DEAR A.,--Still hard at work. I wonder at mama's patience and endurance.
To hear scales, cadenzas, and trills from morning till night must be
terribly wearing on the nerves. I said as much to the master, and he
consented to give me "Bel raggio," of "Semiramide." It is as good as an
exercise, anyway, because it is nothing but cadenzas. Then he allowed me
to sing "Una voce poco fa." I told him that mama had put on a pound of
flesh since I was permitted to roam in these fresh pastures. This made him
laugh. After he had seen that I had "brains enough" to sing these songs
according to his august liking, he said, "Now we will try 'Voi che
sapete,' of Mozart."
Garcia has not the ghost of a voice; but he has the most enchanting way of
singing mezzo-voce, and occasionally says, "Sing this so," and sings the
phrase for me. It sounds delightfully when he does it; but I do not think
he would have liked me to "sing it so" and would probably swear a gentle
little Spanish swear under his garlicky breath, because (I say it, though
I hate to) the dear master eats garlic--pounds of it, I fear--and his
voice is highly scented when it cracks, which it often does.
He once said, "You may imitate my way of singing, but don't imitate my
crack."
"Oh," I said, "I love to hear you sing. I don't even hear the crack."
"Ah," he sighed, "if it had not been for that crack I should be in the
opera now."
"I am glad," I answered, "that you are not there; for then you would not
be here, teaching me." I think this pleased him.
Sometimes he is very nervous. Once, when I was singing "Voi che sapete,"
the tears rolled down his cheeks, and another time, when he was showing me
how to sing it "so," I burst into tears, and the poor man had to order his
servant to bring me some sherry to restore my nerves. There is one phrase
in this song which I never can hear sung, or never can sing myself,
without emotion.
The season is getting so late mama thinks we ought to leave London,
especially as Garcia is taking his vacation, and we are going in a few
days to Paris.
Garcia has given us a letter to his sister, Madame Viardot (of whom he
said she had brains but no voice). He wrote: "I send you my pupil. Do all
you can to persuade her to go on the stage. She has it in her."
But Madame Viardot may "do all she can"; I will never go on the stage.
If "it" is in me, it must work out some other way.