Part 5

Frya has returned, and with her have joy and youth. The giants lay the Nibelung's gold before her. They desire a heap large enough to cover the goddess. 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 fissure, 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 become overcast, the lightning flashes, the thunder peals with a crash, and, while the rain descends in heavy drops, the Walhalla is disclosed on the mountain summit, and the rainbow stretches its semi-circle above the valley. The gods take the direction 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 plaything; 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 equilibrium. Wotan has engendered a race of men of whom a hero shall be born, who by his own force will wrest the gold from the giants and restore it to its primeval place, thus expiating the fault of the gods. Sigmund is the hero chosen by Wotan for this redemption. When the curtain rises upon the second act it discloses the interior of a habitation of the early ages. A venerable ash raises its enormous 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 pursued by the angry heavens, enters staggering, 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. Sigmund 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 himself. "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 contemplate 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 shelter," says Siglinda, answering her husband's look of inquiry. "Hospitality is sacred to me," says Hunding to the unknown; "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 a neighboring chief, stripped of his arms, he was obliged to flee through the tempest. "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, however, 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 himself? 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 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, passionately. 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 beautiful Walkyria, armed with silver helmet and cuirass, that to-day she must award the victory to Sigmund, the beloved hero of the gods. But while the happy Walkyria utters her war-cry, and bounds from summit to summit on her black horse, Fricka, the jealous goddess, protector of conjugal vows, arrives in her chariot, drawn by rams. She demands vengeance for the outraged Hunding. "This Sigmund whom thou protectest," she says, "is not the free hero who should redeem thee, for thou hast guided him, pushed him to this end. Sigmund must die." Wotan is overcome. The goddess is right. Sigmund has not acted by his own free-will. He must then abandon this unfortunate youth. The god, overpowered with grief, comes, however, to this conclusion. The hero, doomed to perish, must be conducted by the Walkyria to Walhalla. Here come the fugitives, pursued by the infuriated Hunding. Siglinda, at the end of her endurance, swoons in the arms of her fraternal lover. It is then that the saddened Walkyria shows herself to Sigmund. "Who art thou," he says, "who appearest to me so beautiful and so grave?" "Those who behold me have only a few hours to live," she replies. "Soon thou wilt follow me to the dwelling of the gods." "And Siglinda, will she come also?" he asks. "No; she must still live on earth." "Then thou deceivest thyself; I will not be separated from her, for we will both die here." And he raises his sword over Siglinda.

In the face of this love and sorrow, the Walkyria for the first time feels herself moved by a human emotion. "Stay!" she cries, "go without fear to the contest; I shall protect thee." Soon the savage Hunding shouts his defiance to Sigmund; the adversaries meet in battle upon a summit half lost in the clouds. Hunding is on the point of triumph; but the Walkyria appears in a light, and covers Sigmund with her buckler. Wotan, irritated by Brunhild's disobedience, shows himself also in a storm-cloud, and setting loose the lightning, shatters the sword in the hands of Sigmund, who falls mortally wounded.

The third act shows a rugged rock upon which Brunhild's sisters, the Walkyrias, reunite after the combat. Here they come in haste, riding through the clouds illuminated by the lightning; they call to one another joyously, with savage cries, striking their arms tumultuously. But Brunhild arrives all tearful; she has brought in her arms Siglinda, who does not wish to survive her lover. "Live!" she says to her, "live for the brave hero whom thou bearest in thy bosom." And she gives her the precious fragments of Sigmund's sword. "Save her, my sisters, save the poor woman," she adds; "for myself I must remain here to suffer the punishment of my fault." In fact, Wotan's voice resounds, full of anger. He soon rejoins the guilty goddess who has violated the supreme command. "I obeyed not thy order, but thy secret wish," says Brunhild. The god, alas! is not free, primordial laws enchain him; he cannot pardon. The fallen Walkyria must sleep upon the road at the mercy of the first comer who will find her. "So be it," she says; "but surround me with a sea of flames that he who will approach must at least be a hero." With what sadness does the god separate from his dearly-loved one, and take her divinity from her in a supreme kiss! She is now only a sleeping woman, around whom a flaming rampart is lighted.

SECOND DAY: SIGFRID.

