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Our Savior was gladly baptized at your hands.
And He offered His death as a sacrifice.
So that we might gain salvation.
May we be worthy of His sacrifice.
Hail, John the Baptist.
Receive us in your grace...
...there by the River Jordan.
Stay! Just one word!
Oh, I forgot my shawl.
Careless child. I'll have to look for it.
Fraulein, forgive my breach of custom.
But I must know, I must ask...
I'd risk anything! Life or death!
Your blessing or curse! Only answer me with one word.
-Oh, the clasp! -It fell off?
Will it be light and joy, or night and death?
Will I hear what I long for...
...or what I dread?
Here's the clasp. Come, child.
You have your shawl and clasp. Oh, now I've forgotten my book!
Will you say the word that will decide my fate?
Answer yes or no.
Are you already betrothed?
Sir, we are much obliged to you.
You honor us by escorting young Eva.
Shall I tell Master Pogner, her father, you'll visit him soon?
If only I'd never entered his house!
You arrived in Nuremberg only yesterday, and he welcomed you.
Doesn't he deserve thanks for all his hospitality?
Lena, that's not what he means. He wants an answer from me.
I can barely explain it myself. I feel I'm in a dream.
He asks if I'm betrothed.
Let's go home at once, before people hear him.
Not until she answers!
Sir Walther, let's meet somewhere less public.
First an answer!
Oh, David is here!
Sir, your question isn't easy to answer.
Eva Pogner is betrothed -
But no one knows the bridegroom yet.
No one will know who he is...
...until the judges name him tomorrow.
As a Mastersinger!
And the bride crowns him with a victory garland.
A “Mastersinger?”
Are you not one?
There's a song contest?
And a prize?
For the one the Masters favor.
And the bride will choose...?
You or no one!
I want the nobleman to win!
But you met him only yesterday.
He overwhelmed me at first sight.
I'd seen him long before in a picture.
Doesn't he look exactly like David?
King David with the harp and long beard?
No, the David who defeated Goliath...
...with a pebble and a sling.
Just as Master Durer painted him.
Who called me?
David, what confusion you caused!
Have you locked us in here?
You are locked in my heart.
What nonsense are you up to?
I'm at work, arranging the seats for the Masters.
There's an audition today.
Any apprentice may try out if he obeys all the contest rules.
He may become a Mastersinger.
Then this nobleman has come to the right place!
I'll escort you to Master Pogner.
No, wait for him here.
You've chosen the right time and place to win Eva's hand.
Let David teach you the rules of the contest.
Look after this nobleman for me.
You can ask more of me tomorrow...
...if he becomes a Mastersinger today.
-When will I see you? -This evening!
Who knows how I will fare?
This is new to my heart, new to my mind.
Everything is new to me now.
I know only one thing: that I must win you, heart and mind!
If I cannot succeed with my sword...
...then I'll have to win you as a Master, with song.
I pledge my soul to you.
I pledge my heart to you.
I pledge a poet's sacred resolve!
A Master?
What nerve!
Don't just stand there.
Set up the booth for the Marker.
I've done enough already. You do the work, for a change.
How conceited he is! The model apprentice.
Just because he works for Sachs, the cobbler.
He sits at his bench, writing poetry.
He writes verses on raw leather.
Well, we should tan his hide!
Begin!
Begin!
That's what the Marker calls.
Then you have to sing.
What's a Marker?
You've never been at a song contest?
Now where a cobbler can be a judge!
Are you a Poet?
I wish I knew.
-Are you a Singer? -How should I know?
You're not a friend of the School or a Scholar?
I've never heard any of this before.
Yet you want to become a Master right away?
Is it so difficult?
Oh, Lena!
Give me advice.
Sir, to be a Mastersinger...
...you can't learn in one day.
I'm studying with Nuremberg's greatest Master, Hans Sachs.
I've had a whole year of instruction, to develop as a Scholar.
I'm learning shoemaking and poetry at the very same time.
As I beat the leather smooth, I learn to shape vowels and consonants.
As I wax the thread, I understand what makes a rhyme.
As I swing the bodkin and stitch with the awl...
...I learn which sounds are blunt, which are ringing.
Which words are long, which are short.
Which are hard or soft, which are strong or muted.
Which are pronounced, elided, or elongated.
I've learned all this with great care.
And where has it gotten me?
Far enough to make a good pair of shoes!
I've still got a long way to go.
A song has several stanzas.
