little song by which I hope to-morrow to win the prize. I am
eager to be told whether you think well of it." While talking,
he strums, as if casually, upon his lute, to keep the lady from
leaving the window. "Oh, no!" Sachs replies; "You wish to catch
me by my weak side. I have no wish for another berating. Since
your shoe-maker takes himself for a poet, it fares but ill with
your footgear. I can see for myself that it is in a deplorable
condition. And so I drop verse and rhyme, knowledge and erudition,
and I make you the new shoes for to-morrow."--"Let that be, do!"
Beckmesser adjures him; "That was only a joke. Understand now what
my true sentiments are. You stand high in honour with the people,
and the daughter of Pogner has a great opinion of you. Now, if
I intend to offer myself as a suitor for her to-morrow, can you
not see how I might be destroyed by her not taking kindly to my
song? Therefore listen to me quietly, do, and when I have finished
my song tell me what in it you like, and what not, that I may make
my dispositions accordingly."--"Go along! Let me alone!" Sachs
still excuses himself; "How should so much honour accrue to me? My
songs are but common street-songs; let me therefore, in my common
way, sing them to the street!" He is taking up his noisy lay again
about Eve and shoes when Beckmesser's rage explodes. Quaking, the
town-clerk pours forth reproach and insult. This conduct of the
shoe-maker's has its source in envy, nothing else; envy of the
dignity of Marker which has never been bestowed upon him, and which
now never will be, not so long as Beckmesser lives and has influence
with the masters. When he stops at last, for lack of breath, Sachs
asks artlessly: "Was that your song?... Somewhat irregular in form,
but it sounded right spirited!"

Walther, in the shadow, clasping his troubled lady, who is unaccountably
saddened by the untimely farce, struggles with a hysterical desire
to laugh--it is all so like a fantastic dream.

At last shoe-maker and town-clerk come to an arrangement. Beckmesser
shall sing his song, and Sachs, whose criticism he so unwontedly
desires, shall act as Marker; but Sachs, who contends that he is
loath to stop work on his shoes, instead of marking with chalk,
shall mark the singer's mistakes by blows of his hammer on the
last, and so, peradventure, while listening, forward his work. A
disgusting arrangement, but Beckmesser is in such terror lest the
lady leave her post b