Scarce had Master Martin said this, when a young man of tall, powerful figure cried in at the door, in a loud voice, “Hi, there! Is this Master Martin’s?”
“Yes,” said Master Martin, stepping up to the young man, “it is; but there’s no occasion to shout so damnably loud. That is not the way to come at people.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the young man. “I see you are Master Martin yourself. You answer exactly to the description of him given to me—fat belly, imposing double chin, flashing eyes, and red nose. My best respects to you, Master Martin.”
“Well, sir,” said Master Martin, greatly irritated, “and what may your business with Master Martin be?”
“ I am a journeyman cooper,” the young man answered, “and all I want is to know if you can give me a job of work here.”
Master Martin took a step or two backward in sheer amazement at the notion that, just when he had made up his mind to look out for another hand, one should appear and offer himself; and he scanned the young man closely from head to foot. The latter met his gaze with eyes which flashed. Now, as Master Martin observed the broad chest, athletic build, and powerful hands of the young man, he thought to himself, “This is just the sort of fellow that I want.” And he asked him for his certificates.
“ I don’t have them with me,” the young man said, “but I will soon get them. In the meantime, I give you my word that I will do your work faithfully and honourably. That must suffice for the time.” And thereupon, without waiting for Master Martin’s leave, he strode into the workshop, threw down his beret and his bundle, tied on his apron, and said, “Now then, Master Martin, tell me what to do.”
Master Martin, puzzled by this cool manner of setting about matters, had to take thought with himself for a moment. “Well,” he said, “my lad, to show us that you are a trained cooper, set to with the notcher upon that cask there at the end stool.”
The stranger journeyman accomplished the task told him with remarkable force, skill, and rapidity. And then, loudly laughing, he cried, “Now, master, have you any doubt that I am a trained cooper? But,” he continued, as he strolled up and down the shop examining the tools, timber, and so on, “you seem to have a good deal of queer stuff about here. Now here’s a funny little bit of a mallet. I suppose your children amuse themselves with that. And the broad-axe yonder, that’s for your apprentice boys, I presume; isn’t it?” With that he whirled the great heavy mallet—which Reinhold could not wield and which Friedrich could use only with difficulty—up to the rooftree, did the like with the ponderous broad-axe which Master Martin worked with, and then rolled great casks about as if they had been bowls; and, seizing a thick unshaped stave, he cried, “Master, this seems good sort of oak-heart. I reckon it will fly like glass!” and banged it against the grindstone, so that it broke right across into two pieces with a loud report.
“My good sir,” Master Martin cried, “wouldn’t you like to kick around that two-fudder cask, or knock the workshop apart? You might make a mallet of one of the rafters; and, by way of a broad-axe to your liking, I’ll send to the Town Hall for Roland’s sword, three ells long.”
“That would do for me nicely,” said the young man, with sparkling eyes. But presently he cast them down, and spoke in a gentler tone:
“All I was thinking, dear Master Martin, was that your work needed strong men. But perhaps I was a little hasty in showing off my strength. Take me into your employ all the same. I will do what work you give me in first-rate style, you will see.”
Master Martin looked him in the face, and had to own to himself that he had probably never seen nobler or more thoroughly honest features. Indeed the young man’s face stirred up a dim remembrance of someone whom he had known and esteemed for a very long time. But this memory would not become clear, although, for this cause, he at once agreed to employ the young man, merely stipulating that he should produce proper certificates to prove that he belonged to the craft.
Reinhold and Friedrich meanwhile had finished setting up the cask at which they were working, and were putting on the first hoops. At such times they were in the habit of singing, and they now began a pretty song, in the Stieglitzweis of Adam Puschmann. At this Conrad (such was the newcomer’s name) shouted out from the planing bench where Master Martin had set him to work, “Ugh! what a cheeping and chirping. Sounds as though the mice were squeaking about the shop. If you’re going to sing, sing something that will cheer a fellow up and put some heart into him to go on with his work. I sometimes sing a thing of that sort myself.” With which he commenced a rough, wild hunting song, full of “Hulloh! ” and “Hussah!” And he imitated the cry of the hounds and the shouts of the people in such a thundering, all-penetrating voice, that the workshop shook and resounded. Master Martin stopped both his ears with his hands, and the boys of Frau Martha (Valentine’s widow), who were playing in the workshop, hid themselves in terror among the timber.
