I had never learned how to sing, for I had never been taught. One day a
young officer of my company said to me: 'You will spoil your voice if
you keep on singing like that'--for I suppose I was fond of shouting in
those days. 'You should learn _how_ to sing,' he said to me; 'you must
study.' He introduced me to a young man who at once took an interest in
me and brought me to a singing master named Vergine. I sang for him, but
he was very discouraging. His verdict was it would be hopeless to try to
make a singer out of me. As it was, I might possibly earn a few lire a
night with my voice, but according to his idea I had far better stick to
my father's trade, in which I could at least earn forty cents a day.

"But my young friend would not give up so easily. He begged Vergine to
hear me again. Things went a little better with me the second time and
Vergine consented to teach me.


RIGID DISCIPLINE

"And now began a period of rigid discipline. In Vergine's idea I had
been singing too loud; I must reverse this and sing everything softly.
I felt as though in a strait-jacket; all my efforts at expression were
most carefully repressed; I was never allowed to let out my voice. At
last came a chance to try my wings in opera, at ten lire a night
($2.00). In spite of the régime of repression to which I had been
subjected for the past three years, there were still a few traces of my
natural feeling left. The people were kind to me and I got a few
engagements. Vergine had so long trained me to sing softly, never
permitting me to sing out, that people began to call me the Broken
Tenor.