Maria Callas: The Woman Behind the Legend by Arianna Huffington
Authors: Arianna Huffington
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unable to think up a convincing, logical reason why she should not sign it and not prepared on this occasion to follow her instinct, she signed—an action that would later trigger one of the most unpleasant episodes in her life.
As she was kissing Eddie and her mother good-bye on the quay, Maria seemed strangely withdrawn. An awareness of obligation very rarely engenders affection, and Maria longed, more than anything, for a completely fresh, uncluttered start. On June 27, 1947, the S.S. Rossia dropped anchor in the Bay of Naples, with Maria Callas and Nicola Rossi-Lemeni, two of the main forthcoming attractions at the Verona Arena, on board. Eighteen months later than de Hidalgo would have wished, Maria had arrived in Italy. Geographically it made little sense to go from Greece to Italy via the United States, but many times during her life Maria was to prove that what seemed like diversions turned out to speed her on her way. The longest way around was often the quickest way home.
5
T HE RAILWAY STATION IN V ERONA is not far from the Hotel Accademia, but for Maria it could not have been too close. The journey from Naples had been almost as exhausting as the thirteen days on the Rossia . The train was so crowded that Nicola, Maria and Louise Caselotti, who was traveling with them, had to take turns sitting on one seat. The heat was stifling, and when she was not sitting down, Maria spent most of the time standing next to an open window, catching the breeze. But a few hours rest at the hotel were more than enough to revive her excitement about Gioconda , Verona and the future.
The excitement, however, was mixed with anxiety and fear as Maria was getting into one of her two suits to meet—or rather face—Gaetano Pomari, a representative of the Verona Arena, and Giuseppe Gambato, a representative of the city. They were to come by the hotel to take her to dinner; Nicola Rossi-Lemeni and an opera-loving Verona industrialist, Giovanni Battista Meneghini, were going to join them. When they arrived at the Pedavena Restaurant, Meneghini was already there, surrounded by a few more city dignitaries. All Maria’s insecurities came instantly to the surface, and she spent most of the dinner in silence, by turns dutiful and withdrawn. Yet she was clearly being treated with the deference that was the artist’s due. The director of the festival, who had burst into song with his new Gioconda during her audition in New York, had made the rounds of Verona describing Maria’s voice, the story growing more dramatic with each retelling.
Meneghini’s interest in the artist was intensified by his fascination with the woman. “Battista is our local Romeo,” said Signor Pomari to tease him. Verona’s current Romeo was a short, wiry man in his early fifties, head of the family building business, an acknowledged bon viveur and a dedicated ladies’ man. In provincial Verona, it did not take much to acquire an aura of culture or of worldliness, but, after wartime Athens and lower-middle-class New York, Maria felt and behaved as though she had reached a pinnacle of sophistication. “I knew he was it five minutes after I first met him,” said Maria some years later, looking back on that first meeting. Perhaps; but what is certain is that she felt warmer, less afraid, more secure and more alive as a result of his presence at the table. Lovers had played no role at all in her life, and even her daydreams were not of handsome princes, but of first nights, singing feats and operatic triumphs. There is nothing to suggest that up until that time any man had inspired her with the slightest erotic excitement, nor is there any indication that Battista Meneghini did either.
Yet she liked him. She liked his stability, she liked the way everyone deferred to him, and above all she liked the way he liked her. She was the focus of his attention. Whether because of the reports about the mysterious powers of her voice, an intuitive sense of her greatness or
As she was kissing Eddie and her mother good-bye on the quay, Maria seemed strangely withdrawn. An awareness of obligation very rarely engenders affection, and Maria longed, more than anything, for a completely fresh, uncluttered start. On June 27, 1947, the S.S. Rossia dropped anchor in the Bay of Naples, with Maria Callas and Nicola Rossi-Lemeni, two of the main forthcoming attractions at the Verona Arena, on board. Eighteen months later than de Hidalgo would have wished, Maria had arrived in Italy. Geographically it made little sense to go from Greece to Italy via the United States, but many times during her life Maria was to prove that what seemed like diversions turned out to speed her on her way. The longest way around was often the quickest way home.
5
T HE RAILWAY STATION IN V ERONA is not far from the Hotel Accademia, but for Maria it could not have been too close. The journey from Naples had been almost as exhausting as the thirteen days on the Rossia . The train was so crowded that Nicola, Maria and Louise Caselotti, who was traveling with them, had to take turns sitting on one seat. The heat was stifling, and when she was not sitting down, Maria spent most of the time standing next to an open window, catching the breeze. But a few hours rest at the hotel were more than enough to revive her excitement about Gioconda , Verona and the future.
The excitement, however, was mixed with anxiety and fear as Maria was getting into one of her two suits to meet—or rather face—Gaetano Pomari, a representative of the Verona Arena, and Giuseppe Gambato, a representative of the city. They were to come by the hotel to take her to dinner; Nicola Rossi-Lemeni and an opera-loving Verona industrialist, Giovanni Battista Meneghini, were going to join them. When they arrived at the Pedavena Restaurant, Meneghini was already there, surrounded by a few more city dignitaries. All Maria’s insecurities came instantly to the surface, and she spent most of the dinner in silence, by turns dutiful and withdrawn. Yet she was clearly being treated with the deference that was the artist’s due. The director of the festival, who had burst into song with his new Gioconda during her audition in New York, had made the rounds of Verona describing Maria’s voice, the story growing more dramatic with each retelling.
Meneghini’s interest in the artist was intensified by his fascination with the woman. “Battista is our local Romeo,” said Signor Pomari to tease him. Verona’s current Romeo was a short, wiry man in his early fifties, head of the family building business, an acknowledged bon viveur and a dedicated ladies’ man. In provincial Verona, it did not take much to acquire an aura of culture or of worldliness, but, after wartime Athens and lower-middle-class New York, Maria felt and behaved as though she had reached a pinnacle of sophistication. “I knew he was it five minutes after I first met him,” said Maria some years later, looking back on that first meeting. Perhaps; but what is certain is that she felt warmer, less afraid, more secure and more alive as a result of his presence at the table. Lovers had played no role at all in her life, and even her daydreams were not of handsome princes, but of first nights, singing feats and operatic triumphs. There is nothing to suggest that up until that time any man had inspired her with the slightest erotic excitement, nor is there any indication that Battista Meneghini did either.
Yet she liked him. She liked his stability, she liked the way everyone deferred to him, and above all she liked the way he liked her. She was the focus of his attention. Whether because of the reports about the mysterious powers of her voice, an intuitive sense of her greatness or
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