Prima Donna at Large (5 page)

Springer didn't like it; he would have preferred a private conversation. But he pulled up a chair and told Gatti what he wanted: a commitment for Jimmy Freeman to sing at least one major role next season.

Gatti went into his vague act, which he does better than anyone else I know. “Later,” he told Springer, pulling at his beard in obvious discomfort. “Now is not the time to discuss such matters.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Gatti, but now
is
the time,” Springer objected. “Only last night you heard what James can do. And you did call him in to audition, remember. You built up his hopes for nothing—you owe him something.”

Mistake
, I thought. There were ways of handling Gatti, but pressing a moral obligation was not one of them.

“I owe Freeman nothing,” Gatti said curtly. “And now if you excuse me, I have matters to attend to.” With an abrupt nod at the table in general, he stood up and left.

Caruso broke the silence that followed. “He is preoccupied with other things,” he told Springer kindly. “His mind, it is full of tonight's
Carmen
. You ask again later, yes?”

Springer muttered something inaudible.

“I go to the opera house,” Caruso announced in a change-the-subject voice. “Gerry? You come too?”

“In a moment,” I answered.

“Emmy? Come welcome Duchon. A friendly gesture.”

She shook her head. “I think I'll go take a nap.”

Caruso grinned. “You have to see him sooner or later, you know.”

“Then I'd prefer later.”

There followed some vague chitchat and a general pushing back of chairs, and before long only Scotti and I were still at the table with the disconsolate vocal coach. Springer stared unseeing at the Maxfield Parrish mural over the Knickerbocker bar, depression emanating from him like a tangible thing.

I touched his arm. “Jimmy will get his chance, Mr. Springer. He's far too good a singer for Gatti to pass over. Duchon's arrival just means a temporary delay, nothing more. Jimmy's time will come.”

“Will you speak to Gatti-Casazza?” Springer asked me in a rush. “About a major role for James next season?”

“Certainly. With all my heart.”

Springer turned to Scotti, as if to ask the same thing—but then hesitated.

Scotti smiled wryly, understanding. “Too many baritones, eh, Mr. Springer? I and Amato and now Duchon.” Plus all the second-rank baritones he didn't bother to name. “But do not despair. I too will speak for your protégé. He deserves his chance.”

For the first time since he sat down, Springer's expression lightened a little. Having another baritone plead Jimmy's cause would undoubtedly carry weight with Gatti-Casazza, especially a baritone as renowned as Antonio Scotti. “I thank you,” Springer said quietly.

“I'm sure Gatti will give him a role next season,” I said encouragingly. “Duchon's showing up right at this moment was just a fluke. No one could have anticipated it. All you have to do is wait a little longer.”

Scotti made that funny little throat-clearing sound he always makes when he is about to disagree with something I've said. “Perhaps waiting is not enough,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps an active campaign is better? Gerry and I speak for Jimmy, but you might want to ask others to speak up too. Caruso, for one. And talk to Toscanini.”

A shadow passed over Springer's face. “Do you know something? Is there something going on I don't know about?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Scotti reassured him. “It is just … well, it is the war, you see. So far, most of the major singers in the European houses, they simply wait it out. We all think the war is over by the end of the year—
last
year, yes? But the war goes on. Already a few singers flee to America, and now here is Duchon.”

“What are you saying, Toto?” I asked him.

“I am saying that right now the European singers who come to America—they make up only a trickle. But if the war goes on, that trickle becomes a steady stream, you see? Then Mr. Gatti has more singers than he can use. He can pick and choose, yes?”

Oh dear, I hadn't thought of that. With that kind of competition, Jimmy might not get his chance after all.

The scar along Springer's jaw stood out whitely against his skin. “You mean if James doesn't get a new contract right away, he might never get one.”

Scotti spread his hands, said nothing.

“I'll speak to Gatti tonight,” I said hurriedly. “Right after the performance.”

Scotti consulted his pocket watch. “Gerry, you are almost late. Rehearsal awaits.”

We both got up. “I must go, Mr. Springer. But don't lose heart. We'll all help.”

