THE DAYS I NOW ENJOY
The season of 1913-14 came very near proving disastrous for me. After
repeated danger signals, at last overtaxed Nature took her revenge. I
was unable to cope successfully with a bad attack of bronchitis, which
made me lose the opening night. Some days afterward, still ill, I was
obstinate enough to insist on a "Madame Butterfly" performance, and I
collapsed completely in a "Faust" performance later that same week.
I shall never forget my state of mind. Despair overcame me. The awful
nightmare had come to pass. I should probably never sing again! Then
there flashed through my mind: How should I endure this enforced
inactivity? Daily, hourly, I waited, and watched, and coaxed a
betterment of my physical condition, which, after all, was at the bottom
of my minor vocal troubles. Outside, a generous and affectionate public
had not forgotten me, while Mr. Gatti was most kind and patient with
this fretful songbird.
[Illustration: "CARMEN"]
One day I judged myself at last ready to venture a performance. Upon my
appearance I was greeted with such welcoming applause as threatened to
interfere with my continuance of the opera. My heart was full of
gratitude as I bowed and bowed my thanks. By dint of care and caution I
was able to finish the season with credit, even taking the fatiguing
trip to Atlanta, Georgia, prior to sailing, in order not to disappoint
that loyal and enthusiastic public. That year, too, was the American
_premiere_ of the long-awaited sequel to "Louise"--"Julian," a
hodge-podge of operatic efforts that brought little satisfaction to
anybody concerned in it. To my surprise the repellent characterization
of the gutter-girl in its last act moved some critical craniums to
speculate favorably on the ultimate success of "Carmen," should I ever
attempt this role.
My summer was a long one of quiet and absolute rest. When I was ready to
sail home Europe was beginning to seethe in her terrible conflict. I
raced from Munich to Amsterdam to get an available neutral steamer; but
the prevailing confusion and panic occasioned by the fall of Antwerp and
mine disasters in the northern waters made it advisable for me to follow
Mr. Gatti's insistent message to join him and the company immediately at
Naples.
Ah, that journey to the end of Italy! Shall I ever forget it?
Fortunately, Mr. Gatti had been able to assemble all his songsters--with
the exception of Gilly, our French barytone, a prisoner of war in
Austria--and we were to enjoy an agreeable and uneventful ocean trip
home.
It was while on shipboard, discussing the repertoire, that Toscanini
suggested the immediate preparation of "Carmen" for my first appearance
of the season. I jumped at the idea, the more so since I should have a
role I had always longed to sing and which favored me as I had rarely
been favored. Here was indeed an occasion to refute many an unkind rumor
that I had lost my voice and would never sing again. And as for the
acting, and looking--well, I smiled into the miserable little glass in
my stateroom that did duty as a mirror, and blew myself a kiss of
congratulation! Daily rehearsals were called, and I worked like a slave
in the little stuffy dining-room of the ship to the accompaniment of a
piano no better than it should be.
Many a gypsy had come and gone, leaving New York mildly indifferent.
There had been but one fascinating, unforgettable creature within our
memory, the incomparable Calve! Not one leaf of her coronet of laurel
had so much as quivered!
[Illustration: WORK AND PLAY IN CALIFORNIA]
The eventful evening came at last, and I need not dwell upon the
wonderful success that attended the brilliant revival of this well-loved
opera under Toscanini's splendid direction.
Later in the same season was to come the amusing "Madame Sans Gene,"
chiefly interesting for its novelty and touches of comedy.
Added to the fortunate operatic successes, I had made several concert
_tournees_, my contract with the record-makers had been rigidly kept,
and to succeed in all these artistic directions, the well-being of the
voice had ever primarily to be considered.
When the fateful time came that I paid the toll of overwork and my
throat was temporarily crippled, my mind was doubly alive and in acute
anguish. Inactivity to me has always been something not to be borne. I
must have a vital interest with which to stimulate my energies and
fancies.
It was during those discouraging days that I bethought me of the very
ardent advances that had been made to me relative to the moving
pictures. Perhaps there was another field of expression, not to mention
the very flattering financial considerations that were to accompany the
offer, did I allow myself to be persuaded.
