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 première 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 rôle.
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 rôle 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 Calvé! Not one leaf of her coronet of laurel had so much as quivered!
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 Gêne," chiefly interesting for its novelty and touches of comedy.
Added to the fortunate operatic successes, I had made several concert tournées, 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.