THREE-SCORE YEARS AND TEN.
(1874-1890.)
"Every year a man lives, he is worth less." This is what Manuel Garcia
used to assert when he was drawing near to the completion of those
three-score years and ten which have been set down as the natural span
of human life. As far as his own career was concerned, however, the
statement was singularly lacking in truth. His mode of living at the age
of seventy has been well described by Hermann Klein, his pupil, friend,
and collaborator in the final text-book, 'Hints on Singing,' published
some twenty years later, when the veteran musician was over ninety years
of age.
Mr Klein has been kind enough to send over from New York some
interesting reminiscences for insertion in this chapter.
In the year 1874 Mr Klein's parents occupied a large house at the corner
of Bentinck Street and Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square, and I will
leave the sometime musical critic of 'The Sunday Times' to tell the
story of the next few months.
"I find by a letter of my mother's," he writes, "that Señor Garcia first
called to see her at 1 Bentinck Street in November 1873, and took the
rooms on the ground floor on a yearly agreement from the following
March. He moved in punctually on Lady Day 1874, bringing with him his
trusty Erard grand piano (which had even then seen considerable wear,
but continued to serve him faithfully at 'Mon Abri' to the last); also
the noble bust of Beethoven, which used to stand upon a marble ledge or
shelf fixed permanently to the wall between the two windows. The piano
stood in the middle of the room, and he always took care to place his
pupils so that the light fell full upon their faces. I recollect my
mother asking him if he would like another mirror besides the one over
the mantelpiece. He replied, 'No, it is not necessary. I don't want my
pupils to be looking at themselves all the time. They have to look at
me.'
"His lunch invariably consisted of the same simple fare--some
sponge-cakes and a pint of milk, which would be fetched from a baker
close by by my younger brother Charles. I asked Señor Garcia once if he
did not feel hungry long before dinner, teaching as he did all day on
such slender diet. 'No,' he answered, 'I don't feel half the discomfort
from waiting that I should if I took a hearty meal in the middle of the
day and then tried to teach immediately afterwards. Besides, I don't
really need it. Most singers and teachers of singing eat more than they
should. A man with moderate teeth, such as I have, can grow old on
sponge-cake and milk!' And he lived for more than thirty years after
that to prove the truth of his remark.
[Illustration: Photo by Davis & Eickenmeyer.
Handwritten signature: to M Sterling MacKinlay, esq. with Kindest
regards of Hermann Klein New York, '06]
"At this time he had entered on his seventieth year, but in appearance
was not past fifty. He had a light buoyant step, always walked quickly,
and had a keen observant eye, which, when he spoke, would light up with
all the fire and animation of youth. His dark complexion and habit of
rapid gesticulation bespoke his southern origin. He was at home in
Spanish, Italian, English, and French, but preferred the last. His
modesty was remarkable. He could rarely be induced to talk of himself,
but was firm in his opinions. In argument he was a close reasoner, and
would be either a doughty opponent or a warm advocate; the middle line
never attracted.
"His activity during the Bentinck Street period was amazing. Except on
his Academy days he taught at the house from morning till night, and
never seemed to know the meaning of the word fatigue. As to relaxation
or recreation, I never knew him to indulge in any, save on the extremely
rare occasions when I could persuade him to attend an operatic
performance or some special concert, such as one at the Crystal Palace,
when Anton Rubinstein conducted his own endless 'Ocean' symphony. His
criticisms on these events were a delight to listen to. He was, I
remember, immensely enthusiastic over Rubinstein's performance of his
concerto in D minor; but the symphony bored him terribly, and he would
gladly have left before the end came. The only concerts that he attended
regularly were the Philharmonic (to which he was for many years a
subscriber) and those of the Royal Academy students, at which some pupil
of his own almost invariably appeared. At the latter concerts I used
often to sit beside him, and it was wonderful to watch his animated face
as, with suppressed energy, his hand moved in response to the rhythm of
the music. He seemed to be trying to infuse into the singer some of the
magnetism of his own irresistible spirit.
"Manuel Garcia was one of the most inspiring teachers that ever lived.
