SOURCE: “On Irony and Symbolism in the Nibelunglied: Two Preliminary Notes,” German Life & Letters, New Series Vol. XIV, No. 4, July, 1961, pp. 271-81.

[In the following essay, Sacker examines examples of irony in the Nibelungenlied and points out some previously overlooked uses of symbolism.]

I. IRONY

It has always been recognized that irony plays some part in the Nibelungenlied,¹ but so far as I know attention has been concentrated on those instances which make the person or deed appear more heroic and not upon those which tend to undermine the heroic appearance. That this latter possibility also exists is perhaps most easily proved from an incident in the second half, where Kriemhilt tries to persuade her knights to attack the two men Hagen and Volker. Four hundred of them arm themselves and accompany her in threatening fashion; they see and hear their queen defied and insulted, and she calls upon them to attack. The narrator at this point describes them as ‘die übermüeten degene’ and, as ‘übermüete’ is normally used by him of people too proud and rash to count the cost of what they do,² the reader expects a clash—but no, the phrase has been used ironically:

Si sprach: ‘nu hoert, ir recken,                     wa
er mir lougent niht
aller miner leide.                     swaz im da von geschiht,
daz ist mir vil unmaere,                     ir Etzelen man.’
die übermüeten degene                     ein ander sahen si
an.

(1792)

The anti-climax is neat: they look at each other in dismay and then retire without a blow being struck. More specifically still, a few stanzas later the fiddler Volker says with reference to the Huns: ‘ez heizent allez degene und sint geliche niht gemuot’ (1821, 4). All are called warriors, but not all, one may perhaps paraphrase, reveal in their actions a warrior's heart.

This open statement of Volker's that things are not always what they seem is without parallel in the Nibelungenlied, but there are many parallels to the implicit irony of the narrator's description of the cowardly Huns as ‘übermüete’. Where these have been noticed by scholars in the past, they have usually been regretted as unintended by the poet—which, as we have no external evidence of the poet's intention, is a diplomatic way of saying that they do not fit in with the scholar's own interpretation. My intention here is to reconsider a few particular examples, and to suggest the place they occupy in the total pattern; whether this pattern is the one intended by the poet need not concern us, if we take as our object of study not his intention, but his achievement.

One of the more obvious features of the work is the stock adjective, of the type of ‘übermüete’, which so frequently accompanies any reference to any character whatsoever. It has been studied in detail in a dissertation,³ and more recently has received a couple of pages in Friedrich Panzer's stimulating review of all matters concerning the Nibelungenlied.⁴ Sometimes the adjective appears appropriate to the particular situation or character, more often it does not. Panzer writes regretfully:

Aber überwiegend sind die Beiwörter starr und formelhaft und nehmen dadurch den Personen das Individuelle, statt sie zu kennzeichnen … Form und Gehalt befinden sich danach vielfach nicht in vollkommenem Einklang … Es begreift sich das aus der weitgehenden Idealisierung, die unserer Dichtung eignet (p. 134).

The argument is, I think, that the poet saw his characters as types, and applied to them the adjectives appropriate to ideal representatives of these types—regardless of the individual character or situation. This may very well be true—but it need not be regretted if, as I believe, the resultant relationship between the typical, idealized comment and the circumstances of the particular case is both enjoyable in itself and consonant with what the poet achieved in other respects.

To take an example. When the Amazonian Brünhilt hears from Siegfried that Gunther has come to woo her, she replies threateningly that he must then compete with her in certain games and that he and all his company will forfeit their lives if he loses. Some such adjective as ‘vreislich’, which has been applied to her in anticipation (330, 2), would be appropriate here; but instead a ‘stock’ feminine adjective is used to round off Brünhilt's challenging speech:

‘Den stein sol er werfen                    unt springen
dar nach,
den ger mit mir schiezen.                    lat iu niht sin ze gach.
ir muget wol hie verliesen                    die ere und ouch den lip.
des bedenket iuch vil ebene,’                    sprach daz minnecliche
wip.

