Prima Donna at Large Page 7

  I called Scotti and told him I was going to need some unusually sympathetic company that evening.

  5

  “At least Tiffany’s does not change,” Caruso said, looking around with an appreciative sigh. “Everything else in the world changes, but not Tiffany’s.”

  “It’s only been here ten years, Rico,” I remarked. Caruso had come along to help me pick out a silver jewel box I wanted to give my mother for her birthday. It was the kind of shopping expedition Jimmy Freeman usually accompanied me on, but I hadn’t seen the angry young baritone for more than a week.

  “Look at Fifth Avenue!” Caruso went on plaintively. “It turns into the street of commerce! And the lobster palaces, they close down. Rector’s, Shanley’s—gone, gone!”

  Restaurants were important to the tenor. “I miss Rector’s too,” I admitted. “It was a good place to be seen.”

  “Lobster Newburg and White Seal champagne,” he sighed. “Venison chops. Lynnhaven oysters. The Café de l’Opéra, it is gone too. And this year they make Hammerstein’s Victoria into motion picture house!” He made a gesture of disgust. “Motion pictures—pah!”

  “You’re getting old, Rico,” I laughed. “I remember a time when you were delighted by everything new. It didn’t matter what it was, just so long as it was new! Besides, aren’t you being a little hard on the motion pictures?”

  “But they have no sound!” he cried. “How can you have opera without singing?”

  He was thinking of my acceptance of Mr. de Mille’s invitation to go to California in the summer and make a film version of Carmen. “Don’t think of it as opera,” I said. “Think of it as something different.”

  Just then the Tiffany’s assistant who was helping us and his assistant came back with four silver jewel boxes, which they placed ceremoniously on the velvet-covered table where Caruso and I were sitting. The tenor immediately went into a paroxysm of ecstasy; he loved objets d’art and couldn’t keep his hands off the jewel boxes.

  “Look at this one, Gerry, it has secret drawer that you open from the back! And here is one with cherubs on the lid, and fancy posies on the side … and this one! This one, it plays a little tune!”

  They were nice. My mother would like any one of them—but then she always liked everything I gave her, bless her. Eventually I made my selection. Caruso bought the other three.

  We asked that the boxes be delivered and left. Caruso’s motor car and chauffeur were waiting out front for us; we climbed in hurriedly to get out of the cold. “The Hotel Astor,” Caruso told the chauffeur, and to me: “We pay Pasquale a little visit, yes?”

  I hadn’t been to see Amato since the day after the Madame Sans-Gêne première. I am as terrified of infection as any other singer, and even that first visit to Amato’s sickroom had been motivated more by remorse than by anything else, since I was the one who’d given the baritone his cold. I wanted to go see him … but I didn’t want to go see him.

  Caruso knew what I was thinking. “Do not worry, cara Gerry. I and Scotti, we figure out way to talk to Pasquale safely. You see.”

  Well, I saw, all right. Scotti was already there, demonstrating the procedure. What they’d figured out was an arrangement whereby the visitors would sit in one room and shout through the open bedroom door to Amato. Amato, resting his voice, would scribble an answer on a notepad, and a valet would then run into the other room carrying the message. It wasn’t the latest thing in rapid communication, but it worked.

  Even the ever-cantankerous Dr. Curtis approved. He was putting on his coat to leave, but paused long enough to say, “Amato needs cheering up. He could use some company.”

  “And what am I?” Scotti asked indignantly. “A piece of furniture?”

  Dr. Curtis ignored him and said to me, low, “Gerry, if Amato asks you about Duchon, tell him you were all a little disappointed in him, or some such. He’s feeling just well enough to start worrying about a new rival taking over his roles.”

  I glanced at Scotti. “Did you tell Toto?”

  He shook his head. “Amato knows Scotti and Caruso both will lie to him and tell him anything they think might cheer him up. But for some reason he trusts you. Tell him what he wants to hear.”

  “For some reason!” I exclaimed. “Well, I like that!”

  “Don’t be so touchy, Gerry, you know what I mean. Just don’t stay too long.” And with that, the good doctor hurried away.

