The Flame

by Gabriele D'Annunzio

"But the contrast between Kundry and Parsifal, in the second act, the Herzeleide motif, the impetuous figure, that figure of pain drawn from the word of the sacred feast, the motif of Kundry's aspiration, the prophetic theme of the promise, the kiss on the lips of the 'pure fool,' all that rending and intoxicating contrast of desire and horror.... 'The wound, the wound! Now it burns, now it bleeds within me!' And above the despairing frenzy of the temptress, the melody of submission: 'Let me weep on thy breast! Let me unite myself with thee for one hour; then, even if God repel me, through thee I shall be redeemed and saved.' And Parsifal's response, in which the motif of the 'pure fool,' now transfigured into the promised Hero, returns with lofty solemnity: 'Hell would be our fate for all eternity if for one single hour I should permit thee to clasp me in thy arms.' Then the wild ecstasy of Kundry: 'Since my kiss has made thee a prophet, embrace me wholly, and my love will render thee divine! One hour, one single hour with thee, and I shall be saved!' And the last effort of her demoniac will, the last gesture of enticement, the entreaty and the furious words: 'Only thy love can save me! Oh, let me love thee! Mine for a single hour! Thine for a single hour!'"

Perdita and Stelio, entranced, gazed into each other's eyes; for an instant their spirits rushed together and mingled, in all the joy of an actual embrace.

La Marangona, the largest bell of San Marco, sounded midnight, and, as at the eventide, the two enamored ones felt the reverberation of the bronze bell in the roots of their hair, almost like a quiver of their own flesh. Once more they felt, hovering over them, the whirlwind of sound, in the midst of which, in the twilight, they had suddenly become aware of the rising apparition of consoling Beauty, evoked by unanimous prayer. All the beauty of the waters, the timidity of concealed longing, the anxiety, the promise, the parting, the festival, the formidable, many-headed monster, the great, starry sphere, the clamor, the music, the song, and the wonders of the miraculous Flame, the return through the echoing canal, the song of brief youth, the mental struggle and silent agitation in the gondola, the sudden shadow over their three destinies, the banquet illumined by beautiful thought, the presentiments, hopes, pride, all the strongest pulsations of life were renewed between those two, quickened, became a thousand, and again one. They felt that in that one moment they had lived beyond all human limits, and that before them was opening a vast unknown, which they might absorb as the ocean absorbs, for, though they had lived so much, they felt their hearts were empty; though they had drunk so deep, they were still athirst. An overmastering illusion seized upon these rich natures, and each seemed to grow immeasurably more desirable in the other's eyes. The young girl had disappeared. The expression of the despairing, nomadic actress seemed to repeat: "Embrace me wholly, and my love will render thee divine! One hour, one single hour with thee, and I shall be saved! Mine for a single hour! Thine for a single hour!"

The eloquent commentary of the enthusiast still dwelt upon the sacred tragedy. Kundry, the mad temptress, the slave of desire, the Rose of Hell, the original perdition, the accursed, now reappeared in the spring dawn; she reappeared humble and pale in her messenger's attire, her head bent, her eyes cast down; and her harsh, broken voice spoke only the single phrase: "Let me serve! Let me serve!"

