Considered by many to be one of the most remarkable women of the twentieth century, Leni Riefenstahl was an accomplished artist, dancer, actress, photographer, cinematographer, script-writer, technical innovator, mountaineer, skier and of course, director. The brilliance of her 1935 film Triumph of the Will is remembered as much for its artistry as it is for its political controversy. However, Leni’s intimacy with National Socialism should not distract from her work and vision, at least no more so than Mikhail Kalatozov’s or Sergei Eisenstein’s political affiliations distract from theirs. Leni was once referred to as the epitome of the perfect German woman in mind, body and spirit; indeed, there is a strong visual language of Teutonic archetypes permeating through her repertoire spanning over seventy years. Leni’s career began in Weimar Germany where she, a graduate of the prestigious Grim-Reiter Dance School, made a name for herself as a successful dancer. Her profession carried a physical toll and she was recovering from various injuries when she first saw a poster of Arnold Fanck’s Mountain of Destiny (1924). The bergfilm captured Leni’s attention and inspired her to enter the film industry. Her good looks, screen presence and sheer athleticism proved to be a perfect match for the genre; she would go on to star in Fanck’s iconic 1926 film The Holy Mountain, that established her as a star in Germany and presented an ideal of German femininity to the rest of the world.

The bergfilm is a characteristically German endeavour which enjoyed immense popularity in the Weimar Republic; these films were set high in the mountains, transcending cosmopolitan grime in order to present present man’s desires, passions and struggles on a purer ethereal plane. The white peaks of the mountains, where Death always lingered, tested the vitality and spirit of those who were compelled to ascend and conquer it, this human drama occurring over the sublime backdrop of German nature. The bergfilm had an undoubted contribution to the recovery of the German identity in the years following the Great War; though not overtly political, it provided a clear and cohesive aesthetic that unified the fragmented and demoralised German perception of themselves. Perhaps this is why most bergfilm did not need a particularly sophisticated narrative in order to be appreciated by the public; much of the thematic heavy lifting was done by the meta-narrative. Perhaps this is also why the bergfilm waned in popularity during the war-time and post-war periods, which had little patience for its themes.

I. The Holy Mountain

The Holy Mountain, which Leni would star in, was director Arnold Fanck’s fifth bergfilm. All of Fanck’s films followed his particular vision, which was to present Nature in her most beautiful and unadulterated form to the audience so that they may experience it as authentically as possible. Fanck did not shoot his films in the comfort of studios, but insisted that they be filmed on the mountains, where he subjected himself, his staff and his actors to dangerous weather, treacherous slopes and unpredictable conditions. Fanck was an expert skier and mountaineer and expected the same of his team if they were to keep up with his highly physical style of filming. The actors, actresses and film crew had to carry heavy cameras, studio equipment and countless reels of film high up into the mountains, where they often spent months filming under adverse conditions. The risks taken should not be understated; Leni broke both of her ankles on the first day of filming, but persevered as she was driven by a pressure to keep up with her experienced male co-stars. There was an undeniable pride taken in this style of filming, for the physical ardour purified the intentions of the cast and crew as they set to work realising Fanck’s vision of using raw natural elements to create visual art.

For Fanck, it was the mountain that was the star of the film; priority was given to conveying its reality authentically over intricacies of plot or appeasement by spectacle. This, however, did entail a casualty of storytelling in Fanck’s films, where the plots were rightly criticised as being overly simplistic. The Holy Mountain presents a generic love triangle between the dancer Diotima, played by Leni, and the man she loves, Karl. Karl’s best friend Vigo secretly loves Diotima. Both Karl and Vigo are mountaineers, but for Karl the mountain serves a particularly intimate purpose; it is place of revelation where he goes to understand his inner-self. When Karl first sees Diotima, he retreats to the mountain to process the turbulent emotions raging within him, but Diotima and Karl eventually fall in love and are engaged. In a misunderstanding, Karl mistakes a platonic gesture between Diotima and an unknown other man and retreats to the mountain in a jealous fury to process his emotions. He takes his friend Vigo along with him, but on the rockface during a dangerous storm, Karl finds out that Vigo was the other man. In the heat of the ensuing confrontation, Vigo falls over the edge, still tethered to Karl. Forgetting their differences, Karl holds tightly to Vigo’s rope and awaits rescue. Amidst the raging storm, he eventually realises that he cannot pull his friend back up, but refuses to let him perish, despite Vigo’s insistence that he cut the rope. Exhausted from holding him up, his thoughts with Diotima, he allows himself and his friend to fall together. After the storm, hearing of what happened, Diotima mourns the love and loyalty of the two men lost to the mountain.

The Holy Mountain cemented Fanck’s reputation as a masterful and technically brilliant director and paved the way for future films. With Leni starring, he went on to direct The White Hell of Pitz Palu (1929), Storm over Mont Blanc (1930), The White Ecstasy (1931) and S.O.S. Eisberg (1933). Leni would brave further physical challenges, sometimes bordering on sadism, in order to maintain authenticity in all of her performances. Her hard work did not go unnoticed by her audience and she was catapulted into stardom as a result. She made her directorial debut in The Blue Light (1932), which was praised for its pictorial beauty and Leni’s innovations in her role as an editor and director. This film caught the attention of a certain Adolf Hitler, and the rise of National Socialism would have an impact on the career and lives of both Leni and Fanck.

II: Symbolism in the Bergfilm

The genre of bergfilm reached its heights well after the Golden and Silver Age of Alpinism, of 1854-1865 and 1865-1882 respectively, where countless summits were conquered in a remarkably short time as a matter of exploration, ambition and scientific discovery. This was a far cry from modern mountaineering, a recreational activity that though carrying some risk, is considered generally safe and accessible to the public thanks to modern technical equipment, experienced guides and well-mapped routes. But between the Age of Exploration and the Age of Recreation, stands the Age of the Bergfilm, where the mountain was climbed for the sake of artistry; the bergfilm was an aesthetic extension of mountaineering itself and explored the symbolic and spiritual value of the mountain independent of exploration or recreation.

Symbolically, the mountain is immoveable, stable and monolithic; its topography is resistant to perceptible change even across multiple human lifespans. It is indifferent to the aspirations of those who look upon it, those who climb it and those who perish upon it. From Mahameru to Olympus, Fuji, Sinai, Tlaloc and Hara Berezait, the high peaks are the divine residence of deities and central to many myths of cosmogony, thus making every ascent a mortal trespass into a mystical realm. Symbolically, the ascent represents a gruelling purification of the mind, body and spirit, with the peaks and slopes representing a natural sanctuary untainted by worldly corruption. It is here that one encounters revelation and self-knowledge. To be sure, the mountain itself can never be conquered, but only ascended upon for a brief time before the homeostatic fragility of the climber can no longer withstand the harsh clime. The aesthetic of Faustian defiance to this reality is infused into the visual language of the bergfilm; its men and women are strong, wilful, moral and independent, their turbulent passions are innocent and naively childlike. They drive themselves to the summit on account of these passions, whether it be love, arrogance, ambition or pride, with the ensuing tragedy serving both as a cautionary tale and a testament to the intractable human spirit. Death on the mountain is seldom meaningless; in The Holy Mountain, Karl’s death represents loyalty and in The White Hell of Pitz Palu, Krafft’s death to save the young Hans is the ultimate sacrifice. Thus to die in the pursuit of the summit is a noble and heroic death which rejects the mundanity of existence beneath the peaks; the body and spirit of the climber undergoes metaphorical petrification as it is incorporated into the body of mountain lore.

