The day of toil was over. Twilight came, and then the cool and quiet
evening. A bright moon rode on high. It peeped in and out, between the
gables, behind the church spire, and promised fair weather for the
morrow.
"Midsummer Day, Midsummer Day,
And the song festival so gay,--"
sang the jolly 'prentice boys, as they appeared at their masters' house
doors to close the shutters for the night.
David stood on the little grass plot before his master's cottage, also.
But he was not in so merry a mood. He was a serious young man with a
sweetheart of his own, and he had no time for frivolity or nonsense. Let
silly boys caper as they wished. So he pulled down the shutters and
never noticed Magdalena, who had slipped out of Veit Pogner's great
house across the street and was hastening toward him. The boys snickered
and beckoned to one another in great glee. A well-laden basket was on
Magdalena's arm, and even her voice had an inviting sound.
"David, dear, turn around!" she called. David hastened eagerly to her
side. The boys, too, with broad grins overspreading their faces, crept
forward on tiptoes to listen.
"See, David," they heard Lena say, "here's something nice for you. Take
a peep inside. Doesn't that make your mouth water? But tell me first,
what of Sir Walter?"
"There's nothing much to tell," answered David, quite unconcerned. "He
was outsung and outdone!"
"Outsung and outdone!" gasped Magdalena. "Take your hands off of my
basket. No, sir! None of my goodies for you!" and she flounced off,
murmuring: "What's to be done? Oh, what's to be done?"
David stared after her. He was dumfounded. But the boys jeered and
pointed their fingers at him. They had heard it all. Laughing and
singing, they formed a ring, and capered about David, who became very
angry, and struck out blindly right and left. But the more he raved and
raged, the more they teased and tormented, until, all of a sudden, a
tall figure stood before them. It was Hans Sachs, the cobbler. Annoyance
was written all over his good-humored face. His honest blue eyes sent
out sparks of anger. The boys hung their heads.
"What does this mean?" he cried. "To bed! To bed!" The apprentices stole
shamefacedly away.
"And you"--he continued, taking the crest-fallen David by the ear, "put
the new shoes on the lasts and get into the house. No song to-night,
sir!" They entered the workshop.
All was still on the narrow street for a little while. Eva and her
father sauntered homeward from their evening walk. They lingered for a
few moments beneath the linden tree before the door, enjoying the
evening air. Then they entered the house for supper. Lights glimmered in
the windows. A dog barked in the distance. Peace pervaded the quiet
town.
Hans Sachs appeared again at his workshop door. He flung it open and
peered down the street, then he looked up at the sky. The gentle evening
breeze fanned his cheeks. How refreshing it was! How pleasant it would
be to work out of doors to-night! And, calling David, he ordered him to
place his bench, his stool, the light, the tools outside, beneath the
tree.
"You will not work in this light, Master?" queried David.
"Be quiet," retorted Hans Sachs, shortly. "Go to bed!"
"Sleep well, Master."
"Good night," answered Hans Sachs, as he sat down by the bench and took
up his tools. But he did not work. The silvery moonlight cast a glamor
over the town. It softened the outlines of all that he looked upon and
made them vague, uncertain, beautiful. The evening breeze wafted down
the sweet scent of the elder blossoms, and a delicious languor overcame
him. The soul of the poet arose in the body of the cobbler, and, as if
under a spell, he sat motionless, oblivious to shoes, lasts, tools,
everything. The Song of Spring that the young knight had sung that
afternoon began to haunt him. Faintly, elusively, it came to his mind,
like the distant echo of a melody heard in a dream. Musing upon Sir
Walter, who, like the birds in the woodland, had sung the song his heart
had told him to sing, he did not see Eva trip lightly from her father's
house. She paused before him. Hans Sachs looked up. The sweet girl,
swaying back and forth like a bird on a bough, looked more like a happy
thought than a physical reality.
Eva broke the silence shyly.
"Good evening, Master," she said. "Still working?"
Instantly Hans Sachs' face wore a genial smile of welcome.
"Ah, little Eva," he answered, "you have come to speak about those new
shoes for to-morrow, I'll be bound."
Now, as you no doubt have already guessed, artful Miss Eva had come for
no such purpose at all. To tell the truth, she had feared to ask her
father aught concerning the trial meeting of the Master Singers that
afternoon. For she knew it would be far easier to wheedle the story from
her old friend Hans Sachs.
With a fine affectation of unconcern she began her questioning. But
little did she know Hans Sachs. He, as it happened, was quite clever
enough to divine her plan. He suspected that she must have some hidden
reason for this sudden interest in the trial meeting. At least, he
thought, it would do no harm to find out. So he spoke harshly of Sir
Walter, and pretended that he had sung abominably at the trial meeting.
Indeed, the Masters were quite right in rejecting him! And all the time
he watched Eva's expression and laughed, oh, how he laughed, in his
sleeve!
Eva flushed crimson. She flew into a temper.
"A nice lot of Masters, indeed!" She flung the words at Hans Sachs.
"Little do they know of fine singing, or you either, for that matter."
Then she rushed angrily away, and crossed the street to her own home.
Hans Sachs smiled tenderly. He nodded his head wisely as he gazed after
her.
"Ah!" he said to himself, "that's just what I thought! That's just what
I thought!"
And still shaking his head, he gathered up his tools and entered the
workshop. He closed the door behind him; that is, he nearly closed the
door,--nearly, not entirely, which was most fortunate, as you shall see.
