1899
To My Children,
Winfred, Louis, and Nellie,
This Book Is Affectionately Inscribed.
The Fore Word.
When the world was in its childhood, men looked upon the works of Nature
with a strange kind of awe. They fancied that every thing upon the
earth, in the air, or in the water, had a life like their own, and that
every sight which they saw, and every sound which they heard, was caused
by some intelligent being. All men were poets, so far as their ideas and
their modes of expression were concerned, although it is not likely that
any of them wrote poetry. This was true in regard to the Saxon in his
chilly northern home, as well as to the Greek in the sunny southland.
But, while the balmy air and clear sky of the south tended to refine
men’s thoughts and language, the rugged scenery and bleak storms of
the north made them uncouth, bold, and energetic. Yet both the cultured
Greek and the rude Saxon looked upon Nature with much the same eyes,
and there was a strange resemblance in their manner of thinking and
speaking. They saw, that, in all the phenomena which took place around
them, there was a certain system or regularity, as if these were
controlled by some law or by some superior being; and they sought, in
their simple poetical way, to account for these appearances. They had
not yet learned to measure the distances of the stars, nor to calculate
the motions of the earth. The changing of the seasons was a mystery
which they scarcely sought to penetrate. But they spoke of these
occurrences in a variety of ways, and invented many charming, stories
with reference to them, not so much with a view towards accounting
for the mystery, as towards giving expression to their childlike but
picturesque ideas.
Thus, in the south, when reference was made to the coming of winter and
to the dreariness and discomforts of that season of the year, men did
not know nor care to explain it all, as our teachers now do at school;
but they sometimes told how Hades had stolen Persephone (the summer)
from her mother Demetre (the earth), and had carried her, in a chariot
drawn by four coal black steeds, to the gloomy land of shadows; and how,
in sorrow for her absence, the Earth clothed herself in mourning, and
no leaves grew upon the trees, nor flowers in the gardens, and the very
birds ceased singing, because Persephone was no more. But they added,
that in a few months the fair maiden would return for a time to her
sorrowing mother, and that then the flowers would bloom, and the trees
would bear fruit, and the harvest-fields would again be full of golden
grain.
In the north a different story was told, but the meaning was the same.
Sometimes men told how Odin (the All-Father) had become angry with
Brunhild (the maid of spring), and had wounded her with the thorn
of sleep, and how all the castle in which she slept was wrapped in
deathlike slumber until Sigurd or Siegfried (the sunbeam) rode through
flaming fire, and awakened her with a kiss. Sometimes men told how Loki
(heat) had betrayed Balder (the sunlight), and had induced blind old
Hoder (the winter months) to slay him, and how all things, living and
inanimate, joined in weeping for the bright god, until Hela (death)
should permit him to revisit the earth for a time.
So, too, when the sun arose, and drove away the darkness and the hidden
terrors of the night, our ancestors thought of the story of a noble
young hero slaying a hideous dragon, or taking possession of the golden
treasures of Mist Land. And when the springtime came, and the earth
renewed its youth, and the fields and woods were decked in beauty, and
there was music everywhere, they loved to tell of Idun (the spring)
and her youth-giving apples, and of her wise husband Bragi (Nature’s
musician). When storm-clouds loomed up from the horizon and darkened the
sky, and thunder rolled overhead, and lightning flashed on every
hand, they talked about the mighty Thor riding over the clouds in his
goat-drawn chariot, and battling with the giants of the air. When the
mountain-meadows were green with long grass, and the corn was yellow for
the sickles of the reapers, they spoke of Sif, the golden-haired wife
of Thor, the queen of the pastures and the fields. When the seasons were
mild, and the harvests were plentiful, and peace and gladness prevailed,
they blessed Frey, the giver of good gifts to men.
To them the blue sky-dome which everywhere hung over them like an arched
roof was but the protecting mantle which the All-Father had suspended
above the earth. The rainbow was the shimmering bridge which stretches
from earth to heaven. The sun and the moon were the children of a giant,
whom two wolves chased forever around the earth. The stars were sparks
from the fire-land of the south, set in the heavens by the gods. Night
was a giantess, dark and swarthy, who rode in a car drawn by a steed the
foam from whose bits sometimes covered the earth with dew. And Day was
the son of Night; and the steed which he rode lighted all the sky and
the earth with the beams which glistened from his mane.
