The worst thing Sbriglia had to contend with was the obtuseness of people. They did not know when they were doing well or ill, and would not believe him when he told them. I remember being there one day while a young Canadian girl was making tones for the master. She had a good voice and could have made a really fine effect if she could only have heard herself with her brain. After he had been working with her for a time, she sang a delightful note properly placed.
"Good!" exclaimed Sbriglia.
"That was lovely," I put in.
"That? I wouldn't sing like that for anything! It sounded like an old woman's voice!" cried the girl, quite amazed.
Sbriglia threw up his hands in a frenzy and ordered her out of the house. So that was an end of her as far as he was concerned.
Sbriglia really loved to teach. It was a genuine joy to him to put the finishing touches on a voice; to do those things for it that, apparently, the Creator had not had time to do. I know one singer who, when complimented upon his vast improvement, replied without the slightest intention of impiety:
"Yes, I am singing well now, thanks to Sbriglia,—and, of course, le bon Dieu!" he added as an after-thought.
Everyone knows what Sbriglia did for Jean de Reszke, turning him from an unsuccessful baritone into the foremost tenor of the world. Sbriglia first met the Polish singer at some Paris party, where de Reszke told him that he was discouraged, that his career as a baritone had not been a fortunate one, and that he had about made up his mind to give it all up and leave the stage. He was a rich man and did not sing for a living like most professionals. Sbriglia had heard him sing. Said he:
"M. de Reszke, you are not a baritone."
"I am coming to that conclusion myself," said Monsieur ruefully.