Through the bergfilm, the German spirit and identity are implicitly re-crystallised through association with the mystically sublime landscapes of the fatherland. The vigorous rise and ignominious decline of then-recent German fortunes is valorised in the wilful determination of the ascent and the fatal risk of disaster that comes with such defiant ambition. It is unlikely that this symbolism was purposely aligned to reflect the political mood of the era, but it cannot be denied that it achieved this alignment remarkably well. The aesthetics of National Socialism may have found inadvertent expression in the bergfilm, but at least early on this appears to be a coincidental overlap of themes that were resonant with the public at the time. The recurring appearance of former World War 1 ace pilot Ernst Udet in Fanck’s films could cast some doubt here, but it is not compelling evidence in of itself. Indeed, through the test of time the symbolism of the bergfilm finds itself absolved of political affiliation; today Fanck’s films are seldom ideologically edified in comparison to the works of Riefenstahl and D.W Griffith. The modern view of the bergfilm is more likely to lean towards spiritual or humanistic interpretations before propaganda.

III: Legacy

The fate and fortunes of Leni and Fanck would diverge after their last film together, S.O.S. Eisberg (1933) which was based on a doomed polar expedition. Leni’s performance as director and star of The Blue Light had caught Adolf Hitler’s attention, who asked her to direct a film about the fifth Nuremberg rally. Following the success of The Victory of Faith (1933), Leni went on to direct the iconic Triumph of the Will (1935) which cemented her reputation as Germany’s foremost director. Hitler invited Leni to film the 1936 Summer Olympics; Olympia (1936) is considered an aesthetic and technical masterpiece, with prolific use of tracking shots, slow motion and aerial shots to create striking visuals that gained her worldwide recognition. Immediately after the war, Leni was detained and put on trial to account for her cooperation with Hitler, however nothing incriminating was conclusively proven beyond a circumstantial sympathy for National Socialism. Leni was never truly absolved of her association and spent much of her life defending herself against her accusers. Despite this, she went on to have a celebrated career as a photographer, documentary film-maker and environmental activist. Leni passed away in 2003, a day after her 101st birthday. Leni’s legacy demonstrates an unmistakeable creative talent in the visual arts, her remarkable aesthetic sense is matched only by her psychological intuition in depicting the vitality and physicality of the masculine spirit as she understood it.

Unlike Leni, in the 1930’s Fanck found himself at odds with the ruling party due to his reluctance to cooperate with Goebbels, a decision that hastened his decline in visibility and popularity. He eventually reconsidered his position and agreed to direct propaganda films, with The Daughter of the Samurai (1937) being the a notable co-production between Germany and Imperial Japan. However his career would never return to the heights experienced during the peak popularity of the bergfilm. His reluctant cooperation with National Socialism did him no favours after the war; his films were banned by the Allies rendering him a persona non grata who no longer received any offers for work. With little recognition and in financial difficulty, Fanck spent his final years much as he spent his early life; he retreated to the mountains, working as a lumberjack until his death in 1974. Today, Fanck is remembered as a brilliant technical innovator, a daring film maker and the undisputed father of the bergfilm.

Wagner’s “sacred festival play” Parisfal recounts a knight’s search for the Holy Grail, an old story of spiritual endeavour that is made relatable to the modern psyche. The setting may be that of Christian chivalry amidst sorcerers and castles, but Wagner’s psychologically complex interpretation explores wholly modern problems. The problem of identity is central to Parsifal’s struggles and remains relatable to its audience who must contend with their own identity’s allegiance to opposing forces of culture, nationality, race, spirituality, art and entertainment. Wagner hopes to provide a solution to this crisis of identity through Parsifal. However, these problems and solutions do not need to exist on the grand scale of humanity as a whole and can instead be explored on an intimate level. Identity and spirituality is as much a personal problem as a collective socio-political one, if not more so. Viewed as such, Wagner explores psychology of the Self without resorting to tiresome psychoanalytic jargon siphoning the vitality from the insights obtained.

The story of Parisfal is of convergence; its protagonist is initially formless in identity and ambiguous in provenance, but we see him take shape through trials and lessons. It is not just the idea of a dissimulated identity that converges here, but also of the opposition of the male and female that is characteristic of the modern sexual crises and its dynamics. The “holy fool” Parsifal’s masculinity and the “vile sorceress” Kundry’s femininity, are both dealt with compassion which ultimately resolves their tension. Thus the problem of identity is not only tackled on a personal level, but also on an interpersonal one. At least this is what Wagner hopes, as his intention points towards a story that is unifying, spiritually insightful and engenders compassion in its audience. The ability of the work to delicately challenge and modify pre-existing thought helps give it lasting appeal and Wagner’s play does indeed endure in comparison to the transient popularity of works that simply entertain and confirm convictions rather than explore them.

George Bernard Shaw wrote (of the Ring Cycle) that if the aptitude of the audience was lacking, Wagner’s work would be reduced to a series of petty squabbles and hours of scolding and cheating by fairytale personages. “Only those of wider consciousness can follow it breathlessly, seeing in it the whole tragedy of human history and the whole horror of the dilemmas from which the world is shrinking today.”. Shaw’s biases as a Wagnerite and his overly political interpretations are clear, and he too is inclined to stage his conclusions on a grand scale rather than a personal one. But his sentiment remains accurate, as Parsifal allows the inner self an opportunity to explore and contend with the “horror of the dilemmas” that it is increasingly numb to.

I. Identity and Origin

The loss of identity is what Parsifal and Kundry struggle with and it is tied to the stories of their origin, thus forming the key thematic link between them that allows them to deeply understand each other, more so than they are understood by anyone else. This bridge is the means by which compassion is given and received, which ultimately concludes their respective character arcs.

Parsifal’s ignorance of his past leads him to have no firm convictions about his present; his childhood memories are disconnected fragments at the precipice of his recollection, so he must rely on others, such as Kundry, to reveal the elusive details that he cannot unravel himself. Name and origin are integral to the formation of an identity for it is to that which experiences and attributes are first attached. A nameless identity inevitably becomes fragmented and entirely referential to others, which leads to a state of existential listlessness, the very state we first encounter Parsifal in. He enters manhood feeling othered and aimless, wandering through the forest acting on primitive instinct without any semblance of a higher consciousness.

In contrast, Kundry’s identity is well formed from the outset but presents a complex series of contradictions. Like Parsifal, she struggles with her past and its effects on her current identity, but unlike Parsifal, she has self-knowledge, which is what he intrinsically seeks. Parsifal is a pure innocent, whereas Kundry is tormented by her past and defined by the worst aspects of herself. Parsifal has the ability to feel compassion, whereas Kundry earns only the revulsion of others. Parsifal is free to roam the wilderness whereas Kundry is trapped in an endless cycle of penitence and seduction, which is all her identity is reduced to. The cyclic nature of Kundry’s suffering has a supernatural exoticism to it, through the extra ecclesiam implication of rebirth and reincarnation. Parsifal is presented to the audience in a state of pure simplicity, whereas the “sorceress” is full of contradictions for she is both a messenger of the Grail and also allied with the manipulative fallen knight Klingsor. Klingsor gleefully reminds her of her past and the many names she went by when she carried out evil deeds; First Sorceress (Urteufelin), Hell's Rose (Höllenrose), Herodias, Gundryggia and finally, Kundry. Like Parsifal, she has many nicknames and these weaken her identity and obscure her original self. Through this complex backstory her role as Parsifal’s thematic foil and counterpart is made apparent to the audience.

