Chapter II: Part 2

The master has kept his promise this evening, and has let us hear fragments from Parsifal. "Liszt's presence makes me lose my powers in a measure," he said, laughing, "he intimidates me, for I know that my false notes irritate him." Unfortunately, Liszt, who only yesterday improvised upon the piano in a delightful manner, blending with his own inventions motions from Tristan and Isolde, has slightly wounded his finger, and cannot play. It must certainly be acknowledged that Wagner is an imperfect pianist, and he is the first to laugh at his own imperfection. We notice, however, in a wonderful manner, certain passages which the author knows how to render with the true expression, better than any other. A few months ago, Liszt wrote to us: "Wagner has worked a new miracle, Parsifal. Those who already have the good fortune to understand this new work share this opinion; the singers are enraptured. Judging from the general impression, this ought to be a new transformation in the master's method,--one of those giant steps to which he is accustomed. In this instance the height and refinement of art combine to produce an effect of apparent simplicity and perfect serenity." This evening we take leave of our illustrious hosts, promising to meet them again next year at the first representation of Parsifal.

POETIC WORK.

WAGNER'S POETIC WORK.

FROM RIENZI TO TRISTAN AND ISOLDE.

The spectacle, which represents a series of lofty and still loftier peaks of a chain of mountains, at the moment when the morning mists envelop them, furnishes a just comparison to that given us by these works, which rise successively, one above the other, from the lovely green hill to the dazzling and, for many, inaccessible summits. From Rienzi to the Gloom of the Gods there is the same difference of attitude as between the Capitoline Hill and the Himalaya. And what gigantic strides from one work to the other. A powerful, enthusiastic genius already reveals itself in Rienzi; but it has done little more than assimilate, with the greatest facility, the beauties that had most charmed one in the works of its predecessors. Wagner likes show, pompous processions, the tumult of battle; the brilliant orchestra resounds, is carried away, enthusiastic; the power which moves it, not yet under control, expends itself in vociferations, heroic cries of extreme vehemence; but as yet nothing presages the innovator, if it be not the almost prophetic sense of the subject, so ardently revolutionary.

Between Rienzi and The Flying Dutchman lies an abyss. The young master, disdaining the success of his first work, judges it with severity and casts it aside; he considers it an essay. From the first he has equalled his models, but he feels that he is still far from his ideal; a new world palpitates in his mind; he must break the old moulds and fetters of routine that he may soar untrammelled toward unexplored regions. The artist, now sure of himself, definitely abandons historical subjects, whose too hard reality is not in keeping with the idealism of music. The natural poetry of legend and myth suits him far better. Henceforward the path is found, he will no longer turn aside from it, but continually enlarge upon its thought. From the popular song, hummed by the Norwegian spinners while turning their wheels, he will rise to the savage grandeurs of the northern theogonies. It was upon a sea-voyage, during a storm, which cast him upon the coast of Norway, that Richard Wagner induced the sailors themselves to repeat to him the frightful story of the Flying Dutchman--Ahasverus of the Sea, who, blaspheming, defied the storm with Satan's aid, and was condemned to wander eternally, he and his fantastic ship. But the mystical young girl, grown pale from the snow's reflections, who languishes with love for the damned one, carried incessantly through shipwrecks and lightning, will save him by her faithful devotion, even unto death, if he but reaches her.

This work seems to have come at a single stroke, under the inspiration of a violent emotion. The ocean, with its rage, its awe, its mystery and sweetness--all is in this music, which is like the sea's own soul. If a few traces of the old formulæ remain, it is only in the subordinate parts of the work. The orchestra is no longer a great guitar, accompanying a song; it already assumes a capital importance; the designs, dividing and blending, have a precise meaning; the whole, less noisy, acquires a power until then unknown. The orchestral tissue becomes the woof upon which the characters are embroidered; it becomes the ocean which bears the ship, the atmosphere which envelops the action, where the thoughts, the sentiments of the heroes, reverberating, amplifying, become visible, so to speak, and make the mind experience all that is inexpressible in the sensations of the soul.

