SIEGFRIED.

I like it not! Who would have dreamed of this! And yet it lay So very near! O nature three times blest! In all my life no deed I've shunned like this; Yet what thou say'st is true. So let it be.

GUNTHER.

I'll go and give my mother but a hint—

HAGEN.

No, no! No woman! We're already three And have, I hope, no tongue to tell the tale. Let death the fourth one in our compact be!

[Exeunt omnes.]



ACT III

Morning. Courtyard of the castle. The cathedral is at one side.



SCENE I

Enter RUMOLT and DANKWART armed.

RUMOLT.

Three dead!

DANKWART.

For yesterday it was enough, For that was but the prelude! Now there'll be Another tale to tell.

RUMOLT.

These Nibelungs Are e'er prepared for death; they bring their shrouds And each man wears both shroud and sword at once.

DANKWART.

The customs are so strange in northern lands! For as the mountains grow more rugged still And cheerful oaks make way for sombre firs, Just so does man grow gloomy, till at last He's wholly lost and but the brute remains! First comes a race that cannot even sing, And next another race that cannot laugh, Then follows one that's dumb, and so it goes.



SCENE II

Music. A great procession. WULF and TRUCHS among the warriors.

RUMOLT (joining DANKWART).

Will Hagen be content?

DANKWART.

I think he will. This is a summons, as it were, to war! Yet he is right, for this strange princess needs Quite other morning serenades than sings The lark that warbles in the linden tree.

[They pass by.]



SCENE III

Enter SIEGFRIED with KRIEMHILD.

KRIEMHILD (calling attention to her attire).

Wilt thou not thank me?

SIEGFRIED.

Nay, what dost thou mean?

KRIEMHILD.

But look at me!

SIEGFRIED. That thou art living, smiling, I give thee thanks, and that thine eyes are blue— I love not black—

KRIEMHILD.

Thou dost but praise the Lord In his handmaiden! Did I make myself, Thou simple fellow? Did I choose the eyes Thou dost admire?

SIEGFRIED.

Yet love, methinks, might dream E'en such strange fancies! One fair morn in May When all things glistened as they glisten now, Two crystal dewdrops, clearer than the rest, Were hanging on the harebells bluest spray; And thou hast stolen them, and evermore All heaven's in thine eyes.

KRIEMHILD.

Then rather give Thy thanks to me that as a child I fell So wisely. My blue eyes I might have lost The day I only marked my temple here!

SIEGFRIED.

Oh, let me kiss the scar!

KRIEMHILD.

Thy healing art Would be but lost. No balsam craves the wound That's long since healed. But tell me more!

SIEGFRIED.

I thank Thy mouth—

KRIEMHILD.

With words?

SIEGFRIED (about to embrace her).

But may I thank thee so?

KRIEMHILD (draws back).

Dost think that I invite thee?

SIEGFRIED.

With words then For thy words! No, for sweeter yet than words, Thy murmuring of tender secret things My ear finds precious, as my lips thy kiss. I thank thee for thy secret gazing forth To see us throwing weights to win the prize. Oh, had I dreamed of it! And for thy scorn And mockery—

KRIEMHILD.

A maiden's pride to soothe For tarrying, thou thinkest? Cruel friend! I told thee in the dark! But wilt thou see My blushes now when in the light of day Thou tellest me the tale? My foolish blood Flushes and pales so fast, my mother says That I am like a rose-bush that sends forth Red buds and white upon a single stem— Else hadst thou never found my secret out. For I could feel the burning of my cheeks, When yestermorn my brother teased me so. I saw no way but to confess to thee.

SIEGFRIED.

Then may he start the noblest stag today!

KRIEMHILD.

And may he miss him! Yes, I wish it too.— see thou art just like my uncle, Hagen, Who, if one lays a garment by his bed, That one has made in secret, will not heed Unless perchance it is too tight.

SIEGFRIED.

And why?

KRIEMHILD.

Thou only see'st God's and nature's gifts In all that's mine, but my own handiwork, The raiment that adorns me, thou see'st not— Not even the fair girdle that I wear.

SIEGFRIED.

The girdle's gay, and yet I'd rather wind About thy waist the rainbow's lovely hue; Methinks that ye would suit each other well.

KRIEMHILD.

But bring it me at night and I will change, Yet do not throw it down like this I wear. 'Tis but by chance I did not lose thy gift.

SIEGFRIED.

What sayest thou?

KRIEMHILD.

But for the precious stones, It might be underneath the table still, But fire is a thing one cannot hide.

SIEGFRIED.

Is that my gift?

KRIEMHILD.

It is.

SIEGFRIED.

But thou art dreaming!

KRIEMHILD.

I found it in the room.

SIEGFRIED.

It is thy mother's! She must have let it fall.

KRIEMHILD.

It is not hers! For well I know her ornaments. I thought It had been taken from the Niblung's hoard; To give thee joy I put it on at once.

SIEGFRIED.

I thank thee, but the girdle I know not!

KRIEMHILD (takes the girdle off).

Then for my golden girdle make thou room Which thou concealest! I was all attired, And only put it on to honor thee, My mother also, for this golden one She gave to me.

SIEGFRIED.

But that is very strange!— 'Twas lying on the floor?

KRIEMHILD.

It was.

SIEGFRIED.

And crumpled?

KRIEMHILD.

I see you know it well! The second trick Succeeded like the first, and now I have My task twice over!

[She starts to put the girdle on again.]

SIEGFRIED.

No! For God's sake, no!

KRIEMHILD.

Art thou in earnest?

SIEGFRIED (to himself).

'Twas with that she strove To tie my hands.

KRIEMHILD.

Art laughing?

SIEGFRIED (to himself).

Then I raged, And put forth all my strength.

KRIEMHILD.

Nay, thou art not?

SIEGFRIED (to himself).

I snatched at something.

KRIEMHILD.

That I'll soon believe.

SIEGFRIED (to himself).

I thrust it, when she grasped for it again, Into my bosom, and—Now give it me! No well is deep enough to hide it in; With a great stone I'll sink it in the Rhine!

KRIEMHILD.

Siegfried!

SIEGFRIED.

I must have lost it—Give it me!

KRIEMHILD.

Where didst thou get this girdle?

SIEGFRIED.

Nay, this is A dark and fearful secret; thou should'st seek To learn no whit about it.

KRIEMHILD.

Yet thou hast Confided one still greater, and I know The place where Death may strike the fatal blow.

SIEGFRIED.

That I alone protect!

KRIEMHILD.

And there are two To guard the other!

SIEGFRIED (to himself).

I was far too quick.

KRIEMHILD (covers her face).

Thou gav'st thy oath to me! Why didst thou that? I had not even asked it.

SIEGFRIED.

Still I swear, I ne'er have known a woman!

KRIEMHILD (holds up the girdle).

SIEGFRIED.

That was used To bind me.

KRIEMHILD.

If a lion told the tale 'Twere less incredible!

SIEGFRIED.

And yet 'tis true.

KRIEMHILD.

This hurts me most! To such a man as thou, The sin itself, however black it be, Is more becoming than the cloak of lies Wherewith he fain would hide it.

Enter GUNTHER and BRUNHILDA.

SIEGFRIED.

We must go! They come!

KRIEMHILD.

But who! Does Brunhild know the girdle?

SIEGFRIED.

Pray hide it quickly!

KRIEMHILD.

No, I'll show it them!

SIEGFRIED.

I pray thee hide it. Then thou shalt know all.

KRIEMHILD (hiding the girdle).

So Brunhilda knows the girdle?

SIEGFRIED.

Listen then!

[Both follow the procession.]



SCENE IV

BRUNHILDA.

Was that not Kriemhild?

GUNTHER.

Yes.

BRUNHILDA.

How long does she Tarry beside the Rhine?

GUNTHER.

She'll soon depart, For Siegfried must go home.

BRUNHILDA.

I'll grant him leave, And willingly dispense with his farewell.

GUNTHER.

But dost thou hate him so?

BRUNHILDA.

I cannot bear To see thy noble sister sink so low.

GUNTHER.

She does as thou dost.

BRUNHILDA.

Nay, thou art a man! This name which was of old to me the call To arms, now fills my heart with joy and pride! Yes, Gunther, I am wonderfully changed. Thou see'st it too? There's something I might ask, But yet I do not!

GUNTHER.

Thou'rt my noble wife!

BRUNHILDA.

'Tis sweet to hear that word, and now it seems As strange to me that once I used to ride To battle on my horse and hurl my spear, As it would seem to see thee turn the spit! I cannot bear the sight of weapons now, And my own shield I find too heavy far; I tried to lay it by, but had to call My maid. I'd rather watch the spiders spin And see the little birds that build their nests, Than go with thee!

GUNTHER.

Yet this time thou must go!

BRUNHILDA.

And I know why. Forgive me! What I thought Was weakness was but magnanimity, For thou would'st not disgrace me on the ship When I defied thee! Naught of that there dwelt Within my heart, and therefore has the strength That some caprice of nature gave to me Departed from me, and returned to thee!

GUNTHER.

Since thou art gentle, then be reconciled With Siegfried too!

BRUNHILDA.

Oh, name him not to me!

GUNTHER.

There is no reason thou shouldst hate him so.

BRUNHILDA.

And if I have none? When a king descends To fill the humble office of a guide And carry messages, it is indeed As strange as if a man should take the place Of his own horse, the saddle on his back, Or bay and hunt in service of his hound. But if it pleases him, what's that to me!

GUNTHER.

It was not so.

BRUNHILDA.

Still stranger 't is to see His noble stature tow'ring high above All other men, so that it even seems That he has gathered all the royal crowns Of all the world to forge them into one, And thus to show the world for the first time A perfect picture of true majesty. For it is true, while still upon the earth More crowns than one are gleaming, none is round, And for the sun's full circle even thou Wearest a crescent pale upon thy head.

GUNTHER.

But see. Thou hast already viewed the man With other eyes.

BRUNHILDA.

I greeted him ere thee. Then slay him—challenge him—win my revenge!

GUNTHER.

Brunhilda! He's the husband of my sister, And so his blood is mine.

BRUNHILDA.

Do battle then With him and lay him low upon the ground, And let me see thy rightful majesty When he is as a footstool for thy feet!

GUNTHER.

Our custom is not so. BRUNHILDA. I will not yield; His downfall I must see. Thou hast the heart Of life, and he the glitter and the show. But blow away this magic which e'er holds The gaze of fools upon him. If Kriemhild Casts down those eyes in shame, that now she lifts Almost too proudly when she's by his side, 'Twill do no damage, and I promise thee Far richer love if thou wilt do the deed.

GUNTHER.

He too is strong.

BRUNHILDA.

That he the dragon slew And conquered Alberich, does not compare With thy great prowess. For in thee and me Have man and woman for eternity Fought the last battle for supremacy. Thou art the victor, and I ask no more Than still to see those honors deck thy brow Of which I was so jealous. For thou art The strongest man of all; so cast him down From golden clouds to earth for my delight, And leave him naked, destitute, and bare— Then let him live a hundred years or more.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE V

Enter FRIGGA and UTE.

UTE.

Brunhilda looks already happier Than yesterday.

FRIGGA.

My Queen, she truly is.

UTE.

I thought it would be so.

FRIGGA.

But I did not! Her mind is strangely altered, 'twould astound Me not a whit now if her nature too Should alter and her hair should change to blonde Instead of raven tresses that of old So richly waved beneath my golden comb.

