INTERPRETATION ^ IN SONG ^ A GR,E.E,NE ^!^ BOUGHT WITH THE IKCOME FROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF Henrg W, Sage 1891 A.umi. mIxIil. Cornell University Library MT 892.G79 Interpretation in song. 3 1924 022 373 090 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022373090 Wiie Jlusician's iiftrarg INTERPRETATION IN SONG THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK • BOSTON ■ CHICAGO DALLAS * SAM FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO INTERPRETATION IN SONG . BY HARRY PLUNKET GREENE SCHUBEBT. ^ :^^=J^ 53«- I- r=F Das muss einschlechterMul-ler sein, dem m ^^^ 'nie ■ mals fiel das Wan-dem ein. Wefa gotft THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1912 All righta rttened COPTBIOHT,~i912, By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electtotyped. Published October, 1911. FRANCIS KORBAY AND SAMUEL LIDDLE CONTENTS PAOB Introduction is PART I Equipment 1 Technique — Magnetism — Atmosphere — Tone- colour — Style. PART n Rules : Main Rule 1 37 Main Rule II 92 Main Rule III 104 PART ni Miscellaneous Points 145 Styles of Technique — The Singing of Recitative — Pauses — Rubato — Carrying-over — The Melisma — The Finish of a Song — Consistency — Word-illus- tration — Expression-marks — Conclusion. PART IV The Classification op Songs — SoNChCTCLEs — The Singing of Folk-songs 198 vii viii CONTENTS PAKT V PAGE The Making of Programmes 223 PART VI How TO Study a Song 233 APPENDIX How TO Breathe — The Clergy and Intoning . 289 Index 301 INTRODUCTION It is a popular fallacy that a beautiful voice is synonymous with a lucrative profession and entitles its possessor to a place among the masters of music. England is full of such voices, in'various stages of technical training; some full of hope for the career ahead, some despondent and puzzled at the nonfulfil- ment of that hope, and others — a vast number — for whom hope is dead and the grim struggle for a live- lihood the only question. To such it seems incon- ceivable that a thing of intrinsic beauty, a great gift like a voice, should count for nothing in the world of music, and the singer in his disappointment attributes his failure to the shortcomings of his manager, the opportunities of his rivals, the personal prejudices of his critics or the relentlessness of the gods — to anj^thing but the true cause. The explanation is simple enough — he has not learned his business. With the minimum of efficiency he has assumed the maximum of respon- sibihty. While still speaking the language of his childhood, he has ventured out into the world to take his place among men. He has every excuse so to do. Bom in the land of cricket and fair play, by the very privileges and responsibilities of his birthright he has become the best fellow of his class in the world; but insularity ix X INTRODUCTION has its disadvantages, and the English singer of limited means has no chance to rub shoulders with his col- leagues abroad or widen his horizon. The atmosphere of foreign student life has never entered into his soul. He knows no language but his own. For him there is no National or Municipal Opera wherein to hear the masterpieces of music or take his place as interpreter. His outlook is bounded by the conventional oratorio and the "popular" ballad, and between the respectable oases of the one and the miasmatic swamps of the other he wanders through the desert. During no period of our musical history have technique and invention made such strides as in the last generation. The Wagner score of thirty years ago, the terror of the orchestral player and the wonder of the composer, has become the commonplace of the one and the text- book of the other. Each has risen to the level of his responsibilities and played a man's part. The singer alone has stood still. The reasons need not be discussed here. The fact remains that our platforms are overrim with voices half-developed and quarter- trained, singers without technique, without charm and without style, to whom rhythm is of no accoimt and language but the dead vehicle of sound, whose ambitions soar no higher than the three-verse song with organ obbligato, and to whom the high-note at the end and the clapping of hands spell the sublimity of achieve- ment. The singer with a beautiful voice who has not taken the trouble to learn his business is a commonplace; his prototype is to be found in every profession in the world. His standards are perforce on a level with his proficiency. Sufficient imto the song is the singing INTRODUCTION xi thereof, and by his applause he measures his musical stature. But when the song comes to its inglorious end, both song and singer are thrown out together into the world's rubbish-heap. He has no cause to complain. One glance at the story of music would show him that in the scheme of things he is of no account. It is the composer who lives; the singer is one of the Ephemeridae. Invalu- able to anecdote, immaterial to history, he belongs to reminiscence not to record. Who was the great tenor of the Thomas-Kirche ? There is no memorial even of his name; but Bach who wrote the great arias for him is with us for all time. If the tenor of the Church cantatas is buried and forgotten, surely the singer of the British ballad is justified in dying young. There is another far more dangerous than he; the man who with great gifts, competent training, and full knowledge deliberately uses his powers for degraded ends. Such a man is not only a traitor to his art but a menace to society, for the public looks to him for guidance and follows in his path. The greater the man, the greater the responsibility and the greater the crime. UnUke the other, he trusts that history will let him alone. There is yet one more — the man who, whatever his gifts, whatever his opportunities, means to play the game. What hard words he sees in these pages are not for him, though for him the book is written. It does not profess to represent more than the personal opinions of its author. Those opinions are the result, arrived at by a process of analysis, of a good many years' hard work in public and harder work at home. xii INTRODUqTIONi They are the experiences of one'who has been through the mill, who by loyalty to his rules has tried hard to atone for the