III

The interior of Sachs's workshop. The poet sits in an ample armchair,

near the window, bathed in the morning sunshine, absorbed in a

great book. The magnanimity of his mood, the beautiful deep calm

following upon certain resolutions and sacrifices, the gently exalted

melancholy of his meditations--half remembrance, and dreamy as if

violet shades of evening softened them,--the composer has given

us to apprehend all in the introduction to the third act.

So rapt is Sachs in the perusal of his great volume, or, as may

be suspected, in images which float between the page and his eyes,

that he does not see David enter carrying a basket of Lene's bestowal

filled with flowers and ribbons for the adornment of his person on

this festival day, as well as with cake and sausage. The apprentice,

when Sachs does not speak, or, spoken to, answer, or make sign when

he informs him that Beckmesser's shoes have been duly delivered,

believes him to be angry, and goes into a long apology for his

misconduct on the night before, brightening finally with the relation

of his making-up this morning with Lene, who has satisfactorily

explained all. Sachs reads on, as little disturbed as by the buzzing

of a fly on the pane. Only when he has finished, and closed his

book,--the unexpected clap of the covers so startles David that he

stumbles to his knees--Sachs looks around him, as if coming back

from a dream. His eye is caught by the bright flowers and ribbons

brought in by David. Their effect of young gayety touches some chord

in him more than usually sensitive at this moment. "Flowers and

ribbons I see over there," he muses audibly; "Sweet and youthful

they look! How come they in my house?" David is relieved to find him

in this gentle mood, yet puzzled at the remoteness and abstraction

from which the master is but slowly drawn. He has occasion for a

moment to wonder even whether the master have perchance become

hard of hearing....

Fully returned at length to a sense of the common surrounding world,

Sachs asks David for his day's lesson, and the apprentice briskly

sings his verse, first comically confusing the tune with that of

Beckmesser's serenade, still buzzing in his head, then, at Sachs's

gesture of astonishment, righting himself and acquitting himself of

his task without slip. The verse is a playful bit, between psalm

and street-song. It relates that when Saint John was baptising

on the banks of Jordan there came to him a lady from Nuremberg

bringing her little son for baptism. When she got home, however, to

German land, it proved that vainly had one on the banks of Jordan

been given the name of Johannes, on the banks of the Pegnitz he

became Hans! The pronouncing of the name brings to David's mind

the remembrance suddenly that it is his master's name, that the

day is therefore his name's-day. In an impulse of affectionate

devotion he presses on him all the gay articles just received from

Lene, the flowers and ribbons, the magnificent cake, and, but shyly,

as if it were not quite worthy of a poet, the sausage. With great

gentleness, Sachs thanks the lad and bids him keep the things for

himself, adding a request that he make himself fine with those

same flowers and ribbons to accompany him presently to the meadow

outside the city gates where the song-contest is to be held. His

stately herald he shall be. Sachs's friendliness encourages the

boy to venture a small liberty. "May I not rather go as your

groom's-man? Master, dear master, you must marry again!"--"You

would be glad of a mistress in the house?" asks Sachs dreamily.--"It

would make, in my opinion, a much more imposing household!" There

is popular talk and expectation of it, as an outcome of the coming

song-contest, David intimates; "You will hardly have much trouble,

as I think, in singing Beckmesser out of the field; I hardly believe

he will make himself very conspicuous to-day!"--"I hardly believe so,

either," Sachs smiles: "But go now, and be careful not to disturb

his lordship. Come back when you have made yourself fine."

Left alone, Sachs sinks into thought again, sitting there with

his book on his knees and his head propped on his hand. We are

allowed to follow his reflections, those of a philosopher,--but not

one standing apart and watching a little scornfully the vagaries

of men; a very human being, taking part in them, without losing a

humourous sense of their character. "Illusion! Illusion! Everywhere

illusion! Whichever way I bend my inquiry, searching the chronicles

of the city and those of the world, to discover the reason why

people, in vain and frantic rage, torment and oppress themselves

and one another to the point of bloodshed! No one has any good

of it, or receives any thanks for it. Through its working, the

defeated and put to flight fancies himself chasing the foe. He

is deaf to his own cry of pain. When he twists the knife in his

own flesh, he has an idea that he is doing himself a pleasure! Who

shall find a name for it? One name, forsooth, befits it: Ancient

Illusion it is, without which nothing happens, nothing either goes or

stands still. If it halts in its career, it merely while slumbering

gathers new force; it presently wakes up, and then see who can

master it!..." He smiles whimsically, nodding to himself, at the

contemplation of the instance of all this uppermost in his mind,

the events of the evening before. "How peaceful, in its adherence

to good customs, approved in conduct and deed, lies in the heart

of Germany my beloved Nuremberg! But late upon a night, a man there

is found totally void of counsel how to prevent a catastrophe,

resulting from youth and hot blood. A shoe-maker in his shop tugs

gently at the threads of illusion: how promptly up and down the

lanes and streets the thing begins to rage; men, women, boys and

children, fall upon one another like mad and blind; and the

crack-brained spirit is not to be laid until a shower fall of blows--a

shower of blows, kicks and cudgel-thwacks, to smother the angry

conflagration. God knows how it all came about?" He smiles again,

reflectively, over the recollection of the lovely quiet evening

it was, the terrific discordant pother that arose,--the lovely

and hushed night that presently resumed her reign. The incident

looks fantastic now. "An imp must have had a hand in it!" is the

poet's fanciful induction; "A glow-worm could not find his mate,

it was he responsible for all the damage done! It was the fault of

the elder-tree--of Saint John's night! ... But now--" he broadly

dismisses the fancies and aberrations of the warm mid-summer night,

and turns his face toward the clear-defined duty of the day: "But

now it is Saint John's Day! And now let us see how Hans Sachs shall

contrive deftly to guide Illusion to the working out of a noble

purpose. For if the spirit will not let us rest even here in Nuremberg,

let it be for such works as seldom succeed by vulgar means, and

succeed never without some grain of illusion in the perpetrator

himself!"