And you must follow the rules exactly.
Just as you need the right thread, you need the right two stanzas.
Then there's the After-song which shouldn't be too short or long.
And it needs a different rhyme scheme from the other two stanzas.
But even if you learn all this, it still doesn't make you a Master.
Don't teach me about cobbling.
Teach me the art of singing.
I wish I'd gotten further as a Singer.
Who knew it would be so difficult?
There are so many names for the Masters' notes and melodies.
The strong and the gentle... who can learn them all?
There are short notes, long notes, and extra-long notes.
There are writing-paper notes and black-ink notes.
There are red, blue, and green notes.
There are hawthorn-blossom, straw, and fennel melodies.
There are tender notes, sweet notes...
...and rosy notes.
There are love-is-gone-and-forgotten notes.
There are the rainbow and nightingale melodies.
There are even English-pewter and linden-blossom melodies.
There are frog, bleating calf, and goldfinch melodies.
Even a melody for over-eating!
There are lark, snail, and barking melodies.
There are tawny-skin-of-a-lion, and pelican-beak melodies.
What an endless list!
Those are only the names.
Next, you have to sing them according to the Masters' rules.
Every note must ring clear when the voice rises or falls.
Don't start out too high...
...or too low for your range.
And save your breath, so you won't have a cracked voice at the end.
Don't rumble on after a word.
And don't overdo the trills or the coloratura.
Just follow in the Masters' footsteps.
But suppose you get mixed up and lose your place?
Even if you did everything else right, you still wouldn't qualify.
In spite of all my efforts, I haven't gotten very far myself.
Whenever I fail, my Master plays his leather-strap song on me!
And if not for Mistress Lena...
... I'd be singing the bread-and-water song.
Let me be an example to you.
End your delusion of becoming a Master.
For you have to be a Singer and Poet...
...before you can become a Master.
What makes a Poet?
What makes a Poet?
When you achieve the status of Singer and perform the Masters' songs correctly...
When you can create rhymes which fit the Masters' tunes perfectly...
...then you might win the Poet's prize.
David, do you want us to complain to your Master? Stop chattering!
Unless I do it myself, everything goes wrong!
But who is named Master?
The Poet who fashions words and rhymes of his own invention...
...and then sets them to his own new melody.
He is recognized as a Mastersinger.
I must win the Master's prize!
I must find the best melody for my verse.
That won't work.
You arranged the box and chair all wrong.
There's song-school today.
They're holding auditions.
David's so clever. He's aiming for the highest prize.
He fancies himself a great Singer.
He knows the leather-strap song.
And the poor-hungry song.
And he knows the hard-kicks song the best.
Because his Master beat it into him!
I'm not auditioning today.
Someone else is on trial.
He's not a Scholar or a Singer. He says he's not even a Poet.
But he's a nobleman, and with one leap...
...he thinks he can become a Master.
So set up the stand for him.
Keep the board handy for the Marker.
The Marker!
Aren't you afraid of him?
He's caused many a candidate to fail the test.
He allows you seven mistakes, which he marks with chalk.
If you make more than seven mistakes, you're undone!
So be on your guard. The Marker will be watching!
Good luck with your Master-singing. May you win the victory garland.
That precious silk-flowered garland...
...will the nobleman win it?
Beckmesser, my decision will only benefit you.
You'll win the song contest. Who could compete with you?
One condition disturbs me.
If Eva can refuse the winner, what good are my talents?
Why should that worry you?
If you doubt you'll win my daughter's heart...
...why should you woo her?
Speak to the girl on my behalf.
Tell her of my tender feelings. Say that I, Beckmesser, am the right choice.
I'll try it.
How will I win her?
You came to see me here at song-school?
Women are so foolish. They prefer pretentious glitter to poetry.
It was my love of art that brought me from the country to Nuremberg.
I just forgot to tell you yesterday.
I wish to become a Mastersinger.
Master, admit me to your Guild.
Hear this most unusual case.
This nobleman, whom I know well, is turning to the Master's art.
I'll try to win Eva's heart by serenading her tonight.
In the stillness of the night, I'll see how she responds to my song.
Who is this man?
I'd be delighted. It'll be like old times again.
I don't like him. What does he want here?
Such a smiling air...
I helped you sell your estate and now I'll receive you into our Guild.
I thank you for your kindness. Is there hope for me then?
Am I eligible to compete for the prize?
May I be named a Mastersinger?
So fast! What nerve!