Just then Rosa came in astonished, nay terrified, at the prodigious shouting, for “singing” it could not be called. Conrad was silent the moment he saw Rosa. He rose and went up to her in the most courteous manner, saying, in a soft voice, and with gleaming fire in his bright brown eyes: “Beautiful lady, how this old workshop beamed with roseate splendour as soon as you entered it. Ah! had I but seen you a little sooner I should not have offended your ears with my rough hunting song.”
He turned to Master Martin and the other workmen, and cried, “Stop that abominable noise, every one of you! Whenever this beautiful lady deigns to show herself here, hammers and mallets must stop. We will hear only her sweet voice, and listen with bowed heads to such commands as she may deign to issue to us—her humblest servants.”
Reinhold and Friedrich gazed at each other in amazement; but Master Martin shouted with laughter, and said, “Well, Conrad, I must say you are the very drollest rascal that ever put on an apron. You come here, and seem to be going to set to work to smash the whole place to atoms, like some great lumbering giant. Next you bellow till we’re all obliged to hold our ears; and, by way of a worthy finale, you treat my little daughter here as if she were a noblewoman and you a love-stricken Junker.”
“I know your lovely daughter quite well, Master Martin,” answered Conrad unconcernedly; “and I tell you she is the most glorious lady that walks the earth, and she would honor the most noble Junker by letting him be her champion! ”
Master Martin held his sides. He nearly suffocated himself before he made way for his laughter by dint of wheezing and coughing. He then managed to get out “Good! very good! my dear young sir. Take my little girl Rosa for a noblewoman if you will, but get back to your work at the bench there.”
Conrad stood rooted to the spot with eyes fixed on the ground; rubbed his forehead, and said softly, “So I must.” He did as he was ordered. Rosa sat down on a small barrel, as she usually did when she came to the workshop. Reinhold and Friedrich brought this barrel forward for her as they were wont to do; and then they sang together (as Master Martin bade them) the pretty song in which Conrad had interrupted them. The latter went on with his task, silent and thoughtful. When the song was ended Master Martin said, “Heaven has endowed you two dear lads with a precious gift. You have no idea how much I honour the glorious art of song. In fact I once wanted to be a Meistersinger myself. But it wouldn’t do. I could make nothing of it, try as hard as I might. With all my endeavours I earned nothing but derision and jesting, when I tried my hand at the master-singing. In free-singing, I either added notes, or dropped notes, or lost track of the form, or made incorrect ornaments, or even sang false melodies. Well, well! you will make a better job of it. What the master couldn’t manage, his men will. Next Sunday there will be a master-singing at the usual time, after noonday service, at Saint Catherine’s Church; and there you two, Reinhold and Friedrich, may gain praise and honour by means of your beautiful art. For before the principal singing a free-singing will be held, open to strangers, at which you may try your skill. Now, Conrad” (Master Mar
tin called over to the planing bench), “mightn’t you mount the singing stool too, and treat them to that beautiful hunting song of yours ? ”
“Don’t jest, good master,” answered Conrad, without looking up; “there’s a place and time for everything: while you are edifying yourself at the master-singing, I shall go in search of my own pleasure, to the common.”
Things turned out as Master Martin had expected. Reinhold mounted the singing stool and sang songs in various “manners,” which delighted all the Meistersinger, but they were of opinion that, though the singer committed no actual errors, a certain “outlandish” or foreign style, which they could not quite define themselves, somewhat detracted from their merit. Soon after this, Friedrich seated himself on the singing stool, took off his beret, and after looking before him for a second or two, cast a glance at the assembly (which darted through Rosa’s heart like a glowing arrow, so that she could not help sighing deeply), then began a glorious song, in the Zarter Ton of Heinrich Frauenlob. All the masters declared unanimously that none of them could surpass this youngjourneyman.
