Piano and Song Part 7

If a singing-teacher has, by chance, met with a docile pupil, possessed of a voice of unusual beauty, it frequently happens that the studies are not pursued with sufficient perseverance; and, perhaps, are continued only for a few weeks or months, instead of allowing a year or more, according to circ.u.mstances. Richard Wagner agrees with me, when he says, "Why, then, write operas to be sung, when we no longer have either male or female singers?"

Since modern progress has come to regard "the three trifles" as belonging entirely to the past, and in their place has proclaimed, "Boldness, Spirit, Power," two evil spirits have had rule: they go hand in hand, ruin the voice, wound the cultivated ear, and provide for us--only empty opera houses. One of these evils has been frequently alluded to by me. It is "the expenditure of a great deal too much breath." The finest voices are obliged to practise with full breath until they shriek, and the result is mere sobbing, and the heavy drawing of the breath, just at the time when the tone should still be heard.

Even if every thing else could be right, in such a culture of the tone, which must very shortly relax the muscles of the voice, that one thing, in itself, would be sufficient to destroy all promise of success.

The second evil endangers even the male voice, which is able to endure much ill-treatment; while the female voice is quickly forced by it into a piercing shrillness, or is driven back into the throat, soon to be entirely exhausted, or is, at least, prevented from attaining a natural, fine development. This second evil is the reckless and destructive straining of single tones to their extreme limits, even to perfect exhaustion. The poor singer urges and squeezes out the voice, and quivers to the innermost marrow, in order that the two requirements of "Boldness" and "Power" may be satisfied. But the "Spirit" is still wanting, which should be shown in a light and well-shaded delivery. The effect of extreme shading, however, is accomplished in a single "romanza." The unfortunate, misdirected singer, who must aim at effect, lays out so much force on single tones, or even on whole lines, and that, too, in the best register of his voice (the other registers do not permit this), that the succeeding tones are forced to retire powerless into the throat; and the beautiful, fresh, youthful tenor or ba.s.s voice concludes with exhausted groaning and mere speaking tones. The "romanza"

is now at an end, and certainly "Boldness, Spirit, and Power" have worked in union. The task is executed the better, because a rude accompaniment has probably sustained the singer in a most striking manner, and has completed the total effect.

By such management, to which I must emphatically add the continual holding of the tones, even in the _forte_, voices are expected "to come out," to be developed, inspired, and made beautiful. What healthy ear can endure such enormities in tone formation, such tortures in singing?

These, then, are the modern contributions for the embellishment of art!

A curse on these evil spirits! If my feeble pen shall a.s.sist in bringing such singing-teachers to their senses, and shall help to save only a few of our fine voices, I shall consider my mission fulfilled, and the aim of this book, so far as it concerns singing, accomplished.

I have heretofore combated many prejudices, both in earnest and in sport, successfully and unsuccessfully; but one I find very obstinate,--it has pursued me incessantly for years. A piano-player, with a rigid, strained, and vicious touch, proceeding from the arm, may play a great deal, but his playing is thoroughly vulgar and without beauty. He feels this himself, and the playing of my pupils pleases him better. He wishes me to change his style to their better manner; but he still continues to pound, to bang, to exaggerate, and to play in his own way, and only wishes his style to be improved, and his power of execution to be increased. If a performer of this sort is not much more than twenty years of age, something may yet be done for the improvement of his touch, and consequently of his style of playing; but this is only possible by laying aside all his accustomed pieces of music, and by diligently practising, daily, small easy exercises, which must be played delicately, with loose fingers, and without allowing the arm to give the slightest a.s.sistance; otherwise, all labor will be thrown away upon him. How else can you begin, except by laying a proper foundation for a better style? I have frequently urged this principle both by speech and in writing; but the difficulty always returns, and especially in the cultivation of female singers.

A girl of eighteen comes to me: she has heard of the excellent cultivation of my lady singers, and wishes to obtain the same for herself. In order that I may hear her voice, she selects the "Erlkonig,"

by Schubert, that perilous piece, which is apt to lead even highly cultivated singers into frightful atrocities. Heavens! what must I hear?

With the remains of a fine, youthful voice, whose registers are already broken up and disconnected, she shrieks out the "Erlkonig," between sobs and groans, with screwed-up chest-tones, and many modern improprieties, but nevertheless with dramatic talent. The piercing voice, forced to its utmost, fills me with horror; but also with pity for such a glorious endowment, and such an unnatural development. At the conclusion, her voice succ.u.mbed to the effort, and she could only groan hoa.r.s.ely, and wheeze without emitting a sound. She has, however, frequently produced great effect in society, and drawn tears with this performance: it is her favorite piece. Let us abandon this singing for parties, this melancholy _dilettantismus_, everywhere so obtrusive! The girl is only eighteen years old: is she beyond salvation? I endeavor to build her voice up again, gradually, by gentle practice. She succeeds very well in it, and after six lessons her natural docility arouses hope. The head-tones again make their appearance, and the practice of _solfeggio_ brings out once more the stifled voice which had been forced back into the throat by senseless exertions; a better attack begins to be developed, and the chest-register returns to its natural limits. She now declared, with her mother's approval, that she really would continue to study in this way, but she could not give up the performance of her effective and spirited conception of the "Erlkonig." She came a few times more: I could perceive that the good structure was tottering.

