Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

Shining in the rosy light of morning,

the air heavy with blossom and scent,

full of every unthought of joy,

a garden invited me to enter

and beneath a wondrous tree there

richly hung with fruit

to behold in a blessed dream of love,

boldly promising fulfillment

to the highest of joy’s desires -

the most beautiful woman:

Eva in Paradise! …

Here’s a very different rendition! The jurors are impressed. As for “Henryk Schramm,” standing poised and proud, his right hand clasped over his heart, his left hand lightly cupped over the handle of his knight’s sword, he is now in full command. His singing is exquisite, transcendent even; so fervent one moment, so delicate the next, that at times it sticks in my throat.

A second stanza and the crowd on stage is abuzz with excitement. The hall begins to swell with the music, and the space seems barely able to contain the sound.

The third stanza brings the “Prize Song” to a thrilling conclusion. I tell myself this will be chiselled into my memory until my dying breath. Forgetting myself, I exclaim in a loud whisper, “Schramm’s done it! The bastard’s done it!” To which the stage manager, disregarding my police credentials, stamps his foot angrily and hushes me as if I’m an unruly child. Disregarding the stage manager, I turn to Helena and repeat in the same loud whisper, “The bastard’s done it!” But Helena’s face betrays no emotion. I cannot tell whether she is pleased or disappointed.

Of course the prize goes to Walther. One final tribute to German art is sung by Hans Sachs. The orchestra reprises the triumphant opening chords of the overture as the finale. The curtain begins slowly to descend on Die Meistersinger and a tumultuous ovation shakes the National Theatre to its foundations. In the royal box the king shoots to his feet applauding vigorously and motioning Wagner to rise. Of course Wagner holds back, playing the role of reluctant genius modestly declining to don the garland, but very soon he too is on his feet, lifted out of his seat by his persuasive monarch, bringing a fresh roar of approval from the house.

Now the curtain rises. First on stage come the chorus, followed by secondary characters, all bowing and smiling as applause washes over them. Then the principals come from the wings for solo bows at centre stage: Hans Sachs, Beckmesser, Eva, each greeted with unrestrained cheering, clapping, foot-stamping. This is more than applause; this is an outpouring of love!

And now the winner of the prize appears for his solo bow centre stage. I wonder whether the architect who designed this opera house took into account the effects of sustained thunder on a structure of this kind. Will the ceiling fall? Will the walls collapse? Will the floors crumble? Here and there voices call out, “Henryk Schramm!” and before long the tenor’s name is shouted in unison throughout the house. Time and time again he bows low, accepting humbly the acclaim showered on him. In the royal box, Cosima, on her feet too, throws him kiss after kiss while Wagner, beaming, tosses him an informal salute.

But unlike his fellow cast members, the tenor (whose name repeatedly pounds across the apron of the stage like a tidal wave) is not smiling. The expression on his face is difficult to define. Serious, yes. But is there a touch of sadness too? His mouth has a resolute set, the lips sealed. His eyes appear to be focused on some object beyond the confines of the opera house. He seems to be here and elsewhere at the same time.

“Henryk Schramm!” the crowd chants, but the young man has stopped bowing. He raises his arms, the palms of his hands toward the audience, as though he is pleading for silence. At first the audience ignores his plea, but after a minute or two the shouting dies down. The house goes quiet. The young tenor looks directly at the royal box, at King Ludwig who has taken his seat, at Cosima Wagner who has taken hers, at Richard Wagner who remains standing.

“My performance tonight,” he announces in a calm clear voice which easily carries throughout the hall, “is dedicated to the memory of the late Simon Socransky. Perhaps his name is familiar to you, Maestro Wagner?”

Wagner shrugs as though he hasn’t the faintest idea what the young man is talking about. “I’m sorry, but the name is not familiar to me, not at all. In fact, I’ve never heard the name before,” he replies, treating the question with indifference. He shoots a glance at the king and shrugs again. He is the picture of innocence.

“Let me refresh your memory, Maestro,” Socransky calls back. “Simon Socransky was a member of the symphony orchestra in St. Petersburg. You were a guest conductor there … in 1862, yes?”

Wagner is suddenly all smiles, eager to make light of this. “Ah yes, St. Petersburg, yes indeed. I believe I taught that band of balalaika players a thing or two about music on that occasion.” His quip is met with the odd discreet chuckle here and there, much less than the outbreak of laughter he expected.

Socransky whips off his cap and flings it aside. He steps to the edge of the stage, the silver buckles of his shoes glinting in the light. He slips his ceremonial sword from its sheath and lets it drop to the boards beside him, but all the while his eyes never leave Wagner. “Simon Socransky was no mere balalaika player, Maestro Wagner,” he says. His tone is defiant yet he is firmly in control of his emotions. “On the contrary, Simon Socransky was a great violinist.”

“The name means absolutely nothing to me, I tell you,” Wagner says, a note of irritation creeping into his denial.

Now there is a stir in the audience. People turn to one another shaking their heads as though wondering if this is some kind of ruse. After all, Richard Wagner has never been above resorting to theatrical antics, no matter how bizarre, in order to gain attention. Limelight has always been his favourite form of illumination, even when what it reveals may turn out to be less than praiseworthy.

Socransky becomes more insistent. “But you must remember him, Maestro. You were responsible for his dismissal from his position as concertmaster of that orchestra on that occasion — ’’

A weak smile on his face, Wagner says, his voice becoming a bit hoarse, “My dear fellow, you are mistaken — ”

“No, Maestro, I am not mistaken. It was you who caused him to be dismissed. It was you who killed him.”

“That’s a lie! He killed himself!” Wagner blurts out. Then, in a voice barely audible, he repeats, “He killed himself.” He turns stiffly to the king seeking the monarch’s endorsement, bending slightly toward him, almost beseeching. But King Ludwig has no stomach for what is rapidly giving off a strong smell of scandal. Abruptly he rises and without waiting for so much as a syllable of explanation he makes a hasty exit from the royal box, leaving Wagner and Cosima stranded there, strangely isolated in the midst of the attendant throng. An eerie silence falls across the theatre, disturbed only by the shuffling of feet as row upon row of operagoers leave their seats and begin an exodus. They seem to move mechanically, as though in obedience to some unspoken royal command. The cast on stage has already evaporated. The orchestra has quietly vanished from the pit. The house stands deserted … except for three people who occupy that immense space now: Richard Wagner, Cosima Wagner, and the heldentenor they thought they knew.

“Why? Why have you done this?” Wagner shouts, his voice echoing throughout the empty house. “Why should Henryk Schramm give a damn about an obscure fiddler from Russia?”