SOURCE: “Conclusion: Structural Devices and Their Consequences” in The “Nibelungenlied”: A Literary Analysis, University of Toronto Press, 1971, pp. 149-65.

[In the following excerpt, Bekker examines the function of the Nibelungenlied's imagery and symbolism and discusses the epic's abundant symmetry and varied pace.]

The previous chapters have attempted to draw attention to some of the building materials used in the Nibelungenlied, and to the nature of their distribution. What the total structure amounts to is a different matter. In order to attempt an evaluation of the epic as a whole, it is necessary to deal with some devices that are akin to that of parallelism, which so far has provided the base from which to view isolated motifs, events, or the functions of individual characters. The task involved demands a survey of the imagery in the epic, of the nature of the symmetry in it, and of pace and action.

The Nibelungenlied does little or nothing to meet a demand for “pure” poetry; its integrated structure offers a foursquare resistance to such a search. This does not mean, however, that there is no symbolism in the epic. If we look, as we have done, into the technique of its composition, it becomes apparent that much of the value to be gleaned from it is conveyed by series of parallel images. Some of this imagery is as obvious as the moon similes applied to Kriemhild (283) and Siegfried (817) respectively (chapter 111, pp. 60 ff.); some of it is more recondite, and its significance strikes us only when we have immersed ourselves for a time in the epic and begun to notice things which at first may have escaped us in the swift succession of events. Such significance is not so much a matter of the images or symbols themselves as of their placing. It may be compared to the composition of a picture in which a number of objects, more or less significant in themselves, subtly gain added importance from the interrelations of balance and perspective.

A typical example may be mentioned once again to show how the consequences of the poet's arrangements at times hold the key to a correct understanding of the developments. Consider Kriemhild's function in the tailor scene, her statement about Brunhild's having been Siegfried's Kebse, and her role in bringing Hagen up to date about Siegfried's vulnerable spot. The interrelation between these scenes provides one of the many examples of how the poet sets his images—whether verbal, pictorial, or otherwise—squarely before the reader and allows them to do their own work.

We have seen how intricate the patterns of parallel motifs can become; the first instance of Kriemhild's “helping” Hagen links with the gem motif which itself occurs in a series and shows a movement that parallels the course of the events. With this way of working with imagery, it is often impossible to strip off the imagery and to present the naked content, for with natural imagery the images are the content. It is this phenomenon, the use of natural images, that explains the poet's ease and freedom in shifting from the plane of the narrative flow to that of symbolic significance, and back again. For though the symbolism in the epic seldom interferes with its narrative environment, at times it is more significant than the environment itself. A typical example is encountered when Gotelind gives Nudung's shield to Hagen (chapter VII, pp. 143 ff.). An occasional lapse may occur, as in Rüdeger's shield scene. The inconsistency here (cf. chapter VIII, p. 145) is so striking that it is tempting to interpret it as a deliberate device to draw attention to the symbolic rather than the narrative consequence of the scene.

To put it differently: the imagery and symbolism in the Nibelungenlied tend to be strictly functional, even when most pictorial. For it is pictorial: the poet has the eye of a painter and a lightning facility for unforgettably fixing a scene, a look, a movement, in a few words only. For instance, there is Brunhild's look over the shoulder, her ordering that the Burgundians be given their weapons back (477); there is the woman's hauteur and self-assurance, and the insult that look over the shoulder spells for Hagen, who looks even darker than usual, not being accustomed to being put in his place—and by a woman at that! There is the insensitivity of young Dankwart, who is happy to have his weapons back (448) and does not notice the anger of his elder brother. Compare to this another look over the shoulder (1788): Hagen striding across the courtyard, the grouping of the waiting Burgundians, the charged atmosphere. The poet does not tell us all this; he simply shows us and lets his picture produce its own effect. We “see” the slant of Brunhild's or Hagen's face in relief. And by way of another example there is the priest leaning over the church utensils (1575), his hands grasping the gunwale, his capacious habit filled with airpockets that in a moment will help him to stay afloat and gain the shore. Over and over again in such pithy details the poet displays his power to catch and fix a visual impression. And whether he is working on the grand scale or on the small, his images are not only clear, but also consistent; or rather, they are clear because they are consistent. No deviation into philosophy, no express preoccupation with symbolic values seduces him for a moment into taking his eye off its object.

But though the pictorial manner of portrayal is an essential mark of the epic's style, the formation of the materials does not rely solely or even mainly on the poet's “eye.” It is his mind that orders the materials, and the mind is reflective rather than speculative. The poet is not philosophically oriented. His reflections do not seek depth; they remain on the surface of things, but they interrelate and refer. This procedure does not suggest a lack of erudition; it merely reflects the poet's psychological make-up.

