Much of the Old Scandinavian literature reflects a hard-headed materialistic individualism - a self interest that is shrewd, down-to-earth, and pragmatic. The gods are often depicted as master of expediential trickery. The law is stated so that its enforcement rests on man's inclination to guard his own interests. Many of the skalds are naively and consistently interested in themselves and in the furtherance of their careers. Moreover, some of the major characters of the sagas, like Snorri goði and Víga-Glúmr, are notorious for their cold-blooded, calculating self-interest. This seeming amoralism, which accepts almost any act as proper so long as it materially benefits the actor, is most clearly and consistently expressed in the Hávamál (Sayings of the High One), a conglomeration of didactic proverbs, mythological incidents, and magical pronouncements ascribed by the thirteenth century compilers of The Elder Edda to Óðin, the god of warriors. Although a collection like this cannot be precisely dated, we know from other sources that some of the stanzas existed in the tenth century (Hollander 1962:14).
The first cluster of seventy-nine stanzas in the collection differs from the succeeding and probably older sections in a number of significant respects. It contains no references to magic or mythology and almost no moralistic sanctions such as "Beware of evil and avoid faithless dealings." Instead, we encounter a consistent and uncompromising emphasis on practical and worldly wisdom—a calculating and realistic philosophy that does not seem to be quite in harmony with the magical world view, or the heroic ethic, or the perspective of the sophisticated and learned saga writers.
The remaining half of the collection (stanzas 80 to 165) consists of a variety of poems or fragments, most of which are magical in meaning. There are first a score of stanzas dealing with masculine sexual adventures, in which Óðain points out how gullible and how exasperating women can be. There follow some simple-minded stanzas on wise living. Next comes the great rune poem of Óðin hanging on the tree (ch. 4, p. 48) and this is followed by a list of the eighteen magical charmns which the chanter purports to know, e.g., how to cure sickness, dull swords, break fetters, put out fires, settle strife, calm winds, and so forth.
The prime virtue acknowledged by the initial seventy-nine verses is manvit, that is, intelligence as manifested in common sense, shrewdness, and the accumulation of useful information—"having one's wits about one."
When a man who is clever but reticent comes to a
house, his prudence often shields him from misfortune,
for never will a man get a more trustworthy friend than
a good store of common sense (vs. 6, Clarke 1923).
Of his wit hath need who widely fareth—
a dull wit will do at home;
a laughingstock he who lacketh words
among smart wits when he sits (vs. 5, Hollander 1962).
Better burden bearest thou nowise
than shrewd head on thy shoulders;
in good stead will it stand among stranger folk,
and shield when unsheltered thou art [l] (vs. 10, Hollander 1962).
I suggest that we have here not the absence of morality, but the clear and unsentimental expression of an instrumental morality. The reciters of the Hávamál have no interest in abstract or categorical good. For them, to be good, a thing must be good for something. Thus, a man is advised to avoid excess in eating, drinking, speech, sex, and sometimes even in fighting, not because overindulgence is considered evil, offensive to the gods, or contrary to tradition or custom, but because it may lead him into situations harmful to his self-interest. Trouble or sorrow are seen as the logical outcome of foolish conduct. An act is "good" insofar as it brings success to the actor.
The Hávamál even furnishes us with linguistic evidence of its instrumental orientation. In this first section, the adjectives "good" (góðr) and "evil" (illr) are used only in what Clarke (1923:22-23) calls an ironical sense or what I would prefer to call an instrumental sense. That is, good and evil refer to the profit or benefit that one may get out of associations with certain persons. A good man is one from whom one can get something useful. Thus:
"Know—if you have a friend in whom you have sure confidence and wish to make use of him, [2] you ought to exchange ideas with him and go to see him often" (vs. 44, Clarke 1923).
The expedient use of "good" is intensified in the complimentary
strophe:
"If you have another in whom you have no confidence and yet will make use of him, you ought to address him with fair words but crafty heart and repay treachery with lies" (vs. 45, Clarke 1923).
This forthright espousal of the instrumental good sometimes produces an effect of cynicism. When the later, more magically oriented sections of the Hávamál speak of gift-exchange, they present it as a categorical virtue, an ancient and hallowed practice. The first part of the Hávamál, however, makes gift-exchange sound like a covert encouragement to bribery:
"I have never found a man so generous and hospitable that he would not receive a present, nor one so liberal with his money that he would dislike a reward if he could get one" (vs. 39, Clarke 1923).
