by Barbara Paul
“I have something here that will help that,” I said hurriedly, putting my valise down on a table at the head of the bed. “A special syrup Dr. Curtis mixed up for me—”
“Then perhaps you would be so good as to allow Dr. Curtis to decide what is best for the patient,” a raspy voice said testily.
Whoops. I’d not noticed the older man standing over by the window. “Dr. Curtis! I’m glad you’re here. I was going to call you.”
“A noble intention, rendered unnecessary by present circumstances. As you see, I am already here.”
“I called him,” Emmy Destinn said placidly.
“How thoughtful of you,” I murmured smoothly. “Well, Doctor? What is the, ah, prognosis?”
“The prescription,” Dr. Curtis glowered at me, “is bed rest and quiet. So, any time you ladies feel like leaving …?”
Amato started coughing again.
“Don’t you have a rehearsal today?” I asked the other soprano pointedly. Emmy just shook her head.
Ever since I’d come into the room I’d been smelling a most peculiar odor. I didn’t want to say anything; you know how it is in sickrooms. But the odor was too strong to ignore, and I was about to ask what it was when the door burst open and Enrico Caruso erupted into the room, carrying six atomizer bottles. “Pasquale! I bring you the throat spray myself!” He greeted the rest of us in his usual noisy manner and proceeded to place the bottles neatly on a bureau. “We try some now, yes?”
“We try some now no,” Dr. Curtis rasped. “I know what’s in that spray of yours, Caruso, and it’s no good for a cold. Forget about it.”
“But it soothes the throat—”
“No, confound it! Later, perhaps, but not now.”
Frustrated, Caruso turned on me. “I tell you to stay in bed today!”
Amato sneezed.
By then I’d traced the source of the noxious odor to Amato’s bedside table. I picked up a ceramic jar and got a good whiff of the foul-smelling concoction it contained. “What in the name of heaven is this?”
“A salve for rubbing on the chest,” Emmy explained. “It is good for colds and coughs.”
“May I remind you people that I am the doctor here?” Dr. Curtis growled. “I’m sure Amato appreciates your concern, but I decide what medicine he takes, and only I. Is that understood?”
Before anyone could answer, the bedroom door opened again, this time to reveal a bearded, middle-aged man who grew immediately alarmed when he caught sight of three singers hovering over Amato’s sickbed. “Stand back! Stand back! Do you all want to get sick?” Giulio Gatti-Casazza, the Metropolitan Opera’s general manager, looked as if he were envisioning the entire opera company’s coming down with colds at the same time.
“What is this place?” Dr. Curtis snarled, exasperated. “Grand Central Station?”
“Enrico, what are you thinking of?” Gatti-Casazza scolded the tenor. “Such a fanatic you are about avoiding infection—yet here you stand, breathing the air of a sickroom! You must be mad to visit Amato now!”
“Mr. Gatti,” Caruso said cajolingly, “it is only a little visit.”
“And Gerry!” the general manager rushed on. “Just getting over a cold—you need to take better care of yourself!”
“You thought I was well enough to sing last night,” I reminded him archly.
He glared at me a moment and then turned to Emmy Destinn—who forestalled him by saying, complacently, “I never get sick.”
Amato groaned.
Gatti-Casazza threw up his hands and turned his attention to the sick man in the bed. “Pasquale? How do you feel?”
“Not … wonderful,” Amato whispered.
“Now that’s enough,” Dr. Curtis snapped. “I want you all out of here. Now.”
“Doctor,” Gatti-Casazza said, “how long will he be like this? When can he sing?”
“That depends on whether the cold settles into his chest or not. If it stays just a simple head cold, well, he should be back next week.”
“Next week!” I cried. “But I need him this Wednesday—for Carmen!”
“And I need him Thursday for Aïda,” Emmy chimed in.
“Out of the question!” Dr. Curtis looked shocked. “Back-to-back performances?” He bent over his patient. “What have I told you about singing two nights in a row? That’s the kind of overexertion even healthy vocal cords can’t withstand. You should know better, Amato!”
Amato pulled the covers over his head.