Everyone must follow the rules. I'll nominate you for today's audition.
Sachs is here, finally.
Call the roll.
The Masters have been invited to attend this audition.
I shall call the roll.
First, I'll call my own name: Fritz Kothner.
Are you here, Veit Pogner?
-Kunz Vogelgesang? -Here as well.
Hermann Ortel?
I have arrived.
Balthazar Zorn?
Here always!
Konrad Nightingale?
True to his call!
Augustin Moser?
Never missing!
Niklaus Vogel?
He's ill.
May he recover quickly.
Hans Sachs?
Don't answer for me! I, Hans Sachs, am present.
Sixtus Beckmesser?
I stand next to Sachs to rhyme impossible words like wax!
Ulrich Eisslinger?
Hans Foltz?
Hans Schwartz?
The last one. God wills it!
We have almost full attendance.
Now let's choose the Marker.
Are you in a hurry to elect another man? I'll gladly resign.
Put that aside for now. Will you allow an important proposal?
Tomorrow, we celebrate the Feast of St. John on Midsummer Day.
There will be games, dancing, and feasting.
With joyful hearts, we'll set aside our cares.
The Masters will leave their solemn song-school in the church.
With merry music, they'll go into the open meadow.
There, outdoors, all the townspeople may hear the song contest.
Prizes will be awarded for the winning songs.
And those who offer the prizes will be praised, like those who win them.
I've become a rich man - with God's help!
And so I must give what I can.
I've considered what offer would be generous enough.
Here is what I have decided.
I've travelled widely in German lands.
It vexes me that the burgher is dishonored and considered stingy.
Interested only in haggling and gold...
In all of Germany's wide realm, we burghers most cherish Art.
I want to restore our honor, and prove we treasure beauty and goodness.
And that we value Art and its worth.
Masters, hear the gift I will offer as a prize.
One singer will win the prize before all the people on Midsummer Day.
He shall be rewarded by me, a friend of Art...
...Veit Pogner of Nuremberg.
He shall receive all the goods I have acquired.
And Eva, my only child...
...as his bride.
This shows what a man from Nuremberg can do!
Many would give up their wives!
Bachelors, here's your chance!
This will be a free choice, for the maiden herself will be a judge.
The Masters will determine the prize. As for the marriage...
...reason must prevail.
The bride will still have the deciding vote.
Does that seem wise?
The maiden has the final say over us?
If she doesn't agree, the Masters' decision will be meaningless.
Let her heart choose.
Leave the singing out of it.
You Masters will award the prize.
The maiden can refuse the winner.
But she cannot choose another.
She may marry only a Mastersinger.
Only the man you crown.
Perhaps you're going too far.
A maiden's heart and the Masters' art do not glow with the same ardor.
A woman's mind is untutored...
...and shares popular opinion.
If you want to show the people that you value Art...
...let the child make her own choice.
If she opposes your verdict, then let the people judge.
They'll surely agree with the maiden.
Sachs, you'd sacrifice the Masters' rules to the people's choice?
No, you didn't understand me.
I know the rules quite well.
I deem it wise to test the rules once a year.
Just in case they've become weak and lifeless, dulled by habit.
We need to affirm we're still in tune with the natural order.
And only those who don't know the rules of composition can judge that!
That makes our apprentices happy!
It's time you descended from your exalted clouds as Masters...
...and mingled with the people.
You say you seek to please the people.
Well, let the people tell you that themselves.
Then both the people and Art will bloom and flourish.
That is my respectful opinion, say I...
...Hans Sachs.
-You're all wrong! -When people speak, I hold my tongue!
Art is threatened when it panders to wide popularity.
Sachs has already gone overboard. He writes street songs!
Let's not try too many new things at once.
Do the Masters approve of my gift and the rules?
The maiden's vote is quite enough for me.
This cobbler infuriates me!
Who is entering the competition? He must be a bachelor.
Or a widower, perhaps? Just ask Sachs!
Marker, the suitor should be younger than you or me...
...if Eva is to be the prize.
Younger? What a rude remark.
Let the competitors step forward.
Let me recommend someone according to my right as a Master.
A nobleman wishes to audition as a Mastersinger today.
Come, Noble Stolzing.
Just as I suspected! So that's your scheme, Veit!
It's too late to admit him!
Before we accept this nobleman...
...he must answer our questions.
Although I wish him luck, I won't overlook any of our rules.
Is he a freeman and honorably born?
