I
Henry the Fowler, the German King, coming to Brabant to levy men-of-arms
for assistance against the Hungarian, has found the country distracted
with internal dissension, troubles in high places. These, as its
feudal head, he must settle before proceeding further. He summons
together the nobles of Brabant and holds his court in the open,
beneath the historical Oak of Justice, on the banks of the Scheldt,
by Antwerp.
He calls upon Friedrich von Telramund, conspicuously involved in
the quarrel disturbing the land, to lay before him the causes of
this. The subject complies: The Duke of Brabant had on dying placed
under his guardianship his two children, the young girl Elsa and
the boy Gottfried. As next heir to the throne, his honour was very
particularly implicated in his fidelity to this trust, the boy's
life was the jewel of his honour. Let the King judge then of his
grief at being robbed of that jewel! Elsa had taken her young brother
to the forest, ostensibly for the pleasure of woodland rambling, and
had returned without him, inquiring for him with an anxiety which
Telramund judged to be feigned, saying that she had accidentally
lost him a moment from sight and upon looking for him failed to find
trace of him. All search for the lost child had proved fruitless.
Elsa, accused and threatened by her guardian, had by blanched face
and terrified demeanour, he states, confessed guilt. A fearful
revulsion of feeling toward her had thereupon taken place in him;
he had relinquished the right to her hand, bestowed upon him by her
father, and taken to himself a wife more according to his heart,
Ortrud, descended from Radbot, Prince of the Frisians. Telramund
presents to the King the sombre-browed, haughty-looking Princess at
his side. "And now," he declares, "I here arraign Elsa von Brabant.
I charge her with the murder of her brother, and I lay claim in
my own right upon this land, to which my title is clear as next
of kin to the deceased Duke; my wife belonging, besides, to the
house which formerly gave sovereigns to this land."
A murmur passes through the assembly, in part horror, in part
incredulity of so monstrous a crime. "What dreadful charge is this
you bring?" asks the King, in natural doubt; "How were guilt so
prodigious possible?" Telramund offers as explanation a further
accusation, and in doing it gives a hint, not of his motive in
accusing Elsa, for the violent ambitious personage is honest in
thinking her guilty, but of the disposition of mind toward her
which had made him over-ready to believe evil of her: "This vain
and dreamy girl, who haughtily repelled my hand, of a secret amour
I accuse her. She thought that once rid of her brother she could,
as sovereign mistress of Brabant, autocratically reject the hand
of the liegeman, and openly favour the secret lover." His excess
of vehemence in accusation for a moment almost discredits him. The
King demands to see the accused. The trial shall proceed at once.
He apprehends difficulty in the case: a charge so black against one
so young and a woman, made by a man so impassioned and almost of
necessity prejudiced, yet of long confirmed reputation for stern
integrity of honour as for bravery. "God give me wisdom!" the King
publicly prays.
The King's herald asks if the court of justice shall be held on
the spot? The King in answer hangs his shield on the Justice-Tree,
declaring that this shield shall not cover him until he shall have
spoken judgment, stern yet tempered with mercy. The nobles all
bare their swords, declaring that these shall not be restored to
their scabbards until they shall have seen justice done. The herald
in loud tones summons the accused, Elsa von Brabant, to appear
before this bar.
There advances slowly, followed by her women, a very young, very
fair girl, whose countenance and every motion are stamped with gentle
modesty. Between the dignity which upbears her and the sorrow which
crushes her, she is pathetic as a bruised lily. She looks dreamy
withal, as Telramund described her; her expression is mournfully
abstracted, her eyes are on the ground. The murmur passes from
lip to lip at sight of her: "How innocent she looks! The one who
dared to bring against her such a heavy accusation must be sure
indeed of her guilt."
She answers the King's first question, of her identity, by a motion
of the head alone. One divines that she has wept so much she could
only with difficulty summon up voice to speak. "Do you acknowledge
me as your rightful judge?" the King proceeds. She lifts her eyes
for a moment to read his, and slowly nods assent. "Do you know,"
he asks further, "whereof you are accused?" Her eyes slide for a
second toward Telramund and Ortrud, and she answers by an involuntary
shudder. "What have you to reply to the accusation?" With infinite
dignity she sketches a meek gesture signifying, "Nothing!"--"You
acknowledge then your guilt?" A faint cry, hardly more than a sigh,
breaks from her lips: "My poor brother!" and she remains staring
sorrowfully before her, as if upon a face invisible to the others.