II. The Problem of Identity and its relation to Parsifal

Modern man, as Wagner observes him, shares in Parsifal’s loss of identity; he is indoctrinated with a strong sense of individualism through his humanistic education but his environment seeks to define and redefine that individual identity according to what is politically and economically expedient. He must voluntarily and individually partake in a collective of his choosing, but his choices are preemptively limited by contemporary relativistic societal values. The non-relativistic options are either censored or only made available in extreme polarised interpretations, which limits dissent to reactionary and radical pipelines. His spiritual intuition is muted by the assault of both atheism and excessive religious formalism, which at best confuses and at worst misleads entirely. He is able to relate to Parsifal’s crisis of identity, for his own identity is diffuse, fluid and uncertain unless he adopt ready-made, spiritually barren and ideologically homogenous commodity-identities available to him. Opportunists will take advantage of this vulnerability and offer ideological alternatives that serve political, economic or material ends that are often against the interests of the psychospiritual self. This disenfranchised mind, similarly to Parsifal, desperately seeks to recover its identity. Whereas Parsifal seeks to uncover a forgotten past, the modern counterpart tries to recover what has been obscured by relentless relativising of normative values and a spiritual “drying up” characterised by a lack of direction or compassion. But this recovery must begin with the acceptance of non-identity and an acquiescence to spiritual intuition guided by compassion. In other words, he must embrace the humbling reality of being naive and innocent of all knowledge relating to the self, much like Parsifal’s natural state when we first encounter him. It is from here that they may begin their quest for the Grail; that is, the path to a higher spiritual Truth.

In Parsifal, our protagonist presents a near-perfect picture of ambiguous identity. His ignorance of his own name, his past, his culture and his kin means that he “starts from zero” with respect to his self knowledge. His innocence is like that of a child, but lacking the anchoring quality of the “self” from which they can inquire and explore the world. Parsifal’s unencumbered inquiry is far freer in some ways and far more limited in others. It is free in the sense that there is no lens of the ego colouring the experience, allowing him to curiously explore human complexities with a simplicity of intent. It is limited as without the anchor of identity and proper guidance there is a danger of endless, listless wandering without purpose, which is where we find him in the first act. When wise old Gurnemanz sizes him up on their first meeting, he fears that this is all that foolish Parsifal is destined for.

In the opening act Gurnemanz witnesses Parsifal wander aimlessly into the sacred precinct where the Grail knights are stationed and shoot down a passing swan with his hunter’s bow. This is the instinctive act of a child with no knowledge of pain, death or consequence, done for its own sake and with no real motive other than curiosity. The very image of simple Parsifal armed with a bow and arrow has an element of inevitability to it, much like how humans are inevitably compelled to exercise their ability to cause emotional, physical and spiritual pain to each other. When wise Gurnemanz draws the lifeless beauty of the swan to Parsifal’s attention, Parsifal is stricken with grief and breaks his bow. This is a symbolic act, not of pacifism (for we see Parsifal develop into a knight) but of an innocent identifying a profane extremity for the first time and establishing a boundary for himself beside it. This is the first instance of Parsifal forming a sense of self in the differentiation between what is good and what is evil. Previously wandering, his moral compass receives a calibration to inform his future journey. This idea of the innocent inquiry of a fool and normative recalibration through the principle of compassion is central to Wagner’s solution for the spiritual decline of modern man.

In Parisfal, the “foolish” primitive state is presented as an ideal and fertile ground for genuine spiritual experience, learning and wisdom. It is a blank slate (mushin) that allows for clear internal and external perceptions unburdened of history and indoctrination. Wagner idealises the simple and universally accessible act of compassion as taking spiritual precedence over self-important pomp and pageantry. Parsifal has no name, identity, title, status, heritage, ancestry, identity or culture. Many traditions identify attachment to an identity rooted in the material world to be an obstacle to spiritual realisation, which is why they emphasise the exoteric practice to establish a receptive state before fully engaging in esoteric de-attachment. However, an aimless annihilation of identity only leads to existential wandering without purpose, which is the initial state we find Parsifal in. Detachment from material constraints must coincide with prior attachment to a higher principle, otherwise there is no benefit from it. Upon breaking his bow, Parsifal departs from his ignorant state and attaches himself to compassion as his guiding principle. He then channels and directs the expression of this principle through striving for the grail, adopting an exoteric religious framework to further refine his inner conviction.

Wagner reminds modern man, deeply entrenched in a crisis of identity, that he is closer to this ideal foolish primitive state than he thinks. If he is able to recognise his manufactured artificial identity as illusory, he discovers that he too is “starting from zero”. When the illusion of his modern identity crumbles, the carefully constructed hypocrisies upholding this identity may also crumble and leave bare earth on which to lay new spiritual foundations. This foundation must categorically be governed by a higher principle, lest one false identity be exchanged for an equally empty identity in religious garb. For Parisfal, Wagner chooses compassion as this ideal principle. Thus we see him, unencumbered by material, emotional or historic baggage, devote his active energy to compassion rather than ambition. In his active devotional state we find him receptive to spiritual realisation, with Enlightenment transposed from the Buddhist conception to the medieval Christian symbols of the Spear and the Grail. Emphasis on the seed of a higher principle taking root is fundamental in avoiding a narrow literal reading of Parsifal as merely a religious play. The imagery and symbolism is undoubtedly Christian but Wagner provides subtext inspired by eastern thought that gives a perennial applicability of the message.

Finally, Parsifal’s character, insofar as it is presented or interpreted as a solution to modernity, ought to be considered practically as well as esoterically. Modern man would find it a difficult task to acquire innocence and compassion as easily as it was granted to Parsifal. As part of his own quest, he must recognise that innocence and compassion are interior qualities and ideals that must be strived for through outer action, in the hope that they take seed within. In turn this outer action must be supported by the initiatory structure of faith including meticulous adherence to prescribed doctrine. This inner seed will then grow into an holistic expression of innocence, compassion, detachment and the chaste virility that is presented in Wagner’s Buddhist influenced ideal. This spiritual ascension is nothing less than heroic, as conceptualised by Wagner with his own predisposition towards sentimentality. In truth, a spiritual journey has no generalisable form or structure, but we rely on Wagner to provide a beautiful and comprehendible example that is widely accessible.

III. Kundry

If Parsifal is the potential of an undefined past and an unencumbered self, then Kundry represents the limits of a demoralised self whose identity is fragmented and irredeemable. She expresses a profound disillusionment with the weakness of man and the ease with which he falls to her temptations. Her characteristic sensuality represents the burden of femininity that the modern woman must navigate through, but her disillusionment speaks to all. Kundry’s character is less idealised than Parsifal and for this reason is more relatable, pitiable and emotive to the audience. She is altogether more human, with her inconsistencies and contradictions existing alongside her cautious hope of redemption.

We discover that Kundry’s suffering began when she witnessed the Redeemer, Wagner’s ideal of spiritual perfection, but unforgivably mocked and rejected him as he suffered on the cross. Schadenfreude is said to be the least compassionate of all human emotions and so Kundry is fated to suffer the bitterest punishment. She is destined to relive her shame in an endless cycle of rebirth where “the salvation of eternal sleep” eludes her until she can encounter someone of similar spiritual perfection who will resist her wickedness and provide her with redemption. Thus she lives many lives, is called by many names, wanders endlessly and is not permitted to weep, only to jeer and mock. The centuries go by and Kundry forgets who she is, remembering only the wrongs that she has committed as if in a never ending fever dream. Her identity is a negation devoid of any positive quality as she becomes defined by her transgressions. Wagner acknowledges that Kundry made a catastrophic mistake in her rejection of Christ, but subtly reminds his audience that it was a very human mistake that they would be unwise to judge too harshly. Who can confidently say that they could recognise divinity if it were to proclaim to walk amongst them? Kundry, despite her garish sexuality, manipulations and pathetic helplessness, is not deserving of contempt, but the audience’s compassion. Without compassion towards someone as reprehensible as Kundry, what hope can the audience hold for their own salvation?

Kundry is written to parallel the plight of the modern woman, who finds her identity increasingly sexualised, commodified and spiritually weakened. Much like her male counterpart, there is a general movement to celebrate and accentuate the natural weaknesses of her sex to create an uncertain, pliable and frivolous class of consumer. Her femininity is no longer tied to her spirituality, but to physicality either as an object of sexual gratification or of utilitarian motherhood. She finds her counterpart, man, devoid of any spiritual virility and unwilling to recognise their complementary natures unified by a higher principle. Thus, rather than cooperative roles based on the specialised qualities of either sex, there are extremes of total subjugation or complete independence from he who should be her ally. Woman’s disillusionment runs deep when their subtle introspective remembrance is numbed by the crudeness of distraction, consumerism and entertainment.

