Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

A few minutes past seven the sconces and chandeliers began to dim, their brilliance reduced to a pale glow playing softly off the brocaded walls. In an instant the audience fell silent. Not a stir could be heard, not so much as a rustle of a program page being turned. It was as though everyone sensed that the eyes of Richard Wagner were upon them, that he was daring them to clear their throats, to cough, even to breathe! In the pit von Bülow’s baton rose above his head, came down slowly like a magician’s wand, and the majestic opening theme of the overture rolled like a gentle tide across the rows of hushed men and women. Before long the crimson and gold curtain lifted to reveal the interior of St. Catherine’s Church in old Nuremberg. Eva, the heroine, was seated to one side; Walther, the hero, stood nearby, the two exchanging glances in the midst of a church service. Entranced by Eva’s beauty, the young knight, in a voice pure and clear as crystal yet warm with desire, sang his first words: “Stay! A word! A single word!” …

As the curtain began its slow descent at the end of Act One there were a few seconds of hesitation, then a scattering of applause and murmured hints of surprise, followed here and there by cautious “Bravos.” These gave way to less restrained applause, the “Bravos” grew more enthusiastic and widespread, and very soon it became clear that the audience were intrigued, even excited, by this new Wagner, this Wagner who could mix the serious and the comic and make it work, this Wagner whose every musical phrase and motif came to life at precisely the right moment in every twist of the plot.

Hardly had the curtain begun its descent at the close of Act Two when the audience, from the main partèrre all the way up to “the clouds” in the fifth tier, sprang to their feet cheering, demanding that the principal singers return again and again for curtain calls. And whenever the Franconian knight — this previously unheard of tenor by the name of Henryk Schramm — stepped forward for a solo bow, women of all ages tossed aside their fans, discarded their dignity, and unabashedly threw kisses in his direction. And when “Schramm,” responding to his final call, brought a hand to his heart, it looked to me as though at least half the women in the theatre were on the verge of fainting with indescribable pleasure!

Up in the royal box King Ludwig too stood applauding, the tall benefactor smiling benignly down at his favoured beneficiary. At first Wagner remained rooted to his chair, seemingly overwhelmed. When finally he slowly eased to his feet, his exhibition of gratitude smacked of prior rehearsal: dramatically deep bows, hands modestly at his sides, chin buried deep in the ruffles of his shirtfront, eyes shut. Had I been closer I might have spotted a tear or two. I certainly would have bet anyone in the house that he’d practised these gestures days in advance before a mirror in the privacy of his bedroom.

The program explained that, due to the extraordinary length of the opera, the two intermissions would be shortened to ten minutes instead of the customary twenty, leaving barely enough time for women to tug their bodices and bustles back into shape while their male escorts grumbled about insufficient time to visit the bar. With Act Three about to begin in minutes, one option only was open to me: I would have to desert my place of concealment, find my way quickly backstage, and attempt to waylay Hershel Socransky.

According to the program, the Third Act would begin with the lengthy prelude which I’d heard in rehearsal, followed by Scene One during which Walther’s mentor Hans Sachs, the town sage, broods about the state of the world and yearns for an era of enlightenment. Walther would make his next appearance in Scene Two. This would give me the opportunity I desperately needed to confront the tenor.

But confront him how? And with what?

An appeal to reason? Look, Socransky, you have nothing to gain by deliberately mangling the “Prize Song.” And less than nothing to gain by making an attempt on the life of Wagner. Say you succeed in achieving revenge … then what? You leave your own future in ruins! …

Or what about threats? Carry out this plan of yours, Socransky, and I will have no choice but to arrest you. Every law I can muster will come down on your head. On what charges? you ask. Fraud. Public Mischief. Willful destruction of property. Those are mere legal frills. Threats to Wagner’s life. And then there’s that business with Cornelia Vanderhoute, don’t overlook that. I’m speaking of murder. You could be facing years in prison, years! …

There was one other card to play, one that I would play with great reluctance, a last resort that would be painful for me and leave me with a lifetime of self-disgust. But play it I would if necessary. Helena Becker, Socransky … Helena Becker is in love with you. Carry out this plan of yours and the two of you will never see each other again except through prison bars! You and she are perfect soulmates. Deprive yourself of freedom and you deprive both of you of years of happiness! …

With the house lights dimming in anticipation of Act Three, I started out for the area backstage where I was certain Hershel Socransky would be awaiting his cue. In the darkening theatre I kept to the least visible passageways, feeling with all this stealth like a bit of a criminal myself. I found my way to a set of steps, the final approach to backstage, and was about to mount when what I caught sight of just beyond the upper step stopped me in my tracks. There, with her back to me, stood Helena, alone. But where was Socransky?

"Helena! But how did you — ”

“Slipped in at the last minute by way of the stage door,” she explained, looking quite pleased with herself. “He arranged passes for Vronsky and me. She’s up in the second tier. I preferred to be here, backstage.”

“Then you must know where I can find him,” I said. “I need to talk with him … urgently.”

“There is nothing you can say to him, Hermann, that he hasn’t already said to himself.”

“Good. Then I take it you’ve succeeded in driving some sense into his head.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” she shot back, as though what I had just said was preposterous. “Whatever happens in the next hour, let it happen, Hermann, and be done with it once and for all.”

“Out of the question!” I began angrily, prompting one of the stage managers to rush over. Dishevelled and perspiring, he had the look of a man born to worry. “Please!” he said in a loud whisper, addressing the two of us, “we need this space clear.” He pointed to an out-of-the-way corner where stage properties from other operas, draped in white dust covers, huddled together in silence and darkness like a gathering of ghosts. “You can stand over there if you wish,” he said, “but you must keep your voices down! ”

Helena and I complied but before I could continue she said, “It’s pointless for you to stay here — ”

“She’s right, Inspector. It is pointless — ” These words came at me from a disembodied voice. Then, out of the shadows, as though he were a spirit materializing before my eyes, Hershel Socransky emerged. “I hate to be inhospitable, Preiss, but you really are not welcome here.” He was wearing the costume for his appearance in the song contest, the black and silver cape and matching cap, the long sword. Every inch the perfect Franconian knight. Every inch the personification of Richard Wagner’s vision of a German hero.

“I don’t give a damn whether I’m welcome or not,” I said. “You’ve given me the slip twice today but now you’ve run out of luck.”