at sy´n ok elli’ (he seems to me much enfeebled in both sight and age). Sámr and Porbjörn are carefully directed by Porkell as to how to play their roles, but are given no hint whatever as to what might happen next. When Sámr voices his misgivings, Porkell, with careless cruelty, points out his powerlessness: ‘Annat hvárt verði tit at gera, at hafa tat, sem ek legg til, eða leita ekki ráða til mín’ (You can do one of two things: go along with what I propose, or not look to me for advice). Sámr and Porbjörn have been forced to surrender any right to understand, let alone to control, what is going on. Porbjörn set the legal proceedings in train by refusing to surrender his paternal authority to Hrafnkell, but now Sámr has surrendered himself just as completely, and much more absurdly, to Porkell. When Porbjörn does as he is told, and trips over Porkell’s brother’s foot, its owner Porgeirr reasonably enough asks what is going on. 6

Hrafnkels saga, 113.

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Sámr and Porbjörn, of course, have no answer for him: ‘En teim Sámi varð ekki at orði’ (Sámr and his companion hadn’t a word to say). Their lack of words corresponds precisely to their lack of power in the situation. It is also worth noting that the idiom used to denote Sámr and Porbjörn—in the nominative, ‘teir Sámr’ (the two of them, of whom Sámr is one)—effectively effaces Porbjörn from the narrative. In fact, since Sámr’s eloquent declaration of support for him when the prospect of support seems remote, at which point his response was grateful weeping, Porbjörn has not spoken a word in the saga narrative. In discussion with Sámr, Porkell tends to refer to him demeaningly in the third person. Having played his role as a half-blind, feeble old man, Porbjörn simply disappears from the saga. He plays no part in the celebrations when Hrafnkell is defeated in court. Porbjörn’s lack of voice in the saga mirrors his ever-diminishing presence in the saga narrative. Hrafnkell himself is silenced at almost the same time: he is physically prevented from voicing his defence before the court. But even though Hrafnkell is forcibly silenced on this occasion, there remains in the saga a contrast between the silence of those without the power to control events, and the habitual silence of a man like Hrafnkell who has already shown that he appreciates the advisability of silence in certain circumstances. His ﬁrst response to Porbjörn’s request for compensation is that the less said about the killing of Einarr, the better: ‘En vit munum opt tess iðrask, er vit erum of málgir, ok sjaldnar mundum vit tessa iðrask, tó at vit mæltim færa en ﬂeira’ (We will often [have cause to] regret this, if we are too talkative, and we would regret this less often, if we were to talk less rather than more).7 With this oddly elaborate speech, Hrafnkell may be making the point that the more often he and Porbjörn discuss the killing, the more painful it will be for Porbjörn; continually raking over old griefs is fruitless. Hrafnkell is also clearly putting action above words; according to his priorities, it is better to make a quick offer, and accept a quick offer, than to waste time chewing over negotiations. But there is a pervading sense of mingled threat and warning about Hrafnkell’s statement: ‘We’ll regret saying too much’ is readily interpreted as ‘You’ll regret saying too much’, and Hrafnkell is well aware that speech has the disturbing potential to make matters worse. This indeed proves to be the case when 7

Ibid. 106.

