by Barbara Paul
My plan was to drop in at Morris’s office unannounced, but when I got there his secretary told me he was at Carnegie Hall arranging a concert. My chauffeur let me out at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street and drove away to look for a place to park. I found Morris coming out of one of the business offices in the concert hall.
His rubbery face broke into a smile when he saw me. “Ah, Gerry, what luck! I was planning to call you in a day or two. I got a proposition for you, darling. How about taking over that concert schedule I set up for Philippe Duchon? It would be a nice gesture on your part.”
And it would mean some money for you. “I don’t want to talk about that now, Morris. But there is something I want to ask you. In private.” I opened one of the doors to the main auditorium; that huge place was dark and empty and quiet—no rehearsal in progress, thank goodness. “In here.”
Morris propped the door open so we’d get some light from the hall and sat down beside me in the last row. I casually mentioned my chauffeur would be coming in as soon as he parked the limousine—and then realized what I was doing. I was protecting myself! From Morris! Good heavens.
Plunge in. “Morris, I want you to tell me why you went backstage right before Carmen started. And why you told David Belasco you were in the gentlemen’s restroom. I want the truth, Morris.”
He grunted. “Everybody’s full of questions these days. Why do you want to know?”
“Morris. Tell me.”
“Oh, all right, I suppose it won’t make any difference now. I went back to see Caruso. I want to take over the management of his affairs. Not his bookings—his regular agents could still handle that. But Caruso needs a personal manager, if he’d just realize it. And it might as well be me.”
“You wanted to talk to him about a thing like that while he was getting ready for a performance?”
“I just wanted to plant the idea. We’d have talked about it later.”
“Rico didn’t say anything to me about that.”
“I never saw him! I stopped to break up an argument and it took longer than I thought it would and—well, there just wasn’t time.”
“What argument? Who?”
“Dr. Curtis and Philippe Duchon. Duchon fought with everybody, didn’t he?”
“Dr. Curtis! What were they arguing about?”
“Curtis’s fee. He said Duchon had consulted him about his throat and then refused to pay his bill. Duchon said Dr. Curtis hadn’t done anything and didn’t deserve to be paid. I don’t think Curtis cared about the money at all—he just hated that highhanded way Duchon had of treating people. I wasn’t any too fond of it myself, as you know.”
“Is that all it was? Why didn’t you want David to know about it?”
Morris sighed. “I didn’t want him knowing I was trying to drum up more business. The Old Man says I spend too much time at work as it is and I ought to cut back. He says I’m neglecting my family.”
Oh my—such a simple explanation, and it so had the ring of truth to it! “Well,” I said, “I don’t think anyone so addicted to work as David Belasco has the right to tell you to ease up. Good luck with Caruso. And Morris—thank you for telling me.”
He laughed. “The cat’s outta the bag anyway. Lieutenant O’Halloran made me tell him yesterday.”
So the lieutenant had been there first. “Does David know now?”
“Yes. He’s furious, of course.”
My chauffeur showed up just then, so I left Morris to cope with his father-in-law problem the best he could. Our little talk had lifted one burden but added another. I was delighted at no longer having to think of Morris as my one real suspect, but I was also at something of a loss because now I had no suspects.
I couldn’t seriously suspect Dr. Curtis, in spite of what Morris had just told me. Philippe Duchon had been spitting up blood right before he saw Dr. Curtis—who had told him earlier that nothing was wrong with his throat. I was willing to bet that was how the argument started. But it was absurd to think of crotchety, outspoken Dr. Holbrook Curtis deliberately damaging the throat of a patient who owed him money. There was no way that could happen.
But it did sort of round things out. Now everybody had a reason for disliking Philippe Duchon.
I was expecting Jimmy Freeman at six; we’d talk a little and then go out to dinner. If Jimmy were seen in public with me so soon after the engagement fiasco, perhaps he’d feel a little less foolish. The telephone kept ringing at regular intervals; it was always Caruso. I’d told Bella to say I was out whenever he called for the next couple of days. The man was becoming a nuisance.
