I REFUSE TO SING AT THE METROPOLITAN
Through Miss Thursby I met Dr. Holbrook Curtis, the eminent New York
throat specialist, and became his patient; his unfailing, kindly
interest and loyal friendship did much for me. One of the amusing events
of that early spring of 1898 was a society puppet show which Dr. Curtis
staged in New York. There were tableaux and songs and recitations, all
for charity, and then came the puppet show itself, in which I appeared
as Calve in a "Carmen" costume.
Imagine a long stretch of painted canvas across the stage, with the
costumes painted grotesquely beneath openings through which the
performers' heads appeared. Dr. Curtis himself assumed the role of
Maurice Grau, director of the Metropolitan, and his make-up was
splendid; various other amateurs impersonated Melba, Jean de Reszke, and
other stars. The idea of the skit was to show the trouble Mr. Grau had
in managing his company of stars. There was much amusing dialogue, and I
remember my complaint, as Calve, was that I was asked to sing for
nothing at all-too-many benefits.
[Illustration: DR. HOLBROOK CURTIS]
In Dr. Curtis's office I soon afterward met Mrs. Grau, wife of the
famous director, and she insisted that I should sing for her husband. It
was proposed to stage a big special performance of "Mignon" at the
Metropolitan, with Melba as "Philine," and a star cast, for the benefit
of the families of the victims of the Maine disaster, and Mrs. Grau
thought that should I please her husband he might consider the occasion
a propitious one to introduce me in grand opera, as the role of "Mignon"
was admirably suited to my youth and vocal abilities. I had studied
"stage deportment" with Victor Capoul, and knew the opera backward and
forward in both French and Italian.
I own I was greatly tempted, and eager to make so auspicious a
beginning. Such an offer to a sixteen-year-old girl, I think, would be
calculated to twist any young woman's head awry. Fortunately, upon
reflection, good sense intervened and saved me from what might have been
a very unwise step. Granted that I made a successful appearance, at best
it could be but the sensation of a few hours; and I had no mind to be a
singing Cinderella for one night. When my triumph should come, if it
ever did, it must be the beginning of a well-defined career, and I was
far too young and ignorant to tread this difficult and dazzling path so
soon.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Grau made an appointment for me to sing for her
husband--privately, as I thought. But when I appeared on the stage of
the Metropolitan, I found him surrounded by a great many people, members
of the Metropolitan Company, business associates and advisers, and
others. What my emotions were when I passed in through the stage door I
cannot describe. Curiously enough, this time the empty house did not
intimidate, but inspired me. Perhaps I felt the encouraging shadows of
the great ones hovering about me; at any rate, I sang as I believe I had
never sung before. To every one's amazement I dismissed the accompanist
whose laborious efforts were more of a hindrance than an aid to my
"audition," and, seating myself at the piano, I continued singing to my
own accompaniment, as was invariably my habit.
Mr. Grau was exceedingly pleased with the promise I showed and
especially predicted a brilliant future in operatic singing; but he
seconded my mother's sensibly planned course for me to study more
quietly, less in public view, and wait till a few years of hard work and
experience had passed over my ambitious little head. As a kind
afterthought he added, no doubt to soften the sting of my
disappointment: "Would you like to sing in one of our Sunday night
concerts?"
[Illustration: MAURICE GRAU]
"No, thank you, Mr. Grau," I replied. (No tame concert appearances after
my imagination had been dazzled by a possible debut in opera!)
"But it might be valuable to you to have your name on the billboards of
the Metropolitan Opera House," he urged good-naturedly.
"You will see it there some day," I replied with firm conviction.
He laughed, and certainly had no more reason to take me more seriously
than dozens of other young "hopefuls" who dreamed of some day storming
the Metropolitan doors.
Quite without my knowledge or consent, various reports of this and other
incidents in regard to my singing reached the newspapers, and I
experienced a distinct shock when I read in the New York "Herald" the
following amusing yet caustic criticism:--
If half of what Miss Geraldine Farrar's enthusiastic friends say of
her vocal and dramatic talents is true, then this sixteen-year-old
girl from Boston is the dramatic soprano for whom we have all been
waiting these many years. With all due respect to the young lady,
a lot of rubbish has been circulated as to her marvelous, not to
say miraculous, vocal gifts and accomplishments, and she cannot do
better than include, in the nightly prayers which all good girls
say, an earnest invocation to Heaven to preserve her from her
friends, that she may be saved from the results of overpraise.
That Miss Farrar has a wonderful gift of song has been attested by
so many discreet judges that it is doubtless true. But when alleged
admirers of the young singer tack on all sorts of trimmings, such
as that Madame Melba wept with joy upon hearing her, and that
Madame Nordica said, "This is the voice of which I have dreamed,"
and that Miss Emma Thursby refused to be comforted until Miss
Farrar consented to come and live with her, it is about time to
add, "and then she woke up."
Why not confine the stories to simple facts; that she has a
remarkable voice, almost phenomenal in one of her age, which is
true; that her concert successes have been extraordinary; and that,
if youthful evidences hold good, she will some day assume an
enviable position in grand opera? Isn't that quite enough praise
without subjecting Melba to tears, disturbing Nordica's dreams, or
suggesting the impossibility of comforting Miss Thursby? Miss
Farrar is a handsome, gifted, and very earnest young girl, and if
she has common sense as well as native talent, she will say that
little nightly prayer, turn a deaf ear to the adulation of foolish
friends, and attend strictly to practicing her scales. Then some
day, perhaps very soon, this Boston girl will be electrifying
metropolitan audiences as Mlle. Farrarini, the latest operatic
comet.
I was almost in tears when I read this article, tempered with kindness
as it was, for the stories about Melba and Nordica had been the results
of the feverish imagination of newspaper reporters who had exaggerated
the truth. But the musical critic of the "Herald," who penned this
prophetic and caustic comment, really did me a great service--and I
thank him--for from that moment I determined upon a policy of seclusion
and self-effacement; my pursuit for glory should be conducted along the
lines of modesty and restraint.
Alas for the miscarriage of such good intentions! Seclusion and
self-effacement have hardly been synonymous with my euphonious name!