UTE.

Thou dost not grieve, I trust?

FRIGGA.

I'm more amazed. If this heroic woman thou hadst reared As I have done, and knew all that I know, Then would thy wonder be no less than mine.

UTE (turning to go back into the castle).

Do what thou canst!

FRIGGA.

I surely have done more Than ever thou couldst dream of. How this came I cannot tell, but if she's happy now I am content, and of the olden time She hath forgotten never will I tell.



SCENE VI

Enter KRIEMHILD and BRUNHILDA, hand in hand. A large number of warriors and people gather.

KRIEMHILD.

Wouldst thou not watch the combat from afar Rather than join the fray?

BRUNHILDA.

Hast thou tried both, That thus thou canst compare them?

KRIEMHILD.

I'd not bear The heat of battle.

BRUNHILDA.

Then thou shouldst not try To judge of it!—No insult I intend. Nay, do not draw thy hand away from mine! It may be so, and yet I thought this joy Were but for me alone.

KRIEMHILD.

What dost thou mean?

BRUNHILDA. Surely no woman can rejoice to see Her husband conquered.

KRIEMHILD.

Never!

BRUNHILDA. Nor deceive Herself if in the fray he's not unhorsed, Because his conqueror spares him.

KRIEMHILD. Surely not.

BRUNHILDA. What then!

KRIEMHILD. But I am quite secure from that? Thou smilest?

BRUNHILDA. Over-confident art thou.

KRIEMHILD. It is my right!

BRUNHILDA. It may not come to proof, And even a dream is sweet—so slumber on, And I will never wake thee.

KRIEMHILD. What say'st thou? My noble husband is too gentle far To grieve the rulers of his royal realm, Else had he made a sceptre long ago Of his good sword and held it forth so far That its great shadow covered all the earth. For all the lands are subject unto him, And should but one deny it, I would ask That land from him to make a flower bed.

BRUNHILDA.

Kriemhild, what then would be my husband's place?

KRIEMHILD. He is my brother, and the standard's his Whereby one weighs all others. None weighs him.

BRUNHILDA.

No, for he is the standard of the world! And as 'tis gold decides the worth of things, So he the worth of heroes and of knights. Thou must not contradict me, dearest child, And in return I'll listen patiently If thou wilt only teach me how to sew.

KRIEMHILD.

Brunhilda!

BRUNHILDA.

Nay, I did not speak in scorn; I long to sew, and needle-work is not My birthright like the throwing of the lance, For which I never sought a master's aid, More than I needed aid to stand or walk.

KRIEMHILD.

If 'tis thy wish, we can begin at once; And since thou best enjoyest making wounds We'll take the bodkin for embroidery. I have a pattern!—

[She is about to show the girdle.] No, I have it not.

BRUNHILDA.

Thou lookest on thy sister coldly now. But 'tis not friendly to withdraw thy hand From my fond clasp before I give it up— At least our custom is the contrary. And canst thou not be reconciled to know The sceptre of thy dreams is given now Into thy brother's hands? Thou art his sister, And that should comfort thee. A brother's fame Is half thine own, so thou shouldst yield to me, Before all other women, honor's crown That once for all could never have been thine, For no one could have paid for it as I.

KRIEMHILD.

'Tis thus perverted nature takes revenge. Thou didst resist love's rule as no one else, And now this blindness is thy penalty.

BRUNHILDA.

Thou speakest of thyself and not of me! We need not quarrel, for the whole world knows That ere my mother bore me, 'twas my fate The strongest knight alone should conquer me.

KRIEMHILD.

I can believe it.

BRUNHILDA.

Well?

KRIEMHILD (laughs).

BRUNHILDA.

Then thou art mad! Perchance thou fear'st that we shall be too harsh With all the vassals? Yet thou need'st not fear! I plant no flower beds in conquered lands, And only once will I claim precedence If thou art not too proud and obstinate,— Here at the church today and nevermore.

KRIEMHILD.

Indeed I'd never have denied it thee, But, since my husband's honor is at stake, I will not yield one step.

BRUNHILDA.

He will command That thou shalt yield.

KRIEMHILD.

How dare'st thou scorn him so!

BRUNHILDA.

He made way for thy brother in my hall, As vassals for their lord, and he refused My proffered greeting!—That did not seem strange While I still thought him—as he called himself— A serving-man, a messenger to me. But now it all seems changed.

KRIEMHILD.

And how is that?

BRUNHILDA.

I've seen a wolf slip silently away Before a bear, and then I've seen the bear Flee from the mountain bull. Though he's not sworn, Yet is he still a vassal.

KRIEMHILD.

Say no more!

BRUNHILDA.

Wilt threaten me? Do not forget thyself! I have my senses—see that thou keep thine: There must have been some cause beneath all this.

KRIEMHILD.

There was! And if thou shouldst suspect the cause, How thou wouldst shudder.

BRUNHILDA.

Shudder!

KRIEMHILD.

Yes, indeed! But do not fear! I love thee even now Too fondly. Never can I hate thee so That I will tell the cause. Had aught like that Befallen me, today I'd dig my grave With my own hands. Brunhilda, never fear! I will not make thee the most wretched soul That draws the breath of life upon the earth! Then keep thy pride, for pity makes me dumb.

BRUNHILDA.

Thou boastest, Kriemhild! I despise thee now!

KRIEMHILD.

My husband's concubine despises me!

BRUNHILDA.

Put her in chains! She rages! Bind her then!

KRIEMHILD (draws out the girdle).

Know'st thou this girdle?

BRUNHILDA.

Well I do. 'Tis mine. And since I see it in a stranger's hands It must be that 'twas stolen in the night.

KRIEMHILD.

'Twas stolen! 'Twas no thief that gave it me!

BRUNHILDA.

Who then?

KRIEMHILD.

The man who overpowered thee! But not my brother!

BRUNHILDA.

Kriemhild!

KRIEMHILD.

Thy fierce strength Had surely strangled Gunther, then perchance Thou would'st have loved the dead as punishment. My husband gave it me!

BRUNHILDA.

'Tis false!

KRIEMHILD.

'Tis true! Now scorn him if thou canst! Wilt now consent That I may pass before thee through the door?

(To her women.)

Now follow. She shall see me prove my rights!

[They leave and enter the cathedral.]





SCENE VII

BRUNHILDA.

Where are the lords of Burgundy!—Oh Frigga! Didst thou hear that?

FRIGGA.

I heard, and I believe it.

BRUNHILDA.

Oh this is death! 'Tis true?

FRIGGA.

She said too much, Surely too much—but this is plain to me, That thou hast been betrayed!

BRUNHILDA.

'Tis not a lie?

FRIGGA.

'Twas Balmung's master. On the shore he stood When died the flames.

BRUNHILDA.

Then he rejected me. For I was on the rampart and I know He saw me. But his heart was full of her.

FRIGGA.

That thou mayst know what thou hast lost by fraud, I too deceived thee!

BRUNHILDA (without listening to her).

Hence the haughty calm With which he gazed upon me!

FRIGGA.

Not alone This narrow country, but the whole wide earth Was meant to be thy kingdom, and to thee The stars should tell their message. Even death Should lose his fell dominion over thee!

BRUNHILDA.

Speak not of that!

FRIGGA.

Why not? Thy glories lost Thou'lt not regain, but yet thou canst avenge Thy wrongs, my child!

BRUNHILDA.

And I will have revenge! Despised and scorned! Oh, woman, in his arms If thou hast mocked at me a single night, Thou shalt weep bitterly for many years! I will—Alas! I am as weak as she.

[Throws herself on FRIGGA's bosom.]



SCENE VIII

Enter GUNTHER, HAGEN, DANKWART, RUMOLT, GERENOT, GISELHER and SIEGFRIED.

HAGEN.

What then is wrong?

BRUNHILDA (drawing herself up to her full height, to GUNTHER).

Am I concubine?

GUNTHER.

A concubine?

BRUNHILDA.

Thy sister calls me so!

HAGEN (to FRIGGA).

What happened here?

FRIGGA.

Ye are discovered now! We know the conqueror, and Kriemhild vows That he was twice a victor.

HAGEN

(to GUNTHER). He has told!

[He speaks to him aside.]



SCENE IX

KRIEMHILD (who has meanwhile come out of the cathedral).

Forgive me, Siegfried, for the wrong I did! Yet if thou knewest how she slandered thee—

GUNTHER (to SIEGFRIED).

Hast thou then boasted?

SIEGFRIED (laying his hand on KRIEMHILD's head). By her life I swear, I never did.

HAGEN.

No oath is needed here! He only told the truth.

SIEGFRIED.

And even that Upon compulsion! HAGEN. That I do not doubt! The tale can wait the telling. 'Tis our part To separate the women, for we know That serpents' crests may ever rise again If they too soon gaze in each other's eyes.

SIEGFRIED.

I'm soon departing hence. Come, Kriemhild, come!

KRIEMHILD (to BRUNHILDA).

If thou couldst know how thou didst anger me, Then even thou—

BRUNHILDA (turns away).

KRIEMHILD.

Since thou dost love my brother, How canst thou hate the means that gave thee him To be his bride?

BRUNHILDA.

Oh, Oh!

HAGEN.

Away! Away!

SIEGFRIED (leading KRIEMHILD away).

There's been no tattling here, as you shall see.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE X

HAGEN.

Come, gather round and vote without delay The doom of death.

GUNTHER.

Hagen, what sayest thou?

HAGEN.

Have we not cause enough? There stands the Queen And burning tears are streaming from her eyes. For shame she weeps!

(To BRUNHILDA.)

Oh, thou heroic Queen, To whom alone my homage I do yield, The man who shamed thee so must surely die!

GUNTHER. Hagen!

HAGEN (to BRUNHILDA).

The man must die unless thou wilt Forego revenge and plead for him thyself.

BRUNHILDA.

I'll touch no food till judgment is fulfilled.

HAGEN.

Forgive me that I spoke before my king! I only strove to make the matter plain, Yet free decision is thy royal right— So make thy choice between thy bride and him.

GISELHER.

Thou canst not mean it! For a trifling fault, Thou wouldst not slay the truest man on earth? My King! My brother! Say it is not so!

HAGEN.

Will ye rear bastards here within your court? I doubt me if the proud Burgundians Will crown them! Yet thou art the master here!

GERENOT.

Brave Siegfried soon will quell all murmurings, If we ourselves cannot perform the task.

HAGEN (to GUNTHER).

Thou speakest not. 'Tis well. The rest is mine!

GISELHER.

In bloody counsels I will take no part!

[Exit.]



SCENE XI

BRUNHILDA.

Frigga, I tell thee he or I must die!

FRIGGA.

'Tis he must die!

BRUNHILDA.

I was not merely scorned, But passed from hand to hand. They bartered me!

FRIGGA.

They bartered thee!

BRUNHILDA.

Too mean to be his wife, I was the price for which he bought him one.

FRIGGA.

The price, my child!

BRUNHILDA.

O this is worse than murder! And I will have revenge, revenge, revenge!

[Exeunt omnes.]



ACT IV

Worms.



SCENE I

Great hall. GUNTHER with his warriors. HAGEN carries a spear.

HAGEN.

A blind man e'en can hit a linden leaf; At fifty paces I will wager you With this good spear to split a hazelnut.

GISELHER.

