The Klage
The Klage, a sequel to the Nibelungenlied, recounts somewhat tamely the events which follow upon the dire catastrophe pictured in the great German epic. It is on the whole more modern than the Lied, and most critics ascribe it to a period so late as the fourteenth century. It is highly artificial and inartistic, and Grimm points out that it is obvious that in penning it the author did not have the Nibelungenlied, as we know it, before him. As it is practically unknown to English-speaking readers, a résumé of it may not be out of place here. It describes the search among the dead bodies in the house of slaughter, the burying of them, the journey of Etzel’s “fiddler,” Swemmelin, to the Rhine by way of Bechlarn and Passau to give the tidings of the massacre to Queen Brunhild, his return, and the final parting from Etzel of Dietrich and his wife Herrat, who also take Bechlarn on their way. Level and poor as the narrative is, it reaches pathos in the description of the arrival of the messengers at Bechlarn. To spare his niece (Gotelint) Dietrich tells them not to mention the terrible events which have happened, but to say that he and Rüdiger will soon come to see her, or at all events himself. They are received with great rejoicing—Gotelint and her daughter think “both to receive love without sorrow, as often before, from beloved glances.” The young margravine has a foreboding of evil at seeing the messengers so few—only seven. Then her mother tells her of an evil dream which she has had, and she in turn has to tell of another which has come to herself. Meanwhile the messengers are at hand, and are observed to be sad. They give to Rüdiger’s wife the false tidings of peace which they have been instructed to relate, and the younger lady wonders that her father should have sent no message to herself specially. The ladies continue to question the messengers about Kriemhild: how has she received her brother? what did she say to Hagen? what to Gunther? How is it, asks the younger one, that Giselher has sent her never a message? Each lying answer costs the speaker more and more sorrow, and at last his tears begin to flow. The young margravine exclaims that there must be ill news, that evil has befallen them, and that the guests and her father must be dead. As she speaks one of the messengers can contain himself no longer, and a cry breaks with blood from his mouth. All his companions burst into tears at the same time. The margravine conjures them by their troth to tell how they parted from her husband, saying that the lie must have an end. “Then spake the fiddler, Swemmelin the messenger: ‘Lady, we wished to deny to you that which we yet must say, since no man could conceal it; after this hour, ye see Margrave Rüdiger no more alive.’” The margravine, we are afterward told, dies of grief at the news, as does old Queen Ute at her abbey of Lors. Brunhild survives, and is prevailed upon by her vassals to have her son crowned. Etzel, after parting with Dietrich, loses his mind; according to another version, his fate remains altogether uncertain. Dietelint, the young margravine, is taken under Dietrich’s protection, who promises to find her a husband. Bishop Pilgrin has the story written out in Latin letters, “that men should deem it true.” A writer, Master Konrad, then began to set it down in writing; since then it has been often set to verse in Teuton tongues; old and young know well the tale. “Of their joy and of their sorrow I now say to you no more; this lay is called Ein Klage.”
Walthar of Aquitaine
One of the grandest and most heroic epics of the great age of romance is that of Walthar of Aquitaine. It is indissolubly connected with the Rhine and with the city of Worms because in the vicinity the hero whose feats of arms it celebrates fought his greatest battle. It was written in monkish Latin at any time between the eighth and ninth centuries, and is connected with later versions of the Nibelungenlied, which contains numerous allusions to it. Founded upon traditional materials collected and edited by some gifted occupant of the cloister, it opens in the grand manner by telling how the empire of the Huns had already lasted for more than a thousand years, when Attila invaded the territory of the Franks, ruled over by Gibicho. Gibicho, trembling for his throne, by the advice of his counsellors determined to pay tribute and give hostages to the terrible Hun; but as his son Gunther was too young to be sent as a hostage, he put in his place a noble youth named Hagen, and paying the invaders a great indemnity in treasure, thus secured the safety of his kingdom. The Huns then turned their attention to the Burgundians, whose king Herric had an only daughter, the beautiful Hildegund. Herric shut himself up in the town of Châlons, and calling together his ministers imparted to them his deliberations.
“Since the Franks, who are so much stronger than we, have yielded,” he said, “how can we of Burgundy hope to triumph against such a host? I will give my daughter Hildegund as a hostage to the Huns. Better that one should suffer than that the realm should be laid waste.” The Huns accepted Hildegund as a hostage, and with much treasure turned their faces westward to the kingdom of Aquitaine, whose king, Alphere, had an only son, Walthar, who was already affianced to Hildegund. He, too, had to give up his son as hostage and pay tribute.
Although ruthless as an invader and cruel as a conqueror, Attila displayed the utmost kindness to the children. He treated them in every way as befitted their rank, and handing the girl over to the queen, had the boys trained in martial exercises and intellectual arts, till in a few years’ time they easily surpassed all of the Huns in every accomplishment that becomes a knight. So greatly did Attila’s queen trust the maiden, Hildegund, that she placed in her charge all the treasures Attila had won in war. Life was pleasant for the youthful hostages, but one day news came to the ear of Attila that Gibicho was dead and that Gunther was his successor. Learning this, Hagen succeeded in making his escape by night, and fearing that Walthar would follow his example, Attila’s queen suggested to her husband that he should marry the youthful warrior, who had greatly distinguished himself at the head of the Huns, to a Hunnish maiden. But Walthar had no mind for such a match and declared himself unworthy of marriage, urging that if wedded he might neglect his military duties, and declaring that nothing was so sweet to him as for ever to be busy in the faithful service of his lord. Attila, never doubting him, and lulled from all suspicion by further victories won by him over a rebellious people, dismissed the matter from his mind; but on returning from his successful campaign Walthar had speech with Hildegund on the subject of their betrothal, hitherto untouched between them.
At first she thought that he merely mocked her, but he protested that he was weary of exile, was anxious to escape, and would have fled ere this but that it grieved him to leave her alone at the Hunnish court. Her reply is one characteristic of women in medieval days.
“Let my lord command,” she said; “I am ready for his love to bear evil hap or good.”
She then provided him, out of the treasure-chests of Attila, with helm, hauberk, and breast-plate. They filled two chests with Hunnish money in the shape of golden rings, placed four pairs of sandals on the top and several fish-hooks, and Walthar told Hildegund that all must be ready in a week’s time.
The Escape