How to Sing

Chapter XXII

HOW I SING AN ARIA

Let us, however, take the Recitative and Polonaise from that brilliantly sparkling opera “Mignon,” by Ambroise Thomas. First of all, I have to study the setting of this great aria, and then study the words, which, in English begin,

I ask myself what I might feel like were I able to become a fairy. Giving myself free rein, I sing the whole recitative much as I would speak it, only having in mind the notes, I attack them firmly, letting the conductor punctuate the whole with the accompaniment somewhat freely. In recitative, one must have fire and imagination, and, although reasonable attention must be paid to the valuation of notes—the full five beats, for example, on the long note of bars 6 and 7—it is the part of the accompanist to feel your pulse, as it were, and go with you. Now, on the same long note, be careful to carry a sense of increasing wonder, by making a diminuendo, then, with increasing verve, make a clean “turn” on beat four of the 8th bar, capped by a triumphant pause, and, a clean interval of the fifth with the word “trophies,” on beats one and two of bar 9.

Now we come to the actual Polacca, in which tempo must be observed and all the tricks of brilliant vocal agility put into play. Remember, all these “runs” and bravura passages must be clear—every note like a fresh pea out of a pod or bullet out of a machine gun! Observe the boldness of “picking up” at the beginning of the polacca movement, and in bar 3 of this movement how smoothly the detached notes have to be sung.

Moderato tempo di Polacca (96♩)

Here, again, there must be no scooping up an octave, but a clear rise of the octave, giving the sense of all, as it were, one piece. Thus, “I—I am Titania,” and repeat the same words with even greater fervour, treating all the words and music with the same mentality and as vital to the whole.

Many so-called intellectual singers prefer Lieder, because they cannot vocalise the fine, dashing, graceful runs of florid music, not because of its lack of intellectual requirements. What could better express the vivacious joy of a fairy queen than the triplet passages on the exclamation “Ah!” bars 14 and 15 of the polacca movement.

When we come to bars 29 and 30, there is the chance of a lifetime with the cadenza-like string of fifteen notes, in the neatest sets of three, and they should be as perfect as though played by Kreisler on the violin.

Later on we come to some roulade passages of six notes on the same exclamation “Ah!” (bars 43, 44, and 45) which must be sung with increasing verve, so that the wood wind of the orchestra comes running up perfectly in tune and tempo, as it were from right under your last note. Here, much depends upon the cue of the conductor, but, changing one’s manner and keeping up the growing joyfulness, you begin a new era, as it were, with the words, “Bright troops of fairies hover round me.” Thus, the aria works on, until, on the last beat of bar 54 and bar 55 there is a suggestion of

a fairy call. A dream-like waltz, in wide contrast, follows. Unless one feels this, the brilliance we have worked up is losing the value of contrast with

this shimmer, as it were, of gleaming moonlight. On this breaks the brilliant passages of the flute, which may be the task of some fairy worker in the

real fairyland! I must be wafted along in smooth subservience to the brilliance of the accompaniment for the next few bars, until I repeat the lovely melody at bar 62 when I begin to add—as scored in the part—some grace notes and florid passages, and gradually awaken until, at bar 79, I have ascended to a full top B, preceded by a “trill” or “shake,” that leads up to the brilliant burst of the orchestra back to the polacca-like movement, and to the finale. This must be one increasing triumph, over the much-talked-of top E flat, the roulades, grace notes, trills, and cadenza-like passages for sheer joie de vivre. Yet all this depends upon how well you have conditioned yourself, practised those tiring vowel sounds, scales, sustained

passages, to which I commend you before essaying the brilliant Polonaise from “Mignon” that has given me many triumphs, yet still calls for all I can give, as it will to the end of the chapter.

