Prima Donna at Large

by Barbara Paul

  “Don’t be too charming tonight, Rico,” I answered in the same vein. “Your lady may not let you go at all.”

  He tried to look dismayed and failed. “How terrible! I will be careful.”

  Toscanini and I were turning to go when a bass voice boomed out from across the room. “Miss Farrar! Do wait a moment—please!”

  The bass voice had said please, but it was clearly a command. The owner of the voice was an oversized woman in her sixties wearing enough jewels to weigh down an elephant. She was one of those obtrusive people who thrust their faces into yours when they talked, and I’d always had trouble being polite to her. She never took hints; she was worse than the cow who’d wanted me to sing.

  “Dear Miss Farrar, I have a favor I want to ask of you.” (No, I thought automatically.) “I have been racking my brains trying to think what to wear to the war relief costume ball. But when I saw you here tonight, I had the answer! Do allow me to wear one of your Butterfly costumes, my dear—it will be just the thing!”

  I gritted my teeth. “Sorry, I never lend my costumes.”

  “Ah, but you can make an exception this one time, can’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, no. There’s still time for you to get an Oriental costume made up, isn’t there?”

  “But that’s not the same as wearing one from the Metropolitan Opera!” she boomed. “If I show up in one of Geraldine Farrar’s costumes, I’ll win the prize!”

  For what? I wondered. I had lent some of my costumes to a few of these society matrons when I was new at the Met. They’d come back with the seams stretched and some of the ornaments missing; the costumes hadn’t even been cleaned before they were returned. I told the woman no again, but she didn’t want to hear me. She was about my height but outweighed me by a good sixty pounds, and she was closing in.

  “Now, Miss Farrar, I’m just not going to take no for an answer! Do lend me one of those exquisite costumes—I’ll let you choose which one! I will take good care of it and make sure everyone knows it belongs to you. And a wig. I’ll need a wig.”

  I stepped back from that overendowed dowager and looked her up and down. “Dear lady, until you can lift your façade and restrain your posterior, you would need not one but several of my Butterfly costumes. You would do better to choose something from Emmy Destinn’s wardrobe.”

  “Gerry!” Caruso looked horrified. The others within hearing distance tittered. Toscanini had his back turned, so I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “Well, I never!” My buxom adversary flounced off, and believe you me, nobody flounced better than she did. I was heartily glad to be rid of her.

  “Gerry, why you insult Emmy?” Caruso said in a low voice. He looked hurt.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I muttered. “I can’t stand women like that one. Look how fat she is—she’d ruin my costumes!”

  “And that is why you insult Emmy? Because she is not slim and beautiful? You have no tolerance, Gerry, no understanding.”

  “Don’t scold me, Rico, I’m in no mood for it.” I tapped Toscanini on the shoulder. “Come.”

  Toscanini’s face was a mask until we got into the limousine and were snuggled comfortably under the fur lap rug. Then he laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. “Ah, Gerry! All these things I think to myself but cannot say to the ladies—you say them! In fede mia! You have heart of the lion!”

  “Mmm,” I murmured. “But Rico’s mad at me.”

  He took my hand. “Eh, you must remember, Caruso and Emmy—they are friends for many years, many. Caruso feels protective, you understand?”

  I snorted, and didn’t even care that it was such an indelicate sound. “Emmy Destinn needs a protector the way you need conducting lessons.”

  “Nevertheless, Caruso thinks he is protecting her, and that makes the difference, no?”

  “I suppose.”

  We rode in silence for a while, holding hands like a couple of schoolchildren. I wasn’t concerned about Emmy and Caruso; it was my companion I was worrying about. There was a time when I’d actually thought about leaving the Metropolitan Opera—because of Toscanini. During his first year in New York we hadn’t seen eye to eye on anything; the Maestro was so rigid, so demanding! But Toscanini had made the first gesture of reconciliation, and since then I’d sung in the best-conducted performances of my life. “You aren’t really going to leave the Metropolitan, are you?” I asked.

