"Well, well! And you want to become a Master Singer in one day. I've studied for years and years with Hans Sachs, my master, and I'm not a Master Singer yet. You have a lot to learn," and David gave a great sigh and scratched his head with his forefinger. Then, like the kind-hearted fellow that he was, but with half a thought fixed upon Lena's cakes, he began to explain. He explained the rules for high tones and low tones, for standing and sitting, for breathing and ending, for grace notes and middle notes, for rhyming and tuning; and the more he explained, the more perplexed poor Sir Walter became. His spirits dropped, dropped, down to his very boots. Indeed, his discouragement was so great that I fear he would have been much inclined to run away if at that moment the Master Singers had not come in.
Veit Pogner, the rich silversmith, came first. And tagging behind him, talking excitedly, and gesticulating while he talked, was the Marker of the guild, the town clerk, Sixtus Beckmesser. The rest came after. But their voices could not be heard. The town clerk was so busy telling Master Pogner that he hoped to win his daughter on the morrow, and that he would serenade her that very night, that no one else had a chance to say anything.
Imagine a short man, a fat man, a man with thin, crooked legs, a mincing gait, a head too bald, a face too red; in short, a clown of a man. That was Sixtus Beckmesser. Then think of two squinting eyes fastened upon Master Pogner's money. That was the secret of the town clerk's love for pretty Eva. He was as different from Sir Walter as night is from day, as sorrow is from joy, as falsehood is from truth. But he was determined to win in the song contest. And he had many powers, good and evil, to help him, as you shall see.
Sir Walter stepped forward, and Veit Pogner greeted him kindly. Surely so handsome a knight should be favored. Hans Sachs came forward, also. And all agreed that Sir Walter should be given an opportunity. Only Beckmesser snarled with rage, for the young knight was a formidable rival.
"Ha! ha!" croaked he to himself. "Just wait. Let him try to sing! I'll show him what singing is."
Sir Walter was bidden to seat himself in the candidate's chair. And, with a smile that was far from friendly, Sixtus Beckmesser, slate and chalk in hand, entered the Marker's box and pulled the curtains together behind him.
Then in a harsh tone he called out:—
"Now begin!"
Walter mused a moment and then began his song. The words, the music, flowed forth unbidden from his full heart. He sang of the Springtime which came into the sleeping forest, and, with thousands of heavenly voices, awakened the birds, the bees, the flowers. He sang of murmuring brooks, of rustling leaves, and of winter all forlorn, lurking in the woodlands, loath to depart.
And as he sang, groans of discouragement came from within the Marker's box. There was the sound of chalk scratches, once, twice, and again.