Midsummer Day dawned. Long before the town was awake, while Sir Walter
still slumbered in an inner room of the cottage, Hans Sachs sat in the
great armchair by the open window. The morning sunshine fell upon his
head as he bent over the thick and musty volume he held in his hands.
But who shall say he was reading as he turned the time-worn leaves over
and over? His mind wandered far afield,--to the early days of his
beloved Nuremberg, to the trades, to himself, the humble cause of last
night's brawl. And the thought of the two young lovers came to him. He
would like so much to help them, if he could only find a way. So
absorbed was he that he scarcely noticed the youth David who came to
offer him the basket of goodies, which Magdalena had given him as a
token of forgiveness.
And so the moments passed. Hans Sachs resumed his reading, until at
length the chamber door was opened and Sir Walter stood upon the
threshold. Bidding his host good morning, he walked slowly toward him.
"Ah, good morning, Sir Knight," replied Hans Sachs, forgetful of the
great book, which slid to the floor as he arose. "I hope you rested
well."
"Thank you. The sleep that I had was restful," answered Sir Walter, in a
dreamy and preoccupied tone. Then he exclaimed rapturously,--
"But I had a most beautiful dream!"
"A dream?" Hans Sachs was all attention. "Tell it to me!"
"I dare not. I fear it will fade away," said Sir Walter.
"Nay. It is of such dreams that poetry is made,"--and the eyes of the
cobbler gleamed with an inner radiance. "Poems are but dreams made
real."
Thus urged and encouraged, the young knight sang the story of his dream.
And Hans Sachs was moved by the rare beauty of the poetry and music.
Hastily procuring pen and ink, he bade Sir Walter sing it over again
while he transcribed the words to paper. Then, as the song continued,
the kind-hearted master added bits of advice in a low tone. He showed
the young knight how he could keep the words and melody as beautiful as
his dream, and still obey the rules of correct singing. Charging him
not to forget the tune, Hans Sachs insisted that Sir Walter array
himself in his richest garments and accompany him to the Song Festival.
"For," concluded he, "something may happen. Who can tell?" And so the
two men entered the inner room together.
Hans Sachs was right. Something did happen, and very soon, too. Scarcely
was that door closed than the one leading to the street was cautiously
pushed open. And a too bald head, a too red face, and two squinting,
crafty eyes peeped in. Then, assured that no one was about, a wretched
figure limped after. It was Beckmesser, the town clerk, but a sore and
aching Beckmesser; a Beckmesser who could neither sit, nor stand,--a
miserable Beckmesser, whose disposition had not been at all improved by
the cudgeling that he had received. Slowly and painfully he came
forward. And since there was no one at hand, he shook his fist and
scowled savagely at the bright sunshine and the soft air.
As he hopped and limped about the room, he came, by chance, to the table
whereon lay the paper upon which Hans Sachs had written. He took it up,
inquisitively sniffing, as he ran his eye over it. What was this? A
trial song, and a love song at that? And, hearing the chamber door open,
he, then and there, stuck the paper into his pocket. How Hans Sachs
smiled when he saw what the crafty creature had been about!
"Very well, Master Beckmesser," said he. "Since you've already pocketed
the song, and since I do not wish you to be known as a thief, I gladly
give it to you."
"And you'll never tell any one that you composed it?" squeaked
Beckmesser.
"No, I'll never tell any one that I composed it," and Hans Sachs turned
away to hide his laughter, for he knew full well that no Master
Beckmesser could learn and sing that song that day.
But the miserable Beckmesser was beside himself with joy. Such a song,
composed by a master like Hans Sachs and sung by a singer like Sixtus
Beckmesser, could not fail to win the prize! Rubbing his hands with
glee, he hobbled and stumbled from the room.
The time for the Song Festival came at last. The worthy people of
Nuremberg,--the bakers, the cobblers, the tailors, the tinkers, with
their wives and their sweethearts, all clad in the brightest of holiday
clothes, journeyed to the open meadow at some distance behind the town.
And there a scene of jollity and merriment awaited them. Gayly decorated
boats sailed to and fro, bringing more burghers from near and far. Under
tents of colored bunting merry people were eating and drinking. Flags
flew, bands played; there was dancing and singing, laughter and joy. And
the 'prentices in all the glory of floating ribbons and many-colored
flowers ran this way and that, ordering the tradespeople to the benches
one moment and dancing with the prettiest girls the next.
Suddenly a shout was heard: "The Master Singers! The Master Singers!"
And a hush fell over the company, as the 'prentices marched solemnly
forward and cleared the way. The standard bearer came first, and
following him, Veit Pogner, leading the fair Eva by the hand. She was
richly dressed, and looked radiant as the morning itself. Attending her
were other splendidly gowned maidens, among whom was the one that David
thought the most lovely of all. Then came the Master Singers. And when
the people saw their beloved Hans Sachs among the rest, they shouted and
waved their hats in loyal greeting.
The Master Singers took their seats on the platform, a place of honor in
their midst having been assigned to Eva and her maidens. Several
'prentices ran forward and heaped up a little mound of turf, which they
beat solid and then strewed with flowers. The time for the prize
singing was at hand.
"Unmarried masters, forward to win!
Friend Beckmesser, it is time. Begin!"
The 'prentices conducted Beckmesser to the mound. He put up one aching
leg, then the other. He stood wavering uncertainly a moment, then
toppled over.
"The thing is rickety," he snarled. "Make it secure."
The boys set hastily to work, slyly snickering, while they beat the turf
with their spades. And the people near at hand giggled and whispered:
"What a lover!"--"I wouldn't care for him if I were the lady."--"He's
too fat."--"Look at his red face."--"Where's his hair?"
With the help of the 'prentices Beckmesser again hobbled up on the
mound. Striving to set his feet securely, he looked right and left. Then
he made a grand bow.