CLARA.

You always believe the worst things you can of Carl! You have always done so! I wonder if you still remember how—

ANTONY.

You talk as your mother would, and I will answer you as I used to answer her—I will keep quiet!

CLARA.

And supposing Carl is acquitted? Supposing the jewels are found again?

ANTONY.

Then I would employ a lawyer and stake my last shirt to find out whether or not the burgomaster was justified in throwing the son of an honest citizen into prison. If he was, then I would submit; for a thing that can befall anybody I also must accept with resignation. And if to my misfortune it cost me a thousand times as much as it does others, I would attribute it to fate. And if God struck me down for it, I would fold my hands and say: "Lord, Thou knowest why!" If he was not justified, if it should appear that the man with the gold chain around his neck acted too hastily, because be thought of nothing except the fact that the merchant who missed his jewels was his brother-in-law, then people would find out whether the law has anywhere a gap in it, whether the king, who doubtless knows that justice is the one demand his subjects make in return for loyalty and obedience, and who least of all would wish to remain under obligation to one of the humblest of them, would allow that gap to remain unfilled. But all this is useless talk! The boy has no more chance of coming through this trial unscathed, than your mother has of rising from her grave alive! From him, neither now nor ever shall I have any consolation! And for that reason do you not forget what you owe me—keep your oath to me so that I shall not have to keep mine to you! [goes out, but returns again.] I shall come home late tonight, for I am going out in the mountains to the old lumber-dealer's. He is the only man who still looks me in the eye as he used to, because he knows nothing of my disgrace. He is deaf; nobody can tell him anything without yelling himself hoarse, and even then he hears it all wrong.—So he finds out nothing!

[Exit.]



SCENE II

CLARA (alone).

Oh, God! God! Have pity on me I Have pity on the old man! Take me to Thee! There is no other way to help him! The sunlight lies like a golden blanket on the street, and the children try to seize it with their hands. The birds fly hither and thither, and the flowers and weeds do not tire of growing higher. Everything is alive, everything wishes to be alive! Oh, Death! Thousands of sick people are at this moment shuddering with fear of thee! He who called for thee in the restless night, because he could no longer endure his sufferings, now finds his bed soft and downy again. I call upon thee! Spare him whose soul shrinks most fearsomely from thee, and let him live until the beautiful world becomes again gray and desolate! Take me in his stead! I shall not shudder when thou givest me thy cold hand; I shall grasp it and follow thee more bravely than ever yet a child of God has followed thee!



SCENE III

Enter the Merchant, WOLFRAM.

WOLFRAM.

Good day, Miss Clara! Is your father at home?

CLARA.

He has just gone out.

WOLFRAM.

I have come—my jewels have been found!

CLARA.

Oh, father! Why are you not here?—He has forgotten his spectacles—there they lie! Oh, if he only notices it and returns for them!—How then? Where Who had them?

WOLFRAM.

My wife—tell me frankly, Miss: Have you ever heard anything strange about my wife?

CLARA.

Yes!

WOLFRAM.

That she—[Points to his brow.] Is that it?

CLARA.

That she is not altogether in her right mind, to be sure!

WOLFRAM (bursting out).

My God! My God! All in vain! Not a single servant that I have ever taken into my house have I allowed to leave me; to each one I have paid double wages and closed my eyes to all remissness, in order to buy their silence! And yet—the false, ungrateful creatures! Oh, my poor children! Only for your sake did I seek to conceal it!

CLARA.

Do not blame your servants! Surely it is not their fault! Ever since your neighbor's house burned down, and your wife stood at the open window laughing and clapping her hands at the fire, yes, and even puffing out her cheeks and blowing at it, as if she wanted to make it burn more furiously, people have had to choose between taking her for the devil himself or for a lunatic. And there were hundreds who saw that!

WOLFRAM.

That is true. And now, since the whole town knows about my misfortune, it would be foolish for me to exact a promise of you to keep still about it! So listen! The theft for which your brother is in prison was committed by a lunatic!

CLARA.

Your own wife!

WOLFRAM.

That she, who was once the noblest and most sympathetic soul in the world, has become malicious and mischievous; that she shouts and screams with joy when an accident happens before her eyes, when a maid breaks a glass or cuts her finger—I knew that long ago; but that she also takes things in the house and puts them out of sight, hides money and tears up papers—that, alas! I found out too late—only this noon! I had laid myself down on the bed and was just about to fall asleep, when I became conscious that she had tiptoed noiselessly up beside me, and was watching me intently to see if I were yet asleep. I closed my eyes tighter. Then she took the key from the pocket of my vest, which was hanging over a chair, unlocked my desk, took out a roll of gold pieces, locked the desk again and put back the key. I was horrified! But I restrained myself, so as not to disturb her. She went out of the room and I crept after her on tiptoe. She climbed up to the attic and threw the gold into an old chest, which has been standing there empty since the days of my grandfather. Then she glanced timidly around the room, and, without seeing me, hurried out again. I lighted a taper and searched the chest; in it I found my youngest daughter's doll, a pair of the maid's slippers, a ledger, several letters, and, alas! or, God be praised!—which shall I say?—away down underneath, the jewels!

CLARA.

Oh, my poor mother! It is too terrible!

WOLFRAM.

God knows I would gladly sacrifice the jewelry if, by so doing, I could undo what has already been done! But the fault is not mine! That my suspicions, in spite of my profound respect for your father, fell on your brother, was natural; he had polished the desk, and with him the jewels had disappeared. I noticed it almost immediately, for I had occasion to take some papers out of the drawer in which they lay. Still it did not occur to me to take stringent measures to arrest him immediately. Merely as a preliminary, I told Adam, the bailiff, about the matter, and besought him to keep his investigations absolutely secret. But he would not listen to the idea of sparing anybody; he declared he must and would bring the case to court at once, for, he said, your brother was a drunkard and a debt-contractor. And he has, alas, so much influence with the burgomaster that he can put through anything he wants to. The man seems to bear a bitter grudge against your father—I do not know why, but it was impossible to soothe him; he held his hands over his ears and called out, as he was hurrying away: "If you had given me the jewelry, it would not have made me as happy as this!"

CLARA.

Once in the tavern the bailiff put his glass down on the table by my father's and nodded to him as if he wanted to touch glasses with him. My father then took his away, and said: "People in red coats and blue trimmings used to have to drink out of glasses with wooden feet. Also they used to have to wait out in front of the window, or, if it was raining, by the door, and respectfully remove their hats when the landlord handed them the drink. Moreover, if they felt a desire to touch glasses with anybody, they waited until neighbor Hangman happened in." Oh, God! What is not possible in this world! My mother had to pay for that with an untimely death!

WOLFRAM.

One should never anger anybody, and least of all bad people! Where is your father?

CLARA.

In the mountains at the lumber-dealer's.

WOLFRAM.

I'll ride out and hunt him up. I have already been at the burgomaster's, but unfortunately found him out. Otherwise your brother would be here now. But the Secretary has already dispatched a messenger! You will see him before evening! [Exit.]



SCENE IV

CLARA (alone).

Now I should rejoice! Oh, God! And I can think of nothing except: Now it is you alone! And yet I have a feeling as though something must occur to me at once that would set everything right again!



SCENE V

Enter, the SECRETARY.

SECRETARY.

Good day!

CLARA (seizes a chair to keep from falling).

He! Oh, if only he had not come back!

SECRETARY. Your father is not at home?

CLARA.

No!

SECRETARY.

I bring you good news. Your brother—No, Clara, I cannot talk to you in this formal way. All these tables, chairs, and cupboards that I know so well—Good day, old friend!

[He nods to a cup-board.]

How are you? You have not changed a bit!—around which we used to romp as children—it seems to me they will put their heads together and deride me as a fool, unless I quickly assume another tone. I must "thou" you, as I used to do! If you do not like it, just say to yourself: The big boy is dreaming, I will awaken him, I will step in front of him and draw myself up to my full height [With gestures], and let him see that it is no longer a little child that stands before him—[He points to a scratch on the door]—that shows how big you were at eleven!—but a very proper, grown-up girl, who could reach the sugar when it is upon the sideboard! Surely you remember! That was the place, the firm fortress, where it was safe from us even without being locked up. We used to amuse ourselves by slapping flies, when it stood there, because we could not endure to see them flying around happily and enjoying what we ourselves were unable to reach.

CLARA.

I should think people would forget about such things when they had hundreds and thousands of books to study.

SECRETARY.

Indeed they do forget it! To be sure, what does one not forget over Justinian and Gaius? Small boys who persistently resist their A B C's know very well why they do it; they have a presentiment that if they do not apply themselves too hard to the primer they will never have to struggle with the Bible. But it is a downright shame! People deceive the innocent souls! They are shown the red rooster with the basket full of eggs on the last page, so that of their own accord they say: "Ah!" And then there is no more holding back; they go tearing down the hill to Z, and so forth and so forth, until all of a sudden they find themselves in the midst of the Corpus Juris, and are horrified when they realize what a wilderness the accursed twenty-four letters have enticed them into—the letters, which, in the beginning, formed themselves, in a merry dance, only into nice-tasting and nice-smelling words such as "cherry" and "rose."

CLARA.

And [Absent-mindedly, and without interest]—what happens then?

SECRETARY.

That depends upon the difference of temperament. Some work themselves through. Those usually come forth into daylight again after three or four years, but looking somewhat thin and pale; however, one must not blame them for that; I myself am one of that kind. Others lie down in the middle of the forest; they intend merely to rest themselves, but they seldom get up again. I myself have a friend who has been drinking his beer for three years already in the shade of the Lex Julia; he selected the place on account of its name—it recalls pleasant memories. Still others give up in despair and turn back; those are the stupid ones; people let them out of one thicket only on condition that they will run at full speed into another. And then there are some who are still worse, and who don't get anywhere!