It was thus that men in the earlier ages of the world looked upon and
spoke of the workings of Nature; and it was in this manner that many
myths, or poetical fables, were formed. By and by, as the world grew
older, and mankind became less poetical and more practical, the first or
mythical meaning of these stories was forgotten, and they were regarded
no longer as mere poetical fancies, but as historical facts. Perhaps
some real hero had indeed performed daring deeds, and had made the world
around him happier and better. It was easy to liken him to Sigurd, or
to some other mythical slayer of giants; and soon the deeds of both were
ascribed to but one. And thus many myth-stories probably contain some
historical facts blended with the mass of poetical fancies which
mainly compose them; but, in such cases, it is generally impossible to
distinguish what is fact from what is mere fancy.
All nations have had their myth-stories; but, to my mind, the purest and
grandest are those which we have received from our northern ancestors.
They are particularly interesting to us; because they are what
our fathers once believed, and because they are ours by right of
inheritance. And, when we are able to make them still more our own by
removing the blemishes which rude and barbarous ages have added to some
of them, we shall discover in them many things that are beautiful and
true, and well calculated to make us wiser and better.
It is not known when or by whom these myth-stories were first put into
writing, nor when they assumed the shape in which we now have them.
But it is said, that, about the year 1100, an Icelandic scholar called
Saemund the Wise collected a number of songs and poems into a book
which is now known as the “Elder Edda;” and that, about a century later,
Snorre Sturleson, another Icelander, wrote a prose-work of a similar
character, which is called the “Younger Edda.” And it is to these two
books that we owe the preservation of almost all that is now known of
the myths and the strange religion of our Saxon and Norman forefathers.
But, besides these, there are a number of semi-mythological stories of
great interest and beauty,--stories partly mythical, and partly founded
upon remote and forgotten historical facts. One of the oldest and finest
of these is the story of Sigurd, the son of Sigmund. There are many
versions of this story, differing from each other according to the time
in which they were written and the character of the people among whom
they were received. We find the first mention of Sigurd and his strange
daring deeds in the song of Fafnir, in the “Elder Edda.” Then, in the
“Younger Edda,” the story is repeated in the myth of the Niflungs and
the Gjukungs. It is told again in the “Volsunga Saga” of Iceland. It is
repeated and re-repeated in various forms and different languages, and
finally appears in the “Nibelungen Lied,” a grand old German poem, which
may well be compared with the Iliad of the Greeks. In this last version,
Sigurd is called Siegfried; and the story is colored and modified by the
introduction of many notions peculiar to the middle ages, and unknown to
our Pagan fathers of the north. In our own time this myth has been woven
into a variety of forms. William Morris has embodied it in his noble
poem of “Sigurd the Volsung;” Richard Wagner, the famous German
composer, has constructed from it his inimitable drama, the “Nibelungen
Ring;” W. Jordan, another German writer, has given it to the world
in his “Sigfrid’s Saga;” and Emanuel Geibel has derived from it the
materials for his “Tragedy of Brunhild.”
And now I, too, come with the STORY OF SIEGFRIED, still another version
of the time-honored legend. The story as I shall tell it you is not in
all respects a literal rendering of the ancient myth; but I have taken
the liberty to change and recast such portions of it as I have deemed
advisable. Sometimes I have drawn materials from one version of the
story, sometimes from another, and sometimes largely from my own
imagination alone. Nor shall I be accused of impropriety in thus
reshaping a narrative, which, although hallowed by an antiquity of
a thousand years and more, has already appeared in so many different
forms, and been clothed in so many different garbs; for, however much
I may have allowed my fancy or my judgment to retouch and remodel the
immaterial portions of the legend, the essential parts of this immortal
myth remain the same. And, if I succeed in leading you to a clearer
understanding and a wiser appreciation of the thoughts and feelings of
our old northern ancestors, I shall have accomplished the object for
which I have written this Story of Siegfried.
Contents.