Chapter XXIII

PRACTISING

Some fortunate ones, indeed, have been able to dispense with it almost entirely. On the day of a performance the great Chaliapine warms his voice up for a period of thirty or forty minutes only. On other days and when on vacation he rarely practises, except for getting up new music, and even this is more of a mental process. It is said of Mario also that at the height of his fame he never practised more than ten minutes a day, and that just before he was leaving for the Opera House, while his servant would be standing, watch in hand, assuring him that he would be late for the performance if he did not start at once. But that, of course, was an exceptional case.

On the other hand, Battistini is most lavish with his practising and rarely a day passes that he does not put in one or two hours of solid singing. This no doubt accounts for the extraordinary command he has over tone, phrasing and breathing. There is great truth in the saying that practice makes perfect, but how many of us have the robust and natural organ that Battistini is blessed with. I always thought that the reason of this was the fact that Battistini, who could well have trained as a tenor, elected to become a baritone, thus evading the strain of forcing high “C’s” out of his voice.

At the same time even practising should not be carried to excess. Many singers have, indeed, often done their voices great harm by practising too much. The vocal cords are exceedingly delicate and cannot be used too carefully. There can be no doubt that the wonderful preservation of Patti’s voice was due in large measure to the extraordinary prudence and care with which she husbanded it. By never singing at rehearsals, by never singing when she was in the least degree out of health or tired, and so on, she added years probably to the length of her career. And all singers should act as far as possible on the same principle.

There should never be the smallest strain in practising, for instance. For this reason it is advisable to practise with the half voice mostly and only rarely at the extremities of the compass—and then with great care and discretion. In the same way there should never be any sense of fatigue, still less of hoarseness, after practice.

It is, indeed, in the ordinary way a sure sign that something is wrong, either with your vocal organs or with your methods, if this occurs often, and the matter should be investigated accordingly—even to the extent of changing your teacher if necessary.

If, however, the trouble is only temporary, a brief suspension of exercising may be all that is necessary. But in this case be careful not to resume your practising until the trouble has completely disappeared. Far better drop your practising for a week, or a month, if necessary, than attempt to sing when your organs are not in perfect order.

That is to say, if there is really definite trouble. If, on the other hand, it is merely a little hoarseness, such as many singers are subject to, then judicious exercising—please notice that I emphasise judicious—may be the best thing for it. This is, however, essentially a matter upon which you must be guided by your teacher—or even if necessary by a doctor.

Madame Lilli Lehmann prescribes, for instance, what she calls the Great Scale as an invaluable remedy for all manner of vocal ills—meaning simply long slow scales of sustained notes steadily repeated. Here is what she said, for instance, on this point:

“The great scale properly employed in practice accomplishes wonders. It equalises the voice, makes it flexible and noble, gives strength to all weak places, operates to repair all breaks and faults that exist, and controls the voice to the very heart. Nothing escapes it. It is the Guardian Angel of the voice. I sing it every day, often twice, even if I have to sing one of my greatest rôles in the evening. I can rely absolutely on its assistance.”

And, as I have said, she prescribed this very exercise not only for daily practice when one is well, but also as a remedy for troubles when the voice is out of order. I may be permitted, perhaps, to quote in this connection another interesting passage:

“I myself had to sing ‘Norma’ in Vienna some years ago and got up in the morning quite hoarse. By nine o’clock I tried my invaluable remedy, but could not sing above A flat, although in the evening I should have to reach high D flat and E flat. I was on the point of giving up because the case seemed to be so desperate. Nevertheless, I practised till 11 o’clock, half an hour at a time, and noticed that I was gradually getting better. In the evening I had my D flat and E flat at my command so that people said they had seldom heard me sing so well.”

I have quoted this advice of Lilli Lehmann because it is of interest and value as coming from so great an authority, but I do not wish it to be understood that this has been my own precise practice, for this is not the case. But as to the general value of scales for practising purposes there is, of course, no possible doubt. Scales are, indeed, the foundation of all useful practice, especially at first.

Marchesi, for instance, relied on them almost exclusively in the earlier stages—long sustained tones, repeated again and again until her fastidious ear was satisfied; and no pupil can possibly fail to benefit from such exercise. Even for the acquisition of velocity, as I have said elsewhere, scales—and quite slow ones at first—are indispensable.

