A Cadenza for Caruso (23 page)

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.

It was glorious while it lasted. I sang in other houses, at the Paris Opéra and the Opéra Comique and at Monte Carlo—a gay place, pure froth and frivolity. I sang in Salzburg and Munich and Stockholm, where I made a fan of King Oscar, dear man; he actually presented me with the Order of Merit. I sang in Warsaw, then under Russian supervision and bitterly resentful of it; I saw more than one bloody clash in the streets. I had to cancel singing engagements in Moscow and St. Petersburg because one of their many revolutions was going on at the time. Once I even had trouble getting back to Berlin, there were so many soldiers stopping people everywhere. By the time I left for the Metropolitan Opera in 1906, it was clear that the good times in Europe were over.

But I was back there last year when it started. When the war broke out in August, I was in a Munich sanitarium recovering from a stomach disorder. I wasn't particularly worried at the time; I felt at home in Germany and America didn't seem likely to join in. But by the time I was well enough to travel, Antwerp had fallen and the border was closed. I couldn't arrange passage to America. Everything I tried failed.

I was just beginning to panic when a message arrived from Gatti-Casazza; he was holding a ship at Naples for all the Metropolitan's artists who were having trouble getting out of Europe. With the help of an attentive young officer, I bribed my way through Switzerland, smiling and chatting gaily and pretending that was the way I always traveled. Then I hastened down the length of Italy to the harbor at Naples, where I found a ship full of musicians every bit as frightened as I was. Caruso spent the entire crossing on deck watching out for U-boats.

It's impossible to express the anguish this war has caused me. I have friends and professional associates all over Europe, but Germany has always been a special place to me. My vocal coach who saw me through my early years is still there; I don't even know if she is safe. I don't know if
anybody
is safe. But from the moment the first German soldier set foot on Belgian soil on the march to invade France, Germany placed itself squarely and irredeemably in the wrong.

How could the Kaiser even consider such a thing? I find it hard to reconcile this bloody warmonger with the friendly, laughing man I knew in Berlin. Now every time I think of Germany I get a burning sensation inside. It's a
horrible
feeling. The way you'd feel if you suddenly found out your father was a murderer. What happens then? Do you stop loving him? Can you ever again love him in quite the same way?

But that wasn't the half of it. The anti-German feeling in this country was so strong that I found I was actually suspect because of my long association with Germany and the royal family. My
patriotism
was being questioned, of all things! Why, I was born practically at the foot of Bunker Hill—there's never been the slightest question in my own mind as to where my true allegiance lay! I've sung at war relief benefits, I've sold Liberty bonds, I've done my bit to help. I am
American
; and if America joins the Allies in the war against Germany, then it's the Allied side I'll be on.

Yet numerous unpleasant things kept happening. I was once cut dead by some society women because I did not rise for the few bars of the national anthem that appear in
Madame Butterfly
. A little book I'd written about my early career in Germany was withdrawn from public libraries. When I invited Fritz Kreisler to a party I gave last Christmas, I received a rash of scurrilous letters (all anonymous, of course) reviling me for giving succor to the enemy. Sometimes I actually have to remind people that the United States of America is not at war with anyone.

Not yet, at any rate.

Antonio Scotti kissed the fingers of my right hand one by one. “Gerry,
cara mia
—tell me when we marry. How long do you keep me suffering? Say you marry me.”

I laughed. “Now, Toto, I thought we'd settled all that.”

He picked up a fork from the table and waved it in the air. “We settle nothing. All you do is keep saying no.”

And that, from his point of view, was no answer at all. I never met a man who enjoyed being in love so much as Antonio Scotti. He was in love
all the time
—if not with me, then with someone else. But he was an attentive lover and fun to be with, and I didn't mind the attention.

“You must practice saying maybe,” he admonished me gently. “You do not know what joys can be found in marriage.”

“And you do?” I smiled. Scotti was a tall, easygoing bachelor whose eyes even now followed an attractive woman as she crossed the room. Scotti was fastidious in his dress and had the natural bearing of an aristocrat. He had a mop of lustrous black hair and a good physique; only a rather long nose kept him from being unbearably handsome. He and Caruso and Pasquale Amato were all from Naples and had been friends for years. I liked all three of them; I liked them a lot.

We were in the dining room of the Hotel Knickerbocker. Caruso was holding court across the room at his usual corner table, surrounded by friends and a few freeloaders. Both Scotti and Caruso lived in the Knickerbocker, and the place had become a sort of gathering place for the opera world. But neither Caruso nor I should have been there right then; the day of an evening performance ought to be spent resting.

Scotti looked over to Caruso's table. “I suppose we should join them.”

“I suppose.”