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Hrafnkell’s washerwoman goads him to attack Eyvindr; the saga author has made no suggestion up to that point that Hrafnkell might be nursing a desire for revenge, and would have acted without her goading. Hrafnkell’s view of discourse as inferior to action, and as being potentially counterproductive, is revealed again after his defeat at the Alting. His response is to go home and behave as if nothing has changed. What has been said in court—a declaration of Hrafnkell’s outlawry—and Sámr’s outspoken triumph at the Alting mean nothing if not translated into action. This is of course a fundamental feature of the legal system in saga society: verdicts may be delivered, but can be enforced only by action taken by those who prosecuted the case. Hrafnkell’s strategy of ignoring the court is correctly predicted by Sámr’s supporters, the Pjóstarssynir; without their urging of Sámr to action it would have worked. While Porbjörn’s silence is a measure of his ineffectuality, Hrafnkell’s silence underlines the point, integral to the whole legal system, that actions speak louder than words. Legally, the court’s decision against Hrafnkell empowers Sámr to kill him, but Sámr instead offers Hrafnkell the chance to start a new life in exile. The unsettling moral implications of Sámr’s ‘mistake’ in sparing Hrafnkell’s life are quite evident to a modern audience at least; I want rather to dwell on the issue of empowerment—how Sámr empowers Hrafnkell by the very action of offering a choice, and how that choice allows Hrafnkell the opportunity to take charge of and responsibility for his dependants which his own offer to Porbjörn denied. Hrafnkell recognizes that the ability to take power into one’s own hands is more valuable than any rhetorical, or heroic, gesture, and he accepts Sámr’s offer of humiliated exile instead of death. Sámr’s brother Eyvindr, threatened with attack by Hrafnkell, chooses a time-honoured heroic option—a digniﬁed confrontation with his pursuers—and is killed. Hrafnkell goes into exile with few assets: ‘Sámr skipti Hrafnkeli af fé slíkt, er hann vildi, ok var tat raunarlítit’ (Sámr allotted to Hrafnkell what he [Sámr] decided from the money, and that was really very little).8 Hrafnkell’s position is now comparable with Porbjörn’s. But more importantly, Hrafnkell’s settlement east of 8

Hrafnkels saga, 121.

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Lagarﬂjót is a replay of his father’s original settlement, though with even more stringent constraints. Hrafnkell has a wife, two sons, and other dependants, next to no assets, and he ﬁnds himself faced with starting a new life in an unfamiliar location. The saga author is presenting a sort of post-ﬁguration of the settlement of Iceland, recreating the process by which the ﬁrst settlers in Iceland established themselves, presenting a model of how they rose to power; how, indeed, they got to be where and how they are now. As we have seen, Hrafnkell’s father Hallfreðr had supernatural guidance in setting up his farm. But Hrafnkell’s ﬁrst tactic is in no way mysterious: by hard work and sensible use of the available resources (his own few assets as well as the natural resources of the area) he builds a farm, clearing land in the process, and does not scorn to supplement farming with some ﬁshing. As the saga author presents it, the timing is also fortunate, for Hrafnkell’s new area is at ﬁrst thinly populated, but is heavily settled after Hrafnkell has established his authority there. And ﬁnally, Hrafnkell is lucky with the weather: there is good ﬁshing in Lagarﬂjót, and a mild winter allows him to nurse all his livestock through until spring. This combination of sheer effort, prudence, and happy chance makes for prosperity, and a pleasing image of the original settlement of Iceland. There is only a faint, naturalistic shadow of the otherworldly help given to Hallfreðr in the complicitly favourable weather and resulting fruitfulness of his new holding; Hrafnkell’s settlement project, like his father’s before him, is in harmony with the mood of his land. Hrafnkell certainly has no explicit dealings with any supernatural ﬁgures, which we have seen to be the occasion of verse-speaking in Eyrbyggja saga, Gísla saga, and Grettis saga. Hrafnkell’s remaining project is to rebuild his authority. The saga author clearly ﬁnds this more difﬁcult to chart. At the beginning of the saga, we are told that Hrafnkell established his chieftaincy over the men of Jökulsdalr—that is, over those who actually lived outside his immediate sphere of inﬂuence—and that he treated them harshly. The saga author leaves open the exact causal relationship between these two actions: was Hrafnkell successful in commanding their support because he treated them badly, or in spite of it? Hrafnkell’s ability to impose his authority on other men is no less clearly explained the second time round. The saga author simply notes, perhaps a little sarcastically, ‘Vildi svá hverr sitja ok standa sem hann

