  No peace was there yet in Frithiof’s heart. As fire had once consumed the temple, so within him still blazed the flames of his remorse that by his act had Balder’s earthly dwelling been destroyed. Betaking himself to his father’s grave-mound he sat all night alone upon the cairn, beseeching Balder to smile upon him once again. And lo! in the darkness a wondrous vision grew before his eyes. In Balder’s Grove he saw a gleaming temple slowly rise; but scarcely had he gazed upon it in amazement, when again ’twas swallowed in the gloom of night. Roused by fresh hope of winning the offended god’s forgiveness, he hastily returned to Ring’s dominions and summoned architects to plan for the building of a new temple. Just as he had seen it in his vision should the home of Balder actually rise. So filled was he with this one thought that nothing else had power to move him, neither feast, nor chase, nor sounding minstrel lay. At last the work was finished, and like the far-famed shrine of Upsal, the great temple stood a wonder to all eyes. A brazen portal richly carved led to the sanctuary; two rows of lofty columns supported the arching roof, like a great shield of gold. Facing the doorway stood the high altar, hewn from a single block of Northern marble and polished with rare skill; round about it were graven runes of solemn import. Above, in a spacious niche, was Balder’s august image, wrought all of purest silver. On a rocky hillside rose the building, its reflection mirrored in the sea below, while round about on three sides stretched a smiling valley, known as Balder’s Dale. Leafy groves adorned the flowery meadows. No sound but happy bird songs broke the silence; all nature breathed of peace. With deep emotion Frithiof trod those holy precincts. Twelve rosy-cheeked maidens, priestesses of the temple, robed all in white, advanced to the high altar and chanted a holy song in praise of Balder. They sang how beloved was the gentle god by every creature; and when he fell by evil Loke’s malice, how heaven itself with earth and ocean wept. And as leaning on his sword the hero listened, the dark shadow, that so long had lain upon his spirit, lifted. Tender memories of his childhood woke within him, while calm and serene as the moon in the skies of Summer, Balder the Good looked down upon him and filled his soul with peace. Then with slow steps approached the high-priest of the temple, not young and fair like the god at whose shrine he worshipped, but tall and majestic, his noble features stamped with heavenly mildness and graced with flowing beard and locks of silver. With unwonted reverence Frithiof bent his haughty head before the seer, who thus began: “Welcome, son Frithiof, to this holy temple. Long have I looked for thee to come, for force, though restless over land and sea it wanders, turns ever, wearied, home again at last. Oft did the mighty Thor wend thus to JÖtunheim, the giants’ kingdom; yet despite his godlike belt and magic gauntlets, the giant King still sits upon his throne. Evil, itself a force, yields not to evil. Virtue without strength is but child’s play, the glancing sunbeam on the shield, a wavering shadow on the earth’s broad breast. Yet neither may strength without virtue long survive. It consumes itself, like rusting sword in some dark grave-mound—a debauch from which he who yieldeth to it wakens filled with shame. “Behold the mighty earth! It is the body of Ymir, the world-giant from whom all strength proceeds—its rushing streams his blue veins; its iron and brass his sinews; yet all is barren, bare, and empty till heaven’s bright sun-rays stream upon it from afar. Then springs the grass; fair blossoms deck the verdant meadows, and fresh leaves, the trees; the swelling buds burst forth; all nature breathes new life from the abundant earth. Thus is it with man’s strength: it yields naught but blessing when transfigured by the heavenly rays of virtue. “What the sun is to the earth, was Balder to Valhalla. His pure soul was the gem that fastened the wreath divine. When, slain by evil Loke, he descended to pale Hel’s realm, Odin’s wisdom straight began to languish, and the strength of mighty Thor to dwindle; the prisoned forces of evil, once mastered by the gods, stirred in their abysses; the dragon NidhÖgg gnawed at the roots of the Tree of Life, and its leafy crown fast withered. Again