1877-1882.
PARSIFAL.
A German Art--Efforts to maintain the Acquired Results--Concerts in
London--Recognition abroad and Lukewarmness at home--The
"Nibelungen" in Vienna--"Parsifal"--Increasing Popularity
of Wagner's Music--Judgments--Accounts of the "Parsifal"
Representations--The Theatre Building--"Parsifal," a National
Drama--Its Significance and Idea--Anti-Semiticism--The Jewish
Spirit--Wagner's Standpoint--Synopsis of "Parsifal"--The Legend of
the Holy Grail--Its Symbolic Importance--Art in the Service of
Religion--Beethoven and Wagner--"Redemption to the Redeemer."
"_Dawn then now, thou day of Gods!_"--Wagner.
"If you but will it, we shall have a German art." It is true we had a
German music, a German literature, a German art of painting, each of
high excellence, but they were not that union of German art which
floated before Wagner's mind in his "combined art-work" and which
found its first adequate interpretation in the performances of the
Nibelungen Ring. His object was now to make it permanent and to this
end he sought the means.
Accordingly on January 1, 1877, the invitation to form "a society of
patrons for the culture and maintenance of the stage-festival-plays
of Baireuth" was issued. At the same time the "Baireuther Blaetter,"
which subsequently were made available to the general public, were
issued in order to more fully and constantly elucidate the aim and
object of the cause. Wagner had declined to acquiesce in a demand for
a subsidy from the Reichstag, although King Louis had agreed to
support such a measure before the Bundesrath. "There are no Germans;
at least they are no longer a nation. Whoever still thinks so and
relies upon their national pride makes a fool of himself," he said
bitterly enough to a friend. As far as the ideal is concerned he was
certainly right in regard to the Reichstag as well as the people. "He
who can clear such paths is a genius, a prophet, and in Germany, a
martyr as well!" are the words of one of those who at one time had
contemptuously spoken of this "Baireuth" as a "speculation." And yet
Wagner had to accept an invitation to give concerts in London to cover
the expenses of this same "Baireuth." By the distinguished reception
the artist met there, the consideration shown for his art, the spread
of his earlier works over the whole of Europe, he felt that foreign
lands had understood him, the German. It must have been very bitter
for him to feel that the Germans as a nation knew him not. Among the
multitude of the educated, faith was still wanting. They courted
foreign gods. If it had not been so would it have required seven,
fully seven years, to obtain the moderate sum needed even to think of
resuming the work, and in the end a contribution of three hundred
thousand marks from His Majesty the King to bring it to completion?
How slow was the progress of the society of patrons! People who,
during the era of speculation had accumulated wealth rapidly, thought
in these years of decreasing prosperity of something else than joining
such an undertaking, and declared that they had to economize. And yet
the annual dues were but 15 marks! Very singular was the answer of
some whose rank or learning gave them prominence. They said that it
was not even known whether the project had any real standing and they
might therefore disgrace themselves by lending their names. Yes, when
the bad Wagnerians dared to attack the tottering Mendelssohn-Schuman
instrumental mechanics, Germans as well as others were induced to
withdraw from the society which it had cost them so much struggle to
join. Councilors of State and educators did not even respond to the
invitations of the society's branches which were now gradually
organized in a large number of cities.
It was generally known that a new work was soon to issue from Wagner's
brain and soon everywhere from the Rhine to the Danube, from rock to
sea, could be heard the Nibelungen! Wagner had, against his innermost
conviction, consented to permit the use of the work by the larger
theatres in the supposition that such personal experience of the
"prodigious deed" would open heart and hand for a still grander one,
the permanent establishment of a distinctive German art. Vienna came
first. However excellent the performance of a few, for instance,
Scaria as Wotan, Materna as Brunnhilde and the orchestra under Hans
Richter, there was lacking the ensemble! The sensation of something
extraordinary, of grandeur and solemnity, that in Baireuth had
elevated the soul to the eternal heights of humanity, was not there.
It was often as when daylight enters a theatre; the sublime illusion
of such a tragic representation was wanting, and Wagner knew that in
this art it is the very bread of life. "The art-work also, like
everything transitory, is only a parable, but a parable of the
ever-present eternal," he said, in taking leave of his friends and
patrons in Baireuth and his purpose now was deeply to impress the
minds of his contemporaries with this "ever-present eternal" and thus
make it permanently effective. The Holy Grail had first to give forth
its last wonder!
Once more he diverts his attention from "outward politics," as he
called the intercourse with the theatres, and collects his thoughts
for a new deed. This was "Parsifal." With this work, performed for the
first time, July 26, 1882, and then repeated thirteen times, he
believed he might close his life-long labors, and assuredly he has
securely crowned them. It seems indeed as if this has finally and
forever broken the obstinate ban that so long separated him and his
art from his people. The success of the Nibelungen Ring had been
called in question, but that of "Parsifal" is beyond doubt, as
sufficiently demonstrated by the attendance of cultured people from
everywhere for so many weeks! "They came from all parts of the world;
as of old in Babel, you can hear speech in every tongue," said a
participant in the festival. With the final slaying of the dragon,
there fell also into the hero's hand the treasure, inasmuch as the
large attendance left a surplus of many thousand marks, thus assuring
the continuation of the festival-plays.
