plik

lves have been a ixture in the European mentality for a long

time in fairytales and legends and, recently, in the most popular

novels and ilms of our age. In this article, my aim is to deter-

mine the function of elves in Old Norse narratives from the thirteenth

century by concentrating on the igure of Vo˛lundr, the protagonist of

Vo˛lundarkviða, who to my mind is the most important Old Norse elf.

The poem portrays his marriage to a southern swan-maiden who later

leaves him. He then retires into solitude, hunting bears, and count-

ing his rings until he is captured and enslaved by the avaricious King

Níðuðr. The poem ends with Vo˛lundr’s gruesome revenge on the king

and his family.

Vo˛lundarkviða is the tenth of twenty-nine poems in the Codex Regius

ms of the Poetic Edda. Few Eddic poems have suffered less from schol-

arly neglect: a recent bibliography lists over 100 studies, not counting

editions (von See, et al. 77–81). There are grounds for this attention.

To take one, Vo˛lundarkviða is usually classiied as a heroic rather than

mythological poem and shares common characteristics with some of the

more ancient heroic poems in the Elder Edda, and yet it stands among

the mythological Eddic poems in the manuscript between Þrymskviða

and Alvíssmál. Another distinguishing feature of Vo˛lundarkviða is its age.

Most scholars believe that it is one of the oldest Eddic poems.

Further-

more, the poem has interesting connections with non-Nordic Germanic

heroic poetry, English place-names, English and Gothic artifacts from

The Extreme Emotional Life of

Vo˛lundr the Elf

Ármann Jakobsson

University of Iceland

1. Among those who have accepted V. as very old are Finnur Jónsson (Den oldnorske 212);

Hamel; Jón Helgason (49); and Einar Ól. Sveinsson (Íslenzkar bókmenntir 229 and 416–23).

Neckel was skeptical (279). Bugge (“Kvadet”) argued that V. was composed in Norway

around 900 by a Norwegian poet using English sources. Dronke suggests a long period

Scandinavian Studies

the Viking age or even earlier, as well as Greek mythology (Dronke,

The Poetic Edda ii

258–90; Jón Helgason 27–52; von See, et al. 82–9 and

93–105; McKinnell 1–13). It is not surprising that considerable scholarly

attention has been given to the historical background of the poem, and

much effort has gone into attempting to distinguish young material from

old and discerning later additions to the basic story (Dronke, The Poetic

Edda ii

258–90; Jón Helgason 42–52; von See, et al. 82–106; Burson;

Motz, “New Thoughts”). But while these matters are interesting and

important, it might be fruitful to disregard for the moment the origins

of individual motifs and narrative elements in order to focus instead on

their function in Vo˛lundarkviða in its present form.

In spite of the abundance of studies on the poem, the character of

Vo˛lundr remains elusive, and this study will explore his identity. One of

the interesting facets of Vo˛lundarkviða is that its protagonist is referred

of composition, the inal product stemming fram the tenth century (The Poetic Edda ii

269–90). McKinnell believes V. to be composed in Yorkshire in the tenth or the early elev-

enth century. Ásgeir Bl. Magnússon has hinted that a later dating (and Icelandic origins)

is possible. See (116–7) also seems to lean toward the twelfth century. Although the idea

of the antiquity of V. has support from references in skaldic poetry and textual analogues

with the tenth century English poem, Deor’s Lament, V. in its present form exists only in

the Codex Regius ms from the late thirteenth century (see e.g. Dronke, The Poetic Edda

ii 271–8; von See, et al. 95–6 and 114–7). It is impossible to ascertain whether this is the

original version of the poem, or if lines, stanzas, or whole sections have been altered or

inserted. The present version of the poem may date from the thirteenth century; it may

be older. It has to be read without that certainty.

2. The structure of V. is somewhat complex, but most recent scholars have neverthe-

less tried to interpret the poem as it stands (see e.g. Taylor, “The Structure”; Burson;

Grimstad; Motz, “New Thoughts”; McKinnell; Dronke, The Poetic Edda ii 255–300). It

appears at irst sight to be a fusion of two plots: the irst concerns three swan-maidens

who marry and leave three brothers. The second is a tale of the revenge of an elf smith

unjustly captured by an avaricious king. The two may have been originally different nar-

ratives but are conjoined in the present poem. Among scholars who believe in the linkage

of two or more stories are: Boer; Neckel (283–92); Holmström; Vogt; Hamel (151–2);

Bouman (“On Vo˛lundarkviða”); Einar Ól. Sveinsson (Íslenzkar bókmenntir 417–20); and

Burson (1). Some, e.g. Taylor (“The Structure” 229–34) and Burson (5–6), nevertheless

argue that the two halves it together in various ways, Taylor focusing on textual paral-

lels, Burson on motifs and characters. See also Bouman, “Vo˛lundr as an Aviator.” Motz

(“New Thoughts” 62) thinks that the legend originally contained both halves (see also

Niedner). Bonsack also believes that the legends were entwined in tradition. His idea

of a relationship between the Friedrich von Schwaben and V. leads him to reconstruct

a twin narrative consisting of the Heliand poem. Based on scant evidence (often using

anagrams when he needs to establish a relationship), he then uses his reconstructed lost

works to shed light on the extant texts.

Vo˛lundr the Elf

to as the “prince of elves.” It is uncertain what that means and how his

portrayal is important to the study of medieval elves. I will argue here

that for a better understanding of elves, it is crucial to examine the

nature of Vo˛lundr’s Otherness and to elucidate Vo˛lundarkviða’s portrayal

of the complex relationship between love, treachery, and revenge and

its signiicance for the nature of medieval elves.

The Elusiveness of Old Norse Elves

Three times in Vo˛lundarkviða, Vo˛lundr is referred to as an álfr. In stanza

10, he is called “alfa lioþi,” while in stanzas 13 and 32, he is called “visi

alfa” by his enemy, King Níðuðr.

The word ljóði seems to mean literally

“of a [certain] people” (see ON lýðr), while vísi means “leader, king.”

Both are poetic words, but while vísi is not uncommon, ljóði is not

attested to in any other source.

It thus seems evident that Vo˛lundr is

an álfr, but while his royal status does not seem important since none

of his subjects makes an appearance in the poem. It must be noted

that Vo˛lundr’s elvish nature is problematic.

While Vo˛lundr appears in

several other Germanic sources, his elvish origins are hardly anywhere

mentioned outside Vo˛lundarkviða.

However, if Vo˛lundr’s suggested

elvish character were not important in this particular version of his story,

3. I refer here and elsewhere in this article to Bugge’s 1867 edition (165 and 169). When

translating V., I use Dronke (The Poetic Edda ii 243–54), unless otherwise stated.

4. Sveinbjörn Egilsson, Lexicon poeticum 379, 626. Sophus Bugge believed that ljóði

must mean “leader” as well and suggested it was perhaps a loan-word from Old English

(where léod means “leader”) (“Kvadet,” 52–3; see also McKinnell 3). The abundance of

archaic words and hapax legomenon in V. is one of the reasons scholars agree on the poem’s

antiquity. See Gering and Sijmons 1–26; von See, et al. 118–266.

5. Not all scholars agree that V. is an elf. To Motz, he is a dökkálfr, which means a dwarf

or a supernatural smith. She is perhaps the most detailed theorist of V.’s origins and her

conclusion is that V. is originally a legendary craftsman of supernatural origin. While she

stresses his supernatural status, she nonetheless believes his elvishness to be secondary

(“Of Elves and Dwarfs”; The Wise One 131–37; “New Thoughts”). Grimstad concurs that

as an elf, V. is the type resembling dwarfs. Dronke (The Poetic Edda ii 261–3) believes

that the poem related to an old tradition in which álfar were subtle smiths before the

dwarfs outshone the álfar in that respect. Taylor wavers between regarding V. as a god,

a hero, a dark elf (dwarf), or even a giant (“Völundarkviða, Þrymskviða” 268–9). He says:

“Shifting as he does from one realm of being to another, he resists easy classiication as

either god or hero” (269).

