Part IIISIEGFRIED

musicMotif of Mime’s Meditation

Motif of Mime’s Meditation

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WhenSieglinde ran into the woods with the pieces of the broken sword, Nothung, she took shelter in a cave where a wicked old dwarf lived alone. There a little boy was born. But Sieglinde had never thoroughly recovered from the shock of her husband’s death. The way through the woods had been difficult, and she had endured great hardships; so one day she called the Dwarf to her and gave him the broken sword, telling him to keep it for her son until he grew old enough to have a weapon of his own, and she told the Dwarf that she was Sieglinde, and that her husband had been Siegmund, the Volsung, and she finally said that she wanted the child to be named Siegfried; then she sank back and died. And so Siegfried, who was a very little baby then, never, really, saw either his father or mother.

The only father he knew, as he grew older,was the Dwarf, who was none other than Mime, Alberich’s half-brother. And he could not help knowing that Mime was wicked and sly, though the Dwarf pretended to love his foster-son, and tried to arouse some love in return.

Now, perhaps, you wonder, if Mime was so wicked, why he took care of the boy. I will tell you.

Mime, like every one else, wanted the Rhinegold, and could not get it, for Fafner, the Dragon, guarded it by night and day at Hate Hole. And being as sly and evil-minded as the rest of the Nibelungs, he had concocted a plot by which he thought he could obtain it. He hoped Siegfried, when he grew older, would slay Fafner with the sword Nothung, and win the Rhinegold. You see he hoped to accomplish Fafner’s death through Siegfried, just as Wotan had once tried to do through Siegmund. Only, after Siegfried had attained the Gold, Mime hoped to be able to poison him and steal from him the treasure.

But, to accomplish this, the broken sword must be mended, and this Mime could not do. Its splintered edges baffled even him—clever smith as he was. So he set to work forging other swords, and trying to fashion a blade keenenough to satisfy the boy-Volsung, and also to kill the Dragon at Hate Hole. But every weapon he made Siegfried broke into pieces, and demanded a stronger and still stronger sword, until Mime was in despair.

It angered him terribly, too, that Siegfried, more by instinct than anything else, knew how wicked his heart was, and how full of bad, cruel thoughts. The little, dark Nibelung could not understand how the boy, beautiful as the sun, golden-haired and keen-eyed, strong of limb and true of heart, loved to roam in the wide forests all the day, merrily blowing his silver horn and making friends with the woodland creatures, only returning to Mime’s cave at night. He could not realize the pleasure that the soft forest voices gave to the youth just growing into manhood; how he loved the wolves and bears better than the cringing, evil-eyed, horrible little Dwarf in the cave at home—the only home he knew.

As for Siegfried, the only thing he wondered at was that he ever went back to the cave at all. Why did he not roam away forever into the forest, search out that far, strange place called the world, that really seemed as if it must be a different universe from the one in which he lived?He could not tell. He only knew that a strange, irresistible something seemed to draw him back to Mime’s side every night—a something he could not explain or even understand. Meanwhile time passed.

musicMotif of Forest Life, sometimes called Motif of Love Life

Motif of Forest Life, sometimes called Motif of Love Life

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musicMotif of the Forging of Nothung

Motif of the Forging of Nothung

“Nothung! Nothung! Notable Sword!”

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Thecave was a dark one, but it was not altogether a bad place in which to live. It was as lofty as a stately cathedral, and the Dwarf’s forge, built on one side, lent a fitful red light and a little warmth to the dim, cold atmosphere.Skins of animals gave it a semblance of comfort; and, indeed, to a wild creature like Siegfried, it would have been a most desirable home had it not been for the continual presence of Mime. On the day on which I will open my story, Mime was sitting on a low stool trying to fashion a sword which would not break in the hands of the impetuous young Volsung, who, at that particular moment, was, as usual, out in the woods with his friends, the wild beasts. As he hammered, Mime grumbled crossly because he had to work forever with swords that seemed of no use to the crazy boy, who insisted on smashing them all, and racing off to the woods, merely demanding as he went a better and a stronger weapon.