The positive emphasis that many of these strophes place on the ruthless exploitation of one's fellow man is nicely balanced by exhortations to take care lest one be taken advantage of. Perhaps no didactic work in any literature puts so strong an emphasis on constant vigilance. The world is seen as a hostile territory through which the "man with wits " picks his lonely, self-reliant way:
Have thy eyes about thee when thou enterest
be wary alway,
be watchful alway;
for one never knoweth when need will be
to meet hidden foe in the hall (vs. 1, Hollander 1962).
The wary guest to wassail who comes
listens that he may learn,
opens his ears, casts his eyes about;
thus wards him the wise man 'gainst harm (vs. 7, Hollander 196 2).
From his weapons away no one should ever
stir one step on the field;
for no one knows when need might have
on a sudden a man of his sword (vs. 38, Hollander 1962).
Even wealth is regarded as treacherous:
in a twinkling fleeth trothless wealth,
it is the ficklest of friends (vs. 78, Hollander 1962).
The one (other than himself) on whom a man may rely is his kinsman and especially his friend. But even this relationship, as exemplified in the strophes quoted above, is tinged with self-interest.
Being uninterested in abstract good, this first section of the Hávamál is also uninterested in abstract evil. Thus, the despised anti-ideal is not the evil-doer or the lawbreaker, but the naive and guileless man, who, because he is ósnotr (uninformed) or hann ekki kann (he knows nothing) is not able to take care of himself.
"He is a foolish man who thinks all who smile at him are his friends. If sensible people show their dislike for him when he is in their company, he will not realize it" (vs. 24, Clarke 1923).
"He is a foolish man who thinks all who smile at him are his friends. He will discover when he comes into court [of law] that he has but few supporters" (vs. 25, Clarke 1923).
But much as the sharp-witted reciters of the Hávamál may have scorned the honest and trusting bumpkin, they offered him one excellent bit of advice:
A witless man, when he meets with man,
Had best in silence abide;
For no one shall find that nothing he knows,
If his mouth is not open too much (vs. 27, Bellows 1957).
Most of the verses of the Hávamál are compatible either with the point of view of a canny, action-loving Viking or an equally canny but prudent farmer. Repeatedly, we are told that only the clever and opportunistic man can survive away from home. But on the other hand we are also told that "one's home is best," and that there is no shame in independent and self-respecting poverty.
Washed and fed let the farmer ride to moot,
though worse for wear his garments
for old breeks and boots let no man blush,
nor yet though his steed be a screw (vs. 61, Phillpotts 1931).
One's home is best though a hut it be:
there a man is master and lord;
though but two goats thine and a thatchèd roof
'tis far better than beg (vs. 36, Hollander 1962).
One's home is best though a hut it be:
there a man is master and lord;
his heart doth bleed who has to beg
the meat for his every meal (vs. 37, Hollander 1962).
That these verses represent a single point of view rather than an unblended juxtaposition of fighters' and farmers' sentiments is suggested by the absence of invidious comparisons between fighting and farming. [3] Both are proper activities for men and both are to be pursued in a practical and prudent manner. Indeed, several verses present us with a remarkable amalgamation of ferocity and sober industry, applying the farmer's virtues of industry and early rising both to managing a farm and to predatory activities:
Betimes must rise who few reapers has,
and see to the work himself;
much will miss in the morn who sleeps:
for the brisk the race is half run (vs. 59, Hollander 1962).
Betimes must rise who would take another's
life and win his wealth;
lying down wolf never got the lamb,
nor sleeping wight slew his foe (vs. 58, Hollander 1962).
This combination of alert self-interest (whether in wandering abroad or staying at home), of keeping one's weapons always within reach, of shrewdness, and self-respect, seems entirely compatible with the kind of life ascribed by the saga writers to the early settlers of Iceland. Indeed, no verse of the Hávamál would seem out of place in the mouth of Skalla-Grímr, who could fight in battle as well as he could run a farm or beat out a sword, though Grímr's famous son, Egil, would probably have favored the wandering and adventurous verses over the more modest and homely. Indeed, the proverbs of the Hávamál are so exactly the expressions one would expect from the people portrayed in Eyrbyggja, Víga-Glúms, or Egils saga that I find rather pointless the academic debate over whether they represent the view of Norwegian or Icelandic farmers or the view of Viking adherents to the cult of Óðin. Rather, I would suggest that first and foremost they give us a remarkably clear inside view of the unadorned attitudes of the ordinary man, the Norwegian or Icelander who might worry about a boundary dispute one day, look for some lost cattle the next, pull a sharp deal whenever he could, and spend an occasional summer abroad, harrying the Wends or helping the King of England cope with the Scots. This is not to say, of course, that a Viking, newly returned with fame, loot, a blue cloak, and a sword wound with silver, might not use some of these strophes to twit the fellows who had stayed at home. But the latter, for their part, could tell the loud-mouthed braggart:
The man who is prudent a measured use
of the might he has will make;
He finds when among the brave he fares
that the boldest he may not be (vs. 64, Bellows 1957).
