Chapter III: Part 3

Under the nocturnal shade of an ash as old as the world itself the three Fates spin and weave men's destinies. Their cold gaze is plunged into the future, where they see only distress and malediction. They throw from one to the other the thread which they have been spinning uninterruptedly from the beginning of time. But suddenly the thread snaps in their hands; the sombre spinners, seized with fear, press closely together, and descend to the depths of the earth to take refuge near the wise Erda. Then day breaks. Sigfrid and Brunhilda, supporting one another, come out of the mysterious grotto which shelters their happiness. The goddess has divested herself of her divinity for her dearly-loved hero; she has unveiled to him the mysteries of the sacred ruins and the knowledge of the gods; but it now appears to her that she has given nothing to him who has revealed love to her. It is necessary that Sigfrid should leave her for a time, and that he should go in search of new exploits. It is he who thenceforward will wear the Walkyria's armor, and bound upon the savage courser who formerly sped with the storm. Before his departure the hero gives to Brunhilda the gold ring, which to the lovers is only a pledge of fidelity, and they part after taking a mutual oath of eternal love.

In his adventurous course through the world, Sigfrid arrives at the dwelling of Gunter, a powerful chief on the Rhinish borders. Gutrune, his lovely sister, lives with this warrior, also the sinister Hagen, whom Alberich, the Nibelung, has begotten of a woman whom he misled, by the attraction of the gold. The Nibelung has bequeathed his hatred toward the offspring of the gods to his son, and has charged him to regain the all-powerful ring. Hagen is already plotting Sigfrid's ruin, when this latter crosses the threshold, with joyous impetuosity, crying to Gunter, "Fight with me, or let us be friends!" The chief receives him amicably, and Gutrune, advised by Hagen, pours out for him a fatal draught, which will disturb his mind to such a degree as to efface all remembrance. The young girl's resplendent eyes complete his infatuation, and he soon forgets Brunhilda and her love; his new passion has obliterated everything, and he demands his host's sister in marriage. "Give her to him," breathes Hagen to Gunter, "on condition that he shall go and conquer for thee the marvellous woman sleeping in the midst of the flames." Brunhilda's name makes no impression upon Sigfrid's soul; he remembers no longer. Certainly he will go without delay to the conquest of this bride for his brother-in-arms, and without tarrying further, he takes his departure, impatient to return.

Soon the fallen goddess, crushed and stupefied, is brought to Gunter. Sigfrid, after wresting from her the ring, symbol of constant tenderness, has dragged her by force to deliver her over to a stranger, while he now hastens into the arms of another woman. As the love of the daughter of the gods was sublime and absolute, so is her anger terrible in the face of this betrayal. Sigfrid is doomed to death. It is only by death that Brunhilda can reconquer the radiant hero to whom she has given all. He is destined to perish at the hunt, treacherously struck. The daughters of the Rhine emerge from the waves to warn him, at the same time demanding from him the ring, which envelopes him with its malediction; but Sigfrid refuses to restore it to them. Soon after, while he is giving his companions a recital of his life, seeing again little by little the thread of his memory, Hagen suddenly and treacherously strikes him with his lance. The hero sinks to the earth and dies, pronouncing the name, once more recalled, of Brunhilda. The warriors, in consternation, lay Sigfrid's body upon his buckler, and carry him slowly away in the light of the pale rising moon.

In the last scene a groaning crowd bears Sigfrid's body under the massive portals of Gunter's dwelling, gloomily lighted by torches, and mingles its lament with the dull roar of the Rhine, whose dark waves flow in the background. Gutrune bursts into tears of despair, but Brunhilda, solemnly advancing, puts an end to this clamor. "I have heard," she says, "the tears of children lamenting their mother, but no lament worthy of a hero." Then she commands a vast funeral pile to be built, and when it has been lighted with a torch, and Sigfrid laid upon it, contemplating him with indescribable emotion, she withdraws from his finger the fatal ring, the cause of all misfortunes. "Suffering has made me prophetic," she says: "those who should efface the fault of the gods are predestined to misfortune and death. May our sacrifice put an end to the curse. May the ring be purified by fire. May the waters dissolve it forever! The end of the gods is at hand. But if I leave the world without a master, I bequeath to men the most sublime treasure in my knowledge. Know, then, that neither gold, nor divine splendor, nor omnipotence, gives happiness. Happiness, in joy or in suffering, comes from love alone." She has her horse brought to her by a Walkyria, and, leaping into the saddle, with one bound she rushes into the furnace. Then the Rhine overflows tumultuously, dispersing the ashes of the funeral pile. The daughters of the Rhine joyously lift up the reconquered ring, while Hagen, who had rushed forward to seize it again, is carried away with the flood, and on the heights in a dim light the Walhalla is seen crumbling about the gods, who fade away, and become effaced.

PARSIFAL: A LYRICAL FEAST.

FIRST ACT.