Scotti and I left him sitting there at Caruso's table alone. Very much alone.

3

I was excited about finally meeting Philippe Duchon, and wondering at the same time whether his voice had changed any since I'd last heard him; it had been several years. Scotti and I went into the Metropolitan by the Thirty-ninth Street entrance, but Scotti wanted to stay at the back of the auditorium, where he could observe his new rival without being observed himself.

But I couldn't see the great man anywhere. Out on the stage were Caruso and Toscanini, an accompanist waiting patiently by his piano, and four or five chorus members—just enough to give Duchon a sense of where people would be positioned on the stage. I waited in the wings, preferring to make an entrance rather than stand there as part of the welcoming chorus.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadow move among the other shadows backstage. “Who's there?” I said sharply.

A smiling old man shuffled out into the light. “Only me, Miz Zherry,” he said in a thick accent. “Me.”

“Oh, Uncle Hummy, you gave me a start. What are you doing here?”

“Come for the Duchon.”

It couldn't have been more than a few hours since Gatti-Casazza and Duchon had reached agreement. “How did you know he'd be here?”

“I hear,” Uncle Hummy grinned broadly, “I hear.” Uncle Hummy was one of those characters who are always hanging around opera houses, but with a difference. To say he loved opera would be an understatement; this one lived for opera. The stage-door-keeper would sometimes let him in, and other times he'd sneak in. When I'd given him a copy of the new
Madame Sans-Gêne
score, he'd cried. He was a harmless old man who asked nothing more of life than to be allowed to listen.

“Did someone let you in?” I asked him.

He grinned sheepishly, showing lots of teeth. “No, Miz Zherry. Just self I come.”

He'd sneaked in. “Well, don't let Mr. Gatti see you.”

He shuffled back into the shadow. Uncle Hummy was an elderly Italian who'd lived in this country since his young manhood without ever mastering English; some people simply can't learn languages. He was a nice old fellow who lived mostly on hand-outs, and mostly from Caruso; the rest of us gave him a few dollars now and then.

I forgot all about Uncle Hummy when I heard a new voice talking and laughing. Philippe Duchon had arrived, ta-
ta
, making
his
entrance from the other side of the stage and ushered in by a beaming Gatti-Casazza. Duchon was a huge man—big head, big body, big hands. He'd always been a dominating presence on the stage, but up close he was downright intimidating. Gatti was trying to introduce him to Toscanini (oddly, the two had never met) when the French baritone spotted Caruso. “Rico!” he boomed.

“Philippe!” the tenor sang back, and the two men embraced. Everybody liked Caruso.

Gatti finally got his introductions made, and I was delighted to hear Duchon spoke English perfectly (with a good, British accent). Gatti was looking around worriedly. “I suppose we could start … but I think it is better if we wait for our prima donna.”

Now there, was an entrance cue if ever I heard one. “Hello, hello, hello!” I trilled, sweeping onto the stage, flashing my second most dazzling smile (save the good stuff for more important occasions). “I hope I haven't kept you waiting?”

It was Toscanini who stepped forward and bowed gallantly over my hand, playing the courtier to the hilt. “
Cara
Gerry—waiting for you is always a pleasure.”

I made some appropriate reply, and Toscanini led me over to Duchon and introduced us. I held out my other hand. “Monsieur Duchon,” I smiled. “A great honor.”

He did not take my hand. “Ah yes,” he said with an icy smile I did not immediately understand, “Miss Geraldine Farrar. The German-lover.” He turned his back on me.

You know what that kind of rebuff feels like? As if someone has just slapped you about the head four or five times. I stood there with my hand foolishly extended and felt the shock wave run through the others on the stage.

“Monsieur!” Toscanini said reprovingly.

I withdrew my hand. “I have friends in both Germany and France,” I said as evenly as I could. “Am I to be treated rudely for that?”

Caruso and Gatti both jumped in, babbling alternately in Italian and English. Everyone was embarrassed to death, everyone except me; I was
mad
.