After Sigmund's death Siglinda, having taken refuge in a wild forest, gave birth to a son, and died, confiding him to the Nibelung, Mime, whom Alberich, first possessor of the gold, had formerly forced to forge the all-powerful ring. The deformed dwarf had brought up the descendant of the gods in his cave, not in the spirit of devotion, but with the sole idea of making him of service later in the conquest of the gold, the object of all desires. Sigfrid is now a handsome youth, impetuous and uncontrollable, whose heroic spirits are awaking, and who dreams of conquering the world. Meanwhile he reigns master of the forest; the joyous sound of his silver horn replies to the birds' songs; the young madcap bounds with the roe and overthrows the deer. There he comes rushing into the cavern; his pealing laugh resounds. He drags after him, to Mime's terror, a black bear, which he has just got into his possession.

But these sports and contests satisfy him no longer. Impatiently he questions the dwarf in regard to the world, to him unknown; he wishes to get away, leave the forest never to return. Mime then shows him the fragments of the sword shattered by the lightning in Sigmund's hands. Siglinda has bequeathed it to her son as the most precious of inheritances. Sigfrid takes possession of these fragments of steel, lights the forge fire, and throws the pieces into the crucible. Then raising the heavy hammer with a triumphal song he completely reforges Wotan's sword. He soon brandishes it, still smoking, and with a single blow he cleaves in two the anvil, henceforward useless.

Mime then conducts the young hero to the wildest part of the forest, before the cave where the giant Fafner, in the form of a dragon, guards the gold wrested from the Nibelung. Sigfrid, laughing all the while at his hideous aspect, fights with and kills the monster. He disdains the treasure, taking only the ring, of whose power he is ignorant, and a magic helmet which permits the wearer to assume any form. The young man, as if weary, throws himself at the foot of a tree all bathed in sunlight; he listens dreamily to the thousand rustlings of the forest. An unknown desire stirs his heart. While the birds fly in couples he is alone. He thinks of his mother, of this mysterious being, man's companion, whom he has never seen, and of whom he knows nothing. The song of a bird flying over his head finally captivates his attention. He listens; he seems to comprehend the meaning of this song. The bird speaks to him. May it not be his mother's soul? "Ah, Sigfrid," it says, "now thou possesses! the treasure, thou should'st conquer the most beautiful of women. She sleeps upon a high rock, surrounded by flames; but shouldst thou dare to pass through the furnace, the war-like virgin would be thine." And Sigfrid, filled with enthusiasm, follows the bird, which takes its flight as if to guide him toward the lovely bride.

In the third act we see Wotan again. Leaning over the brink of a gulf, in gloomy anguish, he invokes Erda, the lurid goddess who sees the world's destinies; he will question her once again in regard to this fall of the gods, which she has announced to him. At this sovereign voice the sleeper rouses herself; with half-closed eyes she slowly rises from the abyss, wrapped in her dull veils, and covered with dew. But she has no further information to give to Wotan. The end is inevitable. As if submerged by their own creation the gods will become effaced before men. "So be it," cries Wotan, wearied perhaps of his divinity; "it is to this end that I aspire." However, when Sigfrid, leaping from rock to rock, his eyes fixed upon his winged guide, passes near Wotan, this latter tries to bar his way; but the free and fearless hero breaks the god's lance with a single blow of the sword which, without assistance, he has forged for himself. Then he rushes joyously to the assault of the burning rampart, passes fearlessly through the furnace, beholds at last the sleeping warrior in her silver cuirass; and, all quivering with love, awakens her with a kiss.

THIRD DAY: GLOOM OF THE GODS.

Under the nocturnal shade of an ash as old as the world itself the three Fates spin and weave men's destinies. Their cold gaze is plunged into the future, where they see only distress and malediction. They throw from one to the other the thread which they have been spinning uninterruptedly from the beginning of time. But suddenly the thread snaps in their hands; the sombre spinners, seized with fear, press closely together, and descend to the depths of the earth to take refuge near the wise Erda. Then day breaks. Sigfrid and Brunhilda, supporting one another, come out of the mysterious grotto which shelters their happiness. The goddess has divested herself of her divinity for her dearly-loved hero; she has unveiled to him the mysteries of the sacred ruins and the knowledge of the gods; but it now appears to her that she has given nothing to him who has revealed love to her. It is necessary that Sigfrid should leave her for a time, and that he should go in search of new exploits. It is he who thenceforward will wear the Walkyria's armor, and bound upon the savage courser who formerly sped with the storm. Before his departure the hero gives to Brunhilda the gold ring, which to the lovers is only a pledge of fidelity, and they part after taking a mutual oath of eternal love.