“There is a blade that he could not break,” muttered the Nibelung, as he worked. “Nothung he would find firm in his hands, but I cannot weld the splinters. Ah! if I could, I should be well repaid.” He paused, and then went on, mysteriously murmuring to himself:

“Fafner, the great, wicked worm! Well guards he the Rhinegold. Only Siegfried can overthrow him. This can only be done by Nothung, I feel sure. And, alas! I cannot shape Nothung, the sword.”

He began to hammer once more, grumbling continually because Siegfried insisted that he should make swords, and snarling with rage because every weapon he forged fell to pieces in the boy’s strong hands.

Suddenly, from without, came a clear, merry voice, shouting a blithe “Hoyho!” and the next moment in came Siegfried himself, leading a great bear, which he had harnessed with a bit of rope.

“Ask the foolish smith if he has finished the sword, Bruin!” he cried to the bear, and, holding back the great creature firmly, he pretended to chase Mime, who, springing behind the anvil, cried, savagely:

“Take him away! I don’t want the bear! I have done my best with your sword.”

“Good!” laughed the boy. “Good-bye, Bruin; run away,” and he freed the great creature, sending him lumbering off into the woods again.

Then, turning to the trembling Nibelung, he again asked for the sword, and Mime handed it to him. The young Volsung took it into his hands quickly, scorn on his handsome face and anger in his eyes. He was dressed in a wild forest costume of wolf-skins, and his yellow hair curled over his shoulders. He, indeed, made agreat contrast to Mime, and one could not wonder that they did not get on well together.

“What a toy!” he cried out. “Do you call this a sword?” and, striking it on the anvil, he broke the blade into a hundred slivers, and then burst into a rage with the smith, who had pretended to give him a sword fit for battle, and had shaped him so foolish a switch, as he called it. And finally, thoroughly out of breath, he flung himself upon the stone couch at one side, and not all Mime’s coaxings could appease his anger. He finally confessed that he did not know why he ever returned to the cave, because, he said frankly, he could not help detesting the Dwarf, and was much happier when away from him. And then he broke into a passionate description of the wood-life he loved so well; the mating of the birds in the spring-time, and the way they loved and helped each other; the care that the mother deer lavished upon her little ones; the tenderness among all the forest creatures that seemed so beautiful and mysterious to him.

“I learned watching them,” said Siegfried, almost sorrowfully, “what love must be. Mime, where is she whomImay call mother?”

“Nonsense!” said Mime, and tried to drawSiegfried’s mind away from the dangerous topic; for he had never told him anything about his parents, always calling him his own son. And he feared the boy’s anger if he should ever know that he had been deceived.

But, thoroughly aroused, the young Volsung fiercely demanded the names of his father and mother, declaring that he was far too unlike Mime to be his son. At last the Nibelung confessed the truth, and told him the story of his mother’s death, and of how she had left her child in his care. And, when the boy asked for proof, he slowly crept away, to return with the broken sword Nothung, the mending of which was so hard a riddle even to his sly brain.

Wildly excited, Siegfried commanded him to work at it anew and do his best to weld the pieces; and, with a shout of delight and hope, he went merrily away into the woods, leaving Mime in saddest, deepest perplexity.

Despairing, he murmured at the hopelessness of the task, which his rather unruly young charge had set him, and was sitting, a picture of discouragement and misery, when from the dark woods came a stranger clad as a wanderer, and bearing a great spear. He advanced to the door of the cave and asked in slow, grave tones forrest and shelter. Mime was at first frightened, then angry, and finally refused to harbor the strange guest, until the Wanderer made the following proposal: Mime was to ask him three questions, and if they were not correctly answered the host should have the privilege of cutting off his guest’s head. To this Mime consented, and, after a little thought, thus chose his first question:

“Tell me what is the race down in the earth’s depths?”

And the Wanderer made answer: “In the earth’s depths dwell the Nibelungs. Nibelheim is their land. Once they were ruled by Black Alberich, who owned a magic Ring by which he possessed untold wealth. What is the next question?”

Again Mime pondered.

“Now, Wanderer, since you know so much of the earth’s depths,” he said, “tell me what is the race that dwells upon its surface?”

“The giants dwell upon its surface. Two of them, Fasolt and Fafner, fought for Black Alberich’s hoard. Fafner guards it now as a dragon. Put your third question!”