The Fore Word
I. Mimer, the Master
II. Greyfell
III. The Curse of Gold
IV. Fafnir, the Dragon
V. In AEgir’s Kingdom
VI. Brunhild
VII. In Nibelungen Land
VIII. Siegfried’s Welcome Home
IX. The Journey to Burgundy-land
X. Kriemhill’s Dream
XI. How the Spring Time Came
XII. The War with the North-kings
XIII. The Story of Balder
XIV. How Gunther Outwitted Brunhild
XV. In Nibelungen Land Again
XVI. How Brunhild Was Welcomed Home
XVII. How Siegfried Lived in Nibelungen Land
XVIII. How the Mischief Began to Brew
XIX. How They Hunted in the Odenwald
XX. How the Hoard Was Brought to Burgundy
The After Word
Notes
Adventure I. Mimer, the Master.
At Santen, in the Lowlands, there once lived a young prince named
Siegfried. His father, Siegmund, was king of the rich country through
which the lazy Rhine winds its way just before reaching the great North
Sea; and he was known, both far and near, for his good deeds and his
prudent thrift. And Siegfried’s mother, the gentle Sigelind, was loved
by all for her goodness of heart and her kindly charity to the poor.
Neither king nor queen left aught undone that might make the young
prince happy, or fit him for life’s usefulness. Wise men were brought
from far-off lands to be his teachers; and every day something was added
to his store of knowledge or his stock of happiness. And very skilful
did he become in warlike games and in manly feats of strength. No other
youth could throw the spear with so great force, or shoot the arrow
with surer aim. No other youth could run more swiftly, or ride with more
becoming ease. His gentle mother took delight in adding to the beauty of
his matchless form, by clothing him in costly garments decked with the
rarest jewels. The old, the young, the rich, the poor, the high, the
low, all praised the fearless Siegfried, and all vied in friendly strife
to win his favor. One would have thought that the life of the young
prince could never be aught but a holiday, and that the birds would
sing, and the flowers would bloom, and the sun would shine forever for
his sake.
But the business of man’s life is not mere pastime; and none knew this
truth better than the wise old king, Siegmund.
“All work is noble,” said he to Siegfried; “and he who yearns to
win fame must not shun toil. Even princes should know how to earn a
livelihood by the labor of their hands.”
And so, while Siegfried was still a young lad, his father sent him to
live with a smith called Mimer, whose smithy was among the hills not far
from the great forest. For in those early times the work of the smith
was looked upon as the most worthy of all trades,--a trade which the
gods themselves were not ashamed to follow. And this smith Mimer was a
wonderful master,--the wisest and most cunning that the world had ever
seen. Men said that he was akin to the dwarf-folk who had ruled the
earth in the early days, and who were learned in every lore, and skilled
in every craft; and they said that he was so exceeding old that no one
could remember the day when he came to dwell in the land of Siegmund’s
fathers. And some said, too, that he was the keeper of a wonderful well,
or flowing spring, the waters of which imparted wisdom and far-seeing
knowledge to all who drank of them.
To Mimer’s school, then, where he would be taught to work skilfully
and to think wisely, Siegfried was sent, to be in all respects like
the other pupils there. A coarse blue blouse, and heavy leggings, and a
leathern apron, took the place of the costly clothing which he had worn
in his father’s dwelling. His feet were incased in awkward wooden shoes,
and his head was covered with a wolf-skin cap. The dainty bed, with its
downy pillows, wherein every night his mother had been wont, with gentle
care, to see him safely covered, was given up for a rude heap of straw
in a corner of the smithy. And the rich food to which he had been
used gave place to the coarsest and humblest fare. But the lad did
not complain. The days which he passed in the smithy were mirthful and
happy; and the sound of his hammer rang cheerfully, and the sparks from
his forge flew briskly, from morning till night.
And a wonderful smith he became. No one could do more work than he, and
none wrought with greater skill. The heaviest chains and the strongest
bolts, for prison or for treasure-house, were but as toys in his stout
hands, so easily and quickly did he beat them into shape. And he was
alike cunning in work of the most delicate and brittle kind. Ornaments
of gold and silver, studded with the rarest jewels, were fashioned
into beautiful forms by his deft fingers. And among all of Mimer’s
apprentices none learned the master’s lore so readily, nor gained the
master’s favor more.[EN#1]
One morning the master, Mimer, came to the smithy with a troubled look
upon his face. It was clear that something had gone amiss; and what it
was the apprentices soon learned from the smith himself. Never, until
lately, had any one questioned Mimer’s right to be called the foremost
smith in all the world; but now a rival had come forward. An unknown
upstart--one Amilias, in Burgundy-land--had made a suit of armor, which,
he boasted, no stroke of sword could dint, and no blow of spear could
scratch; and he had sent a challenge to all other smiths, both in the
Rhine country and elsewhere, to equal that piece of workmanship, or else
acknowledge themselves his underlings and vassals. For many days had
Mimer himself toiled, alone and vainly, trying to forge a sword whose
edge the boasted armor of Amilias could not foil; and now, in despair,
he came to ask the help of his pupils and apprentices.
