Nine Saga Studies The Critical Interpret

Nine Saga Studies
The Critical Interpretation

of the Icelandic Sagas
Ármann Jakobsson
Nine
Saga Studies
The Critical Interpretation
of the Icelandic Sagas
University of Iceland Press

Reykjavík 2013
Nine Saga Studies.
The Critical Interpretation of the Icelandic Sagas
University of Iceland Press

Reykjavík 2013
© 2013 Ármann Jakobsson
Editorial assistants:
Andrew McGillivray
Christopher Crocker
Front cover image: Jakob Gunnarsson
Author photo: Katrín Jakobsdóttir
Cover design and layout: Helgi Hilmarsson
Printed in Iceland by Litlaprent ehf.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
U201312
ISBN 978-9979-54-997-0
To Robert Cook (1932–2011)
critic, mentor, friend
Table of Contents
Preface .......................................................................................... 9
Introduction: Saga Criticism . ....................................................... 11
The Specter of Old Age:
Nasty Old Men in the Sagas of Icelanders..................................... 47
Two Wise Women and their Young Apprentice:
A Miscarried Magic Class.............................................................. 79
The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch:
The Meanings of Troll and Ergi in Medieval Iceland..................... 93
The Fearless Vampire Killers:
A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic
Contamination in Grettis Saga....................................................... 125
Beast and Man:
Realism and the Occult in Egils saga............................................... 139
Egils saga and Empathy:
Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dysfunctional Saga Family.......... 155
Laxdœla Dreaming:
A Saga Heroine Invents Her Own Life.......................................... 173
The Impetuousness of Þráinn Sigfússon:
Leadership, Virtue and Villainy in Njáls saga ............................... 191
Masculinity and Politics in Njáls Saga .......................................... 207
Acknowledgements ....................................................................... 239
Index . ........................................................................................... 241
Preface
This is a collection of papers originally published in various journals in the United

States, the United Kingdom and Sweden in 2005–11. No attempt has been made to
impose an absolute uniformity on these reprinted articles. Thus, forms of citation,
for example, may vary among them. Typographical errors have been silently cor-
rected and bibliographical references updated when necessary. The orthography of
the primary sources has not been harmonised but is, in each case, logical and should
thus not be upsetting even to the educated reader. No attempt has been made to
harmonise American and English spelling.
The author has enjoyed the aid not only of the industrious staff of The Univer-
sity Press with the preparation of this volume. Most importantly, thanks are due
to Christopher W. E. Crocker and Andrew E. McGillivray for much appreciated
assistance in putting this volume together, and Andrew in particular for creating the
index.
9
Introduction:
Saga Criticism
Scholarship in the age of capital

“Do you think we can reach the saga world through the landscape of Iceland and the
archaeological evidence from the saga sites?” This question was posed by an atten-
tive and well-informed interviewer who seemed surprised at my answer although
far too professional to ever reveal whether she was pleased or displeased by it, and I
for my part was not rude enough to mention that I found the question neither un-
expected nor exciting. After all, intellectuals, artists and scholars have been making
pilgrimages to the saga sites of Iceland for most of the 19th and 20th centuries, with
such trips becoming increasingly commercialised in the 21st. Indeed I made such a
pilgrimage to the farm of Njáll at the age of nine, without discovering anything new
about a saga I was already fascinated by.
My answer went something along these lines: Yes, I think it is possible but in my
view the best and the most interesting path to the saga world lies through language: the ac-
tual sagas themselves, to the words on the page, whether in the preserved manuscripts or the
printed editions. I might have added, and may even have done so, that a saga text is
actually no less ‘material’ than whatever can be found at an archaeological excavation
and its interpretation no more subjective or unfirm; in fact it could be argued that
the texts yield so much more data than the ground that their interpretation must
by reason be less speculative and less unfirm. It could also be added that the path
through language to the sagas has actually been somewhat neglected not only by
scholars but also by those scores of people guarding, transmitting and making profit
of this “cultural heritage” in the 21st century, as well as the public on whose support
all this cultural tourism rests. This is one of my reasons for bringing out an anthol-
ogy such as this one, mainly occupied with saga criticism: the fact that the sagas are
still venerated in Iceland and by scores of people over the whole world, and used for
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Nine Saga Studies
various commercial and non-commercial purposes, far more than they are read in a
critical way.
The reason for the lack of subtle literary criticism might be the traditional schol-
arly idea (in evidence from the late 16th century onwards) that the sagas are first
and foremost sources to a vanished culture, signifiers leading to a lost signified of
far more value, an artifact or an object stale and mummified and ideal for putting
on display in that gigantic museum called the past. There is certainly a great and
pleasing interest in archaeology discernable in the last decades which sometimes en-
compasses manuscripts as well, indeed to such a degree that manuscripts sometimes
seem to be far more interesting even to scholars than the text they contain. Unfor-
tunately, this new interest seems sometimes coupled with a decline of interest in
critical reading and interpretation grounded in philosophical thought.
Another question the saga specialist is often asked, somewhat baffling but appar-
ently perfectly reasonable to those who ask it, is whether it is still possible to find
any new meanings and interpretations in a saga. My answer to that would be: of
course, we have only just begun the work. What little there exists of interpretative stud-
ies of the sagas is dwarfed by a far larger bulk of works about, primarily, the origins
of the sagas, but in recent years, the sagas seem increasingly to belong to a man-
ticore called the cultural heritage which exists nowadays less to promote national
unity but more for the sake of cultural tourism, a new way of creating jobs in the
countryside.
As demonstrated by the two above questions neither of which are hypothetical
but actual examples of what the saga specialist is likely to be asked whenever his few
minutes of television fame come up (and in Iceland, at least, saga specialists seem
to be fairly recyclable celebrities), the place of academics in contemporary culture
is increasingly lacking in autonomy. They are expected to serve the public inter-
est, not only through teaching in a university and writing for their own field of
restricted production but by transmitting the cultural heritage to the masses that are
not all that interested in it. Today’s world could well be characterised as a tyranny of
the marketplace, with employers’ organisations being the most vocal contenders for
world domination, and scholarship, while still partly autonomous and allowed to ex-
ist for its own sake, is also expected to be utilised for the more important purpose of
commerce. Thus the saga specialist has an important function as a guardian of a cul-
tural heritage but his actual work, the saga criticism, is often known only to a few.
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In t r o d u c t i o n
While the sagas are respected and admired, not least in Iceland where they are not
only useful tools of a budding new industry but also traditionally part of a common
cultural heritage gradually being ideologically abandoned but still existing in institu-
tionalised form in the school system, the public reads them in school rather than vol-
untarily, and even educated people have only read a handful of sagas which are only
vaguely remembered because inevitably they must go the same way as most of the
information superimposed on teenagers by school systems. Thus the saga special-
ist is often confronted by a firm but fairly superficial knowledge of the sagas. The
situation is far worse when it comes to the saga specialist’s own work, as even those
outside of academia who are relatively well-informed about the sagas usually know
very little, almost nothing, about the state of saga scholarship in the last few decades
(although some drops of the scholarship of the 1960s seem to have finally seeped in
half a century later). The present writer and many of his colleagues are thus pres-
ently in a similar situation as some of the legendary US ‘television authors’ of the
1960s, such as Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, Mary McCarthy, Gore Vidal and
James Baldwin, well known by people who have never read any of their work.
Many a medievalist is in a similar situation, fairly often interviewed by someone
who is aware of the fact that the person they are talking to has expert knowledge
about the sagas but knows no details of what he has written. Very often these peo-
ple outside the profession are not aware of any difference between critical inter-
pretation and idle speculation (sometimes even scholars do not seem aware enough
of this difference) and tend to focus on what the saga authors wish them to specu-
late about instead of focusing on their texts and their arts and artistry. Thus it is a
fairly common assumption that literary critics deal with questions such as: who did
Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir love the most? (which admittedly has been discussed by crit-
ics). Whereas their real concerns should be questions such as: why does the saga
pose the question about whom Guðrún loved best and why is the answer not given,
only an enigmatic statement which seems to be primarily about something else?
One of the reasons I have been discussing this increasingly marginal place of the
sagas in Iceland (and presumably in the rest of the Nordic countries as well) is that
one of the results is that present day scholars in the field of Old Norse are increas-
ingly writing in English and not in their own languages, not even the Scandinavian
languages and German. Those who try to use only Icelandic eventually discover that
they have a very small readership indeed, and might even just as well be muttering
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Nine Saga Studies
to themselves. If they choose English instead, they will still be writing for the happy
few but their readers, scattered all around the globe, are more likely to reach double
figures or even triple if the scholar ends up becoming really popular. This is perhaps
the most important reason why, in the space of a decade or two, English has become
the ‘language of the field’, as some of my young colleagues put it, a phrase that still
turns my stomach, as I still steadfastly cling to a somewhat childlike belief in the
ideal of the multilingual humanist scholar fluent in ten languages, but nevertheless
I have to admit that it is true and indeed evidenced by my own work. Having start-
ed out writing in Icelandic and discovered the paucity of both scholars and general
readers who are actually interested in reading the scholarly work of others, I have
ended up presenting my serious work more often in English than Icelandic. English
is still not and will never be my language of preference; I would much rather use the
language I know best. On the other hand, my need for an audience has trumped that
preference.
The problem of saga origins

All the above considerations are in some way reflected in this volume of interpreta-
tive essays about the Sagas of Icelanders. The nine articles in this volume appeared
in English-language or multi-language journals specialising in, among other subjects,
Old Norse, between 2005 and 2011. The introduction is written exclusively for this
collection and English is in each case the original language the pieces were written
in. My concerns are in each case not so much issues outside the text but the sagas as
narratives that can be subjected to critical interpretation. None of these essays deal
with some of the most popular topics of Old Norse literature, such as the origins of
the sagas, the relationship between the oral and the textual, or the manuscript dis-
semination of the texts. The problem of the origins of the sagas was such a dominat-
ing concern in the first century or so of serious saga scholarship and received such
a lion’s share of scholarly attention that Theodore M. Andersson needed a whole
book of some 200 pages to review the issue in 1964 (The Problem of Icelandic Saga
Origins: A Historical Survey). Else Mundal’s Sagadebatt from 1977 is even longer but
similarly mainly addresses the question of the origins of the sagas. And this bias was
scrupulously fair, as in 1977 there was hardly any debate about the sagas themselves,
compared to the dominant interest in their origins. Few books of such length and
stature have been written about the scholarly debate on issues such as the ethics of
14
the sagas, their ideologies, aesthetics and structure because it is unlikely that the
material would suffice, since all these issues have been dwarfed by the problem of
saga origins. In fact, even today it is hardly possible to write a book about medieval
Icelandic literature without paying homage to long-discarded 19th century views of
the origins of the sagas by mentioning the words ‘freeprose’ and ‘bookprose’, terms
that cover theories now defunct for half a century.
The question of the origins of the sagas is compelling and will inevitably arise in
most saga studies, indeed it is touched upon several times in this book. However, it
has never been at the centre of my scholarly concerns, indeed I see it increasingly as
an issue that is in most cases unlikely ever to be resolved through an annoying lack
of data whereas the texts themselves yield a multitude of more interesting concerns.
Few scholars currently active would deny that the sagas must be informed both by
oral narrative and the written texts that preceded them. There seems no sense any-
more in categorising scholars according to their preference for the oral or the writ-
ten, the foreign or the indigenous. And yet sometimes these old questions remain
alive with many non-expert enthusiasts, and the main issue of saga scholarship is
still perceived by those outside of the field to be: who wrote Njáls saga?
The emphasis on origins is traditional: literary research began in the 19th century
with the biographical method and only after several decades did scholars of litera-
ture start to pursue themes other than origins. In the case of Icelandic literature, the
earliest scholarship was mostly concerned with finding the actual models for charac-
ters in 19th century novels. The interest in reception is a more recent, and still a far
more interesting concern, and to that we can possibly ascribe the current interest in
saga manuscripts or “text witnesses”. Interesting avenue of scholarship that it is, it
still does not replace critical philosophical interpretation of the sagas and it shares
with the old biographical method the flaw of pursuing things external to the text
more vigourously than the text itself.
While I think the sagas can indeed be studied as sources, not only for actual events
but, more importantly, for values, ideologies and cultural history in general, I would
argue for the importance of trying to delve into every text before using it as a source
and that is where literary criticism steps in. Literary critics are not the antagonists
of historians, anthropologists, linguists, historians of religion or anyone else inter-
ested in the sagas but, in fact, their most valuable helpers. It has always been my
belief that these texts should and must be used as sources but to understand their
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Nine Saga Studies
source value we need to understand the context, the narrative itself and its raison
d’être. This is how I have worked with the text I have spent the most time with,
Morkinskinna, which is an important source for Norwegian history but one cannot
fully utilise it as a source unless one grasps its nature.
Thus it is my belief that although these are interesting and necessary avenues of
study, Old Norse studies should not only be concerned with the origins of the text
and its later reception, and I find myself increasingly wary of concerns that take the
saga critic to issues outside the texts rather than inside them. That does not mean
that I do not think these texts refer to a world outside of them but rather that we
should not be too hasty to leave the text altogether and focus on everything that is
not in the text. To me issues such as the origins of the text are ultimately less vital
than a further and deeper understanding of the material that is available to us in
the narratives referred to as the sagas. Other questions thus seem no less important
than how the sagas originated. To mention but a few: How are saga characters such
as Skarpheðinn and Grettir created through their dialogue? Why does Njáls saga
begin with the figure of Mǫrðr gígja? How does a saga character become a ghost?
Is Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’s maid as stupid as she claims to be and what lies behind
her claim of stupidity? Why does one version of Gísla saga conceal the identity of
Vésteinn’s killer? Is Njáls saga misogynistic? Why can Grettir vanquish Glámr and
why do the eyes of the ghost remain with him? What is the attitude of Egils saga
towards the paranormal? Why does Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir respond in such an enig-
matic way when asked about her greatest love? What could Njáll intend to convey
with the silk garments he presents to Flosi at Þingvellir? To me these questions are
just as important as the problem of the saga origins and furthermore they are not
idle speculation, as sometimes identifying saga authors tends to become, but ques-
tions literary criticism can actually attempt to answer.
The structures of history

One of the main reasons for now collecting the studies in this book in one volume
is that their unity will be less apparent to those who only find them dispersed in
various journals. I believe there is a coherence to my work which could make such
a collection in some ways bigger than the sum of its parts although I do not claim
to be the inventor of a particular ‘saga school’ or ‘method’ in the study of the sagas.
My method has always been classical literary criticism and my reason for using it
16
is, on the one hand, that the sagas have seemed to me to be rife with opportuni-
ties and possibilities for interesting interpretations, and, on the other, that so little
work of that nature has been done, amidst all the ‘archaeological studies’ that are fo-
cused on origins and on the sagas as cultural artifacts. Some teachers introduce them
to schoolchildren in such a way whereas my own approach would be to encourage
people to read them much in the same way as they would read The Hunger Games or
the work of Toni Morrison or Harold Pinter, as texts that communicate something
which is not merely of historical and cultural value but also of much value to the life
of the individual reader and his experience as a human being. Every story has some-
thing to communicate and to my mind the sagas are not ‘dead’ memorabilia but have
the same value as narratives as texts written today.
Although few scholars care to talk about it, there is an element of autobiography
in every publication of a collection of articles. I will not deny that this is the case
with this book; on the contrary I embrace it. Between 1998 and 2011, I published 75
articles, great and small, about the medieval literature of Iceland, of which the nine
contained in this volume constitute only a small fraction. And yet they do to my
belief constitute an important strand of my work, the characteristics of which I shall
discuss in more detail below, after having summarised my scholarly career as briefly
as possible in order to provide some context for the studies which follow.
My first published article in a journal outside of Iceland (“The History of the
Trolls” in Saga-Book 1998) concerned a central concept in the study of Old Norse
sagas, the concept of history. I discussed Bárðar saga, the history of a human settler
of quasi-supernatural origins who eventually leaves human society and takes abode
in the mountain as a mythical protector of the land, as a work of history, thus going
against earlier scholarly opinion that focused on the paranormal elements of the nar-
rative and tended to define history based on the likelihood of the events depicted in
it having actually taken place. According to this line of thought, Bárðar saga was the
least ‘historical’ of all sagas but I argued on the other hand that history is not ‘reality’
but essentially a literary form and thus the definition of medieval texts as ‘history’
or ‘literature’ should not be based on their source value according to modern schol-
ars. In spite of much awareness among historians about the nature and limitations
of history, concepts such as ‘historical validity’ are still being used about medieval
historiography and those who mainly study texts have an important function to per-
form in demonstrating the problematic nature of this concept.
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Nine Saga Studies
It is important to note that medieval (and indeed modern) history is first and fore-
most a narrative about the events of the past, a representation of the past which
should not on any account be confused with the past itself. History is a part of
language rather than a reality outside language although, of course, like all narrative
(also fictional and no less so-called ‘fantastical’ narratives), it refers to such a real-
ity. An historical account from the Middle Ages may be in accordance with what
actually happened or not but this we will never know except to a degree; what does
remain is the text itself, a partly traditional and partly individual interpretation of
what happened. An account will never encapsulate the whole of reality, even our
depiction of what we had for breakfast the same day will involve an element of
choice, focusing on some facts but discarding others, thus not capturing reality in
its entirety but only a small fragment of it. Lies can sometimes be isolated but truth
is hard to establish. An historical account may be false, and scholars can prove, or
at least argue very convincingly, that it is, but history can never be true in the sense
that it captures the whole truth, at best it can only capture a tiny fragment of it and
this tiny fragment of what happened (“reality”) is then transformed into something
else, the narrative of what happened which exists within language. This somewhat
elementary knowledge is often discarded by scholars of the Old Icelandic sagas and
even more so by enthusiasts interested in the sagas, some of whom continue to ob-
sess about their factual accuracy whereas concepts such as ‘traditional’ and ‘non-
traditional’ would actually be more helpful. But while the sagas may be accurate
about some facts (such as there actually having existed a man called Egill Skalla-
Grímsson), they are primarily narrative, certainly a narrative more like the books
of Barbara Tuchman or Erik Larson than the work of Charles Dickens or James
Joyce, but still narrative and thus subjected to the laws of narrative. These laws are
certainly not the same for historical narrative and those narratives which embrace
their fictionality. Bárðar saga, even though it is a narrative of trolls and giants, is in
my view essentially history because it observes the laws of historical narrative, for
example by presenting its audience with an abundance of genealogical and topo-
graphical information and by carefully positioning its narrative within the known
history of Iceland.
Unfinished business with kings

In 1997 I published my first book, Í leit að konungi. This book, a published version of
18
my MA-thesis, concerned the kingship ideology and even more so the unconscious
ideas, the mentality and myths, of medieval Icelanders, as reflected in their impres-
sive corpus of royal biographies. I did think at the time and still think that this is a
central issue of medieval Icelandic literature and even after having dealt with it in a
book-length study, it seemed natural to pursue the issue. From 1997 to 2002 I was
also working on my doctoral thesis but as funding for doctoral students was practi-
cally non-existent in Iceland at the time I had to invent other projects to support
my research and invented a project that concerned kingship ideology as reflected
in other literature besides the kings’ sagas for which I received funding from the
Rannsóknasjóður 1997–1999. My main goal was to tend to what I felt was unfin-
ished business from my thesis. I had restricted myself to kings’ sagas but I always
knew that the question of royal ideology did not merely concern this one saga sub-
genre.
In the next five years, I was thus involved with two separate projects: my thesis
on Morkinskinna about which I was also producing articles, mostly in English, while
working on the book of the thesis, written in Icelandic, and a separate project on
kingship ideology in saga sub-genres other than the kings’ sagas. It was fortunate
that both projects were engrossing, to a degree interconnected, and that I seem to
have had a lot of drive in my late 20s. Some of the articles that came out of this pro
ject concerned kingship ideology in the legendary sagas (with Hrólfs saga kraka as my
main case study) and at that time I also started a Nordic project with Annette Lassen
and Agneta Ney, focusing on the legendary sagas which eventually led to the organi-
sation of three conferences and the publication of three anthologies concerning the
structure and ideology, the myth and reality, and the origins and development of the
legendary sagas. This project started in 2000 and ended in 2012, with the publica-
tion of our third anthology. It was always a side project for all of us and would not
have been so successful if more established scholars had not from the outside wel-
comed the initiative and thus helped us make the endeavour into a success.
As a part of my continued kingship ideology project, I also investigated the im-
age of kings in the Sagas of Icelanders, including Vatnsdœla saga and Laxdœla saga
which I deemed worthy of separate studies, not least on account of their genealogi-
cal structure, as they are aristocratic serial biographies resembling the royal serial bi-
ographies of the kings’ sagas. Thus my serious scholarship on the Sagas of Iceland-
ers started out partly as a tangent from my kingship ideology studies. One of the
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Laxdœla saga articles (“Konungasagan Laxdœla” in Skírnir 1998) touched on some

of the issues discussed in more detail in the Laxdœla saga article in this volume.
Although my main object was the ideology and the imagery of kingship, I could
not help being interested in some of the details that a scholar may put into context
which may escape the average reader, such as the fact that King Óláfr and Kjartan
Ólafsson were said to be of the same height. I found that a significant detail when
thinking about kingship in the saga. Another aspect of Laxdœla saga which struck
me at the time, and I ended up pursuing further, was the fact that while the male
hero’s (Kjartan Ólafsson’s) appearance is described in detail in the saga, it remains
silent on the details of how Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, said to be one of the most hand-
some ladies of Iceland, looked. Thus the modern reader has no information from
the saga or other medieval sources about her eye colour or her hair colour, her size
or her general appearance. On the other hand, she is frequently remarked to be wise
and intelligent whereas nothing is said of the male hero’s cognitive abilities. Another
little detail which struck me at the time was that the link between men and decora-
tive objects in Guðrún’s autobiographical dream might be worth pursuing which I
ended up doing in “Laxdœla Dreaming” a decade later.
Some years after having been the happy beneficiary of this Rannsóknasjóður grant
I finished a study on Sverris saga that was not only a continuation of my work on
the kings’ sagas but also in many ways akin to the articles in the present book, and
yet I have not included it because all the other studies here are concerned with Sagas
of Icelanders and not the kings’ sagas. However, this study shares the same concern
with pursuing both major and minor themes of the narrative to their logical conclu-
sion. In the case of Sverrir, it is the fairytale structure of the narrative and its concern
with the dreams and aspirations of its protagonist and with the royal ideology of the
saga. Like in most of my studies, my focus has been more on the aesthetics and the
narrative devices of the saga rather than purported reality outside of the saga. This
is a distinction not all medievalists seem to be continually aware of. The kings’ sagas
in particular have been much used by historians who are to my taste sometimes too
preoccupied with their source value, although they are no longer mining them for
events but rather for social and cultural structures, values and ideologies, and have
sometimes not had much sympathy for the scholars who are primarily interested in
the narrative itself. Thus they fail to notice some of the small ironies of texts such
as Sverris saga which in one version ends with a comparison of King Sverrir and his
20
alleged father, King Sigurðr. The paternity of Sverrir is of pivotal importance for
him, as his whole claim to the throne rests on him being the son of a king, unlike his
main antagonist who is only the grandson of a king. Sverris saga, in all versions, is
very sympathetic to his claim and yet the comparison between him and his “father”
at the end of the saga reveals that the two men were nothing alike except in a very
general and superficial way. Thus the whole comparison undermines the claim but
the saga author, or the author of this version, pretends not to notice. Old Norse sa-
gas are full of such ironies, often dismissed as flaws of the narrative, changes made
by un-thinking scribes or even as a figment of a creative interpreter’s imagination.
My method, if one can use such a distinguished term for it, has been to take the
texts seriously and not use the beguiling concept of a ‘mistake’ to lazily dismiss all
contradictions and paradoxes. To my mind, the paradoxes are usually in the narra-
tive for a reason and in this case, there is a perfectly good reason for its inclusion:
the author wants to inform some of his readers, perhaps the more ideologically
minded ones, without stating it overtly, that in reality King Sverrir was no son of a
king. This cannot be said out loud because the information is too dangerous, but if
it is taken seriously, we are left with a medieval author (either of Sverris saga or only
the version which includes the comparison) who believes that Sverrir was worthy of
being a king not because he was of royal blood but because he was the ablest man
for the job and chosen, like King David, by God himself, a view actually propagated
in the saga without any irony.
My doctoral thesis was concerned with Morkinskinna. Along with Sverris saga,
this was one of the more interesting texts for the scholar involved with the ideology
of kingship, not least because Morkinskinna is not only much concerned with ethics
and morality but also with Icelanders and their position in relation to kings, issues
which often come to the fore in small exemplary narratives that the scholarship of
the 20th century made into a particular saga sub-genre called the þættir. I took a dif-
ferent stance in my thesis, regarding Morkinskinna as a unity where some of the
unifying features were the courtly communities depicted in the sagas and the cre-
ation not only of an ideology of rulership but also of an Icelandic identity. The rela-
tionship between this identity and the interest in kingship clear from Morkinskinna
and many other texts from the same time was particularly interesting in view of the
fact that the 13th century was a transitional period in Icelandic history, the country
moving from a ‘commonwealth’, a unity where no king was the ultimate source of
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power, to the rule of the King of Norway. Traditionally scholars (Icelanders in par-
ticular) have believed that this Norwegian rule was imposed from the outside, and
this was the view most in tune with the independence movement of the 19th and 20th
centuries, whereas my research has shown, in my opinion clearer than has been pos-
sible to demonstrate without regarding the kings’ sagas as clues to Icelandic ideas
about the institution of kingship, that there was on the contrary much Icelandic in-
terest in the early part of the 13th century in kingship as an institution, its ideological
foundation and the morality of rulership, and in the kings of Norway in particular.
Thus Icelanders were far more active than often believed in bringing the monarchy
to Iceland.
My thesis, published as a book in 2002, was written in Icelandic but I had realised
that to catch the attention of the international audience, it had to be backed up by
smaller studies (some of which represented some of the individual chapters of the
thesis) of Morkinskinna, composed in English. I certainly cannot complain about
the reaction of the international scholarly community. From the outside my stud-
ies of Morkinskinna gathered some interest and at the time I published two articles
that I myself believe are fairly significant about core issues of this larger study, the
relationship between the individual and the ideal in the kings’ saga narrative and the
aesthetics governing the structure of Morkinskinna. Later I published some studies
from the latter parts of the thesis but large parts of the study will be unaccessible
to those not familiar with Icelandic until the English version arrives, which I hope
will be in 2014. This version was delayed by my work on an Íslenzk fornrit edition
of Morkinskinna (published in 2011) that was based on my previous studies but of
course some of my views of this text developed and were modified by more immer-
sion in it. In this day and age not all scholars appreciate the value of a good edition
but I can safely say that working on a serious scholarly edition like Íslenzk fornrit for
about seven years is much like a second doctoral degree for a medievalist.
Contemplating Otherness
After many years of thinking about Morkinskinna and about the kings’ sagas, I was
now eager to branch out and write about something else. I was still dependent on
the good will of the Rannsóknasjóður which funded my next project for three years
(2001-2003). When moving away from the kings I went all the way to the other
end of society; my interest was the generations of Iceland which could be referred
22
to as marginal or disadvantaged: children, youths and the elderly. This proved to be

a popular subject and I have kept working on it long after it was officially at an end.
One of those studies has reached the present book, a study of the sad fate of elderly
vikings (“the Spectre of Old Age”). In my opinion I am still not quite finished with
the topic and it is my aim to publish my studies on the disadvantaged people of the
Sagas of Icelanders within a few years.
I cannot claim that I had a very clear idea of what I wanted to write in my head
at the start of this project but I was fascinated by the topic, partly because I soon
realised that this was a topic that would be interesting to others and I have always
felt that even the most rigorous scholar should still write for an audience, however
small, and partly because I have always been that eccentric kind of theatre goer who
watches that which is going on backstage just as much as the events in the front
that people are supposed to be concentrating on, an interest evident in my study of
the supporting character Þráinn Sigfússon in the present volume. And even though
this Rannís project officially lasted only three years and I then went on to a differ-
ent one for another three years, they were certainly connected in the way that I was
contemplating Otherness in both instances: disadvantaged characters, supporting
figures, that which is different from the perceived man in the middle; in fact I was
looking backstage as has always been my custom. Anyone who reads the individual
studies closely will find that my method is somewhat similar in each case. I tried
to shut out the cries of the sirens of encyclopaedia and resist the urge present in
anyone of a scholarly disposition to collect data and present the reader with every
known case pertaining to his subject. I did not wish to locate all known cases of
a child, a youth or an old person in the sagas and to carefully list them and try to
generalise from them. Instead I try to go as carefully as possible into each particular
case in order to reach a more subtle understanding of the singular. Thus the study
of Flóres and Blankiflúr concerns only one text where youth plays a pivotal role.
The same applies to my study of the two Vatnsfirðingar in Íslendinga saga, although
the topics are very different, as one study deals with youth and love, the other with
youth and violence. I also regard children from two different angles in my stud-
ies of saga childhood, in one instance focusing on children who are preyed on, in
the other on children who cause trouble for adults. One of my studies on old age
focuses on the negative image of old age in medieval Iceland, another on the posi-
tive side. In none of these studies have I attempted to isolate a view that is general,
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Nine Saga Studies
indeed I do not even think it possible to say what the majority view was. I have
thus tried to present a multicoloured picture, as nuanced as possible given that the
characters I was focusing on are usually underrepresented in the literature. Never
before or after have I been as profoundly aware of the fact that the topic I was in-
vestigating was really complex and it often felt that I was merely scratching at the
surface. When asked to define my studies, I usually try to describe them as a begin-
ning rather than an end.
Jobs for specialists in medieval Icelandic literature are few and far between and I
had arrived at a place from which I did not know how to proceed further with the
same topic, and thus I had to invent a third Rannsóknasjóður project for 2004–
2006. This time I moved from marginal age groups to supernatural characters, such
as giants, elves and dwarves – which some might see as a complete turn in my re-
search whereas I see it as a natural continuation, given that I was already getting
closer to ‘the Other’, at least from the point of view of that elite which had originally
been my main topic. In this instance, a lack of satisfaction with the pre-existing
studies and definitions also had a strong influence on my choice of topic. I had been
coming up against anthropomorphic Others in my studies and in some instances
finding myself unimpressed by some of the previous research. My research pro
jects often arrive unexpectedly in the midst of the last one and the paranormal had
certainly sneaked in through the back door of “the Spectre of Old Age” as one of
my main case studies was the elderly and angry viking Þórólfr Lame-foot who later
became a ghost, indeed one of the most troublesome ghosts ever reported in Iceland
– I later used him as a subject for a novel, Glæsir, published in 2011, which, even
though it is in Icelandic, has been read by more people than my article as novelists
occupy a far less marginal place than scholars in Icelandic culture. At the beginning
of my involvement with the paranormal, I nevertheless had no wish to focus on
ghosts but concerned myself with the supernatural non-deities of the eddas. Re-
search in the humanities tends to acquire a life (and a will) of its own, this project
soon started leading into various directions, and has in fact metamorphosed into yet
another Rannís project that is still ongoing (funded from 2012 onwards). The first
three articles of my 2004 project concerned the mythological elves, dwarves and
giants and I was for the most part concentrating on eddic sources. My main reason
for this was the feeling that I had hitherto been too preoccupied with prose narra-
tives and I needed to become better acquainted with the eddas. My aim was and has
24
always been to become somewhat conversant in every type of medieval Icelandic lit-
erature and these efforts have proved useful, or even necessary, when I have to teach
introductory classes at the undergraduate level, teach in high school sixth form as I
did for six years, or write books about Icelandic medieval literature in general (two
such were published in 2009).
I soon realised that my study of dwarves must have two separate focal points:
the eddic dwarves on one hand and on the other the romance dwarves seen in the
riddarasögur whose ancestry may have been different although I cannot claim to
have resolved the issue (and I have yet to write A short history of dwarves, irresist-
ible though the title is). In both cases I focused more on the representation of these
figures in the actual extant texts and my aim was never to reconstruct a hypothetical
Old Norse ur-dwarf; in this I realise I am distancing myself from many of my col-
leagues both in folklore and literature. My approach to elves was similar although
they are a much rarer species in texts from medieval Iceland. One of my main con-
cerns there was to rid myself of the preconceptions created by both the folklore
which may well be much older, even medieval, in origins but which was collected in
the 17th to the 19th century, and, of course, modern literature, the novels of Tolkien
serving as a good example. In the case of the elves, for example, the scholar should
not start out assuming that the Old Icelandic word “álfr” means quite the same thing
as it would in the work of Tolkien or in the 19th century folktales. The end result is
that medieval depictions of the appearance, the function and the cult of the elves are
far more nebulous than we might think if we approach these figures armed with all
the cultural arsenal of the 19th and 20th centuries, pleasant though much of it is.
The biggest group of medieval Icelandic supernatural beings are the giants, big
not only in terms of size (indeed the size of the eddic giants is far from certain)
but also in their far more central position in eddic mythology. I thus found myself
compelled to dedicate far more time and space to them than the elves and dwarves.
One of the things I found it more and more necessary to accentuate is the uncertain
identity of these beings in the medieval Icelandic sources. Not even Snorri’s Edda is
consistent when it comes to even the most mundane factual matters like the location
of the home of the giants. And even texts such as Bárðar saga which try to invent
a system where it is clear what a “risi” means and that “troll” is something entirely
different, cannot really sustain this system even within this one text. When study-
ing the legendary sagas, I found that words like “risi”, “jötunn” and “troll” are used
25
Nine Saga Studies
interchangeably, without necessarily all having the same connotations. This led me
to want to delve more deeply into the meaning of such concepts.
In the end, my scrutiny of the word “troll” became a separate study of consider-
able length, the longest version of which appeared in Saga-Book of 2008, and my
conclusion was that this word can best be described as wide in meaning. Thus the
word does denote both “risar” and “jötnar” but can also encompass a lot more. A
“risi” is thus only a type of troll but there are other types that are not “risar”, such
as witches and those supernatural beings created by their witchcraft. I would argue
that any attempt to equate the term with modern races or species would be bound to
fail, as the term has no racial connotations in the Middle Ages although scholars of
the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries have tended to assume that and to designate medieval
trolls as a supernatural race. But they are not. In fact, everyone can become a troll, as
being a troll is a mutable existence.
I had now travelled far, far away from my original plan to study the eddas and
their elves and dwarves, into the occult realm of witches, trolls and vampires, a cen-
tral aspect of the Rannís project which I was lucky enough to receive funding for
in the years 2012–14, a project more ambitious in scale than those projects the fund
had supported before in which I was the sole participant. The project is directed
towards the definition and the experience of the paranormal (supernatural, occult)
in medieval Iceland. Its appearances in various types of medieval texts, e.g. Sagas
of Icelanders, Sturlunga saga, bishops’ sagas, the eddas and legendary sagas, are be-
ing surveyed. The main focus of the project is on one hand how the paranormal
is defined and categorised, specifically relating to the concepts which are used and
their meaning. On the other hand the focus is on the experiences of individuals and
their access to the uncanny and the otherworld. The focus is significantly directed
towards language itself and the cognitive dealings with the Other. Various types of
the paranormal and paranormal experiences are addressed (otherworldly creatures,
witchcraft, miracles, dreams) and put into context with gender, the concept of time
and social issues. As is easily discernible, this large project is in its own way a con-
tinuation of the studies I had started in 2004, where the main emphasis is on medi-
eval definitions of the paranormal, and, in fact, four such studies from 2007–2011
appear in this volume, all of which are mainly concerned with the appearance of the
paranormal in Sagas of Icelanders.
In the 20 years I have been seriously involved in Old Norse studies, if I count
26
from my first serious publication in 1993, I have thus been involved with several
issues, some central and some marginal to the field of Old Norse. My main focus
in the first stage of my career were the kings’ sagas and my contribution to that
particular area could possibly be considered more significant than whatever I may
have contributed to other areas within the field of Old Norse. I have also been able
to play my part in the study of the legendary sagas, although more through the or-
ganisation of conferences and publication of anthologies than my own scholarship.
When I started work at the University of Iceland I felt it was important to produce
a volume that could serve as a general introduction to the scholarly issues of the field
and for this purpose I wrote Illa fenginn mjöður (2009), a book that I think is useful
for undergraduates wishing to get familiar with Old Norse texts and perhaps for
others as well. This book includes a discussion of disparate texts: translated hagio
graphies, translated romances, indigenous riddarasögur, secular and sacred skaldic
poetry, eddic poems, Snorra-Edda, þættir and the narratives of Sturlunga saga. Thus
I have at least made an attempt to familiarise myself with the problems of most
types of Old Norse texts. One of the few types of text that is discussed mostly indi-
rectly in that particular book are the Sagas of Icelanders. This is an omission I wish
to balance with the present volume.
Saga witches, saga trolls

The studies in the present volume all concern Sagas of Icelanders and the sagas in
question all happen to be from the 13th century – and this in spite of the fact that I
have during most of my career been a fairly reliable advocate for further study on
the literature of the 14th and 15th centuries, to my mind important ages for saga writ-
ing that have been unjustly neglected. I decided to include two articles that mainly
focus on Eyrbyggja saga, one that deals primarily with Gísla saga, one focusing on
Grettis saga, two articles which concern Egils saga, one which focuses on Laxdœla
saga and two that concern Njáls saga. As will be evident from the narrative above,
these five somewhat popular Sagas of Icelanders have not been the main focal point
of my research. I have not only been more interested in the neglected ages of saga
writing but have also tried to show neglected sagas, such as Morkinskinna, more at-
tention than the “greatest hits” of Old Norse literature.
I have come to these sagas through other research projects: through kingship ideol-
ogy, marginal age groups and the paranormal. My scholarly aim has never been to
27
Nine Saga Studies
produce yet another study of those Old Norse texts that have in the past received
the lion’s share of attention from the scholarly community at large. And yet I have
been drawn to them again and again, in spite of myself rather than through any con-
scious act of will. I read all the above sagas first as a child, as a fairly normal reader
with scant knowledge of philosophy or philology. I read them as I read Treasure
Island, The Three Musketeers and the work of Astrid Lindgren and Agatha Christie,
as exciting and interesting narratives that provided a great deal of recreation and
amusement. I cannot deny that when I started learning Icelandic at the undergradu-
ate stage, I may have had vague and somewhat conventional ambitions to be one
day a great expert on Njáls saga but very soon I was drawn to other areas, to all the
neglected medieval Icelandic narratives: to the romances and saints’ lives and the in-
creasingly marginal kings’ sagas (whose popularity had steadily declined in the late
20th century) about which so much new could be said. In university, I was fortunate
enough to study with teachers who opened my eyes to various kinds of literature
and, of course, influenced my thinking about medieval Icelandic literature a great
deal. Among the most important were Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Davíð Erlingsson, Vésteinn
Ólason and Bjarni Guðnason, all experts in texts I had hardly heard of when I started
my studies and all extremely stimulating teachers who provided me with an arsenal
of ideas I am still working from today. And yet, in spite of my firm convictions that
it is important to focus on neglected texts and neglected periods, the literature of
one’s childhood tends to refuse to leave and so it has been with Njáls saga, Egils saga
and Laxdœla saga. They continue to fascinate, whatever else one reads.
As I have already touched upon, when the Sagas of Icelanders are mentioned, a
large portion of the Icelandic public seems to be stuck in the mindset that the main
task of the scholar is locating the author of sagas which is perhaps not surprising giv-
en that the editors of the Íslenzk fornrit and other scholars of the 20th century spent a
lot of time and effort on such pursuits. Similarly, the biographical school of literary
criticism had a great presence in the literary life of Iceland most of the 20th century,
the main preoccupation of which was locating the actual live models for characters
from 19th and 20th century novels. While I enjoy reading this kind of scholarship,
somehow I have never been tempted to write on those lines and my reasons for that
are manifold. To begin with I think that the search for saga authors is a dead end.
Inventing arguments for such or such a person to have written a particular saga is
like clutching at straws; it would perhaps even not be totally unfair to abrasively dis-
28
miss it as a parlour game rather than a serious occupation. This information simply
does not exist any more and speculation about the author of say, Njála, will remain
precisely that: speculation. Secondly, there are several more feasible avenues to ex-
plore, such as the meaning of those actual texts we have and which, unlike the dead
authors, are still present to be studied. I would not say that no information which
could be unearthed about the saga authors would be interesting to me. For example,
the revelation that some of the major sagas were written by women would certainly
be fascinating. The discovery of the name of any 13th century saga author would,
however, probably eventually turn out to be not that exciting, at least if little was
known about the author apart from the name, and given the small likelihood of any
such revelation taking place, the information available to us through close readings
of the texts seems far more interesting and exciting.
Thirdly, the idea of medieval authors who wrote their books in much the same
way as the authors of the 18th and 19th century is hard to sustain. Few texts illustrate
this point better than the sagas which not only purport in each and every case to
be traditional, but, in most cases, are based on a long (probably mostly oral) tradi-
tion. Thus it is hard to argue with any certainty that there was a single author of
Njáls saga. Such an author is in my view predominantly a narratological necessity,
as modern narratology requires an implied author (who may correspond to one or
more people in the flesh) when interpretations are constructed. My fourth point
would be that biographies of writers are not literary criticism. There is a lot to be
gained from Gulliver’s Travels that will not be further illuminated through reading a
biography of Swift. In fact, it is tempting to posit, contrary to Sigurður Nordal and
his disciples, that as a rule the lives of writers tend to be far duller than their work.
From that point of view, it may be regarded as a blessing in disguise that the Sagas
of Icelanders are anonymous. In fact, I considered, albeit briefly, to call my intro-
duction to this collection: Who cares who wrote Njáls saga? To finish this thought
on a less irascible note, I think speculation about the authors of the sagas might be
characterised as a stimulating pastime, by no means less intriguing than collecting
stamps or observing rare birds. But I have great doubts about whether identifying
saga authors by name can be regarded as serious scholarship unless it is joined with
a close reading of the text, as it is neither interesting nor feasible enough.
The first article in this collection originally started out as a part of my studies on
the disadvantaged age groups in Old Norse society. I had previously written about
29
Nine Saga Studies
children and youths and when I turned my attention to the elderly, my attention
was caught by three cases of elderly viking warriors who end up having a somewhat
troubled and angry old age. Originally my plan was to focus on the similarities be-
tween them but this did not work; the article made its point but the point was not
all that interesting and writing about it became fairly repetitive. I demonstrated con-
vincingly how the elderly vikings were angry, explained with some eloquence why
they were angry and connected these somewhat negative images with similar nega-
tive portrayals of old age in medieval Europe. This was not without interest but still
fairly superficial. In fact, the original manuscript I submitted to JEGP was turned
down with good reason. Fortunately, JEGP was blessed with one of those wise edi-
tors who realises that even the least inspired study may have a core that is worthy of
further exploration and thus the rejection letter included a loophole which encour-
aged me, or even goaded me, to do better.
I spent months considering the topic and improving my study in various ways.
The breakthrough came when I realised that even though the fairly similar plight of
these three elderly warriors was somewhat interesting, their different strategies in
dealing with this plight and attempting to escape it were actually more intriguing.
Thus the medieval image of Saturn entered the fray when I contemplated Þórarinn
the viking’s almost irrational aggression towards his son; I cannot recall any more
whether reading Marina Warner’s book where she discusses the Saturn myth in-
spired this thought or whether I started reading it after something else had done
so. Fortunately it could be argued with examples that the myth of Saturn was well-
known in medieval Iceland and indeed a Norwegian scholar had already made the
connection between Heimskringla and this myth long ago. The fate of Egill Skalla-
Grímsson led me to food and starvation, and again I cannot remember whether I
had read Maud Ellmann’s work on Irish hunger strikes before working on this ar-
ticle or if it led to it but for weeks I studied medieval ideas about food. I also ended
up becoming more interested in ghosts than I had originally intended, as my much
later novel Glæsir attests to, and in the end I framed the article with quotes from
Anna Karenina and A Christmas Carol which I thought the editors might throw out,
as prudent editors frequently do with my attempts at sagacity, but in this case they
did not and I still like them there. In this instance, containing my eagerness to pub-
lish and be rid of the study had a good ending. When I finally had an article which
was far more dense and contentful than before, I sent it to JEGP again and there it
30
finally appeared in 2005. This was significant for me as I realised that sometimes a
study does not need to reach its full maturity swiftly, in fact there is always room for
improvement and that the scholar should keep working (and, perhaps more impor-
tantly, thinking) until the study reaches its full potential, hampered only by his own
limitations. In fact I and perhaps many others could take heart from the fact that
many of my favourite studies since then have begun with an atrocious first draft.
There is thus a personal story behind the fact that “Spectre” starts this collection.
My other Eyrbyggja study, “Two Wise Women and their Young Apprentice”
started out as a lecture at the 2006 partnership conference, a joint venture of the
University of Manitoba and the University of Iceland. I had no affiliation with the
University of Iceland and was thus in spite of my nationality representing the Uni-
versity of Manitoba at the conference, as one of the guests of the Department of
Icelandic language and literature. For this I have to thank Prof. Birna Bjarnadóttir of
Winnipeg who even managed to conquer my reluctance to travel and in particular to
go west and cross that part of the Atlantic Ocean. I am sure everyone present at that
conference will never forget the joyful mood that reigned there and I enjoyed writ-
ing and presenting my lecture which eventually became an article in Arkiv för nordisk
filologi. But the study is included here not only for personal reasons but also because
it concentrates on similar themes as the other one, in particular parenthood and
the supernatural. It would probably be possible to discern influences from the late
Sigmund Freud – he is, in fact, mentioned in both articles – but I would neverthe-
less shy away from referring to myself as a strict Freudian although I believe in his
essential premise that parent-children relationships are fraught with complexities
and desires and that it is interesting to take a closer look at parental figures in liter-
ary texts in order to better understand the anxieties and desires of the protagonists.
Readers may also notice the nods to the Harry Potter mania much in evidence in
2006–2007 although I am by no means J.K. Rowling’s biggest admirer. The part of
Eyrbyggja saga I am discussing in this article is interesting not only in terms of the
parental relationship, with its sexual undertones, of the young man and the elderly
witches but also because it features the teaching of magic, although in a slightly less
organised way than at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The weakness
of the article lies in the fact that its conclusions are rather vague, in fact it raises is-
sues it does not address comprehensively but manages nevertheless to complement
some of the other studies in this book. I have never felt that medieval Icelandic
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Nine Saga Studies
witchcraft was an easy issue; that may be the reason why I have kept returning to
this subject.
I returned to the topic of witchcraft in my only study of Gísla saga so far, “The
Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch”, a title I am somewhat pleased with, perhaps
because it was preceded by six or seven inferior ones. I have long been interested in
the figure of Gísli Súrsson but for the moment I have decided to leave him in the
hands of abler and better scholars and the article does not concern Gísli himself at
all but his nemesis Þorgrímr the Nose. The depiction of the magical rites of this
sorcerer in the saga mentions two very interesting concepts, “trollskapr” and “ergi”,
terms that both general readers and scholars often imagine that they understand. My
article was written to demonstrate to those people that they do not, a somewhat So-
cratic endeavour that I believe is much needed in Old Norse studies. When I was in
my 20s I had once remarked that I would start my career with a historical bent, then
turn to the philosophical and the psychological and end up by writing only about
language and the meaning of words. Sometimes there is a grain of truth in such
banalities; I certainly feel myself drawn more and more towards individual words
and concepts and the words “troll” and “ergi” are good examples. These are terms
that few people today understand correctly (although they may think they do) and
yet they are of fundamental importance in the saga world and thus I felt there was a
need for someone to go inside them and to explore their meaning. Many readers are
likely to find my “Trollish Acts” the dullest thing they will ever attempt to read but I
myself like it because it manages to undermine received truths about these concepts,
by demonstrating, for example, that the word “troll” is not really a typological term
and does not denote a race or a supernatural species. On the contrary, it is a complex
term which essentially relates to a state of being that is not necessarily fixed. Thus
a being can become a “troll” if it is imbued with “trollishness”. Perhaps this sounds
self-evident and it is hard to deny the influence from feminist thinking about con-
cepts such as “man” and “woman” on this study. And yet I felt I was reviewing
something which is of vital importance in this study and which may change the way
those scholars think who take note of it. I am less satisfied with the “ergi” part of the
study. Even though I to my mind successfully demonstrate the dangers of equating
it with modern concepts such as homosexuality or even manliness, there is a gap in
our knowledge about the idea of “ergi” that I could not really bridge. I am convinced
myself that bestiality would qualify as “ergi” but there is an annoying lack of clear-
32
cut examples of the word being used in that way. If we could find them, I would
feel vindicated but as it stands, I must admit to having proposed a theory about the
meaning of this term that remains to be argued more convincingly.
My study of Grettis saga is fuelled by the same interest in the role of the paranor-
mal in the sagas and notably its psychological and social dimensions. It is a response
to an interesting study in the journal Folklore where the Icelandic draugar were
contextualised within the larger category of the undead in folk belief and narrative.
Those who read this article after the three preceding ones would hardly find my
approval of this approach surprising and yet I felt I had something to add, to begin
with the fact that neither I nor the author I was responding to had been first to see
Grettir’s nemesis Glámr as a Northern vampire since this term had been used about
him already by Andrew Lang in 1897, which incidentally was the publication year of
Dracula, and Dracula’s Icelandic translator had, in fact, repaid in kind a few years
later by referring to the count as a “manndraugur”. My main impetus to respond
was, however, to note that if Glámr is a vampire, Grettir can then be categorised as
a “vampire slayer” or “ghostbuster”, a figure with an interesting story from folklore
to the popular culture of the present day. This figure is always in some ways the
double of the vampire and that is certainly true of Grettir and most of the medi-
eval Icelandic “trollbusters” found in the sagas. The article is short and in a way it
is more like a beginning than an end; I myself think it is a good beginning and in
spite of its brevity, I have thus decided to include it here. Another reason for this is
that a collection of saga studies would seem incomplete without a piece on Grettis
saga which, like the few sagas represented here, has in my mind one of the strongest
claims to being the most interesting saga.
I taught Egils saga at the high school (sixth form college) level for four years and
both my articles about this saga originate in the classroom. Egils saga has always
been popular with scholars and with Torfi H. Tulinius recently devoting an excel-
lent and innovative book to it, I felt that this was the last Old Norse text in any dire
need of my attentions. However, some of my ideas emerging from the classroom of
Menntaskólinn í Reykjavík seemed not to have been aired by any of those scores
of previous Egils saga scholars I knew of. As I had been interested in childhood for
a while it should hardly be a surprise that I was drawn in particular towards chs. 31
and 40 of the saga, the story of Egill the child. I examined this narrative in an article
in Saga-Book in 2003 where several passages came under scrutiny and again in a
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Nine Saga Studies
short article in the journal of the teachers of Icelandic, Skíma, in 2005. But I found,
as I have so often found, that the episode needed to be dealt with as extensively as
possible and thus “Egils saga and Empathy” was finally born, the last of many visits
to the childhood of Egill. My focus is on Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson, Egill’s brother,
a neglected figure whom scholars have tended to regard as a cardboard copy of his
uncle Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson. This view does not stand up to further scrutiny and
my argument in this article is that Þórólfr provides an ethical dimension to the saga
which would otherwise be absent. Of course I could not help but to pay close atten-
tion to the relationship between Egill and Skalla-Grímr and the strange narrative of
mental cruelty inflicted by Skalla-Grímr on his son. Many psychoanalysts have been
interested in Egill Skalla-Grímsson and that is no wonder, his saga is an essentially
psychological narrative which does not neglect to take into account the impact of
childhood on the adult. While trying to avoid banal causal explanations of the kind
that Freud’s less gifted admirers sometimes come up with, it is nevertheless clear
that Skalla-Grímr’s treatment of Egill has repercussions that last throughout Egill’s
life. Another point highlighted by this article is how Egill only resembles Skalla-
Grímr to a degree and how their silent battle after the death of Þórðr Granason
must be much harder for the talkative Egill than the naturally taciturn Skalla-Grímr.
I also draw attention to the absence of Bera, Egill’s mother, in this part of the saga.
Scholars and critics have tended to interpret her as a loving mother in the vein of
Ásdís, the mother of Grettir, but this interpretation rests on a somewhat hasty in-
terpretation of her double-edged praise when Egill has made his first killing. Her
absence in her son’s dire need when Skalla-Grímr has made an attempt on his life is
all the more striking.
My other Egils saga article was originally conceived as a chapter for an anthology
on Egils saga that some of my colleagues were planning. Sadly it developed away
from their concept and became instead a vehicle for my preoccupation with how the
paranormal was defined in the Middle Ages. I have to admit to a certain satisfaction
with both my Egils saga studies. The first one because I feel it draws out the intensity
of Egill’s plight in a more striking way than many other critics have managed. The
second one because it presents what I believe are strong arguments that Egils saga’s
treatment of the paranormal is fraught with deliberate ambiguity, thus addressing
two audiences simultaneously: one that believes in the actual bestiality of Egill’s an-
cestors and one which sees it as a metaphor. Thus Kveld-Úlfr’s hamskipti in the sea
34
battle with Hallvarðr and Sigtryggr may be a frenzy that metaphorically resembles a
transformation into a beast or he may actually change his shape and become a wolf.
But how does a person change his shape? Medieval narratives rarely address the es-
sential difference between man and beast and, consequently, the various ways a man
may change into a beast. These ontological questions are fascinating to me and I
believe they are also essential to our understanding of Old Norse sagas.
Gender troubles
“Laxdœla Dreaming” is another study that took a long time in reaching its final
form. Some of the points made in that article originally belonged in an article in
Skírnir from 1998, others were made in a short festschrift article from 1999. I felt
these points had considerable merit and wanted to bring them to a wider audience,
the English-speaking world. I also felt, as in some of the other cases outlined here,
that the points needed more elaboration. As I had done with Egils saga, I had sum-
marised some of the issues discussed in “Laxdœla Dreaming” before but I was not
satisfied with my first attempt. I felt that somewhat in the tradition of mathematical
proofs, the arguments needed to be made more precisely and in more detail. Thus I
returned to Laxdœla saga and to the topic of Guðrún’s prophetic dreams. My inter-
pretation of them in this study would seem to me to be potentially controversial, but
Old Norse scholars are slow to react and thus I have had no strong adverse reactions
yet to my suggestion that her dreams constitute a bluff. To me it seems clear that
Guðrún could not possibly have failed to realise their possible interpretation and her
purpose in bringing them to Gestr’s attention is thus far from innocent. This is by
far the most likely explanation for her blushing when Gestr provides the (expected)
interpretation. Of course, even if this is right, it does not tell us why Guðrún decid-
ed to dream in such a clearly allegorical way and whether her subsequent life (which
does include four husbands) should be seen as a confirmation or a refutation of the
dream. Missing from the dream is Kjartan Ólafsson, the most likely ‘love of her life’
of her second riddle as this is a lady who likes riddles. Which brings us to the pecu-
liarity of this Laxdœla saga heroine whom even intelligent modern critics dismiss as
the “most beautiful woman in Iceland”, ignoring her far more striking intellectual
attributes: her cunning, her word games, her obsession with her own psyche and
her strange stature as a child prodigy who at the age of 14 has intelligent conversa-
tions with renowned sages of the region. Guðrún is no Hollywood beauty but an
35
Nine Saga Studies
altogether more complicated person and scholars would do well to stop thinking in
male and female stereotypes and staring so much at her glamour that they forget her
Njáll-like counsels and her enigmatic subtlety, a trait possibly inherited from Auðr
the Subtle, the aged matriarch of the Laxdœlir family.
The last two articles in this volume concern Njáls saga. I first read this saga at the
age of nine, much encouraged by my grandfather who introduced us to it by reading
to us what have traditionally been regarded as the most unpopular passages from
the saga: the very long legal debate after the burning of Njáll. A lawyer himself, he
enjoyed this strange bit of legal pornography, so closely akin to the tracheotomies
and thoracic surgeries in ER or the similar technical jargon of the Airport films. So
did we, as book-loving children not only look up to their parents and grandparents
but usually show some openness to every narrative that intrigues them. And it is fair
to say that when I started studying Icelandic at the university, I had some thoughts
about one day studying Njáls saga. Why? As I have tried to explain above, subtlety
and ambiguity attracts me and Njáls saga is full of both. It is an amazingly multifac-
eted and complex narrative, unfortunately rarely read today with much attention in
Iceland. Teaching it at the high school stage was much harder and less rewarding
than Egils saga because in this case it was not enough to concentrate on a few epi-
sodes and a single larger-than-life character. It is a sad but rarely admitted truth in
Iceland that this saga is way over the head of most eighteen year olds of the present
day, smart and sophisticated though they pretend to be. Thus my ideas about Njáls
saga do not come from my teaching at all but through picking it up once a year,
from the age of nine to the present day, and immersing myself in it.
Dostoyevsky’s somewhat flippant and uncannily post-modern sermon on the sad
life of the supporting character in a novel did provide some inspiration for my study
of Þráinn Sigfússon which also drew some strength from my preoccupation with
what is going on backstage rather than frontstage. This was in many ways a hard ar-
ticle to finish, all my preferred readers were unsympathetic and did not really under-
stand what I wanted to say, and sometimes I was less than certain myself. I seem to
recall the study being rejected by two or three journals before finally being accepted
by Arkiv, after I finally made the necessary amendments. After several months, it re-
mains my least visited article on the academia.edu website I set up in 2012. And yet
I believe that it is an important study and does better justice to the complexities of
Njáls saga than many a more decisive interpretation. I feel that the focus on Þráinn
36
and Hrappr justifies its existence, as these are some of the most interesting charac-
ters ever invented by an Icelandic author. Although when I say invented, I would
not rule out that they were actual living people. It is important to keep in mind that
most saga characters are at the same time representations of people who lived and
literary constructs. This may be hard to grasp but a text is a text, and not the real-
ity outside the text. Thus Churchill is a literary construction in any biography of
Churchill, even though he also used to exist as a living person.
My other article on Njáls saga was a joy to write as I knew from the start what
I wished to say and had been developing my ideas for quite a while; indeed I had
published an article about sexuality in Njáls saga in Skírnir in 2000 which caused
quite a local stir in Iceland since its conclusions reached the media in the some-
what disjointed way which characterises all news items originating in science and
scholarship, and suddenly a great many people seemed to get the impression that I
had ‘outed’ their heroes, most of whom of course did not even consider reading the
article and some of those who did were unable to understand it because I never ex-
plained that I was not working with such categories as homosexuality as it had been
defined before the days of Judith Butler and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. In addition,
‘queer theory’ was all but unknown outside small university circles in Iceland in
2000. Most were outraged by introducing such a topic in relation to Njáls saga but I
do remember a burly fisherman coming to me in a bar in downtown Reykjavík and
professing to be very happy with this ‘outing’ as this was to him just what the sagas
needed. While very happy with this cult following, I would actually have preferred
to get credit for attempting what was in my view a far more complex mapping of
gender and sexuality in Njáls saga, focusing on the politics of sex, a theme I returned
to even more vigourously in “Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga” in 2007.
Though I never refer to Michel Foucault in this article, it is probably useless to
deny his influence and in my return to the topic I did my best to make it absolutely
clear what I was saying and what I was not saying; I am to this day not quite sure
if I succeeded. It is somewhat unusual for a medievalist to have to worry about a
general audience and for that reason my aim with “Masculinity and Politics” was to
write lucidly. A lot of time was spent on it, as I wanted it to reach a wider audience,
which it did when Viator accepted it. At one point I nevertheless considered trying
to use the language of ‘queer theory’ to a greater extent, after a friend who was more
immersed in that topic proved enthusiastic about it, but unfortunately I do not really
37
Nine Saga Studies
master poststructuralist theoretical writing and although I have the greatest respect
and admiration for people who can write the way many of the people involved with
queer theory do, I like the article actually all the better for having been written in
more simple English. It is not unlikely that I would have lost some of my audience
but, most importantly, I feel most true to myself when attempting to be lucid. It is
also a fact that although I am a great admirer of many general theories about lan-
guage, society and the human psyche and find them intellectually stimulating and
liberating, when I work with the sagas, I usually start with the text itself and my aim
is to elucidate it often with the benefit of the thinking of the last two centuries but
without making that the main point.
I think the article also benefits from the fact that this time there was little un-
certainty and hesitation about my conclusions. I knew with more precision what I
thought about these issues after having been considering them for a decade. Fortu-
nately the anonymous readers of Viator allowed me some light touches in approach-
ing the subject (whereas some readers have found the subtitles of this study a bit
too facetious). I regarded these as a homage to the original, as Njáls saga is the most
wickedly funny of the sagas when it comes to sex and its lightness of touch is such
that I sometimes feel certain that its author must have been either female, or a very
unusual male – and one should not forget that great writers are often unusual peo-
ple so that there is no particular reason for us to believe that the author of Njáls saga
was a typical Icelandic male of the 13th century, any more than contemporary authors
such as Halldór Laxness or Guðbergur Bergsson are typical Icelandic 20th century
males.
I would like to say that all these articles have been influential but the truth is that
a scholar can never tell this at such an early stage, these studies are all published in
2005–2011 and have yet to make their mark on scholarship. I hope to bring them to
the attention of more scholars with the publication of this book.
We go in a group …
It is my hope that I have managed to elucidate here the context from which the texts
gathered in this volume spring and that I have also provided some aid to under-
standing their unity without depriving the potential readers of the pleasure of dis-
cerning it themselves. Thus I have been reluctant to press them further together and
disguise what is originally an anthology as a monograph. I believe that each stands
38
well on its own whereas reading them together reveals clear unifying themes. This
is a collection of studies and should be, and yet it is still my belief that it is worth
it to read the book from the beginning to the end and that its title is at least partly
vindicated by its content.
39
Nine Saga Studies
Ármann Jakobsson:
Bibliography (Old Norse scholarship) 1993–2012
1. Books
The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development. Ed. Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney and Ár-
mann Jakobsson. Reykjavík 2012.
Morkinskinna I. Íslenzk fornrit XXIII. Ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson.
Reykjavík 2011.
Morkinskinna II. Íslenzk fornrit XXIV. Ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Þórður Ingi Guðjóns-
son. Reykjavík 2011.
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Ed. Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney and Ármann Jakobsson. Copenhagen 2009.
Miðaldabörn. Ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Torfi H. Tulinius. Reykjavík 2005.
Fornaldarsagornas struktur och ideologi: Handlingar från ett symposium i Uppsala 31.8–2.9
2001. Ed. Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney and Ármann Jakobsson. Uppsala 2003. (Nor-
diska texter och undersökningar 28)
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manica – Germanic Philology 4 (2012), 1–22.
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Ed. Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney and Ármann Jakobsson. Reykjavík 2012, 21–32.
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40
“Íslenskir draugar frá landnámi til lúterstrúar: Inngangur að draugafræðum,” Skírnir 184
(2010), 187–210.
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Arkiv för nordisk filologi 124 (2009), 53–67.
“The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contami-
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studier i de oldislandske fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda. Ed. Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney and
Ármann Jakobsson. Copenhagen 2009, 181–200.
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jónsson, Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, Guðrún Nordal, Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson and
Margrét Eggertsdóttir. Reykjavík 2009, 31–41.
“Food and the North-Icelandic Identity in 13th century Iceland and Norway,” Images of the
North: Histories – Identities – Ideas. Ed. Sverrir Jakobsson. Amsterdam and New York
2009, 69–79. (Studia Imagologica 14)
“‛Er Saturnús er kallaðr en vér köllum Frey’: The Roman Spring of the Old Norse Gods,”
Between Paganism and Christianity in the North. Ed. Leszek P. Słupecki and Jakub
Morawiec. Rzeszów 2009, 158–64.
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print Papers of The 14th International Saga Conference, Uppsala 9th–15th August 2009. Ed.
Agneta Ney, Henrik Williams and Fredrik Charpentier Ljungqvist. Gävle 2009, 35–42.
“The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: The Meanings of Troll and Ergi in Medieval
Iceland,” Saga-Book 32 (2008), 39–68.
“A contest of cosmic fathers: God and giant in Vafþrúðnismál,” Neophilologus 92 (2008),
263–77.
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Nine Saga Studies
“Egils saga and Empathy: Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dysfunctional Saga Family,”
Scandinavian Studies 80 (2008), 1–18.
“Laxdæla Dreaming: A Saga Heroine Invents Her Own Life,” Leeds Studies in English new
ser. 39 (2008), 33–51.
“En plats i en ny värld: Bilden av riddarsamhället i Morkinskinna,” Scripta Islandica 59
(2008), 27–46.
“Vad är ett troll? Betydelsen av ett isländskt medeltidsbegrepp,” Saga och sed (2008), 101–
17.
“Aldraðir Íslendingar 1100-1400: Ímyndir ellinnar í sagnaritum miðalda,” Saga 46 (2008),
115–40.
“The Patriarch: Myth and Reality,” Youth and Age in the Medieval North. Ed. Shannon Lew-
is-Simpson. Leiden and Boston 2008, 265–84. (The Northern World 42)
“Enabling Love: Dwarfs in Old Norse-Icelandic Romances,” Romance and Love in Late Me-
dieval and Early Modern Iceland: Essays in Honor of Marianne Kalinke. Ed.Johanna Den-
zin and Kirsten Wolf. Ithaca, 2008, 183–206. (Islandica 54)
“Hvað er tröll?: Galdrar, tröll og samfélagsóvinir,” Galdramenn: Galdur og samfélag á
miðöldum. Ed. Torfi H. Tulinius. Reykjavík 2008, 95–119.
“Hversu argur er Óðinn?: Seiður, kynferði og Hvamm-Sturla,” Galdramenn: Galdur og sam-
félag á miðöldum. Ed. Torfi H. Tulinius. Reykjavík 2008, 51–71.
“Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga,” Viator 38 (2007), 191–215.
“Two wise women and their young apprentice: a miscarried magic class,” Arkiv för nordisk
filologi 122 (2007), 43–57.
“Textreferenzen in der Morkinskinna: Geschichten über Dichtung und Geschichten,”
Skandinavistik 37 (2007), 118–30.
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landica 25 (2007), 119–30.
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“The Friend of the Meek: The Late Medieval Miracles of a Twelfth-century Icelandic
Saint,” The Making of Christian Myths in the Periphery of Latin Christendom (c. 1000-1300).
Ed. Lars Boje Mortensen. Copenhagen 2006, 135–51.
“Where Do the Giants Live?” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 121 (2006), 101–12.
(With Marianne Kalinke, Margaret Clunies Ross, Carl Phelpstead, Torfi Tulinius,
Gottskálk Jensson, Annette Lassen, Elizabeth Ashman Rowe, Stephen Mitchell, Aðal-
heiður Guðmundsdóttir, Ralph O’Connor and Matthew Driscoll) “Interrogating genre in
the fornaldarsögur: Round-table discussion,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 2 (2006),
275–96.
42
“The Specter of Old Age: Nasty Old Men in the Sagas of Icelanders,” Journal of English and
Germanic Philology 104 (2005), 297–325.
“The Hole: Problems in Medieval Dwarfology,” Arv 61 (2005), 53–76.
“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Bárðar saga and Its Giants,” Mediaeval Scandinavia 15
(2005), 1–15.
“Sinn eiginn smiður: Ævintýrið um Sverri konung,” Skírnir 179 (2005), 109–39.
“Royal Biography,” A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture. Ed. Rory
McTurk. Oxford 2005, 388–402. (Blackwell Companions 31)
“Ástin á tímum þjóðveldisins: Fóstur í íslenskum miðaldasögum,” Miðaldabörn. Ed. Ár-
mann Jakobsson and Torfi H. Tulinius. Reykjavík 2005, 63–85.
“Munnur skáldsins: Um vanda þess og vegsemd að vera listrænn og framgjarn Íslendingur í
útlöndum,” Ritmennt 10 (2005), 63–79.
“Senna,” Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 28 (2005), 168–72.
“The Hunted Children of Kings: A Theme in the Old Icelandic Sagas,” Scandinavica 43
(2004), 5–27.
“Some Types of Ambiguities in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 119
(2004), 37–53.
“Troublesome Children in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” Saga-Book 27 (2003), 5–24.
“Snorri and His Death: Youth, Violence, and Autobiography in Medieval Iceland,” Scandi-
navian Studies 75 (2003), 317–40.
“Konungurinn og ég: Sjálfsmynd Íslendings frá 13. öld,” Þjóðerni í þúsund ár? Ed. Jón Yngvi
Jóhannsson, Kolbeinn Óttarsson Proppé and Sverrir Jakobsson. Reykjavík 2003, 39–55.
“Two Old Ladies at Þváttá and ‘History from below’ in the Fourteenth Century,” Scandi-
navia and Christian Europe in the Middle Ages. Papers of The 12th International Saga Confer-
ence, Bonn/Germany, 28th July – 2nd August 2003. Ed. Rudolf Simek and Judith Meurer.
Bonn 2003, 8–13.
“Queens of Terror: Perilous women in Hálfs saga and Hrólfs saga kraka,” Fornaldarsagornas
struktur och ideologi: Handlingar från ett symposium i Uppsala 31.8–2.9 2001. Ed. Ármann
Jakobsson, Annette Lassen and Agneta Ney. Uppsala 2003, 173–89.
“Our Norwegian Friend: The Role of Kings in the Family Sagas,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi
117 (2002), 145–60.
“Uppreisn æskunnar: Unglingasagan um Flóres og Blankiflúr,” Skírnir 176 (2002), 89–112.
“The Amplified Saga: Structural Disunity in Morkinskinna,” Medium Aevum 70 (2001),
29–46.
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“Dulargervið,” Sagnaheimur: Studies in Honour of Hermann Pálsson on his 80th birthday, 26th
May 2001. Ed. Ásdís Egilsdóttir and Rudolf Simek. Vienna 2001, 1–12. (Studia Medi-
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“Ekki kosta munur: Kynjasaga frá 13. öld,” Skírnir 174 (2000), 21–48.
“Um uppruna Morkinskinnu: Drög að rannsóknarsögu,” Gripla 11 (2000), 221–45.
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Studies 71 (1999), 139–66.
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“The rex inutilis in Iceland,” Majestas 7 (1999), 41–53.
“Royal pretenders and faithful retainers: The Icelandic vision of kingship in transition,”
Gardar 30 (1999), 47–65.
(With Ásdís Egilsdóttir) “Er Oddaverjaþætti treystandi?” Ný saga 11 (1999), 91–100.
“(Miðalda)kona verður til: Forleikur að grein eftir Dagnýju,” Kynlegir kvistir tíndir til heiðurs
Dagnýju Kristjánsdóttur fimmtugri 19. maí 1999. Ed. Soffía Auður Birgisdóttir. Reykjavík
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“King and Subject in Morkinskinna,” Skandinavistik 28 (1998), 101–17.
“History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an historical narrative,” Saga-Book 25 (1998), 53–71.
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44
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1997.
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Reykjavík 1996, 11–13.
“Hákon Hákonarson — friðarkonungur eða fúlmenni?” Saga 33 (1995), 166–85.
“Ástvinur Guðs: Páls saga byskups í ljósi hefðar,” Andvari new ser. 37 (1995), 126–42.
(With Sverrir Jakobsson) “’Mjög eru þeir menn framir’: Fyrsti málfræðingurinn fundinn,”
Vöruvoð ofin Helga Þorlákssyni fimmtugum 8. ágúst 1995. Reykjavík 1995, 10–12.
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“Nokkur orð um hugmyndir Íslendinga um konungsvald fyrir 1262,” Samtíðarsögur. For-
prent. Níunda alþjóðlega fornsagnaþingið á Akureyri 31.7.–6.8. 1994. Reykjavík 1994, 31–
42.
“’Dapurt er að Fróða’: Um fáglýjaðar þýjar og frænku þeirra,” Mímir 41 (1993–1994), 56–
66.
(With Ásdís Egilsdóttir) “Abbadísin sem hvarf,” Þúsund og eitt orð sagt Sigurgeiri Steingríms
syni fimmtugum 2. október 1993. Reykjavík 1993, 7–9.
45
The Specter of Old Age:
Nasty Old Men in the Sagas of Icelanders
T
here are numerous old men in the Sagas of Icelanders, and few are nasty.
However, as Tolstoy implied in the first lines of Anna Karenina (1875–77),
happiness is not quite as good a subject for a novel as unhappiness (“Hap-
py families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”).1 Nice
old men also need more effort to become memorable saga characters, as they are less
likely to cause conflict, battle, and death―the typical ingredients of a saga narrative.
The theme of this article is one image of old age in the Sagas of Icelanders. It is not
the only possible image, but I contend that it is the most powerful and haunting
one―in the literal sense as well, since one memorable nasty old man in the Sagas of
Icelanders eventually becomes a ghost.
An Objectionable Old Man

