Parsifal | Page 3

the stream of pilgrims, some in
carriages, others on foot. As we approach, a clear blast of trombones
and brass from the terrace in front of the grand entrance plays out the
Grail "motive." It is the well-known signal--there is no time to be lost. I
enter at the prescribed door, and find myself close to my appointed
place. Every one--such is the admirable arrangement--seems to do
likewise. In a few minutes about one thousand persons are seated
without confusion. The theater is darkened, the footlights are lowered,
the prelude begins.

Act I
The waves of sound rise from the shadowy gulf sunken between the
audience and the footlights. Upon the sound ocean of "wind" the "Take,
eat," or "Love-feast" motive floats. Presently the strings pierce through
it, the Spear motive follows, and then, full of heavy pain, "Drink ye all
of this," followed by the famous Grail motive--an old chorale also used
by Mendelssohn in the Reformation Symphony. Then comes the noble

Faith and Love theme.
As I sit in the low light, amid the silent throng, and listen, I need no
interpreter--I am being placed in possession of the emotional key-notes
of the drama. Every subject is first distinctly enunciated, and then all
are wondrously blended together. There is the pain of sacrifice--the
mental agony, the bodily torture; there are the alternate pauses of
Sorrow and respite from sorrow long drawn out, the sharp ache of Sin,
the glimpses of unhallowed Joy, the strain of upward Endeavor, the
serene peace of Faith and Love, crowned by the blessed Vision of the
Grail. 'Tis past. The prelude melts into the opening recitative.
The eyes have now to play their part. The curtain rises, the story begins.
The morning breaks slowly, the gray streaks redden, a lovely summer
landscape lies bathed in primrose light. Under the shadow of a noble
tree, the aged knight. Gurnemanz, has been resting with two young
attendants. From the neighboring halls of Montsalvat the solemn
reveillé--the Grail motive--rings out, and all three sink on their knees in
prayer. The sun bursts forth in splendor as the hymn rises to mingle
with the voices of universal nature. The waves of sound well up and fill
the soul with unspeakable thankfulness and praise.
The talk is of Amfortas, the king, and of his incurable wound. A wild
gallop, a rush of sound--and a weird woman, with streaming hair,
springs toward the startled group. She bears a phial with rare balsam
from the Arabian shores. It is for the king's wound. Who is the wild
horsewoman? Kundry--strange creation--a being doomed to wander,
like the Wandering Jew, the wild Huntsman, or Flying Dutchman,
always seeking a deliverance she can not find--Kundry, who, in ages
gone by, met the Savior on the road to Calvary and derided him. Some
say she was Herodias's daughter. Now filled with remorse, yet
weighted with sinful longings, she serves by turns the Knights of the
Grail, then falls under the spell of Klingsor, the evil knight sorcerer,
and, in the guise of an enchantress, is compelled by him to seduce, if
possible, the Knights of the Grail.
Eternal symbol of the divided allegiance of a woman's soul! She it was
who, under the sensual spell, as an incarnation of loveliness, overcame

Amfortas, and she it is now who, in her ardent quest for salvation,
changed and squalid in appearance, serves the Knights of the Grail, and
seeks to heal Amfortas's wound!
No sooner has she delivered her balsam to the faithful Gurnemanz, and
thrown herself exhausted upon the grass--where she lies gnawing her
hair morosely--than a change in the sound atmosphere, which never
ceases to be generated in the mystic orchestral gulf, presages the
approach of Amfortas.
He comes, borne on a litter, to his morning bath in the shining lake hard
by. Sharp is the pain of the wound--weary and hopeless is the king.
Through the Wound-motive comes the sweet woodland music and the
breath of the blessed morning, fragrant with flowers and fresh with dew.
It is one of those incomparable bursts of woodland notes, full of
bird-song and the happy hum of insect life and rustling of netted
branches and waving of long tasseled grass. I know of nothing like it
save the forest music in Siegfried.
The sick king listens, and remembers words of hope and comfort that
fell from 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.]
They hand him the phial of balsam; and presently, while the lovely
forest music again breaks forth, the king is carried on to his bath, and
Kundry, Gurnemanz, and the two esquires hold the stage.
As the old knight, who