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tle: Parsifal

ory and Analysis of Wagner's Great Opera

uthor: H. R. Haweis

elease Date: January 4, 2007 [eBook #20264]

anguage: English

haracter set encoding: ISO-8859-1

**START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARSIFAL***

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Richard Wagner

PARSIFAL



Story and Analysis of

Wagner's Great Opera

By

H. R. HAWEIS

Author of "My Musical Memories," "Music and Morals," etc.

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY

NEW YORK AND LONDON

1905

OTE —

is story and analysis of Parsifal was

rst published as a part of Mr. Haweis'll-known work, "My Musical Memories."

e interest it has excited

ems to justify its republication at

is time in a separate volume.

& W. Co.

blished, February, 1904



CONTENTS

WAHNFRIED 5

PARSIFAL 10

ACT I 18

ACT II 41

ACT III 55

WHEN THE CURTAIN FELL 67



ILLUSTRATIONS

Portrait of Richard

Wagner Frontispiece

Parsifal andGurnemanz Passing

Through the Ravine

(Act I)

30

The Great Hall of the

Holy Grail (Act I)36

Parsifal Entering theGrail Castle in

Triumph (Act III)

62



WAHNFRIED

visited Bayreuth on the 24th of July, 1883, and attended two crowded

erformances of Wagner's last work, Parsifal . In the morning I went in

e beautiful gardens of the Neue Schloss. On either side of a lake, upohich float a couple of swans and innumerable water-lilies, the long

arklike avenue of trees are vocal with wild doves, and the robin is he

the adjoining thickets. At my approach the sweet song ceases abrup

nd the startled bird flies out, scattering the pale petals of the wild ros

pon my path. I follow a stream of people on foot, as they move down

ft-hand avenue in the garden of the Neue Schloss, which adjoins

Wagner's own grounds.

ome are going—some are coming. Presently I see an opening in the

ushes on my left; the path leads me to a clump of evergreens. I follow

nd come suddenly on the great composer's grave. All about the green

uare mound the trees are thick—laurel, fir, and yew. The shades fall

nereally across the immense gray granite slab; but over the dark foli

e sky is bright blue, and straight in front of me, above the low bushen see the bow-windows of the dead master's study—where I spent w

m one delightful evening in 1876.

can see, too, the jet of water that he loved playing high above the hed

f evergreen. It lulls me with its sound. "Wahnfried! Wahnfried!" it

ems to murmur. It was the word written above the master's house—t

ord he most loved—the word his tireless spirit most believed in. Howall I render it? "Dream-life! dream-life! Earth's illusion of joy!"

reat spirit! thy dream-life here is past, and, face to face with truth, "r

om the fickle and the frail," for thee the illusion has vanished! Maye

ou also know the fulness of joy in the unbroken and serene activities

e eternal Reality!



visited the grave twice. There is nothing written on the granite slab.

here were never present less than twenty persons, and a constant stre

f pilgrims kept coming and going.

ne gentle token of the master's pitiful and tender regard for the faithf

umb animals he so loved lies but a few feet off in the same garden, a

ot far from his own grave.

pon a mossy bank, surrounded with evergreens, is a small marble sla

ith this inscription to his favorite dog:

Here lies in peace 'Wahnfried's' faithful watcher and friend—the goo

nd beautiful Mark " (der gute, schöne Mark)!

returned, too, to Wagner's tomb, plucked a branch of the fir-tree thataved above it, and went back to my room to prepare myself by readin

nd meditation for the great religious drama which I was to witness at

ur o'clock in the afternoon—Wagner's latest and highest inspiration—

e story of the sacred brotherhood, the knights of San Graal— Parsifa



PARSIFAL

he blood of God!—mystic symbol of divine life—"for the blood is th

fe thereof." That is the key-note of Parsifal , the Knight of the Sangra

Wine is the ready symbolical vehicle—the material link between thevine and the human life. In the old religions, that heightened

onsciousness, that intensity of feeling produced by stimulant, was

ought to be the very entering in of the "god"—the union of the divin

nd human spirit; and in the Eleusinian mysteries, the "sesame," the

ead of Demeter, the earth mother, and the "kykeon," or wine of

ionysos, the vine god, were thus sacramental.

he passionate desire to approach and mingle with Deity is the one

ystic bond common to all religions in all lands. It is the "cry of the

uman;" it traverses the ages, it exhausts many symbols and transcend

l forms.

o the Christian it is summed up in the "Lord's Supper."

he medieval legend of the Sangrail (real or royal blood) is the most

oetic and pathetic form of transubstantiation; in it the gross materiali

f the Roman Mass almost ceases to be repulsive; it possesses the true

gendary power of attraction and assimilation.

s the Knights of the Table Round, with their holy vows, provided

edieval Chivalry with a center, so did the Lord's table, with its Sangr

ovide medieval Religion with its central attractive point. And as all

arvelous tales of knightly heroism circled round King Arthur's table

d the great legends embodying the Christian conceptions of sin,

unishment, and redemption circle round the Sangrail and the sacrific

e "Mass."