“Who among you is skilful enough to forge such a sword?” he asked.
One after another, the pupils shook their heads. And Veliant, the
foreman of the apprentices, said, “I have heard much about that
wonderful armor, and its extreme hardness, and I doubt if any skill can
make a sword with edge so sharp and true as to cut into it. The best
that can be done is to try to make another war-coat whose temper shall
equal that of Amilias’s armor.”
Then the lad Siegfried quickly said, “I will make such a sword as you
want,--a blade that no war-coat can foil. Give me but leave to try!”
The other pupils laughed in scorn, but Mimer checked them. “You hear how
this boy can talk: we will see what he can do. He is the king’s son, and
we know that he has uncommon talent. He shall make the sword; but if,
upon trial, it fail, I will make him rue the day.”
Then Siegfried went to his task. And for seven days and seven nights
the sparks never stopped flying from his forge; and the ringing of his
anvil, and the hissing of the hot metal as he tempered it, were heard
continuously. On the eighth day the sword was fashioned, and Siegfried
brought it to Mimer.
The smith felt the razor-edge of the bright weapon, and said, “This
seems, indeed, a fair fire-edge. Let us make a trial of its keenness.”
Then a thread of wool as light as thistle-down was thrown upon water,
and, as it floated there, Mimer struck it with the sword. The glittering
blade cleft the slender thread in twain, and the pieces floated
undisturbed upon the surface of the liquid.
“Well done!” cried the delighted smith. “Never have I seen a keener
edge. If its temper is as true as its sharpness would lead us to
believe, it will indeed serve me well.”
But Siegfried took the sword again, and broke it into many pieces; and
for three days he welded it in a white-hot fire, and tempered it with
milk and oatmeal. Then, in sight of Mimer and the sneering apprentices,
he cast a light ball of fine-spun wool upon the flowing water of the
brook; and it was caught in the swift eddies of the stream, and whirled
about until it met the bared blade of the sword, which was held in
Mimer’s hands. And it was parted as easily and clean as the rippling
water, and not the smallest thread was moved out of its place.
Then back to the smithy Siegfried went again; and his forge glowed with
a brighter fire, and his hammer rang upon the anvil with a cheerier
sound, than ever before. But he suffered none to come near, and no
one ever knew what witchery he used. But some of his fellow-pupils
afterwards told how, in the dusky twilight, they had seen a one-eyed
man, long-bearded, and clad in a cloud-gray kirtle, and wearing a
sky-blue hood, talking with Siegfried at the smithy door. And they said
that the stranger’s face was at once pleasant and fearful to look upon,
and that his one eye shone in the gloaming like the evening star, and
that, when he had placed in Siegfried’s hands bright shards, like pieces
of a broken sword, he faded suddenly from their sight, and was seen no
more.
For seven weeks the lad wrought day and night at his forge; and then,
pale and haggard, but with a pleased smile upon his face, he stood
before Mimer, with the gleaming sword in his hands. “It is finished,” he
said. “Behold the glittering terror!--the blade Balmung. Let us try its
edge, and prove its temper once again, that so we may know whether you
can place your trust in it.”
And Mimer looked long at the ruddy hilts of the weapon, and at the
mystic runes that were scored upon its sides, and at the keen edge,
which gleamed like a ray of sunlight in the gathering gloom of the
evening. But no word came from his lips, and his eyes were dim and
dazed; and he seemed as one lost in thoughts of days long past and gone.
Siegfried raised the blade high over his head; and the gleaming edge
flashed hither and thither, like the lightning’s play when Thor rides
over the storm-clouds. Then suddenly it fell upon the master’s anvil,
and the great block of iron was cleft in two; but the bright blade was
no whit dulled by the stroke, and the line of light which marked the
edge was brighter than before.
Then to the flowing brook they went; and a great pack of wool, the
fleeces of ten sheep, was brought, and thrown upon the swirling water.
