Wagner Without Fear

by William Berger

  Act III, Scene 1

  Setting: The interior of Sachs’s ground floor workshop. The following morning.

  Sachs, alone, is at his table, poring over a large volume. David sheepishly enters, hoping Sachs won’t see him and scold him for his behavior the night before. The apprentice is dressed nicely and wearing ribbons for the festival, and carries a basket of food and flowers. He stammers some lame apologies. If only Sachs knew Lena as David does, he’d understand that David just couldn’t help himself when he saw her serenaded by a stranger. Sachs remains engrossed in his book. David assumes the silence means the Master is even madder at him than he thought. Sachs closes the book with a thud, instinctively making David drop to his knees. Sachs finally looks up. What lovely flowers and ribbons! he says, to David’s surprise.

  Sachs makes reference to the night before—perhaps it was Polterabend, the noisy celebrations before a wedding. David begs forgiveness again. Today is Saint John’s Day. Yes, says Sachs, hazily. He tells David to recite the poem he has been working on. David begins singing, but in his agitation, he is singing the tune that Beckmesser had sung the night before. He starts again, singing about Saint John on the banks of the Jordan, baptizing babies from all the nations. A German lady brought her child, and the saint named him Johannes, after himself, but back in Nuremberg, on the banks of the River Pegnitz, they called him plain old Hans.

  Hans! exclaims the none-too-bright David. This is Sachs’s name day too! He offers Sachs treats from his basket, but Sachs sends him along, bidding him to dress well as befits a Mastersinger’s herald and not to disturb the sleeping knight. David kisses Sachs’s hand, and leaves, much relieved.

  Comment: So David, who aspires to be a Master Poet of the German language, has just figured out that Hans is short for Johannes. Yet the libretto purports that this dim bulb recognized Magdalena in disguise across the alley, even though Pogner thought she was his own daughter when he stood close enough to pull her into the room. In fact, it is apparent that David did not recognize Beckmesser, whom he was thrashing, but still made out Lena’s form. Such, perhaps we are asked to believe, is the power of love on Midsummer’s Eve.

  Sachs leans back, deep in thought. Madness! Madness everywhere! He has looked everywhere, has studied histories of the city and the world to find the reason why people tear at each other till they draw blood. What can it be but the same old insanity, without which nothing—nothing!—happens. Someone ignites it, then no one can stop it. Even in good old hardworking Nuremberg, in the heart of Germany, with a bit of young love, the madness soon spreads through the streets and alleys. Then everyone is going at it, with clubs, fists, beatings, unable to quench the fire of insanity. What caused it? A goblin? A glowworm that couldn’t find its mate? The elder tree? Or Midsummer’s Eve? But now it is Midsummer’s Day, and let’s see how Hans Sachs can finesse the madness and accomplish a noble work! Because if madness won’t leave people alone even in peaceful Nuremberg, then let it serve those common endeavors that can’t come out right without a touch of lunacy.

  Comment: This famous Wahn monologue delves into Sachs’s humanity, which dominates the massive Act III. The word Wahn has many meanings, including madness, illusion, folly, and dream. It’s rather like the Italian word follia, if that’s any help.

  So what are we to make of Sachs’s ontological change from bemused instigator in Act II to philosopher of despair in this monologue? Today, he would be diagnosed as having bipolar disorder, but these shifting moods are central to the character of Hans Sachs. Actually, the cynicism of the philosopher is a far cry from genuine despair, as we see from the chipper finale of the monologue. It is the melancholia of the poet, which is only superficially at odds with the popular man of the people. Sachs is a man of broad outlook. This explains his role as intermediary between the tradition-bound rules of the guild and the free spirit of Walther, as well as his own position of shoemaker and artist.

  The long first scene of Act III is where we look at the people involved in the story in an intimate way. Besides the insights into Sachs’s character, the latent love triangle (Sachs/Eva/Walther), which has only been hinted at, comes out in the open.