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vildi’ (Everybody was willing to sit or stand just as he wanted).9 His neighbours’ willing, almost automatic, compliance is inexplicable, or at least left wholly unexplained: the proverbial air of ‘sitja ok standa’ mystiﬁes rather than realistically analyses their willingness to obey Hrafnkell’s dictates. We are left with an intractable ‘given’: Hrafnkell is just a natural leader. It is important to note that Hrafnkell does not effortlessly replay his previous rise to power. This time he frees himself from the selfimposed constraint of fulﬁlling vows to Freyr by abjuring any belief in the gods. He also behaves better than he used to; the saga author is vague—‘miklu var maðrinn nú vinsælli ok gæfari ok hœgri en fyrr’ (the man was much more popular and nicer and kinder than before)10—but it is clear that there are no more duels. Both of these changes in behaviour signal that Hrafnkell is leaving behind all trace of the old customs he used to practise. This lack of cultural imperatives, some adherence to old ways which one might use to predict Hrafnkell’s behaviour, or understand his motivation, together with Hrafnkell’s own habitual taciturnity—he and Sámr never recall their past dealings when they meet—isolates Hrafnkell in the narrative as a wielder of autocratic and unpredictable power. His new freedom from old imperatives is evident when he is goaded by the old woman to attack Eyvindr. In one sense he might be understood as bowing to the traditional imperative to take revenge if one’s courage is questioned, perhaps the most predictable response to discourse in all Old Norse literature. But Hrafnkell does not behave as if he has surrendered his freedom of choice to a whetting he cannot refuse. He notes drily that the woman is behaving maliciously, nevertheless weighing the value of what she says with some care. He also swiftly imposes his practical authority over her, sending her off to rally his neighbours. Hrafnkell shows no inclination towards verbal display in any form. He attacks Eyvindr without preamble or explanation—‘hann hafði engi orð við Eyvindi’ (he had no word [to say] to Eyvindr)11—and does not boast about the killing afterwards. As we have seen in other sagas, the hero may use a verse to predict his next move—especially if it is to be a violent one—or to sum up his reaction to an action performed, but Hrafnkell acts without prior or subsequent comment. Sámr and Porbjörn had no words in answer to Porgeirr because his 9

Hrafnkels saga, 124.

10

Ibid. 125.

11

Ibid. 129.

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brother Porkell did not bother to enlighten them about the point of the comic charade they are forced to enact. Hrafnkell has no words for Eyvindr because he sees no reason to explain or justify what he is doing. He simply sees what must be done, and does it. From the saga audience’s point of view, Hrafnkell remains an enigma. Skaldic verse, as we have seen in earlier chapters, often functions as an explanatory or illuminative device, a means of expressing what, by convention, an externally focalized prose narrative does not. Thus, without skaldic verse, the author of Hrafnkels saga maintains an externally focalized narrative—with the two important exceptions I have already discussed—in which no one voice is privileged over any other one, and inner feelings are not articulated. It cannot, I think, be chance that this narrative technique suits so well the exposition of the author’s primary theme: the exercise of power in Icelandic society. Hrafnkell is unknowable because his most important feature—his autocracy—is evident in action but not susceptible of explanation. Power, the saga author seems to be telling us, is a force we (and, perhaps, himself) are simply subject to, and even an account of one man’s acquisition of it twice in one lifetime is not enough to reveal its origins and processes. Hrafnkell is a man of action who remains distant to the saga audience, and perhaps too to the saga author, a man of letters. Those saga heroes—Pórarinn svarti, Gísli, or Grettir—who are presented as having a special relationship with stylized discourse, and through that, a special relationship, extradiegetically, with literary tradition, share precisely this with their saga authors. They are masters of literary discourse, just like their authors, who, in presenting their creations as creative writers, exploit to the fullest extent the potential of prosimetrum in Icelandic saga narrative.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Icelanders are listed alphabetically by ﬁrst name.

