A Cadenza for Caruso (25 page)

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.

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.