Part 4

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.