  Walther comes out from the inner room. He is oddly transfixed, having had a dream so beautiful and delicate he hardly dares to recount it. Sachs informs him that the very art of the poet is the ability to recall a dream, since dreams are where all madness (Wahn) is revealed. The art of poetry is nothing but true dream interpretation. And did the dream perhaps tell Walther how he might become a Master today?

  Walther balks. He doesn’t want Masters’ honors, and besides, there’s no hope of achieving anything from that quarter. Sachs assures him there is hope, or he would have aided rather than stopped the attempted elopement of the night before. The Mastersingers are an honorable lot, despite their shortcomings. It’s easy to see why Walther’s beautiful song upset them with its passion. Walther questions the difference between a beautiful song and a mastersong. Sachs responds that all songs are beautiful in the springtime of life, but when someone can recapture that beauty after the cares of life’s later seasons have weighed him down, then he is a Master. Walther should learn the rules of the Masters, that they may help him in years to come. How can you recapture an image that has fled? Sachs picks up pen and paper and bids Walther recount his dream. Sachs will take care of the form.

  Comment: When Walther enters the room, the orchestra swells to music associated with Midsummer’s Day. Not only has the knight arisen from sleep, but something in him has arisen as well.

  Walther sings a verse about a lovely garden that invited him in one rosy morning. Sachs is pleased, and directs him to sing another just like it. Walther asks why, and Sachs explains it is like a wife to the first verse. Walther sings of a tree with gloriously healing fruit that grew in the garden. Sachs comments that this verse is also good, though it didn’t end in the same tone as the first, a detail that offends the Masters. But no matter. Such is the unpredictable nature of spring. He directs Walther to compose an aftersong, which is like a child of the first two verses. If the first two verses are a good match, it will show in the “children,” or last verse. Walther sings of a beautiful woman he saw standing next to him in the garden, who entwined his body and pointed to the fruit of the Tree of Life. Sachs, moved, praises the aftersong, even with its rather loose melodic form. Sachs orders a second section repeating the first three stanzas, since the meaning and the rhyme schemes are still incomplete. Walther sings a song whose melody roughly repeats what he has sung, but whose words tell of the power that arose within him that evening after he drank from the woman’s eyes. As he gazed into the sky, he beheld, instead of fruit, a host of stars clustering in the laurel tree.

  Sachs is deeply moved, saying that a third section would tell the meaning of the dream beautifully, but Walther has grown impatient. Sachs wisely lets the matter drop, telling Walther just to remember the melody and hold fast to the vision when he sings it for a wider audience. Walther asks what he means, but Sachs informs him only that Walther’s servant and baggage have arrived at the house, and Walther should dress himself splendidly for the stately adventures that await. They retire into the inner room.

  Comment: Many find this scene belabored, with its focus on the minutiae of the songwriter’s art and its elaborate metaphor of two verses “mating” to produce a third verse. Actually, it is a key scene, and perhaps the most modern episode in the whole opera, emphasizing the internal process of the artist over the concept of absolute art. This has been a central feature of twentieth-century aesthetic theory, for better or worse. Nor is the biological conception of art such a stretch, either. Dante, interestingly, includes a digression on the science of embryology within a discussion of poetic process in the twenty-fourth canto of his Purgatorio (i.e., almost in the middle of the Divine Comedy).

  The song in question, of course, will become, with new words and some musical refinements, the famous Prize Song of the next scene. There are echoes of W
alther’s Trial Song from Act I in it as well. The whole opera, then, is concerned with the birth process of this love song.

  Beckmesser looks in at the window, and, seeing Sachs’s shop empty, walks in. Although silent, he is obviously reliving the scene last night, where he got the bruises that now make him hobble around. He imagines David whacking him some more, and makes angry gestures toward Eva’s window. After some time, he leans on Sachs’s workbench and notices the paper Sachs had written while Walther was singing. So, he concludes, Sachs was writing a courting song of his own! Now the town clerk understands everything. He conceals the paper in his pocket when he hears footsteps approach.

