‘Then what is the problem, Servant?’
‘I am wondering, Master, if the moment has come for him to depart and for me to inherit.’
‘Servant, you have done brilliantly, but because you have also followed my orders. You are talented, it is true, and you have always known this, and loyal only to me. But Erik Muhlheim is more. Rarely does one come across a true genius in the matter of gold. He is such a one, and more besides. Inspired only by hatred of Man, guided by you in my service, he is not simply a wealth-creating genius but immune to scruple, principle, mercy, pity, compassion and most important of all, like you, immune to love. A human tool to dream of. One day his moment will indeed come and I may order you to end his life. So that you may inherit, of course. All the kingdoms of the world was the phrase I used once, to another. To you, all the financial empire of America. Have I deceived you so far?’
‘Never, Master.’
‘And have you betrayed me?’
‘Never, Master.’
‘Then so be it. Let it continue a while. Tell me more of this new obsession, and the why of it.’
‘His library shelves have always been loaded with the works of opera and books concerning it. But when I arranged that he could never have a private box, screened by curtains to hide his face, at the Metropolitan he seemed to lose interest. Now he has invested millions in a rival opera house.’
‘So far he has always recouped his investments and more.’
‘True, but this venture is a certain loss-maker, even though such losses must be under one per cent of his total wealth. And there is more. His mood has changed.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not know, Master. Save that it began after the arrival of a mysterious letter from Paris where he once lived.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Two men came. One a shoddy little reporter from a New York newspaper, but he was only the guide. The other was a lawyer from France. He had a letter. I would have opened it but he was watching me. When they had gone he came down and took the letter. He sat and read it at the boardroom table. I pretended to leave but watched through a chink in the door. When he rose he seemed changed.’
‘And since then?’
‘Before that he was simply the sleeping partner behind a man called Hammerstein, builder and moving spirit behind the new opera house. Hammerstein is wealthy but not to compare. It was Muhlheim who pledged enough to bring the opera house to completion.
‘But since the letter he has become involved to a greater degree. He had already despatched Hammerstein to Paris with a torrent of money to persuade a singer called Nellie Melba to come to New York and star in the New Year. Now he has sent a frantic message to Paris ordering Hammerstein to secure yet another prima donna, the great rival of Melba, a French singer called Christine de Chagny.
‘He has involved himself in the artistic choices, changing the inaugural opera from one by Bellini to another, insisting on a different cast. But most of all, he spends every night furiously writing . . .’
‘Writing what?’
‘Music, Master. I hear him in the penthouse above. Each morning there are fresh sheaves of music. In the small hours I hear the tones of that organ he has installed in his drawing-room. I am tone-deaf; it means nothing to me, a meaningless noise. But he is composing something up there and I believe it is his own opera. Just yesterday he commissioned the fastest packet on the East Coast to take the so-far completed part of the work and rush it over to Paris. What am I to do?’
‘It is all madness, my servant, but relatively harmless. Has he invested more money in this wretched opera house?’
‘No, Master, but I worry for my inheritance. Long ago he pledged to me that should anything ever happen to him I should inherit his entire empire, his hundreds of millions of dollars, and thus continue to dedicate them to your service. Now I fear he may be changing his mind. He could leave everything he has to some kind of foundation dedicated to his wretched obsession with opera.’
‘Foolish servant. You are his adoptive son, his inheritor, his successor, the one destined to take over his empire of gold and power. Has he not promised you? More to the point, have I not promised you? And can I be defeated?’
‘No, Master, you are supreme, the only god.’
‘Then calm yourself. But on reflection let me tell you this. Not advice, but a flat order. If ever you should perceive a real threat to your inheritance of everything he has: his money, his gold, his power, his kingdom, then you will destroy that threat without mercy or delay. Do I make myself plain?’
‘Perfectly, my master. And thank you. I have your orders.’
6
THE COLUMN OF GAYLORD SPRIGGS
OPERA CRITIC, NEW YORK TIMES, NOVEMBER 1906
TO OPERA-LOVERS OF NEW YORK CITY AND EVEN those within range of our great metropolis I come bearing tidings of good news. War has broken out.
