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?”
“Because my name is not Henryk Schramm. It is Hershel Socransky. Simon Socransky is — was — my father.”
“Then rot in hell!” Wagner says. “No … better still … if there is a hell beneath hell, rot there!” Almost roughly, he takes Cosima by the arm and the two of them start from their box.
At centre stage, Hershel Socransky, hands on hips, watches their departure until they are out of sight. Only then does he leave the stage, moving with the confident stride of a man who believes he has finally completed what he set out to do. Yet when he approaches Helena and me, there is no air of satisfaction about him. Behind him the shards of Wagner’s great new opera lie scattered throughout the grand auditorium. On the young tenor’s face I see only the sour aftertaste of revenge.
Ig
noring me, he speaks softly to Helena. “I need a place to stay tonight —”
Helena needs no time to consider the request. “Of course,” she replies.
Chapter Fifty-Three
"I suppose you are eager to return to Russia as soon as possible now that you’ve accomplished your ‘mission,’” I said to Socransky. It was the next morning and we were in the lobby of the Empress Eugénie. Socransky had just set down a lone piece of luggage and was folding an overcoat which was too bulky to be packed. “That coat will come in handy back home even though it’s summertime,” I joked. “Fortunately the travel documents I took the trouble to obtain are still valid, and there’s a train leaving tomorrow night —”
He shook his head.
Puzzled, I said, “I don’t understand. I would have thought you couldn’t wait to get back. I can’t believe you plan to remain here in Munich!” As I said this I happened to look over at Helena. Something about the expression on her face told me she knew something I didn’t know. Quietly I asked, figuring one or the other would respond, “Does this mean you … I mean the two of you … have plans?” Even as I put the question to them I felt as though suddenly I had become hollowed out, as though from this moment on the core of my own existence would consist of nothing but an empty cavity.
Helena and Socransky exchanged quick glances, each inviting the other to speak up, both hesitant. I said, “For God’s sake, somebody say something!”
At last he spoke up. “The fact is, Preiss, I cannot go back to Russia, much as I wish to. Russia and I have parted company, you might say.”
I had difficulty taking his answer seriously. “You’re joking, of course. Don’t tell me you’re some kind of revolutionary. What? Are you conspiring to get rid of the Czar?”
“I wish it were as simple as that,” Socransky said, looking, I thought, too sober.
“Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humour despite all that has gone on,” I said. “I can see the headlines now: JEWISH TENOR BRINGS DOWN IMPERIAL DYNASTY. You know what they say, Socransky: Revolutionaries don’t burn down palaces; they move into them!”
I thought this would bring a laugh or at least a smile. Instead he looked almost melancholy. He paused, seemingly on the edge of making some pronouncement, then, looking me straight in the eye he said, “The reason I cannot return to Russia is that people like me are now considered undesirables.”
“Why? Because you’re Jewish?”
“No, being Jewish has nothing to do with it.”
“Then why?”
“Because … because I happen to prefer the company of men.”
“Now I know you’re joking. You are a born actor, Socransky. A comic actor at that! Anyway, I’ve seen how women react to you … the effect you have on them. Mind you, Socransky, for a split second there you almost had me —”
“Stop, Hermann! Just stop … please!” Helena interrupted. “This is painful enough. You’re only making it worse.”
“Helena, you mean you knew about this? And you said not a word to me about it? But I thought all along —”
“Don’t blame Helena, Preiss,” Socransky said. “She has kept my secret.”
“Since when?”
Helena filled in the answer. “Since the night I visited him in his rooms. Remember, Hermann? The wine? The cake? The letter?”
I stared at Helena for a moment, then at Socransky. To him I said, “But I thought you were in love with her?”
“I do love her, yes. As a dear friend. The person with whom I am in love lives in Russia, a young composer. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? His name is Tchaikovsky. Peter Tchaikovsky. We met when I was a student and he an instructor at the Conservatory in Moscow. Unfortunately, people like us … well, need I say more, Preiss?”
I turned to Helena. “I had a vision of myself standing alone on the platform at the Ostbahnhof waving goodbye to the two of you.”
To Socransky I said, “Where will you go then, if Russia is out of bounds?”
“I leave today for Paris. I have friends there, also refugees from Russia for the same reason. The atmosphere in Paris is a little more friendly for us. My ticket is already arranged, but I could certainly use those travel documents, if you’d be so kind.”
“But can you get work there? Can you earn a living? It’s a gamble isn’t it?”
“If you are a Jew living in Russia every day is a gamble. Will they leave us be? Will they come after us? We are born gamblers. My coming to Munich was a gamble. What if Wagner had chosen someone else to sing the role?”
“And if he hadn’t chosen you, Socransky, would you nevertheless have found some way to kill him?”
Socransky’s face broke into an inscrutable smile as he thought of an answer. Finally he said, “What do you think, Inspector?”
“Damn it, Socransky! There you go, answering a question with one of your own!” I shouted back.
The young tenor took a step forward and gently said to Helena, “Give me your hand —” Taking hold of it, he placed her hand in mine, folding the two hands together ceremoniously, like a priest. “There now,” he said. “With the powers vested in me by the God of vast improbabilities, I hereby declare the two of you inseparable.”
I thought I saw tears forming in the corners of Helena’s eyes but a moment later a faint half-smile played about her lips, and in her eyes I caught what looked like a flicker of surrender.
Could she possibly be resigning herself to yet more of me? I wondered.
Note to the Reader
Several of the principal characters in this novel actually existed and were part of the rich tapestry of classical music in the Germany of the mid-1800s. Other characters, and the plot and subplot, are purely fictitious. I acknowledge with gratitude the following research sources which enabled me to blend historical facts with invented people and events:
Michael Steen, The Lives and Times of the Great Composers
Ernest Newman, Stories of the Great Operas
Nicholas Slonimsky, Perfect Pitch: A Life Story
John Culshaw, Wagner: The Man and His Music
Rosamund Bartlett, Wagner and Russia
The Diaries Of Richard Fricke, Wagner in Rehearsal
Barry Millington, Wagner
In a sense the story of Richard Wagner has continued long after his death on February 13, 1883. I therefore acknowledge as well many pertinent essays and articles that appeared during the writing of this novel in newspapers including The New York Times, Globe and Mail, and the English-language Forward, a New York newspaper which, in both its Yiddish and English editions, has been an essential part of my family for two generations.
As always for their advice, encouragement, and assistance, my thanks to Beverley Slopen, Joanne DeLio, Henry Campbell, Malcolm Lester, and my editors Sylvia McConnell and Cheryl Hawley.
Copyright © Morley Torgov, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Sylvia McConnell
Copy Editor: Cheryl Hawley
Design: Jennifer Scott
Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Torgov, Morley, 1927-
The mastersinger from Minsk [electronic resource] : an Inspector Hermann Preiss mystery/Morley Torgov.
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4597-0202-8
1. Wagner, Richard, 1813-1883--Fiction. I. Title.
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Bo
oks, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
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