I had awakened that morning not knowing which baritone I'd be singing with that night. But now it was settled; Philippe Duchon had said yes. Jimmy Freeman would just have to wait a little longer, poor boy. Caruso and I were to go to the Metropolitan that afternoon to rehearse the stage movements with Duchon. That alone told you in what high regard Gatti-Casazza held the French baritone; normally a substitute singer was taught his stage movements in fifteen minutes by an assistant stage manager and then tossed in to sink or swim. But not Philippe Duchon. For Duchon, the Met's two biggest stars would give up their afternoon of rest and preparation to help the newcomer learn where he was supposed to be on the stage at what time. Some baritones like to leap up on a table to sing the
Toreador Song;
I hoped Philippe Duchon was not one of them.

Just then Gatti-Casazza himself walked in, looking understandably triumphant. Without exchanging a word Scotti and I got up and went over to Caruso's table. When we all had chairs, I found myself sitting opposite Emmy Destinn—who was looking well-fed, as usual. “Toto!” Caruso cried. “Gerry,
bellissima
! You hear the news? Duchon may join us permanently!”

“For the duration,” Gatti corrected.

“Is that why he came here, then?” I asked. “To join the Metropolitan Opera?”

“Eh, no, as a matter of fact,” Gatti said. “He comes to solicit funds for Alsatian war relief. I promise him a benefit performance.”

“Which opera?” umpteen voices asked.

Gatti waved a hand. “Details, we work out later. For now, he agrees to sing
Carmen
and
The Huguenots
.”

Emmy Destinn put her cup down with a clink. “
The Huguenots
? You promised him
The Huguenots
?”
The Huguenots
was one of Emmy's operas.

“Until Amato is well again,” Gatti explained. “Thereafter—we will see.”

Emmy nodded toward Scotti. “Toto can sing it.” Scotti and Amato alternated in the role of the villain in the opera.

“And he continues to sing it. Duchon substitutes only for Amato.”

“That is encouraging,” Scotti said dryly.

“It is decided, then?” Emmy asked.

Gatti nodded. “Duchon sings with you next week.”

“No. I want Toto.”

Everyone at the table stared at her. “I do not understand,” Gatti said, puzzled. “I think you will be pleased with my arrangement.”

Emmy thrust out her chin. “I do not wish to sing with Philippe Duchon.”

Utter silence fell over the table. Not want to sing with Philippe Duchon? Was the woman out of her mind? I was the first to find a voice. “For heaven's sake
why
, Emmy?”

“I have sung with him before,” she said and stopped, as if that explained everything.

“And?” Scotti urged.

Eventually the story came out. According to Emmy, Philippe Duchon had a nasty tendency to take over every production he appeared in. “He wants to conduct, direct, and sing all the parts. He kept telling me—
me!
—how I should sing this or that phrase, what I should do in the duets, where I should stand while he is singing, everything. He is impossible to work with! He completely ignores the conductor.”

Everyone at the table was thinking the same thing:
Toscanini
. Maestro Toscanini permitted no disagreement when he was at the podium; he simply
did not permit it
. Toscanini had nothing to do with
The Huguenots
, but he was conducting
Carmen
. Could be trouble.

“We both sing with him, Emmy,” Caruso said. “At Covent Garden, at the Opéra. He is difficult, yes, but not impossible. I have no trouble with him. I like him.”

“Oh, Rico, you like everybody,” Emmy said dismissively.

Caruso thought a moment. “Almost everybody.”

Gatti-Casazza had been sitting there in a state of shock. “I do not imagine … if you … but …” He used a table napkin to pat his brow. “I am sorry to hear you are unhappy,” he said to Emmy, “but it is settled. This year Duchon sings
The Huguenots
and
Carmen
and one benefit, and for next year we talk about a revival of, uh, muh, umm.” He shot a glance at Scotti and finished up mumbling into his beard.

Scotti eyed him suspiciously. “A revival of what?”

Gatti didn't want to say, but did: “
Rigoletto
.”

Scotti hit the ceiling.
Rigoletto
was his opera; it was his favorite role. “You say no when
I
ask for a revival this year!” Scotti shouted. “But all this Frenchman has to do is—”

“Now, Toto, be calm, be calm! We only talk about it, you understand?” Gatti spent the next few minutes soothing the irate Neapolitan.

As soon as I could, I asked Gatti, “Have you given any thought to
Madame Sans-Gêne
? You do remember our new opera, don't you? Will the illustrious Monsieur Duchon undertake to learn Amato's part? Or did you ask him?”

“I count on Amato's return to health in time for the next performance of
Madame Sans-Gêne
,” he said quickly and changed the subject. So much for my new opera. Well, we'd just see about that.