by Barbara Paul
She pressed her lips together and tried to look sympathetic.
Jimmy Freeman, also changed into street clothes, was wearing a face that could have been a model for a tragic mask. “What a terrible thing!” he cried. “Oh, Gerry, I’m so sorry!”
At last, a friendly shoulder to cry on. The trouble was, I didn’t feel like crying. Killing, maybe, but not crying.
“And wouldn’t you know,” Jimmy went on, “old Duchon is over there talking to the chairman of the board. Capitalizing on the mistake.”
“Over where?”
“There.” He gestured with his head. I made my way over to where Philippe Duchon was standing with Otto Kahn, chairman of the Metropolitan board of directors.
“In an efficiently run house,” Duchon was saying, “such amateurishness would not be tolerated. All details must be seen to, including adequate coaching of the supernumeraries.”
The Frenchman was doing his best to undermine Gatti-Casazza; I wondered how far he’d go to usurp Gatti’s place. If it ever came down to a choice between Gatti and Duchon, there wasn’t the slightest doubt as to which was preferable. “Oh, hello, Mr. Kahn,” I said gaily to the chairman. “How did you like our little comedy?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunate. But these things are bound to happen once in a while, I suppose.”
So he hadn’t been taken in by Duchon’s self-promoting spiel. Good. “Yes, it was unfortunate—but it was funny, you have to admit.” I laughed lightly. Ha ha, oh yes, very funny, ha ha. “Come now, Mr. Kahn, you did laugh, didn’t you?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I must confess I did indulge in a chuckle or two.”
Better and better. “That was a stroke of genius on Gatti’s part, wasn’t it? Sending the firing squad out to take the curtain call, I mean. There’s no way to pretend what happened did not happen—so, we might as well make the most of it!”
“Yes, that was a clever move,” Mr. Kahn agreed. “Send the audience home in a good mood—it never hurts. But, dear Miss Farrar, you did not get to take your own well-earned curtain call.”
I waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll take twice as many next time.” I gave him my most brilliant smile, and he smiled back automatically.
Through all this Duchon had stood like a statue, working hard at keeping his face impassive. I chatted with Mr. Kahn another minute or two and then went looking for Scotti. I found him with Emmy Destinn, both of them doubled over with laughter. The minute they saw me they straightened up and put on sober expressions.
“Oh, stop that,” I said crossly, “I know you both think it’s a big joke. Toto, I want to get out of here. Now.”
“Certainly, bellissima,” he purred. “As soon as you change, we—”
“I’m not going to change. I want to get out of here right now.” Very unprofessional, leaving the opera house in full costume and make-up; I’d never done it before. But tonight was an unusual night.
Outside the stage door Mildredandphoebe were waiting with a million questions, but I hurried by without answering; I’d never done that before either. It was snowing—wet and clingy snow, the worst kind of stuff to fall out of the sky on you on a bad night.
In the back seat of the limousine Scotti did his best to reassure me. “Gerry, that firing squad—it does not make you look bad. You are wonderful. You always are, but tonight even more wonderful than usual. I am wonderful too! Do not be sad, Gerry. I am not sad!”
I sighed. “But we had such a good one going, Toto.”
“Yes, we have a good one tonight. And next time will be good too. Smile, gioia mia. Tell me what I can do to make you feel better.”
I told him.
7
A few days later I was in the music room, deep in the daily drudgery of scales, when my maid Bella came in and told me a Mr. “Dew-shone” was there to see me. I told her to show him in to the music room.
Then Duchon was standing stiffly just inside the door, as if unsure of his welcome—as well he might be! He carried a long florist’s box. “Even singing scales,” he said softly, “you make beautiful music, Gerry.”
“What a charming way to start a conversation,” I said. “Do come in, Philippe, don’t stand there in the doorway. What do you have there?”
He ceremoniously handed me the florist’s box. “Two dozen orchids, I believe you said,” he smiled wryly.