  Comment: Wagner’s stage instructions for this episode are elaborately detailed, calling for an extended “dumb show.” “Dumb” might indeed be the operative word here, since all but the very greatest actors look pathetic making “gesticulations of ire and jealousy.” There’s also more than a touch of sadistic glee here. We already saw Beckmesser get beaten—now Wagner adds insult to injury, literally, by making him even more of an object of ridicule. It’s not easy to credit the author of the Wahn monologue with this cruel, and none-too-brief, bit of nonsense. The subtle orchestral dexterity of this scene, however, is among the best in the opera.

  Sachs enters, surprised at seeing Beckmesser. Sachs asks the clerk if his shoes are satisfactory. Beckmesser complains that they are too thin, and Sachs agrees they must be, with all the hammer strokes he gave them while counting errors in Beckmesser’s song. Beckmesser loses his temper, accusing Sachs of starting the riot the night before to further his own ends and steal the maiden for himself. But he’s on to Sachs now! Sachs says Beckmesser is deluded (“Wahn”); Sachs is not in contention for a bride. Beckmesser calls him a liar, and produces the love song, in Sachs’s handwriting, as proof. Sachs denies it still, and tells Beckmesser to keep the poem as a gift, so no one can call him a thief.

  Beckmesser is thrilled to have a poem supposedly written by the popular Hans Sachs. He praises Sachs, and looks forward to a renewed friendship—as long as there are no tricks involved, and as long as Sachs never lays public claim to the poem. Sachs assures him on both counts, but warns Beckmesser to study the poem carefully. It is difficult and needs just the right tone and melody. Beckmesser has no qualms there. He is a master melodist. He praises Sachs again, laughing at the young adventurer (Walther) who upset everything so. He promises to vote for Sachs for Marker at the next guild election, and leaves full of confidence. Sachs smiles wistfully to himself and declares Beckmesser the most malicious person he’s ever met—although the clerk’s thievery fits in very well with his plan.

  Comment: The Beckmesser grotesquerie continues unabated in this confrontation, but the music is well scored for the orchestra. In this scene, Wagner uses many light and witty figures in the orchestra—the kind we expect from operas that call themselves comic, but a rarity here.

  Eva enters the shop, confused though beautifully decked out all in white. She complains about her new shoes, first saying they pinch and then that they fall off. Sachs goes along with her charade, bending over her foot. Walther appears at the door to the inner room, dazzlingly arrayed in his noble best. Eva sighs at the sight of him, and Sachs slyly says he now sees the problem. He slips off her shoe and pretends to work at it, endlessly chattering about shoemaking and adding that perhaps he should court Eva after all, while the lovers gaze transfixed at each other and hear nothing. Sachs says he heard a lovely song this morning—if only there were a third verse to complete it! On cue, Walther sings the completion of the Dream Song, whose form and melody are on the model of the first two sections, but whose poetry finishes the vision. The stars of his dream become a crown on the brow of his beloved, who then crowns the poet’s head with a wreath, filling him with the rapture of Paradise. Sachs interjects to Eva, “This, my dear, is mastersong.” Before Walther finishes, Sachs pretends to fuss some more with the shoe, and Eva, overcome with several conflicting emotions, falls sobbing on his breast. Walther also grasps Sachs’s hand in gratitude, and there is a long moment of silent bliss while the three embrace. Sachs manages to extricate himself and leave the two young lovers leaning on each other.

  Comment: Even though Sachs had already declared himself “too old” for Eva, we are meant to understand his gesture here as noble, self-sacrificing, and wise.

  Sachs sublimates his own desire for Eva and emotion for the situation by singing a long and grumbling song about the unhappy life of a shoemaker. Nobody talks to him unless their shoes hurt. Even the young maidens toy with him. At last he masters himself, and cheerfully goes looking for David, who thinks of nothing but food and Lena. Before he can get too far, Eva grabs him by the arm. “Sachs! My friend!” she exclaims in great emotion. How much she owes him! He made a woman of her, and if the choice were hers, she would offer him her hand in marriage. Sachs, quite overcome, reassures her that he knows the story of Tristan and Isolde, and has no desire to play King Marke. His mood lightens when David and Lena appear at the door in their holiday best.