the legends of Parsifal and Lohengrin the knightly and religious

ements are welded together. This is enough. We need approach Pars



ith no deep knowledge of the various Sagas made use of by Wagner i

s drama. His disciples, while most eager to trace its various element

eir sources, are most emphatic in declaring that the Parsifal drama,

timately true to the spirit of Roman Catholicism, is nevertheless a n

eation.

seph of Arimathea received in a crystal cup the blood of Christ as itowed from the spear-wound made by the Roman soldier. The cup an

e spear were committed to Titurel, who became a holy knight and he

f a sacred brotherhood of knights. They dwelt in the Visigoth Mounta

f Southern Spain, where, amid impenetrable forests, rose the legenda

alace of Montsalvat. Here they guarded the sacred relics, issuing fort

mes from their palatial fortress, like Lohengrin, to fight for innocenc

nd right, and always returning to renew their youth and strength by thlestial contemplation of the Sangrail, and by occasional participatio

e holy feast.

me and history count for very little in these narratives. It was allowe

owever, that Titurel the Chief had grown extremely aged, but it was n

lowed that he could die in the presence of the Sangrail. He seemed to

ave been laid in a kind of trance, resting in an open tomb beneath thetar of the Grail; and whenever the cup was uncovered his voice migh

e heard joining in the celebration. Meanwhile, Amfortas, his son,

igned in his stead.

ontsalvat, with its pure, contemplative, but active brotherhood, and

ystic cup, thus stands out as the poetic symbol of all that is highest a

est in medieval Christianity.

he note of the wicked world—Magic for Devotion—Sensuality for

Worshipbreaks in upon our vision, as the scene changes from the Hall

ontsalvat to Klingsor's palace. Klingsor, an impure knight, who has

een refused admittance to the order of the "Sangrail," enters into a

ompact with the powers of evil—by magic acquires arts of diabolical

scination—fills his palace and gardens with enchantments, and wage



tter war against the holy knights, with a view of corrupting them, an

timately, it may be, of acquiring for himself the "Sangrail," in which

ower is believed to reside. Many knights have already succumbed to

nsidious arts" of Klingsor; but the tragical turning-point of the Parsif

that Amfortas, himself the son of Titurel, the official guardian of th

rail, in making war upon the magician, took with him the sacred spe

nd lost it to Klingsor.

came about in this way. A woman of unearthly loveliness won him i

e enchanted bowers adjoining the evil knight's palace, and Klingsor,

izing the holy spear, thrust it into Amfortas's side, inflicting what

emed an incurable wound. The brave knight, Gurnemanz, dragged hi

aster fainting from the garden, his companions of the Sangrail cover

eir retreat. But, returned to Montsalvat, the unhappy king awakes onbewail his sin, the loss of the sacred spear, and the ceaseless harrow

mart of an incurable wound. But who is Parsifal?

he smell of pine woods in July! The long avenue outside the city of ayreuth, that leads straight up the hill, crowned by the Wagner Theat

noble structure—architecturally admirable—severe, simple, but exa

dapted to its purpose. I join the stream of pilgrims, some in carriages

hers on foot. As we approach, a clear blast of trombones and brass fr

e terrace in front of the grand entrance plays out the Grail "motive."

the well-known signal—there is no time to be lost. I enter at the

escribed door, and find myself close to my appointed place. Every o

—such is the admirable arrangement—seems to do likewise. In a few

inutes about one thousand persons are seated without confusion. The

eater is darkened, the footlights are lowered, the prelude begins.



Act I

he waves of sound rise from the shadowy gulf sunken between the

udience and the footlights. Upon the sound ocean of "wind" the "Take

t," or "Love-feast" motive floats. Presently the strings pierce througe Spear motive follows, and then, full of heavy pain, "Drink ye all of

is," followed by the famous Grail motive—an old chorale also used

endelssohn in the Reformation Symphony. Then comes the noble Fa

nd Love theme.

s I sit in the low light, amid the silent throng, and listen, I need no

terpreter—I am being placed in possession of the emotional key-notf the drama. Every subject is first distinctly enunciated, and then all a

ondrously blended together. There is the pain of sacrifice—the ment

gony, the bodily torture; there are the alternate pauses of Sorrow and

spite from sorrow long drawn out, the sharp ache of Sin, the glimpse

f unhallowed Joy, the strain of upward Endeavor, the serene peace of

aith and Love, crowned by the blessed Vision of the Grail. 'Tis past. T

elude melts into the opening recitative.

he eyes have now to play their part. The curtain rises, the story begin

he morning breaks slowly, the gray streaks redden, a lovely summer

ndscape lies bathed in primrose light. Under the shadow of a noble tr

e aged knight. Gurnemanz, has been resting with two young attendan

om the neighboring halls of Montsalvat the solemn reveillé —the Gr

otive—rings out, and all three sink on their knees in prayer. The sunursts forth in splendor as the hymn rises to mingle with the voices of

niversal nature. The waves of sound well up and fill the soul with

nspeakable thankfulness and praise.