As the stream bore the bundle downwards, Mimer held the sword in its
way. And the whole was divided as easily and as clean as the woollen
ball or the slender woollen thread had been cleft before.
“Now, indeed,” cried Mimer, “I no longer fear to meet that upstart,
Amilias. If his war-coat can withstand the stroke of such a sword as
Balmung, then I shall not be ashamed to be his underling. But, if this
good blade is what it seems to be, it will not fail me; and I, Mimer the
Old, shall still be called the wisest and greatest of smiths.”
And he sent word at once to Amilias, in Burgundy-land, to meet him on
a day, and settle forever the question as to which of the two should be
the master, and which the underling. And heralds proclaimed it in every
town and dwelling. When the time which had been set drew near,
Mimer, bearing the sword Balmung, and followed by all his pupils and
apprentices, wended his way towards the place of meeting. Through the
forest they went, and then along the banks of the sluggish river, for
many a league, to the height of land which marked the line between King
Siegmund’s country and the country of the Burgundians. It was in this
place, midway between the shops of Mimer and Amilias, that the great
trial of metal and of skill was to be made. And here were already
gathered great numbers of people from the Lowlands and from Burgundy,
anxiously waiting for the coming of the champions. On the one side were
the wise old Siegmund and his gentle queen, and their train of knights
and courtiers and fair ladies. On the other side were the three
Burgundian kings, Gunther, Gernot, and Giselher, and a mighty retinue of
warriors, led by grim old Hagen, the uncle of the kings, and the wariest
chief in all Rhineland.
When every thing was in readiness for the contest, Amilias, clad in his
boasted war-coat, went up to the top of the hill, and sat upon a great
rock, and waited for Mimer’s coming. As he sat there, he looked, to the
people below, like some great castle-tower; for he was almost a giant
in size, and his coat of mail, so skilfully wrought, was so huge
that twenty men of common mould might have found shelter, or hidden
themselves, within it. As the smith Mimer, so dwarfish in stature,
toiled up the steep hillside, Amilias smiled to see him; for he felt
no fear of the slender, gleaming blade that was to try the metal of
his war-coat. And already a shout of expectant triumph went up from the
throats of the Burgundian hosts, so sure were they of their champion’s
success.
But Mimer’s friends waited in breathless silence, hoping, and yet
fearing. Only King Siegmund whispered to his queen, and said, “Knowledge
is stronger than brute force. The smallest dwarf who has drunk from the
well of the Knowing One may safely meet the stoutest giant in battle.”
When Mimer reached the top of the hill, Amilias folded his huge arms,
and smiled again; for he felt that this contest was mere play for him,
and that Mimer was already as good as beaten, and his thrall. The smith
paused a moment to take breath, and as he stood by the side of his
foe he looked to those below like a mere black speck close beside a
steel-gray castle-tower.
“Are you ready?” asked the smith.
“Ready,” answered Amilias. “Strike!”
Mimer raised the beaming blade in the air, and for a moment the
lightning seemed to play around his head. The muscles on his short,
brawny arms, stood out like great ropes; and then Balmung, descending,
cleft the air from right to left. The waiting lookers-on in the plain
below thought to hear the noise of clashing steel; but they listened in
vain, for no sound came to their ears, save a sharp hiss like that which
red-hot iron gives when plunged into a tank of cold water. The huge
Amilias sat unmoved, with his arms still folded upon his breast; but the
smile had faded from his face.
“How do you feel now?” asked Mimer in a half-mocking tone.
“Rather strangely, as if cold iron had touched me,” faintly answered the
upstart.
“Shake thyself!” cried Mimer.
Amilias did so, and, lo! he fell in two halves; for the sword had cut
sheer through the vaunted war-coat, and cleft in twain the great body
incased within. Down tumbled the giant head and the still folded arms,
and they rolled with thundering noise to the foot of the hill, and fell
with a fearful splash into the deep waters of the river; and there,
fathoms down, they may even now be seen, when the water is clear, lying
like great gray rocks among the sand and gravel below. The rest of the
body, with the armor which incased it, still sat upright in its place;
and to this day travellers sailing down the river are shown on moonlit
evenings the luckless armor of Amilias on the high hill-top. In the dim,
uncertain light, one easily fancies it to be the ivy covered ruins of
some old castle of feudal times.
