III

It is night. The stately bridal apartment awaits its guests. Music is

heard, very faint at first, as if approaching through long corridors.

Preceded by pages with lights, there enter by different doors a train

of women leading Elsa, a train of nobles and the King leading the

Knight.

The epithalamium is sung to its end. After grave and charming ceremony,

with blessings and good wishes, all withdraw, leaving the bride and

groom alone. Elsa's face is altogether clear again of its clouds;

all is forgotten save the immeasurable happiness which, as soon

as the doors discreetly close, impels her to his arms; clasped

together, seated upon the edge of a day-bed, they listen in silence

to their wedding-music dying slowly away. When all is still at

last, in the dear joy of being "alone, for the first time alone

together since first we saw each other," life seems to begin for

each upon new and so incredibly sweeter terms. The stranger knight,

whom mystery enwraps, shows himself, despite certain sweet loftiness

which never leaves him, most convincingly human. In the simplest

warm way, a way old-fashioned as love, we hear him rejoice: "Now we

are escaped and hidden from the whole world. None can overhear the

exchange of greetings between our hearts. Elsa, my wife! You sweet

white bride! You shall tell me now whether you are happy!"--"How

cold must I be to call myself merely happy," she satisfies him

liberally, "when I possess the whole joy of Heaven! In the sweet

glowing toward you of my heart, I know such rapture as God can

alone bestow!" He meets her gratitude with an equal and just a

little over. "If, of your graciousness, you call yourself happy,

do you not give to me too the very happiness of Heaven? In the

sweet glowing toward you of my heart, I know indeed such rapture as

God can alone bestow!" He falls naturally, happy-lover-like, into

talking of their first meeting and beginning love: "How wondrous do

I see to be the nature of our love! We had never seen, but yet had

divined, each other! Choice had been made of me for your champion,

but it was love showed me my way to you. I read your innocence in

your eyes, by a glance you impressed me into the service of your

grace!"--"I too," she eagerly follows, "had seen you already, you

had come to me in a beatific dream. Then when wide-awake I saw you

standing before me, I knew that you were there by God's behest. I

would have wished to dissolve beneath your eyes and flow about your

feet like a brook. I would have wished like a flower shedding perfume

out in the meadow to bow in gladness at your footfall. Is this

love?... Ah, how do my lips frame it, that word so inexpressibly

sweet as none other, save alas! your name... which I am never to

speak, by which I am never to call the highest that I know!" There

is no return indicated in this of any doubt of him. Elsa is in

this moment certainly all trust. It is but an expression of love

chafing a little at the reticence which seems a barrier one must

naturally wish away, if hearts are to flow freely together. Hardly

warningly, just lovingly, he interrupts her: "Elsa!"--"How sweetly"

she remarks enviously, "my name drops from your lips! Do you grudge

me the dear sound of yours? Nay, you shall grant me this boon, that

just in the quiet hours of love's seclusion my lips should speak

it...." He checks her, as before, unalarmed, without reproach, by an

exclamation of love. "My sweet wife!"--"Just when we are alone,"

she coaxes, "when no one can overhear! Never shall it be spoken in

hearing of the outside world." Instead of answering directly, he

draws her to him and turns to the open casement overlooking the

garden; he gazes thoughtfully out into the summer night and answers

by a sort of tender object-lesson. "Come, breathe with me the mild

fragrance of the flowers.... Oh, the sweet intoxication it affords!

Mysteriously it steals to us through the air, unquestioningly I

yield myself to its spell. A like spell it was which bound me to

you when I saw you, Sweet, for the first time. I did not need to

ask how you might be descended, my eye beheld you, my heart at

once understood. Even as this fragrance softly captures the senses,

coming to us wafted from the enigmatic night, even so did your purity

enthrall me, despite the dark suspicion weighing upon you!"

That she owes him much she is ready and over-ready to own. It is

almost embarassing to owe so much, to owe everything, and no means

of repaying, because the whole of oneself is after all so little.

