The Valkyries

No voice answered him, but the stillness was broken by the sound of the logs on the hearth suddenly falling together, and from the embers went up a sudden flame illuminating the walls, and gleaming on the sword-hilt Then remembered he that Sieglinde's last look had directed his eyes there, but from where he sat he could see the gleam only, and knew not yet that it was a sword. Only he thought to himself that her last look had fallen there, and something of the gleam of her eyes still lingered there, making the dark stem bright But the gleam was very steady, and he wondered at it.

Then the flames from the hearth grew low again, and the shadows thickened in the hall. But something of the brightness still lingered within him, and he thought of how the eyes of the woman had shone on him all the evening when they sat at meat, and it seemed to him as if his soul, on which long night had settled, had been bathed in the beams of morning. Light and hope she had brought to his darkened heart; for one day he had basked in sun-shine, and ere yet his sun had sunk behind the hills again, one last evening ray had so illumined the ash-stem, that something of the light had still lingered there. Still lingered it also in his heart, though she had gone, and though the shadows of his woes crowded fast upon him, even as upon the walls of the dwelling-place they gathered in growing battalions, as the flames on the hearth sank ever lower. Yet still he sat there with open unseeing eyes. No thought of sleep was his. How could he sleep when Sieglinde abode within the house of hate? Round him the shadows grew and thickened, and at length the last sparks on the hearth were quenched, and through the open chimney only there filtered in a little greyness, so that though all was dark, yet the density of that blackness was greater here and less there.

How long he sat there, alert though lost in reverie, he knew not, but at the end a little noise fell on his ear and the door of the bed-chamber was opened, and framed in darkness he saw there a white figure. And his heart so hammered within him, that it seemed to him that the noise of it must awaken Hunding. Yet he moved not, neither spoke, and the figure came nearer. Then a voice that he knew fell like pearly rain on the stillness.

"Sleepest thou?" she whispered.

Then he could stay still no longer, but sprang up noiselessly.

"I?" he stammered, "I sleep, when thou seekest me?"

"Listen," said she. "In Hunding's night-draught I have mixed a sleeping potion, and thus the whole night is before us to devise a plan for thy safety."

"Safety?" whispered he. "With thee is my safety, and my – " And then, because he was Hunding's guest, he paused. Yet he was Hunding's foe at daybreak.

"But a sword, a sword!" she cried.

"Ah! there is no need to speak low; we shall not waken Hunding, for I brewed his drink strong. Ah! could I but bring thee the sword, for a sword waits here for him who is fit to seize it. It is near to thee now, and truly thine is an hour of sore need."

"What sayest thou? What is it thou hast said?" cried the stranger.

So she told him the story of her marriage feast, of how another stranger had strode to the board, and flung the sword in the ash-stem.

"There, there," she said, pointing at it, looking where she had looked before; "and one, only one shall be able to move it. Ah! when he comes – he who is ordained – then shall my vengeance for the years of sorrow I have passed in the house of Hunding be sweet to my mouth. For every tear I have shed here, my mouth shall be full of laughter and joy; for all the tears that I could not shed out of very bitterness and drought of soul, joy shall be mine too deep for smile or laughter. My friend, the friend of my soul, him I wait for, and with him there will be peace and victory for us both."

Then the stranger, knowing that there could be but one, and that his father whom he had called "The Wolf," who could cast a sword as the woman had said, and remembering that he had told him that in the hour of his sorest need a sword should be near him, knew that this was the sword of which he spoke, and that it was he who should draw it forth. And knowing that, he gave no more thought to it, for the woman had said that he who should draw it forth was the friend of her heart, and that knowledge for the moment drowned all else, and covered his soul with a huge, soft billow of joy, so he gave no heed to the sword, but only to her who stood by him. And in the exultation of his love he laughed aloud, and passionately drew her to him.

"And that is I, that is I!" he cried, "O crown and flower of womanhood! All my hopes in thee are fulfilled, and all my failures in thee are mended. Hard and long has been the way that led us each to the other. Lo! I heal the wounds which wrong has made, and thy hand soothes and banishes all my woe. Shame has been thy portion in the house of hate. Hunding thy husband! No mumbling vow hallows that unnatural union. Thou hast called for vengeance, and vengeance is at thy side, and the arm of vengeance thus wound round thee makes thee strong. But dearer and nearer I approach to thee than that. My hand bears vengeance for thee, but my heart bears love. Sieglinde! Sieglinde!"