I can testify for him.
He is a freeman and of noble birth.
I know Walther von Stolzing of Franconia.
He is the last survivor of his family.
He recently left his estate to live here in Nuremberg.
An upstart! A trouble-maker!
Our friend Pogner's word is good enough.
No matter if he is a lord or a peasant.
A Mastersinger is chosen solely by his Art.
With what Master did you study?
By the quiet fireside in wintertime...
...castle and courtyard lay deep with snow.
I read how sweetly Spring once laughed.
And how she would soon awaken again.
I read this in an old book, left to me by my ancestor.
Herr Walther von der Vogelweid was my teacher.
A good teacher.
But long since dead! How could he have taught him the rules?
In what school of singing did you study?
When the frost melted in the meadows, summertime returned.
All that I had read in my old book during the long winter nights...
...now echoed in the splendid forests.
In the woods at Vogelweid, I learned how to sing.
So finches and titmice taught you the Masters' melodies?
He already sang two very nice stanzas.
Master Birdsong, you like him because he learned from the birds!
I think this nobleman is in the wrong place.
If he has talent and uses it well...
...who cares who taught him?
Sir, with your own words and melody...
...can you manage to create a Mastersong?
One of your own composition?
I call upon all the winter night, the forest, and the book taught me.
And all that was revealed in the wondrous power of poetry's song.
I recall the rhythm of my horse's hooves and merry dancing.
All of this rings in my soul.
Now I must attempt to win life's highest prize with a song.
Let my own words and melody unite in one inspiration.
And let a Mastersong pour from my lips before you, Masters!
Can you understand this torrent of words?
Well, he's bold enough.
What an unusual case...
Let the Marker's booth be prepared.
Will the gentleman choose a sacred theme?
Love's banner is sacred to me.
I shall wave it, and sing with high hopes.
That, we call profane.
Go, Master Beckmesser, close yourself inside.
A bitter task, especially today.
My chalk is bound to cause anguish.
I, Sixtus Beckmesser, am the Marker.
And in the Marker's booth, I'll silently carry out my duty.
You are allowed seven mistakes.
I'll mark them down with chalk.
If you make more than seven mistakes...
...you're disqualified, noble sir!
I shall be listening carefully.
But you may be discouraged if you're able to see me.
So I'll leave you in peace, and go behind this curtain.
God help you!
For the guiding principles of your song...
...here are the rules of composition.
Each verse must be strictly structured.
The song is divided into different but harmonious sections.
The first section consists of two stanzas with the same melody.
Each extends for several lines, with the same rhyme scheme.
These are followed by an After-song which is also several lines long.
But it must have a different melody from the stanzas.
Each Mastersong must be composed of several such verses.
Whoever creates a new song must not use more than four notes...
...of another Master's song.
Then he may win the title of Master.
Now sit in the Singer's chair.
It is the custom of the School.
For you, my beloved, so be it!
The Singer sits.
Begin!
Begin!
So does the cry of Spring ring through the forest.
Its echo rolls across the hills like a mighty wave.
In the distance, the sound gathers power as it returns.
The song surges and swells. The wood is a chorus of lovely voices.
Like the pealing of bells, a roar of jubilation rings out.
The woods answer the call.
All join in the sweet song of Spring.
Winter, consumed by jealousy and grief, hides in a thorn-hedge.
Grim Winter waits, as dry leaves rustle about him.
How he wants to destroy this joyful singing!
But “Begin!”
That was the call within my heart when it knew nothing yet of love.
I felt it rising deep inside me, waking me from a dream.
The trembling beats of my heart fill my breast.
My blood is pounding, stirred by this new feeling.
In the warm nights, my ardent sighs swell.
What a wild turmoil of joy!
How quickly my heart answers the call which brought it to life.
Sing on, almighty Song of Spring!
Are you finished?
There's no more room on the slate!
I'm just coming to the part which praises my beloved.
Sing away. You've already failed!
Masters, look at this slate.
In all my life, I've never seen anything like it!
Won't you hear me to the end?
Replace me if you like.
But first, I'll prove this nobleman has ruined his chances.
He had no proper beginning.
And such a faulty arrangement of lines.
Either too short or too long.
And no proper ending. Who can call it a stanza?
And such obscurity! Could anything be more senseless?
And the melodies! A wild jumble of notes!
I didn't understand any of it.
No coloratura, no melody anywhere.
You call that a song?
Why list all his faults? Just disqualify him!