No, not a resumption of that Spanish–American war in which our President, Teddy Roosevelt, so distinguished himself some years ago at San Juan Hill, but a war within the world of opera in our city. And why should such a war be of good news? Because the troops will be the finest voices on the planet today, the ammunition will be money of the sort of which most of us can only dream, and the beneficiaries will be those who love superlative opera.
But let me, in the words of the King of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland – and New York opera is starting to resemble Lewis Carroll’s fantasy – begin at the beginning. Devotees will know that in October 1883 the Metropolitan Opera opened its doors to an inaugural rendition of Gounod’s Faust and thus planted New York firmly into a world setting, along with Covent Garden and La Scala.
But why was such a magnificent home for opera, seating no less than 3,700 in the world’s largest auditorium for opera, open at all? Why, pique coupled with money, a powerful combination. The richest and most grand of the new aristocracy of this city were deeply offended that they could not secure private and guaranteed boxes at the old Academy of Music on 14th Street, now deceased.
So they clubbed together, dug deep and now regularly enjoy their opera in the style and comfort to which the members of Mrs Astor’s Four Hundred list are well accustomed. And what glories the Met has brought us over the years and continues to do today under the inspired leadership of Mr Heinrich Conreid. But did I say ‘war’? I did. For now a new Lochinvar rides over the horizon to challenge the Met with a galaxy of names to take the breath away.
After an earlier abortive attempt to open an opera house of his own, tobacco millionaire and theatre designer/builder Oscar Hammerstein has just completed the richly ornate Manhattan Opera House on West 34th Street. Smaller, it is true, but with luxurious accoutrements, plush seating and superb acoustics it bids to rival the Met by pitting quality against quantity. But where is this quality to come from? Why, no less than Nellie Melba herself.
Yes, this is the first good news from the opera war. Nellie, who has always and steadfastly refused to cross the Atlantic, has agreed to come – and for a fee that takes the breath away. My highly reliable source in Paris tells me this is the story behind the story.
For a month past Mr Hammerstein has been paying court to the Australian diva in her residence at Garnier’s Grand Hotel, built by that same genius who built the Paris Opera House where Melba has so often performed. At first she refused. He offered $1,500 a night – imagine it! Still she refused. He shouted through her bathroom keyhole, raising the fee yet again. To $2,500 a night. Unbelievable. Then $3,000 a night, in a house where the chorus is paid fifteen dollars a week or three dollars per show.
He finally invaded her private salon at the Grand and began throwing thousand-franc notes all over the floor. Despite her protests he continued before storming out. When she finally counted all the money, he had left 100,000 French francs, or $20,000 scattered on the Persian carpet. I am informed that this has now been lodged with Rothschilds in the rue Lafitte, but the diva’s defences are down. She has agreed to come. After all, sh
e was once an Australian farmer’s wife and can surely recognize a sheep being fleeced.
If this were all, it would be enough to cause heart attacks at Broadway and 39th where Mr Conreid holds sway. But there is more. For Mr Hammerstein had engaged none other than Alessandro Gonci, only possible rival in quality and fame to the already immortal Enrico Caruso, to sing the tenor lead on 3 December at the inaugural performance. To support Signor Gonci, other great names like Amadeo Bassi and Charles Dalmores are on the menu, with baritones Mario Ancona and Maurice Renaud, and a further soprano, Emma Calve.
This alone would be enough to set New York by the ears. But there is even more. Long ears and sharp tongues have maintained for some time that even Mr Hammerstein’s wealth could not permit such amazing extravagance. There must be a secret Croesus behind him, calling the shots, pulling the strings and perforce paying the bills. But who is this invisible paymaster, this phantom of Manhattan? Whoever he is, he has now surely exceeded himself in his attempts to spoil us. For if there is one name that acts upon Nellie Melba like a red rag to a bull it is that of her only rival, the younger and stunningly beautiful French aristocrat Christine de Chagny, known throughout Italy as La Divina.
What, I hear you cry, she cannot be coming too? But she is. And herein lies a mystery and a double mystery.