While I was waiting for Jimmy, I worked on a song I was writing as a birthday gift for my godchild, the daughter of a long-time fan. That was one of the nicest things about the gerryflappers; even when they married and started their families, they remained loyal fans. I was godmother to four little Geraldines and one small Gerald, and I kept careful track of their birthdays so I could send them something. The gerryflappers were always giving me things—some fine sewing, miniature paintings they’d done themselves, personal things like that. Last year one of them gave me the measles.
The song was coming along nicely. The little girl I was writing it for would be five in April. It’s never too early to start a child singing; I can’t remember a time in my own life when I was not singing. I owe so much to the kind of childhood my mother gave me. In case you haven’t noticed, the primary occupation of little girls is sitting still. Stop fidgeting, behave yourself, act like a lady, don’t, don’t, don’t—that’s what little girls hear the most. But my mother never said those words to me. She said Go! Do! Sing!
Jimmy arrived right on time, looking sheepish and a little disconsolate. I suggested that after dinner we drop in at the Metropolitan for a couple of acts of Aïda; Pasquale Amato was making his first appearance after recovering from his illness and I wanted to wish him well. Emmy Destinn was singing, but Caruso, fortunately, was not. I’d had enough of Caruso for a while.
Jimmy was far from his usual peppy self. I had to work on him; only when I began flirting openly did he start to respond. When at last he laughed, I felt we were getting somewhere. We dined at the Waldorf, and over dinner Jimmy mentioned that Osgood Springer had told him about our little meeting at the museum the day before. “He said you were very understanding.”
“Mm. Didn’t you wonder why he wanted you to get into costume so early? For Carmen?”
“No, not really. Mr. Springer just said for me to get ready. He didn’t say why.”
“And you just did it. Why?”
“Why what? Why did I get into costume?”
“Why do you do everything Mr. Springer tells you to? Don’t you ever question him?”
“Never. I owe him everything, Gerry. I wouldn’t be singing at the Metropolitan at all if it weren’t for Osgood Springer. Besides, he never tells me to do anything that isn’t good for me.”
“You owe him everything? Oh, really, Jimmy! He’s your vocal coach, that’s all. How could you owe him everything?”
“Well, he did give up all his other students in order to concentrate on my career. That’s a pretty big sacrifice, I’d say.”
I put down my fork. “I didn’t know that.”
Jimmy nodded. “He’s put all his eggs in one basket, so to speak, and I’m the basket. I think he sees my career as a substitute for the one he had to give up when he had his accident. He does everything for me, Gerry. He rehearses me every day, he negotiates my contracts, he fights with Gatti-Casazza for me—he does more for me than my own father ever did. I even live in a suite of rooms in his house. I owe him, more than I’ll ever be able to pay.”
That certainly put a different cast on things. Jimmy’s career was Springer’s life—would the vocal coach destroy another singer to protect it? Could he have lied to me about seeing Duchon spit blood? Suddenly a terrible truth occurred to me: Everybody could be lying. I’d not really questioned anything anyone had told me. Foolish, fooli
sh! How many lies had I accepted as truth? I couldn’t tell who was lying and who wasn’t.
Morris Gest, for instance. He could have lied about why he’d gone backstage. How could anyone check up on him? Could he have gone back to argue with Duchon one more time, spotted the ammonia in Emmy’s medicine bag, and then lost his head? He could have given in to one irrational moment, his desire to get even with Duchon overriding everything else.
Or Gatti-Casazza—I still didn’t know if he was lying about not going into Duchon’s dressing room. Oh, there was no end to it! Scotti could have lied, Toscanini could have lied. You could even make out a good case against Emmy Destinn. After all, she was the one who’d brought the ammonia backstage; the only other person who knew she’d have it with her was Dr. Curtis. Dr. Curtis?
I had to face the fact that all my so-called “investigating” had left me in a state of abysmal ignorance. Once I started doubting one person’s word, then I ended up doubting everybody’s. That’s what I should have done right from the start—not believe anybody.
“You’re very quiet,” Jimmy smiled.
