A NONAGENARIAN TEACHER.
(1895-1905).
In commencing this chapter I must apologise for the personal tone, which
is almost unavoidable, since I am giving purely personal reminiscences
of the years of study that I spent under Manuel Garcia.
It was early in the May of 1895 that my mother (Antoinette Sterling)
took me up to see her old master, in order that he might give his
decision as to the advisability of my entering the musical profession.
When we had driven out to his house on Shoot-up-hill, we rang the bell,
and a maid came to the door. "Is Señor Garcia well enough to see us? If
he is sleeping, do not disturb him. We can wait till he is rested." The
servant raised her eyebrows in slight wonderment. "Mr Garcia is out
gardening, Madame. I will tell him of your arrival."
This astonishing information was uttered in the most ordinary tone, as
though such a thing were a mere episode of everyday life. We were
ushered into the drawing-room, but were not kept waiting long, for in a
few minutes the door opened and Manuel Garcia entered. With a genial
smile and an exclamation of pleasure he came rapidly across the room,
taking short, quick steps, and was shaking hands with his old pupil
almost before she had time to rise from her seat. The next quarter of an
hour passed swiftly enough. A stream of questions fell from the lips of
the wonderful nonagenarian as to what she had been doing, where she had
been, what were her latest songs, what she thought of the pianist who
had recently come out, what of the political situation, when could she
come to lunch,--and so on.
He was short of stature, a little bent with age, frail-looking perhaps,
but wiry. His eyes were bright and piercing, his profile clear-cut and
distinguished. He had an olive complexion, a gift of his native Spain
which fifty years of London fog and de-oxygenised air had been unable to
take from him.
His white hair was partially covered by a red skull-cap, and his
moustache was closely cut. He spoke in rapid tones, yet with absolute
distinctness of clear enunciation.
Every word gave proof of that keen interest which he felt in all that
was going on around him. In expression, voice, and gesture there was an
amazing alertness, vigour, and mental activity which few men of seventy
could equal, fewer still surpass. His conversation gave evidence of the
fire of youth, tempered with the tolerance of old age.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A LETTER WRITTEN BY MANUEL GARCIA AT THE AGE
OF NINETY-ONE.]
A more intimate acquaintance with the great teacher revealed further
qualities which made him loved, nay, worshipped, by all his pupils.
Loyal and staunch, he had an old-world courtesy, a charm of manner, and
a patience which was quite remarkable.
When Manuel Garcia had heard me sing he asked a few penetrating
questions. Then he turned to my mother and said that he would take me as
a pupil: he thought, however, that it would be better for me to wait a
year before starting work.
There was something almost uncanny in being told by a man ninety years
of age to come back in twelve months and commence singing-lessons. But
seeing and hearing him, one could not doubt that he would be ready and
waiting at the appointed time.
Nor was the supposition wrong. In the first week of April of the
following year, when he was approaching his ninety-second birthday, the
first lesson took place. From that time on, my studies continued under
his care and guidance until April 1900, when he was in his ninety-sixth
year. In this I had the honour of being the last pupil to be regularly
trained by him for the musical profession with the full four-years'
course of tuition.
That he should have been able to continue teaching at all at such an age
is sufficiently astonishing. That during those years he should have
postponed lessons through indisposition upon only some three or four
occasions gives a still keener insight into the extraordinary life led
by him as a nonagenarian.
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.'"
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.
Wagner's compositions never attracted Manuel Garcia. The heavy
orchestration of the German music did not appeal to him, though he
raised no objection to going through Wolfram's song, "O Star of Eve," in
the Italian version, "O tu bel astro incantator." "Tannhäuser" was
written in a lyrical style: one shudders to think what he would have
said to anything like Wotan's "Abschied."
He did not believe in "vocalises," such as are used by most teachers in
earlier lessons. Instead of these, he preferred to give simple Italian
arias. He pointed out that with them one began at once to learn the
value of articulation and expression. Exercises he looked on as the
foundations of all good singing. They would take the form of sustained
and swelled notes, scales, passages of combined intervals, arpeggios,
chromatics, and shakes. The acquirement of agility in execution, he used
to say, required _at least_ two years' study, the result being that the
voice became flexible, even mellow and strong. In the elucidation of
difficulties he used to make use of many similes and illustrations,
which threw a vivid and illuminating light upon the matter in hand.
These, together with the various maxims of artistic singing which he
would impart, I used to write down in a book after each lesson, and as a
teacher of singing I have found them of the most inestimable value and
assistance.
When one day I told the maestro that I had decided to devote my whole
attention in the future to teaching, he at once sat down and wrote a
letter of recommendation, though in his ninety-eighth year,--a typical
example of his kindness and thought for the benefit of others.
