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Cornell University Library 
 ML 410.W13G27 1883 
 
 Richard Wagner and his poetical work fro 
 
 3 1924 022 323 558 
 
RICHARD WAGNER 
 
 fcte poetical EEorit 
 
 "RIENZI" TO "PARSIFAL' 
 
 BY 
 
 JUDITH GAUTIER 
 
 TRANSLATED WITH THE AUTHOR'S SPECIAL 
 PERMISSION 
 
 By L. S. J. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 A. WILLIAMS AND COMPANY 
 
 ©IB (Comer Bookstore 
 
 1883 
 
Copyright, by 
 
 A. WILLIAMS AND COMPANY 
 l88 3 . 
 
 ELECTROTYPED . 
 
 BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, 
 NO. 4 PEARL STREET. 
 
AMERICAN INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Richard Wagner was born May 22, 1813, in 
 Leipsic, Germany. He died in Venice on February 
 13, 1883. His father was a Leipsic city official, who 
 gave his son the benefit of the illustrious Thomas 
 School, preparatory to a university career. The lat- 
 ter, however, was not of much advantage to him, as 
 young Wagner devoted himself mainly to musical 
 studies. He led a theatre orchestra in Magdeburg, 
 then in Konigsberg, then in Riga. 
 
 From the latter place he went, in 1839, to Paris, 
 where he completed " Rienzi " and the " Flying 
 Dutchman," in 1841. The latter was suggested by 
 a gale which Wagner experienced during a short 
 voyage. " Rienzi " was first brought out at Dres- 
 den in 1842, and led to Wagner's appointment as 
 orchestra leader in Dresden, where he brought out 
 his "Tanhauser" in 1845. In 1849 Wagner had to 
 leave Germany for political reasons, and went to 
 Switzerland, where " Lohengrin " was finished and 
 the tetralogy of the " Nibelung " was begun. Wag- 
 ner then lived in Italy, Vienna, and Paris, where 
 " Tanhauser " met with a disastrous presentation in 
 1861, and led accidentally to the following pages. 
 
4 AMERICAN INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In 1864 Wagner became intimate with Louis II., 
 the young King of Bavaria, under whose zealous 
 patronage he brought out his " Tristan " 
 the " Mastersingers " in 1768, " Rhinegold 
 the " Walkyria " in 1870, — all at Munich, 
 wrote the text for his operas, and also numerous 
 pamphlets, most of which led to acrimonious dis- 
 cussions. Wagner's musical ideals received some 
 outward impulses from the Oberammergau passion 
 play* and the success of the Franco-Prussian war, 
 which led to the establishment of the German Em- 
 pire. A special Wagner theatre was begun in 1872 
 at Bayreuth, where the master has since lived, and 
 his works were first presented in 1876, in entire 
 harmony with his vast requirements. Wagner's last 
 work, " Parsifal," was published in 1878. 
 
 Wagner's early writings were collected in an edi- 
 tion of nine volumes, published in Leipsic, 187 1 to 
 1873. His life was written by Glasenapp in two 
 volumes, 1876 to 1878. Kastner published a Wag- 
 ner catalogue. But it will take years, perhaps dec- 
 ades, before a final and just estimate can be formed 
 of so great a master. The following pages were 
 written by Judith Gautier, the Paris writer, and trans- 
 lated by an American lady. They have gone through 
 several European editions, as they give an account 
 of Wagner's opera texts,- and pay a tribute to the 
 genius of the great composer, who was also a remark- 
 able and original author. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Will the reader kindly look upon the first pages 
 of this book as a fragment of reminiscences, which I 
 hope some day to publish ; not that my life in itself 
 is worth relating, but it has been frequently brought 
 in contact with that of celebrated artists. It treats 
 here of certain experiences only, written as if for 
 myself, — reminiscences gathered during several 
 years of uninterrupted relations with Richard Wag- 
 ner. The books already published on the master, 
 in every language and every style, either to combat 
 or glorify him, would fill a shelf ; the catalogue of 
 these criticisms, studies, and biographies would form 
 a volume. Thus, the subject of his defeats, vic- 
 tories, and what is termed his musical system, has 
 been exhausted ; repetition is therefore useless. 
 
 Beside this, I have of late renounced all idea of 
 proselytism ; after a long struggle I abandon the 
 contest, at the moment when, to many, victory seems 
 most probable. I have reasons for this which I do 
 not care to indicate, but which seem to me decisive. 
 What I have for so long a time taken to be the cus- 
 tomary and fatal resistance, the instinctive hatred 
 which is experienced by every public in every coun- 
 
6 PREFACE. 
 
 try for the innovations of genius, is, I fear, in France 
 something even more. Our quick intelligence, so 
 light, so mobile, so disposed to mockery, deprives us 
 of th'at quality so indispensable to the comprehen- 
 sion of master works — simplicity. We cannot re- 
 frain from finding something to ridicule in grand 
 sentiments, sublimity, and noble or terrible passions ; 
 what pleases us above all is graceful, spirited art, 
 slightly sentimental, quick observation, and arrows 
 of satire ; also, no people can rival us when comic 
 operas, vaudevilles, and comedies of manners are in' 
 question. 
 
 Art is for us an amusement. We frankly weary 
 of anything serious, and if by chance we happen 
 to admit a masterpiece upon the scenes, it is simply 
 on the score of curiosity. Does a theatre exist 
 in Paris, this world's capital, where the great works, 
 lyrical and dramatic, of the entire world may be 
 represented ? Who troubles himself about Calde- 
 ron, Schiller, Goethe, Shakspeare ? While absurd 
 fairy scenes and miserable comedies, in which the 
 only discoverable merit is the play or personality of 
 the actors, and scenes of disgraceful realism, remain 
 upon the boards during a whole year, Othello drags 
 painfully on, barely reaching the twentieth represen- 
 tation. It will, perhaps, be urged that the French- 
 man dare not travel, and that works of art created 
 outside of his own little world do not interest him. 
 And Victor Hugo ! Is there any sort of indignity or 
 outrage which has been spared him in his own coun- 
 
PREFACE. 7 
 
 try ? It is true, that after sixty years of contest, his 
 glory radiates at last splendid and triumphant. Well, 
 where is Victor Hugo's theatre ? Has the new gen- 
 eration ever seen the representations of this master's 
 greatest works? "Les Burgraves," "Cromwell," 
 and " Le Roi qui S'Amuse." This last drama, it is 
 true, is about to reappear upon the stage. But fifty 
 years will have intervened between its first and 
 second representations. Why hope that Richard 
 Wagner should stand a better chance of vanquishing 
 the native antipathy of the French public to serious 
 works than Shakspeare, who after three hundred 
 years has not yet triumphed among us ; than Victor 
 Hugo, the greatest glory of France ? Are the enchant- 
 ments of music capable of working this miracle ? 
 It is possible, but I no longer hope for it. The 
 success of Lohengrin in Paris is probable, but we 
 shall go no farther. Neither the great Scandinavian 
 epope'e, nor the metaphysical loves of Tristan and 
 Isolde, nor the mysticism of Parsifal will reach us. 
 For this reason, recognizing the generous error in 
 which I have so long persisted, I renounce all sterile 
 efforts, and, blessing the invention of railroads, I 
 go bravely toward the mountain which cannot be 
 brought to me. 
 
 This book is, in reality, only addressed to the 
 small number of the initiated who, having broken 
 through the occult precinct of the new art, have the 
 incomparable joy of admiring without reserve all 
 that is worthy of admiration. They will find in 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 these pages, in addition to certain characteristic 
 traits of the master, drawn from life, and from which 
 they will be able to modify the ideas which they 
 may have received from fantastic portraits, the de- 
 tailed analyses of poems which have not been trans- 
 lated into French, and, above all, that of Parsifal. 
 These analyses will enable those undertaking the 
 pilgrimage to Bayreuth, and who do not understand 
 German, to follow the representations. My sole am- 
 bition is to be useful to the extent of my power to 
 this intelligent minority, who, in my opinion, alone 
 form this world, and who, I truly hope, may alone 
 form another, should it exist ; for I am convinced, 
 with Charles Baudelaire, that paradise is made up of 
 the small number of chosen ones. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Part JFirat. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Richard Wagner 13 
 
 Part &ec0ttti. 
 
 richard wagner's poetic work. 
 
 From Rienzi to Tristan and Isolde . . 65 
 Rienzi — The Flying Dutchman — Tanh^euser — 
 Lohengrin — Tristan and Isolde. 
 
 The Mastersingers of Nuremberg ... 87 
 
 The Ring of the Nibelung 102 
 
 Rhinegold (introductory) — Walkyria (first day) — 
 Sigfrid (second day) — Gloom of the Gods (third day). 
 
 Parsifal: A Lyrical Feast 128 
 
 First Act — Second Act — Third Act. 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 It was under rather peculiar circum- 
 stances that the name of Wagner was 
 mentioned in my presence, for the first 
 time, the evening of the first representation 
 of Tanhauser in Paris. I had left school 
 the day before on a vacation, and if this 
 great combat in regard to Tanhauser had 
 been mentioned in my hearing, I, at least, 
 remembered nothing of it. I was acci- 
 dentally crossing the Passage de l'Opera 
 with my father, the evening of this repre- 
 sentation, during an entr'acte. The pass- 
 age was crowded ; a gentleman, who ap- 
 proached my father with a bow, stopped 
 us. He was rather small, thin, with 
 hollow cheeks and a prominent nose, a 
 broad forehead and brilliant eyes. He 
 
 13 
 
14 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 began to speak of the representation, at 
 which he had been present, with malignant 
 intensity, and such a ferocious joy at 
 seeing the confirmation of its failure, that, 
 carried away by an involuntary sentiment, 
 I suddenly emerged from the silence and 
 reserve imposed upon one of my age, to 
 cry with astonishing impertinence, " In 
 hearing you, sir, it is easy to divine that 
 a great work is in question, and that you 
 speak of a brother-artist." 
 
 "Now, what has come over you, naughty 
 child," said my father, wishing to reprove 
 me, but quietly laughing to himself. 
 "Who is it?" I asked, when the gentle- 
 man had left us. "That was Hector 
 Berlioz." 
 
 I have never forgotten this incident, and 
 I have seemed later to see in this sudden 
 movement of anger, which roused my 
 young conscience to indignation in so 
 singular a manner, a sort of presentiment, 
 — something which premonished me that 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 1 5 
 
 one day I should become a passionate ad- 
 mirer of this artist, whose name I now 
 heard for the first time. 
 
 It seems evident that, at the moment 
 when a new genius reveals itself, a little 
 group of chosen mortals springs to life, 
 called to form about him a devoted com- 
 pany to defend him, to console him for 
 all but universal hatred, to sustain him 
 in his agonies, all the while upholding 
 the divinity of his inspirations. It was 
 doubtless my vocation to become a dis- 
 ciple of this new hero, to understand and 
 believe in him, for I was influenced by 
 no one. One day chance placed in my 
 hands the score of the Flying Dutchman. 
 My music teacher, who hired music at 
 Flaxland's, had taken this volume, among 
 others, without knowing its contents, and 
 left it with me until the next lesson, as it 
 was inconveniently burdensome. I had 
 profited little by my lessons, and was a 
 most indifferent pianist; notwithstanding 
 
1 6 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 which, after having deciphered in the 
 most incomplete and crude manner this 
 unknown score, I was entirely overcome, 
 and in spite of my numberless mistakes, 
 the grandeur and meaning of this music 
 were revealed to me by a sort of intuition. 
 I could not be persuaded to leave the 
 piano; I became infatuated, and my 
 friends tried in vain to get the score out of 
 my hands. From this moment Richard 
 Wagner had one more faithfuL disciple. 
 
 When, in 1868, I wrote several articles 
 upon his works, I had still a very imper- 
 fect knowledge of them from more or less 
 satisfactory executions upon the piano 
 and desultory fragments heard at the pop- 
 ular concerts. I was much alarmed at 
 my own audacity, after having addressed 
 these articles to Wagner, then at Lucerne, 
 accompanied by a letter, begging him to 
 aid me kindly with his advice for their 
 correction and completion. I hoped and 
 waited for an answer with extreme anx- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 17 
 
 iety: would it come? I could not believe 
 it, and yet I could think of nothing else. 
 I could hardly sleep, and as each morning 
 passed, and the messenger brought nothing, 
 my heart filled with anguish. One day, 
 however, I spied the Lucerne postmark 
 upon an envelope addressed in an un- 
 known hand, which I immediately recog- 
 nized as remarkable. 
 
 I held this letter a long time between 
 my fingers before opening it. I experi- 
 enced a strange emotion, — a sort of fear. 
 How had I dared, with my heedlessness, 
 characteristically French, to write, con- 
 fiding alone in my instinct, upon the 
 works of this artist, for whom I felt 
 already such an enthusiasm that I could 
 only imagine him as existing, after the 
 manner of the gods, upon an inaccessible 
 Olympus. Was this letter really from 
 him? I opened it at last, four pages of 
 elegant handwriting, very legible, and at 
 the last line the magic signature. The 
 
1 8 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 letter" began thus: "Madam, — It is im- 
 possible that you could have experienced 
 the slightest doubt of the touching and 
 kindly impression made upon me by your 
 letter and your fine articles. Accept my 
 thanks for them, and permit me to count 
 you among the small number of true 
 friends whose clear-eyed sympathy is my 
 only glory. There is nothing in your ar- 
 ticles to correct, nothing to suggest; but 
 I perceive that you have not yet a thorough 
 knowledge of the Mastersingers." He 
 then gave me an interesting explanation 
 of the introduction to the third act in the 
 Mastersingers, which had been performed 
 by Pasdeloup a short time previous at 
 the popular concerts. The letter ended 
 thus : — 
 
 " Pardon me, madam, if I venture to 
 complete, above all with the aid of my bad 
 French, your acquaintance, otherwise so 
 profound and intimate, with my music, by 
 which you have truly touched and sur- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 19 
 
 prised me. I shall probably visit Paris 
 before long, perhaps even this winter., and 
 I rejoice beforehand in the true pleasure of 
 taking you by the hand, and telling you 
 face to face of the pleasure you have given 
 to your truty obliged and devoted, 
 
 Richard Wagner." 
 