he talk is of Amfortas, the king, and of his incurable wound. A wild

allop, a rush of sound—and a weird woman, with streaming hair, spri

ward the startled group. She bears a phial with rare balsam from the



rabian shores. It is for the king's wound. Who is the wild horsewoma

undry—strange creation—a being doomed to wander, like the

Wandering Jew, the wild Huntsman, or Flying Dutchman, always seek

deliverance she can not find—Kundry, who, in ages gone by, met the

avior on the road to Calvary and derided him. Some say she was

erodias's daughter. Now filled with remorse, yet weighted with sinfu

ngings, she serves by turns the Knights of the Grail, then falls underell of Klingsor, the evil knight sorcerer, and, in the guise of an

nchantress, is compelled by him to seduce, if possible, the Knights of

e Grail.

ernal symbol of the divided allegiance of a woman's soul! She it wa

ho, under the sensual spell, as an incarnation of loveliness, overcame

mfortas, and she it is now who, in her ardent quest for salvation,hanged and squalid in appearance, serves the Knights of the Grail, an

eks to heal Amfortas's wound!

o sooner has she delivered her balsam to the faithful Gurnemanz, an

rown herself exhausted upon the grass—where she lies gnawing her

air morosely—than a change in the sound atmosphere, which never

ases to be generated in the mystic orchestral gulf, presages thepproach of Amfortas.

e comes, borne on a litter, to his morning bath in the shining lake ha

y. Sharp is the pain of the wound—weary and hopeless is the king.

hrough the Wound-motive comes the sweet woodland music and the

eath of the blessed morning, fragrant with flowers and fresh with de

is one of those incomparable bursts of woodland notes, full of bird-ng and the happy hum of insect life and rustling of netted branches a

aving of long tasseled grass. I know of nothing like it save the forest

usic in Siegfried .

he sick king listens, and remembers words of hope and comfort that

om a heavenly voice, what time the glory of the Grail passed:



"Durch Mitleid wissend

Der reine Thor,

Harre sein

Den ich erkor."

[Wait for my chosen one,

Guileless and innocent,Pity-enlightened.]

hey hand him the phial of balsam; and presently, while the lovely for

usic again breaks forth, the king is carried on to his bath, and Kundr

urnemanz, and the two esquires hold the stage.

s the old knight, who is a complete repertory of facts connected withrail tradition, unfolds to the esquires the nature of the king's wound,

rceries of Klingsor, the hope of deliverance from some unknown

uileless one," a sudden cry breaks up the situation.

white swan, pierced by an arrow, flutters dying to the ground. It is th

wan beloved of the Grail brotherhood, bird of fair omen, symbol of

otless purity. The slayer is brought in between two knights—a stalwouth, fearless, unabashed, while the death-music of the swan, the slow

stilling and stiffening of its life-blood, is marvelously rendered by th

chestra. Conviction of his fault comes over the youth as he listens to

e reproaches of Gurnemanz. He hangs his head ashamed and peniten

nd at last, with a sudden passion of remorse, snaps his bow and flings

ide. The swan is borne off, and Parsifal, the "guileless one" (for he i

), with Gurnemanz and Kundry—who rouses herself and surveysarsifal with strange, almost savage curiosity—hold the stage.

this scene Kundry tells the youth more than he cares to hear about

mself: how his father, Gamuret, was a great knight killed in battle; h

s mother, Herzeleide (Heart's Affliction), fearing a like fate for her s

ought him up in the lonely forest; how he left her to follow a troop o

nights that he met one day winding through the forest glade, and bein



d on and on in pursuit of them, never overtook them and never return

his mother, Heart's Affliction, who died of grief. At this point the

antic youth seizes Kundry by the throat in an agony of rage and grief

ut is held back by Gurnemanz, till, worn out by the violence of his

motion, he faints away, and is gradually revived by Kundry and

urnemanz.

uddenly, Kundry rises with a wild look, like one under a spell. Her m

f service is over. She staggers across the stage—she can hardly keep

wake. "Sleep," she mutters, "I must sleep—sleep!" and falls down in

f those long trances which apparently last for months, or years, and f

e transition periods between her mood of Grail service and the Kling

avery into which she must next relapse in spite of herself.

nd is this the guileless one? This wild youth who slays the fair swan—

ho knows not his own name nor whence he comes, nor whither he go

or what are his destinies? The old knight eyes him curiously—he wil

ut him to the test. This youth had seen the king pass once—he had

arked his pain. Was he "enlightened by pity"? Is he the appointed

eliverer? The old knight now invites him to the shrine of the Grail.

What is the Grail?" asks the youth. Truly a guileless, innocent one! yave and pure knight, since he has known no evil, and so readily repe

f a fault committed in ignorance.

urnemanz is strangely drawn to him. He shall see the Grail, and in th

oly Palace, what time the mystic light streams forth and the assembl

nights bow themselves in prayer, the voice which comforted Amforta

all speak to his deliverer and bid him arise and heal the king.

urnemanz and Parsifal have ceased to speak. They stand in the glowi

ght of the summer-land. The tide of music rolls on continuously, but

unds more strange and dreamy.



it a cloud passing over the sky? There seems to be a shuddering in t

anches—the light fades upon yonder sunny woodlands—the foregro

arkens apace. The whole scene is moving, but so slowly that it seems

hange like a dissolving view. I see the two figures of Gurnemanz and

arsifal moving through the trees—they are lost behind yonder rock.