One memorable nasty old man is Þórólfr Lame-foot of Eyrbyggja saga, father of the
kindly chieftain Arnkell and the wise Geirríðr, and grandfather of the silent but
valiant Þórarinn the Black. Þórólfr’s main claim to fame is that he is one of the
most vicious and powerful ghosts in Icelandic history―which is saying quite a lot,
since throughout the ages there has been no shortage of ghosts in Iceland.2 Þórólfr’s
career as a ghost will be discussed later; it has some significance to his old age. Of
more immediate interest is the fact that Þórólfr only starts making his mark on the
saga in his old age, after having been in the background throughout a long narrative
involving his children and grandchildren.
1 Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina, trans. Constance Garnett (New York: Random House, 1939), p. 3
2 Ghost stories form one of the largest groups of folktales collected by Jón Árnason in the nineteenth century
(Íslenskar þjóðsögur og ævintýri I, eds. Árni Böðvarsson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson [Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga, 1956], pp.
213–388; Íslenskar þjóðsögur og ævintýri III, eds. Árni Böðvarsson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson [Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga,
1958], pp. 289–427).
47
Nine Saga Studies
In chapter 8 of the saga, Þórólfr is introduced through his mother, a settler in Ice-
land who has her hall built across the public path and offers food to all who want it.
She is, not surprisingly, very popular. Þórólfr comes to Iceland later, but he is not
satisfied with the amount of land his mother possesses. He challenges an old war-
rior in the region to a duel for his land and kills the old man but is wounded in the
leg and from then on has a limp. This is how bullies behave, and Þórólfr is indeed
referred to as an “ójafnaðarmaðr” (“trouble-maker”) in the saga.3 Yet he now settles
down in the region and stays out of disputes and quarrels for a long while. In fact,
while Þórólfr has still to make much of an impact in the saga, two of his children
figure strongly, both as positive characters. The daughter Geirríðr is accused of be-
ing a witch and is indeed described as “margkunnig” (p. 28), which implies magic
knowledge.4 Yet the saga takes her side against her rival, the sorceress Katla.
Þórólfr’s son Arnkell is depicted as the noblest man in the region. He certainly
seems to cut the most heroic figure of all the chieftains, and he is a goði from his
youth.5 Arnkell and Geirríðr are both involved in regional feuds, along with her
mild-mannered son Þórarinn, while Þórólfr remains a shadowy figure in the back-
ground.
It is only in chapter 30 that Þórólfr returns and suddenly becomes a main charac-
ter for five chapters.6 The narrative begins with a statement about his age: “Hann
tók nú at eldask fast ok gerði skillr ok æfr við ellina ok mjǫk ójafnaðar fullr” (p.
81; “He began to age quickly, growing more ill-natured, violent, and unjust with
the years” [p. 187]). Thus, while Þórólfr Lame-foot seems to have had a bullying
streak from the outset, it is explicitly stated that his wickedness becomes more
3 Eyrbyggja saga, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), pp. 13–14.
Subsequent references to Eyrbyggja saga are to this edition and its translation, The Saga of the People of Eyri, trans.
Judy Quinn, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, ed. Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997), V, pp.
131–218.
4 This is, for example, evident from the Old Icelandic word fjǫlkynngi.
5 Described at length two times in the saga, Arnkell is said to surpass other men in the region in popularity and
valor; he is said to be the wisest of all men, even-tempered, stouthearted, braver than anyone else, determined,
and very moderate (pp. 20 and 103).
6 The structure of Eyrbyggja saga is complex and has often been described as episodic, although several scholars
have argued for its integrity. Some of the more important studies are Lee M. Hollander, “The Structure of
Eyrbyggja saga”, Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 58 (1959), 222–27; Paul Bibire, “Verses in the Íslend-
ingasögur”, Alþjóðlegt fornsagnaþing, Reykjavík 2.–8. ágúst 1973. Fyrirlestrar, I (Reykjavík, 1973); Bernardine Mc-
Creesh, “Structural Patterns in the Eyrbyggja saga and other Sagas of the Conversion”, Mediaeval Scandinavia, II
(1978–1979), 271–80; Rory McTurk, “Approaches to the Structure of Eyrbyggja saga”, Sagnaskemmtun: Studies
in Honour of Hermann Pálsson on his 65th Birthday, 26th May 1986, ed. Rudolf Simek, Jónas Kristjánsson, and
Hans Bekker-Nielsen (Vienna: Böhlau, 1986), 223–37; Elín Bára Magnúsdóttir, “Et samfunn preget av kaos:
Presentasjonen av Snorri goði og sagaens samfunn i Eyrbyggja saga”, Nordica Bergensia, 23 (2000), 139–64.
48
Specter
pronounced when he reaches old age, and it is demonstrably further increased after
his demise.7 In chapter 8, Þórólfr seems certainly no worse than Víga-Styrr and
and other bullies of the region, and even though it should not surprise us that he
later turns to evil, the fact remains that he is relatively peaceful until old age sets
in: Old age is a definite starting point for the further deterioration of Þórólfr’s
character.
Þórólfr’s nastiness manifests itself in a number of ways. First, Þórólfr is ex-
tremely selfish. Worse, there is no subtlety to his selfishness. He is blind to any
point of view but his own and has invented a “secondary world” where everything
is topsy-turvy, justice is always on his side, and everyone who gets in his way is
persecuting and maligning him, whereas in fact the opposite is usually the case.
Furthermore, he has developed his own peculiar brand of logic that allows him to
interpret every event in his favor.
Second, Þórólfr seems to hate everyone but himself. The prosperity of others
makes him miserable, and when he befriends others it turns out to be for the sole
purpose of using them as instruments against those people who bear the brunt of
his relentless hatred. As if that were not enough, he vehemently loathes his own
son and has no qualms about allying himself with Arnkell’s enemies to harm him.
Third, Þórólfr fights for nothing except his own greed and selfish purposes. To
be sure, he does show proper concern for his own prestige, and yet he never be-
haves in such a way as would earn him the respect of others.
Fourth, there is no way to please Þórólfr. He is no fonder of those who do his
bidding than he is of those who oppose him. He is so ungrateful that it defies de-
scription. A phrase used about him more than once in the saga is “Líkaði Þórólfi
stórilla” (p. 83; “Þórólfr was very displeased” [p. 168]; cf. similar phrases on pp. 84,
87, and 91). He seems to be displeased most of the time.
Þórólfr’s selfishness is evident in all his actions in old age. First, he instigates a
dispute with his neighbor, the freed slave Úlfarr. The motive seems to be envy:
Úlfarr tends his sheep and hay with such care that he has become prosperous.
In the dispute, Þórólfr repeatedly refuses to see any point of view but his own
7 Cf. Vésteinn Ólason, “The Un/Grateful Dead―From Baldr to Bægifótr”, Old Norse Myths, Literature and Soci-
ety, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross, The Viking Collection, 14 (Odense: Univ. Press of Southern Denmark, 2003),
pp. 153–71, at p. 165.
49
Nine Saga Studies
(pp. 81–91).8 His topsy-turvy logic is best exemplified when he seeks the advice
of Snorri goði, claiming that his son Arnkell “veitir mér nú mestan ágang” (p. 85;
“He’s attacking me directly now” [p. 169]). Arnkell has tried to shield Úlfarr from
Þórólfr’s relentless bullying, and what Þórólfr regards as Arnkell’s “attack” is Arn
kell thwarting the old man’s malicious attempt to kill Úlfarr and hang Þórólfr’s
slaves. Later in the narrative, Þórólfr goes to visit his alienated son to explain that
he wants the quarrel between father and son to end. When Arnkell responds well,
Þórólfr goes on to add that he now wants Arnkell to start quarreling with Snorri
goði over the wood at Krákunes, which Þórólfr had previously given to Snorri.
When Arnkell realizes Þórólfr’s true motive, he accuses him of malicious spite:
“eigi vil ek, at þú hafir þat fyrir illgirni þína, at gleðjast af deilu okkarri” (p. 91; “I
don’t want to see you, through your maliciousness, gloating over a quarrel between
Snorri and me” [p. 173]). Þórólfr’s hatred of others has been evident from the start
of his quarrel with Úlfarr―he seems to resent the prosperity of the freed slave
for no clear reason.9 He eggs his slaves on to set fire to Úlfarr’s home, and later
he succeeds in having Úlfarr killed and is finally a little pleased: “þóttisk nú hafa
vel sýslat” (p. 89; “considering himself to have done rather well” [p. 171]). He has
promised Úlfarr’s assassin protection, but as the man is on the run after the killing,
Þórólfr just goes home and pays no heed to him.
Neither does Þórólfr care about his slaves as such.10 When Arnkell hangs them
after having caught them trying to burn Úlfarr, Þórólfr turns to Snorri goði and
importunes him to start proceedings against Arnkell. His main motive is to ob-
tain compensation, but what he perhaps secretly covets is justification to continue
feuding with Úlfarr. In fact, greed seems to be one of Þórólfr’s main characteris-
tics. When Arnkell intervenes on the part of Úlfarr, Þórólfr “kvað þræl þann helzti
auðgan” (p. 83; “said the slave was much too wealthy already” [p. 168]). When he
seeks the support of Snorri goði, Þórólfr admits that the chieftain might think him
stingy (“féglǫggr”), but he nevertheless offers the wood at Krákunes in return for
Snorri’s aid. Snorri relents, mainly because he wants the woodland, but perhaps he
8 For an analysis of this conflict, see Jesse Byock, Medieval Iceland: Society, Sagas, and Power (Berkeley: Univ. of
California Press, 1988), pp. 183–202.
9 Whenever Úlfarr tries to complain, Þórólfr is “málóði ok illr viðreignar” (p. 82; “started using violent language
and became very difficult to deal with” [p. 168]). When others intervene, Þórólfr says he won’t be satisfied, “nema
versnaði hlutr Úlfars” (p. 83; “make things worse for him” [p. 168]).
10 In fact, nobody seems to care much about them (cf. Vésteinn Ólason, “Nokkrar athugasemdir um Eyrbyggja
sögu”, Skírnir, 145 [1971], 5–25, at p. 15).
50
Specter
also sees an opportunity to undermine Arnkell.11 Later, when Snorri has started
using the wood at Krákunes, the old man is furious and asks Snorri to return the
wood. He now claims that he only “lent” Snorri the woodlands that he promised
him for starting proceedings against Arnkell. Snorri wants to call witnesses but
Þórólfr does not; therefore, he obviously has some notion of the fact that others
might have a different perception of reality from his own―instead, he decides to
visit his son Arnkell. Þórólfr claims that he wants them to be friends, although his
real purpose is to use Arnkell to regain the woods.
Þórólfr does care about his prestige. He complains to Snorri about being humili-
ated by Arnkell and later goes to Arnkell with similar complaints about Snorri (pp.
85 and 91). He obviously believes himself to be more clever than Arnkell, and thus
that their alliance might be mutually beneficial: “mér þœtti, sem vit myndim miklir
verða hér i heraði við harðfengi þína, en ráðagørðir mínar” (p. 91; “It seems to me
we could become the most powerful men in the district, with your courage and my
plans” [p. 172]). However, few seem to share his inflated opinion of himself. Snorri
and Arnkell both treat him as a difficult and annoying child.
Last but not least, Þórólfr’s ingratitude is of gigantic proportions. After he has
enlisted Snorri’s aid in chapter 31, the latter manages to obtain a guilty verdict
against Arnkell for the killing of Þórólfr’s slaves, invoking an obscure point of law,
but when he brings the old man the compensation money, Þórólfr is not pleased.
He blames Snorri for a weak prosecution and implies that Arnkell would probably
have paid him more than that without a verdict. Snorri is outraged by the mag-
nitude of the old man’s ingratitude (p. 86)―but then, Þórólfr is the man who is
never pleased.
Þórólfr is not just an ordinary bully; he embodies a nastiness believed to be con-
11 Vésteinn Ólason, “Nokkrar athugasemdir um Eyrbyggja sögu”, p. 19. Snorri is depicted in Eyrbyggja as a clever
and ambitious man. Even as a teenager he demonstrates an uncommon gift for subtle cunning, and in adulthood
his strategies are chilling to his enemies: “óvinir þóttusk heldr kulða af kenna ráðum hans” (p. 26, “his enemies
felt the chill of his strategies”; p. 141). In Icelandic historiographical writings of the thirteenth century, Snorri is
consistently depicted as clever and sly, rather than noble and straightforward. In Laxdæla saga, he devises a trick
that enables Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir to get rid of the unwelcome suitor Þorgils Hǫlluson (Laxdæla saga, ed. Einar
Ól. Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 5 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1934], pp. 178–79), and in Kristni saga,
he comes up with a witty counter argument that prevents the heathens from using a natural catastrophe as an
argument in their favor (Altnordische Saga-Bibliothek, II, ed. B. Kahle [Halle a.d. Saale: Niemeyer, 1905], p. 39).
Snorri’s behavior in this instance demonstrates clearly how unethical he can be when he wants to strike a blow
against his rival; see Paula Vermeyden, “Bemerkungen zur Darstellung des Snorri goði in der Eyrbyggja saga”,
Arbeiten zur Skandinavistik: 8. Arbeitstagung der Skandinavisten des Deutschen Sprachgebiets 27.9.–3.10. 1987 in Frei-
burg i.Br. (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1989), pp. 162–74. According to Vermeyden, this act of Snorri proves
that he is “kauflich” (p. 173). Cf. Vésteinn Ólason, “Nokkrar athugasemdir um Eyrbyggja sögu”, p. 21.
51
Nine Saga Studies
nected with old age. What needs to be established is the cause of Þórólfr’s nasti-
ness and how his strategies reflect his status as an old man. Of particular interest
is Þórólfr’s later career as a ghost, which may be closely linked to his nasty old age.
I also contend that Þórólfr’s depiction is important for the overall portrayal of old
people in the sagas.
Medieval Images of Old Age

The image of old people in Old Norse-Icelandic texts is a somewhat neglected
subject. In 1991, Jón Viðar Sigurðsson dedicated the lesser part of an article to old
people; he had come across only one article on the subject.12 There are, however,
some general studies of old age in the Middle Ages, and they indicate that old
age has throughout the centuries been more often than not negatively portrayed.
Þórólfr is not unique, and indeed one critic described him as “a fearful, but only
too credible, old man, as he goes round alternately wheedling and cursing”.13 In her
groundbreaking essay “La Vieillesse” (1970), Simone de Beauvoir found it much
easier to find examples of a negative view of old age than a positive one.14 The
more extensive study by Georges Minois, Histoire de la vieillesse (1987) also offers
many examples of old age portrayed in negative terms.15 And although Shulamith
Shahar, in her 1995 book on old age, does her best to stress the diversity of the to-
pos “Old Age” in the Middle Ages, she also demonstrates that negative treatments
seem to outnumber the positive ones.16
From antiquity to the present day, the chief function of the topos of Old Age has
been as a metaphor for decline and decrepitude.17 Even those authorities who took
12 Jón Viðar Sigurðson, “Börn og gamalmenni á þjóðveldisöld”, Yfir Íslandsála: Afmælisrit helgað Magnúsi Stefánssyni
sextugum 25. desember 1991, ed. Gunnar Karlsson and Helgi Þorláksson (Reykjavík: Sögufræðslusjóður, 1991), pp.
111–30. Jón Viðar discusses old people from p. 124 on, including the case of Egill Skalla-Grímsson, but he does
not mention Þórólfr Lame-foot. The article in question is a short overview article, “Alderdom”, by Odd Nord-
land in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder (Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger), I. pp. 69–71.
13 Forrest S. Scott, “The Icelandic Family Saga as a Precursor of the Novel, with Special Reference to Eyrbyggja
Saga”, Parergon, 6 (1973), 3–13, at p. 11.
14 Simone de Beauvoir, Old Age, trans. Patrick O’Brian (London: Deutsch, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1972), pp.
88–215.
15 George Minois, History of Old Age From Antiquity to the Renaissance, trans. Sarah Hanbury Tenison (Cambridge:
Polity Press, 1989).
16 Shulamith Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages: “Winter Clothes us in Shadow and Pain”, trans. Yael Lotan
(London: Routledge, 1997).
17 See, e.g., Paul Edward Dutton, “Beyond the Topos of Senescence: The Political Problems of Aged Carolingian
Rulers”, Aging and the Aged in Medieval Europe: Selected Papers from the Annual Conference for Medieval Studies,
University of Toronto, held 25–6 February and 11–12 November 1983, ed. Michael M. Sheehan (Toronto: Pontifical
Institute of Medieval Studies, 1990 ), pp. 75–94, at pp. 75–76.
52
Specter
a positive view, such as Cicero himself in De Senectute, would stress that old age
could easily become miserable, although Cicero’s main point was to emphasize the
benefits for those privileged enough to grow old benignly.18 According to Minois,
the Greeks viewed old age chiefly as tragic. Old age meant degeneration, and old
people were marginalized in society.19 This applies even to a figure such as Nestor,
who remained active into his old age: Although he is on the whole treated with
respect and affection, he is also depicted as long-winded, opinionated and vain, and
highly critical of the young.20
In the Middle Ages, old people were a marginalized group.21 Examples of lit-
erature from the High and Late Middle Ages produce abundant evidence for both
latent and overt hostility toward the old. Many of the most powerful medieval
authorities on the subject describe at length the physical ills of age, noted perhaps
most powerfully by Jaques in Shakespeare’s As You Like It: The old are “sans teeth,
sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything”.22 Shakespeare was drawing from a long line
of tradition. French poets dealing with the subject in the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries emphasize the sheer ugliness and physical decrepitude of old age.23 The
same trend is clearly visible in Old Icelandic literature, such as in the Sagas of Ice-
landers and Sturlunga saga.24
The dominant medieval view seems to have been that the degeneration was not
only physical but also psychological and moral. In the twelfth century De Con-
temptu Mundi sive de Miseria Humanae Conditiones by the future Pope Innocent
III, the old are described as being too quick to anger, mean and avaricious, sullen
and quarrelsome, and quick to talk but slow to hear, and as censuring the present
18 Cicero, De Senectute, De Amicitia, De Divinatione, ed. and trans. William Armistead Falconer (Cambridge: Har-
vard Univ. Press, 1923). See also Minois, History of Old Age, pp. 105–11; Pat Thane, Old Age in English History:
Past Experiences, Present Issues (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2000), pp. 40–41.
19 Minois, History of Old Age, pp. 47–51.
20 Minois, History of Old Age, p. 45; Thane, Old Age in English History, p. 33.
21 See Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages, p. 2.
22 William Shakespeare, As You Like It, eds. Arthur Quiller-Couch and J. Dover Wilson (Cambridge: Cambridge
Univ. Press, 1926) [rpt. 1959], p. 39. The example is discussed both by Minois (History of Old Age, pp. 281-87)
and Thane (Old Age in English History, pp. 49–50). Cf. Alicia K. Nitecki, “Figures of Old Age in Fourteenth-
Century English Literature”, Aging and the Aged in Medieval Europe: Selected Papers from the Annual Conference for
Medieval Studies, University of Toronto, held 25–26 February and 11–12 November 1983, ed. Michael M. Sheehan
(Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1990), pp. 107–16, at p. 108.
23 Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages, pp. 47–51.
24 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (“Börn og gamalmenni”, pp. 127–28) lists examples of loss of memory, loss of teeth, cow-
ardice, weariness, and unsteady legs being attributed to the old.
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Nine Saga Studies
and praising the past.25 From Roman playwrights of Late Antiquity to English
fourteenth-century poets, the focus of medieval literature was very often on similar
traits: anger and envy, bitterness and fear. Old men are often depicted as rambling
on about the errors of the young; they are choleric and fly into rage for no reason
at all,26 and in many cases, not least in comic tales of adultery, old men are depicted
as ludicrous and contemptible. They are scorned, rather than pitied.27 There is,
however, perhaps not such a wealth of difference between hostility and pity. In any
case, the old seem to have ample reason to be angry about their present state.
The Middle Ages saw the emergence of the idea of the old man as an image of
sin, used by St. Augustine among others, and remaining in currency throughout the
medieval period. Related is the notion that those who have grown old have not been
able to die because of their mental and spiritual corruption. In the Roman de la Rose,
old age is even listed among sins such as hate, avarice, envy, and sorrow.28 Another
recurring motif is the danger of old men having young wives. The figure of the senex
amans, a lecherous old fool who lusts after young women, is a popular image of old
age in the Middle Ages.29 This motif certainly occurs in Old Icelandic literature, from
Egils saga’s old Bjǫrgólfr, who becomes besotted with young Hildiríðr, to the old and
foolish King Hringr in Hrólfs saga kraka, who takes a strange young woman as his
wife but is subsequently unable to prevent her atrocities to his men, as well as her
attempts to commit adultery with his son. The message is clear, nothing good comes
from old men marrying young women.30 In Sturlunga saga, the young Hallr Þjóðólfs-
son is outraged by the fact that a beautiful young woman is married to an old priest,
and he abducts her on the grounds that it was intolerable “at gamall maðr flekkaði
25 Patrologia Latina CCXVII, ed. J. P. Migne (Paris, 1855), col. 706–7. The text is discussed by George R. Cof-
fman, “Old Age from Horace to Chaucer: Some Literary Affinities and Adventures of an Idea”, Speculum, 9
(1934), 249–77 (see in particular pp. 254–56).
26 Nitecki, “Figures of Old Age”; Minois, History of Old Age, pp. 92–95.
27 Nitecki, “Figures of Old Age”, pp. 112–13.
28 Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun, Le Roman de la Rose: Édition d’après les manuscrits BN 12786 et BN 378,
ed. and trans. Armand Strubel (Paris: LGF, 1992), pp. 48–68. See also Nitecki, “Figures of Old Age”, p. 115; Mi-
nois, History of Old Age, pp. 118–20 and 162–65; Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages, pp. 45–47.
29 See, e.g., J.A. Burrow, The Ages of Man: A Study in Medieval Writing and Thought (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1986), pp. 156–62; Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages, pp. 77–81; Minois, History of Old Age, pp. 92–94;
Thane, Old Age in English History, p. 51; Dutton, “Beyond the Topos of Senescence”, p. 90.
30 It must be noted that in Hrólfs saga, it is mainly the wicked queen who laments having to sleep with such an
old man, while one of the heroes in the saga bites off the nose of a concubine who prefers two twenty-two year
olds to one eighty-year old (Hrólfs saga kraka, ed. Desmond Slay, Editiones Amamagnæanæ, B, 1 [Copenhagen:
Munksgaard, 1960], pp. 55 and 113). Even though the saga thus seems to side with the old husbands, it reveals
how they are mocked and cuckolded by young women.
54
Specter
svá væna konu” (“such an old man ought not to sully so beautiful a woman”).31 The
senex amans myth seems to be just as important in Icelandic sources as in the rest of
Europe.
To sum up, old men are often depicted as foolish and lustful in medieval sources.
Many authors depict them as sinful and physically repulsive. Most importantly, ac-
cording to medieval sources the marginalized state and physical degeneration of the
old leads them to anger and bitterness, envy and fear, and antagonism toward the
present combined with a lack of restraint that is also sometimes ascribed to wom-
en.32 There is a causal relationship between the humiliating state of the elderly and
their subsequent anger: Old men are nasty because old age is nasty.
It seems probable that the figure of the nasty old man in the sagas may owe some-
thing to popular medieval conceptions of the old. These might also be reflected in the
ghostly fate of Þórólfr Lame-foot. It is a tradition among most medievalists gener-
ally to regard Scandinavian literature as entirely different from that of the European
mainstream, and often as being more archaic. The same perception applies to the
subject of old age. Georges Minois emphasizes Scandinavia’s “respect for its old lead-
ers” and believes that old men were held in greater respect in warrior societies than
in agricultural circles, even though he does not provide many examples and seems to
take those he does have at face value.33
If we take a closer look at the Icelandic evidence, there are many virtuous old
people in the sagas. Njáll of Brennu-Njáls saga is a case in point. He remarks, when
offered a chance to walk out of the fire at Bergþórshváll, that he is an old man,
hardly fit to avenge his sons, and that he does not wish to live in shame. He walks
into the house, to his death, and comforts others inside. Then he goes to bed for
31 Sturlunga saga, I, ed. Jón Jóhannesson, Magnús Finnbogason, and Kristján Eldjárn (Reykjavík: Sturlunguútgáf
an, 1946), p. 78. This example is discussed by Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (“Börn og gamalmenni”, p. 126).
32 See examples in Helga Kress, “Ekki hǫfu vér kvennaskap: Nokkrar laustengdar athuganir um karlmennsku og
kvenhatur í Njálu”, Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni 20. júli 1977, ed. Einar G. Pétursson and Jónas
Kristjánsson (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1977), pp. 293–313.
33 “Far from being despised, the old leaders, like French feudal nobility, enjoyed a prestige proportional to the
importance of their past exploits. Once retired, they lived on their lands; people came to consult them, and the
young benefited from their experience” (History of Old Age, p. 190). Minois does not list much evidence for this
conclusion, and his examples are for the most part drawn from Laxdæla saga, without perhaps taking enough
note of that particular saga’s idealistic representation of the noble Laxdælir family (cf. Ármann Jakobsson, “Kon
ungasagan Laxdæla”, Skírnir; 172 [1998], 357–83). Minois also discusses the portrayal of Egill Skalla-Grímsson,
which he sees as an exception, whereas to his mind the narrative of Þórarinn the Viking demonstrated that the
emerging agricultural society was less kind to the old than were the warrior societies (Minois, History of Old
Age, pp. 192–93). I am not sure that this is a legitimate conclusion, as both narratives stem from the thirteenth
century, and Egill and Þórarinn are somewhat different characters with different strategies; see the discussion
below.
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Nine Saga Studies
the last time, prompting his son to remark that his father is retiring early, which
is to be expected of an old man. This is a rather nice depiction of a man who has
gained a serenity usually denied to the young. Njáll is calm, and his thoughts seem
to be mostly for the plight of others. He and his wife Bergþóra are a perfect ex
ample of nice old people who accept their lot and, in the end, their death. They
thus acquire a kind of heroism in rising above their own infirmity.34 And yet old
age is an indirect cause of the death of Njáll and Bergþóra; their deaths prevent
them from seeking vengeance for their sons. In addition to Njáll and Bergþóra,
there are a handful of similar characters in the sagas, including Ingimundr the Old
in Vatnsdæla saga.35
However, we also have examples of old men who do not keep their dignity. In
Þorgils saga ok Hafliða, the old chieftain Þórðr Þorvaldsson suffers from indiges-
tion. He belches so much during a feast that he has to leave the room, while mock-
ing verses about his sour breath and his receding hairline escort him to the door.
He gets no compensation for this humiliation, the narrator gloatingly tells us.36
There are also at least two instances in the sagas where old men are accused of be-
ing cowardly and their lack of valor is attributed to their advanced age.37
Old women are doubly marginalized, being both old and women.38 However,
not all women are daunted by that. Unnr the Subtle in Laxdæla saga is an example
of an old woman who still maintains power and dignity to the very end. It is, how-
ever, clearly spelled out in the saga that Unnr is an exceptional woman and that
not all can follow in her footsteps.39 In the very same saga, we see a glimpse of
another old woman, Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, who has been using her old age prop-
erly to repent and to atone for her sins―yet Guðrún seems to be full of regret and
34 Brennu-Njáls saga, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 12 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954),
pp. 328–31. Of course, a more negative appraisal of Njáll’s character is perfectly possible. Kristján Jóhann Jóns-
son (Lykillinn að Njálu [Reykjavík: Vaka-Helgafell, 1998], pp. 48–49, 128–29, 148–50, 156–58, and 196–99)
is one of those who have interpreted Njáll’s actions in the entire saga in a less benevolent light. Cf. Ármann
Jakobsson, “Ekki kosta munur: Kynjasaga frá 13. öld”, Skírnir, 174 (2000). 21–48, at pp. 41–43.
35 As he dies, Ingimundr tries to conceal his wounds to help his killer escape; he had previously promised to help the
man and wishes to honor that promise (Vatnsdæla saga, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 8 [Reykjavík:
Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939], pp. 61–63).
36 Sturlunga saga, I, pp. 114–27.
37 Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, p. 126; Víga-Glúms saga, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 9 (Reykjavík: Hið
íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956), p. 62.
38 Cf. Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages, p. 2.
39 Ármann Jakobsson, “Konungasagan Laxdæla“, pp. 365–66. The existence of a few exceptional women, such as
queens, was commonplace in European medieval society and has little to do with the equality of the sexes. See
also Carol J. Clover, “Regardless of Sex: Men, Women, and Power in Early Northern Europe”, Speculum, 68
(1993), 363–87.
56
Specter
remorse. After all these years, she is still thinking about the man she loved best and
treated worst.40 Unnr and Guðrún are exceptional women, royal in stature. Unnr
keeps her dignity to the very end, and even when old, Guðrún is very much taken
seriously―the identity of the man she loved best is a fact of some importance.
In Eyrbyggja saga, however, we have perhaps a more typical example of the place
of old women in the sagas.41 The farmer Þóroddr Þorbrandsson has an old nanny
who warns him against taking in the calf Glæsir, which turns out to be possessed
by the ghost of Þórólfr Lame-foot. This nanny is said to be old and wise in spite
of her infirmity: “hon þótti verit hafa framsýn á fyrra aldri, en er hon eldisk, var
henni virt til gamal óra, þat er hon mælti; en þat gekk þó mart eptir, sem hon sagði”
(p. 171; “In years gone by she was thought to have been foresighted, but when she
grew old, whatever she said was treated as the fancies of old age. Nonetheless a lot
of what she said came true” [p. 213]). This woman has earned respect. Her age, and
perhaps her sex, is the only reason that her advice is not heeded. While Þóroddr is
obviously fond of his nanny, nevertheless her repeated warnings are ignored, and
she is even tricked into believing that the calf has been killed when actually it has
not. In the end, she turns out to have been right, when the calf kills Þóroddr. This
nanny episode demonstrates the insignificance of old women in saga society, but at
the same time it suggests that lack of respect for the old may be unwise.
The same motif is used in Njáls saga, when the old and poor woman Sæunn
repeatedly warns against the chickweed that is later used to start a fire at Bergþórs
hváll. Although great heed is usually paid to prophecies in the saga and the saga
narrator indeed remarks that Sæunn’s prophecies often came true, the warnings
of the old woman are mocked, and she is believed to be senile.42 Like Þóroddr’s
nanny, she ends up in the role of a Cassandra―a prophetess without an audience.
Rather hauntingly, Sæunn is also one of the few servants who perish in the fire
along with the family of Njáll. Apparently no one, not even she herself, thought
that she was worth saving.
40 Rory McTurk has discussed Guðrún’s old age in the terms of a folktale motif concerning old women (“Guðrún
Ósvífrsdóttir: An Icelandic Wife of Bath?” Sagnaheimur: Studies in Honour of Hermann Pálsson on his 80th birth-
day. 26th May 2001, ed. Ásdís Egilsdóttir and Rudolf Simek [Vienna: Fassbaender, 2001], pp. 175–94).
41 In his article on women in Eyrbyggja saga, Forrest Scott does not mention the nanny (“The Woman Who Knows:
Female Characters of Eyrbyggja saga”, Parergon, New Series, 3 [1985], 73–91). This wise woman thus keeps on
being ignored even in scholarship. The irony is made even greater by the title of Scott’s article (as she is certainly
a woman who knows), as well as by the fact that Scott is perhaps the greatest expert on the saga and is its editor
in the Editiones Arnamagnæanæ series.
42 Brennu-Njáls saga, p. 320.
57
Nine Saga Studies
Shulamith Shahar has remarked that, unlike in the modern period, where old
women are censured and judged more severely than older men, in the Middle Ages
the descriptions of old male bodies were just as merciless as were those of old wom-
en.43 In fact, old women fare perhaps somewhat better in the sagas than old men.
There is the figure of the old woman with supernatural powers that are frequently
used for wicked deeds, a figure we see in several sagas, among them Eyrbyggja saga,
Grettis saga, and Harðar saga. No ordinary old women, however, became as nasty as
Þórólfr Lame-foot. They are sometimes ignored, and believed to be insignificant,
but somehow―and perhaps not surprisingly―old women seem to find it easier to
deal with their insignificance than their male counterparts.
George Minois does not discuss old Icelandic women at any length in his im-
portant study of old age, and neither does he mention Þórólfr Lame-foot. He does
discuss two other very angry and nasty old men. One is Egill Skalla-Grímsson, the
protagonist hero of Egils saga. The other is the old viking Þórarinn, father of Þor-
steinn Staff-struck, the hero of the eponymous short saga. These old men have one
thing in common with Þórólfr Lame-foot: they are angry and nasty. Their anger is
not without reason, and their situation is to a degree similar. While all react with
anger against their plight in old age, they use three distinct strategies of their own,
all of which merit further discussion.
The Old Man as an Old Wife

The old viking Þórarinn, father of Þorsteinn Staff-struck, the hero of the epony-
mous short saga, is a character only seen in the infirmity of old age. He is intro-
duced as a former viking who has become half blind and is tied to his bed. He does
not have any riches to speak of but has many weapons―a curious prioritization,
but one that is revealing of his character. We are told that he is “eigi dældarmaður
þótt hann væri gamall” (p. 69: “not an easy man to get along with, even though he
was old” [p. 335]), and it seems safe to assume that he was never a particularly nice
43 Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages, pp. 50–51. There were some ancient authorities, who had been extremely
vehement about old women who fell in love (e.g., the poet Horace), but according to Minois (History of Old Age,
p. 99), such bitterness about old women only resurfaced during the Renaissance.
58
Specter
man.44 It is nevertheless clearly indicated that in his old age he has become even
nastier, and he has certainly been forced to develop new ways of making mischief.
And yet some lip-service is indeed paid to the idea that old men should be nice in
the use of the phrase “þótt hann væri gamall”.
Þórarinn cannot fight anymore, and his main goal in life is to see to it that his
son takes up his profession as a warrior. However, Þorsteinn is a peaceful man
who will only fight when provoked. Þórarinn thus makes it his business to pro-
voke him by taunting him in every way possible. In this he is not alone: The whole
region consists of people who keep mocking Þorsteinn and daring him to take up
arms against all those who disrespect him. Þórarinn is one of the worst, however,
as his tongue is as sharp as ever, and he compares his son to an effeminate hound
(p. 70; p. 335) for not drawing blood from those who mock him. He is joined in
this goading by the women and servants of the region.
Most of those who goad Þorsteinn into fighting are his enemies, but Þórarinn
is his father. Since he has had battle experience, one would expect more under-
standing from his father than from those who have never themselves fought, but
Þórarinn is unrelenting in his criticism of Þorsteinn’s lack of action, and when his
son goes on his way to the last battle with the chieftain Bjarni Brodd-Helgason,
Þórarinn declares that he is glad and that he would prefer to have his son killed
rather than have a cowardly or effeminate son. After the battle, Bjarni tricks the
old man by saying that Þorsteinn has been killed. Þórarinn consequently attempts
to kill Bjarni but comes not even close to achieving that goal, and is simply depict-
ed as fiddling with a sword. Bjarni hardly needs to take him seriously. As a fighter,
Þórarinn has simply become ridiculous.
In this very fact lies the cause for Þórarinn’s anger. Like Þórólfr Lame-foot, he
is a warrior. They are both men who have been dangerous and powerful. Indeed,
their past strength serves to accentuate their present fragility. To these men, the
humiliation of physical decrepitude is further aggravated by the loss of the esteem
they once had, which was based primarily on physical strength and viciousness.
Now, no one is afraid anymore. Clearly, a warrior’s dignity is fickle, which may
44 Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, ed. Jón Jóhannesson, Íslenzk fornrit, 11 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950),
p. 69. Subsequent references to the þáttr are to this edition and its translation, “The Tale of Thorstein Staff-
struck”, trans. Anthony Maxwell, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, IV, ed. Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur
Eiríksson, 1997).
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Nine Saga Studies
be a part of the moral conclusion of Þorsteins þáttr. And in the case of Þórarinn
the viking and Þórólfr Lame-foot, impotence begets aggression. Both cases seem
almost tailor-made to support the assertion of psychologist Rollo May, following
in the footsteps of philosopher Hannah Arendt, that “violence is an expression of
impotence”.45 These men are nasty because they are powerless and insignificant,
and they feel this lack strongly.
The problem with Þórarinn the viking is not that he is too aggressive―he just
simply can no longer find an outlet for his aggression. He has no real role in society,
as he is not rich enough to become a respected chieftain. He is, in fact, a nobody. A
former viking is almost an ex-human being. With Þórólfr Lame-foot the situation
is more complex, as he still runs his farm and is a man of some standing. However,
it is his son who is the goði and one of the biggest chieftains of the region. In com-
parison with Arnkell, Þórólfr is insignificant. He lacks Arnkell’s youthful strength
and charisma, and he is merely an annoying background presence, because he has
neglected to die. This may be one of the main causes for his resentment of Arn-
kell. Arnkell’s importance highlights Þórólfr’s insignificance, just as his youth only
serves to accentuate the fact that Þórólfr is not young anymore. In this case, old
age is almost like a second childhood; Arnkell treats Þórólfr like a willful child
rather than an important figure. He is not afraid of him, and neither does Þórólfr
seem to be able to put much fear into his neighbors.
It is perhaps no wonder that old men are often envious of the young, because
the young have what the old want, and what everyone usually wants: respect and
admiration. They also have a more active part to play in society, whereas the old
are expected to retire gracefully, think about their salvation, and not interfere in
the affairs of the young.46 This is clear in the senex amans motif: The old lechers
may be disgusting, but their only wish is to take some part in life and love. It is the
same with the old vikings: They have lost their role in society and, being vikings,
are unable to put their aggression to positive ends.
The sagas provide us with some examples of old people being energetic in a
positive way. The protagonist of Flóamanna saga, Þorgils Þórðarson, enjoys a vig-
orous old age (“var nú gamall ok þó hraustr” [p. 317]; “was now old but still vigor-
ous” [p. 301]), complete with a young wife, who at first was reluctant to accept
45 Rollo May, Power and Innocence: A Search for the Sources of Violence (New York: Norton, 1972), p. 23.
46 Shahar, Growing Old in the Middle Ages, pp. 73–76.
60
Specter
such an old man.47 He kills an impudent Norwegian who mocks his age and calls
him a “fretkarl” (“old fart”),48 which echoes Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’s taunt against
the old Þórarinn, whom Bjarni calls “allra fretkarla armastr” (p. 77; “you miserable
old fart” [p. 340]). Flóamanna saga is often regarded as postclassical, and while it
is difficult to date with certainty, it is in some ways not very realistic, and the virile
old age of Þorgils may owe something to wishful thinking, especially when com-
bined with his triumph over the Norwegian who has alluded to his lack of bowel
control.
In addition to Þorgils, there are a handful of other old men who prove them-
selves to be excellent fighters in spite of their age. Most prominently, old Hávarðr
in Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, who is also a lame-foot, is jolted out of his miserable old
age after his son has been killed. He promptly turns into a hero.49 Hrútr Herjólfs
son kills a marauder at the age of eighty, a celebrated feat.50 The similarly provoked
Hrómundr the lame also proves his valor in his old age,51 and in Sturlunga saga,
there is the case of the ancient Árni Auðunarson, who dies alongside his master,
Sigvatr Sturluson, and achieves great renown for his valor, which is said to be un-
common for such an old man―and yet Árni is asked what such an old and small
man is doing on the battlefield.52 Fighting is, as a rule, not the business of old men,
and this is a mean fate for old warriors who have survived for too long and now
have to face an ignoble old age.
Few men carry on fighting into old age, however, and there remains the problem
of what to do with ex-vikings, impotent but still aggressive―perhaps even more
so because of their lack of a role to play. There is, however, more to Þórarinn’s
portrayal than that. In Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, there is a strong sense of a gen-
eration gap. Þorsteinn embodies the peaceful and sensible attitude of the younger
generation, while Þórarinn has―with some justice―been called a “fossilized relic
47 Flóamanna saga, ed. Þórhallur Vilmundarson, Íslenzk fornrit, 13 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991),
pp. 313–18; The Saga of the People of Floi, trans. Paul Acker, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, III, ed. Viðar
Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997).
48 Flóamanna saga, pp. 322–23. Þorgils immediately regrets this killing as a rash act and later pays compensation.
49 Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, ed. Guðni Jónsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 6 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943), pp.
291–358. Hávarðr is said to be infirm with age, but his sickness seems to be at least partly psychosomatic, as his
leap into heroism is preceded by his taking to bed whenever he meets with an obstacle.
50 Laxdæla saga, p. 105.
51 Hrómundar þáttr halta, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 8 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag,
1939). pp. 313–14.
52 Sturlunga saga, I, p. 434.
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Nine Saga Studies
of the viking past”.53 In the saga, Þórarinn’s values are exposed as ancient and inap-
propriate.54 His son keeps him alive by his work, and yet the old man risks losing
him only to satisfy the outdated ideas of the warrior society.
Þórarinn represents old and outdated views and has nothing but scorn for the prac-
tical ways of modern men. In this he is joined by many other old men in medieval
sources, full of bitterness and anger toward the new age in which, in this case, the
warrior mentality seems out of fashion. His present inability to fight is further ag-
gravated by the fact that his son has no desire to emulate him. Although personally he
has no role in society, Þórarinn does have a strong standing as a reactionary. In Þor-
steins þáttr, reactionary attitudes are rampant, expounded by women, the lower class,
and the old, in the figure of Þórarinn. The new age is represented by the chieftain
Bjarni and the sensible Þorsteinn. As a spokesman for the old worldview, Þórarinn
is one of the chief villains of the narrative. Yet, despite being vicious and aggressive,
Þórarinn is, when it comes down to it, able to cause mischief mainly by going on
about old warrior values—when it comes to fighting, Þórarinn is easily overcome.
There is thus a strong discrepancy between his words and his deeds, or more impor-
tantly, between his desires and his potency.
In the þáttr, Þórarinn sides with the women and servants of the region, who are
excused from fighting on account of their lowly status and feebleness. His lofty
warrior rhetoric and constant jeers at his son’s lack of masculinity might be vain
attempts to hide the fact that Þórarinn himself is in a position of powerlessness.
To have some say in killings, he has to resort to feminine goading.55 Thus, he is the
“woman” of the saga—someone who is unable to bear arms but who is instead vo-
cal in encouraging others to fight.56
Þórarinn’s physical impotence turns out to be echoed by his social impotence.
His only way to be active is to be destructive, but he turns out to be unable to cause
lasting harm. Þorsteinn and Bjarni Brodd-Helgason make up in the end, in spite of
53 Minois, History of Old Age from Antiquity to the Renaissance, p. 192.
54 Þorsteins þáttr has often been interpreted as a moral narrative, espousing the new chivalric values of the thirteenth
century and juxtaposing them with the outdated morals of the past. A recent interpretation in this vein is to be
found in Gert Kreutzer, “Siðferðileg orðræða og þjóðfélagslegur boðskapur í nokkrum Íslendingasögum”, Skírnir,
178 (2004), 7–33, esp. pp. 12–17.
55 On goading as a role of women in Old Icelandic society, see Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, Fortælling og ære:
Studier i islændingesagaerne (Aarhus: Universitetsforlag, 1993), pp. 238–46.
56 This line of reasoning presupposes that Carol Clover was right in assuming that in the Norse mind the divid-
ing line was “between able-bodied men (and the exceptional woman) on one hand and, on the other, a kind of
rainbow coalition of everyone else (most women, children, slaves, and old, disabled, or otherwise disenfranchised
men)” (Clover, “Regardless of Sex”, p. 380).
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Specter
the old man’s efforts and his fumbling attempt to use a sword against Bjarni, which
earns him the chieftain’s derision. The þáttr ends with Þorsteinn going to Hof to
serve Bjarni, which seems to be an honor, and Þórarinn is left with mere slaves to
support him. As a nasty but enfeebled man, Þórarinn tries to attain revenge against
youth, as personified by his own son, by using the old ideals of feuding and re
venge in an attempt to take a last stand in battle. When Þorsteinn tells his father
that he will now face Bjarni in battle, Þórarinn claims that he will not mourn for
him. He feels it is better to lose Þorsteinn than to have a coward for a son (p. 75).
Þórarinn is at last pleased when his son seems to face certain but heroic death. The
only way for the son to please his father is to die, thus suggesting that the father
desires the son’s death.
Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs may be informed by the myth of Kronos, the god who
devoured his own children because he was fearful one of them would supplant
him, but who in the end regurgitated them and thus gave them a second birth. He
thus became in a sense their mother as well as their father, while his youngest son
Zeus became his heir. Marina Warner has argued that the recent obsession with
the Oedipal myth has eclipsed the Kronos myth, which through the ages had been
the more potent one. The myths, of course, are both concerned with the genera-
tion gap, but from different points of view. This is an important difference: The
emphasis is either on the father’s vulnerability or on parental aggression against
their offspring. Warner also draws attention to the fact that throughout the course
of history, parents have been much more likely to kill their children than the chil-
dren to kill the parents.57 Thus it seems more fruitful to regard the father-son re-
lationship in the light of the Kronos myth rather than the myth of Oedipus, which
may nevertheless have some relevance to our discussion as well. Levi-Strauss’s crit-
ic Edmund Leach has remarked that the Oedipus and Kronos myths are in some
respects duplicates, that both are an inversion of the act of sexual intercourse, the
beginning of life.58 The Kronos myth is easily interpreted as a metaphor about
birth and death, inverted so that Kronos’ devouring of his children results in a
second birth.
57 Marina Warner, No Go the Bogeyman: Scaring, Lulling, and Making Mock (London: Chatto & Windus, 1998), pp.
48–77. Warner quotes George Devereux on the likelihood of parents killing their children (“The Cannibalistic
Impulses of Parents”, The Psychoanalytic Forum, I [1966], 114–24).
58 In the Kronos myth it is Gaia who inserts “a phallus into the male mouth as a form of food and thereafter the
children are born through the mouth in the form of vomit” (Edmund Leach, Lévi-Strauss [London: Fontana,
1970], p. 81).
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Nine Saga Studies
The myth of Kronos was influential in the Middle Ages. It had its counterpart
in the Bible, in the tale of Abraham and Isaac and the narrowly avoided sacrifice
of the son by the father. In Iceland, the myth is related in a truncated form in
Hauksbók, where Saturn kills and eats all his children except Jupiter, who expels
him.59 An indigenous version of the myth is found in Ynglinga saga. The Saturn-
like King Aun sacrifices all his sons to Óðinn to carry on living himself. He keeps
on sacrificing them even when he has become bedridden from old age, until at last
the Swedes stop him and save his youngest son Egill, who eventually becomes his
father’s heir.60
Originally the god Kronos was an old and little-known divinity, whose character
is distinguished by internal contradiction and ambivalence in Greek sources. On
the one hand he was a benevolent god of agriculture, on the other a dethroned and
exiled, solitary god dwelling at the uttermost end of the land and sea and ruler of
the nether gods. He was on the one hand the father of gods and men, but on the
other he was the devourer of children and castrator of Uranus and was himself
later castrated by his own son Zeus. Only later did his figure merge with that of
Saturn, the Roman god of field and crops, who seems originally to have been good
but who in the Middle Ages had acquired most of Kronos’ negative attributes.61
Saturn was strongly associated with Melancholy in the Middle Ages. The color
of Saturn was supposed to be dark and black, and his nature cold and dry. He was
also supposed to be the god/planet of the old, as well as of cruelty and avarice.62
This is echoed in Icelandic sources such as in Alfræði íslenzk, where it is stated that
those born in the hour of Saturn are dry and cold, evil and untruthful, secretive,
and volatile; furthermore, they tend to become old.63 The prevailing wisdom of
European learned sources was that Saturn’s children were the unhappiest of mor-
tals, and in the system of the ages of man, Saturn was allotted the last and saddest
59 Hauksbók, ed. Finnur Jónsson (Copenhagen: Kongelige nordiske oldskrift-selskab, 1892–96), p. 158.
60 Heimskringla, I, ed. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Íslenzk fornrit, 26 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1941), pp.
47–50. See Samson Eitrem, “König Aun in Uppsala und Kronos”, Festskrift til Hjalmar Falk 30. desember 1927
(Oslo: Aschehoug, 1927), 245–61; Joseph Harris, “Sacrifice and Guilt in Sonatorrek”, Studien zum Altgerman-
ischen: Festschrift für Heinrich Beck, ed. Heiko Uecker, Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen
Altertumskunde, 11 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1994), pp. 173–96 (see esp. p. 180).
61 Raymond Klibansky, Erwin Panofsky, and Fritz Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy: Studies in the History of Natural
Philosophy, Religion and Art (London: Nelson, 1964), pp. 133–35.
62 Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy, pp. 127–33.
63 Alfræði íslenzk, III, ed. Kristian Kålund (Copenhagen: Samfund til Udgivelse af gammel nordisk Litteratur, 1917–
18), p. 34.
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phase, old age with its loneliness, hopelessness, and physical and mental decay.64 In
poems from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Saturn is connected not only
with old age but also with sorrow, darkness, dryness, and avarice, and sometimes
with impotence as well.65 It thus seems possible to regard the angry old men in the
sagas as figures of Kronos/Saturn.
In the Middle Ages, the name Kronos became assimilated with the Greek word
for time, chronos. Thus the Kronos story was interpreted as a myth about the on-
ward march of time.66 If we examine the significance of the myth to the relation-
ship of Þórarinn the viking and Þorsteinn stangarhǫgg, we see that Þórarinn wants
his son’s death, but he also wants Þorsteinn to prove himself in battle and establish
his manliness. Perhaps Þorsteinn’s role is to affirm Þórarinn’s own lost manhood
as well. Þórarinn’s point of reference is usually himself rather than Þorsteinn: It is
his son who has to fight and who must not be effeminate.67 Þórarinn himself is old,
bedridden, and effeminate, using his own definition of masculinity as partaking
in battle.68 He loathes his situation, and this loathing seems to be projected onto
Þorsteinn.
Through Þórarinn the past speaks, with its outdated and aggressive values.
Þórarinn may be trying to reverse time by surviving his son, as well as, and in col-
laboration with the other reactionaries of the þáttr, trying to supplant the values of
the new age with the values of the old. The conflict in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs
is between father and son, the old and the new, with the old aggressively trying to
devour the new to prolong its own life. As befits a true child of Saturn, Þórarinn is
not only old but full of vicious envy and malice. In this version of the myth, Kro-
nos/Saturn loses again. While Þorsteinn does not castrate his father, he moves up
the social ladder at the end of the þáttr and emerges as his own man, if not Zeus.
His father is cast off to live with slaves.
While such mythical reflections are always tentative, the general structure of this
64 Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy, pp. 148–49; Burrow, The Ages of Man, p. 54.
65 Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy, pp. 186 and 191. See also Peter Brown and Andrew Butch-
er, The Age of Saturn: Literature and History in the Canterbury Tales (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), pp. 212–36.
66 Warner, No Go the Bogeyman, pp. 58–59. Warner argues that this conflation unconsciously collates with the
father’s intention, the metaphor being that the hours are inexorably swallowed up as time rolls on. Cf. KIibansky,
Panofsky, and Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy, p. 177.
67 He makes statements such as: “Ekki mundi mik þess vara, at ek munda ragan son eiga” (p. 70; “I would not have
thought that I had a coward for a son” [p. 336], and “Þykki mér ek betra at missa þín en eiga ragan son” (p. 75; “I
would rather lose you than have a coward for a son” [p. 338]).
68 There is some indication that this is also how the community regards him. An unnamed servant of Bjarni states
his belief that Bjarni does not kill Þorsteinn so as not to take the bread winner from the old blind father.
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Nine Saga Studies
father-and-son relationship is borrowed from the Kronos myth. In this instance

we have a nasty old father who tries to devour his son, though there is no regurgi-
tating. However there is another version of the myth in the sagas, complete with
vomiting.
Food and the Poet

A nuanced portrait of a warrior grown old and infirm may be found in Egils saga, in
the depiction of Egill Skalla-Grímsson himself. In his old age, Egill has had a long
career as a remorseless killer whose battles have been fought for personal gain, and
who throughout his life has relied on his superior strength and warrior skills. In
addition, there is a history of aging badly in the family. Egill’s ancestors tend to
reveal their wolfish streak rather more as they advance in years.69 In chapter 40
of Egils saga, Skalla-Grímr has started to get old.70 At the same time, he becomes
increasingly vicious, and one evening he makes a life-threatening attack on his son
during a game (p. 101). His father, Kveld-Úlfr, is said to become bad-tempered
toward evening, which may be a metaphorical description of the same trend (p. 4).
Both father and son have a wolfish nature, and night draws out the bestial part of
that nature. However, we only learn of Kveld-Úlfr’s evening nastiness when he has
become advanced in years, and the only instance of Skalla-Grímr turning bestial at
nightfall happens when he, too, is getting old.
Close to the end of the saga, Egill has reached old age and is described as “þung-
fœrr, ok glapnaði honum bæði heyrn ok sýn; hann gerðisk ok fótstirðr” (p. 294;
“very frail and both his hearing and sight failed. He also suffered from very stiff
legs” [p. 174]). We are shown how he has trouble walking, trips, and is mocked by
the women at his farm. He later tries to rest in the warmth of the kitchen, but the
cook scolds him and drives him out. In his old age the former warrior hero is in
everyone’s way and is picked on by servant women. This may be seen as a tragedy,
but it is perhaps also poetic justice; in fact, the saga author may have intended his
69 Torfi H. Tulinius has previously drawn attention to some points of similarity between Skalla-Grímr and Þórólfr
Lame-foot (“Framliðnir feður: Um forneskju og frásagnarlist í Eyrbyggju, Eglu og Grettlu”, in Heiðin minni:
Greinar um fornar bókmenntir, ed. Haraldur Bessason and Baldur Hafstað [Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1999], pp.
283–316 [see esp. pp. 299–301]).
70 “Hann gerðisk þá heldr hniginn at aldri” (pp. 99; “he was fairly advanced in age by then” [p. 77]) (Egils saga, ed.
Sigurður Nordal, Íslenzk fornrit, 2 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933], p. 99). Subsequent references to
Egils saga are to this edition and to the translation, Egil’s Saga, trans. Bernard Scudder, in The Complete Sagas of
Icelanders, I, ed. Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997).
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Specter
audience to have mixed views on Egill’s predicament. But whatever our attitude is
to the viking Egill, it is hard not to have some sympathy with the blind, deaf, and
wobbly old man that he has become, and to ponder the ironies of fate.71
Egill Skalla-Grímsson is literally impotent, but mentally perhaps less so than
many others of his age, since at least he is able to compose a skaldic poem about
the limpness of his penis.72 The impotence of old age is a prominent feature in
most medieval depictions of old age, and the most explored topic with fourteenth-
century English poets.73 Physical infirmity is not surprisingly also one of the most
common complaints of the old in medieval Icelandic literature. In Laxdæla saga and
Kormáks saga, the poet and warrior Hólmgǫngu-Bersi has become old and compos-
es a verse on how he has become like an infant who cannot use its legs. The only
difference is that the infant will eventually be able to walk, but Bersi won’t. Bersi
is nevertheless able to make a poem about his humiliation, and thus use words to
gain some kind of control over his existence. In spite of his predicament, he keeps
his dignity. In Kormáks saga, Bersi indeed rises from his bed and is able to strike
a further blow against his enemies. In Laxdæla saga, there is no mention of that,
making Bersi’s verse perhaps more poignant and tragic.74
Egill resents the young generation; his intolerance bursts out in an angry verse
composed about his son’s “treachery”, after Þorsteinn has taken his silk cloak, a gift
from Egill’s great friend Arinbjǫrn, and soiled it (p. 274). When Egill has grown
stiff, blind, impotent, and wobbly on his legs, his only wish is to be able to cause
mischief to the young. His niece and her husband have to stop him from going to
the Alþingi and scattering his silver from a high place to watch the people fight over
it. This is the old Egill’s way of making himself noticed and remembered, but to his
niece and her husband it just seems like a mad scheme of an evil and senile mind.
Since Egill has become so frail, his plan is easily thwarted. He is nevertheless still
able to hide his silver from his relatives, thus ensuring himself a final petty revenge
on the younger generation (pp. 296–98). As it is made clear that Egill loves his
71 Irony may also be detected in the fact that Þórólfr Lame-foot gained his land by challenging a frail old man to a
duel, but that he then himself falls victim to a different curse of old age.
72 Like most skaldic stanzas, Egill’s half-stanza about his impotence is obscure, but from the thirteenth century
on it seems to have been understood as an obscene verse (see Egils saga, p. 294, note to st. 58; cf. Erik Noreen,
Studier í fornvästnordisk diktning, II (Uppsala: Akademiska Bokhandeln, 1922, pp. 35–36).
73 Nitecki, “Figures of Old Age”, p. 112.
74 Laxdæla saga, p. 76; Kormáks saga, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 8 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka forn
ritafélag, 1939), pp. 260–63.
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Nine Saga Studies
niece better than any other living person, this last act estranges him from the most
loving relative left in his life (pp. 275 and 296).75
Egils saga depicts Egill Skalla-Grímsson’s growing infirmity, dependency on oth-
ers, and marginalized status at his own home. It also reveals to us his dream of
once again making his mark in society. In his old age, Egill’s idea of fun is insti-
gating a battle he will not even be able to see between people he does not know.
The wounds and deaths of others would then provide his only satisfaction. He is
a Kronos figure who wishes death on the young generation. Like Þórarinn the vi-
king, Egill’s anger is caused by his humiliation, and his reaction is to try to lash out
in fury. His wish to go to the Alþingi draws attention to the fact that he has been
excluded from decisions of power. Like Þórarinn the viking, Egill is forced to rely
on others. This is made even more bitter by the fact that this is a complete reversal
of roles: The old vikings used to dominate others but are now doomed to subservi-
ence. In the past, Egill has not asked anyone’s opinion, but now he is forced to ask
his niece and her husband’s leave to go to the assembly—and they easily refuse him
when they become aware of his evil scheme. Egill used to go where he liked and
do as he pleased, without bowing even to kings and queens, except perhaps when
absolutely necessary and to save his head. Now the warrior who stood up to King
Eiríkr Blood-axe is even driven out of the kitchen.
Like Þórarinn the viking, Egill can only be active by being destructive. But his
dream of destruction turns out to be futile. His plan is thwarted by his niece and
her husband, who simply ground him like a teenager. The only thing he can do is
to revert to a more passive-agressive protest: He hides his silver from those who
have taken him into their home and tried to be kind to him in his old age. Egill
turns out to be unable to do anything but harm others, but not even on as grand a
scale as he wished.
While Egill’s situation is not unusual, and his anger has clear parallels in the cas-
es of Þórarinn the viking and Þórólfr Lame-foot, his wish to stay in the kitchen is
very much his own. Egill himself explains his attraction to the kitchen as the need
for warmth from the fire. It is nevertheless a bit eccentric that unlike Þórarinn,
who is obsessed with battle and heroic death, he turns to the kitchen, synonymous
with food and the company of women. In fact, food is an important and recur-
75 This episode has been discussed by Torfi H. Tulinius in light of the father-and-son conflicts of the saga (The
Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland, trans. Randi C. Eldevik [Odense:
Odense Univ. Press, 2002], pp. 266–68 and 274).
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Specter
ring motif in Egill’s life. His first clash with King Eiríkr happened at the feast at
Atley and resulted in Egill’s companion vomiting all over the floor. Later, Egill
takes revenge on the farmer Ármóðr by regurgitating into his face (pp. 107–11 and
223–27). Thus, in Egill’s hands—or mouth, to be more precise—food and drink can
be turned into dangerous missiles. As he advances in years, he starts manipulating
with food in a slightly different way. When Egill is past fifty and loses his two
sons, he attempts to starve himself to death. His plan was only thwarted by his
clever and equally manipulative daughter Þorgerðr, who encourages him to com-
pose his masterful elegy Sonatorrek (pp. 242–45).
Joseph Harris regards Sonatorrek as part of a grieving process and an example of
the use of myth and poetry to survive and continue with life.76 In rituals of grief,
the consumption of food almost universally plays a part. In this context, food rep-
resents life and its continuation, as well as a farewell to the dead. By refusing food,
Egill is thus turning his back to the restoration process. In addition, food and drink
are also closely connected with poetry in the Old Norse tradition, and indeed the
myth of the mead of poetry is referred to in Sonatorrek.77 This myth involves the
vomiting of the mead by Óðinn, and thus it must be significant that the poet Egill
does his fair share of vomiting in Egils saga. While that is in itself a tentative link
with the god Kronos, it seems probable that the depiction of Egill as an old man
is a vital ingredient of the poet’s biography, and that old age, rebirth, and regurgi-
tating are in some way intertwined, not only in the Kronos myth but also in Egils
saga.
Although Egill’s grief is not unique for an old man, his reaction is unusual and
seems at first somewhat more appropriate for Kjartan Ólafsson’s wife Hrefna
and other grieving widows of Old Icelandic literature than for the old and rough
viking.78 While fasting and hunger striking have never been confined to women
and have certainly been used by men throughout the ages (most prominently in
Ireland), the twin illnesses anorexia and bulimia nowadays occur mostly among
76 Joseph Harris, “Goðsögn sem hjálp til að lifa af í Sonatorreki”, Heiðin minni: Greinar um fornar bókmenntir, ed.
Haraldur Bessason and Baldur Hafstað (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1999), pp. 47–70. See also his “Sacrifice and
Guilt in Sonatorrek,” pp. 193–96.
77 Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson, Trúarhugmyndir í Sonatorreki, Studia Islandica, 57 (Reykjavík: Bókmenntafræðistofn
un Háskóla Íslands, 2001), pp. 121–22.
78 In addition to Hrefna, Queen Þyri (in Oddr Snorrason’s Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar) springs to mind. However,
there are other similar examples of grieving old men in the sagas (Jenny Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society
[Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1995], pp. 111–13).
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Nine Saga Studies
female victims, and in the Middle Ages fasting was more prominently practiced
by female saints and women in general. Caroline Walker Bynum has argued that
this reflects the fact that food preparation was often the only control women had
in medieval society. To prepare food is to control food, and fasting is an extremely
simple and effective form of manipulation. Bynum notes an important difference
between modern and medieval fasting: beauty was not connected with thinness
in the same way as it is now and was not an issue in medieval fasting. Control,
however, was a key issue in anorectic behavior then, as it is now. Those who refuse
food are manipulating their circumstances, and fasting was sometimes the only way
for a woman to do this.79 In a way, Egill Skalla-Grímsson may therefore be seen as
a precursor to modern bulimics and anorectics, since he uses both vomiting and
starvation as a manipulative weapon.
But why would Egill Skalla-Grímsson choose this female weapon? He is not
only a man but a powerful man, a rich man, a warrior, and a chieftain. He is also
a master manipulator. His self-starvation makes him the chief mourner for his
son, eclipsing the possible grief of his wife and children for their son and brother.
Egill’s grief is very much a form of attention seeking. Maud Ellmann argued in her
provocative study that “[s]elf-starvation is above all a performance”. Anorectics are
“starving for attention” and “making a spectacle of themselves, in every sense”.80
Ellmann also argues that self-starvation is to a certain extent a creative process,
often strongly connected with metaphors of rape and imprisonment. This applies
to the case of Egill, since his self-starvation after the death of his sons leads to the
composition of Sonatorrek. Egill retreats into the confined space of his lokrekkja
(“bed-closet”), which symbolizes a private prison house, analogous to the closed
chests where he hides his wealth. Nevertheless, withdrawal from the public scene
can also be a kind of performance, and hiding a form of spectacle.
It is tempting to regard Egill’s attempt at self-starvation as a form of melancholy.
He is aging and there is a strong link between Saturn and melancholy in the Mid-
dle Ages. Melancholy has been described by psychologists of the Freudian school
as narcissistic, and that Egill certainly is. His grief is exaggerated and obsessive,
79 Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (Berke-
ley: Univ. of California Press, 1987), see esp. pp. 94–112 and 189–244. See also Joan Jacobs Brumberg, Fasting
Girls: The History of Anorexia Nervosa (New York: Vintage Books, 2000 [1st ed. 1988]); Rudolph M. Bell, Holy
Anorexia (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1985).
80 Maud Ellmann, The Hunger Artists: Starving, Writing and Imprisonment (London: Virago, 1993), p. 117.
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Specter
and it is certainly possible to interpret it in Freudian terms as concealing an aggres-

siveness toward the lost object.81 Perhaps more importantly, Egill’s retreat into his
lokrekkja and his self-starvation constitute a passive reaction, dramatically different
to his wish to scatter silver over Alþingi. Hélène Cixous has argued that passivity
has been historically equated with the feminine.82 By fasting, Egill is dominating
his surroundings in a passive way. He is refusing life, not by actively pursuing
death but by a quiet retreat into a confined space, which nevertheless is a form of
attention seeking. Perhaps it is possible to regard his problematic relationship with
the younger poet Einarr skálaglamm as a form of retreat as well. Egill likes Einarr
but when the latter gives him a shield, Egill wants to chase him and kill him (p.
272). This may be interpreted merely as lovable eccentricity, but perhaps this scene
also demonstrates Egill’s denial of his role as a poet. He does not want to compose
a drápa about the shield. He is too weary, too tired, and last but not least, too old.
As with the hunger strike, his reaction against his role as a poet is a symptom of
aging.
Egill’s passive-aggressive hunger strike is paralleled by his use of his wealth as a
fetish rather than something that actively supports his chieftaincy. The fetish has
been defined as something that “ought to be merely a reference to something mate-
rial [but] masquerades instead as a something in-itself, an autonomous signifier”.83
Furthermore, fetishism has been connected with the artistic spirit.84 It may be
“more an inability to tolerate the necessary incompleteness of experience than a
reduction of experience to a mere part”.85 It may be the artistic side of Egill that
makes him, like his father, not flaunt his wealth but choose instead to keep it safe
and, in the end, bury it (pp. 296–98). His rage when his son has soiled his silk cloak
(p. 274) may be interpreted in a similar vein. It seems strange for a large, aggressive
viking like Egill Skalla-Grímsson to become so attached to such a delicate piece of
clothing as a silk cloak, even though it is a gift from his late friend Arinbjǫrn. Even
more pronounced is his need to keep it safe and unused, like a hidden treasure.
81 See, e.g., Julia Kristeva, Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia
Univ. Press, 1989), pp. 11 and 64.
82 Hélène Cixous, La Jeune Née (Paris: UGE, 1975), p. 115.
83 Marcia Ian, Remembering the Phallic Mother: Psychoanalysis, Modernism and the Fetish (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press.
1993), p. 82.
84 Janine Chasseguet-Smirgel, Creativity and Perversion (London: W. W. Norton, 1984), pp. 78–88.
85 Ian, Remembering the Phallic Mother, p. 84.
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Nine Saga Studies
Egill’s strategies in dealing with old age turn out to be vastly different from those
of Þórarinn the viking. Instead of boasting and egging others on to violence, Egill
increasingly retreats into himself, his lokrekkja being the strongest metaphor for
this. He starves himself, becoming obsessed with money and small things.
Some of Egill’s reactions may be described as feminine. In his old age, Egill’s
best friends are women, his daughter Þorgerðr and his niece Þórdís. He himself
desires above all to sit in the warmth of the kitchen with the servant women. He
tries to starve himself to gain control over his life and surroundings, as if food
control were his only sphere of dominance. It is really impossible to explain why
he chooses this way, although Egill largely resembles his father Skalla-Grímr in
that he has an introvert personality. Perhaps Egill feels as if he is gaining more and
more control over his personality as he retreats into his own self.
In his childhood, Egill Skalla-Grímsson struggled to catch the attention of his
cold and indifferent father. It takes no great logical leap to interpret the father-son
conflict of Egils saga in the oedipal vein. Torfi H. Tulinius has indeed suggested
such an interpretation in an excellent article about father-son conflicts, between
Egill and Skalla-Grímr, as well as Arnkell and Þórólfr Lame-foot.86 Egill’s aver-
sion to his son Þorsteinn may also be interpreted in light of the Kronos myth,
especially as the reception and ejection of food have an important role in this nar-
rative. Thus the Kronos myth seems to apply even more strongly to Egils saga
than Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs. Both narratives also reveal that old vikings seem
to be stuck in a social role that has more in common with the role of women than
men. In both cases, this makes the old men resentful and aggressive. The main
difference is that while Þórarinn the viking has landed in this situation by neces-
sity, Egill seems to have adopted it himself to a degree. Even though he resents
being an impotent and feminized old man, a part of him wants to withdraw to the
kitchen and into his bed. Perhaps this marks the difference between a viking and
a viking/poet.
The Old Man as a Ghost

