r; they are
generalisations, not characters, and in them we see only ourselves
reflected on the stage--ourselves as we are under the spell of
Wagner's music and of his drama. For "Tristan" seems to me the most
wonderful of Wagner's dramas, far more wonderful than "Parsifal," far
more wonderful than "Tannhaeuser." There is no stroke in it that is not
inevitable, none that does not immensely and immediately tell; and,
despite its literary quality, one fancies it could not fail to make
some measure of its effect were it played without the music. Think of
the first act. The scene is the deck of the ship; the wind is fresh,
and charged with the bitterness of the salt sea; and Isolda sits
there consumed with burning anger and hate of the man she loves, whose
life she spared because she loved him, and who now rewards her by
carrying her off, almost as the spoil of war, to be the wife of his
king. It has been said that Tolstoi asserted for the first time in
"The Kreuzer Sonata" that hate and love were the same passion. But the
truth is, Wagner knew it long before Tolstoi, just as Shakespeare knew
it long before Wagner; and the whole of this first act turns on it.
Isolda sends for Tristan and tells him he has wronged her, and begs
him to drink the cup of peace with her. Tristan sees precisely what
she means, and, loving her, drinks the proffered poison as an
atonement for the wrong he has done her, and for his treachery to
himself in winning her, for ambition's sake, as King Mark's bride
instead of taking her as his own. But the moment her hatred is
satisfied Isolda finds life intolerable without it, without love; her
love a second time betrays her; and she seizes the poison and drinks
also. Then comes the masterstroke. Done with this world, with nothing
but death before them, the two confess their long-pent love; in their
exalted state passion comes over them like a flood; in the first rush
of passion, honour, shame, friendship seem mere names of illusions,
and love is the only real thing in life; and finally, the death
draught being no death draught, but a slight infusion of cantharides,
the two passionately cling to each other, vaguely wondering what all
the noise is about, while the ship reaches land and all the people
shout and the trumpets blow. What is the stagecraft of Scribe compared
with this? how else could the avowal of love be brought about with
such instant and stupendous effect? Quite as amazing is the second
act.