From within the enchanted dream of those bewitching flowers breaks out the magical voice of Kundry, the original she-devil, the prototype of perdition and downfall, she, the one who not even Amfortas himself, the marvelous king of the Holy Grail, could resist in a foregone time.
The mysterious female cries out passionately, calling the hero by his own name, the name with which, in other times, his loving mother tenderly called him. The sweet voice cries out, “Parsifal, stay! Bliss and happiness together greet you. Childish flirts, leave him alone; flowers soon to fade, he was not meant for your sport...”
When hearing these words, the voluble, variable, and versatile nymphs remain profoundly reluctant. It is written (this is known by many people) that those malignant beauties subsequently disappeared laughing into the tenebrous castle of Klingsor.
Parsifal looks timidly to the chamber of love whence the voice came forth… Then, he contemplates the vision of that young and splendorous, beautiful woman. Completely transformed, appears the provocative Kundry, lying on a bed of flowers, embellished with the most light, fantastic, veil-like robe ever dreamed of by the Arabian style.
“Were you perhaps, oh sublime feminine beauty, the one who called me? Did you name me, the nameless one? Are you also (oh gods!) a flower grown and detached from this perfumed garden?”
“Yes,” answered Kundry, that impetuous blond woman who was named Herodias. Her tender words resound with heartbreaking accents, as a very sweet lyre…
“I named you, foolish pure one, ‘Fal-Parsi’… So pure and foolish: ‘Parsifal.’ there, in the far exotic land of caliphs and sultans, your father Gamuret so named you, his son, who in your mother’s womb was stirring. Precisely, to give you these tidings I was waiting here.
“However, indeed, I was not born amidst this garden of marvels as the other beauties… Far, far from these enchantments of A Thousand and One Nights is my beloved homeland. Just for you to find me, I lingered here awhile in this corner of passionate joys. From very far lands hence came I, many extraordinary things I have seen; expecting you, so that you might listen…
“It is good for you to know that I have the joy of knowing your mother Herzeleide [German: “heartache”]… That exceptional woman forever weeping, born of sorrow, yet when facing grief for your father’s love and death, laughing [because “you, the apple of her eye should cry for joy!”]. Placing her hope as the most high and imperious holy duty, she decided to save you from fate like his. From clash of arms, from men in deadly conflict, she ever strove to shield you and protect you.”
“Mother sweetest, dearest mother, who once had pomegranate lips, ivory teeth, long curls of hair falling as a cascade upon those, her warm and perfumed shoulders, upon that, her body chiseled with burin… Holy, truest, dearest mother who had one time all the enchantments of a beautiful Houri; tender, white and perfumed mother, as a Madonna lily that, when opening its calyx, on tender mosses you were cradled. So anxious was she, ah, and fearful: such grieves that never would disturb you. Can you remember her anxious cry when late and far you were roaming? Mother, sweetest, dearest mother, who in those nights of full moon placed a swing in the great tree of your garden… There she brought sweets and dinner to you, scented with moss, carnation, verbena, roses, peaches and jasmine… You were heedless of all her care, of all her anguished grieving, when one day you did not return and left no trace behind you… Long days and nights she anxiously waited for you, until her cries grew silent, and died…”