"Oh, that I might prove myself worthy of you!" she sighs, "that

I need not sink into insignificance before you! That some merit

might lift me to your level, that I might suffer some torture for

your sake! If, even as you found me suffering under a heavy charge,

I might know you to be in distress! If bravely I might bear a burden

for you, might know of some sorrow threatening you! Can it be that

your secret is of such a nature that your lip must keep it from the

whole world? Disaster perhaps would overtake you, were it openly

published. If this were so, and if you would tell it to me, would

place your secret in my power, oh, never by any violence should

it be torn from me, for you I would go to death!" The bridegroom

cannot but be touched by such devoted gallant words from the fairest

lips. Off guard, he murmurs fondly, "Beloved!"--"Oh, make me proud

by your confidence, that I may not so deeply feel my unworthiness!"

she pleads, eagerly following up the advantage of his not having

yet remonstrated; "Let me know your secret, that I may see plainly

who you are!" Wilfully deaf to his imploring, "Hush, Elsa!" more

and more urgently she presses: "To my faithfulness reveal your

whole noble worth! Without fear of regret, tell me whence you came.

I will prove to you how strong in silence I can be!"

Her words, all at once, their significance penetrating fully, have

brought a change in him. Gravely he moves apart from her, and his

voice is for a moment stern as well as sorrowful: "Highest confidence

already have I shown you, placing trust as I unhesitatingly did in

your oath. If you will never depart from the command you swore to

observe, high above all women shall I deem you worthy of honour."

But he cannot continue in that tone, the altogether human bridegroom.

At sight of the pained look his severity has produced, he goes

quickly again to her, he makes instant reparation for his momentary

harshness. "Come to my breast, you sweet, you white one!" he profusely

caresses and consoles; "Be close to the warmth of my heart! Bend

upon me the soft light of your eye in which I saw foreshining my

whole happiness!..." And just to satisfy her so far as he can,

to prove still further his great love, he proceeds: "Oh, greatly

must your love compensate me for that which I relinquished for

your sake! No destiny in God's wide world could be esteemed nobler

than mine. If the King should offer me his crown, with good right I

might reject it. The only thing which can repay me for my sacrifice,

I must look for it in your love. Then cast doubt aside forever. Let

your love be my proud security! For I came to you from no obscure

and miserable lot. From splendour and joy am I come to you!" Oh,

the ill-inspired speech! What he dreamed must unite closer, in the

momentary mood of the incalculable feminine being he is dealing

with, divides further. The thought is instantly back in her mind

which she had smothered and then forgotten, the idea suggested by

Ortrud, implied by Friedrich, that mysteriously as he came the

unknown Knight may presently be going away from her. The hour that

should have been so sweet and quiet in the "fragrant chamber adorned

for love" of the wedding-song, is turned to strain and dreadfulness.

"God help me!" wails her passionate alarm, "What must I hear? What

testimony from your own lips! In your wish to beguile me, you have

announced my lamentable doom! The condition you forsook, your highest

happiness lay bound in that. You came to me from splendour and joy,

and are longing to go back. How could I, poor wretch, believe that

my faithful devotion would suffice you? The day will come which

will rob me of you, your love being turned to rue!"--"Forbear,

forbear thus to torture yourself!"--"Nay, it is you, why do you

torture me? Must I count the days during which I still may keep

you? In haunting fear of your departure, my cheek will fade; then

you will hasten away from me, I shall be left forlorn."--"Never"

he endeavours to quiet her, "never will your winning charm lessen,

if you but keep suspicion from your heart."--"How should I tie

you to me?" she pursues undeterred her fatal train of thought;

"How might I hope for such power? A creature of weird arts are

you, you came here by a miracle of magic. How then should it fare

but ill with me? What security for you can I hold?" She shrinks

together in sudden terror and listens. "Did you hear nothing? Did

you not distinguish footsteps?"--"Elsa!"--"No, it is not that!...