Of more elaborate exercises there are none better, so far as I know, than those to be found in Concone, while for advanced pupils well-chosen numbers from the great Italian operatic masters, Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini, and the rest, can be utilised with great advantage. This includes mezzo-sopranos, contraltos, as well as sopranos. My maestro would make them all sing “Una voce poco fa” transposed, saying that it was a vocal massage.

But it is rather a matter for the individual teacher to prescribe what is required in this way, since all voices will not need the same.

As to the period and duration of practising, my own plan is to practise twice a day—at ten in the morning for an hour, with intervals of rest; and again in the afternoon, before dinner, for the same time. But the beginner should not practise for more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time, and should leave off immediately his voice begins to feel tired.

To which, I would add, that it is of the utmost importance not only what one practises but how. Ten minutes’ practice with the maximum of thought and concentration will be of more value than a whole hour of mere mechanical scales and arpeggi, sung without thought and care.

The pupil, while practising, should listen to himself with the utmost vigilance all the time—criticising ruthlessly every tone, and seeking always to eradicate every fault and blemish. It is for lack of this mental effort that pupils so often practise in vain—improving themselves in certain respects perhaps, but never acquiring that beauty of tone and perfection of execution which should be the foundation of all.

I would repeat here, indeed, what I have said before, that unsparing self-criticism is the root of all progress. Nor should this ever cease. As a great artist remarked in some words which I quoted earlier, the true artist will continue studying and practising and improving to the end of his day.

Read, for instance, what Signor Fucito tells us of Caruso:

“No one could have been a severer critic of Caruso’s art than Caruso himself. He worked with tremendous concentration, and his acute ear was ever ready to descry the slightest flaw in the tone production, in quality or the interpretation of a musical passage.”

And again:

“There were times when he refused to rest, singing a passage or phrase over and over again, each time with another vocal modulation of colouring until he got the expression and quality that satisfied his exacting musical taste.”

It is interesting to note, by the way, that Caruso practised always, or nearly always, with the full voice—a procedure which is not, however, as I have already said, to be generally recommended.

Incidentally in practising the student should avoid the acquisition of bad habits of standing, undesirable movements with the hands, and so on, and should also keep careful check upon his facial expressions. For the latter purpose it is an excellent plan to practise before a mirror, since this is the surest way to avoid the unconscious cultivation of undesirable tricks which, once they have been acquired, may prove most difficult to get rid of.

In the case of operatic artists it is a good plan also to practise in costume in order to become accustomed to the dress which one will be wearing in the actual performance, and thus to avoid any sense of awkwardness which may be otherwise experienced. And for the same reason when any particular number has to be sung in any special manner from the physical point of view, as, for instance, sitting down, or kneeling, it is well to become accustomed to this also beforehand.

Chapter XXIV

THE ARTIST AND THE GRAMOPHONE

To-day any one can enjoy this priceless privilege, wherever he may happen to reside, for a comparatively small outlay through the agency of the gramophone.

And he can hear them not only now and again, but as often as ever he likes and by his own fireside. If he happens to be studying some particular rôle he can be “coached” in this most practical and unrivalled manner by all the greatest artists of the day. He can take a particular aria and hear it sung by Caruso again and again until he is familiar with every detail of his rendering—can note his breathing, his phrasing, and every other detail in a manner which would be quite impossible by any other means.

And having heard Caruso he can then hear the same number sung by various other great artists if he chooses, and benefit still more by comparing their respective readings—by noting how they resemble one another or how they differ, as the case may be, incidentally learning in the process how widely one interpretation may differ from another and still be of the highest order.

Not only this, but he can familiarise himself with entire operas in the same way, for certain of the companies issue complete albums of the best known works which are reproduced in their entirety—vocal parts, orchestra, and all in this marvellous manner. One would think, indeed, that the coming generation should provide us with fine singers in such plenty as the world has never known before with the aid of such priceless help.

