It is not easy to give directions for this most rare accomplishment. There are so many sides to it and conditions confronting it that a book could and should be written which would, as far as possible, exhaust the subject. Let us first consider the accompanist, and, because so many more women than men aim to succeed in this field, we will designate her as she.

Qualifications of an Accompanist.

In the first place, she should be a good pianist, which actually covers a catalogue of qualities, such as quick reading, perfect command of all the varieties of touch, musical insight (which is only another name for musicianship), and unfailing technic; and, secondly, she should have a knowledge of the vocalist’s art.

Now, in point of fact, accompanists rarely possess all of these important attributes. If they did, they would hardly look kindly upon accompanying as a profession. It is sad, as it is true, that the ranks of accompanists are filled from the army of inefficient pianists. Thus, one or more of the above-mentioned features are lacking in their equipment, which relegates them to second place, and puts a higher value upon perfect masters of the art. That good accompanists are rare is a notable fact. It is not by any means, however, a hopeless situation; the keyboard field is so rapidly filling and overflowing that the immediate prospect of better accompanists who are fully equipped is encouraging. The modern vocal repertory is vastly demanding upon accompanists. It is quite the thing for composers of the present day to give a quiet theme to the voice and a typical Chopin-Liszt combination for the piano. The odium that was formerly attached to accompanying as a minor consideration is removed, and the honors are more evenly divided between the voice and the instrument.

While the singer loses in the matter of eminent priority, she gains in confidence that she can depend upon able support in her work. The esthetic side of accompanying amounts to more than appears upon the surface. The perfect sympathy between composer and artist must be sustained by the third factor at the keyboard; it seems almost too much to expect that such a trinity can exist in perfection, but it often does, and the results are always delightful. The accompanist should, with the singer, know the text to the point of familiarity with its mission, and the composer’s means of bringing clearly to the mind of the auditor the salient points of that mission. She must even be superior to the singer in judgment as to which background of stress is most favorable to the singer’s volume and use of that volume. She must be familiar with the phrasing and diction peculiar to the singer; for singers differ in this regard even in the narrow limits of strict tradition. She must adjust the amount of support to the natural loudness or softness of the instrument, the size of the room, and the vitality of the singer. The use of the soft pedal would be extremely rare by an accompanist who had her technic well established, but its use is by no means prohibited.

Accompanist’s Office to Support.

The office of the accompanist is to support; she is always subordinate to the singer. If the singer, however, is uncertain, a helpful note may be quickly and unobtrusively interpolated to reassure her; if the singer loses poise or control, the accompaniment may come sufficiently into prominence to admit of a sense of secure support which need be only temporary. Disaster is imminent if a nervous singer, a nervous accompanist, and a pretentious composition form the combination. The most valuable characteristic in an accompanist is self-possession, best expressed to the cult as “nerve.” Many a timid bark has been wrecked when there was but little danger, because of the loss of that valuable quality. After all that is, or can be, said or written, the finesse of accompanying may be summed up in the word “sympathetic.” Let the technic and interpretative preparation be never so perfect, if there is not strong and deep sympathy between the artist and accompanist the work will be wanting in the power to move or sense of completeness.

As for singers, how they differ! Some artists seem to look upon an accompanist as a necessary evil, tolerated while the necessity exists, but utterly worthless when the work is done; they never accord her her share of the praise, but are quick to load her with more than her share of the blame. It has often occurred that, when artists have made the most atrocious blunders, they would turn and scowl at the innocent accompanist, thus attempting to shift the responsibility of their own carelessness on to her shoulders. A prominent singer attempted this daring ruse in New York at a concert not long ago, but the audience was familiar with the number, and would not tolerate the imposition, and retaliated by hissing the singer instead of applauding her. There are others who value the assistance at the piano at its true worth, and there is no more grateful sight to a cultured audience than that of an artist, when responding to enthusiastic recalls, bringing the accompanist to the foot-lights with her, thus publicly acknowledging her indebtedness for the assistance, and allowing her to share the honor of success.

Careful Rehearsal.