Scandinavian Studies

it is unlikely that it would be mentioned three times in a poem of only

41 stanzas.

The position of Vo˛lundarkviða between the mythological

and heroic poems, along with Þrymskviða and Alvíssmál, might also be

signiicant to the question of his identity, as it may relect a conscious

effort by the editor or editors of the Codex Regius to make the giants,

elves, and dwarfs intermediaries between the gods and the mythical

heroes.

In the prose introduction to the poem in the Codex Regius, Vo˛lundr

and his brothers are said to be “synir Finnakonvngs” [sons of the king of

the Lapps] who married valkyries. Vo˛lundr is said to be “hagastr maþr

sva at menn viti i fornom svZgom” (163) [the most skilful man known to

men in the histories of the past]. Thus in the only source for Vo˛lundr

the álfr, there is some confusion about his nature. Whereas it is possible

that the author of the prose introduction had reasons unknown to us

for assuming that Vo˛lundr was a Sámi hunter and prince, it should

also be kept in mind that the prose introduction is often regarded as

an interpretation rather than an integral part of the poem (see Gunnell

194–203) and that in the poem itself, only álfar are mentioned.

In this study, I will try to distinguish between mythological álfar

and those of later folktales and literature. This is not to say that later

material from folktales cannot have comparative value. Neither is J.R.R.

Tolkien’s interpretation as relected in his iction without interest, as he

was a learned as well as an imaginative scholar. But however attractive,

the time has come to resist reviewing information about álfar en masse

and trying to impose generalizations on a tradition of a thousand years.

Legends of álfar may have been constantly changing and were perhaps

always heterogeneous so it might be argued that any particular source

will only relect the state of affairs at one given time. In addition, there

6. The only exception is Layamon’s Brut (Brook and Leslie 550–1), see McKinnell 3;

Taylor, “Völundarkviða, Þrymskviða” 269. See also Grimstad 193–4.

7. There is some disagreement among scholars on how to deine the stanzas of V.: some

editions making them forty in all (e.g. Jón Helgason) but some forty-one (e.g. Bugge;

Dronke, The Poetic Edda ii).

8. See e.g. Burson 1; Vésteinn Ólason 130; See et al. 105–6; Berg 255. Grimstad (193)

suggests that V. forms together with Alvíssmál a duet of poems in the codex, about elves

and dwarfs.

9. Some scholars have believed the connection with Sámi to be ancient (Bugge, “Kvadet”;

McKinnell 9–10. See also Dronke, The Poetic Edda ii 287–9). It must also be noted

that the distinction between Sámi and elves may be only on the surface (see Lindow,

“Supernatural Others”).

Vo˛lundr the Elf

must always have been variation in the way people regarded álfar. Bear-

ing that fact in mind, I will focus on Old Norse sources, mainly from

the thirteenth century. They may represent a much older tradition, but

that conjecture is hard to prove.

I will attempt here to distinguish Eddic infomation from other

medieval sources, such as sagas and romances. In the more realistic Sagas

of Icelanders, Bishops’ Sagas, and Sturlunga saga, álfar are rare. When

seen, they are distant, as in this example from Sturlunga, dated to 1168:

“Sá vetr var kallaðr kynjavetr, því at þá urðu margir undarligir hlutir. Þá

váru sénar sólir tvær senn. Ok þá váru sénir álfar ok aðrir kynjamenn ríða

saman í lokki í Skagairði,—sá Ari Bjarnarson” (123) [“This was called

the Winter of Marvels because so many strange things occured: two suns

were seen together in the sky; a troop of elves and strange beings were

seen riding in Skagafjörð by Ari Bjarnarson” (McGrew 101)]. The style

of this passage indicates that it derives from an annalistic source. We

learn precious little from it on the subject of álfar apart from their being

on horseback in the company of other strange beings.

There are also

references to a cult of elves in the sagas but often in terms so vague that

it is hard to arrive at any deep understanding of old rituals. In Kormáks

saga,

a witch (spákona) wants to offer meat to álfar who seem to live in

hills (Einar Ól. Sveinsson 288).

In Eyrbyggja saga, we ind the familiar

idea that people are expected to relieve themselves at a safe distance from

a sacred spot, and the word used (álfrek) indicates that the álfar might

be expected to get angry although their relationship with the hallowed

ground is not elaborated on (10, 15–6; see also Jakob Benediktsson 125).

According to sparse examples in the King’s Sagas, a cult of álfar was also

believed to have existed in Norway before Christianity.

In one case,

a human king, Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr, seems to have been venerated as an

álfr

after his death (Unger, Flateyjarbok ii 7).

10. This may suggest that they were believed to keep livestock, as they do in more recent

folktales (Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Um íslenzkar þjóðsögur 158).

11. The episode is strange, and the witch Þórdís may well be a comic igure, which might

make her belief in álfar spurious, although the saga does seem to contain some older

material.

12. The word “álfablót” is mentioned in Heimskringla (Óláfs saga helga). This feast takes

place in Scandinavia but there is no information on what actually transpires (Bjarni

Aðalbjarnarson, Heimskringla ii 137). See alsoVries, “Über.”

13. The epithet for Óláfr is also given in Heimskringla but his cult not elaborated upon

(Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Heimskringla i 79–84).

Scandinavian Studies

Álfar appear as characters in legendary sagas while in the foreign

romances and the indigenous riddaraso˛gur, dwarfs are more promi-

nent.

In Norna-Gests þáttr, álfar are synonymous with evil spirits and

creatures of the Other World (Unger, Flateyjarbok i 346). In Bósa saga,

álfar

are listed with other evil spirits in the curse of the hag Busla (14).

In Þiðreks saga, a male álfr has sexual relations with a woman. This álfr

is described as a strange spirit or incubus, who makes prophecies and

seems to be able to vanish at will (319–22). Sexual relations between

álfar

and humans also feature in Hrólfs saga kraka where the human

King Helgi rapes an elf woman and then takes no heed of her advice.

The result is a half-elvish daughter, Skuld, whose nature is evil and

who in the end marks the doom of the noble heathen King Hrólfr (see

Ármann Jakobsson, “Queens of Terror”). In romances from Christian

times, álfar are on the whole evil rather than good. They seem to

belong to a heathen past that Christianity is slowly uprooting, and

that accounts for their nebulous image. But although these álfar play

a narrative role, their character is not irmly established. While they

are obviously dangerous, the extent and nature of their wickedness is a

matter of debate. The elvish nature of Queen Skuld is used to explain

her villainous sorcery (110), but the saga also portrays her as the result

of a human raping an álfr and then neglecting to fetch his child at the

appointed time. Human wickedness is thus the root of the evil in Hrólfs

saga

; the álfr only curses King Helgi as a reaction to his wrongdoing

against her. This is also how the álfar in post-medieval folktales often

behave. Not evil in themselves, when wronged by humans, they carry

out harsh acts of revenge.

Although some romances might date from the thirteenth century,

most are believed to be younger, and they often cannot be dated with

certainty. Some are completely ictional, while others are reworkings

of traditional matter within the restrictions of a genre that is essentially

Christian. While they provide a medieval view of the álfar, it may not

be indigenous and perhaps not traditional. The Eddic material, on the

other hand, has been largely collected rather than subjected to a new

14. Motz lists some examples from romances in her pioneering article on álfar in Old

Norse texts (“Of Elves and Dwarfs” 96–8). See also Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Um íslenzkar

þjóðsögur

151–8.

