{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27265/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27265","id":"gutenberg_27265","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27265","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Music","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","Operas -- Stories, plots, etc.","Wagner, Richard, 1813-1883"],"text":"Produced by Robert J. Hall\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE LAST PHOTOGRAPH OF RICHARD WAGNER]\n\n\nTHE WAGNERIAN ROMANCES\n\n\nBY\n\nGERTRUDE HALL\n\n\nNEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY, MCMVII\n\nLONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD\n\n\n_To_\n\n_My Friend_\n\nJOHN SANBURN PHILLIPS\n\n_this book_\n\n_is_\n\n_gratefully dedicated._\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nThe attempt has been made in the following to give an idea of the\ncharm and interest of the original text of the Wagner operas, of\nWagner's extraordinary power and fertility as a dramatist. It is\nnot critique or commentary, it is presentation, picture, narrative;\nit offers nothing that is not derived directly and exclusively\nfrom the Wagner libretti and scores.\n\nThe stories of the operas are widely known already, of course.\nAs literature, however, one may almost say they are not known at\nall, unless by students of German. The translators had before them\na task so tremendous, in the necessity to fit their verse-rendering\nof the master's poetry to extremely difficult music, that we respect\nthem for achieving it at all. None the less must the translations\nincluded in our libretti be pronounced painfully inadequate. To\ngive a better, more complete knowledge of the original poems is\nthe object of these essays. The poems form, even apart from the\nmusic, a whole beautiful, luminous, romantic world. One would not\nlose more by dropping out of literature the Idylls of the King\nthan the Wagnerian romances.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nPARSIFAL\nTHE RING OF THE NIBELUNG\n  THE RHINE-GOLD\n  THE VALKYRIE\n  SIEGFRIED\n  THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS\nTHE MASTER-SINGERS OF NUREMBERG\nTRISTAN AND ISOLDE\nLOHENGRIN\nTANNHAEUSER\nTHE FLYING DUTCHMAN\n\n\nPARSIFAL\n\n\nPARSIFAL\n\nI\n\nThe story of the Holy Grail and its guardians up to the moment\nof Parsifal's appearance upon the scene, is--we gather it from\nGurnemanz's rehearsal of his memories to the youthful esquires,--as\nfollows: At a time when the pure faith of Christ was in danger from\nthe power and craft of His enemies, there came to its defender,\nTiturel, angelic messengers of the Saviour's, and gave into his\nkeeping the Chalice from which He had drunk at the Last Supper\nand into which the blood had been gathered from His wounds as He\nhung upon the Cross; likewise the Spear with which His side had\nbeen pierced. Around these relics Titurel built a temple, and an\norder of knighthood grew. The temple, Monsalvat, stood upon the\nNorthern slope of mountains overlooking Gothic Spain. No road led\nto its doors, and those only could find their way to it whom the\nHoly Spirit guided; and those only could hope to be so guided,\nand could belong to the brotherhood, who were pure in heart and\nclean of the sins of the flesh. The knights were mystically fed\nand strengthened by the vision of the Chalice--which is called\nthe Grail; the duties of the Order were \"high deeds of salvation,\"\ncomprehending warfare upon Christ's enemies, at home and in distant\nlands.\n\nOn the southern slope of the mountain, facing Moorish or heathen\nSpain. Klingsor had gone into hermitage, in an attempted expiation\nof evil committed down in the heathen world. What his sin had been,\nGurnemanz says, he knows not; but he aspired to become a holy man,\nhe wished to join the brotherhood of the Grail. Finding it impossible\nto subdue sin in himself by the spirit, he sought, as it were, a\nmechanical substitute for virtue, by which, however, he failed\nto attain his object, for his sacrifice called forth from Titurel\nonly contempt, and he was rejected from the Order. He turned all\nthe strength of his rage then to acquiring black arts by which\nto ruin the detested brotherhood. On the southward mountainside,\nhe created by sorcery a wonderful pleasure-palace and garden, in\nwhich uncannily beautiful women grew. This lay in the path of the\nknights of the Grail, a temptation and a trap, and one so effectual\nthat he who permitted himself to be lured into it was lost; there\nhad been no exception, safety lay singly in avoidance. Titurel\nhaving reached so great an age that he had no longer strength to\nperform the service of the Grail, invested with the kingly office\nAmfortas, his son. The latter undertook at once the removal of\nthe standing danger to his knights, the destruction of Klingsor.\nArmed with the Sacred Spear, he fared forth.... Alas! even before\nthe walls of the enchanted castle had been reached, his followers,\namong whom Gurnemanz, missed him. A woman of dreadful beauty had\nensnared him. In her arms he forgot everything, he let the Spear drop\nfrom his hand.... A great cry, as of one mortally hurt, Gurnemanz\nrelates, was suddenly heard. He rushed to the rescue, and caught\nsight of Klingsor, laughing as he disappeared carrying the Spear,\nwith which he had wounded Amfortas. And now, possessed of the Spear,\nit was Klingsor's boast that he should soon be in possession of the\nChalice likewise, the Holy Grail itself. And the wound of Amfortas\nwould not heal, and an apprehension was that never could it heal,\nsave at the touch of the Spear which made it. And this, who could\nconquer it back? Yet the knights were not wholly without hope, for,\nAmfortas once praying before the despoiled sanctuary, and imploring a\nsign of pardon, a holy dream-face had appeared to him and delivered\nthe dim but comforting oracle: \"Wise through compassion.... The\nimmaculate Fool.... Await him.... My appointed one....\"\n\nThus matters stand when the curtain rises for us upon the forest\nsurrounding the Castle of the Grail. The introductory music is\nwholly religious, composed principally of the so moving phrase\nof the Last Communion, the Grail-motif and the Faith-music. The\nlatter opens with what has the effect of a grand declaration, as\nif it might be understood to say: \"I believe in God the Father!\nI believe in God the Son! I believe in God the Holy Ghost!\" and\nfell to worshipping prayer.\n\nThe grey-haired Gurnemanz and two young boys of the Order are discovered\nsleeping. At the clarion-call from the Castle, they start awake and\nkneel at their morning devotions. The lake is near where the sick\nKing is carried daily for the bath. Forerunners of his cortege\npass, and are questioned by Gurnemanz concerning his condition. No,\nthe healing herb, obtained at such price of courage and cunning,\nhas not helped him. (For, though their drugs prove still and ever\nuseless, the devoted followers will not give up the search for\nearthly relief.) This discouraged answer is hardly given, when another\nappears who has been ranging afar in search of a remedy--Kundry,\narriving like the whirlwind, on a mare that staggers reaching the\ngoal. Spent with speed, the strange wild woman totters to Gurnemanz\nand presses on him a crystal phial: Balsam! If this does not help,\nArabia holds nothing more from which health can be hoped! Felled\nby fatigue, she drops on the ground, refusing any further speech.\nWhen the king is now brought in upon a litter and halts on his\nway to the lake for a moment's rest, receiving from Gurnemanz the\nbalsam, he thanks the woman, as one who has often before done him\nsuch service. She rejects his thanks roughly, as if almost they\nhurt: \"No thanks! No thanks! What good will it do? Away! Away!\nTo the bath!\"\n\nThe young esquires, lingering after the king has been borne onward,\neye her as she lies on the ground like a wild beast, and voice\ntheir suspicion of her, founded, after the fashion of youth's\njudgements, upon her looks. They believe those potions of hers\nwill finally destroy the king altogether. Gurnemanz checks them,\nreminding them heatedly of her services, beyond all that any other\ncould perform. \"Who, when we are at loss how to send tidings to\nbrethren warring in distant lands, we scarcely even know where,--who,\nbefore we have come to any resolve, flies to them and returns,\nhaving acquitted herself of the task aptly and faithfully?...\"\n\"But,\" they object, \"she hates us! See how malignantly she glowers\nat us! She is a heathen, a sorceress!\" \"One she may be, perhaps,\nlabouring under a curse,\" Gurnemanz goes thus far with them; \"she\nlives here, it may be, a penitent, to expiate some unforgiven sin\nof her earlier life.\" He tells how, so long ago as at the time\nof the building of the temple, Titurel first found her among the\ntangled growth of the forest, rigid in death-like sleep. \"I myself,\"\nhe continues, \"discovered her but recently in the like condition.\nIt was soon after the calamity had befallen, brought upon us by\nthe evil one over the mountain.\" And turning to Kundry, as if the\nthought had but just occurred: \"Hey! Tell me, you! Where were you\nroaming when our master lost the Spear?\" The woman gazes gloomily,\nand preserves a silence which we afterwards see to be significant.\n\"Why did you not help us at that time?\" \"I never help!\" she exclaims\ndarkly, and turns away. \"If she is as faithful as you say, and as\ndaring, and full of resource,\" suggests ironically one of the young\nesquires, \"why not send her after the lost Spear?\" \"That!\" Gurnemanz\nreplies sadly, \"is another matter. That nobody can achieve!\" And,\nthe memory of the past rising strong within him, he relates to the\nquestioning young fellows, new in the brotherhood and ignorant of its\nhistory, the events set down in their order a little way back. He\nhas repeated to them the mysterious promise of help: \"Wise through\ncompassion.... The immaculate Fool.... Await him.... My appointed\none....\" And they, impressed, are saying it after him, when, at the\nwords \"_Der reine Thor_,\" the pure--the clean-lived--the immaculate\nFool, a commotion develops in the direction of the lake-side, cries\nof \"Woe! A pity! A shame! Who did it?\" A great wild swan flies\nin sight, sinks to earth hurt to death by an arrow, and the king's\nesquires bring in, chiding and accusing him, a tall, innocent-eyed,\nfresh-cheeked boy, armed with bow and arrows,--Parsifal. Rustic\nenough is his outfit, but his bearing unmistakably that of the\nhigh-born, as Gurnemanz does not fail to remark. A sturdy, brave,\ngay-hearted strain has ushered him in, and for just a moment he\nstands quite like a brother of Siegfried's, fearless, unconscious\nof himself, as ignorant of the world as he is unspotted by it, but\nengagingly wide-awake, serene in watching its mysterious actions.\n\"Are you the one who killed the swan?\" Gurnemanz asks him sternly.\nAnd he answers, unabashed, quite as Siegfried might have done:\n\"Certainly! Whatever flies I shoot on the wing!\" But at once after\nthis the difference between the two is manifest. To both whole\nregions of emotion are unknown, but certain emotions which are\noutside the nature of one, are potentially the very strongest in\nthe other. Siegfried is not pitiful. The strong, radiant being\nis incomplete on that side, so that the Christian heart winces\na little, here and there, at the bright resoluteness with which\nhe pursues his course when it involves, for instance, death to\nthe little foster-father, unrighteous imp though he be, or horror\nto Bruennhilde, captured by violence and offered to his friend.\nWhereas Parsifal, when Gurnemanz now makes plain to him the cruelty\nof his thoughtless action, when he points out the glazing eye,\nthe blood dabbling the snowy plumage of the noble swan, faithful\nfamiliar of the lake, killed as he circled in quest of his mate,\nis seized with a passion of realizing pity, impulsively breaks\nand flings from him his bow, and hides his eyes from the work of\nhis hands. \"How--how could you commit such a wrong?\" Gurnemanz\npursues unrelenting, even after these expressions of contrition.\n\"I did not know,\" Parsifal answers. Then to the amazement of all\nare revealed the most extravagant ignorance and simplicity ever met.\n\"Where do you come from?\" \"I do not know.\" \"Who is your father?\"\n\"I do not know.\" \"Who directed you here?\" \"I do not know.\" \"What is\nyour name?\" \"I have had many, but no longer remember any of them.\"\n\"Truly,\" grumbles Gurnemanz, \"I have so far never in my life met\nwith any one so stupid--except Kundry.\" Very sagely, he leaves off\nquestioning the fool; but when the others, after reverently taking\nup the dead swan, have departed with it for burial, he addresses\nhim: \"Of all I have asked you, you know nothing. Now tell me what\nyou do know! For it can hardly be but that you know something.\"\nWhereupon very simply and obediently the boy begins: \"I have a\nmother. Her name is Herzeleide. (Heart's-sorrow.) We lived in the\nwoods and on the wild moor....\" And it appears from his own ingenuous\nnarrative and the additions of Kundry, who in her rangings has\nseemingly had opportunities to watch him, that he is the son of\nthe hero Gamuret, slain in battle before his birth, and that, in\nterror of a like early death for him, his mother has reared him in\nsolitude, far from arms and reports of war, in absolute ignorance\nof the world. One day, he tells in joyous excitement, bright-gleaming\nmen passed along the forest's edge, seated upon splendid animals;\nhis instant wish was to be like them, but they laughed and galloped\naway. He ran after them, but could not overtake them. Up hill and\ndown dale he travelled, for days and nights. With his bow he was\ncompelled to defend himself against wild beasts and huge men....\n\"Yes!\" throws in Kundry eagerly, as if at the recollection of splendid\nfights witnessed, \"he made his strength felt upon miscreants and\ngiants. They were all afraid of the truculent boy!\" He turns upon\nher a vaguely pleased wonder: \"Who is afraid of me? ... Tell me!\"\n\"The wicked!\" He seems trying to grasp a wholly new idea presented\nto him. \"Those who threatened me were wicked? Who is good?\" Gurnemanz\nin reply reminds him of his mother, who is good, and from whom\nhe has run away; she no doubt is seeking him in sorrow. Kundry\nbrusquely interrupts: \"Her sorrow is ended. His mother is dead!\"\nAnd, at his incredulous cry of horror: \"I was riding past and saw\nher die. She bade me take to you, fool, her last blessing.\" Parsifal\nsprings upon this bearer of evil tidings with the instinctive attempt\nto shut off the breath that could frame such terrible words. Gurnemanz\nforcibly disengages her, and, overpowered by the shock and weight of\nhis pain, Parsifal sinks in a swoon. Tenderly at once both servants\nof the Grail care for him. Kundry hastens for water with which to\nwet his temples, and, as he revives, offers him drink. Gurnemanz\nis struck by the magnanimity of her action. \"That is right,\" he\nnods his approval, \"that is in accordance with the gracious spirit\nof the Grail. We banish evil when we return good for it.\" Kundry\nturns sadly away: \"I never do good! ... All I desire is rest!...\nRest!\" And while Gurnemanz is still occupied with restoring Parsifal,\nshe slowly walks, as if powerfully drawn and intensely resisting,\ntoward a tangled copse. She appears struggling with inexpressible\nweariness; the music gives a hint of something unnatural and evil\nin the spell of sleep falling leadenly upon her, expressing at\nthe same time an irresistible element in it of attraction. The\ndark, wild-haired messenger of the Grail, the despised subordinate,\nsuddenly assumes to our sense a much greater importance than up\nto this moment. Her personality looms large with an unexplained\neffect of tragedy. \"Only rest! Rest for the weary one!\" she murmurs\nyearningly; \"sleep! Oh, let nobody wake me!\" Terror checks her for\na moment: \"No! No! I must not sleep!\" she shudders, \"I am afraid!\"\nShe falls to violent trembling. But whatever it is compelling her is\ntoo strong at last. Her arms fall unnerved, her head bows languidly,\nand she moves feebly whither she is drawn. \"Useless resistance!\n... The hour is come. Sleep.... Sleep.... I must!\" Having reached\nthe thicket she drops on the earth among the bushes.\n\nThe sun is now high, the king is borne homeward from the bath. The\nthought has struck Gurnemanz that here under his hands is surely\nas exquisite a _Thor_ as could well be, and the experiment suggests\nitself of taking him to the temple, where, as he tells him, if he\nbe pure, the Grail will be to him meat and drink. He places the\narm of the still strengthless youth about his neck, and gently\nupholds him as they start on their way. \"Who is the Grail?\" asks\nParsifal, as they walk. \"That may not be put into words,\" replies\nGurnemanz, \"but, if you are of the chosen, you cannot fail to learn.\nAnd, see now! I believe I know who you are. No road leads through\nthe land to the Grail, and no one could find the way except Itself\nguided him....\" \"I am scarcely moving,\" says the wondering boy,\n\"yet it seems to me we have already gone a long way....\"\n\nAnd, indeed, the forest has been miraculously gliding past. It ends\nbefore a granite wall in which a great portal stands open. This\ngives entrance into ascending rocky galleries; sounds of clarions\ncome stealing to the ear; church-bells are heard--and we are presently\ntranslated into the interior of the Castle of the Grail, the great\ndomed hall.\n\nParsifal entering with Gurnemanz stops still beside the threshold,\nspell-bound in presence of all the lofty beauty: \"Now watch with\nattention,\" his guide instructs him, before leaving him where he\nstands, \"and let us see, if you are a simple soul and pure, what\nlight shall be vouchsafed you.\"\n\nThe scene now enacting itself before him is well calculated to\nstrike the imagination of the boy from the lonely moors. The knights\nof the Grail, beautiful in their clear robes, enter in procession,\nchanting. When they cease, the singing is taken up by younger voices,\nof personages unseen up in the dome, and, after them, by children's\nvoices from the airy summit of the dome, floating, angelic. The\nwounded king is brought in on his litter, and laid upon the high\ncanopied seat before the altar, upon which the shrine is placed\nenclosing the Grail. The knights have ranged themselves along tables\nprepared with silver goblets. In the silence of recollection which\nfalls upon all, a voice is heard, as if from the grave: \"My son\nAmfortas, are you at your post?\" It is the aged Titurel, whose\nresting-place is a recess behind the altar and the raised seat.\nThere he is kept alive solely by the contemplation of the Grail,\nmystical means of life and strength. \"Are you at your post? Shall I\nlook upon the Grail once more and live?\" But long-gathering despair\nto-day reaches its climax in Amfortas, at the necessity to perform\nthe rite required. The torture to him cannot be measured of the\nvision which creates ecstasy in the others. \"Woeful inheritance\nfallen to me!\" he complains, in his passion of revolt against this\ndivine infliction, \"that I, the only sinner among all, should be\ncondemned to be keeper of holiest holies, and call down blessings\nupon those purer than I!\" But the worst of his anguish is still\nthat when the holy blood glows in the Cup, and, in sympathy, the\nblood gushes forth anew from the wound in his side--the wound made\nby the same Spear--the consciousness ever returns to burning life\nthat, whereas those holy drops were shed in a heavenly compassion\nfor the misery of man, these are unregenerate blood, hot with sinful\nhuman passion and longing, which no chastening has availed to drive\nout. The wretched king is praying for the mercy of deliverance\nthrough death, when, from the high dome, the words rain softly of\nthe promise of redemption--through the Fool. Recovering courage,\nAmfortas proceeds with the rite. While he kneels in prayer before\nthe Chalice, which young acolytes have taken from the shrine and\nreverently uncovered, a mysterious darkness gathers over all. A\nray of light suddenly falls through this, upon the Chalice, which\nbegins softly to glow, and brightens to a deep luminous purple-red.\nAmfortas lifts it and waves it over the kneeling people. The words\nof the Last Communion are heard, sung by the soaring voices in\nthe dome: \"Take my body--Take my blood--For the sake of our love!\nTake my blood--Take my body--And remember me!\"\n\nThe ceremony accomplished, Amfortas sets down the Cup, which begins\nto pale; as it fades, the twilight lightens. When the common light\nof day has completely returned, the knights sit down to the repast of\nconsecrated Bread placed for them, and Wine poured, by the acolytes.\nAt the end of it, they earnestly grasp one another's hands in renewal\nof their bond of brotherhood.\n\nAmfortas is perceived to be suffering from the renewed bleeding\nof his wound. He is laid upon the litter once more and borne away.\nThe knights depart in orderly procession, the hall is gradually\ndeserted.\n\nParsifal remains standing on the same spot. He has hardly moved,\nexcept, when Amfortas's anguished cry rang out, to clutch at his\nheart. Gurnemanz, when he sat down at the table with the other\nknights, signed to him to come and share in the holy feast, but\nhe did not stir. The impression can be apprehended of the solemn\nscene upon the white page of the boy's mind. A spirit of religion\nhas breathed through it all, so exalted, so warm, so personal; the\npassionate mediaeval Christianity which expressed itself in crusades\nand religious orders and knight-errantry. The cry of the Saviour\n(_Erloesung's Held_, Hero of Redemption, the poet characteristically\ncalls him) has rung so piercingly, there seems but one answer from\na humanly constituted simple heart: \"Did you indeed suffer so much\nand die for love of me and my brothers? How then can I the most\nquickly spend and scatter all my strength and blood in gratitude\nto you?\" Parsifal has brought to these things a consciousness not\nblurred and overscored by worldly knowledge and desires, a native\ncapacity for love of others uninterfered with by the developed\nconsideration of self. His fresh instinct has gathered the meaning\nof what he sees, novel to him as it is; \"wise through compassion,\"\nhe has gotten the measure and character perfectly of Amfortas's\nsufferings, foreign as they are to his experience; he has gotten\nthe spirit of the facts of Christ. One especial message, over and\nabove the rest, he has received to himself, shot into his heart\nupon a ray from the glowing Grail held before his gaze by Amfortas:\nthat the Saviour embodied in the Grail must be delivered from the\nsin-sullied hands now holding it. He has seemed to hear the appeal\nof the Saviour, poignant, to be so delivered. He is left, when\nthe vision fades, with the sense of this necessity--involving for\nhimself, though he knows not how, a duty and a quest: Amfortas\nmust be healed, the Sacred Treasure must be taken into keeping\nby purer hands.\n\nGurnemanz approaches him hopefully: \"Well, did you understand what\nyou saw?\" But Parsifal, still in his trance of wonder, only shakes\nhis head. It is too deep for words, what he has felt.\n\nTo Gurnemanz he now seems a hopeless and unprofitable fool, who\nhas no place in the noble company. \"You are a fool, it is a fact,\nand you are nothing else!\" he declares. Opening a side-door, he\nwithout further ceremony pushes him out by the shoulders, with a\nsour little joke: \"Take my advice: Let the swans alone hereafter,\nand, gander that you are, find yourself a goose!\" As he turns from\nthe door, there falls from above, as if some echo of it had clung\nto the high dome after all the singers had left, the strain: \"Wise\nthrough compassion.... The immaculate fool....\"\n\nII\n\nThe next change of scene shows the interior of the tower where\nKlingsor practises his dark arts. A strain already known catches our\nattention (the Sorcery-motif), and we become aware what influences\nwere at work in Kundry when her weariness succumbed to the lure of\nsleep, what mesmeric call from Klingsor's hotly blooming, godless\npleasure-seat. The Klingsor-music introducing the second act stands\nin picturesque contrast to the tender and thoughtful music opening\nthe first; curiously suggesting, as it does, lawlessness, cold evil\npassions riding the soul hideously at a gallop. It has something vaguely\nin common with portions of the Venus-music in Tannhaeuser,--perhaps\nits effect at once unbridled and joyless.\n\nThe sorcerer has from the battlements seen Parsifal approaching,\nwho, thrust out from the Castle of the Grail, had, by the peculiar\nmagic of the place, found the path to it obliterated. He had come\nforth with the exalted but undefined sense of a great task to perform.\nBut, even as the road to the Castle of the Grail was difficult to\nfind, the road to Klingsor's castle was easy and overeasy; it would\nseem that for the feet of a votary of the Grail all roads led to\nit. Parsifal had seen it shining afar, and with childish shouts of\ndelight is drawing near. Klingsor, divining in him an enemy more\nthan usual dangerous, resorts, to make his ruin altogether sure,\nto what are his supreme methods. He calls to his assistance once more\nthe ally by whose help the great Amfortas had been vanquished. With\nmysterious passes and burning of gums, he summons that Formidable\nFeminine: \"Nameless one!... Most ancient of Devils!... Rose of\nHell!... Herodias!...\" and amid the blue smoke-wreathes, uttering\nthe wail of a slave haled to the market-place, rises the form of\nKundry. She appears like one but half roused from the torpour of\nsleep, and struggling with a terrible dream, or resisting some\nterrible reality. All the answer she can give to his first words of\nironical congratulation, is in broken exclamations: \"Oh! Oh! Deep\nnight.... Madness... Oh, wrath! Oh, misery!... Sleep! Sleep! Deep\nsleep!... Death!...\" and, in a subsequent outburst: \"The curse!...\nOh, yearning!... Yearning!...\"\n\nHer history and hints of her extraordinarily complex personality\nare to be gathered from the scene following and the scene later,\nwith Parsifal. The mysterious messenger of the Grail was anciently\nHerodias, and meeting with the Man of Sorrows, she laughed. \"Then,\"\nshe herself relates, \"He turned His eyes upon me....\" Under the\ncurse involved in her action and the remorse generated by that\ndivine look, she cannot die, but goes, as she describes it, seeking\nHim from world to world, to meet His eyes again. She tries in every\nmanner to expiate her sin, by service to others, by subjugation of\nself, but the old nature is still not well out of her, the nature\nof Herodias, and, at intervals, an infinite weariness of welldoing\novertakes her, a revival of the passions of her old life, and with\nthe cessation of struggle against them she falls into a death-like\nsleep. In this condition, as if it represented a laying-off of the\narmour of righteousness, her spirit is at the mercy of the powers\nof evil. The necromancer Klingsor can conjure it up and force it\nto his own uses.\n\nIn the centuries she has lived, she has borne many names. She has\nbut recently been the temptress of Amfortas, and at the reassumption\nof the higher half of her dual nature, has, as the servant and\nmessenger of the Grail, striven to make amends, as far as she might,\nfor the mischief done by her in her other state. The curse under\nwhich she lives has peculiar laws of its own, of which we just\nvaguely feel the moral basis. In her character of temptress, while\ndesiring with intensity, in her Herodias part, the surrender of\nthe man to whose seduction she applies herself, yet with the other\nside of her, the side of the penitent, which never quite slumbers,\nshe even more ardently and fundamentally desires his victory over\nher arts, for, with her own frustration, she would be delivered from\nher curse, she could die; from the enormous fatigue of centuries\nof tormented earthly existence, find rest. Which is to say, perhaps,\nthat if once more she could meet and look into the eyes of complete\nstrength and purity, see an adequate approach to the Christ-spirit\nshining out of whatsoever eyes, her redemption, so painfully worked\ntoward through centuries of alternate effort and relapse, would\nbe consummated; at that encounter, renewing, or confirming, faith\nin the existence of perfect goodness, the evil within her, so long\nvainly fought, would die, and her long trial be at end. So she\napproaches every new adventure with, under her determined wiles,\nthe hope of failure; and when her subject is still and ever found\nweak in her hands, experiences despair. And when a hero such as\nAmfortas, undertaken with the undercurrent sense that he perhaps is\nthe unconquerable, whose resistance shall make him her deliverer,\nvulgarly falls in her arms, the triumph of one side of her nature,\nand the despair of the other, express themselves in terrible laughter.\nThe fruit of her experience with man is, as it affects the two\nsides of her, a mixture of sinister cynicism and ineffable pity.\n\"Woe! Woe!\" she laments, at Klingsor's mocking mention of Amfortas.\n\"Weak, he too! Weak--all of them! Through me, to my curse, all\nlost as I am lost! Oh, eternal sleep, only balm, how, how shall\nI win you?\"\n\nOne can suppose in this Kundry, setting aside all details of personal\nhistory, an intended personification of the\nabstraction--(_Namenlose_,--Nameless One,) Eternal Feminine, with,\nset in the high light, two of her broad traits, the best perhaps and\nthe worst: the passion for serving, tending, protecting, mothering,\nand the passion for subduing man, proving herself more powerful\nthan the stronger, by remorseless practice upon his point of least\nstrength. This inveterate spirit of seduction it must be which\nKlingsor apostrophises as \"Most Ancient of Devils,\" and \"Rose of\nHell.\"\n\nThe character of Kundry has many aspects, exhibited here and there\nby a flash, but, when all is said, and before all else, what we are\nwatching is an upward-struggling human soul, whose storm-beaten\nprogress could never move us as it does did we not feel in her\nsimply our sister.\n\nWe saw her, forspent, crawl into the thicket to sleep. Now, Klingsor\nwho can command her while in that state, has compelled her to him\nto accomplish the undoing of Parsifal. The idea is to her, all\nheavy and clogged with sleep, the personality of the _Gralsbotin_\nstill in the ascendant, one of horror only. With wails of protest\nat having been waked, and lamentation over what is proposed, she\nrefuses to obey, rejecting Klingsor's claim to be her master. Even\nwhen he puts his request in the form of the suggestion: \"He who\nshould defy you would set you free. Try it then with the boy at\nhand!\" she stubbornly refuses. \"He is even now climbing the rampart!\"\nKlingsor persists. Kundry wrings her hands. \"Woe! Woe! Have I waked\nfor this? Must I, indeed?... Must I?\" At which first intimation\nof weakening, Klingsor ceases to press his authority, and adopts\na different method of persuasion. Climbing to the battlement, he\ndescribes the approaching figure: \"Ha! He is beautiful, the boy!\"\n\"Oh! Oh!\" moans Kundry, \"woe is me!\"\n\nKlingsor blows his horn, to warn the garrison of the palace--the\nhost of the victims of folly, the lost knights--of the approaching\nenemy. A commotion is heard of arms caught up in haste and of fighting;\nKlingsor from his post follows the contest, with glee in the daring\nof the beautiful boy, who has snatched the sword from one of his\nassailants and with it, one against the swarm, is cutting his way\nthrough them. Kundry, ceasing from her moans, has begun to laugh,\nand as Klingsor continues his report of the skirmish laughs more and\nmore uncontrollably. \"They yield, they flee, each of them carries\nhome his wound! Ha! How proudly he stands upon the rampart! How the\nroses bloom and smile in his cheeks, as, in childlike amazement,\nhe gazes down upon the solitary garden! ... Hey! Kundry!\" But with\nher laughter ending in a scream, Kundry has abruptly vanished.\n\"What? Already at work?\" muses Klingsor. \"Ha ha! I knew the charm\nwhich will always bring you back into my service!\" Then turning\nhis attention once more to the youthful intruder filling his eyes\nwith the unimagined glories of the garden: \"You there, fledgling!\nWhatever prophecy may have had to say concerning you, too young\nand green you have fallen into my power. Purity wrested from you,\nyou will become my willing subject!\"\n\nThe tower, with Klingsor, vanishes from sight; there lies outspread\nbefore us the enchanted garden, glowing, tropical, displaying the\nlast luxuriance of flowers; and we see for ourselves Parsifal standing\nupon the wall, calmly gazing. A swarm of beautiful young creatures,\nwaked by the clash of arms have, even as their lovers turned and fled\nto cover, rushed forth to discover what is the matter. With confused\ncries they pour from the palace and, recognising in Parsifal the\nwhole of the enemy, assail him with abuse scarcely more unendurable\nthan a pelting with thorny rose-buds. \"You there! You there! Why\ndid you do us this injury? A curse upon you! A curse upon you!\"\nAs Parsifal undismayed leaps down into the garden, they fall to\ntwittering like angry sparrows: \"Ha! You bold thing! Do you dare to\nbrave us? Why did you beat our beloved?\" And the raw boy, acquitting\nhimself rather neatly for such a beginner: \"Ought I not to have beaten\nthem? They were barring my passage to you!\" \"You wanted to come to\nus? Had you ever seen us before?\" \"Never had I seen anything so\npretty. I speak rightly, do I not, in calling you lovely?\" A rapid\nchange takes place in the attitude toward him of the exceedingly\npretty persons. They adorn themselves in haste, fantastically, to\ncharm him, with the flowers of the garden; singing a wooing song,\nof the most melting, persuasive, irresistible, they weave around\nhim, circling as in a child's game of ring-a-rosy, sweeping the\nheady perfumes of their garlands under his nostrils. They do not\nappear wholly human, but rather like strange tall-stemmed animated\nflowers, swaying and jostling in the wind, and whose odor should have\nturned into music; or, better still, like incarnate emanations from\nthe intoxicating flower-beds of this magical Garden of the Senses.\nParsifal stands in their midst, pleased and watchful, fleetingly\nagain like Siegfried, with his cheerful calm and poise. \"How sweet\nyou smell! ... Are you flowers?\" They close around him more and\nmore smotheringly, with caresses more and more pressing. He gently\npushes them away. \"You wild, lovely, crowding flowers! If I am\nto play with you, let me have room!\" As they do not obey, and in\naddition fall to quarrelling among themselves over him, half-vexed,\nhe repels them and is turning for retreat, when a voice is heard\nfrom a blossoming thicket near-by: \"Parsifal! Stay!...\" The flowers,\nstartled, at once hold still. The youth stands still, too, struck.\n_Parsifal_.... He remembers that as one of the names his mother\nhad called him by, once, as she lay asleep and dreaming. The voice\ncontinues: \"Here remain, Parsifal.... You simple light-o'-loves,\ndepart from him. Early withering flowers, he is destined to other\nthings than dalliance with you!\" The flock of flowers, reluctantly,\nlingering as long as they dare, withdraw, their last word one of\nderision: \"You beautiful one! You proud one! You... fool!\" With\nwhispered laughter they vanish into the house, and Parsifal, in\nthe once more solitary garden, asks himself: \"Was it all a dream?\"\n\nFor the first time touched with timidity, he turns towards the\nblossoming bower from which the voice had come. The branches part,\nand reveal Kundry, youthful, gorgeously apparelled and superlatively\nbeautiful, lying upon a flowery bank. \"Did you mean the name you\nspoke for me, who have no name?\" Parsifal asks, standing shyly\napart.\n\n\"I called you, guileless Innocent, Parsifal.... By this name your\nfather Gamuret, expiring in Arabian land, called his unborn son.\nI have sought you here to tell you this....\"\n\n\"Never had I seen,\" sighs Parsifal, \"never dreamed, such a thing\nas I now see and am filled with awe!... Are you, too, a flower\nin this garden of flowers?\" \"No, Parsifal. Far, far away is my\nhome. I came here only that you might find me. I came from distant\nlands where I witnessed many things....\" With the calm notes of\nthe Arch-enchantress, perfectly sure of her power, she unfolds to\nhim the story of his own past further back than he can remember,\nwhich is of the things she professes to have ocularly witnessed,--his\nlife with Herzeleide; she relates the death of the latter from grief\nover his loss. She takes him in hand with easy masterliness in\nthe art of reducing a youthful heart. She does not stint to appear\nto one so boyish much older and very wise. Not one discomposing\nword does she utter about love,--but she brings his heart to a\nstate of fusion by the picture of his mother's sorrowful end, and\nwhen, overcome by anguish and remorse, he sinks at her feet with\nthe cry: \"What have I done?... Sweetest, loveliest mother! Your\nson, your son must bring about your death!...\" she gently places\nher arm about his neck and administers needed comfort: \"Never before\nhad you known sorrow, and so have not known either the sweetness of\nconsolation. Let sorrow and regret be washed away in the consolation\nproffered to you by Love!\" But Parsifal, the compassionate, cannot\nso soon be diverted from the rending thought of his mother, and\ncontinues despite the fair arm on his neck and the balmy breath in\nhis hair, with his passionate self-reproach: \"My mother! I could\nforget my mother! Ha! What else have I forgotten? What, indeed, have\nI ever remembered? Naught but utter folly dwells in me!\" Kundry\nagain attempts setting him right with himself and offers the cheer:\n\"Acknowledgment of your fault will place a term to remorse.\nConsciousness of folly will turn folly into sense....\" Then, not\nquite relevantly, \"Learn to know the love which enfolded Gamuret\nwhen Herzeleide's affection burningly overflowed,...\" With the\nassurance that she who gave him life now sends him as a mother's\nlast blessing the First Kiss of Love, she bends over him and places\nher lips upon his in a prolonged Wagnerian kiss. The sorcery-motif\nis heard weaving its unholy snare. Of a sudden, with an abruptness\nas unexpected as it is disconcerting, Parsifal tears himself from\nher embrace, leaps to his feet, and pressing his hands to his heart,\nas if there were the seat of an intolerable pain, \"Amfortas!\" he\ncries, staring like one who sees ghosts, \"the wound! the wound!...\"\nThat has been the effect of her kiss upon his innocence, to give him\nsudden clairvoyance into her nature, to cast a lightning flash upon\nthe past. He feels himself for a moment identified with Amfortas,\nwhom the woman had kissed as she kissed him. Amfortas's wound burns\nin his own side. Not only that: the sinful, disorderly, unsubduable\npassion torturing Amfortas, for a moment tortures equally Parsifal,\nwhose nature is thrown by it into a horror of self-hatred, and casts\nitself upon frenzied prayer for deliverance and pardon. Pardon, for\nalthough this experience can be thought an effect of mysterious\ninsight, Parsifal recognises as a crime that he should be in these\ncircumstances at all. He remembers that he had known himself as\none marked for a sacred mission. He remembers the vision of the\nGrail, and that the Saviour had seemed to speak from it to his\ninmost soul: \"Deliver me! Save me from sin-polluted hands!\" \"And\nI,\" he groans, \"the fool! the coward! I could rush to the insensate\nexploits of a boy!\"\n\nKundry has been amazed and somewhat alarmed, but for a moment still,\nas it appears, has not understood. She leaves her flowery couch\nand approaches Parsifal, where he is kneeling in supplication to\nthe Lord of Mercy; with soft arts she attempts to reconquer his\nattention, but with an effect wide of her expectation, for, while\nshe plies him with caresses, he is thinking, and we hear him think:\n\"Yes, that voice, even thus it fell upon his ear.... And that glance,\nI recognise it clearly, which smiled away his peace.... So the\nlip trembled for him. ... So the throat arched.... So the tresses\nlaughingly gleamed!... So the soft cheek pressed close against\nhis own,... and so, in league with all the sorrows, so her mouth\nkissed away his soul's salvation!\" As if the reinforcements from\nHeaven, which he prayed, had suddenly reached him, he rises in\ninspired strength, frees himself and thrusts her resolutely from\nhim: \"Destroyer, away from me! Forever and ever away!\"\n\nFrom this onward he is a different Parsifal, not in the least a\nboy any more. It is as if in the storm which swept him he had found\nhimself, his anchorage and his strength. And now we gather that\nKundry really has had an inkling of what is at work in him. She\ndrops at once the fairly simple methods she has up to this used, and,\nit is not quite clear at first whether still as a mighty Huntress,\ndiscarding one weapon and taking another better adapted to bring\ndown the quarry, or at last in true earnest, she invokes--pressing,\nnot to be denied--his pity. She reveals--and it is as if beauty and\nsplendour should lift the veil from a hidden ulcer--her strange\nhistory, the ancient sin, the curse upon her, the despair that is\ndenied tears and can only voice itself in laughter. \"Since your\nheart is capable only of feeling the sorrows of others,\" she pleads,\n\"feel mine!\" In him, as he has become within the hour, she recognises\na deliverer, but, illogically, thirsts the more for his love. From\nthis figure with the firm, compassionate eyes and the exalted\nself-possession, something breathes which associates him to her\nsense with the figure, sought by her through the centuries, of\nthe derided Victim. She feels herself face to face once more with\nthe Christ-spirit. But the blind desire of her dual personality\nis that pardon should wear the form of love. Parsifal, with every\nmoment more firmly established in his strength and purpose, replies\nto her madness with a calm homily,--his theme, how from the springs\nof passion flow waters of thirst. Words of wisdom, eternal truths,\ndrop from the so young lips of the fool. Kundry, who has listened\nin wonder, exclaims: \"So it was my kiss which gave you universal\nvision! The full cup of my love then would make you to a god!\"\nand coming back eagerly to her point: \"Deliver the world, if such\nis your mission. If an hour can make you to a god, let me, for\nthat hour, suffer damnation....\" \"For you, too, sinner, I will\nfind salvation,\" is Parsifal's mild reply. \"Let me love you in your\ngodlikeness, that shall be salvation for me!\" \"Love and salvation\nboth shall reward you, if you will show me the way to Amfortas!\"\n\nIt will have been remarked that Kundry in her singular role has\nbeen playing fair; that, though life for her (which paradoxically\nis death) depends upon failure, she has put forth her whole strength\nin the temptation. But it is not at this juncture the penitent who\nis in the ascendant, it is the evil side of Kundry, and at that\nlast request of Parsifal's, proving the vanity of her effort, a\ngreat anger seizes her: \"Never!\" she cries, \"never shall you find\nhim! The fallen king, let him perish! The wretch whom I laughed\nand laughed and laughed at! Ha ha! Why--he was wounded with his\nown spear.... And against yourself,\" she follows this, \"I will\ncall to aid that weapon, if you give that sinner the honour of\nyour pity!\" But, at the sound of her own words, her anger dropping:\n\"Ah, madness!... Pity! On me, do you have pity! One single hour\nmine... and you shall be shown on your way!\" With a renewal of\ntenderness she attempts to clasp him; but at his abhorrent, \"Unhappy\nwoman, away!\" furious beside all bounds, she falls to shouting for\nhelp against him, help to prevent his going. \"Help! Here! Hold\nthe audacious one! Bar the roads against him! Bar the paths!...\"\nThen, addressing him in the blaze of her revengeful wrath: \"And\nthough you should escape from here--and though you should find\nall the roads in the world, the road which you seek you shall not\nfind! For all roads and paths which lead you away from me, I place\na curse upon them. Hopelessly--hopelessly shall you wander and\nstray!...\"\n\nAt her wild summoning the women have come running into the garden;\nKlingsor has appeared on the threshold, armed with the Spear. This,\nwith the words: \"The Fool shall be transfixed with his Master's\nSpear!\" he hurls at Parsifal. But the Spear stands miraculously\npoised above the youth's head. He grasps it, with a face of ecstasy,\nand draws in the air a great figure of the Cross. \"By this sign\nI dispel your sorceries! As this Spear shall close the wound it\nmade, let this lying splendour fall to wreck and desolation!\" As\nif shaken by an earthquake, the palace crumbles to ruin; the garden\nwithers away and turns to a barren waste; like broken and wilted\nflowers the women are seen bestrewing the ground; Kundry falls\nto earth with a great cry. And Parsifal, departing, turns on the\nruined wall for a last word to her,--painfully she lifts her head\nfor a last look--\"You know where, only, you may see me again!\"\nmeaning, we are left to feel, a plane sooner than a place.\n\nIII\n\nAgain the Domain of the Grail, where, on the outskirts of the forest,\nbeside a spring, the old-grown Gurnemanz has built himself a hermit's\ncell. It is long after and much is changed. There is sadness in\nthe air, but it is of an unfretful gentle sort, almost sweet; the\nsadness of a solitude visited by high thoughts, memories of calamity\nsoftened in retrospect, present crosses made supportable by faith\nand the light cast on the path already of an approaching event\nwhich is to mark a new epoch in the life of the Order. A sadness\nin the air and a something holy. It is Spring-time and it is\nGood-Friday; the trees are in blossom and the meadow at the forest's\nedge is spotted with new flowers. We are never, through the first\npart of the act, left unconscious for long of the sweetness of\nsurrounding nature and the hour; it comes like whiffs of perfume,\nevery now and then, reminding us that the earth has renewed herself\nand the day is holy, until at last these stray intimations have\nled to a clear and rounded statement in the Good-Friday Charm.\n\nForth from his cell comes Gurnemanz, to be recognized as a knight\nof the Grail only by the straight under-tunic of the Order. He has\nheard a groan, not to be mistaken for the cry of a hurt animal.\nAs it is repeated, it strikes his ear as a sound known to him of\nold. Anxiously searching among the matted thorn-trees, he discovers\nKundry, as once before, rigid and to all appearance dead. He chafes\nand calls and brings her back to consciousness. She is the Kundry\nof the first act, but so changed,--pale with the strained pallor\nof one lately exorcised; the wildness and roughness all gone out\nof her face, and in its place a strange rapt fixity; in her bearing\nan unknown humility. In silence she recovers remembrance of the\nfacts of her existence; mechanically orders her hair and garments,\nand without a word leaves Gurnemanz to set about the work of a\nservant. As she is moving towards the hut, he asks: \"Have you no\nword for me? Is this my thanks for having waked you once more out\nof the sleep of death?\" And she brings forth brokenly the last\nwords she is heard to utter: \"To serve!... To serve!...\" the only\nneed now of her being. \"How different her bearing is,\" Gurnemanz\nmuses, \"from what it used to be! Is it the influence of the holy\nday?\" She brings from the cell a water-jar, and, gazing off into the\ndistance while it fills, sees among the trees some one approaching,\nto which, by a sign, she calls Gurnemanz's attention. He marvels\nat the figure in sable armour; but we, saddened and slowed as it\nis, have recognized the Parsifal-motif heralding it. The sable\nknight is faring slowly on his way, with closed helmet, bowed head\nand lowered spear, unconscious of his observers, until, when he\ndrops on a grassy knoll to rest, Gurnemanz greets and addresses\nhim: \"Have you lost your way? Shall I guide you?\" Receiving no\nanswer to this or the questions which follow, save by signs of\nthe head, he with the bluffness we remember offers a reprimand:\n\"If your vow binds you not to speak to me, my vow obliges me to\ntell you what is befitting. You are upon a consecrated spot, it\nis improper here to go in armour, with closed helmet, with shield\nand spear. And of all days upon this one! Do you not know what\nholy day it is?\" The knight gently shakes his head. \"Among what\nheathen have you lived, not to be aware that this is the most holy\nGood-Friday? Lay down, forthwith, your arms! Do not offend the\nLord, who on this day, unarmed in very truth, offered His sacred\nblood in atonement for the sins of the world!\" The knight upon this,\nstill without a word, drives the haft of his spear into the ground,\nlays down his arms and sinks upon his knees in prayer before the\nSpear. The removal of his helmet has revealed the face of Parsifal,\nbut another Parsifal, even as Kundry is another. The stage-directions\nhave no word concerning it, but it must be in accordance with the\ncustom of Bayreuth that the latter Parsifal presents a resemblance\nto the traditional representations of the Saviour; the idea being,\nwe must think, to indicate, stamped on the exterior man, this soul's\naspiration towards likeness with the Divine Pattern; or, perhaps,\nvisibly to state that here, too, is a gentle and selfless lover\nof men, all of whose forces bent on a mission of deliverance.\n\nGurnemanz, watching him attentively, recognises the slayer, long\nago, of the swan, the stupid boy whom he had turned out of the\ntemple. Then he recognises, too, the Spear.\n\nParsifal, rising from his prayer, gazes quietly around him and\nrecognises Gurnemanz. To the question of the latter, how and whence\nhe comes, he replies: \"I am come by ways of wandering and pain.\nCan I believe myself at last delivered from them, since I hear\nonce more the rustle of this forest, and behold you, worthy elder?\nOr am I still baffled in my search for the right road? Everything\nlooks changed....\" \"What road is it you seek?\" Gurnemanz inquires.\n\"The road to him whose profound wail I heard of yore in wondering\nstupidity, and the instrument of whose healing I now dare believe\nmyself elected to be....\" All this long time he has vainly sought\nthe road back to the Grail, whether hindered by Kundry's curse,\nor cut off by some stain left upon his nature from his brief hour\nin the deadly garden, which must be cleansed by such prolonged\nordeal. He relates the desperate battle in all his wanderings to\nkeep safe the Sacred Spear,--which, behold, he is now bringing\nhome! Gurnemanz's joy bursts forth unbounded. Then he, too, makes\nhis friend even over the past. Since the day of his presence among\nthem, the trouble then revealed to him has increased to the last\npoint of distress. Amfortas, revolting against the torments of\nhis soul, and desiring naught but death, refuses to perform the\noffice of the Grail, by which his life would be prolonged. The\nknights, deprived of their heavenly nourishment, deprived of a\nleader, have lost their old strength and courage. They seek their\nsustenance of herbs and roots, like the animals, in the forest. No\nlonger are they called to holy warfare in distant lands. Titurel,\nunrenewed by the vision of the Grail, is dead.... At the relation\nof these mournful events, grief assails Parsifal, who holds himself\nresponsible for all this wretchedness, by reason of his long-delayed\nreturn, which he must regard as a consequence of sins and folly of\nhis own,--grief beyond what the human frame is fitted to endure,\nand he is again swooning, as at the evil news in the first act.\nKundry hurries with water from the cell, but Gurnemanz stops her;\nhe has in thought larger purifications for the pilgrim in whom\nhis prophetic mind discerns one ordained to fulfill this very day\na sacred office. \"So let him be made clean of all stain, let the\ndust be washed from him of his long wandering.\" They ease him upon\nthe moss beside the consecrated spring, remove his greaves and\ncoat of mail. As he revives a little, he asks faintly: \"Shall I\nbe taken to-day to Amfortas?\" Gurnemanz assures him that he shall,\nfor on this day the burial of Titurel takes place, which Gurnemanz\nmust attend, and Amfortas has pledged himself, in honour of his\nfather, to uncover once more the Grail. Kundry during this, on\nher knees, has been bathing the pilgrim's feet. He watches her,\nat her devoted lowly task, in wonder: \"You have washed my feet,\"\nhe speaks; \"let now the friend pour water on my head!\" Gurnemanz\nobeys, besprinkling him with a baptismal intention. Kundry takes\nfrom her bosom a golden phial, and, having poured ointment on his\nfeet, dries them, in the custom of the day when she was Herodias,\nwith her long hair; by this repetition of a famous act intending\nperhaps to signify that she is a sinner and that he has raised\nher from sin. \"You have anointed my feet,\" speaks Parsifal again;\n\"let now the brother-at-arms of Titurel anoint my head, for on this\nday he shall hail me as king.\" Whereupon Gurnemanz anoints him\nas king. Kundry has been gazing with a devout hushed face. There\nis no sign that he recognises her, but, as if his soul recognised\nsome quality of her soul, as if some need in her called to him,\nhe dips water from the sacred well and sprinkles her head: \"My\nfirst ministration shall be this: I baptize thee! Have faith in the\nRedeemer!\" And Kundry, the curse being lifted which had dried up\nin her the fountain of tears, bows to the earth abundantly weeping.\n\nAt this point it is that the vague waftures of sweetness which have\nbeen fitfully soliciting us all through these scenes, concentrate\nthemselves and make their call irresistible. Parsifal becomes aware\nof it. With his sense of the absolution from sin for both of them,\nin baptism, invaded by deep peace, he gazes around him in soft\nenchantment: \"How more than usual lovely the meadows appear to\nme to-day! True, I have known wonder-flowers, clasping me with\neager tendrils so high as my head; but never had I seen blades,\nblossoms, flowers, so mild and tender, nor ever did, to my sense,\nall nature give forth a fragrance so innocently sweet, or speak\nto me with such amiable confidence!\" \"That,\" explains Gurnemanz,\n\"is Good-Friday's Charm....\" \"Alas!\" wails Parsifal, \"that day of\nsupreme agony! Ought not on this day everything which blooms and\nbreathes to be steeped in mourning and tears?\" \"You see,\" replies\nGurnemanz, \"that it is not so. They are the sinners' tears of\nrepentance which today bathe meadow and plain with a holy dew; that\nis why they look so fresh and fair. To-day all created things rejoice\nupon the earth once trodden by the Saviour's feet, and wish to\noffer Him their prayers. Beyond them it is to see Him upon the\nCross, wherefore they turn their eyes to redeemed man. Man feels\nhimself delivered from the burden and terror of sin, through God's\nsacrifice of love made clean and whole. The grasses and flowers\nbecome aware of this, they mark that on this day the foot of man\nspares to trample them, that, even as God with a heavenly patience\nbears with man and once suffered for his sake, man in pious tribute\ntreads softly to avoid crushing them. All creation gives thanks\nfor this, all the short-lived things that bloom; for to-day all\nNature, absolved from sin, regains her day of Innocence.\" The\nexquisiteness of this passage, the Good-Friday Spell (_Charfreitag's\nZauber_), can hardly be conveyed; if one says the music is worthy\nof the theme, one has but given a hint of the overearthly quality\nof its sweetness.\n\nKundry has slowly raised her head and fixed upon Parsifal her prayerful\nwet eyes. Either from his recent contemplation of the flowery lea,\nor some occult association of her personality with the past, the\nflowers of Klingsor's garden come into his mind. \"I saw them wither\nwho had smiled on me. May they not also be hungering for redemption\nnow?... Your tears, too, are turned to blessed dew.... You weep,\nand see, the meadow blooms in joy!\" He stoops and kisses her gently\nupon the forehead.\n\nBells are heard summoning the knights to the Castle. Gurnemanz\nbrings from the cell the mantle of a knight of the Grail, and places\nit upon Parsifal's shoulders. Parsifal grasps the Spear, and the\nthree vanish from sight among the trees. Again, but from the opposite\ndirection, we approach the Castle; the sound of bells increases\nas we pass through the granite portal and the vaulted corridors.\nWe are once more in the domed hall. All is as we left it, save\nfor the tables, which, become useless, are no longer there. Again\nthe doors open at the back and from each issues forth a company of\nknights, the one bearing the bier of Titurel, the other carrying\nthe litter of Amfortas and the shrine of the Grail, while they chant,\nin question and response, a song of reproachful tenor. \"Whom do you\nbring, with tokens of mourning, in the dark casket?\" \"The funereal\ncasket holds the hero into whose charge the very God entrusted\nHimself. Titurel we bring.\" \"Who slew him, whom God Himself held in\nHis care?\" \"The killing burden of age slew him, when he no longer\nmight behold the Grail.\" \"Who prevented him from beholding the\nglory of the Grail?\" \"He whom you carry, the sinful Keeper.\" The\nlatter they now urge to fulfill his promise of exposing the Grail,\nand, deeply moved by the sight of his father's face and the outburst\nof lamentation which follows the folding back of the pall from\nit, he appears on the point of satisfying them; but, as in their\neagerness they hem him around with injunctions almost threatening,\nhe is seized with a revulsion once more against the task imposed on\nhim. He springs from his high seat and stands among them begging\nthat rather they will kill him. \"Already I feel the night of death\nclosing around me, and must I be forced back into life? You demented!\nWho shall compel me to live? Death alone it is in your power to\ngive!\" He tears open his garment and offers his breast. \"Forward,\nheroes! Slay the sinner with his affliction! The Grail perchance\nwill glow for you then of Itself!\"\n\nBut the knights shrink away. Then it is that Parsifal, who with\nGurnemanz and Kundry has entered unnoticed, advances and with the\npoint of the Sacred Spear touches Amfortas's wound. \"One weapon\nalone avails. The wound can be closed only by the Spear which made\nit. Be whole, pardoned and absolved, for I now hold the office in\nyour stead!\" Amfortas's countenance of holy ecstasy proclaims the\ninstant virtue of the remedy. As Parsifal holds up to the enraptured\ngaze of the knights the Spear which he has brought back to them,\nthe Parsifal-motif is heard again, for the last time, triumphant,\nbroad, and glorious. He proceeds to perform the rite which had\nbeen the duty of Amfortas. A glory rains upon the altar. At the\nglowing of the Grail, Titurel, returning for a moment to life,\nlifts himself on his bier with a gesture of benediction. As Parsifal\nmoves the Chalice softly above the kneeling assembly, a white dove\ndescends from on high and floats above his head. Kundry, with her\neyes turned toward all these luminous things, sinks softly upon\nthe altar-steps, the life-giving Grail having given her life too,\nin the form of desired death. With the interwoven Grail and Faith\nand Spear music letting down as if a curtain of silver and azure\nand gold, the poem closes.\n\nOne has heard it objected, as at least strange, that when the search\nafter knowledge is so unquestionably meritorious, and study, as we\ncount it, one of the conditions of progress, and learning a lamp\nto our feet, an ideal should be made of total ignorance, such as\nParsifal's. But surely the point is a different one. The point is\nnot Parsifal's ignorance--except, perhaps, in so far as it made\nfor innocence--but the qualities which he possessed, and which one\nmay possess, in spite of ignorance. It is a comparison of values\nwhich is established. Through the object-lesson of Parsifal, Wagner\nis saying, after his fashion and inversely, what Saint Paul says:\n\"Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels,... though I\nhave the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all\nknowledge,... and have not charity, I am nothing;... it availeth\nme nothing.\" The supremacy of charity, love of others, is the point\nillustrated.\n\nOne tributary to the mighty stream of our interest in the opera\nof Parsifal has its spring in the date of its appearance. It comes\nas the poet's last word. What a procession of heroes has passed\nbefore us--beautiful, brave, romantic,--how fit, every one, to\ncapture the imagination! Towering a little above the rest, Siegfried,\nthe _Uebermensch_, the Overman. But finally, with the effect of a\nconclusion reached, a judgement, the hero whose heroism differs in\nquality from that of the others, the lowly of heart, whose dominant\ntrait is _Mitleid_, compassion, sympathy with the woes of others,\nwho pities swans and women and the sinful and the suffering, and\ngives his strength to helping them, and sanctifies himself for\ntheir sake.\n\n\nTHE RHINE-GOLD\n\n\nTHE RHINE-GOLD\n\nIn the beginning was the Gold,--beautiful, resplendent, its obvious\nand simple part to reflect sunlight and be a joy to the eyes;\ncontaining, however, apparently of its very nature, the following\nmysterious quality: a ring fashioned from it would endow its possessor\nwith what is vaunted as immeasurable power, and make him master of\nthe world. This power shows itself afterwards undefined in some\ndirections and circumscribed in others, one never fully grasps\nits law; one plain point of it, however, was to subject to the\nowner of the ring certain inferior peoples and reveal to him the\ntreasures hidden in the earth, which he could force his thralls\nto mine and forge and so shape that they might be used to buy and\nsubject the superior peoples, thus making him actually, if successful\nin corruption, master of the world.\n\nBut this ring could by no possibility be fashioned except by one\nwho should have utterly renounced love.\n\nFor these things no reason is given: they were, like the Word.\n\nOne feels an allegory. As the poem unfolds, one is often conscious\nof it. It is well to hold the thread of it lightly and let it slip\nas soon as it becomes puzzling, settling down contentedly in the\njoy of simple story. The author himself, very much a poet, must\nbe supposed to have done something of the sort. He does not follow\nto any trite conclusion the thought he has started, he has small\ncare for minor consistencies. Large-mindedly he drops what has\nbecome inconvenient, and prefers simply beauty, interest, the story.\nThus his personages have a body, and awaken sympathies which would\nhardly attach to purely allegorical figures; a charm of livingness\ninvests the world he has created.\n\nThe Gold's home was in the Rhine, at the summit of a high, pointed\nrock, where it caught the beams of the sun and shed them down through\nthe waves, brightening the dim water-world, gladdening the water-folk.\nThat was its sole use, but for thus making golden daylight in the\ndeep it was worshipped, besung, called adoring names, by nixies\nswimming around it in a sort of joyous rite.\n\nThe mysterious potentiality of the gold was known to the Rhine-god;\nthree of his daughters had been instructed by him, and detailed\nto guard the treasure. Some faculty of divination warned him of\ndanger to it, and of the quarter from whence this danger threatened.\nBut nixies--even when burdened by cares of state--are just nixies;\nthose three seem to have lived to laugh before all else--to laugh\nand chase one another and play in the cool green element, singing\nall the while a fluent, cradling song whose sweetness might well\nallure boatmen and bathers.\n\nBelow the Rhine lay Nibelheim, the kingdom of mists and night,\nthe home of the Nibelungs,--dark gnomes, dwarfs, living in the\nbowels of the earth, digging its metals, excelling in cunning as\nsmiths.\n\nThe Rhine did not continue flowing water quite down to its bed;\nthe boundary-line of Nibelheim seems to have been just above it;\nthe water there turned to fine mist; among the rough rocks of the\nriver-bed were passages down into the Under-world.\n\nUp through one of these, one day before sunrise, while the Rhine\nwas melodiously thundering in its majestic course--they are the\nRhine-motifs which open the piece,--came clambering, by some chance,\nthe Nibelung Alberich. His night-accustomed eyes, as he blinked\nupward into the green light, were caught by a silvery glinting of\nscales, flashes of flesh-pink and floating hair. The Rhine-maidens,\nguardians of the gold, were frolicking around it; but this did not\nappear, for the sun had not yet risen to wake it into radiance.\nThe dwarf saw just a shimmering of young forms, was touched with\na natural desire, and called to them, asking them to come down\nto him, and let him join in their play.\n\nAt the sound of the strange voice and the sight of the strange\nfigure, Flosshilde, a shade more sensible than her sisters, cries\nout to them: \"Look to the gold! Father warned us of an enemy of\nthe sort!\" and the three rally quickly around the treasure. But it\nsoon appears that the stranger is but a dark, small, hairy, ugly,\nharmless-seeming, amorous creature, uttering his wishes very simply.\nThe watch over the gold is relinquished, and a little amusement\nsought in tantalizing and befooling the clumsy wooer.\n\nAlberich, later a figure touched with terror and followed with\ndislike, is likeable in this scene, almost gentle, one's sympathies\ncome near being with him. The music describes him awkward and heavy,\nslipping on the rocks, sneezing in the wet; a note of protest is\nfrequent in his voice. All the music relating to him, now or later,\nis joyless, whatever beside it may be.\n\nThe sisters have their fun with the poor gnome, whose innocence of\nnixies' ways is apparent in the long time it is before all reliance\nin their good faith leaves him. Woglinde invites him nearer. With\ndifficulty he climbs the slippery rocks to reach her. When he can\nnearly touch her--he is saying, \"Be my sweetheart, womanly child!\"--she\ndarts from him. And the sisters laugh their delicious inhuman laugh.\nWoglinde then plunges to the river-bed, calling to Alberich, \"Come\ndown! Here you surely can grasp me!\" He owns it will be easier for\nhim down there, and lets himself down, when the sprite rises, light\nas a bubble, to the surface. He is calling her an impudent fish\nand a deceitful young lady, when Wellgunde sighs, \"Thou beautiful\none!\" He turns quickly, inquiring naively, \"Do you mean me?\" She\nsays, \"Have nothing to do with Woglinde. Turn sooner to me!\" He is\nbut too willing, vows that he thinks her much the more beautiful\nand gleaming, and prays she will come further down. She stops short\nof arm's-length. He pours forth his elementary passion. She feigns\na wish to see her handsome gallant more closely. After a brief\ncomedy of scanning his face, with insulting promptness she appears\nto change her mind, and with the unkindest descriptive terms slipping\nfrom his grasp swims away. And again rings the chorus of malicious\nmusical laughter. Then the cruellest of the three, Flosshilde, takes\nthe poor swain in hand. She not only comes down, she allows herself\nto be held, she wreathes her slender arms around him, presses him\ntenderly and flatters him in music well calculated to daze with\ndelight. He is not warned by her words, as, while they sit embraced,\nshe says, \"Thy piercing glance, thy stubborn beard, might I see\nthe one, feel the other, forever! The rough locks of thy prickly\nhair, might they forever flow around Flosshilde! Thy toad's shape,\nthy croaking voice, oh, might I, wondering and mute, see and hear\nthem exclusively for ever!\" It is the sudden mocking laughter of\nthe two listening sisters which draws him from his dream--when\nFlosshilde slips from his hold, and the three again swim merrily\naround, and laugh, and when his angry wail rises call down to him\nto be ashamed of himself! But not even then do they let him rest;\nthey hold forth new hopes, inviting and exciting him to chase them,\ntill fairly aflame with love and wrath he begins a mad pursuit,\nclimbing, slipping, falling to the foot of the rocks, starting\nupwards again, clutching at this one and that, still eluded with\nironical laughter, until, realizing his impotence, breathless and\nquaking with rage, he shakes his clenched hand at them, foaming,\n\"Let me catch one with this fist!\"\n\nHe is glaring upward at them, speechless with fury, when his eyes\nbecome fixed upon a brilliant point, growing in size and radiance\nuntil the whole flood is illumined. There is an exquisite hush of\na moment. The sun has risen and kindled its reflection in the gold.\nThe music describes better than words the spreading of tremulous\nlight down through the deep. Through the wavering ripples of water\nand light cuts the bright call of the gold, the call to wake up\nand behold. Again and again it rings, regularly a golden voice.\nThe Rhine-daughters have quickly forgotten their victim. They begin\ntheir blissful circumswimming of their idol, with a song in ecstatic\ncelebration of it, so penetratingly, joyously sweet, that you readily\nforgive them their naughtiness: \"Rhine-gold! Rhine-gold! Luminous\njoy! How laugh'st thou so bright and clear!\"...\n\nAlberich cannot detach his eyes from the vision. \"What is it, you\nsleek ones,\" he asks in awed curiosity, \"glancing and gleaming\nup there?\"\n\n\"Now where have you barbarian lived,\" they reply, \"never to have\nheard of the Rhine-gold?\" They mock his ignorance; returning to\ntheir teasing mood, they invite him to come and revel with them\nin the streaming light.\n\n\"If it is no good save for you to swim around, it is of small use\nto me!\" is Alberich's dejected observation. As if their treasure had\nbeen disparaged, Woglinde informs him that he would hardly despise\nthe gold if he knew all of its wonder! And Wellgunde follows this\npart-revelation with the whole secret: The whole world would be\nhis inheritance who should fashion out of the Rhine-gold a magic\nring. Vainly Flosshilde tries to silence her sisters. Wellgunde\nand Woglinde laugh at her prudence, reminding her of the gold's\nassured safety in view of the condition attached to the creation\nof the ring. This is described in a solemn phrase, serious as the\npronouncing of a vow: \"Only he who forswears the power of love,\nonly he who casts from him the joys of love, can learn the spell\nby which the gold may be forced into a ring.\"--Wherefore, they\nhold, the gold is safe, \"for all that lives wishes to love, no one\nwill give up love,\" least of all this Nibelung, the heat of whose\nsentiments had come near scorching them! And they laugh and swim\naround the gold with their light-hearted Wallalaleia, diversified\nwith mocking personalities to the gnome down in the gloom.\n\nBut they have miscalculated. Without suspecting it, they have gone\ntoo far. The dwarf stands staring at the gold, dreaming what it\nwould be to own the world. He is hardly at that moment, thanks\nto them, in love with love. His resolution is suddenly taken. He\nsprings to the rock, shouting: \"Mock on! Mock on! The Nibelung is\ncoming!\" With fearful activity, hate-inspired strength, he rapidly\nclimbs the rock on which he had so slipped and floundered before.\nThe foolish nymphs, though they see his approach, are still far\nfrom understanding. They still believe it is themselves he seeks to\nseize. They now not only laugh--they laugh, as the stage-directions\nhave it, \"_im tollsten Uebermuth_,\" the craziest towering insolence\nof high spirits. \"Save yourselves, the gnome is raving! He has\ngone mad with love!\"\n\nHe has reached the summit of the rock, he has laid hands on the\ngold. He cries, \"You shall make love in the dark!... I quench your\nlight, I tear your gold from the reef. I shall forge me the ring\nof vengeance, for, let the flood hear me declare it: I here curse\nlove!\" Tearing from its socket their splendid lamp, which utters\njust once its golden cry, all distorted and lamentable, he plunges\nwith it into the depths, leaving sudden night over the scene in\nwhich the wild sisters, shocked at last into sobriety, with cries\nof Help and Woe start in pursuit of the robber. His harsh laugh\nof triumph drifts back from the caves of Nibelheim.\n\nThen occurs a gradual transformation-scene both to the eye and\nthe ear. The rocks disappear, black waves flow past, the whole\nall the while appearing to sink. Clouds succeed the water, mist\nthe clouds. This finally clears, revealing a calm and lovely scene\non the mountain-heights. The music has during this been painting\nthe change, too: Sounds of running water, above which hovers a\nmoment, a memory of the scene just past and a foreboding of its\nsorrowful consequences, the strain signifying the renunciation\nof love; when this dies away, the motif of the ring, to be heard\nso many times after, its fateful character plainly conveyed by the\nnotes, which also literally describe its circular form. By what\nmagic of modulation the uninitiated cannot discern, the ring-motif,\nas the water by degrees is translated into mist, slides by subtle\nchanges into a motif which seems, when it is reached, conspicuously\ndifferent from it, the motif of the Gods' Abode.\n\nThere in the distance it stands, when the mists have perfectly\ncleared, bathed in fresh morning light, the tall just-completed\ncastle, with shimmering battlements, crowning a high rocky mountain,\nat whose base, far down out of sight, flows the Rhine. For the\nRhine is the centre of the world we are occupied with: under it,\nthe Nibelungs; above it, the Gods; beside it, the giants and the\ninsignificant human race. The music itself here, while the dwelling\nof the gods is coming into sight, seems to build a castle: story\nabove story it rises, topped with gleaming pinnacles, one, lighter\nand taller than all the rest, piercing the clouds.\n\nIn the foreground lie sleeping side by side, on a flowery bank,\nthe god and goddess Wotan and Fricka.\n\nHe lies dreaming happily of the abode from which the world is to\nbe commanded by him, to the display of immeasurable power and his\neternal honour. His wife's sleep is less easy. For the situation\nis not as free from complications as his untroubled slumbers might\nlead one to suppose. Wotan has employed to build him this stronghold\nthe giants Fasolt and Fafner, formerly his enemies, but bound to\npeace by treaties, and has promised them the reward stipulated\nfor, Freia, goddess of beauty and youth, sister of Fricka. And this\nhe has done without any serious thought of keeping his word. \"_Nie\nsann es ernstlich mein Sinn_,\" he assures Fricka, when, starting in\ndismay from her sleep and beholding the completed burg, she reminds\nhim that the time is come for payment, and asks what shall they do.\nLoge, he enlightens her, counselled the compact and promised to\nfind the means of evading it. He relies upon him to do so. This calm\nfrankness in the god, with its effect of personal clearness from\nall sense of guilt, suggests the measure of Wotan's distinguishing\nsimplicity. Referring later to the dubious act which so effectually\nlaid the foundation of sorrows, he says, \"Unknowingly deceitful, I\npractised untruth. Loge artfully tempted me.\" He explains himself\nto Fricka, when she asks why he continues to trust the crafty Loge,\nwho has often already brought them into straits: \"Where frank courage\nis sufficient, I ask counsel of no one. But slyness and cunning\nare needed to turn to advantage the ill-will of adversaries, and\nthat is the talent of Loge.\"\n\nStrong and calm is Wotan; music of might and august beauty, large\nmusic, supports everyone of his utterances. There is no departure\nfrom this, even when his signal fallibility is in question. Waftures\nof Walhalla most commonly accompany his steps; the close of his\nspeech is frequently marked by the sturdy motif of his spear, the\nspear inseparable from him, cut by him from the World-Ash, carved\nwith runes establishing the bindingness of compacts, by aid of\nwhich he had conquered the world, subdued the giants, the Nibelungs,\nand Loge, the Spirit of Fire.\n\nAthirst for power he is, before all: in this trait lie the original\nseeds of his destruction; it is for the sake of the tokens of power,\nthe castle and later the ring, that he commits the injustices which\nbring about ruin. Athirst, too, for wisdom: he has given one of his\neyes for Wisdom, in the person of Fricka, who combines in herself\nlaw and order and domestic virtue. And athirst for love,--something\nof a grievance to Fricka. \"_Ehr ich die Frauen doch mehr als dich\nfreut_,\" \"I honour women more than pleases you,\" he retorts to\nher reproach of contempt for woman's love and worth, evidenced in\nhis light ceding of Freia.\n\nHe calls himself and all call him a god, adding \"eternal\" even\nwhen the gods' end is glaringly at hand. The other gods look to\nhim as chief among them. But he is ever acknowledging the existence\nof something outside and above himself, a law, a moral necessity,\nwhich it is no use to contend against; through which, do what he\nmay, disaster finally overtakes him for having tried to disregard it.\nThere is a stray hint from him that the world is his very possession\nand that he could at will destroy it; but this which so many facts\ncontradict we may regard as a dream. Yet he feels toward the world\nmost certainly a responsibility, such as a sovereign's toward his\npeople; a duty, part of which is that for its sake he must not\nallow his spear to be dishonoured. Compacts it must sacredly guard.\nAll his personal troubles come from this necessity, this constant\ncheck to him: he must respect covenants, his spear stands for their\nintegrity. Alberich in a bitter discussion declares his knowledge\nof where the god is weak, and reminds him that if he should break\na covenant sanctioned by the spear in his hand, this, the symbol\nof his power, would split into spray!\n\nHe is perhaps best understood, on the whole, with his remorse and\ndespair, the tortures of his heart and his struggle with his soul,\nif one can conceive him as a sort of sublimated aristocrat; a\nresplendent great personage--just imaginable in the dawn of history,\nwhen there were giants upon earth--lifted far above the ordinary of\nthe race by superior gifts, \"reigning through beauty,\" as Fasolt\ndescribes; possessing faculties not shared by common mortals, but\nthese rudimentary or else in their decline: the power of divination,\nnot always accurate or clear; the power of miracle, not altogether\nto be relied upon; remaining young indefinitely, yet not wholly\nenfranchised from time and circumstance; living indefinitely, but\nrecognising himself as perishable, and passing at last, swallowed\nin twilight.\n\nA great warrior and leader of heroes, inciter of men to bold actions\nand novel flights; some of his titles: Father of Hosts, Father\nof Battles, Father of Victory; riding in the storm-clouds on his\n_Luft-ross_, his air-horse, whose hoof-beats and neigh fill us with\nexcited delight. But his air-horse cannot overtake Bruennhilde's\nair-horse, in his pursuit of her, and Grane reaching the goal falls\nexhausted....\n\nA great reveller: reference is repeatedly made to the light-minded,\nlight-hearted, careless humour of the gods, their glorious feasts\nand joyous life in the light up there. Their tribe is qualified\nas \"laughing.\" Wotan's unshakable dignity indeed does not prevent\na quick easy laugh. And he shows the true aristocratic temper in\nbeing little moved by the sorrows of those beneath and unrelated\nto him: one of his laughs, which we witness, is for the howls of\na poor wee dwarf who had been savagely beaten.\n\nAnd so this powerful clan-chief had had a fancy for a house to\nlive in worthy of their greatness. Fricka had fallen in with his\ndesire, but for reasons of her own. To him the citadel was a fresh\naddition to his power. But Fricka had been \"_um des Gatten Treu'\nbesorgt_,\" \"ill at ease with regard to her consort's fidelity,\"\nand had thought the beautiful dwelling might keep him at home.\nWith her words, \"_Herrliche Wohnung, wonniger Hausrath_,\" \"Beautiful\ndwelling, delectable household order,\" first occurs the winning\nstrain which afterward stands for Fricka in her love of domesticity,\nor, separate from her, for the pure charm of home.\n\nWhen the giants, however, had been subsidised for the great work\nof building the house, the narrow-conscienced women had been kept\nout of the way while an agreement was reached with the builders;\na grievance which Fricka remembers, and does not let her spouse\nforget, when the evil consequences of his act are upon them. Fricka\nconstitutes something of a living reproach to her husband, though\na certain tender regard still exists between them through the\nintroductory Opera. A thankless part is Fricka's, like that of Reason\nin opposition to Feeling and Genius.\n\nNow Loge, who had been tamed by the conquering spear, hated his\ntamer. He craved back his liberty, and, as the Norn tells us later\nin _Goetterdaemmerung_, \"tried to free himself by gnawing at the\nrunes on the shaft of the spear.\" He gave counsel to Wotan which\nfollowed must create difficulties from which the god could deliver\nhimself only by an injustice; and this injustice Loge seems clearly\nto have recognised from the first as the beginning of the end of\nthe strength of the gods. The subtle Loge is more widely awake than\nWotan to the \"power not ourselves which makes for righteousness.\"\nHe counselled him to buy the giants' labor by the promise of Freia,\nknowing that the gods could never endure to let the amiable goddess\ngo. He led them to believe that when the time came he would give\nthem further counsel by which to retain her. And his word Wotan\nchose to trust, and gave his heart over to the untroubled enjoyment\nof his plans' completion.\n\nAnd now Freia comes running to him in terror, crying that one of\nthe giants has told her he is come to fetch her. With her entrance\nwe first hear the slender sweet phrase, delicately wandering upward,\nwhich after for a time denoting Freia, comes to mean for us just\nbeauty. Wotan calms the maiden in distress, and asks, as one fancies,\na little uneasily, \"Have you seen nothing of Loge?\"\n\nThe arrival of the giants is one of the great comedy moments of\nthe play. Their colossally heavy tread, musically rendered, never\nfails to call forth laughter from some corner in us of left-over\nchildhood. It is like the ogre's Fee-faw-fum. Fasolt is a good\ngiant, his shaggy hair is blond, his fur-tunic white, and his soft\nbig heart all given over to the touchingly lovely Freia. Fafner is\na bad giant and his hair and furs are black. He is much cleverer\nthan his brother. They carry as walking-sticks the trunks of trees.\n\nThey make it known that they have come for their wages. Wotan bids\nthem, with a sturdy aplomb worthy of his godhead, state their wishes.\nWhat shall the wages be? Fasolt, a shade astonished, replies, \"That,\nof course, which we settled upon. Haye you forgotten so soon? Freia....\nIt is in the bond that she shall follow us home.\"\n\n\"Have you taken leave of your senses... with you bond?\" asks Wotan,\nwith a quick flash. \"You must think of a different recompense.\nFreia is far too precious to me.\"\n\nThe giant is for a moment still, unable to speak for indignation;\nbut recovering his voice he makes to the \"son of light\" a series\nof observations eminently to the point. Wotan to these makes no\nmore retort than as if the words had not been spoken; but--to gain\ntime till Loge shall arrive--when the giant has quite finished, he\ninquires, \"What, after all, can the charm of the amiable goddess\nsignify to you clumsy boors?\" Fasolt enlarges, \"You, reigning through\nbeauty, shimmering lightsome race, lightly you offer to barter\nfor stone towers woman's loveliness. We simpletons labour with\ntoil-hardened hands to earn a sweet woman who shall dwell with\nus poor devils.... And you mean to call the bargain naught?...\"\n\nFafner gloomily checks him: Words will not help them. And the possession\nof Freia in itself is to his mind of little account. But of great\naccount to take her from the gods. In her garden grow golden apples,\nshe alone has the art of tending these. Eating this fruit maintains\nher kinsmen in unwaning youth. Were Freia removed, they must age\nand fade. Wherefore let Freia be seized!\n\nWotan frets underbreath, \"Loge is long acoming!\"\n\nFreia's cries, as the giants lay hands upon her, bring her brothers\nDonner and Froh--the god of Thunder and the god of the Fields--quickly\nto her side. A combat between them and the giants is imminent, when\nWotan parts the antagonists with his spear, \"Nothing by violence!\"\nand he adds, what it might be thought he had lost sight of, \"My\nspear is the protector of bargains!\"\n\nAnd then finally, finally, comes in sight Loge. Wotan lets out his\nbreath in relief: \"Loge at last!\"\n\nThe music has introduced Loge by a note-painting as of fire climbing\nup swiftly through airiest fuel. There is a quick flash or two, like\ndarting tongues of flame. A combination of swirling and bickering\nand pulsating composes the commonest Loge-motif, but the variety\nis endless of the fire's caprices. Fantastical, cheery, and light\nit is mostly, sinister sometimes, suggestive of treachery, but\nterrible never; its beauty rather than its terror is reproduced.\nSo characteristic are the fire-motifs that after a single hearing a\nperson instinctively when one occurs looks for some sign or suggestion\nof Loge.\n\nHe stands now upon the rock, a vivid, charming, disquieting apparition,\nwith his wild red hair and fluttering scarlet cloak. The arch-hypocrite\nwears always a consummately artless air. He comes near winning\nus by a bright perfect good-humour, which is as of the quality\nof an intelligence without a heart. The love of mischief for its\nown sake, which is one of his chief traits, might be thought to\naccount easily for his many enemies.\n\nHe is related to the gods, a half-god, but is regarded coldly by\nhis kin. Wotan is his single friend in the family, and with Wotan\nhe preserves the attitude of a self-acknowledged underling. He\nstands in fear of his immediate strength, while nourishing a hardly\ndisguised contempt for his wit, as well as that of his cousins\ncollectively. A secret hater of them all, and clear-minded in estimating\nthem. A touch of Mephistophelian there is in the pleasure which he\nseems to find in the contemplation of the canker-spot in Wotan's\nnature, drawing from the god over and over again, as if the admission\nrefreshed him, that he has no intention of dealing justly toward\nthe Rhine-maidens.\n\n\"Is this your manner of hastening to set aright the evil bargain\nconcluded by you?\" Wotan chides, as he appears from the valley.\n\n\"How? What bargain concluded by me?...\"\n\nPinned down to accounting for himself, \"I promised,\" he says, \"to\nthink over the matter, and try to find means of loosing you from\nthe bargain.... But how should I have promised to perform the\nimpossible?\" Under the pressure of all their angers, he finally\nairily delivers himself: \"Having at heart to help you, I travelled\nthe world over, visiting its most recondite corners, in search\nof such a substitute for Freia as might be found acceptable to\nthe giants. Vainly I sought, and now at last I plainly see that\nnothing upon this earth is so precious that it can take the place\nin man's affection of the loveliness and worth of woman.\"\n\nStruck and uplifted by this thought, the gods, moved, look in one\nanother's faces, and the music expresses the sweet expansion of\nthe heart overflowing with thoughts of beauty and love. It is one\nof the memorable moments of the Prologue.\n\n\"Everywhere,\" proceeds Loge, \"far as life reaches, in water, earth,\nand air, wherever is quickening of germs and stirring of nature's\nforces, I investigated and inquired what there might be in existence\nthat a man should hold dearer than woman's beauty and worth? Everywhere\nmy inquiry was met with derision. No creature, in water, earth, or\nair, is willing to renounce love and woman.\"\n\nAs he pauses, the gods again gaze at one another, with tender tearful\nsmiles, in an exalted emotion over the recognition of this touching\ntruth; and the music reexpresses that blissful expansion of the\nheart.\n\n\"Only one did I see,\" Loge says further--the light fading out of\nthe music--\"who had renounced love; for red gold he had forsworn\nthe favor of woman.\" He relates Alberich's theft of the gold, as\nit had been told him by the Rhine-daughters, who had made him their\nadvocate with Wotan, to procure its restitution.\n\nBut their plea meets with a deaf ear. \"You are stupid, indeed,\nif not perverse,\" the god answers Loge, when he delivers their\nappeal. \"You find me in straits myself, how should I help others?\"\n\nThe giants have been listening to this talk about Alberich, an\nancient enemy of theirs. The cleverer brother asks Loge, \"What\ngreat advantage is involved in the possession of the gold, that\nthe Nibelung should find it all-sufficient?\" Loge explains. There\ndrift back to Wotan's memory runes of the Ring, and the thought\nreadily arises that it would be well he possessed the ring himself.\n\n\"But how, Loge, should I learn the art to shape it?\" At the reply\nthat he who would practise the magic by which it could be shaped\nmust renounce love, the god turns away in conclusive disrelish.\nLoge informs him that he would in any case have been too late:\nAlberich has already successfully forged the ring.\n\nThis alters the face of things.\n\n\"But if he possesses a ring of such power,\" says simple Donner, \"it\nmust be taken from him, lest he bring us all under its compulsion!\"\n\nWotan hesitates no more. \"The ring I must have!\"\n\n\"Yes, now, as long as love need not be renounced, it will be easy\nto obtain it,\" says simple Froh.\n\n\"Easy as mocking--child's-play!\" sneers Loge.\n\n\"Then do you tell us, how?...\" Wotan's fine majestic simplicity\nhas no false pride.\n\nThe Serpent gleefully replies, \"By theft! What a thief stole, you\nsteal from the thief! Could anything be easier? Only, Alberich\nis on his guard, you will have to proceed craftily if you would\noverreach the robber... in order to return their treasure to the\nRhine-daughters, who earnestly entreat you.\"\n\n\"The Rhine-daughters?\" chafes Wotan. \"What do you trouble me with\nthem?\"\n\nAnd the goddess of Wisdom,--more sympathetic on the whole in this\nexhibition of weakness than in her hard justice later--exposing\nthe core of her feminine being, breaks in: \"I wish to hear nothing\nwhatever of that watery brood. Many a man, greatly to my vexation,\nhave they lured under while he was bathing, with promises of love.\"\n\nThe giants have been listening and have taken counsel together.\nFafner now approaches Wotan. \"Hear, Wotan.... Keep Freia.... We\nhave fixed upon a lesser reward. We will take in her stead the\nNibelung's gold.\"\n\nWotan comes near losing his temper. \"What I do not own, I shall\nbestow upon you shameless louts?