{"title":"阿斯克和恩布拉的赋予及其在埃吉尔诗歌中的反响Skallagrímsson","authors":"William Sayers","doi":"10.5406/21638195.95.3.03","DOIUrl":null,"url":null,"abstract":"Among the accounts of cosmic beginnings in the eddic poem Vǫluspá and in Snorri Sturluson's Gylfaginning is the quickening to life of the first humans, named Askr and Embla, generally understood as “ash tree” and “elm” (or “vine”), from logs encountered by the gods along the seashore. The poetic and prose recensions are in broad agreement as to events and to the endowment of what may be understood as quintessentially human properties. The myth is contained in two stanzas in Vǫluspá (at least one introductory or transitional stanza may be missing):Unz þrír kvómu ór því liðiǫflgir ok ástkir æsir at húsi,fundu á landi lítt megandi,Ask ok Emblu ørlǫglausa.Ǫnd þau né áttu, óð þau né hǫfðu,lá né læti né litu góða;ǫnd gaf Óðinn, óð gaf Hœnir,lá gaf Lóðurr oc litu góða.1Carolyne Larrington translates:Until three gods, strong and loving,came out of that company;they found on land, capable of little,Ash and Embla, lacking in fate.Breath they had not, spirit they had not,blood nor bearing nor fresh complexions;breath gave Odin, spirit gave Hœnir,blood gave Lodur, and fresh complexions.(Poetic Edda 2014, 6)Snorri's version of the beginning of human life under divine aegis employs parallelism to a lesser extent, although the vital properties are mostly more neatly captured in individual monosyllables rather than in phrases.From his own edition, Anthony Faulkes translates: Then spoke Gangleri: “A great deal it seems to me they had achieved when earth and heaven were made and sun and stars were put in position and days were separated—and where did the people come from who inhabit the world?”Then High replied: “As Bor's sons walked along the sea shore, they came across two logs and created people out of them. The first gave breath and life, the second consciousness and movement, the third a face, speech and hearing and sight; they gave them clothes and names. The man was called Ask, the woman Embla, and from them were produced the mankind to whom the dwelling place under Midgard was given.” (Snorri Sturluson 1987, 13)The most recent examination of the story of Askr and Embla is by Anatoly Liberman in the context of a lengthy study of the name of Óðinn, the methodology of which is based in etymology (Liberman 2016, 48–9). He recalls generally accepted identifications of the key vocabulary of the Vǫluspá version but shows less concern for what superficially appears a transparent myth. In his summary of prior scholarship, “litt megandi” is rendered as “of little power” and “ørlǫglausa” as “unfated” (however this is to be understood). Of the bequeathed properties, ǫnd is “breath” or “life,” litr is “color,” and óðr is “voice.” It is immediately apparent how divergent this set is from Larrington's translations (breath, spirit, bearing, and fresh complexions). Liberman questions the relevance of mainstream interpretations of the event of becoming human. His own equivalences are considerably bolder and, he would surely judge, more essentialist. He accepts “breath” for ǫnd but offers “genitals” as the signification of litr, as if the capacity to continue the species were its defining property (but is surely possessed by all animate matter). Liberman finds the gloss “voice” for óðr to be “strained” and prefers “poetry.” He then turns to the lesser-known gods Hœnir and Lóðurr, who might be thought to embody the properties with which they endow the wave- and rock-smoothed logs. Liberman, like North (1991, 44) calls attention to the fact that óðr is everywhere associated with Óðinn—but not here. Other pointed scholarly remarks cited by Liberman are the interpretation of “ørlǫglausa” as “childless” and referring only to Embla (supporting Josefsson 2001) and the understanding of óðr as “mobility,” concurring with Holtsmark (1950) and Josefsson (2001). As distinct from the objectives of the present study, myth as distinct from the etymology of key terms is not Liberman's main concern.Several important studies of the myth go unmentioned by Liberman and are now passed in review with an eye to defining more closely the properties with which the three gods endow Askr and Embla. Samplonius (2016) proposes the least conventional interpretation: Askr and Embla reflect Adam and Eve, and, as logs, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Medieval theories of the influence of the planets are also in play, with Hœnir and Lóðurr representing the Morning Star and Saturn, respectively, and thereby good and evil. The gods’ gifts are then to be resumed as the power of discernment of right and wrong. Previously without fates, mankind is now responsible for its deeds. Clunies Ross (2022) sees a traditional mythologem that involves “the epiphany of an anthropomorphic deity on the beach” (182). The humanizing endowments are not central to this discussion and are subsumed under the heading of “creative act.” Clunies Ross (1994) also mentions the oft-noted commonalities with the creative account in Rígsþula, in which Heimdallr assumes full responsibility for the establishment of social classes—something very different from the defining characteristics of human life. On the basis of comparative evidence, chiefly Iranian, Hultgård (2014) argues that Askr and Embla were already living trees when encountered by the gods, that is, animate but not sentient in a conventional sense. Josefsson (2001) sees a fire-stick spun in a wooden socket as the image of active human sexuality and the basis for the myth, yet the evidence points to propagation only as a result of the other basic human features. Quinn (2006, 55) summarizes the endowments as “aspects of the powers of life” before turning to the determining of individual lives and fates by the Norns after birth.Henning Kure (2002) addresses the complex of problems associated with Askr and Embla from one of Egill Skallagrímsson's lausavísur, where he boasts of encounters in which he defeated large numbers of armed opponents—eight, eleven at a time. We return to this poetry below. In a closely reasoned argument that synthesizes earlier research, Kure sets out three stages in Old Norse anthropogony: first, the fabrication of wooden figures by the dwarves (“mannlíkun,” Vǫluspá, Eddukvæði2014, 294, st. 10), what we might call blanks, in ash and elm; second, the animation of these mannequins by Óðinn, Hœnir, and Lóðurr; third, the assignment of individual destinies—length of life and manner of death as occurs in all human life—by the nornir (sts. 19–20). Humankind is born to mortality. The refinement over three phases is from inanimate but organic matter, through essential and common human properties, to individual fates. Although the mention comes later in the poem than the fabrication by the dwarves, three females from among the jǫtnar seem involved here (st. 8). As intermediaries, perhaps providing the craftsmen with the raw material, they may also account for the marine passage of the wooden figures from the dwarves to the attention of the gods, as Suttungr does in the myth of the creation and eventual theft of the mead of poetry, in which the dwarves play a comparable role. In this cosmic economy, the dwarves are responsible for manufacture, the giants for supply and/or transportation, the gods for the local uploading of “software,” and the Norns for distribution.An important question to be addressed is whether the formal organization of the humanizing properties, for example, in Snorri two qualities from the first god, two from the second, and—as a merism—four from the third, is reflected in a coherent set of traditionally recognized human qualities, even in their hierarchized sequence, which has a more evident reflection in the sequence of divine interveners. To be sought here is what was once somewhat disparagingly called a folk taxonomy. To expand the field of vision, it is worth mentioning how a contemporary scholar, Neil Price, whose recent book (2020) incorporates a reference to Askr and Embla in its title, imagines the Norse mentalité as shaped by belief in four conceptual entities: hamr, “shape”; hugr, “personality, temperament, character, mind”; hamingja, the personification of individual luck; and fylgja, the fetch or follower who oversees family and individual fortunes.2 The human properties that will concurrently be in play are implicit in only the first two of these, and destiny, which might be glimpsed behind the mythic account's ørlǫglaus, appears as an outcome determined in large part by forces exterior to the individual, as overseen by the nornir. We note that in both the endowments of the original humans and in the life careers of their descendants, there is no mention of cultural capital. This is all nature, with no consideration of nurture, which, from a Norse-centric perspective, was doubtless seen as homogenous and normative.The discussion turns now to the set—if set it be—of endowments awarded the wooden blanks that will become Askr and Embla. Each faculty must be examined in terms of the designation, its etymology, and other usage; compatibility within the set or subset; and general congruence with what we know of the Old Norse worldview. Summaries from the best-known English translations of the Poetic Edda and Snorri's Edda will give a further sense of the generally understood nature of the qualities with which the first humans were endowed, but these literary translations do not, of course, offer much in the way of commentary on individual terms, sequence, or consideration of the interlocking nature of human properties. Snorri will be considered first, not by virtue of the text's age, but because we may expect a rational and reflective approach on his part, not necessarily historical accuracy in individual cases of pre-Christian terminology, and a concern for non-duplication and overall coherence. There is general agreement that ǫnd is “breath” and lif is “life” (Faulkes in Snorri Sturluson 1987; < Proto-Gmc *anadan-, “breath, spirit,” and < Proto-Gmc, *lība-, “life; body”; Kroonen 2010, s.vv.).3 Respiration, by virtue of its position in the sequence, would seem to be singled out as the prime marker of animate matter, while líf, “life,” is its fuller consequence. But there is no assurance that the hierarchy that seems apparent in the list as a whole is observed in the subsets, the gifts of individual gods. “Consciousness’ (Faulkes) for vit (nominal derivative of Proto-Gmc *witan- “to know,” Kroonen 2010, s.v.), now a term of modern neuroscience, seems anachronistic in the historical circumstances. Here, it seems that it is not so much awareness of a personal existence in reality that is meant as intellect and its practical and commonsensical applications (“intelligence” is suggestive of IQs and perhaps inactive, unapplied mental ability). Faulkes glosses hrœring with “movement,” but the articulated skeleton seems to come later. “Purposefulness” captures the meaning in this specific context, that is, a mental attitude, not physical movement. This notion recurs below in connection with the Vǫluspá text, in which the adjective ørlǫglaus, generally rendered as “without destinies,” is met. This is not so much a teleological objective, the reason why humans might be created, as the capacity to envisage and achieve goals, with overtones of will. The third subset of qualities is ásjóna, “face”; málit, “speech”; and heyrn, “hearing”; in the view of Faulkes (etymologies are undebated). These are less problematic than the foregoing, as the sequence moves from essentials, to the inner life, and then to life in the world and sensory perception of it. “Form” is to be preferred to “face” for ásjóna, since it is more comprehensive and less suggestive of social status or, more narrowly, facial features. Interestingly, speech, the capacity to communicate with other humans, is listed before hearing and sight, which may be thought to also serve as proxies for other sensory faculties such as smell, touch, and