Even as they stood thus, in the first transport of the knowledge that they loved, the great door of the hall swung open noiselessly, for maybe Hunding had not closed it when he returned home, and Sieglinde started in sudden alarm.

"What is that?" she cried. "Who went? Who has come?"

Slowly the door swung wide, and a great flood of moonlight poured in upon the pair, bathing them in its beams. High rose the moon in a cloudless heaven, and the warm breeze of spring whispered through the bushes and filled the hall. At length and at last the winter had ceased, and spring, that moment of all the year when the sap stirs in the trees, and the birds are mated, and lion seeks lioness in the Libyan hills, and man turns to woman and woman to man, spring was upon them in its overpowering fulness and sweetness. None may resist its compulsion, nor did they resist. Gently he drew her to him, and whether he spoke or sang she knew not, or whether it was only the echo of her thoughts she heard. But it seemed to her that his voice spoke.

"None went, but one has come," said he. "Look you, this house is the house of hate no longer, but the place of spring. For May has awoke, and the storms are hushed, and winter is over, and the glory of spring spreads round us. He wakes the warm winds, and as he wakes them they waft him on, and at his coming the wayside blossoms with its yearly miracle. Hedge and heath, field and forest are redolent with flowers, and as he moves across the world, laughter hails him on all sides. O! the time of the singing birds is come, and the breath of the earth is warm and sweet. Spring lies among the bushes, and where his warm body is pressed the flowers spring, and the young shoots of the trees, when they see his bosom rise and fall to the beat of his heart, put out their amorous branches to touch his fair form. Along the world strike his smiles, and with them, his sole weapons, he makes the whole world mad. The flash of his eye slays the winter, and at his glance the storms are hushed. All doors fly open to meet his coming, even as the door of the house of hate opened just now of its own accord, and spring is here.

"And who walks with him? Love his sister. In our hearts she slept, and when he came the doors of our hearts were opened also, and she laughs when she sees the light. The walls that held us are crumbled, and she is free. Spring the brother meets love the sister, and they meet here on the threshold of our hearts. They have found each other, and we have found each other."

And whether she replied to him he knew not, or whether it was only the echo of his thoughts he heard, but it seemed to him that her voice spake.

"Spring," she said. "O spring, my brother, how have I sorrowed for thee and sought thee. Long has winter held us both, but when first I saw thee, how with love and I knew not what dread my heart was drawn to thee. Friendless was I, and he who was nearest to me was nearest also in hate. At length, at length thou earnest, and at the first glance, I knew that thou wast mine, and all the secret treasure of my heart, all that I am, was poured out for thee. Friendless was I, and frost-bound of heart and utterly lonely. Then, O my friend, thou earnest!"

And wonder and awe at the greatness and might of the gift that the spring had brought to both fell on them, and for a long while they stood thus content, if so be that lovers are ever content, in gazing at each other. Then the full love surged strong within them, so that speech could not be withheld, and Sieglinde wound her arms round his neck yet more closely.

"Let me gaze on thee," she whispered, "for my senses reel with longing for thee, and reel in that they are satisfied when they behold thee. I am on fire."

"Yea, the moon makes thee on fire," said he, "and like living fire thy hair burns round thee. I gaze and I gaze, and still I am unfilled."

Then Sieglinde with her hand swept back the hair from his forehead, and with her finger, smiling like a child, she traced the path of the blood in his temple.

"See how thy life spreads like the boughs of a tree, and puts forth shoots in thy temples," said she. "I am faint and sick with content, yet even now sounds warning in my ears. Though never before have I seen thy face, yet long before have I known it."

"I, too," said he, "when dreams of love visited my sleep, have dreamed of thee and of no other. With what sadness did I behold thee then. And now, and now – "

"And often," said she, "as I gazed in the black lake, where it is still and waveless, have I seen thy face as in some magic mirror that showed me what should be. And now, and now – "

And like a child she laughed for pleasure, and as the wonder of their love grew and deepened, so the silence of love, more musical than hearing itself, descended on them. That long draught of silence was wine to each thirsty soul, and when they had drunk deep of it, again Sieglinde spake.