If the poet requires something useful to his story—some theatrical property, as one might say—he does not falsify the picture by suddenly introducing a strange implement from nowhere. He makes do with what he has. When, for instance, Brunhild's belt is mentioned for the first time (636), it is because something is needed, something detachable, that Brunhild would have at hand as a matter of course to bind Gunther.¹ The belt is the very thing. But look what the poet gains by thus introducing a natural symbol in the most off-hand manner. It is with this belt that Gunther is bridled. Does not the dominance of the allegorical lady Chastity over the allegorical figure Lust come to mind? The narrative thus manages to avoid introducing something totally incongruous, without substituting the symbolic for the pictorial image.

The poet of the Nibelungenlied, then, is not interested in making his own imagery and symbols. His interest lies in working with natural ones, those that are ready-made.² These symbols are themselves instances of what they symbolize. By simply being what they are, they tell us something about the nature of the greater thing, as protection and safety are greater than the shield symbolizing them, or as the belt is but a visible sign of something more important than itself. The poet arranges such devices in order to add to the richness of his delivery. He does not make them meaningful, universal, or always recognizable; they are all that. Though they may be old, they are ever new and fresh. The symbolism is therefore not private symbolism, and it resists being called medieval or modern or whatever; such symbolism is of all times and places, and it begs to communicate.³

The imagery based on such symbolism displays its universal, because natural, pattern at all levels and in all circumstances, whether or not the poet is or could be conscious of these possible values. We therefore have the right to read from the arrangement of the imagery all the significance we can find, provided, of course, that our interpretation does not involve a degradation of the imagery. With this in mind, we could take any example, great or small, and detect its occasional subtlety and—once we had surrendered to it—its fascination; for instance, the imagery of hands.

Whereas the hand imagery discussed previously (chapter 11, pp. 33 f.) pertains to the many instances in which hands are said or implied to carry war gear, five times hands are said to be white; each time the mention of the white hand occurs in “courtly” situations.⁴ But this courtly aura does not mean that such hands—in contrast to those engaged in warfare—are “reflective.” Kriemhild's holding hands with Siegfried, for instance (cf. 294 and 661), is hardly proof that now hand and reason are in harmony. Whether her former unwillingness to welcome a man's love was reasonable or not—her mother thought it was not—Kriemhild's decision was at least based on a type of reasoning, whatever its soundness. Now her gesture of intimacy in holding hands with Siegfried is proof that her determination to remain uninvolved with love was but a “wint” (47), and the mention of her white hand, while suggesting a little idyll, is proof that reason has been suspended. So also when Kriemhild's white hands lift the head of the dead Siegfried to give him a last kiss (1069): her sorrow is measureless, “unmaezlichen groz” (1066).⁵

In Bechlaren, Giselher's white hands embrace Rüdeger's daughter (1685). The idyllic aspect of this scene remains superficial, and Giselher himself comes to repudiate the note of tenderness which the mention of his white hands helped to convey (cf. 2819). In another instance of the motif—Gotelind's taking the shield off the wall of Bechlaren—the hand has not only a life, but also a culture of its own. As when Kriemhild and Siegfried hold hands, this is a moment “wenn die Hände sprechen.” The white hands of Gotelind speak a pithier and more communicative language than language as such. Here, too, however, the hands seem detached from the waking personality. Gotelind acts as though in trance. Her hands are like independent agents, acting without the benefit of reason to give away the shield, the symbol of protection.

And so, whenever hands are said to be doing something, they fail to acquire power by association with their owners. Precisely because of the courtly value suggested by the whiteness of hands, their unexpected under-the-surface value—or rather, the very lack of it—becomes more portentous in alluding to the discrepancies between hands and minds than in those instances in which the hand is said to handle the sword, shield, or spear.

The hand imagery in the Nibelungenlied tells more about the characters. Together with the motifs of battle anger (chapter II, pp. 31 ff.) and of acquiescence (chapter I, pp. 21 ff.), it suggests a lack of inner substance. The poet does not spell this out, he merely shows us its effects. Though aware of the unconscious—witness Kriemhild's endeavor to keep Siegfried from going to meet the allegedly renewed hostilities of the Saxons (921 ff.)—the poet is not greatly interested in exploiting it. He is interested in some of its manifestations—dreams, for instance, and the way in which hands act independently. But while leaving untouched the dark recesses of his characters' minds, he reveals some of their thoughts nevertheless, by juxtaposition or otherwise, as when he uses the window motif to show that only Kriemhild leaves a window to destroy (chapter I, pp. 20 f.).