\"\n\nFafner expresses a perfect confidence in Wotan's equipment for obtaining\nthe gold.\n\n\"For you I shall go to this trouble?\" rails the irritated god,\n\"For you I shall circumvent this enemy? Out of all measure impudent\nand rapacious my gratitude has made you clowns!...\"\n\nFasolt who has only half-heartedly accepted his brother's decision\nin favor of the gold, stays to hear no more, but seizes Freia. With\na warning that she shall be regarded as a hostage till evening,\nbut that if when they return the Rhinegold is not on the spot as\nher ransom, they will keep her forever, the giants hurry her off.\n\nHer cry for help rings back. Her brothers, in the act of rushing\nto the rescue, look at Wotan for his sanction. No encouragement\nis to be gathered from his face. He stands motionless, steeped\nin perplexity, in conflict with himself.\n\nLoge has now a few moments' pure enjoyment in safely tormenting\nhis superiors. He stands, with his fresh, ingenuous air, on a point\noverlooking the valley, and describes the giants' progress, as\ndoes the music, too. \"Not happy is Freia, hanging on the back of\nthe rough ones as they wade through the Rhine....\" Her dejected\nkindred wince.\n\nThe heavy footsteps die away. Loge returning his attention to the\ngods, voices his amazement at the sight which meets him: \"Am I\ndeceived by a mist? Am I misled by a dream? How wan and fearful and\nfaded you do look! The glow is dead in your cheeks, the lightening\nquenched in your glances. Froh, it is still early morning! Donner,\nyou are dropping your hammer! What ails Fricka? Is it chagrin to\nsee the greyness of age creeping over Wotan?\" Sounds of woe burst\nfrom all, save Wotan, who with his eyes on the ground still stands\nabsorbed in gloomy musing.\n\nThe solution of the puzzle suddenly, as he feigns, flashes upon\nLoge: This is the result of Freia's leaving them! They had not yet\nthat morning tasted her apples. Now, of necessity, those golden\napples of youth in her garden, which she alone could cultivate, will\ndecay and drop. \"Myself,\" he says, \"I shall be less inconvenienced\nthan you, because she was ever grudging to me of the exquisite\nfruit, for I am only half of as good lineage as you, Resplendent\nOnes. On the other hand, you depended wholly upon the rejuvenating\napples; the giants knew that and are plainly practising against\nyour lives. Now bethink yourselves how to provide against this.\nWithout the apples, old and grey, a mock to the whole world, the\ndynasty of the gods must perish!\"\n\nWith sudden resolution, Wotan starts from his dark study. \"Up, Loge!\nDown with me to Nibelheim! I will conquer the gold!\"\n\n\"The Rhine-daughters, then,\" speaks wicked Loge, \"may look to have\ntheir prayer granted?\"\n\nWotan harshly silences him. \"Be still, chatterer!... Freia the good,\nFreia must be ransomed!\"\n\nLoge drops the subject and offers his services as guide. \"Shall\nwe descend through the Rhine?\"\n\nThe Rhine, with its infesting nymphs?...\n\n\"Not through the Rhine!\" says Wotan.\n\n\"Then through the sulphur-cleft slip down with me!\" And Loge vanishes\ndown a cleft in the rock, through which Wotan, after bidding his\nfamily wait for him where they are until evening, follows.\n\nThick vapour pours forth from the sulphur-cleft, dimming and shortly\nblotting out the scene. We are travelling downward into the earth.\nA dull red glow gradually tinges the vapour. Sounds of diminutive\nhammers upon anvils become distinct. The orchestra takes up their\nsuggestion and turns it into a simple monotonous strongly rhythmical\nair--never long silent in this scene--which comes to mean for us\nthe little toiling Nibelungs, the cunning smiths. A great rocky\nsubterranean cave running off on every side into rough shafts,\nis at last clearly visible, lighted by the ruddy reflection of\nforge-fires.\n\nThis is where Alberich reigns and by the power of the ring compels\nhis enslaved brothers to labour for him. Renouncing love has not been\ngood for the disposition of Alberich. It is not only the insatiable\nlust of gold and power now darkening the soul-face of the earlier\nfairly gentle-natured Nibelung, it is a savage gloating cruelty,\nbespeaking one unnaturally loveless; it is a sanguinary hatred,\ntoo, of all who still can love, of love itself, a thirst and\ndetermination to see it completely done away with in the world,\nexterminated--a sort of fallen angel's sin against the Holy Ghost.\nA state, beneath the incessant excitement of slave-driving and\ntreasure-amassing, of inexpressible unhappiness, lightened by moments\nof huge exaltation in the sense of his new power.\n\nWe find him, when the cavern glimmers into sight, brutally handling\nhis crumb of a gnome brother. Mime, like Alberich, wins some part of\nour heart on first acquaintance, which he later ceases to deserve;\nbut in the case of Mime I think it is never wholly withdrawn, even\nwhen he is shown to be an unmitigated wretch; he is, to begin with,\nso little, and he has a funny, fetching twist or quaver in his\nvoice, indicated by the notes themselves of his rather mean little\nsing-song melodies. Alberich's nominal reason for indulging his\npresent passion for hurting--he is haling Mime by the ear--is that\nthe latter is overslow with certain piece of work which, with minute\ninstructions, he has been ordered to do. Mime, under pressure, produces\nthe article, which he had in truth been trying to keep for his own,\nsuspecting in it some mysterious value. It is the _Tarnhelm_, a\ncurious cap of linked metal. Its uncanny character is confided to us\neven before we see it at work, by the motif which first appears with\nits appearance: a motif preparing for some unearthly manifestation\nthe mind pricked to disquieted attention by the weirdness of the\nair. Alberich places it upon his head, utters a brief incantation,\nand disappears from sight. A column of vapour stands in his place.\n\n\"Do you see me?\" asks Alberich's disembodied voice. Mime looks\naround, astonished. \"Where are you? I see you not!\" \"Then feel\nme!\" cries the power-drunken tyrant, and Mime winces and cowers\nunder blows from an unseen scourge, while Alberich's voice laughs.\nOut of measure exhilarated by his successful new device for ensuring\ndiligence and inspiring fear, he storms out of hearing with the\nterrible words, \"Nibelungs all, bow to Alberich!... He can now\nbe everywhere at once, keeping watch over you. Rest and leisure\nare done and over with for you! For him you must labour.... His\nconquered slaves are you forever!\" The moment of his overtaking\nthe Nibelungs is indicated by their sudden distant outcry.\n\nMime has been left crouching and whimpering on the rocky floor.\nThus Wotan and Loge find him.\n\nLoge is in all the following scene Wotan's very active vizier,\nfurnishing the invention and carrying out the stratagems. Wotan,\nexcept to the eye, takes the background and has little to say;\nbut as the blue of his mantle and the fresh chaplet on his locks\nstrike the eye refreshingly in the fire-reddened cave, so his voice,\nwith echoes in it of the noble upper world, comes like gusts of\nsweet air.\n\nLoge sets the cowering dwarf on his feet and by artful questions\ngets the whole story from him of the ring and the Nibelungs' woe.\nAbout the Tarnhelm, too, Mime tells Loge. At the recollection of\nthe stripes he has suffered, he rubs his back howling. The gods\nlaugh. That gives Mime the idea that these strangers must be of the\ngreat. He is in his turn questioning them, when he hears Alberich's\nbullying voice approaching. He runs hither and thither in terror and\ncalls to the strangers to look to themselves, Alberich is coming!\nWotan quietly seats himself on a stone to await him.\n\nAlberich enters driving before him with his scourge a whole army of\nlittle huddling, hurrying Nibelungs, groaning under the weight of\ngreat pieces of gold and silver smithwork, which, while he threatens\nand urges them, they heap in a duskily glimmering mound. In the\nfancy that they are not obeying fast or humbly enough, he takes the\nmagic ring from his finger, kisses and lifts it commandingly over\nthem, whereupon with cries of dismay they scramble away, scattering\ndown the shafts, in feverish haste to be digging and delving.\n\nHeavy groans are in the music when it refers to the oppression\nof the Nibelungs; groans so tragic and seriously presented that\nthey bring up the thought of other oppressions and killing labours\nthan those of the Nibelungs. The music which later depicts the\namassing of riches, indicates such horror of strain, such fatigue,\nsuch hopeless weariness of heart and soul, that the hearer must\nthink with sharpened sympathy of all that part of humanity which\nrepresents the shoulder placed against the wheel.\n\nAlberich turns an angry eye upon the intruders: \"What do you want?\"\n\nIt is then most especially that the calm notes of Wotan fall healingly\nupon the sense: They have heard tales of novel events in Nibelheim, of\nmighty wonders worked there by Alberich, and are come from curiosity\nto witness these.\n\nAfter this simple introduction from the greater personage, his\nlight-foot, volatile, graceful minister takes Alberich in hand and\npractising confidently upon his intoxicated conceit of power, his\npride in the cleverness which had contrived ring and wishing-cap,\nuses him like a puppet of which all the strings should be in his\nhand.\n\nAlberich recognises in Loge an old enemy. Loge's reply to Alberich's,\n\"I know you well enough, you and your kind!\" is perhaps, with its\ncheerful dancing flicker, his prettiest bit of self-description.\n\"You know me, childish elf? Then, say, who am I, that you should\nbe surly? In the cold hollow where you lay shivering, how would\nyou have had light and cheering warmth, if Loge had never laughed\nfor you?...\"\n\nBut Alberich seems to remember too many reasons for distrusting\nhim. \"I can now, however,\" he boasts, \"defy you all!\" and he calls\nto their notice the heaped riches,--the _Hort_.\n\n\"But,\" remarks Wotan, \"of what use is all that wealth in cheerless\nNibelheim, where there is nothing to buy?\"\n\n\"Nibelheim,\" replies Alberich, \"is good to furnish treasures and\nto keep them safe. But when they form a sufficient heap, I shall\nuse them to make myself master of the world!\"\n\n\"And how, my good fellow, shall you accomplish this?\"\n\nAlberich has apprehended in this guest one of the immortals,--which,\ntaken into consideration a speech suggestive every time it resounds\nof calm heights and stately circumstances, is not strange. Alberich\nhates him, hates them all. This is his exposition of his plan:\n\"You who, lapped in balmy airs, live, laugh, and love up there,\nwith a golden fist I shall catch you all! Even as I renounced love,\nall that lives shall renounce it! Ensnared and netted in gold,\nyou shall care for gold only! You immortal revellers, cradling\nyourselves on blissful heights in exquisite pastimes, you despise\nthe black elf! Have a care!... For when you men have come to be\nthe servants of my power, your sweetly adorned women, who would\ndespise the dwarf's love, since he cannot hope for love, shall\nbe forced to serve his pleasure. Ha ha! Do you hear? Have a care,\nhave a care, I say, of the army of the night, when the riches of\nthe Nibelungs once climb into the light!\"\n\nWotan, whose Olympian self-sufficiency is usually untroubled by what\nany mean other-person may say, at this cannot contain himself, but\nstarting to his feet cries out a command for the blasphemous fool's\nannihilation! Before Alberich, however, has caught the words--his\ndeafness perhaps it is which saves his life--Loge has called Wotan\nback to his reason. Practising on Alberich's not completely outlived\nsimplicity, he by the ruse of feigning himself very stupid and\ngreatly impressed by his cleverness, now induces him to show off for\ntheir greater amazement the power of the Tarnhelm, which it appears\nhas not only the trick of making the wearer at will invisible, but\nof lending him whatever shape he may choose. Later we find that\nit has also the power to transport the wearer at pleasure to the\nends of the earth in a moment of time.\n\nTo put Loge's incredulity to shame, Alberich, Tarnhelm on head,\nturns himself into a dragon, drawing its cumbersome length across\nthe stage to a fearsome tune which gives all of its uncouthness,\nand never fails to call forth laughter, like the giants' tread. As\na further exhibition of his power, after full measure of flattery\nin Loge's pretended fright, he at the prompting of the same changes\nhimself into a toad, which has but time for a hop or two, before\nWotan places his calm foot upon it. Loge snatches the Tarnhelm\noff its head and Alberich is seen in his own person writhing under\nWotan. Loge binds him fast, and the gods, with their struggling\nprey between them, hurry off through the pass by which they came.\n\nThen reoccurs, but reversed, the transformation between Nibelheim\nand the upper world. The region of the stithies is passed, the little\nhammers are heard. At last Wotan and Loge with Alberich reappear\nthrough the sulphur-cleft.\n\n\"Look, beloved,\" says Loge to the unhappy captive, \"there lies\nthe world which you think of conquering for your own. Tell me now,\nwhat little corner in it do you intend as a kennel for me?\" And he\ndances around him, snapping his fingers to the prettiest, heartlessly\nmerry fire-music.\n\nAlberich replies with raving insult. Wotan's cool voice reminds\nhim of the vanity of this and calls him to the consideration of\nhis ransom. When Alberich, after a time, grumblingly inquires what\nthey will have, he says, largely and frankly, \"The treasure, your\nshining gold.\"\n\nIf he can only retain the ring, reflects Alberich, the loss of\nthe treasure may be quickly repaired. At his request they free\nhis right hand; he touches the ring with his lips and murmurs the\nspell by which after a moment the swarm of little smoke-grimed\nNibelungs arrives groaning and straining under the weight of the\nHort; again they pile it in a heap, and at Alberich's command scurry\nhome.\n\n\"Now I have paid, now let me go,\" says the humbled Nibelung-lord,\n\"and that helmet-like ornament which Loge is holding, have the\nkindness to give it me back.\" But Loge flings the Tarnhelm on the\nheap as part of the ransom. Hard to bear is this, but Mime can\nafter all forge another. \"Now you have gotten everything; now,\nyou cruel ones, loose the thongs.\" But Wotan remarks, \"You have a\ngold ring upon your finger; that, I think, belongs with the rest.\"\nAt this, a madness of terror seizes Alberich. \"The ring?...\" \"You\nmust leave it for ransom.\" \"My life--but not the ring!\" With that\nbitter coldness of the aristocrat which in time brings about\nrevolutions, Wotan replies, \"It is the ring I ask for--with your\nlife do what you please!\" The dull Nibelung pleads still after\nthat, and his words contain thorns which he might reasonably expect\nto tell: \"The thing which I, anguish-harried and curse-crowned,\nearned through a horrible renunciation, you are to have for your\nown as a pleasant princely toy?... If I sinned, I sinned solely\nagainst myself, but against all that has been, is, or shall be,\ndo you, Immortal, sin, if you wrest this ring from me....\"\n\nWotan without further discussion stretches out his hand and tears\nfrom Alberich's finger the ring, which gives once more, under this\nviolence, the golden call, saddened and distorted. \"Here, the\nring!--Your chattering does not establish your right to it!\" Alberich\ndrops to earth, felled. Wotan places the ring on his hand and stands\nin gratified contemplation of it. \"I hold here what makes me the\nmightiest lord of the mighty!\"\n\nLoge unties Alberich and bids him slip home. But the Nibelung is\npast care or fear, and rising to insane heights of hatred lays upon\nthe ring such a curse as might well shake its owner's complacency.\n\"As it came to me through a curse, accursed be this ring! As it\nlent me power without bounds, let its magic now draw death upon\nthe wearer! Let no possessor of it be happy.... Let him who owns\nit be gnawed by care and him who owns it not be gnawed by envy! Let\nevery one covet, no one enjoy it!... Appointed to death, fear-ridden\nlet its craven master be! While he lives, let his living be as\ndying! The ring's master be the ring's slave,--until my stolen good\nreturn to me!... Now keep it! Guard it well! My curse you shall\nnot escape!\"\n\n\"Did you hear his affectionate greeting?\" asks Loge, when Alberich\nhas vanished down the rocky cleft.\n\nWotan, absorbed in the contemplation of the ring, has heard the\ncurse with the same degree of interest he might have bestowed upon\nthe trickle of a brook. He replies magnanimously, \"Grudge him not\nthe luxury of railing!\"\n\nFricka, Donner, and Froh hasten to welcome the returning gods.\nThe approach of Freia, whom the giants are bringing between them,\nis felt before she appears, in a subtle sweetening of the air, a\nsimultaneous lightening of all the hearts and return of youth to\nthe faces, which Froh's daintily expansive greeting describes.\n\nFricka is hurrying toward her. Fasolt interposes: Not to be touched!\nShe still belongs to them until the ransom have been paid. Fasolt\ndoes not fall in willingly with the arrangement which shall give\nthem the gold in place of the woman; he has been overpersuaded\nby the black brother; his regret at losing Freia is so great, he\ntells the gods, that the treasure, if she is to be relinquished,\nwill have to be piled so high as completely to hide the blooming\nmaid.\n\n\"Let it be measured according to Freia's stature!\" decrees Wotan,\nand the giants drive their great staves into the earth so that\nthey roughly frame the figure of Freia. Helped by Loge and Froh,\nthey begin stopping the space between with the treasure. Wotan's\nfastidiousness cannot endure the visible sordid details of his\nbargain; he turns from the sight of the incarnate rose, as she\nstands drooping in a noble shame, to be valued against so much\ngold. \"Hasten with the work!\" he bids them, \"it sorely goes against\nme!\" When Fafner's rough greed orders the measure to be more solidly\npressed down, and he ducks spying for crevices still to be stopped\nwith gold, Wotan turns away, soul-sick: \"Humiliation burns deep\nin my breast!\"\n\nThe Hort is exhausted, when Fafner looking for crannies exclaims,\n\"I can still see the shining of her hair,\" and demands, to shut\nit from view, the Tarnhelm which Loge has attempted to retain.\n\"Let it go!\" commands Wotan, when Loge hesitates.\n\nThe affair, it now would seem, must be closed; but Fasolt, in his\ngrief over the loss of the Fair one, still hovers about, peering\nif perchance he may still see her, and so he catches through the\nscreen of gold the gleam of her eye, and declares that so long\nas the lovely glance is visible he will not renounce the woman.\n\n\"But can you not see, there is no more gold?\" remonstrates Loge.\nFafner, who has not failed to store in his brain what he earlier\noverheard, replies, \"Nothing of the kind. There is a gold ring\nstill on Wotan's finger. Give us that to stop the cranny.\"\n\n\"This ring?...\" cries Wotan, like Alberich before him.\n\n\"Be advised,\" Loge says to the giants, as if in confidence. \"That\nring belongs to the Rhine-maidens. Wotan intends to return it to\nthem.\"\n\nBut Wotan has no subterfuges or indirections of his own--not conscious\nones; when he needs their aid, he uses another, as he had told\nFricka. \"What are you prating?\" he corrects Loge; \"what I have\nobtained with such difficulty, I shall keep without compunction\nfor myself.\" Loge amuses himself with probing further the grained\nspot in his superior. \"My promise then stands in bad case, which I\nmade to the Rhine-daughters when they turned to me in their trouble.\"\nWotan, with the coldness of the Pharisee's \"Look thou to that,\"\nreplies, \"Your promise does not bind me. The ring, my capture,\nI shall keep.\"\n\n\"But you will have to lay it down with the ransom,\" Fafner insists.\n\n\"Ask what else you please, you shall have it; but not for the whole\nworld will I give up the ring.\"\n\nFasolt instantly lays hands again upon Freia and draws her from\nbehind the Hort. \"Everything then stands as it stood before. Freia\nshall come with us now for good and all.\" An outcry of appeal goes\nup from all the gods to Wotan. He turns from them unmoved. \"Trouble\nme not. The ring I will not give up.\" And the idleness of further\nappeal, howsoever eloquent, cannot be doubted.\n\nBut now unaccountable darkness invades the scene; from the hollow\nalcove in the rocks, letting down to the interior earth, breaks a\nbluish light; while all, breathless, watch the strange phenomenon,\nthe upper half of a woman becomes discernible in it, wrapped in\nsmoke-coloured veils and long black locks. It is the Spirit of\nthe Earth, the all-knowing Erda, whose motif describes the stately\nprogression of natural things, and is the same as the Rhine-motif,\nwhich describes a natural thing in stately progression. She lifts\na warning hand to Wotan. \"Desist, Wotan, desist! Avoid the curse\non the ring... The possession of it will doom you to dark ruin....\"\n\nWotan, struck, inquires in awe, \"Who are you, warning woman?\"\n\nThe one who knows all that was, is, and shall be, she tells him;\nthe ancestress of the everlasting world, older than time; the mother\nof the Norns who speak with Wotan nightly. Gravest danger has brought\nher to seek him in person. Let him hear and heed! The present order\nis passing away. There is dawning for the gods a dark day.... At\nthis prophesied ruin, the music reverses the motif of ascending\nprogression, and paints melancholy disintegration and crumbling\ndownfall, a strain to be heard many times in the closing opera of\nthe trilogy, when the prophecy comes to pass and the gods enter\ntheir twilight. The apparition is sinking back into the earth.\nWotan beseeches it to tarry and tell him more. But with the words,\n\"You are warned.... Meditate in sorrow and fear!\" it vanishes. The\nmasterful god attempts to follow, to wrest from the weird woman\nfurther knowledge. His wife and her brothers hold him back. He\nstands for a time still hesitating, uncertain, wrapped in thought.\nWith sudden resolve at last he tosses the ring with the rest of the\ntreasure, and turns heart-wholly to greet Freia returning among\nthem, bringing back their lost youth.\n\nWhile the gods are expressing tender rapture over the restoration of\nFreia, and she goes from one to the other receiving their caresses,\nFafner spreads open a gigantic sack and in this is briskly stuffing\nthe gold. Fasolt, otherwise preoccupied, had not thought to bring\na sack. He attempts to stay Fafner's too active hand. \"Hold on,\nyou grasping one, leave something for me! An honest division will\nbe best for us both!\" Fafner objects, \"You, amorous fool, cared\nmore for the maid than the gold. With difficulty I persuaded you\nto the exchange. You would haved wooed Freia without thought of\ndivision, wherefore in the division of the spoil I shall still\nbe generous if I keep the larger half for myself.\" Fasolt's anger\nwaxes great. He calls upon the gods to judge between them and divide\nthe treasure justly. Wotan turns from his appeal with characteristic\ncontempt. Loge, the mischief-lover, whispers to Fasolt, \"Let him\ntake the treasure, do you but reserve the ring!\" Fafner has during\nthis not been idle, but has sturdily filled his sack; the ring is\non his hand. Fasolt demands it in exchange for Freia's glance.\nHe snatches at it, Fafner defends it, and when in the wrestling\nwhich ensues Fasolt has forced it from his brother, the latter\nlifts his tree-trunk and strikes him dead. Having taken the ring\nfrom his hand, he leisurely proceeds to finish his packing, while\nthe gods stand around appalled, and the air shudderingly resounds\nwith the notes of the curse. A long, solemn silence follows. Fafner\nis seen, after a time, shouldering the sack, into which the whole of\nthe glimmering Hort has disappeared, and, bowed under its weight,\nleaving for home.\n\n\"Dreadful,\" says Wotan, deeply shaken; \"I now perceive to be the\npower of the curse!\" Sorrow and fear lie crushingly upon his spirit.\nErda, who warned him of the power of the curse, now proven before his\neyes, warned him likewise of worse things, of old order changing,\na dark day dawning for the gods. He must seek Erda, learn more,\nhave counsel what to do. He is revolving such thoughts when Fricka,\nwho believes all their trouble now ended, approaches him with sweet\nwords, and directs his eyes to the beautiful dwelling hospitably\nawaiting its masters. \"An evil price I paid for the building!\"\nWotan replies heavily.\n\nMists are still hanging over the valley, clinging to the heights;\nnor have the clouds yet wholly lifted from their spirits. Donner,\nto clear the atmosphere, conjures a magnificent storm, by the blow\nof his hammer bringing about thunder and lightning. When the black\ncloud disperses which for a moment enveloped him and Froh on the\nhigh rock from which he directs this festival of the elements,\na bright rainbow appears, forming a bridge between the rock and\nthe castle now shining in sunset light. A bridge of music is here\nbuilt, too; the tremulous weaving of it in tender and gorgeous\ncolours is seen through the ear, and its vaulting the valley with\nan easy overarching spring. Froh, architect of the bridge, bids\nthe gods walk over it fearlessly: It is light but will prove solid\nunder their feet.\n\nWotan stands sunk in contemplation of the castle; his reflections,\nstill upon the shameful circumstances of his bargain, are not happy.\nIn the midst of them he is struck by a great thought, and recovers\nhis courage and hardihood. The sharp, bright, resolute motif which\nrepresents his inspiration is afterward indissolubly connected\nwith the Sword,--a sword aptly embodying his idea, which is one\nof defence for his castle and clan. A suggestion of his idea is\ncontained, too, in the word which he gives to Fricka as the castle's\nname, when he now invites her to accompany him thither: Walhalla,\nHall of the Slain in Battle, or, Hall of Heroes.\n\nHeaded by Wotan and Fricka, the gods ascend toward the bridge.\nLoge looks after them in mingled irony and contempt. \"There they\nhasten to their end, who fancy themselves so firmly established in\nbeing. I am almost ashamed to have anything to do with them....\"\nAnd he revolves in his mind a scheme for turning into elemental fire\nagain and burning them all up, those blind gods. He is nonchalantly\nadding himself to their train, when from the Rhine below rises\nthe lament of the Rhine-daughters, begging that their gold may\nbe given back to them. Wotan pauses with his foot on the bridge:\n\"What wail is that?\" Loge enlightens him, and, at Wotan's annoyed,\n\"Accursed nixies! Stop their importunity!\" calls down to them,\n\"You, down there in the water, what are you complaining about?\nHear what Wotan bids: No longer having the gold to shine for you,\nmake yourselves happy basking in the sunshine of this new pomp of\nthe gods!\" Loud laughter from the gods greets this sally, and they\npass over the bridge, Walhalla-ward, followed by the water-nymphs'\nwail for their lost gold, closing with the reproach, \"Only in the\npleasant water-depths is truth; false and cowardly are those making\nmerry up there!\" With Walhalla and rainbow shedding a radiance\naround them of which we are made conscious through the delighted\nsense of hearing, the curtain falls.\n\nSo we lose sight of them, moving into their new house; in spite\nof their glory a little like the first family of the county. But\nwhile to triumphant strains they seek their serene stronghold, we\nknow that the lines have been laid for disaster. The Ring is in the\nworld, with its terrific power; and there is in the world one whom\nwrong has turned into a deadly enemy, whose soul is undividedly bent\nupon getting possession of the Ring, which Wotan may not himself\nattempt to get--stopped, if not by Erda's warning or by terror of\nthe curse, by the fact that he finally gave it to the giants in\npayment of an acknowledged debt, and that his spear stands precisely\nfor honor in relations of the sort.\n\n\nTHE VALKYRIE\n\n(DIE WALKUERE)\n\n\nTHE VALKYRIE\n\n(DIE WALKUERE)\n\n\nI\n\nWotan's idea, from which the abode of the gods received its name\nof Walhalla, had been to people his halls with hordes of heroes\nwho should defend it from Alberich and his \"army of the night.\"\n\nErda's prophecy of a dark day dawning for the gods had destroyed\nWotan's peace. The craving to know more of this drove him to seek\nher in the depths of the earth. He cast upon her the spell of love\nand constrained her to speak. It does not appear that he gained\nfrom her any clear knowledge of the future; he learned chiefly, as\nwe gather, what were the dangers besetting him. The end threatened\nthrough Alberich's forces, which, however, could not prevail against\nthe heroic garrison of Walhalla unless Alberich should recover the\nRing; through the power of the Ring he would be able to estrange\nthe heroes from Wotan and, turning their arms against him, overcome\nhim. \"When the dark enemy of love (Alberich) in wrath shall beget\na son,\" so ran Erda's warning, \"the end of the Blessed shall not\nbe long delayed!\"\n\nFrom Erda was born to Wotan a daughter, so near to her father's\nheart that she seemed an incarnation of his most intimate wish,\nhis very will embodied; so part of himself she knew his unspoken\nthought. This was Bruennhilde (from _Bruenne_, corslet). With eight\nother daughters,--born to Wotan from \"the tie of lawless love,\"\nas we learn from Fricka in her tale of wrongs--Bruennhilde, the\ndearest to him of all, followed her father to battle, serving him\nas Valkyrie. These warlike maidens hovered over the battle-field,\ndirecting the fortune of the day according to Wotan's determination,\nprotecting this combatant and seeing his death-doom executed upon\nthe other; they seized the heroes as they fell, and bore them to\nWalhalla to form part of Wotan's guard. From these \"Slain in Battle\"\nit was that Walhalla had its name. To make great their number,\nWotan, who earlier had by laws and compacts tried to bind men to\npeace, now breathed into them a rough, bellicose spirit, goaded\nthem on to quarrel and revolt.\n\nThat the end of the gods, if prophecy must fulfill itself, should not\nbe a contemptible or pitiful one, that was Wotan's preoccupation,--to\nsave, if nothing more, the dignity of the Eternals; with this in\nview, to keep Alberich from recovering the Ring, by which he might\nwork such really disgusting havoc. The Ring was in the possession\nof Fafner, who had turned himself into a dragon, and in a lonely\nforest-girt cave guarded it and the rest of the treasure of the\nNibelungen, for the sake of which he had killed Fasolt, his brother.\nWotan, as we have seen, could not wrest from him the Ring which he\nhimself had given in payment for the building of Walhalla: for the\nhonour of his spear he must not attempt it. Alberich, not bound as\nhe was to keep his hands off it, must infallibly and indefatigably\nbe devising means to regain possession of it. It was plain to Wotan\nthat he must find some one to do that which he himself could not,\nsome one, who, unprompted by him, should yet accomplish his purposes,\nsome one free as he was not. This tool who was yet not to be his\ntool, since a god's good faith demanded that neither directly nor\nindirectly he should meddle with the Ring, Wotan supposed he had\ncreated for himself in Siegmund, born to him, with a twin sister,\nSieglinde, of a human mother. This boy with whom, in human disguise,\nunder the names of Waelse and Wolf,--Wolf for his enemies, Waelse for\nhis kindred,--he lived in the wild woods, he reared in a spirit of\nlawlessness, wild courage, disregard of the gods. We must suppose\nit to have been for the sake of preventing association with women\nfrom softening his disposition that, while Siegmund was a child,\nWotan, sacrificing to the hardness of fibre it was his object to\nproduce, permitted the catastrophe which deprived the boy of mother\nand sister. Returning home from a day's wild chase,--hunters and\nhunted alike human,--father and son found their dwelling burned\nto the ground, the mother slain, the sister gone. They lived for\nyears together after that, in the woods, always in conflict with\nenemies, of whom their peculiar daring and strength raised them\nan infinite number. In time, when the son was well grown, Wotan\nforsook him, left him to complete his development alone, under\nthe harsh training of the calamities and sorrows fatally incident\nto the temper and manner of viewing things which that father had\nbred in him. The lad received the usage of a sword in the forging,\nextremes of furnace and ice-brook. So he stood at last, Wotan's\npupil and finished instrument, an embodied defiance of the law and\nthe gods, proper to do the work which the law of the gods forbade.\nSome defence against the wrath which he must inevitably rouse,\nhis father could not but feel impelled to provide, yet could he\nnot, without violating the honour which in his simple-minded way\nhe was striving to preserve intact, give it to him directly. He\ncould not bestow upon him outright a _Sieges-schwert_--magical\nsword which ensured victory. But he placed one where the young\nman should find it.\n\nThe piece opens with the blustering music of a storm, whose violence\nis rapidly dying down.\n\nThe curtain rises upon the interior of Hunding's very primitive\ndwelling, built about a great ash-tree whose trunk stands in view.\nSiegmund, predestined to be ever at strife with his fellow-man, in\ncircumstances of peculiar distress seeks the shelter of Hunding's\nroof. We see him burst into the empty hall, staggering and panting.\nHis spear and shield have splintered beneath the enemies' strokes;\ndeprived of arms, he has been forced to flee; he has been so hotly\npursued, so beaten by the storm, that upon reaching this refuge he\ncan no more than drop beside the hearth and lie there, exhausted.\n\nIt is his sister's house to which fate has led him, where, ill-starred\nand unhappy like himself, this other child of Waelse's lives, in\nsubjection to Hunding, her lord, who has come by her through some\nobscure commerce, and to whom she is no more than part of the household\nbaggage.\n\nHearing the rustle of Siegmund's entrance, Sieglinde hurries in,\nand, beholding a stranger outstretched upon the ground, stops short\nto observe him. The strength of the prostrate body cannot fail to\nstrike her. At his gasped call for water, she hurries to fetch it\nfrom the spring out of doors. His perishing need is shown in the\ndevotion with which he drains the horn she hands him. His eyes, as he\nreturns it, are arrested by her face, and dwell upon it with fearless\nlingering scrutiny--while the strain for the first time trembles\nupon the air which, singing the love of Siegmund and Sieglinde, is\nto caress our hearing so many times more. His fatigue has magically\nvanished. He asks to whom he owes the refreshment afforded him.\nWhen, at her reply and request that he shall await Hunding's return,\nhe refers to himself as an unarmed and wounded guest, she eagerly\ninquires of his wounds. But he jumps up, shaking off all thought\nof wounds or weariness. His succinct narrative of the circumstances\nwhich have brought him to her hearth, he brings to a close: \"But\nfaster than I vanished from the mob of my pursuers, my weariness\nhas vanished from me. Night lay across my eyelids,--the sun now\nsmiles upon me anew!\" She offers the guest mead to drink, at his\nprayer tasting it before him. As he returns the emptied horn, again\nhis eyes dwell upon her face, with an emotion ever increasing.\nBoth gaze in simple undisguised intensity of interest. There is\na long moment's silence between them. Then, at the love he feels\nsurging in his bosom, remembrance comes to Siegmund of what he is,--a\nman so ill-fated that it may well be feared his ill-fortune shall\ninfect those with whom he comes into contact. \"You have relieved an\nill-fated man,\" he warns her, his voice unsteady with the pang of\nthis recognition, \"may his wish turn ill-fortune from you! Sweetly\nhave I rested.... I will now fare further on my way!\" As he turns\nto the door she detains him with the quick cry: \"What pursues you,\nthat you should thus flee?\" He answers, slowly and sadly: \"Misfortune\npursues me wherever I flee. Misfortune meets me wherever I go. From\nyou, woman, may it remain afar! I turn from you my footsteps and\nmy glance.\" His hand is on the latch, when her sharp involuntary\nexclamation stops him: \"Stay, then! You cannot bring sorrow into\na house where sorrow is already at home!\" Deeply shaken by her\nwords, he fixes his eyes questioningly upon her. She meets them\nfor a moment, then drops her own, sad and half-ashamed. The motif\nof the Waelsungen well expresses the nobility in misfortune of these\npoor children of Waelse. Siegmund returns quietly to the hearth:\n\"Wehwalt is my name for myself. I will await Hunding.\" (_Weh_:\nwoe, sorrow, calamity, pain; _wallen_: to govern. _Wehwalt_: lord\nof sorrows.) There is no further exchange of words while they wait,\nbut in complete unashamed absorption they gaze at each other, and\nthe music tells beautifully how it is within their hearts. Hunding's\nhorn is heard. (_Hund:_ hound. It was, as we learn later, this\namiable personage's custom to hunt his enemies with a pack of dogs.)\nStartled from her trance, Sieglinde listens, and hastens to open.\nHunding appears in the doorway, a dark figure, in helmet, shield\nand spear. At sight of the stranger, he questions his wife with a\nlook. \"I found the man on the hearth, spent with weariness. Necessity\nbrings him to our house,\" she explains. There is some sternness\napparently in Hunding's tone as he inquires: \"Have you offered him\nrefreshment?\" for Siegmund, rash and instantaneous in the woman's\ndefence, speaks, hard on the heels of her answer: \"I have to thank\nher for shelter and drink. Will you therefor chide your wife?\"\nBut Hunding, at his best in this moment, without retort welcomes\nthe guest: \"Sacred is my hearth, sacred to you be my house!\" and\norders his wife to set forth food for them. Catching Sieglinde's\neyes unconsciously fixed upon Siegmund, he glances quickly from\none to the other, and is struck by the resemblance between them;\nbut the luminous look they have in common he defines, with the\nconstitutional dislike of his kind to that freer, more generous\ntype: \"The selfsame glittering serpent shines out of his eyes!\" He\ninquires of the circumstances which have brought this stranger to\nhis house, and finding that Siegmund has no idea whither his wild\nflight has led him, introduces himself with a dignity which commends\nto us, while he is doing it, the narrow-natured, unimaginative man:\n\"He whose roof covers you and whose house shelters you,--Hunding\nyour host is called. If you should from here turn your footsteps\neastward, there, in rich courts, dwell kinsmen, protectors of Hunding's\nhonour!\" They seat themselves at table; the host asks for this\nguest's name, and as Siegmund, plunged in thought, does not at\nonce reply, Hunding, remarking the interest with which his wife\nwaits for the stranger's words, sardonically encourages him: \"If\nyou are in doubt about trusting me, yet give the information to\nthe lady here. See how eagerly she questions you!\" And Sieglinde,\ntoo deeply interested, verily, to mind the thrust, proceeds further\nto give it point: \"Guest, I should be glad to know who you are!\"\nWhereupon Siegmund, as little constrained by the husband's presence\nas the wife herself, with his eyes upon hers, addressing her directly,\ntells his story: of Wolf, his father, of the twin sister lost to him\nin infancy, the enmity of the Neidingen clan, who in the absence\nof the men burned down their house, slew the mother, abducted the\nsister; of his life in the forest with Wolf, their numberless foes\nand perpetual warfare. Hunding recalls vaguely wild dark tales he\nhas heard of the mighty pair, the Woelfingen. The disappearance of\nhis father, Siegmund further relates, from whom he had been separated\nin a fight, and whom he could never, long though he sought, find\nagain, nor any trace of him save an empty wolf-skin. \"Then,--\"\nfollow the strange cruel fortunes this father had arranged for\nhim, \"then I was impelled to forsake the woods, I was impelled\nto seek men and women. As many as I found, and wherever I found\nthem,--whether I sought for friend, or wooed for woman, always I\nmet with denial, ill-fortune lay upon me!\" With ingenuous wonder\nhe describes the natural fruits of the education bestowed on him\nby Wotan: \"What I thought right, others held to be wrong; what\nhad ever seemed to me abominable, others considered with favour.\nI fell into feud wherever I was, anger fell upon me wherever I\nwent. If I reached out toward happiness, I never failed to bring\nabout calamity! For that reason it is I named myself Wehwalt, I\ncommand calamity alone!\"\n\nHunding has listened attentively. His small superstitious heart has\ntaken alarm. \"Fortune was not fond of you, who appointed for you\nso miserable a lot. The man can hardly welcome you with gladness,\nwhom, a stranger to him, you approach as a guest.\" With a vivacity\nwhich cannot have been the common habit of her intercourse with\nher husband, Sieglinde pronounces judgment aloud and at once upon\nthis ungenerous speech and speaker, whose prudence must certainly,\nin contrast with the Waelsung's frank magnificence of courage, seem\nto her unspeakably bourgeois: \"Only cowards fear one going his way\nunarmed and alone!\" And turning again eagerly to the guest: \"Tell\nfurther, guest, how you lately lost your arms in battle!\" Siegmund\nas eagerly satisfies her. The circumstances which he describes\nfurther exemplify the disposition fostered in him by his father,\nhis non-recognition or acceptance of established law and custom,\nhowever sacred, his pursuit of an ideal unattached to any convention:\nHe had lost his arms in the attempt to defend a damsel against\nher own immediate family, bent upon marrying her against her\ninclination. He had slain her brothers, whereupon the maiden, as\nanother perhaps would have foreseen, had cast herself upon their\nbodies, sorrow annulling her resentment. He had stood over her,\nshielding her from the vengeance of her kindred pressing around. His\narmour had been shattered; the girl lay dead on her dead brothers.\nWounded and weaponless, he had been chased by the infuriate horde.\n\"Now you know, inquiring woman,\" he closes his narrative, \"why\nI do not bear the name of Friedmund!\" (_Frieden:_ peace.) With\nthis simple sally, whose bitterness is not enough to crumple the\nserene forehead, he rises and walks to the hearth, striding to\nthe noble march-measure we know as the motif of the heroism of\nthe Waelsungen,--proud in its first bars, with Siegmund's pride,\ntender in the last, with Sieglinde's tenderness, loftily mournful\nthroughout.\n\n\"I know a wild race of men,\" now speaks Hunding, \"to whom nothing\nis holy of all that is revered by others; hated are they of all\nmen--and of me!\" He then reveals how he himself had that day been\ncalled out for vengeance with his clan against this officious champion\nof damsels. He had arrived too late for action, and returning home,\nbehold, discovers the fugitive miscreant in his own house! As he\ngranted the stranger hospitality for the night, his house shall\nshelter him for that length of time; but \"with strong weapons arm\nyourself to-morrow,\" he grimly warns him; \"it is the day I choose\nfor combat; you shall pay me a price for the dead!\" When Sieglinde\nin alarm places herself between the two men, Hunding orders her\nroughly: \"Out of the room! Loiter not here! Prepare my night-drink\nand wait for me to go to rest!\" Siegmund, smothering his anger,\nstands in contemptuous composure beside the hearth; his eyes frankly\nfollow every movement of the woman as she prepares Hunding's drink.\nOn her way out of the room, she pauses at the threshold of the\ninner chamber, and seeking Siegmund's eyes with her own, tries\nby a long significant glance to direct his glance to a spot in\nthe ash-tree. The sword-motif, distinct and sharp, accompanies her\nlook. Hunding, becoming aware of her lingering, with a peremptory\ngesture orders her again to be gone; and gathering up his own armour,\nwith a warning to the Woelfing that on the morrow he will strike\nhome,--let him have a care!--withdraws, audibly bolting the door\nbehind him.\n\nLeft alone, Siegmund lies down beside the dying fire. To remove\nhimself during the night as far as possible from Hunding's reach\nis not the solution suggesting itself naturally to him. Yet there\nhe stands, pledged to meet an enemy, and not a weapon to his hand\nof offence or defence. The difficulty of his position is certainly\nas great as could be, and, reaching the full consciousness of it, he\nrecalls to mind that his father had promised him a sword, which he\nshould find in the hour of his greatest need. \"Unarmed I am fallen\nin the house of the enemy; here I rest, devoted to his vengeance.\nA woman I have seen, gloriously fair.... She to whom my longing\ndraws me, who with a rapturous charm constrains me, is held in\nthraldom by the man who mocks my unarmed condition....\" Could need,\nindeed, be greater? With the whole strength of that need, in a\ncry, long, urgent, fit to pierce the walls of Walhalla, he calls\nupon his father for the promised sword: \"Waelse! Waelse! Where is\nyour sword?...\"\n\nA flame leaps from the embers and illuminates the ash-tree, bringing\ninto view, at the spot Sieglinde had indicated to him with her\neyes, a sword-hilt. But though his eyes are caught by the glitter,\nhe does not recognise it for what it is; he watches it, without\nmoving, as it shines in the firelight, and, lover-like, soon lapsing\ninto undivided dreaming of the \"flower-fair woman,\" plays tenderly\nwith the conceit of the gleam on the ash-tree being the trace of\nher last bright glance. Forgetting his swordlessness and altogether\nunpromising plight, he goes on weaving poetry about her until the\nfire is quite out and he so nearly dozes that when a white form\ncomes gliding through the door bolted by Hunding, he does not stir\nuntil addressed: \"Guest, are you asleep?\"\n\nSieglinde has mixed narcotic herbs in her husband's drink, and\nbids the stranger make use of the night to provide for his safety.\n\"Let me advise you of a weapon.... Oh, might you obtain it! The\nmost splendid of heroes I must call you, for it is destined to\nthe strongest alone.\" And she relates how at the marriage-feast\nof Hunding, while the men drank, and the woman who \"unconsulted\nhad been offered him for wife by ignoble traffickers\" sat sadly\napart, a stranger appeared, an elderly man in grey garb, whose\nhat-brim concealed one of his eyes. But the brilliant beam of the\nother eye created terror in the bystanders,--all save herself, in\nwhom it aroused an aching longing, sorrow and comfort in equal\nmeasure. The sword in his hand he swung, and drove into the ash-tree\nup to the hilt, leaving it there, a prize to whomsoever should\nbe able to draw it out. The men present had all made the essay\nin vain; guests coming and going since then had tried, equally\nwithout success. \"There in silence waits the sword.\" There in the\nash-tree. \"Then I knew,\" Sieglinde concludes, \"who it was had come\nto me in my sorrow. I know, too, who it is alone can conquer the\nsword. Oh, might I find him here and now, that friend; might he,\nfrom the unknown, come to me, most wretched of women! All I have\never suffered of cruel woe, all the shame and indignity under which\nI have bowed,--sweetest amends would be made for it all! All I ever\nlost, all I ever mourned, I should have recovered it all,--if I\nmight find that supreme friend, if my arm might clasp that hero!\"\nSiegmund, to whom it could not occur for the fraction of a second\nto doubt his strength to draw any sword from any tree, at these\nwords catches her impetuously to his breast: \"The friend now clasps\nyou, fairest of women, for whom weapon and woman were meant! Hot\nin my breast burns the oath which, noble one, weds me to you!\"\nand, in her very strain: \"All I ever yearned for, I met in you!\nIn you I found all I ever lacked. If you suffered ignominy and I\nendured pain, if I was outlawed and you were dishonoured, a joyful\nrevenge now calls to us happy ones! I laugh aloud in a holy elation,\nas I hold you, radiant one, embraced, as I feel the throbbing of\nyour heart!\"\n\nThe great door of the hall, silently, without apparent reason,\nswings wide open, like a great curious eye unclosing to watch this\nbeautiful marvel of their love, expanded so suddenly, like a huge\naloe-flower. It lets in a flood of moonlight, and the glimmering\nvision of the vapourous green-lit nocturnal Spring-world. \"Who\nwent out?... Who came in?\" cries Sieglinde, starting in alarm.\n\"No one went,\" Siegmund reassures her, \"but some one came: See,\nthe Spring laughing in the room!\" And he pours forth poetry of\nadorable inspiration, in explanation of the singular action of\nthe door: Spring was outside, and Love, his sister, inside; Spring\nburst open the severing door, and now, brother and sister, Love\nand the Spring, are met!\n\nIt is touching, the capacity for happiness the two have accumulated\nin the long, thwarted years. An ecstatic joy marks this hour of\nforgetting all the world outside themselves; the love-music is\nall of a fine free sustained rapture. One poignant and subtle and\nprofound thing she says to him: \"Foreign and unrelated to me seemed\nuntil now everything I saw, hostile everything which approached\nme. As if I had never known them were always the things that came\nto me.... But you I knew at once, clearly and distinctly; my eye\nno sooner beheld you, than you belonged to me; and all that lay\nconcealed within my breast, the thing which I verily am, bright\nas the day it rose to the surface; like a ringing sound it smote\nmy ear, when in the cold lonesome strange world for the first time\nI beheld my Friend!\"\n\nSeated in the light of the full moon, they have freedom at last\neach to pore over the other's winning beauty. She is struck, fondly\npeering into his features, with the sense of having seen him before;\nand trying to think when and where reaches the assurance that it was\non the surface of the pool which reflected her own image. Again,\nwhen he speaks, she is struck by the assurance that she has heard his\nvoice before. She thinks, for a moment, that it was in childhood,...\nbut corrects the impression by a second: she has heard it recently,\nwhen the echo in the woods gave back her own voice. His luminous\neyes she has seen before: thus shone the glance of the grey guest\nat the wedding-feast, whom his daughter recognised by that token.\nEarnestly she asks this other guest: \"Is your name in very truth\nWehwalt?\" \"That is no longer my name since you love me!\" he replies\nexuberantly, \"I command now the sublimest joys!... Do you call me\nas you wish me to be called: I will take my name from you!\" \"And\nwas your father indeed Wolf?\" \"A Wolf he was to cowardly foxes.\nBut he whose eye shone with as proud an effulgence as, Glorious One,\ndoes yours, Waelse was his name!\" Beside herself with joy, Sieglinde\nsprings up: \"If Waelse was your father--if you are a Waelsung, for\nyou it was he drove his sword into the tree-trunk. Let me give\nyou the name by which I love you: Siegmund shall you be called!\"\nSiegmund leaps to seize the sword-handle: \"Siegmund is my name,\nand Siegmund am I! (_Sieg_: victory.) Let this sword bear witness,\nwhich fearlessly I seize! Waelse promised me that I should find it\nin my greatest need. I grasp it now....\" Very characteristically,\nthis greatest need, as he feels it, is not the need of a weapon with\nwhich to defend his life against Hunding; it is, in his soaring\nwords: \"Highest need of a holiest love, devouring need of a love\nfull of longing, burns bright in my breast, drives me onward to\ndeeds and to death.... Nothung! Nothung! So do I name you, sword!\n(_Noth_: need. _Nothung_: sword-in-need.) Nothung! Nothung! Out\nof the scabbard, to me!\" With a mighty tug he draws it forth and\nholds it before the marvelling eyes of Sieglinde: \"Siegmund the\nWaelsung stands before you, woman! As a wedding-gift he brings you\nthis sword. Thus he wooes the fairest of women; from the enemy's\nhouse thus he leads you forth. Far from here follow him now, out\nin the laughing house of the Spring. There Nothung, the sword,\nshall protect you, when Siegmund lies overthrown, in the power of\nlove!\" \"If your are Siegmund,\" cries the woman, \"I am Sieglinde,\nwho have so longed for you! Your own sister you have won at the same\ntime as the sword!\" Siegmund is given no pause by this revelation.\nAt the realisation of this double dearness, the joy flares all\nthe higher of the lawless pupil of Wotan. \"Bride and sister are\nyou to your brother. Let the blood of the Waelsungen flourish!\"\nAnd with arms entertwined, forth they take their madly exulting\nhearts out into the \"laughing house of the Spring.\"\n\nII\n\nThe rising of the curtain for the second act reveals a wild\nmountain-pass where Wotan, in a vast good-humour, is giving instructions\nto Bruennhilde with regard to the impending meeting between the injured\nhusband and the abductor of his wife. Victory is allotted to Siegmund;\nHunding, \"let them choose him to whom he belongs; he is not wanted\nin Walhalla!\" In Wotan's complacency the satisfaction speaks of\nthis thought: At last, at last, a change of fortune,--victory to\nthe Waelsung, after a trial of his mettle so severe and prolonged\nit must have broken a spirit less admirably tempered. The Valkyrie,\nin delight over the charge to her, breaks into her jubilant war-cry,\nchecking herself as she perceives Fricka approaching in the chariot\ndrawn by rams, and judges from the goddess's merciless urging of\nthe panting beasts that she comes for a _Zank_, a \"scold,\" with\nher husband. \"The old storm!\" murmurs Wotan, at sight of his liege\nlady dismounting and coming toward him with ultramajestic gait, \"the\nold trouble! But I must stand and face her!\" The scene following\nhas a touch of comical in its resemblance to domestic scenes among\nless high-born characters, as, for instance, when Fricka says, \"Look\nme in the eye! Do not think to deceive me!\" or \"Do you imagine that\nyou can deceive me, who night and day have been hard upon your\nheels?\" Fricka, the guardian of marriage, has come to demand justice\nfor Hunding, vengeance upon the \"insolently criminal couple.\" \"What,\"\nasks Wotan, an unguarded and tender indulgence in his tone, \"what\nhave they done that is so evil, the couple brought into loving\nunion by the Spring?...\" \"Do you feign not to understand me?\" is in\neffect Fricka's return; \"for the holy vow of marriage, the deeply\ninsulted, I raise my voice in complaint....\" \"I regard that vow as\nunholy,\" says Wotan,--and the source is flagrant from which Siegmund\nhas drawn his unpopular rules of conduct,--\"which binds together\nthose who do not love each other.\" But the case in question, Fricka\nprotests, is not one simply of broken marriage-vow, \"When--when\nwas it ever known that brother and sister might stand toward each\nother in the nuptial relation?\" \"This day you have known it!\" the\nworthy teacher of Siegmund meets her; and, all his paternal affection\nfinding its imprudent way into his accents: \"That those two love each\nother is clear to you. Wherefore, take honest advice: if blessed\ncomfort is to reward your blessing, do you bless, laughing with\nlove, the union of Siegmund and Sieglinde!\" Upon this, as is hardly\nunnatural, the furious storm breaks over the indiscreet god; a\nstorm of reproach, in part for personal wrongs, which the outraged\ngoddess details, in part for his failure as ruler of the earth to\nmaintain law and right, to observe the boundaries established by\nhimself. At the end of it, rather feebly, he tells her, in defence\nof his position, the thing which he had not confided to her before,\nplain enough indication that the goddess, to win whom he had given\nan eye, is not of his bosom's counsel any more. \"This know! There\nis need of a hero who without aid from the gods should cast off\nthe law of the gods. Such a one alone can compass the act which,\nhowever much the gods may need it done, no god can himself do.\"\n\"And what may the great thing be,\" the dull august shrew inquires,\n\"that a hero can do which the gods cannot, through whose grace alone\na hero acts?... What makes men brave? Through your inspiration\nalone they are strong. With new falsehoods you are trying to elude\nme, but this Waelsung you shall not be able to save. Through him\nI strike at you, for it is through you alone he defies me!\" \"In\nwild sorrows,\" Wotan ventures, with deep emotion, \"he grew up,\nby himself. My protection never helped him!\" \"Then do not protect\nhim to-day!\" she pursues, hatefully righteous, \"take away from\nhim the sword you gave him.\" \"The sword?...\" Her suggestion is\na very sword for Wotan's heart. \"Yes, the sword, strong with a\ncharm, which you bestowed on your son.\" \"Siegmund conquered it\nfor himself in his need.\" The deep strain here shudders out its\npassion of repressed resentment and grief, which after this darkly\nunderlines Wotan's misery. \"You created the need, as you created\nthe sword,\" she follows him up with clear-sighted accusation, almost\nvoluble. \"For him you drove it into the tree-trunk. You promised\nhim the goodly weapon. Will you deny that it was your own stratagem\nwhich guided him to the spot where he should find it?\" The effect\nof her words upon Wotan--to whom this mirror held up to him reveals\nthe weakness of his scheme to create a hero who should act for\nhimself, unprompted, against the gods, yet in the very manner the\ncase of the gods demanded--still increases his wife's assurance.\n\"What do you require?\" asks Wotan at last, in gloom, heart-struck.\n\"That you should sever from the Waelsung!\" \"Let him go his way!\" Wotan\nacquiesces, smothered by this horrible, yet so clear, necessity.\n\"But you, protect him not, when the avenger calls him out to fight!\"\n\"I--protect him not!\" \"Turn from him the Valkyrie!\" \"Let the Valkyrie\ndetermine as she will!\" \"Nay, she solely carries out your wishes....\nForbid her the victory of Siegmund!\" \"I cannot deal him defeat!\"\nprotests Wotan, in anguish, \"he found my sword!\" \"Withdraw the\ncharm from the sword. Let it snap in the knave's hand. Let the\nadversary behold him without defence!... Here comes your warlike\nmaid.... This day must her shield protect the sacred honour of your\nwife. My honour demands the fall of the Waelsung. Have I Wotan's\noath?\" The unhappy god casts himself upon a rocky seat, in helpless\nloathing, and the terrible consent falls forced from his lips: \"Take\nthe oath!\" Fricka, with proud tread turning from him to remount\nher chariot, stops to address Bruennhilde: \"The Father of Armies is\nwaiting for you. Let him tell you how he has appointed the fortune\nof battle.\"\n\nWotan sits with his head in his hands, like any humblest mortal\nhard put to it. It has been brought home to him sharply enough\nthat the thing is not to be done, on the accomplishment of which he\nhad so fondly built. It is not that an angry wife has interfered;\nit is that her argument has been sound, and that for the sake of\nhis world a god cannot trespass against the laws he has himself\nmade for it. It is, in fact, that kings less than others can do\nas they choose; that if in this he should follow his desire, it\nwould, as Fricka has pointed out, \"be all over with the everlasting\ngods!\" But, to sacrifice the Waelsung, \"brought up in wild sorrows\"\nfor this very purpose which is to be relinquished; the Waelsung who\nin his young life has had but one draught at the cup of joy!...\nIt is no wonder that Wotan utters his lamentation: \"Oh, divine\nignominy! Oh, woful disgrace! Distress of the gods! Distress of\nthe gods! Immeasurable wrath! Eternal regret! The saddest am I\namong all!\"\n\nThe darling of his heart, Bruennhilde, torn by his cry, casts from\nher all her Valkyrie accoutrements, and, woman merely and daughter,\nkneels at his feet, presses her cheek against him, begging to be\ntrusted: \"Confide in me! I am true to you. See, Bruennhilde pleads!\"\n\nHe hesitates, while sorely yearning for the comfort. \"If I utter\nit aloud, shall I not be loosing the grasp of my will?\" \"To Wotan's\nwill you speak in speaking to me. Who am I, if not your will?\"\n\nWith the assurance to himself: \"With myself solely I take counsel,\nin talking to you,...\" he relates to Bruennhilde all the events which\nhave brought about this intolerable position, a long story: the\nfirst mistake in trusting Loge; the mistake in possessing himself\nof the Ring; what he has since done to obviate the effect of his\nmistakes, and done, as is now shown, in vain. \"How did I cunningly\nseek to deceive myself! So easily Fricka exposed my fallacies! To\nmy deepest shame she looked through me. I must yield to her will.\"\n\"You will take away then the victory from Siegmund?\" \"I touched\nAlberich's Ring,\" Wotan replies, \"covetously I held the gold. The\ncurse which I fled from, flees not from me! What I love I must\ndesert, murder what from all time I have held dear, treacherously\nbetray him who trusts me!...\" Again, it is no wonder his tormented\nsoul breaks forth in lamentation. The mighty groan of Wotan has,\nif ever groan had, adequate cause, and his longing for \"the end!\nthe end!\" With grim comfort he recalls at this moment that the\nend cannot be far,--not if there be truth in the prophecy of Erda:\n\"When the dark enemy of love shall in wrath beget a son, the end of\nthe Immortals will not be long delayed.\" For the loveless Alberich,\nas Wotan knows, has by means of gold won the favour of a woman,\nand the \"fruit of hatred\" is on its way toward the light. \"Take\nmy blessing, son of the Nibelung!\" cries Wotan in his dark mood;\n\"the thing which sickens me with loathing, I bestow it upon you\nfor an inheritance: the empty splendour of the gods!\"\n\n\"Oh, tell me, what shall your child do?\" entreats the daughter,\nshaken by the sight of her father's passion. \"Fight straightforwardly\nfor Fricka,\" he orders her, in the excess of bitterness; \"what\nshe has chosen I choose likewise; of what good to me is a will\nof my own?\" \"Oh, retract that word!\" she beseeches, \"you love\nSiegmund.... Never shall your discordant dual directions enlist\nme against him. For your own sake, I know it, I will protect the\nWaelsung!\" At this first intimation of rebellion in his child,--this\nincipient treachery of his own will,--Wotan becomes stern, lays\ndown his command irrevocably, with threats of crushing retribution\nif this child of his shall dare to palter with his expressed will.\n\"Keep a watch over yourself! Hold yourself in strong constraint!\nPut forth all your valour in the fight!... Have well in mind what\nI command: Siegmund is to fall! This be the Valkyrie's task!\"\n\nBruennhilde gazes after him in wonder and fear as he storms up over\nthe rocky ascent out of sight: \"I never saw Sieg-vater like that!\"\nSadly she resumes her armour, woe-begone at the thought of the\nWaelsung, given over to death. Becoming aware of the approach of\nSiegmund and Sieglinde, she hastens from sight.\n\nSieglinde enters, fleeing in distraction from Siegmund, anxious\nin pursuit. The presumption of those seeing her action without\nunderstanding her words, is commonly, I suppose, that remorse has\novertaken her for her breach of the moral law. Remorse, indeed, has\nassailed her, but not for having followed the \"luminous brother.\"\nIt is for having ever belonged to Hunding, whom she neither loved\nnor was loved by. The new sentiment of love so completely possessing\nher places her former union in the light of unspeakable pollution,\nand she adjures the \"noble one\" to depart from the accursed who\nbrings him such a dowry of shame. Siegmund with sturdy tenderness\nassures her that whatever shame there is shall be washed away in\nthe blood of him who is responsible for it, whose heart Nothung\nshall cleave. An insanity of terror seizes Sieglinde at the thought\nof the meeting between the two men, the vision besetting her of\nSiegmund torn by Hunding's dogs, against the multitude of which\nhis sword is of no use. At the picture painted by her delirium\nof Siegmund's fall, shocked as if at the actual sight of it, she\nsinks unconscious in his arms.\n\nHaving ascertained that she has not ceased to breathe, almost glad\nperhaps for her of this respite from self-torment, he lets her\ngently down on to the ground, and seats himself so as to make an\neasy resting-place for her head.\n\nThus the Valkyrie finds them. At her approach, three solemn notes\nare heard which intimate as if something awful and not to be\nescaped--whose solemn awfulness consists in great part of the fact\nthat it cannot be escaped,--like Fate. \"Siegmund!\" she calls him,\nwith firm voice, \"look upon me! I am that one whom in short space\nyou must follow!\" Siegmund lifts his eyes from the sleeping face\nupon which they have been fondly brooding, and beholds the shining\napparition. \"Who are you, tell me, appearing to me, so beautiful\nand grave?\" \"Only those about to die can see my face. He who beholds\nme must depart from the light of life. On the field of battle I\nappear to the noble alone. He who becomes aware of me, has been\nsingled out for my capture!\" Siegmund gazes quietly and long and\ninquiringly into her eyes, and: \"The hero who must follow you,\nwhither do you take him?\" \"To the Father of Battles who has elected\nyou, I shall lead you. To Walhalla you shall follow me.\" \"In the\nhall of Walhalla shall I find none but the Father of Battles?\"\n\"The glorious assemblage of departed heroes shall gather around\nyou companionably, with high and holy salutation.\" \"Shall I in\nWalhalla find Waelse, my own father?\" \"The Waelsung shall find his\nfather there.\" \"Shall I in Walhalla be greeted gladsomely by a woman?\"\n\"Divine wish-maidens there hold sway; the daughter of Wotan shall\ntrustily proffer you drink.\" \"Unearthly fair are you; I recognise\nthe holy child of Wotan; but one thing tell me, you Immortal! Shall\nthe bride and sister accompany the brother? Shall Siegmund clasp\nSieglinde there?\" \"The air of earth she still must breathe. Siegmund\nshall not find Sieglinde there!\" The hero bends over the unconscious\nwoman, kisses her softly on the brow, and turns quietly again to\nBruennhilde: \"Then bear my greeting to Walhalla! Greet for me Wotan,\ngreet for me Waelse and all the heroes; greet for me likewise the\nbenign wish-maidens: I will not follow you to them!\"\n\nIn this strangely impressive and moving dialogue, the Bruennhilde-part\nis upborne on the stately, high and cold Walhalla theme; the\nSiegmund-part gives over and over one urgent heartful questioning\nphrase, filled with human yearning and sorrow: the motif of love\nand death. \"Where Sieglinde lives in joy or sorrow, there will\nSiegmund likewise abide,...\" he pronounces. When he is informed\nthat he has no choice but to follow, that he is to fall through\nHunding, that its virtue has been withdrawn from his sword, justly\nincensed, he declares that if this be true,--if he, shame to him!\nwho forged for him the sword, allotted him ignominy in place of\nvictory, he will not go to Walhalla, Hella shall hold him fast!\n\n\"So little do you care for eternal joy?\" the Valkyrie asks wistfully;\n\"all in all to you is the poor woman who, tired and full of trouble,\nlies strengthless in your lap? Nothing beside do you deem of high\nvalue?\" Inexpressibly moved at the manifestation before her of the\nwarmth and depth of this human affection, she begs him to place\nhis wife under her protection. He replies passionately that no\none while he lives shall touch the Stainless One, that if he must\nindeed die, he will first slay her in her sleep. Bruennhilde, in\ngreat emotion, begs still more urgently, \"Entrust her to me, for\nthe sake of the pledge of love which she took from you in joy!\"\nBut Siegmund, all the more firmly fixed in his resolve, lifts his\nsword, and grimly offering Nothung two lives at one blow, swings it\nabove the sleeping woman. The Valkyrie at this can no longer keep\nin bounds the surging flood of her compassion: \"Hold, Waelsung!\" she\nrestrains his arm, \"Sieglinde shall live, and with her Siegmund!...\nI change about the doom of battle. To you, Siegmund, I apportion\nblessed victory....\" With injunctions to place his trust in the\nsword and the Valkyrie, bidding him farewell till they shall meet\non the field, she disappears. Siegmund, with heart restored to\ngladness, bends over Sieglinde again; listens to her breathing\nand studies her face, now smiling, as he sees, in quiet sleep.\n\"Sleep on!\" he speaks to her, \"till the battle has been fought and\npeace shall rejoice you!\"\n\nHunding's horn has already been heard, calling out the adversary.\nSiegmund lays Sieglinde gently down, and, Nothung in hand, rushes\nto the encounter. A storm has been gathering, a cloud has settled\nover the mountain-tops. Sieglinde, left alone, murmurs in her sleep.\nHer broken sentences reveal her dream: She is a child again and\nthe scene is reenacted to her of the conflagration which ended\nher life in the forest with father and mother and twin. She starts\nawake in affright, calling Siegmund, and finds herself alone. She\nhears her husband's horn and his call to Wehwalt to stand and meet\nhim. She hears Siegmund's arrogant reply. She cannot see them for\nthe black storm-scud, but calls on them to stop, to kill her first.\nA flash of lightning shows Hunding and Siegmund fighting on a high\npoint of the rocky pass. Sieglinde is rushing toward them, when\na sudden glare blinds her. In the light, Bruennhilde is seen hard\nat Siegmund's side, defending him with her shield. \"Strike home,\nSiegmund! Trust to the victorious sword!\" Siegmund raises his sword\nfor a deathblow to Hunding, when a fiery beam drops through the\nstorm-cloud; in the red glow of it is distinguished the form of\nWotan at Hunding's side, holding his spear between the combatants.\nHis voice is heard, terrible: \"Back from the spear! To pieces,\nthe sword!\" Nothung snaps against the spear, and, run through the\nbody by his adversary, Siegmund falls. Sieglinde hears his dying\nsigh--the strong heart stops on a brief snatch, pathetic, of the\nmotif of the heroism of the Waelsungen--She drops to earth, stunned.\nIn the gloom, Bruennhilde, who has retreated before the angry father's\nspear, is seen lifting Sieglinde and hurrying off: \"To horse! that\nI may save you!\"\n\nLong and mournfully Wotan gazes upon the fallen Siegmund--best-beloved\nperhaps of all the Wagner heroes. Taking account suddenly of the\npresence of Hunding, \"Begone, slave!\" he orders, \"kneel before\nFricka, inform her that Wotan's spear has taken vengeance of that\nwhich brought mockery upon her!... Begone!... Begone!...\" But at\nthe gesture with which the command is emphasised, Hunding drops\ndead, crushed out of life by the god's contempt.\n\nAbruptly recalled to the thought of his child's contumacy, Wotan\nstarts up in terrific wrath: \"But Bruennhilde! Woe to that offender!\nDreadful shall be the punishment meted to her audacity, when my\nhorse overtakes her in her flight!\" Amid lightning and thunder,\naptly symbolising the state of his temper, the god vanishes from\nsight.\n\nIII\n\nThe third act shows the scene, a high rocky peak rising from among\ngreat pine-trees, where the Valkyries assemble for their return\ntogether to the hall of Wotan. On the clouds they come riding, each\nwith a dead warrior laid across her steed. Over the neighing and\nhoof-beats, the music develops of a lightly thundering cavalry-charge,\nsuggestive of the rocking in the saddle of horsemen borne over\nbillowing expanses--glorious with the glory of the hosts which\nfancy sees among the crimson and gold banners of the sunset. The\neight are at last arrived; their war-cries, their hard laughter,\nand the shrill neighing of the battle-steeds mingle in harsh harmony.\nThe shrieks of an autumn gale, exulting in its freedom to drive\nthe waves mountain-high and scatter all the leaves of the forest,\nhave the same quality of wildness and force and glee. The\nsteel-corseleted figures clustered on the peak make one think a\nlittle of gleaming dragon-flies seen in summer, swarming as they\ndo around some point of mysterious interest. The laughter of the\nValkyries is for grim jests they exchange over the conduct of their\nhorses, who fall to fighting with one another, because the dead\nwarriors on their backs were enemies in life. Bruennhilde only is\nwanting, to complete their number, but they dare not start for\nWalhalla without her, lest Walvater, not seeing his favourite,\nshould receive them with a frown. They are amazed, when they finally\nsee her coming, to descry on the back of her horse no warrior, but\na woman--amazed, likewise, at the wild speed of Grane's flight,\nand to see him stagger and drop on reaching the goal. They hurry\nto Bruennhilde's assistance. She comes in, breathless with terror\nand haste, supporting Sieglinde. Wotan, she informs the wondering\nsisters, is hot in pursuit of her. She begs one of them to keep\nlookout for him from the top of the peak. The black storm-cloud on\nwhich he rides is perceived sweeping toward them from the north.\nTo the questioning Valkyries Bruennhilde gives in quick outline\nthe story of her disobedience, and implores their help to save\nSieglinde,--for the Waelsungen all Wotan has threatened with destruction.\nShe conjures them, too, to conceal herself, who has not the hardihood\nto face her father in the extremity of his indignation. But the\nsisters are appalled at the revelation of her misdeed, and no less\nat the suggestion that they should join in her act of rebellion.\nHer prayer for the loan of one of their horses on which the woman\nmay escape, meets with obtuse looks, headshakes, uncompromising\ndenial. She is appealing urgently, hurriedly, to one after the\nother, when Sieglinde who, stony, death-struck, dazed with grief,\nhas appeared unconscious, up to this moment, of all taking place\naround her, stops her, stating dully that there is no need to trouble\nabout her, since her only wish is to die. She indeed reproaches\nBruennhilde for her care, and bids her now, if she is not to curse\nher for their flight, to end her life by a thrust of the sword. In\nthe next moment the face of this same woman sheds the very radiance\nof joy: the Valkyrie has revealed to her that of her a Waelsung shall\nbe born. Then, oh, \"Save me, you valiant one!\" she cries. \"Save\nmy child! Protect me, you maidens, with your mightiest protection!\nSave me! Save the mother!\" She kneels to them. The cool-blooded\nspinsters are moved by this, but not to the point of braving Wotan's\nire. \"Then fly in haste, and fly alone!\" Bruennhilde with sudden\nresolve bids Sieglinde: \"I will remain behind and draw upon me,\ndelaying him, Wotan's anger.\" \"In what direction shall I go?\" asks\nthe woman eagerly. Eastward, one of the sisters tells her, lies a\nforest. Fafner there, in the shape of a dragon, guards the treasure\nof the Nibelungen. An unsuitable place for a helpless woman, yet\none where she will be safe from Wotan, for the god, it has been\nobserved, shuns it. \"Away then to eastward,\" Bruennhilde instructs\nSieglinde; \"with undaunted courage bear every trial. Hunger and\nthirst, thorns and stony roads--do you laugh at want and sorrow,\nfor one thing know, and keep it ever in mind: the most exalted hero\nin the world, O woman, shall be born of you!\" A great melodious\nphrase describes him, the future Siegfried, as if with one magnificent\nstroke outlining a form of heroic beauty and valour. Bruennhilde\ngives Sieglinde the pieces of Siegmund's sword, gathered up from\nthe field after the ill-fated encounter. \"He who one day shall\nswing this sword newly welded together, let him take his name from\nme: As Siegfried let him rejoice in victory!\" From the soul of\nSieglinde rises a soaring song of gratitude and praise, a song\nof purest, highest joy. Her last words to Bruennhilde, as clasping\nto her breast the broken sword she hastens away, are, interpreted:\n\"My gratitude shall one day reward you, smiling at you in human\nform!... Farewell! Sieglinde in her woe calls down blessings upon\nyou!\"\n\nThe storm-cloud has reached the rock, Wotan's voice is heard:\n\"Bruennhilde, stand!\" At the sound of it, Bruennhilde's heart fails\nher; the hearts of the sisters, too, soften. Crowding together on\nthe rocky peak, they let the culprit cower out of sight among them.\nBut Wotan is not deceived; he addresses to the hidden daughter such\nsharp and searching reproaches that, her fear for herself losing\nall importance as these strike her heart, she steps forth from\namong the sister-Valkyries and meekly stands before her father,\nawaiting condemnation.\n\n\"Not I,\" he speaks, \"punish you. Yourself you have framed your\npunishment!\" And he exposes how by forgetting the whole duty of a\nValkyrie--to deal victory or defeat according to Wotan's decree--she\nhad made herself in effect no longer a Valkyrie. \"No more shall I\nsend you from Walhalla.... No longer shall you bring warriors to\nmy hall.... From the tribe of the gods you are cut off, rejected\nfrom the eternal line.... Our tie is severed.... You are banished\nfrom my face!\" The sisters break into lamentation. \"Upon this mountain\nI banish you. In undefended sleep I shall seal you. Let the man\nthen capture the maid who finds her upon his road and wakes her.\"\nThe sisters endeavour to restrain him, pointing out that their\nown honour will suffer from such a scandal. He rejects this on\nthe ground that they have nothing more whatever to do with the\nfaithless sister. \"A husband is to win her feminine favor; masterful\nman is henceforth to have her duty. By the fireside she shall sit\nand spin, an object of scorn to all beholders!\" Bruennhilde drops\nat his feet, overwhelmed. Cries of horror and protest break from\nthe others; he drives them from his presence with the threat of a\nsimilar fate to Bruennhilde's if they do not forthwith depart from\nher, and keep afar from the rock where she suffers her sentence.\nIn a confusion of terror, which is not without the slightest point\nof humour, the strong girls flee like leaves in the blast before\nWotan's menace,--and Bruennhilde is left alone to plead her poor\ncause with the stern incensed father.\n\nShe conjures him first to silence his anger, and define to her\nthe dark fault which has impelled him to reject the most loyal\nof his children. \"I carried out your order,\" she protests. \"Did\nI order you to fight for the Waelsung?\" he inquires. \"You did,\"\nshe reminds him. \"But I took back my instructions.\" \"When Fricka\nhad estranged you from your own mind.... Not wise am I, but this\none thing I knew, that the Waelsung was dear to you. I was aware of\nthe conflict which compelled you to turn from the remembrance of\nthis.... I kept in sight for you that which, painfully divided in\nfeeling, you must turn your back upon. Thus it was that I saw what\nyou could not see. I saw Siegmund. I stood before him announcing\ndeath. I met his eye, I heard his voice, I apprehended the hero's\nineffable distress.... I witnessed that which struck the heart\nin my bosom with awe and trembling. Timid and wondering I stood\nbefore him, in shame. I could think only how I might serve him....\nAnd confidently counting upon an intimate understanding of him who\nhad bred that love in my heart,--of that will which had attached\nme to the Waelsung,--I disobeyed your command!\"\n\nWotan, in meeting this, shows how he is not merely a father dealing\nwith a disobedient child, but a man in strife with himself, with\nhis own will which has betrayed him into following affection,\ninclination, when duty called for an opposite course. \"If thy right\nhand offend thee, cut if off and cast it from thee.\" Bruennhilde\nis to Wotan that offending flesh and blood, and the safety of the\nfuture depends, it seems, upon his breaking his own heart by cutting\nher off from himself. She has done what his heart would have had\nhim do; but for interests whose claim upon him is in his estimation\ngreater than that of affection (_einer Welt zu Liebe_: for the sake\nof a world), he had elected not to follow his heart's impulse. And\nthis delinquent, daughter at once and his own will, must not only\nbe punished for the example of all the disobedient, but cut off\nfrom himself, to provide absolutely against any possible repetition\nof the so lovable and forgivable offence.\n\nBruennhilde, when she has heard him out, has no word further of\nargument or defence, but acquiesces with sad submissiveness. \"Certainly\nthe foolish maiden is no fit helpmate for you, who, confused by\nyour amazing counsel, did not understand your mind, when her own\nmind prompted one thing only: to love that which you loved!\" She\naccepts the punishment as just, only: \"If you are to sever that\nwhich was bound together,\" she pleads, \"to keep apart from yourself\nthe very half of yourself, that I was once completely one with\nyou, O god, forget it not! Your immortal part you cannot wish to\ndishonour. You cannot intend an ignominy which involves you....\nYourself you would be degraded, if you gave me over to insult!\"\n\"You followed, light of heart, the call of love,\" Wotan replies\nunconcedingly: \"follow now him whom you must love!\" \"If I must\ndepart from Walhalla, if I am to be your companion and servant\nno more,\" Bruennhilde pressingly continues, \"if my obedience is\nto be given to masterful man, not of a coward and braggart let\nme be the prize! Let him not be worthless who shall win me!\" \"You\ncut yourself off from Walvater,\" he repulses her; \"he cannot choose\nfor you!\" \"A noble generation there is, having its origin in you--\"\nBruennhilde suggests, still unquelled, the point is so vital to her;\n\"the most admirable of heroes, I know it, is to spring from the\nline of the Waelsungen....\" \"Not a word of the Waelsungen!\" Wotan\nfiercely interrupts. \"When I severed from you, I severed from them.\nDoomed to destruction is that line!\" Sieglinde has been saved,\nBruennhilde informs him, who shall give birth to the Waelsung of\nwhom she speaks. Wotan sternly silences her: let her not seek to\nshake his firmness. He cannot choose for her! He has loitered too\nlong already. He cannot stop to consider what her wishes are, nothing\nfurther has he to do with her but to see his sentence executed.\n\nWhat has he devised for her punishment, she asks.\n\nHe repeats his earlier sentence: \"In deep sleep I shall seal you.\nHe who awakes the defenceless sleeper, shall have her to wife.\"\nBruennhilde falls on her knees to him. \"If I am to be bound in fast\nsleep, an easy prey to the most ignoble of men, this one prayer\nyou shall grant which a noble terror lifts to you: Let the sleeper\nbe protected by a barrier of fright-inspiring things, that only\na fearless and great-hearted hero may be able to reach me on my\nmountain-peak!\" \"Too much you demand! Too much of favour!\" She\nclasps his knees, and with the wildest inspiration of terror: \"This\none prayer you must--must listen to! At your command let a great\nfire spring up. Let the summit be surrounded by fierce flames,\nwhose tongues shall lick up and whose teeth shall devour any caitiff\nventuring near to the formidable place!\" So is her whole soul heard\nto cry aloud in this prayer, as she pleads for so much more than her\nlife, that all by which Wotan had fortified himself against her,\nand which had been subjected to an assault so prolonged, suddenly\ngives way, his weary heart is pierced. Overcome by emotion, he\nlifts her to her feet; he gazes long into her eyes, reading her\nsoul there,--then amply, fully, with the whole of his overflowing\nheart, grants her prayer: \"Farewell, O dauntless, glorious child!\nHoly pride of my heart, farewell! Farewell! Farewell! If I must\nshun you, if I am never more fondly to greet you, if you are no\nmore to ride at my side, or reach me the cup of mead; if I am to\nlose you whom I so have loved, O laughing joy of my eyes--a bridal\nbonfire shall blaze for you such as never yet blazed for a bride! A\nflaming barrier shall girdle the rock; with burning terror-signals\nit shall frighten away the coward. The fainthearted shall keep afar\nfrom Bruennhilde's rock. That one alone shall win the bride, who\nis freer than I--the god!\" In a speechless ecstasy of gratitude,\nBruennhilde sinks on his breast, and he holds her long silently\nclasped, while there floats heavenward as if the very voice of\ntheir relieved, pacified, uplifted hearts. Supporting her in his\narms, gazing tenderly in her upturned face, he takes his last leave\nof her. There is a passage in Wotan's farewell which seems to contain,\ncompressed into it, all the yearning ache of all farewells, with\nall the sweetness of the love which makes parting bitter. \"For the\nlast time.... Farewell.... The last kiss....\" These words occur\nupon it. The motif it seems of the tragedy of last times; one wonders\ncould custom ever so harden him to it that he should feel no clutch\nat the heart in hearing it. \"For the last time I appease myself with\nthe last kiss of farewell.... Upon a happier mortal the star of\nyour eye shall beam. Upon the unhappy Immortal it must, in parting,\nclose. For thus does the god turn away from you, thus does he kiss\naway your divinity!\" He presses a long kiss upon each of her eyes,\nand the first languor of sleep falling at once upon her, she leans,\nwithout strength, against him. He supports her to a mossy knoll\nbeneath a spreading pine-tree, and lays her gently upon it; after\na long brooding look at her face, closes her helmet; after a long\nlook at her sleeping form, covers it with the great Valkyrie shield;\nplaces her spear beside her, and with a last long sad look at the\nslumbering motionless figure, turns away,--having effectually desolated\nhimself of the three dearest of his children.\n\nResolutely striding from the sleeper, he summons Loge, and commands\nhim in his original form of elemental fire to surround the\nmountain-summit. At the shock of his spear against the rock, a\nflame flashes and rapidly spreads. With his spear Wotan traces\nthe course the fire is to follow, girdling the peak. Nimbly it\nleaps from point to point, till the whole background is fringed\nwith flame. At Wotan's words, \"Let no one who is afraid of my spear\never break through the fiery barrier!\" there falls, prophetic,\nacross the dream of Bruennhilde's charmed sleep, the great shadow\nof the Deliverer, so distant yet in time, Siegfried, who when the\nhour came of test was found to fear Wotan's spear as little as\nhe feared anything else.\n\nWith that firm spell placed upon his magnificent and adequate fence,\nWotan departs; and, guarded by the singing flames, which weave\ninto the rhythm of their bright dance the tenderest of lullabies,\nBruennhilde is left to her long rest.\n\n\nSIEGFRIED\n\n\nSIEGFRIED\n\nI\n\nFafner, when he had become possessor of the Nibelungen treasure,\nconveyed it, as we have seen, to a cave in a lonesome forest, and\nthere in the shape of a dragon mounted guard over it. Mime, the dwarf,\nin order to keep the same treasure under some sort of oversight,\ntook up his abode in the forest, at a respectful distance from the\nflame-breathing monster. Alberich haunted the immediate neighbourhood\nof the cave.\n\nThus it happened that Sieglinde, directed by the Valkyries to that\nregion, where she should be safest from Wotan's anger, was overheard\nby Mime, out in the lonesome wood, moaning in her trouble. He assisted\nher into his cave. There Siegfried was born, and there Sieglinde\ndied. Mime reared the \"Waelsungen-shoot\" with solicitous care, in\nthe ulterior view that this scion of a strong race when grown to\nman's size should kill Fafner for him and get him the Ring.\n\nAt the rise of the curtain we see Mime at his anvil, struggling with\na heavy difficulty. He is fashioning a sword for Siegfried,--still\nanother sword, after ever so many,--realising even as he works that\nno sword he can forge but will break in the lad's strong hands.\n\"The best sword I ever forged, which in the hands of a giant would\nstand stiff, the insignificant stripling for whom it was shaped\nhe whacks and snaps it in two, as if I had made him a child's\nplaything!\" It is sober fact to Mime that he cannot use Siegfried\nfor his purposes until he have equipped him with a sword. \"A sword\nthere is,\" he continues his meditation, \"which he could not break.\nThe fragments of Nothung he never could shatter, could I weld the\nstrong pieces together, which all my art cannot compass! Nothung\nalone could be of use,... and I cannot weld it, Nothung, the sword!\"\n\nHalf-heartedly he has resumed his toil, when a joyous shout is\nheard from the forest, of which a sun-shot patch glimmers through\nthe cave's mouth, and there storms in, driving before him a tethered\nbear, a magnificent youth, clad in skins, a silver horn at his side.\nThe splendour of Siegfried's appearance is constantly referred\nto, the qualifications applied to him suggesting most frequently\nan effect he shed of light. This child of the unhappy Waelsungen\nseems to have been indelibly stamped with the joy of their one\ngolden hour. Of Siegmund's tragic consciousness of frustration,\nof Sieglinde's sufferings, there is no trace in their vigorous\noffspring; but the superabundant vitality of joy which lifted them\nto the lovers' seventh heaven for one triumphant hour is all in his\nyoung blood. He is big, strong, sane, comely, fearless, simple,\nignorant of all mean passions and interests; pensive for moments,\ngay for hours-nearly boisterous; frank and outspoken to the point\nof brutality; unmannerly at times to the point of ruffianism; but\nthe dice are loaded to secure our cherishing him right through his\nbright course, by that irresistible, ingrain joyousness of his,\nborn of strength, balance, fearlessness.\n\nLaughing immoderately, he urges the bear against Mime, who flees\nhither and thither to elude the fearful pair. \"I am come in double\nforce, the better to corner you.... Brownie, ask for the sword!\"\nWhen assured by the trembling Mime that the sword is in readiness,\nhe releases and sends home his shaggy ally. But when Mime hands him\nthe newly finished sword, and he strikes it on the anvil, it flies\nto bits. The angry boy expresses his wish that he had smashed the\nsword on the disgraceful bungler's skull. \"Shall such a braggart go\non bragging? He prates me of giants and lusty fighting; of gallant\ndeeds and solid armour; he will forge weapons for me, provide me with\nswords; he vaunts his art as if he could do something of account;\nbut let me take hold of the thing he has hammered, with a single\ngrip I crush flat the idle rubbish! If the creature were not so\nutterly mean, I would drop him into the forge-fire with all the\nstuff of his forging, the old imbecile hobgoblin! There might be\nan end then to vexation!\" He casts himself fuming on a stone seat\nand turns his face toward the wall. The dwarf, who has kept his\ndistance from the storming youth, tries to quiet him, reminds him\nof his benefits, of his teachings on the subject of gratitude.