[To himself.]

How one chatters when one has something in his mind and does not know how to bring it out!

CLARA.

Everything is bright and cheerful today; that's because it is such beautiful weather.

SECRETARY.

Yes, in weather like this the owls fall out of their nests, the bats kill themselves because they feel the devil has created them, the mole burrows so deep into the earth that he cannot find his way out again and must pitifully suffocate unless he bores through to the other side and emerges again in America. Today every ear of corn shoots up twice as high, and every poppy grows twice as red as usual, even if only out of shame at not having been so at first. Shall man remain behind? Shall he defraud the dear Lord of the only reward which His world offers Him—a happy face and a bright eye, which mirrors and at the same time transfigures all this gloriousness? Truly, when I see one of these recluses sneaking out of his door in the morning, his brow furrowed with wrinkles, and staring at the sky as if it were a vault of blotting-paper, I often think to myself: It is going to rain soon; God will have to let down the curtain of clouds, so that that sour face will not irritate Him. They ought to take legal action against fellows like that on the ground that they are thwarters of merry parties and destroyers of harvest weather. How are you going to render thanks for your life if not by living? Sing joyously, bird, or else you will not deserve your voice!

CLARA.

Oh, that is true, so true! It almost makes me cry!

SECRETARY.

It was not meant for you. That for eight days you have been breathing more heavily than you used to, I well understand—I know your father. But, God be praised! I can make your heart free again, and for that very purpose I am here. You shall see your brother again this very evening, and people shall point their fingers, not at him, but at those who cast him into prison. Does that deserve a kiss, a sisterly kiss, if it cannot be any other kind? Or shall we play blindman's buff for it?—If I do not catch you in ten minutes, I am to go away without the kiss and take a box on the ear into the bargain.

CLARA (to herself).

I feel as if I had suddenly grown to be a thousand years old, and time were standing still with me. I can go neither backwards nor forwards! Oh, all this brazen sunshine and cheerfulness round about me!

SECRETARY.

You do not answer me. To be sure, I forgot—you are engaged. Oh, girl! Why did you do that to me? And yet have I any right to complain? She is like all that is dear and good, and all that is dear and good should have made me think of her. And yet to me she was for years as if she no longer existed in the world! For that reason she—If it only were a fellow before whom one had to cast down one's eyes! But this Leonard—

CLARA (suddenly, when she hears the name).

I must go to him. That is just it—I am no longer the sister of a thief!—Oh, God! what shall I do? Leonard will, he must! He needs only not to be a fiend! Everything will be as it used to be [Shudders]—as it used to be!

[To the SECRETARY.]

Do not be offended, Frederick!—Why are my legs so heavy all of a sudden?

SECRETARY.

You will—

CLARA.

To Leonard! Where else should I go? Only that one road lies before me in this world!

SECRETARY.

You love him, then! Well—

CLARA (wildly).

Love him? It is either he or death! Does anybody wonder that I choose him? I would not do it had I only myself to consider!

SECRETARY.

He or death? Girl, thus speaks Despair, or—

CLARA.

Do not make me frantic! Do not mention that word again! You! It is you I love! There! I cry it out to you as if I were already wandering on the other side of the grave, where no one blushes any more, where cold and naked forms glide past one another, because the fearful, holy presence of God has entirely consumed in every one all thought of others.

SECRETARY.

Me? Still me? Clara, I divined it when I saw you out in the garden.

CLARA.

Did you? Oh, the other too!

[Gloomily, as if she were alone.]

He stepped up in front of me—he or I!—Oh, my heart, my accursed heart! In order to prove to him, prove to myself, that it was not so, or to stifle it if it were so, I did what now [Breaks out into tears]—God in Heaven! I would have pity on myself, were I Thou, and Thou I!

SECRETARY.

Clara, be my wife! I came to look once more into your eyes in the old way. Had you not understood the look I should have gone away again without speaking. Everything that I am and have I now offer to you. It is little, but it may grow to be more. I should have been here long ago, but your mother was sick, and then she died.



CLARA (laughs crazily).

SECRETARY.

Take courage, girl! The fellow has your word—that worries you. And, to be sure, it is a damnable thing! How could you—

CLARA.

Oh, ask me everything that conspires to drive a poor girl crazy! Scorn and derision from all sides when you went to the University, and did not let me hear from you.—"She still thinks of him!" "She thinks that child's play was meant seriously!" "Does she receive any letters from him?"—And then, too, my mother: "Stay with people of your class!" "Pride never succeeds!" "Leonard is a very nice fellow; everybody is surprised that you look at him over your shoulder so!" And added to all the rest, my own heart: "If he has forgotten you, show him that you too—" Oh, God!

SECRETARY.

I am to blame. I realize it. Well, what is difficult is not necessarily impossible. I will get him to release you. Perhaps—

CLARA.

Release me? There!

[Throws LEONARD'S letter to him.]

SECRETARY (reads).

As cashier, I—your brother—thief—very sorry—but out of consideration for my office, I cannot help it—[To CLARA.] He wrote you that on the very day your mother died? For he adds his condolence on her sudden death!

CLARA.

I suppose so!

SECRETARY.

The Devil take him! Great God, the cats, snakes and other monsters which, so to speak, slipped through Thy fingers at Creation, so delighted Beelzebub that he imitated Thy patterns—but he finished them off better than Thou didst; he put them in a human skin, and now they stand in rank and file with the rest of Thy humanity, and one does not recognize them until they begin to scratch and sting!

[To CLARA.]

But it is well, indeed it is fine!

[He tries to embrace her.]

Come! Forever! With this kiss—

CLARA (sinks into his arms).

No, not forever! Only to keep me from falling—but no kiss!

SECRETARY.

Girl, you do not love him, you have your release—

CLARA (gloomily, straightening herself up again).

And yet I must go to him, I must throw myself on my knees before him and cry out: "Behold my father's white hairs! Take me!"

SECRETARY.

Unhappy girl! Do I understand you?

CLARA.

Yes!

SECRETARY.

No man can overlook that! Think of having to cast down one's eyes before a man into whose face one would like to spit!

[He presses CLARA wildly to him.]

Poor, poor girl!

CLARA.

Go now, go!

SECRETARY (to himself, brooding).

Or else one would have to shoot the dog who knows of it. Oh, that he had some courage about him! That he would stand up and fight! That one could force him to it! I should not be afraid of missing him!

CLARA.

I beg of you!

SECRETARY (going).

As soon as it grows dark!

[He returns and grasps CLARA's hand.]

Girl, you stand before me—[He turns away.]

Thousands of your sex would have kept it a secret with shrewd cunning, and only in an hour of sweet forgetfulness would have confided it coaxingly to the ear and soul of their husbands. I feel what I owe you!

CLARA (alone).

Oh, my heart, lock yourself up! Crush yourself together so that not another drop of that blood may escape which would kindle again the congealing life in my veins! For a moment a feeling akin to hope arose in you again! Now for the first time I am conscious of it!

[Laughs.]

No! No man can, overlook that! And if—could you yourself overlook it? Would you have had the courage to grasp a hand that—No! no! Such evil courage you would not have! You would with your own hands have to lock yourself into your hell, if any one tried to open the door from the outside. You are forever—Oh, alas, that the pain is intermittent, that the piercing agony sometimes ceases! That is the reason why it lasts so long! The tortured man imagines he is resting when the torturer merely pauses to get his breath. It is like a drowning man's catching his breath on the waves, when the current that has drawn him under spews him forth again only to seize him once more and draw him down. He has nothing but a double, futile fight for life!—

Well, Clara?—Yes, father, I am going! Your daughter will not drive you to self-destruction! Soon I shall be the wife of that man, or—God! No! I do not go begging for happiness—it is misery, the deepest misery that I beg for! You will give me my misery!—Away! Where is the letter?

[She takes it.]

Three wells you pass on your way to him! You must not halt at any of them, Clara—you have not yet the right to do that!

[Exit.]



ACT III



SCENE I

LEONARD'S Room.

LEONARD (at a table covered with documents, writing).

That makes the sixth sheet since dinner! How good a man feels when he is doing his duty! Now anybody that wanted to could come through the door, even the king himself! I should rise, but I should not feel embarrassed! I make just one exception—that is the old joiner! But, after all, he cannot do much to me! Poor Clara! I am sorry for her. I cannot think of her without uneasiness! If only it were not for that one cursed evening! It was really more jealousy than love that made me so frantic, and she must have yielded to me only to silence my reproaches—for she was as cold as death toward me! She has some bad days ahead of her! Oh, well, I too shall suffer considerable annoyance! Let everybody bear his own burden! Above all things I must make the affair with the little humpback secure, so that she cannot escape me when the storm breaks out! Then I shall have the burgomaster on my side, and shall have nothing to fear!



SCENE II

Enter, CLARA.

CLARA.

Good evening, Leonard!

LEONARD.

Clara! [To himself.]

This is something I did not expect!

[Aloud.]

Did you not receive my letter? Surely—Perhaps you are coming for your father to pay the taxes! How much is it?

[He fumbles in a ledger.]

I really ought to have it in my head!

CLARA.

I have come to give back your letter! Read it again!

LEONARD (reads it with great seriousness).

It is a perfectly sensible letter! How can a man who has public money in trust marry into a family to which [he swallows a word]—to which your brother belongs?

CLARA.

Leonard!

