Prima Donna at Large (6 page)

Back to normal.

Carmen
was the work that had originally convinced me I was destined to be an opera singer. It was the first opera I ever saw; my parents had taken me to hear the great Emma Calvé sing the role in Boston when I was still a schoolgirl. I left that theatre knowing what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

And now
Carmen
was my opera, exclusively—at least, it was going to be. I hadn't been singing it very long; some things have to be worked up to. The role of Carmen has been sung by sopranos, mezzo-sopranos, and contraltos; and all three voice ranges have had their problems with it. The role really is too high for the lusher-voiced contraltos; half of them end up shouting their top notes. I have the range, and fortunately my soprano has an almost mezzo quality to it (even the know-everything critics say so). So it truly is a good opera for me.

It is one humdinger of a role. The tenor and the baritone have only one aria each, but Carmen has
four
. She also sings in the second-act quintet, in the third-act ensemble, and in the tense and violent duet that ends the opera. In addition, Carmen dances, plays the castanets, gets into a fight with one of the chorus women, gets arrested, escapes, joins a gang of smugglers, flirts with every man in sight, and dies dramatically on stage. Oh, it is a glorious role!

The house was sold out. It always is, whenever Caruso and I sing—or did I mention that? Near curtain time Dr. Curtis came into my dressing room to examine my throat.

“Hm,” he said, and waited. He liked to be asked.

“Well?” I obliged. “How am I?”

“Color is normal,” he said in that raspy voice that always made
him
sound hoarse, “but that doesn't necessarily mean you're back to full health yet. Hold back tonight, Gerry. Don't strain.”

I laughed. “How in the world can I possibly hold back in
Carmen
? I'm on stage more than all the other principals put together, and everything I sing is of such high intensity that—”

“Nevertheless, you must restrain yourself,” Dr. Curtis interrupted impatiently. “Gerry, I've known you ever since you were a young girl ready to set the opera world on fire, and even then you pushed too hard. It's understandable in a girl of seventeen, but you don't need to prove yourself now. Hold back. Show some restraint.”

I made one of those sounds that can mean anything and started putting on my make-up.

“Besides,” he rasped mischievously, “it's Duchon they're coming to hear tonight anyway.”

When I threw a powder puff at him he left, chuckling, pleased with himself. While I was warming up I finished my make-up. I made a convincing-looking gypsy, I thought. At least, I looked good.

It never fails to excite me, that moment of waiting offstage for the cue to make the first entrance. Caruso goes to pieces from nervousness, Amato always taps one foot impatiently, and Scotti, blasé creature that he is, lounges about casually as if stepping out on to an opera stage were no more extraordinary than mailing a letter. But as for me, I'm always raring to go. I heard my cue … and then the chorus was singing
La voilà! There she is!

And there I was, vamping my way around the stage, singing the
Habanera
, flirting outrageously with Don José (Caruso) while keeping one eye on Toscanini's baton. I didn't hold back a bit; I gave it everything I had. Two of Carmen's four arias come in Act I, so by the first intermission I should know whether my voice would hold out for the rest of the performance or not. The applause at the end of the
Habanera
was thunderous; a nice way to start. I tossed a rose to Caruso and made my exit.

By the time we were into the second act, I knew I was going to make it. My voice was strong and my energy high. I might pay for it tomorrow, but tonight would be glorious. Toscanini was pleased; he kept smiling and nodding to me from the podium. This was the act where the baritone made his first appearance, and the audience's anticipation was running high; we could all feel it. American audiences had never heard Philippe Duchon, but they'd heard
of
him. I suppose they were wondering whether he would live up to his reputation or not.

He did. He didn't go for the youthful vigor most middle-aged baritones try to infuse into the role of the athletic toreador; instead he was suave and worldly and smooth as silk, and he brought the house down. After Duchon had finished knocking them dead, Caruso got his turn. I don't know why Bizet put both the men's arias into the same act instead of spacing them out, but he did. I was wondering how Caruso could possibly top Duchon, but I needn't have worried.

