Prima Donna at Large (12 page)

“
What
other sopranos?” I asked scornfully.

He started to name some names but then thought better of it. He argued a little longer, until I cut him off.

“I tell you what,” I said. “When Philippe Duchon appears at my door carrying two dozen orchids and apologizes
on his knees
—”

“Then you'll do it?”

“Then I'll think about it.”

We left it at that. As a matter of fact, I had no intention of going on tour with Philippe Duchon. I couldn't stand the man and the thought of actually traveling with him set my teeth on edge. But I might do one joint concert here in New York, the one I'd originally agreed to.

If he asked me nicely enough.

Scotti and I were scheduled to sing a
Tosca
the next Wednesday, and fortunately a tenor other than Caruso was doing the third leading role. I say fortunately because it was my turn to be the target of one of Caruso's little tricks. He “got” either Scotti or me every time the three of us sang together, and the last time it had been Scotti. What Caruso had done had been a masterpiece of artlessness. He'd simply gone on stage and handed Scotti an egg. Poor Toto—he didn't know what to do with it. He didn't want to put it down someplace where Caruso could pick it up again and do something really messy with it. He couldn't put it in his pocket because he knew Caruso would find some reason to slap him on the hip or bump up against him before the curtain closed. So he'd had to sing out the rest of the act with this
egg
in his hand.

Tosca was one of my best roles—Tosca and Butterfly, with their hauntingly beautiful music that I never tired of singing. Puccini's
Tosca
was special to me, an opera about an opera star. Scotti had been singing the villainous Scarpia for a long time and he'd helped me learn the opera some years back, during one long idyllic summer we'd spent together in Como. In performance I'd fallen into the habit of apologizing right before I killed him in the second act. Scotti said that when he sang
Tosca
with other sopranos he was sometimes late picking up his cue to fall to the floor, unconsciously waiting for that whispered
Sorry, Toto
right as he was being stabbed.

My acting in
Tosca
had been highly praised. And why not? I'd been coached in the role by Sarah Bernhardt—lovely, generous woman. But even more importantly, the composer liked my Tosca. He'd told me I was exactly what he'd visualized
and heard
while he was writing the opera. From Puccini, that was high praise indeed—especially when you considered the fact that the man and I were barely speaking to each other.

I'd seriously offended the composer four or five years ago, when I refused to learn his
Manon Lescaut
. But the circumstances were such that I
couldn't
accept his offer. Since the originally scheduled soprano had fallen ill a week before the performance, I would have had to learn the role in only six days—and I'd have had to learn it while on board ship crossing the ocean. Some roles can be learned that fast, but
Manon Lescaut
was simply too subtle, too complex to be mastered in so short a time. So I'd had to tell Puccini no.

But he got even—oh, did he get even! He made a point of telling everyone that I'd turned down
Manon Lescaut
because he had chosen Emmy Destinn to create the title role of
La Fanciulla del West
instead of me! That hurt. That really hurt. Of course I'd wanted the role; every soprano at the Met had wanted it.
Fanciulla
was Puccini's opera about America's Wild West and it had had its world première at the Metropolitan, in 1910. Caruso and Amato had sung the male leads, and those two choices were understandable. But why Puccini had selected an overweight middle-European to sing the role of a young girl in a California mining camp—oh, it was beyond me! Surely an
American
girl would have made better sense? But no, Puccini had wanted Emmy, and Emmy it had been. Losing the role to Emmy was bad enough, but when Puccini made me out to be a bad sport about it—well, what can I say? Has anyone ever been more injured, more wronged?

“Gerry?” said Emmy, inviting herself into my dressing room. Now she was dropping in backstage
before
performances! “Do you know that Duchon is out front?”

“Duchon? Whatever for? Scarpia isn't one of his roles.”

“Not yet.”

Oh-oh. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

She nodded. “He's thinking of learning a Puccini role, I've been told. And he likes
Tosca
.”

Oh dear. “Does Scotti know?”