LEONARD.

But perhaps the whole town is mistaken! Your brother is not in prison? He never was in prison? You are not the sister of a—of your brother?

CLARA.

Leonard, I am my father's daughter! Not as the sister of an accused, innocent man, who has been set free—for my brother is at liberty—not as a girl who trembles before undeserved disgrace, for [in a low voice] I tremble still more before you, only as the daughter of the old man who gave me life, do I stand here!

LEONARD.

And you wish?—

CLARA.

Can you ask? Oh, that I might go away! My father will cut his throat, unless—Marry me!

LEONARD.

Your father—

CLARA.

He has sworn it! Marry me!

LEONARD.

Hand and neck are near cousins—they never do harm to each other! Don't be anxious!

CLARA.

He has sworn it! Marry me! And, afterward, kill me! I will thank you even more for the latter than for the former!

LEONARD.

Do you love me? Did your heart prompt you to come here? Am I the man without whom you cannot live and die?

CLARA.

Answer that yourself!

LEONARD.

Can you swear that you love me? That you love me as a girl loves a man to whom she is to bind herself forever?

CLARA.

No, that I cannot swear! But this I can swear Whether I love you or do not love you, that you shall never know! I will wait on you, I will work for you, you need give me nothing to eat, I will support myself, I will do sewing and spinning for other people at night, I will go hungry when I have nothing to do, I will rather bite a piece out of my own arm than go to my father and let him suspect anything! When you beat me, because your dog is not at hand, or because you have kicked him out, I will rather swallow my own tongue than emit a cry which will betray to the neighbors what is going on. I cannot promise that my skin will not show the welts caused by your whip, for that is not in my power. But I will lie about it, I will say that I fell head foremost against the cupboard, or that I slipped on the floor because it was too smooth—that I will do before anybody has time to ask me where the black and blue marks came from!—Marry me! I shall not live long! And if it lasts too long for you, if you do not care to meet the expenses of the divorce proceedings necessary to get rid of me, them buy some poison of the apothecary and put it somewhere as if it were for your rats. I will take it without your even nodding to me, and tell the neighbors with my dying breath that I took it for pulverized sugar!

LEANARD.

A man of whom you expect all this will certainly not surprise you if he says no!

CLARA.

Then may God not frown too severely on me if I come before he calls me! If I had myself alone to consider I would endure it patiently. If the world kicked me in my misery, instead of standing by me, I would bear it submissively and regard it as just punishment for I know not what! I would love my child, even if it had your features, and I would cry so much before the poor innocent thing that, when it grew older and wiser, it would certainly not despise and curse its mother. But it is not myself alone; and on Judgement Day I shall much more easily find an answer to the Judge's question: why did you drive your father to it?

LEANARD.

You talk as if you were the first woman and the last to find herself in your predicament! Thousands have gone through it before you and submitted to their fate. Thousands after you will be confronted with the same situation and accept their fate. Are all these others strumpets, that you are so anxious to stand in the corner by yourself? They also had fathers who invented a score of new oaths when they first heard of it, and talked about murder and homicide! Afterward they were ashamed of themselves and repented their oaths and blasphemies; they sat down and rocked the child, or fanned the flies away!

CLARA.

I readily believe that you fail to understand why anybody in the world should keep an oath.



SCENE III

Enter a boy

BOY.

Here are some flowers! I am not to say from whom they come!

LEANARD.

Oh, what pretty flowers!

[He beats his brow.]

The devil! How stupid of me! I should have sent Some! How can I get out of it? I do not understand such things, and the little girl will take it to heart! She has nothing else to think about!

[He takes the flowers.]

But I shall not keep all of them.

[To Clara] How about it? These here signify repentance and shame, don't they? Did you not say that to me once?

CLARA (nods.)

LEANARD (To the boy).

See here, boy, these are for me. I fasten them on me here, you see—where my heart is. These, these dark red ones, which burn like a dismal fire, you may take back. Do you understand? As soon as my apples are ripe, you may come for some!

BOY.

That is a long time off!

[Exit.]



SCENE IV

LEANARD.

Yes, you see, Clara; you spoke about keeping one's word. Just because I am a man of my word I must answer you again as I have already answered once before. A week ago I wrote you a letter—you cannot deny it—there it lies! [He hands her the letter, which she takes mechanically.] I had reason—your brother—you say he is acquitted—I am glad of that! But during these eight days I have entered into a new relation. I had a right to do it, for you did not protest against my letter at the right time! I was free in my own conscience, as well as before the law. Now you come to me—but I have already given my promise and received another's! [To himself.] I would it were so!—The other girl is already in the same predicament as you are! I am sorry for you, but [He strokes her hair, and she permits it, as if she were absolutely unconscious of it]—you understand?—One cannot trifle with the burgomaster!

CLARA (absent-mindedly).

Trifle with him!

LEONARD.

See! You are getting sensible! And as far as your father is concerned, you can say it boldly to his face that he alone is to blame. Do not stare at me so; do not shake your head! It is so, girl, it is so! Just tell him that! He'll understand it all right, and repent! I'll vouch for that! [To himself.] Any man who gives away his daughter's dowry must not be surprised if she remains an old maid. When I think of that my back gets stiff, and I could wish that the old fellow were here to receive a lecture. Why must I be such a monster?—Only because he was a fool! Whatever happens as a result of that, he is to blame for it! That is obvious!

[To CLARA.]

Or would you prefer to have me talk with him myself? For your sake I will risk a black eye and go to him. He may be rough with me, he may throw the boot-jack at my head, but he will have to swallow the truth in spite of the stomach-ache it gives him, and let you rest in peace!—Is he at home?

CLARA (stands up straight).

I thank you!

[Starts to go.]

LEONARD.

Shall I go over with you? I have the courage!

CLARA.

I thank you as I would thank a serpent which had wound itself around me and unwound itself and sprung away again, because another prey enticed it. I know that I have been bitten, I know that it deserts me only because it does not seem worth the trouble to suck out what little marrow there is left in my bones. But still I thank the snake, for now I shall have a quiet death. Yes, man, I am not mocking; to me it is as if I had seen through your breast down into the abyss of hell, and whatever may be my lot in the awful eternity to come, I shall never have anything more to do with you, and that is a consolation! And just as the unfortunate person whom a viper has stung cannot be blamed for opening his veins in terror and disgust, in order that his poisoned blood may stream swiftly forth, so perhaps God in His everlasting mercy will take pity on me when He looks down upon you and me and sees what you have made of me! For how could I do it, when I never, never should have done it?—One thing more: My father knows nothing, he does not even suspect anything! And that he may never find out I shall quit the world this very day! If I thought for one moment that you [she takes a step, wildly, toward him]—oh, but that is foolishness! You would be only all the better pleased to see them all stand and shake their heads and inquire in vain of one another why it happened!

LEONARD.

Things will happen—what is one to do, Clara?

CLARA.

Away from here! The man can talk!

[She starts to go.]

LEONARD.

Do you think that I believe you?

CLARA.

No!

LEONARD.

Thank God, you cannot be a suicide without being an infanticide as well!

CLARA.

Better both than a parricide! Oh, I know that one cannot atone for one sin with another! But what I now do affects me alone! If I hand the knife to my father the blow strikes him as well as me! It strikes me in any case! That gives me courage and strength in all my distress! Things will go well with you on earth!

[Exit.]



SCENE V

LEONARD (alone).

"I must, I must marry her!" And why must I? She is going to do a crazy thing in order to keep her father from doing one. Where lies the necessity of my doing a still crazier thing in order to ward off hers? I cannot admit the necessity—at least not until I see before me the man who wants to get ahead of me with the most insane act of all! And if he thinks as I do about it there will be no end! That sounds quite sensible, and yet—I must follow her! Here comes somebody! Thank God!—Nothing is more ignominious than to have to be at variance with one's own thoughts! A rebellion in the head, in which one brings forth viper after viper and each one tries to eat the other or bite his tail, is the worst of all!



SCENE VI

Enter the SECRETARY.

SECRETARY.

Good evening!

LEONARD.

Mr. Secretary? To what do I owe the honor—

SECRETARY.

Leonard, you will see at once!

LEONARD.

You say Leonard to me?—To be sure, we used to be schoolmates!

SECRETARY.

And we may perhaps be death-mates too!

[He draws forth two pistols.]

Do you know how to handle these?

LEONARD.

I do not understand you!

SECRETARY (cocks one of them).

Do you see?—This is how it is done! Then you aim at me, as I am now doing at you, and pull the trigger! So!

LEONARD.

What are you talking about?

SECRETARY.

One of us two must die! Die! And immediately!

LEONARD.

Die?

SECRETARY.

You know why!

LEONARD.

By God, no!

SECRETARY.

No matter—it will occur to you all right when you are dying!

LEONARD.

I have no idea—

SECRETARY.

Bethink yourself! Otherwise I might take you for a mad dog that has unwittingly bitten the one I love most on earth, and shoot you down as such! But for half an hour more I must let you pass as my equal!

LEONARD.

But don't talk so loud! If anybody should hear you—

SECRETARY.

If anybody could hear me you would have called him long ago! Well?

LEONARD.

If it is about the girl—I can marry her, you know! I had, in fact, half made up my mind to do it, when she herself was here!

SECRETARY.

She was here! And has gone away again without having seen you contrite and repentant at her feet? Come! Come!

LEONARD.

I beg of you! You see before you a man who is ready to do anything that you dictate. This very evening I will betroth myself to her.

SECRETARY.

