_Scene V_

Bruennhilde, Gunther, and Hagen remained in the hall after Siegfried

had been followed out by the company, and the Valkyrie stood, gloomily

bewailing her fate; till Hagen, watching fate work Siegfried's ruin,

went at last to the unhappy wife.

"Give me thy trust, Bruennhilde," he said; "I will avenge thy wrongs."

"How wilt thou avenge me? One glance of Siegfried's eye would kill

thee, if he so willed it." she answered, looking at Hagen darkly. "No

weapon can pierce him in battle: I enchanted him against all

danger--except some one thrust at him from behind. In the back I did

not guard him. I would not protect him in cowardice, but Siegfried

will never turn his back upon the enemy. Thou canst not kill him in

battle."

Gunther then began to bemoan his disgrace; but Bruennhilde turned upon

him.

"Oh, thou most cowardly of men--betrayed and betrayer! If I dealt

justice, the whole world's destruction could not pay for the wrong

done me."

"Naught but Siegfried's death can wipe out the wrong," Hagen cried,

watching Bruennhilde as he spoke. "Since he cannot be killed in battle,

listen to my plan! To-morrow we hunt in honour of the weddings of

Gutrune and the knight, Gunther and thee. While in the chase, and

Siegfried all unsuspecting, I shall thrust at him from behind."

"So let it be," Bruennhilde cried, and Gunther, too cowardly to know

the right, consented. With the morrow's tragedy arranged Hagen saw the

way at last to possess himself of the Nibelungen ring.

As they decided upon the deed, the bridal procession came from the

inner hall. All the vassals and women bore spears and flowers. Gutrune

and Siegfried were carried aloft, upon shields, and as Bruennhilde and

Gunther met them, they too, were hoisted high and the procession moved

onward, toward the altars on the river's bank, where they were to

offer sacrifices unto the Gods.

ACT III

[Music]

Three days had passed since the Rhein-daughters had lost their golden

treasure, and on the fourth they were swimming near the surface of the

river, popping their heads up and calling to each other, when they

heard the sound of the Gibichung hunters. Fearing to be caught by

mortals, they dived to the bottom of the Rhein. No sooner had they

disappeared than Siegfried came into the wood, armed for the hunt. He

had lost his way, having followed his game, far from the others, and

as he began to complain that he had that day got no game, the

Rhein-daughters rose again to the surface and mocked him.

"If we grant thee some game to-day, wilt thou give us that ring upon

thy finger?" they called to him.

"What! In return for a paltry bearskin give to you a ring which I

gained in battling with the Dragon?" he laughed, "nay."

"Ah, maybe thou hast a scold for a wife, who would make thee feel her

blows if thou gavest away the ring." This tormenting reply annoyed

Siegfried and finally he took off the ring and held it up to them,

offering it if they would cease to deride him. Then they regarded him

gravely.

"Keep that ring," they said, "till thou hast tasted the ill-fate that

goes with it; after that thou wilt gladly give it to us. Now thou art

parting with it, reluctantly." So Siegfried replaced the ring on his

finger.

"Tell me the ring's secret, wilt thou?" he asked, and the maidens told

him that it was accursed, and that very day, even while he thought

himself so safe and fortunate, his death was determined.

Upon hearing this, Siegfried became troubled and told them to hold

their peace. So they swam away, while he stood watching them,

reflecting gravely, till he heard Hagen's horn sound through the

forest.

_Scene II_

Hearing Hagen's horn, Siegfried wound his own in reply, and soon

Hagen, followed by Gunther and his vassals, entered the glade and

flung their game in a great heap.

"Ah, this is where thou hast hidden thyself?" Hagen cried, gaily.

"Come, let us all rest a while," and he threw himself down upon the

ground. "The chase has wearied us, so let us have the wine-skins and

drink heartily."

"I shall have to share your booty, if I am to eat," Siegfried laughed,

"for I have had no luck to-day. I might have found game, but I

followed the water-birds and heard from them a tale of disaster. It

seems that I am to meet my death to-day." Hagen and Gunther started

and looked meaningly at each other. Siegfried, all unsuspecting, threw

himself down between Hagen and Gunther to drink his wine, and

presently, seeing Gunther downcast, he sat up and began to while the

time by telling tales of his youth--how he had lived with the Mime;

how he had forged his good sword Nothung. After he had told about

Fafner the Dragon, Hagen interrupted him and bade him drink again.

Then he gave Siegfried a horn of wine, into which he had unnoticed

poured another potion, which was to disenchant the knight. As in a

dream, Siegfried's memory returned. He told of slaying the Dragon, and

then of the little bird who directed him to a beautiful maiden who

slept upon a rock, surrounded by fire.

"It was Bruennhilde," he cried, joyfully; "I waked her and made her

mine." At this saying, all the company roused themselves and regarded

each other with troubled looks. Siegfried had confirmed the story that

Bruennhilde had told.

At that moment two ravens, which Wotan had sent out from Walhall to

learn the time when the doom of the Eternals had come, flew from a

thicket near by, and Siegfried raised himself up to watch them. He

turned his back to Hagen, and instantly the warrior plunged his sword

into the knight's back and Siegfried fell dead.

There was a frightful outcry then from all, and Gunther, remembering

the truth, knowing that Siegfried had been betrayed by magic, and had

believed himself to be serving Gunther without harm, felt remorse and

knelt beside the body. Hagen turned away and went into the hills,

while the vassals gathered about, prepared to take the body to the

hall of the Gibichungs. As the funeral procession moved off, to the

measure of wonderful music, the moon rose, its light flooded all the

valley, and touched the corpse.

Back at the hall, Gutrune had risen from sleep, believing she heard

some strange, threatening sound. First she went to Bruennhilde's door,

but she appeared to be asleep. Next she went to the entrance of the

great hall and listened, but she heard nothing; then after a little

she saw Hagen, wearing a fearful look, coming from the river's bank.

Something in her heart told her that a dreadful thing had happened.

"What misfortune has come to Siegfried?" she cried.

"They come--bearing his body," Hagen answered, looking upon the

ground.

_Scene III_

After Hagen, came the men bearing the body, and when Gutrune saw it,

she shrieked and fell upon it.

"Who hath done this wicked thing?" she shrieked, and Hagen looked at

Gunther.

"Nay," said Gunther, shaking his head angrily, "do not look at me. It

was not I who did this. It was that accursed man," and he pointed to

Hagen. Already the fight for the ring, in the hall of the Gibichungs

was beginning to divide brothers. "May grief and ill-fate be thine,

forever!"

"Well," said Hagen, "I admit the deed, and now I claim my

heritage--the ring of the Nibelungen!" He tried to take the ring from

the dead man's finger.

"Never shalt thou have it," Gutrune cried, flinging herself upon him.

"Away! What I have won, thou shalt ne'er make thine!" Gunther shouted.

"Dost think to grasp Gutrune's dower?" The two men fell a-fighting;

and Hagen, piercing Gunther's breast, sprang aside, while Gunther fell

dead. Instantly Hagen leaped toward Siegfried's body to snatch the

ring; but slowly, slowly the dead hand was raised threateningly, and

Gutrune shrieked out.

Bruennhilde, who now appeared, advanced toward the corpse, solemnly.

"Do ye who have betrayed me, now think to make that which is mine your

own?" she asked, looking at the company contemptuously, and speaking

in a grave voice. "Thou wert no wife of his," she said to Gutrune.

"Naught that was his is thine." Gutrune looked steadily at Bruennhilde,

and believing that she spoke the truth, she crouched down beside her

brother's body, and did not move again. Bruennhilde's appearance was so

noble that her word convinced everybody and more than that,

Siegfried's story and his last cry had told them the truth.

"Now," said Bruennhilde to the vassals, "bring great logs and heap them

high beside the river Rhein. There shalt Siegfried's body find a tomb.

Bring, too, his steed, and let it await me, here." While Bruennhilde

knelt beside Siegfried's beloved body, the men heaped up the logs and

the women strewed the top of the pile with garlands. The vassals came

for Siegfried's body and as they lifted it, Bruennhilde drew the ring

from his finger.

"There, ye sorrowing Rhein maidens, I give ye back this accursed

ring," she cried. "Give heed, ye wayward sisters; this ring which has

brought so much sorrow to Gods and men, shall now become yours. I thus

restore the Rheingold to its owners. I place the ring upon my finger,

and when I have leaped into the flames beside my Siegfried, the ring

shall be purged by fire from all the stains that have come upon it

since it was so wrongfully come by. Take the ring from amid the ashes,

and return with it to your water-home." She flung a great brand upon

the heap of wood where Siegfried's body lay, and immediately two

ravens flew from the heap.

"Go thou, ye ravens, to Walhall, and tell Wotan what ye have seen. The

end of Godhood is near. Then go to the rock where Loge burneth and

tell him to go to Walhall." The ravens flew away, while the flames

leaped about Siegfried. Turning to the horse, Grane, and putting her

hand lovingly upon him, Bruennhilde took off his bridle. "Now,

Siegfried, we join thee," she cried, and giving her great war-cry,

Bruennhilde sprang upon the horse, and together they leaped upon the

burning bier. Instantly the flames roared and flared high and seemed

to seize upon the Hall of the Gibichungs, while all the company fled,

crowding close together. When the fire was at its worst, the river

Rhein overflowed its banks and rolled upon the land, extinguishing the

flames. On the waves, the three Rhein-daughters swam and hovered over

the place where the bodies were. Hagen, who saw before him the loss of

the ring, became frantic with despair, so he rushed into the flood, to

wrench the treasure from the maidens, but Woglinde and Wellgunde

threw their arms about him, dragged him down into the depths, and swam

away with him.

Flosshilde, having found the ring, swam before them, holding up the

prize triumphantly. A great bank of clouds had piled up beyond the

river, and soon this began to glow, as if with fire. The Rhein

returned to its natural bed, while the maidens swam once more happily

in its waters. The Hall of the Gibichungs had been destroyed, and all

the vassals and women had crowded together, watching the scene with

horror and wonderment. As the fiery clouds glowed more and more

brightly, the Palace of the Gods appeared, and the inner courts of

Walhall could be seen, brightly lighted by the fire which was

consuming it. Wotan and the Eternals sat within, surrounded by the

heroes and the Valkyries. All awaited the flames without resistance,

and as the Gibichungs looked, Loge, the spirit of flame, seized upon

everything and the Eternals were seen no more.

THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBERG

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Hans Sachs, shoemaker }

Veit Pogner, goldsmith }

Kunz Vogelgesang, furrier }

Konrad Nachtigal, tinsmith }

Sixtus Beckmesser, town clerk }

Fritz Kothner, baker }

Balthasar Zorn, pewterer } Mastersingers.

Ulrich Eisslinger, grocer }

Augustin Moser, tailor }

Hermann Ortel, soap boiler }

Hans Schwarz, stocking weaver }

Hans Foltz, coppersmith }

Walther von Stolzing, a young knight from Franconia.

David, Sachs's apprentice.

Eva, Pogner's daughter.

Magdalene, Eva's nurse.

Night Watchman.

Burghers, women of all guilds, journeymen, apprentices, girls, and

people.

The action takes place in Nuremberg about the middle of the sixteenth

century.

Composer: Richard Wagner.

