The Wayland-Dietrich Saga
PART 1. ---THE MONASTERY.
Wherein I spend so many happy hours
Tending the fragrant herbs and fragile flowers.
I, who King's Marshal was, am gardener.......
Instead of ordering men I train my plants;
Nor lay I waste the land, but cultivate;
Sow seeds, graft, weed, in lieu of sacking towns.
Glad am I in good truth, and 'tis no lie,
To spend the evening of my busy years
In quiet convent far from the mad world.
Much did I venture in my youthful days,
And many wild and perilous deeds have wrought;
Yet now it doth suffice me tell my beads,
Keep the night-watches as the Church appoints;
Vigil and fast and penance I observe,
And discipline my wayward body, till
My soul doth true contrition learn; and then
For comfort turn I ever to this green
And peaceful spot wherein I meet my God.
Within the narrow borders of this plot
Lies all my realm........The world is well forgot......
I, who was once a proud ambitious man........
May Heaven forgive me e'en the thought thereof......
Used to command, a soldier trained to war;
Who, when my Lord did bid me, ne'er turned back
From any rash, adventurous, sudden deed,
Nor shirked my duty, howe'er arduous,
Now must content me with this restful life,
Where hour creeps after hour so languidly
That I scarce note the footsteps of old Time.
When I walk slowly midst the budding flowers
And mark their steady growth, I count, not hours
But seasons.....First the Spring, with all its hope
And lively promise of fair burgeoning;
Then golden Summer's glowing radiance,
With the rich Autumn's great luxuriance
And riotious fulfilment of the vows
Dame Nature made to Summer........So, at last,
Penurious Winter comes with heavy tread:
Hard-hearted jailor he doth seem to be,
Who doth lock close in Earth's dark armorie
The treasures of the year; until shall come
Once more light-footed and gay-hearted Spring
To loose the fast-closed bolts and iron bars,
And open wide old Winter's prison-house,
Whose captives leap to life and liberty;
For , when Spring calls all living things obey,
And what seemed dead doth rise to greet the day......
O I have naught that I should grumble at!
I am content to let the loitering hours
Slow-footed pass me by, and leave me here
In this fair plot of God's good earth, that I
Call in my thoughts my garden.........Be that sin,
I am a sinner still.........What though 'tis not
Mine own possession, but to all us monks
Is common? .............Yet in fancy mine alone........
God pardon me if herein I trangress..........
I will do penance for that thought to-night.
Here is my Zoär, where my soul lives safe,
For here I labour very willingly;
Here walk, and tell my beads, and watch the sun
Sinking to rest beneath the Western Hills;
There, through the gap, where I just catch a glimpse
Of the far distant restless tossing sea,
Ere the bell calls to Vespers, and the dark
Closes upon us..........Black the winter-nights,
And black at times this sinful soul of mine,
Filled with fierce aching that may not be stilled:
For there are days when my old blood is stirred,
That seemed so stagnant in these aged veins,
And I grow restless, weary of restraint.........
They call it acedie, a mortal sin.........
No longer then the peace within these walls
Makes me forget that I was once a Knight,
A man amongst my peers, famous withal
For my great strength and prowess........Needs must I
Go sometimes heavy, sorrowful of soul;
Nor may I drive this devil from my heart
By prayer or fasting.........Even as I pray
The vision of the past doth surging rise
And like a stream in spate doth swamp my peace.
Then go I to the Father of our flock,
And like a child kneel lowly at his feet,
Making confession humbly as is meet........
An I went to our Prior I'll be bound
I should in Chapter-House repent my sin
'Neath right sharp discipline........He's a hard man,
Bred in the Cloister, who ne'er knew the World,
Nor understands the longing of wild hearts......
Not so mine Abbot rules his erring sons,
Who knows well what he is, and to what called.......
The shepherd of sick souls, and servant he
Unto his bethren, though their governor........
O well he shews his loving care for me,
Unworthy though I be and sinful man!
The last time I came to him privately
With gentle words he humoured my ill mood:
He bade me for the easing of my mind,
And for the furthering of God's good work
Of knowledge, to give innocent delight
Unto the brethren and the novices,
So naught were contrary to our strict Rule,
To make a fair beginning and indite
Such matter as he knew I had in mind,
So bring it to good ending. He knew well
I was acquainted with much ancient lore,
Nor was I one who loved through bitterness
To rail 'gainst others, or in wantonness
To take my pleasure.........Therefore with his leave,
And if God grant me thereto grace and wit,
I will write down my tale with carefulness.