Struck and moved, the good King, whom we heard promise that his
sentence should be _streng und mild_, severe yet merciful, speaks
kindly now to this strange girl, standing in such danger, yet engrossed
in other things,--invites her confidence. "Tell me, Elsa, what have
you to impart to me?" With her eyes fixed upon vacancy, she answers,
almost as if she spoke in sleep: "In the darkness of my lonely
days, I cried for help to God. I poured forth the deep lament of my
heart in prayer. Among my moans there went forth one so plaintive,
so piercing, it travelled with mighty vibrations far upon the air.
I heard it resound at a vast distance ere it died upon my ear.
My eyelids thereupon dropped, I sank into sweet slumber...."
All look at her in amazement. She stands before a tribunal on a
matter of life and death, and with that rapt look offers a plea
of such irrelevancy! "Is she dreaming?" ask some, under-breath,
and others, "Is she mad?"
The King tries to bring her to a sense of reality, a sense of her
peril. "Elsa!" he cries urgently, "speak your defence before this
court of justice!" But she goes on, with an air of dreamy ecstasy:
"All in the radiance of bright armour, a Knight drew near to me,
of virtue so luminous as never had I seen before! A golden horn
hung at his side, he leaned upon his sword. He came to me out of
the air, the effulgent hero. With gentlest words and action he
comforted me. I will await his coming, my champion he shall be!"
Her audience is impressed by the look of inspiration with which
she tells her tale of vision. "The grace of Heaven be with us,"
they say, "and assist us to see clearly who here is at fault!"
The King in doubt turns to Telramund: "Friedrich, worthy as you
are of all men's honour, consider well who it is you are accusing!"
"You have heard her," the haughty lord answers excitedly; "she is
raving about a paramour! I am not deceived by her dreamy posturing.
That which I charge her with, I have certain ground for. Her crime
was authoritatively proved to me. But to satisfy your doubt by
producing testimony, that, verily, would ill become my pride. Here
I stand! Here is my sword! Who among you will fight with me, casting
slur upon my honour?"--"None of us!" comes promptly from the
Brabantians, "We only fight for you!" The high-tempered gentleman
turns somewhat violently upon the King: "And you, King, do you
forget my services, my victories in battle over the wild Dane?"
The King answers pacifyingly that it would ill beseem him to need
reminding of these, that he renders to Telramund the homage due to
highest worth, and could not wish the country in any keeping but
his. God alone, in conclusion, shall decide this matter, too difficult
obviously for human faculty. "I ask you, therefore, Friedrich, Count
von Telramund, will you, in life and death combat, entrust your
cause to the judgment of God?" Telramund gives assent. "And you
I ask, Elsa von Brabant, will you entrust your cause to a champion
who shall fight for you under the judgment of God?" She assents
likewise. "Whom do you choose for your champion?" the King asks
of her. "Now--" eagerly interjects Telramund, "now you shall hear
the name of her lover!"--"Listen!" say the rest, with sharpened
curiosity. The girl has fixed her eyes again upon the vacancy which
to her apparently is full of things to see. "I will await the Knight.
My champion he shall be! Hear what to the messenger of God I offer
in guerdon. In my father's dominions let him wear the crown. Happy
shall I hold myself if he take all that is mine, and if he please
to call me consort I give him all I am!"
Four trumpeters turn to the four points of the compass and blow
a summons. The herald calls loud: "He who will do battle here,
under judgment of God, as champion for Elsa van Brabant, let him
appear,--let him appear!" The vibrations die of horns and herald's
voice. There is silence and tension. No one appears, nothing happens.
Elsa, at first calm in her security of faith, gives evidence of
anxiety. Telramund calls attention to her: "Now witness, witness if
I have accused her falsely. Right, by that token, is on my side!"