The first act of Parsifal takes us to Mont Salvat, in the country where the mysterious temple of the Grail rises upon the northern side of the mountains of the Spanish Visigoths. A magnificent forest glade, on the border of a beautiful lake, is just waking in the first gleam of dawn. Two youthful shield-bearers and Gurnemanz, a robust old man, are sleeping, stretched upon the grass at the foot of a tree. From the further side of the temple and castle, which are not seen, is heard the sound of trumpets solemnly pealing forth the early morning summons, and the sleepers, whose mission it is to watch over the sacred forest, start up ashamed of having allowed themselves to be overcome by sleep. Gurnemanz gently reproves the young men; then all three prostrate themselves in silent prayer. The old man is the first to rise. "Up now, youths," he cries, "the hour is come for attending upon the king; already I see messengers coming toward us preceding the bed of pain which supports him." And approaching two knights who descend from the castle he cries: "Greetings to you: how does Amfortas find himself to-day? Truly he descends early toward the waters of the lake; tell me, the healing plant obtained for him by Gawan's skill and audacity has, I presume, brought him relief?"

"Thou presumest, thou who knowest all," replies the knight. "His sufferings soon returned more heavy than ever, and deprived of sleep by the violence of the pain, the king eagerly called for his bath."

"Fools that we are to hope for relief, where only recovery can heal!" murmurs Gurnemanz, sadly bending his head. "Seek every herb, every philter, wander over the entire earth! For him there is only one help, one saviour!" But the old man returns an evasive answer to the knight who demands this saviour's name. The shield-bearers, who have withdrawn and look toward the valley at the rear of the scene, suddenly perceive a strange, savage woman upon a running horse, which seems to fly over the fields. Soon, bounding from her saddle, she precipitates herself impetuously upon the scene. Her black hair falls half-plaited upon a forehead of bronzen pallor; her shining eyes are sad and fixed; her savage dress is held by a girdle of serpents' skins. "Hold," she says to Gurnemanz, "take this balm; if it heal not, Arabia contains nothing that can help the king. Question me not, I am weary." And she throws herself upon the ground like an exhausted animal. This woman is the savage and mysterious Kundry. No one knows who she is, nor from whence she comes. She has constituted herself messenger to the Knights of the Grail. She accomplishes the most perilous missions with skill and zeal, but never does she accept thanks; her ironic laughter and her sinister glance seem to belie the good she does. A frightful curse seems to weigh upon her. Sometimes she disappears for months, and Gurnemanz has often found her worn out under a bush, plunged in a strange, deathlike sleep.

A procession of shield-bearers and knights precede Amfortas, borne upon a litter. They stop for a moment, and the king lets his feverish glance wander over the wholesome freshness of the woods. "Ah!" he murmurs, "after the exasperation of this painful night, behold the magnificent early dawn of the forest; the waters of the sacred lake will revive me, pain will cease, and the chaos of suffering will clear away. Gawan!" "Gawan, my king, is no longer here; the virtue of this dearly-acquired plant, having disappointed thy hope, he has taken his flight toward new researches." "Without my permission!" cries the king. "Let him expiate this infraction of the Grail's laws! Oh, woe to him, rash, self-willed, if he fall into Klingsor's snares. Let nothing further trouble our peace. I wait for that which is destined for me." "Knowing by compassion, was it not thus?" "It is thus that thou hast told us." "A harmless fool only; I think I recognize him. Ah, I should call him Death!" "But make yet a trial of this," says Gurnemanz, holding toward him the phial brought by Kundry. "From whence came this mysterious phial?" demanded the king.

"It is brought to thee from Arabia."

"And who obtained it?"

"She who lies yonder; the savage woman. Rise, Kundry, come hither." But Kundry refuses to stir.

"It is thou," says Amfortas. "Must I again thank thee, indefatigable and unknown maid? So be it; I will yet try this balm, were it only out of gratitude for thy fidelity."

But, agitated, Kundry says: "No thanks! Ha! Ha! Of what good is this balm? No thanks! Away! Go to thy bath!" And while the procession moves away, and Gurnemanz sadly follows the king with a heavy glance, the shield-bearers scoff at Kundry who lies stretched upon the ground like a beast of the forest; but Gurnemanz defends her, and reprimands the youths, recalling the services which she has never ceased to render to them. "And yet she hates us," says one of them. "See how she sneers as she looks at us."

"She is a pagan, a sorceress."

"Yes," says Gurnemanz, "she well may be a damned soul. Perhaps she lives now incarnate to expiate the sins of a former life, sins which are not yet pardoned. If her repentance disposes her to acts profitable to our order, she serves us, and purchases back her own redemption."

"If she be truly faithful and intrepid," says one of the shield-bearers, "send her to reconquer the lost lance."

