THE FRITHIOF SAGA

Translated from the German of Ferdinand Schmidt

BY GEORGE P. UPTON

Translator of “Memories,” “Immensee,” etc.

With Four Illustrations

CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1907

Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1907 Published September 21, 1907

The University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A.

Translator’s Preface

Iceland is the home of the Saga, a form of literature which includes the telling of the story of a hero’s life and adventures in a fixed, regular form, and which is usually intended for recitation, though the Saga is never set in the customary versified style of poetry. A large number of these Sagas, relating to Iceland, Greenland, North America, and the Norse countries, still remain, and among them the Frithiof Saga, narrating the stirring adventures of that hero of the Northland and Viking of its seas, is one of the most beautiful. Its subject is noble, heroic, and free from exaggerated description or overwrought sentiment. Frithiof is a splendid type of the old Norse hero, invincible in battle upon the land, fearless of Nature’s wrath as he sails the seas in his dragon ship, impulsive yet just, swift in punishment yet quick in forgiveness. The central motives of the Saga are his love for King Bele’s daughter, Ingeborg; the refusal of her brothers to sanction their marriage because the hero is not of royal birth; her unwilling marriage to the old King Ring;

Frithiof’s exile, and his final union with Ingeborg after the death of her husband and reconciliation with her brother. Interwoven with the narrative itself, which is full of dramatic situations, are some of the old myths, than which none is more beautiful than the death of the gentle god Balder. The very breath of the North sweeps through the stately story which the German author has told with so much skill. Those who wish to come in closer contact with the Saga itself can do so by consulting Bishop Tegner’s masterly translation.

G. P. U.

Chicago, June, 1907.

Chapter I Frithiof and Ingeborg

In olden times there ruled in Norway a King of great renown called Bele, whose wife died early, leaving him two sons and a daughter. When the latter had reached her sixth year, the King said to Thorsten, his brother-in-arms and lifelong friend, “My rosebud, Ingeborg, is the joy of my heart, but none the less I must send her away and entrust her to the guardianship of Hilding the Wise, so that, far from the turmoil and distractions of a court, the light of true knowledge shall be hers. But lest she should miss the companionship of her beloved playfellow, I pray thee permit thy son Frithiof to accompany her, that they may be reared together.”

“Gladly will I do so,” replied Thorsten; “not alone to honor thy request, but because I know thou hast my son’s welfare also at heart in sending him as the companion of thine own child to be taught by the wise Hilding. My King’s will shall be done.”

Hilding’s abode lay on the sea-coast, surrounded by gardens and wooded hills, and there Ingeborg and Frithiof spent the years of their childhood, faithfully taught and cared for by the good old man. Two rare blossoms of the Northland were these children, both richly endowed with gifts of mind and body: Ingeborg was like the swelling rosebud within whose heart the promise of the spring lies dreaming, while Frithiof grew up tall and strong as a young oak tree crowned with its crest of rustling leaves. So blessed by the gods were they with health and beauty that never had their like been seen in all the North. Now listening to the wondrous tales of their wise master, with clear eyes uplifted to his; now racing over the sunny meadows or dancing lightly under the dark boughs of the fir trees in the silvery moonlight, they were like the Light Fairies, whose appearance betokens blessing and fills the heart with anticipations of joy.

Frithiof was but little older than Ingeborg, and when he first learned from Hilding to read the Runic signs, it was his delight to teach them in turn to his beloved playmate. Ofttimes they would sail out upon the wind-tossed sea, and when the shifting of the sail sent foam and spray dashing into the boat, Ingeborg would clap her small hands in glee. No tree was too high for the bold lad when he wished to capture a nest of young birds for the King’s child; even the osprey’s eyrie, high among the rocky crags, was not safe from his daring quest. ’Twas he that found for her the first pale blossoms of the springtime, the first ripe strawberry, the summer’s first golden ear of corn. Joyously they wandered together in the forest, Frithiof armed to protect his playmate in case of need; for he early strove to train himself in all a hero’s duties.