shortcomings of his equipment, and they are primarily meant for the man who having served his apprenticeship is starting out into the world on his own. There are no short cuts in art, but if it helps to make the road to the dim Parnassus any smoother, or gives him a tune to whistle to his stride or, best of all, shows him fresh lands to explore, the book will have served its purpose. It does not pretend to be an exhaustive treatise on its subject. Its object is to give in the shortest possible form what is most likely to prove useful. For obvious reasons the examples quoted are those with which the author is most intimately acquainted, and for equally obvious reasons (of copyright) those examples have been drawn mostly from the classics. But the treatment of a song is the same whether it lie high or low, be old or new, or sung by man or woman. Interpretation knows no restrictions of compass, age or sex. H. P. G. INTERPRETATION IN SONG INTERPRETATION IN SONG PART I EQUIPMENT Interpretation is the highest branch of the singer'fc art. To that end he has worked, and when he has reached it he has begun to Uve. The wise master, when his pupil's wings have grown, will let him fly; he will cease to dictate and begin to collaborate. Interpretation is the highest branch, after the creative, of every art, but the singer has greater privileges than his fellows, for it is given to him to interpret to his fellow-men the great human emotions in the language of the poets ennobled by music. How to express those emotions in that language in the finest way is the fascinating problem before him. His field is limitless, for the masterpieces of song are inexhaustible and, if he prove himself worthy, the architects of his own time may choose him for their master-builder. But if he has privileges, he has responsibilities. Every time he sings he assmnes the guardianship of another man's property. It is committed to his care on trust and on him may depend its fate. Any singer who has taken part in bringing out a new work at a great festival will appreciate the weight of that burden. The further the singer advances in his art, the higher the place which study takes in comparison with B 1 2 INTERPRETATION IN SONG performance. The study of Interpretation is mainly intellectual and psychological, its actual performance largely physical and dependent on outside conditions. The hundred and one drawbacks of a concert room may bring the best laid schemes to grief. Public per- formance, even the most successful, is like the salmon on the bank — a record of achievement with the best of the fun over. The song once learnt and sung is never quite the same fairy-tale of romance; the child has grown up and left his fairy-tales behind him. What more exciting moment could the singer ask than the first step in the study of a great song-cycle such as Schumann's "Dichterliebe," the assimilation of each song in turn and its moulding to the general scheme; or the absorbing of the atmosphere of Schubert's "Leiermann," the visuaUsing of the picture of the poor old hurdy-gurdy man, barefoot on the ice, grinding out the same old tune, unheeded and unheed- ing ; or the dramatising in song of the father, the child and the Erl King; or the Knight and the Lorelei in Schumann's "Waldesgesprach"; or the suggesting of the remoteness of Stanford's "Fairy Lough"; or the heat-haze and human throb of Vaughan Williams' "Silent Noon" ? Every one a little drama, or picture, or colour study, and every one a masterpiece ; and for every treasure that he discovers he knows the earth to hold a thousand more. Songs are the property of a commune of individu- alists. They belong to all aUke, and each is the private possession of the singer who sings it. A poem may have a perfectly different emotional effect on one man and on another. If that is true of words, how much more must it apply to music, and how much EQUIPMENT 3 more, again, to words and music together. The com- bination of the two makes, perhaps, the strongest emotional appeal that we know to the individual, and his response thereto depends on his temperament, intelUgence and equipment. In no two men are these alike. Interpretation is, therefore, essentially individual. It is well that it is so, for if it became stereotyped there would be no scope for personality; imagination would count for nothing and originality would be a dead letter. Songs would be moulded to a pattern, and the tyraimy of the beautiful voice would be established for good, while its possessor would become, if possible, more insufferable than he is already. "Individuality" is the singer's greatest asset. Every song in the world is his property to do what he likes with. So much the greater his responsibility. But what of the composer? Has he no say in this piratical appropriation? It is the charlatan whom the composer fears, the cheap-jack who juggles with the rhythm and reads in false effects to gain applause. The man of enterprise is his friend. There is a fascination about the pioneer; he carries romance in his very name. The story of Columbus or the North- West Passage, or even the Odyssey, makes, rightly or wrongly, a more vivid appeal to the imagina- tion than the life of any statesman or the fifteen decisive battles of the world. To explore the unexplored, to "walk out toward the unlmown region," to win the secrets of the earth by force of arms have been the dream of boy and man from time immemorial. As with Nature, so with Art. Song has her dark con- tinents and virgin peaks waiting to be conquered, and 4 INTERPRETATION IN SONG when they call the pioneer must be up and doing. But let him see to it that he starts prepared. Voice alone, however great, will not carry him far, nor enter- prise alone without equipment. That equipment com- prises various gifts to which the public, and possibly the singer himself, have never given a name, and requires years of training to fit him to apply them. All are essential to true success. The interpreter must start with four possessions : Perfected Technique. Magnetism. Sense of Atmosphere. Command of Tone-colour. Of these the first can be acquired by anybody, the second is a pure gift, while as regards the other two the singer can either be bom with them or assimilate them successfully