All of his distinguished pupils, from Jenny Lind downwards, have dwelt
upon his extraordinary faculty for diving deep into the nature of those
who worked with him, and arousing their temperamental qualities to the
highest degree of activity. His profound knowledge of his art, his
familiarity with all the great traditions, and the absolute authority
with which he spoke, combined to awaken a measure of confidence and
admiration such as no other _maestro di canto_ could possibly command.
"Even when annoyed he was seldom abrupt or impatient. His voice had
gone, but he would employ its _beaux restes_ to impart an idea for the
proper emission of a note or phrasing of a passage. His sounds never
failed to convey the desired suggestion. Though his own voice trembled
with the weight of years, he never brought out a pupil with the
slightest tremolo: moreover, he was never guilty of forcing a voice. His
first rule was ever to repress the breathing power, and to bring it into
proper proportion with the resisting force of the throat and larynx.
"Among the aspirants who came to study at Bentinck Street were several
whose names yet enjoy universal reputation.
"He always played his own accompaniments for teaching, and in the
'Seventies' was a very fair pianist. He had at that time a Russian
pupil, an excellent baritone, with whom he was fond of taking part in
duets for four hands. They used to play Schubert's marches, &c.,
whenever the master could find time (which was not very often); and at
the end of a delightful half-hour of this recreation he would exclaim,
'What fine practice for my stiff old fingers! How I wish I could get
more of it!'
"One of his most intimate friends at that period was Joseph Joachim, for
whom, alike as a man and a musician, he cherished the warmest admiration
and regard. When the great violinist received the honorary degree of
Mus. Doc. in 1877, Señor Garcia paid him the highest compliment in his
power, by making the journey to Cambridge especially, in order to be
present at the ceremony and to attend the concert given by the
University Musical Society. I had the privilege of accompanying him on
that occasion, and sat beside him both at the rehearsal and the concert,
Mr (now Sir) Villiers Stanford being the conductor. How he revelled in
Joachim's performance of the Beethoven concerto! Every note of that
masterpiece, as it issued from the fingers of its noblest interpreter,
seemed to afford him most exquisite delight. He was also impressed by
the first symphony of Brahms (given as the 'exercise' for his doctor's
degree, conferred _in absentiâ_), and considered it not only a fine
work, but a remarkable example of reticence in a composer whose powers
had attained maturity long before. We returned to town after the
concert, but in spite of the fatigue involved by this lengthy 'outing,'
the maestro was at his labours at the usual hour next morning, and
feeling, as he expressed it, 'Frais comme un jeune lion.'
"At Bentinck Street Señor Garcia taught several budding Jewish
vocalists, entrusted to his care by members of the Rothschild family,
who showed their love of music by defraying the cost of teaching (and
sometimes of maintaining) the youthful singers. One of these pupils, who
subsequently became a prominent member of an English Opera Company, was
an especial _protégée_ of Baroness Lionel de Rothschild; and one day the
kind lady, accompanied by her daughter (afterwards the Countess of
Rosebery), called to inquire how the girl was progressing. The maestro's
reply was characteristic. 'Madame la Baronne, she has all the musical
talent of her race, but little of its industriousness or perseverance.
Still, as in spite of that she accomplishes in a week what takes most
other girls a month, I hope sometime to make a singer of her.'"
Here I will abandon Mr Klein's narrative, to resume it later in
describing the preparation of Garcia's last text-book, 'Hints on
Singing.'
During the next few years a number of pupils passed through his hands at
the Royal Academy of Music, who were afterwards to take an important
place in their profession.
In 1875 Miss Orridge came to place herself under the maestro. The years
which she spent at the Academy brought victory after victory. She
gained in turn the Llewellyn Davies Bronze and Gold Medals for
declamatory singing, the Parepa-Rosa Medal, and the Christine Nillson's
Second Prize. While still a student at the Royal Academy of Music, Miss
Orridge made her _début_ at the St James's Hall Ballad Concerts, and
also went on a successful tour with Sims Reeves. From that time she
continued to make rapid strides in her professional status, and gave
promise of being one of the best contralto concert singers of her time,
when her career was brought to a sudden close by an untimely death, when
she had been before the public scarcely six years.