When evening came and the singing was over, Master Martin, by way of thoroughly completing the enjoyment of the day, betook himself with Rosa to the common. Reinhold and Friedrich were allowed to go with them. Rosa walked between the two. Friedrich, in a state of great glorification by reason of the praise of the Meistersinger, ventured, in the intoxication of his blissfulness, on many a daring word, which Rosa, drooping her eyes modestly, did not seem to wish to hear. She turned instead to Reinhold, who, in his usual way, chattered and made many a lively jest and sally, not hesitating to sling his arm round one of hers.
When they came where the young men were engaged in divers athletic sports (some of them of knightly sort), they heard the people crying, over and over again, “He has won again!—nobody can stand before him! There! he wins again!—the strong man!” When Master Martin had pressed his way through the crowd, he found that all this shouting and acclamation were for none other than his own journeyman, Conrad, who had excelled everybody at running, boxing, and throwing the javelin. Just as Master Martin came on the scene, Conrad was challenging all comers to a bout of fencing with blunted rapiers, and several young patrician bloods, skilled at this exercise, accepted; but he very soon conquered them all with little difficulty, so that there was no end to the applause for his strength and skill.
The sun had set; the evening sky was glowing red, and the twilight rapidly falling. Master Martin, Rosa, and the two journeymen had seated themselves beside a plashing fountain. Reinhold told many delightful things concerning faraway Italy; but Friedrich gazed, silent and happy, into Rosa’s beautiful eyes. Then Conrad approached, with slow and hesitating steps, as if he had not quite made up his mind whether to join the others or not. So Master Martin called out, “Come along, come along, Conrad! You have held your own bravely; just as I like my journeymen to do. Don’t be bashful, my lad; you have my full permission.”
Conrad flashed a penetrating glance at the master, who was nodding to him condescendingly, and said, in a hollow tone: “So far, I have not asked your permission whether I might join you or not. It was not to you that I was thinking whether I should come or otherwise. I have laid all my opponents prostrate in the dust in knightly play, and what I wanted to do was to ask this beautiful lady if she would not mind giving me, as my guerdon, those flowers which she wears in her breast.” With which Conrad knelt on one knee before Rosa, looked her honestly in the face with his clear brown eyes, and petitioned, “Give me the flowers, if you will be so kind, fair Rosa; you can hardly refuse me.” Rosa at once took the flowers from her breast, and gave them to him, saying with a smile, “I am sure such a doughty knight deserves a prize of honour from a lady; so take my flowers, although they are beginning to wither a little.” Conrad kissed them, and placed them in his beret; but Master Martin rose up crying, “Stupid nonsense! Let’s go home; it’ll soon be dark.” Martin walked first; Conrad, in a courtier-like fashion, gave Rosa his arm, and Reinhold and Friedrich brought up the rear, not in the best of temper. The people who met them stopped and looked after them, saying:
“Ey! look there!—that is Master Martin, the rich cooper, with his pretty daughter and his fine journeymen; fine folks, these, I call them!”
VIII
Young girls usually live over again all the enjoyments of a festal day, in detail on the subsequent morning, and this secondary feast then seems almost more delicious to them than the original itself. Thus the fair Rosa on the subsequent morning sat pondering alone in her chamber, with her hands folded in her lap, and her head hung down in reverie, letting spindle and needlework rest. Probably she was mentally listening again to Reinhold and Friedrich’s singing, and again watching the athletic Conrad vanquishing his adversaries, and receiving from her the victor’s prize. Now and then she would hum a line or two of some song; then she would say, “You want my flowers?” and then a deeper crimson mantled in her cheeks; flashes darted through her half-closed eyelids, faint sighs stole forth from her innermost breast.
Frau Martha came in, and Rosa was delighted to have the opportunity of giving her a circumstantial account of all that had happened in Saint Catherine’s Church and afterwards in the common. When she had finished, Martha said, smiling, “Well, Rosa dear, you will soon have to make up your mind which of those three brave wooers you are going to choose.”
“What are you talking about, Frau Martha?” Rosa cried; “I haven’t any wooers.”