I’d also said on his knees, but I pretended to forget that part of it. “You’ve been talking to Morris, then.”
“Mr. Gest explained I may have been precipitate in my suggestions. It seems I am always apologizing to you, Gerry. It is not my intention to keep offending you—I don’t know what happens.”
What happens is your personality keeps getting in the way, I thought. I turned my attention to the florist’s box. The lid said Wadley & Smythe, Fifth Avenue—he’d not stinted on the expense. The orchids were lovely, that delicate rose variety with yellow throats; I wished I’d said three dozen. I told Bella to bring some shallow bowls filled with water.
Plunge right in. “Did you really think I’d let you pick out my program numbers for me?” I asked Duchon.
A Gallic shrug. “I was mistaken to presume. Your Mr. Gest says you now refuse to sing in concert with me at all. Gerry, I beg you—please reconsider. Your presence would mean so much to the Alsatian war relief. France needs you, Gerry.”
Oh, my. “You should have thought of that when you were making out my program for me.”
“Ma chère, do not let my personal clumsiness dissuade you. We need money, much money. The only way I can help is by giving benefit concerts. And possibly by persuading you—” He broke off abruptly, his eyes staring at something across the room.
I followed his glance. He was looking at a framed photograph I kept on the piano, a picture of the Crown Prince. Handsome Willi, son of Kaiser Wilhelm—my friend, Duchon’s enemy.
He picked up smoothly where he’d left off. “And possibly by persuading you to sing with me. You could help so much, if you would.”
Bella came in with the shallow bowls, making two trips. I busied myself floating the orchids on the water while Duchon walked about the room. “What a charming place you have, Gerry! Both comfortable and elegant. And so much room!” He swung out both arms expansively—and “accidentally” knocked Willi’s picture off the piano to the floor, where the glass splintered into a dozen pieces.
I made no fuss, simply told Bella to clean it up. When she’d left the room, I interrupted Duchon’s apologies and told him to sit down.
I sat in a chair facing him. “Philippe, you come here to ask me to do a special favor for you. And then you do something like that, breaking Willi’s picture, that you know will offend me. Is this your subtle way of telling me you don’t really want me to sing with you?”
He looked horrified. “No, no—never think that! I do want you to sing with me! More than anything!”
“Then why do you do things like that? Ever since we met, you’ve been complimenting me in one breath and insulting me in the next. You’re no stumbling schoolboy,” I said, thinking of Jimmy Freeman. “You must know what you’re doing. So what is it you hope to accomplish by acting in this outlandish way?”
He didn’t say anything. But his face grew pinched, his eyes squeezed together, and to my dismay I realized the man was crying. I fidgeted a bit, not really knowing what to do; finally I handed him a glass of wine, which he took one sip of and then handed back.
When he could talk again, he said, “You are mistaken when you say I must know what I’m doing. I do not. I come to this strange land so full of noise and color and money, and I … I do not always know what is best to do. I am not a young man, Gerry. So many changes—so many violent changes, and so quickly. I lose my opera house, I am in danger of losing my country, and now I think I may be losing my, eh, eh.”
Voice. He was afraid of losing his voice.
Oh, that explained so many things! The alternating moods, the arrogance, the quickness to a
ttribute accidents to the malevolence of others. The eagerness to find an opera company he could manage. It even explained his wanting to learn a new role at this late stage of his career. Singing Scarpia in Tosca would be a way of denying any loss of vocal power—a way of denying death, in fact.
But I thought he was mistaken about losing his voice, and said so. “Your voice is strong and true, Philippe, and it has a resonance and timbre that neophyte singers would give ten years of their lives for. What makes you think you’re losing it?”
“A tightness, a closing up without warning. Several times in rehearsal, and even when I practice those same scales you were doing so effortlessly a few minutes ago—suddenly the voice is just not there. Nothing comes out. It hasn’t happened in performance yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Have you consulted a physician?”
“Yes, Gatti-Casazza recommended a Dr., ah …?”
“Curtis?”
