Prima Donna at Large (27 page)

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.

“Uncle Hummy?” I said. “Why are you watching for him?”

“He's dropped out of sight, Miss Farrar. Nobody's seen him since the night Mr. Duchon used that ammonia spray on his throat.”

I thought back. It was true; I hadn't seen Uncle Hummy since the
Carmen
performance. Since he was always careful to stay out of the way when he
was
there, I hadn't even missed him. “Are you sure?” I asked Sergeant Whatsisname. “He could be here now, out of sight somewhere. I know he sometimes spends the night here.”

“No, ma'am, he's not here now. We found the place he sleeps when he stays overnight—upstairs in the wardrobe department. He hasn't been here once since
Carmen
, we're sure of that. And nobody knows where he lives.”

“Surely Lieutenant O'Halloran doesn't suspect Uncle Hummy?”

“He just wants to ask him some questions, ma'am.”

Oh my—I wondered what all that meant. Uncle Hummy? I hurried up to my dressing room, where Bella was waiting for me to unlock the door. Inside, I'd barely had time to get my hat and coat off before who should come bursting in but my least favorite tenor of the moment.

“Gerry!” Caruso cried. “You hear? Uncle Hummy, he is missing!”

“I heard.”

“Do you not see what this means? Uncle Hummy did it! And now he goes into hiding!”

“It doesn't mean anything of the sort,” I snapped. “Maybe he's ill. Maybe he's been here without the police's knowing.”

Caruso shook his head vehemently. “Uncle Hummy never gets ill. And the police, they watch for him every night since
Carmen
. He must be guilty—why else does he hide?”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said irritably, “perhaps he saw something and he's afraid. Get out, Rico—I have to warm up.”

“Plenty of time for the warming up. We never suspect Uncle Hummy before—”

“And we're not going to suspect him now. Rico, you're making a pest of yourself! I've had enough of your badgering me! I want you out of here—
now
.”

“But—”

“Out! Out,
out, OUT!
”

He got out. I did some deep-breathing exercises to calm myself down. If ever I went into the detective business again, it would
not
be with Enrico Caruso as my partner.

The truth was, I wished I'd never started this. After all my prying and asking of impertinent questions, I was right back where I'd started. I had no proof of anything, just suspicions—and they weren't any too reliable. And Caruso had lost what little perspective he'd had; look how quick he'd been to suspect poor old Uncle Hummy, just because we didn't know whom else to point the finger at!

Scotti stuck his head through the open door. “Dinner afterwards,
carissima
?”

“Sorry, Toto,” I answered absently, “I have a prior engagement.”

He stepped into the dressing room, glowering so darkly that Bella actually shrank back from him a little. “A prior engagement?” he roared. “With little Jimmy Freeman, no doubt!”

Oh, I didn't have time for this! “No, with Gatti-Casazza, if you must know.”

That stopped him. “Gatti? Now I must worry about Gatti too?”

“Worry about whomever you want, but please do it in your own dressing room, Toto.” He was gone before I'd finished the sentence.

Toscanini was next. I'd just finished putting on my costume when he waltzed in and demanded to know what I'd said to Scotti. “He is in bad mood and it is your fault.”

“Oh, go away,” I said crossly. “Everybody's pestering me to death today.”

Toscanini gave me an elaborately sarcastic bow. “But
certo
, Miss High-and-Mighty Prima Donna. One must do nothing to disturb the
star
.” He left before I could throw something at him.