The legend of Tanhäuser still exists in Germany, above all in leafy Thuringia, where the famous castle of Wartburg stands, which, under the hospitable landgraves of the thirteenth century, was the theatre of pacific contests, fought by the illustrious troubadours. In front of the castle rises a bare, dreary mountain, burned as it were, which makes a strange blot in the midst of the fresh vegetation of the neighboring valleys. This is the terrible Venusberg, inhabited, according to popular tradition, by a dangerous goddess. This divinity was formerly Hulda the beneficent, who came each year to awaken the spring, and wandered over the country scattering flowers under her feet. But being cursed by Christianity, she was obliged to take refuge in the unknown caverns of the mountain; she was soon confounded with Venus, the sovereign of the senses. The graces, syrens, bacchantes, and fauns constituted her court, and enchanting voices seduced those whose impure desires guided them toward the mountain; unknown roads enticed them, and they were borne away to the mysterious palace which it encloses, in the abode of eternal perdition, from which none return. The Knight Tanhäuser, curious and intrepid, found the path of the grottoes in the Venusberg, and was the spouse of the goddess during seven years, after which, his desires satiated and himself devoured with remorse, aspiring to human suffering, he succeeded in tearing himself from the arms of his love by invoking the Virgin Mary. He went and confessed to the pope, imploring his pardon, but the pontiff replied, "that having tasted the pleasures of hell he was forever damned." Then raising his crosier, he added, "Even as this wood cannot become green again, so is there no pardon for thee." The legend adds, that at the expiration of three days the crosier began to blossom, signifying that celestial grace is greater than that of a pontiff. It is from this recital, enlarged by a powerful spirit, that Wagner has taken his drama, inter-weaving with his own tissue the tradition about the famous contests of the poet-singers, and also the chaste and melancholy face of Elisabeth, whom he voluntarily confounds with the sainted princess whose virtuous life shed a lustre over the the castle. But what Richard Wagner has above all wished to bring out in this marvellous work is the eternal struggle between the flesh and the spirit, the brute and the angel, which, being in man, dispute his soul. And this he has rendered with incomparable clearness and grandeur. The discussions formerly raised by the representation of Tanhäuser have made this debated work better known than many others illustrious from success. It is useless, therefore, to speak of it further.

Lohengrin, which has never been represented in Paris, and which can scarcely be appreciated from partial executions of the most inferior order, is, strange to say, almost popular. Whoever has heard the orchestral prelude typifying the vision of King Titurel, when the angels bring to him the Holy Grail, can never forget this admirable passage, and the extraordinary impression which it produces. At first an almost imperceptible vibration takes possession of the highest notes of the flutes and violins. The air becomes agitated, the light approaches and grows larger, soon with an irradiation of trumpets the luminous vision shines resplendent in all its glory. The incomparable cup, cut from a stone, it is said, which fell from Lucifer's crown when he was precipitated from heaven, and which is now filled with the blood of the Saviour, is confided to the pure hands of a holy knight. Then the angels again take their flight, the glimmering becomes obliterated, and the atmospheric vibrations, which can no longer be heard, little by little diminish and die away. The curtain rises upon a site near the environs of Anvers, on the borders of Scheldt. We find ourselves in the tenth century. Henry the Fowler, King of Germany, has come to Brabant to convoke the noble lords according to the feudal custom. Frederick of Telramund, the most valiant of all the lords of Brabant, has just accused, before all the people, Elsa, Duchess of Brabant, of the murder of her young brother, who has disappeared, leaving no trace. The young girl possesses no method of proving her innocence; her cause then is to be submitted to the judgment of God. But when the herald has resounded the trumpet toward the four quarters of the world, no knight has entered the lists in her defence. Elsa, however, has confidence in a singular vision: a charming warrior has appeared to her in a dream; he will fight for her. However, the herald's second summons remains without response. It is then that, with an impulse of sublime faith, she throws herself upon her knees, and beseeches Heaven to send her the defender who has visited her in a vision.