At the commencement of 1876 Garcia received the letter from Wagner to
which attention has been already called, embodying the offer for him to
train the singers for the first Bayreuth Festival. This, however, he was
obliged to refuse, owing to his large _clientèle_ in London.
On July 14, 1877, the inventor of the Laryngoscope received his second
recognition for the services which he had rendered to the medical
profession, fifteen years having elapsed since the degree of Mus. Doc.
had been conferred on him, _honoris causa_, by the University of
Königsberg.
An influential meeting assembled to give their support at the ceremony
of presenting him with a service of plate.
Professor Huxley presided, and in his speech bore strong testimony to
the great services that Manuel Garcia had rendered alike to science and
humanity by his important discovery. It was unnecessary, Huxley said, to
do more than remind the physician that in the laryngoscope he had
gained a new ally against disease, and a remarkable and most valuable
addition to that series of instruments, all of which, from the
stethoscope onwards, had come into use within the memory of living men,
and had effected a revolution in the practice of medicine. They owed
this instrument to Signor Garcia.
The following year brought fresh honours at the Royal Academy of Music.
As previously the maestro had been elected a member of the Committee of
Management after twenty years' connection with the institution, so now,
after thirty years, he received a further mark of distinction by being
made one of the Directors of the Academy.
With 1879 Charlotte Thudicum entered the Royal Academy of Music as his
pupil. Success soon came to her, for after a year's tuition she won the
Parepa-Rosa scholarship, and two years later the Westmoreland. On
leaving his hands the young soprano went over to Paris to study opera
with his sister, Mme. Viardot, and upon her return in 1883 was at once
secured for the "Pops," Crystal Palace Saturday Concerts, and other
important engagements, while in the following season she sang with the
Birmingham Festival Choral Society.
In due course she secured fresh laurels by taking part in "Ivanhoe" at
the Royal English Opera House, in which opera she played Rebecca on
alternative nights with another of Garcia's pupils, Margaret Macintyre.
1881 brought Garcia's third recognition for his invention.
The International Medical Congress was to hold its seventh session in
London from the 2nd to the 9th of August, Dr de Havilland Hall, Dr (now
Sir) Felix Semon, and Dr Thomas J. Walker being appointed honorary
secretaries of the section devoted to "Diseases of the Throat," which
was to meet with Dr George Johnson, F.R.S., in the chair.
At the suggestion of the late Sir James Paget, Señor Garcia received an
invitation to read a paper before the Congress, describing his work in
connection with his invention. The invitation was gladly accepted. He
attended, and was introduced to the assembled doctors in the most
flattering terms during the inaugural address by the chairman, who was
one of the vice-presidents of the medical section.
In connection with the friendship which existed between Manuel Garcia
and Sir Felix Semon, one may recall an amusing anecdote recounted in the
latter's short memoir, published for Garcia's 100th birthday.
"On a certain occasion," the doctor writes, "I delivered a lecture
at the Royal Institution of Great Britain on the culture of the
singing voice. In the course of my remarks I attacked the dogmatic
way in which the question of the registers was treated by different
authorities, and showed there and then, by the aid of some
excellent photographs of the larynx during the emission of tone,
that the mechanism of the registers, even in relation to the same
kind of voice, may in some cases be totally different from others.
"The lecture had a humorous sequel, for among my audience were a
number of the best known singing teachers in London. When I had
finished, one of these, well known for his obstinate dogmas, came
up to me in a state of visible annoyance and said, 'You should not
speak on things that you know nothing about.' A second expressed
his recognition of the fact that I had taken up arms against the
theorists, and then proceeded to describe an entirely new theory on
the register formation discovered by himself.
"But, last of all, Garcia came up to me with a smile, and remarked,
'Good heavens, how much I must have taught during my life that is
wrong!'"
In 1882 Margaret Macintyre and Marie Tempest commenced studying under
the maestro.