hey emerge farther off—higher up. The air grows very dim; the

chestra peals louder and louder. I lose the two in the deepeningwilight. The forest is changing, the land is wild and mountainous. Hu

alleries and arcades, rock-hewn, loom through the dim forest; but all

owing dark. I listen to the murmurs of the "Grail," the "Spear," the

Pain," the "Love and Faith" motives—hollow murmurs, confused,

oating out of the depths of lonely caves. Then I have a feeling of voi

nd darkness, and there comes a sighing as of a soul swooning away in

ance, and a vision of waste places and wild caverns; and then through

e confused dream I hear the solemn boom of mighty bells, only

uffled. They keep time as to some ghastly march. I strain my eyes in

e thick gloom before me. Is it a rock, or forest, or palace?

s the light returns slowly, a hall of more than Alhambralike splendor

pens before me. My eyes are riveted on the shining pillars of variega

arble, the tessellated pavements, the vaulted roof glowing with gold

olor; beyond, arcades of agate columns, bathed in a misty moonlight

nd lost in a bewildering perspective of halls and corridors.



Copyright, 1903, by Pach Bros., N. Y.

PARSIFAL AND GURNEMANZ PASSING THROUGH TH

hear the falling of distant water in marble fonts; the large bells of

ontsalvat peal louder and louder, and to music of unimaginable

ateliness the knights, clad in the blue and red robes of the Grail, entelemn procession, and take their seats at two semicircular tables whi

art like arms to the right and left of the holy shrine. Beneath it lies

turel entranced, and upon it is presently deposited the sacred treasur

e Grail itself.

s the wounded King Amfortas is borne in, the assembled knights, eac

anding in his place, a golden cup before him, intone the Grail motive



hich is taken up by the entering choruses of servitors and esquires

earing the holy relics.

urnemanz is seated among knights; Parsifal stands aside and looks o

ute astonishment, "a guileless one."

s the Holy Grail is set down on the altar before the wounded king, a

urst of heavenly music streams from the high dome—voices of angel

tone the celestial phrases, "Take, eat " and "This is my blood!" and bl

em with the "faith and love" motives. As the choruses die away, the

oice of the entranced Titurel is heard from beneath the altar calling u

mfortas, his son, to uncover the Grail, that he may find refreshment

fe in the blessed vision.

hen follows a terrible struggle in the breast of Amfortas. He, sore

ricken in sin, yet Guardian of the Grail, guilty among the guiltless,

ppressed with pain, bowed down with shame, craving for restoration,

verwhelmed with unworthiness, yet chosen to stand and minister befo

e Lord on behalf of His saints! Pathetic situation, which must in all

mes repeat itself in the history of the Church. The unworthiness of th

inister affects not the validity of his consecrated acts. Yet what agonf mind must many a priest have suffered, himself oppressed with sin

oubt, while dispensing the means of grace, and acting as a minister an

eward of the mysteries!

he marvelous piece of self-analysis in which the conscience-stricken

ng bewails his lot as little admits of description here as the music

hich embodies his emotion.

t the close of it angel voices seem floating in midair, sighing the my

ords:

"Durch Mitleid wissend

Der reine Thor,

Harre sein



Den ich erkor."

[Wait for my chosen one,

Guileless and innocent,

Pity-enlightened.]

nd immediately afterward the voice of Titurel, like one turningstlessly in his sleep, comes up from his living tomb beneath the altar

Uncover the Grail!"

With trembling hands the sick king raises himself, and with a great eff

aggers toward the shrine—the covering is removed—he takes the

ystal cup—he raises it on high—the blood is dark—the light begins

de in the hall—a mist and dimness come over the scene—we seem te assisting at a shadowy ceremony in a dream—the big bells are tolli

—the heavenly choirs from above the dome, which is now bathed in

wilight, are heard: " Drink ye all of this!" Amfortas raises on high the

ystal vase—the knights fall on their knees in prayer. Suddenly a fain

emor of light quivers in the crystal cup—then the blood grows ruby r

r a moment. Amfortas waves it to and fro—the knights gaze in ecsta

doration. Titurel's voice gathers strength in his tomb:

"Celestial rapture:

How streams the light upon the face of God!"

he light fades slowly out of the crystal cup—the miracle is

complished. The blood again grows dark—the light of common day

turns to the halls of Montsalvat, and the knights resume their seats, tnd each one his golden goblet filled with wine.

uring the sacred repast which follows, the brotherhood join hands an

mbrace, singing:

"Blessed are they that believe;

Blessed are they that love!"



nd the refrain is heard again far up in the heights, reechoed by the

ngelic hosts.


THE GREAT HALL OF THE HOLY GRAIL

ooked round upon the silent audience while these astonishing scenes



ere passing before me; the whole assembly was motionless—all seem

be awed by the august spectacle—seemed almost to share in the dev

ontemplation and trancelike worship of the holy knights. Every thoug

f the stage had vanished—nothing was further from my own thoughts

an play-acting. I was sitting as I should sit at an oratorio, in devout a

pt contemplation. Before my eyes had passed a symbolic vision of

ayer and ecstasy, flooding the soul with overpowering thoughts of thvine sacrifice and the mystery of unfathomable love.

he hall of Montsalvat empties. Gurnemanz strides excitedly up to

arsifal, who stands stupefied with what he has seen—

"Why standest thou silent?

