When Opera Theatre of St. Louis mounted Samuel Barber’s Vanessa in 1988, exactly 30 years after its Metropolitan Opera premiere, it was natural that Eleanor Steber, who had created the title role, would fly in. She came as an honored guest of the opera company, attended opening night, declared it all a huge success, and even contributed a masterclass. I recall it was beautiful June weather, and roses were blooming lavishly all over town, including on the trellises over the entrance to my home, lending a romantic blush to the occasion.
The luncheon I gave for Eleanor, a friend of many years was not quite a huge success, however. As an opera trustee, I invited several amiable opera patrons and included Graham Vick, the fine young English stage director who was in town to stage Barber’s opera. When I called to invite him, he said, after a brief hesitation, “I would like to meet the first Vanessa.”
Eleanor was late coming from her hotel, so my other guests had consumed a few extra splashes of chilled Chardonnay, and I anticipated the gathering would loosen up and turn jolly around the table at my St. Louis country farmhouse. It was not to be. As soon as our diva set foot in the house, Vick announced that he did not at all like Vanessa and was directing it only because there was an opening in his schedule. “It was something to do,” he advised the shocked Mme. Steber.
At table, with the vichyssoise going down smoothly, Vick further observed, “The original recording of Vanessa has frank errors; imagine recording mistakes!” Our Vanessa shot him a glance across the table that would have fried Count Almaviva, but kept her silence. Vick seemed unperturbed.
We tiptoed through lunch. I quoted, from memory, rave reviews of Steber’s famous Countess from the 1940s, as well as her Fiordiligi in the 1950s, and her Donna Anna and Wozzeck Marie, but failed to leaven the leaden party. “That’s awfully good looking wine you are serving,” Eleanor said once or twice, but she had her iced tea and followed doctors’ orders forbidding her to drink. The great 1950s American proponent of Strauss and Mozart was a model of restraint.
Then a wonderful thing happened. We adjourned to my front deck to enjoy the lush fragrant roses. I expected the tense party to drift away soon enough, but instead one of the guests, Nancy, a collector of antique lorgnettes, opened her purse to show a half-dozen new specimens. Eleanor sensed her moment. She snatched up one, guided Vick to a chair, and putting the lorgnette to her eyes, leaned into him and said, “Now, young man, let’s see just what you are all about!”
Vick took up a lorgnette and peered back with a grin, quickly catching her spirit. Very soon all the lorgnettes had come into play, the ice was broken, the artists were joking and laughing, and the party thrived over more iced tea and drinks, ending just in time to dress for dinner and opening night. Steber remained in St. Louis several more days, but she never mentioned the event or Vick to me, even though she had given him one of her better performances.
Vick’s production of Vanessa proved excellent, one of the best things the St. Louis opera had done, and of course he has gone on to a noted international career. Steber died two years later at the age 76.
