How to Sing

run the risk of coming to grief when for some reason or other an unexpected strain is put upon one’s resources and there is no sound knowledge and understanding to fall back upon.

How can one properly understand, for instance, the all-important subject of breathing, if one has not at least some idea as to the natural processes involved? Vocal teachers and students of voice production are often twitted upon the conflicting character of the views which they hold and the principles which they lay down, but here is one subject, at all events, upon which there is universal agreement, namely, the supreme importance of right breathing as the very foundation of the singer’s art.

Chapter XIII

BREATHING

It is when we come to consider the views of the different theorists in detail that divergencies will be found to arise. But on certain fundamental matters there will, I think, be found pretty general agreement nowadays.

The great guiding principle to be borne in mind, in my opinion, is ease and naturalness. This is one of those matters in regard to which nature can be trusted much more safely than theorists and professors. I refer, of course, to the actual process of breathing. As regards the subsequent production of tone there is, of course, plenty to be taught. But the actual process of inspiration and exhalation should be as natural and as easy as possible.

Some wise words of Salvatore Marchesi may be quoted on this point: “When explaining the physical, mechanical process of breathing to beginners it is essential to make them understand that natural laws have provided for its independence of our will, as is observed in sleeping. Therefore, every intentional preparation or effort made in order to draw more air into the lungs will produce the contrary result, hindering the freedom of the natural process.”

But this is not to imply that breathing capacity cannot be cultivated and developed by practice. On the contrary, a vast amount can be done in this way, just as in the case of any other organ of the body, by means of systematic exercise and practice. Everyone has heard, for instance, of the wonderful way in which the breathing capacity of native divers in the tropics is developed in the course of their calling, or of that old man in the Bay of Naples who stops under the water with a watch in hand for 35 seconds. Singers can acquire something of the same power, and must do so, indeed, if they hope ever to achieve the best results. For the production of good sustained tone is impossible if the art of breathing is not properly understood and acquired.

Among modern singers no one attached more importance to breathing and breath control than the late Signor Caruso, and no one, certainly, attained more wonderful results in this way. He developed his powers to such an extent indeed in this respect, that it was said that he could move a grand piano by the expansion of the muscles of his diaphragm! And whether this be true or not it is certain that his wonderful breathing capacity was, as he himself used to declare, in large measure the secret of his consummate art.

Try to avoid breathing through the mouth. Inhalation through the nostrils purifies and warms the air before it reaches the throat. Breathing through the mouth dries the throat and makes the voice husky. Nevertheless, in singing declamatory music what are called half-breaths through the mouth are necessary.

When practising avoid taking sudden breaths, though this may also be necessary when performing publicly.

Practise once daily before a looking-glass and so correct faults of breathing and grimaces.

Don’t heave the shoulders when taking breath. There should be no visible movement of the body.

When practising breathing—and this should be done every day—inhale a long slow breath to the full lung capacity, hold for one or two seconds, and then exhaust in the same slow gentle way. This is rather exhausting, and two or three periods of five minutes with an interval of say fifteen minutes should be sufficient for each day.

Chapter XIV

VOCAL CORDS

Taken broadly, then, it will be understood that vocal sound is produced by a column of air passing from the lungs through a small aperture formed by the vocal cords within the larynx (see diagrams). When we breathe in the ordinary way the air passes in and out as we inspire and exhale, without any sound being produced. This is because the passage through the larynx is then quite clear. No obstruction is offered to the air current, and in consequence the process is quite noiseless.

When, however, we wish to utter a sound, Nature provides for this by enabling us to interpose an obstruction to the air current by means of the vocal cords, and the air then has to pass through a small slit or aperture, sometimes called the “vocal chink,” formed by their being drawn closely together curtainwise, as it were.

When the vocal cords—or ligaments, as they are perhaps better described—are drawn together in this manner the passage of the air is so restricted that it can only pass in short rapid pulsations, instead of, as before, in a continuous stream, and the result of these pulses or vibrations is the production of sound or tone.

The aperture, or chink, is called the glottis, and the character of the tone resulting, in particular the pitch of it, is regulated by the precise disposition and proximity to one another of the two bands or cords or ligaments—sometimes they are known as the vocal lips—by which the chink or opening is formed.

The process itself of regulating the opening of the vocal cords in this way is entirely automatic and subconscious. We merely will, to produce a tone of a certain pitch and the vocal cords automatically, and without any conscious effort on our part, are brought together to precisely the right degree necessary to produce that particular tone.

From this it will be understood that every note that is uttered, every inflection even of the speaking voice, however minute, requires a slightly different adjustment of these infinitely delicate threadlike membranes which are provided for this purpose within the box-like larynx; and this extraordinarily delicate adjustment is all effected quite automatically and instinctively by the mere operations of the will.

The brain intimates, so to speak, that it requires a certain note to be produced and forthwith, without the slightest conscious act of adjustment on the part of the singer or speaker, the vocal ligaments adapt themselves precisely in the manner required and the particular note desired is duly produced.

And these notes may issue forth through that tiny aperture and from the throat of the singer to the number of a dozen or more in a second—each one requiring a separate adjustment of the aperture and the said adjustment being effected in every instance, in the case of a properly trained singer, absolutely perfectly and exactly.

Surely of all the many wonderful contrivances which go to the making of the mechanism of the human body there is none which is more wonderful than this! It is, indeed, necessary only to consider the elaboration of the means and the complexity of the muscular adjustments necessary to achieve similar results in the case of a violin, say, or a piano, in order to realise the amazing ingenuity and efficiency of the means employed by Nature.

But I am wandering from the coup de glotte, which I set out to explain. Let it be understood, therefore, that the coup de glotte is merely a name for a particular method of bringing together the lips of the vocal cords and certain subordinate muscles, known as the ventricular bands, with a view to a better and cleaner production of tone, and with a view especially to the avoidance of the particular fault above referred to, namely, the emission of air before the production of the note.

In the result the “attack” is certainly very sharp and clean, but personally I cannot recommend this particular method of achieving that result, since the effect is anything but agreeable to the ear, and there is good reason for thinking that the practice, besides being unnecessary, is also injurious to a vocal organ.

I will not go further into the matter, however, since all such technical details are for the teacher to explain and illustrate and cannot be satisfactorily dealt with in print.

Certain general principles may, however, be touched on, amongst which the first is, perhaps, that there should never be at any time the smallest conscious strain or effort. Relaxation, looseness, ease, should be the watchwords all the time. Rigidity, tightening of the muscles, stiffness, contraction, are fatal to the production of beautiful tone. Here, as so often in art, when grace and beauty are the objects aimed at, economy of effort is the grand secret.

There should never be any strain or forcing of any sort or kind, and on the same principle, it may be noted, is the rule as to the amount of breath emitted, which should always be the smallest quantity possible which suffices to produce the tone required. Let out enough breath and no more—keeping the remainder in reserve—that is one of the fundamental secrets of beautiful tone production.

Lilli Lehmann puts the same point in another way when she insists on the supreme importance of emitting “as little breath as possible.” Perhaps I may be permitted to quote, also, in this connection some interesting remarks of Signor Salvatore Fucito, in a recently published volume, in reference to the practice of Caruso in this regard.

“Caruso governed the expiratory flow of the breath with such mastery that not a particle of it escaped without giving up its necessary equivalent in tone. Caruso emitted for each musical phrase, or for each note, just enough breath to produce that phrase or note musically and no more. The remaining breath he kept in reserve, which made the enchanted hearer feel that the master was still far from the limit of his resources, that he had still ample motive power in reserve for whatever the occasion might require.”

Another great master of breathing is Battistini. One hears him singing long phrases, one after the other, without perceiving when or how he fills his lungs, so completely has he covered up all traces of the physical effort. There is no puffing and panting, no discoloration or distortion of the face.

I am myself often asked how I manage to find the breath for the long florid passages which I so often have to sing, and my reply usually is that I have a good pair of bellows which I make a point of always keeping well filled with air.

This can be done, I may add, in the case of such passages as I have mentioned by taking at times only partial breaths instead of full ones. These can naturally be taken much more quickly than complete inspirations, and by their means the “bellows” can be kept constantly replenished even when the heaviest demands are being made upon their contents.

But while it is essential to maintain a good pressure of air behind the tone, this does not mean that the lungs must be filled to distention, for this produces the worst possible result. Madame Lilli Lehmann has recorded, for instance, in her valuable treatise on singing, that she made this mistake in the first instance, with the result that she always felt as if she must release some of her superfluous breath before beginning to sing.

“Undoubtedly,” she writes, “I took in too much air in breathing and cramped various muscles, thereby depriving my breathing organs and muscles of their elasticity. I often had, with all my care and preparation for inhalation, too little breath, and sometimes, when not giving special thought to it, more than enough.” And others not infrequently commit the same error under the mistaken impression that they must get as much air into their lungs as possible.

Chapter XV

PLACING THE VOICE

To assist in attaining this result it is usual to instruct the pupil to sing “forward,” “dans le masque,” and so on, but it should be clearly understood that though such terms are useful from the practical point of view, they are none the less only a façon de parler, and a means of instructing the pupil how to adjust and adapt the whole vocal apparatus, so to speak, in the most effective way.

You can really produce a tone in your face or in your throat. It is all produced by the vocal cords, and nowhere else, and merely receives its specific quality or character, so to speak, by, in part, the natural formation, and, in part, the conscious adjustment of the passages through which it passes on its way to the mouth.

