Prima Donna at Large

by Barbara Paul

  Almost immediately he grabbed me by the arm—we hadn’t rehearsed that!—and this time he wasn’t careful not to hurt me. So I cracked him across the jaw with my fan and heard a surprised murmur from the audience. Caruso grabbed my other arm, and I stepped on his foot; he pushed me away. In the middle of all this I became aware we were singing the duet with more intensity than we’d ever managed before, but somehow that seemed of secondary importance right then.

  We came to the part where David Belasco had directed Caruso to drag me across the stage by the hair and I was hoping the tenor wouldn’t remember it. No such luck. He pushed me to the floor and grabbed my hair and started pulling—and I mean really pulling! It was the only time I’ve ever regretted not wearing a wig for Carmen. I dropped my fan and used both hands to hold on to his arm, but he still managed to pull my hair. When we got to the place where he was supposed to let go, he simply turned around and started dragging me back the other way!

  I scrambled to my feet and knocked his arm away; then I started beating at his chest with both fists, not paying much attention to what I was singing. He twirled me around and pinned my arms to my side, with one arm around my waist and the other across my chest.

  I bit his hand.

  I caught one glimpse of Toscanini’s horrified face from the podium; it was probably the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do. But the audience was murmuring its approval of all this fiery “acting” they were watching. Caruso shoved me away so hard that I stumbled, while he sang of how we should go away together and be lovers again. I sang back I wasn’t going anywhere with him and kicked him in the shins. He sang that if he couldn’t have me, no one could—and made a grab at my arm. I twisted away and I heard this horrible ripping sound and felt cool air against my arm and realized I had just lost part of my costume.

  It must have been the sight of Caruso standing there holding the sleeve of my dress in his hand that finally made the audience realize that what they were watching on the stage was real. In the quarrel between Carmen and Don José, the outcome is ordained: He kills her. Carmen’s death marks the end of the opera. But when Caruso came at me with his stage knife, I was so furious with him that—incredible as it seems now—I snatched the knife out of his hand and thrust it hard against his stomach! Take that, you devil!

  A loud gasp went up from the audience. Caruso was so surprised he forgot to sing his line. “Fall down, you idiot!” I hissed. “You’re dead!” I kicked out and tripped him; and when someone of Caruso’s girth and weight hits the floor, everybody in the house feels it.

  But a tenor who has been unexpectedly “killed” is in no condition to sing his final lines, the lines that close the opera. So I sang them. “C’est moi qui lui ai tué!” I sang, changing the French to fit the new circumstances. “Ah! José, mon José, adoré!” The curtain closed.

  There was an absolutely stunned silence from out front.

  But backstage was anything but quiet; what the audience didn’t know was that behind the closed curtain Caruso and I were rolling around pummeling each other, wrestling on the floor like a couple of schoolboys. A hundred voices were screaming and a thousand hands were pulling at us, but that didn’t stop us; we kept right on fighting.

  Pasquale Amato finally put an end to it. I’d never realized how strong Amato was, but somehow he wedged his body in between Caruso and me and forcibly pushed the two of us apart. Then there were about a million people separating us, and the fight was over.

  Scotti helped me up, looking endearingly worried. “Are you all right, Gerry? Shall I call Dr. Curtis?”

  “Whatever for?” I smiled at him. “I don’t need a doctor.” In fact, I felt marvelous.

  “What have you done?” Gatti-Casazza screamed at me. “He is supposed to kill you, you are not supposed to kill him! What have you done?”

  “I changed it,” I said mildly.

  “This is terrible!” Gatti moaned. “How will we ever live it down?” Toscanini came running up and stopped at Gatti’s elbow and stared at me, his eyes round and his mouth open, not saying a word. “How can you do such a thing?” Gatti went on. “Do you lose your mind?”

  “Curtain call!” someone was crying. “Places for the curtain call!”

  Toscanini kept staring at me, wordless.