(425)

The context of minneclich may be regarded here as twofold. There is the ‘vertical’ thread of comment running the whole length of the work, according to which all noble ladies are lovable, and there is the ‘horizontal’ block of the particular episode, which shows Brünhilt as rather fearsome. ‘Minneclich’ is appropriate to the one, but not obviously to the other: one wonders if Brünhilt is presented as attractive even though (or precisely because?) she is threatening her suitors with death, or if the narrator is mocking at the very idea of finding such a she-devil attractive. Either way he is drawing attention to the contrast between the two aspects of the context, between the conventional approach to courtly ladies in general and the behaviour of this particular one; either way he is supported by the situation, since on the one hand Gunther evidently had been attracted by the fearsomeness of Brünhilt (cf. 328f.), while on the other her actual appearance does now put him off:

Er dahte in sinem muote:                    ‘waz sol diz
wesen?
der tiuvel uz der helle                    wie kunder da vor genesen?
waer ich ze Burgonden                    mit dem lebene min,
si müeste hie vil lange                    vri vor miner minne sin.’

(442)

In view of this support from the situation, the ambiguities and ironic possibilities in the adjective should, I suggest, be accepted—and enjoyed. It is mistaken to uphold the claims of the ‘vertical’ context at the expense of the ‘horizontal’ when the complex relationship between the two is relevant to the main course of the plot.⁵

This main course of the plot has usually been taken absolutely seriously—apparently on the assumption that the heroic code did not allow of any questioning (let alone of any mockery) in the Middle Ages. The crucial episode here touched on proves otherwise, for the very fact that Gunther, knowing himself unequal to the task, should yet seek to win Brünhilt is not simply somewhat discreditable but essentially farcical—and the farce of the bedroom scene to which it leads is therefore not, as almost all critics seem to think, a regrettable lapse on the author's part (to be explained away by reference to the vulgarity of source and audience), but an artistically necessary revelation of the falsity of Gunther's position. Gunther has confused the increase of public power which Siegfried's help has brought with an increase of personal strength, and has won a wife by trickery; before the world his public honour may be maintained, but in the privacy of the bedroom his private shame is ludicrously exposed.

The narrator ostensibly supports Gunther's honour, throughout saying only ‘nice’ things about him; but as his actions do not always bear out these comments, there are many occasions on which an alert reader feels the need to raise an eyebrow. For the moment I will omit the stock adjectives, and indicate other types of implicit irony. For instance there is the comment on Gunther's final success with Brünhilt. In the preceding stanzas we have seen Gunther fail to force his will on Brünhilt, get ignominiously tied up to a nail on the wall—and call in Siegfried. We have seen Siegfried struggle for his life with Brünhilt, just win—and leave her to Gunther to deflower. This Gunther accomplishes:

Done was ouch si niht sterker                    dann ein ander
wip.
er trute minnecliche                    den ir vil schoenen lip.
ob siz versuochte mere,                    waz kunde daz vervan?
daz het ir allez Gunther                    mit sinen minnen getan.

(682)

It is true that with her virginity Brünhilt loses her great strength, and it is true that Gunther's desire to marry her has eventually brought about her loss of virginity—but to sum the whole episode up in terms of Gunther accomplishing all this with his love is to exaggerate so blatantly, to disregard so sublimely Gunther's total dependence on Siegfried (which has just been illustrated so drastically) that a smile is unavoidable. Once again the two contexts, of the ideal commentary and the real situation, have coincided to produce an ironic effect. Literally, and ideally, it was Gunther who reduced Brünhilt, essentially, however, it was Siegfried.