But there..." she stares vacantly ahead, pointing,--her face how

changed from the sweet, glowing face of so short a time ago!--and

describes what her over-excited fancy paints on the empty air before

her: "Look there! The swan! The swan! There he comes, over the watery

flood.... You call him, he draws the boat to shore...."--"Stop,

Elsa! Master these mad imaginings!" the poor lover strives with

her, in despair.--"Nay, nothing can give me rest," she declares,

wholly unmanageable, wholly unreasonable, "nothing can turn me

from these imaginings, but, though I should pay for it with my

life, the knowledge who you are!"--"Elsa, what are you daring to

do?"--"Uncannily beautiful man, hear what I must demand of you: Tell

me your name!"--"Forbear!"--"Whence are you come?"--"Alas!"--"What

manner of man are you?"--"Woe, what have you done?" Elsa utters a

shriek, catching sight of Telramund with a handful of armed men

stealing in by the door behind her husband's back,--the explanation

of the sound she had heard. With a cry of warning, she runs for her

husband's sword and hands it to him. Quickly turning he rewards

Friedrich's ineffectual lunge with a blow that stretches him dead.

The appalled accomplices drop their swords and fall to their knees.

Elsa, who had cast herself against her husband's breast, slides

swooning to the floor. There is a long silence. The Knight stands,

deeply shaken, coming to gradual realisation of the whole sorrowful

situation. All the light, the bridegroom joy, have faded from his

face. With a quiet suggestive of infinite patience and some strange

superiority of strength, some unearthly resource, he considers this

ruin, his audible comment on it a single sigh, more poignant than

if it were less restrained: "Woe! Now is all our happiness over!"

Very gently he lifts Elsa, sufficiently revived to realise that she

has somehow worked irreparable destruction, and decisively places

her away from him. By a sign he orders Telramund's followers to their

feet and bids them carry the dead man to the King's judgment-place.

He rings a bell; the women who appear in answer, he instructs:

"To accompany her before the King, attire Elsa, my sweet wife!

There shall she receive my answer, and learn her husband's name

and state."

At daybreak the Brabantian lords and their men-at-arms are assembling

around the Justice-Oak in readiness to follow the King. The King,

with noble expressions of gratitude for their loyalty, takes command

of them. "But where loiters," he is inquiring, "the one whom God

sent to the glory, the greatness of Brabant?" when a covered bier is

borne before him and set down in the midst of the wondering company,

by men whom they recognise as former retainers of Telramund's. This

is done, explain these last, by order of the Protector of Brabant.

Elsa attended by her ladies appears at the place of gathering.

Her pale and sorrow-struck looks are attributed naturally to the

impending departure of her husband for the field.

Armed in his flashing silver mail, as he was first seen of them,

he now appears on the spot. Cheers greet him from those whom he

is to lead to battle and victory. When their shouts die, he makes,

standing before the King, the startling announcement that he cannot

lead them to battle, the brave heroes he has convoked. "I am not

here as your brother-of-arms," he informs their consternation;

"You behold me in the character of complainant. And, firstly..."

he solemnly draws the pall from the dead face of Telramund, "I

make my charge aloud before you all, and ask for judgment according

to law and custom: This man having surprised and assailed me by

night, tell me, was I justified in slaying him?"--"As your hand

smote him upon earth," the horrified spectators cry in a voice,

"may God's punishment smite him yonder!"--"Another accusation must

you hear," the Knight continues; "I speak my complaint before you

all. The woman whom God had given to my keeping has been so far

misguided as to forget her loyalty to me!" There is an outcry of

sorrowful incredulity. "You all heard," he proceeds, steeled to

severity, "how she promised me never to ask who I am? She has broken

that sacred oath. To pernicious counsel she yielded her heart. No

longer may I spare to answer the mad questioning of her doubt.

I could deny the urgency of enemies, but must make known, since

she has willed it, my name,--must reveal who I am! Now judge if

I have reason to shun the light! Before the whole world, before

the King and kingdom, I will in all truth declare my secret. Hear,

then, if I be not equal in nobility to any here!" There runs a

murmur through all the impressed multitude, not of curiosity, but

regret that he should be forced to speak; the uneasy wish is felt

that he might not.