That I shall do, no one else. If the world itself hung on it you should not even touch the hem of her dress again! Come! Into the woods with me! But mark this! I shall take you by the arm, and if on the way you emit a single cry—[He holds up a pistol.] I trust you believe me! Nevertheless, that you may not feel tempted, we will take the road through the garden behind the house!

LEONARD.

One of them is for me—give it to me!

SECRETARY.

So that you can throw it away and compel me to murder you or let you escape! Is that why you want it? Be patient, until we are on the spot! Then I shall divide with you honestly!

LEONARD (goes, and accidentally knocks his drinking-glass from the table).

Shall I never take another drink?

SECRETARY.

Courage, my lad! Perhaps it will go well with you! God and the devil seem to be forever fighting for the world! Who knows which is master just now?

[Seizes him by the arm; exeunt both.]



SCENE VII

A Room in the Joiner's House; enter CARL.

CARL.

Nobody at home! Had I not known about the rat-hole under the threshold where they always hide the key when they all go out, I could not have got in! Well, that would not have made any difference! I could run around the city twenty times now and imagine to myself that there was no greater pleasure in the world than that of using one's legs! Let's have a light!

[He strikes a light.]

I'll bet the tinder-box is in the same old place, for we have twice ten commandments in this house! The hat belongs on the third nail, not on the fourth! At half past nine one has to be tired! Before Martinmas one must not shiver; after Martinmas one must not sweat! That stands on a line with: Thou shalt love and fear God! I am thirsty!

[Calls.]

Mother! Fie! As if I had forgotten that she lies where even the innkeeper's boots no longer has to open his nut-cracker mouth with a "Yes, sir!" when he is called! I did not weep when I heard the funeral bell in my dark cell, but—Redcoat, you would not even let me roll the last ball at the bowling alley, although I already had it in my hand. Well, I shall not leave you time for a last breath when I meet you alone, and that may happen this very evening! I know where you are to be found about ten o'clock! Afterward, aboard ship!—I wonder where Clara is? I am as hungry as I am thirsty! Today is Thursday—they have veal broth for dinner. If it were winter, they would have had cabbage—before Shrove-Tuesday white cabbage—after Shrove-Tuesday, green cabbage! That is as fixed as Thursday's having to come when Wednesday has passed, so that it cannot say to Friday: You go in my place—my feet are sore!



SCENE VIII

Enter, CLARA.

CARL.

At last!—You should not kiss so much! Whenever four red lips meet a bridge for the devil is built!—What have you there?

CLARA.

Where? What?

CARL.

Where? What?—In your hand!

CLARA.

Nothing!

CARL.

Nothing? Is it a secret?

[He snatches LEONARD'S letter.]

Give me that! When the father is not here the brother is guardian!

CLARA.

I held fast to the scrap of paper, and yet the evening wind is so strong that it blows the tiles off the roofs. As I was passing the church one fell right in front of me, so that my foot struck against it. Oh, God! I thought—one more! And I stood still. That would have been fine; they would have buried me and said: "She met with an accident!"—But I waited in vain for the second.

CARL (has read the letter).

Thunder and—I'll lame the hand that wrote that!—Bring me a bottle of wine! Or is your savings box empty?

CLARA.

There is one more in the house. I had bought it secretly for mother's birthday and put it aside. Tomorrow would have been the day—[She turns away.]

CARL.

Give it to me!

CLARA (brings the wine).

CARL (drinks quickly).

Now we can start in again—planing, sawing, hammering, and, in between, eating, drinking, and sleeping, so that we can go on planing, sawing, and hammering, and on Sundays do a bit of praying into the bargain! I thank Thee, O Lord, that I may plane, saw, and hammer!

[Drinks.]

Long live every good dog that is tied to a chain, and yet does not snap at everything around him!

[He drinks again.]

And once more: Here's to his health!

CLARA.

Carl, do not drink so much! Father says the devil lurks in wine!

CARL.

And the priest says God lurks in wine! [He drinks.] Let us see who is right! The bailiff was here at the house—how did he behave himself?

CLARA.

As if he had been in a den of thieves. No sooner had he opened his mouth than mother fell over and was dead!

CARL.

Good! If you hear tomorrow that the fellow has been found dead, then do not curse the murderer!

CLARA.

Surely you are not going to—

CARL.

Am I his only enemy? Has he not been often attacked already? Among so many it might be difficult to find the right man to attribute the deed to, unless he left his cane or hat on the spot! [He drinks.] Whoever it is: Good success to him!

CLARA.

Brother, you talk—

CARL.

Don't you like it? Never mind! You will not see me very much longer!

CLARA (shudders with terror).

No!

CARL.

No? So you know already that I am going to sea? Do my thoughts crawl around on my forehead, that you can read them so easily? Or did the old man fly into a passion in his old way and threaten to shut me out of the house? Bah! That would be very much the same thing as if the jailer had sworn to me: You shall not stay in prison any longer—I am going to shove you out into the open again!

CLARA.

You do not understand me!

CARL (sings).

A ship lies in the offing, A-sporting with the winds.

Yes indeed, there is nothing to bind me to the bench here any longer! Mother is dead, there is no longer any one to stop eating fish after every storm, and that has been my wish from boyhood. Away! I shall not prosper here—at least not until I know for sure that luck no longer favors the brave fellow who stakes his life on the game, who throws back onto the table the copper coin that he has received from the great treasure, in order to see whether luck will pocket it or return it to him gilded!

CLARA.

And are you going away to leave your father all alone? He is sixty years old!

CARL.

Alone? Aren't you going to be left?

CLARA.

I?

CARL.

You! His pet child! What sort of weeds are growing in your head that you ask me that? By going, I leave his joy with him and free him of his everlasting annoyance! Why shouldn't I do it? Once and for all we cannot get along together. He can't get things contracted enough to suit him. He would like to close his fist and creep inside it. I would like to strip off my skin like a baby's coat—if it were only practicable!

[Sings]

The anchor they are heaving, I trow they'll soon be leaving, Now look! Away she spins.

Tell me yourself: Did he doubt my guilt for a single instant? And did he not find the usual consolation in his over-wise: "Just as I expected!" "I have always thought so!" "It could not end in any other way!" If it had been you, he would have killed himself! I should like to see him if you were to suffer a woman's fate! It would be to him as if he himself had become pregnant—and by the devil besides!

CLARA.

Oh, what anguish! Yes, I must go! Away!

CARL.

What do you mean by that?

CLARA.

I must go into the kitchen! What else should I mean?

[Clasping her forehead.]

Yes! That too! Just to hear that I came home again!

[Exit.]

CARL.

She acts very strangely!

[Sings]

A bold and saucy sea-gull Sweeps round, as if possessed—

CLARA. [Reenters.]

The last thing is done! Father's supper is on the fire! As I closed the kitchen door behind me, I thought to myself: You are never to enter there again! I shuddered in my very soul! Thus I shall go out of the room too, thus out of the house, thus out of the world!

CARL. [Sings; he continues to walk back and forth; CLARA remains in the background.]

Aloft the sun is burning, The fishes, glancing, turning, Circle about their guest.

CLARA.

Why do I not do it then? Shall I never do it? Am I going to continue putting it off from day to day, as I am now doing from one minute to the next, until—certainly! Then, away! Away! And yet I stand still! I have a feeling as if imploring hands were raised in my womb, as if eyes—[She sits down on a chair.] What does it mean? Am I too weak to do it? Then ask yourself if you are strong enough to see your father with his throat cut!—[She rises.] No! No!—Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—God! God! My poor head! I cannot even pray! Brother! Brother! Help me!

CARL.

What's the matter with you

CLARA.

The Lord's Prayer!

[She bethinks herself.]

It seemed to me as if I were already lying in the water and sinking, and had not yet prayed! I [suddenly]—Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us! That is it! Yes! Yes! Certainly I forgive him! I shall think no more of him!—Good night, Carl!

CARL.

Are you going to bed so soon? Good night!

CLARA. [Like a child, repeating the Lord's Prayer.]

Forgive us—

CARL.

You might bring me a glass of water first—but it must be absolutely fresh!

CLARA (quickly).

I will bring it to you from the well!

CARL.

All right! If you want to. It is not far, you know.

CLARA.

Thank you! Thank you! That was the last thing that still troubled me! The deed itself would have betrayed me! Now people will say: She had an accident! She fell in!

CARL.

Be careful of yourself! The board has probably not been nailed down yet!

CLARA.

It is bright moonlight!—Oh, God, I am coming only because otherwise my father would come! Forgive me, as I—have mercy on me—mercy—[Exit.]

SCENE IX

CARL (sings).

I fain would be aboard her, My kingdom's on the sea.

Yes, but first [He looks at the clock.]—What time is it?—Nine o'clock.

A lad that's young and growing Must e'en be up and going, No matter where, says he.



SCENE X

Enter, Master ANTONY.

ANTONY.

I should have an apology to make to you, but if I forgive you for contracting secret debts and pay them off for you into the bargain, you will probably allow me to omit the apology?

CARL.

The one is good, the other is not necessary. As soon as I sell my Sunday clothes I shall myself be able to satisfy the people who have a claim of a few thalers against me. And that I shall do tomorrow, for as a sailor [To himself]—There, it is out! [Aloud]—I shall no longer need them!

ANTONY.

What kind of talk is that again?

CARL.

This is not the first time you have heard it, but today you may answer me as you will! My mind is made up!

ANTONY.

You are of age, that is true!

CARL.

And just because I am of age I am not defiant about it! For in my opinion birds and fishes should not quarrel over the question whether it is better in the water or in the air. Just one thing—either you will never see me again, or else you will clap me on the shoulder and say: Well done!