Thus, like a beautiful dream, the happy days of childhood glided by. Ingeborg blossomed into maidenhood, and Frithiof became a stalwart youth. The King’s daughter spent more time in her own chamber now, learning the tasks of women, chief of which was the weaving of garments, while Frithiof was often abroad with the men in quest of game or booty. Inheriting not only his father’s strength and daring, but also his discretion and cheerfulness, he was beloved by all and soon aroused the wonder of his companions in the chase by the boldness with which he would attack the fiercest beasts, felling them with a blow from his spiky club, or piercing them through with the sharp-pronged spear. As in earlier days he had been wont to bring his playmate gifts of flowers or fruit as greetings of the season, so now he laid at her feet the trophies of his prowess—shaggy bears or grisly wild boars, often revealing upon his body bloody traces of the struggle. Admiringly Ingeborg’s gaze would rest at such times on the young hero, while her heart beat fast in terror for his life.

And when on cold winter nights they sat together in the great hall by the blazing hearth fire listening to the legends old Hilding told them of the gods, or, when the King’s daughter would sing of the deeds of some great hero long at rest beneath his grassy mound, she seemed to Frithiof like a goddess sent by the great All-Father for a brief space to the darksome earth to awaken a foretaste of Valhalla’s delights. “Praises of Frigga’s golden hair are sung throughout the land,” he would say to himself, “but surely it can be no more beautiful than Ingeborg’s fair tresses.” And when he gazed into those soft eyes, so full of heaven’s own light and hue, he doubted Hilding’s declaration that the eyes of the goddess Frigga were the most beautiful in all the world.

Chapter II The Death of Balder

Again the Spring had come. Frigga, the radiant Earth-goddess, had decked meadow, hill, and vale with bloom and verdure, and summoned the various warblers of grove and wood. One mild evening Ingeborg and Frithiof repaired with Hilding to a hillside overlooking the sea and seated themselves on the mossy stones. There, while the waves roared at their feet, the master told them of the gentle god Balder, and how envy and malice brought him to his death.

“Balder was a son of the all-powerful Odin and the fair Earth-goddess Frigga, beautiful as the day and so bright that a shining splendor surrounded him as he traversed the dome of heaven on his white steed, swifter than thought. All evil, hatred, and strife were abhorrent to him. Eloquent, wise, mild, and just, he ever sought to promote peace, to avert misfortune, and to ease pain and sorrow. Sometimes, assuming human shape, he would mingle in the combat, but never, even in the heat of battle, did he lift his sword against a mortal. Though the other gods often took part in the strife of men, ’twas to do good alone that drew Balder to the field of battle. Once on a hot summer’s day it chanced some warriors were perishing for want of water; whereupon he thrust his spear into the ground, and a cool spring gushed forth, while others welled up wherever his horse’s hoofs had trodden. These springs were inexhaustible and still exist, surrounded by sacred groves, wherein the beneficent god will be worshipped to the end of time. Equally gentle

and lovely was his spouse Nanna, and far above the clouds, whither the eye of man cannot penetrate, they dwelt in their palace, Silvery Lustre, where nothing evil or impure can ever enter.

“Balder was beloved by all the gods and goddesses save only Loke, the ever-evil, who hated him. One night Balder dreamed that some danger threatened his life, and so alarming was this dream that he could not shake off its shadow, but sad and heavy-hearted, thought only of approaching evil. Sorrow seized not only upon Nanna, his loving wife, but upon all the gods and goddesses, when they learned of the dark forebodings that filled Balder’s soul. In vain did Odin, his father, spend many days and nights in thought; in vain did he take counsel with the other gods and consult his two wise ravens, who see into the past and future, as to the nature of the danger that threatened his beloved son. At last he determined to undertake the perilous journey to the abode of the goddesses of Fate. Rising from his shining throne, he left the palace, mounted his fire-breathing celestial steed that stood before the door, and, followed by the two ravens and the two wolves who are his constant companions, flew like lightning through the space betwixt heaven and earth

and soon reached the path that leads to the kingdom of the pale goddess, Hel, in the terrible underworld.

“Far down below Valhalla, the golden palace of the gods, whither heroes are borne by Odin’s battle-maidens, the Valkyrs, on their winged steeds, lies the dread realm of shadows where abides the inexorable Hel. Loke is her father; her mother—the giantess Angurboda, is a sister of the frightful wolf Fenris and the earth-enveloping serpent. Woe, thrice woe to him who descends into the cold mist-kingdom of the goddess of death! Misery is her Hall, Ruin her Threshold, Pining Sickness her Bed, and Danger the Curtains thereof. Sloth is her Thrall, and Despair her Handmaiden. She eats from the Dish Hunger with the Knife of Famine.