Kundry too suffers from profound disillusionment. She fundamentally seeks redemption through the compassion of a man who can look past her seductive exterior femininity to validate and embrace her with love that fulfils her soul. She is trapped by her curse and has no choice but to seduce and mislead men, not being permitted to engage them in any other way. Although she hopes to find redemption amidst these compelled seductions, she only witnesses multiple cycles of well intentioned, upright but ultimately worldly men falling short of their professed ideal. Her corrupt environment compels her to remain corrupt as she is obliged to corrupt others. She yearns for compassion whilst holding the weakness of man in contempt. The weakness of man cannot see her beyond her carnal identity of womanhood and can therefore provide her with no absolution from her sins. Though she holds these weak men in contempt, they too hold her in contempt as she is the corruptor of the well intentioned and sullies those who seek to attain purity. She finds no protector amongst them and thus she is vulnerable to exploitation and ill treatment. When we consider the Christian principles of forgiveness and charity in this play about the quest for the Grail, we find that Kundry is most in need of it and yet is most often refused it.

Mirroring Kundry’s identity of negation and disillusionment, modern men and women are encouraged to hold each other in a state of psychospiritual contempt but physical co-dependence. It would be presumptuous to say that women look for “redemption” in men. It is less controversial to say that both men and women fundamentally seek companionship and comfort in each other as they seek something higher than themselves. Disruption and denial of this bond leads to feelings of underlying hostility, contempt and self-assured feelings of independence from the other. Independence from the idea of being reliant on the other morally frees them to mutually exploit one another for physical satisfaction. Sexual relations go from rewarding and unifying pleasure, to a soulless Foucaultian power play. At such extremes, is it any wonder than many can relate to Kundry’s disillusionment when it is placed before them?

III. Parsifal’s Trials and Kundry’s Dilemma

Parisfal’s quest comprises of trials that symbolically represent a transition from a lesser outer struggle to a greater inner struggle. When he approaches Klingsor’s castle he pits his strength against that of the defending knights, defeating them with ease. But his entry into the enchanted garden marks the transition into a subtle plane where his inner qualities are put to the test. These trials are a common motifs in many chivalric stories; a knight must face trials of strength and character in order to prove his worth, some being so contrived that they prompted a thorough lampooning by Cervantes. But these trials ought to be considered esoterically as a means to ensure the fulfilment of mystical prerequisites on part of the aspirant.

So, in this enchanted garden, Parsifal encounters the seductions and temptations of the flower maidens, who compete with each other for his attention. The danger of such distractions has already been illustrated in the example of Amfortas who, despite his knightly strength, perished to Kundry’s temptation and lost ownership of the Holy Spear. The trial of the flower maidens has familiar counterparts in the Western narrative tradition, but Wagner looks towards the Rig Veda to find an equivalent in the daughters of Mara the Asura. Hindu and Buddhist texts recognise these daughters as Rati (representing lust), Arati (discontentment) and Tarasna (craving, longing and desire). These three daughters attempt to distract the Buddha Shakyamuni from his ascetic path to Enlightenment just before he reaches it, as reported in the legendary biographies of the Maharasta, Nidankatha and Lalitavastra. Like Shakyamuni, Parsifal is on a path to Enlightenment and must navigate through these distractions, but unlike Shakyamuni, Parsifal is not a holy man but an inexperienced holy fool on the outset of his journey. Fortunately for Parsifal, his innocence (the idea which Wagner asks us to aspire to) renders him immune to the temptations of the flesh. Frustrated, the maidens abandon their efforts and bicker amongst themselves. Parsifal’s ease at overcoming this trial is intended to be instructive; pleasures of the flesh are easy to identify and overcome but temptation takes forms that are infinitely more subtle that the aspirant must guard against. It is these subtler forms that Parsifal must contend with when he encounters Kundry, who is under Klingsor’s manipulations when she is sent to defeat him.

Kundry’s approach to Parsifal is informed by her keen intuition and witnessing the failure of Klingsor’s lackeys to either overpower or seduce Parsifal. Instead, Kundry tempts Parsifal with what he is aware he lacks; self-knowledge. She puts on a compassionate guise and leverages the pure and sacred love between a mother and child to achieve her ends. She calls Parsifal by his name, a clue to his identity that he has long forgotten and that could only be known to his beloved mother, now a fading distant memory. Kundry recounts to him the story behind his name and tempts him with the answer to one of his most fundamental questions. “Who am I? Why and how did I get here?”. Kundry provides Parsifal with self-knowledge, but in narrow, linear and material terms which are ultimately a misdirection. Though knowledge of genealogy and ancestry has its place, it only offers a point of reference for others and cannot provide us with a whole identity. Wagner reminds us we cannot be told who we are by others, but must look to our own experiences in pursuit of a higher consciousness. Kundry’s attempt to inverse this truth provides Parsifal with an answer that is materially satisfying but metaphysically empty.

Kundry doesn’t offer Parsifal knowledge to bring him a sense of peace. She mixes it with manipulative half truths to create an upheaval in Parsifal and render him vulnerable to emotion and sentimentality. She implies that Parsifal shares guilt in his mother’s passing and causes the fires of self-reproach to spread within him. She poisons Parsifal with her words and in the same breath offers him an antidote. She kisses Parsifal with the pretext of transferring maternal comfort, but Parsifal’s intuition recognises her false solution to a false problem. The kiss elicits a psychosomatic memory of Amfortas’s painful wound, a reminder of his downfall, and Parsifal cries out in pain and retreats from her advances. This is his final trial and once overcome, he is able to defeat Klingsor and gain rightful possession of the Holy Spear.

Kundry’s corrupt actions are not the unthinking plot devices of a generic femme fatale, the type that are sensuously presented and soon dismissed after achieving their narrative purpose. Kundry suffers because she is aware that she is fundamentally out of synchronicity with a higher moral order. She considers herself incompatible with the “good” and yet feels a magnetic pull towards what she hopes is “pure” so that she may herself be cleansed by it. One can see that Kundry is drawn to Parsifal by the hope of his incorruptibility as much as the intention to corrupt him. So as Kundry corrupts, she unconsciously seeks that which is beyond her corruption and therein lies her hope for redemption. Kundry suffers because her experiences have chipped away at this hope to the point where she doubts whether she will ever be redeemed. Kundry exists in a state of deep self-loathing, which is another parallel that can be drawn with the modern identity. This identity struggles to be sure of anything beyond its own impermanence and irredeemability and thus it finds satisfaction in seeing this ugliness extended and reflected in the world around itself. Corruption is not content to exist alone, but would rather exist as a corrupt part of a corrupt whole. The mystical point of view would emphasis the balance and symmetry that exists in all things by design, thus the corrupt whole ultimately wishes to be part of a magnificent, incorruptible and pure Absolute, much like how Kundry deeply desires redemption.

IV. Good Friday

Parsifal obtains the Holy Spear at the end of Act II, however obtaining this holy relic this does not herald the end of his quest. It is not enough to obtain this mystical power, but his trial is now to take it with him into the world. When Gurnemanz and Kundry encounter him in Act III, he emerges wearily, clad in armour, from the obscuring density of the forest. He carries the spear and informs Gurnemanz that he suffered many wounds in preserving the sanctity of this relic, that is, by not wielding it in battle. Parsifal recognises, and is recognised by, Gurnemanz and Kundry. Kundry herself awoke shortly before his arrival, as if in anticipation, and has already been anointed by Gurnemanz with water from the Holy Spring signifying her ritual purity on this holy day.

