Part 1 of the scene is exactly that portion so beautifully recorded on a single 78-rpm side by Slezak and Förster-Lauterer. Its layout obeys the sense of introductory protocol they convey so well. But that does not preclude true feeling, as the warm, tranquil setting and politely passionate vocal line indicate. Now that that the couple are alone together, is she happy? Of course she is. Her heart glows. She, and then both, inhale the wonder that only God can bestow. A new movement in the music (poco più animato) announces Part 2. Lohengrin describes his foreknowledge of their love: though he came on his chivalric mission, it was that love that truly guided him, and he read her guiltlessness in her eyes. She answers by telling him of her vision—she, too, had this foreknowledge, and understood that since God had sent him, her only wish could be to melt before his gaze, to wind round his path like a brook, or like a fragrant flower to bow in delight before his step. To this point, the music has moved without pause, in eager response, though with hints of restlessness. But now there’s a key change and, in effect, a brief pause. There had already been a ritardando at Elsa’s words “bow before thy step,” as if these accumulated gestures of submission were losing some of their appeal. And now, slowly, over held chords, with accent on the ascending line and special emphasis on the word “love,” she asks “Ist dies nur Liebe?”—”Is this only love?”, the “nur” standing in for the thought “Can love alone be accounting for all this? Or might there be something else?” For she doesn’t know, really, what “love” means, this word that is inexpressible, like (after a short hesitation) “thy name” (now a longer pause over an equivocal woodwind chord), “which I may never know, and by which I cannot call my highest of all?” Lohengrin utters the first in his series of single-word attempted restraints: “Elsa!” But she hops on it, pressing on: how sweetly her name escapes his mouth! Does he begrudge her the same pleasure? Perhaps . . . just when they’re alone together?  . . .  “My sweet wife!” . . . When no one’s awake, and none can overhear? The music here has a snuggling-in, pillow-talk tone, and according to the directions in score and libretto, Elsa and Lohengrin have been physically close from the start. Now he embraces her and opens the chamber’s casement window.

Part 3 (“Athmest du nicht?, etc).. Now, Lohengrin is not privy to all that passed between Elsa and Ortrud the previous night. He is unaware that the fragrant nighttime breezes (the same ones Elsa had then happily apostrophized, before it all turned bad), and references to the “riddle-filled” (“Rätselvoller“) night might evoke something other than the calm reassurance he is hoping to re-establish. Nor does he grasp that reminding his wife that some kind of magic has brought him to her, or that the argument, however lovingly expressed, that she should not question his coming any more than he questions these lovely zephyrs, may not be entirely persuasive. Elsa (“concealing her confusion by clinging devotedly to Lohengrin,” reads the score direction) tries a different tactic. If only she could prove her worth to him! If only she could perform some deed for him, equal to his for her! And is this mystery so fashioned that he must seal his lips to all the world? Does some calamity await, should it be revealed? If so, she would rise to the challenge and follow him to the death! “Beloved!”, he manages. She piles it on: she’ll feel forever unworthy if he can’t trust her with his secret! (“Be silent, Elsa!”) He must disclose his noble worth and whence he’s come! That will prove the strength of her silence!