singular epoch when art and poetry, disdained by the nobility,
had taken refuge among the citizens and trades-people. Since the
disappearance of the Minnesingers, those minstrels of love so closely
resembling the French troubadours, the Mastersingers alone taught
poetry and music. These masters were also chiefs of corporations, and
their scholars, at the same time their apprentices, learned to stitch
a sole and hold a note, to scan a verse and cut a pair of breeches.
It is easy to imagine in what degree art must have languished in such
a state, how the many rules and laws of these narrow-minded men must
have trammelled the flight of inspiration, which must of necessity
fold its wings and walk in trodden paths. It was like a bird brought
up by a mole. If by chance a new-comer, possessing no science save
his own genius, ventured into the circle of poet-mechanics, it is easy
to imagine what a concert of imprecations assailed the freedom with
which he broke the laws, minutely woven by routine, as if they had been
spiders' webs. It is an event of this nature which Richard Wagner has
chosen to form the plot of his comedy.
Walter von Stolzing, a knight of Franconia, is in love with the
daughter of Pogner, a rich goldsmith of Nuremberg; but only he who
shall be proclaimed mastersinger at the next competition shall obtain
the hand of Eva. Walter, who does not know the first word of art,
wishes to compete. He endeavors to gain a little information from the
untutored David, pupil and apprentice of Hans Sachs. The scene passes
in the aisles of the church named after St. Catherine in Nuremberg,
which the apprentices are about arranging for the masters' meeting.
"So you wish to become master?" says David to Walter. "It is so
difficult then?" "The art of a master cannot be acquired in a day.
Here I have been a whole year with the greatest man in Nuremberg, Hans
Sachs, who teaches me poetry and shoemaking at the same time; when
I have tanned the leather well, he makes me repeat the vowels and
consonants; when I have waxed the thread well he makes me understand
rhyme. Well, where do you imagine I am now?" "Perhaps you have made a
good pair of buskins?" "Oh, no, I am not so far advanced yet," cries
the apprentice. "Let us see; do teach me," says Walter. "Very well;
know then that the masters' tones and modes are numerous, and that
each has its name; there is the long tone, and the too long tone, the
mode of writing-paper, the sweet tone, and the rose tone, the tone of
short love, and the forgotten tone, the mode of English zinc, of the
cinnamon stalk, of frogs, of calves, the mode of the deceased glutton,
and of the faithful pelican, and so through a long, long chapter." "Good
heavens, what is all that," cried the terrified Walter. "But it is not
enough to know the names," continued David, "one must understand how
to sing each mode without changing what they call the figuration and
the tabulature. For myself, I am not yet so far advanced, and my master
often sings the mode of the martinet to me, and unless my good friend
Magdalene comes to my assistance I myself sing the mode of dry bread
and water. Know then that a mastersinger is he who composes a new mode
in poetry and music."
Poor Walter is bewildered. His love, however, prevents him from
renouncing his project, and when Pogner advances, accompanied by
Beckmesser, a grotesque scrivener, who also aspires to Eva's hand,
Walter draws near his beloved one's father, and informs him of his
desire to compete. Soon the Mastersingers assemble to deliberate
in regard to the public competition of the morrow. Among the odd
physiognomies of the poet-mechanics the handsome face of Hans Sachs,
the illustrious poet-shoemaker, stands out in fair relief. Pogner
presents the young gentleman to his brother artists, announcing that
he wishes to take part in the competition. A cry is immediately heard:
"In what school have you studied? who are you masters?" "When, in the
depths of winter," said Walter, "the snow covered the court and castle,
seated in a corner of the tranquil fireplace, I read an old book which
spoke to me of the charms of spring; then soon the springtime came, and
what this book had taught me during the cold nights I heard re-sound
in the forests and fields: it is then that I learned to sing." Imagine
what shouts and shoulder-shrugs greeted this audacity. He is invited,
however, to give a specimen of his talent. He must improvise something;
but should he offend the rules more than seven times, his work will
be declared unacceptable. The marker, or marksman, armed with slate
and pencil, already steps into the box, where he is to shut himself
up to listen to the song, and mark down the faults. This marker is
Beckmesser, the competitor and rival of Walter. "Begin," he sings out
from the back of his place. Walter seizes this word, which is cast at
him like a defiance.