\nIngratiatingly he brings him food. Siegfried without turning dashes\nspit and pipkin from his hands. The little man affects a deeply\nhurt sensibility. He rehearses at length all Siegfried has to thank\nhim for, material necessities, education,--\"With clever counsel\nI made you clever, with subtle wisdom I taught you wit....\" This\ntale of benefactions has been gone over so often that the dwarf has\nreached a fine glibness in it; the smooth air on which he enumerates\nthe instances of his kindness has a peculiar cast of hypocrisy. He\nis so touched by the contemplation finally of his own goodness\nand Siegfried's hardness of heart that he falls to weeping. \"And\nfor all I have borne this is now the reward, that the hot-tempered\nboy torments and hates me!\"\n\nSiegfried has been calmly gazing into Mime's eyes; trying through\nthese to get at the truth of him. Mime expresses surprise that\nafter so many unquestionable services the boy should hate him; and\nthe boy is not himself without a touch of wonder at the invincible\nantipathy with which this creature inspires him, to whom yet he is\nactually indebted for many good offices. \"Much you have taught me,\nMime, and many a thing have I learned of you; but that which you\nhave most cared to teach me, never have I succeeded in learning:\nhow I could bear the sight of you! If you bring me food and drink,\ndisgust takes the place of dinner; if you spread an easy couch for\nme, sleep on it becomes difficult; if you endeavour to teach me\nwise conversation, I prefer to be dumb and dull. Whenever I set\neyes on you, I recognise as ill-done everything you do; whether I\nwatch you stand, or waggle and walk, ducking, nidnodding, blinking\nwith your eyes, my impulse is to catch the nidnodder by the scruff\nof the neck, to hurl out of the way for good and all the odious\nblinker! That is my manner, Mime, of being fond of you. Now, if\nyou are wise, help me to know a thing which I have vainly reflected\nupon: I run into the woods to be rid of you; how does it happen\nthat I come back? All animals are dearer to me than you, trees\nand birds, the fish in the stream, I am fonder of them all than\nI am of you; then how does it happen that I still come back? If\nyou are wise, make clear to me this thing!\" \"My child,\" replies\nMime, \"you are informed by that circumstance how near I lie to\nyour heart!\" \"I tell you I cannot bear you! Forget it not so soon!\"\nMime argues that such a thing is impossible, is out of nature;\nthat what to the young bird is the old bird, which feeds it in the\nnest until it is fledged, that is to Siegfried, inevitably, Mime!\nThis simile of Mime's suggests to Siegfried a further question. In\nasking it he has one of those brief accesses of pensiveness which\nendear him, disclosing the existence of a common human tenderness,\nafter all, under that sturdy wrapping of joy befitting the child\nof demigods. \"Now, since you are so wise, tell me still another\nthing: When the birds were singing so blithely in Spring, the one\nluring the other, you told me, as I wished to know, that they were\nmale and female. They billed and cooed so engagingly, and would not\nleave each other; they built a nest and brooded in it; there was\na fluttering presently of young wings, and the two cared for the\nyoung. I saw how, in the same way, the deer rested in the forest,\nin pairs; how even wild faxes and wolves did this. The male brought\nfood to the lair, the female nursed the cubs. I learned from seeing\nthis what love is--I never robbed the mother of her young....\" The\nmusic has been heaving and falling, as if with the warm palpitation\nof a vast breast, Nature's own, blissful with love and happy creative\nforce. \"Now, where, Mime, is your loving mate, that I may call her\nmother?\" Mime becomes cross: \"What has come over you, mad boy?\nNow, what a numbskull it is! Are you a bird or a fox?\" And at\nSiegfried's next question he chafes: \"You are to believe what I tell\nyou: I am your father and mother at the same time!\" But Siegfried\nvigorously objects: \"There you lie, unspeakable gawk! How the young\nresemble their parents I have luckily observed for myself. More\nthan once I have come to a clear stream: I have seen the trees\nand animals mirrored in it; the sun and clouds, exactly as they\nare, appear repeated on the shining surface. My own image, too, I\nhave seen. Altogether different from you I seemed to myself: there\nis as much likeness between a toad and a gleaming fish, but never\nyet did a fish crawl out of a toad!\" This latter bit in its short\nextent gives an amusing, characteristic illustration of Wagner's\nmethod of painting with notes. With the first phrase, Siegfried's\nimpatient exclamation, comes the motif of Siegfried's impetuosity;\nthen, as he is describing it, a representation of the clear stream;\nupon this is sketched the image of Siegfried, in the notes of his\nproper motif, to which is added a bar of the heroism-of-the-Waelsungen\nmotif, indicating his resemblance to the father before him. At his\nmention of the toad, his metaphor for Mime, we hear the hammer of\nthe Nibelung; and at his mention of the gleaming fish, the swimming\nphrase that accompanies the watery evolutions of the Rhine-maidens.\nThe ingeniousness of all this would not perhaps of itself especially\nrecommend the piece, were it not that the scheme is worked out to\nsuch beautiful purpose that the whole thing is lovely, and that,\nthough one should know nothing whatever of the motifs, his ear\nmust be charmed.\n\nSatisfied by his own logic that Mime cannot be his progenitor,\nSiegfried now himself answers his earlier question: \"When I run\ninto the woods in the thought of forsaking you, how does it happen\nthat I still return home? It is because from you I am to learn who\nare my father and mother!\" Mime evades him: \"What father! What\nmother! Idle question!\" But Siegfried catches him by the throat,\nand the terrified dwarf communicates, grudgingly, a scant fact or\ntwo of his history. \"Oh, ungrateful and wicked child! now hear\nfor what it is you hate me. I am neither your father nor any kin\nof yours, and yet to me you owe your life....\" Making his own part\nin the story as meritorious as possible, he relates his taking\ninto shelter the woman whom he had found moaning out in the wild\nwoods. Siegfried, for once penetrated with sadness, wonder, and\nawe, breathes forth softly, when the sorrowful story is ended,\n\"My mother--died then--of me?\" He tries by questions to complete\nthe dwarf's bare account: \"Whence am I named Siegfried?\" \"Thus\ndid your mother bid me call you.\" \"What was my mother's name?\"\nMime feigns to have forgotten, but, roughly pressed, recalls it.\n\"Then, I ask you, what was my father's name?\" \"Him I never saw!\"\n\"But my mother spoke the name?\" \"She only said that he had been\nslain.\" Siegfried is smitten with the suspicion that Mime may be\nlying to him, and demands some proof of all this which he has heard.\nMime, after a moment's resistance, in terror of the boy's rising\nwrath, fetches from its hiding and shows him the pieces of a broken\nsword. \"This was given me by your mother. For trouble, cost and\ncare, she left it as paltry remuneration. Behold it! A broken sword!\nYour father, she said, carried it in the last battle, when he was\nslain.\" Siegfried's strong good spirits have already returned.\n\"And these fragments,\" he cries, with enthusiasm, \"you are to weld\ntogether for me. Then I shall swing my proper sword! Hurry, Mime!\nQuick to work!... Cheat me not with trumpery toys! In these fragments\nalone I place my faith. If I find you idle, if you join them\nimperfectly, if there are flaws in the hard steel, you shall learn\nburnishing from me! For this very day, I swear it, I mean to have\nthe sword!\" \"What do you want this very day of the sword?\" Mime\ninquires in alarm. Siegfried, his heart inexpressibly lightened\nby the positive knowledge that Mime is neither father nor any kin\nto him, bursts into merry singing: \"To go away, out of the woods\ninto the world. Never shall I come back!... As the fish gaily swims\nin the flood, as the finch freely flies afar, so shall I fly, so\nshall I dart... that I may never, Mime, see you more!\" Off he storms\ninto the forest, leaving Mime shouting after him, a prey to the\nutmost anxiety. The dwarf's difficulty is now twofold: \"To the\nold care I have a new one added!\" How to retain the wild fellow\nand guide him to Fafner's nest, and how to mend those pieces of\nstubborn steel. \"No forge is there whose glow can soften the\nthorough-bred fragments. No dwarf's hammer can compel the hard\npieces....\" In unmitigated despair, void of counsel, he drops on\nhis seat behind the anvil and weeps.\n\nUshered by great calm chords, measured and dignified as the gait\nof a god on his travels, a wayfarer appears at the entrance of the\ncave. He wears an ample deep-blue mantle, and for staff carries\na spear. On his head is a broad hat, the brim of which dips so\nas to conceal one of his eyes. It is Wotan. Since parting from\nBruennhilde he has had no heart for warfare, no heart to ride to\nbattle without the \"laughing joy of his eyes.\" Alone, unresting,\nhe has wandered all over the wide earth in search of counsel and,\nvery likely, distraction. A spectator he is in these days and not\nan actor. His spirit has reached a state of philosophic calm. He has\nlearned better certainly than to meddle any more with anything that\nconcerns the accursed Ring. He is brought into the neighbourhood of\nthe still interested actors in that old drama in part by curiosity;\nin part, no doubt, by the wish to watch the actions of Siegfried, his\nbeloved children's child. But in some faintest degree, at least, it\nwould seem, he is brought here by the invincible need to influence\nthese fortunes just a little, though it be firmly fixed that he\nis not to try directly or indirectly to divert the Ring into any\nchannel which shall bring it eventually to himself. All else being\nequal, he had a little rather strengthen Mime's chances of getting\nthe Ring, through Siegfried, than inactively see it fall to the\ninveterate enemy, Alberich.\n\nAt the greeting he speaks from the threshold to the \"wise smith,\"\nMime starts up in affright: \"Who is it, pursuing me into the forest\nwilderness?\" \"Wanderer is the world's name for me. Far have I wandered,\nmuch have I bestirred myself on the back of the earth.\" \"Then bestir\nyourself now! and do not loiter here, if Wanderer is the world's name\nfor you!\" Mime, with his head full of his dark little projects, has\na deep dread of spies and interference. At every step the Wanderer\ntakes further into his dwelling, he utters a sharper protest; and at\nevery protest the Wanderer calmly advances a step further. \"Through\nmuch research, much have I learned,\" speaks Wanderer, \"I could\nimpart to many a one things of importance to him; I could deliver\nmany a one from that which troubles him--from the gnawing care\nof the heart.\" And after still another irritated dismissal from\nMime: \"Many a one has imagined himself to be wise, but the thing\nwhich he most needed to know, he knew not. I gave him leave to ask\nme what should help him, and enlightened him by my word.\" And after\nagain being nervously shown the door: \"Here I sit by the fireside,\"\nspeaks blandly Wanderer, suiting the action to the word, \"and I\nset my head as stake in a match of wits. My head is yours, you\nhave won it, if you do not, by questioning me, succeed in learning\nwhat shall profit you; if I do not, by my instructions, redeem the\npledge.\"\n\nIt is plain enough that if Mime would now expose to the Wanderer\nthe source of the gnawing care at his heart, and ask him how Nothung\nmight be welded, he would receive the information. Wotan is clearly\neager to give it, yet cannot do so directly, or he would be too\ncrudely meddling again in the Ring affair: he cannot press on him\nhis counsel, but, at his old trick of ingenuous double-dealing,\nmight by means of this guessing-game make shift to convey it to\nhim.\n\nMime, old and wise as he is, has yet in certain directions a dwarfed\nunderstanding; certainly not enough generosity to trust anybody,\nor conceive of a disinterested desire to do him a good turn. His\nwhole concern now is how to be rid of this large tactless personage.\n\"I must question him in such a manner as to trap him,\" he says to\nhimself. It is agreed that he shall have three questions. He sits\nbrooding a moment, trying to find something very difficult indeed.\nThe motif of Mime's cogitations, which has already been frequently\nheard in this act, gives amusingly the unheroic colour of the sordid\nlittle mind's workings. He fixes upon questions concerning things\nwhich might be supposed little known to a wanderer of human descent,\neven such a much-travelled and conceited one. First: What race\nreigns in the depths of the earth? Second: What race rests upon the\nback of the earth? Third: What race dwells on the cloudy heights?\nWotan readily answers all these, giving bits of the histories of\nthe races in question, the Nibelungen, the Giants, and the Gods.\nAs he describes the spear of Wotan, whose lord all must eternally\nobey, he with an involuntary gesture of command brings his spear\nhard down on the stone floor. Faint thunder results. Terror falls\nupon Mime, who by the light shining for a moment from his countenance,\nhas recognised the god. \"You have solved the questions and saved your\nhead,\" he says hurriedly, without looking Wotan in the face. \"Now,\nWanderer, go your way!\" But the Wanderer declares that according to\ncustom in such contests, it is the dwarf's turn now to answer three\nquestions or lose his head. \"It is a long time,\" Mime ventures timidly,\n\"since I left my native place; a long time since I departed from the\nbosom of earth, my mother; I once saw the gleam of Wotan's eye as\nhe looked into the cave; my mother-wit dwindles before him....\"\nBut the wee fellow has no mean conceit of his wisdom, and is really\nnot as uneasy as might be expected of one in his position. \"Perhaps\nI shall be so lucky,\" he suggests, not without complacency, \"as,\nunder this compulsion, to deliver the dwarf's head!\" Wotan asks him,\nfor the first question,--and the pain of the memories oppressing\nhim is translated to us by the motif of parting, the motif of \"last\ntimes,\" while the god's tones are infinitely tender--\"What race is\nit to which Wotan shows himself stern, and which yet he loves the\nbest of all living?\" Glibly Mime answers, showing a full acquaintance\nwith the circumstances, \"The Waelsungen.\" Wotan passes on to the\nsecond question: \"A wise Nibelung keeps watch over Siegfried. He\nis to kill Fafner for him, that he may get the Ring and become\nlord of the Hort. What sword now must Siegfried wield, if he is\nto deal death to Fafner?\" Mime, delighted with himself, readily\nreplies: \"Nothung is the name of a notable sword.... The fragments\nof it are preserved by a wise smith, for he knows that with the\nWotan-sword alone an intrepid stupid boy, Siegfried, shall destroy\nthe dragon.\" He rubs his hands in goblin glee. \"Am I, dwarf, in\nthe second instance still to retain my head?\" Wanderer, with a\nlaugh for his antics, felicitates him: \"The most keen-witted are\nyou among the wise; who can equal you in acuteness? But seeing you\nare so cunning as to use the boyish hero for your dwarf-purposes,\nwith the third question I now make bold: Tell me, wise armourer,\nwho, out of the strong fragments, shall forge Nothung anew?\"\nConsternation falls upon the dwarf. Who, indeed? Was not that question\nthe very hub around which turned all his troubled reflections? Had\nit not been that which was forcing tears from him at the moment\nof the Wanderer's arrival? He runs hither and thither distracted,\nin broken exclamations admitting that he himself cannot forge the\nsword, and how should he know who can perform the miracle? The\nWanderer rises from his seat beside the hearth. \"Three questions\nyou were free to ask. Three times I was open to consultation. You\ninquired of things idle and remote, but that which was closest to\nyou, that which might profit you, did not enter your mind. Now\nthat I have guessed it, you lose your senses with fright. I have\nwon the witty head. Now, brave conqueror of Fafner, hear, doomed\ndwarf: Only one who has never known fear can forge Nothung anew.\"\nOn his way to the mouth of the cave, he turns for another word to\nthe chap-fallen Mime: \"Look out for your wise head from this day\nforth: I leave it in forfeit to him who has never learned fear!\"\nWith a laugh for the double-horned dilemma in which he leaves the\n\"honest dwarf,\" he passes forth into the woods.\n\nAs Mime gazes after him, violent trembling seizes the poor little\nsmith. The flashing among the leaves of Wotan's winged horse his\nterror mistakes for the flaming of Fafner's gaping jaws; and the\nsound of a rushing approach for the monster crashing toward him\nthrough the underbrush. With the cry: \"The dragon is upon me! Fafner!\nFafner!\" he cowers behind the anvil.\n\nThe alarming noise proves to have been only Siegfried coming with\ncharacteristic impetuosity to ask for his sword. \"Hey, there!\nLazy-bones! Have you finished? Quick! What success with the sword?\"\nMime is not in sight. His voice is heard, faint, from his hiding-place:\n\"Is it you, child? Are you alone?\" Siegfried for some time can draw\nno satisfactory answer from him, no matter how roughly pressed.\nThe dwarf is caught between two difficulties, and must first of all\nthings try to think out for himself the safest course of action.\nOnly by one who has never known fear can Nothung, the indispensable,\nbe forged. \"Too wise am I for such work!\" he soliloquizes. On the\nother hand, his wise head is forfeit to one who has never learned\nfear. Of the two difficulties, the latter is obviously the one to\nbe first attended to. Siegfried fills the description dangerously\nwell of the foretold fatal enemy. \"How shall I contrive to teach\nhim fear?\" is Mime's nearest interest. Siegfried, irritated by\nhis continued hesitation, finally catches hold of him. \"Ha? Must\nI lend a hand? What have you forged and furbished to-day?\" \"With\nno care but for your welfare,\" answers Mime, \"I was sunk in thought\nas to how I should instruct you in a thing of great importance.\"\n\"You were sunk quite under the seat,\" laughs Siegfried; \"what of\ngreat importance did you discover there?\" \"I there learned fear\nfor your sake, that I might teach it to you, dunce.\" \"What about\nfear?\" Siegfried asks. \"You know nothing about it, and you are\nthinking of going from the woods out into the world? Of what use\nto you would be the strongest sword, if you had no knowledge of\nfear?... Into the crafty world I shall not let you fare before you\nhave learned fear.\" \"If it is an art, why am I unacquainted with\nit? Out with it! What about fear?\" \"Have you never felt,\"--asks\nMime, in a voice which at the suggestion of his own words falls to\nquaking, \"have you never felt, in the dark woods, at twilight,... when\nthere are sounds in the distance of rustling, humming and soughing,\nwhen wild muttering gusts sweep past, disorderly fire-wisps flicker\naround you, a swelling confused sound surges toward you,--have\nyou not felt a shuddering horror seize upon your limbs? A burning\nchill shakes your frame, your senses swim and fail; the alarmed\nheart trembling in your breast hammers to the point of bursting?\nIf you have never felt these things, fear is unknown to you!\" The\nmusic of fear is a darkened and discoloured fire-music through\nwhich we recognise, as if under a disguise veiling something of its\nbeauty, the motif of Bruennhilde's sleep. If one looks for reasons,\none can suppose the reference to be, as to a type of fearful things,\nto the terror-inspiring barrier surrounding Bruennhilde; and imagine\na jesting intimation that fear, as Siegfried should eventually\nlearn it, is the sensation suspending the heart-beats at sight of\na beautiful woman in her sleep.\n\nSiegfried has listened to Mime in amused wonder: \"Strange exceedingly\nmust that be! My heart, I feel, stands firm and hard in its place.\nThat creeping and shuddering, glowing and shivering, turning hot\nand turning dizzy, hammering and trembling, I wish to feel the\nterror of it, I long for that delight! But how can you, Mime, bring\nit about?\" \"Just follow me. I will guide you to some purpose. I\nhave thought it all out. I know a dreadful dragon; he has slain\nalready and swallowed many; Fafner will teach you fear, if you\nfollow me to his lair.\" \"Where is his lair?\" \"Neidhoehle it is called.\n(_Neid:_ envy; _Hoehle:_ cavern.) Eastward it lies at the end of the\nwood.\" \"Then it is not far from the world?\" \"The world is close\nby.\" \"You are to take me there, and when I have learned fear, away,\ninto the world! So quick! Give me my sword! I will swing it out in\nthe world!\" Mime confesses that he neither has mended, nor ever\ncan mend, the sword in question. \"No dwarf's strength is equal to\nit. More likely,\" he suggests, \"one who knows no fear may discover\nthe art!\" Siegfried, heartily weary of Mime's paltering, snatches up\nthe fragments of Nothung: \"Here, the pieces! Away with the bungler!\nMy father's steel doubtless will let itself be welded by me. Myself\nI will forge the sword!\" And he falls to work. \"If you had taken\ndiligent pains to learn the art, it would now, of a truth, profit\nyou,\" remarks Mime; \"but you were always lazy at the lesson. What\nproper work can you do now?\" \"What the master cannot do,\" Siegfried\naptly retorts, \"the apprentice might, if he had always minded him?\nTake yourself off! Meddle not with this, or you may tumble with it\ninto the fire!\" He heaps fuel on the hearth, fastens the sword in\na vice and starts filing it. Mime watches him, and at this which\nlooks like folly, cannot restrain the exclamation: \"What are you\ndoing? Take the solder! You are filing away the file!\" But the\ndisposition of the young fellow without fear shows in his method\nwith the sword. With a brave thoroughness he reduces the whole\nblade to steel filings. Mime follows all his movements. \"Now I\nam as old as this cavern and these woods, but such a thing have I\nnever seen! He will succeed with the sword, that I plainly apprehend.\nIn his fearlessness he will make it whole. The Wanderer knew it\nwell! How, now, shall I hide my endangered head? It is forfeit to\nthe intrepid boy unless Fafner shall teach him fear--But, woe's\nme, poor wretch, how will he slay the dragon, if he learns fear from\nhim? How will he obtain the Ring for me? Accursed dilemma! Here\nam I fast caught, unless I find me wise counsel how to bring under\ncompulsion the fearless one himself....\" \"Quick, Mime!\" Siegfried\ninterrupts Mime's meditations; \"what is the name of the sword which\nI have ground into filings?\" \"Nothung is the name of the notable\nsword; your mother gave me the information.\" Siegfried at work\nfalls to lusty singing, a song of primitive character, of a kind\nwith what one can suppose Tubal-cain singing at his ancient anvil.\nWe see him pumping the forge-bellows while the steel melts, pouring\nthe metal into a mould, cooling the mould in a water-trough, breaking\nthe plaster, heating the sword, hammering the red blade, cooling\nit again, riveting the handle, polishing the whole,--all of which\nactions his song celebrates: \"Nothung! Nothung! Notable sword!\n(_Neidliches Schwert_ is literally \"covetable sword\") Why must\nyou of old be shattered? To powder I have ground your sharp\nmagnificence. I now melt the filings in the crucible. Hoho! Hoho!\nHahei! Hahei! Blow, bellows, brighten the glow! Wild in the forest\ngrew a tree. I hewed it down, I burned the brown ash to charcoal.\nIt lies heaped now on the hearth. The coals of the tree, how bravely\nthey burn, how bright and clear they glow! Upward they fly in a\nspray of sparks and melt the steel-dust. Nothung! Nothung! Notable\nsword! Your powdered steel is melting, in your own sweat you are\nswimming, soon I shall swing you as my sword!\"\n\nMime during this has been revolving his own problem, and has hit\nupon a plan which seems to him to meet all the difficulties of\nhis case: Siegfried, beyond a doubt, will forge the sword and kill\nFafner. While he is tired and heated from the encounter, Mime will\noffer him a drink brewed from simples of his culling, a few drops\nof which will plunge the boy into deep sleep, when, with the weapon\nhe is at this moment forging, Mime will clear him out of the way and\ntake possession of Ring and treasure. Enchanted with his inspiration,\nhe sets to work at once preparing the somniferous drink.\n\nSiegfried is singing at the top of his lungs: \"In the water flowed\nthe stream of fire, it hissed aloud in anger, but the cold tamed\nand chilled it; in the water it flows no more, stiff and hard it\nis become, the lordly steel--but hot blood will bathe it soon.\nNow sweat again that I may forge you, Nothung, notable sword!\" He\ncatches sight of Mime pottering with the cooking utensils. \"There\nis a wise smith come to shame,\" the old man answers the youth's\nmocking inquiry; \"the teacher receives lessons from his pupil;\nall is up with art for the old one, he will serve the young one\nas cook! While the young one makes iron into broth, the old one\nwill prepare a dish of eggs!\" With impish relish of the inwardness\nof the situation, he stirs the mixture in the pot.\n\n\"Hoho! Hahei! Hoho!\" Siegfried proceeds with his work and his singing;\n\"shape, my hammer, a hard sword! Blood once dyed your pallid blue,\nits trickling red brightened you, you laughed coldly, you cooled\noff the hot liquid. Now the fire has made you glow red, your soft\nhardness yields to the hammer; you dart angry sparks at me, because\nI have tamed you, stubborn! The merry sparks, how they delight\nme! Anger adorns the brave. You are gaily laughing at me, though\nyou feign to be angry and sullen. Hoho! Hahei! By means of heat\nand hammer I have achieved it, with stalwart blows I have shaped\nyou; now let the red shame vanish, become as hard and cold as you\ncan....\"\n\nMime is meanwhile revelling in dreams of the greatness which is\nto follow upon his acquisition of the Ring. He fairly skips up\nand down as he thinks of it all: Brother Alberich himself reduced\nto subjection, the whole world bowing at the nod of his, Mime's,\nhead. No more toil, others to toil for him.... \"Mime is king, Prince\nof the Nibelungen, lord over all! Hei, Mime! who would have thought\nit of you?\"\n\n\"Nothung! Nothung! Notable sword!\" harmoniously bellows Siegfried;\n\"now you are fast in your hilt. You were in two, I have forced you\ninto one. No blow after this shall break you. In the dead father's\nhand the steel snapped, the living son forged it anew; now its\nbright gleam flashes like laughter, its sharp edge cuts clean.\nNothung! Nothung! Young and renewed! I have brought you back to\nlife. You lay dead there, in fragments; now you flash lightning,\ndefiant and brave! Show caitiffs your gleam! Strike the traitor!\nFell the villain!\" He waves over his head the finished sword: \"Look,\nMime, you smith--thus cuts Siegfried's sword!\" He brings it down\nupon the anvil, which falls apart, cleft from top to bottom. Mime\ntumbles over with amazement.\n\nII\n\nThe next scene shows the woods before Fafner's cave. It is night.\nAlberich is dimly distinguishable, lurking among the rocks, brooding\nhis dark thoughts, as he keeps covert watch over the treasure. He\nis startled by what seems an untimely break of day, accompanied by\na great gust of wind. This defines itself as a galloping gleam--a\nshining horse rushing through the forest. \"Is it already the slayer\nof the dragon?\" he wonders; \"is it he, already, who shall kill\nFafner?\" A moonbeam breaking through the clouds reveals the form\nof the Wanderer advancing toward Neidhoehle. The enemies see and\nrecognise each other. Alberich, though greatly alarmed at this\ninopportune presence, breaks into angry vituperation: \"Out of the\nway, shameless robber.... Your intrigues have done harm enough!\"\n\"I am come to look on, not to act,\" Wotan replies, grandly mild and\nunruffled; \"who shall deny me a wanderer's right of way?\" Alberich,\nas if words of offence were actually missiles, showers them thick\nupon the unmoved god. He points out, virulently, the strength of\nhis own position compared with Wotan's, in whose hand that spear\nof his must fly to pieces should he break a covenant established\nas sacred by the runes carved on its shaft. Wanderer, a shade weary\nof such a berating, yet losing little of his placidity, retorts:\n\"Not through any runes of truth to covenants did my spear bind\nyou, malignant, to me; you my spear forces to bow before me by\nits strength; I carefully keep it therefore for purposes of war.\"\n\"How haughtily do you threaten in your defiant strength,\" the rabid\nAlberich continues, \"yet how uneasy is all within your breast....\nDoomed to death through my curse is Fafner, guardian of the treasure.\nWho will inherit from him? Will the illustrious Hort come once\nmore into the possession of the Nibelung? The thought gnaws you\nwith unsleeping care. For, let me hold it again in this fist, far\notherwise than thick-witted giants shall I employ the power of the\nRing; then let the holy keeper of the heroes tremble; the heights\nof Walhalla I shall storm with the hosts of Hella, the world then\nwill be mine to govern!\" Tranquilly Wotan receives this: \"I know\nyour meaning, but it creates in me no uneasiness. He shall rule\nthrough the Ring who obtains it.\" This calm of Wotan's gives Alberich\nthe idea that the god must, so to speak, have cards up his sleeve.\n\"On the sons of heroes,\" he suggests ironically, \"you place your\ninsolent reliance, fond blossoms of your own blood. Good care have\nyou taken of a young fellow--not so?--who cunningly shall pluck the\nfruit which you dare not yourself break off?\" \"Not with me\"--Wotan\ncuts short the discussion, \"wrangle with Mime. Danger threatens you\nthrough your brother. He is bringing to this spot a youth who is\nto slay Fafner for him. The boy knows nothing of me. The Nibelung\nuses him for his own purposes. Wherefore, I tell you, comrade,\ndo freely as you choose!\" Alberich can scarcely believe that he\nhas heard aright. \"You will keep your hand from the treasure?\"\nSerenely and broadly, Wotan declares--a touch of that tenderness\nin his tone which the thought of the Waelsungen always has power\nto arouse--\"Whom I love I leave to act for himself: let him stand\nor fall, his own lord is he. I have no use save for heroes!\" This\nsounds very fair; to Alberich almost too fair. He presses Wotan\nwith further questions. The answers are elusive as oracles, but\nsatisfy Alberich of thus much: that Wotan is himself out of the\nstruggle for the Ring. To point his personal disinterestedness,\nthe god even offers to wake the dragon, that Alberich may warn\nhim of the approaching danger and peradventure receive in token of\ngratitude--the Ring! We suspect in this Wotan's taste for a joke,\nunless it be an exhibition of that other trait of the god's, the\nneed to gratify his conscience with a comedy of fairness. At this\nmoment he is not, it is true, interfering; but he is confidently\nwatching the play of forces set working by him long ago. The strong\nSiegfried armed with the rejuvenated Sieges-schwert is a force\nhaving its impulse originally from him. At this moment, perhaps\nbecause the events immediately impending have cast their shadows\nacross the sensitive consciousness of an at times prophet, he is\nin no uneasiness whatever with regard to the fate of the Ring. To\nAlberich's mystification, he actually rouses Fafner. \"Who disturbs\nmy sleep?\" comes a hollow roar from the cave. The Fafner-motif\nis the old motif of the giants, slightly altered so that instead\nof the ponderous tread of the brothers it suggests the muffled\nponderous beat of a gigantic sinister heart. Wotan and Alberich\nexplain to the dragon his danger and indicate what may buy him\nsafety. Having heard them out, Fafner, unseen in the cave, gives\na long lazy comfortable yawn. \"I lie and possess! Let me sleep!\"\nWotan laughs. \"Well, Alberich, the plan failed. But abuse me no\nmore, you rogue! One thing, I further enjoin you, keep well in\nmind: Everything is after its kind, and this kind you cannot alter!\"\nThe broad Erda-motif accompanies this maxim. \"Take a firm stand! Put\nyour skill to use with Mime, your brother. He is of the kind you\nunderstand better. What is of a different kind, learn now to know,\ntoo....\" When Wotan disappears, the galloping is heard, through the\nstorm-wind that for a moment agitates the leaves of the forest,\nof his rising Luft-ross. His obscure last words have left Alberich\npuzzled, sorer and angrier than ever. The air is full of curse-motif.\n\"Laugh on, you light-minded luxurious tribe of the gods! I shall\nstill see you all gone to destruction. While the gold shines in the\nlight there is a wise one keeping watch--His spite will circumvent\nyou all!\" He hides himself among the tumbled rocks near the cave-mouth\nfrom the brightening light of dawn.\n\nMime enters guiding Siegfried. \"This is the spot, go no further!\"\nSiegfried seats himself under a great tree; they have been travelling\nthrough the woods all night. \"This is the place where I am to learn\nfear?\" he inquires light-heartedly. The excursion, as far as he\nknows, has for its single object to teach him that art. He is not\nof a suspicious turn and does not ask what interest in his education\nhas Mime, in whose affection he instinctively does not believe.\n\"Now, Mime,\" he instructs the dwarf, \"you are after this to avoid\nme. If I do not learn here what I should learn, I shall fare further\nalone, I shall finally be rid of you!\" \"Believe me, dear boy,\"\nsays the dwarf, \"if you do not learn fear to-day and here, with\ndifficulty shall you learn it elsewhere and at another time!\" He\ndirects the youth's eye to the black mouth of the dragon-hole and\ndescribes with griesly detail the monster inhabiting it. Siegfried\nlistens unimpressed. Hearing, in answer to his inquiry, that the\nmonster has a heart and that it is in the usual place: \"I will\ndrive Nothung into the overweening brute's heart!\" he determines\nlightly. He is sceptical with regard to the lesson in fear which\nhe has been promised. \"Just wait!\" Mime warns him. \"What I said\nwas empty sound in your ears. You must hear and see the creature\nhimself.... Remain where you are. When the sun climbs high, watch\nfor the dragon. He will come out of his cave and pass along this\nway to go and drink at the spring.\" \"Mime,\" says Siegfried, with\na laugh for his foolish big-boy joke, \"if you are to be at the\nspring I will not hinder the dragon from going there. I will not\ndrive Nothung into his spleen until he has drunk you up. Wherefore,\ntake my advice: do not lie down to rest at the water's edge, but\ntake yourself off as far as ever you can, and never come back!\" Mime\nis too near, as he thinks, the hour of triumph, to take offence.\nMay he not be permitted, after the fight, to refresh the victor\nwith a drink? He will be near. Let Siegfried call him if he needs\nadvice,... or if he finds the sensation of fear delectable!\n\nWhen Siegfried has freed himself of Mime, whose company seems to\nbecome more and more unendurable as he is nearer parting from him\nfor ever, he stretches out again under the great tree, folding his\narms beneath his head. \"That that fellow is not my father,\" he\nmuses, \"how glad am I of that! The fresh woodland only begins to\nplease me, the glad daylight to smile to me, now that the offensive\nwretch is out of my sight!\" He drives away the thought of him and\nlets sweeter reflections gradually absorb him. The leaves rustle\nand waver; delicate shafts of sunshine drop through them and play\nover the forest floor. The exquisiteness of the hour, by its natural\npower over the mood, turns the lonely boy's thoughts toward the only\nhuman beings life has so far given him to love,--and in images so\nvague and distant! \"How did my father look?\" he wonders dreamily,\nand answers himself: \"Like me, of course!\" After a longer spell\nof gazing up among the trees, while the soft influences of the\nfragrant woodland world and lovely summer day still further overmaster\nhim: \"But--how did my mother look?... That I cannot in the least\npicture! Like the doe's, I am sure, shone her limpid lustrous\neyes--only, more beautiful by far!\" The thought of her death fills\nhim with boundless sadness, but not sharp or bitter,--dreamy and\nsweet from its tenderness. \"When she had born me, wherefore did\nshe die? Do human mothers always die of their sons? How sad were\nthat! Oh, might I, son, behold my mother!... My mother--a woman\nof humankind!\" The motif of mother-love is but a slight, beautiful\nvariation from the motif of love in nature accompanying Siegfried's\nreference to the deer paired in the woods, that strain like the\nheaving of a great heart oppressed by its burden of love. The thought\nof his never-known mother draws forth sighs from Siegfried's lips.\nA long time he lies silent. The Freia-motif, the motif of beauty,\nclambers upward like a dewy branch of wild clematis. All is still\naround, but the little wind-stirred leaves, which weave and weave\nas if a delicate green gold-shot fabric of sound. Against this airy\ntapestry suddenly stands forth like a vivid pattern the warbling\nof a bird. Over and over, with pretty variations, the bird gives\nits note. It catches Siegfried's attention; he listens. \"You sweet\nlittle bird,\" he at last addresses the singer up among the branches,\n\"I never heard you before. Is your home here in the forest?...\" The\nthought occurs to him, so natural to the simple: \"Could I but understand\nthe sweet babbling, certainly it would tell me something--perhaps\nabout the dear mother!\" He remembers hearing from Mime that one\nmight come to understand the language of the birds. Attractive\npossibility! Pricked by his desire at once to bring it about, he\nsprings up, cuts one of the reeds growing around the pool where\nFafner goes to drink, and fashions it into a pipe. He tries upon\nit to imitate the bird-note. \"If I can sing his language,\" is his\nreasoning, \"I shall understand, no doubt, what he sings!\" After\nrepeated attempts, charmingly comical, and much vain mending of\nthe reed with the edge of Nothung, he grows impatient, is ashamed\nof his unsuccess before the \"roguish listener.\" He tosses away the\nsilly reed and takes his silver horn. \"A merry wild-wood note,\nsuch as I can play, you shall hear! I have sounded it as a call to\ndraw to me some dear companion. So far, nothing better has come\nthan a wolf or a bear. Let us see, now, what it attracts this time,\nwhether a dear comrade will come to the call?\" He places the horn\nto his lips and sounds the cheery _Lock-weise_ (lure-call) over\nand over, with long sustained notes between the calls, during which\nhe looks up at the bird, to see how he likes it. As a variation\nhe plays the motifs which describe himself, the large heroic\nSiegfried-motif, and then the gay, rash, lesser Nothung-Siegfried\nmotif. He has returned to the Lock-weise, and is repeating it with\nobstinate persistence, a-mind not to stop until the companion his\nlonesomeness yearns for shall have answered him when a bellowing\nsound behind him makes him face about. We had been warned already\nby the _Wurm_-motif, heard before in Nibelheim, when Alberich by\nthe power of the Tarnhelm turned himself into a dragon. Siegfried\nat sight of Fafner, whom the loud Lock-weise has drawn from his\nslumbers and his cave, laughs aloud: \"My tune has charmed forth\nsomething truly lovely! A tidy comrade you would make for me!\"\n\"What is that?\" roars Fafner, fixing the glare of his eyes upon\nthe shapely form of Siegfried, insignificant in size, as he counts\nit. \"Haha!\" cries Siegfried, enchanted to hear from an animal talk\nwhich he can understand. \"If you are an animal that can speak,\nyou very likely can teach me something. Here is one who does not\nknow fear; can he learn it from you?\" \"Is this insolence?\" asks\nthe amazed brute. \"Call it insolence or what you please, but I\nshall fall upon you bodily, unless you teach me fear.\" Fafner laughs\ngrimly, as if he licked his chops: \"I wanted drink, I now find\nmeat as well!\" He shows the red interior of his vast jaws fringed\nwith teeth. There is a brief further exchange of threats and jeers,\nthen Fafner bellows: \"Pruh! Come on, swaggering child!\" Siegfried\nshouts: \"Look out, bellower, the swaggerer comes!\" and, Nothung in\nhand, leaps to the assault. Vainly Fafner spouts flame to blind\nand terrify him. The fight ends as it must. The dragon falls beneath\nthe Wotan-sword, wielded by the hero without fear.\n\nWith his failing breath, in a tone strangely void of resentment,\nthe dragon questions his slip of an adversary, so unexpectedly\nvictorious: \"Who are you, intrepid boy, that have pierced my heart?\nWho incited the child to the murderous deed? Your brain never conceived\nthat which you have done....\" A motif we have come to know well\npunctuates the dying speech of this still another victim of the\ncurse on the Ring. \"I do not know much, as yet,\" Siegfried replies;\n\"I do not know even who I am. But it was yourself roused my temper\nto fight with you.\" The last of the giants, his hollow voice growing\nfainter, tells the \"clear-eyed boy,\" the \"rosy hero,\" who it is he\nhas slain, and warns him of the treachery surrounding the owner\nof the Hort. \"Tell me further from whom I am descended,\" speaks\nSiegfried; \"wise, of a truth, do you appear, wild one, in dying.\nGuess it from my name. Siegfried I am called!\" But the Worm sighing,\n\"Siegfried!...\" gives up the breath.\n\nAfter a moment's contemplation of the mountainous dead, Siegfried\nresolutely drags from his breast the sword which he had driven\nin up to the hilt. A drop of the dragon's blood spurts against\nhis hand. With the exclamation: \"The blood burns like fire!\" he\nlifts his finger to his mouth. At once his attention is arrested\nby the voices of the birds. With increasing interest he harkens:\nIt seems to him almost as if the birds were speaking to him; a\ndistinct impression he receives of words. \"Is it the effect of\ntasting the blood?\" he wonders. \"That curious little bird there,\nhark, what is he saying to me?\" From the tree-top come clear words\non a bird's warble: \"Hei, to Siegfried belongs now the Nibelung's\ntreasure! Oh, might he find the Hort in the cave! If he should\nwin the Tarnhelm it would serve him for delightful adventures;\nbut if he should find the Ring it would make him sovereign of the\nworld!\" Siegfried has listened with bated breath. \"Thanks, dear\nlittle bird, for your advice. Gladly will I do as you bid!\" He\nenters the cave. As he disappears, Mime crawls near to convince\nhimself ocularly of Fafner's death. At the same moment, Alberich\nslips from his hiding-place and throws himself across Mime's path,\nto bar his way to the treasure. A bitter quarrel at once springs\nup between the brothers; Alberich claims the treasure because it\nis rightly his, Mime because he reared the youth who has recovered\nit from the dragon. Mime, whom Alberich's violence cows still as\nin the old days, offers to share, if he may have the Tarnhelm--a\nsly proposition,--he will renounce the Ring; but this Alberich\nhears with furious scorn, and the wrangle is at its height when\nSiegfried reappears at the cave's mouth. In his hands are Tarnhelm\nand Ring. Returning into sight after the angry cat-fight between\nthe ill-conditioned pair, he appears more than ever large, serene,\nfair, noble. Mime and Alberich betake themselves quickly back to\ntheir lurking-places. Siegfried stands considering his odd-looking\nacquisitions: \"Of what use you may be to me I know not; but I took\nyou from the heaped gold of the treasure because a good adviser\nbade me. As ornaments you shall serve, bearing witness to this\nday; these baubles shall remind me that in combat I slew Fafner,\nbut failed still to learn fear!\" He places the ring on his finger\nand the Tarnhelm at his belt. In the silence that falls, he listens\nagain for the voice of the bird. It suddenly drops from the tree-top:\n\"Hei! Siegfried possesses the Tarnhelm and Ring! Oh, let him not\ntrust Mime the false! If Siegfried should listen closely to the\nwretch's hypocritical words, he would penetrate the true meaning of\nMime's heart; such is the virtue of the taste of dragon's blood!\"\nNo sooner has Siegfried heard, than he sees Mime approaching. He\nwaits for him, leaning on his sword, quietly watchful. The little\nman contorts body and face into postures and expressions as humbly\nflattering and cajoling as he can; at every few steps he scrapes\nand curtseys. \"Welcome, Siegfried! Tell me, you soul of courage,\nhave you learned fear?\" \"Not yet have I found the teacher!\" \"But\nthe Serpent-Worm which you slew, a fearsome fellow, was he not?\"\n\"Grim and malignant though he were, his death verily grieves me,\nsince miscreants of deeper dye still live at large. The one who bade\nme murder him, I hate more than the dragon!\" Mime to all appearance\ntakes these words as if they carried no offence. What he thinks\nhe is saying in reply we know not; but this is what, spoken in a\nvoice of tenderest affection, Siegfried hears: \"Gently now! Not\nmuch longer shall you see me. I shall soon close your eyes for their\neternal sleep. That which I needed you for you have accomplished;\nall I wish, now, is to wrest from you the treasure. I believe I shall\neffect this with small trouble. You know you are not difficult to\nbefool!\" \"So you are meditating harm to me?\" Siegfried asks quietly.\nMime starts in amazement. \"Did I say anything of the sort?\"\n\nThen again, in accents sickly-sweet, with the writhings and grimaces\nof an excessive affection: \"Siegfried, listen, my son! You and the\nlike of you I have always hated from my very heart. Out of love\nI did not rear you, burdensome nuisance. The trouble I took was\nfor the sake of the treasure in Fafner's keeping. If you do not\ngive it to me willingly, Siegfried, my son, it must be plain even\nto yourself, you will have to leave me your life!\" This formal and\ndirect declaration of hate, proving the justice of his instinctive\ndislike all along of Mime, calls forth from Siegfried's relief\neven in this moment the exclamation: \"That you hate me, I gladly\nhear!\" Mime, while giving himself visibly all the pains in the\nworld to disguise from Siegfried his intentions, to each of the\nyouth's questions answers, in the supposition that he is telling\nhis lies, the exact truth. Thus Siegfried learns that the drink\nMime has prepared for his refreshment will plunge him into deep\nsleep, upon which, for greater security in his enjoyment of the\ntreasure, Mime will with Nothung cut off his head. The little monster\nchuckles genially while making these revelations. As Mime reaches\nhim the treacherous drink, Siegfried, moved by an impulse of\noverpowering disgust, with a sudden swift blow of Nothung strikes\nhim down. Alberich's laugh of glee and derision rings out from\nhis hiding-place.\n\nAfter gazing for a moment at the body of the repulsive little\ntraitor,--with the after-thought, it is possible, that the flat of\nNothung would have been sufficient for anything so small, though\nso venomous,--he gives it the obsequies which seem to him the most\nfitting. He throws him in the cave, that he may lie on the heaped\ngold and have the coveted treasure at last for his own. He drags\nFafner to the cave's mouth, that his bulk may block it. \"Lie there,\nyou too, dark dragon! Guard at once the shining treasure and the\ntreasure-loving enemy; thus have you both found rest!\"\n\nThe sun is high; heated with his exertions, Siegfried returns to\nhis mossy couch under the trees, and is presently again looking\noverhead for the friendly bird. \"Once more, dear little bird, after\nsuch a troublesome interruption, I should be glad to listen to your\nsinging. I can see you swinging happily on the bough; brothers\nand sisters flutter around you, blithe and sweet, twittering the\nwhile....\" A vague sadness touches his mood, and this pensive moment\ngoes far toward gaining back to him the sympathy which his overgreat\nsturdiness in dealing death had perhaps forfeited. He is now a poor\nlonesome beautiful boy, completely sweet-blooded and brave--the\nhunter that has never robbed the mother of her young--whose heart\nfull of instinctive affection has never had an object on which\nit could spend itself. \"But I,\" he says envyingly to the bird,\n\"I am so alone! I have neither brother nor sister! My mother\nvanished,--my father fell,--their son never saw them....\" In this\nhumour he lets a shade of regret transpire for the necessity to\nkill Mime. \"My only companion was a loathly dwarf; goodness never\nknit the bond of affection between us; artful toils the cunning foe\nspread for me. I was at last even forced to slay him!\" He stares\nsorrowfully at the sky through the trees. \"Friendly bird, I ask\nyou now: will you assist my quest for a good comrade? Will you\nguide me to the right one? I have called so often and never found\none; you, my trusty one, will surely hit it better! So apt has\nbeen the counsel given by you already! Now sing! I am listening\nfor your song!\" Readily the bright voice from above answers in\na joyous warble: \"Hei! Siegfried has slain the wicked dwarf! I\nhave in mind for him now the most glorious mate! On a high rock\nshe sleeps, a wall of flame surrounds her abode. If he should push\nthrough the fire, if he should waken the bride, then were Bruennhilde\nhis own!\" With an instantaneousness touchingly significant of his\nhard heart-hunger, an attack of impassioned sighing seizes the\nyoung Siegfried. \"Oh, lovely song! Oh, sweetest breath! How its\nmessage glows within my breast, burning me! How it sets my enkindled\nheart to throbbing! What is it rushing so wildly through my heart\nand senses?... It drives me, exulting, out of the woods to the\nmountain-rock. Speak to me again, charming singer: shall I break\nthrough the fiery wall? Can I waken the bride?\" \"Never,\" replies the\nbird, \"shall the bride be won, Bruennhilde wakened, by a faint-heart!\nOnly by one who knows no fear!\" Siegfried shouts with delight: \"The\nstupid boy who knows no fear--little bird, why, that am I! This\nvery day I gave myself fruitless pains to learn it from Fafner. I\nnow burn with the desire to learn it from Bruennhilde! How shall I\nfind the way to her rock?\" The bird forsakes the treetop, flutters\nover the youth's head and flies further. Siegfried interprets this\nas an invitation. \"Thus is the way shown me. Wherever you fly, I\nfollow your flight!\" We see him going hither and thither in his\nattempt to follow the erratic flight of a bird. His guide after\na moment bends in a definite direction and Siegfried disappears\nafter him among the trees.\n\nIII\n\nA wild region at the foot of a rocky mountain, the mountain at the\nsummit of which Bruennhilde sleeps. In night and storm Wotan the\nWanderer comes to seek Erda, the Wise Woman, the Wala. He conjures\nher up from the depths of the earth into his presence. We see her\nappear, as before, rising in the gloom of a rocky hollow up to\nhalf her height.\n\nIn all his wandering over the earth, in search of wisdom and counsel,\nnone has Wotan found so wise as she. The question he proposes is:\nHow may a rolling wheel be arrested in its course?\n\nErda is not willingly waked out of her sleep, nor is it her wont to\ncommunicate directly with the upper world. In her slow and solemn\nsleep-weighted tones, she tells him that the Norns spin into their\ncoil the visions of her illuminated sleep. Why does he not consult\nthem? Or why, she asks, when that counsel is rejected, why does\nhe not, still mote aptly, consult Bruennhilde, wise child of Wotan\nand Erda?\n\nIn his reply, Wotan briefly sums Bruennhilde's offence: She defied the\nStorm-compeller, where he was practising the utmost self-compulsion;\nwhat the Leader of Battle yearned to do, but refrained from, his\nown antagonist,--all too confident, the insolent maid dared to\nbring about for herself.\n\nAt the indication of Bruennhilde's fate, indignation possesses the\nWala. In view of such high-handed injustice, she wishes and struggles\nto return back into the earth and be merged with her wisdom in\nsleep. But Wotan will not release her until she has satisfied him\n\"You, all-knowing one, once drove the thorn of care into Wotan's\ndaring heart; with the dread of an adverse ignominious ending you\nfilled him by your foreknowledge, so that his courage was in bondage\nto fear. If you are the wisest woman in the world, tell me now:\nhow shall the god overcome that care?\" But the injured mother is\nnot to be conciliated. \"You are not,\" she startlingly announces,\n\"what you call yourself!\"--Not a god, Wotan?--\"What are you come,\nwild and turbulent spirit, to disturb the Wala's sleep? Restless\none, release me! Loose the spell!\" \"You are not\" he retorts, \"what\nyou suppose yourself!\"--Not the wisest of women! In that she has\nnot divined what he has really come to impart, rather than seriously\nto ask counsel. For his true errand is to show her the fruits of\ntime in himself, the mood of patience and reconciliation he has\nreached, nay, of hope for a future in which he is to have no part,\nthat Bruennhilde's mother may sleep the more quietly, and, untroubled,\nwatch the end overtake him through her dream. \"Do you know what it\nis Wotan wills? I speak it in your ear, unforeseeing one, that\nwith easy heart you may return to your eternal sleep. The thought\nof the end of the gods no longer grieves me, since it is my desire\nand my will! The thing which I once, in pain and conflict, torn by\ndespair, resolved, I now joyfully and freely carry out: in raging\ndisgust I once devoted the world to the ill-will of the Nibelung;\nto the joyous Waelsung I now appoint my inheritance. He whom I have\nchosen, but who has never known me, an intrepid boy, unaided by\ncounsel of mine, has conquered the Nibelung's Ring. Void of envy,\nhappy and loving, Alberich's curse falls away crippled when it would\nlight on the noble one, for fear is unknown to him. She whom you\nbore to me, Bruennhilde, shall be tenderly waked by the hero; awake,\nyour wise child shall perform a world-delivering deed! Wherefore,\nsleep! Close your eye: dreaming watch my passing! Whatever works be\ntheirs, to that Eternally Young One, the god in gladness yields his\nplace. Down, then, Erda! Ancient Fear! Original Care! To your eternal\nsleep! Down! Down!...\" Erda sinks into the earth, the glimmering\nlight fades from the cave.\n\nA bird-note is heard, light and sharp, approaching. A bird flutters\ninto sight and Siegfried, following it, appears upon the scene. The\nbird, as if at the recognition of danger,--the ravens of Wotan are\nhovering near--in all haste flies quite away. Siegfried resolves to\ngo on alone. He is stopped by the Wanderer's voice: \"Whither, boy,\ndoes your way lead you?\" Here is some one, thinks Siegfried, who may\nshow him the way. \"I seek a rock,\" he replies; \"it is surrounded\nby fire; there sleeps a woman whom I wish to wake.\" \"Who bade you\nseek the rock? Who taught you to wish for the woman?\" \"A little\nwoodland bird told me about it in his singing; he gave me good\ntidings.\" \"A little bird gossips of many things, but no one can\nunderstand him. How did you derive the meaning of his song?\" \"That\nwas the effect of the blood of a wild dragon,...\" and so forth.\nWotan continues to ply the youth with questions, just as a kind\nold grandfather of humankind might lead on a child to talk, for\nthe simple sake of hearing what he will say, for delight in his\ningenuousness. The utmost tenderness for this joyous Walsung speaks\nin the tones of the greybeard. The final object of his questioning\nis to lead the youth to some acknowledgment of himself as a factor\nin his fortunes. Without discarding his incognito, he longs to\nhear on the grandson's lips some name which stands for himself,\nsome reference to him. So, from the question, \"Who prompted you to\nattack the strong Worm?\" he passes to the question: \"Who shaped the\nsword, so sharp and hard, that the strongest enemy should succumb\nto its stroke?\" and when Siegfried replies that he did this himself,\ninsists further: \"But who shaped the strong pieces, out of which\nyou forged the sword?\" The answer to this is, \"Waelse!\" It can be\nnothing else. Siegfried, however, replies: \"What do I know? All\nI know is that the pieces could be of no use to me until I forged\nthe sword over again for myself.\" Wotan breaks out laughing: \"I\nagree with you!\" Siegfried suspecting that he has been quizzed,\nloses his patience, becomes curt and rough. \"What are you laughing\nat me? Old questioner, you had better stop. Do not keep me chattering\nhere! If you can direct me on my way, speak. If you cannot, hold\nyour mouth!\" Deplorable are the manners learned in Mime's cave.\n\"Patience, you boy!\" Wanderer mildly checks him; \"if I seem old\nto you, you should offer me reverence!\" \"That,\" jeers Siegfried,\n\"is a fine idea! All my life long an old man has stood in my way.\nI have no more than swept him away. If you continue to stand there\nstiffly opposing me, beware, I tell you, lest you fare like Mime!\"\nAs, with this threat, he takes a stride nearer to the stranger, he\nis struck by his appearance. \"What makes you look like that?\" he\nasks, like a child; \"what a great hat you have! Why does it hang\ndown so over your face?... One of your eyes, beneath the brim, is\nmissing.... It was put out, I am sure, by some one whose passage\nyou were stubbornly opposing. Now, take yourself off, or you might\neasily lose the other!\" The indulgent grandsire is still not stirred\nfrom his patience, though this must strike a little painfully on\nhis heart. \"I see, my son, that, unencumbered by any knowledge,\nyou are quick at disposing of obstacles. With the eye which is\nmissing from my other socket, you yourself are looking at the single\neye which I have left for sight.\" At this riddle, the brilliant\nWalsung eyes merely flash mirth, while Siegfried laughs at the\nobscure saying. Not a moment does he waste in reflection upon it,\nbut, with growing impatience to resume his quest, orders Wanderer\nto guide him or be thrust out of his road. \"If you knew me, bold\nstripling,\" the suffering god speaks, still gently, \"you would spare\nme this affront. Close to my heart as you are, your threatening\nstrikes me painfully. Though I have ever loved your luminous race,\nmy anger has before this brought terror upon them. You, toward\nwhom I feel such kindness,--you, all-too-bright!--do not to-day\nmove me to anger.... It might destroy both you and me!\" All that\nis plain to Siegfried, mad to be off in search of his sleeper,\nis that this prattling old personage neither tells him his way\nnor will consent to move out of it. As he once more rudely bids\nhim clear the path to the sleeping woman, Wotan's anger breaks\nforth: \"You shall not,\" he exclaims, \"go the way the bird pointed!\"\n\"Hoho! You forbidder!...\" cries Siegfried, amazed, \"who are you,\ntrying to prevent me?\" \"Fear the Guardian of the Rock! My power\nit is which holds the maid under the spell of sleep. He who awakes\nher, he who wins her, makes me powerless for ever!\"\n\nWotan, it would seem, is challenging the boy. His anger, justified\nthough it would be by the stalwart cub's behaviour, is half affected.\nHe had declared not far from this very spot, some eighteen years\nearlier, that no one who feared his spear should ever cross the\nbarrier of fire. The hour is at hand when the spear must offer\nitself to be braved by this incarnate courage bent upon that same\nadventure,--when Wotan must take the chances of discovering that\nthis boy is freer than he--the god. He had declared himself but a\nmoment ago, in his communication with Erda, willing to yield his\nsupremacy to the Eternally Young One. Actually to do it must be a\nlittle bitter, after enduring that Young One's cavalier treatment.\nPerhaps--the text admits of the interpretation,--Wotan is sincerely\nangry; at Siegfried's impertinence he has changed his mind in respect\nto yielding his throne to him, and with a real intention of driving\nhim back from the rock describes the terrors of the mountain: \"A\nsea of fire surges around the woman; hot flames lick the rock;\nthe conflagration rages against him who would push through to the\nbride. Look up toward the heights! Do you see not the light?...\nIt is waxing in brightness.... Scorching clouds, wavering flames,\nroaring and crackling, stream down toward us. A sea of light shines\nabout your head, Soon the fire will catch and devour you.... Then,\nback! mad child!\" \"Back yourself, you braggart!\" cries Siegfried,\nnothing deterred; \"up there where the flames flicker, I must hasten\nto Bruennhilde!\" He is about to push past, when Wotan holds his\nspear across the path: \"If the fire does not frighten you, my spear\nshall stop your way. My hand still holds the staff of sovereignty.\nThe sword which you swing was once shattered against this shaft,\nagain let it snap on the eternal spear!\" Instead of appalling him,\nthe majestic threat creates in Siegfried eagerness and glee: \"My\nfather's enemy! Do I find you here? Excellently this happens for\nmy revenge! Swing your spear! With my sword I will split it to\npieces!\" And he immediately does as he has said. Nothing, it seems,\nnot the spear of the law, can stand against the sword of perfect\ncourage. A clap of thunder accompanies the sundering of the spear.\nThe broken pieces roll at the Wanderer's feet. He picks them quietly\nup. With godlike calm, the hour having struck, he accepts inevitable\nfate. The motif of downfall points this beginning of the end of the\ngods. \"Go your way! I cannot hold you!\" He vanishes in darkness.\n\n\"With broken weapon the coward has fled?\" says Siegfried, looking\nabout for his father's enemy. The magic fire, as if to force the\nintruder back, has been pouring further and further down the\nmountain-side. But the one whom it should frighten rejoices, glories\nin the glory of the flames, jubilates. \"Ha! Delightful glow! Beaming\nbrightness! A radiant road lies open before me! Oh, to bathe in\nthe fire! In the fire to find the bride! Hoho! Hoho! Hahei! Hahei!\nMerrily! Merrily! This time I shall lure a dear companion!\" He sets\nthe silver horn to his lips and gaily blowing the Lock-weise starts\nup the mountain and is lost among the swirling sanguine smoke-clouds.\nThe fire burns bright; the merry call is heard from time to time\nfrom the unseen climber. The fire pales--the barrier has been past,\nthe region above is reached, the charmed sleeper's domain. When\nthe veiling smoke completely clears, we see the remembered scene\nof the Valkyries' rock, and Bruennhilde lying under the spreading\npine, as Wotan left her.\n\nIt is calm golden daylight. Over the brow of the mountain appears\nSiegfried and stands still a moment, outlined against the cloudless\nsky, wondering at the peace, the airiness, considering the \"exquisite\nsolitude on the sunny height!\" The sweet Fricka-motif speaks aloud\nas it were the unconscious language of his blood, voices the vague\ninstinct toward nest-building which in the Spring lightly turns a\nyoung man's fancy to thoughts of love. He has come in search of\na bride, upon the word of a little bird; but his ideas concerning\nthe promised \"dear companion\" are so few, and the novelty of all\nhe is seeing so takes up his mind, that when his eyes presently\nfall upon the recumbent form his first thought is not that here\nmust be what he has come in search of.\n\nHe approaches and marvels at the bright armour. He lifts off the\ngreat shield, again like a child, to see what it covers. A man in\nsuit of mail! He can see the face in part only, but warms with\ninstantaneous pleasure in its comeliness. The helmet, he surmises,\nmust press uncomfortably on the beautiful head. Very gently he\ntakes it off. Long curling locks, loosed from confinement, gush\nabundantly forth. Siegfried is startled by the sight. But the right\nwords, \"How beautiful!\" rise to his untaught lips. He remains sunk\nin contemplation of the marvel; the tresses remind him of a thing\nhe has often watched: shimmering clouds bounding with their ripples\na clear expanse of sky. As if drawn by a magnet, he bends lower\nover the quiet form and so feels the sleeper's breath. \"The breast\nheaves with the swelling breath, shall I break the cramping corslet?\"\nCautiously he makes the attempt, but, finding his fingers unapt at\nthe task, solves his difficulty by aid of Nothung. With delicate\ncare he cuts through the iron and lightly removes the corslet. \"This\nis no man!\" he cries, starting away in amazement. Such emotion seizes\nhim, with sensations of dizziness and faintness--such a pressure on\nthe heart, forcing from it burning sigh upon sigh, that, with a\nsense of having no resource in himself, he casts about for help\nin this all so unfamiliar exquisite distress: \"Whom shall I call\non that he may save me? Mother! Mother! Remember me!\" Swooning, he\nsinks with his forehead against Bruennhilde's breast--to be roused\nagain by the goad of his desire to see the eyes of the sleeper\nunclose. \"That she should open her eyes?\" He hesitates, in tender\ntrouble. \"Would her glance not blind me? Have I the hardihood?\nCould I endure the light?...\" He feels the hand trembling with\nwhich he is trying to quiet his agitated heart. \"What ails me,\ncoward? Is this fear? Oh, mother! Mother! Your bold child! A woman\nlies folded in slumber,... she has taught him to be afraid!...\nHow shall I bring this fear to an end? How shall I gain back my\ncourage? That I may myself awake from this dream I must waken the\nmaid!\" But awe of the so august and quiet sleeper again restrains\nhim. He does not touch her, but lingeringly gazes at her \"blossoming\nmouth,\" bows till the warm fragrance of her breath sweeping his face\nforces forth his impulsive cry: \"Awake! Awake! Sacred woman!\" He\nwaits with suspended breath. She has not heard. She does not stir.\nAn infinite weakness overtaking him, a mortal coming less, \"I will\ndrink life,\" he sighs, \"from sweetest lips, though I should swoon\nto death in the act!\" With closed eyes he bends over Bruennhilde's\nlips.\n\nTwelve bars, the tempo of which is marked \"_Sehr maessig,_\" very\nmoderate, sing themselves delicately and gravely to an end. Bruennhilde\nopens wide her eyes. Siegfried starts from her, not guiltily or\nto move from his place, only to stand erect and, absorbed, watch\nher movements.\n\nSlowly she rises to a sitting posture and with beatific looks takes\naccount of the glorious world to which she has reawakened. Solemnly\nshe stretches her arms toward the sky: \"Hail to thee, sun!\" A great\npause, of drinking in further the loveliness of the scene and the\njoy of life returned to, then: \"Hail to thee, light!\" And after\nanother great pause of wondering ecstasy: \"Hail to thee, radiant\nday!... Long was my sleep.... I am awake.... Who is the hero that\nhas awakened me?\" Siegfried stands spell-bound, in solemn awe at\nthe sound of her voice and the superhuman splendour of her beauty.\nHe answers, in the only way he knows, childlike, direct: \"I pressed\nthrough the fire which surrounded the rock; I released you from\nthe close helmet; Siegfried I am called who have awakened you!\"\nAt the sound of the name, the altogether right one, Bruennhilde\ntakes up again her song of praise: \"Hail to you, gods! Hail to\nthee, world! Hail, sumptuously blooming earth!\" And Siegfried breaks\nforth, in an exalted rapture which inspires his ignorance with\nexpression befitting the hour: \"Oh, hail to the mother who bore\nme, hail to the earth which nourished me, that I might behold the\neyes which now shine upon me, blessed!\" Bruennhilde, joining in\nhis hymn of gratitude, blesses, too, the mother who bore him, and\nthe earth which nourished him, whose eyes alone should behold her,\nfor whom alone she was destined to awake. The love-scene following\nleaves a singular impression of greatness. The wise daughter of\nthe Wala and the \"most splendid hero of the world\" are simple as\nchildren, sincere as animals or angels, ardent with honest natural\nfire, like stars. When their love finally reaches a perfect\nunderstanding their song is a succession of magnificent shouts,\nprimitive as they are thrilling.\n\n\"Oh, if you knew, joy of the world,\" Bruennhilde exposes her artless\nheart to the hero, \"how I have loved you from all time! You were\nmy care, the object of my solicitude! Before you were shaped, I\nnurtured you, before you were born, my shield concealed you,--so\nlong have I loved you, Siegfried!\" He believes for a moment that\nhis mother has not died but has been sleeping and now speaks to\nhim. In correcting him, Bruennhilde shows herself tenderly feminine.\nNo sooner has she spoken the words which must fall with inevitable\ndreariness on his ear, \"Your mother will not come back to you!\"\nthan she hastens to heal his hurt with the sweetest thing her love\nhas to say: \"Yourself am I, if you love me, fortunate....\" She\nexplains the meaning of her earlier words: \"I have loved you from\nall time, for to me alone Wotan's thought was known. That thought\nwhich I must never speak, which I did not think, but only felt;\nfor which I strove, struggled, and fought; for which I braved the\none who had framed it; for which I was made to suffer and bound\nin punishment; that thought--might you but grasp it!--was naught\nbut love for you!\"\n\nIt could hardly be hoped that the young forester should at this\nmoment be able to grasp anything so subtle, as he helplessly confesses:\n\"Wonderful sounds what you winningly sing; but the sense of it is\ndark to me. I see your eye beam bright; I feel your warm breath;\nI hear the sweet singing of your voice; but that which in your\nsinging you would impart, stupefied, I understand it not! I cannot\ngrasp the sense of distant things, when all my senses are absorbed\nin seeing and feeling only you. With anxious fear you bind me:\nyou alone have taught me to fear. Whom you have bound in mighty\nbonds, no longer withhold from me my courage!\" Bruennhilde at this,\nwith the touch of nature which makes the Valkyrie kin to the young\nlady of drawing-rooms, turns her head away and talks of something\nelse. She talks of Grane, whom she sees grazing a little way off.\nAs her eyes fall upon the corslet, cut from her body with a sword,\nthe sight smites upon her saddeningly, as a symbol. A consciousness\nof danger and defencelessness oppresses her, and when Siegfried,\nmade bold in his fear of her by the very need he feels of overcoming\nthat fear, impetuously seizes her in his arms, in terror she starts\naway from him and wrings her hands with a woful sense of not being\nany more that Bruennhilde \"whom no god had ever approached, before\nwhom reverently the heroes had bowed, who holy had departed from\nWalhalla.\" She feels her wisdom forsaking her, her light failing,\nnight and terror closing down upon her. She appeals to him at last\nagainst himself: \"Oh, Siegfried, see my distress!\"\n\nHe stands so still for a time, silent, puzzled by her, unwilling\ncertainly to frighten her further, that her immediate fear subsides;\nher countenance betrays, the stage-directions read, that \"a winning\npicture rises before her soul.\" The character of this may be divined\nfrom the melody rippling softly forth, the motif of peaceful love.\nA fresh green branch, it makes one think of, with a nest upon it,\nswinging in a summer wind. More gently she addresses him, pleading\nrather than repelling, winning him to give up his way for hers.\n\"Eternal am I,... but eternal for your weal! Oh, Siegfried, joyous\nhero! Renounce me.... Approach me not with ardent approach....\nConstrain me not with shattering constraint.... Have you not seen\nyour own image in the clear stream? Has it not gladdened you, glad\none? If you stir the water into turmoil, the smooth surface is lost,\nyou cannot see your own reflection any longer. Wherefore, touch me\nnot, trouble me not; eternally bright then shall you shine back at\nyourself from me. Oh, Siegfried, luminous youth! love--yourself, and\nwithhold from me. Destroy not what is your own!\" His robust young\nlove to this replies--after the simple outburst: \"You I love, oh,\nmight you love me! No longer have I myself, oh, had I you!\"--that\nit matters little his image should be broken in the glorious river\nbefore him, for, burning and thirsting, he would plunge into it\nhimself, that its waves might blissfully engulf him and his longing\nbe quenched in the flood. It is he who appeals now, with ancient\narguments, simple and telling as his blows at the dragon. When\nat the end of them he clasps Bruennhilde again, she does not as\nbefore wrest herself free, but laughs in joy as she feels her love\nsurging, till it, as it seems to her, more than matches his own,\nand he is the one, she judges, who should feel afraid. She, indeed,\nasks him, does he not fear?... But the opposite takes place. With\nher love, ardent as his own, frankly given him, all his courage\ncomes back, \"And fear, alas!\" he observes, a little disconcerted\nat the queerness of this new experience, \"fear, which I never\nlearned,--fear, which you had hardly taught me,--fear, I believe,\nI, dullard, have already forgotten it!\" Bruennhilde laughs in\ndelight--all of joy and laughter is their love after this up on\nthe sunny height--and declares to the \"mad-cap treasury of glorious\ndeeds\" that laughing she will love him, laughing lose the light of\nher eyes, laughing they will accept destruction, laughing accept\ndeath! Let the proud world of Walhalla crumble to dust, the eternal\ntribe of the gods cease in glory, the Norns rend the coil of fate,\nthe dusk of the gods close down,--Siegfried's star has risen, and he\nshall be, to Bruennhilde, for ever, everything! In equally fine and\njoyous ravings Siegfried's voice has been pouring forth alongside\nof hers; reaching at last an identical sentiment and the same note,\nthe two rush together like flashing mountain torrents, and are\nlost to us behind the descending curtain.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS\n\n\nTHE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS\n\n(DIE GOETTERDAEMMERUNG)\n\nI\n\nIn the Prologue of \"The Twilight of the Gods\" we learn from report\nthe portion of Wotan's history which belongs between the breaking\nof his spear and the final events which bring about the gods' end.\n\nAt the rising of the curtain the three Norns are dimly discerned\nupon the well-known scene of Bruennhilde's sleep, before the entrance\nto the rocky hall where Siegfried and she have their dwelling. The\nfiery palisade around their fastness casts a faint glow upon the\nnight. The Norns, as it were to while away the heavy hour before\ndawn, spin and sing. Their \"spinning\" consists in casting a golden\ncoil from one to the other, after some peculiar ritual, involving\nfastening it to this pine-tree, winding it about that point of\nrock, casting it over the shoulder, northward. Their song is of no\nfrivolous matter, but as if we should entertain ourselves recounting\nthe Creation, the Fall of Man, the Deluge. Of the World-Ash they\ntell, in whose shade a well flowed, murmuring runes of wisdom; of\na daring god who came to drink at the well, paying in toll one\nof his eyes. From the World-Ash, he, Wotan, broke a branch and\nfashioned it into the shaft of a spear. This he carved with runes\nof truth to compacts, and held it as the \"haft of the world.\" An\nintrepid hero clove it asunder. Wotan thereupon commanded the heroes\nof Walhalla to hew down the World-Ash and cut it to pieces. \"High\nlooms the castle built by giants,\" sings the youngest of the Norns;\n\"there in the hall sits Wotan amid the holy clan of the gods and\nheroes. Wooden billets heaped to a lofty pile surround the room.\nThat was once the World-Ash! When the wood shall burn hot and clear,\nwhen the flame shall devour the shining hall, the day of the end\nof the gods shall have dawned!\" Wotan himself, when the danger\nis no longer to be averted of a dishonoured end,--if Alberich,\nthat is, shall regain possession of the Ring,--will plunge the\nsplinters of his defeated spear deep into Loge's breast and himself\nset the World-Ash ablaze.\n\nAs night begins to yield to dawn, confusion falls on the minds of\nthe Norns; their visions, they complain, are dim. The strands of\nthe coil become tangled between their fingers. One of them descries\nan angry face--Alberich's--floating before her; another becomes\naware of an avenging curse gnawing at the threads of the coil.\nThis suddenly snaps--terrific omen! Appalled, with the cry that\n\"eternal wisdom is at an end,\" they vanish in search of their mother,\nErda, in the earth's depths.\n\nDay breaks. The reflection of Loge's defence pales. There greets\nour ear suddenly a sturdy strain, resembling something we have heard\nbefore. By analysis, we discover in it one of the Siegfried-motifs,\nthe horn-call, but grown so robust and weighty, so firm, strong,\ncommanding, that it hardly more than reminds us of the youthful\nLock-weise, fluttering forth hopefully to find a \"dear companion.\"\nThe dear companion has long been found. Hard upon this motif of the\ngrown-up Siegfried comes a wholly new motif, the motif of Bruennhilde\nWedded, wonderful for its entwining tenderness, yet the elevation\nit combines with its immensely feminine quality. It is given over\nand over; the instruments pass it from one to the other, like a\nwatchword.\n\nThe two thus announced come forth into the sunrise from their chamber\nin the rock, Siegfried full-armed, Bruennhilde leading Grane. They\nare glorious in this scene of parting. A nobler passion we do not\nremember hearing expressed than animates them and the music which\ninterprets their being. It is all a little more than life-size.\n\n\"To new exploits, beloved hero, how poor were my love, did I not\nlet you go! One single care restrains me, fear of the insufficiency\nof all I could bestow. What I learned from the gods I have given\nyou, a rich treasury of holy runes, but the maidenly staff of my\nstrength the hero took from me, before whom I now bow. Despoiled\nof wisdom, though filled with desire to serve; rich in love, but\ndevoid of power, oh, despise not the poor lover who can only wish\nyou, not give you, more!\"\n\nBut not all the wisdom of the Wala's daughter, not the rich treasury\nof runes, have availed to change Siegfried from his big incurable\nsimplicity,--as his answer in effect declares: \"More did you give\nme, wonder-woman, than I have capacity to retain! Be not angry that\nyour teaching should have left me still untaught. One knowledge\nthere is which I, none the less, hold fast: that Bruennhilde lives\nand is mine; one lesson I learned with ease: to think ever of\nBruennhilde!\"\n\nThe gift she asks of his love is that he shall think of himself,\nthink of his great deeds, increase his glory. He bestows on her\nin leaving the Ring, in which the virtue is condensed of all great\ndeeds he ever did. In exchange she gives him Grane. After offering\neach other, in their great mood, the consolation that to part is\nfor them not to be parted, for where he goes there in very truth\ngoes she, and where she remains there does he too abide, they call\nupon the gods to feed their eyes upon the dedicated pair they are,\nand with jubilant appellations for each other--Victorious light!\nEffulgent star! Radiant love! Radiant life!--the last good words\never exchanged between them!--they tear apart, without sorrow or\nforeboding. She watches him out of sight. The stage-directions\nsay: \"From her happy smile may be divined the appearance of the\ncheerfully departing hero.\" The emphatic phrase is heard, as he\ndescends into the valley, in which at their first meeting (in the\nopera \"Siegfried\") they vowed that each was to the other \"eternally\nand for ever, his inheritance and his possession, his only and\nhis all!\" The curtain closes on the Prologue.\n\nBy the music we can follow Siegfried on his journey. We know when\nhe comes to the fire, when he comes to the Rhine. There floats\nto us, with the effect of a folk-song, a legend, the lament of\nthe Rhine-nymphs for their lost gold. Sounds of warning are in\nthe air as Siegfried approaches the Hall of the Gibichungen, but\nto such the hardy hero, no need to say, is fast sealed.\n\nThe curtain unclosing shows the interior of the Hall of the Gibichungen,\nopen at the further end on the Rhine. Gunther, his sister Gutrune,\nand their half-brother Hagen, sit at a table set with drinking-horns\nand flagons.\n\nThis Hagen is the Nibelung's son of Erda's prophecy: \"When the\ndark enemy of Love shall in wrath beget a son, the end of the gods\nshall not be long delayed.\" An allusion of Hagen's there is to\nhis mother, as having succumbed to the craft of Alberich. On the\nother hand, a reference of Gunther's to Frau Grimhild, his mother\nand Hagen's, would seem to show that her history, whatever it may\nhave been, bore no outward blot.\n\nHe is early old, this \"child of hate,\" as Wotan long ago called\nhim, sere and pallid, totally unglad and hating the glad. He is the\ntool created by Alberich--even as Siegmund was Wotan's tool,--to win\nback for him the Ring. From his Nibelung father he has more than human\npowers and knowledge. In the conversation which we overhear between\nthe brethren, we witness Hagen laying lines for the recapture of the\nRing and Siegfried's destruction, for he, like Mime, understands\nthat there can be no safety for him who shall unrightfully get from\nSiegfried the Ring, while the strong-handed fellow lives.\n\nGunther--whose motif betrays him, with its little effect of shallow\nself-satisfaction, like a jaunty toss of the head,--Gunther asks\nHagen, is he not magnificent, sitting beside the Rhine; to the\nglory of Gibich? \"It is my habit,\" remarks Hagen evasively, \"to\nenvy you.\" \"Nay, for me it is to envy you, and not you me,\" Gunther\nin his pleasant humour rejoins; \"true, I inherited the right of\nthe first-born, but wisdom is yours alone, and I am, in fact, but\nlauding your good counsel when I inquire of my fame!\" \"I blame\nthe counsel then,\" speaks Hagen, \"for indifferent is as yet the\nfame. I know of high advantages which the Gibichung has not yet\nwon....\" Gunther's inquiry he satisfies: \"In summer ripeness and\nvigour I behold the stem of Gibich: you, Gunther, without wife,--you,\nGutrune, still unwed.\" Gunther and Gutrune, struck, are silent a\nmoment. Then Gunther inquires whom should he wed that lustre might\nbe added to the glory of the House? \"I know a woman,\" Hagen replies,\n\"the most glorious in the world. On a high rock is her throne; a\nfire surrounds her abode; only he who shall break through the fire\nmay proffer his suit for Bruennhilde.\" Gunther's mediocrity and\nhis sense of it stand ingenuously confessed in his question: \"Is my\ncourage sufficient for the test?\" \"The achievement is reserved for\none stronger even than you.\" \"Who is this unparalleled champion?\"\n\"Siegfried, the son of the Waelsungen.... He, grown in the forest to\nmighty size and strength, is the man I wish Gutrune for her lord.\"\nGutrune's motif, sweet and shallow, like Gunther's betrays her; an\ninnocent admission of mediocrity, too, is in her exclamation: \"You\nmocker! Unkind Hagen! How should I be able to attach Siegfried\nto me?\" She is unsure of her feminine charm as her brother of his\nmanly courage. As he finds nothing repugnant in the proposition\nto win his bride through another, so she accepts to win her love\nthrough a magic potion. Gunther, Gutrune, and Hunding are the only\nplain human beings in the drama of the Ring, and certainly they produce\nthe effect of rampant creatures among winged ones. Acquiescently\nGutrune hears Hagen's suggestion: \"Remember the drink in the cupboard;\ntrust me who provided it. By means of it, the hero whom you desire\nshall be bound to you by love. Were Siegfried now to enter, were\nhe to taste the spiced drink, that he ever saw a woman before you,\nthat ever a woman approached him, he must totally forget!\" Thus\nthey have it planned: Siegfried shall by a love-potion be won to\nGutrune, and, as a task by which to obtain her from her brother,\nshall be deputed to fetch Bruennhilde for him from her flame-surrounded\nheights. Hagen is alone, of the three, to know of the tie existing\nbetween Siegfried and Bruennhilde. But, \"How shall we find him?\"\nvery pertinently asks Gunther. While storming light-heartedly about\nthe world in search of adventures, it can hardly be, Hagen judges,\nbut that he shall come too to Gibich's shore on the Rhine. Even\nwhile he is speaking, Siegfried's horn is heard in the distance.\nHagen from the riverside describes the figure he sees approaching:\n\"In a boat, a hero and a horse: he it is, so merrily blowing the\nhorn. By an easy stroke, as if with an idle hand, he drives the\ncraft against the stream.\" (We hear that easy stroke of the idle\nhand,--the power and gaiety of Siegfried are in it; it has a family\nresemblance to the horn-call.) \"So vigourous a hand at the swinging\nof the scull he alone can boast who slew the dragon. It is Siegfried,\nsurely no other!\" Hagen makes a speaking-tube of his hands: \"Hoiho!\nWhither, blithesome hero?\" \"To the strong son of Gibich!\" comes\nanswer from the river. \"Here! Here come ashore! Hail, Siegfried,\nbeloved hero!\" The hero lands. As he stands at the entrance, holding\nGrane by the bridle, with the unconstraint of ancient manners they\nall quietly before speaking take one another's measure with their\neyes. Siegfried's fame has preceded him. He is known as the slayer\nof the dragon, the possessor of the Hort, and commander of the\nNibelungen. \"Which is the son of Gibich?\" he inquires. Gunther\npresents himself. \"I heard you lauded far down the Rhine,\" Siegfried\nsays; and, with the fresh directness again of ancient manners:\n\"Either fight with me, or be my friend!\" As we see him for the\nfirst time among common mortals, we perceive the effect of high\nelegance which pertains to Siegfried's calm, his careless perfect\nstrength and simplicity. Gutrune who has not removed her marvelling\ngaze from him since his entrance, withdraws--to prepare the drink.\nAs Hagen takes his horse to stable, Siegfried charges him, while\na dear memory sings in his heart: \"Take good care of Grane for\nme. Never did you hold by the bridle a horse of nobler breed!\"\n\nMagnificent is Gunther in expressions of welcome to the great guest:\n\"Joyfully hail, O hero, the Hall of my fathers! The ground you\ntread, all you see, regard as your own. Yours is my inheritance,\nyours are my land and my people. To these add my body. I offer\nmyself as your vassal.\" Siegfried replies: \"I offer neither land\nnor people; no father's mansion nor court. My sole inheritance is\nmy own body, which I expend day by day in living. Nothing have\nI but a sword, forged by myself.... This I pledge with myself to\nour alliance.\" Hagen, overhearing, ventures; \"Yet report calls\nyou possessor of the Nibelungen-Hort....\" And Siegfried; \"I had\nalmost forgotten the treasure, so do I prize its idle wealth! I\nleft it lying in a cave where it once was guarded by a dragon.\" (The\nreason is clear why the curse must drop away crippled, powerless\nto blight this free nature, unenfeebled by covetousness as by fear!)\n\"And you brought away no part of it?\" \"This metal-work, unaware of\nits use.\" Hagen recognises the Tarnhelm and explains its virtues.\n\"And you took from the Hort nothing further?\" \"A ring.\" \"You have\nit no doubt in safe keeping?\" \"It is in the keeping of a gracious\nwoman,\" Siegfried replies dreamily.\n\nBashful, blushing, tremulous, as different as is well possible from\nBruennhilde, Gutrune approaches, holding a filled drinking-horn.\n\"Welcome, guest, in Gibich's house! His daughter offers you drink!\"\n\nSiegfried holds the cup before him a moment without drinking, his\nthoughts flying afar. The words come back to him spoken to Bruennhilde\nat parting. An infinite tenderness invades him. \"Though I should\nforget all you ever taught me,\" he murmurs, \"one teaching I shall\nstill hold fast. My first draught, to faithful love, Bruennhilde,\nI drink to you!\" With which secret toast to the absent beloved\nhe sets the horn to his lips and drains it--to the motif of Evil\nEnchantment, the motif of the Cup of Forgetfulness, closely resembling\nthe Tarnhelm-motif, but sweeter,--cruel as a treacherous caress.\nThis whole passage, surpassingly exquisite to the ear, is painful\nto the heart as hardly another in the opera, fertile as this is\nin tragic moments. It marks the end of so much happiness.\n\nWhen Siegfried's eyes, as he returns the cup to Gibich's daughter,\nrest upon her, it is, as Hagen had foretold, as if he had never\nbefore beheld a woman. The inflammable heart which suffocated him\nof old at sight of Bruennhilde asleep, now makes his voice falter\nwith instantaneous passion as he exclaims: \"You, whose beauty dazzles\nlike lightning, wherefore do you drop your eyes before me?\" And\nwhen shyly she looks up: \"Ha, fairest woman, hide your glance!\nIts beam scorches the heart within my breast--Gunther, what is\nyour sister's name?... Gutrune!... Are they _good runes_ which I\nread in her eye?...\" Impetuously he seizes her hand; \"I offered\nmyself to your brother as his vassal, the haughty one repelled me;\nwill you exhibit the same arrogance toward me, if I offer myself\nas your ally?\" She cannot answer, for the confusion of joy which\noverwhelms her; signifying by a gesture her unworthiness of this\nhigh honour, with unsteady step she leaves the room. Siegfried,\nclosely observed by the other two, gazes lingeringly after her,\nfast-bewitched. Some sketch of a project for winning her it must\nbe prompting his next words: \"Have you, Gunther, a wife?\" \"Not\nyet have I courted, and hardly shall I rejoice in a wife! I have\nset my heart upon one whom no well-advised endeavour can win for\nme!\" \"In what can you fail,\" speaks Siegfried's brisk assurance, \"if\nI stand by you?\" \"Upon a high rock is her throne, a fire surrounds\nher abode,\" Gunther in hopeless tone describes the forbidding\ncircumstances. \"Upon a high rock is her throne, a fire surrounds\nher abode,...\" Siegfried rapidly says the words after him, which\nhis lips know so strangely well. \"Only he who breaks through the\nfire...\" \"Only he who breaks through the fire,...\" Siegfried is\nvisibly making a tremendous effort to remember, to account for\nthe something so curiously familiar in the image evoked. \"May be\nBruennhilde's suitor....\" By this, the cup of forgetfulness has\ncompletely done its work,--the name suggests to him nothing, the\neffort itself to remember is forgotten. \"But not for me,\" sighs\nGunther, \"to climb the rock; the fire will not die down for me!\"\n\"I fear no fire! I will win the woman for you,\" Siegfried declares,\n\"for your man am I, and my valour is yours, if I may obtain Gutrune\nfor my wife!\" Gutrune is promised him. It is Siegfried's heated\nbrain--for the first time fruitful in stratagem--which throws off\nthe plan to deceive this strange woman up in the fire-girdled fastness\nof whom they tell him, by means of the Tarnhelm, which lends the\nwearer any shape he wish to adopt. The future brothers swear\n\"blood-brotherhood,\" pledging their truth in wine, into which each\nhas let trickle a drop of his blood. \"If one of the brothers shall\nbreak the bond, if one of the friends shall betray his faithful\nally, let that which in kindness we drink to-day by drops gush\nforth in streams, sacred reparation to the friend!