The former, a daughter of General Macintyre, was to be the best known of
Garcia's pupils at Dr Wyld's London Academy of Music, where he taught
for some twenty years. The prima donna during her training there carried
off in turn the Bronze, Silver, and Gold Medals of the Academy. During
the last year she had the honour of singing the soprano _rôle_ in the
performance of Liszt's oratorio "St Elizabeth," given at the London
Academy Concert in the St James's Hall in honour of the composer's
presence in London. Two years later she appeared as Michaela in
"Carmen," winning instant success. Moreover, as we have already seen,
she shared with Miss Thudicum the _rôle_ of Rebecca in the production
of "Ivanhoe," while shortly afterwards she took part in the Handel
Festival of 1891. After this she sang with the greatest success as prima
donna in the Grand Opera seasons at Milan, Moscow, and St Petersburg.
Marie Tempest arrived at the Royal Academy of Music in the Easter term
of 1882, and remained there three years under Garcia, carrying off the
Bronze, Silver, and Gold Medals of the Institution. The Academy was
specially prolific of talent at this time, for among the students during
these years were Eleanor Rees, Miss Thudicum, Edward German, Courtice
Pounds, and several others who were to attain wide fame in the musical
world.
Of her studies under Garcia Miss Tempest told me a couple of very
characteristic anecdotes.
When Miss Etherington, as she was in those days, came for her first
interview with the maestro (having arrived from a convent in France only
a few days before), she was wearing a very tight-fitting dress of Stuart
tartan, cut in the Princess style, which showed off her figure to
advantage and drew attention to the nineteen-inch waist of which she was
the proud possessor.
Garcia raised his eyebrows when he saw his prospective pupil step
forward from the group of girls who were waiting their turn to be heard.
However, nothing was said until her song, an Italian "aria," had been
brought to a close. Then came a pause, while Marie Tempest tremblingly
awaited the verdict on her voice. At last the oracle spoke. "Thank you,
Miss Etherington; will you please go home at once, take off that dress,
rip off those stays, and let your waist out to at least twenty-five
inches! When you have done so you may come back and sing to me, and I
will tell you whether you have any voice."
The assembled girls tittered audibly, and the unfortunate victim slunk
out of the room with flaming cheeks.
"He was quite right, though," Miss Tempest concluded; "no one can sing
when laced in as tightly as that. I went home, and--well, I've never had
a nineteen-inch waist since."
The other episode concerned the Academy weekly concerts. Garcia
generally had a pupil singing at these, and would sit in front, nodding,
waving his hand, and generally doing his best to establish telepathic
communication with the vocalists, that he might inspire them with his
spirit. At one of these Marie Tempest was due to sing with orchestra an
air from "Ernani," which had been carefully studied under her master.
The conductor waved his hand and the aria was commenced. After a few
bars Manuel Garcia began to fidget in his seat, then to frown, and to
beat time with his feet. At last the veteran could stand it no longer.
He rose from his seat, leapt on to the platform--approaching his
eightieth year as he was,--and seized the baton from the conductor's
hand, exclaiming, "Mon Dieu! you are ruining my pupil's song. I will
conduct it myself."
Shortly after this episode Miss Tempest, as a member of the operatic
class, took part in a mixed performance which included an act from
"Carmen" and another from the "Mock Doctor."
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.
"'What do you think of your performance?'
"'But I should like to know your opinion,' I blurted out.
"'No, no,' he answered. 'Tell me what you think of it?'
"So I told him that I thought I had a voice and an ear, but I was afraid
I did not succeed in making a strong appeal, and I was sure I did not
know how to sing. He laughed. 'Quite right, quite right; you do not
sing,' he said."
"Manuel Garcia's science and cleverness," writes another, "enabled him
to know at once whether he had to deal with a pupil of promise or not,
and unlikely aspirants were not allowed to waste his time and theirs.
"I remember a notable case in point. A very rich lady offered the master
any price if he would only teach her daughter. He refused, knowing well
he could never obtain serious work from her; but as the mother persisted
he hit upon a compromise. He asked the ladies to be present during a
lesson, and he undertook to teach her, if the girl still wished to learn
singing after hearing it taught. The lesson began. The pupil--who seemed
to the listeners an already finished singer--had to repeat passage after
passage of the most difficult exercises before the master was satisfied;
he insisted upon the minutest attention to every detail of execution.
