Kitabı oku: «The Valkyries», sayfa 2

Then her heart awoke, and told her that she could not let him go. Already the fire of love was beginning to burn within her, and her dreams every moment were flushed more deeply with life. And though her voice was half strangled in her throat, she answered him lightly: "Why such haste?" she said; "wait a little longer."

He paused on his foot and looked at her.

"That would be but poor thanks for thy kindness," said he; "for wherever I go I bring sorrow with me, sorrow and ill-luck. If thou wert my enemy I would stay; it is because thou hast been good to me and gracious that I go, taking my ill-luck with me, that it should not abide untowardly in thy house. So I delay not, but go," and he turned quickly and went to the door.

Then when his hand was on the latch, and in the next moment he would have gone forth into the night, and out of her sight for ever, her heart again would not suffer her to remain dumb. Little of sorrow or ill-luck could he bring to her while she abode still in the house of Hunding, for all the sorrow in the world, or so it seemed to her, was hers already, nor was there any ill-luck which he could bring which should be comparable to that which was ever about her house and about her bed, and sat at meat with her.

"There is no sorrow thou couldest bring me," said she, "for it is mine already. Look on these walls; they are builded firm, and it is of hate they are builded. Sorrow and hate and ill-luck were the masons, and they have built well. Look! thou wilt find no cranny nor chink. O, I have a well-established house!" and she laughed with sudden bitterness. "So stay," she said, and her voice quivered like an aspen leaf.

By now the logs that Sieglinde had cast on the hearth against Hunding's return were fully caught, and loud laughed the firelight on the walls. In that brightness they saw each other more clearly yet, and the long look that had passed between them was again renewed. Other fires, too, were burning, for each now felt much pity for the other – Sieglinde for the stranger in that he was lonely and the quarry of ill-luck; the stranger for her in that when love should have been blossoming in her home, the strong poisonous flowers of hate were there instead. But as she spoke, the latch fell from his fingers, and he slowly returned and sat down by the hearth.

"Yet I have warned thee," said he. "Woe is my name, and if thou fearest not Woe, thou fearest not me. I will wait for Hunding to thank him for the rest and refreshment I have found in his house."

Then though Sieglinde's heart rejoiced that she had stayed his going, yet she was troubled. For though nothing could have been more right than that he should wait for Hunding, her lawful lord, yet she knew why she had bade him stay, for the woman in her called for man. And in silence she lit the lamp and placed it on the table; and in troubled silence she made all ready for Hunding's coming. Not long did she wait, for in a short space she heard the stroke of his horse's hoofs on the stones without; she heard him lead the beast to the stable and shut the door; she heard his step again outside and the jar of the lifted latch.

Then she looked once more at the stranger and he at her, and with that the door opened, and Hunding, black as the night outside, stood there. Then seeing a stranger by the hearth he paused, with the door still swung open, and looked with an unspoken question at his wife. From without came in the warm breath of the spring night, and the dwelling-place was filled with it, as the vats are filled with the odours of the wine when the vintage time has come, and in the heart of Sieglinde the flowers of hate burst into passionate blossom, and with that growth was mingled another.

CHAPTER III
THE STORY OF THE STRANGER

For a moment there was silence. Then said Sieglinde: "I found him here by the hearth, Hunding; he was faint, his foes pursued him."

Hunding looked darkly at her, and more darkly yet at the stranger. He on Hunding's entrance had turned himself, and risen from his seat, as if to greet his host; but even as his greeting was on his lips he had paused, for there was something in that black look which made him feel some echo of Sieglinde's hate.

"It is ever well to help the helpless," said Hunding evilly. "Thou gavest him refreshment?"

"Even so," said she. "He was my guest – your guest; faint by the hearth I found him. He waited for your coming." Not a smile of welcome did Hunding give, for it was not his way to smile; and already in his black heart hatred blackened towards his guest, and suspicion, ere yet it came, cast its shadow. And as his host did not greet him, neither did the stranger greet his host. Yet he could not bear that the woman should be blamed for what he had done. His was the blame.

"I was shelterless," said he, looking at Hunding. "She sheltered me. I was faint: she revived me. Is there blame in that?"

