Yet those two had qualities he did not sense in Doria: an underlying strength of character – as Mimi must have had to cope in big-city Paris, where life among the young bohemians would have toughened her moral code – and an integrity that saw the two through personal crises; in Butterfly’s case, choosing death over dishonour. Puccini could not put Doria in that class.
The woman he needed right now was one who could help him find a way into the character of Minnie for his new work. Long ago, it had been Elvira who showed him the persona of Manon Lescaut in his first major success. Elvira was not Minnie, however; neither was Doria.
Who, then? Puccini suspected he had found someone. Looks had been exchanged; there was something he recognised in the smile. She was nearby. In that and other respects, Doria had already proved useful. Elvira’s aim was awry. Instead of hitting the target, she had shot the messenger.
In a small place like Torre del Lago, the wound will only be skin-deep, surely?
Puccini found her in the street, not far from the Chalet Emilio, the local bar that was his intended destination. Good – she could finish the mission.
‘Doria – Doria,’ he said, trying to restrain her.
She glanced at him, clearly terrified.
‘Signor Puccini … I cannot … I cannot speak with you here.’
‘Doria, I just want to tell you how sorry I am. You and I both know how wrong my wife is about this.’
‘Maestro, it’s no longer about what we think. I’m scared about how this may look to others.’
‘Others won’t know. It’s in both your and the Puccini family’s interests to keep this unfortunate situation to ourselves.’
‘We’re a small town, signor. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. How can people not know? My family don’t understand.’
‘Doria, we can help you find another employer. I’ll say and write the most complimentary things about your character. They’re the truth.’
‘Signor, the truth no longer matters. The signora’s made sure of it. People are interested only in the worst that can be said of others.’ Tears welled in her eyes.
Puccini placed one hand on her shoulder to steady the onset of grief. With his other he dipped into his fragrant trouser pocket and withdrew an envelope.
‘In the meantime, dear Doria, can you take this? You know where it must go.’
She looked at him again, puzzled.
‘Signor, are you joking? I can’t take any further part in this. It’ll destroy me. Perhaps it already has. People mustn’t see us together.’ She forced the envelope back into his grasp.
‘Doria, things may be easier this way. At least we’re away from the prying eyes of my house.’
‘WHORE!’ The voice bellowed from the other side of the street. Passers-by stopped dead.
A figure in men’s clothing strode towards them. The scene had the same sense of dire coincidence as a tawdry Act Two finale. This was the melodramatic dénouement of early Verdi; not Puccini.
Except it was the chatelaine of the Villa Puccini whose fantasy had now been vindicated by the wrong impression.
‘What’s that in your hand, Giacomo?’ She laughed. ‘A love letter?’
At last Elvira was correct, but only for a single sentence. Puccini folded the envelope carefully and returned it to his pocket.
‘It must be a chore to have to write everything down now instead of whispering to each other in bed,’ she continued.
Doria’s face turned white; she looked as if she was about to faint. An onlooker ran into the bar.
‘I only wanted to thank Doria for her years of service …’ Puccini began.
‘Surely you have thanked her enough? The same gratitude you have shown to so many others over the years,’ said Elvira.
‘Signora, this is not a conversation that should take place in the street,’ Puccini said in an undertone.
‘This conversation belongs in the street, as does your little servant here,’ said Elvira, raising her voice. ‘She is a filthy whore and a tart.’
She turned to address the growing number of spectators who had formed a circle around them.
‘This treasure of the village is a tramp who ran after my husband and seduced him in my own home. I warn anyone here who thinks of employing her that your home is just as unsafe. She has been thrown out of mine, and as surely as there is a Christ and a Madonna I will drown her in the lake if I ever see her in Torre del Lago again.’
Doria Manfredi began to retch, her legs giving way. A woman burst through the door of the Chalet Emilio and elbowed her way through the crowd in time to catch the sagging figure.