Whether it will be so or not remains to be seen. But certainly it may be said that never before have students been so wonderfully helped. I myself have pleasure in testifying that I have derived the greatest benefit as well as delight from the records of Patti, while Mr. John McCormack has similarly acknowledged his indebtedness to the wonderful renderings of Caruso.

And I hope in all modesty that students of the present generation may derive similar help in turn from the records which I myself have made. Beyond a doubt the gramophone should be the guide, philosopher, and friend—the most trusted and most competent aid and coadjutor—not only to every student, but also to every teacher of the present day.

Of course, the pupil is only human and often reluctant to believe that there are grave faults in his voice. Whilst others can detect his mistakes, the pupil cannot listen intelligently to his own faulty emission while singing.

But take him to a recording-room and get him to sing into the recording-horn, and let him listen as the operator tries over the record he has made. He is sure to be surprised to find how many faults there are.

His production may be throaty, nasal, or what you will. It is all brought out clearly by the gramophone.

There is no instrument that is so calculated to remove the conceit from a young artist as the gramophone. To watch his face as he first listens to his own voice is usually to enjoy a miniature pantomime.

Nevertheless, the gramophone is a spur to drive the artist forward to perfection, and, of course, a great aid to the music professor.

Chapter XXV

STUDYING A RÔLE

Very foolish, or at all events very courageous, is the young artist who for the sake of an appearance at all costs essays a part which he, or she, has not thoroughly prepared beforehand—for that way disaster lies. A part simply cannot be too well studied if failure and mishaps are to be absolutely assured against.

Let it be remembered especially by the student who runs through a part so easily in the privacy of his study with the aid of a friendly accompanist at the piano, how infinitely more difficult are the conditions on the actual stage—alike in the psychological and purely material senses.

There is the consciousness, in the first place, of being part now of a huge inexorable organisation which admits of no error or failure under any circumstances, and that at first has an almost paralysing effect upon the faculties. There is the consciousness of that eager, critical public on the other side of the footlights and of all that there is at stake should any failure occur. There is the difficulty in the physical sense of hearing the orchestra properly, which seems so far off and so infinitely less helpful than the friendly homely piano. There are the perturbing factors of one’s costume, action, business. In short, the whole thing is utterly different, and for this reason, therefore, the young artist cannot be too firmly grounded in his rôle if he is to be proof against all the possibilities of failure and all mischances and mishaps in the hour of trial.

As to the actual process of mastering a rôle I believe thoroughly in the practice of studying it at the outset apart from the music. Read the whole book through and master the story and the drama completely in the first instance. Get every twist and turn and every detail of it into your mind. Try to visualise and represent it to yourself as realistically as possible.

Imagine that it all actually occurred and that you were, in fact, the character whose part you are to represent. Learn all you can about the period of the story, the scene of the action, the circumstances of the time, and so on, so as to realise it all as vividly as possible.

And then, having done this, study with equal thoroughness every detail of your own part. It may be only a small one. Never mind. You can make it just as lifelike and as perfect in its way as one of more importance if you make the most of it.

It was in this way that Mario always studied his parts, and most other great artists, I think, will be found to adopt a similar method. We read of Mario that no trouble was too great and no research too laborious to ensure that any rôle which he had undertaken should be represented as correctly and as perfectly as possible. Nor did his fastidious care end there, for he paid the greatest attention to his words also and even rewrote every line of his part in Gounod’s “Faust” because the words of the original Italian version were not sufficiently singable to please him.

It was Mario, also, who said that unless he had all that he was singing about in his head as well as in his throat he could never hope to do justice to his part.

It is the old, old story. The greatest results in anything are only to be obtained by unsparing labour. It may not be a complete statement of the case to say that genius is only an infinite capacity for taking pains. But it is certainly true to say that that capacity is almost always associated with the highest genius. Caruso supplied a more recent instance. He took endless pains to get his parts right in every detail. He was as careful, we read, about creating the proper make-up for the character which he was impersonating as he was about studying the proper gestures, declamation, and musical expression.

