The Story of Siegfried

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Produced by J. C. Byers

The Story of Siegfried

By
James Baldwin

New York Charles Scribner's Sons
1899

To My Children,

Winfred, Louis, and Nellie,

This Book Is Affectionately Inscribed.

The Fore Word.

When the world was in its childhood, men looked upon the
works of Nature with a strange kind of awe. They fancied
that every thing upon the earth, in the air, or in the
water, had a life like their own, and that every sight which
they saw, and every sound which they heard, was caused by
some intelligent being. All men were poets, so far as their
ideas and their modes of expression were concerned, although
it is not likely that any of them wrote poetry. This was
true in regard to the Saxon in his chilly northern home, as
well as to the Greek in the sunny southland. But, while the
balmy air and clear sky of the south tended to refine men's
thoughts and language, the rugged scenery and bleak storms
of the north made them uncouth, bold, and energetic. Yet
both the cultured Greek and the rude Saxon looked upon
Nature with much the same eyes, and there was a strange
resemblance in their manner of thinking and speaking. They
saw, that, in all the phenomena which took place around
them, there was a certain system or regularity, as if these
were controlled by some law or by some superior being; and
they sought, in their simple poetical way, to account for
these appearances. They had not yet learned to measure the
distances of the stars, nor to calculate the motions of the
earth. The changing of the seasons was a mystery which they
scarcely sought to penetrate. But they spoke of these
occurrences in a variety of ways, and invented many
charming, stories with reference to them, not so much with a
view towards accounting for the mystery, as towards giving
expression to their childlike but picturesque ideas.

Thus, in the south, when reference was made to the coming of
winter and to the dreariness and discomforts of that season
of the year, men did not know nor care to explain it all, as
our teachers now do at school; but they sometimes told how
Hades had stolen Persephone (the summer) from her mother
Demetre (the earth), and had carried her, in a chariot drawn
by four coal black steeds, to the gloomy land of shadows;
and how, in sorrow for her absence, the Earth clothed
herself in mourning, and no leaves grew upon the trees, nor
flowers in the gardens, and the very birds ceased singing,
because Persephone was no more. But they added, that in a
few months the fair maiden would return for a time to her
sorrowing mother, and that then the flowers would bloom, and
the trees would bear fruit, and the harvest-fields would
again be full of golden grain.

In the north a different story was told, but the meaning was
the same. Sometimes men told how Odin (the All-Father) had
become angry with Brunhild (the maid of spring), and had
wounded her with the thorn of sleep, and how all the castle
in which she slept was wrapped in deathlike slumber until
Sigurd or Siegfried (the sunbeam) rode through flaming fire,
and awakened her with a kiss. Sometimes men told how Loki
(heat) had betrayed Balder (the sunlight), and had induced
blind old Hoder (the winter months) to slay him, and how all
things, living and inanimate, joined in weeping for the
bright god, until Hela (death) should permit him to revisit
the earth for a time.

So, too, when the sun arose, and drove away the darkness and
the hidden terrors of the night, our ancestors thought of
the story of a noble young hero slaying a hideous dragon, or
taking possession of the golden treasures of Mist Land. And
when the springtime came, and the earth renewed its youth,
and the fields and woods were decked in beauty, and there
was music everywhere, they loved to tell of Idun (the
spring) and her youth-giving apples, and of her wise husband
Bragi (Nature's musician). When storm-clouds loomed up from
the horizon and darkened the sky, and thunder rolled
overhead, and lightning flashed on every hand, they talked
about the mighty Thor riding over the clouds in his goat-
drawn chariot, and battling with the giants of the air. When
the mountain-meadows were green with long grass, and the
corn was yellow for the sickles of the reapers, they spoke
of Sif, the golden-haired wife of Thor, the queen of the
pastures and the fields. When the seasons were mild, and the
harvests were plentiful, and peace and gladness prevailed,
they blessed Frey, the giver of good gifts to men.