The melodies of solitude, of submission, of purification prepared around her humility the enchantment of Good Friday. And behold Parsifal, in black armor and closed helmet, his spear lowered, lost in an infinite dream: "I have come by perilous paths, but perhaps this day I shall be saved, since I hear the murmur of the sacred forest." ... Hope, pain, remorse, memory, the promise, faith panting for the soul's health, and the sacred, mysterious melodies wove the ideal mantle that should cover the Simple One, the Pure, the promised Hero sent to heal the incurable wound. "Wilt thou take me to Amfortas to-day?" He languished and fainted in the old man's arms. "Let me serve! Let me serve!" The melody of submission rose again from the orchestra, drowning the original impetuous motif. "Let me serve!" The faithful woman brings water, kneels humbly and eagerly, and washes the feet of her beloved. The faithful one drew from her bosom a vase of balm, anointed the beloved feet, and wiped them with her flowing hair. "Let me serve!" The Pure One bent over the sinner, sprinkling water on her wild head: "Thus I accomplish my first office; receive this baptism and believe in the Redeemer!" Kundry burst into tears, and knelt with her brow in the dust, freed from impurity, freed from the curse. And then, from the profound final harmonies of the prayer to the Redeemer, rose and spread with superhuman sweetness the melody of the flowery fields: "How beautiful to-day is the meadow! Once I was entwined with marvelous flowers; but never before were the grass and wild blossoms so fragrant!" In ecstasy, Parsifal contemplated the fields and forests, dewy and smiling in the light of morn.

"Ah! who could forget that sublime moment?" cried the fair-haired enthusiast, whose thin face seemed to reflect the light of that joy. "All, in the darkness of the theater, remained motionless, like one solid, compact mass. One would have said that, in order to listen to that marvelous music, the blood had ceased to flow in our veins. From the Mystic Gulf, the symphony rose like a shaft of light, the notes transformed into rays of sunshine, born with the same joy as the blade of grass that pierces the earth, the opening flower, the budding branch, the insect unfolding its wings. And all the innocence of new-born things entered into us, and our souls lived over again I know not what dream of our far-away childhood.... INFANTIA, the device of Carpaccio! Ah, Stelio! how well you brought it back to our riper age! How well you knew how to inspire us with regret for all that we have lost, and with hope of recovering it by means of an art that shall be indissolubly reunited to life!"

Stelio Effrena was silent, oppressed by the thought of the gigantic work accomplished by the barbaric creator, which the enthusiasm of Baldassare Stampa had evoked as a contrast to the fervid poet of Orpheus and of Ariadne. A kind of instinctive rancor, an obscure hostility that did not spring from the intellect, sustained him against the tenacious German who had succeeded, by his own unaided effort, in inflaming the world. To achieve his victory over men and things, he, too, had exalted his own image and magnified his own dreams of dominating beauty. He, too, had approached the multitude as if it were his chosen prey; he, too, had imposed upon himself, as if it were a discipline, an unceasing effort to surpass himself. And now he had the temple of his creed on the Bavarian hill.

"Art alone can lead men back to unity," said Daniele Glauro. "Let us honor the nobler master that has proclaimed this dogma for all time. His Festival Theater, though built of bricks and wood, though narrow and imperfect, has none the less a sublime significance, for within it Art appears as a religion in a living form; the drama there becomes a rite."

"Yes, let us honor Richard Wagner," said Antimo della Bella, "but, if this hour is to be memorable by an announcement and a promise from him who this night has shown the mysterious ship to the people, let us invoke once more the heroic soul that has spoken to us through the voice of Donatella Arvale. In laying the corner-stone of his Festival Theater, the poet of Siegfried consecrated it to the hopes and victories of Germany. The Apollo Theater, which is now rising rapidly on the Janiculum, where eagles once descended, bearing their prophecies, must be the monumental revelation of the idea toward which our race is led by its genius. Let us reaffirm the privilege with which nature has ennobled our Latin blood."

Still Stelio remained silent, deeply stirred by turbulent forces that worked within his soul with a sort of blind fury, like the subterranean energies that swell, rend, and transform volcanic regions for the creation of new mountains and new chasms. All the elements of his inner life, assailed by this violence, seemed to dissolve and multiply at the same time. Images of grandeur and of terror passed through this tumult, accompanied by strange harmonies. Swift concentrations and dispersions of thought succeeded one another, like electric flashes in a tempest. At certain moments, it seemed to him that he could hear songs and wild clamors through a doorway that was opened and closed incessantly; sounds as if a tempestuous wind bore to his ears the alternate cries of a massacre and an apotheosis.