The most strenuous rule in regard to accompanying is that there should be infinite pains taken at the rehearsals; every point worth making should be remarked upon and put to the test. One has only to hear Nordica, Schumann-Heinck, and Sembrich in their recitals to realize the attention that has been given to the minutest details in the accompaniments. Another rule which should never be broken is: not to appear at a public performance without a rehearsal. It is better to make no appearance than one where there is an element of uncertainty as to the result. Finally, if you would accompany well, accompany much; play for all the singers within your reach; study their music with them; breathe when they breathe, sigh when they sigh, exult when they exult; in short, do all that they do, the only difference being you do these things with your thoughts and fingers, while they do them with their voices.

Some awakenings are gradual.

The dream of success has not been a troubled dream, but a season of repose interspersed with moments of self-sacrificing effort. The gifts, however, were so abundant that even such efforts gave a respectable harvest of tone and encouragement, and a future with brilliant prospects was promised. The awakening came when the redemption of the promise seemed to recede as the moment of its fulfilment approached. Such is the oft-repeated experience of those who depend upon gifts for acknowledgment.

The awakening which comes with a start is when the oblivion to what really constituted art standards and requirements has been profound with entire faith in success as the sure reward of consistent effort. Those are sad moments in either case, and moments which need not have been experienced. In the first instance, regret for gifts that were wasted by time misspent; and, in the second, for failing to enter upon the work with but meager acquaintance with its exactions. Awakenings of a disappointing nature should be guarded against. It is better to listen to and enjoy good singing than to inflict upon others singing that isn’t good.

The principal varieties of tone-connection in singing may be classified as follows: Legato, Portamento, Marcato, and Staccato. The term Legato is from the Italian legare, to bind, and indicates a tone-connection where the pitch of one tone begins directly at the close of the previous tone without any break of continuity or the introduction of any intervening pitch whatever. This style of tone-connection is understood when there are no qualifying marks indicating otherwise. In the hands of the consummate artist, however, this rule is subordinate to the taste and judgment of the performer, as will be seen later on.

Marcato.

The term Marcato (literally, marked) is used when the composer wishes to give each tone an individual character which they do not possess when executed in the plain legato. There may be the same continuity of tone as in legato, but a mild accent with a slight diminuendo at the end of each, sometimes expressed thus >, individualizes and emphasizes the tones in a manner different from legato. This method of tone-connection is generally accompanied by a ritardando, or moderately slow tempo. When used rapidly the accent is less marked, and it becomes a little more distinct articulation of the vowel. Under these circumstances the proper designating term is leggiero. The marcato is also sometimes indicated by the combination of dots and slur. In general, it may be said to give character and emphasis to the phrase containing it.

Stentato is a kind of exaggerated marcato, while Martellato (literally, hammered or pounded) is used more especially in the repetition of a single tone when extreme force is desired. It is more congenial to the high notes of the female voice.

Portamento.

The Portamento (portare, to carry) is the most important and difficult means of expression so far as relates to tone-connection. Mr. William Shakespeare told the present writer that it expressed love; but who will have the temerity to thus circumscribe the action of this king of expressive means, whose range covers the whole gamut of human feeling, from the most heartfelt expression of love and tenderness to the terrible wailings of sorrow, rage, and despair? It is safe to say that the standing of an artist is measured to a greater extent by the use of the portamento than by almost any other means of expression. It is, of course, impossible to describe the portamento by means of the written word, but it may be roughly sketched in this wise: As is well known, the keys on the piano are separated by the smallest interval of a half tone. Now, if one will endeavor to subdivide this interval into innumerable smaller intervals, welding them together in such a way that the division line is lost or concealed in the process, either ascending or descending, he will have a tolerably fair conception of the portamento. One essential is that it shall reach its climax, or highest or lowest pitch, ahead of time; that is, that the pitch of the final tone shall be attained more or less before the actual place of the tone in notation. Just what shall be the length of this anticipation of the final tone is, of course, a matter of taste. About one-third the length of the first tone is ordinarily a good division. Following out our rule of expression in dynamics, the portamento from a lower to a higher pitch will be accompanied by a crescendo, from a higher to a lower by a diminuendo. There are many exceptions to this rule, however.

