The first lesson for all pupils would be practically a chat on the singer's aims and on the instrument at his disposal: he would explain in clear language the different parts of the instrument, and show that the lungs had to be properly filled; then in the first attempt at emission a steady gentle stream was to be sent out, while one guarded against the natural tendency to empty the lungs quickly. At the larynx the air in passing through the little lips of the glottis received pitch, which varied according to the rapidity with which these opened and allowed puffs of air to pass through; then in passing through the passage from the larynx to the front of the mouth they received timbre and vowel-tone, which varied according to the shape of the pharynx and the height of the soft palate.
The tone was then to be directed to the front of the mouth, and here the consonants were made, but these latter were not to interfere with the flow of sound or cause any jerkiness. When a phrase was commenced the tone was to flow on evenly, smoothly, steadily, with greater or less sustaining power as desired, until the end was reached. He would further explain something of the theory of registers, and the causes of various kinds of tones, good and bad. Finally, before telling the pupil to make his first tones, he would impress on him this: "If you do not understand anything perfectly, ask me at once, and I will endeavour to clear up the point and show you how to get over the difficulty. And remember that we must have the knowledge to guide the emission of the voice with our brains. When the tone has once been emitted it is too late to correct a fault. We must be aware beforehand exactly what we are going to do. We must know what is right and how to do it. That is the secret."
After this preliminary explanation the first step invariably consisted in the emission of a steady tone, deep breathing being insisted on for the purpose. At the first sign of unsteadiness in the tone the pupil was directed to stop and begin again. In the intervals of rest the physiology of the voice was clearly and carefully explained, and the proper position of the various parts of the body and throat, and the management of the vocal cords necessary for the emission of resonant tone, were the first laws laid down. When once the pupil could sing a scale slowly and steadily, the way was open to the practice of exercises; and very often in the case of a voice of promise these exercises constituted the whole course of study for a considerable period.
The famous coup de la glotte, or shock of the glottis, with which his name is associated, has often been misapplied from ignorance of its real object, which was to secure that the vocal cords were closed at the commencement of the tone, and that there was consequently no preliminary escape of the breath. How far his methods, which also included the imparting of a remarkable grasp of every phase of vocal expression, were successful, is to be gathered from the list of his direct or indirect pupils, which, as we have seen, includes a great many of the most prominent representatives in the world of song.
At the lessons the maestro did not, as a rule, offer either praise or blame. He was, however, always encouraging, and treated pupils according to their individual powers. He seemed to know instinctively what they could manage and what was beyond them. His remarks might be made in English, French, or Italian, so that the pupil had to keep his wits about him. In them there was a directness and penetration which filled one with implicit confidence in his keen mind and extraordinary experience. Hardly a lesson passed in which he did not, during the intervals for rest, tell some anecdotes of the most engrossing interest. These would have as their subject the elder Garcia, Malibran, Jenny Lind, Meyerbeer, Rossini, Mario, Pasta, or some other of the great musicians of the past. Often, too, he would speak of his memories of Spain, of the Peninsular War, the French Revolution, the first New York season of Italian opera, his tour in Mexico, the discovery of the laryngoscope, or other memories of his long career. But though related with delightful readiness, these stories always displayed extreme modesty in reference to the part played by himself in the various episodes.
It was in the same spirit, too, that he would speak of his efforts as a teacher. "I only tell you how to sing, what tone is good, what faults are to be avoided, what is artistic, what inartistic. I try to awaken your intelligence, so that you may be able to criticise your own singing as severely as I do. I want you to listen to your voice, and use your brain. If you find a difficulty, do not shirk it. Make up your mind to master it. So many singers give up what they find hard. They think they are better off by leaving it, and turning their attention to other things which come more easily. Do not be like them.
"In Paris once a number of boys were set some problems whilst competing for a prize at the Gymnase. One of them was seen to cry, and on being asked why he did so, replied that the problems were too easy. He was afraid that all the others would be able to do them as well as himself, so that he would be prevented from carrying off the prize. The master smiled, and told him to answer the questions by a more difficult method, if he knew one. He did so, and gained the first place.
"Many singers do the opposite. They burst into tears because they find a thing too hard. Do not be afraid to face a difficulty. Make up your mind to conquer it. I only direct you. If you do a thing badly, it is your fault, not mine. If you do it well, all praise to you, not to me. I show pupils how to sing, and the proper way to study. Suppose some one meets me out of doors and says, 'Can you tell me the way to Hampstead Heath?' I answer, 'I will walk there with you.' We set out, and I keep by his side, saying, 'This is the street we have to pass through. Do not turn down there. That goes in the wrong direction. Follow my instruction, and you will arrive at your destination. I know the road well.' If he takes the wrong turning, that is his fault, not mine. I cannot prevent him from going off into the slums. I can only say 'Do not go there—that is wrong.' He must follow my advice or not, as he chooses. Again, if we come to a very steep hill, and he says, 'I can't climb that. It is too difficult. Let us not go up—I am tired'; I can only reply, 'If you wish to reach the Heath, you must climb it. There is no other way of getting to your destination.' But if he is lazy, and will not mount it by his own endeavour, I cannot lift him and carry him upon my shoulders."
How characteristic it was of the master's innate modesty to speak of his work in this simple way! How he ignored the times when he pulled the pupils back by main force from that wrong path; when he cheered them on, should they get discouraged; when he described in concise terms the easiest way of climbing up that hill! If they failed to mount the ascent on the first occasion, he explained the reason for their failure. Then he bade them be of good courage and try again. If they failed ten times, he would once more carefully repeat exactly what had to be done, and seek for fresh illustrations which might perhaps put the matter in a clearer light. Truly, if he did not actually carry them up the steep path, he came very near doing so. He was like a friend offering assistance rather than a teacher paid to instruct. Ah, dear maestro! never shall I forget the infinite patience and gentleness which you displayed in those hours of study.
When a difficulty had been overcome, he would smile and say, "That was as I wish. Do it again. Good! Now try and impress upon your mind exactly what you did. Sing it once again. C'est ça! Do not let the old mistake occur again." If one did allow it to reappear, he would shake his head sorrowfully and say, "Jenny Lind would have cut her throat sooner than have given me reason to say, 'We corrected that mistake last time.'" It seemed at first strange, to say the least, to hear these comparisons made between oneself and a pupil who had studied under the same master fifty years previously. However, after studying for three years, I grew used to hearing him speak of musicians who had been dead forty years or more; of a sister who, after a brilliant career, had died in 1836; of a father who had come into the world a hundred and twenty years previously; and of his first singing-master, Ansani, who was born early in the eighteenth century. At any rate, during the last year of study I was able to hear such casual remarks as "Ah, yes, I remember teaching this song to Stockhausen for his début" (the great German vocalist being at the time somewhere about seventy years of age), without evincing more than a momentary surprise.