"Blame? Who talks of blame?" said Hunding more blackly yet. "My hearth is holy: not otherwise has any guest of mine found it, and guest of mine art thou. Inviolable are these laws."

And without more words he turned to Sieglinde, who, as her custom was, took his weapons of hunting and hung them up on the ash-tree beneath the gleaming sword-hilt Hunding hated the sword-hilt, for he had not been able to move it, and he knew that in this world there was but one who could. On that day also he knew trouble would come to his house. But he told Sieglinde to bring supper for him and his guest, and as she moved about her work, he stood beneath the ash-stem and looked from her to the stranger and back again. Each was cast in noble mould, and they were strangely like the one to the other, for the head of each was bright with sunny hair, and in the grey eye of each was seated some secret sorrow. Tall was his wife, and tall the stranger, and the skin of each was fair as the skin of a child, and as smooth. For himself he felt like a base-born man in the presence of the gently bred; and as he looked he hated each, and the shadow of his suspicion grew darker. Then he turned to the stranger, and speaking like a man who conceals nought —

"Thy way has been long," he said, "and thou hast no horse. Where hast thou come, and whither goest thou? What journey has thus travel-stained thee?"

Then said the stranger: "The storm and the foe have driven me far, and by what way I know not. And where I have come I know not, for my way was long, and the heavens and earth were blinded with tempest. Tell me then where I have come."

And as Hunding looked on him again, the likeness of the stranger to his wife smote on him like a blow; and again he looked from one to the other, as Sieglinde brought in venison and the fresh-baked bread, and put them ready on the table. But he answered him with seeming frankness.

"It is to Hunding's house thou hast come," he said, "and under the roof of Hunding thou hast rested. Not here is the home of my kindred, but far away to northward; and they of my blood are mighty and many. Be seated then, guest of mine, and in return tell me thy name."

So the stranger seated himself, and when he was seated Hunding sat down also, and Sieglinde, who had finished the serving, sat by her husband opposite to their guest, and her eyes dwelt ever on him very steadfastly, and his on her, and neither took heed of Hunding, who watched them both. Eagerly she waited for him to tell them his name, expecting she knew not what; but as her eyes looked on him, she forgot even that Hunding had asked it, for she forgot all else except that in front of her and at her husband's table was seated the fair-haired stranger. As for him, his eyes were fixed in thought, as if he meditated on his answer. Yet since it was a strange thing that a guest should not tell his name to his host, again Hunding questioned him.

"Surely I would not press aught unwelcome on my guest," said he, "if he wills not to tell me. But see how my wife also waits for your answer. She too would fain know the name of her guest and mine;" and again he looked at Sieglinde.

But she took not her eyes off the stranger, for the sight of him fed her heart, making her content. And though she cared not to know his name, she could not but do her husband's bidding, and she too asked him his name, if so be he would be willing to tell it.

Then again for a long moment was the stranger still silent, but at the last he raised his eyes and looked at her, and some secret sympathy passed like a wave between them; and he spoke to her only.

"My name is Wehwalt, the man of Woe," said he, "for mine is the portion of sorrow, and my father was called 'The Wolf.' He begat twins, a sister and myself; but while I was yet so young that I scarce knew her name or the name of my mother, the Wolf, my father, took me into the forest, there to rear me up to be strong and warlike, even as himself. Strong too and warlike were his foes, and there were many of them. Then, after years, one day he took me home, but no home found we there, but only the burnt ashes of what had been. There lay my mother, fallen and dead in defence of the hearth, but of my sister no trace was left. Such was my home-coming."

He paused, but took not his eyes from Sieglinde's face, and his voice rose in sudden fire as he went on with his tale.

"The treacherous Niedings had done this," he cried, "and deadly was their work. Bitter and relentless they pursued us, and for years my father and I lived a hunted life in the forest, beset with our foes. Yet ever his courage and his cunning avoided the snares they set for us, and, by the side of the Wolf, the Whelp grew up through boyhood to early manhood."

Thereat he paused again, and turned to Hunding.

"That Wolfs whelp tells you the tale," said he.