To be sure, the Nibelungen Ring had largely contributed to this
success. At first performed in Leipzig, then by the same troupe in
Berlin, it had met with a really unprecedented reception. Since
the storm of 1813, since the years of 1848-49, the feeling of a
distinctive nationality has not been so effectually roused, and this
time it no longer stood solely upon the ground of patriotism and
politics, but there where we seek our highest--the "ever-present
eternal." England was likewise roused in 1882, with performances
of the "Nibelungen Ring," and still more with "Tristan," to a
consciousness of an eternal humanity in this art, such as had not
been experienced there since Beethoven's Ninth symphony, and this
enthusiasm of our manly and serious brethren sped like the fire's
glare, illuminating the common fatherland from whence they had
themselves once carried that feeling for the tragic which produced
their Shakespeare. Everywhere was the stir of spring-time, sudden
awakening, as from death-like slumber or a disturbing dream. "Dawn
then now, thou day of gods!"
We will next give some accounts of the representations.
"'Victory! Victory!' is the word which is making the rounds of the
world from Baireuth, in these days. Wagner's latest creation which
brings the circle of his works in a beautiful climax to a dignified
close, has achieved a success such as the most intimate adherents of
the master could not well desire fuller or grander. The name of a
'German Olympia,' which had been given facetiously to the capital
of Upper Franconia, it really now merited," was said by a London
correspondent.
At the close of the general rehearsal, "the participating artists
unanimously declared that they had never received from the stage such
an impression of lofty sublimity." "Parsifal produces such an enormous
effect that I can not conceive any one will leave the theatre
unsatisfied or with hostile thoughts," E. Heckel wrote; and Liszt
affirmed that nothing could be said about this wonderful work: "Yes,
indeed, it silences all who have been profoundly touched by it. Its
sanctified pendulum swings from the lofty to the most sublime." Of the
first act it had already been said: "We here meet with a harmony of
the musico-dramatic and religious church style which alone enables us
to experience in succession the most terrible, heartrending sorrow and
again that most sanctified devotion which the feeling of a certainty
of salvation alone rouses in us."
The German Crown-Prince attended the performance of August 29th, the
last one. "I find no words to voice the impression I have received,"
he said to the committee of the patron society which escorted him. "It
transcends everything that I had expected, it is magnificent. I am
deeply touched, and I perceive that the work can not be given in the
modern theatre." And, finally, "I do not feel as though I am in a
theatre, it is so sublime."
A Frenchman wrote: "The work that actually created a furious storm of
applause is of the calmest character that can be conceived; always
powerful, it leaves the all-controlling sensation of loftiness and
purity." "The union of decoration, poetry, music and dramatic
representation in a wonderfully beautiful picture, that with
impressive eloquence points to the new testament--a picture full of
peace and mild, conciliatory harmony, is something entirely new in
the dramatic world," is said of the opening of the third act.
And in simple but candid truth the decisive importance of the cause
called forth the following: "Parsifal furnishes sufficient evidence
that the stage is not only not unworthy to portray the grandest and
holiest treasures of man and his divine worship, but that it is
precisely the medium which is capable in the highest degree of
awakening these feelings of devotion and presenting the impressive
ceremony of divine worship. If the hearer is not prompted to devotion
by it, then certainly no church ceremony can rouse such a feeling in
him. The stage, that to the multitude is at all times merely a place
of amusement, and upon which at best are usually represented only the
serious phases of human life, of guilt and atonement, but which is
deemed unworthy of portraying the innermost life of man and his
intercourse with his God, this stage has been consecrated to its
highest mission by 'Parsifal.'"
The building also, which Semper's art-genius, with the highest end in
view had constructed, is worthy of this mission. It has no ornament in
the style of our modern theatres. Nowhere do we behold gold or
dazzling colors; nowhere brilliancy of light or splendor of any kind.
The seats rise amphitheatrically and are symmetrically enclosed by a
row of boxes. To the right and left rise mighty Corinthian columns,
which invest the house with the character of a temple. The orchestra,
like the choir of the Catholic cloisters, is invisible and everything
unpleasant and disturbing about ordinary theaters is removed.
Everything is arranged for a solemn, festive effect. "That is no
longer the theatre, it is divine worship," was the final verdict
accordingly. "Baireuth" is the temple of the Holy Grail.
At length we come to the principal theme, and with it to the climax of
this historical sketch of such a mighty and all-important artistic
lifework, to "Parsifal" itself. The mere mention of its contents
attests its importance for the present and the future. Wagner's
"Parsifal," in an important sense, can be termed our national drama.
Such a work like AEschylus' "Persian" and Sophocles' Oedipus-trilogy,
should recall to the consciousness of a world-historical people the
period in which it stands in the world's history, and thereby make
clear the mission it has to fulfil.
That we Germans have begun again to make world-history in a political
sense, since the last generation, is evidenced by the great action of
the time which seems for the present to have settled the politics of
Europe and extended its influence upon the world at large. Beyond the
domain of politics however the real movers of the world are the ideas
which animate humanity and of which politics are but a sign of life
possessing subordinate influence. In this movement of the mind we
Germans are, without question, much older than a mere generation, as
indeed Wagner's poetic material everywhere confirms. The one work in
which Kaulbach's genius triumphed, the "Battle of the Huns," gained
for him a world-wide fame, more by the plastic idea revealed in the
perpetual struggle of the spirits than by its artistic execution. We
stand to-day before, or rather in, a like mighty contest. Two moral
religious sentiments struggle against each other for life and death in
invisible as well as visible conflict. To which shall be the victory?
