Transcriber's Notes

Anglicized variants of German character names have been retained as they are in the original (e.g., Rhinegold for Rheingold, Logi for Loge, Friea for Freia). Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note. Some full-page illustrations have been moved to the nearest paragraph break for better readability.

To hear the music, click the [Listen] link, which will open an mp3 file. You can also download a MusicXML file of the notation by clicking the [MusicXML] link. These links may not work in e-book formats other than HTML. The music files are the music transcriber’s interpretation of the printed notation and are placed in the public domain.

[CONTENTS]

[[Page 58]
WOTAN AND BRÜNNHILDE

THE
STORY OF THE RHINEGOLD

(DER RING DES NIBELUNGEN)

Told for Young People

BY

ANNA ALICE CHAPIN

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1900

Copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.

TO
THE MASTER’S DAUGHTER
EVA WAGNER
WITH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE
FOR HER KINDNESS AND ENCOURAGEMENT
THIS BOOK
Is Dedicated

PREFACE

The Story of the Rhinegold contains the four operas of Richard Wagner’s “Nibelungen Ring,” arranged for young people. The “Nibelungen Ring,” or “Nibelungen Cycle,” is built upon a colossal foundation: a number of the great Teutonic myths, welded together with the most masterly skill and consistency. It is evident that Wagner, like William Morris and other writers, has taken from the fragmentary mythological tales such material as would serve his purpose, adapting such incidents as he chose and as he considered appropriate to his work. But there are so many different versions of these old stories that it is very difficult to trace Wagner’s plot to its original birthplace. The various tales contained in the ancient sagas are so seemingly contradictory that anything connectedly authoritative appears impossible to trace. The one thing which seems to remain the same in almost all versions of the stories, ancient and modern, is the background of mythology, that great, gloomy cycle of gods, with the ever-recurring note of Fate which seems to have impressed all searchers in myths alike, and which inspired Wagner when he formed his mystical, solemn Fate motif.

Odin, Wuotan, Wodin, or Wotan, according to the different names given him in the old legends, is the central figure in the framework. If I read the story aright, the Norns, or more properly Nornir, are next in importance. They and their mother, the Vala, are the medium through which the relentless something behind the gods made itself felt in the world. The three sisters are named respectively Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld—freely translated Past, Present, and Future; or, as they were once styled, as correctly perhaps, Was, Is, and Shall Be. It is a question whether Erda and Urðr, the oldest Norn, might not originally have been identical. Dr. Hueffer speaks of Erda as the “Mother of Gods and Men,” but though “the Vala” is often found in mythology, the name Erda is rarely mentioned, whereas the titles for the three Norns seem to be unquestionably correct. The term Vala is usually translated as Witch, or Witch-wife, but, though a Vala was indeed a sorceress, she was a prophetess as well.

A step lower than the gods, yet gifted with supernatural power and far removed from the characteristics of human beings, were the dwarfs and the giants. The giants, we are told, were creatures belonging properly to the Age of Stone, which explains the fact that there were left but two representatives of the race at the time of the Golden Age. The dwarfs come under the head of elves. They were gifted with the utmost cleverness and skill. The giants were stupid and clumsy, and, save for their superhuman strength and size, entirely inferior to the small, sly dwarfs.

The world was strangely peopled in those days; many of the heroes were demi-gods, that is, descended from some god or goddess, and witches, dwarfs, and sorcerers mingled with human beings.

Many mortals, also, had magic power then. Otter, the son of Rodmar, changed himself into the animal for which he was named, and while in the shape of the otter he was caught and killed by three of the gods who were wandering over the earth in disguise. Rodmar demanded weregild,[A] and Loki, with a net, caught Andvari, a rich and malignant dwarf, and commanded him to pay a ransom of gold and gems, enough to cover the skin of the otter; for such was the weregild demanded by Rodmar. Andvari, of necessity, gave the gold for his own release, even adding a wonderful wealth-breeding Ring to cover up a single hair in the skin which the rest of the treasures had left unconcealed. The dwarf cursed the Ring, and the curse attended it through all its manifold ways of magic, to the end of the story.

[A] Weregild is almost untranslatable. It may mean payment, tax, forfeit, or ransom.