by study and imitation. PEEFECTED TECHNIQUE Technique is easy to acquire; it is difiicult to absorb. The one is a matter of months, the other of years. Technique is not uniform, and in its rules does not apply to each individual alike, but any man of intelligence can be taught the one that suits him best. It is the absorption of that knowledge into his very system so thoroughly that its apphcation becomes automatic which is the difiiculty. The physical use of his voice must be the unconscious response to the play of his feeling. That is a matter of years, and few singers have the patience to see it through. It is obvious that interpretation would be impossible if the singer were hampered by difficulties of actual EQUIPMENT 5 performance. If his mind be absorbed by the physical struggle, the intellectual side caimot have fair play. Nay more, the greater his gifts, the greater his danger. Temperament is a bad horse to ride if you cannot control him ; sooner or later he will break your neck. Technique must be the singer's servant, not his master, and must follow his mind as automatically as his hand follows his eye. *' If not, attack is turned into defence. It is a long and wearisome business, for there are no short cuts. The freak has yet to be discovered who grew six feet in the cradle. Anyone, then, can acquire technique; but even technique has its individuality. To some it seems to present no difficulties — control comes naturally and progresses by easy stagey; to others it is a matter of extreme laboriousness. Again, the same style of technique does not suit everybody; the main lines are universal, but the particulars have to be humoured to the individual. This may be due partly to the physical formation of his vocal organs, but partly, no doubt, to his temperamental peculiarities. Their recognition and handling are the work of the teacher. The sounder he makes the early work, the better the workman he turns out. If the pupil's apprenticeship has not been truly served, he will surely come to grief in the end. Sooner or later he will be faced by a wall which he cannot get over; then back to the beginning he must go — with a broken heart — or settle down to mediocrity. It is a commonplace to say that a public singer must be possessed of physique. In these days of huge repertoires and long recital programmes, where the performer is on his feet for the better part of an hour 6 INTERPRETATION IN SONG and a half, singing twenty to thirty songs of every shade of emotional effect, the strain on heart, lungs and brain is abnormal, and without physique he could never last out. But physique alone wiU not pull him through. He may blunder through half a dozen songs by main force, but if his technique is not his servant he will not win half-way to the end. One word of advice may be given to the beginner. Let him avoid the voice-production faddist and pur- veyor of short cuts. There are no short cuts. Let him likewise avoid the anatomical-jargon man. Lungs, chest, nose, palate, tongue, teeth and lips are the singer's stock-in-trade and need no diagrams. The less he knows about their physical details the better. Anatomical illustrations and treatises will not place his voice a whit better. They will merely render him self-conscious and worry him into senseless sohcitude about organs whose movements are mainly automatic. For the purposes of this book perfected technique must be assumed. The singer's complete command of his physical powers must be taken for granted; interpretation has to do with the intellectual uses to which these powers are put. For this reason no actual physical directions will be given in regard to any of them, with one exception — Breathing. Correct breathing is perfectly simple. It should not present the smallest difficulty to anybody : yet there is no part of the business over which the faddists have run such riot. As the whole structure of interpreta- tive singing stands upon breath-control — its very foundation — the physical part of breathing will be dealt with in a special appendix (p. 289). EQUIPMENT 7 In order to interpret, the singer must have at his command : 1. Deep breathing and control of the breath. 2. Forward, and consequently resonant, "produc- tion" of the voice. 3. The power to pronounce pure vowels and distinct consonants with ease. 4. The power to move at any pace with ease. 5. The power of phrasing — both long and short — with ease. In explanation of these it may be said : (1) Deep breathing has to do with the taking-in pf breath, control with the letting of it out, and of these the second is infinitely the more important. (2) The singer should be unconscious of the fact that he possesses a throat. Where his voice is produced goodness knows; the singer certainly does not. Where it sounds, and rings, is his business. If it soimds in his throat, it certainly will not ring. (3) This is closely associated with No. 2. Power of diction depends upon the use of the tongue, teeth and lips. It is, therefore, of primary importance that the material they work with should be at their disposal, and not fighting its way through a museum of uvulas and epiglottises and other anatomical specimens. (4) This is closely associated with all three of the foregoing. If these are above proof, singing fast will be as easy as singing slow. It will in fact be easier, as involving slightly less physical control of the breath. It may appear paradoxical, but to a singer with his technique at his disposal singing fast is a rest, so much so that a tendency to sing fast is an 8 INTERPRETATION IN SONG outward and visible sign of laziness and avoidance of difficulties. (5) Phrases are the bricks out of which interpre- tation is built, phrasing the laying of these bricks by the master-builder. On the knowledge of his business (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4 above) depends the laying (No. 5). The key to them all is contained in the words with ease. Technique is the means, interpretation the end. The end will be difficult if the means are not easy. Finally, the singer should bear in muid that he is not the best judge of his own technique and that that technique can never be left alone. The physical part of his work should from time to time be submitted to other