Prima Donna at Large (3 page)

For about fifty years the Paris Opéra had been controlled by a powerful group of subscribers who loathed with a passion everything German, especially the work of Richard Wagner. Every time the management attempted to stage Wagner, disaster resulted. Stink bombs were thrown into the theatre during a performance of
Lohengrin. Tannhäuser
was booed off the stage. French operagoers evidently took pride in these juvenile goings-on (it was, after all, a Frenchman who gave his name to the word
chauvinism
).

Philippe Duchon was a product of this tradition, and I'd heard it said he'd never even heard a complete performance of any of Wagner's operas. But lately there'd been signs that France's long hostility toward German music was perhaps at last coming to an end; about a year ago the Opéra had staged
Parsifal
for the very first time—successfully, even triumphantly.

But that promising beginning had come to an abrupt end a few months later—in August of 1914. The month Europe blew up.

And now Philippe Duchon was arriving in New York tomorrow morning—the great Duchon, who had never deigned to sing in America before. Was he fleeing? Everyone had said the war would be over by Christmas, but here it was almost February and …

Well, no use speculating; Duchon would reveal his reasons for coming when and if it suited him. In the meantime, Jimmy Freeman was going to be singing his heart out to win a role Philippe Duchon could have just by lifting a finger.

Yes, I would definitely be there tonight. The young man was going to need all the moral support he could get.

2

Even when no performance was scheduled, the Metropolitan Opera House, at the corner of Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street, was never exactly quiet. The stagedoor-keeper told me a rehearsal was going on in the roof theatre; that meant the chorus was probably getting a workout in one of the rehearsal halls. A couple of crewmen were pushing a piano out onto the main stage. One of them threw me a kiss; dear man—what
was
his name? I wandered around backstage until I spotted Jimmy Freeman, listening to some last-minute advice from his vocal coach.

Jimmy's face lit up when he caught sight of me (a nice way to start an encounter). “Miss Farrar!” he called out, unfortunately cutting off his coach in mid-sentence. Then he suddenly became shy. “I, uh, I didn't expect to see you here this evening.”

“Why, Jimmy, I wouldn't have missed it for the world! Your big opportunity? Of course I'm here. Good evening, Mr. Springer.” The vocal coach smiled quickly and returned my greeting. “How do you feel, Jimmy?”

“Nervous, frankly.”

“Good. A little nervousness always sharpens one's performance. Don't you think so, Mr. Springer?”

“Exactly what I was telling him, Miss Farrar. Control your nervousness, James, make it work for you. Look at Caruso—he panics every time he has to go out on the stage. But would you know it to listen to him sing? Never. He
uses
his nervousness. As you must use yours.”

“Yes, Mr. Springer,” Jimmy said, as he did to everything his coach told him. “I just hope I don't make a fool of myself.”

I laughed my favorite laugh, descending thirds. “No chance of that. You'll sing well. I'm not even going to worry about you.”

“And remember,” Springer added, “you're the only one they asked to come in tonight.”

I shot him a startled glance before I could stop myself; was it possible they knew nothing of Philippe Duchon's imminent arrival? Quite possible, I decided. Gatti-Casazza never gave much away. I turned back to Jimmy. “Don't forget, now—I'll be out front cheering for you!”

“Oh,
thank
you, Miss Farrar!” Jimmy gave me a look of such undying gratitude that I began to think I'd overdone it.

A few minutes later Springer and I went out to the dimly lighted auditorium, leaving Jimmy Freeman to face his fate. We took seats close enough to the front that the light from the stage would let the nervous young baritone see us there. “Do you think he's ready?” I asked my companion.

“I do, absolutely,” Springer answered without hesitation. “These past six months James has shown enormous improvement. He's begun to understand instinctively the little tricks of phrasing and breath control that earlier he had to learn laboriously. He's ready for a major role. And
Carmen
is a good place for him to start.”

It probably was, at that. The role of Escamillo is a flashy one but not particularly demanding. Escamillo doesn't even enter until the second act—when he comes in and sings his one aria, the
Toreador Song
, and exits immediately. He comes on again in the third act, but only long enough to get into a short-lived scuffle with the tenor over the love of Carmen. And then he shows up once more—
very
briefly, only a few measures—in the fourth and final act. A good role for a nervous young baritone.