His face has cleared wonderfully. As his inward eye fixes itself

upon images of the home, the _Glanz und Wonne_, he is about to

describe, memory lights his countenance as if with the reflection

of some place of unearthly splendour. "In a far land," his words

fall measured and sweet, "unapproachable to footsteps of yours,

a fastness there stands called Monsalvat. In the centre of it,

a bright temple, more precious than anything known upon earth.

Within this is preserved as the most sacred of relics a vessel of

blessed and miraculous power. It was brought to earth by a legion

of angels, and given into the guardianship of men, to be the object

of their purest care. Yearly there descends from Heaven a Dove, to

strengthen anew its miraculous power. It is called the Grail, and

there is shed from it into the hearts of the knights that guard

it serene and perfect faith. One chosen to serve the Grail is armed

by it with over-earthly power; against it no evil art can prevail,

before the vision of it the shades of death disperse. One sent by

it to distant countries to champion the cause of virtue retains

the holy power derived from it as long as he remains unknown. Of

nature so mysteriously sublime is the blessing of the Grail that

if disclosed to the layman's eye it must withdraw. The identity

of a Knight of the Grail must therefore not be suspected. If he

is recognised--he must depart! Now hear my reply to the forbidden

question. By the Holy Grail was I sent to you here. My father Parsifal

in Monsalvat wears the crown. A Knight of the Grail am I and my

name is Lohengrin!"

The people gaze at him in awe and worshipping wonder. The unhapppy

Elsa, feeling the world reel and grow dark, gasps for air and is

falling, when Lohengrin catches her in his arms, all his sternness

melting away, his grief and love pouring forth in tender reproach.

"Oh, Elsa, what have you done to me? From the first moment of beholding

you, I felt love for you enkindling my heart, I became aware of an

unknown happiness. The high faculty, the miraculous power, the

strength involved in my secret, I wished to place them all at the

service of your purest heart. Why did you wrest from me my secret?

For now, alas, I must be parted from you!" She expends herself in

wild prayers to be forgiven, to be punished by whatsoever affliction,

only not to lose him. He feels sorrow enough, immeasurable sorrow,

heart-break, but not for an instant hesitation. "The Grail already is

offended at my lagging! I must--must go! There is but one punishment

for your fault, and its hard anguish falls equally upon me. We

must be parted,--far removed from each other!" He turns to the

King and nobles imploring him to remain and lead them as he had

promised against the enemy. "Oh, King, I may not stay! A Knight of

the Grail, when you have recognised him, should he disobediently

remain to fight with you, would have forfeited the strength of

his arm. But hear me prophesy: A great victory awaits you, just

and single-hearted King! To the remotest days shall the hordes

of the East never march in triumph upon Germany!"

From the river-bank comes a startling voice: "The swan! The swan!"

All turn to look. A cry of horror breaks from Elsa. The swan is

seen approaching, drawing the empty boat. Less master of himself

than theretofore, Lohengrin, realising the last parting so near,

gives unmistakable outward sign of his inward anguish. "The Grail

already is sending for the dilatory servant!..." Going to the water's

edge he addresses to the snowy bird words which no one can quite

comprehend. "My beloved swan, how gladly would I have spared you

this last sorrowful voyage. In a year, your period of service having

expired, delivered by the power of the Grail, in a different shape

I had thought to see you.--Oh, Elsa," he returns to her side, "oh,

that I might have waited but one year and been witness of your joy

when, under protection of the Grail, your brother had returned

to you, whom you thought dead!... When in the ripeness of time he

comes home, and I am far away from him in life, you shall give

him this horn, this sword, this ring...." He places in her hands

the great double-edged sword, the golden horn from his side, the

ring from his finger. "This horn when he is in danger, shall procure

him help. This sword, in the fray, shall assure him victory. But when

he looks at the ringlet him think of me who upon a time delivered

you from danger and distress. Farewell, farewell! My sweet wife,

farewell! The Grail will chide if I delay longer.... Farewell!"

He has kissed over and over again the face of the poor woman who,

annihilated by grief, has not the power to make motion or sound.

He places her, with terrible effort of resolution, in the arms

at last of others, and hastens, amid general lamentation, to the

shore.