expert inspection. No matter how high he may stand ia his art, his technique is bound occasion- ally to grow rusty or get out of control. In such cases he will do well to submit it to a master whom he can. trust. The doctor when he is ill consults a colleague. The singer, where the health of his voice is concerned, should follow his example. MAGNETISM Any singer who has sincerity, a fair amoimt of imagination and perfected technique can interpret, but not necessarily successfully. To be successful he must have Magnetism. Magnetism — so-called for want of a better word — is a pure gift. It is as much born to the individual as the colour of his eyes or his hair. It is the property in greater or less degree of every success- ful pubUc man, be he preacher or politician, actor or singer. It is probably an apphed form of what in the private individual is called "attraction," though its EQUIPMENT 9 application is unconscious and spontaneous. It is generally closely associated with temperament though in no way related to it, for the one may appear without the other at any time. It is the greatest gift the singer can have, for its possession means power. Magnetism is the indefinable something which passes from singer to audience and audience to singer alike; for the audience which the singer holds in the hollow of his hand, holds him as surely in its own. Each acts and reacts on the other in ever-increasing degree. It is a gossamer thread over which passes that name- less electric current which stirs the singer to his depths and holds his audience thrilled and still. Which starts to spin it we do not know ; probably the singer, for one man has it and another has not, and when he has not, no audience can give it to him. The man who has it is unconscious of exerting it. He knows when it is present and when it is absent — it is as fickle as a will-o'-the-wisp — but he can never de- liberately start it on its journey. All he knows is that when it is there it seems to grow and as it grows it intoxicates. It is worth all the applause in the world; applause is but its by-product. Its absence leaves an almost physical feeling of depression. It may be apparently absent and suddenly appear. One friendly face or understanding personality in an audience may suddenly set it going; some external or ludicrous incident may bring a smile to every face, and along that smile will run the little thrill which set singer and audience calling one another by their Christian names. It may never be there, and it may be there from the beginning. It likes silence T— the wise man will not begin his song too soon. It 10 INTERPRETATION IN SONG likes attention — he will treat it with deference. It likes concentration — he will see that his thoughts are ndt elsewhere. The wise man knows that if its friends are many, its enemies are legion. To the experienced singer it is always a mystery how it manages to survive through a single song. Every man's hand is against it. A breath will blow it away; the banging of a door, the dropping of an umbrella, the rustling of programmes (the wise man will so print his books of words that there is no turning over in the middle of a song), all the thousand and one accidents which distract the attention of audience and singer ahke, all are its deadly enemies. Strange to say, things heard are far less distracting than things seen. Church bells, motor-horns, mufl5n-men, barrel-organs, dogs, seem to concentrate roimd concert halls ; Magnetism out of sheer familiarity pulls a long nose at them. A pistol shot or a braying donkey might through very explosiveness or appropriateness bring the singer to confusion, but the ordinary run of noises passes him and Magnetism by. But let an old gentleman in the front row stand up and take off his overcoat, or let a programme boy meander up the middle aisle, or, worst of all, let a late-comer open the door and walk to his seat;' every eye leaves the platform, snap goes the magnetic thread, and the singer comes down and breaks his crown, and the song comes tumbling after. The late-comer — and in a lesser degree the early- goer (what the late Hans von Billow called the Spatlinge and the Fruhlinge) — is Magnetism's deadly adversary. The human being has yet to be found with a will strong enough to keep the human eye away from him. Times out of mind the late-comer EQUIPMENT 11 has wrecked both singer and song, and for that penance many of the suager'.s sins may surely be forgiven him both now and hereafter. There are still some survivors of the Stone Age who, because they have bought a ticket for a concert, consider that they are thereby entitled to disturb the audience and ruin the performance at will. It has never occurred to them that the interests of the performer and their own are identical. To them any desire on the part of the singer to play fair to his audience and his work is looked upon as a presumption. Fortunately, however, the public has ceased to see the fun of it, and in self- protection now demands to listen to each number with closed doors. The late-comer smuggles through nowa- days by inadvertence. One fact emerges from all this, that to Magnetism the most important medium for good or evil is the eye. To the singer the roving eye in an audience is as terrible a danger-signal as the early yawn. If all eyes are on him he knows he is all right. If they wander by, taking him casually on their way, he is probably all wrong, and equally probably it is his own fault. If they are fixed upon him and leave him with a jump, the fault is generally the late-comer's. In either case, no matter whose the fault, his work is of no account. What then can the singer do to help the eye. Magnetism's best friend? He can see that that friend is not employed elsewhere, and be ready to throw the door open should Magnetism look in, after its wont, through the keyhole. The eye that is fixed upon the printed page is no good to it. No amount of make-believe on a London November day could 12 INTERPRETATION IN SONG conjure up the blue skies and white clouds of the midsummer of "Feldeinsamkeit" while the singer's head was bobbing up and down from the vocal score. He wants his eyes for something else, not only to visuahse his picture, to look out unconsciously — for the eye