“What race dwells in the sky above?” demanded Mime.

And the Wanderer answered, majestically:

“The gods dwell above in Walhalla. Their King is Wotan, who owns a spear made of the World-Ash. With that spear he rules the world.”

And, as he spoke, Wotan, the Wanderer, struck the earth with the haft he held, and a peal of thunder crashed suddenly out upon the silence.

As Mime cowered, terror-stricken, recognizing his guest, the Wanderer again spoke.

He said it was only fair that he should have the same right he had given to Mime, and declared that he should ask three questions with the privilege of cutting off the Nibelung’s head if they were not answered aright.

“Tell me, O Dwarf,” he began, “what was that race which Wotan loved, and yet treated harshly?”

“The Volsungs,” answered Mime, partially recovering from his terror. “Siegmund and Sieglinde were descended from the race. Siegfried is their son—the strongest Volsung who ever lived.”

“Well answered!” said the Wanderer. “Now listen and reply! A sly Nibelung watches Siegfried, knowing that he is fated to kill Fafner, the Dragon. What sword must he use to kill him?”

“Nothung!” cried Mime, eagerly. “Nothung is the name of the sword. Siegmund once drew it from a great tree. It was broken by the spear of Wotan. Now a clever smith”—and he rubbed his hands gleefully—“understands all this, and he hoards well the splinters, knowing that with these alone can Siegfried kill the Dragon.”

The Wanderer burst out into laughter.

“But who will mend the sword?” he asked.

Mime sprang to his feet in despair, filled with terror and rage; for that was the one question he could not answer—that was his riddle, his everlasting mystery.

Quietly Wotan rose from the hearth where he had been sitting.

“I gave you three chances to ask me the question which I have now asked you. Foolishly, you let them all slip by. Listen while I answer it!Only he who has never felt fear can forge Nothung anew.”

He strode to the door of the cave, and there paused, looking back.

“Guard well your head, O Dwarf! I leave it to him who knows not fear.”

Smiling quietly, the Wanderer disappeared in the wood’s depths, and thunder and lightning followed him as he went.

Mime was left—puzzled, despairing, terror-stricken. His vivid imagination began to conjure up before him visions of Fafner, the Dragon, and he had fallen behind the anvil, so great was his fear, when Siegfried came hastily in, asking once more for the sword.

Mime, creeping out from behind the anvil, could not at once collect his scattered wits, and merely muttered:

“Only he who has never felt fear can forge Nothung anew.My wits are too wise for that job.”

Finally, as Siegfried demanded why he had not worked at the sword, he said, slowly:

“I was fearing for your sake.”

“Fearing!” said Siegfried. “What do you mean by fearing?”

Mime described the tremblings, shudderings, and quakings aroused by fear, and Siegfried remarked, as he finished:

“All that must seem very queer. I rather think I should like to feel all that—but how shall I learn?”

Mime, delighted, told him of Fafner, and said that the Dragon would teach him, or any one else, the art of fearing, and ended by promising to lead him to Hate Hole the next day.

“Does the world lie that way?” asked the boy.

“To Hate Hole it is close at hand,” responded the wicked little Nibelung, beginning to feel rapture glow in his heart.

But, when Siegfried again demanded the sword, the smith fell once more into despair, wailing that he could not shape it, that only one who knew not fear could forge it anew.

Straight to the hearth sprang the strong young Volsung with the splinters of Nothung.

“My father’s blade will I forge!” he cried; and he began to move about merrily, brightening the fire and hunting for the file with which to work on the broken blade.

Mime watched him with wondering eyes. So swiftly and well did he work that even the clever smith could not understand. And, as he dragged at the rope of the bellows and blew up the fire in the forge, this is the song that Siegfried sang:

“Nothung, Nothung, notable sword!Who did thy bright steel shiver?To shreds I have shattered the noble blade,In the pot I shall melt each sliver.“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!Bellows blow,Brighten the glow!“Far in the woodlands wild and fair,’Mid the thickets, a tree felled I;I have burned the brown ash into coal,On the hearth I have piled it high.“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!Bellows blow,Brighten the glow!“The coal from the tree how bravely it flames!The fire how fierce to see!It sends its wild sparks scattering far,And the steel shreds it smelts for me.“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!Bellows blow,Brighten the glow!”