Not long afterward Sir Walter von Stolzing came hastening down the
street. His face was full of sorrow. All his hopes of winning Eva were
gone. He would see her once more, and then bid her farewell forever.
Eva saw him coming. Running toward him, she greeted him gladly and led
him to the garden seat, beneath the shade of the linden tree. And there
the young knight told her of his failure. As he spoke of the
narrow-minded Masters who had spurned his song, his voice grew bitter.
"Ah," he continued, "all hope is gone unless you will marry me
to-night." Eva assented eagerly. And so, in excited whispers, just loud
enough for Hans Sachs to hear, the two lovers planned to run away.
Losing no time, Eva ran into the house and donned Magdalena's cloak.
Then, bidding the maid seat herself by the window in her stead, she
hurried to join Sir Walter.
Just as the two lovers made ready under cover of the darkness to dive
down the narrow street, clever Hans Sachs threw his workshop door wide
open, and the broad stream of bright light from his lamp flooded their
path. Eva and Sir Walter fell back. They could not pass that way. The
cobbler would be sure to see them. They looked in the opposite
direction. No. There was the watchman, and skulking in his wake was
still another figure. Who could that be? He was coming that way. Oh,
this would never do. In despair the lovers rushed back to the friendly
shadows beneath the linden tree.
Meanwhile Hans Sachs, who had no objection to their marriage, but who
felt a great distaste for elopements, had brought out his tools, and had
seated himself at his workbench once more. He, too, spied a strange
figure slinking down the street toward Pogner's house. Well he knew
those thin legs, that fat body, the too bald head, the too red face. It
was Beckmesser, the town clerk, the Marker of the guild. He had come to
serenade the fair Eva. He would show her what fine singing was. And he
looked up at her window expectantly, as he tuned his lute.
At the same moment Hans Sachs, chuckling softly to himself, broke out
in a loud song accompanied by an outrageous hammering upon a pair of
shoes. His big voice rang out so lustily that it completely drowned the
tinkle, tinkle of the town clerk's lute. Beckmesser became frantic with
rage. Suppose Miss Eva should hear! Suppose she should think he was
singing in that atrocious manner. A slim chance he would have to win her
to-morrow! He gazed at the closed shutters Then he ran to Hans Sachs,
scolding and pleading with him to be silent. What did Master Beckmesser
want? And Master Sachs was most indignant. Those were his shoes that he
was working upon. A man must keep at his trade. And the jolly cobbler
went on hammering and singing as loudly as before.
The panic of Master Beckmesser increased. He paced angrily to and fro.
He put his fingers to his ears. And if Hans Sachs had not been so big
and strong, it is not hard to imagine what he would have done next.
At last when the window in Pogner's house opened wide and revealed a
maiden seated there, Hans Sachs ceased. He had a plan. He consented to
listen to Beckmesser's serenade if he might be permitted to mark each
error by tapping on his lapstone. For there were shoes to be finished,
and that was the only way.
The plan did not please Beckmesser at all, but, since he had no choice,
he was forced to agree. So, by way of beginning, he strummed a prelude
on his lute, and looked for favor at the figure in the window. But
before he had time to get his breath Hans Sachs had struck the shoe a
mighty blow and had shouted,--
"Now begin!"
Beckmesser started. Then he began to sing. But a sorry performance it
was. The nervousness, the anger, the malice, had entered his voice and
had made it harsh and squeaky by turns. He sang a line. It was out of
tune. Down went the hammer. He scowled and began another line. It did
not rhyme. The hammer fell again. And so, becoming more and more
enraged, Beckmesser sang more and more falsely, so that Hans Sachs was
kept busy beating a veritable tattoo upon his lapstone. Beckmesser
squeaked, he bawled, he howled, and all the time Hans Sachs hammered and
hammered, until both shoes were done.
This howling and hammering awakened the people in the houses all about.
Shutters were pushed back, windows were opened, nightcaps appeared and
sleepy voices ordered them to be silent.
David, hearing the tumult, peered out. When he saw a strange man before
the window serenading a lady whom he at once perceived to be his Lena,
he rushed out, cudgel in hand. He fell upon the unfortunate musician,
who yelled so loudly that the whole neighborhood was aroused. The
apprentices rushed out and fell upon David, and the Masters rushed out
and fell upon the apprentices, and before any one knew what it was all
about, everybody was hitting everybody else. The clamor and commotion
grew and grew apace. People came running from all sides, and joined in
the general hubbub and confusion.
Only Hans Sachs kept a cool head. Seeing that Eva and her knight were
about to make use of the excitement to run away, he intercepted them.
First he pushed Eva into her father's house. Then, grasping Walter by
the arm, he thrust him into his own workshop and, following him, closed
the door.
The street fight continued. Suddenly the sound of the watchman's horn
was heard in the distance. The crowd was seized with a panic of fear. As
if by magic, it dispersed. The people suddenly disappeared into the
houses, down the alleys, behind doors, anywhere. The lights were
extinguished. All was still.
When the sleepy watchman came to that street, he rubbed his eyes, stared
about him in surprise, and then shook his head. Could he have been
dreaming? He thought that he had heard a noise. Holding his torch aloft,
he blew his horn and cried out:
"To my words, ye people, hearken:
All your houses straight way darken!
'Tis ten o'clock, all fires put out!
Let naught of evil lurk about.
Praised be the Lord!"
Then he went his way. And the moon shone down upon the peaceful streets
of Nuremberg.