  The valet came running in and handed me a piece of paper. It had one word written on it: Duchon?

  I could see only the foot of Amato’s bed from where I was sitting. “Frankly, we’re a little disappointed in our French import,” I called out, taking my cue from Dr. Curtis. “He sings well enough, but he’s not the shining star we’d all been led to expect.”

  The valet rushed into the bedroom and returned with another piece of paper: Trouble?

  “Yes, I think you could say there’s trouble,” I shouted. Caruso half-laughed, half-groaned. I said, “Duchon is as big a bully as Toscanini.”

  Scotti’s face lit up. “Is it true?”

  “Didn’t Rico tell you? He’s refused to rehearse.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, Rico tells me. I think there is something more.”

  “Good heavens, Toto, isn’t that enough? But come to think of it, there is something more. He’s holding me to a promise I made, to sing a joint concert with him.”

  Caruso looked surprised. “You go through with it?”

  I sighed. “I did say I’d do it.”

  Scotti asked, “Do you sign anything?”

  “No, but it’s a benefit concert, Toto. For Alsatian war relief. If it were just a regular concert, I wouldn’t do it. But I feel obligated to help.” I hadn’t told anyone about Duchon’s tragic encounter with the Germans when he was a boy; that was his private story and for him to tell, not me.

  Amato’s valet was back with a new piece of paper: Talk louder.

  I raised my voice and said, “Duchon invited me to lunch at Delmonico’s last week. He apologized for insulting me when we’d first met and was nice as could be. Then we went to rehearsal and he insulted me again! Why did he bother trying to make friends if he was going to insult me all over again?”

  “Because he wants something from you,” Scotti said dryly.

  “No, no,” Caruso protested. “Duchon is not so, ah, calculating. He is but moody. Good mood one minute, not so good the next.” He asked the valet to bring him some paper from Amato’s notepad.

  Note from Amato: How did he insult you?

  “The first time, he called me a German-lover,” I shouted. “The second time, he implied I didn’t have good breath control.”

  Scotti looked amused. “Which is worse?”

  “The second one,” I snapped, “and stop smirking. You don’t have to sing with him.”

  “Che fortuna!” Scotti rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “Do you know he complains of sore throat?” Caruso said, sketching away. He was drawing caricatures of Scotti and me. I knew what mine would look like: all mouth and teeth.

  “Who is complaining of a sore throat?” I asked. “Duchon?”

  “For two days now,” the tenor nodded. “I send him my throat spray.”

  Oh, wonderful. That was all we needed. Another baritone flat on his back.

  Scotti laughed. “Your young protégé may get his chance after all, Gerry.”

  “No, no, it is not that bad,” Caruso said hastily. “Duchon still sings. But we must all be very careful,” he added ominously. “So much sickness around!”

  In the next room Amato coughed pitifully, once.

  “Poor Pasquale!” Caruso sang out on cue. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

  The note the valet brought in was for me. Move in with me, Gerry, and nurse me back to health and vigor.

  “He’s feeling better,” I told the others.

  Caruso had finished his sketches and held them up for our inspection. “Very nice,” Scotti said expressionles
sly.

  “Do I really have that many teeth?” I murmured. But what Caruso had done to me was nothing compared to what he’d done to Scotti. In his sketch he’d made Scotti’s long nose droop down below his chin. Caruso sent the caricatures in to Amato.

  We talked on for a while, the three of us, and then it was time to leave. It occurred to me I’d been sitting there chatting away and hadn’t even seen Amato, so I went to the door of his bedroom and looked in. He was asleep, Caruso’s caricatures of Scotti and me lying on the covers. Amato was a handsome man, when he wasn’t wearing that black wig and drooping mustache he preferred for most of his stage roles. He was still washed-out and weak looking, but he looked better than the last time I’d seen him. Our ailing baritone was definitely on the mend. So, it was only a matter of enduring Duchon just a little longer.

