Last of all came Herr Pogner, with his daughter leaning upon his arm, and Hans Sachs and Walter. You may be sure there were many curious glances directed toward the white-robed girl whose hand had been promised to the victor of the day, but she bore the ordeal bravely, albeit blushingly. The handsome knight walking along with the shoemaker also came in for his share of attention, and "Who can he be?" was on many lips, especially those of the maidens.
Hans Sachs was Master of Ceremonies for the day. He was one of the most widely beloved men in all Nuremberg town; so a hearty cheer went up as he came to the front of the platform to address the throng. In a neat little speech he told the purpose of the festival and spoke of the high regard in which the occasion had been held in the past. He spoke of the conditions governing the contest, and of the unusual prize offered by his esteemed fellow-townsman and neighbour to the victor of the day. At this there was still louder cheering by the crowd and still more blushing on the part of Eva. When the applause subsided, the speaker concluded his remarks by saying that the contest was now open to anyone, and the first singer to present himself would be listened to.
As Hans Sachs ceased speaking, and the final applause ended, there was a tremendous craning of necks to see who would be the first candidate. With a bow and a smirk, Beckmesser lost no time in coming forward. He was dressed with fantastic care, and as he clambered painfully up the steps to the singer's platform, people nudged one another and smiled. One pert young girl said to another, "What! that old fool?" and the other replied, "Wonder what his first wife would think of his capers?"
However, the town clerk did not hear any of these and other comments, but began thrumming the harp he carried, by way of a prelude. Then he lifted up his voice and sang—and such singing! He had tried at the last moment to adapt a tune of his own to Walter's poem. The tune did not suit the words, and moreover he had not had time to memorise them well—just as the shrewd cobbler had anticipated. He stumbled in the lines and tried to refresh his memory by looking slyly at the written copy he held in his harp hand. The result was a strange jumble of poem, song, and sense. So ludicrous was the ending that the people did not try to keep within bounds, but laughed aloud right in the unlucky singer's face.
Beckmesser was filled with shame and rage at the way his song had ended. Willing to put the blame upon someone else if he could, he threw the paper at Sachs' feet exclaiming,
"Well, at anyrate, it was not my song! There is the man you have been ridiculing—your dear Hans Sachs!"
The cobbler arose and quietly picked up the paper.
"No," he said, "this song is none of mine."
"Do you deny," raged the other, "that it is your writing and I found it in your workshop?"
"I do not deny it, but, as I told you, I will not claim it as mine; for it is not."