PRELUDE
I shall now take a long leap in my story, going on to a time when the gods had been happy in Walhalla for many years. Wotan alone felt dreary forebodings, though, as yet, there were no real signs of any downfall of the gods. So heavy were these presentiments that he began to fill his halls with heroes able to defend Walhalla, if Alberich should ever regain the Ring, and, keeping his word, storm the gates of the gods’ palace. At Wotan’s command, his nine daughters, the Walküres (or Warrior Goddesses) watched over all combats between heroes, carrying those who were killed to Walhalla, where Friea’s smiles brought them to life again.
And this was not the only strange thing that had come to pass since the gods had entered their new palace.
Among Wotan’s descendants were a race of people called the Volsungs, and at the time of which I am writing only two of them were alive, a boy and a girl, who had been brought up from babyhood almost like brother and sister, and who were very much alike, having the golden hair of their ancestor Wotan, and eyes in which there was a curious glitter, as bright as that of the snake’s glance.
Both were as beautiful as the sun, like all the Volsungs; both were strong and warm-hearted and noble, and they loved each other as much as though they had been really brother and sister.
While still very young, they became separated for years; for, while the boy was out hunting, the girl, Sieglinde, was stolen away by a robber named Hunding. She led a dreary life as the Robber’s servant, until she became a woman. But she always felt confident that help would come to her in time, because one night, at a feast given by Hunding, a stranger had entered, robed in the rough garb of a wanderer, but with kingly bearing. One of his eyes was missing. He had struck a sword into the trunk of a great tree which grew up from the centre of Hunding’s house, declaring that whoever could draw it out should have it for his own. And all had tried their best, but the blade would not yield an inch.
A WARRIOR GODDESS
Then the Wanderer had laughed and departed. But Sieglinde, thinking of it dreamily, remembered that, while he had frowned on the others, he had looked kindly on her; and, gazing at the sword, she began to feel, after a while, that whoever could pull it forth would be her rescuer. And so the years passed.
She did not know that the Wanderer had been none other than the first father of all the race of Volsungs—Wotan, the king of the gods.
Siegmund, the boy, as he grew to manhood, became a very wolf in wildness, but a great warrior, and a stanch hero. He led a roving life, with few friends, and, alas! many enemies. His generous heart brought him into sad dilemmas sometimes; as, for instance, when, at a maiden’s request, he defended her from her relations, who wished to marry her to some one whom she hated. When, in doing battle for her, he killed one of her kinsmen, she had flung herself upon the dead man and accused her defender of cruelty.
He fought the rude warriors who were pressing up about her until his weapons were torn from him, and he was driven away into the woods through a wild storm which seemed to blow him on with irresistible violence, until he found himself at the door of a house.
Utterly exhausted, he staggered in, filled only with the desire to rest and shelter his tired body from the storm. And the house was that of Hunding, the Robber.
Hunding Motif
Volsung Motif
CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE OF HUNDING
Outside the storm was raging, the great pines were bending in the wild gale, the thunder and lightning were in mad commotion.
Inside, rude as the hut was, there were warmth and apparent peace. A large fire burned on the hearth, and sent its fitful glare from time to time flashing about the bare hall; now shining on the sword-hilt in the great oak-tree growing in the centre; now lighting the dark corners with a faint red gleam. A heap of skins was beside the hearth, and upon this Siegmund sank exhausted.
As he lay there the door opened, and Sieglinde came quickly from an inner room. Frightened by the sight of a stranger, she accosted him in trembling tones. Receiving no answer, she came nearer, and, looking down at him, she saw a strong, tall man, with golden hair, and a face as beautiful as the sun. Caught over his shoulder was a great black bear-skin, and his face was like that of a king among men. His eyes were closed as she bent over him; but, after a moment or two, he opened them and gasped faintly, “Water! Water!” only to sink back once more, exhausted, as Sieglinde hastened away to draw him a draught at the spring. She was soon back with what he had asked for, and, giving it, looked down kindly as he drank.
When he had finished, he gazed up at her and saw a beautiful maiden, with the rough, gray skin of some wild animal worn loosely over her long white robe. She had hair of as deep a gold as his own, and a face full of sweetness and a sympathy that he had never known before.
Rising from the hearth, he gently wished her good fortune, and thanked her for her kindness to a friendless man, who must now pass on his way lest the sorrow which followed his footsteps should come to her; and, so saying, was about to leave the house when Sieglinde, who in some way felt that this man was to be her rescuer, sprang forward and begged him to stay, saying that as sorrow had dwelt in the house for many days she did not fear its coming. So he consented to remain until Hunding, who was out hunting, should return.
