Two roles epitomize TroyanosÕ art for me: the Composer in Ariadne auf Naxos and Eboli in Don Carlo. She introduced her Composer to San Francisco in the fall 1977 (with Leontyne Price as the Prima Donna/Ariadne, Ruth Welting Zerbinetta, Janos Ferencsik conducting). Mr. Commanday wrote, "the Prologue triumphed on Troyanos. She played the Composer whose serious "Ariadne" is ordered by the rich sponsor to be run simultaneously with an "improvised" commedia. Troyanos was mature, subtle, none of the often adolescent Cherubino-Octavian extremes, a model sensitive-sensible balance, her singing vital and true." She sang the role in three seasons at the Met. I finally saw her during the '87-'88 season. These were her final appearances in the role and her performance is documented on video. One might have thought that at this stage in her career she would not be as convincing or that the vocal line would be more difficult for her. In fact, she made it sound easy. She transformed herself into the energetic, idealistic young man. The voice, if darker with age, was still a vehicle for her personification of the Composer. She brought forth sterling tones to convey his love of music, his exasperation with the orders to perform the opera and the commedia dellÕarte at the same time and his infatuation with Zerbinetta. The ComposerÕs aria, his summation of his feelings towards his art, soared out over the orchestra.

Troyanos said this about the Composer: "I love this role. I've played him for a long time now. He's impetuous, has enormous mood swings. Strauss was so kind to female voices. IÕm really grateful to him for that. Think of all the marvelous music he wrote for us! My favorite moment for the Composer comes at the close of the prologue -- a tribute to music as the highest of all arts. Strauss simply sweeps you along, letting you know how the Composer feels, how true his sentiments are." (Opera News, March 12, 1988, p. 20.)

My first encounter with Troyanos' Eboli was the 1980 Met telecast of Don Carlo with Renata Scotto, Vasile Moldoveanu, Sherrill Milnes, Paul Plishka, and James Levine, conducting. It was a thrilling performance, even on television -- great singing, beautiful production. For me she put a stamp on the role that no one else has equaled. During the 1983-84 Met season she alternated with Shirley Verrett in the role. IÕll never forget the final phrases of her "O don fatale." She let loose on the high notes as though each one were a life or death statement. (The true diva, she held them longer than Verdi indicated.) At the end of the aria, she ran upstage, threw herself at the back wall with her arms outstretched and stayed there throughout the long ovation.

She sang Eboli for the final time at the Met during the 1988-89 season. This time around, the Veil Song seemed more difficult for her, although she still sang with authority. The power was still there but the ease of flexibility was not. In listening to the tape of the performance I am stunned by her singing of "On don fatale." If she needed to take extra breaths, it didnÕt effect the dramatic intensity of her performance. The high notes are thrilling. When she releases them you can hear the echo in the house. One gets the feeling she is going for broke, risking all. The ovations were thunderous.

Writing this tribute, I thought about the nature of being a fan. More than most performers, there is something larger than life about an opera singer. Perhaps because of the double possibilities of moving an audience -- through the character and through the music itself. We call them Callas or Rysanek or Price (even though there were two everyone knows which one youÕre talking about) or Troyanos to identify the artist -- the supreme being. But in conversation we will often refer to them by their first names or by nicknames, acknowledging not only our love but their humanness. We often feel we know them but, of course, most of us do not. We invent a fantasy based on conversations with other fans, bits of gossip, interviews and, of course, performances. Sometimes we meet them but often itÕs just a quick remark, an autograph.

I met Tatiana one time only, when I was working at the front desk of a hotel in San Francisco. One Saturday afternoon I looked up and she was standing in front of me, a walkman in hand, headphones on her ears. I said, "Hello. YouÕre Tatiana Troyanos." She admitted she was and asked if I could direct her to the room of a friend she was meeting for lunch. As we could never actually give out the room number (even to Tatiana Troyanos), I directed her to the house phone. When she walked away I was devastated. What if she didnÕt return to the desk? I had just seen Giulio Cesare and wanted to tell her how wonderful she had been and that I was a big fan of hers. I began composing remarks in my head. Moments later she returned to desk. Just as I was about to begin my speech she thrust her purse toward me and said (in a rather shrill tone), "Look! My purse is ruined." There was a large stain on her leather purse. I was horrified. I imagined that the lobby maid had just sprayed some extra-strength cleaning substance on the counter and that as a result her purse was permanently damaged. This was not the moment I was hoping for. I tried to calm her by telling her I would call the assistant manager immediately. I did this was much trepidation -- the assistant manager was one of those corporate brainwash jobs who panicked when confronted with a situation about which he had to make a decision on his own. I was preparing to offer to replace the purse myself if necessary. As we were waiting for the assistant manager it didnÕt seem appropriate to make my tribute to her so we stood in silence, upset and impatient, Tatiana with her back to me. By the time the assistant manager arrived the stain had begun to dry and it appeared that it had been only water. To try to explain the importance of the situation I stared intensely into the assistant manager's eyes and told him what had happened and that I supposed that the hotel should offer to make the appropriate amends. He apologized to her and we all agreed that it was probably going to be fine as the stain was almost gone now. I was grateful that he gave her his card just in case the damage was permanent. She thanked him and turned to leave. "Wait," I shouted out, "Miss Troyanos!" She turned back and I made my nervous remarks. She thanked me. I asked her how it was possible to sing both Julius Caesar and Kundry convincingly and without ruining the voice. She replied, "Practice!" She turned and walked across the lobby to the elevators. I was disappointed that we didnÕt have more of a conversation but then what could I have expected. I guess the fantasy is that youÕll say, "Hey Tatiana, letÕs go have a cup of coffee," and then she'll tell you all her secrets and you will become a trusted confident.