Walther appears at the door of an inner chamber. Sachs rises to

meet and greet his guest. They had a good talk the night before,

after the wise shoester's act of well-meant violence. Walther was

grateful, no doubt, upon calmer reflection, to have been saved

from the ruinous folly he had projected. The two men are obviously

fast friends. There is in Sachs's attitude a touching deference

toward the younger man, the heart-wholly acknowledged superior

in talent. It is a pleasant spectacle, the grey meistersinger's

eager glorying in the golden youth's simple, abundant, God-bestowed

gift. The motif of his address to Walther has a touch of charming

courtliness. "God keep your lordship! Did you find rest? You were

up late--you did, however, finally sleep?"--"A little," Walther

answers, "but soundly and well." There is something hushed and

fixed in Walther's aspect, as if he listened to voices no one else

could hear, gazed upon some vision invisible to others. He is still

under the spell of a recent marvellous impression. "I have had--"

he tells Sachs, when the latter genially asks is he feeling, after

his good sleep, in good form and of good courage, "I have had a

wonderfully beautiful dream...."--"A good omen, that! Tell me your

dream!"--"I hardly dare to touch it with my thought, so do I fear

to see it fade away."--"My friend," the older poet with fine amenity

takes up the part of teacher, and his observations have a ripe,

sunny, elevated wisdom, for which one should store them carefully

as one does good fruit, "that exactly is the task of a poet, to

mark dreams and interpret them. Believe me, of all the illusions

of man the most nearly approaching truth are those he comes into

cognisance of through dreams. The whole art of poetry is but the

interpretation of true-dreaming. What if this dream now should

contain a hint how you may to-day be made a master?"--"No, no,"

Walther rejects the idea with distaste; "In the presence of the

guild and its masters, scant inspiration would animate my

dream-picture!"--"But yet, suppose your dream contained the magic

spell by which you might win over the guild?" Walther shakes his

head: "How do you cling to an illusion, if after such a rupture as

you witnessed you still cherish such a hope!"--"Nay, my hope stands

undiminished, nor has anything so far occurred to overthrow it; if

that were not so, believe me, instead of preventing your flight, I

would myself have taken flight with you! Pray you, therefore, let

your resentment die! You are dealing with honourable men. They make

mistakes and are fairly settled in the comfortable determination

to be taken in their own way. Those who offer prizes desire after

all that one shall please them. Your song scared them, and with

reason, for, upon reflection, the like flaming poetry and passion

are adapted for the luring of daughters into mad adventures, but

the sentiment leading to the blessed married state finds words and

notes of a different sort!" Walther grins: "I know the sort--from

hearing them last night; there was a good deal of noise out in the

street." Sachs laughs too; "Yes! yes!... You heard likewise how

I beat time. But let be all that, and follow my advice, good and

short: summon up your energies for a master-song!"--"A beautiful

song, and a master-song, how am I to seize the distinction between

them?" asks the singer of the beautiful song which had been despised.

"My friend," Sachs explains, with a warmth as of tears and blood,

"in the beautiful days of youth, when the bosom expands high and

wide with the mighty transports of happy first love, many are they

who can achieve a beautiful song: the Spring-time it is which sings

for them! But let summer come, autumn and winter, the sorrows and

cares of life,--no dearth of wedded joys along-side!--christenings,

business, discord and difficulties, those who still after all that

can compass the singing of a beautiful song, those, mark me, are

entitled masters!" Aye, first, as a modern poet has said, warm

natural drops of blood; later, the alchemist's laborious spheres of

chemic gold. In youth, all-sufficient inspiration,--later, labour

and rule, with meritorious concentration substituting for impetus

and fire the beauty of careful form, and making durable in this

the evanescent dreams of youth. "Learn the master-rules in good

season," Sachs adds, "that they may be faithful guides to you,

helping you to preserve safely that which in the gracious years

of youth spring-time and love with exquisite throes bred in your

unconscious heart, that you may store and treasure it, and it may

not be lost!"--"But who--" Walther asks, inclined to cavil where

anything is concerned which relates to the master-singers, "Who

created these rules which stand in such high honour?"--"They were

sorely-needy masters," Sachs in his moved tones continues the charming

lesson, "spirits heavily weighted with the weariness of life; in

the wilderness of their distresses they created for themselves

an image, that they might retain vivid and lasting the memory of

young love, bearing the sign and stamp still, and breathing the

fragrance, of Spring!"--"But," Walther objects, suspicious of that

whole tribe of snuffy masters, for whom Sachs has the same charity

of a broad understanding which he has shown in Walter's own case,

"however can he for whom Spring is long past fix the essence of it

in an image?"--"He recreates it as well as he can," Sachs sums with

sudden curtness, recognising perhaps the futility of his attempt

against this so lively dislike; and passes on to the point more

important at this moment, to his thinking. "I beg you, therefore,

sorely-needy man that I am, if I am to teach you the rules, that

you should renew in me the sense of that which originally gave them

rise. See, here are ink, pen, and paper. I will be your scribe,

do you dictate."--"Hardly should I know how to begin."--"Relate

to me your morning dream."--"Nay, as a result of your teaching

of rules, I feel as if it had faded quite away."--"The very point

where the poet's art comes into requisition! Recall your beautiful

dream of the morning, for the rest, let it be Hans Sachs's care!"

Walther takes a moment to collect himself. Sachs sits with quill

poised over paper. Then Walther relates his dream, meeting Sachs's

request for a master-song by casting it as he goes, with the light

ease of genius, into verse and melody,--his second astonishing

improvisation, joyous as the first, but not agitated--reflective,

as if he filled Sordello's account of himself: "_I' mi son un che

quando Amore spira, noto, e quel che detta dentro vo significando._"

I am one who when Love breathes, do note, and that which he dictates

within do go expressing. All things lovely seem to have congregated

in this dream of his; it is no wonder that the lingering impression

of it enveloped him with an atmosphere of Paradise, and that he

feared almost to breathe lest it be dispelled. Just the words he

has to use, without their relations, conjure up a flock of alluring

images: Morning-shine, roseate light, blossoms, perfume, air,

joy,--unimaginable joy, a garden! The idea that a poet's song is

as much a part of him as fruit is of the tree stands illustrated

by the fact that the song which falls on our ear as in its ensemble

so fresh, is yet composed in great part of the Walther-motifs with

which we have become familiar; his youth, his enthusiasm, his courage

and his love, all go into the making of his song. As he said in

answer to Kothner, what should be put into his song unless the

essence of all he had known and lived?