‘Come with me, cousin,’ she said. Puccini looked fixedly at the newcomer, who threw a look of hot steel at Elvira.
‘Signora Puccini,’ she said with sarcastic deference, ‘you pretend to live like the highest in our village, but you speak like the lowest. How little you deserve your good fortune.’ She cast a peculiar look at Giacomo and then returned to his wife. ‘I would appreciate you moving along. It doesn’t look good for us to have scum near the door. Please let us through, everyone.’
She half-carried the younger woman away, assisted by a man who also emerged from the bar’s entrance, probably a customer.
What a superb rejoinder, what a magnificently contemptuous toss of the head, Puccini thought with something close to pride, even as he tried to comprehend the degree of humiliation that had just descended upon his family. The whole scene had been so operatic.
He straightened himself, which – together with a particularly dapper wardrobe choice that morning and freshly cropped moustache – gave him a look of elegant stoicism, and took his wife’s arm.
‘Come, signora,’ he said. ‘I think we should take you home and get you out of my clothes.’
The next day, a letter arrived from Doria’s brother, Rodolfo. ‘Signor Puccini,’ it said. ‘You have brought dishonour to my sister and our family, and we are grateful to your poor wife for bringing this to our attention. Doria denies everything. We know she is only doing this to try and protect you. Do not think you are protected. Be warned: I would happily kill you for this. The next time you go out shooting you must be very careful.’
Puccini lurched up from his desk, suddenly aware of the twinge in his injured leg, and left his study. He felt strangely impotent as he stood in the hall, clutching the sheet of paper. Did one file such a thing? Throwing it away wouldn’t dissolve its power.
Fosca emerged from the dining room in the company of Civinini. He’ll never finish La fanciulla del West if she keeps distracting him, Puccini thought, still unaware of the nature of the distraction.
‘Fosca, someone is threatening to kill me over this absurd business with Doria,’ he said. ‘People actually believe the evil things your mother is saying.’
‘We all do, signor,’ she said, coldly. ‘Everybody knows what you are like. Are you not a mighty hunter? This time you have been shooting too much on your own estate.’
So, there was no one to take his part, thought Puccini. Soon the newspapers would join the chorus of opprobrium. What an irony; that he should emerge almost scot-free from a long list of real infidelities over the years, only to be scuppered by a single baseless accusation. Heaven knew he was not perfect, but Italian society usually cut its menfolk some slack in such matters. He was rich and celebrated, handsome and talented; an aristocrat in all but birthright. Puccini couldn’t think of a single aristocrat of his acquaintance who didn’t have a mistress or two. Even if he had taken Doria as a lover, it wouldn’t be the first time the lord of the manor had rung downstairs for service.
Now Elvira had convincingly portrayed herself as the wronged party, with he and Doria as the villains. It was all becoming too much like a Puccini opera, in which the innocent women bore the brunt of punishment by cruel circumstance. Manon Lescaut, Mimi, Floria Tosca, Cio-Cio-san – none of them ended their operas alive.
Puccini trusted there would come a point when Life stopped imitati
ng Art.
In the meantime, he would take the heat out of the situation by removing himself from it. He decided to go to Rome for some peace, a hotel room and a piano. His Minnie was taking on real flesh and blood, her music now surging in his mind, the setting of the Wild West bar brimming with orchestral colour.
The day after he checked in, a telegram arrived from Torre del Lago.
Doria had poisoned herself. Several days later, she was dead.
‘Three tablets of corrosive sublimate,’ said the doctor, a family friend who had stood as witness to Giacomo and Elvira’s marriage. ‘Mercury poisoning, in other words. It would have been an agonising death. She regretted it immediately, but it was too late. The family says she insisted to the end you weren’t to be blamed.’
‘What happens now?’ asked Puccini.
‘The local court has demanded an autopsy. There’s a strong rumour in the village that Doria had an abortion, and every finger in Torre del Lago is pointed at you.’