Why dost thou choose this day to show thy skill? We've always known thy arms would never rust.

HAGEN.

He comes! Now show me you can wear dark looks And altered bearing although none has lost His father.



SCENE II

Enter SIEGFRIED.

SIEGFRIED.

Ho, ye knights! And hear ye not The hounds give tongue, and hark! Our youngest hunter Impatient tries his horn! To horse! Away!

HAGEN.

The day is fair!

SIEGFRIED.

And have you not been told That bears have ventured in the very stalls, And that the eagles wait before the doors And watch when they are opened for a child That may stray out?

VOLKER.

Indeed that has been known.

SIEGFRIED.

While we were courting no one thought to hunt. Then come, and we'll drive back the enemy, And hack and hew him.

HAGEN. Friend, more need have we To grind our swords and nail our spear-heads firm.

SIEGFRIED.

And why?

HAGEN.

Thou'st dallied all these last few days With honeyed words, else hadst thou well known why.

SIEGFRIED.

I am about to say farewell, ye know! Yet speak, what's toward?

HAGEN.

Danes and Saxons too Again are coming.

SIEGFRIED.

Are the princes dead, Who swore allegiance to us?

HAGEN.

Nay, not dead; They're leading on the army.

SIEGFRIED.

Luedegast And Luedeger, who were my prisoners, Set free without a ransom?

GUNTHER.

Yesterday Renounced they every oath.

SIEGFRIED.

Their messengers— You surely must have hewn them limb from limb? Has every vulture had his share of them?

HAGEN.

So speakest thou?

SIEGFRIED.

Such vipers' messengers One tramples like a viper. Fiends of hell! Now feel I my first anger! I believed That often I knew hatred, but I erred; 'Twas but less love I felt. For I can hate Nothing but broken vows and treachery, Hypocrisy and all the coward's sins That seek their victim as the spider crawls Upon its hollow legs. How can it be That such brave men (for surely they were brave), Could so besmirch themselves? Oh, my dear friends, Stand not so coldly by and gaze on me As though you thought me mad, as though I knew No longer great from small! We've never known What outrage is till now. Our reckoning May we strike calmly out to the last score. Only these two are guilty.

GISELHER.

Shameful 'tis. The way they praised thee echoes in my ear. When came this messenger?

HAGEN.

'Twas even now. Didst thou not see him. He made haste to leave As soon as he had done his errand here, Nor tarried for his messenger's reward.

SIEGFRIED.

Oh, shame that you did not chastise the man For impudence! A raven would have come And plucked his eyes out, and in very scorn Have cast them forth again before his lord. That was the only answer that was due. This is no lawful feud, this is no war That right and custom sanction—'tis the chase Of evil beasts! Nay, Hagen, do not smile! The headsman's ax should be our weapon now, So that we should not soil our noble blades, And, since the ax is iron like the sword, It were a shame to use it till we find No rope would be enough to hang the dogs.

HAGEN.

Thou say'st!

SIEGFRIED.

Thou mockest at me as it seems. 'Tis strange, for trifles used to anger thee! I know thou art an older man than I, But 'tis not youth that's speaking through me now, Nor is it indignation that 'twas I Who begged thy mercy for them. Nay, I stand For the whole world. As calls a bell to prayer, So calls my tongue to vengeance every one Who stands as man amidst his fellow-men.

GUNTHER.

'Tis so.

SIEGFRIED (to HAGEN).

Know'st thou betrayal? Treachery Gaze on the traitor! Smile then if thou canst. To open combat dost thou challenge him And dost o'erthrow him. But thou art too proud, If not too noble, to thrust home thy sword, And so thou set'st him free, and givest him His weapons once again that thou hadst won. He does not rage at thee and thrust them back; He gives thee humble thanks and praises sweet And swears with thousand oaths to be thy man. But when, the honeyed words still in thine ear, Thou lay'st thy weary limbs upon thy couch, Bare and defenseless as a helpless child, Then creeps the traitor up and murders thee, And even while thou diest spits on thee.

GUNTHER (to HAGEN).

What dost thou say to that?

HAGEN (to GUNTHER).

This noble wrath Gives me such courage that I ask our friend If he will grant us escort yet once more.

SIEGFRIED.

With my own Nib'lungs will I go alone, For it is by my fault this trouble comes To ye again! Howe'er I longed to show My bride unto my mother and to win For the first time her undivided praise, It may not be while yet these hypocrites Have ovens for their bread and flowing springs To slake their thirst! I will at once put off My homeward journey, and I promise you That I will take them living, and henceforth Before my castle shall they lie in chains And bay like hounds whene'er I come or go, Since, as it seems, they have the souls of dogs!

[He hastens away.]



SCENE III

HAGEN.

He'll surely rush to her in all his rage, And when he leaves, then I will seek her out.

GUNTHER.

I'll move in this no further.

HAGEN.

What, my King?

GUNTHER.

Bid heralds come once more and let them say That there is peace again.

HAGEN.

It shall be done When I have talked with Kriemhild privately And learned the secret from her.

GUNTHER.

Hast thou then No bowels of compassion? Thy hard heart No pity feeleth yet?

HAGEN.

Speak plainly, lord; I cannot understand.

GUNTHER.

He shall not die.

HAGEN.

He lives while thou commandest. If I stood Behind him in the woods and poised my spear, But shake thy head, and for this traitor dies A beast.

GUNTHER.

Not traitor, no! Was it his fault That he brought back the girdle carelessly And Kriemhild found it? It escaped him there, As clings an arrow in a warrior's mail If after battle 'tis not shaken off, And only by its rattling is it marked. I ask you one and all: was it his fault?

HAGEN.

No! No! Who says so? Nor was he to blame For lacking clever wits to clear himself, For doubtless he blushed crimson at th' attempt.

GUNTHER.

What then remains?

HAGEN.

Brunhilda's oath remains.

GISELHER.

Then let her slay him if she wants his blood.

HAGEN.

We're quarreling like children. May one not Collect his weapons, though he knoweth not When he may need to use them? One explores An unknown land and finds its passes out. Then why not, pray, a hero? I will try My fortune now with Kriemhild, if it were Only that this fine ruse that we have planned Might not be all in vain. She'll not betray The secret to me unless he hath told The matter to her. Then you may decide Whether to use the knowledge I may gain; And you may really do, if so you please, What I shall but pretend, and so in war Protect the place where death may find him out. But you must know where is his mortal spot.

[Exit.]



SCENE IV

GISELHER (to GUNTHER).

Thou hast returned to thine own loyalty And faithfulness, or else I'd say: this trick Is far beneath a king!

VOLKER.

Thy angry mood Is natural; thou wast thyself deceived.

GISELHER.

That was not why. Yet let us not dispute When all is well again.

VOLKER.

When all is well?

GISELHER.

Is it not well?

VOLKER.

They tell me that the Queen In mourning robes is clad, and food and drink Refuses—even water.

GUNTHER.

True, alas!

VOLKER.

How then is't well? What Hagen said is true. She's not like others; for the breath of time Her wounds can never heal, nor give her peace. And we must face the question: He or she! Thou sayest truly, Siegfried's not to blame That to him clung the girdle like a snake, And was discovered. That is pure mischance; But this mischance is deadly, and thou canst Determine only whom it shall destroy.

GISELHER.

Let that one die who hath no will to live!

GUNTHER.

Oh, fearful choice!

VOLKER.

I warned thee long ago, From starting on this course, but now at last We see the end.

DANKWART.

And is it not our law, That even blunders bring their penalty He who runs through his bosom friend by night Because he bore his lance too carelessly, Can never free himself with all his tears, However hot and bitter they may flow.— The price is blood.

GUNTHER.

Now I will go to her.

[Exit.]



SCENE V

VOLKER.

There comes Kriemhild with Hagen. She's distressed, As he predicted. Let us go.

[Exeunt omnes.]

SCENE VI

Enter HAGEN and KRIEMHILD.

HAGEN.

Thou com'st So early to the hall?

KRIEMHILD.

I could not bear To linger in my chamber.

HAGEN.

Saw I not Thy husband parting from thee? He was flushed, And angry were his looks. Is there not peace Between yourself and Siegfried once again? Is he not kind and gentle with his bride? Tell me, and I will talk with him.

KRIEMHILD.

Oh, no! Did nothing else remind me of that day, That evil day, 'twould be a dream that's past. My lord hath spared me every unkind word.

HAGEN.

I'm glad he is so gentle.

KRIEMHILD.

I could wish That he would blame me, yet perchance he knows I blame myself enough!

HAGEN.

Be not too harsh!

KRIEMHILD.

I know how bitterly I wounded her! I'll not forgive myself. I'd rather far Have felt the hurt myself than injured her.

HAGEN.

And this it is that drove thee from thy room?

KRIEMHILD.

Oh, no! 'twould make me hide myself away! I am so anxious for him!

HAGEN.

Dost thou fear?

KRIEMHILD.

There is another war.

HAGEN.

Yes, that is true.

KRIEMHILD.

The lying scoundrels!

HAGEN.

Be not overwrought Nor cease thy preparations for the voyage. Work tranquilly and do not be disturbed, For thou canst put away his armor last. What am I saying! For he wears no mail, Nor doth he need to wear it.

KRIEMHILD.

Thinkest thou

HAGEN.

I well might laugh. If any other wife So sighed, I'd say: Out of a thousand darts But one could touch him, and that one would break. But thee I ridicule and must advise Let thy stray fancy sing some wiser song.

KRIEMHILD.

Thou speak'st of arrows! Arrows are the thing That most I dread. I know an arrow's point Needs at the most the space of my thumb nail To penetrate, and yet it kills a man.

HAGEN.

Especially if 'tis a poisoned dart. These savages, who broke the bulwark down, The bulwark of our life and of the state, Which we hold sacred even in our wars, Would do a deed like this as soon as that.

KRIEMHILD.

Thou see'st!

HAGEN.

How can thy Siegfried come to harm? He is secure. And if there were such shafts That straighter flew than fly the sun's own rays, He'd shake them off as we shake off the snow; And this he knows, and so his confidence Abandons him no moment in the fray. We were not born beneath an aspen tree, Yet we nigh tremble at the deeds he dares. And heartily he laughs at this sometimes, And we laugh too. For iron you may thrust Into the fire—it changes into steel.

KRIEMHILD.

I shudder!

HAGEN.

Child, thou art but newly wed, Or I'd rejoice at thy timidity.

KRIEMHILD.

Hast thou forgotten, or hast thou not heard What in the ballads hath oft times been sung, That Siegfried may be wounded in one spot?

HAGEN.

I'd quite forgotten that, although 'tis true. I recollect, he spoke of it himself. It seems to me he told us of a leaf, But what it signified I cannot say.

KRIEMHILD.

It was a linden leaf.

HAGEN.

Oh yes! But say, How could a linden leaf have done him harm? For that's a riddle like no other one.

KRIEMHILD.

It floated down upon him on the breeze When he was bathing in the dragon's blood, And he is vulnerable where it fell. HAGEN. He would have seen it if it fell in front!— What matters it? Thou see'st thy nearest kin, Thy brothers even, who would shield him still Were but the shadow of a danger nigh, Know nothing of his vulnerable spot. What dost thou fear? Thy anguish is for naught.

KRIEMHILD.

I fear the Valkyries, for I have heard They always choose the noblest warriors; If they direct the dart, it ne'er can miss.