so on. My understanding of the essential human properties conferred by the gods on Askr and Embla is then: life, intellect, purposefulness, form, speech, hearing, and sight. As has often been observed, we know too little of Óðinn's two companions and their divine competencies to link them in a knowing way to the attributes they confer. It has been suggested that Loðurr may be Loki, and this is not unreasonable, but there is no hint of such negative emotions as resentment or hatred, or character traits such as guile and cunning, or other no less human capacities. Snorri's treatment of the myth is relatively cool and clinical, as befits his encyclopedic interests, with each property covered by a single term and no poetic flourishes. No effort to hint at the Adam and Eve story of Christianity is apparent.The briefer account in Vǫluspá is in general agreement with Snorri's list. First to be addressed is the absence of certain properties in the figures. They are called “lítt megandi,” “capable of little” (Poetic Edda 2014, 6); “lacking vigor” (Elder Edda 2011, 7); “hardly capable” (Kure 2006, 70); “(of) little power” (Hultgård 2014, 58). The understatement is typical Norse rhetoric, since they are entirely without life. “Of little strength” is proposed here and is to be understood as including the inner life of mind and emotion. “Without destinies” as the interpretation of the accompanying epithet “ørlǫglausa” is literal enough, but the hypothetical paradigm that would defer the gifting of individual fates to a later moment under the ægis of the Norns suggests that at this point, it is not the totality of a life and its outcomes that is indicated but rather the situation of the carved logs in their immediate context. “Without purpose” captures the lack of significance of the logs, their irrelevance, with no hint of what may become of them once vivified and humanized. The text continues with a simple rhetorical device: the effigies lack a property, a god gives them that property. But the parallelism is not exact, in no small part due, one may assume, to the formal demands of the verses. A slight amplification, seen overall, occurs in the third bequest. The poem states that the future Askr and Embla lacked both lá and læti, but only the first of these deficiencies is redressed in the second god's grant. Larrington translates “blood” and “bearing” for the deficiency, “blood” for its remedy; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “no pulse nor gesture”; Hultgård has “blood, voice.” We return to these concepts after the discussion of the initial endowments. First among these is ǫnd, undeniably “breath,” but a curious attribute to be conferred by Óðinn, who is otherwise associated with Hœnir's gift, óðr. The latter is a culturally fraught term, the object of considerable scholarly comment. While etymology does not determine semantic destiny, it is useful to recall that the reconstructed Proto-Indo-European root underlying the form is *u̯āt-, which Pokorny identifies as signifying “possession” (Pokorny 1959, s.v. “u̯āt-” [1], “psychically aroused, possessed”; according to Kroonen 2010, < Proto-Gmc *wōda-, although his gloss, “delirious,” is too narrow). In reflexes descended from this PIE root (Proto-Indo-European), a wide variety of mental and emotional states is indicated, seemingly the outcome of possession from an unspecified source: English wod, “mad”; Old Irish uaith, “seer, diviner”; perhaps Latin vates, “ib.” (possibly a loan from Gaulish); and in Old Norse, óðr, strikingly both “(battle) fury, rage” and “poetic creation,” hence, “poetry” and “poem.” Óðinn is the presiding deity for these heightened mental situations. Óðr might be clinically defined as “receptivity to psychic stimulus and arousal,” but a handier term is clearly needed. “Inspiration” might serve but competes with simple physical “breath” in this context. “Spirit” in the sense of spiritedness is another option but should not suggest any notion of selfhood or soul. A radical solution is provisionally proposed: “psyche” in its older meanings.In the translators’ treatment of lá and læti, there is little concern for duplication or semantic overlapping (Larrington has “blood” and “bearing”; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “pulse”; and Hultgård has “blood”). Lá is a variant of læ in the sense of “craft” or “skills” (de Vries 1959, s.v. læ, “benehmen, behavior”); “aptitude” is offered here to designate this latent state. Since læti is paired with lá/læ among pre-animation deficiencies but is not mentioned again when the human properties are transferred, it seems complementary to “skill” and may be tentatively rendered as “conventional behavior, sociability” (cf. Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957; “manner”). Disagreement also attends scholarly interpretation of litu goða: Larrington: “fresh complexions”; Orchard: “healthy looks”; Kure: “healthy looks”; Hultgård: “good appearance”; Liberman: “genitals.” A majority of scholars identify the term in question as litr, “color, complexion, external appearance.” Liberman sees liðr, and interprets it as “penis.” But the principal meaning here is “joint” or “part of the body” (< Proto-Gmc *liþu- “member, body,” Kroonen 2010 s.v.). Kinship was figured as a set of articulated joints, as evidenced by Old Norse kné, “knee” but also “degree of kinship” (cf. Latin genu/genus). What is meant in Vǫluspá, it is contended, is a functioning, articulated body, with overtones of reproduction and lineage, thus movement in both space and time. It is then not the capacity for sexual congress that is intended but its outcomes. Let us stay with “articulated body” as a proxy for this rich association. As with Snorri, the movement in the poem is from within—the inner life—to without—perception of the external world and (future) interaction with other humans. At this point, it should be emphasized that it is not simply a serviceable and readable translation that is sought here but some deeper insight into the Old Norse thought world. Inevitably, the arguments over identification “pull” in the direction of concepts that are familiar to us moderns, while also seeking to remedy the inadvertent trivialization of the endowments seen in earlier translations, often derivative of largely context-free dictionary entries. To summarize, the human properties given Askr and Embla in Vǫluspá are then breath, psyche, aptitudes, social behavior, and good physiques (with sexual competency).4 The match with Snorri (life, intellect, purpose, form, speech, hearing, and sight) is good as concerns fundamentals, but less exact for complementary properties, which nonetheless trend toward a social dimension lacking in Snorri. A number of qualifiers must attend these still tentative identifications and any conclusions that might be drawn from them. What appeared a puzzling folk taxonomy may now be read as a neat set of faculties, coherent and comprehensible from a modern perspective. Apparently subsumed in these basic gifts are the capacity for, for example, emotions, memory, curiosity, loyalty, love, charity, and the like, even the capacity for religious belief or awe before the gods. Noteworthy is the fact that, at this moment of inception, no fundamental distinction is made between man and woman, save what is implied by the gendered names. As in the reference to humankind as descendants of Askr and Embla, the listing is forward-looking. After the assignment of destinies, a next step is to create a structure of status. This is done in the poem Rígsþula (Schjødt 2021), foreseen in the bestowal of names and clothes, the former looking back to initial material nature, the latter to social convention. As in much of Old Norse cosmology, the elaboration of the universe is largely through transformation rather than creation ex nihilo; thus, the first humans are made from the tried and true material of wood. The frequent interpretation of the setting for this transformation as the seashore is supported by the recognized liminal situation of the shore, uniting the cosmic entities of sky, sea, and land, and often the scene of dynamic interactions. The shore might also be the expected “delivery point” of the blanks, if dwarves and giants are involved.Discussion returns now to the names Askr and Embla, speculation as to how they are meaningful in the context of human endowments, and how at least one skald drew on this myth and these names in his verse. The occasional verse by Egill Skallagrímsson that was examined by Kure (2002, 161) comes at a point in the saga when Egill is well-settled in Iceland but has vivid memories of fairly recent viking expeditions to continental Europe.Bǫrðumz einn við viij.,en við ellifu tysuarSua fingum val vargivarð ek einn bani þeiraskiptum hart af heiptumhlífar skelfiknífumlét ek af emblu askielld valbasta kastað.5Kure translates:Sloges jeg ene mod viii (otte)og mod elleve to gange;sådan produceredes faldne til ulven,blev jeg ene deres bane.Vi udvekslede hårdt af heftighedværn med skælve-knive;lod jeg af emblas askvalbånds ild kastet.(I fought alone against eightand twice against eleven;this yielded slain men for wolves,I was their bane.We developed duress from violence,Defense with shivering blades;I let Embla's ashCast the sword hilt's [?] fire.)6Numerous complementary observations may be added to the summary of Kure's argument. In addition to difficulties of interpretation posed by the apparent Askr/Embla juxtaposition, other rare vocabulary is met in the stanza, for example, valbǫst. In the valkyrie Sigrdrífa's injunction to Sigurðr to incise runes on his sword (Sigrdrífumál, in Eddukvæði 2014, st. 6), the term accompanies those for the blade and hilt. The valbǫst, on the other hand, has not been satisfactorily identified. Kure (2002, 162) calls it a heiti for “sword”; Falk (1914, 30–1) thought the name referenced the leather grip of the hilt. Although the form val- has numerous homonyms, and val-r, “the slain” has always suggested itself here, we may turn instead to the adjective val-r meaning “rounded” (Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957, s.v. valr). The second element may be traced to Proto-Indo-European *bheuHs- with a meaning “to swell.”7 The signification of valbǫst would then be “swollen, rounded object.” This very neatly describes the pommel of a medieval sword. It should not be forgotten that the pommel could be used in offense, on a return stroke to the head or body. Yet in the poetic and perhaps even everyday context, it could not fail to call up echoes of valr, “the slain.” Skelfiknífum poses a challenge of a different kind. Is this a functional designation for a specific arm, or figurative language, that is, is the shivering a phenomenon of the sword or its effect, or is this flickering, intended to evoke the movement of, and light effects on, the blade? We return to this crux in the context of weapon types in the discussion below.From the manuscript he follows, Kure emends the ermar of the second helming to Emblu, on the assumption that the Askr/Embla couple is being named (another manuscript has emlu). Whatever the apparent distance between Embla and álm, Kure takes the reference to be to the tree species elm, Old Norse álmr, and it is then a parallel to askr, “ash.”8 Historically, the elm was, like the ash, of great practical value. The wood is tough but flexible, with a complex grain; it takes steaming, shaping, and nails and rivets well (s.v. “Elm”).9 It was used in the fabrication of household objects and as shafts for weapons and tools. Important for Kure's identification but not mentioned by him is that elm is water-resistant. It was used not only for watering troughs and vessels but would also be effective in the form of a scabbard or sheath for a sword as a means to prevent corrosion. In fact, since pottery finds are rare at early medieval Scandinavian archaeological sites, it has been concluded that there was no local production (Ashby 2019, 54). But artifacts for preparing