Elsa with childish simplicity appeals to the King: "Oh, my kind
sovereign, let me beseech you, one more call for my champion! He
is far away, no doubt, and has not heard!" At the King's command,
the trumpets sound again, the herald repeats his summons. There
is no answer. The surrounding stillness is unbroken by movement
or sound. "By gloomy silence," the men murmur, "God signifies his
sentence!" Elsa falls upon her knees: "Thou didst bear to him my
lament, he came to me by Thy command. Oh, Lord, now tell my Knight
that he must help me in my need! Vouchsafe to let me see him as I
saw him before, even as I saw him before let him come to me now!"
The women kneel beside her, adding their prayers to hers.
Elsa's last word has but died when a cry breaks from certain of
the company standing upon an eminence next the river. "Look! Look!
What a singular sight!"--"What is it?" ask the others. All eyes turn
toward the river. "A swan! A swan, drawing a skiff!... A knight
standing erect in it.... How his armour gleams! The eye cannot
endure such brightness.... See, he is coming toward us. The swan
draws the skiff by a golden chain! A miracle! A miracle!"
Elsa stands transfixed, not daring to look around; but her women
look, and hail the approaching figure as that of the prayed-for
champion. Amazement at sight of him strikes Telramund dumb. Ortrud
upon a glance at the swan wears for one startled moment an expression
of unconcealable fear. He stands, the stranger, leaning on his
sword, in the swan-drawn boat; adorned with that excess of lovely
attribute not looked for save in figures of dream or of legend,
knightly in one and archangelic, with his flashing silver mail
and flowing locks and unearthly beauty. As the boat draws to land
all involuntarily bare their heads. Elsa at last finds hardihood
to turn; a cry of rapturous recognition breaks from her lips.
He steps ashore. All in spell-bound attention watch for his first
action, his first words. These are for the swan, and contain not
much enlightenment for the breathless listeners. "Receive my thanks,
beloved swan. Return across the wide flood yonder from whence you
brought me. When you come back, let it be to our joy! Faithfully
fulfil your service. Farewell, farewell, my beloved swan!" The
mysterious bird slowly draws away from shore and breasts the river
in the direction from whence it came. The Knight looks after the
diminishing form with such effect of regret as would accompany
the departure of a cherished friend.
Voices of wonder pass from person to person; wonder at his impressive
beauty, and at themselves for the not unpleasant terror it inspires,
the spell it casts over them. He turns at last and advancing toward
the King salutes him; "Hail, King Henry! God's blessing stand by
your sword! Your great and glorious name shall never pass from
earth!" The King, who from his throne beneath the oak has been
able to watch the stranger from the moment of his entering the
story, is not of two minds concerning so luminous an apparition.
"If I rightly recognise the power," he speaks, "which has brought
you to this land, you come to us sent by God?"--"I am sent," replies
the Knight, "to do battle for a maid against whom a dark accusation
has been brought. Let me see now if I shall tell her from among
the rest." With but a passing glance at the group of women,
unhesitatingly he singles out Elsa, undistinguishable from the
others by any sign of rank. "Speak, then, Elsa von Brabant! If I
am chosen as your champion, will you without doubt or fear entrust
yourself to my protection?" Elsa, who from the moment of seeing
him has stood in a heavenly trance, answers this with no discreet
and grudging acquiescence; she falls upon her knees at the feet
of this her deliverer and hero, and with innocent impetuousness
offers him, not assurance of confidence in his arm, or gratitude
for his succour, but the whole of herself, made up solely of such
confidence and gratitude. "Will you," asks the Knight, while a divine
warmth of tenderness invests voice and face, "if I am victorious in
combat for you, will you that I become your husband?"--"As I lie
here at your feet," the girl replies with passionate humility, "I
give over unto you body and soul!" Full of responsive love as is his
face, bent upon so much beauty and innocence and adoration, he does
not at once gather her up from her knees to his arms. Strangely, he
stops to make conditions. "Elsa, if I am to be called your husband,
if I am to defend your land and people, if nothing is ever to tear
me from your side, one thing you must promise me: Never will you
ask me, nor be concerned to know, from whence I came to you, nor
what my name and race."--"Never, my lord, shall the question rise
to my lips!" She has spoken too readily, too easily, as if she
scarcely considered. "Elsa, have you perfectly understood?" he
asks earnestly, and repeats his injunction more impressively still:
"Never shall you ask me, nor be concerned to know, from whence
I came to you, nor what my name and race!" But she, how should
she in this moment not promise whatever he asked or do whatever
be required? There is no question of pondering any demand of this
exquisite dream made flesh, this angelic being come in the darkest
hour to make all the difference to her between life and death.