In the year 1850 Wagner wrote a pamphlet of weighty import. It reveals
an expression of the utmost moment, though it has been heeded least by
those whom it concerns as much as life and death; or, rather, it has
not been understood at all, because these natures are more attracted
by the trivial. Its most impressive confirmation is to-day furnished
by art, above all else by actual representations on the boards that
typify the world. "Parsifal" also is such a symbol, and in so large a
world-historical and even metaphysical sense, that by it the stage
has become a place dedicated to the proclamation of highest truth and
morality. We have seen the grotesque anti-Semitic movement and the
lamentable persecution of the Jews. What could inflict more injury to
our higher nature, to our real culture? And yet in this lies concealed
a deep instinct of a purely moral nature. It does not, however,
concern merely that people whom the course of events has cast among
other nations, still much less the individual man, who, without choice
or intention, has been born among, and therefore forms a part of them.
It involves the secret of the world-historical problems that struggle
so long with each other until the right one triumphs. To these
problems, with his incomparable depth of soul, the whole life and work
of our artist is devoted as long as he breathes and lives, moved by
the holiest feeling for his nation, for the time--yes, for mankind, in
whose service he as real "poet and prophet" stands with every fibre of
his nature and works with every beat of his heart.
That unnoticed, misunderstood expression at the close of the paper by
"K. Freigedank," in 1850, was this: "One more Jew we must name, who
appeared among us as a writer, namely, Boerne. He stepped out of his
individual position as Jew, seeking deliverance among us. He did not
find it, and must have become conscious that he would only find it in
our own transformation also into genuine men. To return in common with
us to a purer humanity, however, signifies, for the Jew, above all
else, that he shall cease to be a Jew. Boerne had fulfilled this. But
it was precisely Boerne who taught us how this deliverance cannot be
achieved in cool comfort and listless ease; but that it involves for
them, as for us, toil, distress, anxiety, and abundance of pain and
sorrow. Strive for this by self-abandonment and the regenerating work
of salvation, and then we are united and without difference! But,
remember that your deliverance depends upon the deliverance of
Ahasrer--his destruction!"
No other people has received those cast out by all the world with such
sacredly pure, humane feeling as the Germans. Will they then at last
find their deliverance among us from the curse of homelessness, their
new existence by absorption into a larger, richer, deeper whole? It is
this question which animates and moves Wagner; but by no means in the
sense of a casual and shifting quarrel among different races or even
religious parties. On the contrary, he feels that this question is a
life-question of the time, approaching its final solution. It is
not the Jews, however, but the Jewish spirit, that represents
the antagonist--that spirit which at first, after the birth of
Christianity, and aided by the filth of Roman civilization, with its
inherent evil germs, this people devoted to a world-historic power of
evil; and which, even in its most brilliant revelation, in Spinoza, as
has been most clearly demonstrated from his own works by Schopenhauer,
seeks only its own advantage, to which it sacrifices the whole, but
does not recognize the whole to which it must lovingly sacrifice
itself.
Such concrete, actual historical developments Wagner regards not as a
hindrance, but as the external support of his art-work. For a poetic
composition requires some connection with a time or space to make
perceptible to the senses its view of the advancing development of
the mind of humanity. So it is that Kleist's "Arminius-battle" does
not in the least refer to the ancient Romans, but to the degenerate
race, the mixture of tiger and ape, as Voltaire has called them, and
in this symbol of art he strengthened the determination of his people
until in the battles of nations it conquered. Wagner even transfers
the scene of this conflict into those distant centuries in which the
struggle between Christians and Infidels was very fierce, while that
between Jews and Occidentals had not yet even in existence. Like the
real artist, he also uses only individual phases of the present time,
which, it is quite true, bear but too close a relation to the
character of that Arabian world that once engaged in conflict
with Christianity for the world's control, and thus proves that
this question, least of all is a passing "Question of time and
controversy," but is one of the ever-present questions of humanity
which has again come to the front in a specially vivid and urgent
form. His inborn feeling for the purely human, which we have seen
displayed with such touching warmth in all his doings, and that has
created for us the genuine human forms of a "Flying Dutchman,"
"Tannhaeuser," "Lohengrin," and "Siegfried" is true to itself this
time, indeed this time more than ever. He anticipates the struggling
aspiration. He sees the form already appear on the surface, and only
seeks a pure human sympathy to show the true and full solution which
denies to neither of the disputing parties the God-given right of
existence.
Klingsor, the sorcerer, representative of everything hostile to the
Holy Grail and its knights, summons Kundry, the maid, subject to his
witchcraft--in other words to that evil moral law which the individual
alone is unable to resist--and reproachfully says:
Shame! that with the brood of knights,
Thou should'st like a beast be maintained!
The German class-pride which regarded the Jew as a body servant is
strongly enough characterized and our own ancient injustice still more
sharply expressed in his words:
"Thus may the whole body of knights
In deadly conflict each other destroy."