Rodmar’s remaining sons, Fafnir and Regin, killed their father and fought for the treasure. Fafnir obtained it, and, turning himself into a monster-worm, went to Glistenheath (sometimes called Glittering Hearth) to guard his wealth. Regin called upon Sigurd, a young hero, to aid him, and, being a master-smith, forged for him a sharp sword named Gram. Some versions give the forging of the sword to Sigurd, but there are many sides to the story. The sword was sometimes called Gram, and oftener Baldung, until Wagner gave it the more expressive name of Nothung, or Needful. Prompted by Regin, Sigurd slew the Dragon at Glistenheath, and, after tasting the blood by accident, was able to understand the language of birds, and was told by two of Odin’s ravens that Regin was treacherous. After slaying Regin, Sigurd rode away with two bundles of the treasures slung across his horse’s back. He found and awakened Brynhildr, a beautiful woman asleep in a house on a hill. (She is known in the different tales in which she has figured as Brynhildr, Brunhild, Brunehault, and Brünnhilde.) The next part of the tale is most clearly set forth in the “Nibelungenlied,” an epic poem in Middle High German dialect, containing a story—or, more correctly, a series of stories—which originally belonged to the entire Teutonic people. These have been found in multitudinous poems and sagas, from those written by the ancient Norsemen, and most primitive in form, to the modern books, essays, and poems of writers who have been impressed with the interesting and picturesque aspects of the strange, complicated old story. The “Nibelungenlied” itself deals rather with the period of Christianity—with the knights and ladies of the time of chivalry—than with the primeval gods and heroes of the Golden Age. The substance of its contents may be found in the “Edda” and in the “Thidrekssaga” (thirteenth century), and the original manuscripts of the “Nibelungenlied” itself date from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century.

The story contained in this poem is, briefly told, as follows:

Siegfried, son of Siegmund and Sieglind, woos Kreimhild, the sister of King Gunther, of Burgundy, promising, in return for her hand, to aid Gunther in winning Brunhild, Queen of Issland (Iceland). Siegfried, with the help of his cloud-cloak, conquers Brunhild for Gunther—first in three athletic games, which she makes a test for all suitors; and later when, after the marriage, she proves stormy and untamed. He takes her Ring and girdle, and gives them to his wife, Kreimhild. They possess magic properties, and Brunhild, when deprived of them, loses her great power and becomes like any ordinary woman. She sees her Ring on Kreimhild’s hand one day, and, realizing that it is Siegfried, and not her husband Gunther, who has conquered her great strength and stolen her magic circlets, she tells her wrongs to Hagan, who promises revenge. Hagan is the Knight of Trony, and he and his brother Dankwort are Gunther’s vassals. Hagan entices Kreimhild to reveal to him the secret of her husband’s safety in battle, and she tells him that Siegfried once slew a dragon and bathed in the blood, which made him invulnerable, save in one place, between his shoulders, where a leaf fell, protecting the skin from the blood. Kreimhild is entirely deceived by Hagan, and, not suspecting his treachery, she sews a circle of silk upon her husband’s vesture over the vulnerable spot, that Hagan may better know how to protect the hero’s one weakness when they are in battle. It is there, where the circle of silk is sewn, that Hagan stabs him.

There is much more in the “Nibelungenlied,” and a character famous in poesy and sagas is introduced later in the poem—Atli, or Attila, King of the Huns; but he has nothing to do with our story, though some one has drawn a resemblance between his character and that of Hunding. The “Nibelungenlied,” after Siegfried’s death, contains very little connected in any way with Wagner’s four operas.

There are other versions of this tale, as there are of all ancient stories. There are many tales of the killing of the Dragon and the awakening of Brunhild, and the personality and history of the latter have passed under diverse alterations in color and development. One story says that Brynhildr, the Valkyrie, was made to slumber by her father Odin, who pricked her in the temple with a sleep-thorn. Many writers tell of a fire-circle which surrounded the sleeper and guarded her slumbers. She is known as a great queen, a woman gifted with magic powers, and a disobedient Walküre in different tales; and her character changes as constantly as her history in the various legends where we read of her. Sigurd, Siegfried, and Sinfiotli are, in many respects, so similar that they might safely be termed identical, though sometimes, as in William Morris’s “Sigurd, the Volsung,” they appear as distinct characters.

Out of this confused and complicated sea of myths, legends, and old Norse stories Wagner has drawn the material for his wonderful cycle.

His gods and goddesses are taken, with very few changes, directly from their original place—the Teutonic mythology. His giants and dwarfs are also unaltered as complete races. In his usage of them he differs in some respects from the older stories.