But by thinking of the face or the throat and, so to speak, apparently fixing it there, you can modify the disposition of the various parts in question and so influence the quality of the tone produced. This mysterious placing of the voice means, therefore, in reality, nothing more than finding out in each individual instance the best position of the vocal organs for getting the best results.

This, again, is one of those matters in regard to which little help can be derived from advice in books. Only by direct instruction from a capable master can a pupil possibly be made to understand completely what is required in this respect.

It is, indeed, essentially one of those matters in the case of which an ounce of practice and example is worth a ton of theory, and happy is the student who has the good fortune to go to a master capable of instructing him rightly on the point.

Some fortunate ones, like myself, have voices which are quite perfectly placed by Nature. That is to say, they are the lucky possessors of voices which they produce naturally and unconsciously in the most advantageous manner, so that they require to make no alteration at all.

This will, of course, be perceived at once by a capable master, who will be only too careful in such cases to leave well enough alone. A charlatan or impostor, on the other hand, can work irremediable harm by interfering with such voices and attempting to modify or improve them.

A singer with a perfect light soprano voice may, for instance, have the misfortune to fall into the hands of such a teacher, who will persuade her that she can sing the rôles of a dramatic soprano, and by misguided advice and training succeed in ruining a beautiful natural voice in the attempt to improve it.

In the vast majority of cases, however, the pupil’s voice is not naturally placed so as to give the best results. That is to say, by proper instruction and training it can be made to produce better results—tones more smooth, more round, more resonant, and so on—and it is here that the services of an experienced and capable teacher are beyond price. The problem is one of great complexity, for so many different factors enter into it. The palate, the tongue, the teeth, the lips, as well as the natural and unalterable formation of the throat, and so forth, all play their part in determining the issue, and the slightest modifications in anyone may easily effect the greatest differences in the results.

It is easy to understand, therefore, how impossible it is to lay down any general rules in the matter, but it is perhaps safe to say that the less the pupil is called upon to depart from his, or her, natural and instinctive procedure, the more likely are good results to be achieved—the ideal case being, of course, the one in which no alterations whatsoever are required.

I may add, perhaps, that some authorities attach great importance in this connection to the language used by the pupil in the earlier stages of his training—that is, when his voice is undergoing the process of being placed. That accomplished singer Signor Bonci is, for instance, one who holds strong views on this point.

According to him it is very injurious for singers at this stage of their studies to sing in more than one language. I may perhaps venture to quote what he has written on the subject: “When a tone is properly placed the word need not affect it, but a great deal of harm is caused by applying the word too early and beyond this by using several languages. It is a question, and a serious one, whether those who teach singing understand the application of the word to the tone, and the dangers are obvious in languages where nasals and gutturals prevail.”

Chapter XVI

REGISTERS

There is, however, no denying that there are certain marked differences in the case of every voice in the quality of the tone produced at different parts of its range or compass—differences of tone quality which are accompanied also by different sensations on the part of the singer; and to these different sections of the vocal range the name of registers has been given.

Usually three are recognised—chest, medium, and head, the term chest register being applied to the lowest notes, medium to the middle portion, and head to the highest.

The terms chest, medium, and head are derived from the sensations experienced by the singer in producing the different notes referred to—the lower ones giving the feeling of having been produced in the chest, the middle ones in the throat, and the highest ones of all in the head. But it should be understood that in actual fact there is no difference in the manner in which the various notes are produced.

All the notes of the voice, whether high or low, are in reality produced in the same way, namely, in the manner already described—by the passage of the air from the lungs through the “chink” formed by the vocal cords. In the case of the lower notes, however, owing to certain physiological causes, the vibrations are felt by the singer most strongly in and about the chest, and in the case of the higher ones in the head—whence, therefore, the somewhat misleading terms in use have been adopted.

At the same time the fact that these different sensations are experienced by the singer may be taken as the best possible evidence of the fact that there are definite differences in the method of tone production to account for them; and this view of the matter is in fact confirmed by the researches of physiologists.

There is no need, of course, for vocalists to concern themselves with the matter in detail, for the process involved is, of course, entirely (or almost entirely) automatic. But it is none the less explained by the physiologists quite clearly why there is, at a certain point, this difference of feeling on the part of the singer in passing from the lower notes to the higher ones.

Without going too minutely into the matter, the reason broadly stated is that the vocal cords are differently disposed in the two cases. Up to a certain point the successive tones are produced in one uniform way, and then above that point the method is modified; and it is this difference accordingly which is accountable for the distinctive sensations experienced by the singer—sensations, it may be added, which have been recognised and discussed ever since the art of singing has been studied.

