me. "Enough of words!" And Sachs, with
sympathetic understanding of the incalculable ways of poets, refrains
from pressing him. That overbubbling inspiration he believes can
be counted upon. "Reserve then word and deed for the proper place.
And I pray you hold fast in memory, this melody, a charming one it
is to fit with words. And, against the moment of singing it in a
more extended circle, hold fast likewise to your dream!"--"What have
you in mind?" Walther inquires. Sachs does not directly enlighten
him, but: "Your faithful servant has, very seasonably, arrived
with packs and porte-manteaux. The garments in which you intended
to make yourself brave for wedding-ceremonials at home, he has
brought here to the house. A little dove no doubt directed him to
the nest where his master slept. Come with me therefore to your
chamber. Fitting it is we both attire ourselves splendidly, when
a splendid deed is to be dared!" Walther without question places
his hand, as if it held his whole confidence, in Sachs's. They
pass together out of the workshop.

The stage remains for a moment empty. The air retains as if echoes,
or fragrances, of the personalities which have but just withdrawn; it
is sweetened with effluvia of Walther's youth, of Sachs's greatness
of heart. Suddenly, like a bar of bilious green across a shimmering
mother-o'-pearl fabric, harmonies of a very different sort catch
the attention, and Beckmesser's face is seen peering in at the
window. Finding the workshop empty, he limps in. He is in holiday
array, but there is little of holiday about him, save in his gaudily
beribboned clothes. A long comedy-scene follows, in which Beckmesser
says never a word, but his thoughts are heard and his actions are
eloquent. His body is one mass of aches and pains, his soul the
battleground of anger, shame, thirst for vengeance. The din of the
evening before fills his ears; he is chased, as if by furies, by
memories of the indignities put upon him. He is so sore he cannot
sit; when he goes his joints hurt rackingly. His restless moving
about the room while he waits for Sachs brings him to the master's
writing-table: his eye falls on the sheet of music on which Sachs
has taken down Walther's song; his attention is arrested; he reads
it off mentally with ever-increasing agitation. No mistake possible,
in his mind: Sachs, who had declared that he would not enter the
song-contest for Pogner's daughter, has outrageously lied, and
here i