If the irony here depends on stressing the literal at the expense of the essential, elsewhere it is the incidental which is used for ironical emphasis. For instance the competition with Brünhilt in Islant reveals almost as effectively as the wedding night Gunther's personal weakness. Carried along under Siegfried's arm, he appears a ludicrous enough figure to the reader, though Brünhilt's followers, who cannot see Siegfried, are of course deceived: ‘si wanden daz er hete diu spil mit siner kraft getan’ (467,4). This is not so; but as the very next line points out, if Gunther lacks the strength which alone is necessary to win Brünhilt, he possesses other qualities such as courtesy, and knows how to acknowledge the homage Brünhilt's followers proceed to offer him in gracious fashion: ‘Er gruoztes' minnecliche, ja was er tugende rich’ (468, 1). This second half-line is unnecessary and is phrased emphatically; coming where it does, it implicitly invites comparison between the qualities Gunther possesses and those he lacks: he needs Siegfried to win Brünhilt, but he can exchange courtesies on his own account.

The ironies I have been considering arise from apparent discrepancies between the commentary and the action; what is the effect when these are in accord? One possibility can be seen from a further investigation of ‘minneclich’; this seems inappropriate in Islant, especially when applied to Brünhilt herself, but it is appropriate to Gunther, who greets Brünhilt's followers ‘minnecliche’, appropriate altogether indeed at Worms, and especially so to Kriemhilt, who appears in her youth as ‘diu minnecliche’ par excellence. She is thus indirectly contrasted with Brünhilt; and since it is the aggressiveness with which Brünhilt reacts to the approach of any male that makes the description of her as ‘minneclich’ somewhat strange, it is worth considering if ‘minneclich’ seems so appropriate to Kriemhilt precisely because her outstanding characteristic as a maiden is her utter passivity. She is subject to her brothers in all ways; for a whole year Siegfried is never even allowed to see her—a state of affairs not obligatory at the time or in the work, as a comparison with Rüedeger's daughter Gotelint shows—and when she does appear she is demure beyond belief. One wonders if it is this very passivity which attracts the mighty Siegfried, just as it is the challenge of Brünhilt which attracts the weaker Gunther. Neither man sees the lady of his choice before choosing her; of both it might be said that they merely seek out a certain type of feminine reaction. Their ability to choose at a distance, according to the general reputation of the ladies concerned, is explained if the ladies merely represent, at least before their marriage, the two men's different ideals of maidenhood. The grotesqueness of Gunther's ideal can scarcely be ignored and is, as argued above, emphasized by the odd use of ‘minneclich’; but is not Siegfried's ideal equally strange, and does not the very appropriateness of the repetitive and wishy-washy ‘minneclich’ suggest this? Then, however, the question would arise: is some element of irony always present when a stock adjective is used?

This short exploratory study is not the place to investigate this problem at length; nor do I wish to indulge in a long terminological discussion on what does and what does not deserve the name of irony. My impression is that the stock adjective plays a more vital part in the Nibelungenlied than has generally been recognized, and that recognition of this fact has been hampered by an undue respect on the part of modern desk-bound scholars both for heroism—which has blinded them to those elements in the works of an earlier age which expose the weaknesses of the heroic code—and for commentaries, which has led them to disregard those elements in the plot which clash with the statements of the narrator. Not of course that one should expect the stock adjective to be always exciting, always distressingly right or grotesquely wrong; much of the time its importance may be minimal. All I would suggest is that where one finds an idealistic commentary interwoven with a realistic plot, an interplay of meaning is likely to result which may be described as irony, and that where this is found it should not be ignored.

In the light of these considerations I should like finally to consider the opening twelve stanzas of the work as found in the version we usually read today. When here the three Burgundian kings are introduced as exceedingly powerful rulers, possessed of great personal courage and bravery, who enjoy happiness and high honour all their days, the reader who already knows the story is surely compelled to raise an eyebrow. Are these the kings who are afraid to fight the Saxons themselves but leave it to Siegfried? Who reward him for his constant help and trusting nature by murdering him? At the very best, if one takes these stanzas at their face value, one is compelled to feel a little patronizing towards a poet who repeats a phrase like ‘ein uz erwelter degen’ three times in twelve stanzas. At the worst one abandons all attempt at understanding or appreciating the work as it stands, and begins to hack it about, to make it conform on one pretext or another to a preconceived idea of what it ought to be. It is for instance common to disregard most of these opening stanzas altogether because they are missing from some manuscripts and may not have belonged to the earliest version. But they are present in other manuscripts and, no matter who invented them, the effect of their presence may still be profitably investigated.