“Nothung, Nothung, notable sword!Who did thy bright steel shiver?To shreds I have shattered the noble blade,In the pot I shall melt each sliver.

“Nothung, Nothung, notable sword!

Who did thy bright steel shiver?

To shreds I have shattered the noble blade,

In the pot I shall melt each sliver.

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!Bellows blow,Brighten the glow!

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!

Bellows blow,

Brighten the glow!

“Far in the woodlands wild and fair,’Mid the thickets, a tree felled I;I have burned the brown ash into coal,On the hearth I have piled it high.

“Far in the woodlands wild and fair,

’Mid the thickets, a tree felled I;

I have burned the brown ash into coal,

On the hearth I have piled it high.

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!Bellows blow,Brighten the glow!

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!

Bellows blow,

Brighten the glow!

“The coal from the tree how bravely it flames!The fire how fierce to see!It sends its wild sparks scattering far,And the steel shreds it smelts for me.

“The coal from the tree how bravely it flames!

The fire how fierce to see!

It sends its wild sparks scattering far,

And the steel shreds it smelts for me.

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!Bellows blow,Brighten the glow!”

“Oho, oho, aha, aha, oho!

Bellows blow,

Brighten the glow!”

SIEGFRIED AT THE FORGE

Meanwhile Mime was busy about something, too. He was preparing a poison for Siegfried, which he did not intend to give him until after he had slain the Dragon. Round, round the cave capered the Dwarf, filled with delight at the pleasant prospect he saw before him.

At last the sword was finished, and Siegfried fitted it into its handle. It was mended anew.

Waving it aloft, he broke into a new verse of his song:

“Nothung, Nothung, new and young!I have given thee life and might!Dead and desolate hast thou lain,Now leapest thou fearless and bright.Show now thy sheen to the cowards all,Shatter deceit, and on falsehood fall.”

“Nothung, Nothung, new and young!

I have given thee life and might!

Dead and desolate hast thou lain,

Now leapest thou fearless and bright.

Show now thy sheen to the cowards all,

Shatter deceit, and on falsehood fall.”

He sprang to the anvil and swung the blade high in the air.

“See, Mime, so serves Siegfried’s sword!” he shouted, exultantly.

Down came the flashing steel, and the anvil was shattered in pieces. Mime sank to the ground in terror, but, holding his father’s sword above his head, and filled with absolute joy and triumph, stood young Siegfried—he who had never felt fear, and who had forged Nothung anew.

musicSiegfried Motif

Siegfried Motif

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musicMotif of the Niebelungs’ Hate

Motif of the Niebelungs’ Hate

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musicSiegfried’s Horn-call

Siegfried’s Horn-call

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ToHate Hole, in the dark time before dawn, came the Wanderer, and found Alberich waiting and watching near the entrance. The Dwarf was fearfully enraged at the sight of the old god, whom he hated with all the strength of his wicked Nibelung soul. He burst into a torrent of abuse and anger as Wotan drew near, speaking of the broken promise of the giants and the deceit by which the Gold had been obtained from the Nibelungs, and again threatening the downfall of the gods when the Ring should come back to his hands. The Wanderer answeredquietly that a hero was even then drawing near through the woods—a hero fated to kill Fafner and obtain the Gold; and, with hidden sarcasm, he bade the Dwarf attempt to use the youth for his own ends.

The King God believed in the workings of Fate. The Norns wove continually, and all that they wove came to pass. No one could change the histories wound into their golden cord, until the Dusk of the Gods had come, when they also would, in the Last Twilight, be gone forever. So, feeling as he did, it mattered very little whom he aided, whom he harmed. He even went so far as to arouse Fafner for Alberich, and ask him to give the Dwarf the Ring. The old Dragon snarled and yawned and went to sleep again. The Wanderer turned to the Nibelung, with a great laugh.

“Listen!” he said. “Remember, O Alberich, what I say. All things work in nature’s course. You can alter nothing.”

