Here we have got many leagues away from Lohengrin, with its scene between a man and a jealous, ungenerous, querulous woman, and TANNHAeUSER, with its contest between an impossible platonic affection and piggish lust.  There is not a touch of staginess about Isolda; she was not born in the green-room.  In her we have two elemental passions in conflict—­her love for a man, and her hatred for the same man after he has shown manly gratitude by preparing her a lot that is loathsome to her.  The character of Tristan is not so transparent or simple.  He had loved Isolda—­so much is certain; but whether he gave her up to curry favour with the King (he himself says as much afterwards), whether he dares not ask for her for himself, whether he does not know that Isolda loves him—­about all this we know nothing.

What we do know is that standing there on the deck of the ship are two very tragic figures.  They have drunk poison; they are consumed with passion one for the other; death is close at hand, and there is nothing to prevent them confessing their love and dying in each other’s arms.  If Wagner meant us to accept the love elixir as the genuine spring of the immediate drama, he might have saved himself the trouble.  It is the imminent presence of death that brings their love to light, as it is their love that takes them to death.  They gaze upon one another, and rush into each other’s arms.  Brangaena, turning round, is horrified to see what her officiousness has accomplished.  The music rolls on in a torrent of almost unendurable sweetness; the ship reaches land, and the curtain drops as Tristan and Isolda, oblivious of all but themselves and their passion, stagger in one another’s arms, and the trumpets sound without as the King approaches to claim his bride.

I hope I have succeeded in setting forth clearly the forces at work and the nature of the two people on whom they are working.  Writers have indulged in grotesque pages of explanation and speculation, from which they might have been saved by a careful reading of the libretto, supplemented by a slight acquaintance with the music.  The subject might easily have become intricate—­in fact, hopelessly involved and entangled—­but Wagner’s consummate dramatic art, stage-craft, and knowledge of stage effect have combined to make all as clear as the day.  The end of each act sees the lovers in a situation which is at heart the same, though in externals different.  Rapt in each other, they care nothing about the sailors, attendants, approaching crowds, and the rest, at the end of the first act; at the end of the second they scarcely understand Mark’s passionate affection—­they only know it is an enemy of their love; and, finally, they are glad when death frees them from life, which means an incessant trouble and interruption to them.  The tragedy deepens and grows more intense with each successive scene; each separates them more widely from life and all that life means, until in the last act the divorce is complete.  This is the purpose of the drama; this is the drama, and those who do not like it must turn to another opera.