Now at the words of the stranger the suspicion that had hung over Hunding's heart like a poised hawk grew suddenly nearer, as if it stooped to its prey, for even in the manner in which the stranger told them his sister had been lost to him, in that manner was his own wife won. Well he remembered how the mother fought for the daughter, but at the end she was slain, and the house burnt, and the girl carried off by force; and again the strange likeness of the two struck on his heart. As for his wife Sieglinde, her face was a mask, and she only gazed at the stranger with wide, grey eyes, and what she thought no man knew, and least of all her husband. Also he had heard stories of the Wolf and the Whelp, as the forest folk called them, and now the Whelp told the tale himself. But since he must needs know more yet, he curbed himself.

"Wehwalt," said he; "Wehwalt, the Wolfs whelp, it is a strange story that thou tellest us. Of thy name in stories of strife and war I have heard men tell. Yet saw I never the Wolf thy father nor his son till to-day."

He would have said more, but Sieglinde, her eyes all aflame, interrupted him. "Tell us the rest," she cried, and her voice strangled in her throat, for if Hunding remembered how his wife was carried off from the burnt home, should not she remember? "Tell us where thy father is to-day? Where is his home? Is it near – is it near?" she cried.

Then the stranger shook his head.

"Thou shalt hear," he said, "and I will tell thee all. For after the burning of the house, and the murder of my mother, and the seizing of my sister, ever more fiercely did the accursed Niedings press on us, for the blood, maybe, had whetted them. But the Wolf was ever stronger and more cunning than the men, and day after day he drove them through the forest, and in his paths the dead lay thick. Even as a ship scatters the spray in clouds before its bows, even so they fell off spent from his advance, and he passed on over them, I with him, heeding them as little, as they writhed in their death agonies, as the ship heeds the billows it ploughs through. Thus fared we till the day came when my father was not. A wolf-skin I found in the forest, but of him no trace. And whether he is dead I know not, or whether," and his eye brightened "whether he was not of mortal birth, and his work there was finished, and he went whither he would."

For a moment he paused, and on one side the eager grey eyes of the woman met his, and by her sat her husband, whose black eyes smouldered with hate that was scarce concealed. But in the light of the grey eyes he forgot the black.

"Wanting him," he said, "I left the forest and lived among men and women of civilized race. Yet wherever I went, whether I sought for friend only, or sought for wife, I prospered not, and he who should have been friend turned from me, and she whom I sought for wife thought scorn of me, for ill-luck was ever about my path. Did I think a thing right? That was enough: to all others the deed seemed foul. Did I think a deed false? To all others it appeared fair. And thus I was at war with the whole world. About my path watched hate, and anger against me grew like weeds in the bush. Did I seek for joy? Bitterness was mine, and woe and sorrow. Thus came I to call myself Wehwalt, for woe was my fate. So I named myself to fit my fate."

Then Hunding wiped his mouth, for he had made an end of eating, and laughed bitterly.

"Truly then thou hast named thyself," said he, "if none to whom thou goest as a guest is glad at thy coming, and slow to love thee, and grieves not when thou goest And indeed such seems to be thy case."

At that Sieglinde turned and faced her husband, as she had never faced him before.

"Ah!" she cried, "there speaks the coward, Hunding. For who but a coward would insult a man who is alone, and who is weaponless?"

Then she turned to the stranger again.

"Guest of mine and of Hunding's," she said, "thy tale is but half told. How came it that thou art without thine arms? Where is thy shield and thy sword and thy spear, that thou goest at the mercy of every coward?"

At that Hunding laughed, for he was minded to be amused. But she heeded not, and but listened for the stranger's words.

"It was thus that I lost my shield and spear and sword," said he; "for I went to help and to rescue, if so be I could, a maid whom her kin wished to marry to a man she loved not. To me she came for help, and help I gave her, for I bethought me of how the Wolf would descend like a hill-top storm on to his foes, and I, his whelp, could do no other way. So hewed I and hacked among the cruel kin, for rage was in my heart, since it was by such unhallowed wooing that I had lost my sister, and I cleared the homestead of her evil clan. Two brothers had she, who would make the marriage, and for them I made a funeral instead of a marriage for their sister. But at that – ill-luck still following me – the tenderness of the maid awoke, and she wailed their loss, and her grief conquered her erstwhile cry for help. Thus for me who had delivered her she had only curses. Then, as I waited there, from every side swarmed out the kith and the kin of those whom I had done to death, so that the forest was thick with them. Yet the maid still bewailed her brothers, and cursed me for their death, and cursed herself for that she had bidden me to aid her, and so compass it. With my sword I still defended her, for her kin were thirsty for her blood, and with my spear I sent more to their account, till at the end my sword was shattered, and my spear sundered. Then with these eyes I saw them murder the maiden as she still bewailed her brethren; and since I could do no more, I fled from before their faces, while she, dead, crowned the heaps of dead. So fled I, and came hither."