Other interesting problems are raised if we compare the underlying moral precepts of the Hávamál with those of the heroic ethic or the more courtly Skaldic verse. While the heroic literature and the proverbs agree that a man should be loyal to his friends and ruthless to his enemies and that he should defend his rights and abide by the principles of proper restitution, they differ on many other important points. For example, the skalds praise the nobly born man for being generous and lavish to a degree. The Hávamál points out that a friend may be won with little:
Not great things needs give to a man:
bringeth thanks oft a little thing;
with half a loaf and a half-drained cup
I won me oft worthy friend (vs. 52, Hollander 1962).
The heroic poets and the skalds picture the ideal hero as impetuously reckless. The Hávamál points out that the "wise man" is cautious and foresighted; he never leaves his house unarmed, he assesses a situation before he jumps into it, and he "makes a measured use of his might." In the lays and sagas aristocratic persons are almost always pictured as extremely passionate individuals who love, hate, and fight with all their being. The Hávamál advises continence and moderation, and points out that "wise men" do not drink, eat, or talk too much, or run off with other men's wives. To the ideal aristocratic hero all compromise is repugnant: he must have his own way or he will have nothing at all. The Hávamál points out that only the living man gets loot and that a corpse is of no good to anyone. And yet, there is no verse in the heroic or aristocratic literature that gives so clear an expression of indomitable human spirit:
May the halt ride a horse, and the handless be herdsman,
the deaf man may doughtily fight,
a blind man is better than a burned one, ay:
of what gain is a good man dead? (vs. 71, Hollander 1962).
It is likely that we have in the heroic lays the purest expression of an aristocratic tradition involving honor, heroism, steadfastness, and manly excellence, and in the Hávamál the expression of a folk tradition emphasizing the homely, ordinary, and eminently practical virtues. To judge by the behavior ascribed to persons in the historical sagas, these traditions seem to have influenced each other a good deal, and in Iceland, where the major social distinctions involved coming from a prosperous "old family" as against being poor, they seem to have influenced each other a very great deal. Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that the writers and compilers of the family sagas, with their intense and self-conscious interest in the ancient literature, admired both traditions and combined them very skillfully. Thus, in the sagas, a young aristocrat caught in a tight pinch, may quote the Hávamál, while a poor farmer's son, bent on gaining renown, may do his best to behave like a hero of a heroic lay.
The disenchantment reflected in the heroic literature (described in chapter 9) has a pronounced aristocratic tone. It may be, as Turville-Petre (1964:263-268) has suggested, that in the ironical cynicism and unabashed self-interest of the first part of the Hávamál we have the reflection of another kind of disenchantment—that of the common man who had travelled so far and seen so much that he had come to rely more on his personal wit and skill rather than on the Power Beings of his native community or the priestly Power of his goði (Bloch 1964:31-32). Be this as it may, the fomaldar sögur (sagas of ancient time) and the historic sagas contain many tales about "godless men" or Vikings who trusted neither in the White Christ nor in the Red Thór, but in their own might and main. Perhaps the classic statement is that of the quasi-fictional Finnbogi the Strong who, on being asked about his beliefs by the Emperor of Byzantium, is supposed to have said, "I believe in myself" (ek trúi a sjálfan mik).
I think that the most sensible thing one can say about these Viking sceptics is that there is no doubt that they existed, but that they were considered exceptional or somewhat peculiar by their contemporaries. The following stories give us a good picture of what they were like. The first two come from Saint Olaf's saga in Heimskringla (Hollander 1964:490-491, 493-494, 504), and relate to the King's preparations for his last battle.
"There were two men, one called Gauka-Thórir, the other, Afra-Fasti. They were highwaymen and evil robbers. They had with them thirty men of the same kind as themselves They said to each other that it might be a good plan to join the king and ... go to battle with him because they had never before been in a battle in which troops were drawn up against each other in battle-array, and they were very curious to see how the king arrayed his troops. This plan was much to the liking of their comrades, and they made their way to where the king was... The king said... 'I am inclined ... to accept the service of men like these. But are you Christians?'