ACT I

Four hundred years ago in Nuremberg there was a great rivalry among

the townsmen, as to who was the best singer. Indeed, in the history of

this great yearly competition, some had become so noted for their

excellence, that in a spirit of fairness they had almost ceased to

compete. There were twelve Mastersingers, and this number was to be

added to by future competitions. Among those who had removed

themselves from the contest (because his previous successes made it

unfair that he should continue) was Hans Sachs, the cobbler. Hans was

beloved by all, and had a spirit as well as a genius above his

fellows.

The prize for which the singers contended had hitherto been a sum of

money, given by the rich man of the city, one Veit Pogner, a

goldsmith, but upon the occasion we are about to describe he had

decided to make the prize far more precious. He agreed to give his

daughter Eva in marriage to the best singer, provided she could love

him; and if she could not love him, she was to live unmarried for the

rest of her days.

On the morning of the preliminary trial, when those qualified to enter

the real competition were to be chosen, the good folk of Nuremberg

were assembled in the church, singing the last hymn. Eva and her

nurse, Magdalene, were there and also the knight, Walther von

Stolzing, a newcomer in Nuremberg, greatly in love with Eva. She, too,

loved him, but it would have displeased her father had she been seen

speaking with the handsome stranger.

Upon that day, both the young people lingered after the others had

gone, in order to get speech together. All the time the hymn was being

sung, the two looked tenderly at each other, and these glances were

surprised by the devoted nurse, Magdalene. When the service was over,

and Eva was near the door, she pretended to have left her handkerchief

in her pew, and she sent Magdalene back to find it.

The lovers had but a minute together before Magdalene returned, so Eva

had to think of a new way to be rid of her.

"Where can my buckle be," she cried, looking about her. "I must have

left that as well"; and back Magdalene went the second time. She had

no sooner returned than Eva found she had forgotten her book, and back

the nurse went again, grumbling and declaring that Master Pogner would

be in a rage if he knew what was going on.

"Only promise that thou wilt marry me," Walther urged, while the nurse

was gone for the last time.

"Now what do you mean by standing there and talking love?" Magdalene

cried on her return, angry and half frightened, because she was

responsible for her nursling's conduct. "Don't you know, Sir Walther,

that Eva is to be given in marriage to the singer who shall this year

carry off the prize--otherwise she may not marry at all?"

"The prize? What does she mean?" he questioned, greatly agitated.

"It is for him who shall prove to be the best singer in Nuremberg."

The knight looked dejected.

"Can you not sing?" Eva asked anxiously.

"Alas, I do not know. I think not; I have never tried. What must I

sing?"

"A song that you have made yourself, Sir Knight; you must make both

rhyme and music yourself according to the rules of the Mastersingers."

"I fear I could never do it--unless I should be inspired by my love

for you. Alas! I fear we are lost unless your father can be persuaded

to change his mind."

"Nay, he cannot." Eva shook her head sadly, "He has given his word and

cannot break it. You must try to sing for love of me," she pleaded.

Walther was quite distracted at the prospect. Meantime, after the

church had become empty, David, the apprentice of Hans Sachs, came in

with a great piece of chalk stuck in his belt, and carrying a big

rule. Magdalene was quite in love with David, so that when Eva

appealed to her for help, she had turned her attention to the

apprentice.

"David, what are you doing there?" she cried, in order to give the

lovers a little more time.

"Doing? Why is it not weighty business to-day? The Mastersingers are

to have a trial of voices, to be sure. The pupil, whoever he may be,

whose voice is fine and whose composition breaks none of the rules

that govern those things is to be made free to enter for the prize;

and later, when the great festival of song is on, he may even become a

Mastersinger, himself."

"There, Sir Knight, is your opportunity! You must be the pupil. Eva,

we must be gone and leave Sir Walther to try for thee."

"Oh, heaven! I am all of a fright. I fear I shall never understand

what is expected of me," Walther cried distractedly.

"David here shall tell you, Sir Walther. Here, David, help this brave

gentleman all that you can. I wish it." She looked admonishment at

him.

"Tell him all the plan of the Mastersingers and how they will expect

him to conduct himself in the competition. Come, Eva." But Eva still

lingered. In came two other apprentices, bearing benches. Walther

watched those formidable preparations with uneasiness, walking up and

down the church in dismay.

"Good heaven! I am sure I cannot sing. I have never tried to sing. I

shall never be able to sing. Yet I must sing. What in the world can a

man do, in such a fix?"

"Well, well, do the best you can. David will instruct you, Sir

Knight," said Magdalene, and she hurried away with Eva, leaving the

poor knight alone with the apprentices.

These chaps came in thick and fast, bringing benches for the

Mastersingers to sit upon, and arranging everything in the church for

the trial of song. David kept watching Walther, who had flung himself

into a great ecclesiastical chair, and sat there brooding. After

observing him in silence for a time, David shouted:

"Begin," Walther started.

"What for?"

"Begin!"

"What for?"

"What for?--why that is how the Marker calls. You must then at once go

and sing. Don't you understand anything about this business?" he asked

in amazement.

"Who is the Marker?" Poor Walther asked, more and more bewildered.

"Were you never before at a singing trial?"

"Not where the judges were craftsmen," Walther answered. He was quite

certain if he knew anything about music, it could not be the kind that

shoe-makers, and boiler makers, and the like were acquainted with.

"Are you a poet?"

"I wish I were," Walther sighed dejectedly.

"Are you then a 'scholar'?"

"Lord, no, I think not--I don't know. What is a 'scholar?"

"Don't know that, and yet expect to become a Mastersinger!" David

cried, in amazement. "Well, now, let me tell you, Sir Knight, no one

gets to be a Mastersinger in a minute! For a full year, Hans Sachs,

our greatest master, has been teaching me the art, and I am not yet

even a 'scholar.'"

Shoemaker's craft and Poet's art,

Daily I learn by the heart.

First, all the leather smooth I hammer,

Consonants then, and vowels I stammer.

Next must the thread be stiff with wax,

Then I must learn it rhymes with Sachs.

David continued to tell of the difficulties of learning from a cobbler

how to become a Mastersinger, though the cobbler was one himself. By

the time David had finished telling Walther about the process of

shoemaking and music making, Walther threw up his hands in despair.

"Defend me from learning--the cobbler's trade," he cried, half

humorously, yet troubled.

"You must learn:

The shortened, long, and over-long tones;

The paper mode, the black-ink mode;

The scarlet, blue, and verdant tones;

The hawthorn bloom, strawhalm, fennel mode:

The tender, the dulcet, the rosy tone;

The passing passion, the forgotten tone;

The rosemary, wallflower mode;

The rainbow mode and the nightingale mode

The English tin, the cinnamon mode,

Fresh pomegranates, green linden-bloom mode;

The lonely gormandizer mode,

The skylark, the snail, the barking tone;

And the honey flower, the marjoram mode;

The lion's skin, true pelican mode,

The bright glittering thread mode."

"Dreadful, dreadful," cried poor Walther. "What an endless medley of

tones!"

"Oh, those are only the titles; after that comes the singing--and it

has to be according to rules, remember."

Walther groaned. David at once outlined some of the rules; they

appeared quite hopeless.

"Why no one in the world could meet such demands, it is ridiculous."

"You had better not say so," David answered, significantly. "I want

you to know that the great Mastersingers of Nuremberg run this thing;

and it doesn't make any difference to anybody but you and Herr

Pogner's daughter whether you approve or not." At the mention of Eva,

Walther tried to control his feelings; he must try at least, the Lord

help him--to come out somewhere in the midst of all that shoemaker's

music of "modes" and "thread" and "buttons" and what-not!

By this time the apprentices had erected a small stage with a chair

and a desk upon it and a blackboard behind, with a piece of chalk

hanging from a long string upon the board, and all about that funny

arrangement were black curtains which could be drawn close.

"The Marker will let seven faults slip by," David explained to the

knight; but if he finds more than seven it is all over for the

candidate.

So God save you from disaster,

May you, to-day, be a master,

he wound up poetically.

Having finished their preparations, the apprentices began to dance

about in a ring. In the midst of the jollity in came Pogner from the

sacristy; also, Beckmesser, who was the town clerk and a singer who

believed in himself.

David took his place at the sacristy door, to let in the other

Mastersingers, and the other apprentices stood waiting before the

bench at back. Walther, sick to death through being teased by the

apprentices, had sat himself down on the very front seat, and there,

before all, was the dreaded Marker's seat. There was the great

"singing chair"--where the candidate was to sit while under trial.

Pogner stood talking with the town clerk, Beckmesser.

"Herr Pogner," the latter was saying, "I know what this prize is to

be, and I love your daughter with all my soul." Beckmesser, who was a

rather old and absurd chap, made a sentimental and dramatic gesture.

"I want to beg of you if there is any preference shown, that it be

shown to me."

"I cannot say there will be any favours shown, Beckmesser, but my plan

should serve you well. Eva is to go to the best singer--in case of

course that she loves him. She shall not be forced; and who sings so

well as you?"

"Yet, in certain respects, I am weak," Beckmesser murmured. "I should

like those weak points to be passed over." He was a foxy old fellow,

far too old for the lovely Eva, and he was quite willing to take an

unfair advantage of his brother singers.

Walther then jumped from his chair and went to Pogner.

"Herr Pogner, may I have speech with you?" he asked.

"What, Sir Walther seeks me in singing school?"

"Yet it is a fitting place, because, to tell the truth, Herr Pogner, I

came to Nuremberg town, solely for the love of art," he said promptly,

hoping he would be forgiven for the lie. "I failed to mention this

yesterday, but to-day it seems fitting to tell you because I wish to

enter the competition. In short, I wish to become a Mastersinger."

Walther was fairly amazed at his own bravado. At the same moment, Kunz

Vogelgesang and Konrad Nachtigal entered.

"Vogelgesang, Nachtigal, listen to this: here is a noble knight,

Walther of Stolzing, well known to me, who wishes to join our singing.

This is very fine. I am sure we all welcome you to our guild, Sir

Walther," he cried heartily. Beckmesser, who had observed the handsome

Walther, became uneasy.

"If anything should go wrong with my singing," he thought, "I should

stand small chance any other way with this whipper-snapper. I'll go

to-night beneath Eva's window and sing a serenade which will surely

win her heart. I'll not lose her even if this great knight should

prove to be a great singer." Every time he thought of Walther, it was

with a sneer. On the whole, Beckmesser was a nasty little man, even

though he was quite a singer. He was old and ugly and it was quite

ridiculous of him to think of marrying Eva.

Walther, still speaking with Pogner, confessed:

"My strongest reason for entering this competition is love for your

dear daughter. I know well that she is to be the prize." Pogner was

well pleased, for he liked the knight.

"I am glad to hear you say this, Sir Knight; but the matter has to be

settled--after the promise I have given--according to certain

regulations set down by the Mastersingers; but I shall try to give you

the best of chances." Pogner said this heartily, for he would like to

have that fine fellow for a son-in-law. Meanwhile, all the

Mastersingers had arrived by way of the sacristy door, and Hans Sachs

the very last. Kothner took from his pocket the list of names of those

who were to sing, and standing apart, he began to call the roll. Each

responded to his name, and then Pogner formally announced what the

prize was to be. Each man cried that he would be the one to win the

prize--since it was _such_ a prize.

"But remember," Pogner interrupted their enthusiasm, "although I am

determined she shall marry none but him who wins the prize, if she

should not love that singer, she shall not be forced, but shall remain

single all the rest of her life"; and with that they had to be

content.

