Tolkien and Sigurd “The World's Chosen,” Part 3

At this point, readers may be wondering what has happened to all the gold Sigurd won from Fafnir, especially Andvari's cursed ring. Again, the original sources do not clearly account for the ring's continued presence or influence, but Tolkien fills in gaps and answers questions in his Lay. The ring is still very much in Sigurd's possession, and for some unknown reason, when he woos Brynhild in Gunnar's form, he slips it onto her finger as she sleeps, thereby, perhaps, passing on its curse to the woman he has forgotten that he loves (152). 

The ring, however, comes back to haunt him not long after. Gudrún, seeing it on Brynhild's hand and recognizing it for what it is, taunts Brynhild that Gunnar could not have been the man who put it there. “[D]did Gunnar get it on Gnitaheiði?” she asks (156). There could only be one right answer. No, only the World's chosen, only Sigurd could have had that ring in his possession. Brynhild suddenly knows the horrible truth, and the doom of the World's chosen is set on its final path to Valhöll and the hope of the world.

Tolkien, then, embraced the story of Sigurd, made it his own, ordered it according to his vision, and, by incorporating the theme of Sigurd as the World's chosen, answered many of the questions the original sources left in readers' minds. In doing all of this, Tolkien also added a deeper, richer meaning to the story of Sigurd that the original tales lack. Tolkien suggests that fate is not all powerful and all encompassing. Human beings can make a difference, can influence their own futures and even change the destiny of history. 

In Old Norse mythology, Ragnarök was to bring devastation to the whole world, but in Tolkien's account, there was a way out, an alternative. If one descendent of Ódin heroically slayed a dragon and arrived in Valhöll with honor, then “not all shall end, nor Earth perish” (180). Because of the actions of this one warrior, the monsters will suffer defeat and the rebuilt world will enjoy blissful peace. Tolkien believed in the power and value of the human person, and he incorporates that belief into his retelling of Sigurd's story, thereby infusing the past with meaning, the present with hope, and the future with promise. 

Works Cited 

Bellows, Henry Adams, translator. The Poetic Edda: The Heroic Poems. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, Inc., 2015. 

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Legend of Sigurd & Gudrún. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009.

Tolkien and Sigurd “The World's Chosen,” Part 2

With the addition of this theme, then, Tolkien creates an orderly, unified plot around an orderly, unified character, and in doing so, he provides answers to more of the vexing questions left by the original sources. First off, how does Sigurd end up tied into the stories of Fafnir and Regin in the first place? The World's chosen must be a dragon slayer, so he has to find a dragon to slay, and Regin's desire for revenge against the shape-shifting Fafnir (currently in dragon form) offers the perfect opportunity. By this point in Tolkien's Lay, readers already know the history of Sigurd's family and that he is a descendant of Ódin, so the timing is just right for the young hero to head off to slay his dragon. 

Second, Tolkien's portrayal of Sigurd as the World's chosen helps him solve the problem of the two Brynhilds and answer the question of how and why Sigurd and Brynhild end up as an engaged couple. Basically, Tolkien ignores half of the Brynhild tradition; he makes his Brynhild a Valkyrie. This is fitting, for the World's chosen ought to have a bride who is more than royalty and even more than human. Brynhild thinks so, too. In fact, before Ódin put her to sleep, she swore an oath to marry only the World's chosen (121). When Sigurd wakes her, Brynhild's first thought is to make sure he is the right man. The World's chosen has found his bride, or so it seems. 

If Sigurd and Brynhild are perfectly matched as the World's chosen and the Valkyrie bride, why then do they part? The original sources do not supply an answer, but Tolkien does. Brynhild is not quite satisfied with Sigurd just yet, for she is not just a Valkyrie but also a queen. Therefore, her husband-to-be must be a king before she will deign to marry him (125). So Brynhild sends Sigurd off to win a lordship, warning him to beware of trickery and the beauty of other women (123). 

Seeking his kingdom, Sigurd rides into the land of Gjúki and his family (130). He soon proves himself a worthy, useful, and entertaining ally as he fights beside Gunnar and Högni and sings of his dragon-slaying exploits and of Brynhild (132). Realizing who is in their midst, the World's chosen himself, Gjúki's wife, Grímhild, decides that Sigurd would be the perfect husband for her daughter, Gudrún (133). Sigurd, however, is clearly in love with Brynhild and intends to return to her as soon as he completes his quest, so Grímhild must come up with a plan. To gain the World's chosen for Gudrún, Grímhild must use her magic on him. She concocts a potion that makes Sigurd forget all about Brynhild and fall in love with the next woman he sees, Gudrún, of course (140). Sigurd's character and honor remain unsullied, for he has been tricked.

Tolkien and Sigurd, “The World's Chosen,” Part 1

What happens when a creative genius like J.R.R. Tolkien encounters an old story filled with frustrating gaps and unanswered questions? He makes the story his own. He expands it, plugs its holes, answers its questions, and gives it a deeper, richer meaning. This is exactly what happened when Tolkien met the legend of Sigurd; he embraced the story and imposed order and meaning on it by introducing a new narrative theme: Sigurd as the World's chosen.