Then again he paused, and looked at Sieglinde with a pitiful entreaty.

"Thus is it with me," he said, "and thus it has always been with me. Am I not right then to name myself by a name of woe? Has peace or joy any lot with me?"

And the stranger got up, for he suddenly could bear her gaze no longer, and walked to the hearth. And she, when the magic of his gaze was withdrawn, turned pale suddenly, moved more deeply than she knew had been possible. Only Hunding still eyed him with growing hate and certainty. Already he knew enough, and his vengeance, so he swore to himself, should soon be complete. And he rose also and faced the stranger.

"Truly ill-luck has guided thee here," he said; "and ill-luck planted thy feet when they came to the house of Hunding. For have I not often heard of the race to which thou belongest? And thou spakest truly when thou saidst that thy coming gave no joy to any host, for thou art of a wild, unhallowed breed, whose right is wrong in the eyes of all the world of men, whose true is false, whose false is true. All day have I been nearer to thee than thou knewest of, and the adventure thou hast told us is not yet complete."

With that he drew nearer to the stranger.

"It is now my turn to tell my guest of myself," he said, "and let him know where my feet have borne me. It was kin of mine whom thou hast slaughtered in impotent defence of a maid of my race; my kin are the brothers you killed, and all day I have been on the track of him who killed them. But all day have I been too late, though fast on the trail. Yet when I return home, whom find I at my hearth? Him, the murderer of my kin. Thus there is blood already between us, and ever shall be."

At his words his wife Sieglinde rose with terror and pity in her face, and drew near to the two men. But Hunding heeded her not.

"To-night," he said, "thou art guest at mine; that must needs be so. But at dawn to-morrow, Wolfs whelp, I am thy host no more, and thou shalt answer for the blood of my kindred which thou hast shed. Hast thou no arms? So much the worse, for thou wouldest be safer for a sword, and at sunrise we meet. To-night we are host and guest, but a dawn to-morrow be ready to meet me as the avenger of my kindred."

At these words Sieglinde could contain herself no more, but came quickly up, and placed herself between the two men.

"No, no!" she cried. "It cannot be, Hunding."

Then his wrath flamed up. "Hence, go hence," he cried; "get to thy work, and make ready my night-drink; go from the hall."

At his words she fell back, still pondering with her quick woman's wit as to how she could avert this. From the table she took the drinking-horn, and from the cupboard the spices with which she made the hot, fragrant draught which Hunding loved. And even as she turned to leave the hall, sudden and high like a summer fire in the forest her love for the stranger flamed in her heart, and with love a sudden wild up-springing of hope. He still stood by the hearth, scarcely heeding Hunding's words, for his eyes ever followed her, and as she was even now on the threshold, she cast one long glance at him, and then, as if leading his eye thither, looked to where the hilt of the sword in the ash-trunk glimmered in the firelight. Then she looked back to him, and knew that he understood not, for how should he understand?

But Hunding saw that she still lingered, and with furious finger pointed her forth, and she left them. Then he took his arms from the tree.

"Words for women, and weapons for men," said he. "Wolfs whelp, we meet to-morrow."

And he strode from the hall into his bed-chamber, leaving the stranger alone.

CHAPTER IV
THE RECOGNITION

So Hunding went forth and left the stranger alone with the leaping flames and shadows from the hearth. Long pondered he on what the day had brought forth, and what should be the burden of the morrow; but through all his thoughts there rose like a flame of dancing fire the thought of the woman Sieglinde, and of his love for her, and how he could help her to leave this house of hate. Weaponless was he, and her husband had mocked at him for it. Then his thoughts went backwards to the old wild days in the forest when he and his father, whom he had called by the name he was known to men, were the swift terror of their foes. And at that a sudden hope sprang up within him, for he remembered how his father had told him that when his need was sorest, a sword should be near him. Surely now his need was sore enough, yet where was the sword? At that he cried aloud on his father's name, the secret name known but to him, and "Walse, father Walse!" he cried, "show me the sword, for my need is sore."