"Speak to me, and let me be silent listening," she said, "for thy voice comes to me out of the early years when I was but a child. Thy laugh rings to me out of those golden mists before – before – " and she shuddered at the thought of Hunding.

"Speak thou," said he, "and let me listen."

Again the tide of love filled her full, even as the bitter creeks and marshes are flushed with the return of the water. Then struck her a sudden wild thought, and again she gazed earnestly into his eyes.

"Without words when thou came faint with weariness, thy glance looked so to me, till my despair was mild, and died in the light of the day that streamed on me. Wehwalt! ah no, such cannot be thy name. What is there of woe left? Not the shadow of the dream even!"

"No, I am Wehwalt no longer!" cried he, "for thy love has banished woe from me. That name which I gave myself is gone, for gone is woe. Ah, woman, woman, give me my name; tell me by what name I shall be called, and that, thy gift, and none other shall be my name."

Then looked she at him as one half lost in thought.

"And Wolf, was Wolf thy father's true name?" she asked.

"Wolf he was called," said the stranger, "and as Wolf he was feared, for he was as a wolf among timorous foxes. Yet it was not as Wolf I knew him. His glance was bright as thine, and as far-reaching, and that glance was the glance of Walse." Then was that mystery of fate by which she was led to him, even as Spring the brother met Love the sister on the threshold of their hearts, made manifest to her, and the knowledge drove her beside herself.

"So," she said, "Walse was thy father, and thou art a Wolsung. For thy sake did Walse fling the sword into the ash-stem, for well know I that it was Walse who flung it there and no other. And on my tongue thy true name trembles, the name by which I love thee – Siegmund, Siegmund."

Then sprang Siegmund, stranger no longer, to the ash-stem, and in his right hand seized he the gleaming hilt.

"Thou sayest it!" he cried, "and the sword shall prove I am Siegmund. For Walse told me that when my need was sorest then should the sword of deliverance and victory be near me. Has it not come? Has not my need been sore? For love is the sorest need a man can know, and that is mine; and deep is the dear wound it has made in my breast. Burn deeper yet, O wound, stirring me to strife and strenuous deed. Lo! I name it, the sword of need – Nothung, Nothung. Come forth then, Nothung, leave thy dark sheath, and bare thy shining blade. I, Siegmund, bid thee."

And at that he wrenched at the sword-hilt, and that which no power of the guests of Hunding's marriage feast could stir, moved at his bidding, and leaped forth to his hand. Bright and lordly shone it in tile moon of spring, and Sieglinde beheld, and her eyes were dazzled with its shining, even as her heart was dazzled with love.

Then cried Siegmund again: "Behold me, Siegmund the Wolsung, the son of Walse. This is my bridal gift to thee, the sword of victory and of thy deliverance. Wife to me art thou by right, even as the sword is mine by right Round thee crumbles the house of hate. Come forth, come forth into the light of love. Lo, the house of hate and of spring opens its doors wide, so follow, follow! Nothung, thy deliverance, and Siegmund, whose life is thy love, go with thee."

He seized her with the violent tenderness of love, and drew her to him. Straight in front of them opened the door into the house of spring, and it was fair. Yet, since he knew not yet who it was he led out with him, she spoke, even as he led her forth.

"Siegmund, Siegmund," she said, "O take me, take me. Thy longing has led thee to me. Is the flash of my eyes like the flash in the eye of Walse thy father? So be it: for who else should be like him but I? The burned homestead, the vanished sister, dost thou forget them? By the sword, even as Walse said, thou winnest her."

And for one moment Siegmund gazed at her in wild amaze. Then, for the spring was hot in his blood, and it was so written in the Book of Fate, to which even Wotan bows, whether he lords it in heaven, or as Walse he strides in the forest, there was no stop or stay for his passion.

"My bride, my sister!" he said, "brother and bridegroom long for you. For the blood of the Wolsungs will blossom yet."