Fafnir, the son of Rodmar, becomes the giant Fafner, and his brother Fasolt is added. Regin is transformed into Mime, the master-smith. Instead of Otter, who must be covered by gems, we have the love goddess Friea, and instead of the hair which the Ring must cover in the old legend, it is in Wagner’s adaptation one of Friea’s beautiful eyes. Fafner hides in Hate Hole instead of upon Glistenheath, and is killed by Siegfried instead of Sigurd. The lonely Walküres’ Rock takes the place of the house on the hill, and instead of being made invulnerable by the Dragon’s blood, Siegfried is protected by Brünnhilde’s spells—a fancy which seems more poetic and beautiful, but which originates, I believe, entirely with Wagner. Gutrune takes the place of Kreimhild, and Hagan is not Gunther’s vassal, but his half-brother. These are, after all, apparently slight changes, yet to Wagner’s cycle a new poetry seems to have come. The barbaric aspects of the tale have faded, and all the simple beauty of those wild, noble gods and demi-gods has gleamed forth as gloriously as the wonderful Rhinegold, which the master has made next in importance to the gods and the dusk of their splendor.

Before going further, perhaps it might be well to say a few words of explanation as to the motifs which form the key-notes of Wagner’s great musical dramas.

When he set his poem of the Nibelungen Ring to music, he was not satisfied with merely beautiful airs and harmonies linked together with no purpose save the lovely sounds. He wished, above all, to have his music fit his words; and for every character and thought and incident, and indeed for almost everything in his operas, he wrote a melody, and these descriptive musical phrases are called motifs. Each one has its meaning, and when it is played it brings the thought of what it describes and represents, and it makes a double language—what the characters on the stage are saying and what the music is saying, as well. Through the motifs we understand many things which we could not possibly comprehend otherwise.

That Wagner wished to give the impression that Erda was the mother of all beings, divine and human, at the beginning of the world, he has shown by the fact that the motif of the Primal Element—the commencement of all things—is identical with hers, save that where she is indicated the melody takes a minor coloring, denoting her character of mystery as well as the gloom in which her prophetic powers must necessarily envelop her. The contrasting, yet harmonizing, elements of earth and water are also shadowed forth, I think, in this motif of the Primal Element, which is used for the Rhine, and also for the Goddess of the Earth. When the Vala’s daughters—the Nornir—are mirrored in the music, the same melody appears, fraught with the waving, weaving sound of their mystic spinning.

The motifs in Wagner’s operas are, above all, descriptive. For example, note the Walhalla, Nibelung, and Giant motifs.

The first of these, full of power, substance, and dignity, not only is descriptive of the great palace itself, but also represents the entire race of gods who inhabit it, seemingly secure in their conscious glory and sovereignty. To indicate Wotan, the King of the gods and the ruler in Walhalla, Wagner has constantly made use of this motif.

Its melody is measured, strong, and simple, and the nobility of those worshipped gods of primeval years seems to breathe through it.

The Nibelungs were so intimately associated with their work that they were scarcely more than living machines—soulless exponents of the art of the forge and the anvil; so when we hear in the music the beat of hammers—the sharp, metallic clang in measured time, our first thought is that the hammers are swung by the Nibelungs. How cramped is their melody, how monotonous and hopeless is the regular fall of the hammers! When we hear it hushed and veiled with discords, we seem to come in contact with the narrow, darkened souls of the Nibelungs.

And now we come to the motif of the giants.

It is, like themselves, heavy, lumbering, with a slur that is like the stumbling of heavy feet. Clumsy and ungraceful, it and what it represents cross the idyllic beauty of the motifs of Friea, Walhalla, the Ring, the Rhinegold, and the rest, with a harsh and disagreeable sense of an inharmonious element. How different from the majestic gods, and the clever, small-souled Nibelungs, are these great creatures who are all bodies and no brains, and who are so ably represented by the music allotted them in the operas! Yet, in their own way, they and their motif are extremely picturesque!

In these three motifs we can see the genius which formed them, and so many others, even greater in conception and execution. Scattered throughout The Story of the Rhinegold will be found a few of these motifs—only a few and not the most lovely—but enough I think to help one, in a small way, to follow the operas with more interest and understanding than if one did not know them.

One of the simplest motifs in the book is one of the most important: the Rhinegold motif. It is like the blowing of a fairy horn heralding to the world of sprites and elves the magic wonder in the river.

In the olden days they had a lovely legend of the formation of the Rhinegold. They said that the sun’s rays poured down into the Rhine so brilliantly every day that, through some magic—no one knew exactly how—the glowing reflection became bright and beautiful gold, filled with great mystic powers because of its glorious origin—the sunshine.

And that was the beginning of the Rhinegold.

A.A.C.