and storing food, for storage and transport were necessary, and elm, because of these properties—in particular, water-resistance—would have been a suitable candidate for the materia of fabrication. Askr as “sword” (otherwise richly attested in Old Norse poetic language, and, because of its general shape, “man”) and embla as “scabbard” are then the identifications with which Kure concludes. The male/female complementarity of the first humans is also retained in the sexual imagery of sword and sheath as penis and vagina. Unmentioned by Kure in this regard is Steingerðr's wry comment in Kormáks saga. At the idea of leaving her second husband, Þorkell tinteinn, for Kormákr, she questions why she (figuring herself as sheath) should want to replace one knife with another: “Steingerðr kvazk ekki skyldu kaupa um knífa” (Kormáks saga1939, 298), an image not too distant from Kure's gendered speculation.Kure's solution—scabbard and sword—is attractive and would sit well with Egill's usual fighting mode in Iceland when facing his social equals in single combat. But the narrative mode is now a different one: the Icelander abroad. Combat with sword and shield also raises difficulties when we consider the practical circumstances of early medieval warfare, both in pitched battle and in encounters between a single fighter and a large group of opponents. The historical background to Egill's commemorative poem is his encounters with groups of eight and eleven men in which he kills them all. This is very unlikely with only a shield and sword or axe, because he would not have been able to protect his back from the crowd of foes nor keep them at a distance while engaging them one at a time. Another weapon was most likely involved. It has often been observed that the poems preserved in the sagas, rather than simply being a kind of artistic commentary on events, may actually be the literary source and motor of the fictionalized events of the prose. The topic of the lausavísa, Egill facing a superior number of opponents, is introduced in the saga in the account of a viking raid undertaken with his friend Arinbjǫrn to Frisia. After their landing, the peasants living in the settlements in the marshes flee, with Egill and his troop in pursuit. The Frisians retreat over simple wooden bridges across the numerous dykes that drain the marshes and mark the field boundaries, then withdraw the logs. Only Egill has the strength and skill to jump across the waterway. But then the fleeing Frisians turn back against him. He kills all eleven, although no details are given. On his return to the beached ships, he discovers that his way is blocked by a crowd of armed peasants. The saga continues: Ok er Egill kom ofan ok hann sá, hvat títt var, þá rann hann at sem snarast, þar sem múginn stóð; hafði hann kesjuna fyrir sér ok tók hana tveimr hǫndum, en kastaði skildinum á bak sér. Hann lagði fram kesjunni, ok stǫkk frá allt, þat er fyrir stóð, ok gafsk honum svá rúm fram í gegnum fylkingina; sótti hann svá ofan til manna sinna; þóttust þeir hafa hann ór helju heimtan. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar1933, 218)(And when Egill came down and and saw what the situation was, he ran toward the crowd at full tilt; he had his halberd in front of him and grasped it with both hands, throwing his shield onto his back. He lunged forward with his halberd at everyone who stood before him and he made his way through the host. Then he headed down toward his men, who thought he had come back from the dead.)The weapon here identified as a halberd is called kesja in Norse (etymology unknown; de Vries 1959, s.v.). On a somewhat later trip through the Eiðaskóg of Värmland, Egill and his men are described as equipped with slashing and thrusting weapons: “hǫggvápn ok lagvápn” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 235). This seems more plausibly pole arms than swords and shields, which are usually named outright. Here, Egill has an adventure similar to that in Frisia, dispatching a total of eight men, although the cut and thrust of the conflict is again not detailed: “en ekki er at segja frá hǫggva viðskiptum” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, chap. 75, p. 236). In an immediately following incident, Egill again faces eleven opponents, killing them all. This time, there is no detail on his weapon, which may be assumed to be the halberd that has served him so well.Before trying to determine its exact features, it is of interest to note Egill's use of a kesja in the Battle of Vin Moor in England. Þórólfr and Egill are fighting as mercenaries under King Athelstan, and their weaponry is explicitly stated before the first engagement: Þórólfr var svá búinn, at hann hafði skjǫld víðan ok þykkvan, hjálm á hǫfði allsterkan, gyrðr sverði því, er hann kallaði Lang, mikit vápn ok gott; kesju hafði hann í hendi; fjǫðrin var tveggja álna lǫng ok sleginn fram broddr ferstrendr, en upp var fjǫðrin breið, falrinn bæði langr ok digr, skaptit var eigi hæra en taka mátti hendi til fals ok furðuliga digrt; járnteinn var í falnum ok skaftit allt járnvafit; þau spjót váru kǫlluð brynþvarar. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 136)(Þórólfr was so equipped that he had a broad, thick shield and a sturdy helmet on his head, and was girded with a sword that he called Long, a large and trusty weapon. He carried a thrusting spear in his hand. Its blade was two ells [40 inches–50 inches] long and had four [sharpened] sides; it was forged to a point at one end but thick at the shaft end. The socket was both long and strong while the shaft was no longer up to the socket than a man's forearm and was exceptionally strong. There was an iron spike projecting from [one side of] the socket and the shaft was completely wound round with iron. Such spears were known as “mail-scrapers.”)10This is then a fairly compact weapon (measuring about 60 inches overall), practical in the close quarters of the pitched battle at Vin Moor that was preceded by negotiations as to procedure and even had the battlefield staked out with hazel rods to ensure concentrat","PeriodicalId":44446,"journal":{"name":"SCANDINAVIAN STUDIES","volume":null,"pages":null},"PeriodicalIF":0.3000,"publicationDate":"2023-10-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":"1","resultStr":"{\"title\":\"The Endowing of Askr and Embla, and Its Reverberations in the Poetry of Egill Skallagrímsson\",\"authors\":\"William Sayers\",\"doi\":\"10.5406/21638195.95.3.03\",\"DOIUrl\":null,\"url\":null,\"abstract\":\"Among the accounts of cosmic beginnings in the eddic poem Vǫluspá and in Snorri Sturluson's Gylfaginning is the quickening to life of the first humans, named Askr and Embla, generally understood as “ash tree” and “elm” (or “vine”), from logs encountered by the gods along the seashore. The poetic and prose recensions are in broad agreement as to events and to the endowment of what may be understood as quintessentially human properties. The myth is contained in two stanzas in Vǫluspá (at least one introductory or transitional stanza may be missing):Unz þrír kvómu ór því liðiǫflgir ok ástkir æsir at húsi,fundu á landi lítt megandi,Ask ok Emblu ørlǫglausa.Ǫnd þau né áttu, óð þau né hǫfðu,lá né læti né litu góða;ǫnd gaf Óðinn, óð gaf Hœnir,lá gaf Lóðurr oc litu góða.1Carolyne Larrington translates:Until three gods, strong and loving,came out of that company;they found on land, capable of little,Ash and Embla, lacking in fate.Breath they had not, spirit they had not,blood nor bearing nor fresh complexions;breath gave Odin, spirit gave Hœnir,blood gave Lodur, and fresh complexions.(Poetic Edda 2014, 6)Snorri's version of the beginning of human life under divine aegis employs parallelism to a lesser extent, although the vital properties are mostly more neatly captured in individual monosyllables rather than in phrases.From his own edition, Anthony Faulkes translates: Then spoke Gangleri: “A great deal it seems to me they had achieved when earth and heaven were made and sun and stars were put in position and days were separated—and where did the people come from who inhabit the world?”Then High replied: “As Bor's sons walked along the sea shore, they came across two logs and created people out of them. The first gave breath and life, the second consciousness and movement, the third a face, speech and hearing and sight; they gave them clothes and names. The man was called Ask, the woman Embla, and from them were produced the mankind to whom the dwelling place under Midgard was given.” (Snorri Sturluson 1987, 13)The most recent examination of the story of Askr and Embla is by Anatoly Liberman in the context of a lengthy study of the name of Óðinn, the methodology of which is based in etymology (Liberman 2016, 48–9). He recalls generally accepted identifications of the key vocabulary of the Vǫluspá version but shows less concern for what superficially appears a transparent myth. In his summary of prior scholarship, “litt megandi” is rendered as “of little power” and “ørlǫglausa” as “unfated” (however this is to be understood). Of the bequeathed properties, ǫnd is “breath” or “life,” litr is “color,” and óðr is “voice.” It is immediately apparent how divergent this set is from Larrington's translations (breath, spirit, bearing, and fresh complexions). Liberman questions the relevance of mainstream interpretations of the event of becoming human. His own equivalences are considerably bolder and, he would surely judge, more essentialist. He accepts “breath” for ǫnd but offers “genitals” as the signification of litr, as if the capacity to continue the species were its defining property (but is surely possessed by all animate matter). Liberman finds the gloss “voice” for óðr to be “strained” and prefers “poetry.” He then turns to the lesser-known gods Hœnir and Lóðurr, who might be thought to embody the properties with which they endow the wave- and rock-smoothed logs. Liberman, like North (1991, 44) calls attention to the fact that óðr is everywhere associated with Óðinn—but not here. Other pointed scholarly remarks cited by Liberman are the interpretation of “ørlǫglausa” as “childless” and referring only to Embla (supporting Josefsson 2001) and the understanding of óðr as “mobility,” concurring with Holtsmark (1950) and Josefsson (2001). As distinct from the objectives of the present study, myth as distinct from the etymology of key terms is not Liberman's main concern.Several important studies of the myth go unmentioned by Liberman and are now passed in review with an eye to defining more closely the properties with which the three gods endow Askr and Embla. Samplonius (2016) proposes the least conventional interpretation: Askr and Embla reflect Adam and Eve, and, as logs, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Medieval theories of the influence of the planets are also in play, with Hœnir and Lóðurr representing the Morning Star and Saturn, respectively, and thereby good and evil. The gods’ gifts are then to be resumed as the power of discernment of right and wrong. Previously without fates, mankind is now responsible for its deeds. Clunies Ross (2022) sees a traditional mythologem that involves “the epiphany of an anthropomorphic deity on the beach” (182). The humanizing endowments are not central to this discussion and are subsumed under the heading of “creative act.” Clunies Ross (1994) also mentions the oft-noted commonalities with the creative account in Rígsþula, in which Heimdallr assumes full responsibility for the establishment of social classes—something very different from the defining characteristics of human life. On the basis of comparative evidence, chiefly Iranian, Hultgård (2014) argues that Askr and Embla were already living trees when encountered by the gods, that is, animate but not sentient in a conventional sense. Josefsson (2001) sees a fire-stick spun in a wooden socket as the image of active human sexuality and the basis for the myth, yet the evidence points to propagation only as a result of the