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Elsa on pilgrimage. All well in Brabant.
Lohengrin knows not how Gottfried retained the ability to communicate with swans, but the yearly missives he receives by swan make the fact clear.
‘My thanks,’ he addresses the swan. ‘Please convey to Gottfried my regards.’
Annually, on the day a dove approaches from Heaven, Lohengrin goes to the river where Gottfried appeared as a swan on the tide and reflects upon how he would have acted differently if given a second chance. His conversations in Brabant resound in his mind, tinted with gentleness, sadness, sternness and other emotions peculiar to a person looking back upon his life.
People say that falsehood finds in Lohengrin’s life no part, but he knows all too well that he adhered to the letter, but not the spirit of the Grail’s intentions when he wedded Elsa the day following his arrival in Brabant. The maiden whose champion he would be appointed had been chosen by the Grail to be his wife, but not immediately: a Grail Knight should not hold a stake in secular lands and worldly divisions. However, he had been impatient for matrimony with Elsa a year or more early and inferred that it would suffice not to be enfeoffed with the land and crown of Brabant, but merely be called its Protector; he trusted King Heinrich the Fowler’s and Elsa’s virtue. He had even been willing to serve the Grail from Brabant longer should Elsa wish to remain there after Gottfried’s return. Had he bid until Elsa no longer ruled Brabant in place of Gottfried and could dwell in Munsalvæsche to marry her, he would have been able to reveal his name and origin to her upon marriage.
When he confessed his mistakes to Parzival and Amfortas, Parzival asked if he blamed Ortrud or Elsa. He answered that he held no grudge and pitied the death of Friedrich von Telramund, a peace-loving man of virtue before he had been ensnared by a heathen scion of Radbod’s line. Amfortas nodded at his response and smiled faintly, whereupon Lohengrin comprehended that the question was actually Amfortas’, who had not spoken it lest the connection to Kundry and Klingsor be too evident.
Lohengrin and the swan are startled by a horn call. Turning towards the sound, Lohengrin perceives a lightly-armoured lad holding a small silver horn and a maiden, both around twenty years old and on horseback. Observing Lohengrin’s frown at perturbing the swan, both dismount.
‘Our apologies for disturbing the tranquil peace of this holy forest, good Sir. If we have unwittingly caused offence, we would gladly make reasonable reparation.’ The lad begs a pardon that would make Gurnemanz proud, were he still alive.
‘You are from the Scheldt?’ Lohengrin enquires, recognising the lad’s accent. ‘What brought you to this inaccessible domain?’
‘Our mother dreamt that she was summoned here, and that we would find our vocation here,’ the maiden replies. ‘Before we were born, she experienced a dream that freed her from shame and need, but she was not able to express her gratitude appropriately. She hopes to be able to make amends at the destination of this new dream.’
A pious lady, Lohengrin thinks. ‘And your father?’ he questions.
The siblings’ expression falls. ‘He was called to a faraway land inaccessible to our steps before we were born.’
A euphemism for death. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Lohengrin offers his condolences.
The maiden shakes her head to indicate that she is unfazed by the question before resuming her narration. ‘I spotted a dove, which we pursued as we had noticed and the village folk had confirmed that there were no doves in this area. Mother told us to ride ahead first—I think she likes to be alone at times, to reminisce about our father.’
Aye, there is but one dove in this area a year, one that likely shuns the eye of the uninitiated. Could the twain’s calling be…?
‘I attempted to call to the dove with the horn, but perhaps a pipe would have worked better, and have spared our dear swan the fright,’ the lad finishes sheepishly, stroking the swan endearingly. ‘Our uncle taught me all he knew as his page, then squire, but he said that I still have to learn from another before I can become a knight worthy of our father.’
Were Lohengrin’s attention not absorbed by the lad’s last sentence, he would relate a Norse anecdote about woodbirds, pipes and horns. He can tell that the lad is highborn and likely as well trained as one could desire of a squire. For the lad’s uncle to declare that he still has to learn from another before he can become a knight worthy of his father… Could this lad unknowingly be he whom Lohengrin awaits, the appointed one who will make up for Lohengrin’s mistakes in Brabant?
‘May I have the pleasure of knowing your names?’ Lohengrin enquires.
‘It is we who, as guests, have been remiss in not introducing ourselves first,’ the lad responds. ‘My twin sister is named Sigune.’
Lohengrin smiles at the coincidence. Sigune is also the name of his aunt, a Grail Maiden.
‘And my brother is Heinrich,’ Sigune continues, ‘after the king, —'
‘—glorious and great, whose name shall never fade from this earth!’ Lohengrin begins, and to Sigune’s and his genial surprise both utter the same words in unison. Heinrich the Fowler passed away seventeen years ago, three years after Lohengrin was sent to Brabant. Even without Gottfried’s memorandums as confirmation, Lohengrin would have been certain that King Heinrich would ensure that Gottfried and Elsa were supported in ruling Brabant and well taken care of in his remaining years.
‘I am Lohengrin,’ he provides his name in exchange. Lohengrin watches the twins exchange glances, and is not surprised that the name of the unworthy hero of Brabant is still remembered in the Scheldt region.