Knowest thou what thine eyes have seen?"

he "guileless one" shakes his head. "Nothing but a fool!" exclaims

urnemanz, angrily; and, seizing Parsifal by the shoulder, he pushes h

ughly out of the hall, with:

"Be off! look after thy geese,

And henceforth leave our swans in peace."

he Grail vision had, then, taught the "guileless one" nothing. He coul

ot see his mission—he was as yet unawakened to the deeper life of th

irit; tho blameless and unsullied, he was still the "natural man."

ofound truth! that was not first which was spiritual, but that which w

atural; before Parsifal wins a spiritual triumph, he must be spiritually

ed; his inner life must be deepened and developed, else he can never

ad aright the messege of the Grail.

he life of God in the spirit comes only when the battle for God in the

eart has been fought and won.



are forth, thou guileless one! thou shalt yet add to the simplicity of th

ove the wisdom of the serpent. Thou art innocent because ignorant; b

ou shalt be weighed anon in the balance and not be found wanting; a

en shalt thou reconquer the holy spear lost in Sin, rewon in Purity an

acrifice, and be to the frail Amfortas the chosen savior for whom he

aits.

he foregoing events occupied about an hour and a quarter. When the

urtain fell the vast audience broke up in silence.

he air outside was cool and balmy. In the distance lay the city of ayreuth, with the tower of the Alte Schloss and the old church standi

p gray against the distant Bavarian hills. All around us lay the pine

oods, broken by the lawns and avenues that encircle the theater and

mbower it in a secluded world of its own—even as the Palace of the

rail was shut off from the profane world. Here, indeed, is truly the

ontsalvat of the modern drama—a spot purified and sacred to the

ghest aims and noblest manifestations of Art.

about an hour the Spear motive was the signal blown on the wind

struments outside, and I took my seat for the second act.



Act II

restless, passion-tossed prelude. The "Grail" subject distorted, the

Spear" motive thrust in discordant, the "Faith and Love" theme flutte

ke a wounded dove in pain, fierce bursts of passion, wild shocks of ncontrolled misery, mingling with the "carnal joy" music of Klingsor

agic garden and the shuddering might of his alchemy.

he great magician, Klingsor, is seen alone in his dungeon palace—ha

ontrast to the gorgeous halls of Montsalvat. Here all is built of the liv

ck, an impenetrable fastness, the home of devilish might and terrible

ells.

lingsor is aware of the coming struggle, and he means to be ready fo

e owns the sacred spear wrested from Amfortis; he even aspires to w

e Grail; he knows the "guileless one" is on his way to wrest that spea

om him. His only hope is in paralyzing the fool by his enchantments

e paralyzed Amfortis, and the same woman will serve his turn.

Kundry!" The time is come, the spells are woven—blue vapors rise, a

the midst of the blue vapors the figure of the still sleeping Kundry i

en. She wakes, trembling violently; she knows she is again under the

ell she abhors—the spell to do evil, the mission to corrupt. With a

uddering scream she stands before her tormentor, denying his power

athing to return to her vile mission, yet returning, as with a bitter cry

e vanishes from his presence.

arsifal has invaded Klingsor's realm; the evil knights have fled befor

s prowess, wounded and in disorder. Kundry is commissioned to me

e guileless youth in the enchanted garden, and, all other allurements

iling, to subdue him by her irresistible fascinations and hand him ov

Klingsor.

a moment the scenery lifts, and a garden of marvelous beauty and



xtent lies before us. The flowers are all of colossal dimensions—hug

ses hang in tangled festoons, the cactus, the lily, the blue-bell, creep

nd orchids of enormous size and dazzling color wave in midair, and

imb the aromatic trees.

n a bright hill appears Parsifal, standing bewildered by the light and

veliness around him. Beautiful girls dressed like flowers, and hardlystinguishable from them at first, rush in, bewailing their wounded an

sabled knights, but, on seeing Parsifal, fall upon their new prey, and

rrounding him, sing verse after verse of the loveliest ballet music,

hile trying to embrace him, and quarreling with each other for the

ivilege.

bout that wonderful chorus of flower-girls there was just a suggestivuch of the Rhine maidens' singing. It belonged to the same school of

ought and feeling, but was freer, wilder—more considerable, and

together more complex and wonderful in its changes and in the

arvelous confusion in which it breaks up.

he "guileless one" resists these charmers, and they are just about to

ave him in disgust, when the roses lift on one side, and, stretched onossy bank overhung with flowers, appears a woman of unearthly

veliness. It is Kundry transformed, and in the marvelous duet which

llows between her and Parsifal, a perfectly new and original type of

ve duet is struck out—an analysis of character, unique in musical

ama—a combination of sentiment and a situation absolutely novel,

hich could only have been conceived and carried out by a creative

enius of the highest order.

