Tr. What didst thou vow, oh woman?
Is. Vengeance for Morold.
Tr. Is that what is troubling you?
Once, and once only, does the victim turn to retort upon her with her own weapon of irony. The attempt is disastrous. At once changing her tone she assumes the air of an injured woman. Tristan has taken her lover from her, and does he now dare to mock her? As her thoughts wander back to past days of happiness she continues in strains of surpassing tenderness, mingled with hints of warlike music in the trumpets:
Is. Betrothed he was to me, the proud Irish hero;
his arms I had hallowed; for me he went to battle.
When he fell, my honour fell. In the heaviness of my
heart I swore that if no man would avenge the murder,
I, a maiden, would take it upon me. Sick and weary
in my power, why did I not then smite thee?
She states the reason why she did not slay him when he was in her power in language so strange that I can only give a literal translation:
I nursed the wounded man that, when restored
to health, the man who won him from Isolde should
smite him in vengeance.
Such is the German; what it means I must confess myself unable to explain, and can only suspect some corruption in the text.
There is a solemn pause in the music; the love-motive is uttered by the bass clarinet. Nothing is left for the vanquished and humbled hero but to offer her what atonement he can. He hands her his sword, bidding her this time wield it surely and not let it fall from her hand. But she has not yet finished with him:
Is. How badly I should serve thy lord! What
would King Marke say if I were to slay his best
servant who has preserved for him crown and realm?
... Keep thy sword! I swung it once when vengeance
was rife in my bosom, while thy measuring
glance was stealing my image to know whether I
should be a fit bride for King Marke. I let the sword
fall. Now let us drink atonement.