The Mastersinger from Minsk Read Online Free Page B

said. “I am not, however, prepared to be your humble servant.”
    I won’t flatter myself by claiming that this retort had the effect of putting the Maestro in his place; whether one knew Richard Wagner by reputation only, or was a personal acquaintance over many years, or was meeting him for the very first time as I was, one thing was incontrovertible: nothing short of the voice of God could cause this man to go weak at the knees. Still, my refusal to humiliate myself at least managed to establish a ground rule that would govern my relationship with Wagner if only for the time being. As far as I was concerned, Richard Wagner needed me more than I needed Richard Wagner.
    â€œVery well, you two. Come!” Wagner stood to one side, motioning for us to move into the drawing room. He pointed to a sofa in a remote corner of the large room and ordered us to be seated there. “We’re nearly finished, these two young people and I. There’s not much more we can accomplish, not tonight at any rate.”
    I had expected to be introduced to the pair of singers posted close to an enormous Bösendorfer, waiting in silence, like soldiers anticipating their next orders. But no introductions were forthcoming; instead it was back to business. Wagner took his seat at the piano and, sounding more like a military commander than a musician, he delivered the following lecture: “I remind you once again that this scene is crucial between Walther and Eva. Act Two succeeds or fails depending on how you relate to each other at this point. You are planning to elope; you are frustrated by conventions that constrain your emotions, your love for each other. Walther has been treated like an outcast by the Mastersingers Guild; Eva is being used as a pawn in what will be an arranged marriage. Both of you are challenged now to defy narrow conventionalism. So passion … passion! … you must not only sing, you must act! ”
    What followed for the next thirty minutes was some of the most sublime music and singing ever to fill my ears. Indeed — and I admit this without shame — I could feel tears forming in my eyes and I was forced to blink hard at times to clear my vision. If the person responsible for this was a monster (and already I’d formed an opinion that he was) then let him be monstrous, I thought. As for the two singers, despite the fatigue evident in their faces, they were carrying out the monster’s orders above and beyond the call of duty.
    At last, Wagner removed his hands from the keyboard, signalling that the session was ended. Nodding brusquely, all he said to the singers was “We’re getting there. Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock sharp.”
    Rising from the sofa, I approached the three at the piano, calling out, “Maestro, I should like an introduction to your singers, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œWhy? Is it essential for some reason that you meet them?”
    â€œNo, not essential,” I admitted, somewhat taken aback, “but it would be a privilege … for me, I mean.” Addressing the singers, I said, “I’m Inspector Hermann Preiss, of the Munich Police.”
    The tenor, without waiting for Wagner’s approval, stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I’m Henryk Schramm.” He beckoned the soprano to come forward. “And this … this is Karla Steilmann!” Schramm said this with such enthusiasm that I wondered whether it was her voice or her beauty that elicited such a show of warmth and admiration from her collaborator.
    Visibly annoyed that these two young people hadn’t waited for him to manage the formalities, Wagner addressed them gruffly, insisting that they depart without further delay given the demands of tomorrow. “Now get home, the two of you. Go! Out!”
    â€œI do hope we meet again, Herr Preiss,” the young woman said, reducing me with her smile to a mound