  The crowd had thinned out a little and I could see Caruso again, listening as Amato talked earnestly into his ear. The expression on Caruso’s face told the whole story; he looked absolutely horrified. It had finally sunk in on him what he had done. He had been seen fighting, in public, with a woman! Horrors! Shame! Disgrace! He looked overwhelmed with embarrassment. “Oh, Gerry,” he managed to choke out, “Gerry, I am, oh, I do, you, oh …” He whirled and dashed out through the stage door, still in costume, with no overcoat.

  Toscanini was now shaking his head while he stared at me. And stared.

  “Curtain call! Please!” The voice was growing frantic.

  Amato hurried out in front of the curtain, took a quick bow, and hurried back. Caruso was gone, and Toscanini refused to take a curtain call. So I went out by myself—rumpled, sleeveless, battered and bruised—but the winner! The people in the audience were actually stamping their feet while they cheered. Oh, it was a glorious moment! I took only one curtain call—but it lasted fifteen minutes. I looked out at those laughing faces and laughed with them; the gerryflappers weren’t the only ones chanting “Geree” that night.

  When the hubbub at last began to die down, I went backstage and immediately caught sight of David Belasco advancing toward me. Oh dear! I should have known he’d come to see how his new stage directions had worked out! What could I say to him? He was probably ready to kill me.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong. The man was beaming; I’d never seen such a big smile on his face before. “Gerry, that was magnificent!” he cried. “The most exciting theatre I’ve seen in ten years! I think I like your ending more than the regular one!” He turned to Gatti-Casazza. “I say, Mr. Gatti, I don’t suppose you could—”

  “No!” Gatti roared. “Do not even think it! Disgraceful, perfectly disgraceful! Oh, what will the board say?”

  “Nevertheless,” Belasco whispered in my ear, “you were superb.” He lifted my hand and kissed it.

  Scotti whispered in my other ear. “I think this is good time to leave.”

  He was right. I worked my way through the backstage visitors, more of them than usual tonight and all of them full of questions. I hurried upstairs to change and came down to find Scotti waiting for me by the stage door.

  The last thing I saw before I left was Toscanini, standing by the door and watching me go, his mouth still open, still unable to say a word.

  16

  Morris Gest was the first to arrive the next morning, a stack of newspapers under each arm. “The Old Man called last night and told me what you’d done,” he grinned. “Ah, Gerry, Gerry! If only the rest of my clients had the nose for publicity that you have!”

  “What do they say?” I asked, reaching for the newspapers.

  “What don’t they say? From one extreme to the other. One of them is running a polite announcement of what they call ‘an altercation arising from artistic differences’ or some such fanciness. But another one is carrying a blow-by-blow description, right down to the knockout punch! Here, read them.”

  I read them. I read them, and I relished every word. This was even better than not announcing my engagement! Every paper in New York had something about my fight with Caruso; and whether the tone was polite or scandalized or gleeful or simply puzzled, not one of the newspapers made Caruso out to be the hero. Tee-hee.

  The telephone was ringing. I’d already warned Bella that this was going to be one of those days and simply to take messages unless it sounded important. One other thing I’d done before Morris got there; I’d sent one of the other maids with a note to Emmy Destinn.

  Dearest Emmy,

  I’m certain you have understood by now that my unforgivably bad manners
last night were not caused by any animosity toward you but were instead the result of a little war I was then waging with a certain tenor we both know. Dear Emmy, please come to lunch and allow me to apologize properly. I would come to you but I fear you might shut the door in my face—and with justification! Although my behavior was inexcusable, I hope you’ll find it in your heart to excuse it anyway. Please come, around noon.

  Penitently,

  Geraldine Farrar

  The sooner I patched things up with Emmy the better; I didn’t want Caruso spreading the rumor that I was jealous of her. Not that anyone would believe such a ridiculous notion, but still …

  “With luck, we can keep this going for a week,” Morris Gest said, rereading one of the newspaper articles. “I talked to the Met’s publicist this morning—he loves you, darling. You’ve made him very happy.”

  “Delighted to hear it. What’s he planning?”

  “Follow-up stories—causes of the fight, that sort of thing. He’ll need to talk to you.”

