My mother and I went to Baden-Baden without delay. On the appointed day and at the appointed hour we presented ourselves at the Villa Viardot. We were shown into a small ground-floor salon and told to wait a little while. I still see the piano in the corner at the right by the window. There were several music cabinets with scores; on the walls, pictures and photographs of artists; through the open balcony door a glimpse of the garden. In the background of this was a pavilion, presumably the dwelling of Ivan Turgénief, Madame Viardot’s friend of many years. In this waiting time I was seized by a horrible panic. Something that I had never yet felt in my life. Something that actually took away my breath and tortured me. Is this, then, what is called stage fright, _le trac_? Why, that is not at all unlike what one must feel at going to the guillotine! How can one—God have mercy!—sing in such a state? “Mamma,” I wailed, “I shan’t be able to sing a note!” “Don’t be childish! Who’d be worried, when you have such a voice? Madame Viardot will consider herself fortunate to get such a pupil.” The door of the next room opened and in came the dreaded one. A lively, elegant woman of forty, with features not beautiful but interesting. There was a little introductory conversation which I do not remember, and then I was dragged to the block—I mean the piano. “Have you brought any music? What will you sing for me?” “All I can do is scales and exercises.” “One can judge of your voice by those, no doubt, but not of your talent, not of your degree of ability.” “Then, please, the duet with the barytone from _Lucia_.” “A duet?” “Yes, madame; so far I have not sung any pieces at all; it only happens that I know this one.” “Very well.” She found the score and played the introduction. My throat was utterly choked. I started in a tremble. But after a while my voice grew firmer, and after a few measures it went to my own satisfaction. Mother nodded approvingly. I believed that I had given of my best. But the great teacher shut up the score in the middle of a measure and said, “The truth of the matter is, you can do nothing at all.” It was as if I had been given a box on the ear and a dagger-thrust both at once. “Let us have another trial, then, with _notes filées_—in order to see what might be made of the material—there is certainly voice there—” And she struck low C. This test was easier for me. Still I could not give all that I had—the tones were hoarse and my breath was short. After the two octaves up to high C were tested, she stood up. “How old are you?” she asked. “Past twenty,” I replied with a half lie, for I was already twenty-two. “That is too late to start from the beginning. At twenty, one ought to be already trained. And tell me, why do you really want to go on the stage? You have social standing—your name shows it.” In reply I said something about ambition and love for art.