follows the mind as imconsciously as the hand follows the eye — to those green fields and siunmer skies, but to gather from, and give back to, his audience that indescribable magnetic sympathy, communicable as much by the eye as by the clapping of hands, which makes them both friends, coaxes away the terrors of nervousness and sets the light to his imagination. The interpreter must memorise his work. Whatever may apply to instrumentalists and abstract music, this rule is vital to singing. Song deals with the great human emotions expressed in words, and the singer stands face to face with his audience. Every friend of expression that has been given him he is in duty bound to make the most of. Hard work is not easy. Memorising is a work of extreme laboriousness, but when that work is done it is the singer's possession for ever. Nay more, it has a power all its own of separating the sheep from the goats. To memorise a poor song is a martyrdom ; the eclectic faculty shrinks from the bad and the shallow. It is a subconscious faculty working independently and it is no respecter of persons. Time and again the singer will find that in the memorising process it has stultified his own earlier judgment and treated a great name as of no account. In the furnace of its refining fire the dross is burnt away and only the pure gold remains. EQUIPMENT 13 SENSE OF Atmosphere Every song has an Atmosphere of its own; that is, a something all-pervading to which all detail is sub- ordinate and to which at the same time every detail contributes. It follows that every song must be treated as a whole. The composer wrote it as a whole ; the singer must sing it as a whole. A musical phrase is made up of a number of notes. The singer does not think of those notes separately; he thinks of the phrase as a whole, and the song is to the phrase what the phrase is to the note. The mind absorbs the picture, and the detail fits into perspective of itself. This treatment of the song as a whole is the secret of interpretation. The treatment of its Atmosphere demands an attitude or Mood. The mood belongs to the singer, the atmosphere to the song, and the best friend of both — the father of the one and the godfather of the other — is Imagination. Some songs breathe their atmosphere in every bar; in others it is so subtle it cannot be given a name. Imagination will christen it. If the singer has imagina- tion, atmosphere will come to meet him half-way. Its fascination will lure him on and lead him into fairy- land. A thousand feet may have worn the path bare before him, but to him all is virgin soil. In after life the memory of that moment will thrill him, when first the mists lifted, and the Wanderlust entered into his soul. Imagination is many-coloured. He must have all sorts ; not merely the power to visualise his scene, to 14 INTERPRETATION IN SONG paint upon his inner vision the picture of the father, the son and the "Erlking," or the torror of "Gruppe aus dem Tartarus" ; the drowsy blue day of "Feldein- samkeit," or the dragon-fly of "Silent Noon" — "hung hke a blue thread loosened from the sky" — but a belief in happiness, in Leprechauns and fairies, in Santa Glaus and Father Christinas, and a deep love of nature and children. If his imagination can show him the atmosphere, the mood follows of itself. In Brahms's "Feldein- samkeit," for instance, the atmosphere is one of dreamy happiness, of utter contentment mental and physical; the mood one of laziness, of half-closed eyes, of some one hypnotised by the hum of bees and drugged with the scent of flowers. Given that mood the song sings itself. It tells, it is true, of long green grass, of the ceaseless hum of insects, of blue skies and white clouds like floating dreams, but the singer does not think of them. They are details; they simply contribute to the atmosphere of the song as a whole. He tells you of his mood — "as though he long were dead and borne along to heaven" — happy, lazy, half asleep. Let him but accentuate the detail or worry over his technique, and the skies will turn to thunderstorms, the bumble- bees to mosquitoes and the white clouds to water- spouts. It is not necessary to ticket either atmosphere or mood with a name. The singer need only realise the meaning. Thus, in another song of Brahms, "Auf dem Kirchhofe," there are two atmospheres — the storms of life, with detailed expression in the rain and wind beating against the old tombstones and withered wreaths and worn inscriptions, followed by the calm EQUIPMENT 15 of those who lie beneath; the contrast summed up in the words gewesen, genesen (an antithesis practically- impossible to render into English). It would be hard to define in words either atmosphere or either mood. The singer would simply be conscious of a spirit first of inevitableness and despair, and then of redemption and peace, and fit his moods to each. In neither of the two songs quoted above is there any drama to act, any incident to relate ; only with atmosphere, mood and colour to express in the one the drowsy summer's day, and in the other the poet's epitome of life and death. Some songs carry their atmosphere and mood in their very name. Schubert's "Ungeduld" ("Impatience"), for instance, seems to tumble over itself with deUrious happiness, and carries irresponsibility on the very face of it. The singer's hat might blow away into the river and he would never know it was gone. That dishevelled mood he has to express — albeit not in his technique. Charles Wood's "Ethiopia saluting the Colours" is a dramatic song relating an incident in the American Civil War. Though no doubt the incident took place, the two characters concerned are meant to be symbohcal of slavery and emancipation. That comprehensive symbolism gives the atmosphere and indicates a mood of mystery. Francis Korbay's "Moh^c's Field" is a Hungarian folk-song nominally expressing a man's heroic battle with ill-fortune; but the atmosphere is essentially one of virility, and the mood or attitude one of active combat. The singer will find at the end of this song, if he has been in the mood, that every muscle in his 16 INTERPRETATION IN SONG body has been stretched taut in unconscious response to the play of feehng. All such physical response, and all facial