The master, Mimer, sheathed his sword, and walked slowly down the
hillside to the plain, where his friends welcomed him with glad cheers
and shouts of joy. But the Burgundians, baffled, and feeling vexed,
turned silently homeward, nor cast a single look back to the scene of
their disappointment and their ill-fated champion’s defeat.
And Siegfried went again with the master and his fellows to the smoky
smithy, to his roaring bellows and ringing anvil, and to his coarse
fare, and rude, hard bed, and to a life of labor. And while all men
praised Mimer and his knowing skill, and the fiery edge of the sunbeam
blade, no one knew that it was the boy Siegfried who had wrought that
piece of workmanship.
But after a while it was whispered around that not Mimer, but one of his
pupils, had forged the sword. And, when the master was asked what truth
there was in this story, his eyes twinkled, and the corners of his mouth
twitched strangely, and he made no answer. But Veliant, the foreman of
the smithy, and the greatest of boasters said, “It was I who forged the
fire-edge of the blade Balmung.” And, although none denied the truth of
what he said, but few who knew what sort of a man he was believed his
story. And this is the reason, my children, that, in the ancient songs
and stories which tell of this wondrous sword, it is said by most that
Mimer, and by a few that Veliant, forged its blade. But I prefer to
believe that it was made by Siegfried, the hero who afterwards wielded
it in so many adventures. [EN#3] Be this as it may, however, blind hate
and jealousy were from this time uppermost in the coarse and selfish
mind of Veliant; and he sought how he might drive the lad away from the
smithy in disgrace. “This boy has done what no one else could do,” said
he. “He may yet do greater deeds, and set himself up as the master smith
of the world, and then we shall all have to humble ourselves before him
as his underlings and thralls.”
And he nursed this thought, and brooded over the hatred which he felt
towards the blameless boy; but he did not dare to harm him, for fear of
their master, Mimer. And Siegfried busied himself at his forge, where
the sparks flew as briskly and as merrily as ever before, and his
bellows roared from early morning till late at evening. Nor did the
foreman’s unkindness trouble him for a moment, for he knew that the
master’s heart was warm towards him.
Oftentimes, when the day’s work was done, Siegfried sat with Mimer by
the glowing light of the furnace-fire, and listened to the sweet tales
which the master told of the deeds of the early days, when the world
was young, and the dwarf-folk and the giants had a name and a place upon
earth. And one night, as they thus sat, the master talked of Odin the
All-Father, and of the gods who dwell with him in Asgard, and of the
puny men-folk whom they protect and befriend, until his words grew full
of bitterness, and his soul of a fierce longing for something he dared
not name. And the lad’s heart was stirred with a strange uneasiness, and
he said,--
“Tell me, I pray, dear master, something about my own kin, my father’s
fathers,--those mighty kings, who, I have heard said, were the bravest
and best of men.”
Then the smith seemed pleased again. And his eyes grew brighter, and
lost their far-away look; and a smile played among the wrinkles of his
swarthy face, as he told a tale of old King Volsung and of the deeds of
the Volsung kings:--
“Long years ago, before the evil days had dawned, King Volsung ruled
over all the land which lies between the sea and the country of the
Goths. The days were golden; and the good Frey dropped peace and plenty
everywhere, and men went in and out and feared no wrong. King Volsung
had a dwelling in the midst of fertile fields and fruitful gardens.
Fairer than any dream was that dwelling. The roof was thatched with
gold, and red turrets and towers rose above. The great feast-hall was
long and high, and its walls were hung with sun-bright shields; and the
door-nails were of silver. In the middle of the hall stood the pride of
the Volsungs,--a tree whose blossoms filled the air with fragrance, and
whose green branches, thrusting themselves through the ceiling, covered
the roof with fair foliage. It was Odin’s tree, and King Volsung had
planted it there with his own hands.