Primary sources Andersson, Theodore M., and Gade, Kari Ellen (eds.), Morkinskinna: The Earliest Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), Islandica, 51 (Ithaca, NY, 2000). – albjarnarson (ed.), Heimskringla, Íslenzk fornrit, 26–8 Bjarni Ad (Reykjavík, 1941–51). Bjarni Einarsson (ed.), Ágrip af Noregs konunga sögum. Fagrskinna, Nóregs konunga tal, Íslenzk fornrit, 29 (Reykjavík, 1984). – nason (ed.), Danakonunga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit, 35 Bjarni Gud (Reykjavík, 1982). – ni Jónsson (eds.), Vestﬁrðinga sögur, Björn K. Pórólfsson and Gud Íslenzk fornrit, 6 (Reykjavík, 1943). Boer, R. C. (ed.), Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Altnordische SagaBibliotek, 8 (Niemeyer, 1900). Boyer, Regis, La Saga de Snorri Goði, Bibliothèque de Philologie Germanique (Paris, 1973). Brown [Dronke], Ursula (ed.), Porgils saga ok Haﬂiða (Oxford, 1952). Campbell, Alistair (ed.), Encomium Emmæ Reginæ, Royal Historical Society, 72 (London, 1949). Chibnall, M. (ed. and trans.), The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, 6 vols. (Oxford, 1969–80). Conner, Patrick W. (ed.), The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: A Collaborative Edition, x (Cambridge, 1996). Driscoll, M. J. (ed.), Ágrip af Nóregskonungasögum, Viking Society for Northern Research Text Series, 10 (London, 1995). Dronke, Ursula (ed.), The Poetic Edda, i. The Heroic Poems (Oxford, 1969). Earle, John, and Plummer, Charles (eds.), Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel (787–1001 A.D.), 2 vols. (Oxford, 1892–9). Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.), Vatnsdœla saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 8, (Reykjavík, 1939). —— (ed.), Brennu-Njáls saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 12 (Reykjavík, 1954). – arson (eds.), Eyrbyggja saga, Íslenzk fornrit, 4 —— and Matthías Pórd (Reykjavík, 1935). Eiríkur Magnússon (trans.), Eyrbyggja saga, Saga Library, 2 (1892). Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Fagrskinna, STUAGNL, 30 (Copenhagen, 1902–3).

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Hume, Kathryn, ‘The Thematic Design of Grettis saga’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 73 (1974), 469–86. Jesch, Judith, ‘Hrómundr Gripsson Revisited’, Skandinavistik, 14: 2 (1984), 89–105. Jónas Kristjánsson, Um Fóstbrœðra sögu (Reykjavík, 1972). —— ‘The Legendary Saga’, in Guðni Kolbeinsson et al. (eds.), Minjar og Menntir Afmælisrit helgað Kristjáni Eldjárn 6. desember 1976 (Reykjavík, 1976), 281–93 —— Eddas and Sagas (Reykjavík, 1988). Kalinke, Marianne, ‘Norse Romance (Riddarasögur)’, in Carol J. Clover and John Lindow (eds.), Old Norse–Icelandic Literature: A Critical Guide, Islandica, 45 (Ithaca, NY, 1985), 316–49. Ker, W. P., Epic and Romance (New York, 1957). Lange, Gudrun, Die Anfänge der isländisch–norwegischen Geschichtsschreibung, Studia Islandica/Íslensk fræði, 47 (Reykjavík, 1989). Lapidge, Michael, ‘Some Latin Poems as Evidence for the Reign of Athelstan’, Anglo-Saxon England, 9 (1981), 61–98. Looze, Laurence de, ‘The Outlaw Poet, the Poet Outlaw: Selfconsciousness in Grettis saga Ásmundarson’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 106 (1991), 85–103. Louis-Jensen, Jonna, ‘Syvende og ottende brudstykke. Fragmentet AM 325 4to’, in Opuscula, iv, Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana, 30 (Copenhagen, 1970), 31–60. Mac Cana, Proinsas, ‘Notes on the Combination of Prose and Verse in Early Irish Narrative’, in Stephen N. Tranter and Hildegarde L. C. Tristram (eds.), Early Irish Literature—Media and Communication. Mundlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit in der frühen irischen Literatur, Script Oralia, 10 (Tübingen, 1989), 125–47. McCone, Kim, Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature (Maynooth, 1990). Magerøy, Hallvard, ‘Skaldestrofer som retardasjonmiddel i islendingesogene’, in Einar G. Pétursson and Jónas Kristjánsson (eds.), Sjötíu ritgerðir hegaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni 20 júlí 1977, ii (Reykjavík, 1977), 586–99. Marold, Edith, ‘The Relation between Verses and Prose in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa’, in Russell Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Berlin and New York, 2001), 75–124. Meissner, Rudolf, Die Kenningar der Skalden (Bonn and Leipzig, 1921; repr. 1984). Motz, Lotte, ‘Withdrawal and Return: A Ritual Pattern in the Grettis Saga’, Arkiv för nordisk ﬁlologi, 88 (1973), 91–110. O’Donoghue, Heather, The Genesis of a Saga Narrative: Verse and Prose in Kormaks saga (Oxford, 1991).