To them the blue sky-dome which everywhere hung over them
like an arched roof was but the protecting mantle which the
All-Father had suspended above the earth. The rainbow was
the shimmering bridge which stretches from earth to heaven.
The sun and the moon were the children of a giant, whom two
wolves chased forever around the earth. The stars were
sparks from the fire-land of the south, set in the heavens
by the gods. Night was a giantess, dark and swarthy, who
rode in a car drawn by a steed the foam from whose bits
sometimes covered the earth with dew. And Day was the son of
Night; and the steed which he rode lighted all the sky and
the earth with the beams which glistened from his mane.

It was thus that men in the earlier ages of the world looked
upon and spoke of the workings of Nature; and it was in this
manner that many myths, or poetical fables, were formed. By
and by, as the world grew older, and mankind became less
poetical and more practical, the first or mythical meaning
of these stories was forgotten, and they were regarded no
longer as mere poetical fancies, but as historical facts.
Perhaps some real hero had indeed performed daring deeds,
and had made the world around him happier and better. It was
easy to liken him to Sigurd, or to some other mythical
slayer of giants; and soon the deeds of both were ascribed
to but one. And thus many myth-stories probably contain some
historical facts blended with the mass of poetical fancies
which mainly compose them; but, in such cases, it is
generally impossible to distinguish what is fact from what
is mere fancy.

All nations have had their myth-stories; but, to my mind,
the purest and grandest are those which we have received
from our northern ancestors. They are particularly
interesting to us; because they are what our fathers once
believed, and because they are ours by right of inheritance.
And, when we are able to make them still more our own by
removing the blemishes which rude and barbarous ages have
added to some of them, we shall discover in them many things
that are beautiful and true, and well calculated to make us
wiser and better.

It is not known when or by whom these myth-stories were
first put into writing, nor when they assumed the shape in
which we now have them. But it is said, that, about the year
1100, an Icelandic scholar called Saemund the Wise collected
a number of songs and poems into a book which is now known
as the "Elder Edda;" and that, about a century later, Snorre
Sturleson, another Icelander, wrote a prose-work of a
similar character, which is called the "Younger Edda." And
it is to these two books that we owe the preservation of
almost all that is now known of the myths and the strange
religion of our Saxon and Norman forefathers. But, besides
these, there are a number of semi-mythological stories of
great interest and beauty,--stories partly mythical, and
partly founded upon remote and forgotten historical facts.
One of the oldest and finest of these is the story of
Sigurd, the son of Sigmund. There are many versions of this
story, differing from each other according to the time in
which they were written and the character of the people
among whom they were received. We find the first mention of
Sigurd and his strange daring deeds in the song of Fafnir,
in the "Elder Edda." Then, in the "Younger Edda," the story
is repeated in the myth of the Niflungs and the Gjukungs. It
is told again in the "Volsunga Saga" of Iceland. It is
repeated and re-repeated in various forms and different
languages, and finally appears in the "Nibelungen Lied," a
grand old German poem, which may well be compared with the
Iliad of the Greeks. In this last version, Sigurd is called
Siegfried; and the story is colored and modified by the
introduction of many notions peculiar to the middle ages,
and unknown to our Pagan fathers of the north. In our own
time this myth has been woven into a variety of forms.
William Morris has embodied it in his noble poem of "Sigurd
the Volsung;" Richard Wagner, the famous German composer,
has constructed from it his inimitable drama, the
"Nibelungen Ring;" W. Jordan, another German writer, has
given it to the world in his "Sigfrid's Saga;" and Emanuel
Geibel has derived from it the materials for his "Tragedy of
Brunhild."

And now I, too, come with the STORY OF SIEGFRIED, still
another version of the time-honored legend. The story as I
shall tell it you is not in all respects a literal rendering
of the ancient myth; but I have taken the liberty to change
and recast such portions of it as I have deemed advisable.
Sometimes I have drawn materials from one version of the
story, sometimes from another, and sometimes largely from my
own imagination alone. Nor shall I be accused of impropriety
in thus reshaping a narrative, which, although hallowed by
an antiquity of a thousand years and more, has already
appeared in so many different forms, and been clothed in so
many different garbs; for, however much I may have allowed
my fancy or my judgment to retouch and remodel the
immaterial portions of the legend, the essential parts of
this immortal myth remain the same. And, if I succeed in
leading you to a clearer understanding and a wiser
appreciation of the thoughts and feelings of our old
northern ancestors, I shall have accomplished the object for
which I have written this Story of Siegfried.

Contents.

The Fore Word
I. Mimer, the Master
II. Greyfell
III. The Curse of Gold
IV. Fafnir, the Dragon
V. In AEgir's Kingdom
VI. Brunhild
VII. In Nibelungen Land
VIII. Siegfried's Welcome Home
IX. The Journey to Burgundy-land
X. Kriemhill's Dream
XI. How the Spring Time Came
XII. The War with the North-kings
XIII. The Story of Balder
XIV. How Gunther Outwitted Brunhild
XV. In Nibelungen Land Again
XVI. How Brunhild Was Welcomed Home
XVII. How Siegfried Lived in Nibelungen Land
XVIII. How the Mischief Began to Brew
XIX. How They Hunted in the Odenwald
XX. How the Hoard Was Brought to Burgundy
The After Word
Notes

Adventure I.
Mimer, the Master.

At Santen, in the Lowlands, there once lived a young prince
named Siegfried. His father, Siegmund, was king of the rich
country through which the lazy Rhine winds its way just
before reaching the great North Sea; and he was known, both
far and near, for his good deeds and his prudent thrift. And
Siegfried's mother, the gentle Sigelind, was loved by all
for her goodness of heart and her kindly charity to the
poor. Neither king nor queen left aught undone that might
make the young prince happy, or fit him for life's
usefulness. Wise men were brought from far-off lands to be
his teachers; and every day something was added to his store
of knowledge or his stock of happiness. And very skilful did
he become in warlike games and in manly feats of strength.
No other youth could throw the spear with so great force, or
shoot the arrow with surer aim. No other youth could run
more swiftly, or ride with more becoming ease. His gentle
mother took delight in adding to the beauty of his matchless
form, by clothing him in costly garments decked with the
rarest jewels. The old, the young, the rich, the poor, the
high, the low, all praised the fearless Siegfried, and all
vied in friendly strife to win his favor. One would have
thought that the life of the young prince could never be
aught but a holiday, and that the birds would sing, and the
flowers would bloom, and the sun would shine forever for his
sake.

But the business of man's life is not mere pastime; and none
knew this truth better than the wise old king, Siegmund.

"All work is noble," said he to Siegfried; "and he who
yearns to win fame must not shun toil. Even princes should
know how to earn a livelihood by the labor of their hands."

And so, while Siegfried was still a young lad, his father
sent him to live with a smith called Mimer, whose smithy was
among the hills not far from the great forest. For in those
early times the work of the smith was looked upon as the
most worthy of all trades,--a trade which the gods
themselves were not ashamed to follow. And this smith Mimer
was a wonderful master,--the wisest and most cunning that
the world had ever seen. Men said that he was akin to the
dwarf-folk who had ruled the earth in the early days, and
who were learned in every lore, and skilled in every craft;
and they said that he was so exceeding old that no one could
remember the day when he came to dwell in the land of
Siegmund's fathers. And some said, too, that he was the
keeper of a wonderful well, or flowing spring, the waters of
which imparted wisdom and far-seeing knowledge to all who
drank of them.

To Mimer's school, then, where he would be taught to work
skilfully and to think wisely, Siegfried was sent, to be in
all respects like the other pupils there. A coarse blue
blouse, and heavy leggings, and a leathern apron, took the
place of the costly clothing which he had worn in his
father's dwelling. His feet were incased in awkward wooden
shoes, and his head was covered with a wolf-skin cap. The
dainty bed, with its downy pillows, wherein every night his
mother had been wont, with gentle care, to see him safely
covered, was given up for a rude heap of straw in a corner
of the smithy. And the rich food to which he had been used
gave place to the coarsest and humblest fare. But the lad
did not complain. The days which he passed in the smithy
were mirthful and happy; and the sound of his hammer rang
cheerfully, and the sparks from his forge flew briskly, from
morning till night.