  “Is possible,” he shrugged. Then his voice took on a note of excitement. “Why do you not come with me, Gerry? You have never sung in Italia. Let my countrymen hear you, let them see you!” He laughed. “They make me national hero! I return home, and I bring America’s brightest star with me, yes?” He laughed again. “It could be glorious, cara mia.”

  That’s all I needed—to start all over again in a new country, in the middle of a war. I put my head on his shoulder and said: “I don’t want you to go, you know. I want you to stay right where you are and go on doing what you’re doing now. I want you to keep on screaming at me in rehearsal and whispering compliments in my ear whenever we’re alone. I don’t want anything to change.”

  “Ah, but the change, it starts already,” he reflected sadly. “But I understand you. There are things you want to keep in your heart, to cherish forever, yes? Even moments, special moments. Like this one.”

  What a nice thing to say. “Tell me something. How is it possible for a person to be so nasty in rehearsal and so sweet the rest of the time?”

  “Strange,” Toscanini said. “I am just wondering the same thing.”

  The place where Fifth Avenue and Broadway meet is the windiest corner in town and no place to be in mid-winter. But around the corner on East Twenty-third Street is the Bon Ton Tea Shoppe, where I was meeting Morris Gest. I like the Bon Ton; they serve a good tea and they know how to treat celebrities. When the staff had assured itself that Miss Farrar’s chair was comfortable and Miss Farrar’s order had been taken and there was nothing else that Miss Farrar desired, I turned to Morris. “Well?”

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small porcelain jar. “They’ve made a good offer,” he said, “but I think I can get them to go higher.”

  The label on the jar said Creme Nerol. I took off the lid and sniffed; it smelled good. “Very well, I’ll try it tonight.” The makers of Creme Nerol had asked me to endorse their new skin and beauty product, but I wanted to test it first.

  “They plan on running your picture in the advertisement. That should be good for a few more sales. By the way, the Old Man will be joining us here—I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, I’m glad he’s coming.” And I was; I hadn’t seen Morris’s father-in-law for a while. Just then our tea arrived. I stirred and sipped and nibbled a little of the cream cake we were served—just a taste.

  Morris took a big swallow of tea and made a face, obviously wishing it were something stronger. “Your contract will be ready in a day or two.”

  “For Creme Nerol? I haven’t said yes yet, Morris.”

  “Naw, the contract for your joint concert with that double-crossing, underhanded, tight-fisted, no-good Frog you’re determined to sing with.”

  Oh my. “Philippe Duchon? Why, what’s he done?”

  “He’s ratted out on me, that’s what he’s done.” Morris’s face was angry; a big vein stood out in his forehead. “He let me go ahead and arrange his tour for him, and then he up and tells me he’s decided not to sign a personal management contract after all, mercy beau-koo. Ain’t that a nice howdy-do?”

  It was a rotten trick. “Is he signing with someone else?”

  “Not so far as I know. I could cancel his tour, but there’s no point. He’s got the schedule I made out for him—all he has to do is pick up a telephone and reconfirm. That slimy son of a bitch!”

  “Morris!”

  “Sorry, Gerry. But I could chew nails! He’s got you to sing for him for free and he got me to arrange his tour for him for free … I could throttle that da
mned Frog! Who does he think he is?”

  “Calm down, Morris, this can’t be good for you. Here, have some more tea.” I filled his cup, understanding full well why he was so bothered; it wasn’t often that someone pulled a fast one on Morris Gest. “You might as well forget about it. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “The hell there isn’t,” he muttered. “I can sue the oily-tongued bastard.”

  “But you had no contract!”

  “We had a verbal contract. And if I can prove we had one, it’ll stand up in court. That’s why I asked the Old Man to meet us here—he knows the ins and outs of a courtroom, he’s been sued more than anybody else I know. And Gerry, you’d help my case if you refused to sing with Duchon.”

  On again, off again. “How would that help?”

  “Oh, you could testify that you knew he’d welched on his agreement with me and that made you leery of him, since his word wasn’t worth much, something like that. We can work it out.”

  I didn’t like Morris’s asking me to take sides in his quarrel with Philippe Duchon; my relationship with the baritone was precarious enough as it was. But Morris was in the right, and he was an old friend. If it ever came down to it, I’d have to side with Morris.