other basic human features. Quinn (2006, 55) summarizes the endowments as “aspects of the powers of life” before turning to the determining of individual lives and fates by the Norns after birth.Henning Kure (2002) addresses the complex of problems associated with Askr and Embla from one of Egill Skallagrímsson's lausavísur, where he boasts of encounters in which he defeated large numbers of armed opponents—eight, eleven at a time. We return to this poetry below. In a closely reasoned argument that synthesizes earlier research, Kure sets out three stages in Old Norse anthropogony: first, the fabrication of wooden figures by the dwarves (“mannlíkun,” Vǫluspá, Eddukvæði2014, 294, st. 10), what we might call blanks, in ash and elm; second, the animation of these mannequins by Óðinn, Hœnir, and Lóðurr; third, the assignment of individual destinies—length of life and manner of death as occurs in all human life—by the nornir (sts. 19–20). Humankind is born to mortality. The refinement over three phases is from inanimate but organic matter, through essential and common human properties, to individual fates. Although the mention comes later in the poem than the fabrication by the dwarves, three females from among the jǫtnar seem involved here (st. 8). As intermediaries, perhaps providing the craftsmen with the raw material, they may also account for the marine passage of the wooden figures from the dwarves to the attention of the gods, as Suttungr does in the myth of the creation and eventual theft of the mead of poetry, in which the dwarves play a comparable role. In this cosmic economy, the dwarves are responsible for manufacture, the giants for supply and/or transportation, the gods for the local uploading of “software,” and the Norns for distribution.An important question to be addressed is whether the formal organization of the humanizing properties, for example, in Snorri two qualities from the first god, two from the second, and—as a merism—four from the third, is reflected in a coherent set of traditionally recognized human qualities, even in their hierarchized sequence, which has a more evident reflection in the sequence of divine interveners. To be sought here is what was once somewhat disparagingly called a folk taxonomy. To expand the field of vision, it is worth mentioning how a contemporary scholar, Neil Price, whose recent book (2020) incorporates a reference to Askr and Embla in its title, imagines the Norse mentalité as shaped by belief in four conceptual entities: hamr, “shape”; hugr, “personality, temperament, character, mind”; hamingja, the personification of individual luck; and fylgja, the fetch or follower who oversees family and individual fortunes.2 The human properties that will concurrently be in play are implicit in only the first two of these, and destiny, which might be glimpsed behind the mythic account's ørlǫglaus, appears as an outcome determined in large part by forces exterior to the individual, as overseen by the nornir. We note that in both the endowments of the original humans and in the life careers of their descendants, there is no mention of cultural capital. This is all nature, with no consideration of nurture, which, from a Norse-centric perspective, was doubtless seen as homogenous and normative.The discussion turns now to the set—if set it be—of endowments awarded the wooden blanks that will become Askr and Embla. Each faculty must be examined in terms of the designation, its etymology, and other usage; compatibility within the set or subset; and general congruence with what we know of the Old Norse worldview. Summaries from the best-known English translations of the Poetic Edda and Snorri's Edda will give a further sense of the generally understood nature of the qualities with which the first humans were endowed, but these literary translations do not, of course, offer much in the way of commentary on individual terms, sequence, or consideration of the interlocking nature of human properties. Snorri will be considered first, not by virtue of the text's age, but because we may expect a rational and reflective approach on his part, not necessarily historical accuracy in individual cases of pre-Christian terminology, and a concern for non-duplication and overall coherence. There is general agreement that ǫnd is “breath” and lif is “life” (Faulkes in Snorri Sturluson 1987; < Proto-Gmc *anadan-, “breath, spirit,” and < Proto-Gmc, *lība-, “life; body”; Kroonen 2010, s.vv.).3 Respiration, by virtue of its position in the sequence, would seem to be singled out as the prime marker of animate matter, while líf, “life,” is its fuller consequence. But there is no assurance that the hierarchy that seems apparent in the list as a whole is observed in the subsets, the gifts of individual gods. “Consciousness’ (Faulkes) for vit (nominal derivative of Proto-Gmc *witan- “to know,” Kroonen 2010, s.v.), now a term of modern neuroscience, seems anachronistic in the historical circumstances. Here, it seems that it is not so much awareness of a personal existence in reality that is meant as intellect and its practical and commonsensical applications (“intelligence” is suggestive of IQs and perhaps inactive, unapplied mental ability). Faulkes glosses hrœring with “movement,” but the articulated skeleton seems to come later. “Purposefulness” captures the meaning in this specific context, that is, a mental attitude, not physical movement. This notion recurs below in connection with the Vǫluspá text, in which the adjective ørlǫglaus, generally rendered as “without destinies,” is met. This is not so much a teleological objective, the reason why humans might be created, as the capacity to envisage and achieve goals, with overtones of will. The third subset of qualities is ásjóna, “face”; málit, “speech”; and heyrn, “hearing”; in the view of Faulkes (etymologies are undebated). These are less problematic than the foregoing, as the sequence moves from essentials, to the inner life, and then to life in the world and sensory perception of it. “Form” is to be preferred to “face” for ásjóna, since it is more comprehensive and less suggestive of social status or, more narrowly, facial features. Interestingly, speech, the capacity to communicate with other humans, is listed before hearing and sight, which may be thought to also serve as proxies for other sensory faculties such as smell, touch, and so on. My understanding of the essential human properties conferred by the gods on Askr and Embla is then: life, intellect, purposefulness, form, speech, hearing, and sight. As has often been observed, we know too little of Óðinn's two companions and their divine competencies to link them in a knowing way to the attributes they confer. It has been suggested that Loðurr may be Loki, and this is not unreasonable, but there is no hint of such negative emotions as resentment or hatred, or character traits such as guile and cunning, or other no less human capacities. Snorri's treatment of the myth is relatively cool and clinical, as befits his encyclopedic interests, with each property covered by a single term and no poetic flourishes. No effort to hint at the Adam and Eve story of Christianity is apparent.The briefer account in Vǫluspá is in general agreement with Snorri's list. First to be addressed is the absence of certain properties in the figures. They are called “lítt megandi,” “capable of little” (Poetic Edda 2014, 6); “lacking vigor” (Elder Edda 2011, 7); “hardly capable” (Kure 2006, 70); “(of) little power” (Hultgård 2014, 58). The understatement is typical Norse rhetoric, since they are entirely without life. “Of little strength” is proposed here and is to be understood as including the inner life of mind and emotion. “Without destinies” as the interpretation of the accompanying epithet “ørlǫglausa” is literal enough, but the hypothetical paradigm that would defer the gifting of individual fates to a later moment under the ægis of the Norns suggests that at this point, it is not the totality of a life and its outcomes that is indicated but rather the situation of the carved logs in their immediate context. “Without purpose” captures the lack of significance of the logs, their irrelevance, with no hint of what may become of them once vivified and humanized. The text continues with a simple rhetorical device: the effigies lack a property, a god gives them that property. But the parallelism is not exact, in no small part due, one may assume, to the formal demands of the verses. A slight amplification, seen overall, occurs in the third bequest. The poem states that the future Askr and Embla lacked both lá and læti, but only the first of these deficiencies is redressed in the second god's grant. Larrington translates “blood” and “bearing” for the deficiency, “blood” for its remedy; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “no pulse nor gesture”; Hultgård has “blood, voice.” We return to these concepts after the discussion of the initial endowments. First among these is ǫnd, undeniably “breath,” but a curious attribute to be conferred by Óðinn, who is otherwise associated with Hœnir's gift, óðr. The latter is a culturally fraught term, the object of considerable scholarly comment. While etymology does not determine semantic destiny, it is useful to recall that the reconstructed Proto-Indo-European root underlying the form is *u̯āt-, which Pokorny identifies as signifying “possession” (Pokorny 1959, s.v. “u̯āt-” [1], “psychically aroused, possessed”; according to Kroonen 2010, < Proto-Gmc *wōda-, although his gloss, “delirious,” is too narrow). In reflexes descended from this PIE root (Proto-Indo-European), a wide variety of mental and emotional states is indicated, seemingly the outcome of possession from an unspecified source: English wod, “mad”; Old Irish uaith, “seer, diviner”; perhaps Latin vates, “ib.” (possibly a loan from Gaulish); and in Old Norse, óðr, strikingly both “(battle) fury, rage” and “poetic creation,” hence, “poetry” and “poem.” Óðinn is the presiding deity for these heightened mental situations. Óðr might be clinically defined as “receptivity to psychic stimulus and arousal,” but a handier term is clearly needed. “Inspiration” might serve but competes with simple physical “breath” in this context. “Spirit” in the sense of spiritedness is another option but should not suggest any notion of selfhood or soul. A radical solution is provisionally proposed: “psyche” in its older meanings.In the translators’ treatment of lá and læti, there is little concern for duplication or semantic overlapping (Larrington has “blood” and “bearing”; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “pulse”; and Hultgård has “blood”). Lá is a variant of læ in the sense of “craft” or “skills” (de Vries 1959, s.v. læ, “benehmen, behavior”); “aptitude” is offered here to designate this latent state. Since læti is paired with lá/læ among pre-animation deficiencies but is not mentioned again when the human properties are transferred, it seems complementary to “skill” and may be tentatively rendered as “conventional behavior, sociability” (cf. Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957; “manner”). Disagreement also attends scholarly interpretation of litu goða: Larrington: “fresh complexions”; Orchard: “healthy looks”; Kure: “healthy looks”; Hultgård: “good appearance”; Liberman: “genitals.” A majority of scholars identify the term in question as litr, “color, complexion, external appearance.” Liberman sees liðr, and interprets it as “penis.” But the principal meaning here is “joint” or “part of the body” (< Proto-Gmc *liþu- “member, body,” Kroonen 2010 s.v.). Kinship was figured as a set of articulated joints, as evidenced by Old Norse kné, “knee” but also “degree of kinship” (cf. Latin genu/genus). What is meant in Vǫluspá, it is contended, is a functioning, articulated body, with overtones of reproduction and lineage, thus movement in both space and time. It is then not the capacity for sexual congress that is intended but its outcomes. Let us stay with “articulated body” as a proxy for this rich association. As with Snorri, the movement in the poem is from within—the inner life—to without—perception of the external world and (future) interaction with other humans. At this point, it should be emphasized that it is not simply a serviceable and readable translation that is sought here but some deeper insight into the Old Norse thought world. Inevitably, the arguments over identification “pull” in the direction of concepts that are familiar to us moderns, while also seeking to remedy the inadvertent trivialization of the endowments seen in earlier translations, often derivative of largely context-free dictionary entries. To summarize, the human properties given Askr and Embla in Vǫluspá are then breath, psyche, aptitudes, social behavior, and good physiques (with sexual competency).4 The match with Snorri (life, intellect, purpose, form, speech, hearing, and sight) is good as concerns fundamentals, but less exact for complementary properties, which nonetheless trend toward a social dimension lacking in Snorri. A number of qualifiers must attend these still tentative identifications and any conclusions that might be drawn from them. What appeared a puzzling folk taxonomy may now be read as a neat set of faculties, coherent and comprehensible from a modern perspective. Apparently subsumed in these basic gifts are the capacity for, for example, emotions, memory, curiosity, loyalty, love, charity, and the like, even the capacity for religious belief or awe before the gods. Noteworthy is the fact that, at this moment of inception, no fundamental distinction is made between man and woman, save what is implied by the gendered names. As in the reference to humankind as descendants of Askr and Embla, the listing is forward-looking. After the assignment of destinies, a next step is to create a structure of status. This is done in the poem Rígsþula (Schjødt 2021), foreseen in the bestowal of names and clothes, the former looking back to initial material nature, the latter to social convention. As in much of Old Norse cosmology, the elaboration of the universe is largely through transformation rather than creation ex nihilo; thus, the first humans are made from the tried and true material of wood. The frequent interpretation of the setting for this transformation as the seashore is supported by the recognized liminal situation of the shore, uniting the cosmic entities of sky, sea, and land, and often the scene of dynamic interactions. The shore might also be the expected “delivery point” of the blanks, if dwarves and giants are involved.Discussion returns now to the names Askr and Embla, speculation as to how they are meaningful in the context of human endowments, and how at least one skald drew on this myth and these names in his verse. The occasional verse by Egill Skallagrímsson that was examined by Kure (2002, 161) comes at a point in the saga when Egill is well-settled in Iceland but has vivid memories of fairly recent viking expeditions to continental Europe.Bǫrðumz einn við viij.,en við ellifu tysuarSua fingum val vargivarð ek einn bani þeiraskiptum hart af heiptumhlífar skelfiknífumlét ek af emblu askielld valbasta kastað.5Kure translates:Sloges jeg ene mod viii (otte)og mod elleve to gange;sådan produceredes faldne til ulven,blev jeg ene deres bane.Vi udvekslede hårdt af heftighedværn med skælve-knive;lod jeg af emblas askvalbånds ild kastet.(I fought alone against eightand twice against eleven;this yielded slain men for wolves,I was their bane.We developed duress from violence,Defense with shivering blades;I let Embla's ashCast the sword hilt's [?] fire.)6Numerous complementary observations may be added to the summary of Kure's argument. In addition to difficulties of interpretation posed by the apparent Askr/Embla juxtaposition, other rare vocabulary is met in the stanza, for example, valbǫst. In the valkyrie Sigrdrífa's injunction to Sigurðr to incise runes on his sword (Sigrdrífumál, in Eddukvæði 2014, st. 6), the term accompanies those for the blade and hilt. The valbǫst, on the other hand, has not been satisfactorily identified. Kure (2002, 162) calls it a heiti for “sword”; Falk (1914, 30–1) thought the name referenced the leather grip of the hilt. Although the form val- has numerous homonyms, and val-r, “the slain” has always suggested itself here, we may turn instead to the adjective val-r meaning “rounded” (Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957, s.v. valr). The second element may be traced to Proto-Indo-European *bheuHs- with a meaning “to swell.”7 The signification of valbǫst would then be “swollen, rounded object.” This very neatly describes the pommel of a medieval sword. It should not be forgotten that the pommel could be used in offense, on a return stroke to the head or body. Yet in the poetic and perhaps even everyday context, it could not fail to call up echoes of valr, “the slain.” Skelfiknífum poses a challenge of a different kind. Is this a functional designation for a specific arm, or figurative language, that is, is the shivering a phenomenon of the sword or its effect, or is this flickering, intended to evoke the movement of, and light effects on, the blade? We return to this crux in the context of weapon types in the discussion below.From the manuscript he follows, Kure emends the ermar of the second helming to Emblu, on the assumption that the Askr/Embla couple is being named (another manuscript has emlu). Whatever the apparent distance between Embla and álm, Kure takes the reference to be to the tree species elm, Old Norse álmr, and it is then a parallel to askr, “ash.”8 Historically, the elm was, like the ash, of great practical value. The wood is tough but flexible, with a complex grain; it takes steaming, shaping, and nails and rivets well (s.v. “Elm”).9 It was used in the fabrication of household objects and as shafts for weapons and tools. Important for Kure's identification but not mentioned by him is that elm is water-resistant. It was used not only for watering troughs and vessels but would also be effective in the form of a scabbard or sheath for a sword as a means to prevent corrosion. In fact, since pottery finds are rare at early medieval Scandinavian archaeological sites, it has been concluded that there was no local production (Ashby 2019, 54). But artifacts for preparing and storing food, for storage and transport were necessary, and elm, because of these properties—in particular, water-resistance—would have been a suitable candidate for the materia of fabrication. Askr as “sword” (otherwise richly attested in Old Norse poetic language, and, because of its general shape, “man”) and embla as “scabbard” are then the identifications with which Kure concludes. The male/female complementarity of the first humans is also retained in the sexual imagery of sword and sheath as penis and vagina. Unmentioned by Kure in this regard is Steingerðr's wry comment in Kormáks saga. At the idea of leaving her second husband, Þorkell tinteinn, for Kormákr, she questions why she (figuring herself as sheath) should want to replace one knife with another: “Steingerðr kvazk ekki skyldu kaupa um knífa” (Kormáks saga1939, 298), an image not too distant from Kure's gendered speculation.Kure's solution—scabbard and sword—is attractive and would sit well with Egill's usual fighting mode in Iceland when facing his social equals in single combat. But the narrative mode is now a different one: the Icelander abroad. Combat with sword and shield also raises difficulties when we consider the practical circumstances of early medieval warfare, both in pitched battle and in encounters between a single fighter and a large group of opponents. The historical background to Egill's commemorative poem is his encounters with groups of eight and eleven men in which he kills them all. This is very unlikely with only a shield and sword or axe, because he would not have been able to protect his back from the crowd of foes nor keep them at a distance while engaging them one at a time. Another weapon was most likely involved. It has often been observed that the poems preserved in the sagas, rather than simply being a kind of artistic commentary on events, may actually be the literary source and motor of the fictionalized events of the prose. The topic of the lausavísa, Egill facing a superior number of opponents, is introduced in the saga in the account of a viking raid undertaken with his friend Arinbjǫrn to Frisia. After their landing, the peasants living in the settlements in the marshes flee, with Egill and his troop in pursuit. The Frisians retreat over simple wooden bridges across the numerous dykes that drain the marshes and mark the field boundaries, then withdraw the logs. Only Egill has the strength and skill to jump across the waterway. But then the fleeing Frisians turn back against him. He kills all eleven, although no details are given. On his return to the beached ships, he discovers that his way is blocked by a crowd of armed peasants. The saga continues: Ok er Egill kom ofan ok hann sá, hvat títt var, þá rann hann at sem snarast, þar sem múginn stóð; hafði hann kesjuna fyrir sér ok tók hana tveimr hǫndum, en kastaði skildinum á bak sér. Hann lagði fram kesjunni, ok stǫkk frá allt, þat er fyrir stóð, ok gafsk honum svá rúm fram í gegnum fylkingina; sótti hann svá ofan til manna sinna; þóttust þeir hafa hann ór helju heimtan. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar1933, 218)(And when Egill came down and and saw what the situation was, he ran toward the crowd at full tilt; he had his halberd in front of him and grasped it with both hands, throwing his shield onto his back. He lunged forward with his halberd at everyone who stood before him and he made his way through the host. Then he headed down toward his men, who thought he had come back from the dead.)The weapon here identified as a halberd is called kesja in Norse (etymology unknown; de Vries 1959, s.v.). On a somewhat later trip through the Eiðaskóg of Värmland, Egill and his men are described as equipped with slashing and thrusting weapons: “hǫggvápn ok lagvápn” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 235). This seems more plausibly pole arms than swords and shields, which are usually named outright. Here, Egill has an adventure similar to that in Frisia, dispatching a total of eight men, although the cut and thrust of the conflict is again not detailed: “en ekki er at segja frá hǫggva viðskiptum” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, chap. 75, p. 236). In an immediately following incident, Egill again faces eleven opponents, killing them all. This time, there is no detail on his weapon, which may be assumed to be the halberd that has served him so well.Before trying to determine its exact features, it is of interest to note Egill's use of a kesja in the Battle of Vin Moor in England. Þórólfr and Egill are fighting as mercenaries under King Athelstan, and their weaponry is explicitly stated before the first engagement: Þórólfr var svá búinn, at hann hafði skjǫld víðan ok þykkvan, hjálm á hǫfði allsterkan, gyrðr sverði því, er hann kallaði Lang, mikit vápn ok gott; kesju hafði hann í hendi; fjǫðrin var tveggja álna lǫng ok sleginn fram broddr ferstrendr, en upp var fjǫðrin breið, falrinn bæði langr ok digr, skaptit var eigi hæra en taka mátti hendi til fals ok furðuliga digrt; járnteinn var í falnum ok skaftit allt járnvafit; þau spjót váru kǫlluð brynþvarar. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 136)(Þórólfr was so equipped that he had a broad, thick shield and a sturdy helmet on his head, and was girded with a sword that he called Long, a large and trusty weapon. He carried a thrusting spear in his hand. Its blade was two ells [40 inches–50 inches] long and had four [sharpened] sides; it was forged to a point at one end but thick at the shaft end. The socket was both long and strong while the shaft was no longer up to the socket than a man's forearm and was exceptionally strong. There was an iron spike projecting from [one side of] the socket and the shaft was completely wound round with iron. Such spears were known as “mail-scrapers.”)10This is then a fairly compact weapon (measuring about 60 inches overall), practical in the close quarters of the pitched battle at Vin Moor that was preceded by negotiations as to procedure and even had the battlefield staked out with hazel rods to ensure concentrat\",\"PeriodicalId\":44446,\"journal\":{\"name\":\"SCANDINAVIAN STUDIES\",\"volume\":null,\"pages\":null},\"PeriodicalIF\":0.3000,\"publicationDate\":\"2023-10-01\",\"publicationTypes\":\"Journal Article\",\"fieldsOfStudy\":null,\"isOpenAccess\":false,\"openAccessPdf\":\"\",\"citationCount\":\"1\",\"resultStr\":null,\"platform\":\"Semanticscholar\",\"paperid\":null,\"PeriodicalName\":\"SCANDINAVIAN STUDIES\",\"FirstCategoryId\":\"1085\",\"ListUrlMain\":\"https://doi.org/10.5406/21638195.95.3.03\",\"RegionNum\":4,\"RegionCategory\":\"社会学\",\"ArticlePicture\":[],\"TitleCN\":null,\"AbstractTextCN\":null,\"PMCID\":null,\"EPubDate\":\"\",\"PubModel\":\"\",\"JCR\":\"0\",\"JCRName\":\"HUMANITIES, MULTIDISCIPLINARY\",\"Score\":null,\"Total\":0}","platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":null,"PeriodicalName":"SCANDINAVIAN STUDIES","FirstCategoryId":"1085","ListUrlMain":"https://doi.org/10.5406/21638195.95.3.03","RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"社会学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":null,"EPubDate":"","PubModel":"","JCR":"0","JCRName":"HUMANITIES, MULTIDISCIPLINARY","Score":null,"Total":0}
