I understood that to Maxine I was already living the life of dramatic love and connection she and the other students hoped for after they finished their education, but it would be some time before I understood that my apparent indifference to losing the tenor passed as confidence, or sophistication, and urged Maxine to greater lengths. I had not yet learned to be possessive of a lover I did not love. Instead, whenever I thought of it or noticed her at her game, the absurdity of it would freeze me in place with the same mix of fear and hope each time.
Maxine would never quite believe I was who I said I was, and at times she treated her mission of seducing the tenor as a kind of rescue of him, as if he’d been led astray by a pretender. She would try to captivate him for a very long time after that night. And one day, many years from now, she would succeed a little because I allowed it.
Until that time, when I thought of Maxine, I mostly would hear her say that strange greeting of hers from our first meeting. It would stay with me for years.
Tragedy belongs to you.
Soon I would say it to myself.
Tragedy belongs to you.
Two
MY FIRST LESSON with Pauline that morning was a lesson in all I did not know about my voice and singing.
I went to her music room, and she invited me to sit beside her at the piano, and so I did. As I sat down, I saw we did not wear crinolines at Pauline’s because we needed to sit beside her on the piano bench.
I would direct the tenor to place a dress order for me immediately afterward.
I have heard a story, she said, of your audition for the Conservatoire, but I would hear it from you directly.
I told her about singing my Nabucco aria and the reactions and comments of the jury. And the warning.
I wouldn’t dare ask you to sing such a thing for me today, she said. What else can you sing?
I suggested the Lucia, and she shook her head.
Let us be very simple, she said. Why don’t you sing your vocalizes for me?
I had none and admitted as much.
Ah, she said. He really did poorly by you. I will have to punish him! We will find something suitably humiliating, I’m sure. Perhaps I will teach him to teach. Here, and she played a simple progression for me. Now follow along, singing on each tone just the letter A. Do not push or strain; let the tone be natural.
She demonstrated, the sound much as I’d heard her sing privately the day before.
Your voice is quite fine, but you have not really been singing, she said to me, after a few of these exercises. Your voice has simply been misused. It is like a horse that was allowed to run wherever and whenever it liked, and then was found by someone who enjoyed it that way, and somehow it has not lamed itself, she said. Though there could, I think, be some secret wound not quite audible to us. For now we will proceed. For our purposes, I want you to begin as if you have never sung before and do all I tell you.
She handed me a book that looked like a score to an operetta in which one only sang the letter A. This was a lesson book, she explained, a program carefully constructed over the years to train her singers.
Each day I was to begin at the piano, and to begin with my posture at the piano—I was to sit erect, head slightly lifted. Once the posture was correct, I would begin not by singing but by playing the notes to the lesson on the piano until I knew the music well enough to begin—unfamiliar music, she explained, was a danger to the voice, like running through an unfamiliar landscape. A singer’s voice could trip on too fast a change, especially if untrained.
As I played the notes without singing, I was to practice breathing through my nose only, practicing for when I began to sing. As I did this, I was also to soften my tongue so that it would not go rigid. When I was ready to sing, I was to use my practice in inhaling through my nose to take a breath this way first, and then hold the breath for a moment, before releasing the note in as natural a way as possible. I was to sing only that letter A and never change the vowel sound during the lesson.
When I began to sing, I was to sing slowly at first, legato and moderato, and then faster and faster. A mirror sat on the piano so I could watch my mouth’s movements and modulate myself accordingly. Once I knew the lesson comfortably from memory, I would then stand and sing it unaccompanied. There were instructions for standing as well, of course—I was to stand in second position from ballet, one foot in front, the other in back, so there could be no unseemly slouching or swaying or any extra movement whatsoever. The back was arched ever so slightly backward, the head slightly raised, as if I were maintaining my stance in the face of a great wind and I would not ever lose my ground.
I was to practice fifteen minutes at a time and then rest and do this only when my concentration was greatest. I was never to force, never to slide toward a note, but instead launch it boldly, precisely, never loud when I was to be soft or soft when I was to be loud. If I sensed a mistake or a problem, I was to stop at once and begin again, but only once a natural softness had returned to the throat. The plus marks over or under the notes were warnings as to where the voice was most likely to go sharp (over) or flat (under).
I cannot play so well, I told her, anxious not to fail at even this.
She pointed at the keys. So, your playing will improve first, she said, and then your singing. Now begin, and I will return at your first break to speak to you some more. She picked up an hourglass timer, turned it over, and left.
Hesitantly, my fingers found the notes. I’d had no instruction in the piano previously. I pecked in the manner of all who cannot play, first slowly and then more quickly. I resisted the impulse to hum.
She returned. My child, you did not tell me you could not play at all.
And so she became my piano teacher also.
In several weeks’ time I was ready to sing the lesson. The voice felt made new after the long rest, stronger, surer, as if it were rooted the more deeply somehow. The noise of it was thrilling. Here in the lessons were the ways to attempt the vocal flourishes, the trills and diminuendos and crescendos I had only heard and never understood. Only when I was ready to stand did I realize how I had been raised up very slowly by degrees. Until I was singing in that position in which I would not ever lose my ground.
I made my way like this through that first winter into the spring in Weimar and Karlsruhe until we returned to Baden-Baden. By the summer, Natalya had moved on, and when the opera was performed, I replaced her onstage as Prince Lelio, singing of love to Maxine, who was still in the role of Stella. This amused the tenor to no end. Especially when I decided, with a flourish, to use that ruby rose gift from the Emperor, the one he had kept for me, as the flower the Queen gives Lelio to pass invisibly through the night.
§
At this distance, these lessons with her are, to me, her autobiography written in musical instruction. At the least, as I sat and learned to play beside her, they were a mirror to the story of a girl who had watched her older brother and sister both break very publicly—her sister singing herself to death after a horseback-riding accident, her brother losing his voice very young—and she, all the while, their talented much younger sister, who loved the piano more than she loved singing, picking out the notes before she sang. Doing as her father and mother said.