rst, I note that the once spellbound Kundry is devoted utterly to her t

f winning Parsifal. Into this she throws all the intensity of her wild an

esperate nature; but in turn she is strangely affected by the spiritual

mosphere of the "guileless one"—a feeling comes over her, in the m

f her witchcraft passion, that he is in some way to be her savior too; y

omanlike, she conceives of her salvation as possible only in union w



m. Yet was this the very crime to which Klingsor would drive her fo

e ruin of Parsifal. Strange confusion of thought, feeling, aspiration,

nging—struggle of irreconcilable elements! How shall she reconcile

em? Her intuition fails her not, and her tact triumphs. She will win b

ealing his love through his mother's love. A mother's love is holy; th

ve she tells him of. It can never more be his; but she will replace it,

assion shall be sanctified by it; through that passion she has sinned,rough it she, too, shall be redeemed. She will work out her own

lvation by the very spells that are upon her for evil. He is pure—he

all make her pure, can she but win him; both, by the might of such p

ve, will surely be delivered from Klingsor, the corrupter, the tormen

atuous dream! How, through corruption, win incorruption? How,

rough indulgence, win peace and freedom from desire? It is the old

heat of the senses—Satan appears as an angel of light. The thought

eludes the unhappy Kundry herself; she is no longer consciously

orking for Klingsor; she really believes that this new turn, this bias

ven to passion, will purify both her and the guileless, pure fool she

eks to subdue.

othing can describe the subtlety of their long interview, the surprisin

rns of sentiment and contrasts of feeling. Throughout this scene

arsifal's instinct is absolutely true and sure. Everything Kundry says

bout his mother, Herzeleide, he feels; but every attempt to make him

cept her instead he resists. Her desperate declamation is splendid. H

eartrending sense of misery and piteous prayer for salvation, her beli

at before her is her savior could she but win him to her will, the

hoking fury of baffled passion, the steady and subtle encroachmentsade while Parsifal is lost in a meditative dream, the burning kiss wh

calls him to himself, the fine touch by which this kiss, while arousin

him the stormiest feelings, causes a sharp pain, as of Amfortas's ow

ound, piercing his very heart—all this is realistic, if you will, but it i

alism raised to the sublime.

uddenly Parsifal springs up, hurls the enchantress from him, will fort



om Klingsor's realm. She is baffled—she knows it; for a moment she

ars his passage, then succumbs; the might of sensuality which lost

mfortas the sacred spear has been met and defeated by the guileless

ol. He has passed from innocence to knowledge in his interview with

e flower-girt girls, in his long converse with Kundry, in her insidiou

mbrace, in her kiss; but all these are now thrust aside; he steps forth s

nconquered, still "guileless," but no more "a fool." The knowledge ofood and evil has come, but the struggle is already passed.

Yes, sinner, I do offer thee Redemption," he can say to Kundry; "not

y way, but in thy Lord Christ's way of sacrifice!"

ut the desperate creature, wild with passion, will listen to no reason;

outs aloud to her master, and Klingsor suddenly appears, poising thecred spear. In another moment he hurls it right across the enchanted

arden at Parsifal. It can not wound the guileless and pure one as it

ounded the sinful Amfortas. A miracle! It hangs arrested in air abov

arsifal's head; he seizes it—it is the sacred talisman, one touch of wh

ill heal even as it inflicted the king's deadly wound.

With a mighty cry and the shock as of an earthquake, the castle of lingsor falls shattered to pieces, the garden withers up to a desert, th

rls, who have rushed in, lie about among the fading flowers, themsel

ithered up and dead. Kundry sinks down in a deathly swoon, while

arsifal steps over a ruined wall and disappears, saluting her with the

ords: "Thou alone knowest when we shall meet again!"

he long shadows were stealing over the hills when I came out at the

cond pause. Those whom I met and conversed with were subdued an

wed. What a solemn tragedy of human passion we had been assisting

ot a heart there but could interpret that struggle between the flesh an

e spirit from its own experiences. Not one but knew the desperately



icked and deceitful temptations that come like enchantresses in the

izard's garden, to plead the cause of the devil in the language of high

own sentiment or even religious feeling.

aise and criticism seemed dumb; we rather walked and spoke of wha

e had just witnessed like men convinced of judgment, and

ghteousness, and sin. It was a strange mood in which to come out of eater after witnessing what would commonly be called an "Opera." I

lt more than ever the impossibility of producing the Parsifal in Lond

Drury Lane or Covent Garden, before a well-dressed company of

ungers, who had well dined, and were on their way to balls and supp

terward.

would as soon see the Oberammergau play at a music-hall.

o; in Parsifal all is solemn, or all is irreverent. At Bayreuth we came

pilgrimage; it cost us time, and trouble, and money; we were in earn

—so were the actors; the spirit of the great master who had planned ev

etail seemed still to preside over all; the actors lived in their parts; no

ought of self remained; no one accepted applause or recall; no one

med at producing a personal effect; the actors were lost in the dramand it was the drama and not the actors which has impressed and

lemnized us. When I came out they asked me who was Amfortas? I

ot know. I said "the wounded king."

s the instruments played out the Faith and Love motive for us to reen

e mellow sunshine broke once more from the cloud-rack over city, a

eld, and forest, before sinking behind the long low range of the distanlls.



