A Cadenza for Caruso

by Barbara Paul

  “Eh, well, he is probably lost. New York can be confusing to a newcomer.” Caruso paused. “You do not look well, my friend.”

  “He’ll find his way back,” Puccini said, ignoring Caruso’s last remark. “Now tell me, what else besides Fanciulla do you sing at the Metropolitan this season?”

  But Caruso wouldn’t let him change the subject. “Are you certain you do not need a doctor? They have medicine for everything these days.”

  “Do they have a pill that can change the past?” Puccini snapped angrily. Then: “Forgive me, Caruso, I am not as even-tempered as I used to be.”

  Caruso had never found him particularly even-tempered to begin with but politely refrained from saying so. He glanced into another room of the suite. “Is Elvira here?”

  “No.”

  Caruso’s face fell. “I am sorry to hear that. I had thought you … she …” He floundered, not knowing how to finish.

  “I did not want her to come,” Puccini said, “and she resents me for that, too. I just need some time away from her, you understand? Doria’s death is still very much between us. And I am to blame! I!”

  “You?” Caruso was surprised. “But it was Elvira who caused all the, the trouble!”

  “Not entirely. I did not seduce the girl, as Elvira thought—but I am not guiltless in the matter.”

  “But all married men have these little flirts,” Caruso protested. “Italian wives understand these things! It is nothing to break up a marriage over.”

  Puccini shook his head. “Elvira is a very unhappy woman. She feels left out. True, I’ve not always been as discreet as I should have been—but I have always gone back to her! She knows I always come back!”

  “Always, yes.”

  “It is the relatives,” Puccini said bitterly. “Always the house is full of her relatives—to keep her company, she says, when I am away. They put her up to it. They like to make trouble. They see me exchanging a few pleasantries with young Doria and they tell Elvira we are sleeping together.”

  “So it is really the relatives’ fault!”

  “No, I am the one responsible. Doria would be alive today if I had kept a proper distance and given no cause for suspicion. I killed her.”

  “No no no no no!” Caruso cried. “You must not blame yourself! You did not make Elvira persecute the girl—she did that herself. With a little help from the relatives.”

  “And from me,” Puccini added glumly. “We are all to blame for that girl’s death. Doria was the only truly innocent one in the whole …” his voice trailed off. “Caruso! Do you know what you have done? You have made me talk about it!”

  “That is good?”

  “I do not know, I think perhaps it is. All I want to do is hide, bury myself in work. When the newspapers made headline stories out of what happened—eh, you know how I hate strangers intruding into my life. It has been like living in hell, with all the devils pointing their fingers at me! But now here I am talking to you about it, and it seems the most natural thing in the world!”

  “Then that is good,” Caruso pronounced judicially. “What’s done is done, and we must learn to live with it.” He was feeling grandfatherly and wise. “Look to the future. Look to December tenth! The tenth of December, nineteen ten—a date to remember!”

  Puccini smiled tentatively. “Let us hope so, Caruso.” The tenth was the date of the première of La Fanciulla del West.

  They talked of the new opera for a while, and Caruso was cheered to see Puccini begin to show a spark of his old enthusiasm. Then the tenor told the other man he was throwing a little dinner party for him that night at the Hotel Knickerbocker. Puccini tried to beg off, but Caruso wouldn’t hear of it. “Only your friends will be there,” he told the composer, “old friends who wish you well.”

  Puccini finally agreed.

  “Now then,” Caruso said, pushing his luck, “why not come have lunch with me? I wish to introduce you to the Café Martin. They make such a nice oily spaghetti—the kind you rarely find away from home.” His mouth began to water.

  “It sounds wonderful—but, alas, I have an appointment. Toscanini will be here shortly. We need to consult about the score.” The two men exchanged a wry look; they’d both locked horns with the Maestro before. But it was unthinkable that any other conductor should be entrusted with the new opera.

  “Until tonight then,” Caruso said, not particularly eager to run into Toscanini just yet. He left the composer feeling slightly better than he had, and he knew it. Caruso was good at cheering people up.

