Evening Star Newspaper, March 6, 1932, Page 81

——— Noted Diva Declares That “Swan Song” Should Contain No Tragic Element IWhen One Relinquishes Her Hold on Popularity at Exactly the Right Time—=She Will Begin to Enjoy Life. AS TOLD TO CAROL BIRD. SWAN song holds a melancholy note for a listener. Does it re-echo sadly in the heart of the singer? “No,” says Geraldine Farrar, whe, after more than 30 years in opera and concert work, retired recently at the age of 50 years. She appeared in her l_ast concert recital in Carnegie Hall, New York City, a lovely and haunting figure in silver brocade and jewels, and the entire audience at her en- trance arose to its feet to do her homage and to say adieu. “No,” repeats the prima donna of the gla- morous career, to which she voluntarily has put the period, “there is no tragic element in relinquishing hold at the right time—at any rate, noi for me. The tragic picture is the prima donna who has outlived her youthfulness but who persists in going on, long after the proper time, an aging travesty of what she used to be.” Gerzldine Farrar, retired, once a luminary of the Metropolitan Opera Co., was speaking in the drawing room of her Park avenue apartment in New York City. She is that rare human being, the artiste and the woman who knows how to grow old gracefully and to accept the inevitable marks and changes of the passing years wita fortitude and a wise philosophy, the woman who knows how to let go when her task is done. She is still radiant and the possessor of a vibrant and magnetic personality. But her hair is frankly gray, softly waved and long. She wears a simple black crepe gown, a lustrous strand of pearls and a large emerald on a white slim hand. She is what she is—a woman of 50, who has fulfilled her destiny, had her career, said farewell to the public and now accepts the less active role of observer instead of participant on the stage of life. She makes no pretense of being anything else. lll HAVE arrived at the second phase of my life,” she says, thoughtfully, meditatively. It’s a sort of rebirth, a rejuvenation, but not of the external me, simply of the spirit. I have no desire for perpetual youth, false youth. It would weary me, even terrify me, I think, to sit before my mirror day after day, eternally applying the mask, trying on too-youngish clothes, striving to recapture a youth that had departed. “But when I speak of rejuvenation, I am reminded of the motto of Queen Mary of Scots: ‘In my end is my beginning.’ “So it is with the matter of my retirement. I shall never sing nor appear in public, on any stage, in any guise again. This is not a recent decision nor one made through necessity, but one which crystallized years ago. And it is not the forerunner of a whole series of pseudo- farewells, either. I told myself many years ago, at the height of my career, that I would retire from opera at 40: from concert work at 50. I am 50 and I have definitely retired. Behind me is a long vista of accomplishment; before me anything but a void. I shall now do all the things I wanted to do in those years when the exigencies of my career prevented me from in- dulging in them. 11| AM very fresh and enthusiastic at my time of life for the things I did not have the time to enjoy at an earlier age. Now, without being blase and bored through surfeit, and bringing to them a ripe appreciation of what they represenf, I can enjoy some of the pas- times that were denied me when I lived in that “tall tower” of semi-isolation in which every true artist must hide if she is to succeed in her chosen career. “Take, for example, the matter of traveling. X love travel. You would think that an opera singer, visiting the world capitals, would have had enough of that, wouldn’t you? But you must remember that such traveling is a matter of routine, ofttimes a hardship and very fa- tiguing. The opera singer, traveling and sing- ing abroad, must guard herself against changes of climate. Catching cold is a nightmare, a sore throat a major tragedy. There is worry about baggage, hotels, food, drafty stages, suit- able dressing rooms, the adjustment to differ- ent nationalities, language, personalities. There 1S no time to visit art galleries, museums or all the other fascinating places which the average traveler visits as g matter of course. Now I shall have time for all of these things. I can travel leisurely, without worries of any kind, make new friends, visit with old ones. ‘all have time to go to operas, music festivals, concerts in America and abroad, and Wwill be able to consider art and music from a purely objective viewpoint, enjoy it, relaxed and free. T am very fond of Salzburg. I shall go :;Crk to Germany to visit old friends this Sum- “Then I love the country, gardens, animals, horses. I have a country home in Comnecticut, tndltakemuchdeflghthltgmmcun.lvntlng flowers there, thing for which I had no < X \ . v \ Artists, QuitW THIEE SUNDAY henYou Are 50 STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, MARCH 6, 1932. Miss Farrar as she is today, ready to enjoy life to its fullest extent. time at all in the past. While I was glad to make sacrifices for my profession—and they were all more than compensated for even- tually—I shall be glad to enter the new phase of my life, indulge in all the recreations and pleasures which were banned because of re- hearsal routine. “A new parade of life opens before me. I feel a tremendous sense of lightness on my shoulders. It is a great privilege to have a career and it is a double joy to have one that meets one’s expectations. Impossible not to glory in it while it lasts, but it, nevertheless, calls for many necessary sacrifices. “I like gardens, books, friends, social con- tacts, all those delightful things to which one cannot give the time in a professional career. It is going to bz like feasting after a long fast. Training for a career was a far different mat- ter in my early days than it is today. ‘Thea one had to follow a system of rigid self-disci- pline, a program of study, self-denial and eter- nal practice. So I could not afford to play, to give free reign to my fancy or to enjoy tre luxury of having a good time. I loved horses but I was not allowed to ride. That did not go with singing. My energy must be conserved for my art. I loved tennis. But it was too strenuous for my lungs. I must save all my lung power for singing. I adored dancing, bu‘ dancing entailed late hours. “So it was with all those delightful side is- sues, toward which I sometimes turned wist v] eyes. But everything—all my vitality, enery: enthusiasm, time—was poured into the omy channel, that of my singing. I sometimes con- trast those years of hard work and methodical routine and self-discipline with the ways of young artists today. So many of them take their work so lightly, are so superficial