SUNRISE.
It was the town talk. The women gathered round the fountain in the Place
Royal and filled their water jars and gossiped about Salvatore Urso's
silly whim with his child. Madame Dubois settled her cap and gave it as
her opinion that no good would come of such a foolish thing. Madame
Tilsit knew better, if the child wanted to play, why, let her play. The
priest would not forbid it. Madame Perche knew it was far better than
teaching children to read. That would lead them to dreadful infidelity,
and what not. Besides, what will you? M. Urso will do as he pleases with
the child.
At its best Nantes is a sleepy place, and in those days it was more
narrow, petty and gossipy than can be imagined. A small town in New
England where every mother's daughter can read is bad enough, but in a
compact French town where every one must live next door or next floor to
everybody else gossip runs wild. Totally ignorant of books or any matter
outside of their own town, the people must needs fall back on themselves
and quietly pick each other to pieces. Everybody had heard that
Salvatore Urso, the flute player intended to teach his little girl the
violin. Part of the town approved of this bold, audacious step and part
of the town thought it eminently improper, if not positively wicked.
There was the Urso party and the anti-Urso party. They talked and
quarrelled over it for a long time in a fashion that was quite as narrow
minded and petty as could be imagined and it was more than a year before
the excitement subsided.
In the meantime the little Camilla was perfectly happy over her new
violin. The first refusal had not discouraged her. She waited a few days
and then repeated her request to her father. No. It could not be. This
did not seem to disconcert her, for in a few days she again asked if she
might have a violin and a teacher. This time the refusal was not so
decided. Again and again did the little one ask for a violin--only a
violin--that was enough. The importunate pleading carried the day and
the father took the matter into consideration.
Boys might play the violin, but a girl. That was quite another thing.
One girl had been known to play the violin. Mlle. Theresa Melanello had
played the violin, why not Camilla? If she wished to play so much it
must be that she had genius. Should it prove true she might become a
famous artist and win a great fortune. Perhaps, even sooner, much money
might come from the child's playing.
Of course the child must at once go to Paris and enter the Conservatory
of music. Paris was a long way off. It would cost a deal of money to
get there and when there, it would cost a deal more to live, and there
was no way of earning anything in Paris. The theatre, the church and the
lessons enabled them to live tolerably well in Nantes. To give up these
things would be simple folly. It could not be done. The prospect was
brilliant, the way seemed inviting, but it was not available. In his
doubt and perplexity over the matter M. Urso went to his friend and
companion in the orchestra, Felix Simon. M. Simon played the first
violin at the theatre, and one night they talked it over between the
acts.
If Camilla was so exceedingly anxious to play she must have some latent
talent. Should she prove a genius or a prodigy it might be the means of
bringing the family a fortune. Paris offered the only field for
instruction and Paris meant a very great deal of money. With her present
limited resources the thing was not to be considered for a moment.
M. Simon heard it all patiently, talked with the child about it and
before her very eyes turned himself into an angel by offering to teach
her himself. At first the family could not believe that such good
fortune was possible. Still, it was true. M. Simon would teach Camilla
one year without pay if he might be allowed to have entire control of
her studies. She was to follow his instructions in every thing, she was
to have no "pieces" and was to give her whole time to her lessons. If,
when the year's instruction was finished, the child really showed a
decided genius for the violin it might be well to talk about Paris. If
she then exhibited merely a talent for the art, the instruction could be
dropped and no harm or serious loss of time would come from it.
This liberal offer was, of course, accepted. M. Simon was a friend,
indeed. They could never repay him. It was of no consequence he said. If
Camilla proved her genius it would be reward enough to be known as her
first teacher.
So it was that the little girl not quite six years of age had her
darling wish and took her beloved violin under her arm and trotted off
to M. Simon's house at the other side of the city near the beautiful
park called the Cours St. Pierre, where she had spent so many pleasant
days playing under the trees.
It was a small affair. Her arms and fingers were too short for an
instrument of the ordinary size and a little violin costing ten francs
($2) must answer every purpose.
The gossips might talk and quarrel over it in the steep streets of the
quaint, sleepy old town. They could say what they pleased. Little did
she care. She was going to learn to play the violin. That was happiness
enough. Her father was to teach her the elements of music and Felix
Simon was to show her how to play.