The convergence of these three characters in the Holy Precinct on the holy day of Good Friday is no coincidence, but an act of Providence. Gurnemanz recognises the auspicious timing and instructs Kundry on purifying Parsifal from “the dust of long wandering”. They remove his armour, signifying the conclusion of the trial and that Parsifal nears the end of his quest. Touchingly, Kundry washes Parsifal’s feet with the holy water and dries them with her long hair whilst Gurnemanz anoints his head. In the emotional climax of the play, now ritually purified, Parsifal takes a handful of the holy water and baptises Kundry in the name of the Redeemer. He compassionately kisses Kundry on her forehead, signifying the end of her centuries of torment.

In this scene, the tension between the male and female identity is resolved. Kundry purifies Parsifal and Parsifal absolves Kundry through the higher principle of compassion. It also highlights their complementary roles in the pursuit of the Grail, Without Kundry’s suffering there could be no manifestation of Parsifal’s compassion. With Kundry’s redemption, the audience must consider the possibility of their own redemption and the means by which it could be achieved. The final scene of the play, where Parsifal holds the illuminated Grail over those assembled in the great hall, the audience experiences edification under the divine light of compassion and redemption.

The powerful themes and symbolism of the final act of Parsifal rattles the sensibilities of the modern viewer. Through overt religious imagery and mystical undertones, it demands response and rebuttal from the religious and irreligious alike. Those who practice faith without internally adhering to higher principles such as compassion are encouraged to recalibrate their moral compass. Those who tie their identity to modernity and experience a consequent spiritual sickness are offered a momentary, crude but on the whole effective aesthetic experience that spans faith and redemption. Perhaps Wagner wished his audience to walk away from the play believing in something, rather than nothing.

V. Conclusion

As we have seen, Wagner’s work is a modern expression for the desire for ritual and tradition infused with religious meaning. We see its impact in the cult that formed around him during his life and in the continuation of the annual quasi-religious gathering at Bayreuth in the years since his death. Parsifal and Kundry are themselves a synthesis of pre-modern mythical archetypes that seek to navigate the concerns of a modern audience whilst striking a resonant chord with their dull and distracted passions. But to edify Wagner as a prophet and Parsifal as a prophecy is to succumb to the illusion of self-knowledge represented by Kundry’s kiss. Instead we recognise that Wagner’s themes and symbolism alludes to a greater spiritual tradition that his modern audience is encouraged to engage with and benefit from.

“Only those of wider consciousness can follow it breathlessly, seeing in it the whole tragedy of human history and the whole horror of the dilemmas from which the world is shrinking today.”

On this basis we may take issue with Shaw’s remark. Parsifal requires no elitist pre-requisite of a “wider consciousness” to understand its spiritual message, the centre of the work can be accessed directly and simply by all. A well read member of the audience will appreciate the depth and complexity of the message, but its applicability extends to all current affected by the modern condition. Wagner’s characters struggle with their identity, so that his audience can apply lessons learned their modern problems. Thus it is accessible to all who suffer, provided that they are made aware of their own suffering. As Wagner says, “if (this) suffering can have a purpose, it is simply to awaken a sense of fellow-suffering in man”.

Parsifal can be appreciated in many ways, with some likening its performance at Bayreuth to a religious experience. Some may find themselves touched by the music, others by the theatrics and others still by the poetry of the libretto. Though Wagner’s genius has its part to play in the mesmerising qualities of Parsifal, one can’t help but see the infusion of luminescent residues of transcendent themes that he took his inspiration from. The luminescence of these residues in turn gives light to those that find themselves confused and disillusioned by the darkness of modernity.

“To the god-like Individual of our times; the Man against Time; the greatest European of all times; both Sun and Lightning: ADOLF HITLER, as a tribute of unfailing love and loyalty, for ever and ever.”

-Savitri Devi, The Lighting and the Sun

So begins, with the above dedication, Devi’s The Lightning and the Sun; with awe she writes of he whom she ascribes semi-divinity, an Avatar of Vishnu, a man against time, a man who she believes is of irreproachable moral energy untouched by the Dark Age and the one who struggles for the “reign of righteousness” as intimated in the Bhagavad Gita. Devi’s intense devotion to her Führer is palpable through the pages of her work, as is her desire for the reader to be edified, as she was, by his example. She attributes superhuman qualities to Adolf Hitler, saying that he embodies the qualities of both the Lighting1, the great devastating force of Nature, and the Sun2, the creative and unifying defiance against the downward trajectory of the Dark Age. With hagiographic adulation, she describes the subtle, noble personal qualities of her ideal emerging from infancy and finally manifesting in manhood. For Devi, the moral character, triumphs and even defeat of Adolf Hitler lined up with the perfect rhythms of a Cosmic order and the destiny of man, against time, to reach the perfection of a Golden Age3.

Devi’s appraisal of her charismatic leader, in relation to Carlyle’s On Heroes, Hero Worship & the Heroic in History, views him not as a Hero as King, nor as a Hero as Prophet, but a Hero as Divinity4. Many today would regard Devi’s deification of Adolf Hitler as an impassioned overreach in zealotry and in extremely poor taste. Some may even consider her, in her foreign garb, with countless eccentricities and questionable allegiances, a laughably bizarre character altogether. Before she is mockingly dismissed, it is worth considering that, rightly or wrongly, she was moved by a conviction of an inviolable truth, and however irrational we may find the conclusions, we form part of a collective that is moved in the same way to the seemingly irrational, whether we know it or not.

The study of charismatic leaders, of course, predates both Carlyle and Devi; Plutarch, in Parallel Lives, sought to study the great leaders of antiquity and his present, but from a morally instructive5 perspective as much as a historical one. For a charismatic leader inevitably amasses followers and admirers, many of whom make as great or even greater impact on the course of history, forming communities and movements that span centuries. Their study becomes mandatory for those aspire to similar greatness. But not all leaders have sacred connotations to their personality, nor do they all equally elicit a delirious religious fervour in their followers.

The fervour that moves the body of the modern world is categorically political in nature; demagogues, de-facto tyrants and technocrats are the object of unrelenting populist zeal, both for and against. Transiently charismatic leaders are presented one after another at election cycles and geopolitical crises, as the antidote to, or cause of, the pressing existential concerns of the general public. This public will then rally around these figureheads and create communities of acolytes that will campaign and proselytise, no doubt motivated by hope for a Golden Age. This sentiment is not so different to the perspectives of Devi, and leaves onlookers just as incredulous. The incredulity is, to be direct, of incomprehension of the psychology of influence that people are individually and collectively susceptible to. This incomprehension leads them to loudly wonder at the ease with which the tides of favour turn for and against their political leaders, and by extension, their own hope for a brighter future for themselves and their loved ones. The fortunes of their ideological leaders are intrinsically tied to their own fate and the fate of their community, or so they feel.

It is interesting that in their study of charismatic leaders, both Devi and Carlyle offer perspectives on the Prophet Muhammad; Devi identifies him, alongside Adolf Hitler, as a man against Time and a representation of the Lightning and the Sun that sought to strive against the decline of the Kali Yuga6. Carlyle describes him in less heterodox terms as the archetypal Hero as Prophet7 and considers him to be a great leader and reformer of a divinely inspired order. It is around the succession to Prophet Muhammad that Reverend W. Montgomery Watt (1909-2006), Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at the University of Edinburgh, formulated his dynamic idea of Charismatic Leaders and Charismatic Communities. He sought to understand the theological crises in early Islam as analogues to historic and contemporary tensions within Christianity and the wider world, as well as to understand the psychology of devotion, as exemplified above in the impassioned rhetoric of Devi and those like her.