Hence, it is quite a mistake to suggest, as has been done by some, that the whole notion of registers is a delusion. These different registers do undoubtedly exist, and it becomes one of the most important problems consequently to get rid of the “break,” or change in the tone quality, which occurs when the voice passes from one to the other. At the same time it does not follow that violent and artificial methods should be adopted for this purpose.

On the contrary, little else than steady and properly directed practice is required in the ordinary way to accomplish this. In fact if you get your breathing right and your tone production in general right, the register difficulty will probably solve itself. To put it in another way, if you ensure that each individual tone is right, the problem of the registers need not seriously trouble you; and this is a matter of paying attention to the general rules of sound tone production.

Special exercises are, however, usually given for the purpose of “equalising” the voice, as it is called, that is to say, for the purpose of ensuring a perfectly even and uniform quality of tone throughout the scale and avoiding the break at the change of register which has been referred to; and these exercises are no doubt useful.

Most of the best authorities are agreed that proper breathing has as much to do with the matter as anything, some even going so far as to say that the matter should not be mentioned to the student at all. This is perhaps a somewhat extreme statement, but the underlying principle is sound. And here, as always, the principle of absolute ease and relaxation and the avoidance of all unnatural muscular contraction or violent effort is at once all important.

The following is generally conceded to be a well-thought-out method of uniting the voice wherever the “break” occurs.

Sing this passage Messa di Voce ascending and descending, commencing where the break is first noticeable. If this is practised consistently for two or three periods of twenty minutes a day it should be effective in preventing this unpleasant defect. Begin firmly, using “ay,” “oh,” or “ee,” and swell out to fullest capacity. Then let the tone die away imperceptibly and be careful not to use falsetto. By doing the foregoing we have augmented the head tones to such an extent that instead of having falsetto, we have a head voice capable of being allied to the chest voice with practically no distinguishable break in the whole compass.

Contraltos are the greatest sinners with the “break.” Very few contraltos are able to change the registers or sing two octaves without a perceptible gap. At one time this vulgar habit was considered a virtue when in reality it is a clear indication of lack of study and practice.

Remember that no matter where the “break” occurs it is only by cultivating the head voice that a cure can be attained.

Then, again, almost everybody has one or two tones more or less defective, and wherever these occur special attention must be given them so that they can be built up until the singer can safely overcome the “break.”

Chapter XVII

FAULTS

Nay, this is not putting it strongly enough. He should not merely be ready to recognise his faults, but eager to discover them. He should be ever on the lookout to realise his deficiencies and to regard as his best friends those who are kind enough to tell him of them.

This may sound self-obvious, but I am afraid that in practice the attitude of the average student—and not of the student only, but also of the experienced artist—is very different. A fatal self-satisfaction seems, for some reason or other, to be one of the commonest failings of the average singer. One fairly well-known singer invited my criticism of her voice, and when I obliged and told her what she must do to become a great artist she replied, “But I am a great artist.” At which I bowed and said, “I beg your pardon, madam.”

Yet it is hardly necessary to say—we can all realise it indeed in the case of others—that there is no form of weakness more absolutely fatal to artistic progress. Let the student beware, therefore, of this dangerous form of vanity and self-sufficiency, and learn from all who can teach him.

How often have I not heard of students—alike young and old—who have been foolish enough to throw over good teachers because they have been honest enough and courageous enough to tell them unpalatable truths! They think they know better. They are so supremely well pleased with themselves—so foolishly satisfied with their own achievements—that they regard it as an offence when their errors are pointed out.

Of course they do not put it—even to themselves—in this way. They prefer to persuade themselves that their teacher is at fault. They explain that they do not like his “method.” Or they say that he does not “understand” their particular voice. And so they come to the conclusion that they had better make a change and go to some other master instead.

It is all very human but very foolish, and I cannot impress this too strongly upon all who read this book. Your best friend is one who will tell you faithfully, not how beautifully you sing but how badly!

Some are, of course, wise enough to realise this. And you will generally find that they are the ones who get on. Such a one was Caruso, who, to the end of his day, never ceased to practise, to study, to reflect upon his art, and even to worry and agitate himself over his supposed deficiencies—deficiencies which were unperceived by his hearers but which he, with his fastidious and ultra-sensitive artistic conscience, persuaded himself were there.

Chapter XVIII

COLORATURA SINGING

The most unceasing practice would never have enabled an Alboni or a Lablache, say, to achieve the dazzling runs and fioriture of a Patti or a Catalani. And to a less marked degree there are similar differences between individual voices of the same class. All are not equally capable in this particular even when in other respects they may be equally good.

Some experienced teachers indeed recognise this fact so clearly that they do not advise even soprano singers to cultivate coloratura singing unless they have the necessary natural facility to begin with. I think myself, however, that all should endeavour to acquire the maximum agility, even if they do not attempt to sing coloratura in public, simply for the benefits which they will derive from it in other respects. After all the voice cannot be possessed of too much flexibility whatever style of music be attempted; and there is no way in which flexibility can be more surely developed than by the practice of coloratura.