I will so deal with what I have to tell (1)
That joy and pleasure it may give to all
Who to my song will listen with due heed.
Two things should he do who would pleasure find
In hearing tales of old things long gone by:
He should ask others if he does not know;
And, if the tale be long, to him unknown,
Better it is, that it fade not from mind,
To write it down; and therefore so do I
For those who shall come after and enquire
Concerning these old legends. Of a truth
This Saga is amongst all Sagas one
That may be called the greatest ever sung
In Northern tongues, for it doth tell of him
Who is called Dietrich, Lord and King of Bern, (2)
And of his Knights, and it doth also tell
Of Wayland Smith and of his brethen twain,
Of Sigurd Fafnir's-bane, the Niblung Lords,
Of Wilsenmen, of Russians, Huns, and much
Of many other kings and warriors
In the dim lands of Legend and Romance,
Whom in this tale I set before your eyes.
In Greece and Italy the scene is laid,
For of Apulia doth this Saga treat,
Thence northwards goes by Roman lands, and so
To Lombardy and the Venetian March.
Through Tyrol, Swabia, Hungary, we come
To Poland and to Russia; Windland (3) see,
Of Denmark, Norway, Sweden, something learn;
Nor fail to dwell awhile in Saxony,
And Frankland on the Rhine. The Walland land
That men called Brittany, the fair domain
Of Normandy, and also Aquitaine,
The rich land of Provence, the Spanish Realms,
We shall invade, and twice across the sea
In Britain's Isle shall venture by your leave.
Through all these countries doth the Saga go,
And tells of wonders done; and if the tale
Doth sometimes seem to vary with regard
Unto the heroes' names or the events,
Yet that is little marvel, for these things
Are told in many tongues from many tales......
Yet verily I think sprung from one source......
Much that I tell comes down from one who dwelt
As a young boy at Northern Olaf's Court:
My grandsire's grandsire he. Hasting his name,
A famous Viking in his younger days.
Who in his latter years became a monk,
And wrote as I do such things as he knew.......
Something I've learnt fromtales by Germans told,
And somewhat from their songs in Saxony
And other parts; nor have I failed to glean
From Russian lore and fragments from the Gauls,
And from those Celts who dwell in Western Isles.
Now one thing sheweth plain and clear to me,
That in the olden days men had more might
Than now to us is given........Their huge swords,
Swung with great strength, bit through the hardest steel;
Yet they like us were mortal men, not Gods,
Nor were they all alike, but varied much:
Some of vast stature, strength, and courage were,
Some passing wise, and some had skill or luck,
Some were great sinners, others suffered more
Than tongue can tell, yet patiently endured,
So that their lives seem worthy to be told.
And if I tell ye wonders, marvel not,
For what is rare or novel in our land
May be but common in another sphere.
For the untravelled man doth think it strange
When anything is told he has not heard,
But wise folk know, nor think it wonderful,
Having an inkling how such things may chance.
So doth the inexperienced stay-at-home
Oft gaping listen, comprehending not,
And soon forgets as though he had not heard.
Yet, if ye listen, may be ye shall learn
Some things ye knew not, and have called to mind
Much that ye treasured once, now long forgot
By reason of the turmoil of this world
And busy commerce. Hearken then awhile,
And ye shall hear of brave deeds done by some,
And cowardice of others, but the good
May be ye scarce shall from the bad discern,
So mingled are the threads of right and wrong.
Yet I'll keep nothing back, but set all down.
And lo! My tale shall serve you as a game,
A pleasant pastime. Now of other sports
Some last less time, amusing fewer men;
Others are fraught with peril; others cost
more than poor folk can pay; but this my game
Is neither dear nor dangerous, and in truth
Doth entertain as many who will list.........
Or few or many, be it light or dark,
He who hath ears to hear may catch some spark
Of pleasure from my tale..........And if he think,
As well he may, some things are over strange,
Passing the common order, let him weigh
The truth of these rare matters if he will,
Concerning the great skill and mighty deeds
And magic arts of the folk in the tale.
Yet let that man consider that of these,
As of all else, if the good God so willed,
E'en half as marvellous had they been again........
And I but tell according to my skill,
Setting all down in honesty of mind,
That I may pleasure give to all who will
Of their fair courtesy deign hear my tale.
Notes:
1. Cf. Preface, Thidrek's Saga. [Back]
2. For Bern, here and elsewhere, read Verona. [Back]
3. Windland = Coast of North Germany, Pomerania, etc. [Back]
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