“It cannot always be helped,” Gatti-Casazza said in what was for him a conciliatory manner. “The schedule—”
“The schedule be damned! Excuse me, ladies. Mr. Gatti, are you trying to ruin your singers? Scheduling Amato two nights in a row, making Gerry sing when she’s still hoarse from a cold. And Caruso here you sometimes push out on the stage three times in the same week! The human vocal mechanism simply cannot take such abuse without suffering serious damage!”
They’d had this argument before; Gatti-Casazza merely shrugged and said, “Perhaps he can sing one performance this week—yes?”
I made a murmuring sound of agreement and was surprised to hear Emmy Destinn doing the same thing. Surely she wasn’t thinking it would be her opera Amato would sing in? But it didn’t matter anyway; Dr. Curtis quickly vetoed the suggestion. “No chance of that. Next week, perhaps—we’ll just have to wait and see. But not this week at all. You’ll have to find another baritone.”
“But can you not speed up the healing process a little?” Gatti-Casazza hated to give up on Amato. “Isn’t there something—”
“Wait a minute,” Emmy interrupted. “Look.” The bedclothes were heaving spasmodically as Amato tried to fight his way out. Emmy pulled the covers back; Amato looked tousled and disoriented. He closed his eyes and worked his mouth without saying anything. “Pasquale?” Emmy asked with concern. “What is it?”
Amato swallowed with obvious discomfort. “Go away,” he whispered. “I love you all—but please, please, go away.” The effort of talking brought on another coughing fit.
“There, you see!” Dr. Curtis snapped. “You have to leave, all of you. If he’s allowed to rest quietly and take his medicine, he’ll recover faster.”
“That reminds me,” Gatti-Casazza said, fishing a bottle out of his coat pocket. “This is a tonic my grandmother used to give me when I—”
“Out!” shouted Dr. Curtis while Amato buried his head under a pillow. “I want you out of here right now! Out, out, out!”
We were all used to being bullied by Dr. Curtis, but we also knew when he meant business. We left without further ado.
In the elevator on the way down to the Astor lobby, Gatti-Casazza was worrying out loud over whom he could find to substitute for Amato. Suddenly I grew irritated; everyone seemed to have forgotten that I had created a new role only the night before. Singers fell ill and were replaced all the time; why so much fuss? They should have been talking about me.
“Aïda is no problem,” the general manager was saying. “Scotti can fill in for Amato there, yes? It is Carmen that is the trouble—why did Scotti never learn Escamillo?” Pasquale Amato and Antonio Scotti were the two star baritones on the Metropolitan roster for the 1914–1915 season. Since the role of Escamillo, the toreador in Carmen, was not one of Scotti’s roles, Gatti-Casazza had to start considering various baritones of the second rank. “Bronzelli doesn’t sing any French roles. The German baritones are out of the question, and Boinville left for London two days ago.”
“Use a house baritone,” Emmy shrugged.
I shot her a dark look; she wouldn’t be quite so casual about it if it were her own opera in need of a baritone. The “house” singers were an undistinguished group of soloists who could always be counted on to fill in at the last moment; their one virtue was their unwavering availability. They were seldom or never assigned roles in the season’s regular schedule, because they weren’t good enough. Using a house singer was always a last resort.
I
made a suggestion. “Why not give Jimmy Freeman a chance? He says he knows the role backwards.”
Caruso’s face broke into a smile. “Jimmy, yes! What a good idea, Gerry!” He held his hands out before his face, visualizing the billboard: “‘The Metropolitan Opera Company presents Mr. James Freeman making his début appearance as Escamillo in Bizet’s Carmen.’ So, Mr. Gatti, what do you think?”
The elevator had reached the Astor lobby; I quickly stepped out first, as the more prima of the two prima donnas—a nicety of distinction I wasn’t at all sure Emmy Destinn even noticed. “Well, Mr. Gatti? What about Jimmy Freeman?”
The general manager spread his hands. “He is so young. Twenty-two, twenty-three?”
“I was nineteen when I made my début,” I pointed out. Marguérite in Faust—in Berlin, in happier days.
Unexpected help came from Emmy. “It’s not as if it’s a real début, Mr. Gatti. You’ve been listening to him for … two seasons now? You know what he can do.”
