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Updated: May 4, 2025
Isolde, the daughter of the King of Ireland, is sought in marriage by Marke, the King of Cornwall, and Tristan, his nephew, has been sent to bring the princess to England. Before the beginning of the drama Tristan had slain Morold, Isolde's lover, and sent his head to Ireland in place of the tribute due from Cornwall.
Inexpressibly pathetic is the turn which she gives to the words of the song as she repeats the phrase of Brangaene: Is. the last sentence being to the refrain of the song. Brangaene cries out in astonishment at her own blindness. When Morold lived, who would have dared to offer us such an insult?... Woe, woe to me! Unwitting I brought all this shame on myself.
It is useless to describe the scene in any detail: the words are simple and seemingly direct; the marvellous music alone reveals their fateful, fearful significance. Isolda asks Tristan to sink the ancient quarrel between them caused by the slaying of Morold and drink a cup together; he knows perfectly well a large part of her meaning that she means to poison him.
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.
He bitterly avoids understanding her meaning; Brangaena becomes more urgent; Kurvenal, Tristan's servant, a faithful watch-dog, asks to be allowed to reply; Tristan says he can. Kurvenal bellows out a song praising Tristan as the heroic slayer of Isolda's betrothed, Morold.
He is now overwhelmed with honours, and dubbed a knight, but is soon obliged to return to Parmenia to fight the old enemy Morgan. He is victorious and after some time returns to Cornwall, where he finds that the country has been subjugated by the King of Ireland, Gurmun the Proud, who has sent his brother-in-law, Morold, to collect tribute thirty fair youths from the Cornishmen.
There he stood noble and strong; but I swore not what he swore; I had learned to be silent. When he lay sick in the silent room speechless I stood before him with the sword. My lips were silent, my hand I restrained, but the vow passed by my hand and my lips, I silently swore to keep. Now I will perform my oath. Tr. What didst thou vow, oh woman? Is. Vengeance for Morold. Tr.
Ever since the day when Melot, the infamous, dealt you the wound, you lay like one dead. The evil wound, how to heal it? Then I, thick-witted fellow, reflected that the one who closed the wound made by Morold could find easy remedy to the injury from Melot's sword. Not long was I deciding upon the best physician! I have sent to Cornwall, a trusty fellow.
Cooling breezes waft him again toward Ireland, whose princess healed the wound struck by Morold, then ripped it up again with the avenging sword with its telltale nick. From her hands he took the drink whose poison sears his heart. Accursed the cup and accursed the hand that brewed it! Will the shepherd never change his doleful strain? Ah, Isolde, how beautiful you are! The ship, the ship!
When he lay languishing in the hushed chamber, and I stood silent before him with the sword, though my mouth no made sound, though my hand refrained, yet the thing which I had sworn with hand and mouth I silently renewed my oath to perform. I now intend to keep it." "What did you swear, lady?" Tristan asks simply, without effect of defiance. "Vengeance for Morold!" she hurls at him.
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