Mother and daughter exchanged horrified glances, and looked on
pityingly. The lesson was finished, the master bowed the ladies out, and
in passing the pupil the young girl whispered to her, 'It would kill
me!' Señor Garcia, returning from the door, said contentedly, 'They will
not come again. Thank you, mon enfant, you sang well.'
"He was always careful to avoid making his pupils self-conscious by too
many explanations. In one case he found a simple way of teaching
chest-voice to a girl. 'Do you know how a duck speaks?' Señor Garcia
asked her. 'Imitate it, please.'
"With much giggling, to which he listened patiently, she tried to obey,
'Quack, quack.'
"'Good! Now turn this into a singing note; sing one tone lower in the
same manner, and one more.'"
A simple enough device, which spared him and his pupil much vexation.
His knowledge of the human voice and his power of detecting its faults
were equally marvellous. He had a pupil who, by singing higher than her
natural range, had strained her voice, and it was necessary that she
should avoid singing anything in a high register. Once only she
disobeyed him, and on entering his room the next day she was greatly
surprised that the master's face was flushed with anger. At once he
reproached her for having sung soprano. She pleaded guilty. "But how did
you know?"
"I heard you speak, that is quite enough," he said; and he told her that
in ten years not a note would be left of her brilliant voice. However,
on her promising not to disobey his instructions again, Garcia made up
his mind to help the girl to come out under his auspices as an oratorio
singer. "But," he told her, "you will need one year's uninterrupted
study before appearing in public."
The pupil's singing was much admired, for few besides herself and her
master could detect that anything was amiss with her voice. She was not
inclined, therefore, to realise the importance of his decision, and
after a few months' work she cheerfully accepted an invitation to spend
the winter abroad. When she informed him of this he bade her farewell,
saying that it would be perfectly useless for her to come back to him,
because, when accepting her as a pupil, his condition was--"One year's
uninterrupted study."
Thinking it would be an easy matter to talk him over, she came back to
him on her return. But she had not reckoned with the iron will of the
maestro. He refused to give her any more lessons. For over an hour she
sat in his room, and as one lesson after another was given, she could
not keep back her tears. The situation became intense, but the teacher
did not lose control. He was pained to see her sorrow, and at last rose
from his seat and led her gently away, saying, "Never in my life have I
wavered over a decision once made; I cannot do so now. You must make the
best of what you know already; you will probably get engagements, but do
not base your future on singing."
Time has proved that he was right. After a few years she began to lose
her high notes rapidly, and soon her voice was completely gone.
I have already alluded to the maestro's hatred of the tremolo. In this
connection an old pupil has sent me the following note:--
"I was going through the various exercises in the book, 'Hints on
Singing,' and one day, after I had been studying some little time, there
came the usual query, 'What is the next exercise we come to?' 'The
shake,' I replied promptly, and added, 'Shall I take that?' The maestro
gave a quiet smile as he answered, 'Well, no, I think not. You shake
quite enough for the present. We will pass on to the following one. With
this gentle rebuke at the tremolo, of which I had not as yet been able
to get rid, he went on to tell me how he had been at the opera a few
nights before, 'and, Mon Dieu, what tremolo! I could have howled like a
dog as I listened.'"
Not only had Manuel Garcia a remarkably accurate ear, but he possessed
the gift of "absolute pitch," a fact shown by the following anecdote. A
friend called to see him one afternoon, and the conversation turned upon
the question of pitch. Garcia shook his head reproachfully when the
visitor, who was some seventy years his junior, stated that he could not
tell what a note was by ear.
"No sooner had I said this," writes this friend in describing the
incident, "than the old maestro rose from his seat, stood with his back
to the piano, and told me to strike any note I liked and he would name
it. As rapidly as possible I struck the notes, and instantaneously he
called out what they were. I must have sounded upwards of two dozen, one
after the other, so rapidly that he was never left time to consider.
Without a moment's hesitation he named each in turn without a single
mistake."