Thus Wagner reveals still more clearly than in the "Flying Dutchman"
with his "fabulous homesickness" an absolute trait and the inner view
of that sentiment which here longs for salvation, to be mortal with
the mortals. At the sight of the nobler qualities and real human
dignity which Kundry for the first time in her life sees in the person
of Parsifal, who has been born again through the recognition of the
truth, she breaks down completely and with the only word that she now
knows, "serve! serve!" she throws all evil selfishness away. For the
first time it is now fully disclosed how deeply after all, and with
what intensity those of alien race and religion serve the ideas, not
so much of our own similarly narrow contracted race-life, but those
ideas which have transformed us from a mere nation to an historical
part of humanity that guards the world's eternal treasure in this Holy
Grail, as its last and grandest possession.
How fully is Goethe's saying "the power that ever seeks the evil and
yet produces good" realized. Kundry is the messenger of the same Holy
Grail against which her lord and master conducts the fatal war. To all
distant lands it is she that brings the higher element of culture,
the purer humanity which she gets from the Grail and its life. Though
the peculiar portraiture of Kundry is drawn from his own experience
of the present, the poet has gone still further and pictured that
omnipresent spirit of evil which can never by simple participation in
the sorrows of others gain knowledge of the perpetual sorrow of the
world. Klingsor summons from the chaotic, primeval foundation of the
world, where good and evil still lie commingled, the blind instinct of
nature, as that wonderful element in the world's history which must
everywhere be at once servant of the devil and messenger of grace,
with the all-comprehensive words:
"Thy master calls thee, nameless one;
Primeval devil! rose of hell!
Herodias thou wast and what more?
Gundryggia there, Kundry here!"
It is the feminine Ahasrer, present in all ages and spheres, in our
time revealing its tangible form in the ruling spirit of Judaism. As
her sinful nature at last is overcome by Parsifal's purity, and she
humbly approaches him to receive the baptism that is awarded to every
one who believes and acts in the spirit of pure humanity, he
proclaims, when he has withstood her temptation and thereby has
regained from Klingsor the holy lance of the Grail, the impending
catastrophe by tracing with the lance the sign of the cross and
saying:
"With this sign thy spell I banish!
Even as it heals the wound
Which with it thou hast dealt--
So may thy delusive splendor in grief and ruin fall."
When in the last century, Roman Catholicism had become sensual and
worldly through Jesuitism, and Protestantism had put on either the
straight-jacket of orthodoxy or had been diluted with rationalism,
there came to the surface, outside of the religious sects, secret
societies, such as the Freemasons. In their well-meant but flat
humanitarian idealism, those strangers to our race and religion, the
hitherto despised Jews, also took active part and what "delusive
splendor" have they not since then provided for themselves in
literature and art and general ways of life? A single actual
resurrection of that sign in which we Germans alone have attained
world-culture and world-importance has "in grief and ruin destroyed"
all this, and we hope in truth that we are now approaching a new epoch
of our spiritual as well as moral existence. Just as, out of the first
awakening of a pure human feeling such as Christianity brought us,
there rose in contrast to priesthood a work like the "Magic Flute,"
child-like, artless but devoutly pure and full of feeling, so now
there resounds like the mighty watchword of this full national
resurrection, Wagner's "Parsifal."
Let us see how the poem itself has done this and what it signifies.
According to the legend of the Holy Grail, already artistically
resurrected by the master in "Lohengrin," the chalice from which
Christ had drank with His disciples at the last supper, and in which
His blood had been received at the cross, had been brought into the
western world by a host of angels at a time of most serious danger to
the pure gospel of Christianity. King Titurel had erected for it the
temple and castle of Monsalvat in the north of Spain, where knights of
absolute purity of mind guard it and receive spiritual as well as
bodily nourishment from its miraculous powers. This sanctuary can only
be found by the pure. The king keeps the holy lance, which had opened
the Savior's wound, and with it holds in check the hostile heathen.
Klingsor, the sorcerer, on the southern decline of the mountain, rules
the latter. He had likewise once been seized with remorse for his
sins, his "pain of untamed longings and the most terrible pressure
of hellish desires," and had mutilated himself and then seeking
deliverance had wandered to the Holy Grail. Amfortas however,
Titurel's son, now king of the Grail, perceived his impurity and
sternly turned away the evil sorcerer, who only seeks release for
worldly gain.
Angered thereat, the latter now contrives through the agency of
Kundry, who appears in the highest and most bewitching beauty,
encircling the king himself with the snares of passion, to obtain
power over him and to wrest from him the lance with which he wounds
him. This wound will burn until the holy lance shall be regained. This
then is the supreme deed to be accomplished. The Grail itself at one
time has proclaimed during the keenest pangs of the suffering king,
that it shall be regained by him who, deficient in worldly knowledge,
shall from pure sympathy with his terrible sufferings recognize the
sufferings of humanity and through such blissful faith bring to it new
redemption. The body of humanity, which Christianity had called into
new life, had been invaded by a consuming poison and only so far as by
the full unconsciousness of innocence, its genius itself was
re-awakened, was it possible to again expel the poison.