Þórólfr Lame-foot does not ally himself with other reactionary forces in his region
to attempt to use old viking ideals against his son. Neither does he retreat into a
lokrekkja or bury his wealth. He adopts a third strategy. After having aggressively
86 Torfi H. Tulinius, “Framliðnir feður”.
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Specter
but ultimately unsuccessfully tried to maintain his dignity, he dies and returns as
a ghost. I have already argued that Þórólfr may be regarded as a Kronos figure.87
He is filled with anger and hatred of the younger generation, and as with the other
nasty old men, his anger may be interpreted as a reaction against his surroundings,
brought on by a sense of vulnerability and impotence, and thus revealing of the
cruel state of being old, as well as a fear of mortality which takes a strange turn in
Þórólfr’s case.
The first question that has to be asked about every ghost is: Why does he start to
walk again after his death? This should be easy to answer, as Þórólfr is introduced
to us in life, which is not always the case with prominent ghosts in literature. That
allows for us to study his transformation to ghostliness. A second and less obvious
question is: When did Þórólfr become a ghost? That one is perhaps not so easy as
it sounds.
As a rule people become ghosts because they are not at peace and not satisfied.
It seems obvious that Þórólfr’s lack of contentment has something to do with his
afterlife as a ghost. But what about the lack of contentment itself? We might keep
in mind that Þórólfr was not always a lamefoot. He first came to Iceland a vigor-
ous young viking. However, he arrived there on the coattails of his mother, who
had already carved out some land and respect for herself. Þórólfr was not satisfied
with his role. It might be precisely his weak status as the son of a female settler,
rather than a settler in his own right, that leads him to his aggressive pursuit of the
land of others. This view would be supported by the fact that when Þórólfr has
acquired his land, he is peaceful right up until the advent of old age. The saga states
that it is his old age that leads him to become increasingly unreasonable and ag-
gressive. It is never revealed whether his physical disability plays a part. Is Þórólfr
also wreaking vengeance on the world because of his lame foot? We do not know
but his disability makes him even more marginalized and might aggravate his envy
of the young and fit, and in particular of his son Arnkell.
87 The Oedipus myth might also be significant to Þórólfr’s story, especially in the Lévi-Straussian interpretation,
since in his analysis, the meaning of the name Oidipos, “swollen-foot”, which is almost the same as Þórólfr’s by-
name, had some importance (Claude Lévi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth”, Journal of American Folklore,
68 [1955], 428–44; see also his Structural Anthropology, trans. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf
[Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972], pp. 206–31). However, since according to at least Edmund Leach the Oedipus
and Kronos myths are in some respects duplicates (Leach, Levi-Strauss, p. 80), it seems a bit superfluous to bring
Oedipus into this interpretation. The myth would, of course, be inversed in Eyrbyggja saga, where the “swollen-
foot” is the father who haunts his son, instead of the son who kills the father.
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Nine Saga Studies
Þórólfr Lame-foot’s refusal to disappear from the scene after his death seems
caused by his discontent with his life. In his old age, matters never turn out to his
liking. He keeps being snubbed, loses most of his cases, and is in the end shunned
by everyone. No one sees his point of view, which is admittedly difficult for him.
In the end he is unable to turn Arnkell against Snorri, whether he wishes just to
get his wood back or whether his wish is more similar to Egill’s: By fuelling re-
sentment between Arnkell and Snorri, he could be starting a major conflict.
Just before Þórólfr’s death, after being rejected by both Snorri and Arnkell, the
old man’s mood becomes foul. He goes home and promptly dies. Everyone is afraid
of the corpse, which is so rigid that Arnkell has to force it down so that Þórólfr
can be buried. Then Þórólfr starts to walk again (pp. 91–93). Having failed in life,
it is only in death that he becomes powerful again. Or does he? Þórólfr manages
to lay waste to an entire valley, a feat equaled by very few ghosts. As is the nature
of ghosts, he haunts his own territory and seems to be much more powerful in his
state as a ghost than in life, and yet we may wonder whether Þórólfr was all that
potent as a ghost. Perhaps the phrase “a powerful ghost” might even be a contra-
diction in terms. What powers do ghosts really have, when it comes down to it?
Admittedly, Þórólfr’s career as a ghost has a promising start. His first act is to
scare sheep out of their wits near his grave. Then birds and more sheep are killed,
and finally a shepherd is found blue and battered near the site of Þórólfr’s grave.
Soon Þórólfr has a whole entourage of ghosts, and when Arnkell breaks open the
cairn, he finds the body of his father not decayed but very hideous to behold. The
ghost also manages to keep Arnkell from moving him all the way to Vaðilshǫfði,
so that he has to be buried closer by. From then on, the ghost remains quiet while
Arnkell lives, but then he begins his hauntings again and kills both men and cattle.
Finally, the body is again disinterred and found to be unrotted and monstrous.
Now it is burned, but even that does not work. The fire takes a long time con-
suming Þórólfr, and he is in the end able to enter a cow and is perhaps reborn as a
crazed calf that kills Þóroddr Þorbrandsson.
Þórólfr has a long and dignified career for a ghost indeed, but that does not
change the fact that a ghost does not grow or attain life once more. On the con-
trary, the ghost lacks both life and positive qualities. In fact, the only thing a ghost
can do is to frighten and persecute and kill. It can destroy, but it cannot create
anything instead. A ghost has only negative power. Þórólfr Lame-foot is able to
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kill his fellow man, but he cannot return to life. He is, in fact, doomed to live in
the shadows, to walk around in a world that does not belong to him anymore, and
in this world he can only exist as a parasite on the living, to attack them and try
to destroy them, without gain for himself. And even these negative powers are
limited, however, because even as a ghost Þórólfr cannot attack Arnkell. He does
not threaten him, he is unable to destroy him or anything in his vicinity, and in the
end Arnkell can keep him from haunting for as long as he lives. Þórólfr’s ghostly
revenge proves futile. He cannot touch the person he hates the most: the son who
represents youth, the younger generation, and the life the ghost himself has lost.
Þórólfr is able to terrorize unimportant people and secondary characters, to kill the
people at his own farmstead and his own sheep, but when it comes down to it, he
is almost as impotent in death as he was in old age.
Þórólfr does not really change all that much in death. Bodily transformed he may
be but his state of mind remains the same. His anger is certainly not diminished.88
He can no longer argue with his neighbors about hay. He cannot feud or press law-
suits. In fact he can do nothing but kill. But his character is essentially the same:
full of malfeasance, anger, greed, and bullying. The ghost Þórólfr is just a concen-
trated version of the man Þórólfr,89 which brings us to an important question best
exemplified by the answer of Marley’s Ghost in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas
Carol (1843). When the old miser Scrooge asks: “Who are you?” Marley simply
replies: “Ask me who I was”.90 Is the ghost someone who is, or someone who has
been? Shall we view a ghost as a separate entity or as an ex-human? In this case,
the answer seems to be that the ghost is very much like the man, and may thus be
said to exist at once in the past and in the present. Þórólfr the ghost is more an ex-
human than a new being.91
88 Forrest Scott has fittingly described Þórólfr as someone who extends his misanthropy beyond the grave (“The
Icelandic Family Saga as a Precursor of the Novel”, p. 11), and Vésteinn Ólason calls Þórólfr a person “who is full
of resentment towards his surroundings by the end of his life and carries these resentments on into another life”
(“The Un/Grateful Dead”, p. 165).
89 Cf. Vésteinn Ólason, “The Un/Grateful Dead”, p. 165.
90 Charles Dickens, Christmas Book, Everyman’s Library, 239 (London: J. M. Dent & Sons; New York: E. P. Dut-
ton, 1907), p. 20.
91 According to Jean-Claude Schmitt (Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in Medieval Society, trans.
Teresa Lavender Fagan [Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1998]. p. 206), Þórólfr is a macabre ghost, since he
appears as a living cadaver. According to Schmitt, this image of a ghost is in contrast to the most common type
of ghost in medieval Christian culture (Ghosts in the Middle Ages, pp. 12–13). Þórólfr might also be interpreted as
a vampire, since most of the characteristics of folklore vampires fit Þórólfr quite well (see Paul Barber, Vampire,
Burial, and Death: Folklore and Reality [New Haven: Yale Univ. Press. 1988]), as well as the ghost Glámr in Grettis
saga (op.cit, pp. 82–97).
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But if there is no substantial difference between the ghost and the old man, what
does that indicate about the saga’s image of old age? On closer inspection, the me-
dieval image of old age is strikingly similar to the image of ghosts. The old man is
a weary, wizened, and decayed person who has lost some of his faculties and keeps
on losing more: his wits, his teeth, his sight, his hearing, his potency, and his pow-
ers. The old man is, in fact, a human in decay, almost an ex-human perhaps not
quite as a ghost is an ex-human, but definitely in the first stages of being a specter.
The old man is a ghost who is not quite dead yet. Þórólfr Lame-foot certainly
starts acting like a ghost before he becomes one: like a ghost, his only wish is to
destroy and harm others. And when he actually becomes a ghost, this continues to
be the only thing he is able to do.
This is perhaps the tragedy of old age, as perceived in the Middle Ages. Old
people have already become ghosts in that they are mere shadows of their former
selves and do not seem to count anymore. This is what the old Bersi laments as
he lies and is unable to help the child that has fallen out of his cradle. This is what
makes Þórarinn, Egill, and Þórólfr lash out in fury against their destiny. Each has
his own method of handling old age: One becomes an inciter, one withdraws into
his bed and stops eating, and the third becomes a ghost. None are able to be active
in any way that is not primarily destructive.
In recent years, old age has often been regarded as yet another stage of life with
its own merits and compensations, as Cicero tried to argue. There is less emphasis
on the things that get lost. Medieval images of old age tended to be more nega-
tive—the emphasis was on sickness, decrepitude, and impotence—and this is the
image present in the story of Þórólfr Lame-foot. He spends his old age feeling
humiliated, impotent, bitter, angry, and eager to avenge himself—a ghost before
his death. He starts haunting people long before he dies but is unable to make any
positive difference.
The depiction of Þórólfr Lame-foot haunting Álptafjǫrðr is perhaps the most
haunting portrayal of old age in the sagas. In Þórólfr, the author of Eyrbyggja saga
does not only portray a nasty individual who turns into a ghost but one who em-
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bodies the specter of old age—a ghost feared by those who have yet to encounter it
but who are very much aware of its cruel presence in the future.
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Two Wise Women and
their Young Apprentice:
A Miscarried Magic Class
M
agic training in literature did not begin with Harry Potter and the
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In this article, I will
discuss a different narrative, focused on a less institutionalized school
of magic, and use this to examine the relationship between magic knowledge and
gender. My reason for largely confining this study to one text is simple: Magic is
an extremely complex subject.1 So is gender. So is otherness. I will thus be focusing
on one text, indeed on a single episode from a larger text, in an attempt to not have
to discuss each and every example of magic in mediaeval Iceland (or Scandinavia or
the whole of Europe) and in the end saying very little about them. This discussion
of magic and gender is partially a reaction to a new and thought-provoking book by
Catherina Raudvere (2003: 112–18). She in turn is partly reacting to thought-pro-
voking studies by Helga Kress and others (e.g. Helga Kress 1993: 34–60; Jochens
1991). Although they differ in their interpretations of the relationship between mag-
ic and gender, both agree that the relationship is indeed a real and an important one.
The narrative I am about to discuss is, in my opinion, a good example of that.
Eyrbyggja saga is a saga of the Snæfellsnes region, often dated to around 1250,
which means that it was composed, in its present form, in the death throes of that
system which is often referred to as the Icelandic commonwealth.2 Not surprisingly,
1 François-Xavier Dillmann’s recent massive and learned study (2006) certainly often serves as a warning to those
who would wish to draw sweeping conclusions about the subject.
2 The oldest surviving manuscript of the saga is AM 162 E fol. from the thirteenth century (for a detailed discussion
of the manuscripts, see Scott 2003). Einar Ólafur Sveinsson (1935: xliii–lii) has argued that the saga was probably
composed around 1220. Bjarni Guðnason (1993: 220–23) has, on the other hand, argued that Eyrbyggja was several
decades younger, composed around 1265. For my purposes in this article, the exact dating of the saga is irrelevant.
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in times of change, its subject is the past and its attitudes towards the past are very
ambiguous, or even problematic. The past in Eyrbyggja saga is not only a time which
has passed, it is also the home of various strange beings, rituals and beliefs that
are interesting but still fundamentally opposed to the world order of the present,
which in this instance is the Catholic world view of 13th century Europe. The word
“forneskja”, which may mean ancient lore, heathen wisdom or simply magic, is ac-
tually quite rare in the sagas,3 frustratingly so if one would like to construct grand
theories around it. It occurs, for instance, just once in Eyrbyggja saga. This does not
necessarily mean that the connection between sorcery, heathenism, and the past is
not there. In fact, the saga is characterized by a distinct interest in various kinds of
ancient beliefs, superstitions and rituals, some of which public and respected, others
secret and detested.
The clash between public and secret ancient lore is played out in an episode some-
what early in the saga (chs. 15 to 20). We are introduced to the first of our three pro-
tagonists, Geirríðr who lives in Mávahlíð along with her son Þórarinn. This Geirríðr
is the granddaughter of a popular Geirríðr who originally settled in Borgardalr and
apparently ran one of the first public houses there. Her son was the Viking Þóról-
fr Lame-foot who later became a notorious ghost, or vampire, or incubus – I will
discuss some of these terms later.4 His children are the second Geirríðr, the one in
Mávahlíð who is the hero of our tale, and the chieftain Arnkell. We learn right away,
in ch. 15 of Eyrbyggja saga, that this Geirríðr, the second one, is “margkunnig” (Eyr-
byggja saga, 28) (“knowledgeable about magic”) (Quinn 1997, 142), stated somewhat
neutrally. And close by lives another woman with her son, a widow called Katla. She
is a beautiful woman but “not popular”, as the saga has it. Her son is described as a
loud and talkative man, a troublemaker and a slanderer. Thus: a good woman who
knows ancient lore, and a widow who is unpopular and with a troublesome son.
The duel between these two women starts when Gunnlaugr Þorbjarnarson, the
nephew of the famous and wise chieftain Snorri goði, starts visiting Geirríðr. This
young man is said to be “námgjarn” (Eyrbyggja saga, 28) (“eager for knowledge”)
3 I only found fifteen examples in the Orðabók Háskólans wordlist, located on its website (http://www.lexis.hi.is/
corpus/leit.pl). Three come from Grettis saga, two from each of Bárðar saga, Hallfreðar saga, Heiðarvíga saga and
Heimskringla. The other examples are from Brennu-Njáls saga, Eyrbyggja saga, Gísla saga and Sǫrla saga sterka (a
legendary saga). In seven of the examples, the word occurs in combination with another term (galdrar three times,
illr átrúnaðr twice, heiðni and kynngikraptar once each). In thirteen out of 15 examples, the term clearly means
either magic or heathen practices.
4 On Þórólfr and his nature as a ghost, see Ármann Jakobsson (2005a; see also p. 47 ff. in this collection). He is,
indeed, also a troll, see Ármann Jakobsson (2008b)
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(Quinn 1997, 142) and starts studying magic with Geirríðr.5 This displeases Katla
and once, when Gunnlaugr stops at her place on his way to Mávahlíð, she says that
more women may know a thing or two than Geirríðr. Katla keeps inviting Gunn
laugr to stay the night but he always refuses. Then disaster strikes. One evening
Geirríðr asks Gunnlaugr to stay because she seems to sense mares in the air (her ac-
tual words are: “margir eru marlíðendur”) (Eyrbyggja saga, 28), and somewhat cryp-
tically adds that an ogre may hide beneath fair skin. She also remarks that Gunn-
laugr does not seem very lucky at this moment. Indeed, she turns out to be right in
that respect. After that night, Gunnlaugr is found unconscious and bloody, his flesh
torn from the bone. Katla quickly points the finger at Geirríðr and claims that she
is a night-hag, a succuba. Gunnlaugr’s somewhat foolish father believes her, accuses
Geirríðr of being a “kveldriða” (Eyrbyggja saga, 29) (“night-rider”) (Quinn 1997, 142)
and is aided in this lawsuit by Snorri goði. However, her brother Arnkell and other
chieftains are allowed to swear an oath on her behalf. Thus Gunnlaugr is out of the
story (Landnámabók (p. 112) has him dying soon afterwards), and for now the duel
between Geirríðr and Katla is at rest.
The strife between Þorbjǫrn and Geirríðr’s son Þórarinn escalates and eventu-
ally results in battle. In this battle, Oddr Kǫtluson cannot be hurt since his mother
had just made him a tunic and no weapon could touch him. This is, as it were, the
first real indication that Katla’s boast that more women may know a thing or two is
not an idle one (Eyrbyggja saga, 34 and 36) (Quinn 1997, 145–46). Geirríðr has also
played her part in this conflict, inciting Þórarinn by claiming that his disposition is
unmanly (Eyrbyggja saga, 36) (Quinn 1997, 145). Thanks to his magic tunic, Oddr
emerges unscathed from the battle but soon starts boasting about having chopped
off the hand of Þórarinn’s wife, although he had claimed at the time that Þórarinn
had done that himself by accident (Eyrbyggja saga, 37 and 50) (Quinn 1997, 146
and 152). Geirríðr soon picks up on this and tells Þórarinn and Arnkell, thus direct-
ing their wrath towards Oddr and Katla. As Miller (1986; 110–16) has noted, they
would in any case be ideal scapegoats for what has happened.
Arnkell and Þórarinn go and seek Oddr at Katla’s abode, but she hides him from
5 This is not the only episode in the Sagas of Icelanders where the study of magic is featured (see Hermann Pálsson
1997: 131–40; Dillmann 2006: 591–94). In Bárðar saga, it is told that Bárðr studied magic with the mountain-
dweller Dofri in Norway (Bárðar saga, 103). Unlike Gunnlaugr, he survived but the saga is vague on the subject of
his use of magic, and whether he is, in fact, to be considered human at all (see Ármann Jakobsson 2005b).
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them, using simple illusions.6 It is not until Geirríðr herself joins the search that
Oddr is found. Katla is understandably not pleased, saying that now “Geirríðr trollit”
(Eyrbyggja saga, 53) (“the troll, Geirrid”) (Quinn 1997, 154) is there, illusions will not
suffice. Geirríðr arrives in her black cloak, walks directly at Katla and pulls a sealskin
bag over her head, thus implying that Katla is a witch who might perform evil magic
with her eye, as witches and sorcerers were known to do in the sagas.7 Then Oddr
is found and hanged, and Katla is stoned to death. Before her death, she proudly
admits having caused the injuries of Gunnlaugr. Furthermore she curses Arnkell for
having said to Oddr, when he was kicking on the gallows, that he had an evil mother.
To this Katla replies that Arnkell will get more evil from his father than Oddr from
her, which is indeed how things turn out much later in the saga (Eyrbyggja saga, 54)
(Quinn 1997, 154). Thus this small episode has important repercussions in the great-
er scheme of the saga. The main protagonists in the drama of Gunnlaugr’s magic
studies are, however, never mentioned again. We are not told whether Gunnlaugr
lives or not, and Geirríðr vanishes from the story, along with the wicked Katla, who,
unlike many other evil beings in Eyrbyggja saga, happily stays dead.
For those interested in magic and trolls, this small episode has many interesting
aspects (see e.g. Dillmann 2006: 332–35, 432–39, 527–37 and 577–78; Raudvere
2003: 186-95). I will only discuss three in detail here, those pertinent to the theme
of gender and magical knowledge. One is the important difference between good
and bad knowledge, represented in this narrative by the magic of Geirríðr, on the
one hand, the witchcraft of Katla on the other. Another aspect is the role of the ap-
prentice in this narrative. The third is the role of the old woman, and the relation-
ship between magic and older women.
There are many tiny details in the narrative which to my mind reveal that it is, at
least partly, symbolic. For example, the name Katla is a recognizable witch name
from Harðar saga (p. 63, see also Dillmann 2006: 381–82), where it is used as a so-
briquet. It is derived from the name Ketill, which means “kettle”, an instrument that
6 The narrative closely parallels an episode in Brennu-Njáls saga (216–20) where Þráinn Sigfússon hides Hrappr
from the wrath of Earl Hákon. On the ritualistic nature of this event, see Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson 1997: 151–53.
7 The evil eye of the sorcerer is a well-known theme from other sagas, such as Laxdæla saga (107 and 109) and Vatns-
dæla saga (70). See also Gísla saga, 60, and examples in Hermann Pálsson 1997: 120–21.
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can be used for brewing magic potions (Finnur Jónsson 1908: 289; Lind 1920–21:
191).8 Her name alone thus positions Katla as a sorceress, a somewhat undignified
one, unlike Geirríðr, whose name suggests valkyries, Geir- (“spear”) being a popular
prefix of valkyrie names (Geirskǫgul, Geirǫnul, Geirahǫð) (Norrœn fornkvæði: 15
and 84; Edda Snorra Sturlusonar: 40; cf. Guðrún Kvaran & Sigurður Jónsson 1991:
241). The second part (-ríðr) refers to riding, and valkyries may occasionally be seen
riding in the air in Eddic texts (Norrœn fornkvæði: 15). Katla, however, uses this
riding to her advantage when she accuses Geirríðr of a different kind of riding, of
being a night-hag.9 This apparently means a creature not unlike the Central Euro-
pean mora, who may be described as a succuba or a vampire.
There are some instances of “riders” and other such beings in Old Norse-Icelandic
literature. They have various names, such as “fylgjur”, “hamhleypur”, “marlíðendr”,
“troll”, “kveldriður”, “myrkriður” and “túnriður”, sometimes they are in the shape
of an animal, and in fact these beings may be classified both as shape-shifters, and
at the same time regarded as the travelling souls or minds of sorcerers and witches
(see Strömbäck 1935: 160–90; Strömbäck 1975; Hermann Pálsson 1997, 97–111).
The terminology is a subject for a separate study. What I would like to do here is
merely to point out the variety of names used for these phenomena. And they do
not only occur in the North, but are, in fact, very much like various other creatures
of the folk beliefs of different people in different places of history, such as the mora,
the succuba, and the vampire, which represent more or less the same danger, in that
they “ride” their victims and suck the life out of them. According to the Hungarian
folklorist Éva Pócs (1999: 32), these creatures, the moras, are generally human be-
ings who are able to send their souls out at night while in a trance. Thus they can
make journeys by assuming the shapes of animals (snakes, butterflies, mice, hens,
cats). They infiltrate peoples dwellings as incubi, confinement demons, or even as
vampires, and they “ride upon” or torment people.
The affinity with ghosts or the living dead is clearly present,10 and Pócs also men-
tions that another name for the mora is “night-goer” (1999: 46). The parallels with
the Gunnlaugr case are thus close.
8 Torfi H. Tulinius (2004: 25–34, 71–73) has argued convincingly that the name Ketill is extremely important in
Egils saga, as a structural element but it may also have symbolic associations with the kettle.
9 The connection between witches and riding is also well-known in various phases of history (see e.g. Flint 1991:
116–26; Rose 1962: 106–29).
10 Keyworth (2006) has recently drawn attention to the affinities between Icelandic ghosts and Eastern European
vampires, as I have also done myself (Ármann Jakobsson 2005a). See also pp. 125 ff. in the present volume.
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As it turns out, perhaps not altogether surprisingly, it isn’t actually Geirríðr who is
the vampire but Katla herself who has deviously been accusing her antagonist of her
own crimes. The way that Geirríðr is vindicated is also significant to the study of
magic. It is revealed in the beginning that Katla is unpopular (“eigi við alþýðuskap”)
(Eyrbyggja saga, 28). Although nothing is said about Geirríðr, it is soon evident
that she is, on the other hand, very popular with those who count. Twelve men
come forward and swear that she is innocent of this crime and thus the case against
her is quashed (on the historical veracity of this, see Eyrbyggja saga, 30 note 3).
Studies of later cases of witchcraft trials in Iceland, and probably elsewhere as well,
have revealed that unpopular people were more likely to be accused of sorcery and
seemed to be in most danger of being convicted and burned at the stake (Ólína Þor-
varðardóttir 2000: 316; cf. Asmark 2006: 115).
The sorceresses’ apprentice is at the heart of this conflict and yet he is strangely
passive. The desirable teenager Gunnlaugr comes across as vulnerable, almost like
an object that the two wise women both want for themselves. This desire becomes
evident in the exchange between Gunnlaugr and Katla when he stops at her place
on his way to Mávahlíð. She immediately asks whether he is going to Mávahlíð
“ok klappa um kerlingar nárann” (Eyrbyggja saga, 28) (“to stroke the old woman’s
groin”) (Quinn 1997, 142), revealing perhaps that no matter whether Gunnlaugr is
providing Geirríðr with sexual favours for his tutoring or not (we have no particular
reason to believe it), Katla attributes Geirríðr’s interest in him to lust and is her-
self lusting after the youngster. He replies that Katla is no younger than Geirríðr
and thus reveals that age is also an issue. This is indeed an episode concerned with
age and gender, with young men and old women, where the old women have the
knowledge and the power and the young man is the object of desire, not merely as
a desirable young man but as a student of magic. Modern authors like Philip Roth,
and others, have written at length about the master and student, an older man and
a younger woman. In Eyrbyggja saga, the situation is reversed. The women have
desired knowledge, the young man has his youth and is sexually desirable (on this
motif in other sagas, see Ármann Jakobson 1998). But he turns out to be reluctant
to accommodate the women. He not only denies time and again to spend the night
in Katla’s home, but his undoing is his refusal to spend the night at Mávahlíð, when
Geirríðr invites him.
Gunnlaugr may be said to be further objectified when he is ridden by the vampire.
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As a victim, he is vulnerable, not merely the object but also the prey. Indeed his
main role in the episode is to be victimized, and indeed young men in the sagas are
sometimes portrayed as vulnerable, not unlike women in that respect (see Ármann
Jakobsson 2003). Somewhat contrarily, as the desired male, he also has all the pow-
er, the power to refuse both women to spend the night at their abode, to choose his
own master in the occult, and, somewhat in the fashion of other Old Norse teenag-
ers, he is not afraid of these women, although perhaps he should have been.11 As an
apprentice, he is not just their conquest but also their heir. Geirríðr and Katla both
desire him as a pupil, if nothing else. He is a surrogate son to both these women,
whose common trait is that they are both mothers, that is how they are introduced
in ch. 15 of Eyrbyggja saga.
If we were to regard this symbolic episode as a “family drama”, following Derek
Brewer (1980), Geirríðr and Katla are both playing the role of a surrogate mother.
Gunnlaugr’s real mother does not really figure in this episode, although she is one of
the central figures of Eyrbyggja saga, Þuríðr at Fróðá. Some other important witches
in the sagas are mother figures, such as Ljót in Vatnsdœla saga, or the nanny of
Þorbjǫrn ǫngull in Grettis saga (cf. Dillmann 2006: 143–67 and 421–31). But before
venturing into the subject of age, there is the issue of gender. Magic is stereotypical-
ly feminine in most mediaeval European sources (see Kieckhefer 1989: 29–33; Rus-
sell 1972: 279–84; Graf 1997: 189; Flint 1991: 122–23). In Old Norse texts, there are
some striking examples of this, which have been much debated by scholars.
To begin with, in Ynglinga saga (ch. 7), the “seiðr” of Óðinn is described as follows:
“Óðinn kunni þá íþrótt, svá at mestr máttr fylgði, ok framði sjálfr, er seiðr heitir, en
af því mátti hann vita ørlǫg manna ok óorðna hluti, svá ok at gera mǫnnum bana eða
óhamingju eða vanheilendi, svá ok at taka frá mǫnnum vit eða afl ok gefa ǫðrum. En
þessi fjǫlkynngi, er framið er, fylgir svá mikil ergi, at eigi þótti karlmǫnnum skamm
laust við at fara, ok var gyðjunum kennd sú íþrótt” (Ynglinga saga, 19) (Óðinn knew
the most powerful skill which is called magic and could practice it himself so that he
could know men’s fate and things not yet passed, and he could cause men grief or
make them sick or kill them, and take their wits and powers and give to others. But
this witchcraft, when practiced, is so queer that men cannot do it without shame so
that the goddesses had to learn this skill). This seems to clearly indicate that both
11 I am thinking of the example of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani. The theme of the fearless youth obviously requires a separate
study, which I am undertaking at present. [See the present volume, p. 41, line 3.]
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“seiðr” and “ergi” do not fit very well with proper masculinity.12 Loki seems to con-
firm this in Lokasenna (v. 24), when he claims that Óðinn has acted as a witch (or,
more precisely, as a vala, a sibyl): “Enn þic síþa koþo / Sámseyio í, / oc draptv a
vétt sem v√lur; / vitca líci / fortv verþioþ yfir, / oc hvgða ec þat args aþal” (Norræn
fornkvæði, 117) (“But you once practised seid on Samsey, / and you beat on the drum
as witches do, / in the likeness of a wizard you journeyed among mankind, / and
that I thought the hallmark of a pervert”) (Larrington 1996, 89). In this stanza and
with his accusation, Loki is countering Óðinn’s claim that Loki has carried children
in his womb like a woman, so it seems evident that “seiðr” and sorcery are very un-
manly, almost up to par with bearing children. And in Gísla saga we have yet another
example of the coupling of “ergi” and “trollskapr” in the sorcery of Þórgrímr nef:
“Nú flytr Þorgrímr fram seiðinn ok veitir sér um búð eptir venju sinni ok gerir sér
hjall, ok fremr hann þetta fjǫlkynngiliga með allri ergi ok skelmiskap” (Gísla saga,
56–57) (“He prepared what he needed to carry it out, building a scaffold on which to
practice his obscene and black art in despicable perversity”) (Regal 1997, 21).13
Considering the reputation that went hand in hand with seiðr, as described not
just in Ynglinga saga and Gísla saga, but in several sagas (see e.g. Laxdæla saga, 95,
99 and 106–109; cf. Dillmann 2006: 505–47, Raudvere 2003: 142–54), Gunnla-
ugr’s interest in the occult, and in these queer practices, seems ill-advised. Bósi in
Bósa saga, in fact, rejects magical instruction from his nanny Busla, claiming that he
would rather progress in the world through his “karlmennska” (manliness) (Forn
aldar sögur Nordrlanda II, 196; cf. Mitchell 2000). Apparently magic is not a part
thereof. Why, then, would a young man of good family wish to learn witchcraft? It
has to be kept in mind, though, that theory and practice do not always go together.
In spite of being a witch, Óðinn remains the patriarch of the Æsir, and there are also
cases of men who seem to have some kind of magical abilities and still retain a great
amount of dignity in the Icelandic commonwealth, such as Gestr Oddleifsson and
Njáll of Bergþórshváll, one of whom is never considered unmanly (Sverrir Jakobs-
son 2008).14 We must note that Gunnlaugr might not wish to become a sorcerer,
although he desires some knowledge about ancient lore. His motives are unclear, he
12 Dillmann (2006: 450) does not think this extends to magic in general.
13 I discuss definitions of both “ergi” and “trollskapr” elsewhere (Ármann Jakobsson 2008b, Ármann Jakobsson
2008c). For a relevant discussion of ergi, see also Meulengracht Sørensen 1980; Gunnar Karlsson 2006.
14 Neither do I believe that Njáll’s alleged lack of manliness is connected to his knowledge of the future, although that
is, of course, a debatable point.
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is simply referred to as “námgjarn”, eager to learn, a very attractive attribute in the

young.
There is yet another aspect to the relationship between the youngster and the two
wise women. While the link between gender and sorcery is fundamental, age is just
as important in this narrative. Geirríðr and Katla are not just women, they are moth-
ers and the saga accentuates that by their introduction. Their age is also the topic of
discussion in the aforementioned conversation between Katla and Gunnlaugr where
she derides Geirríðr for being old and he reminds her of her own age. Magic is not
just connected to women but to old women (cf. Dillmann 2006: 161–67), and, in
this instance, to mothers.15
Their combined roles as mothers and witches make Geirríðr and Katla uncanny fig-
ures. They are familiar and yet unfamiliar, old-established in the mind and yet alien-
ated from it. One role represents the pinnacle of familiarity, what could possibly be
more familiar than the place from which we all emerged? The other role, the role
of the witch might seem to epitomize the improper, the strange and the occult.16
The name “forneskja” (ancient lore) somehow seems to have similar uncanny con-
notations.17 The past should be familiar, more so than the future, since it has already
happened and is known, whereas the future is unknown (hence our eagerness to
know it). And yet, the past is still uncanny, since in the passing of the past lies the
doom of the future, which makes dead people frightening, especially ghosts of those
we used to think we knew, of whom we have several examples in Eyrbyggja saga –
15 There are echoes here of the well-known pattern of the hero and the giantess, most common in legendary sagas
(see McKinnell 2005: 172–96), where the giantess may function as a surrogate mother, sexual partner and a super-
natural aide. In Örvar-Odds saga, there is a pun on this double function (mother/sexual partner), when the giantess
Hildigunnr originally mistakes Oddr for a child, puts him in a cradle and starts chanting lullabies (Fornaldar sögur
Nordrlanda II: 234). After the mistake is cleared up, she soon becomes pregnant with his child. In this narrative,
misalliance in size perhaps symbolizes misalliance in age, and the same may be the case in folktales like the narra-
tive of the giantess Loppa who steals a human and tries to stretch him, along with her sister, in order to make him
big enough to father their child (Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri I: 191–92).
16 According to McKinnell (2009), the same juxtaposition of the familiar and the strange occurs in the legendary
sagas, where the simultaneous affirmation and denial of mother-son relationship between the hero and the giantess
characterizes the narrative. He sees the giantess in these narratives as representing the dual nature of the mother in
the life of a teenager, as an ogress and a figure of benevolent authority.
17 The uncanny is a concept well-known from the study by Freud (1919), which has recently been elegantly explored
by Royle (2003).
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Geirríðr’s father being but one example (cf. Ármann Jakobsson 2005a., see also pp.
47 ff. in the present volume). Thus death is uncanny and so are fathers and mothers,
in that they symbolize the past and birth and thus at the same time continuation and
death (see Ármann Jakobsson 2008a).
If we regard the two wise women of this episode as mothers, they would seem
to represent the uncanny face of the mother, her intimate alterity, the mother as
a representative of ancient lore, of danger, of death. Of course, Geirríðr and Katla
are two vastly different faces of death. Geirríðr suggests a valkyrie, a noble creature
who serves the gods and brings dead men to Valhǫll. And still even the noble death
on the battle-field is frightening and unfamiliar to the living – skaldic poetry about
death in battle seems on the whole to be less preoccupied with the joyous afterlife
in Valhǫll than in the carcasses and corpses on the battlefield and, especially, the ra-
vens and wolves feasting on the lifeless bodies (Meissner 1921: 116–26 and 202–8).
Katla is perhaps less ambivalent and more frightening. She is the mother as lover, as
a forbidden figure of lust, who invites Gunnlaugr to her bed, but whose flirtations
mask a grave danger.18 What she really wishes to do is to ride him until he is close to
death. This siren is also a succuba, a vampire, a mare.
Is knowledge (what the saga refers to as “kunnátta”), then, good or bad? Or, to be
more precise, is that kind of ancient or occult knowledge which may be studied with
the wise women of the Snæfellsnes, good or bad? Eyrbyggja saga is strangely vague
when it comes to that point, its attitude towards heathenism and ancient knowl-
edge seems in general to be somewhat ambivalent. When it comes to being good
and bad at the same time, these witch mothers may resemble the giant mothers of
the Snorra-Edda. The giant is just as ambiguous, and even uncanny, as the repre-
sentation of the mother in chs. 15–20 of Eyrbyggja saga. He is both antagonist and
ancestor to the gods, as the Æsir group includes several giant women, including
Skaði and Gerðr. Óðinn himself has a mother who is a giant, Bestla Bǫlþornsdóttir
(Edda Snorra Sturlusonar: 14). There is no mention of him studying magic with his
mother, although he seemed to be interested in gaining ancient knowledge from the
sibyl (who perhaps was also a giantess) in Vǫluspá. Gunnlaugr, in his wish to imitate
Óðinn in learning about sorcery, seems to be seeking a giant mother in the neigh-
bourhood, and it may be his undoing that there happen to be two, one good and one
18 In this, she is an exception among Icelandic sorcerers, according to Dillmann (2006: 432–39).
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bad. Together they form a unit not unlike the figure of the Old Norse giant: old,
powerful, helpful, dangerous, wise, wild, ambiguous, uncanny.
Does that make Gunnlaugr guilty of “ergi”? It is very hard to tell; we might just as
well ask whether Óðinn’s “ergi” hampers him in any way. However, we can safely
say that when the giant mother is divided into two representatives in the flesh, one
is good and the other is bad. But if Geirríðr and Katla are the two faces of one figure,
is this symbolic figure they both represent, the witch mother, is she good or bad? Not
so easily understood, she is uncanny, and it is notoriously difficult to state anything
about the uncanny, that is why it is uncanny. If Gunnlaugr had not failed, had not
been ridden, the episode might have provided an example. Gunnlaugr’s story might
have become one to be imitated: How to gain knowledge of a witch for your own
future success? A failure is harder to interpret, like an unhappy family, every failure
has (at least) the one tiny flaw which makes it a failure, but there is much variation
in the flaws, making the failures more diverse than the successes. So in the end, we
cannot say what Gunnlaugr did wrong or whether he was bound to fail. We know
only that in the end his youthful eagerness for knowledge resulted, as my title has it,
in a miscarried magic class. And when magic fails, it must fail dramatically.
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The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch:
The Meanings of Troll and Ergi
in Medieval Iceland
A
s sometimes happens with medieval heroes, the downfall of Gísli Súrsson,
hero and protagonist of Gísla saga, has causes that are partially supernatu-
ral. This does not necessarily exclude a more existentialist interpretation
of Gísli’s troubles; indeed several engaging interpretations have been proposed (see
for example Andersson 1968, Hermann Pálsson 1973, Meulengracht Sørensen 1986,
Vésteinn Ólason 1994), which focus on the human aspect of the tragedy. This ar-
ticle, however, has its starting point in the supernatural aspect of Gísli’s downfall,
and is concerned with the nature of one of his more potent enemies.
Gísla saga strongly suggests that the bad luck Gísli has in his outlaw years is caused
by the sorcery of a local witch called Þorgrímr nef, hired by Bǫrkr digri, whose
brother Gísli had slain. This curse proves to be very effective (Gísla saga, 69):
En sakar þess trollskapar, er Þorgrímr nef hafði haft í seiðinum, ok atkvæða, þá

verðr þess eigi auðit, at hǫfðingjar tæki við honum, ok þó at stundum þótti þeim
eigi svá ólíkliga horfa, þá bar þó alls staðar nǫkkut við.
As a result of the trollish arts and spells that Þorgrímr nef had used in his magic
rite, it could not be managed that these chieftains would accept him [Gísli]; al-
though they sometimes seemed on the verge of doing this, something always ob-
structed its course.
My focus here will be on the word trollskapr and related words, in order to investi-
gate how Þorgrímr nef is perceived.
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In the depiction of Þorgrímr nef’s evil acts, the word does not stand alone, how-
ever. The rite which constitutes the trollskapr is described as follows (Gísla saga,
56–57):
Þat er næst til tíðenda, at Bǫrkr kaupir at Þorgrími nef, at hann seiddi seið, at
þeim manni yrði ekki at bjǫrg, er Þorgrím hefði vegit, þó at menn vildi duga
honum. Oxi níu vetra gamall var honum gefinn til þess. Nú flytr Þorgrímr fram
seiðinn ok veitir sér umbúð eptir venju sinni ok gerir sér hjall, ok fremr hann
þetta fjǫlkynngiliga með allri ergi og skelmiskap.
The next thing that happened was that Bǫrkr paid Þorgrímr nef to perform a
magic rite, to bring it about that the man who killed Þorgrímr should receive no
shelter, even if people were willing to help him. A nine-year-old gelding ox was
given to Þorgrímr for this purpose. He then went ahead with the rite and made
his preparations according to his custom, built a platform and performed this
magic in the most queer and devilish manner.
The word ergi, like the word trollskapr, is not uncommon in Old Norse-Icelandic.
Another thing these words have in common is that we think we know what they
mean. Cleasby and Vigfússon are close to the most common explanation in saying
that ‘the old Icel. troll conveys the notion of huge creatures, giants, Titans’ (1957,
641),1 whereas they translate ergi as ‘lewdness, lust, … wickedness’ (133).2 Since Þor-
grímr nef is not a giant and the connection between sorcery and lewdness is not ob-
vious at first sight, one might assume that the usage of troll and ergi in the passages
above is metaphorical. Indeed, that is what Martin Arnold assumes in his recent ex-
cellent article on the Old Norse-Icelandic troll and the development of this being in
Icelandic sources (2005, 129). Gunnar Karlsson’s recent study of ergi also suggests
that the principal meaning of this concept has more to do with deviant sexuality
than whatever rituals Þorgrímr nef might be performing (2006, 380). I will take a
somewhat different stance in this study.
My aim is to examine the usage of the words ergi and troll in thirteenth and four-
teenth-century Old Icelandic and try to determine whether their fundamental mean-
1 Cleasby and Vigfússon also mention the meaning ‘witchcraft’ which is well established in modern Scandinavian
words like Dan. trolddom (see also Wilbur 1958, 137; Dillmann 2006, 170–71).
2 It is possible that this somewhat antiquated definition was partly motivated by Victorian prudery and that Cleasby
and Vigfússon expected sophisticated readers to realise what actually constituted the ‘lewdness’.
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Trollish Acts
ings are really ‘lewdness’ and ‘giants’. Furthermore, I will explore the relationship
between the two concepts that are, perhaps unexpectedly, joined in Þorgrímr nef’s
curse (see also Ármann Jakobsson 2008a; Ármann Jakobsson 2008b).
II
Although the description of Þorgrímr’s magic rite is quite vivid, it is not explained
how he performs ergi or what the trollskapr actually consists of. If we did not have a
preconceived idea of what a troll is, it would seem most straightforward to translate
the word trollskapr simply as magic, since that is what Þorgrímr is performing. Our
presumptions about the principal meaning of the word troll must be questioned,
however, before we can come to a safer conclusion.
In his study of trolls, Martin Arnold analyses the troll as a supernatural figure, as-
signing primary status to the Eddic trollwives as the oldest phenomena designated
as trolls. This assumption that trolls are primarily supernatural beings is influenced
by the fact that he approaches the troll not from a lexical point of view but from the
direction of Grimm’s Deutsche Mythologie, a natural starting point if we consider
the later development of the word troll in the folktales collected in the nineteenth
century by Jón Árnason (1862) and others. For those who know trolls through these
folktales, the word troll automatically conjures up an image of a large, long-nosed,
hairy and wild creature living in mountains and caves.3 Óskar Gíslason and Loftur
Guðmundsson faithfully recreate this image of the troll in their film, Síðasti bærinn
í dalnum (1949) which has two monstrous trolls, twice the size of men, and sturdy
in stature, with shaggy hair and enormous noses, as can be seen in still photographs
from the film (Loftur Guðmundsson 1950, 35, 126, 147, 169 and 175). It is tempting
to project this image onto thirteenth- and fourteenth-century texts, or to assume
that this is the primary meaning of the word. Nevertheless, I will try here to ap-
proach the word from a different direction.
In Eyrbyggja saga there is an episode depicting the rivalry of two middle-aged
witches who are both interested in the same young pupil (Eyrbyggja saga, 27–30).
3 In other modern Scandinavian languages the equivalent word usually does not denote large creatures but goblins,
imps and puny spirits (Arnold 2005, 114). Since my concern here is with the use of the word in the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries, I will not discuss this any further, but this later development may support my conclusions
below.
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One is Geirríðr, grand-daughter of the settler Geirríðr, and daughter of the Viking
Þórólfr bægifótr, who later became a troll himself, as I will discuss below. This
Geirríðr has a mature son, and so has the other witch. She is called Katla and is a
widow who is not generally liked. The young man in the episode, Gunnlaugr, is
eager to learn, and studies (nam kunnáttu) with Geirríðr. Katla is clearly jealous and
demands whether this young man is visiting Geirríðr to klappa um kerlingar nárann
‘stroke the old woman’s groin’. (Eyrbyggja saga, 28). What later happens, though it
is not revealed at the time, is that Katla preys on Gunnlaugr and rides him, so that
he becomes bloody and unconscious. Then she tries to blame Geirríðr, calling her a
kveldriða ‘night-rider’. Although Katla cannot be proved to be the cause of this mis-
fortune, her son is later found guilty of having chopped off the hand of an innocent
woman. When their farm is searched, Katla hides him by using optical illusions but
when all else fails, Geirríðr joins the search. Katla does not like this, explaining:
‘Mun Geirríðr trollit þar komin, ok mun þá eigi sjónhverfingum einum mega við koma’
‘The troll Geirríðr must have come there, and illusions alone will not be enough
now’ (Eyrbyggja saga, 53).
When Katla refers to Geirríðr as a troll, she does not mean that she is a giant.
She has previously tried to discredit Geirríðr as a kind of succuba or mora, and that
would mean she is a witch. In short, this is troll in the same sense as the trollskapr of
Þorgrímr nef. However, the editor of Eyrbyggja saga in the Íslenzk fornrit series, Ein
ar Ólafur Sveinsson, clearly expects his readers to think of folktale trolls and adds
this note (Eyrbyggja saga, 53 n. 4):
troll: fjölkunnug vera, mennsk eða ómennsk. Þessi er hin eldri merking orðsins.
Það er varla fyr en á 12. öld, að orðið fær þá merkingu, sem það hefur nú.
troll: magical being, human or non-human. This is the older meaning of the word.
It was hardly before the twelfth century that the word acquired the meaning that
it has now.
This is confusing. Einar Ólafur does not explain what the word means ‘now’ (a
screenshot from Síðasti bærinn í dalnum might have helped, but that had not yet been
filmed). Even less does he explain how he knows that this later meaning became
established in the twelfth century (Eyrbyggja saga itself is more recent). Why the
twelfth century? Einar Ólafur refers to no sources, and in light of the scarcity of
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preserved twelfth century texts one might ask how on earth it would be possible to
discern any semantic changes between the eleventh and the twelfth century. And,
finally, the definition fjölkunnug vera, mennsk eða ómennsk is somewhat imprecise.
But imprecise as it is, Einar Ólafur’s definition is, in fact, much more sensible
than it might seem, even though his dating remains unexplained. For Geirríðr is
not the only troll in Icelandic thirteenth-century sources. Snorra Edda has the poet
Bragi passing through a certain unspecified forest late at night and encountering a
trollkona who asks him who he is. After his answer (in verse, of course), she in turn
explains who she is, using various kennings and finishing with the question: ‘Hvat
er trǫll nema þat?’ (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 164–65). They are both cunning, Bragi
and the trollkona, since they both end their explanations with a question. And we
are not much closer to the meaning of troll. While it seems clear that Geirríðr, witch
or no witch, is human, this lady of the night feels like a supernatural creature.
As Martin Arnold has noted (2005, 116–24), Snorra Edda seems to see the troll
as mainly female, since trollkonur are mentioned in this narrative, first with refer-
ence to an ogress who lives east of Miðgarðr in Járnviðr and breeds giants in wolf
shapes (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 18–19; the passage cites Vǫluspá, which however
does not use the word trollkonur) but nowhere is a male giant unequivocally re-
ferred to as troll (see Arnold 2005, 122). There seems, though, to be a strong connec-
tion between these troll-wives and the giants that they breed, although one might
also argue that the use of the two words jǫtnar and troll indicates some distinction,
especially when Óðinn goes north to Jǫtunheimar whereas Þórr goes east at beria
trǫll (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 100; see also Ármann Jakobsson 2005, 3–4; Ármann
Jakobsson 2006, 101–03).
Einar Ólafur’s broad definition (fjölkunnug vera, mennsk eða ómennsk) seems to
encompass both Geirríðr and the unnamed trollkona who spars with Bragi. They
might even be regarded as archetypal, each representing a subcategory, of human
and non-human magical beings. Of course, we would then be assuming that this
trollkona actually has magical powers, which remain unspecified (the reference in
the verse to vilsinnr vǫlu suggests her connection to a vǫlva; Edda Snorra Sturlu-
sonar, 165). And the definition runs into more trouble when we consider the only
example of the word troll in Eddic poetry.
In the Poetic Edda, the word is not used to refer to a troll-wife in the woods but
to a tvngls tivgari / itrollz hami ‘moon-snatcher in troll’s shape’ in st. 39 of Vǫluspá in
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the Codex Regius (stanza 25 in Hauksbók and also cited in Snorra Edda; Norrœn
fornkvæði, 16, 21 and 30; Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 19). This tjúgari is bred by in aldna
who lives east in Ironwood, the same wolf-breeding ogress whom Snorri apparently
identifies as one of the trollkonur of Járnviðr. In Vǫluspá, however, it is not she who
is the troll, but the wolf she has bred (the word wolf is not used either, they are called
fenris kindir in this stanza). And we have to ask: Is this wolf also a fjölkunnug vera,
mennsk eða ómennsk? Does it have magical powers? How does it perform magic?
Not many cases have been considered yet, but already a sneaking suspicion has
arisen that the apparently excessively broad definition above is actually not broad
enough, since it does not seem to encompass this moon-chewing wolf. And this is,
in fact, confirmed by a closer look at the usage of the word troll in Icelandic sources
from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.
In her recent monograph on giants, Katja Schulz lists seventy-two examples of the
word troll in Sagas of Icelanders and ninety-six in Legendary Sagas, in addition to
sixteen examples from skaldic verse (Schulz 2004, 39). And the word turns out to
be used for a variety of creatures in diverse contexts.
1. In medieval Iceland, the word troll can have the same meaning as in the post-
medieval Icelandic folktales, i.e. it can be synonymous with jǫtunn or mountain-
dweller, a somewhat loosely defined otherworldly creature who lives in the wilder-
ness, humanoid but sometimes apparently large and ugly.4 In Legendary Sagas, it is
common that the word is used about beings who might also be referred to as risar,
jǫtnar and bergbúar, beings that perhaps sit in caves by a fire and must be disposed
of quickly and efficiently (see e.g. Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda II, 115, 147 and 184;
Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 569; Fljótsdæla saga, 226–30; Gunnars saga Keldu
gnúpsfífls, 360; see also Ármann Jakobsson 2005, Ármann Jakobsson 2008a). Often,
however, there is no description or definition of these beings. In Hjálmþérs saga
ok Ölvis and in Bósa saga, for example, trolls are listed along with elves, norns and
mountain-giants without any specific characteristic being mentioned (Fornaldar
sögur Nordrlanda III, 205 and 457).5 There are instances where the word is used
4 While Martin Arnold has noted that the trolls tend to be female in the Edda of Snorri Sturluson (2005, 116–25; cf.
Helga Kress 1993, 119–35; McKinnell 2005), that is not the case in Legendary Sagas or Sagas of Icelanders.
5 In the former, trolls are listed along with blámenn, berserkir, risar and dvergar as fýtonsandafólk ‘magical people’ (p.
457).
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to indicate various types of ogres and bogies, as in eiga þá öll tröll saman at koma ok
dæma ‘All trolls should hold their parliament’ (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 394;
see also Bárðar saga, 116). While it is clear that trolls are a special kind of other
worldly being, and not exactly of the human race, we cannot be certain that there
is complete agreement about the nature of these beings.6 To take one example, it
is hard to say much conclusive about the ogre that Ásbjörn Guðmundsson and his
companions meet at Hrútafjarðarháls in 1244: sjá þeir troll eitt mikit, ok fór þat í svig
við þá ‘They saw a certain big troll, and it gave them a wide berth’ (Sturlunga saga
II, 284). There is no description of this troll; it might be like the folktale trolls or it
might equally well resemble a wolf or even be a witch.
2. The word is also often used to describe an apparently normal person who has
magical powers, as in the case of Geirríðr and Katla above. Whereas in Legendary
Sagas the word is frequently used for those who are not human, there are other
trolls that, like Geirríðr trollit, seem to be of the human race (see e.g. Fornaldar sögur
Nordrlanda, II 152, 185 and III 419). The missionary Þorvaldr tasaldi is called troll
by someone called Bárðr who is not quite sure whether he is human or not, but has
realised that he has strange powers (Flateyjarbok, I 382). It also seems clear that the
word refers to a person of the human race (probably a magician) in the articles of
law concerning those crimes that fall under the jurisdiction of both the king and the
bishop, where it is forbidden to take supper med trolle, without it being specified
what kind of a troll one should not invite home to supper (Diplomatarium Islandi-
cum, II 224; see also Lára Magnúsardóttir 2007, 368).7
3. The word troll is frequently used descriptively or metaphorically, to indicate great

force, strength or size. The villainous Kolbjörn in Bárðar saga has a mother who er
it mesta tröll, without the saga explaining what that entails. It is, on the other hand,
quite clear that she has superhuman powers, since a short while later her fjölkynngi
is referred to (Bárðar saga, 153; see also 156). The superhuman strength of trolls is,
in fact, a part of the definition of the race at the beginning of Bárðar saga, where it
6 The noble Swedish family Trolle has used a ‘troll’ in its heraldic device since the early fifteenth century (see Raneke
1982, 412–13). This troll is clearly a monstrous creature (often with a second head on its stomach) but it is not clear
whether it is supposed to be large or small. It certainly does not look anything like a Síðasti bærinn í dalnum troll.
7 Trolls later appeared in post-medieval lawsuits in Norway. These are carefully examined by Knutsen and Riisøy
(2007).
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is explained that Bárðr himself is one quarter troll by ancestry, and that this quarter
encapsulates not only nastiness but also great strength (Bárðar saga, 99-100).
When the antagonist turns out to be much harder to vanquish than ordinary men,
he is a troll, often it mesta tröll or it versta tröll, as if it were a descriptive word (see
e.g. Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda II, 148 and 253; Bárðar saga, 128; Jómsvíkinga saga,
186). Búi Andríðarson is called a mikit tröll when he is able to defend himself against
a large posse for a long while (Kjalnesinga saga, 39). And phrases such as líkari tröll
um en mönnum ‘more like trolls than men’ and fleiri kalla þetta troll en mann ‘they said
it was more of a troll than a man’ are used in more than one saga (Bárðar saga, 119;
Finnboga saga, 283, 300, 328; Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, 351; Fornaldar sögur Nordr
landa III, 160, 326 and 357; cf. Arnold 2005, 125–26). In those cases, the trollish
aspect of the person often has more to do with his attributes (such as magic powers
or strength) than his appearance.
The imbecile son of Ingjaldr is said to be mikill vexti, nær sem troll ‘almost as big
as a troll’ (Gísla saga, 79). In Legendary Sagas, the otherworldly antagonists of the
heroes are often stór sem tröll, en bíta engi járn ‘as big as trolls, and weapons would
not pierce them’ (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 446), or stór sem risi, en máttugr sem
tröll ‘as big as a giant and as strong as a troll’ (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 491) or
even stór ok sterkur sem tröll ok fríðr sýnum ‘as big and strong as a troll and of beauti-
ful appearance’ (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 458). This arouses suspicions that
medieval trolls are perhaps not inherently ugly, but there are also instances where
extremely ugly creatures are called trolls (e.g. Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 653)
so it is hard to draw firm conclusions on how essential ugliness is to trollish identity
(on the ugliness of trolls, see Schulz 2004, 139–55; Ármann Jakobsson 2008a).
In this metaphorical usage, otherness is, on the other hand, definitely important.
The daughter of Bárðr Snæfellsáss, Helga, is so incredibly strong that she is tröll köll
uð af sumum mönnum ‘considered a troll by some people’ (Bárðar saga, 115). While
that may be partly because she has arrived in Greenland in a peculiar fashion (on
drift ice), this is a good example of how the word troll is often used to refer to some-
thing that is strange and peculiar, exceeding normality in some way.
4. Even among the diverse examples above, the use of the word troll might still seem
to be mostly restricted to giants and witches. But that is not the case. Malignant
spirits and ghosts may also be referred to as trolls. In Örvar-Odds saga, the hero
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has a prime antagonist, a master criminal called Ögmundr Eyþjófsbani who keeps
haunting him. This Ögmundr is said to be et mesta tröll og óvættr, er skapast hefir í
norðrálfu heimsins ‘the greatest troll and unnatural being that has ever taken shape
in the northern part of the world’. It is also stated that he has learned allskyns galdra
ok gjörnínga ‘all kinds of spells and sorceries’ and finally been trýldur ‘turned into a
troll’ by the Permians. Later in the saga, it is revealed that Ögmundr má heldr kallast
andi enn maðr ‘can rather be called a spirit than a man’ (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda,
II 241–43, 248, 298), and thus it becomes evident that malignant spirits may also
be regarded as trolls. This also applies to ghosts. Sóti the Viking in Harðar saga ok
Hólmverja is said to have been mikit tröll í lífinu, en hálfu meira, síðan hann var dauðr
‘a great troll in his lifetime, but twice as much so once he was dead’ (Harðar saga, 39;
see also Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda, II 368).
This meaning of the word is not encapsulated in the Cleasby and Vigfússon defi-
nition and not even in Einar Ólafur Sveinsson’s conveniently broad one. At this
juncture, one might start to wonder if troll is a word that refers to any kind of super-
human power.
5. The blámenn (black men, or, literally, bluemen.), that some saga heroes have to
fight are referred to as trolls (Kjalnesinga saga, 35–36; see also Finnboga saga, 283,
Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls, 367). Their trollish behaviour seems to consist of their
tendency to grenja ‘bellow’ and be unrestrained or even slightly unhinged in battle. I
will return later to the importance of behaviour for the classification of trolls.
6. Sometimes animals are referred to as trolls, which in most cases seems to indi-
cate that they have been conjured up, empowered or even possessed by magicians
or evil creatures (see below). This might be the case in the example from Vǫluspá
discussed above, and there is a trolllike animal in Eyrbyggja saga that I will consider
below. Hrólfs saga kraka has two animals that are called trolls. There is a dragon
(usually just called dýr but clearly a dragon-like creature, Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda
I, 69) and a hideous boar that the wicked and sorcerous King Aðils of Sweden has
conjured up and which terrorises King Hrólfr and his men (87–88). This makes
it harder to be sure what is meant when the queen Hvít is referred to as hit mesta
tröll in the same saga (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda I, 52).
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7. Heathen demigods, such as Þorgerðr Hörgabrúðr (or Hörgatröll), may be called

