CHAPTER VII

GERMANY: THE TURNING-POINT

I spent that summer of 1900 uneventfully in Brittany, and in the early autumn off we started for Berlin.

This was another turning-point in my career. The German capital was to further as dazzling a future as my heart could have dreamed--and with it were to come Romance, Fame and Wealth under the shadow of the Prussian eagle's wing.

One of my letters from Nordica was to Frau von Rath, the charming wife of Herr Adolph von Rath, the leading banker of Berlin. Frau von Rath maintained one of the most beautiful homes in the German capital, and her social functions were attended by leading dignitaries and officials of the Court. It was no small honor, therefore, to have the _entree_ to her receptions and to have her take an interest in the little American girl who had come to Berlin to study music.

Graziani proved to be a protege of Frau von Rath, and through her I met this strange and wonderfully gifted man, whose early death cut short a brilliant career. He proved a remarkable teacher, and I profited by his admirable instruction throughout that first winter in Berlin.

One day, in the spring of 1901, Frau von Rath asked me if I could sing in German.

"No, unfortunately only in French and Italian," I replied. "I came to Berlin to study, but I never expect to sing in opera here."

"Would you like to sing for the Intendant of the Royal Opera?" she asked.

The Intendant of the Royal Opera in Berlin is the personal representative of the Kaiser. He has the private ear of the sovereign, and is supposed to carry out his wishes in the conduct of the Royal Opera. To please him, therefore, would be a very great and unusual triumph.

Would I like to sing for him? It is easy to imagine my reply.

I made my preparations accordingly. With the care which I have always bestowed upon my costumes, I ordered an elaborate blue crepe-de-Chine evening gown, to be worn with pearls and diamonds. I carefully studied anew the waltz song from "Juliet," the aria from "Traviata," and the bird song from "Pagliacci." Suddenly, to my consternation, Frau von Rath notified me that the audience, which was to be in her ballroom, would have to be held in the afternoon instead of the evening, as some occasion at the Palace necessitated the presence of the Intendant there at night.

I was desolate; but I agreed to sing, first begging Frau von Rath to draw the heavy curtains and turn on all the lights, as though for an evening function, so that I could wear my evening gown with the pearls and the diamonds. I can remember now the suppressed murmurs of "The crazy American!" when I appeared, but I obtained the compliment of immediate attention and created the effect I wished.

The Intendant of the Royal Opera at that time was Count von Hochberg, a charming, courteous gentleman, who was to show me many favors afterward. He heard me through, attended by a score of Frau von Rath's friends, and then asked me gravely if I had ever sung with an orchestra. I answered truthfully: "No."

"Would you like to sing with the orchestra of the Royal Opera?" he inquired.

"I should be delighted," was my prompt response.

"Do you sing in German?"

"I never have--yet," I replied.

"Could you learn to sing in German in ten days?" he urged.

"I can learn something. What shall it be?"

"Will you study 'Elsa's Dream'?"

"Yes--"

"Then in ten days, at the Royal Opera, I will hear you again." He bowed and took his departure.

Feverishly I began to study German, aided by my dear friend and teacher, Fraeulein Wilcke, to whose guidance these many years I owe as excellent a German diction as any foreign or native artist possesses.

When I stepped upon the stage of the great empty Koenigliches Opernhaus and looked down into the Director's seat, whom should I see but Dr. Karl Muck, now the Director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. That was the beginning of a warm friendship which has endured to this day, for Dr. Muck was at all times kind and sympathetic during those early days in Berlin.

I sang the waltz from "Romeo and Juliet," in French, the bird song from "Pagliacci," in Italian, and "Elsa's Dream," in German. I finished in absolute silence, as Count von Hochberg was almost alone in the darkened auditorium. Soon he came back to me and said:--

"In my office I have a contract with you for three years. Do you care to sign it?"

"But I had no idea of singing in Berlin," I protested. "I want to sing Italian."

"If I let you sing here in Italian, will you sign it?"

"Here--in Berlin--sing in Italian?" I gasped.

"It will be a novelty," replied Count von Hochberg. "But the people here want one. You are very much of a novelty, quite different from the stout ladies who waddle about protesting their operatic fate to spectators who find it difficult to believe in their cruel lot and youthful innocence. In you I have discovered a happy combination of voice, figure, personality, and--eyes." He was something of a cavalier, that nice Count von Hochberg, as you will see. "To secure you for my patrons I will let you sing in Italian."

