[Njal said:] “Never kill more than once within the same bloodline, and never break any settlement which good men make between you and others, least of all if you have broken my first warning.”

Still working on reading Njal’s Saga, yet another time. As I write, I’m now approaching Gunnar’s last stand, and I’m not even half-way through the story.

Impressions – yesterday I commented on the way fate lies heavy on all the characters here. No major player goes to his death without someone handy (Njal himself excels at this) to tell him plainly that if he goes ahead and does what he’s about to do, it will end in his death. In each case, the character says he understands, but he’s going to do it anyway. He seems to be, as some other sagas like to say, “fey,” which does not mean effeminate here, but deceived by faery powers, helplessly doomed.

In Njal’s Saga, this business of recognizing fate while still ignoring it rises at one point to what we might today describe as “meta.” One of the hero Gunnar’s enemies is aware of Njal’s warning/prophecy, quoted at the top of this post. So he proposes to a co-conspirator that he bring a cousin along the next time they attack Gunnar. This is because Gunnar has already killed one of his relatives, so if he kills the second one, he’ll trip the wire on his doom. (The loss of a cousin is apparently considered an acceptable sacrifice.)

That’s kind of remarkable as a literary device. It’s almost like breaking the proscenium, as if at the end of a mystery play, the butler is shown to be the killer, and he turns to the audience and says, “Curses! I was sure the cliché would prevent anyone suspecting me!”

Yet, oddly, this heavy-handed fatalism, which you’d think would spoil the story, does not. Rather, it makes it fascinating, like watching a house fire or a train wreck.

Njal’s Saga is believed to have been written about 300 years after the events it describes. We know that the author was a Christian, and I wonder what he thought about this heathen fatalism. Did he believe in free will himself? Did he think that his ancestors, before their conversion to Christianity, were bound in slavery to the devil, and therefore doomed?

Just thinking out loud (or, rather, visibly) here. I’ll keep you posted as I continue reading.

“What I don’t know,” said Gunnar, “is whether I am less manly than other men because killing troubles me more than it does other men.” (Njal’s Saga, Ch. 55)

Happy New Year. I have spent the day, as you’d expect, pretty quietly, though I did make about an inch of progress on my Haakon the Good book. About two hours of reading through my notes culminated in the extrusion of about eight lines of text.

And I’m reading Njal’s Saga, for the umpty-tenth time. It’s not only a long saga, but a very complex one. I keep discovering things in it, partly because I forget so many of the details between readings. Two facts (or opinions) strike me this time around, so far.

First of all, the author’s perspective matters a lot. I can imagine telling this story from a different point of view, making Gunnar and Njal, the traditional heroes, into villains.

Both of them are portrayed as peace-loving men whom fate has marked for tragedy. But in their first act together as friends, they combine to pull a sharp legal trick. Following Njal’s advice, Gunnar goes in disguise to his opponent’s house and tricks him into reciting a legal formula in front of witnesses, which sets the man up for prosecution at the Thing. At the Thing, Gunnar takes full advantage of the situation to win his lawsuit.

The second fact I noted was that, though we’re always told that Gunnar and Njal are the saga’s heroes, the true central figure of the story, the one person who binds it all together, is Gunnar’s wife, Hallgerd, whose nickname is “Long-legs.” She’s one of the archetypal Dangerous Dames, a forerunner to Lizabeth Scott and Barbara Stanwick.

We first meet Hallgerd as a little girl, when her father proudly introduces her to his brother, then asks his brother whether she isn’t very beautiful. The brother concedes that she is, but says, ominously, “I don’t know how thief’s eyes came into our family.”

Hallgerd’s great vice is that she’s a thief. She manipulates several men into committing murders for her, but that’s not considered all that shameful. Such behavior is common in the sagas, and the women seem to be relatively admired for it.

But when Gunnar discovers that Hallgerd has stolen (or ordered a slave to steal) food during a time of famine, and strikes her for it, then his doom is sealed. She vows to get revenge for that slap – someday. Her vengeance will be served very cold, but very effectively, in one of the most memorable scenes in any saga.

We’re in an alien moral landscape here. Being guilty of murder may entail legal difficulties, but it’s not considered shameful. Murder is a dangerous activity, usually requiring courage. So it’s honorable, except in certain particular situations.

But stealing is always shameful. It’s furtive and secretive by its nature. Stealing is an activity suited to slaves and poor people. So theft, though a lesser crime, incurs greater shame. And being shamed is the worst thing that can happen to anybody.

I might also mention that the useful literary device of “foreshadowing” is employed heavily here. Whenever anybody makes a particularly disastrous decision, there’s almost always somebody nearby to prophecy that they’ll come to regret it. They’re always right, of course, because the saga world resembles, but is not identical to, the real world. Like all great literature, it illuminates.