It is this lack of inner substance that makes the characters in the Nibelungenlied rely on appearances. This fact also accounts for the importance of public opinion. Insults are as bad as they are taken to be, as though whatever they say is thereby made true. Honor thus comes to rely on the opinion of others. At every juncture of the narrative it also inevitably provides impetus to the ever increasing forces of annihilation, precisely because the enhancement and vindication of honor is a central commitment of all the characters. For instance, in the exchanges between Gunther, Hagen, Giselher, and Ortwin after the queens' quarrel, the question of whether Siegfried must die revolves around honor (cf. 866 ff.). The defense of Brunhild's honor as Hagen pretends to understand it (cf. chapter VI, pp. 127 ff.) becomes for Tronje a Tarnkappe under whose protection he can strike down Siegfried with impunity. Hagen, for that matter, is a master in the manipulation of honor.

Honor in the Nibelungenlied, it should be noted, is exclusively a diesseits value, its importance in conjunction with the deity being of little consequence. True, at Siegfried's Schwertleite the poet tells how a mass was sung: “got man do ze eren eine messe sanc” (33), but this and other periodic processions to the minster are little more than backdrops adding to the honor and aura of the court. When Siegfried is in church, the poet does not say that he thanks God for Kriemhild, but “er mohte sinen saelden des immer sagen danc” / “He would always thank his good fortune” (301). Even Rüdeger's anguished appeals to God are lamentations for the unavoidable loss of honor, not God's but his own (2153). Rüdeger's courtly life as based on honor may be at God's behest, but his bitterness towards God for now despoiling him of his honor—“‘nu ruoche mich bewisen der mir ze lebene geriet’” / “ ‘Let him who called me to life advise me’ ” (2154)—is far from any Christian acquiescence in the greater glory of God.⁶

The adherence or nonadherence to court etiquette in so far as it centers around honor may be a two-edged sword, capable of exalting on the one hand or of insulting on the other (cf. chapter I, p. 14). The potency of this weapon derives from the deadly seriousness with which the forms are adhered to. Every departure from the code is fraught with consequences. Gunther is angry when Etzel's minstrels refuse the gifts he offers (1490). When he and the other Burgundians arrive in Gran, Kriemhild departs from the norm by kissing Giselher only. Hagen reacts immediately, and he immediately draws his conclusions (1737 f.).

Various forms of honor, then, are often at cross purposes with each other, and thus one of the main principles of order and cohesion turns into a principle of division and destruction. Honor sets individuals against each other, and the poet can only stand aghast at the carnage. The closed, self-referential world of the Nibelungenlied, with no point of reference outside itself, has no answer to its self-generated destruction. It is “eine selbstmahlende Mühle,” an existential plight.⁷

An important feature of the structure of the Nibelungenlied is that of symmetry. Such symmetry—Panzer calls it mere repetition⁸—is akin to parallelism, but the significant difference lies in the fact that parallelism participates in the self-referential and self-revealing patterns, whereas symmetry lends regularity and order. With this difference in mind, we can speak of the “Parallelität der Rollen und Schicksale zwischen Sifrit und Rüdiger,”⁹ but also of points of symmetry between them. Whereas Wachinger's reference to parallelism hinges on the events taking place, the symmetry in the roles of these two figures depends on details that in themselves are not significant. Both Siegfried and Rüdeger are killed with their own weapons; Siegfried is killed from behind by his own spear, and Rüdeger is felled in a face-to-face battle by the sword he has given to Gernot. The difference in this similarity reflects on Hagen's function, or lack of it (cf. chapter VII, pp. 144 f.). Furthermore, Siegfried as well as Rüdeger travels with twelve companions to Worms (64, 2170), and both are separated from their own shields when they receive the mortal spear thrust or sword blow. For that matter, Siegfried sparks gems off his shield when he beats Hagen with it (985); Rüdeger also forces gems off shields in the battle ending in his death (2212). As we have seen, the poet has made good use of this parallelistic motif (cf. chapter I, pp. 10 ff.). Before their deaths, Siegfried and Rüdeger commend (996, 2164) the care of wife and child to the King—who is less responsible for those deaths than is his queen in each instance.