Duchon quickly realized that the general sympathy did not lie with him, so he turned to me and in a voice that fooled no one begged my pardon. For the sake of amity, I granted it. But if we'd not had a performance that night, I wouldn't have been quite so obliging, you can be sure. This one was going to require close watching.

A few of the props from Act II had been brought on stage, and we began the scene in which Escamillo makes his first appearance and plunges right into the
Toreador Song
. Toscanini interrupted every few seconds, but both he and Duchon were going out of their way to accommodate the other and no major problems emerged. Duchon did not, I was happy to see, jump up on the table at any time.

After the first walk-through, Duchon started singing. He sang half-voice for most of the aria, but then he opened up and finished full voice, testing the acoustics of the auditorium. It was what we'd all been waiting for, and my resentment of the man's ill-mannered behavior evaporated as if it had never been. When you can sing like that, you can get away with a lot.

And he
could
sing! The voice was undimmed by the years, deep and lustrous and rich. And he sang with a panache that made you forget that the tune was as familiar as your own face. With Duchon's sophisticated singing on one side of me and Caruso's golden tenor on the other, we would make musical history that night! Ha!

Carmen sings one word toward the end of Escamillo's aria—
L'amour
—and without any warm-up I gave it my sultriest reading. Duchon raised an eyebrow at me and finished the aria. Everyone on stage broke into applause.

Now, you'd think a man whose first bit of singing in a new house had been greeted with enthusiasm would at least say
thank you
, wouldn't you? Not Duchon. Instead, he said a very peculiar thing: “Is there someone here who does not wish me to sing?”

We all stared at him. “Monsieur?” Toscanini asked.

“A door is open backstage,” the baritone barked. “Someone wants me to catch a chill and lose my voice!”

The Met's backstage
was
a drafty place; at one time or another we'd all complained about it to Gatti, who invariably responded with a what-can-I-do shrug. But for Duchon to claim the drafts were created specifically to get rid of him—oh dear. I hoped Duchon wasn't going to be one of those people who think someone is out to get them all the time.

Gatti tried to apologize for the drafts, but Duchon wouldn't listen. So we all had to stand there and wait while Gatti sent a stagehand around to check the doors. When the man came back with the news that a door had indeed been left open, Duchon trumpeted, “You see? Someone does not wish me to sing!”

Of all the
conceit
! As if he were the only one on the stage! But I held my tongue, and Toscanini called for the rehearsal to resume.

Duchon and Caruso rehearsed the brief fight from the next act, with Toscanini marking the tempo for the piano accompanist. Finally, Duchon and I rehearsed the very brief duet we have in the last act. He sang twelve measures to me, I sang eight and a half measures back to him, and we sang the last three and a half measures together. Those three and a half measures are the only time in the entire opera when soprano and baritone sing simultaneously, so if our voices did not blend that didn't mean the production would be ruined. But it was a nice moment in the opera and Toscanini was such a perfectionist and … well, I wanted us to sound good. Duchon and I finished our last
je t' aime
and looked at our conductor.

Toscanini smiled.

It was all right, then; everything was all right. Toscanini was satisfied, Gatti-Casazza was satisfied, and Duchon declared himself satisfied. What he actually said was, “It will do for now.”

Toscanini started to bristle but then checked himself. “If you get into trouble,” he told Duchon, “do not worry. I follow
you
.”

“Now why don't you ever say that to me?” I teased him.

“Because I never know what you are going to do,” he replied humorlessly.

The whole rehearsal had taken less than an hour, so there would still be time for a little rest and some vocalizing before the performance began. Duchon and I parted amicably enough; but when Toscanini and Gatti came face to face, they both averted their eyes and passed without speaking.

Oh-oh. Trouble at the top?

I heard a whisper in my ear. “Is good, the Duchon—yes?” I turned to see Uncle Hummy scuttling away.

Scotti was waiting for me by the exit. “Well?” I asked him. “What do you think?”

“I think he is an excellent
French
baritone,” the Italian said indifferently, thus consigning Duchon forever to the ranks of the also-ran.