Maria Callas: The Woman Behind the Legend (28 page)

In their competition with opera houses around the world for Maria’s energy and time, Maxwell and the beau monde had one great thing on their side: novelty. Maria had already sung 22
Sonnambula
s onstage, as well as 52
Traviatas
, 41
Lucias
and 73
Normas;
and she had in the decade since 1947 created another 28 stage roles. She had not been to as many grand balls. Alexander wept vain tears when there were no more worlds to conquer. For Maria’s fans, the world of international café society may not have appeared as important as the world of international opera, but for Maria it was something new.

Maria stayed at the ball until the small hours. It was a performance, and Maria performed without sparing herself. She even sang the blues; sitting on the platform, she sang “Stormy Weather,” with Maxwell at the piano. Maxwell’s ability as a pianist had been one of the ropes on which she had hauled herself to the top. She had started in a cinema, pounding out tunes twelve hours a day for the silent films. Then, after the First World War, she made a name for herself in Europe by playing the piano at parties and singing numbers from the latest Broadway shows, or some of the not unattractive songs she had written herself. And now in the summer of 1957, she had achieved the summit of her piano-playing career, accompanying Maria Callas.

“I have never,” Maxwell wrote in her column, “given a better dinner and ball in my life. It had a flare of such joy and happiness. Even two princesses who hated each other were found exchanging smiles, while another comtesse who couldn’t remain in the same room with Merle Oberon stayed until 5
A.M
.” Maria was the guest of honor and, perhaps more than anyone else at the party, she was much looked at, much talked about, much admired. And doing more than his share of looking and admiring was the second most glamorous Greek present: Aristotle Socrates Onassis. His wife Tina, in a Jean Dessès dress and a spectacular tiara, was one of the most beautiful women present. Tina’s lovely eyes seemed at times to look at the world through lowered lashes, but nevertheless she did notice very early on that her husband’s glance was, as if magnetized, pursuing someone around the ballroom. She followed his gaze—to Maria.

It did not take Ari long to find himself a seat next to Maria. Nor did it take Tina long to move next to both of them. In his wife’s presence, Onassis offered to place a motorboat with two sailors at Maria’s disposal for as long as she stayed in Venice. And for the next seven days, from the Lido to Harry’s Bar, from Harry’s Bar to Florian’s, from Florian’s to his yacht, the
Christina
, anchored at the mouth of the Grand Canal, he always somehow maneuvered himself next to Maria. The courtship had begun with yachts and motorboats, but, as yet, no trumpets and fanfares. Still, it did not escape general attention, though it totally escaped Meneghini’s, that Maria had been singled out for Onassis’ very special treatment. Maria herself felt pleasantly flattered and generally excited by this new life—but for the moment no more.

Back in Milan, the condemnation of Maria that followed the Edinburgh affair had become almost universal. Even close friends, such as Wally Toscanini, were infected. Wally was so furious with Maria that, for months after her return to Milan, she refused to talk to her. Maria insisted on a public statement from Ghiringhelli, setting the record straight over her supposed cancellation. Ghiringhelli refused, and Edinburgh was permanently added to the growing list of highly publicized Callas cancellations, as far as the press, the public and even some of her friends were concerned. Maria was due to open the San Francisco Opera season on September 13. Her doctor was against it, but then he had been against the Maxwell ball. At this moment in her life Maria was prepared to disregard her doctor’s orders for a grand party that she hoped would refresh and relax her, but not for another first night that she knew would be another trial, more anxiety and tension.

There were not many days left before the much-publicized opening night, when Kurt Adler, the director of the San Francisco Opera, received a telegram from Maria canceling her appearances for September, but offering to honor her contract for October. Maria was being driven, along a very circuitous road, it is true, away from her achievements and toward new experiences in search of herself. But, looking at Maria’s behavior from Kurt Adler’s standpoint, it is not at all difficult to understand his reaction. He exploded with rage, canceled all her appearances, flew Leyla Gencer from Milan to take over Maria’s Lucia, engaged Leonie Rysanek to sing Maria’s Lady Macbeth and referred her case to the American Guild of Musical Artists. So another “court hearing” was in store for Maria. On the surface it was a question of deciding whether it would have been possible for her to honor her commitments, but symbolically Maria was in the dock for a much larger crime. There was an element verging on religious fervor in the worship of Maria’s art, which meant that when she did not display the dedication of a high priestess, the faithful felt betrayed. So when Kurt Adler saw press photographs of Maria at Elsa Maxwell’s ball and then received a telegram canceling her opening performances, the rage of the professional was exacerbated by the feeling that sacrilege had been committed.