No voice answered him, but the stillness was broken by the sound of the logs on the hearth suddenly falling together, and from the embers went up a sudden flame illuminating the walls, and gleaming on the sword-hilt Then remembered he that Sieglinde's last look had directed his eyes there, but from where he sat he could see the gleam only, and knew not yet that it was a sword. Only he thought to himself that her last look had fallen there, and something of the gleam of her eyes still lingered there, making the dark stem bright But the gleam was very steady, and he wondered at it.

Then the flames from the hearth grew low again, and the shadows thickened in the hall. But something of the brightness still lingered within him, and he thought of how the eyes of the woman had shone on him all the evening when they sat at meat, and it seemed to him as if his soul, on which long night had settled, had been bathed in the beams of morning. Light and hope she had brought to his darkened heart; for one day he had basked in sun-shine, and ere yet his sun had sunk behind the hills again, one last evening ray had so illumined the ash-stem, that something of the light had still lingered there. Still lingered it also in his heart, though she had gone, and though the shadows of his woes crowded fast upon him, even as upon the walls of the dwelling-place they gathered in growing battalions, as the flames on the hearth sank ever lower. Yet still he sat there with open unseeing eyes. No thought of sleep was his. How could he sleep when Sieglinde abode within the house of hate? Round him the shadows grew and thickened, and at length the last sparks on the hearth were quenched, and through the open chimney only there filtered in a little greyness, so that though all was dark, yet the density of that blackness was greater here and less there.

How long he sat there, alert though lost in reverie, he knew not, but at the end a little noise fell on his ear and the door of the bed-chamber was opened, and framed in darkness he saw there a white figure. And his heart so hammered within him, that it seemed to him that the noise of it must awaken Hunding. Yet he moved not, neither spoke, and the figure came nearer. Then a voice that he knew fell like pearly rain on the stillness.

"Sleepest thou?" she whispered.

Then he could stay still no longer, but sprang up noiselessly.

"I?" he stammered, "I sleep, when thou seekest me?"

"Listen," said she. "In Hunding's night-draught I have mixed a sleeping potion, and thus the whole night is before us to devise a plan for thy safety."

"Safety?" whispered he. "With thee is my safety, and my – " And then, because he was Hunding's guest, he paused. Yet he was Hunding's foe at daybreak.

"But a sword, a sword!" she cried.

"Ah! there is no need to speak low; we shall not waken Hunding, for I brewed his drink strong. Ah! could I but bring thee the sword, for a sword waits here for him who is fit to seize it. It is near to thee now, and truly thine is an hour of sore need."

"What sayest thou? What is it thou hast said?" cried the stranger.

So she told him the story of her marriage feast, of how another stranger had strode to the board, and flung the sword in the ash-stem.

"There, there," she said, pointing at it, looking where she had looked before; "and one, only one shall be able to move it. Ah! when he comes – he who is ordained – then shall my vengeance for the years of sorrow I have passed in the house of Hunding be sweet to my mouth. For every tear I have shed here, my mouth shall be full of laughter and joy; for all the tears that I could not shed out of very bitterness and drought of soul, joy shall be mine too deep for smile or laughter. My friend, the friend of my soul, him I wait for, and with him there will be peace and victory for us both."

Then the stranger, knowing that there could be but one, and that his father whom he had called "The Wolf," who could cast a sword as the woman had said, and remembering that he had told him that in the hour of his sorest need a sword should be near him, knew that this was the sword of which he spoke, and that it was he who should draw it forth. And knowing that, he gave no more thought to it, for the woman had said that he who should draw it forth was the friend of her heart, and that knowledge for the moment drowned all else, and covered his soul with a huge, soft billow of joy, so he gave no heed to the sword, but only to her who stood by him. And in the exultation of his love he laughed aloud, and passionately drew her to him.

