Great Opera Stories Part 8

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. .h.i.tting 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.

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 pa.s.sed. 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, a.s.sured 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 a.s.signed 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.