Stop, Masters. Not so fast.
Not everyone here shares your opinion.
His song was new, not confused.
He left our usual paths, but he went his own way quite firmly.
You're measuring him only by your own rules.
Forget your prejudices.
Understand his new construction
Sachs is opening the door for amateurs!
He'd let them sing any old way.
Let him sing in the market and the streets.
Here, we admit only those who follow the rules.
Marker, why such upset?
Your judgment would be better if you listened better.
We should hear the nobleman to the end.
And our Masters' School?
It means nothing to Sachs!
God forbid I should ask anything that defies our laws.
It is written, “The Marker's judgement must not be clouded by hatred or love.”
You yourself hope to walk down the aisle.
But must you disgrace a rival before the whole School?
Masters, no more discord.
It's not Master Sachs' business where I want to walk.
Let him concern himself about his shoes pinching my toes!
Ever since my cobbler became a Poet...
...my footwear has gone to the devil!
Let him leave his rhymes at home, and bring me new shoes tomorrow!
That may be good advice. But tell me, Masters...
If I write a little verse on the donkey-driver's soles...
...shouldn't I write one for our learned town clerk?
I haven't found one worthy of you with my humble poetic gifts.
But it will come to me, when I've heard the nobleman's song.
Let him sing on!
Enough! An end!
We don't need to hear more!
Out of the dark thorn-hedge, the owl flies.
How the ravens croak and bite!
A wondrous bird soars up on golden wings.
Its dazzling plumage sparkles in the breeze.
Masters, be quiet and listen.
Marker, give us some peace. Let us hear him.
It beckons to me to fly away!
Over 50 mistakes so far!
Let the nobleman win the prize!
He failed! He's disqualified!
Farewell to you, Masters!
Midsummer Day! A day of flowers and ribbons!
If only I could win that victory garland!
Sing that silly song by yourselves!
David, if you weren't so dumb, you'd look around.
You didn't even notice Lena!
I've brought delicious tid-bits for my sweetheart.
But first, did you teach the nobleman well? Did he win?
It was very sad. He sang and failed.
But why do you care?
Heavens! Our nobleman failed!
Congratulations to the young suitor. What a lover!
He gave her his heart...
...but she wouldn't even give him dinner!
Hold your tongues!
Midsummer Day! Every man woos the girl who pleases him.
The Master woos... and the apprentice, too.
What kissing and cuddling.
Old men woo young maids. Apprentices woo old maids!
-You're fighting again? -They were singing coarse songs.
Well, be above them. Now light the lamps.
Do I get a singing lesson today?
No, not after your outburst.
Put the new shoes on the last.
Let's see if Master Sachs is home.
I'd like to talk to him. Shall I go in?
He seems to be home. There's a light.
But what good will it do?
When one risks something unusual, how can anyone advise him?
Did Sachs think I was going too far?
But straying from the beaten path should have pleased him.
But perhaps it was vanity, too.
And you, my child?
You have nothing to say?
An obedient child speaks only when spoken to.
How wise.
Come, sit here outside with me.
Isn't it too chilly now?
No, it's mild and refreshing.
Tomorrow should be a beautiful day.
Doesn't your heart pound, thinking of the happiness tomorrow will bring?
When all Nuremberg, with its burghers and commoners...
...its guilds and high councils all gather before you.
So that you may award the noble garland as the prize.
To the Master of your choice!
Does he have to be a Master?
Only a Master of your choice.
Yes, of my choice... Let's go in to supper.
-We have no guests. -Not the nobleman?
-Didn't you see him today? -Yes, but it didn't go well.
I never realized...
What a foolish idea mine was.
David says your nobleman failed.
Lena, I'm terrified! How can we find out for certain?
Ask Sachs.
He's devoted to me.
Of course I'll go see him.
Your father will notice if you're late.
After dinner - well, someone asked me to tell you something in secret.
The nobleman?
No, Beckmesser.
Move my bench and stool by the door.
Now go sleep off your foolishness.
And be more sensible tomorrow.
You're working late.
Why does that concern you?
(Why was Lena angry? )
( And why is the Master up so late? )
Sleep well, Master.
How strong and sweet the scent of the lilac tree is.
So powerful, yet soothing.
Its beauty stirs my entire being.
It makes me want to express myself.
But what can I say of value?
I'm only a poor, simple man.
If I don't take pleasure in my work, too bad for me.
I'd best stretch my leather...
...and forget my poetry.