  Caruso was singing the following night and wanted to spend the rest of the day practicing, so Scotti took me home. In the lobby of the apartment building we found Jimmy Freeman’s vocal coach waiting. The doorman told us he’d been there over an hour.

  Osgood Springer came straight to the point. “James wishes to talk to you, Miss Farrar. But he’s not sure you’re still speaking to him.”

  “Well, of course I’m still speaking to him,” I said lightly. “Whyever not?”

  “He’s afraid that scene he made in Delmonico’s might have offended you. May I tell him you’ll see him?”

  “What scene in Delmonico’s?” Scotti wanted to know.

  I waved a hand at him vaguely and asked Springer where Jimmy was.

  “Across the street.”

  I went to the lobby door and looked out. On the other side of West Seventy-fourth a forlorn-looking figure stood shivering in a doorway, a petitioner awaiting permission to enter the palace. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Springer, tell him to come in. He must be freezing.”

  Springer glanced quickly at Scotti. “He would like to talk to you alone.”

  I turned to my escort. “Do you mind, Toto?”

  “Yes,” he answered shortly. “I mind. You are with me.”

  That surprised me. Scotti had more or less taken it for granted that there would always be young men flocking around me, just as I had taken it for granted there’d always be young women flocking around him. But by acting jealous, he was making Jimmy Freeman into a serious rival.

  “Miss Farrar,” Springer said urgently, “James won’t work, he won’t even practice his scales. He won’t do anything until he talks to you.”

  “He can talk to her another time.” Scotti wasn’t giving an inch.

  “Please, Miss Farrar. I beg you.” Springer’s face had darkened, making the scar on his jaw more livid than ever. It struck me he must hate what he was doing—acting as go-between for a sulking young man who up to now had done exactly as he was told. A demeaning position for Springer.

  I suggested a compromise. “Go on up, Toto,” I said, “the maid will let you in. I’ll join you in a few minutes. Mr. Springer, tell Jimmy I’ll talk to him down here.”

  Springer looked at the doorman, who was doing his best to appear as if he weren’t listening. “That will have to do, I suppose. I’ll get him.”

  He left, and Scotti headed toward the elevator. “Five minutes!” he commanded.

  I made a noncommittal noise and waited for Jimmy. When he came in, he looked downright hangdog. Stand up straight, I wanted to shout; but Jimmy had enough problems without my fussing at him.

  It took him several efforts, but he finally managed to blurt out, “I’m sorry!”

  I went over to the doorman and asked him to go out and get me a newspaper. He looked disappointed, but he went. Then I told Jimmy to sit down, on one of those uncomfortable love seats decorators of apartment buildings seem to favor for lobbies, and I sat beside him. “Now, Jimmy, what’s this all about? Surely you’re not still upset over that little incident in Delmonico’s? There’s no need to be. Look at me—I’m not upset at all!”

  He looked as if he wanted to cry. “I made such a fool of myself!”

  “Well, yes,” I agreed. “But only a little bit. It’s certainly not worth all this anguish.”

  “I called you my girl! Right out loud in public! All those people heard me call you my girl. Oh, I’m so ashamed!”

  Keep it light. “Do you mean you’re ashamed of me?” I laughed.

  “Oh no, Miss Farrar, you know how I feel about you! I meant I was ashamed of being so presumptuous. As if you would ever consent to be my girl,” he said bitterly. “I’m not blind, you know. I know about the others, Scotti and that Dutch actor and—”

  “Never mind that,” I interrupted hastily. “Now listen to me, Jimmy. I was not offended by what you said. I don’t want you to do it again, but that one time was all right. Do you hear me? It was all right.”

  He grasped my hand. “Oh, Miss Farrar!” was all he could think of to say.

  “From now on we can dispense with ‘Miss Farrar,’ I think. Call me Gerry.”

  “Gerry!”

  Suddenly I found myself caught in a strong embrace while Jimmy’s fervent kisses landed in all sorts of odd places, like on my nose. He smelled good, fresh and clean and with a touch of the winter air still on his cheek. He smelled so young.

  But—strongly disciplined creature that I am—I pushed him away. “Enough of that, Jimmy. Next time wait for me to do the grabbing.”