15. There is a similar curse in Grettis saga (204), where álfar are listed along with “þursar”

and “hamarsbúar.”

Vo˛lundr the Elf

ideology and form, and the Prose Edda clearly stems from a genuine

interest in a heathen past and is not just using álfar freely as a motif.

This conclusion, though, does not necessarily mean that either the Poetic

or the Prose Edda relects genuine heathen tradition. However, these

works purport to be traditional and can at least safely be dated to the

thirteenth century and are thus clearly relevant to Vo˛lundr.

In his Prose Edda from the irst half of the thirteenth century, Snorri

Sturluson discusses the álfar in chapter 17. According to him, there are

two kinds of álfar, light and dark. The light álfar are bright and more

beautiful than the sun. They live in a place which Snorri calls Álfheimar.

The dark álfar live under ground and are “vlikir synvm ok myklv vlikari

reyndvm” (Finnur Jónsson, Edda 25) [“unlike them in appearance,

and even more unlike them in nature” (Faulkes 19)]. As scholars have

remarked, the dark álfar seem to have little in common with the light

álfar

and may have more similarities with dwarfs, with whom they

are occasionally confused in the Prose Edda.

Snorri is a well-known

systematizer (see e.g. Frank) and might in this case be trying to make

sense of a ambivalent tradition, where álfar can be either helpful and

bright or dangerous and vengeful. To Snorri, this may have seemed

contradictory although, as noted above, a similar duality in the elvish

character is well-known from later folktales.

In the Poetic Edda, the only álfr who appears is Vo˛lundr, but the

phrase “Æsir ok alfar” (dat. plur. “ásum ok alfum, ” gen. plur. “ása ok

alfa”) appears frequently, and in some instances, Vanir or even men are

mentioned along with the Æsir and the álfar.

From this usage it is no

great leap to deduce that the word álfr might sometimes not indicate

a separate group with its own deinitive features, but rather a different

and perhaps lower form of deity, which might it with the veneration

16. I do not try to discuss the word álfr in skaldic kennings since it adds little to what

scant information we have. There is, however, an useful discussion in a recent disserta-

tion by Alaric Hall.

17. E.g. in Skáldskaparmál, chapter 35, where Ívalda synir are referred to as both dwarfs

and dark elves (Finnur Jónsson, Edda 122). See also Motz, “Of Elves and Dwarfs”; Motz,

The Wise One

87–130.

18. The poems in question are Vo˛luspá (Regius 50; Hauksbók 41), Hávamál (st. 143, 159,

and 160), Grímnismál (st. 4), Skírnismál (st. 7, 17, and 18), Lokasenna (st. 2, 13, and 30),

Þrymskviða

(st. 7), as well as Sigrdrífumál (st. 18). See Bugge 17, 23, 61, 63, 77, 91, 93, 114–5,

118, 124–5, and 231. See also Finnur Jónsson 86; Ruggerini.

Scandinavian Studies

of Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr.

Lotte Motz (“Of Elves and Dwarfs” 95–6)

has argued that the fact that the álfar are so often mentioned along

with the Æsir indicates a closeness, but the examples yield nothing

deinitive about álfar. There is a possibility that they are synonymous

with the Vanir, as it might seem natural to speak of the Æsir and the

Vanir together when referring to the gods as a whole.

In the poem

Grímnismál

(stanza 5), Freyr is said to have been presented with Álf-

heimr at birth (Bugge 77).

This tentative link with the Vanir might

support the notion that a possible cult of the álfar had links to fertility.

However, in at least three Eddic poems (Skírnismál, Sigurdrífumál, and

Alvíssmál

), the álfar are clearly separate from the Vanir (see note 20).

If we balance the evidence, medieval sources yield no direct statement

about the álfar being Vanir and some texts irmly indicate that they

are separate groups. It is possible that álfar and Vanir are different

generic terms and that a single being might be both an álfr and one

of the Vanir, but both Vanir and álfar seem clearly separable from the

Æsir. The coupling of the álfar with the Æsir in the phrase “Æsir ok

alfar” seems essentially formulaic, since its most obvious function in

these poems is to create assonance. Its use usually reveals little about

álfar

apart from Loki’s dubious assertion in Lokasenna that the god-

dess Freyja has bedded every god and elf present at a particular party

(Bugge 118), a rare mixture of elves and sex in Eddic texts.

There are other brief and unsatisfactory glimpses of álfar in Eddic

poetry. In Fáfnismál (13), a dying dragon informs Sigurðr Fáfnisbani

that some norns are of elvish descent while others are descended from

the Æsir and some from dwarfs (Bugge 221). In Vafþrúðnismál (47) and

Skírnismál

(4), the sun is called “alfrvZðvll,” which suggests a possible

role for álfar in its making (Bugge 72 and 91). Furthermore, the last

poem of Codex Regius, Hamdismál, opens with the enigmatic phrase

19. At the end of chapter 17 of The Prose Edda, however, Snorri suggests that only light

elves live in the third heaven of Víðbláinn where the sacred place Gimlé is located. That

localization raises the question whether the álfar might have been considered even nobler

than the gods themselves.

20. Then the expression would mean “all the gods,” or designate a difference in status

between the major fertility gods, the Vanir, and the minor, the álfar. Terry Gunnell

suggested a possible link between the Vanir and the álfar in a (yet unpublished) paper

presented in Reykjavík 14 September 2002. It is also discussed by Hall (34 and 44). See

also Jón Hneill Aðalsteinsson, Þjóðtrú og þjóðfræði 114–5.

21. Snorri uses Álfheimr as the name of the place where the álfar dwell (Finnur Jónsson

25).

Vo˛lundr the Elf

“gre˛ti alfa / in glýstvZmu” (Bugge 316) [“the source of elves’ tears / dry

of joy” (Dronke, The Poetic Edda i 161)]. While its meaning is far from

clear, this evocative image of sad and weeping álfar seems appropriate

at the beginning of this very tragic poem.

In Hávamál (st. 143), it is stated that Óðinn is called Dáinn with the

álfar

but Dvalinn with the dwarfs (Bugge 61). While Óðinn’s dwarish

name may allude to his secretive and deceitful nature, his elvish name

means “dead.”

A group of scholars in the early twentieth century argued

that the álfar were a force of fruitlessness or death in Old Norse religion

or even spirits of the dead (see Unwerth 29–32; Vries, Altgermanische

Religionsgeschichte

i 257–60; Hilda R. Ellis 111–9. See also Motz, “Of

Elves and Dwarfs” 100). Apart from this single name, there is little

evidence from the Poetic Edda to support this idea although this theory

may have implications for Vo˛lundarkviða. On the other hand, the notion

that álfar (and other groups) have a separate name for various important

things is the main theme of the poem Alvíssmál, which contains eleven

elvish names for various forces of nature and vital things.

This makes

Alvíssmál

perhaps the second most important medieval source on álfar,

and it may be signiicant that Alvíssmál is the poem immediately fol-

lowing Vo˛lundarkviða.

In Alvíssmál, the álfar call the earth gróandi (Burgeoning) (st. 10)

according to the wise dwarf. The sky they call fagraræfr (Fair Roof) (st.