trolls by Christians, as in Jómsvíkinga saga, when Earl Sigvaldi runs away from bat-
tle because he does not want to berjast við tröll ‘fight against trolls’ (Jómsvíkinga saga,
184, 187; Flateyjarbok, I 191–92). In this case the word troll might mean a heathen
spirit that has been activated by a ritual or sacrifice, and there are further instances
where the word is used in a similar fashion.
8. There are cases where it is not specified what trolls are, but it is still evident that,
along with demons, sorcerers and heathens, they are the antagonists of Christianity.
In Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar by Oddr Snorrason it is said that in Hálogaland, there is
svá mikit um trǫllagang ‘so much troll activity’ that the king himself has to go there.
And some men witness a gathering of trolls that sit by the fire, one of whom is
called a djǫfull in one version of the saga but a trǫll in the other. These monsters
(skrímsl) are then exorcised with holy water (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, 290–94). The
trolls complain about the king and his bishops, and are clearly staunch opponents of
Christianity. They swell the ranks in the saga of various heathens, witches, unclean
spirits, red-bearded demons and the devil himself. In this narrative, the trolls are
thus clearly among the enemies of the true order of things and of society, although
it is not clear whether we should think of them as witches, mountain-dwellers or
ghosts. But, as we have seen, all of these can be classified as trolls.
9. The brunnmigi (a being that urinates in wells) in Hálfs saga ok Hálfsrekka is a þuss
or tröll (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda II, 29). We cannot be sure that this means that
it is a supernatural creature or whether it is a person who is defined by his outland-
ish and antisocial behaviour. A brunnmigi is certainly an outlaw and it is interesting
that when Búi Andríðarson has been outlawed, mainly for his reluctance to perform
heathen rituals, he too is called a troll – and a dog to boot (Kjalnesinga saga, 13).
10. Often the word is used to indicate certain characteristics or behaviour, not only
in the case of the brunnmigi. Immunity to iron or extraordinary prowess in battle
can seem trollish (Heiðarvíga saga, 302–03); the same applies to biting people in the
larynx (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 450),8 and there are several instances where
8 Egill Skalla-Grímsson kills one of his main adversaries in this fashion (Egils saga, 210) and indeed he has been com-
pared to a troll earlier in the saga (178), although it must also be recalled that he has a wolfish streak (and ancestry).
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trolls are clearly connected with cannibalism (see Orms þáttr Stórólfssonar, 407; also
Ármann Jakobsson 2009).
In Grettis saga it is remarked that trolls avoid daylight and the sun (Grettis saga, 47),
which is consistent with their behaviour in postmedieval folktales (see Jón Árnason
1862, 207–17), although no further information on the habits of trolls is given. In
this instance trolls seem to be a separate species, although it is their behaviour that
is the focus of attention.
11. The word is occasionally used of berserks and those who undergo metamorphosis
in battle, often with the use of the verbal form trylla. In Göngu-Hrólfs saga it is said
of a certain Röndólfr that hann mátti vel tröll kallast fyrir vaxtar sakir ok afls ‘he could
well be called a troll because of his size and strength’, and he is indeed from Jötun
heimar. Soon his true nature is revealed: Röndólfr var hamaðr, ok grenjaði sem tröll,
þegar hann reiddist (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 322) ‘Röndólfr had shape-shifted,
and bellowed like a troll when angry’. Apart from trolls, it is mostly berserks who
grenja in sagas, and the two are, in fact, conjoined in Sörla saga sterka when King
Haraldr refuses to give his daughter to svá leiðu trölli ok mögnuðum berserk (Fornaldar
sögur Nordrlanda III, 420) ‘such a loathsome troll and bewitched berserk’.
The fact that Röndólfr is hamaðr as he becomes troll-like invites the question
whether trollskapr can be regarded as a type of shape-shifting.9 Röndólfr is not
the only troll to shift shapes; in Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls (371), Svartr starts to
hamast sem tröll … með ógurligum látum ‘change his shape like a troll … with terrible
noises’ when Helgi Þorbjarnarson has killed his brother. He is then called a berserk
and a demon, again demonstrating the intimate connection between trolls and other
ogres. Thus troll often seems a somewhat inclusive term.
The trollskapr of Þorgrímr nef seems to be associated with his magic rite. In Vatns
dæla saga, trolldómr seems to be more of a state, when the old Ljót dies í móð sínum
ok trolldómi ‘in her rage and sorcery’, having tried to alter the landscape and craze all
her enemies with her evil eye, whose gaze is said to be trollsliga skotit ‘cast trollishly’
(Vatnsdœla saga, 70).10 Both hamast and to be í móð seem to be mutable conditions
and the resulting trollskapr or trolldómr, as well as berserksgangr, may well be defined
9 In Bárðar saga (124), the troll-wife Hetta is also said to be in mesta hamhleypa ‘a great shape-shifter’.
10 The trollish behaviour of Ljót is described thus: hon hafði rekit fǫtin fram yfir hǫfuð sér ok fór ǫfug ok rétti hǫfuðit aptr
milli fótanna (Vatnsdœla saga, 69–70) ‘She had pulled her clothes up over her head and was walking backwards, and
stretched her head back between her legs’. There seems thus to be an undeniable link between a troll and the rear
end or the ‘queer’ end, as I will discuss below (note 22).
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as a state that a normal human might be in, as a result of their own magic or that of
others. Thus, when the same creature is called troll ok berserkr, it implies a connec-
tion between the two types of magical transformations. And it seems apt to speak
of magical metamorphosis in relation to the verb tryllask (literally, to become a troll)
or the past participle trylldr used as an adjective. In modern Icelandic both words
are used metaphorically of rage, but in the sagas evil creatures are sometimes said
to tryllast in a much more literal way, which is sometimes accompanied by a foul
stench (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda II, 370, cf. Fljótsdœla saga, 279–80). A couple
that travels with Bárðr Snæfellsáss to Iceland is said to be trylld mjök bæði (Bárðar
saga, 108), which in that case might mean having both a volatile temperament and
superhuman strength, while a troll-wife in Sörla saga sterka is tryld at afli (Fornaldar
sögur Nordrlanda III, 414).
The metamorphic aspect of the troll is not present in other otherworldly crea-
tures, such as giants, elves and dwarves. It is nonetheless quite common. Not only
are there cases where nasty humans and creatures tryllast, it seems also to be pos-
sible to trylla menn, which indicates that those with supernatural powers are able to
transform normal humans into trolls (Heiðarvíga saga, 303). One might be tempted
to adapt Simone de Beauvoir’s influential statement about women (1976, 13) and
say: one is not born a troll but becomes a troll.
12. The word troll is not a neutral generic term. The implication of the word is
clearly negative (see Schulz 2004, 51–52; cf. Motz 1987). It may be used as a swear-
word or in name-calling, and people and things may be sent to the trolls in a curse
(troll hafi þik or troll togi tungu úr hǫfði þér, see Grettis saga, 11; Bandamanna saga,
354; Kormáks saga, 275; Vatnsdœla saga, 87; Ljósvetninga saga, 35; Fornaldar sögur
Nordrlanda I, 131; Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, 72; Reykdœla saga ok Víga-Skútu, 198).
When Hallgerðr in Njáls saga is fed up with her husband’s friends, she says: Trǫll
hafi þína vini ‘Trolls take your friends’; later in the saga the wife of Bjǫrn of Mǫrk
says: Trǫll hafi þitt skrum ok hól ‘Trolls take your boasts and swagger’ (Brennu-Njáls
saga, 92 and 425; see also Morkinskinna, 135 and 177). In these cases, the word seems
to be a fixed swear-word, with only a very vague hint of the literal meaning, like the
modern usage of words such as ‘hell’ and ‘damn’, and this may even be the case when
Katla speaks of Geirríðr trollit – today she might perhaps have said helvítið hún Geir-
ríðr ‘that damned Geirríðr’ without much actual thought of hell.
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As a rule, people use the term troll pejoratively to refer to their antagonists. Hall-
björn hálftröll, the father of Ketill hængr, is very disapproving when his son brings
the giantess that he has sired a son with from Finnmörk, and calls her tröll þat;
even though he is himself a hálftröll, this is still a scathing term (Fornaldar sögur
Nordrlanda II, 123; cf. Hermann Pálsson 1997, 21.22). And when troll is used in
namecalling, the injured party does not have to be a somewhat large lady from the
wilderness. In Sagas of Icelanders, the hero himself may be the focus of such nega-
tive attention, especially if he is tall and bulky, although the word obviously is in-
tended to signify that his character is also trollish.11 In Njáls saga, although Hafr
the rich does not actually use the word troll in insulting Skarpheðinn, he is clearly
comparing him to some kind of ogre when he says that Skarpheðinn is svá illiligr sem
genginn sé út ór sjávarhǫmrum’ (Brennu-Njáls saga, 301) ‘as evil-looking as if he had
come out of a sea-cliff’. Likewise, the word is not used in Egils saga when Skalla-
Grímr comes to the court of King Haraldr and the king is informed of this: Menn
eru hér komnir úti, tólf saman, ef menn skal kalla; en líkari eru þeir þursum at vexti ok
at sýn en mennskum mǫnnum (Egils saga, 63) ‘A party of twelve men has turned up,
if they can be called men. But they are more like þursar than human beings in size
and appearance’. When his son Egill encounters King Eiríkr in York, however, the
word troll emerges: Maðr er hér kominn úti fyrir durum … mikill sem troll (Egils saga,
178) ‘A man has arrived outside here, as huge as a troll’. It is also made clear in this
episode that Egill is uncommonly tall. And Grettir Ásmundarson is compared to
a troll more than once in Grettis saga (e.g. 184, 211). The most dramatic instance is
when he swims to fetch fire for his merchant companions and surprises the sons
of Þórir from Garðr; then he is furðu mikill tilsýndar, sem troll væri (130) ‘he was ex-
traordinarily big to look at, as if he were a troll’, and they attack him, which leads to
their death and eventually to his. And not only in Grettis saga but also in Fóstbræðra
saga (121–22) Grettir is feared and people think that he is a troll fyrir durum ‘a troll
at the door’.
Being a troll is not a self-constructed identity. Many people call others trolls, few
call themselves trolls.12 Egill and Grettir are interpreted as trolls but, of course, they
11 It is mostly the dark or the Grettir-like heroes (see the classification of Lönnroth 1976, 62) that seem to attract this
word.
12 There are very few examples in medieval sources of anyone referring to himself as a troll (and none where a human
does that). In Egils saga einhenda, the ogress Arinnefja seems quite proud of her trollish ancestry; it must, however,
be borne in mind that this is quite an ironic narrative (Gottskálk Þór Jensson 2003) and in the end she is turned
back into a human princess.
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are not, since they are the heroes of their sagas and a troll is never the hero. Trolls
are there, not here. They are external; outside the fence (or garðr) frequently used as
a metaphor for the human world in the Old Icelandic language (see Davíð Erlings-
son 2003, 51–56). They belong to the Other, rather than Us (on these terms, see
Ohle 1978, Sverrir Jakobsson 2005, 39–45).
13. In some interesting cases, a strange creature is referred to as a troll but when it
turns out to be familiar, it is no longer considered a troll, which indicates that troll-
skapr goes hand in hand with alterity. Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar has a good example.
A strange ogre threatens the realm of the Irish kings and eventually reaches the
court itself (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 176):
Tröll eitt mikit kom á landit fyrir konúngs atsetunni, svá íllt ok grimt at eigi reisti
rönd við, drap niðr menn ok fénað, en brendi bygðir, ok öngvu vætti eyrði þat,
drap niðr hvört kvikindi lifandi … var tröll svá mikit komit í hallardyrin, at enginn
þóttist séð hafa jafnmikit tröll … Þetta tröll var svá grimt ok ógrligt, at engi þorði
til útgöngu at leita.
A big troll came to the country not far from the royal residence, so evil and fierce
that nobody could counter it, killed men and beasts, scorched the settlements and
spared nothing, killed every living creature … a troll had come into the hall door-
way, so big that no one thought he had seen such a big one … this troll was so
fierce and frightening that no-one dared to go outside.
The king’s daughter Ingibjörg does not accept this version of the events and decides
that this enemy is not a troll, in spite of its trollish ways (eigi mun tröll vera, þó trölls-
liga láti). Her maid comes to the same conclusion after she has fed the troll, which
later turns out to be Þórir járnskjöldr, a human character who has already been in-
troduced to the story, and indeed with the comment that some believed he was a
troll, since he fought so vigorously (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 135).
According to this saga, this monster cannot be both Þórir járnskjöldr and a troll. A
familiar and unthreatening creature is not a troll. A troll must be alien.13 However,
13 The Otherness of the troll later becomes an important theme in Ibsen’s Peer Gynt (48), which addresses the prob-
lem of how to distinguish between humans and trolls. Whilst the trolls are indeed bestial, their alterity is not quite
as negative as in medieval sources. But they are palpably exotic.
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like Þórir járnskjöldr, heroes like Egill and Grettir risk being wrongly categorised as
trolls, and this is an important facet of their stories.
The use of the word troll is more varied than any dictionary has taken into consid-
eration. Of course, it would be perfectly possible to make these thirteen categories
into six or four or three, but the fact remains that a troll may be a giant or moun-
tain-dweller, a witch, an abnormally strong or large or ugly person, an evil spirit,
a ghost, a blámaðr, a magical boar, a heathen demi-god, a demon, a brunnmigi or a
berserk. Trolldom may be a variable state. A troll may be categorised by its trollish
behaviour. A troll is always negative and it is always alien.
Even though the definition ‘fjölkunnug vera, mennsk eða ómennsk’ is broad, it does
not now seem broad enough. How do ghosts fit in? What are the magic powers of
a brunnmigi? Or the boar that attacks King Hrólfr and his men? When we consider
the crazed boar, it becomes clear that it is not merely the being with magic powers
that is the troll but everything that emerges from it. This would mean that a troll can
mean both a witch and anything that the witch might choose to conjure up. Interest-
ingly, Old Norse-Icelandic law codes indicate that it is forbidden not only to have
supper with a troll, it is also forbidden to vekja upp tröll. So clearly, in some laws, a
troll is something that a sorcerer has called forth with his sorcery, whereas in others
the troll is the sorcerer himself (Norges gamle Love, I 19, 351, 362 and 372; II 323; cf.
Jónsbók, 38).14
This seems to suggest that whoever awakens a troll is himself a troll. In fact, we
have here the same merging of creator and creature that we see in the twentieth cen-
tury in the popular Frankenstein narrative, where the name Frankenstein, originally
only the surname of the scientist in Mary Shelley’s novel, has gradually come to sig-
nify both the scientist who awakens a monster, and the monster that he has awak-
ened. In the same way, Geirríðr trollit and the kveldriða that Katla accuses her of hav-
ing set on her student of magic merge into one. Not only trolls and nightriders are
mentioned in this episode, but also mares (see Strömbäck 1977). And any visit from
a mare brings with it an existentialist problem. The mare is an evil spirit sent by a
14 Cf. Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 457. Hermann Pálsson (1997, 21) and Ólína Þorvarðardóttir (2000, 22) have dif-
ferent opinions on whether ‘vekja upp troll’ entails awakening a ghost or nature spirits, whereas later magicians are
mostly accused of awakening the devil.
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sorcerer, but as the evil spirit has emerged from the magician, it is also, in a way, the
magician himself. There is, in fact, no clear separation between the two (see also
Pócs 1999, 29–44; Ármann Jakobsson 2007b, also pp. 79 ff. in this volume).15 Thus
there is a logic to using the same word, troll in this instance, for a magician and his
magical creations
The fate of Geirríðr’s father may cast some light on the concept of the troll. I have
previously mentioned that a ghost (like Sóti from Harðar saga) can be a troll (cf. Páll
Vídalín 1782, 16). The same goes for the boar of King Aðils, and in Eyrbyggja saga
we have yet another animal who is a troll: the calf Glæsir. This Glæsir behaves in a
strange fashion and when a bedridden but knowing old woman hears his screams
she says: Þetta eru trolls læti, en eigi annars kvikendis, ok gerið svá vel, skerið vábeiðu þessa
‘That is the sound of a troll, not of any other living thing, and please slaughter this
ill-boding creature’. As old women are often ignored in the sagas as they are nowa-
days, she is simply told that the calf has been killed but soon she hears his bellowing
again and regrets that the trollit has not yet been killed (171–72). And indeed this calf
kills the farmer, her fosterson, in the end. It is implied that it is no ordinary calf but
the spirit of Þórólfr bægifótr, the father of Geirríðr. In his old age, he had become
illr ok æfr við ellina ‘evil and bad-tempered with age’, had done some evil deeds and
continued to do so after his death. Even after he is buried far away, the ghost of
Þórólfr soon starts walking again, killing men and livestock, and when the corpse is
exhumed Þórólfr is inn trollsligsti (81, 169). And even when the body is burned, its
ashes are blown away by the wind and licked from a stone by a cow; this cow later
gives birth to Glæsir. Thus it is not only the alleged witch and night-rider Geirríðr
who is a troll. Her father the ghost is also a troll and so is the calf whose life derives
from his ashes and who perhaps embodies his spirit.
In this instance, we may wonder whether it is the calf itself that is a troll, or the
spirit inside it. However we look at it, it is clear that in Old Icelandic sources, this
affinity between the magician and his magic results in both the sorcerer, and the
thing he calls to life, bearing the name of a troll.
While the word troll has many meanings, I think it is still possible to discover
15 As Klaniczay (1988, 168–88) has noted, there is a cultural link between witches and vampires, which replaced
witches as the main supernatural social enemies in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Hungary. As emerges from
this article, both witches and vampires (or the undead) could be regarded as trolls, the relationship being captured
in the phrase vekja upp troll, which is something that a troll does. As the Frankenstein monster, and Dracula as well,
is a type of undead (see e.g. McClelland 2006, 20), it is, of course, classifiable as a troll.
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the essence of its meaning in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. That may not
be the same as the meaning of the word in the twenty-first century, its meaning in
other Nordic languages or the original meaning of the word, discussed by Wilbur
(1958) and Þorfinnur Skúlason (1996). But all the meanings I have found share the
common element that the troll is always anti-social and disruptive (cf. Wilbur 1958,
p. 139).16 In addition, it is always strange, inexplicable and thus supernatural or mag-
ical. There may have been some uncertainty among thirteenth- and fourteenth-cen-
tury Icelanders about what the word actually meant. It is, however, very clear that it
is confined neither to giants nor to witches. And it does not seem evident that either
meaning (giant or witch) is the essential meaning of the word. In fact, I suggest that
the primary translation of the word should be ‘evil being’ or ‘evil magical creature’.
The use of the word troll tells us something about how giants are defined, when
risar, jötnar and troll start becoming interchangeable (see Motz 1987, Arnold 2005,
Ármann Jakobsson 2009). Strange creatures in the wilderness are clearly connected
with witchcraft and the demonic power of witches, which is antithetical to Chris-
tianity, order and society itself. Thus it is natural to use the word in curses and
swearing and as a way to indicate gigantic size and everything (good, bad or neutral)
that is unfettered by the limitations imposed on ordinary humans. And to return to
Þorgrímr nef, the use of the word trollskapr for his curse signifies that the talents
he possesses are of an evil nature. He, like all trolls, is imbued with an evil magical
force that only serves to break, damage and ruin – in this case it is the ruin of Gísli.
III
Gísla saga uses not only the term trollskapr but also the word ergi, something wicked
that Þorgrímr does when performing his evil rite. As there is no detailed descrip-
tion of the rite, we cannot be certain whether it involves ‘lewdness’ or ‘lust’, as those
armed with the Cleasby-Vigfússon dictionary would expect. Most Icelanders now
16 In twenty-first-century internet culture, the term ‘trolling’ is sometimes used for the disrupting of projects (such
as the editing of Wikipedia), apparently with malicious intent. A Wikipedia article includes instructions on how
to deal with such ‘trolls’: ‘Don’t conclude they are a troll until they have shown complete inability or unwillingness
to listen to reason or to moderate their position based upon the input of others’. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
WP:TROLL).
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believe that ergi is an Old Icelandic synonym for homosexual practices, but it seems
improbable that the rite involved anything of that kind.
As has been duly noted, the word ergi has a variety of meanings in thirteenth- and
fourteenth-century Iceland (Noreen 1922; Almqvist 1965, especially 63–66, 194–
201; Ström 1972; Meulengracht Sørensen 1980, especially 22–24; Gunnar Karlsson
2006, 377–80). These meanings can be summarised as follows:
1. Ergi is rarely used of women but it can refer to uninhibited lust shown by them.
In Egils saga einhenda, the trollish Arinnefja is seized by an uncontrollable lust to-
wards men which she terms ergi (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda III, 390). The related
adjective argr is also used in Hauksbók about the Roman goddess Venus and her
incestuous and promiscuous love-life, she being svá manngjǫrn ok svá ǫrg ok svá ill, at
hon lá með feðr sínum ok með mǫrgum mǫnnum, ok hafðisk svá sem portkona (Hauks-
bók, 159) ‘so lustful and lewd and evil that she lay with her father and several other
men and behaved like a whore’. In both cases, it is very clear that the ergi is seen as
unnatural and that lustful behaviour is involved.
2. Ergi can be used to refer to two men having sexual relations with each other,
which presumably is seen as detracting from their manhood. This meaning of the
word has survived to this day and is presumably what is meant when somebody
is called rassragr ‛arse bandit’ in Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga (Sturlunga saga,
I 279). Even more clear-cut is the insult implied when Þorvaldr the traveller and
Friðrekr the bishop are said to have had children together; this offends Þorvaldr so
much that he kills two men, explaining to the bishop that those men had called them
raga (Kristni saga, 79–80). There are no cases of the word being used about the
sexual relations of two women, however.
3. Ergi sometimes means something effeminate, something that men cannot do

without losing manliness. Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (1980, 9–20) has men-
tioned the custom of insulting men by calling them by the names of she-animals
such as meri ‘filly’, or claiming that a man has borne children. In the aforementioned
example from Kristni saga, the bishop is accused of having done this, although Þor-
valdr is more concerned with the accusations of homosexuality against himself, even
though he is clearly supposed to have adopted the ‘manly role’, as the father, not the
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mother of the children.17 In Njáls saga Skarpheðinn insults Flosi by saying that he
has been the bride of the Svínfellsáss and turned into a woman every ninth night
(Brennu-Njáls saga, 314), and in Króka-Refs saga (134) Refr is accused of changing
sexes within the same time-frame:
Þá er ek var á Íslandi, var hann ekki í æði sem aðrir karlar, heldr var hann kona ina
níundu hverja nótt ok þurfti þá karlmanns, ok var hann því kallaðr Refr inn ragi.
When I was in Iceland he was not like other men in nature; rather, he was a
woman every ninth night and needed a man, and for that reason he was called
Refr the Queer.
In this case, the nickname ragi clearly suggests that Refr is effeminate.
In Þrymskviða, the god Þórr is concerned that the Æsir would see him as argr
if he dressed up as a woman (Norrœn fornkvæði, 126). The word argr is also used
when Óðinn and Loki trade insults in Lokasenna, and Óðinn accuses Loki (cor-
rectly) of having switched sexes, not referring, though, to the well-known Svaðilfari
story known from Snorra Edda but to a different unknown case when Loki was kýr
mjólkandi ok kona (Norrœn fornkvæði, 116–17) ‘a milch-cow and a woman’.
4. Ergi can mean a lack of courage and fortitude, which presumably is regarded as
a lack of manliness. In modern Icelandic, ragr is mainly used of cowardice and it
seems clear that the words argr and ergisk refer to a lack of fortitude in, for example,
Grettis saga (44) and Hrafnkels saga (126) (see Gunnar Karlsson 2006, 377–78).
5. Finally, ergi is something done as part of the ritual of magic, as in the case of the
curse of Þorgrímr nef. Apart from the one associated with the magic ritual, most of
these meanings have lack of manliness as the common denominator. That cowardice
is seen as feminine is evident when Eyjólfr inn grái calls Auðr blauðr when she has
struck him, even though her act demonstrates that she is, on the contrary, very brave
(Gísla saga, 101). He clearly uses the word as synonymous with feminine,18 and there
17 An interesting variation on this can be found in Helgakviða Hundingsbana I, where Sinfjǫtli claims to have fathered
nine wolves, of which his antagonist Guðmundr Granmarsson is the ‘mother’ (Norrœn fornkvæði, 185–86). Sinfjǫtli
does not see his own role in this union as feminine, only Guðmundr’s. On this exchange see Meulengracht Søren-
sen 1980, 65–68.
18 One might note that the word bleyða is still used to refer to a she-cat in some Icelandic dialects (Íslensk orðabók,
136).
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is a case to be made that this is indeed a principal function of the word, and that as
courage is the essence of manliness, so the lack of the one must entail a lack of the
other (Gunnar Karlsson 2006, 376–77; Clover 1993, 363–65).
Thus a cowardly man can be seen as switching genders, and the same would go for
men who have had sex with each other. It is less easy to understand why excessive
female lust should be integrated into the same concept as male lack of courage, ef-
feminate behaviour on the part of men and homosexual relations. One explanation
might be that women were not supposed to demonstrate lust, and ergi would then
refer to those of both sexes who do not fulfil their gender role. But, on the other
hand, there are no clear examples of the word being used about those women who
dress up in the clothes of the other sex.
But how does the magic of Þorgrímr nef fit into all this lack of masculinity? There
is another instance of the word ergi being connected with magic where Óðinn’s skill
in black magic is described in Ynglinga saga (19):
Óðinn kunni þá íþrótt, svá at mestr máttr fylgði, ok framði sjálfr, er seiðr heitir,
en af því mátti hann vita ørlǫg manna ok óorðna hluti, svá ok at gera mǫnnum
bana eða óhamingju eða vanheilendi, svá ok at taka frá mǫnnum vit eða afl ok
gefa ǫðrum. En þessi fjǫlkynngi, er framið er, fylgir svá mikil ergi, at eigi þótti
karlmǫnnum skammlaust við at fara, ok var gyðjunum kennd sú íþrótt.
Óðinn knew, and practised himself, the art which is accompanied by greatest
power, which is called seiðr, and by means of it he could know the fate of men
and predict events that had not yet come to pass; and also inflict death or misfor-
tunes or sickness upon men, and also take wit or strength from some and give
them to others. But this sorcery as it is practised is attended by such queerness
that it was considered that men cannot practise it without dishonour, and the skill
was taught to the goddesses.
What is apparent here is that 1) Óðinn performs a magic ritual (seiðr); 2) this seiðr
goes hand in hand with ergi; 3) ergi is not compatible with manliness; 4) thus, seiðr
is a female pursuit.
Again, the ergi in the magic ritual is not described in detail, although it is evidently
feminine. Loki seems to think so in stanza 24 of Lokasenna, where he clearly cat-
egorises Óðinn’s magic rites as feminine, and compares him to sibyls or claims that
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Trollish Acts
he has had homosexual relations, or both (Norrœn fornkvæði, 117; cf. Jón Hnefill
Aðalsteinsson 2007). In this stanza, the term args aðal is used and the ergi seems
to be the result of a seiðr Óðinn has practised in Samsø. Although both Ynglinga
saga and Lokasenna indicate that the ritual performance of seiðr was feminine rather
than masculine, there are several examples of male witches in the sagas, who, unlike
some of the female witches, seem to be on the whole dubious characters, although
ergi is hardly ever mentioned. This is in accordance with the situation in the rest of
Europe where magic was often believed to be the domain of women (see Kieckhefer
1989, 29–33; Russell 1972, 279–84; Flint 1991, 122–23), and there is possibly a case
to be made that this was also the case in Iceland (Kress 1993, 34–60; Raudvere
2003, 112–18). Thus, even though many men practise witchcraft, those men may
be characterised as ‘queer’. Even more relevantly, magic is clearly on the margins of
society; those who practise it are anti-social and thus perfect scapegoats, if revenge
has to be taken (see Miller 1986, 110–16).
The only male figure who practises seiðr and gets away with it is Óðinn him-
self. Others might lose some of their manliness by practising seiðr; he does not. In
Snorra Edda, Óðinn is presented as the patriarch of the gods, their father, and one
of his most important names is said to be Alfǫðr (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 10). Soon
Þriði, one of the three faces of Óðinn in Gylfaginning, elaborates upon this: Óðinn
er æztr ok elstr ásanna. Hann ræðr ǫllum hlutum, ok svá sem ǫnnur guðin eru máttug, þá
þjóna honum ǫll, svá sem bǫrn fǫður ‘Óðinn is the highest and oldest of the Æsir. He
rules all things, and mighty though the other gods are, yet they all submit to him like
children to their father’. And in case the paternal role of Óðinn has escaped anyone,
he adds: Óðinn heitir Alfǫðr, því at hann er faðir allra goða. Hann heitir ok Valfǫðr, því
at hans óska synir eru þeir, er í val falla (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 27) ‘Óðinn is called
All-father, for he is father of all gods. He is also called Father of the Slain, since
those who fall in battle are his favourite sons’. Not only does this patriarchal status
make Óðinn the Jove of the Old Norse gods, it also gives him a role comparable to
that of the Christian God, the father whom all must obey. In light of the emphasis
on this in Snorra Edda, it is safe to assume that the paternal role is one of the most
important of Óðinn’s functions and that no other heathen god is similarly depicted
as the father of men and gods (see Ármann Jakobsson 2008c).
This Odinic idea of the early thirteenth century seems at first to be in contrast
with the seiðr that is discussed by the same author at the same time in Ynglinga sa-
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ga.19 However, the roles do not have to be completely incompatible. Britt Solli has
recently suggested that Óðinn was perhaps always an androgynous god (Solli 1997–
98; see also Kolfinna Jónatansdóttir 2005). This is an interesting idea, but perhaps
this ambiguity should not be seen as being restricted to gender, if we pursue the
meanings of ergi to their logical conclusion.
The Óðinn we meet in Ynglinga saga is a widely-travelled and victorious chieftain
whom men have started to worship since he blesses them before they go into battle.
It is also revealed that he can see into the future and chant magic rites. His men are
berserks but his enemies are struck with sudden fear. He can awaken men from
death and teaches magic.
But his trollish nature comes through in more ways than that. Like the goddess
Venus who was svá ǫrg ok svá ill, he is incestuous. In Ynglinga saga, Snorri relates that
when Freyja came to the Æsir she kenndi fyrst með Ásum seið, sem Vǫnum var títt ‘was
the first to teach the Æsir seið, which was customary among the Vanir’. And then he
adds that: Þá er Njǫrðr var með Vǫnum, þá hafði hann átta systur sína, því at þat váru
þar lǫg. Váru þeira bǫrn Freyr ok Freyja. En þat var bannat með Ásum at byggva svá náit
at frændsemi (Ynglinga saga, 13) ‘While Njǫrðr lived with the Vanir he had married
his sister, because that was the law there. Their children were Freyr and Freyja. But
among the Æsir it was forbidden to marry so close a relative’. Such incestous mar-
riages are well known in various cultures among gods and kings,20 but in Ynglinga
saga Snorri states that the Æsir did not have this custom. In the Edda, however, he
reveals that Óðinn has actually had children with his daughter: Jǫrðin var dóttir hans
ok kona hans. Af henni gerði hann inn fyrsta soninn (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 17) ‘Jǫrð
was his daughter and his wife. On her he sired his oldest son’. Apparently, the re-
strictions against incest among the Æsir do not apply to Óðinn.
As seen above, the ergi of Venus consisted not only of general lewdness but also of
sleeping with her father. Could it be that among men, sex of that type would gener-
ally be regarded as ergi? Is it perhaps the incest of Venus, rather than her uninhibited
lust, that makes her ǫrg?
19 As Lassen has illustrated (2006), Óðinn is mainly known to us through Christian sources and this has an impact on
how he is depicted; her doctoral dissertation (2011) presents Óðinn in a more nuanced way than is possible in the
brief statement here.
20 On Njǫrðr and his origins, see Tacitus, Opera minora, p. 57; Ólafur Briem 1963, 17–22.
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If so, Óðinn has actually practised two types of ergi, possibly three (see Jón Hnefill
Aðalsteinsson 2007, 128). These acts may not have counted as ergi in his case, how-
ever, since the gods may not have been restricted by the moral code which applies to
humans. In Lokasenna, the gods do not seem to be much hampered by human mor-
als, and most of the accusations Loki hurls against the gods have something to do
with ergi (Norrœn fornkvæði, 113–23; see Ármann Jakobsson 2001, xiii.xiv; Swenson
1991, 72–79). Óðinn has practised seiðr and possibly changed sex or had sex with
men. Loki has been below the ground and quite certainly changed sex, as well as
species, and given birth to offspring. Njǫrðr has not only had children with his sis-
ter but also indulged in freakish sexual games with the otherwise unknown Hymis
meyjar who seem to have urinated in his mouth. Heimdallr is said to have turned his
ꜹgo (ǫrgu or aurgu, queer or dirty) back to someone (whichever is the right reading,
sodomy seems to be involved), and Loki refers to this as it ljóta líf. The goddesses
are all revealed as promiscuous. Frigg has slept with her husband’s brothers (incest),
Iðunn has slept with the man who killed her brother, Gefjun has also slept with an
unknown boy, while Sif, Skaði and the unnamed wife of Týr have fornicated with
Loki himself. Freyja, the love goddess, beats them all, having slept with every god
and elf present (the females may not be included).
Abnormal sex seems to be the norm with the gods and if the gods were judged as
humans, they would be unfit rulers. However, the gods are not human and although
other interpretations are certainly possible, one way to understand Lokasenna could
be that human morals do not apply to the gods; that they can do as they wish.21 In
the novel I, Claudius by Robert Graves there is a memorable scene where the evil
empress Livia asks Claudius for assistance in making her divine after her death.
Why? Because human morals do not apply to gods and her sins are no longer sins if
she is made into a divinity (Graves 1934, 312–13). It is possible that Lokasenna oper-
ates on a similar logic, that human morals have nothing to do with the gods. They
are above them.
Another aspect of Óðinn that may be related to his ergi is his ability to change
shapes, also highlighted in Ynglinga saga (18):
21 Every time a god takes part in a riddle contest, such as Óðinn’s contests with King Heiðrekr and the giant
Vafþrúðnir (see Davidson 1983, 30–31), a similar law is revealed. It could be summed up in one sentence: The gods
always cheat.
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Nine Saga Studies
Óðinn skipti hǫmum. Lá þá búkrinn sem sofinn eða dauðr, en hann var þá fugl
eða dýr, fiskr eða ormr ok fór á einni svipstund á fjarlæg lǫnd at sínum ørendum
eða annarra manna.
Óðinn shifted shapes. When he did that his body would lie there as if he were
asleep or dead; but he himself, in an instant, went to distant countries as a bird or
animal, a fish or a serpent on his or other men’s errands.
This shamanistic shape-shifting accords well with some of the Edda legends, such
as Óðinn’s metamorphoses into both a snake and an eagle in order to steal the mead
of poetry (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 84–85). It must also be kept in mind that Óðinn
is not only a god of many names (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 27–28) but very often
adopts a disguise, as in Grímnismál, Vafþrúðnismál and Hárbarðsljóð, and in his theft
of the mead of poetry (see Haugen 1983).
Shape-shifting may be common among gods but it would be very dubious for a
human, in an age when bestiality was forbidden, along with homosexual acts and
incest (see e.g. Gade 1986, 126-31). That shape-shifting may go together with besti-
ality is, of course, clearly established by the Sleipnir legend, when Loki changes into
a mare in order to lure the horse Svaðilfari away, thus breaking two taboos at the
same time (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 46–47). By changing into a female animal, he
is probably guilty of ergi (see also Mundal 1999, 6), and it seems quite possible that
the same would apply to the bestiality that follows.
Long ago, Strömbäck drew attention to the close relationship between seiðr and
shape-shifting in Old Norse-Icelandic medieval texts (1935, 160–90). In fact, shape-
shifting may well be considered an inherent part of witchcraft, since a sorcerer in-
vests his power in a magical creature he has conjured up (like a crazed boar or a
kveldriða). Do the close links between seiðr, shape-shifting and ergi, most prominent
in the Óðinn of Ynglinga saga, suffice to determine that ergi is an integral part of
magic? Perhaps not, but there is room for speculation that ergi may be a more fluid
concept than has been generally accepted.
If incest and shape-shifting are regarded as types of ergi, Óðinn is clearly argr in
several ways, because of his shape-shifting, incest and magic, and possibly because
of changing into female form or having sex with other males. The Óðinn we meet
in Ynglinga saga, Lokasenna and other sources is thus a dubious character. Thus
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Trollish Acts
there may well be a double meaning when Þorbjörg the wife of Páll Sölvason attacks
the sly Sturla Þórðarson and tries to blind him in one eye, since, as she claims, he
is already acting as if he was Óðinn himself (Sturlunga saga, I 109). Of course it is
disrespectful to Sturla to associate him with a heathen god. But that is not the only
aspect of the metaphor behind the attempted blinding. Skarpheðinn Njálsson is not
referring only to the heathen practice of eating horse meat when he tells Þorkell
hákr to stanga ór tǫnnum þér razgarnarendann merarinnar, er þú ázt, áðr en þú reitt til
þings (Brennu-Njáls saga, 305) ‘pick out of your teeth the mare’s arse that you ate
before you rode to the thing’. It is hardly a coincidence that he mentions the arse of
the mare; he is probably accusing Þorkell of sodomy (with a female, in this instance)
or coprophagy (see Sayers 1994), perhaps even bestiality (Salisbury 1994).22 And,
likewise, Þorbjörg might be not only trying to shame Sturla by indicating that his
behaviour is heathen, but choosing Óðinn because the god was renowned for vari-
ous types of ergi.
The ergi of Óðinn may not have been construed as a weakness. Taboos do not re-
ally apply to gods. As a cosmological figure, Óðinn may embody natural opposites
such as good and evil within himself. He may be both masculine and feminine. But
I would argue that the ergi of Óðinn does not necessarily only refer to the androgy-
nous state of this deity, but to his nature as not just the face of humanity (father,
king and head) but also the queer side or the rear end (where magic and trolls be-
long). He is not just brightness but also darkness, the yin and the yang. As a god,
Óðinn may well be a witch, a queer and a troll and get away with it. If he is a god. If
he is not, as Christians would believe, he would descend into being a metaphor for
everything that is heathen, villainous and deviant.
Even though ergi does mean sexual deviance, and ‘queerness’ is thus a good trans-
lation, this meaning may not have more primacy than that related to witchcraft. In
fact, I think that ergi may have more to do with a world view than with sexuality,
in that it indicates everything unbecoming, villainous and deviant: incest, bestiality,
homosexuality, the blurring of gender roles, aggressive female lust, shape-shifting
and sorcery.
22 As Davíð Erlingsson has pointed out (1994; 1997), the rear of the body has a particular association with the devil
and his demons; this is also demonstrated by some witches (see note 10).
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Nine Saga Studies
IV
I have argued here that in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Icelandic sources,

troll does not refer primarily to a clearly demarcated supernatural species and we
should not be led astray by the later development of the word. Even in the late four-
teenth century, when the word troll has indeed been appropriated to describe ugly
and subhuman creatures in the wilderness, it is still simultaneously used for an en-
tirely different purpose, as we see in Bárðar saga and Flateyjarbók. I would contend
that the meaning of troll in the High Middle Ages is broad, even broader than Einar
Ólafur Sveinsson’s definition in his note to Eyrbyggja saga. A troll is not merely a
sorcerer or merely a supernatural creature; the term includes both of these mean-
ings. The troll is every strange thing that is evil and imbued with magic, whether it
has magical powers itself or has been made by magic. The troll is supernatural, in
that it is not restricted by human limitations. Thus it is often used as a metaphor
for anything excessive, anything which is unrestrained, unhinged, uncivilised and
unmeasured.
When it comes to ergi, my conclusions have to be more speculative, since the
word appears more rarely. But I would argue that it is possible that ergi is naturally
entwined with trollskapr in descriptions of magic, as both terms refer to an essen-
tial part of it. Like troll, ergi refers to something abnormal, magical, negative and
anti-social. However, whereas troll is not a sexual word, ergi is used in relation to
sexuality and gender roles, for any deviation from the normal. Its appearance in the
description of Þorgrímr nef’s magic, as well as in the depiction of Óðinn’s magic,
however, does not have to mean that the witch is doing something unmanly in the
ritual. It might merely mean that he is being anti-social. Perhaps the real opposi-
tions here are not so much male and female as darkness and light, or front and back.
Magic is thus ergi in that it is anti-social and evil, as well as queer.
Although the words trollskapr and ergi only appear together in the depiction of the
magic of Þorgrímr nef, I have argued here that both words are essentially cosmo-
logical, and their union in this narrative is thus not wholly unexpected. The words
are used about this particular magic rite to indicate that Þorgrímr is himself evil and
subversive and that what he is doing is contrary to the correct order of the world.
Thus, the words troll and ergi both encapsulate that essential quality of magic as
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Trollish Acts
turning the world on its head. In magic, everything is upside down or inside out,
and that can be described as ergi or trollskapr.
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123
The Fearless Vampire Killers:
A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and
Demonic Contamination in Grettis Saga
Two Vampires from 1897

In 1897, the same year as Bram Stoker’s Dracula first appeared in print, the pro-
lific Scots folklorist and man of letters Andrew Lang (1844–1912) published his The
Book of Dreams and Ghosts (one out of six books to be published by him that year),
in which he refers to “the famous Icelandic legend of Grettir and Glam the Vam-
pire, from the Grettis Saga” (Lang 1897, 245). He then goes on to relate this story,
and other Icelandic ghost stories, both mediaeval and modern, in a blood-curling
manner. However, it is not explained why Lang refers to Glámr, Grettir’s ghostly
nemesis, as a vampire, and the appellation did not catch on. The word “vampire”
might seem incongruous when used about Glámr, since he is an Icelandic draugr,
and “ghost” is the most popular translation (see, for example, Cleasby and Vigfús-
son 1957, 103). Indeed, this connection between Icelandic ghosts and Transylvanian
vampires has rarely been made since that time. So it is tempting to ask: why did
Andrew Lang use it and does it make any sense?
The first explanation that might suggest itself is that vampires were in vogue in
1897, as evidenced by the immediate popularity of Stoker’s Transylvanian count
(whose fame would grow greater still in the 1920s and 1930s), and that Lang prob-
ably did not object to selling more copies of his book. Although Lang is retelling
old ghost stories, he is very much serving the present, and in the year 1897 it is the
vampire, and not the Old Icelandic draugr which is the most prominent and perhaps
the most exciting species of the undead. [1] As he was writing for a popular audi-
ence, his use of the word “vampire” is presumably inspired mostly by the popular-
ity of the literary vampire, which is mainly a nineteenth-century phenomenon (see
Summers 1960, 271–340; Perkowski 1989, 127–41; McClelland 2006, 78–91), but
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nonetheless older than Bram Stoker’s notorious specimen. The literary vampire was
in turn inspired by the Slavic vampire of folklore and not at all by its Western Euro-
pean counterparts, the draugar.
But all the same, Andrew Lang would hardly have used this ostentatious term
if he did not feel that it was appropriate, and it can be argued that the word “vam-
pire” might actually have been more helpful to Lang’s audience than the word
“ghost” would have been. None of the normal English words for a revenant (“ghost”,
“wraith”, “phantom”, “spectre”, “spirit”) could convey the physicality of Glámr; the
term “the undead,” in its present day meaning, had just been introduced into Eng-
lish by Bram Stoker, but would not yet have been familiar. The commercial context
of the original equation between vampires and Icelandic ghosts being admitted, it
was not Lang’s only reason for his use of the word. Furthermore, I think it might
actually be helpful for our understanding of Grettis saga to revive this particular un-
dead. Indeed, the connection has been explored recently by David Keyworth, whose
2007 book Troublesome Corpses deals not only with vampires but also with Icelandic
ghosts. [2] Keyworth is not enamoured of Lang’s usage of the word vampire for
Glámr, and he instead stresses the various differences between Icelandic draugar and
Eastern European vampires (see, for example, Keyworth 2007, 97). [3]
While I would agree that it is important to make historical and geographical dis-
tinctions of this kind, I think it can nevertheless be argued that focusing on the
similarities could also be potentially useful, and by similarities I mean the somewhat
similar function of these supernatural beings, their fundamentally equivalent raison
d’être and the analogous danger posed by them. I will thus try to make the case here
that the Icelandic draugr, and not least Glámr, may indeed be regarded as a vampire,
and then go on to discuss the impact this has on how we regard Grettir, Glámr’s
slayer, and, indeed, how we regard the enigmatic Glámr himself.
There are three ways in which to approach a mediaeval Icelandic draugr. The first
would be the most common one; that is, to simply accept the nineteenth-century
definitions of scholars such as Konrad Maurer and Jón Árnason (see, for example,
Jón Árnason 1862, 222–4 and 317–20) and to use them to categorise the mediaeval
draugar. The second way would be to take every instance of the word draugr in me-
diaeval texts and to analyse carefully what type of creature it seems to indicate, and
then to examine the vocabulary used about those creatures. [4] The third is the ap-
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proach I will be taking in this study; that is, to focus on the function of the draugr,
which means that there is no need to distinguish sharply between this Icelandic un-
dead and other supernatural creatures that serve a similar function.
The Icelandic Draugr: Ghost or Vampire?

Although the word “vampire” might at first sight seem out of place when used about
Glámr, to the mediaevalist the word “ghost”, as it is commonly used (see Schmitt
1998), is even less fitting. This is evident when one tries to use Jean Claude Schmitt’s
influential book about mediaeval ghosts in Europe to give a scholarly interpreta-
tion of the stately ghosts of Iceland from the same period, such as Þórólfr bægifótr
from Eyrbyggja saga (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1935) and Glámr. [5] While Schmitt ac-
knowledges the existence of the Icelandic ghosts, and indeed distinguishes between
spiritual and corporeal (or macabre) ghosts, it then turns out that he has preciously
little to say about the latter type (Schmitt 1998, 196–200 and 213–17). In West-
ern European terms, Icelandic ghosts seem to have been an anomaly; indeed, al-
most nothing that Schmitt has to say about ghosts in general really applies to them.
On the other hand, a comparison between the Icelandic ghosts and the somewhat
distant and more recent Eastern European vampires of folklore and fiction reveals
numerous similarities, as evidenced by the cases discussed by Summers (1960), Bar-
ber (1988) and Perkowski (1989). Indeed, Keyworth (2007) also acknowledges this
indirectly in grouping both draugar and vampires together as troublesome corpses.
Thus Lang may perhaps have been more right than it would seem at first sight.
Vampires hardly need an introduction these days, so a brief one will suffice. The
vampire is a blood-sucking undead. It is mainly a Slavic phenomenon (see Perkowski
1989, 75–126), which rose to prominence in the folklore of the eighteenth century
(Barber 1988, 5–9; Keyworth 2007, 51–6; on its prehistory, see Perkowski 1989,
18–36; McClelland 2006, 31–48), although it had predecessors in the sixteenth-cen-
tury Silesian spectrums and the seventeenth-century Greek vrykolakas (see, for exam-
ple, Barber 1988, 10–14 and 21–8; Keyworth 2007, 41–50). Similar phenomena can,
in fact, be found here, there and everywhere, if vampires are defined broadly enough
(see Summers 1960, 217–70). The most prominent mediaeval examples are the Old
Icelandic ghosts that will be discussed here, but there also exist, for example, Eng-
lish and German cases (Simpson 2003; Keyworth 2007, 24–40).
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Nine Saga Studies
Each type of an undead corpse has its own particularities that distinguish it from
the other types (see especially Keyworth 2007, 57–78). To take but one example,
Icelandic ghosts do not feast on the blood of their victims like their Eastern Euro-
pean counterparts. However, they nevertheless share a fundamental function. Jan
Perkowski (1989, 54) defines the Slavic vampire as “a reanimated corpse which re-
turns at night to prey on the living”, and he acknowledges its kinship with other
types of demonic contaminators, mainly the poltergeist (which is not a reanimated
corpse but rather a mysterious and undefined spirit), the mora (a night spirit that
preys on a sleeping victim, of which incubi and succubi are but two manifestations,
according to Perkowski), [6] and the werewolf (a person transformed into a wolf
who may attack other people and turn them into wolves) (Perkowski 1989, 54–74).
[7] Each and every one of these monsters may have their own characteristics but
they all share a similar function. [8]
The common denominator of these creatures is that, like the Dementors from
the Harry Potter novels (or their somewhat obvious inspiration, Tolkien’s Nazgûl),
they prey on their victims and leave them drained of blood, energy, mental faculties
or their spirit. In Icelandic, the word “trylla” is used for such activity, whereas the
Icelandic word “troll” may be used for various kinds of supernatural others who
sometimes attack and drain humans, including ghosts (see Ármann Jakobsson 2008,
also pp. 93 ff. in the present volume).
The word “troll” may also be used to denote a witch, and there is a noteworthy
case in Eyrbyggja saga where a woman is accused of being a hag or a night rider (one
word used is “marlíðendr”, related to the Germanic words for mares or mora), [9]
and this mare, which may be the witch herself or her double, “rides” a victim in
much the same way as an Icelandic ghost may also do. This hag is also referred to as
“trollit” (Eyrbyggja saga 27–54, esp. 54). In this instance, there is no clear demarca-
tion between a witch, a troll, a night-rider and a mare—a single Icelandic woman can
be all of these.
If we take a closer look at a mediaeval Icelandic ghost, in this case also from Eyr-
byggja saga, the ghost, Þórólfr bægifótr, treats his victims in much the same way
as a night-rider might (or a vampire); that is, he preys on them and drains them
of their humanity. Þórólfr may actually be regarded as a somewhat typical undead.
When he died, people were warned against approaching the corpse from the front
(compare Barber 1988, 154–77; Keyworth 2007, 118–41). He is then buried far away
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but begins to walk again in the night, not wholly unexpectedly since, like vampires,
ghosts are often believed to be creatures of the night. [10] The neighbourhood cattle
“œrðisk” (became mad) or become “trollriða” (ridden by a troll) when Þórólfr at-
tacks them. Then the ghost kills a shepherd and several others who are henceforth
referred to as “aptrgǫngur hans” [“his ghosts”] and are “sénir í ferð með Þórólfi”
[“seen in his company”] (Eyrbyggja saga 92–95).
In this instance, the person that the ghost kills becomes a ghost himself, which
may also happen with vampires (see McClelland 2006, 84–86). Like the vampire,
the ghost is very physical, his condition is transmittable, he mainly works in the
night, incineration is one way of getting rid of him (compare Barber 1988, 75–8;
McClelland 2006, 71–2; Keyworth 2007, 131–3) and his main function is to drain
human bodies of their essence and humanity. It can be argued that it is not impor-
tant whether it is their wits, their blood or just their energy that is drained.
The word “troll” in Old Icelandic may be used for all kinds of ghosts, witches,
demons and, last but not least, giants in the wilderness. In fact, the word refers to
every type of anti-social Other that may have some magic powers to sustain it (see
Ármann Jakobsson 2008). Perhaps the existence of a general word for a multitude
of folkloristic creatures reflects the fact that ghosts, vampires, mares, hags, incubi,
succubi, and even werewolves, or the Icelandic tilberi, all have a strikingly similar
function: these creatures prey on normal living people and infect them with their
abnormal nature.
Of this whole motley crew, however, only ghosts and vampires have a special con-
nection with death, in that they are reanimated corpses, the undead, and by their
unnatural afterlife they paradoxically become death’s foremost representatives. [11]
Glámr the Vampire Slayer

Given these general affinities between Icelandic ghosts and vampires, the case
of Glámr would seem to deserve special scrutiny. The circumstances that bring
Glámr to Forsœludalr are worth noting, especially the fact that Glámr is not the
first ghost in this place. On the contrary, he is hired as a monster fighter. It is men-
tioned that the valley is haunted and that no one will guard the sheep there. When
the farmer Þórhallr consults his friend Skapti the lawspeaker, the latter is convinced
that a somewhat unspecified “meinvættr” [“evil spirit”] lives in the valley and his so-
lution is to offer him a shepherd, a man of Swedish descent called Glámr. [12] When
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he turns up, Glámr indeed informs him that he is not afraid of evil spirits (“Ekki
hrœðumk ek flykur þœr”).
Thus the previous evil spirits are relegated to the sidelines and, when Glámr is
later found dead, they disappear, whereas he takes over their role of the ghost of the
valley:
Þat drógu menn saman, at sú meinvœttr, er áðr hafði þar verit, myndi hafa deytt Glám,
en hann myndi fengit hafa henni nǫkkurn áverka, þann er tekit hafi til fulls, því at við
þá meinvætti hefir aldri vart orðit síðan
[People surmised that the previous evil spirit must have killed Glámr but he must
have harmed her and brought about her end, since this evil spirit has never since
resurfaced] (Grettis saga 112 [Guðni Jónsson 1936]).
It is strange how little interest has been paid to the previous “meinvættr” (see, for
example, Keyworth 2007, 32; an exception is Kristján Jóhann Jónsson 2007), as this
creature obviously contaminates Glámr in death, and we thus have a clear case of de-
monic transmission, one of the main characteristics of vampire tales. Another note-
worthy fact is that Glámr actually kills this ogre and is thus a vampire slayer turned
into a vampire. This means that Glámr and Grettir are doubles in a sense. They are
both recruited to take care of a supernatural Other in the same valley, although in
the second case the ogre is the slayer from the first case.
But what happens when vampire slayer becomes a vampire? Glámr is turned into
a demon by the previous demon but he is not your average human to begin with.
Given the close but complicated relationship between vampires and werewolves, it
is interesting that Glámr’s hair from the outset has a somewhat unusual colour, he
is “úlfsgrár á hárslit” [“with wolf-grey hair”] (Grettis saga 110). [13] Sometimes were-
wolves are believed to be the main antagonists of vampires (see note [7] above), so it
would seem rather fitting to get a creature of the first sort to fight with a creature of
the latter sort. But there is more to Glámr’s alien appearance. He is actually so sin-
ister to look at that Þórhallr, the farmer, is startled to see him (“Þórhalli brá nǫkkut
í brún, er hann sá þenna mann”) (Grettis saga 110). Why is he startled? Well, presum-
ably because he realises that he has brought a troll to the valley to fight a troll.
It has been remarked that Glámr may not be heathen but he is certainly not Chris-
tian and does not want to observe the Christmas fast. We might conclude that it
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is no coincidence that he becomes the chosen victim of the vampire; his depravity
makes him ideal for this purpose (see Torfi H. Tulinius 1999, 294–6; cf. McCreesh
1988). Another way to look at it would be that Glámr is not just an ordinary shep-
herd, he is actually an expert brought to this place to deal with the monster: the first
slayer of the narrative, whereas Grettir is the second. And with this state goes an
un-Christian and anti-social aura.
Glámr’s eyes are worth special attention. They are his most remarkable and most
enduring feature, as they survive their owner for a long time. When Glámr first ap-
pears, he is said to be “gráeygr ok opineygr” [“with grey and wide eyes”] (Grettis saga
110)—so the eyes are strange to begin with—and later his malignant gaze becomes
Grettir’s curse, as the eyes of Glámr follow him throughout his life. A malignant
gaze is sometimes mentioned in connection with vampires (see Barber 1988, 41;
Perkowski 1989, 80), but it is, in fact, a much more ubiquitous phenomenon: ev-
ery sort of troll has a malignant gaze, including ghosts and witches (see Laxdœla
saga 107 [Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1934]; Eyrbyggja saga 92, Vatnsdœla saga 70 [Einar
Ólafur Sveinsson 1939], as also noted by Úlfhildur Dagsdóttir 2001). Glámr’s eyes
do not single-handedly make him a vampire, but they do establish him as an alien
being, whether we call him a ghost or a vampire.
Is Glámr utterly alien? Perhaps he is to others, but not to Grettir. After all, they
are both monster fighters and, as such, two outsiders fighting each other with the
well being of society at large at stake.
Side Effects of Monster Fighting

The figure of the monster fighter, central to Grettis saga, has recently been stud-
ied extensively by Bruce McClelland, and both Glámr and Grettir fit the archetype
quite well, not least in their very marginality. The monster fighter is ubiquitous in
vampire tales. He is, for example, a well-known figure in modern popular culture,
and, today, vampire slayers come in many guises (see McClelland 2006, 175–83);
they may be FBI agents like Mulder and Scully, hereditary demon hunters like the
Winchester brothers of Supernatural, or teenage girls like the extremely telegenic
Buffy the Vampire Slayer (whose enemies are far more varied than the traditional
Transylvanian vampire of folklore). The archetype may be said to be Van Helsing
from Dracula.
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All of these slayers are in some way placed on the margins of human society. A
normal life is not possible for the monster fighter and, as Bruce McClelland has ob-
served, there is usually a curious affinity between a monster and its slayer:
The forbidden knowledge that lurks behind all tales of vampires and slayers is that both
the vampire and the slayer are cut from the same cloth; they are homozygotic and in
many ways share the same purpose (McClelland 2006, 184). [14]
This observation about slayer myths seems palpably true in the narrative of Glámr,
hired to rid Forsœludalr of its “meinvættr”, only to replace it with his own far more
destructive self. Grettir, of course, is not as sinister as Glámr from the outset, he
does not succumb to the same evil and he does not become an ogre, but the eyes of
Glámr stay with him and they push him further away from humanity. Furthermore,
it cannot be denied that Grettir is anti-social from an early age, he is a misfit, an out-
law—or a wolf, to use an Old Icelandic synonym for an outlaw (see Turville-Petre
1977, 769), and one that is a metaphor for an important enemy of vampires (McClel-
land 2006, 107–8; Keyworth 2007, 205). One might conclude that Grettir is able to
defeat the vampire because he is no ordinary human, but someone who has special
abilities that make him a successful monster slayer, indeed a professional one (Gret-
tis saga 210), but a failure as a normal constructive member of society (see Ciklamini
1966; Guðmundur Andri Thorsson 1990, 101).
Why does Glámr the vampire slayer become a vampire? Vampirism is transmitta
ble, to which Þórólfr bægifótr’s numerous victims bear witness, and the reasoning
behind it may be similar to the following aphorism of the philosopher Nietzsche:
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.
And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you (Nietzsche 1992,
279). [15]
Nietzsche, who was Andrew Lang’s and Bram Stoker’s contemporary, is using the
monster (and the monster slayer) as a metaphor and, almost as if he had read Grettis
saga, the gaze as well. While he is a modern philosopher, this is hardly a unique or
necessarily a modern insight; it seems on the contrary to be an acknowledged truth
already in mediaeval Iceland.
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In Grettis saga, those who fight trolls become trolls themselves. [16] Glámr does it
literally, whilst Grettir does so only in the eyes of society, which fears him, and fre-
quently uses the word “troll” to describe him (see Grettis saga 130, 184 and 211; Fóst-
brœðra saga 121–2 [Björn Karel Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson 1943]). His struggle
to retain his humanity in the face of this reaction becomes even more compelling
when the afterlife of Glámr is also kept in mind.
If we read Grettis saga as a realistic narrative, his tragic fate might seem to be con-
tradictory: why does someone who helps humanity and society in battling the mon-
sters that threaten and attack it then suffer the tragic fate of becoming ostracised
himself, shunned and banished to the margins, as a warg and a troll? [17] Once we
recognise that Grettir is a vampire slayer, this ostracisation becomes somewhat un-
derstandable, for this is a frequent fate of monster fighters; they are not and can
never be normal. Their role is a specific one and there is the mark of Cain that goes
with it.
Andrew Lang was probably quite satisfied with scaring and entertaining his late
Victorian audience, but his unorthodox use of the word “vampire” does contain a
certain truth: that the threat posed by an undead parasite does not really depend on
geography. More than a century later, after innumerable just wars between fearless
vampire killers and despicable monsters, we may have gained an additional insight
that can also be discerned from Grettis saga: that the monster killer who is supposed
to protect us against evil may occasionally become more monstrous than the mon-
sters he was supposed to vanquish. And, as Grettir learned after having faced Glámr,
sometimes the price is too high.
Notes
[1] It is not only Lang who makes Glámr into a vampire of sorts, as Kristján Jóhann Jónsson (2007) has recently
noted, the Icelandic poet Grímur Thomsen (1895, 75) seems to believe that Glámr is an apparition of a corpse that is
actually situated in Sweden.
[2] After Lang himself, the first scholar to refer to Glámr as a vampire is, to my knowledge, Úlfhildur Dagsdóttir
(2001), who touches briefly on the subject in an article in the Morgunblaðið daily newspaper, although Barber
(1988, 41) does mention him in his study.
[3] The most detailed discussion on the similarities and differences between the two can be found in Keyworth (2007,
28–35); see also Keyworth (2006).
[4] The word draugr is not used for Glámr in Grettis saga (or at least not in the manuscript used as a main text in the
Íslenzk fornrit edition), or, for example, Þórólfr in Eyrbyggja saga. I am presently undertaking a more extensive
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Nine Saga Studies
study of the draugar vocabulary of mediaeval Icelandic. [See the present volume, p. 40, “Vampires and Watch-
men”.]
[5] In its present form, Grettis saga dates from the fourteenth century or even from the fifteenth century (Örnólfur
Thorsson 1994, xxxviii). However, as Óskar Halldórsson (1977, 1982) has argued, the legends in it are obviously
folkloristic and older than the saga (on the Grettir legend, see also Ólafur Halldórsson 1960; Hastrup 1986). Her-
mann Pálsson (1980) has argued that some legends might be international, including the Glámr legend.
[6] Like incubi, vampires may sometimes be regarded as primarily sexual predators (McClelland 2006, 23 and 59–
60).
[7] In older scholarly literature, werewolves were frequently confused with vampires, and Perkowski (1989, 37–53)
does see some common features, although he also makes it clear that these are not the same types of creatures;
werewolves are, on the contrary, often regarded as particular enemies of vampires (Pócs 1999, 129–34; McClelland
2006, 107–8; Keyworth 2007, 205–16).
[8] This is acknowledged by Maberry (2006), who is no less commercially minded than Lang and somewhat inaccu-
rate in some of the details, but to my mind he is very acute in focusing on the similar function of diverse supernatu-
ral creatures.
[9] On the East European mora, see Pócs (1999, 31–4 and 44–9). For a recent discussion of the Old English examples,
see Hall (2007). On the connection between vampires and witches, see Keyworth (2007, 185–204) and McClelland
(2006, 51–2). Klaniczay (1990, 168–88) argues for seeing the former as the successors of the latter, at least in East
Europe. On the psychological background of mares, see mainly Jones (1931) and Hufford (1982).
[10] The variety of vampire legends must be stressed. Some vampires may be restricted to travelling in the night,
whereas others are not. There is also much variety in how vampirism is transmitted—see Perkowski (1989), Barber
(1988), Keyworth (2007) and McClelland (2006).
[11] This indeed is one of the links between Dracula and Frankenstein (McClelland 2006, 17–21).
[12] The Swedish origins of Glámr may or may not be important. Sweden was Christianised later than the other Scan-
dinavian countries and it may have carried with it a stigma of heathenism. However, there are very few Swedes
mentioned in Icelandic sources, and it would be extremely incautious to claim on the basis of a few examples that
there were commonly-held prejudices against them (Sverrir Jakobsson 2007, 144 note 4).
[13] It is worth noting that the calf, Glæsir, which may be a reincarnation of the ghost Þórólfr bægifótr, is also distin-
guished by its grey hide (Eyrbyggja saga 171).
[14] McClelland (2006) has done the most extensive research on vampire slayers, but Keyworth (2007, 142–8) also
devotes a chapter to them. On the related witch-sniffers, see Pócs (1999, 143–49) and Sanders (1995, 74–83).
[15] This has been noted by Orchard (1995, 168).
[16] This is also the case in Kjalnesinga saga where the monster fighter Búi Andríðarson both fights a hideous blámaðr,
referred to as a troll (35–36 [Jóhannes Halldórsson 1959]), and is later himself referred to as a troll (ibid. 39; cf.
Ármann Jakobsson 2008, 45 and 47).
[17] See, for example, the recent in-depth analyses of Hume (1974), Viðar Hreinsson (1992) and Poole (2004).
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Óskar Halldórsson “Tröllasaga Bárðdæla og Grettluhöfundur.” Skírnir 156 (1982): 5–36.
Perkowski, Jan L. The Darkling: A Treatise on Slavic Vampirism. Columbus: Slavica, 1989.
Pócs, Eva. Between the Living and the Dead: A Perspective of Witches and Seers in the Early
Modern Age. Translated Szilvia Rédey and Michael Webb. Budapest: Central European
University Press, 1999.
Poole, Russell. “Myth, Psychology, and Society in Grettis saga.” Alvíssmál 11 (2004): 3–16.
Sanders, Andrew. A Deed Without a Name: The Witch in Society and History. Oxford and
Washington, D.C.: Berg, 1995.
Schmitt, Jean Claude. Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in the Medieval Soci-
ety. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998.
Simpson, Jacqueline. “Repentant Soul or Walking Corpse? Debatable Apparitions in Medi-
eval England.” Folklore 114 (2003): 389–402.
Summers, Montague. The Vampire: His Kith and Kin. New York: University Books, 1960.
First published in 1928.
Sverrir Jakobsson. “Strangers in Icelandic Society 1100–1400.” Viking and Medieval Scandi-
navia 3 (2007): 141–57.
Torfi H. Tulinius. “Framliðnir feður: Um forneskju og frásagnarlist í Eyrbyggju, Eglu og
Grettlu.” Heiðin minni: Greinar um fornar bókmenntir, ed. Baldur Hafstað and Haraldur
Bessason. 283–316. Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1999.
Turville-Petre, E. O. G. (Gabriel). “Outlawry.” Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni
20. júlí 1977, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson and Einar Gunnar Pétursson. 769–78. Reykjavík:
Stofnun Árna Magnússonar á Íslandi, 1977.
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Úlfhildur Dagsdóttir. “Vampýrur allra landa sameinist (og fagnið), fyrri hluti: Blóðþyrstir
berserkir: eða Vampýran, vinir og ættingjar.” Lesbók Morgunblaðsins 21 apríl (2001): 10–
11.
Viðar Hreinsson. “Hver er þessi Grettir?” Skáldskaparmál 2 (1992): 77–106.
Örnólfur Thorsson. “Um Grettis sögu.” In Grettis saga. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1994.
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Beast and Man:
Realism and the Occult in Egils saga
As a Troll
The sagas of Icelanders are frequently referred to as realistic narratives.1 Despite
this reference, their narrative realism or indeed any sort of textual realism is not
easy to pin down, not least when it concerns a past narrative whose vocabulary re-
mains interpretively obscure and often lacking a correlation with the modern lan-
guage. Opinions of what is real may vary a great deal; thus realism must boil down
to an uneasy contract between a text and its audience where the audience chooses to
believe in the reality of a narrative although they may realize it is, in fact, fictional.
Such a contract seems to have been in place between the sagas of Icelanders and
their original audience with the added provision that they were likely regarded as
history rather than fiction. History, in this sense signifies not a potential world but
the world as it existed with historical figures and situations meant to be understood
as accurately portrayed by the saga narrative.
Even though their composition exhibits aesthetic elements commonly associated
with fiction, the sagas demand to be taken seriously as accurate accounts of the past.2
And yet the degree to which the medieval audience necessarily believed in the factu-
ality of the sagas eludes us—their reaction is lost. The possibility of an attitude char-
acterized by a willing suspension of disbelief thus remains in play. In this scenario,
we have the medieval audience believe in the reality of the saga not due to a lack of
1 This evaluation was in vogue in the 1960s when Einar Ólafur Sveinsson wrote: “Í.s. forhold til virkeligheden kan
måske karakteriseres som heroisk realisme” (“Íslendingasögur” 509) [the sagas’ attitude towards reality could may-
be be characterized as heroic realism]. The evolution of the reception of the sagas from accurate sources to realistic
prose narratives is a subject too broad to be discussed here at any length, but it is safe to say that when the sagas
stopped being reality itself in the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries they became instead realism. And
yet the champions of this supposed realism were rationalists whose attitude toward the supernatural was highly
critical. The apparent contradiction between the realism of a saga and its supernatural elements was rather simply
whisked under the carpet and the supernatural in the sagas ignored.
2 As Preben Meulengracht Sørensen has remarked (Fortælling 30–2) that the sagas of Icelanders have been cleansed
of all authorial traces, more so than other saga forms, which he regards as essential for the artistic illusion that they
create: i.e. that they are accounts from the past. He also stresses that this is indeed an artistic illusion and that their
orality is highly constructed (Fortælling 63–78).
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healthy skepticism, but rather through the necessity of establishing some version
of the past accepted as truth without a naive failure to realize the uncertainty of all
knowledge of the past. In other words, some of the past may be legendary, but it is
still necessary and has thus been accepted as true in lieu of a better authenticated
version. The legend can become fact, as the cynical Maxwell Scott expresses in John
Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance: “This is the West, sir. When the legend
becomes fact, print the legend”.3
In a given work of realistic fiction and to some extent in all fiction, one can argue
that a certain degree of plausibility is required. It is necessary to keep in mind that
this argument applies to fantastic fiction as well. A magic ring may exist, but its
guardian must still encounter the same troubles any wanderer might expect when
crossing a marsh or climbing a slope. The sagas of Icelanders may be classified as
containing the same type of realism that occurs in modern fantastic fiction: what is
now referred to as the supernatural is far from excluded from the narrative. Thus a
saga may contain realistic elements in its depiction of the human world yet present
a hero who sometimes appears more beast than man. Of course, such an occurrence
does not make a narrative unrealistic in and of itself—that must depend on what is
regarded as real by its creator and by its audience. For those who believe in trolls,
the appearance of a troll hardly makes a narrative less realistic and the idea that the
demarcation between the natural and the supernatural can be clearly defined does
not seem applicable to a medieval text such as a saga (see Ármann Jakobsson, “His-
tory” 54–56). Nowhere is this more evident than in Egils saga.
Saga heroes are generally considered to be what Northrop Frye would have called
“high mimetic” (33–5); that is, they are superhuman, extraordinary rather than or-
dinary people, men and women who in various ways dominate their surroundings.
And yet saga characters are rarely perfect, and there is a strong element of ordinari-
ness in the sagas: some of the issues that arise are mundane and most likely eas-
ily recognizable from the everyday existence of their intended audience. There are
even some remarkably ordinary people in the sagas although mostly in supporting
roles.4
3 Two screenwriters are credited in this film, James Warner Bellah and Willis Goldbeck, who worked from an ori-
ginal story by Dorothy M. Johnson; presumably one of the three is responsible for this well-known line.
4 I am currently writing a book on the marginal or ordinary people in the sagas—people who are really the ordinary
people of every society but who are marginal characters in the sagas since these narratives tend to focus on people
on the highest social level. [This book is forthcoming in 2014/2015.]
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And yet there are also saga heroes who may, in fact, not be entirely human. It is
this dubious humanity upon which I will focus in connection to Egils saga. Egils saga
presents a narrative concerning a family of magnates who are firmly rooted in the
human world: they live at well-known farmsteads and eventually become the ances-
tors of many well-known thirteenth-century historical figures. However, the saga
fails to determine whether its heroes are actually fully human; instead it highlights
the possibility of their otherness.
This ambiguity is expressed when Egill Skalla-Grímsson has lost his ship at the
mouth of the Humber and is forced to seek an audience with his sworn enemy, the
ruler of York, King Eiríkr (whose daunting nickname is Blood-axe). Egill encoun-
ters an anonymous courtier in the king’s courtyard, a somewhat comic figure who is
allowed to punctuate the tension of the narrative by registering a lazy disinterest in
Egill and his troubles. Egill then dispatches this man to seek his friend Arinbjǫrn.
The courtier goes and informs the latter that a man has arrived “mikill sem troll”
(178) [big as a troll].5 By invoking this troll imagery in connection with Egill, the
courtier not only disrupts the narrative intensity thus allowing the audience to relax
in spite of the gravity underlying the situation,6 but also foregrounds an ambiguity
regarding Egill’s nature: he is a man but he is like a troll.7 This description creates
confusion: can any man who resembles a man also resemble a troll? Is there perhaps
no clear distinction between man and troll?
There is an intriguing complexity surrounding the Old Norse concept of the troll.
In the Middle Ages, this word was not used solely in connection with the large,
ugly, and shaggy creatures of the wilderness who would later usurp the name for
themselves (see Ármann Jakobsson, “Identifying”), but also held a variety of other
meanings as well. Most notably we see the term used in reference to the practitio-
ners of magic, along with any creature they might awaken, possess, or imbue with
their sorcery. The word troll is thus utilized in medieval sagas in connection with an
undead warrior in his mound, a crazed boar believed to have been conjured up by
a sorcerer, a heathen deity aiding the pagans in a battle with the Christians, a black
warrior (or blámaðr) who is defined as an ogre rather than a human, and the brunn
5 All translations in this article are my own.
6 Since the situation is very tense at this point, one might interpret this anonymous supporting character as “comic
relief” (on this effect in the sagas, see Sørensen, “Humour” 401).
7 There may be another point to his lack of familiarity with Egill: it demonstrates to the audience that the saga they
are immersed in can be ignored by others. It must be noted, though, that Egill still stands out—even to the uninter-
ested stranger he is not ordinary.
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migi, an anti-social being of an unspecified lineage who urinates into fountains and
wells (Ármann Jakobsson, “Þorgrímr” 40–52). The rich and overlapping nuances
found in the word troll present not only variety but also an unexpected congruity.
Several of these consistencies are of particular interest with regard to the strange
case of Egill Skalla-Grímsson. Let us consider the following five connotations of the
term:
1. A troll is a witch, a practitioner of magic, someone who can control the environ-
ment through a knowledge of dark arts that do not originate with the power of
God.
2. The troll is strange and foreign: it is a different species or a different race whose
very strangeness defines it.
3. The troll is in some way bestial. While anthropoid in appearance, it has the hab-
its of beasts. Thus it may be a cannibal (see Ármann Jakobsson, “Identifying”
191–2), for example, and still fully remain a troll. A human who turns to canni-
balism is generally understood as having lost some portion of his humanity.
4. The troll is hostile and disruptive. It exists against the natural order of the world
and thus it can never be a positive force. There are no good trolls in the Middle
Ages.8
5. A troll is hard to pin down. In addition to the noun “troll”, we have the verbal
forms “trylla” and “tryllask” (Ármann Jakobsson, “Þorgrímr” 49–50). Thus a
troll does not seem to be a permanent state of being but rather one of becoming
and change. One could thus argue that people are “trollable”—especially in the
case of those who have become uncontrollable.
It is uncertain whether these five characteristics apply to every troll individually, but
they do encapsulate the essence of the medieval conception of a troll. They are cer-
tainly significant for the case of Egill and his family, who some regard as trolls.
8 Whereas some have been conjured up by the tourist industry and rebellious authors in the last thirty to forty years.
Before that, any notion that a troll could have positive characteristics would have been foreign to Icelanders. In Ib-
sen’s Peer Gynt (1867), the figure of the troll is far more nuanced and complex. The answer to the question: “What
is the difference between troll and man?” seems to suggest that egoism is a fundamental trait of the troll, which
shows that, although Ibsen’s trolls are probably mostly inspired by the trolls of post-medieval folklore, he is also
somewhat in tune with the medieval understanding of the troll.
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Going Berserk
The bestiality and the mobile state of the troll are both characteristics common to
the berserkr, a creature, like many others, referred to as a troll in Old Norse texts.
These texts often refer to the same creature as both a loathsome troll and as a be-
witched berserkr (Ármann Jakobsson, “Þorgrímr” 48–9). Egils saga initially intro-
duces the concept of the berserkr at the beginning of the text (3); later on in chapter
nine, the text mentions the twelve royal berserkir and their ability to withstand all
weapons (22–3). There has never been any scholarly consensus as to the meaning of
the concept of the berserkr (see the brief but nuanced summary by Liberman). Some
regard them as warriors so confident in their own invulnerability that they fought
without armor (thus “bare in their serks”); another possibility is that their excep-
tional abilities marked them as exotic, bestial, and perhaps even as shape shifters. At
times berserkir are also referred to as úlfheðnar (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga 5; Einar
Ólafur Sveinsson, Vatnsdœla saga 24), which recalls the possible interpretation of
the Old Norse word ber-serkr as “in the skin of a bear” (thus bear, not bare). This
bearskin might simply be a piece of clothing (as Vatnsdœla saga indicates) rather
than an entirely new hide. Most sources do not indicate an actual metamorphosis
from man to beast, but rather metaphorically denote a change of temperament into
a half-crazed state.
Perhaps scholars ask too much in seeking the original meaning of the term, or
even a specific medieval meaning. The occult is, by definition, difficult to pinpoint.
It refers to elements that are vague, unknown, eerie, and dangerous. Defining and
understanding an occult object in any comprehensive manner lessens its power to
evoke both fear and the unknown and thus detracts from its primary signifying
function to represent the strange and the terrifying.
The lack of scholarly consensus on the nature of the berserkir might also reflect a
lack of consensus in the Middle Ages as to what these somewhat frightening crea-
tures actually were. We should not exclude the possibility that there may have been
some in Egils saga’s original audience who believed the berserkir were ordinary hu-
mans enraged in battle to the point of madness. On the other end of the interpre-
tive spectrum, others might have believed them to be shape shifters who metamor-
phosed into beasts in the midst of battle.
Unfortunately, we also must remain uncertain in our understanding of the process
of shape shifting. Does a human literally change into a bear? What does it mean for
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a human literally to be transformed into an animal? To what degree does this trans-
formation involve the separation of mind and body? And what becomes bestial, the
body, the mind, or perhaps both? 9 These questions concern the essence of humanity:
it is difficult to explain how a man might change into a beast without first knowing
what a man is and whether his humanity is defined by his mind or his body. The am-
biguity surrounding shape shifting, whether as a berserkr or as something else, is cer-
tainly significant for any interpretation of the specific nature of Egill and his family.
The first berserkr mentioned in the saga is Berðlu-Kári, Skalla-Grímr’s maternal
grandfather. He is said to be “inn mesti afreksmaðr at afli ok áræði” (3) [excelling in
strength and courage] as well as a berserkr but there are no further references to his
berserkr nature. His sons, Eyvindr lambi and Ǫlvir hnúfa, in fact, seem less bestial
than their in-law Úlfr and nephew Skalla-Grímr, although one of them does have
an animal nick-name (“lamb”). However, in spite of the apparently normal physi
cality of Kári and his sons, the berserkir are separated from ordinary humans even in
Egils saga (23), where the emphasis on their otherness is relatively light. The berserkr
nature enters decisively into the family of Kveld-Úlfr with his marriage to Salbjǫrg
Káradóttir. Of course, the possibility remains that this otherness may have already
been present in Úlfr himself and his ancestors, who may have been even less human
than the family of Kári.
Creature of the Night