“On a day in winter King Volsung held a great feast in his hall in honor
of Siggeir, the King of the Goths, who was his guest. And the fires
blazed bright in the broad chimneys, and music and mirth went round. But
in the midst of the merry-making the guests were startled by a sudden
peal of thunder, which seemed to come from the cloudless sky, and which
made the shields upon the walls rattle and ring. In wonder they looked
around. A strange man stood in the doorway, and laughed, but said not a
word. And they noticed that he wore no shoes upon his feet, but that
a cloud-gray cloak was thrown over his shoulders, and a blue hood was
drawn down over his head. His face was half-hidden by a heavy beard; and
he had but one eye, which twinkled and glowed like a burning coal. And
all the guests sat moveless in their seats, so awed were they in the
presence of him who stood at the door; for they knew that he was none
other than Odin the All-Father, the king of gods and men. He spoke not
a word, but straight into the hall he strode, and he paused not until
he stood beneath the blossoming branches of the tree. Then, forth from
beneath his cloud-gray cloak, he drew a gleaming sword, and struck the
blade deep into the wood,--so deep that nothing but the hilt was left
in sight. And, turning to the awe-struck guests, he said, ‘A blade
of mighty worth have I hidden in this tree. Never have the earth-folk
wrought better steel, nor has any man ever wielded a more trusty sword.
Whoever there is among you brave enough and strong enough to draw it
forth from the wood, he shall have it as a gift from Odin.’ Then slowly
to the door he strode again, and no one saw him any more.
“And after he had gone, the Volsungs and their guests sat a long time
silent, fearing to stir, lest the vision should prove a dream. But at
last the old king arose, and cried, ‘Come, guests and kinsmen, and set
your hands to the ruddy hilt! Odin’s gift stays, waiting for its fated
owner. Let us see which one of you is the favored of the All-Father.’
First Siggeir, the King of the Goths, and his earls, the Volsungs’
guests, tried their hands. But the blade stuck fast; and the stoutest
man among them failed to move it. Then King Volsung, laughing, seized
the hilt, and drew with all his strength; but the sword held still in
the wood of Odin’s tree. And one by one the nine sons of Volsung tugged
and strained in vain; and each was greeted with shouts and laughter, as,
ashamed and beaten, he wended to his seat again. Then, at last, Sigmund,
the youngest son, stood up, and laid his hand upon the ruddy hilt,
scarce thinking to try what all had failed to do. When, lo! the blade
came out of the tree as if therein it had all along lain loose. And
Sigmund raised it high over his head, and shook it, and the bright flame
that leaped from its edge lit up the hall like the lightning’s gleaming;
and the Volsungs and their guests rent the air with cheers and shouts of
gladness. For no one among all the men of the mid-world was more worthy
of Odin’s gift than young Sigmund the brave.”
But the rest of Mimer’s story would be too long to tell you now; for he
and his young apprentice sat for hours by the dying coals, and talked of
Siegfried’s kinfolk,--the Volsung kings of old. And he told how Siggeir,
the Goth king, was wedded to Signy the fair, the only daughter of
Volsung, and the pride of the old king’s heart; and how he carried
her with him to his home in the land of the Goths; and how he coveted
Sigmund’s sword, and plotted to gain it by guile; and how, through
presence of friendship, he invited the Volsung kings to visit him in
Gothland, as the guests of himself and Signy; and how he betrayed and
slew them, save Sigmund alone, who escaped, and for long years lived an
outlaw in the land of his treacherous foe. And then he told how Sigmund
afterwards came back to his own country of the Volsungs; and how his
people welcomed him, and he became a mighty king, such as the world had
never known before; and how, when he had grown old, and full of years
and honors, he went out with his earls and fighting-men to battle
against the hosts of King Lyngi the Mighty; and how, in the midst of the
fight, when his sword had hewn down numbers of the foe, and the end of
the strife and victory seemed near, an old man, one eyed and bearded,
and wearing a cloud-gray cloak, stood up before him in the din, and
his sword was broken in pieces, and he fell dead on the heap of the
slain.[EN#4] And, when Mimer had finished his tale, his dark face seemed
to grow darker, and his twinkling eyes grew brighter, as he cried out in
a tone of despair and hopeless yearning,--
“Oh, past are those days of old and the worthy deeds of the brave!
And these are the days of the home-stayers,--of the wise, but
feeble-hearted. Yet the Norns have spoken; and it must be that another
hero shall arise of the Volsung blood, and he shall restore the name and
the fame of his kin of the early days. And he shall be my bane; and in
him shall the race of heroes have an end.”[EN#7]
Siegfried’s heart was strangely stirred within him as he hearkened to
this story of ancient times and to the fateful words of the master,
and for a long time he sat in silent thought; and neither he nor Mimer
moved, or spoke again, until the darkness of the night had begun to
fade, and the gray light of morning to steal into the smithy. Then, as
if moved by a sudden impulse, he turned to the master, and said,--
“You speak of the Norns, dear master, and of their foretelling; but
your words are vague, and their meaning very broad. When shall that hero
come? and who shall he be? and what deeds shall be his doing?”