Signor Fucito writes:

“He pondered the mental, emotional and moral traits of the character as they were revealed not only in his own lines and music, but throughout the entire opera. If he found that insufficient he searched elsewhere—in art, in literature, in history. When he was preparing the rôle of Samson he went to the Bible for additional enlightenment on that legendary hero in order that he might visualise him more vividly; and when he was studying Eleazar he sought advice on Jewish customs from a prominent Yiddish actor of New York.”

Respecting “make-up” this should be done as carefully and artistically as possible, bearing in mind always that although some of the audience may be a long way off, others will be much nearer, while opera glasses will further help to abridge the distance and to reveal every detail.

Chapter XXVI

CHOICE OF DÉBUT WORK

You may, of course, have such natural gifts and be so well trained and coached for the purpose that you may achieve success at a bound, but the chances are against this, and it is much more likely that you will fall short of your expectations and thereby imperil your career at the outset by making a false start. C’est le premier pas, etc., and it is much better to begin modestly and learn your business thoroughly before attempting the higher flights. Then when you are properly qualified and have acquired the necessary experience you can take a more important part with the assurance that you will be able at least to do full justice to yourself and to make the utmost of your natural powers.

There is another reason, too, why it is a mistake, as a rule, to attempt the heavier rôles too soon—namely, the fact that the voice and the general physique, apart from the question of training and experience, are seldom ready for these at first. I have, indeed, known more than one case in which a career of promise has been ruined after a brilliant start by subjecting a young singer too soon to the heavy strain of the most important parts.

Study these rôles by all means and have them ready—or one or two of them—in case some exceptional or unexpected opportunity should present itself. But do not be in too great a hurry to appear in them. It is a much safer course, as a rule, to make good at first in those of a less ambitious kind; and you need never be afraid that good work in these will go unnoticed or unrewarded. But whichever part you choose for the purpose it should naturally be one which is well suited to your capacity and in which you are confident of being able to do your best.

If the novice can attach himself or herself to some provincial opera company at a nominal salary for the purpose of training and experience, this is often a good plan. In Italy almost every provincial city has a small season of opera, and impresarios in most cases are ready to give a promising singer a début without pay in order to reduce their expenses. But in some instances if a singer desires to make a début in a certain rôle and imposes this on the impresario she will be required to help to finance the opera by the payment of a few thousand lire. This is often done, but in some instances with sad results, because it is usually an indifferent artist who forces a début in this way, often against the better judgment of the manager.

I have known instances, indeed, where a singer has obtained a début on these terms, and the audience, after hearing the singer, has protested so vigorously that the unfortunate novice has had to be withdrawn in favour of a more satisfactory substitute in order to pacify the public.

In one instance I remember a Canadian tenor of tremendous size, but with a voice more like a mad bull’s than that of a human being, who thought he would make an ideal Othello. He was wealthy and paid the management 25,000 lire for a début. After the first act such a commotion was created in the theatre that the carabinieri had to step in and decide that either the show should be stopped or else continued by another artist.

Shortly afterwards columns appeared in the American papers about the harsh treatment of foreign singers in Italy. I can only say, however, that in my judgment it is utterly wrong to force on the public artists who are manifestly incapable, and that in this particular case the punishment fitted the crime!

In cases where there really are voice and merit such methods should be quite unnecessary, since managers are only too eager to secure fresh talent and to offer suitable opportunities for appearing before the public to those who possess it.

Just another suggestion. Don’t be induced to accept a dramatic rôle if your voice is purely lyric. Don’t even be tempted. Certain maestri are always looking for voices that can be heard above their orchestras. They never find one, because it doesn’t exist; but the path of their search is strewn with wrecked voices.