"That is a work forbidden to all," cries Gurnemanz, in gloom, and adds with emotion: "O source of wounds! O source of miracles! Sacred lance! I see thee brandished by the most sacrilegious hand! Too audacious Amfortas, who could'st have restrained thyself when armed with this lance, thou resolvedst to attack the magician? Already, on the confines of the enemy's castle, the hero is taken from us.... A woman of terrifying beauty has subjugated him. Filled with love he is in her arms. The sacred lance falls from his hand. A cry of death! I fly toward the king! Klingsor disappears with a sneer. He has stolen the divine lance. Fighting, I protect the king's flight. But a wound burns in his side. It is this selfsame wound that will not heal."

The shield-bearers have come and seated themselves in a listening attitude at the old man's feet. "Dear father," they say, "speak again. Tell us thou hast known Klingsor? How is that?" "Listen," says Gurnemanz: "Titurel knew him well. It was at the time when the cunning and strength of savage enemies menaced the kingdom of the pure faith that in a solemn and sacred night our king, the holy hero Titurel, saw bending toward him the blessed messenger of the Redeemer. The chalice from which he drank at the time of the Lord's Supper, this cup of august and sacred election, which later, when he was upon the cross, received his divine blood, together with this selfsame lance which caused his blood to gush forth,--these most precious among the sacred relics, were confided to the safekeeping of our king by the celestial messengers. Then Titurel erected the sanctuary. You, who have attained to his service by paths inaccessible to sinners, know that only pure men are permitted to associate themselves with these brethren, consecrated to the highest works of deliverance, and fortified by the sacred and miraculous virtue of the Grail. This is why he, in regard to whom you question me, Klingsor, remained excluded, notwithstanding all his pains. Beyond the mountains, in the valley, he became a hermit; all around stretched the luxuriant land of the infidels. What sin he had committed yonder, remained hidden from me; but he desired expiation; he aspired even to sanctity. Powerless to destroy his guilty desires, he laid a criminal hand upon himself. That hand, which he stretched out toward the Grail, was repulsed with scorn by its guardians. Rage then taught Klingsor how the horrible crime of his sacrifice could serve him to exercise a fatal charm; he changed his desert into a garden of delight. There, growing like flowers, are seductively beautiful women, who, by their infernal fascinations, endeavor to attract the Knights of the Grail. He who yields to this seduction is made his own, and already, alas! many are lost to us. When Titurel, bowed down by age, confided the kingdom to his son, Amfortas, this latter would take no rest until he had done away with this scourge of hell. You know what happened. The lance is in Klingsor's hands, and as, by its virtue, he can wound even the saints, he imagines that he has already taken the Grail from us."

"Ah! before all else, the lance must be restored to us," cries a shield-bearer.

"Happiness and honor to him who will restore it."

And Gurnemanz resumes: "Amfortas, prostrated in ardent prayer before the deserted shrine, implored a sign of deliverance, when a gentle light emanated from the Grail, and a holy apparition spoke to him distinctly, and he clearly discerned these words: 'Let a harmless fool only, knowing by compassion, await him whom I have chosen.'"

But while the shield-bearers repeat the words of the oracle with profound emotion, cries resound in the forest.

"Misfortune! misfortune! who is the criminal?"

"What is it?" ask Gurnemanz and the shield-bearers.

"Yonder!... a swan!... a wild swan!... he is wounded!"

"Who wounded it?"

Two knights, arriving unexpectedly, reply,--

"The king greeted the bird's whirling flight over the lake as a happy omen, when an arrow was let fly."

New shield-bearers bring Parsifal forward and say: "Look! here is he who sent the arrow."

"Is it thou who hast killed the swan?" demands Gurnemanz.

"Truly," cries Parsifal, "I shoot upon the wing whatever flies."

"Unprecedented misdeed! thou hast then committed a murder here in this sacred wood, whose peacefulness surrounded thee; did not the familiar beasts approach thee, gentle and caressing? What had this faithful swan done to thee? To us it was a friend. What is it now to thee? Behold the snowy plumage stained with blood, the drooping wings, the dying glance,--Dost thou recognize thy fault?"

"I did not know," says Parsifal, greatly troubled. And he breaks his bow with violence.

They question him: "From whence dost thou come? What is thy name? Who has sent thee?"

The young man knows nothing of all this; he knows not even if he have a name. But Kundry, who has fixed an eager glance upon Parsifal, answers for him: "His mother brought him an orphan into the world, when Gamuret was slain in combat. To preserve her son from a hero's premature death she brought him up in the forest, a stranger to arms, like a fool, the mad woman."

"Yes," says Parsifal, who has listened with lively attention, "and once glittering men, mounted upon beautiful animals, passed along the borders of the forest. I wished to resemble them, but they laughed at me, and passed rapidly by. Then I ran after them, but I could not overtake them. I came to wild places upon mountains, in valleys; often night fell, the day returned; my bow defended me against the deer and the giants."