The way Caruso sang the
Flower Song
that night, it was enough to break your heart. The plaintiveness of his tone, the throb in his voice—they were perfect, neither overdone nor underplayed. When he'd finished I wanted to throw both arms around his neck and give him a big kiss, but of course I couldn't. The action called for me to give him a lot of trouble instead, so I did. The applause at the end of the act was deafening; the audience was actually on its feet cheering
at the end of the second act
. Oh, we had a good one going that night!

Riding high on that wave of audience enthusiasm, I took my courage in hand and went over to the men's side to Duchon's dressing room. I told him his Escamillo was magnificent and I considered it a privilege to sing with him.

He hesitated, and then decided graciousness was the order of the evening. He thanked me and added, “I must say I was impressed by the fieriness of your performance. A strong Carmen, a very strong Carmen.”

I've always found that mutual admiration enhances the performance of any opera enormously. So that was all right.

Duchon and Caruso survived their third-act fight without mishap, the opening pageantry of the fourth act played itself out, and suddenly it was time for the final duet. I'd never been completely satisfied with the way Caruso and I did that duet. Oh, the singing was fine; we were both in control of the music. It was the acting that bothered me; I tried, but I didn't get a whole lot of cooperation from my partner. (I dearly love Rico, but he is not the world's greatest actor.) It just seemed to me that in a duologue sung at fever pitch, in which emotions run so high that one of the singers ends up killing the other, we ought to do more than stand there and wave our arms at each other. But the audience liked it; that night we could do no wrong.

We all stood on stage grasping hands for our final curtain call, Caruso and I still sweating buckets from the exertions of the final duet, Duchon cool and immaculate. The
bravas
outnumbered the
bravos
(they always do for
Carmen
), and from the back of the auditorium I could hear “Ger
ee
, Ger
ee
” chanted in unison.

“The gerryflappers are here,” Caruso said out of the side of his mouth.

“I know.” Oh, you can be sure I knew! If Duchon noticed my unpaid claque at work, he gave no sign. Tonight was his American début, and he was making the most of it.

Afterward we all wallowed in the good-natured pandemonium that reigns backstage after every successful performance. My maid Bella was waiting in the wings with my robe, protection against drafts and quickly drying perspiration. Duchon was laughing and talking easily with all the strangers who kept coming up to him; it's amazing how quickly instant acceptance can bring a man out of himself. Gatti-Casazza was everywhere, talking a mile a minute. Even after years of both triumph and disaster in the opera world, Gatti could still get as excited as a child with a new toy when things went right.

At that moment I decided to break my promise to Osgood Springer. I'd told him I'd speak to Gatti about a major role for Jimmy Freeman next season, and that I'd do it right after the performance. But the moment wasn't right; Gatti was so full of Philippe Duchon's successful début that broaching the subject of Jimmy's future right then would have been a tactical error. I'd wait until Gatti had come down from his cloud, say another day or two.

“Bella divina, incantatrice!”
a familiar voice sang out, and Scotti was there, smothering me with hugs and compliments. “Your best Carmen yet!” he cried. “A
perfect
Carmen, Gerry—you must stop this immediately, I cannot tolerate perfection in others! What say you, Maestro? Is she not perfect this evening?”

Toscanini oozed his way through the crowd and lifted my hand to his lips. “Perfect,” he said, his eyes glittering. “I can no longer imagine any other singer in the role.” Oh, he can be a charmer when he wants to.

Scotti went over to pound Caruso on the back. I asked Toscanini, “What do you think of Duchon?”

“Magnificent resonance,” he said. “Like a church bell. And his precision is exquisite. A most interesting Escamillo.”

I nodded. “Gatti pulled off a real
coup
, signing him so quickly like that.”

Toscanini sniffed. “A matter of luck. Duchon falls into his hands.”

Belatedly I remembered how he and Gatti had avoided speaking to each other that afternoon and was about to ask if something was wrong when High Society descended upon us. The
crème
of New York's social world, Mrs. This and Mr. That, half of them tone deaf and all of them wearing enough diamonds and rubies and emeralds to finance several seasons of Met productions. But I was polite and charming to everybody,
de rigueur
for opera singers.