First she must learn how to stand, how to rest on her left foot with the
right partly in front, then how to hold her violin, how it should rest
on her shoulder and how to grasp and support it. Hold it perfectly
still for ten minutes. Then lay it down for a few moments' rest. Take it
up again and hold it firm. With demure patience she bent her small
fingers over the strings as if to touch a chord. Head erect, left arm
bent and brought forward so that she could see her elbow under the
violin. Stand perfectly still with the right arm hanging down naturally.
Was she to have no bow? No, not yet. She must first learn to sustain the
weight of the violin, and accustom her arm to its shape. In silence and
motionless she held the instrument for perhaps ten minutes and then laid
it down again till she had become rested. This was the first lesson. For
two or three weeks she did this and nothing more, and at the end of that
time she had acquired sufficient strength to hold the violin with
firmness and steadiness.
Great was her delight when Felix Simon said she might take her bow. Now
rest it lightly on the strings and draw it down slowly and steadily. Not
a sound! What did that mean? Was she not to play? No. There was no rosin
on the bow and it slipped over the strings in silence. How could she
learn anything on a dumb violin? How make music on such a discouraging
thing?
Most children would have given up in despair. Not play at all? Nothing,
but positions and dumb motions? That was all. No music; not even finger
exercises. Simply, to learn to stand properly, to put the fingers in the
right place, and to make the right motions with the bow. The two hour
lesson slipped away quickly, and the little one went home satisfied that
she was now really making a good start.
Three times a week she took the long walk through the Rue Voltaire,
across the sunny Place Graslin, where the theatre stood, past the
handsome stores in the Place Royal, over the little bridge, where the
Erdre ran through the town, and then along the narrow Rue d'Orleans till
the grey towers of the old Chateau came in sight. Then to M. Simon's,
and the lesson on the dumb violin. Not a word of complaint; no asking
for "little pieces," after the silly fashion of American children; not
even a request for an exercise. With a patience past belief the little
one watched, listened, and tried her girlish best to do it right. The
violin would become dreadfully heavy. Her poor arms would ache, and her
limbs become stiff with standing. M. Simon had a temper, and at times he
was particularly cross, and said all sorts of unhappy things to her.
Tears at times, and childish grief over the dreadful weariness in her
arms, but with it all not one word of remonstrance or complaint. Felix
Simon knew everything. Her father knew what was best.
The violin would swing round to the left, and she would lose sight of
her elbow under it. There was nothing to do but to straighten up till
the instrument stood in a line with her fat little turned up nose, and
that elbow was in sight again. Then, that right wrist! How it did ache
with the long, slow motions with the bow. And her limbs grew stiff with
standing in one position till they fairly ached.
If the violin was heavy, she would not mind it, and if she was tired,
she would keep her eyes fixed on the strings and see that the bow lay
flat and square on them as it went up and down, up and down, from the
tip to the handle, over and over, again and again. Whatever happened,
she would keep on. She was going to play. This was the way to learn. She
would have patience.
At home the same thing was repeated. Three hours practice every day with
the dumb violin. And not only every day in the week, Sundays and all,
but every week. Three whole months passed away, and then they said she
had learned the positions, and the right motions. She could have some
rosin on her bow and begin to play. This was progress. She was really
getting on. Now she was to have some music. Nothing but the very dullest
kinds of exercises; still, it was music, or something like it.
Long sustained notes by the hour. The exercises were all written out
with a pen by her master. Nothing but long slow notes. Not very
interesting, certainly. She would not have agreed with you. To get a
good tone, to make one pure, smooth note was worth the trying for, and
she was content.
The bow hardly moved, so slowly did she draw it up and down. The right
arm stretched out to the full length, and then slowly back again, while
the wrist bent slowly and gracefully. If she obtained nothing else, she
would have a strong, clear tone, and learn to make a grand, full sweep
with her bow. Speed and brilliancy would come in good time. Strength,
power, and purity of tone were the things worth trying to reach. She
would have no feeble, short strokes, but the wide, bold movements of a
master hand.
