vering
their retreat. But, returned to Montsalvat, the unhappy king awakes only
to bewail his sin, the loss of the sacred spear, and the ceaseless
harrowing smart of an incurable wound. But who is Parsifal?

* * * * *

The smell of pine woods in July! The long avenue outside the city of
Bayreuth, that leads straight up the hill, crowned by the Wagner
Theater, a noble structure--architecturally admirable--severe, simple,
but exactly adapted to its purpose. I join the stream of pilgrims, some
in carriages, others on foot. As we approach, a clear blast of trombones
and brass from the terrace in front of the grand entrance plays out the
Grail "motive." It is the well-known signal--there is no time to be
lost. I enter at the prescribed door, and find myself close to my
appointed place. Every one--such is the admirable arrangement--seems to
do likewise. In a few minutes about one thousand persons are seated
without confusion. The theater is darkened, the footlights are lowered,
the prelude begins.

Act I

The waves of sound rise from the shadowy gulf sunken between the
audience and the footlights. Upon the sound ocean of "wind" the "Take,
eat," or "Love-feast" motive floats. Presently the strings pierce
through it, the Spear motive follows, and then, full of heavy pain,
"Drink ye all of this," followed by the famous Grail motive--an old
chorale also used by Mendelssohn in the Reformation Symphony. Then comes
the noble Faith and Love theme.

As I sit in the low light, amid the silent throng, and listen, I need no
interpreter--I am being placed in possession of the emotional key-notes
of the drama. Every subject is first distinctly enunciated, and then all
are wondrously blended together. There is the pain of sacrifice--the
mental agony, the bodily torture; there are the alternate pauses of
Sorrow and respite from sorrow long drawn out, the sharp ache of Sin,
the glimpses of unhallowed Joy, the strain of upward Endeavor, the
serene peace of Faith and Love, crowned by the blessed Vision of the
Grail. 'Tis past. The prelude melts into the opening recitative.

The eyes have now to play their part. The curtain rises, the story
begins. The morning breaks slowly, the gray streaks redden, a lovely
summer landscape lies bathed in primrose light. Under the shadow of a
noble tree, the aged knight. Gurnemanz, has been resting with two young
attendants. From the neighboring halls of Montsalvat