Kveld-Úlfr Bjálfason is the first character mentioned in Egils saga. His parents are
also introduced: Bjálfi and Hallbera, sister of Hallbjǫrn the half-troll (3). Thus the
troll element is linked to the family from the outset of the saga. Given the ambigu-
ity surrounding the word troll, it is not easy to determine the extent of Hallbjǫrn’s
troll-like nature. Ketils saga hængs indicates that Hallbjǫrn and his family are of a
different race, perhaps closer to the bestial than the human (see Ciklamini; Ármann
Jakobsson, “Identifying” 194). The identification of other races and ethnicities with
the animal kingdom is a well-known phenomenon. In the Nordic region, both mag-
ic and bestiality were easily transferred to the Sámi inhabitants, who—to the Norse-
men—represented the exotic.10
9 This has been a preoccupation of those interested in shape shifting and magic for a long time; see Strömbäck
160–90.
10 See Hermann Pálsson (14–27) who tends in this study to regard all giants and trolls as representations of the Sámi
(cf. Sverrir Jakobsson 246–76). Although his single-mindedness in pursuing this idea sometimes leads him to neg-
lect other possible solutions, many of his conclusions are quite intriguing and useful.
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Thus Hallbjǫrn might have been half-Finnish with its troll-like connotations of
the strange, foreign, magical, hostile, disruptive, and bestial. In this social context,
he retains a degree of otherness—he is not quite human, not unlike the giants of the
Old Norse mythological narratives. However, whether he is subsequently regarded
as super-human or sub-human is by no means certain.11 That he himself regards
trolls as sub-human is clearly suggested in Ketils saga hængs, where he uses the word
troll as an insult, something that seems somewhat conflicted given his own half-troll
state (Rafn II 123).
Thus the troll is present in Egils saga from its inception, although only in the
wings—Hallbjǫrn never makes an actual appearance—and only partially as he is a
half-troll. The troll-like characteristics are not specified at this stage. The first thing
we learn about our protagonist Úlfr is that he is “svá mikill ok sterkr, at eigi váru
hans jafningjar” (3) [so big and strong that none was his equal]. Big and strong does
not necessarily indicate superhuman abilities. However, a short while later we learn
that he was “forvitri” (4) [had the gift of prophecy] and thus holds a privileged rela-
tionship with the unknown and the occult. The prescience of Úlfr might well iden-
tify him as a practitioner of magic and, according to Old Norse texts, a magician is a
troll (Ármann Jakobsson, “Þorgrímr” 41–5).
Next we are introduced to Kveld-Úlfr’s most notable troll-like behavior, which
only occurs in the evening: “En dag hvern, er at kveldi leið, þá gerðisk hann styggr,
svá at fáir menn máttu orðum við hann koma; var hann kveldsvæfr. Þat var mál
manna, at hann væri mjǫk hamrammr; hann var kallaðr Kveld-Úlfr” (4) [But every
day, when night approached, he became so hostile that few men could speak to him;
he retired early to sleep. People said that he was a shape shifter; he was called Kveld-
Úlfr (Night-Wolf)].
Kveld-Úlfr likes to retire early, much like Proust, but in his case this habit is not
an indication of a peaceful and thoughtful nature, but rather of his wolfish tenden-
11 In Margaret Clunies Ross’s analysis of the social world of the Old Norse myths, the giants are clearly established
as inferior to the gods (Clunies Ross 48–56). In much the same way, the giants and trolls of the Old Norse legend-
ary sagas are palpably subhuman rather than superhuman (Ármann Jakobsson, “Identifying” 184–5). It is on the
other hand uncertain how the men of Hrafnista and Egill’s ancestors fit into this hierarchy. In Norway they are
clearly regarded as nobility, perhaps in spite of their bestiality, and in Iceland Skalla-Grímr establishes himself as
a major aristocrat within the framework of the commonwealth, which was in no way an egalitarian society even
though it had no ultimate ruler.
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cies.12 His name is not just a name: Úlfr means “wolf” and the word hamrammr in-
dicates shape shifting although, as so often is the case with such occult phenomena,
the specifics are not explained.
In the case of berserkir, the hammremmi take the shape of a bear unless they are
úlfheðnar, in which case the term indicates that they adopt the shape of a wolf. In
Kveld-Úlfr’s case, his name seems to be a clear indication in combination with his
tendency to retire early of a transformation into a wolf. The moon here is not men-
tioned, but in the folklore surrounding the werewolf the relationship between shape
shifting and moonlight is fairly well established (Summers). Thus the reason why
Kveld-Úlfr is styggr might be that he changes into a wolf at full moon, something
moreover indicated by the word hamrammr.
Is this change literal or metaphorical? The saga does not provide us with the an-
swer, but rather the text opens these various possibilities to the interpretive judg-
ment of its readers. Those who believe in werewolves hardly need more evidence
to establish that Kveld-Úlfr is literally transformed into a wolf. Those who do not
may interpret his wolfish behavior in terms of a human transformation of temper or
character. Man, too, can behave in a wolfish way, in this case by proving unsociable
and growling at anyone who tries to approach him, behavior that temporarily re-
moves him from the normalized circles of human society.
In spite of this introduction, the wolfish nature of Kveld-Úlfr does not figure
prominently in the story until after the death of his son Þórólfr, at which point
Kveld-Úlfr and Skalla-Grímr are forced to flee Norway to escape the wrath of King
Haraldr. As a final gesture of defiance, they attack the ship of the king’s minions
Hallvarðr and Sigtryggr, who are escorting the king’s young cousins. Kveld-Úlfr is
carrying a weapon called “bryntrǫll” (68) [an armed troll], and when he attacks the
ship, something occurs: “ok svá er sagt, at þá hamaðisk hann, ok fleiri váru þeir
fǫrunautar hans, er þá hǫmuðusk” (69) [and it is said that he changed shape and
more of his followers then changed shape]. “Svá er sagt” is an interesting phrase;
the narrator seems to want to distance himself from this paranormal event. Later
the text refers to this shape changing as both “hamrammir” and “berserksgangr”
12 The wolfish nature of the main family of Egils saga was somewhat neglected by scholars for most of the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries perhaps because their interpretations were framed by the notion that the sagas are realistic
which led to their magical elements being largely ignored. In the last few years, the wolf has again entered into
the discussion of the saga, mainly in the work of Bergljót S. Kristjánsdóttir (76–81) but also Torfi H. Tulinius
(103–6).
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(70)—the audience is given two options from which to choose. The consequences
of this shifting are so strong that Kveld-Úlfr retires to his bed and eventually dies.
But what happened? Did Hallvarðr meet an actual wolf in battle? Was the troll in
Kveld-Úlfr’s hands itself carried by a troll? We are not told. The saga simply states
that Kveld-Úlfr “hamaðisk” and leaves it to its audience to interpret the significance
of “hamremmi”. Thus the audience is free to choose their own version of what hap-
pened in accordance with their own attitude toward the occult.
Wolf Mood
Apart from Kveld-Úlfr, Skalla-Grímr has various farmhands and neighbors who
form his entourage when he goes to see the king after his brother’s death. This
group is described in terms significant to our discussion: “Tólf váru þeir til fararinn
ar, ok allir inir sterkustu menn ok margir hamrammir” (62) [they were twelve to go
and all of them very strong men and many shape shifters]. These are the very same
men who are on the ship with Kveld-Úlfr and Skalla-Grímr in the battle with Hall-
varðr and Sigtryggr.
This is no common entourage, and the (yet again nameless) person who meets
them in the king’s yard and tells Ǫlvir hnúfa of their arrival stresses their ambigu-
ous humanity by calling them þursar and doubting their humanity: “Menn eru hér
komnir úti, tólf saman, ef menn skal kalla; en líkari eru þeir þursum at vexti ok at
sýn en mennskum mǫnnum” (63) [Men have arrived here outside, twelve of them,
if you can call them men; they are more like þursar in build and appearance than
humans]. Thus Skalla-Grímr, much like his father, is not quite human in the eyes of
the anonymous courtier in the yard. We can refer to him as a man, but his human
nature is problematic as he more closely resembles a þurs.
The nature of the þurs is by no means certain, but a þurs can be safely categorized
as a type of troll given the connotative overlap between the two terms. Þurs is es-
sentially a negative word: a þurs is a magical being who is anthropoid and yet bestial,
hostile, and in some way subhuman (Schulz 43; Ármann Jakobsson, “The Good”;
Ármann Jakobsson, “Identifying” 187).13 The word is prominent in the Prose Edda
where jǫtnar and þursar (usually hrímþursar or “frost giants”) are more or less syn-
onymous (Ármann Jakobsson, “The Good” 3–4).
Skalla-Grímr’s audience with the king does not end amiably, but the king himself
13 As Schulz has shown (39), the word is rare outside Snorra-Edda, the legendary sagas, and Bárðar saga.
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does not refer to Skalla-Grímr and his companions as either trolls or þursar. Instead,
after Skalla-Grímr leaves, he says to his men: “Þat sé ek á skalla þeim inum mikla,
at hann er fullr upp úlfúðar” (65) [I can see on that great bald head that he is full of
wolf mood]. The word úlfúð simply means “hostility” in modern Icelandic although
it is difficult to escape completely the inflection of the literal meaning of the word,
which is clearly understood from its construction. Úlf-úð must mean “wolf mood”.
The word is clearly used to denote hostility: wolves are identified as hostile and
the word wolf (both úlfr and vargr) itself is also used as a word for a criminal or
outlaw (see Turville-Petre 777). But its appearance cannot be explained in terms of
a simple metaphor when the hostile person in question is the son of Kveld-Úlfr.
While the name is a common male name in Iceland, it also retains underlying traces
of the original meaning. This Úlfr is not merely a man called Úlfr, he is also a shape
shifter, someone to avoid at night. He is not just compared to a wolf, but rather per-
haps is—at least in part—a wolf. And the “wolf mood” of his son may not be normal
human hostility either: perhaps it also retains traces of the wolfish nature integral to
this family.
In spite of his wolf mood, Skalla-Grímr is not said to have hamask on the ship
when Kveld-Úlfr and some of their entourage go berserk; when he arrives in Ice-
land, he is neither bellicose nor aggressive toward his neighbors. He merely ap-
propriates a great deal of land like any self-respecting bully of a magnate would:
his settlement becomes one of the largest in Iceland. Up to this point, there is no
sign of his bestiality. Iceland is a peaceful country without kings and armies and the
strength of Skalla-Grímr is such that he need not fear anyone.
After his arrival in Iceland his supernatural powers are mentioned at only one
point: when he dives into the sea to find a large stone for use in his smithy. Return-
ing to the water’s surface holding a giant stone is not a feat readily accomplished
with normal human strength, and this stone is said to be so big that four men cannot
lift it (74–5). The completion of this task hints that the normal standards for a man’s
strength should not be applied to Skalla-Grímr. The nameless person at King Har-
aldr’s court previously suggested that Skalla-Grímr is more giant than man. In this
respect, he resembles both his ancestors as well as his troll-sized son Egill.
While the wolf is not mentioned again in connection with Skalla-Grímr, the night
is. By this point in the narrative, he is much older—almost sixty—and competing
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with his son and the latter’s best friend Þórðr in some type of ballgame. As the game
continues, Skalla-Grímr starts to get weary as expected given his age. But then, night
falls: “En um kveldit eptir sólarfall, þá tók þeim Agli verr at ganga; gerðisk Grímr
þá svá sterkr, at hann greip Þórð upp ok keyrði niðr svá hart, at hann lamðisk allr,
ok fekk hann þegar bana; síðan greip hann til Egils” (101) [But at night after sunset,
Egill and Þórðr started to do worse; Grímr then became so strong that he lifted
Þórðr up and then hurled him to the ground with such force that he was all battered
and died immediately. Then he grasped at Egill]. The setting of the sun increases
Skalla-Grímr’s strength considerably. In addition to this new strength, he also seems
to lose control, and possibly even his humanity as he becomes a threat to the life
of his own son (indicating a possible change into something other, something un-
known). Egill is saved only at the intervention of his somewhat troll-like nanny,
Þorgerðr brák, who explains what is happening: “Hamask þú nú, Skalla-Grímr, at
syni þínum” (101) [You now savage your son, Skalla-Grímr].
The term Hamask is ambiguous. It has survived into modern Icelandic with the
sense of “working tirelessly”, but its only other appearance in Egils saga occurs in
the aforementioned Kveld-Úlfr scene where it refers to shape shifting (although this
connection is never clearly aligned with either metaphor or reality). The same un-
certainty seems to arise here as well. Skalla-Grímr’s strength comes from metamor-
phozing into something strange and unknown, but there is nothing in the scene that
suggests a literal change into a wolf. Again, the specific mechanics regarding such a
transformation are left undefined as is the question of whether the wolfish mind or
the wolfish body contains the essence of the wolf. His frenzy is akin to that of the
berserkir and is likewise never explained in the saga.
The supernatural is presented in Egils saga such that the saga remains open to a
supernatural or a metaphorical interpretation. This vagueness is likely an intention-
al compositional inclusion as such openness and resistance to closed definition is
required when dealing with the occult. Nevertheless the incident regarding Skalla-
Grímr’s increased strength and frenzy during the night firmly places Skalla-Grímr
in the same category as Kveld-Úlfr. The king appears correct in his assessment that
the son is just as full of “wolf mood” as the father. In the moonlight, he gains added
strength and metamorphoses (hamask) into something incomprehensible, other,
and threatening. Its exact identity remains uncertain, but the openness inherent to
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the category of troll aptly encompasses the various possibilities. In this new guise,
Skalla-Grímr is configured as some type of troll. He is thus easily comprehensible
provided one understands the nuances of the troll as category.
As mentioned above, one type of troll is found in undead beings. When Skalla-
Grímr dies at an extremely old age, his death seems uncanny. He is found sitting
rather than laying down and he is so stiff that he cannot be placed into a horizontal
position. Egill must be fetched; only he is able to move the deceased Skalla-Grímr
(174–5). There is an underlying hint in this scene that specific rituals connected with
undead beings are observed. This connective kernel brings up the possibility that
the dead Skalla-Grímr changes into an undead being. Egill approaches his father’s
corpse from behind in an endeavor, perhaps, to avoid the well-known “evil eye”
of magicians and troll-like beings in medieval Iceland (see Einar Ólafur Sveinsson,
Laxdœla saga 107, fn. 2; cf. Dundes). Additionally, Skalla-Grímr is removed through
the wall of the house rather than the door, suggesting again an undead identity. He
is not known, however, to walk again or to cause any trouble after his death, and he
is present in his mound when Egill later inters his son Bǫðvarr although this action
could also be interpreted as an effort to appease Skalla-Grímr (243).14
The Truth is Out There

The gradual decline of the wolfish nature within the family is attested by Egill.
Whereas Kveld-Úlfr is “mjǫk hamrammr” (4) and Skalla-Grímr hamask once after
sunset, there is no mention of Egill ever assuming a new shape in either the night
or day. And yet the anonymous courtier in York deftly compares him to a troll.
Arinbjǫrn’s immediate reaction validates the comparison—he knows instantly who
the troll-like figure must be. Egill himself knows before going to see him that he
will be “auðkenndr” (178) in this region and thus acknowledges his extraordinary
nature without referring to himself as a troll. The troll is always the other.
It is not impossible that Egill knows that he is perceived by many as a troll, that
his ancestry is fairly exotic, and that he himself is not above exhibiting troll-like be-
havior. One of the foreign behaviors of the troll in the sagas is cannibalism (Ármann
Jakobsson, “Identifying” 192). For example, Sörla saga sterka gives us the phrase “ef
14 Torfi H. Tulinius (95) has drawn attention to the possibility that the ghost of Skalla-Grímr has caused the drown-
ing of Bǫðvarr. If the text indicates this possibility, it does so very subtly. But, as is so often the case with the occult,
ultimately nobody can be certain. Perhaps Egill is as much in the dark as Egils saga’s audience and puts his son in
Skalla-Grímr’s mound just in case, without knowing whether there is a ghost there or not.
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ek bít þik á barkann, sem tröll gjöra” (Rafn III 450) [if I came at your throat like a
troll]. Biting people in the throat is clearly associated with the troll. When Egill fa-
mously kills his opponent Atli the Short in a duel, he displays cannibalistic and troll-
like tendencies by biting Atli in the throat and finishing him off (210).15
Egill might also be considered a troll in that he seems to possess magical powers.
He uses runes to cure a daughter of Þorfinnr in Eiðaskógr who is “hamstoli” (229)
[out of her wits or (literally) out of her skin], and he infamously erects a níð post
with runes and a horse’s head on top to curse the Norwegian king and his family
(171). When the king is later exiled to York, it is possible to interpret the curse as
successful and, depending on the audience’s attitude toward the occult, believe that
Egill works powerful magic.
If we view Egill in the context of characteristics associated with trolls listed above,
we find that Egill possibly practices magic that does not originate with the Christian
God (such arts are sometimes referred to as forneskja [ancient lore] in the sagas).
He is also configured as other in that he descends from werewolves, berserkir, and
half-trolls. He is different enough that he cannot hide at the court of King Eiríkr
in York: he is “auðkenndr” (178) there and everywhere else. The bestial nature of
Egill is perhaps not as pronounced as it is in his father and grandfather, but he does
show his cannibalistic tendencies in finishing off his opponent in a troll-like man-
ner by biting his throat. Finally, Egill is certainly disruptive at the court of the king
of Norway, although at home he behaves much like any other Icelandic magnate,
presumably highly respected for his wealth and as a descendant of Skalla-Grímr. He
does not create much disturbance in the local community, and his presence seems
far removed from any eerie or inhuman element.
To the Norwegian king, Egill must appear distinct from ordinary adversaries as an
unruly troll-like figure from the past whose magic and potential instability should
be feared. Their struggle is indeed a political struggle as has been highlighted by
many excellent political interpretations (Andersson 102–18), but the political aspect
of this narrative is but one of many contained within the saga. The troll elements
underlying the nuances of the struggle between Egill and the king should not be
ignored.
Egill is both troll and not troll. We do not know that he ever shape shifts. He is
15 As I have drawn attention to elsewhere (Ármann Jakobsson, “Empathy” 7 fn. 4), Egill kills several people abroad
during his adulthood, but none in Iceland until he kills two of his de facto son-in-law’s slaves in his extreme old age
(297). After he grows up, Egill thus does not kill anyone in Iceland whose death might result in a lawsuit or feud.
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never referred to as a troll apart from this one ambiguous instance in York. His
ancestors may or may not have been shape shifters. Ultimately, Egill’s own troll
nature remains obscured by a lack of concrete evidence. Rather, Egill exhibits a troll
potentiality that opens the text to the possibility of the occult. Egils saga is deliber-
ately ambiguous and the ultimate truth regarding its hero’s troll-like nature is never
completely revealed. The occult must remain unknown and unknowable.
Works Cited
Andersson, Theodore M. The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280). Ithaca:
Cornell UP, 2006.
Ármann Jakobsson. “Identifying the Ogre: The Legendary Saga Giants.” Fornaldarsagaerne,
myter og virkelighed: studier i de oldislandske fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda. Eds. Agneta Ney,
Ármann Jakobsson, and Annette Lassen. København: Museum Tusculanum, 2009. 181–
200.
–. “Egils saga and Empathy: Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dysfunctional Saga Family.”
Scandinavian Studies 80 (2008): 1–18.
–. “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Bárðar saga and Its Giants.” Medieval Scandinavia 15
(2005): 1–15.
–. “History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an Historical Narrative.” Saga-Book 25 (1998):
53–71.
–. “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: The Meanings of Troll and Ergi in Medieval
Iceland.” Saga-Book 32 (2008): 39–68.
Bergljót S. Kristjánsdóttir. “Primum caput: Um höfuð Egils Skalla-Grímssonar, John frá
Salisbury o.fl.” Skáldskaparmál 4 (1997): 74–96.
Ciklamini, Marlene. “Grettir and Ketill Hængr, the Giant-Killers.” Arv (1966): 136–55.
Clunies Ross, Margaret. Prolonged Echoes: Old Norse Myths in Medieval Northern Society.
Vol. 1. The Viking Collection 7. Odense: Odense UP, 1994.
Dundes, Alan. “Wet and Dry, the Evil Eye: An Essay in Indo-European and Semitic World-
view.” The Evil Eye: A Folklore Casebook. Ed. Alan Dundes. New York: Garland, 1981.
257–312.
Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. “Íslendingasögur.” Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra
vikingetid til reformationstid 7. Oslo: Gyldendal Norsk Forlag, 1962. 496–513.
–, ed. Laxdœla saga. Íslenzk fornrit V. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1934.
–, ed. Vatnsdœla saga. Íslenzk fornrit VIII. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939.
Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1971.
Guðni Jónsson, ed. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Íslenzk fornrit VII. Reykjavík: Hið Íslenzka
Hermann Pálsson. Úr landnorðri: samar og ystu rætur íslenskrar menningar. Studia Islandica
54. Reykjavík: Bókmenntafræðistofnun Háskóla Íslands, 1997.
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Liberman, Anatoly. “Berserkir: A Double Legend.” Scandinavia and Christian Europe in the
Middle Ages: Papers of the 12th International Saga Conference, Bonn/Germany, 28th July –
2nd August 2003. Eds. Rudolf Simek and Judith Meurer. Bonn: Universität Bonn, 2003.
337–40.
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, prod. and dir. John Ford, 123 min., Paramount Home
Video, 2009, digital video disc.
Rafn, Carl Christian, ed. Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda eptir gömlum handritum. Vol. 2. Kaup-
mannahöfn: Prentadar i E. Poppsku prentsmidju, 1829.
–. Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda eptir gömlum handritum. Vol. 3. Kaupmannahöfn: Prentadar i
E. Poppsku prentsmidju, 1830.
Schulz, Katja. Riesen: Von Wissenshütern und Wildnisbewohnern in Edda und Saga. Heidel-
berg: Winter, 2004.
Sigurður Nordal, ed. Egils Saga. Íslenzk fornrit II. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag,
1933.
Strömbäck, Dag. Sejd: Textstudier i nordisk religonshistoria. Stockholm: H. Geber; Köpen
hamn: Levin & Munksgaard, 1935.
Summers, Montague. The Werewolf in Lore and Legend. New York: Dover Publications,
1933.
Sverrir Jakobsson. Við og veröldin: heimsmynd Íslendinga 1100–1400. Reykjavík: Háskólaút
gáfan, 2005.
Sørensen, Preben Meulengracht. Fortælling og ære: studier i islændingesagaerne. Aarhus: Aar-
hus universitetsforlag, 1993.
–. “On Humour, Heroes, Morality, and Anatomy in Fóstbrœðra saga.” Twenty-Eight Pa-
pers Presented to Hans Bekker-Nielsen on the Occasion of his Sixtieth Birthday 28 April 1993.
Odense: Odense UP, 1993. 395–418.
Torfi H. Tulinius. Skáldið í skriftinni: Snorri Sturluson og Egils saga. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska
bókmenntafélag, 2004.
Turville-Petre, Gabriel. “Outlawry.” Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni 20. júlí 1977.
Eds. Einar G. Pétursson and Jónas Kristjánsson. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar,
1977. 769–78.
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Egils saga and Empathy:
Emotions and Moral Issues in
a Dysfunctional Saga Family
Psychological Dramas
This may well be the unhappiest home in Iceland. With two dominating charac-
ters, both men, one in his late fifties, the other on the brink of adolescence, both
extremely large, their behavior extravagant, other members of the household must
be overwhelmed by this psychological dictatorship. The two men are not speaking
to each other. Their silence is neither good nor meaningless and harmless. It is, in
fact, pregnant with ill feelings and fueled by the cruel and senseless crimes that each
has perpetuated against the other. The mother of the house is absent, we do not
know why. No one else has the social status or the strength of character to medi-
ate between the two; these extras hardly even matter. Then, enters this miserable
house a happy, vibrant, handsome, buoyant, young man. He has been travelling in
the world, has befriended princes and enjoyed a brilliant social life among the aristo-
crats and most capable men of the age. His old family home in rural Iceland would
perhaps seem claustrophobic, even if it were filled with mirth and laughter. It most
assuredly is not.
The Sagas of Icelanders, composed in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and perhaps
some in the fifteenth century, are psychological dramas. This trait has been long
acknowledged, and yet there are surprisingly few recent scholarly analyses of char-
acters, emotions, and personal relationships in the sagas (with notable exceptions:
Miller, Høyersten, and Poole). That situation may well be partially explained by the
fact that saga scholars are typically trained in philology, language, and history, but
not, for example, in psychology. One might even sometimes get the feeling that a
majority of philologists regard such concerns as too “modern” and perhaps slightly
frivolous, but the situation may also have a mundane explanation. Although Freud is
separated from Grimm and Rask by a mere seventy years, these years were forma-
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tive for the development of humanistic scholarship. Psychology, thus, remains the
new, trendy, and slightly suspect cousin of philology. Trained in philology myself, I
understand the wariness. However, not analyzing the personal relationships in the
Sagas of Icelanders is doing them a disservice since they are very much dramas of
character. Character depiction is a vital component of the art of the sagas and one of
the reasons they are still read and enjoyed. Whenever the sagas are taught at univer-
sity level, one of the first questions with which the student reader wrestles pertains
to the characters in the sagas. Psychology is, thus, an area of serious saga scholarship
that should not be abandoned. And one of my aims in this experimental article is to
try to say something serious about character depiction in a well-known saga.
Egils saga is one of the longest of the sagas encompassing the long life of Egill
Skalla-Grímsson—chieftain, warrior, and poet—and his biography is preceded by
a long narrative about the previous generation of his family, his father Skalla-
Grímr and his brother.1 I will mostly concern myself with one of about ninety
chapters—i.e. chapter 40—which takes place during Egill’s childhood at Borg.2 I
believe that not only psychological readings, but also close readings of the sagas,
which take relatively small narrative segments and pay close attention to detail,
are far too few and far-between (although there are some significant exceptions,
see Cook). This focalization is in my opinion justified by the fact, which should
be plain at the end of this article, that this earlier chapter just described along
with chapter 78 in which Egill, late in his life, mourns for his two sons are es-
sential to any study of the family relationships in the saga and the emotional life
of Egill Skalla-Grímsson.
The Family at Borg

Chapter 40 of Egils saga consists of two linked narratives, accounts of Egill’s assas-
sinations. The first—when he is seven years old—involves his killing of a slightly
older boy, Grímr Heggsson, after having been treated roughly in a game. This death
causes a bloody quarrel among the relatives of the dead boy and some of Skalla-
Grímr’s friends and allies in the region, but the Borg household mysteriously takes
1 Egils saga is usually believed to have been composed in Iceland in the first half of the thirteenth century, and, in
fact, the oldest manuscript of the saga is only slightly younger. Most twentieth-century scholars believed that
Snorri Sturluson authored the saga. For the arguments for this conclusion, see Sigurður Nordal, Egils saga liii–
xcv. The age and authorship of Egils saga are not important for my study so I will discuss it no more.
2 I follow the Íslenzk fornrit edition, but the number of the chapters in the saga actually vary, see Egils saga (A-
version; 2001) 56-58; Egils saga (C-version; 2006) 48–52.
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no part. In the second narrative, Egill is twelve years old and kills his father’s cher-
ished foreman and paymaster as revenge for the death of his only two friends in the
world, whom his father had slain. This reprisal results in father and son breaking
off relations while nevertheless remaining in the same house: “þeir feðgar rœddusk
þá ekki við, hvárki gott né illt, ok fór svá fram þann vetr” (102) [Father and son did
not speak to each other, neither good nor ill, and for the whole winter]. Nothing is
said about how this tension affected the household: that has to be imagined. Borg
was a farmstead, but any Icelandic farm during the Middle Ages would be a con-
stricted space, especially during the bleak winters. The atmosphere would have been
claustrophobic, even if it were not dominated by two large men with overwhelming
personalities vigourously ignoring each other. After all, three people are dead, and
these deaths remain present in the heavy silence.
Skalla-Grímr is introduced at the beginning of the saga as a “svartr maðr ok ljótr”
(5) [black and ugly man], and he is “líkr feðr sínum, bæði yfirlits ok at skaplyndi”
(5) [like his father, both in appearance and temperament] (see also 50). His father,
Úlfr, had already been introduced as a big, strong man. Although his wife is “kvenna
vænst” (4) [good-looking], he, presumably, is not. And although Úlfr is a devoted
farmer, who rises early and takes a keen interest in every small and menial task his
men perform, he is also “styggr” (4) [hostile] in the evening and thus is nicknamed
Kveld-Úlfr. Úlfr is not just any first name, but it means “wolf”. It is, moreover,
suggested in Egils saga that Kveld-Úlfr and his family are actually shape-shifters al-
though the saga never makes this point quite clear (see Sørensen, “Starkaðr” 766;
Hermann Pálsson 60–3; and Bergljót Kristjánsdóttir 75–81). It is as if the saga au-
thor challenges those who would like to do so to believe them shapeshifters, where-
as others can see the constant references to wolves as metaphors.
Grímr (as Skalla-Grímr is called in his youth) is a carpenter and is often seen fish-
ing with the farmhands (Sigurður Nordal 5). When invited to join the service of
King Haraldr of Norway, he refuses, whereas his brother Þórólfr eagerly accepts
(13–14). Grímr stays at home but goes to see the King after Þórólfr’s death even
though he claims he is not “orðsnjallr” (61) [witty] enough to speak to the King. As
it turns out, Skalla-Grímr’s only visit to a royal court is not a success. He takes with
him eleven men, most of whom have strange nicknames, and they are said to be
more like trolls than ordinary humans (63). As unsuitable as his companions are at
court, Skalla-Grímr himself does not feel at home there either, and his feelings never
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change. When facing the King, he again refuses to enter his service and goes as far
as to express a treasonous desire to kill King Haraldr. After this ugly confrontation,
Kveld-Úlfr and Skalla-Grímr do the sensible thing and immediately leave Norway
for Iceland. Kveld-Úlfr dies on the voyage, so Skalla-Grímr comes to Iceland alone
and immediately starts farming and working as a blacksmith. He is at the same time
a quite ordinary, if unusually dedicated, farmer and a trollish figure who can dive to
the bottom of the fjord to find a suitable stone for his smithy (75, 78–9).
Like his father, Skalla-Grímr seems to have married a woman who is not quite as
strange as he. We do not know much about Bera and have to infer much from the
silence. No mention is made of a wolfish streak in her, and she is not said to be black
and ugly. Her father is a former royal retainer, who seems to be a jovial and friendly
man. The only time he is really portrayed in the saga, he is welcoming his trouble-
some three-year-old grandson to a party by giving him small presents and encour-
aging him to recite poetry (81–3). Bera herself only makes one explicit appearance
after Egill’s first killing: “Bera kvað Egil vera víkingsefni ok kvað þat mundu fyrir
liggja, þegar hann hefði aldr til, at honum væri fengin herskip” (100) [Bera said that
Egill was a promising viking and said that when he was old enough, he would be in
charge of warships].
Chapter 31 states that Skalla-Grímr and Bera had several children, but they all
died in infancy until Þórólfr, Egill’s older brother, was born. Then the couple had
two more daughters, Sæunn and Þórunn, and last a son, Egill, born when Skalla-
Grímr is close to fifty. This last son is obviously not as eagerly awaited as the first,
nor does he show as much promise as his siblings, at least not as unambiguously
(80). Skalla-Grímr’s reaction to his youngest child also seems lukewarm at best. It
is later mentioned that his aforementioned foreman and paymaster—Egill’s second
victim—is “kærstr” (102) [best loved] of his master. No such statement is ever made
about Egill. Skalla-Grímr is a work-horse: he loves work and loves his foreman and
paymaster, who assists him in the productive business of managing a farm. He also
loves his oldest son Þórólfr, as the saga explicitly states: “unni honum ok vel faðir
ok móðir” (80) [his father and mother loved him dearly]. But as I will discuss below,
Egill is not quite as lovable as Þórólfr.
The first clash between Skalla-Grímr and Egill happens when Egill is three years
old and is not allowed to go with the rest of the family to a party at his father-in-
law’s, even though the little boy was invited. This refusal is sharpened by Skalla-
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Grímr’s prickly statement that Egill would not be able to behave himself in public
especially with drinking going on: he is bad enough sober (81).3 After Egill has
not only chosen to disobey him, but also performed the spectacular feat for a three
year old of riding alone over the moors from Borg to Álptanes and then composing
two complicated stanzas of skaldic verse, Skalla-Grímr is still not reported to have
said anything (81-2). His reaction to his son’s first killing—when Egill kills the older
and larger boy Grímr Heggsson in anger—is equally indifferent: “lét Skalla-Grímr
sér fátt um finnask”(100) [Skalla-Grímr had little to say about this]. What Egill has
done is morally dubious, and Skalla-Grímr might have a reason to be angry especial-
ly since some of his friends run into trouble as a result of Egill’s actions. Seen in that
light, Bera’s praise of Egill’s promise as a viking may, on the other hand, be regarded
as slightly irresponsible. But Skalla-Grímr simply does not seem to care either way.
He is neither angry nor happy, just emotionally distant from his son.
At this time, Skalla-Grímr is said to be “heldr hniginn at aldri” (99) [getting old],
and five years later, he is older still. In spite of his old age, he is still very strong
and takes part in some unspecified “leikar” (101) [games] that seem to rely much on
physical prowess. And yet he now has a hard time matching the combined strength
of his son Egill—now twelve and according to the saga bigger and stronger than
most adults—and Þórðr Granason, Egill’s best friend, who is in his twenties. But
when night falls, Skalla-Grímr suddenly “gerðisk … sterkr” (101) [becomes much
stronger], kills Þórðr Granason in a craze and then turns to Egill. The boy is saved
by his nanny, Þorgerðr brák, who distracts Skalla-Grímr by accusing him of “ham-
ask” (101) [being enraged, or, literally, changing into a different shape] so that he lets
go of Egill, chases, and eventually brutally kills her instead (101–2).
Skalla-Grímr is no longer merely cold and indifferent toward his son. In this epi-
sode, he threatens his life. And when his anger subsides, he has deprived Egill of
both his nanny and his best friend, the only two people who have supported him.
After that tragic loss and Egill’s killing of the foreman, however, Skalla-Grímr re-
turns to his previous passive-aggressive tactics: for a whole year, this old and pow-
erful chieftain of sixty stops talking to his teenage son. The cruelty of his previous
3 In modern Iceland, this mean-spirited comment has developed into the view that Egill Skalla-Grímsson was drink-
ing alcohol at the age of three. That point is never stated in the saga and the only “evidence” is Skalla-Grímr’s
statement before the party that Egill “þykkir ekki góðr viðskiptis, at þú sér ódrukkinn” (81) [is bad enough sober]. I
have argued before (Ármann Jakobsson, Á ég að gæta bróður míns?) that taking this statement as evidence for Egill’s
inebriation is a classic case of over-interpretation (the term over-interpretation is in popular usage more frequently
and erroneously used to refer to in-depth analyses, such as this one).
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animalistic and possibly supernatural rage is replaced by a different, more down to

earth, and much colder cruelty, which he demonstrated before: the cruelty of indif-
ference.
In this narrative, Skalla-Grímr is the aggressor. But where is the mother? In light
of her previous praise of Egill, it might be tempting to conceive of a family in which
a cold and indifferent father is countered by a loving and doting mother. But, alas,
that is not so in this case. During the whole episode of Skalla-Grímr’s rage result-
ing in the killing of the three bystanders, Bera is absent. It is not she but the nanny,
Þorgerðr brák, who protects Egill and sacrifices her life for his. Bera, on the other
hand, is nowhere to be seen. She is not said to have died although she clearly has
later in the saga when Egill returns to his father after twelve years in Norway (151).
Egill certainly does not owe his life to her. If Bera is still present, she does not say
anything about her husband’s attack on Egill or their later behavior. Although she
may not be dead, it is clear that she is absent. If she is still alive, she does not medi-
ate in the dispute.
This family is not one of a hostile father and a benevolent mother, but rather of a
cold and menacing father and an absent mother. Even though Bera has shown Egill
more affection than Skalla-Grímr in the past, she is not there for him now. It must
also be kept in mind that her previous praise of Egill was morally dubious since she
was pleased with her son’s viking ways although they had not only caused contro-
versy, but resulted in the deaths of seven more men in the region (100).4 Bera is not
a loving and supportive mother like Grettir Ásmundarson’s Ásdís. Perhaps she is a
sort of a remote parent who pats a child on the head, praises him, and is mistakenly
regarded by the child as loving and kind. But the parent is not there for the child in
a crisis nor does the child much good in the long run. In any case, she is for some
reason not there when Egill needs help.
With his mother absent, Egill has no one on whom to rely but Þórðr Granason
and Þorgerðr brák, both of whom Skalla-Grímr kills on the same night. Pórðr is a
4 While the word “viking” is frequently bandied about when medieval Iceland is discussed, it is important to keep
in mind that this was not a viking society in any real sense of the word and not exceptionally violent, but rather a
mostly peaceful society of farmers (with some feuds and killings that, of course, were felt to be more historic than
the everyday life and thus tended to make it into the sagas). The only vikings in Iceland were retired ones, sons of
chieftains who had gone on raids in distant countries, like Egill himself. This is actually well exemplified by the
fact that after killing Grímr Heggsson and his father’s foreman, Egill kills several people abroad during his adult-
hood but none in Iceland, until he kills two of his de facto son-in-law’s slaves in his extreme old age (297). Thus,
after Grímr, Egill does not do any killing in Iceland that might result in a lawsuit or feud, proving himself able to
adapt rather better to the restrictions of his own society than Skalla-Grímr would perhaps have anticipated.
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strange friend in that he is much older than Egill. When Egill is seven, Þórðr is “á
ungum aldri” (99) [a young man] and when the boy is twelve, he is “á tvítugs aldri”
(101) [twenty or twenty-something]. Unlike Skalla-Grímr, this young man loves
Egill: “hann var elskr at Agli” (99). This expression of affection suggests that the
saga does not shy away of making statements of love when there is cause to do so,
which means that Skalla-Grímr’s unmentioned love for Egill is probably equally un-
demonstrated.
This friendship between the young man and the small boy is not in itself so strange
and may be attributed to Þórðr’s kindness of heart, but the fact that Egill seems to
have no other friends most assuredly is. And if Þórðr is an unusual best friend for a
little boy, so is Þorgerðr brák, Skalla-Grímr’s slave who is “mikil fyrir sér, sterk sem
karlar ok fjǫlkunnig mjǫk” (101) [a big woman, strong as a man and quite skilled in
magic]. She is not a glamourous mother figure, this magical manly woman who is
not even free, just a slave, almost a non-person. It is thus a curious pair that stands
up for Egill, a young man who befriends a little boy and a freakish slave woman.
And nobody else. And when Skalla-Grímr has killed both, there is no one.
It is shown from the outset that Egill is not lovable. First his parents have Þórólfr
who is “inn vænsti sýnum” [very good-looking], “íþróttamaðr” [an accomplished
man], “gleðimaðr mikill” [very jolly], “vinsæll af alþýðu” [universally popular] (80),
and, as the saga has it, is loved by his parents. Then, late in life, they have this other
son who is “mjǫk ljótr ok líkr feðr sínum, svartr á hár” (80) [very ugly and resembled
his father, with black hair]. When he is three, this ugly child is as big as six or seven
year-olds. He is also “málugr ok orðvíss” (80) [talkative and clever with words] and
“heldr … illr við reignar, er hann var í leikum með ǫðrum ungmennum” (80) [rather
troublesome when playing with other kids].
There is an insight here into the emotional life of Skalla-Grímr. It is mentioned
that Þórólfr looks like his late uncle Þórólfr, the one whose death resulted in Skalla-
Grímr threatening the King. Egill, on the other hand, looks like his father. And
Skalla-Grímr is apparently not a narcissist. He does not seem to care much for seeing
his own ugly visage—this little boy. And there is, of course, an important difference.
Not only is this unnecessary second son big and ugly, he is also bothersome and
he talks all the time. Skalla-Grímr does not talk much himself. Like many taciturn
people, he may perhaps not care much for people who talk constantly. And there is a
good case to be made that he likes them even less when they look like himself.
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Egill, however, cannot be reduced to a stereotype. An ugly duckling he may be,

but he is also a child prodigy (see Stein-Wilkeshuis 88–9; cf. Hansen; and Ármann
Jakobsson, “Troublesome Children”). His merits are recognized by his grandfa-
ther, who presents him with three sea-snail shells and a duck’s egg for composing a
skaldic stanza at three.5 When he kills the boy Grímr after having been bullied and
threatened by him, his mother is pleased and calls him a viking. But in both cases,
Skalla-Grímr sees no accomplishments, only trouble. This son of his is not only
ugly as sin, he cannot even behave himself. And that is the only thing Skalla-Grímr
has to say to Egill in both chapters 31 and 40, before sending him to Coventry for a
whole winter.
The last character in this family drama is the least conspicuous one, Þórólfr the
good-looking older brother, the handsome and happy son, whom Skalla-Grímr
loves. The old man’s affection for his son is mentioned from the outset and further
established when Þórólfr intercedes with him on the behalf of Bjǫrn Brynjólfsson,
who had quarelled with Skalla-Grímr’s friend and ally Þórir in Norway and then
had the impudence to stay at Borg for the winter (88–9). It is clear that Skalla-
Grímr is grievously affronted by this situation and equally clear that Þórólfr success-
fully persuaded him not only not to harm Bjǫrn, but to act as a negotiator between
Bjǫrn and Þórir. Þórólfr is such a favorite with his father that he will do almost
anything for him.
Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson is a somewhat neglected figure in Egils saga, perhaps
eclipsed by his uncle, Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson, who dominates the first quarter of
the saga. Scholars have often treated the second Þórólfr as a repetition of an already
well-established type (see Sigurður Nordal, Islenzk menning 169; Grimstad 286; Sø-
rensen, “Starkaðr” 766; Clover 46; Vésteinn Ólason 54; Baldur Hafstað 138–9, and
others). I will argue here that this is not so. The second Þórólfr may resemble the
first Þórólfr physically, but there is an important difference. The first Þórólfr was
arrogant and ambitious, and behaved in such a way that King Haraldr was bound to
become suspicious when his malcontents began to slander him after, incidentally,
having been treated less than generously by him (14–54, esp. 27; see also Sørensen,
Fortælling 140–2; for a different view, see Andersson 107; and Vésteinn Ólason 50).
5 This composition of skaldic poetry at three is often considered wildly unbelievable, but the saga relates this in a dry
fashion. There is no apparent reason to expect that the author did not want his audience to take this prodigious feat
at face value.
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The second Þórólfr is, as I will demonstrate, a morally superior character, and this
character is, in fact, well exemplified in chapter 40 of Egils saga.
Þórólfr’s Choice
Skalla-Grímr is taciturn, but his son Egill is talkative. The frosty silence between
the two for a whole winter must be a much more severe punishment for Egill than
his father. In addition, Skalla-Grímr may have lost his foreman, but he retains most
of what is most important for him: his work, his household, and all his loyal work-
men. Growing old and slow, he does not badly need company. In addition, one can
imagine him, as an important chieftain, regularly going to assemblies and enjoying
the good life that only those in the upper echelons of Icelandic society did. Egill,
on the other hand, is neither a chieftain nor a worker. He is stuck at home, a gar-
rulous, brilliant, completely under-estimated teenager full of life but with no role
and no friends and his father is punishing him by ignoring him. And he has just lost
his only friend and his nanny, the only two people in the world who cared for him.
He is unpopular in the whole region, the only communication mentioned between
him and the other boys of the region is that they “œpðu at honum” (100) [shouted
at him], when Grímr Heggsson had hurt him. In short, although the saga does not
say so directly, Egill is close to being, or at least he would be in his own head, the
most miserable teenager in the whole world when his brother Þórólfr returns from
Norway, for Egill probably an almost mythical figure after a decade abroad.
Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson went to Norway as a youngster to live with Skalla-
Grímr’s friends and allies in Aurland. As luck would have it, Skalla-Grímr’s friend
and ally Þórir has fostered Eiríkr blóðøx, the son of the now old King Haraldr of
Norway. And one day, Þórólfr meets young prince Eiríkr standing and admiring
young Þórólfr’s beautiful ship. Þórólfr presents this ship to the prince, who prom-
ises Þórólfr in return to be his friend for life. Then Þórólfr heads for court, is ac-
cepted, albeit reluctantly, by the old king, and soon joins Eiríkr on his voyages to
Permia as one of his most respected men.
Þórólfr has a new life now. It is a life in the company of kings and courtiers. It is a
sophisticated life, full of parties, merriment, exciting adventures, and foreign raids.
As an accomplished youngster, he enjoys admiration and respect. He returns home
triumphantly. One cannot imagine he has often thought of Skalla-Grímr and his
family at home, but he knows that he enjoys their love and respect as the favorite
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son. In fact, we are given no grounds to believe that Þórólfr has ever been disliked.
It has been specified that he was loved from the outset by his parents, and he is a
good-looking man with pleasant manners. Such a one as Þórólfr hardly knows what
it means to be alone, unpopular, or despised. There is, in fact, no greater gap than
that between his big and bright world and that constrictive black pithole, which is
the life of his younger teenage brother, whom he has never really known.
When Þórólfr has been at his old home for a year and wants (of course) to go
back, Egill goes to him and asks to be allowed to accompany him. Þórólfr’s reaction
is normal and understandable. Even the most charming of younger brothers would
be a nuisance to the popular and handsome young viking and merchant who wants
to see the world and be received by kings and princes. Any younger brother would
simply be in the way. And what is there to say about the ugly, unpopular, uncon-
trolled, and misunderstood troll-descendant with whom he is now faced, whom his
father detests and who has already killed two largely innocent people? This outland-
ish stranger cannot seem sympathetic when he turns to his older brother in despera-
tion and asks to accompany him, perhaps not too skilfully, for it is hard to imagine
young Egill has any impressive social graces.
Faced with this monstrosity, Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson is indeed put to the test.
And, at first, he says no. He says: “ef faðir þinn þykkisk eigi mega um þik tœla hér
í hýbýlum sínum, þá ber ek eigi traust til þess at hafa þik útanlendis með mér, því
at þér mun þat ekki hlýða, at hafa þar slíkt skaplyndi sem hér” (102) [if your father
does not feel he can control you here right in his home, then I am not the man to
take you abroad, because you will not be able to behave with the same temper that
you do here]. The short and abrasive version of which would be: You mean trouble,
and I don’t want you around.
But Egill does not give up. He cuts the ropes of his brother’s ship so that it drifts
out into the fjord, and when confronted with his act, he claims that he will do Þór
ólfr more harm if he does not take him with him to Norway. Egill is desperate and
that is understandable enough. He was born as an unloved younger son, constantly
reprimanded or ignored by his father, his talents overlooked and his inappropriate
actions punished. He has survived a winter of frosty silence from his father, his
mother somehow absent, and one can imagine that the people of Borg sided with
their master against his rebellious and unlovable teenage son, especially since Egill’s
only friends had been brutally killed. So Egill is desperate and will do anything to
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get away. And, curiously enough, he sees his successful brother as his ticket out of
this hell.
Egill’s motives are understandable enough, but what about Þórólfr’s? Why does
he give in to his brother? It would be easy to jump to the conclusion that Egill has
forced his hand: he has to take Egill with him, and there was no way out. But that
solution is not logical and must be dismissed. After all, Egill has no allies at Borg,
and in spite of his cleverness and unruliness, Þórólfr would definitely have been able
to get out of taking him with him. He could have conceived some ruse with plenty
of allies to help him. Or he could simply have forced Egill to stay at home, by fetters
if needed. Þórólfr does not absolutely need to take Egill with him. He has a choice
and, although Egill is indeed trying to force his hand, Þórólfr does not merely yield
to superior force, but decides, upon reflection, to take this uncontrolled monstrous
younger brother with him.
And at this juncture, we get an insight into the character of Þórólfr Skalla-Gríms-
son, an important insight that decisively distinguishes him from Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfs
son and that makes it possible for us to grasp his character. It must be admitted that
Þórólfr is not only in danger of being eclipsed by the previous Þórólfr as his sup-
posed double, he even seems a slightly duller version. The previous Þórólfr created
trouble with his ambition, and there is an interesting disagreement between him and
his father, who does not want him to go to the court of King Haraldr. Whereas the
second Þórólfr, like his father Skalla-Grímr, knows his place and mostly stays out of
trouble and, unlike most of the other major characters in Egils saga, gets along very
well with his father. Indeed, as a character, he has the great narrative flaw of having
no obvious flaw, and I can imagine that this is the reason he has so often been over-
looked. Of course, Egill is a much more colorful character in the story. There is a
distinct lack of drama in Þórólfr’s life.
But I would contend that his decision in chapter 40, to take Egill with him to
Norway, is actually quite remarkable and casts an important light on Þórólfr, given
that my argument—that his hand was not forced—is accepted. It must also be kept
in mind that it would take some strain for Þórólfr to empathize with Egill’s situ-
ation in Iceland. Indeed, it does seem that it takes some time for him to grasp it
fully, and perhaps it is Egill’s desperate act of vandalism followed by his (somewhat
empty, as I have argued) threats, that really open his eyes. But what is it that Þórólfr
is doing in taking Egill abroad with him?
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He Ain’t Heavy
Whereas parents are supposed to and usually are legally required to, take responsi-
bility for their children, siblings do not necessarily share this duty. If two brothers
are in good health, they have the choice of not really speaking to each other and of
not taking responsibility for each other’s action. This scenario frequently plays itself
out in modern urban societies but can also be seen in thirteenth-century Iceland,
where magnates such as Snorri Sturluson and his brothers are effectively estranged.6
It is a widespread rule that the bonds between siblings are not as binding as those
between a parent and a child, especially if both are able-bodied and able to care for
themselves.
Precisely the lack of firm rules about how siblings are supposed to behave toward
each other makes the relations between them interesting and frequently exploited in
stories, not only in the sagas. It must also be kept in mind that brotherhood has long
been established as an important theme in Egils saga (see Bjarni Einarsson 114–23).
The author and audience of Egils saga would have been familiar with the biblical
narrative of Cain and Abel, as has been argued by Torfi H. Tulinius (Skáldið 77) and
this fact is indeed evident in the contemporary interpretation of the Danish dynasti-
cal troubles of the 1240s and the 1250s (see Hoffmann 188–92). According to the Bi-
ble, Cain and Abel are the oldest brothers in history and their narrative, like all Bible
narratives, is exemplary. At the end of the narrative, Cain poses an interesting ques-
tion to God: “er ek nǫckut skipadr geymslumadr brodur mins”. (Unger 42) [Am I
my brother’s keeper?]. Even though this question that Cain poses may be construed
as an attempt to cover his crimes, it is still valid and has remained unanswered; God
very cleverly did not answer Cain, so that every single brother and sister is stuck
with this question, and it has no simple answer. It can certainly be argued that in
some instances, siblings should not take responsibility for each other but allow their
siblings to carry the responsibility themselves. In addition, some siblings behave in
such a way that it is far from easy to be their brother or sister and that can be said of
young Egill, when he confronted Þórólfr.
When Þórólfr takes Egill on, he is also taking responsibility for him and that is
quite remarkable in light of what has previously happened. When Egill killed Grímr,
this deed resulted in bloodlettings in the districts, but Egill’s parents took no part in
6 This is especially interesting for those who want to believe in Snorri as the author of Egils saga (see Torfi H.
Tulinius, Skáldið 177–80).
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them and effectively refused to accept responsibility for their son. It landed instead
on Óleifr hjalti, Skalla-Grímr’s friend. By taking Egill on, Þórólfr is thus doing what
his parents have failed to do. As for being cared for emotionally and morally, Egill
has in effect been an orphan when Þórólfr takes him along to Norway.
Þórólfr is in a way the archetypical older sibling, who has invented his own life
and found a society where he is respected and loved; the last thing such an older
sibling needs is a little brother to tag along. Especially not one who is much larger
than people his age are supposed to be, has composed skaldic stanzas at the age of
three, killed someone at the age of seven, and is now at the age of about thirteen a
friendless troublemaker. Þórólfr’s decision to take Egill is even more remarkable
because he could relatively easily have avoided it, has nothing to gain from it, (and
indeed Egill soon starts to cause him a great deal of bother), and taking Egill with
him is not his duty.
It must have taken Þórólfr some effort to understand Egill’s situation. He himself
is not merely handsome and buoyant, but also confident and, indeed, so sensible and
well-spoken that he is able to persuade his father not to take action against Bjǫrn.
He also manages to charm his way into a good position at the Norwegian court.
In short, Þórólfr is someone who gets along with everyone in both Iceland and in
Norway. He is dramatically different from Egill who is ugly, unloved, lacks charm,
is not capable of behaving himself among others, and seems to attract conflict rather
than avoid it.
Þórólfr thus has to rely on his imagination since his brother is in a situation miles
away from anything he has experienced. His empathy is tested to the utmost. I
would indeed argue that the word empathy is a key concept in any interpretation
of Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson. Þórólfr definitely has the ability to feel the pain of oth-
ers, and this capacity is the only explanation for his actions.7 He can feel Egill’s
pain, even though it is vastly different from anything he has experienced. Thus he
seems to possess imaginative powers that his older namesake never demonstrated
and which make the younger Þórólfr an attractive character.
7 For a good recent essay on empathy, see Sontag. Empathy is a relatively recent concept, perhaps influenced by
romantic nineteenth-century ideas about the imagination. It might be defined as the ability to imagine oneself as
another person, to think and feel oneself into the inner life of another. Unlike sympathy, empathy is character-
ized by the ability to comprehend the state of another without necessarily experiencing that state. And whereas
sympathy is a moral concept, empathy is not. It is rather a cognitive process, a way of understanding rather than
of relating. Thus, sympathy is altruistic but empathy does not necessarily lead to altruism (see Kristján Kristjáns-
son 298–9).
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It is empathy, coupled with goodness that enables him to do what nobody in the
family has done before: to take responsibility for Egill, beyond the call of duty. He
thus becomes the first person to make a sacrifice for Egill and not pay with his life,
or at least not immediately. For Þórólfr is indeed making a sacrifice: he is exchang-
ing a happy and relatively trouble-free existence for life with Egill, a totally different
and much more bothersome life. And Egill is desperate; he needs saving. His life
is so miserable that it can scarcely be regarded as a life. Thus Þórólfr’s actions echo
those of Þorgerðr brák just before and of Þorgerðr Egilsdóttir later in the saga (see
Torfi Tulinius, Skáldið 83). All three save Egill’s life, but whereas the acts of the two
women have been noticed and lauded, what Þórólfr is doing is less conspicuous but,
upon reflection, no less important or impressive.8
Þórólfr’s choice is not depicted or commented upon in the narrative. It has to
be inferred from the situation. But I would still contend that my interpretation of
the events is neither liberal nor fanciful but the only possible way to interpret this
narrative. The only doubt is the extent to which the author and the audience were
aware of what is happening and Þórólfr’s part in it. I would argue that they must
have been aware of Þórólfr’s dilemma, choice, sacrifice, and of its importance to
Egill. His action would have been the main reason why the audience of the saga was
meant to see Þórólfr as an uncommonly noble and kind man. As a thirteenth cen-
tury audience would have been expected to know their Bible, as Torfi H. Tulinius
has argued (see “Mun konungi”, “Egla og Biblían”, and Skáldið), they would also be
aware of the fact that Þórólfr is actually answering Cain’s question and has decided
to become his brother’s keeper.
Empathy and goodness are key concepts in the interpretation of these events.
Þórólfr would not have been able to assist Egill if he had not had empathy, which is
in this case not fueled by any past experience but only by the imagination. Imagi-
nation is not usually regarded as a virtue in itself and certainly not in the Middle
Ages. But it might be fruitful to contrast Þórólfr’s reaction to Egill with the “banal-
ity of evil” that Hannah Arendt later observed in the Eichmann trials in Jerusalem.
Þórólfr and Eichmann would stand at the very opposite ends of the scale of human
imagination and empathy. For Arendt, Eichmann’s evil was a lack of empathy and
imagination. He was unable to think an original thought and had a very hard time
8 In addition it can be argued that Egill’s friend Arinbjǫrn also saves his life later in the narrative, when he success-
fully pleads his case with King Eiríkr in York.
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thinking of the events from a different point of view than his own (Arendt 47 ff.).
In contrast, Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson has to adopt a position vastly removed from
his own and imagine himself in the shoes of an ugly, unloved, temperamental and
murderous child although he has never himself been any of these. And he also has
to transform this feeling into the good deed of saving his brother. To act so kindly
is not given to all, and we, like the thirteenth-century audience, cannot but be im-
pressed by what Þórólfr does.
Unmasking the Egoist

