GEORGE G. PETERSON
The subject of my sketch, George G. Peterson, began his studies at my studio 1108-1/2 Broadway. He had a deep bass voice of fine quality which he used with excellent understanding and soon attracted attention at the First Christian church where he worshipped. George was a devout Christian and prominent worker in the church and was in demand for his musical worth as well, singing so well that he became leading bass in the choir and occupied the position with honor. With all his daily work as an artisan he found time to master and play successfully the violin, mandolin, auto harp and harmonica combined, banjo and guitar. He passed out of life April 26th, 1912, leaving a wife, son and daughter to mourn the loss of a talented father. So my musical family comes and goes and I am called upon to lose them first in one way and then in another. This was a sad surprise and a shock to me. I wrote to him to come and see me and the answer came, "George has gone up higher. He is not here among us any longer." It was a sad message from the devoted wife. He was still a young, bright and active man, but thirty-seven years of age. Truly "God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform." In all things may we be able to say, "Thy will, not mine, be done."
ODE TO A VOICE
Dedicated to Lady Margaret, with much love, by Mary Alice Sanford.
Christmas, 1909.
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Singing forever from morn until night, From low and sad to high and bright, The voice of my Lady resounds in the air, And tells all the world to put aside care. As if watching the distant horizon blue, We finally see the ships come in view, We hear the soft music rise to her lips, And those beautiful tones are our stately ships. But listen again! Now what do we hear? Why the rippling of the waters clear, Or the lark's sweet song in yonder skies. Or the soft flight of the butterflies. The low murmuring of the breeze, The nodding of the leaves on trees, The blushing rose, the lily pure, Is sung by a voice which can never be truer. The anger of the stormy water, The passion of lovers who never falter, The insanity of a jealous husband's rage Is sung by the marvelous voice of the age. Her voice is borne on the wings of a dove, With many kind thoughts and praises of love, She has sung to us all, and we'll never forget The beautiful voice of my Lady Margaret. |
The writer of this poem, Mary Alice Sanford, came into my life in 1908. Her family moved into the flat above mine some time in August of that year. Her mother informed me that she was musical, and from the way she spoke I expected to see a young woman of about nineteen or twenty years. I was surprised, instead, a few days later, to see a slip of a schoolgirl looking at me in a timid way and rather reserved in manner. Later I invited her into the studio and I asked her if she liked music, to which she said yes. During the call she said she wished to sing. She had never had any instruction, her music was instrumental altogether. After she had given me an example of her instrumental work I said she should sing also, but at this she informed me she could not afford the vocal with the other, but her desire was to sing as well as play. I asked her what ability she had for reading or accompanying. She informed me she read her notes rapidly. At this I handed her the fifty lessons by Concone and opened to the first exercises, asked her to play while I sang for her. I thought perhaps the first lessons were too easy so I gave her a more difficult one, and I found she could read the most difficult lessons in the book and accompany with the greatest ease. I asked her her age, and she informed me in a month she would be sixteen years old. I asked her if she would like to earn her own lessons. She looked at me surprised at my proposition. Before her visit was over it was agreed she should be accompanist for my students, who needed her services. This was glorious news to her mother, who so greatly desired her to sing but was unable to give her both branches at this time, and she had also just pride that her daughter was able through her musical knowledge to give herself the much longed for opportunity which had come to her so unexpectedly. Everything was complete now, and the lessons began at once.
I found in her a real student, a most attentive listener, a voice small but clear and high. Later on in the development it proved very elastic, nothing acceptable below middle C. A pure lyric soprano, it was constantly developing higher in the tones. I often cautioned her not to sing so high, it would not do, when she would reply, "I cannot help it, it just goes there." I paid my closest attention to her for the period of four years. In that time she had not only learned to sing and play, but also studied harmony and languages. Latin and German she studied in school, Italian in the studio with Professor Arena, Spanish from her father, who is a linguist. With all this colossal work for this young mind and her achievements in technic and languages I was yet dissatisfied, for I had not yet received a response that I had longed and hoped for while she was drinking in all this vast amount of knowledge. She never gave out to let me see any result of all this accumulation of musical knowledge which I knew she possessed, never asking a question or advancing any question or enthusiastic outburst of expression. Being romantic in my interpretation of song I hoped she had imbibed also a strain of it which she lacked, as I noticed in the beginning. I was at my wits' ends to find the spring, but she resisted all my efforts. I knew she was excessively shy but did not think that would prevent her in showing in some way her appreciation of the instruction and her idea of what she had formed of all this teaching, explanation and example in these years.
Her songs were accurately sung in any language with which she was familiar. Her singing was highly complimented upon, yet there was something I had not yet found. I sang many hours for her the old and the new songs and she accompanied with musicianly art, but no expression came to me from her. I got an idea from her mother which songs she liked best and I soon found she had supplied herself with those she did like and I had sung for her in practice. In December, 1909, I at last reaped my reward. She, with other pupils, remembered me, and before bringing her gift she felt as though she had not given me enough, and at last she said, "I must do something more," and entered her room, and closed the door for a half hour. She had given me in verse what she could not say to me. Her excessive shyness prevented her, much as she appreciated my singing and teaching and the interpretation of song and its different modes of expression, whether it be sacred, descriptive, florid or romantic. She portrayed these lines with a poet's art—never did Tennyson write his first efforts with more beautiful description than this young poetess has written in these beautiful lines which I cannot read without emotion. She gave me her affectionate expression in this poem which I appreciate more highly than rubies, and with pride I place her offering in this book of memoirs for all to read and for all young persons who are students to feel that a conscientious teacher deserves their love and appreciation in return for their efforts to develop the highest perfection in the pupil. They cannot all be poets but they can at least honor the master by showing appreciation.
In these four years of study she had outdistanced all of those who began with her in 1908. She plays the organ each Sabbath at the English Lutheran Church. She has several piano pupils and once a week practices two hours in a private ensemble club, violins, cello and piano; has completed the course of harmony of three months, has studied composition, writes songs and the words for them. She has written a number of instrumental pieces for both hands, and two numbers for the left hand. I have been honored with the gift of two of her songs, one sacred and the other a lullaby. She began in earnest to compose some time ago and these pieces have been the result. She practices the piano about four hours daily. Her compositions are very meritorious. It is my opinion if she keeps up her work that it will not be long before the public of California will have another musician to add to the already great number gone before her. There is but one regret in the makeup of this young aspirant. It is her self-consciousness or excessive shyness, whether physical or mental, in relation to the opinion of others. She is so thoroughly conscientious she will not do anything unless it is just right. If she can overcome this malady in her contact with people there is nothing left in her pathway to prevent her successful career. It has been difficult for me to bear with patience this affliction, for I see too well her future. Shyness is no respecter of persons. Many of our great men like Charles Matthews, Garrick, Sir Isaac Newton, Byron, were afflicted with it and shunned all notoriety. She has fought successfully her other battles, let us hope she will conquer this obstacle also. I, her instructor, will be the first to rejoice in her victory and her Lady Margaret will compel her to write another song. But this time it will be a song of rejoicing and victory.
