THE FIGHT OF SIEGMUND
Swiftly came Sieglinde up the rocky path, and Siegmund followed hard
after her, bidding her rest and not fare so wildly on; for after that
the spell of spring and of love had so wrought within her that she
recked nothing of leaving the house and hearth of Hunding, and the
transport and sweet madness of her love had been fulfilled, horror
and dread had seized the woman's heart, and she was distraught with
unspeakable dismay at her wild adventure. Then had she risen up from
his side in the middle of the spring night, even while he, filled
full of love, was sleeping, to escape from what she had done. But at
her stirring he had awoke, and through the hours betwixt that and day
had he followed after her, she still flying from him through field
and forest. For at first on that evening of yesterday, which in the
morning's light seemed to her so long ago, the torrent of her love had
carried her unthinking, but now it seemed to her that her deed was
altogether unholy. Utterly had she loved the man, and utterly was his
love hers, and so great was the might of that and the transport of its
power, that in its first outpouring it seemed to her that all else was
of no import beside it. But afterwards she had thought on what she had
done, and shame and horror burned within her with as fierce a flame.
Loveless had her marriage with Hunding been, yet marriage it was,
and hallowed by the ordinance of the gods. But this was lawlessness
incarnate, and unnatural wedlock. Yet in her woman's heart she blamed
Siegmund not at all; the blame in her mind was wholly hers. She had
brought shame on herself, but that was a small thing compared to the
shame in which she had made him a partaker.
But now for very weariness her limbs could bear her no further, and
at the top of the rocky path nigh to where Wotan and Brunnhilde had
sat that night, she faltered, and it was his arm that saved her from
falling.
"Wait, wait," he whispered. "Speak to me, and let us have done with
this dumbness of fear. Thou art safe; my arm encompasseth thee; there
is no fear while thou leanest on my breast."
At his touch, again the eternal woman of her nature awoke, and as
he led her very gently to the very seat where Wotan had sat with
Brunnhilde by his knee, she clung passionately to him, and gazing long
into his face, embraced him. Yet even while her lips met his, the
horrors of the night rose insurgent within her, and again she flung
herself off from him, shame branding her, as a felon is branded.
"Siegmund, Siegmund!" she cried. "What have we done? Shame on me, shame
on me!"
"Shame there has been, Sieglinde," said he, "and that when thou didst
abide in the house of Hunding. But that shame shall I soon wash away
with his blood, and in that crimson stream shall it be cleansed. Ah,
fare not on so wildly; wait here, for I am well assured that he will
come here in pursuit, and here also shall he meet the fate which has
been appointed by him who in my sorest need granted me to find the
sword. O sword of my need," cried he, and his fingers tightened on its
hilt, "not in vain have I called on the name of vengeance. Surely I
will repay."
Then was she a little quieted at his loving touch, and at the
fierceness of surety of his hate towards Hunding, but soon she started
up and listened.
"Horns, I hear horns!" she cried, "and the shouts of the pursuers. The
shouts of the pursuers sound ever nearer, and strike the sky and echo
from the hills. Hunding has woke from his night-draught, and is hot of
foot on the trail. He calls on his kindred to help him, and loosens the
hounds of hunting. They nose thy trail, and thirstily they give voice,
and their thirst waits to be assuaged by blood."
Loudly and in panic terror she cried, but at the end her voice failed,
and her arm outflung dropped nerveless, and over her weary eyes drooped
the shelter of her eyelids.
"Siegmund, where art thou?" she murmured. "Where art thou? I search
for thy look; oh, let it light on me again; leave me not, Siegmund, oh,
leave me not. Hark, hark! again I hear that deep baying of the hounds
of death; they thirst for thy blood, and their fangs white and sharp
grow red with the meat of their hunting. They reck not of thy sword, so
fling it away. Hide, let us hide where none shall find us. Thy sword is
shattered; what toy-thing is this?--thou fallest reeling ... Siegmund
... Siegmund...."
At that her head drooped and she sank like a thing broken in his arms.
It was in vain that he tried to rouse her, and only by the rise and
fall of her bosom did he know she lived. So very gently--for, after the
labour and travel of the night, it might be that she would sleep--he
laid her back on the ground, and made for her a pillow of his knee, to
rest her head. But she moved not, nor opened her eyes, yet, for her
bosom still rose gently and fell, he comforted himself, and bending
over her kissed her on the forehead. Thus they sat, and he grieved over
her.
But by now had Brunnhilde put bridle again on to her horse Grane, and
led him lightly out of the cavern, and came upon Siegmund and his bride
sitting thus. And he was aware of her coming, and looked up, and saw
her glorious face; but there was no smile there, for the work before
her gave no joy to her. Gravely she looked at him, and her heart was
stirred with sorrow for the deed that her father had laid on her to do,
and her eyes burned large with doom.