 I waited in vain for this proposed 
 journey. Wagner did not visit France 
 during that winter. Nor has he come 
 since then. There was but one thing to 
 be done, — go to Lucerne. But how 
 should I be received? Fantastic legends 
 were reported in regard to Wagner; 
 among others, it was related that he had 
 in his house a seraglio, composed of 
 women of all colors, from all countries, in 
 magnificent costumes; but that no visitor 
 crossed the threshold of his dwelling. 
 On the other hand, persons who pre- 
 tended to know him intimately, depicted 
 him as an unsocial man, gloomy and sul- 
 
20 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 len, living in jealous retreat, having for 
 sole companionship two large black dogs. 
 This wild solitude was tolerable, and even 
 pleased me; but the idea that a feeling of 
 polite gratitude might force him to break 
 through it in my favor troubled me 
 greatly. On this account I wrote an ex- 
 tremely complicated letter, saying, that 
 passing through Lucerne by chance, only 
 passing, I begged him to inform me if he 
 were still there and would permit me the 
 pleasure of greeting him. By this arrange- 
 ment the fear of his disturbance being 
 prolonged beyond that of a short interview 
 would be averted. To tell the truth, 
 chance had nothing to do with this journey, 
 and there was nothing to hurry me. The 
 following letter • entirely reassured me: 
 " Madam, — I am at Lucerne, and I have 
 no need to tell you how much pleasure 
 I shall have in seeing you. I shall but 
 beg you to prolong your sojourn at 
 Lucerne in order that the happiness you 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 21 
 
 accord me may not vanish too quickly. 
 I suppose that you go to Munich for the 
 Exposition of pictures; however, as I have 
 the presumption to believe that it will be 
 agreeable to you to hear some of my 
 works, I would inform you that the 
 representation of Tanhauser, Lohengrin, 
 Tristan, and the Mastersingers will take 
 place in the month of June, that the 
 theatre is at the present moment closed, 
 and that Rhinegold will be given at the 
 earliest on the 29th of August, if indeed 
 it be given then. But I trust that neither 
 the postponement of the exposition, nor 
 the closing of the theatre, will retard your 
 visit to Lucerne. Quite on the contrary, 
 I shall hope for a prolongation of your 
 stay here, and while begging you to kindly 
 notify me by a word, of the day when you 
 expect to arrive, I pray you to accept the 
 assurance of my respectful gratitude. 
 
 Richard Wagner." 
 
22 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 I arrived in Lucerne on a beautiful 
 afternoon in the month of July, 1869. On 
 entering the station I looked out of the 
 carriage-door, when I suddenly perceived 
 Wagner on the platform. He did not in 
 the least resemble the unfavorable photo- 
 graphs which I had seen. I had no hesi- 
 tation in recognizing him and ran toward 
 him. We shook hands in silence, and he 
 enveloped me with that intense glance 
 which is peculiar to himself, and seems 
 to pierce one's soul. I experienced no 
 embarrassment during that moment of 
 strange silence, in which my heart was, so 
 to speak, bare beneath his gaze, but a pro- 
 found emotion, a wild joy. " Come," he 
 said, offering me his arm, "If you do not 
 care for magnificence, the Lake Hotel will 
 please you 5 I have engaged rooms there." 
 The hotel was near by, and we went on 
 foot. He stopped a moment on the way, 
 and with a very grave, almost solemn 
 expression, said to me: "We are bound 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 23 
 
 by a very noble sentiment, madam." But 
 an instant later, after having recom- 
 mended me to the innkeeper, he took 
 leave of me. " I am going to prepare for 
 your reception," he said, " else I should 
 be stupid. Come presently when you have 
 taken a little rest." From my window I 
 saw him move away with a rapid step, 
 cross the old bridge of Lucerne, and step 
 into a boat. He told me later that he 
 was in haste to impart to his wife his 
 impressions, which were not in the least 
 what he had anticipated. At sunset I 
 reached Tribscheu, that consecrated bit of 
 land where, since that time, I have passed 
 so many charming hours. 
 
 It was a sort of promontory, extremely 
 picturesque, jutting into the lake. There 
 was neither grating nor door; the garden 
 had no defined limits, and extended indefi- 
 nitely toward the neighboring mountains. 
 The exterior of the house was perfectly 
 plain, — gray, with dark tiles ; but in the 
 
24 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 interior arrangements, full of grace and 
 elegance, one felt the presence of a 
 woman. Madame Wagner appeared in 
 the midst of her children, fair, tall and 
 gracious,, with a charming smile, and 
 tender, dreamy-blue eyes. The sympathy 
 with which she inspired me from the first 
 moment has never been broken, and our 
 friendship, already of long standing, has 
 never known a cloud. It was a delightful 
 evening; the master displayed incom- 
 parable animation and gayety of spirits. I 
 was unprepared for this vivacity of mind, 
 these witticisms, the delicacies of lan- 
 guage which we are wont to consider the 
 monopoly of the Parisian, and .which ac- 
 quired in him a peculiar charm from his 
 foreign accent, and, in spite of the great 
 facility with which he spoke French, his 
 original and unexpected expressions. He 
 spoke of Paris, where he had greatly suf- 
 fered, but which he still loved, and of the 
 great contest over Tanhauser, without 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 25 
 
 bitterness. I remember, among others, 
 this phrase: "Since the public at the 
 opera do not like my music why inflict 
 it upon them?" The group of warm 
 partisans which had formed itself in 
 France appeared to touch him deeply. 
 Perhaps he founded secret hopes upon the 
 initiative spirit of the French. In spite of 
 his steadily increasing success in Ger- 
 many he still had bitter adversaries, and 
 was still exposed to base persecutions. 
 The press reviled him incessantly with a 
 coarseness and violence of which our 
 French journals, even those most eager 
 for scandal, can give no idea. The 
 calumnies went even so far that Wagner, 
 for the first and last time in his life, 
 decided to reply to them. " I have seen," 
 he said, among other things, " the London 
 and Paris papers mock my works and 
 tendencies without pity ; these works have 
 been dragged through the mire, they 
 have been hissed in the theatres; but it 
 
26 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 still remained to me to see my person, my 
 private character, my domestic life, ex- 
 posed to public contempt in the country 
 where my works are admired, and where 
 a masculine energy and lofty aspirations 
 are recognized in my efforts." The no- 
 bility and clergy were arrayed against 
 him. What they sought for in him was 
 doubtless the revolutionist of the days in 
 May, 1849; the deep thinker, the power- 
 ful and energetic man of action, marching 
 toward progress and the liberation of 
 thought. And what hatred! Banished, 
 pursued, and not knowing where to take 
 refuge. Thus came about this almost 
 incredible thing, that, at one time, he 
 might be thought the only German who 
 had not seen the representation of Lo- 
 hengrin. 
 
 Notwithstanding the unalterable affec- 
 tion of King Louis II. he was, at the 
 time I saw him, morally exiled from Ba- 
 varia. His long-cherished project of a 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 27 
 
 theatre, the plans of which were already 
 drawn by the great architect^ Semper, and 
 which the king wished to have erected 
 in Munich, nearly revolutionized the city. 
 The project was relinquished and the 
 plaster model of the building was sorrow- 
 fully banished to an attic in the palace. 
 But Wagner had not ceased to think of it, 
 and who knows if at this moment Paris 
 was not the aim of his dreams ? He was 
 then working upon the third part of the 
 Nibelungen, Siegfried. I saw the man- 
 uscript on his study piano, in a little 
 apartment adjoining the drawing-room. 
 There was a portrait of his noble friend, 
 handsome as a hero of the Edda. I was 
 told that he sometimes escaped from Mu- 
 nich to pass a few days at Tribscheu, and 
 that in this same room a bed was arranged 
 for him. 
 
 There is nothing more touching than 
 the enthusiastic affection with which this 
 young king was inspired by the man of 
 
28 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 genius. He came to him like a saving 
 angel at the moment when all abandoned 
 him. " What shall I say to you," wrote 
 Wagner to a friend, some time after his 
 first interview with the king; "the most 
 incomprehensible thing, and the only one, 
 moreover, which could save me, is com- 
 pletely realized. In the very year of my 
 first representation of Tanhauser, a queen 
 brought into this world the good genius of 
 my life, him who was destined later, in 
 the depth of my distress, to give me safety 
 and consolation. It seems as if he had 
 been sent me from heaven." The king 
 was obliged, however, to do battle for his 
 great friend, for the entire court was hos- 
 tile to him, and the struggle was not with- 
 out danger for the newly-crowned youth. 
 But nothing could change his heart. The 
 world in general revenged itself upon him 
 by inventing various legends more or less 
 absurd and unworthy of his notice. His 
 only peculiarity lies in his deep intelli- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 29 
 
 gence, and his preference for masterpieces 
 over the frivolous and commonplace 
 pleasures of the world. 
 
 For fifteen days I passed my afternoons 
 and evenings in the charming retreat Trib- 
 scheu, for I soon had the honor of being 
 considered a friend. When minds are once 
 in sympathy hearts come quicker to an un- 
 derstanding, and my affection for my host 
 soon equalled the admiration with which 
 the artist had inspired me. Of all the in- 
 formation given me about Wagner, his 
 home life, the great reality, was the one 
 black spot. Rus was a handsome New- 
 foundland, very gentle and pacific, who 
 often came by himself to see me at the 
 Lake Hotel. Few visitors ever crossed 
 the threshold of the master's house. He 
 knew no one at Lucerne, and this tran- 
 quillity was favorable to his work. Thus 
 I saw him alone with his family, in all the 
 simplicity of his life, and could form an 
 exact idea of his character. I was greatly 
 
30 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 struck in the first place by his powerful, 
 resolute head, the extraordinary brilliancy 
 of his eyes, and his intensity of expression. 
 There was also an expression of infinite 
 goodness, which would never be suspected 
 from his portraits. This almost superhu- 
 man goodness radiated from him at every 
 moment; it was visible in the adoration 
 with which he inspired not only his fam- 
 ily but all who surrounded him. The 
 members of his little domain took advan- 
 tage of this gentleness. Little by little 
 relations of every degree, near or far, 
 gathered about him, who having come for 
 a visit stayed indefinitely. As I knew the 
 master better, I gained a further insight into 
 his exquisite tenderness of soul, which in 
 him has nothing in common with the vul- 
 gar philanthropy so frequently met with, 
 and which is for the most part theoretic. 
 It was a Frenchman, the Count of Gobi- 
 neau, who said of Wagner, " He can never 
 be absolutely happy, for he will always 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 3 1 
 
 have some one near him whose sorrows 
 he feels bound to share." 
 
 One day I asked him if he had any 
 plans for his new-born son. " My first 
 ambition," he said, " is to assure him a 
 modest income, which will render him 
 independent, that he may be sheltered 
 from the miserable annoyances from which 
 I have so cruelly suffered. Then I should 
 wish him to know something of surgery, 
 enough to render aid to a wounded person 
 in emergencies, to prepare a first dressing. 
 I have so often been troubled by my own 
 inability that I wish to spare him this pain. 
 Beyond this I shall leave him entirely free." 
 Madame Wagner told me that the com- 
 position of the Mastersingers had been sus- 
 pended during long months on account 
 of a sick dog, wandering and abandoned, 
 which Wagner, then at Zurich, had picked 
 up and endeavored to cure. The dog had 
 bitten his right hand badly, and the wound 
 became so painful as to prevent him from 
 
32 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 writing. It is impossible to dictate music, 
 and he was thus reduced to inaction, which 
 put his patience to a hard test; but the dog 
 was' none the less cared for. There are, 
 however, violence and roughness in Rich- 
 ard Wagner's character which must be 
 recognized, and which are frequently the 
 cause of his being misjudged, but only by 
 those who regard merely the exterior. 
 Nervous and impassionable to excess, the 
 emotions which he experiences are always 
 carried to an extreme. With him slight 
 pain is almost despair, the smallest irrita- 
 tion has the appearance of madness. This 
 wonderful organization of such exquisite 
 sensibility has terrible vibrations, and his 
 resistance of them is wonderful. A day 
 of anxiety ages him ten years, but, happi- 
 ness once reinstated, the day following 
 finds him younger than ever. He gives 
 himself to others with extraordinary prodi- 
 gality. Always sincere, his whole heart 
 is in everything he does; but of an ex- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 33 
 
 tremely variable temper, his opinions and 
 ideas, fixed the first momeht, are by no 
 means irrevocable. No one recognizes an 
 error more quickly than he does, but he 
 must have passed his first enthusiasm. By 
 his frankness and vehemence he often 
 wounds his best friends unintentionally; 
 always excessive he goes farther than he 
 intends, and does not recognize the grief 
 he causes. Many, wounded in their self- 
 love, bear in silence the injury which ag- 
 gravates them, and thus they lose a precious 
 friendship; whereas, if they had cried out 
 that they were hurt, they would have found 
 the master filled with such sincere regrets 
 that he would have made an effusive effort 
 to console them, and their love for him 
 would only have increased. 
 
 " With Wagner the second movement 
 is the good one," said a French violinist, 
 who had left everything to enroll him- 
 self in the orchestra at Bayreuth, — an 
 artist of great merit, a man of spirit 
 
34 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 who was one of those preferred by 
 the master. In spite of his occasion- 
 ally rough manner, Wagner is, when he 
 so chooses, a perfect charmer. There 
 is nothing to be compared with the 
 fascination which he exercises upon the 
 interpreters working under his orders. 
 After a few days the most hostile and 
 rebellious orchestra becomes attached 
 to him. It is the same with the singers, 
 whom he inspires with unbounded devo- 
 tion. The illustrious Schnorr, the first 
 singer of Tristan, in which part he was 
 sublime, cried, as he drew his last breath, 
 " It is not I then who will sing Siegfried." 
 He regretted nothing in this life but the 
 glory of interpreting Wagner's works. 
 One of the most remarkable things about 
 Wagner is the youthful gayety which so 
 frequently breaks out, and the charming 
 good humor which his tormented life has 
 never been able to quench. His entertain- 
 ing and profound conversation will 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 35 
 
 become all at once, without transition, full 
 of humor and imagination. He tells 
 stories in the most comical manner, with a 
 fine irony which belongs to him alone. 
 At Lucerne he surprised me by his skill 
 in bodily exercises, and by his singular 
 agility. He climbed the highest trees in 
 his garden, to the terror of his wife, who 
 besought me not to look at him, because, 
 she said, if he were encouraged he would 
 commit no end of follies. 
 