expression, should be unconscious and automatic ; for the very idea of artificiality is abhorrent. None the less, mood and physical response are so interdependent that — paradoxical though it may sound — the response can sometimes actually appear to initiate the mood. If in the song just quoted the singer will but tighten his muscles and set his teeth before the first chord of the opening symphony is played, he will find that he has apparently thereby got himself into the mood. This, however, is a variant not to be recommended to beginners. There are certain forms of mental expression, concomitants of mood, which are so insistent as to give the singer an impression of actual physical demonstration. The shrug of the shoulders, for instance, in "Und er lasst es gehen alles, wie es -will," "Little does he trouble, come whatever may," in Schubert's "Leiermann"; the leap back of the knight in Schumann's "Waldesgesprach," in the words : " Jetzt kenn' ioh dich," "I know thee now," as he recognises the Lorelei; or the collapse of the "Laird of Cockpen" (Hubert Parry) on his refusal by Mistress Jean. All such moods must be illustrated practically by the voice alone. How this can be done will be shown directly. Most songs carry their atmosphere on the surface. EQUIPMENT 17 They tell their own tale, and the singer has but to follow the beaten track. But to the student they cannot compare for interest with those in which he has to look for it. There is one thing that will help him in the search. Every song has a signpost hidden somewhere. The student, in the process of absorbing his song, will find that gradually, imperceptibly, one sentence or phrase, generally in music and words alike, will begin to stand out, to impress itself upon him as typical of the atmosphere of the whole, a guide to the whole mood. This sentence is the key to the song — the master-phrase. Every voice has a master-note which shows the character of the whole, and from which the voice can be trained up or down. Likewise every song has its master-phrase. Some songs, as said above, are their own master-phrase from sheer obviousness, but even when the atmosphere is most subtle the student hardly needs to look for it. The signpost will loom up through the darkness. The master- phrase will come of itself. Round it all the other sentences and phrases will group themselves and settle down, and order emerge out of chaos. It need not necessarily be emphasised in the actual singing: it is simply a master-phrase to the mood. For instance, in Schubert's "Leiermann" the master- phrase is the sentence quoted above "Und er lasst es gehen alles, wie es will." The shrug of the shoulders referred to there is but the outward sign of the dreary hopeless indifference of the mood. If the singer can sing that phrase in that mood, it will colour the whole song. 18 INTERPRETATION IN SONG In "Feldeinsamkeit" the obvious master-phrase is in the last line already referred to. "I feel as though I long were dead and borne along to heaven." In some cases there are two master-phrases, either illustrating two moods, as in "Auf dem Kirchhofe" (see above) where the two words "gewesen" and "genesen" are the respective keys to their moods, the one relent- less, the other peaceful; or, as in Stanford's "Fairy Lough," where the first master-phrase, "lies so high among the heather," gives a feeling of remoteness that makes the whole song sound far away, this being followed by a supplementary phrase, "and no one there to see," which tells why it is that the fairies are not afraid to show themselves. This use of the master-phrase applies particularly to that class of songs called "Atmospheric," which will be dealt with further in the chapter on the Classifi- cation of Songs. The principle has one other great advantage. It can be used therapeutically. A singer often finds that after the constant singing of any one song, that song seems to have lost its charm both for himself and his audience ; its power seems to have become atrophied. If he will examine it closely he will discover that he has begun to over-elaborate his detail ; the song, as a whole, has faded away, and the making of points has monopolised his interest. Such over-elaboration is generally the symptom of staleness. There is then only one thing to be done. He must give the song a rest. Let him put it away for some months, and then go back to it and look for his master-phrase. As if by magic EQUIPMENT 19 the atmosphere will grip him afresh and make the old mood new. In the whole treatment of Atmosphere — it sounds sententious, but it must be said — the singer must be possessed of a wholesome respect for truth. Arti- ficiality and Atmosphere are a horrid contradiction. His individuality is shown in- adapting his powers to the atmosphere of the song, not in inventing new moods to suit his own powers. He has to ask himself not what can be put into the song but what can be got out of it. If the music, for its part, does not tell him more about the poem than he knew already, it is not worth much. COMMAND OF TONE-COLOUR Hand in hand with Atmosphere goes Tone-colour. Song-painting without it is impossible. Whether it is a pure gift or capable of acquirement, it is hard to say. It can be successfully imitated, no doubt, but assimilated tone-colour bears somewhat the same re- lation to natural tone-colour that the triUo di agilitd bears to the trillo di natura. Tone-colour is part of the physical response of the voice to the play of feeling, and, being physical, is correspondingly hard to describe in writing. Every individual has command of, and unconsciously uses, a certain form of tone-colour every day of his life. The ordinary man — he does not need to be a singer — can, by the mere giving out of breath in a variety of sighs, express in colour such varied emotions as sad contemplation, surprise, pleasure, horror, contentment, amusement and so on. Tone-colour in singing is the 20 INTERPRETATION IN SONG vitalisation of that breath before adding to it the spoken word. It follows the mood as unconsciously as the hand follows the eye or the sigh follows the thought. To successful interpretation it is indispens- able. Without it variety or dramatic illustration would be impossible, for it is the singer's substitute for