Wotan joyously announces to Brunhild, the beautiful Walkyria, armed
with silver helmet and cuirass, that to-day she must award the
victory to Sigmund, the beloved hero of the gods. But while the happy
Walkyria utters her war-cry, and bounds from summit to summit on her
black horse, Fricka, the jealous goddess, protector of conjugal vows,
arrives in her chariot, drawn by rams. She demands vengeance for the
outraged Hunding. "This Sigmund whom thou protectest," she says, "is
not the free hero who should redeem thee, for thou hast guided him,
pushed him to this end. Sigmund must die." Wotan is overcome. The
goddess is right. Sigmund has not acted by his own free-will. He must
then abandon this unfortunate youth. The god, overpowered with grief,
comes, however, to this conclusion. The hero, doomed to perish, must be
conducted by the Walkyria to Walhalla. Here come the fugitives, pursued
by the infuriated Hunding. Siglinda, at the end of her endurance,
swoons in the arms of her fraternal lover. It is then that the saddened
Walkyria shows herself to Sigmund. "Who art thou," he says, "who
appearest to me so beautiful and so grave?" "Those who behold me have
only a few hours to live," she replies. "Soon thou wilt follow me to
the dwelling of the gods." "And Siglinda, will she come also?" he
asks. "No; she must still live on earth." "Then thou deceivest thyself;
I will not be separated from her, for we will both die here." And he
raises his sword over Siglinda.
In the face of this love and sorrow, the Walkyria for the first time
feels herself moved by a human emotion. "Stay!" she cries, "go without
fear to the contest; I shall protect thee." Soon the savage Hunding
shouts his defiance to Sigmund; the adversaries meet in battle upon a
summit half lost in the clouds. Hunding is on the point of triumph; but
the Walkyria appears in a light, and covers Sigmund with her buckler.
Wotan, irritated by Brunhild's disobedience, shows himself also in a
storm-cloud, and setting loose the lightning, shatters the sword in the
hands of Sigmund, who falls mortally wounded.
The third act shows a rugged rock upon which Brunhild's sisters, the
Walkyrias, reunite after the combat. Here they come in haste, riding
through the clouds illuminated by the lightning; they call to one
another joyously, with savage cries, striking their arms tumultuously.
But Brunhild arrives all tearful; she has brought in her arms Siglinda,
who does not wish to survive her lover. "Live!" she says to her, "live
for the brave hero whom thou bearest in thy bosom." And she gives her
the precious fragments of Sigmund's sword. "Save her, my sisters, save
the poor woman," she adds; "for myself I must remain here to suffer
the punishment of my fault." In fact, Wotan's voice resounds, full of
anger. He soon rejoins the guilty goddess who has violated the supreme
command. "I obeyed not thy order, but thy secret wish," says Brunhild.
The god, alas! is not free, primordial laws enchain him; he cannot
pardon. The fallen Walkyria must sleep upon the road at the mercy of
the first comer who will find her. "So be it," she says; "but surround
me with a sea of flames that he who will approach must at least be a
hero." With what sadness does the god separate from his dearly-loved
one, and take her divinity from her in a supreme kiss! She is now only
a sleeping woman, around whom a flaming rampart is lighted.
SECOND DAY: SIGFRID.
After Sigmund's death Siglinda, having taken refuge in a wild forest,
gave birth to a son, and died, confiding him to the Nibelung, Mime,
whom Alberich, first possessor of the gold, had formerly forced to
forge the all-powerful ring. The deformed dwarf had brought up the
descendant of the gods in his cave, not in the spirit of devotion, but
with the sole idea of making him of service later in the conquest of
the gold, the object of all desires. Sigfrid is now a handsome youth,
impetuous and uncontrollable, whose heroic spirits are awaking, and
who dreams of conquering the world. Meanwhile he reigns master of the
forest; the joyous sound of his silver horn replies to the birds'
songs; the young madcap bounds with the roe and overthrows the deer.
There he comes rushing into the cavern; his pealing laugh resounds. He
drags after him, to Mime's terror, a black bear, which he has just got
into his possession.
But these sports and contests satisfy him no longer. Impatiently he
questions the dwarf in regard to the world, to him unknown; he wishes
to get away, leave the forest never to return. Mime then shows him
the fragments of the sword shattered by the lightning in Sigmund's
hands. Siglinda has bequeathed it to her son as the most precious of
inheritances. Sigfrid takes possession of these fragments of steel,
lights the forge fire, and throws the pieces into the crucible. Then
raising the heavy hammer with a triumphal song he completely reforges
Wotan's sword. He soon brandishes it, still smoking, and with a single
blow he cleaves in two the anvil, henceforward useless.
Mime then conducts the young hero to the wildest part of the forest,
before the cave where the giant Fafner, in the form of a dragon, guards
the gold wrested from the Nibelung. Sigfrid, laughing all the while
at his hideous aspect, fights with and kills the monster. He disdains
the treasure, taking only the ring, of whose power he is ignorant, and
a magic helmet which permits the wearer to assume any form. The young
man, as if weary, throws himself at the foot of a tree all bathed in
sunlight; he listens dreamily to the thousand rustlings of the forest.
An unknown desire stirs his heart. While the birds fly in couples he
is alone. He thinks of his mother, of this mysterious being, man's
companion, whom he has never seen, and of whom he knows nothing. The
song of a bird flying over his head finally captivates his attention.
He listens; he seems to comprehend the meaning of this song. The bird
speaks to him. May it not be his mother's soul? "Ah, Sigfrid," it says,
"now thou possesses! the treasure, thou should'st conquer the most
beautiful of women. She sleeps upon a high rock, surrounded by flames;
but shouldst thou dare to pass through the furnace, the war-like virgin
would be thine." And Sigfrid, filled with enthusiasm, follows the bird,
which takes its flight as if to guide him toward the lovely bride.
In the third act we see Wotan again. Leaning over the brink of a gulf,
in gloomy anguish, he invokes Erda, the lurid goddess who sees the
world's destinies; he will question her once again in regard to this
fall of the gods, which she has announced to him. At this sovereign
voice the sleeper rouses herself; with half-closed eyes she slowly
rises from the abyss, wrapped in her dull veils, and covered with
dew. But she has no further information to give to Wotan. The end is
inevitable. As if submerged by their own creation the gods will become
effaced before men. "So be it," cries Wotan, wearied perhaps of his
divinity; "it is to this end that I aspire." However, when Sigfrid,
leaping from rock to rock, his eyes fixed upon his winged guide, passes
near Wotan, this latter tries to bar his way; but the free and fearless
hero breaks the god's lance with a single blow of the sword which,
without assistance, he has forged for himself. Then he rushes joyously
to the assault of the burning rampart, passes fearlessly through the
furnace, beholds at last the sleeping warrior in her silver cuirass;
and, all quivering with love, awakens her with a kiss.
THIRD DAY: GLOOM OF THE GODS.
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."