"Let me make still a suggestion, Herr Pogner," Hans Sachs, the

shoemaker spoke up. He loved Eva with all his heart, but he was good

and true and fair. He knew that he was growing old, and that he sang

so finely that it was not fair he should enter into such a

competition. If he sang for the prize, the contest would be won before

it was begun. "Let me suggest that all the people of Nuremberg shall

have a hand in choosing the best singer. To-morrow at the fete, let

all the people hear the singers, and let theirs be the choice."

"Ho, ho! Then farewell, art," the Mastersingers cried, indignantly.

"That is a fine joke, indeed, Sachs. Pray what do the people know

about art? What do they know of the singing master's rules? Bah!"

"Listen!" Sachs said, impressively. "That which the people approve, is

good; they know naught of rule, but they know what beauty of song and

theme is better that we. Leave it to the people's choice and you shall

not rue it. Besides, a maiden's heart is to be disposed of, and those

who are judges among us are not without selfish feelings. Let the

people decide and leave the maiden free."

"Oh, I suppose you are thinking and speaking for yourself--a widower,"

Beckmesser cried, trying to belittle the shoemaker.

"So little is that so, my friends, that I shall not sing." Every one

loved Hans Sachs and now recognized his generosity. "I am too old for

such as she." Thereupon Beckmesser became furious, because he was

older than Hans, yet he considered himself quite young enough to marry

her.

"Well, my friends, there is one more piece of business: this young

knight," leading forth Walther, "wishes to enter the race, and I

present him with right good will." This was almost too much for the

beset Beckmesser. He fairly foamed at the mouth.

"Now, I understand this matter," he muttered aside. "Pogner would have

it seem that he treated us fairly in this matter, while in reality he

had this handsome fellow up his sleeve. A knight at that, and if he

can sing it certainly is all up with the rest of us." He loudly

declared it was far too late for Walther to be let into the

competition; but there were several opinions about that, and a good

deal of wrangling. All were somewhat afraid of Walther, not knowing

that he had no confidence in his own singing or making of verses. At

last it was decided that he should have a trial that morning.

"But thou must say who has been thy master," they insisted; whereupon

Walther named a great master, Sir Walther of the Vogelweid.

"In truth," Hans Sachs said, nodding kindly. "He is a great master."

Hans meant to stand by the knight and to serve him if possible,

because he seemed the best choice for Eva, whom Sachs loved above

everything. Walther added that, for the most part, he had learned his

songs from the birds, titmouses, and finches, and the like. He loved

the woods and streams, and a joyous heart made him sing in spite of

himself, and the song of birds was the one he loved best to imitate.

The others were inclined to jeer at these words, but Hans Sachs saw

in them a beautiful nature, fine poesy.

"Very well, very well, let him begin," all cried, and so the knight

took his place in the singer's chair while Beckmesser, who was

appointed Marker, went to his place.

"As Marker, I guess I can settle his affair for him," Beckmesser

muttered, in malice. All the while Walther, was in despair, having no

confidence in himself.

"It is for thee, beloved," he murmured, trying to gain courage by

putting his thoughts upon Eva. Then Beckmesser, hidden behind the

curtain, cried:

"Now begin."

Walther hesitated a moment, then began, uncertainly, to sing. It was a

beautiful song of the spring. At the end of the first part, Beckmesser

scratched horribly upon his slate, and sighed in a most disconcerting

manner. Walther listened and his heart nearly failed him, but he began

again. This time he sang of winter, and as he went on he became so

much inspired that he forgot his tremendous anxiety, rose from his

chair, and sang passionately, with _abandon_. When he came to a pause

in the theme, Beckmesser burst into the group with his slate. It was

all covered with chalk marks.

"Will you never have done," he shouted angrily. "I've no more room in

which to set marks against you. If we must go on listening to such

singing we must use the side of the church if we would have room to

set down your mistakes." Every one but Hans Sachs burst out laughing.

"But I have not finished," Walther pleaded. "Will none of you let me

finish my song, good friends? It is not fair."

"That is true, that is true, not too much zeal, Beckmesser," Hans

tried to interpose. Everybody was talking at once.

"I could not understand one word of his meaning," one cried.

"There was false time, false everything; it was ridiculous!" another

shouted.

"The most absurd thing I ever heard," another called. In short, every

one shouted and mocked and offered suggestions, except Hans Sachs who

had stood apart, and after the first notes of Walther, had listened

with great earnestness. In the midst of the excitement he came

forward.

"Master Beckmesser, you have gone too far. We do not all agree with

your opinion. The song which you despise, I find both beautiful, new,

and free from fault. It is not such as we sing, but it is true and

fine. I fear you have forgotten your own rules."

"Never, never!" the Marker shouted.

"Now, friends, hear my final word. This young knight shall be heard to

the end." With a decisive gesture he motioned Walther to the chair

again. All shouted "No, no!" but Sachs insisted and amidst the riot

and hullabaloo Walther again began his song. His clear, beautiful

voice was heard above the noise, but every one was engaged in telling

what they thought about it. Only Sachs stood determined, trying to

quiet the frightful uproar. Beckmesser was making a terrible to-do,

and the apprentices were shouting with laughter, following the lead of

their masters. After a little, Walther became so confused that at last

he could sing no longer.

The apprentices began to dance wildly about their masters, and in the

midst of the extraordinary scene, the knight descended from the chair,

and turned away with a contemptuous glance. He was about to go, as the

Mastersingers were struggling toward the door; but to add to the

confusion the apprentices who had torn up the benches began marching

about with them. While Walther, the Mastersingers, and the apprentices

were struggling out, Sachs stood looking at the singer's chair, where

Walther had lately sat, singing so beautifully that none but the

splendid Sachs, with his good soul and his poetic nature, had been

able to understand how great it was.

ACT II

Night of the same day came on, and David and other apprentices were

putting up the shutters of their masters' houses, before it became too

late. Hans Sachs's house--which was also his workshop--stood in a

corner made by a little crooked path which crossed a Nuremberg street;

while Pogner's house, much finer--altogether quite grand--stood

opposite. Beside Hans's house grew an elder tree, and beside Pogner's,

a lime. Magdalene, very anxious to know from David what had taken

place in the church, had gone from her master's house with a little

basket of the good things which David liked. This gave her a good

excuse to seek him.

"What happened to the handsome knight?" she inquired, standing on

Hans's side of the way, and speaking with David.

"Why what should happen? He was rejected, of course," David answered

sulkily, while all the other apprentice boys laughed at him because

Magdalene, his sweetheart, was trying to pump him.

"Ho, ho! Then you get nothing out of my basket," she answered, walking

off. Again the boys mocked him, and he grew very angry, telling them

to be off about their business. The quarrel grew so loud that finally

Sachs, coming home unexpectedly, burst into the midst of them and

scattered them.

"What is all this?" he cried.

"The rascals are plaguing me, master," David growled.

"Well, get thee within and light the lamp; lock up and bring the lamp

here to me; after that, put the shoes on the lasts and go"; and as

David went into the workshop to obey, Sachs followed. At that moment,

Eva and her father passed along the path, and seeing the light in

Sachs's house, Pogner peeped through the chink of the door.

"If Sachs is there I shall stop in and speak with him," he said to

Eva. David just then came from the house with a lamp which he placed

upon the work-bench, and seating himself began work upon a pair of

shoes.

"To-morrow will be a fine day for the festival," Pogner said to his

daughter, as they seated themselves upon a stone bench, on their own

side of the path.

"But, father, must I certainly marry the best singer?" Eva asked

anxiously.

"Not unless he pleases thee; but in case he does not, Eva, I have

decided that thou shalt marry no other." He was interrupted by

Magdalene who came to bid them to supper. Eva lingered behind to get a

private word with her.

"What about the knight? Did he succeed?" she asked so anxiously that

it broke Magdalene's heart to tell her the truth.

"David said not--but he would not tell what had happened."

"Maybe I can learn from Hans Sachs; he loves me very much, and may

feel some distress over my trouble. I shall ask him." Just then Sachs

came to the door of his house.

"Come, boy," he said to David, "put up thy work for the night, and get

thee to bed; to-morrow will be a busy day. Put my stool and table

outside the door that I may finish a pair of shoes, and then get thee

to bed." David gathered up his tools, and after arranging Sachs's work

bade him good night. Sachs sat down, with his hands behind his head,

and instead of going at once to work, began to think upon the day's

happenings--and other things, maybe. He leaned his arms upon the lower

half of the door and sometimes spoke his thoughts aloud:

"Truly the young knight is a poet," he mused. Hans himself was a true

poet, tender and loving, and he could think of nothing but Eva's good.

Becoming nervous and apprehensive while thinking of her he began to

hammer at a shoe, but again he ceased to work and tried to think. "I

still hear that strain of the young knight's" and he tried to recall

some part of the song. While he mused thus alone, Eva stole shyly over

to the shop. It had now become quite dark and the neighbours were

going to bed.

"Good evening, Master Sachs! You are still at work?" she asked softly.

Hans started.

"Yes, my child, my dear Evchen. I am still at work. Why are you still

awake? Ah, I know--it is about your fine new shoes that you have come,

those for to-morrow!"

"Nay, they look so rich and fine, I have not even tried them on."

"Yet to-morrow you must wear them as a bride, you know."

"Whose shoes are these that you work upon, Master Sachs," she asked,

wishing to change the subject.

"These are the shoes of the great Master Beckmesser," Sachs answered,

smiling a little at the thought of the bumptious old fellow.

"In heaven's name put plenty of pitch in them, that he may stick, and

not be able to come after me," she cried.

"What--you do not favour Beckmesser, then?"

"That silly old man," she said scornfully.

"Well, there is a very scanty batch of bachelors to sue for thee, or

sing for thee," Hans answered, looking lovingly at her, with a little

smile.

"Well, there are some widowers," Eva said returning his friendly look.

Hans laughed outright.

"Ah, dear Evchen, it is not for an old chap like me to snare a young

bird like thee. At the trial to-day, things did not go well," he

ventured, trying to turn the conversation.

Instantly Eva was all attention, and she got from him the story of

Walther's failure and unfair treatment, just as Magdalene called from

the house over the way.

"St--st," she whispered. "Thy father has called for thee."

"I'll come presently," Eva answered. Then to Hans: "But tell me, dear

Hans, was there not one who was his friend? Is there no hope?"

"No master has hope among other masters," Hans replied, sorrowfully.

"I fear there is nothing for him but to give thee up." Hans knew well

that Eva loved the knight.

"What man has a friend, whose own greatness makes other men feel

small?" he asked still more sadly. "It is the way with men."

"It is shameful," she cried angrily, and hurried across the street.

Hans closed the upper half of his door, so that he was almost shut

in, and only a little light showed through.

"Eva," Magdalene called at the house door, "that Beckmesser has been

here to say he is coming to serenade you, and to win your love. Did

ever one hear of such a ridiculous rascal."

"I will not hear him," Eva declared angrily. "I will not. I am going

to see Walther to-night, and I will not see Beckmesser. Look out and

see if any one is coming." Walther was at that moment coming round the

corner of the path, and Eva rushed toward him.

"You have heard--that I may not sing to win thee?" he said under his

breath, for fear Pogner should hear him. At that moment the horn of

the Night Warder was heard, which assured them that the town was all

quiet and people gone to bed.

"It does not matter, I have made up my mind. I will never give the

victor's crown to any one but thee, and so we shall flee

together--this night, at once, before it is too late." Walther, beside

himself with joy, looked after her while she hurried into the house to

get ready for flight. The Night Warder came round the house corner.

