His hand grasped her shoulder, trembling: "Did Helmanoff know you had a voice like that?" he cried, "Tell me, child, did he train you? The part is most difficult to act and to sing. Tell me—or am I dreaming still?"
Kaya fingered the spear dreamily: "My voice is bigger and fuller," she said; "it came so all of a sudden, but he taught me the part, and he told me, some day, if I were not a Countess I could become the Brünnhilde." Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp, springing forward and crouching:
"You are Wotan and you are angry," she whispered, "The Brünnhilde is your child and she has sinned. You have threatened her, and now she is pleading: 'Wotan—Father!'" Her voice rose, and her form shook as though with sobs. She crept closer, still crouching, and lay at his feet, and her voice was like something crying and wrestling.
"Hier bin ich Vater: Gebiete die Strafe…
Du verstösest mich? Versteh' ich den Sinn?
Nimmst du mir alles was einst du gabst?"
Her voice sobbed, dying away into a tone pure, soft, heart-breaking, like a breath; yet it penetrated and filled the stage, the wings, and came echoing back.
"Hier bin ich Vater; Gebiete die Strafe…
Du verstösest mich?"
For a moment she lay as if exhausted; then she covered her head with her hands as if fearing and trembling: "Now curse me," she whispered, "Curse me! I hear the flames now beginning to crackle!"
The Kapellmeister put out his hand and took hers, and lifted her: "If the House were full," he said, "and you acted like that, they would go stark mad; they would shower bouquets at your feet and carry you on their shoulders. The Lehmann was the great Brünnhilde, but you are greater, Kaya. Your voice has the gift of tears. When you let it out, one is thrilled and shaken, and there is no end to the glory and power; it encircles one as with a wreath of tones. But when you lower it suddenly and breathe out the sound—child—little one, what have you suffered to sing like that? You are young. What must you have suffered!"
He clasped her hands tenderly between his own, and stared down into her eyes.
"Don't touch me," she said brokenly, "I told you—there is blood on them! I am cursed like Brünnhilde. The curse is in my voice and you hear it, and it is that that makes you tremble and shudder—just as I tremble and shudder—at night—when I dream, and I see the body beside me on the floor—and the red pool—widening. Helmanoff used to tell me my voice was cold and pure like snow; there was no feeling, no warmth, no abandon. You see—if I have learned it, it is not Helmanoff who has taught me—but suffering."