Soon, in fact, the people, grouped upon the banks of the river, see in the distance, with increasing agitation, a strange bark drawn by a dazzling swan; it approaches, it draws nearer; a knight of wondrous beauty stands erect in the bark; his light helmet, his silver breastplate are resplendent, he rests one hand upon his shield. "A miracle! a miracle!" cries the crowd. "Can it be an angel sent by God?" The mysterious knight steps upon the shore. With a calm and modest voice he bids farewell to the beautiful swan which has conducted him and now returns to the unknown regions from which it came. Then the knight advances in the midst of the surprised and rejoicing multitude. "I am come," he says, "to defend the innocent girl unjustly accused. Who will do combat with me?" Telramund, notwithstanding the sacred character of his adversary, and preferring death to dishonor, raises the gauntlet and upholds the accusation. The knight draws near the enraptured Elsa, and in a sweet, grave voice, says to her: "If I bear off the victory, wilt thou that I should become thy husband? Then must thou promise never to seek to discover from what countries I come, nor what is my name or nature." "My shield, my angel, my savior!" cried Elsa, "thou who defendest me in my distress, how could I do other than faithfully keep to the law thou imposest upon me?" "Elsa, I love thee," murmurs the unknown knight with deepest tenderness. The king blesses the arms, and the combat begins. The knight gains an easy victory over his adversary, whose life he spares. Elsa's innocence is proclaimed by the entire people in a triumphal hymn of joy.

But Ortrud, Telramund's wife, daughter of the King of Friesia, who aspires to the throne of Brabant, succeeds in exciting feminine curiosity in Elsa, and in pouring the poison of doubt into her heart in order to blight her joy. She torments her until at last Elsa, distracted, violates her oath, exacting from her spouse the avowal of his origin. Doubt has killed faith, which carries with it all happiness; the night of love ends in despair. It is upon a meadow near the border of the Scheldt, amid flying, banners and flourishing trumpets, in the presence of Brabant counts, followed by their vassals called by King Henry for an expedition against the Hungarians, that the mysterious knight will unveil his origin. "In a distant country," he says, "upon a high mountain, called Mont Salvat, stands a magnificent temple, in which knights of absolute purity guard a miraculous cup; it is the Holy Grail, the cup in which Christ consecrated the bread and wine at the time of the Lord's Supper, and in which, later, Joseph of Arimathea received his blood. This cup had been carried to heaven by the angels, but they brought it back again to the holy king, Titurel, who founded the temple of the Grail, and the order of its knights. Those who serve the Grail are endowed with wonderful virtue, but an inflexible law forces them to remain unknown among men. If their name be discovered, they must immediately depart, and once more regain the sacred mountain. For this reason I must leave you, informing you that Parsifal, my father, is King of the Grail, and I, his knight, am named Lohengrin." The swan reappears upon the shore to bear the warrior away to his miraculous country; Elsa has destroyed her happiness; she sees her guardian angel depart forever.

Lohengrin is, perhaps, the most perfect of the three lyric dramas which form the second period in the master's work. From Lohengrin to Tristan and Isolde as great a distance is marked as between Rienzi and the Flying Dutchman. It is a new revelation, a new art,--something perfect and definite, a prodigious flight toward the future. There is no longer, so to speak, any question of music in the sense formerly attached to this word; it is poetry in superb and precise form, with a sonorous resonant soul,--Apollo and Orpheus melted in a single lyre. The works following may, perhaps, be grander, but Tristan and Isolde is and will remain the masterpiece of masterpieces, by reason of the poetical subject which, in art as in the human soul, takes by right the first place. In Tristan and Isolde love itself, in its most complete and perfect form, finds utterance. The most pointed phases of the passion are pushed to their extreme. In the first act it is unavailing love, heroically conquered, which consumes the heart while not a cry escapes the lips,--Tristan, conducting toward another the royal betrothed, whose hand he himself, in his blind love, has solicited for the King of Cornwall. Tristan's love believes itself despised. Isolde, consumed with anger and tenderness, powerless to master the tumult in her soul, wishes shipwreck to the vessel which bears her away, with the hero who disdains her, toward the shore which she hopes never to reach. "Death rather, death for us both!" she cries. And when the tempest betrays her, when already the hated land is signaled, she offers poison.