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INDEX

The subentries under the names of the saga heroes (e.g. Gísli Súrsson, Grettir Asmundarson, Hrafnkell Hallfreðarson) are in roughly chronological rather than alphabetical order. Ælfgyfu (Álfífu) 26, 38–9 Ágrip 10, 18, 23–45; see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 18–19, 22, 47 Ari Porgilsson 17, 24 Arnórr jarlaskald (Arnórr Pórðarson) 31–3 Atlakviða 145, 149, 151, 213 Austrfararvísur 64, 66–7 Bede 19 Begleitprosa 2, 13 Beowulf 145, 177, 203, 208, 224, 226 Beowulf 49, 80, 127–8, 168, 212 Bersöglisvísur 26, 40–1 Bjarkamál 69, 70, 127 Bjarnar saga hítdoelakappa 63 n., 119–22, 124, 126, 137, 186 Björn Breidvíkingakappi 88, 90, 107, 111–27, 133–5, 141 corroborative verse in Ágrip 18, 25–6, 29–39, 41, 45 in Eyrbyggja saga 73, 78, 80–93, 134–5, 188 in Fagrskinna 48, 51–4 in Gísla saga 160 in Grettis saga 188, 219–20 in Heimskringla 10–11, 45, 49, 53–4, 68–9, 88

in Legendary Saga of St Óláfr 48–9, 53–4 in Morkinskinna 37 dialogue verse in Ágrip 18, 25–6, 39–45 in Eyrbyggja saga 73, 75, 78, 93–136, 206 in Fagrskinna 42, 44 in Gísla saga 147, 149–52, 156–67, 170–1, 173–9 in Grettis saga 182–99, 202, 204–6, 209–11, 217–27 in Heimskringla 41–4, 56–62, 68–71, 73, 76 in Legendary Saga of St Óláfr 57–8, 62–3, 70–1, 74, 76 in Morkinskinna 42–4 discrepancies, prose and verse in Eyrbyggja saga 84–5, 87, 92, 102–11, 113–18, 122–6, 132–3 in Gísla saga 147–8, 159, 163, 165–6, 170, 176–8 in Grettis saga 197–201 in Norse histories 25, 45–55, 65–7 documentary verse 5, 14, 55, 80; see also corroborative verse Egill Skalla-Grímsson 72, 100, 140, 142, 204, 207–8, 226 Egils saga 12, 142–3, 226 Eiríkr blóðøx 12, 26

252

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external focalization 6, 140–1, 208, 210, 223 in Gísla saga 143, 154–7, 160–6 in Grettis saga 172, 178 in Hrafnkels saga 233–4, 241 Eyrbyggja saga 8–9, 68, 78–135, 141, 231 and the supernatural 127–30, 134–5 love verses in 113–16, 118–19, 120–6, 131, 134 mock-heroic effects in 132–5 structural role of verse in 78, 82, 84–5, 87, 90–2, 136 structure of 79–80 see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse; discrepancies, prose and verse; documentary verse; subjectivity Eyvindr skáldaspillir 10, 16, 26–8, 35, 61 Fagrskinna 11, 14, 26, 40, 42–4, 50–2; see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse family sagas, see prosimetrum, in family sagas Flateyjarbók 33 n. 64, 38, 40, 50 n. 113, 57 n. 131, 60, 71–2 fornaldarsögur, see prosimetrum, in fornaldarsögur Fóstbrœðra saga 62–3, 68–77, 207 Friðtjófs saga 16 Gesta Danorum 23 Gísla saga 9, 135–79, 183 and the supernatural 153, 184 authorship of verses in 139 dream verses in 9, 140, 160–7, 176, 178 paraphrase of verses in 161, 166 prophetic verse in 150, 166–7, 169, 176