“To this terrible place Odin now took his way. The path, which no living man had ever trodden, led between frightful abysses and icy crags. But he heeded not these terrors nor the furious yelping and snapping of the death-hounds, intent only on learning what evil threatened his favorite son. At last he reached the spot where dwelt the goddesses of Fate, and at the first gray Rune-stone he swung himself from his steed. Below it had lain for a thousand years the Norn who reads the future; while about the desolate tomb the wind moaned through the leafless branches and whirled aloft the parching sand. Odin drew his sword and inscribed thrice with it a Runic sentence in the sand. Then he shouted thrice the Runic call which, uttered by the lips of a god, has power to wake the dead within their graves. In dull, hollow tones a voice answered from the depths:

What mystic spell of sternest might

Penetrates the dungeon’s night?

Stirs me from my sleep of old?

Who art thou, O stranger bold?

Go! let me rest, for here below

Through Winter’s snows and Summer’s glow,

Through dripping dew and streaming rain,

A thousand years I now have lain.

Ruthless thou stirrest the dead’s deep rest—

Who mayst thou be, thou stranger guest?

“And Odin answered:

A wanderer I, unknown my name;

A warrior’s son, untold my fame;

Of the upper world I would not know,

But fain would seek of those below.

For whom is the glittering table spread?

For whom prepared the golden bed?

“Again the hollow tones responded:

Sawest thou not in beaker bright

Draught of sweet mead, foaming light?

O’er it hangs the golden shield

Warrior’s arm no more shall wield!

Balder’s coming these betoken;

Balder’s death doom hath been spoken!

This rede reluctant have I told—

Now get thee gone, thou stranger bold.

Leave the weary to her rest

And come no more, whate’er thy quest.

“Down in the abyss the mists rolled and parted, permitting Odin for an instant to gaze into the joyless realm of death, and he saw that all was indeed made ready to receive his beloved son. With the tears starting to his eyes he mounted his steed and turned sadly homeward. Loud cries of woe broke from the waiting gods and goddesses when Odin told them the saying of the Norn. Vainly they sought some means by which the doom of their favorite might be averted, till at last Frigga bethought her of a plan, which was hailed with joy by all. As mistress of the earth, she bound by oath everything that existed thereon, fire and water, iron and all the other metals, rock and soil, bush and tree, all disease or poison, with all created beings of the earth, the air, and the water,—not to harm her son. Alone of the tender mistletoe that hangs from the bough, she took no oath, for from that she feared nothing.

“Deeming their favorite safe from harm, the gods in their joy began to sport with him. Some flung sharp-pointed spears at him, and lo! they fell harmless to the ground. Others smote his uncovered head with their keen blades, yet not a hair of his head was injured. Bright and laughing as a fair spring morning, the god stood in their midst, catching the hissing darts and lances in his hands. Their joyous cries at last reached the ears of Loke, whose only pleasure it was to awaken strife and discontent within the hearts of gods and men, and he hastened thither to blight, if it might be, these heaven-born flowers of joy. Taking the form of an aged dame with a staff in her trembling hand, he approached the goddess Frigga, and said:

“‘Tell me, I pray thee, O watchful Earth-mother, wherefore the gods are glad, so that I may share their joy.’

“Frigga replied: ‘All nature has sworn to me to do no harm to my son Balder. His life was in great peril, but now shall the Norn’s rede be brought to naught, nor shall he descend into the kingdom of pale Hel.’

“But Loke asked: ‘Didst thou take oath of everything upon the earth?’

“And Frigga answered: ‘Of all save the tender mistletoe that grows east of Valhalla: from that surely there is naught to fear.’

“Now was Loke rejoiced, for mistletoe causes the death of the tree from which it draws its life. Slipping softly out from the gates of Valhalla, he hastened to where it grew, and, breaking it off, fashioned from the tough stem a dart which he sharpened to the keenest point. Then, as the old woman, he again joined the circle of the gods still busy with their sports. Perceiving Höder, the blind god, who stood apart listening to his companion’s joyous cries but unable to share their sports, he drew near and said to him:

“‘Why dost thou too not hurl the spear or speed the dart?’

“‘Alas! How can I?’ replied Höder. ‘Were not the light gone from my eyes, gladly would I also do honor to Balder.’

“‘Nay, then, that thou shalt,’ said Loke. ‘Take thy bow and this dart; I will guide its flight for thee.’