Having taken Egill along, Þórólfr keeps standing up for him throughout his life.
After Egill has killed the king’s representative in Atley, Þórólfr takes him east on
viking raids during which they are constantly together and Egill is constantly run-
ning into trouble again and again without Þórólfr ever reproaching him, but he once
comments that Egill seems to be making it impossible for them to stay in Norway
on purpose (Sigurður Nordal 127). There is nothing of the earlier Þórólfr’s exces-
sive ambition in Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson; he does not even seem to resent the fact
that, owing to Egill’s unruly disposition, he himself is no longer popular in Norway
and has gained powerful enemies (123). He has, in fact, dedicated his whole life to
becoming his brother’s keeper, to the extent that Egill is now the more dominant of
the two brothers.
Þórólfr’s goodness highlights the fact that Egill himself remains an utter ego-
ist. He becomes jealous of his brother’s marriage and, in spite of his violent and
expressive grief after Þórólfr’s fall in England,9 promptly marries his widow,
whom he had possibly always desired (105, 143–50).10 Later, when grieving for
his own sons, he seems unable to fathom that this loss might affect his wife as
well; the only loss Egill feels is his own (242–5).11 Thus, the empathy Þóról-
fr shows when he takes Egill with him to Norway and shoulders the duty of
9 Admittedly Egill does show a very rare generosity when he buries two gold rings with Þórólfr (142), which indi-
cates that Egill did appreciate what Þórólfr had given him. Later, when Skalla-Grímr dies, it is noted in the saga
that Egill buries him without any gold (175).
10 Cf. Torfi H. Tulinius’s interpretation of Egils saga as a narrative of incest, fratricide, guilt, and salvation (Skáldið
54–82). It must be noted that Egill’s desire for Ásgerðr before the death of Þórólfr is far from unambiguous. Much
rests on the fact that Egill became “sick” and couldn’t attend Þórólfr and Ásgerðr’s wedding (105). While his love
for Ásgerðr could explain this sickness, it could, of course, also be caused by his anxiety that he is now going to lose
his brother, the only person in the world who has shown himself to be firmly on Egill’s side.
11 After the death of Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson, there are no more Þórólfrs in the Borg family. Egill has three sons but
does not use the name although that does not save two of them from the fate of dying young.
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standing by his troublesome brother, whom everyone else had rejected, is sadly
not repaid by Egill. Egill is arguably not a simple character, even his behavior
in his great grief differs from that demonstrated by other elderly viking fathers
(see Ármann Jakobsson, “The Specter of Old Age” 315–21). There is no lack of
emotion, nor of poetic imagination in Egill, but he does not seem to feel much
empathy. On the contrary, it can be argued that throughout his life Egill Skalla-
Grímsson chooses to remain oblivious to the pain of others.
How, then, can we characterize the role of Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson in Egils
saga? I have argued here that far from emulating the former Þórólfr, he makes
different choices and plays a fundamentally different role. The only trait that the
two Þórólfrs have in common is serving as opposites to their surviving brothers.
The former Þórólfr was ambitious, highlighting Skalla-Grímr’s lack of ambition.
The second Þórólfr is, on the other hand, kind, generous, and caring, whereas
Egill lacks all of these qualities. If any character in Egils saga personifies good-
ness, it is Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson. Egill, even though he looks like his father,
ends up imitating his uncle Þórólfr in amassing wealth and challenging kings.
The younger Þórólfr, however, is a good and true brother to Egill, just as Skalla-
Grímr was a loyal and devoted son to his father. Egill survives because of Þórólfr
and owes his greatness to him although this greatness, like perhaps all greatness,
is morally dubious and, ultimately, at the expense of others.
Works Cited
Andersson, Theodore M. The Icelandic Family Saga: An Analytic Reading. Cambridge: Har-
vard UP, 1967.
Arendt, Hannah. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. NewYork: Viking,
1963.
Ármann Jakobsson. “Troublesome Children in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” Saga-Book 27
(2003), 5–24.
–. “The Specter of Old Age: Nasty Old Men in the Sagas of Icelanders.” Journal of English
and Germanic Philology 104 (2005): 297–325.
–. “Á ég að gæta bróður míns? Innlifunin og Þórólfur Skalla-Grímsson.” Skíma 28.2 (2005):
35–41.
Baldur Hafstað. Die Egils saga und ihr Verhältnis zu anderen Werken des nordischen Mittelalters.
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Bergljót S. Kristjánsdóttir. “Primum caput: Um höfið Egils Skalla-Grímssonar, John frá

Sailsbury o.fl.” Skáldskaparmál 4 (1997): 74–96.
Bjarni Einarsson. Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar I: A-redaktionen. Editiones Arnamagnæanæ
A, 19. Copenhagen: Reitzel, 2001.
–. Litterære forudsætninger for Egils saga. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1975.
Chesnutt, Michael. Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar III: C-redaktionen. Editiones Arnamag
næanæ A, 21. Ed. Copenhagen: Reitzel, 2006.
Clover, Carol J. The Medieval Saga. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1982.
Cook, Robert. “The Reader in Grettis saga.” Saga-Book 21 (1984–85): 133–54.
Grimstad, Kaaren. “The Giant as a Heroic Model: The Case of Egill and Starkaðr.” Scandi-
navian Studies 48 (1976): 284–98.
Hansen, Anna. “The Precocious Child: A Difficult Thirteenth-Century Icelandic Saga Ide-
al.” Scandinavia and Christian Europe in the Middle Ages. Papers of The 12th International
Saga Conference, Bonn/Germany, 28th July — 2nd August 2003. Eds. Rudolf Simek and
Judith Meurer. Bonn: 2003. 220–8.
Hermann Pálsson. “Fornfræði Egilssögu.” Skírnir 16 (1994): 37–72.
Hoffmann, Erich. Die heiligen Könige bei den Angelsachsen und den skandinavischen Völkern:
Köningsheiliger und Königshaus. Neumünster: Karl Wachholtz Verlag, 1975.
Høyersten, Jon Geir. Personlighet og avvik: En studie i islendingesagaens menneskebilde, med
særlig vekt på Njála. Bergen: Regionsenter for barne- og ungdomspsykiatri og Psykiatrisk
institutt, Universitet i Bergen, 1998.
Kristján Kristjánsson. “Empathy, Sympathy, Justice, and the Child.” Journal of Moral Edu-
cation 33 (2004): 291–305.
Miller, William Ian. “Emotions and the Sagas.” From Sagas to Society: Comparative Ap-
proaches to Early Iceland. Ed. Gísli Pálsson. Enfield Lock: Hisarlik, p. 89–109.
Poole, Russell. “Myth, Psychology, and Society in Grettis saga.” Alvíssmál II (2004): 3–16.
Sigurður Nordal, ed. Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar. Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka
–. “Formáli.” Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar. Ed. Sigurður Nordal. Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykja
vík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933.
–. Íslenzk menning I. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1942.
Sontag, Susan. Regarding the Pain of Others. New York: Picador, 2004.
Stein-Wilkeshuis, Martina W. Het kind in de oudijslandse samenleving. Groningen: Wolters-
Noordhoff, 1970.
Sørensen, Preben Meulengracht. “Starkaðr, Loki og Egill Skalla-Grímsson.” Sjötíu ritgerðir
helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni 20 júlí 1977. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1977.
759–68.
–. Fortælling og ære: Studier i islændingesagærne. Aarhus: Aarhus UP, 1993.
Torfi H. Tulinius. “Mun konungi eg þykja ekki orðsnjallur: Um margræðni, textatengsl og
dulda merkingu í Egils sögu.” Skínir 168 (1994): 109–33.
–. “Egla og Biblían.” Milli himins og jarðar: Maður, guð og menning í hnotskurn hugvísinda: Er-
indi flutt á hugvísindaþingi guðfræðideildar og heimspekideildar 18. og. 19. okt. 1996. Reykja
vík: Háskólaútgáfan, 1997. 125–36.
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–. Skáldið í skriftinni: Snorri Sturluson og Egils saga. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafé-
lag, 2004.
Unger, Carl Rikard, ed. Stjorn: Gammelnorsk bibelhistorie fra verdens skabelse til det baby
loniske fangenskab. Christiania: Feilberg & Landmark, 1862.
Vésteinn Ólason. “Jórvíkurför í Egils saga: Búandkarl gegn konungi.” Andvari new ser. 33
(1991): 46–59.
172
Laxdœla Dreaming:
A Saga Heroine Invents Her Own Life
The Four Dreams

It is probably not a matter of debate that one of the most memorable scenes in the
entire saga corpus is when the young Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir relates her four dreams
to the renowned sage Gestr Oddleifsson from Hagi on Barðaströnd, in chapter 33
(out of 87) of Laxdœla saga. The dream narrative goes as follows:
Úti þóttumk ek vera stǫdd við lœk nǫkkurn, ok hafða ek krókfald á hǫfði ok
þótti mér illa sama, ok var ek fúsari at breyta faldinum, en margir tǫlðu um, at
ek skylda þat eigi gera. En ek hlýdda ekki á þat, ok greip ek af hǫfði mér faldinn,
ok kastaða ek út á lœkinn,—ok var þessi draumr eigi lengri […] Þat var upphaf at
ǫðrum draum, at ek þóttumk vera stǫdd hjá vatni einu; svá þótti mér, sem kominn
væri silfrhringr á hǫnd mér, ok þóttumk ek eiga ok einkarvel sama; þótti mér þat
vera allmikil gersemi, ok ætlaða ek lengi at eiga. Ok er mér váru minnstar vánir,
þá renndi hringrinn af hendi mér ok á vatnit, ok sá ek hann aldri síðan. Þótti
mér sá skaði miklu meiri en ek mætta at glíkendum ráða, þótt ek hefða einum
grip týnt. Síðan vaknaða ek. […] Sá er inn þriði draumr minn, at ek þóttum hafa
gullhring á hendi, ok þóttum ek eiga hringinn, ok þótti mér bœttr skaðinn; om
mér þat í hug, at ek mynda þessa hrings lengr njóta en ins fyrra; en eigi þótti mér
sjá gripr því betr sama, sem gull er dýrra en silfr. Síðan þóttumk ek falla ok vilja
styðja mik með hendinni, en gullhringrinn mœtti steini nǫkkurum ok stǫkk í tvá
hluti, ok þótti mér dreyra ór hlutunum. Þat þótti mér líkara harmi en skaða, er ek
þóttumk þá bera eptir; kom mér þá í hug, at brestr hafði verit á hringnum, ok þá
er ek hugða at brotunum eptir, þá þóttumk ek sjá fleiri brestina á, ok þótti mér
þó, sem heill myndi, ef ek hefða betr til gætt, ok var eigi þessi draumr lengri. […]
Sá er inn fjórði draumr minn, at ek þóttumk hafa hjálm á hǫfði af gulli ok mjǫk
gimsteinum settan. Ek þóttumk eiga þá gersemi; en þat þótti mér helzt at, at hann
var nǫkkurs til þungr, því at ek fekk varla valdit, ok bar ek hallt hǫfuðit, ok gaf ek
þó hjálminum enga sǫk á því ok ætlaða ekki at lóga honum, en þó steypðisk hann
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Nine Saga Studies
af hǫfði mér ok út á Hvammsfjǫrð, ok eptir þat vaknaða ek. Eru þér nú sagðir
draumarnir allir.’1
[‘I seemed to be standing outdoors, by a stream, wearing a tall head-dress that I

felt did not suit me at all well. I wanted to change the head-dress but many people
advised against it. I refused to listen to them, tore the head-dress from my head
and threw it into the stream. The dream ended there. […] In the beginning of the
second dream I seemed to be standing by a lake. I seemed to have a silver ring on
my arm which belonged to me and suited me especially well. I treasured it greatly
and intended to keep it long and well. But the ring slid from my arm when I least
expected it and fell into the lake and I never saw it again. I was filled with a sense
of loss much greater than I should have felt at losing a mere object. After that I
awoke. […] In the third dream I seemed to have a gold ring on my arm; it was my
own and seemed to make up for my loss. I expected to have the pleasure of own-
ing this one longer than the previous one. All the same it wasn’t as if it suited me
so much better, not if compared with how much more costly gold is than silver.
Then I fell and reached out my hand to break my fall, but the gold ring struck a
stone and broke in two, and I thought I saw blood seep from the pieces. My feel-
ings afterwards were more like grief than regret. I realised that there had been a
flaw in the ring, and upon examining the pieces I could see other flaws. All the
same I had the impression that if I’d looked after it better the ring might still
have been in one piece. The dream ended here. […] In my fourth dream I seemed
to have a gold helmet on my head, set with many gems. This treasure was mine.
But it did seem to me that it was too heavy for me to bear. I could hardly manage
it and held my head bowed. I didn’t blame the helmet for this, however, nor did
I intend to get rid of it. But it fell suddenly from my head and into the waters of
Hvammsfjord, after which I woke up. Now I have told you all the dreams.’]2
We are not informed of even the slightest hesitation on Gestr’s part, before he sug-
gests the following interpretation:
Glǫggt fæ ek sét, hvat draumar þessir eru, en mjǫk mun þér samstaft þykkja, því
at ek mun næsta einn veg alla ráða. Bœndr mantu eiga fjóra, ok væntir mik, þá
er þú ert inum fyrsta gipt, at þat sé þér ekki girndarráð. Þar er þú þóttisk hafa
1 Laxdœla saga, Íslenzk fornrit V, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska fornritafélag, 1934), pp. 88–
89.
2 The Saga of the People of Laxardal, transl. by Keneva Kunz, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, 5 vols., ed. by Viðar
Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997), V 1–120 (p. 44).
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Dreaming
mikinn fald á hǫfði, ok þótti þér illa sama, þar muntu lítit unna honum, ok þar
er þú tókt af hǫfði þér faldinn ok kastaðir á vatnit, þar muntu ganga frá honum.
Því kalla menn á sæ kastat, er maðr lætr eigu sína ok tekr ekki í mót. […] Sá var
draumr þinn annarr, at þú þóttisk hafa silfrhring á hendi; þar muntu vera gipt
ǫðrum manni ágætum. Þeim muntu unna mikit ok njóta skamma stund; kemr
mér ekki þat at óvǫrum, þóttú missir hann með drukknun, ok eigi geri ek þann
draum lengra. Sá var inn þriði draumr þinn, at þú þóttisk hafa gullhring á hendi;
þar muntu eiga inn þriðja bónda. Ekki mun sá því meira verðr, sem þér þótti sá
málmrinn torugætri ok dýrri, en nær er þat mínu hugboði, at í þat mund muni
orðit siðaskipti, ok muni sá þinn bóndi hafa tekit við þeim sið, er vér hyggjum,
at miklu sé háleitari. En þar er þér þótti hringrinn í sundr støkkva, nǫkkut af
þinni vangeymslu, ok sátt blóð koma ór hlutunum, þá mun sá þinn bóndi veginn;
muntu þá þykkjask gløggst sjá þá þverbresti, er á þeim ráðahag hafa verit. […] Sá
er inn fjórði draumr þinn, at þú þóttisk hafa hjálm á hǫfði af gulli ok settan gim-
steinum, ok varð þér þungbærr; þar munt þú eiga inn fjórða bónda. Sá mun vera
mestr hǫfðingi ok mun bera heldr œgishjálm yfir þér. Ok þar er þér þótti hann
steypask út á Hvammsfjǫrð, þá man hann þann sama fjǫrð fyrir hitta á inum efsta
degi síns lífs. Geri ek nú þenna draum ekki lengra.’ (pp. 89–91)
[‘I can clearly see what the dreams mean, but you may find the fare lacking in
variety, as I would interpret them all in a very similar way. You will have four
husbands; I expect that the first man to whom you are married will not have been
a match to your liking. As you thought you bore a great head-dress, which you
felt suited you poorly, you will care little for this man. And since you removed the
head-dress and threw it into the water, this means that you will leave him. People
say things have been cast to the tide when they refer to getting rid of possessions
and getting nothing in return. […] In your second dream you thought you had a
silver ring on your arm. This means you will be married to a second, fine man for
whom you will care greatly and enjoy only a short time. It would not surprise me
if he were drowned. There is no need to dwell any longer on this dream. In your
third dream you thought you had a gold ring on your arm. This represents your
third husband. He will not surpass his predecessor to the same extent that you
felt that metal to be rarer and more precious. But if my guess is right, there will
be a change in religion around that time and this husband of yours will have ad-
opted the new religion, which seems to be much nobler. When the ring appeared
to break in two, in part because of your own carelessness, and blood to seep from
its parts, this signifies that this husband will be killed. It is then that you will see
most clearly the faults of that marriage. […] It was in your fourth dream that you
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Nine Saga Studies
bore a gold helmet set with gems on your head, which was a heavy weight for
you. This signifies that you will marry a fourth time and this husband will far
surpass you. The helmet seemed to fall into the waters of Hvammsfjord, which
indicates that this fourth husband will have an encounter with the same fjord on
the final day of his life. I can make no more of this dream.’] (p. 45)
It seems so neat and, perhaps, somewhat obvious—too obvious, even—almost as if

it were a mistake on the author’s part.3 Four dreams, four precious objects and four
husbands. It would seem almost incredible that Guðrún had not thought of this
interpretation herself; indeed I will suggest in this article that this may be precisely
what the saga’s intended audience was expected to infer.
As palpably true as the interpretation is, even before the truth of Gestr’s fourfold
prophecy is confirmed by what follows, this dream narrative is not merely a sym-
bolic illustration of the future. It raises many other questions, and in this paper I
will discuss some of the ambiguities of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir and her dreams. My
analysis seeks to suggest that the narrative is deliberately ambiguous, that the saga
author (by which term I mean the authorial figure that every textual interpretation
needs to refer to) intended it to be so, and that a thirteenth-century audience could
reasonably be expected to have been aware of such complexities.4 One of the prem-
ises for the following study is thus that modern readers are not necessarily more
sophisticated than pre-industrial ones, although the modern interpreter does have
access to learned analytic vocabulary not available to the saga’s medieval audience.
We may thus begin by allowing that to the implied audience, a dream is not just a
dream, and its interpretation not necessarily straightforward.5
I will be concentrating on three issues raised by the dreams and their role in the
saga: 1) the curious role of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir herself, often seen as a strong-
willed and, in this instance, glamorous saga woman but nevertheless a figure who
3 Cf. A.C. Bouman, Patterns in Old English and Old Icelandic Literature (Leiden: Leiden Press, 1962), p. 132.
4 Cf. Bouman, Patterns, p. 111. The exact age of Laxdœla saga is of no great importance to this study; it may have
been composed in the 1240s (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ‘Formali’, Íslenzk fornrit V, p. xxxiv), in the 1250s (Bjarni
Guðnason, Túlkun Heiðarvíga sögu, Studia Islandica 50 (Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa menningarsjóðs, 1993), pp. 252–53)
or in the 1270s (Rolf Heller, ‘Das alter der Laxdœla saga’, Zeilschrift für deutsches Altertum und deutsche Literatur, 97
(1968), 134–55). There is, however, a general agreement that the saga dates from the thirteenth century.
5 The most important studies of dreams in the sagas are those by Georgia Dunham Kelchner, Dreams in Old Norse
Literature and their Affinities in Folklore (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935), and Robert James Glend-
inning, Träume und Vorbedeutung in der lslendinga Saga Sturla Thordarsons: Eine Form- und Stiluntersuchung (Bern
and Frankfurt a. M.: 1974); the latter, unfortunately, is mainly concerned with Sturlunga saga and thus does not
discuss Guðrún and her dreams.
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Dreaming
may also be regarded as strikingly anomalous; 2) the representation of the four hus-
bands in the dream, and the interpretation of the imagery used; 3) the existentialist
problems which the dreams pose, especially as Guðrún goes on to ‘live’ them.6
It is not just that these dreams come true, it is also necessary to explore how and
why they become true, and whether this was inevitable or not. It is my hope that
this study, though limited in scope, will cast some light on the complex imagery and
metaphorical language of Laxdœla saga, as well as its sophisticated understanding of
the human psyche.
The Cunning Woman

When considering the representation of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir it seems a good
idea to start with her interlocutor, Gestr Oddleifsson the wise. The very fact that
these two people were involved in the conversation quoted above tells us something
about both of them, although perhaps more about Guðrún. Gestr is, in fact, a well-
known figure from Landnámabók and in Íslendingasögur such as Gísla saga Súrsso-
nar, Brennu-Njáls saga and Hávarðar saga, in which he periodically saunters onto
the stage to prophesy or to provide shrewd commentary on the action.7 In Laxdœla
saga he is thus in a familiar role, introduced as ‘hǫfðingi mikill ok spekingr at viti,
framsýnn um marga hluti, vel vingaðr við alla ina stœrri menn, ok margir sóttu ráð
at honum’ (p. 87) [an important chieftain and an especially wise man, who could
foretell many events of the future. Most of the foremost men of the country were
on good terms with him and many sought his advice’, p. 43]. Guðrún, on the other
hand, is merely a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl, and thus it is somewhat unex-
pected that when she meets this renowned sage, the two begin to chat as if there
were no generation (or other) gap between them: ‘taka þau tal saman, ok váru þau
bæði vitr ok orðig’ (p. 88) [they struck up a conversation; their discussion was both
shrewd and lengthy, p. 44].
The wise man and the teenage girl might at first sight seem a strange couple and
even more remarkable is the fact that the saga highlights their common eloquence
6 Many scholars have discussed the dreams and their function in the narrative structure: see especially Heinrich Beck,
“Laxdœla saga—A Structural Approach”, Saga-Book of the Viking Society, 19 (1977), 383–402. I have also wrestled
with these issues: see Ármann Jakobsson,“(Miðalda)kona verður til: Forleikur að grein eftir Dagnýju”, Kynlegir
kvistir tíndir til heiðurs Dagnýju Kristjánsdóttur fimmtugri 19. maí 1999, ed. by Soffia Auður Birgsdóttir (Reykjavík:
Uglar og ormur, 1999), 75–80.
7 On his role in the community, see Sverrir Jakobsson, “Galdur og forspá í ríkisvaldslausu samfélagi”, in Galdur og
samfélag á miðöldum, ed. Torfi H. Tulinius (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2008), pp. 73–83.
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Nine Saga Studies
and wisdom. Even at fourteen, Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir is very comfortable in making

witty small-talk with one of the wisest men in Iceland. It is this that makes Guðrún
special. Even in today’s culture of apparent equality, a fourteen-year-old girl talking
to a professor on an equal footing would be considered a somewhat strange phe-
nomenon. And that is precisely what Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir is: a strange phenome-
non. In the saga overall she is not just a woman with many husbands. And although
she might with some justification be regarded as glamorous—she and the handsome
Kjartan Ólafsson are later described as well suited for one another (p. 112)—beauty
is never her principal asset or accomplishment.
Even in modem responses to Laxdœla saga, Guðrún is often regarded as an ex-
ceptionally good-looking, refined and glamorous woman—to take just one example,
Jane Smiley calls her ‘the most beautiful woman ever born in Iceland’, but makes no
mention of her intellect.8 The saga itself, on the other hand, draws attention to her
mental powers rather than her looks.9 Guðrún is indeed said to be good looking but
her appearance is never described in detail (although her costume is so depicted, af-
ter the death of Bolli, p. 168). Detailed descriptions are, in fact, reserved for the men
of the saga, in particular Kjartan Ólafsson, whose good looks receive extensive and
exaggerated attention (pp. 76–77).10
Guðrún, on the other hand is said to be ‘kvenna vænst, er upp óxu á Íslandi, bæði
at ásjánu ok vitsmunum. […] Allra kvenna var hon kœnst ok bezt orði farin; hon var
ǫrlynd kona’ (p. 86) [the most beautiful woman ever to have grown up in Iceland,
and no less clever than she was good-looking […] She was the shrewdest of women,
highly articulate, and generous as well’, p. 43].11 It may be noted that there is no
particular statement made about her looks. While the description of Kjartan draws
special attention to his face, eyes, hair and body, Guðrún is not described specifically
at all. She may have had long hair or red hair; she may have been tall or short; we
are not told whether her eyes were particularly striking. Guðrún, then, is certainly
a handsome woman, but, more importantly, she is extremely wise, clever, eloquent
8 Jane Smiley, ‘Distant Voices’, The Guardian, 8 April 2006.

9 See also Loren Auerbach, ‘Female Experience and Authorial Intention in Laxdœla saga’, Saga-Book, 25 (1998), 30–
52 (pp. 36–38).
10 See Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Konungasagan Laxdœla’, Skírnir 172 (1998), 357–81 (pp. 357–64).
11 I am not sure that er upp óxu á Íslandi should be translated as ‘ever to have grown up in Iceland’; I would also argue
that kvenna vœnst should be translated simply as ‘a very beautiful woman’: a translation is always an interpretation,
of course, and in this case I believe that the translator overstates Guðrún’s beauty—in line, of course, with a long
tradition.
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Dreaming
and ‘ǫrlynd’ (generous, or quick-tempered). While I am not sure that the saga is im-
plying that Kjartan was not similarly wise, clever or eloquent, nothing is explicitly
stated about these accomplishments in his portrayal.
With this description of Guðrún in mind, it becomes less surprising that she is
not only dreaming of her fate at fourteen years of age, but is also carrying on intel-
ligent conversations with wise chieftains in their prime. Later in the saga, the main
obstacles to attacking Bolli are his valour and the wise counsels of Guðrún and her
father Ósvífr (p. 163). And it is indeed Guðrún’s wisdom that makes her so attrac-
tive to the men of Iceland, such as the extremely handsome Kjartan Ólafsson: ‘þótti
Kjartani gott að tala við Guðrúnu, þvi at hon var bæði vitr ok málsnjǫll’ (p. 112)
[Kjartan enjoyed Gudrun’s company, as she was both clever and good with words;
p. 57]. She may be a good-looking woman but it is her eloquence rather than her
beauty which captivates him.
This is the first curious and neglected aspect of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir’s dreams
and their interpretation. The saga is a narrative about a precocious girl who is able
to engage in intelligent conversation of the kind that would normally be restricted
to men of some stature, in the fundamentally unequal society of medieval Iceland,
albeit with an occasional superwoman included in the group of dominant men.12
Bearing in mind who Guðrún is, we may now return to the question of what
she is doing when she calls for a prophecy by narrating her dreams to Gestr. Is she
entirely innocent or is she playing some intellectual game? At first sight, of course,
there is nothing peculiar about the narrative. A teenage girl has had puzzling dreams
that she does not understand. She tells them to the wisest man in the region when
she meets him by chance, and he explains their meaning to her. On the face of it
there seems to be nothing suspicious about this, except, of course, that Guðrún is
not an ordinary teenager. Soon after this, she has not only obtained a divorce from
her husband but is giving her new lover advice on how to get rid of his wife (p. 95).
And this plot, like all her plots, is cunning and subtle.
There is nothing simple about Guðrún in Laxdœla saga. On the other hand, as I
mentioned earlier, the interpretation of the four dreams is straightforward. As a
dreamer Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir almost resembles King Sverrir, whose long journey
to the throne included prophetic dreams that eventually became less and less subtle
12 See, for example, Gunnar Karlsson, ‘Kenningin um fornt kvenfrelsi á Íslandi’, Saga, 24 (1986), 45–77; Carol J. Clo-
ver, ‘Regardless of Sex: Men, Women, and Power in Early Northern Europe’, Speculum, 68 (1993), 363–87; Jenny
Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1995).
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in implying that his future lay with the throne of Norway.13 When she approaches
Gestr she tells him that these dreams have been worrying her ‘en engi maðr hefir þá
svá ráðit, at mér líki, ok bið ek þó eigi þess, at þeir sé í vil ráðnir’ (p. 88) [No one has
yet been able to interpret them to my satisfaction, although I don’t insist that they
be favourably interpreted; p. 44]. She does indeed not insist at all. It is almost as if
she is goading him to find the dead husbands in the dream. Or are we to believe that
this extremely clever woman had not thought of husbands at this point? I think that
such a view would be as naive as thinking that just over a decade before the Chris-
tianization of Iceland, Gestr is referring to a new and much nobler religion without
any particular faith in mind.
Guðrún’s reaction, when Gestr offers his interpretation, is interesting: she ‘setti
dreyrrauða, meðan draumarnir váru ráðnir; en engi hafði hon orð um’ [had grown
blood-red while listening to her dreams being interpreted, but kept silent; p. 45]. She
keeps her composure, though, and remarks only that she will have plenty to think
about, if all this should come to pass (p. 91). But she is visibly upset and this is also
somewhat strange. Is she so surprised that this is not just a dream about vanished
treasures? Or had she been laying a trap for Gestr? Did she perhaps not expect him
to unravel the riddle so quickly? Or did she think that he would find it too simple
and offer something more complex? We will return to this point presently, but for
now we may simply note the obvious fact that Gestr’s interpretation of the dreams
perturbs Guðrún, in the wake of his earlier responses that had been restricted to sar-
donic one-liner responses, such as ‘Era sjá draumr minni’ [No less remarkable is this
dream] and ‘Eigi fara í þurrð draumarnir’ [The source of your dreams is far from
drying up] (pp. 88–89; p. 44).
Another legitimate question is: did Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir really dream all this?
Or has she been inventing the dreams, and, if so, to what purpose? Most modern
experts would doubtless hesitate to wager that an actual tenth-century Guðrún re-
ally had these four recurring dreams. But would a thirteenth-century audience have
been any more uncritical? Might it not have been the intention of the saga creator
to hint at the possibility that Guðrún had never dreamt anything of the kind? And
that possibility, in turn, raises interesting questions about the prophetic nature of
13 See Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Sinn eiginn smiður: Ævintýrið um Sverri konung’, Skírnir, 179 (2005), 109–39.
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her dreams, to which I will also return presently. But, as I have argued elsewhere,14
Laxdœla saga tends not to illuminate riddles but deliberately leaves them for the au-
dience to wrestle with.
After having unravelled Guðrún’s dreams, Gestr Oddleifsson has fulfilled his
most important function in the story, though he will make two further appearances
of some significance.15 These, however, do not occur until after he has met Kjartan
Ólafsson and his fosterbrother Bolli on the way from Guðrún and told his son that
Bolli will eventually kill Kjartan (p. 92; p. 46). Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, however, re-
mains at the forefront of the saga. She marries four men, loves a fifth and ends up as
an old woman at Helgafell. At the conclusion of the saga the theme of her husbands
reappears. Guðrún’s son, Bolli Bollason, comes to visit and asks his old mother to
identify the man whom she had loved the most. Guðrún, subtle as ever, does not re-
ally answer but says positive things about three of her husbands, while dismissing
the fourth. But Bolli persists and secures the reply: ‘Þeim var ek verst, er ek unna
mest’ (p. 228) [Though I treated him worst, I loved him best; p. 119].
The most striking thing about this famous answer is that it is not really an an-
swer. Several scholars have tried to solve the puzzle and identify the person whom
Guðrún loved most, and several intelligent and fascinating solutions have been
proposed;16 and, of course, generations of Laxdœla saga readers have also been free
to speculate. But, when Laxdœla saga is regarded as a text, dismissing for a moment
the possibility that Guðrún might have existed and that the answer might hark back
to real truths and a long tradition, the answer is, of course, simple: Guðrún does not
say whom she loved most.17 The answer is left to the audience.
Of course, the enigmatic nature of the answer does not mean that it is devoid of
meaning. On the contrary, Guðrún and the saga reveal a good deal. To begin with,
the emphasis in the sentence is not on the best-loved man, but on Guðrún herself:
I was worst to him that I loved the most. She is, in fact, not answering the question
posed by Bolli but a different question, about her own feelings and guilt. Which
brings us to the heart of the matter: the name of the most-loved lover is perhaps not
14 Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Some Types of Ambiguities in the Sagas of the Icelanders’, Arkiv för nordisk filologi, 119 (2004),
37–53.
15 See Bjarni Guðnason, Túlkun Heiðarvíga sögu, pp. 136–38.
16 See, for example, Aðalsteinn Davíðsson, ‘Um Laxdœlu’, Mímir 3 (1964), 14-16; Hermann Pálsson, Leyndarmál
Laxdœlu (Reykjavík: Menningarsjóður, 1986), pp. 9–24; Svava Jakobsdóttir, ‘Skáldskapur og fræði’, Tímarit Máls
og menningar, 60/4 (1999), 52–61 (pp. 60–61), and several others.
17 See Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Some Types of Ambiguities’, p. 44.
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all-important; it is the emotional life of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir herself that is first and
foremost in her mind. Her enigmatic answer does not reveal the identity of the man
in her life, but it does reveal that Guðrún is the subject in her own story.
It is Guðrún’s inner life that is essential, and this in turn may explain why so
little is said about Guðrún’s appearance, while Kjartan and so many other handsome
men of the saga are described in detail. It is her wisdom that matters most. This is
hardly surprising if we regard her as the subject of this narrative; the self to whom
this story happened. In the life of every individual, even in the age of mirrors and
photographs, physical appearance can never be quite as important as thoughts and
feelings. And Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir is the self of that part of Laxdœla saga which
deals with her love life.
Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir’s enigmatic answer is not just subtle but also very subjec-
tive. No facts are given, only an insight into what an old lady is feeling. In my view
this also makes it feasible to regard Guðrún’s dreams as a statement of her inner life
rather than as a prophecy about the fate of four men—she wants these dreams to be
known and she already knows what they mean. Perhaps they were also meant to be
a riddle that Gestr should have had to work harder to solve. The arguments in sup-
port of such a proposition would be, firstly, that the dreams should not have been so
difficult to interpret for Guðrún herself; secondly, that Guðrún is visibly upset when
she has heard the interpretation; and, thirdly, that Guðrún’s inner life is demonstra-
bly a theme in the saga, and that the narrative of her mysterious answer to her son is
obviously linked to the prophetic dreams at the beginning of her story.
The first and second riddles of the husbands establish Guðrún as the main subject
of the saga, much as Egill Skalla-Grímsson (who, incidentally, is Kjartan’s grand-
father) is the dominant figure in Egils saga. Also, like Egill, she wants to go abroad
with the person she adores, in her case Kjartan (p. 115), but is not allowed to leave.
In that case, her desires are completely at odds with accepted social norms, since the
two are not yet married. And Guðrún’s desires are emotionally driven, as she herself
says: ‘ekki ann ek Íslandi’ (p. 115) [it’s not Iceland that I love; p. 58]. It is indeed not
Iceland that she loves—and since Guðrún is Guðrún, we have to finish the sentence
for her: she loves a man called Kjartan.
The main plot of Laxdœla saga, the story of Kjartan, Bolli and Guðrún, is foment-
ed by a woman’s desires. Interestingly, Guðrún blushes again when she hears about
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Kjartan’s friendship with the royal (and truly noble) Ingibjörg: ‘gekk á brott ok var
allrauð. En aðrir grunuðu, hvárt henni þœtti þessi tíðendi svá góð, sem hon lét vel
yfir’ (p. 127) [She walked away blushing. Other people suspected that she hardly
thought the news as good as she implied; p. 65]. And she changes colour again later,
when Kjartan insists that she now must relinquish the seat of honour, traditionally
hers, to his new wife Hrefna: ‘Guðrún heyrði þetta ok leit til Kjartans ok brá lit, en
svarar engu’ (p. 139) [Guðrún heard his words, looked at Kjartan and changed colour
but said nothing; p. 71].
Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir may be a handsome woman, but first and foremost she is
wise and emotional; so wise that the wisest men in Iceland clearly think of her as
operating on their own level, so emotional that she cannot speak of her emotions
except in riddles. She is a complex figure who does not show or articulate her feel-
ings.18 Thus her story is framed by two riddles that she has either dreamed or in-
vented. Laxdœla saga does not tell us the solution to her last riddle, and neither is it
clear whether Guðrún actually dreamed anything or what she intended to do with
her dreams. But the two riddles still provide a key to the complex psyche of Guðrún
Ósvífrsdóttir.
Decorative Men
The four unexplained dreams and the riddle of Guðrún’s greatest love combine to
make her affairs with men an important, and perhaps the most important, theme of
the saga. In her dreams, she reveals quite a bit about her attitude towards these men.
Her husbands belong to her (‘This treasure was mine’).19 They are her jewels and
precious objects. She does not like the first one but loses the other three through a
series of accidents. But none of them figures in the dream as an individual, they are
just not equally decorative. Even the flaw in the gold (which represents Bolli) is the
fault of Guðrún herself, as she states: ‘þótti mér þó, sem heill myndi, ef ek hefða
18 Cf. Jonna Louis-Jensen, ‘A Good Days Work: Laxdæla saga, ch. 49’, Twenty-Eight Papers Presented to Hans Bekker-
Nielsen on the Occasion of his Sixtieth Birthday 28 April 1993 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1992), 267–81 (p.
276): ‘Throughout the saga Guðrún exercises remarkable self-control; the only reaction she shows to a particularly
harsh treatment by a man who has just killed her husband is a smile (it is up to the reader to imagine what kind of
smile)’.
19 Cf. this remark of Ursula Dronke (‘Narrative Insight in Laxdœla saga’, J.R.R. Tolkien, Scholar and Storyteller: Essays
in Memoriam, ed. By Mary T. Salu and Robert T. Farrell (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. 1979),
120–37 (p. 129)), when analyzing the conversation of Guðrún and Kjartan (Laxdœla saga, p. 115), before he goes
abroad: ‘How much already she thinks she owns him!’.
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betr til gætt, ok var eigi þessi draumr lengri’ (p. 89) [All the same I had the impres-
sion that if I’d looked after it better the ring might still have been in one piece; p.
44]. The responsibility is not Bolli’s but her own.
In Guðrún’s dream, her husbands are firmly objectified. She is not just subject but
also agent. They are just decorative objects. It is not strange that Laxdœla saga has
often been regarded as an unusually feminine20 and female-centred saga,21 reflecting
a more feminine point of view, and perhaps even composed by a woman.22 One of
the main reasons for this is that Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir is so clearly the main subject
of her part of the saga—it is even feasible to suppose that the saga is constructed
around her life.23
However, though the women in Laxdœla saga are strong and active and it may
even be possible to detect an ironic stance towards some of the male heroes,24 the
activities of the Laxdœla saga women are in no way atypical for the saga genre. The
Laxdœla women, for example, often goad men towards revenge, as other saga wom-
en tend to do,25 but they do not take up arms themselves, except Guðrún’s rival
Bróka-Auðr, who has to dress like a man in order to do it. There are far fewer wom-
en than men in the saga. They are less visible ‘onstage’, as it were. And, last but not
least, the women are not described as carefully, even lovingly, as the men are.
Laxdœla saga is also unusual in that, although it is possible to find instances of the
familiar male gaze which is used to dominate women,26 the text itself is not preoc-
cupied with focusing on the women but rather on the men.27 They are described in
far greater detail, especially Kjartan Ólafsson (pp. 76–77) and Bolli Bollason (pp.
224–25). There is an episode in which Helgi Harðbeinsson’s shepherd provides his
master with an unusually detailed description of the men coming to attack Helgi
(pp. 187–89). And there is the strange and almost erotic scene in which Guðrún
barges in on Kjartan Ólafsson, now married to Hrefna, when he is about to dress in
20 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ‘Formáli’, Íslensk fornrit V, pp. ix–x.

21 Robert Cook, ‘Women and Men in Laxdœla saga’, Skáldskaparmál, 2 (1992), 34–59.
22 Helga Kress, ‘“Mjök mun þér samstaft þykkja”—Um sagnahefð og kvenlega reynslu í Laxdœla sögu’, Konur skrifa:
til heiðurs Önnu Sigurðardóttur (Reykjavík: Sögufélagið, 1980), 97–109; Auerbach, ‘Female Experience’.
23 Laxdœla saga með formála, skýringum og skrám, ed. by Aðalsteinn Eyþórsson and Bergljót Kristjánsdóttir (Reykja-
vík: Mál og menning, 1993), p. x.
24 See, for example, Cook, ‘Women and Men’; cf. Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Konungasagan Laxdæla’.
25 See Rolf Heller, Die literarische Darstellung der Frau in den Isländersagas (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1958).
26 Helga Kress, ‘“Gægur er þér í augum”: Konur í sjónmáli Íslendingasagna’, Yfir Íslandsála: Afmælisrit til heiðurs
Magnúsi Stefánssyni sextugum 25. desember 1991 (Reykjavík: Sögufræðslusjóður, 1991), 77–94.
27 Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Konungasagan Laxdæla’.
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Dreaming
the morning (p. 139). So, for the most part, the women and men of Laxdœla saga are
gazing at beautiful men, while Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir is remarkable mostly for her
inner life.
In light of all this, the metaphors about men and jewels need not surprise us. These
are not confined to the dreams but pervade the saga. One of the first things revealed
about Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir is that she has more finery than other women: ‘Guðrún
var kurteis kona, svá at í þann tíma þóttu allt barnavípur, þat er aðrar konur hǫfðu í
skarti hjá henni’ (p. 86) [She took great care with her appearance, so much that the
adornments of other women were considered to be mere child’s play in comparison;
p. 43]. When she dreams about her future, she sees treasures and adornments. Soon
after the dreams have been interpreted, she marries for the first time and the mar-
riage seems to revolve around finery as well. According to the marriage contract,
not only is Guðrún to be in control of the household purse and receive half of the
estate should there be a divorce, but her hapless husband is also required to buy her
all the beautiful things (gripi) that she wants. However, Guðrún’s hunger for finery
knows no limit (she is erfið í gripakaupum) [avid in demanding purchases of precious
objects; p. 47], which naturally puts a severe strain on the marriage. In the end the
husband strikes her and she promptly divorces him (pp. 93–94).
Given that the men in her life are represented as jewels in Guðrún’s dreams, it is
tempting to infer that Guðrún’s addiction to beautiful things is really an addiction to
men. As it turns out, the real motive for the divorce is not that Guðrún needs more
jewels but rather that she has met a man whom she desires.
Yet if the dreams tell the life story of Guðrún, it might be argued that this bi-
ography is marked by a strange absence. There is a gem missing—Kjartan Ólafs-
son himself, whose depiction in the saga is so striking and extensive that if other
men are jewels he must be regarded as the saga’s most precious stone. And indeed
Kjartan, too, ends up being objectified as a precious item, when he is given a motr,
a white head-dress, by the princess Ingibjörg. In presenting Kjartan with this head-
dress, she instructs him to present it to his future wife and specifically mentions
Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, of whom she has obviously heard and whom she may re-
spect (p. 131 ).28 However, when Kjartan returns, Guðrún is married to Bolli and he
ends up presenting the head-dress, along with himself, to Hrefna (p. 133). He clearly
sees the gift as being intended for his wife, whoever she might be, rather than for
28 Cf. Dronke. ‘Narrative Insight’, p. 131.
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Guðrún specifically.29 That is, of course, a matter of debate as Ingibjörg had men-
tioned Guðrún’s name.
If the head-dress is a symbol for Kjartan, its history becomes fraught with mean-
ing. Ingibjörg presents it to Guðrún, through Kjartan, which means that she is re-
linquishing this great treasure of a man to her greatest rival. He, on discovering that
Guðrún is married, presents Hrefna with both the head-dress and himself. Guðrún,
however, desires both the head-dress and the man and in the end robs Hrefna of
both. When Kjartan is her guest at Laugar, she apparently surprises him while
dressing and soon after she asks Hrefna if she can take a long look at the symbol
for Kjartan as well, even though he has expressively forbidden it. Hrefna, of course,
being both proud of the head-dress and obliging by nature, cannot but grant her this
wish (p. 140).
Guðrún’s reaction is, as her reactions usually are, subdued: ‘Hon rakði motrinn
ok leit á um hríð ok rœddi hvárki um lǫst né lof’ (p. 140) [Gudrun unwound the
head-dress and looked at it awhile, without either praising or criticising it; p. 72].
This is not unlike her previous reaction, when she had heard about Kjartan’s friend-
ship with the king’s sister. And when Kjartan threatens Bolli, after the head-dress
had disappeared, she comments: ‘Nú þó at svá sé, sem þú segir, at þeir menn sé hér
nǫkkurir, er ráð hafi til þess sett, at motrinn skyldi hverfa, þá virði ek svá, at þeir
hafi at sínu gengit’ (p. 144) [And even if it were true someone here was involved in
the disappearance of the head-dress, in my opinion they’ve done nothing but take
what rightfully belonged to them; p. 73]. She comes as close to admitting her guilt in
the disappearance of this precious garment as she possibly can, obviously having no
wish to conceal her actions from Kjartan, while at the same time declaring her rights
to the head-dress (and also, to Kjartan).
Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir has all the best adornments. She has a craving for finery. She
dreams of her men as finery. In her ensuing feud with Kjartan she is obviously re-
ferring to her dream by first destroying the head-dress, her symbol for Kjartan, and
then by having him killed. She lost her husbands in a dream but the man whom she
never married is destroyed by her in real life. And by doing this, Guðrún also bursts
out of the autobiography that she had dreamt in her youth.
29 As does Bouman, Patterns, p. 144.
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Dreaming
A pre-dreamed existence
The dreams of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, whether real or imagined, are clearly symbolic
and they revolve around her desires for jewellery and men.30 It is also worth noting
that Guðrún is always near a brook or a sea or a fjord in her dreams—in modern
psychoanalytical theory, water may represent transformation, the flow of life, or
be connected with sexual desires, and the dreams may indeed well be described as
Guðrún’s sexual autobiography. Also noticeable is the obsession with death. Like
a minuscule Ynglinga saga, this mini-narrative tells the story of the husbands of
Guðrún through their various deaths and dismissals. Life cannot be narrated the
way death can. All their other qualities are secondary in the dream, the manner of
the husbands’ deaths is the fundamental part of their lives, thus enabling Guðrún to
conceal from the audience of Laxdœla saga whom it was that she loved most. The
dreams do not tell us such things but are more like obituary notices: divorced—
drowned—killed in battle—drowned.
I have argued previously that we do not really know whether the dreams actually
happened. Perhaps Guðrún’s anxieties and desires are not really all that unconscious
and her so-called dreams are in fact her own invention—a way to dramatize the fu-
ture and wrap herself in an enigma. The first attempt, if Guðrún’s red face is to be
taken as a sign, was punctured by Gestr; her second, however, was so successful that
after seven centuries of debate, we cannot identify the man she loved the most.
Dreams and riddles are the polite woman’s way of expressing herself. Guðrún
Ósvífrsdóttir is very subtle, someone who hides her feelings. Love between her and
Kjartan is never mentioned, except for the one time when she says ‘ekki ann ek
Íslandi’. For the most part, Guðrún’s inner life is not shown in Laxdœla saga. She,
like everyone else, reveals herself through her reactions, and, as she is a polite and
sophisticated woman, these tell us little. It is only in the dreams that we come to
know Guðrún, and perhaps in the last part of her long life.
When she is on her way to church, she has a vision about her husband’s death and
is much shaken (p. 223). Knowing that this is the fourth and last husband enables
her to focus on saving her immortal soul.31 She drives away an old sibyl from the
30 Cf. Bouman, Patterns, pp. 146–47.

31 Cf. Gabriele Bensberg, Die Laxdœla saga im Spiegel christlich-mittelalterlicher Tradition (Frankfurt am Main: Peter
Lang, 2000), pp. 261–311; Bjarni Guðnason, ‘Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir och Laxdœla saga’, Scripta Islandica, 50 (1999),
9–30 (pp. 20–28).
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church floor at Helgafell by her bitter tears of repentance (pp. 223–24), and she ends
the saga as the first eremitical nun in Iceland, with her life belonging to the past.
We are given one last glimpse into her mind, through which we learn nothing about
whom she loved the most, but a good deal about her preoccupation with her past
crimes and misdemeanours.
It is not difficult to believe that she is worried about her salvation. In this story
of power and love, Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir has been a ruthless manipulator of other
people’s lives from an early age. She abuses her first husband Þorvaldr and Bróka-
Auðr, the wife of her second husband, in order to move from one marriage to the
next.32 She then has Kjartan killed, with the same stroke wrecking the life of the
innocent Hrefna. Bolli is later killed in revenge, having been goaded by her to take
part in the attack on Kjartan. Guðrún’s life has revolved around control, and her
reaction to Þorkell Eyjólfsson’s death demonstrates how the dreams help her in this
endeavour.
In her dreams Guðrún seems carelessly to be losing beautiful objects, mainly
headwear and rings. But those dreams are in fact her way not of losing anything
but rather of gaining control over her own fate. The dreams are Guðrún’s autobi-
ography, where a chaotic future is subsumed within a grand ordered and structured
narrative. Her unruly life metamorphoses into a fixed text, the story that Guðrún is
going to live. Thus the dreams turn out to be prophetic after all, whether they were
actually dreamed or not. After they have been explained, Guðrún is able to act out
her fate, and she indeed has a hand in her first divorce and in the violent death of her
third husband. She also keeps on marrying until she has had four husbands, as in the
dream, but will not marry again once the dreams have come true.
When Guðrún has heard Gestr’s interpretation, she replies: ‘mikit er til at hyggja,
ef þetta allt skal eptir ganga’ (p. 89) [I shall have plenty to think about if all of this
comes to pass; p. 45]. These enigmatic words may mean that although Guðrún is
not altogether happy with this narrative, she accepts it as her life and is going to live
according to the dreams. Perhaps this is the reason why she can interpret her fourth
husband’s dream correctly and obviously foresee his death (p. 215), but also why she
still replies in an oblique fashion when he narrates it to her. Guðrún either does not
want to change what has already been dreamed, or she does not want to frustrate
32 On this episode, see William Sayers, ‘Sexual Identity, Cultural Integrity, Verbal and Other Magic in Episodes from
Laxdœla saga and Kormáks saga’, Arkiv för nordisk filologi, 107 (1992), 131–55.
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Dreaming
Þorkell with an autobiographical dream such as the one with which she has been
living since her youth.
Are the dreams Guðrún’s fate or does she have a free will? We might say that in
her own eyes and those of the saga, Guðrún is responsible. She could have changed
her fate but chose not to do so. Guðrún lives the dreams as if they were her fate,
rather than seeking to fight against them—except when she meets Kjartan Ólafs-
son.
Did she perhaps see in him the ring from the third dream, the third husband
whose religion was far better than heathen customs, but whose marriage with her
was full of flaws and blemishes?33 While this is conceivable, the other possibility is
that Kjartan was something entirely different, the one man who was absent from
her dream. It was neither a part of the dream autobiography to love him nor to
kill him. In her relations with Kjartan, Guðrún changes her story. Is that why she
undertakes spinning work on the day of Kjartan’s death (p. 154)? Suddenly she has
recast herself as one of the fates, a free agent in her own story. Perhaps that makes
the life and death of Kjartan more important to her than any of the husbands—and
indeed it might be he who is occupying her mind in her old age—the one story that
she has made for herself and that was not a part of the dream.
The death of Kjartan is obviously an important reason for the guilt which mate-
rializes in her bitter tears of repentance on the church floor and in the melancholy
solitude of her final years. Nevertheless, she seems to retain a kind of pride, along
with an inclination boldly to decide her own fate, be it good or bad; it is that which
makes her turn a question about whom she loved the most into an answer about
whom she treated worst.
33 Bouman (Patterns, pp. 126–32) suggests that when Guðrún sends Bolli off to kill Kjartan, she may have been
hoping for a different outcome to their conflict (as Bolli himself suggests, Laxdœla saga, p. 155), and that she might
suspect (or wish) that Kjartan is the fourth husband in her dreams.
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The Impetuousness of Þráinn Sigfússon:
Leadership, Virtue and Villainy in Njáls saga
“Kemsk, þó at seint fari, húsfreyja” (Everything works itself out, woman, though it
may take time) (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1954: 114).1 Thus Njáll of Bergþórshváll,
one of the main protagonists of Njáls saga, urges patience and moderation. He pos-
sesses both virtues himself. On the other hand, the subject of this article, Þráinn Sig-
fússon, is an embodiment of haste and impetuousness. What follows is an in-depth
analysis of this supporting character in Njáls saga.2 Þráinn Sigfússon is a somewhat
curious and ambiguous character who has a profound impact on the events depicted
in Njáls saga. I will argue here that he also serves a didactic function in the saga, as a
figure of unwise spontaneity.
For most of first half of Njáls saga, Þráinn Sigfússon is a somewhat prominent
supporting character and keeps to his place as such. Eye-catching he may be but
firmly in the background, eclipsed by his more heroic and more dashing nephew
Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi. But after the death of Gunnarr, he suddenly, even acciden-
tally, or that is the feeling created by the narrative, becomes the main focus of atten-
tion, from chapter 87 to chapter 92, when he is dramatically killed by Skarpheðinn
Njálsson. In The Idiot, Dostoyevsky mused at some length about the problematic
existence of the supporting character, characterised by his ordinariness but far too
intelligent for the supporting role and even inflamed with a desire to be original
1 English translation from Cook; this is the translation used throughout this article.
2 The main action in Njáls saga studies gravitated towards structure in the 1970s, and characters were often discussed
mainly from the perspective of Proppian role analysis (see esp. Lönnroth 1976: 61–68). Likewise, Clover’s excel-
lent and elaborate study of the episode from Njáls saga where Þráinn has the biggest role (1982: 28–34 and 73–75)
includes no analysis of his character. With the decline of “new criticism” one gets the feeling that character analysis
that focuses on all aspects of the character (its role, psychology, symbolic function etc.) is regarded as a bit old-
fashioned, and this unspoken objection is what I wish to challenge with this article.
Having said this, there have nonetheless been published some excellent studies of individual saga characters in
recent decades, among them some that pertain to Njáls saga characters, e.g. Judd 1984; Low Soon Ai 1996; Cook
2001. The following study is one half of a project of mine that involves the close reading of the ideological and
moral function of supporting characters in Sagas of Icelanders, the other article has Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson as the
focus of attention (Ármann Jakobsson 2008; see also pp. 155 ff. in this collection).
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(pp. 537–43). This is not far off the mark where Þráinn is concerned. It could be ar-
gued, albeit somewhat light-heartedly, that he is a supporting character with a talent
and firm ambition to become a main one, and actually succeeds in this, briefly. Not
everyone can survive all this attention and Þráinn is duly killed, but his story does
not end with his end. His killing foreshadows the killing of his son Hǫskuldur and
is the indirect cause of the climactic event of the saga, the burning of Njáll and his
sons. Thus the Þráinn episode of Njáls saga is clearly very important to the overall
structure of the saga, although it works well as an episode, a þáttr.3
Given that Þráinn is important for Njáls saga, although his moment in the lime-
light is short, I want to pursue the notion that his story is a moral one, that his
character is, in fact, an interesting study of immortality, ambition, and, most im-
portantly, of impetuousness, where Þráinn serves as a counterpart to Njáll, the real
hero of the saga.
The Hasty Divorce

Þráinn Sigfússon is introduced in chapter 34 of Njáls saga, with the following de-
scription: “Hann var frændi Gunnars ok virðingarmaðr mikill. Hann átti Þórhildi
skáldkonu; hon var orðgífr mikit ok fór með flimtan. Þráinn unni henni lítit” (He
was Gunnar’s uncle and a man of great worth. His wife was Thorhild the Poet-
ess; she was harsh with words and made up mocking verses. Thrain had little love
for her) (p. 87). As Þráinn is introduced before his brothers and only he merits a
description, even a short one, it can be assumed that he is the most eminent of Gun-
narr’s numerous uncles. That is also evident from Njáll’s summary of his merits in
the same chapter “Þat er frá manni at segja, at maðr er auðigr at fé ok gǫrr at sér
um allt ok it mesta mikilmenni, ok megið þér því gera honum kostinn” (About this
man it can be said that he is well off for property and skilled in every way and very
powerful, and you may well make this match with him) (p. 90). To go back to Dos-
toyevsky’s theory of supporting characters, this is a clear portrayal of a supporting
character too intelligent not to wish for more. And Þráinn indeed shows his naked
3 See Clover, ibid. The þættir were for most of the 20th century analysed mostly as independent narratives (see esp.
Harris 1972; Harris 1976). My own approach (but not mine exclusively) has been that it is more fruitful to analyse
the þættir as episodes, with their own integral structure but, no less importantly, with a very important function in
the larger narrative (see esp. Ármann Jakobsson 2002: 61–108). Thus from my point of view the episode of Njáls
saga where Þráinn suddenly becomes a leading character is no less a þáttr, than, say, Auðunar þáttr vestfirzka or
Sneglu-Halla þáttr in Morkinskinna.
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I m p e t u o u sn e ss
ambition in this first appearance, when he makes his nephew’s wedding his own, in
the most literal sense.
Þráinn, who is sitting next to Gunnarr, begins to stare at the bride’s nubile daugh-
ter Þorgerðr, fourteen years old at the time. His wife Þórhildr becomes angry and
recites an opaque verse on the subject of inappropriate staring, to which his imme-
diate reaction is to stand up and divorce her on the spot, giving this reason: “Vil ek
eigi hafa flimtan hennar né fáryrði yfir mér” (I won’t take any more of her mocking
and malicious language). The saga adds that he was so “kappsamr um þetta, at hann
vildi eigi vera at veizlunni, nema hon væri í brautu rekin” (vehement about this that
he would not stay at the feast unless she was sent away). Thus Þórhildr has to leave,
to an unknown destiny (p. 89). When she has left the wedding, after a brief spell of
feasting, Þráinn asks Þorgerðr’s grandfather for her hand in marriage. Njáll vouches
for his character, and the wedding now becomes a double wedding, with Þráinn
suddenly the son-in-law of his niece by marriage.
It is easy to criticise Þráinn’s behaviour, both from a modern and medieval stand-
point. As he is Gunnarr’s uncle, he cannot be less than forty, in fact, he could easily
be fifty. His lust for a fourteen-year old is not very commendable to the modern eye,
even though the reactions of a medieval audience would probably have been more
mixed, as it was quite common to marry noble girls off at an early age, even to much
older men, although this occasionally attracted strong criticism.4 On the other hand,
this liaison does create a strange situation since Þráinn is now both Gunnarr’s uncle
and step-son-in-law, making his future son at the same time Gunnarr’s cousin and
his step-grandson. One might wonder whether the author or a medieval audience
would have responded positively or negatively to the complexities of these relation-
ships.
From a medieval point of view, Þráinn’s second marriage would have been pal-
pably morally objectionable. It takes place, of course, in a heathen society and the
audience would have been aware of the difference in morals, between the saga age
(c. 1000) and the age of saga composition (the late 13th century). However, that
does not mean that a thirteenth-century audience would not have thought its own
4 In Egils saga, such an alliance between the aging Bjǫrgólfr and the young Hildríðr (Sigurður Nordal 1933: 16–17)
indirectly results in the death of Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson. In Hrólfs saga kraka the marriage between an old man and
a younger woman is twice referred to in very negative terms by young women, who must be voicing a somewhat
popular opinion (Finnur Jónsson 1904: 48–49 and 96–97).
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morals applicable to heathens as well. And it was clearly contrary to good Christian
practice to divorce a healthy wife and get a second one. In an official letter from
archbishop Eiríkr Ívarsson to the Icelandic bishops Þorlákr and Brandr (dated to
1189), he instructs that when a man has taken a wife and found her poorer than he
expected, or in worse health or less pleasant, and therefore taken a second one, that
is not a real cause for divorce, and in that case, the man is actually still married to
the previous wife: “þa skal hann vit skiliaz þa konu er hann tok sidar. En hina fyre.
eda se j forbodum” (he shall then divorce from the second wife and take the first or
be excommunicated) (Jón Sigurðsson 1857–1876: 286–87). The moral here is clear, a
groundless divorce is highly immoral, and the character flaws of the first wife do not
in themselves constitute grounds for divorce. Thus what Þráinn is doing is contrary
to the late 13th century, when Njáls saga was composed, and for those who believe
in Christian morals, as most of the audience would have felt required to do, the fact
that he is a historical character and not Christian cannot change that.
In addition, Þráinn reacts hastily and is so vehement that his wife must be driven
away immediately. This demonstrates an unattractive lack of moderation, an im-
portant virtue in Njáls saga.5 Þráinn shows no generosity towards Þórhildr and, as
we are given no real insight into his possible previous sufferings in his loveless mar-
riage, it is hard not to side with her. Þráinn seems to be governed actually more
by lust than by prudence in this instance: there is no real reason for him to marry
Hallgerðr’s daughter when the two families are already united and this second mar-
riage only complicates things. Furthermore, with this very public rift, followed by a
spontaneous marriage, he might seem to be attempting to steal Gunnarr’s day from
him, which admittedly does not cause any visible resentment from Gunnarr, but
one might argue that in a saga that celebrates wisdom and foresight, this impatience
is hardly praiseworthy. Why does Þráinn need to get married in the middle of his
nephew’s wedding? Even if he could not contemplate another day with Þórhildr,
could he not easily have waited to ask for Þorgerðr’s hand in marriage for a few
weeks or months? Why is he in such a hurry? It is thus possible to regard his ac-
tions in the wedding as shameless attention-seeking, at the expense of his much
more accomplished nephew, who is the acknowledged leader of the family (see also
Maxwell 1957: 29).
5 There is a detailed analysis of this in Ármann Jakobsson 2007, see also pp. 207 ff. in the present volume. Modera-
tion was, of course, one of the four main virtues in medieval Christian scholarship, see e.g. the 13th century Icelan-
dic translation Alcuin’s De virtutibus et vitiis (Gunnar Harðarson 1989: 156–57).
194
Thus, in spite of Njáll’s praise of him, which has to be taken at face value, given
that Njáll is consistently depicted very positively in the saga and it is indeed once
remarked that he never lies (p. 194), Þráinn cannot be said to emerge well from his
first appearance. His divorce and marriage are morally dubious. The whole union is
based on lust and Þráinn acts on his own, which he is entitled to do, but the saga still
puts a strong emphasis on wise counsel. His lack of moderation and generosity are
the character traits that stand out, and it is at least possible to argue that his neph-
ew’s wedding is an inappropriate venue for the little family drama that he creates on
the spot. Officially Þráinn is not condemned but his behaviour does not reveal him
in the best light. Þráinn is clearly not moderate like Gunnarr, or a careful planner
like Njáll. Based on this episode alone, the best word to describe him would perhaps
be hasty. Þráinn is a man in a hurry, and that is not a good thing.
In the Hero’s Shadow

After this episode, Þráinn is relegated to the sidelines, where he remains until chap-
ter 87. He is next shown when asked by Hallgerðr to be present at the killing of
Þórðr Freed-man’s son. This is a good example of the strange double allegiance he
now owes to his nephew and his wife, who is also Þráinn’s mother-in-law. Þráinn’s
part in this killing is also likely to cause bad blood with the sons of Njáll, especially
Skarpheðinn, who much later kills Þráinn. The killing is also an unheroic one, two
against one, and although Þráinn partly redeems himself by calling the killing “illt
verk” (a bad deed), he is still tainted by this.
Even more peculiar is his role a short while later, when talkative itinerant women
come to Hlíðarendi and amuse Hallgerðr in her boudoir, where, curiously enough,
Þráinn and his kinsman Sigmundr Lambason are listening to gossip, the only men
along with the women (pp. 107–9 and 112). Þráinn is somewhat superfluous in this
scene and his presence is therefore all the more curious. He is an ambitious and
manly man who later assumes Gunnarr’s mantle as a chieftain and a hero. What on
earth is he then doing in the women’s room, listening to gossip? And why does the
author insist on placing him there, when he does not really have anything to do in
this scene? Does he wish to make Þráinn sexually ambiguous, given that there is
much interest in the saga in male and female roles (cf. Ármann Jakobsson 2007)?
Gunnarr himself does not take part in this, he is outside and only enters the room to
scold everyone present and pour his scorn over this malicious gossip. It is not relat-
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ed what he said to his uncle, but as inappropriate as Gunnarr feels the festivities are,
it follows that the same must apply to his uncle’s presence in Hallgerðr’s boudoir.
Þráinn’s presence as a part of Hallgerðr’s entourage is, of course, explained by his
dual role as uncle and son-in-law to the Hlíðarendi couple. Both roles are obviously
of much value to him. It must be kept in mind that by marrying Hallgerðr’s daugh-
ter he is, along with his nephew, entering a much more prestigious family, that of
Hǫskuldr Dala-Kollsson and the descendants of Unnr the Subtle, the Laxdœlir. His
marriage is not only hasty but also very ambitious, and his new status as a member
of the Laxdœlir clan is then reflected in the fact that his son gets his name from
there and is called Hǫskuldr. Ambition and haste are two character traits that domi-
nate the life of Þráinn. As will be seen, they do not really fit well together.
Þráinn is next seen in his nephew’s entourage when visiting Otkell to ask for food
and hay. His impatience and immorality resurface; after Otkell’s unwise refusal, his
suggestion is that Gunnarr and company should take food and hay anyway and just
leave money. Gunnarr refuses this, demonstrating yet again the difference between
the two kinsmen (p. 121). This is Þráinn’s last appearance during Gunnarr’s lifetime,
although it is later mentioned that he is planning a trip abroad, in wake of the assem-
bly where Gunnarr has been outlawed (pp. 181 and 184). Gunnarr in the end does
not go abroad and is killed, but Þráinn does and a new chapter in his life begins.
When Þráinn arrives in Norway, he is immediately welcomed by Earl Hákon
who remarks that he is particularly pleased to see a relative of Gunnarr of Hlíðar-
endi. Still in his nephew’s shadow, Þráinn now finally has a chance to become his
own man. He must be at the very least about sixty when this happens, if he is only
fifteen years older than his nephew. He could, of course, be even older, but is in
any case acquitting himself quite well for someone his age. When Kolr, a viking
outlaw, has killed a royal retainer, the king remarks that if Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi
were there, he would take care of the man. This is apparently too much for Þráinn
Sigfússon, who replies: “Eigi em ek Gunnarr, en þó em ek skyldr honum, ok vil ek
játask undir þessa ferð” (I’m not Gunnar, but I’m kin to him, and I’m ready to take
on this venture) (p. 199). And, thus provoked, Þráinn performs his one and only un-
ambiguously heroic act in the saga, leading the attack to kill the viking. Having done
this, he is unequivocally the Earl’s favourite, although the saga does insist on the
Earl’s respect for Gunnarr as a partial explanation of the favour Þráinn now enjoys
(cf. Maxwell 1957: 34).
196
And there is a snag. Although Þráinn is a hero now, the Earl also refers to him as
a dandy (“skrautmenni mikit”) (p. 200). Later in the saga, he and his companions
are called “oflátar” (show-offs) (p. 231), and even before, in his moment of triumph,
there is a touch of vanity about Þráinn Sigfússon, the man who wanted to inherit the
mantle of Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi.6 But, as he has put it himself, he is not Gunnarr,
he is more of a mini-Gunnarr, and in spite of the saga’s neutral tone, that is made
abundantly clear before Þráinn suddenly becomes a leading character in the saga.
Fatal Attraction
What happens next is the strangest moment in Þráinn’s career, one which could
easily be characterised as both his finest hour and his biggest mistake. But if there is
some ambiguity as to whether what Þráinn does now is a good deed or a bad one, he
is very unambiguously controlled again by a sudden impulse.
The catalyst that suddenly propels Þráinn into the limelight is a new support-
ing character in the saga, Hrappr Ǫrgumleiðason. The name Hrappr literally means
‘scoundrel’, and that is indeed what Hrappr is.7 He is, however, an attractive scoun-
drel, witty, brave, defiant of authority, to the point of being nihilistic. Several pre-
vious scholars, no aficionados of punk, have disapproved of Hrappr, Einar Ólafur
Sveinsson among them (1943: 79).8 And yet, even the righteous have to admit that
there is something strangely attractive about this villain. He is on the run when first
seen, promising money to the captain of a merchant ship for his fare abroad. Later it
turns out that he doesn’t have it, to which the captain’s reply is strangely indulgent.
6 It is interesting to compare Þráinn and Mǫrðr Valgarðsson who are both in Gunnarr’s shadow. However, there
is a fundamental difference between their ambition: Mǫrðr could be characterised as jealous but Þráinn could not.
What Þráinn actually wants is to be like Gunnarr. He wants what Gunnarr is, while Mǫrðr wants what Gunnarr
has, his role in society. Unlike Þráinn, Mǫrðr shows no desire to emulate Gunnarr, he is quite secure in his own
identity and has great confidence in his own abilities.
7 There are several known men called Hrappr in 10th and 11th century Iceland but only two other significant char-
acters in the Sagas of Icelanders, both in Laxdæla saga and both, like Hrappr in Njáls saga, are at some point called
Víga-Hrappr. The former of the Laxdæla Hrapprs is the Hrappr who lives at Hrappsstaðir, descended from Scot-
land and the Hebrides. He is said to be a bully and a difficult neighbour, who, like Þórólfr twistfoot in Eyrbyggja
saga, becomes a ghost after death through sheer maleficience (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1934: 19 and 39). The other
is a small, shifty eyed man who asks to be included in the assault on Helgi Harðbeinsson (p. 190). He seems to be a
comic character, boastful and talkative, and Helgi is quick to dispense with him.
8 Einar Ólafur’s analysis of the four main villains in Njáls saga (Skammkell, Þjóstólfr, Mǫrðr and Hrappr) is to my
knowledge the most ambitious study of villainy in this saga. It is a very mixed affair, on Skammkell Einar Ólafur
is brilliant, quite good on Þjóstólfr, adequate on Mǫrðr but does not seem to have any sympathy for Hrappr, al-
though he makes the interesting point that Hrappr is like a child, a complete egoist who never stops to consider
the consequences of his actions: “Hann breytir hverri girnd sinni óðara í athöfn og er alltaf á flóttaferli undan
afleiðingum þeirra”. It might also be argued that Hrappr just does not care, since it is hard to find anyone who is
less prone to try to justify his actions or make himself look any better than he is. I myself feel that Einar Ólafur’s
observation is a better description of Þráinn than Hrappr.
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On the voyage, he has apparently succumbed to the charm of Hrappr, who goes
on to infiltrate himself into the house-hold of the magnate Guðbrandr, seduce his
daughter, kill his foreman and maim his son. When asked about his wicked deeds,
he merely jokes and seems particularly proud of his popularity with the women.
Then he burns down Guðbrandr’s temple,9 and is an outlaw, literally on the run,
when Þráinn is suddenly faced with him (pp. 209–16).10
When relating Hrappr’s escapades, the saga seems to create a certain sympathy
for him, and he does get opportunities to demonstrate his sense of humour and his
attractiveness to women. The point of view often shifts to him, especially when he
is breaking laws and has become an outlaw, and this makes the average reader want
him to escape his pursuers. Hrappr is also very candid about his evil-doings, taking
an immoral but somewhat seductive delight in them. From our modern point of
view, he much resembles the later type of romantic villains from 19th century novels
(such as Long John Silver and Rupert Hentzau), that you are forced to disapprove of
whilst being simultaneously seduced by their charm.11 Closer to the point of Njáls
saga’s composition, there is the picaresque anti-hero who cannot really be admired
but is still the protagonist of the narrative. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson (1943: 78 and 84)
has indicated that the author of Njáls saga had a somewhat black and white frame
of mind in discerning between hero and villain. Perhaps that is so, but it still leaves
the audience some room to be engaged by the scoundrels. It is possible to admire
clever and resourceful Mǫrðr Valgarðsson to a degree, in spite of his wickedness,
and there is even a case to be made that the saga does give him his due (Cook 2001).
Hrappr, on the other hand, may charm us by his honesty, his wit, and his utter lack
of any moral reservations.
But it is not merely the audience that is seduced. More significantly for the plot
of Njáls saga, Þráinn Sigfússon is. When Hrappr comes running towards the shore,
he sees the ships leaving Norway, among them the vessel of the sons of Njáll, Helgi
and Grímr, and Þráinn Sigfússon’s ship. First he asks the sons of Njáll to save him
but they very prudently refuse, feeling that he would bring bad luck. While they are
9 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson disapproves and calls Hrappr a “guðníðingr” (1943: 79).
10 In his study of outlawry, Turville-Petre (1977: 778) discusses the word “vargr”, commonly used for outlaws, and
makes this interesting point about wolves (and outlaws): “The wolf has two sides to his character. On the one
hand, he is, like the fox, the sly vicious thief, but he is also brave and has qualities which many men would desire”,
It might be added that no serious discussion on Hrappr can really ignore those qualities that make him a character
to be empathized with.
11 Long John Silver appeared in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island (1883); Rupert Hentzau in Anthony Hope’s
The Prisoner of Zenda (1894).
198
justified by both past and future events in doing so, their refusal is not heroic and
neither does it seem more admirable from a modern standpoint. Is prudence more
important than mercy? Perhaps the original audience of Njáls saga felt the same; in
the 13th century, it became customary for people to seek shelter from their enemies
in churches, and it was apparently un-Christian to turn them out (see Sverrir Jakobs
son 1998: 24–29). Then Hrappr goes to Þráinn Sigfússon and this time gets lucky.
He confesses that he has killed some men and burnt the temple of Earl Hákon,
Þráinn’s benefactor. Then he offers Þráinn money and finally he resorts to being
pathetic, and tells Þráinn that now he will run no further, but be killed in front of
Þráinn, and the latter will be blamed for his cruelty, and lose honour for standing by
and seeing another man get killed (p. 216). Þráinn gives in and takes him on.
This decision may at first seem illogical and unexplained. It is not only a pivotal
moment in the saga but also a prick or a point that has to be discussed and explained
and continues to draw our attention by its very strangeness.12 To a degree, it is char-
acteristic of the Þráinn that we met in Gunnarr’s wedding. As Þráinn is beholden to
the Earl in a way that the sons of Njáll are not, this is an impulsive decision, to say
the least. He is, effectively, betraying his overlord (as Hrappr has already done), a
serious crime in the feudal ideology dominant in 13th century Europe. But it cannot
be overlooked that he is being noble, too. Not only modern readers would sym-
pathise with him, Helgi and Grímr are also sufficiently in understanding of his mo-
tives to then refuse to divulge to the Earl what he has done, when he asks them what
has happened with Hrappr. So do all the other captains present, thus creating a firm
consensus that saving Hrappr was, at least partially, a good action. Hrappr’s plight
does strike a chord in the hearts of the saga characters. Þráinn, too, is not merely
convinced by the money—though it may be an added incentive, or so the saga author
makes us believe by including this offer in his narrative, to Þráinn’s detriment—but
seems to have a conviction that helping a fellow human in need is the correct thing
to do. Furthermore, Þráinn now gets an opportunity to demonstrate his cleverness,
when he hides Hrappr from the Earl, who has to use his magical second sight to see
through Þráinn’s tricks, and only when it is too late (pp. 216–20; cf. Einar Ólafur
Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson 1935: 51–54).
On the one hand, Þráinn emerges from this episode in a better light than before.
12 I am consciously echoing Barthes’ depiction of the punctum, see Ármann Jakobsson 2004. It is, in this case like in
many others, impossible to decide to what extent the audience of the saga is meant to ponder this decision.
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He demonstrates both the quality of mercy and a cleverness matching that of Mǫrðr
Valgarðsson and even Njáll himself. Although the Earl is being betrayed, it is dif-
ficult to side with him. But, of course, it cannot be denied either that Þráinn is both
playing a risky game and being ignoble, as he was the Earl’s man and had benefited
from his graces. He is also jeopardizing his future travels to Norway; for him there
will be no return. And it must be kept in mind that Hrappr, for all his charms, is not
an innocent victim but a shameless scoundrel.
As Þráinn is an experienced man and probably in his sixties, this uprising against
the Earl is somewhat perplexing, to say the least. But Þráinn still comes into his
own in a manner he has not done before. He has finally emerged from the shadow
of his nephew Gunnarr, not by being considerably heroic but still not quite so he-
roic as Gunnarr had been, but by being cunning and clever and rebellious, by taking
on the Earl of Norway himself by helping someone who was in trouble, a stranger
who appealed to his honour, and by escaping with his dignity intact.
The rebellion against the Earl also has another side to it. Showing mercy is vir-
tuous, and mercy is furthermore a virtue that is particularly important for kings
and chieftains (Ármann Jakobsson 1997: 232–36). Thus Þráinn is appropriating for
himself the power of kings and chieftains by taking Hrappr under his wing. It is un-
derstandable that Grímr and Helgi hesitate, they are not kings and showing mercy is
not a part of their role.13 Taking on Hrappr is Þráinn’s first act as a chieftain, as the
self-proclaimed successor of Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi. Unfortunately, that is a role
that keeps eluding him.
Things Fall Apart