HAGEN.

But then he only needs a trusty squire. Who shall protect his back. Think'st thou not so?

KRIEMHILD.

I think I should sleep sounder.

HAGEN.

Mark my words! If he—thou know'st it almost happened once— Should fall from out his skiff and in the Rhine Should sink because his weapons drew him down To feed the greedy fishes, I would plunge To save our Siegfried, or else I myself Would die with him.

KRIEMHILD.

And is thy thought so noble?

HAGEN.

So I think! And if the red cock lit In darkest night upon his castle roof, And he, half smothered and but half awake, Should fail to find the way that leads to life, I'd bear him from the flames in my own arms, And should I not succeed, with him I'd die.

KRIEMHILD (turns about to embrace him).

Then must I—

HAGEN (refusing the caress).

Do not! But I swear, I'd do it. Though only lately had I sworn that oath.

KRIEMHILD.

Thy kinsman he became but recently! And dost thou really mean it? That thou would'st Thyself?—

HAGEN.

I mean it, for he'll fight for me, And no least one of all the thousand wonders His sword can do, has he refused to me; And so I'll shelter him!

KRIEMHILD.

I had not dared To hope for that!

HAGEN.

But I must know the spot, And thou must show it to me.

KRIEMHILD.

That is true! Between his shoulders is it, half across.

HAGEN.

'Tis target height!

KRIEMHILD.

Oh uncle, you will not Avenge on him the crime that's mine alone?

HAGEN.

What dost thou dream of?

KRIEMHILD. It was jealousy That blinded me, or else her boastfulness Would not have roused my anger.

HAGEN.

Jealousy!

KRIEMHILD.

I am ashamed! But even if that night The blows were all, and that I will believe, I grudge Brunhilda even blows from him.

HAGEN.

Be patient! She'll forget it.

KRIEMHILD.

Is it true That she'll not eat or drink?

HAGEN.

She always fasts This time of year, for 'tis the Norns' own week, And still in Iceland 'tis a sacred time.

KRIEMHILD.

Three days have now passed by!

HAGEN.

What's that to us? But hush! They're coming.

KRIEMHILD.

Well

HAGEN.

Were it not wise To broider on his tunic a small cross? Forsooth our care is needless, and he would Deride thee if thou shouldst but tell thy fear. Yet since I now have made myself his guard I would not aught neglect.

KRIEMHILD.

That will I do.

[She goes to meet UTE and the Chaplain.]



SCENE VII

HAGEN (following her).

Thy hero now is as a stag to me. Had he not broken silence, he were safe, And yet I surely knew that could not be. If one's transparent as an insect is, That looks now red, now green, as is its food, One must beware of any mysteries, Lest e'en the vitals show the secret forth!



SCENE VIII

UTE and the Chaplain come forward.

CHAPLAIN.

There is no image of it in this world! You strive to liken it and comprehend, Yet here all signs and measures too must fail. But kneel before the Lord in fervent prayer, And when contrition and humility Have made you lose yourself, you may be drawn, A moment only, as the lightning flash Does tarry upon earth, to heavenly heights.

UTE.

And can that happen?

CHAPLAIN.

Stephen, blessed saint, Saw, when the furious horde of angry Jews Were stoning him, the gates of paradise Standing ajar, and he rejoiced and sang. His suffering body only they destroyed, But 'twas to him as if the murderous band That thought to kill him in their fury blind Could only rend the garment he had doffed.

UTE (to KRIEMHILD who has joined them).

Take heed, Kriemhild!

KRIEMHILD.

I do.

CHAPLAIN.

That was the power Of faith; And ye must also learn the curse Of unbelief. Saint Peter, who has charge Of sword and keys of our most holy church, Loved and instructed in the faith a youth, And brought him up. One day upon a rock The youth was standing, and the stormy sea Around him surged in fury. Then he thought Of how his Lord and Master left the ship, And trustingly obeyed the slightest sign The Saviour gave, and walked upon the deep That tossed and threatened him with certain death. A dizziness came o'er him at the thought Of such a trial, for the wonder seemed Beyond the bounds of reason, then he caught A corner of the rock and clung to it, Crying aloud: All, all, yet spare me this! Then breathed the Lord, and suddenly the stone Began to melt away. He sank and sank, And lost all hope, until for very fear He sprang from off the rock into the flood. The breath of the Eternal stilled the sea, And made it solid and it bore him up, As kindly earth bears up both ye and me. Repentantly he said: Thy will be done!

UTE.

In all eternity!

KRIEMHILD.

My Father, pray That He who changes water and firm rock, Will shield my Siegfried. For each sep'rate year Of happy life vouchsafed me by his side An altar will I build unto a saint.

[Exit KRIEMHILD.]

CHAPLAIN.

The miracle astounds thee. Let me tell The tale of how I won my friar's cowl. The Angles are my kin, a heathen folk, And as a heathen was I born and reared, And turbulent I was; at fifteen years The sword was girded on me. Then appeared The Lord's first messenger among my tribe. They scorned him and despised him, and at last They slew him. Queen, I stood and saw it all, And, driven by the others, gave to him With this right hand I nevermore shall use, Although the arm's not helpless as you think, The final blow. But then I heard him pray. He prayed for me, and his pure soul expired With the Amen. The heart within my breast Was changed from that time forth. I threw my sword Upon the ground, and put his garment on And went to preach the Gospel of the Cross.

UTE.

Here comes my son! Oh, couldst thou bring again To this distracted land the peace we've lost So utterly!

[Exeunt.]



SCENE IX

Enter GUNTHER with HAGEN and the others.

GUNTHER.

It is as I have said, She reckons on the deed as we believe That autumn brings us apples. The old nurse Has tried to rouse her, and has quietly Bestrewn her chamber all with grains of wheat; They lie there undisturbed.

GISELHER.

How can it be That she should venture life for life to stake?

HAGEN.

I marvel at her also.

GUNTHER. And withal She neither drives nor urges, as with things Bound up with time and place and human will 'Twere natural to do. She questions not Nor changes countenance, but sits amazed That any man should speak and not announce— The deed is done!

HAGEN.

But I must tell thee this: His spell is on her, and her very hate Is rooted deep in love!

GUNTHER.

Believ'st thou so?

HAGEN.

'Tis not such love as binds, a man and wife, In holy union.

GUNTHER.

How then?

HAGEN.

'Tis a charm, A magic, that would keep her race alive. So drives the giantess to seek her mate, Joyless and choiceless, since they are the last.

GUNTHER.

Is there no hope?

HAGEN.

'Tis death must break the spell. Her blood congeals when his has ceased to flow. His destiny it was that he should slay The dragon and then take the dragon's road.

[A tumult is heard.]

GUNTHER.

What may that be?

HAGEN.

'Tis those false messengers. And Dankwart drives them forth. He does it well. Lovers will hear it even while they kiss.



SCENE X

Enter SIEGFRIED; as HAGEN notices hint.

HAGEN.

By all the fiends of hell! No! ten times no! It were disgrace for us, and Siegfried thinks Assuredly as I do. Here he comes! Now speak, thou may'st decide it.—

(As DANKWART enters.)

Though thy word Can alter nothing more. The answer's gone.

(To DANKWART.)

Thou surely hast not spared to scourge them well

(To SIEGFRIED.)

Yet set thy seal upon it even so!

SIEGFRIED.

What's this?

HAGEN.

The dogs have come again to sue For peace. I ordered that the worthless knaves With scourges should be driven from the court Before they gave their message.

SIEGFRIED.

'Twas well done!

HAGEN.

The King indeed reproves me, for he thinks We know not what has happened.

SIEGFRIED.

What? Not know? I know! For when a wolf is chased along, He harms not those before him!

HAGEN.

That is true!

SIEGFRIED.

And more than that! Behind them is a horde Of savage tribesmen who will never sow, And yet they want to reap.

HAGEN.

Now do you see?

SIEGFRIED.

But you should show no mercy on the wolf Because he has no time to guard himself.

HAGEN.

We surely shall not.

SIEGFRIED.

Come, we'll help the foxes And drive him to his final hiding place, Within the foxes' bellies.

HAGEN.

That we'll do; Yet let us not exert ourselves in vain, And so—Let's hunt today.

GISELHER.

I will not go.

GERENOT.

Nor will I either.

SIEGFRIED.

You are young and brave, Yet follow not the chase, but bide at home? They would have had to tie me, and the cords I would have gnawed in two. Oh huntsman's joy! If one could only sing it!

HAGEN.

Wilt thou go?

SIEGFRIED.

Go!—Friend, I am so full of rage and wrath That I could quarrel now with any man, And so I long for bloodshed.

HAGEN.

And I too!



SCENE XI

Enter KRIEMHILD.

KRIEMHILD.

You're going hunting?

SIEGFRIED.

Yes, and pray command What I shall bring thee.

KRIEMHILD.

Siegfried, stay at home!

SIEGFRIED.

My child, one thing thou canst not learn too soon, Thou must not beg a man to stay at home, But beg him: Take me too!

KRIEMHILD.

Then, may I go?

HAGEN.

That may not be!

SIEGFRIED.

Why not? She's not afraid! And surely she has often gone before. Bring falcons here! For she shall take the birds, And we the beasts. There'll be more pleasure so.

HAGEN.

One woman hides her shame within her room— Her rival rideth gaily to the hunt? 'Twould look like taunting her.

SIEGFRIED.

I had not thought. Ah well, it may not be. KRIEMHILD. Then change again Thy garments!

SIEGFRIED.

Yet again? Thy every wish I'll follow, not thy fancies.

KRIEMHILD.

Thou'rt severe.

SIEGFRIED.

But let me go! The breeze will change my mood. Tomorrow night I'll make my peace with thee.

HAGEN.

Then come!

SIEGFRIED.

I will. But now my farewell kiss.

[He embraces KRIEMHILD.]

Thou'lt not deny me? Thou'lt not say, tomorrow, As I do? Thou art noble.

KRIEMHILD.

Oh, come back!

SIEGFRIED.

But what a strange desire! What's wrong, I pray? I go a-hunting with my own good friends, And if the lofty mountains do not fall And bury us, we cannot suffer harm.

KRIEMHILD.

Alas! That is the very thing I dreamed.

SIEGFRIED.

My child, the hills stand firm.

KRIEMHILD (throws her arms around him once more).

Come back! Come back!

[Exeunt warriors.]



SCENE XII

KRIEMHILD.

Siegfried!

SIEGFRIED (appears once more).

What now?

KRIEMHILD.

If thou wouldst not be angry—

HAGEN (follows SIEGFRIED hastily).

Well, hast thou got thy spindle yet?

SIEGFRIED (to KRIEMHILD).

Thou Nearest, The hounds can be no longer held in leash; What dost thou wish?

HAGEN.

Oh wait, pray, for thy flax! And spin it in the moonlight with the elves.

KRIEMHILD.

Now go! I longed to see thee once again!

[HAGEN and SIEGFRIED go out.]



SCENE XIII

KRIEMHILD.

And should I call him to me ten times more I'd never find the heart to tell it him. How can we do what straightway we repent!

SCENE XIV

Enter GERENOT and GISELHER.

KRIEMHILD.

Are you not gone? The Lord hath sent them here! My dearest brothers, earnestly I beg Vouchsafe me my desire, though to you It seems but foolish. Go ye with my lord Where'er he goes, and keep behind his back.

GERENOT.