For the rest I can only repeat that, given the right kind of voice in the first place, there is only one way to acquire agility, and that is by practice. No short cuts are possible here, and I have no trade secrets to impart.

And the necessary exercises themselves are all of the simplest character, at all events in the beginning; just simple scales—or rather portions of scales—in the first instance, with others more elaborate in due course. But the scales are the foundation, and if they are properly mastered the rest will follow without difficulty.

An important feature of good coloratura singing is, of course, not only that the notes shall be cleanly sung, but also that they shall be absolutely in tune and of good tone quality. One not infrequently hears singers who possess the necessary agility to sing the note, but are lacking in these other qualities. Their runs will lack brilliancy because the notes will not be perfectly in tune, and the quality of them will be so hard and disagreeable sometimes as to give more pain than pleasure.

The cause of this will usually have been a desire to make progress too hastily in the earlier stages. They will not have devoted sufficient attention at the outset to practising slowly, and so ensuring absolutely just intonation and satisfactory tone quality. Therefore, it is emphatically a case here of “more haste less speed.” You cannot acquire velocity quickly. I will not repeat again the well-worn story of Porpora and Caffarelli. But that illustrates the point.

I cannot refrain from adding a few words while on this subject in defence of coloratura, which is so often contemptuously spoken of in these days by those who do not possess the power of singing it. We all know the kind of way in which it is referred to. Coloratura music is false, showy, superficial, unworthy, dramatically unreal, and so on. But what nonsense this is!

What is the difference in principle, I would ask, between the fioriture passages of the vocalist and those introduced as a matter of course in the most serious instrumental music? Why should a cadenza for the voice be reckoned less worthy than a similar passage for the violin or the ’cello? All the greatest masters have introduced florid passages in plenty in the noblest instrumental music. Yet the view is very generally adopted that these are inadmissible, or, at all events, belong to an inferior phase of the art when the instrument employed happens to be the voice.

No doubt the quality of the works more particularly identified with vocal music of this order has had something to do with the matter. Yet it is hardly necessary to recall that vocal fioriture is by no means confined to the music of Donizetti, Bellini, and the like.

Bach, for one, had no sort of prejudice on the point, as is demonstrated often enough even in his most solemn work, while Handel, again, revelled in coloratura, alike in the case of his operas, containing some of the most wonderful florid music ever written, and of his oratorios, to which no less applied.

That Mozart can be reckoned in the same category it is hardly necessary to recall, while even Beethoven did not disdain to utilise the arts of vocal decoration in many of the numbers of “Fidelio.” If, therefore, coloratura singing is sometimes spoken of disrespectfully, it is not from lack of distinguished names which can be cited in its defence.

Nor is it only among the ancients that such are to be found. In the modern Russian School we have Rimsky-Kosakoff’s “Hymn to the Sun” from “Coq d’Or.” And have we not also such an eminently serious master as Richard Strauss challenging comparison in our own time with the most extravagant productions of the past in this particular genre in the music of Zerbinetta in his “Ariadne”? One of his latest songs, “Amor,” is purely for coloratura singers.

As to the charge that coloratura in dramatic music is unnatural and undramatic, those who argue thus surely overlook the fact that all opera might with equal justice be disposed of in the same manner. People do not express themselves in song in real life, any more than they speak in blank verse, as they are made to do in Shakespearean drama.

Yet we are glad to have “Don Giovanni” and “King Lear” none the less! It is, indeed, truly straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel to condemn coloratura while accepting opera as a whole.

I go further than this, for I venture to say that coloratura can be not only delightful to the ear but also thoroughly appropriate and dramatically expressive. What could be more suitable to give expression to the madness of Lucia than the roulades which Donizetti gives to her? Or how could the joy of Marguérite be more exquisitely expressed than in the strains of Gounod’s “Jewel Song”?

I might point in this connection, did modesty permit it, to what people have been good enough to say concerning my own treatment of coloratura in “La Traviata” and elsewhere. I recall that when I first appeared in London it was upon this point particularly that all my critics dwelt.

They were all more especially struck by the manner in which I managed, while singing Verdi’s florid music brilliantly and effectively in the purely vocal sense, at the same time to make it expressive; and this I took as the greatest possible compliment which could be bestowed on me. For that I think is what coloratura properly sung should be.

It should please the ear by its brilliance, but at the same time it should not, and need not, obscure the dramatic significance of what is sung. I might on this point quote that great artist once again, Lilli Lehmann, who, notwithstanding her strong leaning to music of the more serious class, including Wagner, in which she was so wonderful, was yet a great coloratura singer herself in her younger days, and who has strongly insisted upon the possibility of making even the most florid music expressive also when it is sung in the right way.

