Most people die from it within 20 years, we’re told. She’s lived with the disease for more than 50 years. While neither acknowledge an affair, it does sometimes seem that Florence indeed suspects that his “golf” vacations aren’t what they seem to be.īayfield and Florence, incidentally, have remained abstinent throughout their relationship, partly because Florence contracted syphilis from her first husband on their wedding night. But he also tells McMoon that he and Florence have an understanding. Bayfield is horrified when it looks as though Florence might walk in on him and Kathleen in bed together. It’s unclear how aware Florence is of Bayfield’s affair. When Kathleen successfully hits a golf ball well, she leaps on her paramour in joy, wrapping her legs around him. During a golf vacation, they lie down together in long grass. (We see Kathleen’s bare back both in bed and when she gets up to put on a robe.) They kiss frequently. The two are shown in bed together unclothed. But he actually sleeps in a separate apartment he shares with his mistress Kathleen. In one, he’s Florence’s doting, dutiful husband. Together, they make music-even though it’s clear who’s doing most of the work.īayfield was once a talented actor, which comes in handy juggling his two lives. In a telling scene, Florence taps out the melody of a piano piece from Polish composer Frédéric Chopin McMoon stands beside her, playing the more complex lower chords. *McMoon is similarly devoted to protecting his employer. When Florence detects his worry over the event and says, “If you loved me, you’d let me sing,” you know exactly what he’s thinking: *I love you, and that’s why I don’t want you to sing. And the Carnegie Hall concert is, potentially, a huge, jagged needle threatening that bubble. He does everything he can to make sure that her bubble of protection isn’t pricked.
He eventually sacrifices his relationship with his mistress, Kathleen, to defend Florence’s honor. Even though his relationship with Florence is complex, he loves his wife.
Florence has gumption, too: She’s made her own living and is not above washing dishes for a friend.įlorence’s generosity and guileless spirit have earned her a coterie of friends who don’t want to see her get hurt. When soldiers and sailors, still embroiled in World War II, show up at a concert and behave a bit rowdily, she demands they be given the respect that war veterans deserve. When a conductor has an idea for a new show or a music hall wants to debut a new talent, they go to her for help-and more often than not, she gives it. Say what you want about Florence’s dubious musical ability and her many eccentricities, the lady is a true patron of the arts. Now Florence may have to face a different sort of music. But she doesn’t have enough friends, and Bayfield doesn’t have enough dollars, to pack the 3,000-seat auditorium with “true music lovers.” She books Carnegie Hall for a one-night-only concert.įlorence may be popular, and she may be rich. And then, when the songs become wildly popular, Florence takes another step forward.
She delivers a record of her singing to a local radio station. She’s encased in a moneyed bubble, designed to ensure she never realizes just how bad she is.īut during one of Bayfield’s golfing vacations when he’s not around to rein his wife in, Florence decides more people need to be given the gift of her voice. Her recitals are packed with “true music lovers,” in Bayfield’s words: dear friends (many of whom may be a bit deaf) doting music journalists (who depend on Florence’s patronage to pay the bills) and general attendees (who accept small bribes to ensure their respectful attendance and sincere appreciation).Īnd so Florence Foster Jenkins’ every trill is greeted with sighs of appreciation, her every finale greeted with a standing ovation. Her pianist, the dutiful Cosme McMoon, politely switches key and tempo when her partner’s melodious meanderings require it. Accordingly, her well-paid voice coach gushes with praise. Not that she has many critics, thanks to massive wealth, oversized generosity and her ever-vigilant husband, St. Some of her critics might be tempted to test that. No one is quite like her indeed.įlorence says that it’s easier to cut off a musician’s supply of water than to cut off the music. Nails on a chalkboard? A cat getting its tail slammed in a door? These things bow in wonderment to the cacophonic splendors that explode from Mrs. And when she misses a note-as she does frequently-she misses it with gusto. She’s not just one of New York City’s most prominent socialites, circa 1944. And he’s absolutely right.įlorence isn’t just rich. So says Carlo Edwards, voice coach of socialite Florence Foster Jenkins.
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