CONTENTS

[Part I]

THE RHINEGOLD, OR DAS RHEINGOLD

[Part II]

THE WARRIOR GODDESS, OR DIE WALKÜRE

[Part III]

SIEGFRIED

[Part IV]

THE DUSK OF THE GODS, OR GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG

ILLUSTRATIONS

Part I
THE RHINEGOLD, OR DAS RHEINGOLD

Motif of the Rhinegold

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PRELUDE

We have, all of us, read of the Golden Age, when the gods ruled over the world, and giants and dragons, dwarfs and water-fairies inhabited the earth and mingled with mortals. The giants were then a strong, stupid race, more rough than cruel, and, as a rule, generous among themselves. They were very foolish creatures, and constantly did themselves and others harm; but their race, even at that time, was dying out, and there were left of it only two brothers, Fasolt and Fafner.

The dwarfs, or Nibelungs, were entirely different. They were small and misshapen, but very shrewd, and so skilful were their fingers that they were able to do the most difficult work in the finest metals. They lived in an underground country called Nibelheim (Home of the Dwarfs), where they collected hoards of gold and gems, and strange treasures of all kinds; and Alberich was one of them. He was a hideous creature, so dark and evil-looking, with his small, wicked eyes and his hair and beard the color of ink, that he was always called Black Alberich—a very suitable name.

As for the dragons, they were rare even in those days, and though we shall have to deal with one by-and-by when we are further on in my story, I shall not say much about them now.

The water-fairies were beautiful spirits who lived in the depths of the river Rhine. They were simple and innocent, as became children of the Golden Age, and very lovely to look upon. In the peaceful twilight-land under the water they were perfectly happy, dancing in and out among the rocks at the river bottom, and singing soft songs, which, when wafted up to the surface of the Rhine, sounded like the faint sighing ripple of the river as it rolled onward through the valleys and the woods.

And the water-fairies had one great happiness in their quiet, shadowed lives. I will tell you what it was: On the top of a tall black rock in the river Rhine there rested a magical treasure, more wonderful than any of the Nibelung hoards, or the possessions of the gods themselves—a bright, beautiful Gold, the radiance of which was so great that when the sun shone down into the river and touched it the gray-green water was filled with golden light from depth to depth, and the fairies of the Rhine circled about their treasure, singing and laughing with delight.

What a wonderful time it must have been—the Golden Age—when such things were possible!

You smile and say that they were not possible, even then! Remember that this is a fairy tale—a day-dream—such as might come to you while watching the sunlit ripples dancing on the water, and hearing the little waves lapping on the pebbles—a fairy tale, that is all.

The Golden Age, as I think of it, seems a period in which anything might have happened. Closing my eyes, I can picture the majestic gods moving, great kings and queens among human beings; great kings and queens made young by Friea’s apples of youth. Friea was the Goddess of Love, Youth, and Beauty. She was the same as Venus, the Roman goddess, called Aphrodite by the Greeks, of whom, perhaps, you have read elsewhere. All that I am writing about happened, you know, in Germany; and to the people there the gods—or rather men’s ideas of them, and their names for them—were different from those of other lands.

So the King God, instead of being Jupiter, or Zeus, or Jove, was called Wotan, or sometimes Odin. And the Queen Goddess was neither Juno nor Hera, but Fricka; and the wild Thunder God was Thor; and the Goddess of the Earth Erda, which means the earth. She was the wisest of all the gods and goddesses (though Logi, the Fire God, was the quickest and cleverest), and she could prophesy strange things about the gods and the world, and everything happened just as she prophesied.

She would sink into the earth and dream, and all her dreams came true. She would tell them to her daughters, the three Norns, or Fates, and they would weave them into a long golden thread, into which they had spun the world’s history.

They spun under a great ash-tree which grew by the Fountain of Wisdom, and was called the Tree of the World.

One day Wotan, the king of the gods, came to the fountain for a draught of the Water of Wisdom. He drank, and left one of his eyes in payment. He tore a limb from the World-Ash and made it into a spear; and the spear, having strange figures upon it representing Law and Knowledge, was typical of the wisdom and power of the gods, and so long as that wisdom and that power endured no sword could break the spear nor could remain whole at its touch.

But the World-Ash, robbed of its branches, withered away and died, and the Fountain of Wisdom became dry.

And these things were the beginning of the end of the Golden Age. But wise people say that the Golden Age did not end until men began to value gold for its own sake and the love of gain, and to do wrong things to possess it. And now I will tell you how it all happened.

Motif of the Primal Element, out of which come the Erda, Norn, and Rhine Motifs

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Song of the Rhine Maidens

Weia waga, wavering waters,
weaving and whirling! Walala weia!