Glimmering beneath the rosy light of dawn, the air being laden

with the scent of flowers, a garden, he sings, full of never before

imagined attractions, had invited him to enter it....

"That was a stanza." Sachs states, as Walther pauses. "Take careful

heed now that the one following must be exactly like it."--"Why

exactly alike?" the free-born asks, ready to chafe at the shadow

of a restriction. Sachs, indulgent, makes play for this prodigious

child's sake of the to him so grave business of song-making: "That

one may see that you have selected a mate!"

In that blissful garden a magnificent tree had proffered to his

desire a sumptuous harvest of golden fruit.... Such is the matter

of the second stanza.

"You did not," Sachs critically considers, "close on the same tone.

Excruciating is that to the masters, but Hans Sachs learns from your

doing it that in Spring-time it must perforce be so! Proceed now

to the aftersong."--"What is that?" asks Walther. "Your success in

finding a well-suited couple will appear now from their off-spring!"

In the garden, by an exquisite miracle, he had found suddenly standing

at his side a woman, more sweetly and graciously beautiful than

any he had ever beheld. Like a bride she had entwined her arms

softly about him, and had guided him, with eyes and hand, toward

the fruit of his desire, the fair fruit of the tree of life....

Joyfully stirred as he is by the beauty of dream and song, Sachs

controls his emotion, to secure all he can from the young poet's

momentary docility. "There's what I call an aftersong!" he exclaims

cordially; "See, now, how rounded and fine is the whole first part.

With the melody you deal, to be sure, a bit freely. I do not say,

however, that it is a fault. But it makes the thing more difficult

to retain, and that incenses our old men. Let us have now a second

part, that we may gain a clear idea of the first. I do not even

know, so skilfully have you cast them into rhyme, what in your

song was invention and what was dream...."

With heavenly glow of sunset-light, day had departed, as he lay

there drinking joy from her eyes, desire the sole power in possession

of his heart. Night had closed down, baffling the eyesight, when,

through the branches, the rays of two bright stars had shed their

light upon his face. The sound of a spring upon the quiet height

had reached his ear, murmuring more musically than any spring heard

theretofore; stars had appeared in multitude, dancing among the

boughs overhead, until, instead of golden fruit, the laurel-tree

had swarmed with a host of stars....

"Friend!" cries Sachs, striving against the full betrayal of his

pleasure, lest it be an interrupting element, "your dream was an

effectual guide! The second part is successful as the first. If

now," he ventures, "you would compose a third, it might contain

the interpretation of your dream...." But Walther jumps up from his

chair, suddenly weary of the game. "Enough of words!" And Sachs, with

sympathetic understanding of the incalculable ways of poets, refrains

from pressing him. That overbubbling inspiration he believes can

be counted upon. "Reserve then word and deed for the proper place.

And I pray you hold fast in memory, this melody, a charming one it

is to fit with words. And, against the moment of singing it in a

more extended circle, hold fast likewise to your dream!"--"What have

you in mind?" Walther inquires. Sachs does not directly enlighten

him, but: "Your faithful servant has, very seasonably, arrived

with packs and porte-manteaux. The garments in which you intended

to make yourself brave for wedding-ceremonials at home, he has

brought here to the house. A little dove no doubt directed him to

the nest where his master slept. Come with me therefore to your

chamber. Fitting it is we both attire ourselves splendidly, when

a splendid deed is to be dared!" Walther without question places

his hand, as if it held his whole confidence, in Sachs's. They

pass together out of the workshop.

The stage remains for a moment empty. The air retains as if echoes,

or fragrances, of the personalities which have but just withdrawn; it

is sweetened with effluvia of Walther's youth, of Sachs's greatness

of heart. Suddenly, like a bar of bilious green across a shimmering

mother-o'-pearl fabric, harmonies of a very different sort catch

the attention, and Beckmesser's face is seen peering in at the

window. Finding the workshop empty, he limps in. He is in holiday

array, but there is little of holiday about him, save in his gaudily

beribboned clothes. A long comedy-scene follows, in which Beckmesser

says never a word, but his thoughts are heard and his actions are

eloquent. His body is one mass of aches and pains, his soul the

battleground of anger, shame, thirst for vengeance. The din of the

evening before fills his ears; he is chased, as if by furies, by

memories of the indignities put upon him. He is so sore he cannot

sit; when he goes his joints hurt rackingly. His restless moving

about the room while he waits for Sachs brings him to the master's

writing-table: his eye falls on the sheet of music on which Sachs

has taken down Walther's song; his attention is arrested; he reads

it off mentally with ever-increasing agitation. No mistake possible,

in his mind: Sachs, who had declared that he would not enter the

song-contest for Pogner's daughter, has outrageously lied, and

here is the proof of it, this song which he means to sing at the

tournament. "Now," bursts forth Beckmesser, "everything becomes

clear to me!" He jumps, hearing Sachs at the door, and stuffs the

paper into his pocket. Sachs, in his handsome best-coat, meets him

pleasantly. "You surely are not having any more trouble with the

shoes?" Beckmesser's wrath holds in but a moment before voiding

itself upon Sachs in accusation and threat. "Be sure, friend Sachs,

I know you now!... That I may not stand in your way, you go so

far even as to incite the mob to riot.... You have always been

my enemy.... Now hear, whether I see through you. The maiden whom

I have chosen, who was verily born for me, to the frustration of

all widowers there be,--of her you are in pursuit! In order that

Master Sachs might gain the goldsmith's rich inheritance it was

that at the council of masters he stood upon minor clauses. For

that reason, fool that I was! with bawling and hammering he tried to

drown my song,--that the child might not be made aware of another's

ability! Yes, yes! Have I hit the mark? And finally from his cobbler's

shop he egged after me boys with cudgels, that he might be rid of

me.... Ouch! Ouch! Green and blue was I beaten, made an object

of derision to the beloved woman, so drubbed and maltreated that

no tailor's flat-iron can smoothe me out! Upon my very life an

attempt was made! But I came out of it with sufficient spirit left

to reward you for the deed. Stand forth to-day and sing, do, and

see how you prosper. Beaten and bruised as I am, I shall certainly

manage to throw you out of time!" Sachs has unperturbedly let him

spend himself. "My good friend, you are labouring under a delusion.

