Before the curtain rises on the Valkyries, let us see what has happened since it fell on The Rhine Gold.  The persons of the drama will tell us presently; but as we probably do not understand German, that may not help us.

Wotan is still ruling the world in glory from his giant-built castle with his wife Fricka.  But he has no security for the continuance of his reign, since Alberic may at any moment contrive to recover the ring, the full power of which he can wield because he has forsworn love.  Such forswearing is not possible to Wotan:  love, though not his highest need, is a higher than gold:  otherwise he would be no god.  Besides, as we have seen, his power has been established in the world by and as a system of laws enforced by penalties.  These he must consent to be bound by himself; for a god who broke his own laws would betray the fact that legality and conformity are not the highest rule of conduct ­a discovery fatal to his supremacy as Pontiff and Lawgiver.  Hence he may not wrest the ring unlawfully from Fafnir, even if he could bring himself to forswear love.

In this insecurity he has hit on the idea of forming a heroic bodyguard.  He has trained his love children as war-maidens (Valkyries) whose duty it is to sweep through battle-fields and bear away to Valhalla the souls of the bravest who fall there.  Thus reinforced by a host of warriors, he has thoroughly indoctrinated them, Loki helping him as dialectician-in-chief, with the conventional system of law and duty, supernatural religion and self-sacrificing idealism, which they believe to be the essence of his godhood, but which is really only the machinery of the love of necessary power which is his mortal weakness.  This process secures their fanatical devotion to his system of government, but he knows perfectly well that such systems, in spite of their moral pretensions, serve selfish and ambitious tyrants better than benevolent despots, and that, if once Alberic gets the ring back, he will easily out-Valhalla Valhalla, if not buy it over as a going concern.  The only chance of permanent security, then, is the appearance in the world of a hero who, without any illicit prompting from Wotan, will destroy Alberic and wrest the ring from Fafnir.  There will then, he believes, be no further cause for anxiety, since he does not yet conceive Heroism as a force hostile to Godhead.  In his longing for a rescuer, it does not occur to him that when the Hero comes, his first exploit must be to sweep the gods and their ordinances from the path of the heroic will.

Indeed, he feels that in his own Godhead is the germ of such Heroism, and that from himself the Hero must spring.  He takes to wandering, mostly in search of love, from Fricka and Valhalla.  He seeks the First Mother; and through her womb, eternally fertile, the inner true thought that made him first a god is reborn as his daughter, uncorrupted by his ambition, unfettered by his machinery of power and his alliances with Fricka and Loki.  This daughter, the Valkyrie Brynhild, is his true will, his real self, (as he thinks):  to her he may say what he must not say to anyone, since in speaking to her he but speaks to himself.  “Was Keinem in Worten unausgesprochen,” he says to her, “bleib es ewig:  mit mir nur rath’ ich, red’ ich zu dir.”

But from Brynhild no hero can spring until there is a man of Wotan’s race to breed with her.  Wotan wanders further; and a mortal woman bears him twins:  a son and a daughter.  He separates them by letting the girl fall into the hands of a forest tribe which in due time gives her as a wife to a fierce chief, one Hunding.  With the son he himself leads the life of a wolf, and teaches him the only power a god can teach, the power of doing without happiness.  When he has given him this terrible training, he abandons him, and goes to the bridal feast of his daughter Sieglinda and Hunding.  In the blue cloak of the wanderer, wearing the broad hat that flaps over the socket of his forfeited eye, he appears in Hunding’s house, the middle pillar of which is a mighty tree.  Into that tree, without a word, he strikes a sword up to the hilt, so that only the might of a hero can withdraw it.  Then he goes out as silently as he came, blind to the truth that no weapon from the armory of Godhead can serve the turn of the true Human Hero.  Neither Hunding nor any of his guests can move the sword; and there it stays awaiting the destined hand.  That is the history of the generations between The Rhine Gold and The Valkyries.

The First Act

This time, as we sit looking expectantly at the curtain, we hear, not the deep booming of the Rhine, but the patter of a forest downpour, accompanied by the mutter of a storm which soon gathers into a roar and culminates in crashing thunderbolts.  As it passes off, the curtain rises; and there is no mistaking whose forest habitation we are in; for the central pillar is a mighty tree, and the place fit for the dwelling of a fierce chief.  The door opens:  and an exhausted man reels in:  an adept from the school of unhappiness.  Sieglinda finds him lying on the hearth.  He explains that he has been in a fight; that his weapons not being as strong as his arms, were broken; and that he had to fly.  He desires some drink and a moment’s rest; then he will go; for he is an unlucky person, and does not want to bring his ill-luck on the woman who is succoring him.  But she, it appears, is also unhappy; and a strong sympathy springs up between them.  When her husband arrives, he observes not only this sympathy, but a resemblance between them, a gleam of the snake in their eyes.  They sit down to table; and the stranger tells them his unlucky story.  He is the son of Wotan, who is known to him only as Wolfing, of the race of the Volsungs.  The earliest thing he remembers is returning from a hunt with his father to find their home destroyed, his mother murdered, and his twin-sister carried off.  This was the work of a tribe called the Neidings, upon whom he and Wolfing thenceforth waged implacable war until the day when his father disappeared, leaving no trace of himself but an empty wolfskin.  The young Volsung was thus cast alone upon the world, finding most hands against him, and bringing no good luck even to his friends.  His latest exploit has been the slaying of certain brothers who were forcing their sister to wed against her will.  The result has been the slaughter of the woman by her brothers’ clansmen, and his own narrow escape by flight.

