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Updated: July 8, 2025
She comes to the point at once. "Do you not know my wish, when the dread of fulfilling it has kept you afar from my glance?" He evades her, as he had before evaded Brangaene. "Reverence laid its compulsion upon me!" "Small reverence have you shown me. With overt scorn you have refused obedience to my command." "Obedience alone restrained me."
"Oh, let the torch of warning stand!" Brangaene struggles with her still, "Let it stand to illumine your danger!" And she wrings her hands anew, lamenting over this which is the work of those unfaithful hands, in a single instance disobedient to the mistress's will. "Your work?" Isolde smiles, with that mortal lightness which is upon her to-night; "Oh, foolish girl!
She commands Brangaene to go to Tristan and deliver a message; she is to remind him that he has not yet attended upon her as his duty requires. Br. Shall I request him to wait upon you?
A shriek is heard from Brangaene. Kurwenal rushes in with drawn sword, crying: "Save yourself, Tristan!" Hard upon his heels come Mark, Melot, and a flock of courtiers in hunting-attire. They stop in consternation before the lovers, who have seen nothing, heard nothing, and stand quietly lost in each other's embrace. It is only when Brangaene seizes her that Isolde becomes aware of the spectators.
"If she be weary of the long voyage, that is nigh ended. Before sunset we shall touch land. Whatsoever orders my lady have for me shall be faithfully carried out." Brangaene repeats the order: "Let Sir Tristan then go to her, such is our lady's will." "Yonder where the green meadows are still coloured blue to the eye, my king awaits my lady.
Brangaene hurriedly withdraws to the pavilion; he sings an insulting song after her in derision of Morold and his expedition for tribute: "His head now hangs in Ireland, As tribute sent from England!" As she closes the curtains the sailors are heard outside singing the refrain of his song, which is a masterpiece of popular music.
Kurwenal points overboard. Tristan stares landward, not comprehending. The men shout and wave their caps. "Hail, King Mark!" "What is it?" Isolde inquires, reached in her trance by the clamour; "Brangaene, what cry is that?" "Isolde, mistress," the distraught Brangaene implores, "self-control for this one day!" "Where am I?" the bewildered lady asks helplessly.
"Are you inquiring, my dear lady," Brangaene asks in wonder, "of Tristan, the marvel of all nations, the man of exalted renown, the hero without equal, honour's treasure and vaunt?" Isolde catches up her tone, to continue in scornful mimicry: "Who terrified at his own achievement flies to refuge wherever he can, having won for his master a corpse to bride?... Is my saying dark to you?
She turns to Brangaene, and with a look of the utmost scorn, indicating Tristan, she asks: What thinkst thou of the slave? ... Him there who shirks my gaze, and looks on the ground in shame and fear? Isolde here strikes the tone which she maintains throughout the act until all is changed by the philtre.
The words penetrate through Isolde's absorption; she starts up in sudden fury, crying: "Who dares to mock me?" and looks wildly around, as if she had been so engrossed in other scenes that she did not, on returning to the light of day, know for a moment where she was. Then she recognises Brangaene, and remembers, and inquires where they are.
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