Alberto Randegger was present at this, and came up to her afterwards, saying, "Miss Etherington, you must undoubtedly go on the stage."
"After that," said Miss Tempest, "I seemed to be on the boards before I knew where I was."
"The first piece in which I appeared was 'Boccacio,' at the Comedy Theatre; from that I went to the Opéra Comique for 'Fay o' Fire,' and then came 'Dorothy,' and—the rest." What a record it has been, that series of triumphs in light opera, concert, and comedy, thus dismissed with a smile and a characteristic shrug of the shoulders as—"the rest"!
Another pupil of Garcia at the Academy about this time was Madame Agnes Larkcom.
Arthur Oswald, now a professor at the Royal Academy of Music, tells me that at one of his lessons he was stopped by Señor Garcia with the word "wrong!" He was surprised, because he felt sure that he had sung the right notes in time and tune, and with careful attention to the words and vocal phrasing. "I will give you five minutes to find out," said Garcia to the puzzled pupil when he asked to be told the fault. At the end of that time the master said, "Voix blanche, voix ouverte, voix horrible."
Mr Oswald recounted another episode which was very typical. His friend William Nicholl, after studying under various Continental and English masters, was anxious to have an interview with Garcia to make sure that he had assimilated correct ideas. A meeting was accordingly arranged, and he went up to "Mon Abri," expecting to be put through some sort of catechism as to the human voice and the principle of singing. Instead of this, Garcia, on learning that his visitor wished to teach, motioned him to the piano-stool. "Will you sit down, please? Merci. Now, you are the master, I am the pupil. I know absolutely nothing. Give me my first lesson."
Nicholl commenced to carry out this very practical test of his powers to the best of his ability. All went well till in an unlucky moment he mentioned the phrase "voice-production," which was the maestro's pet aversion. In an instant Garcia leapt to his feet and banged his fist on the piano. "Mon Dieu! How can you produce a voice? Can you show it to me and say, 'See, here it is. Examine it?' Non! Can you pour it out like molten lead into the sand? Non! There is no such thing as voice-production. Perhaps you mean voice-emission. You do? Eh, bien! Then say so, please."
"Through the good offices of a friend," says another pupil, "I found myself one day in Garcia's room at the London Academy of Music. He was just finishing a lesson, and I was struck at once by the extreme courtesy and patience with which he taught, the charm of his manner, the directness, the common-sense, and uncommon penetration of his remarks.
"He welcomed me with a few graceful words, scrutinising me with a keen but friendly glance. Thus I sang to him with much confidence, losing all the nervousness with which I had looked forward to the examination by so famous a judge. He accompanied me gently, yet with firmness and rhythmical decision. When I had finished he looked straight at me, and to my utter astonishment remarked, 'You are a philosopher, are you not?'
"'Oh, I have studied philosophy to some extent,' I replied.