\" They clasp\nhands upon the compact, and Hagen with his sword cleaves in two\nthe drinking-horn. \"Why,\" it occurs to Siegfried, \"did not you,\nHagen, join in the oath?\" \"My blood would have spoiled the drink,\"\nreplies the joyless man; \"it does not flow noble and untroubled\nlike yours; cold and morose it stagnates in me, and will not colour\nmy cheek. Wherefore I keep afar from the fiery league.\" The ancient\nconception of the power of a vow, as of the power of a curse, is\ninterestingly illustrated in this story. The effectiveness of a vow,\nas we discover, has nothing to do with persons or circumstances; an\noath becomes a sort of independent creation with a precise operation\nof its own. Hagen, capable of any breach of faith, meditating nothing\nbut treachery, dare not join in the formality of the oath because of\nsure and deadly danger in breaking it. Siegfried deceives Gunther\nwithout intending or knowing it, yet his blood must \"gush forth\nin streams\" as appointed, to wash out his offence.\n\nSiegfried is for starting without delay on the quest: \"There is\nmy skiff; it will take us quickly to the rock; one night you shall\nwait in the boat on the shore, then shall you lead home the bride.\"\n\nThe Hall is left in Hagen's care. Followed by Gutrune's eyes, the\nheroes hurry off. Hagen places himself with spear and shield in\nthe doorway, and, while sitting there sentinel-wise, reflects upon\nthe success of his devices: \"Blown along by the wind, the son of\nGibich goes a-wooing. Helmsman to him is a strong hero, who is to\nbrave danger in his stead. His own bride this latter will bring\nfor him to the Rhine, but to me he will bring--the Ring! You frank\ngood fellows, light-hearted companions, sail cheerfully on! Abject\nthough he may seem to you, you are yet his servants--the servants\nof the Nibelung's son!\" The curtain closes.\n\nWhen it reopens we see the scene once more of Siegfried's and\nBruennhilde's leave-taking. Bruennhilde sits sunk in contemplation of\nthe Ring and the memories attached to it. Distant thunder disturbs\nher dreams; her ear seizes a familiar sound, not heard for many a\nday, the gallop of an approaching air-horse. Her name comes borne\non the wind. She rushes to receive Waltraute, whose call she has\njoyfully recognised. In her delight, she does not at once take\naccount of the Valkyrie's sorrowful and preoccupied mien. She presses\nrapid questions upon her: \"You dared then for love of Bruennhilde\nbrave Walvater's commandment? Or--how? Oh, tell me! Has Wotan's\ndisposition softened toward me? When I protected Siegmund against\nthe god, while it was a fault, I know that I was fulfilling his\nwish. I know, too, that his anger was appeased, for even though he\nsealed me in slumber, left me bound on a rock, to be the bondmaid\nof the man who should find and wake me, yet he granted favour to\nthe prayer of my terror, he surrounded the rock with a devouring\nfire which should close the way to the base. Thus was I through my\npunishment made happy! The most splendid of heroes won me for wife.\nIn the light of his love to-day I beam and laugh!\" With uncontrolled\njoy she embraces the sister, unconscious of the latter's impatience\nand shy attempt to repel her. \"Did my fate, sister, allure you?\nHave you come to pasture your sight upon my bliss, to share that\nwhich has befallen me?\"\n\nThe suggestion is verily too much! \"To share the tumult which,\ninsensate, possesses you? A different matter it is which impelled\nme, fearful, to break Wotan's commandment....\" Bruennhilde wakes\nto the sister's troubled looks, but she can still think of but\none reason for them. \"The stern one has not forgiven? You stand\nin terror of his anger?\" \"Had I need to fear him--there would be a\nterm to my fear!\" \"Amazed, I do not understand you!\" \"Master your\nagitation, listen attentively. The terror which drove me forth\nfrom Walhalla, drives me back thither....\" \"What has happened to\nthe eternal gods?\" cries Bruennhilde, at last alarmed. Waltraute\nunfolds to her then the sorrowful plight of the gods, making her\neven over the events in Walhalla since her cutting off from the\neternal dynasty. She describes Walvater returning home from his\nwanderings with his broken spear, the erection around the Hall\nof the Blessed of the funeral pile cut from the World-Ash, the\nassembling about Wotan's throne of the gods and heroes. \"There he\nsits, speaks no word, the splinters of the spear clenched in his\nhand. Holda's (Freia's) apples he will not touch. Fear and amazement\nbind the gods. His ravens both he has sent ranging; should they\nreturn with good tidings, then once again--for the last time!--the\ngod would divinely smile. Clasping his knees lie we Valkyries;\nhe is blind to our entreating looks. I pressed weeping against\nhis breast, his glance wavered--Bruennhilde, he thought of you!\nDeeply he sighed; he closed his eyes and as if in dream he breathed\nforth the words: \"If to the daughters of the deep Rhine she would\nrestore the Ring, delivered from the weight of the curse were the\ngods and the world!\" I bethought me then; from his side, between\nthe rows of silent heroes, I stole. In secret haste I mounted my\nhorse and rode upon the storm to you. You, oh, my sister, I now\nconjure: that which lies in your power, bravely do it,--end the\nmisery of the Immortals!\"\n\nBruennhilde speaks to her pityingly and gently; it is so long since\nshe emerged from the vapour-dimmed atmosphere of her heavenly home\nthat she receives no clear impression, she owns, of the affair\nrelated to her; but: \"What, pale sister, do you crave from me?\"\n\n\"Upon your hand, the ring--that is the one! Listen to my counsel,\nfor Wotan's sake cast it from you!\" \"The ring? Cast it from me?\"\n\"To the Rhine-daughters give it back!\" \"To the Rhine-daughters,\nI, this ring? Siegfried's love-token? Are you mad?\"\n\nBruennhilde is unshaken by Waltraute's insistence. Good or bad arguments\nhave nothing to do with the case, as it stands in her feeling.\nIndignation possesses her at the bare notion of the exchange proposed\nto her, out of all reason and proportion: Siegfried's love, of\nwhich his ring is the symbol, for Walhalla's and the world's peace!\n\"Ha! do you know what the ring is to me? How should you grasp it,\nunfeeling maid? More than the joys of Walhalla, more than the glory\nof the Immortals, is to me this ring; one look at its clear gold,\none flash of its noble lustre, I prize more than the eternally\nenduring joy of all the gods, for it is Siegfried's love which\nbeams at me from the ring! Oh, might I tell you the bliss.... And\nthat bliss is safeguarded by the ring. Return to the holy council\nof the gods; inform them, concerning my ring: Love I will never\nrenounce; they shall never take love from me, not though Walhalla\nthe radiant should crash down in ruins!\" When Waltraute with cries of\n\"Woe!\" flees to horse, she looks after her unmoved: \"Lightning-charged\ncloud, borne by the wind, go your stormy way! Nevermore steer your\ncourse toward me!\" She has no regrets; the request has been in\nher judgment so monstrous that it has hardened and shut her heart\ntoward those who made it. She gazes quietly over the landscape. Her\nsense of security in Siegfried's love is no doubt at its firmest\nin these moments following her fiery defence of it, her sacrifice\nto it of old allegiances. The very peace of possession is upon\nher.\n\nTwilight has fallen; the guardian fire glows more brightly as the\ndarkness thickens. Of a sudden, the flames leap high,--Loge's signal\nthat some one draws near. At the same moment Siegfried's horn is\nheard, approaching. With the cry: \"In my god's arm!\" Bruennhilde\nrushes to meet him.\n\nA figure springs from the flames upon a rock, a form foreign to\nBruennhilde's eyes. The flames drop back. The figure remains, dark\nagainst the dim glow of the sky. His head and the greater part of\nhis face are concealed by a helmet of curious fashion; she does\nnot, in the uncertain light, recognise the Tarnhelm. The fact itself\nof his being there is terrifying, arguing some singular treachery\nsomewhere. \"Treason!\" is Bruennhilde's first cry, as she recoils and\nfrom a distance stares breathlessly at the sinister intruder. He\nstands motionless, leaning upon his shield and regarding her. \"Who\nis it that has forced his way to me?\" she gasps. He is silent still;\nthe horror of him is increased by his silence and motionlessness\nand his metal mask. The motif of evil enchantment is woven through\nthe whole of this scene. In a hard masterful voice he speaks at\nlength: \"Bruennhilde! A suitor is come whom your fire does not alarm!\nI seek you for my wife; follow me unresistingly.\" It is all so\nstrange, so like the agonising impossibilities of a dream,--Bruennhilde\nfalls to trembling. \"Who are you, dreadful one? Are you a mortal?\nDo you come from Hella's army of the night?\" Still watching her,\nmotionless on his point of vantage, he replies: \"A Gibichung am\nI, and Gunther is the hero's name, whom, woman, you must follow.\"\nIt flashes upon Bruennhilde that this, this must have been the true\npoint of Wotan's punishment. When the figure springs from the rock\nand approaches her, she raises, to hold him off, the hand with\nSiegfried's ring. \"Stand back! Fear this sign!... Stronger than\nsteel I am made by this ring; never shall you rob me of it!\" \"You\nteach me,\" he replies, with his dark calm, \"to detach it from you!\"\nHe reaches for it, she defends it. They wrestle. She escapes from\nhim with a victorious cry. He seizes her again. The former Valkyrie,\nreinforced by the Ring, is a match very nearly for the stalwart\nWaelsung. A shriek is heard. He has caught her hand, and draws the\nring from her finger. As if all her strength had been in it and\nwere gone with its loss, she sinks, broken, in the arms of the\ndisguised Siegfried. He coldly lets her down upon the seat of rock.\n\"Now you are mine, Bruennhilde,--Gunther's bride. Withhold not your\nfavour from me now!\" She cowers, shattered and stupefied, murmuring,\n\"How could you have helped yourself, miserable woman!\" The right of\nthe stronger she recognises, primitive woman, as a right. Fairly\nvanquished, she must accept the fate of battle,--no dignity, as no\nsuccess, would pertain to further struggle. When with a gesture\nof command he points her to her stone chamber, trembling and with\nfaltering step she obeys. Siegfried, following, draws his sword\nand in his natural voice again, smooth and happy, addresses it:\n\"Now, Nothung, do you bear witness to the restraint which marks\nmy wooing. Guarding my truth to my brother, divide me from his\nbride!\"\n\nII\n\nThe Hall of the Gibichungen once more, seen from the outside. It\nis night. Hagen sits as we left him, in guard over the hall. He\nsleeps leaning against a pillar of the portal. A burst of moonlight\nshows Alberich crouching before him. \"Are you asleep, Hagen, my\nson? Are you asleep and deaf to my voice, whom sleep and rest have\nforsaken?\" \"I hear you, harassed spirit; what message have you\nfor my sleep?\" Remember! remember! is the burden of Alberich's\ncommunication. Be true to the task for the purpose of which you\nwere created. The old enemy, Wotan, is no longer to be feared;\nhe has been made powerless by one of his own race. The object now\nsingly to be kept in view is the destruction of this latter, and\ncapture of the Ring in his possession. Quickly it must be done,\nfor \"a wise woman there is, living for love of the Waelsung; were\nshe to bid him restore the Ring to the Rhine-daughters, for ever\nand ever lost were the gold!\" \"The Ring I will have!\" Hagen quiets\nthe care-ridden Nibelung, \"rest in peace!\" \"Do you swear it to me,\nHagen, my hero?\" \"I swear it to myself!\" Dawn has been creeping\nover the sky. The form of Alberich fades in the growing light and\nhis voice dies on the ear: \"Be faithful, Hagen, my son, be\nfaithful--faithful!\" Hagen sits alone in the broadening day, seemingly\nasleep, yet with eyes wide open. He starts. Flushed with the\nmorning-red, Siegfried strides up from the river-bank, uttering\nhis joyful \"Hoiho!\" \"Siegfried, winged hero, whence do you come so\nfast?\" \"From Bruennhilde's rock. I there took in the breath which I\nput forth in calling you,--so rapid was my journey. A couple follows\nme more slowly. Their journey is by boat. Is Gutrune awake?\"\n\n\"Now make we welcome, Gibich's-child!\" he greets her, as at Hagen's\ncall she comes hurrying out to him. \"I bring good tidings!\" In\nexuberantly good spirits he tells them the story of his bad action.\nThe magic draught administered to him had more than destroyed his\nmemory of Bruennhilde, we must believe; the inflaming potion had\nsomehow blotted out, or covered over and for the time cast into\nthe background, his father's part in him, the part of Siegmund, who\nfought to the end an unequal and losing battle to save a girl from\na marriage without love. \"Across the expiring fire,\" he concludes\nhis report, \"through the mists of early dawn, she followed me from\nthe mountain-top to the valley. At the shore, Gunther and I, in\na trice, changed places, and by virtue of the Tarnhelm I wished\nmyself here. A strong wind is even at the moment driving our dear\npair up the Rhine.\" \"Let us display all kindness in our reception of\nher,\" Gutrune proposes, with the generosity of overflowing happiness;\n\"that she may be pleased and glad to sojourn with us here! Do you,\nHagen, summon the vassals to the wedding at Gibich's court, while\nI will gather the women.\" Siegfried fondly offers her his help;\nhand in hand they go within.\n\nHagen is conscious, presumably, of an incongruity in the task assigned\nto him, the genial office of gathering together the clans for a\nwedding-feast. However that may be, he does not, to perform it,\ndepart at all from his character. Ascending to an eminence, he\nblows a melancholy blast through a great steer-horn, and, in a\nvoice portending tidings the most alarming, gives the call to arms:\n\"Hoiho! Gibich's men! Up! Arms in the land! Danger! Danger!\" In\nthis he persists until from all sides, singly at first, then in\ngroups and lastly in crowds, the vassals, hurriedly armed, come\nflocking. \"Why does the horn sound? Why are we called to arms?\nHere we are with our weapons.... Hagen, what danger threatens?\nWhat enemy is near? Who attacks us? Is Gunther in need of us?\"\n\"Forthwith prepare, and dally not, to receive Gunther returning\nhome. He has wooed a wife!\" This still in a tone befitting the\nannouncement of disaster. \"Is he in trouble? Is he hard pressed\nby the foe?\" \"A formidable wife he brings home!\" \"Is he pursued\nby the hostile kindred of the maid?\" \"He comes alone, unpursued.\"\n\"The danger then is past? He has come forth victorious from the\nencounter?\" \"The dragon-slayer succoured him in his need; Siegfried,\nthe hero, secured his safety.\" \"How then shall his followers further\nhelp him?\" \"Strong steers you shall slaughter and let Wotan's altar\nstream with their blood.\" \"And what, Hagen, are we to do after\nthat?\" \"A boar shall you slay for Froh, a mighty ram for Donner;\nbut to Fricka you shall sacrifice sheep, that she may bless the\nmarriage!\"\n\nThe men are beginning to penetrate through Hagen's sullen aspect\nto his joke; with heavy playfulness they help it on. \"And when we\nhave slaughtered the animals, what shall we do?\" \"From the hands\nof fair women take the drinking-horn, pleasantly brimming with\nwine and mead.\" \"Horn in hand,--what then?\" \"Bravely carouse until\ndrunkenness overwhelm you--all to the honour of the gods, that they\nmay bless the marriage!\" The rough warriors break into laughter,\nand in uncouth jollity stamp with their feet and spear-butts. \"Great\ngood fortune is indeed abroad on the Rhine when Hagen the grim\ngrows jovial!\" Not the faintest smile illumines the bleak face. At\nsight of Gunther's skiff approaching, he checks the men's laughter.\nMoving among them, with careful foresight he drops seed toward\nfruits of trouble: \"Be loyal to your sovereign mistress, serve\nher faithfully; if she should suffer wrong, be swift to avenge\nher!\" Hagen's plan for bringing about Siegfried's destruction is\nnot yet at this point settled in outline. We see him grasping at\nwhatever can be construed into a weapon against him. There are\nrepeated attempts on his part in the scene following to stir against\nSiegfried some fatal demonstration of popular anger.\n\nThe skiff draws to land. The vassals greet their lord and his bride\nwith noisy chorus of welcome, clashing their arms together, beating\ntheir swords against their bucklers.\n\nBruennhilde stands beside Gunther in the boat, statue-still, her eyes\nbent on the ground, like one who neither sees nor hears. Without\nresistance she lets Gunther take her hand to help her ashore; but\na suppressed snatch of the motif of Wotan's resentment suggests\nthe shudder ominous of danger overrunning his Valkyrie daughter\nat the contact.\n\nThis is Gunther's hour, this for him the supreme occasion in life;\nthe star of his destiny rides the heavens unclouded; he feels now\nmagnificent indeed in his seat on the Rhine, as he stands before his\npeople with the regal creature beside him whom he calls his wife.\nAs if to express the momentary expansion of his nature, his motif\nresounds, as proudly he presents her, quite changed in character; it\nhas taken on a grandeur approaching pomp: \"Bruennhilde, the glory\nof her sex, I bring to you here on the Rhine. A nobler wife was\nnever won! The race of the Gibichungen, by the grace of the gods,\nshall now tower to crowning heights of fame!\" Bruennhilde does not\nheed or hear. When, as Gunther leads her toward the Hall, Siegfried\nand Gutrune meet them, coming forth from it with strains of\nmarriage-music and a festal train of ladies, her eyes never moving\nfrom the ground, she does not see them. \"Hail, beloved hero! Hail,\ndearest sister!\" Gunther greets the bridal pair. \"Joyfully I behold\nat your side, sister, him who has won you. Two happy pairs are\nhere met--Bruennhilde and Gunther, Gutrune and Siegfried!\"\n\nAt the name, Bruennhilde looks quickly up.... Her astonished gaze\nfastens upon Siegfried's face and dwells intently upon it. Her\naction is so marked that Gunther drops her hand; all watch her\nin wonder. A murmur runs through the assembly: \"What ails her? Is\nshe out of her mind?\" Bruennhilde, still speechless, falls visibly\nto trembling. Siegfried becomes at last aware of something out of\nthe common in the gaze so persistently fixed upon him. He goes\nquietly to the woman and asks: \"What trouble burdens Bruennhilde's\ngaze?\" She has hardly power to frame words, make sounds, her emotion\nstill further intensified by his cool and disengaged address.\n\"Siegfried, here!... Gutrune!\" she painfully brings forth. \"Gunther's\ngentle sister,\" he enlightens her, in his major, matter-of-fact\nmanner, \"wedded to me, as you to Gunther!\" At this she recovers her\nvoice to hurl at him startlingly: \"I--to Gunther?... A lie!\" She\nis swooning with the helpless horror of all this monstrous mystery.\nSiegfried, who stands nearest, receives her as she totters, near to\nfalling. As she lies for a moment in the well-known arms, it seems\nimpossible, beyond everything impossible, that his unimaginable\npurpose should not break down, that he should not be forced to\ndrop this incomprehensible feint of strangeness. But her dying\neyes searching the face close to them discover in it no glimmer\nof feeling. Her heart-broken murmur: \"Siegfried.... knows me not?\"\ntouches no chord. The hero is for handing her over with all convenient\nhaste to her proper guardian. \"Gunther, your wife is ailing!\" As\nGunther comes, he rouses her: \"Awake, woman! Here is your husband!\"\nBecause her senses seem clouded and she a moment before rejected\nthe statement that she was married to Gunther, he singles out for\nher with his finger the personage he means. Her eyes, as he makes\nthis gesture, are caught by the Ring on his hand. Her mind leaps,\ninevitably, to the conclusion that Siegfried, who feigns not to\nknow her, not only has cast her off, but is in collusion with this\nman Gunther, her captor.\n\nTrying by a supreme effort to govern her agitation and anger at\nthe revelation of this unspeakable baseness, till she shall have\nsounded the affair, \"A ring I saw upon your finger,\" she addresses\nhim; \"not to you does it belong; it was torn from me by this man!\"\nindicating Gunther. \"How should you have received the ring from\nhim?\" Siegfried looks reflectively at the ring. Since all trace of\nthe former Bruennhilde is wiped from his brain, he cannot remember\nhis parting gift to her of the Ring. Certainly, he wrested a ring\nfrom this woman, in the twilight.... What became of it?... But\nthe ring on his hand is indisputably a relic of the old days of\nthe fight with the dragon. \"I did not receive the ring from him,\"\nhe replies. She turns to Gunther: \"If you took from me the ring,\nby which you claimed me for wife, declare to him your right to it,\ndemand back the token!\" Gunther is sore perplexed. \"The ring?...\nI gave him none.... Are you sure that is the one?\" \"Where do you\nconceal the ring,\" Bruennhilde presses him, \"which you robbed from\nme?\" Gunther is stupidly silent, not knowing what he should say; his\nconfusion is so obvious and his blankness so convincingly unassumed,\nthat the truth is borne upon Bruennhilde: It was not he, despite\nall appearances, who took the ring from her, and if not he--\"Ha!\"\nshe cries, in a burst of furious indignation, \"This is the man\nwho tore the ring from me; Siegfried, trickster and thief!\"\n\nSiegfried has been still gazing at the ring on his hand, trying\nto puzzle out points which the lacunae in his memory do not permit\nhim to make clear. The contemplation has brought back old scenes\nand distant events. He speaks, unruffled: \"From no woman did I\nreceive the ring; nor did I take it from any woman. Full well do\nI recognise the prize of battle, won by me before Neidhoehle, when\nI slew the mighty dragon.\"\n\nWith what quiet and conviction he makes the statement, as if verily\nhe spoke the truth! Such assurance is hardly imaginable, save as based\nupon conscious integrity.... Hagen now, the fisher in troubled waters,\ninterferes, still further to increase Bruennhilde's bewilderment:\n\"Are you sure you recognise the ring? If it is the one you gave\nto Gunther, it belongs to him, and Siegfried obtained it by some\nartifice which the deceiver shall be made to rue!\"\n\nPlainly, there is no way of help in clearing up this desperate\ntangle. The goaded woman bursts into a wild outcry, sharp as a\nknife by which she should hope to cut through the coil in which\nshe is caught: \"Deceit! Deceit! Dastardly deceit!... Treachery!\nTreachery! such as never until this moment called for vengeance!\"\n\nGutrune catches her breath: \"Deceit?...\" The quickly roused suspicion\nof the crowd takes up Bruennhilde's word: \"Treachery?... To whom?...\"\n\n\"Holy gods! Heavenly leaders!\" Bruennhilde's madness clamours to\nheaven: \"Did you appoint this in your councils? Do you impose upon\nme sufferings such as never were suffered? Do you create ignominy\nfor me such as never was endured? Prompt me then to vengeance such\nas never yet raged! Enkindle anger in me such as never was quelled!\nTeach Bruennhilde to break her own heart that she may shatter the\none who betrayed her!\" The ineffectual Gunther tries vainly to\nhush her, to stop the scandalous scene. \"Away!\" she thrusts him\nfrom her, \"cheat!... Yourself cheated!\" and she announces ringingly\nto them all the one thing which in all this confusion she knows\nto be true: \"Not to him (Gunther) am I married, but to that man,\nthere!\"\n\n\"Siegfried?... Gutrune's husband?\" the murmur passes through the\nastonished crowd.\n\n\"Love and delight he forced from me....\" Her momentary hatred of\nSiegfried thus distorts the image of the past. Siegfried's only\npossible interpretation of this astonishing declaration is that\nthe Tarnhelm did not properly conceal his identity--but even so\nthe woman is not speaking the truth. What her purpose can be in\nthus darkening her own fame he is at a loss to divine. He replies\nto her charge directly, careless at this point that the plot between\nGunther and himself stands betrayed by his words. \"Hear, whether I\nhave broken my faith! Blood-brotherhood I swore to Gunther: Nothung,\nmy worthy sword, guarded the vow of truth; its sharp blade divided\nme from this unhappy woman!\" Bruennhilde hears him with a jeer. They\nare speaking at cross purposes; he, as it should be remembered,\nof the foregoing night alone, while she speaks of that past so\nwholly blotted from his mind. \"Oh, wily hero! see how you lie!\nhow ill-advisedly you call to witness your sword! I am acquainted\nindeed with its sharpness, but acquainted, too, with the sheath--in\nwhich, pleasantly encased, Nothung, the faithful friend, hung against\nthe wall, while the master courted his dear!\"\n\n\"How?... How?...\" the agitated followers are beginning to ask. \"Has\nhe broken his word? Has he smirched Gunther's honour?\" Gunther,\nGutrune, the vassals, all a little shaken in their faith in Siegfried\nby the assurance of his accuser, press him to refute her charge,\nclear himself, take the oath which shall silence the disgraceful\naccusation. He unhesitatingly asks for a weapon upon which to swear.\nHagen craftily offers his spear. Siegfried placing his right hand\non the point, solemnly calls upon the sacred weapon to register\nhis oath, wording it in the following ill-omened fashion: \"Where\nsharpness may pierce me, do you pierce me; where death shall strike\nme, do you strike me, if yonder woman spoke the truth, if I broke\nmy vow to my brother!\" Bruennhilde hearing, flings his hand from the\nspear-point, and grasping it in her own, pronounces the counter-oath:\n\"Your weight I consecrate, spear, that it may overthrow him! Your\nsharpness I bless, that it may pierce him! For, having broken every\nvow, this man now speaks perjury!\" Siegfried and Bruennhilde each\nbelieve that what he swears is true; but the Oath, the blind power\nwhich takes no account of intention, of moral right or wrong, gives\nright in sequence to Bruennhilde. The spear pierces the hero who\ninvokes it so to do \"if the woman spoke true.\"\n\nThere is nothing more, the solemn oath taken, that Siegfried can\ndo, and in his stalwart fashion he turns his back on the whole\ntroublesome business, with the sensible suggestion that the wild\nwoman from the mountains be given rest and quiet \"until the impudent\nrage shall have spent itself which some unholy wizardry has suscitated\"\nagainst them all.\n\n\"You men, come away!\" he subjoins, all his heroic good-humour recovered.\n\"When the fighting is to be done with tongues, we will willingly\npass for cowards!\" For Gunther, whom he sees darkly brooding, he\nhas a word in the ear: \"Believe me, I am more vexed than you that I\nshould not have more perfectly deceived her; the Tarnhelm, I could\nalmost believe, only half disguised me. But the anger of women is\nsoon appeased. The woman will beyond a doubt be grateful hereafter\nthat I should have won her for you!\" The winged exhilaration of\nthe bridegroom repossessing him, he invites them all in to the\nwedding-feast, and casting his arm gaily around Gutrune draws her\nalong with him into the Hall--whither the people swarm after them.\n\nThe three are left outside whom no festivity can allure. In long\nsilence they remain, sunk in gloomy study, each on his side. To\nattempt arriving at clearness by questions does not occur to them;\nand, indeed, what to each is the principal thing, known from the\nproof of his eyes, no discussion could affect: for Bruennhilde,\nSiegfried is estranged from her; for Gunther, his marriage is turned\nto Dead-Sea apples.\n\nThe cheerful music, the summons to the wedding, dies away. Hagen\nbends his black brow in reflection as to how he shall utilise to\nhis advantage the passions he has aroused; covertly he watches\nhis victims. Gunther has cast himself down and muffled his face\nfrom the day, in the clutch of his jealous suspicion of Siegfried\nand the smart of his public shame.\n\nBruennhilde stands staring ahead, with set countenance of horror\nand grief. In an hour she has lived the tragedy which, spread over\nhowsoever many years, is still one of the hardest in human experience,\nthe tragedy which extorted Othello's groan: \"But there, where I\nhave garnered up my heart, where either I must live or bear no\nlife--to be discarded thence!\" She seeks in the void and blackness\nsome glimmer of light on the incredible mystery of these events.\nWith returning calm, a flash of the truth illuminates her, to the\nextent that she suspects in the unnatural developments of the last\nhour the work of sorcery. While hardly helping the actual situation,\nthis interpretation frees Siegfried from the hatefulness of such\nblack guilt as has appeared his, and we feel from this moment that\nBruennhilde's undeterred reaching after vengeance, her consent to\nSiegfried's death, is less a personal need to make an offender\npay, than the instinct to cut short the dishonour in which the most\nmagnificent hero in the world is fallen. Impossible of endurance\nis a world where Siegfried is false to all his vows, where Siegfried\nand Bruennhilde are no longer each to the other \"for ever and ever,\nhis only and his all!\" Heartbreak much more than resentment stamps\nBruennhilde's cry: \"Where is my wisdom against this enigma? Where\nare my runes? Oh, lamentation! All my wisdom I bestowed on him.\nIn his power he holds the bondmaid, in thongs the captive, whom,\nwailing over her wrong, the rich one joyously makes gift of to\nanother! Where shall I find a sword with which to cut the thongs?\"\n\nHagen approaches her: \"Place your trust in me, deceived woman! I\nwill avenge you on him who betrayed you....\"\n\n\"On whom?...\" she inquires, hazily. _Him who betrayed you_ describes\nmore than one. \"On Siegfried, who betrayed you.\" \"On Siegfried...\nyou?...\" She laughs, bitterly, while her unquelled pride in her\nfaithless lord mocks: \"A single glance of his flashing eye, which\neven through the lying disguise shed its radiance upon me, and\nyour best courage would fail you!\"\n\n\"But is he not, by reason of his perjury, reserved for my spear?\"\n\n\"Perjury or none, you must fortify your spear by something stronger,\nif you think of attacking that strongest of all!\" \"Well I know,\" the\nsubtle Hagen, with an effect of humbleness, continues, \"Siegfried's\nvictorious strength, and how difficult to overcome him in battle;\nwherefore do you give me good counsel: by what device may this\ngiant be defeated by me?\"\n\nShe breaks into complaint over the shameful requital with which\nthe love has met that, unknown to him, by charms woven all about\nhis body, made him invulnerable.\n\n\"No weapon then can hurt him?\" asks Hagen.\n\n\"No weapon that is borne in battle....\" But she corrects herself,\nremembering suddenly that he might, in truth, be wounded in the\nback. \"Never, I knew, would he retreat or in flight show his back to\nthe foe. Upon it therefore I spared to place the spell.\" \"And there\nmy spear shall strike him!\" determines Hagen. Having learned from her\nall that he need, he turns to Gunther: \"Up, noble Gibichung! Here\nstands your strong wife. Why do you hang back there in dejection?\"\n\nGunther breaks into passionate exclamations over the indignity\nhe has suffered. Close indeed upon his hour of glory comes the\nhour of his humiliation, when he must hear from the queenly woman\nin whom his pride was placed such words as these: \"Oh, ignoble,\nfalse companion! Behind the hero you concealed yourself, that he\nmight gain for you the prize of courage! Low indeed has your precious\nrace sunk, when it produces such dastards!\" Gunther utters broken\nexcuses, \"while deceiving her he was himself deceived,--betraying\nher, he was betrayed--\" and appeals to Hagen to stamp him out of\nlife or help him to wash the stain off his honour!\n\nHagen has them now both where, for his purposes, he wishes them.\n\"No brain can help you,\" he replies to Gunther, \"nor can any hand!\nThere is but one thing can help you--Siegfried's death!\" The two\nwords fall awfully on the air, followed by a long silence. The\nirresolute Gunther at the sound of the sentence writhes amid doubts\nand hesitations, such as do not for a moment move his stern\nfellow-sufferer. He remembers the blood-brotherhood sworn to Siegfried;\nhe begins to question whether the blood-brother has in very fact\nbeen false. A returning wave of affection and admiration for the\nbeautiful fellow calls forth a sigh, and then the thought of Gutrune:\n\"Gutrune, to whom myself I freely gave him! If we punish her husband\nso, with what face shall we stand before her?\" At this mention of\nGutrune, a light breaks upon Bruennhilde; \"Gutrune!... is the name\nof the magic charm which has enchanted away from me my husband....\nTerror smite her!\" \"If the manner of his death must offend her, let\nthe deed be hidden from her,\" Hagen soothes Gunther's scruple.\n\"We will to-morrow fare on a merry hunting-expedition. The noble\none will, according to his impetuous wont, go ranging ahead of\nus, and meet his death by a wild boar.\"\n\nThe three, coming to a common determination upon the fall of Siegfried,\nare calling upon the different powers to whom they refer their\ndeeds to hear their vows of revenge--Bruennhilde and Gunther upon\nWotan, guardian of promises, Hagen upon Alberich--who through the\nhappy working of this vow of vengeance will be master once more of\nthe Ring--when from the Hall comes pouring forth, with music and\nstrewing of flowers, the bridal procession. Gutrune, rose-wreathed,\nis borne shoulder-high upon a gilded and begarlanded throne. At the\nvision of her and the glowing Siegfried at her side, Bruennhilde\nshrinks back. Hagen forces her hand into Gunther's, and this second\nbridal pair falls into the train winding up the hillside to offer\nthe nuptial sacrifices.\n\nIII\n\nA rocky and wooded valley opening on the Rhine. It is part of the\nregion over-ranged by the hunting-party of Hagen's devising. The\nhorns of the hunters are heard in the distance,--Siegfried's horn-call\namong them, and Hagen's.\n\nOur old acquaintances, the Rhine-daughters, rise to the surface of\nthe water. They have warning or scent that Siegfried is not far,\nwith the Ring, their stolen gold. They complain in their undulating\nsong of the darkness now in the deep, where of old it was light,\nwhen the gold was there to shine for them. Notwithstanding their\nloss, they are little less full of their fun than before; they\nsplash and frolic in the water and with their voices copy the crystal\nplay of the river. They pray the sun to send their way the hero\nwho shall give them back the gold, after which they will regard\nwithout envy the sun's luminous eye! Siegfried's horn is heard.\nRecognising it as that of the hero who interests them, they dive\nunder to consult together,--concerning the best method, of course,\nof extracting from him the Ring.\n\nSiegfried comes to the edge of the bank overhanging the river, in\nsearch of tracks of his game, mysteriously lost. He is blaming some\nwood-imp for playing him a trick, when the Rhine-daughters, rising\ninto sight, hail him by name. They adopt with him the playful, teasing\ntone of pretty girls with a likely-looking young fellow: \"What are\nyou grumbling into the ground?.... What imp excites your ire?...\nHas a water-sprite bothered you?... Tell us, Siegfried, tell us!\"\nHe watches them, smiling, and replies in their own vein: \"Have you\ncharmed into your dwellings the shaggy fellow who disappeared from\nmy sight? If he is your sweetheart, far be it from me, you merry\nladies, to deprive you of him!\" They laugh loud and long, the\nRhine-nymphs. \"What will you give us, Siegfried, if we find your\ngame for you?\" \"I have so far no fruit of my chase. You must tell\nme what you would like!\" \"A golden ring gleams on your finger...\"\nsuggests Wellgunde, and, unable to restrain their eagerness, the\nthree cry out in a voice: \"Give us that!\" He considers the Ring a\nmoment. \"A gigantic dragon I slew for the ring, and I am to part\nwith it in exchange for the paws of a worthless bear?\" \"Are you so\nniggardly?... So higgling at a bargain?... You should be generous\nto ladies!...\" they shame him one after the other. With perfect\ngood humour, he offers as a better objection: \"Were I to waste\nmy property on you, my wife, I suspect, would find fault.\" \"She\nis a shrew, no doubt?... I dare say she beats you.... The hero\nhas a presentiment of the weight of her hand!...\" They laugh\nimmoderately. \"Laugh away!\" the hero laughs with them, but, not\nto be compelled by their derision: \"I shall none the less leave\nyou to disappointment, for the ring which you covet no teasing\nshall get for you!\" The wily maidens do not take this up, but,\nturning from him, permit him to overhear the remarks about him\nwhich they exchange among themselves: \"So handsome! So strong!...\nSo fitted to inspire love!... What a pity that he is a miser!\"\nWith shouts of laughter they duck under.\n\nSiegfried turns away, untroubled, and descends further into the\nnarrow valley. But their words have not quite glanced off him.\n\"Why do I suffer such a mean report of myself? Shall I lend myself\nto gibes of the sort? If they should come again to the water's\nedge, the ring they might have!\" Too large to feel demeaned by an\ninconsistency, he shouts to them: \"Hey, you lively water-beauties!\nCome quickly! I make you a gift of the ring!\" Taking it off, he holds\nit toward them. This is the point in his fortunes where we perceive\nthe working of Siegfried's fate. If the nymphs, as one would have\nfelt safe in counting upon their doing, had risen and caught the\nRing from him with a laugh louder than any before, all might have\nbeen well. Hagen would have had nothing to gain by killing him.\nBut the curse which doomed the owner of the Ring to a bloody end\nwould not have it so. It had been crippled, it is true, against the\nnoble one; it had failed to make him suspicious, sad, and careful.\nBut his violent death we see provided for when, by what seems the\nmerest hazard, his offer of the Ring to the Rhine-maidens is not\naccepted on the expected terms. The sisters rise to his call, but\ninstead of faces dancing with laughter they show him grave and\nwarning countenances. Their subaqueous deliberations have resulted\nin a most ill-inspired change of tactics. Instead of snatching at\nthe proffered Ring and glad to have it, they represent to Siegfried\nthat he will be under an obligation to them for ridding him of it.\nHis mood of giving is changed by a threat into one of refusal.\n\"Keep it, hero, and guard it with care, until you become aware of\nthe evil fate you are cherishing under its shape. Then you will\nbe glad if we will deliver you from the curse!\" He slips back the\nRing on his finger and bids them tell what they know. \"Siegfried!\nWe know of evil threatening you! To your danger you retain the\nRing! Out of the Rhine-gold it was forged; he who shaped it and\nmiserably lost it, placed a curse upon it long ago, that it should\nbring death upon him who wore it. As you slew the dragon, even\nso shall you be slain, and this very day, of this we warn you,\nunless you give us the Ring to bury in the deep Rhine; its water\nalone can allay the curse!\" \"You artful ladies,\" the hero shakes\nhis head, \"let be that policy! If I hardly trusted your flatteries,\nyour attempt to alarm me deceives me still less....\" When more\nimpressively still they reiterate their warning, protesting their\ntruth, urging the irresistible strength of the curse woven by the\nNorns into the coil of the eternal law, he answers, and the nature\nagainst which the curse had so long been of no effect shows brightly\nforth in the brief tirade: \"My sword once cleft asunder a spear.\nThe eternal coil of the law, whatever wild curses they have woven\ninto it, the Norns shall see cut through by Nothung. A dragon once\nupon a time did of a truth warn me of the curse, but he could not\nteach me to fear! Though the whole world might be gained to me by\na ring, for love I would willingly cede it; you should have it\nif you gave me delight. But if you threaten me in life and limb,\nthough the ring should not enclose the worth of a finger, not by\nany force could you get it from me! For life and limb, if I must\nlive loveless and a slave to fear,--life and limb, look you, like\nthis I cast them far away from me!\" He takes up and flings a clod\nof earth over his shoulder. The Rhine-daughters in agitation press\nhim still for a moment with warnings; but, realising the futility\nof these, with the prophecy: \"A proud woman will this very day\ninherit of you; she will lend a more heedful ear to our warning!\"\nthey finally swim away, as they announce: \"To her! To her! To her!\"\n\nTheir singing floats back, dying away, a long time after they have\ntaken their leave; Siefgried stands watching them out of sight,\namused: \"In water as on land I have now learned the ways of women;\nif a man resist their cajoling, they try threats with him; if he\nboldly brave these, let him look for scorn and reproaches! And\nyet--were it not for my truth to Gutrune, one of those dainty\nwater-women I should have liked to tame!\"\n\nThe horns of the hunting-party are heard approaching. Siegfried\nshouts in answer to their shouts. When Hagen and Gunther come in\nsight, he calls to them to join him down there where it is fresh\nand cool. The company with their freight of game descend into the\nshady gorge, to camp for an hour. The wine-skins and drink-horns\nare passed. Siegfried, questioned by Hagen of his fortune at the\nchase, jestingly gives his account: \"I came forth for forest-hunting,\nbut water-game was all that presented itself. Had I had a mind\nto it, three wild water-birds I might have caught for you, who\nsang to me, there on the Rhine, that I should be slain to-day!\"\nNever had he spoken with a more unclouded brow. Gunther starts at\nhis words and glances apprehensively at Hagen. Siegfried stretches\nout contentedly between them, the ample sunshine in his blood,\nand remembers that he is thirsty. Hagen treats the evil prophecy\nas lightly as does Siegfried himself. In not unnatural sequence\nto Siegfried's reference to the water-birds, he remarks: \"I have\nheard it reported, Siegfried, that you understand the language of\nthe birds. Is it true?\" \"I have not heeded their babble this many\na day--\" Siegfried is saying, when Gunther's heavy and preoccupied\nmien is borne upon him; he breaks off to reach him his drink-horn,\ncheerily rallying him: \"Drink, Gunther, drink! Your brother brings\nit to you!\" Gunther, oppressed by his dark doubt of Siegfried, is\nnot prompt in accepting the proffered cup. His reply obscurely\nconveys his sense of some failure in their good-fellowship. Siegfried\ntakes it up merely to turn into occasion for one of his cordial\nlaughs. \"You over-cheerful hero!\" sighs Gunther. Something is wrong,\nSiegfried cannot fail to see. He drops privately to Hagen his\ninterpretation of the friend's gloom: \"Bruennhilde is giving him\ntrouble?\" \"If he understood her as well as you understand the song\nof the birds!\" Siegfried has an inspiration. Those last words of\nHagen's contain the germ of it. \"Hei! Gunther!\" he calls to the\nblood-brother, who appears so sorely in need of cheering: \"You\nmelancholy fellow! If you will thank me for it, I will sing you\ntales from the days of my youth!\"\n\nGunther's reply is politely encouraging. Hagen joins his invitation\nto the half-brother's. The listeners place themselves at ease on\nthe ground about the narrator, seated in their midst on a mossy\nstump. Then Siegfried, with his beautiful, bottomless zest in life,\nrecounts in vivid running sketches the story we know. One after\nthe other the familiar motifs pass in review. From them alone one\ncould reconstruct the tale. Of his childhood in Mime's cave, the\nforging of Nothung, the slaying of the dragon. Of the wonder worked\nby the drop of dragon's blood on the tongue, the little bird's good\ncounsel by which he won Tarnhelm and Ring, the same bird's warning\nupon which he slew Mime. At this point, when we are wondering how,\nwith Bruennhilde wiped from his memory, he can proceed, Hagen hands\nhim a horn filled with wine, in which he has been seen expressing\nthe juice of an herb; this, the Nibelung's son, wise in the virtues\nof simples, tells him, will sharpen his memory and bring close\nremote events.\n\nSiegfried takes the cup, but for a moment does not taste it, absorbed,\nas is evident, in the effort to remember what came right after the\npoint in his story at which he just broke off. The forgetfulness-motif\nsuggests his baffled groping. Mechanically he sets the horn to\nhis lips--a strain of the tenderest and most ecstatic of the\nSiegfried-Bruennhilde love-music marks the first effect of the draught\nwhich dissolves the mists obscuring memory,--followed close by\nthe whole slowly unwinding Bruennhilde-motif. We feel as if we had\nsuddenly, with Siegfried, waked from a bad dream. We take a trembling\nbreath of relief at the weight removed from our heart.\n\nA light of fixed joy grows and grows in Siegfried's face, as upon\nthis recovering of his true identity he takes up his story again:\n\"Wistfully I listened for the bird in the tree-tops. He sat there\nstill, and sang; 'Hei, Siegfried has slain the wicked dwarf! I\nhave in mind for him now the most glorious mate! On a high rock\nshe sleeps, a wall of flame surrounds her abode. If he should push\nthrough the fire, if he should waken the bride, then were Bruennhilde\nhis own!'\" Gunther hears in growing amazement. \"Straightway,\nunhesitating, I hastened forth. I reached the fire-girt rock. I\ncrossed the flaming barrier, and found in reward\"--the memory holds\nhis breath suspended--a beautiful woman, asleep in a suit of gleaming\narmour. I loosed the helmet from the glorious head; audaciously\nwith a kiss I waked the maid.... Oh, with what ardour did then\nthe arm of the lovely Bruennhilde enfold me!\"\n\nGunther springs up in horrified comprehension. Two ravens at this\nmoment make sudden interruption, flying out of a tree and wheeling\nabove Siegfried's head. He starts up, in natural interest at the\napparition of Wotan's messengers. \"Can you understand, too, the\ncroaking of these ravens?\" sneers Hagen. Siegfried, looking after\nthe black birds as they bend their flight Rhine-wards, turns his\nback to the questioner. \"They bid me take vengeance!\" Hagen grimly\ninterprets for himself, and with a quick thrust drives his spear\nthrough Siegfried's body, from the back. Too late Gunther holds\nhis arm and the retainers spring to prevent him. Siegfried's eyes\nflash wildly about for a weapon. He snatches up his great shield\nand lifts it aloft to crush the perfidious enemy,--but his strength\nfails, the shield drops, and he falls crashing backwards upon it.\n\n\"Hagen, what have you done?\" comes accusingly from Gunther and\nthe men-of-arms, while a shudder runs through the assembly, and,\nas one feels at the music's intimation, through the very heart\nof nature. \"Taken vengeance of perjury!\" Hagen coldly replies,\nand, turning from the group gathered around the dying hero, slowly\ndisappears in the gathering dusk. Gunther, seized with remorseful\nanguish, bends over the wounded brother. Two of the company, aiding\nhis effort to rise, support him. It is clear at once that immediate\nsurroundings and recent events are blotted from his ken by the\nbrighter light of a remembered scene, filling the wide-open,\nover-brilliant Waelsung-eyes. The music lets us into the secret\nfirst of what it is--so absorbingly present to him in this last\nhour: the moment marvellous among all in his existence, when he\nhad seen the sleeping Bruennhilde return to life. It is as if it\nwere all happening a second time, she having mysteriously since\nthat first awakening been again sunk into sleep, from which he\nmust now again recall her: \"Bruennhilde, sacred bride... awake!...\nOpen your eyes.... Who sealed you again in sleep?... Who bound you\nin joyless slumber? The Awakener is come. He kisses you awake....\nHe rends the confining bands... whereupon breaks forth upon him\nthe light of Bruennhilde's smile!... Oh, that eye, henceforth to\nclose no more!... Oh, the happy heaving of that breath!... Sweetest\nlanguor, blissful darkness.... Bruennhilde welcomes me to her!...\"\n\nSo he dies as he had lived, joyous and unafraid, the curse, while\nhaving its way with him to the extent of securing his destruction,\ncrippled as ever before, when the death by which it would punish\nis embraced like a bride.\n\nFor a long moment all stand motionless and heavily silent. It really\nseems impossible that a spear-thrust could extinguish that\nglowing,--that superabundant,--that splendid life. Night deepens.\nAt a sign from Gunther, the men lift the dead, laid upon his shield,\nto their shoulders, and in solemn procession start upon the rocky\npath homeward.\n\nWhat is called Siegfried's funeral-march is, as it were, a funeral\noration spoken over him by a great voice, of one penetrated with\nthe sense of what he was and of earth's loss in him. \"Listen! Listen\nand shudder, all created things, and feel the shock, and measure\nthe magnitude, of your loss! Behold, he was brave among all heroes,\nthis Waelsung,--yet tender, too. He was the child of the love of two\nbeautiful, unhappy beings, and, a glory to them, he became--Siegfried,\nthe most exalted hero of the world! Mourn for him heroically, not\nwith tears, but battle-shouts, in keeping with his greatness!\"\n\nThe moon breaks through the clouds and showers spectral light upon\nthe funeral train slowly moving up the hillside. Night-mists rise\nfrom the Rhine and gradually blot out the scene.\n\nWhen the mists disperse we find ourselves once more in the Hall\nof the Gibichungen, where Gutrune, troubled by the tardiness of\nthe hunters in returning, strains her hearing for Siegfried's horn.\nBad dreams have disturbed her sleep, and the wild neighing of Grane,\nand the sound of Bruennhilde laughing in the solitary night. \"I\nfear Bruennhilde!\" she confesses to herself. Yet, in need of\ncompanionship in her anxiety, she calls at the sister-in-law's\ndoor; receiving no answer, she looks in. The room is empty. It\nmust have been Bruennhilde, then, whom she saw striding down to the\nbank of the Rhine, unable, like herself, to sleep.\n\nHearing a stir, she again listens intently for Siegfried's horn.\nNot that, but Hagen's lugubrious Hoiho! comes to her ear: \"Hoiho!\nAwake! Lights! Bright torches! We bring home spoils of the chase!\"\nHe appears in advance of the party thus announced. \"Up, Gutrune!\nWelcome Siegfried, the strong hero returning home!\" She is\nfrightened--the fact is to her so significant of not having heard\nhis horn. As the confused train accompanying the slain hero pours\ninto the hall, Hagen's exultation can no longer contain itself,\nand, negligent of all suitable appearance of concern for Gutrune's\nsorrow, he announces the death of her beloved with all the gloating\nglee he feels: \"The pallid hero, no more shall he blow the horn,\nno more storm forth either to chase or to battle, nor sue ever\nmore for fair women!\" They bring in the body, they set down the\nbier. \"The victim of a wild boar, Siegfried, your dead lord!\" With\na shriek Gutrune falls fainting upon the inanimate form. Gunther\ntries to comfort her, clearing himself, accusing Hagen: \"He is\nthe accursed boar who slew the noble one!\" \"Yes, I killed him!\"\nboldly boasts Hagen, so near the attainment of his object that\nhe is careless of all else; \"I, Hagen, struck him dead! He was\nreserved for my spear, by which he swore his false oath. I have\nearned the sacred right to his spoils, wherefore--I demand that\nRing!\" \"Back!\" shouts Gunther, as Hagen approaches to take it.\n\"What belongs to me, you shall never touch! Dare you lay hands on\nGutrune's inheritance?\" But Hagen, in his new mood, is quick of\nhis hands as earlier of his wits. He draws his sword and without\nfurther parley attacks Gunther. The fight is short, Gunther falls.\nHe had been the claimant of the Ring but a few hours. Hagen hurries\nto the bier to snatch his prey from Siegfried's finger. The dead\nhand is slowly raised... and threateningly warns off the robber.\nHagen drops back.\n\nIn the stillness of horror which succeeds the loud outcry of the\nwomen at the portent, a solemn figure parts the crowd and strides\nslowly forward--Bruennhilde, to whom the passing hours have restored\ncalm, and to whom meditation has brought light.\n\nShe knows now what she should think, and what there remains to do.\n\nGutrune, hearing her voice, raises her own to accuse her of all\nthis woe overtaking them: \"You--you incited the men against him--woe\nthat you should ever have entered this house!\" \"Hush! pitiable\ngirl!\" Bruennhilde checks her, without anger. \"You never were his\nwedded wife; as his paramour you ensnared his affections. The mate\nof his manhood am I, to whom he vowed eternal vows, before ever\nhe saw you!\" Gutrune upon this, apprehending all, curses Hagen\nwho had given her the evil drink through which Siegfried had been\nmade to forget his former love.\n\nA long space Bruennhilde stands in contemplation of Siegfried's\nface, gazing with changing emotions, from passionate sorrow to\nsolemn exultation. She turns at length to the vassals and commands\nthem to build a great funeral pile. High and bright let the flames\nleap which shall devour the noble body. Let them bring Grane, that\nhe with herself may follow the hero, whose honours her own body\nyearns to share. While they are fulfilling her wish, she falls once\nmore into rapt study of the dead face, her own face becoming gentler\nand gentler, as clearer and clearer understanding comes to her of\nhim and all that had happened. Her features appear softly glorified\nat last with the light of forgiveness and reconcilement--and she\nspeaks his praise and justification: \"Clear as the sun his light\nshines upon me. He was the truest of all, this one who betrayed\nme!\" As an instance of his truth she quotes the incident of the\nsword, placed, in loyalty to his friend, between himself and his own\nbeloved, \"alone dear to him.\" \"Vows more true than his were never\nvowed by any; no one more faithfully than he observed a covenant; no\nother ever loved with a love so unalloyed; and yet all vows, all\ncovenants, all obligations of love, were betrayed by him as never\nby man before! Do you know how this came to be?...\" The dealing with\nher of Wotan she recognises in these extreme calamities falling\nupon her; she must suffer all this to be brought, blind one, to a\ncomprehension of that which was demanded of her, which she had so\nhaughtily refused to consider when Waltraute pleaded for the gods.\nShe bows now under his heavy hand, but not without reproach and\narraignment: \"Oh you, holy guardians of vows! Turn your eyes upon\nmy broad-blown woe: behold your eternal guilt! Hear my accusation,\nmost high god! Through his bravest action, desired by you and of\nuse to you, you devoted him who performed it to dark powers of\ndestruction....\" (The old story of the Ring!) \"By the truest of\nall men born must I be betrayed, that a woman might grow wise!...\nAnd have I understood at last what it is you want of me?... Aye,\nof everything, of everything, everything, I have understanding!\nAll has in this hour become clear to me.... I hear the rustling,\ntoo, of your ravens: with the message so fearfully yearned for\nI send them both home.... Be at rest, be at rest, you god!\" The\ntone of these last words is that of the old Bruennhilde once more,\nthe tender daughter pitying her father's sorrows. Yes, let him be\nat rest, for the Ring shall go back to the Rhine, to obtain which\nresult her dearest happiness has been sacrificed. She takes it from\nSiegfried's finger, and places it--Siegfried's love-token, not to\nbe yielded up while she lives--upon her own. The Rhine-daughters,\nwhen the funeral pile has burned to the ground, shall take it from\nher ashes. She has had conversation in the night with the wise\nsisters of the deep; no fear but that they will be at hand.\n\nAnd is that what will be Bruennhilde's prophesied world-delivering\nact? Restoring the Ring to the Rhine, thus saving the world definitely\nfrom Alberich and the army of the night? Or can we suppose it to\nbe the act which she accomplishes in the same stroke,--the act of\nplunging into their twilight the whole tribe of the tired unjust\ngods, so long now tremulously awaiting their end? Or, is the latter\nact Bruennhilde's supreme vengeance? Or,--this seems more likely,--an\nact of supreme benevolence, the result of at last understanding\n\"everything, everything, everything!\"?\n\nThe funeral pile decked with precious covers and flowers stands\nready, Siegfried's body upon it. Bruennhilde seizes a torch from\none of the attendants: \"Fly home, you ravens, report to your master\nwhat you have heard here by the shore of the Rhine! Pass, on your\nway, near to Bruennhilde's rock: direct Loge, who is still smouldering\nthere, to Walhalla. For the dawn is now breaking of the end of the\ngods! Thus do I hurl a burning brand into Walhalla's flaunting\ncitadel!\" She sets fire with these words to the pyre, which rapidly\nblazes up. Wotan's ravens are seen slowly flapping off toward the\nhorizon. Bruennhilde takes Grane from the young men holding him,\nand, with all the joy now again in her voice, face, and words,\nwhich illuminated the moment of her first union, long ago, with the\nthen so youthful and ingenuous Awakener, she rushes to be reunited\nto him in death, springing with her jubilant Valkyrie-cry upon\nGrane and with him plunging into the flames.\n\nThe fire flares doubly brilliant and high; the red glare of it\nfills the whole scene. It becomes evident suddenly that the Hall of\nthe Gibichungen is burning. The people huddle together in terror.\nWhen the funeral pile sinks to a heap, the Rhine is seen flooding in\nupon the embers. Hagen, eagerly on the watch for his last chance,\nbeholds with the insanity of despair the Rhine-daughters rise from\nthe waves close beside the site of the pyre. Hurling from him shield\nand spear, he dashes into the water to thrust them back. \"Away\nfrom the Ring!\" Two of the jocose sisters for all reply entwine\ntheir arms around his neck and draw him away and away with them\ninto the deep water. The third triumphantly holds up before his\neyes the recovered Ring.\n\nAs the fire dies among the blackened ruins of the Hall, and the\nRhine recedes into its boundaries, a red light breaks in the sky.\nMore and more brightly it glows, till Walhalla is discerned in its\ncentral illumination, with its enthroned gods and heroes. Flames\nare seen invading the stately hall. When the company of the Blessed\nare completely wrapped in fire, the curtain falls.\n\nThe last word of the music is the exultant phrase by which Sieglinde\ngreeted the prophecy of Siegfried's birth. It has been woven all\nthrough Bruennhilde's last ardently happy salutation to him, as\nif in recognition of some mystical quality--in death--of birth.\n\n\nSo Wotan finds his rest, and the ill consequences at last end of\nhis unjust act--end with the reparation of the injustice, the return\nof the gold to the Rhine. But has not the evil act been like the\nDjinn of old, let out of the insignificant-looking urn, waxing\ngreat, looming dark, and dictating hard terms! When Wotan in pride\nof being committed it, against two simpletons, how could he have\ndivined that by this pin-point he set inexorable machinery moving\nwhich should bring about his confusion, forcing him in its progress\nto so many injustices more, injustices which his soul would loathe,\nwhich would blight his best beloved, which would by far be his\ngreatest punishment!... The Trilogy is moral as a tract.\n\n\nTHE MASTER-SINGERS OF NUREMBERG\n\n\nTHE MASTER-SINGERS OF NUREMBERG\n\nI\n\nThe \"argument of The Master-singers\" is effectually given in the\nOverture: Art and Love. The Masters are first--a little pompously,\nas befits their pretensions,--presented to us. Then Young Love\nsweeps across the scene, delicate musical gale. The themes of the\ntwo then mingle, foreshadowing how the affairs of Walther shall\nbecome entangled with those of the Guild.\n\nThis Walther von Stolzing, a young Franconian noble, last of his\nline, had for reasons which are not given forsaken the ancestral\ncastle and come to Nuremberg in the intention of becoming a citizen\nthere. He had brought letters to a prominent burgher of the town,\nVeit Pogner, the rich goldsmith, long acquainted with his family, and\nknown to it, by reputation. Pogner had offered him every courtesy,\nhospitality, and assistance in the business of selling his Franconian\nlands.\n\nWalther had found twenty-four hours in Nuremberg and Pogner's house\nample time to fall deeply, transcendingly, rapturously, in love\nwith the goldsmith's daughter. She is very young, very feminine,\neven in the respect of being little rather than large, so that she\nis always called, fondly, Evchen, little Eva. Her name is perhaps\nmeant to indicate her quality of inveterate femineity. The whole\nstory goes to show that she was pretty enough to turn heads young\nand old. She had been an obedient, an exemplary daughter, up to\nthe hour of meeting Walther, allowing her father to think for her,\naccepting demurely his views for her. How should she not feel it\nbest, so long as her immature heart had never spoken a word, to\nlet a most kind and indulgent parent, whose wisdom it was not for\nher to question, dispose of her hand in the manner he thought most\nfitting? When she had seen Walther, however, a new light illumined\nher position.\n\nOn the second day of his acquaintance with her, it seemed to the\nyoung lord that he could not live through another night but he made\nsure of one point. He followed his lady to vespers, in the hope of\nan opportunity to exchange one private word, ask one question. It was\nthe eve of Saint John's day. The congregation when the curtain rises\nis concluding an anthem to the \"noble Baptist.\" Eva and Magdalene,\nher nurse, are in one of the pews that fill the nave of the church.\nWalther stands in the aisle, leaning against a pillar, from which\nposition he can watch the fair one. He tries whenever her eyes\nstray his way, as, irresistibly attracted, they frequently do,\nto convey to her by glance and gesture his prayer for a moment's\ninterview. Magdalene feels herself repeatedly obliged to recall\nher young lady's attention to the church-service. The congregation\nrises at last and flocks to the church-door. Walther steps before\nthe two women as they are passing forth with the rest, with the\nhurried demand to Eva for a word, a single word. Magdalene, who is\na step behind, has not caught his request. Eva with quick resource\nsends her back to the pew for her forgotten kerchief. But Walther\nhas become alarmed at his own boldness, and instead of utilising\nhis opportunity to utter or obtain that \"single word,\" falls to\npouring forth many disconnected words by way of leading up to the\nall-important question. He has not contrived to get it out before\nMagdalene returns. But Eva then discovers that her brooch too has\nbeen left in the pew. Walther, because he really dreads to hear\nan answer which may dash his dearest hopes, makes no better use\nof this second chance than of the first; he is still leading up\nto his famous question when Magdalene brings the brooch. But upon\nthis fortune favours him, Magdalene must run back to the pew for\nher forgotten prayer-book; and in the brief interval of her search\nWalther asks breathlessly of Eva: if she be already betrothed! She\ndoes not reply by the instantaneous negative he had hoped for, and\nthe passionate wish breaks from his lips that he had never crossed\nthe threshold of her father's house! Magdalene, who has rejoined\nthem, bridles indignantly at such an expression from him. \"How now,\nmy lord, what is this you say? Scarce arrived in Nuremberg, were\nyou not hospitably received? Is not the best afforded by kitchen and\ncellar, cupboard and store-room, deserving of any gratitude whatever?\"\nEva tries to silence her: \"That is not what he meant, good Lene.\nBut... this information he desires of me--How am I to say it? I\nhardly myself understand! I feel as if I were dreaming--He wishes\nto know whether I am already betrothed?\" Lene at this recognises, of\ncourse, that here is that reprobate thing, a lover, and remembers\nher first duty as a duenna, to keep off all such from her young\ncharge. She is for hurrying home at once. Walther resolutely detains\nher. \"Not till I know all!\"--\"The church is empty, every one is\ngone!\" Eva gives as a reason for not being so punctilious. Lene\nsees in the very loneliness of the place a reason the more for\ndeparting with all speed,--but Fate again helps Walther. David,\na youthful shoe-maker's apprentice, enters the church from the\nvestry, and falls to making mysterious preparations, drawing curtains\nwhich shut off the nave of the church, measuring distances on the\npavement with a yard-rule. No sooner has Magdalene caught sight of\nhim than she becomes absent-minded, and when Eva urges, \"What am\nI to tell him? Do you tell me what I am to say!\" more good-humoured\nthan before, she vouchsafes: \"Your lordship, the question you ask of\nthe damsel is not so easy to answer. As a matter of truth, Evchen\nPogner is betrothed----\" \"But no one,\" quickly adds the girl, \"has as\nyet see the bridegroom!\" He gathers from the two that the bridegroom\nshall be the victor on the following day in a song-contest, the\nmaster-singer to whom the other master-singers award the prize,\nand whom the bride herself crowns. It all falls strangely on the\nears of one not a Nuremberger. \"The master-singer?...\" he falters.\n\"Are you not one?\" Eva asks incredulously, wistfully. And when in his\neffort to grasp the situation exactly he continues asking questions,\nshe answers his interrogative: \"The bride then chooses?...\" with\ncomplete forgetfulness of every maidenly convention, by an ardent,\nhonest \"You, or no one!\"--\"Are you gone mad?\" Magdalene grasps her\narm, shocked and flustered. She has, and feels no shame. \"Good\nLene, help me to win him!\"--\"But you saw him yesterday for the first\ntime!\" No, she became a victim so readily to love's torment, Eva\ntells Lene, because she had long known him in a picture, Albrecht\nDuerer's painting of David, after the slaying of Goliath, his sword\nat his belt, his sling in his hand, his head brightly encircled\nwith fair curls.\n\nJoyful agitation has seized the Knight at Eva's sweet impulsive\nword, and, with it, bewilderment as to what must be his course in\ncircumstances so unprecedented. He restlessly paces the pavement,\ntrying to determine how he shall deal with the strange conditions\nraising their barrier between him and the object of his desire.\nMagdalene calls to her the object of hers. The middle-aged spinster\nhas a weak spot in her heart for David. The boyish shoe-maker's\napprentice on his side adores her--and the pleasant bits she maternally\nsmuggles to him from Pogner's kitchen. Questioned, he informs her\nthat he is making the place ready for the master-singers. There is\nto be directly a song-trial: such song-apprentices as commit no\noffence against the table of rules are to be promoted to mastership.\nHere would be the Knight's chance, reflects Lene,--his one chance\nto be made master before the fateful morrow. When, as they are\nleaving, Walther offers the ladies his company to Master Pognet's,\nshe bids him wait rather for Pogner where he stands: if he wishes\nto enter the contest for Evchen's hand, Fortune has favoured him\nwith respect to time and place. \"What am I to do?\" asks the lover\neagerly. David shall instruct him, and Magdalene herself instructs\nDavid to make himself useful to the Knight. \"Something choice from\nthe kitchen I will save for you. And if the young lord here shall\nto-day be made a master, you may to-morrow proffer your requests\nfull boldly!\"\n\n\"Shall I see you again?\" Eva shyly asks of Walther, as Magdalene is\nhurrying her off. His answer gives the keynote of him, characteristic\noutburst that it is of his vital, vigourous, enthusiastic youth,\nto which all things seem possible--beautiful youth, which has the\nsplendour and force of fire, with the freshness of flowers; which\nflashes like a sword and trembles like a lute-string. \"Shall I\nsee you again?\" It is after vespers. \"This evening, surely!\" he\nreplies: \"How shall I tell you what I would be willing to undertake\nfor your sake? New is my heart, new is my mind, new to me is all\nthis which I am entering upon. One thing only I know, one thing\nonly I grasp, that I will devote soul and senses to winning you!\nIf it may not be with the sword, I must achieve it with song, and\nas a master sing you mine! For you, my blood and my possessions,\nfor you, the sacred aspiration of a poet!\" Strains from this sweet\nand proud profession are scattered all through the story, they\nare the Walther-motifs, heard in his first sigh as he watches her\nfrom the shadow of the church-pillar, and woven finally into his\nprize-song. And the effect of youth that goes magically with them!\nThe fragrance that belongs to them, with the fire! As of green\nthings in early May, wet with the dew of dawn,--the beams of the\nrising sun kindling all to a softly-dazzling glory. The hearer\nfeels himself young too with an immortal youth.... But words are\nnever so ineffectual as when they would translate music.\n\nWhen Walther and Eva part, they are candidly lovers, for she has\njoined her voice to his at the closing words of his profession, and\nherself warmly professed: \"My heart with its blessed ardour,--for\nyou, its love-consecrated kindness!\" In a moment the women are\ngone. Walther casts himself in a great high-backed carved seat\nwhich apprentices have a moment before placed in the conspicuous\nposition it occupies, and is absorbed in the attempt to collect\nhimself, deal with his swarming emotions, order his wild thoughts,\nscheme what to do. The excited blood in his veins sings the song\nof his youth.\n\nApprentices in number, lively and mischievous imps, have entered and\nare setting the place aright for the meeting of the master-singers,\nplacing seats for these on one side and forms for themselves on the\nopposite side, arranging near the centre a platform and blackboard\nenclosed by curtains. David stands studying that original who supposes\none can be made a master in an hour. The gentleman's rank and fine\nfeathers do not impress the youth, who feels himself rather, with\nrespect to the requirements of the hour, in a position to patronise.\nWalther is startled to hear him suddenly shout: \"Begin!\" \"What is\nthe matter?\" he inquires, waking out of his dream. \"Begin! That is\nwhat the Marker calls out, and then you must sing. Don't you know\nthat?\"--\"Who is the Marker?\"--\"Don't you know? Have you never been\nto a song-trial?\"--\"Never, where the judges were artisans.\"--\"Are\nyou a poet?\"--\"Would that I were!\"--\"Are you a singer?\"--\"Would that\nI knew!\"--\"But you have at least been a 'school-frequenter' and\na 'pupil?'\"--\"It all sounds foreign to my ear!\"--\"And you wish to\nbecome a master, off-hand, like that?\"--\"What enormous difficulty\ndoes the matter present?\"--David groans: \"Oh, Lene, Lene... oh,\nMagdalene!\"--\"What a to-do you make! Come, tell me, in good faith,\nwhat I must do!\" David has now the chance he loves. Here is one\nwho knows nothing whatever of the things it is his pride to have\nlearned at least the names of, the things to a Nuremberger worth\nknowing among all. The ignoramus shall be properly dazzled. David\nstrikes an attitude. \"Myself,\" he informs Walther, \"I am learning\nthe Art from the greatest master in Nuremberg, Hans Sachs. For a\nfull year I have received his instructions. Shoe-making and poetry\nI learn simultaneously. When I have pounded the leather even and\nsmooth, I learn of vowel-sounds and of consonance. When I have\nwaxed the thread hard and stiff, I apply myself to the rules of\nrhyme. While punching holes and driving the awl, I commit the science\nof rhythm and number....\" And so forth. For a full year he has\nbeen learning, and how far does Walther suppose he has got? The\nKnight suggests, laughing: \"To the making of a right good pair\nof shoes!\" Nay, this top-lofty aristocrat, with his jokes, does\nnot in the least understand! And David enlarges further on the\ngreat and various difficulties in the way of him who aspires to\nbecome a master-singer. A \"bar,\" let him know, has manifold parts\nand divisions, full difficult to master the law thereof!... And\nthen comes the \"after-song,\" which must not be too short, nor yet\ntoo long, and must contain no rhyme already used in the foregoing\nstanzas. But even when a person has learned and knows all this,\neven then he is not yet called a master. For there are a thousand\nsubtleties and refinements the aspirant must still make his own.\nWhether David in showing off draws a bit upon his fancy, or whether\nthe master-singers really cherished these distinctions in mode and\ntone, one can but wonder. Suggestive the titles of them certainly\nare. Glibly, grandly, and with a rich relish, David tells them off:\nThe fool's-cap, the black-ink mode; the red, blue and green tones;\nthe hawthorn-blossom, straw-wisp, fennel modes; the tender, the sweet,\nthe rose-coloured tone; the short-lived love, the deserted-lover\ntones; the rosemary, the golden lupine, the rainbow, the nightingale\nmodes; the English tin, the stick-cinnamon modes; the fresh orange,\ngreen linden-blossom modes; the frogs', the calves', the goldfinch\nmodes; the mode--save the mark!--of the secret gormandiser; the\nlark, the snail tones; the barking tone; the balsam, the marjoram\nmodes; the tawny lion-fell, the faithful pelican modes; the respendent\ngold-galloon mode! Walther cries out to Heaven for help. \"Those,\"\nproceeds David, \"are only the names! Now learn to sing them exactly\nas the masters have established, every word and tone sounding clearly,\nthe voice rising and falling as it should....\" etc., etc., etc.;\n\"but if, when you have done all these things correctly, you should\nmake a mistake, or in any wise stumble and flounder, whatever your\nsuccess up to that moment, you would have failed in the song-trial!\nIn spite of great diligence and application, myself I have not\nbrought it to that point. Let me be an example to you, and drop\nthis folly of seeking to be made a master!\"\n\nWalther, persisting in inquiry, conquers the information at last\nthat in order to be named a master a man must compose an original\npoem and fit it to an original air, in accordance with the many\nlaws laid down by his judges. \"All there is for me to do then,\"\nconcludes the lover, nothing discouraged, \"is to aim directly at\nmastership. If I am to sing successfully, I must find, to verses of\nmy own, a melody of my own!\" David, who has joined the apprentices,\nfends off their teasing by privately preparing them for rich diversion\npresently at the song-trial. \"Not I to-day, another fellow is up\nfor trial! He has not been a 'pupil' and is not a 'singer'; the\nformality of earning the title of 'poet' he says he will omit;\nfor he is a gentleman of quality, and expects, with one leap and\nno further difficulty, this very day to become a master. Wherefore\narrange carefully the Marker's cabinet; the blackboard on the wall,\nconvenient to the Marker's hand.... The Marker, yes!\" he repeats\nbodingly to the not sufficiently impressed knight. \"Are you not\nafraid? Many a candidate already, singing before him, has met with\nfailure. He allows you seven errors; he marks them there with chalk;\nwhoever makes more than seven errors has completely and conclusively\nfailed!\" The apprentices in their glee over the prospective\nentertainment join hands and dance in a ring around the curtained\nrecess where the Marker shortly shall be chronicling the slips\nand blunders of this self-confident lordling.\n\nTheir play is interrupted, and they hurriedly put on good behaviour,\nat the entrance of two of the masters, Pogner and Sixtus Beckmesser,\nthe town-clerk. The change in the music is definite as a change\nof air and scene, is like passing from the hubbub of the street\ninto some calm and pleasant precinct. Beckmesser is importuning\nPogner with regard to his intentions for the morrow. Beckmesser\nwishes extremely to become his son-in-law, wherefore he thinks it\nwould be best to give the young lady no choice, to decree simply\nand finally that the winner of the prize for song should be her\nhusband. He feels cocksure of his superiority as a master-singer,\nbut dubious, it would seem, of his power to enthrall the fancy of\na young girl. \"If Evchen's voice can strike out the candidate,\nof what use to me is my supremacy as a master?\"--\"Come,\" replies\nPogner sensibly, \"if you have no hopes of the daughter's regard,\nhow do you come to enter the lists as her suitor?\" Beckmesser,\nafter this check, cannot, of course, urge anything further in the\nsame direction. He begs for Pogner's influence with his child, and\nturns away disgusted with the goldsmith's merely civil assent.\nIt seems to him that a man like Pogner ought to know as well as\nhe knows that women have no real taste, that they are capable of\npreferring the sorriest stuff to all the poetry in the world. How\nshall he, Beckmesser, avoid a disappointment, a public defeat? He\ndecides upon reflection to try the prize-song he has prepared,\nas a serenade, and make sure beforehand that the maiden will be\npleased with it.\n\nWalther has approached and exchanged greetings with Pogner. He\ncomes directly to the point, and, with airy aplomb, \"If truth must\nbe told,\" he says, \"the thing which drove me from home and brought\nme to Nuremberg was the love of Art, nothing else! I forgot to\ntell you this yesterday--but to-day I proclaim it aloud. It is\nmy desire to become a master-singer. Receive me, master, in the\nguild!\"\n\nThe masters are flocking in, bakers, tailors, coppersmiths, grocers,\nweavers. Pogner turns to them, delighted. \"Hear, what a very interesting\ncase. The knight here, my friend, is desirous of dedicating himself\nto our Art. It seems like the olden days come back!--You can hardly\nthink,\" to Walther, \"how glad I am! As willingly indeed as ever I\nlent you my assistance to sell your land, I will receive you in\nthe guild!\"--\"What man is that?\" Beckmesser almost barks, catching\nsight of Walther. Suspiciously he observes him: \"I do not like\nhim.... What is he doing here? How his eyes beam with laughter!...\nLook sharp, Sixtus, keep an eye on that fellow!\"\n\n\"And may I hope,\" asks Walther of Pogner, \"to have this very day\nan opportunity to undergo trial and be elected master?\"--\"Oho!\"\nsoliloquises Beckmesser, with a shock of surprise at audacity such\nas this, \"on that head stands no skittle!\" There is no moss growing\non him! Pogner is no doubt surprised too, but answers kindly: \"The\nmatter must be conducted according to rule. To-day, however, as\nit happens, is song-trial. I will propose you. The masters lend\na favourable ear to requests of mine.\"\n\nThe masters are assembled; last of all has entered Hans Sachs, the\nshoe-maker,--dear, benignantly-gazing Hans Sachs. \"Are we all here?\"\nasks one of the members. \"Sachs is here! What more is necessary?\"\nsneers Beckmesser.\n\nFritz Kothner, the baker, in the capacity of speaker, calls the\nroll. As the meeting is about to pass to the business of the day,\nPogner asks for the floor, and unfolds before the assembled guild\nhis romantic scheme: The following is Saint John's day, when it\nis customary for the master-singers to hold a song-contest out\nin the open, among the people, the victorious singer receiving a\nprize. \"Now I, by God's grace, am a rich man, and every one should\ngive according to his means. I cast about therefore for a gift\nto give not unworthy of me. Hear what I determined upon. In my\nextensive travels over Germany, I have often been chagrined to\nfind that the burgher is held cheap, is thought close-fisted and\nmean-minded. Among high and low alike, I heard the bitter reproach,\ntill I was soul-sick of it,--that the burgher has no aim or object\nabove commerce and the getting of money. That we alone in the whole\nkingdom of Germany are the guardians and preservers of art, they\ntake into no account. To what point we place our honour in that,\nwith what a lofty spirit we cherish the good and beautiful, how\nhighly we prize art and its influence, I wished therefore to show\nthe world. So hear, Masters, the gift which I have appointed for\nprize: To the singer who in the song-contest shall before all the\npeople win the prize on Saint John's day, let him be who he may,\nI give, devotee of art that I am, Veit Pogner of Nuremberg, with\nmy whole inheritance, even as it stands, Eva, my only child, in\nmarriage!\"\n\nLoud applause. \"There is a man for you!... There is talk of the\nright sort!... There one sees what a Nuremberger is capable of!...\nWho would not wish to be a bachelor?...\" \"I dare say that some,\"\nsuggests Sachs, \"would not mind giving away their wives!\"\n\nBut there is a postscript to Pogner's address which qualifies the\naspect of the whole: The maiden shall have the right to reject\nthe masters' choice. That is what has from the first bothered\nBeckmesser, in Pogner's counsel before this making public of his\nidea. The general mood is changed by this revelation. \"Does it\nstrike you as judicious?\" Beckmesser privately consults Kothner;\n\"Dangerous I call it!\"--\"Do I understand aright,\" asks Kothner;\n\"that we are placed in the hands of the young lady? If the\nmaster-singers' verdict then does not agree with hers, how is it\nto operate?\"--\"Let the young lady choose at once according to the\ninclination of her heart, and leave master-singing out of the game!\"\nremarks Beckmesser tartly. \"Not at all! Not at all!\" Pogner strives\nto calm them, \"Not in the very least! You have imperfectly understood.\nThe maiden may refuse the one to whom you master-singers award the\nprize, but she may not choose another. A master-singer he must\nbe. Only one crowned by yourselves may become a suitor for her.\"\nThe arrangement does seem, closely considered, rather hard on the\nyoung lady, and one fancies more than once, in the course of the\nplay, a shade of sheepishness in the father's own attitude toward\nit,--momentary ripples of misgiving.\n\nA voice of beautiful, calm, corrective sanity is now raised in\nthe assembly. \"Your pardon!\" speaks Sachs to Pogner, \"you have\nperhaps already gone somewhat far. The heart of a young girl and\nthe heart aglow for master-art do not always burn with an identical\nflame. Feminine judgment, untutored as it is, would seem to me\non a level with popular judgment. If therefore you have in mind\nto show the people how highly you honour art, and if, leaving to\nyour daughter the right of choice, you wish her not to repudiate\nthe verdict, let the people be among the judges, for the people's\ntaste is sure to coincide with the girl's.\"\n\nIndignation upon this among the masters. \"The people?... That were\nfine! As well say good-bye, once for all, to art!... Sachs, what\nyou say is nonsense.... Are the rules of art to be set aside for\nthe people?\"--\"Understand me aright!\" Sachs meets them; \"How you\ntake on! You will own that I know the rules thoroughly. For many a\nyear I have been at pains to keep the guild to a strict observation\nof them. But once a year it would seem to me wise to test the rules\nthemselves, and see whether in the easy grooves of habit their\nstrength and vitality have not been lost. And whether you are still\nupon the right track of nature you can only find out from such\nas know nothing of tabulated rules!\" (The apprentices, who here\nrepresent the people, and have no great love for the _Tabulatur_,\ngive evidence of joy.) \"Wherefore it would seem to me expedient that\nyearly, at Saint John's feast, instead of permitting the people to\ncome to you, you should descend out of your lofty mastership-cloud,\nand yourselves go to the people. You wish to please the people. It\nwould strike me as to the point to let the people tell you itself\nwhether you succeed in pleasing it. You would thus secure a vital\nadvantage, both for the people and for art. There you have Hans\nSachs's opinion!\"\n\nNo one agrees with him, of course. \"You no doubt mean well, but\nit would be a mistake.... If the people is to have a voice, I,\nfor one, shall keep my mouth shut.... If art is to run after the\nfavour of the people, it cannot fail to come to grief and\ncontempt.\"--\"His success would be enormous, no doubt, who urges\nthis matter so stiffly,\" Beckmesser puts in spitefully; \"His\ncompositions are nearly all popular street-songs!\"\n\nPogner sets Sachs's suggestion aside with perfect civility and good\nhumour. \"The thing I am about to do is novel already. Too much novelty\nat one time might bring in its wake regret....\"--\"Sufficient to me,\"\nSachs yields the point, \"is the maiden's right of refusal!\"--\"That\ncobbler always excites my wrath!\" mutters Beckmesser.\n\nThey pass to the order of the day. \"Who enters the lists as a candidate?\nA bachelor he must be.\"--\"Or perhaps a widower?\" offers Beckmesser;\n\"Ask Sachs!\"--\"Oh, no, master Beckmesser,\" Sachs retorts; \"Of younger\nwax than either you or I must the suitor be, if Evchen is to bestow\nthe prize on him!\"--\"Younger than I, too?... Coarse fellow!\"\n\nAt the question whether any be on the spot who wish to take the\nsong-trial, Pogner presents Walther von Stolzing, as one desirous\nof being that same day elected master-singer. The motif of Wather's\npresentation gives a clear idea of the knight's charming appearance,\nhis grace, his elastic step, his hat and feathers, the delicate\nhaughtiness of his bearing, in keeping with his proud name.\n\nA black suspicion enters Beckmesser's breast at sight of him: he is\nthe card which Pogner has all along had up his sleeve. The town-clerk\ndeclares promptly that it is too late now to enter the new-comer. The\nmasters exchange glances: \"Anoble?... Is it a case for rejoicing?\nOr is there danger in it?... The fact that Master Pogner speaks for\nhim has its weight, certainly...\"--\"If he is to be welcomed among\nus,\" says Kothner, somewhat forbiddingly, \"he must show proper\nrecommendations.\"--\"Do not mistake me,\" Pogner hastens to say;\n\"Though I wish him good fortune, I have no thought of waiving any\nrule. Put to him, gentlemen, the customary questions.\" At the very\nfirst question, however, whether he be free and honourably born,\nPogner hurriedly prevents Walther's answer by his own, making himself\nvoucher for him in every respect such as that. The generous Sachs,\nfeeling the something grudging in the attitude of the masters, reminds\nthem that it had long been one of the rules made by themselves that\nan applicant being a lord or a peasant should have no significance,\nthat inquiry concerning art alone should be made of one desiring to\nbecome a master-singer. Kothner passes thereupon to the question:\n\"Of what master are you a disciple?\" And then is born into the world\na new, a ravishing melody--which has all the delight in it that\ncan be compressed into the space. Airily, confidently, debonairly,\nWalther delivers himself, in the sweet ingenuousness of his heart,\n\"new,\" as he had said, ignorant as yet of the jealous world's ways:\n\"Beside my quiet hearth in winter-time, when castle and court were\nburied in snow, in an ancient book, bequeathed to me by my fathers,\nI was wont to read recorded the engaging beauties of past Springs,\nas well as, prophesied, the beauties of the Spring soon to reawaken.\nThe poet, Walther von der Vogelweid, he it is who has been my master!\"\nSachs has listened with a surprised, charmed sympathy. He nods\nbeamingly: \"A good master!\"--\"But long dead!\" snaps Beckmesser;\n\"How could he learn the canons from him?\"\n\nKothner proceeds without comment to the next question: \"In what\nschool did you learn to sing?\"--\"Then when the sward was free from\nfrost, and summer-time was come back, all that in the long\nwinter-evenings I had read in the old book was proclaimed aloud\nin the luxuriance of the forest. I caught the clear sound of it\nthere. In the forest where the birds congregate, I learned likewise\nto sing!\"--\"Ho, ho, from finches and tomtits you acquired the art\nof master-singing?\" Beckmesser jeers; \"Your song no doubt smacks\nof its teachers!\"--\"What do you think, masters,\" inquires Kothner,\nupon this hopeless revelation, \"shall I proceed with the questions?\nIt strikes me his lordship's answers are altogether wide of the\nmark.\"--\"That is what will presently be seen,\" Sachs interposes\nwarmly; \"If his art is of the right sort, and he duly proves it, of\nwhat consequence is it from whom he learned it?\" Whereupon Kothner\nproceeds, addressing Walther: \"Are you prepared, now, at once,\nto attempt an original master-song, new in conception, original\nboth in text and tune?\" Walther answers unhesitatingly: \"All that\nwinter-night and forest-splendour, that book and grove have taught\nme; all that the magic of poetry has secretly revealed to me; all\nthat I have gathered, a thoughtful listener, from ride to battle\nor from dance in gay assembly,--all this, in the present hour,\nwhen the highest prize of life may be purchased by a song, is what\nmust necessarily flow into my song, original in word and note,--is\nwhat must be outpoured before you, masters, if I succeed, as a\nmaster-song!\"\n\n\"Did you gather anything from that torrent of words?\" Beckmesser\nasks, with his eyebrows up among his hair, of his fellow-masters.\n\"Now, masters, if you please,\" Kothner directs, \"let the Marker\ntake his seat. Does his lordship,\" to Walther, \"choose a sacred\nsubject?\" \"One that is sacred to me!\" the young man answers\nmagnificently; \"The banner of Love I swing and I sing--and cherish\ngood hope!\" \"That,\" considers Kothner, without a gleam, \"comes\nunder the head of secular subject. And now, Master Beckmesser,\npray shut yourself in!\" With a thin pose of reluctance, Beckmesser\ntakes his way toward the curtained cabinet. \"A sour office--and\nto-day especially. The chalk, I surmise, will be troublesomely in\nrequisition. Know, Sir Knight, Sixtus Beckmesser is the Marker.\nHere in the cabinet he attends to his stern duty. He allows you\nseven errors. He marks them down in there with chalk. If you make\nover seven errors, Sir Knight, you have failed in the song-trial.\nKeen is the Marker's ear; that the sight of him therefore may not\ndisconcert you, he relieves you of his presence and considerately\nshuts himself up in there--God have you in his keeping!\" He has\nclimbed upon the platform; he sharply draws the curtains.\n\nTwo apprentices take down from the wall and bring forward the _Leges\nTabulaturoe_. With pomp and flourish Kothner reads them off to Walther.\nThe \"tabulature\" gives the straight and narrow laws upon which\na song must be constructed, to earn its singer the dignity of\nmastership. \"Now take your seat in the singing-chair!\" Kothner\norders Walther at the close of his reading. \"Here, in this chair?\"\nIt is the tall carved chair in which he had cast himself earlier.