"Yes," cries Kundry, eagerly, "the evil-doers and giants were overcome by his strength. They all fear the valiant youth"--

"Who fears me, say?"

"The wicked."

"Were those who menaced me wicked? Who is good?"

"Thy mother, from whom thou hast escaped," says Gurnemanz; "she weeps and grieves for thy sake."

"Her grief is over; his mother is dead," says Kundry.

"Dead! my mother! who says that?" cries Parsifal, throwing himself furiously upon Kundry, and seizing her by the throat.

"Violence again, mad youth!" says Gurnemanz, holding him back.

"I perish," cries the young man, staggering. Kundry has rushed toward a forest stream, and comes to bathe Parsifal's forehead with fresh water.

"It is well thus," says the old man, "such is the grace of the Grail, you banish evil when you do great good."

But Kundry turns sadly away. "I never do good," she murmurs, "I seek only repose. Alas! repose for her who is wretched. Ah! horror seizes me, resistance is vain, the time is come, sleep, sleep I must." And with a stifled cry, she sinks down behind a bush. Gurnemanz, however, hoping that this may be the redeemer promised to the king, conducts Parsifal toward the temple; he will be present at the ceremony, and should Parsifal be the chosen one, his mission will be revealed to him by the Grail.

The scene changes; the forest disappears, while the old man and Parsifal appear to be advancing; the side of a large rock conceals them, then they reappear in the galleries. Sounds of trumpets gently swell forth, and bells toll louder and louder. They finally arrive in a vast hall, whose lofty cupola permits the daylight to penetrate like a luminous flood. The Knights of the Grail, clad in the white coat-of-arms, a dove embroidered upon their mantle, advance in two lines and chant piously: "Each day prepared for love's last repast, and troubling himself little that it may be perhaps for the last time, may it strengthen to-day him who can rejoice in his acts, and may the repast be renewed unto him. Let him approach the holy table and receive the divine gift." Voices of youths respond from the halls and heights: "As formerly, with a thousand pains, his blood flowed for sinning humanity, may my blood be poured out with a joyous heart for the hero Saviour, and may this body which he has offered for our redemption live in us by his death." And children's voices answer back from the cupola's very heights: "Faith lives, the dove soars, sweet messenger of the Saviour; drink of the wine which flows for you, and eat of the bread of life."

Shield-bearers and serving-brothers then enter, bearing the litter upon which Amfortas lies. Children advance, bearing a shrine covered with a scarlet cloth, which they proceed to place upon a marble altar. Suddenly from a vaulted niche at the end of the hall behind the altar a voice makes itself heard. It is that of the aged Titurel. "My son, Amfortas," he says, "doest thou officiate? Must I behold the Grail yet again to-day and live? Must I die, no longer sustained by my Saviour?"

"Alas! alas! oh, grievous sorrow!" cries Amfortas. "My father, perform once more thy holy office. Oh, live, and let me die." And Titurel: "I live in the tomb by the grace of our Lord, but I am too feeble to serve him. Expiate thou thy sin in his service. Uncover the Grail."

"No, uncover it not," cries Amfortas, in a passion of despair. "Oh! can no one measure the torment which the sight that transports you awakens in me? What is the wound and its agony of pain compared with the infernal suffering of being damned here to officiate? Oh, sorrowful heritage which has fallen to me! I must guard the sublimest of sanctuaries, I, the only sinner among you all! Oh, chastisement, chastisement without equal, inflicted by the all merciful One whom I have offended! Alas! to him and to the mercy of his salvation I ardently aspire from the depths of my soul; by expiatory penitence I hope to return to him. The hour approaches, a ray of light descends upon the sacred work, the veil falls, the sacred cup is illumined with a radiant lustre; overcome by the celestial possession of pain, I feel the stream of divine blood flowing through my heart, and the impure wave of my own blood rushes impetuously back in wild terror to cast itself toward the world of lust; it breaks anew its bonds, and gushes from the wound, like unto his, made by the lance which of yore opened in the Redeemer's side this wound which weeps in pity's sacred ardor tears of blood for the world's iniquity! And from this wound flows, though I be the keeper of divinest treasures, of the redeeming balm, the fiery blood, renewed without respite by the fountain of longing, which, alas! no penitence can extinguish. Mercy, mercy! oh, all-merciful one. Ah! in pity take from me my heritage, close the wound that I may die purified, and be born again in holiness unto thee."

As the king sinks down exhausted the knights murmur in a low tone: "Let a harmless fool only, knowing by compassion, await him--him whom I have chosen. Such is the revelation; await with hope, and this day officiate." "Uncover the Grail," exclaims Titurel. The king has raised himself in silence, he opens the golden shrine, and draws from it the ancient relic, the crystal cup in which Joseph of Arimathea received the blood of Christ; it is the miraculous Grail! A twilight dimness has invaded the hall, a single ray coming from above falls upon the Grail, and illumines it with a constantly-growing glory. From the cupola's heights children's voices are heard: "Take my blood in the name of our love! Take my body in remembrance of me."