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CHAPTER I
THE RHINE MAIDENS

At the bottom of the river Rhine, about the dark rock where rested the invisible Rhinegold, there swam one morning before sunrise the Gold’s fair guardians, the three children of the Rhine. They were beautiful maidens, these three water-spirits, the most lovely of all the river people, and their names were Flosshilde, Woglinde, and Wellgunde. They were singing softly, and glancing constantly up to the rock’s crest, waiting for the appearance of the Rhinegold, which could only be seen when the sun had risen up above and sent its rays into the water to disclose the treasure. They sang a little rippling refrain that meant nothing except laughter and joy, and sounded very like the ripples of the water themselves:

“Weia waga—”

sang Woglinde,

“Wavering waters, weaving and whirling,
Walala weia!”

And so they sang on, till their voices mingled so with the ripple that both voices and water became almost one in sound.

Now, while these three lovely maids, seeming almost part of the water in their dresses of shimmering blue-green, with pale wreaths of river flowers in their hair, and their white arms looking frail as moonbeams as they raised them through the water—while they moved about the rock singing and laughing together, a strange, dark little man stood near watching them. He had risen out of a black chasm in one of the rocks, and he had come from far Nibelheim, through an underground passage. He had small eyes, his hair and beard were the color of ink, and he looked very wicked. Can you guess who he was?

He shouted gruffly to the Rhine Maidens, and they, being much amused at his ugly appearance, drew near with laughter and mocking words. They led him wild chases in among the rocks, they played with him merry games of hide-and-seek—merry for them, but not at all so for him, for he was clumsy in motion compared with them, and he became very angry because he could not follow them over the rocks.

“Smooth, slippery, slush and slime,” he grumbled. “The dampness makes me sneeze.”

At last, just as he had become thoroughly angry, there appeared suddenly a strange brightness at the top of the rock—a wonderful golden light that glowed with ever-increasing brilliance down into the water.

“Ah, see, sisters!” cried Woglinde. “The awakening sun laughs down into the depths.”

“Yes,” said Wellgunde, with soft delight, “it greets the slumbering Gold!”

“With a kiss of light the Gold is aroused!” said Flosshilde. And, joining hands, they swam excitedly about the rock, singing in bursts of gladness:

“Weia waga,
Weia waga,
Rhinegold, Rhinegold,
Glorious joy.”

“You gliders,” questioned Alberich (for it was he), “what is this that gleams and glistens over yonder?”

THE GLEAMING TREASURE

Laughing at his ignorance, the nymphs told him that it was a magical Gold; that whoever made a Ring from it would have greater power than any one else alive; that he could possess all the wealth of the world if he wished; and they so described the fairy powers of the treasure that Alberich’s wicked soul began to thrill with desire to have it as his own.

The sisters further told him that the Gold was safe from thieves, because it could only be stolen by some one who had made up his mind never to love any one except himself so long as he might live.

“We have nothing to fear,” said gentle Woglinde, “for every one who lives must love.”

But Alberich pondered silently. “All the wealth in the world!” he thought. “For that who would not give up love?” And he sprang wildly up the rocks.

“Listen, waves and water-witches!” he shouted, as he reached towards the gleaming treasure. “Never will I, the Dwarf, give love to any creature save myself through all my life.” And while, with wild cries, the Rhine Maidens hastened near to prevent him, Alberich, the Nibelung, tore the Rhinegold from the tall, black rock, and fled with it into the black chasm, and so to Nibelheim.

And, left behind, the nymphs could only wail for their lost joy with sobs and cries of “Sorrow, sorrow! Ah—to rescue the Gold!”

But it was too late. And in the dark hollow chasm, Alberich, fleeing with the treasure, laughed at their despair.

Motif of the Giants

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Motif of Friea

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CHAPTER II
FASOLT AND FAFNER

One morning not long afterwards the rising sun shone upon strange things up among the gods.

Wotan, and Fricka his wife, waking upon the mountain-top where they had slept that night, gazed up to where, built among the clouds, the spires of a wonderful palace glittered in the sunshine—Walhalla, the fair, new home of the gods.

It had been built at Wotan’s command by Fasolt and Fafner, the two brother giants, and they had been promised, in payment, the goddess Friea. But Wotan had never intended giving her to them, and so he told Fricka when she spoke anxiously of the reward promised the giants, declaring that the goddess was as precious to him as to her.

Even as he spoke Friea rushed wildly in, calling upon him to save her from the rude giants. In answer, Wotan asked where Logi, the Fire God, could be found, saying that where cunning and craft were needed, Logi was the one most to be sought after. But, look as he might, the wayward Fire God was nowhere to be seen.