Tristan cannot refuse to empty a cup in Isolde's honor, to drink to their reconciliation, for a debt of blood lies between them, long since effaced by their unavowed love, but which she begins to remember. Tristan well knows that eternal forgetfulness is poured out for him by the hand which he secretly adores; he accepts with gratitude this mitigation of evils which have no remedy. On the threshold of death, however, both drop their mask, the fire then breaks out triumphant, love casts them into one another's arms in the intoxication of a supreme joy which should repay them for their past sufferings. Heart against heart, eyes looking into eyes, thus will their hearts cease to beat, and their mutual gaze be extinguished. But alas! they are betrayed; the two devoted followers have substituted for the mortal draught a love-drink, and instead of the kindly shade which reunited them, behold the detested shore, and the deceitful day which separates them.

Such a love once free can no longer be stifled or conquered. It is a formidable conflagration, a flame which death itself cannot extinguish. It has devoured everything,--loyalty, honor, virtue. The earth itself becomes effaced in the ravishing rapture of mutual possession. Infinite and sublime ecstasy follows, which no heart can have either experienced or foreseen. Their happiness even crushes and stifles them; the heart cannot contain such love, the human voice has no words to express it; the most burning embraces leave them disunited. Tristan and Isolde are two, and they would become one soul, a single thought, a scintillation of love in an unlimited night. Desperate and unsatisfied, they aspire to the infinity of death. They dream of a flight beyond all worlds in that mysterious shade which protects them upon earth, but over which the day and the empty phantoms of life triumph, ceaselessly inflicting the tortures of impending separation. The eternal and great night of love without the terrors of the morning! A long enchanting dream in unlimited space; no names to separate; a single flame; a single thought; a sweet swoon in each other's arms; the ardent rapture of death without end, without awakening! Such is their thought. But suddenly, behold the cruel day, and with it shame. This sublime love is dragged before the world, which calls it an indiscretion, and censures. Then follows the combat, in which Tristan, overcome with a divine ecstasy, is no longer the victorious hero, but falls mortally wounded.

When we see him again, in the agonies of death, it is in the ancient dungeon of his ancestors in Brittany. The faithful shield-bearer has taken him across the seas in a bark. Now he is sheltered from all surprise. But Isolde? When his eyes, which seem to be forever closed, will awake to life, if they are not gladdened by his soul's sweet sovereign, they will close again forever. Isolde knows her loved one's retreat; she is coming to him, but the minutes are centuries, and the sea is deserted and void, even to the silent horizon. See, the hero now comes to himself with the dear name upon his lips. Tristan cannot die while Isolde is still in the empire of the sun. The gates of death, which had already closed upon him with a clang, reopen wide before this invincible desire to see once more her with whom alone he can lose himself in eternal night. Void and deserted is the sea! Thus it is that the fury of despair tears Tristan's soul. Love and fever mingling their delirium, he writhes upon his bed of pain with cries of superhuman suffering. Nothing can render the impression of this frightful agony, in which the flame of love cannot be extinguished by death, of this distracted and expectant soul, retarding the supreme departure. At intervals the hero falls to the ground, seemingly dead; but when the weeping shield-bearer stoops to hear a last sigh, a last palpitation, Tristan in a low voice murmurs the name of Isolde! Yet once again hope springs to life in the breast of this martyr to love; he perceives the ship, although common eyes cannot distinguish it, and on the ship Isolde, who makes a sign to him. "Dost thou not see it yet? Tender and majestic she crosses the breadth of the sea like a sovereign; she comes carried toward land as by waves of intoxicating flowers; her smile will pour out supreme consolation. Oh, Isolde! Isolde! how beautiful, how welcome art thou!" The ship is, in truth, signalled. The soul's eyes are not deceived. All sails spread, it flies over the waters. She approaches--she, the enchanting one, she comes. What delirious impatience, what joyous transports!