His luck on this occasion is even worse than he supposes; for Hunding, by whose hearth he has taken refuge, is clansman to the slain brothers and is bound to avenge them.  He tells the Volsung that in the morning, weapons or no weapons, he must fight for his life.  Then he orders the woman to bed, and follows her himself, taking his spear with him.

The unlucky stranger, left brooding by the hearth, has nothing to console himself with but an old promise of his father’s that he shall find a weapon to his hand when he most needs one.  The last flicker of the dying fire strikes on the golden hilt of the sword that sticks in the tree; but he does not see it; and the embers sink into blackness.  Then the woman returns.  Hunding is safely asleep:  she has drugged him.  She tells the story of the one-eyed man who appeared at her forced marriage, and of the sword.  She has always felt, she says, that her miseries will end in the arms of the hero who shall succeed in drawing it forth.  The stranger, diffident as he is about his luck, has no misgivings as to his strength and destiny.  He gives her his affection at once, and abandons himself to the charm of the night and the season; for it is the beginning of Spring.  They soon learn from their confidences that she is his stolen twin-sister.  He is transported to find that the heroic race of the Volsungs need neither perish nor be corrupted by a lower strain.  Hailing the sword by the name of Nothung (or Needed), he plucks it from the tree as her bride-gift, and then, crying “Both bride and sister be of thy brother; and blossom the blood of the Volsungs!” clasps her as the mate the Spring has brought him.

The Second Act

So far, Wotan’s plan seems prospering.  In the mountains he calls his war-maiden Brynhild, the child borne to him by the First Mother, and bids her see to it that Hunding shall fall in the approaching combat.  But he is reckoning without his consort, Fricka.  What will she, the Law, say to the lawless pair who have heaped incest on adultery?  A hero may have defied the law, and put his own will in its place; but can a god hold him guiltless, when the whole power of the gods can enforce itself only by law?  Fricka, shuddering with horror, outraged in every instinct, comes clamoring for punishment.  Wotan pleads the general necessity of encouraging heroism in order to keep up the Valhalla bodyguard; but his remonstrances only bring upon him torrents of reproaches for his own unfaithfulness to the law in roaming through the world and begetting war-maidens, “wolf cubs,” and the like.  He is hopelessly beaten in the argument.  Fricka is absolutely right when she declares that the ending of the gods began when he brought this wolf-hero into the world; and now, to save their very existence, she pitilessly demands his destruction.  Wotan has no power to refuse:  it is Fricka’s mechanical force, and not his thought, that really rules the world.  He has to recall Brynhild; take back his former instructions; and ordain that Hunding shall slay the Volsung.

But now comes another difficulty.  Brynhild is the inner thought and will of Godhead, the aspiration from the high life to the higher that is its divine element, and only becomes separated from it when its resort to kingship and priestcraft for the sake of temporal power has made it false to itself.  Hitherto, Brynhild, as Valkyrie or hero chooser, has obeyed Wotan implicitly, taking her work as the holiest and bravest in his kingdom; and now he tells her what he could not tell Fricka ­what indeed he could not tell to Brynhild, were she not, as she says, his own will ­the whole story of Alberic and of that inspiration about the raising up of a hero.  She thoroughly approves of the inspiration; but when the story ends in the assumption that she too must obey Fricka, and help Fricka’s vassal, Hunding, to undo the great work and strike the hero down, she for the first time hesitates to accept his command.  In his fury and despair he overawes her by the most terrible threats of his anger; and she submits.

Then comes the Volsung Siegmund, following his sister bride, who has fled into the mountains in a revulsion of horror at having allowed herself to bring her hero to shame.  Whilst she is lying exhausted and senseless in his arms, Brynhild appears to him and solemnly warns him that he must presently leave the earth with her.  He asks whither he must follow her.  To Valhalla, to take his place there among the heroes.  He asks, shall he find his father there?  Yes.  Shall he find a wife there?  Yes:  he will be waited on by beautiful wishmaidens.  Shall he meet his sister there?  No.  Then, says Siegmund, I will not come with you.

