mania for dragging voices up, and out of their legitimate tessitura, has become a very grave evil, the consequences of which, in many instances, have been most disastrous. Tolerable baritones have been transformed into very mediocre tenors, capable mezzo-soprani into very indifferent dramatic soprani, and so on. That this process may have answered in a few isolated cases, where the vocal organs were of such exceptional strength and resistance as to bear the strain, is by no means a guarantee that the same results may be obtained in every instance, and with less favoured subjects. The average compass in male voices is about two octaves minus one or two tones. I mean, of course, tones that are really available when the singer is on the stage and accompanied by an orchestra. Now, a baritone who strives to transform his voice into a tenor, simply loses the two lowest tones of his compass, possibly of good quality and resonance, and gains a minor or major third above the high G (sol) of a very poor, strained character. The compass of the voice remains exactly the same. He has merely exchanged several excellent tones below for some very poor ones above. I repeat, one who aspires to be a lyric artist requires the best possible teacher to guide his first steps; he may consult an inferior or incompetent professor, when so firmly established in the right path that he cannot possibly be led astray.

It is a common belief that singing-teachers of reputation do not care to occupy themselves with voice-production, or are unable to teach it. This is a serious error. A competent professor of singing is as capable of imparting the principles of this most important branch, as of directing the more æsthetic studies of Style and Répertoire. All the really great and illustrious singing-masters of the past preferred to “form” the voices of their pupils. To continue and finish a predecessor’s work, or to erect a handsome and solid structure on defective foundations, is always a difficult task; sometimes an impossible one.

Then, as regards the pupil, particularly one studying with a view to a professional career, a defective preparatory training may eventually mean serious material loss. The money and time spent on his vocal education is, in his case, an investment, not an outlay; the investment will be a poor one, should it be necessary later to devote further time and expend more money to correct natural defects that ought to have been corrected at the beginning of his studies, or to eradicate faults acquired during their progress.

Furthermore, the purpose of some part of a singer’s preliminary education is to strengthen and fit the voice for the exacting demands of a professional career. As the training of an athlete—rower, runner, boxer, wrestler—not only perfects his technical skill, but also, by a process of gradual development, enables him to endure the exceptional strain he will eventually have to bear in a contest, so some of a singer’s early studies prepare his voice for the tax to which hereafter it will be subjected. If those studies have been insufficient, or ill-directed, failure awaits the débutant when he presents himself before the public in a spacious theatre or concert-hall and strives, ineffectually, to dominate the powerful sonorities of the large orchestras which are a necessity for modern scores. A sound and judiciously graduated preparatory training, in fact, is essential if the singer would avoid disappointment or a fiasco.

The vocal education of many students, however, is nowadays hurried through with a haste that is equalled only by the celerity with which such aspirants for lyric honours return to obscurity.

CHAPTER II

The Value of Technique

BRIEFLY defined, the singer’s Technique may be said to consist principally of the ability to govern the voice in its three phases of Pitch, Colour, and Intensity. That is, he must be able to sing every note throughout the compass of the voice (Pitch) in different qualities or timbres (Colour), and with various degrees of power (Intensity). And although the modern schools of composition for the voice do not encourage the display of florid execution, a singer would be ill-advised indeed to neglect this factor, on the plea that it has no longer any practical application. No greater error is conceivable. Should an instrumental virtuoso fail to acquire mastery of transcendental difficulties, his performance of any piece would not be perfect: the greater includes the less. A singer would be very short-sighted who did not adopt an analogous line of reasoning. Without an appreciable amount of agilità, the performance of modern music is laboured and heavy; that of the classics, impossible. In fact, virtuosity, if properly understood, is as indispensable to-day as ever it was. As much vocal virtuosity is required to interpret successfully the music of Falstaff, in Verdi’s opera, as is necessary for Maometto Secondo or Semiramide by Rossini. It is simply another form of virtuosity; that is all. The lyric grace or dramatic intensity of many pages of Wagner’s music-dramas can be fully revealed only through a voice that has been rendered supple by training, and responsive to the slightest suggestion of an artistic temperament.

In short, virtuosity may have changed in form, but it is still one of the cornerstones of the singer’s art. An executive artist will spare no pains to acquire perfect technical skill; for the métier, or mechanical elements of any art, can be acquired, spontaneous though the results may sometimes appear. Its primary use is, and should be, to serve as a medium of interpretation. True, virtuosity is frequently a vehicle for personal display, as, notably, in the operas of Cimarosa, Bellini, Donizetti, and the earlier works of Rossini and Verdi. At its worst, however, it is a practical demonstration of the fact that the executant, vocal or instrumental, has completely mastered the mechanical elements of his profession; that, to use the argot of the studios, “il connaît son métier” (he knows his trade).

Imperfect technique, indeed, is to be deprecated, if merely for the reason that it may debar a singer from interpreting accurately the composer’s ideas. How seldom, if ever, even in the best lyric theatres, is the following passage heard as the composer himself indicated:

[Listen]

or the concluding phrase of “Celeste Aida” (in Aida, Act I), as Verdi wrote it and wished it to be sung:

[Listen]

At present the majority of operatic tenors, to whom are assigned the strong tenor (fort ténor) rôles, can sing the higher tones of their compass only in forte, and with full voice. Thus an additional and very charming effect is lost to them. Yet Adolphe Nourrit, who created the rôle of Raoûl in Les Huguenots, sang, it is said, the phrase as written. The late Italo Campanini, Sims Reeves, and the famous Spanish tenor Gayarré, were all able to sing the