“Come, come,” answered Martha, “don’t pretend that you don’t know what’s going on. Anybody who has eyes, and is not as blind as a mole, sees well enough that all the three, Reinhold, Friedrich, and Conrad, are head over heels in love with you.”
“What an idea! cried Rosa, hiding her eyes with her hand.
“Come, come,” said Martha, sitting down beside her and putting an arm about her; “take your hand away; look me straight in the face, and then deny, if you can, that you have known for many a day that all the three of them are devoted to you, heart and soul! You see that you can’t deny it. It would be a miracle if a woman’s eye should not see a thing of that sort in an instant. When you come into the workshop, all their eyes turn away from their work, to you, and everything goes on in a different way, three times as swimmingly. Reinhold and Friedrich begin singing their prettiest songs; even that wild fellow Conrad turns quiet and kindly. They all try to get beside you; and fire flashes out of the face of whichever of them has a kind glance or a friendly word from you. Aha! little daughter! you are a very fortunate girl to have three such men paying attention to you. Whether you will ever choose one of them—and if so, which—of course I cannot tell, for you are good and nice to them all; though I—but silence as to that! If you were to come to me, and say, ‘Frau Martha, give me your advice,’ I should freely answer, ‘Doesn’t your own heart speak out quite clearly and distinctly? Then he is the one.’ Of course, they’re all pretty much alike to me. I like Reinhold, and I like Friedrich too; and Conrad as well, for the matter of that; and still I have some objections to every one of them. Aye! the fact is, dear Rosa, when I look at those three young fellows at their work, I always think of my dear husband. And I must say, as far as the work which he did went, everything which he did was done in a different style from theirs. There was a swing and a go about it: you saw that his heart was in it; that he wasn’t thinking of anything else. But they always seem to me to be doing it for the doing’s sake, as if they all had something else at the bottom of their minds all the time; as if the work was a sort of task which they had taken up of their own accords, and were sticking to as well as they could, against the grain. I get on best with Friedrich. He is a nice, straightforward fellow. He seems more like us, somehow. One understands whatever he says. And what I like about him is that he loves you in such a silent sort of way, with all the bashfulness of a good child; that he hardly dares to look at you, and blushes whenever you say a word to him.”
A tear came to R
osa’s eye. She rose, turned to the window, and said: “Yes, I am very fond of Friedrich too; but you mustn’t think too little of Reinhold, either.”
“How should I?” said Martha; “he’s the nicest-looking of them all, far and away. When he looks one through and through, with his eyes like lightning, one can hardly bear it. Still, there is a something about him so strange and wonderful, that I feel a little inclined to draw back from him in a sort of awe. I think the master must feel, when he is at work in the workshop, as I should if somebody brought a lot of pots and pans all sparkling with gold and jewels into my kitchen, and I had to set to work with them as if they were so many ordinary pots and pans. I wouldn’t dare to touch them. He talks, and tells tales, and it all sounds like beautiful music, and carries you away. But when I think seriously about what he has been saying after he has done, I haven’t understood a word of it, really. And then, when he will sometimes joke and jest just like one of our selves, and I think he is only one of us after all, all of a sudden he will look up at you so proudly, and seem such a gentleman, that you feel frightened. It is not that he ever swaggers, as plenty of the young gentlefolk do; it’s something quite different. In one word, it strikes me—God forgive me for saying it!—that he must have dealing with higher powers; as if he really belonged to another world altogether. Conrad is a rough, overbearing sort of fellow, but he has something aristocratic about him, too, which doesn’t go a bit well with the cooper’s apron; and he goes on as if it were his place to give orders, which everybody else had to obey. In the little time that he has been here, you see he has got so far that even Master Martin himself has to obey him, when he roars at him with that thundering voice of his. But then, at the same time, Conrad is so good-humoured, and so thoroughly straightforward and honourable, that one can’t be vexed with him. In fact I must say that, in spite of his wildness, I like him better than Reinhold, almost; for though he does often speak roughly, yet you always understand what he is saying. I would wager he has once been a soldier, however he may pretend to disguise himself now. That’s why he knows so well about weapons, and the knightly exercises, which become him so well. Now tell me, truly and sincerely, Rosa dear, which of them do you like the best?”
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