Caruso entertained the crowd by coming over and giving me a big wet kiss. “Is she not glorious tonight?” he asked the world at large. Back to me: “I and you and Scotti, we go eat supper, yes? Del Pezzo's.”

Oh dear. Pasta. “Supper, yes,” I said, “Del Pezzo's, no.”

Toscanini spoke up. “What is wrong with Del Pezzo's?” He turned to Caruso. “I invite myself to accompany you.”

Caruso was delighted (he almost always is). Scotti was informed of our plans; I wondered if he'd spoken to Duchon but didn't want to ask him in front of the others. The crowd backstage showed no sign of thinning out, so Caruso made the first move by going upstairs to his dressing room. I left Scotti and Toscanini talking together and was about to start up the stairs myself when I saw Emmy Destinn striding purposefully toward me. Emmy! What was she doing here tonight?

“Gerry, I have something I want to say to you,” she announced in that alarmingly direct way of speaking she had. “You are the best Carmen I have ever heard. I have heard a lot of Carmens, and you are the best one. There, I've said it.”

Oh, how I
hate
it when she does things like that! I have never, never gone backstage after one of her performances and told her she was the best Aïda or whatever that I have ever heard. Prima donnas just don't
say
things like that to each other! And she meant it—she truly meant it, I didn't doubt that for one moment. I was used to handling a barrage of excited and exaggerated compliments, but all this truthful earnestness was another matter altogether. Someone should teach that woman the value of a little well-timed insincerity.

I thanked her; what else could I do? We chatted about the performance a few minutes, but Emmy's eyes kept straying over to Philippe Duchon. Finally she said, “He is good, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is,” I answered. “And Emmy, he didn't even try to upstage me. Not once.”

She nodded. “On his good behavior. But now that he's proved himself, he'll start showing his true colors. Watch out for him, Gerry. He's trouble.”

I appreciated the warning and took it to heart. On impulse, I invited Emmy to join us for supper. “The men want to go to Del Pezzo's,” I added, hoping for an ally.

“Oh good,” she smiled. “I like Del Pezzo's.”

Grrr
. I tried to convince her Sherry's would be a better place to go; there was nothing wrong with Del Pezzo's, but it wasn't very elegant. Besides, Italian food is so fattening. Emmy was wavering—but then an enormous
thud
sounded and at almost the same time someone screamed. We both jumped.

I looked over to see where one end of a roller curtain had come crashing down to the stage. Sprawled out on the stage floor not more than a couple of feet away was Philippe Duchon, a look of absolute terror on his face. We all stood thunderstruck for a moment; then everyone dashed over to Duchon. He was all right, just scared out of his wits. “Someone … someone tried to kill me!” he cried.

“Oh no, Monsieur Duchon!” Gatti-Casazza gasped, helping the baritone to his feet. “It is merely accident! You are not hurt?”

Outrage was quickly replacing Duchon's fear. “I could have been killed! Look at that curtain!”

The roller curtain was a sight: one end still hoisted up high over the stage, the other end resting on the stage floor. We all fussed over Duchon, trying to calm him down. “I am devastated that such a thing happens,” Gatti apologized. “Are you certain you are not hurt?”

“I tell you someone tried to kill me!” Duchon shouted. “That was no accident! Someone does not want me here!”

I couldn't see any stagehands in the immediate vicinity. The roller curtain was painted blue and was used as a backdrop to represent the sky. The curtain was operated by two ropes that ran from the floor through two overhead pulleys, then down to the points where they were attached at either end of the roller. Stagehands would pull on the free ends of the ropes to raise and turn the roller at the same time, thus winding the curtain material around the roller.

The operating lines were tied off to cleats in the stage floor, and I looked around until I found the one used for the fallen end of the roller. The rope was there, one end firmly lashed about the cleat—but the rest of it lay limply on the stage floor. I picked up the end of the rope and examined it, while Duchon went on insisting that the roller curtain had been dropped deliberately.