Prima Donna at Large (11 page)

“Put your conscience at ease,” Scotti said wryly. “I do not, ah, drop dead, not I.”

The Huguenots
resumed. In his final scene, Duchon pulled the same stunt he'd used earlier; he staked out center stage for himself and wouldn't yield to anybody. But they got through it somehow; Duchon made his final exit—and gave me a start. The minute he was off the stage, one leg flew out from under him and the other buckled. If it hadn't been for a quick-thinking stagehand who caught him, he'd have fallen straight back and taken a nasty crack on the head.

“
Water
on the stage floor? Right where I make my exit?” Duchon looked around. “Nowhere else—just where I make my exit!”

The stagehand mumbled something.

“Why is there
water
on the stage floor?” Duchon was making no attempt to keep his voice down. “Why only there, where I come off the stage?”

Mumble mumble from the stagehand.

“How did it get there? You must have seen who put it there!”

Mumble.

“Why did you not clean it up? Did someone pay you to spill water where I was sure to slip in it?”

Mumblemumblemumblemumblemumble!

Duchon took a deep breath and next spoke in more moderate tones, but what he said wasn't moderate at all. “I shall insist to Gatti-Casazza that you be dismissed immediately.” He turned and walked away.

“Of all the ungrateful …!” I exclaimed, outraged. “That man saved him from injuring himself, and he's going to get him fired!”

“No, he does not get him fired,” Scotti said tightly. “I speak to Gatti and tell him what transpires. I tell him his Monsieur Duchon is accident-horizontal.”

“Accident-prone,” I said. “He actually thought that water was spilled there deliberately—to
make
him fall!”

“He does have a high opinion of his own importance, doesn't he?” Jimmy murmured.

The Duchon-less scenes that followed went smoothly enough, but the curtain-call applause was not the most enthusiastic I'd ever heard. The opera was too long and there'd been that delay between acts and the audience had just had enough. That happens, sometimes. Caruso came off the stage scowling, unusual for him. Emmy steamed up to her dressing room without a word. Duchon started up the stairs but then caught sight of the three of us in the wings and came over.

There I was standing between two baritones, either of whom could replace Duchon on a moment's notice. He ignored both of them and lifted my hand to his lips. “Ah,
la belle
Geraldine! If only you had been singing tonight instead of that Bohemian sow! The entire production would have been elevated.”

Well, of all the
ungracious
things to say! Duchon had evidently decided he wanted me on his side again and
this
was his way of winning me over? He'd figured all he had to do was insult my rival and I would be all smiles and simpering acquiescence. Emmy Destinn wasn't the only one he'd insulted; I was not so easily manipulated as that! He was undoubtedly right in asserting I'd have been better in the role than she, but I wouldn't be caught dead in
The Huguenots
—and said so. “Emmy probably made you look as good as any soprano could,” I added sweetly.

A tic appeared beneath Duchon's eye. Scotti was laughing while Jimmy Freeman just looked uncomfortable. Duchon forced down his annoyance and said, “You and I, we will still make beautiful music,
ma charmante
.”

I thought the
ma charmante
a bit familiar but simply said, “I hope so, Philippe.” But I said it in a way that let him know I had my doubts. He bowed stiffly and left.

Scotti laughed again and gave me a light kiss (partly to show off in front of Jimmy, I suspected). “He wants to make beautiful music with you, Gerry! Perhaps you need bodyguard? I volunteer!”

I accepted with a laugh, but turned down his invitation to stop in at the Hotel Knickerbocker for a bite to eat. It was late and I wanted to get to sleep; I'm a morning lark, not a night owl. Scotti hesitated only a moment before asking Jimmy Freeman if he'd like to join him. Surprised, Jimmy stammered out his acceptance. So the two baritones in my life delivered me to my apartment and then went off together for a late supper, and perhaps for a man-to-man talk.

Poor Jimmy.

6

The next morning I telephoned Gatti-Casazza. “You owe Jimmy Freeman a major role. Right now. And two new roles next season.”

