Produced by John Bickers; Dagny; Emma Dudding
ERIC BRIGHTEYES
by H. Rider Haggard
DEDICATION
Madam,
You have graciously conveyed to me the intelligence that during theweary weeks spent far from his home--in alternate hope and fear,in suffering and mortal trial--a Prince whose memory all men mustreverence, the Emperor Frederick, found pleasure in the reading of mystories: that "they interested and fascinated him."
While the world was watching daily at the bedside of your Majesty'sImperial husband, while many were endeavouring to learn courage in oursupremest need from the spectacle of that heroic patience, a distantwriter little knew that it had been his fortune to bring to such asufferer an hour's forgetfulness of sorrow and pain.
This knowledge, to an author, is far dearer than any praise, and it isin gratitude that, with your Majesty's permission, I venture to dedicateto you the tale of Eric Brighteyes.
The late Emperor, at heart a lover of peace, though by duty a soldier ofsoldiers, might perhaps have cared to interest himself in a warrior oflong ago, a hero of our Northern stock, whose days were spent in strife,and whose latest desire was Rest. But it may not be; like the GoldenEric of this Saga, and after a nobler fashion, he has passed through theHundred Gates into the Valhalla of Renown.
To you, then, Madam, I dedicate this book, a token, however slight andunworthy, of profound respect and sympathy.
I am, Madam,
Your Majesty's most obedient servant,
H. Rider Haggard.
November 17, 1889.
To H.I.M. Victoria, Empress Frederick of Germany.
INTRODUCTION
"Eric Brighteyes" is a romance founded on the Icelandic Sagas. "What isa saga?" "Is it a fable or a true story?" The answer is not altogethersimple. For such sagas as those of Burnt Njal and Grettir the Strongpartake both of truth and fiction: historians dispute as to theproportions. This was the manner of the saga's growth: In the early daysof the Iceland community--that republic of aristocrats--say, between thedates 900 and 1100 of our era, a quarrel would arise between two greatfamilies. As in the case of the Njal Saga, its cause, probably, was theill doings of some noble woman. This quarrel would lead to manslaughter.Then blood called for blood, and a vendetta was set on foot that endedonly with the death by violence of a majority of the actors in the dramaand of large numbers of their adherents. In the course of the feud, menof heroic strength and mould would come to the front and perform deedsworthy of the iron age which bore them. Women also would help tofashion the tale, for good or ill, according to their natural giftsand characters. At last the tragedy was covered up by death and time,leaving only a few dinted shields and haunted cairns to tell of thosewho had played its leading parts.
But its fame lived on in the minds of men. From generation to generationskalds wandered through the winter snows, much as Homer may havewandered in his day across the Grecian vales and mountains, to find awelcome at every stead, because of the old-time story they had to tell.Here, night after night, they would sit in the ingle and while awaythe weariness of the dayless dark with histories of the times when mencarried their lives in their hands, and thought them well lost if theremight be a song in the ears of folk to come. To alter the tale was oneof the greatest of crimes: the skald must repeat it as it came to him;but by degrees undoubtedly the sagas did suffer alteration. The factsremained the same indeed, but around them gathered a mist of miraculousoccurrences and legends. To take a single instance: the account ofthe burning of Bergthorsknoll in the Njal Saga is not only a piece ofdescriptive writing that for vivid, simple force and insight is scarcelyto be matched out of Homer and the Bible, it is also obviously true. Wefeel as we read, that no man could have invented that story, though somegreat skald threw it into shape. That the tale is true, the writer of"Eric" can testify, for, saga in hand, he has followed every act of thedrama on its very site. There he who digs beneath the surface of thelonely mound that looks across plain and sea to Westman Isles may stillfind traces of the burning, and see what appears to be the black sandwith which the hands of Bergthora and her women strewed the earthenfloor some nine hundred years ago, and even the greasy and clottedremains of the whey that they threw upon the flame to quench it. He maydiscover the places where Fosi drew up his men, where Skarphedinn died,singing while his legs were burnt from off him, where Kari leapt fromthe flaming ruin, and the dell in which he laid down to rest--at everystep, in short, the truth of the narrative becomes more obvious. And yetthe tale has been added to, for, unless we may believe that some humanbeings are gifted with second sight, we cannot accept as true theprophetic vision that came to Runolf, Thorstein's son; or that of Njalwho, on the evening of the onslaught, like Theoclymenus in the Odyssey,saw the whole board and the meats upon it "one gore of blood."
Thus, in the Norse romance now offered to the reader, the tale of Ericand his deeds would be true; but the dream of Asmund, the witchcraft ofSwanhild, the incident of the speaking head, and the visions of Ericand Skallagrim, would owe their origin to the imagination of successivegenerations of skalds; and, finally, in the fifteenth or sixteenthcentury, the story would have been written down with all itssupernatural additions.
The tendency of the human mind--and more especially of the Norsemind--is to supply uncommon and extraordinary reasons for actions andfacts that are to be amply accounted for by the working of naturalforces. Swanhild would have needed no "familiar" to instruct her in herevil schemes; Eric would have wanted no love-draught to bring about hisoverthrow. Our common experience of mankind as it is, in opposition tomankind as we fable it to be, is sufficient to teach us that the passionof one and the human weakness of the other would suffice to these ends.The natural magic, the beauty and inherent power of such a womanas Swanhild, are things more forceful than any spell magicians haveinvented, or any demon they are supposed to have summoned to theiraid. But no saga would be complete without the intervention of suchextraneous forces: the need of them was always felt, in order to throwup the acts of heroes and heroines, and to invest their persons withan added importance. Even Homer felt this need, and did not scruple tointroduce not only second sight, but gods and goddesses, and to bringtheir supernatural agency to bear directly on the personages of hischant, and that far more freely than any Norse sagaman. A word may beadded in explanation of the appearances of "familiars" in the shapesof animals, an instance of which will be found in this story. It wasbelieved in Iceland, as now by the Finns and Eskimo, that the passionsand desires of sorcerers took visible form in such creatures as wolvesor rats. These were called "sendings," and there are many allusions tothem in the Sagas.
Another peculiarity that may be briefly alluded to as eminentlycharacteristic of the Sagas is their fatefulness. As we read we seemto hear the voice of Doom speaking continually. "_Things will happen asthey are fated_": that is the keynote of them all. The Norse mind hadlittle belief in free will, less even than we have to-day. Men and womenwere born with certain characters and tendencies, given to them in orderthat their lives should run in appointed channels, and their acts bringabout an appointed end. They do not these things of their own desire,though their desires prompt them to the deeds: they do them because theymust. The Norns, as they name Fate, have mapped out their path long andlong ago; their feet are set therein, and they must tread it to the end.Such was the conclusion of our Scandinavian ancestors--a belief forcedupon them by their intense realisation of the futility of human hopesand schemings, of the terror and the tragedy of life, the vanity of itsdesires, and the untravelled gloom or sleep, dreamless or dreamfull,which lies beyond its end.
Though the Sagas are entrancing, both as examples of literature of whichthere is but little in the world and because of their living inte
rest,they are scarcely known to the English-speaking public. This is easyto account for: it is hard to persuade the nineteenth century world tointerest itself in people who lived and events that happened a thousandyears ago. Moreover, the Sagas are undoubtedly difficult reading. Thearchaic nature of the work, even in a translation; the multitude of itsactors; the Norse sagaman's habit of interweaving endless side-plots,and the persistence with which he introduces the genealogy andadventures of the ancestors of every unimportant character, are none ofthem to the taste of the modern reader.
"Eric Brighteyes" therefore, is clipped of these peculiarities, and,to some extent, is cast in the form of the romance of our own day,archaisms being avoided as much as possible. The author will begratified should he succeed in exciting interest in the troubled livesof our Norse forefathers, and still more so if his difficult experimentbrings readers to the Sagas--to the prose epics of our own race. Tooample, too prolix, too crowded with detail, they cannot indeed vie inart with the epics of Greece; but in their pictures of life, simple andheroic, they fall beneath no literature in the world, save the Iliad andthe Odyssey alone.