12), the moon ártali (Teller-of-Time) (st. 14), the sun fagrahvel (Fair

Wheel) (st. 16), the clouds veðrmegin (Weather-Might) (st. 18), the wind

dynfari

(Din Farer) (st. 20), the still dagsei (Day-Balm) (st. 22), the sea

lagastafr

(Water) (st. 24), the wood fagrlimi (Fair Bough) (st. 28), the

night svefngaman (Sleep’s Ease) (st. 30), and barley is lagastafr (Grain)

in elvish (st. 32) (Bugge 129–33; transl. Hollander 110–6). These words

speak for themselves, as perhaps also does the fact that no elvish word

is given for ire or beer. Apart from the anomaly that the álfar use the

22. It is open to debate whether the name Dáinn in Hávamál refers to Óðinn or a dif-

ferent person who is the elves’ rune teacher, Óðinn’s colleague (see Motz, “Of Elves and

Dwarfs” 93). Dáinn is a dwarf name in Hyndluljóð, st. 7 (Bugge 152) but in Grímnismál

(st. 33) and Snorra-Edda both names are used for stags in the world tree (Bugge 83;

Finnur Jónsson 24).

23. According to this poem, the mythological beings are the Æsir (or gods), Vanir,

giants, elves, and dwarfs. Some further mysterious beings are referred to once or twice

including Suttungs synir. Vries (“Om Eddaens” 8) believed that these were synonymous

with the álfar, and consequently assumed that the álfar had a special relationship with

the mead of poetry.

Scandinavian Studies

same word for the sea and barley, the elvish words seem very system-

atic. They are all trisyllabic. The dominant sounds are gentle fricatives,

along with the voiced plosives d and g (six of the g’s in these elf words

evolved into a fricative in Modern Icelandic). Three words include the

morpheme fagr- “beautiful” while the night has the name svefngaman.

As scholars have noted, the elvish words are gentle, beautiful, optimistic,

and merry (Moberg).

On the other hand, the words used by giants

(jo˛tnar) indicate a negative disposition, and the dwarf-words are neutral

(Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske 170; Moberg 307–9).

In Alvíssmál, the dwarfs and the álfar are distinct groups with separate

languages. Other sources indicate confusion between them or a partial

fusion of the two, and some consider Vo˛lundarkviða an example of such

blurring. Vo˛lundr is a noted smith, a talent more often attributed to

dwarfs than to álfar, thereby relecting a close relationship between

dark elves and dwarfs (see Motz, “Of Elves and Dwarfs” 96–7 and 106;

Wanner 203–8). It is curious that of the dwarf-names from Vo˛luspá,

three suggest álfar: Alfr, Gandalfr, Vindalfr.

Motz has argued that

the confusion went back to a common ancestor of the dwarfs, the dark

elves, and Vo˛lundr: the divine or mythical smith called Hephaistos in

Greek mythology (“Of Elves and Dwarfs” 106–18; see also Motz, The

Wise One

87–137). While this conjecture is possible, it is hard to prove.

Vo˛lundr may have things in common with dwarfs, but he is certainly

not referred to as a dwarf in the poem itself. If we wish to understand

Vo˛lundarkviða rather than its prehistory, we are left with the problem

of what an álfr signiies in the poem.

All in all, álfar are scarce and ill-deined in Old Norse sources. It is

possible that the word “álfr” referred to minor deities or to a special

race of supernatural beings with somewhat vague characteristics. Per-

haps álfar were never a clearly deined race. Yet if we try to weigh the

evidence, we may come to the following tentative conclusions:

1. A fair number of Old Norse sources agree that álfar had some kind

of a cult in the heathen and early Christian period; about this cult they

24. Moberg does not see any linguistic pattern in the elvish words and believes there is

none: “This freedom of choice played an important role, for it allowed a uniied character

to be imposed on the content of the elves’ words, to give an impression of brightness

and beauty” (315).

25. Motz (“Of Elves and Dwarfs” 93) mentions further examples. Alfr is also a human

name (95, 120).

Vo˛lundr the Elf

are vague, perhaps, because álfar were considered shy of humans and

tended to avoid them.
2. Álfar seem to resemble humans. There are no indications of dwarish

or gigantic size, they are able to have sexual intercourse with humans

(though few do) and even ride horses.
3. The origins of álfar are unsure. Unlike giants, dwarfs, and men,

there is no Old Norse creation myth about álfar. Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr

suggests the possibility of humans becoming álfar after their death, a

proposition that might it with depictions of álfar as spirit-like creatures.

However, this notion has no support in Eddic texts where álfar are

usually mentioned along with the Æsir but sometimes with the Vanir

as well, indicating, thus, that it was at least not generally accepted that

the Vanir and the álfar were the same thing.
4. In romances, at least some álfar seem to be much darker creatures,

sometimes equated with monsters and evil spirits. Snorri Sturluson

resolves this apparent contradiction by dividing the álfar into two

sub-types: one good, the other evil.
5. According to Snorri, the good álfar (who perhaps deine elvishness to a

greater degree than the evil ones) are extremely bright and beautiful.
6. Some Eddic poems (mainly Alvíssmál) also suggest that álfar were

believed to be merry, optimistic, gentle, and tender creatures of great

brightness and goodness.

This is not much. It is not surprising that many scholars believe that

álfar

played an insigniicant role in the Old Norse mythology. Wanner

describes álfar as “litte more than a name in the extant corpus of medi-

eval Scandinavian texts” (204). Lindow does not think they exert a

serious claim to an independent existence (Murder and Vengeance 13).

And Liberman sums up:

Then, at least in Scandinavia, elves were forgotten. From the Eddas it

is impossible to piece together a consistent tale of when the elves were

divided into two groups (light and dark), what relations Freyr had to

the elves, why Vo˛lundr was alfa vísi, and why elves, and not dwarfs,

had a cult of their own. (260)

The paucity of álfar and the lack of information about them in

Old Norse texts makes the protagonist of Vo˛lundarkviða all the more

important. Vo˛lundr is admittedly only one álfr. An interpretation of

Vo˛lundarkviða cannot resolve all questions about a possible cult of

álfar

or their status in Old Norse mythology. However, Vo˛lundarkviða

Scandinavian Studies

provides a unique opportunity for a close reading of a genuine Old

Norse text dealing centrally with an álfr, which makes it an excellent

starting point for determining what it meant to be an álfr at the time

of its composition.

Vo˛lundr and the Inner Life

Before turning to the unique features of Vo˛lundr, it would be useful to

summarize how he accommodates the six points above:

1. There is no mention of a cult in relation to Vo˛lundr. It is also

unclear whether he has any supernatural powers. He does not need

supernatural powers for anything he does. However, gods and

supernatural beings often seem to have no special powers in mythic

narratives. In the poems adjacent to Vo˛lundarkviða in the Codex Regius,

for example, Þórr seems lost without his hammer in Þrymskviða and has

to use ordinary cleverness to dispose of Alvíss the dwarf in Alvíssmál.

Vo˛lundr escapes by ascending into the sky: “Hle˛iandi VvZlvndr hófz

at lopti” (stanzas 29 and 38) [Laughing Vo˛lundr / lifted himself to the

sky]. Scholars have not agreed on whether he used his own technical

skills as a smith or is able to ly on his own.

These facts raise the

question: if he could ly by himself, why did he then not ly away

sooner?—for which there is no easy answer.

Although the matter is

impossible to settle, there are no further examples of álfar lying in

26. Nothing is explicitly said about how V. manages to ly, although he says: “Vel ... verþa

ec a itiom” (webbed feet). That might suggest an aircraft powered by skis, which would

it into the northern setting depicted in the prose introduction. Dronke interprets the

word as “vél” (trick) (321–3) and the whole passage as a reference to the treacherous wife

who abandoned V. by lying away. Among scholars who believe that V. used self-made

wings or aircraft are Hamel (163) and McKinnell (8–9). Wings would provide a link to

the Greek master-builder Daedalus whose main link with V. is the Icelandic word for

his labyrinth: völundarhús (see Simek, “Völundarhús—Domus Daedali”). However,

that word and the concept behind it are not mentioned in the poem. Among those who

believe that V. used a magic ring as a means of escape is Detter; see also Boer. It has

also been suggested that V. does not need wings and is able to ascend on his own, like a

shaman (Grimstad 190–2, 196; see also Niedner 27). Fromm has recently argued against

the shaman theory. Among scholars, only Bouman (“Vo˛lundr as an aviator”) questions

whether V. actually lew.