From what has been said it will be seen that the delivery of an artistic portamento demands, above everything else, a perfect breath-control. The throat must be held loose and free to effect the delicate changes of pitch which are necessary, and the laryngeal muscles must continually adapt themselves to the changes of breath-pressure which are necessary. The face must express the feeling desired; in fact, the whole nervous system must be responsive to the idea of the composer. There is no especial sign used to indicate the portamento outside of the word itself, and it is just as well that this is so. The employment of such a delicate as well as forceful means of expression should be left to the taste and judgment of the artist or teacher. To the beginner it should be interdicted altogether; even the artist should never make it without due thought and deliberation. Two consecutive portamentos are in bad taste; one should guard against this, especially in the rendition of closing cadences.

Staccato.

The Staccato is a manner of tone-connection which has fallen more or less into disuse contemporary with the decline of the florid Italian aria. As a means of voice-culture it will always be en vogue—as Shakespeare says, “after a million starts on ah” etc. In singing the staccato one should always use the soft attack, in order to avoid throat-strain, holding the breath gently and easily between tones.—Henry W. Giles.

Because of the intimate relations of poetry and vocal music there is much light to be cast from verses upon tunes, and from tunes upon verses. As soon as we begin to set words in order, into feet, lines, and stanzas, the question of collocation, the place for separation, and the proper place for that separation, becomes of cardinal import. So as soon as we begin to arrange tones into motives, measures, phrases, and sentences the proper way to gather them into close connection or to separate them into more or less widely divided groups must be considered as of prime importance.

When we sing we usually take about four times as much time to utter the words as when we read or recite them. This slowness can never be less than about one-third their spoken time without producing a ludicrous effect. To sing as fast as one utters spoken language is supremely comical. Just think of those inimitable character-songs in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, and this will be clear. Now, if the words are thus slowly pronounced when singing, it becomes evident that a long, involved sentence, with many words, complexly arranged, army-wise, in platoons, companies, regiments, and brigades, would soon grow unintelligible. To catch the meaning of a large number of words in a complex relation we must hear them distinctly, but as rapidly as is compatible with absolute distinctness of utterance. Listen to a halting, hesitating, stammering public speaker, and this will be glaringly illustrated. So, then, a set of words to be made to cut through a broidered veil of tones must be short, and set in very simple syntactic relationships.

It is lamentably true that very few poets know enough about the difficulties and principles of singing to prepare their words properly, and it is equally lamentable that few composers are careful enough as to the sentiment and structure of the poems they set to tones. Most of their musical garments are wrinkly ready-mades, and not perfect tailor-made suits. A teacher is quite justified in altering either the tones or the words of a song which is found thus defective. Without adding any more generalities take an instance to make this clear. It is not uncommon to find the definite article “the” set to a note on the accented part, of a measure, particularly when it comes at the beginning of a line. In a song which I have in mind the composer has been so utterly careless as to set these words “the while,” against A-flat, an eighth, on the beat, then fifth-line F, a quarter. Here is the light syllable “the,” the very lightest of all words,—paralleled only by one, the indefinite article “a,”—this “the” is set strongly against the thesis, or ictus, the down-beat of the measure, while the real accent of the word is cast over into a syncopated relation. My custom is to alter the tones in this passage, thus: to prefix a sixteenth A-flat, before the bar for the tiny syllable “the,” then set the word “while” against both the tones, slurring them. This makes the word to come out with a clearness quite delightful. The singer is not put to it to do something abnormal, the word is not distorted until its value in the prosody is lost, and the listener is saved a blurred impression upon the ear, which it is only possible to follow with a free use of guess-work.

Neither poet, with far-fetched words; nor musician, with awkward tone-fingers; nor singer, with slovenly delivery, dares sin against the hearer. All the rights belong to the hearer. Those who cannot minister to edification and to delight have no moral or artistic right to trespass upon the precious time of the listener.—J. S. Van Cleve.

This question was asked me some time ago by a pupil who for years had been singing with a very tightly constricted throat, so much so, that the quality was very harsh and poor, and there was very little power. I answered this question, and will give the readers of The Etude a synopsis of my answer, hoping that possibly it may help some student laboring under the same difficulty.

To begin with, let me say that the pupil who asked this question is anything but stupid; in fact, she is more than ordinarily intelligent, bright, witty, and well educated. Her condition is a psychological problem, and, in order to make it clear, I shall have to deal somewhat with the study of psychology.

Subconscious Activities.

