the lady is all that is attractive, and goodly sport
is expected. Hans Sachs himself, though past middle-age,
loves her, and might well hope to win; Beckmesser,
another master of the guild, means to do his best;
and a young knight, Walther von Stolzing, has just
become infatuated with her and she with him. He
cannot strive in the contest, however, not being a
master; and when he submits to a trial the guild rejects
him with scorn. Things have arrived at this point
at the end of the first Act. In the next, Walther
and Eva, desperate, resolve to fly under cover of darkness;
Sachs overhears them planning and sings a curious sort
of warning-song, letting them know that he is on the
look-out and will prevent the elopement; Beckmesser
comes to serenade Eva, and David, an apprentice, thinks
he has come after
his (David’s) sweetheart
and falls to fisticuffs with him; there is a street
row, amidst which Eva escapes into her father’s
house, while Sachs pulls Walther into his. In
the third Act Eva, who has already told Sachs quite
plainly enough that if only a master may win her,
and Walther cannot become a master, she prefers him
to any other, practically repeats her hint. But
Walther has composed another song and Sachs has devised
a scheme: if Walther sings his song he is certain
to be the victor, and Sachs has determined that by
hook or by crook he must sing it. Beckmesser grabs
the song, under the impression it is by Sachs; Sachs,
without committing himself, tells him to make use
of it at the contest if he can. The people gather
to watch and hear and judge; Beckmesser makes a muddle
of the song and is laughed off the scene; then Sachs
pleads Walther’s case, and he is allowed, though
not a master, to sing. He triumphs, and by one
stroke is admitted to the guild and wins the prize.
Virtually the play ends here. Sachs’ winding-up
address can only be dealt with in connection with
the music.
II
The personality, the soul, of Sachs, its conflict
with itself, its victory over itself and renunciation—undoubtedly
Wagner felt this to be the centre of the action of
the play, and undoubtedly without it he could never
have gained the impulse to write the drama at all.
It gives the note of seriousness, even sadness, without
which all humour is the crackling of thorns under
the pot, without which the play would be farce with
a trite love adventure thrown in. We may grant
that, and then ask ourselves whence came the impulse
to work the thing up into one of the longest of Wagner’s
operas. The impulse was the vision of old Nuremberg—a
vision as indissolubly blent with music as was the
vision of the river and the swan with the music of
Lohengrin. One may say truly that once
the germ of the dramatic action was in Wagner’s
brain he needed the musico-pictorial inspiration of
the scenic environment and atmosphere before the thing
took final shape and he could compose the music.