What could I say? It was the greatest compliment yet paid me. I glanced around the Opernhaus, hesitating. Then--I consented. The legal contract for three years was signed by my mother and father for me, as I was still under age. It was agreed that I was to sing "Faust," "Traviata," and "Pagliacci," three roles, in Italian, but I was not to be required to sing in German until I should perfect myself in the language.

Then ensued a spring and summer of great preparations, for my contract did not begin until the following autumn. We went to Lake Constance, Switzerland, to study with Graziani. I was as thin as a young girl could well afford to be, yet I worked to the full limit of my strength, for I realized that my wonderful opportunity had at last arrived. I literally floated on air that summer.

Then, too, I had planned a surprise that would especially please the women: the matter of dress. There lives in Paris an artist to her finger-tips in the matter of creating stage frocks, and that wonderful woman has made every costume from head to feet that I have ever put on in the theater. She had already "combined me" such lovely things as made my heart thrill to appear in them!

The night of October 15, 1901, was my debut at the Royal Opera, Berlin. There was no advance notice, no presswork. The bill bore the usual three asterisks in this wise, as I was a "guest" and not a member of the company:--

MARGUERITE........... ***

At the bottom of the programme, in small type, the three asterisks were repeated, and the line:--

*** MISS GERALDINE FARRAR AUS NEW YORK

In the simplest of dainty blue crepe-de-Chine frocks, with a lace bonnet over blond curls, "Marguerite" Farrar tripped engagingly down to the footlights with a shy glance of inquiry to the ardent "Faust" who commenced so successful a wooing with "May I give you my arm?"--and everybody felt at that moment how regretful "Marguerite" Farrar was, that the exigencies of the opera did not permit a courteous acceptance of so charming a support to her gateway.

I remember that Dr. Muck conducted divinely; that I was very happy and self-possessed, and my mother said I looked like an angel. I had at last made my debut.

The following morning the criticisms were so splendid that I told my mother I would never get any more to equal them--and I did not for a long time. Instantly after my success the hammers came out. The idea of letting an American girl sing in Italian in the sacred Royal Opera House--it was preposterous! Count von Hochberg was mildly censured by the press for permitting such proceedings. Nevertheless, the fact remained that I had scored a success on my debut; the audience had received favorably a "Marguerite" who was neither fat nor forty, and the newspaper critics had united in giving me a most enthusiastic verdict of approval.

Naturally after such a success I expected to be called upon again very soon, but many weeks passed and still my name was not included in the published casts given out from week to week. Finally I determined to find out the reason for this neglect, so I called on Count von Hochberg in his private office at the opera.

"Good-evening, Your Excellency," I remarked pleasantly. "I have just looked over the billboards and I don't see my name included in next week's repertoire."

There was a moment of embarrassment, then I continued:--

"I merely wondered why I don't sing," adding, "Of course, if Berlin doesn't want me I should like to know it."

Count von Hochberg murmured something about giving me an answer the next day, but I insisted I must know that night.

"Very well, then, Fraeulein," replied Count von Hochberg positively. "Within ten days you will sing here."

Fate was ever watchful over me, and soon I was notified that "Traviata" was to be revived for me.

What fun I had in composing the adorable role of Camille. And then, too, I was all afire with memories of the great Sarah as Marguerite Gauthier. I had _heard_ famous prima donnas in "Traviata," but few, other than the emotional Bellincioni, had ever successfully _acted_ the operatic heroine. I was allowed to eliminate much of the stilted traditional settings, and, with modern scenery and sumptuous dressing, I played this role so that it immediately became one of my most popular successes. In the romantic and handsome Franz Naval I had an inspiring partner. Our artistic connection was to endure many years, and we have left behind us, I can truthfully say, very beautiful memories in the hearts of our loyal German public. I particularly recall our joint successes in "Romeo," "Mignon," "Manon," "Faust," "The Black Domino," and such poetic operas.

By this time rumors of the "crazy American" had spread over Berlin, together with reports that she was young, slender and, some said, beautiful. And then there were--eyes! The result was a notable increase in attendance of smart young officers and Court society. The Intendant arranged matters so that I sang quite frequently during the rest of my first season.