And then came the great brothers, bearing huge clubs, and fiercely clamoring for a reward for their labors in building Walhalla.

“You slept while we worked,” they said. “Now claim we our payment.”

“What price do you demand?” asked Wotan, pretending not to remember any promised reward. “What will you take as wages?”

“Would you deceive us so?” cried Fasolt, in astonished rage. “Friea you promised us. We worked right heartily to win us so fair a woman.”

“Hush!” muttered Fafner. “Listen to me! Without Friea’s apples of youth the gods will grow old, and their glory will fade away. They will die like human beings if Friea be taken from them.”

So the giants talked together, planning how to steal the lovely goddess, who stood aside trembling, fearing that Wotan would refuse to protect her from the two savage workmen.

He meanwhile merely murmured softly to himself, “Logi is long coming,” and gazed expectantly about. But still the Fire God could not be seen.

Thor and Froh, two other gods, had appeared. The giants were growing more impatient and Friea more despairing, when Logi at last arrived. When he did he talked on a variety of subjects before he would pay any attention to the affairs that were worrying the other gods and the giants. But at last he set his clever brain to work at some plan by which his fair sister Friea might be saved. Knowing well the love of wealth characteristic of the giants, he told the story of the Rhinegold and the stealing of it by the Nibelung. He said that he had heard the maids weeping for their lost treasure, and had promised them that Wotan, the King God, would return it to them in time. The two giants began to feel the same desire for it that Alberich had had, and to whisper together concerning it, so vividly did Logi describe its powers.

“It seems,” muttered Fafner, “that this Gold is worth even more than Friea.” And he cried out suddenly: “Listen, Wotan, you wise one! We will give up Friea; but you will instead bestow upon us the Nibelung’s Gold.”

“We will hold her meanwhile as ransom!” cried Fasolt. And they dragged her away, despite her piteous appeals, to Riesenheim (or Home of the Giants), leaving the gods perplexed and sorrowing for their lost goddess.

As they stood silently together a mist seemed to steal upward from the ground, and floated between them. A strange shadow rested upon the faces of the gods. They looked pale and wrinkled; their hair was white.

“Alas! What has happened?” wailed Fricka, faintly.

The gods were growing old.

“See, then,” said Logi, the shrewd one. “Our Youth Goddess has gone. We are old; we are gray. The race of gods will come to an end.”

Wotan started and looked about him. His face was pale.

“Down, Logi! Let us go down to Nibelheim!” he cried. “The Gold shall be had for ransom.”

The gods called out good wishes after them through the mist, and Wotan, the King God, and his fire-servant, Logi, went down through the hollow, shadowy passages under the earth to Nibelheim, the home of the dwarfs.

Ring Motif

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Nibelung Motif

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CHAPTER III
NIBELHEIM

Alberich had forged a Ring from the Rhinegold, and, wearing it, possessed absolute power over the rest of the Nibelungs. He was the King Dwarf, ruler over all Nibelheim, the Land of Gloom. Ah! what a land of gloom it was! Through the dark shadows there streamed fitfully a lurid light from the forges where the dwarfs were working; their hammers clanged monotonously on the anvils. Slowly they laid the results of their toil in great heaps, and Alberich laughed at their weariness and gloated over the treasures, which he promptly claimed as his own.

Among the Nibelungs was one particularly crooked and ill-shapen, named Mime. He was Alberich’s half-brother, and, not unnaturally, hated the Black King with all his strength; for Alberich treated him even more cruelly than the others.

Mime, at Alberich’s command, made a wonderful cap of darkness out of some of the Rhinegold, which not only had the power of making its wearer invisible at will, but could change him into whatever shape he wished. This Alberich wore, and changed himself into a column of mist, in which shape he found he could move about much faster, and make things much harder for the dwarfs.

“Hohei, all you Nibelungs! Kneel to your King! Now he is everywhere, all about you, unseen, but felt and heard, you idlers!”

And the column of mist drifted off through a rocky passage, leaving Mime whimpering upon the ground.

Now, with the clang of the hammers there mingled the sound of steps, and from the black crevice in the rocks came two figures slowly down to Nibelheim. One was tall and majestic, with a helmet of gold and steel, a long cloak with strange designs upon it, and a deep golden beard that hung far down over his breast; one of his eyes was missing, and in his hand he bore a great spear.

The other was clothed in brilliant red, his eyes were bright, his step swift as a springing flame in dead grass. They were Wotan and Logi searching for the Rhinegold.

