"Thank you, dear people. Thank you for your indulgence. It is my début in my beloved land. I am an American-born girl. My first teacher, and my best, was my mother...." The audience received this filial sentiment with overwhelming applause. "Does that young lady know the ropes?" ironically inquired Alfred. "Mother first and best teacher!--that's the stuff to put over for the sentimental imbeciles. And isn't she grateful? Not a word about you--not a word about Lilli or Cosima--that girl has won out in a "walk," he added. As they pushed through the guzzing throng--Max Hirsh told them that the gate-money was bigger than at any other opening night for seasons--they heard nothing but praise. It was Istar here, Istar there, everywhere Istar! The sound of the exotic name seemed to hypnotize the mob. Madame Ash smiled: "Are you green enough to expect gratitude from a singer? I think the 'mother' allusion was a master-stroke. Esther is a genius." VII Happy singers, like happy nations, have no history. Easter was a happy singer, but she had plenty of histories, though they would never be engraved on deathless tablets. Volition being her strongest asset, and pleasure-loving her weakness, she spent her nights singing, her days trifling. She called it happiness, a reaction from the passionate tension of interpreting Isolde, Brunnhilde, Kundry, Norma for the delight of huge audiences. The morning saw her briskly walking through the park. Her apartment was on Central Park West, near 72nd Street. Her robust physique daily demanded many cubic feet of fresh air. In the afternoon she rode about in her car; there now were two at her service, one, an electric brougham for the city visits, the shops. She was fairly prudent in diet, though she drank too much champagne, smoked too many cigarettes. Punctual at rehearsals, she was out of bed earlier on those days. So the opera didn't interfere with hygiene. An admirable artiste, and with the moral sense to be observed in a barnyard.