“He's the one who told me.”

So that made two of Scotti's roles Duchon was after, Rigoletto and now Scarpia. “What's he doing learning a new role at his age?” I grumbled. “He should be thinking of retiring.”

“That's what Scotti said.” She looked around my dressing room. “You know, this would be quite nice if it were a little larger.” She left before I could answer.

But I didn't need to answer. It galled Emmy that I had my own private dressing room; it galled everybody. Too bad. The other principal singers had to take turns using the star dressing room. But nobody used
my
dressing room except me. It had been an old storage room that I'd had decorated in bright and cheerful colors; then I'd had a lock installed, the only key to which stayed with
me
. I didn't share my dressing room with anybody.

I put Philippe Duchon and his lusting after Scotti's roles out of my mind; there were more important things to think about. Tosca's entrance, to begin with. Toscanini was not conducting tonight; that meant I'd have more leeway in what I did on stage. The other conductors at the Met weren't nearly so unreasonable about following
my
tempo as Toscanini was.

Jimmy Freeman was singing the small role of the Sacristan, and I was pleased to see he was looking more chipper than the last few times I'd seen him. I soon found out why; while we were waiting for the opera to start, he told me that Gatti-Casazza had said he could have Amato's role in the next performance of
Madame Sans-Gêne
if he could learn it in time.

“I start studying tomorrow,” he grinned. “I wanted to start today, but Mr. Springer wouldn't let me. He said today should be spent thinking only of
Tosca
.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I'm so glad!” And I was. Gatti had
sort
of kept his word about finding a role for Jimmy.
Madame Sans-Gêne
would not be in the repertoire next year, but I didn't want to remind Jimmy of that. At least Gatti was giving him a chance; if he sang well in
Sans-Gêne
, other roles would follow.

“It might be for only one performance,” Jimmy said realistically. “Amato is recovering from his bronchitis. But it's one of the leads, and I'll be singing opposite
you
!” He took my hand. “Gerry, I can't tell you how much this means to me. I—”

Just then the harsh chords that signaled the opening of Act I sounded from the orchestra. Jimmy had to enter almost immediately, so we both forgot about everything except Puccini's tragic opera.

The first act went swimmingly—a little faster than we usually sang it, but everyone's energy was running high, so why not use it? We slowed down for Act II, deliberately, allowing the menace in the music to swell to its full sinister level. My big aria drew a standing ovation, which I was in no hurry to end. From the back of the auditorium came the wonderful chant “Ger
ee
, Ger
ee
”; Mildredandphoebe and their friends were out in force. Immediately came the scene in which Tosca murders her oppressor. I thrust the knife against Scotti's chest in an overhead sweep, whispered
Sorry, Toto
, and stepped back out of the way as he collapsed to the stage floor.

Right before the third and final act began, I heard Gatti-Casazza explaining to the firing squad what they were to do. Oh-oh—three things wrong with that. First, it was not Gatti's job to explain stage actions to the supers, it was the production manager's job. Second, the time to explain those actions was in rehearsal, not two minutes before the curtains were due to open during a performance. Third, they shouldn't have to be given instructions at all, not this late in the season. A closer look at the six-man firing squad told me they were strangers; I knew all of our regular supers, by sight if not by name, and I didn't know any of these six.

“It is very simple,” Gatti was saying. “You follow Spoletta on and line up beside him in a row, yes? When he raises his arm, you lift your rifles to the firing position. When he drops his arm, you fire. That is all there is to it.”

“Who's Spoletta?” one of them asked.

“He is the police officer who leads you on. He will be here shortly—you do not go on right away.”

“What's the story?” another asked. “What's happening in the opera?”

“There is no time for that now,” Gatti said hurriedly, and sent one of the stagehands to look for the man who was singing Spoletta.

“What's all this?” I asked Gatti. “Who are they?”

“Students from Columbia University,” he muttered, plucking nervously at his beard. “
Cielo m'ajuti!
How do these things happen? Somehow the call for supers is overlooked for tonight and everyone is blaming everyone else! I do not find out until the performance is already started!”