  Down on the street Caruso hesitated. Perhaps Puccini’s turning down his luncheon invitation was a good thing. The oily spaghetti the Café Martin served was one of the things his doctor had warned him against—that same strict doctor Caruso had earlier tried to recommend to Puccini. Eat less and exercise, the doctor had said, and he’d said it in a way that made the tenor listen. Bravely Caruso started the ten-block walk back to the Hotel Knickerbocker.

  What a strange man Puccini was! Blaming himself for what Elvira had done. Well, he knew more of what went on in his own household than Caruso did; maybe he was a little bit to blame at that. Puccini had actually thought of killing himself during that dark time, something Caruso hadn’t quite had the nerve to ask the other man about. But he didn’t seem suicidal now. Everything will be all right, the tenor told himself. And believed it.

  Soon he was puffing and starting to sweat. He looked up at the street sign: he’d come two blocks. Two long blocks, though, not those nice easy north-south short ones. Caruso had always thought of himself as a solidly built man, but that doctor had kept using the word fat every time he saw him. Not overweight, but fat. Caruso’s English wasn’t all that good, but he understood the distinction.

  He started walking again. The dinner party that evening was all arranged; he’d checked with Martino that morning. American steaks and lobster, and several kinds of pasta to make Puccini feel at home.

  Pasta.

  Caruso stepped to the curb and signaled a cab. “Broadway and Twenty-fifth,” he told the driver. “The Café Martin.” Some things you just can’t fight.

  “Caruso!” the driver cried when he recognized his famous passenger. “Caro Caruso!” Another Italian, which meant another fan. Driver and passenger chugged down Broadway, Caruso happily humming Celeste Aïda as he rode.

  The dinner party did its job; Puccini’s mood was lightening with each new course. In the corner of the Knickerbocker dining room, the big table set with white linen and gleaming silverware was ringing with laughter and rapidly spoken Italian. The composer’s color seemed better, and his eyes had some life in them again. Caruso congratulated himself (and Martino) on a job well done.

  On the other side of Puccini sat baritone Pasquale Amato, one of Caruso’s closest friends and a steadying man to have around. Amato was singing the role of the sheriff in La Fanciulla del West, the villainous lawman in pursuit of the hero bandit Caruso was playing. Amato looked the part; big and mustachioed, he almost always dressed in black. “Why do you not write an opera that lets the baritone get the girl?” Amato was asking the composer.

  Puccini placed a hand over his heart and assumed a mock-noble expression. “I have too much respect for tradition. The tenor always gets the girl.”

  “Besides, baritones make such good villains,” someone else at the table said.

  “And fathers,” Amato sighed. “Villains, fathers, and friend of the hero—my wife tells me that is my lot in life. Ah, well.”

  “Your wife is here with you?” Puccini asked.

  “No, Rosa does not like to travel when she is expecting. She and the boys spend Christmas with her family.”

  “Your conference with Toscanini,” Caruso asked the composer, “it goes well?”

  “Remarkably well,” Puccini answered, his surprise showing. “For the first time ever, we are in complete accord as to how the music is to be interpreted. Every time before, he fights me over every measure, every note—but not this t
ime. This time he is so kind and gentle I cannot believe what I am hearing!”

  “Hm,” said Amato. “This is Arturo Toscanini we are speaking of, is it not?”

  “Is there another?” Puccini laughed. “Yes, it is the same Toscanini who rages and screams and withers strong men with his sarcasm. Perhaps he is just showing me special consideration because of my trouble and it may not last—”

  “It won’t last,” Caruso and Amato said together.

  “Pity,” said Puccini. “Such a pleasant change.”

  The first full rehearsal for La Fanciulla del West was to take place in just a few days; and between that time and the opening on December 10, Caruso was scheduled to sing in several other operas at the Metropolitan. Normally he would have refused to rehearse one opera during the day and sing another at night; he needed the day to prepare for his performance. But Fanciulla was a world première, after all—the very first the Met had ever presented. So how could he refuse? Especially when the new opera had been written by the world’s greatest living composer. It occurred to Caruso that the Germans would say Richard Strauss was the greatest—but then, what did the Germans know of opera?