27. We might note the structural symmetry of the motif of Vo˛lundr’s wings, since his wife

had also left on wings. That might indicate that Vo˛lundr’s anger is directed toward his

wife, and not just King Níðuðr and his family (see Dronke, The Poetic Edda

322).

Vo˛lundr the Elf

Old Norse sources. The least complicated solution seems thus to be

that álfar probably do not ly and neither does Vo˛lundr, except as a

result of his own skill.

2. The poem does not offer a detailed description of Vo˛lundr but

mention is made of his fair-white neck (“hvítan hals”) (stanza 2).

is called “veþreygr” (someone with an eye for the weather) twice in

the poem (stanzas 4 and 8),

and the evil Queen mentions his glitter-

ing eyes when he has been captured. “Amon ero vZgo ormi þeim enom

frána” (stanza 17) [His eyes remind one of the glittering serpent]. A

somewhat obscure phrase about Vo˛lundr’s hostility, “opin var illv´þ er

þeir í sa / lito” (stanzas 21 and 23) [open lay evil / as they looked in],

might also refer to a danger in his eyes.

Not just eyes but also the

juxtaposition of bright and dark is a theme in the poem (Taylor, “The

Structure”). Vo˛lundr’s absconded wife is also referred to as “lióssar”

(st. 5) [radiant] and princess Bo˛ðvildr is called “bráhvíto” (st. 39) [of

the gleaming eyelashes]. Vo˛lundr thus seems to be bright, perhaps

even as bright as the light álfar of Snorri’s Edda. His eyes also attract

attention. Nothing is said of his physique, but he seems to have no

dificulty killing the sons of King Níðuðr (st. 24) or plying Princess

Bo˛ðvildr with drink in order to impregnate her (st. 28 and 36)

he is hardly a little gnome. In fact, stanza 8 gives an impression of an

athletic hunter who is able to slay bears on his own: “Com þar af veiþi

/ veþreygr scyti, / VvZlvndr liþandi / vm langan veg” [Came there from

hunting / the storm-watching marksman, / Vo˛lundr ranging / on a

long road]. Perhaps he kills them with his bow as is suggested by the

word scyti (marksman).

When Vo˛lundr has been captured, Níðuðr’s queen calls him a serpent

and suggests that he bares his teeth (“tenn hanom teygiaz”) when he

recognizes his sword in Níðuðr’s possession and his ring on Bo˛ðvildr

28. It is the swan-maiden that enfolds Vo˛lundr’s fair-white neck, which is interesting

in itself, since swans do have long white necks. See Dronke, The Poetic Edda ii 262;

McKinnell 9–10.

29. Dronke translates as “storm-watching” (245–6).

30. Dronke explains this rather nicely as two things becoming “open” or patent along

with the coffer: the malignity of the jewels and the malevolence of Vo˛lundr (The Poetic

Edda ii

316).

31. This appears to have been a part of the legend for a long time since the cup of beer

seems to be represented on the ancient Franks Casket (see Souers).

Scandinavian Studies

(stanza 17).

The sons of the King and Queen are eager to see the “beast”

Vo˛lundr (stanza 20).

And yet he is also a hunter of animals, at least

of bears (st. 8 and 9), as is irst shown by his return from a bear hunt,

which may be echoed when the King’s young sons are called “hv´na”

(cubs) after their deaths (stanzas 24 and 34; see also stanza 32). Fur-

thermore, he lives in a place called Úlfdalir (st. 5 and 6), which recalls

the importance not only of bears but also of dogs and wolves in Old

Norse mythology and the heroic poetry of the Elder Edda. Vo˛lundr’s

relationship with animals is at best ambiguous.

He is compared to one

by his captors, and a prose interjection states that everyone is afraid of

him: “Engi maþr þorþi at fara til hans nema konvngr einn” (between

st. 17 and 18) [No man dared to go to him except only the King].

To summarize, Vo˛lundr seems to be of human size and resembles

a human at least enough to be attractive to Princess Bo˛ðvildr and to

seem harmless to the two young princes, and yet he is described with

metaphors of bestiality when he is held captive.

3. Vo˛lundr’s origins are vague. In the prose introduction, he is a Sámi

prince. In the poem, there is no father, only Egill and Slagiðr—who

may or may not be his brothers. Vo˛lundr is the prince of elves but there

is no clear indication of what that entails.

4–6. Vo˛lundr is hard to categorize as either good or evil. He commits

cruel and frightening acts before lying away while laughing. But then,

he had been grievously wronged. When he sits alone and abandoned

and waits for his wife, he seems gentle and kind and harmless. How-

ever, after his imprisonment and torment, he is merciless and strikes

out against the young, innocent, and trusting. Instead of the either/or

situation in the Eddic and the legendary texts, this is an elf who has

characteristics of both the light and the dark álfar (see Motz, “Of Elves

and Dwarfs” 97). He is a gifted smith capable of harshness and cruelty

as well a serene and peaceful being, the very picture of innocence who

32. She also suggests that he lives in the woods: “era sa nv hyrr / er or holti ferr” (stanza

16). See also Burson 14. Lassen discusses the motif of serpent eyes in Old Norse texts

(39–42).

33. Grimstad also reads the word “dýr” in this way (198) whereas other scholars have

suggested “door” or “riches” (e.g. Gering and Sijmons 17; Kock, esp. 107–9. See also

von See, et al. 204–5).

34. Grimstad’s (196–8) interpretation of the examples above (and others) is that V. was

a dwarf/elf who could function as a shaman capable of changing into animal or bird

form.

Vo˛lundr the Elf

spends his time hunting in the forests and making precious items for his

own delight. If we regard Snorri’s division as secondary, this apparent

contradiction may lie at the heart of the poem’s portrayal of the elvish

character, and its resolution is to my mind the task facing the reader of

Vo˛lundarkviða.

Vo˛lundr may thus be regarded in many ways as a typical Old Norse

álfr

: vaguely supernatural, of dubious origins, resembling humans to

a degree, but also more bright and gentle, and yet more dangerous.

The Queen’s attempt to stigmatize him as an animal is revealing. She is

indicating that in spite of his human appearance, he is the Other. It may

be precisely his Otherness which attracts her small sons but repels the

King’s men who fear him because they do not and cannot know him. As

the Other, Vo˛lundr is just one of many supernatural and ethnic Others

available to the poem’s audience (see Lindow, “Supernatural Others”;

McKinnell, Meeting the Other). But his lack of physical abnormality

makes his Otherness less conspicous so that the Queen has to insist that

he has the eyes of a serpent and threatening teeth. While giants are often

supposed to be large and dwarfs short (which is not unproblematic,

but that is another story), elves are frustratingly normal in appearance,

which fact raises the question of wherein their Otherness lies.

The Queen’s attempt to categorize Vo˛lundr as an animal may be

understood within a Lévi-Straussian interpretation focusing on the

binary opposition between nature and culture, the wild and the civilized,

animals and humans, the unknown and the known, freedom and slavery,

and the list could go on (see Burson 12–5). I consider this not only a

possible interpretation of the poem, but one that is almost impossible

to avoid. It is also somewhat reductive and leaves out some signiicant

aspects of the poem. I would also argue that there is a fundamental dif-

ference between the Otherness of álfar and that of beasts. Of importance

here is the fact that Vo˛lundr is the protagonist of the poem, and since

signiicant parts of the poem are related from his point of view, the

representatives of civilization become the aliens. Perhaps it is precisely

this ambiguity of the nature–culture binary or the unclear boundary

between the wild and the civilized that álfar is uniquely qualiied to

capture.