“Alas!” answered Mimer, “I know not, save that he shall be of the
Volsung race, and that my fate is linked with his.”
“And why do you not know?” returned Siegfried. “Are you not that old
Mimer, in whom it is said the garnered wisdom of the world is stored? Is
there not truth in the old story that even Odin pawned one of his
eyes for a single draught from your fountain of knowledge? And is
the possessor of so much wisdom unable to look into the future with
clearness and certainty?”
“Alas!” answered Mimer again, and his words came hard and slow, “I
am not that Mimer, of whom old stories tell, who gave wisdom to the
All-Father in exchange for an eye. He is one of the giants, and he still
watches his fountain in far-off Jotunheim.[EN#2] I claim kinship
with the dwarfs, and am sometimes known as an elf, sometimes as a
wood-sprite. Men have called me Mimer because of my wisdom and skill,
and the learning which I impart to my pupils. Could I but drink from the
fountain of the real Mimer, then the wisdom of the world would in truth
be mine, and the secrets of the future would be no longer hidden. But I
must wait, as I have long waited, for the day and the deed and the doom
that the Norns have foretold.”
And the old strange look of longing came again into his eyes, and the
wrinkles on his swarthy face seemed to deepen with agony, as he arose,
and left the smithy. And Siegfried sat alone before the smouldering
fire, and pondered upon what he had heard.
Adventure II. Greyfell.
Many were the pleasant days that Siegfried spent in Mimer’s smoky
smithy; and if he ever thought of his father’s stately dwelling, or of
the life of ease which he might have enjoyed within its halls, he never
by word or deed showed signs of discontent. For Mimer taught him all the
secrets of his craft and all the lore of the wise men. To beat hot
iron, to shape the fire-edged sword, to smithy war-coats, to fashion the
slender bracelet of gold and jewels,--all this he had already learned.
But there were many other things to know, and these the wise master
showed him. He told him how to carve the mystic runes which speak to
the knowing ones with silent, unseen tongues; he told him of the men of
other lands, and taught him their strange speech; he showed him how to
touch the harp-strings, and bring forth bewitching music: and the heart
of Siegfried waxed very wise, while his body grew wondrous strong. And
the master loved his pupil dearly.
But the twelve apprentices grew more jealous day by day, and when Mimer
was away they taunted Siegfried with cruel jests, and sought by harsh
threats to drive him from the smithy; but the lad only smiled, and made
the old shop ring again with the music from his anvil. On a day when
Mimer had gone on a journey, Veliant, the foreman, so far forgot himself
as to strike the boy. For a moment Siegfried gazed at him with withering
scorn; then he swung his hammer high in air, and brought it swiftly
down, not upon the head of Veliant, who was trembling with expectant
fear, but upon the foreman’s anvil. The great block of iron was shivered
by the blow, and flew into a thousand pieces. Then, turning again
towards the thoroughly frightened foreman, Siegfried said, while angry
lightning-flashes darted from his eyes,--
“What if I were to strike you thus?”
Veliant sank upon the ground, and begged for mercy.
“You are safe,” said Siegfried, walking away. “I would scorn to harm a
being like you!”
The apprentices were struck dumb with amazement and fear; and when
Siegfried had returned to his anvil they one by one dropped their
hammers, and stole away from the smithy. In a secret place not far from
the shop, they met together, to plot some means by which they might rid
themselves of him whom they both hated and feared.
The next morning Veliant came to Siegfried’s forge, with a sham smile
upon his face. The boy knew that cowardice and base deceit lurked, ill
concealed, beneath that smile; yet, as he was wont to do, he welcomed
the foreman kindly.
“Siegfried,” said Veliant, “let us be friends again. I am sorry that I
was so foolish and so rash yesterday, and I promise that I will never
again be so rude and unmanly as to become angry at you. Let us be
friends, good Siegfried! Give me your hand, I pray you, and with it your
forgiveness.”
Siegfried grasped the rough palm of the young smith with such a gripe,
that the smile vanished from Veliant’s face, and his muscles writhed
with pain.
“I give you my hand, certainly,” said the boy, “and I will give you my
forgiveness when I know that you are worthy of it.”