 He was then working very regularly, 
 rising early in the morning. At midday 
 he was free, took long walks, or rested 
 while reading, for he has an insatiable 
 thirst for literature, and is an indefatigable 
 student. In these hours of rest and medi- 
 tation he has moments of beautiful se- 
 renity. His features then assume an in- 
 comparable sweetness, his face becomes 
 enveloped with a pallor which has nothing 
 of ill-health, but seems to veil it with a 
 slight cloud. At these moments nothing' 
 
2,6 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 troubles or agitates him. One feels that 
 he is in self-communion with his dreams, 
 and one involuntarily thinks of a magnifi- 
 cent lake reflecting the heavens. I have 
 never witnessed this peaceful reverie 
 without emotion, without the deep desire 
 that nothing may trouble or dissipate it. 
 But little is needed to bring back agita- 
 tion; the least breath suffices; happy if the 
 tempest does not break forth. Unfortu- 
 nately for himself Wagner will never 
 know the feeling so wisely egotistical — 
 polite indifference. Before my departure 
 from Lucerne he wished to organize an 
 excursion of several days to show us 
 the country of William Tell. We were 
 obliged to start at dawn, and the carriage 
 was winding its way by the lake of Lu- 
 cerne, or the Four Cantons, when the sun 
 rose. I remember that a gleam of light 
 fell upon the master's lips while he was 
 talking to us. In speaking of Mendelssohn 
 he said: "He is a great landscape- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 37 
 
 painter." I confess to seeing very little of 
 the country I was visiting. I remember 
 at the first halting-place a trout upon 
 which Wagner made a frightful pun, 
 which I shall not translate. Then came 
 the steamboat which conveyed us to 
 Zurich, where the master was welcomed 
 by the populace as a well-loved king; a 
 mountain was climbed, a sail followed; 
 but all is confused. What has ever re- 
 mained in my memory is the charm of 
 those days, passed in such glorious in- 
 timacy, his gentle gayety and simplicity, 
 the attentive cares, the art of organizing 
 everything for one's greatest comfort and 
 pleasure. He was the first to rise and 
 awake "the more slothful ones, and he 
 hummed the Marseillaise as he tapped 
 upon our doors. 
 
 Once again at Lucerne Wagner con- 
 fessed that he had been suffering during 
 the greater part of the journey, but had 
 been careful to say nothing lest he should 
 
38 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 spoil our pleasure. It was with sincere 
 regret that I finally took leave of my 
 hosts, being, however, somewhat consoled 
 by the promise that I should often receive 
 news from Tribscheu, a promise which 
 has been faithfully kept. I returned there 
 the following year, 1870, being at Lu- 
 cerne when the war was declared. It 
 was evident with his ardent character 
 that Wagner could not fail to be deeply 
 impressed by this event. The idea of a 
 united Germany impassioned him, and I 
 confess that I should have loved him less 
 had he not experienced, like all of us, in 
 these crises the inspirations of patriotism. 
 It was deemed expedient, however, not to 
 touch upon dangerous questions, where we 
 could not possibly agree, but to remain 
 prudently in the regions of art, where we 
 so entirely understood one another. By 
 this method the events which made us 
 opponents could not disturb our friendship. 
 Returned to Paris, the last letter which I 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 39 
 
 received from him was dated the 5th of 
 September. 'It informed me of the bap- 
 tism of his son, to whom I stood god- 
 mother, but alas, at a distance. " At the 
 moment of the benediction," he wrote, " a 
 storm burst upon us with flashes of light- 
 ning and loud peals of thunder. It appears 
 that the thunder claps will play their part 
 in the life of this terrible child. I my- 
 self like such celestial auguries, while I 
 hold in aversion those terrestrial blows 
 which have deprived us of your presence. 
 I keep to our silence so sensibly agreed 
 upon. But happily there is a region of 
 existence where we are and always shall 
 remain friends. All that separates us, 
 even in our opinions upon things which 
 belong to this region, can only con- 
 tribute to draw us in time nearer and 
 more intimately together." The horrible 
 tempest once calmed, we met again with 
 the same sentiments^ each continuing to 
 reserve his own opinions. In 1872 Lu- 
 
40 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 cerne was abandoned for Bayreuth; the 
 great project so long cherished of the 
 theatre built after Wagner's ideas was at 
 last to be realized. The 2 2d of April 
 Madame Wagner wrote me : "One last 
 word from Tribscheu, my dear friend, 
 which we leave with full hearts and 
 troubled minds. To-morrow Wagner 
 goes to Bayreuth, and I am to follow 
 him with the children and Rus in a 
 week. We cannot, however, leave 
 without sending you our tender remem- 
 brances." 
 
 The first stone of the theatre was 
 solemnly laid at Bayreuth on the 22d of 
 May of the same year. On this occasion 
 the king sent the following despatch to 
 Wagner: — 
 
 " From the depths of my heart, dear 
 friend, I express to you, on this day of 
 such great import to all Germany, my 
 warmest and sincgrest congratulations. 
 Success and blessing to the great enter- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 4 1 
 
 prise of the coming year! To-day more 
 than ever I am with you in spirit." 
 
 " Ludwig." 
 
 Beethoven's symphony, with choruses, 
 directed by Wagner, was the finest 
 episode of the fetes which followed. 
 The German public, who knew it well, 
 was enraptured by the inimitable perfor- 
 mance. " We cannot express in words 
 our thanks and admiration for the man- 
 ner in which Wagner interprets the 
 works of Beethoven," wrote the Musical 
 Journal of Berlin. "We have never 
 heard an orchestra spiritualized to such a 
 degree. We add our share of enthusiasm 
 to that of the transported audience." And 
 Mr. Richard Pohl, a well-known writer, 
 said : " Richard Wagner, who always 
 directs without notes, knowing the score 
 by heart, exercises a marvellous and mag- 
 netic charm over his orchestra. He forces 
 it to accomplish his wishes, does with it 
 
42 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 what he will, sure of being obeyed. He 
 animates and electrifies each musician, and 
 alwa}'s remains in sympathetic contact 
 with the whole instrumental body. All 
 divine, so to speak, his thought. He 
 handles the orchestra like a gigantic in- 
 strument, with a certainty that never fails 
 him, with a sovereignty before which all 
 joyfully bow. To form an idea of this 
 prodigy it must be witnessed; the revela- 
 tion is as unique as is Wagner's incompar- 
 ably artistic nature." " Our fete is over," 
 wrote Madame Wagner, several days later, 
 " and in spite of very bad weather it has 
 been superb. The words of Beethoven, 
 ' all men become brothers,' seemed to be 
 realized during these few days at Ba}?- 
 reuth, where our friends, known and un- 
 known, have congregated from every 
 quarter of the globe, having all one 
 thought and one faith." 
 
 In 1876 the theatre was finished, and 
 that colossal work, the Ring of the Nibe- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 43 
 
 lung, was brought forward and put upon 
 the stage. Sovereigns, artists, an intelli- 
 gent crowd, rushed toward Bayreuth, 
 which could not contain it, and even the 
 streets were put into requisition for impro- 
 vised camps. That little city, so com- 
 pletely obscure a few years ago, suddenly 
 rendered famous by the caprice of a man 
 of genius, is hidden behind the chilly 
 mountains of Upper Franconia. • Pine 
 woods, rapid streams, vast plains, bounded 
 by blue-tinted hills against the misty sky, 
 long poplar-studded roads, along which 
 harnessed oxen slowly travel in couples 
 under the brass } r oke which forms a sort 
 of crown over their heads, — such is the 
 approach to this once quiet city, which, all 
 at once, in honor of the theatre which 
 rises in proud simplicity on the hill, 
 throws open its gates to welcome emper- 
 ors, kings, and princes from all countries, 
 and finds itself filled with a joyous crowd, 
 which the innkeepers, waking from their 
 
44 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 long lethargy, swindle to the best of their 
 ability. While speaking of innkeepers I 
 may recall a characteristic incident which 
 happened at Munich. The hotel-keepers 
 of the city, having previously come to a 
 common understanding, offered to build 
 the projected theatre for Wagner at their 
 own expense, but at Munich, not in Bay- 
 reuth. They considered that it would be 
 a great affair for them. Even as a river 
 is diverted from its course, so they pro- 
 posed to direct toward themselves the 
 tide of visitors; but the master held to 
 Bayreuth and declined their offers. 
 
 Wahnfried ! Such is the name of 
 Wagner's villa at Bayreuth. Wahnfried, 
 a name full of melancholy doubt, which 
 gives rise to many thoughts, but is difficult 
 to translate; its truest signification being 
 illusions of peace. At the height of his 
 glory, adored almost, he whose life had 
 been so troubled and painful wished to 
 persuade himself that he had at last ere- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER 45 
 
 ated, sheltered from all attacks, a retreat 
 where he could thenceforward live in 
 peace; but he himself recognized the 
 futility of this scheme. Can repose exist 
 for such a mind, always pushing irresistibly 
 forward and higher? Folly, illusion, thus 
 to mark a standing-place, to carve one's 
 tombstone, and to dig a grave, while so 
 many desires are still fermenting, and 
 while so many dreams are still outlived, 
 which must be formed, and then again 
 dissipated. 
 
 Wahnfried ! This word, which at first 
 seemed to me to contain a regret, held, 
 perhaps, on the contrary a hope. The 
 house, constructed upon Wagner's own 
 plan, appears at the end of a long avenue; 
 it is built of grayish red stones, almost 
 square, and without other ornament than 
 the fresco upon the front, which recalls a 
 scene from the Nibelungen. A straight 
 flight of steps leads to the door ; that 
 opens upon a small anteroom, which again 
 
46 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 communicates with a large vestibule, very 
 high, and lighted from the top. It is sur- 
 rounded, on a level with the first story, by 
 a gallery, decorated with paintings, repre- 
 senting Eastern scenes. The floor is 
 paved with flagstones, divans are placed 
 in the angles, together with marble 
 statues of Wagner's heroes, the work of 
 enthusiastic sculptors, and a large Ameri- 
 can organ with brass stops. At the right 
 is the dining-room; on the left a little 
 salon filled with objects of art. Facing 
 this is the great hall of reunion, vast and 
 sumptuous, at once library and working- 
 room. It is terminated by a glass rotunda 
 opening into the garden, where a fountain 
 is babbling joyously. 
 
 The theatre, which stands outside of 
 the city on a hill, is a construction of simple 
 aspect, somewhat resembling the palace 
 of the Trocadero. When I saw it for the 
 first time rising majestically on the height, 
 illumined by the rays of the setting sun; 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 47 
 
 when I saw that contemplative crowd 
 slowly ascending on every side toward this 
 temple of art, I could not restrain tears of 
 joy. The dream of this man's entire life 
 was thus at last realized. The world that 
 had persecuted him hastened finally to 
 greet him with a rapture beyond prece- 
 dent. He, once so persecuted, enjoyed 
 even in life his apotheosis. This new 
 phase of his life had changed nothing in 
 his manner of being; this immense 
 triumph failed to intoxicate him; he did 
 not even appear to be greatly impressed. 
 It seemed to me that the Nibelungen were 
 far from his mind, which already medi- 
 tated new creations. He made me visit 
 the theatre in all its details, from the hid- 
 den orchestra, sunk beneath the stage, to 
 the mechanism which held suspended the 
 Undines of the Rhine. We had to climb 
 everything that was practicable, descend 
 to the floor under the stage; and I per- 
 ceived that the master had lost none of 
 his agility of Tribscheu. 
 
48 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 Those who were present at the admir- 
 able representations of 1876, where every- 
 thing had been prepared and directed by 
 Wagner, will never forget them. A like 
 solemnity has not been reproduced since 
 the great theatrical celebrations of ancient 
 Greece, and will remain a great event in 
 the future history of art. I shall close 
 these few pages, written from memory, by 
 the relation of my last visit to the master, 
 copied from my travelling note book. 
 
 Bayrkuth, 29th of September, 1881. 
 
 It is with quickly beating hearts that 
 we cross once more the threshold of this 
 dwelling, which, in spite of the cordial 
 reception always awaiting us, we feel 
 to be consecrated ground, the holy of 
 holies, which should not be penetrated 
 without a sort of sacred awe. The whole 
 family is assembled in the drawing-room, 
 which is brightened by a ray of sunlight. 
 Liszt, who has come to pass a few 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 49 
 
 -weeks with his dear grandchildren, is 
 superb, with his long white hair, his 
 bushy eyebrows, beneath which shine a 
 lion's eyes. My godson is already grow- 
 ing large; he has a broad forehead, and 
 blue eyes of exquisite sweetness. The 
 master comes up from the garden, always 
 the same, even younger. Truly the im- 
 mortals defy time. He receives us with 
 that tender effusion with w r hich those of his 
 followers, by whom he knows himself 
 perfectly loved, inspire him, for he has 
 nothing of the impassable egotism which 
 so often attacks great men when they 
 arrive at a certain height of glory. He is 
 rather, as we have already said, too im- 
 pressionable, allows himself to be gov- 
 erned by the momentary violence of his 
 impressions; and the only uneasiness he 
 causes to those who surround him, who 
 live only for him, proceeds from this in- 
 tensity in his sadness or joy, or from his 
 anger, which a nature less tempered than 
 
50 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 his would not be able to resist. He can- 
 sometimes forget, even completely change, 
 his opinion, love that which he once de- 
 tested, and always with the same sincerity. 
 We pass to the dining-room. The 
 master is now rapturously gay; he ex- 
 presses himself with some difficulty in 
 French, which does not, however, prevent 
 his playing upon the words as no one else 
 can. He tells us of his journey to Naples 
 and Venice, of the pleasure he has de- 
 rived from Italy, and we quickly divine in 
 him a longing for the sun and new hori- ■ 
 zons; he is thinking of Greece, the Bos- 
 porus, India. Oh Wahnfried, Wahnfried ! 
 One thing evidently wearies him greatly; 
 it is the instrumentation of Parsifal. He 
 complains of not being able to form young 
 artists capable of aiding him in his work; 
 but this is simply make-believe, he well 
 knows that it is impossible. "When one 
 is young," he said, " when the nerves are 
 not yet fatigued, and one writes scores 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 5 1 
 
 with a certain ease, even that of Lohen- 
 grin, without knowing all the resources of 
 coloring and combination, the work is not 
 comparable to that which the new works 
 demand, and which must be written at a 
 maturer age. Auber, however, wrote 
 until his eighty-fourth year without 
 fatigue; but he had not changed his man- 
 ner." Liszt relates a speech of Auber's, 
 to whom a young musician of great 
 promise had been presented. "Are we 
 not enough already?" cried the master. 
 He afterwards spoke of a counterbass with 
 five chords, the object of which is to de- 
 scend still further in the lower notes than 
 the ordinary counterbass does. Wagner 
 said of a gentleman who came to submit 
 a similar process to him, that he sent him 
 about his business. Mendelssohn, how- 
 ever, has already tried something of the 
 kind and produced a fine effect. 
 
