THE art of Singing is at present in a period of transition; and all unsettled conditions are unsatisfactory. Former standards are being thrown down; and the new ones are not yet elected, or, if chosen, not yet firmly fixed in the places of the old.

All Arts have a period in their history when they seem to reach their culminating point of technical perfection. Perhaps this point is reached when the art is practised for its own sake, without giving much consideration or attributing special importance to what it expresses. Sculpture reached its apogee under the Greeks, who, more than any other race, prized Form—particularly as manifested in its highest expression, the human figure. Painting also was at its climax of technical development during the Renaissance, when life was full of movement, and costume picturesque. But at this period in each of the two arts, skill was regarded as of more importance than the subject. In other words, the perfection of the sculptor’s statue or the scene depicted by the painter was of more interest and importance than the object or scene itself. If the work were admirably executed, the story it told had relatively little importance.

Singing, which is speech conveyed through music, similarly reached its highest point of technical excellence when the voice of the singer was considered as little more than a mechanical instrument; when beauty of tone-quality and perfect virtuosity were the only ends for which to strive. This period was at its height with Farinelli, Caffarelli, Gizziello, and ended perhaps with Crescentini. That these singers possessed extraordinary technical skill, or execution, is amply attested by the exercises and airs, still extant, written for them by Porpora, Hasse, Veracini, and others. That they also had musical sentiment or expression, is authoritatively proved from the emotion caused in their auditors by their performance of a slow movement or cantabile. But it was musical expression only, and as if performed on a solo instrument, as a flute or violin, which does not possess the faculty of uttering words. The operas in which these singers appeared had some plot or story, it is true; but its importance was of the slightest—analogous to, and of the same value as, the subject in painting and sculpture at corresponding periods of their history.

But singing, like these two sister-arts, has passed the period when it was, or could be, appreciated purely for the perfection of its technique. It has developed and broadened in other directions, and more now is demanded of the singer than mere mechanical perfection. Composers—notably Gluck—began to perceive the great possibilities to be attained by the development of the Greek lyric ideal; that is, the presentation of the Poetic idea by, and through the medium of, music; instead of being, as formerly, merely its excuse, a framework for the musician upon which to hang melodies.

Although Gluck, like all innovators, was considered by his contemporaries as a revolutionary and iconoclast, he only strove to develop and perfect an art that had already existed in a primitive form. This was the art of animating a poetic idea by means of melopoeia; which Wagner later developed still further.

Gradually, two essentials of good singing—tone-quality and truth of intonation—began to be neglected. But why should either of these two factors be less essential to a singer than to an instrumentalist?

Of late it has been tacitly assumed, if not boldly claimed, that sentiment, passion, temperament, atoned for—even if they did not entirely replace—voice and lack of skill in the artist. But what constitutes an artist? Art has been defined by an English lexicographer as “Doing something, the power for which is acquired by experience, study or observation;” and an artist, as “One skilled in the practice of any art.” The French writer d’Alembert says, “L’art s’acquiert par l’Étude et l’exercice” (Art is acquired by study and practice). If these definitions of art be accepted, its external expression or manifestation is essential through some vehicle or medium, otherwise there is neither art nor artist. Concepts or ideals have their genesis in mind, but were they to remain there, the poet, painter, sculptor or musician (composer or interpreter) would have no right to the title of artist, because his concepts remained in thought-form only, and unexpressed. Therefore, as a composer can be accepted as artist only when he has given that to the world which entitles him to the distinction, how can his so-called interpreter be considered an artist when, through insufficiency of technical ability, he is unable to present satisfactorily the author’s concept? No matter in what abundant measure such a performer may possess the good qualities of earnestness, conviction and sincerity, he is not an artist. “Poeta nascitur, non fit,” has long been accepted as a truism; and similarly, it is supposed that the artist also is born, not made. But seeing that the mechanical side of any art is learned by experience, study, or observation—still to quote the definition—without which an adequate manifestation of that art is impossible, then certainly the artist is made. He is born with certain qualities necessary for the artist, it is true; but failing his technical skill, these other gifts can never be fully utilized.

It is to be deplored that the studies of many vocal aspirants are not conducted on the same plan that is followed by those who desire to attain perfection on a musical instrument. These acquire a technique, and learn or study many works which may broaden or perfect their style, before commencing to prepare a rÉpertoire. The opposite course is followed by many students of singing, who study rÔles, instead of learning first how to sing. The full meaning of the highest examples of the modern lyric drama can be made apparent only by those who have fully mastered the vocal, as well as the mimetic, side of lyric art. Too much importance is, in my opinion, attached to the latter branch, at the cost of the former. I repeat, an opera-singer should be a singer who acts, not an actor who sings.

On the occasion of the bestowal of awards at the Paris Conservatoire in August, 1905, M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, Under-Secretary for the Fine Arts, in his address to the students made pointed allusion to the difference of results between the instrumental classes and those for singing. Said the orator: “It is claimed that singing is in a state of decadence, and that the cause is largely due to the style of modern music. It is rather owing to the fact that this art is not studied at present with the same methodic diligence that formerly obtained. I would remind the students of singing that they gain nothing by neglecting the earlier studies, and that their professional future would be better assured if it rested on a solid basis of vocal technique. It is, therefore, in their interest that, with a view to assure this important point, certain reforms will be instituted.”[6]

The professors of the classes for singing were also advised to draw more on the great classic writers for the voice, instead of confining themselves principally to the operatic rÉpertoire.

Every art reaches its apex of perfection, and then seems to decline; it may even temporarily disappear. But, being immortal, it is never lost. It finds other modes of manifestation, and reappears in other forms. The principles on which it is founded do not change; but constantly changing conditions necessitate a new application of these principles. This necessity was acknowledged for poetry itself by AndrÉ ChÉnier:

“Sur des pensÉes nouveaux, faisons des vers antiques.” (Let us embody modern thoughts in classic verse.)

Music follows the great laws of development to which all things are subject. It would be foolish, nay, impossible, to try to resuscitate an old form of art. Foolish, because the art itself would have lost all except its archaic charm or interest; impossible, because conditions have so completely changed that the attempt would be merely the galvanizing of a corpse, not its reanimation.

Similarly, the art of singing can be successful only in proportion as it recognizes the existence of other conditions. These it meets by observing the old principles, but changing their mode of application.

The education of the singer of to-day requires to be conducted on broader and more comprehensive lines than in the past, on account of the different conditions which have presented themselves. Singing—that is, the alliance and utterance of Music and Poetry—is one of the highest manifestations of the Beautiful, and is man’s supreme and greatest creation. Therefore, singing will not seek in future to rival a mechanical instrument. It will, it is evident, give to the poetic idea a prominent, though not a predominant, place. But this poetic idea can be revealed to the listener only by a singer who is master of all the technical phases of his art. These component parts of his vocal education must of necessity comprise—as was laid down in the opening chapter of this work—Pose of Voice, Technique, Style, and RÉpertoire.

It has been demonstrated that the first of these elements is essential, because the other stones of the complete structure cannot be successfully laid on an insecure foundation. The singer must have the second, or he will be unable to materialize his concept, like an unskilled carver who possesses the necessary material and tools, but lacks the technical ability to utilize either. He must possess Colour, whereby his vocal palette is set with the varied tints necessary for the different sentiments to be expressed; Accent, so that character may be given to the music and appropriate emphasis to the text; and Phrasing, in order that he may punctuate the music effectively and the words intelligently.

Perfect master of these, he is in possession of all that goes to make up Style. And, if these premises be accepted, it must be evident that he is in possession of the qualities that were necessary to make singers great in the past, and are indispensable to make them great in the future.