"Begin!" he exclaims, "it is the cry uttered to Nature by Spring,
and her powerful voice resounds in the forests, in the thickets; the
distant echoes reverberate them. Then everything awakes and becomes
animated. Songs, perfumes, colors are born of this cry." All the joy
with which the birth of spring can fill a young man's heart, sings
in Walter's voice. But the rules, what has he done with them? and
the tabulature,--the rules laid down in the tables? At each instant
the pencil is heard grating upon the slate, and soon even the marker
springs furiously from his box, declaring that there is no more room on
his tablet. Then every tongue is set loose, and all vent their anger
upon the young knight; he has heaped error upon error, folly upon
folly; he does not know the first word of art. "He even rose hurriedly
from his seat," cries one master, at the end of his arguments. In
the midst of this tumult, which becomes formidable, Walter resumes
his free and joyous song, as if to protest, in the name of reviving
nature, against this glacial breath of blighting winter. The frolicsome
apprentices, delighted with this confusion, surround the furious
assembly in a wild round dance, and ironically wish that Walter may get
the betrothal bouquet.
The second act shows us one of the picturesque streets of ancient
Nuremberg. Hans Sachs' shop opens upon one side, while on the other
stands Pogner's house. Sachs returns from the tumultuous sitting in a
thoughtful mood; he alone has been deeply moved by the young knight's
improvisation, and feels his old beliefs wavering. "Ah," he cries,
while the orchestra rehearses again and again fragments of Walter's
song, "I cannot retain this melody, nor yet can I forget it; it was
new, and yet it sounded like an old song." He enters his house and
sets himself at work before the open window. Eva, who loves the young
knight, comes and surprises Hans Sachs, and tries to obtain information
from him in regard to the meeting, and the manner in which Walter was
received. "Oh, as far as that goes, all is lost!" cries Sachs. "My
child, he who is born master will not make his fortune among masters;
let him go elsewhere in search of happiness." "Yes, he will find it
elsewhere," cries the young girl, angrily; "near hearts which still
burn with a generous flame in spite of envious and crafty masters."
Walter comes back, still quivering with rage; he wishes to carry off
his beloved and marry her in his castle. It is nightfall, the hour is
propitious, the street deserted. Eva consents to follow her lover; but
Hans Sachs, who watches over the two, sets his shutters ajar, and lets
the light of his lamp fall upon them; a luminous trail bars the way;
the two lovers are made prisoners by this ray.
Moreover, here is Beckmesser, who appears armed with a guitar; he
imagines that a serenade will dispose Eva's heart favorably, and he
begins a prelude. Sachs, for his part, has carried his bench outside,
and resumes his work; by this arrangement he can better overlook the
lovers. He attends to his work with all his might, and strikes up
a noisy song, to the infinite displeasure of the serenader. Several
windows are already half opened, and inquisitive heads are thrust out
to inform themselves of what is going on. Beckmesser will not yield; he
sings louder and louder to drown Sachs's voice, who will not, on his
part, be silenced. The confusion becomes extraordinary, the awakened
inhabitants come in haste from every side, and David, who thinks that
the serenade is intended for his friend Magdalene, Eva's servant, falls
upon the singer with clenched fists. Pitchers of water are thrown
from the windows upon the heads of the noise-makers; the delighted
apprentices come to increase the confusion; every one speaks at once;
they become exasperated, and quarrel; blows are given at random, and
the squabble becomes general.
All at once a trumpet sounds in the distance, and the crowd disperses
as if by magic; each one takes refuge in his own house, the windows
are again closed, and the night-watch, rubbing his eyes, persuaded that
he has been dreaming, advances in the deserted street. "The eleventh
hour has struck," he sings, "guard yourselves against spirits and
hobgoblins." The moon, meanwhile, shows its broad face behind a pointed
gable. The curtain rises again upon the interior of Hans Sachs's house.