She writes: “Thus in the coloratura passages of Mozart’s arias I have always sought to gain expressiveness by crescendi, choice of significant points for breathing, and breaking off of phrases. I have been especially successful with this in the ‘Entführung,’ introducing a tone of lament in the first aria, a heroic dignity into the second, through the coloratura passages.”

But happily I do not think there is any likelihood of coloratura ever going out of fashion, whatever its detractors may say, so long, at all events, as singers shall be forthcoming who are capable of responding to its demands.

Chapter XIX

ENUNCIATION

This is, of course, a deplorable state of affairs, but yet one so well established that in nine cases out of ten it is hardly thought worthy of remark by the average hearer. It is taken as a matter of course, in other words, that only a word or two, here and there, of those sung shall be understood by the audience, and one may listen attentively to an entire opera without having more than a vague idea at the end as to what it was all about.

Yet in the case of certain singers one may understand without difficulty practically every word they sing, the fact being thereby demonstrated that there is not the slightest real necessity for the incredibly slovenly and defective enunciation which is permitted with such surprising and lamentable tolerance by the public at large.

So far as opera is concerned, I think that the blame rests largely with the managers. If they would adopt the practice of deputing some trustworthy representative at every rehearsal to sit in the topmost gallery and relentlessly pull up every singer whose words could not be clearly understood, the difficulty, I am convinced, would speedily disappear. And operatic directors, I am sure, would find it greatly to their advantage to adopt this course if only on account of the greater popularity which opera would enjoy if it could always be followed, as it should be, as easily as a spoken play.

I believe that in England especially, where opera in the native language is, as I am delighted to see, making such steady headway, its acceptance by the general public is hindered more on this account than by any other reason. Yet there is not the slightest necessity for the presentation of the drama, which is sung instead of being spoken, to be hampered and handicapped in this grievous fashion, and it only needs more vigorous action on the part of the directing powers, I am persuaded, to remedy matters.

So long, however, as singers are left to themselves in this respect, the difficulty will always remain, since their inevitable tendency is to sacrifice diction to tone quality—in other words, to achieve the best effects in the purely vocal sense and let the words look after themselves.

And this brings us at once to the root of the diction problem, namely, the undoubted difficulty which presents itself at times in reconciling the claims of good tone and clear enunciation. When a pupil is studying he practises upon the easiest vowel sounds and syllables which can be selected; and many singers, I am afraid, would like nothing better than to be allowed to continue singing upon these agreeable and grateful vocables to the end of their day.

Unfortunately, however, this is not quite possible, and so too many try to get over the difficulty by singing the words not in the way in which they should be pronounced, but in the manner most convenient to themselves. It is hardly necessary to say that this is all wrong and most inartistic, besides being quite unnecessary.

It may be said that it is easy for an Italian to speak thus, and it must certainly be agreed that we Italians are greatly favoured in having the most vocal and melodious of all languages to sing. With our open vowels we may be considered, indeed, to have every advantage in this respect, just as the Germans with their multiplicity of harsh and difficult and, to Italian ears, almost impossible consonants, have every disadvantage.

Yet the principle remains unaffected that every singer, in whatever language, who wishes to be considered a master of his art must contrive to reconcile the claims of good tone with those of accurate and intelligible diction, and the student cannot pay too much attention to this matter from the very moment that he begins to clothe his tones in words.

“Sing as you speak,” is a saying which I have heard ascribed to that great master, Jean de Reszke, and though the advice cannot, perhaps, be taken quite literally, it certainly indicates the ideal to be kept in view. It is not feasible to obey the injunction quite literally because it is almost physically impossible to sing certain sounds on certain notes. On this account many teachers—Lamperti himself was one of them—sanction the deliberate modification of the proper vowel sounds or, preferably, the substitution of a more convenient word. But the object should certainly be to keep as near as may be practicable to the correct, natural pronunciation, whereas some seem to make it their aim almost to depart from this as far as possible.

One of the worst examples of execrable enunciation was given by one singer when giving an otherwise creditable rendering of Maude Valerie White’s “Devout Lover.” The words intended were “Burn at her altar,” which were given “Burnateralter.”

Some English singers have the habit of putting a vowel after a consonant, as in the word “Good-bye,” which becomes “Goodabye” and which is absurd.

Baritones often have a habit of emphasising wrong words, of which one of the best examples is “Trumpeter, what are you sounding now?” Another absurdity.

One could multiply these examples indefinitely.