We are not going. We've no wish to go.

KRIEMHILD.

No wish to go!

GISELHER.

What say'st thou? We've no time! We've much to do before our men march forth.

KRIEMHILD.

And is all that intrusted to your youth? If I am dear to you, if you have not Forgotten that one mother nourished us, Ride after them.

GISELHER.

They're long since in the wood.

GERENOT.

And then thou hast one brother with him, now,

KRIEMHILD.

I beg of you!

GISELHER.

We must collect the arms, As thou shalt see.

[Starts to go.]

KRIEMHILD.

Then tell me one thing more Is Hagen Siegfried's friend?

GERENOT.

Why not, I pray?

KRIEMHILD.

But has he ever praised him?

GISELHER.

It is praise If Hagen does not blame, and I've not heard That he found fault with Siegfried.

[Both leave.]

KRIEMHILD.

Most of all This frightens me. They are not with my lord!



SCENE XV

Enter FRIGGA.

KRIEMHILD.

How, nurse? Art seeking me?

FRIGGA.

I seek for none.

KRIEMHILD.

Then is there something wanted for the Queen?

FRIGGA.

There is not. She needs nothing.

KRIEMHILD.

Nothing still? But can she not forgive?

FRIGGA.

I do not know! She has had no occasion to forgive; She never was offended. I heard horns. Is there a hunt?

KRIEMHILD.

Hast thou then ordered it?

FRIGGA.

I—No!

[Exit.]



SCENE XVI

KRIEMHILD.

Oh, had I only told it him! Oh, my beloved, no woman host thou known, I see it now! Else nevermore hadst thou Unto a trembling girl who doth betray Herself through fear, intrusted such a secret. Still do I hear the playful whispered words With which thou told'st it to me when I praised The dragon's death. And then I made thee swear To tell no other soul in all the world, And now—Oh birds that circle overhead, Oh snow white doves that fly about me now, Take pity on me, warn him, fly to him!

[Exit.]



ACT V

Oden Forest.



SCENE I

Enter HAGEN, GUNTHER, VOLKER, DANKWART and serving men.

HAGEN.

This is the place. The spring is gushing forth, The bushes cover it. If I stand here, I can impale the man who stoops to drink Against the rock.

GUNTHER.

I've given no command.

HAGEN.

When thou hast taken thought thou wilt command. There is no other way, and there will come No second day like this one. Therefore speak, Or if thou wilt not speak, be still!

(To the serving men.)

Hello! 'Tis here we rest!

[The serving men prepare a meal.]

GUNTHER.

Thou'st always hated him.

HAGEN.

I'll not deny that gladly to this work I lend my hand, and I would surely meet In combat any man who came between My enemy and me, and yet the deed I hold not for that reason less than just.

GUNTHER.

And yet my brothers spoke against the deed And turned their backs upon us.

HAGEN.

Had they then The courage to warn him and hinder us? They must have felt that we are in the right, And it is but their youth that makes them shrink From blood that is not shed in open fight.

GUNTHER.

It must be so.

HAGEN.

Why he has bought off death And so ennobled murder.

(To the serving men.)

Sound the horns, And call the hunt together. For 'tis time That we should eat.

[The horns are blown.]

Now take things as they are And leave it all to me. If thou art not Offended, or forgivest what is past, So be it, yet forbid thy servant not To rescue and avenge thy noble wife! She will not break the solemn oath she swore. If she's deceived in her firm trust in us—Her confidence that we'll redeem the pledge—Then all the joy of life that once again, May be aroused within her youthful heart When shadows deepen and the end is near, Will be transformed into one dreadful curse, One final imprecation upon thee!

GUNTHER.

There still is time.



SCENE II

Enter SIEGFRIED with RUMOLT and huntsmen.

SIEGFRIED.

I'm here! And now ye hunters, Where are your spoils? Mine were to follow me Upon a wagon, but the wagon broke.

HAGEN.

A lion is the game I chase today, But I have failed to find one.

SIEGFRIED.

That I know, For I myself have killed him!—Food is spread. Sound trumpets in his praise who ordered that, For now we feel the need. Accursed ravens, Here too? Now blow your bugles till they burst! I've thrown near every kind of game I killed At this black flock; at last I threw a fox, But still they would not fly, and yet I hate Nothing so much in all the woodland green As that deep black—'tis like the devil's hue. The doves have never flocked around me so! Shall we stay here to pass the night?

GUNTHER.

We thought—

SIEGFRIED.

'Tis well, the choice is fitting, and there gapes A hollow tree. I'll take it for myself. For all my life have I been used to that, And I know nothing better than at night On soft dry wood to lay my weary head, And so to dream, half waking, half asleep, To count the passing hours by the birds That waken slowly, softly, one by one, Each singing in his turn. Then tick, tick, tick! Now it is two. Tock, tock, and one must stretch! Kiwitt, kiwitt! The sun is blinking now, And now its eyes are open. Chanticleer Bids all arise, lest they should sneeze.

VOLKER.

I know! It is as if Time wakened them himself, As in the dark he feels his way along, To beat the rhythm of his pace for him. In measured intervals, as from the glass Trickles the sand, and as the shadow long Creeps on the dial, so there follow now The mountain cock, the blackbird and the thrush, And none disturbs the other as by day, Nor coaxes him to warble ere his time. I've watched it oft myself.

SIEGFRIED.

I too.—My brother, Thou art not happy.

GUNTHER.

But I am!

SIEGFRIED.

Oh, no! I have seen people at a wedding feast, And following a bier, and so I know How different they look. Now let us do As strangers might, who'd never met before Until by accident within the wood They meet, and one has this, the other that, And so they put together all they have, And thus with joy receive and also give. 'Tis well! For I bring meat of every kind, And I will give to you a mountain bull, Five boars and thirty, even forty stags, And pheasants too, as many as you will, Not mentioning the lion and the bear, All this for one small beaker of cool wine.

DANKWART.

Alas!

SIEGFRIED.

What's Wrong?

HAGEN.

The wine has been forgotten.

SIEGFRIED.

Yes, I'll believe it. That may well befall A hunter who is resting from the chase And has a red hot coal for his own tongue Inside his mouth. Well, I must seek myself, Although I cannot scent it like a, hound— But let it be—I'll never spoil your sport!

[He seeks.]

There is none here, nor here! Where is the cask? I pray thee, minstrel, save me, else I'll lose The tongue that has till now been wagging so.

HAGEN.

And that may happen, for—there is no wine.

SIEGFRIED.

The devil and his fiends may take your hunt If I am not to have a hunter's fare! Whose duty was it to provide the drink?

HAGEN.

Mine! Yet I did not know where we should be,



And sent the wine to Spessart, where it seems There are no thirsty men.

SIEGFRIED.

Give thanks who will! But have we then no water? Must a man Be satisfied with evening dew, and lap The drops from off the leaves?

HAGEN.

But hold thy tongue! Thine ear will bring thee comfort!

SIEGFRIED (listens).

Hark, a spring! Oh welcome stream! 'Tis true I love thee more When thou, instead of welling from the stone So suddenly and rushing to my mouth, Thy winding way pursuest through the grape; For from thy journey many things thou bring'st, That fill our heads with foolish gaiety. Yet even so be praised.

[He goes to the spring.]

Ah no! I must Do penance first and ye shall witness bear That I have done it. I'm the thirstiest man Among you all and I will drink the last, Because I was so harsh with poor Kriemhild.

HAGEN.

Then I'll begin.

[He goes to the spring.]

SIEGFRIED (to GUNTHER).

Pray look more cheerfully. I know a way to reconcile thy bride; Brunhilda's kisses shall ere long be thine. My joy I will forego as long as thou.

HAGEN (comes back and lays aside his weapons).

The weapons will impede me when I stoop.

[Retires again.]

SIEGFRIED.

Before the full assemblage of thy folk, Kriemhild will sue for pardon ere we go. This pledge was freely given, but she longs To leave and hide her blushes.

HAGEN (returns).

Cold as ice!

SIEGFRIED.

Who next?

VOLKER.

First let us eat.

SIEGFRIED.

'Tis well! [He goes toward the spring but turns back again.]

Ah yes!

[He lays aside his weapons. Exit.]

HAGEN (pointing to the weapons).

Away with them!

DANKWART (carries the weapons away).

HAGEN (who has taken up his own weapons again and has meanwhile kept his back turned toward GUNTHER; takes a running start and throws his spear).

SIEGFRIED (cries out).

My friends!

HAGEN (exclaims).

Not quiet yet?

(To the others.)

No word with him, whatever he may say!

SIEGFRIED (crawls forward).

Murdered—while I was drinking! Gunther, Gunther? Have I deserved this from thee? In thy need I stood by thee.

HAGEN.

Lop branches from the trees, We need a bier. Quick, choose the strongest limbs, For heavy is a dead man.

SIEGFRIED.

I am slain, But yet not wholly!

[He springs up.]

Where then is my sword? They've taken it! Oh, by thy manhood, Hagen, Give the dead man a sword! I challenge thee E'en now to mortal combat!

HAGEN.

In his mouth He has his enemy, yet seeks him still.

SIEGFRIED.

My life drips from me like a candle spent, And e'en my sword this murderer denies, Though granting it would render him less vile. For shame! Such cowardice! He fears my thumb, For that is all that's left of me.

[He stumbles over his shield.]

My shield! My faithful shield, I'll throw thee at the hound!

[He stoops over the shield, but cannot lift it, and rises unsteadily once more.]

As if 'twere nailed there! E'en for this revenge 'Tis now too late!

HAGEN.

Oh, if this chatterer Would maim his foolish tongue between his teeth Where it has sinned so long all unreproved— His idle tongue that is not silenced yet!— Then would he have revenge, for that alone Has brought him to this pass.

SIEGFRIED.

Thou liest! 'Twas Thine envy!

HAGEN.

Silence!

SIEGFRIED.

Threats for a dead man? Aimed I so true that thou dost fear me still? Then draw, for now I fall, and thou canst dare To spit upon me like a heap of dust, For here I lie—

[He falls to the ground.]

And you are free from Siegfried! Yet know, the blow that slew him killed you too, For who will trust you? They will drive you forth As I had driven the Danes.

HAGEN.

This simpleton! He hath not grasped our trick!

SIEGFRIED.

Then 'tis not true? Oh, horrible, that men should lie like this! Ah well! You are alone in this! And folk Will always curse you too, whene'er they curse. They'll say: Toads, vipers and Burgundians! Nay you are first: Burgundians, vipers, toads. For all is lost to you—nobility And honor, fame and all, are lost with me! There is no bound nor limit now for crime, The arm indeed may pierce the heart, but when The heart is dead the arm is useless too. My wife! My poor, foreboding, tender wife— How wilt thou bear the blow! If Gunther's heart Still means to do one deed of faith and love, May he be kind to thee!—Yet rather go Unto my father!—Hearest thou, Kriemhild?

[He dies.]

HAGEN.

He's silent now. Small merit is in that!

DANKWART.

What shall we tell?

HAGEN.

Some stupid tale of thieves Who killed him in the forest. It is true None will believe it, yet I think that none Will call us liars. Once again we stand Where none will dare to call us to account; For we're like fire and water. Till the Rhine Seeks out some lie to justify its floods, And fire explains why it has broken forth, We need not fear accusers. Thou, my King, Gav'st no commands—thou should'st remember that! The blame is mine alone. Now bear him forth!

