I owe nearly all of my talent at music to the influence of my father, organist of the Catalonian village of Vendrell, where I was born in 1876. As soon as I could walk he took me to all the services at the church, so that the Gregorian chant, the chorale and the organ voluntaries became part of myself and of my everyday life. These influences were to prove a solid basis on which the whole of my future musical knowledge could be firmly built. 

Not only did my father teach me to listen to music, he also taught me singing, to play the piano and organ, and gave me my first lessons in composition. At the age of five I was the smallest member of the choir, was assisting to play the organ – often at services – was an acolyte, and was composing music.

A year later I had mastered the violin sufficiently well to play a solo at a concert. Musical instruments of any description had a great fascination for me. In those days bands of itinerant musicians would wander over the countryside, making music in village streets, and precariously existing on the little money the villagers could spare them. But they were always welcome. One of these troupes, known as ‘Les Tres Bemoles’ (‘The Three Flats’), came to Vendrell. Their stay and the strange music excited me, and I was greatly interested in the variety and queerness of their instruments. These included guitars, mandolins, bells, and even such home-like affairs as teapots, cups and glasses, surely precursors of the oddities now to be seen in dance orchestras. One man played a broom handle strung like a cello. Then I had never seen or even heard of a cello. 1 must have had a presentiment; this was the instrument which took my sudden fancy and which I enthusiastically described to my father.

When I was 11, a concert was given in the village by a trio from Barcelona. José Garcia, the teacher at the Municipal School, was the cellist. As soon as 1 heard the first notes I turned to my father and told him that that was the instrument of all others which I wanted to play. My father saw that I was in earnest, he bought me a cello and gave me my first lessons. Then I was allowed to go to Barcelona to study with Garcia. It was the first time I had ever travelled any distance from my home, and I was so young that my mother came with me.

For five years I worked hard in Barcelona, studying harmony and counterpoint, theory, composition, and the cello. My father was by no means a rich man. It became necessary, if my studies were to continue, that I must somehow earn a little money. My music was the only medium. I secured an engagement to play in a trio at the Café Tost. Our repertoire comprised operatic selections, waltzes and popular tunes. But my mind was already humming with the music of the great masters. Occasionally I was able to introduce their pieces into our programmes and what was more, the customers liked them. Soon I was able to persuade the management to devote an evening a week to the classics. The Café was talked about ; people journeyed long distances to hear our music. Isaac Albéniz, the great Spanish composer and pianist, heard me play there and told me that I should have a great career. I was only 12 years old; his kind words naturally thrilled and delighted me.

I obtained a better engagement at the Café Pajarera. Pajarera means a bird cage; the café, a large circular building with glass walls, was not unlike one. Not only did I receive more money, but now had an ensemble of seven instead of three. I found I needed more music.

I told my father this when he next came from Vendrell to see me. He took me to an old music shop overlooking the harbour. First he bought me my first full-sized cello. That was enough to make the afternoon memorable; it was not all. Looking through a bundle of music, my attention was suddenly arrested by some unaccompanied suites by Bach for cello. The real reason of our visit to the shop was forgotten, I could only stare at this wonderful music which nobody had thought it worth while to tell me about. Even now, when I look at the faded covers of that music, I see again the interior of that old and musty shop pervaded by a faint smell of the sea. At home I read and re-read the music which was to become my abiding delight. Every day for 12 years I worked and studied at the Suites. I was 25 before I had the courage to play one of them in public.

The time came when I could learn no more at the Barcelona School. It was decided that I should go to Madrid. Albéniz and Arbos gave me letters of introduction to Guilermo, Count de Morphy, at that time Councillor to the Queen Mother, Maria Cristina. Before that he had been tutor to Alfonso XII. The Count de Morphy was kind enough to take a great interest in me. I was presented to the Queen, and Her Majesty, after listening to a string quartet and some other of my compositions, granted me a pension. I studied chamber music with Jesús de Monasterio (of the Madrid Conservatory) and counterpoint with Tomas Breton. After my father, Monasterio made the greatest impression on my musical sensibilities. He opened my eyes and ears to the inner significance of music and taught me style. He was a loveable man with a delightful way of doing nice things. Once, at the close of a class, he warned all the pupils that they must be certain to be present the next day. ‘Among you,’ he said, ‘is a pupil who has so distinguished himself that the Queen has given him a royal honour in appreciation of his merit. Tomorrow, you will all know his name.’ It never occurred to me that I was the lucky one. To my surprise, I was.

Once every week I went to the Palace, played on my cello and improvised at the piano. Queen Cristina, a fine executant, would often play duets with me. Count de Morphy treated me as he would a favourite son. He urged me to concentrate on composition. Breton had just written the first serious Spanish opera – a complete breakaway from the traditional zarzuelas, or light operas, with which previous Spanish composers had been content. The revival of native music was beginning. Count de Morphy wanted me to follow Breton’s example. With this in view, my pension was indefinitely extended and it was suggested that I should study with Gevaert, the Director of the Conservatoire of Music at Brussels. When my mother and I reached Brussels, I had a long conversation with Gevaert. Although he was surprised at the individual technique of my compositions, the famous composer and teacher said that he was too old and his time too occupied already with his many duties to fulfil any promise to give me lessons. He advised me to go to Paris, the Mecca of all musical aspirants. But before I left him an appointment was made for the school professor to hear me play the cello.