After this moment of unexpected and morally ambiguous triumph, Þráinn’s life
starts going downhill, although he probably does not realise that until his moment
of death. It all starts in chapter 91, when the sons of Njáll ask him for compensa-
tion for the tribulations they have suffered at the hands of Earl Hákon, who had
persecuted them in Þráinn’s place, or as his supposed accomplices. Their brother-in-
law is Þráinn’s brother Ketill and he arbitrates on their behalf, but is refused. Their
new friend Kári, who, like Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi, is valiant, modest and righteous,
13 Grímr and Helgi presumably go abroad for a “grand tour”, in the fashion of European princes. However, they fail
to come into their own. Skarpheðinn, who stays at home for some reason, continues to be the undisputed leader
of the brothers, and they are furthermore outshone by Kári Sǫlmundarson whom they befriend and who is much
more impressive than they are from the outset.
200
then speaks to Þráinn and does not get anything out of him either. Þráinn now
has a chance to show the sons of Njáll the same nobility that he had when hiding
Hrappr from the Earl, but somehow this seems to be beyond him. Kings and mag-
nates should be magnanimous, but the magnanimity that a nobleman must possess
has passed Þráinn by. It seems to be easier for him to be kind to strangers than to his
neighbours, a somewhat wry but insightful observation of human nature by the saga
author. And refusing to be noble to the sons of Njáll has serious consequences for
Þráinn. It is the first indication that he is not a real chieftain.
When Þráinn returns home, he is the new leader of the Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi
clan, or, as the saga has it: “Allir frændr Þráins heldu hann fyrir hǫfðingja” (All of
Thrain’s kinsfolk saw him as a chieftain) (p. 220). The word “halda” has several
meanings (Fritzner’s Old Icelandic dictionary (1973: 692–702) lists more than 100),
and one of the possible meanings of this sentence is ‘to believe that someone is a
chieftain’, another would be ‘to have him as a chieftain’. There is a sense of disdain:
unlike Gunnarr, Þráinn is not a real chieftain but he can be held for chieftain for a
while. It is hard not to see Þráinn as being slightly inadequate in this new role, espe-
cially when he is then described: “Þráinn var skrautmenni mikit ok reið jafnan í blári
kápu” (He was a great one for show and always rode out in a black cloak) (p. 227). It
seems a logical conclusion that Þráinn is not a real chieftain, but a vain and foppish
old man who is being used as the figurehead for a gang.
In chapters 91 and 92, Þráinn’s entourage indeed comes across as a gang, more
than anything else, with Hrappr acting as the lieutenant who is actually in charge.
The servant dominates his master, and this is made very clear soon. Hrappr is ap-
parently having an affair with Hallgerðr (p. 220),14 and when Skarpheðinn leads the
sons of Njáll on a visit to Grjóta, most of the gang members hurl insults at them
(making it easier for the sons of Njáll to later kill them), while Þráinn inadequately
tries to stop them: “allir urðu sekir þessa orða, þeir er fyrir váru, nema Þráinn; hann
þekti menn af orðum pessum” (all those who faced them, except Thrain, had made
themselves guilty of using those words. Thrain tried to restrain them from using
those words) (p. 229). Even if it must be acknowledged that Þráinn is by far the
cleverest person in his own gang, he is not its actual leader; the other gang members
14 It could be argued that the saga author mentions the affair to further blacken Hallgerðr’s character, but it must also
be kept in mind that Hrappr has previously seduced almost everyone else he has come into contact with, including
perhaps many of the 13th century audience, as well as later readers of Njáls saga.
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do not care whether he tries to shut them up or not. He is held as a chieftain, but is
not really a leader.15 The role he has claimed requires him to be in control but he is
not.
Even though the killing of Þráinn, soon after, is a spectacular scene in the saga, it
reveals little about his character. He is uncharacteristically guileless when he is at-
tacked and killed, and his surprise is natural enough since Skarpheðinn has to cross
the icy Markarfljót at the speed of a bird to reach him. Þráinn apparently does not
have the imagination to expect such an attack. But he is also rather valiant, refusing
to choose another time to travel, because then he would be allowing fear to guide
his actions. It is hard not to get the impression that Þráinn is no longer a man in
control. It might even be argued that he has been the victim of a monster of his
own creation, as the savior of Hrappr. The latter is now the real antagonist of the
sons of Njáll and he manages to crack some good jokes before he is killed, and goes
out with the same bravado he has shown all along. Hrappr dies almost heroically,
fighting against two and making pointed and reflective comments about how he re-
ally deserves his fate. Þráinn, on the other hand, is just killed without famous last
words (pp. 229–34). His death mainly illustrates Skarpheðinn’s extreme athleticism
and bravery. The person who dies would not seem to be of much significance, if it
wasn’t for the fact that he was of a good standing and had not given the sons of Njáll
any lawful cause to kill him, which means that his death in turn marks the beginning
of their bad luck.
Chieftain without Substance

I have argued that Þráinn Sigfússon is depicted in Njáls saga as a clever and accom-
plished man, who still falls short of his own ambition. In the end, he is no Gunnarr
and ends up losing control over his own men. He is more than once in the saga
referred to as a “skrautmenni”, a dandy or a fop. One might conclude that his fatal
flaw is a lack of substance. If Gunnarr and Njáll are regarded as the heroes of this
saga, which seems reasonable, their main virtues may be listed as follows: clever-
ness, foresight, bravery, firmness and integrity. But Þráinn lacks the foresight of
15 This is made very clear in the dialogue of the saga. Hrappr has far more direct speech in chapters 82–92 than
Þráinn has (27 lines to Þráinn’s 20) and his lines are more witty and memorable. Even in his own part of the saga,
Þráinn is eclipsed by his henchman.
202
Njáll; he ditches his first his wife and then his king on the spur of the moment. He
also lacks the loyalty of Gunnarr, who remains a close friend to Njáll and his sons
through endless provocation and mockery. While Gunnarr was brave, Þráinn wants
to appear brave. Gunnarr would never stoop to robbing people or taking part in
ignoble killings but Þráinn has no such scruples. And while Njáll is always in con-
trol of his own fate, and most of the time in control of his sons, Þráinn ends up as a
mere figurehead of a rabble.
Þráinn’s lack of integrity may be regarded as tragic, not only because it indirectly
leads to the tragic death of Njáll and his sons, but because he is an accomplished
man, who can, on occasion, be intelligent and resourceful, brave and noble, even to
the point of taking on Earl Hákon and emerging unscathed.
But although he hands out mercy like a king on that occasion, he falls short of
most other virtues necessary for a ruler or a chieftain, two of the most important
being strength and moderation (Ármann Jakobsson 1997: 212–28). In an age of
charismatic rulers, Þráinn fatally lacks the necessary charisma to be a real chieftain.
In spite of his ambition to become a leading figure, he constantly gets eclipsed by
others, even after the death of Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi. In Old Icelandic, the word
“mildi” is frequently used for the mercy of rulers. But the word is also used about
generosity and magnanimity (Ármann Jakobsson 1997: 236–39). Þráinn’s magna-
nimity is put to the test when Helgi and Grímr ask for compensation for their tribu-
lations, and he fails.
Þráinn is not generous, as befits a ruler. He does not have the strength to rule
either, as his gang acts like a leaderless rabble with Þráinn its leader only in name,
whereas Hrappr is the leading spirit. And, last but not least, Þráinn is not tem-
perate nor moderate as a ruler must be. It is interesting (and slightly ironic) that
after Þráinn has failed spectacularly to become Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi’s heir, his
son Hǫskuldr is actually successful in the same quest (much to Mǫrðr Valgarðs-
son’s chagrin). Unlike Þráinn he enjoys the support of Njáll (who, as related above,
always had a soft spot for Þráinn and was never his enemy until he was forced to).
And, unlike Þráinn, Hǫskuldr is both firm and modest and never makes an impetu-
ous decision.
Þráinn is a man governed by impulse and this leads to his failure and eventually
to his death. His first impulsive deed results in him becoming the son-in-law of
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Hallgerðr, and, to a degree, her stooge. The second turns out to be lethal: in rescu-
ing Hrappr, he ends up becoming beholden to him and more controlled by his new
servant than in control over him. Thus Þráinn’s virtues are negated by the fact that
he is always in a hurry and lacks the moral commitment to make the right choices.
Þráinn becomes an example. He is an important case study of what happens to those
who do not consider the consequences of their own actions.
References
Ármann Jakobsson 1997. Í leit að konungi: Konungsmynd íslenskra konungasagna. Reykjavík,
Háskólaútgáfan.
Ármann Jakobsson 2002. Staður í nýjum heimi: Konungasagan Morkinskinna. Reykjavík,
Háskólaútgáfan.
Ármann Jakobsson 2004. “Some Types of Ambiguities in the Sagas of Icelanders.” Arkiv för
nordisk filologi 119, 37–53.
Ármann Jakobsson 2007. “Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga.” Viator 38, 191–215.
Ármann Jakobsson 2008. “Egils saga and Empathy: Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dys-
functional Saga Family.” Scandinavian Studies 80, 1–18.
Clover, Carol 1982. The Medieval Saga. Ithaca: Cornell UP.
Cook, Robert 2001. “Mörður Valgarðsson.” Sagnaheimur: Studies in Honour of Hermann
Pálsson on his 80th birthday, 26th May 2001. Ed. Ásdís Egilsdóttir and Rudolf Simek.
Wien: Fassbaender, 63–77.
Cook, Robert trans. 2001. Njál’s saga. London: Penguin.
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor 2004. The Idiot, transl. by David McDuff. London: Penguin.
Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. 1934. Laxdœla saga. Íslenzk fornrit 5. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka
fornritafélag.
Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1943. Á Njálsbúð: Bók um mikið listaverk. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka
bókmenntafélag.
Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. 1954. Brennu-Njáls saga. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið
íslenzka fornritafélag.
Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, ed. 1935. Eyrbyggja saga. Íslenzk fornrit 4.
Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag.
Finnur Jónsson, ed. 1904. Hrólfs saga kraka og Bjarkarímur, Samfund til udgivelse af gam-
mel nordisk litteratur 32. Copenhagen: S.L. Møller.
Fritzner, Johan 1973. Ordbog over Det gamle norske Sprog, 4th edition. Oslo: Universitetsfor-
laget.
Gunnar Harðarson, ed. 1989. Þrjár þýðingar lærðar frá miðöldum. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka
bókmenntafélag.
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Harris, Joseph. 1972. “Genre and Narrative Structure in Some Íslendinga þættir.” Scandina-
vian Studies 44, 1–27.
Harris, Joseph. 1976. “Theme and Genre in some Íslendinga þættir.” Scandinavian Studies
48, 1–28.
Jón Sigurðsson, ed. 1857–76. Diplomatarium Islandicum: Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn, sem hefir
inni að halda bréf og gjörninga, dóma og máldaga, og aðrar skrár, er snerta Ísland eða íslenzka
menn. Copenhagen: S.L. Møller.
Judd, William E. 1984. “Valgerðr’s Smile.” Scandinavian Studies 56, 203–12.
Low Soon Ai 1996. “The Mirthless Content of Skarphedinn’s Grin.” Medium Aevum 65,
101–8.
Lönnroth, Lars 1976. Njáls saga: A Critical Introduction. Berkeley: Univ. of Calif. Press.
Maxwell, I.R. 1957. “Pattern in Njáls saga.” Saga-Book 15, 17–47.
Sigurður Nordal, ed. 1933. Egils saga. Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafé-
lag.
Sverrir Jakobsson 1998. “Friðarviðleitni kirkjunnar á 13. öld.” Saga 36, 7–46.
Turville-Petre, Gabriel 1977. “Outlawry.” Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni 20.
júlí 1977. Ed. Jónas Kristjánsson and Einar Gunnar Pétursson. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna
Magnússonar, 769–78.
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Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga
“See the red elf”

Masculinity seems to have been imagined as something of a burden in tenth-century
Iceland. In chapter 45 of Njáls saga, it is related how the sons of Njáll go to Hlíðar-
endi to kill Sigmundr Lambason, a cousin of their father’s close friend, Gunnarr.
Sigmundr had been goaded by Gunnarr’s wife, Hallgerðr, into making slanderous
verses about Njáll and his sons. These verses (referred to in the saga but present in
only some of its manuscripts) are inspired by Njáll’s innovative custom of carrying
dung to the hillocks to help the hay grow, coupled with the fact that he (but not
his sons) has no beard. The aim of the verses is to cast a slur on his and their man-
hood. Hence, they contain the epithets “karl inn skegglausi” (Old Beardless) and
“taðskegglingar” (Dung-beardlings) and imply that Njáll has also used dung to help
his sons grow a beard (113 and 471–472).1 Rather than live with this smear, the sons
of Njáll kill Sigmundr and his Swedish companion Skjǫldr. One of the premises
for this killing is clearly the importance of masculinity in medieval Iceland. In this
case, Skarpheðinn, the oldest and most prominent of the sons of Njáll, learns of the
verses and says: “Ekki hǫfu vér kvenna skap … at vér reiðimsk við ǫllu” (114) (We
are not made like women, that we become furious over everything). In spite of his
statement, he is visibly angry; the saga mentions sweat on his brow and red spots on
his cheeks. In fact, if we subscribe to his own outlook, Sigmundr’s verbal assault has
indeed struck a double blow, as it has caused him to lose his manly composure.2
1 References to Njáls saga are taken from Einar Ólafur Sveinsson’s edition, “Brennu-Njáls saga”, Íslenzk fornrit 12
(Reykjavík 1954). The translation is Robert Cook’s, Njal’s Saga (London 2001).
2 Thomas Laqueur suggests that there is a long tradition of a close relationship between effeminacy and instability:
Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA and London 1990) esp. 114–48.
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Before the attack, Skarpheðinn asks to be allowed to deal with Sigmundr on his
own. He explains: “þykki mér þat karlmannligt” (that’s a man’s job). He has already
spotted his adversary and remarked: “Sjáið ér rauðálfinn?” (Do you see that red elf?)
(115). The saga notes that Sigmundr is wearing colored clothes, which Skarpheðinn
clearly takes as a sign that he is something of a fop, and the implication is that keen
interest in his appearance makes Sigmundr’s manliness ambiguous and even under-
mines it. The connection between a keen interest in one’s appearance and a lack of
manliness has often been made throughout history, not least of all in the Iceland of
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.3 It is hard to discern how dominant this link
was, and in fact whether a fashion is foppish or not or whether foppish equals un-
manly usually depends on the eye of the beholder. In this case, Skarpheðinn decides
that colored clothes are unmanly, while Sigmundr probably intends his clothes to be
both decorative and masculine.
Skarpheðinn’s previous contradictory reaction to the insulting verses may explain
why he directs the attack at Sigmundr’s manhood. The elf statement is the first stage
of this revenge, and probably intended to be a sexual slur (an appropriate translation
might be: “See the red fairy”).4 Its precise nature is hard to ascertain as we know
little about the connotations of medieval elves.5 However, as a figure of Otherness,
3 For examples in the criticism of Ordericus Vitalis and Saxo, who found the courtiers of King William Rufus and
Svend Grathe foppish and unmanly, see The Ecclesiastical History of Ordericus Vitalis IV, ed. Marjorie Chibnall (Ox-
ford 1973) 186–189; Saxonis Gesta Danorum I, ed. J. Olrik and H. Ræder (Copenhagen 1931) 388. Cf. C. Stephen
Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness: Civilizing Trends and the Formation of Courtly Ideals 939–1210 (Philadelphia 1985)
176–195; Gábor Klaniczay, The Uses of Supernatural Power: The Transformation of Popular Religion in Medieval and
Early-Modern Europe (Cambridge 1990) 58–65; Jo Ann McNamara, “The Herrenfrage: The Restructuring of the
Gender System, 1050–1150”, Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages, ed. Claire A Lees (Minne-
apolis and London 1990) 3–29, at 9. Today, the ambiguous (or different) sexuality which is seen as going hand in
hand with a masculine obsession with appearance is reflected in the invention of the term “metrosexuality” (which
was introduced by Mark Simpson in an article in The Independent, 15 Nov 1994).
4 In a note in his 1954 edition, Sveinsson calls it a “hásyrði” (a term of mockery) (115 n. 2), but refrains from ex-
plaining how elves are insulting. This is curiously similar to the late 19th-c. appropriation of the word “fairy” for
alleged sexual deviants: see A Supplement to the Oxford English Dictionary I, ed. R. W, Burchfield (Oxford 1972)
1022.
5 This is discussed in my “The Extreme Emotional Life of Vǫlundr the Elf”, Scandinavian Studies 78 (2006). Cf.
Alaric Hall, Elves in Anglo-Saxon England: Matters of Belief, Health, Gender and Identity (Woodbridge 2007). If we
believe that there is a connection between elves and Vanir, the use of the term might have something to do with the
fact that Sigmundr is in the company of a Swede and presumably spent time in Sweden.
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an elf must be considered strange or abnormal and therefore “queer”,6 and society’s
coupling of sexual deviancy with other forms of Otherness is, in fact, also evident
from the link sometimes made in sagas between sorcery and “ergi”, a term which
I would prefer to translate as queerness.7 Sigmundr Lambason is certainly queer
in the sense that he is a stranger in Iceland. When he is introduced, he is said to
have been traveling as a merchant for a while (105), bringing his Swedish companion
Skjǫldr with him from his travels.8
The attack is further gendered when Skarpheðinn kills Sigmundr, after having
taunted him that he is going to fall “í móðurætt” (116) (on your back, literally: into
your mother’s kin).9 Skarpheðinn is subtly (or perhaps not so subtly) feminizing
Sigmundr even more before killing him,10 which illustrates that this is a double re-
venge, for the killing of Skarpheðinn’s cherished foster father, Þórðr, and for the
6 According to The Oxford English Dictionary (Oxford 1933), the original meaning of the word “queer” is “strange,
odd, peculiar, eccentric, … also, of questionable character, suspicious, dubious”. It is this latter meaning that may
have inspired the younger meaning of the word, which in the 20th c. encompassed people engaging in allegedly
deviant (mainly male homosexual) sexual practices; see A Supplement to the Oxford English Dictionary III, ed. R. W.
Burchfield (Oxford 1982) 972. In the last two decades, the word has been appropriated by gender theory in a more
positive sense, but it still signifies something radically different and at the same time deviant, sexually as well as
in other respects. See Queering the Middle Ages, ed. Glenn Burger and Steven F Kruger (Minneapolis and London
2001) esp. xi–xxiii; see also Jeffrey J. Cohen, Medieval Identity Machines (Minneapolis and London 2003) 38–41.
In this study I use queer almost as a synonym for “ergi”, i.e., to indicate characteristics or behavior that are con-
sidered inappropriate for the gender in question, sexually or otherwise. It is exactly the development of the mean-
ing of this word, from “eccentric” to “dubious” to “sexually deviant” to “sexually different” (without the negative
connotations) which makes the word useful for my purposes.
7 See esp. “Ynglinga saga”, Íslenzk fornrit 26, ed. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (Reykjavík 1941) 19; “Gísla saga”, Íslenzk
fornrit 6, ed. Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson (Reykjavík 1943) 56–57. Cf. Preben Meulengracht Sørensen,
Norrønt nid: Forestillingen om den umandige mand i de islandske sagaer (Odense 1980) 78; William Sayers, “Kjartan’s
Choice: The Irish Disconnection in the Sagas of the Icelanders”, Scandinavian-Canadian Studies 3 (1988) 89–114,
at 100.
8 Njáls saga is replete with male couples. Apart from Sigmundr and Skjǫldr, there are Otkell and Skammkell, Gizurr
and Geirr, the Norwegians Þórir and Þorgrímr, Hǫskuldr and Hrútr, Gunnarr and Kolskeggr, Hǫgni and Grani,
Grímr and Helgi, as well as several Viking couples encountered in Scandinavia (Vandill and Karl, Hallgrímr and
Kolskeggr, Grjótgarðr and Snækólfr). See also n. 60.
9 Brennu-Njáls saga, 116 n. 5.
10 Apart from the mention of the mother, the mere fact that Skarpheðinn draws attention to the back might constitute
a reference to the back or to the anus, the part of the man’s body which symbolizes his descent into the feminine;
see Carol J. Clover, “Regardless of Sex: Men, Women, and Power in Early Northern Europe”, Speculum 68 (1993),
363–387, at 375. There might be other instances of subtle feminizations of male opponents in Njáls saga, e.g., in
chap. 119, when Skarpheðinn calls Hafr the Rich “mjólki” (milksop) (301). It is possible to see in that insult a refer-
ence to the biological relationship between women and lactation, which is related to the hardness/softness binary
which was (and still is) commonplace when it comes to distinguishing males and females; see the discussion in
Laqueur, Making Sex (n. 2 above) 63–113. When, soon after, Skarpheðinn accuses Þorkell the Bully of having eaten
horse meat (which was illegal in Christian Iceland), he inserts what may be a subtle reference to sodomy when
he speaks of the “razgarnarendann merarinnar” (the mare’s arse) that Þorkell is supposed to have eaten (305); cf.
“Ǫlkofra þáttr”, in Íslenzk fornrit 11, ed. Jón Jóhannesson (Reykjavík 1950) 91. While these two instances need not
be seen as feminizations per se, the saga’s interest in masculinity makes such an interpretation more feasible.
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insulting verses, perhaps primarily the latter since a settlement had already been
reached for Þórðr.
The episode reveals that there are several ways to be unmanly: 1. to be beardless;
2. to be the bearded sons of a beardless man;11 3. to become furious over everything;
4. to change color when angry; 5. to be dressed in colored clothes, like an elf; and 6.
to fall on the back when killed. This is a somewhat peculiar assortment of types of
unmanly behavior. But it is important to note that the statements about unmanliness
are all made by characters in the saga, not in the narrative prose itself. Furthermore,
even this small incident reveals the surprisingly large number of things that may
result in manhood being called into question in Njáls saga. There are many more. It
turns out to be difficult to find a man whose manhood is not vulnerable.
Njáls saga has a standing as an important medieval text, as the most celebrated
of the Icelandic sagas, one of the longest and one of the most popular through the
ages.12 Composed by an anonymous author or authors about two decades after the
demise of the Icelandic commonwealth (around 1280),13 it is centrally concerned
with this society, its laws and institutions.14 As a tragedy, Njáls saga might be seen
more as a lament over the past than a celebration of the present or future, in the
socio-political sense perhaps even nostalgic to a degree. On the other hand, I will
argue here that Njáls saga is also strikingly critical of the hegemonic ideas of its time
and that in its treatment of gender roles and of the relationship between gender,
power and love, it maintains a critical and perhaps ironical stance, rare in the Middle
11 According to William Sayers, “Njáll’s beard, Hallgerðr’s hair and Gunnarr’s hay: homological patterning in Njáls
saga”, Tijdschrift voor Skandinavistiek 15.2 (1994) 5–31, Sigmundr is accusing the sons of Njáll of coprophagy. Cf.
Jonna Louis-Jensen, “En nidstrofe”, Opuscula 6 (1979) 104–107.
12 Jónas Kristjánsson states that Brennu-Njáls saga exists in more ancient manuscripts than any other saga; Saga
Íslands III, ed. Sigurður Líndal (Reykjavík 1978) 341. Although this is a matter of definition, since several legendary
sagas and romances also exists in many manuscripts (most of them less ancient) and saga manuscripts are still being
discovered, it is close enough to the truth. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson counted between 50 and 60 MSS of Njáls saga
in public libraries in 1952; “Um handrit Njálssögu”, Skírnir 126 (1952) 114–152, esp, 116. The actual number may be
closer to 70.
13 This dating of Njáls saga has been accepted by a large majority of scholars since the 1880s, when it was argued for
in, e.g., Karl Lehmann and Hans Schnorr, Die Njálssaga inbesondere in ihren juristischen Bestandtheilen: Ein kritischer
Beitrag zur altnordischen Rechts- und Literaturgeschichte (Berlin 1883). One of the main arguments is the influence of
the lawbook Járnsíða (introduced 1271) on the text of Njáls saga, but there are also other arguments, such as the age
of the manuscripts. See, e.g., Karl Lehmann, “Jurisprudensen i Njála”, Tidsskrift for retsvidenskab 18 (1905) 183–199;
Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, “Formáli”, Íslenzk fornrit 12, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson (Reykjavík 1954) lxxv–lxxxiv.
14 See William Pencak, The Conflict of Law and Justice in the Icelandic Sagas (Amsterdam and Atlanta 1995) 13–34;
Carola L. Gottzmann, Njáls saga: Recthsproblematik im Dienste sozio-kultureller Deutung (Frankfurt am Main and
Bern 1982); William I. Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud, Law, and Society in Saga Iceland (Chicago and
London 1990) 182–220 and 284–289.
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Ages as well as today, and certainly in Iceland.15 That is not surprising to my mind.
Njáls saga has been accepted as one of the best if not the single greatest Icelandic
saga since the late eighteenth century,16 and a literary text would hardly have such an
enduring appeal if it was conventional in every way.
In the 1970s, a fruitful era in Njáls saga scholarship,17 scholars began to address
Njáls saga’s depiction of sexuality, gender, and power, the most important contribu-
tions coming from Helga Kress and Ursula Dronke.18 The former argued in 1977
that Njáls saga was conservative and misogynist, reflecting an age of inequality. Mas-
culinity was its ideal and women were vilified.19 While this might seem convinc-
ing at first sight, I will argue that the saga’s treatment of sexuality is complex and
critical,20 and that a firm line must be drawn between the dominant gender myths of
the society depicted in the saga and those actually propounded by the text itself.21
15 Sørensen’s Norrønt nid (n. 7 above) demonstrates effectively how Old Icelandic society, as reflected in the saga,
was dominated by an ideology in which masculinity was regarded as positive and the feminine as negative, and
where sexuality played a large role in the definition of manhood. See also Helga Kress, “Ekki hǫfu vér kvennaskap:
Nokkrar laustengdar athuganir um karlmennsku og kvenhatur í Njálu”, Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni
20. júlí 1977, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson and Einar Gunnar Pétursson (Reykjavík 1977) 293–313.
16 See Lars Lönnroth, Njáls saga: A Critical Introduction (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London 1976) 2–7. W. P. Ker
unequivocally called it “the greatest of all the sagas”; Epic and Romance: Essays on Medieval Literature, 2nd ed. (Lon-
don 1908) 190.
17 Many important studies on Njáls saga’s structure and ideas date from 20 to 40 years ago. See Richard F. Allen, Fire
and Iron: Critical Approaches to Njáls saga (Pittsburgh 1971); Lönnroth, Njáls saga (n. 16 above); Carol J. Clover, The
Medieval Saga (Ithaca and London 1982). As for the subject of Njáls saga’s form, Ian R. Maxwell was an important
influence on some of these studies; “Pattern in Njáls saga”, Saga-Book of the Viking Society 15 (1957–1961) 17–47. See
also Theodore M. Andersson, The Icelandic Family Saga: An Analytic Reading (Cambridge MA 1967) esp. 291 ff.
18 See esp. Helga Kress, “Ekki hǫfu vér kvennaskap” (n. 15 above): eadem, “Manndom og misogyni: Noen reflek-
sjoner omkring kvinnesynet i Njåls saga”, Gardar 10 (1979) 35–51; Ursula Dronke, The Role of Sexual Themes in
Njáls saga, The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies Delivered at University College London 27
May 1980 (London 1980).
19 “kvenhatur Njálu er ranghverfan á karlmennsku hennar og hetjuhugsjón” (313).
20 In her 1979 article, Kress had already modified her views somewhat and believes now that the saga depicts how
gender roles are forced on the individual males and females: “Manndom og misogyny” (n. 18 above) 50. This is
close to my own view. See also her Fyrir dyrum fóstru: Konur og kynferði í íslenskum fornbókmenntum (Reykjavík
1996) 8. Cf. Ármann Jakobsson, “Ekki kosta munur: Kynjasaga frá 13 öld”, Skírnir 174 (2000) 21–48. For a recent
nuanced portrayal of Njáls saga’s treatment of women, see Anne Heinrichs, “Hallgerðrs Saga in der Njála: Der
doppelte Blick”, Studien zum Altgermanischen: Festschrift für Heinrich Beck. Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der
Germanischen Altertumskunde 11, ed. Heiko Uecker (Berlin and New York 1994) 327–353; Dronke, The Role of
Sexual Themes (n. 18 above).
21 In this article I will make no attempt to determine who the author or authors of Njáls saga might be. To me,
Njáls saga can be established as a 13th c. text; others would like to regard it as a cultural tradition encompassing a
multitude of individual works and not speak of a single Njáls saga. See Jón Karl Helgason, Höfundar Njálu: Þræðir
úr vestrænni bókmenntasögu (Reykjavík 2001) 7–16. I do not suggest that Njáls saga had an author in the post-
medieval sense and it seems unlikely that this text, although relatively stable in the manuscript tradition, was ever
considered the property of anyone. It is not ascribed to an author in the Middle Ages, and it is based on at least
some traditional matter. Nevertheless, it is an artistic text and constructed in accordance with a narrative logic that
demands at least the idea of an author, the “implied author” that the reader reconstructs from the narrative, to use
a well-known narratological phrase. See, e.g., Seymour Chatman, Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction
and Film (Ithaca and London 1978) 148–51. Although the sagas of Icelanders are never ascribed to an author, any
analysis of them needs such a figure.
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Skarpheðinn’s ambiguous reaction, declaring that restraint is a fundamental manly

quality while losing his composure, is just one instance of gender roles turning out
to be problematic. Such a problemization might seem unexpected in a saga but The-
odore M. Andersson has recently drawn attention to the hitherto largely unnoticed
subversive nature of Njáls saga. According to him, it “represents such a pinnacle of
style, range, and drama that it tends to overshadow the earlier sagas and relegate
them to the status of preliminary attempts at a form that matures only in Njáls
saga”. He, on the other hand, suggests that the saga “consciously subverts the nar-
rative positions constructed in the earlier sagas” and the author may be viewed “less
as the master architect perfecting inherited forms than as the satirist and caricaturist
who holds these forms up to a searching gaze, revealing what is doubtful and even
fraudulent about the older conventions”.22
Andersson does not discuss gender roles, but his arguments seem to fit well with
those of this article, so that the ensuing analysis may complement his. I will dis-
cuss how masculinity is constructed in Njáls saga through various kinds of unman-
liness.23 This closer inspection also reveals that three layers of ideologies need to be
taken into account: the actual ideology of thirteenth-century Icelandic society, the
dominant ideology in the society that the saga vividly creates, and the ideology of
the saga itself. In this article, I am primarily concerned with the special perspective
of this particular text rather than drawing out general conclusions concerning the
community in which it was written.24 I will argue that although no other saga pres-
ents such a harsh ideology of unmanliness, masculinity is nevertheless undermined
in the saga, and that the masculine ideal used to manipulate respect in the society as
a part of a power game is not its own. On the contrary, Njáls saga demonstrates the
restrictiveness of gender roles and how men and women may become their captives,
although it also reveals some escape strategies to its audience.
22 Theodore M. Andersson, The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (Ithaca and London 2006) 183.
23 I regard masculinity mainly as a cultural and social construction, following the lead of various other medievalists;
see Jeffrey Jerome Cohen and Bonnie Wheeler, “Becoming and Unbecoming”, Becoming Male in the Middle Ages,
ed. J. J. Cohen and Bonnie Wheeler (New York and London 2000) vii–xx.
24 As the text dates from the late 13th c., all my conclusions would seem to affect 13th-c. Iceland rather than the society
the saga purports to describe (it takes place from ca. 960 to ca. 1020). It is also necessary to keep in mind that this
particular text to my mind demonstrates an original and unconventional mindset so that in spite of its popularity, it
cannot be said to reflect the mentality of 13th-c. Icelanders in every way.
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Fifty Ways to Lose Your Manhood

Three of the categories of unmanliness mentioned so far involve appearance, in two
cases a beard. When Njáll of Bergþórshváll, perhaps the dominant character of the
saga that bears his name, is introduced, we are informed that he has a flaw: “en sá
hlutr var á ráði hans, at honum óx eigi skegg” (but there was one thing about him:
no beard grew on him) (57). Apart from that, Njáll is described in exalted terms, as a
wise, prophetic, well-intentioned, modest and noble-spirited man. That the lack of
a beard is a shortcoming is evident from the terminology (“hlutr á ráði” indicates a
defect), and Njáll’s lack of beard consequently becomes a leitmotif in the saga, when
saga characters refer to it as a blemish on an otherwise almost perfect man and as
somehow detracting from his manhood.25 Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi’s wife, Hallgerðr,
is the first to mention it, when she mocks Njáll for being beardless and his wife,
Bergþóra, for having gnarled nails (91). She insinuates that gender roles have been
switched in this household, so that it is hard to determine who is the man of the
house.26 Not one to abandon a good joke, she goes on to mock Njáll for the same
thing when she incites Sigmundr to make the slanderous verses (113) and again re-
fers to it when last seen in the saga (229).
But she is not the only one to be preoccupied with Njáll’s missing beard. A lit-
tle before Njáll’s demise in the fire, Flosi of Svínafell brings up the subject at the
Alþingi: “þat er mín ætlan, at til hafi gefit faðir þinn, karl inn skegglausi—því at
margir vitu eigi, er hann sjá, hvárt hann er karlmaður eða kona” (it’s my guess that
your father gave it, Old Beardless, for there are many who can’t tell by looking at
him whether he’s a man or a woman) (314). The lack of beard has been referred to as
a flaw and Hallgerðr has already stated that this separates him from other men (113).
Flosi elaborates on the theme: this particular absence may lead people to confuse
him with a woman. Unlike Hallgerðr, Flosi has hitherto not appeared to have any
25 William Sayers calls it a “mutilation qualifiant” (using a term from Dumézil), i.e., that absence of facial hair is a
necessary sacrifice compensated for by the seer’s power, comparable to Óðinn’s eye and Týr’s hand; “Njáll’s beard”
(n. 11 above) 12. That may indeed be the case but the characters in the saga are unaware of this and tend to regard
the lack of a beard as a flaw.
26 In Njáls saga, there is a sub-text concerning class divisions that remains more or less unstated. For example, there is
no mention of Bergþóra’s family in the saga (not even when she is introduced in chap. 20), and that might indicate
that she is of a lower class than Njáll and certainly Hallgerðr. In fact, she takes on the role of a servant in the wed-
ding of Gunnarr and Hallgerðr (chap. 34). Although Njáll is descended from noble settlers, his family seems never-
theless to be less notable than that of Gunnarr, and Hallgerðr is of royal descent, of the line of the great matriarch
Unnr djúpúðga (chap. 1). There is also a class difference between Gunnarr’s first and second set of enemies (chaps.
46-66). Cf. Kristján Jóhann Jónsson, Lykillinn að Njálu (Reykjavík 1998) 103: Otkell enjoys the support of his rela-
tives, the chieftains Gizurr and Geirr, while the families of Starkarðr and Egill have no such noble supporters.
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quarrel with the old man.27 He must thus be echoing the opinion of at least some
people in society.
The beard is a well-known, if not unproblematic, medieval symbol of manhood,28
and the absence of it is sometimes taken to symbolize diminished manhood figures in
other sagas. In Kristni saga (which may be contemporary to Njáls saga, and is themat-
ically related to its Christianization narrative), the heathens, unfamiliar with the sight
of a clergyman, taunt Bishop Friðrekr for his lack of beard.29 On the other hand, in
Flóres saga ok Blankiflúr, which was popular in Iceland shortly after the composition
of Njáls saga, a lack of beard is not considered to detract in the slightest from the
protagonist’s heroism.30 The same is true of Þiðreks saga, where King Þiðrekr’s lack
of beard is referred to matter-of-factly.31 Of course there is a difference of status.
Whereas Flóres is a royal youth, and King Þiðrekr a monarch, Njáll is one of many
notable men in a society where power is more unstable. Nevertheless, the fact re-
mains that we do not see such an obsession with beards in any other saga. In fact, the
constant references to Njáll’s anomalous lack seem curious if we keep in mind that
men with no beards or very insignificant ones are not altogether uncommon in the
27 Unlike Hallgerðr, Flosi is a sympathetic character, as is demonstrated when his narrative of the burning at Berg
þórshváll is so even-handed and just that everyone believes his version of the story (444: see also 342 and 419). The
saga’s positive treatment of Flosi has prompted a discussion that the author of Njáls saga may have been connected
to the prominent Svínfellingar family and in particular the magnate Þorvarðr Þórarinsson who died in 1296. See
Barði Guðmundsson, Höfundur Njálu: Safn ritgerða (Reykjavík 1958) 1–91; Lönnroth, Njáls saga (n. 16 above)
174–203; Hermann Pálsson, Uppruni Njálu og hugmyndir (Reykjavík 1984) 97–112.
28 See Allen J. Frantzen, Before the Closet: Same-Sex Love from Beowulf to Angels in America (Chicago and London
1998) 76; James A. Schultz, “Bodies That Don’t Matter: Heterosexuality Before Heterosexuality in Gottfried’s
Tristan”, Constructing Medieval Sexuality, ed. Karma Lochrie, Peggy McCracken, and James A. Schultz (Minne-
apolis and London 1997) 91–110, at 93. This may sometimes be extended to hairiness in general; see Joan Cadden,
Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages: Medicine, Science, and Culture (Cambridge 1993) 181–183. Although
beardlessness was never a rule for European clergymen in the Middle Ages, this could be regarded as problematic
for the masculinity of those clerics who were not only shaven but also tonsured: see Robert Mills, “The Significa-
tion of Tonsure”, Holiness and Masculinity in the Middle Ages, ed. Patricia H. Cullum and Katherine J. Lewis (Wales
2004) 109–126.
29 “Kristni saga”, Íslenzk fornrit 15, ed. Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Peter Foote, and Ólafur Halldórsson (Reykjavík
2003) 12. Kristni saga exists only in Hauksbók from the early 14th c. Jón Jóhannesson believed Kristni saga to be a
part of an attempt to compose a history of Iceland, along with the Sturlubók version of Landnáma; Gerðir Land-
námabókar (Reykjavík 1941) 70–71. Then it is contemporary to Njáls saga. Some recent scholars believe Kristni
saga to be somewhat older than Njáls saga, perhaps composed in the 1240s. See Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, “Formáli”,
Íslenzk fornrit 15 (Reykjavík 2003) cliv-clv. On the parallels between the episode of the taunt against the bishop, see
Joaquín Martinez Pizarro, “On Níð against Bishops”, Medieval Scandinavia 11 (1978–79) 149–53. The problem of
how to construct a masculine image for beardless men, such as clergymen, in the High Middle Ages has attracted
scholarly attention in recent years; see McNamara, “The Herrenfrage”, (n. 3 above); Robert N. Swanson, “An-
gels Incarnate: Clergy and Masculinity from Gregorian Reform to Reformation”, Masculinity in Medieval Europe,
ed. Dawn M. Hadley (London and New York 1999) 160–177. Cf. Patricia H. Cullum, “Clergy, Masculinity and
Transgression in Late Medieval England”, Masculinity in Medieval Europe, ed. Hadley 178–196.
30 See Ármann Jakobsson, “Uppreisn æskunnar: Unglingasagan um Florés og Blankiflúr”, Skírnir 176 (2002) 89–112.
31 Þiðreks saga af Bern I, ed. Henrik Bertelsen (Copenhagen 1905–1911) 31. Cf. Dronke, Role of Sexual Themes (n. 18
above) 11.
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Nordic countries.32 But, then, gender differences are not necessarily founded on biol-
ogy. As Thomas W. Laqueur has argued, “almost any sign of difference is dependent
on an underlying theory of, or context for, deciding what counts and what does not
count as evidence”.33 In Njáls saga, the missing beard has a greater and a different
significance than in other mediaeval Icelandic texts: nowhere else (not even in Kristni
saga) is beardlessness such a big issue, and yet we are clearly invited to sympathize
with the beardless man who has to endure mockery for his unmanliness.34
A closer examination of the first incident reveals that one reason why beardless-
ness becomes a heated matter is that in Njáls saga everything can be used to discredit
the gender role of everyone. When Hallgerðr first mocks Njáll for his lack of beard
(chap. 35), she also mocks Bergþóra for her nails, which are apparently not lady-
like. Bergþóra takes the feud a step away from biology and replies by reminding
Hallgerðr that she has had her first husband killed, which presumably is not consid-
ered ladylike either. Then Hallgerðr goads Gunnarr, stating that it is no use being
married to the most manly man in Iceland (“þann mann, er vaskastr er á Íslandi”),
if he does not avenge these words (91). Gunnarr is in an impossible position, being
a guest at Bergþórshváll and suddenly encouraged by his own wife to kill his host
and hostess. He is also recently home from an adventurous journey abroad where he
has fought Vikings with such fervor that it seemed that he was fighting with three
swords at once (79). Nevertheless, even such amazing feats do not exempt him from
having his manhood suddenly called into question by his wife, who seems to want
to establish his willingness to avenge any slight made to her reputation as the defin-
ing criterion for masculinity.
A beardless man, a woman with gnarled nails and a woman who has been involved
in killings are all “queer”, and the argument at Bergþórshváll reveals that several
leading actors in the saga are unsteady in their gender role. Skarpheðinn’s elf com-
ment indicated that colored clothes may be regarded as unmasculine as well, and
other items of clothing may convey a suggestion of effeminacy.35 When Flosi makes
snide remarks about Njáll’s missing beard, it is because he has found “silkislœður”
32 As Einar Ólafur Sveinsson has remarked; “Brennu-Njáls saga” 57 n. 2.

33 Laqueur, Making Sex (n. 2 above) 21.
34 Sayers, “Njáll’s beard” (n 11 above), analyses the hair as a complex metaphor in the saga, and although the present
author focuses all its significance in the manipulation of masculinity, that is clearly just one of its functions.
35 The social construction of gender through clothing in the Middle Ages is a complex issue: see Schultz, “Bodies
That Don’t Matter” (n. 28 above); E. Jane Burns, “Refashioning Courtly Love: Lancelot as Ladies man or Lady/
Man”, Constructing Medieval Sexuality (n. 28 above) 111–134.
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(a silk robe) (312–313) on top of a huge pile of settlement money in the wake of the
killing of Hǫskuldr, Njáll’s foster-son who had been killed by the sons of Njáll. In
modern Icelandic, this word indicates a light silk garment not considered suitable
for men, and seeing the garment unnerves Flosi, who goes on to insinuate that the
beardless Njáll, whom he insists that people confuse with women, must have do-
nated it—which Njáll indeed has.
Another female garment is a “kast”, a gown worn by milkmaids in post-mediaeval
Iceland. According to Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, the sole instance of the word in me-
diaeval Icelandic is in Njáls saga.36 The only mediaeval “kast” is worn by another one
of Njáll’s foster-sons, the learned Þórhallr Ásgrímsson, whom Njáll tutors so well
that he becomes one of the three greatest lawyers in Iceland (279). When Þórhallr
first appears, the sons of Njáll are mocking him because he walks around “í kasti
mórendu” (a coarse brown-striped cloak) (295). Þórhallr calmly replies that he will
have thrown this garment away when the time has come to plead the case of his fos-
ter father, a statement that pleases Njáll. While it is impossible to ascertain whether
this garment had the same connotations at the time as it had later, at least it is obvi-
ous that the sons of Njáll tease Þórhallr for wearing it. There are thus two possible
cases of very positive characters in Njáls saga possessing or wearing something that
others see as feminine.
In Laxdœla saga, Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir’s divorce from her first husband (in chap.
34) involves her making a shirt for him so low cut that it reveals his nipples, and she
goes on to goad her lover into accusing his wife of wearing man’s breeches. The dis-
honor in wearing clothes of the “wrong” sex is evident, and in Laxdæla, there seems
to be some consensus on what constitutes gender-specific clothes.37 In Njáls saga,
the situation is more complicated. It is only Skarpheðinn’s contention that brightly
colored clothes are effeminate, and Sigmundr Lambason is unlikely to have intended
to wear any garment that hinted at effeminacy. On the other hand, Þórhallr seems to
wear a “kast” deliberately and risk being mocked. His reasons for this are unclear—
he might be going through a rebellious gender-bending phase, or, as he seems to be
36 “Brennu-Njáls saga” 295 n. 3. Einar Ólafur seems reluctant to accept it as the same word, perhaps because it is worn
by a positive male character.
37 “Laxdæla saga”, Íslenzk fornrit 5, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (Reykjavík 1934) 94-96. On cross-dressing in the sagas,
see esp. Kirsten Wolf, “Klæðskiptingar í Íslendingasögunum”, Skírnir 171 (1997), 381–400. Cf. Vern L. Bullough,
“Cross Dressing and Gender Role Change in the Middle Ages”, Handbook of Medieval Sexuality, ed. Vern L.
Bullough and James A. Brundage (New York and London 1996) 223–242. Cf. Burns, “Refashioning Courtly Love”
(n. 35 above) 112–116. The case of Bróka-Auður has been studied closely by Elín Una Jónsdóttir, “Fyrir hvað skal
hún þá heita Bróka-Auður” (BA thesis, University of Iceland 2003).
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a bit younger than the sons of Njáll, this might be construed as yet another case of
the latest teenage fashion being regarded as not masculine enough by the older gen-
eration. Much harder to fathom is the silk garment which Njáll puts on the settle-
ment pile, thus offending Flosi.38
Njáll’s behavior in this scene is curious from start to finish. Not only does he add
an unnecessary gift to a pile of settlement money, even though it is explicitly stated
in the saga that not a single penny was missing (312), he even more strangely does
not even seem to consider that the “slœður” might perturb Flosi, an apparent loss
of his celebrated ability of reading a social situation with such precision that he can
foretell whole conservations almost verbatim.39 Then he specifically asks his sons
not to sabotage the settlement, even though he must realize that such an admoni-
tion might have the reverse effect on Skarpheðinn. Njáll also inexplicably allows
Skarpheðinn to stand on his own and not join the Njálssynir group on the east side
of the “lǫgrétta”, and then remains silent throughout the exchange, even though he
knows full well who has donated the offending silk garment. Even if he was hard of
hearing, Flosi is waving the “slœður”, so Njáll is unlikely to have missed it.40
What is Njáll trying to convey with his gift? It almost seems as if he is willingly
trying to sabotage a settlement he has himself had a hand in arranging.41 And yet
Flosi comes across as being too tense. It seems that he could have chosen simply to
ignore the silk garment. While it needs to be taken into account that Hildigunnr,
Flosi’s niece and Hǫskuldr’s widow, has already taunted his masculinity in a variety
of ways (289–392), that is no excuse for him to taunt Njáll.42 Indeed, “silkislœður”
are not always seen as feminine. Egill Skalla-Grímsson of Egils saga is not likely to
have wished to be seen as feminine, and yet he receives “silkislœður” that he later
38 In addition to the silk garment, Njáll puts “bótar” (boots) on the settlement pile but to my knowledge, no scholar
has made anything of the role of the boots in the ensuing controversy.
39 As Jónsson notes with some amusement (Lykillinn að Njálu [n. 26 above] 192), scholars have been eager to explain
this apparent mistake on behalf of the prescient Njáll. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson’s explanation was that this was an
extra item (“baugþak”) intended for Hildigunnr, the widow of the slain Hǫskuldr; Um Njálu (Reykjavík 1933) 135.
40 Cf. Jakobsson, “Ekki kosta munur” (n. 20 above) 41–42.
41 The why is not really important in this context, but I have previously argued that Njáll might wish to die at this
juncture, having lost both Gunnarr and Hǫskuldr, being appalled at the behavior of his sons, and perhaps believ-
ing the fire to be a necessary cleansing of the sins of the Bergþórshváll clan; “Misvitur er Njáll”, Mímir 40 (1992)
53–56. Another possibility, originally introduced to me by a student, is that Njáll in his prescience had foreseen an
even bleaker future if his whole family did not perish in the fire. There are no actual clues to this interpretation in
the text but perhaps an audience immersed in the logic of foresight would have seen this as the most likely explana-
tion.
42 At this juncture in the narrative, Flosi may still emerge badly from an episode. However, from chap. 131 onwards
he is firmly rehabilitated as a noble adversary to Kári; see n. 27 above.
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treasures as a gift from his good friend Arinbjǫrn.43 This accentuates one of the
most important aspects of the obsession with masculinity so clearly discernible in
Njáls saga: It is so exaggerated that it becomes ludicrous. In Egils saga, the “slœður”
are important but not used to dispute anyone’s masculinity. We may also note that
while colored clothes are (at least according to Skarpheðinn) supposed to indicate a
lack of masculinity in Njáls saga, the heroes of Laxdœla saga strut around in decora-
tive clothes without anyone ever disputing their manhood.44 In the same way, only
in Njáls saga do “silkislœður” become an offending insinuation of effeminacy.
It is possible that Njáll, knowing himself to be close to death, is also using the
opportunity to make a point, the same point he has been making all along, by never
responding to sneers about his missing beard. Like Þórhallr, Njáll may be indicating
that he will wear whatever clothes he wants, no matter how inappropriate others
might find them, and, like Þórhallr, he is not easily daunted by insinuations about
effeminacy. If that is so, “Old Beardless” is using the opportunity to flaunt his oth-
erness in the face of Flosi, who may be vulnerable to accusations of unmanliness
himself (see below), but perhaps also in the face of society and its absurd myths of
masculinity.
While this behavior must be regarded as subversive, the saga hardly gives us an-
other option than to side with Njáll. Although he is maybe less than straightforward
in this scene, he is at least being more clever than anyone else, and it is hard to
discern any attempt in the saga to undermine the faith in him that his original in-
troduction in chapter 20 must inspire. The crux of the matter is that although they
probably were soft, the “silkislœður” do not need to be regarded as feminine—Egill
himself possessed such a garment—and neither is Njáll’s lack of beard. It is possible
to adopt an opposite stance: that their reception demonstrates that there is some-
thing wrong about society’s narrow definition of manhood: the superfluous gift il-
luminates precisely that.
As Skarpheðinn retorts in his reply to Flosi’s remarks about the “slœður”, Njáll
has had sons with his wife (six children in all, plus a son with his mistress), whereas
Flosi does not seem to have any (314). Indeed, Skarpheðinn drives home his point
about Flosi’s own lack of masculinity with another piece of clothing, when he
43 “Egils saga”, Íslenzk fornrit 2, ed. Sigurður Nordal (Reykjavík 1933) 213 and 274.
44 This has been noted by Robert Cook, “Women and Men in Laxdæla saga”, Skáldskaparmál 2 (1992) 34–59; cf.
Ármann Jakobsson, “Konungasagan Laxdæla”, Skírnir 172 (1998) 357–383.
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Masculinity
“kastaði brókum blám” (threw a pair of black trousers) at Flosi and then goes on
to remark that Flosi might need those – “ef þú ert brúðr Svínafellsáss, sem sagt er,
hverja ina níundu nótt ok geri hann þik at konu” (if you are the sweetheart of the
troll at Svínafell, as is said, he uses you as a woman every ninth night). Are “brœkr
blár” also feminine?45 Or is Skarpheðinn’s use of them even more ironic? Is he per-
haps demonstrating that anything may be regarded as feminine, given the right (or
wrong) circumstances?
Although the scene is ambiguous, it emerges clearly that those who don’t want
their manliness challenged had better not wear black trousers or colored clothes or
silk garments or “kast”. Nevertheless, most, perhaps all, of these clothes are pos-
sessed and worn by men. We may be forced to deduce that men are often not very
masculine, or perhaps that there is something wrong with the demands on men, if
so many of their actual clothes do not fit the masculine image. This is reaffirmed
when a son of Njáll, some might say the one who enjoys the most overt sympathy in
the text, is killed wearing women’s clothes in order to escape from the fire that kills
most of his family. This is through the agency of the women in the family, who have
been allowed to leave and wish to take Helgi Njálsson in disguise with them. While
Helgi himself is reluctant to save himself in this manner (perhaps aware of how eas-
ily the behavior of men gets branded as “feminine”), he nevertheless goes along with
it, proving that there are instances when a man may be compelled to wear women’s
clothes. That this does not make his death dishonorable is demonstrated by the fact
that he is able to throw off the cloak before he is killed, and later on in the saga
(chaps. 135, 141, and 142), his killing at the hands of Flosi himself constitutes the
chief indictment against Flosi.
Weapons are another important symbol of masculinity in the saga, as is revealed
when Bergþóra taunts Hallgerðr with having had a hand in the killing of her hus-
band (91). As this is an answer to Hallgerðr’s comment about Bergþóra’s nails and
Njáll’s lack of beard, a woman who takes part in a killing is evidently also cross-
ing gender boundaries. It is indubitably masculine to wield a powerful weapon;
Skarpheðinn demonstrates that by naming his great battle-axe Rimmugýgr (Battle-
Ogress).46 But again, Njáll seems indifferent to the gender symbolism, and the only
45 Jenny Jochens has argued that they were; “Before the Male Gaze: The Absence of the Female Body in Old Norse”,
Sex in the Middle Ages: A Book of Essays, ed. Joyce E. Salisbury (New York 1991) 3–29, esp. 10–12.
46 This seems somewhat similar to post-medieval sailors referring to their ships as feminine, or modern youths de-
scribing various manly accessories, such as cars and motorcycles, as females.
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time he is shown with a weapon is in extreme old age when he goes to visit his old
friend Ásgrímr and has a “taparøxi” (short axe) in his hand, probably more suitable
for chopping wood than for use in battle (296).
Njáll does not care much for his heroic son Skarpheðinn and his big axe. He lav-
ishes more affection on his fosterson Þórhallr, who is not afraid to wear something
others find feminine. It has been argued that out of Njáll’s biological sons, his fa-
vorite is Helgi, who is killed after having proved that his need to survive outweighs
his anxieties about being seen in women’s clothes.47 Even if we leave aside Njáll’s
somewhat ambiguous action of adding a silk garment to the settlement pile, there
are other indications in the saga that Njáll himself has ideas about masculinity that
do not conform to those of the majority in the society presented in his saga. This
beardless man is thus established as a counterpoint to the aggressive masculine sym-
bols, such as mighty weapons and beards.
Fear of Crying
Skarpheðinn not only needs to carry a big axe and protest his manly restraint when
goaded (114), but goes on to kill not only Sigmundr but also Þráinn Sigfússon, after
being called “taðskegglingr” (Dung-beardling) (113 and 229). Anyone who protests
angrily that he does not get angry may seem like an ideal victim for bullies, were it
not for his impressive size, sinister demeanor and the fact that he has killed on sev-
eral occasions. But Skarpheðinn is not a figure of fun. On the contrary, he is heroic,
witty and tough, and clearly enjoys the author’s sympathy and admiration, though
the latter may be qualified.48 This does not exempt him from being taunted for cry-
ing when he is the last person still living in the burning of Bergþórshváll:

Gunnarr Lambason hljóp upp á vegginn ok sér Skarpheðin ok mælti: „Hvárt
grætr þú nú, Skarpheðinn?“ „Eigi er þat,“ segir hann, „en hitt er satt, at súrnar í
augunum.“
(Gunnar Lambason leaped up on the wall and saw Skarphedin and said “What’s
this? Are you crying now, Skarphedin” “Not at all,” he said, “though it’s true that
my eyes are smarting.”) (333)
47 Jónsson, Lykillinn að Njálu (n. 26 above) 48–49. Kristján nevertheless regards Helgi’s death as un-heroic (198) and
on the whole sees the saga as more misogynistic than the present author does.
48 See Einar Ólafur Sveinsson’s nuanced discussion of Skarpheðinn, his strengths and weaknesses; Á Njálsbúð: Bók
um mikið listaverk (Reykjavík 1943) 113–129.
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Masculinity
Crying is not considered masculine in the sagas. There is a startling image in

Sturlunga saga, which is probably contemporary to Njáls saga. Gizurr Þorvaldsson
is presented with the charred remains of his teenage son and the breasts which are
all that remain of his wife, after having himself narrowly escaped from the fire that
ruined his abode at Flugumýri, and yet Gizurr sheds only a single tear, firm as a
hailstone.49 In Njáls saga, Þórhallr Ásgrímsson also cries a hailstone when extremely
angry, right before instigating a battle at the Alþingi in revenge of Njáll (378). One
hailstone does not really constitute crying and Þórhallr does not even fail as a man
according to Skarpheðinn’s instability criterion, since he is furious with good reason
and indeed heroic in his revenge.
Skarpheðinn is a big man with a sinister grin.50 A formidable fighter. If he can be
accused of crying, who is safe? The answer is: Nobody. Even Gunnarr of Hlíðar-
endi, just as heroic while far more restrained and modest, is accused of crying, when
the stupid but rich Otkell has somehow lost control of his horse and strikes his spur
against Gunnarr’s ear, so that blood flows.51 That this wound also constitutes an
affront to Gunnarr’s manhood is confirmed when he kills Otkell on his way home—
and then goes on to comment that he doesn’t know if he is “óvaskari maðr en aðrir
men sem mér þykkir meira fyrir en ǫðrum mǫnnum at vega menn” (less manly than
other men because killing troubles me more than it does them) (139). Reluctant to
kill as Gunnarr is, he sees no way out of it when not only has Otkell drawn blood
from him but his boastful and equally dim-witted companion Skammkell has insinu-
ated that Gunnarr has cried (135), a claim that Gunnarr’s shepherd quickly passes on
to his master. Soon both Otkell and Skammkell are dead, which proves that Gunn
arr does not like to be taunted with crying and that such an affront to his manhood
has to be avenged by blood.
The rules of male crying in the north of Europe haven’t changed much, as noted
by anthropologist Kate Fox in her study of English funerals.52 Other sagas also pro-
vide examples of an acute fear of crying but none more so than Njáls saga. The mes-
49 Sturlunga saga 1, ed. Jón Jóhanesson, Magnús Finnbogason, and Kristján Eldjárn (Reykjavík 1946) 494.
50 Skarpheðinn’s grin was the subject of much speculation in the 20th c., since the Norwegian novelist Hans E. Kinck
interpreted it as a sign of a serious psychoneurosis; see “Et par ting om ættesagaen: Skikkelser den ikke forstod”.
Til Gerhard Gran 9. des. 1916 (repr. in Sagaens ånd og skikkelser [Oslo 1951] 9–46).
51 This was regarded as derogatory in Norwegian law; see Kari Ellen Gade, “Homosexuality and the Rape of Males
in Old Norse Laws and Literature”, Scandinavian Studies 58 (1986) 124–141, at 133.
52 Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour (London 2004) 375–378.
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sage seems at first unambiguous: real men don’t cry. And yet they do, enough for
small-minded people such as Gunnarr Lambason to be constantly on the lookout
for crying men to victimize. Again, a comparison with Laxdœla saga is illuminat-
ing. When Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi is accused of crying, he has already killed several
men, including fierce Vikings in foreign battles. On the other hand, Kjartan Ólafs-
son of Laxdœla saga hardly lifts a sword until his last heroic stand, and his heroism
consists of doing well in a swimming competition, hatching wild plans about killing
the king of Norway, and walking around looking glamorous.53 And yet no-one ever
insinuates that he cries. Laxdœla saga does not portray any uncertainties about the
masculinity of its heroes.54
Gunnarr Lambason is killed when repeating his slander about Skarpheðinn. The
latter’s brother-in-law Kári risks his life by decapitating Gunnarr in the presence of
the Earl of Orkney, who is incensed for a moment but goes on to remark: “Engum
manni er Kári líkr at hvatleik sínum” (There’s no man like Kari for bravery) (444).
Kári is heroic for avenging the slight to Skarpheðinn’s reputation—so are Skarp
heðinn and Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi when they kill those who try to smear them as
cowards. Does that mean that the saga accepts that it is unmanly to cry? Quite the
contrary. We are shown that Skarpheðinn does become angry, while stating that it
is womanish to show one’s temper. Perhaps he even cries in the fire—there is no
explicit statement that he doesn’t. Even Gunnarr might have cried when struck with
the spur. The silence of the saga on whether the heroes actually did cry may reflect
the view that it is unimportant. On the other hand, those who try to use crying
against Gunnarr and Skarpheðinn deservedly come to a bad end.55 There is no actual
authorial statement that crying is unmanly and no attempt made to vindicate those
accused, while the saga has plenty of scorn for those who try to manipulate crying
for their own gain.56
53 See Cook, “Women and Men in Laxdæla saga” (n. 44 above); Ármann Jakobsson, “Konungasagan Laxdæla” (n. 44
above).
54 That does not mean that Laxdœla saga is entirely unconcerned with gender instability, as Michael O’Rourke has
discussed in “Queer Affect to the Icelandic Saga”, presented at Leeds International Medieval Congress, 11 July
2005.
55 Helga Kress explores gossip and its somewhat contemptible nature in “Staðlausir stafir: Um slúður sem uppsprettu
frásagnar í Íslendingasögum”, Skírnir (1991) 130–156.
56 This seems to fit with the laws of the period that concentrate on those who accuse others of being “ragr” or
“sorðinn”, rather than any behavior which might lead to such accusations. See Grágás efter det Arnamagnæanske
Haandskrift Nr. 334 fol., Staðarhólsbók, ed. Vilhjálmur Finsen (Copenhagen 1879) 392. See also Sørensen, Norrønt
nid (n. 7 above) 19–21; and Gade, “Homosexuality and the Rape of Males” (n. 51 above) 132–136.
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When Þórhallr Ásgrímsson learns that Njáll is dead, his reaction is extreme:
“hann þrútnaði allr ok blóðbogi stóð ór hvárritveggju hlustinni, ok varð eigi stǫðvat,
ok fell hann í óvit, ok þá stǫðvaðisk. Eptir þat stóð hann upp ok kvað sér lítilmann-
liga verða” (his whole body swelled up and blood gushed from both ears, and it did
not stop and he fell in a faint, and then it stopped. After that he stood up and said
that this had not been manly of him) (344). Misogynists might call this a hysterical
reaction.57 Þórhallr palpably does not think it manly, but the saga, which approves
of him, nevertheless sees no reason not to relate it. There is again a juxtaposition of
values: on one hand those of society obsessed with manliness; on the other a saga
text that shows heroes reacting excessively and then censoring themselves, while
no such condemnation is present in the text. Þórhallr indeed goes on to kill some
of his foster-father’s slayers, but he is still someone who faints when he hears very
bad tidings. And indeed he continues to swell, and the saga metaphorically speaks of
his transformation into a woman: “Þórhallr Ásgrímsson tók fótarmein svá mikit, at
fyrir ofan ǫkkla var fótrinn svá digr ok þrútinn sem konulær” (Thorhall Asgrimsson
had such an infection on his leg that above the ankle it was as swollen and as thick as
a woman’s thigh) (359).58
The saga abounds in references to manliness and yet its heroes are beardless, wear
womanish clothes, show excessive emotions that they themselves censor as femi-
nine and one of them starts transforming into a woman in the hour of need. That
does not preclude his proving himself a great warrior a short while later. One cannot
but begin to suspect that Njáls saga might actually be cleverly subverting the whole
gender system by demonstrating that being “queer” (in this case womanish) is per-
haps not all that bad.
Sex Lives of the Rich and Famous

Skarpheðinn and Þórhallr are different but alike in their excessive emotions and
their concern that their lack of restraint makes them less manly. In fact, their inten-
sity may have contributed to their heroic stature and caused readers of Njáls saga to
develop a strong affinity for them throughout the ages. Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi is
57 Cf. Laqueur, Making Sex (n. 2 above) esp. 114–148.

