The Maestro had stationed himself at the railing in front of the orchestra pit, his back to me, facing the conductor von Bülow, the orchestral musicians, and a company of singers on stage. Although the hall is renowned for its flawless acoustics (a hiccup in the fifth gallery, it is said, resounds like a cymbal-crash backstage), Wagner chose to bellow in the manner of a drill sergeant castigating cadets for sloppiness on parade.
“You … members of the chorus … you are failing to pay proper attention to the way I have placed words under the musical notes! Failing miserably! You are cutting short many of the words and destroying the flow of the text as well as the music! My score is quite clear and the words must be sung precisely as I have written them. If Beethoven would not stand for singers who took careless liberties in the choral movement of the Ninth Symphony, why should I have to tolerate second-rate work? Third-rate, in fact!”
Turning his attention to the orchestra and conductor, Wagner ranted on, “The overture … God in heaven! … I create an elaborate climax where the three main themes are interwoven … and what do I hear? What, I ask you?”
Wagner then began, in a high-pitched raspy voice, to imitate what he heard, his right hand pretending to saw wood, his other hand clutched to his left ear as though hoping to shut out his own noise. “This is music that conveys youthful passion. You are playing it as though it’s dinner music.” The Maestro then proceeded to demonstrate, this time in a baritone voice, how the opening fanfare, intended to symbolize the nobility of the Mastersingers, should be played. “Full-bodied, generous, proud!” he shouted. His hands punching the air, he sang out the first four notes. “This … this … is what I wrote. This is what I expect to hear!”
Dropping his shoulders, looking and sounding exhausted, Wagner said, addressing von Bülow quietly, “Tomorrow let me hear something far better.”
It occurred to me, watching Wagner’s tirade, that any one among the assembly both in the orchestra pit and on the stage could be regarded as a potential assassin of the man, and with good reason. I could even envision a fatal attack by the group collectively, like the slaying of Julius Caesar. Yet not a single person dared to speak up, express resentment, challenge, or even politely beg to differ.
Without another word to the cast and players, he turned and started up the aisle. Catching sight of me, his face darkened into a scowl. “Preiss, what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Maestro, I must speak with you.”
“Not now, Preiss. Thus far this has not been a productive day, as you could no doubt surmise if you were sitting here long enough. I need to get out, get some fresh air, enjoy a bit of a stroll.”
“Then I’ll join you,” I said.
“I was hoping to go alone, Preiss.”
“This cannot wait.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Preiss, I’m not accustomed to having my plans interfered with.”
“Nor am I, Maestro Wagner. The English Garden is close by. Shall we?”
I hailed a carriage and we rode in silence along the short route to the expanse of greenery that lies on the west bank of the Isar River, Wagner looking disgruntled all the way. But once we came in sight of the place, a sudden smile lit up his face, and as we dismounted and readied ourselves for our stroll he pointed his walking stick at the lawns and shrubbery spread out before us. “You see, Preiss, this is what Die Meistersinger is really about … the greatness of German culture, of German art. Look at the planting, the designs of the flowerbed. Why why why do so many Europeans try to emulate the French and English when we Germans have so much more to offer the world?” (I was tempted to remind him that the English Garden was modelled after a similar London park, but decided to hold my tongue.) Shaking his head with a mixture of frustration and disgust, he added, “And for saying this, I’m told that I have no business engaging in political issues. But art and politics are inseparable, don’t you see?”
Wagner shook his head again. “Ach! Let’s walk. Enough aggravation.”
It was at this point that my attention was drawn to the Maestro’s walking stick. Made of ebonized wood, it was topped with a gold handle engraved with scrolling rococo foliage and Wagner’s initials in elegant script. “Your stick, Maestro,” I commented, “is another example of superior German craftsmanship, I presume.”
Wagner halted and handed it to me to examine more closely. With a twinkle in his eyes, and smiling sardonically, he replied, “Don’t breathe a word of this, Preiss. I purchased it in London at a shop just off Piccadilly called, of all things, ‘Cane amp; Abel.’ Like the French, the British take themselves and their role in the universe much too seriously. Still, the odd Englishman does have a sense of humour, eh?”
Our walk began at a leisurely pace, a kind of contemplative slow motion, and we soon found ourselves passing between two rows of tall trees standing at attention as though lined up for inspection, their early spring leaves leaving plenty of space for sunlight to speckle the walkway. A pair of hawks circled overhead complaining about another pair which had beaten them to the carcass of a tiny field mouse, bringing another sardonic smile to Wagner’s lips. “Ah Nature! Now there’s a death you should be investigating, Inspector Preiss.”
I had waited for an opening. Nature, in the form of two ravenous hawks and a dead field mouse, came to my assistance. “Speaking of investigations, Maestro, something has come up … something of a rather unusual … perhaps I should say unconventional or unorthodox — ”
But Wagner was paying no attention, none whatsoever. As though he hadn’t heard a word I’d said, he chuckled. “I gather you are no stranger to music, Preiss. What do you think of Johannes Brahms’s stuff?” Without waiting for my reply, he went on: “To judge by what I’ve heard, the man’s possessed by a burning desire for anonymity, don’t you agree?” Again not waiting for my answer, he said, “Cosima and I are off to a concert tonight. The orchestra is from Weimar. The program opens with a Brahms symphony and I am so excited, Preiss!”
“But Maestro, your aversion to Brahms is well-known. From what you’ve often said about his music, in five minutes you’ll be fast asleep.”
“Of course. That’s why I’m so excited!”
We both stopped to laugh, Wagner beaming with pleasure over the wickedness of his own joke. And for the first time since our initial meeting, I detected beneath the sooty layers of his past misdeeds and his boundless self-centredness a few gratifying flickers of wit.
I waited for this rare moment to pass, then said, “Maestro, I regret having to change the subject, but — ”
“Yes, yes, of course, Preiss. You did say we have something important to discuss. Well?”
“It concerns this woman Cornelia Vanderhoute — ”
“You’ve found her?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Wagner halted abruptly. “But I don’t understand, Preiss. Rotfogel was supposed to lead you to her. You twisted my arm until I agreed to rehire him, but the bastard didn’t have the decency to show up today for rehearsal after all the upheaval he created. How do you explain that, I’d like to know.”
“Thilo Rotfogel is dead, Maestro. Murdered. I was going to add ‘in cold blood’ but actually it appears the circumstances were hot-blooded, if you take my meaning.”
Wagner gave me a knowing smile. “You mean that poor excuse for a human male was done away with while trying to make love, don’t you? Well, I’m not surprised. He was a brilliant hornist, Preiss. Brilliant! But I always suspected that his private life was a tunnel with no light at the end. And Cornelia … how does she fit into the picture?”