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 pa.s.s, the manuvre 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 ill.u.s.tration, 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 pa.s.sage 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 ill.u.s.trate 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s through; then in pa.s.sing through the pa.s.sage 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 const.i.tuted 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 a.s.sociated, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 ill.u.s.trations 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 a.s.sistance 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 ca! 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 _debut_" (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." "Tannhauser" 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, pa.s.sages 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 ill.u.s.trations, 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 a.s.sistance.
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 a.n.a.logous 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sociated 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, s.n.a.t.c.h it up and set it to time, and for the s.p.a.ce 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 ill.u.s.tration 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. Senor 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:--