CHAPTER V

THE STRIFE OF WOTAN AND FRICKA

Not far from the house of Hunding, but above the great wood of pines that with their dark plumes fringed the hillside opposite, there was a region of wild and bleak rocks, where, if any breeze stirred below, here it was as a strong wind. And if storm was coming over the earth, here above all would the clouds gather, and gloom and mix together till the power of the heavens willed that they should go on their appointed journeys of wrath or mercy to the thirsty earth. Thus the Valkyries, the wild maidens of the storm, were often wont to come here, riding on the wings of the wind, for their joy was in tempest and strife, and they cared little for peace and content, and their home was with the thunder, and the lightning was the lantern they loved best. At other times, when the heavens were clear, and the benediction of the sun brooded over the earth, here, above the woods and the damp and sorry lowlands, was its light the most serene and bright. Pure blew the airs as they blew to the mariner in the shrouds of his ship, and on all sides carved out to infinite distance lay vales and mountain peaks and ridges of hills, folded and knit the one into the other as the muscles of a strong man's arm rise and fall into ridge and furrow where his strength abides.

Thus it way that Wotan the king of the gods often came here, for here it was that he would be like to find his daughter Brunnhilde, the eldest of the Valkyries, and of all living things the dearest to him; and from here, as from a fortress home, she and her sisters, having communed with their father, would start on their war-raids, riding on the storm, and dazzling the souls of men with their beauty and their terror. And on the selfsame night, that first of spring, when spring and love awoke together in the hearts of Sieglinde and Siegmund, and maddened them with their sweetness, Wotan with his daughter Brunnhilde had sat night-long on that serene mountain-top, and he, communing with her as he communed with his own soul, had spoken to her of that wild deed which the brother and sister, his children by the forest maiden, had committed. And in the deeps of his heart he guessed, though darkly as in a glass, that from Siegmund the Wolsung should come that man for whom he waited, one free and owing nothing to the favour of the gods, who alone should be able to bring back to him the ring of the Rhine-gold, in whose circlet lay the wealth of the world and unmeasured might, even as Erda had foretold to him. Nor did the mating of this strange pair amaze or disquiet him, for they loved with that love which is the fire of the earth, and without which the earth would grow cold, and to his eyes that fire, from whatever fuel it was kindled, was a thing sacred beyond compare; while of the vows of a loveless marriage, such as Sieglinde's had been, he recked nought, nor scrupled to scatter it to the winds, even as a man on an autumn day scatters the thistledown on the breezy uplands, and cares nought where the winds may take it. For as light as thistledown to him were loveless vows, but love, even though no vow may hallow it, he held more sacred than his own oath.

So when the day dawned, he rose from the rock where he had been sitting, and Brunnhilde rose from her place by his knee.

"Up then to horse, my maid," he cried, "and be strong and swift to aid. Ere long the clash of arms shall be heard, and Bunding follow hard on Siegmund's trail. Up then, Brunnhilde, and put might into the heart of Siegmund the Wolsung, and strength into his arm. I reck nothing of Bunding, for he is no son of light, but of darkness. So to horse and away; get thee to Siegmund's side."

Then loud and long Brunnhilde shouted her cry of war, so that the rocks re-echoed, and far away from the muffled hillside of pines came the response.

Then ere she went, she climbed quickly to the topmost pinnacle of the ridge of rocks, and looking down into the ravine behind, she saw one whom she knew coming quickly up, and with a sweet sort of malice in her heart she called to her father Wotan.

"Fly, father, fly!" she cried, half laughter, half pity for him. "Let the king of gods be seen to fly for his safety, for a storm for thyself sweeps hither swiftly. Fricka thy wife is near on thy trail, driving her chariot with its harnessed rams. Up the path she comes; canst thou not hear the strokes of her golden whip, which like a flail she is plying? Listen to the bleatings of her belaboured steeds, listen to the rattling of her whirling wheels, while to guide her path to thee, anger flares like a beacon in her face. Father, dear father, such fights as these are little to my liking, for Brunnhilde would sooner meet the armed strength of men than the spirted venom of a woman's tongue and her war of words. Meet thou this fight as thou best may, for in such case I love to desert thee, and laughing I desert thee now. Yet I will wait hard by till Fricka has gone, and once more talk with thee ere I go to aid Siegmund."

Then once again, turning a look of love and laughter on her father, Brunnhilde shouted her joyous war-cry so that the distant hills replied, and sped quickly away until Fricka should have done with Wotan. With love shining in his eyes for her, he saw her go, and with anger and misgiving in his heart he saw his wife approach, knowing that a war of words was before him. For well he knew that she had come on this selfsame matter of Siegmund and Sieglinde, for so lawless a deed was an outrage to her. Yet was Wotan's purpose undismayed, and he swore to himself that she should find him steadfast in his resolve to aid Siegmund.