\n\"As is the custom of the school!\" Even so much of restraint as\nthe obligation to sing on a given spot is repugnant to the spirit\nof the highborn youth, who yet is undertaking to satisfy the most\nlaw-ridden assemblage he could have met with. He murmurs, taking\nthe seat: \"For your sake, beloved, it shall be done!\"--\"The singer\nsits!\" announces Kothner. \"Begin!\" shouts Beckmesser out of sight.\n\nFrom Beckmesser's cry \"Begin!\" Walther takes his cue, and simply\nvaulting into the seat of his Pegasus, casting the bridle upon\nthe neck of inspiration, he directly before them all pours forth\nhis full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. He has\nnever committed their canons, is ignorant of their conventions;\nhe has genius, that is all, and its daring; is a poet born, not\nmade; is at the moment, beside all the rest, uplifted by the divine\nfire of his love--and his song is right as some natural object,\na crystal or a flower. Consummate as is the song, it has yet the\ncharacter perfectly of an improvisation--the ideal improvisation,\nlet us say--the gush, the rush, the profusion of lovely ornament,\nthe unrestraint,--but essentially orderly, the unrestraint, like\nthat of an army with banners, swarming, in only apparent confusion,\nup a height, to assured victory. The urge, the climbing effect\nof the song, are owing, it is plain enough, to Walther's being\nreally inside of it, to his having cast his whole self into it,\nwith his straining after a goal, his desperate necessity to win.\nIn this case, verily the style is the man. \"Begin!\"--runs the sense\nof that perfect song, \"Thus shouted Spring in the woods, till they\nrang again! And as the sound died away in distant waves, in the\ndistance a sound was born, drawing nearer and nearer in a mighty\nflood. It grows, it resounds, the woods re-echo with a multitude\nof sweet voices. Loud and clear, it sweeps anear, to what a torrent\nit is grown! Like clangour of bells rings the multiple voice of\nJoy! The forest, how readily it responds to the call which has\nwakened it anew to life, and entones the sweet canticle of Spring!\"\n\nThe Marker's chalk is not idle; a number of workmanlike scratches\nhave been heard. Walther has stopped short, jarred by the sound.\nHe resumes after a moment: \"In a thorny hedge, devoured by envy\nand chagrin, Winter, in his armour of ill-will, cowers in hiding.\nAmid the rustling of withered leaves, he sits spying with watchful\neye and ear for a chance to bring to grief the happy singing....\"\nThe singer bounds to his feet. \"None the less, 'Begin!' The cry\nrang in my breast, when I was as yet wholly unaware of love! And\nin my breast I felt a deep stirring, which woke me as if from a\ndream. My heart filled the chamber of my bosom with its trembling\npalpitations; mightily surged my blood, its stream swollen by new\nemotions; stormily out of the warm night pressed the host of\nsighs,--increasing, in the wild tumult of joy, to the innumerableness\nof the sea. My breast, with what rapture it responds to the call\nwhich has wakened it to new life, and entones the lovely canticle\nof Love!\"\n\nHe has hardly ceased, when Beckmesser thrusts apart the curtains.\n\"Have you finished? I have quite finished with the blackboard!\" He\nholds up for inspection the blackboard, overscored on both sides\nwith great chalk-marks. The masters break into laughter. \"Have the\ngoodness to listen,\" demands Walther imperiously; \"I have only\njust reached the point where my song is to publish my lady's\npraise!\"--\"Go and sing wherever else you please. Here you have\nfailed.\" Beckmesser descends from his post, flourishing the blackboard.\n\"I beg you will examine, masters, this blackboard. Never since I\nlive has such a thing been heard of. I should not have believed\nit though you had all affirmed it under oath....\" Walther, in the\ninnocence of his youth, loudly appeals: \"Do you intend to allow\nhim, masters, to interrupt me like this? Am I not from any one of\nyou to have a hearing?\" Pogner's courtesy interferes: \"One word,\nfriend Marker, are you not out of temper?\" Beckmesser excitedly\nproceeds to justify his chalk-marks. No beginning or end, defective\nmetre, defective construction! Blind meaning! Not one proper\nbreathing-space anywhere! No appropriate colouring--and of melody\nnot a vestige! Then, what a mad medley of \"modes\"! A mixture of\nadventure-tone, blue-knightly-spurs tone, tall-pine-trees tone\nand haughty-stripling tone! (Which permits the supposition that\nDavid, though moved by the desire to amaze, was yet a faithful\nreporter of the refinements of master-singing.) The master-singers\nagree readily with Beckmesser, are really relieved to find their\nimpressions boldly put into form for them by him. Not one of them\nhas understood anything. Walther's unprecedented leaping to his\nfeet in the heat of inspiration has given offence to this one;\nthe other terms his singing \"empty battering at the ear-drums.\"\nThey are about to subscribe unanimously to Beckmesser's verdict\nthat he has lost his case, when Sachs's voice breaks in upon the\nconfusion. He has listened to Walther in complete self-forgetful\nabsorption. The absence of all jealousy in his large nature leaves\nhis mind peculiarly open for genuine first-hand impressions; his\nwide understanding is not repelled by the new and strange. The close\nof the young man's song has found him won, enlisted, prepossessed.\nHe calls the masters to halt. \"Not every one shares in your opinion!\nThe Knight's song struck me as novel, yet not confused; although\nhe forsook the beaten track, he strode along with firm, unerring\nstep....\" Sachs nods to himself and beams at this reviewing of\nthe intense pleasure he has just experienced. \"When you find that\nyou have been trying to measure by your own rules that which does\nnot lie within the compass of your rules, the thing to do is to\nforget your rules and try to discover the rules of that which you\nwish to measure!\" Which sage talk is not destined to be fruitfully\nheard in the agitation of prejudice, alarm, and dislike possessing\nthe majority of the masters. \"Oh, very well,\" fumes Beckmesser,\n\"Now you have heard him: Sachs offering a loophole to bunglers,\nthat they may slip in and out at will and flourish at ease. Sing\nto the people as much as you please, in marketplace and street;\nhere no one shall gain admission save in accordance with rule!\"\nSachs insists that Walther must be heard to the end. \"The guild of\nthe masters, the whole body,\" chafes Beckmesser, \"are as nothing\ncounterbalanced by Sachs!\" \"God forbid,\" speaks Sachs, \"that I should\ndesire anything contrary to the guild's laws; but among those very\nlaws it stands written that the Marker shall be so chosen that\nneither love nor hate may influence his judgment. Now, if the Marker\ngo on lover's feet, how should he not yield to the temptation of\nbringing a rival to derision before the assembled school?\" Beckmesser\nflares up, trembling with rage. \"What concern of Master Sachs's is\nit on what sort of feet I go? Let him sooner turn his attention to\nmaking me shoes that will not hurt my toes. But since my shoe-maker\nhas become a mighty poet, it's a sorry business with my foot-wear.\nSee there, all down at the heel, the sole half off and shuffling!\nHis many verses and rhymes I would cheerfully dispense with, likewise\nhis tales, his plays, and his comical pieces, if he would just\nbring me home my new shoes for to-morrow!\" The thrust tells. Sachs\nscratches his ear a little ruefully, but is not found quite without\na word to say. The excuse he advances is that while it is his custom\nto write a verse on the sole of every shoe he delivers, he has\nnot yet found a verse worthy of the learned town-clerk. \"But,\"\nby a turn of the conversation directing it to a use nearer his\nheart, \"I very likely shall catch inspiration from the Knight,\"\nhe says, \"when I have heard the whole of his song! Wherefore let\nhim sing further undisturbed. Sing!\" Slyly smiling he makes sign\nto Walther, \"Sing, in Master Marker's despite!\"\n\nWalther springs to the singing-chair, but the masters cry in a\nvoice, \"An end! An end!\" Walther, undaunted, climbs to his feet\nupon the very seat of the sacred chair, from which he commands\nthe assembly by half his height and haughtily looks down upon it.\nAnd he sings with all his lungs and all his fire to make himself\nheard above the hubbub; he sings, determined to impose the impress\nof himself upon their minds, will they or not; and his tenor pierces\nthrough and floats over the snarling chorus of objection; and he\nsings his song, in spite of them all, to the very end. \"From the\ndark thorn-hedge rustles forth the owl, and by his hooting rouses\nthe hoarse choir of the ravens; in night-black swarm they gather,\nand croak aloud with their hollow voices, magpies, crows, and daws!\nBut thereupon soars upward on a pair of golden wings, wonderful,\na Bird: his clearly-shining plumage gleams bright aloft in the\nair, rapturously he soars hither and thither, inviting me to join\nhim in flight. My heart expands with a delicious pain, my longing\nto fly creates wings. I swing myself heavenward in daring flight,\naway from that death-vault, the city, away to the hills of home;\nthence to the green forest, meeting-place of birds, where long\nago Walther, the Poet, won my allegiance. There sing I clear and\nloud the praise of my dearest lady, there mounts upward, little\nas Master Crows may relish it, the proud canticle of love!\"\n\nAll this while the confusion of voices has not ceased or diminished.\nBeckmesser has been heatedly, in support of his chalk-marks, going\nover Walther's literary misdemeanours: Defective versification,\nunpronounceable words, misplaced rhymes, etc. etc. The masters\nhave been vociferously criticising and rejecting the new-comer.\nPogner has looked on and taken no part, a dejected spectator. He\nis sorry to see the Knight defeated, and he says to himself that\nhe knows he will regret his toleration of this high-handedness of\nthe masters. For the natural thought has risen in his mind that\nit would be agreeable to have this fine fellow received in the\nguild, and subsequently into his family as son-in-law. Upon which\nthought naturally follows the other: \"The victor whom I now must\nfall back upon, who knows if my child will care for him? I confess\nto a degree of uneasiness as to whether Eva will choose that master!\"\n\nSachs alone has listened through all the manifold disturbance--has\nintently, delightedly listened; has loved the boy's courage, and\nmarvelled at the force of his inspiration; has besought the masters\nto keep still and listen, or at least to let others listen.... \"No\nuse! It is labour lost! One can hardly hear his own words. The\nKnight can not from one of them gain attention!... That is what\nI call courage, to go on singing like that! His heart is in the\nright place,--a very giant of a poet. I, Hans Sachs, make verses and\nshoes, but he is a Knight and a poet on top of it!\" The apprentices,\nemboldened by the general disorder, add their voices to the others,\nattempting to drown out the singer so fierily, unremittingly singing\nfrom his post of vantage. They join hands again and dance in circle\naround the Marker's platform.\n\nThrough all this, over all this, the stubborn song, not for a moment\nweakening or wavering, has climbed its way, with the figurative\nBird, to its climax-point. His throat shall burst, but he will\nbe heard! His last note Walther holds for four bars: \"_Das stolze\nLie----bes Lied!_\"... Sung to an end it is, the lofty canticle of\nlove. The singer jumps down from the chair. \"A lasting farewell to\nyou, my masters!\" With a proud gesture, which rids him of them forever\nand consigns them to the dust-heap of their sordid narrowness and\nmediocrity, he stalks to the door. \"_Versungen und verthan! Versungen\nund verthan!_\" cry the masters, raising their hands according to\ncustom in giving a vote; \"_Versungen und verthan!_\" He has failed\nin song, he is done with!\n\nThe song-trial is over. The apprentices in merry tumult take apart\nthe Marker's closet, hurry off benches and seats, rapidly clearing\nthe church of all signs of the meeting. The masters leave, except\nSachs. He stands gazing abstractedly at the singing-chair, while\na snatch of Walther's song sings itself over in his memory. His\nmeditation is interrupted by the apprentices snatching up and carrying\noff the chair. With a half-melancholy smile and a gesture of delicate\nmockery at himself for the spell he has so completely fallen under,\nreluctantly the last master-singer turns to the door, and the curtain\nfalls.\n\nII\n\nThe second act shows the exterior of Pogner's house and of Sachs's,\nhis neighbour across the street. It is the close of day; David,\nputting up the shutters, is thinking of the morrow and its pleasures\nso intently that he does not, for a moment, recognise Lene's voice\ncalling him. He mistakes it for that of some teasing fellow-apprentice,\nuntil he turns around and beholds her, as so often! with a\npromising-looking basket on her arm. \"I bring you something good.\nYes, you may peep. That is for my precious treasure, but first,\nquick, tell me, what success had the Knight? Did you instruct him\nto some purpose? Was he made a master?\"--\"Ah, Mistress Lene, it's\na bad case! He failed utterly and miserably!\"--\"He failed?...\"\n\"Ay,--why should you so particularly care?\" She jerks away the\nbasket from his outstretched hand: \"Keep your hands to yourself!\nHere is nothing for you! God ha' mercy, our young lord defeated!\"\nand hurries into the house, leaving him crest-fallen, an object of\nmockery to his companions, who have lost nothing of the interview.\nGoaded, he has finally plunged among them with punishing fist,\nwhen Sachs's arrival upon the scene stops the disorder. The boys\nnimbly scatter. David is ordered indoors. \"Close the shop and make\na light. Put the new shoes on the lasts!\" Both go in.\n\nThe peacefulness of evening is upon the scene. Pogner, with his\ndaughter on his arm, returning from a walk, comes down the lane\nwhich divides his house from Sachs's. He hesitates at Sachs's door.\n\"Shall we see whether neighbour Sachs be at home? I should be glad\nof a talk with him. Shall I go in?...\" But he decides against it.\n\"Why should I, after all? Better not! When a man undertakes a course\nout of the usual, how should he accept advice?... Was it not he who\nconsidered that I went too far? Yet, in forsaking the beaten track,\nwas I not doing even as he does? Or, was I actuated peradventure--by\nvanity?\" Pogner is not easy in his mind, it is plain. He invites\nhis silent and preoccupied daughter to sit beside him a little\nspace on the stone seat under the linden in front of their house;\nhe tries to fortify his faltering heart with the review of his\nplan for the morrow, held in the poetic light in which he first\nsaw and found it alluring. \"Deliciously mild is the evening. It\npresages a most beautiful day to shine upon you to-morrow. Oh,\nchild, does no throb of the heart tell you what happiness awaits\nyou to-morrow, when the whole of Nuremberg, with its burghers and\nplebeians, its guilds, its populace and high officials, is to gather\nin your presence to see you award the prize, the noble laurel-wreath,\nto the master of your choice and your chosen bridegroom?\" But he\nspeaks to the Evchen of day before yesterday. So recently as that\nhis scheme no doubt attracted the daughter of his blood even as it\ndid him; she saw it with kindred eyes. Her youthful pride rejoiced\nin the part she was to play of lovely lady of romance, to know that\nshe should become from that day a heroine of legend, her name for\nlong years recurring in the songs of song-loving Nuremberg. As for\nthe practical side of the question, she felt safe. She believed\nshe knew which of the master-singers was sure of election by the\nmajority of the masters, and him she had it in her heart to crown\nwith a right good-will--so recently as day before yesterday. But\nto-day, at her father's \"the master of your choice\" she wistfully\ninquires, \"Dear father, _must_ it be a master?\"--\"Understand me\nwell, _a master of your choice_,\" the uneasy parent replies.\n\nMagdalene is making signs from the doorway to Eva. The girl becomes\nabsent-minded, drops the subject in question, and suggests to her\nfather that he go in to supper. Vexed with himself and her, he\nrises from her side. \"We are not expecting any guest, are we?\"\nhe asks, a shade querulously. \"Why, surely, the Knight?\"--\"How is\nthat?\"--\"Did you not see him to-day?\"--\"No desire have I to see\nhim!\" the troubled father mutters. Then, in a flash, two and two\nleap together and make four to his startled mind. \"What's this?...\nNay, thick-witted am I grown!\"--\"Dear little father, go in and\nchange your coat!\" urges the pretty daughter. \"Humph!\" he murmurs,\nnow as absent-minded as she, \"What is this buzzing in my head?\"\nand goes indoors.\n\nMagdalene reports to Eva David's news: the Knight has been refused\nadmission to the guild. \"God help me! What shall I do!\" cries Eva,\nin a sea of troubles; \"Ah, Lene, the anxiety!... Where to turn\nto find out something?\"--\"From Sachs, perhaps?\"--\"Ah, yes, he is\nfond of me. Certainly, I will go to him.\"--\"Beware of arousing\nsuspicion. Your father will notice if we stay out any longer at\npresent. Wait until after supper. I shall have something further to\ncommunicate to you then, a message which a certain person charged me\nwith privately.\"--\"Who?.. The Knight?\"--\"No, Beckmesser.\"--\"Something\nproper that must be!\" the fair girl scoffs as they enter the house.\n\nSachs, in working-clothes, is seen moving within his shop. He orders\nDavid to place his table and stool beside the door, and go to bed.\nReluctantly David goes off. He is troubled over Magdalene's\nunaccountable behaviour to him, and this sitting up late of his\nmaster's interferes with his slipping over to her for an explanation.\nSachs takes his seat before the work-table, sets his materials\naright, but having done it, instead of falling to work, leans back\nand lets the sweetness of the evening beguile him, dreams possess\nand waft him whither they will. That haunting strain from Walther's\nsong, repeated slowly, as by one savouring it with pensive pleasure,\nagain sings itself to his inward ear; it, indeed, is partly to\nblame for his mood of gentle unrest. The memory will not let him\nalone of that marvellous, that unprecedented experience of the\nafternoon. Unreservedly the grey-haired man's homage flies to the\nyoungling who so easily outstrips them all, with their inveterate\npainstaking, their multitudinous canons. Not only without a shade\nof bitterness but with a tender elation, he lives over again the\nemotions created in him by that passionate song. To his true poet's\nheart it is a matter for exultation that just something beautiful\nshould have been, and he there to witness and rejoice. He reconsiders\nit all with affectionate disquisition, fresh delight in every point.\nIf just a shade of sadness belongs to the hour, it lies in the\nrecognition that though the vision of beauty has by the contagion\nthat is proper to it stimulated in him the impulse to be at once\nproducing, he too, beautiful things, not by any longing could he,\nafter a life of faithful effort in the service of Poesy, produce\nanything to compare with the unprepared effusion of that youth!\n\nIn the serenity of the lovely evening his thoughts breathe themselves\nforth upon the scented June air: \"What fragrance--how mild, how\nsweet, how abundant,--exhaled from the elder-tree! Its soft spell\nloosens my fibres, solicits me to seek expression for my thoughts.\nTo what purpose, any expression of mine? A poor, simple fellow\nam I! Little in the mood for work as I am, you had best, friend,\nlet me alone! Far wiser I should attend to my leather and desist\naltogether from poetry!\" Resolutely he falls to work. But Friend\nElder-tree does not therefore cease to shed scent. It casts its\nspell over him again almost at once. \"No, there is no use in trying\nto work!\" Sachs leans back and listens again to the echo in his\nmemory of Walther's song. \"I feel it,\" he meditates, lending ear\nto the persistent voice in his brain, \"and cannot understand it.\nI cannot retain it--nor yet can forget it! And if for a moment I\ngrasp it, to measure it is beyond me. But how should I hope to\ngrasp that which struck me as illimitable? No rule fitted it, and yet\nit had not one fault! It sounded so old, and was yet so new,--like\nthe song of birds in the sweet May-time. One who should hear it,\nand, smitten with madness, try to sing in imitation of that Bird,\nwould meet with scorn and derision.... The law of Spring,--exquisite\ncompulsion!--according to that were the rules of song laid in his\nbreast. And he sang even as he must! And as he must, the power\nto do it came to him, I marked that quite particularly.... The\nBird who sang to-day, his beak is fashioned aright! Great as was\nthe dismay created by him among the masters, he was much to Hans\nSachs's mind!\"\n\nEvchen has come out of her house and softly approached. Sachs looks\nup, joyfully surprised, at her greeting: \"Good-evening, master; still\nso diligent?\" There follows as pretty an exhibition of youthful\nfeminine arts as one could wish to see. The cajoling inflections\nof the music alone would inform one of what is in action. Eva has\ncome to Sachs with an ulterior motive: to hear the details of the\nsong-trial. She has no mind, of course, to avow her interest frankly.\nShe must gain her end as she can, and, as a beginning, to flatter\nher man and challenge his fondness for her can never fall wholly\nwide of the mark. Sachs loves her dearly, that she knows, and she\nhas, in the innocent presumption of her young beauty, not questioned\nthat he would enter the song-tournament for her; and until yesterday\nshe rested in placid contentment upon the intention of crowning this\naffection which never since her birth has failed her. Her narrow\neighteen years have no conception of a devotion so generous and deep\nit would not dream, however fair the opportunity, of laying upon her\nyouth the burden of his maturity, the oppression of his thoughtfulness.\nSachs is unwilling, too, very likely, in his wisdom, to compromise\nthe peace of his Indian summer by assuming the guardianship of\nan over-fair young wife. His neighbour's picturesque whim, the\nsong-contest in prospect, has no doubt given Sachs sufficient\nuneasiness, but he finally, as we heard him declare to Pogner,\nrests satisfied with the maiden's privilege of refusal. Not one of\nthe guild of master-singers seems to him worthy of this blooming\nyoung Eve. As for the father's \"Never!\" applied to her marriage\nif she shall not accept the master-singers' choice, Sachs knows\nhis Pogner and his Eva, and is willing to entrust the matter to\nTime.\n\nAnd so the ingenuous seductress finds the genial, clever, mellow\nneighbour's attitude toward her in this scene more canny than she\ncan have expected, or quite relishes. It almost appears he had\nno idea of trying for her. Perhaps an intuition of her momentary\ninsincerity has made him more than naturally wary. The practising\nupon himself of her pretty coquetries he suffers however without\nunreasonable distaste. \"Ha, child, dear Evchen, out so late? But\nI know--I know what brings you so late. The new shoes?\"--\"You are\nmistaken! I have not even tried on the shoes. They are so beautiful,\nso richly ornamented, I have not yet ventured so much as to put them\non my feet!\"--\"And yet you are to wear them to-morrow as a bride?\"\nShe takes a seat on the stone bench by his door and leans confidingly\nclose to him. \"Who, then, is to be the bridegroom?\"--\"How should I\nknow?\"--\"How can you know then that I am to be a bride?\"--\"What a\nquestion! The town knows it!\"--\"And if the town knows it, friend\nSachs feels that he has good authority. I should have thought that\nhe knew more than the town.\"--\"What should I know?\"--\"See, now, I\nshall be obliged to tell him! I am certainly a fool!...\"--\"I did not\nsay so.\"--\"It is you then who are more than common knowing....\"--\"I\ndo not know.\"--\"You do not know!.. You have nothing to say!...\"\nShe draws away, nettled: \"Ah, friend Sachs, I now perceive that\npitch is not wax! I had supposed you cleverer.\" Calmly he takes\nup her words and by them guides the conversation from that ground.\n\"Child, the properties both of wax and pitch I am well acquainted\nwith. With wax I stroke the silken threads with which I stitch\nyour dainty shoes; the shoes I am at this moment making, I sew\nwith coarse cord, and use pitch to stiffen it, for the hard-fibred\ncustomer who is to wear them.\"--\"Who is it? Some one of great\nconsequence, I suppose?\"--\"Of consequence, indeed! A proud master,\non wooing bent, who has no doubt whatever of coming forth victorious\nfrom to-morrow's event. For Master Beckmesser I am making these\nshoes.\"--\"Then use pitch in plenty, that he may stick fast in them\nand trouble me no more!\"--\"He hopes surely by his song to win\nyou.\"--\"What can justify such a hope?\"--\"He is a bachelor, you\nsee; there are not many in the place.\" Again she draws near and\nbends close to him. \"Might not a widower be successful?\" In his\nkind, sane, unsentimental voice he replies promptly: \"My child, he\nwould be too old for you!\"--\"What do you mean, too old? The question\nhere is one of art. The man who has achieved distinction in art,\nlet him contend for me.\" Sachs smiles, indulgently, paternally.\n\"Dear little Eva, are you making a fool of me?\" (_Machst mir blauen\nDunst?_ Are you blinding me with blue haze?)--\"Not I! It is you--\"\nshe retorts warmly, \"it is you who are playing tricks on me. Confess\nthat you are of an inconstant nature. God knows who it is you have\nnow housed in your heart. And I have been supposing for years it\nwas I!\"--\"Because I used to be fond of carrying you in my arms?\"--\"I\nsee! It was only because you had no children of your own!\"--\"Time was\nwhen I had a wife and children enough,\" Sachs reminds her gently.\n\"But your wife died, and I grew up!\"--\"And you grew up, tall and\nmost fair!\"--\"And so I thought you would take me into your house\nin place of wife and child....\"--\"Thus I should have a child and a\nwife in one ... A pleasant pastime, indeed! Ha ha! How beautifully\nyou have planned it all!\"--\"I believe,\" she pouts, and bends her\nbrows on him in a puzzled frown, \"I believe that the master is\nmaking fun of me! In the end he will calmly acquiesce in Beckmesser\nto-morrow carrying me off, right under his nose, from him and all the\nrest!\"--\"How could I prevent it,\" says Sachs, not upset apparently\nby the fearful thought, \"if he is successful? Your father alone\ncould find a remedy to that.\"--\"Where such a master carries his\nhead!\" cries Eva, in acute exasperation, \"If I were to come to\nyour house, should I so much as be made at home?\" Somewhat dryly\nhe takes up her words, as before, to steer the conversation from\nthese dubious borders; and by some hazard, or intuition, turns it\nupon the subject nearest her heart. \"Ah, yes, you are right! My\nhead is in a state of confusion. I have had much care and bother\nto-day. Something of it clings very probably to my wits.\"--\"At the\nsinging-school, do you mean?\" she asks, with covert eagerness;\n\"There was song-trial to-day.\"--\"Yes, child, I had considerable\ntrouble over an election.\" She draws close to him. \"Now, Sachs!\nYou should have said so at once, and I would not have harassed\nyou with senseless questions. Tell me now who it was that sought\nfor election?\"--\"A knight, my child, wofully untaught!\"--\"A knight?\nYou do not say so! And was he admitted?\"--\"Far from it, my dear.\nThere was too much difference of opinion.\"--\"Well, tell me, then.\nTell me how it all happened. If it troubles you, how should it\nleave me untroubled? So he stood the trial discreditably and was\ndefeated....\"--\"Hopelessly defeated, the gallant cavalier!\" Walther's\nfailure is symbolised by a melodious groan. \"Hopelessly, you say?\nThere was no way then by which he might have been saved? Did he\nsing so badly, so faultily, that there is no possibility more of\nhis becoming a master?\"--\"My child,\" Sachs broadly assevers, \"for\nhim all is definitely lost. And never in any land will he be made\na master. For he who is a master born occupies ever among masters\nthe very lowest place.\" On the verge of tears, with difficulty\ncontrolling her indignation, Eva continues her questioning: \"One\nthing more tell me. Did he not find among the masters a single\nfriend?\" Sachs nearly laughs. \"That were not bad! To be, on top of\neverything, his friend! His friend--before whom all feel themselves\nso small!...\" (If Eva were not so engrossed with her single idea,\nthe gleam in Sachs's eye, the fire in his tone, would interpret to\nher this brutal-sounding speech.) \"Young Lord Arrogance, let him\ngo his way! Let him go brawling and slashing through the world!\nAs for us, let us draw our breath in peaceful enjoyment of what\nwe have acquired with labour and difficulty. Keep off the fiery\nfellow from running amuck among us! Let fortune bloom for him\nelsewhere!\" Trembling with anger, and dropping all concealment,\nEva springs to her feet: \"Yes, elsewhere shall fortune bloom for\nhim than in the neighbourhood of you repulsive envy-ridden\ncreatures!--elsewhere, where hearts still have some warmth in them,\nin spite of all cantankerous Master Hanses!--Directly, yes, I am\ncoming!\" (This to Magdalene, who has been calling to her from her\nfather's door.) \"I go home much comforted! It reeks of pitch here\ntill God take pity on us! Kindle a fire with it, do, Master Sachs,\nand get a little warmth into you, if you can!\"\n\n\"I thought so!\" Sachs says to himself as he watches her cross the\nstreet to her own door. Two and two have leaped together in his\nmind, too. \"The question is now what will be the sage course to\npursue.\" He goes within and closes his door... all but a crack.\n\n\"Your father is asking for you,\" Magdalene reports to her agitated\nmistress. \"Go to him,\" weeps Eva, \"and say that I have gone to my\nroom and to bed.\" But Beckmesser--the nurse reminds her of the\nmessage from him. He desires her to be at the window; he will sing\nand play to her a beautiful composition by which he hopes on the\nmorrow to win her. He wishes to discover whether it be to her taste.\nEva, anxiously awaiting the arrival of her lover, disposes of the\nsubject by ordering Magdalene to be at the window in her place.\n\"That would make David jealous!\" reflects Magdalene; \"His chamber\nis toward the lane.\" The prospect tickles her spirits. Even as\nshe is urging Eva to go in, for her father, is calling, Walther\ncomes down the lane. Hopeless after that, Magdalene recognises,\nto attempt dragging indoors the damsel. She hurries in by herself\nto content Pogner with some discreet misrepresentation.\n\nWith passionate endearments Walther and Eva have rushed into each\nother's arms. All is lost which depended upon his winning the title\nof master-singer. There is nothing further to hope from that quarter;\nno choice is left, they must fly together. \"Away, where liberty\nis!\" he cries, \"That is where I belong, there where I am master in\nthe house!\" He grows hot with anger at remembrance of the masters'\ntreatment of him, but, even more, with loathing at the thought\nof his beloved sitting to-morrow in their midst, looked upon by\nthem with covetous eyes as a possible bride. \"And I would endure\nit, do you think? I would not fall upon them all, sword in hand?\"\nThe night-watchman's horn breaks across his heated outburst. He\nclaps hand to his sword. Eva draws him gently into the shadow of\nthe linden-tree, to lie concealed until the watchman have passed,\nand leaves him a moment to go within.\n\nThe night-watchman, with pike, horn, and lantern, comes down the\nlane, calling the hour of ten; he bids the householders look to\ntheir fires and lights, avoiding disaster, and so let God the Lord\nbe praised! He turns the corner, the sound of his horn dies away.\n\nSachs from behind his door has played the eavesdropper. \"Evil doings\nare under way! No less than an elopement! Attention! This must\nnot be!\"\n\nEva creeps forth from her father's house, disguised for the journey\nin Magdalene's things. \"No stopping for reflection!\" she cries; \"Away\nfrom here! Away! Oh, that we were already off and afar!\"--\"This way,\nthrough the lane....\" Walther draws her along with him. \"At the\ncity-gate we shall find servant and horses.\" But right across the\nlane falls suddenly a great shaft of light, projected from Sachs's\nwindow, cast by a lamp placed behind a glass globe which magnifies\nit to intense brilliancy. The lovers find themselves standing in\na bright illumination. Eva pulls Walther quickly back into the\ndark. \"Woe's me, the shoe-maker! If he were to see us!... Hide! Do\nnot go near that man!\"--\"What other road can we take?\"--\"The street\nthere--but it is a winding one, I am not well acquainted with it,\nand, besides, we should run into the night-watchman.\"--\"Well, then,\nthrough the lane!\"--\"The shoe-maker must first leave the window!\"--\"I\nwill force him to leave it!\" says Walther, fiercely.--\"He must\nnot see you. He knows you.\"--\"The shoe-maker?...\"--\"Yes, it is\nSachs.\"--\"Hans Sachs, my friend?\"--\"Do not believe it! He had nothing\nbut evil to say of you!\"--\"What, Sachs? He, too?... I will put out\nhis lamp!\" She catches again at his arm, and even at that moment\nboth are startled into immobility by the sound of a lute. Some one\napproaches, testing as he comes the strings of a lute, if they be\nin tune. The light has disappeared from the shoe-maker's window.\nWalther is again for dashing down the lane toward the city-gate and\nthe horses. \"But no! Can't you hear?\"--his lady hangs back. \"Some\none else has come and taken up his station there.\"--\"I hear it\nand see it. It is some street-musician. What is he doing so late\nat night?\"--\"It is Beckmesser!\"--\"What, the Marker? The Marker\nin my power? There is one whose loafing in the street shall not\ntrouble us long....\" Again she catches in terror at his arm, so\nready ever to catch at the sword. \"For the love of Heaven, listen!\nDo you wish to waken my father? The man will sing his song and\nthen will go his way. Let us hide behind the shrubs yonder.\" She\ndraws her lover to the stone seat under the linden-tree.\n\nSachs at the sound of the lute has drawn in his light, become\nsuperfluous, since the road is effectually blocked for the lovers by\nthe musical interloper. He overhears Eva's exclamation, \"Beckmesser!\"\nand has an idea. Beckmesser shall be made of use to prevent the\nlovers as long as possible from moving any farther from the safe\nparental roof than that stone seat under the linden, where they\nhuddle close, whispering together, while keeping a watchful eye\non the actors of the comedy which follows. Sachs, as one might\nknow of him, loves a joke. He softly opens his door, places his\nwork-bench and lamp right in the doorway, and sets himself at his\nwork. When Beckmesser, after impatiently preluding to bring to\nthe window the figure he is expecting, clears his throat to begin\nthe serenade, Sachs, vigourously hammering on his last, prevents\nhim by bursting forth on his own account in a lusty ditty with\nmuch loud Ohe, Ohe, Trallalei!--a playful ditty, sweet at the core,\nabout Eve, the original mother, and the first pair of shoes, ordered\nfor her from an angel by the Lord himself, who was sorry to see the\npitiful sinner, when turned out of Paradise, go bruising her little\nfeet, for which He had a tenderness, on the hard stones; and Adam,\ntoo, stubbing his toes against the flints, the song tells how he\non the same occasion was measured for boots. Beckmesser can hardly\ncontain his impatience and disgust till the first verse comes to an\nend. Upon the last note of it, he addresses the shoe-maker with\nwhat sickly civility he can summon: \"How is this, master? Still\nup? So late at night?\" Sachs expresses an equal surprise to find\nthe town-clerk moving abroad: \"I suppose you are concerned for\nyour shoes. I am at work on them, as you see; you shall have them\nto-morrow.\"--\"Devil take the shoes!\" groans Beckmesser; \"What I want\nhere is quiet!\" But his words are lost amid Sachs's hammer-blows\nand unmoderated voice launching forth upon the second verse. \"You\nare to stop at once!\" Beckmesser, in mounting anger, orders Sachs,\nas, hardly pausing to take breath, the shoe-maker is attacking\nthe third verse. \"Is it a practical joke you are playing on me?\nDo you make no distinction between the night and the day?\" Sachs\nlooks at him in innocent surprise. \"What does it matter to you that\nI should sing? You are anxious, are you not, to have your shoes\nfinished?\"--\"Shut yourself up indoors then and keep quiet!\"--\"Nay,\nnight-labour is burdensome; if I am to keep cheerful at my work, I\nmust have air and light-hearted song. So hear how the third verse\ngoes!\" And he attacks it with a will. There is added to Beckmesser's\nother troubles the fearful thought that the maiden may mistake this\noutrageous bellowing for his love-song. A second-story window in\nPogner's house has softly opened, a form is dimly outlined within\nthe frame of it. \"I am lost now,\" Beckmesser desperately reflects,\n\"if he goes on singing!\" He resolutely steps up to Sachs: \"Friend\nSachs, just listen to one word! How bent you seem upon those shoes!\nI truly had forgotten all about them. As a shoe-maker, the fact is,\nI hold you in great esteem, but as an artist and critic I honour\nyou even more highly. I beseech you therefore to give your attention\nto a little song by which I hope to-morrow to win the prize. I am\neager to be told whether you think well of it.\" While talking,\nhe strums, as if casually, upon his lute, to keep the lady from\nleaving the window. \"Oh, no!\" Sachs replies; \"You wish to catch\nme by my weak side. I have no wish for another berating. Since\nyour shoe-maker takes himself for a poet, it fares but ill with\nyour footgear. I can see for myself that it is in a deplorable\ncondition. And so I drop verse and rhyme, knowledge and erudition,\nand I make you the new shoes for to-morrow.\"--\"Let that be, do!\"\nBeckmesser adjures him; \"That was only a joke. Understand now what\nmy true sentiments are. You stand high in honour with the people,\nand the daughter of Pogner has a great opinion of you. Now, if\nI intend to offer myself as a suitor for her to-morrow, can you\nnot see how I might be destroyed by her not taking kindly to my\nsong? Therefore listen to me quietly, do, and when I have finished\nmy song tell me what in it you like, and what not, that I may make\nmy dispositions accordingly.\"--\"Go along! Let me alone!\" Sachs\nstill excuses himself; \"How should so much honour accrue to me? My\nsongs are but common street-songs; let me therefore, in my common\nway, sing them to the street!\" He is taking up his noisy lay again\nabout Eve and shoes when Beckmesser's rage explodes. Quaking, the\ntown-clerk pours forth reproach and insult. This conduct of the\nshoe-maker's has its source in envy, nothing else; envy of the\ndignity of Marker which has never been bestowed upon him, and which\nnow never will be, not so long as Beckmesser lives and has influence\nwith the masters. When he stops at last, for lack of breath, Sachs\nasks artlessly: \"Was that your song?... Somewhat irregular in form,\nbut it sounded right spirited!\"\n\nWalther, in the shadow, clasping his troubled lady, who is unaccountably\nsaddened by the untimely farce, struggles with a hysterical desire\nto laugh--it is all so like a fantastic dream.\n\nAt last shoe-maker and town-clerk come to an arrangement. Beckmesser\nshall sing his song, and Sachs, whose criticism he so unwontedly\ndesires, shall act as Marker; but Sachs, who contends that he is\nloath to stop work on his shoes, instead of marking with chalk,\nshall mark the singer's mistakes by blows of his hammer on the\nlast, and so, peradventure, while listening, forward his work. A\ndisgusting arrangement, but Beckmesser is in such terror lest the\nlady leave her post before he have sung that he consents. \"Begin!\"\nhollaes Sachs, and Beckmesser, after preluding, sings, while Sachs\npunctuates the lines with smart taps on the last. These at first\ndiscompose the singer, and he stops at each tap to inquire angrily\nwhat it is that is not right; he shortly resolves, however, to pay\nno heed to the spiteful enemy, but cover over the interruptions with\nhis voice. Louder and louder and ever more breathlessly he sings,\na lyric that is more prosy than prose, a piece of common statement\nof facts, tortured into verse, which attains metre only by throwing\nthe accent continually, ludicrously, on the wrong syllables. The\nmelody, nasal and snuffling, is the very prose, too, of music. A\nridiculous, dead-in-earnest song, relating in three long verses the\ncircumstances of the song-contest and the singer's tender hopes.\n\nBy the end of the second verse, the teasing shoe-maker has tapped\nso much that the soles are solid with the vamps. He swings the\nfinished shoes triumphantly before his customer, announcing that\nhe has thought of an appropriate verse to write on the soles, and\nit is: \"A good song must keep time!\" But Beckmesser does not stop\nfor him. Beckmesser disdainfully goes on, as if he and the lady\nwere alone in the world, and he sang thus loud to overpower some\nsuch thing as the sea-surf. In his engrossment he fails to take\naccount of various ominous signs. He does not see David appear at\nhis chamber-window. In spite of Eva's clothes which she is wearing,\nthe boy recognises Magdalene at the casement across the way. His\njealousy is quick to suppose her cold treatment of himself due to\nan inclination toward this new admirer. The neighbours, too, begin\nto lean out of their windows and ask the reason of this abominable\ncaterwauling. A crowd collects in the street, of persons trying\nto find out what is the matter. The apprentices come flocking,\nmischievous instigators to mischief, and the journeymen, little\nbetter than they. Soon, there is difference and quarreling among\nthose arriving to inquire the cause of the disturbance. Neighbours\npour into the street, men and women in night-attire; finally, the heavy\nburghers arrive, the masters themselves, noisy, almost disorderly, in\ntheir attempts to restore order. Beckmesser, singing at the top of\nhis lungs, does not wake to consciousness of his surroundings until\na cudgel falls across his back, wielded by David. He flees--but is\nat every few steps overtaken again and beaten. The two figures, in\nflight and pursuit, waving lute and brandishing cudgel, disappear\nand reappear at intervals among the swaying crowd. In vain Magdalene\nfrom above screams to David to let the gentleman go. Pogner's hand\ndraws her away from the window; in the dim light he mistakes her\nfor Eva. Sachs, when the confusion is well under way, draws in his\nwork-bench and closes his door ... again all but a crack, through\nwhich he can watch the two figures wrapped in a single cloak beneath\nthe linden-tree. When the disorder is at its height, Walther clasps\nthe girl with his left arm, with his right bares his sword, and\nattempts a rush through the crowd, toward the gates and horses\nof freedom. Quick as thought, Sachs has cleared his way to the\ncouple; he grasps Walther by the arm. Pogner at the same moment\nappears at his door, calling for Lene. Sachs pushes toward him\nEva, half-fainting, bereft by panic of all power to withstand the\nimpulsion. Pogner receives her in his arms and draws her within\ndoors, not suspecting but that she is the faithful nurse whose\ngarments she wears. With deft foot Sachs propels David before him\ninto the house; then, forcibly drawing Walther with him across the\nthreshold, fastens the door,--his object happily accomplished.\n\nThe street-battle is still raging. But at this point women pour\nwater from the windows on the heads of the combatants, as they would\non fighting dogs. Simultaneously, the horn of the night-watchman\nis heard. In the space of a yawn the scene is deserted; all down\nthe street are fast-closed windows and doors; Beckmesser hobbles\noff rubbing his back. The old night-watchman, reaching the spot,\nrubs his eyes, clearly wondering if he have dreamed that he heard\nalarming sounds from that quarter. After looking all around, he\ndroningly calls the hour of eleven, enjoins the people to be on\nguard against phantoms and spooks, that no evil spirit may work\nharm to their souls, and so let God the Lord be praised! The full\nmoon rising above the housetops suddenly floods the quiet lane.\nThe watchman slowly goes down it. As he vanishes around the corner,\nthe curtain falls.\n\nIII\n\nThe interior of Sachs's workshop. The poet sits in an ample armchair,\nnear the window, bathed in the morning sunshine, absorbed in a\ngreat book. The magnanimity of his mood, the beautiful deep calm\nfollowing upon certain resolutions and sacrifices, the gently exalted\nmelancholy of his meditations--half remembrance, and dreamy as if\nviolet shades of evening softened them,--the composer has given\nus to apprehend all in the introduction to the third act.\n\nSo rapt is Sachs in the perusal of his great volume, or, as may\nbe suspected, in images which float between the page and his eyes,\nthat he does not see David enter carrying a basket of Lene's bestowal\nfilled with flowers and ribbons for the adornment of his person on\nthis festival day, as well as with cake and sausage. The apprentice,\nwhen Sachs does not speak, or, spoken to, answer, or make sign when\nhe informs him that Beckmesser's shoes have been duly delivered,\nbelieves him to be angry, and goes into a long apology for his\nmisconduct on the night before, brightening finally with the relation\nof his making-up this morning with Lene, who has satisfactorily\nexplained all. Sachs reads on, as little disturbed as by the buzzing\nof a fly on the pane. Only when he has finished, and closed his\nbook,--the unexpected clap of the covers so startles David that he\nstumbles to his knees--Sachs looks around him, as if coming back\nfrom a dream. His eye is caught by the bright flowers and ribbons\nbrought in by David. Their effect of young gayety touches some chord\nin him more than usually sensitive at this moment. \"Flowers and\nribbons I see over there,\" he muses audibly; \"Sweet and youthful\nthey look! How come they in my house?\" David is relieved to find him\nin this gentle mood, yet puzzled at the remoteness and abstraction\nfrom which the master is but slowly drawn. He has occasion for a\nmoment to wonder even whether the master have perchance become\nhard of hearing....\n\nFully returned at length to a sense of the common surrounding world,\nSachs asks David for his day's lesson, and the apprentice briskly\nsings his verse, first comically confusing the tune with that of\nBeckmesser's serenade, still buzzing in his head, then, at Sachs's\ngesture of astonishment, righting himself and acquitting himself of\nhis task without slip. The verse is a playful bit, between psalm\nand street-song. It relates that when Saint John was baptising\non the banks of Jordan there came to him a lady from Nuremberg\nbringing her little son for baptism. When she got home, however, to\nGerman land, it proved that vainly had one on the banks of Jordan\nbeen given the name of Johannes, on the banks of the Pegnitz he\nbecame Hans! The pronouncing of the name brings to David's mind\nthe remembrance suddenly that it is his master's name, that the\nday is therefore his name's-day. In an impulse of affectionate\ndevotion he presses on him all the gay articles just received from\nLene, the flowers and ribbons, the magnificent cake, and, but shyly,\nas if it were not quite worthy of a poet, the sausage. With great\ngentleness, Sachs thanks the lad and bids him keep the things for\nhimself, adding a request that he make himself fine with those\nsame flowers and ribbons to accompany him presently to the meadow\noutside the city gates where the song-contest is to be held. His\nstately herald he shall be. Sachs's friendliness encourages the\nboy to venture a small liberty. \"May I not rather go as your\ngroom's-man? Master, dear master, you must marry again!\"--\"You\nwould be glad of a mistress in the house?\" asks Sachs dreamily.--\"It\nwould make, in my opinion, a much more imposing household!\" There\nis popular talk and expectation of it, as an outcome of the coming\nsong-contest, David intimates; \"You will hardly have much trouble,\nas I think, in singing Beckmesser out of the field; I hardly believe\nhe will make himself very conspicuous to-day!\"--\"I hardly believe so,\neither,\" Sachs smiles: \"But go now, and be careful not to disturb\nhis lordship. Come back when you have made yourself fine.\"\n\nLeft alone, Sachs sinks into thought again, sitting there with\nhis book on his knees and his head propped on his hand. We are\nallowed to follow his reflections, those of a philosopher,--but not\none standing apart and watching a little scornfully the vagaries\nof men; a very human being, taking part in them, without losing a\nhumourous sense of their character. \"Illusion! Illusion! Everywhere\nillusion! Whichever way I bend my inquiry, searching the chronicles\nof the city and those of the world, to discover the reason why\npeople, in vain and frantic rage, torment and oppress themselves\nand one another to the point of bloodshed! No one has any good\nof it, or receives any thanks for it. Through its working, the\ndefeated and put to flight fancies himself chasing the foe. He\nis deaf to his own cry of pain. When he twists the knife in his\nown flesh, he has an idea that he is doing himself a pleasure! Who\nshall find a name for it? One name, forsooth, befits it: Ancient\nIllusion it is, without which nothing happens, nothing either goes or\nstands still. If it halts in its career, it merely while slumbering\ngathers new force; it presently wakes up, and then see who can\nmaster it!...\" He smiles whimsically, nodding to himself, at the\ncontemplation of the instance of all this uppermost in his mind,\nthe events of the evening before. \"How peaceful, in its adherence\nto good customs, approved in conduct and deed, lies in the heart\nof Germany my beloved Nuremberg! But late upon a night, a man there\nis found totally void of counsel how to prevent a catastrophe,\nresulting from youth and hot blood. A shoe-maker in his shop tugs\ngently at the threads of illusion: how promptly up and down the\nlanes and streets the thing begins to rage; men, women, boys and\nchildren, fall upon one another like mad and blind; and the\ncrack-brained spirit is not to be laid until a shower fall of blows--a\nshower of blows, kicks and cudgel-thwacks, to smother the angry\nconflagration. God knows how it all came about?\" He smiles again,\nreflectively, over the recollection of the lovely quiet evening\nit was, the terrific discordant pother that arose,--the lovely\nand hushed night that presently resumed her reign. The incident\nlooks fantastic now. \"An imp must have had a hand in it!\" is the\npoet's fanciful induction; \"A glow-worm could not find his mate,\nit was he responsible for all the damage done! It was the fault of\nthe elder-tree--of Saint John's night! ... But now--\" he broadly\ndismisses the fancies and aberrations of the warm mid-summer night,\nand turns his face toward the clear-defined duty of the day: \"But\nnow it is Saint John's Day! And now let us see how Hans Sachs shall\ncontrive deftly to guide Illusion to the working out of a noble\npurpose. For if the spirit will not let us rest even here in Nuremberg,\nlet it be for such works as seldom succeed by vulgar means, and\nsucceed never without some grain of illusion in the perpetrator\nhimself!\"\n\nWalther appears at the door of an inner chamber. Sachs rises to\nmeet and greet his guest. They had a good talk the night before,\nafter the wise shoester's act of well-meant violence. Walther was\ngrateful, no doubt, upon calmer reflection, to have been saved\nfrom the ruinous folly he had projected. The two men are obviously\nfast friends. There is in Sachs's attitude a touching deference\ntoward the younger man, the heart-wholly acknowledged superior\nin talent. It is a pleasant spectacle, the grey meistersinger's\neager glorying in the golden youth's simple, abundant, God-bestowed\ngift. The motif of his address to Walther has a touch of charming\ncourtliness. \"God keep your lordship! Did you find rest? You were\nup late--you did, however, finally sleep?\"--\"A little,\" Walther\nanswers, \"but soundly and well.\" There is something hushed and\nfixed in Walther's aspect, as if he listened to voices no one else\ncould hear, gazed upon some vision invisible to others. He is still\nunder the spell of a recent marvellous impression. \"I have had--\"\nhe tells Sachs, when the latter genially asks is he feeling, after\nhis good sleep, in good form and of good courage, \"I have had a\nwonderfully beautiful dream....\"--\"A good omen, that! Tell me your\ndream!\"--\"I hardly dare to touch it with my thought, so do I fear\nto see it fade away.\"--\"My friend,\" the older poet with fine amenity\ntakes up the part of teacher, and his observations have a ripe,\nsunny, elevated wisdom, for which one should store them carefully\nas one does good fruit, \"that exactly is the task of a poet, to\nmark dreams and interpret them. Believe me, of all the illusions\nof man the most nearly approaching truth are those he comes into\ncognisance of through dreams. The whole art of poetry is but the\ninterpretation of true-dreaming. What if this dream now should\ncontain a hint how you may to-day be made a master?\"--\"No, no,\"\nWalther rejects the idea with distaste; \"In the presence of the\nguild and its masters, scant inspiration would animate my\ndream-picture!\"--\"But yet, suppose your dream contained the magic\nspell by which you might win over the guild?\" Walther shakes his\nhead: \"How do you cling to an illusion, if after such a rupture as\nyou witnessed you still cherish such a hope!\"--\"Nay, my hope stands\nundiminished, nor has anything so far occurred to overthrow it; if\nthat were not so, believe me, instead of preventing your flight, I\nwould myself have taken flight with you! Pray you, therefore, let\nyour resentment die! You are dealing with honourable men. They make\nmistakes and are fairly settled in the comfortable determination\nto be taken in their own way. Those who offer prizes desire after\nall that one shall please them. Your song scared them, and with\nreason, for, upon reflection, the like flaming poetry and passion\nare adapted for the luring of daughters into mad adventures, but\nthe sentiment leading to the blessed married state finds words and\nnotes of a different sort!\" Walther grins: \"I know the sort--from\nhearing them last night; there was a good deal of noise out in the\nstreet.\" Sachs laughs too; \"Yes! yes!... You heard likewise how\nI beat time. But let be all that, and follow my advice, good and\nshort: summon up your energies for a master-song!\"--\"A beautiful\nsong, and a master-song, how am I to seize the distinction between\nthem?\" asks the singer of the beautiful song which had been despised.\n\"My friend,\" Sachs explains, with a warmth as of tears and blood,\n\"in the beautiful days of youth, when the bosom expands high and\nwide with the mighty transports of happy first love, many are they\nwho can achieve a beautiful song: the Spring-time it is which sings\nfor them! But let summer come, autumn and winter, the sorrows and\ncares of life,--no dearth of wedded joys along-side!--christenings,\nbusiness, discord and difficulties, those who still after all that\ncan compass the singing of a beautiful song, those, mark me, are\nentitled masters!\" Aye, first, as a modern poet has said, warm\nnatural drops of blood; later, the alchemist's laborious spheres of\nchemic gold. In youth, all-sufficient inspiration,--later, labour\nand rule, with meritorious concentration substituting for impetus\nand fire the beauty of careful form, and making durable in this\nthe evanescent dreams of youth. \"Learn the master-rules in good\nseason,\" Sachs adds, \"that they may be faithful guides to you,\nhelping you to preserve safely that which in the gracious years\nof youth spring-time and love with exquisite throes bred in your\nunconscious heart, that you may store and treasure it, and it may\nnot be lost!\"--\"But who--\" Walther asks, inclined to cavil where\nanything is concerned which relates to the master-singers, \"Who\ncreated these rules which stand in such high honour?\"--\"They were\nsorely-needy masters,\" Sachs in his moved tones continues the charming\nlesson, \"spirits heavily weighted with the weariness of life; in\nthe wilderness of their distresses they created for themselves\nan image, that they might retain vivid and lasting the memory of\nyoung love, bearing the sign and stamp still, and breathing the\nfragrance, of Spring!\"--\"But,\" Walther objects, suspicious of that\nwhole tribe of snuffy masters, for whom Sachs has the same charity\nof a broad understanding which he has shown in Walter's own case,\n\"however can he for whom Spring is long past fix the essence of it\nin an image?\"--\"He recreates it as well as he can,\" Sachs sums with\nsudden curtness, recognising perhaps the futility of his attempt\nagainst this so lively dislike; and passes on to the point more\nimportant at this moment, to his thinking. \"I beg you, therefore,\nsorely-needy man that I am, if I am to teach you the rules, that\nyou should renew in me the sense of that which originally gave them\nrise. See, here are ink, pen, and paper. I will be your scribe,\ndo you dictate.\"--\"Hardly should I know how to begin.\"--\"Relate\nto me your morning dream.\"--\"Nay, as a result of your teaching\nof rules, I feel as if it had faded quite away.\"--\"The very point\nwhere the poet's art comes into requisition! Recall your beautiful\ndream of the morning, for the rest, let it be Hans Sachs's care!\"\n\nWalther takes a moment to collect himself. Sachs sits with quill\npoised over paper. Then Walther relates his dream, meeting Sachs's\nrequest for a master-song by casting it as he goes, with the light\nease of genius, into verse and melody,--his second astonishing\nimprovisation, joyous as the first, but not agitated--reflective,\nas if he filled Sordello's account of himself: \"_I' mi son un che\nquando Amore spira, noto, e quel che detta dentro vo significando._\"\nI am one who when Love breathes, do note, and that which he dictates\nwithin do go expressing. All things lovely seem to have congregated\nin this dream of his; it is no wonder that the lingering impression\nof it enveloped him with an atmosphere of Paradise, and that he\nfeared almost to breathe lest it be dispelled. Just the words he\nhas to use, without their relations, conjure up a flock of alluring\nimages: Morning-shine, roseate light, blossoms, perfume, air,\njoy,--unimaginable joy, a garden! The idea that a poet's song is\nas much a part of him as fruit is of the tree stands illustrated\nby the fact that the song which falls on our ear as in its ensemble\nso fresh, is yet composed in great part of the Walther-motifs with\nwhich we have become familiar; his youth, his enthusiasm, his courage\nand his love, all go into the making of his song. As he said in\nanswer to Kothner, what should be put into his song unless the\nessence of all he had known and lived?\n\nGlimmering beneath the rosy light of dawn, the air being laden\nwith the scent of flowers, a garden, he sings, full of never before\nimagined attractions, had invited him to enter it....\n\n\"That was a stanza.\" Sachs states, as Walther pauses. \"Take careful\nheed now that the one following must be exactly like it.\"--\"Why\nexactly alike?\" the free-born asks, ready to chafe at the shadow\nof a restriction. Sachs, indulgent, makes play for this prodigious\nchild's sake of the to him so grave business of song-making: \"That\none may see that you have selected a mate!\"\n\nIn that blissful garden a magnificent tree had proffered to his\ndesire a sumptuous harvest of golden fruit.... Such is the matter\nof the second stanza.\n\n\"You did not,\" Sachs critically considers, \"close on the same tone.\nExcruciating is that to the masters, but Hans Sachs learns from your\ndoing it that in Spring-time it must perforce be so! Proceed now\nto the aftersong.\"--\"What is that?\" asks Walther. \"Your success in\nfinding a well-suited couple will appear now from their off-spring!\"\n\nIn the garden, by an exquisite miracle, he had found suddenly standing\nat his side a woman, more sweetly and graciously beautiful than\nany he had ever beheld. Like a bride she had entwined her arms\nsoftly about him, and had guided him, with eyes and hand, toward\nthe fruit of his desire, the fair fruit of the tree of life....\n\nJoyfully stirred as he is by the beauty of dream and song, Sachs\ncontrols his emotion, to secure all he can from the young poet's\nmomentary docility. \"There's what I call an aftersong!\" he exclaims\ncordially; \"See, now, how rounded and fine is the whole first part.\nWith the melody you deal, to be sure, a bit freely. I do not say,\nhowever, that it is a fault. But it makes the thing more difficult\nto retain, and that incenses our old men. Let us have now a second\npart, that we may gain a clear idea of the first. I do not even\nknow, so skilfully have you cast them into rhyme, what in your\nsong was invention and what was dream....\"\n\nWith heavenly glow of sunset-light, day had departed, as he lay\nthere drinking joy from her eyes, desire the sole power in possession\nof his heart. Night had closed down, baffling the eyesight, when,\nthrough the branches, the rays of two bright stars had shed their\nlight upon his face. The sound of a spring upon the quiet height\nhad reached his ear, murmuring more musically than any spring heard\ntheretofore; stars had appeared in multitude, dancing among the\nboughs overhead, until, instead of golden fruit, the laurel-tree\nhad swarmed with a host of stars....\n\n\"Friend!\" cries Sachs, striving against the full betrayal of his\npleasure, lest it be an interrupting element, \"your dream was an\neffectual guide! The second part is successful as the first. If\nnow,\" he ventures, \"you would compose a third, it might contain\nthe interpretation of your dream....\" But Walther jumps up from his\nchair, suddenly weary of the game. \"Enough of words!\" And Sachs, with\nsympathetic understanding of the incalculable ways of poets, refrains\nfrom pressing him. That overbubbling inspiration he believes can\nbe counted upon. \"Reserve then word and deed for the proper place.\nAnd I pray you hold fast in memory, this melody, a charming one it\nis to fit with words. And, against the moment of singing it in a\nmore extended circle, hold fast likewise to your dream!\"--\"What have\nyou in mind?\" Walther inquires. Sachs does not directly enlighten\nhim, but: \"Your faithful servant has, very seasonably, arrived\nwith packs and porte-manteaux. The garments in which you intended\nto make yourself brave for wedding-ceremonials at home, he has\nbrought here to the house. A little dove no doubt directed him to\nthe nest where his master slept. Come with me therefore to your\nchamber. Fitting it is we both attire ourselves splendidly, when\na splendid deed is to be dared!\" Walther without question places\nhis hand, as if it held his whole confidence, in Sachs's. They\npass together out of the workshop.\n\nThe stage remains for a moment empty. The air retains as if echoes,\nor fragrances, of the personalities which have but just withdrawn; it\nis sweetened with effluvia of Walther's youth, of Sachs's greatness\nof heart. Suddenly, like a bar of bilious green across a shimmering\nmother-o'-pearl fabric, harmonies of a very different sort catch\nthe attention, and Beckmesser's face is seen peering in at the\nwindow. Finding the workshop empty, he limps in. He is in holiday\narray, but there is little of holiday about him, save in his gaudily\nberibboned clothes. A long comedy-scene follows, in which Beckmesser\nsays never a word, but his thoughts are heard and his actions are\neloquent. His body is one mass of aches and pains, his soul the\nbattleground of anger, shame, thirst for vengeance. The din of the\nevening before fills his ears; he is chased, as if by furies, by\nmemories of the indignities put upon him. He is so sore he cannot\nsit; when he goes his joints hurt rackingly. His restless moving\nabout the room while he waits for Sachs brings him to the master's\nwriting-table: his eye falls on the sheet of music on which Sachs\nhas taken down Walther's song; his attention is arrested; he reads\nit off mentally with ever-increasing agitation. No mistake possible,\nin his mind: Sachs, who had declared that he would not enter the\nsong-contest for Pogner's daughter, has outrageously lied, and\nhere is the proof of it, this song which he means to sing at the\ntournament. \"Now,\" bursts forth Beckmesser, \"everything becomes\nclear to me!\" He jumps, hearing Sachs at the door, and stuffs the\npaper into his pocket. Sachs, in his handsome best-coat, meets him\npleasantly. \"You surely are not having any more trouble with the\nshoes?\" Beckmesser's wrath holds in but a moment before voiding\nitself upon Sachs in accusation and threat. \"Be sure, friend Sachs,\nI know you now!... That I may not stand in your way, you go so\nfar even as to incite the mob to riot.... You have always been\nmy enemy.... Now hear, whether I see through you. The maiden whom\nI have chosen, who was verily born for me, to the frustration of\nall widowers there be,--of her you are in pursuit! In order that\nMaster Sachs might gain the goldsmith's rich inheritance it was\nthat at the council of masters he stood upon minor clauses. For\nthat reason, fool that I was! with bawling and hammering he tried to\ndrown my song,--that the child might not be made aware of another's\nability! Yes, yes! Have I hit the mark? And finally from his cobbler's\nshop he egged after me boys with cudgels, that he might be rid of\nme.... Ouch! Ouch! Green and blue was I beaten, made an object\nof derision to the beloved woman, so drubbed and maltreated that\nno tailor's flat-iron can smoothe me out! Upon my very life an\nattempt was made! But I came out of it with sufficient spirit left\nto reward you for the deed. Stand forth to-day and sing, do, and\nsee how you prosper. Beaten and bruised as I am, I shall certainly\nmanage to throw you out of time!\" Sachs has unperturbedly let him\nspend himself. \"My good friend, you are labouring under a delusion.\nYou are free to attribute to me what actions you please... but I\nhave not the least thought of competing.\" \"Lies and deceit!\" roars\nBeckmesser, \"I know better!\" Sachs quietly repeats his statement.\n\"What else I have in mind is no affair of yours. But concerning\nthe contest you are in error.\"--\"Not in the contest? No\ncompetition-song?\"--\"Certainly not.\" Beckmesser produces the piece\nof music. \"Is that your hand?\"--\"Yes,\" Sachs owns, amused; \"Was\nthat it?\"--\"I suppose you call it a biblical lay?\"--\"Nay,\" laughs\nSachs, \"any one guessing it to be such would hit wide enough of\nthe mark.\"--\"Well, then?\"--\"What is it?\"--\"Do you ask me?\"--\"What\ndo you mean?\"--\"That you are, in all can dour, a rogue of the first\nmagnitude!\" Sachs shrugs good-humouredly; \"Maybe! I have never,\nhowever, pocketed what I found upon another's table. That one may\nnot think evil of you, dear sir, keep the paper, I make you a gift\nof it.\" Beckmesser leaps in the air with incredulous joy: \"Lord\nGod! A poem of Sachs's!... But soft, that I may not be led into\nfresh troubles. You have, no doubt,\" he insinuates, \"committed the\nthing perfectly to memory?\"--\"Have no uneasiness with regard to\nthat.\"--\"You bestow the sheet on me then outright?\"--\"To prevent\nyou being a thief.\"--\"And suppose I made use of it?\"--\"You may\ndo as you please.\"--\"I may sing it, then?\"--\"If it is not too\ndifficult.\"--\"And if I should please my audience?\"--\"I should be\ngreatly astonished!\"--Beckmesser misses the sly shoester's intention.\n\"You are too modest altogether,\" he says; and goes on to explain in\nwhat dire need he stands of a new composition, since the song sung\nthe night before as a serenade can have no chance, if sung again\nto-day, of charming the Pognerin, for whom it must be associated,\nthanks to the cobbler's merry jests, with every undignified\ncircumstance. And how can he, poor belaboured wretch, find the\nnecessary peace of mind to compose a new one? Yet, if he have not\na new song, he must give up the hope of marriage. But a song of\nSachs's would enable him to overcome every obstacle; if he may\nhave it, let all the disagreements which have kept them apart be\nforgotten and buried. But,--he suddenly holds in, and puckers his\nforehead,--if this were a trap? \"Even so late as yesterday,\" he says\nto Sachs, \"you were my enemy. How is it that after all the troubles\nbetween us you are to-day kindly disposed toward me?\"--\"I worked on\nyour shoes until late at night,\" Sachs disingenuously replies; \"is\nthat the sort of consideration one shows an enemy?\"--\"True, true.\nBut now give me your word. Whenever and under whatever circumstances\nyou hear that song, you will never by any chance say that it is of\nyour composing.\"--\"I give you my word and oath,\" Sachs assents, with\na spice of wicked glee, \"that I will never boast of that song being\nmine.\"--Beckmesser's spirits rise to heights of mad exhilaration.\n\"What more do I want? I am saved! Beckmesser need trouble no\nfurther!\"--\"Friend,\" Sachs warns him, \"in all kindness I advise\nyou, study that song carefully. It is of no easy execution.\"--\"Friend\nSachs,\" Beckmesser waives the warning, \"you are a good poet, but\nin all that relates to tones and tunes there is no one goes ahead\nof me. But now, quickly home, to learn the thing by heart. Hans\nSachs, my dear fellow, I have misunderstood you. My judgment was\nthrown off the track by that adventurer. Just such a one was needed!\nBut we masters made short work of him! Good-bye! I must be off!\nElsewhere will I show my gratitude for your sweet friendliness. I\nwill vote for you hereafter, I will buy your works. I will make\nyou Marker!\" Effusively he embraces him: \"Marker, Marker, Marker\nHans Sachs!\"\n\nHans Sachs looks after the departing figure with a meditative smile.\n\"So entirely ill-natured have I never yet found any one. He cannot\nfail to come to grief of some sort. Many there be who squander\ntheir wits, but they reserve enough to keep house with. The hour\nof weakness comes for each one of us, when he turns fool and is\nopen to parley.\" So entirely ill-natured Beckmesser has been found\nthat Sachs feels no compunction at letting him run into the pitfall\ngaping ahead. He is willing to win an advantage by a deception,\nlet him follow his head, why should honest Sachs be tender of him?\nThe joke is not severe beyond his deserts. He has candidly rejoiced\nthat short work was made of that adventurer, Von Stolzing; why\nshould he not be permitted to encounter the same sort of treatment?\nWhy indeed should not his dishonesty be turned to use? \"That Master\nBeckmesser here turned thief,\" reflects Sachs, \"falls in excellently\nwith my plan.\"\n\nEva appears in the doorway, Eva dazzling in her white wedding-dress.\n\"I was wondering,\" says Sachs to himself at sight of her, \"where\nshe could be!\" For, as Walther was known to be in the house, it\nwas thought she must before long find some pretext to stand beneath\nthe same roof. She wears a little languid air; last evening was a\nsore trial to young nerves. A tinge of accusing plaintiveness is in\nher voice. She is markedly abstracted; her thoughts are wandering,\nof course, all about the house in search of _him_. She has her\npretext ready, and meets Sachs's warm compliment upon her appearance\nwith a reproachful: \"Ah, master! So long as the tailor has done\nhis work successfully, who ever will divine where I suffer\ninconvenience, where secretly my shoe pinches me?\"--\"The wicked\nshoe!\" Sachs is for a moment really deceived; \"It was your humour\nyesterday not to try it on.\"--\"You see? I had too much confidence.\nI was mistaken in the master.\"--\"I am sorry, indeed I am!\" He is\non his knee at once: \"Let me look at it, my child, that I may help\nyou, right off, quick!\"--\"As soon as I stand on it, it obliges\nme to go; and as soon as I go, it obliges me to stand.\"--\"Place\nyour foot here on the stool, I will remedy the evil at once. Now,\nwhat is wrong with it?\"--\"You can see, it is too wide!\"--\"Child,\nthat is pure vanity. The shoe is snug.\"--\"That is what I said,\nand that is why it pinches my toes.\"--\"Here, at the left?\"--\"No,\nthe right.\"--\"At the instep?\"--\"No, the heel.\"--\"What?\" he asks\nincredulously, \"Something wrong too with the heel?\"--\"_Ach_, master,\"\nshe exclaims, \"do you know better than I where my shoe pinches\nme?\"--\"I can only wonder,\" he replies, good-humouredly, \"that your\nshoe should be loose and yet pinch you everywhere!\" The door of\nthe inner room opens at this moment, and Walther stands upon the\nthreshold in the rich gala costume of a young noble. Eva at sight of\nhim in his splendour utters a cry, and remains spell-bound, gazing.\nHe stops short in the doorway, spell-bound equally at sight of her\nin her shimmering bride's-robe of white,--and from their eyes, fixed\nunwaveringly upon each other, their hearts travel forth on luminous\nbeams to meet and mingle. Sachs's back is toward Walther; he has\nnot see him, but the tell-tale light on Eva's face, reflection\nof a sun-burst, has reported to him of the apparition. He pretends\nnot to see. \"Aha! Here is the trouble!\" he speaks, as if nothing\nwere; \"Now I see what the matter is! Child, you were right, the\nseams are stiff. Just wait and I will set the matter aright. Stay\nwhere you are, I will take the shoe and put it on the last for a\nminute. After that it will give you no further trouble.\" He draws\nthe shoe tenderly from her childish foot, and leaves her standing,\nstatue-still, lost in her trance of contemplation, with her foot\non the stool, while he takes the shoe to his bench and pretends to\nwork at it. He cannot forbear,--while he plays his little comedy,\nand those two angelically beautiful beings, saved and aided by him,\nbetween whom he shares his big heart, stand hushed, drinking, in\noblivion of all, the heavenly nectar of each other's glances,--he\ncannot forbear teasing the little lady a bit, giving her a little\nlesson, taking a very mild vengeance on her for the faintly perfidious\nwiles of yesterday. So he runs on, while making himself busy with\nher shoe: \"Forever to be cobbling! That is my fate. Night nor day,\nno deliverance for me! Child, listen! I have thought over what\nshall bring my shoe-making to an end. The best thing I can do will\nbe after all to enter the contest for your hand. I might thus at\nleast win something for myself as a poet!... You are not listening?\nYet it was yourself put the idea in my head.... Oh, very well! I\nsee! Attend to your shoes! If at least,\" he slyly suggests, without\nturning, \"some one would sing to me while I work! I heard to-day a\nregularly beautiful song. If just a third verse, equally successful,\nmight be added to it!\" Like the hypnotised receiving a suggestion,\nWalther, ready as a bird, breaks forth singing, his gaze never\nswerving from Eva: \"Did the stars come to a pause in their charming\ndance? Light and clear, above the clustering locks of the most\nbeautiful of all women, glittered with soft brilliancy a crown of\nstars...\"\n\n\"Listen, child,\" Sachs bids Eva, in the short pause between the\nverses, \"that is a master-song!\"\n\n\"Miracle upon miracle! A double radiance of day now illumines me,\nfor, even as two suns of purest delight, two divinely beautiful\neyes bend their light upon me....\"\n\n\"That,\" says Sachs, \"is the sort of thing you hear sung in my house\nnowadays!\"\n\n\"Oh, gracious vision which my heart found boldness to approach!\nThe wreath, which in the rays of the twin suns shows pale at once\nand green, tenderly and mildly she weaves about the consort's head.\nInto the breast of the poet--born erst to joy, now elect to\nglory,--Paradisal joy she pours, in Love's dream!\"\n\nSachs has been enabled to keep in hand his emotion at the sound\nof the ecstatic song by diligently busying himself with the shoe,\nuttering at intervals small insignificant remarks: \"Let us see,\nnow, whether I have got my shoe aright. I believe I have finally\nsucceeded, eh? Try it, now!\" He has slipped it on to her foot,\n\"Walk on it! Tell me, does it still hurt?\" But Eva, who has stood\nbreathlessly gazing and listening to the thrilling accents, new\nto her, of her lover, when the heart-searching voice is silent\nand the tension relaxes, bursts into passionate weeping, sinks on\nSachs's breast and clings to him, sobbing. Walther with a quick\nstride is beside them; impulsively he grasps the hand of the good\nSachs, to whom he dimly feels he owes so much,--to whom he owes\nreally more than he dreams.\n\nFor a moment not one of them can speak. Then it becomes too much\nfor Sachs, this soft beloved form trembling against his breast;\nhe gently frees himself and allows the burden he relinquishes to\nslide upon the shoulder of Walther. Like a noble dog shaking his\nfur, he takes himself away and finds occupation at the further end\nof the room, trying by his commonplace playful talk to dispel the\noppression of a too great emotion. Again he must, all for her good,\ntease Evchen a bit. \"Has not a shoe-maker his fill of troubles?\" he\ngrumbles; \"Were I not at the same time a poet, not another shoe\nwould I make. So much hard work, such a perpetual calling upon\nyou! This one's shoe is too loose, that one's too tight, here it\nclaps, it hangs at the heel, there it presses, it pinches. The\nshoe-maker must know everything, mend everything that is torn,\nand if he be in addition a poet, then verily he is not allowed a\nmoment's peace. But if, on top of all, he be a widower, then he\nis in all truth regarded as a very fool! The youngest of maidens,\nif a husband is wanted, request him to apply for them; let him\nunderstand them or let him not, it is all the same; let him say\nyes, let him say no, in the end he is told that he smells of pitch,\nand is called stupid, cantankerous, and impertinent! I wouldn't\ncare so much,\" he concludes humourously, \"but for my apprentice.\nHe is losing all respect for me!...\"\n\nThe conscience-smitten girl flings her arms around him again: \"Oh,\nSachs, my friend, oh, noble heart, how can I ever repay you? Without\nyour love, what were I? What were I, without you? I should have\nremained a child forever, had you not awakened me. Through you I\nwon the things one prizes, through you I learned what a soul is.\nThrough you I awoke, through you alone I learned to think nobly,\nfreely, courageously. You guided my growth, and brought me to flowering.\nOh, dear master, scold me, well you may!... But yet I was on the\nright track. For, had I any choice, you, no other, should be my\nhusband. I would hold out the prize to you alone. As it is, I myself\nhave been chosen--to never-before-dreamed-of torment! And if this\nday I am wedded, it will be without choice of my own. Coercion I\nhave suffered, have suffered violence. You know, master, that the\nforce of it frightened even you!\"--\"My child,\" he replies, mildly,\ncollectedly--if feelingly and a little sadly, to her impulsive\nconfession, while a known, poignant strain, like a profound sigh,\nholds the ear for a moment, an echo from a different opera, \"of\nTristan and Isolde I know the sorrowful story. Hans Sachs was shrewd\nand would have none of King Mark's happiness!\" With a return to the\nlightness which is his policy of the moment, he adds, lest emotion\ntoo far unnerve them all: \"Full time it was that the right one should\nappear, or I should after all have run into the snare!... Aha!\nThere comes Lene looking for you. Hey, David, aren't you coming?\"\nNurse and apprentice enter, one from outside and one from within,\nin their holiday garments.\n\n\"The witnesses are here, the sponsors present, now quickly to the\nchristening! Take your places!\" Sachs directs. All look at him\nin wonder. He lays before them his idea of giving, with proper\nceremony, a name to the master-song born in his house. It is a\npoet's fancy, an act of tender superstition on Sachs's part, a\nform by which he tries to lay a helpful charm or blessing upon the\nnew-born creation on which so much depends; send it forth equipped\nas well as possible with spiritual arms, that it may, as he says,\n\"grow great without harm or mishap.\" The young melody's father,\nof course, is Walther; the Pognerin and he, Sachs, will stand its\nsponsors; Lene and David shall be witnesses. But as an apprentice\nis not a proper witness, David is promoted with the rite of a smart\nbox on the ear from apprentice to journeyman. Sachs suggests as\nthe name of the new-born: Song of Interpretation of the Blissful\nMorning-Dream, and the young godmother is requested to speak appropriate\nwords over it. The point of what follows is hardly in Eva's words,\npretty as they are; the point is that one of the most extraordinary\nquintets that ever charmed human ear serves as baptismal send-off\nto the infant melody.\n\nEach of the five singing together expresses, according to custom\nin concerted pieces, the aspect which the common subject, or the\nhour, has for him. And so dear Sachs, while Eva and Walther rejoice\non their side, and David and Lene--to whom the apprentice's promotion\nopens vistas of mastership and marriage,--rejoice on theirs, Sachs,\nadding a less glad but more serene voice to the glorious sheaf\nof song, reveals his heart,--with no one to listen, for all are\nsinging. \"Full fain\"--he sighs, \"Full fain had I been to sing before\nthe winsome child, but need was that I should place restraint upon\nthe sweet disorderly motions of the heart. A lovely evening dream it\nwas, hardly dare I to think upon it....\" But the wreath of immortal\nyouth shall be the poet's reward. Impertinent to pity the sturdy\nSachs, who has his poetry and his strong heart. And he has at all\nmoments been wiser than his lovely evening dream. There has been\nreally no renunciation on his part, for he had never allowed himself\nany serious parleying with the tender temptation. Not for an instant\ndoes he present himself as a sentimental figure; but the generosity\nwith which he employs himself to secure for others the happiness\nwhich, though in his good sense he had denied it to himself, his\nheart had yet caressed in its alluring evening dream, makes him\na magnanimous one.\n\nIt is time when they have finished to start for the seat of the\nSaint John's Day celebration. Sachs sends Eva home to her father,\norders David to close the shop, and starts along with Walther.\n\nWhile the curtain is lowered for the change of scene, one of those\nmusical transformations takes place of which there are several\ninstances in these operas. With elements we know, new elements\nbegin to mingle; the old are withdrawn, and presently, musically,\nas ocularly, the scene is changed. We behold a green meadow on\nthe banks of the Pegnitz; in the distance, the city of Nuremberg.\nThe place is decorated for holiday. There is a great stand for\nthe master-singers and judges in the song-contest. Crowds of\nholiday-makers are on the spot already, more still arrive by the\nriver in bright boats. The various guilds march in procession with\ntheir respective insignia, shoe-makers, tailors, bakers. Apprentices\nand young girls dance together to a measure daintily gay as their\nfluttering ribbon-knots. Conspicuous among them is David, so forgetful\nfor the moment of Lene and himself as to imprint a glowing kiss on\nhis partner's cheek. Frivolities stop short with the arrival of\nthe masters. These assemble to the sound of what we will call their\nunofficial march; then, to their great march, they walk to their\nplaces on the stand, Kothner waving the banner of the guild, and the\npeople acclaiming. Pogner escorts Eva to the seat of honour. When\nall are in their places, a corps of young apprentices, filling the\nfunction to-day of heralds, and carrying staffs of office liberally\nbe flowered, call out in Latin the order for silence. Quiet being\nestablished, Sachs, spokesman for the occasion, rises. At once\nthe silence is shattered by cheers for the popular poet, cries\nof joy at sight of him; there is waving of kerchiefs and hats. To\nshow how every one knows and loves his songs, the people entone\none of them all together and sing it jubilantly through; and \"Long\nlive Sachs!\" they shout, \"Hans Sachs! Long live Nuremberg's beloved\nHans Sachs!\" It is too much for poet to experience unmoved, and\nSachs's voice, when the people quiet down at last, to listen, only\ngradually regains its manly firmness. \"You ease your own hearts\nand burden mine, in offering me, unworthy, too great honour. If I\nam not to sink crushed beneath it, let it be in the thought that\nit is the gift of your love. Great honour already has fallen to\nmy portion to-day, in that I have been elected to the dignity of\nspokesman. And the announcement which I have to make to you, believe\nme, is full of high honour!\" He imparts to them Pogner's project,\nbut with these important modifications or omissions,--and it is they\nwhich constitute the stroke Sachs has been preparing. No mention\nwhatever is made of the limitations determined upon by the masters\nat the last meeting: that the singers contending must be members\nof the guild, and that the masters exclusively shall be judges.\nSo the offer stands: A lovely girl and a rich inheritance shall\nbe the portion of the singer who before the assembled people shall\ncarry off the prize,--awarded, one naturally understands, since\nnothing different is stated, by popular acclamation. Free candidature,\ntherefore popular election! And Sachs so presents the thing that the\nmasters cannot very well object, if even they had the courage to\nchance the awkwardness of a public scene; they can hardly claim it\nis not fair that they, presumably superior in song to non-masters,\nshould accept the contest on the same terms. Sachs's peculiar audacity\nhas lain in his taking the risk of a perfectly justified revolt on\nthe part of the masters against his high-handed proceeding; he\nhas counted on the restraining effect of the public occasion; has\ncounted on luck, which proverbially follows the bold. High-handed,\nhis course, undeniably, but too much was at stake for any narrow\nconsideration to hold back Sachs: the happiness of Eva,--of, as he\nsays, at the conclusion of his announcement, \"the amiable stainless\none, who must never be made to regret that Nuremberg holds in such\nhonour art and its professors!\" Hearty applause follows his words.\nPogner grasps his hand, moved, infinitely relieved. \"Oh, Sachs,\nmy friend, what thanks do I owe you! How did you know what was\nweighing on my heart?\"--\"Much was staked upon that cast,\" replies\nSachs; \"now pluck up heart!\"\n\nHe catches sight of Beckmesser, who ever since arriving with the rest\nof the masters has been feverishly studying his bit of music-sheet,\nat intervals wiping the desperate sweat from his brow. \"Mr. Marker,\nhow are you getting on?\"--\"Oh, this song!\" groans the Marker, \"I\ncannot make head or tail of it, and I have worked over it, in all\ntruth, hard enough!\" Sachs shows him, if he but knew it, a way\nof escape. \"My friend, you are not obliged to use it.\"--\"What is\nthe good? My own song, through your fault, is done for. Now be a\nkind dear fellow, it would be abominable of you to leave me in the\nlurch.\"--\"It is my opinion that you had better give it up.\"--\"Give\nit up?... Well, hardly! I can easily beat all the others, if only\nyou will not sing. I am certain that no one will understand the\nsong, but I am building upon your popularity.\"\n\nSachs abandons him to his fate, and declares the song-contest open.\nKothner summons the contestants, \"And let the oldest,\" he calls,\n\"come first. Master Beckmesser, pray begin. We are late!\"\n\nThe little heralds have piled up grassy sods into a sort of pedestal\nfor the singers to stand on. They lead Beckmesser to this. He stumbles\nin going, and can hardly from nervousness keep his balance on the\nnone too secure elevation. The common people begin to titter. Murmurs\nfly from one to the other: \"What? That one? That is one of the\nsuitors? Why, he can't even walk!... Keep quiet! He is an eminent\nmaster! He is the town-clerk.... Lord, what a muff! He is toppling\nover!... Be still, and stop your jokes; he has a seat and a voice\nin the committee!...\"--\"_Silentium! Silentium!_\" calls the chorus\nof little heralds. And Kothner: \"Begin!\" Beckmesser, after bowing\nto the queen of the day and to the assembly, gives forth, haltingly,\nWalther's song as he remembers it, as it has become with passing\nthrough the medium of his mind. What he utters, with many an anxious\npeep at the crumpled manuscript, is nonsense of the most ludicrous.\nFor every word he substitutes another of distantly the same sound,\nbut different meaning, betraying how he has not understood a syllable.\nThe melody, if so were he had mastered it, has completely dropped\nfrom his mind, and what he sings to the eccentric words is his own\nserenade, but perverted by the interference of the alien influence.\n\nThe masters at the end of the first verse look at one another,\nmystified. \"What is that? Has he lost his senses? An extraordinary\ncase! Do our ears deceive us?\" The people giggle and make remarks,\nnot too loud as yet.\n\nAt the end of the second verse, the masters inquire of one another,\n\"What does it mean? Has he gone mad? His song is one piece of nonsense!\"\nwhile the people giggle louder and make remarks less and less\nrespectful.\n\nAt the end of the third verse, populace and masters burst into\npeals of laughter. Beckmesser descends from his pedestal and hurls\nhimself raging at Sachs. \"Accursed cobbler! To you I owe this!--The\nsong is none of mine,\" he excitedly informs the rest. \"Sachs here,\nwhom you honour so, your Sachs gave me the song. The scandalous\nwretch compelled me to sing it, he foisted off his miserable song\non me!\" He dashes the sorry-looking manuscript at Sachs's feet,\nand rushes off like one pursued by a nest of hornets.\n\nAmazement reigns among master-singers and people: \"A song of Sachs's?\nThe matter grows more and more astonishing! The song is yours? Be\nso good, Sachs, as to explain!\" Sachs has picked up and smoothed\nout the crumpled page. \"The song, as a matter of truth, is not\nof my composing. Herr Beckmesser is mistaken, in this respect as\nin others. How he obtained it let him tell you himself. But never\nshould I be audacious to the point of boasting that so fine a song\nhad been written by me, Hans Sachs.\"--\"What?... Fine?... That crazy\nrubbish? Sachs is joking! He says that in fun!\"--\"I declare to\nyou, gentlemen, that the song is beautiful. But it is obvious at\na single glance that Master Beckmesser misrepresents it. I swear\nto you, however, that you would hear it with delight were one to\nsing it in this circle correctly as to word and melody. And one\nwho should be able to do this would by that fact sufficiently prove\nthat he is the author of the song, and that in all justice, if\nhe found just judges, he would be called a master. I have been\naccused and must defend myself. Let me therefore summon a witness.