At the beginning of the year 1867 we traveled to Paris.
But, I remember, of the powerful impression which it must produce on every one to come for the first time to the mighty metropolis about which one has heard and read so much,—of this impression I felt very little, my mind was so full of the “one important thing.” Even the prospect of the pleasure of meeting the Dadiani family of Mingrelia again here did not come so close to me; the only thing that I could think about, that made me tremble with terror and excitement, was the question, How will Maître Duprez judge of my voice, what progress shall I make, and what shape will my artistic career take?
The maestro owned a mansion on the Rue Laval, in which was a hall with a stage. Adjacent were small study-rooms in which the maestro and his son, Léon Duprez, gave private instruction. Every Friday the more advanced students gave arias and scenes from operas on the stage, and the little theater was filled with an audience of their friends and of strangers from outside. On the other side of the court was a small hôtel used as a residence by the Duprez family, which consisted of the father and mother, the son and daughter-in-law.
At our first visit in the Rue Laval we were conducted into the theater building. First we went into a small waiting-room, around the walls of which ran bookcases full of opera scores. Students of both sexes were sitting and standing about, chatting. In the theater too a few scattered individuals were sitting and listening to the performance of a quite young girl who, with the accompanist of the establishment, Monsieur Maton, was practicing the Rosina aria, Una voce poco fa. Monsieur Maton had written out most artistic colorature for her; it purled and warbled like anything.
So then this school enables one to reach such a bravura! It inspired me with courage and the resolution to be very industrious.
Still, what verdict would the maestro pass on me after the test?—surely not like the severe Viardot. With quaking heart I mounted the steps to the stage, behind which was the room where M. Duprez was waiting for me. A benevolent old gentleman, well along toward eighty, but lively and vigorous, came to meet me. He had white curly hair, ruddy cheeks, and smiling eyes.
“Well, mademoiselle, so it was you who wrote me that enthusiastic letter, was it? You want to be something great or else nothing at all, do you? Well, then, let me hear how your voice sounds, and see if you can read notes.”
He handed me a book of original solfeggios and sat down at the upright piano. This time the test resulted favorably.
“Beautiful voice; I shall be able to make something of you—in two years you shall be la première force.”
I was happy, simply happy! Now the hours of instruction were settled; I was to have lessons twice a week. That was not enough for me.