引用次数: 1
摘要
虽然词源学不能决定语义的命运,但有必要回顾一下,该形式的重建原始印欧语词根是*u æ āt-, Pokorny认为它表示“占有”(Pokorny 1959, s.v.“u æ āt-”[1],“精神上唤起,占有”;根据Kroonen 2010, < Proto-Gmc *wōda-,尽管他的注释“谵妄”过于狭隘)。从这个PIE词根(古印欧语)衍生而来的反射,表明了各种各样的精神和情绪状态,似乎是来自一个不明来源的占有的结果:英语单词,“mad”;古爱尔兰语,“预言家,预言家”;可能是拉丁语vates,“ib.”(可能是从高卢语借来的);在古斯堪的纳维亚语中,óðr惊人地同时包含“(战斗)愤怒,愤怒”和“诗歌创作”,因此,“诗歌”和“诗”。Óðinn是这些高度精神状态的主神。Óðr可能在临床上被定义为“对精神刺激和唤醒的接受能力”,但显然需要一个更方便的术语。在这种情况下,“灵感”可能有用,但与简单的身体“呼吸”竞争。在精神意义上的“精神”是另一种选择,但不应该暗示任何自我或灵魂的概念。暂时提出了一个激进的解决方案:“心灵”的旧含义。在译者对l<s:1>和læti的处理中,很少关注重复或语义重叠(Larrington有“血”和“承”;果园有“温”和“动”;Kure有“脉搏”;hultg<s:2>有“血”)。lae是laae的变体,意为“手艺”或“技能”(de Vries 1959, s.v. laae,“benehmen, behavior”);这里用“天资”来表示这种潜在的状态。由于læti与l<s:1> / laae在动画前的缺陷中配对,但在人类属性转移时没有再次提及,因此它似乎是对“技能”的补充,可以暂时呈现为“传统行为,社交能力”(参见Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957;“方式”)。学者对litu go & a的解释也存在分歧:Larrington:“新鲜的肤色”;果园:“健康面貌”;Kure:“健康的外表”;hultg<s:1> rd:“外表好”;Liberman:“生殖器”。大多数学者把这个词定义为“肤色、肤色、外表”。Liberman看到li & r,并将其解释为“阴茎”。但这里的主要含义是“关节”或“身体的一部分”(< Proto-Gmc *liþu-“成员,身体”,Kroonen 2010 s.v.)。亲属关系被认为是一组铰接的关节,如古斯堪的纳维亚语knaught,“膝盖”,但也有“亲属程度”(参见拉丁语genu/genus)。有人认为,Vǫluspá的意思是一个功能性的、铰接的身体,带有繁殖和血统的暗示,因此在空间和时间上都是运动的。这样一来,人们所期望的就不是性大会的能力,而是其结果。让我们继续用“铰接体”来代表这种丰富的联系。与Snorri一样,诗中的运动是从内在的——内在的——到外在的——对外部世界的感知以及与他人(未来)的互动。在这一点上,应该强调的是,在这里寻求的不仅仅是一个实用和可读的翻译,而是对古挪威思想世界的更深入的了解。不可避免地,关于识别的争论“拉”向我们现代人所熟悉的概念方向,同时也试图纠正在早期翻译中看到的对天赋的不经意的轻视,这些翻译通常衍生于大部分与上下文无关的词典条目。总而言之,Vǫluspá中给出的Askr和Embla的人类属性是呼吸、心理、才能、社会行为和良好的体格(包括性能力)与Snorri(生命,智力,目的,形式,语言,听觉和视觉)的匹配在基本方面是好的,但在互补属性方面就不那么精确了,尽管如此,Snorri仍然倾向于缺乏社会维度。必须对这些仍然是试探性的鉴定和可能从中得出的任何结论作出一些限定。那些看起来令人费解的民间分类法,现在可能被解读为一套整洁的院系,从现代的角度来看,是连贯和可理解的。显然,这些基本天赋包括情感、记忆、好奇心、忠诚、爱、慈善等能力,甚至包括宗教信仰或敬畏神的能力。值得注意的是,在这个开始的时刻,除了性别名称所暗示的区别之外,男女之间没有根本的区别。就像提到人类是Askr和Embla的后代一样,这个清单是前瞻性的。在分配了命运之后,下一步是创建一个地位结构。这是在诗歌Rígsþula (Schjødt 2021)中完成的,在名字和衣服的赋予中预见到,前者回顾了最初的物质自然,后者回顾了社会习俗。 一想到要离开她的第二任丈夫Þorkell tinteinn,去Kormákr,她就质疑自己(把自己看作是鞘)为什么要用另一把刀来代替一把刀:“Steingerðr kvazk ekki skyldu kaupa um knífa”(Kormáks saga1939, 298),这一形象与库尔的性别推测并没有太大的距离。Kure的解决方案——剑鞘和剑——很有吸引力,也很适合Egill在冰岛面对他的社会地位时的常规战斗模式。但现在的叙事模式不同了:冰岛人在国外。当我们考虑到中世纪早期战争的实际情况时,无论是在激战中还是在单个战士与一大群对手之间的遭遇中,使用剑和盾的战斗也会带来困难。Egill这首纪念诗的历史背景是他遇到了一群8人或11人的人,他把他们都杀了。这在只有盾牌和剑或斧头的情况下是不太可能的,因为他无法保护自己的背部免受敌人的攻击,也无法在与敌人交战时保持一定距离。很有可能是另一种武器。人们经常观察到,在传奇中保存的诗歌,而不仅仅是对事件的一种艺术评论,实际上可能是散文中虚构事件的文学来源和动力。关于lausavísa的话题,Egill面对的对手数量多,是在传说中与他的朋友Arinbjǫrn一起袭击弗里西亚的维京人的故事中介绍的。他们登陆后,住在沼泽地定居点的农民纷纷逃窜,埃吉尔和他的部队在后面追赶。弗里斯兰人从简单的木桥上撤退,跨过无数的堤防,这些堤防排干沼泽,标记着田野的边界,然后撤回原木。只有埃吉尔有力量和技巧跳过水道。但随后逃亡的弗里斯兰人转而反对他。他杀死了所有11人,尽管没有给出细节。当他返回搁浅的船只时,他发现他的路被一群武装的农民挡住了。故事还在继续:Ok er Egill kom ofan Ok hann s<e:1>, hvat títt var, þ <e:1> rann hann at sem snarast, þar sem múginn stóð;hasta - i hann kesjuna fyrir ssamr ok tók hana tveimr hǫndum, en kasta - i skildinum <e:1> bak ssamr。Hann lagi fram kesjunni, ok stǫkk frallt, þat er fyrir stóð, ok gafsk honum sv<e:1> rúm fram í gegnum fylkingina;Sótti hann svna <e:1>;þóttust þeir hafa hann ór helju heimtan。(埃吉尔斯的传奇Skallgrímssonar1933, 218)(当埃吉尔下来看到情况后,他全速向人群跑去;他把戟放在身前,双手紧握,把盾牌扔到背上。他拿着戟向前冲,冲到每一个站在他面前的人面前,穿过人群。然后他朝随从走去,他们以为他死而复生了。)这里被认定为戟的武器在挪威语中被称为kesja(词源未知;de Vries 1959, s.v.)。在稍后的一次穿越Värmland的Eiðaskóg的旅行中,Egill和他的部下被描述为装备了砍砍和刺刺的武器:“hǫggvápn ok lagvápn”(Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 235)。比起通常直接命名的剑和盾,这似乎更像是杆状武器。在这里,Egill经历了一次与弗里西亚相似的冒险,总共派出了八个人,尽管冲突的激烈程度也没有详细描述:“en ekki er at segja fr<e:1> hǫggva vi - skiptum”(Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933,第75章,第236页)。在紧接着发生的事件中,埃吉尔再次面对11个对手,并将他们全部杀死。这一次,他的武器没有细节,可能被认为是对他很有帮助的戟。在试图确定它的确切特征之前,值得注意的是,Egill在英格兰的Vin Moor战役中使用了kesja。Þórólfr和Egill作为佣兵在国王Athelstan手下作战,他们的武器在第一次交战前就明确说明了:Þórólfr var sv<e:1> búinn, at hann hafði skjǫld víðan ok þykkvan, hjálm <e:1> hǫfði allsterkan, gyrðr sverði því, er hann kallaði Lang, mikit vápn ok gott;Kesju haff / i hann í hendi;Fjǫðrin var tveggja álna lǫng ok sleginn fram broddr ferstrenr, en upp var fjǫðrin breið, falrinn bæði langr ok digr, skaptit var eigi hæra en taka mátti hendi til fals ok furu ðuliga digr;Járnteinn var í falnum ok skaftit all járnvafit;þau spjót váru kǫlluð brynþvarar。(Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 136)(Þórólfr)他装备精良,头上戴着又宽又厚的盾牌和坚固的头盔,并佩带一把他称之为“龙”的剑,这是一种巨大而可靠的武器。他手里拿着一支刺矛。它的刀刃长两英寸(40 - 50英寸),有四个棱角;它的一端被锻造得很尖,但轴的一端却很厚。 骨臼又长又结实,而骨轴的高度不超过人的前臂,因此异常结实。有一个铁钉从插座(一侧)突出,轴被铁完全缠绕。这是一种相当紧凑的武器(总尺寸约为60英寸),在Vin Moor的近距离激战中非常实用,在此之前双方就程序进行了协商,甚至在战场上用榛木杆监视以确保集中火力
The Endowing of Askr and Embla, and Its Reverberations in the Poetry of Egill Skallagrímsson
Among the accounts of cosmic beginnings in the eddic poem Vǫluspá and in Snorri Sturluson's Gylfaginning is the quickening to life of the first humans, named Askr and Embla, generally understood as “ash tree” and “elm” (or “vine”), from logs encountered by the gods along the seashore. The poetic and prose recensions are in broad agreement as to events and to the endowment of what may be understood as quintessentially human properties. The myth is contained in two stanzas in Vǫluspá (at least one introductory or transitional stanza may be missing):Unz þrír kvómu ór því liðiǫflgir ok ástkir æsir at húsi,fundu á landi lítt megandi,Ask ok Emblu ørlǫglausa.Ǫnd þau né áttu, óð þau né hǫfðu,lá né læti né litu góða;ǫnd gaf Óðinn, óð gaf Hœnir,lá gaf Lóðurr oc litu góða.1Carolyne Larrington translates:Until three gods, strong and loving,came out of that company;they found on land, capable of little,Ash and Embla, lacking in fate.Breath they had not, spirit they had not,blood nor bearing nor fresh complexions;breath gave Odin, spirit gave Hœnir,blood gave Lodur, and fresh complexions.(Poetic Edda 2014, 6)Snorri's version of the beginning of human life under divine aegis employs parallelism to a lesser extent, although the vital properties are mostly more neatly captured in individual monosyllables rather than in phrases.From his own edition, Anthony Faulkes translates: Then spoke Gangleri: “A great deal it seems to me they had achieved when earth and heaven were made and sun and stars were put in position and days were separated—and where did the people come from who inhabit the world?”Then High replied: “As Bor's sons walked along the sea shore, they came across two logs and created people out of them. The first gave breath and life, the second consciousness and movement, the third a face, speech and hearing and sight; they gave them clothes and names. The man was called Ask, the woman Embla, and from them were produced the mankind to whom the dwelling place under Midgard was given.” (Snorri Sturluson 1987, 13)The most recent examination of the story of Askr and Embla is by Anatoly Liberman in the context of a lengthy study of the name of Óðinn, the methodology of which is based in etymology (Liberman 2016, 48–9). He recalls generally accepted identifications of the key vocabulary of the Vǫluspá version but shows less concern for what superficially appears a transparent myth. In his summary of prior scholarship, “litt megandi” is rendered as “of little power” and “ørlǫglausa” as “unfated” (however this is to be understood). Of the bequeathed properties, ǫnd is “breath” or “life,” litr is “color,” and óðr is “voice.” It is immediately apparent how divergent this set is from Larrington's translations (breath, spirit, bearing, and fresh complexions). Liberman questions the relevance of mainstream interpretations of the event of becoming human. His own equivalences are considerably bolder and, he would surely judge, more essentialist. He accepts “breath” for ǫnd but offers “genitals” as the signification of litr, as if the capacity to continue the species were its defining property (but is surely possessed by all animate matter). Liberman finds the gloss “voice” for óðr to be “strained” and prefers “poetry.” He then turns to the lesser-known gods Hœnir and Lóðurr, who might be thought to embody the properties with which they endow the wave- and rock-smoothed logs. Liberman, like North (1991, 44) calls attention to the fact that óðr is everywhere associated with Óðinn—but not here. Other pointed scholarly remarks cited by Liberman are the interpretation of “ørlǫglausa” as “childless” and referring only to Embla (supporting Josefsson 2001) and the understanding of óðr as “mobility,” concurring with Holtsmark (1950) and Josefsson (2001). As distinct from the objectives of the present study, myth as distinct from the etymology of key terms is not Liberman's main concern.Several important studies of the myth go unmentioned by Liberman and are now passed in review with an eye to defining more closely the properties with which the three gods endow Askr and Embla. Samplonius (2016) proposes the least conventional interpretation: Askr and Embla reflect Adam and Eve, and, as logs, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Medieval theories of the influence of the planets are also in play, with Hœnir and Lóðurr representing the Morning Star and Saturn, respectively, and thereby good and evil. The gods’ gifts are then to be resumed as the power of discernment of right and wrong. Previously without fates, mankind is now responsible for its deeds. Clunies Ross (2022) sees a traditional mythologem that involves “the epiphany of an anthropomorphic deity on the beach” (182). The humanizing endowments are not central to this discussion and are subsumed under the heading of “creative act.” Clunies Ross (1994) also mentions the oft-noted commonalities with the creative account in Rígsþula, in which Heimdallr assumes full responsibility for the establishment of social classes—something very different from the defining characteristics of human life. On the basis of comparative evidence, chiefly Iranian, Hultgård (2014) argues that Askr and Embla were already living trees when encountered by the gods, that is, animate but not sentient in a conventional sense. Josefsson (2001) sees a fire-stick spun in a wooden socket as the image of active human sexuality and the basis for the myth, yet the evidence points to propagation only as a result of the other basic human features. Quinn (2006, 55) summarizes the endowments as “aspects of the powers of life” before turning to the determining of individual lives and fates by the Norns after birth.Henning Kure (2002) addresses the complex of problems associated with Askr and Embla from one of Egill Skallagrímsson's lausavísur, where he boasts of encounters in which he defeated large numbers of armed opponents—eight, eleven at a time. We return to this poetry below. In a closely reasoned argument that synthesizes