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'impérial," as it is called—and six sous to ride inside. By constant patronage of l'impérial 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 côcher (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.