As he has asked more earnestly, she replies more emphatically.
"My defender, my angel, my deliverer, who firmly believes in my
innocence! Could any doubt be more culpable than that which should
disturb my faith in you? Even as you will protect me in my need,
even so will I faithfully obey your command!" He lifts her then
to his breast with looks of radiant love, uttering the words which
confirm his action and make him her affianced. The people around
them gaze in moved wonder, confessing an emotion at sight of the
_wonnigliche Mann_ beyond natural, suggesting magic.
The Silver Knight steps into the midst of the circle about the
Justice-Oak, and declares: "Hear me! To you nobles and people I
proclaim it: Free from all guilt is Elsa von Brabant. That you
have falsely accused her, Count von Telramund, shall now through
God's judgment be confirmed to you!" Telramund, obviously in grave
doubt, gazes searchingly in the face of this extraordinary intruder.
He is sure of his own integrity, relies perfectly on his private
information against Elsa; what then is an agent of Heaven's doing
on the opposite side? How can this be an agent of Heaven's at all?
While he hesitates, the Brabantian nobles warn him in undertones:
"Keep from the fight! If you undertake it, never shall you come
forth victorious! If he be protected by supernal power, of what
use to you is your gallant sword?" But Friedrich, true to his stiff
necked, proud self, bursts forth: "Rather dead than afraid!" and
violently addresses the stranger: "Whatever sorcery have brought
you here, stranger, who wear such a bold front, your haughty threats
in no wise move me, since never have I intended deceit. I accept
your challenge, and look to triumph by the course of justice!"
The lists are set, the ground of the duel is marked off with spears
driven into the earth. When all is ready, the herald in solemn
proclamation warns all present to refrain from every sort of
interference, the penalty for any infringement of this rule to
be, in the case of a noble, the loss of his hand, in the case of
a churl, the loss of his head. He then addresses himself to the
combatants, warning them to loyally observe the rules of battle,
not by any evil art or trick of sorcery to disturb the virtue of
the judgment. God is to judge them according to custom in such
ordeals; in Him let them place their trust and not in their own
strength. The two champions with equal readiness declare themselves
prepared to obey this behest. The King descends from his throne,
removes his regal crown, and, while all beside uncover and unite
in his prayer, solemnly he makes over, as it were, his function
of judge to God. "My Lord and my God, I call upon Thee, that Thou
be present at this combat. Through victory of the sword speak Thy
sentence, and let truth and falsehood clearly appear. To the arm
of the righteous lend heroic strength, unstring the sinews of the
false! Help us Thou, O God, in this hour, for our best wisdom is
folly before Thee!"
Each of the persons present feels certain of victory for his own
side, even dark Ortrud, with the black secrets of her conscience,
who believes in no messengers from God, and pins her faith to the
well-tested strength of her husband's arm.
At the thrice-repeated blow of the King's sword upon his shield, the
combatants enter the lists. The duel lasts but a moment. Friedrich
falls, not from any wound, but from the lightening flash of the
adversary's sword, brought down upon him with a great sweep. The
mysterious weight of it crushes him to the earth, overthrows him,
deprives him of force to rise again. The gleaming enemy stands over
him with sword-point at his throat: "By victory through God your
life now belongs to me. I give it you. Make use of it to repent!"
In the rejoicings that follow, the acclamations of the victorious
champion of innocence, no one takes any thought further of the
vanquished. Unnoticed he writhes, appalled at the recognition that
very God has beaten him, that honour--honour is lost! The wife struggles
with a different emotion. Her eyes, unimpressed by his splendour,
unconvinced by his victory, boldly scrutinise the countenance of
the Swan-brought, to discover the thing he had forbidden Elsa to
inquire, what manner of man he be. Who is this, she asks herself,
that has overcome her husband, that has placed a term to her power?
Is it one whom verily she need fear? Must she give up her hopes
because of him?