"Siegmund, I am here," she said, "and from here soon I lead thee. Thou
seest that I am near thee?"
And Siegmund answered: "Yes, but I know thee not," and a strange cold
heaviness was lead in his limbs and in his eye.
"I come near to those whom death comes near to," said she, "and none
others see me. He into whose eyes I look stays not in the light. With me
thou goest, and thou goest with me far."
Then something of the great calm with which death is ever girt about,
struck on Siegmund's heart, but he was not afraid.
"And where goest thou?" he asked.
"I go to Walhalla," said she, "where the great father waits thee.
There lovingly will the hands of dead heroes greet thee; with hands
outstretched and with smile of welcome will they greet thee."
"And shall I find there Walse, the Wolsung's father?" said he in wonder.
"His face too shall greet thee."
"And will there be a woman there too, to greet me?" asked he.
"Yea, surely," said she. "The maidens of his will are there, and she
who will hand thee the gladsome wine is Wotan's daughter. Red is that
wine, and with it are the hearts of heroes made glad."
But it was not after Wotan's daughter that Siegmund asked, and again he
said:
"O most holy and austere of maidens, Wotan's child, truth is written in
thine eyes, and truth thou wilt tell me. It is not of such I ask, but
of my bride Sieglinde. Will she be there?"
But Brunnhilde shook her head.
"Death comes not for her yet," she said, "and she shall not be there."
Then Siegmund laughed.
"Then get thee back to Walhalla," cried he, "and give my greeting
to the high walls of Wotan, and to him who sits therein and is lord
thereof. And greet for me Walse"--for he knew not that Walse his father
was none other than Wotan--"and greet the many heroes and the maidens
of the will of the highest. But I come not after thee."
Then Brunnhilde was very sorry, yet what was to be, was to be.
"Siegmund," she said, "thou hast looked on me, and with me thou must
go. Lightly thou reckest of mortal foes, for thy limbs are strong, but
the wise man wars not against death. I am here to claim thee for him."
But though a chill seemed to fall round Siegmund, as if the sun had
passed behind a cloud, yet was he not afraid; and, lo! his dear burden
still leaned at his knee.
"I come not," he said, "for where Sieglinde is, in weal or woe, there
I abide, and go not thence. Thy face daunts me not, I shrink not before
thy glance, though bright it is with the brightness of danger. Besides,
who is it that deals death to me?"
"The hand of Hunding," she said. "For thus--at last--the lot was cast."
But Siegmund only smiled, and his fingers dwelt lovingly on the
sword-hilt.
"I fear not that," he said, "for it is by my hand that he will fall,
and if thou seekest a dead man, I will give thee a corpse, but not
mine. Look at my sword, for he who let me gain it, promised my safety.
Thus thy threats and thy warning are idle words, the buzzing of a fly."
Then Brunnhilde's face grew stern and set.
"He who let thee gain the sword," she cried in a loud voice, "now is
determined otherwise, and has decreed thy death. Thus the magic of the
sword is a thing of nought, a shadow that has passed away."
But at her raised voice, Siegmund forgot death and the sword and all
else, and feared only that she would wake Sieglinde, who now slept
gently.
"Be still, be still," he whispered, "and wake her not."
And he bent over her, and sorrowed for her, for it seemed to him that
all the world was gathered against her whom he loved so well, and that
he alone, for whom she had braved the wrath of men and gods, was on her
side. Should then he forsake her? And if, as the maid had told him,
the giver of the sword was now unfaithful, and decreed him death, then
he would have none of his Walhalla; Hella were sweeter to his troubled
soul. High burned his anger at this unfaithfulness, and he turned to
the maid who stood watching him.
"If then death is decreed for me," he said, "think you I will be at
ease in Walhalla? Nay, Hella rather than such peace."
Then Brunnhilde's stem glance softened, and she marvelled that he so
loved the woman.
"Then is eternal joy so worthless to thee?" she asked him softly. "Dost
thou desire nothing but the woman who is sleeping there? Is nought else
sweet to thy soul, and nought else desirable?"
And he looked at her with bitterness, and marked the softened glance of
her eye. Yet though she appeared so young and so maidenly, her heart
must needs be utterly cold, since she did not comprehend how a woman
filled the heart of the man who loved her.
"Dost thou mock me?" he said. "For what else could I care than that
which lies here? I think thou art a foe to me, and would gladly see
harm and woe come to me. Be it so; and may my grief satisfy the greed
and hunger of thy heart. But as for Walhalla--it is idle for thee to
name it to me. Dost thou not see? Here is my heaven and my rest."
Then she began to understand the need of his heart, and with that she
felt a tenderness for both him and the woman which was new to her.