A child is born with great possibilities, but with very few abilities. He breathes, his heart beats, his digestive apparatus does its work, and, if irritated, he shows it by a cry. All these actions are done in what the psychologists call a “subconscious way.” The child has no objective intelligence. He does not know that he is. As he grows older, he gradually learns to do different things connected with his ordinary existence. For instance, he has to learn to walk, and his mother or some one else has to take one foot and put it before the other. At first, in order to keep himself from stumbling, he has to devote a great deal of attention to walking as he toddles along. As he grows older, the time comes when he walks or runs without paying any conscious attention to the movements of his feet and legs and he never walks or runs well until these actions have become subconscious. Up to that time he has been doing it more or less objectively. A good illustration of the action of the subconscious mind is when a person, thinking of other matters, has walked beyond his intended destination. His conscious intelligence originally willed that his feet should go there, but, after starting them, began to think of other things and forgot to tell them when to stop.

Now, this applies to everything that we do. Most persons use a pen with the right hand. In learning to write, every child is very awkward. His letters are irregular and crude in appearance, and only by long practice, and not until the motions become automatic, or subconscious, can he write in an easy, comfortable way so that his penmanship will look free and flow smoothly. The handwriting of all children and also of people who write but little has a stiff appearance, showing they have given much attention to the formation of each letter. Such handwriting lacks individuality. As we grow older and write much, all of these motions become subconscious, and we acquire a certain “hand” which is easily recognized by those familiar with our writing. Suppose a person lose his right hand. He can (if he wish) learn to write with his left hand. In his first attempts he will be just as awkward with his left hand as he was at first with his right; but, if he will patiently practice, he can learn to write just as well with his left hand as he did with his right.

Those of my readers who have had occasion to walk across a stage in full view of an audience and have suddenly realized for the first time the fact that they possessed muscles in their limbs of which before they were unconscious, and have felt how those muscles would jerk and twitch and do all sorts of things which before did not seem possible, can appreciate the difference between conscious and subconscious effort. They walked badly because they were conscious that others observed them, and this very consciousness made them give an undue and objective attention to their walking, trying to make it so good that it became very bad. I presume the so-called “actor’s strut” is the result of misdirected energy on the part of the actor who tries to make himself walk naturally. The only way one can overcome anything of this kind is to let the limbs move along by themselves and concentrate the attention on something else, even if it be nothing more than the point of destination.

Practice Produces Subconscious Action.

Now let us return to the subject of singing. All of the above illustrations help to answer the question which my pupil asked. In learning to sing, the pupil must practice in a certain way a sufficient length of time until the muscles connected with tone-production will move by themselves without any conscious attention on the part of the singer. In the particular case to which I refer the person had been very badly taught and for years had used her vocal muscles incorrectly. I asked her to do differently and explained to her certain sensations connected with good tone-production. She accepted the fact theoretically that, in order to produce a pure and free tone, the breath must be entirely controlled in the body so as to leave the different parts of the vocal anatomy perfectly free; but, while she accepted this explanation, she was unable to do what I wished her to do, simply because her subconscious intelligence had been trained in the opposite direction. There is only one hope for a pupil who has been through this experience, and that is an unlimited stock of patience so that, no matter how long it may take to educate this subconscious intelligence to a correct method of singing, he will be willing to do the necessary work through the necessary time. It cannot be hurried. In fact, the more the singer tries to hurry it, the slower will be his progress. He must concentrate his attention on the front of his mouth, trying to talk in an absolutely natural manner there, holding his breath in his body to the best of his ability and at first relaxing all the muscles in the region of the back of the mouth, accompanied with this endeavor for clearness of diction in the front of the mouth. Of course, he cannot sing well until he has practiced this long enough so that all this closeness of attention toward even the correct way of singing is forgotten and he uses his vocal ligaments in this new and correct way in a subconscious manner.

This applies with equal force to the talking voice. When a person for years has sung incorrectly, it often has a correspondingly bad effect upon the talking voice, although to the untrained ear it may not be so quickly and easily noticed. In talking the vowels are not prolonged, and therefore do not acquire the undue prominence that they have in singing; but, in the attempt to make a correction of wrong tone-production in singing, this correction should be extended to a corresponding carefulness as regards the talking voice, and one should be sure that no effort is made either in the throat or the back of the mouth, but that all the attention is concentrated upon the lips, teeth, tip of the tongue, and front of the mouth. To one who has been controlling his talking voice in his throat, the first result of this change will be that he will seem to produce an insipid quality; but, while it may seem insipid to Mm, it need not necessarily sound so to others.