We finished dinner and got to the opera house in time for Act II of Aïda. Pasquale Amato was in fine form; you’d never have known he’d been sick. Emmy Destinn was weighed down by about a ton of stage jewelry—the most richly ornamented slave girl in opera, no doubt.
During the intermission we went backstage; I found Amato and gave him a big hug and a kiss. Jimmy gracefully congratulated the other baritone on his performance in a role Jimmy would have liked to be singing himself. Growing up, maybe?
“You just miss Rico,” Amato told me. “He says he tries to telephone you all day.”
“I’ve been out all day,” I lied. “Is he still here?”
“No, he goes home to bed. Scotti keeps him up all last night playing cards and he is tired. You know how it is.”
I knew. All-night card games were nothing unusual for Scotti, but they were for Caruso. Lucky for me he was tired and had gone home early.
Since we were already backstage, I decided to do something I’d never done before. With Jimmy in tow, I headed for the star dressing room to see Emmy Destinn.
“Gerry!” she exclaimed in surprise. “This is the first time you’ve ever come backstage during one of my operas! But of course—you came to see Amato, did you not? Tell me something, did you hear any flat notes in Ritorna vincitor?”
Now, since Ritorna vincitor is the soprano aria that comes in the first act and we had missed the first act entirely, I was able to say truthfully that I hadn’t heard any flat notes. “Did you, Jimmy?” He shook his head, straight-faced.
Emmy sniffed. “Toscanini says I flatted at the end.”
“Toscanini is crazy.”
“Oh, I know that,” she answered in utter seriousness, “but he still has perfect pitch.”
I noticed Emmy didn’t have much to say to Jimmy; in fact, I caught her shooting an uneasy glance at him once. Then I remembered that on the day I’d taken her to my dressmaker, she’d expressed the opinion that Jimmy wasn’t nearly as innocent as he appeared to be. Before the atmosphere could grow uncomfortable, I spoke a hasty goodbye and dragged Jimmy away.
We stayed through Act III and then slipped away. At my place I had a little trouble persuading Jimmy I didn’t want him to come in; but still he went away whistling, no longer depressed. At least that part of the day’s efforts had gone well.
On the whole, I don’t like to sing matinees. But when the opera is Madame Butterfly, I’ll sing it at eight o’clock in the morning if I have to.
While I don’t entertain any particularly warm feelings for Puccini himself, I adore his music; of all the composers whose work I’ve sung, his is best suited to my voice and personal singing style. And that’s important—oh, I can’t tell you how important that is! Some singers will sing anything, any role they’re asked to sing whether it fits their voices or not. But not I. One reason my career has progressed so steadily is that I have one gift most other singers do not: I know my limitations.
I think of myself as a singing actress; I always try to choose roles that will display my voice at its best while giving me plenty of opportunity to indulge my thespian skills (which are considerable, if I do say so myself). I’ve never hesitated to abandon a role once I decided it was not right for me. Once, in Berlin, I learned the role of Leonora in Il Trovatore. I spent months studying with my vocal coach and weeks in rehearsal—and then after all that work, I sang the role exactly once. At the time I’d felt like a cricket chirping away through the thunderous chords and ponderous orchestration of Verdi’s score. The German critics, usually so kind, had nothing but harsh words for my performance—and I had to admit they were right. I never sang Leonora again.
But it’s possible to learn from mistakes like Leonora, and in time I did develop the ability to look at a score and hear in my head how the music would sound sung in my voice. That ability kept me from making several bad mistakes—but sometimes it was hard. Years ago Richard Strauss approached me in Berlin; he was not happy, he said, with the soprano singing the lead in his new opera then playing in Dresden. The opera was Salome, and would Fräulein Farrar consider singing the role when the opera moved to Berlin?
So, at Strauss’s invitation, I attended a performance of Salome in Dresden—and saw the problem immediately. The title role was being sung by a muscular, meat-and-potatoes soprano who looked like an escaped Valkyrie from a Richard Wagner opus. Naturally the composer wanted someone slimmer and more attractive in the role of the seductive, sexually obsessed young girl who demanded (and got) the head of John the Baptist on a platter. “So I have come to the most beautiful soprano in Europe for help,” Strauss had said flatteringly.