ANTONY.

We'll wait and see! I shall not have to pay off the fellow that I have taken on in your place. That's all.

CARL.

I thank you.

ANTONY.

Tell me: Did the bailiff, instead of taking you by the shortest way to the burgomaster, really lead you around through the whole town and—

CARL.

Up the street, down the street, across the marketplace like a carnival ox! But do not doubt it—I shall settle up with him too before I go! ANTONY.

I do not blame you for that, but I forbid you to do it! CARL.

Ho!

ANTONY.

I'll not let you out of my sight! I myself would run to the man's aid, if you tried to attack him!

CARL.

I thought that you loved my mother too!

ANTONY.

I shall prove it!



SCENE XI

SECRETARY (staggers in; he is pale, and is holding a handkerchief against his breast). Where is Clara? [He falls into a chair.] God!—Good evening! Thank Heaven that I had time to get here!—Where is she?

CARL.

She went to—Where is she? Her talk—I am afraid—[Exit.]



SECRETARY.

She is avenged! The scoundrel is done for! But I too am—Oh, why did it have to be?—God! Now I cannot—

ANTONY.

What's the matter with you? What ails you?

SECRETARY.

It is nearly up with me! Give me your hand on it, that you will not cast off your daughter—do you hear?—will not cast her off, if she—

ANTONY.

That is strange talk! Why should I, pray—Ha! My eyes are opening!—Was I right after all in suspecting?—

SECRETARY.

Give me your hand!

ANTONY.

No!

[He puts both hands into his pockets.]

But I will clear the way for her—she knows that! I have told her so.

SECRETARY (horrified).

You told her!—unhappy girl! Now for the first time I quite understand—

CARL (rushes in).

Father! Father! There is somebody lying in the well! If only it is not—

ANTONY.

The long ladder! Hooks! Ropes! Why do you delay? Quick! Even were it the bailiff!

CARL.

Everything is already there! The neighbors arrived before me! If only it is not Clara!—

ANTONY.

Clara?

[He grasps the table.]

CARL.

She went to draw water, and they found her handkerchief!

SECRETARY.

Scoundrel, I know now why your bullet hit the mark! It is she!

ANTONY.

Go and find out!

[He, sits down.]

I cannot!

[Exit CARL.]

And yet—

[Rises again.]

If [to the SECRETARY] I understood you correctly, everything is all right!

CARL (reenters).

Clara! Dead! Her head terribly crushed on the edge of the well, as she—Father, she did not fall in, she jumped in! A maid saw her!

ANTONY.

Let her think before she speaks! It is not light enough for her to have distinguished things with certainty! SECRETARY. Do you doubt it? You would like to, but you cannot! Think only of what you said to her! You pointed out to her the road to death! I, I alone am to blame that she did not turn back! When you suspected her misery, you thought only of the tongues that would hiss at you, but not of the worthlessness of the snakes to which they belonged! Then you uttered a word that drove her to despair! And I, instead of catching her in my arms when her heart was bursting with nameless anguish before me, thought only of the scoundrel who could make light of it. And now I pay with my life for having made myself so dependent upon a man who was worse than I! And you too, who stand there so stolidly, you too will say one day: Daughter, I would to God you had not spared me the head-shaking and shoulder-shrugging of the Pharisees about me! It crushes me more deeply that you cannot sit by my death-bed and wipe the sweat of anguish from my brow!

ANTONY.

She spared me nothing! People have seen it!

SECRETARY.

She did the best she could! You did not deserve to have her act succeed!

ANTONY.

Or she did not!

[Tumult outside.]

CARL. They are coming with her!

[Starts to go.]

ANTONY (immovable, as to the end; calls after him).

Into the back room, where your mother stood!

SECRETARY.

Away to meet her!

[He attempts to rise, but falls back.]

Oh, Carl!

CARL (helps him up and leads him away).

ANTONY.

I no longer understand the world!

[Stands brooding.]

* * * * *



SIEGFRIED'S DEATH

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

KING GUNTHER

HAGEN TRONJE

DANK WART

VOLKER

GISELHER

GERENOT

WULF Warrior

TRUCES Warrior

RUMOLT

SIEGFRIED

UTE

KRIEMHILD

BRUNHILDA, Queen of Iceland

FRIGGA, her nurse

A CHAPLAIN

A CHAMBERLAIN

Warriors, Populace, Maidens, Dwarfs



SIEGFRIED'S DEATH (1862)

TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE ROYCE



ACT I

Iceland, BRUNHILDA'S castle. Early morning.



SCENE I

Enter BRUNHILDA and FRIGGA from opposite sides.

BRUNHILDA.

From whence so early? Dewy is thy hair And blood-stained are thy garments.

FRIGGA.

I have made A sacrifice unto the ancient gods, Before the moon was gone.

BRUNHILDA.

The ancient gods! The cross rules now, and Thor and Odin dwell As devils in deep hell.

FRIGGA.

And dost thou fear Them less for that? Their curses still may fall Upon us, though their blessings are withheld, And willingly I sacrificed the ram. Oh, wouldst thou kill one too! Thy need is great Above all others.

BRUNHILDA.

Mine?

FRIGGA.

Another time. I long had meant to tell thee, and today At last the hour has come.

BRUNHILDA.

I've always thought That at thy death the hour would come to me, So did not importune thee.

FRIGGA.

Mark me now! From our volcano came there suddenly An aged man and left with me a child, A tablet, too, with runes.



BRUNHILDA.

'Twas in the night?

FRIGGA.

How dost thou know?

BRUNHILDA.

When on thee falls the moonlight—On thy face, thou speakest oft aloud, Betraying much.

FRIGGA.

And thou didst harken to me? At midnight we were watching with our dead—Our beauteous Queen. The old man's hair was white, And longer than a woman's. Like a cloak It hung about him, flowing softly down.

BRUNHILDA.

The spirit of the mountain!

FRIGGA.

Naught know I!— No syllable he spoke. The little maid Reached forth her hands and grasped the golden crown That glittered brightly o'er the dead Queen's brow. We marveled that it fitted her.

BRUNHILDA.

The child?

FRIGGA.

The little maid; and it was none too large, Nor later did it bind her.

BRUNHILDA.

'Twas like mine!

FRIGGA.

Like thine it was! And, yet more wonderful. The child was like the maid that lay there dead Within the mother's arms and disappeared As had it ne'er existed—yes, so like That only by the breathing could we know The living from the dead. It seemed to us That nature must have formed one body twice, With life for one child only.

BRUNHILDA.

Had the Queen A new-born baby in her arms?

FRIGGA.

Her life She gave to bear her child, and with her died The little maid.

BRUNHILDA.

Thou didst not tell me that. FRIGGA. I never thought to tell thee. Sorrow broke The mother's heart that she could never show Her baby to her lord. For many years This priceless joy in vain he had desired, And, just a month before the child was born, A sudden death o'ertook him.

BRUNHILDA.

Tell me more!

FRIGGA.

We sought the aged man, but he was gone. The glowing mountain that had been cleft through As one might split an apple, slowly now Was drawn together there before our eyes.

BRUNHILDA.

The old man came no more?

FRIGGA.

Now hark to me! Next morning to the grave we bore our Queen; But when the priest was ready to baptize The little maid, his arm fell helpless down, Nor could he touch her forehead with the dew Of holy water, and his good right arm He never lifted more.

BRUNHILDA.

What, never more!

FRIGGA.

The man was old, and so we marveled not. We called another priest. The holy dew He sprinkled on the child. The blessed words Of benediction halted on his tongue, Nor hath his speech returned.

BRUNHILDA.

And now the third?

FRIGGA.

For him we waited long. We had to seek In other lands afar, where of the tale None knew. At last this priest baptized the child. His holy office ended, down he fell Upon the ground and nevermore arose!

BRUNHILDA.

And did the baby live

FRIGGA.

She throve apace, And strong she grew. Her playful ways to us Were signs what we should do or leave undone. They ne'er deceived us, for the runes had said That we might trust them ever.

BRUNHILDA.

Frigga! Frigga!

FRIGGA.

Thou art indeed the maid! Now dost thou know Not in the gloomy caverns of the dead, In Hecla where the ancient gods still dwell, Among the Norns, among the Valkyries, Seek thou the mother that gave birth to thee! Oh, that no drop of holy water e'er Had touched thy brow! Then were we wiser far.

BRUNHILDA.

What dost thou murmur?

FRIGGA.

How then did it hap That on this morning we were not in bed, But fully robed had tarried in the hall? Our teeth were chattering and our lips were blue.

BRUNHILDA.

A sudden sleep o'erwhelmed us, that was all.

FRIGGA.

But had it ever happened?

BRUNHILDA.

Not before.

FRIGGA.

Then hark! The old man came and tried to speak. It almost seems as if I'd seen him stand And grasp thy shoulder; and he threatened me, But heavy was thy sleep. Thou should'st not hear What fate awaits thee if thou dost persist. So offer sacrifice and then be free. Oh, had I paid no heed unto the priest, Howe'er he urged me! But the sacred runes I had not read aright.—Come, sacrifice, For danger cometh nigh.

BRUNHILDA.

'Tis nigh?

FRIGGA.

Alas! Thou knowest that the fiery sea is quenched That flamed around thy castle. BRUNHILDA. Yet the knight Still lingers who should wield the magic sword And on his war-horse gallop through the flames, When he had won proud Fafner's ill-starred hoard.

FRIGGA.

I may have erred. But yet this second sign Cannot deceive me, for I long have known That when the fateful hour shall come to thee, Clear vision doth await thee. Sacrifice! Mayhap the ancient gods surround thee now Invisibly, and they will straight appear With the first blood-drops of thine offering.