"Yes, yes," she said, "I feel what thou feelest. But, Siegmund, what
must be, must be. Leave her then to me. Safely and surely will I ward
her and keep all harm from her."
And she would have lifted Sieglinde up and taken her to some
hiding-place of safety, but he stopped her.
"Stay," said he, "she is mine, mine, and no other shall touch her. If
so be that I must die, as thou sayest, it is better, it is better--for
all the whole world is against her--that she should die, here, now. I
will slay her myself as she sleeps, and death will come softly to her
as a dream. Thus she will be at peace."
Then did the tumult and trouble in Brunnhilde's heart seethe and stir.
"No, no!" she cried. "Listen to me, for thou speakest wild words.
The sacred pledge of love which thou hast given, for that I plead.
Siegmund, Siegmund, thou canst not slay thy son!"
Yet he drew the sword, and brandished it.
"His is the blame," he cried, "who promised me victory with this
sword, who now turns his back on me, faithless and untrue. Yet shall it
aid me, for that with it I can give peace to her. Strike then, sword of
need, sever both lives at once."
But at the sight of his sword uplifted to strike, all the woman in
Brunnhilde rose invincible, and the solemn command of Wotan that she
should fight for Hunding weighed lighter than chaff. In a moment her
mind was made, and counting not the cost, she knew that she must needs
befriend Siegmund and fight for him, and the thunders and terrors of
Wotan had no weight with her. And with a cry she stayed his arm.
"Ah, I break," she cried. "I cannot do the deed that was laid on me.
She shall live, she shall live, and instead of death I will bring
thee the joy of victory. No longer fight I for Hunding; it is thee,
Siegmund, whom my shield will shelter. So up, up; already the horns of
battle sound nearer. What shall be, I cannot tell, but the sword thou
wieldest is good steel, and the shield of me, Brunnhilde, will guard
thee in the coming fight. Hail to thee, Siegmund, hail! At the fight I
await thee."
All her face was afire with human love and pity, and so great a change
was there from the look of that stern cold maiden and her pitiless
beauty, that Siegmund could scarce believe that this was the same
Brunnhilde. But at her words, joy and gladness uplifted him, and his
heart, erstwhile full of despair and bitterness, was once more strong
and hopeful. But Brunnhilde tarried not, for indeed, as she said, the
horns of battle sounded near, but swung herself on to her horse, and
rode swiftly off among the rocks towards the horns and approaching
battle, and the noise of her horse's hoofs sounded fainter, and then
was silent.
Now as they thus spoke together, behold the heavens had grown very
black, and over the bright aspect of the sky had ridden swiftly up the
storm-rack, low and sullen-looking, and torn into streamers and ribands
of wrath. Already the hills and vales beyond had been entirely blotted
out, and by now the clouds had reached even to that rocky ridge not
far from where Siegmund sat, while mingled with the trouble and menace
of the heavens came the blast of the horns of battle sounding ever
nearer, and Siegmund knew that it was time for him to be gone to meet
the black foe who awaited him. Then very gently he got up, and without
waking Sieglinde, laid her back against the rocky seat, and once more
bent over her, to see how she fared. The blessed balm of sleep had
been spread over her eyes, and she was at rest, and her heart was
unconscious of the wild alarms of war. And Siegmund wondered whether it
was the maiden, who seemed so fierce and cold, but whose soul at the
end had been touched with so gentle and womanly a pity, who had shed
this gift on the woman, thinking that the clash of swords and the din
of battle would daunt her. Then even as he bent over her she smiled in
her sleep, as if some happy dream had come to her. So he kissed her
very gently on the forehead, marvelling that the trumpet-calls, which
grew swiftly nearer, disturbed her not, and whispered to her--
"Sleep sound, beloved, till the battle be overpast, and peace, the
peace of victory, welcome thy waking."
Then for the last time he turned from her, for peace was not yet,
until Nothung his sword had spoken sharp words with its flaming
tongue. Swiftly he strode up the rocky ridge, where the embattled
thunder-clouds swallowed him up, nor was there any fear in his heart:
only he longed to see Hunding face to face, and drive vengeance home.
But Sieglinde lay there smiling in her sleep, for it was even as
Siegmund had supposed, and she was a child again living with her
mother in the forest. Yet even as Siegmund left her, the tranquillity
of her sleep was shaken, and it seemed to her that her father and the
boy Siegmund were in the forest together, and though the hour was
late, they had not yet returned. And she cried to her mother that her
heart misgave her, for she was troubled with the looks and the words
of certain strangers. Then in her dream the sweet air of the forest
grew foul and black, and smoke swirled silently out of the woods, and
tongues and fingers of flame came nearer, and the house where they
dwelt caught fire. Then aloud she cried on Siegmund to save her, and
with her own cry awoke. Yet was it not perhaps her own cry that woke
her, but the sudden and sharp din of thunder near by, and starting up
she saw she was alone, and all round her were storm-clouds of awful
blackness, and from one to another shot the fires of lightning, and the
thunder bellowed when it saw them. And mixed with the lightnings and
thunders were the red cries of the horns of battle. Then, and her heart
stood still when she heard, from not far off came the voice of Hunding,
which she knew well and hated.