the war broke out ’twixt good and evil—the strife that through all creation still endures. “This is but the emblem of what passes in every human breast. Hast thou forgotten, my son, those days when Balder dwelt within thy spirit? Pure then was every thought and feeling, thy whole life glad as a woodland songster’s dream. In every child does Balder reappear; in each that is born doth Hel restore her victim. “But in each soul is also found the blind god HÖder. Evil is ever born blind, like the bear-cub; in darkness it enwraps itself, while good goes clad in shining robes of light. Loke still creepeth busily about to guide the hand of murder; with Balder dies the strength of heart and spirit, and anew the struggle in man’s breast begins. Virtue sits hopeless mid the shadows, as the fair god in the darkness of the underworld. “So hath it been with thee, Frithiof. Passion and thirst for vengeance rose within thee, and Balder’s temple sank to earth in ashes. Now thou seekest atonement; but knowest thou its meaning rightly? Nay, boldly meet my gaze and turn not pale, O youth! But one atoner is there on our earth—his name is Death. All time itself is but a troubled stream from vast eternity; atonement came from the All-Father’s throne to restore us thither purified. The high gods, too, have sinned. Their day of battle, the Twilight of the Gods, is their atonement, and from their fall a higher life shall rise. Ah, bloody is the day that sees their strife with the powers of evil! The golden-combed cock that sits on Odin’s golden palace doth shrilly call to arms. Bursting his chains, up springs the giant wolf from the abyss; the earth-enveloping serpent writhes in fury; boiling and foaming, the sea o’erflows the land; the whole earth shakes; mountains crash together; the Tree of Life groans and trembles; in terror flee the shades that hover about the path of the dead. On the corpse-ship, made from the nails of the unburied dead, Loke, the wolf Fenris, and the giant Hrymer ride to join the battle. On come the flame giants, their swords gleaming like the red glow of the forge. Over the rainbow bridge they gallop—with a frightful crash it breaks beneath their horses’ tread; the heavens are rent asunder; thunder peals sound from pole to pole; the shouts of terrified mortals mingle with the groans of the dwarfs, who, pale and trembling, cower in their rocky caverns. “But already have the gods and heroes donned their shining armor, and, led by Odin, crowned with his golden circlet and shaking aloft his gleaming spear, over Vigrid’s boundless plain they move in mighty train. There arrayed against each other stand the hosts, and the strife begins. Spears hiss, swords clash, the battle-cries of gods and giants fill the air; the furious bellowing of the serpent and the howling of Fenris shake the dome of heaven. One by one the gods are slain; but not unavenged do they perish, for the powers of evil also fall to rise no more, while from the flames of the world they rise to higher life. Aye, though the stars fall from the heavens and the earth is buried deep beneath the waves, yet newly born, the abode of man once more arises from the waters; a new sun shines on smiling mead and golden harvest. Then shall those golden runic tablets, lost in Time’s far dawning and graven with the wisdom of the gods, again be found amid the springing grass. “Struggle and death are but the fiery proof of virtue; atonement another birth to higher life. The best, the happiest part of our existence, lies beyond the grave-mound; low and deep-stained with guilt and error is all we find ’neath heaven’s starlit dome. “This life, too, hath its atonement—dim type of that still higher yet to come. Earth is but Heaven’s shadow; human life the outer court of Balder’s heavenly temple. Decked with purple is the proud steed led to sacrifice—a symbol, rightly read, that blood is the red dawn of every day of grace. Yet by the sacrifice of no other may thine own guilt be redeemed. The wrongs that man commits he must himself atone for. The sacrifice All-Father demands from thee, more sweet to him than blood and reek of victim, is thy fierce hate and burning vengeance offered on the altar of thy heart. If thou slay not these, then little will this proud arched temple serve thee. Not with piled-up stones mayst thou atone to Balder. First with thyself and with