But the great teacher shut up the score in the middle of a measure and said, “The truth of the matter is, you can do nothing at all.”
It was as if I had been given a box on the ear and a dagger-thrust both at once.
“Let us have another trial, then, with notes filées—in order to see what might be made of the material—there is certainly voice there—”
And she struck low C. This test was easier for me. Still I could not give all that I had—the tones were hoarse and my breath was short. After the two octaves up to high C were tested, she stood up.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Past twenty,” I replied with a half lie, for I was already twenty-two.
“That is too late to start from the beginning. At twenty, one ought to be already trained. And tell me, why do you really want to go on the stage? You have social standing—your name shows it.”
In reply I said something about ambition and love for art.
“That is all very pretty, but I can only advise you not to give up your position. Your voice is not bad, but it is not extraordinary, and it is questionable whether you could learn anything.”
“Madame, she has talent,” insisted my mother. “And under your instruction it would most certainly develop.”