"Wehwalt, Wehwalt!" it cried, calling her beloved by the name he had
shed as trees shed their leaves in autumn. "Where are thou? Wait for
me; I am coming swiftly; else shall my hounds make thee stay."
Then in answer came the voice she knew and loved; "Think not to hide
from me, Hunding," it cried, "for all that the storm is so black and
blinding. The father of the gods himself shall not hide thee from me.
Stay where thou art and I will surely find thee."
And his voice grew louder as he spake, so she knew that he was coming
nearer.
Then from the ridge close behind came Hunding's voice again, not a
stone's-throw off, yet in the thick darkness she could see nought.
"O shameful wooer!" it cried. "In Fricka's hand is thy lot set."
And immediately Siegmund answered, being also come to the selfsame
ridge--
"Still dost thou think I am weaponless, coward and fool that thou art?
Thinkest thou to terrify me by thy woman-champion? Fight me, fight me.
Remember thou the sword in thy house which none could move. Lightly I
unsheathed it, and its tongue shall lick up thy life-blood; for thy
life-blood it thirsts, and soon will I give it to drink."
Then came a flash of lightning from the cloud, and Sieglinde saw them
as phantoms on the edge of the ridge already at fight And she rushed
towards it, not being able to bear that sight, calling loudly on them
to stay, or first to kill her, and then settle their quarrel. But ere
she was come to the ridge, a blinding light broke out of the cloud
above the head of Siegmund, so strong and glorious that she was dazzled
and fell back from before it. But in the middle of that light there
appeared Brunnhilde floating there, and lo! her shield was held out so
that it protected Siegmund and sheltered him. And she cried loudly to
her hero, in a fierce merriment--
"Have at him, Siegmund; thy sword is safe under my shield."
Then was Siegmund's heart uplifted, and he drew back his arm for a
deadly stroke at Hunding, when even as it was about to fall, right
over Hunding's head broke out a red and lurid light, full of wrath and
anger, and in the midst stood Wotan, standing over the other, with his
spear outstretched over against Siegmund. And in the voice at which all
earth and heaven trembles--
"Thy sword is shivered, Siegmund," said he. "Wotan's spear is
stretched against thee. Sink thou back from it."
Then did Brunnhilde quail in panic terror before her father, and
her shield no longer covered Siegmund. And the mighty blow of his sword
struck on that outstretched spear and was shivered, and into his breast
did Hunding thrust his sword, so that he fell and moved no more. And
Sieglinde, beholding, gave one bitter cry, and sank swooning to the
ground. But as Siegmund fell, the great light which had shone round
Brunnhilde was swallowed up in darkness, and the red light round Wotan
was extinguished also. And under cover of the darkness Brunnhilde,
though stricken sore with the fear of the wrath of Wotan, yet was
mindful of the woman Sieglinde, whom she had sworn to befriend, and she
stole down from the ridge crouching, yet firm of purpose, to her side.
[Illustration: "Wotan's spear is stretched against thee."]
"To horse! to horse!" she cried; and seeing that Sieglinde's senses
were gone from her, she gathered her up in the strength of her noble
womanhood, and with that burden in her arms mounted her horse Grane and
galloped off away from the open places that she might hide her from the
wrath to come. Nor was she too soon, for presently after the clouds
were parted and rolled away, and lo! on the ridge stood Wotan, and at
his feet lay Siegmund. And as Wotan looked at him his godlike mind was
torn with agony and woe unspeakable. As yet Hunding saw not the god,
for his eyes were not opened, and cruelly with his foot on the man he
wrenched out his sword from his breast. And at that, seeing that he who
had fallen was noble, and the other but a black cur from the forest,
Wotan turned to him and opened his eyes.
"Get thee hence, slave," said he, "and tell Fricka that by the spear of
Wotan is her vengeance wrought. Begone!"
And in contempt he waved his hand, and before that withering scorn
Hunding sank down dead. Then suddenly fierce anger seized Wotan, for he
thought of what Brunnhilde had done, and how she disobeyed his command,
and made scorn of his words.
"Woe to her, woe to her!" he cried. "Dire and dread shall be her
portion for this day's work. With the reined lightning and the bridled
thunder follow I after her, swift on the wings of the storm."
And at his word the winds of heaven and all the hurricanes of the air
rushed to his bidding, and seated in his chariot of storms he drove on
Brunnhilde's trail.