Chapter XXVII

REHEARSALS

A strict conductor who allows no trifling of this kind is, indeed, the truest friend of the artists, and his authority should be recognised accordingly by one and all. It is of the utmost importance that artists should be thoroughly acquainted with their parts, and they should take advantage of rehearsals to master every detail of their action, business, and so on, leaving absolutely nothing to chance.

There is, however, no need to sing with full voice at rehearsals; indeed, this is not desirable. But one should naturally sing loud enough to indicate quite clearly one’s intentions. Nor should the inexperienced artist show any reluctance to take advice from the stage manager when it is given. For his judgment will probably be better than yours, and in any case it is your business to do as he directs.

Chapter XXVIII

CONTRACTS

Speaking generally, however, I am not very much in favour of such contracts, for the simple reason that, the career of an artist being so short, he ought not to be placed in the position of expending his powers for the benefit of another person. I have known artists drawing £100 a performance who were receiving a mere £10 a week under such an agreement as I have described; and this is, of course, a very unsatisfactory and even heartbreaking state of things.

Caruso was one, it will be remembered, who entered into such a contract as a student which, however, he finally succeeded in getting rescinded, though not before he had had recourse to the law courts for this purpose.

As to contracts made later, when a proper position has been secured, the artist will not usually need much advice regarding these, since he is generally quite able to look after himself. “Too well, indeed,” it is sometimes said, by directors and managers.

Yet it must be remembered that, as noted above, the vocalist’s career is usually very brief. The years of gain may be from five to twenty, but are rarely much more than ten. I have known great artists who have lasted for but a few seasons. On the other hand, I can recall some like Battistini who have had over forty years of lucrative employment. But this is very rare.

Are they not justified, therefore, in requiring generous payment while they can obtain it? Also it must be remembered that great singers are exceptionally endowed, and as such are entitled to demand exceptional rewards. In which connection one may recall the famous reply of the dancer Gabrielli to the Empress Catherine of Russia. The Empress was staggered by the terms which she demanded and declared that not even her Field-Marshals received so much. Whereupon Gabrielli recommended the Empress to get her Marshals to dance for her.

Some of the most exacting contracts ever made by a singer were, I suppose, those of Catalani. In her agreements when she was singing in London she used to stipulate for half of the receipts throughout the entire season, while she inserted further such conditions as the following: “Madame Catalani shall choose and direct the operas which she is to sing; she shall likewise have the choice of the performers in them; and she will have no orders to receive from anyone.”

Madame Patti in turn received as much as £1000 a performance from Mapleson in America. But then Patti was—Patti! Most artists are content with less! And to such I would say as my final word on this point: “Do not forget during the days of your necessarily brief prosperity to make provision at all costs for the future.”

Chapter XXIX

CONCERT WORK

You are not pretending to represent the actual character of the song; you are reproducing in your own personality the feelings and emotions involved. Or as one might put it, the art of the stage is representative; that of the concert platform is reproductive.

All this must be borne in mind, therefore, by the artist who turns from the stage to the concert room. The effect produced may be just as great, but it must be achieved in a different way—without action, without gesture even, but with the maximum of intensity none the less—secured by means of the voice, the expressiveness of the singing and the personality and temperament of the singer alone.

And these will be all-sufficient for those who know their business; nor should they be exceeded in the ordinary way. Yet if it comes naturally to you to go a little further now and again, I do not know that it need be condemned.

Observe, however, that I say “if it comes naturally to you.” Otherwise, it will be forced and theatrical and will certainly not achieve its purpose. It is purely a question of temperament. Be natural and spontaneous and you will not go far astray. Northern peoples indulge sparingly in gestures on the concert platform, but yet get great results without their aid.

We Latin races are less restrained in this respect because this is in accordance with our natural temperaments. It is the difference between one who gesticulates freely in ordinary speech and one who never stirs a finger. One would not counsel the Englishman to copy the foreigner’s gestures for it would not come naturally to him to do this; but one would not have a Frenchman or an Italian without them.