soliloquy in 9, 141, 143, 150, 160, 165 structure of 144–6 see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse; discrepancies, prose and verse; external focalization; subjectivity Gísli Súrsson 138–79 inner life, see subjectivity, in Gísla saga heroic status 144, 148–9, 159, 178, 228 confesses murder 151–3, 157 friendship with Vésteinn 155–6, 159 as outlaw 142–3, 149, 159–60, 162, 168–9, 178 dreams 154–5, 159–71, 174–8 relationship with wife Auðr 162, 165–6, 173–6, 232 outwits enemies 169–72 fatalism 153, 168–71, 175–6, 178 death 167, 175–7 Gráfeldardrápa 35 Grettir Ásmundarson 181–227 status as poet-hero 144, 179, 181–3, 206, 208, 228 aggressiveness 183, 189, 192 unsociability 9, 97, 142, 183, 202–3 linguistic superiority 9, 97, 188–95, 201, 207–10, 217, 226; see also skaldic verse, as stylized discourse poetic ancestors 183–8, 207 childhood 188–92 relationship with father 97, 183, 188–92, 194, 203, 207, 232 and women 183–4, 192, 201–7 relationship with other poets 183–4, 192–201, 207–8 relationship with brothers 184, 212–16

INDEX

253

as outlaw 142–4, 160, 183, 194, 196–8, 200–1, 204, 208, 216 raids burial mound 203, 208 defeats berserks 203–4, 218 Glámr’s curse 176, 208–9, 220, 223 death 224–6 Grettis saga 9, 59, 135, 142, 180–227 and the supernatural 180, 208–12, 223–4 celebratory verse in 217–24 critical reception of 180 dialogue between author and audience 182, 190, 197, 204, 208, 228 intertextuality of 207–8 literary modes in 180–2, 185, 214–16 see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse; discrepancies, prose and verse; external focalization; subjectivity Grettisfœrsla 222, 224 Guðrúnarkviða II 152 Gunnlaugs saga 137

see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse Historia de antiquitate regum Norwagiensium 10, 19, 24 Historia Ecclesiastica 19 Historia Norvegiae 11, 19, 24 Höfuðlausn (Egill) 12 Höfuðlausn (Óttarr inn svarti) 47 n. 101, 48, 52, 54–5, 68 Hrafnkell Hallfreðarson 228–41 autocratic status 229, 232–3, 235, 239–41 taciturn 235, 237–40 settlement in Iceland 228, 230–2, 239 devotion to Freyr 234–5, 240 kills Einarr Porbjörnsson 233–4 outlawed 235, 238 regains power 229, 239–40 Hrafnkels saga 228–41 absence of verse in 9, 229, 232, 239–40 see also external focalization; subjectivity Hrafnsmál 78 n., 80, 82, 84–5, 87, 91–2 Hrynhenda 32–3

Hákon jarl 27, 130 Hákonarmal 16, 27 Háleygjatal 10, 26–8, 149 n. 32 Hallfreðar saga 137 Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld 58–9, 218 Hallmundarkviða 211, 223–4 Haraldr gráfeldr 27, 34–5, 39 Haraldr harðráði 29, 36 Haraldr inn hárfagri 24, 26, 28–31, 33–4, 37, 142, 184, 230 Hávamál 27 Heiðarvíga saga 130–3 Heimskringla 14, 16, 24, 26–7, 33 n. 64, 36–7, 39–43, 67, 82;

Illugadrápa 78 n., 80, 82, 85, 134 Íslendingabók 17, 40 n. 86 Íslendinga saga 111, 145, 147 kings’ sagas, see prosimetrum, in Norse histories Kny´tlinga saga 65 Kormákr 115, 117, 120, 125–6, 142 n. 16, 177 Kormáks saga 117 n. 88, 124, 137, 186 Kristni saga 17 Landnámabók 208, 230–2 Laxdæla saga 204, 231

254

INDEX

Legendary Saga of St Óláfr 11, 18, 36, 38, 50–2, 68–9, 72–5, 208; see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse legendary sagas, see prosimetrum, in fornaldarsögur littérarité 10, 12–14, 17, 29, 41, 45, 55, 61, 68, 76–8, 81, 107, 109; see also prosimetrum, artistic effects of

in early Irish 1–2, 59 in Eddaic verse 1, 59 in family sagas 1–3, 6, 8–9, 16 in fornaldarsögur 1–2, 16–17, 23, 59 in Latin works 1, 7–8, 18–23 in Norse histories 1–3, 6, 9, 10–77 in Sanskrit 1–2 origins 1–2, 14 Ragnarsdrápa 57, 205