And yet, that song won't leave my mind.
I feel it, but I don't understand it.
I can't get a hold on it...
...yet I can't forget it.
And even if I grasp it, I can't measure its worth.
But then, how could I measure what seems so limitless?
It didn't fit any of the rules...
...yet it had its own perfection.
It sounded old...yet it was new.
Like a bird song in sweet May.
If anyone tried to imitate the song of the bird...
...he'd be ridiculed and disgraced.
The sweet necessity of Spring urged him on.
It put the song in his heart.
And then he sang as he had to.
And since he had to, he succeeded.
He found his way.
Today he sang as sweetly as any nightingale.
He made the Masters uneasy, but he certainly pleased Hans Sachs!
Good evening, Master. Still working?
Eva, my child, you're up late.
Is it because of your new shoes?
No, I haven't even tried them on yet.
They're so beautiful.
And so elegant. I don't dare put them on.
But won't you wear them tomorrow as a bride?
No one knows my bridegroom.
So how do you know I'll be a bride?
The whole town knows that.
Then you have it on good authority.
But I thought you knew more.
Do I have to explain myself?
Am I so stupid?
Or are you too clever?
You know nothing! You say nothing!
Pitch is not wax.
I thought you could discriminate.
I'm familiar with both pitch and wax.
I waxed the silken threads to sew your dainty shoes.
Today, I'm using a thicker thread for a rougher customer.
The shoes are for a Master intent on wooing.
He intends to win you tomorrow.
I'm working on Beckmesser's shoes.
Pour on the pitch so he'll stick in them and leave me in peace!
He's certain he'll win you.
He's a bachelor, and there are very few of them here.
Couldn't a widower succeed?
My child, he'd be too old for you.
Art matters the most. The man who understands that should woo me.
Eva dear, are you making fun of me?
Not I. You're the one who's joking.
You're fickle, admit it.
I thought I'd been dear to you all these years.
Because I loved to carry you in my arms?
I see. It was only because you didn't have children.
I had a wife once, and young children, too.
But your wife died. And I, too, have grown up.
You've grown tall and beautiful.
Then might you take me as wife and child into your house?
So I'd have both a child and a wife.
What a pleasant way to pass the time!
You have it all figured out.
I think the Master is laughing at me.
Will you let Beckmesser *** me away from under your nose?
Who could stop him if he won? Only your father.
Why would I come to you if I could find the answer at home?
Truly, I'm all confused.
I've had some sticky problems today, and they're slowing down my brain.
You mean, at song-school today?
A song there bothered me quite a bit.
Sachs, you should have told me earlier. I wouldn't have asked silly questions.
Now tell me, who auditioned?
A nobleman, child. Quite unschooled.
Was he chosen?
No, and there was a big dispute about it.
If you're distressed, I am, too.
So he did badly and failed?
The nobleman lost his every chance.
Is there no way to help him?
Was his singing so bad, so faulty?
Can nothing help him become a Master?
My child, he's lost.
He won't become a Master anywhere.
For he is a born Master, and therefore, least regarded as one.
Did he win over any of the Masters as his friend?
Be friends with a man like that?
Who made us feel so small?
Let that proud nobleman go his way.
Let him fight the world on his own.
Let him leave us in peace, to enjoy what we've labored so hard to learn.
Let him try his fortune elsewhere.
He'll win his fortune far from you jealous, evil men!
Where hearts glow warmly, in spite of malicious Master Sachs!
What comfort did I expect to find here?
It stinks of pitch! Burn these!
They'll warm you up!
I thought so.
I must see what I can do.
Where were you so late? Your father was calling you.
Tell him I've gone to bed.
Beckmesser has been pestering me to have you come to your window.
He'll serenade you with the song he hopes will win you tomorrow...
...to see if you like it.
That's all I needed! If only he would come!
Have you seen David?
No, who cares?
I was too harsh. He'll be upset.
I hear someone coming.
Let's go in.
Not until I've seen the love of my heart.
It's not he. Come, or your father will be suspicious.
Oh, this is torture!
We have to decide how to get rid of Beckmesser.
You'll pretend to be me!
Good, that'll make David jealous.
I hear footsteps.
No one's there. Come, wait inside until your father's asleep.
It's you! You, my beloved!
I'll reveal my true feelings, for you already know them.
You are my prize poet and my only friend.
I am only your friend, unworthy of the prize.
Not the equal of the Masters.
My passionate song met with contempt.