Jimmy Freeman had been singing small roles at the Metropolitan for the last couple of years, learning his art, developing stage presence, growing. The management had visualized easing him gradually into larger and larger roles and eventually, if he proved good enough, into principal parts. To thrust him suddenly into the role of Escamillo did involve a risk, a large one. And Gatti-Casazza was not known for his willingness to take risks.
“Such a good voice!” Caruso smiled. “Give the boy a chance.”
But the general manager was not so easily convinced. “I have not even heard him sing the Toreador Song!” he cried.
Caruso shrugged. “That is easily remedied, no? Call him in for audition.”
At length Gatti-Casazza decided that was exactly what he was going to do, and hurried off to make the arrangements. Caruso invited Emmy to join him for lunch—and made a point of telling me I was not included in the invitation. “Go home and rest,” he said gently. “You really must, cara Gerry—you do not look too steady on your feet. We escort you home, yes?”
“Thank you, I have my limousine.” Caruso was right; I was beginning to feel a bit wobbly. We parted outside the Astor, and this time I did go home to bed.
I slept for one hour and awoke feeling marvelous.
For a while I just lay in the bed thinking about Jimmy Freeman and the unexpected chance that was coming his way. I hoped he was up to it. Jimmy was a nice, fresh-faced American boy who just happened to possess one of the most distinctive baritone voices I’d ever heard. He was still learning how to use it properly; Jimmy had a long way to go before he could be called a first-class musician. But he had a good vocal coach, and he worked hard. The signs were good.
I liked Jimmy and I wanted him to succeed. Young talent needs a lot of encouragement, and I think established stars have an obligation to help when they can. Besides, Jimmy Freeman had one attribute that was bound to work in his favor as far as I was concerned: He didn’t care who knew that he was wildly, passionately, head-over-heels in love with Geraldine Farrar.
I didn’t mind.
There’s no point in affecting a maidenly modesty about all this; ever since I first set foot on the stage, I’ve had a string of admirers following me about. Opera is a glamorous world; it attracts people. And since most of the sopranos in the business look like Emmy Destinn, a slim brunette with good clothes sense and generally all-round high style is naturally going to receive the bulk of the male attention being lavished about. Some of my admirers were sophisticated men of the world, others were moon-faced boys like Jimmy. But there was always someone.
The pleasurable difficulties of dealing with love-sick swains occasionally occupied more of my time than I might have wished, but some things simply cannot be brushed aside lightly. I had a fair idea of how much encouragement to give to the Jimmy Freemans of the world, and I knew exactly how much distance to keep between them and myself. Jimmy was in seventh heaven whenever I allowed him to accompany me on a shopping trip or some such, but I was always careful to appear at important public functions on the arm of Antonio Scotti or another of my older suitors. I tried to treat Jimmy Freeman kindly while making it clear there could never be anything more between us; I know puppy love can hurt. So I never really told him no.
Besides, it didn’t exactly damage my image to have a promising young baritone following me about with stars in his eyes.
My thoughts shifted to Pasquale Amato, lying in his sickbed at the Astor. His cold was a bad one; anyone could see that just by looking at him. Perversely, a slight head cold could sometimes enhance a singer’s performance; in the early stages the sinuses open up, giving the voice more resonance. Perhaps that was why Amato had sounded especially good in the Madame Sans-Gêne première? But a cold that moved down to the chest could spell disaster. Poor Pasquale—that’s where he seemed headed now.
Time to get up. I rose, bathed, dressed—how I love the tight sleeves of current fashion! There’s no hiding of fat arms in those. I went into my music room and tried vocalizing a little but quit the moment I felt myself beginning to strain. I used a little of the throat spray Caruso’s valet had dropped off. Suddenly I was ravenous; I told one of the maids to heat up the soup I’d been living on for the past week, and downed two bowls. Then I sat down to do some serious worrying about Wednesday night’s performance of Carmen.
Gatti-Casazza had dismissed out of hand any possibility of one of the German baritones singing Escamillo, although there were at least two of them who had sung the role in European houses. It was that confounded categorization the Metropolitan observed so religiously! One either sang French and Italian roles or one sang German roles, but one never sang both. I’d run into that particular brand of shortsightedness before; it was the reason I had never sung at Covent Garden.