It is not the individual instances of symmetry that are of consequence, but their very abundance. The following enumeration stands by itself. Twice a king decides to woo on hearsay (44 and 329). Twice Siegfried is recognized through a window (84, 411); twice he asks Gunther why he is downcast (153, 883); and twice he is told that the Saxons have announced war (143, 880). Twice Siegfried fights with Alberich (96, 497); twice mention is made of talks between husband and wife in the intimacy of the bedroom (1168, 1400); and twice a queen makes a pretence in order to have relatives invited for a visit (726 ff., 1401 ff.). There are two engagement scenes (614, 1683), and twice we are told that couples to be married are not in a position to consummate their intended union (528, 1358). Twice a queen about to leave her country tries to settle her inheritance (522, 691 ff.); in each instance she is less than completely successful. Twice Gunther is warned not to go abroad (330, 1458 ff.); in each instance he goes anyway. Both Kriemhild (1248) and Rüdeger (2154 ff.) find themselves in a quandary and see no way out of the difficulty besetting them. Both finally choose the world's—that is, their own—rather than God's honor. In the first two Aventiure the poet divides his attention between Kriemhild and Siegfried; the portraits reflect each other in alternate descriptions. Symmetry occurs also when two sets of brothers fight each other in the dark of Bavaria (1608 ff.). When Siegfried gets a son, Gunther does also; each child is his uncle's namesake.

Of a rather different order are those cases of symmetry that involve groupings. In strophes 583 and 590 we find companies of ladies and knights going hand in hand. The same happens in strophe 1395, and later in Bechlaren (1667 ff.). In the latter instance there is an explicit indication that protocol is observed: Gotelind goes with the most important guest, Gunther; Rüdeger goes with Gernot; his daughter leads Giselher. Also in Gran we see knights going hand in hand (1804 f.): Dietrich goes with Gunther, Irnfrit with Gernot, Rüdeger with Giselher; Hawart holds Iring's hand; Dankwart goes with Wolfhart. Here, too, rules of protocol and rank are observed, Hagen and Volker being the only two who adhere to their own set of values.

Order of rank also makes for symmetry when large groups are involved. In these, the kings are the focal points towards whom and around whom the entourage is grouped and from which it derives its significance. Instances of such groupings occur during the double wedding ceremony (cf. 617, 626 f.). Official encounters are also full of regulated pomp: when Brunhild arrives in Worms (tenth Aventiure) and when Kriemhild arrives in Santen (eleventh Aventiure) or meets Etzel (twenty-second Aventiure), dignity and circumstance give these encounters the quality of colorful processions meeting each other. These are but a few of the indications that social occasions are formal and never fail to observe strict decorum.¹⁰

When festivities are threatened or are disrupted by enmity, we have the kings above the groupings. The function of these kings is to be normative; throughout the epic they are, or attempt to be, the centers of authority.¹¹ If need be, they conciliate, or seek to do so. It is their duty to have order and “fröude” prevail. Elsewhere, kings acquiesce or hide their worries so that harmony and joy may remain unmarred.

Insistence on order and symmetry is also applied in geography: it takes twelve days to travel from Worms to Islant (382), from Bechlaren to the Rhine (1175), from Gran to Worms (1430), and from Worms to the Danube (1515). Time lapses are synchronized also: a decade passes between Kriemhild's departure from and her return to Worms; another ten years pass between her departure for Gran and the visit of the Burgundians.

The order evoked in these symmetrical configurations significantly reflects the principle of order to which the society is committed. Thus seen, the principle of symmetry that lies deeply embedded in the structure of the Nibelungenlied cannot be viewed as so many instances of repetitiousness, but constitutes a compelling maturity. The importance of this orderly principle is supported by the considerations that deal with the pace of the Nibelungenlied.

The epic is at one moment deliberately slow and majestic, then again fast and turbulent. The references to periods of time support this alternation between slackening and quickening of the pace. The two ten-year periods make the epic as a whole chronologically slow. Elsewhere, important events take place within the space of a few days or even less. Towards the end the pace becomes downright furious, the space narrower. The poet frequently resorts to foreshortening devices to indicate coming events. But in contrast to this is the large amount of direct description which slows the narrative. Descriptions of timeconsuming preparations are often detailed, though they do not further the plot, and they are placed so as to give the impression that we are present. They thus appear to consume the full number of days or weeks allotted to the operations themselves. The passages describing the preparations for various festivities or departures, with a richness of detail far in excess of the demands of the story, are typical examples of the poet's method. At first glance, at any rate, many passages seem irrelevant and detachable. To take a well known example, some ten strophes are devoted to Kriemhild's dressing scene in the quarrel episode, but our discussion of it (cf. chapter III, pp. 53 ff.) made it clear that its true significance as a source of insight into Kriemhild's and Brunhild's manner of thinking is not readily apparent.¹² As far as the action of the epic is concerned, the passage adds little. Similarly, strophes dealing with festivities and courtly occasions in general seem to add little or nothing to the development of the plot, and provide a slowing effect. On a somewhat different plane, the poet's “I heard” and “I was told” cooperate to the same effect.