When Jacobsen asked her about being a celebrity, she responded, "I'm too nervous about the next role, the next engagement. I just go on with my life and work. Publicity makes me frantic, because every time I give an interview I feel I should be studying or working. I hate talking about myself to total strangers. I need to feel comfortable, relaxed. Of course, I wish all this would last forever, with no decline, no end in sight. I feel so lucky, and I know there are people who'd love to trade places. But it takes work! I didn't just get here. IÕve put all my energies into it. When I was young, I knew I had to succeed. I realized I could build a life with music and singing.

"If you're given a certain talent, it needs to be nurtured. You have to stick to it, and it's tough. And it's tougher for a woman, because there are many things you have to give up -- family and children. You choose your priorities. I have given myself totally to my career, but not without question marks. I stick by my decision. I feel this is where itÕs at, at least for me. If I had a combination of everything, perhaps it wouldnÕt work. IÕd be too divided. All this comes from my personality, my background, my psyche. Energies are needed to do what I do, or IÕd be torn apart. ItÕs hard to split myself up. IÕve needed to be single-minded about my career, or I wouldnÕt have come as far as I have. My past is hard to overcome.

"Look, after twenty year of singing, I'm still judged, criticized.... I'm a worrier. I worry about money. I imagine I'm destitute, with no jobs, scrubbing floors. It takes time to know your own value. You have to be damned sure of your relation to the music and yourself and your colleagues to do the best you can. If someone doesn't like it, it's not the end of the world. It can't and shouldn't destroy you. I try to get a more cultivated attitude. It's not easy being put on the carpet, but I'm getting better about it. If you feel you did your best and served the composer, you continue your life." (Opera News, September 1982, p. 9.)

Contrary to many mezzo-sopranos, Troyanos was not tempted to take on soprano roles. "I know I'm not a soprano. I can sing a B, a C, even a D, but as a mezzo. You have to go by the timbre of the voice or you destroy it, and my color is that of a mezzo. Maybe, I'd do a concert Fidelio. I'm tempted, because that one time would not destroy me. I know what I can and canÕt do. Jimmy Levine said to perform and work a lot and not be afraid of overextending myself, even though I won't always be satisfied -- to train myself and discipline myself to performing, even though it may not always work." (Opera News, September 1982, p. 9.)

In 1993, I saw her as Clarion in Capriccio. She hadnÕt sung in San Francisco for ten seasons; I was looking forward to her performances. The role is a small one but the moment she entered she commanded the stage. She was Clarion, the grande dame of the theatre. Two months later, on August 21, a friend called to say that he had just heard on the radio of her death. I couldn't believe it. Who could really? I started making calls; everyone was shocked at the news. How had this happened? The obituaries the next day merely said cancer was the cause. It would take weeks before even the most general details would surface. It was, apparently, liver cancer. When had she been diagnosed? It became clear that hardly anyone in the opera world had known; she had told only a small circle of family and friends. One is horrified at the thought that she might have suffered. Her death still stuns me.

Opera fans always love to live in the future -- future seasons, future roles of favorite singers. She had just sung her first Fricka in Chicago. IÕm sure I'm not the only one thinking that eventually she would have sung Klytaemnestra and Herodias, perhaps Kabanicha and Kostelnicka, eventually the Countess in Pique Dame and the Old Prioress. Because she didnÕt become a recording superstar and because she appeared mostly in New York, there are many operagoers, especially younger ones, who have never heard of her. I'm a little bothered by the unfairness of this -- I feel she should have been much more famous. Perhaps it is partly the lot of the mezzo-soprano. She didn't live long enough to receive the honors her artistry and career deserved. There were no farewell performances. I feel lucky to have seen her so many times but I am still saddened by her death. I find it hard to get enthusiastic about a performance of Don Carlo without her. She defined the role for me.

On April 7, 1994, there was a special concert at the Metropolitan Opera, "Music in Memory of Tatiana Troyanos." James Levine wrote a loving tribute that began, "The idea that we are gathered here ... to pay memorial tribute to Tatiana Troyanos is incomprehensible. What it means, of course, is that our Metropolitan Opera family has lost one of the most important, beloved artists and friends in its entire history. Rarely has the Met experienced a jolt to its nervous system as acute as the one produced by this untimely death. Tatiana was one of the most extraordinary and versatile singers ever! ... She opened the Metropolitan Opera season three consecutive years and typically enough, in three different styles and languages: as Adalgisa in 1981, as Octavian in 1983, and as Dido in 1983. She loved the 'family' feeling of the Met ... and the company adored her."

Levine continues, saying Tatiana was an "appreciative and sympathetic friend. [I] never heard her say anything unkind about a colleague, even in private.... She was aware of her own frailties and failings to a fault, and more than occasionally, unrealistic fears and imagined pitfalls could reduce her to a bundle of tears and insecurities.... [T]hese episodes tended to be of the moment and directed at herself, stemming from an intense desire to be better: to give a better performance, to be a better person. One wanted to go out on a limb for her, to help her, because she herself was warm and generous and would 'walk the plank' for a friend in need anytime." But, "she could turn it around quickly. Show her a humorous side to the situation and she could laugh as she dried her tears, poking fun at herself and doing a 'dizzy dame' routine that was hilarious.

"There seem to be some artists who are at one with themselves; a performance is a natural and comfortable outgrowth of their personalities. For others, there is a great chasm to cross every time -- a transition to be made from a somewhat more fragile off-stage personality to the convincingly vital, on-stage performer. Although she always sang with intense commitment on stage, off stage she constantly had to fight with herself to actually get back up there and do it the next time."