ERIC BRIGHTEYES
I
HOW ASMUND THE PRIEST FOUND GROA THE WITCH
There lived a man in the south, before Thangbrand, Wilibald's son,preached the White Christ in Iceland. He was named Eric Brighteyes,Thorgrimur's son, and in those days there was no man like him forstrength, beauty and daring, for in all these things he was the first.But he was not the first in good-luck.
Two women lived in the south, not far from where the Westman Islandsstand above the sea. Gudruda the Fair was the name of the one, andSwanhild, called the Fatherless, Groa's daughter, was the other. Theywere half-sisters, and there were none like them in those days, for theywere the fairest of all women, though they had nothing in common excepttheir blood and hate.
Now of Eric Brighteyes, of Gudruda the Fair and of Swanhild theFatherless, there is a tale to tell.
These two fair women saw the light in the self-same hour. But EricBrighteyes was their elder by five years. The father of Eric wasThorgrimur Iron-Toe. He had been a mighty man; but in fighting with aBaresark,[*] who fell upon him as he came up from sowing his wheat, hisfoot was hewn from him, so that afterwards he went upon a wooden legshod with iron. Still, he slew the Baresark, standing on one leg andleaning against a rock, and for that deed people honoured him much.Thorgrimur was a wealthy yeoman, slow to wrath, just, and rich infriends. Somewhat late in life he took to wife Saevuna, Thorod'sdaughter. She was the best of women, strong in mind and second-sighted,and she could cover herself in her hair. But these two never loved eachother overmuch, and they had but one child, Eric, who was born whenSaevuna was well on in years.
[*] The Baresarks were men on whom a passing fury of battle came; they were usually outlawed.
The father of Gudruda was Asmund Asmundson, the Priest of Middalhof. Hewas the wisest and the wealthiest of all men who lived in the southof Iceland in those days, owning many farms and, also, two ships ofmerchandise and one long ship of war, and having much money out atinterest. He had won his wealth by viking's work, robbing the Englishcoasts, and black tales were told of his doings in his youth on the sea,for he was a "red-hand" viking. Asmund was a handsome man, with blueeyes and a large beard, and, moreover, was very skilled in matters oflaw. He loved money much, and was feared of all. Still, he had manyfriends, for as he aged he grew more kindly. He had in marriage Gudruda,the daughter of Bjoern, who was very sweet and kindly of nature, so thatthey called her Gudruda the Gentle. Of this marriage there were twochildren, Bjoern and Gudruda the Fair; but Bjoern grew up like his fatherin youth, strong and hard, and greedy of gain, while, except for herwonderful beauty, Gudruda was her mother's child alone.
The mother of Swanhild the Fatherless was Groa the Witch. She was aFinn, and it is told of her that the ship on which she sailed, tryingto run under the lee of the Westman Isles in a great gale from thenorth-east, was dashed to pieces on a rock, and all those on board ofher were caught in the net of Ran[*] and drowned, except Groa herself,who was saved by her magic art. This at the least is true, that, asAsmund the Priest rode down by the sea-shore on the morning after thegale, seeking for some strayed horses, he found a beautiful woman,who wore a purple cloak and a great girdle of gold, seated on a rock,combing her black hair and singing the while; and, at her feet, washingto and fro in a pool, was a dead man. He asked whence she came, and sheanswered:
"Out of the Swan's Bath."
[*] The Norse goddess of the sea.
Next, he asked her where were her kin. But, pointing to the dead man,she said that this alone was left of them.
"Who was the man, then?" said Asmund the Priest.
She laughed again and sang this song:--
Groa sails up from the Swan's Bath, Death Gods grip the Dead Man's hand. Look where lies her luckless husband, Bolder sea-king ne'er swung sword! Asmund, keep the kirtle-wearer, For last night the Norns were crying, And Groa thought they told of thee: Yea, told of thee and babes unborn.
"How knowest thou my name?" asked Asmund.
"The sea-mews cried it as the ship sank, thine and others--and theyshall be heard in story."
"Then that is the best of luck," quoth Asmund; "but I think that thouart fey."[*]
[*] I.e. subject to supernatural presentiments, generally connected with approaching doom.