It was an inestimable advantage to hear him teach singers of various
capacities. During the period I was under him I had the privilege of
hearing him give many lessons; for though I was the last pupil to
receive the full four years' training, he was still teaching a few
specially favoured amateurs,--in most cases the children or
grand-children of former pupils.
His ear was most accurate and unerring, while he was exceedingly quick
of observation, and equally ready with a helpful remark, given in
precise terms, a simile, a little anecdote, or even a slight gesture or
a look.
In his lessons he was ever ready to give the most interesting
information on any scientific questions or theories, and would discuss a
point with the greatest animation. He was particularly annoyed at the
way the _coup de la glotte_ was misunderstood and exaggerated beyond all
recognition by many musicians. In his 'Hints on Singing' he defines the
_coup_ as the neat articulation of the glottis that gives a precise and
clear start to a sound. In reality, as taught by him, it simply meant
that he wished one to get straight on to a note, without any uncertainty
or feeling about for it, instead of slurring up to it (a very common
fault), or taking it too sharp and having to sink to the proper pitch.
His works mark an epoch in a branch of human knowledge which one day may
be called a science. They deserve to be most carefully studied by any
one who wishes to gain a clear insight into that interesting
subject--the human voice. They are the fruit of a great mind and of
wonderful experience, written in a very lucid style, simple and terse,
full of interest to the musician as well as to the voice trainer.
He expounds his views fearlessly but modestly, with logical cogency.
Nearly every page bears evidence how cautious, discerning, and
progressive a teacher he was.
As showing the importance which Manuel Garcia attached to poetic
interpretation of all vocal music, I give three quotations from his
'Hints on Singing,' the extracts being taken from the section headed
"Preparation of a piece."
"The pupil must read the words of the piece again and again till
each finest shadow of meaning has been mastered. He must next
recite them with perfect simplicity and self-abandonment. The
accent of truth apparent in the voice when speaking naturally is
the basis of expression in singing. Light and shade, accent,
sentiment, all become eloquent and persuasive. The imitation of
instinctive impulse must, therefore, be the object of this special
preparation."
"A powerful means of exciting the mind to a vivid conception of the
subject is to imagine the personage as standing before one, and let
the phantom sing and act, criticising closely both efforts; then,
when satisfied with the results, to imitate them exactly. By
faithfully reproducing the impressions suggested by this creature
of fancy, the artist will obtain more striking effects than at once
rendering a piece."
"Another way is to recall some analogous situation in a work of
art: for example, if we have to study the scene of Desdemona in the
second act of Rossini's 'Otello,' 'L'error d'un infelice,' one of
the fine paintings of the Magdalene at the feet of Christ might
occur to the mind. Grief and repentance could not assume a more
pathetic form."
He was always careful to secure the proper use of the registers on the
part of the pupil, for, as he would point out, more female voices have
been ruined by carrying the chest register too high (that is to say,
beyond the E or F above middle C) than by anything else.
He had a wonderful insight into the capabilities of those whom he
taught. Indeed, I remember his saying once that throughout his career he
had very rarely failed in reading from the eyes of an intending pupil
the prophecy as to his or her future success in the profession of music.
He disliked, he said, to be associated with failures, and the moment he
found that he had made a mistake in his estimate of a pupil's
capacities, he at once disillusioned him and declined to continue his
training.
His mannerisms while playing accompaniments were quite characteristic of
the man. He would strike the chords with the greatest vivacity, and
almost leap into the air from his piano-stool in his excitement at any
wrong trick of vocalisation; or again, he would make a dash for the
metronome, snatch it up and set it to time, and for the space of perhaps
ten minutes compel one to go on counting mentally, or beating time with
the hand in unison with the rhythmic movements of the guiding
instrument, until the time difficulty had been mastered. When he had
succeeded in preparing the voice for use like a beautifully toned
instrument, his teaching spread over the whole extension of every style
of music,--opera, oratorio, and song.
To his charm of courtly manners was added a never-failing wit and love
of fun: of this he gave constant proof. For instance, an old pupil
recounts how one day Manuel Garcia was seized with a fit of coughing.
"Ah, maestro, I'm afraid it's the spring," he commiserated, and was met
with the half-laughing, half-pathetic retort, "No, no; it is too many
springs."
A further illustration of his keen sense of humour, even in extreme old
age, is found in a letter which, as a nonagenarian, he wrote to a friend
some seventy years his junior.
The young man was famous among his acquaintances for a rather eccentric
handwriting, and no one was fonder of twitting him about it than the
maestro. The chaff on one occasion took the form of a letter, which I am
enabled to reproduce in facsimile. Señor Garcia wished to convey the
following information:--
"I will remain here sometime longer, and when in town I will write
to you.