You are free to attribute to me what actions you please... but I

have not the least thought of competing." "Lies and deceit!" roars

Beckmesser, "I know better!" Sachs quietly repeats his statement.

"What else I have in mind is no affair of yours. But concerning

the contest you are in error."--"Not in the contest? No

competition-song?"--"Certainly not." Beckmesser produces the piece

of music. "Is that your hand?"--"Yes," Sachs owns, amused; "Was

that it?"--"I suppose you call it a biblical lay?"--"Nay," laughs

Sachs, "any one guessing it to be such would hit wide enough of

the mark."--"Well, then?"--"What is it?"--"Do you ask me?"--"What

do you mean?"--"That you are, in all can dour, a rogue of the first

magnitude!" Sachs shrugs good-humouredly; "Maybe! I have never,

however, pocketed what I found upon another's table. That one may

not think evil of you, dear sir, keep the paper, I make you a gift

of it." Beckmesser leaps in the air with incredulous joy: "Lord

God! A poem of Sachs's!... But soft, that I may not be led into

fresh troubles. You have, no doubt," he insinuates, "committed the

thing perfectly to memory?"--"Have no uneasiness with regard to

that."--"You bestow the sheet on me then outright?"--"To prevent

you being a thief."--"And suppose I made use of it?"--"You may

do as you please."--"I may sing it, then?"--"If it is not too

difficult."--"And if I should please my audience?"--"I should be

greatly astonished!"--Beckmesser misses the sly shoester's intention.

"You are too modest altogether," he says; and goes on to explain in

what dire need he stands of a new composition, since the song sung

the night before as a serenade can have no chance, if sung again

to-day, of charming the Pognerin, for whom it must be associated,

thanks to the cobbler's merry jests, with every undignified

circumstance. And how can he, poor belaboured wretch, find the

necessary peace of mind to compose a new one? Yet, if he have not

a new song, he must give up the hope of marriage. But a song of

Sachs's would enable him to overcome every obstacle; if he may

have it, let all the disagreements which have kept them apart be

forgotten and buried. But,--he suddenly holds in, and puckers his

forehead,--if this were a trap? "Even so late as yesterday," he says

to Sachs, "you were my enemy. How is it that after all the troubles

between us you are to-day kindly disposed toward me?"--"I worked on

your shoes until late at night," Sachs disingenuously replies; "is

that the sort of consideration one shows an enemy?"--"True, true.

But now give me your word. Whenever and under whatever circumstances

you hear that song, you will never by any chance say that it is of

your composing."--"I give you my word and oath," Sachs assents, with

a spice of wicked glee, "that I will never boast of that song being

mine."--Beckmesser's spirits rise to heights of mad exhilaration.

"What more do I want? I am saved! Beckmesser need trouble no

further!"--"Friend," Sachs warns him, "in all kindness I advise

you, study that song carefully. It is of no easy execution."--"Friend

Sachs," Beckmesser waives the warning, "you are a good poet, but

in all that relates to tones and tunes there is no one goes ahead

of me. But now, quickly home, to learn the thing by heart. Hans

Sachs, my dear fellow, I have misunderstood you. My judgment was

thrown off the track by that adventurer. Just such a one was needed!

But we masters made short work of him! Good-bye! I must be off!

Elsewhere will I show my gratitude for your sweet friendliness. I

will vote for you hereafter, I will buy your works. I will make

you Marker!" Effusively he embraces him: "Marker, Marker, Marker

Hans Sachs!"

Hans Sachs looks after the departing figure with a meditative smile.

"So entirely ill-natured have I never yet found any one. He cannot

fail to come to grief of some sort. Many there be who squander

their wits, but they reserve enough to keep house with. The hour

of weakness comes for each one of us, when he turns fool and is

open to parley." So entirely ill-natured Beckmesser has been found

that Sachs feels no compunction at letting him run into the pitfall

gaping ahead. He is willing to win an advantage by a deception,

let him follow his head, why should honest Sachs be tender of him?

The joke is not severe beyond his deserts. He has candidly rejoiced

that short work was made of that adventurer, Von Stolzing; why

should he not be permitted to encounter the same sort of treatment?

Why indeed should not his dishonesty be turned to use? "That Master

Beckmesser here turned thief," reflects Sachs, "falls in excellently

with my plan."

Eva appears in the doorway, Eva dazzling in her white wedding-dress.

"I was wondering," says Sachs to himself at sight of her, "where

she could be!" For, as Walther was known to be in the house, it

was thought she must before long find some pretext to stand beneath

the same roof. She wears a little languid air; last evening was a

sore trial to young nerves. A tinge of accusing plaintiveness is in

her voice. She is markedly abstracted; her thoughts are wandering,

of course, all about the house in search of _him_. She has her

pretext ready, and meets Sachs's warm compliment upon her appearance

with a reproachful: "Ah, master! So long as the tailor has done

his work successfully, who ever will divine where I suffer

inconvenience, where secretly my shoe pinches me?"--"The wicked

shoe!" Sachs is for a moment really deceived; "It was your humour

yesterday not to try it on."--"You see? I had too much confidence.

I was mistaken in the master."--"I am sorry, indeed I am!" He is

on his knee at once: "Let me look at it, my child, that I may help

you, right off, quick!"--"As soon as I stand on it, it obliges

me to go; and as soon as I go, it obliges me to stand."--"Place

your foot here on the stool, I will remedy the evil at once. Now,

what is wrong with it?"--"You can see, it is too wide!"--"Child,

that is pure vanity. The shoe is snug."--"That is what I said,

and that is why it pinches my toes."--"Here, at the left?"--"No,

the right."--"At the instep?"--"No, the heel."--"What?" he asks

incredulously, "Something wrong too with the heel?"--"_Ach_, master,"

she exclaims, "do you know better than I where my shoe pinches

me?"--"I can only wonder," he replies, good-humouredly, "that your

shoe should be loose and yet pinch you everywhere!" The door of

the inner room opens at this moment, and Walther stands upon the

threshold in the rich gala costume of a young noble. Eva at sight of

him in his splendour utters a cry, and remains spell-bound, gazing.

