Time and Herr Wagner

Change your clocks this weekend! Or maybe not, if you’re playing Wagner.

Since 2011 I’ve lived very happily in London, just a few miles from the epicentre of time, the quiet suburb of Greenwich, home of the Royal Observatory. At the Observatory you can stand astride the “Prime Meridian,” which defines Zero Longitude. The location of the Prime Meridian is set by the cross-hairs in the eyepiece of the Observatory’s telescope, built by Sir George Biddell Airy, Seventh Astronomer Royal, in 1850. The Prime Meridian serves as the reference for Greenwich Mean Time, or GMT. In 1852, the Shepherd Master Clock was built at the Observatory as the official keeper of GMT. The Shepherd clock’s signals were sent by telegraph wires to cities throughout England, Scotland and Ireland, and, by 1866, also to Harvard University by the new transatlantic cable. Among other unusual features, the Shepherd clock has 24 hours on its face, rather than the usual twelve. And, when Summer Time arrives, the clock is not adjusted; it remains on GMT. This weekend, all of the clocks in the United Kingdom will change, except for the Shepherd clock. Which is the starting point for my story today.

The Shepherd Clock at the Royal Observatory, Greenwich

In the late 1970s and early 1980s I played in an orchestra in West Germany. In those days, the political and legal distinctions between West and East Germany were complicated; the East was under the control of the Soviet Union, but in many senses the West maintained the fiction that “Germany” remained a single, united country. This legal and political fiction manifested itself in a number of ways. For example, like the United States, many European countries changed their clocks twice a year, moving to “Summer Time” for several months. The Soviets, however, prohibited East Germany from moving to Summer Time. In order to keep “Germany” on the same time, the West German government went along. In 1980, however, East Germany received permission from the Soviets to adopt Summer Time, and the West, of course, did so as well. Now we were happily on the same time as most of Europe, and still a united “Germany,” at least in terms of the time of day. But many West Germans had spent their entire adult lives with no experience of changing their clocks.

Shortly after the glorious first change to Summer Time in 1980, I arrived at the opera house to play a performance of a Wagner opera; I believe it was Tristan, and started at 7 p.m. (early, due to its length). Our wonderfully clever and wry second bassoonist, Herr Wichmann, was along for the ride, along with our other regular second bassoonist on third. At that point, Herr Wichmann had been with the orchestra for his entire career, and was nearing retirement. The first act usually ended around 8:20. That night, as we finished the first act, I said to Herr Wichmann (in German), “You know, that seemed even longer than usual. I guess I’m just tired today. What time is it, anyhow?” Looking at his watch, Herr W said, “7:20.” Confused, I said, “But that seems like an hour too short!” Herr W: “Oh, no, that’s the correct time. But, maybe you’re talking about that New Thing, Herr Yoder. The New Thing is 8:20.” Now I was flabbergasted. “Didn’t you change your watch, Herr Wichmann?” Herr W insisted, “How can I change my watch? My watch, it tells me the Time, and the Time, she cannot change.” Now we were getting metaphysical, and I wondered how I was going to cope with another 3 hours of Wagner. Herr W explained that he just mentally added an hour to whatever his watch said was the Time; then he knew the New Thing. So, if the Time, she was 7:20, the New Thing must be 8:20. I had mistakenly asked about the Time, when I should’ve asked about the New Thing.

This weekend, like every year since then, when the New Thing arrives, I will remember Herr Wichmann, with that inscrutable grin on his face, with great fondness, and think about whether the Time can change.

Tristan and Isolde

Murray Grodner