"Intoxication of the soul, rapture without measure, impetuous and overheated, blood, how shall I support you chained to this couch? Up then, up, on the march toward the beating heart!" Already Isolde's voice is heard, and the hero throws himself, staggering, from his bed. She comes, she calls him, holds her arms toward him; but he can only die at her feet, uttering for the last time the infinitely-beloved name. "Ah, live with me yet one hour, only an hour," cries the distracted Isolde in her despair. "I have only lived through so many days of anguish and desire to watch one hour with thee. Do not die of thy wound, let me heal thee, that safe and strong we may share the sainted delights of night." The flame is extinguished, the soul has fled. Isolde, always faithful, will follow Tristan in death. Already the loved one draws her toward the mysterious land; mighty waves seem to overpower her. Her ears resound with murmurs of the infinite. Night, consoling night, gently envelops her, overwhelms her. She is drowned, lost, to unite herself forever to the twin flame, and loses herself in the divine breath of the universal soul. It is almost impossible to imagine the intensity of expression which this poem, so passionate, so intense in itself, acquires united to the magic of music. It is like the vital energy of the soul, a supernatural rapture. The intoxication and the acute torments experienced in hearing this work are ineffaceable. All who have entered into its transcendent beauties, and undergone its terrible charm in all its power, recognize that no other artistic impression is comparable to that which makes itself felt in this extraordinary work. Many volumes in all languages have been written upon Tristan and Isolde; many will still be written, for it is the magnificent prerogative of a great masterpiece to be the perpetual inspiration of noble minds.

THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBURG.

The scene of this piece is laid in the sixteenth century, at that 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.

In the second act we see again the mountains inhabited by the gods. Wotan joyously announces to Brunhild, the beautiful Walkyria, armed with silver helmet and cuirass, that to-day she must award the victory to Sigmund, the beloved hero of the gods. But while the happy Walkyria utters her war-cry, and bounds from summit to summit on her black horse, Fricka, the jealous goddess, protector of conjugal vows, arrives in her chariot, drawn by rams. She demands vengeance for the outraged Hunding. "This Sigmund whom thou protectest," she says, "is not the free hero who should redeem thee, for thou hast guided him, pushed him to this end. Sigmund must die." Wotan is overcome. The goddess is right. Sigmund has not acted by his own free-will. He must then abandon this unfortunate youth. The god, overpowered with grief, comes, however, to this conclusion. The hero, doomed to perish, must be conducted by the Walkyria to Walhalla. Here come the fugitives, pursued by the infuriated Hunding. Siglinda, at the end of her endurance, swoons in the arms of her fraternal lover. It is then that the saddened Walkyria shows herself to Sigmund. "Who art thou," he says, "who appearest to me so beautiful and so grave?" "Those who behold me have only a few hours to live," she replies. "Soon thou wilt follow me to the dwelling of the gods." "And Siglinda, will she come also?" he asks. "No; she must still live on earth." "Then thou deceivest thyself; I will not be separated from her, for we will both die here." And he raises his sword over Siglinda.

In the face of this love and sorrow, the Walkyria for the first time feels herself moved by a human emotion. "Stay!" she cries, "go without fear to the contest; I shall protect thee." Soon the savage Hunding shouts his defiance to Sigmund; the adversaries meet in battle upon a summit half lost in the clouds. Hunding is on the point of triumph; but the Walkyria appears in a light, and covers Sigmund with her buckler. Wotan, irritated by Brunhild's disobedience, shows himself also in a storm-cloud, and setting loose the lightning, shatters the sword in the hands of Sigmund, who falls mortally wounded.

The third act shows a rugged rock upon which Brunhild's sisters, the Walkyrias, reunite after the combat. Here they come in haste, riding through the clouds illuminated by the lightning; they call to one another joyously, with savage cries, striking their arms tumultuously. But Brunhild arrives all tearful; she has brought in her arms Siglinda, who does not wish to survive her lover. "Live!" she says to her, "live for the brave hero whom thou bearest in thy bosom." And she gives her the precious fragments of Sigmund's sword. "Save her, my sisters, save the poor woman," she adds; "for myself I must remain here to suffer the punishment of my fault." In fact, Wotan's voice resounds, full of anger. He soon rejoins the guilty goddess who has violated the supreme command. "I obeyed not thy order, but thy secret wish," says Brunhild. The god, alas! is not free, primordial laws enchain him; he cannot pardon. The fallen Walkyria must sleep upon the road at the mercy of the first comer who will find her. "So be it," she says; "but surround me with a sea of flames that he who will approach must at least be a hero." With what sadness does the god separate from his dearly-loved one, and take her divinity from her in a supreme kiss! She is now only a sleeping woman, around whom a flaming rampart is lighted.