He stops short in the doorway, spell-bound equally at sight of her

in her shimmering bride's-robe of white,--and from their eyes, fixed

unwaveringly upon each other, their hearts travel forth on luminous

beams to meet and mingle. Sachs's back is toward Walther; he has

not see him, but the tell-tale light on Eva's face, reflection

of a sun-burst, has reported to him of the apparition. He pretends

not to see. "Aha! Here is the trouble!" he speaks, as if nothing

were; "Now I see what the matter is! Child, you were right, the

seams are stiff. Just wait and I will set the matter aright. Stay

where you are, I will take the shoe and put it on the last for a

minute. After that it will give you no further trouble." He draws

the shoe tenderly from her childish foot, and leaves her standing,

statue-still, lost in her trance of contemplation, with her foot

on the stool, while he takes the shoe to his bench and pretends to

work at it. He cannot forbear,--while he plays his little comedy,

and those two angelically beautiful beings, saved and aided by him,

between whom he shares his big heart, stand hushed, drinking, in

oblivion of all, the heavenly nectar of each other's glances,--he

cannot forbear teasing the little lady a bit, giving her a little

lesson, taking a very mild vengeance on her for the faintly perfidious

wiles of yesterday. So he runs on, while making himself busy with

her shoe: "Forever to be cobbling! That is my fate. Night nor day,

no deliverance for me! Child, listen! I have thought over what

shall bring my shoe-making to an end. The best thing I can do will

be after all to enter the contest for your hand. I might thus at

least win something for myself as a poet!... You are not listening?

Yet it was yourself put the idea in my head.... Oh, very well! I

see! Attend to your shoes! If at least," he slyly suggests, without

turning, "some one would sing to me while I work! I heard to-day a

regularly beautiful song. If just a third verse, equally successful,

might be added to it!" Like the hypnotised receiving a suggestion,

Walther, ready as a bird, breaks forth singing, his gaze never

swerving from Eva: "Did the stars come to a pause in their charming

dance? Light and clear, above the clustering locks of the most

beautiful of all women, glittered with soft brilliancy a crown of

stars..."

"Listen, child," Sachs bids Eva, in the short pause between the

verses, "that is a master-song!"

"Miracle upon miracle! A double radiance of day now illumines me,

for, even as two suns of purest delight, two divinely beautiful

eyes bend their light upon me...."

"That," says Sachs, "is the sort of thing you hear sung in my house

nowadays!"

"Oh, gracious vision which my heart found boldness to approach!

The wreath, which in the rays of the twin suns shows pale at once

and green, tenderly and mildly she weaves about the consort's head.

Into the breast of the poet--born erst to joy, now elect to

glory,--Paradisal joy she pours, in Love's dream!"

Sachs has been enabled to keep in hand his emotion at the sound

of the ecstatic song by diligently busying himself with the shoe,

uttering at intervals small insignificant remarks: "Let us see,

now, whether I have got my shoe aright. I believe I have finally

succeeded, eh? Try it, now!" He has slipped it on to her foot,

"Walk on it! Tell me, does it still hurt?" But Eva, who has stood

breathlessly gazing and listening to the thrilling accents, new

to her, of her lover, when the heart-searching voice is silent

and the tension relaxes, bursts into passionate weeping, sinks on

Sachs's breast and clings to him, sobbing. Walther with a quick

stride is beside them; impulsively he grasps the hand of the good

Sachs, to whom he dimly feels he owes so much,--to whom he owes

really more than he dreams.

For a moment not one of them can speak. Then it becomes too much

for Sachs, this soft beloved form trembling against his breast;

he gently frees himself and allows the burden he relinquishes to

slide upon the shoulder of Walther. Like a noble dog shaking his

fur, he takes himself away and finds occupation at the further end

of the room, trying by his commonplace playful talk to dispel the

oppression of a too great emotion. Again he must, all for her good,

tease Evchen a bit. "Has not a shoe-maker his fill of troubles?" he

grumbles; "Were I not at the same time a poet, not another shoe

would I make. So much hard work, such a perpetual calling upon

you! This one's shoe is too loose, that one's too tight, here it

claps, it hangs at the heel, there it presses, it pinches. The

shoe-maker must know everything, mend everything that is torn,

and if he be in addition a poet, then verily he is not allowed a

moment's peace. But if, on top of all, he be a widower, then he

is in all truth regarded as a very fool! The youngest of maidens,

if a husband is wanted, request him to apply for them; let him

understand them or let him not, it is all the same; let him say

yes, let him say no, in the end he is told that he smells of pitch,

and is called stupid, cantankerous, and impertinent! I wouldn't

care so much," he concludes humourously, "but for my apprentice.

He is losing all respect for me!..."

The conscience-smitten girl flings her arms around him again: "Oh,

Sachs, my friend, oh, noble heart, how can I ever repay you? Without

your love, what were I? What were I, without you? I should have

remained a child forever, had you not awakened me. Through you I

won the things one prizes, through you I learned what a soul is.

Through you I awoke, through you alone I learned to think nobly,

freely, courageously. You guided my growth, and brought me to flowering.

Oh, dear master, scold me, well you may!... But yet I was on the

right track. For, had I any choice, you, no other, should be my

husband. I would hold out the prize to you alone. As it is, I myself

have been chosen--to never-before-dreamed-of torment! And if this

day I am wedded, it will be without choice of my own. Coercion I

have suffered, have suffered violence. You know, master, that the

force of it frightened even you!"--"My child," he replies, mildly,

collectedly--if feelingly and a little sadly, to her impulsive

confession, while a known, poignant strain, like a profound sigh,

holds the ear for a moment, an echo from a different opera, "of

Tristan and Isolde I know the sorrowful story. Hans Sachs was shrewd

and would have none of King Mark's happiness!" With a return to the

lightness which is his policy of the moment, he adds, lest emotion

too far unnerve them all: "Full time it was that the right one should

appear, or I should after all have run into the snare!... Aha!

