he asks; and now, declared lovers, they may only meet in the dark:  during the day they must be distant strangers.  They know whither fate is driving them:  Isolda has said as much to Brangaena:  “she may end it ... whatsoe’er she make me, wheresoe’er take me, hers am I wholly, so let me obey her solely.”  They are embodiments of sheer passion; love is the most selfish of passions, and placed as they are, realising that they live only for and in that passion, they have no thought for any one else, regarding the outer world, the world of daylight, as their foe.  Isolda does not hesitate to remind Tristan of his perfidy in the days of light; and he, far from defending himself, finds it quite sufficient to remark that he had not then come under the sway of night:  that is, they have no ordinary human affection for each other.  If they had, neither would lead the other into such danger.  Shakespeare did not, could not, make his lovers live so entirely in their passion as this:  he had no music to express himself by, and had to speak through human beings.  So when Romeo says, “let me stay and die,” Juliet instantly hurries him away.  Tristan and Isolda know they are wending to death, and are content.

Their feelings subside into soft languor, and then they sing the sublime hymn to night.  Brangaena’s voice is heard from the watch-tower, warning them of approaching danger; and they heed her not.  Again she sings to them that the danger is imminent—­night is departing; Tristan, resting his head on the bosom of his mistress, simply says, “Let me die thus.”  The catastrophe is at hand.  The duet reaches its glorious climax; Brangaena gives a shriek from her tower; Kurvenal rushes in yelling “Save yourselves,” but it is too late—­Mark, Melot and the other huntsmen come in quickly, and—­the game is up.  The red dawn slowly breaks; Tristan hides Isolda with his cloak; Melot turns to Mark and says, “Did I not tell you so?”—­his ruse has succeeded quite well enough.  And now follows a scene which has proved a stumbling-stock to many.

The ordinary dramatist or play-monger would drop the curtain on this denouement; and undeniably it would be what is called an effective “curtain.”  However, effective curtains were not Wagner’s business in planning Tristan; he had long since passed through that stage.  He could not after such a curtain—­the sort of curtain that ends many an opera—­have carried out the plan of Tristan—­to show us the lovers realising their impossible situation in life and deliberately seeking death as the refuge.  Tristan and Isolda care nothing for shame and disgrace:  they care only for their love, and their love relentlessly drives them into their grave.  Mark has a great affection for them both, and precisely on that account he is their enemy.  He begins a long expostulation:  “How is it that the two people dearer to him than all the world have so betrayed his trust?” It is lengthy, and must needs be so; each proof he