CHAPTER XII

MY FIRST APPEARANCE IN NEW YORK

The air was crisp and cold that brilliant November morning when the Kaiser Wilhelm II nosed her way into New York Harbor. How proud and alert I felt as I looked up at the mass of towering buildings, their pinnacles sharply tilted against the dazzling blue of the sky. The harbor swarmed with seagoing craft; all was excitement and interest, particularly so when the revenue cutter and the mail boat were shortly made fast alongside the big liner. The kindly purser was soon pouring hundreds of letters and telegrams into my eager hands, sweet and welcoming messages--happy augury! All the world seemed to smile on me that day. Not even the persistent reporters could curb my enthusiasm or spoil my high spirits. How we laughed and chatted, Mr. Conried an amused spectator at my side.

An avalanche of questions, almost all pointedly personal, were hurled at me, everybody talking at once. The role of the modest violet was not to be mine, I could see from the outset.... Yes, I loved Berlin.... Yes, I had sung for the Emperor.... Yes, the Crown Prince and the Crown Princess were a charming couple.... Yes, I hoped to duplicate my European successes in my own country.... No, I was not engaged.... Nor secretly married.... Why?... Well, because I just wasn't. And so on--endlessly, it seemed. Pencils scribbled unceasingly and cameras clicked at all possible angles. I did not care for that, since I wore a most fetching little turban and some beautiful furs (the pictures wouldn't be unattractive). I was hardly settled at my hotel when the editions of the papers were being sold, and their readers learned from the notices, profusely illustrated (the turban really did come out well!), that "Geraldine Farrar had arrived."

Dazed and tired by the excitement of arrival and the thousand-and-one greetings of welcoming friends, I could think of but one thing, my debut. It pursued me by day and haunted my sleepless nights. No one can imagine what anguish I endured once I was alone, and how difficult it was to discuss the event with an airy indifference to outsiders. I told myself there was nothing to fear; that my home people would love and support me as had my loyal Berliners. If only the trying ordeal were over!

To my disappointment "Romeo and Juliet" had been chosen, not only for my debut, but for the opening performance of the season as well. In vain I pleaded that, under such a strain I should acquit myself much better in Elizabeth ("Tannhaeuser"), which I had just sung in Berlin and Munich with great success. Mr. Conried was obdurate, however; he said I must be presented in a spectacular production, and so I had to give in.

I shall always remember my first rehearsal in the dimly-lighted ladies' parlor. The suave and elegant Pol Plancon (the Friar) and my friend, Josephine Jacoby, greeted me, and then Rousseliere, of Monte Carlo days, who was making his debut as well, as my "Romeo." We were both frightfully nervous and longed for the day to be over.

November 26, 1906, however, did finally arrive. I drove to the opera and slipped into my gown--not the usual conventional robe of stiff white satin, but a heavenly concoction that my clever wizard of a dressmaker had faithfully and beautifully modeled after a Botticelli painting. A misty veiling of rose delicately traced with silken flowers and sprinkled with tiny diamonds sheathed my figure of fortunate slenderness (thanks be!), while a jeweled fillet of gold rested on my own dark hair, and a tiny curling feather waved alertly on my forehead. And so "La Bella Simonetta" came to life, along the Capulet halls, transported for the nonce to the twentieth century and Broadway. A rain of welcoming applause greeted me and told me that so far all was well!

I cannot remember distinctly all that occurred that auspicious evening. There seemed to be cart-loads of flowers; and again and again I smiled out from the great yellow curtains. Mr. Conried congratulated me, and the great evening was over!

I was at home.

Now I was to drag out some uninspiring weeks in such operas as "La Damnation de Faust," "Faust," and "Juliette," all of no particular interest to me.

The real bright spot in the season was the first production of "Madame Butterfly" on the 11th of February, 1907. This charming opera was to endear me later to all my audiences and firmly establish me in the favor of the whole country. However, at the time no such encouraging and pleasing vision was vouchsafed me.

I slaved with ardor and enthusiasm, studying Oriental characteristics and gestures with a clever little Japanese actress, Fu-ji-Ko, and incorporating as much as was possible of her counsels in my portrayal of the hapless "Cio-cio-San." _Maestros_ came and went, as did Mr. Ricordi, the publisher, and Mr. Puccini. Everybody had a hand in the pie, till I was nearly out of my mind with all the many advisers. But I left nothing undone (that I could imagine!) to make my role as perfect as possible. Caruso and Scotti had already shared with Destinn the success of the London production, so it remained for Louise Homer and myself to make the most of that charming second act, which is so poignant a scene between the two women.

"Madame Butterfly" was a triumph for us all, and for me in particular. There were flowers, laurel wreaths (one with a darling little flag of Nippon tucked away in the green leaves), thanks from author, directors, and so on, embraces, applause, excitement--all the usual hubbub of a successful _premiere_.

