PARIS
The time was now rapidly approaching which was to be the turning point
of my career--a trip to Europe. Up to this time I had accomplished
practically all that I could hope for in America. I had studied under
the best teachers in Boston and in New York. I knew much of the grand
opera repertoire. I had sung in concerts and recitals. I had just turned
seventeen. The necessary training for a grand-opera career was then
impossible in America, and tradition decreed that foreign singers with a
foreign reputation should be engaged for grand opera's holy of holies,
the shining exception being our own American Nordica, then in her prime.
I decided that Paris must be the next stepping-stone; but how?
To study in Paris meant a great deal of money, and my father's business
in Melrose, while prosperous enough for our home needs, could not meet
the strain of an expensive stay abroad. It was an understood thing that
when I did go, my father and mother should accompany me. The financial
problem, however, seemed almost an insurmountable one.
[Illustration: MANON]
[Illustration: AMICA]
[Illustration: NEDDA]
[Illustration: ELIZABETH]
[Illustration: MIMI]
But once more the element of luck--or Fate--intervened just at the most
critical moment. At one of the receptions given by Miss Thursby, at her
home in Gramercy Park, I had met a Mrs. Kimball, of Boston. She heard me
sing, and was interested in the story of my ambition to study abroad. I
told her, however, that although my father was seriously considering
selling his business in Melrose, we feared the proceeds would be
insufficient for the course of study that seemed necessary.
"I have a friend in Boston," said Mrs. Kimball, "who is interested in
music and perhaps she would arrange something if you sang for her. Will
you come to Boston and meet her?"
Would I? The prospect was too alluring. A very few days afterward I had
returned to Boston with my mother in response to a letter making an
appointment for me to meet Mrs. Bertram Webb.
Mrs. Webb was the widow of a former resident of Salem. She was then
stopping at her beautiful home in Boston, and I sang for her. I was
fortunate enough to enlist her immediate sympathy and interest, and, as
I was a minor, the necessary business formalities were concluded by my
parents in my behalf. My father sold his store in Melrose and realized
a sum sufficient to reduce materially the amount of the first loan we
had from Mrs. Webb. This sum, according to the terms of a written
contract drawn up by Mrs. Webb's lawyer and duly signed by my father and
mother as my legal guardians, was to be an indefinite amount, advanced
as required, and to be repaid at an indefinite date when my voice should
be a source of steady income. The only actual security given was that my
life was insured in Mrs. Webb's favor, so that in case of my death she
would be fully compensated for the risk and loss she might sustain.
I am happy and proud to state that, although Mrs. Webb generously
advanced, all told, a sum approximating thirty thousand dollars during
the first few years of my studies in Europe, every dollar of it was
repaid within two years after my return to America.
Upon my mother's capable shoulders fell the difficult and not always
thankful task of financing and planning for our adventurous expeditions.
Thus completely shielded from money worries and material vexations, I
abandoned myself to the glory of dreams. I was ready to slave in
passionate devotion and enthusiasm to further the career that meant my
life--to conquer in song. And so unafraid, and happy with the heart of
youth, I set forth to the Old World of my dreams and hopes!
We sailed from Boston late in September, 1899, on the old Leyland liner
Armenian. She was a cattle boat; the passengers were merely incidental,
the beef was vital. It rained the day we sailed, and it rained the day
we arrived at Liverpool. London, where I spent a brief ten days, remains
only a vague memory of fog and depression. I was happy to leave it
behind and continue toward the wonder city of my dreams--Paris.
Who can ever forget the first intoxicating impression of this queen of
cities? The channel trip, the bustle of arrival at Boulogne, the fussy
little foreign train tugging us unwillingly over the lovely meadows--all
I retain of that is a blur. But it seems like yesterday that the spruce
little conductor poked his merry face into the compartment and gurgled
joyfully: "Par-ee!" Every nerve in my body tingles now when I recall the
excitement of it all.
We drove first to a small family hotel which had been recommended by
some of our fellow passengers on the Armenian. I at once took charge of
the party, and, in a halting harangue in French, told the landlady what
rooms we wanted and how much we wished to pay.
"If you will only tell me in English," said the landlady helplessly,
speaking my native tongue perfectly, "I can understand you better."
After this crushing rebuke to my French, I let my mother arrange all
details.