In Islamic Philosophy and Theology8, Watt delineates the sectarian tensions in the Ummayad Caliphate following the passing of the Prophet and how differences in group psychologies contributed to the formation of the charismatic leaders of the Shi’ites and the charismatic community of the Kharijites. The succession of leadership after the Prophet was a complicated affair, a time of psychological tumult for the nomadic and cosmopolitan Arab alike; the unconscious disposition of the people dictated their response to this uncertainty. Watt hypothesised that because the aristocratic South Arabian tribes were embedded in a tradition of civilisation a thousand years old with a succession of divine and semi-divine kings, in times of crisis they unconsciously looked towards charismatic leaders of this type. In contrast, the North Arabian tribes, who were nomadic and embedded in no such tradition, independently formed democratic communities with the belief that excellence was within the prestige of the family, clan and tribe; in times of crisis, their unconscious sought to recreate these charismatic communities with a clearly defined in-group and out-group.

Watt clarifies9 that his use of charisma and charismata is in a sociological sense rather than a religious one10; the prerequisite of a charismatic leader is the guarantee of salvation through allegiance and in the charismatic community it is salvation through participation. Those that fall outside this sphere are heretics and apostates, and depending on the extremity of interpretation, fit to be put to death. Watt recognises that the demarcation is not always clear, for a charismatic community may spring from a charismatic leader, or vice versa. For the Shi’ites, the charismata of the Prophet was transmitted to his family11; first through his cousin Ali ‘ibn Talib and his sons, and then followed by succession of divinely guided Imams that wield total spiritual and political authority. Thus the Shi’ites opposed the Umayyad caliphate on the basis that the successors of the Prophet were from his companions rather than his divinely guided blood. The Kharijites, on the other hand, believed that the increasingly affluent caliphate at the head of a rapidly expanding empire, no longer represented the values of the Quran and so they “with a fair measure of logic, worked out the Kharijite position to an extreme conclusion”. This conclusion was that both the authorities, who did not follow their interpretation of the Quran, and those that did not fight with them against the authorities, were outsiders that could be killed as a matter of duty. Thus salvation only lay within participation in the charismatic community, with deviations punishable by death. Watt points out that these extreme view points generated much theological discussion and eventually cemented the foundations of the moderate general religious movement which ultimately resulted in the Sunni orthodoxy as we know it today.

Watt does briefly consider Christianity, which also has a merging of the two concepts into a synthesis with its own particular weighting depending on the sect. The Roman Catholic Church recognises the charismata of Christ, but also has charismatic leaders in the form of the clergy and the Pope, who are in turn balanced by the Doctrine of the Church12 which establishes a charismatic community. He considers the Eastern Orthodox Church to be the best embodiment the charismatic community, though not implying that their views share the extreme nature of the Kharijites.

Watt refers to the deep resonant appeal of these two conceptions of leaders and communities as being a dynamic idea that all men are unconsciously13 inclined towards; indeed, though not indisputable nor universally applicable, it helps to frame the zealotry and polarisation of much current and historic political discussion. Many, like Devi, psychologically require an object of purely devotional leadership above all else, but today the salvation that is offered is of a comparatively material nature, be it economic security, reinstatement of normalcy14 or a brighter future for kin and countrymen, to name a few. Though divinity is not ascribed to modern leaders as a general rule, they nonetheless find themselves attributed supra human access to occulted planes of knowledge or insight, particularly in relation to the surreptitious workings of political machinery. Allegiance to the leader is often commitment enough, resulting in a potentially less exclusionary community more willing to tolerate any deviations in doctrine amongst its followers. Furthermore, there is far more tolerance for moral lapses, and far less demand of perfection, in the leader as compared to before, something Devi would attribute as a sign of the times. Those that are drawn towards the dynamic idea of a politically charismatic community find meaning, safety and hope within the participation of this community. However, much like the Kharijites, participation entails complete adherence a very well defined set of precepts, any perceived breach of which entails immediate expulsion and defamation. Though the in-group provides psychological stability amidst fear and insecurity, any consensus of application of political doctrine is ephemeral at best, leading to in-fighting and splintering off into more moderate or extreme communities.

Watt and Carlyle take a view of matters on a large historical scale, and Devi on an even larger cosmic scale. However one can view microcosms of Watt’s dynamic idea springing up all around them; online communities, for instance, create unifying charismatic leaders and lead to the formation of exclusionary communities and vice versa15. One quickly identifies those that are inclined towards salvation from participation in a community and those that wish to be led to salvation by an irreproachable and revolutionary individual, a particularly important skill in an increasingly globalised world prone to a dehumanising othering. More importantly, and selfishly perhaps, it prompts us to consider the ways in which we ourselves are inclined to think, reflecting in particular in the weaknesses and oversights in our structure of thought that lead to profound error. It is hoped that keeping these inclinations in mind balances the temperament and cools the passions, allowing the spirit and the intellect the freedom to engage with fractious matters. Perhaps it could help the incredulous to understand Devi, and those like Devi to conciliate with the incredulous. Perhaps not.

And now for the first time Anna turned the bright light in which she saw everything upon her relations with him, about which she had always avoided thinking.

"What did he look for in me? Not so much love as the satisfaction of his vanity. Of course, there was love too, but the greater part was pride in his success.”

Anna Karenina is the story of women, and men, who mistakenly view the pursuit of love as an antidote to their descent into dissipation. Many women find it difficult to truly look beyond on themselves, as much of their time is spent in conscious and unconscious consideration of their own position relative to those around them. This natural interpersonal perceptiveness and self-prioritising acumen allows them to deftly navigate social politics, but when society gives importance to all that is superficial and material, these natural talents are left undirected without a guiding principle. Tolstoy depicts such women as falling prey to their base inclinations; a vain, selfish and destructive love affair with themselves. Tolstoy’s intense psychological dissection remains insightful because his cultural microcosm is so profoundly relatable to our own, to the extent that it is arguable that his time and our time are part of the same modern microcosm.

Through Anna, Tolstoy asks us to consider the casualty of love in a decadent society. Today, it is difficult to speak of love sincerely, so intertwined is it with pop cultural impressions and lower sentiments. Among the first signs of love’s conceptual decline is the development of an ars amatoria where the idea undergoes a gradual and progressive trivialisation until it reaches a terminal reductive state, where love exists purely for the gratification of the individual1. Here, it is only the individual that is granted the ultimate right of the rugged individualist; to love selfishly. As testament to our collective reluctance to acknowledge a possible higher form, modern Platonic love bears little semblance to Diotima’s description2, but instead tepidly refers to non-sensual relations. With time the metaphors of love and lovers cease to approximate descriptions of the sacred, thus giving no higher sacrality to the lower human experience. It is with these considerations that Tolstoy explores the erotic and emotional impulses of modern love in the correspondingly modern psychology of Anna and Levin.

Anna and Levin cross paths thematically in the former’s descent and the latter’s ascent. At first, both are observed to be self-centred in their own peculiar way. However, the reader is quick to recognise that Levin’s nature is fundamentally expansive, in that he is sincere and wishes to grow beyond the discontent that he feels within. Anna’s nature, on the other hand, is contractive, as she uses her gifts of psychological perception to create and maintain a vortex of vain gratification around herself for as long as possible. Under the pretext of love, she remains wilfully blind to the pain of others that occurs as a consequence to her actions. To achieve this, she must necessarily remain blind to her inner self. Were Tolstoy less gifted, Anna would be nothing more than a Weiningerian3 caricature, but instead Anna’s descent provides an opportunity to consider whether our own unexamined weaknesses are so different from hers.

In this introspective spirit, some thoughts on the novel are presented here. Part I explores the unravelling of Anna. Part II, the analytical crux, speculates on psychological processes in women. Part III aims to balance the possible insinuation of chauvinism4 arising from Part II and explores the journey of Levin. Part IV is the conclusion.

I: Unravelling

For much of the novel, Anna sees nothing beyond herself and her whims. It is only in her descent that she turns her sharp faculties of perception towards Vronsky, the man she loves, to understand the unpleasant reality of her affair. By this point, they have already grown distant on account of her neurotic jealousy, her neediness, and the daily acerbic skirmishes she compulsively instigates. Her epiphany5 is simple, sterile and unpleasant; with a dispassionate clarity she concludes that the love that she cherishes is based on egoism and vanity, nothing more.

