CHAPTER I
SIEGFRIED AND MIME
The cave 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 a great 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 whom _I_ may call mother?”
“Nonsense!” said Mime, and tried to draw Siegfried’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 for rest 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!”
[Illustration: 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.”
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.
[Music: Siegfried Motif]
[Music: Motif of the Niebelungs’ Hate]
[Music: Siegfried’s Horn-call]