And a wonderful smith he became. No one could do more work
than he, and none wrought with greater skill. The heaviest
chains and the strongest bolts, for prison or for
treasure-house, were but as toys in his stout hands, so
easily and quickly did he beat them into shape. And he was
alike cunning in work of the most delicate and brittle kind.
Ornaments of gold and silver, studded with the rarest
jewels, were fashioned into beautiful forms by his deft
fingers. And among all of Mimer's apprentices none learned
the master's lore so readily, nor gained the master's favor
more.[EN#1]

One morning the master, Mimer, came to the smithy with a
troubled look upon his face. It was clear that something had
gone amiss; and what it was the apprentices soon learned
from the smith himself. Never, until lately, had any one
questioned Mimer's right to be called the foremost smith in
all the world; but now a rival had come forward. An unknown
upstart--one Amilias, in Burgundy-land--had made a suit of
armor, which, he boasted, no stroke of sword could dint, and
no blow of spear could scratch; and he had sent a challenge
to all other smiths, both in the Rhine country and
elsewhere, to equal that piece of workmanship, or else
acknowledge themselves his underlings and vassals. For many
days had Mimer himself toiled, alone and vainly, trying to
forge a sword whose edge the boasted armor of Amilias could
not foil; and now, in despair, he came to ask the help of
his pupils and apprentices.

"Who among you is skilful enough to forge such a sword?" he
asked.

One after another, the pupils shook their heads. And
Veliant, the foreman of the apprentices, said, "I have heard
much about that wonderful armor, and its extreme hardness,
and I doubt if any skill can make a sword with edge so sharp
and true as to cut into it. The best that can be done is to
try to make another war-coat whose temper shall equal that
of Amilias's armor."

Then the lad Siegfried quickly said, "I will make such a
sword as you want,--a blade that no war-coat can foil. Give
me but leave to try!"

The other pupils laughed in scorn, but Mimer checked them.
"You hear how this boy can talk: we will see what he can do.
He is the king's son, and we know that he has uncommon
talent. He shall make the sword; but if, upon trial, it
fail, I will make him rue the day."

Then Siegfried went to his task. And for seven days and
seven nights the sparks never stopped flying from his forge;
and the ringing of his anvil, and the hissing of the hot
metal as he tempered it, were heard continuously. On the
eighth day the sword was fashioned, and Siegfried brought it
to Mimer.

The smith felt the razor-edge of the bright weapon, and
said, "This seems, indeed, a fair fire-edge. Let us make a
trial of its keenness."

Then a thread of wool as light as thistle-down was thrown
upon water, and, as it floated there, Mimer struck it with
the sword. The glittering blade cleft the slender thread in
twain, and the pieces floated undisturbed upon the surface
of the liquid.

"Well done!" cried the delighted smith. "Never have I seen a
keener edge. If its temper is as true as its sharpness would
lead us to believe, it will indeed serve me well."

But Siegfried took the sword again, and broke it into many
pieces; and for three days he welded it in a white-hot fire,
and tempered it with milk and oatmeal. Then, in sight of
Mimer and the sneering apprentices, he cast a light ball of
fine-spun wool upon the flowing water of the brook; and it
was caught in the swift eddies of the stream, and whirled
about until it met the bared blade of the sword, which was
held in Mimer's hands. And it was parted as easily and clean
as the rippling water, and not the smallest thread was moved
out of its place.

Then back to the smithy Siegfried went again; and his forge
glowed with a brighter fire, and his hammer rang upon the
anvil with a cheerier sound, than ever before. But he
suffered none to come near, and no one ever knew what
witchery he used. But some of his fellow-pupils afterwards
told how, in the dusky twilight, they had seen a one-eyed
man, long-bearded, and clad in a cloud-gray kirtle, and
wearing a sky-blue hood, talking with Siegfried at the
smithy door. And they said that the stranger's face was at
once pleasant and fearful to look upon, and that his one eye
shone in the gloaming like the evening star, and that, when
he had placed in Siegfried's hands bright shards, like
pieces of a broken sword, he faded suddenly from their
sight, and was seen no more.

For seven weeks the lad wrought day and night at his forge;
and then, pale and haggard, but with a pleased smile upon
his face, he stood before Mimer, with the gleaming sword in
his hands. "It is finished," he said. "Behold the glittering
terror!--the blade Balmung. Let us try its edge, and prove
its temper once again, that so we may know whether you can
place your trust in it."

And Mimer looked long at the ruddy hilts of the weapon, and
at the mystic runes that were scored upon its sides, and at
the keen edge, which gleamed like a ray of sunlight in the
gathering gloom of the evening. But no word came from his
lips, and his eyes were dim and dazed; and he seemed as one
lost in thoughts of days long past and gone.