Going back to the hearth, he stood there quietly looking, in a long silence, towards Sieglinde, and both felt, I think, that it was Fate that he, and none other, should stay and rescue her. So they stood silently waiting for the Robber’s return, and the fire crackled and glowed and flickered about the hall.
Suddenly, Sieglinde started; for the sound of hoofs broke the stillness, and they could hear the Robber leading his horse to the stable. Almost directly afterwards the door opened, and Hunding himself came in. He was not a pleasant-looking creature, for he was very tall and very broad-shouldered, and as wild in appearance as a wolf, and his face was dark and angry. His long hair and beard were black and tangled, his eyes were fierce, and he wore queer, jangling armor and bands of steel on his bare arms.
He stopped short, and sternly pointed to the stranger, glaring at Sieglinde in great anger. Reading a fierce question in his look, she answered, quietly:
“I found this man weary upon the hearth. Need drove him into the house.”
Hunding relented a little; and, after handing her his shield and weapons, said quietly to Siegmund:
“Safe is my hearth! Safe for you is my house!” Then, turning to Sieglinde, he roughly bade her hasten with the supper. She bore away the heavy weapons and rested them against the tree in the centre of the hall; then went about arranging the evening meal. As they sat down on the rough seats around the scantily spread table, Hunding asked his guest his name, and whence he had come on so stormy a night. Sieglinde leaned eagerly forward as the warrior began his tale.
He told them the story of his life, only calling himself Woful the Wolfing instead of Siegmund the Volsung. And when he came to the tale of the maiden and her kinsmen, and of how he had killed one of them, and fought the others until he was disarmed and driven into the forest, Hunding rose in great anger and stood looking at his guest with wrath in his eyes.
“You win every one’s hate,” he declared. “My friends sent for me to help them revenge the shedding of blood. I went to their aid, but it was too late. Now, when I return, I find the enemy himself upon my hearth. They were my friends against whom you fought; and, though to-night custom makes you safe as a guest in my house, to-morrow you shall die, Wolfing! So be prepared!”
So both the Robber and his servant, the maiden Sieglinde, went away, leaving Siegmund alone by the hearth, sad and a little perplexed. For Sieglinde, as she left the hall, had pointed swiftly towards the sword-hilt buried in the tree. The fire leaped up wildly as he stood gazing towards the oak, and the light touched the bright hilt and painted it red for a moment, then died once more. Siegmund dreamily wondered if the light on the steel had been left by the glance Sieglinde had cast towards it. For you see he had fallen in love with this lovely woman, who looked at him so kindly, and whose face was as fair and beautiful as the sun.
The gold and rosy flashes from the fire grew fainter, the shadows deepened, and Siegmund fell asleep.
Now perhaps you wonder why he stayed there instead of going out into the night, where he would be safe. There were three good reasons to keep him.
In the first place, he was too brave a hero to fly from danger; and, in the second place, he did not want to leave the beautiful maiden alone in the Robber’s power; and the third reason was as good a one as either of the others. Hunding had said: “Custom makes you safe as a guest in my house,” which meant that it would be both unfair and wrong if he, Hunding, killed a stranger taking shelter under his roof. This was called the Law of Hospitality, and the law was never taken advantage of by any honorable guest. So, if Siegmund had run away after Hunding had so well observed the Law of Hospitality he would have been dishonorable as well as cowardly, and it was just as though he had given a promise that he would not go away that night.
In the meantime Siegmund lay asleep. From an inner room came the beautiful maiden swiftly to his side. Awaking him, she told him to hurry away while there was yet time. She said that she had sprinkled some sleep spices into Hunding’s wine, and that he would slumber soundly and long; and she begged the guest to go away quietly into the night and save himself.
Finally, she told him of the Wanderer who had come and struck the sword into the oak-tree, and told him, too, how she had waited in vain for some hero who would draw forth the sword and rescue her.
Siegmund said that he would claim the sword for his own, and drag it from the tree, and, as he spoke, the door opened wide. Perhaps the good fairies unlatched it. Without, it was very still; the storm had ceased, and the moon was shining wondrously.
Then Sieglinde, looking in his face, seemed to see there a resemblance to some one she had known long ago, and, gazing into his eyes, she asked him if he were really a Wolfing.