 We were reproached for not having 
 come a month sooner, when the house 
 
52 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 was full of singers, to whom the parts of 
 Parsifal were assigned, and who began 
 their first studies. To console us, Wag- 
 ner promised to let us hear certain pas- 
 sages. But he pretends to play badly, 
 so that it will not be the same thing. 
 There is a project to go to-morrow to the 
 theatre to see the models of the scenes, 
 provided the machinist who is expected 
 has arrived to show them; 
 
 30th September. 
 
 We are early to-day at Wahnfried. 
 The gate is never shut except by a bolt, 
 and we can take a solitary walk in the 
 garden without disturbing any one. Long 
 trellises of virgin vines, already blood- 
 stained by the precocious autumn, creep 
 the length of each side of the way leading 
 to the house ; it is almost dark under their 
 shelter; in places, however, the green 
 roof becomes lighter, and the dead leaves 
 rustle under our feet. The space inter- 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 53 
 
 vening between these trellises and the 
 centre walk is reserved for the kitchen 
 garden; but the soil does not appear to be 
 fertile. We come out at the conserva- 
 tory, where there is already a fire; all the 
 delicate flowers have been brought in- 
 doors. A few exotic plants destined to 
 ornament the drawing-room, but which 
 are withering, are there as in an infirmary. 
 In front of the hot-house, on the other 
 side of the house, cries and a flapping of 
 wings indicate the hen-house; it is large 
 and gay, and might be taken for a sample 
 from the garden of acclimation in Paris. 
 Peacocks, silver pheasants, rare hens, and 
 a scattering of pigeons fill it, defying the 
 cook's knife, for the place is as sacred to 
 them as if they were taking their sports 
 within the enclosure of a Brahmin temple. 
 In front of the drawing-room, and sur- 
 rounding the fountain, is the pleasure-gar- 
 den; with fine lawns, beds of Bengal roses, 
 and flowers of all kinds, but many of them 
 
54 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 are already frostbitten. This free space is 
 enclosed by a bushy wood forming a sort 
 of wall. One must penetrate its shadows 
 to approach the tomb, which has been al- 
 ready so much talked of, and which by a 
 sufficiently exuberant fancy the master 
 caused to be built at the same time with 
 his house. It is completely enveloped by 
 the thick coppice, and is without egress; 
 it is only when autumn strips the trees 
 that a large gray marble slab can be seen 
 through the confusion of branches, over 
 which the briars twine themselves. A 
 graceful pavilion of two stories, a gymna- 
 sium for the children, hemicycles of grass, 
 with stone benches, are scattered in this 
 wood, which leads to a little gate, looking 
 out upon the royal residence. The stroke 
 of the clock recalls us to the house. The 
 master has finished his morning task, and 
 shows us his well-fil led page lying upon the 
 table. His life is one of the greatest regu- 
 larity, above all when, as at this time, 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 55 
 
 he is pursuing a hurried and fatiguing 
 work. He rises at six, but after his bath 
 retires again and reads until ten. At 
 eleven he sets himself to work until two 
 o'clock. After dinner he rests for a short 
 time, always in company with a book. 
 From four until six he drives, then goes 
 back to his work until supper, at eight; the 
 evening is passed gayly with his family, 
 and before eleven' all the household is in 
 bed. 
 
 At table Liszt announces that Darwin 
 declares himself a partisan of vivisection, 
 but that this frightful practice has just been 
 interdicted in England. It is well known 
 that Richard Wagner is one of the warm- 
 est defenders of those innocent victims of 
 the physiologist's cruel curiosity. Some 
 time ago he wrote a long article full of 
 sadness and anger, in which he repeats 
 the words of Faust, " The dogs themselves 
 will no longer wish to live in such a 
 world." " Our campaign has already had 
 
56 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 good results in Germany," he said; "the 
 joiners who manufacture the instruments 
 of torture destined for the unfortunate 
 dogs complain of the dimunition of their 
 sales." He asks us if this humane cause 
 has defenders in France; to which we 
 reply that there are very ardent ones; in 
 the first instance, all honest people: and 
 then we cite among the journalists Victor 
 Meunier, who, in the Rappel, rises vehe- 
 mently against these cruelties, and very 
 justly compares the actual position of 
 animals to that of the former slaves, over 
 whom their masters were supposed to have 
 every right. 
 
 A visit to the theatre is again spoken 
 of; the machinist whom we expected, evi- 
 dently cannot come; but we shall go to 
 see the models and scenery in M. 
 Ioukouski's studio. " My theatre will, I 
 think," said the master, "become a sort 
 of conservatory where singers will be 
 found, and where the method in which 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 57 
 
 my works will be executed and put upon 
 the stage will serve as a model to direct- 
 ors and managers who will mount them 
 elsewhere." The Paris Conservatory still 
 holds to the tradition of the movements 
 of Gluck's Iphigenia. ..." You have 
 there," he added, " an orchestra of the 
 first order — Beethoven's Symphonies 
 were played to perfection." Liszt tells of 
 a very singular appreciation on Boieldieu's 
 part of the Beethoven Symphonies, at the 
 time of their first hearing in Paris. " It 
 certainly produces an effect," he said, 
 " but it bears a resemblance to people 
 chewing tobacco and swearing in a guard- 
 house." 
 
 We start upon a visit to M. Paul 
 Ioukouski's studio. This young painter, 
 who, meeting Richard Wagner at Naples, 
 solicited and obtained the honor of -being 
 chosen for the work of the scenery in 
 Parsifal, and left all to follow the master, 
 is the son of one of Russia's most illus- 
 
58 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 trious poets, who was the preceptor of 
 Alexander II. The artist is installed in a 
 house in the immediate neighborhood of 
 Wahnfried, and lives there like a hermit, 
 putting his whole heart into his work. 
 The sketches, which are real pictures, are 
 displayed upon the various easels. On 
 the first is the forest, with the rising sun, 
 for the first tableau, which, to make place 
 for the second, will slide gently from left 
 to right, sinking down little by little, 
 while the characters are supposed to be 
 advancing as they ascend a hill. These 
 characters will disappear behind masses 
 of rocks, then will be seen again in 
 grottoes near Cyclopean substructures, 
 then in galleries. They finally pass through 
 a door, and the temple of the Grail will 
 appear. Here it is seen, upon the neigh- 
 boring easel, with its porphyry columns, its 
 capital of precious stones, its vaults, its 
 double cupolas, its mysterious depths. 
 The tables destined for the sacred repast, 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 59 
 
 which bring to mind the sacrament, are 
 arranged on either side of the altar. The 
 smooth marble-paved floor reflects like a 
 lake. Mr. Brandt, machinist of the theatre 
 at Darmstadt, a man of genius, it appears, 
 for whom the word impossible does not 
 exist, says that he can produce this glitter- 
 ing effect, and that the only difficulty lies in 
 the rapid shifting of the scenery. 
 
 The fantastic garden, created by the 
 magician, Klingsor, in order to reduce and 
 ruin the Knights of the Grail, was a thing 
 difficult to conceive. Wagner wished for 
 something absolutely improbable; the 
 conception of a dream, a wild efflorescence 
 brought to life by the stroke of a wand, 
 not by plodding earthly labor; he was dis- 
 satisfied with every attempt. He has, 
 however, obtained his desire, and it ap- 
 pears that on the stage this scene is one 
 of the most successful of all. What is 
 most singular is that these giant flowers, 
 sheaves, clusters, and thickets, which leave 
 
6o RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 only a corner on the horizon visible, fade 
 away and die in the twinkling of an eye, 
 leaving in sight only an arid moor, shut 
 in by snowy mountains, while a shower 
 of withered leaves and dried petals falls 
 upon the ground. The flowering meadow 
 near the spring wood, which shelters the 
 hermit's hut, with its clear spring mur- 
 muring beneath the thick moss, is truly 
 enchanting. From this we return by a 
 shifting of scenes analogous to that in the 
 first act, to the temple of the Grail, where 
 the piece ends. The costumes are not 
 more easy of invention, for the master will 
 not be satisfied with anything like the 
 costumers' indignation. Even should 
 they all become wretched they must 
 yield. The enchantresses evoked by the 
 magician, — women who are flowers, as 
 the syrens are fishes, — are those who 
 give the most trouble. Wagner will not 
 have attractive young girls, but real 
 animated flowers. There is also the 
 
RICHARD WAGNER. 6 1 
 
 tunic of the terrible and marvellous 
 Kundry. 
 
 ist October. 
 
 The master has kept his promise this 
 evening, and has let us hear fragments 
 from Parsifal. " Liszt's presence makes 
 me lose my powers in a measure," he 
 said, laughing, "he intimidates me, for I 
 know that my false notes irritate him." 
 Unfortunately, Liszt, who only yester- 
 day improvised upon the piano in a 
 delightful manner, blending with his own 
 inventions motions from Tristan and 
 Isolde, has slightly wounded his finger, 
 and cannot play. It must certainly be 
 acknowledged that Wagner is an imper- 
 fect pianist, and he is the first to laugh at 
 his own imperfection. We notice, how- 
 ever, in a wonderful manner, certain pas- 
 sages which the author knows how to 
 render with the true expression, better 
 than any other. A few months ago, Liszt 
 wrote to us : " Wagner has worked a new 
 
62 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 miracle, Parsifal. Those who already 
 have the good fortune to understand this 
 new work share this opinion ; the singers 
 are enraptured. Judging from the general 
 impression, this ought to be a new trans- 
 formation in the master's method, — one 
 of those giant steps to which he is accus- 
 tomed. In this instance the height and 
 refinement of art combine to produce an 
 effect of apparent simplicity and perfect 
 serenity." This evening we take leave 
 of our illustrious hosts, promising to meet 
 them again next year at the first represen- 
 tation of Parsifal. 
 
POETIC WORK. 
 
WAGNER'S POETIC WORK. 
 
 FROM RIENZI TO TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. 
 
 The spectacle, which represents a series 
 of lofty and still loftier peaks of a chain 
 of mountains, at the moment when the 
 morning mists envelop them, furnishes a 
 just comparison to that given us by these 
 works, which rise successively, one above 
 the other, from the lovely green hill to the 
 dazzling and, for many, inaccessible sum- 
 mits. From Rienzi to the Gloom of the 
 Gods there is the same difference of atti- 
 tude as between the Capitoline Hill and 
 the Himalaya. And what gigantic strides 
 from one work to the other. A powerful, 
 enthusiastic genius already reveals itself 
 in Rienzi; but it has done little more than 
 assimilate, with the greatest facility, the 
 
 6 S 
 
66 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 beauties that had most charmed one in the 
 works of its predecessors. Wagner likes 
 show, pompous processions, the tumult of 
 battle j the brilliant orchestra resounds, is 
 carried away, enthusiastic; the power 
 which moves it, not yet under control, 
 expends itself in vociferations, heroic cries 
 of extreme vehemence; but as)-et nothing 
 presages the innovator, if it be not the 
 almost prophetic sense of the subject, so 
 ardently revolutionary. 
 
 Between Rienzi and The Flying Dutch- 
 man lies an abyss. The young master, 
 disdaining the success of his first work, 
 judges it with severity and casts it aside; 
 he considers it an essay. From the first 
 he has equalled his models, but he feels 
 that he is still far from his ideal; a new 
 world palpitates in his mind; he must 
 break the old moulds and fetters of routine 
 that he may soar untrammelled toward 
 unexplored regions. The artist, now sure 
 of himself, definitely abandons historical 
 
POETIC WORK. 67 
 
 subjects, whose too hard reality is not in 
 keeping with the idealism of music. The 
 natural poetry of legend and myth suits 
 him far better. Henceforward the path is 
 found, he will no longer turn aside from 
 it, but continually enlarge upon its 
 thought. From the popular song, hum- 
 med by the Norwegian spinners while 
 turning their wheels, he will rise to the 
 savage grandeurs of the northern theogo- 
 nies. It was upon a sea-voyage, during a 
 storm, which cast him upon the coast of 
 Norway, that Richard Wagner induced 
 the sailors themselves to repeat to him the 
 frightful story of the Flying Dutchman — 
 Ahasverus of the Sea, who, blaspheming, 
 defied the storm with Satan's aid, and was 
 condemned to wander eternally, he and 
 his fantastic ship. But the mystical young 
 girl, grown pale from the snow's reflec- 
 tions, who languishes with love for the 
 damned one, carried incessantly through 
 shipwrecks and lightning, will save him 
 
68 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 by her faithful devotion, even unto death, 
 if he but reaches her. 
 
 This work seems to have come at a 
 single stroke, under the inspiration of a 
 violent emotion. The ocean, with its 
 rage, its awe, its mystery and sweetness — 
 all is in this music, which is like the sea's 
 own soul. If a few traces of the old for- 
 mulae remain, it is only in the subordinate 
 parts of the work. The orchestra is no 
 longer a great guitar, accompanying a 
 song; it already assumes a capital impor- 
 tance; the designs, dividing and blending, 
 have a precise meaning; the whole, less 
 noisy, acquires a power until then un- 
 known. The orchestral tissue becomes the 
 woof upon which the characters are em- 
 broidered; it becomes the ocean which 
 bears the ship, the atmosphere which en- 
 velops the action, where the thoughts, the 
 sentiments of the heroes, reverberating, 
 amplifying, become visible, so to speak, 
 and make the mind experience all that 
 
POETIC WORK. 69 
 
 is inexpressible in the sensations of the 
 soul. 
 