Unlike these descriptions and the narrator's comments, the direct discourse contributes to speed. Panzer speaks of “handelnde Reden in den Gipfeln der Fabel.”¹³ These dialogues are rapid and dynamic because they tend to use verbs of action and because they often allude to the hand as the doer of deeds. In fact, rapidity of dialogue often obscures the course of these interchanges. As a consequence, the characters tend to talk past each other. Misunderstanding is their common failure.¹⁴ Warnings go unheeded and advice is scorned. Only once is this failure to communicate adequately recognized (2333), but the insight comes too late to do any good. What with the tendency of words to go their own stubborn way, it is small wonder that kings seek to impose silence and that the would-be retainers of harmony acquiesce.

Kriemhild and Ute fail to communicate because they fail to define their terms. It is as if each is so introverted in her own thoughts and mold of thinking about love that it does not occur to either of them that the other may be thinking of something else. These misunderstandings are allowed to continue and to warp relationships. Such a failure to clarify lies at the base of the crucial quarrel between the queens.

As Bumke has shown,¹⁵ the participants in the council meeting after the queens' quarrel also talk past each other. They have ears only for their own assumptions and opinions, and it is a bit of an accident that they end with a decision at all. Bumke explains the “vagueness” of the dialogue as due to the various sources with which the poet is working, but viewed from within the epic the conversation is but another example of the inability of the characters to explain themselves.

In this connection, Bumke's suggestion that Ortwin's offer to kill Siegfried (869) is perhaps in one of the sources mentioned by Gernot¹⁶ may be true as far as the sources are concerned, but from the present line of reasoning we can only say that Ortwin was also the more belligerent in the encounter scene (cf. chapter VII, p. 121). During that meeting Ortwin had good reason to feel offended by Siegfried, who taunted him in no vague terms. Stopped by Gernot's command to be silent, Ortwin was at the time unable to make Siegfried pay for his insult. Now, in the council meeting, he seizes the opportunity to square the old account.

These remarks on the pace in the epic show that the poet's art does not fail him when he wants to call upon the reader's capacity to experience things with him. We may think that he works by overt statement rather than by suggestion, yet in the end we find that he has suggested more than the content of his statements. The effect of these statements is cumulative; for instance, as we read from one Aventiure to the next, the sense of everything closing and rushing in upon us produces finally a profound claustrophobia. Looking back, we see the beginning of the “maere,” colorful and gay with its festivals and buhurts. The disappearance of ornament, of clothes and other colorful materials, contributes to this effect by negative suggestion. In the end all that is left of color is the red of blood, and the yellow of gold streaming out of Kriemhild's coffers (cf. 2130).

It could be said that the modification of the poet's sources confirmed this pull in two opposite directions. By selection and addition he has produced a story much more symmetrical than his sources, and he has regularized time and distance to a higher degree than his sources ever warranted. Further instances of symmetry could be cited, but they would not alter our conclusions.

These observations suggest a way of approaching the epic. The symmetry of scene, action, or characterization, the pace of the narrative—now slow and now quickening, the abundance of generalizing details contrasted with pithy concrete descriptions, the predominantly dramatic discourse, all indicate that the Nibelungenlied is not the best work in which to look for delicate characterization. For full delineation of character is not called for in the design; nor is it possible, though this does not prevent our appreciating the many subtle hints which give us insight into the various characters.¹⁷

To suggest, however, that the element of characterization is minor in the epic does not justify turning to the plot and making it the focus of interest. For the epic depends only in part on the virtues that make a good story: swift pace, suspense, variety, intrigue. We encounter all these, but not in all the episodes. The swift pace of one Aventiure may slow down to a crawl in the next; suspense as often as not is toned down by predictory elements liberally sprinkled throughout the many hundreds of strophes; variety, too, often bows out to the repetitive device of parallelism and symmetry; intrigue appears in the actions of some of the characters but not in the poet's method of presentation; the main events are forecast long before they occur. Thus the structure of the epic works against story interest.

If, then, because of the variance between speed and slowness, brevity and length, dialogues and descriptions, pithiness and elaboration, neither characterization nor plot can supply the basis on which the Nibelungenlied is to be read, it seems reasonable to conclude, on the principle that a literary monument should be approached on the basis of its own assumptions, that the epic is centered neither on character nor on plot. We can neither examine nor evaluate it according to canons by which it was not written and which it cannot satisfy. Its very texture, its characters and its action, rather than existing for any great interest in themselves, point to a “representational,” a “metaphorical” method. There is in the epic a close correlation among the elements on this level that gives support to such an approach.

