Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

It must have struck the composer, the conductor, the chorusmaster, the stage director, the house manager, even the old impresario Mecklenberg who thought he’d seen and heard everything in his time — all of them solemnly assembled side-by-side in red, plush seats in the front row of the orchestra section — that what they were about to witness up there on the bare stage was nothing short of a medieval duel: two titans prepared to face each other at full tilt in mortal combat. Each combatant was a tenor; even in the dimness of the place (the house lights were only partly on) there was about each of them the enviable radiance of youth, physical strength, ambition, and readiness. Each hoped and silently prayed that when this was over he would be the one given the sign — an imperial nod from the man seated at the centre of that stern-faced company down there in the front row.

To the tenor so touched by fortune would go the leading role in the composer’s new and long-awaited opera. To the other, the loser (if one could be said to be a loser in such auspicious circumstances), would go the secondary role, that of the character doomed to an ignoble downfall at the opera’s tumultuous climax. At the composer’s insistence, for this occasion the audition pianist had been discharged; the two tenors were to sing without the benefit of accompaniment, the better to test their ability to thread their way through the unconventional vocal twists and turns and changes of key which made the song assigned to them for this occasion unlike any other they had ever sung or dreamt they would be called upon to sing.

The older of the two singers was stocky and broad-chested. Barely thirty, he was a bit on the portly side for a man of his years, but there were compensations: flaxen hair down to his shoulders, silvery-blue eyes, a light-skinned and fresh complexion. Almost perfect. Almost exactly what the composer envisioned when he conceived the part.

The other candidate was taller, his figure carved like that of a Roman statue. Dark hair and blackish brown eyes set in an olive-skinned face were certainly the opposite of what the composer had in mind. His brief resumé gave his age as twenty-six; it contained only scant details of his career to date.

Both singers performed with supreme confidence, even brilliance, the older of the two singing first in recognition of his seniority. Each exhibited the voice of a true heldentenor. Given the peculiarities of the music, the few flaws that were heard — the odd flatness or sharpness, perhaps a wrong inflection — were understandable (though to be sure the composer would have made a mental note of each slip, no matter how minor).

So it would be close. Less than a heartbeat would separate the two when the choice was made.

When the audition concluded, all eyes quickly turned to the composer. By his own tyrannical decree it was he and he alone who had the final word on every detail from the buckles on the choristers’ shoes to the colour of the sky on the painted backdrops to the most important detail of all — the casting of the principal roles and, in particular, the principal tenor role upon which the success, or failure, of the new opera would depend.

The conductor, seated closest to the composer, dared to lean toward him to offer a whispered suggestion, only to be stifled with a dismissive wave of the composer’s hand. The others in the front row knew better than to venture their opinions. On the stage stood the tenors, maintaining a respectful and somewhat cautious distance from each other, their bodies rigid, their expressions tense.

For a moment or two there was nothing but dead silence.

Suddenly, startling everyone, the composer sprang from his seat. He was beaming, even ecstatic, as though he’d seen a miracle. “Henryk Schramm! Henryk Schramm!” He shouted the name over and over again, his voice echoing across the vast empty auditorium. Motioning excitedly for the young singer to advance to the apron of the stage, he called out, “You … you are my Walther von Stolzing, Schramm! Why have I not heard of you before? Never mind, Schramm, God Himself sent you here!” Still excited, the composer turned to the stage director. “The hair’s too dark, of course; he’ll need a blond wig. The eyes we can do nothing about, but the skin tone must be lightened. His height is just right, so the heels of his boots won’t need building up. And no padding in the shoulders of his costumes. The man’s got the physique if not the face of a true Franconian knight!” The stage director did not bother to agree or disagree. After all, what was the point?

The composer shot a steely glance at the impresario. “What are you waiting for, Mecklenberg?” he demanded. “I want a contract for this man ready for signature before I leave for lunch.”

The victorious tenor took a step forward. “Maestro Wagner?” His voice was timid, a far cry from the voice with which, only minutes earlier, he had won the coveted lead role. The composer didn’t appear to have heard him, so he repeated, a bit more forcefully, “Maestro — ?”

The composer swung around to glare at the singer. It occurred to Schramm that the man he was looking down at from the stage — a man considered (grudgingly by some, admiringly by others) the musical giant of the century — was anything but a physical giant. If anything prominent stood out, it was, of all things, his chin, a sharp outcropping of skin and bone which, combined with the fierceness of his eyes, was enough to discourage any form of challenge to his authority, even from men who towered over him in body or in rank. His mouth was a simple slit unsoftened by lips. Everything converged around a hawk-like nose. Taken together, the features of his face left a large question as to whether he had ever been a child, or laughed, or made love.

“Well, what is it, Schramm?” the Maestro snapped. That was something the young tenor would have to learn: Maestro Richard Wagner was not accustomed to being interrupted. “Well, speak up.”

“I just wanted to thank you for — ”

Wagner cut him off. “You can thank me by singing the ‘Prize Song’ on the night of the premiere the way you sang it here this morning; only better , of course.”

To the other tenor, the older and shorter one, now waiting awkwardly off to one side of the stage, Wagner announced, “You will do nicely for the role of Beckmesser, Grilling.”

Wolfgang Grilling was not pleased, nor was he able to conceal his displeasure. “But Maestro,” he said, coming forward, “with all due respect, may I remind you that you yourself chose me to sing the role of Erik in The Flying Dutchman just two summers ago in Dresden. Surely — ”

“Surely what ? Do you want the part of Beckmesser or not, Grilling? Yes or no?”

“But the simple fact is — ”

Again Wagner cut in. “The simple fact, Grilling, is that I have spent sixteen years of my life giving birth to this opera. It is my career, not yours, that is at stake. Do you understand? For the last time, then, yes or no?”

Grilling replied with a sullen yes, then glared at his manager cowering in the shadows. The manager responded with a hapless shrug as if to say One might just as well argue with the wind.

It was an effort for Wagner to climb the half-dozen steep steps to the stage. The early spring dampness which seeped into Munich’s ancient buildings, including the opera house, also found its way into Wagner’s bones, moving him to mutter curses as he completed the ascent and hobbled to centre stage. Once there, however, he was every inch in command.