Hear all folk, the Warder's ditty,

'Tis ten o'clock in our city;

Heed well your fire and eke your light,

That none may be harmed this night!

Praise ye God, the Lord!

He blew a long loud blast upon his trumpet.

Hans Sachs had heard the plan concocted between the lovers, from

behind his nearly closed door; so he put out the lamp, that he might

not be seen, and opened his door a little way. He could never permit

them to elope; it would cause no end of trouble. After a moment Eva

and Magdalene came from Pogner's house with a bundle, while at the

same moment Walther came from the shadow of the lime tree to meet

them. They were hurrying off together when the clever shoemaker caught

up his lamp from its place of concealment and turned it full upon the

alley-way, so that it shone directly upon the path of the lovers.

Eva and Walther found themselves standing together in a bright light,

when they had thought to escape unseen in the darkness. Again the

Warder's horn was heard at a distance.

"Oh, good gracious! We shall be caught," Eva whispered, frightened

half to death, as Walther drew her out of the streaming light.

"Which way shall we go?" he whispered, uneasily.

"Alas! look there--at that old rascal, Beckmesser," she returned,

distracted with fright and anger, as she saw the old fool come in

sight with his lute strung over his shoulder, while he twanged it

lightly.

The moment Hans saw Beckmesser he had a new thought. He withdrew the

light a little and opened the door. Then in the half light he placed

his bench in the doorway and began to work upon a pair of shoes.

"It is that horrible Marker who counted me out this morning," Walther

murmured, looking at Beckmesser as he stole along the pathway. Then

almost at once, Beckmesser began to bawl under Eva's window.

He looked up where he supposed her to be, in the most languishing

manner, so that Walther and Eva would have laughed outright, if they

had not been in such a coil.

He no sooner had struck the first notes, than Hans Sachs gave a bang

upon his shoe-last. Thus began an awful scrimmage. Hans Sachs,

disliking the absurd old Beckmesser as much, if not more, than others

did, banged away at Beckmesser's shoes, in a most energetic way. He

made such a frightful din that Beckmesser could hardly hear himself

sing.

The town clerk tried by every device to stop the shoemaker,--to get

him to put aside his cobbling for the night, but Hans answered that he

had to work lively if he hoped to get the shoes done for the fete.

Beckmesser did not dare tell why he was there, singing at that hour.

Walther and Eva remained prisoners under the lime tree, wondering what

on earth to do. After a while, poor Beckmesser, making the most

frantic efforts to hear his own voice, pleaded with Hans to stop.

"I'll tell thee what to do--it will make the time pass pleasantly for

me as well, you see," Hans cried. "Do thou go ahead and sing, and I'll

be Marker. For every mistake of thine, I'll hammer the shoe. Of course

there will be so few mistakes that there will then be but little

pounding." Beckmesser caught at that suggestion. Of course it was

imprudent, but then Beckmesser was in a bad way, and it was his only

chance. So he began his serenade once more. Then Hans began to "mark"

him. Before he had sung a line, Hans's hammer was banging away in the

most remarkable manner. Even Walther and Eva had to laugh, frightened

as they were. Beckmesser became so furious he could hardly speak.

Sachs pretended to see nothing, and "marked" away valiantly. Then the

Night Watch could be heard coming. Hans banged louder. Beckmesser put

his fingers in his ears, that he might drown the sound of Hans and the

Warder, and keep on the key. Hans too began to sing as he waxed his

threads and banged upon his shoes. Meantime windows were going up,

the people who had gone to bed having wakened.

"Stop your bawling there," one shouted.

"Leave off howling," another screamed.

"What's the matter? Have you gone crazy down there," others yelled,

but Beckmesser still shrieked, unable to hear anybody but himself and

Hans.

"Listen to that donkey bray," a neighbour called.

"Hear the wild-cat," another bawled; and in the midst of the singing

Magdalene stuck her head out of the window. Beckmesser, thinking it

was Eva, was encouraged to keep on, but David, who had come out at the

rumpus, believed that Beckmesser was serenading Magdalene, and

instantly became jealous. So out he rushed with a cudgel. The

neighbours then began to come from their houses in their night-gowns

and caps; some wearing red flannel about their heads and some in very

short gowns, and all looking very funny. Meanwhile, Hans, who had got

the row started, withdrew into his house and shut the door. Walther

and Eva were still trembling under the lime tree, sure of being

discovered, now that all Nuremberg was aroused and on the spot.

Beckmesser was surrounded by the neighbours, the apprentices came from

every shop to swell the crowd, also the journeymen, while all the

women bawled from the house windows where they were hanging out half

way. David and Beckmesser were wrestling all over the place,

Beckmesser's lute being smashed and his clothes torn off him. At last

the Mastersingers themselves arrived.

Walther, at last deciding that the time had come when he must rescue

Eva, drew his sword and rushed forth. Hans, who had been watching

behind his door, then ran out, pushed his way through the mob and

caught Walther by the arm. At that moment--Poof! Bist! the women in

the windows threw down buckets of water over all the people, and

Beckmesser was half drowned in the streams. This added to the

confusion, so that Hans grasped Walther, and Pogner his daughter;

Sachs and Walther retired into Sachs's house and Eva was dragged

within her own. As Sachs disappeared, he gave David a kick which sent

him flying, to pay him for his part in the fight.

Beckmesser, battered half to pieces, limped off, while the crowd,

dripping wet and with ardour cooled, slunk out. When all was perfectly

quiet and safe, and not a sound stirring, on came the Night Warder. It

was comical to see the way he looked all about the deserted place, as

if he had been taking a little nap, while all Nuremberg had been

fighting like wild-cats, and he quavered out in a shaky voice:

Hear, all folks, the Warder's ditty,

Eleven strikes in our city,

Defend yourselves from spectre and sprite,

That no evil imp your soul affright.

He finished with a long-drawn cry:

Praise ye God, the Lord,

and all was still.

ACT III

The morning of the song festival dawned clear and fine. Early in the

morning, Hans Sachs seated himself in his shop, beside his sunny

window, his work on the bench before him, but he let it go unheeded as

he fell to reading. David found his master thus employed when he

stole into the shop, after peeping to make sure that Hans would pay no

attention to him. David was not at all sure of the reception his

master would give him after the riot in which he had taken a hand the

night before. As Hans did not look up, David set the basket he carried

upon the table, and began to take out the things in it. First there

were flowers and bright-coloured ribbons, and at the very bottom a

cake and a sausage. He was just beginning to eat the sausage when Hans

Sachs turned a page of his book noisily. David, knowing his guilty

part in the fight, looked warily at his master.

"Master, I have taken the shoes to Beckmesser and----" Sachs looked at

him abstractedly.

"Do not disturb our guest, Sir Walther," he said, seeming to forget

David's misbehaviour. "Eat thy cakes and be happy--only do not wake

our guest."

Soon David went out while Sachs still sat thinking of the situation

and half decided to take a part in the contest himself--since it were

a shame to have Beckmesser win Eva. While he was thus lost in

contemplation, Walther woke and came from his room.

"Ah, dear Hans--I have had a glorious dream," he cried. "It is so

splendid that I hardly dare think of it."

"Can it be thou hast dreamed a song?" Sachs asked breathlessly.

"Even if I had, what help would it bring me, friend Sachs, since the

Mastersingers will not treat me fairly?"

"Stay, stay, Walther, not so fast! I want to say of yesterday's

experience: the Mastersingers are, after all, men of honour. They were

hard on thee yesterday, but thou hast troubled them much. Thy song was

as strange, its kind as new to them as it was beautiful, and they have

thought of it again and again since then. If they can make themselves

familiar with such beauty they will not fail to give thee credit. I

own I am much troubled and know not what to do for you."

"I wonder could it be possible that I have had an inspiration in my

sleep that might lead me to win my dear Eva?" the knight said, taking

heart.

"That we shall soon know. Sir Walther, stand thou there, and sing thy

song, and I will sit here and write it down. So it shall not escape

thee. Come, begin, Sir Knight," Sachs cried, becoming hopeful for the

young man. Trembling with anxiety Walther took his stand and began his

song, while Hans placed himself at the table to write it down.

[Music:

Bathed in the sunlight at dawn of the day,

when blossoms rare

made sweet the air,

with beauties teeming,

past all dreaming,

a glorious garden lay, cheering my way.]

As the knight sang he became more and more inspired and when he had

finished Hans Sachs was wild with delight.

"It is true!--you have had a wonderful inspiration. Go now to your

room, and there you will find clothing gay enough for this great

occasion. No matter how it came there!--it is there! I have all along

believed in you, and that you would sing, and I have provided for it."

The knight went rejoicing to put on his new clothes.

Now Hans, when he went with Walther to his bedroom, had left the

manuscript of the great song upon the table, and no sooner had he gone

out than Beckmesser, looking through the window and finding the place

empty, slipped in. He was limping from the effects of the fight and

altogether cut a most ridiculous figure. He was very richly dressed,

but that did not conceal his battered appearance. Every step he took

he rubbed first his back and then his shins. He should have been in

bed and covered with liniments. Suddenly he espied the song upon

Hans's table. He believed that after all Hans was going to sing, and

if he should, all would be up with himself. Wild with rage, Beckmesser

picked up the song and stuffed it into his pocket. No sooner had he

done so than the bedroom door opened, and Hans Sachs came out in gala

dress, ready for the festival; seeing Beckmesser, he paused in

surprise.

"What, you? Sir Marker? Surely those shoes of yours do not give you

trouble so soon?"

"Trouble! The devil! Such shoes never were. They are so thin, I can

feel the smallest cobblestone through them. No matter about the shoes,

however--though I came to complain to you about them--for I have found

another and far worse cause of complaint. I thought you were not to

sing."

"Neither am I."

"What, you deny it--when I have just found you out!" Beckmesser cried

in a foaming rage. Hans looked at the table and saw that the

manuscript was gone. He grinned.

"So, you took the song, did you?" he asked.

"The ink was still wet."

"True, I'll be bound!"

"So then I've caught you deceiving!"

"Well, at least you never caught me stealing, and to save you from the

charge I'll just give you that song," Hans replied, still smiling.

Beckmesser stared at him.

"I'll warrant you have the song by heart," he said, narrowly eyeing

the shoemaker.

"No, that I haven't. And further than that, I'll promise you not to

lay any claim to it that shall thwart your use of it--if you really

want it." Hans spoke carelessly, watching the greedy town clerk from

the tail of his eye.

"You mean truly, that I may use that song as I like?"

"Sing it if you like--and know how," Sachs said obligingly.

"A song by Hans Sachs!" he exclaimed, unable to hide his joy--because

no one in Nuremberg could possibly write a song like Sachs. "Well,

well, this is very decent of you, Sachs! I can understand how anxious

you are to make friends with me, after your bad treatment last night."

Beckmesser spoke patronizingly, while his heart was fairly bursting

with new hope. Any song by Hans Sachs would certainly win him the

prize, even if he could but half sing it.

"If I am to oblige you by using this song," he hesitated, "then swear

to me you will not undo me by laying claim to it." After all, he was

feeling considerable anxiety about it. That he should be saved in this

manner was quite miraculous.

"I'll give my oath never to claim it so long as I live," Sachs

answered earnestly, thinking all the while what a rascal Beckmesser

was. "But, friend Beckmesser, one word; I am no scoffer, but truly,

knowing the song as I do, I have my doubts about your being able to

learn it in an hour or so. The song is not easy."