And, so saying, he vanished in the dark woods, and a faint, pale flicker of lightning shot through the forest as he went. Alberich crept hastily into a crevice in the rocks on one side, and the dawn broke just as two figures came into the little green glade by Hate Hole.

The figures were those of Siegfried and Mime; for the Nibelung, true to his word, had led the boy to the place where he was to learn to fear.

“If you do not hastily discover fear here, my dear boy, you never will anywhere,” said the Dwarf, with a chuckle. And he described at great length the means which Fafner would use to teach the art, saying that the Dragon’s breath was fire, and his twisting tail strong enough to crush any hero. But Siegfried merely laughed, and said that he would find the great worm’s heart and strike Nothung into that; and then he bade Mime be gone. The Nibelung crept away out of sight among the trees, and as he went he muttered, in an exasperated undertone:

“Fafner and Siegfried! Siegfried and Fafner! Oh, that each might kill the other!”

The boy, left alone, sat under a linden-tree, looking up through the branches. At first Mime’s figure pervaded his brain, and he could not help remembering the horrible little creature. But, after a while, thoughts of his mother crept in—very vague and formless thoughts—for this forest youth had never in his life seen a woman. Leaning back, he gave himself up to the enchantment of the summer-day, dreaming boyishdreams, and listening to the forest voices all around him.

Have you ever sat in a great, green wood and watched the soft flickering shadows from the little leaves overhead dance back and forth on the moss? Have you heard the great surge of music made of a thousand tiny sounds, the hum of little, unseen insects, the ripple of far-away brooks, the faint sigh of the wind in the tall reeds, the rustling of the trees, the melodies that seemed made by the touch of some master-hand on a great harp? That was what Siegfried saw and heard that summer day when he lay under the linden-tree and dreamed day-dreams.

After a while a little bird began to sing in the tree above him, and after listening for a moment, and wondering whether it brought him a message from his mother, he resolved to try to imitate it, remembering that Mime had once said that some people were able to talk with the birds. So he fashioned a flute out of a reed and tried to play upon it the melody that the bird sang. Finally, however, he gave it up in despair, and instead, as he began to feel lonely, he blew a loud blast on his horn—to bring him a friend, he said to himself.

THE DEATH OF THE DRAGON

And what sort of a friend do you think it brought him?

Well, it waked Fafner, the monster worm; and he dragged his huge scaly body to the door of the cave and peered out, and you may fancy like what sort of a friend he looked.

Siegfried burst out into laughter when he saw him.

“At last!” he cried, merrily. “My call has brought me something truly lovely!”

“What is that?” growled Fafner, glaring at him as though he were a small insect of some sort.

“Hey! You can talk, can you?” cried Siegfried. “Being so wise, you should be able to teach me how to fear. I have come for that.”

Fafner laughed, and showed his teeth, bidding the boy come and be eaten.

“I come, growler!” said the young Volsung; and, drawing his sword, he sprang boldly at the great, hideous creature at the cave’s opening. Fafner reared to receive him, and the combat began. It was fierce, but not very long, for the boy was strong and Nothung was sharp, and soon Alberich’s spell had again worked its misery; and, indeed, it could be said of the dying Dragon that his death was sad—his life had been a failure.

Before he died he told Siegfried to beware of Mime, and then spoke slowly and sadly of the race of giants that had come to an end.

“Siegfried,” he began once more—but he never finished, poor old Dragon; for, just at the word, he rolled over and died. And that was the end of the race of giants.

Stooping down, the young warrior drew his sword from out the Dragon’s heart. In so doing, a drop of blood fell on his hand. It burned like the cruellest fire. He raised it quickly to his mouth to relieve the smarting; and, as the blood touched his lips, a strange thing happened—he could understand the language of birds. Yes, as the same little singer that he had heard before began to twitter, he could understand what it was saying to him.

“Hey! Siegfried will have now the Nibelung’s hoard! He will find the hoard in the hole. The Tarnhelm would aid him through wonderful deeds; but the Ring would give him might over the world.”

With a laugh and a word of thanks to the little singer, the boy stepped into the cave to look for the treasure. At the same minute Mime crept near from behind the clump of bushes. Alberich sprang out from his rocky crevice, andthe two little Nibelungs met, snarling, capering, and making faces with rage.