  “Here comes the Old Man,” he said.

  I looked up to see a distinguished-looking older man in priest’s raiment approaching, his thick silver hair carefully waved and his face calm. He ignored his son-in-law and took my hand. “My dear Geraldine,” he said in that soft, mellifluous voice of his, “when are you going to abandon the opera house in favor of the theatre? We need you, you know.”

  I gave him my best smile. “Get thee behind me, Satan. Your offer becomes more tempting every time I hear it.”

  “Ah, that is music to my ears!” He sat down at the table, finally acknowledging his son-in-law’s presence. “I told Morris I couldn’t leave rehearsal to meet him, but then he mentioned you’d be here. How could I resist?”

  So I was the bait. “I’m glad you didn’t resist. What are you rehearsing now, David?”

  “We’re reviving A Celebrated Case. I’ll try it out in Boston next month before bringing it to New York. Why don’t you let me find a play for you?”

  David Belasco had been after me for several years to act in one of his productions. Playwright, director, producer—Belasco was the single most important and influential figure in New York theatre, and I was frankly flattered by his attention. He even had his own theatre building, on West Forty-fourth Street; but he always had half a dozen other productions playing in town. He’d worked his way up from nothing to become high priest of the theatre world—which, I suppose, is why he always wore ecclesiastical garb. Also, it helped hide his growing pot belly.

  Belasco and Morris talked a while about Morris’s intended litigation, and Belasco too seemed to think I would make a good witness for the plaintiff. He gave his son-in-law the names of a couple of attorneys. Morris was always on the lookout for a new lawyer; he distrusted the profession and was convinced that all its practitioners were out to fleece him.

  Meanwhile, I’d been thinking. When there was a lull in the lawyer-talk, I said, “David, I could use your help.”

  “Name it, dear lady,” he smiled.

  “I’m concerned about the final duet in Carmen—the acting, not the singing. The way Caruso and I do it, well, there’s something wrong with it.”

  Belasco frowned. “I saw your Carmen in December, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the acting in the final duet at all.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with it—there’s nothing to remember! Caruso and I stand there like two blocks of wood and wave our arms at each other. I’ve tried doing a few things on my own, but they haven’t worked very well. David, I would appreciate some suggestions.”

  “When do you next sing Carmen?”

  “Friday night. Can you come see what we’re doing? Or not doing, rather.”

  “I’ll be there. And don’t worry, Gerry, I’ll work out something for you and your partner.”

  “If he cooperates,” I sighed.

  Belasco smiled. “I’ve dealt with Mr. Caruso before, remember.”

  That’s right; he had. Belasco had directed the stage action for the première of La Fanciulla del West, Puccini’s cowboy opera that had starred Caruso and Pasquale Amato. And Emmy Destinn—instead of me.

  Instead of me.

  I had to see my dressmaker and left soon after that, feeling much relieved. If anyone could solve the staging problems of Carmen’s final duet, it was David Belasco. It occurred to me that on Friday night Belasco would also be seeing the man his son-in-law was planning to sue; Duchon would again be substituting for Amato.

  Unless he lost his voice before then. I almost wished it would happen. And then I was almost ashamed of myself for thinking such a thing. Almost.

  8

  “It’s still too fast, Mr. Springer,” I said. He grimaced and forced himself to play more slowly. I’d invited him and Jimmy Freeman to my apartment to rehearse those parts of Madame Sans-Gêne Jimmy would be singing. Jimmy was doing fine; the only problem was keeping Osgood Springer’s piano accompaniment to the pace the orchestra would be following. But I could understand his desire to speed things up once in a while; the music was rather bland in places.

  But Jimmy thought it was wonderful. It was his first major role, after all, and—let’s face it—he was doubly excited because he would be singing with me. I didn’t mind. When we finished, I announced I could see no major problems, Mr. Springer declared he was satisfied, and Jimmy proclaimed himself in seventh heaven, no less. We would do all right.