"And that is I, that is I!" he cried, "O crown and flower of womanhood! All my hopes in thee are fulfilled, and all my failures in thee are mended. Hard and long has been the way that led us each to the other. Lo! I heal the wounds which wrong has made, and thy hand soothes and banishes all my woe. Shame has been thy portion in the house of hate. Hunding thy husband! No mumbling vow hallows that unnatural union. Thou hast called for vengeance, and vengeance is at thy side, and the arm of vengeance thus wound round thee makes thee strong. But dearer and nearer I approach to thee than that. My hand bears vengeance for thee, but my heart bears love. Sieglinde! Sieglinde!"

Even as they stood thus, in the first transport of the knowledge that they loved, the great door of the hall swung open noiselessly, for maybe Hunding had not closed it when he returned home, and Sieglinde started in sudden alarm.

"What is that?" she cried. "Who went? Who has come?"

Slowly the door swung wide, and a great flood of moonlight poured in upon the pair, bathing them in its beams. High rose the moon in a cloudless heaven, and the warm breeze of spring whispered through the bushes and filled the hall. At length and at last the winter had ceased, and spring, that moment of all the year when the sap stirs in the trees, and the birds are mated, and lion seeks lioness in the Libyan hills, and man turns to woman and woman to man, spring was upon them in its overpowering fulness and sweetness. None may resist its compulsion, nor did they resist. Gently he drew her to him, and whether he spoke or sang she knew not, or whether it was only the echo of her thoughts she heard. But it seemed to her that his voice spoke.

"None went, but one has come," said he. "Look you, this house is the house of hate no longer, but the place of spring. For May has awoke, and the storms are hushed, and winter is over, and the glory of spring spreads round us. He wakes the warm winds, and as he wakes them they waft him on, and at his coming the wayside blossoms with its yearly miracle. Hedge and heath, field and forest are redolent with flowers, and as he moves across the world, laughter hails him on all sides. O! the time of the singing birds is come, and the breath of the earth is warm and sweet. Spring lies among the bushes, and where his warm body is pressed the flowers spring, and the young shoots of the trees, when they see his bosom rise and fall to the beat of his heart, put out their amorous branches to touch his fair form. Along the world strike his smiles, and with them, his sole weapons, he makes the whole world mad. The flash of his eye slays the winter, and at his glance the storms are hushed. All doors fly open to meet his coming, even as the door of the house of hate opened just now of its own accord, and spring is here.

"And who walks with him? Love his sister. In our hearts she slept, and when he came the doors of our hearts were opened also, and she laughs when she sees the light. The walls that held us are crumbled, and she is free. Spring the brother meets love the sister, and they meet here on the threshold of our hearts. They have found each other, and we have found each other."

And whether she replied to him he knew not, or whether it was only the echo of his thoughts he heard, but it seemed to him that her voice spake.

"Spring," she said. "O spring, my brother, how have I sorrowed for thee and sought thee. Long has winter held us both, but when first I saw thee, how with love and I knew not what dread my heart was drawn to thee. Friendless was I, and he who was nearest to me was nearest also in hate. At length, at length thou earnest, and at the first glance, I knew that thou wast mine, and all the secret treasure of my heart, all that I am, was poured out for thee. Friendless was I, and frost-bound of heart and utterly lonely. Then, O my friend, thou earnest!"

And wonder and awe at the greatness and might of the gift that the spring had brought to both fell on them, and for a long while they stood thus content, if so be that lovers are ever content, in gazing at each other. Then the full love surged strong within them, so that speech could not be withheld, and Sieglinde wound her arms round his neck yet more closely.

"Let me gaze on thee," she whispered, "for my senses reel with longing for thee, and reel in that they are satisfied when they behold thee. I am on fire."

"Yea, the moon makes thee on fire," said he, "and like living fire thy hair burns round thee. I gaze and I gaze, and still I am unfilled."

Then Sieglinde with her hand swept back the hair from his forehead, and with her finger, smiling like a child, she traced the path of the blood in his temple.

"See how thy life spreads like the boughs of a tree, and puts forth shoots in thy temples," said she. "I am faint and sick with content, yet even now sounds warning in my ears. Though never before have I seen thy face, yet long before have I known it."

"I, too," said he, "when dreams of love visited my sleep, have dreamed of thee and of no other. With what sadness did I behold thee then. And now, and now – "