Each claimed the Ring, and called the other names, and each proved himself a marvel in wickedness and greed, and they were nearing a point when blows were not far off when the hero himself stepped out from the cave with the Tarnhelm thrust into his belt, and the Rhinegold Ring upon his finger. The dwarfs hastened out of sight.

The heaped-up hoard of the Nibelungs, Siegfried had left, for he knew little of its use, and he cared nothing for wealth. Indeed, both Helm and Ring he had taken only because the bird had so advised him. He could not fancy what good either of them would do him.

“Hey! Siegfried has now the Helm and the Ring!” sang the wood-bird in the tree. “Trust not in Mime! The Dragon’s blood will tell Siegfried what the treacherous Dwarf really means.”

At this point, Mime himself appeared, smiling and bowing, and holding in his hands a horn of wine for Siegfried. He said that it would refresh the boy after his labors, but we know that it was poisoned. Thanks to the Dragon’s blood, Siegfried knew it too, and read all the cruel thoughts that were passing through Mime’sbrain, and, in a burst of anger, he finally raised his sword and killed the treacherous Dwarf with one blow.

So that was the end of the Nibelung Mime, the cleverest smith, they say, that ever lived in the world—even though he could not fashion Nothung, the sword. From a black crevice in the rocks came Alberich’s laugh, loud and mocking—the echo of his own wicked thoughts.

Siegfried turned away wearily, and, seating himself under the linden, listened for the bird’s song again. As it did not come at once, he looked up into the branches and spoke:

“You seem very happy, flying among your brothers and sisters, birdie. But I am all alone. I have no brothers nor sisters, and my father and mother are both dead. Tell me where I may find a loving friend. I have called one so often, but none ever comes.” He sighed. “Sing now, sing,” he begged; and again the bird’s twitter sounded from among the leaves above him.

“Hey! Siegfried has slain now the wicked Dwarf. I know where he’ll find a glorious bride. On a rock she sleeps amid fire. If he passed through the blaze and awakened her, Brünnhilde would then be his.”

Wild with excitement and joy, Siegfried sprangto his feet and asked if he would really be able to do this.

“Brünnhilde is won only by him who knows not fear,” said the wood-bird, and flew off before him, guiding him through the woods.

In a transport of joy Siegfried followed, and, shouting with delight, he began his journey to the far-away rock in its circle of flame, where the Walküre, in her long penance of sleep, waited for the hero brave enough to pass through the fire and awaken her.

musicSong of the Wood-Bird

Song of the Wood-Bird

“Hey! Siegfried has slain now the wicked dwarf!I know where he’ll find a glorious bride.”

“Hey! Siegfried has slain now the wicked dwarf!

I know where he’ll find a glorious bride.”

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musicMotif of the Wanderer

Motif of the Wanderer

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musicErda Motif

Erda Motif

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A wildstorm was raging among the mountains. Great winds swept down from the high peaks and up from the valleys and crashed roaring through the woods. The thunder rumbled, and flashes of blue lightning shot across the dark sky. The heart of the tempest seemed to be at a rocky pass just below the path that led up to the Walküres’ rock.

Here, before a huge black cleft in the side of the mountain, stood the Wanderer, the wild stormall about him. With outstretched spear he was singing a strange chant, an awakening song, down into the black chasm before him; singing it to the wise woman of the world, Erda, the Earth Witch.

He called her by name, and bade her rise from her sleep and speak with him; and, as he chanted, a faint blue light glowed in the chasm, and Erda rose slowly from the black depths. Frost seemed to cling to her garments, and light gleamed all about her. Her face wore the same look of mystery as when she came so many years before to warn Wotan against the Ring.

In slow, dreamy tones she asked what the Wanderer wished, and why he had aroused her from her slumber of wisdom. He answered that he had come to ask her to prophesy once more; to tell him the wonders that she had dreamed.

“I sleep and dream!” answered the Earth Goddess. “I dream and search for wisdom. But, while I sleep, the Norns are awake. They weave their rope and spin. Why do you not seek them and ask them your questions?”