They add: "By compassion and love the Saviour once changed the bread and wine of the supreme repast into the blood which he has shed, and the body which he has sacrificed. The blood and flesh of the sacrifice the Redeemer whom you glorify changes to-day into this wine which flows for you and this bread which you eat."

Then the knights: "Take the bread, transform it without fear into strength and valor of body. Faithful even unto death, intrepid in suffering, accomplish the Saviour's works. Take this wine, transform it anew into life's burning blood, to fight, united in fraternal fidelity, with joyous courage." All rise and exchange the kiss of peace. And the voices from above cry: "Blessed in the faith! Blessed in love! Blessed in love! Blessed in the faith!"

Parsifal has watched this scene with haggard eyes; but it has only left his mind in a profound stupor. Gurnemanz, disappointed in his hope, takes him by the arm and says: "Go, take thy way thither. Thou art but a harmless fool. But Gurnemanz counsels thee for thy future to leave the swans in peace. Seek rather after geese, thou gosling." He pushes Parsifal out, slams the door, and while he follows the knights the curtain descends.

SECOND ACT.

In the second act we find ourselves in the castle of the magician Klingsor, situate upon the confines of Spanish Arabia. The scene represents the empty interior of an embattled tower. Along the walls narrow steps only project, ascending toward the battlements, or flat ledges of rocks. Klingsor, the enchanter, is seated upon one of these before a metallic mirror; he gazes intently into its depths, and in its magic shadows sees Parsifal advancing, joyous and thoughtless, drawn by a charm toward the enchanted castle. Klingsor well knows that this is the redeemer promised to the King of the Grail; if, however, the magician can succeed in drawing him into the snares of the flesh before the young madcap will have realized the high mission for which he is chosen, Amfortas's safety is at an end. Klingsor will employ all his cunning and the most powerful seductions to ruin the pure and artless youth. Leaning over the tower's gloomy depths, he burns aromatics, whose smoke ascends in bluish clouds; then, with mysterious gestures, he pronounces a formula of incantation: "Come hither! obey thy master, rouse thyself at his call, thou, the nameless and primeval devil, rose of hell who wast formerly Herodias; rise, rise toward thy master, obey him who holds thee in absolute control."

Kundry appears, slowly rising from the shadows. Like a creature rudely awakened from a profound sleep, she utters a horrible cry of fear, which little by little becomes extinguished in a feeble moan of distress. It is she, it is the power of her beauty which should cause the ingenious youth to fall into the magicians power. Is it not in her arms that the King of the Grail forgot his holy duties? Is it not on her account that he now suffers and writhes in the cruel flame of guilty desire? In vain the temptress struggles and attempts to escape from the power which holds her in dominion; the impure fires which burn within her will force her to yield. Good and evil tumultuously dispute the possession of this soul, already several times incarnate. Like a feminine Ahasuerus, she formerly insulted Christ, and is condemned to be born again ceaselessly in sin's suffering. In vain she aspires to deliverance, she inevitably falls back again into the snares of the flesh. He who would resist the enchantress might perhaps save her; but before her beauty all are weak, all damn themselves with her. He, Klingsor, holds her in his power, and knows how to rouse her from the lethargic sleep, into which he plunges her at will.

"For me alone, thy seductions are powerless," he says to her.

"Ah! ah!" she cries with a harsh laugh, "would'st thou be chaste?"

"What dost thou ask, cursed woman?" shrieks Klingsor in a rage. "Oh, cruel torment! It is thus that Satan scoffs me because I formerly struggled for holiness; cruel torment, torment of unsubdued desire, hellish urgency of horrible instincts, upon which I have imposed the silence of death. Does he laugh now, and does he jeer at me by thy month, thou bride of the devil? Beware, such scorn and raillery one has expiated already,--he who once cast me from him, proud in the strength of his sanctity; his race is to-day in my power, and the guardian of the holy of holies must languish un-redeemed. Soon, I think, I shall myself watch over the Grail! Ha! ha! he pleased thee, this Amfortas, the hero whom I assigned to thee for thy joy."

"Oh, woe! woe!" groans Kundry, "he also weak, all are weak, all have fallen with me by my damnation. Oh, eternal sleep, thou only blessing, how attain thee?"

"Ah! he who would resist thee would deliver thee; make thy trial upon the youth who approaches."