  So there was very little time for play left. “Tomorrow,” the tenor told Puccini, “we ride the ferry boat to Brooklyn—a nice trip, I go many times. When we get back, we stop at Dorlon’s for oysters. Then … ah, an antiques dealer on Fifth Avenue tells me he has a pair of Alessandro Vittorio candlesticks—we go look at them, yes? For dinner, perhaps the roof garden at Madison Square Garden? We can watch a show as we dine!”

  The composer laughed. “Caruso, do you never slow down? When do you find time for work?”

  “Six hours every day,” Caruso announced firmly. “First the breathing exercises, then the scales, then the music. Six hours I practice, every day.”

  “So he does,” Amato nodded.

  “And I also study translations of libretti to improve my English!” the tenor finished triumphantly.

  “That is about all they are good for,” Amato mused. “Why does anyone bother translating opera into English? No one is ever going to sing it. English is for sports, for playing tennis and golf and racing the horses. But for opera? Never.”

  Without thinking about it, Caruso started singing one of the airs from Tosca in English, making up the words when he couldn’t remember the translation. The sweetly romantic tune seemed wonderfully incongruous when sung with words such as Strange harmony of deliciously blending contrasts. Soon the whole table was laughing, and then the entire dining room of the Knickerbocker—and none was laughing harder than Puccini.

  The dinner party did its job.

  2

  Late for the first day of rehearsal.

  “You should have had the clothes laid out, Ugo,” Caruso scolded as they hurried down Broadway. “Martino told you which ones last night.”

  “No, he didn’t, Rico. He forgot.”

  “Martino never forgets. You are the one who forgot.”

  “You always take Martino’s side against me,” Ugo grumbled.

  Thank goodness the Metropolitan was so close. For the first few days they would be working in a rehearsal hall with a piano accompanist, moving to the main stage with full orchestra only when they had the basics of the opera under control. Caruso hoped it would be in a few days’ time; with Maestro Toscanini at the helm, one never knew.

  The door to the rehearsal hall was standing open. Caruso stuck his head in and took a quick look around: Neither Toscanini nor the Met’s general manager had yet arrived. The tenor sighed in relief. He didn’t want to offend Gatti-Casazza; and like all singers, he was more than a little intimidated by Toscanini. Caruso gave his hat and coat to Ugo and told him not to make any disturbance during the rehearsal.

  “I never make a disturbance during rehearsal,” Ugo replied indignantly.

  The hall was crowded; the fifty-man chorus took up a lot of room. The other two of the opera’s three principals were already there; Pasquale Amato stood talking to Emmy Destinn, the soprano who was singing the title role. Ah, it was like old times! So many times the three of them had sung together before—Aïda, Gioconda, Ballo in Maschera, Tosca. It was always comfortable, performing with voices and personalities that were so familiar, so dependable.

  “Emmy! Carissima!” Caruso advanced toward her with outstretched arms.

  Emmy endured a warm Italian embrace. “Well, Rico, I see you are still living the good life.” She poked him playfully in the stomach.

  “I live the life of a Spartan!” Caruso protested. “To prepare for Fanciulla. After all, it is the first time we create a new opera together! Are you not excited?”

  “Of course I’m excited,” she smiled. “But this is a strange one, is it not? Not like Tosca or Butterfly at all.”

  “Puccini is not content to repeat what he has done before,” Amato nodded. “Sometimes I wish he were.”

  “Rico,” Emmy said sternly, “no practical jokes. Not during rehearsal and not during the performance. This is a première, after all.”

  Caruso placed one hand over his heart and raised the other in the air. “You may rest assured, dear Emmy, there will be no practical jokes.” He lowered his hands. “Besides, Mr. Gatti already made me promise.”

  Just then Emmy’s maid appeared in the doorway and gestured to her. The soprano excused herself and walked away from the two men.