The Wanderer answered that they could only weave the histories of the world, but that she, in her wisdom, could, perhaps, tell him how to avert coming ill. But Erda shook her head dreamily,as though in a trance, and answered that she could tell him nothing; that the ways of the world bewildered her, and that she longed to return into her dark chasm and dream once more.

But Wotan restrained her. He told her of the Walküre’s disobedience and his own wrath. He spoke of the sorrow and grief that weighed heavily on his mind, of his forebodings, and that the Dusk of the Gods seemed nearer and nearer. And, after asking again for counsel, in vain, he said that he had grown to feel very little dread of the Dusk of the Gods. It was destiny, and he almost longed for it. And he spoke tenderly of the Volsung, who was even then drawing near to pass through the flame and free the Walküre from her chains of sleep.

When she was awakened, Wotan said—gifted with the power of prophecy for a moment—she would, by some deed, release the world from the sadness that it had labored under for so long, and she would expiate the old sin of the stealing of the Gold that was the beginning of the end of the Golden Age.

“Then sleep once more!” said the Wanderer. “Dream and foresee the end! Away, Erda—all-fearing, all-sorrowing; away to eternal sleep!”

Slowly the Goddess of the Earth slipped down into the darkness, and the blue light faded away.

The storm had ceased. Only faint, distant rumbles of thunder sounded in the high hills; faint, shivering winds crept through the moaning forest-trees, and a little light stole over the mountain pass from the rising moon.

From the depths of the forest came Siegfried, staring about him and looking in vain for his small feathered guide.

It had vanished, and he concluded, after a moment, that he had better go on alone, find his way to the fire-circle without a guide, and awaken the sleeping maiden. He started up the pass; but, suddenly, a voice said slowly close beside him:

“Where are you going, boy?”

He turned and saw the Wanderer.

“Perhaps he can tell me the way,” thought Siegfried; and, aloud, he answered: “I am seeking for a rock surrounded by fire. A woman sleeps there whom I will wake.”

The Wanderer asked him who suggested such an idea to him, and questioned him closely as to his life and deeds.

Siegfried answered simply and frankly, until,when he spoke of his good sword, the Wanderer burst into a loud peal of laughter.

“Why do you laugh at me?” asked the boy. “Listen, old questioner! Tell me the way, or, if you cannot do that, say nothing at all,” for he was in a thoroughly bad humor, and in the woods he had never been taught to accord old age much honor. So he strode up to the Wanderer and demanded that he should tell him the way, threatening to serve him like Mime if he insisted on barring the pass. For Wotan was standing directly before the rocky way, and, as Siegfried was in great haste, it exasperated him.

“You will not tell me, then?” he said, finally. “Then get out of my way! I will find the rock for myself. My little bird-friend showed me in which direction the slumbering woman lies.”

“The bird!” said Wotan, wrathfully. “It fled to save its life. The King-Ravens barred its way.”

For the god had sent his two great birds to turn back the little guide, just as he himself intended to attempt to turn back Siegfried.

He had said in his spell, when he left Brünnhilde sleeping on the rock: “Only one who fears not my spear can pass through the fire bar.” Now, this must be the test. Would this strong,beautiful boy recoil before the haft made of the World-Ash, or would the Dusk of the Gods come through human courage, overthrowing the might of the gods?

The Wanderer stretched out his great spear, the spear which had strange figures upon it representing Law and Knowledge; the spear which was typical of the wisdom and the power of the gods; the spear upon which Nothung, the sword, had once been shattered.

“The weapon you swing,” said the Wanderer, “was once shivered upon this haft. It will again snap on the Eternal Spear.”

Siegfried drew his sword.

“Then you are my father’s enemy!” he cried. “Then you broke his defence! Stretch out your spear! My sword shall break it in pieces!”

And a great peal of thunder crashed among the hills as Nothung broke the Eternal Spear with which Wotan had ruled the world.

The old god stooped and gathered up the broken pieces of his once mighty haft, and, with slow steps, passed out of sight in the forest depths. The Dusk of the Gods seemed, indeed, at hand.

As Siegfried stood gazing after his retreating figure, he suddenly became conscious of a greatglare that seemed to grow brighter and brighter every moment. Looking up the pass before him, he beheld great billows of flame rolling about a high peak—billows that seemed to surge down towards him as though defying him to conquer them.