There comes Lene looking for you. Hey, David, aren't you coming?"

Nurse and apprentice enter, one from outside and one from within,

in their holiday garments.

"The witnesses are here, the sponsors present, now quickly to the

christening! Take your places!" Sachs directs. All look at him

in wonder. He lays before them his idea of giving, with proper

ceremony, a name to the master-song born in his house. It is a

poet's fancy, an act of tender superstition on Sachs's part, a

form by which he tries to lay a helpful charm or blessing upon the

new-born creation on which so much depends; send it forth equipped

as well as possible with spiritual arms, that it may, as he says,

"grow great without harm or mishap." The young melody's father,

of course, is Walther; the Pognerin and he, Sachs, will stand its

sponsors; Lene and David shall be witnesses. But as an apprentice

is not a proper witness, David is promoted with the rite of a smart

box on the ear from apprentice to journeyman. Sachs suggests as

the name of the new-born: Song of Interpretation of the Blissful

Morning-Dream, and the young godmother is requested to speak appropriate

words over it. The point of what follows is hardly in Eva's words,

pretty as they are; the point is that one of the most extraordinary

quintets that ever charmed human ear serves as baptismal send-off

to the infant melody.

Each of the five singing together expresses, according to custom

in concerted pieces, the aspect which the common subject, or the

hour, has for him. And so dear Sachs, while Eva and Walther rejoice

on their side, and David and Lene--to whom the apprentice's promotion

opens vistas of mastership and marriage,--rejoice on theirs, Sachs,

adding a less glad but more serene voice to the glorious sheaf

of song, reveals his heart,--with no one to listen, for all are

singing. "Full fain"--he sighs, "Full fain had I been to sing before

the winsome child, but need was that I should place restraint upon

the sweet disorderly motions of the heart. A lovely evening dream it

was, hardly dare I to think upon it...." But the wreath of immortal

youth shall be the poet's reward. Impertinent to pity the sturdy

Sachs, who has his poetry and his strong heart. And he has at all

moments been wiser than his lovely evening dream. There has been

really no renunciation on his part, for he had never allowed himself

any serious parleying with the tender temptation. Not for an instant

does he present himself as a sentimental figure; but the generosity

with which he employs himself to secure for others the happiness

which, though in his good sense he had denied it to himself, his

heart had yet caressed in its alluring evening dream, makes him

a magnanimous one.

It is time when they have finished to start for the seat of the

Saint John's Day celebration. Sachs sends Eva home to her father,

orders David to close the shop, and starts along with Walther.

While the curtain is lowered for the change of scene, one of those

musical transformations takes place of which there are several

instances in these operas. With elements we know, new elements

begin to mingle; the old are withdrawn, and presently, musically,

as ocularly, the scene is changed. We behold a green meadow on

the banks of the Pegnitz; in the distance, the city of Nuremberg.

The place is decorated for holiday. There is a great stand for

the master-singers and judges in the song-contest. Crowds of

holiday-makers are on the spot already, more still arrive by the

river in bright boats. The various guilds march in procession with

their respective insignia, shoe-makers, tailors, bakers. Apprentices

and young girls dance together to a measure daintily gay as their

fluttering ribbon-knots. Conspicuous among them is David, so forgetful

for the moment of Lene and himself as to imprint a glowing kiss on

his partner's cheek. Frivolities stop short with the arrival of

the masters. These assemble to the sound of what we will call their

unofficial march; then, to their great march, they walk to their

places on the stand, Kothner waving the banner of the guild, and the

people acclaiming. Pogner escorts Eva to the seat of honour. When

all are in their places, a corps of young apprentices, filling the

function to-day of heralds, and carrying staffs of office liberally

be flowered, call out in Latin the order for silence. Quiet being

established, Sachs, spokesman for the occasion, rises. At once

the silence is shattered by cheers for the popular poet, cries

of joy at sight of him; there is waving of kerchiefs and hats. To

show how every one knows and loves his songs, the people entone

one of them all together and sing it jubilantly through; and "Long

live Sachs!" they shout, "Hans Sachs! Long live Nuremberg's beloved

Hans Sachs!" It is too much for poet to experience unmoved, and

Sachs's voice, when the people quiet down at last, to listen, only

gradually regains its manly firmness. "You ease your own hearts

and burden mine, in offering me, unworthy, too great honour. If I

am not to sink crushed beneath it, let it be in the thought that

it is the gift of your love. Great honour already has fallen to

my portion to-day, in that I have been elected to the dignity of

spokesman. And the announcement which I have to make to you, believe

me, is full of high honour!" He imparts to them Pogner's project,

but with these important modifications or omissions,--and it is they

which constitute the stroke Sachs has been preparing. No mention

whatever is made of the limitations determined upon by the masters

at the last meeting: that the singers contending must be members

of the guild, and that the masters exclusively shall be judges.

So the offer stands: A lovely girl and a rich inheritance shall

be the portion of the singer who before the assembled people shall

carry off the prize,--awarded, one naturally understands, since

nothing different is stated, by popular acclamation. Free candidature,

therefore popular election! And Sachs so presents the thing that the

masters cannot very well object, if even they had the courage to

chance the awkwardness of a public scene; they can hardly claim it

is not fair that they, presumably superior in song to non-masters,

should accept the contest on the same terms. Sachs's peculiar audacity

has lain in his taking the risk of a perfectly justified revolt on

the part of the masters against his high-handed proceeding; he

has counted on the restraining effect of the public occasion; has

counted on luck, which proverbially follows the bold. High-handed,

his course, undeniably, but too much was at stake for any narrow

consideration to hold back Sachs: the happiness of Eva,--of, as he

says, at the conclusion of his announcement, "the amiable stainless

one, who must never be made to regret that Nuremberg holds in such

honour art and its professors!" Hearty applause follows his words.