First Great Difficulty.

Perhaps the two greatest difficulties which confront the student who is endeavoring to correct erroneous vocal methods are: First, a tendency to think the pitch in his throat. Second, the association of throat-intensity with the endeavor for intensity of tone-production.

In regard to the tendency of the singer to think the pitch in his throat, let me illustrate my meaning. Blind people, it is said, develop nerve-ganglia at their finger-tips, owing to the acquirement of an exquisite sense of touch, and, in a certain sense, they learn to think at their finger-tips. In the same way, a pianist thinks at his finger-tips as he caresses the keys.

In speaking, there is no thought of a definite pitch, the pitch being what it may happen to be, according to the particular size and shape of the vocal muscles of the person speaking, and also a certain conformation of mouth and throat. This pitch will be varied by the intensity with which he speaks. In the act of singing, the first thing necessary, of course, is to think a definite pitch, and where the singer has been in the habit of thinking the tone in his throat he will at first find it exceedingly difficult to think in his mouth. It may be a disheartening process at first, with a tendency for the tone to waver and split and vary from the key, and just the uncertainty which the singer feels as to what may happen when he attempts to think the pitch in his mouth will have a tendency to send him back to his throat. The only way to overcome this difficulty is to consciously think the pitch in the mouth until the subconscious throat-tendency is gradually eliminated and the thinking of the pitch in the mouth has become subconscious.

Second Great Difficulty.

The second difficulty—namely, the confusing of throat- with tone- intensity—is perhaps even more difficult to overcome.

Our modern music, as a rule, is far in advance of that of olden times in that it demands an emotional content and intensity greatly in excess of former times. Far be it from me to decry anything of this kind. It is certainly a long stride forward in the art of music, but it also adds a stumbling-block in the way of the singer, and especially is this difficulty increased when we attempt to combat wrong methods. In fact, I believe the one reason why there is so much harsh and throaty singing is this very striving for intensity. It is not only those who merely want power at the expense of everything else who get into trouble along this line, but also many singers who have the highest ideals of tone-quality. These singers would invariably criticise in others the very faults which they themselves possess; but, owing to this striving for intensity of tone and to their inability to hear their own voices, they will, if they have any throat-intensity, be sure to confuse the two, and it will be a long and weary struggle before the singer is able to produce intensity in the mouth and yet have a perfectly comfortable throat. His first efforts will cause him to feel that the throat is not only loose, but weak, and he will immediately associate this weakness of throat with weakness of tone. Possibly at first the tone itself may be more or less weak, and yet if he could get away from himself and actually hear the tone he produces he would be much better satisfied than he could expect to be when judging the tone by a throat-sensation.

This perhaps is the greatest difficulty where a singer is attempting to help himself without the aid of a competent teacher—one who knows a pure and free tone and who will constantly insist on that even if at first it is somewhat weak, but who, having the strength of his convictions, absolutely knows that it will become even more intense and powerful ultimately if produced with a free throat. My only object in writing an article of this kind is to encourage those who have more or less impaired their voices either on account of their own erroneous study or bad teaching, to confidently strive for a tone in which there will be not one particle of throat- intensity.

In closing, let me insist that, if the singer will confidently sing with the mouth only, he will gradually gain confidence in his ability to do this, and, by so doing, will develop the greatest power and sonority with the most beautiful tone of which he is both physically and mentally capable.—Horace P. Dibble.

W. J. Henderson clears  up some of the fog of adulation that exists around the present-day opera-singers. He writes in his department of the New York Times: The unthinking worship of the opera-singer has its origin in the supposition that the best singers in the world go upon the operatic stage. The course of reasoning is something like this: These people get about ten times as much for singing as good concert-singers get, and we pay $5 a seat to hear them. Therefore, they must be greater singers than those who sing for $50 or $100, and whom we can hear for a dollar. This is a part of that state which Henry T. Finck felicitously describes as “Jumboism in art.” It is not correct to suppose that the best singers in the world go upon the operatic stage. The largest and most brilliant voices usually go there. The singing of operatic rôles requires certain physical attributes not accorded to all persons possessed of singing voices and artistic natures. For the grand dramatic parts, big, powerful voices and physical structures capable of enduring immense exertion are necessary. Slight men and women with small, sweet voices are not suited to labor of this sort. No matter how well they can sing, the volume of tone required and the long-continued effort of heavy operatic rôles are too much for them.

