Most people have at least
heard of Wayland the Smith, though that's usually the extent of their knowledge. In medieval times, however, his story was so popular that versions of it were told throughout the Teutonic world. The most detailed aspect of his legend--for us--is the tale of his capture, imprisonment, and revenge; and I mean to scrutinize some long-held assumptions about this episode.
The name “Wayland” has several variations. In the Old Norse poem Volundarkviða he is called Volundr. In the (much) later Norse Velents Thattr he is called Velent--the form you would expect in the case of direct borrowing from English or (more likely) Saxon sources.
I use the spelling Wayland rather than the Old English “Wēland” because
for a reader of Modern English that spelling more closely approximates
the phonetic value of the Old English name. When referring to the legend generally, I will use the form Wayland. When referring to the tale as presented in a specific source, I will use the form peculiar to that source, e.g., I will not use the form “Volundr” in describing a scene from
Velents Thattr.
An overview of the story from
Volundarkviða:
Volundr is a smith who lives with his two brothers in Wolfdales. One day three swan maidens arrive, and each maiden takes one of the brothers as a husband. After eight winters the maidens grow restless, and in the ninth they leave, seeking their destinies. Egil rides East in search of his wife, while Slagviðr rides south; Volundr stays at Wolfdales, content to make gold rings while he waits for his wife to return.
King Níðuðr learns of this and leads a raid on Volundr’s house, capturing the man and the gold. Níðuðr’s queen, seeing Volundr’s ferocity, counsels that Volundr be hamstrung and set on the island of Sævarstrond. There Volundr fashions all manner of wonderful treasures in his forge, never sleeping.
One day Níðuðr’s two sons come to the forge. Volundr shows them the gold and gems, and promises to give it to them if they return without telling anyone.
They wake up early to go to the forge, where Volundr beheads them both. He fashions silver drinking vessels of their skulls, and sends these to Níðuðr. From their eyes he creates gleaming gems which he sends to the queen; and from their teeth he fashions brooches for their daughter, Boðvildr.
Boðvildr later breaks a ring and brings it to Volundr to be mended. Volundr plies her with beer so that she falls asleep. He rapes her, then announces that his wrongs have been avenged before he flies from the island on wings he has fashioned with his elvish craft. Stopping at Níðuðr’s hall to boast of his deeds and declare that Boðvildr is pregnant, he completes his escape and flies into the night.
Boðvildr is summoned by Níðuðr and confesses to having been with Volundr on Sævarstrond, pleading that she had neither the cunning nor the power to stop him.
There is one aspect of this tale which has always struck me as fishy, and that is Volundr’s relationship with Boðvildr. It has always been asserted that Volundr raped Boðvildr, and I went along with it for years, interpreting the extant evidence in light of my understanding.
Then I read the poem in Old Norse.
Little things about the poem bothered me; they didn’t add up if I assumed that Boðvildr was raped.
In the Old English poem Deor we find Beadohild pregnant, and fearful of the outcome; the preceding verse deals with Wēland, but no mention is made of rape.
We read in the Eddic poem
Volundarkviða, stanza 28:
He bore her beer, for he was more cunning,
so that on the couch she fell asleep.
Boðvildr tells her father that she was on the island with Volundr for only a brief time (lit., the time it takes for the tide to turn), and ends the poem with her lament,
him I had no cunning to prevent,
him I had no might to prevent.
This seems like a pretty clear indictment; but seen in the context of the whole tale, these facts are not as damning as they appear.
In
Volundarkviða the scene of the ring brought to the smithy is near the very end of the action. It does not serve the purpose that it served in
Velents Tháttr, where that incident created the relationship between Velent and the princess. Volundr plies her with beer so that she sleeps, then flies off. That’s all. If we think that she was raped, we read that into the poem, assuming that the poet knows that his audience knows what happened between them.
The curious thing is that Boðvildr weeps when he goes–not because she was violated, but
“tregði for friðils ok foður reiði,”
“
fearing her lover’s departure, and her father’s wrath.”