Pogner grasps his hand, moved, infinitely relieved. "Oh, Sachs,

my friend, what thanks do I owe you! How did you know what was

weighing on my heart?"--"Much was staked upon that cast," replies

Sachs; "now pluck up heart!"

He catches sight of Beckmesser, who ever since arriving with the rest

of the masters has been feverishly studying his bit of music-sheet,

at intervals wiping the desperate sweat from his brow. "Mr. Marker,

how are you getting on?"--"Oh, this song!" groans the Marker, "I

cannot make head or tail of it, and I have worked over it, in all

truth, hard enough!" Sachs shows him, if he but knew it, a way

of escape. "My friend, you are not obliged to use it."--"What is

the good? My own song, through your fault, is done for. Now be a

kind dear fellow, it would be abominable of you to leave me in the

lurch."--"It is my opinion that you had better give it up."--"Give

it up?... Well, hardly! I can easily beat all the others, if only

you will not sing. I am certain that no one will understand the

song, but I am building upon your popularity."

Sachs abandons him to his fate, and declares the song-contest open.

Kothner summons the contestants, "And let the oldest," he calls,

"come first. Master Beckmesser, pray begin. We are late!"

The little heralds have piled up grassy sods into a sort of pedestal

for the singers to stand on. They lead Beckmesser to this. He stumbles

in going, and can hardly from nervousness keep his balance on the

none too secure elevation. The common people begin to titter. Murmurs

fly from one to the other: "What? That one? That is one of the

suitors? Why, he can't even walk!... Keep quiet! He is an eminent

master! He is the town-clerk.... Lord, what a muff! He is toppling

over!... Be still, and stop your jokes; he has a seat and a voice

in the committee!..."--"_Silentium! Silentium!_" calls the chorus

of little heralds. And Kothner: "Begin!" Beckmesser, after bowing

to the queen of the day and to the assembly, gives forth, haltingly,

Walther's song as he remembers it, as it has become with passing

through the medium of his mind. What he utters, with many an anxious

peep at the crumpled manuscript, is nonsense of the most ludicrous.

For every word he substitutes another of distantly the same sound,

but different meaning, betraying how he has not understood a syllable.

The melody, if so were he had mastered it, has completely dropped

from his mind, and what he sings to the eccentric words is his own

serenade, but perverted by the interference of the alien influence.

The masters at the end of the first verse look at one another,

mystified. "What is that? Has he lost his senses? An extraordinary

case! Do our ears deceive us?" The people giggle and make remarks,

not too loud as yet.

At the end of the second verse, the masters inquire of one another,

"What does it mean? Has he gone mad? His song is one piece of nonsense!"

while the people giggle louder and make remarks less and less

respectful.

At the end of the third verse, populace and masters burst into

peals of laughter. Beckmesser descends from his pedestal and hurls

himself raging at Sachs. "Accursed cobbler! To you I owe this!--The

song is none of mine," he excitedly informs the rest. "Sachs here,

whom you honour so, your Sachs gave me the song. The scandalous

wretch compelled me to sing it, he foisted off his miserable song

on me!" He dashes the sorry-looking manuscript at Sachs's feet,

and rushes off like one pursued by a nest of hornets.

Amazement reigns among master-singers and people: "A song of Sachs's?

The matter grows more and more astonishing! The song is yours? Be

so good, Sachs, as to explain!" Sachs has picked up and smoothed

out the crumpled page. "The song, as a matter of truth, is not

of my composing. Herr Beckmesser is mistaken, in this respect as

in others. How he obtained it let him tell you himself. But never

should I be audacious to the point of boasting that so fine a song

had been written by me, Hans Sachs."--"What?... Fine?... That crazy

rubbish? Sachs is joking! He says that in fun!"--"I declare to

you, gentlemen, that the song is beautiful. But it is obvious at

a single glance that Master Beckmesser misrepresents it. I swear

to you, however, that you would hear it with delight were one to

sing it in this circle correctly as to word and melody. And one

who should be able to do this would by that fact sufficiently prove

that he is the author of the song, and that in all justice, if

he found just judges, he would be called a master. I have been

accused and must defend myself. Let me therefore summon a witness.

If any one is present who knows that right is on my side, let him

come forward as a witness before this assembly."

Quietly and quickly, with his proudly-borne head and his light

proud step, Walther advances. A murmur of pleasure runs through

the assembly at sight of him, in his resplendent clothes and plumed

hat. The good populace on whom Sachs had counted do not disappoint

him: the gallant young figure finds instantaneous favour. "A proper

witness, handsome and spirited," they comment, "from whom something

proper may be expected!" The master-singers are not slow to recognise

the intruder of yesterday, and to grasp the situation. They accept

it good-humouredly enough, with artistic appreciation, no doubt,

of Sachs's well managed _coup de théâtre_. "Ah, Sachs, confess

that you are a sly one! But, for this once, have your way!"

"Masters and people are agreed to try the worth of my witness,"

Sachs announces; "Herr Walther von Stolzing, sing the song. And you,

masters, see if he render it aright." He hands them the manuscript.

Walther takes his stand on the flowery mound and starts singing

the song we know already. Presently however, the song lifts him

away, and he alters, as with that power of inspiration behind him

how could he help?--he amplifies, makes more beautiful still. But by

that time the masters have become so interested that they withdraw

their attention from the manuscript, and follow enthralled the

voice of the singer alone.

The song is in its final effect considerably different from the

original one, being the fruit of the moment, like Walther's other

improvisations. It preserves, however, both in text and tune, a

sufficient likeness to the first to prove it of an identical source.

It is the same dream he tells, but expressed in different images.

In a blessed love-dream, he had been led to a garden where, beneath

a miraculous tree, he had beheld--vision promising fulfilment to

love's wildest desire!--a woman of all-surpassing beauty: Eve,

in the garden of Paradise....

In a poet's waking dream, he had been lured by the crystal murmur

of a spring up a steep path. There, beneath a laurel-tree, he had

beheld--and from her hand had received upon his brow water from

the sacred fount,--a woman of a beauty grave and sublime: the Muse

of Parnassus....