 The legend of Tanhauser still exists in 
 Germany, above all in leafy Thuringia, 
 where the famous castle of Wartburg 
 stands, which, under the hospitable land- 
 graves of the thirteenth century, was the 
 theatre of pacific contests, fought by the 
 illustrious troubadours. In front of the 
 castle rises a bare, dreary mountain, 
 burned as it were, which makes a strange 
 blot in the midst of the fresh vegetation of 
 the neighboring valleys. This is the ter- 
 rible Venusberg, inhabited, according to 
 popular tradition, by a dangerous goddess. 
 This divinity was formerly Hulda the 
 beneficent, who came each year to awaken 
 the spring, and wandered over the country 
 scattering flowers under her feet. But 
 being cursed by Christianity, she was 
 obliged to take refuge in the unknown 
 caverns of the mountain; she was soon 
 confounded with Venus, the sovereign of 
 
70 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 the senses. The graces, syrens, bacchantes, 
 and fauns constituted her court, and en- 
 chanting voices seduced those whose im- 
 pure desires guided them toward the 
 mountain; unknown roads enticed them, 
 and they were borne away to the myste- 
 rious palace which it encloses, in the 
 abode of eternal perdition, from which 
 none return. The Knight Tanhauser, cu- 
 rious and intrepid, found the path of the 
 grottoes in the Venusberg, and was the 
 spouse of the goddess during seven years, 
 after which, his desires satiated and him- 
 self devoured with remorse, aspiring to 
 human suffering, he succeeded in tearing 
 himself from the arms of his love by in- 
 voking the Virgin Mary. He went and 
 confessed to the pope, imploring his par- 
 don, but the pontiff replied, "that having 
 tasted the pleasures of hell he was for- 
 ever damned." Then raising his crosier, 
 he added, "Even as this wood cannot 
 become green again, so is there no pardon 
 
POETIC WORK. 71 
 
 for thee." The legend adds, that at the 
 expiration of three da3'S the crosier began 
 to blossom, signifying that celestial grace 
 is greater than that of a pontiff. It is from 
 this recital, enlarged by a powerful spirit, 
 that Wagner has taken his drama, inter- 
 weaving with his own tissue the tradition 
 about the famous contests of the poet- 
 singers, and also the chaste and melan- 
 choly face of Elisabeth, whom he volun- 
 tarily confounds with the sainted princess 
 whose virtuous life shed a lustre over the 
 the castle. But what Richard Wagner 
 has above all wished to bring out in this 
 marvellous work is the eternal struggle 
 between the flesh and the spirit, the brute 
 and the angel, which, being in man, dis- 
 pute his soul. And this he has rendered 
 with incomparable clearness and grandeur. 
 The discussions formerly raised by the 
 representation of Tanhauser have made 
 this debated work better known than 
 many others illustrious from success. 
 
72 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 It is useless, therefore, ., to speak of it 
 further. 
 
 Lohengrin, which has never been rep- 
 resented in Paris, and which can scarcely 
 be appreciated from partial executions of 
 the most inferior order, is, strange to say, 
 almost popular. Whoever has heard the 
 orchestral prelude typifying the vision of 
 King Titurel, when the angels bring to him 
 the Holy Grail, can never forget this ad- 
 mirable passage, and the extraordinary 
 impression which it produces. At first 
 an almost imperceptible vibration takes 
 possession of the highest notes of the flutes 
 and violins. The air becomes agitated, 
 the light approaches and grows larger, soon 
 with an irradiation of trumpets the lumin- 
 ous vision shines resplendent in all its 
 glory. The incomparable cup, cut from 
 a stone, it is said, which fell from Luci- 
 fer's crown when he was precipitated 
 from heaven, and which is now filled with 
 the blood of the Saviour, is confided to 
 
POETIC WORK. 73 
 
 the pure hands of a holy knight. Then 
 the angels again take their flight, the 
 glimmering becomes obliterated, and the 
 atmospheric vibrations, which can no 
 longer be heard, little by little diminish 
 and die away. The curtain rises upon a site 
 near the environs of Anvers, on the borders 
 of Scheldt. We find ourselves in the tenth 
 century. Henry the Fowler, King of Ger- 
 many, has come to Brabant to convoke the 
 noble lords according to the feudal custom. 
 Frederick of Telramund, the most valiant 
 of all the lords of Brabant, has just ac- 
 cused, before all the people, Elsa, Duchess 
 of Brabant, of the murder of her young 
 nrother, who has disappeared, leaving no 
 trace. The young girl possesses no method 
 of proving her innocence; her cause then 
 is to be submitted to the judgment of 
 God. But when the herald has resounded 
 the trumpet toward the four quarters of 
 the world, no knight has entered the lists 
 in her defence. Elsa, however, has con- 
 
74 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 fidence in a singular vision: a charming 
 warrior has appeared to her in a dream; 
 he will fight for her. However, the 
 herald's second summons remains without 
 response. It is then that, with an impulse 
 of sublime faith, she throws herself upon 
 her knees, and beseeches Heaven to send 
 her the defender who has visited her in a 
 vision. 
 
 Soon, in fact, the people, grouped upon 
 the banks of the river, see in the distance, 
 with increasing agitation, a strange bark 
 drawn by a dazzling swan; it approaches, 
 it draws nearer; a knight of wondrous 
 beauty stands erect in the bark; his light 
 helmet, his silver breastplate are resplen- 
 dent, he rests one hand upon his shield. 
 "A miracle! a miracle!" cries the 
 crowd. " Can it be an angel sent by 
 God?" The mysterious knight steps 
 upon the shore. With a calm and modest 
 voice he bids farewell to the beautiful 
 swan which has conducted him and now 
 
POETIC WORK. 75 
 
 returns to the unknown regions from 
 which it came. Then the knight advances 
 in the midst of the surprised and rejoicing 
 multitude. " I am come," he says, " to 
 defend the innocent girl unjustly accused. 
 Who will do combat with me?" Telra- 
 mund, notwithstanding the sacred charac- 
 ter of his adversary, and preferring death 
 to dishonor, raises the gauntlet and up- 
 holds the accusation. The knight draws 
 near the enraptured Elsa, and in a sweet, 
 grave voice, says to her: " If I bear off the 
 victory, wilt thou that I should become 
 thy husband? Then must thou promise 
 never to seek to discover from what coun- 
 tries I come, nor what is my name or 
 nature." " My shield, my angel, my 
 savior!" cried Elsa, "thou who de- 
 fendest me in my distress, how could I do 
 other than faithfully keep to the law thou 
 imposest upon me?" "Elsa, I love thee," 
 murmurs the unknown knight with 
 deepest tenderness. The king blesses 
 
76 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 the arms, and the combat begins. The 
 knight gains an easy victory over his 
 adversary, whose life he spares. Elsa's 
 innocence is proclaimed by the entire 
 people in a triumphal hymn of joy. 
 
 But Ortrud, Telramund's wife, daugh- 
 ter of the King of Friesia, who aspires to 
 the throne of Brabant, succeeds in excit- 
 ing feminine curiosity in Elsa, and in pour- 
 ing the poison of doubt into her heart in 
 order to blight her joy. She torments her 
 until at last Elsa, distracted, violates her 
 oath, exacting from her spouse the avowal 
 of his origin. Doubt has killed faith, which 
 carries with it all happiness ', the night of 
 love ends in despair. It is upon a meadow- 
 near the border of the Scheldt, amid flying, 
 banners and flourishing trumpets, in the 
 presence of Brabant counts, followed by 
 their vassals called by King Henry for an 
 expedition against the Hungarians, that 
 the mysterious knight will unveil his ori- 
 gin. " In a distant country," he says,- 
 
PQETIC WORK. 77 
 
 " upon a high mountain, called Mont Sal- 
 vat, stands a magnificent temple, in which 
 knights of absolute purity guard a mirac- 
 ulous cup; it is the Holy Grail, the cup in 
 which Christ consecrated the bread and 
 wine at the time of the Lord's Supper, and 
 in which, later, Joseph of Arimathea re- 
 ceived his blood. This cup had been car- 
 ried to heaven by the angels, but they 
 brought it back again to the holy king, 
 Titurel, who founded the temple of the 
 Grail, and the order of its knights. Those 
 who serve the Grail are endowed with 
 wonderful virtue, but an inflexible law 
 forces them to remain unknown among 
 men. If their name be discovered, they 
 must immediately depart, and once more 
 regain the sacred mountain. For this rea- 
 son I must leave you, informing you that 
 Parsifal, my father, is King of the Grail, 
 and I, his knight, am named Lohengrin." 
 The swan reappears upon the shore to 
 bear the warrior away to his miraculous 
 
78 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 country; Elsa has destroyed her happi- 
 ness; she sees her guardian angel depart 
 forever. 
 
 Lohengrin is, perhaps, the most perfect 
 of the three lyric dramas which form the 
 second period in the master's work. 
 From Lohengrin to Tristan and Isolde as 
 great a distance is marked as between 
 Rienzi and the Flying Dutchman. It is a 
 new revelation, a new art, — something 
 perfect and definite, a prodigious flight 
 toward the future. There is no longer, so 
 to speak, any question of music in the 
 sense formerly attached to this word; it is 
 poetry in superb and precise form, with a 
 sonorous resonant soul, — Apollo and 
 Orpheus melted in a single lyre. The 
 works following may, perhaps, be grander, 
 but Tristan and Isolde is and will remain 
 the masterpiece of masterpieces, by rea- 
 son of the poetical subject which, in art as 
 in the human soul, takes by right the first 
 place. In Tristan and Isolde love itself, 
 
POETIC WORK. 79 
 
 in its most complete and perfect form, 
 finds utterance. The most pointed phases 
 of the passion are pushed to their extreme. 
 In the first act it is unavailing love, hero- 
 ically conquered, which consumes the 
 heart while not a cry escapes the lips, — 
 Tristan, conducting toward another the 
 royal betrothed, whose hand he himself, 
 in his blind love, has solicited for the King 
 of Cornwall. Tristan's love believes it- 
 self despised. Isolde, consumed with an- 
 ger and tenderness, powerless to master 
 the tumult in her soul, wishes shipwreck 
 to the vessel which bears her awav, 
 with the hero who disdains her, toward 
 the shore which she hopes never to reach. 
 " Death rather, death for us both ! " she 
 cries. And when the tempest betrays her, 
 when already the hated land is signaled, 
 she offers poison. 
 
 Tristan cannot refuse to empty a cup in 
 Isolde's honor, to drink to their recon- 
 ciliation, for a debt of blood lies between 
 
80 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 them, long since effaced by their un- 
 avowed love, but which she begins to re- 
 member. Tristan well knows that eternal 
 forgetfulness is poured out for him by the 
 hand which he secretly adores ; he ac- 
 cepts with gratitude this mitigation of 
 evils which have no remed}'. On the 
 threshold of death, however, both drop 
 their mask, the fire then breaks out tri- 
 umphant, love casts them into one another's 
 arms in the intoxication of a supreme joy 
 which should repay them for their past 
 sufferings. Heart against heart, eyes 
 looking into eyes, thus will their hearts 
 cease to beat, and their mutual gaze be 
 extinguished. But alas ! they are betrayed ; 
 the two devoted followers have substituted 
 for the mortal draught a love-drink, and 
 instead of the kindly shade which reunited 
 them, behold the detested shore, and the 
 deceitful day which separates them. 
 
 Such a love once free can no longer 
 be stifled or conquered. It is a formid- 
 
POETIC WORK. 8 1 
 
 able conflagration, a flame which death 
 itself cannot extinguish. It has devoured 
 everything, — loyalty, honor, virtue. The 
 earth itself becomes effaced in the ravish- 
 ing rapture of mutual possession. Infinite 
 and sublime ecstasy follows, which no 
 heart can have either experienced or fore- 
 seen. Their happiness even crushes and 
 stifles them; the heart cannot contain such 
 love, the human voice has no words to 
 express it; the most burning embraces 
 leave them disunited. Tristan and Isolde 
 are two, and they would become one soul, 
 a single thought, a scintillation of love in 
 an unlimited night. Desperate and un- 
 satisfied, they aspire to the infinity of 
 death. They dream of a flight beyond all 
 worlds in that mysterious shade which 
 protects them upon earth, but over which 
 the day and the empty phantoms of life 
 triumph, ceaselessly inflicting the tortures 
 of impending separation. The eternal 
 and great night of love without the terrors 
 
82 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 of the morning! A long enchanting dream 
 in unlimited space; no names to separate; 
 a single flame; a single thought; a sweet 
 swoon in each other's arms; the ardent 
 rapture 'of death without end, without 
 awakening! Such is their thought. But 
 suddenly, behold the cruel day, and with 
 it shame. This sublime love is dragged 
 before the world, which calls it an indis- 
 cretion, and censures. Then follows the 
 combat, in which Tristan, overcome with 
 a divine ecstasy, is no longer the victorious 
 hero, but falls mortally wounded. 
 