"Have no fear, Hans Sachs. As a poet, your place is first, I know; but

believe me, friend, when it comes to 'tone' and 'mode,' and the power

to sing, I confess I have no fear--nor an equal," the conceited ass

declared. "I tell you, confidentially, I have now no fear of that

presumptuous fellow, Walther. With this song and my great genius, we

shall no longer fear his bobbing upon the scene and doing harm."

Assured of success at last, away went Beckmesser, limping and

stumbling, to learn his song.

"Well, never did I see so malicious a fellow," Hans declared, as

Beckmesser stumbled out of sight. "And there comes Evchen--hello, my

Evchen, thou art dressed very fine. Well, well, it is to be thy

wedding day, to be sure."

"Yes--but the shoe pinches," she said putting her little foot upon the

bench.

"That will never do. That must be fixed," Hans answered gravely, his

eyes twinkling. He fell to examining the shoes. "Why, my child, what

is wrong with it? I find it a very fine fit?"

"Nay, it is too broad."

"Tut, tut, that is thy vanity. The shoe fits close, my dear."

"Well, then I think it is the toes that hurt--or maybe the heel, or

maybe--" she looked all about, hoping to see Walther. At that moment

he entered, and Eva cried out. Then Hans said:

"Ah, ah! Ho, ho! That is where the shoe pinches, eh? Well, be patient,

that fault I shall mend very soon," he declared, thinking of the song

that Beckmesser had stolen, while he took off the shoe and sat once

more at his bench. Then he said slyly:

"Lately I heard a beauteous song. I would I might hear its third verse

once more." Immediately, Walther, looking at Eva, began softly to sing

the famous song. As it magically swelled, Sachs came to her and again

fitted the shoes. When the song was rapturously finished, Eva burst

into hysterical sobbing, and threw herself into the shoemaker's arms.

But this scene was interrupted by the coming of Lena and David, all

dressed for the fete.

"Come, just in time!" Sachs cried. "Now listen to what I have to say,

children. In this room, a song has just been made by this knight, who

duly sang it before me and before Eva. Now, do not forget this, I

charge you; so let us be off to hear him christened a Mastersinger."

All then went out into the street except David, who lingered a moment

to fasten up the house. All the way to the meadow where the fete was

to be held were sounding trumpets and horns, glad shouts and laughter.

Very soon the little group from Sachs's reached the fete, and there

they found a gala sight.

Many guilds had arrived and were constantly arriving. Colours were

planted upon the raised benches which each guild occupied by itself. A

little stream ran through the meadow, and upon its waters boats were

continually being rowed, full of laughing men and women, girls and

boys. As each new guild disembarked, it planted its colours.

Refreshment stands were all about, and apprentices and journeymen were

having great sport.

The apprentices and girls began a fine dance, while the people kept

landing at the dock and coming from their boats.

There came the bakers, the tailors, and the smiths; then the informal

gaiety came to a sudden pause and the cry went up that the great

Mastersingers themselves had arrived. They disembarked and formed a

long procession, Kothner going ahead bearing the banner, which had the

portrait of King David and his harp upon it.

At sight of the banner all waved their hats, while the Masters

proceeded to their platform.

When they had reached their place, Pogner led Eva forward, and at the

same moment Hans Sachs arrived and again all waved and cheered loudly.

Eva took the place of honour, and behind them all was--Beckmesser,

wildly struggling to learn his great song. He kept taking the

manuscript from his pocket and putting it back, sweating and mumbling,

standing first on one of his sore feet and then upon the other, a

ridiculous figure, indeed.

At length, Sachs stood up and spoke to those who had welcomed him so

graciously.

"Friends, since I am beloved of thee, I have one favour to ask. The

prize this day is to be a unique one, and I ask that the contest be

open. It is no more than fair, since so much is to be won. I ask that

no one who shall ask for a chance to sing for this fair prize be

denied. Shall this be so?"

While he waited for an answer, every one was in commotion.

"Say, Marker," he asked of Beckmesser, "is this not as it should be?"

That rascal was wiping his face from which the sweat was streaming and

trying in despair to conquer the knight's song.

"You know you need not sing that song unless you wish," Hans reminded

him, aside.

"My own is abandoned, and now it is too late for me to make another,"

Beckmesser moaned; "but with you out of the contest--well, I shall

surely win with anything. You must not desert me now."

"Well, let it be agreed," Hans cried aloud, "that the contest shall be

open to all; so now begin."

"The oldest first," Kothner cried, thus calling attention to the age

of Beckmesser. "Begin, Beckmesser," another shouted.

"Oh, the devil," Beckmesser moaned, trying to peep again at the song

which he had not been able to learn. He desperately ascended the mound

which was reserved for the singers, escorted by an apprentice. He

stumbled and nearly fell, so excited was he, and so frightened at his

plight, for he did not know the song, and he had none of his own.

Altogether he was in a bad way--but he was yet to be in a worse!

"Come and make this mound more firm," he snarled, nearly falling down.

At that everybody laughed. Finally he placed himself, and all waited

for him to begin. This is how he sang the words of the first stanza:

Bathing in sunlight at dawning of the day,

With bosom bare,

To greet the air;

My beauty steaming,

Faster dreaming,

A garden roundelay wearied my way.

Only compare this with the words of the song as Walther sang them! The

music matched the words for absurdity.

"Good gracious! He's lost his senses," one Mastersinger said to

another. Beckmesser, realizing that he was not getting the song right,

became more and more confused. He felt the amazement of the people,

and that made him desperate. At last, half crazed with rage and shame,

he pulled the song from his pocket and peeped at it. Then he tried

again, but turned giddy, and at last tottered down from the mound,

while people began to jeer at him. Hans Sachs might have been sorry

for the wretch, had he not known how dishonest he had been, willing to

use another's song that he might gain the prize.

Beckmesser rushed furiously toward Sachs and shook his fist at him:

"Oh, ye accursed cobbler! Ye have ruined me," he screamed, and rushing

madly away he lost himself in the crowd. In his rage, he had screamed

that the song was Sachs's, but nobody would believe him, because, as

Beckmesser had sung it, it had sounded so absurd.

Sachs took the manuscript quietly up, after Beckmesser had thrown it

down.

"The song is not mine," he declared. "But I vow it is a most lovely

song, and that it has been sung wrong. I have been accused of making

this, and now I deny it. I beg of the one who wrote it to come forth

now and sing it as it should be sung. It is the song of a great

master, believe me, friends and Mastersingers. Poet, come forth, I

pray you," he called, and then Walther stepped to the mound, modestly.

Every one beheld him with pleasure. He was indeed a fine and

gallant-looking fellow.

"Now, Masters, hold the song; and since I swear that I did not write

it, but know the one who did--let my words be proved. Stand, Sir

Knight, and prove my truth." Then Kothner took the manuscript that the

Mastersingers might follow the singing and know if the knight was

honest; and Walther, standing in the singers' place, began the song a

little fearfully.

The Masters following him recognized the truth of all that Hans Sachs

had spoken, and presently dropped the paper in amazement. They became

lost in listening to the music, which swelled higher and higher,

growing more and more beautiful with every measure, till all the

people of Nuremberg sat spellbound. At last:

"His prize, his prize!" they shouted; and Pogner came to him weeping

with joy.

"It is thy doing," Walther said tremblingly to Hans; and then he was

conducted to where Eva awaited him. He stooped and she placed the

victor's wreath upon his head. But that was not the end. The

Mastersingers turned to Pogner:

"Herr Pogner, it is thy right to crown the knight who has won this

prize," and with that Pogner hung a golden chain about Walther's neck,

from which was suspended three medals. Walther would have refused it.

"I have a dearer prize than this, my friends," he cried, looking at

Eva.

"Nay, take thy chain, too," Sachs urged him, smiling. "That shall be

the sign of the Mastersingers' approval." Walther bowed his head and

received the chain, while the people stood up and shouted.

Thus in one day, the knight, Walther von Stolzing, became a bridegroom

and a Mastersinger.

LOHENGRIN

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Lohengrin, Knight of the Holy Grail.

Henry I, King of Germany.

Frederick of Telramund, a noble of Brabant.

The Royal Herald.

Gottfried, Elsa's brother, and mute.

Four nobles of Brabant.

Elsa von Brabant.

Ortrud, wife of Telramund.

Four pages.

Saxons, nobles of Brabant, ladies, and pages.

The story is laid in Antwerp, during the first half of the tenth

century.

First production at Weimar, Germany, August 28, 1850.

Composer: Richard Wagner.

ACT I

On a meadow on the banks on the river Scheldt, King Henry and his

Saxon nobles were one day assembled in their hall of justice, which in

those times was beneath a broad-spreading oak. From another petty

German political division had come Frederick of Telramund, with his

wife Ortrud. In turn they were surrounded by their own retainers from

their province, but all were assembled at King Henry's call to rally

in defence of the Kingdom.

When all were awaiting Henry's will, his Herald stepped forth and blew

a blast upon his trumpet.

"Hark! Princes, Nobles, Freemen of Brabant! Our sovereign has called

ye all to rally to his defence. May he count upon the loyalty of all?"

At once, the nobles took up the cry, and welcomed their sovereign to

the country. Then King Henry thanked them for their good will and made

the following announcement:

"Nobles, Freemen, all! I come not only to receive this welcome, but to

tell ye that Germany is in danger of invasion from the Hungarian

hordes; and that upon our frontiers there are German wives and

children praying for our protecting arms. As the nation's guardian it

is fitting that I make an end of this misrule which has left us

threatened again and again by this lawless people. As ye will recall,

I made a nine years' truce with our enemies, when they last tormented

us; and now the time is past, they demand a tribute which, for the

sake of our people, I have refused them. It is time for us to up and

arm against them, and once for all defeat them."

Henry spoke earnestly, with evident devotion to his subjects, and both

Saxons and Brabantians responded, but the men of Brabant looked to

their immediate Lord, Frederick of Telramund, for assent. He hesitated

a moment, and then stepped before the King.

"Great King," he said, "thou art here to judge, to listen to the

differences of thy people, to make wrong right, so far as in thee

lies, and on my part I will not stoop to falsehood. I have a

grievance. Thou knowest when death took away our beloved Duke, his

children, Elsa and Gottfried, were left in my charge. I became their

guardian. I treasured them and guarded their interests valiantly; but

one day, the two wandered forth into the forest. In time Elsa, the

elder, returned, trembling and seemingly full of fear. She was alone,

and when questioned about the safety of her young brother could tell

us nothing. We sought for him, but never found him. She pretended to

be in great distress, but her manner betrayed her guilt; of that I am

certain. There were but they two, alone, and yet she could give us no

intelligent story of his disappearance. A horror of the young girl

fell upon me. I could not bear her in my sight, because I felt she was

responsible for her young brother's death. Her hand had been offered

me in marriage by her father, but feeling that she was guilty, I gave

her up. I could not have married one who, in my mind, was so wicked.

Therefore I have chosen another wife, Ortrud of Radbod." As he spoke,

he brought his wife before the King and she made an obeisance.

"Now, my sovereign, I here charge the Lady Elsa with the crime, and

ask thee to punish her as may be fitting. I also claim that as a

fratricide she has forfeited her claim to all her lands; and as her

nearest kinsman, I claim them." There ensued a painful silence,

because the Lady Elsa of Brabant was a beautiful and gentle creature,

and it was difficult for any one to believe such a monstrous story of

her. Then arose a great outcry against the statement.

