To my disappointment "Romeo and Juliet" had been chosen, not only for my début, 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 ("Tannhäuser"), 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 Plançon (the Friar) and my friend, Josephine Jacoby, greeted me, and then Rousselière, of Monte Carlo days, who was making his début 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.
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 rôle 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.