Vafþrúþnismál
The Words of the Mighty Weaver

Vafþrúþnismál, like Alvíssmál, is a song of nature, but more in accordance with traditional ideas. It is a poetical interpretation of Old Norse mythology, which has suffered change from that existent among the people with its unquestioning belief in elves and giants, dwarfs and trolls as veritable beings who helped and hindered their doings; for Day and Night, Winter and Summer are here the wonderful giants of a fairy tale; Rimy-mane and Shining-mane are never found in folk-lore, nor the great eagle who makes the wind.

The most life-like figure in the poem is that of Mighty Weaver, a giant sage, unutterably old and unutterably wise; the personification of all Experience, who sits on his throne throughout the ages, waiting to be questioned by those who dare enter his presence. In Old Norse tradition there are no legends of inspired prophets who in visions have been allowed to look into the future of the world, or of singers who have been given utterance in divine madness. The mysteries of nature are hidden deep in her own bosom, and shared only by those beings who are nearest akin to her and draw their wisdom from its source, or those who by long familiarity have learned her ways. Knowledge must be sought from bird or beast, from souls of the dead who have gone back to their home in nature, but above all from the giants, that ancient race who were born even before the earth, and were made of like substance. There was one other way, indeed, though scarce permitted, in which it was deemed possible to attain wisdom, through magic spells such as those used by witches when they “sat out,” enchanting like the Vala (p. 287), and compelled the night powers to give up their secrets.

Odin has now resolved to contend with the giant whose knowledge is a race heritage ; but Frigg is fearful as to the issue, for the contest is no mock one. Odin, though a god, is not all-wise by nature, but has to learn, borrow, buy, and even steal his wisdom. Disguised as Riddle-reader he enters the giant’s hall, and stands on the floor with an assumption of humility until he has proved his right to sit beside the Mighty Weaver. If the latter had known the nature of his guest he would scarce have asked the Wind god concerning powers of the sky and the steeds of light and darkness, which Odin well knows. Day and Night in this form, as we have already noticed, are only a late invention of poets, though they were undoubtedly objects of superstition among Germanic races, and sometimes conceived as animals. In German poetry Day is a beast or bird who tears the clouds of darkness with his claws; in Anglo-Saxon he is a raven who “blithe-hearted announces the joy of heaven.” The language used in all time to describe the ever-recurring phenomena of day and night shows that they were felt as living personalities, whose presence was not merely visible, but could be heard in its mysterious movements. In Old English, Day glides and climbs, clangs and hastens and pushes on; in modern English, it still breaks and peeps. In German, it gathers strength (erstarket) or turns aside (ervendet). Night sinks and falls, and in Anglo-Saxon wears a shadow helm. The Old Norse lay of Sigrdrifa has a greeting to dawn, which sounds like an ancient hymn and prayer for divine aid:—

Hail Day,       hail sons of Day,
      hail Night and the daughter of Night!
With eyes of blessing       behold us now
      and grant us victory who sit here.

Sun and Moon belong to Part II. of this poem, but may be mentioned here, for they have undergone a change corresponding to that of Day and Night. Cæsar notes their worship among the old Germans, whose religion, in a period better known, was far removed from any pure nature-worship, and one in which Sun and Moon no longer play any prominent part. Their humiliation is recounted by Snorri in a myth. The gods were wroth because the Sun and Moon took to themselves such mighty names, and set them in their places in heaven where they could only move on their appointed course. Sol or Sunne is still a goddess, the sister or companion of the Moon god. She is drawn in her chariot by the horses Early-woke and All-fleet, and is pursued by the wolf Sköll, while Mani, who rules the changes of the moon called Ny and Ni (st. 25, Grim.), is followed by Hati. But the glory of Sun, the myths which tell of her ever-renewed conflicts and triumphs over darkness, her wealth and her bounty have been transferred to the more anthropomorphic gods Baldr, Odin, Frey, and Freyja, who each in turn represent the sun deity.

Though openly deprived of their dominion, traces of Sun and Moon worship linger in old customs and folk-lore. The power of Moon, though somewhat impersonal, is apparent in superstitious practices, which have hardly died out. His waxing and waning was regarded as influential for good and ill on the doings of mankind. That which required growth and increase was undertaken while he was waxing; money was counted, weddings took place, and seed was planted which bore fruit above ground. But with the waning Moon timber was felled, grass was mown, charms were used against pestilence, and the seed planted whose fruit ripened beneath the ground.