"Telramund, what hast thou said? This is a dreadful accusation."

"A fearful thing, indeed, Frederick," the good King protested.

"But if thou wilt consider, great King, there is cause for my belief.

The maid, believing herself sole sovereign of Brabant, now that the

boy was dead, became dreamy and strange, thinking upon some other with

whom she might wish to share both her fortune and her power. Me she

disdained, after her younger brother was gone."

The just King became very thoughtful for a time, then he said sadly:

"Summon the accused maid, and all of ye prepare to utter a just

judgment. Heaven help me to judge her rightly!"

The Herald again sounded his trumpet.

"Dost thou determine to hold thy court of judgment here, O King?"

"Aye! I will not rest beneath my shield until the truth is sifted."

Then all the Saxon nobles, who had instantly bared their swords,

struck them against the earth, but those of Brabant laid theirs flat

upon the ground.

_Scene II_

"Appear, ye royal maid, appear!" the Herald cried, and slowly from

behind the crowd of nobles the beautiful Elsa appeared. She left the

ladies of her court behind her, and stood forth quite alone.

"Behold!" all cried. "See how her face is clouded with sorrow!" She

appeared so beautiful and innocent that no one could believe in her

guilt.

The King asked her if she were willing to recognize him as her

sovereign and to abide by his judgment, and she bowed her head.

"Dost thou know the crime with which thou art charged?" he asked. Elsa

looked toward Ortrud and Telramund, and bowed her head. "Canst thou

deny the accusation?" he demanded in a kind voice. She shook her head,

sadly, for she was without defence.

"Then dost thou confess thy guilt?" he persisted, but her only answer

was:

"Oh, my poor brother!" All those present looked sorrowfully at her.

The King was much touched by her hopeless bearing.

"Come, Lady, confide freely in thy sovereign."

Then she stood alone and told what she knew had happened, as if she

were speaking in a dream.

[Music]

Oft when hours were lonely, I unto Heav'n have prayed,

One boon I asked for, only, to send the orphans aid;

I prayed in tears and sorrow, with heavy heart and sore,

Hoping a brighter morrow yet was for us in store.

Afar my words were wafted, I dreamt not help was nigh,

But one on high vouchsafed it, while I in sleep did lie.

I saw in splendour shining, a knight of glorious mien,

On me his eyes inclining with tranquil gaze serene.

A horn of gold beside him, he leant upon his sword,

Thus when I erst espied him 'mid clouds of light he soar'd;

His words so low and tender brought life renewed to me.

My guardian, my defender, thou shalt my champion be!

Thus she sang, while all present looked at her in amazement.

"She dreams!" they cried.

"Frederick of Telramund," the King cried, "it is hard to believe

wrong of this maiden. Think, while yet there is time, of what ye say!

Do not let any hate in thy heart make thee wrong a defenceless girl,"

he cautioned, while all the nobles protested that it seemed impossible

she could have done so foul a thing as that of which she was accused.

"Her dreamy mood may deceive thee," Frederick said, "but it has never

deceived me. Do ye not hear that she raves about a lover? I declare

that I have spoken truly, and who will dare give me the lie?"

Whereupon all the nobles of Brabant came forward to uphold their Lord.

"We stand by thee, Frederick of Brabant," they cried.

"I have always known thee to be honourable," the King replied, turning

his eyes sadly upon Elsa, who still stood gazing ahead of her, as if

half dreaming, or maybe seeing the vision she had described.

"Elsa of Brabant, I have no choice but to let Heaven decide for thee.

I have no proof of thy guilt or innocence. This knight Frederick is

known to me as an honourable man, and I cannot slight his word, so

Heaven alone can help thee." The King drew his sword and struck it

against the ground.

"Answer me, Frederick, wilt thou do battle here with whoever may

appear to defend this Lady?"

"I will, right valiantly," he answered, his wife urging him on to all

that he said.

"And thou, Elsa, wilt thou name thy champion, and leave thy honour in

his hands?"

"Aye," she answered, simply.

"Then name the man," the King demanded.

"Now we shall hear the name of her lover," Frederick said hastily. "It

will surely be he who was her accomplice."

"To whomsoever will defend me I will give all my lands and love," she

answered firmly, waiting for some knight to stand out from the others,

and declare for her cause and defence.

Each looked at the other, but no one spoke or moved. Then the King

cried:

"Sound the trumpet! Call the warrior knight by thy bugle!" The Herald

advanced with four trumpeters, whom he turned toward north, south,

east, and west, and had them sound their trumps.

"Who will here do battle for Elsa of Brabant," he shouted. No one

answered and the lonely, defenceless Elsa looked about pitifully, in

great anxiety.

"Ah, ye see how poor a cause she hath!" Frederick called, pointing to

her.

"Dear sovereign, once again I beg the right to call for a defender. My

knight dwells afar off, and cannot arrive at once."

"Again sound thy trumpets," the King directed the Herald, and again

they called to the four points of the compass. Still all was silent.

Then Elsa sank upon her knees, while the ladies of her court came

forward to crowd protectingly about her because they loved her very

much. She prayed earnestly that some defender might come to her, and

so affected were all present, except Frederick and his wife, that all

joined in her prayer.

Then a strange thing happened; those standing nearest the water's edge

saw a boat coming up the river, drawn by a lovely swan. In the boat

stood a handsome knight, so beautiful and kind of face, and so

glittering with silver armour, that they fairly held their breath in

admiration.

"See!" they cried. "Some one--a marvellous man appears upon the

river." All the others, excepting Elsa, who remained upon her knees,

went back to the river's edge to look.

"Oh, he is a brave knight--he stands in the prow--his armour gleams

like the sun--a swan draws him. He wears a helmet of light upon his

brow. He is nearing the shore!--He has golden reins upon his swan."

All but the King, Telramund, Ortrud, and Elsa were crowding about the

river's bank, to see the glorious sight.

Frederick and Ortrud were frightened, and cast strange looks of fear

at each other; the King rose from his seat to see; but Elsa, overcome

with joy, remained where she was, not even looking around.

"It is a miracle wrought among us," the nobles cried, and all the

ladies of the court fell upon their knees.

_Scene III_

The gorgeous knight drew to the shore. He wore his shield upon his

back, a little silver horn at his side, and he glittered and gleamed

in his beautiful armour in a way almost sufficient to blind one. The

people fell back to let him land, and Frederick looked frightened,

while the moment Ortrud saw the swan she was for some reason seized

with a terrible fright. As everybody bowed their heads, having doffed

their helmets, Elsa looked around and gave one great cry of joy at the

sight of her champion, who was the knight of her dream.

Lohengrin--for it was he--stepped from his boat, and with one foot

upon the shore and one upon his boat gave thanks to his swan for

having borne him so swiftly and safely.

"Now, thou trusty swan, return at once to that land whence we came,

and rejoice, for thy task is over." After he had bade it farewell, the

stately swan slowly sailed away.

Lohengrin came toward the King and bowed low.

"Hail! gracious sovereign. Thy name shall ever stand proudly in this

land. I have come to fight for this dear maid's honour. I ask her,

before thee all, if she will entrust to me her fame?" Elsa, so tender

and confiding, sank upon her knees before him.

"If thou wilt protect me I am thine forever," she answered.

"I must ask of thee one promise in return, dear maid. It is this: If I

win the fight in thy cause, and thou become my bride, never, as thou

dost love me, must thou ask whence I came. I must never be asked by

thee my name or race. This one promise alone must I crave of thee." He

waited hopefully for her answer.

His appearance was so noble that none could doubt him, and she

answered instantly:

"There is no doubt of thee in my heart, dear defender. I will never

question thee. I will ever cherish thy command." He raised her to her

feet, and embraced her.

"I shall guard and love thee always," Lohengrin answered, and led her

to the King who gave her into his charge. After that he stepped into

the midst of the crowd of nobles.

"I want you all to know that this maid is innocent. The tales of

Frederick of Telramund are false, and now I shall prove it by

vanquishing him in the fight. Great King, command us to begin." The

company drew back to their places, and the King commanded six knights

to measure a certain space upon each side, which he declared was a

fenced field for the combat. Three Saxon nobles advanced for

Lohengrin and three Brabantians for Frederick. When they had formed a

circle, all stuck their spears into the ground and waited.

The Herald declared that any one who interfered should lose his head.

He also declared that neither combatant should use magic arts in

fighting. The King stepped into the circle made for the fighters, and

prayed to Heaven to let the right conquer; to give the champion of the

right a stronger arm and more skill than his enemy.

The six men forming the circle stood beside their spears which were

stuck into the ground; the other nobles and freemen formed a larger

circle outside the battle ground, while Elsa and her ladies stood in

front, beneath the oak tree beside the King, and the fighters prepared

to enter the circle. The King struck his sword three times upon his

great shield which hung upon the tree, as a signal to begin. At the

first stroke the fighters entered the circle; at the second stroke

they raised their shields and drew their swords; at the third stroke

they began the fight. After a mighty battle, Frederick fell, and

Lohengrin placed the point of his sword at his throat.

"I shall spare thee, Frederick of Telramund. Repent in peace," he

said, standing aside that Telramund might get up from the ground. The

six men drew their spears from the ground, and the others who had

taken sides put their swords back into their scabbards, while Elsa

rushed into the knight's arms. The King cried to Lohengrin:

"Hail!" As Elsa sank upon the knight's breast, she sang of her love

for him and of her faith, and all rejoiced in having her innocence

proven, except Ortrud. She, indeed, looked dark and menacing.

"How comes my power to naught?" she questioned of her husband aside,

for in reality she was a wicked enchantress, who had lived in the wood

near to Frederick. Her wicked magic had turned him into a bad man, and

it was she who had made him accuse Elsa.

But the fear and resentment of those wicked people made little

impression upon the crowd of exultant nobles. The King banished

Frederick and his wife, ordering them immediately to leave the place,

while plans for the wedding of Elsa and Lohengrin were being made.

Frederick fell senseless upon the ground, and the youths, spreading

their mantles upon the shield of the King, hoisted Elsa upon it, and a

rejoicing procession of ladies, knights, and retainers moved away.

ACT II

In the great palace of King Henry I, at Antwerp, there were two parts,

called the Palas, and the Kemenate. The former was where the knights

lived, and the latter was the home of the ladies of the court. Late on

the night of the battle between Frederick and Lohengrin, Frederick and

his wife, Ortrud, were sitting without the palace, which was brightly

illuminated, thinking of the misfortunes their wickedness had brought

upon them. They were dressed in the garments of outcasts, as the King

had commanded, and especially was Frederick gazing at the brightly

lighted part where the knights were doubtless making merry since the

wedding of Lohengrin and Elsa was to be on the morrow. He knew that

had he been an honest man, he would have been among them and happy.

Music could be heard floating from the palace windows, and everything

spoke of gaiety and happiness.

"Come, arouse thyself, Ortrud. You have brought this upon us, now

rouse thyself, since it is near day, and we must be gone out of the

city."

"I cannot flee! Some strange thing holds me here. I shall avenge us,

you may be sure before I have gone from this place." She rose from the

steps upon which she had been reclining and went toward the palace,

looking up at the windows where the women dwelt in the Kemenate.

