‘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, she 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 3
9th 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.