“Ha! Wonderful glow!” shouted Siegfried. “In fire will I bathe! In fire will I find my bride!”

And blowing a long, clear call on his silver horn, he sprang into the sea of flame, and passed up the steep, fiery way that led to the Walküres’ rock.

musicLove Motif

Love Motif

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musicMotif of Siegfried the Protector

Motif of Siegfried the Protector

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Thefire rolled and surged about him, the great red flames twisted around him, and in many colors the vistas opened here and there like rainbow avenues. For the colors in fire are more beautiful than those in an opal.

As he passed up the steep way, and trampled the flames and beat them back, laughing at their scorching heat, they began to burn lower and sank into a narrow, bright circle of fire behind him; unobtrusive and not at all fierce, just, infact, what they had been until a hero drew near to pass through them. Then they had done their best to keep him from their fair, sleeping captive; but they were conquered, the wild, bright flames; and they died down to almost nothing as the Volsung, still blowing a merry call on his horn, sprang up the rocks to the summit of the mountain.

It was quiet and calm there, full of deep peace and silence. It seemed as if even the trees and flowers were asleep. No sound broke the stillness, no leaf moved or insect darted. It was as though Nature were laying her finger on her lip and saying, “Hush—hush! This place is enchanted.”

It was broad day, and the blue sky, reaching overhead, seemed to smile down on the young hero as he stood gazing wonderingly about him.

On one side stretched the dark wood, reaching down the mountain-side—the wood into which his mother had run, bearing the splinters of Nothung, so many years before. As he looked into the dark depths he was amazed to see a war-horse asleep under the trees. It was Grani, who had fallen under the same spell as his mistress. As Siegfried took a step forward, he suddenly stopped short in overpowering surprise. For beforehim, upon a rock, lay a figure clad in brightest steel, with shield and spear and helmet gleaming in the sun.

“Is it a warrior?” thought the young Volsung, drawing near—for Mime had described to him the bright armor the great heroes wore in battle. “Perhaps,” thought Siegfried, as he bent over the sleeper, “he would rest better if his helmet were loosened.” And he unfastened it carefully and took it off. Masses of golden curling hair gleamed like sunny clouds about the fair face of the Walküre.

“Ah, how beautiful!” cried Siegfried, softly. “The face is like that of the sun smiling between mists.”

He bent down still lower.

“How heavily he breathes! I would better open his armor,” said the boy. Drawing his sword, he cut off the mail in which the sleeper was arrayed. When the last ring was loosened and he had lifted off the suit of mail-armor, he started erect, filled with a strange, wonderful feeling that he had never known before. The sleeping Walküre, no longer dressed in steel like a warrior, but in long, white, womanly robes, was so marvellous and beautiful that this lion-hearted young Volsung felt fear at last inthe presence of the first woman he had ever seen.

Timidly he drew near, wondering how he should arouse her.

“Awaken, beautiful woman!” he cried, tremulously. But she did not hear. At last he bent over her and kissed her.

Brünnhilde opened her eyes.

Starting up, she lifted both arms towards the sky, and cried, in glad though solemn tones,

“Hail, O sun! Hail, O light! Hail, O glorious day! Long was my sleep—I am awakened! Where is the hero who awakes me?”

The young Volsung, drawing timidly near, answered that it was he who had come through the fire and awakened her, and that his name was Siegfried; and he said, too, that, as she had first aroused fear in his heart, she must bring his courage back to him. Passionately, he told her that he loved her; but Brünnhilde could not remember that she was no longer a Walküre, and at first she did not want to be a woman and a mortal’s wife—however great that mortal might be.

But, after a time, with a sudden great rush of passion, she felt in some strange way that she cared no longer for the gods and their glory, and loved only Siegfried, and longed to serve him andbe his wife. So she promised to marry him, and she said that the Norns might break their rope of histories, for the Dusk of the Gods drew near.

She taught Siegfried many strange things and much wisdom—the wisdom of the gods. And she gave him her weapons, forgot that she had ever been a Walküre, and loved him with all her heart.

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