In his adventurous course through the world, Sigfrid arrives at the dwelling of Gunter, a powerful chief on the Rhinish borders. Gutrune, his lovely sister, lives with this warrior, also the sinister Hagen, whom Alberich, the Nibelung, has begotten of a woman whom he misled, by the attraction of the gold. The Nibelung has bequeathed his hatred toward the offspring of the gods to his son, and has charged him to regain the all-powerful ring. Hagen is already plotting Sigfrid's ruin, when this latter crosses the threshold, with joyous impetuosity, crying to Gunter, "Fight with me, or let us be friends!" The chief receives him amicably, and Gutrune, advised by Hagen, pours out for him a fatal draught, which will disturb his mind to such a degree as to efface all remembrance. The young girl's resplendent eyes complete his infatuation, and he soon forgets Brunhilda and her love; his new passion has obliterated everything, and he demands his host's sister in marriage. "Give her to him," breathes Hagen to Gunter, "on condition that he shall go and conquer for thee the marvellous woman sleeping in the midst of the flames." Brunhilda's name makes no impression upon Sigfrid's soul; he remembers no longer. Certainly he will go without delay to the conquest of this bride for his brother-in-arms, and without tarrying further, he takes his departure, impatient to return.

Soon the fallen goddess, crushed and stupefied, is brought to Gunter. Sigfrid, after wresting from her the ring, symbol of constant tenderness, has dragged her by force to deliver her over to a stranger, while he now hastens into the arms of another woman. As the love of the daughter of the gods was sublime and absolute, so is her anger terrible in the face of this betrayal. Sigfrid is doomed to death. It is only by death that Brunhilda can reconquer the radiant hero to whom she has given all. He is destined to perish at the hunt, treacherously struck. The daughters of the Rhine emerge from the waves to warn him, at the same time demanding from him the ring, which envelopes him with its malediction; but Sigfrid refuses to restore it to them. Soon after, while he is giving his companions a recital of his life, seeing again little by little the thread of his memory, Hagen suddenly and treacherously strikes him with his lance. The hero sinks to the earth and dies, pronouncing the name, once more recalled, of Brunhilda. The warriors, in consternation, lay Sigfrid's body upon his buckler, and carry him slowly away in the light of the pale rising moon.

In the last scene a groaning crowd bears Sigfrid's body under the massive portals of Gunter's dwelling, gloomily lighted by torches, and mingles its lament with the dull roar of the Rhine, whose dark waves flow in the background. Gutrune bursts into tears of despair, but Brunhilda, solemnly advancing, puts an end to this clamor. "I have heard," she says, "the tears of children lamenting their mother, but no lament worthy of a hero." Then she commands a vast funeral pile to be built, and when it has been lighted with a torch, and Sigfrid laid upon it, contemplating him with indescribable emotion, she withdraws from his finger the fatal ring, the cause of all misfortunes. "Suffering has made me prophetic," she says: "those who should efface the fault of the gods are predestined to misfortune and death. May our sacrifice put an end to the curse. May the ring be purified by fire. May the waters dissolve it forever! The end of the gods is at hand. But if I leave the world without a master, I bequeath to men the most sublime treasure in my knowledge. Know, then, that neither gold, nor divine splendor, nor omnipotence, gives happiness. Happiness, in joy or in suffering, comes from love alone." She has her horse brought to her by a Walkyria, and, leaping into the saddle, with one bound she rushes into the furnace. Then the Rhine overflows tumultuously, dispersing the ashes of the funeral pile. The daughters of the Rhine joyously lift up the reconquered ring, while Hagen, who had rushed forward to seize it again, is carried away with the flood, and on the heights in a dim light the Walhalla is seen crumbling about the gods, who fade away, and become effaced.

PARSIFAL: A LYRICAL FEAST.

FIRST ACT.