Kundry struggles already more feebly. "He is handsome, this youth," exclaims Klingsor, who looks from the castle's height; "see, he mounts toward the castle. Hey, hey! Guardians! Knights! Heralds! About! The enemy approaches. Ah! how they defend the walls, the egotistical fools, to protect their gracious devils! That is it. Courage, courage! Ho! ho! this one has no fear; he has just snatched his lance from the hero Ferris. He brandishes it intrepidly toward the horde of combatants. How little their zeal serves them, the dullards! The child breaks the arm of one, the thigh of another. Ha! ha! they draw back, they take flight, each carrying away a wound. Thus am I happy! Thus may the entire race of knights cut one another's throats! Ah! thou tender shoot; although omens may have forwarned thee, yet art thou fallen into my power, too young, too innocent,--thy purity once stained, thou art mine." Kundry, seized as if in spite of herself with a fit of ecstatic laughter, has disappeared. The tower sinks little by little, and in its place one sees a marvellous garden filled with a tropical vegetation, beyond which appear the terraces and porticos of an Arabian palace of the most sumptuous style. Parsifal advances, stupefied with surprise, in the midst of all this splendor; ravishing young girls, similar to living flowers, at first alarmed, but soon becoming reassured, press about him, completing the measure of his stupefaction by all the charms and graces which they display for his enchantment and ruin. "If thou art gracious to us hold not thyself at a distance," they say, "and if thou wilt not quarrel with us we will recompense thee. We do not play for gold, our only stake is love. If thou thinkest to console us, surely thou wilt gain it. Come, come, gentle youth, let us bloom for thee. Our loving caresses are intended for thee."

"What fragrant perfume you exhale," says Parsifal, with tranquil gayety; "are you flowers?"

"Beauties of this garden, fragrant spirits, in the springtime the master gathers us! We grow here in the summer sunlight, and bloom joyously for thee. Be thou then gracious and friendly to us, accord to the flowers thy sweet tribute. If thou wilt not love us, we shall wither and die."

"Take me upon thy breast."

"Let me refresh thy forehead."

"Let me kiss thy mouth."

"No, I ... I am the fairest."

"No, my perfume's the sweetest."

But Parsifal laughingly repulses them: "You, medley of flowers, gracious and wild," he says, "if you wish me to share in your sports widen this narrow circle."

"Why dost thou chide?"

"Because you are in conflict."

"We struggle for thy love."

"Do not struggle."

"Go. He wants me."

"No, he desires me."

"Dost thou repel me?"

"Art thou timid in the presence of women?"

"Thou lettest the flowers court the butterfly."

"Leave me, you will not catch me," exclaims the young man, who would take flight.

Then Kundry appears voluptuously stretched upon a bed of flowers. She is of supreme beauty, and adorned in the strangest and most superb manner in the oriental fashion. "Parsifal, stay," she cries. At the sound of this voice the young girls, frightened, withdraw regretfully, casting tender glances toward the handsome youth. "All hail to thee, thou innocent fool!" And they disappear with stifled laughter.

"Parsifal!" ... murmurs the young man, stupefied, "my mother once called me thus in a dream." Then, with the majesty of a goddess, and the tenderness of love, the seducer speaks to him of the mother whom he abandoned, and who died after long tortures of despair. "My mother! my mother! can I have forgotten her," exclaims Parsifal. "Alas! alas! what have I ever remembered? A crushing madness alone possesses me!" And overpowered with grief, he sinks at Kundry's feet. "Confession and repentance will blot out thy sin," she says, bending toward him; "they will change folly to reason; learn to understand the love which enveloped Gamuret when influenced by thy mother's passion. The love that gave thee form and existence, before which death and madness must drawback, gives thee to-day, with the supreme greeting of the maternal benediction, its first kiss." And with a most radiant smile, the enchantress leans over the young man and presses a long kiss upon his mouth. At the contact of their lips Parsifal rises quickly, as if transfigured; the veil which enveloped his mind is suddenly torn away; he now comprehends the meaning of everything he has seen; he feels kindling in his own heart the devouring fire with which Amfortas burns. "The wound! the wound!" he cries, "it burns in my heart. Oh, lamentation! frightful lamentation! it cries out from the very depths of my being. Here, here in the heart is the flame, the burning desire, the terrible and unbidden desire which seizes all my senses and subjugates them! Oh, torment of love! how the whole framework shudders, trembles, and thrills with guilty desires!"

Again he sees Amfortas before the Grail, and the horror of sacrilege, the sinner's torture he now understands.

"Superb hero, fly the illusion, be gracious at the approach of grace," says the temptress, filled with passionate admiration. And he, still prostrated at her feet, regards her fixedly while she displays before him all the charms of her beauty. "Yes," he says, "this voice! it is thus that she called him, and this glance which smiled upon him, I recognize it! These lips, yes, it is thus that he saw them quiver, it is thus that she bent her head, thus raised it proudly. In this manner flowed her silken curls, thus she enfolded him and gently caressed his cheek. Allied to all the tortures of suffering, she kissed away from him his soul's salvation. Ah! such kisses!" Raising himself quickly he repulses Kundry impetuously.

"Away, corrupter!" he cries, "far from me forever."

The lofty mission which he is destined to accomplish is now regaled to him; he must defy, like Amfortas, all the pleasures of guilty temptations, suffer all that he has suffered; but resist where he has yielded, and triumph where the other has succumbed; this is the price by which he will save him.

