Prima Donna at Large

  Prima Donna at Large

  An Opera Mystery

  Barbara Paul

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  1

  It was a mistake, I should never have done it, I should have stood firm, I should have said no. Rule number one for sopranos: Never sing in a world première when you’re sick.

  I can’t really complain about the reviews, I suppose. The critics were kind for the most part, although not one of them passed up the chance to mention I was still suffering the effects of my “lingering indisposition,” as they so prettily put it. (I had a cold—a plain, ordinary cold.) The critics all praised my acting, bless them, but The New York Times suggested a little more restraint. As usual. Whatever I do, The New York Times suggests a little more restraint. They suggest, and I ignore—as I would this time. Madame Sans-Gêne is broad comedy; it has to be played big, with oversized gestures and the like.

  The telephone hadn’t stopped ringing all morning—first my manager, then friends and well-wishers, and even a few rivals bent on keeping up appearances. Scotti called twice, dear man. Some fans showed up here at the apartment building and the doorman had to shoo them off, go-away-little-girls, have to speak to him about that. Last night may have been a qualified triumph, but it was a triumph nonetheless.

  Geraldine Farrar in Umberto Giordano’s new opera, “Madame Sans-Gêne.” Has a nice sound to it, don’t you think?

  Actually, I fared better than the opera itself did. The critics one and all agreed that Madame Sans-Gêne, while tuneful and pleasant, is not particularly distinguished or original, tut tut. ’Tis neither grand nor eloquent, those overpaid arbiters of public taste have declared, nor does it contain any real—take a deep breath—passion.

  Well, I knew that, for heaven’s sake! Not every new opera can be a Tosca or a Butterfly. And besides, there’s a real place on the operatic stage for the lighter works. It can get a bit wearying, singing the same standard roles over and over again. I’m always on the lookout for something new, or at least something I myself have never sung before. In fact, it’s time I started thinking about my next new role. Perhaps Thaïs? I want to get something this time that the critics won’t be so quick to dismiss as unworthy of everybody’s efforts.

  Just the same, last night’s glittering audience at the Metropolitan Opera had been excited and uncritically enthusiastic; in the long run, that’s what counts. The truth is, I have a large and faithful following that always watches with fascination every new thing I try. The Metropolitan has only two singers who can be relied on to fill every seat in the house every time they appear. Caruso is one, and I am the other. There’s no modest way to say it, but my fans adore everything I do. Truly. With that kind of support, who wouldn’t keep trying new things?

  But the fact remains I did not sing well last night; that blasted cold robbed me of all my top notes. I should have refused to sing at all. But that mule-headed Gatti-Casazza had been adamant; and once the Metropolitan’s general manager puts his size-eighteen foot down, there’s no budging him. He’d postponed the première once because of my illness, from Friday to the following Monday. On Friday Mr. Gatti had hurriedly substituted another opera from the company’s repertoire—and most of the audience had asked for its money back. That little item of news hadn’t depressed me one bit, ha, nosiree it hadn’t. But Mr. Gatti had been appalled at the thought of the same thing happening again, so I had to sing the première performance of Madame Sans-Gêne on Monday, January 25, 1915, cold or no cold. Frankly, I was just as glad Giordano, the opera’s composer, hadn’t been able to come to New York for the première after all. There’s nothing more disheartening than an unpraised composer drooping around an opera house.

  The telephone rang. It was Caruso, bubbling over with italianate good cheer. “Gerry, mi amore, you were magnificent! But then you always are, are you not? Me, I cannot tell from listening that you are sick at all! Not even a little bit sick!”

  I appreciated the lie and was quite willing to go along with it. “Why, thank you, Rico—what a nice thing to say! If you believed the newspapers, you’d think I dragged myself from my deathbed last night.”

  “Pooh! What do they know? Just the same, you must take care of yourself,” Caruso fussed. “No vocalizing today, not even scales. Stay in bed, rest. Do you hear, Gerry?”

  “I hear.”

  “I send Mario with my special throat spray—you use it, yes? And I send some to Pasquale also.”

  “Pasquale? Why?”

  “His throat burns like furnace, his eyes they water, his nose does not permit the proper breathing …”

  I groaned. Pasquale Amato sang the role of Napoleon in Madame Sans-Gêne; last night I’d noticed he was looking a bit peaked, but he’d sounded superb and I was so wrapped up in opening-night nerves I hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. And now it looked as if I’d passed on my cold to Amato. I asked Caruso, “Will he be all right by tomorrow night?” The three of us were scheduled to sing Carmen on Wednesday.

  “Who knows?” I could hear the shrug in his voice. “This morning, he cannot sing even a nursery tune. But by tomorrow night … who is to say? Tomorrow night he may sing his best Escamillo ever!” Caruso, the eternal optimist.

  I had been worrying whether I would be ready Wednesday night; Carmen is much more demanding a role than Caterina in Madame Sans-Gêne. But I was getting over my cold—Pasquale Amato was just starting his. On impulse I said, “I’ll take him some of my medicine.”

  “No!” Caruso commanded with authority. “I take care of Pasquale. You stay home and take care of yourself.”

  “I feel responsible, Rico. I’m sure he caught his cold from me.”

  But my favorite tenor was in a paternalistic mood that morning and kept insisting, so finally I promised to do as he said just to stop his well-meaning badgering. The minute I hung up I called to one of the maids to bring my hat and coat. I started packing a small valise with the various medicines I’d accumulated lately; Caruso’s throat spray was good for the ordinary hoarseness that plagues every singer, but it wouldn’t do anything for Amato’s cold. I checked my appearance in the mirror and ten minutes later was away on my errand of mercy.

  The chauffeur drove me from West Seventy-fourth Street down Central Park West, around Columbus Circle, and on to Broadway. Everywhere I looked, bold black-and-white posters were exhorting me to give to the War Relief Fund. Sidewalk billboards proclaimed the day’s headlines: German Submarine Sinks Three Steamers in Irish Channel, Bread Riots in Florence. I found I was clenching my jaw and had to do a breathing exercise to relax. I would not let the European war depress me, even though everyone was saying it was only a matter of time until America joined in.

  The limousine pulled up in front of the Hotel Astor in Times Square. I’d decided that if Pasquale Amato was sleeping, I’d quietly leave my valise of nostrums and not disturb him. But Amato’s valet assured me that his master was awake and ushered me into the sick man’s bedroom.

  The first thing I saw was the huge rear end of a woman who was bending over the sickbed straightening the covers. She had all the grace of a Guernsey cow; and when she looked back over her shoulder with enormous cow eyes, I fully expected her to moo. “Hello, Emmy,” I said.

  “Good morning,” Emmy Destinn answered amiably enough. “You have come to visit our ailing baritone?”

  No, I’m having an affair with the valet. “Rico telephoned me,” I said, figuring that was sufficient explanation. Amato did not look good; he was feverish and had dark shadows under his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Pasquale,” I said. “I never dreamed I was making you sick too. I should have been more careful.”

  Amato gave a gallant little wave of his hand. “Do not blame yourself, cara Gerry. Th
ese things happen. I—” He broke off, coughing violently.

  “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?”