What a wonderful experience those lessons proved, lasting sometimes nearly two hours! When he was interested in explaining certain effects in singing or in recounting stories of artists and operas apropos of the work in hand, time ceased to exist. The luncheon-bell would ring three or four times without having any apparent effect, so engrossed was he in his subject. At the end of the lesson he would, with the old courtliness of his youth, insist on seeing one out himself. If one opened the door and stood aside for him to pass, the manœuvre proved perfectly useless. With a delightful gesture he insisted on his guest preceding him, saying, "Ici je suis chez moi." Then he would skilfully slip along the hall and open the front door. There he would stand—oblivious, and apparently impervious, to draughts and cold—chatting for several minutes or giving some parting advice before holding out his hand and wishing one au revoir.
Almost more surprising is it that he should have continued to carry on his correspondence. Many a long letter was received from him during those years; while on one occasion he actually wrote out the entire music of an Italian aria, "Liete voci," giving his own elaborations of the original melody.
During the lessons he would remain seated at the piano, undertaking all accompaniments himself. These would be given quietly, but with a firm, rhythmical precision. In the case of the old Italian arie, they would generally be played from memory. His white expressive hands would weave elaborate preludes and harmonies into the music, and as one sang he would sit with closed eyes as though his thoughts were far away. But they were not, they were very much present. If a mistake were made the music would cease, the error be pointed out, and a suggestion given for its correction. This would take the form either of some helpful little observation, made in clear, precise terms, or of personal illustration, given in English, or more often French. Though over ninety years old, he was quite equal to showing how he wanted notes taken or an effect given by singing the passage himself. On one memorable occasion he sang two entire octaves, commencing at the low A flat, and ending with a high baritone G sharp. It sounds an almost incredible tour de force, but is an absolute fact. The voice naturally trembled with age, though in a surprisingly slight degree. But the timbre, enunciation, and dramatic power were still there, while every phrase revealed the extraordinary fire of his Spanish temperament.
When he had been singing thus one day he laughed and said, "I cannot sing any more. You see how the voice trembles. That, you must not imitate. The tremolo is an abomination—it is execrable. Never allow it to appear, even for a moment, in your voice. It blurs the tone and gives a false effect. Many French singers cultivate it, and I will tell you why."
There had been at one time, he said, an eminent vocalist worshipped by the Parisian public. His voice was beautiful in quality, faultless in intonation, and absolutely steady in emission. At last, however, he began to grow old. With increasing years the voice commenced to shake. But he was a great artist. Realising that the tremolo was a fault, but one which could not then be avoided, he brought his mind to bear upon the problem before him. As a result, he adopted a style of song in which he had to display intense emotion throughout. Since in life the voice trembles at such moments, he was able to hide his failing in this way by a quality of voice which appeared natural to the situation. The Parisians did not grasp the workings of his brain, and the clever way in which he had hidden his fault. They only heard that in every song which he sang his voice trembled. At once, therefore, they concluded that if so fine an effect could be obtained, it was evidently something to be imitated. Hence the singers deliberately began to cultivate a tremolo. The custom grew and grew until it became almost a canon in French singing.
The maestro told another story to illustrate the strange way in which effects were sometimes produced by the old vocalists. A certain artist was singing Secchi's "Lungi dal caro." Something in his voice gripped the audience from the first bar. There was an indefinable quality which they had never experienced before, something which thrilled and stirred them with an inexpressible weirdness, something which almost made the blood run cold. When the music ceased, every one drew a deep breath and remained silent for a few moments. Then came a burst of rapturous applause. Later on, a fellow musician went up to the singer, congratulated him, and then said, "Tell me how you were able to produce that effect upon your audience."
"Did you not hear? No? Then I will tell you how I did it. Throughout the music I sang the least shade flat. The result you observed."
And now a few words as to Manuel Garcia's Method of Teaching.
He always impressed on singers and teachers alike that the Art of Singing was not voice-production, a term which he loathed, but guidance in voice-emission.
His Method may be perhaps summed up in the doctrine that it was not a method—in the sense that he had no hard and fast rules,—his object always being to make each pupil sing in the way most natural and involving the least effort. He was careful to impress on one the fact that any visible effort took away from the charm of the singer. If one gave too free play to the lungs, and sang beyond oneself, he would remark, "You must not forget the advice my father gave me: 'Do not let anybody see the bottom of your purse; never spend all you possess, nor have it noticed that you are at your last resource.'"