He moaned. “So, Gerry, you are now Jimmy Freeman's manager? Already this morning Osgood Springer is here, demanding the moon for his star pupil. I tell you same thing I tell him. The schedule is set for the rest of the season, yes? For next year, I will try to find him a role.”

“You'll ‘try'? Is that all? Just ‘try'? Well, that's not good enough. As long as you're going to keep calling him in to stand by for Duchon—”

“One time!” he protested.

“—then he deserves a firm commitment from you for next season at least. Jimmy is a professional, Mr. Gatti. You're treating him like a schoolboy.”

“I do not like all this pressure!” he said testily. “It is not yet eleven o'clock and already I have Springer and then a complaint committee from the orchestra and now you. It is too much! I tell you I will
try
to find Freeman a role next season.”

I considered. “Gatti, tell me the truth. Will you truly try, or are you just putting me off?”

His sigh echoed along the telephone wire like a dying wind. “I tell you the truth, Gerry. Upon my word, I will try.”

I'd have to be content with that, then. “What's the orchestra committee complaining about now?”

“Toscanini, as usual. He is calling them names again.”

“What's he been calling them?”

He didn't want to tell me, but I insisted. “
Castrade
,” he said, “words like that. I tell them they should hear what he calls me.”

That seemed like a good opening. “There's trouble between you and Toscanini, isn't there? Anyone can see it. What's the matter?”

“Money is the matter!” he growled. “The board of directors has ordered a policy of retrenchment, yes? And Toscanini, he refuses to accept! He
refuses
!”

“He wants more salary?”

“More salary, more other things—things that all cost money. More rehearsal time, for one. Better sets and costumes. And he wants me to stop hiring what he calls the ‘second-rate' singers. He wants me to spend a fortune, that is what he wants! Where does the money come from?”

The same old excuses
, I thought in irritation. “None of those things sound so dreadful to me.”

“Not dreadful, no. But impossible! You and Toscanini and Caruso, all of you, you think I have endless supply of money to spend! I know you call me penny-pincher and other names behind my back—do not deny it! But the directors decide these matters, not I. Come into my office, Gerry, I show you the books.”

“No, thank you, you've shown me the books before.” Personally, I was convinced that Gatti kept two sets of books, one for the directors and the other to show to singers. “You know what I think of your policy of retrenchment, Mr. Gatti. It's nothing more than an underhanded attempt to take advantage of the singers, now that a lot of your competition has disappeared.” The Manhattan Opera House had closed; opera had been suspended in Boston and Chicago—temporarily, one hoped. And if Antonio Scotti was right, there'd soon be an influx of singers from Europe, all of them looking for a new home at the Metropolitan. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. “Don't use that excuse with me, Gatti, and don't use it with Toscanini. You never gave up anything you didn't have to!”

He screamed something at me, and I screamed something back at him, and it went on like that until I hung up the telephone so hard I broke the little hook off the side. Sometimes Gatti made me
furious
! The Metropolitan was in a good position, from the board of directors' point of view. It was already more than fully staffed for its own needs, and the number of available singers was bound to increase if the war dragged on much longer. In a year Gatti might have
fifteen
baritones standing by the next time Pasquale Amato got sick. That meant he didn't have to listen to any of the singers' demands; he could pretty much do what he wanted.

My contract wasn't due for renewal yet, but I thought a little preliminary work wouldn't hurt. I decided to ask my manager to start negotiating my new contract now, before things got worse. Before I left home I told my maid Bella that we needed a new telephone and to notify whomever one notifies about such matters.

Morris Gest kept offices on the third floor of a new building on West Forty-fifth Street, a big jump up from his ticket-scalping days. Morris's private office had three windows that started at the floor and extended about three-fourths of the way up the wall. I sat in the client's chair, framed by the middle window and fully visible to anyone down on the street who cared to look up. Quite a few did; one man I didn't know blew me a kiss. I waved.

“So, darling Gerry, what can I do for you?” Morris asked.

