"Dreadful, dreadful," cried poor Walther. "What an endless medley of tones!"
"Oh, those are only the titles; after that comes the singing—and it has to be according to rules, remember."
Walther groaned. David at once outlined some of the rules; they appeared quite hopeless.
"Why no one in the world could meet such demands, it is ridiculous."
"You had better not say so," David answered, significantly. "I want you to know that the great Mastersingers of Nuremberg run this thing; and it doesn't make any difference to anybody but you and Herr Pogner's daughter whether you approve or not." At the mention of Eva, Walther tried to control his feelings; he must try at least, the Lord help him—to come out somewhere in the midst of all that shoemaker's music of "modes" and "thread" and "buttons" and what-not!
By this time the apprentices had erected a small stage with a chair and a desk upon it and a blackboard behind, with a piece of chalk hanging from a long string upon the board, and all about that funny arrangement were black curtains which could be drawn close.
"The Marker will let seven faults slip by," David explained to the knight; but if he finds more than seven it is all over for the candidate.
|
So God save you from disaster, May you, to-day, be a master, |
he wound up poetically.
Having finished their preparations, the apprentices began to dance about in a ring. In the midst of the jollity in came Pogner from the sacristy; also, Beckmesser, who was the town clerk and a singer who believed in himself.