Walter, who has passed the night under the shoe-makers roof, enters
the studio, worn out and discouraged, for the day which is dawning is
that of the festival and competition. All hope of gaining Eva is thus
lost. "Come, come," says Sachs, "do not give up yet; make me a poem
upon the dream, for example, which has traversed your brain during
the night." The young man obeys, and Sachs writes the verses, upon a
sheet of paper, which he designedly leaves upon the table while both
go to prepare themselves for the festival. They are hardly gone when
Beckmesser arrives, still covered with bruises from the night's battle,
of which the orchestra wickedly reminds him. His eyes light upon the
sheet of paper; he reads the verses and imagines that Sachs also wishes
to compete and aspire to Eva's hand. When the shoemaker returns,
Beckmesser reproaches him bitterly on this score and overwhelms him
with sarcasms.
"What is the matter with you?" says Sachs, laughing. "I have never
dreamed of competing, and as these verses please you, I give them to
you; do with them what you will." Beckmesser, thinking the verses those
of Sachs, the most skilful master of Nuremberg, joyously carries off
the fortunate manuscript, sure of victory. Eva, beautifully adorned
for the festival, but with a sad, pale face, enters Sachs' studio as
she passes. She has made a pretext of her shoe, which hurts her, she
pretends; but Sachs well knows where the shoe pinches, in spite of the
reproaches she addresses to him for not divining it. While kneeling
before her the shoemaker holds her prisoner, one foot shoeless, and
pretends to rectify the shoe in which she finds so many faults.
Walter comes out of the bedroom, and stands dazzled at the head of
the staircase before the young girl, more beautiful than ever in her
betrothal dress. Then enthusiastically he improvises the last strophe
of his song. Eva, palpitating with surprise and emotion, holds her
breath as she listens. "Well, does the shoe fit at last?" says Sachs,
in a troubled voice. Eva understands the good shoemaker is her friend
and ally, and throws herself weeping into his arms.
After a short interlude, the curtain rises again upon the site where
the festival is to be held. It is on the border of the river in which
Nuremberg reflects its pointed roofs, towers, and ramparts; in a vast
meadow which extends along the banks. Peasants and citizens arrive from
every quarter; joyous companies disembark from flag-bedecked boats;
the corporations advance with the flourish of the city trumpets; the
apprentices, gayly decorated, add their enthusiasm to the merry tumult;
they clasp nimble young girls about the waist and dance a rustic
waltz upon the grass. But a rumor in the crowd announces the arrival
of the Mastersingers. Silence is established, and the masters make
their appearance in great style. The charming Eva is near her father,
holding in her hand the crown destined for the conqueror. Hans Sachs
appears in his turn. Upon seeing him, a prolonged tremor runs through
the assembly; the crowd cannot contain its joy; the people's favorite
is received with loud acclamations, and by a sudden inspiration every
voice chants the song with which Hans Sachs greeted Luther, and the
dawn of the Reformation:--
Rouse thyself; the day is breaking;
A voice rises from the coppice:
I hear the song of the nightingale,
It resounds from summit to summit,
In the valley and in the field.
The night is sinking in the west,
Red dawn is gleaming in the east,
And the sad cloud takes flight.
It is difficult to give an idea of the power of this piece, which seems
to embody all human aspirations toward liberty.
The competition begins. Beckmesser, who has not understood one word
of Walter's poetry, scans it after his manner, and sings upon the
grotesque motives of his serenade. He becomes so perplexed that the
crowd, at first surprised, breaks out in a loud peal of laughter.
"After all," said the singer, spitefully, "the verses are not mine, but
Sachs's."
"Well, then, let Walter sing them," says Hans Sachs. The knight's
youth and grace impress the people favorably, and when his pure voice
resounds, and the poetry is heard in its own form, acclamations break
forth on every side. The masters themselves, disturbed, cannot conceal
their emotion. The enthusiasm is general.
The happy conqueror, transported with joy, kneels before his loved one,
who, trembling, lays upon his head the crown of laurels.
THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG.
INTRODUCTORY: RHINEGOLD.