Somehow I got home and sobbed myself to sleep on my mother's shoulder, utterly worn out by the nervous strain and cruel fatigue of the previous weeks.

Ah! Adorable, unforgettable blossom of Japan! Thanks to your gentle ways, that night I placed my foot on the rung of the ladder that leads to the firmament of stars! When I don your silken draperies and voice your sweet faith in the haunting melodies that envelop you, then are all eyes dim and hearts atune to your every appeal for sympathy!

"Butterfly" brought me in touch as well with that past master of stagecraft, David Belasco. To my great delight he was enthusiastic over my portrayal of this little heroine who was the child of his heart and brain in the drama.

I may own that every time we meet and he says, half laughingly, half quizzically, "Well, when are you going to forsake opera and come into the drama?" I am almost tempted to make an experiment of such interest, for the theater has always made a strong appeal to my dramatic instincts.

Who knows? Some day may see me a candidate for such honors if I take his invitation seriously!

Meanwhile, I was wondering just how my artistic status was going to grow under conditions prevailing in our opera house. My repertoire was extensive in my contract, but limited on the actual billboards, owing to a predominance of prima donnas. Patience, with a big P, did not seem to help my ambitions much.

Finally the company went on the annual spring tour, and I have a confused remembrance of much traveling, new audiences and hard work. I loved Chicago from the first, and its enthusiastic support is always reliable, whether I visit there in opera or in concert.

During the winter Gailhard had negotiated and secured my services for a special spring season, so that after the Metropolitan season I was to realize another cherished ambition and appear in the regular repertoire of the Paris Opera.

With these plans for the spring, Berlin in the autumn, and New York all winter, I was running perilously near the danger line of overwork. My physician advised caution, less work and more absolute rest, not to take my career so strenuously, as even my exuberant spirits would not indefinitely respond to my madly driven energy.

But I could not then call a halt. My star was waxing. I must go on. I would pay the penalty later--and I did!

My Paris debut was effected under difficulties. The steamer was delayed; my trunks went astray; and, to add to my distress, three polite gentlemen took the trouble to meet me at Cherbourg, to tell me I had a day to arrive in, one day to rehearse, and the third day in which to persuade "La Ville Lumiere" of my artistic worth. But the occasion was like a whip to a race-horse. It never occurred to me to refuse, despite my consternation.

Fortunately that shrewd dressmaker of mine, with admirable foresight (and second-sight as well, perhaps!) had "completed a whole 'Juliet' outfit for immediate use--don't worry," read the telegram. I could have hugged her!

I hummed a few scales on the dock, and, with a sigh of relief that all was in order (for I had constant nightmares that I should lose my voice some day unexpectedly), I clambered into the overcrowded express and slumbered peacefully till our early morning arrival. That day I went gayly to the rehearsal, and the following evening (not without much nervous anguish) was greeted with the greatest enthusiasm by a representative audience.

An interested listener was Gounod's son, who afterward paid me such delicate and charming compliments as made my ears burn.

I had become a Parisian personage, and I allowed myself to enjoy childishly the adulation and pretty attentions that were showered on me. My woman's vanity was pleased enough at the lovely chiffons and bonnets these ingenious people of the rue de la Paix evolved for my special pleasure. What with fashionable soirees at which I was petted and spoiled, and the parties and teas where my presence seemed to evoke whispers of admiration and envy, I might well have had my youthful head turned to a dizzy angle.

But I had my New England "thinking-cap" firmly set on my shoulders. A little of this charming frivolity was enough, and one fine day I disappeared--back to the simple life of study and quiet with the great Lehmann; I shed the iridescence of my butterfly wings and became, for the nonce, a hard-working grub!

My stay in Paris was memorable to me as well by reason of the meeting with Sarah Bernhardt.

My admiration for this wonderful woman had ever been of the most fervent heroine worship, and when Madame Grau said: "Sarah wants to know you; when will you lunch with her?" I set the following day, for fear she might change her mind and I might thereby lose this privilege.

I see her still, standing slim and white in her long curling draperies at the entrance to her home, her keen eyes appraising me, her voice raised in cordial greeting. How we chattered! What things she had to say, and with what joy I listened!

She knew all about "Juliet"--much to my surprise--even to details, such as dress, innovations in _mise-en-scene_, and how I tried to infuse the modern dramatic spirit into the measures of the opera. Then the conversation wandered to personalities; among the most cherished, our mutual great-hearted friend Coquelin, now, alas! gone to his last sleep these many years; books, and her obstreperous dogs, most conspicuous by their noisy presence. I was to enjoy her friendship from that day on. As I write, a recent photograph stands before me, bearing a tender inscription. A smile plays upon her face, despite her recent tragic affliction. She is in truth an element, ageless, fearless, dauntless!

It was good to be back for a short season in the autumn in Berlin, previous to my second departure for New York. The demonstration of the loyal Berliners at my return was beautiful, despite successes elsewhere. I was always to them "_unsere Farrar_."