Alfred exploded some nasty phrases when he heard of Easter's début.
Close as he was to the Opera direction not a word had been hinted. As
a newspaper man he revolted. He wanted the "scoop" for the "Clarion."
No one got it; the news was ladled out to all, a regular soup-kitchen
affair. He determined to get even with someone, with Easter herself.
He had lost heavily that afternoon on the races, and it demanded all
Madame Ash's tact to smooth his outraged vanity and feathers. But she
did it. She promised to sit beside him that first night. Perhaps Easter
wouldn't carry off everything with such a high hand as in Germany ...
and there was always Jean de Reszke, not to drag in Edouard, who must
be counted ... except Lilli, what Isolde had ever divided the interest
of the audience? Jean was peerless. Poor Easter had a rocky road
ahead.... Alfred's eyes glistened with malice....
The Great White Way, pleasure-ground of America, is the incandescent
oven of the metropolis. Under its fierce glare all felines appear
alike. But gray, never. Alfred, who had lived in Europe, noted that
the sad-colored procession that slowly moves around Piccadilly Circus,
the merry crush of the Friedrichstrasse, and the gayer swirl of the
Grand Boulevard, was not so cosmopolitan as Broadway's army. Every
nationality helps to swell the stream of petticoats. Lo! this is the
City of Dis, he thought, when he saw the maelstrom of faces pass him;
faces blanched by regret, sunned by crime, beaming with sin; faces
rusted by vain virtue, weary faces, and the triumphant regard of them
that are loved. The eyes, the eyes! The city had begun its nocturnal
carnival as he went down to the Opera House, and like all organized
orgies the spectacle was of a consuming melancholy. No need for him to
moralize; cause and effect spoke with an appalling clarity. If Matthew
Arnold had been there he would have called Gotham, not Lutetia, the
spot where is most worshipped the Great Goddess of Lubricity. Through
this volcano of noise, a sinister medley of farce and flame, the
Will-to-Enjoy wound like a river of red-hot lava. The day-birds are
gone to bed; night-fowl are afield. The owl is a denizen of the dark,
yet Minerva's wisdom is not to be found. Even the cats are bathed in
the blaze of publicity. Alfred reached the Metropolitan....
All operatic triumphs resemble each other; it is the failures that
differ. The début of Istar--how that exotic name did boldly stand out
on the bill-boards!--as like the début of the pre-elected. From the
rising of the curtain when she hurls her angry disdainful: "Wer wagt
mich zu hohnen?" her success was assured. In the first entr'acte Madame
Ash said to Alfred: "That settles it." He didn't quite agree with her.
He went to Easter's dressing-room. He was not admitted. It looked as if
she intended to burn behind her all her boats and bridges; but a few
words from Jean, always considerate to débutantes, confirmed Madame
Ash's judgment. At the dress-rehearsal Easter had been rotten. That,
averred Jean, was sure sign of success. And it was a brilliant success.
This audacious American girl came, sang, conquered. She actually
divided honors with Tristan. After the last curtain she received an
unmistakable personal call. It was for her alone and Jean graciously
left the field free. As cool as usual she made a little speech:
"Thank you, dear people. Thank you for your indulgence. It is my début
in my beloved land. I am an American-born girl. My first teacher, and
my best, was my mother...." The audience received this filial sentiment
with overwhelming applause. "Does that young lady know the ropes?"
ironically inquired Alfred. "Mother first and best teacher!--that's
the stuff to put over for the sentimental imbeciles. And isn't she
grateful? Not a word about you--not a word about Lilli or Cosima--that
girl has won out in a "walk," he added. As they pushed through the
guzzing throng--Max Hirsh told them that the gate-money was bigger than
at any other opening night for seasons--they heard nothing but praise.
It was Istar here, Istar there, everywhere Istar! The sound of the
exotic name seemed to hypnotize the mob. Madame Ash smiled:
"Are you green enough to expect gratitude from a singer? I think the
'mother' allusion was a master-stroke. Esther is a genius."