In the forest of the castle old Gurnemanz and two shield-bearers lie
slumbering at early dawn. The solemn morning-call of the Grail is
heard and they all rise to pray and then await the sick king who is to
take a soothing bath in the near lake. All medicinal herbs have proved
useless. Kundry shortly after suddenly appears in savage, strange
attire and proffers balm from Arabia. The king is carried forward. We
listen to his lamentations. He thanks Kundry, who, however, roughly
declines all thanks. The shield-bearers show indignation at this but
are reprimanded by Gurnemanz who says: "She serves the Grail and her
zeal with which she now helps us and herself at the same time is
in atonement for former sins." When she is missing too long, a
misfortune surely is in store for the knights. She preserves for them
by the opposing forces of her nature the true and good in their
consciousness and purpose. With that he tells them Klingsor has
established on the other side of the mountain, toward the land of the
Arabian infidels, a magic garden with seductively beautiful women to
menace them by enticing the knights there and ruining them. In the
attempt to destroy this harbor of sin the king had carried away the
wound and lost the lance which, according to the revelation of the
Grail, only "the simple fool knowing by compassion" could recover.
Suddenly cries of lamentation resound in the sacred forest. A wild
swan slowly descends and dies. Shield-bearers bring forward a handsome
youth whose harmless, innocent demeanor inspires involuntary interest.
He is recognized by the arrows he carries as the murderer of the bird
which had been flying over the lake and which had seemed to the king,
about to take his bath, as a happy omen. Gurnemanz upbraids him for
this deed of cruelty. The swan is doubly sacred to the Grail. It is a
swan also that conducts Lohengrin to the relief of innocence! "I did
not know," Parsifal replies. The universal lamentation however touches
his heart and he breaks his bow and arrows. He knows not whence he
came, knows neither father nor name. The only thing he knows is that
he had a mother named "Sad-heart." "In forest and wild meadows we were
at home." Gurnemanz perceives however by his manner and appearance
that he is of noble race, and Kundry, who has seen and heard
everything in her constant wanderings confirms the impression.
"Thus he was the born king
Who had the aspect of a lordly youth,"
says Chiron to Faust of the young Herakles. As his father had been
slain in battle, the mother had brought him up in the wilderness a
stranger to arms--foolish deed--mad woman! Parsifal relates that he
had followed "glittering men" and after the manner of the vigorous
primitive peoples, had led the wild life of nature, following only
natural instincts. Gurnemanz reproaches him for running away from his
mother and when Kundry states that she is dead, Parsifal furiously
seizes her by the throat. It is the first feeling for a being other
than himself, his first sorrow. Again Gurnemanz upbraids him for his
renewed violence but remembering the prophecy and the finding of the
secret passage to the castle, he believes that there may be nobler
qualities in him. For this reason he speaks to him of the Grail,
which, now that the king has left the bath, is to provide them anew
with nourishment. Upon secret paths they reach the castle of the Grail
which only he of pure mind can find. The knights solemnly assemble in
a hall with a lofty dome. Beyond Amfortas' couch of pain, the voice of
Titurel is heard as from a vaulted niche, admonishing them to uncover
the Grail. Thus the dead genii of the world admonish the living to
expect life! Amfortas however cries out in grievous agony that he, the
most unholy of them all, should perform the holiest act, that in an
unsanctified time the sanctuary should be seen. The knights however
refer him to the promised deliverance and so begins the solemn
unveiling for the distribution of the last love-feast of the Savior,
whose cup is then drawn forth, resplendent in fiery purple. Parsifal
stands stupefied before this consecration of the human although he
also made a violent movement toward his heart when the king gave forth
his passionate cry of anguish. But the torments of guilt which produce
such sorrows he has not yet comprehended. Gurnemanz therefore angrily
ejects him through a narrow side-door of the temple to resume his ways
to his wild boyish deeds. He had first to experience the torments of
passion and deliverance from the same in his own person.
The second act takes us to Klingsor's magic castle. Klingsor sees the
fool advance, joyous and childish, and summons Kundry, the guilty one,
who rests in the dead lethargy of destiny, and in sorrow and anger
only follows his command. She longs no more for life, but seeks
deliverance in the eternal sleep. She has laughed at the bleeding head
of John, laughed when she beheld the Savior bleeding at the cross, and
is now condemned to laugh forever and to ensnare all in her net of
passion: "Whoever can resist thee, will release thee," says Klingsor,
the father of evil. "Make thy trial upon the boy." The youth
approaches. The fallen knights seek to hinder his progress, but he
easily vanquishes them all, and stands victorious upon the battlement
of the castle, gazing in childish astonishment at all this unknown
silent splendor below. Soon, however, the scene becomes animated. The
ravishing enchantresses appear in garments of flowers, and each seeks
to win the handsome youth for herself. He remains, however, toward
them what he is--a fool. Suddenly he hears a voice. He stands
astonished, for he heard the name with which in times long past his
mother had called her hearts-blood; it is the one thing he knows. The
beauties disappear. The voice takes on form. It is Kundry, no longer
of repulsive, savage appearance, but as a "lightly draped woman of
superb beauty." She explains to him his name:
"Thee, foolish innocent, I called Fal parsi--
Thee, innocent fool, Parsifal!"
She tells him of his mother's love, of his mother's death. What he, a
giddy fool, has thus far done in life, suddenly overwhelms him as
well as the thought that despair at his loss has even killed his
mother. He sinks deeply wounded at the feet of the seductive woman; it
is the first soul-despair in his life. She, however, with diabolic
persuasiveness, avails herself of this to overcome his manly heart by
her only way, the painful, longing sensation for his mother, and
offers him the consolation which love gives, "as a blessing, the
mother's last greeting, the first kiss of love." At this he rises
quickly in great alarm and presses his hands against his heart.