I cannot compete for my lady's hand.
Only your lady can bestow the prize.
Since you've dared everything for her...
...she'll give the garland only to you.
Even if my lady's hand is not yet pledged to another...
...her father has made a decree. And so she is lost to me.
“She may marry only a Mastersinger, and only the man you crown.”
That was his solemn vow. He couldn't retract it.
That's what spurred me on.
I sang full of love and passion, to earn the rank of Master.
But those Masters!
Their laws of rhyme are as sticky as glue!
My blood boils, my heart stands still.
What a trap I was lured into!
Away, to freedom!
Away, to where I am Master in my own house.
If I'm to woo you, then I beseech you...
...come, flee with me far away from here.
We have no hope here, no chance.
I see the Masters like evil spirits, swarming about, mocking me.
With their Guilds and Marker's booth!
They crowd around you, too.
And they shriek that you must be their bride.
As a Master's mistress, they lift you up in the Singer's chair!
How can I endure this? I'd rather fight them to the death!
Dearest, put down your sword. That was only the night-watchman's horn.
Hide under the lilac tree until the watchman has passed.
Eva, it's time. Come inside.
You're fleeing from me?
I'll flee only from the Masters.
Listen, good women and men, the clock has struck ten.
Guard your fires, and keep warm.
And let no one come to harm.
Praise God, our Lord.
Odd goings-on.
An elopement in the works.
No, it must not happen.
What if she doesn't come back? Oh, what torment this is!
Here she comes!
No, it's Lena.
No, it's she!
This foolish child is yours.
Now I know I've truly won the Master-prize!
Don't linger here. Away! Away!
Quick, to the towngate where we'll find my servant and horses!
The cobbler!
Hide, don't go near him.
What other path is there?
None. I'd lose my way on this winding street.
And the watchman might see us.
Wait till the cobbler leaves.
Don't let him see you. He knows you.
Hans Sachs? My friend!
No, he had only nasty words to say.
I'll put out that light of his!
The sound of a lute?
Just my luck!
The cobbler has dimmed his light. Let's risk it.
Now someone else has arrived.
A musician. So late at night?
It's Beckmesser!
The Marker? I'll show that good-for-nothing!
No, you'll wake my father.
Let him sing his song and go away.
We'll hide in the bushes.
Oh, what trouble I have with men!
The Lord banished Eve from Paradise for her deceit.
And she limped over hard stones in her bare feet.
What's that coarse cobbler up to?
The Lord took pity on her.
Eva, why is he using your name in his song?
I've heard it before. It's not about me.
He asked His angel to make the poor sinner shoes.
What a delay. Time is flying.
When Eve stubbed her toes, the angel didn't refuse.
Awake so late at night?
Our town clerk! Don't worry about your new shoes.
I'm working on them. You'll have them tomorrow.
The devil take them! I need peace and quiet.
Oh, Eve, you wicked woman! You made angels become cobblers!
Who is the joke on? Us or the Marker?
I'm afraid it's on all three of us.
I fear mischief.
My sweet angel, take heart.
And so did wicked Eve sin.
With you at my side, I feel I'm in a dream.
Because of that witch, I'm stuck with pitch!
Let the devil be a cobbler!
Stop that noise! Are you playing games with me?
Why do you mind if I sing? I'm finishing your shoes.
Finish them inside and be quiet!
It's hard to work at night and still stay awake.
I need fresh air and a lively song.
What a horrible song!
She'll think it's me singing!
Eve, hear my lament and my vexations.
The world treads underfoot the cobbler's creations.
But I have a guardian angel...
...who chose the same work as I.
If he hadn't promised me Paradise...
...I'd leave these shoes that I despise.
But when I dwell in Heaven sweet, the world will be at my feet.
And Hans Sachs will have joy anew...
...as a shoemaker and Poet, too!
She's at the window.
-Quick, let's flee. -With the help of my sword!
I'm lost if he keeps singing!
What trouble I've caused you.
Sachs, my friend, listen to me.
That's Lena!
Serves him right.
I admire you as a cobbler, but even more as an artist.
At least let him start!
Since I value your judgement, listen to my song.
I hope it will win tomorrow. See how it sounds to you.
Are you trying to trick me?
I don't want to be criticized again.
When the cobbler fancies himself a Poet...
...your footwear suffers.
I see how your shoes flop. So I'd better forget my rhymes.
I'll just concentrate on your new shoes for tomorrow.
