Prima Donna at Large (10 page)

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.

At the act break we slipped out of the box and hurried backstage. What we found was absolute chaos—everyone yelling, and no one yelling louder than Emmy Destinn. (When Emmy yells, watch out for your eardrums.) Duchon wasn't anywhere in sight. In the center of it all was Gatti-Casazza, desperately trying to calm everyone down. Poor Gatti; it was one of the few times I've ever felt sorry for him.

“He is impossible!” Emmy was shouting. “He is ruining the performance!”

“Shh!” Gatti cautioned. “They hear you out front!”

“I do not
care
if they hear me out front! How do you expect me to sing with that monster undercutting everything I do?”

Even Caruso was angry. “This time he goes too far. Mr. Gatti, you do something, yes?” He caught sight of Scotti and me. “Toto, Gerry—am I not right? He does not care what he does to the rest of us. He does not care about the opera. Am I not right?”

“Assolutamente,”
Scotti said without hesitation. “No question of it.”

“Everyone out front can see what's going on,” I added.

“There, you see!” Emmy yelled at Gatti. “We are being made to look like fools, all because of that … that …” she sputtered ineffectually, unable to think of a word nasty enough. “You must replace him. Now!”

Gatti pulled anxiously at his beard. “I think it is not so bad as you believe. Besides, he has only one more scene, yes? It does not look good, to replace him now.”

“Then why do you have Jimmy stand by if you do not use him?” Caruso demanded.

Jimmy? Jimmy Freeman?

“Or Scotti,” Emmy interjected. “Scotti is here—he can finish.”

“Only one more scene,” Gatti pleaded.

I looked around for Jimmy while the argument went on. I didn't see him, but I did spot Osgood Springer listening intently to everything that was being said. I made my way over to the vocal coach and asked, “Did I understand correctly, Mr. Springer? Jimmy is on stand-by?”

He nodded dourly. “Duchon was complaining of a sore throat. I told Mr. Gatti James was not ready for this role, but he wanted someone at hand anyway.”

That was just like Gatti, building up Jimmy's hopes a second time for nothing. “Where's Jimmy now?”

“Getting into costume. Just in case.”

Just then an uproar broke out from the direction of the stairs leading to the dressing rooms. Duchon came thundering down the steps, hauling poor old Uncle Hummy along by the neck of his shabby overcoat. “Mr. Gatti!” Duchon bellowed. “Is this the kind of opera house you run in America? Where
tramps
can come in off the street and give instructions to the singers?”

“Uncle Hummy!” Caruso rushed over and grabbed the old man's shoulder. “Let him go, Duchon!”

“How did he get in here?” Gatti cried in exasperation, and went off to bawl out the doorkeeper. (Or to escape.)

“Let him go!” Caruso repeated. A brief tug-of-war took place between the two singers that ended only when Uncle Hummy's well-worn overcoat ripped all the way down the back. The old man began to cry.

“Do not cry, Uncle Hummy,” Caruso said hastily. “I buy you new coat.”

“Uncle,” Duchon repeated unbelievingly, “Hummy. This man is your uncle?”

“No, no, I mean yes, I mean he is everybody's uncle. You do not treat him this way!”

“Well,
everybody's
uncle,” Duchon said sarcastically, “invited himself into my dressing room and told me I was spoiling the performance. At least I think that's what he said—he does not speak well, this one.”

Scotti decided to get into the act, speaking to Duchon for the first time ever. “Uncle Hummy is a sort of fixture at the Metropolitan, Monsieur. He is here longer than any of us, yes? He means no harm.”

Duchon examined the most famous baritone in the world from head to toe and then said, insolently: “I do not believe I know you, sir.”

Every mouth in the place dropped open. Scotti waited a moment and then said in a quiet manner, “There seem to be many things you do not know, Duchon.”

Good for him! But the one I was really impressed by was Uncle Hummy. He'd actually gone into Duchon's dressing room to try to talk the baritone into mending his ways. In the nine seasons I'd been at the Met I'd never once seen him do anything like that before. Uncle Hummy had always worked at being inconspicuous, at staying out of the way; his presence would not have been tolerated otherwise. Speaking to Duchon was a big risk for him, and it was a thing even Gatti had not found the courage to do.

Duchon was saying something when his voice suddenly tightened up on him. He put his hand to his throat in alarm.

“The spray!” Caruso commanded.

Duchon looked around vaguely. “I think it's in my dressing room.”

“I get! I get!” said Uncle Hummy, and hurried off up the stairs, the two halves of his ruined overcoat flapping behind him.

“You see,” I said to Duchon with a smile, “he can be useful if you let him.”

“Mm.” A noncommittal sound.

Gatti was back. “Places, please! Places!” he cried frantically, now that everyone else had calmed down. “The curtain is late!”

“I am not ready,” Emmy announced firmly.

“Then
get
ready!” Gatti screamed.

“Ssh!” Emmy frowned. “They hear you out front.”

Uncle Hummy came back with one of the atomizer bottles Caruso had given Duchon. The baritone sprayed his throat, tried a few notes, and sounded fine.

Scotti and I decided to watch the rest of the performance from backstage. We were joined by a forlorn-looking Jimmy Freeman, dressed in a costume he would not be wearing on stage that night. Even Scotti felt sorry for him and tried to cheer him up. We all agreed that Giulio Gatti-Casazza was just about the lowest form of life on earth and fully deserved to be consigned to Dante's version of hell. But we could not agree on whether he belonged in the fourth circle with the misers or the eighth circle with the hypocrites and evil counselors.

“I really thought I'd have a chance to sing tonight,” Jimmy lamented. “The way Mr. Gatti talked, Duchon was practically on his deathbed. Mr. Springer worked with me all day getting ready for tonight.”

“Your chance comes soon,” Scotti said encouragingly. “It seems not so, but it comes.”

I added, “Everyone goes through this, Jimmy—don't be discouraged. You have to work your way up.” Or so conventional wisdom said. As for myself, I'd started out singing leads and never looked back.

Jimmy shook his head. “I don't know. I'm beginning to think the only time I'll get a chance is when some other baritone drops dead.” He shot a sudden horrified glance at Scotti. “Oh … ah, I didn't mean, uh …”