"Gauka-Thórir answered, saying that he was neither Christian nor heathen. 'Nor have we fellows any other belief than trust in our own power and success, and that proves to be enough for us.' "The king replied, 'A great pity that men of such prowess do not believe in Christ, their maker.'
"Thórir answered, 'Is there, sir king, in your company any Christian, who has grown to greater height than my brother and I?' [When the brothers refuse baptism, the king rejects their services.] Then Gauka-Thórir said, 'It is a great shame that this king rejects our services. That has never happened to me that I was not accepted as an equal with other men. I shall not go back with that shame on me.' Thereupon they joined company with other men from the forests and followed the troops. [Just prior to the battle the king requests all the heathen to be baptized or to leave.] Then Afra-Fasti said [to his brother], 'If you want my opinion, I don't care to turn back. I take part in the battle and stand on either side, and I don't care on whose.' Gauka-Thórir answered, 'If I go to battle I want to stand on the king's side, for he needs help most. And if I am to believe in some god, what difference is it to me whether I believe in the White Christ or some other god? So now it is my advice that we let ourselves be baptized if the king thinks that it is of such great importance.' [The brothers and their followers are baptized, fight under the king's banner, and die in the battle.]"
Another heathen champion, Arnljótr Gellini, also offers his services to the king. Arnljótr, however, is a man of good family, clad in chain mail and carrying a spear inlaid with gold. When the king asked him whether or not he was a Christian, Arnljótr:
"said concerning his faith that he believed in his own power and strength. 'That belief has so far sufficed me; but now I mean rather to believe in you, sire.'
"The king replied, 'If you will believe in me, then you must believe what I shall teach you. This you are to believe, that Jesus Christ created heaven and earth and all human beings; and that after death all shall go to him who are good and have the right faith.'
"Arnljótr replied, 'I have heard the White Christ spoken of, but I do not know what is his function and where his dominion lies. Now I shall be willing to believe all you tell me. I shall entrust myself to you altogether.' (Arnljótr also dies for the king.] "
Another story (Turville-Petre 1964:266) is told of the Christian King, Ólafr Tryggvason (995-1,000):
"Bárð was the name of a powerful chieftain in Upplönd; he would not submit to the King, nor embrace the religion which he taught. The emissaries whom the King had sent to him failed to return. There was no temple on Bárð's estate, and the King had no reason to believe that he was devout in his worship of the gods. Wishing to make a final attempt to convert Bárð,Olaf sent the Icelander, Thorvald Tasaldi to him. Declaring his religious beliefs, Bárð said: 'I believe neither in idols nor demons; I have travelled from land to land, and I have come across giants as well as black men, but they have not got the better of me. Therefore, I have believed in my might and strength.' "
It is interesting that the Vikings were not the only wandering warriors who sometime came to look at the beliefs of their home community with a sceptical eye. The following story is told of a young Kiowa brave of the 19th century (Nye 1962:83-90):
A young warrior, Big Bow by name, scoffed at the power of the medicine men. He boasted that "he did not require the aid of a bird to give him success in battle. He said that it was cowardly and the work of a weakling to solicit the aid of a medicine man; he himself won his fights through his own courage and strength. Naturally this sort of talk was resented by the other ~Kowas. Repeated publicly at the victory (scalp) dance, it brought so much criticism that thereafter Big Bow went on raids by himself, or accompanied by only one or two others. (From Bad Medicine and Good: Tales of the Kiowas, by Wilbur Sturtevant Nye. Copyright 1962 by the University of Oklahoma Press.)
On one occasion Big Bow was absent from his tribe for three years and, on returning, claimed that he had accomplished a remarkable exploit, killing three enemies. The war chiefs did not believe his story, until one took the trouble to make a long journey to verify it.
"When the announcement was made that Big Bow's story was true, the whoops of the women doing him honor could be heard all through the village. All criticism was now stifled, and the reputation of Big Bow continued to grow. Despite this, the Kiowas were never entirely happy over the fact that he was able to win his victories without the aid of medicine." (From Bad Medicine and Good: Tales of the Kiowas, by Wilbur Sturtevant Nye. Copyright 1962 by the University of Oklahoma Press.)
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Last Modified 28 April 2000
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