St. 27 is the only passage in the poems which speaks of Winter and Summer as personal beings, though at one time they were doubtless regarded as such. The custom of crowning a May king or queen, and the expulsion of Winter, represented by a victim or an effigy, are recollections of the days when both were powers who had to be propitiated and coerced by ceremonies and magic. The conflict between Winter and Summer has become in the Edda a struggle between the gods and the Jötuns, and especially one between Thor and the Frost giants.

The last question of the giant (st. 17) concerns the future. When this is answered he admits the wisdom of his guest, and invites him to a seat on the throne. But Riddle-reader has so far only proved himself equal to his opponent; he must now show himself superior. The first questions are comparatively easy. Who should know better than the old giant how earth was framed from his forefather, Ymir. In the beginning, relates Snorri, there was nought but Muspell-home, the world of fire in the south, and Mist-home, the region of ice and snow, in the north, and between them the yawning Deep called Ginnunga Gap. Then Ymir, the first Jötun, was born. He arose from the melting poison-drops of the chill river Stormy-billow, which flowed southward towards Muspell-home. In due time he begot children (st. 33), but before long arose another race of nobler kind. Once when the cow called Audumbla was licking salt from a rock there appeared a man’s hair, then his head, and at length his whole form. This was Bur, father of Bor, whose son by the giantess Bestla was Odin. Thus the gods were born or evolved, like those of many other mythologies, after a first imperfect creation. They slew Ymir, and made the world out of his mighty frame; while all the other giants were drowned in his blood except Bergelm, who was laid in some mysterious object (here rendered as cradle, st. 35), and thus saved from the flood. Snorri has many details which are not given in Vafþruþnismál, and modern critics have still further completed a picture of the deluge, with Bergelm floating on its bloody billows in a Noah’s ark, perhaps of Scandinavian type ; or, translating Icelandic luþr as flour-bin, of a great world-mill in which the giants were ground up for the making of the world.*

*See Rydberg, pp. 387–395; Hamlet in Iceland, by I. Gollancz, pp. xi–xvi.

But the poem is aware of no such studied myth ; it alludes vaguely to some great epoch when the everlasting war began between the gods and the Jötuns, when natural powers were first made subject to godlike ends.

The Mighty Weaver has now proved his knowledge of giant-lore, and is asked concerning the history and life of the gods. He remembers the first great war between their kindred races, the gentle Wanes or gods of culture and the war-like Æsir (see also p. 283), which ended with exchange of hostages and the admittance of Njörd among the Æsir.

He knows too, as well as humble earth-folk, that when the wind is heard roaring overhead on stormy nights, Odin, the lord of Valhöll, the Victory Father, is holding sport with his Chosen warriors. This most famous of Old Norse myths is not peculiar to Scandinavia. It is found in Britain in connection with King Arthur, and among the superstitions of Somerset, where, however, a somewhat close resemblance suggests direct borrowing from Old Norse sources.* More original is the wide-spread superstition among German peasants of the Furious Host or Wild Hunt which was heard passing through the air, led by an old man, sometimes visible in his broad-brimmed hat, who rode a white or black horse, and was called by the name of Wode or Wote. Both versions have arisen from the blending of different ideas. The souls of those who died appeared to be withdrawn into the world of nature from whence they had come; in woods, by streams, among mountains their presence was detected, and they dwelt in companionship with elves and watersprites, but most of all they haunted the air. Odin as Wind god became lord of these spirits, but especially of the dead warriors, since he was also the god of battle, and those slain on the field were dedicated to him and called “guests of Odin.” His valkyries, as we have already mentioned, used to ride through the air at his bidding, and choose from the battlefield those who were worthy of a summons from the War-god.

* As shown by the Rev. C. W. Whistler, Saga Book, vol. ii., part i., pp. 46, 48, 49 ; vol. v., part i., p. 146.

The questions now become more abstruse. They touch on the future history of the world, and the reign of new powers after the Great Doom, which is foretold in the Soothsaying of the Vala. Even in the present untroubled lay, which seems only to rejoice in the life and powers of nature, Weird is already visible to the giant; he knows its end. But there is one secret which he does not know, and which all have failed to divine, a secret hidden between god and god, which Odin whispered in Baldr’s ear, as he laid him on the bale-fire, in words which only the dead could hear. The very question reveals the personality of the god; the Weaver admits his defeat; and it is shown that Odin has thus far attained all the knowledge which can be won by experience and learned by tradition. In the next poem it will be seen how, in mysterious fashion, he attains the wisdom which more properly belongs to him as a god.