Magnús berfœttr 42 Magnús inn góði 26, 29, 33, 39–41 Magnússdrápa 32 Máhliðingavísur 93–113, 134 Menippus 7 Morkinskinna 11, 14, 36–7, 44, 46; see also corroborative verse; dialogue verse Njáls saga 88, 95, 111 Oddmjór 25, 30–2, 34 Oddr skáld 80 Oddr Snorrason 17 Óðinn 27–8, 63, 120, 152, 209, 215, 226 Óláfr Haraldsson, see Óláfr inn helgi; Óláfr inn kyrri Óláfr inn helgi (St Óláfr) 28–9, 37–9, 47–50, 59, 61–74, 76, 215, 220 Óláfr inn kyrri 36, 39 Óláfr Tryggvason 28, 58–9, 218 Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar 11, 58–9 Oldest Saga of St Óláfr 17–18, 36, 38 Önundr tréfótr 140, 184–8, 196, 216 Orderic Vitalis 22 prosimetrum: artistic effects of 5–8, 14, 22, 69, 143–4

saga narrative: anecdotes 6, 13–14, 23–4, 41–2, 44–5, 57–8, 60, 117, 128 composition 6, 14 controlling voice 9, 155, 171–3, 178, 216–20 see also external focalization Saxo Grammaticus 1, 23 Separate Saga of St Óláfr 46, 50 Sigurðr Jórsalafari 25, 35–6, 39 Sigvatr Pórðarson 25, 29, 38, 40–1, 46–56, 64–9, 71–3, 137 skáldasögur (poets’ sagas) 137–8, 142 skaldic verse: and subjective viewpoint 6; see also subjectivity apostrophizing women 74–5, 105, 111 n. 78, 177, 191, 227 as corroboration 3–4, 8, 11, 17, 80; see also corroborative verse as dialogue 3, 5–6, 12, 14, 16, 55; see also dialogue verse as impromptu composition 6, 56–9, 61, 67, 137–8, 186 as ornament 3–5 as soliloquy 8, 210, 221; see also Gísla saga, soliloquy in as source material 6, 10–11, 19, 23, 34, 45–6

INDEX as stylized discourse 8, 97–8, 136, 140, 183, 188 crypticism of 6, 45, 107, 151–2, 193, 218 discrepancies with prose, see discrepancies, prose and verse formal recitation of 6, 12, 55–6, 136–7 heroic associations of 135, 140, 144, 156, 159, 187–8, 203–4 role in saga composition 2–4, 13–16, 31, 34, 46, 53 Snorra Edda 26, 33 n. 67 Snorri Sturluson 10, 14, 16, 24, 26–7, 29, 35, 43–6, 48–51, 54–6, 58–76, 137, 205 Söðulkolluvísur (Saddle-Head verses) 197–201, 221 Spesar táttr 214 Steigar-Pórir 25, 42–4 Steinn Herdísarson 36–7 Styrmir Kárason 52 n. 120, 60 subjectivity: in Eyrbyggja saga 96, 98, 102, 107, 127, 134

255

in Gísla saga 9, 138–41, 155–7, 159–69, 174–9, 182, 228 in Grettis saga 140, 182–7, 221, 228 in Hrafnkels saga 229, 233–4, 241 Sveinn Knútsson (Álfífuson) 26, 29, 33, 38–9 Theodoricus monachus 18–20, 24 Pórarinn svarti 75, 86, 93–113, 128, 130, 134–5, 141 Porðr Sjáreksson 27 Porﬁnnr munnr 57, 69 Porgils saga ok Haﬂiða 15 Porkell the Tall 47–8, 50 Pormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld 57, 62–3, 68–76, 219 Pormóðr Treﬁlsson 80, 82, 84, 87–9, 91–2 Víga-Glúms saga 142–3 Víkingarvísur 46–55, 64 William of Malmesbury 20–1