  Bella and one of the other maids brought us refreshments. As I was pouring Mr. Springer’s coffee, he mentioned that he and Jimmy would be seeing me on Friday night, at Carmen. It seemed Jimmy would be standing by for Duchon again.

  “I don’t object, not really,” Jimmy said happily. “I’ll gladly stand by every night as long as I have Madame Sans-Gêne to look forward to.”

  So with the promise of that one performance, Gatti-Casazza had gained himself a willing slave. “Duchon is still complaining of throat problems, then?” I asked.

  “Mr. Gatti didn’t actually say so,” Osgood Springer replied, “but that was the impression I got. Do those two dislike each other?”

  “Who?” I said, startled. “Gatti and Toscanini?”

  “Toscanini? No, I meant Gatti and Duchon. Our general manager seems uneasy every time he speaks of the Frenchman.”

  Worried about his job. “I don’t think there’s any actual dislike between them,” I said, “but Duchon is not easy to work with. He makes so many demands.”

  “You work with him,” Jimmy said loyally.

  “Only through the exercise of superior self-control,” I smiled modestly. “The man isn’t easy to get along with. I’d much rather sing with you.”

  Jimmy almost dropped his cup. “You would? You really would?”

  “I really would.”

  Jimmy put down his cup and got up and did an impromptu little dance. “Hear that, Mr. Springer? She’d rather sing with me than Duchon!”

  His voice coach laughed, enjoying the moment almost as much as Jimmy. “Things will be returning to normal soon. I hear Pasquale Amato is up and about now. He’ll be back soon, and then Philippe Duchon can go back to where he came from.”

  Oh my. Did they really think that? “Mr. Springer, Jimmy—I don’t want to tell you this. But Duchon isn’t going back to France. Not right away, at least.”

  A silence heavy enough to feel came into the room. Then Jimmy said, “What do you mean, he isn’t going back? All he’s doing is filling in for Amato.”

  “No, that’s not all he’s doing,” I said. “He’s going on tour, for one thing—my manager arranged it for him. And Duchon and Gatti have been talking about next season’s schedule, I know.”

  The silence returned. Abruptly Mr. Springer stood up and walked over to stare out the window.

  I felt
compelled to explain. “Philippe Duchon is an ardent patriot, you know that. But there’s nothing he can do in France. Here he can raise money—that’s why he came in the first place, to solicit funds for Alsatian war relief. I think you’d both better get used to the idea that he’s going to be around for a while.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d agreed to sing a joint concert with Duchon; they’d find out about that soon enough.

  “I thought he’d be leaving,” Jimmy said, stunned.

  “So what happens to James?” Mr. Springer asked, still staring out the window.

  “Oh, I’m sure Gatti will give him another leading role next season,” I said in as optimistic a voice as I could summon. “Maybe even two roles.”

  Mr. Springer whirled from the window. “With three lead baritones on the roster? Scotti, Amato, and Duchon? There’s no room left for James!”

  “You can never have too many good baritones!” I was determined to be optimistic.

  Mr. Springer made a sound something like pshaw and turned back to the window. “I thought he’d be leaving,” Jimmy repeated dully.

  I shouldn’t have told them, I thought miserably. But I couldn’t let them go on living in a fool’s paradise; the later they found out the truth, the more it would hurt. Confound Gatti-Casazza anyway! He should have explained things to them.

  Mr. Springer roused himself and made an effort to help cheer Jimmy up. But Jimmy wouldn’t be cheered. “Damn that Frenchman!” he cried. “I should have punched him in the nose, that day in Delmonico’s! I should have punched him in the throat!”

  “Jimmy!” I protested. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do mean that!” he shouted in full youthful bravado. “Everything was going fine until he came.”

  “Control yourself, James—this is not like you,” his coach said. “Miss Farrar, I apologize for this outburst. Perhaps we’d better leave.”

  I hated for them to go on such a sour note, but a brisk walk in the nippy February air might do Jimmy some good. I saw them out and leaned against the closed door for a moment. At least one good piece of news had come out of that unpleasant scene: Osgood Springer had said Pasquale Amato was up and about. I decided to go see him.