"Ay," she answered, "fey and fair."
"True enough thou art fair. What shall we do with this dead man?"
"Leave him in the arms of Ran. So may all husbands lie."
They spoke no more with her at that time, seeing that she was awitchwoman. But Asmund took her up to Middalhof, and gave her a farm,and she lived there alone, and he profited much by her wisdom.
Now it chanced that Gudruda the Gentle was with child, and when her timecame she gave a daughter birth--a very fair girl, with dark eyes. Onthe same day, Groa the witchwoman brought forth a girl-child, and menwondered who was its father, for Groa was no man's wife. It was women'stalk that Asmund the Priest was the father of this child also; but whenhe heard it he was angry, and said that no witchwoman should bear abairn of his, howsoever fair she was. Nevertheless, it was still saidthat the child was his, and it is certain that he loved it as a manloves his own; but of all things, this is the hardest to know. When Groawas questioned she laughed darkly, as was her fashion, and said that sheknew nothing of it, never having seen the face of the child's father,who rose out of the sea at night. And for this cause some thought himto have been a wizard or the wraith of her dead husband; but others saidthat Groa lied, as many women have done on such matters. But of all thistalk the child alone remained and she was named Swanhild.
Now, but an hour before the child of Gudruda the Gentle was born, Asmundwent up from his house to the Temple, to tend the holy fire that burnednight and day upon the altar. When he had tended the fire, he sat downupon the cross-benches before the shrine, and, gazing on the image ofthe Goddess Freya, he fell asleep and dreamed a very evil dream.
He dreamed that Gudruda the Gentle bore a dove most beautiful to see,for all its feathers were of silver; but that Groa the Witch bore agolden snake. And the snake and the dove dwelt together, and ever thesnake sought to slay the dove. At length there came a great white swanflying over Coldback Fell, and its tongue was a sharp sword. Now theswan saw the dove and loved it, and the dove loved the swan; but thesnake reared itself, and hissed, and sought to kill the dove. But theswan covered her with his wings, and beat the snake away. Then he,Asmund, came out and drove away the swan, as the swan had driven thesnake, and it wheeled high into the air and flew south, and the snakeswam away also through the sea. But the dove drooped and now it wasblind. Then an eagle came from the north, and would have taken the dove,but it fled round and round, crying, and always the eagle drew nearerto it. At length, from the south the swan came back, flying heavily, andabout its neck was twined the golden snake, and with it came a rav
en.And it saw the eagle and loud it trumpeted, and shook the snake from itso that it fell like a gleam of gold into the sea. Then the eagle andthe swan met in battle, and the swan drove the eagle down and broke itwith his wings, and, flying to the dove, comforted it. But those in thehouse ran out and shot at the swan with bows and drove it away, but nowhe, Asmund, was not with them. And once more the dove drooped. Again theswan came back, and with it the raven, and a great host were gatheredagainst them, and, among them, all of Asmund's kith and kin, and the menof his quarter and some of his priesthood, and many whom he did not knowby face. And the swan flew at Bjoern his son, and shot out the sword ofits tongue and slew him, and many a man it slew thus. And the raven,with a beak and claws of steel, slew also many a man, so that Asmund'skindred fled and the swan slept by the dove. But as it slept the goldensnake crawled out of the sea, and hissed in the ears of men, and theyrose up to follow it. It came to the swan and twined itself about itsneck. It struck at the dove and slew it. Then the swan awoke and theraven awoke, and they did battle till all who remained of Asmund'skindred and people were dead. But still the snake clung about the swan'sneck, and presently snake and swan fell into the sea, and far out on thesea there burned a flame of fire. And Asmund awoke trembling and leftthe Temple.
Now as he went, a woman came running, and weeping as she ran.
"Haste, haste!" she cried; "a daughter is born to thee, and Gudruda thywife is dying!"
"Is it so?" said Asmund; "after ill dreams ill tidings."
Now in the bed-closet off the great hall of Middalhof lay Gudruda theGentle and she was dying.
"Art thou there, husband?" she said.
Eric Brighteyes Page 1