  “I’ll wait, I’ll wait!” His face was beaming, his eyes were glistening; he’d gone from the Slough of Despond to the top of Mount Olympus in thirty seconds flat.

  “Mr. Springer tells me you aren’t working,” I said sternly. “You aren’t even practicing your scales. I don’t ever want to hear that again. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” he said happily. “I can work now.”

  “You can work no matter what,” I lectured him. “Nothing must be allowed to get in the way of your singing, not ever again. Will you promise me this will never happen again? That you’ll always work, regardless of what happens?”

  “I promise, oh yes, I promise!” Right then he would have promised to rob the Knickerbocker Trust if I’d asked him to.

  The doorman came back with my newspaper; he must have run both ways. “Go find Mr. Springer,” I told Jimmy. “You have a lot of lost time to make up for. You must work every day. Start now.”

  “I will, I promise you. Oh, thank you, Miss … Gerry. Thank you for being so understanding.”

  Being understanding is only one of my virtues. I sent young Jimmy Freeman on his way and hurried upstairs to soothe Antonio Scotti’s ruffled feathers.

  On the whole, I rather like days like that one.

  The following night Duchon sang The Huguenots.

  I sat in the artists’ box at the Met, and Scotti sat there with me—after changing his mind half a dozen times. The baritone lead in The Huguenots was a role that he and Pasquale Amato took turns singing, and that night Duchon was filling in for Amato. So this was the first time Scotti had a chance to hear the Frenchman in one of his roles. He wanted to hear him, but he didn’t like being seen checking up on his new rival. So there he sat in the box, grumbling and unhappy.

  Caruso was in the cast, and so was Emmy Destinn; they helped, but only a little. Les Huguenots is a long opera, and Meyerbeer’s music only intermittently exciting. I found my attention beginning to wander.

  Emmy looked terrible. She was wearing a costume that made her appear twice as wide as she already was. Emmy simply had no sense of style whatsoever. Her costume was pink and reminded me of one she wore when we sang together in Tannhäuser at the Royal Opera in Berlin, with me as Elisabeth and Emmy as, heaven help us, Venus. She’d come on stage swathed in voluminous folds of a particularly horrendous shade of pink satin, absolutely the worst color and fabric for any woman even slightly on the plump side. In addition to that, Emmy had been further burdened by a wreath of violent red roses. Then, to top it all off, she’d worn a red wig coiled in the fat-doughnuts style of Greek statues
in a museum. And this was the goddess of love? Her Huguenots wig was blonde and her pink costume was brocade instead of satin, so she looked a little better than in Berlin. But not much.

  A nudge from Scotti brought me back from my reverie. “They may come to blows,” he whispered.

  I focused my attention on the stage, and what I saw was a championship bout of upstaging in progress. The whole point of upstaging another singer is to draw that singer around to face you, so that his or her voice is lost upstage. It’s a nasty trick, and it takes lots of practice to get it right, believe me.

  Duchon upstaged Emmy. She turned her back to him, which is all you can do when somebody upstages you. He crossed down to her and sang to the back of her head, which made her look awkward. She crossed to the other side of the stage, just to break up the tableau. He moved center stage and sang directly to the audience. She upstaged him. He moved up to join her and stood in a way that blocked her face from the audience. She didn’t move.

  “He’s standing on her dress,” I whispered to Scotti.

  Eventually Emmy was able to pull loose and the maneuvering continued. The scene ended with both of them singing a long sustained note—which Emmy held for just a second longer after the conductor had indicated the cut-off, making Duchon sound as if he’d run out of breath. So Emmy Destinn had the last word. The audience cheerfully applauded the winner.

  But the next time Duchon appeared, he positioned himself at center stage and never budged from the spot. Absolutely refused to move. That threw everybody else’s stage movement off and the scene was a shambles. The Huguenots needs seven strong principal singers to make it work, but our visiting Frenchman was acting as if the entire opera revolved around him. I didn’t think Philippe Duchon was winning a lot of friends at the Metropolitan.