I suggest, then, that the Nibelungenlied presents a poetic pageant,¹⁸ and that its materials are organized in such a way as to contribute to the complex design expressing the nature of the noble life or, in sharp contrast to it, to show how this life can be threatened and is in fact brought to destruction by counter forces. Hagen and Kriemhild may seem to be the embodiments of these counter forces, but actually they work through all the characters. We thus can speak of the Nibelungenlied as the story of a pageant destroyed. It is immediately concerned with noble activities, with pomp, ceremony, dignity, power, love, and chivalry, and with the attempts by the exponents of nobility to invoke perpetually the principle of form and order and fröude. The disruption of this order lies at the heart of the epic. The society depicted in it is one in which form is full of significance. Life here is conducted at a dignified, processional pace, and is itself perhaps a reflection—or rather a reproduction—of the order of the universe. What gives this conception of life its perspective, its depth, and its sometimes frenetic seriousness (see 1893 ff.) is its awareness of a formidable, antagonistic element, an ever threatening danger, even in the moments of supreme assuredness. When the arrival of Siegfried in Worms seems to threaten this mode of life, Gunther refutes his claims by referring to orderly inheritance. This counterforce—not to be identified with any specific individual or individuals¹⁹—falls across the pattern of order, and is exemplified in the sudden turns of plot such as Kriemhild's falcon dream, the bedroom episode, the bear scene,²⁰ or Volker's killing the Hun at Gran's joust.

The descriptive passages support this interpretation of a pageant destroyed, not only in the parts dealing with knighthood in general, but also in the manner in which the antagonistic destructive forces in this life, no matter how represented or suggested, interrupt the leisure of the narrative. At first the interruptions are only momentary—insignificant clouds on the horizon, as in Siegmund's warning to Siegfried not to go to Worms. Then, presently, they become longer and more momentous with Siegfried's frist arrival in Worms and, later, the Saxon war. Ultimately the waves of antagonism follow each other with diminishing intervals, rising higher and higher, until in the end they sweep along all that stands for order and pattern and harmony.

The “hochgeziten” in the epic contribute to the rich texture in the fabric of noble life that the poem presents. That is also the reason why details relating to strength, beauty, and magnificence are in the superlative: they contribute to knightly splendor in all its forms:

Do stuont so minnecliche                    daz Sigmundes kint,
sam er entworfen waere                    an ein permint
von guotes meisters listen,                    als man im jach,
daz man helt deheinen                    nie so scoenen gesach.

There stood the child of Sieglind, handsome as though drawn on parchment by the cunning hand of a master; indeed, it was said that no handsomer hero was ever seen.

In a strophe like this, for example, the description of Siegfried is more than surface ornamentation. It is linked with a score of other passages as an expression of Siegfried's pre-eminence. Beginning with the second Aventiure, all the descriptions of him serve to widen and perpetuate our notion of him as variously the ruler, conqueror, judge, lover, or hunter. Among other details, whether subsequent or not, the splendor of the hoard and the wealth of Santen are directly associated with Siegfried's role.

The establishment of Siegfried's pre-eminence is essential to the meaning of the epic, and it is carried out on the multiple levels characteristic of the poet's whole method of working. There is an obvious correspondence between the quality of these descriptions and Siegfried's position as a central figure. From this vantage point it will not do to suggest that the poet's sympathy lies with the “Germanic” rather than the “courtly” qualities in the epic, or vice versa. The distinction is a false one and works havoc with the endeavor to consider the epic as a homogeneous unit. Attention might be drawn, for instance, to Hildebrand's role in the closing Aventiure. It has been said that his killing of Kriemhild issues from his adherence to “ere” and “triuwe” in the Germanic-heroic sense of those terms. But considering the way Kriemhild has debased kingship by laying waste entire realms, in defiance of her royal obligation to preserve and enhance order, peace, and harmony, Hildebrand's action may be regarded as an act of justice. Seen in this manner, the last Aventiure is to an important degree to be appreciated for its symbolic value.