  Caruso watched her go. Emmy Destinn had put on a few pounds herself. Emmy had never been sylphlike, but now she was just plain stout. She was not homely, but she was not exactly a beauty either. Could a woman with her stocky figure and middle-European mannerisms create the illusion of an American girl running a saloon in a mining camp? Of course she could, Caruso thought. She’d persuaded many a Butterfly audience that she was a delicate young geisha—so why not Minnie, girl of the Golden West? Frankly, Emmy looked like a cook. But when she sang—ah, when she sang, even the angels writhed in envy! “I adore that woman,” Caruso sighed.

  Amato smiled agreement.

  Emmy came marching back, looking annoyed. “That woman. Such a fussbudget. A maid is supposed to help, not cause problems.”

  “I seem to recall your saying the same thing at Covent Garden,” Amato remarked. “Why do you keep her if she is so much trouble?”

  Emmy shrugged. “Habit. We are used to each other.”

  There was a stir in the room, and the three singers turned in time to see Toscanini make his entrance, followed by a beaming Gatti-Casazza. Toscanini looked like a glittering-eyed, wild-crested bird of prey, ready to swoop down and peck the head of any singer who dared to be anything less than perfect.

  After the preliminary exclamations and kissings were done with, Gatti-Casazza stood in the middle of the rehearsal hall—arms waving gently, asking for attention. It was his duty (and pleasure) to start things off with a little speech. He told the singers that La Fanciulla del West was the first world première ever to be staged at the Metropolitan Opera House and other things they already knew. He talked on for about ten minutes, saying nothing at all; but everyone enjoyed his little speech, because starting without one was unthinkable.

  Then Toscanini took over. “I want you,” he told the singers, “to think of this opera as an egg.”

  Caruso and Amato exchanged a glance.

  “It is perfectly shaped,” Toscanini explained, “and it has no seams. The arias are shorter and fewer and more integrated into the whole than in any other work Mr. Puccini has given us.”

  “Speaking of,” Amato whispered, “where is he?”

  Caruso looked around. He hadn’t noticed the composer was not there.

  Toscanini started getting more specific, telling the principals, the supporting singers, and even the chorus exactly what was expected of them. That involved a departure from normal procedure. Choruses were usually rehearsed separately and not brought in until the last few rehearsals on stage. But the all-male Fanciulla chorus was a collective character in this opera, not just a human bac
kdrop for the soloists to perform against. The chorus members were playing gold miners—riff-raff, crude and rough-spoken men as easily moved to sentimental tears as to violence.

  The door opened and in walked Puccini—smiling, fashionably dressed, sure of his welcome. Everything came to a stop while there were more greetings, hand-shakings, back-clapping. Caruso’s concentrated effort to cheer the composer up over the past few days had worked wonders. Puccini seemed at ease, handling several conversations at once. Caruso belatedly wondered what Toscanini thought of being upstaged in this way, but a glance in his direction showed the usually irascible conductor beaming benignly on the scene.

  The hubbub eventually died down, but the unscheduled intermission had given Toscanini time to remember his egg metaphor. “I do not want an omelette!” he admonished them all firmly, to Puccini’s bewilderment.

  Eventually they got to the real business of the day: rehearsing the music. Toscanini followed his usual procedure of interrupting every few notes, waving his arms excitedly, singing along himself. But there were no bursts of temper, no sarcastic remarks.

  “Do you suppose he is ill?” Caruso whispered.

  “Give him time,” Amato whispered back.

  Caruso’s character didn’t enter until halfway through the first act. The tenor gestured to Ugo, who silently handed him the sketch pad he’d brought along. Caruso amused himself by making quick line drawings of the people around him. He sketched Toscanini, Puccini, Gatti-Casazza. He even did one of Ugo, sitting sleepily in the corner, bored by the constant repetition any early rehearsal involved. The drawing of Mr. Gatti turned out especially well. With his droopy eyelids and square jaw and funny-looking beard, the Met’s general manager was a natural for caricature. Caruso signed each drawing with a flourish; his signature was becoming almost as well known as the drawings themselves.

  Emmy Destinn ducked a high C. The Maestro merely nodded, knowing she could hit it when the time came; even Toscanini didn’t demand full-voice renditions at the first rehearsal. Emmy had learned the role in only twenty days, studying ten hours a day—six with Toscanini, four alone. She didn’t even look tired.