As the weeks grew to months, her fingers and arms gained in power and
her child's violin was exchanged for a larger and finer one, to her
great joy and satisfaction.
Slowly and patiently she crept along. By day and by night the beloved
violin was ever near her. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes late at
night, when ever her teacher could find the time, she listened to his
instructions and played over the endless exercises. Seven hours practice
every day. Three lessons a week; nothing allowed to interfere. Sleep,
eat, a little exercise in the open air, practice and lessons, lessons
and practice. Such was her young artist life.
The lessons gradually increased in variety and difficulty. Scales in
every key, running passages of every imaginable character; and with it
all not a single piece, song, or pretty melody of any kind. Ten months
of finger exercises; nearly a year of dry scales.
As we have already mentioned, Nantes was very much given to talking
about the little Camilla's studies. The men in the orchestra laughed at
Felix Simon and Salvatore Urso for their silly experiment with the
child. The idea of a girl playing a violin! It was too absurd! And of
all children, that mite of a Camilla; thin, pale, and too small for her
age, she was the last one to think of such a thing.
One day a famous violinist, Apollinaire DeKonstki, now the director of
the Conservatory of Music, at Warsaw, visited Nantes, and gave a concert
at the theatre. Perhaps it would be well to ask him to hear the child
play. His opinion might be of great value, and perhaps it would silence
the miserable chatter in the town. "Would DeKonstki kindly hear the
little one play?" Yes. He would, with pleasure. He intended to give a
banquet to some of his friends that evening, and after the opera, and
when the supper was over, she might come to his rooms at the Hotel de
France. She sat in her usual corner in the orchestra all through the
evening, and then, near midnight, with her violin under her arm, she
crossed the Place Graslin and called at the Hotel de France. The great
artist was sitting in the dining room by the long table where the
banquet had been given. There were goblets and champagne glasses on the
table, and after talking about her music for a few moments he took a
fork, and gently tapping on a wine-glass, asked her what note that was.
It was E. And this one? A. And this one? D. The next? A flat. And the
next? G. Round the table he marched, fork in hand, striking the glasses
and asking their notes. Camilla followed after, and named every tone
correctly and without hesitation. He was greatly pleased with the
experiment, and said he would hear her play. "Only, you must mind, I
don't like false notes." This was too much, and she replied indignantly
"I never give 'em, sir."
He laughed; and then, with demure seriousness, she began to play some of
her more difficult exercises from memory. She was a bold and sturdy
player, and astonished the master with the graceful sweep of her thin,
childish arm. He complimented her in a cordial manner, and hoped she
would go on with her studies. "Oh! she would, she would; she meant to
study all the time. Some day she would learn to play better still." And
then she went home, well pleased that the master had approved of the
method of instruction she had pursued. Let the gossips talk. She was on
the right road, and she didn't care for them.
This was the only time that Camilla played to any one outside her own
family during the first year of her musical life. Many musicians and
others asked to hear her, but M. Urso thought it best to refuse them. No
one was ever allowed to hear her practice, and her musical progress was
kept a profound secret. Naturally enough, this only excited curiosity,
and the gossip ran wilder than ever.
Her outward life was unchanged. She appeared regularly at the theatre
with her father, and sat by his side through the performance. The other
players often teased her, and asked her perplexing questions about the
music. What note was that? What key were they playing in now, and now
and now? Every time the music modulated from key to key, she followed
it, and named the notes and keys correctly, without hesitation.
Then something happened that made them think it might be well to let her
have a piece to play. And such a splendid piece! Not a mere child's song
for the violin, or a little dance. Nothing like that. A grand concert
piece such as the Masters played. De Beriot's famous "_Seventh air
varié_." A melody with variations, by the great composer De Beriot. To
be sure it was not equal to some of the grand works of Haydn or
Beethoven, but for those days it was considered a remarkable
composition. Since the little Camilla has grown up people have learned
more about violin playing, and what was then thought to be a great piece
of music would not now be considered as anything very remarkable.
As it was, Camilla thought the piece something quite wonderful, and took
it up with the greatest eagerness. Utterly absorbed in her work, knowing
little or nothing of what was going on outside her lessons, she studied
and practiced day after day without a thought of anything else. The new
piece and the exercises took her whole time for the next two months.
That one "_air varié_" was in hand every day. She played it through
hundreds of times. Every phrase was studied. Hours were spent over one
note. A week on a single page was good progress. One little passage cost
her many a sorrowful hour. Somehow she could not get it right for a
long time. Once she played it over forty-seven times before her nervous
and irritable master would let her off. Other pupils were waiting. They
could wait. She was to play that measure just right if it took all day.
It was useless to cry. If she was obstinate and naughty about it she
should be punished. She must play it right. How her arms ached over that
passage. The tears dropped on the violin. It didn't do any good, and
only made the master still more angry. At last she did it right, played
it over several times, went home and never played it wrong again in her
life.
Such was the child's artist life for the first twelve months. Outside of
it the gossips fairly raged and warred with their nimble tongues.
Salvatore Urso's experiment with his little girl was much talked about.
Some could not say too hard things of him. Felix Simon was blamed, her
mother was blamed. It was all wrong. It was wicked to teach the child to
play. Others said no, let her try, if she failed they would be well
punished for their work. If she succeeded it would be a fine thing. It
was rumored that the girl had great talent and would in time do
wonderful things.
In such a dull, sleepy town as Nantes, where there is nothing in
particular going on, and where the people have little or nothing to talk
about outside their own petty lives, such an experiment as this was
naturally the subject of much talk. It was such a bold step, and,
really, there was nothing else to talk about. Imagine the excitement
when it was announced that the little Camilla would give a public
performance at the Hotel de Ville.
It came about in this way. The Bassoon in the orchestra died. That was
the curious way they expressed it. The instrument had not died, but the
man who played it. He left a widow and one child, and no money. Nobody
had ever heard of an orchestral player who had left much. The pay was
too small for him to save anything, and so the poor widow was left
without a franc. Of course, they must give her a benefit concert. M.
Urso heard of it, and on talking it over with Felix Simon they decided
to prepare Camilla to take part in the charity concert for the benefit
of the widow of the Bassoon. So it happened that she took up the "_air
varié_" as her first piece.
It takes a long time to do anything in Europe. Here we would decide to
give a concert, advertise it, and hire the hall all in the same day, and
have it all over within a week. In Nantes it took six weeks to arrange
everything, see who would offer to play, and to properly announce the
event. This slow and deliberate way of doing things was an advantage to
Camilla as it gave her plenty of time to study the piece and to commit
it to memory past forgetting.
They collected a grand orchestra. Mdlle. Masson, who was quite a fine
artist volunteered to sing, and the little Camilla would play the
famous "_Seventh air varié_" from De Beriot.
The excitement was tremendous. Everybody wanted to go. The Italian opera
company, the French opera company, the dramatic company, all the grand
families, every musician in town, bought tickets. There was not a seat
or standing place in the Hotel de Ville to be had, and the Bassoon's
widow received a most remarkable benefit. All the friends of the Urso
family were there to encourage the child, and all her father's enemies
were on hand ready to laugh at her failure.
She was expected to fail. She might be able to struggle through the
piece without really breaking down, but of course she would stand
awkwardly, handle her bow like a stick, and do everything else that was
bad and inelegant. They might assert that she would play like an
artist--she could not do it. And so they waited to see Salvatore Urso's
silly experiment come to a wretched end.
How amiable in them! We can forgive them. There was nothing else to talk
about in Nantes, and it was certainly a very bold thing to bring out the
six year old girl in this public manner. She must be a truly wonderful
child, or her father and teacher had quite lost their heads.
The concert began and went on very much as concerts do everywhere. The
orchestra played and the artists sang, and then there was a little
rustle and hush of expectation as they brought in a box or platform for
the child to stand upon so that all could see her. The piano was rolled
out into a convenient place, and then the slight, blue eyed girl, gay in
a white dress, white satin shoes, and a pink sash, appeared. They placed
the dot of a child, violin in hand, upon the raised platform before them
all. Felix Simon, with trembling fingers, sat down to the piano to play
the accompaniment. Her father stood near to turn the leaves of the music
book, though he was so nervous and excited he hardly knew what he was
about. In the audience sat her aunt Caroline, surrounded by a few of her
friends, and all of them in no enviable frame of mind. Her mother was
too nervous and excited to appear, and remained in the ante-room.