\nIf any one is present who knows that right is on my side, let him\ncome forward as a witness before this assembly.\"\n\nQuietly and quickly, with his proudly-borne head and his light\nproud step, Walther advances. A murmur of pleasure runs through\nthe assembly at sight of him, in his resplendent clothes and plumed\nhat. The good populace on whom Sachs had counted do not disappoint\nhim: the gallant young figure finds instantaneous favour. \"A proper\nwitness, handsome and spirited,\" they comment, \"from whom something\nproper may be expected!\" The master-singers are not slow to recognise\nthe intruder of yesterday, and to grasp the situation. They accept\nit good-humouredly enough, with artistic appreciation, no doubt,\nof Sachs's well managed _coup de theatre_. \"Ah, Sachs, confess\nthat you are a sly one! But, for this once, have your way!\"\n\n\"Masters and people are agreed to try the worth of my witness,\"\nSachs announces; \"Herr Walther von Stolzing, sing the song. And you,\nmasters, see if he render it aright.\" He hands them the manuscript.\n\nWalther takes his stand on the flowery mound and starts singing\nthe song we know already. Presently however, the song lifts him\naway, and he alters, as with that power of inspiration behind him\nhow could he help?--he amplifies, makes more beautiful still. But by\nthat time the masters have become so interested that they withdraw\ntheir attention from the manuscript, and follow enthralled the\nvoice of the singer alone.\n\nThe song is in its final effect considerably different from the\noriginal one, being the fruit of the moment, like Walther's other\nimprovisations. It preserves, however, both in text and tune, a\nsufficient likeness to the first to prove it of an identical source.\nIt is the same dream he tells, but expressed in different images.\n\nIn a blessed love-dream, he had been led to a garden where, beneath\na miraculous tree, he had beheld--vision promising fulfilment to\nlove's wildest desire!--a woman of all-surpassing beauty: Eve,\nin the garden of Paradise....\n\nIn a poet's waking dream, he had been lured by the crystal murmur\nof a spring up a steep path. There, beneath a laurel-tree, he had\nbeheld--and from her hand had received upon his brow water from\nthe sacred fount,--a woman of a beauty grave and sublime: the Muse\nof Parnassus....\n\nThere is no doubt of the impression the song produces upon the\naudience. As he pauses between the verses, Walther cannot but seize\ntheir irrepressible exclamations. \"That is a very different matter!\nWho would have thought it?\" The people surrender heart-wholly.\n\"How it soars,--so sweet, so far from earth, and yet it is all as\nif one had lived through it himself!\"--\"It is bold and unusual,\nbut well-rhymed and singable!\" the masters admit. The circumstances\nof this hearing are different enough from yesterday's. The infection\nof Beckmesser's jealous spite is wanting; softening influences\nare in the lovely scene, the poetic occasion. The pure ecstasy of\nthe song has a chance to work its spell, to transport them outside\nof their limitations. They are honourable men, as Sachs assured\nWalther; they have no _parti pris_ of bolts and shutters against\nthe New; on occasion they can be generous. \"Yes, yes, I see, it\nis quite another thing,\" they say, \"when it is sung aright!\"\n\nSure of victory, already triumphant, Walther leaps to the goal:\n\"Oh, day most rich in blessing, on which I awake from my dream! The\nParadise I saw in sleep lies before me in intensified splendour.\nThe murmuring spring lures me along the way which leads to it,--and\nthe One whose home is there, the elect of my heart, the loveliest\nof earth, my muse and inspiration, as holy and high as she is fair,\nI have boldly wooed her,--I have won, by the bright light of day,\nthrough the victory of song, both Parnassus and Paradise!\"\n\nBefore the last note has died, all are clamouring together, awarding\nto Walther the master-prize. \"Reach him the wreath! There is no lover\nor singer like him!\" And then Walther's exquisite morning-dream\ncomes true. He kneels before the woman more graciously beautiful\nthan any he had ever seen, while, bending upon him eyes luminous\nwith joy as twin suns, she places upon his head the wreath of laurel\nand myrtle, the poet's and lover's crown.\n\nPogner wrings Sachs's hand. \"Oh, Sachs, to you I owe happiness\nand honour!\" He draws a sigh of immense well-being. \"Lifted is the\nweight from my heart!\"\n\nThere are congratulations and rejoicings. In the general glow of\ngood-humour, voices of master-singers call out to Pogner: \"Up Master\nPogner, and announce to his lordship his admission to the master-guild!\"\nPogner takes the decoration of the order, the gold chain with the\nthree medallions, and with the words, \"I receive you into the\nmaster-guild,\" is casting it over the victorious singer's head,\nwhen Walther starts back, as from something of horridly unpleasant\nassociation, and makes a gesture of uncompromising refusal. \"Not\na master, no!... I mean to be happy without that title!\"\n\nAn uncomfortable silence follows upon the hard snub. All look toward\nSachs, whose face has clouded over with pain. He walks to Walther,\nand seizing him by the hand, as one might a child, to bring it to\nreason, vigorously speaks the defence of the order to which he\nbelongs. \"Despise not the masters, but, rather, honour their art.\nThe great good you have this day received speaks loud in their\npraise. Not to your ancestors, however great, not to your coat of\narms, your spear or sword, but to the fact that you are a singer,\nthat you have proved yourself a master, you owe to-day your highest\nhappiness. If then you apply to the question a grateful mind: how\ncan that art be of no account which holds such prizes? That our\nmasters cared for it in their own way, that according to their\nlights they were faithful to it, that is what has preserved it.\nThough it no longer is aristocratic, as in the times when it was\nfostered by princes and courts, yet despite the stress of evil\nyears it has remained German, it has remained sincere. And if it had\nprospered nowhere but among us, with our burdens and restrictions,\nyou can see in what honour it is held here. What more do you require\nof the masters?... Have a care! Evil contingencies threaten! Should\nthe day come when the German people and kingdom fall asunder, its\nprinces, seduced by false outlandish splendours, would soon no\nlonger understand the language of their own people, and outlandish\nerror, outlandish vanities, would be sown by them in German soil.\nIn that day, should it come, no one would know any longer what\nis German and genuine, did it not survive by grace of the German\nmasters! Then honour the German masters! By that spell shall you\ncommand good genii! And if you second them by your favour, holy\nRome may pass away in smoke: we shall still have our holy German\nart!\"\n\nNobly and contritely Walther bows his head, and Sachs hangs about\nhis neck the collar of the guild. Eva, fired, takes from her lover's\nfair curls the laurel-wreath, and presses it upon the grisled head\nof the master. He stands radiant between the two whose happiness\nis his work. The populace wave their hats and kerchiefs, cheering,\n\"Hail, Sachs! Hans Sachs! Hail Nuremberg's beloved Hans Sachs!\"\n\n\nOne cannot help imagining, in \"Meistersinger,\" a fragment of\nautobiography, a recollection of days when Wagner must have heard\non all sides concerning his work what we still occasionally hear,\nsuch words as he puts into the mouth of Beckmesser: \"_Kein Absatz\nwo, kein' Coloratur! Von Melodei auch nicht eine Spur!_\" No pause\nanywhere for breath! No appropriate colouring! Of melody not the\nremotest trace!\n\nNo pause anywhere for breath! The headlong rush it has of genius.\nNo appropriate colouring! The colouring happens merely to be new.\nOf melody not the remotest trace,--when in this opera particularly\nthe composer casts melodies up in the air like golden balls and\njuggles with them; when, like a conjurer, he goes on taking fresh\nroses in absurd abundance out of a horn that should naturally have\nbeen ten times empty!\n\nIf we may translate the personages of this delicious play into\ntypes, Walther must stand for the poet and singer by God's grace,\nfresh young Genius, winged bringer of a new message. Beckmesser\nfor Old School, where it has become fossil, where forms moulded\non life have become void and dry, and rules are held sufficient\nwithout breath of inspiration. Nay, inspiration, which jostles and\ndisturbs rule, is regarded with suspicion. Inspiration to Beckmesser\nis as much an intruder as would be Saint Francis coming to visit\nsome Prior of his own order long after the spirit animating the\nsaint had been hardened into forms. Hans Sachs, then, is a sort\nof Ideal Critic, with affection and allegiance toward the past,\nbut with a fair and open mind toward the new. Walther himself could\nhave no more admirable attitude, more perfect temper, toward Art,\nthan Sachs. It is only to be hoped that in his maturity he was\nas tolerant and broad-minded.\n\nThe wise, the gentle Sachs! It is a pity that in listening to an\nopera one hears so little of the words, for there fall from his\ngenial lips precepts which it would be really worth while to impress\nupon the memory, among which could there be a more golden than his\nword to critics: \"When you find that you are trying to measure\nby your own rules that which does not lie within the compass of\nyour rules, the thing to do is to forget your rules and try to\ndiscover the rules of that which you wish to measure!\".\n\n\nTRISTAN AND ISOLDE\n\n\nTRISTAN AND ISOLDE\n\nI\n\nThe Ouverture to Tristan and Isolde is singularly calculated to\ncreate the mood in which the Opera needs to be heard. It discourses\nof nothing but love. It is long, it knocks and presses upon chords\nlying abysmally below thought, until these vibrate in response,--and\nthe curtain goes up before an almost helplessly sympathetic listener.\n\nChief among the emotions expressed in this harmonious setting-forth\nof the argument,--rich in sighs, glances, caresses,--is certain\ntragic yearning, which seems of the very essence of love, the love\nin question; tragic, because it is a thirst which from the nature of\nthings admits of no satisfaction upon the earth we know, since its\ndemand is no less than fusion of one soul and flesh into another,\nso that each is completely possessed and neither knows any more which\nof the two he is; the condition we hear the lovers sigh for later on\ntheir bank of flowers in the warm summer night: \"I,\" says the man,\n\"shall be Isolde, you will be Tristan.\"--\"I shall be Tristan,\" the\nwoman says, \"and you Isolde.\" Nay, there shall be no more Tristan,\nno more Isolde, but nameless, indivisible, possessed of a single\nconsciousness, they shall float in an eternal night of love to\never-new recognitions, ever-new ardours....\n\nThe story belongs to the period of King Arthur and his Round Table.\nAt that time Cornwall, we learn, was subject to Ireland, to the\nextent at least of owing tribute. But the subject country, with\nincrease of power, had become impatient of the tax, and, when the\nIrish hero Morold was sent to collect it, a knight of the Cornish\ncourt, Tristan, fought and slew him, and in lieu of the exacted\ntribute sent back his head to Ireland.\n\nTristan had not come forth unhurt from the combat in which Morold\nhad fallen. With the peculiar daring which earned him the fame of\n\"hero without equal, wonder of all nations,\" he took the wound\nof which he was dying to the country of the enemy, to the very\ncastle of the Irish King whose daughter Isolde's affianced he had\nslain. For Isolde was renowned for her skill in the art of medicine.\nThe Queen, her mother, possessed even rarer secrets of magic. In a\nsmall skiff, almost unattended, Tristan, obscuring his glory under\nthe name of Tantris, came to Isolde to be healed. The high-born\nphysician gave him faithful care. No one suspected him, until Isolde,\nremarking a trifling notch in his sword, made the discovery that\na steel splinter which she had removed from the severed head of\nMorold fitted it. This man, then, completely in her power, was\nTristan, the enemy of her land, the slayer of her betrothed. The\nduty of a princess of the time was clear. She caught up the sword\nand approached his bed with the intention of avenging Morold's\ndeath. But the wounded man unclosed his eyes, and glancing past\nthe sword, past the hand which brandished it, looked into her eyes.\nAnd, inexplicably, she could not proceed; pity moved her, she let\nthe sword sink. She kept the secret of his identity. She applied\nherself more than ever diligently to heal him, \"that he might betake\nhimself home, and burden her no more with the look of his eyes.\"\nHe went at last with professions of eternal gratitude. The least\nhe could have done, in accordance with these, so it seemed to her,\nwas to preserve silence as she had preserved it, to let the incident\nhave no more result than as if oblivion had engulfed it. Instead of\nwhich, behold before long Tristan arriving in his own resplendent\nperson, with an embassy of Cornish nobles, to arrange peace between\nthe two countries and obtain the hand of the Irish king's daughter\nfor the Cornish sovereign, Mark, his uncle.\n\nNow the Irish, being, as we gather, at a disadvantage in any match\nof force with the insolent tributaries who had cast off their yoke,\ncould not well refuse,--could not afford to give offence by refusing.\nThe alliance was in truth a splendid one,--were it not for that old\nunavenged affront! Even as matters stood, the proposal admitted of\nbeing looked upon in the light of reparation,--if one did not see\nin it, as did one of the principal personages involved, a second\ninsult more intolerable than the first.\n\nThe Cornish suit was successful. The feud was publicly declared\nat an end, and peace sworn to. The heiress of the Irish crown set\nsail for Cornwall under the escort of Tristan.\n\nThe curtain rising shows the rich pavilion on ship-deck where Isolde\nhides her face from the light against the cushions of a day-bed.\nHer attendant, Brangaene, stands gazing over the ship-side. The\nvoice of a young sailor is heard from the rigging out of sight.\nNow, though the Cornish diplomats have comported themselves during\ntheir mission with delicacy, the crew accompanying them take less\ntrouble to conceal the glee they feel over the humiliation of their\nformer lords, signified in this present carrying off of Ireland's\nproudest jewel. Isolde, spite of all courteous forms, is regarded\nby them as, in a sense, a prize of war. Some hint of this appears\nin the song of the young seaman, who permits himself references\nto the \"wild and lovely Irish maid,\" and asks whether they be her\nsighs which swell his sail. The words penetrate through Isolde's\nabsorption; she starts up in sudden fury, crying: \"Who dares to\nmock me?\" and looks wildly around, as if she had been so engrossed\nin other scenes that she did not, on returning to the light of day,\nknow for a moment where she was. Then she recognises Brangaene, and\nremembers, and inquires where they are. \"Streaks of blue are rising up\nout of the West,\" Brangaene describes what she is watching, \"softly\nand swiftly sails the ship; on a calm sea before evening we surely\nshall reach the land.\"--\"What land?\" Isolde asks unexpectedly. \"The\nverdant coast of Cornwall.\"--\"Nevermore!\" bursts from the princess,\n\"Not to-day! Not to-morrow!\"\n\nBrangaene hurries to her, alarmed and wondering at the hurricane\nof passion she now lets loose,--calling upon the arts of magic to\nrestore to her the lost power of commanding sea and storm, calling\nupon the winds and waves to wreck this insolent ship and drown\neveryone upon it! Brangaene stands aghast. What she had but dimly\napprehended, then, was true. She clings to her mistress, endeavouring\nto calm her. \"What, dear heart, have you so long been concealing from\nme? Not one tear did you shed at parting from father and mother.\nHardly a word of farewell did you speak to those remaining behind.\nColdly and dumbly you left the land of home; pale and silent you\nhave been on the voyage, taking no food, taking no sleep, deeply\ntroubled, rigid and wretched,--how am I to endure to see you thus,\nto be nothing to you, to stand before you as a stranger? Oh, tell\nme what troubles you! Tell me, make known to me what is torturing\nyou! If she is to think herself in any measure dear to you, confide\nnow in Brangaene!\" The unhappy Isolde, suffocating, gasps for air:\n\"Air!... Air!... My heart is smothering!... Open! Open wide!\" Brangaene\nhurriedly draws apart the tapestries which form the wall of the\napartment at the back. The deck of the ship is seen from mainmast\nto stern; sailors busy with ropes, groups of knights and their\nesquires lounging. Tristan stands apart from the rest, with folded\narms, staring abstractedly over the water. His servant Kurwenal\nlies idly outstretched at his feet. Isolde's eyes at once find\nthe half-averted figure; her absorption in it becomes equal to\nhis in the unknown object of the thoughts engrossing him. She does\nnot hear this time the sailor at the topmast singing over again\nthe song she had before resented; \"O Irish maid, where tarriest\nthou? Is it the force of thy sighs which fills my sails?\" Slow,\ninvoluntary, words drop from her lips, her inmost thoughts speaking\nto herself, while her eyes brood gloomily upon the unconscious\nhead. \"Mine elected,--lost to me! Lofty and beautiful,--brave and\ncraven! Death-devoted head! Death-devoted heart!\" Starting awake\nat the ring of her own words, she laughs unpleasantly and, turning\nto Brangaene: \"What do you think of the lackey yonder?\" Brangaene's\nglance follows Isolde's. She does not understand. \"Whom do you\nmean?\"--\"The hero over there who averts his glance from mine, who\nin shame and embarassment gazes away from me. Tell me, how does\nhe impress you?\"--\"Are you inquiring, my dear lady,\" Brangaene\nasks in wonder, \"of Tristan, the marvel of all nations, the man\nof exalted renown, the hero without equal, honour's treasure and\nvaunt?\" Isolde catches up her tone, to continue in scornful mimicry:\n\"Who terrified at his own achievement flies to refuge wherever he\ncan, having won for his master a corpse to bride?... Is my saying\ndark to you? Go then and ask himself, the presumably free man,\nwhether he dare to venture near me? All forms of reverence and\nconsiderate service he forgets toward his sovereign mistress, the\nshrinking hero, that of all things her glance may not light on\nhim.... Oh, he no doubt knows why!\" Suddenly overmastered by an\nimpulse of her too-long controlled rancour: \"Go to the haughty\none,\" she orders Brangaene, \"bear to him this message from his\nlady: Let him come into my presence forthwith, prepared to do my\ncommand.\"--\"Am I to bid him come and offer his duty?\" Brangaene\ntimidly interprets. \"Nay,\" Isolde storms, \"let the self-sufficient\none be warned to fear the mistress! That do I bid him, I, Isolde!\"\n\nFixedly she watches the attendant moving along the deck, past the\nsailors at their work, toward the solitary figure of the knight.\nShe watches the two fixedly while their interview lasts.\n\nKurwenal, catching sight of the woman approaching, tugs at his\nmaster's mantle: \"Attention, Tristan! Message from Isolde!\" Tristan's\nstart suggests how complete his abstraction, and what the effect\nof that name unexpectedly pronounced. _As Brangaene comes before\nhim_, the stage-directions say, _he rapidly composes himself_.\nDeferently he inquires of his lady's wishes. Bragaene tells him,\nbarely, that her lady wishes to see him. Then begins the series of\nhis evasions, courteous as possible, but determined as courteous.\n\"If she be weary of the long voyage, that is nigh ended. Before\nsunset we shall touch land. Whatsoever orders my lady have for\nme shall be faithfully carried out.\" Brangaene repeats the order:\n\"Let Sir Tristan then go to her, such is our lady's will.\"--\"Yonder\nwhere the green meadows are still coloured blue to the eye, my\nking awaits my lady. That I may escort her to him, soon will I\napproach the Bright One. To none would I yield the privilege.\"\nThe maid repeats, still patiently: \"Tristan, my lord, listen and\nattend: My lady requests your service,--that you should betake\nyourself to the place where she awaits you.\"--\"At what place soever\nI be found, faithfully do I serve her, to the greater honour of\nwomen. If I should forsake the helm at this moment, how could I\nsafely guide the keel to King Mark's land?\" Brangaene's temper\nflashes a faint reflection of Isolde's fire. \"Tristan, my lord,\nare you mocking me? If the stupid handmaid cannot make her meaning\nclear to you, hear my mistress's own words. This she bade me say:\nBe warned, a self-sufficient one, to fear the mistress! That is\nher behest,--Isolde's!\" Without giving Tristan time to hesitate,\nKurwenal jumps up: \"May I frame an answer?\"--\"What would your answer\nbe?\" Tristan asks, for the moment at a loss. And Kurwenal, very\nloud, that his words may not fail to reach Isolde's ears: \"This\nsay to Madam Isolde: That he who made over to the maid of Ireland\nthe crown of Cornwall and the inheritance of England cannot be the\nchattel of that same maid, presented by himself to his uncle. A\nlord of the world,--Tristan, the hero! I cry it aloud and do you\nreport my words, though they should bring upon me the wrath of a\nthousand Madam Isoldes!\" Tristan has vainly tried to silence him.\nAs Brangaene indignantly hastens away, the irrepressible servant\nsings after her at the top of his voice a mocking fragment of ballad,\npopular no doubt in Cornwall: \"Lord Morold came over the sea to\nCornwall to collect tribute. An island floats in a lonely sea,\nthere he now lies buried. His head, however, hangs in Ireland, the\ntribute paid by England. Hurrah for our lord Tristan! What a one\nis he to pay tribute!\" Tristan drives the fellow off, orders him\nbelow. But the whole crew have taken up the last lines of the song\nand shout them with a will. Brangaene drags together the curtains,\nshutting from sight the cruel rabble. Isolde, who has with difficulty\ncontrolled herself, seems on the point of an outburst, but she\nquells it, and in the restored silence asks with forced composure:\n\"But now, about Tristan?--I wish to be told exactly.\" Brangaene,\nat first unwilling, reports the interview. When she has finished,\nIsolde, whose anger has made room for a sorrowful intense dejection,\nreveals to her what explains the humour, to her so far inexplicable,\nof her mistress. Her deeply wounded feelings bleeding afresh at\ntheir exposure, Isolde makes the relation almost tearfully. \"You\nhave been a witness to my humiliation, hear now what brought it\nabout. They sing to me derisive songs. I could reply if I would!\nOf a boat I could tell which, small and mean, drew to the coast\nof Ireland. In it a sick and suffering man, in woful plight, at\nthe point of death....\" She tells the story of her recognition in\nthis Tantris of Tristan; of her resolve to take immediate vengeance\nupon him; of the look which disarmed her, her dismissal of him,\nhealed, that he \"might go home and burden her no more with the\nlook of his eyes!\"--\"Oh, wonder!\" breathes Brangaene. \"Where were\nmy eyes? The guest whom I once helped to nurse...?\"--\"You heard\nhis praise a moment ago! 'Hurrah for our lord Tristan!' He was\nthat unhappy man. He swore a thousand oaths of eternal gratitude\nto me, and truth. Now hear how a hero keeps his word. He whom I\ndismissed unknown as Tantris, as Tristan comes boldly back. On\na proud tall ship he draws to land, and desires the heiress of\nIreland in marriage for the worn King of Cornwall, for Mark, his\nuncle. In Morold's lifetime who had ventured to offer us such an\naffront? To sue for the crown of Ireland for the King of the\ntribute-owing Cornish!... Oh, woe is me! It was I, I, who in secret\nprepared for myself this shame! Instead of smiting with the avenging\nsword, weak, I let it drop. Now I am the servant of my own vassal!\"\nBrangaene, when all is told, does not apparently recognise in the\nsituation cause for so much bitterness. \"When peace, reconciliation,\nand friendship were sworn on all sides,\" she says wonderingly, \"we\nall rejoiced to see the day. How could I suppose it was a source\nof affliction to you?\" The point then appears of that bitterness,\nwhich would hardly in reality have been a point but for a sentiment\nnot among those which Isolde confesses to her confidante. That\nwhat she kept silent the other should reveal! That what he could\nonly know and live to report through the weakness of her woman's\nheart, he should publicly make use of, to his own glory and his\nrelative's advantage! She paints his attitude, as she imagines him,\nvictory-flushed, hale and whole now, pointing at her and saying\nin loud, clear tones: \"There were a treasure for you, my lord and\nuncle! What do you think of her as a wife? The pretty Irish-woman\nI will bring to you here. By roads and by-paths well known to me,\ngive the sign, I fly to Ireland: Isolde is yours! I delight in\nthe adventure!\" The picture goads her to very madness, and, with\na cry for its mingling of ferocity with anguish like the roar of a\nbaited and wounded lioness, she breaks into maledictions upon his\nhead, calling down vengeance upon him, death upon him, nay,--at the\nclimax of her rage and insupportable pain,--death upon them both!\nWith impetuous tenderness Brangaene showers words of endearment on\nthe exhausted friend, hushes her with caresses, heaps, as it were,\nsmothering flowers upon her angry coals. She forces her gently\nto a seat, comforting her with word and touch. Then she holds up\nall in a different light, endeavours to make her see the thing\nreasonably, as it must appear to others. \"What delusion is this?\nWhat idle raving? How can you stultify yourself till you neither\ncan see nor hear? Whatever debt of gratitude Sir Tristan owes you,\ntell me, could he better repay it than with the most magnificent of\ncrowns? Thus does he at the same time faithfully serve his noble\nuncle and bestow upon you the world's most enviable prize. He has\nrenounced, generous and true-hearted, his own inheritance, and\nplaced it at your feet, that he may call you Queen. And if through\nhim you are to wed Mark, how should you find fault with the choice?\nCan you fail to prize and honour the man? Of great lineage and\ngentle nature, where is his equal in power and splendour? Who would\nnot wish to share his good fortune, as consort to tarry beside\nhim, whom the greatest of heroes so devotedly serves?\" Isolde,\nbut half heeding, has fallen again to her miserable brooding.\nBrangaene's last words find their way to her brain and produce an\nimage there which she stares at with gloomy and tragic eyes. As\nbefore, unconscious in her perturbation that she is doing it, she\nvoices her inmost thoughts audibly, like a somnambulist: \"Unloved by\nhim, to behold the unrivalled man ever near, how could I endure the\ntorment?\" Brangaene catches the words, and innocently supposes them\napplied to King Mark. She presses fondly against this unaccountably\nhumble-minded mistress: \"What are you dreaming, perverse one? Unloved?\nWhere does the man live who would not love you? Who could see Isolde\nand not blissfully dissolve in love for her? But, if so were that\nhe who has been chosen for you should be of a nature to that degree\ncold, if so were that some evil magic drew him away from you, I\nshould know how very soon to bind the unkind one to you, the power\nof love should work its spell upon him....\" She draws so near to\nIsolde that she can speak without fear of being overheard. \"Do you\nforget your mother's magic? Do you imagine that she, who ponders\nall things so sagely, has sent me void of counsel along with you to\na strange land?\"--\"At the right moment I am reminded of my mother's\ncounsel,\" Isolde murmurs thoughtfully before her; \"Her art I prize\nand welcome its aid. Vengeance it affords for the betrayal, peace in\nthe need of the heart. Bring the casket here to me.\"--\"It contains\nwhat shall secure your happiness!\" Brangaene joyfully hurries to\nfetch the small golden coffer, lifts the lid, fingers the phials.\n\"In this very order were they placed by your mother, the mighty\nmagic potions. For hurts and wounds here is balm; here, for poison,\nis counterpoison....\" She takes out and holds up before Isolde\nwith a significant smile a small flask. \"The sweetest draught of\nall I hold here!\" Isolde pushes aside her hand and stretches her\nown to the casket. \"You are mistaken. I know better which one that\nis. I marked it with a deep incision. Here is the draught which\nshall serve my turn!\" Brangaene stares at the phial which Isolde has\ntaken from among the rest. \"The death-potion!\" she gasps, recoiling.\n\nA sing-song shout interrupts them, the voices of the sailors hauling\nat ropes, taking in sail,--a reminder to Isolde that the land, the\nterrible land, is near. Kurwenal hurries in: \"Up, up, you ladies!\nBriskly and cheerily! Quickly prepare to land! Ready at once, nimble\nand spry! And to Madam Isolde I was to say from Tristan, my master:\nthe pennant of joy waves merrily from the mast, making her approach\nknown in Mark's royal castle. Wherefore he begs Madam Isolde to\nhaste and make ready, that he may escort her ashore.\" Isolde, for\na minute convulsed with a shuddering horror at her realization of\nthe decisive moment so near, reconquers her composure, and replies\nwith contrasting dignity and calm to Kurwenal's familiar and rude\npressing of the high-born ladies to haste. \"To Sir Tristan bear my\ngreetings and report to him what I say. If he look to have me walk\nat his side and stand before King Mark, as custom and seemliness\ndemand, let him know that this shall in no wise happen if he have\nnot before sought pardon of me for an uncondoned offence. Let him\ntherefore cast himself upon my clemency!\" As Kurwenal by a gesture\nsignifies his stiff-necked resistance to her command, she repeats\nit, more regally peremptory than before: \"Take careful heed of what\nI say and carefully report it. I refuse to make ready to accompany\nhim to land, I refuse to walk beside him and stand before King\nMark, unless he have before, as is fit and becoming, sued for\nforgiveness and forgetfulness of an unexpiated fault. Let him hope\nthese from my grace!\"--\"Be quite sure that I shall tell him!\" the\nbluff serving-man replies, turning to go: \"Now wait and see how\nhe takes it!\"\n\nIsolde flings her arms around Brangaene: \"Farewell, Brangaene!\nCommend me to the world! Commend me to my father and mother!\"--\"What\nis it?\" the handmaid asks, not understanding, yet half frightened;\n\"What are you meditating? Are you planning flight? Whither must I\nfollow you?\"--\"Nay, did you not hear? I shall remain where I am.\nI intend to await Tristan. Follow faithfully my command. At once\nprepare the peace-draught,--you know the one I showed you.\"--\"What\ndraught do you mean?\" Brangaene asks, not daring to understand.\nIsolde takes it out of the coffer once more and holds it up for\nBrangaene to see well, the little deadly phial. \"This draught!\nPour it into the golden goblet; it will contain the whole without\nbrimming over.--Mind you are true to me!\" she adds, forcing it into\nthe maid's hand. \"But this drink...\" falters the appalled girl,\n\"for whom?\"--\"For him who betrayed me!\"--\"Tristan?\"--\"Shall drink to\nour peace-making!\" Brangaene falls at Isolde's feet, entreating her\nto spare her. \"Do you spare me, disloyal girl!\" Isolde passionately\nchides. What was the purpose, she asks, of that provision made by\nher mother for their assistance in a strange land? For hurts and\nwounds she had given balm; for poison, antidote; for deepest woe,\nfor utmost affliction, she had given the death-draught: thanks be\nrendered to her now--by death! Brangaene still resisting, Isolde\nimperiously presses her command. Their struggle is cut short by\nKurwenal announcing Tristan. Brangaene staggers to the back. Isolde\nvisibly summons up all her courage, all her strength, and with\nqueenly self-possession bids Tristan approach.\n\nThe music introducing the following scene has the effect of lifting\nthe story on to a plane of larger things. The proportions of the\npersonages, in the light of the magnifying music, are seen to be\nheroic, their natures vast, their passions, in their very\ntremendousness, august.\n\nTristan stops at the entrance and waits deferentially. Constraint\nmakes him into a man of chill iron. There is a long moment of\nheavy-laden silence. He is first to speak: \"Make known to me, lady,\nyour wish!\" She comes to the point at once. \"Do you not know my wish,\nwhen the dread of fulfilling it has kept you afar from my glance?\"\nHe evades her, as he had before evaded Brangaene. \"Reverence laid\nits compulsion upon me!\"--\"Small reverence have you shown me. With\novert scorn you have refused obedience to my command.\"--\"Obedience\nalone restrained me.\"--\"Paltry cause should I have to thank your\nmaster, if his service required of you discourtesy to his own\nconsort.\"--\"Custom demands,\" he quietly meets this, \"where I have\nlived, that the escort of the bride, while bringing her home, should\nkeep afar from her presence.\"--\"For what reason?\"--Stiffly as he\nstands, his answer resembles a shrug. \"Ask of custom!\"--\"Since\nyou cherish so great a regard for custom, my lord Tristan,\" Isolde\nmocks, \"let me remind you of what likewise is a custom: to make\npeace with the enemy, if he is to report you as his friend.\" \"And\nwhat enemy?\" he questions, unmoved. \"Inquire of your terror!...\nBlood-guiltiness stands between us!\"--\"That was made good!\"--\"Not\nbetween us!\"--\"In the open field, before the assembled people, a\nsolemn oath was sworn to let vengeance rest.\"--\"Not there was it,\nnot in the open field, that I kept Tantris concealed, that Tristan\nlay at my mercy. In the open field he stood magnificent, hale and\nbrave; the thing however which he swore, I fore bore to swear. I\nhad learned to keep silence. When he lay languishing in the hushed\nchamber, and I stood silent before him with the sword, though my\nmouth no made sound, though my hand refrained, yet the thing which I\nhad sworn with hand and mouth I silently renewed my oath to perform.\nI now intend to keep it.\"--\"What did you swear, lady?\" Tristan asks\nsimply, without effect of defiance. \"Vengeance for Morold!\" she hurls\nat him. He seems to wonder. A sort of numbness has been creeping over\nhim; an atmosphere of dream has closed around him; her neighbourhood,\nher voice, no matter what words she is saying, even these angry and\ncruel ones, have an effect of lulling, of making the real world seem\nunreal. \"Are you concerned for that?\" he asks, with the sincerity of\nthat state of having lost grasp on things as it is agreed to pretend\nthey are. \"Dare you to mock me?\" she rages, \"He was affianced to me,\nthe gallant Irish hero. I had consecrated his arms, for me he went\ninto battle. When he fell, my honour fell with him. In the heaviness\nof my heart I swore an oath that if no man would take vengeance\nfor his murder, I, a woman, would find the hardihood for it. Why,\nwhen sick and feeble you lay in my power, I did not strike, explain\nto yourself by easy interpretation: I cared for your wound, that\na man in sound health should be struck down by the vengeful hand\nof him who won Isolde. Judge for yourself now what your doom shall\nbe. Since the men are all your adherents, who is to smite Tristan?\"\nMore than ever it seems like the atmosphere of a dream closing\ndown upon him, a dream in which they move, projecting incredible\nthings. But he has perfectly seized her meaning, and even in a\ndream a man acts in character. Pale and self-contained, he hands\nher his unsheathed sword, and his voice shows a first tinge of\nemotion as he speaks the name of Morold, whom, it would almost\nseem, she had loved. \"If Marold was so dear to you, again take up\nthe sword, and drive it surely and steadfastly, that it may not\ndrop from your grasp!\"\n\nIf she seemed somewhat like a lioness before, striding and chafing\nin her regal rage, she is again, it must be confessed, a little like\none now, but presenting a different aspect of the great feline,\na sort of cruelty, a need to torment before sacrificing. \"What\nwould King Mark say if I were to slay his best servant, the most\nfaithful of his retainers, who won for him crown and land? Does it\nseem to you such a paltry matter, that for which he stands indebted\nto you, bringing home to him the Irish bride, that he would not\nchide, should I slay the envoy who so faithfully delivers into\nhis hands the hostage of the peace-compact?... Put up your sword!\nWhen upon a time I brandished it, my heart hot with desire for\nvengeance, at your gazing upon me with an eye that took my measure,\nto see if I would answer as a wife for King Mark\"--(There, there\nis point of insufferable bitterness!)--\"I let the sword sink. Let\nus drink now to our reconciliation!\"\n\nBy a sign she orders Brangaene to bring the draught. The poor creature\nshrinks away shuddering. Isolde, by a gesture more peremptory still,\nrepeats her command, and Brangaene is seen tremulously busying herself\nwith the golden casket and the golden cup. Again the sing-song\nchorus is heard, of the sailors hauling in the topsail. The sound\nfalls with a shock upon Tristan's ear. \"Where are we?\" he cries,\nin bewilderment. \"Close to our destination!\" Isolde replies\nsignificantly. They are so close indeed to the end of their voyage\nthat anything there is to say must be said now, and she invites, with\na first suspicion of softness, some expression from him of regret,\nsome explanation before they die, some attempt at justification\nof his so unkind-seeming return to the woman who had nursed and\nsaved him. \"Tristan, shall I obtain amends? What have you to say\nto me?\" But he is guarded now as earlier; the compulsion of honour\nis no less strong upon him than before. \"The lady of silence,\" he\nreplies darkly, \"teaches me to be silent. I apprehend, mayhap,\nwhat she concealed.... I conceal what she does not apprehend!\"--\"I\nshall apprehend the reason of your silence,\" she exclaims angrily,\n\"if you mean to elude me. Do you refuse to drink to our peace-making?\"\n\nBrangaene has brought the cup. Tristan gazes rigidly into Isolde's\neyes as she approaches him bearing it. \"The voyage nears its end.\nIn brief space we shall stand,\" her lip curls with irony, \"before\nKing Mark! As you lead me to him, should you not deem it an apt\nspeech to make: My lord and uncle, look at her well! A meeker woman\nyou could never hope to win. I slew her affianced, I sent home to\nher his head; the wound made by his weapon she graciously healed.\nMy life lay in her power; the gentle maid made me a gift of it, and\ngave her consent to the dishonour and degradation of her country\nthat she might become your wife. In kind acknowledgment of my good\ngifts to her, she mixed me a sweet peace-draught; of her grace she\ntendered this to me, to make all offences forgotten!\" No, Tristan\ncan hardly entertain a doubt of the cup's contents which the princess\nholds toward him with her ambiguous smile. But her right, aside\nfrom any other consideration, is recognised as indubitable to the\nlife which she saved. We have from his own lips later what his\nemotions were in this moment so pregnant with fate. What we see\nis that he stands like a man in a dream. A voice is heard outside\nshouting orders to the sailors: \"Up with the cable! Free the anchor!\"\nHe starts awake--he rises as if with a spring to the height of\nthe moment. \"Anchor loose!\" he cries wildly. \"Helm to the stream!\nSails and mast to the wind!\" Ay, let go all regards and restraints\nof life, since life itself is about to be tossed over. There is zest\nin doing it, and then rid at once forever of the puzzling world of\nduty and prudence and heart-starvation! He snatches the goblet from\nIsolde's hand: \"Well do I know Ireland's queen and the magic power\nof her arts. I made use of the balm which she proffered, I take the\ncup from her now, that I to-day may completely recover. And do you\nmark the pledge with which, grateful, I drink to our peace!\" It is\nan answer, this enigmatic pledge, to her wistful question: \"What\nhave you to say to me?\" He cannot pass into silence, and leave her\nforever with her unmingled contempt for him. By broken intimations\nhe flashes light upon the thing which his lips are interdicted from\nrevealing. Charged with emotion, the words chime slowly: \"Tristan's\nhonour,--highest truth!... Tristan's misery,--cruellest spite!...\nLure of the heart!... Dream-intuitions!... Sole comforter of an\neternal woe, merciful draught of forgetfulness, unwaveringly I\ndrink!\" He sets the cup to his lips and is drinking as he said,\nwhen with the cry: \"Defrauded here too! Mine, one half!\" Isolde\nwrests the goblet from him: \"Traitor, I drink to you!\" and drains\nit, unwavering as he.\n\nThe empty cup drops from her hand. They stand in suspense, gazing\nat each other, as defiantly they await death. The searching potion\nin a moment begins to take effect; each sees in the eyes of the other\na new thing dawning, strange and beautiful; a trembling seizes upon\ntheir limbs. They press their hands convulsively to their hearts,\nthe seat of an incomprehensible trouble, then to their foreheads,\nwithin which the brain seems to have become subject to over-wild\ndelusions. Their eyes meet again, and are averted in a confused\nterror; but, invincibly allured, again seek the other--and both\ngaze with increasing, at last unconquerable, yearning. With tremulous\nlips she speaks his name,--a complete confession in the one word\nso spoken. Passionately he calls hers,--confession for confession.\nShe sinks overpowered on his breast. He clasps her ardently to\nhim. Brangaene wrings her hands at sight of them locked in their\nlong, mute embrace. Her work this, the work of her disobedient\nhands which, too weak for the stern task assigned them, poured out\nthe love-potion in place of the death-draught. \"Woe, woe,\" she\nwails, \"eternal, irredeemable woe, instead of brief death! Behold\nthe pernicious work of a foolish fondness blossoming heavenward\nin lamentation!\"\n\nThe two move apart for a moment in order better to gaze at each\nother. \"What was I dreaming,\" he falters, \"of Tristan's honour?\"\n\"What was I dreaming,\" she wonderingly asks, \"of indignities to\nIsolde?\"--\"You, lost to me?\" Could man have imagined so wild a\nthing! \"You repulsing me?\" Probable, it seems, as he stretches\nto her those yearning arms! It has all been a malignant trick,\nthen, of evil sorcery! Restored at length from that delusion, they\nyield themselves exultantly to the tide of passion that has caught\nthem away and shall carry them whither it will, scornful of the\nwhole world, lost in each other, conscious of a sweetness in the\nsurrender surpassing all that life had given them to suspect.\n\nThe peculiar action of the potion is detected from the above. It\nseems less to create passion than to remove all that obscured and\ncontrolled it, dissolve the barriers which up to the moment of\ndrinking stood so effectively between the two. Tristan's will crumbles\nunder it, the will which had kept him loyal to Mark, which had made\nhim, to the point of offence, shun the radius of her dangerous\nmagnetism. Isolde's pride melts under it, which had enabled her\nto keep up with herself and him a fiction of hate for the man who\nhad wronged her. All that keeps love within bounds being burned\naway, it towers in a sublime conflagration. Their sense of the\nchange is that they have awakened from a dream; but the effect\nof the potion has been in truth rather more to plunge them into\na state of dream, in which while one emotion is in the ascendant\nthe others sleep,--reason sleeps, will sleeps, all other interests\nand considerations sleep, leaving love free to reach proportions\nand an intensity unknown during wakefulness.\n\nThey have not heard or heeded the cries of the crew: \"Hail, hail,\nKing Mark!\" The curtains of the pavilion are suddenly drawn wide\napart. The ship's company crowds the deck; all are gazing toward\nthe land. Tristan and Isolde take account of nothing, their senses\nfast sealed to all but the contemplation of each other. Brangaene\nand other women place on Isolde's unconscious shoulders the royal\nmantle, and deck her, unaware of it, with jewels. Kurwenal comes\nrunning to his master: \"Hail, Tristan, fortunate hero! King Mark,\nwith rich rout of courtiers, approaches in a barge. Ha! He looks\nwell pleased, coming to meet the bride!\" Tristan asks, dazed: \"Who\napproaches?\"--\"The King!\"--\"What king?\"--Kurwenal points overboard.\nTristan stares landward, not comprehending. The men shout and wave\ntheir caps. \"Hail, King Mark!\"--\"What is it?\" Isolde inquires,\nreached in her trance by the clamour; \"Brangaene, what cry is\nthat?\"--\"Isolde, mistress,\" the distraught Brangaene implores,\n\"self-control for this one day!\"--\"Where am I?\" the bewildered\nlady asks helplessly. \"Am I alive?...\" What, the question asks\nitself, what is this still familiar surrounding scene, when they\nought, by true working of the drug, to be dead? If any thought had\naccompanied the overmastering impulse which she had blindly followed,\nit had been that before death all disguises drop, that in dying one\nis sincere. But since death had not followed the drinking of the\ndraught--\"Ha! What draught was that?\" she asks in consternation.\nBrangaene gives the desperate truth. \"The love-draught!\" Isolde's\neyes widen with horror, and turning from Brangaene fix themselves\nupon Tristan. The situation flashes before her for one shocked\nmoment in its true colours; and as before her calling his name\nhad revealed all love, it reveals now her sense of an unspeakable\nawfulness in what has happened to them. As he calls her name, too,\nit expresses, with his boundless tenderness, pity and a tragic\nrecognition of the black ingredient in the cup which had lifted\nthem to such heights of intoxication. \"Must I live?\" speaks the\nlast glimmer of the old Isolde, provided normally with a moral\nnature; and overwhelmed by the greatness of the catastrophe she\nsinks fainting upon his breast. A last glimmer of the old Tristan\ngroans aloud: \"O rapture beset with snares! Bliss on betrayal built!\"\n\nTrumpets are heard. The eager expectancy of all indicates that the\nKing's barge is close at hand. The curtain falls.\n\nII\n\nThe introduction to the second act opens with the motif of the Day.\nIt is no tender dawn described, with tremulous lights among the\nclouds; it has little of the touching _Morgenpracht_ in Parsifal.\nIt is a startling announcement of a fateful fact, an obtruder feared\nand unloved; it is like a clash of cymbals or call of trumpets\nsummoning to unwelcome tasks, away from delights and dreams. It\nis indeed the day as it appears to lovers when, dispelling the\ngentle night which united them, with cruel golden shafts it drives\nthem apart. The musical rendering follows upon it of love's impatient\nheart-beats, love's ungovernable eagerness for the beloved's presence,\nlove listening for the footsteps of the beloved. The curtain rises\nupon a garden under a cloudless summer night. Beside the door of\nIsolde's apartment a torch is burning. The sound is heard of\nhunting-horns gradually retreating. Brangaene stands on the\ncastle-steps, listening to these. Isolde, all in a happy agitation,\nhurries forth to ask if they still be audible. She herself cannot hear\nthem any more. But to Brangaene's ear the sound is still distinct.\nIsolde listens again: No! Brangaene, she believes, is deceived by\nher over-great anxiety, deceived by the rustling of the leaves.\n\"You,\" Brangaene retorts, \"are deceived by the impetuosity of your\ndesire! I hear the sound of the horns.\" Isolde again listens. \"No!\"\nshe discourses in her over-running tender exhilaration, \"the sound\nof horns was never so pleasing as that! It is the soft purling of\nthe fountain whose music comes so sweetly borne to us; how could\nI hear it, if hunting-horns were still blaring near by? In the\nsilence, all I hear is the murmured laughter of the fountain. The\none who is waiting for me in the hushed night, are you determined to\nkeep him away from me as if horns were still close at hand?\"--\"The\none who is waiting for you--do but listen to my warning,\" Brangaene\npleads, \"there are spies in the night lying in wait for him! Because\nyou are blind, do you believe the eyes of the world dulled to your\nactions and his?\" Against Melot she warns her, Melot, who, when\nhe came aboard the ship with King Mark to receive the bride,--and\nthe kindly King was engrossed by anxiety for the condition of the\npale and fainting princess,--with treacherous, suspicious eye,\nBrangaene had seen it, scrutinised the countenance of Tristan, to\nread in it what might thereafter serve his purpose. Often since\nthen she has come upon him eavesdropping. Against Melot let Isolde\nbe warned!... Melot? Isolde rejects the idea with light scorn. Is\nnot he Tristan's dearest friend? When Tristan is forced to keep\nafar from her, with whom does he spend the time but Sir Melot?\n\"The thing which makes him suspicious to me, to you endears him!\"\ncries Brangaene, in despair at such wilful blindness. \"From Tristan\nto Mark lies Melot's road. He there sows evil seed. This nocturnal\nhunting-party, so hurriedly concerted, has in view a nobler quarry\nthan your fancy deems!\"--\"Melot,\" Isolde persists in his defence,\n\"invented the stratagem, out of compassion for his friend. And do\nyou make it into a reproach to him? He cares for me better than do\nyou. He opens to me that which you close. Oh, spare me the misery\nof hesitation! The signal, Brangaene, give the signal! Extinguish\nthe light to its last flicker. Beckon to the Night, that she may\ncompletely bend over us. Already she has poured her silence upon\ngrove and house. Already she has filled the heart with her happy\ntrepidation. Quench the light! Smother its frightening glare! Throw\nopen the way to my beloved!\"--\"Oh, let the torch of warning stand!\"\nBrangaene struggles with her still, \"Let it stand to illumine your\ndanger!\" And she wrings her hands anew, lamenting over this which is\nthe work of those unfaithful hands, in a single instance disobedient\nto the mistress's will. \"Your work?\" Isolde smiles, with that mortal\nlightness which is upon her to-night; \"Oh, foolish girl! Do you not\nknow the Lady of Love? Do you not know her power, her miracles?\nQueen of high hearts, ruler of earth's destinies, life and death\nare subject to her. She weaves them out of pain and pleasure. She\ncan change hate into love. Presumptuous, I took in hand the work\nof death. The Lady of Love wrested it from me. The death-devoted\nshe took into her keeping, she seized the work in her own hands.\nTo whatever purpose she will to turn it, however she will to end\nit, whatever the doom she appoint me, I am become her own. Let\nme then show myself obedient to her!\" Clearly, Isolde to-night\nis _fey_. A rapturous madness is upon her. Aphrodite, the Lady\nof Love, possesses her indeed, and no impression is to be made\nupon her great mood by anything Brangaene can say. The girl might\ntalk more hopefully to a gust of summer wind. Poor-spirited and\ngrey-hued she appears, with her anguish and forebodings, beside\nthe glowing, rosily-smiling queen, in her secure expectation. Still\nshe presses the prayer of her terror: Just this one night let Isolde\nlisten to her pleading! Just this one night let her not put out the\nlight! But the mad Queen declares bafflingly that _Frau Minne_,\nMadam Love, desires that it shall become night, that she herself may\nillumine the place whence Brangaene's torch banishes her. To the\nwatch-turret with Brangaene, whence let her keep faithful look-out.\n\"The torch,\" Isolde cries, grasping it, \"were it the light of my\nlife, laughing, without a tremor, I would put it out!\" She dashes\nit to the ground, where it slowly dies. The troubled Brangaene\ndisappears with heavy step up the stairway to the battlements.\n\nThen is heard the motif again of love's impatience, of love listening.\nIsolde peers down the avenue of trees, strains her ear for the\nsound of footsteps. She waves her veil, which glimmers white in the\ndarkness; she waves it, in her impatience, more and more quickly.\nShe has caught sight of him, as an ecstatic gesture betrays. She\nhurries to the top of the stairs, the better to see him from afar\nand wave welcome to him. She rushes at last to meet him and they\nare gathered in each other's arms. So over-great is their joy that\nneither can believe the witness of his senses; nothing so good\ncould be true as that this verily which can be seen and clasped\nshould be the so sorely desired one. They vent themselves in such\nchildish, fond, incredulous exclamations as: Is it you yourself?\nAre they your eyes? Are they your lips? Have I here your hand?\nHave I here your heart? Is it I? Is it you? Do I hold you close?\nIs it no fancy? Is it no dream? And, as if finally convinced, they\nburst forth in a hymn of thanksgiving and joy.\n\n\"The light! The light! Oh, that light!\" the lover voices his grudge\nagainst it. \"How long ere it went out! The sun sank, day departed,\nbut the ill-will of the Day was still unsated. It lit a fearful\ndanger-signal and fastened it at the beloved's door, to prevent\nme coming to her!\"--\"But the hand of the beloved extinguished the\nlight,\" Isolde pacifies him; \"What the handmaid refused, I feared\nnot to do. At the command and under the protection of Great Love,\nI cried defiance to the Day!\"--\"The Day! The Day! the malignant\nDay!\" he inveighs; \"To that implacable enemy hate and reproach!\nOh, might I, even as you quenched the light, put out the torches\nof the insolent Day, in vengeance for all the sufferings of love!\"\n\nThere is a great deal in the often fanciful, yet ever earnest,\nconversation between the lovers, about the Day and the Night; the\nDay being devoted to their hate, the Night to their worship. It\nis not only, however, that the day divides them, and their trysts\nbelong to the night. They make the image of Day to stand for falsehood\nand evil illusion, while Night represents truth. The reason of\nthis is not far to seek. Their love is not like the love of other\nmortals. Inevitably in the latter many elements enter. Will controls\nit, at least to some extent; reason guides and bounds it; sense\nof humour even qualifies it. A thousand things besides love find\nroom in the most enamoured human heart and brain: other persons,\npursuits, interests,--what Rossetti calls \"all life's confederate\npleas, work, contest, fame.\" The many-sided nature of man is appealed\nto by myriad things. Only for brief moments do lovers stand on the\nhigh peaks of pure passion where Tristan and Isolde perpetually\nreside. Love they never so truly, lovers who have not quaffed the\nmagic potion love great part of the time almost unconsciously, in\na divine under-current,--no otherwise indeed than Tristan before\nthe potion, when, despite the Image in his heart, he devoted thought\nto his career, cherished dreams of ambition. But after the cup\nTristan and Isolde are lovers, nothing more,--or less. All the\nfurniture of the day which has nothing to do with their love is\ntherefore an impertinence, an obtrusion; all day's pageants and\nactivities are a vanity, and a pernicious vanity; a glaring mask\nhiding from sight the only true and beautiful. Everything that\nthe garish daylight shows, which can never show them the depths of\nthe other's heart, is a false show, an ugly delusion. The night,\nduring which all the troublesome, battering appeals of the day\nare suspended, in which everything fades from the eye, leaving\nit free to fix itself upon the only reality, love,--the night is\nfosterer and patroness of truth. To love the night, to yearn for\nit, to wish it forever prolonged, is natural in these lovers who\nhave drank of the cup; and, by a natural step further, since earthly\nlife affords no such night, to wish for the night of death, as we\nhear them presently doing, a night in which they picture themselves\neternally floating in a state of ever-renewed joy in each other,\never fresh ardour, two and yet one. It is not in the least like\nParadise. Paradise, with its interfering light and shows and\nother-souls-in-bliss, could be to them but another version of the\nDay. The Paradise of their desire is an eternal twilight, and nothing\nmore asked for each than the heaven of the other.\n\nMeanwhile they are talking together like commoner lovers, of the\npast, of their first meeting, the beginnings of their love. How,\nshe asks him, very humanly, how could he do to her the thing he\ndid, betray her as he had done, claim her for another, give her\nover to death? \"It was the Day!\" he explains. \"The Day, shining\nabout me, which showed Isolde, where she stood sun-like, in the\nsplendour of glory and greatness, infinitely far removed. That\nwhich so ravished my eye, weighted down my heart to the earth. How,\nin the brilliant light of the Day, how could Isolde be mine?\"--\"Was\nshe not yours, whose elect you were? What falsehoods did the evil\nDay tell you, that you should betray the faithful one, who had\npreferred you?\" The love of glory it had been, he avows, which\nmoved him. That sun of the Day, worldly honour, with its idle and\nfalse rays had allured him. An Image all the while lay in the deepest\nshrine of his heart, an unsleeping Image which had impressed itself\nwhile he was hardly aware, and lived in the chaste night there,\nclosely shut in. Till a ray of the Day had penetrated even so deep,\nand that which was so secret and sacred that his eyes scarcely\ntrusted themselves to look at it, that Image, smitten by Daylight,\nlay brilliantly revealed. And, Day-deluded, he had vaunted before\nthe whole army that which seemed to him so desirable and beautiful,\nthe fairest King's-bride of all the earth; and to silence the envy\nand hatred which had begun to make his honours heavy to him, to\nmaintain his glory, he had undertaken that boldest exploit, his\nquest to Ireland. \"Vain slave of the Day!\" Isolde calls him. She\ntells her part of the story, and we are enlightened concerning\nthe mood in which she proffered to him the death-draught: how,\ndeceived she too by the Day, tortured in her love for him, she\nhad, while ardently loving him, hated him to the bottom of her\nheart. From the light of Day, which showed him an ingrate and a\ntraitor, she had longed to flee, to draw him along with her into the\nnight, where her heart foretold an end of the mistake, a dispelling\nof the apprehended delusion; to drink to him eternal love and enter\ndeath simultaneously with him.\n\nWe learn thereupon the mood in which he accepted the cup from her.\n\"When I recognised the sweet draught proffered by your hand, when\nintuition clearly and surely told me what it was the peace-drink\npromised me, there dawned in my bosom, mild and divine, the Night--my\nDay had reached its close!\" In other words, when he had stood facing,\nas he knew, death, all the vain shows and disguises of the Day had\nmelted away, he had seen for the first time clearly in his own\nheart. \"O hail to the draught!\" he exclaims, \"Hail to its sublime\nmagic! At the portal of death, where I quaffed it, it opened wide\nto me the region where I theretofore had wandered but in dream,\nthe wonder-kingdom of the Night! From the Face in the innermost\nshrine of the heart it dispelled the deceiving glare of the Day,\nthat my eyes, grown accustomed to the Night, might see it in its\ntruth.\" But the Day, she carries on the conceit with gathering\nsadness, had its revenge! The Day entered into league with his\nsins, and that Face which the Night had vouchsafed him to see he\nhad been forced to surrender to the royal power of the Day, and\nbehold it shining lonesomely afar, in barren magnificence. \"How\nhave I endured it?\" she moans, \"How do I still endure it?\" Nay,\nhe comforts her, \"We are now become the initiate of the Night.\nThe malevolent Day, the cruel, can divide, but no longer deceive\nus. They whose eyes the Night has consecrated laugh to scorn Day's\nidle splendour, his braggart brilliancy. The fugitive flashes of\nhis lightning cannot dazzle them more. He who has gazed longingly\ninto the night of death, he to whom that Night has confided her\ndeep secret, the lies of the Day, honour and glory, power and gain,\nlovely and shining though they be, like idle star-dust he sees them\nfloat past. Amid the vain delusions of the Day he is possessed by\na single longing, the longing for the holy Night, in which the one\nthing from all eternity true, Love with its rapture, awaits him!\"\nHe draws her gently to a flowery bank, sinks kneeling before her\nand lays his head within her arm. And they breathe forth together,\nwith an equal dreamy devoutness, their invocation to the Night.\n\"Oh, close around us, night of love! Give forgetfuless of life!\nGather us up in your arms, release us from the world!...\" Quenched\nis the last torch, quenched all thought, all memory. In a sacred\ntwilight full of wondrous divinations, the dread illusions of the\nworld melt away, leaving free the spirit. And the sun in the breast\nhaving set, softly shine forth the stars of joy. And when, heart\nupon heart, lip against lip, breathing one breath, the lovers'\neyes are blinded with joy, the world with its dazzling deceits\nfades from sight, the world which the Day had flashed before their\neyes for their delusion, and they themselves are the world, and\nthe world is life, is love, is joy, is a beautiful wish come true,\nfrom which there shall be no awakening....\n\nReaching completely the state they describe, of forgetfulness of\nthe world and the Day, each the whole world to the other, they\nsink back side by side, cheek to cheek, among the flowers.\n\nFrom the turret comes the lonely voice of Brangaene, warning the\nlovers to have a care, have a care, the night is nearly over! There\nis a leisurely moment. Isolde stirs: \"Hark, beloved!\" But Tristan,\ntoo deeply steeped in the languor of night and dreams, replies with\na sigh: \"Let me die!\" Isolde raises herself a little: \"Oh, envious\nsentinel!\" Tristan remains reclining: \"Never to waken!\"--\"But the\nDay must rouse Tristan?\" she softly exhorts. \"Let the Day yield\nunto death!\" She considers this quietly: \"Day and death then with\na simultaneous stroke shall overtake our love?\" He comes a little\nmore awake to protest that death cannot destroy such love as theirs,\nthat love is stronger than death, is eternally living, that all\nthat could die in death would be the disturbing things which now\nprevent him from being always with her, whereas were they to\ndie,--inseparable,--to all eternity one,--nevermore to awake,--nevermore\nto know fear,--nameless, close enfolded in love,--belonging singly\nto themselves,--they should live wholly for love!... She says the\nwords after him, dreamily, charmed, allured by the vista they open\nbefore her. And when Brangaene's voice is heard again from her\nturret warning them to have a care, have a care, day is at hand,\nand Tristan bends over her smiling to ask: \"Shall I heed?\" she\nsighs, as he had done before: \"Let me die!\"--\"Shall I awake?\" he\nvery gently teases. \"Never to wake again!\"--\"Must the Day rouse\nTristan?\"--\"Let the Day yield unto death!\"--\"We will brave then\nthe threats of the Day?\" With increasing earnestness she cries:\n\"To be rid of his malice forever!\"--\"Day-break shall never more\nfrighten us apart?\"--\"Eternal shall be our night!\"\n\nThis is really but a lovers' device for clinging together a little\nlonger; one does not feel that they have seriously determined to\nremain where they are till they shall have been discovered and\nsacrificed on the altar of a husband's honour. They plainly are\nin the state they have described: quenched is thought, is memory;\nthey are intoxicated with the _Liebes-wonne_ they celebrate, and\nso while day is whitening overhead, feeling really, as far as they\nare capable of thought, besottedly secure,--Frau Minne will\nprotect!--they caress, clasped in each other's arms, the thought of\nthe eternal night lying beyond the death they would die for love,\nwhere far from the sun, far from the lamentation of Day-decreed\npartings, delivered from fear, delivered from all ill, they shall\ndream, in exquisite solitude and in unbounded space, a super-adorable\ndream. He shall be Isolde, she Tristan,--but no, there shall be\nno more Tristan, no more Isolde, but undivided, inexpressible,\nthey shall move to ever-new recognitions, new ardours, possessed\nin everlasting of a single consciousness--Ineffable joy of love!\nTheir voices soar with these flights of fancy.... Of a sudden, as\nif with a crash, the sweet harmonies turn to discord. A shriek is\nheard from Brangaene. Kurwenal rushes in with drawn sword, crying:\n\"Save yourself, Tristan!\"\n\nHard upon his heels come Mark, Melot, and a flock of courtiers\nin hunting-attire. They stop in consternation before the lovers,\nwho have seen nothing, heard nothing, and stand quietly lost in\neach other's embrace. It is only when Brangaene seizes her that\nIsolde becomes aware of the spectators. With a natural impulse of\nwomanly shame she averts her face from all those eyes and hides\nit against the flowery bank. Tristan with one arm holds his mantle\nwide outspread so that it screens her from sight, and for long\nmoments continues so, motionless, gazing rigidly at the motionless\nmen who return his gaze in silence. In the pale first glimmer of\ndawn, he might well think them unreal, creations of a bad dream.\nThe spell of silence is broken by the cry bursting from his lips:\n\"The desolate Day--for the last time!\" Melot steps forward and\npoints at him: \"You shall now tell me,\" he speaks to Mark, \"whether\nI rightfully accused him? Whether I am to retain my head which I\nplaced at stake? I have shown him to you in the very act. I have\nfaithfully preserved your name and honour from stain.\"\n\nThe King is deeply shaken. No anger is in his unsteady voice, but\nutter sorrow. Something deeper has been reached than his pride in\nhis honour, and that is not his love for Isolde, but his faith\nin Tristan. \"Have you really?\" he bitterly takes up Melot's last\nassurance and his boast of fidelity. \"Do you imagine it? Behold\nhim there, the most loyal among the loyal! Look upon him, the\nfriendliest of friends! The most generous act of his devotion he\nhas used to stab my heart with deadliest perfidy. If Tristan then\nhas betrayed me, am I to hope that my honour, which his treason\nhas struck at, has been loyally defended by Melot?\"\n\nThese are strange words for Tristan the knight to hear. Applied\nto himself, such words as perfidy, treason.... He brushes his arm\nwildly across his eyes: \"Phantoms of the Day! Morning-dreams! empty\nand lying,--vanish, disperse!\" The heart-broken King, with a gentleness\nmore effectual in punishing than the angriest objurgations, goes on\nto sear the false friend's conscience by holding up before him,\nsimply, what he has done; comparing the image of him as he has in\nfact proved with the image of him which Mark had cherished. The\nreproach is intolerable in view of what Mark himself is: noble,\ngentle, great-hearted, and toward Tristan so full of affection!\n\"To me--this? This, Tristan, to me? Where now shall one look for\ntruth, since Tristan has deceived me? Where look for honour and\nuprightness, since the pattern of all honour, Tristan, has lost\nthem? Whither has virtue fled, since she is gone from Tristan,\nwho had made her into his shield and defence, yet has now betrayed\nme?\"\n\nTristan's eyes, which had been fixed steadily upon Mark, slowly\nsink to the ground; a wondering sadness overspreads his countenance,\nheavier and heavier as the royal master proceeds with his arraignment.\nWhy Tristan's innumerable services, the greatness he had won for his\nKing, if they were to be paid with the receiver's dishonour? Was\nit too small a reward that the King had made him his heir? So dearly\nhe had loved him that, having lost his wife, and being childless, he\nhad resolved for his sake not to wed again. He had been obdurate\nto the prayers of his people, to Tristan's own entreaties, until\nTristan had threatened to leave the kingdom unless he were himself\ndespatched to bring home a bride for the King. And his courage had\nwon for Mark this woman, lovely to a wonder, whom who could know,\nwho behold, who proudly call his own, without accounting himself\nblessed? This one, to whom he, Mark, would never have presumed to\naspire, Tristan, braving enemies and danger, had brought home to\nhim. And now that through such a possession his heart had become\nmore vulnerable to pain than before, wherefore wound him in the\nvery spot where it was tenderest?--destroy his faith in his friend,\nfill his frank heart with distrust, bring him to the degradation\nof dogging his friend by night and listening covertly? \"Wherefore\nto me this hell which no heaven can deliver me from? Wherefore to\nme this indignity which no suffering can wash out? The dreadful,\ndeep, undiscoverable, thrice-mysterious reason,--who will reveal\nit to the world?\"\n\nTristan's eyes, as, thus questioned, he lifts them at last again to\nMark's, express boundless compassion. \"Oh! King, I cannot answer;\nand that which you ask you never can learn!\" No, for it is as strange,\nas full of black mystery, to Tristan as to Mark. It is the very\nimpossible which has happened, the never to be accounted for. Tristan,\nthe soul of honour, has betrayed his friend, and with all those\ncircumstances of aggravation which the friend has just counted\noff. Nothing can explain it. It is surely like a dream, a curious\ndream, the worst of the Day's lies. But in a dream also, as we\nremarked before, there is a right thing to do, for a man of heart.\nTristan is not long deciding upon his course. But before acting\nhe turns to Isolde, where she sits with eyes of undiminished love\nraised toward the companion in shame and agony. In following the\ncall of honour he has no mind to forsake her. \"Whither Tristan\nnow departs, will you, Isolde, follow him? The country Tristan\nmeans no beam of the sun illumines. It is the dim nocturnal land\nfrom which my mother sent me forth, when dying she gave to the\nlight a dead man's child. The refuge to which, having borne me,\nshe carried her love, the wonder-kingdom of the night from which of\nold I woke. That is what Tristan offers. Thither he goes before. If\nshe will follow, kind and true, let now Isolde say!\" With touching\nmore-than-readiness Isolde, trustful and unashamed, declares: \"When\nonce before the friend bade her to a strange land, Isolde, kind\nand true, must follow the unkind one. But now you lead to your\nown dominions, to show me your heritage. How should I avoid the\nrealm which lies about the whole world? Where Tristan's house and\nhome, there let Isolde take her abode. That she may follow, kind\nand true, let him now show Isolde the way!\" Again for a moment\nso lost in her that it is no else than as if they were alone in\nall the world, he slowly bends over her and kisses her forehead. A\ncry of indignation breaks from Melot. \"Traitor! Ha, King, revenge!\nShall you endure this outrage?\" But Tristan has suddenly cast off\nthe inertia of dreams, bared his sword, and turned about. \"Who will\nmatch his life against mine?\" He gazes full into Melot's face.\n\"He was my friend. He loved me, he held me high. He, more than any,\nwas concerned for my honour, my fame. He made proud my heart to\narrogance. He headed the band of those who urged me on to augment\nmy glory and renown by wedding you to the King. Your eye, Isolde,\nhas dazzled him too. From envy he betrayed me to the King--whom I\nbetrayed!\" With a feint of attack he springs toward Melot. \"Defend\nyourself, Melot!\" Melot quickly thrusts with his sword. Tristan\nwho has not parried, who has let the sword drop from his hand,\nsinks back wounded in Kurwenal's arms. Isolde casts herself upon\nhis breast. The music makes a brief sorrowful comment--and the\ncurtain falls.\n\nIII\n\nThe introduction to the third act not only presents the emotions\nbelonging to what shall follow, heaving deep heart-groans and expending\nitself in pity over the stricken hero; it paints with strange clearness\na scene: the sea stretching to the horizon, under leaden sunshine,\nempty of every sail--the sea which lies in fact before us when\nthe curtain rises, fading off into the sky beyond low battlements\nwhich enclose on the outer-side a neglected castle-garden.\n\nTristan lies with closed eyes upon a couch, in the shadow of a\ntree. Kurwenal, sitting at his head, bends a careworn face to listen\nfor his breathing. A shepherd's pipe is heard playing a little\nwavering tune, melancholy in its simplicity to heartbreak. The\ntune grieves itself out. A shepherd looks over the wall and, after\na moment watching, calls to Kurwenal, asking if _he_ does not yet\nawake? Kurwenal sadly shakes his head. \"Even if he should awake,\nit would only be to take his leave forever, unless the Physician,\nthe only one who can help us, should first arrive....\" Has he seen\nnothing, he inquires, no ship on the sea? \"In that case you should\nhear a different tune,\" the shepherd answers, \"as merry a one as\nI can play! But tell me the truth, old friend, what has happened\nto our master?\"--\"Let be that question!\" Kurwenal heavily turns\nfrom it: \"not for any asking can you learn! Keep diligent look-out;\ngo, and when you see a ship pipe loud and merrily.\" The shepherd\nshades his eyes and looks off over the endless blue waste of the\nwaters. \"Barren and empty the sea!\" He sets his pipe to his lips\nagain and plays over, withdrawing, the hauntingly melancholy tune\nof before.\n\nWithout premonitory sign of returning consciousness, Tristan's\nlips move. His voice comes very faint: \"The ancient tune.... what\ndoes it wake me?\" He opens his hollow eyes. \"Where am I?\" Kurwenal\nstarts up with a shout of joy: \"Ha, that voice! His voice! Tristan,\nmy master! my hero! my Tristan!\" Tristan by a great effort brings\nhis mind to consider these sounds, and with great effort speaks:\n\"Who... calls me?\"--\"At last! At last!\" Kurwenal's heart overflows.\n\"Life! Oh, life! Sweet life, given back to my Tristan!\" Tristan\nknows him now. \"Kurwenal... is it you? Where have I been?... Where\nam I?\" Kurwenal on the spot assumes that ultra-joyous tone of persons\nabout a sick-bed when their faces are turned toward the patient\nwhom they are determined to infect with hope. \"Where you are? In\npeace, in safety, in freedom! At Kareol, master! Do you not recognise\nthe castle of your fathers.?\"--\"Of my fathers?\" Tristan murmurs\nstupidly. \"Just look about you!\"--\"What--\" the sick man asks after\na vague glance, \"what was the sound I heard?\"--\"The shepherd's\npipe you heard again, after so many days! On the hillside he keeps\nyour flocks.\"--\"My flocks?...\"--\"Master, that is what I said! This\nis your house, your court and castle. Your people, loyal to the\nbeloved lord, saved for you, as well as they could, the patrimony\nwhich my hero once made over to them outright, when he forsook\nall to travel to a distant land.\"--\"To what land?\"--\"Cornwall,\nto be sure!\" And the anxious grey-bearded nurse, to rouse in the\npatient some gleam of joy in being, of pride in past prowess, breaks\nenthusiastically forth: \"Oh, what good fortune Tristan, brave and\nbonny, met with there! What splendour of glory, what honors he\nwon in the teeth of his enemies!\"--\"Am I in Cornwall?\" Tristan\nasks discouragingly. \"No, no, I have told you! At Kareol.\"--\"How\ndid I get here?\" Kurwenal almost laughs, and in the pride of the\nunhoped-for hour cracks a joke. \"How you got here? Not on horseback!\nA little ship brought you, but to the ship I carried you on these\nshoulders of mine. They are broad, they bore you to the shore.\nAnd now you are safe at home, on your own land, the right land,\nthe native land, where amid familiar pastures and homely joys,\nunder the rays of the old sun, from death and wounds you blessedly\nshall recover!\" The rough fellow presses his cheek to his master's\nbreast, like a woman. There is silence. Tristan stares vacantly\nahead, vaguely pondering the servant's last words, of which the\necho has lingered teasingly in his ear. \"Do you believe so?\" he\nsays at last. \"I know a different thing--but the manner of it I\ncannot tell you! This where I have awakened is not the place where\nI have been,--but where I have been--I cannot tell you! I did not\nsee the sun, I saw no earthly scene, nor any people, but what I\nsaw--I cannot tell you! I found myself--where from everlasting I\nwas, whither to everlasting I go: in the boundless realm of the\nnight which girds the world. One knowledge alone belongs to us\nthere,--divine eternal perfection of oblivion! How\"--he faintly\nwails, with a beginning of restlessness--\"how have I lost the sense\nof it? Is it you again, unforgotten longing, driving me back to\nthe light of the day? All that still survives in me, a pitiless\ntorturing love, impels me forth to gaze upon the light which,\ndeceivingly bright and golden, shines, Isolde, upon you!\" With\nthe memory of Isolde becoming clear-defined again, as he emerges\nmore completely from the deathlike stupor which had chained him,\nagitation seizes upon him, greater from moment to moment. Isolde\nstill in the region of the sunshine! Still in the light of the\nday, Isolde! Unendurable longing to see her repossesses him. For\nthat it is he has turned back from the portals of death, come back\nfrom among the shadows, to seek for her, to behold her, to find her,\nin whom alone it is granted to Tristan to lose himself and cease\nto be! His old hatred of the day is upon him, and one's sympathy\nfeels, well enough, the distress to his fever of being thus drawn\nfrom the dark of unconsciousness and thrust into this glare of\nsummer. By a natural confusion of ideas, as his agitation turns\nto delirium, this day torturing him, this day upon which he calls\na malediction, becomes his old enemy, the Day which used to keep\nhim from her,--and shifts from that into the signal-light which\neven at night used to warn him off. His delusion complete, he calls\nimploringly to Isolde, Sweetest, Loveliest, \"When, oh, finally,\nwhen, will you quench the torch, that it may announce to me my\nhappiness? The light... when will it go out?... When will the house\nbe wrapped in rest?\" He falls back exhausted. Kurwenal, whose joy\nof a little while before has dropped at the contemplation of this\ntorment, takes heart again from his hope in the good news he has\nto impart. \"The one whom of old I braved, from devotion to you,\nhow am I brought to longing for her now! Rely upon my word, you\nshall see her, here, and this very day, if only she be still among\nthe living!\"\n\nThe meaning of his words has not penetrated. Tristan is far away\namong old scenes. \"The torch has not yet gone out! Not yet is the\nhouse wrapped in darkness!... Isolde lives and keeps watch.... She\ncalled to me out of the night!\"--\"If then she lives,\" Kurwenal\neagerly, seizes the cue, \"let hope comfort you. Dullard as you must\nesteem Kurwenal, this time you shall not chide him. Ever since\nthe day when Melot, the infamous, dealt you the wound, you lay like\none dead. The evil wound, how to heal it? Then I, thick-witted\nfellow, reflected that the one who closed the wound made by Morold\ncould find easy remedy to the injury from Melot's sword. Not long\nwas I deciding upon the best physician! I have sent to Cornwall,--a\ntrusty fellow. It cannot be but that he will bring Isolde over\nthe sea here to you!\"\n\nHe has understood, Tristan has understood, and started up ablaze,\nso beside himself with joy that after the great incredulous cry:\n\"Isolde is coming! Isolde is near!\" he struggles vainly for breath\nand words. Then his overflowing gratitude finds an immediate, a\npertinent thing to do, and Kurwenal has all in a moment the reward\nof his long passionately-devoted service. The master in his madness\nof joy throws his arms around the servant to whom he owes the hope\nwhich in a moment has made him strong and well again. \"My Kurwenal,\nyou faithful friend, whose loyalty knows no wavering, how shall\nTristan ever thank you? My shield and defence in battle and warfare,\nin pleasure and pain equally prompt at command,--whom I have hated,\nyou have hated, whom I have cherished, you have cherished; when\nin all truth I served the good Mark, how were you true to him as\ngold! When I must betray the noble King, how willingly did you\ndeceive him! Not your own, but wholly mine, you suffer with me when\nI suffer, but what I suffer--that you cannot suffer!\" As before the\nexcitement of his pain, now the excitement of his joy is gradually\nturning to delirium. \"This dreadful longing which consumes me,\nthis languishing fire which devours me, if I could describe it,\nif you could comprehend it, not here would you loiter but would\nhaste to the watch-tower, with every sense astrain longingly would\nyou reach out and spy toward the point where her sail shall appear,\nwhere, blown by the wind and urged on by the fire of love, Isolde\ncomes steering to me!... There it comes!...\" he points wildly,\n\"There it comes, with brave speed!... See it wave, see it wave,\nthe pennant at the mast!... The ship! The ship! It streaks along\nthe reef! Do you not see it?... Kurwenal, do you not see it?\" With\nwatchful intensity he scans Kurwenal's face. Kurwenal hesitates,\nbetween the wish to humour him by going to the watch-tower, and\nthe fear of leaving him, when the shepherd's pipe is heard again in\nthe same plaintive tune, and Kurwenal has no heart to pretend. \"No\nship as yet on the sea!\" he announces heavily. Tristan's excitement,\nas the notes spin out their thin music, whose message he seems to\ndivine, gradually dies; the happy delusion fades; a deeper sadness\nthan ever, of reaction, closes down upon him. The minor strains\nwhich now for a moment hold his flickering attention are full of\nassociations for him, all sorrowful. The sound of them came wafted\nto him upon the breath of evening when as a child he was told the\nmanner of his father's death; it came again, plaintive and more\ndeeply plaintive, in the morning grey, when he learned his mother's\nfate. And in their day, he wanderingly reflects, \"when leaving an\nunborn son he died; when she in dying gave me birth, the ancient\nair, full of yearning and foreboding, no doubt pierced its sorrowful\nway to them too,--the ancient air, which has asked me before this,\nand asks me again in this hour, to what possible end, what destiny,\nI was born into the world?... To what destiny?... The ancient song\ntells me over again: To spend myself in longing and to die!...\n\n\"No! No!\" he in a moment corrects himself, and his misery surges\nback upon him in all its violence, \"That is not what it says! Longing!\nLonging! To spend myself in longing, not in longing to find death!\nThis longing which cannot die to the distant physician calls out\nfor the peace of death!\" Confused images crowd upon him of the\nbeginning of this affliction. The voyage to Ireland, the wound\nof which he was dying, her healing of his wound--only to open it\nagain; her offering him the poisoned cup which when he drank, hoping\nto be cured of ills forever, a fiery charm was upon him, dooming\nhim never to die, but exist eternally in torture! We remember how\nin the fragrant summer night and the balmy presence of Isolde he\nblessed the magic draught which opened the region of all enchantment;\nbut in this hour, parted from her, it seems, forever, the draught\nwhich keeps him vainly aching for her presence, which will not\nlet him die apart from her, or find a little rest, which makes\nhim a spectacle of torture for the Day to feed its eyes upon, the\ndraught seems to him verily no blessing. They are the bitter dregs\nhe is drinking now of the cup of wonder. \"The dreadful draught,\"\nhe terms it, and reaching, with the enumeration of his sufferings,\nthe point of cursing it, he has the flashed intuition of a truth;\nby a poet's spring reaches a conclusion worthy of a philosopher:\nthat he, he himself is responsible for the effect upon him of the\ndrink. \"The dreadful draught,\" he cries, \"which devoted me to torment,\nI myself, I myself, I brewed it! From my father's anguish and my\nmother's woe, from the tears of love of all my life, from laughing\nand weeping, joys and hurts, I furnished the poisoned ingredients\nof the cup!\" He had, more plainly, if we seize the sense of his\nraving, fed and fostered an inherited emotional nature which made\nhim the cup's easy victim. And recognising it, he adds to his curse\nupon the dreadful cup, with all the strength of his tortured heart,\nhis curse upon him who brewed it,--and exhausted with his own delirious\nviolence drops back in a swoon. Kurwenal, who has vainly striven to\ncalm his frenzy, now sees him with horror relapsed into deathlike\nstillness; he calls him, laments over him and over this fatal love,\nthe world's loveliest madness, which rewards so ill those who follow\nits lure. \"Are you then dead?\" he weeps, \"Do you still live?...\nHave you succumbed to the curse?\" He listens almost hopelessly\nfor his breathing, and starts up with a return of joy: \"No! He\nlives! He rises! How softly his lips stir....\"--\"The ship!\" Tristan\nmurmurs, \"Do you not see it yet?\"--\"The ship?... Certainly!\" the\npoor nurse answers, with his determined cheerfulness, \"It will\narrive this very day.... It cannot delay much longer!\"--\"And upon\nit\"--Tristan describes the vision which is calling back the light\nto his eyes--\"upon it, Isolde. How she beckons, how graciously\nshe drinks to our peace! Do you see her?... Do you not see her\nyet?... How sweetly, lovely and gentle, she comes wandering over the\nplains of the sea. On soft billows of joyous flowers she advances,\nluminous, toward the land. She smiles comfort to me and delicious\nrest, she brings me utmost relief.... Ah, Isolde, Isolde! How kind,\nhow fair are you!... What, Kurwenal,\" he breaks off with that return\nto agitation toward which his fever by its law begins from the\nmoment of returning consciousness to drive his poor brain, till,\nreaching a violence his strength cannot support, it plunges him\nback exhausted into unconsciousness, \"What, Kurwenal, you do not\nsee her? Away, to the watch-tower, dull-witted churl, that the\nsight may not escape you which is so plain to me! Do you not hear\nme?... To the tower! Quick, to the tower!... Are you there?... The\nship! The ship! Isolde's ship! You must--must see it! The ship!...\nIs it possible,\" he cries despairingly, \"that you do not see it yet?\"\nHe has been starting up from his bed, in his eagerness. Kurwenal\nhas struggled with him to keep him down. While he hesitates as\nbefore between obedience and fear to leave his patient, the servant\nrealises that the shepherd's pipe has changed its tune,--has changed\nit for a shrill, lively, tripping air. He listens with all his\nsoul for a second, then with a shout of triumph dashes to the\nbattlements and sends his eyes sweeping the sea. \"Ha! The ship!...\nI see it nearing from the north!\"--\"Did I not know it?\" Tristan\nexults like a child. \"Did I not say so? Did I not say she lived\nand knit me still to life? From the world which for me contains\nher only, how should Isolde have departed?\" His joy is new life\npoured into him; his agitation this time produces no exhaustion,\nhe has strength for the moment to squander. \"Hahei! Hahei!\" shouts\nKurwenal from his post, \"How boldly it steers, how the sails strain\nin the wind! How it chases, how it flies!\"--\"The pennant?... The\npennant?\" Tristan holds his breath for the answer. \"The bright\npennant of joy floats gaily from the topmast!\"--\"Cheer! The pennant\nof joy!... In the bright light of day, Isolde coming to me! To\nme, Isolde!... Do you see her self?\"--\"The ship has disappeared\nbehind the reef...\" Tristan's joy drops like a shot bird. One seems\nto feel his heart stop. \"The reef?...\" he asks trembling, \"Is there\ndanger in it?... That is where the surf rages, the ships founder....\nWho is at the helm?\"--\"The safest of sea-men.\"--\"Could he betray\nme? Might he be a confederate of Melot's?\"--\"Trust him as you would\nmyself!\"--\"But you, wretch, are a traitor too!... Do you see her\nagain?\"--\"Not yet!\"--\"Lost!\" wails Tristan--but at Kurwenal's shout\nin a moment more that the ship has cleared the rocks and is sailing\nup the safe channel into port, springs again to the peaks of joy\nand promises Kurwenal the bequest of all his worldly goods. And now\nKurwenal from his outlook communicates that he sees Isolde,--she\nis waving,--the keel is in the harbour,--Isolde has sprung ashore.\n\"Down!\" Tristan orders wildly, \"Down to the shore! Assist her!\nAssist my lady!\"--\"I will bring her up here in my arms--trust to\nthem! But you, Tristan,\" the poor nurse stops on his hurried way\ndown to enjoin, \"stay reliably on the bed!\"\n\nTristan, left alone, falls to tossing and writhing with impatience.\nHis burning fever is confused to his sense with the heat of the\nsun, and this day of joy he calls the sunniest of all days. This\ntumult of the blood, this julibant urge to action, this immeasurable\ndelight, this frenzy of joy, how, how to endure them prostrate\nupon the couch? Up, bravely up and away, where hearts are alive\nand throbbing! We can see his fever again working itself toward\ndelirium. It reaches this time complete madness. With the proud\ncry: \"Tristan, the hero, in jubilant strength has raised himself\nup from death!\" he in fact lifts himself suddenly quite up. And\nthen no doubt some reminder, at the violent motion, of his wound,\nsuggests to his madness its next wild fancy, that a sort of glory\nis in a streaming wound, such as he bore while fighting Morold,\nthat he will meet Isolde in the same manner, gloriously bleeding,\nnot ignobly constrained by a bandage. And prompted by some obscure\ninstinct perhaps to relieve a torture of which his flaming brain\nwill not permit him duly to take account, he tears the wrappings\nfrom his wound, shouting with gladness, and bidding his blood now\nflow merrily forth. He jumps from the couch, he goes a few feet in\nswaying progress toward the castle-gate: She who shall heal the\nwound forever draws near like a hero, draws near bringing health,\nlet the world fade away before his victorious haste!... The victorious\nhaste has taken him a staggering step or two, when Isolde's voice\ncomes borne to him, calling before she appears. \"Tristan, Tristan!\nBeloved!\" He stops short and listens, shocked out of the idea of\nwhat he was trying to do, losing his grasp on the present. \"What?...\nDo I hear the light?\" he falters, taken back by the spell of that\nvoice to the old time, when never the light called to him, or never\nthe beloved called to him out of the light, but ever and only out\nof the night. The suggestion of the darkness now gathering over\nhis eyes is that the torch is going out,--her signal to him to\ncome. \"To her!\" therefore he cries, \"To her!\" and is making such\neffort to hurry as one makes in a dream, when behold, there she is!