 When we see him again, in the agonies 
 of death, it is in the ancient dungeon of 
 his ancestors in Brittany. The faithful 
 shield-bearer has taken him across the 
 seas in a bark. Now he is sheltered from 
 all surprise. But Isolde? When his eyes, 
 which seem to be forever closed, will 
 awake to life, if they are not gladdened by 
 his soul's sweet sovereign, they will close 
 again forever. Isolde knows her loved 
 
POETIC WORK. 83 
 
 one's retreat; she is coming to him, but the 
 minutes are centuries, and the sea is de- 
 serted and void, even to the silent horizon. 
 See, the hero now comes to himself with 
 the dear name upon his lips. Tristan can- 
 not die while Isolde is still in the empire of 
 the sun. The gates of death, which had 
 already closed upon him with a clang, 
 reopen wide before this invincible desire 
 to see once more her with whom alone he 
 can lose himself in eternal night. Void and 
 deserted is the sea! Thus it is that the 
 fury of despair tears Tristan's soul. Love 
 and fever mingling their delirium, he 
 writhes upon his bed of pain with cries of 
 superhuman suffering. Nothing can ren- 
 der the impression of this frightful agony, 
 in which the flame of love cannot be ex- 
 tinguished by death, of this distracted and 
 expectant soul, retarding the supreme de- 
 parture. At intervals the hero falls to the 
 ground, seemingly dead; but when the 
 weeping shield-bearer stoops to hear a last 
 
84 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 sigh, a last palpitation, Tristan in a low voice 
 murmurs the name of Isolde! Yet once 
 again hope springs to life in the breast of 
 this martyr to love; he perceives the ship, 
 although common eyes cannot distinguish 
 it, and on the ship Isolde, who makes a sign 
 to him. " Dost thou not see it yet ? Tender 
 and majestic she crosses the breadth of 
 the sea like a sovereign; she comes carried 
 toward land as by waves of intoxicating 
 flowers; her smile will pour out supreme 
 consolation. Oh, Isolde! Isolde! how 
 beautiful, how welcome art thou! " The 
 ship is, in truth, signalled. The soul's 
 eyes are not deceived. All sails spread, 
 it flies over the waters. She approaches 
 — she, the enchanting one, she comes. 
 What delirious impatience, what joyous 
 transports! 
 
 "Intoxication of the soul, rapture without 
 measure, impetuous and overheated, blood, 
 how shall I support you chained to this 
 couch ? Up then, up, on the march toward 
 
POETIC WORK. 85 
 
 the beating heart! " Already Isolde's voice 
 is heard, and the hero throws himself, stag- 
 gering, from his bed. She comes, she 
 calls him, holds her arms toward him; but 
 he can only die at her feet, uttering for the 
 last time the infinitely-beloved name. 
 " Ah, live with me yet one hour, only an 
 hour," cries the distracted Isolde in her 
 despair. "I have only lived through so 
 many days of anguish and desire to watch 
 one hour with thee. Do not die of thy 
 wound, let me heal thee, that safe and 
 strong we may share the sainted delights 
 of night." The flame is extinguished, the 
 soul has fled. Isolde, always faithful, will 
 follow Tristan in death. Already the 
 loved one. draws her toward the myste- 
 rious land; mighty waves seem to over- 
 power her. Her ears resound with mur- 
 murs of the infinite. Night, consoling 
 night, gently envelops her, overwhelms 
 her. She is drowned, lost, to unite herself 
 forever to the twin flame, and loses her- 
 
86 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 self in the divine breath of the universal 
 soul. It is almost impossible to imagine 
 the intensity of expression which this 
 poem, so passionate, so intense in itself, 
 acquires united to the magic of music. 
 It is like the vital energy of the soul, a 
 supernatural rapture. The intoxication 
 and the acute torments experienced in 
 hearing this work are ineffaceable. All 
 who have entered into its transcendent 
 beauties, and undergone its terrible charm 
 in all its power, recognize that no other 
 artistic impression is comparable to that 
 which makes itself felt in this extraor- 
 dinary work. Many volumes in all lan- 
 guages have been written upon Tristan 
 and Isolde; many will still be written, for 
 it is the magnificent prerogative of a great 
 masterpiece to be the perpetual inspiration 
 of noble minds. 
 
POETIC WORK. 87 
 
 THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBURG. 
 
 The scene of this piece is laid in the 
 sixteenth century, at that singular epoch 
 when art and poetry, disdained by the no- 
 bility, had taken refuge among the citizens 
 and trades-people. Since the disappear- 
 ance of the Minnesingers, those minstrels 
 of love so closely resembling the French 
 troubadours, the Mastersingers alone taught 
 poetry and music. These masters were 
 also chiefs of corporations, and their schol- 
 ars, at the same time their apprentices, 
 learned to stitch a sole and hold a note, 
 to scan a verse and cut a pair of breeches. 
 It is easy to imagine in what degree art 
 must have languished in such a state, how 
 the many rules and laws of these narrow- 
 minded men must have trammelled the 
 flight of inspiration, which must of neces- 
 sity fold its wings and walk in trodden 
 paths. It was like a bird brought up by 
 
88 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 a mole. If by chance a new-comer, pos- 
 sessing no science save his own genius, 
 ventured into the circle of poet-mechanics, 
 it is easy to imagine what a concert of im- 
 precations assailed the freedom with which 
 he broke the laws, minutely woven by 
 routine, as if they had been spiders' webs. 
 It is an event of this nature which Richard 
 Wagner has chosen to form the plot of 
 his comedy. 
 
 Walter von Stolzing, a knight of Fran- 
 conia, is in love with the daughter of 
 Pogner, a rich goldsmith of Nuremberg; 
 but only he who shall be proclaimed mas- 
 tersinger at the next competition shall 
 obtain the hand of Eva. Walter, who 
 does not know the first word of art, wishes 
 to compete. He endeavors to gain a little 
 information from the untutored David, 
 pupil and apprentice of Hans Sachs. The 
 scene passes in the aisLes of the church 
 named after St. Catherine in Nuremberg, 
 which the apprentices are about arranging 
 
POETIC WORK. 89 
 
 for the masters' meeting. " So you wish 
 to become master? " says David to Walter. 
 "It is so difficult then?" "The art of a 
 master cannot be acquired in a day. Here 
 I have been a whole year with the greatest 
 man in Nuremberg, Hans Sachs, who 
 teaches me poetry and shoemaking at the 
 same time; when I have tanned the leather 
 well, he makes me repeat the vowels and 
 consonants; when I have waxed the 
 thread well he makes me understand 
 rhyme. Well, where do you imagine I 
 am now ? " " Perhaps you have made a 
 good pair of buskins?" "Oh, no, I am 
 not so far advanced yet," cries the appren- 
 tice. "Let us see; do teach me," says 
 Walter. "Very well; know then that 
 the masters' tones and modes are numer- 
 ous, and that each has its name; there is 
 the long tone, and the too long tone, the 
 mode of writing-paper, the sweet tone, 
 and the rose tone, the tone of short love, 
 and the forgotten tone, the mode of Eng- 
 
90 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 lish zinc, of the cinnamon stalk, of frogs, 
 of calves, the mode of the deceased glut- 
 ton, and of the faithful pelican, and so 
 through a long, long chapter. " Good 
 heavens, what is all that," cried the terri- 
 fied Walter. "But it is not enough to 
 know the names," continued David, "one 
 must understand how to' sing each mode 
 without changing what they call the figu- 
 ration and the tabulature. For myself, I 
 am not yet so far advanced, and my master 
 often sings the mode of the martinet to 
 me, and unless my good friend Magdalene 
 comes to my assistance I myself sing the 
 mode of dry bread and water. Know 
 then that a mastersinger is he who com- 
 poses a new mode in poetry and music." 
 Poor Walter is bewildered. His love, 
 however, prevents him from renouncing 
 his project, and when Pogner advances, 
 accompanied by Beckmesser, a grotesque 
 scrivener, who also aspires to Eva's hand, 
 Walter draws near his beloved one's 
 
POETIC WORK. 91 
 
 father, and informs him of his desire to 
 compete. Soon the Mastersingers as- 
 semble to deliberate in regard to the pub- 
 lic competition of the morrow. Among 
 the odd physiognomies of the poet- 
 mechanics the handsome face of Hans 
 Sachs, the illustrious poet-shoemaker, 
 stands out in fair relief. Pogner presents 
 the young gentleman to his brother artists, 
 announcing that he wishes to take part in 
 the competition. A cry is immediately 
 heard : " In what school have you studied ? 
 who are you masters?" "When, in the 
 depths of winter," said Walter, "the 
 snow covered the court and castle, seated 
 in a corner of the tranquil fireplace, I 
 read an old book which spoke to me of 
 the charms of spring; then soon the spring- 
 time came, and what this book had taught 
 me during the cold nights I heard re- 
 sound in the forests and fields: it is 
 then that I learned to sing." Imagine 
 what shouts and shoulder-shrugs greeted 
 
0,2 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 this audacity. He is invited, however, to 
 give a specimen of his talent. He must 
 improvise something; but should he offend 
 the rules more than seven times, his work 
 will be declared unacceptable. The 
 marker, or marksman, armed with slate 
 and pencil, already steps into the box, 
 where he is to shut himself up to listen 
 to the song, and mark down the faults. 
 This marker is Beckmesser, the com- 
 petitor and rival of Walter. "Begin," 
 he sings out from the back of his place. 
 Walter seizes this word, which is cast at 
 him like a defiance. 
 
 " Begin ! " he exclaims, " it is the cry 
 uttered to Nature by Spring, and her 
 powerful voice resounds in the forests, in 
 the thickets; the distant echoes reverberate 
 them. Then everything awakes and be- 
 comes animated. Songs, perfumes, colors 
 are born of this cry." All the joy with 
 which the birth of spring can fill a young 
 man's heart, sings in Walter's voice. But 
 
POETIC WORK. 93 
 
 the rules, what has he done with them? 
 and the tabulature, — the rules laid down 
 in the tables ? At each instant the pencil 
 is heard grating upon the slate, and 
 soon even the marker springs furiously 
 from his box, declaring that there is no 
 more room on his tablet. Then every 
 tongue is set loose, and all vent their 
 anger upon the young knight; he has 
 heaped error upon error, folly upon foil)'; 
 he does not know the first word of art. 
 "He even rose hurriedly from his seat," 
 cries one master, at the end of his argu- 
 ments. In the midst of this tumult, which 
 becomes formidable, Walter resumes his 
 free and joyous song, as if to protest, in 
 the name of reviving nature, against this 
 glacial breath of blighting winter. The 
 frolicsome apprentices, delighted with 
 this confusion, surround the furious as- 
 sembly in a wild round dance, and ironi- 
 cally wish that Walter may get the 
 betrothal bouquet. 
 
94 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 The second act shows us one of the 
 picturesque streets of ancient Nuremberg. 
 Hans Sachs' shop opens upon one side, 
 while on the other stands Pogner's .house. 
 Sachs returns from the tumultuous sitting 
 in a thoughtful mood; he alone has been 
 deeply moved by the young knight's im- 
 provisation, and feels his old beliefs waver- 
 ing. " Ah," he cries, while the orchestra 
 rehearses again and again fragments of 
 Walter's song, "I cannot retain this 
 melody, nor yet can I forget it; it was 
 new, and yet it sounded like an old song." 
 He enters his house and sets himself at 
 work before the open window. Eva, who 
 loves the young knight, comes and sur- 
 prises Hans Sachs, and tries to obtain 
 information from him in regard to the 
 meeting, and the manner in which 
 Walter was received. " Oh, as far as 
 that goes, all is lost! " cries Sachs. " My 
 child, he who is born master will not 
 make his fortune among masters; let him 
 
POETIC WORK. 95 
 
 go elsewhere in search of happiness." 
 "Yes, he will find it elsewhere," cries the 
 young girl, angrily; " near hearts which 
 still burn with a generous flame in spite 
 of envious and crafty masters." Walter 
 comes back, still quivering with rage; he 
 wishes to carry off his beloved and 
 marry her in his castle. It is nightfall, the 
 hour is propitious, the street deserted. 
 Eva consents to follow her lover; but 
 Hans Sachs, who watches over the two, 
 sets his shutters ajar, and lets the light of 
 his lamp fall upon them; a luminous trail 
 bars the way; the two lovers are made 
 prisoners by this ray. 
 
 Moreover, here is Beckmesser, who ap- 
 pears armed with a guitar; he imagines 
 that a serenade will dispose Eva's heart 
 favorably, and he begins a prelude. Sachs, 
 for his part, has carried his bench outside, 
 and resumes his work; by this arrange- 
 ment he can better overlook the lovers. 
 He attends to his work with all his might, 
 
C-6 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 and strikes up a noisy song, to the infinite 
 displeasure of the serenader. Several 
 windows are already half opened, and in- 
 quisitive heads are thrust out to inform 
 themselves of what is going on. Beck- 
 messer will not yield; he sings louder and 
 louder to drown Sachs's voice, who will 
 not, on his part, be silenced. The confu- 
 sion becomes extraordinary, the awakened 
 inhabitants come in haste from every side, 
 and David, who thinks that the serenade 
 is intended for his friend Magdalene, Eva's 
 servant, falls upon the singer with clenched 
 fists. Pitchers of water are thrown from 
 the windows upon the heads of the noise- 
 makers; the delighted apprentices come 
 to increase the confusion; every one speaks 
 at once; they become exasperated, and 
 quarrel; blows are given at random, and 
 the squabble becomes general. 
 
 All at once a trumpet sounds in the 
 distance, and the crowd disperses as if by 
 magic; each one takes refuge in his own 
 
POETIC WORK. 97 
 
 house, the windows are again closed, and 
 the night-watch, rubbing his eyes, per- 
 suaded that he has been dreaming, ad- 
 vances in the deserted street. " The 
 eleventh hour has struck," he sings, 
 "guard yourselves against spirits and 
 hobgoblins." The moon, meanwhile, 
 shows its broad face behind a pointed 
 gable. The curtain rises again upon the 
 interior of Hans Sachs's house. Walter, 
 who has passed the night under the shoe- 
 makers roof, enters the studio, worn out 
 and discouraged, for the day which is 
 dawning is that of the festival and com- 
 petition. All hope of gaining Eva is thus 
 lost. " Come, come," says Sachs, " do 
 not give up yet; make me a poem upon 
 the dream, for example, which has tra- 
 versed your brain during the night." The 
 young man obeys, and Sachs writes the 
 verses, upon a sheet of paper, which he 
 designedly leaves upon the table while 
 both go to prepare themselves for the 
 
98 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 festival. They are hardly gone when 
 Beckmesser arrives, still covered with 
 bruises from the night's battle, of which 
 the orchestra wickedly reminds him. His 
 eyes light upon the sheet of paper; he 
 reads the verses and imagines that Sachs 
 also wishes to compete and aspire to 
 Eva's hand. When the shoemaker re- 
 turns, Beckmesser reproaches him bitterly 
 on this score and overwhelms him with 
 sarcasms. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? " says 
 Sachs, laughing. " I have never dreamed 
 of competing, and as these verses please 
 you, I give them to you; do with them 
 what you will." Beckmesser, thinking 
 the verses those of Sachs, the most skil- 
 ful master of Nuremberg, joyously carries 
 off the fortunate manuscript, sure of vic- 
 tory. Eva, beautifully adorned for the 
 festival, but with a sad, pale face, enters 
 Sachs' studio as she passes. She has 
 made a pretext of her shoe, which hurts 
 
POETIC WORK. 99 
 
 her, she pretends; but Sachs well knows 
 where the shoe pinches, in spite of the 
 reproaches she addresses to him for 
 not divining it. While kneeling: before 
 her the shoemaker holds her prisoner, 
 one foot shoeless, and pretends to rectify 
 the shoe in which she finds so many faults. 
 Walter comes out of the bedroom, and 
 stands dazzled at the head of the staircase 
 before the young girl, more beautiful than 
 ever in her betrothal dress. Then en- 
 thusiastically he improvises the last strophe 
 of his song. Eva, palpitating with sur- 
 prise and emotion, holds her breath as she 
 listens. " Well, does the shoe fit at last?" 
 says Sachs, in a troubled voice. Eva 
 understands the good shoemaker is her 
 friend and ally, and throws herself weep- 
 ing into his arms. 
 