Siegfried raised the blade high over his head; and the
gleaming edge flashed hither and thither, like the
lightning's play when Thor rides over the storm-clouds. Then
suddenly it fell upon the master's anvil, and the great
block of iron was cleft in two; but the bright blade was no
whit dulled by the stroke, and the line of light which
marked the edge was brighter than before.

Then to the flowing brook they went; and a great pack of
wool, the fleeces of ten sheep, was brought, and thrown upon
the swirling water. As the stream bore the bundle downwards,
Mimer held the sword in its way. And the whole was divided
as easily and as clean as the woollen ball or the slender
woollen thread had been cleft before.

"Now, indeed," cried Mimer, "I no longer fear to meet that
upstart, Amilias. If his war-coat can withstand the stroke
of such a sword as Balmung, then I shall not be ashamed to
be his underling. But, if this good blade is what it seems
to be, it will not fail me; and I, Mimer the Old, shall
still be called the wisest and greatest of smiths."

And he sent word at once to Amilias, in Burgundy-land, to
meet him on a day, and settle forever the question as to
which of the two should be the master, and which the
underling. And heralds proclaimed it in every town and
dwelling. When the time which had been set drew near, Mimer,
bearing the sword Balmung, and followed by all his pupils
and apprentices, wended his way towards the place of
meeting. Through the forest they went, and then along the
banks of the sluggish river, for many a league, to the
height of land which marked the line between King Siegmund's
country and the country of the Burgundians. It was in this
place, midway between the shops of Mimer and Amilias, that
the great trial of metal and of skill was to be made. And
here were already gathered great numbers of people from the
Lowlands and from Burgundy, anxiously waiting for the coming
of the champions. On the one side were the wise old Siegmund
and his gentle queen, and their train of knights and
courtiers and fair ladies. On the other side were the three
Burgundian kings, Gunther, Gernot, and Giselher, and a
mighty retinue of warriors, led by grim old Hagen, the uncle
of the kings, and the wariest chief in all Rhineland.

When every thing was in readiness for the contest, Amilias,
clad in his boasted war-coat, went up to the top of the
hill, and sat upon a great rock, and waited for Mimer's
coming. As he sat there, he looked, to the people below,
like some great castle-tower; for he was almost a giant in
size, and his coat of mail, so skilfully wrought, was so
huge that twenty men of common mould might have found
shelter, or hidden themselves, within it. As the smith
Mimer, so dwarfish in stature, toiled up the steep hillside,
Amilias smiled to see him; for he felt no fear of the
slender, gleaming blade that was to try the metal of his
war-coat. And already a shout of expectant triumph went up
from the throats of the Burgundian hosts, so sure were they
of their champion's success.

But Mimer's friends waited in breathless silence, hoping,
and yet fearing. Only King Siegmund whispered to his queen,
and said, "Knowledge is stronger than brute force. The
smallest dwarf who has drunk from the well of the Knowing
One may safely meet the stoutest giant in battle."

When Mimer reached the top of the hill, Amilias folded his
huge arms, and smiled again; for he felt that this contest
was mere play for him, and that Mimer was already as good as
beaten, and his thrall. The smith paused a moment to take
breath, and as he stood by the side of his foe he looked to
those below like a mere black speck close beside a
steel-gray castle-tower.

"Are you ready?" asked the smith.

"Ready," answered Amilias. "Strike!"

Mimer raised the beaming blade in the air, and for a moment
the lightning seemed to play around his head. The muscles on
his short, brawny arms, stood out like great ropes; and then
Balmung, descending, cleft the air from right to left. The
waiting lookers-on in the plain below thought to hear the
noise of clashing steel; but they listened in vain, for no
sound came to their ears, save a sharp hiss like that which
red-hot iron gives when plunged into a tank of cold water.
The huge Amilias sat unmoved, with his arms still folded
upon his breast; but the smile had faded from his face.

"How do you feel now?" asked Mimer in a half-mocking tone.

"Rather strangely, as if cold iron had touched me," faintly
answered the upstart.

"Shake thyself!" cried Mimer.

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