She tries to make him understand that he cannot help himself.  Being a hero, he will not be so persuaded:  he has his father’s sword, and does not fear Hunding.  But when she tells him that she comes from his father, and that the sword of a god will not avail in the hands of a hero, he accepts his fate, but will shape it with his own hand, both for himself and his sister, by slaying her, and then killing himself with the last stroke of the sword.  And thereafter he will go to Hell, rather than to Valhalla.

How now can Brynhild, being what she is, choose her side freely in a conflict between this hero and the vassal of Fricka?  By instinct she at once throws Wotan’s command to the winds, and bids Siegmund nerve himself for the combat with Hunding, in which she pledges him the protection of her shield.  The horn of Hunding is soon heard; and Siegmund’s spirits rise to fighting pitch at once.  The two meet; and the Valkyrie’s shield is held before the hero.  But when he delivers his sword-stroke at his foe, the weapon shivers on the spear of Wotan, who suddenly appears between them; and the first of the race of heroes falls with the weapon of the Law’s vassal through his breast.  Brynhild snatches the fragments of the broken sword, and flies, carrying off the woman with her on her war-horse; and Wotan, in terrible wrath, slays Hunding with a wave of his hand, and starts in pursuit of his disobedient daughter.

The Third Act

On a rocky peak, four of the Valkyries are waiting for the rest.  The absent ones soon arrive, galloping through the air with slain heroes, gathered from the battle-field, hanging over their saddles.  Only, Brynhild, who comes last, has for her spoil a live woman.  When her eight sisters learn that she has defied Wotan, they dare not help her; and Brynhild has to rouse Sieglinda to make an effort to save herself, by reminding her that she bears in her the seed of a hero, and must face everything, endure anything, sooner than let that seed miscarry.  Sieglinda, in a transport of exaltation, takes the fragments of the sword and flies into the forest.  Then Wotan comes; the sisters fly in terror at his command; and he is left alone with Brynhild.

Here, then, we have the first of the inevitable moments which Wotan did not foresee.  Godhead has now established its dominion over the world by a mighty Church, compelling obedience through its ally the Law, with its formidable State organization of force of arms and cunning of brain.  It has submitted to this alliance to keep the Plutonic power in check ­built it up primarily for the sake of that soul in itself which cares only to make the highest better and the best higher; and now here is that very soul separated from it and working for the destruction of its indispensable ally, the lawgiving State.  How is the rebel to be disarmed?  Slain it cannot be by Godhead, since it is still Godhead’s own very dearest soul.  But hidden, stifled, silenced it must be; or it will wreck the State and leave the Church defenseless.  Not until it passes completely away from Godhead, and is reborn as the soul of the hero, can it work anything but the confusion and destruction of the existing order.  How is the world to be protected against it in the meantime?  Clearly Loki’s help is needed here:  it is the Lie that must, on the highest principles, hide the Truth.  Let Loki surround this mountain top with the appearance of a consuming fire; and who will dare penetrate to Brynhild?  It is true that if any man will walk boldly into that fire, he will discover it at once to be a lie, an illusion, a mirage through which he might carry a sack of gunpowder without being a penny the worse.  Therefore let the fire seem so terrible that only the hero, when in the fulness of time he appears upon earth, will venture through it; and the problem is solved.  Wotan, with a breaking heart, takes leave of Brynhild; throws her into a deep sleep; covers her with her long warshield; summons Loki, who comes in the shape of a wall of fire surrounding the mountain peak; and turns his back on Brynhild for ever.

The allegory here is happily not so glaringly obvious to the younger generations of our educated classes as it was forty years ago.  In those days, any child who expressed a doubt as to the absolute truth of the Church’s teaching, even to the extent of asking why Joshua told the sun to stand still instead of telling the earth to cease turning, or of pointing out that a whale’s throat would hardly have been large enough to swallow Jonah, was unhesitatingly told that if it harboured such doubts it would spend all eternity after its death in horrible torments in a lake of burning brimstone.  It is difficult to write or read this nowadays without laughing; yet no doubt millions of ignorant and credulous people are still teaching their children that.  When Wagner himself was a little child, the fact that hell was a fiction devised for the intimidation and subjection of the masses, was a well-kept secret of the thinking and governing classes.  At that time the fires of Loki were a very real terror to all except persons of exceptional force of character and intrepidity of thought.  Even thirty years after Wagner had printed the verses of The Ring for private circulation, we find him excusing himself from perfectly explicit denial of current superstitions, by reminding his readers that it would expose him to prosecution.  In England, so many of our respectable voters are still grovelling in a gloomy devil worship, of which the fires of Loki are the main bulwark, that no Government has yet had the conscience or the courage to repeal our monstrous laws against “blasphemy.”