"I don't know what spell binds me to a woman so wicked as thou art,

Ortrud," Frederick exclaimed, watching her moodily. "I should leave

thee, and cast thee off. To tell the truth I never believed the crimes

with which I charged that maiden."

"Get thyself up," she cried to him, for he had thrown himself upon the

ground. "Thou art but a chicken-hearted creature, not fit for an

heroic woman like me."

"Thou art a black-hearted woman," he answered, and so they fell to

quarrelling vigorously. But at last, each being quite lost to

goodness, they felt their only help lay in each other.

"If thou wilt be a decently conducted husband toward me, I tell thee I

will use my enchantments to undo that strange knight, and then all

will be well with us." The lights in the palace began to go out, one

by one. "Now is the hour when the stars reveal their secrets to me,

Telramund," she said. "Sit here by me, and I will tell you who that

swan was who drew the knight's boat upon the river. It was the brother

of Elsa--enchanted,--whom we accused her of destroying. More than

that, the knight is ruined if the secret of his home and his birth is

discovered. If Elsa can be made to break her promise, and get him to

reveal these things, he will be compelled to leave her and return

whence he came. No one but she hath the power to drag the secret from

him; but should she do so, it is as I have said: all happiness is over

for them."

"But she has promised--she will never ask that fatal question."

"Do thou go forth and say that sorcery hath triumphed over thee, and

leave the rest to me. Rouse suspicion about this knight in every

breast. He who will not tell of his birth nor land is soon suspected.

Say that he won the fight by magic, and I will see that Elsa asks the

fatal question."

"She will never do it----"

"Well, suppose she does not; the magic of my father is not forgotten

by me. Let me tell you how we may force his ruin, even if we cannot

make her break her word. If that knight should lose one drop of blood,

he would be lost. All his power would then be gone."

"Oh, if I had but pricked his finger in the fight!"

"He would have been completely in thy power." As she said this, the

door of the Kemenate slowly opened, and Elsa came out upon the

balcony.

_Scene II_

Elsa was clothed all in white, and she came out into the night to

think alone of her knight, to thank Heaven for her deliverance, and to

take new vows of faith and steadfastness to her promise. All the while

she stood there, Frederick and Ortrud were watching her from below,

where they sat upon the steps.

"Now away!" she whispered to Telramund. "It is for me to be left alone

with this affair. I shall speak with her." Telramund, hoping that by

fair or foul means his wife would win him back his forfeited

knighthood, departed. After a little Ortrud called in a very sweet but

sad voice:

"Elsa!" Elsa started and looked over the balcony.

"Ortrud! What art thou doing here? Wert thou not told to go far away

from this place, where you tried so hard to wrong me?"

"Alas! Elsa, can you who are so happy, speak harshly to one so forlorn

and deserted? Indeed it was not I who harmed thee. Telramund had some

strange delusion, and it was he who cast a doubt upon thee. Now his

eyes are opened and he is wandering sadly and alone; but I have done

thee no harm. It was he who accused thee. I could not stay him. Yet I

must suffer for it all, while thou art happy and serene. I am glad of

thy happiness, but do not let it make thee unfeeling toward one who is

so wretched."

That touched the soft heart of Elsa, and she listened kindly. After a

little she spoke words of comfort to Ortrud:

"Hast thou no place to go this night?"

"Nay! We are quite abandoned; but I could rest well enough upon these

steps if I did not remember that you had suffered through Telramund."

That made Elsa's generous heart trouble her.

"Thou must come in, and stay this night with me," she said. "Wait here

and I shall return." She went back into the Kemenate, and the moment

she was left alone, Ortrud began rejoicing in the wickedest way,

because she had been thus far successful in deceiving Elsa. Elsa

returned with two of her maids bearing lights.

"Where art thou, Ortrud?" Elsa called before opening the door below

the balcony; and the sorceress threw herself upon her knees and

answered sweetly:

"Here, kneeling before thee, generous maiden."

"Thou art worn and unhappy, and to-morrow is my wedding day. I could

not be gay and know that thou wert suffering, so come in with me, and

sleep beside me, and to-morrow array thyself in fine clothing and be

happy with the rest of us." Ortrud pretended great happiness and

gratitude upon hearing this.

"Ah! Who would betray so gentle and trusting a maid?" Ortrud sighed.

"I pray that the glamour which surrounds thy knight who was brought

hither by magic may never depart and leave thee miserable." She sighed

again, as if she had some secret fear.

"Oh, I could not doubt him," Elsa cried. But the same moment a little

seed of distrust entered her heart. It was true she knew nothing of

whence he had come; and moreover was forbidden to ask.

"Nay. Thou must never doubt him," Ortrud said plausibly, "since thy

lips are forever sealed and ye can never ask one of those questions

which other maidens and wives may ask their husbands and lovers. It

would not do to doubt him. Thou must try to believe he is true and

good, as he himself has said."

Elsa looked doubtfully at Ortrud, whose words had made a sad

impression upon her, and yet she loved the knight so well she would

not own it. But Ortrud guessed perfectly that already she had made

Elsa suspicious and unhappy.

Trying to shake off the apprehension that was settling upon her

because of the wicked woman's words, Elsa led the way into the palace,

and the maids locked the door, and the day almost immediately began to

break. Frederick came prowling back, like some bad animal, looking

after the two women who had gone within.

"There went a woman of darkness!" he murmured, "but I can trust her

magic and her godless spirit to win back my fortunes." While he was

thinking upon these things the day dawned and two warders blew a blast

from the turret where they walked, which announced the wedding morning

of the knight and Elsa. A warder in another turret answered with his

trumpet, and soon people began to assemble from all the country round.

Frederick looked about for some place to conceal himself from the

crowd. Seeing some projecting ornamentation upon the porch of the

place where he and Ortrud had sat, he slipped behind and waited.

_Scene III_

Trumpets began to sound back and forth, from all parts of the vast

buildings of the palace. Soon the warders descended from their towers

and unlocked the gates of the court. The servants of the castle

entered, and went about their duties, some drawing water at the well,

some passing on into the palace, where they were employed to wait upon

knights and ladies. The four royal trumpeters went to the gates, and

sounding their trumps to the four corners of the earth, notified the

country round that it was time to assemble at the palace. Nobles and

inhabitants of the great castle entered and peasants and knights

living without the gates came from the road, till a magnificent host

were gathered for the occasion of Elsa's wedding.

When all had assembled, a Herald mounted a high place before the

palace.

"Now all listen," he cried. "By order of the King, Frederick of

Telramund is laid under a ban, and whoever shall serve him or take

pity upon him shall suffer his fate." The people cried curses upon the

false knight. "Furthermore," the Herald cried, "I am to announce that

the King has given to the brave knight who defended the honour of the

Lady Elsa a sceptre and a crown. The knight does not consent to take

the title of Duke, but he is willing to be known as the Guardian of

Brabant, and as such he will defend his people." All hailed the knight

joyously, and welcomed him as their guardian. "The knight bids me give

a message. All of you are to come to the wedding, but as soon as it is

over he bids ye take up arms, and to-morrow at dawn, he will go forth

with ye to rout the invader who has so long troubled our King." Again

all cried, "Hail!" They were delighted with the valour of their new

defender.

"We shall follow where he leads!" all cried, and turned to speak

enthusiastically with each other and to promise loyalty among

themselves.

In the midst of this rejoicing and good will, four nobles of Frederick

collected.

"Ye hear, do ye not, that we are banished?" one said; because they, as

supporters of Frederick against the Lady Elsa, were under the ban.

"What think ye? Are we too to leave home and country and fight a

people who ne'er harmed us, because of this new comer?"

"I feel as bitter as ye," another said. "Yet who dares affront the

King or resist his will?"

"I," said a cold and bitter voice, and as they turned, they saw

Frederick himself, standing by their shoulders.

"Great heaven! If thou art seen, thy life will be in danger!" they

cried.

"Do not fear. This very day I shall unmask this upstart knight!" He

was about to say more, but some pages ran gaily down the palace steps

and the Brabantian nobles pushed Frederick back into his hiding place,

in haste. Every one crowded round the pages, who they knew came before

Elsa and her ladies.

"Make way there!" the pages cried, forcing a way for the procession.

When a wide passage was made, Elsa and all her retinue appeared at the

door of the Kemenate.

_Scene IV_

A magnificent procession of great ladies and nobles, attended by

train-bearers and pages, came from the palace and crossed the court to

the Minster where Ortrud and Frederick had rested upon the steps the

night before and the bridal procession marched to fine music:

[Music]

While this march was being played, and the procession passing, all the

nobles bared their heads. As Elsa was about to pass into the church,

everyone cried long life and happiness to her, and the air rang with

shouts of rejoicing. But in the very midst of this fine scene, as Elsa

stood with her foot upon the church steps, Ortrud rushed forward and

confronted her. Her rage and jealousy had got the better of her

cunning and judgment.

"Stand back!" she cried. "I will not follow thee like a slave, while

thou art thus powerful and happy. I swear that thou shalt humbly bow

thy head to me!" Every one stood in amazement and horror, because the

sorceress looked very wicked and frightful, almost spitting her anger

at the lovely maid.

"How is this, after thy gentleness of last night?" Elsa murmured.

"Last night thou wert mild and repentant, why now so bitter?" She

looked about her in bewilderment, while the nobles sprang forward and

pushed back the raging woman.

All this passed as quick as lightning.

"Ye flout me! Ye who will have for a husband, one whom thou canst not

name!" She laughed derisively. That hurt Elsa very much because it was

true. Ortrud had remained with her through the night, and had

continued to say so many things which had aroused her curiosity and

fear, that she was thinking more and more of the fact that she knew

nothing whatever of her knight.

"She is a slanderer! Do not heed her!" all cried to Elsa.

"What is his race? Where are his lands? He is an adventurer!" the

sorceress continued to shout bitterly, each word sinking deep into

Elsa's heart. But she roused herself and suddenly began to cry out

against Ortrud, and to say how good and noble the knight was and how

tenderly she loved him.

"When he might have killed your husband yet he spared his life; that

was a sign of his great nobleness of heart!" she declared, trying to

forget Ortrud's words and to convince herself.

When the excitement was at its height and Elsa nearly fainting with

fright and grief, and her ladies crowding about her, the palace doors

again opened, the trumpeters came out, and began to blow their blasts,

while the King, Lohengrin, and the Saxon nobles and counts came in a

procession from the Palas as Elsa and her women had come from the

Kemenate.

_Scene V_

All hailed Lohengrin as Guardian of Brabant, and Elsa threw herself

passionately into his arms. At once he saw that something had

happened.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What is all this strife?" the King demanded, looking about upon the

scene. Then Lohengrin saw Ortrud.

"Horror! What is this wicked woman doing here beside thee?"

"Shelter me against her wrath!" Elsa pleaded. "I harboured her last

night, because she was weeping outside my door, and now she has tried

to drive my happiness from me." Lohengrin looked fixedly at Ortrud and

bade her begone.

"She hath filled thy heart with doubts, dear Elsa," he said, half

reproachfully and full of fear, because he saw a change in the maid.

She wept, and he drew her into the church, while the King and his

train turned toward the church also. Frederick then confronted the

King.

"O great King and deluded Princess! Ye have all done me a grievous

wrong. I accuse this stranger of undoing me with magic. I confront him

here and demand his name and land! If he has naught to fear or to be

ashamed of, let him speak." Everyone was full of hatred for Frederick,

but at the same time, the challenge had a kind of justice in it and

all were troubled.

