THERE MUST BE NO PLAY, ONLY STUDY AND PRACTICE.
“By devoting all my time, all my thought, and all my energy to that one object. I devoured church music—all I could get hold of. I practiced new and difficult compositions all the time I could spare.”
“Naturally, your efforts attracted attention?”
“Yes, I became a very good church singer; so much so that, when there were church concerts or important religious ceremonies, I was always in demand. Then there began to be a social demand for my ability, and, later, a public demand in the way of concerts.”
“At Farmington?”
“Oh, no. At Boston. I forgot to say that my parents removed, while I was still quite young, to Boston.”
“Did you give much of your time to public concerts?”
“None at all. I ignored all but church singing. My ambition ran higher than concert singing, and I knew my parents would not consent. I persuaded them to let me have my voice trained. This was not very difficult, because my church singing, as it had improved, became a source of considerable profit, and they saw even greater results for me in the large churches and in the religious field generally. So I went to a teacher of vocal culture.”
“Where, if you please?”
“Professor John O’Neill, one of the instructors in the New England Conservatory of Music, Boston, was a fine old teacher, a man with the highest ideals concerning music, and of the sternest and most exacting method. He made me feel, at first, that the world was mine if I would work. Hard work was his constant cry. There must be no play, no training for lower forms of public entertainment, no anything but study and practice. I must work and perfect myself in private, and then suddenly appear unheralded in the highest class of opera and take the world by storm. It was a fine fancy.”
“Did you manage to work it out so?”
“No. It wouldn’t have been possible. O’Neill was a fine musician. In his mind and heart, all his aspiration was sincere, but it was not to be.”
“Were you ambitious enough?”
“Oh, yes! and most conscientious. Under him I studied the physiology of the voice, and practiced singing oratorios. I also took up Italian, familiarizing myself with the language, with all the songs and endless arias. In fact, I made myself as perfect in Italian as possible.”
“How much time did the training take?”
“Three years.”
“And what was the result?”
“Well, I had greatly improved, but was not perfect. Mr. O’Neill employed methods of making me work which discouraged me. He was a man who would magnify and storm over your slightest error, and make light of or ignore your sincerest achievements. If anything, he put his grade of perfection so high that I began to consider it unattainable, and lost heart. Finally, I gave it up and rested awhile, uncertain of everything.”
“And then?”
“After I had thought awhile and regained some confidence, I came to New York to see Mme. Maretzek. She was not only a teacher, but also a singer quite famous in her day and knew the world of music thoroughly. She considered my voice to be of the right quality for the highest grade of operatic success, and gave me hope that, with a little more training, I could begin my career. She not only did that, but also set me to studying the great operas, ‘Lucia’ and the others, and introduced me to the American musical celebrities. Together we heard whatever was worth hearing in New York. When the renowned Brignola came to New York she took me to the Everett House, where he was stopping, and introduced me. They were good friends, and, after gaining his opinion of my voice, we went to hear him sing ‘Faust.’
“That was a wonderful thing for me. To hear the great Brignola! It fired my ambition. As I listened, I felt that I could also be great, and that people, some day, might listen to me as enraptured as I then was by him. It put new fire into me and caused me to fairly toil over my studies. I would have given up all my hours if I had been allowed or requested to.”
“And then what?”
“Well, so it went until, after several years of study, Madame Maretzek thought I was getting pretty well along and might venture some important public singing. We talked about different ways of appearing, and what I would sing and so on, until finally Gilmore’s band came to Madison Square Garden. He was in the heyday of his success then, both popular and famous, and carried important soloists with him. Madame Maretzek decided that she would take me to see him and get his opinion; and so, one day, toward the very last of his Madison Square engagement, we went to see him. Madame Maretzek was on good terms with him also. I remember that she took me in one morning when he was rehearsing. I saw a stout, kindly, genial looking man who was engaged in tapping for attention, calling certain individuals to notice certain points, and generally fluttering around over a dozen odds and ends. Madame Maretzek talked with him a little while and then called his attention to me. He looked toward me.
“‘Thinks she can sing, eh? Yes, yes. Well, all right! Let her come right along.’
“Then he called to me: