“By devoting all my time, all my thought, and all my energy to that one
object. I devoured church music—all I could get hold of. I practiced
new and difficult compositions all the time I could spare.”
“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.”
“Were you ambitious enough?”
“Oh, yes! and most conscientious. Under him I studied the physiology
of the voice, and practiced singing oratorios. I also took up Italian,
familiarizing myself with the language, with all the songs and endless
_arias_. In fact, I made myself as perfect in Italian as possible.”
“How much time did the training take?”
“Three years.”
“And what was the result?”
“Well, I had greatly improved, but was not perfect. Mr. O’Neill
employed methods of making me work which discouraged me. He was a man
who would magnify and storm over your slightest error, and make light
of or ignore your sincerest achievements. If anything, he put his grade
of perfection so high that I began to consider it unattainable, and
lost heart. Finally, I gave it up and rested awhile, uncertain of
everything.”
“And then?”
“After I had thought awhile and regained some confidence, I came to
New York to see Mme. Maretzek. She was not only a teacher, but also a
singer quite famous in her day and knew the world of music thoroughly.
She considered my voice to be of the right quality for the highest
grade of operatic success, and gave me hope that, with a little more
training, I could begin my career. She not only did that, but also set
me to studying the great operas, ‘Lucia’ and the others, and introduced
me to the American musical celebrities. Together we heard whatever was
worth hearing in New York. When the renowned Brignola came to New York
she took me to the Everett House, where he was stopping, and introduced
me. They were good friends, and, after gaining his opinion of my voice,
we went to hear him sing ‘Faust.’
“That was a wonderful thing for me. To hear the great Brignola! It
fired my ambition. As I listened, I felt that I could also be great,
and that people, some day, might listen to me as enraptured as I then
was by him. It put new fire into me and caused me to fairly toil over
my studies. I would have given up all my hours if I had been allowed or
requested to.”
“And then what?”
“Well, so it went until, after several years of study, Madame Maretzek
thought I was getting pretty well along and might venture some
important public singing. We talked about different ways of appearing,
and what I would sing and so on, until finally Gilmore’s band came to
Madison Square Garden. He was in the heyday of his success then, both
popular and famous, and carried important soloists with him. Madame
Maretzek decided that she would take me to see him and get his opinion;
and so, one day, toward the very last of his Madison Square engagement,
we went to see him. Madame Maretzek was on good terms with him also.
I remember that she took me in one morning when he was rehearsing. I
saw a stout, kindly, genial looking man who was engaged in tapping for
attention, calling certain individuals to notice certain points, and
generally fluttering around over a dozen odds and ends. Madame Maretzek
talked with him a little while and then called his attention to me. He
looked toward me.
“‘Thinks she can sing, eh? Yes, yes. Well, all right! Let her come
right along.’
“Then he called to me:
“I WAS TRAVELING ON AIR.”
“‘Come right along, now. Step right up here on the stage. Yes, yes.
Now, what can you sing?’
“I told him I could sing almost anything in oratorio or opera, if he so
wished. He said: ‘Well, well, have a little from both. Now, what shall
it be?’
“I shall never forget his kindly way. He was like a good father, gentle
and reassuring, and seemed really pleased to have me there and hear me.
I went up on the platform and told him that I would begin with ‘Let the
Bright Seraphim,’ and he called the orchestra together and had them
accompany me.”
“You must have been slightly nervous.”
“I was at first, but I recovered my equanimity and sang up to my
full limit of power. When I was through, he remarked, ‘Very good!
very good!’ and then, ‘Now, what else?’ I next sang an _aria_ from
‘Somnambula.’ He did not hesitate to express his approval, which was
always, ‘Very good! very good! Now, what you want to do,’ he said, ‘is
to get some roses in your cheeks and come along and sing for me.’ After
that he continued his conference with Madame Maretzek, and then we went
away together.
“I was traveling on air when I left, I can assure you. His company was
famous. Its engagement had been most successful. Madame Poppenheim was
singing with it, and there were other famous names. There were only
two more concerts, concluding his New York engagement, but he had told
Madame Maretzek that if I chose to come and sing on these occasions,
he would be glad to have me. I was more than glad of the opportunity
and agreed to go. We arranged with him by letter, and, when the evening
came, I sang.
“My work made a distinct impression on the audience and pleased Mr.
Gilmore wonderfully. After the second night, when all was over, he came
to me, and said: ‘Now, my dear, of course there is no more concert this
summer, but I am going West in the fall. Now, how would you like to go
along?’
“I told him that I would like to go very much, if it could be arranged;
and, after some negotiation, he agreed to pay the expenses of my mother
and myself, and give me one hundred dollars a week besides. I accepted,
and when the Western tour began, we went along.”
“How did you succeed on that tour?”
“Very well indeed. I gained thorough control of my nerves in that
time and learned something of audiences and of what constitutes
distinguished ‘stage presence.’ I studied all the time, and, with the
broadening influence of travel, gained a great deal. At the end of the
tour my voice was more under my control than ever before, and I was a
better singer all around.”