Maria’s critics were growing in number and the criticism was always the same: self-indulgence, failing to meet professional obligations, betrayal of art. Up to 1957, Maria had renounced every aspect of her life that did not directly contribute to her work. She was no longer prepared to make this sacrifice. From now on Maria was to come before art. If it was a betrayal, then it was for the sake of another loyalty—the loyalty to herself. But the fact that along the way it included absorption into Elsa Maxwell’s circle made her new behavior much harder for her public to accept.

For the time being, Maria’s next important commitment was the final hearing of the Bagarozy lawsuit. She arrived in New York on November 5, and twelve days later it was announced that the Callas-Bagarozy case was over. Ironically, after all the summonses, hearings, unpleasant publicity and strain on Maria’s nerves, the case was settled out of court. “I am tired of being a courtroom character,” was Maria’s only comment. The terms were not made public, but there is little doubt that they were no better than they would have been had Maria followed Nicola Rossi-Lemeni’s example and setttled years earlier.

Four days after the announcement of the settlement, Maria was in Dallas inaugurating, with a benefit concert, the Dallas Civic Opera Company that had just been formed by Lawrence Kelly of Chicago and the conductor Nicola Rescigno. She was rested, in excellent voice and looking her most glamorous. At 117 pounds she was slimmer than she had ever been, and her clinging silk dress made her look slimmer still. After the intermission, she wore a dramatic black velvet dress and finished the concert with the Tower Scene from
Anna Bolena
.

She returned to Milan and to the rehearsals of
Un Ballo in Maschera
. The minute she set foot in La Scala she knew that the Edinburgh incident had not been forgotten. The tension in the air made the rehearsals almost unbearable. Her first
Ballo
at La Scala should have been an occasion for celebration. After all, ten years earlier, she had auditioned for the part of Amelia there, was assured by the artistic director that she would be considered and then waited anxiously for days for a phone call that never came. Now, Maria, the unchallenged Queen of La Scala, was being given her own production directed by Margherita Wallmann; but it was not easy to celebrate when the queen was in disgrace. Ghiringhelli, the only man capable of telling what had really happened in Edinburgh, still refused to make any public pronouncement. To add to the tension, her relationship with di Stefano, who was singing the hero, Riccardo, was so strained that rehearsing the long, passionate love duet in Act II was an ordeal, even for an accomplished actress like Maria. But there is nothing like the presence of an audience to diffuse backstage tensions and ignite the performance. The opening night, on December 7, was broadcast and remains one of her most exciting Verdi performances. When compared with Maria’s 1956 recording of the opera, this live performance has an added dimension of intensity and power. “On records,” she herself had said, “one has to reduce everything to a minimum, because everything is so exaggerated in sound.” On the stage there was no need for restraint. Maria was electrifying. And Gianandrea Gavazzeni, who conducted the five performances, described Maria’s musical gift: “I feel she was born with some kind of sixth sense. One of her great gifts was to differentiate styles of expression—Rossini from Bellini, Donizetti from Verdi. Even Verdi from Verdi. She had a strange, burning inner quality. You only need hear a note or two to recognize her voice. She was always different, yet always herself.”

Immediately after the fifth and final performance of
Ballo
, Maria left Milan for Rome to begin rehearsals for the production of
Norma
that was due to open at the Rome opera house on January 2, 1958. She saw 1957 out by singing “
Casta Diva
” on Italian television and she saw the New Year in at the exclusive Rome club, Circolo degli Scacchi. Even more significant for the events that would unfold in the first days of 1958 was that she was
seen
seeing the new year in
and
drinking champagne
and
staying up late. How late “late” was soon became a matter of dispute: some said one twenty, some two, some three and some were heard whispering four.

