e. Erda sinks once more
into her cavern, and Siegfried appears, led by the faithful bird. Wotan
attempts to bar his passage, but Siegfried will brook no interference,
and he shivers Wotan's spear (the emblem of the older rule of the gods)
with a blow of his sword. Gaily singing, he passes up through the fire,
and finds Bruennhilde asleep upon her rock. Love teaches him the fear
which he could not learn from Fafner. He awakens the sleeper, and would
clasp her in his arms, but Bruennhilde, who fell asleep a goddess, knows
not that she has awaked a woman. She flies from him, but his passion
melts her, and, her godhead slipping from her, she yields to his
embrace.

'Siegfried,' as has been happily observed, is the scherzo of the great
Nibelung symphony. After the sin and sorrow of 'Die Walkuere' the change
to the free life of the forest and the boyish innocence of the youthful
hero is doubly refreshing. 'Siegfried' is steeped in the spirit of
youth. There breathes through it the freshness of the early world.
Wagner loved it best of his works. He called it 'the most beautiful of
my life's dreams.' Though less stirring in incident than 'Die Walkuere,'
it is certainly more sustained in power. It is singularly free from
those lapses into musical aridity which occasionally mar the beauty of
the earlier work. If the poem from time to time sinks to an inferior
level, the music is instinct with so much resource and beauty that there
can be no question of dulness. In 'Siegfried,' in fact, Wagner's genius
reaches its zenith. In power, picturesqueness, and command of orchestral
colour and resource, he never surpassed such scenes as the opening of
the third act, or Siegfried's scaling of Bruennhilde's rock. It is worth
while remarking that an interval of twelve years elapsed between the
composition of the second and third acts of 'Siegfried.' In 1857,
although 'Der Ring des Nibelungen' was well advanced towards completion,
Wagner's courage give way. The possibility of seeing his great work
performed seemed so terribly remote, that he decided for the time being
to abandon it and begin on a work of more practicable dimensions. In
1869 King Ludwig of Bavaria induced him to return to the attack, and
with what delight he did so may easily be imagined. At first sight it
seems strange that there should be such complete harmony between the
parts of the work, which were written at such different times. The
explanation of course lies in the firm