The original story of Sigurd developed over centuries and in various places throughout Europe. The sources of the legend that have passed down to modern readers are primarily poems and sagas written in Old Norse or German, and they were composed by mostly unknown authors who collected them from generations of oral poets and storytellers. As the tales traveled along this circuitous path, they experienced many changes in details great and small. Various interpreters added or deleted sections as they saw fit, and scribes and editors contributed their own opinions about what should and should not be included. A large portion of the story as told in the Poetic Edda was even lost to history when part of the Edda's manuscript was pilfered at some point (Bellows 85-88; Tolkien 38-39). 

As a result, the texts that exist today are replete with gaps, inconsistencies, and contradictions, and they leave unanswered questions in readers' minds. How does Sigurd end up tied into the stories of Fafnir and Regin? Why is he the one who has to slay the dragon? Why are there two different Brynhilds, the Valkyrie and the human princess? How and why do Sigurd and Brynhild end up an engaged couple? Why do Sigurd and Brynhild part, and why does Sigurd break his faith (and his character), forget Brynhild, and marry Gudrún? How does the curse of Andvari's ring affect Sigurd and his fate? Is there any hope at all for a world seemingly destined for the destruction of Ragnarök? 

The original sources fail to address these questions, and all the loose ends must have irritated Tolkien because he sets about fixing them in his own version of the Sigurd story, The Lay of the Völsungs. He does so by tying the tale of Sigurd together with a brand new narrative theme: Sigurd as the World's chosen. Tolkien introduces the theme in the first section of the Lay, which retells the Eddaic creation story. The seer speaks of Ragnarök, the “day of Doom,” just as she does in the original poem, but in Tolkien's version, she adds a contingent element (63). 

If in day of Doom

one deathless stands,

who death hath tasted

and dies no more,

the serpent-slayer,

seed of Ódin,

then all shall not end,

nor Earth perish. (63)

Already Tolkien has cleared up one unanswered question: Is there any hope at all for a world seemingly destined for the destruction of Ragnarök? He responds with a resounding “Yes!” If a person arrives who is descended from Ódin, has slain a serpent, and has died but will die no more, then there is hope for the world. This one Tolkien calls “the World's chosen,” and readers soon discover that this long-awaited, much-expected figure is Sigurd himself (65).

J.R.R. Tolkien and “Luxuriant Animism,” Part 2

As Tolkien interacted with the Kalevala and especially with the story of Kullervo, he adopted them, adapted them, and made them his own, including their “luxuriant animism.” In fact, Tolkien actually intensifies the portrayal of a sentient, intelligent natural and material world in his The Story of Kullervo. In Tolkien's version, Kullervo calls his ax “dearest brother” and invites it to go cut down birch trees with him (13). Further, he is even closer to his knife than in the original story. Here, the knife is named Sikki, and when it breaks, Kullervo addresses it directly as “O my Sikki O my comrade...Nought I had to love in sorrow / But my knife the picture graver” (29). Clearly, Sikki was more than a tool to Kullervo; it was alive in its own right, a friend and companion for a lonely boy surrounded by contempt and abuse.

As in the original story, the main perpetrator of this abuse in Tolkien's tale is the smith's wife. Again, she is far more concerned about the well-being of her cattle than she is about Kullervo, and Tolkien retains many of the charms she sings for protection over them (22-23). The vivid sense of pervasive life remains as the smith's wife implores the trees and the spirits of nature to care for her animals. In Tolkien's version, the smith's wife even gets chatty to the stone she bakes into Kullervo's bread. “Break thou the teeth of Sāri O flint,” she commands, “rend thou the tongue of Kampa's son that speaketh always harshness and knows of no respect to those above him” (21). The stone becomes a servant to the smith's wife in her nasty plan to take Kullervo down a few pegs.

Finally, Kullervo's animal companions in Tolkien's adaptation are more active and interesting than in the original tale. The magic dog, Musti, for instance, becomes a protector and teacher to Kullervo and his twin sister Wanōna (10). Musti's magical hairs prevent Kullervo's death three times, and the powerful and mysterious hound follows Kullervo when the boy is sold into slavery, helping him survive in the wild and even enhancing the child's own magical abilities (20). Through Musti, Kullervo learns to speak with other animals, including wolves and bears, who become his comrades and allies in revenge.

Obviously, Tolkien was highly attracted to the “luxuriant animism” of the Kalevala, so much so that he enhanced it in his own version of the Kullervo tale. As a budding mythmaker, he saw the appeal and the usefulness of such abundant life. First, it provides a fresh perspective on nature and the material world. Talking crows, demanding ale, and protective trees allow readers a view from the inside rather than a mere observation from the outside. Moreover, this new angle offers an appealing strangeness that sets a modern audience a little on edge, perhaps shocks us out of our complacency and allows us to get in touch with some deeply buried part of ourselves that still delights in the outrageous and the weird. Finally, Tolkien explains that this “luxuriant animism” is part of the “undergrowth” of the Kalevala, the part of the story that is not cleared away and neatened up by artists using literary techniques (103). This is the matter of a people so close to nature that for them it lives and breathes on its own. This is what most modern readers are missing in their lives. This is what mythmakers like Tolkien embrace as their task: to give back to the world a sense of “luxuriant animism.”