Chapter XX

LANGUAGE

German singing seems to be different, not merely in degree, but even in kind from that of other lands. In the case of even its best exponents there is a harshness and a tonelessness about it which differentiates it from that of any other race. German singers often have strong, lusty voices, likewise plenty of intelligence and dramatic feeling; but for beauty of tone and all the finer qualities of vocalism one listens for them in vain.

The fact is strange, but it can hardly be denied even by those least disposed to admit it. That one of the most musical nations in Europe should also be that of all others least dowered with the gift of song is a remarkable paradox which is not a little difficult to understand.

It is not a case of differences of taste. The point is that the German voice, as such, is indisputably inferior in point of quality to that of practically all the other European races. There is no discredit in the circumstance. It implies no reflection on anyone. It is merely an unfortunate physiological fact which must be accepted like any other of those decrees of Nature which are not to be gainsaid.

Such being the fact, how is it to be explained? Why is it that German singing is of this strange quality? How has it come about that so musical a race has been so shabbily treated by Nature in this important regard?

Various theories have been advanced. According to some the explanation is that it is the German language with its explosive consonants, harsh gutturals, and other unmelodious characteristics, which is at the bottom of the trouble.

Students of voice production will prove to you by ingenious experiments that the disposition of the vocal organs, breathing, and so forth, required for the utterance of the German language, are in themselves incompatible with the emission of a beautiful quality of vocal tone; and however this may be, it is hardly to be disputed that regarded from the standpoint of euphony, pure and simple, the German language is certainly not to be called melodious.

It seems quite a plausible theory, therefore, that harshness of language and harshness of voice are not disconnected, especially when the suggestion is fortified by the converse association of the most beautiful voices with the most mellifluous language, in the case of the Italians.

And if so much be admitted, it is obvious that it may indeed be a question of importance, as Signor Bonci has suggested, what language is employed by the student in that critical initial stage when his voice is being “placed.”

For the rest it may be noticed that another great modern tenor, namely Caruso, insisted especially, when discussing this question of placing, upon the supreme necessity of freedom and ease and the absence of all unnecessary contractions of the muscles.

Signor Fucito tells us that on this point he expressed himself as follows: “It is necessary through the aid of self-study and the help of a good singing teacher to become aware of every physical defect—such as contractions of the muscles of the throat, of the face, or of the jaw—which can hinder the tone from being emitted in all its fullness and purity. These rigid muscular contractions bring about a throaty tone, which lacks support and is incapable of purity and amplitude.... The singer should apply himself to his study with great naturalness and relaxation; this is the sine qua non of beautiful cantilena singing.”

With every word of these remarks I heartily agree. Indeed, I imagine that they would gain the universal assent of all qualified to write on the subject.

The pronunciation of foreign languages is a point to which the student can hardly give too much attention. It also affords another argument in favour of study abroad, since it is certain that a foreign language cannot possibly be acquired so effectually anywhere as in the land where it is spoken. And foreign languages are indispensable to a singer nowadays who aspires to be equal to all the requirements of the modern répertoire.

True it may not be necessary to possess the linguistic powers of a Mingotti, who spoke German, French, Italian, English, and Spanish. But at least it may be laid down as an inexorable rule that no one should ever attempt to sing in a foreign tongue until he has acquired absolute command over every detail of its pronunciation by means of study, if not in the land itself, at any rate with a native.

Otherwise the result can only be a travesty of the composer’s—or at all events of the poet’s—intentions and a source of mirth to all hearers. Little do some artists realise, indeed, the impressions which they produce at times when, with misplaced assurance, they venture on songs in tongues with which they are imperfectly acquainted.

Even in the case of the best equipped it is a proceeding attended with risk to sing in a foreign language; but without complete knowledge there is no more certain way of exposing one’s self to ridicule.

And I am afraid that it must be said that, contrary perhaps to the general belief, Italian suffers no less than any other language from misguided attempts of this kind. The idea is commonly entertained that Italian is “easy” to speak, but of course this is not the case if it is really to be properly spoken.

To which I may add that few peoples seem to experience more difficulty in mastering its subtleties than the English. It may be recalled, too, that this was also the view of Lamperti. Of all the European nations, he declared, the English, and especially Londoners, pronounced Italian worst. The sounds that they produce, he remarked, are nearly all guttural, the vowels being excessively weak, while their accent was entirely wrong—the men, he added, being even worse than the women.

The Scotch, on the other hand, were not quite so bad in his judgment, while the Irish were best of all. Indeed, he agreed that the latter with study could learn to speak Italian quite wonderfully—as is illustrated, I may say, at the present time by Mr. John McCormack, who has a most admirable Italian diction. But it certainly is not often that one can speak in similar terms of the average English artist.

