I took the stairs to the first tier two at a time only to be halted at the top by a pair of splendidly uniformed captains from the king’s personal guard who, examining my police identification, and informed that I bore an urgent message for Maestro Wagner, allowed me to pass without further delay. A long carpeted corridor led to the royal box located at the centre point of the tier. Approaching the door to the box I noticed that it was slightly ajar, which I thought strange given that the king and his entourage customarily warranted absolute privacy. Strange too was the absence of additional guardsmen outside the box. Better to close the door, I thought, and I reached out intending gently to close it when a voice behind me said “No need to trouble yourself, Preiss. Just leave it —”
I swung about and found myself face to face with Commissioner von Mannstein. Next to him, wearing the medallion and sash of his office, stood Mayor von Braunschweig.
“You may consider yourself relieved for the remainder of the evening, Preiss,” von Mannstein said. “His Honour the Mayor and I are personally taking charge of Maestro Wagner’s security. You may go now, Inspector.”
Both wore expressions that made it clear they would brook no nonsense.
I took no more than a half-dozen steps on my retreat when von Mannstein called out, “By the way, Preiss, tell Constable Gruber he too is relieved. See to it that you both leave the house at once.”
Chapter Fifty
I obeyed Commissioner von Mannstein’s order to discharge Constable Gruber, said to myself, “That’s more than enough obedience for one day,” and proceeded without wasting another minute to find for myself a shadowy out-of-the-way cranny under the first tier balcony, not the most comfortable observation post from which to carry out a five-hour watch, but ideal for my purposes. From this vantage point I gained not only an unobstructed view of the performance onstage but the equally important performance in the royal box. I suffered only one disadvantage here: it was impossible to eavesdrop on whispered conversations as people across the aisle and beyond stole glances at the occupants in the floral-draped box where Cosima Wagner, in blinding white, her upswept hair fixed into place by a diamond-studded tiara, was ensconced in one of the throne-like chairs, looking more regal than any trueborn queen. Of course the topic of the moment would be her desertion of von Bülow, her union with Wagner, the king’s rumoured disapproval, as well as the disapproval of her father Franz Liszt. But on this sparkling night, although the great Liszt chose to be conspicuously absent, King Ludwig apparently chose to let bygones be bygones. Let the prim and the proper gasp; there sat the controversial couple now anointed with their monarch’s approbation.
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?
Chapter Fifty-One
"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.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Twice, you say?”
“At the public baths, that was you with the red beard and the large straw hat, of course. And tonight … the extra bass player with the forged note.”
Socransky smiled, his expression one of mordant amusement. “And here I thought I was making life so very interesting for you, Preiss. After all, you must be sick to death of dodgers who lack imagination.”
“We haven’t time for smart chit-chat,” I said. “Give up your plan. If Wagner has committed a crime you believe needs punishing, it is up to me, not you, to deal with it.”
“Preiss, my friend,” Socransky said, “there isn’t a police force in the world capable of bringing Richard Wagner to justice for the crime he committed against my father. That is a special mission for me, and for me alone. I would not let that maniacal woman Vanderhoute stand in my way. Nor will I let you!”
Back came the stage manager looking more upset than before. “My God, what is going on here? Please, we cannot have this!” To the tenor he said, “Herr Schramm, you are due for your entrance in exactly one minute!” Socransky nodded curtly, tugged at his cape and tunic to make certain they were snug, checked his cap to make certain it was centred, leaned forward to brush a kiss on Helena’s cheek, and said quietly to her, “Wish me luck.” He started to move forward in the wings in readiness for his next appearance on stage.
Hastily reaching out, I managed to take a firm hold of his shoulder and spin him around. “Listen to me, Socransky. You’re right. You and you alone can mete out the right punishment. But let me tell you how. Sing the ‘Prize Song,’ sing it as brilliantly as you can. Turn the evening into a total triumph for Wagner —”
“Are you mad, Preiss —?”
“Be quiet and listen to me. As soon as it’s over tonight, and Wagner is basking in all the glory … when it seems that all Munich is at his feet … no, all Germany … then tell him who you are, who you’ve been all along … Hershel Socransky, Mastersinger from Minsk. Let him know that a Jew was responsible for his success. Do as I say, I beg you!”
The stage manager beckoned frantically. “Herr Schramm, now —”
Shaking loose from my grip, Socransky said, “I must go.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Any moment now the curtain will rise on Act Three. Backstage, my presence no longer challenged by the stage manager thanks to my police credentials, I keep one eye on “Schramm,” the other eye on the royal box with the aid of opera glasses commandeered from the prompter (who has no need of them anyway in his mouse-hole). Nearby, though just out of reach, stands Helena maintaining her distance from me as though I am a leper. As for Commissioner von Mannstein and Mayor von Braunschweig, I have to rely on my imagination. I have visions of these two stalwarts posted outside King Ludwig’s box, ready at a moment’s notice to stand aside and look the other way should anyone — anyone at all — make a move to assassinate Richard Wagner.