"Amfortas! the wound burns in my heart!" The miracle of knowledge has
happened to him, and in a moment has changed his whole nature. It is
regeneration by grace, recognized from the earliest time as the sense
of all religion. He now experiences the trembling of guilty desires
that burn within our breasts, and understands also the mystery of
salvation which he can now obtain for the unhappy King of the Grail.
Out of the depths of his soul he hears the supplications of the Grail:
"Redeem me, save me
From hands defiled by sin!"
The evil demon of voluptuousness displays all its charms. Astonishment
gives way more and more to passion for this pure one, but he
sinks into deep and deeper reverie until a second long, burning
kiss suddenly and completely awakens him. Then, having gained
"world-knowledge," he sees into the deep abyss of this being full of
guilt and penitence, and impetuously repulses the temptress. She
herself, however, is now overpowered by the passion which she has
sought by all the means of temptation to instil into the innocent
youth, and fancies she sees in him again the Savior whom she had once
laughed at. She tells him with heartrending truth her inextinguishable
suffering, her eternal sorrow, her lamentation full of the laughter of
derision, the whole wide emptiness of her misery, and implores him
to be merciful, and let her weep for a single hour upon his pure
bosom--for a single hour to be his. But the answer comes like the
voice of an avenging God, terribly stern and annihilating:
"To all eternity thou wouldst be damned with me,
If for one hour I should forget my mission."
At last she seeks, like the serpent in Paradise, to allure him with
the promise that in her arms he will attain to godhood. He remains,
however, true to himself. Roused now to furious rage, she curses him.
He shall never find Amfortas, but shall wander aimlessly. Klingsor
then appears, and puts his power to the utmost trial by brandishing
his sacred lance, but Parsifal's pure faith banishes the false charm.
The lance remains suspended above his head. Kundry sinks down crying
aloud. The magic garden is turned to a desert. Parsifal calls out:
"Thou knowest where alone thou canst find me again."
That true womanly love roused for the first time in her will also show
this desolate heart the path to eternal love. And Parsifal had finally
shown her, the pitiable one, the only thing he could--pity!
The last act takes us once more into the domain of the sacred Grail
which Parsifal since then has been longingly seeking. Gurnemanz, now
grown to an old man, lives as a hermit near a forest spring. From out
the hedges he hears a groan. "So mournful a tone comes not from the
beast," he says, familiar as he is with the lamenting sounds of sinful
humanity. It is Kundry, whom he carries completely benumbed out of the
thicket. This fierce and fearful woman had not been seen nor thought
of for a long time. Her wildness now however lies only in the
accustomed serpent-like appearance, otherwise she gives forth but that
one cry "to serve! to serve!" Whoever has not comprehended the highest
and most actual elements of our life when they assert themselves, is
condemned to silence. Only by silent acts and conduct can she attest
the growing inner participation in the higher and nobler human deeds.
She enters the hut close by and busies herself. When she returns with
the water pitcher she perceives a knight, clad in sombre armor, who
approaches with hesitating steps and drooping head. Gurnemanz greets
him kindly but admonishes him to lay aside his weapons in the sacred
domain and above all on this the most sacred of days--Good Friday.
With that he recognizes him. It is Parsifal, now a mature and serious
man. "In paths of error and of suffering have I come," he says. He is
at once saluted by Gurnemanz who recognizes the sacred lance as
"master" for now he can hope to bring relief to the suffering king of
the Grail whose laments Parsifal had once listened to without being
moved to action. He learns through the faithful old man of the supreme
distress and gradual disappearance of the holy knights. Amfortas has
refused to uncover the life-preserving Grail and prefers to die rather
than linger in pain and anguish, and thus the strength of the knights
has died away. Titurel is already dead, a "man like others," and
Gurnemanz has hidden himself in solitude in this corner of the forest.
Parsifal is overcome with grief. He, he alone has caused all this.
He has for so long a time not perceived the path to final salvation.
Kundry now washes his feet "to take from him the dust of his long
wanderings," while Gurnemanz refreshes his brow and asks him to
accompany him to the Grail which Amfortas is to uncover to-day for the
consecration of the dead Titurel. Kundry then anoints his feet and
Gurnemanz his head that he may yet to-day be saluted as king and he
himself performs his first act as Savior by baptizing Kundry out of
the sacred forest spring. Now for the first time can she shed tears.
Thereby even the fields and meadows appear as if sprinkled with sacred
dew, for according to the ancient legend, nature also celebrates
on Good Friday the redemption which mankind gained by Christ's
love-sacrifice and which changes the sinner's tears of remorse to
tears of joy.
In the castle of the Grail the knights are conducting Titurel's
funeral. Amfortas, who in his sufferings longs for death as the one
act of mercy, falls into a furious frenzy of despair when the knights
urge him to uncover the Grail which alone gives life, so that they all
retreat in terror. Then at the last moment Parsifal appears and
touches the wound with the lance that alone can close it. He praises
the sufferings of Amfortas that have given to him, the timorous fool,
"Compassion's supreme strength and purest wisdom's power" and assumes
the king's functions. The Grail glows resplendent. Titurel rises in
his coffin and bestows blessing from the dome. A white dove descends
upon Parsifal's head as he swings the Grail. Kundry with her eyes
turned toward him sinks dying to the ground while Amfortas and
Gurnemanz do him homage as king and a chorus from above sings:
"Miracle of Supreme blessing,
Redemption to the Redeemer!"