58 The saga’s emphasis on the physical and vulgar, perhaps even the grotesque, has been interpreted as “carnivalistic”
by Helga Kress, “Njálsbrenna, karnival í Landeyjum”, Strengleikar slegnir Robert Cook 25. nóvember 1994 (Reykjavík
1994) 28–33.
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more restrained, and may even seem so perfect as to be somewhat dull.59 And yet he
can be accused of crying, so even he must have a weakness.
One possibility is that his weakness is also his greatest strength, i.e. the friend-
ship of Njáll. When they first collaborate in the saga, Gunnarr’s cousin Unnr
Marðardóttir asks Gunnarr to reclaim her dowry from her estranged husband Hrútr
and suggests that he seeks the help of Njáll. She adds: “Er hann ok vin þinn mikill”
(he’s a great friend of yours), to which Gunnarr remarks: “Ván er mér, at hann ráði
mér heilt sem ǫðrum” (I expect that he’ll advise me as soundly as he does others)
(58). This seems somewhat evasive, considering the emphasis on the friendship of
the two men in the saga. But this friendship also becomes problematic later, after
Gunnarr has married Hallgerðr, much to the chagrin of Njáll who is hostile to her
from the outset (87). She reciprocates his hostility, remarking: “Trǫll hafi þína vini”
(The trolls take your friends) (92), when Gunnarr asks her to behave well to Njáll
and his family.
In spite of the pervasive homosociality of medieval Iceland and most of the sagas,60
Gunnarr’s anxiety about the closeness of the friendship possibly reflects a worry
that their friendship might seem too close to some. On top of that, Njáll not only
looks unmanly but refuses to behave as others feel a man should. The implication
would then be that a close friendship between two men might have led to rumors
of an illicit homoerotic relationship, which would inevitably lead to both men being
branded as unmanly, especially as one of the parties would have been seen as having
played the “female role”.61 As we have seen, masculinity may be disputed for less.
The possibility that Gunnarr and Njáll’s friendship might cast doubt on their
manliness is never referred to overtly in the saga. On the other hand, sexual re-
lations between men are directly referred to in the aforementioned “silkislœður”
scene, when Hǫskuldr has been killed and a settlement reached between his paternal
uncles and Flosi of Svínafell, who had married his niece to Hǫskuldr, on the one
59 The subject of whether Gunnarr’s perfectness may be equivalent with dullness is an old one; in 1943 Sveinsson saw
fit to spring to his defense (Á Njálsbúð [n. 48 above] 68–69), especially against Kinck (“Et par ting om ættesagaen”
[n. 50 above]) who was one of Gunnarr’s foremost critics.
60 The term comes from Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (New
York 1985) esp. 1–5, and refers to social bonds between persons of the same sex which are at the same time anti-
thetical to and yet have things in common with homoerotic relations. It has been used in an analysis of Hrólfs saga
kraka by Carl Phelpstead, “The Sexual Ideology of Hrólfs saga kraka” Scandinavian Studies 75 (2003) 1–24.
61 See numerous examples in Sørensen’s groundbreaking study, Norrønt nid (n. 7 above). See also Gade, “Homo-
sexuality and the Rape of Males” (n. 51 above); Jenny Jochens, ‘”Old Norse Sexuality: Men, Women, and Beasts”,
Handbook of Medieval Sexuality, ed. Vern L Bullough and James A. Brundage (New York and London 1996) 369–
400.
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Masculinity
hand, and on the other the sons of Njáll who killed Hǫskuldr, even though he had
been raised at Bergþórshváll with Njáll. The situation is still tense, not least because
of Hildigunnr’s taunts. It is then that Flosi loses his nerve and makes the inappro-
priate remarks about the silk garment donated by Njáll. Skarpheðinn in turn throws
breeches at him and claims that Flosi has been used as a woman (presumably sod-
omized) by the troll of Svínafell (313–314).
Preben Meulengracht Sørensen has stated that the notion that Flosi should have
engaged in sexual activities with another man must be regarded as absurd.62 Howev-
er, unlike some of the bullies in the saga who hurl accusations around, Skarpheðinn
is someone the saga compels us to take seriously, and his previous accusations
against chieftains such as Snorri goði and Guðmundr the Powerful (297–306) are
certainly not out of the blue.63 Flosi’s tension, when confronted with the silk gar-
ment on the pile, may also indicate that he is far from confident when faced with
possible insinuations about effeminacy. He may feel vulnerable because he has no
children (Skarpheðinn does make that comparison between him and Njáll), or his
over-reaction may be due to the fact Hildigunnr has already challenged his man-
hood, causing him to turn red, pale and black in the face (291).64 But as Flosi does
not seem high strung in the least in the rest of the saga, it does seem psychologically
unsatisfactory that mere goading about not having children would lead him to react
so strongly to silk garments.65
Flosi must have had further reasons to worry that people might see him as not
manly enough. One might be that he was inexperienced in battle and thus felt less
masculine. Another might be that he knows himself to be a coward and is thus sen-
sitive to goading. The third might be that he had actually been having sex with men
and was terrified that others knew. We are faced with the dilemma that sagas never
62 Sørensen, Norrønt nid (n. 7 above) 24.

63 Cf. Jakobsson, “Ekki kosta munur” (n. 20 above) 42.
64 On Hildigunnr’s goading and its socio-anthropological significance, see Carol Clover, “Hildigunnr’s Lament”,
Structure and Meaning in Old Norse Literature: New Approaches to Textual Analysis and Literary Criticism, ed. John
Lindow, Lars Lönnroth, and Gerd Wolfgang Weber (Odense 1986), 141–83. See also Jenny Jochens, Old Norse Im-
ages of Women (Philadelphia 1996) esp. 162-203; Rolf Heller, Die literarische Darstellung der Frau in den Isländersagas
(Halle 1958) 98–122.
65 It is not a new truth that the sagas are psychologically subtle, and none more than Njáls saga. As no fundamental
changes in the human psyche since the 13th c. have been postulated, I do not see it as anachronistic to use psycho-
logical methods to understand saga characters, and there even exists a 13th c.-narrative (Morkinskinna) where a
king helps one of his subjects to get over “lovesickness” by using a method close to the Freudian “couch”. See
also Ármann Jakobsson, Staður í nýjum heimi: Konungasagan Morkinskinna (Reykjavík 2002) 151. A recent convin-
cing attempt to use psychology is made by Jon Geir Høyersten, Personlighet og avvik: En studie i Islendingesagaens
menneskebilde, med særlig vekt på Njála (Bergen 1998). He uses both modern and medieval concepts in his analysis.
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confirm such intimate things, so we are left with nothing but speculation. Many
nineteenth-and twentieth-century scholars would be unwilling to accept that the
saga author or audience might consider the third option, in line with their unstated
feeling (if not a stated opinion) that homosexual sex, being unnatural, must be a
recent phenomenon. But we still have to acknowledge that all the cases of insinu-
ations of sexual relations between men in the sagas, as well the laws dealing with
such insinuations,66 must refer to something, and that of course some men must
have been having sex with each other in medieval Iceland as they have done any-
where and everywhere throughout history, even though they risked derision and so-
cial stigma.67 I thus think it is fair to assume that the incident reveals what is adum-
brated in the taunts about Gunnarr’s crying: that men who have close friendships
with other men are vulnerable to suggestions that they have had sexual relations
with other men, which is yet another issue that may result in diminished manliness
in Njáls saga.
Gunnarr is evasive when Unnr first mentions his friendship with Njáll. A possible
explanation is that he fears what society may make of a close friendship between
two such different men, one of whom looks like a woman. On the other hand, Njáll
has no such reservations and says when Gunnarr comes to seek his aid: “Margir eru
þess vinir mínir makligir, at ek leggja til þat sem heilt er; en þó ætla ek at leggja mes-
ta stund á við þik” (I have many friends for whom it is fitting that I give good coun-
sel, and yet I will take the greatest pain with you) (58–59). In the beginning, their
friendship is thus differently described by the two: Gunnarr indicates that there is
nothing special about it, whereas Njáll clearly states that Gunnarr demands his at-
tention more than others.
For years, ordinary readers of Njáls saga have wondered whether a homoerotic
interpretation of the friendship is possible. I will discuss its nature below but first
the discussion needs to be moved away from the term “homosexuality”, partly since
such a category would not have made any sense in the mind of the author or authors,
or the saga’s original audience. Njáls saga is obviously not unaware of love between
individuals of the same sex, as well as a physical attraction and sexual relations (the
three may or may not go hand in hand). However, the term “homosexual” and clas-
66 These have been explored by Sørensen, Norrønt nid (n. 7 above) 16–39; and Gade, “Homosexuality and the Rape of
Males” (n. 51 above).
67 Today not even the risk of torture, flogging, and public hanging under Sharia law stops teenagers in Iran, demon-
strated by a widely reported public hanging of two teenagers in the city of Mashhad in Iran on 19 July 2005.
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sification of people into groups of heterosexuals, homosexuals and bisexuals did not
exist in thirteenth-century Scandinavia. Of course scholars inevitably often have to
use modern concepts when discussing medieval subjects, but I think this classifi-
cation is unhelpful in studies of medieval (and perhaps even modern) sexuality.68
More useful is Richard E. Zeikowitz’s distinction between “late medieval norma-
tive homoerotic desire”, now considered queer but not at the time, and “sodomitic
discourse”, where relations between two males face accusations of sodomy as a part
of a political campaign.69 Perhaps we see instances of both in Njáls saga but in that
case the latter is open, the former submerged.
In the penitentials of St. Þorlákr from 1178, homosexual acts are mentioned as be-
ing sinful, along with bestiality (which is apparently the worst sin), adultery, forni-
cation or masturbation (with or without the aid of a tree),70 but there do not seem to
have been any secular laws against homosexual acts in thirteenth-century Iceland.71
Having sex with persons of the same sex was thus considered bad but so were many
other sexual acts. It has also been shown that several narratives reveal a stigma con-
nected with same-sex relations, chiefly based on the assumption that one of the
partners would be adopting the ‘female’ role.72 While sexual relations with another
man are clearly one of many things that may lead to men being stigmatized as un-
manly in Njáls saga, there is no outright condemnation of them in the text. It may
be that yet again the sympathy lies more with the accused than the accusers. Flosi
is a sympathetic figure in the saga: it is only when he himself starts making jokes
at the expense of other’s supposed lack of manliness that he emerges in an unfavor-
able light. But as I have demonstrated, nobody is ever exonerated of accusations of
68 Medieval ideas about same-sex relationships have been explored by several scholars in the past three decades. John
Boswell was the best-known advocate for the view that there was some kind of medieval homosexuality accepted
as such, see his Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe from the Beginning
of the Christian Era to the Fourteenth Century (Chicago 1980), and his Same-Sex Unions in Premodern Europe (New
York 1994). For criticism of Boswell, see Warren Johansson and William A. Percy, “Homosexuality”, Handbook of
Medieval Sexuality, ed. Vern L. Bullough and James A. Brundage (New York and London 1996) 155–189. Boswell’s
main flaw is that his approach is somewhat essentialist and he uses terms such as “gay” and “homosexuality” which
the scholarly debate is gradually moving away from, on to definitions which take the complexity of human desires
more into account. See esp. Frantzen, Before the Closet (n. 28 above); also Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men (n.
60 above); and eadem, Epistomology of the Closet (Berkeley 1990).
69 Richard E. Zeikowitz, Homoeroticism and Chivalry: Discourses of Male Same-Sex Desire in the Fourteenth Century
(NY and Basingstoke 2003) esp. 1–15.
70 Diplomatarium Islandicum I, ed. Jón Sigurðsson (Copenhagen 1857–1876) 243.
71 Gade, “Homosexuality and the Rape of Males” (n. 51 above) 135.
72 See n. 61. But even though the penetrated partner was seen as acting as a woman, the other partner would also be
failing to conform to what would have been constituted as normative sex in this society (bearing in mind that anal
sex between a man and a woman was also deviant).
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unmanly behavior in the saga. It is not the “unmanliness” that the text objects to, but
rather that invasion into the emotional life of individuals which political manipula-
tion of gender roles, love and desire inevitably results in.
The saga reveals that other types of sexual encounters may also lead to a loss of
manhood. In the first part of the saga, the wise and valiant Hrútr gets engaged to
Unnr Marðardóttir but then has to go to Norway to contest an inheritance.73 There
he is quickly seduced by the queen mother Gunnhildr, who intercedes on his behalf
with the king but then goes on to inform him that he is to lie with her that night
(15). In addition to the remarkable reversal of gender roles (partly explained by the
difference in status), the saga is unusually candid about sex both in this instance and
elsewhere, and although Gunnhildr forbids everyone to speak of their affair, a man
called Úlfr the Unwashed refers to it during a battle with the men of the king of
Denmark (18), and compares the relationship of the two to the hard blows which
Hrútr strikes in battle.74 Sex indeed may function as a weapon in the saga, and soon
the complexity of sex becomes apparent when Gunnhildr asks Hrútr whether he
has a woman in Iceland and he denies it (20). This lack of honesty leads her to curse
their sexual relations and it turns out that Hrútr is unable to consummate his mar-
riage with Unnr (24).
Sex is complicated and dangerous, and, as Hrútr discovers, humiliating if it doesn’t
work out the way it should. Unnr leaves Hrútr and soon word gets out that the
reason is that Hrútr has been unable to penetrate his wife. His manhood is com-
promised and his humiliation spelled out by two little boys who innocently make a
game of the legal quarrel between Hrútr and Mǫrðr, Unnr’s father, who now wants
his dowry back (26–29). The end result is that while Hrútr does not exactly gain his
manhood, at least he manages to draw his ex-father-in-law into dishonor along with
him, by challenging him to a duel, which Mǫrðr refuses, with the result that he is
mocked for cowardice (28).
73 Hrútr’s wisdom and valor is mentioned or demonstrated in the saga on several occasions (6, 13, 14 and 26).
74 Sexual frankness, to the point of vulgarity, is strangely enough, characteristic of Njáls saga. The episode of Unnr
and Hrútr ends with two small unnamed boys playing a game where they use the somewhat uncivil word “serða”
(which means “penetrate” and was probably roughly equivalent to “fuck” in the Middle Ages) (29), and later in
the saga the jealous Þjóstólfr tells Hallgerð’s husband Glúmr that he has no strength for anything except “brǫlta á
maga Hallgerði” (bouncing on Hallgerd’s belly) (49). And Skarphéðinn refers to “razgarnarendann merarinnar” (the
mare’s arse) (305), when he insults Þorkell hákr. I would contend that Njáls saga is frank to the point of obscenity,
which may not be easy to define; see Madeline H. Caviness, “Obscenity and Alterity: Images that Shock and Of-
fend Us/Them, Now/Then?” Obscenity: Social Control and Artistic creation in the European Middle Ages, ed. Jan M.
Ziolkowski (Leiden, Boston, and Cologne 1998) 155–175.
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Masculinity
The irony of the whole situation is that it seems to be the enormity of Hrútr’s
male organ which leads to his impotence: “Þegar hann kemr við mik, þá er hǫrund
hans svá mikit, at hann má ekki eptirlæti hafa við mik, en þó hǫfum vit bæði breytni
til þess á alla vega, at vit mættim njótask, en þat verðr ekki. En þó áðr vit skilim,
sýnir hann þat af sér, at hann er í œði sínu rétt sem aðrir menn” (When he comes
close to me his penis is so large that he can’t have any satisfaction from me, and yet
we’ve both tried every possible way to enjoy each other, but nothing works. By the
time we part however, he shows that he’s just like other men) (24). The last sentence
suggests that Hrútr has no problem getting hard or to ejaculate but simply cannot
penetrate Unnr. That this is due to the curse of Gunnhildr is made evident by the
fact Hrútr does not seem to have sexual problems in any other age of his life—
Laxdœla saga has him fathering 16 sons and 10 daughters and still siring children at
seventy.75 By and large, Hrútr thus would seem like an unlikely candidate for sud-
den impotence.
It is possible to detect an irony in the nature of the curse.76 Impotence has always
been seen as diminishing a man’s maleness,77 but while the medieval emphasis on
the largeness of the penis may not quite have rivaled the modern one, a large penis
would nevertheless also have been seen as a sign of manhood, as a physical attri-
bute that clearly distinguishes men from women.78 When Gunnhildr makes Hrútr’s
member so large that he effectively becomes impotent, she might be making the
statement that a penis fit for a queen is too large for an ordinary Icelandic women.
Or she has such a poignant sense of irony that in making her lover less sexually
potent by enhancing his member, she demonstrates very effectively that being a big
man is not always a blessing.
75 “Laxdæla saga” 48–49, 105–106.

76 And noted by Dronke, The Role of Sexual Themes (n. 18 above) 2–11 and 30. William Sayers has discussed the func-
tion of Gunnhildr in Njáls saga and other saga narratives in an interesting article, “Power, Magic and Sex: Queen
Gunnhildr and the Icelanders”, Scandinavian-Canadian Studies 8 (1995) 57–77. He calls the saga’s tone “neutral”
(66) but nevertheless sees Gunnhildr as a sexual predator (with some justification) and finds her curse more vindic-
tive than humorous.
77 Vern L. Bullough, “On Being a Male in the Middle Ages”, Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle
Ages, ed. Clare A. Lees (Minneapolis and London 1994) 31–45, esp. 41–42.
78 On the role of the penis in medieval Iceland, see Carl Phelpstead, “Size Matters: Penile Problems in Sagas of Ice-
landers” (Exemplaria 19 (2007) 420–37). In modern times the signification value of the penis itself has increased
while in the Middle Ages, the testicles were regarded as an equally important symbol of manhood; see esp. Gary
Taylor, Castration: An Abbreviated History of Western Manhood (New York and London 2000) 30–100. It has been
suggested by David M. Friedman, A Mind of Its Own: A Cultural History of the Penis (New York, 2001) 22, that the
classical and medieval emphasis on the size of the penis may not have quite rivalled the modern obsession (which
cannot have escaped the notice of anyone with an internet mail service, as it is driven home by daily offers of penis
enlargements).
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The accursed union of Hrútr and Unnr is merely the first of many failed mar-
riages in the saga. The narrative of this messy divorce is followed by an account of
Hallgerðr’s two marriages in her youth, only one of which is unhappy, although
both are abruptly terminated by her jealous foster father Þjóstólfr—he kills both
husbands before being himself killed by Hrútr, who has now regained his manli-
ness. Unnr goes on to marry the devious and unpopular Valgarðr grái, the union
producing Mǫrðr, the arch-villain of the saga, who thus becomes an indirect fruit
of Gunnhildr’s curse. Hallgerðr’s third and probably last marriage,79 to Gunnarr of
Hlíðarendi, must also be regarded as a failure, in spite of their combined glamour.
Its fate is in fact foreboded from the outset, as even during their wedding banquet,
a divorce takes place (89). Of course, it must be kept in mind that a bad marriage is
a better subject for a story than a happy one,80 and there are also happy marriages in
Njáls saga, including that of Njáll and Bergþóra which goes on happily right until
their death in the fire. Perhaps as another example of what Gunnhildr demonstrates
with her curse, that hypermasculinity is an illusion and sometimes the least mascu-
line may be the most potent.
Njáll’s Way
In Njáls saga, the list of men attacked for not being manly enough seems almost
endless; on it are Gunnarr and Njáll, Skarpheðinn and Þórhallr, Helgi Njálsson and
his assailant Flosi, Hrútr and his father-in-law Mǫrðr. No other saga has such a
plethora of leading men whose masculinity is challenged, and neither does any other
saga reveal how good men deviate from the masculine ideal and become blubbering,
crossdressing, troll-sodomized fops. Does this make it possible to postulate a theory
that Njáls saga, far from being misogynistic, instead holds men in contempt?
The saga does portray masculinity under attack. However, it presents its leading
men as rounded, sympathetic characters who usually behave honorably, although
most (including Gunnarr and Hrútr) make grievous mistakes and some (Flosi and
the sons of Njáll) commit horrible atrocities.81 That none is immune from suspi-
cions of a lack of manliness does not mean that they are more flawed than the aver-
79 This is hard to ascertain, since Hallgerðr simply vanishes from the saga, last seen at Grjóta repeating her somewhat
tired old “Old Beardless” joke (229); cf. Bragi Halldórsson, “Áttundi maðurinn við Markarfljót”, Jarteinabók Jóns
Böðvarssonar: Afmælisrit helgað Jóni Böðvarssyni sextugum 2. maí 1990 (Reykjavík 1990) 183–189.
80 Cf. Roberta Frank, “Marriage in Twelfth-and Thirteenth-Century Iceland”, Viator 4 (1973) 473–484, at 478.
81 Cf. William Ian Miller, “Justifying Skarpheðinn: Of Pretext and Politics in the Icelandic Bloodfeud”, Scandinavian
Studies 55 (1983) 316–344.
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age man. We must therefore conclude that the demands made on men constantly to
prove their manhood are unfair.82 The virtues of what has been described as a “pro-
foundly materialistic and honor-obsessed masculinity”, with the emphasis on cour-
age, protection of one’s own, swift and merciless reprisal, loyalty and brutality,83 are
being exaggerated to the point of meaninglessness by those who use the ideal as a
weapon against their opponents.
That does not mean that masculinity is unattainable. In fact, the saga does provide
its own masculine ideal, which is vastly different from that of the society it depicts.
Gunnarr is admirable for his fighting skills, modesty and elegance and Skarpheðinn
for his sardonic wit, valor, and toughness. And yet it is Njáll who comes closest to
being the ideal man of the saga, in spite of (or so it seems at first) his unmanly ap-
pearance.84 However, this apparent contradiction is to my mind a deliberate state-
ment on the part of an author who is making his or her own point about masculin-
ity: that it has less to do with beards and battle-axes than intelligence, restraint and
power.
Heroism is not absent from the saga. On the contrary, hardly anywhere else does
one find such exaggerated feats and none more so than in the battles of Gunnarr of
Hlíðarendi who has no problem catching large spears in the air and promptly send-
ing them back, as well as killing Vikings by surprising them with his swift swords-
manship (77–79). By and large, Njáls saga glamorizes battles,85 and provides numer-
ous examples of men who make laconic statements after having had various body
parts chopped off (see, e.g., 158, 187, and 234).86 However, in Njáls saga (as well as
most of the other sagas), there are two kinds of heroism. One is the battle-axe and
sword-swinging type, possessed only by warrior heroes such as Gunnarr and Skarp
heðinn.87 The other is the kind of heroism that is available not only to such heroes
but to everyone else: women, children, servants, slaves, old men, and clerics—even
82 Cf. Kress, “Manndom og misogyni” (n. 18 above) 50.

83 See David Townsend, “Ironic Intertextuality and the Reader’s Resistance to Heroic Masculinity in the Walthar-
ius”, Becoming Male in the Middle Ages, ed. J. J. Cohen and Bonnie Wheeler (New York and London 2000) 67–86.
84 Kress takes the same line in “Manndom og misogyni” (n. 18 above); see also Fyrir dyrum fóstru (n. 20 above) 8.
85 See Ármann Jakobsson, “Sannyrði sverða: Vígaferli í Íslendinga sögu og hugmyndafræði sögunnar”, Skáldskaparmál
3 (1994) 42–78, esp. 53.
86 In many instances, these witty persons are actually villains. One may wonder whether it is possible to read some-
thing into that. If being calm and composed and telling jokes after receiving terrible wounds is so heroic, why is it
that the most memorable cases of this are minor figures from the wrong team? Is this particular brand of heroism,
even though admirable, perhaps not something to strive for?
87 The problematic nature of this kind of heroism and the awareness of the sagas of it has been discussed by Theo-
dore M. Andersson, “The Displacement of the Heroic Ideal in the Family Sagas”, Speculum 45 (1970) 575–593.
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to non-aggressive beardless chieftains.88 Also to villains such as Hrappr and Kolr

Egilsson whom we cannot regard as role models and yet the saga does not deny even
them their heroic moments. Thus, those branded by society as weak and feminine
(or blauðr which means both female and cowardly),89 or by the saga as villainous
and somewhat contemptible, can rise above the restrictions of the role, and they fre-
quently do,90 the braggart Bjǫrn from Mǫrk being a good example.91 That Njáll pos-
sesses such valor is beyond dispute. When the fires have been lit at his house, it is
stated that he comforted all his household courageously: “Slíkar fortǫlur hafði hann
fyrir þeim ok aðrar hraustligri” (Such were the words he had for them, and others
even more reassuring) (329).92
The anecdote about Hrútr’s impotence establishes potency as a major theme in
the saga. Njáll does not lack that: one of the first things we learn about him is that
he has four sons and three daughters. In addition, he is soon introduced as the sur-
rogate father of Gunnarr and he fosters Þórhallr Ásgrímsson and Hǫskuldr Þráins-
son, all of which makes him (as Helga Kress has noted), the dominating patriarch
of the saga, beard or no beard.93 In addition, none of his sons, biological, adopted or
surrogate, rebels against the father. Gunnarr may marry Hallgerðr without consult-
ing Njáll (86–87) and in the end he disobeys him and stays home instead of going
abroad, which gets him killed (181–84). These fatal but isolated acts of independence
only serve to accentuate Gunnarr’s dependence upon and obedience to Njáll. When
Njáll hatches a plan to fool Hrútr, Gunnarr follows it to the letter and continues
to do exactly as Njáll says in his various lawsuits at the Alþingi (see, e.g., 59–64
and 130–132). Hǫskuldr Þráinsson allows Njáll to choose a wife for him (240) and
Njáll’s biological sons may marry and acquire their own homes but continue to flock
to Bergþórshváll. In the rare instances where they act alone, they appear to have his
88 I am referring here to the binary opposition that Carol Clover outlined in her 1993 article “between able-bodied
men (and the exceptional woman) on one hand and, on the other, a kind of rainbow coalition of everyone else
(most women, children, slaves, and old, disabled, or otherwise disenfranchised men”; “Regardless of Sex” (n. 10
above) 380.
89 Ibid. 363–365.
90 Well-known examples of very old men, poor men, and women showing that kind of spirit are in Gísla saga (84 and
112) and Sturlunga saga (434). This is elegantly phrased by Clover, “Regardless of Sex” (n. 10 above) 371: “Woman
is a normative category, but not a binding one”. See also Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, Fortælling og ære: Studier i
islændingesagaerne (Aarhus 1993) 203–206.
91 His role in the saga’s creation of the concept of heroism has been analysed by William E. Judd, “Valgerðr’s Smile”,
Scandinavian Studies 56 (1984) 203–212.
92 While “hraustligr” can mean and probably does mean reassuring in this context, this word also indicates courage
and valor.
93 Kress, “Ekki hǫfu vér kvennaskap” (n. 15 above) 293–295.
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unspoken blessing (115 and 232), and it is only in killing Hǫskuldr that they delib-
erately and aggressively defy their father. And yet there is something ambiguous
about even this rebellion.94 They are instantly back at their father’s who then has to
lead the effort to get them assistance (295). Only Skarpheðinn rocks the boat in this
endeavor and when Flosi and his men arrive to kill them they all doggedly follow
the old man into the house to perish along with him. Again only Skarpheðinn has
reservations about how smart that is (326) but still does not disobey his father. Al-
though a strong character, he can only summon the energy to do so one single time.
This relationship thus comes short of being a generational conflict of the type that
characterizes many sagas.95
Njáll is not only in control of his family. He manipulates every law and every
notable man in Iceland in order to assist Gunnarr. According to the saga, he is “heil-
ráðr ok góðgjarn … hógværr ok drenglyndr” (sound of advice and well-intentioned
… modest and noble-spirited) (57). Yet he has no qualms about tricking Hrútr on
Gunnarr’s behalf. Later on he counsels his sons to goad the people at Grjóta into
piling up abusive language, so they can kill Þráinn without any blame being attached
(226). And when he wants to help Hǫskuldr to get his “goðorð”, he deliberately
gives bad advice so that cases cannot be settled and then argues for the establish-
ment of a Fifth Court that requires new “goðorð”, including one for Hǫskuldr. In
spite of the previous statements about his kindness and good intentions, Njáll often
seems coldly manipulative when helping his favorites.96 But he gets away with it and
retains our sympathy.
Last but not least, Njáll is also in supreme control of himself. It is perhaps not
surprising that Skarpheðinn sees restraint as an all-important criterion of masculini-
ty since he has grown up under a father who, unlike everyone else, cannot be goaded
or taunted. Even the very restrained Gunnarr gets angry when accused of having
cried (136). But Njáll is called Old Beardless on numerous occasions without losing
his composure or lifting a finger to avenge the slights. This may paradoxically make
him the strongest male of the saga. Unlike all the others, he accepts that having no
94 For a detailed analysis of the political implications of the act, see Miller, “Justifying Skarpheðinn” (n. 81 above).
95 See Paul Schach, “Some Observations on the Generation-Gap Theme in the Icelandic Sagas”, The Epic in Medieval
Society, ed. Harald Scholler (Tübingen 1977) 361–381; Marianne E. Kalinke, “Stæri ek brag: Protest and Subordina-
tion in Hallfreðar saga”, Skáldskaparmál 4 (1997) 50–68.
96 See Jónsson, Lykillinn að Njálu (n. 26 above) 128 and 174. I am not implying that this is condemned in the text;
Lönnroth believes it isn’t (Njáls saga [n. 16 above] 191), and I would tend to agree, bearing in mind that the saga text
itself may be critical of the (now defunct) system that Njáll is manipulating. See Pencak, The Conflict of Law and
Justice (n 14 above).
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beard makes him feminine and simply doesn’t care. Thus he is made stronger by his
lack of masculinity.97 His unmanly appearance might be the key to his success.
Njáll seems to embrace his feminine qualities and turn them into strengths. Per-
haps it is because he was raised by a woman settler of noble birth: Njáll’s mother
is one of the very few known woman settlers in Iceland (chap. 20) and he is thus
raised in a matriarchy. For whatever reason, Njáll perceives the emptiness of the
saga’s masculine ideal and proves immune to all jeers about his appearance. This
freedom from the constrictions of gender is only possible because he had so much
experience at being “Old Beardless”.
Does Love Stand a Chance in the Saga World?

In Njáls saga, love often becomes a tool in the hands of manipulators. Ironically,
one of the greatest manipulators of the saga, Mǫrðr Valgarðsson, falls victim to love
near the close of the saga, when he is coerced into siding firmly with the Njálssynir
camp after the fire at Bergþórshváll. Gizurr the White then counsels Kári to threat-
en Mǫrðr that his wife will leave him, adding that he loves her like his own eyes
(355). Apparently the wife is in on the plot, or she is long tired of Mǫrðr, because
when he starts stalling, she claims to be ready to leave him. That is enough for the
biggest villain in the saga, who henceforth is on the side of good and it may even
be argued that he manages to exit the saga with more honor than ever before.98 It
seems appropriate that someone who has used the emotions of others so unscrupu-
lously in his strategies should fall victim to his own. But it may at first seem to lead
to a bleak conclusion: that love is a handicap in the commonwealth society depicted
in Njáls saga, and that real emotions are impossible. I will nevertheless argue that
the outlook of the saga is perhaps not quite so grim (perhaps it wouldn’t have been
so popular if it was). Love can be attained in Njáls saga. In some cases though, it
requires people to rise above the restrictive norms of society.
Although Njáls saga has been described as being uncommonly devoid of emotional
vocabulary,99 Njáll himself is a notable exception. He is not afraid to say that Gunn
97 Cf. Kress, Fyrir dyrum fóstru (n. 20 above) 8.
98 Robert Cook has argued convincingly that in the last part of the saga, Mǫrðr is partly rehabilitated; “Mörðr Val-
garðsson”, Sagnaheimur: Studies in Honour of Hermann Pálsson on his 80th birthday, 26th May 2001, ed. Ásdís Egils-
dóttir and Rudolf Simek (Vienna 2001) 63–77, esp. 73–76.
99 Vésteinn Ólason, “Emosjon og aksjon i Njáls saga”, Nordica Bergensia 3 (1994) 157–172. The exception is its use
of the words “vinr” and “vinátta”, which according to Vésteinn do not have strong emotional connotations (162).
As seen below, I myself find that a bit understated and would argue that the friendships described in Njáls saga are
emotionally charged.
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Masculinity
arr is his favorite, even though he must realize that society’s rigid reinforcement
of gender roles might make such a statement suspicious, just as everything else is.
Later he is not afraid to speak of his love for his foster son Hǫskuldr in the most
exalted terms: “ek unna meira Hǫskuldi en sonum mínum, ok er ek spurða, at hann
var veginn, þótti mér sløkkt it sœtasta ljós augna minna” (I loved Hoskuld more
than my own sons, and when I heard that he had been slain I felt that the sweetest
light of my eyes had been put out) (309). Editors and translators have been quick to
draw attention to the clerical nature of this vocabulary,100 but that doesn’t mean that
Njáll is insincere. It seems more simple to assume that he loved Hǫskuldr dearly,
and whether he is assisted in that endeavor by the language of Christianity or not,
he is not afraid to express it. It is remarkable that love is only mentioned when Njáll
speaks of his feelings for Hǫskuldr. That does not mean that this love is erotic and
neither does it mean that it isn’t. In fact, our modern distinction between the sexual
and non-sexual and our obsession with whether love between two men is sexual or
not does not seem to be shared by Njáls saga. Love is love.
Bergþóra does not speak of love for her husband when she returns into the fire
with him but of her vows and commitment to him (330). That does not mean that
she does not love him. In fact the marriage of Njáll and Bergþóra is a singular suc-
cess in a saga which is replete with bad marriages. When they go together into the
fire, there can be no doubt of their feelings and loyalty to each other. Ironically,
they are perhaps the most queer couple in the saga: the man without a beard and
his somewhat masculine wife with the gnarled nails. Since they are man and wife
and have raised six children, there can also be no doubt that theirs was a sexual re-
lationship. But it is equally hard to discern Njáll’s real feelings for Bergþóra as it is
to analyze his feelings for Hǫskuldr. When it comes to the exact nature of love and
sex, the author of Njáls saga is vague. This unknown genius may realize that to be
certain is sometimes to be obtuse.
As I discussed above, there is reason to believe that some of the accusations of
unmanliness against Gunnarr and Njáll owe something to an unspoken suspicion
100 See, e.g., Brennu-Njáls saga, 309 n. 2. On how learned 12th-c. Europeans unashamedly used passionate language
to depict their friendships, see Julian P. Haseldine, “Love, Separation and Male Friendship: Words and Actions in
Saint Anselms Letters to his Friends”, Masculinity in Medieval Europe, ed. Dawn M. Hadley (London and New
York 1999) 238–255. It is hard to find any living scholar who would deny the clerical influence on Njáls saga.
Present scholarly consensus regards it as a mixture of native narrative tradition and foreign influence through
schools and book learning. The most detailed and tightly argued discussion would be Lönnroth’s Njáls saga (n. 16
above). See also Pálsson, Uppruni Njálu og hugmyndir (n. 27 above) esp. 29–70.
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that their close relationship might be homoerotic (or even homosexual) and thus
unmanly. It is impossible to know if the former is true since the saga never provides
enough information to do more than speculate on whether there was any desire
between Gunnarr and Njáll sexual or non-sexual.101 The latter is, however, not true
in the eyes of the saga, since any type of relationship they might have had would not
really have made them unmanly. When it comes down to it, it really does not mat-
ter as much as we might now think whether the relationship between Gunnarr and
Njáll was erotic. What is important is that it is a loving relationship, uncompromis-
ingly so, which comes under attack and yet it survives. Gunnarr and Njáll remain
lifelong companions and friends, their friendship is voluntary, the tie is emotional,
the gain uncertain. No women, and especially not Hallgerðr, are allowed to disrupt
the intense bond between the two men. Just as Njáll never attempts to compensate
for his lack of beard, they refuse to be taunted into giving up their friendship. One
of the most intense episodes of the saga (from chaps. 35 to 47) depicts how their
friendship survives even the most severe test. It ends in the explicit statement that
the two men “váru jafnan vinir” (always remained friends) (118). Gunnarr further-
more remarks: “Góðar eru gjafir þínar, … en meira þykki mér vert vinfengi þitt ok
sona þinna” (Your gifts are good … but of greater worth to me is the friendship with
you and your sons) (122). This statement highlights the essence of the whole ex-
change. Gunnarr is expressing what Njáll has already expressed, that theirs is essen-
tially not a relationship of convenience but of emotions and Gunnarr is now ready
to state this without reservations.102
In Njáls saga, the politics of sex are more important than sex itself. It is unim-
portant whether Gunnarr and Njáll were lovers or friends or just never found the
line between the two. The survival of their friendship also proves that emotional
attachments are possible in the saga world, even friendship between two such very
different men. Only Njáls saga is able to explore that particular question since only
the characters in Njáls saga are so obsessed with manliness and quick to find fault if
they believe that people are deviating in the slightest from their preordained roles.
Njáls saga also shows that these roles are so restrictive that they are almost impos-
101 On the problems of distinguishing between homosexuality, homoeroticism, and homosociality in medieval texts,
see Marianne J. Ailes, “The Medieval Male Couple and the Language of Homosociality”, Masculinity in Medieval
Europe, ed. Dawn M. Hadley (London and New York 1999) 214–237.
102 Of course it is also to a degree a relationship of convenience. On the complexities of “vinátta” in this society, see
Miller, “Justifying Skarpheðinn” (n. 81 above) 339–341. I do, however, believe that in this case, the friendship is
more emotional than practical. It is hard, for example, to see Njáll’s precise political gain from this alliance.
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sible not to deviate from, and that one way to deal with this is to do as Njáll does, to
ignore them.
Njáls saga’s treatment of gender is critical of the norms of a misogynist society.
It shows that the ideal of masculinity may become so exaggerated that it becomes
uncompromising and oppressive. It leads to failed marriages and to outpourings of
an aggressive heroism that thrives on the unease of males who know that everything
may be used against them. On the whole, Njáls saga is subversive in its treatment
of gender. It sides with the queers rather than those who brand others as unmas-
culine. It also provides us with an unlikely hero, without beard and weapons, who
is nevertheless attacked no more than everyone else and has not only the wisdom
not to react but becomes a master manipulator of the society that might have been
expected to ostracize him for being queer. The saga turns the ideals of its society on
their head: the queer becomes the norm and those who try to manipulate masculin-
ity end up the lesser men. Not only does the notion of perfect masculinity do more
harm than good; it is simply wrong: the least masculine of men may be the most
powerful.
237
Acknowledgements
The author and publisher would like to thank the following for permissions to re-
produce copyrighted material for the purpose of this collection:
1. “The Spectre of Old Age: Nasty Old Men in the Sagas of Icelanders” from
JOURNAL OF ENGLISH AND GERMANIC PHILOLOGY. Copyright
2005 by the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois. Used with permis-
sion of the University of Illinois Press.
2. “Two wise women and their young apprentice: a miscarried magic class” from
ARKIV FÖR NORDISK FILOLOGI. Copyright 2007.
3. “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: The Meanings of Troll and Ergi in
Medieval Iceland” from SAGA-BOOK. Copyright 2008. Used with permission
of The Viking Society.
4. “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note About the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic
Contamination in Grettis saga” from FOLKLORE. Copyright 2009. Used with
permission of The Folklore Society.
5. “Beast and Man: Realism and the Occult in Egils saga” from SCANDINAVIAN
STUDIES. Copyright 2011. Used with permission of Scandinavian Studies and
The Society for the Advancement of Scandinavian Study.
6. “Egils saga and Empathy: Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dysfunctional Saga
Family” from SCANDINAVIAN STUDIES. Copyright 2008. Used with per-
mission of Scandinavian Studies and The Society for the Advancement of Scandi-
navian Study.
7. “Laxdœla Dreaming: A Saga Heroine Invents Her Own Life” from LEEDS
STUDIES IN ENGLISH. Copyright 2008.
8. “The Impetuousness of Þráinn Sigfússon: Leadership, virtue and villainy in

Njáls saga” from ARKIV FÖR NORDISK FILOLOGI. Copyright 2009.
9. “Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga” from VIATOR. Copyright 2007.
239
Index
Abel, 166 bookprose theory, 15
Abraham, 64 Bósa saga ok Herrauðs, 86, 98
ambition, 196, 197n6, 203 Bósi Þvarason (Bósa saga), 86
Andersson, Theodore M., 14, 212 Bragi (Snorra-Edda), 97
anorexia, 69–70 Brennu-Njáls saga. See Njáls saga
archaeology: and saga scholarship, 12 Brewer, Derek, 85
Arendt, Hannah, 60, 168—69 brotherhood: in Egils saga, 166—69
Arinbjǫrn Þórisson (Egils saga), 72, 141, 218 Búi Andríðarson (Kjalnesinga saga), 100,
Arnkell Þórólfsson (Eyrbyggja saga), 50—51, 102, 134n16
74—75, 80, 81—82; characteristics of, 48 Bynum, Caroline Walker, 70
Arnold, Martin, 94, 95, 97 Bǫrkr digri (Gísla saga), 93
Árni Auðunarson (Sturlunga saga), 61
Ásbjǫrn Guðmundsson (Sturlunga saga), 99 Cain, 133, 166, 168
Ásdís Egilsdóttir, 28 cannibalism, 150—51
Augustine, Saint, 54 character analysis: in Sagas of Icelanders,
Aun, King (Ynglinga saga), 64 191n2
childhood: in Sagas of Icelanders, 23
Barber, Paul, 127 chronos, 65. See also Kronos
Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, 17, 18, 25, 99, 100, Cicero, 53, 77
103n9, 104, 118 Cixous, Hélène, 71
Bárðr Snæfellsáss (Bárðar saga), 104; as a Cleasby, Richard, 94, 101
troll, 100 Clover, Carol, 62n56
beardlessness, 213—16, 218, 219, 220 Codex Regius, 98
Beauvoir, Simone de, 52, 104 crying: and men, 220—23
Bera Yngvarsdóttir (Egils saga), 158—59; as cultural heritage, 12–13
absent mother, 160 cultural tourism, 12
Berðlu-Kári (Egils saga), 144
Bergþóra Skarphéðinsdóttir (Njáls saga), 56, Davíð Erlingsson, 28
213, 215, 219, 230 death, 187
Bergþórshváll: burning of, 56, 57—58 demonic transmission, 130
Berserk: meaning of, 143—44, 149; as trolls, Dickens, Charles, 76
103—4, 107, 114 Dillman, François-Xavier, 82
bestiality, 143—44; and shape-shifting, 116 divorce, 193—95, 230, 237; and morality, 194
Bestla Bǫlþornsdóttir (Snorra-Edda), 88 Dostoyevski, Fyodor, 36, 191
Bible, the, 64, 166, 168 Dracula, 125, 132
Bjarni Brodd-Helgason (Þórsteins þáttr draugr, 33 , 125—33
stangarhǫggs), 59, 61, 63 dreams, 173—89; and fate, 189; in sagas,
Bjarni Guðnason, 28 176n5
Bolli Bollason (Laxdœla saga), 181, 184 Dronke, Ursula, 211
Bolli Þorleiksson (Laxdœla saga), 181, 182, dwarves, 25
183—84
241
Nine Saga Studies
Egill Skalla-Grímsson (Egils saga), 18, 30, Flóres saga ok Blankiflúr, 214
33—34, 66—73, 76, 105—6, 141, 150—52, food: and fasting, 69—70; and grief, 69; and
156—70, 182, 218; and alcohol at a young vomiting, 69
age, 159n3; as a child prodigy, 162; as ego- Ford, John, 140
ist, 169—70; and impotence, 67; as medi- Foucault, Michel, 37
eval bulimic and anorectic, 69—70; as a Fox, Kate, 222
woman, 70 Fóstbrædra saga, 105
Egils saga einhenda, 105n12, 110 Frankenstein, 107
Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, 16, 33—35, 54, free-will, 189
66—73, 105—6, 129—52, 155—70, 182, 218; freeprose theory, 15
and cannibalism, 151; and the supernatu- Freud, Sigmund, 31, 155—56
ral, 149 Freyja, 114—15
Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, 139n1, 197—98, 216; Freyr, 114
on trolls, 96—97, 101, 118 friendship, 224—25, 235n99; of male cou-
Einarr skálaglamm (Egils saga), 71 ples, 209n8
Eiríkr Blood-axe/blóðøx, King (Egils saga), Frigg, 115
68, 69, 141, 163 Frye, Northrop, 140
Ellman, Maud, 70
elves, 25, 98, 208—9 garments: and femininity, 216—20
emotion, 182—83; and Egill Skalla-Gríms- Geirríðr (Eyrbyggja saga), 80
son, 170; and Skalla-Grímr Kveld-Úlfs- Geirríðr Þórólfsdóttir (Eyrbyggja saga), 80—
son, 161 89, 95—97, 104, 107—8; as a valkyrie, 88
empathy, 155—70, 167n7; Egill Skalla-Gríms- gender, 79—89, 207—37 ; and age, 84; and
son’s lack of, 170 cowardice, 112; and ergi, 112; and magic,
ergi, 32—33, 85—86, 89, 94—95, 109—19, 209; 85—86; in Njáls saga, 37
and cowardice, 111; and the effeminate, gender roles, 212, 213, 215, 219, 223, 227—28,
110—11; and gender roles, 112; and homo- 235
sexuality, 110; and lust, 110; and magic, generosity: lack of, 195, 203
111—12; and seiðr, 113; and Venus, 110 Gestr Oddleifsson (Laxdœla saga), 86, 173—
Eyrbyggja saga, 31, 47—52, 57, 73—77, 79—89, 89; characteristics of, 177
95—96, 101, 127, 128—29; old women in, ghosts, 47, 73—77, 125—33; as trolls, 100—
57; structure of, 48n6 101
giants, 25—26, 98, 129
fasting, 70—72; and control, 70; difference Gizurr the White (Njáls saga), 234
between modern and medieval forms, 70 Gizurr Þorvaldsson (Sturlunga saga), 221
fate, 188—89 Gísla saga Súrssonar, 16, 32, 86, 98—95, 100,
fetishism, 71—72 109, 177
fiction, 139—40; and saga narratives, 139 Gísli Súrsson (Gísli saga), 93; downfall of,
Flateyjarbók, 118 109
Flosi Þórðarson (Njáls saga), 16, 213—19, Glámr (Grettis saga), 125—33
225—26, 228, 233; and ergi, 111 Glæsir (Eyrbyggja saga), 57, 108, 134n13
Flóamanna saga, 61 gossip, 195—96
242
index
Graves, Robert, 115—16 Hálfs saga ok Hálfsrekka: and trolls, 102

Grettir Ásmundarson (Grettis saga), 16, 33, Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, 61, 177
105—6 , 125, 130, 131—32 Hávarðr the lame (Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings),
Grettis saga, 33, 58, 85, 103, 105—6, 111, 125— 61
33 grief: and food, 69 Heimdallr, 115
Grímr Heggsson (Egils saga): Egill Skalla- Helga Bárðardóttir (Bárðar saga): as a troll,
Grímsson’s assassination of, 156—57, 159 100
Guðbergur Bergsson, 38 Helga Kress, 79, 211
Guðbrandur Vigfússon, 94, 101 Helgakviða Hundingsbana I, 111n17
Guðmundr the Powerful (Njáls saga), 225 Helgi Njálsson (Njáls saga), 219, 230
Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir (Laxdœla saga), 13, 16, heroism, 198, 200; in Njáls saga, 231—32;
35—36, 57, 173—89, 216; characteristics of, and virtue, 202—3
20; and decorative objects, 186, 188; and history, 16—18; and laws of narrative, 18;
fate, 188—89; physical features of, 178; and saga narratives, 139; and saga source
wisdom of, 178 value, 17—18
Gunnar Karlsson, 94 Hjálmþérs saga ok Ǫlvis, 98
Gunnarr Lambason (Njáls saga), 222 homosexuality, 37, 224—28, 236; and cow-
Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi (Njáls saga), 191— ardice, 112
204, 207, 215, 221, 224—25, 226, 230—32, Hólmgǫngu-Bersi (Laxdæla saga and Ko-
236—37; as reluctant killer, 221; virtues of, rmáks saga), 67
202—3 Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða, 111
Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls, 103 Hrappr Ǫrgumleiðason (Njáls saga), 197—
Gunnhildr Ǫzurardóttir (queen mother) 202, 203
(Njáls saga), 228—30 Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar, 106
Gunnlaugr Þorbjarnarson (Eyrbyggja saga), Hrólfs saga kraka, 19, 54; and trolls, 101
80—89, 96 Hrómundr the lame (Hrómundr þáttr halta),
Gylfagining, 113 61
Gǫngu-Hrólfs saga, 103 Hrómundr þáttr halta, 61
Hrútr Herjólfsson (Laxdæla saga and Njáls
Hallbjǫrn the half-troll (Ketils saga hængs), saga), 61; and impotence, 228—30, 232
144—45 Hǫskuldr Þráinsson Hvítanesgoði (Njáls
Halldór Laxness, 38 saga), 192, 203, 225, 233, 235
Hallgerðr langbrók Hǫskuldsdóttir (Njáls
saga), 104, 195—96, 201, 207, 213—15, 219, Ibsen, Henrik, 142n8
224, 230 Icelandic Commonwealth, 210
Hallr Þjóðólfsson (Sturlunga saga), 55 ideology, 212
Haraldr hárfagri, King, 105, 157—58, 163 Iðunn, 115
Harðar saga, 58, 82, 101 impetuousness, 191—204
Harris, Joseph, 69 impotence, 228—30, 232; and old age, 67
hastiness, 194—95 incest, 114—15, 117; and Óðinn, 114—15;
Hauksbók, 64, 98, 110 among the Vanir, 114
Hákon Sigurðarson, Earl (Njáls saga), 196, Ingimundr the Old (Vatnsdœla saga), 56
199—200 Innocent III (pope), 53—54
243
Nine Saga Studies
Isaac, 64 Loki, 86, 113, 115—16; and sex-change, 111,

Íslendinga saga, 23, 110 115
love, 161, 181—82, 187, 210, 234—37
Jómsvíkinga saga, 102 lust, 194—95
Jón Árnason, 95, 126
Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, 52 macabre, 76n91
Jupiter, 64 magic, 79—89, 97—98, 103—4, 108—9, 118—
jǫtunn/jǫtnar, 97, 98, 147. See also þurs 19, 161; and ergi, 111—12; failure of, 89;
Jǫtunheimar, 97, 103 and gender, 85—86; and mothers, 87—88;
and Óðinn, 85—86, 112—16; and old wom-
Katla (Eyrbyggja saga), 80—89, 95—96, 104, en, 82, 87; and trolls, 141—42, 145, 151; and
107; as a vampire, 84, 88 trollskapr, 95
Kári Sǫlmundarson (Njáls saga), 200—1, male gaze, 184
222, 234 marriage, 173—89, 192—95, 230, 235, 237;
Ketils saga hængs, 144—45 between an older man and a younger
Keyworth, David, 126, 127 woman, 193
kings’ sagas, 18—22; and history, 21—22; and masculinity, 207—37; and beardlessness,
kingship ideology, 21–22 214; and crying, 221; and intelligence, 231;
Kjalnesinga saga, 100, 102 and penis size, 228—30; and society, 218
Kjartan Ólafsson (Laxdœla saga), 20, 35, Maurer, Konrad, 126
178—79, 182—86, 188, 189 May, Rollo, 60
knowledge, 79, 82, 88; and old women, 84 McClelland, Bruce, 131—32
Kolbjǫrn (Bárðar saga), 99 McKinnell, John, 87n16
Kormáks saga, 67 Melancholy, 71
Kristni saga, 110, 214 men: as decorative objects, 183—86
Kronos, 63—66, 72. See also chronos mercy, 199—200
Króka-Refs saga: and sex-change, 111 Miller, William Ian, 81
Kveld-Úlfr Bjálfason (Egils saga), 34—35, Minois, Georges, 52—53, 55n33
66, 144—47, 157—58; as a shape-shifter, moderation, 194—95; 203
145—46 monsters, 125—33
mora, 83, 128
Landnámabók, 177 Morkinskinna, 16, 19, 21—22: and þættir, 21
Lang, Andrew, 125—27, 133 Mundal, Else, 14
Laqueur, Thomas W., 215 Mǫrðr gígja (Njáls saga), 16, 228—29
Lassen, Annette, 19, 114n19 Mǫrðr Valgarðsson (Njáls saga), 197n6, 198,
Laxdœla saga, 19—20, 35—36, 63—64, 173— 200, 234
89, 216, 218, 222, 229; ambiguity of, 176;
and women, 184 nastiness: in old age, 47—77
Leach, Edmund, 63—64 Ney, Agneta, 19
legendary sagas, 19, 25—26; and trolls, 98— Nietzche, Friedrich, 132—33
106 níð, 151
Ljót (Vatnsdœla saga), 85, 103 Njáll Þorgeirsson (Njáls saga), 15, 16, 36—
Loftur Guðmundsson, 95 38, 56, 86, 191, 192—93, 195, 200, 207—37;
Lokasenna, 86, 111, 113, 115—17 and sexuality, 37—38; virtues of, 202—3
244
index
Njáls saga, 15, 16, 36—38, 56, 57—58, 104, queer, 209—10, 215, 223, 227, 235, 237;
105, 111, 117, 177, 191—204, 207—37; and meaning of, 209n6
authorship, 211n21; and sexuality, 37—38 queer theory, 37—38
Njǫrðr, 114, 115 Raudvere, Catherina, 79
realism, 139—40
occult, 26, 79—89, 143, 145—46, 149 riddles, 187
Oddr Kǫtluson (Eyrbyggja saga), 81—82 Roth, Philip, 84
Oedipus, 63—64, 73n87; and Egils saga, 72 Rǫndólfr (Gǫngu-Hrólfs saga), 103
old age, 47—77; and anger, 30; and impo-
tence, 67; and marginalization, 53; in Sagas of Icelanders: and authorship, 28—29;
medieval sources, 52—58, 62, 77; negative criticism of, 11—39; and kingship, 19—20;
portrayal of, 52; in Sagas of Icelanders, and old age, 47—77; and origins, 14—16;
23—24, 47—77; as second childhood, 60; and otherness, 22—27; as psychological
tragedy of, 76; and Þórólfr Lame-foot, dramas, 155—56; and realism, 139—40;
48—49, and trolls, 98, 105
old women: and knowledge, 84; and magic, Saturn, 30, 64—66; and Melancholy, 64—
82, 87; and young men, 84 65; as god or planet of the old, 64—65
otherness, 79—89, 145, 208—9, 218; and Schmitt, Jean Claude, 127
saga heroes, 141; and Sagas of Icelanders, Schulz, Katja, 98
22—27; of trolls, 100 seiðr, 85—86, 112—18; and ergi, 113
outlawry, 132, 198n10 senex amans, 54—55
Óðinn, 64, 85—86, 88—89, 97, 111, 112; an- sexuality, 207—37; categories of, 227; among
drogyny of, 114, 117; dual nature of, 117; the gods, 115; and humiliation, 228—29; in
and ergi, 112—17; and magic, 85—86, 112— Njáls saga, 37—38
16; and the mead of poetry, 69; and seiðr, Shahar, Shulamith, 52, 58
112—17; and shape-shifting, 116 Shakespeare, William, 53
Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar (Oddr Snorrason): shape-shifting, 83, 103, 116, 144—47; berserkr
trolls in, 102 as, 143; in Egils saga, 157; and witchcraft,
Óskar Gíslason, 95 116—17
Shelley, Mary, 107
paranormal, 16, 24, 26, 33, 34. See also su- Sigmundr Lambason (Njáls saga), 195,
pernatural 207—9, 216
penis: and masculinity, 228—30 Sigurður Nordal, 29
Perkowski, Jan L., 127, 128 Sigvaldi, Earl (Jómsvíkinga saga), 102
Poetic Edda, 97—98 Sigvatr Sturluson (Sturlunga saga), 61
poltergeist, 128 skaldic verse: and trolls, 98
potency: and masculinity, 232 Skalla-Grímr Kveld-Úlfsson (Egils saga), 34,
power, 210—11, 231, 237 66, 72, 105, 144, 147—50, 156—62, 163—
Pócs, Éva, 83 64, 170; as cold and menacing father, 160;
prophecy, 180—81 great size and strength of, 148
prudence, 199 Skarpheðinn Njálsson (Njáls saga), 16, 105,
psychology: and saga scholarship, 155—56, 111, 117, 191, 195, 201—2, 207—12, 215—22,
225n65 224—25, 230—33
245
Nine Saga Studies
Snorra-Edda (Snorri Sturluson), 25, 88, 97, unmanliness, 207—37. See also masculinity
98, 113—16 Unnr Marðardóttir (Njáls saga), 224, 226,
Snorri goði, 50—52, 74, 80—81, 225 228—30
Snorri Sturluson, 98, 114—15, 166 Unnr the Subtle (Laxdœla saga), 56—57
Snæfellsnes, 79 Uranus, 64
sodomy, 225–27
Solli, Britt, 114 valkyries, 83
Sonatorrek (Egill Skalla-Grímsson), 69, valor: of Njáll, 232
70—71 vampires, 26, 33, 76n91, 83—85 , 125—33,
Sóti the Viking (Harðar saga ok Hólmverja): 134n6
as a troll, 101 Vanir, 114—15
Stoker, Bram, 125—26 Vatnsdœla saga, 19, 56, 85, 103
Strömbäck, Dag, 116 Venus, 114; and ergi, 110, 115
Sturla Þórðarson (the younger), 110 Vésteinn Ólason, 28
Sturla Þórðarson (the elder), 117 vikings: and Iceland, 160n4
Sturlunga saga, 53, 55, 61, 99, 221 villainy, 198; in Njáls saga, 197n8
Summers, Montague, 127 vomiting, 69—70
supernatural, 24—25, 93—119, 125—33, 139— Vǫluspá, 88, 97—98, 101
52. See also paranormal
Sverrir, King, 179—80 Warner, Marina, 63
Sverris saga, 20—21 weapons: as symbols of masculinity, 219—
Sørensen, Preben Meulengracht, 110, 139n2, 20
225 werewolves, 128—30, 146, 147—50
Sǫrla saga sterka, 103—4, 150—51 Wilbur, T. H., 108—9
witchcraft, 31—32; 79—89, 93—119; and
Tolkien, J. R. R., 25 motherhood, 87; and queerness, 113; and
Tolstoy, Leo, 47 shape-shifting, 116—17
Torfi H. Tulinius, 33, 66n69, 72 witches, 26, 31, 128, 129
trollkona, 97 women: and food, 70; in old age, 56—58;
trolls, 26, 32, 82, 93—119, 128—31, 133, 139— roles in sagas, 184; old vikings as, 72
52; and ambiguity, 25—26; animals as, 101;
as antagonists of Christianity, 102; behav- Ynglinga saga, 64, 85—86, 112—17, 187
iour of, 101—3; and cannibalism, 150—51; Zeikowitz, Richard E., 227
connotations of, 142; features of, 98—104, Zeus, 63—64, 66
109, 118; and females, 97; and inclusive-
ness, 103, 106—7; negative meaning of, Æsir; 86, 88, 111, 113—16
104—7; ugliness of, 100; and otherness,
100, 105—6 Þiðreks saga af Bern, 214
trollskapr, 32, 86, 93—96, 103, 109, 118; and Þorbjǫrn digri at Fróða (Eyrbyggja saga), 81
alterity, 106 Þorfinnur Skúlason, 108—9
Þorgerðr brák (Egils saga), 159—61, 168
uncanny, 87—89; and death, 87—88; and gi- Þorgerðr Hǫrgabrúðr (Jómsvíkinga saga): as
ants, 88; and the past, 87 a troll, 102
246
index
Þorgils saga ok Hafliða, 56 Þórólfr Lame-foot/bægifótr (Eyrbyggja

Þorgils Þórðarson (Flóamanna saga), 61 saga), 24, 55, 57, 58, 60, 67n71, 69, 80, 108,
Þorgrímr nef/Þorgrímr the Nose (Gísla 127, 128—29, 132, 193n4; characteristics of,
saga), 32, 86, 93—95, 103, 109, 111, 112, 49—51; as a ghost, 47, 57, 73—77; ingrati-
118—19 tude of, 51—52
Þorlákr, Saint, 227 Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson (Egils saga), 34, 158,
Þorsteinn Egilsson (Egils saga), 67, 72 161, 162—70; characteristics of, 167, 170;
Þorsteinn Staff-struck (Þorsteins þáttr empathy of, 165—69
stangarhǫggs), 58—59, 62—63, 65—66 Þórólfr twistfoot. See Þórólfr Lame-foot
Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, 58—60, 62—63, Þórr, 97; and ergi, 111
65—66, 72 Þráinn Sigfússon (Njáls saga), 23, 36—37,
Þórarinn svarti Þórólfsson (Eyrbyggja saga), 191—204; ambition of, 197n6; as a chief-
81—82 tain, 201; merits of, 192; and modera-
Þórarinn the Viking (Þorsteins þáttr tion, 194—95; and vanity, 197; and virtue,
stangarhǫggs), 58—63, 65—66, 68—69, 72, 202—3
76 Þuríðr at Fróða (Eyrbyggja saga), 85
Þórðr Granason (Egils saga): Skalla-Grímr’s þurs, 147—48. See also jǫtunn
assassination of, 159—61 Þrymskviða, 111
Þórðr Þorvaldsson (Þorgils saga ok Hafliða), þættir, 192n3; and kings’ sagas, 21
56
Þórhallr Ásgrímsson (Njáls saga), 216—18, Ǫgmundr Eyþjófsbani (Ǫrvar-Odds saga),
221, 223, 224 100—101
Þórir jarnskjǫldr (Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar), Ǫrvar-Odds saga, 87n15, 100—101
106
Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson (Egils saga), 34, 161,
165, 170
247

Nine Saga Studies The Critical Interpret

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The Critical Interpretation

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This is a collection of papers originally published in various journals in the United

Scholarship in the age of capital

The problem of saga origins

The structures of history

Unfinished business with kings

Laxdœla saga articles (“Konungasagan Laxdœla” in Skírnir 1998) touched on some

to as marginal or disadvantaged: children, youths and the elderly. This proved to be

Saga witches, saga trolls

“Konungur og bóndi: Þrjár mannlýsingar í Heimskringlu,” Lesbók Morgunblaðsins 22 Feb.

An Objectionable Old Man

Medieval Images of Old Age

The Old Man as an Old Wife

father-and-son relationship is borrowed from the Kronos myth. In this instance

Food and the Poet

and it is certainly possible to interpret it in Freudian terms as concealing an aggres-

The Old Man as a Ghost

is simply referred to as “námgjarn”, eager to learn, a very attractive attribute in the

En sakar þess trollskapar, er Þorgrímr nef hafði haft í seiðinum, ok atkvæða, þá

3. The word troll is frequently used descriptively or metaphorically, to indicate great

7. Heathen demigods, such as Þorgerðr Hörgabrúðr (or Hörgatröll), may be called

3. Ergi sometimes means something effeminate, something that men cannot do

I have argued here that in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Icelandic sources,

Hauksbók 1892–1896. Ed. Finnur Jónsson and Eiríkur Jónsson.

Two Vampires from 1897

The Icelandic Draugr: Ghost or Vampire?

Glámr the Vampire Slayer

Side Effects of Monster Fighting

[15] This has been noted by Orchard (1995, 168).

Kristján Jóhann Jónsson. “Skammdegis nótt er skuggalöng.” Mannamál: Greinar, frásagnir

Creature of the Night

The Truth is Out There

The Family at Borg

animalistic and possibly supernatural rage is replaced by a different, more down to

Egill, however, cannot be reduced to a stereotype. An ugly duckling he may be,

Unmasking the Egoist

Bergljót S. Kristjánsdóttir. “Primum caput: Um höfið Egils Skalla-Grímssonar, John frá

The Four Dreams

[‘I seemed to be standing outdoors, by a stream, wearing a tall head-dress that I

It seems so neat and, perhaps, somewhat obvious—too obvious, even—almost as if

The Cunning Woman

and wisdom. Even at fourteen, Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir is very comfortable in making

8 Jane Smiley, ‘Distant Voices’, The Guardian, 8 April 2006.

20 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ‘Formáli’, Íslensk fornrit V, pp. ix–x.

29 As does Bouman, Patterns, p. 144.

30 Cf. Bouman, Patterns, pp. 146–47.

The Hasty Divorce

In the Hero’s Shadow

Things Fall Apart

Chieftain without Substance

“See the red elf”

Skarpheðinn’s ambiguous reaction, declaring that restraint is a fundamental manly

Fifty Ways to Lose Your Manhood

32 As Einar Ólafur Sveinsson has remarked; “Brennu-Njáls saga” 57 n. 2.

Crying is not considered masculine in the sagas. There is a startling image in

Sex Lives of the Rich and Famous

57 Cf. Laqueur, Making Sex (n. 2 above) esp. 114–148.

62 Sørensen, Norrønt nid (n. 7 above) 24.