When the curtain rises there are seen through a bluish penumbra the
vague depths of a stream, bristling here and there with black rocks;
a peaceful undulation agitates the water, which seems to be flowing
slowly. Suddenly a voice re-sounds, and an Undine, gliding from the
heights, swims in circles about a reef, on the summit of which a gold
nugget glitters; then two other daughters of the Rhine glide into
the water, and all three chase one another as they play about the
all-powerful gold, as yet virgin and untouched. But see! from the
river's obscure depths clambers an odd dwarf, who follows the Undines'
charming game with eager eyes. He frightens them at first. But they
soon laugh at their fears, perceiving that the dwarf is in love with
them. They make sport of him by pursuing him, tempting him, then
escaping from him; defying him with their mocking laughter. The sun
now passes above the stream, a ray falls upon the gold nugget, which
suddenly shines resplendent, and illumines the water to its depths.
"What is that?" cries the astonished Nibelung. "What," they reply, "thou
knowest naught of the marvellous gold? He who will be able to forge a
ring of this gold shall gain the heritage of the world; but in order
to acquire this power, he must first renounce love. For this reason
we have no fear that our play-thing will be taken from us, for every
one who lives loves. None will renounce the delights of love, and less
than any other, Alberich the Nibelung, who is almost dying of amorous
desires."
But the dwarf has listened with profound attention to the Undines'
prattle, which has so imprudently disclosed the secret of the gold.
He climbs from summit to summit, slips, falls back again, becomes
infuriated, but soon cries in a terrible voice, "Scoff now, perfidious
spirits, you will sport henceforward in obscurity, for I shall tear
the miraculous gold from the rock. I will forge the avenging ring,
and let these waters hear me: I curse love." And the dwarf plunges
and disappears with his luminous prey, pursued by the disconsolate
Undines. The entire stream sinks with them and slowly lays bare the
summit of a mountain where the gods are sleeping. On the top of the
neighboring mountain, which little by little emerges from the morning
vapors, appears, gilded by the morning sun, a strange and formidable
castle. It is the Walhalla, the magnificent stronghold which the giants
have just finished for the gods. Wotan and Fricka, upon awakening,
contemplate it with joy and surprise; but the goddess is anxious; the
rude laborers will claim their reward. Wotan has imprudently promised
them Frya, the sweet divinity of love. The task now being finished, it
must be paid for. It is Loge, the genius of fire, who has taken it upon
himself to find Frya's ransom; he appears at last, the mocking god; but
he has explored earth and heaven in vain. In no place has he discovered
that which can surpass the charms of love. One being only has given
preference to the dominion of gold, stolen by him from the daughters
of the Rhine.
The giants have lent their ear to this recital, and the desire
to possess this gold is aroused in them. Let them be given this
all-powerful metal, and they will relinquish the fair Frya; meanwhile
they carry away the charming goddess, who weeps and supplicates. Then
the heavens become darkened; a mortal affliction has taken possession
of the gods. Old age has suddenly come upon them; Fricka totters, Wotan
droops his head, the god of joy sees the roses of his crown fading,
Thor no longer has his flashes of anger; the hammer which makes the
lightning burst forth drops from his hand; youth, beauty, love are gone
with Frya. Wotan suddenly resolves to go and conquer this longed-for
gold. Accompanied by Loge, he descends to the gloomy kingdom, where
the gnomes forge their metals ceaselessly. He soon gains the mastery
over the Nibelung, possessor of the gold, which has already brought
into subjection all the blacksmiths, and he carries him off with his
treasures to the mountain of the gods. But the despoiled Nibelung still
remains in possession of the all-powerful ring. He presses it between
his fingers in supreme despair. It is in vain. Wotan wrests it from
him, after which he leaves him free to return to the bowels of the
earth. The vanquished Nibelung then rises, full of fury and despair.
"May this ring be forever cursed!" he cries; "misfortune to the
possessor of the gold; may he who has it not covet it with rage; may he
who possesses it retain it in the anguish of fear; cursed! cursed!" and
he replunges into the night of the Nibelung's home.