But as I listened, and later when I was reading the score, all sorts of warning bells were going off in my mind. It was an exciting role, but it wasn’t right for my voice. I could make Salome look good, but I couldn’t make her sound right. So even though it almost killed me, I turned down the role.
So whom did Strauss get to sing the role in Berlin? Emmy Destinn! Hefty Emmy, looking every bit as Valkyrie-ish as the Dresden soprano she replaced. Vocally, she was right for the role—but that’s as far as it went. Her Dance of the Seven Veils, for instance, had to be seen to be believed. Emmy alternately lumbered about the stage like a distraught elephant and posed statuesquely, discreetly dropping a bedsheet-sized veil now and then. It was undoubtedly the most chaste striptease ever to be performed on any stage, anywhere, at any time.
Speaking of Emmy, she was Covent Garden’s favorite Madame Butterfly at the time the Metropolitan first decided to stage Puccini’s Oriental opera. That was in 1907, and Emmy hadn’t yet worked up the courage to cross the Atlantic and try her fortune in America. So I became the Metropolitan Opéra’s first Butterfly—and you can be sure I wasted no time in establishing ownership of the role. When Emmy finally did come to New York, Gatti-Casazza was quick to notice that when she sang Butterfly the house was half empty; but when I sang the role, the house sold out quickly and they even paid to stand in the back and listen. Emmy hadn’t sung the role for some time now. So let her keep Salome and La Fanciulla del West; Madame Butterfly was mine.
Not that it had been easy—far from it! Puccini had come from Italy to supervise that first production, and he’d made life miserable for all of us. Caruso and Scotti were in the cast with me, and Scotti was the only one the composer didn’t criticize constantly. Puccini didn’t like anything; he whined and complained and objected to this and disapproved of that. The chorus was no good, Caruso was lazy, my voice didn’t carry (I was singing half-voice in rehearsal, for heaven’s sake!). Puccini almost drove the poor conductor crazy (not Toscanini; he and Gatti hadn’t left La Scala for the Metropolitan yet).
Puccini and I just weren’t attuned at all. For one thing, he considered himself quite a ladies’ man. I, however, found his charm utterly resistible; I even mentioned to a few people that the only reason he wore such a luxuriant
mustache was to hide the fact that he had rabbit teeth. Puccini heard about it and retaliated by criticizing my singing.
But the composer changed his tune quickly enough once he heard and saw the audience’s response to our production, and more specifically, to me. They loved me. And not only that first-night audience; the general public made a sort of pet of my Butterfly. For instance, I’d shaved my eyebrows for the role—and unintentionally set the pencil-line style that actresses and débutantes aped for years.
So Puccini had started telling interviewers that I was exactly right for the role, that I was the most charming Butterfly ever to sing his opera, and on and on. What a hypocrite! He’d gradually come to understand that every time I sang one of his operas, his royalties took a dramatic leap upward. I’d made a lot of money for Puccini over the years.
And I was going to make some more for him at the Saturday matinee. Caruso was not singing Butterfly this season, although Scotti still was. It’s not a particularly gratifying opera for a tenor (for a soprano, it’s magnificent). But the real reason Caruso wasn’t singing was money. Caruso sold out the house every time he sang, I sold out the house every time I sang. Gatti-Casazza figured he was losing money whenever we sang together, so he split us up as often as he could. I was lucky to have Caruso for Carmen, I suppose.
But right then I didn’t miss him at all. Caruso had actually shown up at my place that morning wanting a “report”—on the day of a performance! I threw him out.
The first person I saw backstage Saturday afternoon was a man who looked vaguely familiar. He also looked terribly out of place, so I marched myself up to him and demanded to know who he was. He said he was Sergeant somebody of the police and showed me some impressively official-looking identification. Lieutenant O’Halloran had stationed him there—“to watch for the old man you folks call Uncle Hummy” was the way he put it.