Thus we may notice that in the light of subsequent events the opening twelve stanzas appear ironic, and once this is recognized the very fatuity of repetitions like ‘ein uz erwelter degen’ may be enjoyed. So also may the narrator's not necessarily innocuous ‘als ich gesaget han’ (8, 1): after all, the contrast that has been emphasized throughout this study is between what the narrator says of his characters and what their actions reveal. Indeed I think that almost every phrase in these first twelve stanzas appears highly ambiguous if examined closely, not least the bland formula with which they close:

Von des hoves krefte                    und von ir witen kraft,
von ir vil hohen werdekeit                    und von ir ritterschaft,
der die herren pflagen                    mit vröuden al ir leben,
des enkunde iu zeware                    niemen gar ein ende geben.

(12)

This is of course to suggest that irony is not just a minor and occasional but from the very first a major and ever-present element in the B text of the Nibelungenlied (as edited by de Boor). The characters who appear in it are human and reveal very human failings: Gunther is a rather vicious weakling, Hagen proud, pig-headed and ruthless, Siegfried brash, self-centred and stupid, while Kriemhilt—‘diu minnecliche!’—never becomes a person in her own right at all: content to be shut up by her brothers as a girl, she hero-worships her husband in his lifetime and disintegrates into a spiteful memory on his death.

But of course this is not all the truth about these people; the work contains a considerable element of irony but is not a satire. That is perhaps one reason why it is so elusive and yet so satisfying.

II. SYMBOLISM

The suggestion put forward in the preceding study, that the narrator's comments furnish no direct guide to the significance of events related in the Nibelungenlied, happily does not mean that the poet has left us without guidance of any kind: on the contrary, as has always been known, he provides fingerposts in the form of symbols. Some of these are interpreted, at least in part, within the work, for example Kriemhilt's dream in the opening aventiure; others, such as the ring and the girdle Siegfried takes from Brünhilt, play their own part in the development of the plot. But I want to suggest that even such universally acknowledged symbols have not been given their full weight by scholars, and that there are others equally important which have been ignored altogether. In doing so I shall group together as symbolic a variety of incidents which might profitably be separated into different categories. They have, however, in my opinion, one thing in common: their small individual structure resembles the general overall structure of the work. Because it is this resemblance which I want to emphasize, I group them all together and (loosely) label them all symbolic; more precise terminological distinction would simply blur their common feature.

One interesting thing about Kriemhilt's dream is that on closer inspection it clearly supports the interpretation of Siegfried's position in the work suggested by Mr Mowatt in a separate study in this issue. After the twelve stanzas describing the perfection of the Burgundian court comes this one:

In disen hoheu eren                    troumte Kriemhilde,
wie si züge einen valken                    starc scoen und wilde,
den ir zwene arn erkrummen.                    daz si daz muoste sehen:
ir enkunde in dirre werlde                    leider nimmer gescehen.

(13)

In the following stanzas it is indicated that the falcon symbolizes Siegfried, and there can be no doubt that the two adjectives ‘starc’ and ‘scoene’ are peculiarly appropriate to him. One may therefore well ask if ‘wilde’ is not appropriate too, and if Siegfried is not by nature wild, uncivilized. If that is so, the verb ‘ziehen’ will have a special significance, for it means in this context to tame and train (a wild bird to behave as one wishes). The Siegfried who arrives at Worms so wildly is in fact outwardly tamed by Kriemhilt—it is his desire to win her hand which makes him conform to the conventions of the Burgundian court (123, 4)—and yet, as he remains to the end of his life the lord of the Nibelungen, an elemental figure beyond all morality, tragedy results. This unresolved tension, which exists both within Siegfried and between him and the court of Worms, may be regarded as one of the primary sources of conflict in the work; yet it is never made explicit by the narrator, only indicated in this one stanza introducing the falcon symbol.