Vo˛lundr is not merely the Other, a force of nature that strikes the

wicked who have erred. This role is indeed a function of álfar but not

the sole one. If we consider only this function, it seems logical that

Vo˛lundr’s revenge is aimed at the children of his oppressor. A natural

Scandinavian Studies

catastrophe does not spare the innocents, the death and rape of whom

is by far the harshest punishment of their parents. That scenario would

be consistent with the logic of folktales as well illustrated in the tale of

the Pied Piper, who took the children to punish the parents.

However,

the murder of the children seems more obscure if we look at it from

Vo˛lundr’s point of view—and that perspective is important. Vo˛lundr is

only partly the Other: he is also the protagonist and human focal point

of the poem.

His role as protagonist is indeed complex since it requires

that the Other demands our sympathy. The nature of his revenge must

accommodate the fact that he is the Other and yet not quite alien.

How is Vo˛lundr strange? I would contend that the Queen has no

case because his Otherness is not on the outside but on the inside—it

is psychological rather than physical. He is not totally alien because

anthropomorphic, supernatural Others always relect Us. Indeed, their

main function is to deine the Self, as Ohle (97) has remarked: without

the Other, there is no Self, and without the unknown, nothing can be

known. And álfar intrinsically have the same function as other supernatu-

ral Others: to deine Us. In referring to the inside of Vo˛lundr, I mainly

have in mind his emotions as they seem more prominent in the poem

than logic, and I will contend that Vo˛lundarkviða is a poem of excessive

emotions (see Sävborg 62–8). Thus, I will be discussing Otherness as a

psychological rather than a social phenomenon (see McKinnell, Meet-

ing the Other

26–34), which is not to say that it is not both. It might

seem strange to speak of emotions in connection with heroic poetry,

which may seem lacking in feeling while being rather full of icy rhetoric

35. Warner uses this example in her interesting book about children, parents, and bogeymen

who attack children (29–30). Her book is a reminder that both in folktales and real life,

children are more susceptible to catastrophe than others; only in the fantastic world of

modern Hollywood catastrophe movies do children usually seem to be immune from the

cruel fate that befalls the adults when the catastrophe hits. Dieterle (8–10) also sees youth

and metal as important opposites in the poem. There may also be a logic of inversion in

his method: Níðuðr killed Vo˛lundr’s innocence by attacking him, maiming and enslaving

him for no better reason than to satisfy his own lust for gold. Níðuðr is himself old and

full of sin so the best revenge is to attack his connection with innocence, his children. If

we regarded Vo˛lundr as an epic hero, his vengeance would follow a logic of family ties

directed not against individuals, but against the bloodline. The ultimate revenge would

then be killing all the offspring save the one impregnated with Vo˛lundr’s own child—so

that Níðuðr has to endure the thought of his line being replaced by Vo˛lundr’s lesh and

blood. See e.g. Murdoch 53–8.

36. In Alaric Hall’s framework, álfar are clearly aligned with gods and humans against

monsters in a human/monstrous binary (50–4).

Vo˛lundr the Elf

and heroic self-possession—recently characterized as “a kaleidoscopic

series of vivid, often bloodcurdling moments designed to exhibit and

exalt heroic and highly unnatural behavior” (Andersson 198). Anders-

son also notes that “the style is one of compression, indirection, irony,

high gesture, and perverse exaltation.” But these are just the trappings.

I would contend (following Dronke who, in the introduction to her

edition, has captured well the emotionality of Vo˛lundarkviða) that the

self-possession and the icy rhetoric conceal an extreme emotional life

although the emotions are mostly hidden. So, when the emotional

character of Vo˛lundr is examined, it may be therein that his Otherness

lies. But which emotions are most prominent in the poem?

Excessive revenge is unquestionably a dominant theme. According

to the poem, the wronged elf does not kill his enemy but his two young

sons and goes on to fashion jewels out of their bodies and impregnate

the daughter of the house thus going well beyond the principle of an

eye for an eye. The extent of violence may seem less shocking from the

safe distance at which we ascribe it to a long-gone heathen mentality.

It is also a pervasive belief—unsubstantiated by any factual examina-

tion—that brutality is a more prominent feature of the past than the

present and that in the past people would have been less shocked and

moved by violence. But in spite of a lack of authorial comments in Eddic

poems to indicate disapproval, it seems unfair to assume that killings,

mutilation of slain bodies, and cannibalism were any less shocking to

the majority than they are today. In fact, a thirteenth-century audience

might have regarded Vo˛lundr’s revenge with even more qualms than

we do. Clark (174–6) has indeed argued that heroic poetry may reveal

a conscious effort to distance the violent past from the present and that

the enormous interest in violence need not signify approval.

And we

should keep in mind that the thirteenth century embodied a strong

drive to control violence, which was no less prominent in Iceland than

other European countries but more pertinent since the whole country

was on the brink of civil war (Sverrir Jakobsson).

While Vo˛lundr’s revenge has its counterparts in heroic poetry, it is

preceded by an unusual and fascinating inertia that may seem hard to

reconcile with his revenge at the end of the poem. His initial behavior

is in fact characterized by patience, innocence, and passivity, which seem

contrary to his aggressive, manipulative, and grizzly revenge later on.

37. See my own analysis of Sturlunga saga (Ármann Jakobsson, “Sannyrði”; “Snorri and

His Death”).

Scandinavian Studies

After the three swan-maidens leave their husbands, never to be seen again,

Vo˛lundr’s brothers react in the normal folktale manner and immediately

embark on a quest for their eloped wives.

Only Vo˛lundr stays where

he is. This decision may be regarded as practical thinking: why go on

a wild goose (or swan) chase when the most sensible course of action

after having lost someone is to remain stationary and await the return

(McKinnell 17)? Vo˛lundr indeed becomes happy when he inds that

he is one ring short and takes this as a sign that his wife is back: “eins

sacnaði; / hvgði hann at hefþi / HlvZðvéss dóttir, / Alvitr vnga, / ve˛ri hon

aptr komin” (stanza 10) [one he missed. / He thought that she had it,

/ Hlo˛ðver’s daughter / —foreign being, young— / that she had come

back].

His lassitude seems to be based on optimistism. Nevertheless,

both the example of the brothers and folkloristic custom indicate that

Vo˛lundr’s passive reaction to his wife’s departure is eccentric, if logical.

Although his emotions may be normal enough, his reactions, or lack

thereof, are deinitely unusual.

Vo˛lundr’s inertia may be interpreted as melancholy. Later, he

mournfully recalls the marital bliss with his wife, which borders on the

melancholic: “man ec at ver me˛iri / mo˛ti attom, / er ver heil hiv / heima

vorom” (stanza 14) [I remember that we owned / a greater treasure /

when we were a whole family / in our home].

It has been suggested

that Vo˛lundr has trouble sleeping and sits instead obsessively count-

ing his rings (Dronke, The Poetic Edda ii 256). Later this restlessness is

transferred to the evil Queen who roams the corridors of the royal palace

(stanza 29) while King Níðuðr complains of sleep deprivation (stanza

31). In psychoanalytic theory, melancholy is deined as a contradictory

emotion: the bereaved abuses himself constantly but indulges in nar-

cissism and refuses to put his energy to proitable use (see e.g. Freud,

“Trauer und Melancholie”). This contrast between self-love and the love

38. Although protagonists of bridal-quest romances are usually somewhat aggressive,

there is also a more passive type. Vo˛lundr, however, is more passive than most (see

Kalinke 111–55).

