Grand Encounters

On the flagpole in the courtyard of the 13th century stone barn, the black, red and gold stripes of Germany flew above the red hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union. It was a tribute to German Baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, by all odds the world's finest lieder singer, who was to perform in the barn during the Touraine Festival in central France. It was also an act of self-effacement by Fischer-Dieskau's accompanist, Soviet Pianist Sviatoslav Richter, who has made the rustic, four-year-old festival his own showcase.

Having performed with him before, Fischer-Dieskau was already acquainted with Richter's modesty. But even he was impressed when Richter insisted on turning the piano so that he could face the singer--with his back to the audience. Said Fischer-Dieskau: "I know of no other player who would have done this."

Few other players could have done what Richter did with the piano music either. Fischer-Dieskau sang the 15 Magelone Romances by Brahms in one recital, 20 of Hugo Wolf's Moerike Lieder in another. Richter matched FischerDieskau's richly expressive voice in every curve of melody, every nuance of shading, every dramatic inflection, making the piano not so much an embellishment of the vocal line as a second voice that sang along with it.

Good as the collaboration was, there was better to come. Last week, on the festival's closing day, Richter teamed up for an even more rewarding recital with his great Soviet contemporary, Violinist David Oistrakh. Both are natives of Odessa, but they had never played together before. In sonatas by Schubert, Brahms and Franck, they showed what a regrettable omission that had been.

Their Schubert bounded with youthful energy and spontaneity, and their Franck was a lyrical flood. But it was the richer, darker Brahms that most fully revealed the uncanny empathy that enabled them to pass themes back and forth, coloring and developing them but always weaving them seamlessly. The audience of 2,500 was so entranced that it barely noticed when a bird fluttered in the door, looped lazily over the two musicians, then settled in the rafters.

The only flaw was the absence of recording microphones to preserve the occasion. "I can't bear the thought that it wasn't recorded," wrote one stricken Paris critic. "If anything should survive after us, it should be such moments."

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