Works Cited

“Animism.” Dictionary.com, http://www.dictionary.com/browse/animism?s=t. Accessed 23 Sep. 2016.

Kirby, W.F. Kalevala: The Land of Heros. Vols. 1 and 2. London: J.M. Dent & Co., 1907.

“Luxuriant.” Dictionary.com, http://www.dictionary.com/browse/luxuriant?s=t. Accessed 23 Sep. 2016.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Story of Kullervo. Edited by Verlyn Flieger. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2016.

J.R.R. Tolkien and “Luxuriant Animism,” Part 1

J.R.R. Tolkien always had a way with words. Even as an undergraduate at Oxford, he had already developed a means of expression that was both clear and vibrant. In his essays on the Kalevala, for example, he exulted in the Kalevala's “luxuriant animism” (80, 119). In this essay, we will take a close look at this turn of phrase. We will explore exactly what Tolkien means by it, examine examples of it in the Kalevala, consider Tolkien's own use of it in The Story of Kullervo, and reflect on the value of “luxuriant animism” to Tolkien as a mythmaker.

Let's begin by examining the meaning of “luxuriant animism.” The word “luxuriant” is rather luxuriant in itself. It suggests a certain profusion, abundance, or richness, a density or fruitfulness that bountifully overflows (“Luxuriant”). What is so flourishing here? Animism. Animism, as commonly defined, is a belief that the natural world is somehow alive and infused with spirit, intentionality, and sentience (“Animism”). The phrase “luxuriant animism,” then, denotes an abundant life, an exuberant spirit, and even an intense consciousness in nature and in what we would normally think of as inanimate objects. Tolkien sums up “luxuriant animism” quite nicely when he says, “This means that in the Kalevala every stock and every stone, every tree, the birds, waves, hills, air, the tables, the swords, and even the beer have well-defined personalities, which it is often the quaint merit of these poems to bring out with singular skill and aptness in numerous speeches in part” (119).

Indeed, the Kalevala is filled with examples of such “luxuriant animism.” Tolkien himself cites one such instance that especially appeals to him. In Runo XX, ale is given a voice, and it calls for some worthy person to drink it and sing its praises lest it burst its barrel and trickle out among the dust (120). We cannot help but chuckle just a bit at this threat, as Tolkien must have done, but the idea of ale speaking also prods us to look at this drink in new and interesting ways.

The Kalevala's Kullervo sequence also exhibits “luxuriant animism.” When Ilmarinen's wife, not trusting Kullervo as a herdsman, seeks further protection for her cattle, she calls upon the trees and implores them to act as the animals' guardians: the willow to herd them, the alder to watch, the mountain ash to protect, and the cherry to lead them home (Runo XXXII). If the trees refuse this request, Ilmarinen's wife will turn to the nature spirits to care for her beasts, feed them, and enrich them with milk. She names and speaks to each of the spirits in turn as if she knows them personally; flatters them lavishly (as to Tellervo with with the words “Little daughter of of the forest / Clad in soft and beauteous garments / With thy yellow hair so lovely”); and presents her desires with confidence. She even appeals to Otso the bear, “O my darling / Handsome one, with paws of honey,” and coaxes him to make a deal with her and leave her precious cattle alone. Nature is very much alive to Ilmarinen's wife, and she interacts with it and with its governing spirits as though they were truly present, intelligent, and at her service.

Kullervo himself participates in the “luxuriant animism” of the tale. His closest companion is a knife, an heirloom inherited from the father he thinks is dead (Runo XXXIII), and when it shatters against the stone Ilmarinen's wife bakes into Kullervo's bread, he laments for it and vows revenge. He does not, however, know how to exact this revenge until a crow caws a suggestion from a nearby tree and tells him to feed the cattle to the wolves and bears and then magically change those wolves and bears into cattle and drive them home to devour Ilmarinen's wife. Kullervo, of course, takes the crow's advice. Nature has spoken, and he listens.

As we follow Kullervo and watch his story unfold, we see him meet with the mysterious Blue-robed Lady of the Forest, who seems to be some kind of nature spirit (Runo XXXIV). She informs him that his family is still alive, gives him detailed directions about how to find them, and essentially sets his life on a different course that ends up a path to disaster. At the end of Kullervo's tragic narrative, we see one more example of “luxuriant animism.” Kullervo, overcome by despair, asks his sword if it would be willing to kill him (Runo XXXVI). The sword understands and responds affirmatively. It is quite satisfied to kill the evil Kullervo who has made it drink up so much innocent blood.