Now Fricka, though she was Wotan's wife, was not the companion of his heart; for she was cold and hard of nature, and nought that was human beat in her bosom. And by the great human heart of Wotan, in whose nostrils love was the breath of life, this wife of his was honoured indeed and much feared, but it was not to her he whispered at dark, nor told the secret troubles and joys of his soul. And when he saw her driving down the path, though he marvelled at her beauty, he had no word of tender welcome for her, and indeed her face was one flame of anger.

"Here in these heights where thou hidest from me, thy wife," she said, "I seek and find thee. Give me thy oath that thou wilt help me."

Then said Wotan, "What ails thee, wife?"

"Hunding's cry for vengeance has come to my ears," said she. "And well it might, for, as thou knowest, I am the goddess of marriage and marriage vows. Thus I listened in horror and holy indignation to the tale I heard, and I have sworn that Siegmund and Sieglinde, who have thus put him to shame so foully and madly, should pay for their sin. So help me, swear that thou wilt help me, that the two may reap their right reward. For shameful and impious is the deed that has been done."

Even as she spoke a little red flower blossomed at Wotan's feet, opening suddenly at the dawn of this sweet spring morning, and above his head two birds mated in mid-air, and his heart was warm within him with the instinct of the spring-time. "It is the spell of the spring," he thought to himself. "Love and spring drove mad both man and woman, and if there is blame, the blame is there." Aloud he said —

"O Fricka, it is spring-time!" and almost a tear of tenderness for the frail race of men he so loved started to his eye.

But Fricka answered him in anger. "The marriage vow has been broken," she cried, "and though that is not all, yet that is enough. Hunding's house is dishonoured, honoured, and I hate those who have dishonoured it."

"And did love hallow that marriage vow?" cried Wotan. "Was not Sieglinde carried by force to her marriage feast? Love's hand signed not the bond, and where love is not, there the most solemn vow turns impious. But a stranger came, and love stirred at last for him and her. And where love stirs, there is true marriage, and those stirrings of love I abet, I approve."

"Be it so," said Fricka; "let us say that the loveless wedlock is unholy, that it is best honoured when broken. But that is not all, and thou knowest it. For is it holy that two twins should seek each other thus? Ah! Wotan, my head reels and my senses are bewildered when I think of that. Brother and sister? When has it happened that a man should marry his neighbour in his mother's womb? When has that happened?"

But Wotan looked at her gently.

"It has happened now," he said. "Wife, is there nought left for us to learn? Thou knowest, thou knowest well that between the two there burns the authentic fire of love. It has happened. Siegmund and Sieglinde have so loved. Therefore, as I do, bless their union and blame it not. It is spring-time too."

Then was Fricka's wrath so kindled that it seemed as if she had been calm before and was now angry for the first time, and with storm she descended on him.

"Then is our godhead perished!" she cried, "since thou didst beget thy godless Wolsungs. Do you think that I shall follow thee on such a road? For the stones of it are shame, and shameful is the foot that treads thereon. Hunding's cry goes up unanswered, and all that was holy thou tramplest on. All this because the twins that thou begottest, in unfaithfulness to me thy wife, have dared to do this impious deed. Vows! what are vows to thee? Thou boldest none sacred. I have ever been true to thee, and ever thou hast betrayed my truth. There is no mountain top that has not seen, no vale that has not concealed some pleasure of thine, pleasure that scorned and dishonoured my faithfulness. When thou wentest to Erda, and begottest the brood of Valkyries, Brunnhilde the first, I bore it, for Erda was ever noble, and such adventure was not altogether base. But now like a common man thou goest on thy foul adventures, haunting the forest till men call thee the Wolf, or passing under the name of Walse. There is no plumb-line to measure the depths of thy shame, so deep is that abyss. These hast thou begotten of a mere woman, a she-wolf, these twins. And now thou flingest me at the feet of thy she-wolfs litter. Ah, mete out the full measure of my shame. Thou hast betrayed me, and now thou stampest me beneath thy feet and the feet of thy children of shame."