That prestigious London house had made me numerous offers when I was still the leading soprano at the Royal Opera House in Berlin, but they’d wanted me only in German roles. I turned them down. Flat. I didn’t want to be known solely as a Wagnerian singer; the Covent Garden offer would have given me no chance to display my versatility. Besides, one can’t live exclusively in the larger-than-life world of German romanticism (at least this one can’t). But here I am caught in that same silly trap at the Metropolitan, only the category is different. Here I sing only French and Italian roles, while the German roles I know so well are denied me. What an idiotic policy. And two qualified baritones were passed over for the role of Escamillo only because they belonged to the German side of the repertoire.
So, by process of elimination, Jimmy Freeman really was our best hope. On impulse I called the Met’s general manager in his office to find out what he had decided.
“Freeman is coming in tonight,” Gatti-Casazza told me. “I want to hear his Toreador Song from the main stage.” The Metropolitan was dark on Tuesdays; Jimmy was going to have to sing to that empty, cavernous auditorium to convince Gatti that his voice was big enough for the job.
“What time?” I was thinking my presence might encourage the boy.
“Eight. But another possibility suddenly presents itself,” Gatti said with a distinct note of excitement in his voice. “Philippe Duchon may be available.”
“Ah!” I understood his excitement. “You mean he’s here? In New York?”
“His ship arrives tomorrow morning. If I persuade him to learn the stage movement in the afternoon and sing the role at night—we score a coup, yes?”
“Yes, indeed! What a stroke of luck!” I felt a momentary twinge for Jimmy Freeman, but a chance for me to sing with the legendary Philippe Duchon overrode all other considerations, I’m afraid. Jimmy would still get his chance; it would just come a little later, that was all. One thing worried me. Duchon was no longer a young man; would he have the stamina to undertake the role of Escamillo his very first day in the country? I wished Gatti good luck and hung up.
I’d heard Duchon sing, of course, many times; but our professional paths had never crossed, my bad luck. Duchon was based in
Paris, but he’d sung in all the major opera houses in Europe, where he was known as the quintessential French baritone. He sang a few Italian roles—Rigoletto, one or two others; but the bulk of his repertoire was French. No German roles at all. Absolutely and positively no German roles.
For about fifty years the Paris Opéra had been controlled by a powerful group of subscribers who loathed with a passion everything German, especially the work of Richard Wagner. Every time the management attempted to stage Wagner, disaster resulted. Stink bombs were thrown into the theatre during a performance of Lohengrin. Tannhäuser was booed off the stage. French operagoers evidently took pride in these juvenile goings-on (it was, after all, a Frenchman who gave his name to the word chauvinism).
Philippe Duchon was a product of this tradition, and I’d heard it said he’d never even heard a complete performance of any of Wagner’s operas. But lately there’d been signs that France’s long hostility toward German music was perhaps at last coming to an end; about a year ago the Opéra had staged Parsifal for the very first time—successfully, even triumphantly.
But that promising beginning had come to an abrupt end a few months later—in August of 1914. The month Europe blew up.
And now Philippe Duchon was arriving in New York tomorrow morning—the great Duchon, who had never deigned to sing in America before. Was he fleeing? Everyone had said the war would be over by Christmas, but here it was almost February and …
Well, no use speculating; Duchon would reveal his reasons for coming when and if it suited him. In the meantime, Jimmy Freeman was going to be singing his heart out to win a role Philippe Duchon could have just by lifting a finger.
Yes, I would definitely be there tonight. The young man was going to need all the moral support he could get.
2
Even when no performance was scheduled, the Metropolitan Opera House, at the corner of Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street, was never exactly quiet. The stagedoor-keeper told me a rehearsal was going on in the roof theatre; that meant the chorus was probably getting a workout in one of the rehearsal halls. A couple of crewmen were pushing a piano out onto the main stage. One of them threw me a kiss; dear man—what was his name? I wandered around backstage until I spotted Jimmy Freeman, listening to some last-minute advice from his vocal coach.