The first is that, like Nellie Melba, La Divina has always declined to cross the Atlantic, calculating that such an expedition would occupy too much time and trouble. For this reason the Met has never been favoured by either of them. Yet while Nellie has clearly been seduced by the astronomical sums poured upon her by Mr Hammerstein, Vicomtesse de Chagny is noted for her complete immunity to the lure of the dollar bill, no matter what the quantity.
If a torrent of dollars was the argument which prevailed upon the Australian diva, what was the argument that convinced the French aristocrat? This we simply do not know – as yet.
Our second mystery concerns a sudden change in the artistic calendar of the new Manhattan Opera House. Before departing for Paris on his quest for the world’s most famous divas, Mr Hammerstein had announced that the inaugural opera on 3 December would be Bellini’s I Puritani.
The construction of sets had already begun, programs sent to the printers. Now I hear that the invisible paymaster has insisted there will be a change. Gone is I Puritani. In its place the Manhattan will inaugurate with a completely new opera by an unknown and even anonymous composer. It is an awesome risk, utterly unheard-of. It is all too amazing.
Of the two prima donnas, who will star in this unknown new work? They cannot both do so. Who will arrive first? Which one will sing with Gonci to the fierce baton of yet another star, conductor Cleofonte Campanini? They cannot both do so. How will the Metropolitan fight back with its highly risky choice of Salome as the season-starter? What is the name of this new, untried work that the Manhattan insists upon for its inaugural? Will it prove a complete flop?
There are enough hotels in New York of the finest quality to permit the two prima donnas not to share the same roof, but what about the liners? France has two stars, La Savoie and La Lorraine. They will simply have to have one each. Oh, opera-lovers, what a winter to be alive!!
7
THE LESSON OF PIERRE DE CHAGNY
SS LORRAINE, LONG ISLAND SOUND, 28 NOVEMBER 1906
‘WELL, WHAT’S IT GOING TO BE TODAY, YOUNG Pierre? Latin, I think.’
‘Oh, do we have to, Father Joe? We’ll be coming into New York Harbor soon. The captain told Mama over breakfast.’
‘But at the moment we are still passing Long Island and an empty coast it is. Nothing to see but mist and sand. A fine moment to kill some time with Caesar’s Gallic Wars. Open your book where we left off.’
‘Is it important, Father Joe?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘But why should Caesar invading England be important?’
‘Well, if you were a Roman legionary heading into an unknown land of wild savages you’d have thought so. And if you were an Ancient Briton with the eagles of Rome marching up the beach you’d have thought so too.’
‘But I’m not a Roman soldier and certainly not an Ancient Briton. I’m a modern Frenchman.’
‘With whom I am charged, Heaven save us, to try and give a good education, academic and moral. So, Caesar’s first invasion of the island he knew as Britannia. Start at the top of the page.’
‘Accidit ut eadem nocte luna esset plena.’
‘Good. Translate.’
‘It fell . . . nocte means night . . . night fell?’
‘No, night did not fall. It had already fallen. He was looking up at the sky. And accidit means “it befell” or “happened”. Start again.’
‘It happened that on the same night . . . er . . . the moon was full?’
‘Precisely. Now put it into better English.’
‘It happened that on the same night there was a full moon.’
‘There was indeed. You’re lucky with Caesar. He was a soldier and he wrote in clear soldier’s language. When we get on to Ovid, Horace, Juvenal and Virgil there will be some real brain-teasers. Why did he say esset and not erat?’
‘Subjunctive tense?’
‘Well done. An element of doubt. It might not have been a full moon but by chance it was. So, the subjunctive. He was lucky with the moon.’
‘Why, Father Joe?’
‘Because, lad, he was invading a foreign land in the dark. No powerful searchlights in those days. No lighthouses to keep you off the rocks. He needed to find a flat, shingly beach between the cliffs. So the moonlight was a help.’
‘Did he invade Ireland too?’
‘He did not. Old Hibernia remained inviolate for another twelve hundred years, long after St Patrick brought us Christianity. And then it was not the Romans but the British. And you’re a cunning dog, trying to draw me away from Caesar’s Gallic Wars.’