Act III

he opening prelude of the third and last act seems to warn me of the

pse of time. The music is full of pain and restlessness—the pain of

retched years of long waiting for a deliverer, who comes not; thestlessness and misery of a hope deferred, the weariness of life witho

ngle joy. The motives, discolored as it were by grief, work up to a

storted version of the Grail subject, which breaks off as with a cry o

espair.

the Grail, too, then turned into a mocking spirit to the unhappy

mfortas?

elief comes to us with the lovely scene upon which the curtain rises.

gain the wide summer-land lies stretching away over sunlit moor and

oodland. In the foreground wave the forest trees, and I hear the rippl

e woodland streams. Invariably throughout the drama, in the midst o

l human pain and passion, great Nature is there, peaceful, harmoniou

all her loveliest moods, a paradise in which dwell souls who make oer their own purgatory.

yonder aged figure, clad in the Grail pilgrim robe, I discern

urnemanz; his hair is white; he stoops with years; a rude hut is hard

esently a groan arrests his attention, moaning as of a human thing in

stress. He clears away some brushwood, and beneath it finds, waking

om her long trance, the strange figure of Kundry. For how many yeae has slept we know not. Why is she now recalled to life? She stagge

her feet; we see that she too is in a pilgrim garb, with a rope girding

er dress of coarse brown serge. "Service! service!" she mutters, and,

izing a pitcher, moves mechanically to fill it at the well, then totters

alf awake into the wooden hut. The forest music breaks forth—the hu

f happy insect life, the song of wild birds. All seems to pass as in a

sion, when suddenly enters a knight clad in black armor from top to



he two eye him curiously, and Gurnemanz, approaching, bids him lay

ide his armor and his weapons. He carries a long spear. In silence th

night un-helms, and, sticking the spear into the ground, kneels before

nd remains lost in devotional contemplation. The "Spear" and "Grail"

otives mingle together in the full tide of orchestral sounds carrying o

e emotional undercurrent of the drama. The knight is soon recognize

y both as the long-lost and discarded Parsifal.

he "guileless one" has learned wisdom, and discovered his mission—

nows now that he bears the spear which is to heal the king's grievous

ound, and that he himself is appointed his successor. Through long

rife and trial and pain he seems to have grown into something of

hrist's own likeness. Not all at once, but at last he has found the path

turns to bear salvation and pardon both to Kundry and the wretchedng, Amfortas.

he full music flows on while Gurnemanz relates how the knights hav

l grown weak and aged, deprived of the vision and sustenance of the

oly Grail, while the long-entranced Titurel is at last dead.

t this news Parsifal, overcome with grief, swoons away, and Gurnemnd Kundry loosen his armor, and sprinkle him with water from the ho

ring. Underneath his black suit of mail he appears clad in a long whi

nic.

he grouping here is admirable. Gurnemanz is in the Templar's red an

ue robe. Parsifal in white, his auburn hair parted in front and flowing

own in ringlets on either side, recalls Leonardo's favorite conception e Savior's head, and, indeed, from this point Parsifal becomes a kind

mbolic reflection of the Lord Himself. Kundry, subdued and awed, l

eeping at his feet; he lifts his hands to bless her with infinite pity. Sh

ashes his feet, and dries them with the hairs of her head. It is a bold

roke, but the voices of nature, the murmur of the summer woods, com

ith an infinite healing tenderness and pity, and the act is seen to be

mbolical of the pure devotion of a sinful creature redeemed from sin



eace has at last entered into that wild and troubled heart, and restless

undry, delivered from Klingsor's spell, receives the sprinkling of

aptismal water at the hands of Parsifal.

he great spaces of silence in the dialog, broken now by a few sentenc

om Parsifal, now from Gurnemanz, are more eloquent than many wo

he tidal music flows on in a ceaseless stream of changing harmonies

turning constantly to the sweet and slumbrous sound of a summer-la

ll of teeming life and glowing happiness.

hen Gurnemanz takes up his parable. It is the Blessed Good Friday ohich our dear Lord suffered. The Love and Faith phrases are chimed

rth, the pain-notes of the Cross agony are sounded and pass, the Gra

otive seems to swoon away in descending harmonies, sinking into th

oodland voices of universal Nature—that trespass-pardoned Nature t

ow seems waking to the day of her glory and innocence.

that solemn moment Parsifal bends over the subdued and humbledundry, and kisses her softly on the brow— her wild kiss in the garden

ad kindled in him fierce fire, mingled with the bitter wound-pain; his

e seal of her eternal pardon and peace.

the distance the great bells of Montsalvat are now heard booming

lemnly—the air darkens, the light fades out, the slow motion of all t

enery recommences. Again I hear the wild cave music, strange andollow sounding—the three move on as in a dream, and are soon lost i

e deep shadows; and through all, louder and louder, boom the heavy

ells of Montsalvat, until the stage brightens, and we find ourselves on

ore in the vast Alhambralike hall of the knights.