My love grows more passionate and egoistic, and his dwindles and dwindles.

Vronsky loves Anna because to be loved by Anna, in his small world, is an unparalleled prestige beyond rank and title. A man’s world, when he searches for his identity and place in society, is indeed a small one to begin with. When its horizons inevitably expand, what was thought to be passionately sincere in the smaller world becomes embarrassingly juvenile in the larger. So, in Vronsky’s small world, winning the affection of a woman who society considers to be of superlative quality, accentuates the public perception of his own manhood. Being at the centre of a simmering public scandal appeals to his vainglory, which he justifies to himself as being in the throes of a love that others cannot understand. Most likely, Vronsky truly does love Anna as far as his immature understanding of love permits. But he loves her selfishly. The ever-perceptive Anna is sensitive to this subtlety.

Anna’s egoism, on the other hand, is firmly rooted in the cosmopolitan superfluity of St Petersburg society. Anna, who feels unappreciated and constricted by her marriage, finds that an intrigue with a handsome charismatic young officer validates her desirability to herself. This need for validation is the foundation of her intense love for Vronsky and soon takes priority over the lesser forms of validation she receives from St Petersburg society. Women like her are sensitive to the quality of validation they receive; for Anna to enrapture and mesmerise any member of an audience through the smallest exertion of her charm and beauty is a somewhat mundane routine for her. She has taken part in this routine since she was old enough to be aware of the effects of her words, glances and movements on influencing and winning over whomever she pleased. For Anna, the most potent validation is an affair that spites everything -her husband, her marriage, her children, her future, social propriety, her lover’s future, his career, his prospects- for the sake of herself and herself alone. Her personality has a destructive and vicious quality that spreads through her like a sickness, eventually affecting Vronsky and straining the vitality of their relationship. Her rising jealousy is a self-awareness of her losing grip on the egoistic reality she has constructed around herself.

The immature Vronsky may have willingly given himself away to Anna’s charms, but he cannot ignore the resulting discord that emerges. When the relationship is removed from St Petersburg society, the social prestige of courting Anna no longer appeals to his vanity. Love alone cannot satisfy his broadening horizons, and the void within him grows larger. His attempt to fill the void is familiar to the modern reader; escapism through travel, the excesses of consumerism, intellectual and artistic pretences and distracting oneself with public affairs. He finds these pursuits unsatisfactory, and why shouldn’t he, for the remedy to the rising undercurrents of discontent are not to be found in frivolity or relationships, but within. Tolstoy delicately portrays this shift in circumstances; the youthful passion and romanticism of their relationship fades into the mundane. The intensity of feeling they have for each other dissipates into pointless dilettantism and endless distraction in art and culture6. Even their bodies pay a physical toll as Anna’s appearance becomes more haggard and Vronsky’s youthful virility recedes alongside his hairline. Both Anna and Vronsky pay dearly for their self-centredness in the sacred matter of love; at the end of the novel, though one of them lives and the other one dies, they are both left equally lifeless.

II: Unconscious Processes

Anna’s profane love leaves her othered in the mind of the reader, but Tolstoy simply asks us whether all romantic love is not just vain pleasure at another person holding our qualities in as high regard as we hold ourselves? Are we not, like Anna, intoxicated on our opinion of ourselves, only content to see our own reflection through the colluding mirror of the other? Though a self-critical proposition, it is worth deeper consideration; in our pop-culture, media portrays love as an individualistic realisation that is only requited when it is reciprocated by the other. Though we think of ourselves as too intelligently cynical to believe that romantic fiction bears any reflection on reality, decades of passive media consumption erode deep channels beneath the surface of our purported beliefs, resulting in a perception of reality as a series of sentimental vacuums fuelled by individual will. Individualism does indeed govern a large part of our unconscious processes under which the pursuit and experience of love falls. The ars amatoria of our age could be said to be a mostly selfish process, subordinate to our sense of individuality and autonomy. It is a game of vanity, validation and values and the perpetual interplay between them within the unconscious.

Tolstoy chose a woman, not a man, to explore the interplay between validation and love precisely because women have exceptional social intuition and have a more intimate need for congruity with the norms around them. When woman’s natural conformist inclination is overwhelmed by society’s emphasis of individualism, the dissonance in extremis resulting from a lack of validation desperately searches for either compromise or resolution. The resulting tension, though terrible, is nonetheless aesthetically pleasing and beautiful in its melancholic contortions. When in love, women’s unconscious appraisal of their prospective partner is arguably more psychosocially complex and sensitive to validation than the simple, visual and often crude appraisal of women by men. When the pneumatic pressure within this woman torn between conformism and individualism reaches its limits, either the woman conforms completely to male norms by adopting a masculine intellect or hyper-sexuality and validating herself through that, or she reactively sets herself as the only object worthy of her love and chooses only those partners who extend and accentuate her own self-absorbed image7. Like Anna, she places herself on an unassailable pedestal and her unconscious mind concocts an array of defence mechanisms to sanitise and make palatable the resulting narcissism. These defence mechanisms manifest externally in a rich, complex and coded second language of validation, values and implicit social norms. Purported values become the subterfuge behind which the desire for self-validation operates.

When validation becomes her unconscious priority, the values looked for in a partner aren’t special in of themselves; they serve a purely aesthetic function and are worn for public display. The appraisal has little to do with the values themselves, even less to do with the person being considered, and gives more importance than is admitted, to what compliments the wider perception of the self. The notion of values, which are personal precepts that are assumed to be in concordance with a higher truth, find themselves devalued, relativised and mercenarily used as a means to an end, where the prospect is of secondary importance and must patiently wait as their suitability is assessed. At its most reductive, the values that the prospect explicitly or implicitly represents are weighed and correlated to those of the appraiser and compatibility depends on how well they will validate and accentuate her own qualities8. The higher the perceived compatibility of the individual, the greater the perceived congruence of values and the more validation the pairing provides. For many, this desire for validation provides the final impetus to either pursue or abandon a relationship. Even those sincere values that do exist internally and introspectively may be contaminated by individualist affectation as they make their journey to external expression. It is not to imply that love is nothing more than psychologically mechanistic process outlined above, but only that it finds itself reduced to this pitiful state by those who approach it without a modicum of self-knowledge.

Women, recognising a vague discord in the unconscious currents relating to matters of love, would sooner give away their body than they would their heart. This is because they find no higher object to their love, and so choose to love themselves before all else. Their partner must collude with them in their pathological self-love or risk introducing an expansive dysfunction into the relationship. A relationship built on such a self-regarding foundation is difficult to intellectualise one’s way out of. It is difficult enough to regulate the ego in solitude, but attempting to do so in the psychological company of another is a tall order. Separating internal precepts from outward facing affectations within oneself, whilst at the same time attempting to do the same in the appraisal of the other, often results in failure to do either. Where it is successful, we see a recognisably healthy relationship, but so delicate is the balance here that chance and good fortune play a greater part in this outcome than expertise and experience.

Ovid’s Echo and Narcissus provides a locus classicus for the symptoms and consequences of self-absorption under the popular epithet of “narcissism”. However, Tolstoy’s modern woman is both Echo and Narcissus. She is self-absorbed like Narcissus but, like Echo, finds her ability for expression defined by those around her. She must experience herself in all senses and modalities; not only must she behold herself longingly in her reflection, but she also demands that her partner’s being be defined in response and reaction to her own voice. Then, ironically, she also embodies Echo, for her “self” is a mere echo of the norms of society as a whole. Echo’s undoing was that she spoke too much and spent too little time in silent repose, and modern woman’s undoing is that she spends too much time thinking of her own petty affairs and not enough time in introverted contemplation of higher spiritual truths that she has a natural capacity for.