 After a short interlude, the curtain rises 
 again upon the site where the festival is 
 to be held. It is on the border of the 
 river in which Nuremberg reflects its 
 
IOO RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 pointed roofs, towers, and ramparts; in a 
 vast meadow which extends along the 
 banks. Peasants and citizens arrive from 
 ever)' quarter; joyous companies dis- 
 embark from flag-bedecked boats ; the 
 corporations advance with the flourish of 
 the city trumpets; the apprentices, gayly 
 decorated, add their enthusiasm to the 
 merry tumult; they clasp nimble young 
 girls about the waist and dance a rustic 
 waltz upon the grass. But a rumor 
 in the crowd announces the arrival 
 of the Mastersingers. Silence is estab- 
 lished, and the masters make their appear- 
 ance in great style. The charming Eva 
 is near her father, holding in her hand the 
 crown destined for the conqueror. Hans 
 Sachs appears in his turn. Upon seeing 
 him, a prolonged tremor runs through the 
 assembly; the crowd cannot contain its 
 joy; the people's favorite is received with 
 loud acclamations, and by a sudden in- 
 spiration every voice chants the song 
 
POETIC WORK. IOI 
 
 with which Hans Sachs greeted Luther, 
 and the dawn of the Reformation : — 
 
 Rouse thyself ; the day is breaking ; 
 A voice rises from the coppice : 
 I hear the song of the nightingale, 
 It resounds from summit to summit, 
 In the valley and in the field. 
 The night is sinking in the west, 
 Red dawn is gleaming in the east, 
 And the sad cloud takes flight. 
 
 It is difficult to give an idea of the 
 power of this piece, which seems to em- 
 body all human aspirations toward liberty. 
 
 The competition begins. Beckmesser, 
 who has not understood one word of 
 Walter's poetry, scans it after his man- 
 ner, and sings upon the grotesque motives 
 of his serenade. He becomes so per- 
 plexed that the crowd, at first surprised, 
 breaks out in a loud peal of laughter. 
 " After all," said the singer, spitefully, 
 " the verses are not mine, but Sachs's." 
 
102 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 " Well, then, let Walter sing them," says 
 Hans Sachs. The knight's youth and 
 grace impress the people favorably, and 
 when his pure voice resounds, and the 
 poetry is heard in its own form, acclama- 
 tions break forth on every side. The 
 masters themselves, disturbed, cannot con- 
 ceal their emotion. The enthusiasm is 
 general. 
 
 The happy conqueror, transported with 
 joy, kneels before his loved one, who, 
 trembling, lays upon his head the crown 
 of laurels. 
 
 THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG. 
 INTRODUCTORY : RHINEGOLD. 
 
 When the curtain rises there are seen 
 through a bluish penumbra the vague 
 depths of a stream, bristling here and there 
 with black rocks; a peaceful undulation 
 agitates the water, which seems to be 
 
POETIC WORK. 103 
 
 flowing slowly. Suddenly a voice re- 
 sounds, and an Undine, gliding from 'the 
 heights, swims in circles about a reef, on 
 the summit of which a gold nugget glitters ; 
 then two other daughters of the Rhine 
 glide into the water, and all three chase 
 one another as they play about the all- 
 powerful gold, as yet virgin and untouched. 
 But see! from the river's obscure depths 
 clambers an odd dwarf, who follows the 
 Undines' charming game with eager eyes. 
 He frightens them at first. But they soon 
 laugh at their fears, perceiving that the 
 dwarf is in love with them. They make 
 sport of him by pursuing him, tempting 
 him, then escaping from him; defying him 
 with their mocking laughter. The sun 
 now passes above the stream, a ray falls 
 upon the gold nugget, which suddenly 
 shines resplendent, and illumines the water 
 to its depths. "What is that?" cries the 
 astonished Nibelung. "What," they re- 
 ply, " thou knowest naught of the marvel- 
 
104 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 lous gold? He who will be able to forge 
 a ring of this gold shall gain the heritage 
 of the world; but in order to acquire this 
 power, he rruist first renounce love. For 
 this reason we have no fear that our play- 
 thing will be taken from us, for every one 
 who lives loves. None will renounce the 
 delights of love, and less than any other, 
 Alberich the Nibelung, who is almost 
 dying of amorous desires." 
 
 But the dwarf has listened with pro- 
 found attention to the Undines' prattle, 
 which has so imprudently disclosed the 
 secret of the gold. He climbs from sum- 
 mit to summit, slips, falls back again, be- 
 comes infuriated, but soon cries in a ter- 
 rible voice, " Scoff now, perfidious spirits, 
 you will sport henceforward in obscurity, 
 for I shall tear the miraculous gold from the 
 rock. I will forge the avenging ring, and 
 let these waters hear me: I curse love." 
 And the dwarf plunges and disappears 
 with his luminous prey, pursued by the 
 
POETIC WORK. I05 
 
 disconsolate Undines. The entire stream 
 sinks with them and slowly lays bare the 
 summit of a mountain where the gods are 
 sleeping. On the top of the neighboring 
 mountain, which little by little emerges 
 from the morning vapors, appears, gilded 
 by the morning sun, a strange and formid- 
 able castle. It is the Walhalla, the mag- 
 nificent stronghold which the giants have 
 just finished for the gods. Wotan and 
 Fricka, upon awakening, contemplate it 
 with joy and surprise ; but the goddess is 
 anxious; the rude laborers will claim their 
 reward. Wotan has imprudently prom- 
 ised them Fry a, the sweet divinity of love. 
 The task now being finished, it must be 
 paid for. It is Loge, the genius of fire, 
 who has taken it upon himself to find Frya's 
 ransom; he appears at last, the mocking 
 god; but he has explored earth and heaven 
 in vain. In no place has he discovered 
 that which can surpass the charms of love. 
 One being only has given preference to 
 
106 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 the dominion of gold, stolen by him from 
 the daughters of the Rhine. 
 
 The giants have lent their ear to this 
 recital, and the desire to possess this gold 
 is aroused in them. Let them be given 
 this all-powerful metal, and they will relin- 
 quish the fair Frya; meanwhile they carry 
 away the charming goddess, who weeps 
 and supplicates. Then the heavens be- 
 come darkened; a mortal affliction has 
 taken possession of the gods. Old age 
 has suddenly come upon them; Fricka 
 totters, Wotan droops his head, the god 
 of joy sees the roses of his crown fading, 
 Thor no longer has his flashes of anger; 
 the hammer which makes the lightning 
 burst forth drops from his hand; youth, 
 beauty, love are gone with Frya. Wo- 
 tan suddenly resolves to go and conquer 
 this longed-for gold. Accompanied by 
 Loge, he descends to the gloomy king- 
 dom, where the gnomes forge their metals 
 ceaselessly. He soon gains the mastery 
 
POETIC WORK. 107 
 
 over the Nibelung, possessor of the gold, 
 which has already brought into subjection 
 all the blacksmiths, and he carries him off 
 with his treasures to the mountain of the 
 gods. But the despoiled Nibelung still 
 remains in possession of the all-powerful 
 ring. He presses it between his fingers 
 in supreme despair. It is in vain. Wo- 
 tan wrests it from him, after which he 
 leaves him free to return to the bowels of 
 the earth. The vanquished Nibelung then 
 rises, full of fury and despair. "May this 
 ring be forever cursed!" he cries; "mis- 
 fortune to the possessor of the gold; may 
 he who has it not covet it with rage; may 
 he who possesses it retain it in the an- 
 guish of fear; cursed! cursed!" and he 
 replunges into the night of the Nibelung's 
 home. 
 
 Frya has returned, and with her have 
 joy and youth. The giants lay the Nibe- 
 lung's gold before her. They desire a 
 heap large enough to cover the goddess. 
 
108 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 She disappears, indeed, but her glance, like 
 a star's ray, darts through an interstice. 
 Alas! the treasure is exhausted; the ring 
 only remains, which will just fill the fis- 
 sure, but Wotan will not give it up. The 
 gods entreat in vain, when a solemn voice 
 is heard, and in a pale light slowly appears 
 the ancient Erda, the pallid divinity, older 
 than the world, from whom nothing is 
 hidden. " Yield, Wotan," she says, "fly 
 the cursed ring; I know what has been; 
 I know what should be. Hearken! All 
 that exists will have its end. A time will 
 come when a sinister gloom will descend 
 upon the gods. Separate thyself from the 
 cursed ring, and reflect with terror." Erda 
 disappears. Wotan, full of anxiety, casts 
 the ring from him. Pride and strength, 
 however, are now restored to the gods. 
 Thor brandishes his hammer, and in a 
 formidable and joyous voice invokes the 
 wind and the clouds. The heavens be- 
 come overcast, the lightning flashes, the 
 
POETIC WORK. IO9 
 
 thunder peals with a crash, and, while the 
 rain descends in heavy drops, the Wal- 
 halla is disclosed on the mountain summit, 
 and the rainbow stretches its semi-circle 
 above the valley. The gods take the di- 
 rection of this luminous bridge to enter 
 into possession of the castle, which glitters 
 in the setting sun. Then plaintive voices 
 rise from the valley; it is the daughters of 
 the Rhine lamenting their brilliant play- 
 thing; but the piercing music from the 
 divine castle overpowers the Undines' 
 voices, and the gods triumphant enter the 
 Walhalla. 
 
 FIRST DAY: THE WALKYRIA. 
 
 Here begins the human drama. Wotan 
 is troubled since Erda's sinister prediction, 
 feeling that the shameful traffic which 
 Walhalla has cost him has lessened his 
 divinity and disturbed the world's equi- 
 librium. Wotan has engendered a race 
 of men of whom a hero shall be born, 
 
IIO RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 who by his own force will wrest the gold 
 from the giants and restore it to its pri- 
 meval place, thus expiating the fault of the 
 gods. Sigmund is the hero chosen by 
 Wotan for this redemption. When the cur- 
 tain rises upon the second act it discloses 
 the interior of a habitation of the early 
 ages. A venerable ash raises its enor- 
 mous trunk in the centre of the hall, and 
 its verdant branches, extending in every 
 direction, support the canvas roof. A 
 large stone serves as fireplace; on the 
 bare ground are spread skins of wild 
 beasts; the gate is a high door made of 
 the trunks of trees. The tempest rages 
 without. Sigmund, who seems to be pur- 
 sued by the angry heavens, enters stag- 
 gering, and falls exhausted near the fire- 
 place. 
 
 A young woman, attracted by the noise, 
 appears, and bends over the stranger with 
 compassionate surprise. Then, to revive 
 him, she offers him a horn of mead. Sig- 
 
POETIC WORK. Ill 
 
 mund raises his eyes toward her; their 
 glances meet and remain fixed upon one 
 another with an emotion rich with trouble. 
 But the young man suddenly raises him- 
 self. " Farewell ! farewell ! " he cries, " I 
 bear misfortune everywhere with me, let 
 it at least be kept far from thee." "Ah! 
 remain," she replies, quickly, "misfortune 
 can do nothing where despair already 
 reigns," and while once more they con- 
 template each other in silence, overcome 
 by growing emotion, Hunding, the stern 
 husband, the savage warrior, his helmet 
 bristling with curious ornaments, shows 
 himself on the threshold. " It is a guest, 
 worn out with fatigue, who demands shel- 
 ter," says Siglinda, answering her hus- 
 band's look of inquiry. " Hospitality is. 
 sacred to me," says Hunding to the un- 
 known ; " may my house be sacred to 
 thee," and with a gesture he orders the 
 repast. Sigmund then relates from whence 
 he is come. Vanquished in a combat with 
 
112 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 a neighboring chief, stripped of his arms, 
 he was obliged to flee through the tem- 
 pest. " Thou makest light of misfortune," 
 cries Hunding; "the chief whom thou hast 
 just named is my ally; thus hast thou 
 chanced upon thy own mortal enemy. I 
 accord thee shelter beneath my roof, how- 
 ever, until morning; afterward, out of my 
 house, and let us meet in combat." And 
 Hunding retires with a sombre mien, 
 dragging with him Siglinda, who casts a 
 despairing glance at the unfortunate guest. 
 Sigmund, spent with fatigue, falls again 
 by the fireside, insensible. Where may 
 he find strength with which to defend him- 
 self? Who will come to his aid in this 
 bitter distress ? Siglinda reappears. She 
 •has poured out the juices of a sleep-making 
 plant for her husband. The stranger will 
 be saved, provided he can wrench from 
 the tree's trunk a marvellous sword, which 
 an old man once thrust into it. Truly the 
 sword is destined for Sigmund, for it yields 
 
POETIC WORK. 113 
 
 at his first effort. Behold, it glistens in 
 his hand. Henceforward he fears nothing. 
 He will be able to defend the beloved 
 woman, whom now he recognizes. Is she 
 not his twin sister, formerly carried off 
 from the devastated fireside? He will find 
 her again, and wrest her from the enemy. 
 "My love! my sister!" he cries, passion- 
 ately. And folding her in his arms, he 
 bears her from the sad dwelling through 
 the moonlit forest. 
 
