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 début 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 Lumière" 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 soirées 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.
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.