Ortrud, lost in the crowd, has watched all. She has in reality

gained nothing by the disaster to Elsa, but she exults in it. Further

revenge for what she has suffered from Elsa's mere existence, for

the bitterness of her husband's death at the hand of Elsa's husband,

she seeks recklessly in a revelation which cannot but hold danger for

herself. In the insanity of her mingled despair and gloating hate,

her hurry to hurt, she does not wait until the powerful antagonist

be well out of the way of retorting--Lohengrin has but one foot as

yet in the boat,--before she cries, "Go your way home, go your

way, O haughty hero, that gleefully I may impart to this fair fool

who it is drawing you in your boat. By the golden chain which I

wound about him, I recognised that swan. That swan was the heir

of Brabant!--I thank you," she mockingly addresses Elsa, "I thank

you for having driven away the Knight. The swan must now betake

himself home with him. If he had remained here longer, that hero,

he would have delivered your brother too!" The whole dark scheme of

Ortrud's ambition now lies bare: She had compassed the disappearance

of the heir to the crown of Brabant, changing him by magic art into

a swan; had cast the guilt of his disappearance upon Elsa, and

married the man who upon Elsa's condemnation would have become

Duke. Through no neglect of her own was Ortrud's brow still bare

of the crown. At the cry of execration that greets her revelation,

she faces them all, drawn up to her proud height, and announces:

"Thus do they revenge themselves, the gods from whom you turned

your worship!"

But Lohengrin had not been too far, nor too engrossed in going,

to hear her words. The Knight of the Grail has sunk on his knees

and joined his hands in prayer. All eyes are upon him, his eyes

earnestly heavenward. For a long moment all is in motionless suspense.

A white dove flies into sight, and hovers over the boat. With the

gladness of one whose prayer is heard, Lohengrin rises and unfastens

the chain from the swan; this vanishes from sight, leaving in its

place a beautiful boy in shining garments, whom Lohengrin lifts to

the bank. "Behold the Duke of Brabant! Your leader he shall be!"

At sight of him, Ortrud utters a cry of terror, Elsa, drawn for

a moment out of her stupor, a cry of joy. She catches the brother

in her arms--But looking up, after the first transport of gladness,

and seeing the place empty where her husband had stood, his boat gone

from sight, forgetting all else, she sends after him a despairing

cry, "My husband! My husband!"

In the distance, at a bend of the river, the boat reappears for

a moment, drawn now by the dove of the Grail. The Silver Knight

is seen standing in it, leaning on his shield, his head mournfully

bowed. Sounds of sorrow break from all lips. The sight pierces

like a sword through the heart of the forsaken bride. She sinks

to the ground _entseelt_--exanimate.

Such figures as play their part in this story, the Silver Knight,

with his swan and faery skiff, the fair falsely-accused damsel, the

wicked sorceress, could hardly be painted in flagrant life-colours.

The music of Lohengrin brings to mind pictures one seems to remember

on vellum margins of old books of legend, where against a golden

background shine forth vivid yet delicate shapes, in tints brilliant

yet soft as distance, the green of April, the rose of day-break,

the blue of remote horizons.

There is an older story on these same lines, the story of Cupid

and Psyche, an allegory, we are told, of Love and the Soul. And an

allegory is meant to teach somewhat. And what does this teach--but

that one must be great? Not enough to be innocent, kind, loving,

pure as snow, like Elsa, a being golden and lovely through and

through, such as could lure down a sort of angel from his heaven.

Beside it all, great one must be. Life, the Sphinx, requires upon

occasion that one be great. Just a little greatness, so to speak,

and Elsa would first of all have recognised the obligation to keep

her word; would further have trusted what must have been her own

profound instinct about the man she loved, rather than the suggestions

of others troubling her shallow mind-surface. Had she been great,

we may almost affirm, she would have known that he was great; she

would have trusted truth and greatness though they came to her

unlabelled.

But Life, the Sphinx, proposed to her a riddle, and because she

was no more than a poor, sweet, limited woman she could not solve

it, and Life ground her in its teeth and swallowed her up.