If anyone doubts this, let him read and ponder over some caustic remarks once made on this very point by the late Sir Charles Santley. Nothing was more deplorable, he said, than to hear the atrocious manner in which the beautiful Italian language was murdered at times by untrained English singers, and if, he added, they had any notion of the effect which they produced by such attempts upon such of their hearers as happened to be really familiar with the language, they would assuredly never make themselves so ridiculous again. Better a thousand times, he concluded, to sing all your life in your own tongue rather than make yourself a laughing-stock by attempting a task beyond your power.

To which I need hardly add that the same applies no less to French and German, though I am myself less qualified to speak concerning those languages.

It is not for me, perhaps, to say much about Wagner singing, which is so far removed from my own chosen province, but I may be permitted, perhaps, while on the subject of diction, to point to the appalling manner in which the divine art of singing has been perverted by Wagnerian singers under the mistaken notion that they were in this way carrying out the wishes of the sublime master.

I say “under the mistaken notion” because it is well known by those acquainted with the fact that the so-called “Bayreuth method” was as far removed as possible from Wagner’s actual ideas. It is true that he attached the utmost importance to clear and emphatic enunciation of the words so that the course of the drama might be quite clearly understood, and therein he was quite right. But there is little reason to suppose that he was in reality satisfied with the actual results achieved by the German singers by whom his works were originally presented.

It is, indeed, an utter mistake to suppose that the harsh and strident singing of the average German vocalist was of a kind to commend itself to Wagner. On the contrary, it was one of his pet schemes, if I have not been misinformed, in connection with Bayreuth, to institute a School of Singing which might lead to better things; and the kind of singing at which he aimed may be gathered from the fact that the teacher whom he wished to secure to carry out his views was none other than that famous exponent of Bel Canto, the late Señor Manuel García!

In the same connection, too, may be recalled the remark made by the composer after hearing a performance of “Lohengrin” (with the great Italian Wagnerian tenor Borgatti) on one occasion at Bologna. Almost for the first time, he said, he had heard his music really sung. All of which suggests how far they are from actually fulfilling the wishes of the master in continuing at Bayreuth the horrible vocal methods which had become so unfortunately associated with his name.

Chapter XXI

STYLE AND INTERPRETATION

To this end the singer must possess first of all the requisite insight and understanding to grasp the composer’s purpose, next the personality and magnetism to be able to realise it for his hearers, and lastly the musical taste and knowledge required in order to present it in conformity with the appropriate rules and traditions. In other words, the singer must not merely sing the right notes, but sing them in the right way—with the right accent, the right phrasing, and in the right manner.

What is required may be best realised, perhaps, by comparing the delivery of a fine piece of poetry by a schoolgirl or schoolboy, say, with the delivery of the same lines by an accomplished actor or elocutionist. The words will be the same in both cases, but what a difference in the result! So in the case of music the notes sung will be the same whoever sings them, but the effect will be vastly different when they are sung by the trained artist.

Here it is that the student’s general culture will bear fruit, in the imaginative insight and understanding, the good taste and the expression, which he brings to his task. And here, too, will his musical knowledge and intelligence be more particularly illustrated by the manner in which he conforms to the requirements of the particular kind of music which he is interpreting. For to do this aright a knowledge of the notes alone will not suffice.

He must be familiar also with the varying needs of the different schools of music, with the historical traditions associated with them, and so forth. Opera demands one kind of singing, oratorio another, German Lieder another, and so on throughout; and each of these general classifications can be subdivided in turn.

How different are the requirements of each is best exemplified by the fact that so few succeed in all. One singer will be great in opera, another in oratorio, a third in Lieder; but only in the rarest instances will you find one and the same artist excelling in all. Why is this? Simply because their respective requirements are so different.

For this reason the average artist will, I think, usually be well advised to confine himself to the class of work more particularly suited to his talent. While it is well to cultivate versatility so far as possible, it is a mistake to sing music of a kind for which you are not suited. Patti loved Wagner, for instance, and was a frequent visitor to Bayreuth. But she did not sing his music. She liked to hear it sung by others, but she realised that it was not for her. Voice, personality, training, temperament, all impose necessary limitations.

People blame me sometimes, for instance, for confining myself mainly to music of a certain school. But I think I know best as to this, and that I am exercising sound judgment in adopting this course. There is much music which I admire and love, but I do not always try to sing it. In the same way I may admire frocks which I see on other women, but I do not necessarily try to wear the same myself. I have the good sense to recognise that they would not suit me.

Moreover, the field of music is so vast that to cultivate one or two departments thoroughly will be more than sufficient to tax the energy of the most ambitious. Make yourself master or mistress in your own chosen province, and you will have accomplished quite as much as any one need wish to.

And whatever style you cultivate get as near to perfection in it as you can possibly. Catalani said of Sontag: “Elle est la première dans son genre; mais son genre n’est pas le premier.” This may or may not have been true. But Sontag was probably well pleased, in any case, to be “la première.”