That was only a joke! Here's what's really on my mind.
The people respect you.
And Pogner's daughter is fond of you.
I want to woo her tomorrow.
But I won't have a chance unless she likes my song.
So listen while I sing it.
Tell me what you don't like, so I can change it accordingly.
Leave me in peace. Why give me this honor?
You say I write street-songs. So I'm singing in the street!
You'll wake the neighbors!
Oh, they're used to me. They pay no attention.
You've played your last trick on me!
Now be quiet...
...or you'll pay for it!
You're jealous! Even though you think you're so clever.
It bothers you that other people have talent, too.
You were never chosen as the Marker. That's what tortures you!
Well, Beckmesser is alive and well, with a song on his lips.
And as long as I'm a Master, no matter how Nuremberg “blooms and flourishes”...
...I swear that Hans Sachs will never be the Marker!
Was that your song?
The devil take you!
It didn't follow any of the rules.
Go on, sing. Meanwhile I'll work on your soles.
But you'll be quiet?
Just sing, and let me work.
Will you stop that damn banging?
How else can I fix your soles?
You must finish your song, and I must finish your shoes.
Forget my shoes!
That's what you say now.
But you'll criticize me again in song-school.
Listen, men get on best when they cooperate.
I can't stop working, but I'd like to learn the Marker's craft from you.
I can learn it only from an expert like you.
So you sing and I'll mark... while I work.
Mark away then.
No, the shoes will only get finished if I mark with my hammer.
Damn, it's getting late.
The girl may leave!
Hurry up, or I'll sing instead.
Stop! Anything but that!
If you insist on being the Marker...
...then mark by striking your hammer on the last.
Don't make a sound unless I break a rule.
I'll mark according to a cobbler's rules.
If I don't make a mistake, you'll be silent.
And you'll go barefoot tomorrow!
What behavior! This is a nightmare.
I'll stand over here.
As the Marker, don't look at me.
I won't hear you from there.
I'll charmingly modulate my voice.
All right, then. Begin!
I await the dawn of the day which will bring me delight.
My heart breathes freely in fresh, new light.
Is this a joke? What was wrong?
It'd be better as, “My heart pounds wildly in the new morn.”
That won't rhyme with “delight.”
Don't you care that the melody must match the lyrics?
Stop your banging or you'll be sorry!
-You got me all confused. -Then begin again.
I'll just rest for three hammer strokes.
(I'll ignore him. But I hope he doesn't distract the maiden.)
I await the dawn of the day which will bring me delight.
I think no more of dying.
I think of wooing and sighing.
Why, of all days should this the loveliest be?
Because a father has promised...
...his daughter in matrimony.
Let anyone who might dare see her standing there.
On her, I have set my heart.
That is why this one day seems set apart.
Sachs, you're driving me crazy! Will you be quiet?
I haven't said a word. I'm just marking.
Sachs, you'll pay for this!
The Marker is ready. Continue!
Today my heart rejoices in wooing one so fair, so young.
But her father set one condition before wedding bells are rung.
A singer-poet must have first beguiled...
...the father's beautiful child.
As the Master does tell, he loves his daughter well.
To carry off the Master's prize, his son-in-law must vocalize!
Are you finished?
Because the shoes are!
Have I proved myself a Master?
What's that screeching?
It's Lena!
He's serenading my Lena!
I'll fix him!
It's David! What a disaster!
I'll break all your bones!
We've waited for this a long time!
This will teach you!
Lena, lock the house!
Lena, where are you?
Hear, good people, let us bless heaven.
The clock has just struck eleven.
Guard your fires, and keep warm.
And let no one come to harm.
Praise God, our Lord.
Coming, Master! Here I am!
The shoes have been delivered to Master Beckmesser.
He's pretending not to see me.
He must be angry if he doesn't speak.
Master, forgive me.
No apprentice can be perfect.
If you knew Lena as I do, you'd certainly forgive me.
She's so good and gentle, and looks at me so tenderly.
When you strike me, she caresses me and smiles so delightfully.
If I'm hungry, she brings me food so lovingly.
But yesterday, because the nobleman was rejected, she spurned me.
That hurt me. And then last night, I found a man outside her window.
Singing to her, yelling like a madman!
So I gave him a good beating.
It certainly did a lot for our relationship.
Lena explained everything, and gave me flowers and ribbons for the festival.
Master, say just one word.
Hail, Sachs! Nuremberg's beloved Sachs!