I had not been teaching long in Russia when a young lady came in for a voice trial. She had a sad story to tell. She wanted to sing, felt that she could, but unfortunately she was the only one who felt that way about it. I heard her sing, thought she had the personality and intelligence needed, so, positive of my ability to create voices and full of enthusiasm that approximated hers, I assured her that she could and would sing, in spite of the dictums of other teachers. May I add that much to the surprise of everyone, including the young lady herself, she became a very famous singer indeed.

It is possible, of course, to err in judging a voice, and since we are all prone to error, it is best to avoid declarations one cannot be sure of when hearing a singer or student for the first time. I have heard baritones who with a little development of overtone blossomed into tenors with thrilling high C’s, and I have heard pseudo-lyric sopranos turn into glorious contraltos. There are voices that to the uninitiated sound like so much croaking which can, with correct training, become wonderful instruments, and of course there are excellent voices that surprisingly enough never develop beyond mediocrity. I maintain that the reason for this is not lack of voice, but lack of intelligence and ambition on the part of the singer, or incompetence on the part of the teacher. For intelligence means more than voice.

For example, I had not been in America very long when I was introduced to a very important man at a dinner party. In the usual American fashion of the time, he sneered at the idea of singing and singing teachers and called all musicians "bluffers." "You teachers get a good voice," he said, "and when that person makes a success you take the credit. But when a poor voice comes your way, you can’t do anything with it. Bah! You can’t teach singing, any of you. You can just talk it and rob poor innocent people of their money." This was in the nature of a challenge, and I told this man so. "I can make anyone who is passably intelligent and not tone deaf sing."

"If you can make my daughter sing, I’ll believe you," he said, and laughed uproariously. I had never met the daughter and I was taking a long chance, as it would be hard to tell a father that his daughter was not intelligent, but I really meant what I said, so I pounded my fist on the table, even as he had done, and said, "I can!"
"All right," said Mr. X, "I’ll make a bet with you. My daughter isn’t tone deaf, and she’s rather intelligent. But she can’t sing. She wants to, though, heaven only knows why. If you can make her sing, I’ll pay you for every lesson she takes; but if you don’t make her sing so that it sounds half way pleasant, you don’t get a cent."
"Done!" said I, cheerfully, though wondering what I had let myself in for.

The next day she came to the studio. There was no doubt about the veracity of her father’s statement. She couldn’t sing. Her voice was small, very limited range, and she sang off key as often as not. But she was a clever girl, and she could take instruction. We worked hard. She studied until she could speak Italian with ease. She practiced until she knew the standard repertoire, both prima donna and lesser roles. She practiced until one day she sang, and what is more, she sang well.

The day she got her first engagement—it was for a series of concerts as an assisting artist to a very famous singer—her father paid me for all the lessons, and I must admit the payment was deserved. But my greatest payment came when, in Italy, I heard her sing as the prima donna of some of the most important opera houses of the country, and heard the critical Italian audience give her heartwarming ovations. Her voice was never very large, but through constant training and intelligent application it became so clear and perfectly placed that success was hers for many years, and still is. Now that she is older, she is doing well as a teacher.