of the higher instead of the
lower part of his nature--his higher self is cast from him, only (he
thinks) to unite later with a force (a hero) independent of him to
gain him his sovereignty.

The tempest rages and roars; the Valkyries arrive "by ones, by twos,
by threes," at the Valkyries' Rock; and presently, in hotter haste
than the rest, Bruennhilda comes in, bringing Sieglinda. She tells her
(Bruennhilda's) sisters how she has defied Wotan, the All-father; they
are scandalised, and desert her; Sieglinda feebly begs her to take no
more trouble--there is nothing left to live for; Bruennhilda tells her
she carries within her the seed of the highest hero of all the world;
Sieglinda is filled with joy, revives, and flies to the cave in the
wood where Siegfried is destined to be born. Wotan comes on with his
thunders and lightnings and calls for Bruennhilda; at last she answers,
and he announces her punishment: she shall be deprived of her godhood
and left on the mountains to become the wife and slave of the first
man that passes. The other maidens wail in protest; in anger he bids
them begone; Bruennhilda, overcome with shame, sinks at his feet. The
storm slowly dies away; Bruennhilda rises and pleads her cause--"Is
this crime of mine so shameful?--in protecting Siegmund the Volsung I
simply followed what I knew to be the dictates of your own innermost
heart." At first Wotan will scarcely hear her; gradually he relents.
But he cannot go back on his oath, on the sentence he has pronounced;
and in the end he yields her this much--that she shall lie guarded by
a wall of fire, only to be claimed by a hero who, not fearing his
spear, will pass through the fire. Then he bids her an everlasting
farewell; lays her to sleep in her armour, covered by her shield, her
weapon by her side; calls up the fire, and casting a last sad look on
her, his favourite child, goes slowly off as the curtain falls.

The drama here is of the most poignant kind; the scenic surroundings
are of the sort Wagner so greatly loved--tempest amidst black
pine-woods, with wild, flying clouds, the dying down of the storm,
the saffron evening light melting into shadowy night, the calm
deep-blue sky with the stars peeping out, then the bright flames
shooting up; and the two elements, the dramatic and the pictorial,
drew out of him some pages as splendid as any even he ever wrote. The
opening, "the Ride of the Valkyries," is a piece of storm-music
without a par