The holy Grail, the symbol of the Savior, has at last been rescued
from hands defiled by guilt--has been redeemed.
Such is the short sketch of the grand as well as profoundly
significant dramatic action of the artist's last work! It is easy to
see that the figures and actions are but a parable. They symbolize the
ideas and periods of human development. Nay more, the phases and
powers of human nature are here disclosed to view. It is the inner
history of the world which ever repeats itself and by which mankind is
always rejuvenated. The pure and restored genius of the nation arises
anew to its real nature. Its lance heals the wound which we have
received at the hands of the other--the evil and foreign genius. It is
this pure genius which all, even the dead and the dying, hail as King,
and do homage to new deeds of blessing. Next to religion itself,
it was art which more than all else constantly brought to the
consciousness of humanity the ideals which originated with the former,
and here art even entered literally into the service of divine truth.
The lance, which signifies the mastery over the spirits, was wrested
from the dominating powers. Serious harm indeed and spiritual
starvation have followed as the consequence of our falling in every
sphere of life under the control of the elements that frivolously play
with our supreme ideals. Art, which springs from the purest genius of
mankind, seems destined now to be the first to regain the lance and
heal the wasting wound. For is not religion divided into warring
factions and science into special cliques, jealous of each other? The
church does not prevail in the struggle against the evil powers here
or elsewhere, and has long ceased to satisfy the mind. The increasing
tendency to pursue special studies creates indifference for such
supreme ethical questions. It is art alone that has gained new
strength from within itself. We have seen it in portraying this one
mighty artist, in the irresistible force, in the longing and hoping,
in the indestructible, faithful affection for his people, which must
dominate all who have retained the feeling for the purely human.
Should not art then be destined to awaken, among the cultured at
least, a vivid renewal of the consciousness of the sublime for which
we are fitted and in whose slumbering embrace we are held? Eternal
truth ever selects its own means and ways to reveal itself anew to
mankind. "The ways of the Lord are marvelous!" It aims only at the
accomplishment of its object. It has at heart only our ever wandering
and suffering race. Those who judged without prejudice tell us that
this "Parsifal" appeared to them as a mode of divine worship, and that
the festival-play-house was not only no longer a theatre, but that even
all evil demons had been banished from this edifice, and all good ones
summoned within its walls. Would that this were so, and that we could
hope in the future that the painful and severe trials of the artist's
long life, which gave to this genius also "compassion's supreme
strength and purest wisdom's power," would be blessed with abundant
fruit, with the full measure of consummation of his own hopes, and
the goal so ardently struggled for attained, for his as well as for
our own welfare.
However this may be, and whatever the future may have in store for us,
this "Parsifal" is a call to the nation grander than any one has
uttered before. It was foreordained, and could only be accomplished by
an art which is the most unmixed product of that culture originating
with Christianity; more, it is a product of the religious emotions of
humanity itself. Just as our master said of Beethoven's grand art,
that it had rescued the human soul from deep degradation, so no artist
after him has presented this supreme and purest spirit of our nation
as sanctified and strengthened by Christianity, purer and clearer
than he who had already confessed in early years that he could not
understand the spirit of music otherwise than as love! With "Parsifal"
he has created for us a new period of development, which is to lead us
deeper into our own hearts and to a purer humanity, and thereby give
us possibly the strength to overcome everything false and foreign
which has found its way into our life, and elevate us to a sense of
the real object and goal of life.
Richard Wagner, more than any other contemporary, as we conceive, has
re-awakened in the sphere of the intellectual life of his German
people its inborn feeling for the grand and profound, for the pure and
the sublime--in one word, for the ideal. May we who follow prove this
in life by gratefully welcoming this grand deed! Then Lohengrin, who
sought the wife that believed in him, need not again return to his
dreary solitude. He will be forever relieved of his longing for union
with the heart of his people. Then too it can be said of him, this
genius who throughout a long life "in paths of error and of suffering
came" as of all who live their life in love for the whole: "Redemption
to the Redeemer."
* * * * *
The biography of Dr. Nohl closes at this point. What remains to be
told is shrouded in sadness. It is but a record of suffering and
death. In the autumn of 1882, the great master went to Italy, where
his fame had already preceded him, and where in the very home of
Italian opera his works had been given with great success, to seek
rest and improvement of health. He made his home at the Palazzo
Vendramin in Venice, where he was joined by Liszt and other friends.
With the help of an orchestra and chorus, he was rehearsing some of
his earlier works and was also engaged in remodeling his symphony. His
restless energy was manifest even in these days of recreation. The
_Neue Freie Presse_ states that he was composing a new musical drama,
called "Die Buesser," based upon a Brahminical legend and having for
its motive the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. Filippo
Filippi, the Italian critic, also says that he was engaged upon a new
opera, with a Grecian subject, in which "it would undoubtedly have
been shown that his genius, turning from the misty fables of the
Germans to the bright and serene poetry of ancient Greece, would have
drawn nearer to our musical life and feeling, which is clear and
characteristically melodious." Whatever may have been his tasks it was
destined they should not be achieved. "Parsifal" was his swan song.
