In the Courts of Memory 1858-1875. | Page 6

then come back to me." When he saw the
crestfallen look on my face, he added, kindly, "Then we shall see
something wonderful."
We leave for Dresden this evening.... Love to all.
Your humble
LILLIE.

LONDON, _May, 1860._
DEAR A.,--I have not written since we left the kind V. Rensselaers in
Dresden. Mama must have given you all the details of our life there.... I
hope, now that I have studied French, German, and Italian like a good
little girl for six months and not "sung a single note," that I may venture
to present myself before the great Garcia again.
I can't imagine that I am the same person who has (it seems to me years
ago) sung before large, distinguished, and enthusiastic audiences, has
been a little belle, in a way, in Cambridge, has had serenades from the
Harvard Glee Club (poor aunty! routed out of your sleep in the middle
of the night to listen to them), inspired poetry, and danced on "the
Green" on Class Day. I felt as if I ought to put on pantalettes and wear
my hair down my back. I look now upon myself as a real Backfisch, as
the Germans call very young girls, and that is simply what I am; and I
feel that I ought never to have been allowed to sport about in those
fascinating clear waters which reflected no shadows, now that I must
go back to the millpond and learn to swim.
I have been already three weeks studying hard with Garcia, who is not
only a wonderful teacher, but is a wonderful personality. I simply
worship him, though he is very severe and pulls me up directly I
"slipshod," as he calls it; and so far I have literally sung nothing but
scales. He says that a scale must be like a beautiful row of pearls: each
note like a pearl, perfect in roundness and color.
This is so easy to say, but very difficult to accomplish. Stone-breaking
on the highroad is nothing to it. I come home tired out from my lessons,
only to begin singing scales again. I tell mama I feel like a fish with the
scales being taken off him.
Four hours by myself and two lessons a week will soon reduce your
poor niece to a scaleton. Ah! please forgive this....
No question of a song yet. "Qui la voce" seems way back in the Middle
Ages. Garcia says, "If, when your voice is well oiled [that is what he
calls the scaling process], you are not intelligent enough to sing a song
by yourself, then you had better knit stockings for the poor."
"Then," I answered, "I had better begin at once to learn to knit
stockings."
"Not quite yet!" he laughed. "Wait till I have finished with you." More
than once he has said, "Your voice reminds me of my sister Marie's

[meaning Malibran]; but she had no brains to speak of, whereas you
have, and you ought to be thankful for it."
I murmured that I was glad he thought so, and, if I really had some
brains, I should be thankful; but I was not quite sure that I had. "Trust
me to tell you if you have not," said he.
I trusted him, indeed, for I knew very well that he would not let the
occasion slip had he anything of that sort to say.
LONDON, _July, 1860._
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