We remained but a few days here--only until we could install ourselves
in an apartment in the Latin Quarter, very near the lovely gardens of
the Luxembourg and close to the omnibus stations. It cost then three
sous to ride on top of a bus--"_l'imperial_," as it is called--and six
sous to ride inside. By constant patronage of _l'imperial_ during
pleasant weather, it was possible to lay aside enough for a drive Sunday
in the Bois. In those days there was no taximeter system to disconcert,
and if one found an amiable _cocher_ (and there have been many, bless
them!), it was quite within the reach of the modest purse of a
grand-opera aspirant thus to join the gay throng of smart Parisian
turnouts.
The first thing of importance was to search for a good teacher. While I
had letters to various well-known instructors I never used them,
preferring to be judged on my merits. At last one day I called upon
Trabadello, the Spaniard who had numbered among his pupils Sybil
Sanderson and Emma Eames. I studied with Trabadello from October, 1899,
until the spring of 1900; and, to dispose of unauthorized assertions, I
may add that Trabadello is the only vocal teacher I had in Paris.
[Illustration: PHOTO OF CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS WITH HAND-WRITTEN DEDICATION
A MADEMOISELLE GERALDINE FARRAR
SOUVENIR DE L'ANCETRE
MONTE-CARLO 1906
C. SAINT-SAENS]
I also had a course of _mise-en-scene_, or preparation for the stage,
with an excellent teacher, Madame Martini, an artist of repute and an
excellent instructor in the traditional sense of the word. For instance,
Madame would say: "After ten bars, lift the right hand; two more, then
point it at the villain; walk slowly toward the hero; raise your eyes at
the twentieth bar toward heaven; and conclude your aria with a sweeping
gesture of denial, sinking gently to the floor."
Alas, my progress was not brilliant along such lines. I could not study
grimaces in the mirror; I could not walk hours following a silly chalk
line, and I refused to repeat one gesture a hundred times at the same
phrase or bar of music. Discussion and argument were very frequent--also
tears. Nevertheless, I did learn much from so well-grounded a teacher,
and often have occasion to think pleasantly of her first lessons with my
rather difficult nature.
In the spring I heard that Nordica was in Paris with her husband, Mr.
Zoltan Doeme. I was in a fever of anxiety to see her, and have her hear
me sing since studying abroad. But how could I find her? By chance I
heard that she drove daily in the Bois; so I persuaded a friend who had
a very elegant equipage to invite me of an afternoon to drive, so that
by some happy chance I might speak to Nordica.
Around my neck I wore a talisman which I had worn for many years--a
little silver locket for which I had paid two dollars in Melrose when I
was a schoolgirl. At that time my cash allowance for pin money was
twenty-five cents a week. One day I saw this locket in a jewelry store
window. I said nothing, but saved enough to buy the simple trinket,
which I wore as a talisman, with Nordica's picture in it. Naturally,
therefore, I wore this in the hope that it would bring me luck in my
search for her, and soon to my joy I saw the famous singer approaching
in her open carriage, with Mr. Doeme. Of course, she did not recognize
me, but as she drove by I stood up and threw the precious locket into
her lap to attract her attention.
Mr. Doeme picked it up, and to Nordica's amazement she recognized her own
picture. While her carriage turned around, I waited on the path, and
soon my idol was actually allowing me to talk with her and renewing
once more the interest she had shown while I was in New York.
She invited me to come and sing for her in her beautiful home in the
Bois, and, when we parted, she handed back my precious talisman. "Don't
throw it away again," she said with a smile.
"But it has brought me such good luck!" I replied happily.
Next day, and many times thereafter, I visited Madame Nordica, and both
she and Mr. Doeme were genuinely interested in my vocal welfare. The
question of my future was discussed, and, contrary to the idea I had of
going to Italy and following the usual procedure of enlisting in a
provincial theater there for experience, Mr. Doeme suggested my studying
with a Russian-Italian, Graziani, in Berlin, whose book upon vocal study
he had recently received and found unusual and beneficial.
I was not at all keen upon abandoning Italy for Germany, but Madame
Nordica's advice was paramount, and, armed with some nice letters from
her to various friends whom she had learned to know during her triumphs
in Bayreuth, we made plans to break up our Paris home.