And so it is in singing. If an occasional gesture comes naturally to you there is no need to repress it, even if you cannot be recommended to go as far in this respect in the concert room as Jenny Lind did on one occasion if report may be trusted. It is recorded that once when singing Agathe’s prayer from “Der Freischütz” at a concert at Norwich she was so carried away that she actually fell on her knees on the platform and so finished the air! That was, perhaps, overdoing things. Certainly I have never heard of even an Italian concert-singer going quite so far.

I need hardly add, while on the subject of concert deportment, that a pleasing and ingratiating manner is also much to be desired, though this is a matter that seems to be strangely overlooked too often by young artists of the present day. One might think almost from the manners of some of them that they consider themselves to be conferring the greatest possible favour upon their hearers by condescending to sing to them.

And doubtless in many cases they actually do think this! But they should endeavour not to indicate the fact quite so clearly by their demeanour. I have seen artists of this self-sufficient type who actually make not the slightest response, or barely any, when an audience is good enough to applaud them! This sort of thing is quite incomprehensible to me, and I am sure that if those who behave thus had any conception of the impression which they produce they would speedily mend their manners.

Chapter XXX

HEALTH, DIET, ETC.

Of Mario, for instance, we are told that he was never seen without a cigar in his mouth except when he was eating. He smoked, it is recorded, even in his bath, although it may be noted that even he expressly avoided cigarettes, confining himself exclusively to cigars.

Caruso, again, was another tremendous smoker, and I suppose there are few male vocalists, at any rate, who deny themselves in this respect entirely. But I have no doubt that it would be better for their vocal organs if they did so all the same.

Coughs and colds are, of course, the greatest bugbear of the singer, and to assist in securing immunity from these do not allow your throat to become too sensitive by wrapping up too much. Bathing the throat with cold water helps also towards this end. When overheated and perspiring never delay changing into dry clothes and be especially careful always to keep the feet dry.

Yet with all the precautions in the world the time will come when concerts or performances must be given under unfavourable conditions, and in these circumstances the art and the courage of the singer alone will carry her through.

Often I have undertaken a concert rather than disappoint the public when suffering from a bad cold. But I have been able by will power to do wonders in these circumstances, and more often than not I have been rewarded by a Press which said that I had never sung better.

I have known Caruso, under such circumstances, the morning before a widely advertised concert, at which an audience of perhaps 10,000 people was likely to be present, to wake up and find himself entirely without voice.

In the instance I have in mind he telegraphed for a celebrated throat specialist in New York to come immediately to Pittsburg, where just previous to the concert he underwent heroic treatment. This meant the administering of a stimulant to the vocal cords which contracted them for a period of a few hours.

Thereby he was enabled to fulfil his engagement, though the after-results put him out of action for at least a week.

A singer cannot hope always to be absolutely at his best, and this fact should be realised from the first by young artists. Frequently, prior to a performance, if the artist cannot bring off certain customary effects he, or she, will be thrown immediately into a state of distraction and despair. This, however, is all wrong.

Engagements must be kept, and more often than not, as I have suggested, the artist will find when the time comes that his apprehension has been quite uncalled for. Strung up by the needs of the case, and making a special call upon all his resources, mental and emotional as well as merely vocal, he will very likely do even better than usual.

He should bear this in mind, therefore, another time, and never lose his head even though he may think that he has lost his voice!

At the same time this is not to say that really serious voice trouble should be ignored, and I myself make it a practice in every large town where I am accustomed to stay for any length of time to learn of a suitable medical man or voice specialist to whom I can repair for advice in case of need.

As to one’s régime on the day when one is actually singing this merits a few words perhaps. Having gone to bed betimes the day before, so as to secure a long night of unbroken rest, I myself do not usually rise until about ten or eleven, when I have a light breakfast of tea and toast and soft-boiled eggs. For lunch, if one may call it such, after a short walk, I have merely a cup of cocoa and a little fruit, and nothing more until after the concert. Most other artists of my acquaintance do likewise.