Logi accosted Mime in friendly fashion, and asked what was wrong with him.

“That wretch, my brother!” grumbled the Dwarf. “He treats us all cruelly. Leave me in peace!”

“How came Alberich by his power?” asked the Fire God.

“From the ruddy Rhinegold he made a Ring. With it he rules us. But,” asked the Nibelung, staring at them, “who are you both?”

“Friends that perhaps may free the Nibelung people,” laughed Logi, and at the same time Alberich appeared, scolding, screaming, and ill-treating all who came in his way. Driving Mime away with the rest of the dwarfs, he, scowling, asked the two gods what they wished.

“We heard of the wonders worked by Alberich,” answered Wotan. “We come to behold them.”

“Pooh! I know you well,” said the Dwarf King. “Such notable guests”—and he sneered—“could only have been led by envy to Nibelheim.”

“Surely you know me,” said Logi. “I have lit your forges, gnome. Cannot you trust me?”

“To be sure I know you,” grinned Alberich. “And I will always trust you to be untrustworthy. I don’t fear you.”

“How brave you are,” said Logi, in pretended admiration.

“Do you see that treasure?” said the Nibelung, proudly pointing to a great heap of gold and gems.

The gods assented.

“But,” said Wotan, “what good does it do you, here in Nibelheim?”

Alberich glared at him, and then laughed.

“Ha! ha! But wait!” he said. “You gods! You gods! You have looked down upon us Nibelungs. Now we, with the help of the Golden Ring, will sway the whole world. We will storm the gates of Walhalla! Beware! Ha! ha! Do you hear me? Beware!”

Wotan, in anger, started forward, but Logi slipped in front of him.

“Most wonderful are you, O Nibelung!” he said, admiringly. “I salute you as the mightiest creature alive. But tell me one thing, O wise one. How guard you your Ring from thieves?”

“Does Logi think that all are as foolish as himself?” asked Alberich. “That danger I provided for. A Cap of Darkness, called the Tarnhelm, is mine, to change me into whatever shape I wish, and also to hide me at any time. So, my friend, guard I my Ring, sleeping or waking, as I wish.”

“Wondrous above all it seems!” cried Logi. “Prove it, O Dwarf!”

“That I will. What shape shall I take?”

“Whatever you wish,” answered Logi. “It is sure to be wonderful.”

Alberich placed the metal cap upon his head and became a great dragon, writhing on the ground.

“Wonderful!” cried the gods.

“Yet I should again like to behold its magic. Is it possible to become small as well as large by its aid?” asked Logi. “I beg of you show us if you can become small, O great one!”

“Nothing easier!” cried Alberich, beginning to enjoy himself. “Look, then, O gods!” He placed the helmet on his head and vanished. A toad hopped on the ground in his stead.

“Quick! Hold him!” cried the Fire God; and Wotan firmly held the toad with his foot, while Logi lifted up the Tarnhelm, which still rested upon its great head. And behold! Alberich lay at their feet, struggling and roaring with rage.

The Fire God produced a rope, and the two gods bound the Nibelung and carried him with them up the dark passage-way through which they had descended, and left behind them the crimson fires, the clanging hammers, the gloom, and hopelessness of Nibelheim.

Motif of Alberich’s Spell

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CHAPTER IV
THE RAINBOW BRIDGE

Out of the underground world into the wild, mountainous country above, veiled still with the strange gray mist of age, came the two gods and their captive, Alberich.

He was snarling and grumbling, being much enraged at being bound by the hated gods, and, above all, at having his beloved Tarnhelm in the hands of Logi, whom he especially detested. Also, he feared that he would be forced to give up the Ring, which he still wore on his finger; and, partly to prevent the gods from wishing for this, he soon consented to give them the hoard which his servants, the Nibelungs, had collected in Nibelheim. Touching the Ring with his lips, he murmured a command, or spell, and from the under-world came the little dark dwarfs bearing great loads of treasure, which they placed at his feet.

Ashamed, and hating that they should see him a captive, Alberich loudly ordered them off with threats and harsh words, and then demanded that the gods should release him, while the Nibelungs crept back into the dark hole that led to Nibelheim.

Logi, casting the Tarnhelm upon the pile, asked if the Dwarf should be freed.

“He wears a bright Ring,” said the King God. “Let it be added to the heap!”

“The Ring!” wildly cried Alberich. “The Ring! I will never give it up! It is mine!”

“Thief! You stole it from the Rhine Children,” said Wotan. “Do you call it, then, yours?” and he tore the Ring from Alberich’s finger and placed it on his own.