The next morning, I sat, unnoticed, at the back of the cello class. I listened to the students playing and it was not until the class had finished that the teacher made any sign that he had seen me. Then he inquired if I was the little Spaniard the director had asked him to hear. I said I was. Had I got my cello ? I had not. ‘Can you play one we have here?’ he continued. I replied I could but try. The cello was found for me and I was then asked what I could play. Without conceit or even thinking what I was saying, I said: ‘Anything you like.’ I had said the wrong thing; the teacher smiled sarcastically and remarked that I must be remarkable! The class tittered, the professor amused himself with further ironical remarks, and I began to feel more and more awkward. This was my second day in a strange country!

Several standard concertos were mentioned, works which every student would study as a matter of course, and I was asked if I could play them. To every one he named I returned a laconic ‘yes.’ It just happened I did know them. Then he reiterated: ‘You must be wonderful.’ Finally I was requested to play the Souvenir de Spa, with an aside made to the class: ‘Now, gentlemen, we shall, no doubt, hear something very surprising from this young man who plays everything.’

Normally this audition would have been a nerve trying ordeal for me, but I had been so hurt and irritated that my only thought was to show this uncivil professor that I could play!

I finished the piece in silence, the class waiting for their professor to give them a clue as to how they should behave. He gave none, but beckoned me into another room. Carefully closing the door, he congratulated me, saying that I had exceptional talent. If I would care to study in his class he could promise me the first prize at the end of the year. ‘Sir,’ I replied, ‘you have treated me so badly before your class that I do not want to stay one minute longer.’ And out I went through the door which he opened for me, feeling more indignant than I had ever done before in my life!

The fog that stifled my lungs in the street, my unhappy experiences, a nostalgia for my own sunny country, all combined to make me resolve to leave Brussels at once. Two days later my mother and I were on our way to Paris. The Count de Morphy could not understand my sudden departure; I found it difficult to explain to him through the medium of a letter why it had been necessary. He interpreted my actions as a disregard of the Royal wishes, and was obliged to stop my pension of 250 pesatas a month. It was on the strength of the continuance of this money that my mother had rented an apartment in Paris. We arrived to find our supplies had ceased! Fortunately, I met in the street a musician who had known me well in Barcelona. Now he plays in my orchestra there. Through his good services I secured an engagement to play second cello in a music hall. This employment involved a daily walk of many miles with my cello tucked under my arm. My playing only bought a few frances. Otherwise we could not have lived. Also there was not only two of us to keep, but also a little baby boy, too young for my mother to have left behind in Spain. But this life only lasted a few weeks. The strain made me ill. There was nothing for it but to return home.

There my fortunes changed. When I reached Barcelona it was to discover that my old teacher, Garcia, was about to retire and was on the point of sailing for Buenos Aires, where he intended to make a new home. I took his place as professor at the Municipal School, also his private pupils and the church services. Soon I had more work than I could manage. I played the cello in several churches as well as at the opera, taught at the Conservatoire Liceo and formed a string quartet with that fine Belgian violinist, Crickboom. I was now 19, and for three years I lived and worked in Barcelona.

During the summer of my first year engagements slackened, and I accepted an engagement to play at the Casino at Espinho. My way lay through Madrid. I wrote to the Count de Morphy acquainting him with all that had happened to me since I had left Belgium, and hoping that he would like to see me. I received an affectionate and friendly reply, and when 1 called on him in Madrid our past misunderstandings were soon dispelled.

The next two years went quickly. I was able to save money; once more I determined to brave Paris. This time I carried with me a letter of introduction to the famous Charles Lamoureux, the conductor of the equally famous orchestra of that name. When I was shown into Lamoureux’s private office he was at work on the score of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde, which he was about to produce for the first time in Paris. Lamoureux was so absorbed in the music that he hardly noticed me. I excused my presence and gave him the letter from the Count de Morphy. Lamoureux read it and asked me to come with my cello on the following day.

Early the next morning I was again in his room. An accompanist was waiting for me, but Lamoureux seemed as disinclined as the previous day to be disturbed from his perusal of Wagner’s score. I suggested that I should withdraw until some more opportune time. Lamoureux, who suffered from a physical disability which made it painful for him to move his body or legs jerked his head and said: ‘Young man, I like you. Play!’ His head went over his score again and I commenced to play. Soon I could see he was interested. He began to give all his attention to the music he was hearing. Then, to my astonishment, he painfully and slowly raised himself until he stood, and he remained standing until I had finished the concerto. Then he enthusiastically embraced me, crying: ‘You are going to play at my first concert!’ How little did I realise that those words opened to me the path to whatever success my music has brought me.

I made my debut in Paris in October 1899 with his orchestra. I played at a second concert for him. Engagements became plentiful. But my happiness was dimmed when suddenly, in January 1900, Lamoureux died. He had been a great friend to me. With his death passed my days of poverty and struggle.

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