"It is not thou who can humble me, base knave," Lohengrin answered,

looking contemptuously at Frederick. "It is not the doubts of evil men

that can harm me."

"Thou, O King, command him to tell his place and name," Frederick

implored.

"Not even the King nor any prince that rules the earth shall question

me upon these things," Lohengrin replied proudly, facing them all, as

they turned looks of inquiry toward him. "There is but one who may

ask--and she has given her word. She will not break it," he declared,

looking tenderly at Elsa, who still waited beside him at the entrance

to the church.

"His secret is his own," the King declared; "so have done with this

shameful scene! And thou, dear knight--no doubts shall disturb thy

happiness." All the nobles crowded loyally about him as the King

ceased speaking; but while they were taking Lohengrin by the hand,

Frederick got close to Elsa, who, he and Ortrud could see, was

troubled with womanish doubts.

"Let me tell thee something, Elsa of Brabant! If but one drop of thy

knight's blood is shed--a finger scratched--his power and magic are

gone. Give me leave to draw one drop of his blood, and all that he now

conceals, he will at once reveal to thee."

"Ah, do not tempt me!" she cried, afraid to listen, because she had

now become curious to learn Lohengrin's secret.

"I will say no more now, but this very night I shall be within call.

And if thou dost only speak the word, I'll enter and prick his arm

with my sword and instantly he will tell all, and can never more leave

thy side." Lohengrin saw Frederick had got the ear of Elsa, and in a

terrible voice told him to go, and chided Elsa gently for listening to

such a man. As he spoke she sank at his feet, full of self-reproach.

Lohengrin lifted her and embraced her lovingly, while she swore

eternal faith in him, and then all turned once more to the church. The

King, the nobles, Lohengrin with Elsa--all were passing in at last;

when Elsa, looking back just once, saw the arm of Ortrud raised in

menace and with an expression of triumph upon her wicked face. Elsa

turned terrified once more to Lohengrin, and they passed into the

church.

ACT III

After the ceremony and the festivities that had followed the marriage,

came the peace and quiet of night. The door of the bridal chamber

opened, and pages went in bearing lights, while the ladies of the

court followed, leading Elsa, and the King and nobles in turn followed

them, leading Lohengrin. It was a most beautiful room, with a great

open casement at the right, through which the night-breeze swept.

The nobles and ladies sang in chorus the most beautiful of wedding

songs:

[Music:

Faithful and true, we lead ye forth,

Where love, triumphant, shall crown ye with joy!

Star of renown, flow'r of the earth,

Blest be ye both far from all life's annoy.]

The King embraced Lohengrin; and the ladies, Elsa. Then the pages gave

a signal to go, and all passing before the pair went out in the same

order as they came in.

_Scene II_

After all had gone Lohengrin sat upon the couch beneath the open

casement and drew Elsa down beside him. He wished above all things to

drive from her mind all thoughts of the suspicion which Ortrud had

implanted. But even while he spoke most lovingly and reassuringly to

her, her thoughts were upon the mystery of his name. When he spoke her

own she looked at him reproachfully.

"Ah! my name sounds so beautiful to me from thy lips--if only I might

speak thine!" she complained. "If thou wouldst only tell me thy name,

it should never pass my lips." Lohengrin was sad upon hearing this. He

spoke of other things--of how beautiful the night was, and of how they

were to pass a long and happy life together; but still her thoughts,

poisoned by Ortrud, returned again and again to the forbidden subject.

"Oh! do not doubt me! Let me share thy secret whatever it may be," she

entreated. "I feel that I am not loved by thee, since I am not trusted

with thy story--not even with thy name." At last, after begging her to

be silent, after reminding her of her promise, after all the

persuasions he could think of, he rose and spoke sternly:

"I have given thee the greatest confidence, by believing thee free

from every stain. With no proof but thy word, I fought for thy honour.

I asked no word to prove thy innocence. In return, I desired only

silence from thee about my name and birth and land. It was partly for

thy sake that I asked even so much. Now I will tell thee. But--" He

hesitated, begging her once more to let them live in happiness, and

not to ruin all by her fatal curiosity. At that moment, Frederick and

his false nobles broke through the door with drawn swords. They had

come to draw his blood and thus to render him quite powerless.

But Elsa, though quite ready to ruin him herself by her curiosity,

would not let him be hurt by another. Lohengrin's armour was laid off,

but the sword was by the couch. Elsa snatched it, thrust it into his

hand and with a single blow he killed Frederick. The nobles fell upon

their knees before him, while Elsa fainted. Lohengrin looked upon the

scene, feeling nothing but despair. If his blood had not been shed,

yet to save his life he had been forced to shed the blood of another,

and he had thus been rendered helpless, quite the same. After a moment

he rang a bell which summoned Elsa's ladies, and bidding the four

nobles rise, he confided Elsa to the care of the women.

"Bear the corpse to the King's judgment hall," he said to the men, who

then did as they were bid. "For you," he said to the women, "take your

mistress into the presence of the King, and I will answer all that she

desires to know. Nothing shall longer be hidden." He went out with his

head bent and his thoughts very sad and melancholy. The day began to

dawn, and the lights were all put out, and again the trumpets sounded

in the courtyard.

_Scene III_

All repaired again to the river bank, where Lohengrin had first been

seen, drawn by his swan. A count first entered, with his train of

vassals. He came upon a horse, and was assisted from it by one of his

train. Then he took his shield and spear from his pages who bore them,

and then set up his banner, after which the vassals grouped themselves

about it.

Trumpets were heard on all sides and counts continued to arrive in the

same order as the first, all with their vassals, all setting up their

spears and their people grouping themselves about them. Finally, the

Herald who announced the coming of the King was heard, whereupon all

the banners were unfurled and the trumpets of each noble and his

people were sounded, and then entered the King and his Saxon men. As

the King reached the royal oak, all struck their spears upon their

shields, and cried:

"Hail!" The purpose of the gathering was to go forth against the foe

that threatened the Germans, the Hungarian hordes. When all were

beginning to wonder where the strange and brave knight was who had

them summoned for the hour of dawn, and who was expected to lead them

to victory, they saw the body of Frederick brought in by the four

false Brabantians. All stood aside in horror. They could not think

whose corpse it was.

"They who bear it are Telramund's vassals," some cried, and at the

same moment Elsa appeared, coming slowly and surrounded by her ladies.

The King met her and conducted her to a seat opposite the royal oak.

"Art thou mourning because thou art sorry to lose thy Lord so soon,

sweet Lady?" the kind King questioned. She tried to answer him, but

her sense of guilt was so great that she could not. The fearful things

that were about to happen and that had happened had been caused by her

woman's curiosity, and now that it was too late, she was filled with

remorse. Some one cried:

"Make way! make way! the Guardian of Brabant is coming." All looked

and saw the shining knight, Lohengrin. They hailed him joyfully.

"I come not to lead ye to glory," he answered sadly, and uncovered the

corpse of Frederick of Telramund. All shrank back. "Neither shall ye

condemn me. I killed him, but he came to seek my life. Your judgment,

O King!" he asked of Henry.

The King stretched his hand across the body of Telramund to clasp

Lohengrin's.

"The saints would not shield him: he deserved thy thrust," Henry

answered.

"Once more!--The Lady Elsa has betrayed her promise. I am undone. Ye

all heard her give her word that she would never ask my name nor

country; but her impatient heart hath broken that pledge, and her

injurious doubts now compel me to tell ye all." Everybody groaned and

cried out sorrowfully. They had entire faith in the brave knight, and

loved the Lady Elsa. All regretted that her curiosity had ruined a

fair future, deprived them of their defender, and made her own life

forever miserable.

"Now, mark well what I say," the knight cried, and while he spoke, his

face became illuminated with a kind of splendid goodness and faith in

his own integrity.

In distant land, by ways remote and hidden,

There stands a burg that men call Monsalvat;

It holds a shrine to the profane forbidden,

More precious, there is naught on earth than that.

And throned in light, it holds a cup immortal,

That whoso sees, from earthly sin is cleansed;

'Twas borne by angels through the heavenly portal,

Its coming hath a holy reign commenced.

Once every year a dove from heaven descendeth,

To strengthen it anew for works of grace;

'Tis called the Grail; the power of Heaven attendeth

The faithful knights who guard that sacred place.

He whom the Grail to be its servant chooses,

Is armed henceforth with high invincible might;

All evil craft its power before him loses,

The spirits of darkness, where he dwells, take flight.

Nor will he lose the awful charm it lendeth,

Although he should be called to distant lands,

When the high cause of virtue he defendeth,

While he's unknown, its spell he still commands;

By perils dread the holy Grail is girded,

No eye, rash or profane, its light may see;

Its champion knight from doubtings shall be warded,

If known to man he must depart and flee.

Now mark! craft or disguise my soul disdaineth,

The Grail sent me to right yon lady's fame;

My father, Percival, gloriously reigneth,

His knight am I, and Lohengrin my name!

When Lohengrin had ceased to speak, having told his story, all that

Elsa wished to know, everyone spoke softly. They were enchanted by the

knight's purity and goodness, and full of sorrow for the ruin which

Elsa had brought about. She herself cried out that all was dark; she

could no longer see; she felt that she was dying. As she fell,

Lohengrin caught her in his arms.

"Oh, thou wilt not leave me broken-hearted," she said when she could

speak.

"Alas! I must go. Thou hast brought this ruin upon thyself," he said

tenderly. "I was not free to tell thee, but if thou hadst been silent

for a year, according to thy promise, two things would have happened

to make thee happy. I would then have been freed from the bond and

could have spoken--and thy lost brother would have been restored to

thee." Hearing this the grief of all was insupportable. "I must return

to guard the Holy Grail," he said sadly. At that moment those nearest

the bank cried out that the swan was coming, drawing the boat.

Lohengrin handed his sword and horn and ring to Elsa.

"If thy brother ever returns after I am gone, give him these things in

token of me. The horn will bring him help in battle, the sword will

conquer every foe, and the ring will remind him of the one who most

befriended him and who saved thee from suspicion and dishonour." He

kissed her again and again in farewell, while even the nobles wept;

but as he was about to enter the boat the wicked Ortrud entered,

accused him of falsehood, declared that she had wound the golden band

worn by the swan around its neck, and that the swan was the lost

brother, enchanted by her. "If thy knight had remained here, his magic

spells would have brought thy brother back in his rightful shape, but

now he is lost to thee forever. The knight must go, and I will keep

the swan under my spell."

Lohengrin, who had stood upon the bank listening to all this sank

upon his knees in prayer. All looked toward him, waiting in awe to see

what would happen next. The white dove of the Holy Grail flew slowly

down and hovered over the boat. When Lohengrin saw it his face shone

with joy, he rose and loosened the chain from the swan, which

immediately sank out of sight. Then from the river, rose a youth in

shining silver garments, while Lohengrin stooped down and placed him

upon the bank. It was Gottfried, the brother of Elsa, and the heir of

Brabant.

"Behold thy ruler!" Lohengrin cried, affectionately looking at Elsa.

At the sight of Gottfried, Ortrud shrieked and fell down in a fit,

which might have ended in death. Lohengrin jumped into the boat and

the dove seized the chain which had hung loose since the swan had

gone, and drew it along. Elsa, roused from her stupor of agony, saw

her dear brother, and as he and she rushed into each other's arms, the

glorious knight slowly passed from sight, having brought joy to all,

even if he had left sadness wrought by a woman's curiosity.