There is no doubt of the impression the song produces upon the

audience. As he pauses between the verses, Walther cannot but seize

their irrepressible exclamations. "That is a very different matter!

Who would have thought it?" The people surrender heart-wholly.

"How it soars,--so sweet, so far from earth, and yet it is all as

if one had lived through it himself!"--"It is bold and unusual,

but well-rhymed and singable!" the masters admit. The circumstances

of this hearing are different enough from yesterday's. The infection

of Beckmesser's jealous spite is wanting; softening influences

are in the lovely scene, the poetic occasion. The pure ecstasy of

the song has a chance to work its spell, to transport them outside

of their limitations. They are honourable men, as Sachs assured

Walther; they have no _parti pris_ of bolts and shutters against

the New; on occasion they can be generous. "Yes, yes, I see, it

is quite another thing," they say, "when it is sung aright!"

Sure of victory, already triumphant, Walther leaps to the goal:

"Oh, day most rich in blessing, on which I awake from my dream! The

Paradise I saw in sleep lies before me in intensified splendour.

The murmuring spring lures me along the way which leads to it,--and

the One whose home is there, the elect of my heart, the loveliest

of earth, my muse and inspiration, as holy and high as she is fair,

I have boldly wooed her,--I have won, by the bright light of day,

through the victory of song, both Parnassus and Paradise!"

Before the last note has died, all are clamouring together, awarding

to Walther the master-prize. "Reach him the wreath! There is no lover

or singer like him!" And then Walther's exquisite morning-dream

comes true. He kneels before the woman more graciously beautiful

than any he had ever seen, while, bending upon him eyes luminous

with joy as twin suns, she places upon his head the wreath of laurel

and myrtle, the poet's and lover's crown.

Pogner wrings Sachs's hand. "Oh, Sachs, to you I owe happiness

and honour!" He draws a sigh of immense well-being. "Lifted is the

weight from my heart!"

There are congratulations and rejoicings. In the general glow of

good-humour, voices of master-singers call out to Pogner: "Up Master

Pogner, and announce to his lordship his admission to the master-guild!"

Pogner takes the decoration of the order, the gold chain with the

three medallions, and with the words, "I receive you into the

master-guild," is casting it over the victorious singer's head,

when Walther starts back, as from something of horridly unpleasant

association, and makes a gesture of uncompromising refusal. "Not

a master, no!... I mean to be happy without that title!"

An uncomfortable silence follows upon the hard snub. All look toward

Sachs, whose face has clouded over with pain. He walks to Walther,

and seizing him by the hand, as one might a child, to bring it to

reason, vigorously speaks the defence of the order to which he

belongs. "Despise not the masters, but, rather, honour their art.

The great good you have this day received speaks loud in their

praise. Not to your ancestors, however great, not to your coat of

arms, your spear or sword, but to the fact that you are a singer,

that you have proved yourself a master, you owe to-day your highest

happiness. If then you apply to the question a grateful mind: how

can that art be of no account which holds such prizes? That our

masters cared for it in their own way, that according to their

lights they were faithful to it, that is what has preserved it.

Though it no longer is aristocratic, as in the times when it was

fostered by princes and courts, yet despite the stress of evil

years it has remained German, it has remained sincere. And if it had

prospered nowhere but among us, with our burdens and restrictions,

you can see in what honour it is held here. What more do you require

of the masters?... Have a care! Evil contingencies threaten! Should

the day come when the German people and kingdom fall asunder, its

princes, seduced by false outlandish splendours, would soon no

longer understand the language of their own people, and outlandish

error, outlandish vanities, would be sown by them in German soil.

In that day, should it come, no one would know any longer what

is German and genuine, did it not survive by grace of the German

masters! Then honour the German masters! By that spell shall you

command good genii! And if you second them by your favour, holy

Rome may pass away in smoke: we shall still have our holy German

art!"

Nobly and contritely Walther bows his head, and Sachs hangs about

his neck the collar of the guild. Eva, fired, takes from her lover's

fair curls the laurel-wreath, and presses it upon the grisled head

of the master. He stands radiant between the two whose happiness

is his work. The populace wave their hats and kerchiefs, cheering,

"Hail, Sachs! Hans Sachs! Hail Nuremberg's beloved Hans Sachs!"

One cannot help imagining, in "Meistersinger," a fragment of

autobiography, a recollection of days when Wagner must have heard

on all sides concerning his work what we still occasionally hear,

such words as he puts into the mouth of Beckmesser: "_Kein Absatz

wo, kein' Coloratur! Von Melodei auch nicht eine Spur!_" No pause

anywhere for breath! No appropriate colouring! Of melody not the

remotest trace!

No pause anywhere for breath! The headlong rush it has of genius.

No appropriate colouring! The colouring happens merely to be new.

Of melody not the remotest trace,--when in this opera particularly

the composer casts melodies up in the air like golden balls and

juggles with them; when, like a conjurer, he goes on taking fresh

roses in absurd abundance out of a horn that should naturally have

been ten times empty!

If we may translate the personages of this delicious play into

types, Walther must stand for the poet and singer by God's grace,

fresh young Genius, winged bringer of a new message. Beckmesser

for Old School, where it has become fossil, where forms moulded

on life have become void and dry, and rules are held sufficient

without breath of inspiration. Nay, inspiration, which jostles and

disturbs rule, is regarded with suspicion. Inspiration to Beckmesser

is as much an intruder as would be Saint Francis coming to visit

some Prior of his own order long after the spirit animating the

saint had been hardened into forms. Hans Sachs, then, is a sort

of Ideal Critic, with affection and allegiance toward the past,

but with a fair and open mind toward the new. Walther himself could

have no more admirable attitude, more perfect temper, toward Art,

than Sachs. It is only to be hoped that in his maturity he was

as tolerant and broad-minded.

The wise, the gentle Sachs! It is a pity that in listening to an

opera one hears so little of the words, for there fall from his

genial lips precepts which it would be really worth while to impress

upon the memory, among which could there be a more golden than his

word to critics: "When you find that you are trying to measure

by your own rules that which does not lie within the compass of

your rules, the thing to do is to forget your rules and try to

discover the rules of that which you wish to measure!".