"Hoping to find you in good health and voice,--I remain, yours
truly, M. GARCIA."
Remembering, however, to whom he was writing, he took the trouble to
make his communication as bewildering as possible by dividing the words
thus:--
"Iw ill remain he re so--m--eti--me long er an d wheni n tow nIw il
lw rite t oyo u.
"Ho ping to fin d you ing oo d hel than dv oic e, I rem ain y our
strul y MGARCI A."
Often at the close of a lesson he used to ask me to stay to tea, and in
the summer we would adjourn to the garden, where the table would be
spread beneath the inviting shadow of the trees. Those would be
red-letter days indeed.
On these occasions the maestro would leave thoughts of singing behind
him, and show his wide interests and deep insight into all the questions
of the day. Once when conversation had turned upon violin-playing, there
came up the name of Kubelik, who had come out in London a few weeks
previously. After four years' pupilage, I was not surprised to learn
that he had already been to hear the new instrumentalist. I must,
however, confess to having been somewhat startled when, with the
greatest _sangfroid_, he began comparing the execution with that of
Paganini. At other times he would speak of Joseph Chamberlain and the
newest developments of Fiscalities, the building of sky-scrapers in New
York, the drama of the day, or the Spanish War. One day he even showed
himself quite ready to discuss the pros and cons of Christian science.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A LETTER WRITTEN BY MANUEL GARCIA AT THE AGE
OF NINETY-NINE.]
My lessons came to a close in April of 1900, when the maestro was in his
ninety-sixth year.
When in due course the time came for making my first provincial tour, he
wrote several letters on the subject, of which I quote three, as being
typical of the trouble which he was ever ready to take, and the wisdom
of the advice which he would give.
"MON ABRI," CRICKLEWOOD.
I am a very bad maker of programmes. If I had to deal with that
sort of work, I should have to take the advice of an expert who
could tell what sort of music would meet the taste of every
individual public. Your mother might be your best adviser.
Wishing you every success. M. GARCIA.
Again he writes:--
Before you commence your tour you ought to give a _complete_ rest
to your voice. Prepare for work only a week before you begin.
Do not sing or study the "Elijah" nor any other music written for a
baritone. For your organ the use of low notes is resting, therefore
necessary.
Do not indulge in exaggerated display of power. Too much ambition
in that respect is fatal.
A third runs as follows:--
You will do well not to limit yourself to singing easy songs, but
also to attempt upon occasion such pieces as require the full use
of your means. This will be an excellent preparation for your
appearance in London, and it will give you the confidence in your
powers and the facilities in using them necessary to enable you to
take a place among the best of the profession. It will always give
me pleasure to hear of your successes. Give my kindest regards to
your mother.
After this I continued to see the maestro fairly often, and was not
surprised to hear of his setting off in his ninety-seventh year to spend
the winter in Egypt, or of his staying with his sister in Paris for a
few days on his way home.
In the early winter of 1903 my mother was taken seriously ill, and
Manuel Garcia on hearing of this at once wrote a sympathetic letter.
On January 10, 1904, the end came, and with the announcement in the
papers, one of the first tokens of sympathy was a beautiful wreath from
the maestro, followed by a telegram expressing his desire to be present
at the closing scene in the career of his old pupil. Despite the
distance, for the service was held at Golder's Hill, the maestro drove
over, stayed for the entire service, and remained behind afterwards to
offer a few simple but never-to-be-forgotten words of sympathy.
Two months after this he entered his 100th year. To celebrate the
occasion, an address of congratulation was presented to him, signed by
127 professors of the Royal College and Royal Academy of Music.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A LETTER WRITTEN BY MANUEL GARCIA AT THE AGE
OF NINETY-FOUR.]
At the end of the year it was suggested by the editor of 'The Strand
Magazine' that I should prepare an article on "Manuel Garcia and his
Friends" for publication in the month of his centenary. On my
communicating with the maestro, he wrote at once offering to render
assistance, and asked me to bring the MS. up when ready. Accordingly, in
the January, two months before his 100th birthday, I spent the afternoon
with him, and was requested to read aloud the proofs of the article.
It was astonishing how memory enabled him to correct immediately any
mistake. He would suddenly stop and say, "No, no; it was in 1827, not
1825." Again, in the case of a story in which some details were wrong,
he said, "No, that is not right. I will tell it you again"; with which
words he recounted in French the tale of how his sister, Malibran, came
to make her _début_ at Paris. And so the afternoon passed, until
finally, after signing a photo, he insisted on coming to the door to see
me out. This experience served to prepare me for the astonishing ease
and energy with which, a few weeks later, he went through the Centenary
festivities.