39. Dronke (The Poetic Edda ii 302–4) discusses the word “alvítr” and its possible mean-

ings in detail (see von See, et al. 128–30; McKinnell 1–2, 6).

40. While Vo˛lundr may be regarded as being in deep mourning for his wife when he

starts his long wait for her (stanza 5), there is no actual statement to that effect in the

poem until later, when he describes the swan-maidens as more precious than gold (stanza

14). He also bemoans the theft of the sword he forged himself and the ring that belonged

to his wife (stanza 18).

Vo˛lundr the Elf

of a lost object is not only consistent with the depiction of Vo˛lundr in

the irst part of the poem, but also accords with the contrasts in the

nature of the kind and yet cruel álfar. Although this analysis describes

Vo˛lundr’s state of mind before he is shocked into action by his arrest,

it is debatable how languorous and inert he is. He continues making

jewelry out of gold although he seems to lack a clear purpose, goes

out to hunt, and seems to take care of himself. Vo˛lundr’s psychological

state is thus not easily fathomable. What he expresses is perhaps simply

a nostalgia for his wife, which may be melancholic but does not have

to be. But if we believe that Vo˛lundr is in a melancholic state when

attacked, there is an irony to his revenge: since he was unhappy before

his capture, his mental pain was only exchanged for a physical pain.

Vo˛lundr’s enforced exile thus echoes his previous self-imposed exile.

His revenge on Níðuðr and his family, thus, may seem strange, and

one would have to wonder whether, as some scholars have suggested,

in the end the wicked King becomes a surrogate, not only for the

faithless wife but also for Vo˛lundr himself, who had conined himself

before being forcibly conined.

We have thus on one hand lassitude and possibly melancholy, on the

other the excessive cruelty of the revenge. They need not be incompat-

ible. There are two types of cruelty in the poem: on the one hand, the

calculated purposeful cruelty of the King, who wants Vo˛lundr’s gold

and is ready to rob, disable, and enslave him to achieve this purpose;

on the other hand, the sudden and extravagant cruelty of Vo˛lundr who

avenges himself on Níðuðr by attacking, killing, and raping his inno-

cent children. Níðuðr’s crime against Vo˛lundr is cold, practical, and

unemotional. The King is driven by greed and has no special wish to

harm Vo˛lundr although he has no qualms about injuring him to make

better use of him. Vo˛lundr introduces emotions by abusing the trust of

the children in order to kill the boys and subsequently making love to

41. Motz (“New Thoughts”) and Dronke (The Poetic Edda ii 255–8) have emphasized the

link between the swan-maidens and the revenge. Dronke believes that the swan-maidens

originally represent the Other but feel imprisoned in a marriage with the three brothers.

Then, in the second half, it is Vo˛lundr’s turn to be the imprisoned alien. McKinnell (16–22)

sees the interest in women in the poem as negative as they are depicted as agents of evil.

Dronke focuses on the duality in human nature, exempliied irst by the swan-maidens

but then by Vo˛lundr. Motz (“New Thoughts”) believes the two narratives to have been

intertwined prior to the poem (see also the counter-arguments of McKinnell 13–4).

Scandinavian Studies

a young girl only to abandon her as he himself had been abandoned by

his wife.

In contrast to the King’s lust for gold and power, Vo˛lundr’s

revenge is personal, even loving, since it conjoins the predator and the

victim in a new family. Love and loss go hand in hand in the poem, and

in Vo˛lundr’s revenge, love and violence are united in aggression. And

yet love is not only tinged with death and violence, it also signiies the

new life of the unborn fruit of Bo˛ðvildr’s womb, the pregnancy which

assures Vo˛lundr’s triumph over the King.

Although the initial inertia in the face of adversity does not seem

consistent with the unrestrained revenge that replaces it, neither is

Vo˛lundr’s melancholic (or nostalgic) love for his wife compatible with

his hatred of his oppressor and his family: an excess to all Vo˛lundr’s

emotions may well serve as the common denominator. The same excess

is present in other heroic poems in the Poetic Edda such as Atlakviða

and the lays of Helgi Hundingsbani, in which on one hand we have

the intense love between siblings and spouses, but on the other the

cruel fact of a violent society where betrayal and death part lovers and

families. In that respect, heroic poetry may relect medieval society in

transition—whether we term it viking, pre-chivalric, or chivalric—in

which violence was considered an essential part of human nature and

aggression was commended but was slowly becoming more and more

restricted (see Elias 156–68). Nevertheless, there is a singular chiarascuro

effect in Vo˛lundarkviða, a contradiciton between a gentle, relective, and

mournful protagonist and his enormously wicked actions. And only in

Vo˛lundarkviða is the protagonist an álfr.

The apparent contradictions in heroic poems in general may be

partly resolved by Freud’s analysis of the erotic and thanatic instincts

(see e.g. “Jenseits des Lustprinzips”), which according to Dollimore

(256) may have roots in a very old mythology. In Freud’s analysis, the

erotic instinct may not lead to a long life, but certainly to a more intense

one. The intensity of love causes people to feel more alive, frivolous, or

youthful. Oddly, this fact makes love and death natural partners that are

42. McKinnell (23–4) has reservations about the poetic justice in the revenge of Vo˛lundr,

if the princess is made to pay on behalf of the wife who led. Bonsack (113) argues that

Níðuðr’s wife is identical with Vo˛lundr’s wife who is, according to him, also Vo˛lundr’s

daughter by Freyja, but his logical leaps are far too great for this author.

43. This apparent contradiction is also discussed by Warner (48–77), whose focus is the

contradictions of the Kronos myth.

Vo˛lundr the Elf

often intertwined in the young.

Adults approaching their death tend

not to court death or challenge it as the young sometimes do (a theme

seen in the Eddic myth of the fearless youth Sigurðr Fáfnisbani). These

lirtations with death may make young adults seem more alive than the

old: being alive means not shunning death, while avoiding danger is

thanatic. Thus the heroes and heroines of Eddic poetry, such as Guðrún

Gjúkadóttir and Sigrún, lead an erotic existence while the thanatic

drive is perhaps best exempliied by the aging Egill Skalla-Grímsson,

who withdraws to his bed-closet to starve himself passively to death

(although it is open to debate how successful Egill is in being passive)

(see Ármann Jakobsson, “The Specter”). This bed-closet mentality is

also visible in Vo˛lundr in the irst part of Vo˛lundarkviða. While not

close to death, he seems to have stopped living rendering his lack of

aggression thanatic. Vo˛lundr’s double-edged revenge may be paradoxi-

cal in that to him death signiies vitality, just as love equals life. That

perception might explain why his revenge hits the young of the family.

The cruelty of killing echoes the cruelty of love, and love may provide

a good reason, perhaps the only one, for killing someone. This is an

Eddic sentiment: the heroic poems of the Poetic Edda often intertwine

love and death making violence noble, heroic, and even inevitable. To

Vo˛lundr, revenge means a new life life—aggression, as a positive force,

replacing inactivity. His revenge is cruel but not impersonal.

Just as Vo˛lundr is very emotional, so are other exceptional Eddic

heroes. What they are not is inert or passive. But keeping the erotic

and thanatic instincts in mind, one may argue that after the elopement

of his wife, Vo˛lundr is overtaken by the latter. Instead of (prudently or

foolishly) going to seek her, he quietly stays at home, and his existence

is perhaps not as much unhappy as languorous and unadventurous.

