MY FOURTH SEASON
The month of June found me in Paris, where I sang at a charity concert,
and in August I went to Bayreuth for the first time and was greatly
moved by "Parsifal." On August 12 my diary says: "To-day I placed a
laurel wreath on the grave of Liszt."
In October, 1904, before the opening of the regular season in Berlin, I
went to fulfill a special engagement in Warsaw. An incident
characteristic of the impetuous Poles occurred on the train, which
resulted in more than a year's annoyance of rather an amusing character.
My mother and I were traveling in a private compartment, with the door
open on the main corridor of the train. A tall, handsome, bearded
gentleman had passed that door no less than a dozen times. Finally he
passed just at the moment when my mother wished the train porter to
change German gold into Russian money. The porter did not have the
change. Here was the chance of the bearded man's lifetime. He projected
himself into the compartment, he made the change, he introduced himself
gracefully, and calmly announced that he knew me all the time as "_Die
Farrar aus Berlin_," the singer, and he wished to do everything in his
power to make us comfortable during our stay in Warsaw. He turned out to
be Count Ischki P----, a very wealthy nobleman with a most romantic
temperament and also with the persistence of fly-paper.
We could not disengage ourselves from his courtesy on the train, and he
became doubly irksome when he bombarded my apartments in the Hotel
Bristol,--the magnificent hostelry, by the way, which Paderewski built
and owns in Warsaw,--sending me flowers, sweetmeats, candies, and even
attempting to send me jewelry. The poor Count Ischki wanted me to look
with favor upon his suit. Never, outside the pages of a novel, have I
met any one quite so ardent, in so many languages.
The climax came one afternoon when I was reading in my apartment.
There was a knock at the door; it opened instantly, and in came a
procession of bell-boys--each carrying flowers, enormous boxes of candy
or tributes of some kind. All these were carefully deposited at my feet
without a word. Then, as the boys withdrew, the Count Ischki himself,
faultlessly dressed, entered and threw himself upon his knees before me
in the midst of his offerings. It was a perfect setting for the stage. I
had all I could do to keep serious as the Polish count poured out the
story of his mad love, and declared that, unless I would marry him, he
would quickly die the death of a madman.
Gently I motioned for him to arise and depart. "I fear I am only a cold,
heartless, American girl," I replied. "I love only my art, and I shall
never marry anybody."
The night I left Warsaw the poor Count Ischki was at the station to see
me off, and, though I felt sorry for him, I was happy at escaping from
so trying an emotional character. For almost a year, however, he
followed me over Europe, popping up most unexpectedly at different
places, always with a renewed declaration of his love. His attentions at
Monte Carlo finally became so embarrassing that I threatened to appeal
to the police. Then he ultimately accepted his _conge_, and I was
relieved of this all-too-ardent nobleman.
The season of 1904-05 in Berlin (my fourth season) was made notable by
the first appearance there of Caruso, who made his debut in "Rigoletto."
His coming created a great sensation. I was delighted to sing opposite
him again, but there was a complication of which the public knew
nothing. With the "king of tenors" singing on the stage with me, I knew
there was another--Franz Naval--who had sung opposite me for three
seasons, sitting in a box in the background. However, I compromised with
the two by usually having tea with Franz and dinner with Enrico during
his stay in Berlin, and the artistic world rolled smoothly on.
Many interesting things happened during my fourth season in Berlin. For
one thing the marriage of the Crown Prince to the Grand Duchess Cecile
took place, thereby permanently putting an end to the little annoyances
to which his kindly admiration of me as an artist had subjected me. I am
proud and happy to state that soon after the return of the royal couple
to the Palace at Potsdam, I was invited to sing for the Crown Princess
and, as a result of this meeting, a cordial and friendly intimacy sprang
up between us, which often led to informal musicales at the Palace when
the Crown Princess played the piano, the Crown Prince the violin, and I
sang.
[Illustration: "THE AMUSING MADAME SANS GENE"]
The spring of 1905 found me once more in Monte Carlo, where a notable
performance was the _premiere_ of Saint-Saens' "L'Ancetre," in which I
created the role of Margarita. During this spring engagement I
created another role, the title part in Mascagni's "Amica." Preparations
for the opera had been well under way for some time, Calve having been
engaged for Amica. Five days before the _premiere_ she withdrew for
reasons which were never explained to me. Gunsberg appealed to me as a
favor to help him out, if possible, and create this very difficult role.
I agreed, and, by working day and night, I succeeded in preparing it in
time for the performance. At this special performance Gatti-Casazza, who
was then Director of La Scala at Milan, heard me sing for the first
time, but all he recalls, he says, were a pair of eyes and a very
tempestuous young person.
One night during this spring season in Monte Carlo I caught sight of a
familiar face in the recesses of a stage box and, for the curtain call,
I made the royal salute to this box. After the curtain fell, every one
started to make fun of me.
"We have no royalty in Monte Carlo," one said.
"Pardon me," I replied, "but I shall always give the royal salute when
King Oscar of Sweden is in the audience."
It was, indeed, His Majesty, who had timed his visit to Monte Carlo so
that he could hear me sing, as he said he would. The next morning I
read in the newspapers that the King of Sweden, traveling incognito as
Count Haga, was visiting Monte Carlo as the guest of the Prince of
Monaco.
In Monte Carlo even royalty mingles with the crowd, and so it happened
that later in the day I encountered His Majesty strolling along in a
smart gray suit, with an Alpine hat and stick, looking for all the world
like some prosperous American banker seeing Europe on a vacation. His
Majesty was kind enough to entertain both my mother and me at dinner
several times during this engagement in Monte Carlo.
The fact that I created the title role in "Amica" in five days was duly
telegraphed to Paris and other cities, and led directly to a most
spectacular engagement in the French capital, which must be recorded as
my Parisian debut. A certain Count Camondo, a wealthy patron of the arts
who made Paris his home, had written the music to an operatic libretto
by Victor Capoul, entitled "The Clown." Count Camondo came to Monte
Carlo, engaged the entire Monte Carlo Opera Company--including me, as I
had special leave of absence from the Kaiser for the occasion--at an
exorbitant figure to sing three performances of the new opera in
Paris, all proceeds to go to charity. Count Camondo paid all
expenses, staged the opera lavishly, and we sang the three performances
to crowded houses, at the Theatre Rejane, Paris. At last I had sung in
grand opera in Paris, even if only for charity!
[Illustration: LA TOSCA]