“Dr. Curtis, yes. He says there is nothing to worry about. I must admit Caruso’s throat spray does help, if only for brief periods of time. Do you know what’s in it?”
“It’s basically Dobell’s Solution with several other things added,” I said, “salt water and the like. Caruso’s always changing the formula. Philippe, this tightening up in your throat—do you think it might have an emotional cause instead of a physical one? You’ve obviously had a lot to distress you lately.”
He smiled sadly. “That is what Dr. Curtis suggested. He says it is all in my mind and not in my throat. Perhaps what is needed is not a throat spray but a spray for the head.”
As jokes go, it was a pretty feeble one; but it told me Duchon was making an effort, trying to regain control over a life that had suddenly gone haywire on him. On impulse, I leaned over and patted his hand. “I’ll sing your fund-raising concert with you, Philippe. We can talk about a tour later. And don’t worry about losing your voice—you’ll outlast us all.”
A while later he left, each of us reassured a little about the other. I felt more comfortable with him now than at any time since we’d first met. When a singer is under such stress that his voice is affected, obviously his behavior is going to be erratic. If it were happening to me, I’d be running around and screaming and breaking things. Or maybe even jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.
The evening had started off badly. I’d insulted one of society’s grandes dames in a strong, clear voice that carried all the way across the room—and I’d done so because she had insulted me. The most annoying thing about the entire interchange was that the stupid cow wasn’t even aware she had insulted me.
We were at a dinner party at the Vanderbilt mansion on Fifth Avenue. I was wearing a white taffeta evening frock trimmed with lace and rosebuds, and I was the only woman there whose arms were not bare. The upper part of my left arm still sported a bruise, the result of my unforeseen collision with a foot belonging to somebody in that disastrous Tosca firing squad. Toscanini was my escort for the evening, and the only other person there from the Met was Caruso. I’d barely gotten my wraps off when this cow started pestering me to sing. I said no politely several times, even pointing out once that I’d come to be entertained, not to do the entertaining myself.
This is something all singers have to put up with. We accept invitations to a social occasion and there’s always somebody who expects us to perform in a professional capacity. Caruso sometimes accepts a fee to sing at such events. But I never do, because that puts you on some ambiguous level between honored guest and hired help. When I’m a guest, I want to be treated as a guest and nothing else.
“Dear little songbird,” the cow mooed, “do sing that nice little aria from Madame Butterfly for us. I so seldom get to hear it.”
That nice little aria. That’s actually what she called Un Bel Dì, one of the greatest pieces of music for soprano voice ever written—that nice little aria. “I am sorry,” I announced, projecting my voice so all could hear, “but if you would arrive in your box before the middle of the second act, and stop chattering, you would hear it—in the opera house, where it belongs.”
Caruso looked shocked. Toscanini smothered a laugh. The cow’s friends frowned at me, while her enemies smiled in approval. But at last she understood and importuned me no further. In fact, she hasn’t spoken to me since.
All this before we sat down to dinner.
Toscanini didn’t really want to be there. He wasn’t good at parties—he had no small talk. Gatti-Casazza was the same way; whenever I invited him and Toscanini both to a party, they created two little islands of gloom in the midst of all the gaiety. Those two were alike in so many ways; if one of them had been a woman, they would have been married.
Married, but now thinking of divorce. Somewhere between the quail in aspic and the bombe Moscovite Toscanini confided that he probably wouldn’t be at the Metropolitan next season. He said it so casually that at first I didn’t pay too much attention; he’d threatened to quit before. But he insisted that this time he meant it.
“It is this ‘retrenchment,’” he complained. “Everywhere I look, Gatti cuts the corners. Anything to save a few dollars, yes? How does he expect me to produce the first-class productions with so little money, so little rehearsal time? He expects me to work the miracles? Questo non si può fare! I am not magician!”
For once I found myself seeing Gatti’s side of it. “The retrenchment wasn’t his idea, you know. The board decides these things. Gatti is simply carrying out his instructions.”