Frya has returned, and with her have joy and youth. The giants lay the
Nibelung's gold before her. They desire a heap large enough to cover
the goddess. She disappears, indeed, but her glance, like a star's
ray, darts through an interstice. Alas! the treasure is exhausted;
the ring only remains, which will just fill the fissure, but Wotan
will not give it up. The gods entreat in vain, when a solemn voice is
heard, and in a pale light slowly appears the ancient Erda, the pallid
divinity, older than the world, from whom nothing is hidden. "Yield,
Wotan," she says, "fly the cursed ring; I know what has been; I know
what should be. Hearken! All that exists will have its end. A time will
come when a sinister gloom will descend upon the gods. Separate thyself
from the cursed ring, and reflect with terror." Erda disappears. Wotan,
full of anxiety, casts the ring from him. Pride and strength, however,
are now restored to the gods. Thor brandishes his hammer, and in
a formidable and joyous voice invokes the wind and the clouds. The
heavens become overcast, the lightning flashes, the thunder peals
with a crash, and, while the rain descends in heavy drops, the Walhalla
is disclosed on the mountain summit, and the rainbow stretches its
semi-circle above the valley. The gods take the direction of this
luminous bridge to enter into possession of the castle, which glitters
in the setting sun. Then plaintive voices rise from the valley; it
is the daughters of the Rhine lamenting their brilliant plaything;
but the piercing music from the divine castle overpowers the Undines'
voices, and the gods triumphant enter the Walhalla.
FIRST DAY: THE WALKYRIA.
Here begins the human drama. Wotan is troubled since Erda's sinister
prediction, feeling that the shameful traffic which Walhalla has cost
him has lessened his divinity and disturbed the world's equilibrium.
Wotan has engendered a race of men of whom a hero shall be born, who
by his own force will wrest the gold from the giants and restore it to
its primeval place, thus expiating the fault of the gods. Sigmund is
the hero chosen by Wotan for this redemption. When the curtain rises
upon the second act it discloses the interior of a habitation of the
early ages. A venerable ash raises its enormous trunk in the centre
of the hall, and its verdant branches, extending in every direction,
support the canvas roof. A large stone serves as fireplace; on the bare
ground are spread skins of wild beasts; the gate is a high door made of
the trunks of trees. The tempest rages without. Sigmund, who seems to
be pursued by the angry heavens, enters staggering, and falls exhausted
near the fire-place.
A young woman, attracted by the noise, appears, and bends over the
stranger with compassionate surprise. Then, to revive him, she offers
him a horn of mead. Sigmund raises his eyes toward her; their
glances meet and remain fixed upon one another with an emotion rich
with trouble. But the young man suddenly raises himself. "Farewell!
farewell!" he cries, "I bear misfortune everywhere with me, let it
at least be kept far from thee." "Ah! remain," she replies, quickly,
"misfortune can do nothing where despair already reigns," and while
once more they contemplate each other in silence, overcome by growing
emotion, Hunding, the stern husband, the savage warrior, his helmet
bristling with curious ornaments, shows himself on the threshold. "It
is a guest, worn out with fatigue, who demands shelter," says Siglinda,
answering her husband's look of inquiry. "Hospitality is sacred to
me," says Hunding to the unknown; "may my house be sacred to thee,"
and with a gesture he orders the repast. Sigmund then relates from
whence he is come. Vanquished in a combat with a neighboring chief,
stripped of his arms, he was obliged to flee through the tempest.
"Thou makest light of misfortune," cries Hunding; "the chief whom thou
hast just named is my ally; thus hast thou chanced upon thy own mortal
enemy. I accord thee shelter beneath my roof, however, until morning;
afterward, out of my house, and let us meet in combat." And Hunding
retires with a sombre mien, dragging with him Siglinda, who casts a
despairing glance at the unfortunate guest.
Sigmund, spent with fatigue, falls again by the fireside, insensible.
Where may he find strength with which to defend himself? Who will
come to his aid in this bitter distress? Siglinda reappears. She has
poured out the juices of a sleep-making plant for her husband. The
stranger will be saved, provided he can wrench from the tree's trunk a
marvellous sword, which an old man once thrust into it. Truly the sword
is destined for Sigmund, for it yields at his first effort. Behold, it
glistens in his hand. Henceforward he fears nothing. He will be able
to defend the beloved woman, whom now he recognizes. Is she not his
twin sister, formerly carried off from the devastated fireside? He will
find her again, and wrest her from the enemy. "My love! my sister!" he
cries, passionately. And folding her in his arms, he bears her from the
sad dwelling through the moonlit forest.