The Franco Corelli who allegedly bit Birgit Nilsson on the neck during Turandot, and attacked a heckler in Naples during Il Trovatore, is definitely not the Corelli I knew.
One morning on a Met Opera tour in the early sixties, while practicing scales on my violin, I suddenly heard a nasal croak from the adjoining hotel room—the unmistakable throat-clearing of a tenor. My God, I thought, I must have awakened Corelli, who was to sing that evening in the vast Cleveland Municipal Auditorium.
No sooner had I tucked my fiddle back in its case, than there came a faint knocking on my door. Fearfully, I opened it and beheld the great tenor himself—cloaked in a silk purple dressing gown, with an ascot wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Maestro,” he began, “disturba? Why you stop playing?”
Apologies gushed forth from both sides—I, practically on my knees, asking his forgiveness for disturbing him, and Corelli, wagging his head and gesticulating with both hands, crying, “No, no, maestro, you must practice your violino!” (The “maestro,” incidentally, happened to be a second-fiddler in the rear of the section.)
I told him it would be a great honor and pleasure for me to just listen to him vocalize, through the thin hotel wall. However, he assured me that, like Caruso, he never sang full voice the day of a performance—just throat-clearing and an occasional sotto voce scale or arpeggio. He did request one favor: Would I kindly accompany him to buy “pigiama” or, what his dictionary called a “sleeping suit”? So, with my horrible Berlitz Italian, and his very limited English, we set out to a local department store to purchase pajamas.
Surrounded by gaping spectators and confused salesmen, Franco caused an uproar of hilarity, raving and ranting in Italian about the flimsy fabric selection (it was spring, no flannel or heavy cotton sleepwear), until he finally settled on three pairs made of silk. Of course, he could not resist buying a few ascots and a pair of silk socks on the way out, much to the delight of the sales folk. I left him in the hotel lobby, where he was asking a wide-eyed, non-Italian-speaking concierge where he could buy some fresh ground beef.
Franco loathed receptions and after-opera parties. Several times, after we musicians and choristers had indulged in a substantial amount of buffet food and drink after a tour performance, I would encounter Corelli walking his dog, a small terrier. I asked him once why he did not at least make an appearance at the parties, as after all, he was the star and everyone missed him.
“Maestro,” he replied softly, “I no sing my best tonight. I ashamed.” Then he smiled and added, “more importante . . . my little doggie needs a walk, eh.”
I’m sure the opera world will miss this gentle man. I, for one, will never again be able to listen to “Nessun Dorma” without shedding a few tears.