  Comment: This is the climax of the human drama. Eva’s cry of “Sachs! Mein Freund!” is as emotionally raw as anything in Wagner. It’s hard to make exact sense of what she says, since she really could have “chosen” Sachs at any time, but the music and their interactions here and in Act II make clear the warm relationship between them. This warmth could have gone astray, as Sachs understands so well, and he is noted as a character who has achieved a sort of wisdom in resignation, to use a Wagnerian vocabulary.

  The reference to Tristan is matched with an actual quotation of the beginning of that opera’s Prelude. Scholars go into conniptions over the “warm wit” of the quotation, while others justifiably see it as an example of how even the greatest artists are susceptible to moments of puerile self-indulgence. In any case, you can count on the know-it-alls in the audience, and anyone else who’s read the program notes, to jostle their neighbors and nod with the contentment of the Buddha when they hear the Tristan quote, just to let everyone around know that nothing’s getting by them.

  Sachs announces that a child, the song, has been born in his house. Sir Walther is its parent, Sachs and Eva Pogner are the godparents, and Lena and David must be the witnesses. But since, by local custom, an apprentice may not be a legal witness to a christening, Sachs orders David to his knees and cuffs him on the ear, thus giving the time-honored sign that he has attained the rank of journeyman. Now the child must be named; it will be called the “Blessed Morning Dream Interpretation Melody.” Let each of the party say a few words.

  Comment: It should be noted that, in nature, a live birth usually takes less time than this song’s birthing process. Promoting David is a lovely sign of generosity on Sachs’s part. The cuff on the ear was indeed the traditional ritual gesture accompanying promotion to journeyman, not unlike dubbing a knight, or, in another coming-of-age ceremony, the ritual slap given by a bishop to those receiving confirmation in Catholic tradition. Unfortunately, most people in the audience don’t know anything about a journeyman’s cuff on the ear, and assume it to be just another episode in Sachs’s and David’s ongoing S & M relationship.

  Eva praises the melody, and the prize (Walther) it will win for her; Sachs determines to subdue and use the yearnings that the song has stirred in him in his own love poetry; Walther asks that what the melody confides to his friends in the workshop may win him the prize in public contest; David and Magdalena express joy that David’s new status permits them to marry. Sachs sends Eva and Lena to Pogner, and takes Walther to the festival meadow. David closes shop.

  Comment: This, my friends, is the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the celebrated Quintet. There is no better moment of vocal ensemble writing in all opera, and few equals. Even the great Trio toward the end of Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier owes something to this, with its analogous contrast of young love and resignation. Although Wagner had certainly proven that he could write ensembles, with the first two acts of this
opera being proof enough for anyone, perhaps he wanted to show that he could write a good old “line ’em up at the footlights and sing pretty” type of quintet. It’s enough to make you want to scream (perhaps like Minna Wagner), “To hell with your theories, Richard! Write more beautiful music!”

  Act III, Scene 2

  Setting: A meadow on the banks of the River Pegnitz, with Nuremberg visible in the background. The people of the town have begun to gather and continue to arrive throughout the scene. There is a stage erected on one side of the meadow, festooned with banners and decorations. The people are dressed in holiday best, with ribbons, flowers, and all sorts of decorations.

  The guild of shoemakers enter under their banner, singing of their art, followed by the tailors, who sing of a tailor who once sewed himself up in a goatskin during a siege of Nuremberg, danced on the ramparts like a crazy man, and frightened the enemy away. The bakers march, singing that they feed the world. The apprentices run to the riverbank to help a boatload of pretty young maidens ashore. David is among them, forgetting his new status, and the apprentices tease him that Lena is watching. When David realizes this is true, he bids farewell to the maidens and runs to Lena.

  Comment: This is meant to be a scene of joy and fun unparalleled in Wagner’s works. Indeed, when the tailors “bleat” in imitation of the goat, it’s rather a unique moment for Wagner. Productions today try to make this as much fun as possible, and as far as possible from the regimented pageants popular during the Third Reich.