Grand Opera: The Story of the Met by Charles Affron, Mirella Jona Affron Page A

her over the radio on February 19. A Kansas City Star editor wrote to the Met that “the Talley debut is, so far as Kansas City is concerned, an event comparable with the inauguration of a President or the sinking of the Lusitania” ( Times, Feb. 10, 1926). Photographs depict a chubby young woman of no particular distinction. The debut itself made the front page: “Father Telegraphs Story Home from the Wings.” Ten curtain calls followed “Caro nome,” and double that number the final scene as hundreds stayed on after the asbestos curtain was lowered. “The story of the girl’s progress, a household word at home, has in the last week been told to thousands of children practicing their scales in New York’s schools” (Times) . But when it came to the notices, the ballyhoo was largely irrelevant; reviews sank from mixed to devastating. On February 28, looking on the bright side, Kahn wrote to Ziegler, “Even if Marion Talley should turn out, as the majority of the critics and some other benevolent people are good enough to forecast, a lemon, in due course of time, at least she has brought us a few full houses andthe opportunity to squelch for some time to come the absurd talk about the Metropolitan not being willing to give a fair chance to American artists.” And on March 4, Ziegler responded: “Her vogue and drawing power continues and the public for the greater part range itself on her side, and is angry at the critics, which attitude of course is of advantage to us.”
    The promotion of Talley, and through her the philo-American posturing of the Met, continued, deaf to critical reception. She made the cover of Time on March 1, 1926. In August, a Vitaphone short that memorialized her immature “Caro nome” was on the program at the gala premiere of the Warner Bros. Don Juan, the first feature-length movie with synchronized sound. On October 7, Talley’s Des Moines recital grossed $9,000; the gate for Gertrude Ederle’s aquatic exhibition (she had just swum the English Channel), scheduled against Talley’s concert, was only $400. On December 21, Gatti and Talley agreed to a new contract consonant with her value to the company. By that time, her concert fee had reached $3,000–$3,500. A year and a half later, there were reports that in the coming season she would appear at the Met only sporadically. Earnings from her recitals were estimated at $335,000 over a period of just two years. Talley had exploited her bargain with the Metropolitan as deftly as the wily management itself. On April 12, 1929, the Times headline ran, “Marion Talley, Prima Donna Four Seasons, Quits to Buy Farm and Live on Earnings.” Talley was blunt: “I’m just through with it—that’s all.” She had sung seven roles; soon after her burst of success, her appeal had declined. Amelita Galli-Curci, long past her prime, was still the company’s star coloratura. On New Year’s Eve 1933, Talley sang one more Gilda, with the Chicago Opera Company, to good reviews. A few days later, she decamped over a salary dispute. 29
Lawrence Tibbett
     
    Tibbett’s Metropolitan career began inauspiciously. His knees shaking during the whole of the audition, as he recounted it, he cracked on the high F-sharp of “Eri tu” from Un Ballo in maschera . In the dark, cavernous theater sat the hulking general manager; the baritone was dismissed with a curt “thank you.” Three weeks went by before Gatti, at the insistence of his wife, soprano Frances Alda, agreed to a second hearing. A far less agitated Tibbett sang the “Credo” from Otello . This time, Gatti was impressed enough to hire the twenty-seven-year-old Californian who had never sung in opera, not in New York, not anywhere. Tibbett’s elation turned to dismay when Gatti offered a paltry $50 a week. At Alda’s urging, the salary was upped to $60.That was not all. His boilerplate contract stipulated that whereas the company was responsible for costumes, “gloves, feathers, wigs,