“Naturally, your efforts attracted attention?”
“Yes, I became a very good church singer; so much so that, when there were church concerts or important religious ceremonies, I was always in demand. Then there began to be a social demand for my ability, and, later, a public demand in the way of concerts.”
“At Farmington?”
“Oh, no. At Boston. I forgot to say that my parents removed, while I was still quite young, to Boston.”
“Did you give much of your time to public concerts?”
“None at all. I ignored all but church singing. My ambition ran higher than concert singing, and I knew my parents would not consent. I persuaded them to let me have my voice trained. This was not very difficult, because my church singing, as it had improved, became a source of considerable profit, and they saw even greater results for me in the large churches and in the religious field generally. So I went to a teacher of vocal culture.”
“Where, if you please?”
“Professor John O’Neill, one of the instructors in the New England Conservatory of Music, Boston, was a fine old teacher, a man with the highest ideals concerning music, and of the sternest and most exacting method. He made me feel, at first, that the world was mine if I would work. Hard work was his constant cry. There must be no play, no training for lower forms of public entertainment, no anything but study and practice. I must work and perfect myself in private, and then suddenly appear unheralded in the highest class of opera and take the world by storm. It was a fine fancy.”
“Did you manage to work it out so?”
“No. It wouldn’t have been possible. O’Neill was a fine musician. In his mind and heart, all his aspiration was sincere, but it was not to be.”