‘It seems our dear swan deems no atonement necessary,’ Lohengrin observes as the swan leans its head into Heinrich’s hands. ‘You’re more fortunate than the Grail King,’ he jests. ‘Swans won’t approach him after a wrong he did them when he was yet an innocent fool, though an old friend’—Gottfried—‘divulged to him that these naughties’—he pats the swan—‘had long forgiven him; it just amuses them to pull the Grail King’s leg.’ The siblings laugh, and Lohengrin changes the subject: ‘But if you are willing, I would engage in a thought experiment with you—both of you—’—he emphasises—‘to know what you would deem reasonable reparation.’ The adjective amuses him—Heinrich must have been brought up by someone versed in the Round Table tradition. To these youths, the Round Table would be but history and legend. Even to Lohengrin, born before the Battle of Camlann but who grew up in its aftermath, the deeds of the Round Table era, recounted by Parzival and his fellow Knights, can sometimes feel … excessive. ‘Afterwards I would spar with you, Heinrich, to judge your skill.’ Lohengrin is also dressed in light armour for the dove’s approach.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ Sigune replies.
‘Mine too,’ Heinrich rejoins.
‘What deem you reasonable reparation—to all parties—for a misunderstanding resulting in a man delivering his beloved into the arms of another?’ Lohengrin begins with a scenario in which he deems God awarded appropriate and reasonable restitution.
‘Are you thinking of the same instance as I?’ Heinrich asks Sigune.
Sigune shrugs with an expression of ‘only God knows’. Turning serious, she answers, ‘I hope God lets all things come to those who wait.’
‘He already has,’ Heinrich responds. ‘I wonder if the pair are now together.’
Sigune nods, then adds mischievously, ‘Would a heathen god do the same?’
If it is not by coincidence, they have in mind the same prototype as Lohengrin. He looks forward to introducing the post-Camlann children to one of the most famous pre-Camlann couples at the feast-table after the gathering where the dove will fortify the Grail’s wondrous power: Tristan and his singing wife Isolde, the loveliest royal bride on earth; Isolde, who advised Lohengrin that the deceased King Marke of Cornwall had once told her those very words: ‘All things come to those who wait.’ Lohengrin disclosed to her that Amfortas’ last words had been to him—the very same sentence. ‘They were both great men,’ Isolde commented.
Over the years, the greatest sources of mental succour to Lohengrin regarding Brabant were not his parents Parzival and Condwiramurs or his brother Kardeiz, but Amfortas—who had since followed Kundry in chaste union to the land whither she preceded him—and Lohengrin’s closest friend Kurwenal. Perhaps it could be explained by words that Amfortas uttered with characteristic modesty: ‘I try to be like Gurnemanz to you’, and Kurwenal’s—who had been Tristan’s squire when Lohengrin first met him as a young child—experience in being a source of support to failures in love.
The question of succession to the Grail crown was opened by the events in Brabant. The Grail Knights shared the sentiment that apart from Lohengrin, none of them, nor their current squires or even pages, were destined for the Grail crown. Who was destined for the Grail crown thereafter? At one point Lohengrin even imagined it was Kurwenal, whose life was now perfect, although he had sacrificed his prime as a knight to accompany Tristan in Brittany—possibly with the exception of lacking a squire to whom to pass on his wealth of experience. Parzival laughed benevolently upon hearing Lohengrin’s speculation: ‘You call Kurwenal your closest friend? He would tell you that his life can be perfect only on the condition that he does not have to bear the Grail King’s responsibilities!’
Thoughts of Kurwenal bring Lohengrin back to the topic at hand: reasonable reparation. In their correspondence, Kurwenal had frequently criticised what he felt was unreasonable reparation of the Round Table era. (His paradigm case: an ordinary man being obliged to abide a stroke of an axe in return for one at a magical man who would not be harmed!) Kurwenal had trained to be a knight ere the Battle of Camlann, but he was destined both by fate and by character to be a knight of the post-Camlann era.
‘What is reasonable reparation for a person who has sinned and wishes to repent for the sake of those closest to him?’ Lohengrin poses.
Sigune throws a questioning look at Heinrich, who responds, ‘I can’t think of a paradigm case—I suppose neither can you?’ Seeing her nod, he answers Lohengrin, ‘Let him go on a pilgrimage, and let those at the end of the pilgrimage offer forgiveness and redemption. There is naught worse than being denied redemption.’
An astute observation. Lohengrin goes for his own jugular. ‘What deem you reasonable reparation from a husband to his wife from whom he was obliged to be separated against his will because she broke an unreasonable oath he asked of her?’
The twain stare at Lohengrin with complicated expressions. Finally, Sigune offers, ‘I hope he leaves her a keepsake. Or two.’
‘Or three,’ Heinrich adjoins.
Lohengrin left three tokens: his horn, sword and ring, but only the last was specifically for Elsa. ‘Or two’… I did not even leave Elsa a morning gift after our night together, Lohengrin rues.
‘You wished to spar with me,’ Heinrich remarks.
Lohengrin discerns that the twins are reluctant to answer further and accepts Heinrich’s sidetrack. The instant their swords clash, Lohengrin is aware that the Grail’s supernatural power also lies upon Heinrich, although he knows not whether Heinrich is cognisant of it.
‘You withstood my sword surprisingly well,’ Lohengrin assesses at the end of their bout. He had expected Heinrich to be unaccustomed to grappling with his uncommonly heavy sword.
‘My uncle’s sword is of similar weight, but you wield yours better than he does his,’ Heinrich elucidates.
‘You are not particularly suited to squire me given our different combat styles, but I know just the knight for you to squire,’ Lohengrin proposes. ‘He would love you.’ That knight’s life would now be truly perfect. ‘I would also like to present you to the knight that he squired, who would be happy to answer a question you had.’
The whinny of another horse sounds from a distance.
‘It is an honour to meet our father’s companions,’ Heinrich affirms.
Which knights passed away approximately twenty years ago? Lohengrin attempts to remember.
His recollection is interrupted by the approaching carriage. Gazing towards it, he first recognises a familiar ring on a slender hand, and then—
‘Elsa!’