“Then he should resign with me. We leave La Scala together, now we must leave the Metropolitan together.”
It was that statement, I think, that made me realize Toscanini wasn’t just making empty threats. The idea of the Metropolitan Opera without Toscanini and Gatti at the helm—why, it was unthinkable! A chill ran through me.
Toscanini noticed. “Gerry?”
I shook my head. “I just realized what it meant. What would the Metropolitan do without you?”
“It would deteriorate,” he said matter-of-factly. Then he put on what I’d come to recognize as his romantic face. “The one thing that makes me hesitate,” he whispered, “is the thought of leaving you, cara mia.”
Just then one of the other dinner guests said something to me and the conversation took a different direction. Across the table and three or four chairs down, Caruso was seated between two lovely women with whom he was flirting with gusto. They were both laughing and having a good time; Caruso’s only problem was deciding which one to concentrate on.
Caruso had tried to flirt with me when we first met. But I could never take him seriously; such a funny-looking man, and so unintentionally comical when he put on the airs of a languishing lover. I remember the first time I ever saw him—at Monte Carlo, at the first rehearsal for the Bohème we were to sing. He’d come in wearing a suit of shrieking green checks and bright yellow gloves, brandishing that ubiquitous gold-headed cane of his. But he was so pleasant and affable to everyone, so kind, that I couldn’t help but like him.
That was back in the early stages of both our careers. I had never heard Caruso sing; and all during rehearsals he sang half-voice, saving himself for the performance. On opening night when I first heard the magnificent sound that came pouring out of the throat of that funny-looking Neapolitan, I was literally struck dumb with amazement. I stood like a statue on the stage until the conductor rapped sharply with his baton to bring me back to my senses. I’ll never know another pleasure quite like that one—singing with Enrico Caruso for the very first time. At the end of Act III Caruso had lifted me bodily in full view of the audience and carried me all the way to my dressing room. Oh, what a moment that was! The Monte Carlo audience went wild. (Caruso has never even tried to heft up any other soprano he’s sung with!)
Talk at the table turned to the war, and I let my mind wander, remembering. Toscanini murmured, “Where are you, cara mia? Of what do you think?”
“Monte Carlo,” I answered.
That place, it
seemed to me, epitomized all that was both good and bad about the Europe that was now being torn to pieces. Frankly, I missed the glitter of Monte Carlo, the cultivated frivolity, the carefree abandon with which money was spent. Not only at the gaming tables (where I gambled just enough to learn not to gamble!), but in the little everyday gestures. Whether it was a Russian overtipping or an American calling out All join in! at the bar, it made for a kind of good-humored camaraderie and display for its own sake. Surfeited grand dukes, wearied kings incognito, phlegmatic John Bulls, American millionaires new to the international playground, sophisticated Parisian elegants—they all contributed to the pageantry that springs from the irrepressible urge for human expression.
Yet a lot of it was mere bravado. Monte Carlo has always paraded a snobbish indifference to less fortunate mortals; the well-being of the common man was not a popular topic of conversation. American millionaires found it hard to break into the inner circles, and European nobility found that marriage to American heiresses was not enough to arrest the decay of old families. Those centuries-old coats of arms were too tarnished; they could never again be burnished to their original brightness, not even with American money. Something was dying in Europe; and I think that underneath all the frenetic gaiety, Monte Carlo knew it.
Dinner ended, and the guests began drifting to other rooms in search of entertainment. I announced it was time for me to leave. My hostess made no attempt to dissuade me; she understood, as did everyone else there, that I do not keep late hours. As my escort, Toscanini then had an excuse to leave himself—for which he breathed a barely disguised sigh of relief. Caruso had settled on the younger of his two dinner companions (don’t they always?), but he abandoned her long enough to say goodbye.
“Go straight home to bed, Gerry,” he ordered, eyes twinkling. “Although I do not understand why you insist you need your beauty sleep.” A nice compliment.