‘Oh, my God. It can’t happen soon enough, then. This tragic opera must end. Where is Elvira?’ Not that he cared.
‘Milan. She’s doubtless preparing to return in triumph when the autopsy results are made known.’
Elvira would not return so soon. Torre del Lago was agog with the news delivered to the courts from the surgeon’s table.
Doria had died virgo intacta. A virgin.
It was all the customers talked about at the Chalet Emilio that evening. Giulia Manfredi noted the hypocrisy of such intimate detail, something of concern only to her immediate family, bringing a sigh of relief to an entire village. Up until then the bar had been a place of strained silence, averted eyes, surreptitious pointing, an odour of scandal enveloping her family, the sour sense of judgement having been passed. Many regulars simply stayed away.
Now they came back, eager to kiss her on both cheeks, order more drinks than usual, offering the condolences over the death of her cousin that had been withheld. Doria – and by extension her family – were now vindicated.
Giulia’s face relaxed into the round, full-lipped smile that captivated everybody. She bantered and teased her regulars just as in happier days, her voice caramel in tone, her dark brown eyes beneath a fringe of tousled hair charming every object of their attention.
The muddle of public opinion now gave way to a clear collective anger, trained on a single target.
‘Defamation and slander leading to suicide,’ said Puccini’s lawyer on the phone. ‘The Manfredis want Elvira’s blood, and while they’re at it, take both of you to the cleaners.’
It was no surprise. Puccini exhaled cigarette smoke and watched the cloud collect at the ceiling, his yellow-tipped fingers tapping on a clean sheet of manuscript paper.
‘Shit. The Manfredis can’t be bought off?’
‘Not right now they can’t. They know what an iron-clad case they have; eyewitnesses queueing around the block, and probably a few handwritten surprises to come from Doria herself.’
Puccini tightened his lips.
‘What does Elvira say?’
‘She says it’s all your fault, and that God will call you to account very soon unless you confess your guilt.’
‘The bitch is mad. If she had any heart left she would feel remorse. Tell her not to bother coming back.’ Puccini slammed down the receiver.
It was bad enough that he couldn’t sleep without Doria’s face constantly in his mind’s eye; not the impassive features of the Doria he knew, but another face, the mouth twisted in agony, the cheeks hollowed, her eyes rolling upward with delirium as the poison slowly ate away at her guts.
Was she unable to cope with the shame caused by Elvira’s public tirade? Her family thought so.
Then there were her alleged final words: ‘Tell the maestro he is not to blame for this …’
It was a strange remark.
Puccini already knew they were both innocent of Elvira’s charges. He had no need of reassurance.
Was it said to exculpate him in the eyes of her family? Surely not; she would have known that the investigations surrounding her death would prove the accusations were baseless, just as had happened.
Puccini had needed Doria – but not in the way Elvira believed.
Could it be her suicide was meant to protect him? Not quite. Doria had sacrificed herself to preserve honour; not hers, and not Giacomo’s.
Doria was protecting someone else.
Of course she was, Puccini realised. In Torre del Lago, blood was thicker than water.
This time Puccini would not write. No other courier could be trusted.
Elvira wasn’t coming back any time soon. He would make a personal call on Giulia Manfredi.
His opera depended upon it.
He looked overdressed when he arrived at the bar, and the hair that had noticeably greyed in the past couple of months had the stylish signature of a Milanese barber. The eyes possessed an almost dreamy expression, regarding everyone from beneath hooded lids. He greeted Signora Manfredi with quiet politeness and lit a cigarette.
Everyone accepted the man could do with a drink after the events of the past week. But surely there was no shortage of liquor at the Villa Puccini? He must be worth a fortune.
Some were more understanding. Why would Signor Puccini want to spend time with that woman in the house? Especially when she was about to be hauled off to court. A murderess in all but deed. She may as well have administered the poison.