The ring and the girdle which Siegfried takes from Brünhilt, when given their full weight, provide the chief evidence that the obvious reason for Siegfried's murder is the true one: no matter how complex the immediate motivation may be, he is ultimately murdered for his vital and peculiarly high-handed part in the conquest of Brünhilt. Siegfried overcomes Brünhilt—on Gunther's behalf—in order to win Kriemhilt. Gunther, weak and vicious as he is, may well be content with the way Siegfried hands Brünhilt over intact at the crucial moment; it is easy for him to accept Siegfried's word that he never boasted to Kriemhilt of having deflowered Brünhilt, but the ring and the girdle which Kriemhilt wears—that she wears them is as significant as that Siegfried took them—reveal to one and all that, however the details have been managed, the essential fact remains: Brünhilt's virginity was sacrificed by Siegfried to Kriemhilt. The subsidiary fact, that Siegfried kept his promise to Gunther and did not actually deflower Brünhilt, is no more consolation to the latter than is his willingness to swear that he did not boast to Kriemhilt of doing so. Indeed precisely what has gone wrong for Brünhilt is that the one man who was her master did not in the least desire her. (Had Siegfried first claimed her body, she might in some sense have been his, might to some extent have found fulfilment. As it is, she is permanently degraded, and revenge alone remains.) Siegfried dies for the real injury he does Brünhilt, and not (primarily) because of any curious notion of honour we may attribute to medieval society.

The symbolic nature of the falcon, as of the ring and the girdle, is indicated by the poet; what I now wish to suggest is that certain other episodes in the work are also symbolic, even though their symbolism is not so indicated. It is indeed perfectly possible, though not necessary, that the poet himself did not consciously recognize them as symbols at all. But if it is axiomatic that the work of all artists, even medieval ones, is more complex than they consciously realize, then I would suggest that when we find, at a crucial point in the story, a small but striking incident reflecting in miniature the main course of events, we should describe this too as symbolic, ponder its significance, and enjoy its position and its character.

Siegfried is murdered while drinking from a ‘brunne’ (I use the Middle High German word because English lacks an equivalent embracing both concepts of ‘spring’ and ‘well’); near the ‘brunne’ is a lime tree against which he rests his weapons. Now this combination of a single lime tree and a ‘brunne’ is surprising here; for although it is a common combination in Middle High German literature, it is normally, as for instance in Iwein, the setting for a love-affair. Professor Hatto has investigated the association of the lime tree with love;⁶ it may, I think, briefly be classed as a phallic symbol, and the spring or, particularly clearly in Iwein, the well which goes with it is its complement, a vaginal symbol. Trees and wells commonly have these associations even outside Middle High German literature: the question is whether such an association here would add to or detract from the function and significance of the episode.

Siegfried arrives first at the ‘brunne’; but although he has been behaving particularly brashly the moment before (965-970), now he is so courteous that he does not drink until Gunther has done so. And the narrator says: ‘do engalt er siner zühte’ (980, 1), although it is not clear how he thus paid for his courtesy. One may perhaps suppose that had Siegfried drunk straight away, Hagen would not by then have reached the ‘brunne’, but does it not still remain something of a mystery why the narrator bothered to introduce this complication—unless, as I would suggest, it was to draw attention to the larger implications of the episode? Siegfried is killed as a result of the unwonted courtesy he shows in wooing Kriemhilt; he dies for the service he has rendered Gunther, dies that is, in the language of symbol, because he allowed Gunther to ‘drink at the well’. It is this fact, I think, which the circumstances of his death suggest.

Incidentally there may also be significance in the apparently trivial detail that it is—of all things—a lime leaf which prevents the dragon's blood from rendering Siegfried totally impregnable. Not only is this a leaf from the tree of love, it is itself heart-shaped, and it falls between Siegfried's shoulder-blades so that Hagen's spear pierces his very heart. And of course Hagen had learnt the secret of it from Kriemhilt. Does it not seem as though Siegfried's love for Kriemhilt were his one weak point?