But when Níðuðr enslaves him, he is forced to take action and become

aggressive. Vo˛lundr seems at irst to be innocent. He certainly is not

on his guard and thus easy to capture when he falls asleep believing

in his wife’s return (stanzas 10 and 11). This behavior betrays a certain

innocence or childish naïveté: the last thing Vo˛lundr seems to expect is

enemies coming for his gold. Perhaps álfar are innocent compared to

humans and lack understanding of human motives and, in particular,

human dishonesty and greed. This innocence would make them no less

dangerous. In fact, the psychologist Rollo May argued in his inluential

study of violence that innocence is potentially extremely dangerous. To

him, violence is the expression of powerlessness, whereas aggression is a

Scandinavian Studies

necessary life-force, the need to realize oneself. Taking this view, it would

thus be Vo˛lundr’s non-aggression early on in the poem that leads to his

excessive violence in the end. Vo˛lundr’s revenge not only bears some

resemblance to the well-known theme, common in Icelandic romances

(see for example Schlauch 95–9), of timid coalbiters suddenly shocked

into action, but also relects a common occurence in the human world:

patient and reasonable people may erupt in uncontrollable anger after

having suffered in silence for too long. Perhaps this tendency explains

why álfar can be both dangerous and non-aggressive.

The complexity of the binary relationship of love/life and death is

exempliied by the coda, which undermines the revenge narrative. After

stanza 38, Vo˛lundr’s episodes are suddenly over. King Níðuðr calls his

servant Þakkráðr, a new character introduced into the poem in the third

to last stanza for no apparent reason. He asks Bo˛ðvildr about her rela-

tions with the elf prince: “satvþ iþ Volvndr / saman i holmi?” (stanza

40). The poem ends with Bo˛ðvildr’s answer: “sáto viþ VvZlvndr / saman

i holmi / eina vZgurstvnd, / e˛va scyldi; / ec ve˛tr hanom / vinna kvnnac, /

ec ve˛tr hanom / vinna máttac” (stanza 41) [Vo˛lundr and I sat / together

on the island / —only the time of the tide’s turning— / it should never

have happened! / I did not at all know / how to harm him, / I couldn’t

/ harm him at all].

After the revenge, the poem suddenly ends in a

gentle elegy (see Dronke, The Poetic Edda ii 279). Vo˛lundr may have

the last laugh but not the last word. The logical conclusion of the story

is death, pain, and misery, but the poem is artistically arranged so that

it ends before the end—which is unusual, though not unique, for an

Eddic poem. The artistic arrangement of the poem is also tragically

ironic in that it relects reality. Only in poetry can love survive in the

artistic rearrangement of the facts to assure that the end is happy. In

actual life, a happy end is unthinkable: every love affair ends in separa-

tion and the individual being left by his or her lover. There is no happy

end, unless we invent it. In art, however, love may survive even when

44. Dronke translates vinna as “prevent,” but I believe that Bo˛ðvildr does not have to

be physically unable to assail Vo˛lundr, just mentally unable. Motz (“New Thoughts”

58) translates as: “To withstand him I had neither strength nor knowledge,” but I think

the line (which is admittedly obscure) could just as well refer to a lack of inclination

to harm (compare stanza 6 of Sonatorrek where vinna must be translated as “harm”).

Ásgeir Bl. Magnússon discusses the possible meanings of o˛gurstund, with references to

other theories.

Vo˛lundr the Elf

it dies—a possibility that may epitomize the value of heroic poetry for

its audience.

The end is not the end; the poem does not conclude with the

aftermath of the revenge, but the moment before when the young

and innocent Bo˛ðvildr still believes that this is a story of love, not of

revenge. This conclusion might seem an unsatisfactory ending in the

light of stanza 28, where Vo˛lundr apparently plies Bo˛ðvildr with drink

in order to impregnate the unconscious girl. But however mistaken she

was, Bo˛ðvildr imagined the whole thing as true love and the illusionary

love at the end is strangely satisfying if the purpose of the álfr is to allow

the humans to understand themselves. In this case, what Bo˛ðvildr inds

within herself is the ideal of love, which is stronger than the cruelty

surrounding it. On the logical level, violence is triumphant, but the

poem nevertheless ends with the impossibility of violence: Bo˛ðvildr’s

repeated statement about the harm she cannot do.

What the self-possession and the icy rhetoric thus conceal is a larger-

than-life emotional life where emotions are usually hidden but only

erupt occasionally and often in violence. In fact, using May’s logic, the

violence of the Eddic world and the sagas might perhaps be caused by

their emotional reticence.

All this might seem to have little to do with elves, yet passivity,

love, and revenge lie at the heart of this unique poem about an elvish

protagonist. I would argue that álfar, like Eddic heroes, are full of

apparent contradictions. Snorri must divide them into two groups to

resolve them, the light and the dark ones. Alvíssmál presents them as

exceptionally gentle and kind, optimistic and merry, which may explain

Níðuðr’s attack on Vo˛lundr. The grasping king might seem to have

some cause not to expect excessive cruelty from the sweet-dispositioned

creatures who use such beautiful words as Fair Roof, Fair Wheel, and

Day-Balm—and for whom even sleep is an especially merry occasion.

And it is not only the mirth of the álfar that makes them seem harm-

less. They also seem optimistic and innocent, even naïve. The álfar of

Alvíssmál

tend to see the bright side of things and Vo˛lundr interprets

the theft of his ring as the return of his wife.

And yet in the end the King has to pay a dear price for having wronged

the álfr, just as King Helgi in Hrólfs saga kraka and people who deal with

álfar

in later folktales. As mentioned, álfar in legendary sagas seem on

the whole to be somewhat sinister and frightening. In post-medieval

Icelandic folktales, álfar are as a rule bright and noble creatures and yet

Scandinavian Studies

godless and dangerous, especially if not treated properly. Interaction

between humans and álfar often results in either reward or retribution

depending on how the humans behave. Thus it is no wonder that humans

are fascinated but also frightened by them (see Einar Ól. Sveinsson,

Um íslenzkar þjóðsögur

158–62; Jón Hneill Aðalsteinsson, “Of Giants

and Elves”; Grimstad 200. See also McKinnell 24–5). These later álfar

are often somewhat passive and shy away from humans. In medieval

sources, álfar seem to be even more inactive except in rare instances in

legendary sagas, and it is perhaps possible to attribute their low proile

in medieval sources to a notion that the álfar were withdrawn and

unaggressive.

The Otherness of álfar relects their value as representations of our-

selves, and I would contend, mainly our emotional life. Even though

álfar

are supernatural and thus strange, they are also human—human

and yet not quite human at the same time. Vo˛lundr is Us and the

Other in one form. The álfr and other anthropomorphic supernatural

Others may be seen as metaphors for the estrangement and empathy

that sometimes go hand in hand but sometimes clash in human soci-

ety. But the Otherness the álfr embodies is not restricted to society

but to human existence itself. The álfr represents humanity in its most

vulnerable and naked state, within the loneliness of its emotional life,

where the human being conceives of himself not merely as a familiar

I, but also a strange unchartered land he must spend his life trying to

explore. As an álfr, Vo˛lundr is both strange and familiar and so are his

emotions. They are excessive because supernatural Others tend to be

exaggerations of humanity. Some are gigantic, others very small, and

some experience extremes in their emotional lives. When álfar are merry,

they are extremely merry. When they are kind, they are very kind. When

they are wicked and cruel, there are no holds barred. The excess of

álfar

does not manifest itself in size but may do so in their emotional

life, and therefore Vo˛lundr may serve as a igure for the excessive and

uncontrollable emotions of humans. He is the non-aggressive, kind,

gentle, optimistic, and naïve side of humanity that, when provoked,

may surprisingly metamorphose into cruelty and wickedness. He is a

reminder of what is buried inside us under layers of self-control.

Vo˛lundr the Elf

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