declamation is a fine example of Wagner’s finest vocal writing at this period—­the style which I have referred to as something between recitative and true song.  That is, it remains metrical without the slightest tendency to fall into regular four-bar measure, or any other regular measure; yet it decidedly is not recitative.  But as the prevailing mood becomes more exalted, so does the music become more lyrical, and the ending of the dialogue, when Bruennhilda’s emotion swamps every other consideration than rescuing the lovers, is sheer song.  The orchestral part is symphonic throughout, with a few dramatic pauses.  One of the most wonderful of these is at Bruennhilda’s reply:  “Siegmund will see Sieglinda no more.”  There is no wailing, no sadness, in the accompaniment—­only simple chords; and the simple voice-phrase, evidently intended to be half-spoken, makes an effect of overwhelming pathos.  Of a different order is Siegmund’s refusal to go to Valhalla:  it verges on the melodramatic, and the emotion expressed justifies the means.  It may be remarked that though the instrumental writing is symphonic, there is none of the contrapuntal intricacy of Tristan:  the pictorial requirement warranted a freer use of chords in the accompanying parts, both—­if a paradoxical phrase may be pardoned—­for the abstract colour of the chords and for the instrumental tone colour which the use of chords permitted.  Wagner never ceases to make us feel that the drama passes amidst the wild mountains and woods:  the drama is poignant enough in all conscience, and the scenery is an aid to it.  We have the purely pictorial Wagner with the gathering storm—­the voices calling amongst the clouds.  The sinister growling of the approaching thunder is heard, and, still more sinister, the harsh notes of Hunding’s horn; the orchestra rages louder and louder, Sieglinda mutters in her dream, the Valkyrie’s call is heard encouraging Siegmund, the crash as the Sword is splintered, and then an awful silence.  The action has been long delayed, but the catastrophe arrives with appalling swiftness at the end, and the music is equal to the opportunity.  It is not wholly theatre music:  that passage in the bass, galloping up and down the scale against a tremolando accompaniment, is in itself fine music; even Hunding’s rough cow-horn makes a musical effect.  When Wotan’s fury breaks forth and he rides off in godlike wrath—­even here the music is glorious, taken simply as music.  Had all the Ring been done with the superb mastery of this and the preceding Act, we should have an art creation to be set above every other art achievement in the world—­above anything done by AEschylus, Sophocles and Shakespeare.

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