SECOND DAY: SIGFRID.

After Sigmund's death Siglinda, having taken refuge in a wild forest, gave birth to a son, and died, confiding him to the Nibelung, Mime, whom Alberich, first possessor of the gold, had formerly forced to forge the all-powerful ring. The deformed dwarf had brought up the descendant of the gods in his cave, not in the spirit of devotion, but with the sole idea of making him of service later in the conquest of the gold, the object of all desires. Sigfrid is now a handsome youth, impetuous and uncontrollable, whose heroic spirits are awaking, and who dreams of conquering the world. Meanwhile he reigns master of the forest; the joyous sound of his silver horn replies to the birds' songs; the young madcap bounds with the roe and overthrows the deer. There he comes rushing into the cavern; his pealing laugh resounds. He drags after him, to Mime's terror, a black bear, which he has just got into his possession.

But these sports and contests satisfy him no longer. Impatiently he questions the dwarf in regard to the world, to him unknown; he wishes to get away, leave the forest never to return. Mime then shows him the fragments of the sword shattered by the lightning in Sigmund's hands. Siglinda has bequeathed it to her son as the most precious of inheritances. Sigfrid takes possession of these fragments of steel, lights the forge fire, and throws the pieces into the crucible. Then raising the heavy hammer with a triumphal song he completely reforges Wotan's sword. He soon brandishes it, still smoking, and with a single blow he cleaves in two the anvil, henceforward useless.

Mime then conducts the young hero to the wildest part of the forest, before the cave where the giant Fafner, in the form of a dragon, guards the gold wrested from the Nibelung. Sigfrid, laughing all the while at his hideous aspect, fights with and kills the monster. He disdains the treasure, taking only the ring, of whose power he is ignorant, and a magic helmet which permits the wearer to assume any form. The young man, as if weary, throws himself at the foot of a tree all bathed in sunlight; he listens dreamily to the thousand rustlings of the forest. An unknown desire stirs his heart. While the birds fly in couples he is alone. He thinks of his mother, of this mysterious being, man's companion, whom he has never seen, and of whom he knows nothing. The song of a bird flying over his head finally captivates his attention. He listens; he seems to comprehend the meaning of this song. The bird speaks to him. May it not be his mother's soul? "Ah, Sigfrid," it says, "now thou possesses! the treasure, thou should'st conquer the most beautiful of women. She sleeps upon a high rock, surrounded by flames; but shouldst thou dare to pass through the furnace, the war-like virgin would be thine." And Sigfrid, filled with enthusiasm, follows the bird, which takes its flight as if to guide him toward the lovely bride.

In the third act we see Wotan again. Leaning over the brink of a gulf, in gloomy anguish, he invokes Erda, the lurid goddess who sees the world's destinies; he will question her once again in regard to this fall of the gods, which she has announced to him. At this sovereign voice the sleeper rouses herself; with half-closed eyes she slowly rises from the abyss, wrapped in her dull veils, and covered with dew. But she has no further information to give to Wotan. The end is inevitable. As if submerged by their own creation the gods will become effaced before men. "So be it," cries Wotan, wearied perhaps of his divinity; "it is to this end that I aspire." However, when Sigfrid, leaping from rock to rock, his eyes fixed upon his winged guide, passes near Wotan, this latter tries to bar his way; but the free and fearless hero breaks the god's lance with a single blow of the sword which, without assistance, he has forged for himself. Then he rushes joyously to the assault of the burning rampart, passes fearlessly through the furnace, beholds at last the sleeping warrior in her silver cuirass; and, all quivering with love, awakens her with a kiss.

THIRD DAY: GLOOM OF THE GODS.