No small amount of half-hearted condemnation and significant shoulder
shrugging accompanied the announcement that I might seriously consider
such a proposal.
"Oh, Geraldine! How can you?" I heard on every hand.
But why shouldn't I? I have never been the overcautious prima donna,
swathed in cotton, silent, save for singing, for fear of undue fatigue
upon the voice--the human vocalizer! No. I like the novel and the
unusual always, and I _adore_ to act!
My friendship with the family of David Belasco, and his son-in-law, Mr.
Gest, having large interests in the moving pictures, led me finally to
accede to their request; and I signed a contract which promised to be
(and fulfilled happily!) as successful a venture as any I have ever
undertaken.
My arrival in Los Angeles, the beautifully appointed house there, the
special studio built for my privacy and convenience are of too recent an
interest to reiterate here. The experience itself was novel and
refreshing, with its own unusual dramatic procedure. I sang and
declaimed my role in French or Italian as I chose. There was no curtain
to go up! The director-general replaced the harassed stage manager and
gave the signal: "Camera! Go!" No fiery leader overwhelmed me with the
feverish tempest of his orchestra; just a watchful operator warily
turning the crank of his machine while I evolved my "scenes" as I
wished.
[Illustration: MAKING NEW FRIENDS IN THE "MOVIES"]
My "Carmen" has made her screen debut, and many of you have doubtless
seen it. I have been delighted at its success, and feel that its
artistic excellence and the enthusiastic approbation it has met speak
loudly enough in favor of my departure from the usual routine of the
prima donna.
I have been asked, in summing up these experiences of my artistic
career, so far, if it has all been worth while? From my point of view,
yes. That is, what you believe to be the most complete fulfillment of
yourself and the gratification of your ambitions is always worth while.
Fortunately for me the adventurous and inquiring turn of my mind does
not allow my ambitions to become narrowed or stationary, and that may
possibly account for the unusual phases in my musical career.
It is, however, distinctly _not_ worth while, to my mind, unless Fortune
smiles upon you in abundance, for art is not the medium stratum of life,
but its flowered inspiration and emotional poetry: it demands and
obtains its sacrifices and sorrows which modify and chasten its glory,
and your own soul best knows the toll you pay.
Personally I would not encourage the graduate of the church choir, or
the youthful miss with the pretty voice and smug mind, to embark upon a
grand-opera career, such as I have come to understand it. By that, I
mean the exceptional career that demands the big outlook and risk in all
one attempts--the sacrifices, the unceasing toil, an iron constitution,
invulnerable nerves, to say nothing of the financial security involved,
according to the magnitude of the undertaking. With the many who earn a
comfortable livelihood by their agreeable song I have no question,
being, as I said before, solely concerned with the exceptional gift that
will not be denied, that brushes aside all obstacles, to proceed on the
path of wide appeal in any branch of art or occupation.
When intelligent people will begin to open their minds and refuse to be
cajoled by flattery and hypocrisy as to what constitutes "an artistic
career," it may be better for American art in general and easier for the
girl who cherishes high ambitions.
How many aimless letters fill the musical columns with admirable advice
on a profession of which the writers betray their naive ignorance by the
general vacuity of their remarks, when presuming to measure an artist's
impulses and inspirations by their own personal standards and
emotions! Let the artist develop in his own orbit, according to his
light, nor criticize the method of the fruition of those gifts he so
generously flings to his hearers.
[Illustration: MISS FARRAR AND MR. LOU TELLEGEN]
And now, in closing, I have purposely left till the last, my
affectionate tribute of gratitude and remembrance toward that vital
factor in these later years of my career, whose esteem constantly spurs
me on to my best efforts and whose support I trust I may enjoy for many
years to come: the discerning, generous and appreciative American
public!
NOTE: Soon after writing the last pages of this book Miss Farrar
announced her engagement to Mr. Lou Tellegen, a talented young
actor well known to Americans since he first came here five or six
years ago as leading man with Madame Sarah Bernhardt. The picture
on the preceding page was taken at the City Hall, New York, just
after Miss Farrar and Mr. Tellegen had secured their marriage
license. They were married at Miss Farrar's home February 8.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE--MASSACHUSETTS
U. S. A