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,
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"Morning was gleaming with roseate light, The air was filled With scent distilled,"— |
Beckmesser sang,—
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"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."