“Let him go!” he said to Logi, who obeyed, and the Nibelung was free. Rising from the ground, he glared horribly at the gods.

“Listen to the spell I cast on the Ring!” he said, with a peal of wild laughter. “None who possess it shall ever through it come to happiness. Sorrow attends it, and whoever owns it shall know grief. His death shall be sad, his life a failure. This doom shall attend the Ring until it comes back to my hand. Hear the spell Alberich has placed on the Gold!”

He laughed again, and vanished in the dark hole that led to Nibelheim.

Wotan stood silently gazing at the Ring on his finger. Logi, looking off in the distance, saw Fasolt and Fafner nearing, with Friea. As she came closer, the gray mist began to clear slightly away, though it still hung about in heavy clouds, hiding Walhalla’s spires. Fricka, Thor, and Froh, quickly drawing near from another direction, spoke of the growing warmth and clearness of the air.

“Dear sister, welcome back to us!” cried Fricka, as the giants strode out with Friea. But, when the two goddesses started forward to meet each other, Fasolt caught hold of his captive and held her fast.

“Wait! Wait!” he cried. “Where is the ransom?”

“Behold it!” said Wotan, pointing to the heap of treasure.

The giants declared that when a pile of gold had been erected high enough to hide the Love Goddess from view, they would return her to the gods—but not before. Accordingly, a heap was made which, as it grew higher with added treasure, soon hid Friea entirely, save for a gleam of her bright hair, which Fafner’s keen eye descried. The Tarnhelm must go to hide it.

That accomplished, Fasolt strained his eyes to find an unfilled crevice. Through a tiny space he beheld one of the goddess’s eyes, and demanded the Ring to fill up the chink.

“The Ring!” exclaimed Wotan, starting back.

“The Ring!” cried Logi. “Nonsense! It is the Rhine Children’s treasure. The King God will return it to them.”

“Foolish you are,” said Wotan, in a low voice. “I shall keep it myself.”

“Bad is the prospect for the fulfilment of my promise to the weeping Rhine Children,” said Logi, softly.

“Your promise does not bind me,” said the King of the Gods. “I shall keep the Ring.”

“Hand over the ransom!” cried Fafner, loudly.

“Never!” said Wotan.

“Then Friea is ours!” roared the giants, and they grasped her once more.

The gods, in chorus, begged Wotan to give the wranglers the treasure, but he was deaf to their entreaties. His eyes were fastened upon the bright Ring’s glitter; he was blind to all else.

Suddenly the light seemed to die out from the world. All grew dark. From a black chasm in the rocks rose a woman’s figure in a strange halo of blue light. Her face was pale, with a look of deepest mystery upon it. Lifting her hand, she spoke in low, solemn tones to Wotan:

“Hear my warning! Avoid the Ring, with its terrible spell! Heed me, O Wotan!”

“Who are you who warn me?” asked the god.

“I understand all things; wisest in all the world am I. The witch-wife Erda, men call me, Mother of the Norns. Listen, listen, listen! A day of dusk and gloom is coming for the gods. Beware of the Ring!”

She sank down into the earth once more. The blue light faded away. As she vanished she spoke again:

“Think well on what I have said!”

She was gone. Slowly the light came back to the world. Lost in thought, Wotan stood a moment; then turned quickly to the giants, and tore the Ring from his finger.

“It is yours!” he declared; and he tossed it on to the pile. “Back to us, Friea!” and the Love Goddess gladly flew back to their midst.

Fafner and Fasolt began fighting over the Ring at once, and Alberich’s dark spell quickly made itself felt. For Fasolt, seizing the Ring, was killed by his brother, who, with Ring and treasure, fled away to a far cave, named Hate Hole, and there, in the shape of a great dragon, guarded his hoard in loneliness for many years. But that is a different part of my story.

After the death of Fasolt and the flight of Fafner with the treasure, the clouds hanging low over the gods were cleared away by a great storm, and, as Walhalla appeared shining in the sun, a rainbow bridge spanned the space between the palace and the gods, who passed over it to their new home.

“These gods—how foolish and blind!” said Logi to himself, as he went with them. “I feel ashamed that I am one of them, bound to share in their doings.”

The beautiful palace glittered brightly. The gods smiled as they passed over the rainbow bridge. Only from the Rhine below there came a sound of wailing.

“O Rhinegold! Rhinegold!” sang the weeping Rhine daughters. “We long for your light. Trustful are those in the water; false are those above.”

Walhalla Motif

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Part II
THE WARRIOR GODDESS, or DIE WALKÜRE

Storm Motif

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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

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Volsung Motif

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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

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