did what he said, holding the note as long as I could, until it petered out in a glissando.
“You must breathe more deeply,” he advised, placing his hand on my abdomen. “You must strengthen your diaphragm. If you wish to become a grande cantatrice, you will have to work, work, work!”
Feigning not to notice my dismay, he added in a fatherly tone: “Just as much as technique, you must refine your sensibility. All art has its source in human vulnerability, but keep your tears for the arias in which you are required to express emotion.”
“Maître, I have worked to develop my voice since my early childhood, but I feel as if I were starting from the beginning again.”
“Go ahead, control every breath you take,” he continued, without acknowledging my remark. “Concentrate on your voice, and eat only what is good for it: lean meat, fish, boiled vegetables, and toast. Only satisfy your appetite after you have given a successful performance; that will be your reward!”
“I couldn't. I would faint from hunger!”
“Keep active eight hours a day and sleep nine hours a night: you will soon feel the difference. Even your soul will sing! You have a good light soprano voice, but it lacks ripeness.”
I had imagined that I was free of a hard taskmaster when I left my father's tutelage, but Maître Duprez was even more exacting. I realized that to him, I was not a child prodigy, but simply a student like any other.
I carefully noted all his advice and criticism. Among his many bits of wisdom, I particularly remember his saying: “There is no better method of voice training than singing scales and doing exercises using the feminine syllables. Each note must be sung with equal resonance; each syllable must be pronounced with its own particular recitative value.”
I believe that my teacher was gradually won over by my determination, although he was miserly with his compliments. There was a small private theatre near his school where he allowed his more advanced pupils to perform. My first appearance there was as Marguerite in the garden scene in Faust; and the audience applauded enthusiastically. I treasure the memory of finally hearing my teacher's praise: “She has a beautiful voice and possesses the sacred flame; she is of the wood from which great flutes are fashioned.”
At the same time, I took classes in sacred music from François Benoist, one of the best organists in Paris – another necessary string in my bow, I thought. Duprez, however, advised me to concentrate on operatic singing. “You are a born nightingale,” he told me.
Paris was the loveliest place on earth to me in those youthful days. I expressed this opinion to a Canadian acquaintance who had been touring the Continent. He concurred, but gently reproved me, saying: “Emma, you move in a very worldly circle here in Paris. You live in the midst of great reconstruction projects, right beside Charles Garnier's new opera house, the new Place de l'Étoile, and the grand boulevards with their cafés and theatres. You see nothing of the crisis brewing among the working classes. Strikes are breaking out and are being crushed by the army. The Parti Républicain is gaining influence at the expense of Napoléon III, who is old and ill. There is the foreign threat, too: Bismarck is working to create a united and strongly armed Germany, primed for war.”
“But isn't the French army as powerful?” I asked, surprised by his serious tone.
“Powerful, and too sure of itself, besides. I would even say belligerent, but with an arsenal as outdated as its strategies. France has no allies; a military conflict would be fatal. My dear Emma, you must go to Italy at your earliest opportunity.”
Prince Poniatowski agreed with this advice, but from a musician's point of view. He offered to commend me to the best-known Italian singing teacher, Signor Francesco Lamperti of Milan. “For anyone wishing to rise to the top in the opera, I recommend the Italian method. It produces a magnificent quality of voice. Singers trained in France tend to sing through their noses instead of their throats. Vowels are the basis of the Italian method. Just compare the words amore and amour, vita and vie. Italy is the natural homeland of song.”
The Prince was a friend of Maurice Strakosch who had heard me sing in Albany, and who had become the most important opera impresario of the day. Mr. Strakosch was in Paris and accompanied the Prince to a recital that I gave one evening. He paid me a lovely compliment: “Your voice has matured since Albany: it is richer and fuller. And what elegance of tone!”
By this time, my dear Maître Duprez was in ill health and could not keep on all of his students. That was another reason for my decision to move after those heady months of life in Paris. However, I was distraught at leaving this stimulating milieu, and afraid of leaping into the unknown. Thank goodness Nelly was going with me! The Baroness kindly organized a benefit concert that enabled us to set off with enough funds to tide us over on our arrival in Milan.
Emma as Marguerite in Faust by Charles Gounod at Covent Garden Theatre (London) in 1875.
Emma as Tamara in The Demon by Anton Rubinstein at Covent Garden Theatre in 1881.
1. Motet: a religious choral composition, not using words from the liturgy. Johann Hummel (1778–1837) studied with Mozart and developed the first piano method with a rational treatment of fingering.
2. Brother-in-law of the opera diva, Adelina Patti.
3. A register between baritone and tenor; the term is not in use today. When Debussy's opera Pelléas et Mélisande was first performed (in 1902), the role of Pelléas was sung by Jean Périer, a “baryton Martin.”
4. Duprez was the first tenor known to have sung high C from the chest.
4
In the Land of Bel Canto
Maestro Francesco Lamperti always told his new pupils: “If you adopt my method one hundred per cent, you will be able to sing anything.”
Once again, I had to bend my will to a strict and critical disciplinarian. Lamperti refused to teach any members of the aristocracy, because, according to him, they tended to regard singing as a diverting accomplishment rather than as a serious career. He once disparaged a dilettante by saying: “She sings like a countess.”
Prince Poniatowski visited Milan a few months after I had been with Maestro Lamperti and came to evaluate my progress.
“Her trill is faulty,” he remarked to Lamperti.
“It will fall into place, my friend,” answered the maestro. “She is like a bottle of effervescent water: one has only to uncork her and everything gushes out. Moreover, I am writing a treatise on the trill which I will dedicate to her.”
For the first few lessons, Maestro Lamperti concentrated on the syntax of vocal music that all great singers must master: breathing, voice projection, nuance, and phrasing.
I was also instructed on how to strengthen my diaphragm by bending my waist as far as possible to each side, then backward and forward – as far as my corset would allow, that is!
“…