What I next propose is an additional significance for an episode whose apparent symbolism has always been recognized. In accordance with Siegfried's pretence to be Gunther's vassal during the wooing of Brünhilt, a pretence designed to elevate Gunther in her eyes, Siegfried leads out and holds Gunther's horse upon arrival in Islant. The symbolic act is certainly meant to deceive Brünhilt, but rather strangely fails of its purpose, for she and her company still regard Siegfried as the leader a few stanzas later. This small discrepancy has so far as I know disturbed no modern scholar, nor has anyone wondered at the poet's bothering to mention that Siegfried leads out his own horse after he has led out Gunther's. Yet these apparently trivial details may be significant. Horses, in medieval literature as elsewhere, function frequently as symbols of virility, and the acceptance of such a function here adds immediately to the depth of the scene: the actions of Siegfried as Gunther's groom may be considered as an appropriate symbolization of the services Siegfried renders Gunther both in the tournament with Brünhilt and later in the bedroom scene; only when Gunther is safely in the saddle can he manage by himself. Thus the episode not only indicates the apparent dependence of Siegfried on Gunther, but also the real dependence of Gunther on Siegfried—and it appears to be this latter dependence to which Brünhilt and her ladies instinctively react.—On the other hand there is a real sense in which Siegfried is dependent on Gunther, for he early resolved not to try to win Kriemhilt by force but to serve her brother in the hope of being rewarded by her hand; and this dependence is I think indicated by the fact that Siegfried only leads out his own horse after he has seen Gunther safely mounted. The small but crucial scene thus symbolizes, not just one element in the relationship of the two men, but the essential basis of the whole relationship between Siegfried, Gunther, Brünhilt and Kriemhilt.

The last symbol to which I want to draw attention is Hagen's super-heroic feat in ferrying the entire Burgundian army across the Danube single-handed:

Zem ersten braht' er über                    tusent
ritter her,
dar nach die sinen recken.                    dannoch was ir mer.
niun tusent knehte                    die fuort' er an daz lant.
des tages was unmüezec                    des küenen Tronegaeres
hant.

(1573)

The presumably deliberate understatement in this last line—the bold Tronegaere's hand was busy that day—makes Heusler's assumption, that the poet himself would have joined in the modern reader's mild amusement at so exaggerated an episode, probable.⁷ But the physical impossibility of Hagen's act surely underlines its symbolic importance. Hagen and Hagen alone, the narrator insists, gets the Burgundians across this river, which in the story is the only major obstacle on the road from Burgundy to Austria. In view of the fuss the narrator makes about the crossing one may wonder whether they become different people in Austria—and the answer provides an otherwise missing key to our understanding of the main course of the story. For the Burgundians who in Austria destroy such a vast horde of peoples before they themselves finally perish are barely recognizable as those who were so utterly afraid to take up the Saxon challenge at Worms. At last their deeds vindicate the claims the narrator has continually made for them, at last they really behave something like heroes, Gunther and Hagen being second only to Dietrich and Hildebrant. And, moreover, the fifth stanza of the work may suggest such a contrast:

Die herren waren milte,                    von arde hoh erborn,
mit kraft unmazen küene,                    di recken uz erkorn.
da zen Burgonden                    so was ir lant genant.
si frumten starkiu wunder                    sit in Etzelen lant.

The crossing of the Danube symbolizes this transformation; but the Burgundians do not row themselves over, Hagen does it for them.