“Höder did as he was bid, and down sank Balder lifeless to the ground.

“This was the greatest misfortune which had ever befallen the gods in Valhalla. For a space they stood horror-stricken, gazing at the corpse of the gentle god. Then the vaulted halls echoed to their cries of woe. Beyond all words was their grief and anguish. At length they bethought them to seek the author of the evil deed; but vengeance was beyond their power, for Odin’s palace is a sanctuary. Moreover, Loke had vanished. With sighs and lamentations they bore the beloved dead to the seashore, where, drawn up on rollers, stood Balder’s ship. On this his body was to be burned. But all the efforts of the gods were powerless to stir the mighty vessel from its place; whereupon they summoned the giantess Hyrrocken (Fire Whirlwind) to their aid. A rushing sound was heard as she came with streaming hair, riding a great wolf bridled with a serpent.

“Laying her mighty hands upon the ship she pushed it into the sea with such force that sparks flew from the rollers. Seized with rage and chagrin at this, Thor lifted his hammer to shatter the head of the witch, but the other gods hastened to pacify him, and then a fresh misfortune befell. The heart of Balder’s blooming wife Nanna burst with its load of sorrow, and she sank lifeless into the arms of Frigga. The bodies of the youthful pair thus united by death were laid upon the funeral pyre that had been raised within the ship, and consumed amid the lamentations of all the gods. This is the story of Balder’s death, which brought sorrow and mourning into Odin’s halls of joy.”

With rapture Ingeborg and Frithiof had listened to old Hilding’s tale, while far in the distance they heard the rumbling of Thor’s chariot, in which the God of Thunder rides upon the clouds, and saw the flickering lights that follow the blows of his hammer. Tears glistened in Ingeborg’s eyes, and even Frithiof’s heart was moved. Presently they arose and turned their faces homeward. Ingeborg retired to her chamber, while Frithiof and Hilding seated themselves on cushions before a table upon which burned a taper.

Suddenly Frithiof spoke: “Terrible indeed must be the abode of the goddess Hel; yet gladly would I die and descend thither could I but know that Ingeborg would mourn for me as Nanna mourned for Balder!”

Hilding was amazed at this speech.

“Alas! my son,” he said, “can it be that thou art cherishing a love for Ingeborg? Never can it bring thee happiness. Bethink thee! King Bele’s ancestors are descended from the gods, while thou art but the son of a yeoman. From the sons of princes will Bele choose a son-in-law, nor mayst thou ever hope to wed his child.”

Frithiof laughed and his eyes flashed as he answered, “The gods take no heed of rank. With them valor is all. They will spurn him who fails in courage, even though he be of their own blood; but him who strives with all his soul to imitate them in godlike deeds they will hold in honor. The fame I have already won for myself by slaying the beasts of the forest shall count as much for me as if my ancestral line stretched up to Odin’s halls!”

“Alas for this love of thine!” cried Hilding. “I fear me ’twill bear thee naught but thorns. My old eyes were dim that I saw not what mischief was brewing.”

“Nay, father, say not so!” answered Frithiof. “Never till this day have I thought to win Ingeborg for my wife. ’Tis but now my heart hath revealed its yearnings for her and her alone in all the world. But I swear to thee by all the gods that never shall her image be banished thence. If need be, my sword shall be my wooer. Aye! I would contend for her with the Thunder-God himself; nor will I give her up so long as life shall last. Yet of this I will say naught to her father, but sue for her in due form after the manner of our forefathers.”

As Frithiof thus spoke, Ingeborg sat in her chamber, her thoughts also busy with him. In his form she seemed to see the fair young god Balder, and prayed the gods to guard the noble youth and grant him fame and honor.

Chapter III King Bele and Thorsten

King Bele and Thorsten, his faithful old brother-in-arms, were now bowed with the weight of years, like two ruined temples upon whose walls are graven runes of wisdom still powerful to stir the hearts of reverent beholders.

One day the King said to Thorsten: “My friend, the evening of life draws on; no longer has the mead its wonted flavor, and heavy grows the helm upon my weary head. The world grows dim before my eyes, but clear and bright toward me streams the light of Valhalla. Therefore I have summoned our sons hither. As we have ever stood fast by each other, so it is my wish that they should do. With this and other matters I would charge the young eagles ere my lips are sealed by death.”