Chapter IV

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.

The standard bearer called out,--

"Now, begin."

And he began. He sang such a song as Nuremberg had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. Mixed with the tune of the new song was the miserable serenade he had sung the night before. As for the new words that he had tried to learn, they were gone completely. His mind was blank. So he ducked his head and took a peep at the paper, and instead of the words,

"Morning was gleaming with roseate light,
The air was filled
With scent distilled,"--

Beckmesser sang,--

"Yawning and steaming with roseate light,
My hair was filled
With scent distilled,"--

and much more besides that was far worse. The people muttered to each other. They could not understand what it was all about. The Masters stared in perplexity. Finally, as the singer became more and more confused, and sang a jumble of ridiculous and meaningless words, they all burst into a loud peal of laughter.

The sound of laughter stung Beckmesser to fury. He stumbled angrily from the mound and, shaking his fist at Hans Sachs, declared that if the song was poor, it was not his fault. Hans Sachs was to blame. He had written it. Then he threw the paper on the platform and, rushing madly through the crowd, disappeared.

The people were in confusion, the Masters were amazed. They all turned to Hans Sachs for an explanation. He picked up the paper, smoothed it out, handed it to the Masters, and said:

"No, the song is not mine. I could not hope to compose anything so beautiful."

Beautiful? The Masters were incredulous. Hans Sachs must be joking. But he went on.

"Yes, beautiful. Master Beckmesser has sung it incorrectly. The one who wrote it could render it in a manner that would prove its beauty beyond a doubt." Raising his voice, he called:

"Let the one who can sing the song step forward."

And to the great surprise of all, Sir Walter von Stolzing, clad in glittering knightly apparel, came from the crowd. He bowed courteously to the Masters, and won the hearts of all by his noble looks and his manly bearing. He stepped lightly upon the mound, mused a moment, and then began his song of the dream. And, as before, the words, the music, gushed forth from his full heart. He put all his love, all his yearning, into the melody he sang. His voice swelled upward like the rising tide. And when it reached the full, the rapture of it touched the hearts of all who listened. The song was finished. A hush fell upon the Masters and people alike. But only for a moment; soon a glad shout arose:

"Master Singer! Master Singer!"

And Sir Walter von Stolzing knew that the victory was his.

They led him to the fair Eva and placed her hand in his. While the people waved and sang, she placed a wreath of laurel upon his head. It was his beautiful dream coming true. Then the Masters hung a chain of gold around his neck, which showed that he was a member of the guild. Sir Walter thought of the treatment that he had received the day before at the trial meeting, and he was about to refuse. But Hans Sachs arose and spoke gravely of the reverence due to the Art of Song. And Walter forgot his bitterness, and thought only of his love and future happiness with Eva by his side.

And so with the people singing,

"Hail, all hail
Nuremberg's beloved Hans Sachs,"

Midsummer Day and the Song Festival came to an end.

LOHENGRIN, THE KNIGHT OF THE SWAN