III: Levin

Despite the above, Anna Karenina is not a novel that is content to condemn all women when there is an opportunity to hold both sexes to account. Women are merely the quintessential measure of an effect that either sex is susceptible to, admittedly to varying degrees. One such susceptible individual is Konstantin Dmitrievich Levin. Notably, Levin does not share Anna’s fate, for his sincerity and uncompromising introspection tethered to a growing faith is what cuts through psychological and sociological complications, allowing him to experience a higher and spiritually fulfilling Love. It is through Levin’s example that Tolstoy wishes both men and women to aspire to something greater than the shallow, selfish and transient love of Anna. However, Levin is not perfect and one can only begin to relate to Levin if they share his reflective compulsion to identify discord within himself and investigate its cause9. We are candidly introduced to his flaws and are in turn asked to consider our own. The reader sees that Levin struggles with vain intellectual self-absorption as he desperately searches for meaning and is compelled to recursively reflect on and revaluate all that he does. Levin quickly vacillates between gormless imperceptiveness and perceptive introspection, punctuated by neuroticism and emotionality. He is beset by anger, shame, and frustration at his inadequacies, but only because these sensitive perceptions are pointed inward to the point of neurotic self-loathing. His external perceptions are blunted by this disposition, where his curbs his intuition about others with rationalisation and intellectualisation, but can just as easily succumb to passionate emotion. However, despite these shortcomings, he is undeniably sincere in his search for meaning and perseveres through setbacks. Levin’s turbulent inner world is tempered by his marriage to Kitty however this alone does not provide him with the meaning he seeks. Matrimonial love is not the antidote to his feeling of spiritual discontent. In both of Tolstoy’s larger novels, it is notable that his characters often experience a period of mundane domestic tension that follows marriage. The flaws, insecurities and anxieties of the characters are not resolved by union but instead find themselves transposed into a different mode of expression. For Levin, his marriage only affirms that his journey for self-knowledge is incomplete and that he still needs to conciliate his flawed base self with his aspirational higher self.

Levin is indeed Tolstoy’s representative of himself, or a part of himself, inserted within the novel. However, he need not be thought of purely as an aggrandised masculine archetype to contrast against the femininity of Anna. Levin’s balance of masculine and feminine qualities aim for a higher understanding of themselves, and provide an example that is applicable to all. In fact, it is only through Levin’s sincerity that we can begin to see the wretched figure of Anna in a sympathetic light. If the reader is able to find common ground with Levin, they can see that despite his aloof cynicism, he is an idealist who wishes to presume that all have a share in the sincerity which he harbours within himself. Though this presumption goes against his judgement and experience, he never truly lets it go and his final epiphany only affirms it. Thus, it is through Levin’s sincerity that Tolstoy encourages us, without condoning or condemning, to understand the flaws that exist in Anna, our society and ourselves.

Some10 found themselves disappointed that Levin’s journey culminated with his discovery of the transcendental and highest form of love in his faith. For Tolstoy, faith could provide a remedy to the excesses of a self-absorbed culture, or at the very least allow the seeker to identify the insidious influences that colour their view of themselves and others. Self-knowledge and introspection alone is presented as futile without the framework of faith and religious-feeling. Through Levin, Tolstoy urges us to consider love in its transcendental and earthly forms. His descriptions of the latter brim with sensuality that makes no aesthetic concessions to its undeniable beauty. However, the passionately sensual finds contrast with the placid waters of a transcendental love that is both subtle and elusive. Yes, there is a Christian sentimentality in Levin, but equally, there is a revolt against it, and Tolstoy spent much of his later years searching for its form beyond the contingencies of organised religion. The pursuit of this higher love amidst the distraction of its lower form is presented as difficult to differentiate, as they mask themselves in each other with delicate elusion.

To the relief of the cynical aesthete, Tolstoy acknowledges that there are no easy answers in religion alone; religious sentimentalism just as easily leads to illusory epiphanies, regurgitated platitudes and utter inaction. Such is the cautionary example of Count Karenin, a cold, intellectual and practical man who seeks comfort in faith and mysticism, but without sincere intentions, is led to a deluded conclusion11. Sincerity of intent is a prominent theme in Tolstoy’s introspective exercises and perhaps to him, it is antithetical to the sycophancy that comes with public life. Personally, I doubt that Levin finds his truth after his epiphany in the final chapter. The epiphany itself seemed slightly forced, tepid and naively idealistic12. One could imagine new agitations springing up shortly after the conclusion of the novel that disturbed the tranquil waters Levin found himself in. It is nonetheless profound as the final chapter is Tolstoy’s acknowledgement, and must be ours too, at that all stories must end somewhere; the search for Truth and Love is something that continues beyond words and pages.

IV: Conclusion

Anna Karenina, perhaps like this essay, at first glance appears to be unkind to women, but on further reading reveals itself as an elegy to a nostalgic ideal of love, but nostalgic due to a recession of sincerity that both sexes can be held accountable for. Men and women are naturally preoccupied with self-interested affairs but is not to a pathological degree until this attitude is encouraged, rather than restrained, by the wider world influencing their inner world. Tolstoy urges his reader to be particularly sensitive to the subtleties of this inner world, of ourselves and others, so that we do not fall victims to our own weaknesses. There is inevitable divergence on the question of faith, but Levin could not find his peace without it. He had absorbed himself into the fashionable philosophies of his day, which remain as fashionable today, and found them wanting. Those that admire Tolstoy and place their trust in him to beautifully describe the intricacies of the human experience, may consider trusting him on this matter too and explore the question of faith with a renewed sincerity.

It is fitting to end this essay by briefly speaking of the most tragic, yet heroic, character in Anna Karenina; Stiva Oblonsky. Stiva ends the novel more or less as he begins it; debonair, merry and carefree. He is unperturbed by questions of meaning or the vicissitudes of passion. He has an easy-going life in the self-assured pursuit of pleasure, and this very nature somehow renders him immune to all consequence and accountability. In fact, his fortunes are on rise at the end of the novel, and his marriage secured. He is heroically unmoved by all setbacks; “…he was a truthful man in his relations with himself. He was incapable of deceiving himself and persuading himself that he repented of his conduct.”. It is he, not Levin, that embodies the masculine unperturbed indifference that contrasts with Anna’s feminine neuroticism. It is in fact he, not Anna, who is the most tragic character; his world is devoid of any impetus for self-knowledge and he experiences a pleasurably intense, but nonetheless narrow spectrum of the human experience. He is intellectually and spiritually restricted and can learn nothing about himself from the joys and suffering of his loved ones. He represents the emotionally and intellectually vacuous everyman, disinclined to all strenuous thought and celebrating the plentiful fruit of this disinclination. However, Tolstoy does not traduce the everyman for their disposition, they simply are as they are and can aspire no further. For them, their stagnancy and distance from spiritual realisation is consequence enough. Like Levin, one wonders how Stiva’s story ends beyond the pages of the novel, in old age when his capacity for pleasure is diminished, and the course of Nature curtails his many appetites in preparation for his end. Perhaps there too, his end is as carefree as his beginning, or perhaps like Levin, what he experiences is unsettlingly beyond words.

Indeed, the scope of Tolstoy’s themes extend beyond words, and beyond the petty flaws of women and men, with his prose providing what is immediate and sensuous whilst also alluding to inner themes existing beyond pure technique. The character of Levin and Anna are imbued with a certain instructive resonance that a reader can identify with. Regardless of whether the reader identifies with the illusory ideas of love preponderant in today’s culture, or perceives vanity within their own self, for Tolstoy inquiry into the self and spirit must be contingent upon an uncompromising inner sincerity. It is possible that Tolstoy’s writing had a cathartic function, as he chiselled aways at his own illusions to obtain the Truth underlying all things, with the remnant fragments of his efforts sublimated into timeless prose. If we consider his convictions in later life, it seems that his conclusion was that his prose contained only falsity, with the Truth found beyond it. Perhaps he felt that he could no longer spiritually benefit from his art, but thankfully we are not excluded from the privilege of doing so.