Something belatedly occurred to me. “Why aren't you accompanying him, Mr. Springer?”

“Maestro Toscanini's choice,” he answered tightly. “He wanted to see how well James performed with a stranger. A test of flexibility, he called it.”

I should have known; nothing happened in that house without Toscanini's putting in his two cents' worth. But it was a reasonable interference this time, as the Maestro was conducting tomorrow night. “Perhaps it's just as well,” I said. “Jimmy will end up looking all the better because of it.”

“He shouldn't have to audition at all,” Springer muttered angrily. “They need a baritone and James is ready and that should be the end of it.”

He was making me uneasy. It didn't seem fair to let Jimmy go ahead and sing without knowing he was in competition with the great Philippe Duchon. But telling him at the last minute would destroy his confidence, and he was nervous enough already. I slid a glance sideways at the vocal coach; Springer had a big investment in Jimmy Freeman, and he was assuming tonight would be the beginning of a long-awaited payoff.

Osgood Springer was a striking-looking man, in spite of the long scar that ran along his right jawbone. He'd once been a promising young baritone himself, but an accident had put a premature end to his career. Years ago Springer had fallen in the street in front of a carriage, and the startled horse had put one of its feet down right on Springer's face. All the bones in his face had been broken, and he no longer had the resonance one needed to sing opera. A dreadful accident.

Springer had turned to teaching, and he quickly earned the reputation of being a martinet—or so they said; that was all before my time. He certainly had Jimmy Freeman under his thumb, no doubt about that. But Springer knew what he was doing; he'd brought Jimmy along fast, but not too fast. And if he said Jimmy was ready, then Jimmy was ready.

We heard voices behind us and turned to see Arturo Toscanini and Gatti-Casazza taking seats toward the rear of the auditorium. When Toscanini spotted me, he stood up and gave a low, courtly bow in my direction, almost banging his nose on the seat in front of him in the process. I smiled and blew him a kiss. Toscanini and I got along beautifully—whenever we were
not
in rehearsal.

Jimmy Freeman came out on the stage, followed by his new accompanist. I smiled up at him as encouragingly as I could. Jimmy looked a little jittery but not out of control. He nodded to the accompanist; the accompanist played the introduction; Jimmy opened his mouth and sang.

I don't think there's a schoolchild in the Western civilized world who doesn't know the melody of the
Toreador Song
, thump-
thump
-de-thump-thump. One of the most difficult things a singer has to do is reinterpret a tune so familiar that every listener already hears it in his head the way
he
thinks it should be sung. It's very difficult for a singer to take such a tune and make it distinctly his own. Well, Jimmy did it. He sang that old chestnut as if it had never been sung before, his fresh young voice giving it a vigor and excitement I hadn't heard in years. When he finished, I stood up and cried “Bravo!”

Toscanini and Gatti-Casazza were pleased too, I was delighted to see. We all joined Jimmy on the stage, Springer looking understandably proud in the midst of all the congratulations. Jimmy was flushed and happy; he knew he'd sung well.

Then Gatti dropped the bomb. “I'll let you know before noon tomorrow,” he told Jimmy.

Jimmy just stared at him, but Springer spoke up. “Excuse me, Mr. Gatti—did you say you would
let him know?
Surely there's no question of James's ability to sing the role?”

“No, no, none at all,” Gatti said uncomfortably. “It is just that, ah, you see, the Maestro and I always talk over the casting together, yes?”

Toscanini tried to look innocent.

Springer persisted. “What is there to talk over? Do we use the morning hours to prepare or not?”

“I will let you know before noon,” Gatti repeated vaguely.

Jimmy was inclined to accept the delay, but his coach was having none of it. Springer went on pressing for an answer until I couldn't stand it any longer. “If you don't tell them,” I said to Gatti, “I will.”

Gatti looked daggers at me, but then he told Jimmy and Springer about Philippe Duchon.

They both looked as if they'd been slapped in the face. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that if Duchon said yes, Jimmy's début as Escamillo would not be taking place the next evening. Jimmy was already slumping in defeat.

I drew Toscanini aside. “Is there any way to divide Amato's roles between them? Dr. Curtis doesn't know how long Amato will be out.”