“You can challenge Gatti-Casazza to a duel!” I explained what I thought was going to happen during the next few years, during the period of “retrenchment” that was to be the excuse for all sorts of inevitably shabby treatment we were bound to receive. “Gatti's sitting pretty right now. I think we'd better work out a new contract now, before things get worse.”

He gave me a big grin and started pawing through the papers in his desk. He came up with a handwritten copy of a letter he'd sent to Gatti a week ago, spelling out new terms he wanted for my next contract. “You see, darling, you have nothing to worry about. Morris Gest always has his ear to the ground.” The terms of the contract were exorbitant; Morris liked to leave himself plenty of room to maneuver.

I congratulated him on his perspicacity. “You think I'm right, then? Things are going to get worse?”

“Well, let's just say they're not going to get any better for a while. But we don't have anything to worry about. Mr. Gatti's not going to risk losing you, you sell too many tickets.” He scowled. “Look, as long as you're here, there's something else.” He pawed through his desk drawer again and pulled out another sheet of paper. “That concert you're doing with Philippe Duchon—this here's what he wants you to sing.”

I took the paper automatically. “Excuse me?”

Morris visibly braced himself. “Now don't get mad, darling, but he says—and I'm quoting directly—he says, Tell Miss Farrar she is to sing these numbers.' Something about complementing his own choices.”

I was on my feet, shaking. “
He
is telling
me
what
I
am to sing? Do I understand you correctly?
He
is telling
me
?”

“Told him you wouldn't like it,” Morris said glumly.

“How dare he!” I exploded. “Who does he think he is, telling
me
what to sing! Has he forgotten
I
am helping
him
? He doesn't consult me, he doesn't talk it over, he just decides … what arrogance! How
dare
he treat me like this!” I furiously tore up the list without reading it and flung the pieces at Morris, who flinched. “You can tell that, that
baritone
he can sing them himself—because
I
won't be anywhere near the concert hall! The idea!”

“Now, Gerry—”

“Don't you
now Gerry
me! And what were you doing, Morris Gest, the whole time Duchon was deciding what
I
was going to sing? Which one of us are you representing, Duchon or me?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Well, as a matter of fact, both of you.”

“What?!”

He looked
very
uncomfortable. “I'm setting up a tour for him. Benefit performances. All over the country.”

“You signed Duchon?”

“He's reading the contract now. I already got seven dates set, firm. Possibility of twenty more. We can make some of 'em joint concerts—Duchon's suggestion, darling,” he added hastily. “He really wants you to sing with him. So he's a little high-handed, so what? The tour will be good for you, Gerry—it's patriotic, it shows you aren't really on the Germans' side. You want to help all those poor, er, Alsatians, don't you? You haven't toured for a while anyway.”

“What are you getting out of all this, Morris?”

“Only expenses, darling,” he said innocently, “only expenses. Plus Philippe Duchon under contract, of course. But that's for the future. On this tour, I won't be making a cent.”

I believed that the way I believed Enrico Caruso would develop a sudden aversion to Italian food. “He expects me to tour with him? Of all the gall! I suppose he's already decided what I'm to wear as well?”

Morris brightened; you could just see him thinking,
safe ground!
“Not a bit of it, darling. He didn't even mention clothing. Come on, Gerry. We can all sit down and work out the program. He just doesn't know how we do things over here, that's all. Be nice, darling. We don't want to scare him off.”

So that's the way the wind was blowing. I smiled coolly. “That's right, he hasn't signed the contract yet—you did say he was reading it, didn't you? So you don't mind putting
me
on the spot just to land
him
! Morris, you're fired!”

“Not again,” he sighed. “Look, even the Old Man thinks it's a good idea, you touring with Duchon. If you don't believe me, ask him.”

That was a sort of dirty trick. Morris knew I liked his father-in-law and respected his opinion. But I wasn't ready to give in. “What does he know about concert tours?”

“He knows
publicity
, darling, and he says joint appearances would pack 'em in. Besides, think of all the other sopranos who'd give their eye teeth to be invited to tour with Duchon.”