“So you recruited six college boys to do the job,” I said in amazement. “Why not just get the regular supers?”

“There is no time to round them all up! I tell my assistant to go to one place where he can expect to find six reasonably intelligent men together.”

“But they don't even know the story of the opera!”

“They do not need to. It will work out, Gerry. They are on stage only a few minutes.”

I wondered whether he was reassuring me or himself. The orchestra had started playing the quiet prelude to Act III when one of the new firing squad thought of something. “How do we get off the stage?” he asked Gatti.

“Just follow the principal off,” he said, meaning Spoletta. It was so standard a stage direction for supers that Gatti had forgotten these newcomers wouldn't know it.

The third act of
Tosca
is exciting, both dramatically and musically; its sole drawback is that the tenor has the only aria. The curtain opens to show the parapet of a prison, where Tosca's lover (the tenor) is awaiting execution. Tosca arrives with the news that she'd managed to strike a bargain with the villainous Scarpia (recently deceased). Scarpia had offered to arrange a mock execution if Tosca would yield herself to him; the rifles would be loaded with blank cartridges. She'd agreed. But as soon as the lustful villain had made the necessary arrangements, Tosca had plunged a knife into his heart.

So Tosca's lover goes through with the charade; everyone connected with the mock execution acts out his part. But when the firing squad is gone, Tosca's lover fails to get up from the ground. Scarpia has had the last word—the bullets were real. A couple of men rush in; Scarpia's body has been discovered. In despair, Tosca hurls herself from the parapet to her death below.

Oh, how I love that part of it! Tosca's cries of excitement as the firing squad leaves turning quickly to cries of horror as she discovers her lover is not just feigning death, he really is dead. Then her mad dash to the parapet—where she leaps to her death not with the name of her lover on her lips, but the name of the man who has posthumously defeated her:
O Scarpia, avanti a Dio! We'll meet before God
.

Everything went well at first. The tenor sang his aria, I made my entrance, we sang our love duet. Just as we finished, Spoletta marched in from stage right with his college-boy firing squad. I moved over to stage left, leaving the tenor to face his doom upstage center.

Right away I knew something was wrong. The six young men of the firing squad looked uneasy and kept exchanging questioning glances. A couple of them tried to get the attention of Spoletta, but the man singing the role was right in the middle of his big moment on stage and wasn't paying any attention to the supers. I found out later our last-minute substitutes had come on the stage expecting to find one person there to shoot, only to be confronted with
two
—who weren't even standing together! Pretty much left to their own devices, they reasoned out that the opera was a tragedy and its title was
Tosca
… so, when Spoletta gave the signal, they all pointed their rifles stage left, at
me
—and fired away!

Upstage center, the tenor fell down dead.

The audience roared. All during the tense moments that followed, the audience was laughing its collective head off. I looked at the conductor; he was desperately calling for more volume from the orchestra, trying to drown out the laughter. There was nothing to do but go on with it.

But that fool firing squad was still on the stage, disconcerted by the laughter. Spoletta had exited, but instead of following him off the college boys were still standing around looking lost and blocking me from the audience. My big dramatic scene, discovering my lover was dead—ruined, totally ruined! But the end was in sight, thank God! I ran to the parapet, shrieked
Avanti a Dio!
as loudly as I could, and jumped down to the mattress on the floor behind the set.

Only to look up and see all six members of the firing squad jumping down after me.

That's right. The firing squad jumped too. Well, Gatti-Casazza had
said
follow the principal off. So they'd followed me over the parapet.

I did a little unrehearsed screaming—have you ever had six college boys land on top of
you
when you were least expecting it? The resulting bedlam backstage was more than matched by the noisy hilarity out front. Had ever a performance come to so humiliating an end! I was furious! “You imbeciles!” I screamed. “You were supposed to leave with Spoletta! You've spoiled the opera!”