of Walther. Like a noble dog shaking his
fur, he takes himself away and finds occupation at the further end
of the room, trying by his commonplace playful talk to dispel the
oppression of a too great emotion. Again he must, all for her good,
tease Evchen a bit. "Has not a shoe-maker his fill of troubles?" he
grumbles; "Were I not at the same time a poet, not another shoe
would I make. So much hard work, such a perpetual calling upon
you! This one's shoe is too loose, that one's too tight, here it
claps, it hangs at the heel, there it presses, it pinches. The
shoe-maker must know everything, mend everything that is torn,
and if he be in addition a poet, then verily he is not allowed a
moment's peace. But if, on top of all, he be a widower, then he
is in all truth regarded as a very fool! The youngest of maidens,
if a husband is wanted, request him to apply for them; let him
understand them or let him not, it is all the same; let him say
yes, let him say no, in the end he is told that he smells of pitch,
and is called stupid, cantankerous, and impertinent! I wouldn't
care so much," he concludes humourously, "but for my apprentice.
He is losing all respect for me!..."

The conscience-smitten girl flings her arms around him again: "Oh,
Sachs, my friend, oh, noble heart, how can I ever repay you? Without
your love, what were I? What were I, without you? I should have
remained a child forever, had you not awakened me. Through you I
won the things one prizes, through you I learned what a soul is.
Through you I awoke, through you alone I learned to think nobly,
freely, courageously. You guided my growth, and brought me to flowering.
Oh, dear master, scold me, well you may!... But yet I was on the
right track. For, had I any choice, you, no other, should be my
husband. I would hold out the prize to you alone. As it is, I myself
have been chosen--to never-before-dreamed-of torment! And if this
day I am wedded, it will be without choice of my own. Coercion I
have suffered, have suffered violence. You know, master, that the
force of it frightened even you!"--"My child," he replies, mildly,
collectedly--if feelingly and a little sadly, to her impulsive
confession, while a known, poignant strain, like a profound sigh,
holds the ear for a moment, an echo from a different opera, "of
Tristan and Isolde I know the sorrowful story. Hans Sachs was shrewd
and would have none of King Mark's happiness!" With a return to the
lightness which