January 8, 1984
A night at the opera (Friday) with the rich. Arthur Carter had us in his box at the Met, along with the builder Arthur Fisher, an orthopedic surgeon Dr. Leon something. The assemnbled wives flittered Mrs. Fisher in earrings that Jude is sure cost not less than 80 thou[sand]. So there we sat at La Bohème, ridiculously (as always) over dressed by Franco Zeffirelli, whose sets, while brilliant, dwarfed poor Mimi, made nonsense of Rodolfo and Marcello, and in the second act produced such a sumptuous Paris Street scène that more Parisians surrounded Momus's café than can normally be found outside the Place de la Concorde. [...]
Anyway, there were we among the rich, watching the poor, poor bohemian artists starving freezing and dying in a Paris garret. Too bad the dopes couldn't t like us Jews have made it to America. Amazing how the only richies I ever meet are jews. [...]
The Fishers had one of those super, large Cadillacs waiting at the door to take the rest of the company to supper .... We were driven home by Carters chauffeur Paul in his Mercedes. The performance was not so much undistinguished as drowned in finery, Zeffirelli's as well as Arthur Carter's. What an insistent little prick! What dynamism! Rich, rich, rich, rich is all he ever is and all he ever talks about. Rich, rich, rich, rich! The little blonde wife, a marriage therapist or something like that, looks scared.
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