BRUNHILDA.

I do not fear.

[Trumpets are heard.]

FRIGGA.

The trumpets!

BRUNHILDA.

Hast thou ne'er Heard them before.

FRIGGA.

Never before with dread. The time for lopping thistle-heads is past, And iron helms arise before thee now.

BRUNHILDA.

Come hither all! For I will let her see Brunhilda still can conquer! While the sea Of fire still flamed I hastened forth to meet ye, And friendly, as a trusty dog will spring To give his master room, my faithful fire Drew back before me, sank on either hand; The road stands open now, but not my heart. [She ascends her throne.] Now fling the portals wide and let them in! Whoever here may come, his head is mine!



SCENE II

The gates are opened. Enter SIEGFRIED, GUNTHER, HAGEN and VOLKER

BRUNHILDA.

Who cometh seeking death?

(To SIEGFRIED.)

Ah! Is it thou?

SIEGFRIED.

I am not seeking death, nor will I sue. And too much honor dost thou yield to me In greeting Gunther's guide before himself, For I am but his helper.

BRUNHILDA (turning to GUNTHER).

Then 'tis thou? And know'st thou what is toward?

GUNTHER.

Full well I know!

SIEGFRIED.

The rumor of thy beauty spreads abroad, But further still the fame of thy hard heart. And who hath gazed but once in thy deep eyes Will nevermore forget, e'en in his cups, That dreadful death beside thee always stands.

BRUNHILDA.

Tis true! Who cannot conquer, he must die, And all his servants with him. Smilest thou? Be not so proud! For if thou cam'st to me As thou could'st hold a beaker full of wine On high above thy head and still could'st gaze On me as on a picture, yet I swear That thou shalt fall as any other falls.

(TO GUNTHER.)

But thee I counsel, if thine ears can hear, List to my maidens! Bid them tell the tale Of heroes that my hand hath laid full low! The chance may hap among them there is one Hath tried his strength with thee. There may be one Hath laid thee conquered at his very feet!

HAGEN.

Ne'er was King Gunther conquered. That I vow!

SIEGFRIED.

High stands his castle by the Rhine at Worms, And rich are all the treasures of his land; Yet o'er all heroes stands he higher still, And richer far in honors is our King.

HAGEN.

Thy hand, thou lowlander! Thou speakest well!

VOLKER.

And would it be so hard to leave this land Amidst the ocean's desert solitude— Of thy free will to leave it, and the King To follow forth to life from night and hell? This land is like no other on the earth.— A desert waste, a rockbound wilderness; All living things have fled long since in fear, And if thou lovest it, 'tis only this, That thou wast born the last of all thy race. Above, the storms rage ever, and the sea Forever surgeth and the fiery mount In labor moaneth, while the fearful light That streameth ruddy from the firmament, As streams the blood from sacrificial stone, Is such as devils only may endure.— To breathe the air is like to drinking blood!

BRUNHILDA.

What knowest thou of this my wilderness? Naught have I lacked from that fair world of thine. And if I longed for aught, that would I take. Remember that! Brunhilda needs no gifts!

SIEGFRIED.

Did I not tell ye true? To arms! To arms! By force must she be brought from her wild home! And once 'tis done, then will she give thee thanks.

BRUNHILDA.

Perchance that is not true. And knowest thou The sacrifice thou askest? Thou know'st not, And no man knoweth. Harken now to me, And ask yourselves how I'll defend my rights. With us the time is motionless; we know Nor spring nor summer nor the autumntide. The visage of the year is e'er the same, And we within the land are changeless too. But although nothing grows and blooms with us, As in the sunlight of your distant home, Still in our darkness ripen precious fruits That in your land ye neither sow nor reap. In the fierce joy of battle I delight To conquer every haughty foe that comes To steal my freedom. And I have my youth, My glorious youth, and all the joy of life, Which still suffice me, and, ere these I lose, The benediction of the fates will fall Invisibly upon me. I shall be Their consecrated priestess evermore.

FRIGGA.

Is't possible? My offering sufficed?

BRUNHILDA.

The solid earth shall open 'neath my feet Revealing all that's hidden in its depths; And I shall hear the singing of the stars, And their celestial music understand. And still another joy shall be my share, A third one, all impossible to grasp.

FRIGGA.

'Tis thou, 'tis Odin, hast unsealed her eyes! In the deep night her ear was closed to thee— Yet now she sees the spinning of the Norns.

BRUNHILDA (rising to her full height, with fixed and dreaming eyes).

There comes a morning when I do not go To hunt for bears, or find the great sea-snake That's frozen in the ice, and set him free, So that his struggles may not smite the stars. I leave the castle early, bravely mount My faithful steed. He bears me joyfully, But suddenly I halt. Before my feet The earth has turned to air, and shuddering I wheel about. Behind me 'tis the same! All is transparent—glowing clouds beneath, As overhead. My maidens prattle still. I call them—Are ye blind? Do ye see naught? We float in empty space! They are amazed, They shake their heads in silence, while they press About me closer. Frigga whispers me: And has thine hour come? Ah, now I see! The solid earth is crystal to my gaze, And what I deemed were clouds were but the web Of gold and silver threads that, glistening, Lay tangled in the depths.

FRIGGA.

Thy triumph comes!

BRUNHILDA.

An evening comes. All's changed, and lingering We sit here late together. Suddenly, As they were dead, the maidens fall; their words Are frozen on their lips. I needs must go Upon the tower, for above me rings The sep'rate music of each farthest star. At first 'tis only music to mine ear, But with the dawn I murmur as in sleep: The King will die ere nightfall and his son Will never see the daylight, for he dies Within his mother's womb! The others say That so I told my tale, but I know naught Of how I learned it. Soon I understand, And swift the rumor flies from pole to pole And distant people flock as now to me, But not with swords to battle with me here— Nay, humbly come they, laying by their crowns, To hear my dreams and strive to understand The meaning of my murmurings. For my eyes Can see the future, in my hands I hold The key to all the treasures of this world. Far above all I rule, untouched by fate, And yet the fates I know. But I forget. That even more is promised me. There roll Whole centuries away—millenniums— I feel them not! Yet finally I ask: Where then is death? My tresses answer me— I see them in the mirror—they are black, The snow has never touched them, and I say: This is the third gift. Death comes not to me.

[She sinks back, and the maidens support her.]

FRIGGA.

Why fear I still? For were it[1] Balmung's lord, She hath a shield that will protect her now. He'll fall, e'en if she loves but yet resists, And she will struggle, since her fate she knows.

BRUNHILDA (rising again).

I spoke! What said I?

FRIGGA.

Take thy bow, my child. Thy dart will fly today as ne'er before, All else may wait!

BRUNHILDA (to the knights).

Come on!

SIEGFRIED (to BRUNHILDA).

Thou swear'st To follow us if thou art overcome?

BRUNHILDA (laughs).

I swear!

SIEGFRIED.

'Tis well! And I'll prepare the ship!

BRUNHILDA (while going away addresses FRIGGA).

Go now into the trophy hall and drive The nail that will be needed.

(To the knights.)

Follow me!

[Exeunt omnes.]



ACT II

Worms. Courtyard of the Castle.



SCENE I

Enter RUMOLT and GISELHER, meeting.

GISELHER.

Now, Rumolt, will a single tree be left? For weeks now thou hast brought whole forests in And grimly thou provid'st the wedding feast, As if men, dwarfs, and elves were all to come.

RUMOLT.

I make me ready, and if I should find A single kettle that's not full enough, I'll seize the lazy cook and throw him in And use the scullion-boy to stir the stew.

GISELHER.

Art thou so certain what the end will be?

RUMOLT.

I am, for Siegfried woos. The man who takes Two noble princes captive, sends them home As though they were no more than frightened hares, Will not be daunted by a witch-wife now.

GISELHER.

There thou art right! We have good hostages Since we have Luedegast and Luedeger! They meant to bring a host of armed men, A greater than e'er Burgundy had seen. Yet humbly here as prisoners they came, Nor needed any guard upon their way. So cook, my man, we shall not want for guests!

[GERENOT enters.]

And here's the hunter!

GERENOT.

But he brings no game! I was upon the tower and saw the Rhine All covered o'er with ships.

RUMOLT.

It is the bride! I'll send my men to drive the beasts about, That from the noisy turmoil in the court The sound shall reach afar and prove to her The welcome that awaits her!

[Trumpets are heard.]

GERENOT.

'Tis too late!



SCENE II

Enter SIEGFRIED, with retinue.

SIEGFRIED.

Here am I once again!

GISELHER.

Without my brother?

SIEGFRIED.

Nay, fear not! As his messenger I come!— And yet I bear the message not for thee! 'Tis for thy Lady Mother, and I hope That I may see thy sister Kriemhild, too.

GISELHER.

Brave knight, that shalt thou, for we owe to thee Our thanks for capturing the noble Danes.

SIEGFRIED.

I wish that I had never sent them here.

GISELHER.

Why so? Thou hadst no better way to prove What we have gained in winning thy right arm, For truly are the Princes stalwart men!

SIEGFRIED.

It may be! Yet had I not done the deed, Perhaps some bird had flown and spread abroad The rumor that the Danes had slain me there, And I might ask how Kriemhild heard the tale.

GISELHER.