earlier research, Kure sets out three stages in Old Norse anthropogony: first, the fabrication of wooden figures by the dwarves (“mannlíkun,” Vǫluspá, Eddukvæði2014, 294, st. 10), what we might call blanks, in ash and elm; second, the animation of these mannequins by Óðinn, Hœnir, and Lóðurr; third, the assignment of individual destinies—length of life and manner of death as occurs in all human life—by the nornir (sts. 19–20). Humankind is born to mortality. The refinement over three phases is from inanimate but organic matter, through essential and common human properties, to individual fates. Although the mention comes later in the poem than the fabrication by the dwarves, three females from among the jǫtnar seem involved here (st. 8). As intermediaries, perhaps providing the craftsmen with the raw material, they may also account for the marine passage of the wooden figures from the dwarves to the attention of the gods, as Suttungr does in the myth of the creation and eventual theft of the mead of poetry, in which the dwarves play a comparable role. In this cosmic economy, the dwarves are responsible for manufacture, the giants for supply and/or transportation, the gods for the local uploading of “software,” and the Norns for distribution.An important question to be addressed is whether the formal organization of the humanizing properties, for example, in Snorri two qualities from the first god, two from the second, and—as a merism—four from the third, is reflected in a coherent set of traditionally recognized human qualities, even in their hierarchized sequence, which has a more evident reflection in the sequence of divine interveners. To be sought here is what was once somewhat disparagingly called a folk taxonomy. To expand the field of vision, it is worth mentioning how a contemporary scholar, Neil Price, whose recent book (2020) incorporates a reference to Askr and Embla in its title, imagines the Norse mentalité as shaped by belief in four conceptual entities: hamr, “shape”; hugr, “personality, temperament, character, mind”; hamingja, the personification of individual luck; and fylgja, the fetch or follower who oversees family and individual fortunes.2 The human properties that will concurrently be in play are implicit in only the first two of these, and destiny, which might be glimpsed behind the mythic account's ørlǫglaus, appears as an outcome determined in large part by forces exterior to the individual, as overseen by the nornir. We note that in both the endowments of the original humans and in the life careers of their descendants, there is no mention of cultural capital. This is all nature, with no consideration of nurture, which, from a Norse-centric perspective, was doubtless seen as homogenous and normative.The discussion turns now to the set—if set it be—of endowments awarded the wooden blanks that will become Askr and Embla. Each faculty must be examined in terms of the designation, its etymology, and other usage; compatibility within the set or subset; and general congruence with what we know of the Old Norse worldview. Summaries from the best-known English translations of the Poetic Edda and Snorri's Edda will give a further sense of the generally understood nature of the qualities with which the first humans were endowed, but these literary translations do not, of course, offer much in the way of commentary on individual terms, sequence, or consideration of the interlocking nature of human properties. Snorri will be considered first, not by virtue of the text's age, but because we may expect a rational and reflective approach on his part, not necessarily historical accuracy in individual cases of pre-Christian terminology, and a concern for non-duplication and overall coherence. There is general agreement that ǫnd is “breath” and lif is “life” (Faulkes in Snorri Sturluson 1987; < Proto-Gmc *anadan-, “breath, spirit,” and < Proto-Gmc, *lība-, “life; body”; Kroonen 2010, s.vv.).3 Respiration, by virtue of its position in the sequence, would seem to be singled out as the prime marker of animate matter, while líf, “life,” is its fuller consequence. But there is no assurance that the hierarchy that seems apparent in the list as a whole is observed in the subsets, the gifts of individual gods. “Consciousness’ (Faulkes) for vit (nominal derivative of Proto-Gmc *witan- “to know,” Kroonen 2010, s.v.), now a term of modern neuroscience, seems anachronistic in the historical circumstances. Here, it seems that it is not so much awareness of a personal existence in reality that is meant as intellect and its practical and commonsensical applications (“intelligence” is suggestive of IQs and perhaps inactive, unapplied mental ability). Faulkes glosses hrœring with “movement,” but the articulated skeleton seems to come later. “Purposefulness” captures the meaning in this specific context, that is, a mental attitude, not physical movement. This notion recurs below in connection with the Vǫluspá text, in which the adjective ørlǫglaus, generally rendered as “without destinies,” is met. This is not so much a teleological objective, the reason why humans might be created, as the capacity to envisage and achieve goals, with overtones of will. The third subset of qualities is ásjóna, “face”; málit, “speech”; and heyrn, “hearing”; in the view of Faulkes (etymologies are undebated). These are less problematic than the foregoing, as the sequence moves from essentials, to the inner life, and then to life in the world and sensory perception of it. “Form” is to be preferred to “face” for ásjóna, since it is more comprehensive and less suggestive of social status or, more narrowly, facial features. Interestingly, speech, the capacity to communicate with other humans, is listed before hearing and sight, which may be thought to also serve as proxies for other sensory faculties such as smell, touch, and so on. My understanding of the essential human properties conferred by the gods on Askr and Embla is then: life, intellect, purposefulness, form, speech, hearing, and sight. As has often been observed, we know too little of Óðinn's two companions and their divine competencies to link them in a knowing way to the attributes they confer. It has been suggested that Loðurr may be Loki, and this is not unreasonable, but there is no hint of such negative emotions as resentment or hatred, or character traits such as guile and cunning, or other no less human capacities. Snorri's treatment of the myth is relatively cool and clinical, as befits his encyclopedic interests, with each property covered by a single term and no poetic flourishes. No effort to hint at the Adam and Eve story of Christianity is apparent.The briefer account in Vǫluspá is in general agreement with Snorri's list. First to be addressed is the absence of certain properties in the figures. They are called “lítt megandi,” “capable of little” (Poetic Edda 2014, 6); “lacking vigor” (Elder Edda 2011, 7); “hardly capable” (Kure 2006, 70); “(of) little power” (Hultgård 2014, 58). The understatement is typical Norse rhetoric, since they are entirely without life. “Of little strength” is proposed here and is to be understood as including the inner life of mind and emotion. “Without destinies” as the interpretation of the accompanying epithet “ørlǫglausa” is literal enough, but the hypothetical paradigm that would defer the gifting of individual fates to a later moment under the ægis of the Norns suggests that at this point, it is not the totality of a life and its outcomes that is indicated but rather the situation of the carved logs in their immediate context. “Without purpose” captures the lack of significance of the logs, their irrelevance, with no hint of what may become of them once vivified and humanized. The text continues with a simple rhetorical device: the effigies lack a property, a god gives them that property. But the parallelism is not exact, in no small part due, one may assume, to the formal demands of the verses. A slight amplification, seen overall, occurs in the third bequest. The poem states that the future Askr and Embla lacked both lá and læti, but only the first of these deficiencies is redressed in the second god's grant. Larrington translates “blood” and “bearing” for the deficiency, “blood” for its remedy; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “no pulse nor gesture”; Hultgård has “blood, voice.” We return to these concepts after the discussion of the initial endowments. First among these is ǫnd, undeniably “breath,” but a curious attribute to be conferred by Óðinn, who is otherwise associated with Hœnir's gift, óðr. The latter is a culturally fraught term, the object of considerable scholarly comment. While etymology does not determine semantic destiny, it is useful to recall that the reconstructed Proto-Indo-European root underlying the form is *u̯āt-, which Pokorny identifies as signifying “possession” (Pokorny 1959, s.v. “u̯āt-” [1], “psychically aroused, possessed”; according to Kroonen 2010, < Proto-Gmc *wōda-, although his gloss, “delirious,” is too narrow). In reflexes descended from this PIE root (Proto-Indo-European), a wide variety of mental and emotional states is indicated, seemingly the outcome of possession from an unspecified source: English wod, “mad”; Old Irish uaith, “seer, diviner”; perhaps Latin vates, “ib.” (possibly a loan from Gaulish); and in Old Norse, óðr, strikingly both “(battle) fury, rage” and “poetic creation,” hence, “poetry” and “poem.” Óðinn is the presiding deity for these heightened mental situations. Óðr might be clinically defined as “receptivity to psychic stimulus and arousal,” but a handier term is clearly needed. “Inspiration” might serve but competes with simple physical “breath” in this context. “Spirit” in the sense of spiritedness is another option but should not suggest any notion of selfhood or soul. A radical solution is provisionally proposed: “psyche” in its older meanings.In the translators’ treatment of lá and læti, there is little concern for duplication or semantic overlapping (Larrington has “blood” and “bearing”; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “pulse”; and Hultgård has “blood”). Lá is a variant of læ in the sense of “craft” or “skills” (de Vries 1959, s.v. læ, “benehmen, behavior”); “aptitude” is offered here to designate this latent state. Since læti is paired with lá/læ among pre-animation deficiencies but is not mentioned again when the human properties are transferred, it seems complementary to “skill” and may be tentatively rendered as “conventional behavior, sociability” (cf. Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957; “manner”). Disagreement also attends scholarly interpretation of litu goða: Larrington: “fresh complexions”; Orchard: “healthy looks”; Kure: “healthy looks”; Hultgård: “good appearance”; Liberman: “genitals.” A majority of scholars identify the term in question as litr, “color, complexion, external appearance.” Liberman sees liðr, and interprets it as “penis.” But the principal meaning here is “joint” or “part of the body” (< Proto-Gmc *liþu- “member, body,” Kroonen 2010 s.v.). Kinship was figured as a set of articulated joints, as evidenced by Old Norse kné, “knee” but also “degree of kinship” (cf. Latin genu/genus). What is meant in Vǫluspá, it is contended, is a functioning, articulated body, with overtones of reproduction and lineage, thus movement in both space and time. It is then not the capacity for sexual congress that is intended but its outcomes. Let us stay with “articulated body” as a proxy for this rich association. As with Snorri, the movement in the poem is from within—the inner life—to without—perception of the external world and (future) interaction with other humans. At this point, it should be emphasized that it is not simply a serviceable and readable translation that is sought here but some deeper insight into the Old Norse thought world. Inevitably, the arguments over identification “pull” in the direction of concepts that are familiar to us moderns, while also seeking to remedy the inadvertent trivialization of the endowments seen in earlier translations, often derivative of largely context-free dictionary entries. To summarize, the human properties given Askr and Embla in Vǫluspá are then breath, psyche, aptitudes, social behavior, and good physiques (with sexual competency).4 The match with Snorri (life, intellect, purpose, form, speech, hearing, and sight) is good as concerns fundamentals, but less exact for complementary properties, which nonetheless trend toward a social dimension lacking in Snorri. A number of qualifiers must attend these still tentative identifications and any conclusions that might be drawn from them. What appeared a puzzling folk taxonomy may now be read as a neat set of faculties, coherent and comprehensible from a modern perspective. Apparently subsumed in these basic gifts are the capacity for, for example, emotions, memory, curiosity, loyalty, love, charity, and the like, even the capacity for religious belief or awe before the gods. Noteworthy is the fact that, at this moment of inception, no fundamental distinction is made between man and woman, save what is implied by the gendered names. As in the reference to humankind as descendants of Askr and Embla, the listing is forward-looking. After the assignment of destinies, a next step is to create a structure of status. This is done in the poem Rígsþula (Schjødt 2021), foreseen in the bestowal of names and clothes, the former looking back to initial material nature, the latter to social convention. As in much of Old Norse cosmology, the elaboration of the universe is largely through transformation rather than creation ex nihilo; thus, the first humans are made from the tried and true material of wood. The frequent interpretation of the setting for this transformation as the seashore is supported by the recognized liminal situation of the shore, uniting the cosmic entities of sky, sea, and land, and often the scene of dynamic interactions. The shore might also be the expected “delivery point” of the blanks, if dwarves and giants are involved.Discussion returns now to the names Askr and Embla, speculation as to how they are meaningful in the context of human endowments, and how at least one skald drew on this myth and these names in his verse. The occasional verse by Egill Skallagrímsson that was examined by Kure (2002, 161) comes at a point in the saga when Egill is well-settled in Iceland but has vivid memories of fairly recent viking expeditions to continental Europe.Bǫrðumz einn við viij.,en við ellifu tysuarSua fingum val vargivarð ek einn bani þeiraskiptum hart af heiptumhlífar skelfiknífumlét ek af emblu askielld valbasta kastað.5Kure translates:Sloges jeg ene mod viii (otte)og mod elleve to gange;sådan produceredes faldne til ulven,blev jeg ene deres bane.Vi udvekslede hårdt af heftighedværn med skælve-knive;lod jeg af emblas askvalbånds ild kastet.(I fought alone against eightand twice against eleven;this yielded slain men for wolves,I was their bane.We developed duress from violence,Defense with shivering blades;I let Embla's ashCast the sword hilt's [?] fire.)6Numerous complementary observations may be added to the summary of Kure's argument. In addition to difficulties of interpretation posed by the apparent Askr/Embla juxtaposition, other rare vocabulary is met in the stanza, for example, valbǫst. In the valkyrie Sigrdrífa's injunction to Sigurðr to incise runes on his sword (Sigrdrífumál, in Eddukvæði 2014, st. 6), the term accompanies those for the blade and hilt. The valbǫst, on the other hand, has not been satisfactorily identified. Kure (2002, 162) calls it a heiti for “sword”; Falk (1914, 30–1) thought the name referenced the leather grip of the hilt. Although the form val- has numerous homonyms, and val-r, “the slain” has always suggested itself here, we may turn instead to the adjective val-r meaning “rounded” (Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957, s.v. valr). The second element may be traced to Proto-Indo-European *bheuHs- with a meaning “to swell.”7 The signification of valbǫst would then be “swollen, rounded object.” This very neatly describes the pommel of a medieval sword. It should not be forgotten that the pommel could be used in offense, on a return stroke to the head or body. Yet in the poetic and perhaps even everyday context, it could not fail to call up echoes of valr, “the slain.” Skelfiknífum poses a challenge of a different kind. Is this a functional designation for a specific arm, or figurative language, that is, is the shivering a phenomenon of the sword or its effect, or is this flickering, intended to evoke the movement of, and light effects on, the blade? We return to this crux in the context of weapon types in the discussion below.From the manuscript he follows, Kure emends the ermar of the second helming to Emblu, on the assumption that the Askr/Embla couple is being named (another manuscript has emlu). Whatever the apparent distance between Embla and álm, Kure takes the reference to be to the tree species elm, Old Norse álmr, and it is then a parallel to askr, “ash.”8 Historically, the elm was, like the ash, of great practical value. The wood is tough but flexible, with a complex grain; it takes steaming, shaping, and nails and rivets well (s.v. “Elm”).9 It was used in the fabrication of household objects and as shafts for weapons and tools. Important for Kure's identification but not mentioned by him is that elm is water-resistant. It was used not only for watering troughs and vessels but would also be effective in the form of a scabbard or sheath for a sword as a means to prevent corrosion. In fact, since pottery finds are rare at early medieval Scandinavian archaeological sites, it has been concluded that there was no local production (Ashby 2019, 54). But artifacts for preparing and storing food, for storage and transport were necessary, and elm, because of these properties—in particular, water-resistance—would have been a suitable candidate for the materia of fabrication. Askr as “sword” (otherwise richly attested in Old Norse poetic language, and, because of its general shape, “man”) and embla as “scabbard” are then the identifications with which Kure concludes. The male/female complementarity of the first humans is also retained in the sexual imagery of sword and sheath as penis and vagina. Unmentioned by Kure in this regard is Steingerðr's wry comment in Kormáks saga. At the idea of leaving her second husband, Þorkell tinteinn, for Kormákr, she questions why she (figuring herself as sheath) should want to replace one knife with another: “Steingerðr kvazk ekki skyldu kaupa um knífa” (Kormáks saga1939, 298), an image not too distant from Kure's gendered speculation.Kure's solution—scabbard and sword—is attractive and would sit well with Egill's usual fighting mode in Iceland when facing his social equals in single combat. But the narrative mode is now a different one: the Icelander abroad. Combat with sword and shield also raises difficulties when we consider the practical circumstances of early medieval warfare, both in pitched battle and in encounters between a single fighter and a large group of opponents. The historical background to Egill's commemorative poem is his encounters with groups of eight and eleven men in which he kills them all. This is very unlikely with only a shield and sword or axe, because he would not have been able to protect his back from the crowd of foes nor keep them at a distance while engaging them one at a time. Another weapon was most likely involved. It has often been observed that the poems preserved in the sagas, rather than simply being a kind of artistic commentary on events, may actually be the literary source and motor of the fictionalized events of the prose. The topic of the lausavísa, Egill facing a superior number of opponents, is introduced in the saga in the account of a viking raid undertaken with his friend Arinbjǫrn to Frisia. After their landing, the peasants living in the settlements in the marshes flee, with Egill and his troop in pursuit. The Frisians retreat over simple wooden bridges across the numerous dykes that drain the marshes and mark the field boundaries, then withdraw the logs. Only Egill has the strength and skill to jump across the waterway. But then the fleeing Frisians turn back against him. He kills all eleven, although no details are given. On his return to the beached ships, he discovers that his way is blocked by a crowd of armed peasants. The saga continues: Ok er Egill kom ofan ok hann sá, hvat títt var, þá rann hann at sem snarast, þar sem múginn stóð; hafði hann kesjuna fyrir sér ok tók hana tveimr hǫndum, en kastaði skildinum á bak sér. Hann lagði fram kesjunni, ok stǫkk frá allt, þat er fyrir stóð, ok gafsk honum svá rúm fram í gegnum fylkingina; sótti hann svá ofan til manna sinna; þóttust þeir hafa hann ór helju heimtan. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar1933, 218)(And when Egill came down and and saw what the situation was, he ran toward the crowd at full tilt; he had his halberd in front of him and grasped it with both hands, throwing his shield onto his back. He lunged forward with his halberd at everyone who stood before him and he made his way through the host. Then he headed down toward his men, who thought he had come back from the dead.)The weapon here identified as a halberd is called kesja in Norse (etymology unknown; de Vries 1959, s.v.). On a somewhat later trip through the Eiðaskóg of Värmland, Egill and his men are described as equipped with slashing and thrusting weapons: “hǫggvápn ok lagvápn” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 235). This seems more plausibly pole arms than swords and shields, which are usually named outright. Here, Egill has an adventure similar to that in Frisia, dispatching a total of eight men, although the cut and thrust of the conflict is again not detailed: “en ekki er at segja frá hǫggva viðskiptum” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, chap. 75, p. 236). In an immediately following incident, Egill again faces eleven opponents, killing them all. This time, there is no detail on his weapon, which may be assumed to be the halberd that has served him so well.Before trying to determine its exact features, it is of interest to note Egill's use of a kesja in the Battle of Vin Moor in England. Þórólfr and Egill are fighting as mercenaries under King Athelstan, and their weaponry is explicitly stated before the first engagement: Þórólfr var svá búinn, at hann hafði skjǫld víðan ok þykkvan, hjálm á hǫfði allsterkan, gyrðr sverði því, er hann kallaði Lang, mikit vápn ok gott; kesju hafði hann í hendi; fjǫðrin var tveggja álna lǫng ok sleginn fram broddr ferstrendr, en upp var fjǫðrin breið, falrinn bæði langr ok digr, skaptit var eigi hæra en taka mátti hendi til fals ok furðuliga digrt; járnteinn var í falnum ok skaftit allt járnvafit; þau spjót váru kǫlluð brynþvarar. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 136)(Þórólfr was so equipped that he had a broad, thick shield and a sturdy helmet on his head, and was girded with a sword that he called Long, a large and trusty weapon. He carried a thrusting spear in his hand. Its blade was two ells [40 inches–50 inches] long and had four [sharpened] sides; it was forged to a point at one end but thick at the shaft end. The socket was both long and strong while the shaft was no longer up to the socket than a man's forearm and was exceptionally strong. There was an iron spike projecting from [one side of] the socket and the shaft was completely wound round with iron. Such spears were known as “mail-scrapers.”)10This is then a fairly compact weapon (measuring about 60 inches overall), practical in the close quarters of the pitched battle at Vin Moor that was preceded by negotiations as to procedure and even had the battlefield staked out with hazel rods to ensure concentrat
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