Parsifal | Page 6

his mission--he was as yet unawakened to the deeper life of the spirit; tho blameless and unsullied, he was still the "natural man." Profound truth! that was not first which was spiritual, but that which was natural; before Parsifal wins a spiritual triumph, he must be spiritually tried; his inner life must be deepened and developed, else he can never read aright the message of the Grail.
The life of God in the spirit comes only when the battle for God in the heart has been fought and won.
Fare forth, thou guileless one! thou shalt yet add to the simplicity of the dove the wisdom of the serpent. Thou art innocent because ignorant; but thou shalt be weighed anon in the balance and not be found wanting; and then shalt thou reconquer the holy spear lost in Sin, rewon in Purity and Sacrifice, and be to the frail Amfortas the chosen savior for whom he waits.
* * * * *
The foregoing events occupied about an hour and a quarter. When the curtain fell the vast audience broke up in silence.
The air outside was cool and balmy. In the distance lay the city of Bayreuth, with the tower of the Alte Schloss and the old church standing up gray against the distant Bavarian hills. All around us lay the pine woods, broken by the lawns and avenues that encircle the theater and embower it in a secluded world of its own--even as the Palace of the Grail was shut off from the profane world. Here, indeed, is truly the Montsalvat of the modern drama--a spot purified and sacred to the highest aims and noblest manifestations of Art.
In about an hour the Spear motive was the signal blown on the wind instruments outside, and I took my seat for the second act.

Act II
A restless, passion-tossed prelude. The "Grail" subject distorted, the "Spear" motive thrust in discordant, the "Faith and Love" theme fluttering like a wounded dove in pain, fierce bursts of passion, wild shocks of uncontrolled misery, mingling with the "carnal joy" music of Klingsor's magic garden and the shuddering might of his alchemy.
The great magician, Klingsor, is seen alone in his dungeon palace--harsh contrast to the gorgeous halls of Montsalvat. Here all is built of the live rock, an impenetrable fastness, the home of devilish might and terrible spells.
Klingsor is aware of the coming struggle, and he means to be ready for it. He owns the sacred spear wrested from Amfortis; he even aspires to win the Grail; he knows the "guileless one" is on his way to wrest that spear from him. His only hope is in paralyzing the fool by his enchantments as he paralyzed Amfortis, and the same woman will serve his turn.
"Kundry!" The time is come, the spells are woven--blue vapors rise, and in the midst of the blue vapors the figure of the still sleeping Kundry is seen. She wakes, trembling violently; she knows she is again under the spell she abhors--the spell to do evil, the mission to corrupt. With a shuddering scream she stands before her tormentor, denying his power, loathing to return to her vile mission, yet returning, as with a bitter cry she vanishes from his presence.
Parsifal has invaded Klingsor's realm; the evil knights have fled before his prowess, wounded and in disorder. Kundry is commissioned to meet the guileless youth in the enchanted garden, and, all other allurements failing, to subdue him by her irresistible fascinations and hand him over to Klingsor.
In a moment the scenery lifts, and a garden of marvelous beauty and extent lies before us. The flowers are all of colossal dimensions--huge roses hang in tangled festoons, the cactus, the lily, the blue-bell, creepers, and orchids of enormous size and dazzling color wave in midair, and climb the aromatic trees.
On a bright hill appears Parsifal, standing bewildered by the light and loveliness around him. Beautiful girls dressed like flowers, and hardly distinguishable from them at first, rush in, bewailing their wounded and disabled knights, but, on seeing Parsifal, fall upon their new prey, and, surrounding him, sing verse after verse of the loveliest ballet music, while trying to embrace him, and quarreling with each other for the privilege.
About that wonderful chorus of flower-girls there was just a suggestive touch of the Rhine maidens' singing. It belonged to the same school of thought and feeling, but was freer, wilder--more considerable, and altogether more complex and wonderful in its changes and in the marvelous confusion in which it breaks up.
The "guileless one" resists these charmers, and they are just about to leave him in disgust, when the roses lift on one side, and, stretched on a mossy bank overhung with flowers, appears a woman of unearthly loveliness. It is Kundry transformed, and in the marvelous duet which follows between her and