PARSIFAL ENTERING THE GRAIL CASTLE IN TR

or the last time Amfortas is borne in, and the brotherhood of the Grai

rm the possession bearing the sacred relics, which are deposited bef

m.

he king, in great agony and despair, bewails the death of his father an

s own backsliding. With failing but desperate energy he harangues th

sembled knights, and, tottering forward, beseeches them to free him

om his misery and sin-stained life, and thrust their swords deep into

ounded side. At this moment Gurnemanz, accompanied by Parsifal a

undry, enter. Parsifal steps forward with the sacred spear, now at len



be restored to the knights. He touches the side of Amfortas, the wou

healed, and as he raises the spear on high the point is seen glowing w

e crimson glory of the Grail. Then stepping up to the shrine, Parsifal

kes the crystal cup, the dark blood glows bright crimson as he holds

n high, and at that moment, while all fall on their knees, and celestial

usic ("Drink ye all of this") floats in the upper air, Kundry falls back

ying, her eyes fixed on the blessed Grail. A white dove descends andovers for a moment, poised in mid-air above the glowing cup. A soft

horus of angels seems to die away in the clouds beyond the golden do

—

"Marvelous mercy!

Victorious Savior!"

Words can add nothing to the completeness of the drama, and no word

n give any idea of the splendor and complexity of that sound ocean

pon which the drama floats from beginning to end.

he enemies of the Grail are destroyed or subdued, the wound they ha

flicted is healed, the prey they claimed is rescued; the pure and

ameless Parsifal becomes the consecrated head of the holy brotherhond the beatic vision of God's eternal love and Real Presence is restore

the knights of the Sangrail.

When I came out of the theater, at the end of the third and last act, it wn o'clock.

he wind was stirring in the fir-trees, the stars gleamed out fitfully

rough a sky, across which the clouds were hurrying wildly, but the

oon rose low and large beyond the shadowy hills, and bathed the mis

alleys with a mild and golden radiance as of some celestial dawn.



When the Curtain Fell

When the curtain fell on the last performance of Parsifal , at Bayreuth

hich, on the 30th of July, 1883, brought the celebration month to a

ose, the enthusiasm of the audience found full vent in applause. Theurtain was once lifted, but no calls would induce the performers to

ppear a second time or receive any individual homage. This is entirel

cordance with the tone of these exceptional representations. On each

ccasion the only applause permitted was at the end of the drama, and

roughout not a single actor answered to a call or received any person

bute.

ehind the scenes occurred a touching incident. The banker Gross led

Wagner's children up to the assembled actors, and in the name of their

ead father thanked the assembly for the care and labor of love expend

y each and all in producing the last work of the great dead master.

egfried, Wagner's son, thirteen years old, then, in a few simple word

ifled with sobs, thanked the actors personally, and all the children sh

ands with them. The King of Bavaria charged himself upon Wagner'seath with the education of his son.

The Hour-GlassStories

A Series of Entertaining



Novelettes

Illustrated and Issued in

Dainty Dress.

FIRST SEVEN NOW

READY Price, [Transcriber' Note:

Missing text.] net, each

By Mail [Transcriber'

Note: Missing text.]

I.

SWEET ANNE PAGE

BY ELLEN V. TALBOT

A brisk little love story

full of fun and frolic and

telling of the courtship of

Sweet Anne Page by her

three lovers.

II.

THE HERR DOCTOR



BY ROBERT

MACDONALD

A crisp, dainty story of the

schemes and pretty wiles by which a traveling

American heiress wins and

is won by a German

nobleman.— Minneapolis

Times.

III.

THE

TRANSFIGURATION

OF MISS PHILURA

BY FLORENCE MORSE

KINGSLEY

Author of "Titus,"

" Prisoners of the Sea,"

etc.



This clever story is based

on the theory that every

physical need and every

desire of the human heart

can be claimed andreceived from the

"Encircling Good" by the

true believer. Miss Philura

is enchanted with this

creed, adopts it literally,

and obtains thereby

various blessings of

particular value to a timid

spinster, including ahusband.

"It is a dainty little story,

and quite out of the

common."— PhiladelphiaDaily Evening Telegraph.

IV.



THE SANDALS

BY R EV. ZELOTES

GRENELL

A beautiful little idyl of

Palestine concerning the

sandals of Christ. It tells

of their wanderings and

who were their wearers,from the time that they fell

to the lot of a Roman

soldier when Christ's

garments were parted

among his crucifiers to theday when they came back

to Mary, the Mother of

Jesus.

V.

PARSIFAL



BY H. R . HAWEIS

An intimate and

appreciative description

and consideration of Wagner's great opera.

Illustrated with portrait of

composer and scenes from

the opera.

VI.

ESARHADDON KING

OF ASSYRIA

BY LEO TOLSTOY

Three short stories,

allegorical in style,illustrating with homely

simplicity, yet with classic

charm, Tolstoy's theories

of non-resistance and the



essential unity of all forms

of life.

Written for the benefit of

the Kishinef sufferers.Publisher's and author's

profits go to Kishinef

Relief Fund.

VII.

THE TROUBLE

WOMAN

BY CLARA MORRIS

A pathetic, even tragic

tale, but one which carries

the most optimistic of messages. The

unobtrusive moral of the

story is that the way to

find consolation for one's



own trouble is to consider

those of others and to lend

a helping hand.

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY,Publishers

NEW YORK & LONDON

**END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARSIFAL***

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