“No, a Volsung!” replied the hero, proudly. And she cried out in joy: “A Volsung! Are you, too, a Volsung—one of my race? It was for you, indeed, that the Wanderer struck the sword into the oak.”
Springing to the tree, Siegmund laid his hand on the hilt and broke into a wild chant, naming the sword which he had come to, when in such pressing need, Nothung (or Needful).
With a mighty wrench he drew it out of the oak’s trunk, and held it above his head.
“I am Siegmund the Volsung!” he shouted, exultantly.
Then he asked her more gently if she would follow him away from the house of the enemy Hunding, telling her that if she would be his wife he would defend her with Nothung, and make her life one long spring-tide.
“As you are Siegmund, I am Sieglinde!” cried she, aloud. “It is right that the Volsungs should become joined as one.”
And into the night they went away together; for the storm had ceased and the brightness of the moonlight was most marvellous.
Sword Motif
Brünnhilde’s Call
“Hoyotoho!”
Motif of the Volsung’s heroism
CHAPTER II
THE DAUGHTER OF WOTAN
Up in the mountains near a rocky gorge, where the wind swept and the wild pines grew, stood Wotan, king of the gods, and before him, awaiting his orders, was his favorite daughter, Brünnhilde, the Walküre.
She was very beautiful, more beautiful than any woman who ever breathed. Her hair was golden bright, her figure queenly. When she moved, the motion of a bird was not more fleet and graceful, and her face was what you might suppose the face of a goddess would be. She wore long white robes and glistening armor, and the wings in her bright helmet were like snow. She bore a spear and shield also, for you know she was a goddess of war, and, as her business was to attend the battles of heroes, she arrayed herself accordingly.
She moved restlessly, and seemed anxious to be off, for at the top of a rocky slope was not her horse, Grani, waiting for her to spring on his back and gallop away through the clouds?
Wotan, whom, of course, you remember, stood leaning on his spear. He looked for the moment glad, for he was very fond of his descendants, the Volsungs, and he also believed that Siegmund would one day kill Fafner, the Dragon, with the sword which had been placed in the oak for the purpose, and would return to the Rhine Maidens their treasure. When this should come to pass, the gods would have no more fear of Alberich.
When Wotan thought of all these possibilities, the dusk of the gods’ bright day seemed far off. So it was with a thrill of joy in his voice that he spoke to Brünnhilde, and bade her make ready to attend the fight between Siegmund and Hunding, which, as the Robber was already hunting for his guest with fierce hounds, was sure to occur that day.
“Aid the Volsung, my brave maiden!” said the King God. “Overthrow Hunding! Hasten to the battle!”
“Hoyotoho!” shouted the Walküre, waving her spear as she sprang up the rocks. “Hoyotoho! Hoyotoho!”
On a high pinnacle of boulders she paused, and looked down on Wotan once more. “Look well, father! Here comes Fricka. I leave you to her.”
With a clear burst of laughter she sped on again. Her boisterous “Hoyotoho!” died away among the echoes.
In a golden car, drawn by two rams, came Fricka, the queen of the gods. She seemed in great haste, and, springing to the ground, stood in all her majesty before the King God, with anger in her eyes.
“I ask for right!” she began, drawing her scarlet draperies about her. And she went on to demand vengeance for Hunding; vengeance upon Siegmund, the guest, for having taken advantage of the host who had observed so well the Law of Hospitality; vengeance upon him who, from the house of Hunding, had stolen the Robber’s servant, Sieglinde.
All this made Wotan very unhappy, for he loved Siegmund, and already in his heart had forgiven him for what he had done. Yet he knew that all wrong must bring punishment, and asked Fricka what she wished him to do.
“Call back the Walküre!” said the Queen Goddess, and there was a look of triumph on her face. “Break the Volsung’s sword! Promise me!”
There was a pause.
“I—promise,” said the god, covering his face with his hands.
Triumphant and satisfied, Fricka drove away, and, as she went, Brünnhilde, who had returned while the King and Queen were talking together, and had led her horse into a cave near by, came to her father, asking why he seemed so sorrowful.
Tenderly drawing her to him, he told her the story you know so well, of the stealing of the Gold, the building of Walhalla, and the prophecy of Erda. He told her of the day of which the Earth Witch had spoken, when the world would be in twilight and gloom—the Dusk of the Gods.
