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!
[Illustration: PHOTO OF MARK TWAIN, SIGNED
TO MISS FARRAR, WITH THE KINDEST REGARDS OF
MARK TWAIN JAN. 1908]
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.
[Illustration: "ADORABLE, UNFORGETTABLE BLOSSOM OF JAPAN"]
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.
[Illustration: BELASCO, "THAT PAST MASTER OF STAGECRAFT"
SIGNED PHOTO: To Gerladine Farrar
Our American born
song bird in whose art I glory.
Faithfully,
David Belasco.]
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.
[Illustration: PHOTO OF SARAH BERNHARDT
Signed, A la charmante Farrar
souvenir d'une grande amitie
Sarah Bernhardt,
1915]
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_."