[Exeunt with the body.]



SCENE III

KRIEMHILD'S room. Deep night.

KRIEMHILD.

'Tis far too early yet. It is my blood That wakened me, and not the cock I heard, Or seemed to hear.

[She goes to the window and opens it partly.]

The stars are shining still, It surely is an hour yet till mass. Today I long to go to church and pray.



SCENE IV

Enter UTE softly.

UTE.

Already up, Kriemhild?

KRIEMHILD.

I am amazed That thou art up, for thou hast always slept More soundly after dawn and claimed thy right To have thy daughter wake thee, as thou her So long ago.

UTE.

Today I could not sleep, I heard strange sounds.

KRIEMHILD.

And didst thou mark them too?

UTE.

It was like people trying to be still.

KRIEMHILD.

So I was right?

UTE.

They seemed to hold their breath, Yet dropped a sword that clanged! On tiptoe walked, And yet upset the brazier! Hushed the dog, Yet trod upon his paw.

KRIEMHILD.

They have perhaps Returned.

UTE.

The hunters?

KRIEMHILD.

Once it seemed to me That some one softly crept up to my door. I thought it must be Siegfried. UTE. Didst thou make Some sign that thou wast wakeful?

KRIEMHILD.

No.

UTE.

Indeed It might then have been Siegfried, but 'twould be Almost too soon.

KRIEMHILD.

To me it seems so too! And then he did not knock.

UTE.

The hunt was not, Or so I think, to bring us game for food; They wanted our poor farmers to have peace, Who have been threatening to burn their ploughs Because the wild boar harvests where they sow!

KRIEMHILD.

Was that it?

UTE.

Child, thou art already dressed, Yet hast not any maid with thee?

KRIEMHILD.

I thought That I would learn who woke the first of all. Besides, it was a pastime.

UTE.

Each in turn, My candle in my hand, I gazed upon. For each year brings a different kind of sleep. Fifteen and sixteen sleep like five and six, But seventeen brings dreams, and eighteen, thoughts, And nineteen brings desires—



SCENE V

A Chamberlain cries out before the door.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Almighty God!

UTE.

What is it? What is wrong?

CHAMBERLAIN (enters).

I almost fell.

UTE.

And that was why you called?

CHAMBERLAIN.

Some one is dead!

UTE.

What's that?

CHAMBERLAIN.

A dead man lying at the door!

UTE.

A dead man?

KRIEMHILD (falls).

Then 'tis Siegfried, 'tis my lord!

UTE (catches her in her arms).

Impossible!

(To the CHAMBERLAIN.)

Bring light!

[CHAMBERLAIN brings a light and then nods his head.]

UTE.

'Tis Siegfried? Go! Awaken all!

CHAMBERLAIN.

Help, help!

[The maidens rush in.]

UTE.

O piteous wife!

KRIEMHILD (rising).

Brunhild commanded, Hagen did the deed!— A light!

UTE.

My child!

KRIEMHILD (seizes a torch).

'Tis he! I know, I know! Let no one tread on him; for thou didst hear The servants stumble over him.—The servants! Yet once great kings made way for him.

UTE.

The light!

KRIEMHILD.

I'll place it there myself.

[She opens the door and falls to the floor.]

Oh Mother, Mother, Why didst thou bear thy child! Oh thou dear head, But let me kiss thee. I'll not seek thy mouth, For all to me is precious. Thou canst not Forbid me as thou would'st perhaps.—Thy lips— 'Tis too much pain!

CHAMBERLAIN.

She's dying.

UTE.

I could wish That she might die!



SCENE VI

Enter GUNTHER with DANKWART, RUMOLT, GISELHER and GERENOT.

UTE (approaching GUNTHER).

My son, what deed was this?

GUNTHER.

I fain would weep myself. Yet of his death You've heard already? By the holy words Of our good priest you were to learn of this. I went to tell him in the night.

UTE (with a motion of the head).

Thou see'st The dead man told his story for himself.

GUNTHER (aside to DANKWART).

But how was this?

DANKWART.

My brother bore him here!

GUNTHER.

For shame!

DANKWART.

From his intent he'd not desist, And when he came again he laughed and said: This is my gratitude for his farewell.



SCENE VII

Enter the Chaplain.

GUNTHER (going to meet him).

Too late!

CHAPLAIN.

And such a man slain in the woods!

DANKWART.

The robber's spear was guided by blind chance, So that it struck the spot. In such a way A child may kill a giant.

UTE (still busying herself with the maidens over KRIEMHILD).

Rise, Kriemhild!

KRIEMHILD.

Another parting? No, I'll cling to him, And to the grave together will we go, Or you must leave him here. But half my love I gave him living. Now that he is dead I know it. Were it the reverse! His eyes I never yet had kissed! All, all is new! We thought we'd time before us.

UTE.

Come my child! We cannot leave him lying in the dust. KRIEMHILD. Oh that is true! The costliest and rarest Today shall be as naught.

[She rises.]

Here, take the keys!

[She throws down keys.]

There'll be no festivals again! The silk, The wondrous golden garments, and the linen— Bring everything. Be sure to gather flowers— He loved them so! And you must cut them all, Even the little buds that have not bloomed. For whom then should they blossom? Lay them all Within his coffin, then my bridal robes, And lay him softly down, and I'll do so,

[She stretches out her arms.]

And I will be his covering!

GUNTHER (to his followers).

Your oath! Let no one harm her more.

KRIEMHILD (turns around).

The murderer's here? Away, for fear the blood should flow again! No! No! Come here!

[She lays hold of DANKWART.]

That Siegfried may bear witness!

[She wipes her hand on her dress.]

Alas, alas! My right hand nevermore May dare to touch him. Does the blood gush forth? O Mother, look! I cannot! No? Then these But hide the deed. I seek the murderer. If Hagen Tronje's here, let him come forth! He is not guilty—I'll give him my hand.

UTE.

My child—

KRIEMHILD.

Now go and hear Brunhilda laugh. She's eating too, and drinking.

UTE.

It was robbers—

KRIEMHILD.

I know them well.

[She takes GISELHER and GERENOT by the hand.]

Thou wast not with them there! Thou didst not go!

UTE.

But hear me!

RUMOLT.

Through the wood We had been scattered; for it was his wish, And 'tis our custom too. We found him dying At our next meeting place.

KRIEMHILD.

You found him there? What did he say? A word! His dying word! I will believe thy tale, if thou canst tell, And if it is no curse. But oh, beware! For sooner would a rose bloom from thy mouth Than thou imagine what thou didst not hear.

(As RUMOLT hesitates.)

It is a lie!

CHAPLAIN.

'Tis possible! I've heard A magpie dropped a knife that killed a man Who could not have been reached by human hands. And what a winged thief by chance could do Because his gleaming booty burdened him, A robber well might do.

KRIEMHILD.

Oh, holy father, Thou knowest not!

DANKWART.

Princess, thy grief is sacred, But yet unjust and blind. Our warriors here, Our noblest will bear witness—

[Meanwhile the door has been closed and the body is no longer visible.]

KRIEMHILD (who observes this). Halt! Who dares—

[She hastens to the door.]

UTE.

Stop, stop! He was but gently lifted up As thou thyself would'st wish.

KRIEMHILD.

Oh, give him back! Else they will rob me, they will bury him Where I shall never find him!

CHAPLAIN.

To the church! I'll follow him, for now he's God's alone.

[Exit.]



SCENE VIII

KRIEMHILD.

So be it! To the church! (To GUNTHER.)

'Twas robbers then? I bid thee gather all thy kindred there To try the test of murder.

GUNTHER.

Be it so.

KRIEMHILD.

But bring them one and all, for now I find That some are missing. Call the absent too!

[Exeunt omnes; the men and women by different doors.]



SCENE IX

In the cathedral. Torches. The Chaplain with other priests is at one side before an iron door. At the main entrance of the cathedral about sixty of HAGEN's kindred are assembled. Finally HAGEN, GUNTHER and the others. Knocking is heard.

CHAPLAIN.

Who knocks

VOICE FROM WITHOUT.

A great king from the Netherlands Whose crowns are as the fingers on his hands.

CHAPLAIN.

I know him not.

[The knocking is repeated.]

Who knocks?

VOICE FROM WITHOUT.

A warrior brave, Whose trophies are as many as his teeth.

CHAPLAIN.

I know him not.

[The knocking is repeated.]

Who knocks?

VOICE FROM WITHOUT.

Thy brother Siegfried, Whose sins are as the hairs upon his head.

CHAPLAIN.

Then open!

[The door is opened and SIEGFRIED's body is brought in on the bier. KRIEMHILD and UTE with their maidens follow him.]

CHAPLAIN (turning toward the bier).

Thou art welcome, my dead brother, For peace thou seekest here! [To the women whom he keeps away from the coffin by coming between them and it, while it is being set down.]

Be welcome too, If you are seeking peace as Siegfried is.

[He holds up the cross before KRIEMHILD.]

Thou turn'st away from this most holy cross?

KRIEMHILD.

I come to ask for justice and for truth.

CHAPLAIN.

Thou seekest vengeance, and the Lord hath said, Vengeance is mine. It is the Lord alone Who sees what's hidden. He alone requites.

KRIEMHILD.

I am a woman, weak, half crushed to earth; No warrior can I strangle with my hair. What vengeance then is left for me, I pray?

CHAPLAIN.

Why should'st thou search to find thine enemy, Unless thou seek'st on him to take revenge? His Judge knows all, and is not that enough?

KRIEMHILD.

I do not want to curse the innocent.

CHAPLAIN.

Then curse thou no man, and 'twill not befall!— Thou poor frail child created but from dust And ashes, with no strength to breast the wind, Thy burden's great, well may'st thou cry to heaven, Yet gaze on Him who bore a greater still! In humblest guise He came upon the earth, And took upon Himself the sins of men, And suffered for atonement all the griefs That ever there have been throughout all time— The griefs that follow fallen mortals still. He suffered in thy sorrow more than thou! And heavenly power flowed from out His lips And all the angels floated round his head, But Jesus Christ was faithful unto death— Unto His shameful death upon the cross. This sacrifice He brought thee in his love, In pity that we may not comprehend. Wilt thou deny thine offering to Him? Then let them bury him! And turn thou back!

KRIEMHILD.

Thy work is done, and I will now do mine!

[She goes and stands at the head of the coffin.]

Approach the bier, the dread ordeal begins!

CHAPLAIN (goes also to the coffin and stands at the foot. Three trumpet blasts are heard).

HAGEN (to GUNTHER).

What then has happened?

GUNTHER.

Murder has been done.

HAGEN.

Why stand I here?

GUNTHER.

Suspicion rests on thee.

HAGEN.

My kin are gathered here. Of my fair name I'll question them.—Are ye prepared to swear That Hagen Tronje is no murderer?

ALL EXCEPT GISELHER.

We are prepared.

HAGEN.

Thou'rt silent, Giselher? Wilt thou not for thine uncle take thine oath That Hagen Tronje is no murderer?

GISELHER (raising his hand).

I am prepared.

HAGEN.

Ye need not take the oath.

[He goes forward to KRIEMHILD in the cathedral.]

Thou see'st, my kin will clear me when I will, 'Tis needless that I now approach the bier, Yet will I stand there and will be the first!

[He walks slowly to the bier.]

UTE.

Oh Kriemhild, do not look.