He told her, too, the hopes he had had of the great deeds to be done by Siegmund. He let her see how it filled him with the deepest sorrow to overthrow the Volsung. But the Volsung had taken advantage of the Law of Hospitality, and Wotan had promised that he would overthrow him; and the promise must be kept. He bade her vanquish Siegmund in the coming battle and give the victory to Hunding; then, heart-broken, he wended his way among the rocks, and was gone.
Sadly Brünnhilde gazed after him. Her heart, too, was aching, because, though she loved to carry heroes to Walhalla, she loved still more to aid them in battle. She went slowly into the cave.
It was growing darker. Now, from out the gloom that filled the rocky gorge came Siegmund and his beautiful wife, Sieglinde, seeking rest in a sheltered place. Sieglinde was almost exhausted, for the way they had come was long and hard; and, after trying vainly to make her tired limbs carry her farther, she fainted at the young Volsung’s feet. Tenderly he carried her to a rock near by, and, seating himself upon it, gently supported her and stooped down to listen to her breathing.
As he raised his head, satisfied that she still lived, a grave, sweet voice sounded on his ear. He turned his eyes to where stood a beautiful woman in white and steel, one arm on the neck of her horse. It was the Walküre, who, according to her custom, came to warn the man who was shortly to be killed in battle. It grew still darker.
THE WALKÜRE APPEARS
“Siegmund,” said the Walküre, “look on me! Soon you must follow me!”
Siegmund, wondering, asked who she was.
“Only those who are shortly to die may see my face,” answered Brünnhilde. “I bear them away to Wotan, in Walhalla. There you will find innumerable heroes who have died in battle. They will welcome you.”
Siegmund asked if his father, Volse, were among the heroes.
Brünnhilde answered “Yes.”
Quietly the young warrior asked if his beautiful bride might accompany him.
The Walküre slowly shook her head.
“Lonely upon the earth she remains,” she answered. “Siegmund will see Sieglinde no more.”
“Then greet Walhalla and the heroes for me,” said the Volsung; “for there I will follow you not.”
“You have looked on the face of the Walküre,” said Brünnhilde. “You must die.”
And, by degrees, she made him understand that death was awaiting him, that he was doomed to be killed by Hunding. In despair Siegmund raised Nothung, the sword, and declared that he would kill his wife and himself, so that they might be together in death. But Brünnhilde, who had felt her heart grow more and more tender towards this unhappy pair, started forward, bidding him hope, and declared that she would help him, instead of Hunding, in the combat, and save both himself and his wife.
“I shall be with you in battle,” she promised; and she hurried away, leading her horse.
It grew darker and darker. Storm-clouds were gathering, and the rocky gorge was filled with a dense, black shadow. In the distance came the sound of Hunding’s horn. Waving his sword, Siegmund sprang up the rocks to meet the enemy.
Sieglinde, dreaming softly where her husband had left her, was awakened by a wild burst of thunder and lightning. She started up frantically, trying to see through the darkness. Clouds were all about her, veiling the rocks on every side. Hunding’s deep horn-call sounded nearer and nearer. Finally, from a high rock among the trees on the top of a wooded slope she could hear the voices of the combatants and the clash of weapons. Suddenly, in a vivid glare of lightning, Brünnhilde appeared among the clouds, stooping low over Siegmund, and protecting him with outstretched shield. Clear and strong rang out her voice over the tumult:
“Be firm, Siegmund! Strike quickly.”
But now Sieglinde, staring wildly up through the darkness, paralyzed with fright, saw a fierce crimson light—the light that heralded the approach of the angry King God—and Wotan stood revealed in the clouds above Hunding.
“Away from my spear!” he cried, in a terrible voice. “Let the sword be splintered!” And he stretched out his weapon, made from the World-Ash. Nothung was shivered in pieces upon it, and the Robber Hunding, with one blow killed Siegmund, the Volsung.
With a great cry Sieglinde sank to the ground, but through the cloudy darkness came Brünnhilde. She lifted the poor woman on her horse, and, urging Grani to flight, sped away through the clouds.
Wotan, left alone with the Robber, turned towards him in contemptuous anger. Before his gaze Hunding sank to the earth in death.
Suddenly the King God burst into supreme wrath.
“Brünnhilde, who has disobeyed me, must be punished!” he cried. And, leaping upon his war-horse, he was gone through the clouds.
Motif of Siegmund and Sieglinde’s Love
Motif of the Walküres’ Ride
Motif of Brünnhilde’s Pleading
Slumber Motif
CHAPTER III
BRÜNNHILDE’S PUNISHMENT
It was a custom of the Walküres to meet every evening after their wild rides, at a rock called “The Walküres’ Stone,” and thence go on to Walhalla.
