Part 32 (2/2)

”You see, there is nothing like singing to fill out dresses where they should be filled out, and conversely,” said Sbriglia, who happened to be present as we came back into the _salon_; ”consequently my advice to all ladies who wish to improve their figure is to take vocal lessons.”

”Yes,” agreed Miss Kellogg, ”if they can only find right instruction. But, unfortunately good teachers nowadays are rarer than good voices. Even the famous Paris Conservatory doesn't contain good vocal instruction. If there be any teaching in the world which is thoroughly worthless, it is precisely that given in the Rue Bergere. But I cannot do justice to the subject. Do give us your ideas, Professor, about the Paris Conservatory and the French School of voice culture.”

”As to any French vocal school,” replied Sbriglia, ”there is none.

Each professor has a system of his own that is only less bad than the system of some rival professor. One man tells you to breathe up and down and another in and out. One claims that the musical tones are formed in the head, while another locates them in the throat.

And when these gentlemen receive a fresh, untrained voice, their first care is to split it up into three distinct parts which they call registers, and for the arrangement of which they lay down three distinct sets of rules.

”As to the Conservatory, it is a national disgrace; and I have no hesitation in saying that it not only does no good, but is actually the means of ruining hundreds of fine voices. Look at the results.

It is from the Conservatory that the Grand Opera chooses its French singers, and the simple fact is that in the entire _personnel_ there are no great French artists. There are artists from Russia, Italy, Germany and America, but there are none from France. And yet the most talented students of the Conservatory make their _debuts_ there every year with fine voices and brilliant prospects; but, as a famous critic has well said, 'after singing for three years under the system which they have been taught, they acquire a perfect ”style” and lose their voice.'

”You ask me what I consider to be the correct method. I dislike very much the use of the word 'method,' because it seems to imply something artificial; whereas in all the vocal processes, there is only a single logical method and that is the one taught us all by nature at our birth. Watch a baby crying. How does he breathe?

Simply by pus.h.i.+ng the abdomen forward, thus drawing air into the lungs, to fill the vacuum produced, and then bringing it back again, which expels the air. And every one breathes that way, except certain advocates of theoretical nonsense, who have learned with great difficulty to exactly reverse this operation. Such singers make a bellows of the chest, instead of the abdomen, and, as the strain to produce long sounds is evidently greater in forcing the air out than in simply drawing it in, their inevitable tendency is to unduly contract the chest and to distend the abdomen.”

”Let me give you an ill.u.s.tration of the truth of M. Sbriglia's argument,” said Miss Kellogg, rising from her seat. ”Now watch me as I utter a musical note.” And immediately the rich voice that has charmed so many thousands filled the apartment with a clear ”a-a-a-a” as the note grew in volume.

”You see Miss Kellogg has little to fear from consumption!”

exclaimed Sbriglia. ”And I am convinced that invalids with disorders of the chest would do well to stop taking drugs and study the art of breathing and singing.”

”And even those who have no voice,” said Miss Kellogg, ”would by this means not only improve in health and looks, but would also learn to read and speak correctly, for the same principles apply to all the vocal processes. It is astonis.h.i.+ng how few people use the voice properly. For instance I could read in this tone all the afternoon without fatigue, but if I were to do this” (making a perceptible change in the position of her head), ”I should begin to cough before finis.h.i.+ng a column. Don't you notice the difference?

In the one case the sounds come from here” (touching her chest) ”and are free and musical; but in the other, I seem to speak in my throat, and soon feel an irritation there which makes me want the traditional gla.s.s of sugar and water.”

”The irritation which accompanies what you call 'speaking in the throat,'” explained Sbriglia, ”is caused by pressing too hard upon the vocal cords, that become, in consequence, congested with blood, instead of remaining white as they should be. Persons who have this habit grow hoa.r.s.e after very brief vocal exertion, and it is largely for that reason that American men rarely make fine singers.

On the other hand, look at Salvini, who, by simply knowing how to place his voice, is able to play a tremendous part like Oth.e.l.lo without the slightest sense of fatigue.

”About the American 'tw.a.n.g'? Oh, no, it does not injure the voice.

On the contrary, this nasal peculiarity, especially common among your women, is of positive value in a proper production of certain tones.”

CODA

The Coda in music is, literally, the tail of the composition, the finis.h.i.+ng off of the piece. The influence of Wagner did away with the Coda: yet, as my place in the history of opera is that of an exponent of the Italian rather than the German form, I feel that a Coda, or a last few words of farewell, is admissible.

In some ways the Italian opera of my day seems ba.n.a.l. Yet Italian opera is not altogether the thing of the past that it is sometimes supposed to be. More and more, I believe, is it coming back into public favour as people experience a renewed realisation that melody is the perfect thing, in art as in life. I believe that _Mignon_ would draw at the present time, if a good cast could be found. But it would be difficult to find a good cast.

Italian opera did what it was intended to do:--it showed the art of singing. It was never supposed to be but an accompaniment to the orchestra as German opera often is; an idea not very gratifying to a singer, and sometimes not to the public. Yet we can hardly make comparisons. Personally, I like German opera and many forms of music beside the Italian very much, even while convinced of the fact that German critics are not the whole audience. At least, the opera could not long be preserved on them alone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: =”Elpstone”=

New Hartford, Connecticut]

It seems to me as I look back over the preceding pages that I have put into them all the irrelevant matter of my life and left out much that was important. Many of my dearest _roles_ I have forgotten to mention, and many of my most ill.u.s.trious acquaintances I have omitted to honour.

But when one has lived a great many years, the past becomes a good deal like an attic: one goes there to hunt for some particular thing, but the chances are that one finds anything and everything except what one went to find. So, out of my attic, I have unearthed ever so many unimportant heirlooms of the past, leaving others, perhaps more valuable and more interesting, to be eaten by moths and corrupted by rust for all time.

There is very little more for me to say. I do not want to write of my last appearances in public. Even though I did leave the operatic stage at the height of my success, there is yet something melancholy in the end of anything. As Richard Hovey says:

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