\nThere she comes flying to him through the castle-gate, breathless\nwith her haste. He has strength enough still, in his transporting\njoy, to get as far as her arms; but, with the relief of being caught\nin them, all relaxes, he sinks to the earth. Frightened, she calls\nhim. He turns his eyes upon her with the last of their long yearning,\nand softly breathes forth his life upon her name. He could not die\nbefore she came, but now at once it is grown sweet and easy.\n\nIsolde cannot believe this which she seems to see. She falls on\nher knees beside him, beseeches, coaxes, reproaches him, and wrings\nher hands over his obdurate unresponse. \"Just for one hour! Just\nfor one hour, be awake to me still! Such long days of terror and\nyearning Isolde has endured for the sake of one hour to spend with\nyou! Will Tristan defraud her, defraud Isolde of this single\ninfinitely-short last earthly joy? The wound,--where? Let me heal\nit, that we may have the joyous night together!... Oh, do not die of\nthe wound! Let the light of life go out for us clasped together!...\nToo late! Too late!... Hard-hearted!... Do you punish me so with\nruthless sentence? Do you shut your heart to my complaint?... Only\nonce... only once more!... Look, he wakes! Beloved!...\" Consciousness\nmercifully forsakes her. She sinks senseless upon his body.\n\nKurwenal has been standing apart with eyes bent in dumb and rigid\ndespair upon his master. A confused tumult of arms is heard. The\nshepherd climbs hurriedly over the parapet with the announcement:\n\"A second ship!\" Kurwenal starts from his trance of grief and rushes\nto look off. He breaks into curses, recognising Mark and Melot\namong the men just landed. His resolution is instantly taken. \"Arms\nand stones! Help me! To the gate!\" With the shepherd's help he is\nfastening and barricading the castle-gate, when Isolde's skipper\nhurries in with the cry: \"Mark is behind me with men-of-arms and\nfolk. Vain to attempt defence, we are overpowered!\" Kurwenal does\nnot pause in his preparations: \"While I live, no one shall look in\nhere! Take your post and help!\" Brangaene's voice is heard, calling\nher mistress. Kurwenal's excitement, his rage of determination\nto keep the sight of those helpless embraced bodies sacred from\nprofane eyes, shuts his reason to every sign. Brangaene's cry to\nhim not to close the gate he takes to signify that she is in league\nwith the enemy. Melot's voice, just outside: \"Back, madman! Bar not\nthe way!\" calls forth a fierce laugh: \"Hurrah for the day which\ngives me the chance to have at you!\" The gate resists but a moment;\nMelot is first to break in. Kurwenal with a savage cry cuts him\ndown. Brangaene is heard calling to him that he labours under a\nmistake; Mark calling upon him to desist from this insanity. He sees,\nunderstands but one thing, to keep out these enemies of Tristan's,\ndefend the master to the last against this intrusion. He orders\none of his party to throw back Brangaene, who is coming by the\nway of the wall; he hurls himself at the invaders now crowding\nin. In self-defence they draw arms upon the slashing madman. He\nextorts his death-wound as it were by force from one of them...\n\nPainfully he drags himself along the earth, until he can touch his\nmaster's hand: \"Tristan, dear lord! Chide not that the faithful\none comes along too!\" The last note about him as he expires is\na fragment of the theme of determined cheerfulness, his pitiful\nsick-nurse encouragements to Tristan.\n\nBrangaene has reached Isolde and is making frightened efforts to\nrestore her. Mark stands regarding the still forms with profound\nemotion. Reproach is in his tone when he now speaks, as earlier,\nthe gentle complainingness of one in all things blameless, who,\ndoing all for the best, has met with unmerited suffering. \"Dead!\nAll dead!\" he mourns, \"My hero! My Tristan! Most tenderly-beloved\nfriend! To-day again must you betray your friend, to-day when he\ncomes to give you proof of highest faith. Awake! Awake at the voice\nof my sorrow, O faithless, faithfullest friend!\"\n\nBrangaene's ministrations have brought back a little life to Isolde.\nBrangaene holds her in her arms and labours to reassure her. \"Hear\nme, sweetest lady, happy news let me report. Would you not trust\nBrangaene? For her blind fault she has made amends. When you\ndisappeared, quickly she sought the King. No sooner had the secret\nof the potion been made known to him than in all haste he put to\nsea, to overtake you, to renounce you, to lead you himself to the\nfriend!\" Mark completes the revelation: \"When I was brought to\nunderstand what before I could not grasp, how happy was I to find\nmy friend free from blame! To wed you to the peerless hero with\nfull sails I flew in your wake,--but how does ravaging misfortune\novertake him who came bringing peace! I but made greater the harvest\nof death! Madness heaped the measure of disaster!\"\n\nIsolde has neither heard what they say, nor does she appear to\nrecognise them. Half of her clearly has gone with Tristan, the\nrest is near taking wing, according to her word: \"Where Tristan's\nhouse and home, there will Isolde abide.\" Her own swan-song takes\nus a little way with her into her _Liebes-tod_, her love-death.\nHer eyes, fixed in contemplation of his face, have the vision of\nit returning to life. She sees him re-arise, powerful and loving,\ngrowing in glory till he assumes transcendent splendour. \"Do you\nsee it, friends,--do you not see it?\" she asks, of what shines\nso vividly before her that her face is transfigured as if with\nreflected light. And music is shed from this luminous ascending\nform.... \"Am I alone to hear it?\" she exclaims, it is so clear\nto her,--music wonderful and soft, which says everything, which\ngently reconciles one to all. It grows, it swells, it penetrates,\nuplifts.... And what is this enfolding her? Floods of soft air!\nBillows of perfume! They softly surge and murmur around her....\nShe is in wonder whether to inhale, or to listen, or drink and\nbe immersed and yield up the breath sweetly amid perfumes.... Ah,\nyes, in the billowing surge, in the great harmony, in the breath\nof the spheres, to sink under, to drown, to be lost... that, that\nwill be the supreme ecstasy!... As the mysterious experiences she\ndescribes absorb her soul, her body sinks softly upon Tristan's.\nMark extends his hands in blessing over the dead.\n\n\nAnd so the curtain fans on this wonderful and moving drama, and\nthe thousands scatter in an exalted mood, impressed once more with\nthe incomprehensible loveliness of love. The point of fascination\nof this work does not lie surely in any celebration of enviable\njoys, or sorrows nearly as enviable; it is not that it is spiritual,\nwhich would strengthen its appeal for some, neither that it is\nsensuous, which would make it alluring to others; it is that it\nbreathes love,--love, indefinable but unmistakable, mysterious but\nabsolute, understood of all, explainable by none, and of greater,\nor at least more universal, interest than any other emotion. Those\nequally fitted to enjoy all Wagner's operas show, it is observed,\na predilection usually for Tristan and Isolde. If the pre-eminent\nbeauty of the music accounts for this, the fact suggests none the\nless that Wagner could reach his utmost eloquence on the theme. It\nis as if the composer had wished for once a fair field to render\nall he felt and understood of love, and so had chosen a story in\nwhich it moves free from ordinary trammels and is permitted an\nintensity more prolonged, more fervid deeps, languors more abandoned,\nthan love in the shackles of thought and will.\n\nA thing which must not be forgotten. The love of Tristan and Isolde\nis not to be brought under the head of what is vulgarly termed a\nguilty love. We have seen how Mark learning the secret of the potion\ninstantly and completely exonerated them and rejoiced that he could\nreturn to his faith in Tristan. We know little of love-potions, and\nhad best forget such attempts at rational explanation of them as\nwe may have read, accepting the old story as it is offered, with\nits cup of magic by which all struggle against the power of love\nbecame vain. The lovers must be regarded as essentially innocent.\nThe language of their hearts is always perfectly noble, their music\nis never sultry.\n\nIt seems to matter less, in the case of this opera than of Wagner's\nother operas, that one should be able to distinguish the motifs. When\nFasolt falls, or the dragon, or Mime, it is distinctly interesting\nto know that the conspicuous phrase thrilling the air is the Curse\nof the Ring; but we are easily willing to let Glances and Sighs\nand the Effect of the Love-draught melt into one general fire of\ntenderness.\n\nThere is likewise less need in the case of this opera than, I think,\nany other of Wagner's, to be familiar beforehand with the argument.\nAny one seeing the Rhine-gold unprepared would probably not understand\nanything whatever, as far as the story is concerned. The same is\nin some degree true of Walkuere and Goetterdaemmerung; even of\nParsifal one need to know the inwardness of the plot. But Tristan\nand Isolde can be grasped through the eye by the dullest. A Woman\nis seen expressing great anger; there is a scene of coldness and\nincrimination between her and a Man. They drink from a golden cup\nand are from that moment lovers. They talk lengthily and most\nmellifluously of love in a garden at night. They are surprised by\none with an evident right to be incensed. The lover is wounded. In\na different scene he lies dying. His love comes to him. He expires\nin her arms and she follows him in death. Any one can understand,\neveryone sympathises.\n\nIn spite of which the study of the original text is full of great\nreward; not only because one will hear the music after all with a\nricher intellectual enjoyment, but even if one had no hope of hearing\nthe music. The text produces upon one to a singular extent--or do\nwe imagine it?--the effect of music. Its musical counterpart is\ncontained somehow in the written poetry, and mists rise before\nour eyes when the small black type informs us that Isolde cries in\nthe ears of deaf love: \"_Isolde rutt!... Isolde kam!_\" no otherwise\nthan if the violins played upon our hearts.\n\n\nLOHENGRIN\n\n\nLOHENGRIN\n\nI\n\nHenry the Fowler, the German King, coming to Brabant to levy men-of-arms\nfor assistance against the Hungarian, has found the country distracted\nwith internal dissension, troubles in high places. These, as its\nfeudal head, he must settle before proceeding further. He summons\ntogether the nobles of Brabant and holds his court in the open,\nbeneath the historical Oak of Justice, on the banks of the Scheldt,\nby Antwerp.\n\nHe calls upon Friedrich von Telramund, conspicuously involved in\nthe quarrel disturbing the land, to lay before him the causes of\nthis. The subject complies: The Duke of Brabant had on dying placed\nunder his guardianship his two children, the young girl Elsa and\nthe boy Gottfried. As next heir to the throne, his honour was very\nparticularly implicated in his fidelity to this trust, the boy's\nlife was the jewel of his honour. Let the King judge then of his\ngrief at being robbed of that jewel! Elsa had taken her young brother\nto the forest, ostensibly for the pleasure of woodland rambling, and\nhad returned without him, inquiring for him with an anxiety which\nTelramund judged to be feigned, saying that she had accidentally\nlost him a moment from sight and upon looking for him failed to find\ntrace of him. All search for the lost child had proved fruitless.\nElsa, accused and threatened by her guardian, had by blanched face\nand terrified demeanour, he states, confessed guilt. A fearful\nrevulsion of feeling toward her had thereupon taken place in him;\nhe had relinquished the right to her hand, bestowed upon him by her\nfather, and taken to himself a wife more according to his heart,\nOrtrud, descended from Radbot, Prince of the Frisians. Telramund\npresents to the King the sombre-browed, haughty-looking Princess at\nhis side. \"And now,\" he declares, \"I here arraign Elsa von Brabant.\nI charge her with the murder of her brother, and I lay claim in\nmy own right upon this land, to which my title is clear as next\nof kin to the deceased Duke; my wife belonging, besides, to the\nhouse which formerly gave sovereigns to this land.\"\n\nA murmur passes through the assembly, in part horror, in part\nincredulity of so monstrous a crime. \"What dreadful charge is this\nyou bring?\" asks the King, in natural doubt; \"How were guilt so\nprodigious possible?\" Telramund offers as explanation a further\naccusation, and in doing it gives a hint, not of his motive in\naccusing Elsa, for the violent ambitious personage is honest in\nthinking her guilty, but of the disposition of mind toward her\nwhich had made him over-ready to believe evil of her: \"This vain\nand dreamy girl, who haughtily repelled my hand, of a secret amour\nI accuse her. She thought that once rid of her brother she could,\nas sovereign mistress of Brabant, autocratically reject the hand\nof the liegeman, and openly favour the secret lover.\" His excess\nof vehemence in accusation for a moment almost discredits him. The\nKing demands to see the accused. The trial shall proceed at once.\nHe apprehends difficulty in the case: a charge so black against one\nso young and a woman, made by a man so impassioned and almost of\nnecessity prejudiced, yet of long confirmed reputation for stern\nintegrity of honour as for bravery. \"God give me wisdom!\" the King\npublicly prays.\n\nThe King's herald asks if the court of justice shall be held on\nthe spot? The King in answer hangs his shield on the Justice-Tree,\ndeclaring that this shield shall not cover him until he shall have\nspoken judgment, stern yet tempered with mercy. The nobles all\nbare their swords, declaring that these shall not be restored to\ntheir scabbards until they shall have seen justice done. The herald\nin loud tones summons the accused, Elsa von Brabant, to appear\nbefore this bar.\n\nThere advances slowly, followed by her women, a very young, very\nfair girl, whose countenance and every motion are stamped with gentle\nmodesty. Between the dignity which upbears her and the sorrow which\ncrushes her, she is pathetic as a bruised lily. She looks dreamy\nwithal, as Telramund described her; her expression is mournfully\nabstracted, her eyes are on the ground. The murmur passes from\nlip to lip at sight of her: \"How innocent she looks! The one who\ndared to bring against her such a heavy accusation must be sure\nindeed of her guilt.\"\n\nShe answers the King's first question, of her identity, by a motion\nof the head alone. One divines that she has wept so much she could\nonly with difficulty summon up voice to speak. \"Do you acknowledge\nme as your rightful judge?\" the King proceeds. She lifts her eyes\nfor a moment to read his, and slowly nods assent. \"Do you know,\"\nhe asks further, \"whereof you are accused?\" Her eyes slide for a\nsecond toward Telramund and Ortrud, and she answers by an involuntary\nshudder. \"What have you to reply to the accusation?\" With infinite\ndignity she sketches a meek gesture signifying, \"Nothing!\"--\"You\nacknowledge then your guilt?\" A faint cry, hardly more than a sigh,\nbreaks from her lips: \"My poor brother!\" and she remains staring\nsorrowfully before her, as if upon a face invisible to the others.\n\nStruck and moved, the good King, whom we heard promise that his\nsentence should be _streng und mild_, severe yet merciful, speaks\nkindly now to this strange girl, standing in such danger, yet engrossed\nin other things,--invites her confidence. \"Tell me, Elsa, what have\nyou to impart to me?\" With her eyes fixed upon vacancy, she answers,\nalmost as if she spoke in sleep: \"In the darkness of my lonely\ndays, I cried for help to God. I poured forth the deep lament of my\nheart in prayer. Among my moans there went forth one so plaintive,\nso piercing, it travelled with mighty vibrations far upon the air.\nI heard it resound at a vast distance ere it died upon my ear.\nMy eyelids thereupon dropped, I sank into sweet slumber....\"\n\nAll look at her in amazement. She stands before a tribunal on a\nmatter of life and death, and with that rapt look offers a plea\nof such irrelevancy! \"Is she dreaming?\" ask some, under-breath,\nand others, \"Is she mad?\"\n\nThe King tries to bring her to a sense of reality, a sense of her\nperil. \"Elsa!\" he cries urgently, \"speak your defence before this\ncourt of justice!\" But she goes on, with an air of dreamy ecstasy:\n\"All in the radiance of bright armour, a Knight drew near to me,\nof virtue so luminous as never had I seen before! A golden horn\nhung at his side, he leaned upon his sword. He came to me out of\nthe air, the effulgent hero. With gentlest words and action he\ncomforted me. I will await his coming, my champion he shall be!\"\n\nHer audience is impressed by the look of inspiration with which\nshe tells her tale of vision. \"The grace of Heaven be with us,\"\nthey say, \"and assist us to see clearly who here is at fault!\"\n\nThe King in doubt turns to Telramund: \"Friedrich, worthy as you\nare of all men's honour, consider well who it is you are accusing!\"\n\"You have heard her,\" the haughty lord answers excitedly; \"she is\nraving about a paramour! I am not deceived by her dreamy posturing.\nThat which I charge her with, I have certain ground for. Her crime\nwas authoritatively proved to me. But to satisfy your doubt by\nproducing testimony, that, verily, would ill become my pride. Here\nI stand! Here is my sword! Who among you will fight with me, casting\nslur upon my honour?\"--\"None of us!\" comes promptly from the\nBrabantians, \"We only fight for you!\" The high-tempered gentleman\nturns somewhat violently upon the King: \"And you, King, do you\nforget my services, my victories in battle over the wild Dane?\"\nThe King answers pacifyingly that it would ill beseem him to need\nreminding of these, that he renders to Telramund the homage due to\nhighest worth, and could not wish the country in any keeping but\nhis. God alone, in conclusion, shall decide this matter, too difficult\nobviously for human faculty. \"I ask you, therefore, Friedrich, Count\nvon Telramund, will you, in life and death combat, entrust your\ncause to the judgment of God?\" Telramund gives assent. \"And you\nI ask, Elsa von Brabant, will you entrust your cause to a champion\nwho shall fight for you under the judgment of God?\" She assents\nlikewise. \"Whom do you choose for your champion?\" the King asks\nof her. \"Now--\" eagerly interjects Telramund, \"now you shall hear\nthe name of her lover!\"--\"Listen!\" say the rest, with sharpened\ncuriosity. The girl has fixed her eyes again upon the vacancy which\nto her apparently is full of things to see. \"I will await the Knight.\nMy champion he shall be! Hear what to the messenger of God I offer\nin guerdon. In my father's dominions let him wear the crown. Happy\nshall I hold myself if he take all that is mine, and if he please\nto call me consort I give him all I am!\"\n\nFour trumpeters turn to the four points of the compass and blow\na summons. The herald calls loud: \"He who will do battle here,\nunder judgment of God, as champion for Elsa van Brabant, let him\nappear,--let him appear!\" The vibrations die of horns and herald's\nvoice. There is silence and tension. No one appears, nothing happens.\nElsa, at first calm in her security of faith, gives evidence of\nanxiety. Telramund calls attention to her: \"Now witness, witness if\nI have accused her falsely. Right, by that token, is on my side!\"\nElsa with childish simplicity appeals to the King: \"Oh, my kind\nsovereign, let me beseech you, one more call for my champion! He\nis far away, no doubt, and has not heard!\" At the King's command,\nthe trumpets sound again, the herald repeats his summons. There\nis no answer. The surrounding stillness is unbroken by movement\nor sound. \"By gloomy silence,\" the men murmur, \"God signifies his\nsentence!\" Elsa falls upon her knees: \"Thou didst bear to him my\nlament, he came to me by Thy command. Oh, Lord, now tell my Knight\nthat he must help me in my need! Vouchsafe to let me see him as I\nsaw him before, even as I saw him before let him come to me now!\"\nThe women kneel beside her, adding their prayers to hers.\n\nElsa's last word has but died when a cry breaks from certain of\nthe company standing upon an eminence next the river. \"Look! Look!\nWhat a singular sight!\"--\"What is it?\" ask the others. All eyes turn\ntoward the river. \"A swan! A swan, drawing a skiff!... A knight\nstanding erect in it.... How his armour gleams! The eye cannot\nendure such brightness.... See, he is coming toward us. The swan\ndraws the skiff by a golden chain! A miracle! A miracle!\"\n\nElsa stands transfixed, not daring to look around; but her women\nlook, and hail the approaching figure as that of the prayed-for\nchampion. Amazement at sight of him strikes Telramund dumb. Ortrud\nupon a glance at the swan wears for one startled moment an expression\nof unconcealable fear. He stands, the stranger, leaning on his\nsword, in the swan-drawn boat; adorned with that excess of lovely\nattribute not looked for save in figures of dream or of legend,\nknightly in one and archangelic, with his flashing silver mail\nand flowing locks and unearthly beauty. As the boat draws to land\nall involuntarily bare their heads. Elsa at last finds hardihood\nto turn; a cry of rapturous recognition breaks from her lips.\n\nHe steps ashore. All in spell-bound attention watch for his first\naction, his first words. These are for the swan, and contain not\nmuch enlightenment for the breathless listeners. \"Receive my thanks,\nbeloved swan. Return across the wide flood yonder from whence you\nbrought me. When you come back, let it be to our joy! Faithfully\nfulfil your service. Farewell, farewell, my beloved swan!\" The\nmysterious bird slowly draws away from shore and breasts the river\nin the direction from whence it came. The Knight looks after the\ndiminishing form with such effect of regret as would accompany\nthe departure of a cherished friend.\n\nVoices of wonder pass from person to person; wonder at his impressive\nbeauty, and at themselves for the not unpleasant terror it inspires,\nthe spell it casts over them. He turns at last and advancing toward\nthe King salutes him; \"Hail, King Henry! God's blessing stand by\nyour sword! Your great and glorious name shall never pass from\nearth!\" The King, who from his throne beneath the oak has been\nable to watch the stranger from the moment of his entering the\nstory, is not of two minds concerning so luminous an apparition.\n\"If I rightly recognise the power,\" he speaks, \"which has brought\nyou to this land, you come to us sent by God?\"--\"I am sent,\" replies\nthe Knight, \"to do battle for a maid against whom a dark accusation\nhas been brought. Let me see now if I shall tell her from among\nthe rest.\" With but a passing glance at the group of women,\nunhesitatingly he singles out Elsa, undistinguishable from the\nothers by any sign of rank. \"Speak, then, Elsa von Brabant! If I\nam chosen as your champion, will you without doubt or fear entrust\nyourself to my protection?\" Elsa, who from the moment of seeing\nhim has stood in a heavenly trance, answers this with no discreet\nand grudging acquiescence; she falls upon her knees at the feet\nof this her deliverer and hero, and with innocent impetuousness\noffers him, not assurance of confidence in his arm, or gratitude\nfor his succour, but the whole of herself, made up solely of such\nconfidence and gratitude. \"Will you,\" asks the Knight, while a divine\nwarmth of tenderness invests voice and face, \"if I am victorious in\ncombat for you, will you that I become your husband?\"--\"As I lie\nhere at your feet,\" the girl replies with passionate humility, \"I\ngive over unto you body and soul!\" Full of responsive love as is his\nface, bent upon so much beauty and innocence and adoration, he does\nnot at once gather her up from her knees to his arms. Strangely, he\nstops to make conditions. \"Elsa, if I am to be called your husband,\nif I am to defend your land and people, if nothing is ever to tear\nme from your side, one thing you must promise me: Never will you\nask me, nor be concerned to know, from whence I came to you, nor\nwhat my name and race.\"--\"Never, my lord, shall the question rise\nto my lips!\" She has spoken too readily, too easily, as if she\nscarcely considered. \"Elsa, have you perfectly understood?\" he\nasks earnestly, and repeats his injunction more impressively still:\n\"Never shall you ask me, nor be concerned to know, from whence\nI came to you, nor what my name and race!\" But she, how should\nshe in this moment not promise whatever he asked or do whatever\nbe required? There is no question of pondering any demand of this\nexquisite dream made flesh, this angelic being come in the darkest\nhour to make all the difference to her between life and death.\nAs he has asked more earnestly, she replies more emphatically.\n\"My defender, my angel, my deliverer, who firmly believes in my\ninnocence! Could any doubt be more culpable than that which should\ndisturb my faith in you? Even as you will protect me in my need,\neven so will I faithfully obey your command!\" He lifts her then\nto his breast with looks of radiant love, uttering the words which\nconfirm his action and make him her affianced. The people around\nthem gaze in moved wonder, confessing an emotion at sight of the\n_wonnigliche Mann_ beyond natural, suggesting magic.\n\nThe Silver Knight steps into the midst of the circle about the\nJustice-Oak, and declares: \"Hear me! To you nobles and people I\nproclaim it: Free from all guilt is Elsa von Brabant. That you\nhave falsely accused her, Count von Telramund, shall now through\nGod's judgment be confirmed to you!\" Telramund, obviously in grave\ndoubt, gazes searchingly in the face of this extraordinary intruder.\nHe is sure of his own integrity, relies perfectly on his private\ninformation against Elsa; what then is an agent of Heaven's doing\non the opposite side? How can this be an agent of Heaven's at all?\nWhile he hesitates, the Brabantian nobles warn him in undertones:\n\"Keep from the fight! If you undertake it, never shall you come\nforth victorious! If he be protected by supernal power, of what\nuse to you is your gallant sword?\" But Friedrich, true to his stiff\nnecked, proud self, bursts forth: \"Rather dead than afraid!\" and\nviolently addresses the stranger: \"Whatever sorcery have brought\nyou here, stranger, who wear such a bold front, your haughty threats\nin no wise move me, since never have I intended deceit. I accept\nyour challenge, and look to triumph by the course of justice!\"\n\nThe lists are set, the ground of the duel is marked off with spears\ndriven into the earth. When all is ready, the herald in solemn\nproclamation warns all present to refrain from every sort of\ninterference, the penalty for any infringement of this rule to\nbe, in the case of a noble, the loss of his hand, in the case of\na churl, the loss of his head. He then addresses himself to the\ncombatants, warning them to loyally observe the rules of battle,\nnot by any evil art or trick of sorcery to disturb the virtue of\nthe judgment. God is to judge them according to custom in such\nordeals; in Him let them place their trust and not in their own\nstrength. The two champions with equal readiness declare themselves\nprepared to obey this behest. The King descends from his throne,\nremoves his regal crown, and, while all beside uncover and unite\nin his prayer, solemnly he makes over, as it were, his function\nof judge to God. \"My Lord and my God, I call upon Thee, that Thou\nbe present at this combat. Through victory of the sword speak Thy\nsentence, and let truth and falsehood clearly appear. To the arm\nof the righteous lend heroic strength, unstring the sinews of the\nfalse! Help us Thou, O God, in this hour, for our best wisdom is\nfolly before Thee!\"\n\nEach of the persons present feels certain of victory for his own\nside, even dark Ortrud, with the black secrets of her conscience,\nwho believes in no messengers from God, and pins her faith to the\nwell-tested strength of her husband's arm.\n\nAt the thrice-repeated blow of the King's sword upon his shield, the\ncombatants enter the lists. The duel lasts but a moment. Friedrich\nfalls, not from any wound, but from the lightening flash of the\nadversary's sword, brought down upon him with a great sweep. The\nmysterious weight of it crushes him to the earth, overthrows him,\ndeprives him of force to rise again. The gleaming enemy stands over\nhim with sword-point at his throat: \"By victory through God your\nlife now belongs to me. I give it you. Make use of it to repent!\"\n\nIn the rejoicings that follow, the acclamations of the victorious\nchampion of innocence, no one takes any thought further of the\nvanquished. Unnoticed he writhes, appalled at the recognition that\nvery God has beaten him, that honour--honour is lost! The wife struggles\nwith a different emotion. Her eyes, unimpressed by his splendour,\nunconvinced by his victory, boldly scrutinise the countenance of\nthe Swan-brought, to discover the thing he had forbidden Elsa to\ninquire, what manner of man he be. Who is this, she asks herself,\nthat has overcome her husband, that has placed a term to her power?\nIs it one whom verily she need fear? Must she give up her hopes\nbecause of him?\n\nII.\n\nThe Second Act shows the great court in the citadel of Antwerp,\nbounded at the back by the Palace, where the knights are lodged;\nat the left, by the Kemenate, the women's apartments; at the right,\nby the Minster. It is night. The windows of the Palace are brightly\nlighted; smothered bursts of music from time to time issue forth\nfrom them. Telramund and Ortrud, in the poor garb of plebeians,\nsit on the church-steps. Excommunication and banishment, following\nthe condemnation of God signified by such defeat as Telramund has\nsuffered, have made of them beggars and fugitives. Telramund is\nsunk in dark reflection. Ortrud, half-crouched like a dangerous\nanimal lying in wait, stares intently at the lighted windows. With\nsudden effort of resolve Telramund rouses himself and gets to his\nfeet. \"Come, companion of my disgrace!\" he speaks to the woman\nbeside him; \"Daybreak must not find us here.\" She does not stir.\n\"I cannot move from here,\" she answers; \"I am spell-bound upon\nthis spot. From the contemplation of this brilliant banqueting of\nour enemies let me absorb a fearful mortal venom, whereby I shall\nbring to an end both our ignominy and their rejoicing!\" Friedrich\nshudders, in spite of himself, at such incarnate malignity as seems\nrepresented by that crouching form, those hate-darting eyes. The\nsense seizes him, too, in the dreadful soreness of his lacerated\npride, how much this woman is responsible for what he has suffered.\n\"You fearful woman!\" he cries, \"What is it keeps me still bound to\nyou? Why do I not leave you alone, and flee by myself away, away,\nwhere my conscience may find rest? Through you I must lose my honour,\nthe glory I had won. The praise that attaches to fair fame follows\nme no more. My knighthood is turned to a mock! Outlawed, proscribed\nam I, shattered is my sword, broken my escutcheon, anathemised\nmy house! Whatever way I turn, all flee from me, accursed! The\nrobber himself shuns the infection of my glance. Oh, that I had\nchosen death sooner than life so abject and miserable!...\" With\nthe agonised cry, \"My honour, oh, my honour! I have lost my honour!\"\nhe casts himself face downward upon the ground.\n\nOrtrud has not stirred, or taken her eyes from the bright orange-gold\nwindows. As Telramund's harsh voice ceases, music is heard again\nfrom the banquet-hall. Ortrud listens till it has died away; then\nasks, with cold quiet: \"What makes you waste yourself in these\nwild complaints?\"--\"That the very weapon should have been taken\nfrom me with which I might have struck you dead!\" he cries, stung\nto insanity. Scornfully calm and cold as before, \"Friedrich, you\nCount of Telramund, for what reason,\" she asks, \"do you distrust\nme?\" Hotly he pours forth his reasons. \"Do you ask? Was it not your\ntestimony, your report, which induced me to accuse that innocent\ngirl? You, living in the dusky woods, did you not mendaciously\naver to me that from your wild castle you had seen the dark deed\ncommitted? With your own eyes seen how Elsa drowned her brother\nin the tarn? And did you not ensnare my ambitious heart with the\nprophecy that the ancient princely dynasty of Radbot soon should\nflourish anew and reign over Brabant, moving me thereby to withdraw\nmy claim to the hand of Elsa, the immaculate, and take to wife\nyourself, because you were the last descendant of Radbot?\"--\"Ha!\nHow mortally offensive is your speech!\" she speaks, but suppresses\nher natural annoyance to continue: \"Very true, all you have stated,\nI did say, and confirmed it with proof.\"--\"And made me, whose name\nstood so high in honour, whose life had earned the prize due to highest\nvirtue, made me into the shameful accomplice of your lie!\"--\"Who\nlied?\" she asks coolly. \"You!\" he unceremoniously flings at her;\n\"Has not God because of it, through his judgment, brought me to\nshame?\"--\"God?...\" She utters the word with such vigour of derision\nthat he involuntarily starts back. \"Horrible!\" he shudders after a\nmoment; \"How dreadful does that name sound upon your lips!\"--\"Ha!\nDo you call your own cowardice God?\" He raises against her his\nmaddened hand: \"Ortrud!...\"--\"Do you threaten me? Threaten a woman?\"\nshe sneers, unmoved; \"Oh, lily-livered! Had you been equally bold\nin threatening him who now sends us forth to our miserable doom,\nfull easily might you have earned victory in place of shame. Ha!\nHe who should manfully stand up to the encounter with him would\nfind him weaker than a child!\"--\"The weaker he,\" Telramund observes,\nill-pleased, \"the more mightily was exhibited the strength of\nGod!\"--\"The strength of God!... Ha, ha!\" laughs loud Ortrud, with\nthe same unmoderated effect of scorn and defiance, which sends her\nhusband staggering back it step, gasping. \"Give me the opportunity,\"\nshe proceeds, with a return to that uncanny quiet of hers, \"and I\nwill show you, infallibly, what a feeble god it is protects him!\"\n\nTelramund is impressed. She is telling him after all that which he\nwould like to believe. Still, the impression of the day's events is\nstrong upon him,--his overthrow at God's own hand. After that, how\ndare he trust her? And yet-- But then again-- \"You wild seeress,\" he\nexclaims, torn with doubt, \"what are you trying, with your mysterious\nhints, to entangle my soul afresh?\" She points at the Palace, from\nthe windows of which the lights have disappeared. \"The revellers\nhave laid them down to their luxurious repose. Sit here beside\nme! The hour is come when my seer's eye shall read the invisible\nfor you.\" Telramund draws nearer, fascinated, reconquered to her by\nthis suggestion of some dim hope rearising upon his blighted life.\nHe sits down beside her and holds close his ear for her guarded\ntones. \"Do you know who this hero is whom a swan brought to the\nshore?\"--\"No!\"--\"What would you give to know? If I should tell you\nthat were he forced to reveal his name and kind there would be an\nend to the power which laboriously he borrows from sorcery?\"--\"Ha!\nI understand then his prohibition!\"--\"Now listen! No one here has\npower to wring from him his secret, save she alone whom he forbade\nso stringently ever to put to him the question!\"--\"The thing to\ndo then would be to prevail upon Elsa not to withhold from asking\nit!\"--\"Ha! How quickly and well you apprehend me!\"--\"But how should\nwe succeed in that?\"--\"Listen! It is necessary first of all not\nto forsake the spot. Wherefore, sharpen your wit! To arouse\nwell-justified suspicion in her, step forward, accuse him of sorcery,\nwhereby he perverted the ordeal!\"--\"Ha! By sorcery it was, and\ntreachery!\"--\"If you fail, there is still left the expedient of\nviolence.\"--\"Violence?\"--\"Not for nought am I learned in the most\nhidden arts. Every being deriving his strength from magic, if but\nthe smallest shred of flesh be torn from his body, must instantly\nappear in his original weakness.\"--\"Oh, if it might be that you\nspoke true!\" wistfully groans Telramund. \"If in the encounter you\nhad struck off one of his fingers,\" Ortrud continues, \"nay, but\none joint of a finger, that hero would have been in your power!\"\nRage and excitement possess Telramund at the retrospect of the\ncombat in which he had been beaten, not, as he had supposed, by God,\nbut by the tricks of a sorcerer, and at the prospect of avenging his\ndisgrace, proving his uprightness, recovering his honour. But--he\nis checked by a sudden return of suspicion of this dark companion and\nadviser. \"Oh, woman, whom I see standing before me in the night,\"\nhe addresses the dim figure, \"if you are again deceiving me, woe to\nyou, I tell you, woe!\" She quiets him with the promise of teaching\nhim the sweet joys of vengeance. A foretaste of these they have,\nsitting on the minster-steps, gloating upon the walls which enclose\nthe unconscious foes. \"Oh, you, sunk in sweet slumber, know that\nmischief is awake and lying in wait for you!\"\n\nA door opens in the upper story of the Kemenate. A white figure\nsteps out on to the balcony and leans against the parapet, head\nupon hand. The pair in the shade watch with suspended breath,\nrecognising Elsa. She is too happy, obviously, to sleep; her heart\nis too heavily oppressed with gratitude for all that this wonderful\nday has brought. The well-born gentle soul that she is must be\noffering thanks to everything that has contributed to this hour;\nand so, girlishly, she speaks to the wind: \"You breezes, whom I\nused so often to burden with my sadness and complaints, I must\ntell you in very gratitude what happy turn my fortunes have taken!\nBy your means he came travelling to me, you smiled upon his voyage,\non his way over the wild waves you kept him safe. Full many a time\nhave I troubled you to dry my tears. I ask you now of your kindness\nto cool my cheek aglow with love!\" Ortrud has kept basilisk eyes\nfixed upon the sweet love-flushed face touched with moonlight.\n\"She shall curse the hour,\" speaks the bitter enemy in her teeth,\n\"in which my eyes beheld her thus!\" She bids Telramund under-breath\nleave her for a little while. \"Wherefore?\" he asks. \"She falls to\nmy share,\" comes grimly from the wife; \"take her hero for yours!\"\nTelramund slips obediently away into the black shadow.\n\nOrtrud watches Elsa for a time breathing her innocent fancies to\nthe wind; then abruptly cuts short the pastime, calling her name\nin a loud, deliberately-plaintive tone. Elsa peers anxiously down\nin the dark court. \"Who calls me? How lamentably did my name come\nshuddering through the night!\"--\"Elsa, is my voice so strange to\nyou? Is it your mind to disclaim all acquaintance with the wretch\nwhom you have driven forth to exile and misery?\"--\"Ortrud, is it\nyou? What are you doing here, unhappy woman?\"--\"Unhappy woman?...\"\nOrtrud repeats after her, giving the turn of scorn to the young\ngirl's pitying intonation; \"Ample reason have you indeed to call me\nso!\" With dark artfulness she rouses in Elsa more than proportionate\ncompassion for her plight, by casting upon the tender-conscienced\ncreature the whole blame for it. In no scene does the youthfulness\nof Telramund's ward appear more pathetically than in this. \"In the\nsolitary forest, where I lived quiet and at peace, what had I done\nto you,\" Ortrud upbraids, \"what had I done to you? Living there\njoylessly, my days solely spent in mourning over the misfortunes\nthat had long pursued my house, what had I done to you,--what had I\ndone to you?\"--\"Of what, in God's name, do you accuse me?\" asks Elsa,\nbewildered. Ortrud pursues in her chosen line of incrimination at all\ncost: \"However could you envy me the fortune of being chosen for wife\nby the man whom you had of your free will disdained?\"--\"All-merciful\nGod,\" exclaims Elsa, \"What is the meaning of this?\"--\"And if, blinded\nby an unhappy delusion, he attributed guilt to you, guiltless, his\nheart is now torn with remorse; grim indeed has his punishment\nbeen. Oh, you are happy! After brief period of suffering, mitigated\nby conscious innocence, you see all life smiling unclouded before\nyou. You can part from me well-pleased, and send me forth on my\nway to death, that the dull shadow of my grief may not disturb your\nfeasts.\"\n\nOrtrud's policy is completely successful; this last imputation is\nintolerable to the generous girl, made even more tender-hearted\nthan wont by her overflowing happiness. \"What mean sense of Thy\nmercies would I be showing,\" she cries, \"All-powerful, who have\nso greatly blessed me, should I repulse the wretched bowed before\nme in the dust! Oh, nevermore! Ortrud, wait for me! I myself will\ncome down and let you in!\"\n\nShe hurries indoors. Ortrud has gained what she wanted, intimate\naccess to the young Duchess's ear, that she may pour her poison\ninto it. She has a moment's joy of triumph, while the fair dupe\nis hastening down to her within. We discover at this point that\nshe is no Christian like the rest; that the secret gods of the\nsecret sorceress are the old superseded ones, Wotan and Freia.\nFor that reason it was the Silver Knight did not impress her as\nhe did the others. She could not admit that he came from God, the\nfalse god whose name we heard her pronounce with such unconcealable\nscorn; but, herself a witch, supposed that he performed the feat\nthrough wizardry. She had explained the phenomenon to her husband\nin good faith; she believed what she said, that were he forced\nto tell his name, or might a shred of flesh be torn from him, he\nwould stand before them undisguised, shorn of his magic power.\nWild with evil joy at the success of her acting, she calls upon\nher desecrated gods to help her further against the apostates.\n\"Wotan, strong god, I appeal to you! Freia, highest goddess, hear\nme! Vouchsafe your blessing upon my deceit and hypocrisy, that\nI may happily accomplish my vengeance!\"\n\nAt the sound of Elsa's voice calling: \"Ortrud, where are you?\"\nshe assumes the last abjectness. \"Here!\" she replies, cowering\nupon the earth. \"Here at your feet!\" Simple Elsa's heart melts\nat the sight, really out of all reason soft, out of all reason\nunsuspecting. Yet she is infinitely sweet, in her exaggeration\nof goodness, when she not only pardons, but begs pardon of this\nfiendish enemy for what the latter may have had to suffer through\nher. She eagerly puts out her hands to lift Ortrud from her knees.\n\"God help me! That I should see you thus, whom I have never seen\nsave proud and magnificent! Oh, my heart will choke me to behold\nyou in so humble attitude. Rise to your feet! Spare me your\nsupplications! The hate you have borne me I forgive you, and I\npray you to forgive me too whatever you have had to suffer through\nme!\"--\"Receive my thanks for so much goodness!\" exclaims feelingly the\naccomplished actress. \"He who to-morrow will be called my husband,\"\ncontinues Elsa, in her young gladness to heap benefits, \"I will\nmake appeal to his gentle nature, and obtain grace for Friedrich\nlikewise.\"--\"You bind me to you forever with bonds of gratitude!\"\nWith light innocent hand Elsa places the crowning one on top of\nher magnanimous courtesies. \"At early morning let me see you ready\nprepared. Adorned in magnificent attire, you shall walk with me\nto the minster. There I am to await my hero, to become his wife\nbefore God. His wife!...\" The sweet pride with which she says the\nword, the soft ecstasy that falls upon her at the thought, stir in\nOrtrud such hatred that she cannot forbear, even though the time\ncan hardly be ripe, taking the first step at once which is to result\nin the quick ruin of the poor child's dreams. \"How shall I reward\nyou for so much kindness, powerless and destitute as I am? Though by\nyour grace I should dwell beside you, I should remain no better\nthan a beggar. One power, however, there is left me; no arbitrary\ndecree could rob me of that. By means of it, peradventure, I shall be\nable to protect your life and preserve it from regret.\"--\"What do\nyou mean?\" asks Elsa lightly. \"What I mean is--that I warn you not\ntoo blindly to trust in your good fortune; let me for the future\nhave care for you, lest disaster entangle you unaware.\" Elsa shrinks\nback a little, murmuring, \"Disaster?\" Ortrud speaks with impressive\nmystery close to her ear: \"Could you but comprehend what marvellous\nmanner of being is the man--of whom I say but this: May he never\nforsake you through the very same magic by which he came to you!\"\nElsa starts away from Ortrud, in horror at such impiety,--disbelief\nin the highest. But in a moment her displeasure gives way to sadness\nand pity for the darkness in which this other woman lives. \"Poor\nsister!\" she speaks, most gently, \"you can hardly conceive how\nunsuspecting is my heart! You have never known, belike, the happiness\nthat belongs to perfect faith. Come in with me! Let me teach you\nthe sweetness of an untroubled trust. Let me convert you to the\nfaith that there exists a happiness without leaven of regret!\" This\nwarm young generous sweetness which makes Elsa open to any appeal,\nblind to grossest fraud, merely exasperates Ortrud's ill-will. She\nreads in it plain pride of superiority. As she could not admit in\nthe Knight of the swan a god-sent hero, she cannot see in Elsa an\nuncommonly good-hearted girl. \"Oh, that arrogance!\" she is muttering\nwhile Elsa is exhorting her; \"It shall teach me how I may undo that\ntrustfulness of hers! Against it shall the weapons be turned, her\npride shall bring about her fall!\"--Elsa by gesture inviting, the\nother feigning confusion at so great kindness, the two pass into\nthe house together.\n\nThe first grey of dawn lightens the sky. Telramund, who has been\nspying unseen, exults to see mischief in the person of his wife\nentering the house of the enemy. He is not an evil man, he cares\nbeyond all for honour, and his consciousness of a certain unfairness\nin the methods his wife will use is implied in his exclamation;\nbut the violent man so rages under a sense of injustice that all\nweapons to him are good which shall bring about the ruin of those who\nhave ruined him. \"Thus does mischief enter that house! Accomplish,\nwoman, what your subtlety has devised. I feel no power to check you\nat your work. The mischief began with my downfall; now shall you\nplunge after me, you who brought me to it! One thing alone stands\nclear before me: The robbers of my honour shall see destruction!\"\n\nDaylight brightens. The warders sound the reveille from the turret.\nTelramund conceals himself behind a buttress of the minster. The\nbusiness of the day is gradually taken up in the citadel court. The\nporter unlocks the tower-gate that lets out on to the city-road;\nservants come and go about their work, drawing water, hanging festive\ngarlands. At a summons from the King's trumpeters, nobles and burghers\nassemble in great number before the Minster. The King's herald\ncoming out on the Palace-steps makes the following announcements:\nFirstly: Banished and outlawed is Friedrich von Telramund, for\nhaving undertaken the ordeal with a knowledge of his own guilt.\nAny one sheltering or associating with him shall according to the\nlaw of the realm come under the same condemnation. Secondly: The\nKing invests the unknown God-sent man, about to espouse Elsa, with\nthe lands and the crown of Brabant; the hero to be called, according\nto his preference, not Duke, but Protector of Brabant. Thirdly: The\nProtector will celebrate with them this day his nuptial feast, but\nthey shall join him tomorrow in battle-trim, to follow, as their\nduty is, the King's arms. He himself, renouncing the sweetness of\nrepose, will lead them to glory.\n\nThese proclamations are followed by general assent and gladness.\nA small group there is, however, of malcontents, former adherents\nof Telramund's, who grumble: \"Hear that! He is to remove us out of\nthe country, against an enemy who has never so much as threatened\nus! Such a bold beginning is ill-beseeming. Who will stand up against\nhim when he is in command?\"--\"I will!\" comes from a muffled figure\nthat has crept among them, and Friedrich uncovers his countenance.\n\"How dare you venture here, in danger as you are from the hand of\nevery churl?\" they ask him, frightened. \"I shall dare and venture\nmore than this ere long, and the scales will drop from your eyes.\nHe who presumptuously calls you forth to war, I will accuse him of\ntreason in the things of God.\" The Brabantian gentlemen, afraid\nof his being overheard or recognised, conceal the rash lord among\nthem, and compel him toward the church, out of sight.\n\nForerunners of the wedding-procession, young pages come from the\nKemenate, and clear a way through the crowd to the church-door. A\nlong train of ladies walk before the bride. There are happy cheers\nwhen she appears, dazzling in her wedding-pomp; there are blessings\nand the natural expressions of devotion from loyal subjects. The\npages and ladies stand massed at either side of the Minster-door\nto give their mistress precedence in entering. She is slowly, with\nbashful lowered eyes, mounting the stairs, when Ortrud, who in\nmagnificent apparel has been following in her train, steps quickly\nbefore her, with the startling command, given in a furious voice:\n\"Back, Elsa! I will no longer endure to follow you like a serving-maid!\nEverywhere shall you yield me precedence, and with proper deference\nbow before me!\" This is, we believe, no part of any deep-laid plan\nof Ortrud's, though it does in the event help along her scheme; it\nis an uncontrollable outburst of temper at sight of Elsa in her\neminence of bridal and ducal glory. \"What does the woman mean?\"\nask the people of one another, and step between Elsa and her. \"What\nis this?\" cries Elsa, painfully startled; \"What sudden change has\ntaken place in you?\"--\"Because for an hour I forgot my proper worth,\"\nRadbot's daughter continues violently, \"do you think that I am\nfit only to crawl before you? I will take measures to wipe out\nmy abasement. That which is due to me I am determined to\nreceive!\"--\"Woe's me!\" complains Elsa, \"Was I duped by your feigning,\nwhen you stole to me last night with your pretended grief? And\ndo you now haughtily demand precedence of me, you, the wife of a\nman convicted by God?\" Ortrud sees here her opportunity again to\nintroduce the wedge of suspicion into her victim's mind. \"Though a\nfalse sentence banished my husband, his name was honoured throughout\nthe land, he was never spoken of save as the pattern of virtue.\nHis sword was well-tested and was feared--But yours, tell me, who\nthat is present knows him? You cannot even yourself call him by\nhis name!... Nay, but can you?\" she taunts the shocked, pale-grown\nbride, who has found no more than force to gasp,--\"What does she\nsay? She blasphemes! Stop her lips!\"--\"Can you tell us whether\nhis lineage, his nobility, be well attested? From whence the river\nbrought him and whither he will go when he leaves? No, you cannot!\nThe matter, no doubt, would present difficulties, wherefore the\nastute hero forbade all questioning!\" Elsa has found her voice\nat last, and speaks right hotly: \"You slanderer! Abandoned woman!\nHear, whether I can answer you! So pure and lofty is his nature,\nso filled with virtue is that noblest man, that never shall the\nperson obtain forgiveness who presumes to doubt his mission! Did\nnot my hero overcome your husband by the power of God in singular\ncombat? You shall tell me then, all of you, which of the two must\nlawfully be held true?\"--\"Ha! That truth of your hero's!\" mocks\nOrtrud, fearfully ready of tongue; \"How soon were it cast in doubt,\nshould he be forced to confess the sorcery by which he practises\nsuch power! If you fear to question him concerning it, all may\nbelieve with good right that you are not free yourself from the\nsuspicion that his truth must not be too closely looked into!\"\nElsa is near fainting with the anguish of this encounter; her women\nsurround and comfort her.\n\nThe doors of the Palace have opened, the King and the Knight of\nthe Swan, with great retinue of nobles, issue forth, bound for\nthe church and wedding-ceremony. They arrive upon the scene before\nthe confusion is allayed occasioned by the quarrel between vulture\nand dove. Elsa runs to the arms of the Protector. Receiving her and\nglancing naturally about for explanation, he beholds the dangerous\nOrtrud, whom his clear eye reads, restored to splendour, part of the\nwedding-train, and remarks upon it with amazement to the trembling\nbride. \"What do I see? That unhappy woman at your side?\"--\"My\ndeliverer,\" weeps Elsa, \"shield me from her! Scold me, for having\ndisobeyed you! I found her in tears here before my door; I took\nher in out of her wretchedness. Now see how dreadfully she rewards\nmy kindness!... She taunts me for my over-great trust in you!\" The\nKnight fixes his eyes sternly upon the offender, who somehow cannot\nlook back bold insult as she would wish, but stands spell-bound\nunder the calm severity of his glance. \"Stand off from her, you\nfearful woman. Here shall you never prevail!--Tell me, Elsa,\" he\nbends over her tearful face, \"tell me that she tried vainly to\ndrop her venom into your heart?\" Elsa hides her face against his\nbreast without answering. But the gesture with its implied confidence\nsatisfies him; the tears increase his protecting tenderness. \"Come!\"\nhe draws her toward the church; \"Let your tears flow in there as\ntears of joy!\"\n\nThe wedding-train forms again and moves churchward in wake of King\nand bride and groom. But the wedding to-day is not to come off\nwithout check and interruption--an ill omen, according to the lore\nof all peoples. As the bridal party is mounting the Minster-steps,\nthere starts up in front of it, before the darkly gaping door,\nthe figure of Telramund. The crowd sways back as if from one who\nshould spread infection, so tainted did a man appear against whom\nGod through his ordeal had spoken judgment. \"Oh, King, oh, deluded\nprinces, stand!\" he cries, barring their way. He will not be silenced\nby their indignant threats; he makes himself heard in spite of\nshocked and angry prohibitions. \"Hear me to whom grim injustice\nhas been done! God's judgment was perverted, falsified! By the\ntricks of a sorcerer you have been beguiled!\" The King's followers\nare for seizing and thrusting him aside; but the soldier, famous\nno longer ago than yesterday for every sort of superiority, stands\nhis ground and says what he is determined to say. \"The man I see\nyonder in his magnificence, I accuse of sorcery! As dust before\nGod's breath, let the power be dispersed which he owes to a black\nart! How ill did you attend to the matters of the ordeal which was\nto strip me of honour, refraining as you did from questioning him,\nwhen he came to undertake God's fight! But you shall not prevent\nthe question now, I myself will put it to him. Of his name, his\nstation, his honours, I inquire aloud before the whole world. Who\nis he, who came to shore guided by a wild swan? One who keeps in\nhis service the like enchanted animals is to my thinking no true\nman! Let him answer now my accusation. If he can do so, call my\ncondemnation just, but if he refuse, it must be plain to all that\nhis virtue will not bear scrutiny!\" All eyes turn with unmistakable\ninterest of expectation toward the man thus accused; wonder concerning\nwhat he will reply is expressed in undertones.\n\nHe refuses point-blank, with a bearing of such superiority as an\nattack of the sort can hardly ruffle. \"Not to you, so forgetful\nof your honour, have I need here to reply. I set aside your evil\naspersion; truth will hardly suffer from the like!\"--\"If I am in\nhis eyes not worthy of reply,\" Friedrich bitterly re-attacks, \"I\ncall upon you, King, high in honour indeed. Will he, on the ground\nof insufficient nobility, refuse likewise to answer you?\" Aye,\nthe Knight refuses again, with an assurance partaking in no wise\nof haughtiness, but speaking a noble consciousness of what he is\nwhich places him above men's opinions. \"Yes! even the King I must\nrefuse to answer, and the united council of all the princes! They\nwill not permit doubt of me to burden them, they were witnesses\nof my good deed. There is but one whom I must answer. Elsa!\" He\nturns toward her with bright face of confidence, and stops short\nat sight of her, so troubled, so visibly torn by inward conflict,\nher bosom labouring, her face trembling. There is no concealing\nit, she would have wished him to answer loudly and boldly, to crush\nthose mocking enemies, Ortrud and Telramund, with the mention of\na name, a rank, which should have bowed them down before him in\nthe dust, abject. There is silence, while all, entertaining their\nrespective reflections, watch Elsa, and she struggles with herself,\nstaring blindly ahead. His secret no doubt,--thus run her pitiable\nfeminine thoughts,--if revealed publicly like this would involve\nhim in some danger. Ungrateful indeed were it in her, saved by him,\nto betray him by demanding the information here. If she knew his\nsecret, however, she would surely keep it faithfully.... But--but--she\nis helpless against it, doubt is upheaving the foundations of her\nheart!\n\nIt is the good King who speaks the right, the pertinent word. \"My\nhero, stand up undaunted against yonder faithless man! You are\ntoo indubitably great to consider accusations of his!\" The nobles\nreadily accept the King's leadership, in this as in other matters.\n\"We stand by you,\" they say to the Knight. \"Your hand! We believe\nthat noble is your name, even though it be not spoken.\"--\"Never\nshall you repent your faith!\" the Knight assures them. While the\nnobles crowd about him; offering their hands in sign of allegiance,\nand Elsa stands apart blindly dealing with her doubt, Telramund\nsteals unperceived to her side and whispers to her: \"Rely on me!\nLet me tell you a method for obtaining certainty!\" She recoils,\nfrightened, yet without denouncing him aloud. \"Let me take from\nhim the smallest shred of flesh,\" he continues hurriedly, \"the\nmerest tip of a finger, and I swear to you that what he conceals\nyou shall see freely for yourself....\" In his eagerness, forgetful\nreally at last of honour, he adds the inducement, \"And, true to\nyou forever, he will never leave you!\"--\"Nevermore!\" cries Elsa,\nnot so vigourously, however, but that he finds it possible still\nto add: \"I will be near to you at night. Do but call me, without\ninjury to him it shall be quickly done!\" The Knight has caught sight\nof him and is instantly at Elsa's side, crying astonished, \"Elsa,\nwith whom are you conversing?\" The poor girl sinks overwhelmed with\ntrouble and confusion at his feet. \"Away from her, you accursed!\"\nspeaks the Knight in a terrible authoritative voice to the evil\npair; \"Let my eye never again behold you in her neighbourhood!\"\nGently he lifts the bride; he scans her face wistfully: \"In your\nhand, in your loyalty, lies the pledge of all happiness! Have you\nfallen into the unrest of doubt? Do you wish to question me?\" He\nasks it so frankly and fearlessly, albeit sorrowfully; he stands\nthere so convincingly brave-looking and clear-eyed, full of the\ncalm effect of power, that Elsa gazing at him comes back to her\ntrue self and answers with all her heart: \"Oh, my champion, who\ncame to save me! My hero, in whom I must live and die! High above\nall power of doubt my love shall stand!\" He clasps her in his arms,\nsolemnly saluting her....\n\nAnd once more the wedding-party sets itself upon the way to church.\nOrgan-music pours forth from the Minster-portals. With her foot on\nthe threshold the bride turns an eager, instinctive, searching,\nalmost frightened look upon the groom. In answer, he folds reassuring\narms around her. But, even so held, woman-like she looks back, in\nspite of herself, over her shoulder, toward Ortrud, who receives\nthe timid glance with a detestable gesture of triumph. Properly\nfrightened, the bride turns quickly away, and the procession enters\nthe church.\n\nIII\n\nIt is night. The stately bridal apartment awaits its guests. Music is\nheard, very faint at first, as if approaching through long corridors.\nPreceded by pages with lights, there enter by different doors a train\nof women leading Elsa, a train of nobles and the King leading the\nKnight.\n\nThe epithalamium is sung to its end. After grave and charming ceremony,\nwith blessings and good wishes, all withdraw, leaving the bride and\ngroom alone. Elsa's face is altogether clear again of its clouds;\nall is forgotten save the immeasurable happiness which, as soon\nas the doors discreetly close, impels her to his arms; clasped\ntogether, seated upon the edge of a day-bed, they listen in silence\nto their wedding-music dying slowly away. When all is still at\nlast, in the dear joy of being \"alone, for the first time alone\ntogether since first we saw each other,\" life seems to begin for\neach upon new and so incredibly sweeter terms. The stranger knight,\nwhom mystery enwraps, shows himself, despite certain sweet loftiness\nwhich never leaves him, most convincingly human. In the simplest\nwarm way, a way old-fashioned as love, we hear him rejoice: \"Now we\nare escaped and hidden from the whole world. None can overhear the\nexchange of greetings between our hearts. Elsa, my wife! You sweet\nwhite bride! You shall tell me now whether you are happy!\"--\"How\ncold must I be to call myself merely happy,\" she satisfies him\nliberally, \"when I possess the whole joy of Heaven! In the sweet\nglowing toward you of my heart, I know such rapture as God can\nalone bestow!\" He meets her gratitude with an equal and just a\nlittle over. \"If, of your graciousness, you call yourself happy,\ndo you not give to me too the very happiness of Heaven? In the\nsweet glowing toward you of my heart, I know indeed such rapture as\nGod can alone bestow!\" He falls naturally, happy-lover-like, into\ntalking of their first meeting and beginning love: \"How wondrous do\nI see to be the nature of our love! We had never seen, but yet had\ndivined, each other! Choice had been made of me for your champion,\nbut it was love showed me my way to you. I read your innocence in\nyour eyes, by a glance you impressed me into the service of your\ngrace!\"--\"I too,\" she eagerly follows, \"had seen you already, you\nhad come to me in a beatific dream. Then when wide-awake I saw you\nstanding before me, I knew that you were there by God's behest. I\nwould have wished to dissolve beneath your eyes and flow about your\nfeet like a brook. I would have wished like a flower shedding perfume\nout in the meadow to bow in gladness at your footfall. Is this\nlove?... Ah, how do my lips frame it, that word so inexpressibly\nsweet as none other, save alas! your name... which I am never to\nspeak, by which I am never to call the highest that I know!\" There\nis no return indicated in this of any doubt of him. Elsa is in\nthis moment certainly all trust. It is but an expression of love\nchafing a little at the reticence which seems a barrier one must\nnaturally wish away, if hearts are to flow freely together. Hardly\nwarningly, just lovingly, he interrupts her: \"Elsa!\"--\"How sweetly\"\nshe remarks enviously, \"my name drops from your lips! Do you grudge\nme the dear sound of yours? Nay, you shall grant me this boon, that\njust in the quiet hours of love's seclusion my lips should speak\nit....\" He checks her, as before, unalarmed, without reproach, by an\nexclamation of love. \"My sweet wife!\"--\"Just when we are alone,\"\nshe coaxes, \"when no one can overhear! Never shall it be spoken in\nhearing of the outside world.\" Instead of answering directly, he\ndraws her to him and turns to the open casement overlooking the\ngarden; he gazes thoughtfully out into the summer night and answers\nby a sort of tender object-lesson. \"Come, breathe with me the mild\nfragrance of the flowers.... Oh, the sweet intoxication it affords!\nMysteriously it steals to us through the air, unquestioningly I\nyield myself to its spell. A like spell it was which bound me to\nyou when I saw you, Sweet, for the first time. I did not need to\nask how you might be descended, my eye beheld you, my heart at\nonce understood. Even as this fragrance softly captures the senses,\ncoming to us wafted from the enigmatic night, even so did your purity\nenthrall me, despite the dark suspicion weighing upon you!\"\n\nThat she owes him much she is ready and over-ready to own. It is\nalmost embarassing to owe so much, to owe everything, and no means\nof repaying, because the whole of oneself is after all so little.\n\"Oh, that I might prove myself worthy of you!\" she sighs, \"that\nI need not sink into insignificance before you! That some merit\nmight lift me to your level, that I might suffer some torture for\nyour sake! If, even as you found me suffering under a heavy charge,\nI might know you to be in distress! If bravely I might bear a burden\nfor you, might know of some sorrow threatening you! Can it be that\nyour secret is of such a nature that your lip must keep it from the\nwhole world? Disaster perhaps would overtake you, were it openly\npublished. If this were so, and if you would tell it to me, would\nplace your secret in my power, oh, never by any violence should\nit be torn from me, for you I would go to death!\" The bridegroom\ncannot but be touched by such devoted gallant words from the fairest\nlips. Off guard, he murmurs fondly, \"Beloved!\"--\"Oh, make me proud\nby your confidence, that I may not so deeply feel my unworthiness!\"\nshe pleads, eagerly following up the advantage of his not having\nyet remonstrated; \"Let me know your secret, that I may see plainly\nwho you are!\" Wilfully deaf to his imploring, \"Hush, Elsa!\" more\nand more urgently she presses: \"To my faithfulness reveal your\nwhole noble worth! Without fear of regret, tell me whence you came.\nI will prove to you how strong in silence I can be!\"\n\nHer words, all at once, their significance penetrating fully, have\nbrought a change in him. Gravely he moves apart from her, and his\nvoice is for a moment stern as well as sorrowful: \"Highest confidence\nalready have I shown you, placing trust as I unhesitatingly did in\nyour oath. If you will never depart from the command you swore to\nobserve, high above all women shall I deem you worthy of honour.\"\nBut he cannot continue in that tone, the altogether human bridegroom.\nAt sight of the pained look his severity has produced, he goes\nquickly again to her, he makes instant reparation for his momentary\nharshness. \"Come to my breast, you sweet, you white one!\" he profusely\ncaresses and consoles; \"Be close to the warmth of my heart! Bend\nupon me the soft light of your eye in which I saw foreshining my\nwhole happiness!...\" And just to satisfy her so far as he can,\nto prove still further his great love, he proceeds: \"Oh, greatly\nmust your love compensate me for that which I relinquished for\nyour sake! No destiny in God's wide world could be esteemed nobler\nthan mine. If the King should offer me his crown, with good right I\nmight reject it. The only thing which can repay me for my sacrifice,\nI must look for it in your love. Then cast doubt aside forever. Let\nyour love be my proud security! For I came to you from no obscure\nand miserable lot. From splendour and joy am I come to you!\" Oh,\nthe ill-inspired speech! What he dreamed must unite closer, in the\nmomentary mood of the incalculable feminine being he is dealing\nwith, divides further. The thought is instantly back in her mind\nwhich she had smothered and then forgotten, the idea suggested by\nOrtrud, implied by Friedrich, that mysteriously as he came the\nunknown Knight may presently be going away from her. The hour that\nshould have been so sweet and quiet in the \"fragrant chamber adorned\nfor love\" of the wedding-song, is turned to strain and dreadfulness.\n\"God help me!\" wails her passionate alarm, \"What must I hear? What\ntestimony from your own lips! In your wish to beguile me, you have\nannounced my lamentable doom! The condition you forsook, your highest\nhappiness lay bound in that. You came to me from splendour and joy,\nand are longing to go back. How could I, poor wretch, believe that\nmy faithful devotion would suffice you? The day will come which\nwill rob me of you, your love being turned to rue!\"--\"Forbear,\nforbear thus to torture yourself!\"--\"Nay, it is you, why do you\ntorture me? Must I count the days during which I still may keep\nyou? In haunting fear of your departure, my cheek will fade; then\nyou will hasten away from me, I shall be left forlorn.\"--\"Never\"\nhe endeavours to quiet her, \"never will your winning charm lessen,\nif you but keep suspicion from your heart.\"--\"How should I tie\nyou to me?\" she pursues undeterred her fatal train of thought;\n\"How might I hope for such power? A creature of weird arts are\nyou, you came here by a miracle of magic. How then should it fare\nbut ill with me? What security for you can I hold?\" She shrinks\ntogether in sudden terror and listens. \"Did you hear nothing? Did\nyou not distinguish footsteps?\"--\"Elsa!\"--\"No, it is not that!...\nBut there...\" she stares vacantly ahead, pointing,--her face how\nchanged from the sweet, glowing face of so short a time ago!--and\ndescribes what her over-excited fancy paints on the empty air before\nher: \"Look there! The swan! The swan! There he comes, over the watery\nflood.... You call him, he draws the boat to shore....\"--\"Stop,\nElsa! Master these mad imaginings!\" the poor lover strives with\nher, in despair.--\"Nay, nothing can give me rest,\" she declares,\nwholly unmanageable, wholly unreasonable, \"nothing can turn me\nfrom these imaginings, but, though I should pay for it with my\nlife, the knowledge who you are!\"--\"Elsa, what are you daring to\ndo?\"--\"Uncannily beautiful man, hear what I must demand of you: Tell\nme your name!\"--\"Forbear!\"--\"Whence are you come?\"--\"Alas!\"--\"What\nmanner of man are you?\"--\"Woe, what have you done?\" Elsa utters a\nshriek, catching sight of Telramund with a handful of armed men\nstealing in by the door behind her husband's back,--the explanation\nof the sound she had heard. With a cry of warning, she runs for her\nhusband's sword and hands it to him. Quickly turning he rewards\nFriedrich's ineffectual lunge with a blow that stretches him dead.\nThe appalled accomplices drop their swords and fall to their knees.\nElsa, who had cast herself against her husband's breast, slides\nswooning to the floor. There is a long silence. The Knight stands,\ndeeply shaken, coming to gradual realisation of the whole sorrowful\nsituation. All the light, the bridegroom joy, have faded from his\nface. With a quiet suggestive of infinite patience and some strange\nsuperiority of strength, some unearthly resource, he considers this\nruin, his audible comment on it a single sigh, more poignant than\nif it were less restrained: \"Woe! Now is all our happiness over!\"\nVery gently he lifts Elsa, sufficiently revived to realise that she\nhas somehow worked irreparable destruction, and decisively places\nher away from him. By a sign he orders Telramund's followers to their\nfeet and bids them carry the dead man to the King's judgment-place.\nHe rings a bell; the women who appear in answer, he instructs:\n\"To accompany her before the King, attire Elsa, my sweet wife!\nThere shall she receive my answer, and learn her husband's name\nand state.\"\n\n\nAt daybreak the Brabantian lords and their men-at-arms are assembling\naround the Justice-Oak in readiness to follow the King. The King,\nwith noble expressions of gratitude for their loyalty, takes command\nof them. \"But where loiters,\" he is inquiring, \"the one whom God\nsent to the glory, the greatness of Brabant?\" when a covered bier is\nborne before him and set down in the midst of the wondering company,\nby men whom they recognise as former retainers of Telramund's. This\nis done, explain these last, by order of the Protector of Brabant.\n\nElsa attended by her ladies appears at the place of gathering.\nHer pale and sorrow-struck looks are attributed naturally to the\nimpending departure of her husband for the field.\n\nArmed in his flashing silver mail, as he was first seen of them,\nhe now appears on the spot. Cheers greet him from those whom he\nis to lead to battle and victory. When their shouts die, he makes,\nstanding before the King, the startling announcement that he cannot\nlead them to battle, the brave heroes he has convoked. \"I am not\nhere as your brother-of-arms,\" he informs their consternation;\n\"You behold me in the character of complainant. And, firstly...\"\nhe solemnly draws the pall from the dead face of Telramund, \"I\nmake my charge aloud before you all, and ask for judgment according\nto law and custom: This man having surprised and assailed me by\nnight, tell me, was I justified in slaying him?\"--\"As your hand\nsmote him upon earth,\" the horrified spectators cry in a voice,\n\"may God's punishment smite him yonder!\"--\"Another accusation must\nyou hear,\" the Knight continues; \"I speak my complaint before you\nall. The woman whom God had given to my keeping has been so far\nmisguided as to forget her loyalty to me!\" There is an outcry of\nsorrowful incredulity. \"You all heard,\" he proceeds, steeled to\nseverity, \"how she promised me never to ask who I am? She has broken\nthat sacred oath. To pernicious counsel she yielded her heart. No\nlonger may I spare to answer the mad questioning of her doubt.\nI could deny the urgency of enemies, but must make known, since\nshe has willed it, my name,--must reveal who I am! Now judge if\nI have reason to shun the light! Before the whole world, before\nthe King and kingdom, I will in all truth declare my secret. Hear,\nthen, if I be not equal in nobility to any here!\" There runs a\nmurmur through all the impressed multitude, not of curiosity, but\nregret that he should be forced to speak; the uneasy wish is felt\nthat he might not.\n\nHis face has cleared wonderfully. As his inward eye fixes itself\nupon images of the home, the _Glanz und Wonne_, he is about to\ndescribe, memory lights his countenance as if with the reflection\nof some place of unearthly splendour. \"In a far land,\" his words\nfall measured and sweet, \"unapproachable to footsteps of yours,\na fastness there stands called Monsalvat. In the centre of it,\na bright temple, more precious than anything known upon earth.\nWithin this is preserved as the most sacred of relics a vessel of\nblessed and miraculous power. It was brought to earth by a legion\nof angels, and given into the guardianship of men, to be the object\nof their purest care. Yearly there descends from Heaven a Dove, to\nstrengthen anew its miraculous power. It is called the Grail, and\nthere is shed from it into the hearts of the knights that guard\nit serene and perfect faith. One chosen to serve the Grail is armed\nby it with over-earthly power; against it no evil art can prevail,\nbefore the vision of it the shades of death disperse. One sent by\nit to distant countries to champion the cause of virtue retains\nthe holy power derived from it as long as he remains unknown. Of\nnature so mysteriously sublime is the blessing of the Grail that\nif disclosed to the layman's eye it must withdraw. The identity\nof a Knight of the Grail must therefore not be suspected. If he\nis recognised--he must depart! Now hear my reply to the forbidden\nquestion. By the Holy Grail was I sent to you here. My father Parsifal\nin Monsalvat wears the crown. A Knight of the Grail am I and my\nname is Lohengrin!\"\n\nThe people gaze at him in awe and worshipping wonder. The unhapppy\nElsa, feeling the world reel and grow dark, gasps for air and is\nfalling, when Lohengrin catches her in his arms, all his sternness\nmelting away, his grief and love pouring forth in tender reproach.\n\"Oh, Elsa, what have you done to me? From the first moment of beholding\nyou, I felt love for you enkindling my heart, I became aware of an\nunknown happiness. The high faculty, the miraculous power, the\nstrength involved in my secret, I wished to place them all at the\nservice of your purest heart. Why did you wrest from me my secret?\nFor now, alas, I must be parted from you!\" She expends herself in\nwild prayers to be forgiven, to be punished by whatsoever affliction,\nonly not to lose him. He feels sorrow enough, immeasurable sorrow,\nheart-break, but not for an instant hesitation. \"The Grail already is\noffended at my lagging! I must--must go! There is but one punishment\nfor your fault, and its hard anguish falls equally upon me. We\nmust be parted,--far removed from each other!\" He turns to the\nKing and nobles imploring him to remain and lead them as he had\npromised against the enemy. \"Oh, King, I may not stay! A Knight of\nthe Grail, when you have recognised him, should he disobediently\nremain to fight with you, would have forfeited the strength of\nhis arm. But hear me prophesy: A great victory awaits you, just\nand single-hearted King! To the remotest days shall the hordes\nof the East never march in triumph upon Germany!\"\n\nFrom the river-bank comes a startling voice: \"The swan! The swan!\"\nAll turn to look. A cry of horror breaks from Elsa. The swan is\nseen approaching, drawing the empty boat. Less master of himself\nthan theretofore, Lohengrin, realising the last parting so near,\ngives unmistakable outward sign of his inward anguish. \"The Grail\nalready is sending for the dilatory servant!...\" Going to the water's\nedge he addresses to the snowy bird words which no one can quite\ncomprehend. \"My beloved swan, how gladly would I have spared you\nthis last sorrowful voyage. In a year, your period of service having\nexpired, delivered by the power of the Grail, in a different shape\nI had thought to see you.--Oh, Elsa,\" he returns to her side, \"oh,\nthat I might have waited but one year and been witness of your joy\nwhen, under protection of the Grail, your brother had returned\nto you, whom you thought dead!... When in the ripeness of time he\ncomes home, and I am far away from him in life, you shall give\nhim this horn, this sword, this ring....\" He places in her hands\nthe great double-edged sword, the golden horn from his side, the\nring from his finger. \"This horn when he is in danger, shall procure\nhim help. This sword, in the fray, shall assure him victory. But when\nhe looks at the ringlet him think of me who upon a time delivered\nyou from danger and distress. Farewell, farewell! My sweet wife,\nfarewell! The Grail will chide if I delay longer.... Farewell!\"\nHe has kissed over and over again the face of the poor woman who,\nannihilated by grief, has not the power to make motion or sound.\nHe places her, with terrible effort of resolution, in the arms\nat last of others, and hastens, amid general lamentation, to the\nshore.\n\nOrtrud, lost in the crowd, has watched all. She has in reality\ngained nothing by the disaster to Elsa, but she exults in it. Further\nrevenge for what she has suffered from Elsa's mere existence, for\nthe bitterness of her husband's death at the hand of Elsa's husband,\nshe seeks recklessly in a revelation which cannot but hold danger for\nherself. In the insanity of her mingled despair and gloating hate,\nher hurry to hurt, she does not wait until the powerful antagonist\nbe well out of the way of retorting--Lohengrin has but one foot as\nyet in the boat,--before she cries, \"Go your way home, go your\nway, O haughty hero, that gleefully I may impart to this fair fool\nwho it is drawing you in your boat. By the golden chain which I\nwound about him, I recognised that swan. That swan was the heir\nof Brabant!--I thank you,\" she mockingly addresses Elsa, \"I thank\nyou for having driven away the Knight. The swan must now betake\nhimself home with him. If he had remained here longer, that hero,\nhe would have delivered your brother too!\" The whole dark scheme of\nOrtrud's ambition now lies bare: She had compassed the disappearance\nof the heir to the crown of Brabant, changing him by magic art into\na swan; had cast the guilt of his disappearance upon Elsa, and\nmarried the man who upon Elsa's condemnation would have become\nDuke. Through no neglect of her own was Ortrud's brow still bare\nof the crown. At the cry of execration that greets her revelation,\nshe faces them all, drawn up to her proud height, and announces:\n\"Thus do they revenge themselves, the gods from whom you turned\nyour worship!\"\n\nBut Lohengrin had not been too far, nor too engrossed in going,\nto hear her words. The Knight of the Grail has sunk on his knees\nand joined his hands in prayer. All eyes are upon him, his eyes\nearnestly heavenward. For a long moment all is in motionless suspense.\nA white dove flies into sight, and hovers over the boat. With the\ngladness of one whose prayer is heard, Lohengrin rises and unfastens\nthe chain from the swan; this vanishes from sight, leaving in its\nplace a beautiful boy in shining garments, whom Lohengrin lifts to\nthe bank. \"Behold the Duke of Brabant! Your leader he shall be!\"\nAt sight of him, Ortrud utters a cry of terror, Elsa, drawn for\na moment out of her stupor, a cry of joy. She catches the brother\nin her arms--But looking up, after the first transport of gladness,\nand seeing the place empty where her husband had stood, his boat gone\nfrom sight, forgetting all else, she sends after him a despairing\ncry, \"My husband! My husband!\"\n\nIn the distance, at a bend of the river, the boat reappears for\na moment, drawn now by the dove of the Grail. The Silver Knight\nis seen standing in it, leaning on his shield, his head mournfully\nbowed. Sounds of sorrow break from all lips. The sight pierces\nlike a sword through the heart of the forsaken bride. She sinks\nto the ground _entseelt_--exanimate.\n\n\nSuch figures as play their part in this story, the Silver Knight,\nwith his swan and faery skiff, the fair falsely-accused damsel, the\nwicked sorceress, could hardly be painted in flagrant life-colours.\nThe music of Lohengrin brings to mind pictures one seems to remember\non vellum margins of old books of legend, where against a golden\nbackground shine forth vivid yet delicate shapes, in tints brilliant\nyet soft as distance, the green of April, the rose of day-break,\nthe blue of remote horizons.\n\nThere is an older story on these same lines, the story of Cupid\nand Psyche, an allegory, we are told, of Love and the Soul. And an\nallegory is meant to teach somewhat. And what does this teach--but\nthat one must be great? Not enough to be innocent, kind, loving,\npure as snow, like Elsa, a being golden and lovely through and\nthrough, such as could lure down a sort of angel from his heaven.\nBeside it all, great one must be. Life, the Sphinx, requires upon\noccasion that one be great. Just a little greatness, so to speak,\nand Elsa would first of all have recognised the obligation to keep\nher word; would further have trusted what must have been her own\nprofound instinct about the man she loved, rather than the suggestions\nof others troubling her shallow mind-surface. Had she been great,\nwe may almost affirm, she would have known that he was great; she\nwould have trusted truth and greatness though they came to her\nunlabelled.\n\nBut Life, the Sphinx, proposed to her a riddle, and because she\nwas no more than a poor, sweet, limited woman she could not solve\nit, and Life ground her in its teeth and swallowed her up.\n\n\nTANNHAeUSER\n\n\nTANNHAeUSER\n\nI.\n\nWe are shown in the Ouverture of Tannhaeuser the power which contended\nfor the young knight and minstrel's soul: the appeal of good is\nsymbolised by the solemn chant of the pilgrims; of evil, by the\nvoice of Venus, the song of the Sirens, the Bacchic dance.\n\nWe are not informed how he came into the Hill of Venus, but when\nwe see him at the Landgrave's court, which we are told he forsook\nof yore in offended pride, we think we divine. He is more greatly\ngifted than any of his associates. By his sense of superiority he\nis made--young and hot-blooded as he is,--haughty, quick, impatient.\nThey cannot suffer his overbearing way. We can imagine how upon an\noccasion he left them, after a round quarrel, in a fury of vexation,\nsick with disgust at the whole world of such slow, limited creatures,\nthe whole world of petty passions and narrow circumstances, in a\nmood to sell himself to the Devil for something in life which should\nseem to him worth while, of satisfactory size, peer to himself. And\nso his feet had come in the familiar valley suddenly upon a new\npath, and been led to the interior of the mountain where Venus,\ndriven from the surface of the earth by the usurping Cross, had\ntaken refuge with all her pagan train. There the Queen of Love\nherself had contented him, and his thirsty youth had thought this\nno doubt a sufficient crown of life; this had met all his vast\ndesires, appeased all his boundless pride. He had lived in the\nrosy atmosphere there he knew not how long, existence one feast,\nat which everything in man was satisfied, heart, imagination,\nsenses--everything but his soul.\n\nWe first have sight of him lying at the feet of Venus, his head\npillowed on her lap. There are dances and revels for their delight,\nbut he has fallen asleep,--and in his dream he hears, through the\nsong of stupefying sweetness in which the Sirens hold forth enkindling\npromises, a fragment of anthem, the long-forgotten music of\nchurch-bells. He starts awake. The tender queen draws down-his\nhead again with a caress. \"Beloved, where are your thoughts?\" But\nhis neglected soul has in dream made its claim. The sweetness of\nall this other is found by sudden revulsion cloying to the point of\ndespair. \"Too much!\" he cries wildly, \"Too much! Oh, that I might\nawaken!\" At just that touch, that sound in sleep of bells, his\nwhole poor humanity has flooded back upon him, and at the goddess's\nindulgent \"Tell me what troubles you?\" his weak infinite homesickness\nbreaks bounds. \"It seemed to me, in my dream, that I heard--what so\nlong has been foreign to my ear!--the pleasant pealing of bells.\nOh, tell me, how long is it that I hear them no more? I cannot\nmeasure the length of my sojourn here. There are no longer for me\ndays or months, since I no longer see the sun or the sky's friendly\nconstellations. The grass-blade I see no more, which, clothing\nitself with fresh green, brings in the new summer. The nightingale\nI hear no more announcing the return of Spring. Am I never to hear\nthem, never to see them more?\"\n\nVenus, mildly amazed at folly so prodigious, reproaches him for\nthis complaining, these regrets. What, is he so soon weary of the\nmarvels with which her love surrounds him? Discontented so soon\nwith being a god? Has he so soon forgotten the old unhappiness? \"My\nminstrel, up! Take your harp! Sing the praise of love, which you\ncelebrate so gloriously that you won the Goddess of Love herself.\"\nTannhaeuser, thus bidden, seizes the harp and warmly entones a hymn\nof praise to her, which from its climax of ardour, suddenly--as\nif his lips were tripped by the word \"mortal\" occurring in the\nsong,--turns into a prayer to her to release him. \"But mortal,\nalas, I have remained, and your love is over-great for me. A god\nhas the capacity to enjoy perpetually, but I am the creature of\nchange. Not joy alone can satisfy my heart, after pleasure I yearn\nfor sorrow. Forth from your kingdom I must fare. Oh, Queen, Goddess,\nlet me depart!\"\n\nReproachful questions succeed on her part: Of what neglect has her\nlove been guilty, of what can he accuse her? In reply, grasping\nhis harp again, he adds fiery praise to praise of her greatness,\nthe wonders of her kingdom,--to drop again into his prayer for\nrelease: \"But I, amid these rosy perfumes, I yearn for the odour\nof the forest, yearn for the pure blue of our skies, the fresh\ngreen of our sward, the sweet song of our birds, the dear sound of\nour bells! Forth from your kingdom I must fare. O Queen, Goddess,\nlet me depart!\"\n\nThe beautiful queen's surprise is turning to anger, without ceasing\nto be surprise. \"You sing the praise of my love, and wish at the\nsame time to flee from it? My beauty, is it possible, has brought\nsurfeit?\" He tells her, disarmingly as he may, what must fall\nincomprehensibly on her pagan ears, that it is that over-great\nbeauty of hers he must shun, that never was his love greater, never\nsincerer, than in this moment when he must flee from her forever.\n\nShe drops chiding then, truly alarmed, and tempts. She paints to\nhim with glowing art the delights awaiting them; to these she bids\nhim with the persuasive voice of love. When the goddess of beauty thus\ninvites a mortal, she feels secure in counting upon his forgetting\nall else. But this Tannhaeuser, with the dreamy echo in his earth-born\nears of the church-bells of home, he catches, instead of her beautiful\nform to his breast, his harp again. He grants that her beauty is\nthe source of all beauty, that every lovely marvel has its origin\nin her: against the whole world, he promises, he will thereafter\nbe her champion, but--back to the world of earth go he must, for\nhere he can but become a slave. Freedom, for freedom he thirsts!\nBattle and struggle he must have, though he should meet through\nthem defeat and death. Forth from her kingdom he must fare! Queen,\nGoddess, let him depart!\n\n\"Go, then, madman, go!\" she bids him in lovely wrath. \"Traitor,\nsee, I do not hold you back! I leave you free, go your way, go\nyour way! Let your doom be to have that which you yearn for! Go\nback to cold mankind, before whose gross dismal delusion we Gods\nof Joy fled deep into the warm bosom of the earth. Go back to them,\ninfatuated! Seek your soul's welfare and find it never! Not long\nbefore your proud heart will surrender. I shall see you humbly\ndraw near. Broken, trampled, you will come seeking me, will invoke\nthe wonders of my power!\" Unheedful of the remainder, he seizes\navidly upon his dismissal. \"Ah, lovely goddess, farewell! Never\nwill I return!\" What--never return? She threatens with her curse,\nif he shall not return, him and the whole human race: in vain let\nthem go seeking for her miracles, let the world become a wilderness\nand have for its hero a slave! But yet--he cannot have meant what\nhe said, he will come back, let him say that he will come back!\n\"Nevermore!\" cries the captive of this suffocating prison-house\nof love, as he pants upon the threshold of freedom, \"nevermore let\njoy of love delight me!\"--\"Come back\" she desperately entreats,\n\"when your heart impels you!\"--\"Forever your beloved flees!\"--\"Come\nback when the whole world rejects you!\"--\"Through penance I shall\nbe absolved from sin!\"--\"Never shall you gain forgiveness! Come\nback if the gates of salvation close to you!\"--\"Salvation!... My\nhope of salvation lies in the Blessed Mary!\"\n\nAt that name, Venus uttering a cry vanishes, and with her the dim-lit\nsubterranean kingdom....\n\nTannhaeuser finds himself standing in a sunny well-known valley,\nnear to a road-side shrine of the Blessed Mary at whose hem he\nhad caught. The Wartburg is in sight, where he was used in former\ndays to take part in song-tournaments. In dim distance looms the\nHoerselberg, concerning which a sinister rumour ran: that in the heart\nof it the pagan goddess Venus still lived and held her court. All the\nlandscape smiles, the trees are in blossom, nature is altogether at\nher loveliest. Oh, so sweeter to the ears of the resuscitated knight\nthan the song of sirens, comes the homely tinkle of sheepbells.