Similarly, there is no indication that the poet prefers the courtly life as exemplified in love to the courtly life as exemplified in other knightly activities. Siegfried's position suggests that the worship of Mars is no less an important facet of the orderly noble life than is the worship of Venus. To Siegfried goes the honor in the Saxon war as well as the honor in love, and for a while at any rate he comes out on top in a work in which superlatives are used freely, and is the ideal lover, king, judge, warrior, hunter, strong man, and rich man. There is no overt indication that the poet takes a dark view of this hyperbolic Siegfried. Nor, for that matter, does he draw overt moral conclusions about the force that brings Siegfried to destruction. In a literature where death is one of the most powerful instruments of moral exemplum, the poet goes out of his way to stifle any fixing of blame. Here, too, he tries to retain balance.

Love in this society is taken for granted; it is never in debate. We simply discover how faithfully experience in love exemplifies the partial blindness of all earthly experience. Love, we find, can create dissension between relatives, and can make otherwise active men abject. This kind of balance regarding love, if it precludes satire, does not rule out irony. Indeed, irony is fully consonant with the dignified view. No moral preference is expressed or implied in the many views of love that we encounter: Brunhild's, Kriemhild's, Ute's, Siegfried's, Gunther's, Etzel's,²¹ Volker's; Hagen is the only figure who has none. All we can glean from these various types of love is that they create tensions in the very structure of the epic; there is no indication that one type is superior to another. Nor is there indication that a tragic attitude is to be adopted towards any of these loves. The tragedy, if such it may be called, stems from the fact that these loves clash and cause hatreds, and that the hatreds can work themselves out on a gigantic scale because of the power the haters command.

With these views, it becomes possible to suggest that Siegfried and Hagen, Brunhild and Kriemhild, each in his or her way exemplifies legitimate attitudes of equal “value,” and that they balance and supplement each other in providing not moral conflict but variety. To find the real issue in the Nibelungenlied we must therefore look not so much at the relationships between them, but at their common position in relation to the world in which they have their being, that is, the wouldbe orderly and dignified world. And the poet expresses this issue not only through a tension between the ordered structure and the violent ups and downs of the surface narrative—too plainly to be seen to require elaborate analysis—but also through a complication of texture. The impressive patterned edifice of the noble life, its dignity and richness, its regard for law and decorum, its perpetual concern that harmony and “fröude” be retained, all are bulwarks against the ever threatening forces of chaos, and are in constant collision with them. And perhaps the crowning nobility—despite the diesseits orientation of the characters—is situated beyond the grasp of social order, and beyond magnificence in any earthly sense. For in the final strophes of the Nibelungenlied there may lie hidden a perception of order beyond chaos. When the earthly designs have totally crumbled, types of nobility yet remain: Etzel, still the representative of kingship in so far as he sought to avert chaos, and still capable of seeing the justice of his queen's death; Dietrich von Bern, the representative of nobility in its widest sense;²² and Hildebrand, the representative of justice.

Notes

1. Whereas the B* text speaks of the belt “den [Brünhilt] umb ir siten truoc” (636), the C* version changes this to “den si alle zite truoc,” perhaps to make acceptable the notion that Brunhild would wear the belt in bed. Under the circumstances prevailing, Brunhild would indeed be wise to keep the belt on. Regardless of the difference between the versions, the belt would be close at hand, off or on.

2. Mowatt, “Studies,” p. 262.

3. Perhaps Mowatt and Sacker, The Nibelungenlied, p. 27, mean the same thing when they say that “the literary masterpieces of the Middle Ages … arrange historically conditioned elements in patterns of universal validity.” Even so, symbolism as defined here has little in common with symbolism as understood by Mowatt and Sacker. Witness, for instance, their comment on strophe 909: “In one sense, the bear is Brünnhilde, caught by Sifrid, set loose in Burgundian society, captured a second time by Sifrid, and finally rendered harmless. But whereas Brünnhilde was spared penetration and death (see note 459-461), the bear is less gently treated. In another sense, the bear is Sifrid himself, an uncomfortable guest in Burgundian society, a well-meaning disaster (the bear is only trying to run away), and finally a ritual murder victim. And in so far as Sifrid and Brünnhilde are one composite symbol, the bear is the spark in their relationship that Sifrid stamped out.” By definition, of course, natural symbolism cannot be as equivocal as this. In retrospect it may be fair to say that the difference between the thrust of the Commentary and that of the present work lies to an important degree in the different definitions of symbolism.

4. To quote Schwarze, “Die Frau,” 389, note 6: “Diese Formel kehrt in der Poesie jener Zeit häufig wieder; vgl. Sanct Oskars Leben, 577; Tristan, 484, 36; Aucassin und Nicolete, 26, 11: ‘ses blances mains'; Tristan, 256, 10 findet sich auch ‘liehte hende.’”