Disaster, I am certain, is now inevitable. Yet through the glasses I see the composer and his wife, their hands clasped together on the railing of the box, exchanging jubilant looks, nodding as though saying to each other “Yes!” again and again.
At last, four hours and forty minutes since the opening strain, comes Scene Five, the final scene of Die Meistersinger.
The foreground is transformed into an open meadow, a narrow river winding through it. In the background lies the Town of Nuremberg. Suddenly the atmosphere is thick with festivity. From gaily decorated boats artisans representing various guilds disembark with their wives and children. Each guild displays its banners, waved to and fro boisterously by standard-bearers. To one side a raised stand is erected bearing rows of benches to accommodate the jury of Mastersingers. Dead centre stands a mound about which flowers have been strewn. Here the two competitors for the prize will sing. The Mastersingers’ youthful apprentices lead the merrymaking decked out in ribbons and prancing about with slender wands which they twirl high into the air and catch like circus acrobats. Now the principal guilds — Shoemakers, Bakers, Tailors — take turns parading across the stage proclaiming their contributions to the good life of the town’s burghers. All of this is sung and danced in high spirits. Colour is everywhere: in the set, the costumes, the lighting. I think to myself: if only Sandor Lantos were alive to savor the fruits of his labour.
Now Eva, led by her father, takes her seat near the judging stand. The apprentices call for silence. Hans Sachs, magisterial in the flowing blue and gold robe of head Mastersinger, declares in his authoritative baritone: “Let the Song Contest begin.”
First to the mound is Beckmesser, by all appearances the unlikeliest candidate for the hand of Eva Pogner. Still, as an accredited Mastersinger he is entitled to his turn before the jury. Having earlier stolen the poem written by Walther, but lacking the slightest idea of the music to which it is to be sung, Beckmesser nevertheless plunges into the piece improvising a tune at best unoriginal, at worst silly. Immediately it becomes apparent he hasn’t the slightest understanding of the words either.
The jury of Masters is confounded. “What’s this?” they murmur to one another. “Is he out of his mind?”
Beckmesser plods on, his performance growing more grotesque by the minute, making a complete and utter fool of himself. Outraged by what they’ve just suffered through, the jury wants no more of this outlandish piece of work. But Hans Sachs persuades them to be patient and give the young knight who wrote it his chance. Skeptical, they nonetheless agree out of deference to Sachs.
On stage there is silence again. Sachs calls out, “Herr Walther von Stolzing, come forth!” Dazzling in his black and silver costume, Walther steps firmly onto the mound. The moment is ripe with expectancy. The orchestra offers him an introductory note played serenely by strings and harp. But Walther stands motionless, his lips sealed. He looks up at the royal box where King Ludwig has leaned forward in his throne-like seat, his hands folded on the railing of the box as though he can scarcely wait for the opening words and music of the much-talked-about “Prize So
ng.”
From the royal box, Walther, still not uttering a sound, lets his eyes roam across the vast audience in the main partère. Then he glances up, up, up, one tier at a time, until his gaze is fixed on the uppermost tier. His lips part slightly, but still no sound.
Wagner too is leaning forward in his seat. Cosima is biting her lip. At the conductor’s podium in the pit von Bülow clears his throat noisily. He raises his baton and, at his bidding, the orchestra replays the introduction. But the tenor is indifferent to the cue and remains mute. Here and there throughout the audience an uncertain chuckle can be heard. Perhaps this is yet another comic turn in the opera?
Wagner’s face darkens. What is happening down there? Has his heldentenor forgotten the words? Or mistaken the cue? Or worse still lost his voice?
For a third time von Bülow lifts his baton. For a third time the strings and harp deliver the opening note. Only then does the tenor seem to find his voice. But the “Prize Song” begins uncertainly, the melody wavering, the words muffled. The unimaginable is happening!
In the royal box Wagner has gotten to his feet. Cosima tugs at his elbow urging him to sit, to calm himself.
Falling silent again, Walther stares pensively down at von Bülow. After what must be an agonizing pause for the entire cast and orchestra, “Schramm” calmly nods to the conductor. Von Bulow taps his music stand once again with his baton, bringing it down loudly this time like a drumstick. The orchestra repeats the introduction. The singer pulls himself erect. He takes a deep breath. His lips part. And he begins:
Shining in the rosy light of morning,
the air heavy with blossom and scent,
full of every unthought of joy,
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 25