It was during the representation of this opera that his asthmatic
trouble grew so intense as to necessitate his departure for Italy and
regular medical treatment. During the week preceding his death he was
in excellent spirits, and greatly enjoyed the carnival with his family
and friends. On the 12th of February he even visited his banker and
drew sufficient money to cover the expenses of a projected trip into
southern Italy, with his son, Siegfried. On the morning of the 13th he
devoted his time as usual to composition and playing. He did not
emerge from his room until 2 o'clock when he complained of feeling
very fatigued and unwell. At 3 o'clock he went to dinner with the
family, but just as they were assembled at table and the soup was
being served he suddenly sprang up, cried out "Mir ist sehr schlecht,"
(I feel very badly) and fell back dead from an attack of heart
disease.
The remains were conveyed along the Grand Canal, amid the most
impressive pageantry of grief, to the railroad station, and thence
transported by a special funeral train to Baireuth. The public
obsequies were very simple and impressive, consisting only of the
performance of the colossal funeral march from "Siegfried," speeches
by friends and a funeral song by the Liederkranz of Baireuth, after
which the cortege moved to the tolling of bells to the grave which at
his request was prepared behind his favorite villa "Wahnfried," which
had been the scene of his great labors. The Lutheran funeral service
was pronounced and the body of the great master was laid to its final
rest.
The news of his death was received by Angelo Neumann, the director of
the Richard Wagner Theatre, on the 14th, at Aachen, just as a
performance of the "Rheingold" was about to commence. The director
addressed the audience as follows:
"Not only the German people, the German nation, the whole world mourns
to-day by the coffin of one of its greatest sons. All in this assembly
share our grief and pain. But nevertheless we alone can fully measure
the fearful loss which the Richard Wagner Theatre has met with through
this event. The love and care of the master for this institution can
find no better expression than in a letter, written by his own hand,
received by me this evening, which closes with these words:
'May all the blessings of Heaven follow you! My best
greetings, which I beg you to distribute according to
desert.
'Sincerely yours,
'RICHARD WAGNER.
'VENICE, PALAZZO VENDRAMIN, February 11, 1883.'
"Now we are orphaned--in the Master everything is as if dead for us! I
can only add, we shall never cease to labor according to the wishes
and the spirit of this great composer; never shall we forget the
teachings which we were so happy as to receive from his lips and pen."
A correspondent, writing from Leipzig at the time of his death,
contributes some interesting information as to his method of
composition and the literary treasures he had left behind him. He
says:
"Richard Wagner composed, like all great musicians, in his brain, and
not, as is often imagined, at the piano. It is a delight to examine a
manuscript composition from his hand--to see how complete and
well-rounded, how ripe and finished everything sprung from his head.
Changes are very rarely found in such a manuscript; even in the
boldest harmonies and most difficult combinations, not a slip of the
pen occurs. In the entire score of 'Tannhaeuser,' which Wagner wrote
out himself from beginning to end in chemical ink, not one correction
is to be found. One note followed the other with easy rapidity. It was
his habit to write the musical sketch in pencil--in Baireuth,
music-paper was to be found in every corner of 'Wahnfried,' on which
while wandering about the house during sleepless nights, musing and
planning, he made brief jottings, often merely a new idea in
instrumentation. The rest was in his head; the vocal parts were added
to the score without hesitation, and never needed correction. For the
orchestra he employed three staves, one of which was reserved for
special notes, as, for instance, when a particular instrument was to
enter. From these sketches the vocal parts could be written out
immediately, although the instrumentation was by no means finished.
Such sketches were carefully collected by Frau Cosima, who tried for a
time to fix the notes permanently by drawing the pen through them.
This task was, however, soon abandoned. In its stead she grasped the
idea of making a collection of Wagner's manuscripts, to be deposited
in 'Wahnfried.' For many years she has conducted an extended
correspondence for the purpose of obtaining, for love or money, the
scattered treasures, and has, in a great measure--principally through
the use of the latter persuasive--succeeded.
"Wagner had written his memoirs, which are not only finished, but
already printed. The entire edition consists of _only three copies_,
one of which was in the possession of the author, the second an
heirloom of Seigfried's, and the third in the hands of Franz Liszt.
This autobiography fills four volumes, and was printed at Basel, every
proof-sheet being jealously destroyed, so that there are actually but
three copies in existence. To the nine volumes of his works already
published (Leipzig, E. W. Fritzsch, 1871-'73) will be added a tenth,
containing brief essays and sketches of a philosophical character, and
(it is to be hoped) the four volumes of the autobiography."
After a life of strife such as few men have to encounter; of hatred
more intense and love more devoted than usually falls to the fate of
humanity; of restless energy, indomitable courage, passionate devotion
to the loftiest standards of art and unquestioning allegiance to the
"God that dwelt within his breast," he rests quietly under the trees
of Villa "Wahnfried." He lived to see his work accomplished, his
mission fulfilled, his victory won and his fame blown about the world
despite the malice of enemies and cabals of critics. As the outcome
of his stormy life we have music clothed in a new body, animated
with a new spirit. He has lifted art out of its vulgarity and
grossness. The future will prize him as we to-day prize his great
predecessor--Beethoven.
G. P. U.
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to regularize punctuation and to correct
typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain
true to the author's words and intent.