But as it is they help thy cause enough! That one can take good metal and alloy And beat them into trumpets smooth and round, I long have known. But that one could shape men In such a way I knew not, but these two Show us the work of such a smith as thou. They praised thee—If thou hadst been there to hear, Thy cheeks would still flame scarlet! Yet 'twas not With measured praise, as men will praise their foe, Thinking to lessen thus the burning shame Of their own downfall. No, 'twas heartfelt praise. But you should hear Kriemhilda tell the tale. Unweariedly she asked them o'er and o'er.— She's coming now.



SCENE III

Enter UTE and KRIEMHILD.

SIEGFRIED.

I pray you!

GISELHER.

What's thy wish?

SIEGFRIED.

I never longed to have my father by, That he might teach me how to bear my arms, But ah! today I need my mother so, That I might ask her how to use my tongue.

GISELHER.

Give me thy hand, since thou art shamefaced too. They call me here "the child." Now let them see A "child" may lead a lion!

[He leads SIEGFRIED to the women.]

'Tis the knight From Netherland!

SIEGFRIED.

Fair ladies, do not fear, Because I've come alone.

UTE.

Brave Siegfried, no! We do not fear, for thou art not the man Who's left alone when all but he are dead, To bear his tale, a messenger of woe. Thou comest to announce a daughter dear, And Kriemhild hath a sister.

SIEGFRIED.

So it is, My Queen!

GISELHER.

So is it! Nothing more? And scarce Those few words could he utter! Dost thou grudge The king his bride? Or hast thou lamed thy tongue In battle? That was never known before. But no, for thou could'st use it fast enough To tell me of Brunhilda's dark brown eyes And raven tresses.

SIEGFRIED.

Prithee, say not so!

GISELHER.

How hotly he denies it! See him raise On high three fingers, swearing that he loves Blue eyes—light hair!

UTE.

This is an arrant rogue! He is nor boy nor man, sapling nor tree. And long hath he outgrown his mother's rod, Nor ever hath he felt his father's whip. Ungoverned is he as a yearling colt, That's never known the bridle or the whip. We must forgive or punish him!

SIEGFRIED.

'Twere not So easy as you think! To break a colt Is difficult, and many limp away Ashamed, and cannot mount him!

UTE.

Then once more He 'scapes his punishment!

GISELHER.

As a reward, I'll tell a secret to thee.

KRIEMHILD.

Giselher!

GISELHER.

What hast thou to conceal? Be not afraid! I do not know thy secret, nor will blow The ashes from thy embers.—Never fear!

UTE.

What is it then?

GISELHER.

I have myself forgotten. When a man's sister blushes rosy-red, 'Tis natural a brother is surprised And seeks to know the reason.—Never mind! The secret I'll recall before I die, And then shall Siegfried learn it.

SIEGFRIED.

Thou may'st jeer, For I forget my message utterly, And ere I've given word that you should don Your festal garments, do the trumpets blow, And Gunther and his train bring in the bride!

GISELHER.

Dost thou not see the steward hastening? Thy very coming told enough to him! But I will help!

[He goes to RUMOLT.]

KRIEMHILD.

A noble messenger May not be paid with gifts!

SIEGFRIED.

Indeed he may!

KRIEMHILD (fastens her bracelet and in so doing drops her handkerchief).

SIEGFRIED (snatches at the handkerchief).

This is my gift.

KRIEMHILD.

Pray, no! 'Twere all unworthy!

SIEGFRIED.

Jewels I value as another, dust. And houses can I build of gold and silver, Yet lack I such a kerchief!

KRIEMHILD.

Take it then! It is my handiwork.

SIEGFRIED.

And thy free gift?

KRIEMHILD.

My noble Siegfried, yes, 'tis my free gift.

UTE.

I crave thy pardon—it is time to go!

[Exit, with KRIEMHILD.]



SCENE IV

SIEGFRIED.

A Roland[2] would have stood as stood I here! I wonder that the sparrows did not nest Within my hair.



SCENE V

Enter the CHAPLAIN.

CHAPLAIN (advances).

Your pardon, noble sir, Has Brunhild been baptized?

SIEGFRIED.

She is baptized.

CHAPLAIN.

Then 'tis a Christian land from which she comes?

SIEGFRIED.

They fear the cross.

CHAPLAIN (steps back again).

Perchance 'tis there as here! Where men will place it next to Wotan's tree Right gladly, for they do not surely know If magic may not dwell there; as we see Devoutest Christians hesitate to break A heathen image, for some remnant still Awakes within them of the olden fear Before those staring eyes.

SCENE VI

Flourish of trumpets. BRUNHILDA, FRIGGA, GUNTHER, HAGEN, VOLKER, retainers, KRIEMHILD and UTE approach them from the castle.

GUNTHER.

And here's the castle! My mother's coming now to welcome thee, Kriemhilda too.

VOLKER (_to BRUNHILDA, _as the women approach each other_).

Are they no gain to thee?

HAGEN.

Siegfried, a word! Thy trick availed us naught.

SIEGFRIED.

Availed us naught? Was she not vanquished then? Is she not here?

HAGEN.

What profit is in that?

SIEGFRIED.

Why, all!

HAGEN.

But nay! Who cannot take by force Her first caress will master nevermore This maid, and Gunther is not strong enough.

SIEGFRIED.

And has he tried?

HAGEN.

Why else should I complain? In full sight of the castle! She at first Resisted him, as it befits a maid, And as our mothers may have done of old; But when she saw that but the lightest touch Sufficed to drive the ardent wooer forth, She grew enraged, and, when he tarried still, She seized and held him with her outstretched arm Above the Rhine. A shame it was to him, A shame to all of us.

SIEGFRIED.

She is a witch!

HAGEN.

Chide not, but help!

SIEGFRIED.

I think that if the priest But married them—

HAGEN.

Were that old hag not there, The woman that attends her! All day long She spies and questions, and she sits by her As the embodiment of wise old age. I fear the nurse the most.

UTE (to KRIEMHILD and BRUNHILDA).

Now love each other, And may the circlet that your arms have twined In this first joyful moment widen out Further and further to a perfect ring Within which you may wander, side by side, Sharing your joys in harmony complete! Yours is a privilege that I had not, For what I might not say unto my lord I had to bear in silence; but at least I could not speak complainingly of him.

KRIEMHILD.

Let us be like two sisters.

BRUNHILDA.

For your sake Your son and brother may imprint the seal Upon my lips that stamps me as his maid Before the nightfall comes, for I am still Unblemished and untouched like some young tree, And were it not for your sweet gentleness Forever would I hold this shame afar.

UTE.

Thou speak'st of shame?

BRUNHILDA.

Forgive me for that word; I speak but as I feel. And I am strange Here in your world, and as my rugged land Would surely terrify you, were you there, So does your land alarm me, for I feel That here I could not have been born at all—Yet must I live here!—Is the sky so blue Forever?

KRIEMHILD.

Nearly all the time 'tis blue.

BRUNHILDA.

We know not blue, unless we see blue eyes, And those we only have with ruddy hair And milk-white faces! Is it always still, And does the wind blow never?

KRIEMHILD.

Sometimes storms O'erwhelm the land, and then the day is night With thunderpeals and lightning.

BRUNHILDA.

Would it come Today!—'Twould be a greeting from my home! I cannot well endure the brilliant light; It pains me and it makes me feel so bare, As if no garment here were thick enough! And are those flowers—red and gold and green?

KRIEMHILD. Thou ne'er hast seen them, yet thou know'st their hues?

BRUNHILDA. Of precious stones there is with us no lack— Though never white or black ones; yet my hands Have taught me white, and raven is my hair.

KRIEMHILD. Thou canst not know of fragrance!

[She plucks a violet for her.]

BRUNHILDA.

Oh how sweet! And is't that tiny flower that breathes it forth— The only one my eye did not observe? I'd love to give the flower a pretty name— But surely it is named.

KRIEMHILD.

The little flower Is lowlier than all, and none thy foot More easily had crushed, for it appears To be ashamed that it is more than grass, And so it hides its head; but yet it drew A gentle word from thee, the first we've heard. So let it be a token that within Our land is much that's hidden from thy gaze That will delight thee.

BRUNHILDA.

That I hope indeed— For I need joy! Thou know'st not what it is To be a woman, yet to overcome A man in every combat and to gain His strength that ebbs away as flows his blood, And from the steaming blood breathe in new force— To feel yourself grow stronger, braver yet, And then, when victory is surer still—

[Turning suddenly]

Frigga, I ask again! What did I see— Before that latest contest, what said I?

FRIGGA.

It seemed thy spirit must have seen this land.

BRUNHILDA.

This land!

FRIGGA.

Thou didst rejoice.

BRUNHILDA.

And I rejoiced!— Thine eyes, however, flamed.

FRIGGA.

Because I saw Thy happiness.

BRUNHILDA.

These warriors looked to me As white as snow.

FRIGGA.

They had been ever so.

BRUNHILDA.

Wherefore didst thou conceal the dream so long?

FRIGGA.

It is but now that it is clear to me, Now that I can compare.

BRUNHILDA.

If I rejoiced When my prophetic vision saw this land, I must rejoice again.

FRIGGA.

Thou surely shalt!



BRUNHILDA.

And yet it seems to me the vision dealt With stars and metals too.

FRIGGA.

Yes, that is so. Thou said'st the stars gleamed still more brightly here. But yet that gold and silver were but dull.

BRUNHILDA.

Was't so?

FRIGGA (to HAGEN).

Is't not the truth?

HAGEN.

I paid no heed.

BRUNHILDA.

I beg you all to treat me as a child; Though I shall grow up faster than another. Yet now I am no better.

(To FRIGGA.)

That was all?

FRIGGA.

Yes, all!

BRUNHILDA.

Then all is well! Then all is well!