Toscanini took one of my hands in his. “
Cara
Gerry,” he said gently, “you prefer to sing with the young man instead of Duchon?”

Ah. Well. Ah.

He nodded. “I think not. We try to persuade Duchon to sing all of Amato's roles. He is here for perhaps the only time in his life, yes? The young James has much time left. His turn will come.”

That was true. I went back to the forlorn-looking young baritone and tried to offer some consolation. “Even if you don't sing tomorrow, Jimmy, you made your mark here tonight. The next time there's an opening, you'll be the one Gatti calls on. You'll see.”

His face took on that moony look I knew so well. “Whatever happens tomorrow,” Jimmy said, “I will always remember tonight. Tonight the beautiful Geraldine Farrar rose to her feet and cried
Bravo
to me!”

Oh dear.

It was getting close to nine o'clock, and I always liked to be in bed by ten the night before a performance. I told everyone goodbye and went home.

Things certainly had changed in a hurry. Only that morning Gatti-Casazza had been worrying about not having a baritone for
Carmen
and now it seemed he had a choice of two, assuming Duchon would be willing to take over the role on such short notice. Poor Jimmy—his big chance had finally come and then he found himself thoroughly upstaged. But Toscanini was right; Jimmy's turn would come. I looked forward to singing with him … someday soon, if not the very next night. I truly did like Jimmy Freeman.

One reason I liked him was that he reminded me so much of Willi—dear, sweet Willi whom I had not seen for years. The two were alike in so many ways: the same shyness, the same respectful adoration from afar, the same suffering air of romantic longing. There was one enormous difference between them, though; Willi was, after all, Crown Prince Wilhelm of Prussia, son of the Kaiser, and everything he did was a matter of public interest. By the time I'd made my début at the Royal Opéra of Berlin, I was already the object of considerable public attention myself. So when the Crown Prince, who'd never displayed any noticeable interest in opera before, suddenly began showing up in the royal box every time the new American soprano sang, tongues were bound to wag.

Willi and I were both nineteen then, but he always seemed so much younger—a nice boy, someone you could trust. The Prince and the Opéra Singer. Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn't it? Well, for a lot of people it was; operagoers liked to talk about us, and the gossip in Berlin even attributed my success on the opera stage to palace intrigue, thank you very much! But I earned my international reputation legitimately—in Europe I was known as “Die Farrar aus Berlin” (except by jealous rivals; one overripe native prima donna kept calling me “The American Peril”). I didn't sleep my way to the top, I sang my way there. At the same time, I was not unaware of the publicity value of having a royal admirer.

Although I do have to admit that sometimes it got out of hand. I remember receiving letters from total strangers offering to adopt any or all illegitimate semi-royal children I might have! And journalists kept pestering me about our plans to marry. We never did plan to marry. Well, Willi may have had a plan or two, but I didn't. Willi would one day be Kaiser, or so we thought then. When the war is over, who knows? But if I'd married Willi, I'd have had to give up singing and devote my life to helping rule the country.
Give up singing?
Ha,
that
didn't require any hard decision-making. I was an opera star and I liked being an opera star. I still like it.

Eventually Willi realized we would never marry and accepted his parents' choice of a wife for him, a pleasant young woman who turned out to be exactly right for Willi. I stayed friends with both of them. And as for
la grande passion
Willi and I were supposed to have had, it was really nothing more than a sweet romance. As far as I was concerned, Willi went into his marriage as virginal as the day he was born.

It was that innocent quality of Willi's that Jimmy Freeman reflected so exactly. Jimmy's shy and respectful courtship took me back to those happy times in Berlin, before life turned ugly and my European friends started slaughtering one another. But before that happened—oh, those were grand and glittering days! Americans were popular in Imperial Germany at the turn of the century; commercial relations were good, Teddy Roosevelt and the Kaiser were friends,
alles
was
in Ordnung
. As a young American opera star, I was sought after and courted and fussed over. I remember some young lieutenants who would break champagne glasses once my lips had touched them—imagine! And now every time I looked at Jimmy Freeman's unspoiled young face, I thought of those innocent days. Jimmy reminded me of my youth, I suppose. Thirty-three is not old, but it's not nineteen.