Indeed, before he reveals anything to the king, Volundr takes precautions to
protect the princess. He makes Níðuðr swear that he will not harm Boðvildr, nor the child which Volundr knows she carries.
The fact that he knows she is pregnant means that their first intimate encounter must have happened long before he fled the island. Ursula Dronke, in her commentary to
Volundarkvidha, writes that when Boðvildr is questioned by her father “it is unlikely that Boðvildr already knows she is pregnant.” This is based on the assumption that she was raped directly before Volundr’s flight; but if that were the case, it is even more unlikely (impossible, in fact) for Volundr to know that Boðvildr was pregnant–and he certainly does know.
Boðvildr’s final statement, that she could not have prevented Volundr from violating her, was certainly spoken in her own defense–she fears “
foður reiði,” unaware that Volundr has secured her safety. This is, in fact, the same defense Leucothoe used when questioned by her father over her dalliances with Apollo–he made her do it. It did not save Leucothoe, though–her father had her buried alive, a fate which Volundr has the foresight to prevent for his own lover.
Like most elder poems, this one repays careful thought, revealing the story’s complexity and symbolic richness. The poet’s incredible economy, even terseness, belies the full immensity of the events which he describes. Those who knew the poem certainly had access to other sources which filled out the details. The more thoughtful would have worked out other details for themselves, perhaps pondering it while going about their daily tasks, as I have often done since committing the poem to memory.
What to make of the sequence of events before Volundr’s escape? Why does he get Boðvildr drunk before his flight?
I see Boðvildr in a meadow, doing whatever young ladies do in their leisure time, when she breaks her ring. She takes it to her secret lover; he will gladly fix it for her, and if anyone should catch her in the smithy she has a good reason for being there. I hear her in the smithy, asking Volundr to use his craft to repair her little treasure. Volundr, however, had been making other preparations before her arrival. He knows that he must go in secret; a besotted young lover will not willingly let him leave her. Yet here she is, even now as his wings are finished.
Volundr puts the best face on a bad situation, assuring her that he will fix the ring for her. She would stay, using the opportunity to spend time with him; she cannot be gotten rid of so easily. So he begins to ply her with beer–soon enough she will be oblivious to his long-planned escape. Donning the wings, perhaps even kissing her fondly, he goes–though she awakens even as he, laughing, takes the freedom that had been so long denied him.
It is this point, directly after Volundr’s flight from the smithy, that intrigues me-–but not the part that the poet shows us. I am most interested in Boðvildr now, for between the scene in the smithy and the final scene in her father’s hall, the poet has removed from our scrutiny.
We know that Boðvildr weeps; she loves him and cannot bear to see him go. More distressing, when her father finds out about the two of them–as he surely must, since she is carrying Volundr’s child–Volundr will not be there to protect her. From a practical perspective, a crippled prisoner, however mighty, would not give much protection from Níðuðr’s wrath. But it matters not to the young heart in love; maybe he could do
something...at the least, he would still be near.
But all that is gone now. She is alone and helpless, without her lover, her stalwart beam to lean on, to confide in, to trust. What will she do? What would any of us do?
We know that she went to her bower, for when summons her for questioning his thrall knows where to find her. Where else? At least here, among her familiar possessions, she could ponder her situation. Perhaps she even went to bed. Maybe if she slept, it would all go away; she would awaken and it would all have been a mistake, a bad dream. She would find Volundr in his smithy and no-one would be suspicious of anything...
We could leave her here, or after her interview with Níðuðr: a terrified, heartbroken young girl whose little world, between her father and her lover, has been shattered. Certainly this is the image which Deor leaves us with, and it is a compelling one.
But I wish to do no such thing. There is always hope that somehow, through the unseen workings of Wyrd, things will right themselves. Wyrd really does go ever as She will; but Hope really does spring eternal to match her. Indeed, Velents Tháttr tells us that Velent eventually returns for bride and his child and takes them home to Sjælland, where presumably they live Happily Ever After.
And why not?