\nA little shepherd pipes and sings in joy over the return of May.\n\nTannhaeuser stands statue-still, as if he feared by the slightest\nmovement to wake himself, to dispel the vision.\n\nA band of penitents, starting on a pilgrimage to far-off Rome,\ndefile past the Virgin's shrine, saluting her and asking her grace\nupon their pilgrimage. Their pious chant stirs in Tannhaeuser deep,\nlong-untouched chords. At the same moment that the aroused sense\nof pollution would overwhelm him, the reminder shines forth to\nhim in the pilgrims' words of the possibility of forgiveness and\nregeneration through repentance and penitential practices. A very\nmiracle of God's grace it seems to him, by which he sees the door\nof hope open to him anew. The weight of his emotion forces him\nto his knees; he makes his own the words of the pilgrims wending\ntheir way out of sight: \"Ah, heavily oppresses me the burden of\nsin, no longer can I carry it. No more will I therefore of ease\nand rest, but choose for my portion pain and effort.\" The pilgrims'\nvoices come drifting more and more dyingly, the breeze wafts sounds\nof church-bells. With tears Tannhaeuser bows his head and sinks\ninto prayer.\n\nCheerful hunting-horns breaking upon the air do not rouse him, nor\nthe approach of the hunters. They are the Landgrave and a group\nof his favorite minstrel-knights. Catching sight of the kneeling\nfigure, they stop to observe it. The minstrel Wolfram recognises\ntheir old companion, Heinrich, who had left them, time gone, to\ndisappear utterly. The circumstances of their parting are suggested\nby the first words uttered when Tannhaeuser starts to his feet and\nfaces them. \"Is it truly yourself?\" asks the Landgrave; \"Have you\ncome back to the community which you forsook in impatient\narrogance?\"--\"Tell us what is implied by your return?\" says the\nminstrel Biterolf; \"Reconciliation? Or renewed battle?\"--\"Do you\ncome as friend or foe?\" asks the minstrel Walther. So much the\nmore probable thing does it seem that he comes as foe that there\nis a challenging note in the address of all--save Wolfram. The\nlatter, the gentlest soul among them, has taken account of the\nold companion's countenance; his sympathy is quick to interpret\nit, by a word he changes the mood toward him of all the others.\n\"As a foe? How can you ask? Is that the bearing of arrogance? Oh,\nwelcome back among us, you singer bold, who too long have been\nabsent from our midst!\"--\"Welcome if you come peaceably-minded!\"\nsay the others; \"Welcome if you approach as a friend! Welcome among\nus!\"\n\nThe Landgrave, after adding his gracious greeting to the greetings\nof the others asks where he has been this long time. \"Far, far from\nhere I wandered,\" Tannhaeuser replies, with a vagueness mysteriously\npregnant, \"where I found neither peace nor rest. Inquire not! I\nhave not come to contend with you. Forgive the past and let me\ngo my way!\"\n\nMarvellously softened by this novel gentleness in the formerly so\ntesty and proud companion, all now with a single mind desire him\nto stay, nay, refuse to let him go. He turns from them resolutely:\n\"Detain me not! It would ill profit me to tarry! Never more for me\nrepose! Onward and ever onward lies my way, to look backward were\nundoing!\" He is hastening away, despite their entreaties, when\nWolfram pronounces the name which brings him to an instantaneous\nstandstill. \"Remain beside Elizabeth!\"--\"Elizabeth!\" Tannhaeuser\nrepeats after him, reverently as if the name were consecrated bread\nupon his lips; \"Oh, power of Heaven, is it you calling that sweet\nname to me?\" At the spectacle of his emotion, Wolfram turns to\nthe Landgrave: \"Have I your leave, my lord, to be the herald to\nhim of his good fortune?\" The Landgrave consents. \"Inform him of\nthe magic spell he has wrought, and may God lend him virtue to\nloose it worthily!\" Wolfram imparts to Henry then that when in the\ndays before his disappearance the minstrels were wont to contend\nwith him in song, whatever the event of the contest, one prize there\nhad been won by him alone, his song alone had had power to enthrall\nthe interest of that most virtuous maid, Elizabeth. And when he had\nproudly withdrawn from their midst, her heart had closed to the\nsinging of the remaining minstrels; her cheek had lost bloom, she\nhad shunned their song-tourneys. \"Return to us, O daring minstrel,\"\nWolfram concludes, \"let your song resound alongside of ours, that\nshe may no longer be absent from our festivals, that her star once\nmore may shed brightness upon us!\" The fellow-minstrels join their\nvoices to Wolfram's, to press the recovered companion to remain\namong them. \"Let discord and quarrel be laid aside! Let our songs\nform one harmony! As brothers regard us henceforward!\"\n\nGreat gladness has fallen upon the knight, crushed to earth a moment\npast by a sense of sin; a swift rebound lifts up the heart that had\nasked of this fair and over-fair world just restored to him only\nopportunity to expiate and be made clean. Can this be true, this which\nseems like the most madly impossible of beautiful dreams? Elizabeth!\nthe Landgrave's niece, the fair and faultless, the saint!... No\ndoubt in the old days he had worshipped her, not daring to lift\nhis eyes above her footprints, had loved as a moth may a star.\nThat lily had shone in his dreams, cool and pure and unattainable,\nby the mysterious attraction of opposites compelling homage and\ndesire more than might any being less removed in nature from his\nhot, pleasure-thirsty, sense-ridden, undisciplined self. An element\nin his discontent with the earth had been perhaps his sense of\nlife-wide separation from her, of unsurpassable barriers between\nthem, the vanity of aspiration. And now the Landgrave permits her\nname to be used to keep him from departing! And with his long-dead\nsoul come back to intenser life than ever, that lily more than ever\ncalls forth the worshipping devotion of his reawakened highest\nself. In total self-abandonment of joy, he breaks forth: \"To her!\nTo her! Oh, conduct me to her! Ah, I recognise it now, the lovely\nworld from which I was cut off! The sky it is, looking down upon\nme, it is the greensward flaunting rich multitude of flowers. Spring\nwith its thousand voices of joy has entered into my soul, and my\nheart in sweet ungovernable tumult cries out aloud: To her! To\nher!\"\n\n\"Praise be to the power,\" say Landgrave and minstrels, \"which has\ndispelled his arrogance!\" What the remembrance is in this circle\nof Tannhaeuser's arrogance appears from the frequency of reference\nto it. The remainder of the hunting-retinue has now joined the\nLandgrave; the scene is brilliant with swarming figures of hunters,\nhounds, and horses. With bright horn-calls the train starts homeward,\non its rejoicing way \"to her!\"\n\nII\n\nThe Hall of Minstrels in the Wartburg, where the famous song-tournaments\nwere held. Such a tournament is directly to take place, and Elizabeth\nfor the first time after many days will preside over it. She enters\nthe hall while it is still empty of guests, and looks around with\nglad affectionate eyes, like one returning home after long exile.\nShe is sincere as she is innocent, the white princess, \"une ame\nsans detours,\" and speaks the truth of her heart with wonderfully\nlittle circumlocution, as to herself now in her salutation of the\nhall, so to others later. \"Once more I greet you, beloved hall,--oh,\njoyously greet you, place ever dear! In you reawaken echoes of his\nsinging, and draw me from my melancholy dream. When he departed\nfrom you, how desolate did you appear to me! Peace deserted me,\njoy deserted you! But now that my breast rides high with gladness\nyou appear to me proud again and splendid as of yore. The one who\ngives new life both to you and to me no longer tarries afar. All\nhail to you, beloved hall, all hail!\"\n\nWolfram, who loves Elizabeth, but in such unworldly, elevated,\nself-abjuring wise that he can for the sake of happiness to her set\nwholly aside hopes, desires, and jealousies of his own, finds for\nTannhaeuser this opportunity of seeing the Princess alone. He leads\nhim into her presence and effaces himself, while their interview\nlasts, among the arches at the back of the hall.\n\nTannhaeuser, flushed and radiant, magnificent in his festival robes\nof a noble minstrel-knight, casts himself impetuously at her feet.\nHis sudden appearance startles her painfully. Her manner speaks a\nconfusion almost tremulous: \"Father in Heaven!... Do not kneel!...\nIt is not meet that I should see you here!\"--\"What else so meet?\nOh, do not leave,\" he cries ardently, \"and suffer me to remain\nthus at your feet!\" Her timidity wears away like dew in sunshine;\nwe fancy the play of faint gracious smiles upon her next words.\n\"Stand up, then! Not in this place must you kneel, for this hall\nis your rightful kingdom. Oh, rise to your feet! Take my thanks for\nhaving come back to us. Where did you tarry so long?\" Tannhaeuser\nrises slowly. As when the Landgrave asked him the same question,\na shadow falls across his countenance, his answer is vague and\nmysterious. \"Far from here, in distant, distant lands. Heavy oblivion\nhas dropped between to-day and yesterday. All memory of the past has\nquickly faded from me, and one thing only I know: that I had not\nhoped ever again to bow before you, or ever again to lift my eyes to\nyou.\"--\"What was it then that brought you back?\"--\"A miracle it was,\nan inconceivable, highest miracle!\"--\"Oh, from the depths of my heart\nI give thanks to God for that miracle!\" she exclaims, and confused at\nher own fervour catches herself back, only to proceed further, with\nthe candour of an angel: \"Your pardon, if I hardly know what I am\nabout! I move as if in a dream, and am feather-brained as a child,\ngiven over, hand-bound, in thrall to a miraculous power! Hardly do\nI recognise myself; oh, do you help me to solve the enigma of my\nheart!\" Not only with the candour of an angel, but the simplicity\nof very high rank, accepting the prerogative of her station to\nstep forward a little way to meet the favoured lover, she lays\nbefore him the puzzle over the small difficulty of which her purity\nand greatness make one unable to smile. \"To the wise songs of the\nminstrels I was wont to listen often and with delight. Their singing\nand their descanting appeared to me a charming pastime. But what\nstrange new life did your song awake in my breast! Now it pierced\nme through like pain, now roused me to mad joy. Emotions I had\nnever felt! Desires I had never known! Things that until then had\nseemed to me lovely lost their charm by comparison with delights I\nhad not even a name for! Then, when you went from among us, peace\nand happiness were gone too. The minstrels' songs seemed to me\nan uninspired affair, dim of meaning, languid of execution. My\ndreams were full of dull pain, my waking hours a dejected dream.\nAll capacity for joy forsook my heart. Heinrich, Heinrich, what\nhad you done to me?\" The \"singer bold,\" the \"daring minstrel,\"\nis of a candour matching her own. \"Oh, give praise to the god of\nLove!\" he cries; \"He it was who touched my strings! He spoke to\nyou through my songs, and it is he who has brought me back to you!\"\nThey unite in joyful praise of the hour which has revealed this\nmiracle-working of Love's.\n\nWolfram watching them from his distance sighs gently: \"Thus fades\nfrom all my life the light of hope!\" Tannhaeuser, encountering him\nas he hastens away, lets a wave of his joy overflow in an impetuous\nembrace of the friend.\n\nElizabeth stands on the terrace overlooking the castle-court and\nthe valley to watch the lover out of sight, moved and simply happy\nas a woman who is not a saint. Her whiteness loves that colour;\nher paleness warms itself at that glow; her gentleness glories\nin that force. She makes no question but that he is worthy of her\nlove. Her high spirituality has intuition no doubt of the vast\npotentialities of good in that superabundant life, which of itself\nseems a virtue as well as a charm.\n\nWhen the Landgrave enters she cannot bear his searching eyes upon\nher transparent face, and hides it against his breast. \"Do I find\nyou in this hall which for so long time you have avoided? You are\nlured at last by the song-festival we are preparing?\" he questions\nher. She cannot answer, she falters: \"My uncle!... Oh, my kind\nfather!\"--\"Are you moved at last,\" he asks kindly, \"to open your\nheart to me?\" She lifts her face and bravely raises her eyes. \"Look\ninto my eyes, for speak I cannot!\" He reads, and does not press\nher. \"Let then for a brief space longer your sweet secret remain\nunspoken. Let the spell remain unbroken until yourself you have\npower to loose it. Be it as you please! Song, which has awakened\nand set working such wonders, shall to-day unfold the same and\ncrown them with consummation. Let the Lovely Art now take the work\nin hand. The nobles of my lands already are assembling, bidden by\nme to a singular feast. In greater numbers they flock than ever\nbefore, having heard that you are to be Princess of the gathering.\"\n\nThe Hall of Minstrels gradually fills with these same nobles and\ntheir ladies. They salute the Landgrave and the Princess, and take\ntheir places to the well-known, long-loved march. The minstrels have\nseats apart from the rest, facing their audience. The Landgrave\naddresses them nobly, with gracious compliment for the skill shown\ntheretofore by them in singing as in fighting, for their victorious\nchampionship of virtue and the true faith, high tradition and all\nthings lovely. Let them offer the guests to-day a banquet of song,\nupon the occasion of the return among them of the \"daring singer\"\nwhose absence they so long had deplored, whom a wonderful mystery\nhas brought back into their neighbourhood. He sets to the\nsong-contestants as their task to define the nature of love. He\nwho shall most worthily besing it shall receive the prize from\nElizabeth's hand. Let his demand be bold as he will, the Landgrave's\ncare it shall be to see his wish granted.\n\nLots are drawn. Fortune appoints Wolfram to open the song-feast.\nHe preludes pensively, and sets forth in an improvisation of slow\nand stately gait his delicate dreamer's sentiments: Glancing around\nthis noble assemblage, his heart kindles at sight of so many heroes,\nvaliant, German, and wise,--a proud oak-forest, verily, splendid,\nfresh and green. And among them fair and virtuous ladies, fragrant\ngarland of beauteous flowers. The eye swoons, drunken with gazing,\nthe poet's song grows mute before such splendour of loveliness. He\nfixes his eyes, then, upon one only of the stars in that dazzling\nfirmament. His spirit is forced to worship and bow in prayer. And,\nbehold, the vision he has of a miraculous fount, from which his spirit\nmay draw sacred joys, his heart receive ineffable refreshment. And\nnever would he wish to trouble that fountain, never with criminal\npresumption stir those waters,--but offer himself up to it in\nself-sacrificing adoration, and shed for its sake the last of his\nblood. From these words the company may apprehend what he conceives\nto be the nature of love at its purest.\n\nThere is warm applause from the noble knights and ladies, whether\nbecause they understand the star to be Elizabeth, and the fountain\nthe pure love she inspires, or because it was the ideal of that\nperiod of song-contests and Courts of Love and chivalry to love with\na reverence that precluded any near approach to the lady elected\nfor adoration. A poet might marry and have seven children, while\nregarding with exalted passion and celebrating in enraptured\nsong,--making into his star, his sacred fountain, his Muse, some\ndazzling remote princess, held to be too fair and good by far for\nhuman nature's daily food. The audience, when Wolfram resumes his\nseat, cry: \"So it is! So it is!\" and loudly praise his song.\n\nTannhaeuser has lent ear somewhat listlessly. This hall has been\ncalled his rightful kingdom; he sits among the other minstrels\nconsciously like a young monarch. At the closing figure of Wolfram's\nrhapsodical rhetoric, the image of the fount, a shadowy smile of\nsuperiority has dawned upon his face. As the applause dies, he\ngrasps his harp and rises to take exception to Wolfram's definition.\nSuch a song-feast was in fact a song-debate. His words come warm\nand ready: \"I too, Wolfram, may call myself so fortunate as to\nbehold what you have beheld. Who is there unacquainted with that\nfountain? Hear me loudly exalt its virtue! But yet can I not approach\nthose waters without sense of warm longing. That burning thirst I\nmust cool. Comforted I set lips to the spring. In full draughts\nI drink joy, unmixed with doubt or fear, for inexhaustible is the\nfountain, even as inextinguishable is my desire. That my longing\ntherefore may be prolonged eternally, eternally I drink refreshment\nat the well. Know Wolfram, thus do I conceive of love's truest\nessence!\"\n\nThere is deep silence when he has ended. One person only in the\nlarge assemblage has given a sign of approval, made a little gesture\nof assent, and that is Elizabeth, at bottom a very simple normal\nwoman, who does not recognise herself as a star or a sacred well\nunapproachable to the one she loves. But as all refrain, she timidly\nchecks herself, and waits to hear the rest.\n\nWalther has taken his harp, has risen; in growing excitement, touched\nwith indignation, he sweeps the strings: \"The fountain spoken of by\nWolfram, by the light of the soul I too have looked into its depths!\nBut you, who thirst to drink at it, you, Heinrich, know it verily\nnot! Permit me to tell you, accept the lesson: That fountain is true\nvirtue. Devoutly you shall worship it and sacrifice to its limpid\npurity. Should you lay lip to it, to cool your unhallowed passion,\nnay, should you but sip at the outermost brim, forever gone were\nits miraculous power! If you shall gain life from that fountain,\nthrough the heart, not the palate, must you seek refreshment!\"\nAgain there is lively applause. Tannhaeuser springs to his feet,\nthe old contemptuousness toward these companions,--compends of\ndensity, conventionality, and hypocrisy!--curving his lip. \"Oh,\nWalther, singing as you have done, how direly have you misrepresented\nlove! Through such languors and timidities as you describe, the\nworld would unmistakably go dry! To the glory of God in his exalted\ndistance, gaze at the heavens, gaze at its stars. Pay tribute of\nworship to such marvels, because they pass your comprehension. But\nthat which lends itself to human touches, which lies near to your\nheart and senses, that which, formed of the same clay as yourselves,\nin a softer shape nestles against your side, the tribute called\nfor by that is hearty pleasure of love. Enjoyment, I say, is the\nessence of love!\"\n\nAt this, which falls upon all ears present with the effect of rank\nblasphemy, Biterolf rises in wrath. \"Out, out, to fight against\nus all. Who could be silent hearing you? If your arrogance will\nvouchsafe to listen, hear, slanderer, me too! When high love inspires\nme, it steels my weapons with courage; to save it from indignity\nproudly would I pour forth my last blood. For the honour of women\nand of lofty virtue I unsheathe my knightly sword,--but that which\nyour youth is pleased to call pleasure is cheap enough and worth\nno single blow!\" The audience cheer him enthusiastically: \"Hail,\nBiterolf, our good blade!\" Tannhaeuser can no longer contain himself.\nIt is now again quite as it used to be, when never could he live\nat peace with these purblind tortoises, dull of wit to the point\nof amazement, and yet pretending to pronounce upon things, pass\njudgment upon others. What can there be but warfare forever between\nhim and them? But that Biterolf, this war-worn, middle-aged, rugged\nminstrel should take it upon himself to instruct Heinrich Tannhaeuser,\npupil of Venus, in matters of love! His retort comes quick, from the\nshoulder, so to speak, though the form is not dropped of fitting his\nwords to chords of the peaceful harp: \"Ha, fond braggart, Biterolf! Is\nit you, singing about love, grim wolf? But you can hardly have meant\nthat which I hold worthy to be enjoyed. What, you poverty-stricken\nwight--what pleasure of love may have fallen to your share? Not rich\nin love your life has been! And such joys as may have sprouted\nalong your path, indeed, were hardly worthy of a blow!\"--\"Let him\nnot be allowed to finish! Forbid his insolence!\" cry the incensed\nnobles, who had suffered Biterolf's personal attack, but find\ninsufferable this of the over-splendid, over-bearing, over-confident\nyouth. Biterolf's sword has leaped from its scabbard. The Landgrave\norders it back. \"Preserve peace, you singers!\"\n\nA hush falls as Wolfram takes the floor again. He had sacrificed\nevery selfish hope to serve both Elizabeth and Tannhaeuser, had\nemployed himself to further their union. What now is happening is\nplainly terrible to him. His opinion of the friend has undergone\nin the last moments a grievous subversion. He has been wounded to\nthe soul by the bold and profane tone of Tannhaeuser's argument.\nHis sensibility detects an atmosphere of sin about this novel love's\nadvocate, and as a good and pious knight he is forced to array\nhimself against the friend, to uphold Ideal Love in antagonism to\nthe Carnal Love he has just heard exalted. \"Oh, Heaven, hear my\nprayer and consecrate my song!\" he sings, a pale flame informing his\nsong, as, imaginably, his cheek and eye; \"Let me see evil banished\nfrom this pure and noble circle! To you, Highest Love, let my song\nresound, inspired, to you that in angelic beauty have penetrated\ndeep into my soul. As a messenger from Heaven do you appear to us;\nI follow from afar. You guide us toward the regions where immortally\nshines your star!\"\n\nTannhaeuser, exasperated, reckless, frenzied with that temperamental\nneed of his to dominate, that impatience of being lessoned, losing\nsight of all but one thing, that it shall be proved to them they\ncan teach nothing about love to him, the lover of the very Goddess\nof Love, seizes his harp, his sword in this duel, and breaks forth\nin his impassioned Praise of Venus,--the song we heard in the heart\nof her Hill, when he celebrated her at her own bidding, in conclusion\nbegging so lamely for his dismissal. \"To you, Goddess of Love,\nshall my song resound! Loud shall your praises now be sung by me!\nYour sweet beauty is the source of all that is beautiful, and every\nlovely miracle has its origin in you! He who aglow has enfolded\nyou in his arms, he knows, and he alone, what love is! Oh, you\npoor-spirited, who have never tasted love, go,--to the Hill of Venus\nrepair!\"\n\nThe last words have the effect of a thunder-clap, in the consternation\nthey produce. Tannhaeuser in the drunkenness of his pride had forgotten\nwhat this revelation would mean in the ears he trumpeted it to; in\nhis long sojourn in the pagan underworld, where his moral judgment\nhad become dulled and perverted, had forgotten, apparently, how\nthe Christian world regarded such commerce with it as his words\nbetrayed. That mysterious Hoerselberg looming in the distance was\nin popular thinking the very ante-chamber of Hell; its pleasures,\npaid in the world to come with eternal damnation, were rewarded in\nthis world with excommunication and death. One who had frequented\nit was sin-polluted, sin-drenched, he poisoned the air with sin.\nAll shrink back at his announcement as from a leper. The women\nflee precipitately from the contamination of his neighbourhood.\nIt is like a flight of gorgeous birds. The men's instant and only\nthought is to immolate him, cleanse the earth of the inexpressible\nblot upon it that he is. \"He has luxuriated in the pleasures of\nHell! He has dwelled in the Hill of Venus! Abominable! Accursed!\nBathe your swords in his blood! Hurl him back into the fiery lake!\"\n\nTannhaeuser stands with drawn sword facing their multitude. They\nare advancing toward him, his doom seems sealed,--when Elizabeth's\nbody is found interposed shield-wise between him and their swords.\nTheir hands are necessarily stayed. \"What do we see?\" their wondering\nquestion runs, \"What? Elizabeth? The chaste virgin protecting the\nsinner?\"--\"Back!\" the meek maiden commands with vigour enough at\nthis pass, \"or I shall not regard death! What are wounds from your\nswords beside the death-stroke I have received from him?\" Tannhaeuser\nstarts like one awakening. He had not thought of this aspect of\nhis action; the pride relaxes suddenly that had stiffened him.\n\"Elizabeth!\" her uncle argues with her, and the others add their\nvoices to his, \"What must I hear? How has your heart allowed itself\nto be stultified, that you should attempt to save from punishment the\nman who, added to all else, has so dreadfully betrayed you?\"--\"What\ndoes it matter about me?\" she cries; \"But he--his soul's salvation!\nWould you rob him of his soul's eternal salvation?\" He has cast\naway all chance of that, they affirm; never can he gain salvation.\nThe curse of Heaven is upon him, let him die in his sins! At their\nthreatening approach, she spreads her arms resolutely before him.\nShe towers tall and white, she speaks with strange authority. \"Back\nfrom him! Not you are his judges! Cruel ones, cast from you the\nbarbarous sword, and give heed to the word of the stainless virgin!\nLearn through me what is the will of God. The unhappy man whom\na potent dreadful enchantment holds bound, what, shall he never\ncome to Heaven through repentance and expiation in this world? You\nwho are so strong in the pure faith, do you apprehend so ill the\nmind of the Most High? Would you take away the hope of the sinner?\nState then what wrong he has done to you. Behold me, the maiden,\nwhose blossom he shattered with a swift blow, me, who loved him to\nthe depths of being, and whose heart he pierced with a jubilant\nlaugh... I plead for him, I plead for his life! Let his feet be\nturned into the path of penitence. Let the courage be restored to\nhim of the faith that for him too the Saviour died!\" In a spasm\nof realisation and self-horror the unhappy Tannhaeuser hides his\nface and sinks to the earth. The angry lords have calmed under\nthe Princess's exhortation. They see in her an angel descended\nfrom Heaven to announce the holy will of God. Who could persist\nin violence after hearing the supplications of an angel?\n\nTannhaeuser has come at last completely to himself, to a clear vision,\nby light of that heavenly goodness, of what he has been, what he\nhas done. Sapped of its pride, his spirit grovels helplessly in\nthe lowest depths of abasement. \"To lead the sinner to salvation,\nthe God-sent came to me, but I, alas, to touch her impiously, I\nlifted upon her eyes of vice. Oh, Thou, far above the vale of earth,\nwho didst send to me this angel of salvation, have mercy upon me\nwho, ah! so deeply steeped in sin, did such ignoble wrong to the\nmediatrix of Heaven!\"\n\nThe Landgrave decides upon the course to be taken. An abominable\ncrime has been committed; in hypocritical disguise the accursed\nson of sin has slipped into their midst. Among them he may not\nremain, the displeasure of Heaven already lowers upon this roof\nwhich too long has covered him. One road is open to the sinner,\nwhich, while rejecting him, the Landgrave points out--let him take\nadvantage of it to his welfare! Numerous bands of penitents are\nstarting from this region on pilgrimage to Rome for the great Pardon.\nThe older have left already; the younger are still gathering in\nthe valley. Let Tannhaeuser join them, go with them to the Holy\nCity, fall upon his knees and do penance for his sin. Let him cast\nhimself before him who speaks the decrees of God upon earth, entreat\nhis blessing, and never return if he fail to obtain it. For if\ntheir vengeance stay its hand at the prayer of an angel, their\nswords will not fail to reach him if he continue in his sin. The\nchant comes wafted from the distance of those younger pilgrims\ngathering for departure: \"At the great feast of peace and pardon,\nhumbly confess your sins. Blessed is the firm in faith, he may\nbe absolved through contrition and penance.\"\n\nA ray of hope illumines Tannhaeuser's face. He starts up from his\nknees, and with a wild cry, \"To Rome!\" rushes forth from the Hall.\n\nIII\n\nThe story is taken up again when the valley all green and blossoming\nat our first sight of it has assumed melancholy autumn colours.\nWolfram walking at sunset comes upon Elizabeth prostrate in prayer\nat the foot of the road-side shrine. He watches her with eyes of\nprofoundest compassion. \"Full well did I know that I should find\nher here, as so often I find her, when in lonely wandering I descend\nfrom the wooded heights to the valley. With death in her heart from\nthe blow dealt to her by him, outstretched in burning anguish,\nnight and day she prays--Oh, eternal strength of a holy love!--for\nhis redemption. She awaits the return of the pilgrims from Rome.\nAlready the leaves are falling, their home-coming is at hand. Is\nhe among the pardoned? That is her question, that her continual\nprayer. Oh, if her wound is such as cannot be healed, yet let\nalleviation be vouchsafed to it!\"\n\nThe chant dawns upon the distance of the returning pilgrims. Elizabeth\nrises to her feet, wan and worn and frail. \"It is their song,--they\nare coming home!\" To steady her poor, agitated, failing heart,\nshe calls upon the saints and prays them to instruct her in her\npart, that she may fulfil it worthily.\n\nThe band of pilgrims comes in sight; they pass, as earlier, in\nfront of the image of Mary, lifting their voices in an anthem of\nsolemn joy. Elizabeth looks into the face of every one of them as\nthey pass. They have defiled before her to the last. He is not\namong them.\n\nThey wind their way out of sight, their last Halleluyah dies.\nElizabeth falls at the Virgin's feet, and, with the fervour of one\nwho is praying for very life, prays for death. \"All-powerful Virgin,\nhear my prayer! To thee, favoured among women, I appeal! I bow in the\ndust before thee, oh, take me from this earth! Make me pure and like\nto an angel, fit to enter thy blessed kingdom. If ever, possessed\nby a fond insanity, my heart was turned from thee; if ever a sinful\ndesire, a worldly longing, took root in me,--with a thousand pains\nI have striven to kill it in my heart. But if I cannot wholly atone\nfor that fault, do thou mercifully condescend to me, that I may\nwith humble salutation approach thee, made worthy to become thy\nservant,--only to implore thine intercession rich in grace for\nhis sin, only to implore thine intercession for his sin!\" She is\nvery woman to her last breath, the saint. She has failed on earth\nto gain the coveted sign of pardon for him,--his not returning\nwith the others can only mean that he is not among the pardoned;\nit means perhaps even that he did not accomplish the pilgrimage at\nall.... She renounces him before Heaven, as if by that sacrifice\nto propitiate the powers above, and desires to be given entrance\nthrough death to that higher court where she still may intercede\nfor him,--perhaps, when she is an angel, with better effect. She\nrises from prayer with the appearance of one upon whom already\nthe hand of death is laid. Wolfram, who notes her feeble step and\nbloodless cheek, whose faithful heart understands all, solicitous\nfor her, asks if be may not escort her home. Without speaking, by\ngentle gesture and shake of the head she declines, and he watches\nher solitary figure slowly ascending the path toward the castle,\nuntil it has disappeared from sight.\n\nA mortal sadness is upon him, but a sadness mild as his nature. This\npoet can at the darkest pass still turn his sorrows into song. With\nsong he now tries to administer to his oppressed heart consolation.\nHe feels softly along the strings of his harp. His thoughts are\nfull of Elizabeth, his soul apprehends what journey her soul is\npreparing for. The terror of it, as well as the hope illumining the\ndark way, he sees symbolised in the surrounding darkening scene,\nover which now breaks the light of the evening star. \"Like the\npremonition of death twilight envelops the land, enfolds the valley\nin a dusky garment. The soul, yearning for yonder heights, shrinks\nfrom the journey through night and terrors. Then do you appear, O\nloveliest among the stars! You shed your light afar. Your beloved\nbeams cleave the nocturnal twilight, and benignly you show us the\nway out of the valley.... Oh, you, my sweetly-beaming evening star,\nwhom I have ever greeted so gladly,--do you greet, when she rises\npast you, on her way from the vale of earth to become a blessed\nangel beyond the stars, do you greet her from the heart that has\nnever failed in its truth to her!\" A long time he continues sitting\nin the twilight valley, gazing at the setting star, making his harp\nexpress the emotions he has not the heart any more to formulate\nwith his lips. It grows night, the evening star goes out.\n\nA shape in ragged pilgrim's-garb, supporting itself upon a\npilgrim's-staff, as if walking were scarcely possible without, from\nterrible weariness, approaches the minstrel. \"I heard harp-chords,\"\nthe tottering wayfarer speaks to himself; \"How mournful they sounded!\nHardly might such music come from _her!_\"--\"Who are you, pilgrim,\nwandering thus alone?\" Wolfram addresses the shadowy figure. \"Who\nI am?\" comes the reply, \"And yet I know you well enough. You are\nWolfram, that highly-accomplished minstrel!\"--\"Heinrich!\" cries\nWolfram, not to be mistaken in that mocking voice,--with the scorn\nof which is mingled so much wild bitterness that the hearer is\nmade certain this pilgrim is returned under different conditions\nfrom all the rest. \"Heinrich, you?... What brings you in this\nneighbourhood? Speak! Are you so bold as, unabsolved, to have let\nyour feet take the road to this region?\"--\"Be without fear, my good\nminstrel, I am not come looking for you nor any of your tribe.\nBut I am looking for one who shall show me the road... the road\nwhich of old I found so easily!\"--\"What road do you mean?\"--\"The\nroad to the Hill of Venus!\" Wolfram recoils. \"Do you know that\nroad?\" persists Heinrich. \"Madman! Horror seizes me to hear you!\"\nthe pious knight shudders; \"Where have you been? Tell me, did you\nnot go to Rome?\"--\"Speak not to me of Rome!\"--\"Were you not present\nat the holy festival?\"--\"Speak not of it to me!\"--\"Then you have\nnot been?... Tell me, I conjure you!\" The answer comes, after a\ndark pause, with an effect of boundless bitterness: \"Aye, I too\nwas in Rome!\"--\"Then speak! Tell me of it, unhappy man! I feel a\nvast compassion for you surging within my breast!\" Tannhaeuser in\nthe nigh darkness regards him for a moment with astonishment; he\nspeaks more gently, moved in spite of himself by such gentleness.\n\"What is that you say, Wolfram? Are you not my enemy?\"--\"Never was\nI such--while I believed you pure of purpose! But speak, you went\non the pilgrimage to Rome?\"--\"Well, then,--listen! You, Wolfram,\nshall hear all.\" Exhausted he drops on a projection of rock, but\nwhen Wolfram would seat himself beside him he waives him violently\noff. \"Do not come near me! The place where I rest is accursed!...\nHear, then, Wolfram, hear!\" He had started, he relates, on his\npilgrimage to Rome with such passion of repentance in his heart\nas never penitent felt before. An angel had shattered in him the\npride of sin. For that angel's sake he would do penance with the\nlast humility, seek the salvation he had forfeited,--that the tears\nmight be sweetened which angelic eyes had shed for him, sinner. The\ndevotions, austerities, self-castigations of the other pilgrims\nhad seemed to him all too light. When they trod the greensward, he\nchose flints and thorns; when they refreshed themselves at roadside\nsprings, he absorbed instead the thirst-breeding heat of the sun; when\nthey but prayed, he shed his blood to the praise of the Most High;\nwhen they turned into the shelter of Alpine sanctuaries, he made ice\nand snow his bed; with closed eyes--climax of self-denial!--with\nclosed eyes, that he might not behold the wonder of them, he passed\nunseeing through the lovely plains of Italy! All this because he\nwished to atone to the point of self-annihilation, that the tears\nmight be sweetened of his angel. He had reached Rome, he had bowed\npraying upon the threshold of the holy place. Day had dawned, bells\nwere pealing, heavenly anthems resounding. Then he through whom God\nmanifests Himself to man had passed through the kneeling crowd. He\nhad given absolution, had promised grace, to thousands; thousands\nhe had sent away rejoicing. Tannhaeuser had approached him, had\nknelt in the dust, had confessed the evil joys he had known, the\nterrible craving which no self-mortification had availed yet to\nquiet; he had cried to him, in agony, for deliverance from these\nburning fetters. And the one thus appealed to had pronounced: \"If\nyou have shared in such evil pleasure, inflamed yourself at the\nfire of Hell, if you have sojourned in the Hill of Venus, to all\neternity you are damned! Even as the staff in my hand can never\nmore clothe itself with fresh green, even so can never out of the\nconflagration of Hell redemption blossom for you!\" The pilgrim thus\naddressed had sunk to the earth, annihilated. Consciousness had\nforsaken him. When he awoke, it was night in the deserted square.\nSounds came from the distance of happy hymns of thanksgiving. A\npassion of disgust had seized him for the pious songs; an icy horror\nof their lying promises of redemption. With wild steps he had\nfled,--drawn back to the place where such great joys, such ineffable\ndelight, he had found of old upon _her_ warm breast. \"To you, Venus,\nLady,\"--he cries out in a frenzy of loathing for what lies behind,\nand of longing to escape, \"to you I am come back!--come back to\nyour lovely night of enchantment! Descend will I to your court,\nwhere your beauty shall shine upon me forevermore!\" Wolfram tries\nvainly to stop him. He will not be stopped,--all the more ardently\nhe calls: \"Oh, let me not seek in vain! How easily once did I find\nmy way to you! You have heard that men curse me; now, sweetest\ngoddess, guide me to yourself!... Ha!\" he cries, in a moment, to\nWolfram wrestling all unheeded to turn him from his deadly purpose,\n\"Ha, do you not feel soft gusts of air?... Do you not smell exquisite\nodours?... Do you not hear jubilant music?\" Rosy vapours are rolling\nnear; dancing forms define themselves in the soft increasing glow.\nTannhaeuser madly calls them to him, while struggling to release\nhimself from Wolfram's obstinate hold. \"It is the dancing rout\nof the nymphs! Come hither! Come hither, to pleasure and delight!\nOh, enchantment pervades all my senses, at beholding once more\nthat rosy light of dawn! It is the magic realm of love, we are\nentering into the Hill of Venus!\"--\"Woe!\" shudders Wolfram; \"It is\nevil sorcery unfolding its insidious snares! It is Hell approaching\nat mad career!\"\n\nThe radiant form of Venus appears in the midst of the rosy atmosphere,\nVenus holding out to the recreant knight her perfect arms. \"Welcome,\nfaithless man! Has the world condemned and rejected you? And do you,\nfinding no mercy anywhere, come seeking love now in my arms?\" Wolfram\nspeaks exorcisms rapid and vigorous as he can, while Tannhaeuser\nstretches his hands toward the soft vision: \"Oh, Venus, Lady, rich\nin forbearance! To you, to you I come!\" With tenderest smiles she\nholds forth forgiveness. \"Since you are returned to my threshold,\nyour revolt shall be condoned. The well of joy shall gush for you\nforever, never shall you go from me again!\" With the desperate\ncry: \"All hope of Heaven is lost to me, I choose therefore the\npleasures of Hell!\" Tannhaeuser tears himself free from Wolfram.\nWolfram seizes him again, calling upon the help of the Almighty,\nnot to be thrown off. The battle over Tannhaeuser is hot between\nWolfram and Venus, this one calling him to her, that one physically\nholding him back, while the insensate man orders him off, tries to\nloose himself and rush to her. \"Heinrich, one word--\" Wolfram makes\nthe last appeal; \"One word and you are free! Oh, sinner though you\nbe, you shall yet be saved. An angel prayed for you on earth; ere\nlong, shedding benedictions, she will hover above you... Elizabeth!\"\n\nTannhaeuser had violently wrested himself from Wolfram, but the\nname roots him to the spot. \"Elizabeth!\" It is as if to reach Venus\nnow he must first thrust her aside. The spell of that name changes\nin an instant the current of his being; fills his eyes with a memory\nthat blots out the riot of rose-faces and golden hair toward which\nall his desire had pitched him.\n\nMoving torches spot the darkness of the road winding down from the\nWartburg; voices are heard approaching, chanting a dirge. \"Peace\nto the soul\" the words come floating, \"just escaped from the clay\nof the saintly sufferer!\" Wolfram understands but to well. \"Your\nangel pleads for you now before the throne of God. Her prayer is\nheard. Heinrich, you are saved!\" With a cry of \"Woe! Lost to me!\"\nthe apparition vanishes of Venus and her train; the hill-side\nmysteriously engulfs them.\n\nThe torches flicker nearer, the singing becomes louder. \"Do you hear\nit?\" Wolfram asks of Tannhaeuser, who stands transfixed, corpse-like\nstill and pale and staring. \"I hear it!\" he murmurs in a dying\nvoice.\n\nThe funeral train, pilgrims, nobles, minstrels, Landgrave, descend\ninto the valley chanting their requiem. At a motion of Wolfram's\nthey set down the uncovered bier at the foot of the Virgin's shrine.\nIn the torch-light they recognise the unhappy Tannhaeuser. Seized\nwith pity at sight of his ravaged countenance, \"Holy,\" they sing,\n\"the pure one who now united to the host of Heaven stands before\nthe Eternal. Blessed the sinner over whom she wept, for whom she\nnow implores the salvation of Heaven!\"\n\nShe lies outstretched, still and serene, all white beneath her\nwhite pall. She has saved him, after all,--by dying. Her dead body\nhas barred his way back to Venus. The infinitely-tired and worn\npilgrim, destroyed by the violence of his passions good and bad,\nwith faltering steps,--helped, in the faintness of death upon him,\nby Wolfram,--approaches the white bier. He sinks down beside it,\ngiving up his proud soul in the so humble prayer: \"Sainted Elizabeth,\npray for me!\"\n\nAnd behold, a second band of pilgrims arriving from the Holy City\nannounce a miracle: The dry staff in the Pope's hand, which he had\ndeclared should sooner return to bloom than so black a sinner be\nforgiven, had in the night burst into leaf and blossom; and order\nhad gone forth to proclaim the sign through all lands, that the\nforgiven sinner should learn of it. The company lift their voices\nin awe and exaltation: \"Salvation and grace have been granted to\nthe sinner! He has entered into the peace of the blessed!\"\n\n\nThe warfare between soul and sense is presented by Wagner with\nsingular fairness. The pilgrims' song is very beautiful, and beautiful\nis all the music of good in the opera of Tannhaeuser. The Venus-music\nis certainly equally beautiful; perhaps, to the superficial ear, is\na little more beautiful still: the goddess's own Call, penetrating,\nwonderful; the well-nigh irresistible song of the Sirens. The Bacchic\ndance, which stands we suppose for the animal element in love,\nthe Satyr part in man, is hardly beautiful; yet the love-music\nas a whole, we can concede without difficulty, carries it over\nthe sacred music in beauty of a sort, even as the goddess would\nhave carried off the palm of beauty over the saint. The power of\nthe music of good, as Wagner lets us see, lies just in the fact\nthat it is good; the final victory of the saint in the fact that\nshe is a saint, and that from a mysterious eternal bias of human\nnature man finally must prefer good. He has a soul, he cannot help\nhimself; that, as we have seen, is the secret reason why Venus cannot\nforever completely content him, why the pale hand of the saint,\nbeckoning him at the end of a penitential pilgrimage diversified\nwith every sort of suffering, draws him still on and upward.\n\n\nTHE FLYING DUTCHMAN\n\n\nTHE FLYING DUTCHMAN\n\nI\n\nA Dutch sea-captain, so long before the date of the play that his\nstory at the time of it is an old legend, finding himself baffled\nduring a storm in his effort to double certain cape, swore a great\noath that he would persist to the end of time. The Devil heard\nhim and took him at his word. He was doomed eternally to sail the\nseas. But an angel of the Lord interposed, and obtained for him\na condition of release: Every seven years he might land and woo\na woman; if he could find one to love him faithfully until death,\nthe curse upon him would be defeated, he would be saved.\n\nThe Ouverture paints a great storm at sea, and contrasts the two\nships that are drawing toward the same bay of refuge in the coast,\nthe phantom ship with its crew of ghosts and their sinister sea-cry,\nthe common substantial other craft with its comfortable flesh-and-blood\nsailors.\n\nAs the curtain rises upon the turbulent sea and black weather,\nthe Norwegian vessel has got safely within the haven. While the\nsailors furl sails, cast cables, the captain, Daland, comes ashore\nand climbs upon a rock to study the landscape. He recognises the\nspot, seven miles from the harbour of home where his daughter Senta\nawaits his return, whom he had thought by this hour to be clasping\nin his arms. \"But he who counts upon the wind,\" he philosophises,\n\"is counting upon the mercy of Satan!\" There is nothing to do but\nwait until the storm subsides. He returns on board, sends the tired\ncrew below to rest after their long struggle with the storm, leaves\nthe watch to the mate, and himself retires to the cabin. The mate,\nalone on deck, after going the round, seats himself at the helm.\nThe violence of the storm has somewhat diminished, the sky has\nlightened. To keep awake, he sings,--a love-song, ingenuous as\nsailors are; which does not however fulfil its purpose, for the\nsinger, more and more oppressed with drowsiness, drops off before\nthe last bar.\n\nThe storm once more gathers force, the sky darkens. A ship appears\nin the distance, with blood-red sails and black masts. It rapidly\nnears shore and noiselessly turns into the bay beside Daland's. The\nanchor drops with a crash. The Norwegian mate starts, but, half-blind\nwith sleep, discerning nothing to take alarm at, drops off again.\nWithout a sound the crew of the strange ship furl their sails and\ncoil their ropes. The captain, singularly pale, black-bearded, in\na black Spanish costume of long-past fashion, lands alone. It is\nhe whom ballads call the Flying Dutchman. Seven years have passed\nsince he last touched land. His opportunity has returned, to reach\nout for salvation. He comes ashore wearily, perfunctorily, without\nhope, or doubt but that the ocean will soon be receiving him back\nfor continued desperate wanderings. \"Your cruelty, proud ocean,\"\nhe apostrophises it, \"is variable, but my torment eternal! The\nsalvation which I seek on land, never shall I find it. To you,\nfloods of the boundless main, I shall be found faithful until your\nlast wave break and your last moisture dry!\n\n\"How often--\" he cries, as in fixed despair he gazes back over the\npast, \"How often, filled with longing to die have I cast myself\ninto the deepest abysses of the sea, but death, alas! I could not\nfind! Against the reefs where ships find dreadful burial I have\ndriven my ship, but it found no grave! Inciting him to rage, I have\ndefied the pirate--I hoped to meet with death in fierce battle.\n'Here,' I have cried, 'show your prowess! Full of treasure are\nship and boat! But the wild son of the sea trembling hoisted the\nsign of the cross and fled. Nowhere a grave! Never to die! Such is\nthe dreadful sentence of damnation. Oh, tell me, gentle angel of\nGod's, who won for me the possibility of salvation, was I, wretch,\nthe toy of your mockery when you showed me the means of redemption?\nVain hope! Fearful, idle illusion! There is no such thing more\nupon earth as eternal fidelity, One hope alone is left me, one\nhope alone which nothing can destroy. However long the seed of\nearth endure, it must come to final dissolution. Day of Judgment,\nend of the world! When shall you dawn upon my night? When shall it\nsound, the trump of doom, at which the earth will crumble away?\nWhen all the dead arise, then shall I pass into nothingness. O ye\nworlds, a term to your course! Eternal void, receive me!\" From the\nhold of the phantom-ship the unseen crew echo his prayer: \"Eternal\nvoid, receive us!\"\n\nHe is leaning against a rock, absorbed in sombre meditation, when\nDaland, emerging from the cabin to take a look at the weather,\nbecomes aware of the looming neighbour. He rouses the sleep-drunken\nmate. The latter, shocked wide-awake by the conviction of negligence,\ncatches up a speaking-trumpet and calls to the strange ship lying at\nanchor close by, \"Who is there?\" There comes no sound in reply, save\nfrom the echo. \"Answer!\" shouts the mate; \"Your name and colours!\"\nSilence, as before. \"It appears they are quite as lazy as we!\" Daland\nremarks, finding nothing particularly noteworthy in the unresponse,\nsince his own crew are asleep too after their long toil. Catching\nsight of the dark figure on shore which he rightly takes to be\nthe captain, he prevents the mate's further investigation, and\nturns his questions to this one: \"Halloo, seaman! Give your name!\nYour country?\" The answer comes after a long pause, almost as if\nthe speaker had lost the habit of human intercourse and uttered\nhimself with difficulty. \"I have come from afar. Do you, in such\nstress of weather, deny me anchorage?\"--\"God forbid! The seaman\nknows the friendly courtesies of hospitality!\" cries Daland. Joining\nthe stranger ashore, \"Who are you?\" he asks. \"Hollander.\"--\"God\nbe with you! So you too were driven by the hurricane on to the\nbare rocky coast? I had no better fate. My home is but a few miles\nfrom here; I had nearly reached it when I was forced to turn and\nsail away. Tell me, whence are you come? Has your ship sustained\ndamage?\"--\"My ship is strong, nor likely to meet with damage,\"\nthe Hollande, answers, as drearily as mysteriously; \"Driven by\nstorms and adverse winds I have been wandering over the face of the\nwaters--how long? I hardly could tell. I have long ceased to count\nthe years. I hardly could name all the lands I have approached. One\nland alone, the one which of all I long for, I can never find,--the\nland of home! Grant me for a short period the hospitality of your\nhouse, and you shall not rue the act of friendliness. My ship is\nrichly laden with treasures from every region and latitude. If you\nwill traffic with me, you may be sure of your advantage.\"--\"How\nwonderful!\" says Daland, impressed; \"Am I to take you at your word?\nAn evil star, it would seem, has so far pursued you. I am ready to\ndo what I can to serve you. But--may I ask what is the cargo of\nyour ship?\" The Hollander makes a sign to the watch. His sailors\nbring ashore a chest. \"The rarest treasures you shall see, precious\npearls and noblest gems,\" the stranger speaks to the wide-eyed\nDaland. \"See for yourself, and be convinced of the value of the\nprice I offer for the hospitality of your roof.\" The lid of the\nchest is lifted. Daland stares amazed at the contents. \"What? Is\nit possible? These treasures?--But who is so rich as to have an\nequivalent to tender?\"--\"Equivalent? I have told you--I offer this for\na single night's lodging. What you see, however, is an insignificant\nportion of that which the hold of my ship contains. Of what avail to\nme is the treasure? I have neither wife nor child, and my home I\ncan never find. All my riches I will give you, if you will afford\nme a home with you and yours.\" Daland cannot believe that he hears\naright. \"Have you a daughter?\" inquires the Hollander. \"I have,\nindeed, a most dear child.\"--\"Let her be my wife!\" Again Daland\ncannot believe his ears, cannot be sure whether he is asleep or\nawake. It is suggested later that he cares unduly for wealth; but,\nwithout supposing him avaricious, we can realise how what is offered\nat this moment should seem such to his simple sailor mind that a\nman must be outright mad not to grasp at it for the inconceivable\nhappiness and splendour of himself and house. No flesh-and-blood\ngirl, no daughter of the common fellow he is, can to his mind be a\nreasonable equivalent, really, for the mass of riches proposed in\nexchange for her. Daland nor she had probably in all their lives\nowned a precious stone. And this chest is full to the brim of jewels,\nand that ship contains more still a hundred-fold, and the man asking\nfor his daughter's hand is clearly a hypochondriac, infinitely\nsea-weary, who sees in the prospect of home and settled life the\nwhole desire of his heart, cloyed with riches and sick of wandering.\nIf he, Daland, should hesitate, the suitor might change his mind. As\nfor the daughter, she will either see the thing as he sees it,--how\ncould human woman see it differently?--or, dutiful, will be ruled by\nhis superior wisdom. \"Indeed, stranger, I have a lovely daughter;\ndevoted to me with the most faithful filial love. She is my pride,\nmy highest wealth, my comfort in evil days, my joy in good.\"--\"May\nher love,\" the Hollander exclaims with feeling, \"never fail her\nfather! True to him, she will be true likewise to her husband.\"--\"You\ngive jewels, priceless pearls,\" remarks Daland, with an attempt at\ndignity that does his self-respect good, no doubt, without greatly\nimpressing us, \"but the greatest treasure of all is a faithful\nwife!\"--\"And you will give me such a one?\"--\"You have my word. Your\nfate moves my sympathy. Freehanded as you are, you give assurance of\nmagnanimity and high-mindedness. The like of you I have ever wished\nfor son-in-law, and even were your fortune not so great, I would\nchoose no other.\"--\"My thanks. And shall I see the daughter this very\nday?\"--\"The next favourable wind will take us home. You shall see\nher, and if she pleases you...\"--\"She shall be my wife.--Will she\nprove to be my angel?\" he sighs aside; \"Do I still permit myself\nthe folly of an illusion that an angel's heart will pity me? Hopeless\nas I am, I yet follow the lure of hope!\"\n\n\"The wind is propitious, the sea is calm. We will heave anchor at\nonce, and speedily reach home,\" says Daland. \"If I may beg,--do you\nsail ahead,\" the Hollander suggests. \"The wind is fresh, but my crew\nis spent. I will let them rest awhile and then will follow.\"--\"But\nour wind?\"--\"Will continue for some time blowing from the south. My\nship is swift and will surely overtake yours.\"--\"You believe so?\nVery well! Let it be as you wish. Farewell, and may you meet my\nchild before the end of day!\" The sailors have lifted the anchor\nand set the sails. Daland goes on board. With the crew singing\ncheerily together, the Norwegian ship starts upon the homeward\ncourse. The Hollander returns to his silent deck.\n\nII\n\nThe scene is next laid in the interior of Daland's house, the large\nliving-room, where a flock of girls sit around the fire with their\nspinning-wheels. Beside the maps and pictures of nautical interest\nforming the natural decoration of a sea-captain's house, there\nhangs on the wall the picture of a pale black-bearded man, dressed\nin the Spanish fashion of years long gone.\n\nThe girls are spinning busily, singing while they work. They are\nthe sweethearts of the lads on Daland's ship, and their song is of\nsailors at sea who are thinking of maidens at home, and if diligent\nturning of the spinning-wheel might influence the wind--oh, but\nthey would speedily be back in harbour!\n\nOne only of the young girls in the room is not working; Senta,\nletting her wheel stand idle, leans back abstractedly in a great\narmchair, with her eyes fixed upon the picture of the pale man.\nHer old nurse, Mary, who spins diligently herself and keeps the\nrest at their task, chides her, not very severely, for her idleness.\nThe girls in their song have been felicitating themselves that if\nthey are zealous at their spinning their lovers will give them\nthe golden earnings they bring home from the south. \"You naughty\nchild,\" Mary says to Senta, at the end of the song, \"if you do\nnot spin, you will receive no present from your _Schatz!_\" Senta's\ncompanions laugh at this. \"There is no need for her to hurry. Her\nsweetheart is not out at Sea. He brings home no gold, he brings home\ngame. Everyone knows in what the fortune of a huntsman consists!\"\nSenta does not stir; it is doubtful if she have heard. Without\nremoving her eyes from the picture of the pallid man, she hums\nsoftly to herself certain fragment of old ballad. \"Look at her!\"\nthe nurse takes fuller account of her attitude and abstraction;\n\"Look at her! Always in front of that picture! Do you intend to\ndream away your whole young life before that portrait?\" Senta answers\ngently, still without taking her eyes from the pale face: \"Why\ndid you tell me who he is, and relate his story?... The unhappy\nsoul!\" At the heavily burdened sigh upon which she utters the last\nwords, \"God have you in His care!\" exclaims Mary, vaguely troubled.\nBut the girls, who are in merry mood, laugh again. \"Why, why, what\nis that we hear? She sighs for the pale man! There you see what a\npicture can do. She is in love. Please Heaven no mischief result!\nErik is somewhat hot of temper. Please God he do no damage! Say\nnot a word, else, aflame with wrath, he may shoot the rival from\nthe wall!\" Their chatter finally reaching her consciousness, Senta\nturns to them, annoyed. \"Oh, keep still! Stop your silly laughing!\nDo you wish to make me really cross?\" Further to tease her, they\ndrown her voice with the refrain of their spinning-song: \"Mutter\nand hum, good little wheel, cheerily, cheerily turn! Spin, spin a\nthousand threads, good little wheel, mutter and hum!\"--\"Do stop that\nfoolish song,\" begs Senta, \"my ears are dazed with your muttering\nand humming. If you wish me to attend, find something better to\ndo!\"--\"Very well,\" say the girls, \"then sing yourself!\" As a bird\nto the nest, Senta returns to the subject engrossing her mind.\n\"Hear what I suggest: let Mary sing us the ballad.\" All understand\nwhat ballad is meant. \"God forbid!\" cries the nurse; \"It is likely\nI will do it! Children, let the Flying Dutchman rest!\"--\"Yet how\noften have I heard the ballad from you!\" sighs Senta; and, as the\nnurse continues obdurate, \"I will sing it myself,\" she decides,\n\"and do you girls listen. Could I but bring home to your hearts\nthe wretchedness of the poor soul's fate, it could not fail to\nmove you to compassion!\" The girls accept the offer with delight,\npush aside their spinning-wheels and gather around the singer.\nOnly the old nurse, whose instinct has somehow caught alarm, and\nwho has conceived a curious dislike and fear of this pallid hero\nof legend, refuses her countenance and testily goes on spinning\nby herself in the chimney-corner.\n\n\"Have you met the ship on the seas,\" sings Senta, \"blood-red of\nsail and black of mast? Upon the high deck, the pale man, the ship's\nmaster, keeps incessant watch.--Hui! How the wind blows! Yohohey!--Hui!\nHow it sings in the stays! Yohohey!--Hui! Like an arrow flies the\nship, without stop, without rest! Yet might deliverance one day\ncome to the pale man, could he find a woman upon earth who should\nlove him faithfully until death. Oh, when, pale sea-farer, when\nshall you find her? Pray to Heaven that a woman soon may keep her\ntroth to him!\n\n\"With contrary wind, in the rage of the storm, he determined to\ndouble a cape. He cursed and swore in mad mood: 'Not to all eternity\nwill I desist!'--Hui! And Satan heard it. Yohohey!--Hui! Took him\nat his word. Yohohey!--Hui! And now, a lost soul, he sails the\nseas, without stop, without rest. How the unhappy man, however,\nmight find deliverance upon earth, an angel of the Lord showed\nhim,--how he might earn eventual salvation. Oh, that you might,\npale sea-farer, find it! Pray to Heaven that a woman soon may keep\nher troth to him!\n\n\"He casts anchor every seven years, and to woo a woman comes ashore.\nBut never yet has he found a faithful one.--Hui! Spread the sails!\nYohohey!--Hui! Lift the anchor! Yohohey!--Hui! False love, false\ntroth! Back to sea, without stop, without rest!...\" Senta who has\nbeen singing with a spirit and expressiveness full unusual as applied\nto a threadbare old ballad, has at this point reached such a pitch of\nemotion that her voice fails and she sinks in her chair exhausted.\nThe girls, whom her earnestness has impressed into a realisation of\nthe facts sung by her, who have for a moment had through her eyes\nthe vision of that lost soul's wretchedness, take up the ballad\nwhere she drops it, and sing on in tones which confess the contagion\nof her sympathy: \"Ah, where tarries she, to whom God's angel might\nguide you? Where shall you find her who will be your own true and\nloyal love until death?\" With an air of illumination, Senta starts\nto her feet and finishes the song with words which rise inspired\nto her lips: \"Let me be that woman! My truth shall work your\ndeliverance! God's angel guide you to me! Through me you shall\nreach salvation!\" She speaks so passionately, appears so strangely,\nthat her companions feel a sort of puzzled alarm. The old nurse,\nfrightened, rushes to her side with the cry: \"Heaven help us!\"\nand all together they try to bring her to her normal self, calling\nin tones of protest, \"Senta! Senta!\"\n\nUnnoticed of the rest, Erik, the huntsman, has during the last\nmoments been standing in the doorway. He has heard Senta's exclamation,\nwitnessed her strange condition, and affected by it differently\nfrom all the others cries, heart-struck, \"Senta, Senta, are you\ndetermined to destroy me?\"--\"Oh, help us, Erik,\" the others appeal\nto him; \"She is out of her senses!\" The nurse, who has felt her\nblood unaccountably running chill, turns angrily to the picture\non the wall: \"Abominable picture, out of the house you shall go\njust as soon as the father comes home!\"--\"The father has arrived,\"\nErik informs them; \"From the cliff I saw his ship come in.\" All\nminds veer promptly from the subject which had been engrossing\nthem, to this delightful one of the arrival. The girls are for\nrunning to the harbour upon the instant. Mary prevents them. \"Stop!\nStop! You shall remain quietly at home. The sailor-folk will be\narriving with hollow stomachs. To the kitchen and cellar! No time\nto waste! Let curiosity torment you as it may, first of all go\nand do your duty!\" She drives them before her from the room, and\nfollows.\n\nSenta is going, too, but Erik bars the way, pleading, \"Stay, Senta,\nstay for a moment! Release me from this torture--or, if you will,\ndestroy me quite!\" She affects, as the simplest girl must, not to\nunderstand. \"Erik, what is it?\"--\"Oh, Senta, speak, say what is\nto become of me! Your father is coming home. Before starting upon\na new voyage, he is sure to wish to carry out what he so often\nhas spoken of...\"--\"And what is that?\"--\"To give you a husband.\nMy heart with its unchanging love, my humble fortune, my hunter's\nluck, these things being all I have to offer, will not your father\nrepulse me? And if my heart breaks with its misery, tell me, Senta,\nwho is there will speak a word for me?\" He pleads warmly, young Erik;\nhe is at that age and point in life when not to obtain the woman he\nhas set his heart upon seems a calamity such as will extinguish\nthe sun, make the rest of life worthless; when refusal signifies\ndestruction, and he is not ashamed of this as a weakness, but proud\nof it as a strength, and uses it as the most pertinent argument,\nand feels no abjectness in confessing himself at the mercy of a\ngirl, a toy in her frail hands. He is the only lover of this type\nin the Wagnerian assortment, and, it happens, the only one who\nfails. Senta, we are permitted to divine, had not always felt as\nremoved from him as at this moment. It is but lately, no doubt,\nwith the turning perhaps of her seventeenth year, at some fuller\nopening into womanhood, that her romantic dream has taken such\npossession of her, and his warm-blooded urgent love become something\nto withdraw from, without clearly formulated reason, by an instinct.\nShe tries now to silence him, to put him off with the excuse that\nshe must hurry to her father. But he is not to be put off. To detain\nher, he reproaches. \"You wish to avoid me!\"--\"I must go to the\nharbour!\"--\"You shrink from me?\"--\"Oh, let me go!\"--\"You shrink\nfrom the wound which yourself you made, the madness of love you\ninspired? Oh, you shall hear me in this hour, shall hear the last\nquestion I will ask. When my heart is breaking with anguish, will not\nSenta herself speak a word for me?\" She applies herself then to quiet\nand comfort such evident suffering; he is after all flesh-and-blood\nand close at hand, the other a dream. Her sentiments besides are\nnot very clear even to herself. \"Do you doubt my heart?\" she asks\nreassuringly; \"Do you doubt that it is full of kindness toward\nyou? What is it, tell me, makes you so unhappy? What suspicion\ndarkens your mind?\"--\"Oh, your father's heart is set upon riches.\nAnd you, Senta, how should I count upon you? Do you ever grant\none of my requests? Do you not daily hurt and afflict my\nheart?\"--\"Afflict your heart?...\" she asks in wonder. \"What am I\nto think?\" he goes on to show the jealous core of his unhappiness;\n\"That picture...\"--\"What picture?...\"--\"Will you renounce your\nextravagant imaginings?\"--\"Can I keep from my face the compassion\nI feel?\"--\"And that ballad... you sang it again to-day.\"--\"I am a\nchild,\" she excuses herself, \"and sing I know not what! Are you afraid\nof a song, a picture?\"--\"You are so pale!\" he replies, studying her\nface dubiously; \"Tell me, have I no reason to be afraid?\"--\"Should\nI not be moved by the terrible doom of that unhappiest man?\"--\"But\nmy sufferings, Senta, do they no longer move you?\"--\"Oh, vaunt not\nyour sufferings!\" she cries, almost impatiently; \"What can your\nsufferings be? Do you know what the fate is of that poor soul?\" She\ndraws him before the picture, and while indicating it to him gazes\nraptly at it herself; \"Can you not feel the woe, the inexpressible\ndeep misery in the eyes which he turns upon me? Oh, the calamity\nwhich robbed him eternally of rest, the sense of it pierces my\nheart!\" Veritable alarm seizes Erik at the earnestness she exhibits,\nan alarm to something more vital even than his alert jealousy, a\nterrible fear for her as apart from himself. \"Woe's me!\" he exclaims,\n\"I am reminded of my ill-boding dream! God have you in his care,\nSatan has cast his toils about you!\"--\"What frightens you so?\"\nshe asks wearily. It is as if excess of emotion had brought on an\nimmense fatigue; she sinks exhausted in the grand-sire's chair.\n\"Let me tell you of it, Senta. It is a dream, hear and be warned\nby it.\" She leans back with closed eyes, and as he narrates it is\nas if having fallen asleep she saw in dream what he describes.\n\"Upon the high cliff I lay dreaming. Beneath me I saw the expanse\nof the sea; I could hear the surf where it breaks foaming against\nthe beach. I espied a foreign ship close to shore, a strange ship,\nextraordinary. Two men drew toward land. One of them, I saw it,\nwas your father.\"--\"And the other?\" she asks, like a somnambulist,\nwithout opening her eyes. \"I recognised him well enough, with his\nblack doublet and pale face....\"--\"And his mournful glance....\"\nshe adds, still with closed eyes. Erik points at the picture: \"The\nsea-man there.\"--\"And I?...\" she asks. \"You came out of the house.\nYou ran to meet your father. But hardly had you reached the pair,\nwhen you cast yourself at the feet of the stranger. I saw you clasp\nhis knees....\" \"He lifted me....\"--\"To his breast. Passionately\nyou clung to him, and kissed him ardently....\"--\"And then?\" He\ngazes at her with a sort of terror, as at something unnatural, in\nher appearance of sleep. \"I saw you fly together over the sea.\"\nShe seems to wake with a start. \"He is looking for me!\" she cries\nin tones of extraordinary conviction, \"I shall see him! My destiny\nit is to perish with him!\" Erik recoils: \"Horrible! Ha, I see it\nfull plainly at last, she is gone from me! My dream boded true!\" In\nuncontrollable despair he flees from the house. Senta, her excitement\ngradually dying, remains gazing at the picture. She is murmuring\nsoftly to herself the burden of the ballad: \"Ah, may you, pale\nsea-farer, find her! Pray to Heaven that a woman soon may keep her\ntroth to him!\"--when the door opens and Daland and the Hollander\nappear at the threshold. Serita's eyes turn from the picture to\nthe stranger entering. A cry escapes her lips and her eyes fasten\non his face. His eyes, too, as he slowly steps into the room, bend\nsteadfastly upon hers. They gaze as if the same spell had fallen\nupon both.\n\nThe father, after a moment watching from the doorway, waiting for\nhis daughter to run as usual to greet him, speaks, not altogether\ndispleased: \"My child, you see me standing at the door, and, what is\nthis? No embrace? No kiss? You stand in your place as if bewitched?\nDo I deserve, Senta, such a welcome?\"--\"God be with you!\" she murmurs\nfaintly, and, as he comes nearer, asks underbreath, without removing\nher eyes from the figure--the counterpart of the picture on the\nwall, \"Father, speak, who is the stranger?\" The father smiles: \"You\nare eager to know? My child, give kind welcome to the stranger. A\nsea-man he is, like myself, and solicits our hospitality. Homeless\nfor long years, incessantly bound on long voyages, in far-off lands\nhe has gathered vast treasures. An exile from home, he offers rich\ncompensation for a place at the fireside. Speak, Senta, should you\nbe sorry that the stranger should dwell with us?\" To the Hollander,\nwhile the daughter without a word's reply continues in her fixed\ncontemplation of his face, he speaks aside: \"Tell me, did I praise\nher too highly? Now you see her in person, does she rightly please\nyou? Must I add more still to my overflowing praise? Confess that she\nis an ornament to her sex!\" The Hollander answers by an expressive\ngesture, his eyes fast all the while upon the maiden's face. The\nfather turns anew to the daughter, and, without further preamble:\n\"My child, let it please you to show favour to this man. He requests\na goodly gift from your heart. Reach him your hand, for he shall\nbe your bridegroom. If you are of a like mind with your father,\nto-morrow he shall be your husband.\" She shrinks, painfully, at\nthis bluntness and precipitancy. The father, not noticing, unpockets\njewels to show her. \"Look at this circlet, behold these clasps.\nThe sum of his possessions makes these the merest trifle. How,\nmy precious child, should you not care for them? And it will all\nbe yours for the exchanging of rings with him. But... neither of\nyou speaks....\" He looks at them in turn. They have neither heeded\nnor heard, they are lost in contemplation of each other. \"Am I in\nthe way?\" They do not hear that either. \"I clearly am,\" he says\nto himself. \"The best will be to leave them alone together.\" With a\nparting private word to the daughter: \"May you win this noble man!\nBelieve me, such good fortune is not common!\" and to the Dutchman:\n\"I leave you to yourselves, and betake myself away. Believe me, fair\nas she is, she is no less true than fair!\" he discreetly withdraws.\n\nThe strange predestined lovers stand for long moments steadily\ngazing at each other, almost unconsciously, without motion to draw\nnearer--or further apart. Each of them voices his thoughts, not\nspeaking to the other, but, dreamily, to himself. He murmurs: \"As\nif out of the distance of long-past days speaks to me the semblance\nof this maiden. Even such as through dread eternities I dreamed\nher, I behold her now here before my eyes. From the black depths\nof my night I too have ventured to raise my longing eyes upon a\nwoman. Satan's malice left me a living heart, alas, that I might\nnever lose consciousness of my torment. The sullen glow which I\nfeel burning in my breast, should I, unhappy man, call it love?\nAh, no, the longing it is for redemption! Oh, might redemption be\nmy portion through such an angel as she is!\" And she speaks, to\nherself, half-aloud: \"Have I sunk into a wonderful dream? Is this\nwhich I see an illusion? Or have I until this moment lived in a\nworld of dream, and is this the day of awakening? He stands before\nme, his features stamped with sorrow. His unparalleled sufferings\nsilently call to me. Can the voice of deepest pity deceive? As\nI have so often beheld him he stands before me now. This sorrow\nwhich burns within my bosom, this going out of desire toward him,\nwhat must I call it? Oh, that the salvation which he goes seeking\nwithout rest might reach the unhappy man through me!\"\n\nHe moves a little nearer to her at last, and asks with the simplicity\nand sincerity which befit the hour so fraught with fate, \"Will you\nnot reject your father's choice? That which he promised--what?\nshall it hold good? Could you forever give yourself to me? You\ncould hold out your hand to the stranger? I might, after a life of\ntorment, find in your truth the long craved-for peace?\" She answers\nupon the instant, singularly sure of her heart: \"Whoever you may be,\nand whatever ruin your cruel fate reserve for you, and whatever\nthe destiny I thereby call upon myself, my obedient duty shall ever\nbe to my father's wish.\"--\"What, so unconditionally? My sorrows,\nis it possible, have moved you to such deep compassion?\"--\"Sorrows\nhow measureless!\" she exclaims to herself. \"Oh, might I bring you\nconsolation for those!\" And he, overhearing: \"Oh, gentlest sound\nthrough the warring darkness! An angel are you! The love of an angel\ncan still the pain even of lost souls! If I may hope for salvation,\nAlmighty, let it be through this angel!\" But in the uplift of hope\nreviving, a remembrance gives him pause,--remembrance of the whole\ncondition of his deliverance; and, a strain of solemnity mingling\nwith his grateful tenderness, he warns her: \"Could you apprehend\nthe fate which, in belonging to me, with me you must share, you\nwould pause to consider the sacrifice you bring in vowing to be\ntrue. Your youth would flee shuddering at prospect of the fate to\nwhich you would have doomed it, if the fairest virtues of womankind,\nif sacred fidelity and truth, be not yours.\" She replies with no\nless assurance than before, and her air of exalted inspiration:\n\"Well do I know the high duties of woman. Be comforted, unhappy man!\nLet fate do justice of those who defy her decree. In my soul is\nwritten the supreme law of truth, and unto him to whom I pledge my\nfaith this one truth it is which I give: Truth until death!\"\n\nLike balm the words fall upon his wounded spirit. The powers of\ndarkness, it seems, are to be defeated; the evil star, it seems,\nhas set and the star of hope arisen. \"Ye angels,\" he calls to them,\n\"who had quite forsaken me, confirm her heart in its constancy!\"\nAnd she, her heavenly pity prays: \"Let him have reached home at\nlast! Let his ship rest here eternally in port!\"\n\nDaland re-enters. \"By your leave, my people outside can hardly\nwait. Upon each home-coming, you must know, we hold a merry-making.\nI would fain add to the cheer of the feast, and am come, with that\nin mind, to ask if it might not be I made into a betrothal feast?--As\nfar as I see,\" he turns to the Hollander, \"you have wooed to your\nheart's purpose?--And you, my child,\" to Senta, \"are you ready,\ntoo?\" Senta with solemn resolution reaches her hand to the Dutchman.\n\"Here is my hand, and here, never to repent it, I plight my troth\nuntil death!\" The Hollander, taking her hand, cries defiance to\nthe mockery of Hell through this fast truth of hers. At Daland's\nsummons thereupon, \"To the feast, and let every one to-day make\nmerry!\" the three turn to go and take share--even, incredibly,\nthe Dutchman,--in legitimate human rejoicings.\n\nIII\n\nClose by Daland's house lies the rock-bound bay into which his ship\nand the Dutchman's have come to anchor. The two crafts are seen in\nthe clear night, lying at a short distance from each other, hard by\nthe shore. The Norwegian is brightly illuminated, the sailors are\non deck making holiday. The Hollander presents a striking contrast:\nnot a light does it show, not a sound issues from it; it looms\nshadowy and forbidding.\n\n\"Steersman, leave the watch!\" sing the roistering Norway lads;\n\"Furl the sails! Anchor fast! Come along, steersman! No wind is\nthere to fear nor adverse coast, and we mean to be right jolly.\nEach of us has a sweetheart on shore, excellent tobacco and superior\nbrandy-wine. Rocks and storms are far outside, we laugh at rocks\nand storms! Steersman, come and drink!\" They dance on deck, marking\ntime with their heavy boots.\n\nFrom Daland's house comes the bevy of girls we know, laden with\ngenerous baskets of food and drink. Finding their sweethearts so\nmerrily employed, \"Just look at them!\" they say; \"As we live, they\nare dancing! The ladies do certainly seem superfluous!\" With a\nplayful feint of pique they pass without further notice the lighted,\nnoisy ship, and go toward the Hollander, whose blood-tinted sails\nand black masts form but a grim silhouette against the star-sown\nsky. \"Hi, girls,--stop! Where are you going?\" the simple-minded\nsailors cry after them. But the girls do not abandon their small\nvengeance of serving the strangers first. \"You have a mind to fresh\nwine, have you not? And is not your neighbour to have something too?\nAre the liquor and the feast to be solely for you?\" The young mate\nrises to the occasion and has a fling at these suddenly-instituted\nrivals: \"Indeed, indeed, take something, do, to the poor lads. They\nappear to be quite faint with thirst!\" All turn their attention\nsquarely now to the foreign ship and take account of the strangeness\nof its conditions. \"Not a sound on board! And see, not a light! No\nsign of the crew!\"--\"Halloo, sea-folk!\" the maidens shout, \"Halloo!\nDo you need lights? Where are you? We cannot see....\"--\"Don't wake\nthem,\" chaff the Norwegians, \"they are still asleep!\" The girls\ngo close to the ship and shout again. \"Halloo, sea-folk! Halloo,\nanswer!\" There is along silence. The sailor-lads have the laugh now\non the girls. \"Ha, ha! In very truth, they are dead. They are in no\nneed of food and drink.\" But the girls will not accept their defeat.\n\"What?\" they continue calling to the invisible Dutch crew; \"Are you\nso lazy as to have gone already to bed? Is it not holiday-time for\nyou, too?\"--\"They lie fast in their lairs,\" jest the Norwegians;\n\"like dragons they guard their treasure!\"--\"Halloo, sea-folk!\"\npersist the girls; \"Do you not wish for golden wine? Surely you\nare thirsty?\"--\"They do not care to drink, they do not care to\nsing,\" the sailor-lads tease; \"there is no light burning in all\ntheir ship!\"--\"Say,\" the girls continue addressing the unresponding\ncrew, \"have you no sweethearts on land? Do you not wish to come\nand dance on the friendly shore?\"--\"They are already old, they are\npale instead of ruddy,\" put in the sailors, \"and their sweethearts,\nthey are dead!\"--\"Halloo!\" the girls call louder, \"Seafolk, wake\nup! We are bringing you food and drink to heart's content!\" The\nsailors good-humouredly unite in chorus: \"They are bringing you\nfood and drink to heart's content!\" Another long pause, unbroken\nby the faintest sound from the Dutch ship. The girls are becoming\nuneasy. \"It is a fact,\" they speak lower, struck; \"They seem to\nbe all dead. They do not need food and drink.\" But the boys feel\njollier than ever. \"You have heard of the Flying Dutchman,\" they\ncry, by way of wild joke; \"His ship, big as life and true to life,\nyou behold there!\"--\"Then don't wake the crew!\" say the girls; \"They\nare ghosts, we could swear!\" The sailor-lads take their turn now\nshouting questions, humourously intended, at the sombre hull: \"How\nmany hundreds of years have you already been at sea? Storm and rocks\nhave no terrors for you! Have you no letters, no commissions for\nshore? We will see that they come to our great-great-grandfathers'\nhands!\" In the extravagance of fun, finally, raising their voices\nto the very loudest, \"Halloo, sea-folk!\" they cry; \"Spread your\nsails! Give us a specimen of the Flying Dutchman's speed!\" At the\nprolonged silence following, the girls shrink away, at last really\nfrightened. \"They do not hear. It makes our flesh creep. They do\nnot want anything. Why do we continue to call?\"--\"That is it, you\ngirls,\" the sailors heartily agree, \"let the dead rest in peace! And\nlet us who are alive be happy!\" The girls hand up to them the savoury\nbaskets. \"There, take, since your neighbours disdain it.\"--\"But\nwhat? Are you not coming on board yourselves?\" inquire the sailors,\nwhen the girls do not as expected follow. It is early still; they\nwill return a little later, they promise, Till then let the boys\ndrink and dance, but be careful not to disturb the repose of their\nweary neighbours!\n\nWhen the girls have returned to the house, the sailors open the\nhampers and lustily fall to, casting playful thanks to those dumb\nneighbours for this double share of victuals and wine. In the lightness\nof their hearts they sing, and to the verses of their rollicking\n\"Steersman, leave the watch!\" clash their goblets noisily together.\n\nAbsorbed in their carousal, they have not remarked a beginning of\nmovement on the ship close by and in the water immediately around\nit. This rises and falls in a mysterious violent swell, which rocks\nthe awakening ship, while the rest of the sea is calm. Storm-wind\nwhistles and howls among the rigging, though the night elsewhere is\nstill and bright. Livid fire flares up in the place of the watch-light,\nbringing into distinctness the black cordage and spectral crew. The\nlatter seem to come to life in the weird illumination, and with\nhollow voices suddenly entone a sea-song of strange intervals and\ncadences, disquieting to ears of warm flesh and blood. \"Yohohey!\nYohohohey!--Huissa! The storm drives us to land!--Huissa! Sail\nin! Anchor loose!--Huissa! Run into the bay!--Black captain, go\nashore! Seven years are over, sue for the hand of a golden-haired\nmaiden. Golden-haired maiden, be true to him, be true! Cheerily,\ncheerily, bridegroom, today! The storm-wind howls wedding-music, the\nocean dances to the tune.--Hui! Hark! His whistle sounds. Captain,\nare you back again?--Hui! Hoist the sail! Your bride, say, where\nis she?--Hui! Off, to sea! Captain, captain, you have no luck in\nlove! Ha, ha, ha! Blow, storm-wind, howl away! No damage can you\ndo to our sails! Satan has charmed them, they will not rend in\nall eternity!\"\n\nThe Norwegian sailors, suspending their own clamour, have looked\nand listened in an increasing wonder, which gradually turns to\nhorror. To overcome the superstitious fear they frankly own to,\nthey start singing together with all their might, to drown their\nterror as well as the voices of the rival singers. The two sharply\ncontrasting sea-songs strive one against the other for a few moments,\nthen the Norwegians, giving up the contention, retire from deck to the\nlast man, tremulously making the sign of the cross. As they disappear\nbelow, the Dutchmen break into a fearful yell of derision,--and\ninstantly darkness and complete silence reinvade the ship, while\nperfect calm falls upon the sea. For a long interval the scene\nso crowded and noisy a moment before, remains empty and still.\n\nSenta comes hurriedly from the house, followed by Erik, both in\ngreat agitation. He has learned of her betrothal to the stranger.\n\"What have I heard?\" he cries in incredulous anguish; \"O God, what\nhave I seen? Is it a delusion? Can it be truth? Can it be fact?\"--\"Ask\nnot, Erik,\" she falters, in anguish, too; \"I must not answer.\"--\"Just\nGod! There can be no doubt of it. It is truth! What unholy power\nswept you along? What force so quickly prevailed with you to make\nyou break this devoted heart? Was it your father? Ha, he brought\nthe bridegroom home with him. I recognised him. I forboded what\nis coming to pass. But you? Is it possible? You give your hand\nto the man who has hardly more than crossed your doorstep?\"--\"Oh,\nsay no more!\" pleads the girl, torn by the sight of his sorrow,\nand her necessity to refuse the only possible comfort, \"Be silent!\nI must! I must!...\"--\"Oh, that docility, blind as your act!\" he\nraves; \"You were glad, at a beck from your father, to follow. With\na blow you crush the life out of my heart!\"--\"No more! No more!\"\nshe tries to stop him; \"I must not see you again, must not think of\nyou. High duty commands it!\"--\"What high duty? Is it not a higher\nduty still to observe that which you once swore to me,--eternal\nconstancy?\"--\"What?...\" she cries, in utmost dismay; \"You say that\nI swore eternal constancy to you?\"--\"Oh, Senta,\" he goes on, subdued\nby her shocked amazement, sorrowfully to explain the simple rhetoric\nof his misstatement, \"will you deny it? Do you refuse to remember\nthat day when you called me to you in the valley? When in order to\ngather the upland flowers for you I endured dangers and labours\ninnumerable? Do you remember how from the steep rocks on the shore\nwe watched your father departing? He sailed upon the white-winged\nship, and confided you to my care. When your arm encircled my neck,\ndid you not own once more your love for me? That which thrilled me\nat the pressure of your hand, tell me, was it not the assurance\nof your constancy?\"\n\nUnseen of the two, for the moment so absorbed in each other, the\nHollander has come from the house. He has been standing near enough\nto overhear Erik's last sentences; the significance of these seems\nscarcely ambiguous, his inference is natural. It is a lovers' meeting\nwhich he has chanced upon. Whatever her reasons for accepting him,\nthe Hollander,--it is clear that this young huntsman has a claim on\nthe girl who declared so glibly that the law of truth was written\nin her soul.\n\nThe two are interrupted by a wail. \"Lost! Oh, lost! To all eternity\nlost!\" They turn and start in horror at sight of the Hollander.\n\"Farewell, Senta,\" he cries, and with the precipitation of despair\nis making straight for the boundless deep. Senta throws herself\nacross his path. \"Stay, O unfortunate!\" But the Hollander pushes\npast. \"To sea! To sea! To sea until the end of time!--It is at an\nend with your truth! At an end with your truth and my salvation!\nFarewell, I would not bring about your ruin!\" Erik, catching sight\nof his face, the face of a lost soul, shudders at the measureless\nwoe in his eyes. \"Stay,\" Senta implores, \"stay, you shall never\ndepart!\" Disregarding her, the Hollander blows a shrill note on\nhis whistle and shouts to his crew: \"Hoist sail! Lift anchor! For\never and ever bid farewell to the land!\"\n\nThere is struggle for a long moment among the three: hers to prevent\nthe Hollander; Erik's to keep back her, caught, as he believes, in\nthe claws of Satan; the Hollander's to leave. Since her faith is\nturned to mockery, he, forced to doubt her, has fallen to doubting\nGod himself. There is no faith more on earth. Away, then, forever\naway! \"Learn the fate from which I save you!\" he finally turns\nto her, as if softened by her pleading to the point of wishing\nher to know that he leaves not in hate and anger, but very pity\nfor her feminine frailty; and he states plainly the threatening\nfate of which we heard him give but a warning before. \"Condemned\nam I to the most dreadful of dooms. Tenfold death would be to me\nyearned-for bliss. A woman alone can deliver me, a woman who shall\nkeep her faith to me even until death. You, it is true, had sworn\ntruth to me, but not as yet before the Almighty, and that it is\nwhich saves you. For know, unhappy woman, the fate which overtakes\nher who breaks her vow of eternal constancy to me: Everlasting\ndamnation is her portion. Innumerable have been the victims already,\nthrough me, of that dread sentence. But you--you shall be saved.\nFarewell, then, and farewell, to all time, salvation!\" Again he\nturns shoreward. \"Indeed, indeed, I know you,\" Senta follows still;\n\"Full well I know your fate. From the first moment of seeing you\nI knew you. The end is at hand of your torture! I am she through\nwhose fidelity you shall find salvation!\"\n\nErik, in terror for Senta, has called wildly toward the house,\ntoward the ship, for help to save her. Daland, Mary, and the young\ngirls have come hurrying from the house, the Norwegian sailors\nfrom the ship. \"No, no, you know me not!\" the Hollander is saying;\n\"No suspicion have you who I am! Inquire of the seas of every zone,\ninquire of the seaman overscoring the main--Behold\"--he points\nat the ship whose blood-red sails are set and whose ghastly crew\nshow uncannily active in preparations for departure; \"Behold and\nrecognise this ship, terror of every pious soul.... The Flying\nDutchman I am called!\"\n\nWith lightning rapidity he has gone aboard. Instantly the weird\nship is under way and amid the cavernous Yohohoes of its seamen\nmaking for the open sea.\n\nSenta struggles to follow. Her father, Erik, her nurse, all forcibly\nhold her back. But she is suddenly stronger than them all. She\ntears herself free and rushing from them climbs a rock projecting\ninto the deep water. With all her strength she calls after the\ndeparting Hollander, \"Praise be to your angel and his decree! Here\nam I, faithful to you until death!\" and springs into the sea.\n\nUpon the instant, the red-sailed ship, with all its crew, sinks. A\ngreat wave heaves high and falls again eddying, burying the whole.\nAbove the drifting wreckage, in the rosy light, fore-shine of sunrise,\nare seen the transfigured and glorified forms of Senta and the\nHollander rising from the sea, clasped in each others' arms, and\nfloating heavenward.\n\n\nWe are always touched in this old world of daily wickedness and\npettiness to come upon stories which seem statements of a popular\nineradicable assurance that love has power to save. It is perhaps\noftenest the love of a woman, clinging pertinaciously to her affection;\nbut there are legends, too, of men,--who do not save, however, that\nwe remember, by long fidelity, but by ardour rather in overcoming\nobstacles. They kiss the fair enchanted one in the form of a hideous\ndragon and she is restored to beauty. One sees the simple philosophy\nof such folk-tales. The evil doom is usually the punishment for\nsin. The one who loves the person so doomed is innocent. If then\nshe makes the fate of the sufferer her own, she suffers unjust\npunishment, and God, who inclines to mercy, must sooner pardon the\nsinner for her sake than condemn the innocent.","title":"The Wagnerian Romances","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":126860}