The first act of Parsifal takes us to Mont Salvat, in the country where the mysterious temple of the Grail rises upon the northern side of the mountains of the Spanish Visigoths. A magnificent forest glade, on the border of a beautiful lake, is just waking in the first gleam of dawn. Two youthful shield-bearers and Gurnemanz, a robust old man, are sleeping, stretched upon the grass at the foot of a tree. From the further side of the temple and castle, which are not seen, is heard the sound of trumpets solemnly pealing forth the early morning summons, and the sleepers, whose mission it is to watch over the sacred forest, start up ashamed of having allowed themselves to be overcome by sleep. Gurnemanz gently reproves the young men; then all three prostrate themselves in silent prayer. The old man is the first to rise. "Up now, youths," he cries, "the hour is come for attending upon the king; already I see messengers coming toward us preceding the bed of pain which supports him." And approaching two knights who descend from the castle he cries: "Greetings to you: how does Amfortas find himself to-day? Truly he descends early toward the waters of the lake; tell me, the healing plant obtained for him by Gawan's skill and audacity has, I presume, brought him relief?"

"Thou presumest, thou who knowest all," replies the knight. "His sufferings soon returned more heavy than ever, and deprived of sleep by the violence of the pain, the king eagerly called for his bath."

"Fools that we are to hope for relief, where only recovery can heal!" murmurs Gurnemanz, sadly bending his head. "Seek every herb, every philter, wander over the entire earth! For him there is only one help, one saviour!" But the old man returns an evasive answer to the knight who demands this saviour's name. The shield-bearers, who have withdrawn and look toward the valley at the rear of the scene, suddenly perceive a strange, savage woman upon a running horse, which seems to fly over the fields. Soon, bounding from her saddle, she precipitates herself impetuously upon the scene. Her black hair falls half-plaited upon a forehead of bronzen pallor; her shining eyes are sad and fixed; her savage dress is held by a girdle of serpents' skins. "Hold," she says to Gurnemanz, "take this balm; if it heal not, Arabia contains nothing that can help the king. Question me not, I am weary." And she throws herself upon the ground like an exhausted animal. This woman is the savage and mysterious Kundry. No one knows who she is, nor from whence she comes. She has constituted herself messenger to the Knights of the Grail. She accomplishes the most perilous missions with skill and zeal, but never does she accept thanks; her ironic laughter and her sinister glance seem to belie the good she does. A frightful curse seems to weigh upon her. Sometimes she disappears for months, and Gurnemanz has often found her worn out under a bush, plunged in a strange, deathlike sleep.

A procession of shield-bearers and knights precede Amfortas, borne upon a litter. They stop for a moment, and the king lets his feverish glance wander over the wholesome freshness of the woods. "Ah!" he murmurs, "after the exasperation of this painful night, behold the magnificent early dawn of the forest; the waters of the sacred lake will revive me, pain will cease, and the chaos of suffering will clear away. Gawan!" "Gawan, my king, is no longer here; the virtue of this dearly-acquired plant, having disappointed thy hope, he has taken his flight toward new researches." "Without my permission!" cries the king. "Let him expiate this infraction of the Grail's laws! Oh, woe to him, rash, self-willed, if he fall into Klingsor's snares. Let nothing further trouble our peace. I wait for that which is destined for me." "Knowing by compassion, was it not thus?" "It is thus that thou hast told us." "A harmless fool only; I think I recognize him. Ah, I should call him Death!" "But make yet a trial of this," says Gurnemanz, holding toward him the phial brought by Kundry. "From whence came this mysterious phial?" demanded the king.

"It is brought to thee from Arabia."

"And who obtained it?"

"She who lies yonder; the savage woman. Rise, Kundry, come hither." But Kundry refuses to stir.

"It is thou," says Amfortas. "Must I again thank thee, indefatigable and unknown maid? So be it; I will yet try this balm, were it only out of gratitude for thy fidelity."

But, agitated, Kundry says: "No thanks! Ha! Ha! Of what good is this balm? No thanks! Away! Go to thy bath!" And while the procession moves away, and Gurnemanz sadly follows the king with a heavy glance, the shield-bearers scoff at Kundry who lies stretched upon the ground like a beast of the forest; but Gurnemanz defends her, and reprimands the youths, recalling the services which she has never ceased to render to them. "And yet she hates us," says one of them. "See how she sneers as she looks at us."

"She is a pagan, a sorceress."

"Yes," says Gurnemanz, "she well may be a damned soul. Perhaps she lives now incarnate to expiate the sins of a former life, sins which are not yet pardoned. If her repentance disposes her to acts profitable to our order, she serves us, and purchases back her own redemption."

"If she be truly faithful and intrepid," says one of the shield-bearers, "send her to reconquer the lost lance."