Puccini felt the swirl of opinion around him, but remained unperturbed. It helped him to understand the character of Dick Johnson in La fanciulla del West (or The Girl of the Golden West), a man with a secret who decides to clean up his act when he falls in love with Minnie, the gun-toting, feisty woman who runs the local saloon.
He sings about his love near the end of the opera, when he is caught and about to be hanged as a thief. Rather than have her devastated by the news, he asks that she instead be told he was freed and has gone to seek a better life.
Puccini already had that tune in his head. He could hear Caruso’s voice rising to the B flat twice during the aria, Toscanini suspending the huge orchestra while the tenor made a meal of that high note, and the sobbing and yelling of the Metropolitan Opera audience when it was over.
For the first time, Puccini wouldn’t kill his lead soprano character. Minnie loves in return. Dick is saved and redeemed by that love when the opera ends, and the two ride together out of California and the Sierra Mountains to a new life, leaving behind her heartbroken bar crowd. Who would pour their drinks now?
It grew late, and the Chalet Emilio regulars left in their usual haze, unsure of who might have lingered.
Giulia extinguished the lamps, throwing the bar into darkness, and took her last remaining customer upstairs. The untended fire was no match for the chill of January, so there was no time for caresses before bed. Besides, she was impatient to get started. There had been too much unsatisfying correspondence.
The coupling was honest and brief, just like Giulia’s conversation. Puccini noted that as a diabetic of fifty he was not the man of twenty-five who had astonished Elvira so long ago; the tempo had slowed to a comfortable andante. In music, the climax always carries more weight after a slow build. Giulia’s cry when it came was just as impressive. In it, Puccini divined the code that he would take back to the bare manuscript sheets on his desk.
Now the music could arrive in all its detail. He had his Fanciulla.
POSTSCRIPT
Elvira Puccini claimed to be too ill to attend her trial, which made international news. In absentia, she was convicted of slander, defamation and menaces and sentenced to five months and five days in prison. She was spared the ignominy of serving time when her husband reached an out-of-court settlement with the Manfredis for a massive 12,000 lire in return for their withdrawal of all charges.
The couple were reunited in a holiday spa town later in 1909 and lived together uneasily for the rest of Puccini’s life. He died while receiving tre
atment for an inoperable throat cancer in November 1924, leaving behind an unfinished opera, Turandot. One of its main characters is a slave girl, Liù, who kills herself rather than betray her employer’s secret.
Giulia Manfredi gave birth to a son in June 1923 and christened him Antonio (the same name as Puccini’s son by Elvira, named after the composer’s grandfather), who was raised in Pisa with the initial assistance of 1,000 lire a month in maintenance from an anonymous donor. The money stopped abruptly in December 1924.
Antonio Manfredi died in 1988 without having discovered the identity of his father. Among the effects left to his daughter was an old suitcase. When opened years later, its contents included letters and signed photographs to Giulia Manfredi from Giacomo Puccini.
MAZURKA IN A TEASPOON
The affair of Chopin and George Sand has long been the stuff of legend. It’s probable that the Pole would neither have composed as much, nor lived as long, without Sand’s intellectual and material support. Detail about the beginning of their relationship is largely a matter of speculation, but all those who knew them both agreed on one thing: it took a brave person to step onto a sexual battlefield littered with so many corpses.
‘Man is never always happy, and very often only a brief period of happiness is granted him in this world.’
Frédéric Chopin (1810–1849)
PARIS, 24 OCTOBER 1836
George looked at the pale face and thought it was the most beautiful she had ever seen: blue-grey eyes, a gaze at once dreamy and possessed, burnt blond hair cascading to his shoulders. She wanted to cradle that face between her hands, cover it with kisses.
It belonged to the exotic pianist from Poland, Frédéric Chopin, and George Sand had waited a long time to see it and hear some of his music praised by so many. She had pestered her friend Franz about making an introduction.
Symphony of Seduction Page 11