  And then, while we were still reading, the flowers arrived—baskets and baskets and baskets of them, containing everything from exotic purple-tipped white orchids to delicate little violets. There were lilies—orange tiger lilies, white calla lilies, and those pale pink Japanese lilies with red spots on the petals. There were blue China asters, creamy white magnolias, velvety purple pansies with yellow throats, scarlet-striped amaryllis, bronze Dutch tulips, Boston yellow daisies, sweet-smelling narcissus, five varieties of rose, irises, camellias, birds of paradise, sweet peas, lilies of the valley, and two potted ferns—all grown in hothouses and therefore all terribly expensive. By the time the two deliverymen had brought them all in, there was barely room left to walk.

  Morris stood in the midst of all that floral abundance and asked in amazement, “Who sent them?”

  “Caruso,” I said, reading one of the cards. “This is the softening-up stage. He thinks.”

  Morris discovered a wreath with Forgive me, Gerry spelled out in rosebuds. “He must have rousted the florist out in the middle of the night to get this one done.”

  The maid I’d sent with my note to Emmy came back, and gasped when she saw the roomful of flowers. She handed me an envelope and moved among the baskets, ooh-ing and ah-ing. The note in the envelope contained neither salutation nor signature.

  I think it would have been more fitting for you to wait meekly outside my door; nevertheless, I will come, if only to prove that I am a nicer person than you are. Please have both a good explanation and an excellent lunch prepared.

  She wasn’t going to make it easy for me, but she was coming. Ah well, I’d serve up a little humble pie for lunch. A little wouldn’t hurt me.

  Bella squeezed between two baskets of lilies and said, “Excuse me, Miss Farrar, but Mr. Gatti-Casazza is on the telephone—he says it’s urgent.”

  “Very well, I’ll take it.”

  Gatti may have told my maid it was urgent, but he took his time getting to the point. He hemmed and hawed and inquired after my physical well-being, and finally got around to saying what he’d called about. “I am thinking about scheduling one additional performance,” he said in an overly casual voice, “a benefit for the Emergency Fund, you know.”

  “Additional performance of what?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

  “Ah, hem, of Carmen, as a matter of fact. The season ends soon, so I am thinking of scheduling it right away, yes?”

  “To take advantage of all the free publicity I’ve generated? Why, what a surprise! Last night you were ready to have me boiled in oil.”

  “Last night is over,” he said tightly. “Today, I try to make plans. One more Carmen. A benefit,” he stressed.

  To which I was expected to donate my services. “You know, Gatti, this just might be a good time to discuss my new contract.”

  Dead silence.

  “I’ll let you talk to my manager,” I said sweetly, and called Morris.

  When he understood what was afoot, Morris grinned from ear to ear. “See? It’s working for you already, darling. Maybe you should plan a nice little stage brawl once every season.” He picked up the telephone. “Good morning, Mr. Gatti. Perhaps now we can have our little talk?”

  I left him to it and called Bella and one of the other maids to try to rearrange the flower baskets so as to allow more walking room. We managed to get one pathway running through the middle of the room, but now it was a little hard to find the furniture.

  Morris hung up the telephone, but it rang again immediately. He answered, and then covered the part you talk into with his hand and said, “Jimmy Freeman.” I shook my head. The two maids and I stood there and listened as Morris wove an impromptu fantasy about how I couldn’t come to the telephone because I was soaking in a special medicinal bath designed to alleviate pain and stress following unusual physical exertion. It’s a good thing Morris Gest had no criminal tendencies; he could talk anybody into believing anything.

  Finally he finished with Jimmy and stood up to leave. “I’m gonna run down to the opera house,” he said. “Gatti is ready to negotiate.” He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, made an exaggerated lunge toward the maids (who fled giggling), and waved a cheerful goodbye as he left.

  I got in about an hour’s work in the music room, ignoring the ringing telephone as best I could, before I was interrupted by the arrival of my two favorite baritones. Scotti, unfortunately, was unbearably solicitous, treating me like some frail, battered blossom until I ordered him to stop (he of all people should know better!). Amato, on the other hand, was practicality itself.