 In the second act we see again the 
 mountains inhabited by the gods. Wotan 
 joyously announces to Brunhild, the beauti- 
 ful 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, pro- 
 tector of conjugal vows, arrives in her 
 chariot, drawn by rams. She demands 
 
114 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 god- 
 dess 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. Sig- 
 linda, 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 beauti- 
 ful 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 Sig- 
 
POETIC WORK. 115 
 
 linda, 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 sum- 
 mit 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, 
 
Il6 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 reunite after the combat. Here they come 
 in haste, riding through the clouds illumin- 
 ated by the lightning; they call to one 
 another joyously, with savage cries, strik- 
 ing their arms tumultuously. But Brun- 
 hild 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 Sig- 
 mund'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 
 
POETIC WORK. 117 
 
 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 sad- 
 ness 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, hav- 
 ing 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 ri-ng. The de- 
 formed dwarf had brought up the descend- 
 ant 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 con- 
 quest of the gold, the object of all desires. 
 Sigfrid is now a handsome } T outh, im- 
 
Il8 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 petuous 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 posses- 
 sion. 
 
 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 119 
 
 the pieces into the crucible. Then rais- 
 ing the heavy hammer with a triumphal 
 song he completely reforges Wotan's 
 sword. He soon brandishes it, still smok- 
 ing, 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 per- 
 mits 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 rust- 
 lings 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 
 
120 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 companion, whom he has never seen, and 
 of whom he knows nothing. The song 
 of a bird flying over his head finally cap- 
 tivates 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, w now thou possessest 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 god- 
 dess 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 12 I 
 
 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 him- 
 self. 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. 
 
122 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 un- 
 interruptedly 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 god- 
 dess has divested herself of her divinity 
 for her dearly-loved hero; she has un- 
 veiled to him the mysteries of the sacred 
 ruins and the knowledge of the gods ; but it 
 now appears to her that she has given 
 
POETIC WORK. 123 
 
 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 Wal- 
 kyria'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 begot- 
 ten 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. 
 
124 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 Gut- 
 rune, advised by Hagen, pours out for him 
 a fatal draught, which will disturb his 
 mind to such a degree as to efface all re- 
 membrance. The young girl's resplend- 
 ent 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 mar- 
 riage. "Give her to him," breathes Ha- 
 gen 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 im- 
 pression upon Sigfrid's soul; he remem- 
 bers no longer. Certainly he will go 
 without delay to the conquest of this bride 
 for his brother-in-arms, and without tarry- 
 ing further, he takes his departure, impa- 
 tient to return. 
 
POETIC WORK. 125 
 
 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 ab- 
 solute, 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 per- 
 ish 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 en- 
 velopes him with its malediction ; but Sig- 
 frid 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 sud- 
 denly and treacherously strikes him with 
 
126 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 his lance. The hero sinks to the earth 
 and dies, pronouncing the name, once 
 more recalled, of Brunhilda. The war- 
 riors, 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 in- 
 describable emotion, she withdraws from 
 his finger the fatal ring, the cause of all 
 
POETIC WORK. 127 
 
 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 sacri- 
 fice 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 with- 
 out a master, I bequeath to men the most 
 sublime treasure in my knowledge. 
 Know, then, that neither gold, nor divine 
 splendor, nor omnipotence, gives happi-, 
 ness. 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 daugh- 
 ters 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 
 
128 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 in a dim light the Walhalla is seen crum- 
 bling about the gods, who fade awa}', 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 sleep- 
 ing, stretched upon the grass at the foot of 
 a tree. From the further side of the tem- 
 ple and castle, which are not seen, is heard 
 the sound of trumpets solemnly pealing 
 forth the early morning summons, and the 
 
POETIC WORK. I29 
 
 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 ap- 
 proaching 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 presiimest, thou who knowest 
 all," replies the knight. " His sufferings 
 soon returned more heavy than ever, and 
 deprived of sleep by the violence of the 
 
130 RICHARD WAGNJER. 
 
 pain, the king .eagerly called for his 
 bath." 
 
 " Fools that we are to hope for relief, 
 where only recovery can heal ! " mur- 
 murs 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, bound- 
 ing from her saddle, she precipitates her- 
 self impetuously upon the scene. Her 
 black hair falls half-plaited upon a fore- 
 head 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 131 
 
 help the king. Question me not, I anl 
 wear)?." And she throws herself upon the 
 ground like an exhausted animal. This 
 woman is the savage and mysterious Kun- 
 dry. 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 disap- 
 pears 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 exaspera- 
 tion of this painful night, behold the mag- 
 
I32 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 nificent 'early dawn of the forest; the 
 waters of the sacred lake will revive me, 
 pain will cease, and the chaos of suffer- 
 ing will clear away. Gawan! " "Gawan, 
 my king, is no longer here; the virtue of 
 this dearly-acquired plant, having disap- 
 pointed 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 harm- 
 less fool only; I think I recognize him. 
 Ah, I should call him Death!" "But 
 make yet a trial of this," says Gurne- 
 manz, holding toward him the phial 
 brought by Kundry. " From whence 
 came this mysterious phial ? " demanded 
 the king; 
 
I POETIC WORK. 133 
 
 " 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 un- 
 known 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 fol- 
 lows 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." 
 
134 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 " 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 profit- 
 able to our order, she serves us, and pur- 
 chases 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 terrify- 
 ing beauty has subjugated him. Filled 
 
POETIC WORK. 135 
 
 with love he is in her arms. The sacred 
 lance falls from his hand. A cry of death! 
 I fly toward the king! Klingsor disap- 
 pears 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 mes- 
 senger of the Redeemer. The chalice 
 from which he drank at the time of the 
 Lord's Supper, this cup of august and 
 
136 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 sacred election, which later, when he was 
 upon the cross, received his divine blood, 
 together with this sel-fsame 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 them- 
 selves with these brethren, consecrated to 
 the highest works of deliverance, and for- 
 tified by the sacred and miraculous virtue 
 of the Grail. This is why he, in regard 
 to whom you question me, Klingsor, re- 
 mained 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 
 desirefd expiation; he aspired even to 
 
POETIC WORK. 137 
 
 sanctity. Powerless to destroy his guilty 
 desires, he laid a criminal hand upon him- 
 self. 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." 
 
I38 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 "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 de- 
 serted shrine, implored a sign of deliver- 
 ance, 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 emo- 
 tion, 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?" 
 
POETIC WORK. 139 
 
 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 for- 
 ward 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 sa- 
 cred 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 dy- 
 ing glance, — Dost thou recognize thy 
 fault?" 
 
140 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 " 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 or- 
 phan 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. 
 
POETIC WORK. 141 
 
 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 Gurnernanz; "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 
 Gurnernanz, holding him back. 
 
142 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 " I perish," cries the young man, stag- 
 gering. 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, resist- 
 ance is vain, the time is come, sleep, sleep 
 I must." And with a stifled cry, she sinks 
 down behii*d a bush. Gurnemanz, how- 
 ever, 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 dis- 
 appears, while the old man and Parsifal 
 appear to be advancing; the side of a 
 
POETIC WORK. 143 
 
 « 
 
 large rock conceals them, then they re- 
 appear in the galleries. Sounds of trum- 
 pets 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 . embroid- 
 ered upon their mantle, advance in two 
 lines and chant piously: "Each day pre- 
 pared 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 re- 
 spond 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 
 
144 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 Am- 
 fortas 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 145 
 
 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 com- 
 pared 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, chastise- 
 ment, 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 ap- 
 proaches, a ray of light descends upon the 
 sacred work,"the veil falls, the sacred cup 
 is illumined with a radiant lustre; over- 
 come by the celestial possession of pain, 
 I feel the stream of divine blood flowing 
 
146 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 compas- 
 sion, await him — him whom I have 
 chosen. Such is the revelation; await 
 
POETIC WORK. 147 
 
 with hope, and this day officiate." "Un- 
 cover 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." 
 
148 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 Sav- 
 iour'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, disap- 
 pointed in his hope, takes him by the arm 
 and says : " Go, take thy way thither. 
 Thou art but a harmless fool. But Gurne- 
 manz 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. 
 
POETIC WORK. 149 
 
 'SECOND ACT. 
 
 In the second act we find ourselves in 
 the castle of the magician Klingsor, situ- 
 ate 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, how- 
 ever, 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, Am- 
 fortas's safety is at an end. Klingsor will 
 employ all his cunning and the most pow- 
 
150 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 erful seductions to ruin the pure and art- 
 less youth. Leaning over the tower's 
 gloomy depths, he burns aromatics, whose 
 smoke ascends in bluish clouds; then, with 
 mysterious gestures, he pronounces a for- 
 mula 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 awak- 
 ened 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 151 
 
 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 Ahas- 
 uerus, 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 per- 
 haps 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 lethar- 
 gic 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 ? " 
 
152 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 "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 holi- 
 ness; cruel torment, torment of unsub- 
 dued 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 mouth, 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 my- 
 self watch over the Grail! Ha! ha! 
 he pleased thee, this Amfortas, the 
 hero whom I assigned to thee for thy 
 
 j°y-" 
 
 "Oh, woe! woe!" groans Kundry, "he 
 also weak, all are weak, all have fallen 
 with me by my damnation. Oh, eternal 
 
POETIC WORK. 153 
 
 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 brand- 
 ishes 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 
 
154 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 disap- 
 peared. 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, stu- 
 pefied with surprise, in the midst of all 
 this splendor; ravishing young girls, simi- 
 lar to living flowers, at first alarmed, but 
 soon becoming reassured, press about him, 
 completing the measure of his stupefac- 
 tion by all the charms and graces which 
 they display for his enchantment and ruin. 
 "If thou art gracious to us hold not thy- 
 self at a distance," they say, " and if thou 
 wilt not quarrel with us we will recom- 
 
POETIC WORK. 155 
 
 pense 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 
 
156 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 157 
 
 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 crush- 
 ing madness alone possesses me!" And 
 overpowered with grief, he sinks at Kun- 
 dry'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 influ- 
 enced by thy mother's passion. The love 
 that gave thee form and existence, before 
 
158 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 which death and madness must draw back, 
 gives thee to-day, with the supreme greet- 
 ing 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 lamen- 
 tation! 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, tor- 
 ment of love! how the whole framework 
 shudders, trembles, and thrills with guilty 
 desires! " 
 
POETIC WORK. 159 
 
 Again- he sees Arafortas before the 
 Grail, and the horror of sacrilege, the 
 sinner's torture he now understands. 
 
 " Superb hero, fly the illusion,- be gra- 
 cious at the approach of grace," says the 
 temptress, filled with passionate admira- 
 tion. And he, still prostrated at her feet, 
 regards her fixedly while she displays be- 
 fore 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 re- 
 pulses Kundry impetuously. 
 
 " Away, corrupter! " he cries, " far from 
 me forever." 
 
l6o RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 The lofty mission which he is destined 
 to accomplish is now re\%ealed to him; he 
 must defy, like Amfortas, all the pleas- 
 ures 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 suffer- 
 ings 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 feH upon 
 me. Since then I seek this glance from 
 world to world, I shall meet it again yet; 
 
POETIC WORK. l6l 
 
 in the height of mf distress I seem to see 
 it, I feel it resting upon me. Then the 
 cursed laughter seizes me again. A 
 sinner fall;, 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 
 ardentty 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 re- 
 jected by God and the world, let me be 
 saved and redeemed in thee." 
 
 w 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 for- 
 ever. Only give me thy love." 
 
162 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 "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 wajr, 
 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 him- 
 self upon Parsifal, but the divine steel can- 
 not 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 163 
 
 save an arid desert, with mountains and 
 snowy peaks in the distance. Parsifal, 
 striding over the ruins, moves away, utter- 
 ing 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 hid- 
 den among the trees. He has heard a 
 groan and a lament, the mournful tone of 
 which is not unknown to him. He ap- 
 proaches the thicket, and raises a woman 
 who appears to be dead. He was not de- 
 
164 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 ceived. 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 ad- 
 vances hesitatingly and dreamily in the re- 
 freshing 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 165 
 
 loosens his armor. Gurnemanz then rec- 
 ognizes 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, recog- 
 nizes 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 dis- 
 tress 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 be- 
 lieve 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 
 
l66 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 whose salvation T to-day believe myself 
 to be elected. But alas! a horrible curse 
 condemns me never to find the road to sal- 
 vation, and to wander in unknown paths. 
 When I seemed to have found it, miseries 
 without number, with struggles and con- 
 flicts, chased me from the path. Then 
 had I almost despaired of keeping the 
 sacred arm in safety. In the effort to pre- 
 serve 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 maledic- 
 tion 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 
 
POETIC WORK. 167 
 
 bringest! Since the day that thou wert 
 here, mourning and anguish have aug- 
 mented even to supreme distress. Am- 
 fortas, 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 re- 
 mained enclosed in its shrine, and its con- 
 trite 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 per- 
 ishes. Messages and distant calls to holy 
 combats no longer reach us. The knight- 
 hood, deprived of chief and courage, wan- 
 ders 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 
 
l68 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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 re- 
 demption, after having wandered distract- 
 edly, I see the last path to salyation van- 
 ish." 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. 
 
POETIC WORK. 169 
 
 "Thus I bless thee, and consecrate thee 
 king, thou innocent, compassionate mar- 
 tyr, 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 weep- 
 ing sinner, Kundry. 
 
 w 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 dis- 
 tance 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 es- 
 corting 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. 
 
170 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 " 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, be- 
 cause for the last time he wills to dis- 
 charge his priesthood." 
 
 "Woe, woe! for the last time be re- 
 called 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! 
 
POETIC WORK. 17I 
 
 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 Re- 
 deemer 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 Am- 
 fortas; " 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 
 
172 RICHARD WAGNER. 
 
 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. Parsi- 
 fal 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 sancti- 
 fied! 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 tow- 
 ard the altar, and raises for the first time 
 the Grail in all its splendor above the 
 heads of the enraptured knights. 
 
POETIC WORK. 
 
 173 
 
 " Miracle of supreme blessing! redemp- 
 tion to the redeemer! " 
 
 And voices which seem celestial, sound 
 from the dome's very heights.