As for Camilla, she was absorbed in that remarkable pink sash and those
satin shoes. There was never anything quite so fine, and she did hope
all the people noticed how very becoming they were. That they were
really watching her, never entered her head. With perfect
self-possession she put the violin to her shoulder, and stood ready to
play. No awkwardness, no fear, no attempt at display; a simple girl,
with a girl's manners. The critics admitted to themselves that she knew
how to hold her instrument, and could handle her bow with a certain
amount of grace. But, then, that was to be expected. Could she play?
There was not much doubt of it. The tone came, strong, full, and true.
The notes came in exact time, and with precision and certainty. The
people were hushed to a painful silence, as the child went steadily on
with the work. M. Simon was breathless with excitement, and her father
hardly knew where he was. In his haste, he turned two leaves of the
music-book at once. What a dreadful disaster! It was all over now. She
would break down at once, if the accompaniment should falter.
Not much danger; for she quietly turned her head, and in a hurried,
lisping, whisper said: "You've turned two pages, papa."
The whole house heard every word, and a smile spread over the company.
Little did she care. She went straight on; not a note lost, not a break
or a sign of hesitation. The page was turned back without a pause, and
the music went on.
This piece of music begins with an introduction in _adagio_. The opening
bars are smooth and graceful, and then the melody becomes more
difficult, and moves in sixths and thirds. It ends in a brilliant
_cadenza_, that leads to the theme in _moderato_ time. This part is not
very difficult in rhythm, and is bright and pleasing in character. The
first variation is _poco piu lento_, and at once demands great skill to
execute its difficult running movements. The second variation is still
more difficult, and abounds in rapid scales and open chords. The third
variation is in G, and in _adagio_ time, and is full of trills and
abrupt changes from high to low notes. A long _cadenza_ leads to the
last movement in _moderato_ time and in the key of E. It finally ends
in an _allegro coda_ that abounds in brilliant and difficult writing.
What a dreadful uproar they did make over the child. It seemed as if
they never would stop clapping and cheering. She could not go, but must
stay and bow in a demure fashion, that was perfectly captivating. They
did not expect her to play the piece again. That was not the custom in
Nantes. M. Sollie, the leader of the orchestra, in the name of all the
musicians, offered to crown her young head with a wreath of white
camelias. The attempt was amusing, and they all laughed and cheered
again. The wreath was too big, or she was too small, and it slipped over
her head and shoulders, and fell to the floor, and there she stood in
the middle of it.
Some enthusiastic ladies presented her with a tiny ring for her finger,
and a handsome bracelet; and more wonderful than all, they brought out a
magnificent Paris doll, in a big white box, and set her quite wild with
joy by presenting it to her. With the doll under one arm, and her
precious violin under the other, she bowed her thanks from the middle of
the wreath. Then they cheered again, and laughed, and offered her
flowers. She was taken down from the platform and led away, but they had
her back again three times, doll, violin, and all. Altogether, it was a
very remarkable experience for father, mother, teacher, and wonderful
little girl.
Perhaps you think this overdrawn. This is a true story. Here is an
extract from one of the newspapers of Nantes, that only says the same
thing:
----"Never had violinist a _pose_ more exact, firmer, and, at
the same time, perfectly easy; never was bow guided with greater
precision, than by this little Urso, whose delivery made all the
mothers smile. Listen, now, to the Air Variee of the celebrated
Beriot; under these fingers, which are yet often busied with
dressing a doll, the instrument gives out a purity and sweetness
of tone, with an expression most remarkable. Every light and
shade is observed, and all the intentions of the composer
faithfully rendered. Here comes more energetic passages, the
feeble child will find strength necessary, and the voice of the
instrument assumes a fullness of tone which one could not look
for in the diminutive violin. Effects of double stopping,
staccato, rapid arpeggios--everything is executed with the same
precision, the same purity, the same grace. Repeatedly
interrupted by applause and acclamations, she was saluted at the
end by salvos of bravos and a shower of bouquets."
As for the anti-Urso party, they were completely demoralized and had not
a word to say. Camilla was a success, and they gracefully retired from
the field.