about it, expect—and offtifnes get—the laurels which should come only with long apprenticeship and perfection. The art of application appears to be unknown now. “Perhaps young artists today deo not receive the proper training or the encouragement to try to immolate themselves and dedicate them- selves for and to their art. The gift of even a great talent must be nourished; certainly then the lesser gift must be doubly tended. You have to be endowed with genius, the gift rarely given to man or woman, to feel that strict ap- plication is unnecessary. And when I speak of genius, I mean the superlative gift. HI BELIEVE that the more you give the more you are capable of giving, which is a tenet of Hindu philosophy. Audiences took from me the best I had to give at the time of life when I was best equipped to give. They forced it from me. I would stand before a hetercgeneous audience and experience the strangest sort of sensation. I cannot describe it. It was an inner, recondite thing. There was live, vibrating material before me. I re- sponded to it, went out to meet it, sent out parts of myself to it. Waves passed over the congiomerate mass. Sparks would almost fly here and there, a regular electrical exchange which I felt throughout my nervous system. “You meet this pulsating moment with spon- taneity. But before an audience a certain price is exacted. It is bits of your living self, intangible, lacking concrete form, that you pour forth. You pay the price, but you are Jucky to have that price to pay. “Now all that is over, but I do not face a great void. So many people say to me: ‘This retirement—it must be something like dying. Doesn’t it sadden you to give up a glamorous career, a busy life, to settle down to a stretch of unexciting years? You are brave to take it as you do.’ Gr¥an s » b 1 o Thuva 9 , Says Geraldine Farrar “So many people are afraid of age or resent st. To them years mean decrepitude and deterioration. They forget that years also mean judgment, ripeness and understand- sng. And they overlook the fact that if vyou are philosophical and wander down another road of life, a less active one than the main one of one’s prime, the years after 50 need not look drab at all. “It seems to me that the wmost unhappy gesture for amy profes- stonal person to make is an attitude which would call forth sympathy or apology at the time of retirement. Why ask to be pitied because one faces an casier and more serene time of Iife?” —GERALDINE FARRAR. “Brave? Not a bit of it. That's not the word to use. The manner in which an artist faces this business of retirement is, of course, something very individualisticc. Each one re- acts to it differently. As for myself, I cannot see why, when one has reached a certain pe- riod, a height, and there is nothing more toward which to climb in that direction, he cannot take another path. “Youth must be served. The ranks must be thinned out for those who have talent and who have not yet had their chance. Music is an impersonal gift. You cannot say you own it. You are only a small fragment of that magnificence. You possess the gift for a while, then you relinquish it to others and pass on. You must not strive to recapture it, to hold it long after you have the right to do so. Sing- ing is an intangible thing. It isn’t like other creative gifts. It is, in a way, a physical thing, since it endures only during the time the artist actually is singing and the singer has personal contact with those who listen to her singing, When the years take their toll and the in- strument of song feels their touch, just as other parts of the body do, it is high time for the artist to let go, vanish from the stage. " USIC isn't a personal thing. It is a most impersonal gift, always beautiful. but elemental as the stars. Art is aristocratic, and aristocracy means choice. It means that you choose to set a high standard for your art, then that you choose to attain, then tq retain it and at last to relinquish the art itself at the proper time. “I find it singularly easy to let go. There are so many things I want to do, so many places to which I want to go, so many people with whom I want to visit, so many intel- lectual pursuits I want to follow, so much music I want to hear, so many beauties I wish to see. “Retirement a heart-breaking business? Not at all! You arrive at a certain age. You must fit yourself into it and ycu must do it with a philosophy which you have worked out for yourself. You don't want to be an ane achronism. I, for instance, do not hunger to be an active part of this age—this age which is not really mine. I am a person identified with the period of 1900. This isn't may day nor my era. I belong back in the early part of the century, and part of me belongs to the Paris Grand Qpera, the Berlin Grand Opera and to world capitals in which I have sung. Another type of youthful enthusiasm is ree quired for an active part in the making of this epoch. It is better now for me to be an observer rather than a participant. “Everything passes. I am a realist. I do not deceive myself. I know that I, too, have passed as an interpreter, as an operatic prima donna or concert star. And everything changes, I, too, have changed. I am not a young nor an ultra-fashionable person. I don’t want to pretend to be such a person. My hair is al- most entirely gray. I wear it long, because I grew up in an era of long hair. o X4 “Facing age philosophically does something beneficial for a human being. It lends even charm to one’s appearance. It depends entirely on one's individual philosophy and attitude toward life how one meets age and the more inactive phase of living. “As for myself, I did what I wanted to do in life. I enjoyed a long and satisfactory career. I am fulfilled utterly. I have achieved my destiny. I am satisfled. Now I must face about and do other things. “I do not intend to fill the void with cooking, Nor with sewing, nor embroidery work. I can- not handle a needle. I cannot do any of the agreeable and housewifely things that so many women like. And I don't want to do them. There is nothing of domesticity about me. It never entered my scheme of things in the past, has no place in it now. I never had the time nor the inclination for those tasks when I was dedp in my career. Now, at this late date, I have no need of them, either. “But travel, music, books, sculpture, friends, gardens, animals and the country, these I ine tend to enjoy. I have worked hard for more than thirty years. Now I am going to have some fun. And some rest.” (Copyright. 1932.) Dusting Seed Aids C rops of experimentation in treating seed prior to its sowing has indicated that by dusting the seed the yield per acre can be in- creased tiree bushels an acre. The dusting powder is designed to prevent development of certain specific disease of the ye iy 1 " y14ar.of