KRIEMHILD.

Perchance he lives! My Siegfried! Had he strength to speak one word Or gaze but once upon me!

UTE.

My poor child, It is but nature, moving once again. Ghastly enough!

CHAPLAIN.

It is the hand of God, That softly stirs once more these sacred springs Because He must inscribe the sign of Cain.

HAGEN (bending over the coffin).

The scarlet blood! I ne'er believed the sign! But now I see it here with mine own eyes.

KRIEMHILD.

Yet thou canst stand and gaze?

[She springs toward him.]

Away, thou fiend! Who knows but every drop of blood gives pain, That thy foul, murderous presence draws from him!

HAGEN.

Fair Kriemhild, if a dead man's blood still boils, Why may not mine? I am a living man.

KRIEMHILD.

Away! Away! I'd seize thee with my hands, Had I but some one who would back them off And cast them from me that I might be clean— For washing would not cleanse them, even if I dipped them in thy blood. Away! Away! So stood'st thou not to deal the deadly blow, Thy wolfish eyes fixed on him steadily, With fiendish grin disclosing thy intent Before the time! But slyly didst thou creep Behind him, ever shrinking from his gaze, As wild beasts do that fear the human eye, And peered to find the spot, that I—Thou dog, What was thine oath to me?

HAGEN.

To shelter him From fire and water.

KRIEMHILD.

Not from human foes?

HAGEN.

That too, and I'd have done it.

KRIEMHILD.

Thou didst mean To murder him thyself?

HAGEN.

To punish him!

KRIEMHILD.

Was murder ever called a punishment Since heaven and earth began? HAGEN. I'd challenged him To mortal combat, thou may'st take my word, But none might tell the hero from the dragon, And dragons must be killed. So proud a knight, Why did he hide him in the dragon's skin!

KRIEMHILD.

The dragon's skin! He had to slay him first, And with the dragon slew he all the world! The forest depths with all their monstrous beasts, And every warrior that had feared to slay The dreadful dragon, Hagen with the rest! Thy slander cannot harm him. But the dart Thine envy borrowed from thy wickedness. And folk will tell of his nobility As long as men still dwell upon the earth, And just so long they'll tell thy tale of shame.

HAGEN.

So be it then!

[He takes SIEGFRIED'S sword, Balmung, from beside the body.]

And now 'twill never end!

[He girds on the sword and walks slowly back to his kindred.]

KRIEMHILD.

To murder foul is added robbery!

(To GUNTHER.)

A judgment, Gunther! Judgment I demand.

CHAPLAIN.

Remember Him who on the cross forgave!

KRIEMHILD.

A judgment! If the king denies it me, The blood of Siegfried stains his mantle too.

UTE. Cease, Kriemhild! Thou wilt ruin thy whole house!

KRIEMHILD.

So be it! For the measure's over full!

[She turns toward SIEGFRIED'S body and falls upon the bier.]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Siegfried's wonderful sword is named Balmung.]

[Footnote 2: The reference is to a passage in the Chanson de Roland. Roland was in command of a rear guard and was warned of the approach of a large force of Saracens. His comrade Oliver begged him to sound his horn and summon Charlemagne and his forces. Roland would not blow the horn until nearly all his men were slain. At last, however, the Saracens learned of Charlemagne's approach and fled. Roland then blew his horn once more and died alone on the field as he heard Charlemagne's battle cry.—TRANSLATOR.]

[Footnote 3: Balmung is the name of Siegfried's magical sword.]

[Footnote 4: The Mandrake is a plant growing in the Mediterranean region and belonging to the potato family. It was early famed for its poisonous and narcotic qualities. Love philtres were also made from its roots, and an old High German story tells of little images made from the root, thus endowed with the power of prophecy and respected as oracles. Probably Hebbel refers to the German tradition, as he is speaking of the dwarfs who are both small and wise. The German name of the plant is Alraune.—TRANSLATOR.]

[Footnote 5: The translator finds that authorities and versions of the tale differ as to Siegfried's "Kappe." In Maurice Grau's Goetterdaemmerung libretto it is called in the English translation "Tarnhelm," and Siegfried hangs it to his belt when not in use. Dippold in his account of the Nibelung tale speaks of the Tarn kappe or magic cap of darkness which renders the wearer invisible. But the Encyclopaedia Britannica speaks of the "cape of darkness" and Heath's Dictionary gives cap first, but calls Tarn kappe "hiding cape." In either case invisibility was obtained.—TRANSLATOR.]



ANNA (1836)

BY FRIEDRICH HEBBEL

TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING

"Mild the air, and heaven blue, Fragrant flowers full of dew, And at even dance and play, That is quite too much, I say."

Anna, the young servant maid, was gaily singing this song one bright Sunday morning, while busily engaged in washing up the kitchen and dairy crockery. At that moment Baron Eichenthal, in whose service she had been for the last six months, passed by, wearing a green damask dressing-gown. He was a decrepit young man, full of spleen and whims. "What's the meaning of this yodelling!" he demanded haughtily, pausing in front of her—"You know that I cannot bear frivolity."

Anna blushed violently: she remembered that her severe master would have been very pleased to find her frivolous a few evenings ago in the summerhouse. A sharp retort was on the tip of her tongue, but forcibly suppressing it, she started to take up a white porcelain soup-tureen, and, in a violent struggle with her natural fearlessness, let it fall to the ground. The valuable dish broke and the Baron, who had already taken a few steps forward, turned around, his face flaming with anger.

"What!" he exclaimed loudly, and strode up to the girl, "would you cool your temper on my mother's kitchen crockery, you little sneak, because your stubborn spirit will not allow you to accept a well-merited reproof quietly, as becomes you?" And with that, scolding and storming, he gave her, right and left, box after box on the ear, while she, stunned, gazed at him, like a child, bereft of speech, indeed almost of her senses, still holding the handle of the tureen in one hand, and involuntarily pressing the other against her breast.

She was first aroused from this state, which bordered on a swoon, by the mocking laughter of the chamber-maid Frederika, who, more easy going than she, gladly allowed the Baron to trifle wantonly with her and pinch her cheeks or play with her curls. The insolent wench looked at her derisively, and called out, "That will give you a good appetite for the kermess, Miss Prude."

The Baron, however, laughed loudly and placing his arms akimbo, said: "You might just as well give up all desire for dance and play; I withdraw the permission accorded by my mother, you shall take care of the house. Is there nothing then for her to do today?" he continued, talking to himself. Frederika whispered something to him. "Right," he shouted, "she shall comb the flax until late at night; do you hear?" Anna, completely bewildered, nodded her head, and then sank down powerless on her knees; at the same time, however, she instinctively snatched up a brass utensil, and, while the hot, uncontrollable tears overflowed her eyes, she began to scour it bright.

The gardener had witnessed the foregoing scene from a distance. Fresh and blooming as she was, he had long pursued her with attentions, but in vain; coming up at that moment, he greeted her and asked maliciously how she was? "Oh, oh," she moaned, quivering spasmodically, and springing, up she clutched at the sneering fellow's breast and face.

"Madwoman," he cried, growing frightened, and, defending himself with all his masculine strength, pushed her away. She stared after him with wide-open eyes as though not realizing what she had done; then, as if coming to her senses, returned to her work, which she continued without interruption, except at times unconsciously heaving a loud sigh, until at midday she was called to the kitchen to dinner. Here nothing but faces expressing malicious joy at her discomfiture awaited her, and more or less suppressed laughter and tittering, which grew stronger and more pitiless as she continued to gaze down at her plate with burning cheeks, and replied not a word to the volley of allusions.

The maids, already partly decked out in their finery, exchanged bantering remarks, bearing unmistakable reference to her, on the score of the lovers whom they had found, or hoped to find, and the flat-nosed scullion, encouraged to commit the impertinence by the winks of the head farm-hand and the coachman, asked Anna if he might not borrow her red-flowered apron and the hat with the gay-colored ribbons that Frederick, the Major's man, had given her at Christmas. She would certainly not need these things in the flax-room, he said, and he hoped by means of them to win the good graces of a girl who had no finery.

"Boy," she cried with white trembling lips, "I'll not cook you any milk soup another time when you are sick in bed, and no one bothers himself about you!" and shoving back her plate, she snatched up the empty water-pails, which it was her duty to fill afresh at the well, and went out.

"Fie," said John, an old servant, who, having grown gray in the service of his lordship's father, was now eating the bread of charity in the house of Baron Eichenthal. "It is wrong to spoil the wench's food and drink with bitter words."

"Pshaw!" retorted the gardener, "it will not hurt her. Since that lean-bodied toady, Frederick, has been running after her, she's as proud as though she had angled a nobleman!"

"Pride comes before a fall!" said Lizzie, the buxom little cook, with a tender glance at the phlegmatic head farm-hand. "Do you know that she laces?"

"Why shouldn't she be proud," interjected the coachman, "isn't she the schoolmaster's daughter!"

Frederika, the chambermaid, came into the kitchen with a heated face. "Isn't Anna here?" she asked, drying her forehead with her silk handkerchief. "The master has just gone to bed, he joked a good deal"—here she coughed, as the others cast significant glances at one another and laughed—"and I am to tell her that she is to begin combing the flax right away, and"—this she added on her own authority—"she must not stop work until ten o'clock."

"I'll give her the message, Rika!" answered Lizzie. Frederika tripped out again.

"Doesn't she lace too?" asked the head farm-hand.

"Chut! Chut!" whispered John, and jingled his fork against his plate in embarrassment. Anna entered the kitchen with her load of water.

"Anna," began Lizzie officiously, "I am to tell you—"

"I know all about it already," answered Anna drily, in a steady voice. "I met the messenger. Where is the key to the flax-room hanging?"

"Over there on the nail!" replied the cook, and pointed with her finger to the place.

Anna, composed, because inwardly crushed, took the key, and while the others went off to their trunks in order to complete their toilet before a three groschen mirror, she went hastily into the flax-room, the windows of which looked out upon the castle courtyard and the high-road. She sat down, her face turned toward the windows so that she could see all the merry-makers on their way from the village to the kermess and hear their gay talk. She began to work with gloomy industry. Although at times she unconsciously sank into a fit of brooding, she would immediately start up again terrified, as though bitten by a snake or tarantula, and continue her labor with increased, indeed, with unnatural zeal. Only once during the entire long afternoon did she get up from her low, hard, wooden stool, and that was when her fellow servants drove quickly down the castle yard in comfortable rack wagons drawn by fast horses. But with a loud laugh, as though in self-derision, she sat down again, and, although she grew so thirsty in all the heat and dust that her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, she did not even drink the coffee that old Bridget, who on an occasion like this of today used to take care of the house for the maids, compassionately brought her toward four or five o'clock.

When night gradually came on she went into the kitchen, without smoothing back the locks of hair that hung wildly about her face. Making no answer to Bridget's friendly invitation to remain there and share with her a tempting dish of baked potatoes, she took a candle out of the candle box, and holding her hand over it to protect it against the draught, went back into the flax-room. It was not long before there was a knock at the window, and when she had opened the door Frederick entered hastily, dripping with perspiration.

"I must see what is the matter," he said, almost breathless and tearing open his waist-coat, "they are whispering all kinds of things."

"You see!" answered Anna quickly, then stopped short and arranged her bodice, which had been pushed somewhat awry.

"Your master is a scoundrel!" blustered Frederick, gnashing his teeth.