Kundry, in a delirium of furious passion, sets loose in vain all the seductions of hell against him; in vain she endeavors to soften him: "Ah cruel one, if thou feelest naught in thy heart but the sufferings of others, feel also mine. If thou be the Saviour, why not unite thyself to me for my salvation; during eternities I have awaited thee. Oh! if thou couldst know the curse which sleeping and waking in torment and laughter invigorates me endlessly for new suffering. I saw Him, Him, and I laughed. His glance fell upon me. Since then I seek this glance from world to world, I shall meet it again yet; in the height of my distress I seem to see it, I feel it resting upon me. Then the cursed laughter seizes me again. A sinner falls into my arms, and I laugh, I laugh; I cannot weep. I can only cry out, carried deliriously into the night of folly ever renewed, from which penitence itself scarce arouses me. Him whom I ardently desire in the midst of my agony I recognize in thee; let me weep upon thy breast and unite myself to thee for a single hour, and though seemingly rejected by God and the world, let me be saved and redeemed in thee."

"Thou wouldst be damned with me for all eternity if for one hour I should forget my mission in the embrace of thy arms."... "It was my kiss which rendered thy eyes clear? the full gift of my love would give thee divinity. Save the world if that is thy mission, and if this hour has made thee a god, let me suffer damnation forever. Only give me thy love."

"Thee too will I save, sinner; show me but the road which I have lost, the way which leads to Amfortas."

"Never, never! thou shalt not find him," cries Kundry, transported with rage. "Error, imposition, illusion, bar his war, entangle the paths that his feet may never enter upon the road which he seeks; may all ways be cursed that estrange him from me. Aberration! aberration! I dedicate him to thee, be thou his guide!"

At Kundry's cries the young girls come forth from the palace. Klingsor, armed with the sacred lance, throws himself upon Parsifal, but the divine steel cannot harm him who has remained pure; it rests suspended miraculously above him. The young hero seizes the weapon and traces the sign of the cross in space. At this symbol the magic castle crumbles away and disappears, the garden withers, the young girls, like dying flowers, droop and sink to the earth; nothing is now seen save an arid desert, with mountains and snowy peaks in the distance. Parsifal, striding over the ruins, moves away, uttering a last word of hope to the sinner: "Thou knowest where alone thou wilt see me again."

THIRD ACT.

The third act takes us back to the domain of the Grail. The spring festival gladdens the forest, everything is in flower, the tender verdure of the fields is sown with Easter flowers, the stream forces itself a passage through clusters of lilies of the valley. It is the day sacred to all, upon which humanity was redeemed,--Good Friday. Gurnemanz, now quite aged, comes forth from an humble hut hidden among the trees. He has heard a groan and a lament, the mournful tone of which is not unknown to him. He approaches the thicket, and raises a woman who appears to be dead. He was not deceived. It is indeed the strange heathen, whom he has already roused from this sleep, so like unto death. Yes, it is Kundry; behold her as she arouses herself, casting about a searching glance which is no longer savage. "To serve, to serve," she murmurs, and she goes off to the side of the cabin, to apply herself to the most humble labors. Gurnemanz, surprised, watches her proceedings, but his attention is soon attracted by a stranger, who advances hesitatingly and dreamily in the refreshing calm of the forest. He is clad in black armor, his helmet is closed, and he holds his lance lowered. Slowly he draws near and seats himself by the spring.

"Greeting, my guest," says Gurnemanz: "Dost thou not know what day this is? Quickly lay aside thy arms; offend not the Saviour, who, stripped of all defense, on this day offered his divine blood for the salvation of the world." The sombre knight obeys; he takes off his helmet and loosens his armor. Gurnemanz then recognizes Parsifal, the harmless fool, whom he had sent away so roughly. With deep emotion he imagines that he recognizes also the sacred lance, long before carried away from the sanctuary. The young man, who looks calmly about him, recognizes Gurnemanz, and extends his hand to him. "I am happy to have found thee again," he says.

"What, thou knowest me yet? dost thou remember him, whom grief and distress have bent so low? How earnest thou here, and from what place?"

"I am come in the paths of error and suffering," replies Parsifal. "Can I believe myself delivered, since once again I hear the rustling of this forest, and salute thee again, thou good old man?"

"Tell me, to whom should the path which thou seekest lead?"

"To him whose lament I formerly heard in bewildered surprise, to him for whose salvation I to-day believe myself to be elected. But alas! a horrible curse condemns me never to find the road to salvation, and to wander in unknown paths. When I seemed to have found it, miseries without number, with struggles and conflicts, chased me from the path. Then had I almost despaired of keeping the sacred arm in safety. In the effort to preserve and defend it I received wounds from every side, for I could not make use of it in the combat. Inviolate I kept it by my side. I take it back again, it glitters there, august and radiant, the Grail's holy lance!"