Prof. E. W. Scripture contributes an article entitled “How the Voice Looks” to a recent number of the Century. Professor Scripture is director of the Psychological Laboratory of Yale University, and if his views are accepted there promises to be a revolution in vocal teaching. The illustrations tell some curious stories. Here is one statement from the experimenter:

Not long ago I stated these facts to a well-known clef club, and supported them by the curves of German vowels sung into and traced from a phonograph by Professor Hermann, of Königsberg; by pictures of spoken English vowels obtained in a different way by Professors Nichols and Merritt, of Cornell; by analyses of Finnish vowels by Dr. Pipping, of Helsingfors; by direct observations of the vocal cords made by Dr. Musehold according to a new method, and by the results of other investigations. The statements were received with a dismay mitigated only by incredulity. One member even remarked that such views “would, if true, knock all our theories of vocal instruction into a cocked hat.” There was, in fact, a natural reluctance to giving up the Helmholtz overtone theory of vocal resonance. The abandonment of the incorrect theory of vocal action will probably require modifications in the present methods of vocal instruction, but that is a matter for the musicians to decide. I merely suggest that if the mouth-resonance cannot alter the sound from the cords except by mixture of new tones with it, it is hopeless to attempt to correct faulty cord-action by adjustment of the mouth; the cords must be trained to emit such forms of explosions as will produce the best effects on the ear.

The question received relating to accompanying singers was so pertinent to present conditions that I have made an extended allusion to it in the article heading this department.

Ida H.—The Baritone, when singing from a treble score, pitches his voice an octave lower, and this unconsciously; for, as a rule, those who sing songs become accustomed to the use of the treble clef, without realizing that they are using the voice an octave lower than the melody is being played. He uses the same pitch in both treble and bass clefs.

2.  For bass and baritone songs send for the classified lists of Presser, Schirmer, Ditson, and Schmidt, specifying the voice.

3.  The “Creation” or the “Messiah.”

4.  The answer to question No. 2 applies also to lyric soprano.

5.  She should extend her range to meet the requirements of the oratorio, the “Elijah” and Gaul’s “Holy City.” She should be able to sing now.

6.  By registering with one of the two most reliable agencies.

7.  I think most of the New York vocal teachers answer to this requirement.

8.  From October to June.

Clara P. H.—I do not think violin-playing can injure the voice. I have heard many violinists sing well, which strengthens me in this view. If I had special solicitude in this regard I should establish the physique in the direction which gave the most promise first.

M. E. B.—Any time after sixteen years for the girl, and for the boy not until his voice had changed and was secure in its new tone.

Mother M. M.—Your letter gives evidence of earnestness, which must yield ideal results. I would mark a course for your girls and make them conform to it, giving in the order named: Behnke, Sieber, Wieck, Marchesi’s twenty, Nava’s “Elements,” and Lütgen’s “Trill,”—Tosti’s are also good to follow Sieber, but they should be used with the Sieber syllables rather than with “ah.” As to aiding you in the matter of repertory, I feel really quite helpless. Even my many hundred regular teaching songs, all of which have found a permanent place in my library because of some special value, sometimes fail me. The best music is best worth teaching, and publishers are going so extensively into collections of late that you can hardly go wrong, if you equip yourself with them. Schirmer’s “Modern Lyrics,” four volumes, and Ditson’s “Modern Classics” are fine examples.

X.—1. Make a close friend of the first six pages of Behnke and Pierce, Volume I, and the chances are they will help you out of the breathiness without contracting the throat.

2.  For pianoforte-work send to general “Question and Answer” department of The Etude.

3.  Your ideal vocal solo is not hard to find. Ask the publisher of The Etude to send you “on selection” a group of the old Italian songs which formerly belonged to the Martens Brothers’ catalogue, and you will have an embarrassment of riches.

I have seen no compilations at hand of Irish songs, and therefore cannot help you. If the question comes when I am in New York, will make a search for the thing you want.