I am told that many people in America have the impression that my vocal
ability is kind of a "God-given" gift; that is, something that has come
to me without effort. This is so very absurd that I can hardly believe
that sensible people would give it a moment's credence. Every voice is
in a sense the result of a development, and this is particularly so in
my own case. The marble that comes from the quarries of Carrara may be
very beautiful and white and flawless, but it does not shape itself into
a work of art without the hand, the heart, and the intellect of the
sculptor.
Just to show how utterly ridiculous this popular opinion really is, let
me cite the fact that at the age of fifteen everybody who heard me sing
pronounced me a bass. When I went to Vergine I studied hard for four
years. During the first three years the work was for the most part
moulding and shaping the voice. Then I studied repertoire for one year
and made my debut. Even with the experience I had had at that time it
was unreasonable to expect great success at once. I kept working hard
and worked for at least seven years more before any really mentionable
success came to me. All the time I had one thing on my mind and that was
never to let a day pass without seeing some improvement in my voice. The
discouragements were frequent and bitter; but I kept on working and
waiting until my long awaited opportunities came in London and in New
York. The great thing is, not to stop. Do not think that, because these
great cities gave me a flattering reception, my work ceased. Quite on
the contrary, I kept on working and am working still. Every time I go
upon the stage I am endeavoring to discover something that will make my
art more worthy of public acceptance. Every act of each opera is a new
lesson.