UTE (to GUNTHER, who has approached).

My son, if she's too bitter toward thee now, But give her time! The clamor of the crows And ravens that she heard could never make Her heart grow softer, but 'twill soften now With the lark's song and with the nightingale.

HAGEN. So speaks the minstrel when he is in love, And plays with foolish puppies. 'Tis enough! The maiden must have time to find her heart, But for the princess, hold her to her word; By right of conquest she's already thine.—Then claim thy rights!

(He calls.)

Chaplain!

(And starts on.)

GUNTHER.

I'll follow thee!

SIEGFRIED.

Wait, Gunther, wait! What didst thou promise me!

GUNTHER.

May I, my Kriemhild, choose a spouse for thee?

KRIEMHILD.

My lord and brother, be it as thou wilt!

GUNTHER (to UTE).

I have no opposition then to fear?

UTE.

Thou art the king, thy handmaids, she and I.

GUNTHER.

I beg thee then amongst my kinsfolk here: Redeem an oath for them and me, and give Thy hand to noble Siegfried.

SIEGFRIED.

I've no power To speak as I could wish to, when I gaze Upon thy face, and of my stammering tongue Perchance thou hast already heard enough. And so I ask thee as the hunter asks, But that I blow no feathers from my hat, To hide my fear: O maiden, wilt thou me? Yet lest thou err'st through my simplicity, And unenlightened actest in the dark, So let me tell thee, ere thou answer'st me, How my own mother blames me oftentimes. She says that I am surely strong enough To conquer all the world, but yet to rule The smallest molehill I'm too simple far. And if I do not lose my very eyes 'Tis only that the thing's impossible. Thou may'st believe the half of what she says, The other half though, I can well disprove. For if I once have won thee, I will show The world how I can keep unharmed mine own. Again I ask thee: Kriemhild, wilt thou me?

KRIEMHILD.

Why dost thou smile, my mother? I have not Forgotten what I dreamed, the shudder still Creeps over me and warns me more and more, But still I say with dauntless courage: Yes!

BRUNHILDA (steps between KRIEMHILD and SIEGFRIED).

Kriemhild!

KRIEMHILD.

What wilt thou?

BRUNHILDA.

I will prove myself Thy sister.

KRIEMHILD.

Now? Wherein?

BRUNHILDA (to SIEGFRIED).

How dost thou dare Aspire to her, the daughter of a king? How dost thou dare, a vassal such as thou, A serving man!

SIEGFRIED.

What?

BRUNHILDA.

Cam'st thou not as guide, As messenger departed?

(To GUNTHER.)

Canst thou suffer And aid him in such boldness?

GUNTHER.

Siegfried is The first of all our warriors.

BRUNHILDA.

Grant him then The foremost seat beside thy very throne.

GUNTHER.

In treasure, he is richer far than I.

BRUNHILDA.

Is that his claim upon thy sister? Shame!

GUNTHER.

A thousand of my enemies he's slain.

BRUNHILDA.

The man who conquered me thanks him for that?

GUNTHER.

He is a king as I am.

BRUNHILDA.

Yet he ranks Himself amongst thy servants?

GUNTHER.

I will solve This riddle for thee when thou art mine own.

BRUNHILDA.

Ere I am thine thy secret will I know.

UTE.

Thou wilt refuse to call me mother then? Oh tarry not too long, for I am old. And worn with many sorrows!

BRUNHILDA.

As I swore, I'll go with him to church, and I will be Most willingly thy daughter—not his wife.

HAGEN (to FRIGGA).

Pray quiet her!

FRIGGA.

What need is there of me? For if he once has overcome Brunhild, The second time he surely will not fail; And self-defense is every maiden's right.

SIEGFRIED (taking KRIEMHILD by the hand).

That all may know me henceforth as a king, The Niblung's treasure do I give to thee. And now thy duty and my right I claim.

[He kisses her.]

HAGEN.

To church!

FRIGGA.

Does Siegfried hold the Niblung's hoard?

HAGEN.

Thou heard'st! The trumpets!

FRIGGA.

And is Balmung[3] his?

HAGEN.

Why not? Musicians! Wedding music here!

[Loud and joyful music. Exeunt omnes.]



SCENE VII

The great hall. Enter TRUCHS and WULF. Dwarfs bring treasures across the stage.

TRUCHS.

I am for Kriemhild.

WULF.

And for Brunhild I.

TRUCHS.

And why, if thou wilt tell me?

WULF.

Where would be The play of rival lances, if we all Should wear one color?

TRUCHS.

Why, I grant thee that! The reason is sufficient, otherwise It were mere madness.

WULF.

Say it not so loud, For many heroes swear by Brunhild now.

TRUCHS.

They are as different as day and night.

WULF.

Who says they're not? Yet many love the night.

[Points to the dwarfs.]

What are they bringing?

TRUCHS.

It must be the hoard, The treasure of the Niblungs Siegfried won. He's called the dwarfs for escort duty here, And bade them bring the treasure, and I'm told It is the marriage portion for his bride.

WULF.

Uncanny are these dwarfs, with hollow backs! But turn one over—there's a kneading trough!

TRUCHS.

And ever with the dragons is their home Within the earth and in the mountain caves.— First cousins to the moles they are.

WULF.

But strong!

TRUCHS.

And clever are they too! One need not seek For mandrakes[4] if one has these dwarfs for friends.

WULF (pointing toward the treasure).

He who owns that needs neither of the two.

TRUCHS.

I love it not. It is an ancient saw That magic gold is thirstier for blood Than ever was the driest sponge for water; And, more than all, the Niblung heroes tell The strangest tales!

WULF.

Of ravens was the talk. What was it then? I heard it not aright.

TRUCHS.

A raven flew and lit upon the gold, When it was carried to the ship, and there He croaked till Siegfried, who could understand, At first stopped up his ears and would not hear, And whistled. Then the precious stones he threw To drive the bird, and when it would not fly, At last in desperation cast his spear.

WULF.

Why, that is strange! For Siegfried is at heart As gentle as he's brave.

[Horns are heard.]

They call for us! They're gath'ring! Ho, Brunhilda!

TRUCHS.

Kriemhild, ho!

[Exeunt. Other warriors, who meanwhile have assembled, join them and repeat the cry. It grows dark gradually.]



SCENE VIII

Enter HAGEN and SIEGFRIED.

SIEGFRIED.

But Hagen! Why didst thou make signs to me To leave the banquet? I shall nevermore Sit at this table as I sit today. Pray grant me this one day, I only ask A just reward.

HAGEN.

Your task is not yet done.

SIEGFRIED.

Let be till morning, for a minute's worth A year today. I still can count the words That I have spoken to my loving bride; Then let me have one evening with my wife.

HAGEN.

Without good reason I will ne'er disturb A lover or a drunkard. It avails No longer to resist! What Brunhild said Thou'st heard, and now her wedding gayety Thou may'st behold, for at the feast she weeps!

SIEGFRIED.

And can I dry her tears?

HAGEN.

She'll keep her word, The threat that she has sworn, there is no doubt; That endless shame would follow may we doubt Still less. Dost thou not understand me now?

SIEGFRIED.

What follows them

HAGEN.

That thou must conquer her.

[GUNTHER approaches.]

SIEGFRIED.

What, I?

HAGEN.

Now listen! Gunther goes with her Into the chamber.[5] In the Tarnhelm thou Must follow. Quickly he demands a kiss Ere she has raised her veil.—She grants it not. He grapples with her.—She laughs mockingly. He quenches, as by accident, the light— Exclaims: So much is jest, 'tis earnest now. It will not be on shore as on the ship! Then shalt thou seize her and so master her That she shall beg for mercy and for life. And when thy part is done, then shall the king Demand her oath to be his humblest maid, And thou shalt vanish as thou cam'st.

GUNTHER.

Wilt thou But do me this one service now, my friend, I vow I'll never ask thee then for more.

HAGEN.

He must and will. The task he has begun, How should he then not finish?

SIEGFRIED.

If I would! For truly you demand a deed from me That I might well refuse another time Than on my wedding day to do for you— How could I pray? What should I tell Kriemhild? She has so much already to forgive, The very ground is hot beneath my feet. Should I repeat the misdeed once again She never could forgive me in her life.

HAGEN.

When a young daughter from her mother parts And leaves the room where once the cradle stood, Into the bridal chamber she must pass, The farewell is a long one, know my friend. There's time enough for thee, and so—agreed!

(As SIEGFRIED refuses his hand.)

Brunhilda now is like a wounded deer, Who'd let it with the arrow run away? A noble hunter sends the second shaft. The lost is ever lost, nor may return. The haughty heiress of the Valkyries And Norns is dying. Give the final stroke! A happy woman laughs tomorrow morn And only says: I had a troubled dream!

SIEGFRIED.

I know not, something warns me.

HAGEN.

Will Frau Ute Be ready ere thou art? Nay, there's no fear, For three times yet will she call Kriemhild back To bless her and embrace her.

SIEGFRIED.

I refuse.

HAGEN.

What? If this moment came a messenger In haste announcing that thy father lay Sick unto death, would'st thou not call at once For thy good steed? And surely would thy bride Speed thy departure! Yet a father may, Though old, recover. Honor wounded once By cruel wrong, nor mended speedily, Will never from the dead be raised again. The honor of the king's the guiding star Which brings or light or darkness to the knights, As to the king himself. O woe to him Who hesitates and robs him of one ray. Had I thy strength I'd sue to thee no more, But do the deed myself with pride and joy. And yet by magic was Brunhilda won, And magic arts must finish now the task. Then do it! Must I kneel?