"Oh mercy! supreme blessing! Holy and most august miracle!" exclaims the old man, with enthusiasm; "if it be a malediction that turned thee from the true path, believe me, my lord, it has yielded, for thou art in the domain of the Grail, and its knighthood awaits thee. Ah! it stands in sore need of the salvation which thou bringest! Since the day that thou wert here, mourning and anguish have augmented even to supreme distress. Amfortas, revolting against his wound, in sullen obstinacy, longed for death; neither the supplications nor the grief of his knights could impel him to fulfil his holy office. For a long time the Grail has remained enclosed in its shrine, and its contrite guardian, who could not die, should he contemplate it, hopes thus to enforce his end, and terminate with his life his torment. The sacred nourishment is denied us; also, our heroic strength perishes. Messages and distant calls to holy combats no longer reach us. The knighthood, deprived of chief and courage, wanders miserable and wan. Here in the corner of the forest I have hidden myself in solitude, tranquilly awaiting death, which has already become the lot of my old lord of arms, Titurel; for the sainted hero, being no longer revived by the sight of the Grail, died a man like all others.

"And it is I who caused all this misery!" cries Parsifal, with a burst of grief. "Ah! what sin, what a mass of misdeeds must have weighed upon this fool's head from eternity, inasmuch as, chosen for the redemption, after having wandered distractedly, I see the last path to salvation vanish." He sinks swooning upon a grassy hillock. Gurnemanz supports him, and aided by Kundry endeavors to revive him. Like a new Jordan, the limpid stream will refresh his brow and efface the sin; it will wash the dust of long wandering and journeys from his weary feet. Kundry, like Magdalen, passionately repentant, will shed perfumes upon these feet, and will wipe them in her silken flowing hair, and Gurnemanz, understanding that the day of salvation has come at last, and that the Grail has a new king, will pour the sacred oil upon Parsifal's head.

"Thus I bless thee, and consecrate thee king, thou innocent, compassionate martyr, thou doer of holy deeds! Inasmuch as thou hast suffered all the sufferings of the redeemed, be this last burden taken from thy brow." And the first act of the new king is to pour the baptismal water upon the head of the prostrate and weeping sinner, Kundry.

"Thy tears are become a holy dew," he says to her with divine tenderness, "thou weepest! See, Nature rejoices!" and he kisses her upon the forehead.

The swelling sound of bells in the distance announces Titurel's funeral. As in the first act, the country is gradually transformed, and soon long files of knights in mourning are seen in the galleries escorting the remains of Titurel. Finally the temple reappears, and the knights who carry the Grail and the litter upon which Amfortas is stretched meet the funeral procession.

"Whom does this casket that you bear in sorrow enclose?" they say, "while we attend the shrine which shields the Grail." "This casket encloses the sainted hero to whom God confided himself; we bear Titurel."

"What has struck down him whom even God protected?"

"It was the heavy burden of age that hastened his end, as he saw the Grail no more."

"Who prevented him from beholding the Grail and its blessings?"

"He whom you attend, the guilty guardian."

"We escort him once more to-day, because for the last time he wills to discharge his priesthood."

"Woe, woe! for the last time be recalled to the duties of thy office!"

But Amfortas, distracted with grief, raises himself upon his couch. "Yes, woe!" he cries, "woe to me! My father! hero thrice blessed, toward whom the angels bent; I who coveted death; it is thy death I have caused. Oh, thou who now beholdest, in divine light, the Redeemer himself, implore him that he may grant me death at last! Death! death! only grace! May the terrible wound and venom cease,--the wasted heat grow cold! I invoke thee, my father, cry to him: Saviour, grant peace to my son."

"Uncover the tabernacle," cry the knights, pressing in disorder about Amfortas; "fulfil thy priestly office; thy father commands thee; thou must, thou must!" But the wretched man, in a frenzy of despair, throws himself into the midst of them, tearing his garments. "No, no! never more! Ah! I already feel the shadow of death upon me, and must I return once again to life? Which of you would force me to live since you can give me nothing but death? Behold, the wound yawns, see the poison and my blood! Steep your swords in my wound even to the hilt! Rise, heroes! Destroy with one blow the sinner and his torment; and the Grail will then shine brightly for you by its own virtue!"

All have drawn back in terror. Parsifal then advances solemnly; stretches forth the divine lance, and with its point touches the side of Amfortas. "One arm only is propitious," he says; "the lance that opened the wound can alone close it. Be healed, redeemed, and saved! May thy suffering, which gave supreme strength to compassion, and the power of the purest wisdom to the timorous brother, be sanctified! I restore to you the sacred lance!" And while Amfortas and Gurnemanz kneel to do him homage, and Kundry, delivered at last, dies at his feet with a look of gratitude, Parsifal ascends toward the altar, and raises for the first time the Grail in all its splendor above the heads of the enraptured knights.