"Yes, yes!" said Anna.

"I should like to meet him up there on the cliff," cried Frederick, "oh, it's abominable!"

"How hot you are," said Anna, gently taking his hand. "Have you been dancing already?"

"I have been drinking wine, five or six glasses," rejoined Frederick. "Come, Anna, dress yourself, you shall go with me in spite of every devil who tries to interfere."

"No, no, no!" said Anna.

"But I say yes," Frederick flared out in a passion, and put his arm around her waist, "I say yes!"

"Most certainly not!" Anna answered softly, embracing him affectionately.

KRIEMHILD ACCUSES HAGEN OF THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED

From the painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld

"You shall, I wish it," cried Frederick, releasing her.

Anna, without making any answer, took up the flax-comb and looked down on the ground before her.

"Will you, or will you not?" persisted Frederick, and stepped right in front of her.

"How could I?" returned Anna, looking confidingly in his eyes, and laying her hand on her heart.

"Very well," cried Frederick. "You will not. God damn me if I ever see you again!" He rushed out like a mad man.

"Frederick," cried Anna after him, "Do stay, stay a moment, listen how the wind is howling."

She was starting to hurry after him when her dress brushed against the candle placed low down on an oak-block; it fell over and set fire to the flax which burst at once into powerful flames. Frederick, crazed with wine and anger, forced himself, as usually happens in such moments, to sing a song as he strode out into the night, which had turned out to be very stormy. The familiar tones, in wild hilarity, penetrated to where Anna was. "Oh! oh!" she sighed from the depth of her heart. Then for the first time she noticed that half of the room was already on fire. Beating with her hands and stamping with her feet she threw herself upon the greedy flames which, hot and burning, leaped toward her and scorched her. Frederick's voice died away in the distance in a last halloo. "Pshaw, why should I put it out, let it be!" she cried, and slamming the door behind her with all her might, she hurried out with a horrible laugh, involuntarily following the same path through the garden that Frederick had taken.

Soon, however, she sank down, exhausted, almost fainting, in a meadow which adjoined the garden, and groaning aloud pressed her face into the cold, wet grass. Thus she lay for a long time.

Then from far and near the fire and alarm bells sounded, hollow and terrifying. She half raised herself, but did not look around. Above her the sky was blood-red and full of sparks; an unnatural heat was spreading, and increasing from minute to minute. The wind howled and roared, the flames crackled, wails and shouts resounded. She lay down again at full length on the ground, and it seemed to her as though she could sleep. But the next moment she was frightened out of this death-like state by the words of two people hurrying past her, one of whom cried out, "Lord have mercy on us! the village is already burning!" She pulled herself together then with a superhuman effort, and hurried, with flying hair, down to the village, which adjoined the burning side of the castle. There, in more than one place the inflammable straw roofs had already burst into flame.

The wind grew stronger and stronger. Most of the inhabitants, with the exception of the children and decrepit old people, were more than four miles away at the kermess. Had the necessary men been on the spot the miserable fire apparatus could have offered only a vain resistance to the league of the two dread elements. Since the summer had been unusually dry, even water was lacking.

Distress, danger, confusion, increased every minute. A little boy ran about crying, "O God, O God, my little sister!" And when he was asked, "Where is your sister?" he repeated his horrifying cry, as though, incapable of every intelligent thought, he had not understood the question.

One old woman had to be forcibly dragged from her house. "My hen," she moaned, "my poor little hen!" And indeed it was touching to see how the little creature fluttered terrified from one corner to the other in the suffocating smoke, and yet, because in better days it was probably accustomed not to cross the threshold, it would not allow itself to be driven through the open door into the air, even by its mistress.

Anna, weeping, screaming, beating her breast, and then again laughing, rushed into every kind of danger with the reckless daring of despair. She rescued, extinguished, and was an object at once of surprise, admiration, and uncanny mystery to all the others. At last they despaired of being able even to arrest the fire, which, continuing to spread, threatened to reduce the whole village to ashes. It was then that they saw her sink down on her knees in a burning house and gaze up to Heaven, wringing her hands.

The pastor called out, "For God's sake, rescue the heroic girl, the roof is falling in!" Anna, still on her knees, hearing his words, stuck out her tongue at him with a gesture of violent abhorrence, and laughed crazily. At this moment Frederick appeared. Hardly had he perceived the terrible danger in which she was placed than, growing deathly pale, he rushed toward the house which seemed about to collapse. She, however, noticing him at once, sprang up terrified and cried, "Don't, Frederick, don't; I, I am guilty, there—there." She pointed with her hand to the place where the castle lay, and, in order to make any rescue impossible, hurried up the already burning ladder, which led to the garret of the house. The ladder, too far consumed by the fire, broke under her, and at the same moment the roof fell in, forming a wall of flame. They heard one more piercing cry; then there was silence.

Baron Eichenthal arrived. As soon as Frederick caught sight of him he rushed up to him and before the Baron could defend himself kicked him in the abdomen, so that he fell over backward to the ground; then Frederick quietly gave himself up to the peasants, who at the order of the justice of the peace were trying to overpower him.

When the Baron learned next morning what had happened to Anna, he ordered them to search for her bones among the ashes and to bury them in the potter's field. This was done.



ON THEODOR KOeRNER AND HEINRICH VON KLEIST (1835)

By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING

Not only in the history of the world but in the history of literature as well, we meet with strange aberrations on the part of entire epochs in their estimate of individual men, rightly or wrongly raised above their environment. Exactly what the age happens to demand, what fits in with its restless activity, that is what it rewards and values. We cannot deny, indeed, that every generation has the right to require the poet, as well as its other sons, to consult its needs so far as possible. But it is seldom satisfied with this; he must confer his benefits in the most agreeable way, and whether or not he is weak enough to humor it in this, determines, as a rule, whether it will take him fondly in its arms, or will crush him. These reflections were recently aroused in me when a volume of Heinrich von Kleist's writings came into my possession together with a volume of Theodor Koerner's works, and I trust that the Scientific Society will not consider them too unimportant to be developed in some detail.

In the two poets named we see two remarkable examples of the above-mentioned aberration of an entire epoch. While the first of the two, Heinrich von Kleist, possesses all the qualities that go to make up the great poet and at the same time the true German, the other, Theodor Koerner, has only enthusiasm for those qualities; but while Kleist refuses to forget his own dignity in the interests of the times, and finally strives to unite these interests with the highest mission of art, Koerner prefers to throw himself submissively into the vortex. For this reason Kleist was maligned, ignored, and misjudged during his lifetime, scorned at his death, and forgotten by immediate posterity, whereas Koerner was enthusiastically received and applauded, and when he descended into his early grave, was mourned by the whole world. I would gladly pass by his grave in silence, and leave him the laurels which he purchased with his death; but I see no reason why he should swell the number of our fathers' sins, and should neglect an act of justice, which will, in any case, be performed some day by our grandchildren, and then perhaps with a smile of pity for us.

Before we go farther it will be necessary to establish, so far as possible, certain conceptions of art in general, and of the branches of art cultivated by Koerner and Kleist. I purposely say "so far as possible;" for it would not be easy to expound a complete conception of art before one set forth a complete conception of the human soul, of which art might be called the most comprehensive phenomenon. We must therefore infer this conception from the effects of art, so far as they appear; but as these effects are infinite the conception may be something very different from a barrier erected for the purpose of a mere provisional designation, which ceases to exist the moment that it pleases genius to overstep it. We find this possibility confirmed when we examine how the conception in question has changed in German literature alone, during the various epochs of its relatively short history.

In the day of Gessner, Bodmer, and the like, who saw a muse in every sheep and every herdsman, the imitation of nature was the gospel in which every one believed. This, at best, meant nothing at all, and closely analyzed, it is half nonsensical, in so far as this definition presupposes art to be something that exists outside the domain of nature. But man belongs within the domain of nature; he must be included within this domain, and at most can complete or enlarge it; and for this reason alone art can never imitate a whole of which it is a part.

Hereupon men went a step farther, and defined art as "imitation of the beautiful." We should have less cause to object to this definition if the question on which everything depends in this case had not been left unanswered; if they had not left undecided what it was they meant by "imitation of the beautiful." They were indeed very soon ready with an explanation, calling that "beautiful" which reveals an agreeable unity in variety. Unfortunately they could not prevail upon themselves to grant the proposition: "All is beautiful or nothing," which follows immediately from the first; for they had overlooked the fact that the word "agreeable" was superfluous, since every unity, because it gives a clear impression and permits us to look into the unviolated order of nature, appeals to us "agreeably"—I must use this word because it expresses the least badly the feeling which I would describe. Now, however, in spite of all reluctance, they had to acknowledge that in the domain of art there were many phenomena in which no such narrow-minded imitation of the beautiful, as was demanded, could be shown to exist, but which nevertheless could not be denied recognition. It was truly remarkable how they tried to find an escape from this dilemma. They admitted that ugliness could sometimes form an ingredient in a work of art, by which means it became possible for the artist to arouse certain mixed sensations in default of purely agreeable sensations. Mark well, "in default of purely agreeable sensations!" As though the incapacity or the momentary embarrassment of the artist, and the inadequacy of a chosen subject, could do away with a law of art once recognized as supreme. It is just as though the political law-giver should modify the prohibition of stealing by the clause: "if, namely, thou canst earn something in an honest manner." Striking it is, that even Lessing should cling to such definitions and employ all his ingenuity to prove their tenableness. It goes to show that the taste of a nation never—as may very well be imagined—precedes the genius, but always limps along behind him. Still more striking it is that they could feel the inadequacy of the accepted definition, that they could come so near to the real remedy, and yet could overlook it. It seems to me, namely, that everything could have been adjusted, if they had made the same demands on the artist's work that they made on the subject chosen by him. This is so plain that it needs no demonstration.

If I should be asked to state my conception of art—it is understood that here, as elsewhere, that only the art of poetry is in question—I would base it on the unconditional freedom of the artist, and say: Art should seize upon life in all its various forms, and represent it. It is obvious that this cannot be accomplished by mere copying. The artist must afford life something more than a morgue, where it is prepared for burial. We wish to see the point from which life starts and the one where it loses itself, as a single wave, in the great sea of infinite, effect. That this effect is a twofold one, and that it can turn inward as well as outward, is of course self-evident. For the rest—be it said incidentally—here is the point from which a parallel can be drawn between the phenomena of real life and those of life embodied in art.

I will now review the separate branches of art at which Koerner and Kleist have tried their hand. We find that they are lyric poetry, drama, and narrative. All three have to do with the representation of life, and if a division can be made it can only be based upon the various ways in which life is wont to manifest itself. Life manifests itself either as a reaction upon outward impressions, or lacking these, directly from within. When it works directly from within, we usually designate the form under which it appears as feeling. Feeling is the element of lyric poetry; the art of limiting and representing it makes the lyric poet. Let no one object that there are feelings enough which arise in consequence of outward impressions, and that these too have been expressed sufficiently often by the poets; I am very much inclined to distinguish between the results of these impressions and the feelings which well up from the depths of the soul in consecrated moments; and in any case, these alone are a worthy subject for the lyric poet; for only in them does the whole man actually live, they only are the product of his whole being. I hate examples because they are either make-shifts or will-o'-the-wisps, but here I must add that in Uhland's song, "A short while hence I dreamed," I find such a feeling expressed.