After a few months, she had entirely sacrificed her voice to this single "Erlkonig." In such tender years, one such idol is sufficient. What a price for an "Erlkonig"! The old, experienced singing-teacher, Miksch, of Dresden (with the exception of Rossini, the last famous champion of the old school), has often warned me that radical amendment is seldom possible with such over-strained and broken voices, which already are obliged to struggle with enfeebled muscles, even although youth may excite great and decided hopes. There is also another difficulty: that one of these strong, over-strained voices must hereafter be used with much less strength, if we wish to cultivate a correct tone; and it is impossible to tell whether the chest-tones, when they are restored to their true limit, will ever come out again as powerful and at the same time as beautiful. Let no musician, however talented and cultivated he may be, ever adopt the teaching of singing, unless he can combine with firmness of character great patience, perseverance, and disinterestedness; otherwise, he will experience very little pleasure and very little grat.i.tude. Even if the "Erlkonig" does not stand in the way, every voice presents new and peculiar difficulties.

_A Few Words addressed to Singing-Teachers on the Accompaniment of Etudes, Exercises, Scales, &c._

It is common for teachers to play their accompaniments as furiously as if they had to enter into a struggle for life and death with their singers. At the beginning of the lesson, the lady singer ought to commence quite _piano_, at _f_ in the one-lined octave, and to sing up and down from there through five or six notes, without any expenditure of breath, and should guide and bring out her voice by a gentle practice of _solfeggio_; and yet you bang, and pound on the keys, as if you had to accompany drums and trumpets. Do you not perceive that in this way you induce your pupils to strain and force their voices, and that you mislead them into a false method? In such a noise, and while you are making such a monstrous expenditure of strength, to which you add a sharp, uneasy touch, and a frequent spreading of the chords, how can you watch the delicate movements of the singer's throat? Is it necessary for me to explain how such a rude accompaniment must interfere with the effort to sing firmly and delicately? Are you not aware that a light and agreeable, but at the same time firm and decided, accompaniment encourages and sustains the singer, and also a.s.sists and inspires her?

You ought, in every way, to seek to cultivate in your pupil the feeling for the right, the true, and the beautiful; but what is the girl of eighteen to think of _your_ culture and _your_ sentiment, if you pound the keys as if you were one of the "piano-furies"?

While this is your mode of accompanying the etudes, how then do you accompany the aria, the song? If, for instance, the pupil is singing tenderly, and wishes to bring out an artistic, delicate shading, you take advantage of that occasion to make yourself heard, and to annoy the singer and the audience with your rough shading. A singing-teacher who does not take pains to acquire a good, delicate touch, and who neglects to pay constant attention to it, is wanting in the first requirement; and this is closely connected with the want of "the three trifles."

CHAPTER X.

VISIT AT MRS. N.'S.

MRS. N.

_Her daughter_ FATIMA, _eighteen years old_.

AN AUNT.

DOMINIE.

_Towards the end of the evening, the piano-teacher_, MR. FEEBLE.

DOMINIE (_rather anxiously to Fatima_). Will you do me the favor, Miss, to play something on the piano? Your aunt has told me a great deal about your playing.

FATIMA (_smiling graciously_). But, really, the piano is out of tune,--so my teacher says.

DOMINIE. But does not your teacher attend to having your piano always kept in tune?

FATIMA. Mamma says it is too expensive to have it tuned so often; it gets out of tune again so quickly. It is an old, small-legged piano, as you see: mamma is always saying, when I am older I shall have a Chickering. The tuner comes regularly once in three months; the time is not yet up.

DOMINIE. But is your teacher satisfied with the tuning of your piano?

FATIMA. Well, he has got used to it. It is the same with the other instruments he teaches on.

MRS. N. Now, pet, play us something. Mr. Dominie likes music; he is a judge of it; his daughters play too.

FATIMA. But what shall I play, mamma?

MRS. N. You have got heaps of notes there. Mr. Dominie, pray select something.

DOMINIE. But I don't know which pieces Miss Fatima can master, and which she has now at her fingers' ends.

AUNT. Pray, Mr. Dominie, choose any thing. They are all fine pieces. It makes no difference to her which she plays.

DOMINIE. But do you play that whole heap?

AUNT. She has played it all. She has played ever since she was ten years old, and she has a very good teacher. He taught here when my sister used to accompany her lover's solos on the flute. Oh, those were charming musical evenings! And the teacher often played the guitar with them _extempore_. It was just like a concert.

DOMINIE. Indeed! that must have been very fine. Now, Miss, I beg--

FATIMA. But, mamma, just say what I shall play.

DOMINIE. Is not your teacher here this evening? He will know best.

AUNT (_whispers to Dominie_). He is busy this evening, composing some grand bravoura variations, which are to be dedicated to Fatima on her eighteenth birthday, the day after to-morrow. You must come to see us on that day. Fatima will play them at sight.

MRS. N. Fatima, don't hold back any longer. Play "The Huguenots" by Thalberg: that's a very fine piece.

DOMINIE. Pray do! I have not heard it since I heard Thalberg play it.

AUNT (_to Dominie_). Don't you make your daughters play it then? Oh, that magnificent choral! That brings tears to my eyes! But the dear child always takes it too fast: her fingers run away with her.

MRS. N. Here it is. Please turn round so that you can see her hands, Mr.

Dominie. You are such a famous teacher, perhaps you can make some suggestions. (_I was expected only to admire._)

DOMINIE. I don't like to disturb her freedom in playing; but I will turn round, if you say so.

(_Fatima scurries through the piece excitedly, and plays in a bold way,--not, however, without ability, but with a feeble touch, without proper fingering, without tone, without time; and gets over the first two pages, with her foot always on the pedal, in such a senseless, indistinct manner that Dominie, in despair, was forced to interrupt with the remark, "But you might take the _tempo_ a little more quietly."_)

(_Fatima leans back amazed, and stops playing, looking at her mother with a contemptuous expression._)

AUNT. It is owing to her great execution, and then, too, her youthful enthusiasm. Don't you like her natural expression?

FATIMA. My teacher always makes me play it so. It is in that way that I have learned to play so much at sight.