Upon the afternoon of the combat which had proved fatal to the Volsung, the Walküres arrived one after the other at the rock. Only one was missing—Wotan’s favorite, Brünnhilde.
The maidens sang merrily their Hoyotoho, waved their spears and climbed the rocks, and kept a sharp lookout for Grani’s appearance in the clouds. But it was very late before Brünnhilde was anywhere to be seen. When she came, she brought with her Sieglinde, whom she was supporting. In answer to her sisters’ anxious inquiries, the Walküre told them of her disobedience and Sieglinde’s sorrow, and begged them to protect Siegmund’s wife, and herself as well.
“And see, O sisters, if Wotan draws nigh!” she begged.
“A thunder-cloud approaches,” called Ortlinde, one of the Walküres, from her high pinnacle of rock.
“The clouds grow thicker,” cried Waltraute. “Our father comes,” they exclaimed in unison.
“Shelter this woman,” begged Brünnhilde. For she knew that Wotan, in his rage, might kill the wife of the warrior whom he had overthrown. But the maidens feared their father’s anger, and would give no aid. So, at last, Brünnhilde told Sieglinde to fly and hide herself in the forest, and that she, the Walküre, would remain behind to bear the brunt of Wotan’s anger. Brünnhilde drew from under her shield the splinters of Nothung, which she had picked up on the battle-field, and gave them with words of kindness and comfort to Sieglinde, who, murmuring tender thanks, sped away into the woods and was gone.
Then even Brünnhilde’s brave heart began to fail her. A great storm had arisen, and amid the crash of thunder came Wotan’s voice calling her name in tones of anger. Trembling, she took her place in the centre of the group of maidens, concealed from view by them.
Surrounded by red light came Wotan, having left his war-steed snorting in the wood.
“Where is Brünnhilde?” he demanded. But the Walküres, in trembling tones, merely asked the cause of his anger. In growing rage, Wotan commanded Brünnhilde to come forward and receive her punishment, reproaching her in scornful words for hiding among her sisters.
Quietly the Walküre came out from among them, and stood before him. She was quite ready to receive her sentence, whatever it might be, and bent her head to listen to her father’s words.
Her punishment, Wotan told her, was to be this: She was to be laid in helpless sleep, at the mercy of the first passer-by who might choose to awaken her. Him she must follow as his wife, for, when she was awakened from her sleep, she would be a woman—a goddess no longer.
Heart-broken, Brünnhilde sank to the ground with a cry. To be made mortal seemed to her the most terrible punishment possible. And it seemed so to the other Walküres as well. They besought the King God to have mercy on their sister, but he was firm.
Amid wails of despair and pity for Brünnhilde, the Walküres separated and rushed wildly out of sight in all directions. Only the echoes of their cries and the last faint sound of their horses’ hoofs remained as they rode off through the clouds.
The storm died away. All was quiet now. Slowly Brünnhilde rose from where she lay and pleadingly spoke to her father, asking pardon for her disobedience and begging for some mercy and tenderness. At last, when she found that, though he still loved her as dearly as ever, he was firm in his decision, she asked only one favor of him—a last one—that he should place a circle of flame about the rock where she was to be laid asleep, flame so fierce and high that only a brave man might come through it and awaken her.
Wotan consented, and, overcome by his love for her, drew her into his arms in a last, sad embrace. He bade her farewell with a tenderness that comforted her even then, and, stooping, kissed her long and lovingly.
Her eyes closed. Her head sank back against his shoulder. Laying her on a rock that made a rude couch, he placed her shield on her arm and her spear at her side. He looked down with deepest sorrow on the face of this, his most beautiful child, the War Goddess, and then, raising his spear, commanded Logi to light a ring of fire about the rock.
Great billows of flame spread from left to right, and glowed in a brilliant circle about the sleeping goddess, casting a dim glare on her figure, and lighting up the quiet night-sky.
Standing in the red firelight, Wotan once more stretched out his spear in a spell, and pronounced these words:
“Only he who fears not my spear can pass through this fiery bar.”
And, so saying, he passed from out the charmed circle and left behind him the Walküre in her long, fire-watched sleep, to be broken only by one who feared not even the spear of Wotan, the king of the gods.
The Sleep of the Walküre
Part III
SIEGFRIED
Motif of Mime’s Meditation