Frederick and Lohengrin have hot words, and Telramund is supposed to be a hotheaded idiot and Lohengrin a spotless, handsome hero; and lo! with due regard for the respective ranges of their voices, they might sing each other’s music and no harm done.  When the chorus enters a very imposing piece of music is wrought, largely out of the Ortrud insinuating theme (f); but it is not dramatic music.  The ending with the resumption of the procession is one of Wagner’s noblest things.  It is not in the customary sense of the phrase an operatic finale, but a perfectly satisfying piece of music that prepares us for a pause during which we can take breath before the action of the drama is taken up again in the third Act.

IV

In that act we have the central idea of the opera—­the poetic and the musical idea—­clearly, definitely set forth—­the idea of Montsalvat, far away up the rippling river on which the white swan floated—­Montsalvat, the land of eternal dawn, where all things remained for ever young, and the flowers and the corn grew always and never faded nor fell to the sickle.  It is the land Mignon aspired to—­“Oh let me for ever then remain young”—­the impossible dream of poets and millions of men and women who were not poets:  Nirvana, with a difference; that realm in which, tired with the struggles and fights in the devious ways of this dark world, they should after death awake refreshed in a serene light and pure air, thereafter to dwell for ever in a state of untroubled blessedness, where all earth’s puzzles solve themselves, and life is seen to be complete.  As Senta’s ballad is the germ of the Dutchman, so is Lohengrin’s narrative, “In fernem Land,” the germ of this more beautiful opera.  It plays a more important part in Lohengrin than does the ballad in the Dutchman.  Without exaggeration, the life, colour and emotion of the narrative wash backwards and forwards over the Lohengrin score, relieving scenes that might be tedious and worrying—­like those Ortrud scenes I have just described—­and making the beautiful pages still more beautiful.  The land of dawn, fresh and pure, the limpid river:  these, the essence of Lohengrin and the pervading atmosphere, proceed from the narrative.

But much has to be got through before this point is reached.  First, we have the gorgeous prelude—­the most brilliant Wagner wrote, and the last he was to write that has no thematic connection with any portion of the opera.  Here we have no summary of the act, no hint of impending disaster and tragedy, but simply a joyous, rattling preliminary to the procession that escorts Lohengrin and Elsa to the bridal chamber.  It starts off with immense spirit, the music leaping straight up, hesitating a moment on a cross-accent, then a noisy shake reaching its highest note, and after a clash of the cymbals sliding off into the more regular rhythm, broken slightly by occasional