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.

[Music: The Sleep of the Walküre]

Part III

SIEGFRIED

[Music: Motif of Mime’s Meditation]

PRELUDE

When Sieglinde 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 keen enough 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.

[Music: Motif of Forest Life, sometimes called Motif of Love Life]

[Music: Motif of the Forging of Nothung

“Nothung! Nothung! Notable Sword!”]