  “This argument with Caruso—it must end,” Amato said to me. “You cannot work together if it goes on.”

  “What argument?” I smiled. “I’m not mad at anybody.” Not any more.

  “Good, Gerry, I hope you say that. You and Rico are friends for too long for something like this to drive you apart, no? You do not know how bad he feels.”

  “He is miserable,” Scotti put in. “Miserable, embarrassed, ashamed. He is horrified by what happens, and he humbly begs your forgiveness. He is so humiliated that all the way up here he hides his face—”

  “All the way up here? He’s here?”

  “Out in the hallway,” Amato said, “waiting to learn if you will see him. Let him come in, Gerry. Do not punish him further—he makes us all unhappy! Allow him to make his apologies.”

  I didn’t mind. “Oh, very well,” I said in a resigned tone. “You may bring him in.”

  Well, it was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing when Caruso came in. I have never seen another human being look so contrite as Caruso looked at that moment! He stood cringing inside the doorway, his big black eyes filled with tears as he kept turning his hat around nervously in his hands. He put his weight first on one foot and then on the other, trying to work up the nerve to come further into the room. I eyed him stonily, waiting for him to speak first.

  Finally he did. “Gerry!” he burst out. “Can you forgive me? I am a pig! I go a little crazy, yes? Say you forgive me, or I go all the way crazy! I am desolate! Do not hate me—I cannot stand it if you hate me!”

  I allowed myself a small smile. Now that I’d gotten the resentment out of my system, Caruso no longer seemed to have horns and a tail. The monster who had deviled me so much was gone; he was just Rico again. “How do I know it won’t happen again?”

  His eyes overflowed and the tears ran down his cheeks as he dramatically slapped one big hand over his heart. “Never! Never again does it happen! On my mother’s grave, I swear I never fight with you again! Not for any reason in the world!”

  Now that was a promise I intended holding him to. Suddenly I just couldn’t keep up the pretense any longer; it wasn’t fair for Caruso to suffer so while I was having such a grand time. I opened my arms. “Come here, Rico.”

  With a cry he dashed toward me, knocking over a basket of roses on the way. He swept me up in a big bear hug and was laughing and crying and kissing m
e, and I was laughing and not crying and kissing back. Amato did a little jig among the spilled roses.

  “That is enough kissing, I think,” Scotti said.

  At length we all settled down. “We have something we must talk about,” Amato said, like a chairman presiding at a meeting. “Gerry, this investigating you do—it is the cause of the trouble between you and Caruso, yes? Tell me, is it worth it? Is it not better to forget the whole thing?”

  “Perhaps so,” I conceded, “but remember, Pasquale, I was not just amusing myself. The police suspect me of having put the ammonia in Duchon’s spray. And Jimmy Freeman—they suspect him too.”

  “Ah, but have you been arrested?” Amato smiled. “Or Jimmy? You are not in jail, you are both free. This danger from the police, it does not still exist.”

  “It might,” Caruso said uncertainly.

  Scotti shook his head. “The police, they arrest no one. They never find the culprit. Not ever. It is hard, but we must get used to the idea.”

  We were all silent a moment, and then Amato said, “So, Gerry—do you agree to stop your investigation?”

  “Yes, if Rico will also agree.”

  Caruso scowled; he hated to give up on it. But ultimately he yielded. “It is not right,” he complained. “A man who destroys another man should not go free.”

  I felt the same way myself. It was no longer a matter of self-protection; I wanted to find the man responsible. But I’d given my word, and I’d stick by it.

  Someone was at the door. The maid admitted Emmy Destinn, who came charging straight in. “I have not decided whether I want lunch or the apology first.” She looked around her. “What is this? Do you open your own flower shop, Gerry?”

  “Good heavens!” I said. “Is it noon already?”

  “So nice to feel welcome,” she said, searching for a place to sit.

  “No, I didn’t mean that—I just meant the morning has slipped away so fast. Of course you’re welcome. I invited you, didn’t I?”