‘But can’t we talk about Ireland, Father Joe? I have seen most of Europe now, but never Ireland.’
‘Oh, why not? Caesar can make his landfall at Pevensey Bay tomorrow. What do you want to know?’
‘Did you come from a rich family? Did your parents have a fine house and broad estates like mine?’
‘Indeed they did not. For most of the great estates are owned by the English or the Anglo-Irish. But the Kilfoyles go back before the conquest. And mine were just poor farming people.’
‘Are most of the Irish poor?’
‘Well, certainly the people of the countryside do not have any silver spoons. Most are tenant farmers in a small way, scraping a living from the land. My people are like that. I came from a small farm outside the town of Mullingar. My father tilled the land from dawn till dusk. There were nine of us in the brood; I was the second-born son and we lived mostly on potatoes mixed with milk from our two cows and beet from the fields.’
‘But you got an education, Father Joe?’
‘Of course I did. Ireland may be poor, but she is steeped in saints, and scholars, poets and soldiers, and now a few priests. But the Irish are concerned with the love of God and education, in that order. So we all went to the village school which was run by the fathers. Three miles away and walking barefoot. All the way, each way. Summer evenings until after dark and all the holidays we helped our da on the farm. Then homework in the light of a single candle until we fell asleep, five of us in one bunk and the four small ones tucked in with our parents.’
‘Mon Dieu, did you not have ten bedrooms?’
‘Listen, young lad, your bedroom at the château is bigger than was the entire farmhouse. You’re luckier than you know.’
‘You have travelled a long way since then, Father Joe.’
‘Oh, that I have, and I wonder daily why the Lord favoured me in such a way.’
‘But you still got an education.’
‘Yes, and a good one. Driven into us by a combination of patience, love and the strap. Reading and writing, sums and Latin, history but not much geography for the fathers
had never been anywhere and it was presumed we would never do so either.’
‘Why did you decide to become a priest, Father Joe?’
‘Well, we had mass every morning before lessons, and of course on Sundays as a family. I became an altar boy and something about the mass got into me. I used to look at the great wooden figure above the altar and think that if He had done that for me, then perhaps I ought to serve Him as best I could. I was good at school and when I was about to leave I asked if there was any chance of being sent to train for the priesthood.
‘I knew my older brother would take over the farm one day and I would certainly be one less mouth to feed. And I was lucky. I was sent into Mullingar for an interview, with a note from Father Gabriel at the school, and they accepted me for the seminary at Kildare. Miles away. A major adventure.’
‘But now you are with us in Paris and London, St Petersburg and Berlin.’
‘Yes, but that is now. When I was fifteen the coach to Kildare was a big adventure. So I was tested again and accepted, and studied for years until the time came for ordination. There was quite a group of us in my class and the Cardinal Archbishop himself came over from Dublin to ordain us all. When it was over I thought to go and spend my life as a humble parish priest somewhere in the west, a forgotten parish in Connaught, perhaps. And I would have accepted that with a glad heart.
‘But I was called back by the principal. He was with another man whom I did not know. It turned out he was Bishop Delaney of Clontarf and he needed a private secretary. They said I had a good clear hand for the writing and would I like the post? Well, it was almost too good to be true. I was twenty-one and they were inviting me to live in a bishop’s palace and be secretary to a man responsible for a whole see.
‘So I went with Bishop Delaney, a good and holy man, and spent five years at Clontarf and learned many things.’
‘Why did you not stay there, Father Joe?’
‘I thought I would, or at least until the Church found other work for me. A parish in Dublin, perhaps, or Cork or Waterford. But then chance struck again. Ten years ago the Papal Nuncio, the Pope’s ambassador to the whole of Britain, came from London to tour his Irish provinces and spent three days at Clontarf. He had a retinue, did Cardinal Massini, and one of them was Monsignor Eamonn Byrne from the Irish College in Rome. We found ourselves thrown together quite a bit and got along well. We discovered we were born only ten miles apart, though he was several years older.
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