5. The adjective “wise” in 1069 may be simply to fill out the meter.

6. On Christianity in the epic, see, e.g., A. Schönbach, “Die Nibelungen,” in: Das Christentum in der altdeutschen Heldendichtung (Graz, 1897); Nagel, “Heidentum und Christentum,” Der Horizont, II (1957), 27-37; idem, “Heidnisches und Christliches im Nibelungenlied,” Ruperto-Carola, x (1958), XXIV, 61-81; Hans Kuhn, “Heldensage und Christentum,” [Studies in Philology] (1960), 515-24; Weber, Das Nibelungenlied, pp. 125 ff.; Nagel, Das Nibelungenlied, pp. 208 ff.

7. On honor in the epic, see, e.g., Jones, “Rüdiger's Dilemma”; Mueller, The Nibelungenlied Today, pp. 9 ff.; H. Naumann, “Die Ritter-Ehre der Stauferzeit,” Euphorion, XLII (1947).

8. Panzer, Das Nibelungenlied, p. 131.

9. Wachinger, Studien, p. 95.

10. Dürrenmatt, Das Nibelungenlied, p. 93.

11. Not necessarily in contradiction to this, Weber, Das Nibelungenlied, p. 83, speaks of the obvious “Abwertung der Königsgestalten.”

12. This can also be said of the hunt in the sixteenth Aventiure. But see Singer, “The Hunting Contest.”

13. Panzer, Das Nibelungenlied, p. 132.

14. If the Nibelungenlied were a story centering around the delineation of character, this perpetual misunderstanding and the habitual inadequacy of language as a tool of communication would lead to the Kafkaesque conclusion that each individual stands in isolation. Mowatt and Sacker, The Nibelungenlied, p. 7, speak of “a whole series of unperceptive characters in the work.”

15. Bumke, “Quellen,” pp. 18 ff.

16. Ibid., p. 20. Incidentally, there is little Germanic about Ortwin's—or Kriemhild's—long nurtured thirst for revenge.

17. Weber, Das Nibelungenlied, p. 195: “Es geht nicht um einzelne konkrete Gestalten, sondern um viel mehr: um Schicksale und Mächte als die in der Tiefe herrschenden Gewalten, und noch mehr: es geht weiterhin um das geistige Objekt dieser Schicksale und dieser Mächte des Untergründigen. Dieses geistige Objekt aber, dessen sich die Finsternis bemächtigt, ist das Rittertum.”

18. Singer, “The Hunting Contest,” p. 167, finds that the term “pageant” suggests itself for the hunting scene, and on p. 169 he makes a statement which this chapter suggests to be applicable to the epic as a whole: “The … pageant is constantly subject to abrupt termination.”

19. Mergell, Nibelungenlied, p. 321, for one, thinks that “es dem Dichter darauf ankommt … den Endkampf nicht als Anstiftung eines einzelnen (sei er Hunne oder Burgunder, Heide oder Christ, König oder Mann), sondern mit der zwingenden Gewalt des Naturereignisses hereinbrechen zu lassen.” It would seem, however, in contrast to Mergell that Hagen is also a victim of this “Gewalt des Naturereignisses.”

20. This suggestion does not contradict the statements made on this scene by Singer in “The Hunting Contest.”

21. Nagel, Das Nibelungenlied, pp. 84 ff., sees no difference between Gunther's love for Brunhild and Etzel's for Kriemhild. Many critics share this opinion. Mowatt and Sacker, for instance, throughout their Commentary see Etzel as a figure whose sexual drive, and little else, determines his relation to Kriemhild. It would seem, however, that Etzel comes to achieve a type of maze. The thought whether he “‘sol … Kriemhild immer geligen bi’” / “‘should ever be loved by Kriemhild’” (1151) plays a role as well as the question “‘ob si in [sinem] lande krone solde tragen’” / “‘whether she should wear a crown in [his] land’” (1149). Elsewhere we read that “si was im als sin lip” / “he loved her as his own life” (1400) and that “getriuwe was sin muot” / “his mind was faithful” (1402)—statements that are not applied to Gunther. And verses like these:

    Kriemhilt mit ir vrouwen                    in diu venster gesaz
                                                      zuo Etzel dem richen;                    vil liep
    was im daz.

    Kriemhild with her ladies sat in the windows beside the mighty Etzel; this pleased him much.

    convey Etzel's balanced orientation, in which there is room for warmth as well as satisfaction in Kriemhild's ability to be a consort.

22. See Nagel, “Dietrichbild,” parts I and II.

Bibliography

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———The Nibelungenlied: Translated, London/New York, 1962

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