Hagen's one other decisive action is the killing of Siegfried (the very action which led the Burgundians to their present plight), and it is significant that he behaves on this occasion in a manner reminiscent of that earlier one. For if one asks for the immediate reason why Hagen has to ferry the Burgundians across, one must answer: because he has killed the ferryman. And does this ferryman not recall Siegfried, who piloted Gunther to Islant?—It is an assumption which would explain many of the details of the scene between Hagen and the ferryman, details which otherwise seem unnecessarily full and strangely puzzling. The ferryman, like Siegfried, is too rich and too powerful to need to serve others: ‘der verge was so riche, daz im niht dienen zam’ (1551, 1). He is in fact not really a ferryman at all, yet he comes across to fetch Hagen—when the latter offers him payment in the form of a single gold ring. The symbolic implications of this ring recall how Siegfried was rewarded for his services with Kriemhilt, and the reference to the ferryman's recent marriage helps to complete the picture. Moreover the ferryman, like Siegfried, is tricked by Hagen, who turns out to be no relative but an enemy, and who kills him.

The Burgundians then are different people once they have crossed the Danube, and it is Hagen's murder of Siegfried, reflected in his murder of the ferryman, which leads to their transformation. The psychological basis of their transformed behaviour, of their new-found heroism, seems to be the acceptance of probable death: if survival is impossible one has nothing to lose by being defiant. From this aspect too Hagen appears as the one responsible person, for he alone has anticipated death in Austria (1461), and no one else hears of the prophecy of the Danube maidens until the crossing is complete. But then, when all the others are across, Hagen tests out the prophecy by flinging the chaplain into the water; and finally, after destroying the unmistakably symbolical boat, by which alone, we are asked to believe, the army could have returned, he informs the others of their fate. His dominant rôle in the events that lead to the (interrelated) heroism and destruction of the Burgundians in the second half of the Nibelungenlied could scarcely be indicated more clearly.⁸

Here then, once again, the main course of the story is reflected in a single incident. In this incident, as in the others I have mentioned, there are details which may not seem to tally. On the one hand I would maintain that this does not affect the argument, for of course these episodes exist independently in their own right as well as for the symbolic meaning they contain. Yet divergent details should not be dismissed too lightly: they may illuminate the main story if allowed to do so. And this I would make as my final point: whenever we find an apparent discrepancy in the Nibelungenlied, let us not disregard it as a fault too easily: for whatever the origin—and it may of course indicate the disparity of the various sources at the poet's disposal—the poet arranged it consciously or unconsciously as it is—and he was surely a greater poet than has often been allowed.⁹

Notes

1. Quoted throughout from the 13th ed. by Karl Bartsch and Helmut de Boor, Wiesbaden, 1956.

2. This and other linguistic points can easily be checked from Karl Bartsch, Der Nibelunge Not, vol. II, 2 Wörterbuch, Leipzig, 1880.

3. Gottlieb Stopz, Epitheta ornantia im Kudrunlied, im Biterolf und im Nibelungenlied, Diss. Tübingen, 1930.

4. Friedrich Panzer, Das Nibelungenlied, Entstehung und Gestalt, Stuttgart, 1955.

5. It may be noticed that the intriguing ‘minnecliche’ occurs in the last half-line of the stanza. Such occurrences have frequently been dismissed as padding by bored scholars. But the last half-line remains an important one, whether used for climax or anti-climax, for positive, negative or ironic statement, for action or for comment. The multiplicity of use may indeed be taken as testimony to the greatness of the work; if all its nuances are enjoyed, it will not be found boring.

6. A. T. Hatto, ‘The lime-tree and early German, Goliard and English lyric poetry’, Modern Language Review, vol. XLIX (1954).

7. Andreas Heusler, Nibelungensage und Nibelungenlied, 5th ed., Dortmund, 1955, p. 68.

8. Dr F. J. Stopp has suggested to me that in Hagen's ability to ferry vast numbers across the Danube, there is an echo of Charon. Do the doomed Burgundians not weigh more than the shades who cross the Styx?

9. I should like to thank Professor Helena M. Gamer for helping me to get these notes, whose origins lie several years back, into some sort of shape. They remain, however, only preliminary gropings towards a new understanding of the Nibelungenlied. Subsequent work by D. G. Mowatt and myself has led to an interpretative commentary on the whole work, which will we hope appear in about eighteen months.