What made these details suddenly very important and brought out the censorious nanny in music lovers was that when Maria woke up the next morning, less than thirty-six hours before curtain time, her voice was gone. She could hardly whisper, and she soon realized that she simply could not sing. An urgent call was put through to the management of the opera house. A substitute had to be found. The artistic director rushed around to the Hotel Quirinale. “Substitute? Impossible,” he snapped. “This is no ordinary evening. This is a gala opening! The house is sold out, and the public has paid to see and hear Callas.” The president of Italy was going to be there with his wife, and so was a large slice of Italian society. It had been planned months in advance and it was being treated as the artistic event of the year. On top of all that it was being broadcast. There is no way Maria can cancel, insisted the management. There is no way, said Meneghini. There is no way, echoed Elsa Maxwell, who had by now joined the anxious vigil in Maria’s suite. Maria kept spraying her throat, taking all the prescribed medication, crossing herself in front of her little Madonna, putting hot compresses on her chest; but the Voice was not going to obey. Only a miracle would bring it back, and the miracle was not happening. There was no doubt in Maria’s mind that she could not sing, and yet this supposedly strong, tough, stubborn woman, the tigress of the international press, feebly gave in. “I don’t want to be bullied by anybody,” she had said once. “My own convictions and inner feelings tell me what I should do. Maybe those feelings are right or maybe they are wrong, but I stand up, and have the courage to do so.” By allowing herself to be bullied on this occasion, and deciding, against her instincts, to go ahead, Maria was about to create the greatest scandal of her career and the most widely publicized scandal in the history of opera.

“Norma approaches, and the star of Rome veils itself in terror,” sing the Druid priestesses at the beginning of the opera. Maria made her entrance, and from the first phrase she knew that she was not going to get through it. She was in agony, her voice painfully strident and slipping away from her with every note she sang. It is obvious from the tape of the broadcast that there was no room in Maria’s mind for any thought of drama or interpretation. All her instincts were directed toward one thing—survival. The audience sat in amazed silence; it might almost have been embarrassment. At the end of the first act some found their voices. There were loud shouts of “Go back to Milan” and “You’ve cost us a million lire!” But underneath the noise of those shouting, the same stunned silence could still be felt.

Back in her dressing room, Maria, white and trembling with exhaustion, made her decision thirty-six hours too late: she could not go on. Panic broke out among the management. Despite all the warnings, despite the fact that everyone was perfectly aware of Maria’s condition, no one in the opera house had thought of making arrangements for an understudy. Carlo Latini, the general manager, beseeched her to go on; Elsa Maxwell dabbed her face with cologne; Margherita Wallmann tried to convince her that the hardest moments of the opera were behind her; Gabriele Santini, the conductor, appealed to her artistic pride; other voices reminded her of what she owed to Italy, pointing out that the president himself was in the audience, even insisting that the evening could still be saved if she merely walked through the part, declaiming it without singing. The intermission was going on and on, the audience was getting restless, the rumors were getting wilder. Everyone’s eyes kept darting to what was once the Royal Box. No, the president was still there. Yes, the president was still waiting. And then suddenly the president had gone. He had been told minutes before the public announcement and had left only to discover that his chauffeur was not waiting outside—the poor man had taken what he felt was a safe risk, found out what time the performance was due to end and had gone to the cinema. He lost his job, but he was by no means the only casualty of the night. All over Rome, husbands or wives were coming home unexpectedly early, with dire consequences. Or even when they were expected: one straying husband, arriving at the time the opera was supposed to have ended, described in detail to his wife a performance she already knew had been canceled.

Maria left the opera house through an underpass that led directly to the Hotel Quirinale. It was just as well. All the street exits, including the stage door, had been blocked by angry crowds waiting for Maria’s exit. When it was clear that their prey had somehow eluded them, they moved on, still shouting and gesticulating, to Maria’s hotel. Some of them stayed there until the early hours of the morning, punctuating her sleeplessness with their bitter abuse. Maria, awake throughout, spent the night waiting. Waiting for someone to arrive from the opera house and explain that it had all been their fault for forcing her to go on? For someone to arrive from heaven and erase these nightmarish hours from her life? For the morning newspapers so that she could read what she had already heard, already knew, they felt about her? “This second-rate artist,” began
Il Giorno
, “Italian by her marriage, Milanese because of the unfounded admiration of certain segments of La Scala’s audience, international because of her dangerous friendship with Elsa Maxwell, has for several years followed a path of melodramatic debauchery. This episode shows that Maria Meneghini Callas is also a disagreeable performer who lacks the most elementary sense of discipline and propriety.”