thy foe be reconciled; then, Frithiof, shalt thou have the bright god’s pardon. “Hear now, what wondrous news hath reached us from the South: there, so ’tis said, was a new Balder, born of a pure Virgin, sent by the great All-Father to lead man to atonement. Peace was his war-cry; his bright sword, Love; crowning his helm, the dove of Innocence. Pure was his life and pure were his teachings; dying, he forgave. Palms wave above his far-off grave, but still his teachings spread from vale to vale, melting hard hearts, joining hand to hand, upraising such a realm of Peace as never yet was seen upon the earth. But little know I of this creed, alas! yet oft in better moments dimly I gaze upon its streaming light, and loud my heart proclaims to me the time will come when it shall also spread through all the North. Levelled then will be our grave-mounds; lost in the stream of time our names, while other men shall flourish, other chieftains reign. Ye happier race, who then shall drink from the New Light’s shining goblet, I greet ye in the spirit. Hail! all hail! Despise us not whose eager gaze hath ceaselessly sought the radiant light of Heaven! Scorn not those to whom the divine ray was still wrapped in veiling shadows! The All-Father hath many envoys—He Himself is One! “Frithiof, thou hatest Bele’s sons; but wherefore? Because, proud of their descent from Seming, Odin’s royal offspring, they did refuse their sister’s hand to thee. But ‘birth is chance,’ thou sayst, ‘not merit.’ Know, my son, man ever boasts of fortune, not of merit. Thou art proud of thy strength and of thy glorious deeds; but didst thou give thyself this force? Was it not Thor who strung thy sinewy arm firm as the oak limb? Is it not God-sprung courage that throbs so joyously within thy breast? Beside thy cradle the Norns sang hero-songs to thee. Thus are thy noblest gifts no merit, but thy fortune,—of no more worth than that of which the princes boast. Condemn not, judge not, others’ pride,—then none will judge thine own. King Helge is no more—” “What! Helge dead!” cried Frithiof, starting. “Where and how came he to his death?” “While thou,” continued the high priest, “wert building here this temple, he, as thou knowest, did undertake a foray ’gainst the Finns. Within their borders, on a barren mountain-peak there stood an ancient temple of the heathen Jumala. It was closed and abandoned, and none for many years had ever crossed its threshold. Above the portal, tottering to its fall as it appeared, was placed an idol of the god, and an old tradition handed down from sire to sire said, whoever first should enter in the temple should Jumala behold. No sooner did Helge hear this than, blind with rage, he scaled the barren steep, bent on destroying the hated deity’s abode. He found the key still in the door, thick covered o’er with rust. Grasping the moss-grown posts he shook them fiercely, and thereupon, with tremendous crash, down plunged the image of the heathen god; and thus did Helge view the dreaded Jumala. “Now Halfdan rules alone. Give him thy hand, brave Frithiof. Sacrifice thy hatred in this holy shrine. Thus saith Balder, and I his high priest this demand of thee. Refuse, and vain will be thy efforts to avert his godlike wrath.” Here Halfdan entered through the doorway and with doubtful glance lingered on the threshold of the temple. But Frithiof unbuckled Angurvadel from his side and placed it with his shield against the altar. Unarmed he approached his enemy and said kindly: “In this strife he is noblest who first doth offer his hand in pledge of peace.” Flushing deeply, Halfdan doffed his iron gauntlet, and with a firm hand-clasp the two heroes sealed their reconciliation. Now the high priest removed the curse that had rested on Frithiof since the burning of the temple, and as he joyfully raised his head, no longer an outlaw, lo! Ingeborg entered, radiant in her bridal garments and robed in royal ermine. With tears in her beautiful eyes, she sank trembling in her brother’s arms, but Halfdan tenderly transferred his burden to Frithiof’s faithful breast; and kneeling before the altar of the pardoning Balder, with joined hands the long-parted lovers sealed their nuptial vows. LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE Translated from the German by 16 Volumes Ready
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