“What a remarkable man!  So strong and vigorous, in spite of his advanced age.  No doubt he travels those stairs twenty times a day.  He is as alert as a young man; doubtless he still has his voice, as he says.  And what a career he has had.  You know he was a friend of Edward the Seventh; they once lived together.  Then he and Verdi were close friends; he helped coach singers for Verdi’s operas.  He says it was a wonderful experience, when the composer sat down at the piano, put his hands on the keys and showed the singers how he wanted his music sung!

“Early in his career Maurel sang in Verdi’s opera, Simone Boccanegra, which one never hears now, but it has a fine baritone part, and a couple of very dramatic scenes, especially the final scene at the close.  This is the death scene.  Maurel had sung and acted so wonderfully on a certain occasion that all the singers about him were in tears.  Verdi was present at this performance and was deeply moved by Maurel’s singing and acting.  He came upon the stage when all was over, and exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion:  ’You have created the role just as I would have it; I shall write an opera especially for you!’ This he did; it was Othello, and the Iago was composed for Maurel.  In his later years, when he seldom left his home, the aged composer several times expressed the wish that he might go to Paris, just to hear Maurel sing once more.

“It is very interesting that he was led to speak to us as he did just now, about mental control, and the part played by mind in the singer’s study, equipment and career.  It is a side of the question which every young singer must seriously consider, first, last and always.  But here he comes.”

Again protesting about the appearance of his simple studio, the master led the way up the stairways till we reached the top of the house, where a north-lighted room had been turned into a painter’s atelier.  With mingled feelings we stepped within this modest den of a great artist, which held his treasures.  These were never shown to the casual observer, nor to the merely curious; they were reserved for the trusted few.

The walls were lined with sketches; heads, still life, landscapes, all subjects alike interested the painter.  A rugged bust of Verdi, over life size, modeled in plaster, stood in one corner.  On an easel rested a spirited portrait of Maurel, done by himself.

“My friends tell me I should have a larger studio, with better light; but I am content with this, for here is quiet and here I can be alone, free to commune with myself.  Here I can study my art undisturbed,—­for Art is my religion.  If people ask if I go to church, I say No, but I worship the immortality which is within, which I feel in my soul, the reflection of the Almighty!”

In quiet mood a little later we descended the white stairway and passed along the corridors of this house, which looks so foreign to American eyes, and has the atmosphere of a Paris home.