not that an angry wife has interfered;
it is that her argument has been sound, and that for the sake of
his world a god cannot trespass against the laws he has himself
made for it. It is, in fact, that kings less than others can do
as they choose; that if in this he should follow his desire, it
would, as Fricka has pointed out, "be all over with the everlasting
gods!" But, to sacrifice the Waelsung, "brought up in wild sorrows"
for this very purpose which is to be relinquished; the Waelsung who
in his young life has had but one draught at the cup of joy!...
It is no wonder that Wotan utters his lamentation: "Oh, divine
ignominy! Oh, woful disgrace! Distress of the gods! Distress of
the gods! Immeasurable wrath! Eternal regret! The saddest am I
among all!"

The darling of his heart, Bruennhilde, torn by his cry, casts from
her all her Valkyrie accoutrements, and, woman merely and daughter,
kneels at his feet, presses her cheek against him, begging to be
trusted: "Confide in me! I am true to you. See, Bruennhilde pleads!"

He hesitates, while sorely yearning for the comfort. "If I utter
it aloud, shall I not be loosing the grasp of my will?" "To Wotan's
will you speak in speaking to me. Who am I, if not your will?"

With the assurance to himself: "With myself solely I take counsel,
in talking to you,..." he relates to Bruennhilde all the events which
have brought about this intolerable position, a long story: the
first mistake in trusting Loge; the mistake in possessing himself
of the Ring; what he has since done to obviate the effect of his
mistakes, and done, as is now shown, in vain. "How did I cunningly
seek to deceive myself! So easily Fricka exposed my fallacies! To
my deepest shame she looked through me. I must yield to her will."
"You will take away then the victory from Siegmund?" "I touched
Alberich's Ring," Wotan replies, "covetously I held the gold. The
curse which I fled from, flees not from me! What I love I must
desert, murder what from all time I have held dear, treacherously
betray him who trusts me!..." Again, it is no wonder his tormented
soul breaks forth in lamentation. The mighty groan of Wotan has,
if ever groan had, adequate cause, and his longing for "the end!
the end!" With grim comfort he recalls at this moment that the
end cannot be far,--not if there be truth in the prophecy of Erda:
"When the dark enemy of love shall in wrath beget a son, the end of
the Immortals will not be long delayed