stage-setting and action. Tone-colour is of two sorts, Atmospheric, in which the colour paints the mood (as described in the last chapter), and Dramatic, in which the voice adopts a character or series of characters, and stages, or illus- trates, the actions and emotions of each. The one is passive, the other active. The stage-settings of "Feldeinsamkeit" and "Moh^c's Field" are as far apart as the poles; so are their tone-colours. The one drugged, half asleep, ready to accept any insult with an indulgent smile ; the other tense, alert, virile, with clenched teeth and fists up. In "Ein Ton" by ComeUus the voice-part consists of five sentences all sung on one and the same note. Here a man is thinking of a woman who is dead. Each sentence tells a different thought and a different emotion; without differentiated tone-colour every thought, no matter what the words, would sound alike. It is in reality a study of five emotions in five colours, a master-piece of unmonotonous monotony. Take Schubert's "Erl-Konig." Here father, child and Erl King have to be clothed, staged and acted, each in turn and each differently, while the horse and the wind are staged or heard in the accompani- ment. All five have this in conunon that haste and fear, either felt or inspired, run through the different tone-colours of each. EQUIPMENT 21 Or take Schumann's "Waldesgesprach," another variant of the "Erl-Konig" type. There are four colours here, two for each character. For the knight a "preux Chevalier" sound in the first verse and the first half of the third, changing suddenly to a hoarse horror as he recognises the Lorelei. For her, in the second verse, a subdued enticing far-away sound, with a suggestion of timidness and a feeling of romance as she speaks of the Waldhom far off in the wood; then the other coloxu", cruel and concentrated, getting harder and harder as she comes closer and closer, telling him the while who she is, with a leap at his throat on the words "nimmer mehr." For purposes of illustration nothing is better than the true traditional ballad. This is generally in strophic or stanza form and has many verses sung to the same tune. It tells a story or plays a Uttle drama in song, and the dramatic singer acts it in tone- colour. Sung without tone-colour it may awaken a certain amount of interest merely as a story, but no more than if it were read in a book; probably less, for the reader would read a variety into it for himself, which the singer's monotony would actually cotmteract. All the instrumental devices in the accompaniment of the musical adaptation cannot galvanise the story into life, if the singer does not stage it with his voice. Let us take the famous old Scottish ballad, "The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie" (arranged by Arthur Somervell), and work it out in dramatic form and see how it can be coloured. There are various versions of the tune, but the foUowing one will do admirably : 22 INTERPRETATION IN SONG There were twasia-tei3 sat in a hovr'i, {E-din-bro/) {E-din- I 1 i ^- -^ ■ ^ - /'° J : 6ro/) There were twasis-tera sat in a bow'r, {Stir - ling far I 1 :j N \ \ | 5 s ^^ JS ?sN N M^ iitatiat atataot? aye/) Tkereweietwasisters satin a l)ow'r,T}ierecaiaea knight to be theiz i^'53^^.f i^^ ^£ -•»T wooer. (fion-mySi. J'ato-sten stands on Tayl) In this ballad we have the following characters : 1. The eldest sister (jealous, and wicked for the dramatic purposes of the story). 2. The youngest sister (innocent and presumably beautiful). 3. The knight (deceitful, but not necessarily origin- ally so). 4. The miller's son. 5. The miller. 6. The body of the drowned woman (given a verse to itself and imquestionably treated with colour). 7. The harper. 8. The harp (a supernatural personality gifted with speech). The story tellg itself, but what a story and what EQUIPMENT 23 a chance for the singer ! Eight characters, a dozen dramatic incidents and twenty-seven dramatic inter- jections ! Surely there is scope for colour here ; or are sisters, knight, harper, harp, Edinbro', Stirling, and Bonny St. Johnston all to sound alike? Let us take it line by line and act it with our voice. If the colour is there it will follow the mood. THE TWA SISTERS O' BINNORIE (Traditional.) There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r, Edivbro', Edinbro', There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r, Stirling for aye. There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r. There came a knight to be their wooer. Bonny St. Johnston stands on Tay. He courted the eldest wi' glove and ring, Edinbro', Edinbro', But he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing, Stirling for aye. The eldest she was vexed sair, And sair envied her sister dear, Bonny St. Johnston stands on Tay. Narrative. A plain statemeDt of facts in ballad style. In prac- tically strict time. Narrative, with a suspicion of contempt, and rather hard qual- ity. Strict time. Soft, and rather far away, to show the secrecy. Hold it back slightly and dwell gently on it. Hard and concentrated, with a feeling of clenched teeth and tears kept back. Strict time. She's ta'en her sister by the hand, Edinbro', Edinbro', And down they went to the river strand, Stirling for aye. The youngest stood upon a stane. The eldest came and pushed her in, Bonny St, Johnston stands on Tay. Soft and concentrated. A sup- pressed " woliishness " of tone, with a lilt in the rhythm to show them walking down to the river together swinging their clasped bands. Strict time. A rising horror as the action is illustrated ; atringendo to the climax. Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, Edinbro', Edinbro', Till she came to the mouth o' yon mill-dam, Stirling for aye. And out then came the miller's son. And saw the young maid swimming in. Bonny St. Johnston stands on Tay. Breathless, fighting for life, hurried along by the stream. The same. The maid, not the miller's son, dominates the scene and colour. M INTERPRETATION IN SONG ;*0 father, father, draw your dam," Edinbro*, Edinhro', "For there's a mermaid or a swan/' Stirling for aye, The miUer quickly drew his dam And there he found a drowned woman, Bonny St Johnston stands on Tay, Breathless. Hurried. The miller's son runs. Quickly. Quickly up to the word " found." He does not see what it is till at the word "found." Then a perfectly different colour — very quiet to show that she is dead and still — then a slight pause as one sees him step back in horror and hears him whisper under his breath, " a drowned woman I" Round about her middle sma', Edinbro', Edinhro*^ There went a gowden girdle braw, Stirling for aye. All amang her yellow hair, A string of pearls was twisted rare, Bonny St. Johnston stands on Tay. The whole of this verse tmif onn in colour. With a swinging tilt to show the beauty of her figure and the golden girdle, the long hair clinging round her body and the string o' pearls twisted in and out. And by there cam* a harper fine, Edinhro% Edinbro\ Harped to nobles when they dine, Stirling for aye. Straightforward. Pure narra- tive, but with a slightly concen- trated tone, as though beginning to gather up the threads of the story and work towards the climax. He's ta'en three locks of her yellow hair, And with them strung his harp sae fair, Bonny St. Johnston stands on Tay, A sudden change to piano and a half-spoken tone. The super- natural element enters here for the first time. All possible beauty of tone in the last line to show **the harp sae fair." He went unto her father's hall, Edinbro', Edinbro', And played his harp before them all, Stirling for aye. And soon the harp sang soft and clear, I* Farewell my father and mother dear !'* Bonny St, Johnston stands on Tay, And next when the harp began to sing, Edinbro', Edinbro\ Narrative, but with the same concentrated tone and feeling of pushing-on to the d^nouemenit though without any increase of pace. Narrative, but *'soft and clear.*' Every word must tell. Appre- ciably slower. Far away, unearthly, a spirit voice. Quite ad liif. in tempo provided that the phrase is only spread out and the rhythm kept intact. The same far-away deliberate sound. Narrative, but narrative dominated by the spirit-voice. EQUIPMENT 25 'Twas "Farewell Sweetheart," said the Still more remote, seeming to string recede farther and farther away, Khrh'nn'tnr niie getting slower and more distant burling /or aye. ^^^^ ^p ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ■• Stirling for aye." Then a pause. Then — And then as plain as plain could be, There is a pointed finger in the ;■ There stands my sister, wha murdered very lines. Sung "plain as plain jjjg[»» could be" the words ring out Bonr^y St. Johnston .U^nd, on Tay. ^_ tST^^ghYfea'p^to his fett! the music stops and the harp- strings break with a snap. It will be noticed that in each case the italicised "tag" or interjection has been treated as part and parcel of the line immediately preceding it, and must, therefore, be given the same colour. These may have been once an accepted participation by the audience in the telling of the story, but nowadays they have to be sung by the soloist, and by him alone. In any case, whether those lines belong to either or both, they must help to tell the story and be coloured accordingly. Tone-colour in such dramatic characterisation must be handled with care; otherwise it may develop into caricature. . No man could convey, or even attempt to convey, the actual difference in pitch or timbre between a woman's voice and a man's, between the miller's son and the drowned woman of the harp, or the Knight and the Lorelei in " Waldesgesprach." Sex settles that for good and all. But interpretation knows no restriction of sex, and stages its individuals by differ- entiation in the handling of the character and senti- ments of each. The old English "Madam, will you walk?" is an admirable case in point. Here we have a little sparring-match between a man and woman, a miniature model for refinement of handling, sung mezza-voce 26 INTERPRETATION IN SONG almost throughout and led by gentle stages to its happy end. But the modern realist changes the scene from country lanes to city slums, and coarsens the demand for deference into outraged virtue and the want of it into vice. It may be urged that the line by line treatment of the ballad is a direct contradiction in terms of the advice on Atmosphere to sing a song as a whole, and that such a handling must involve "patchiness" and over-elaboration of detail, the very faults most de- precated earUer. Strange to say, in the accompanied strophic ballad (the difference in the treatment of the accompanied and unaccompanied traditional song will be dealt with in the chapter on the Singing of Folk- songs, p. 216) this does not apply; in fact, the exact opposite applies. The accompanied strophic ballad without detailed dramatic illustration is intolerable. The adapter has in the case of the "Twa Sisters" reaUsed that fact to the full, and in his accompaniment has admirably illustrated the text verse by verse and line by line; the singer must do likewise. Curiously enough the impression left at the end on the mind of the listener is never the illustration of any line or lines but the atmosphere of the ballad as a whole. Like a dream a whole drama has been played in a moment or two of time, and like a dream its spell holds him when he wakes. The modem composer when writing original music to the ballad form of poem bears the danger of "patchiness" in mind. His setting is consequently seldom strophic (for the modern strophic ballad for some unaccountable reason is a poor thing beside the old) and is generally so dramatically varied to suit the EQUIPMENT 27 action that the singer finds it all ready-made for him. Stanford's "La belle Dame sans Merci" is an excellent case in point. Here the whole story — a variant of the same old story of the Knight and the Lorelei — is so staged in the music that the singer has only to feel it and follow out the stage directions. But through the whole ballad, illustrated as it is line by hne, runs the indescribable atmosphere of the spell — "And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering." It is not merely a line by line ballad; it is an atmospheric drama, sung and acted in colour as a ' whole. The student will ask with justice at the end of all this, "What is Tone-colour? What is the physical colour of each and every sentiment of each and every line of your ballad, and how am I to get it?" That can never be put in black and white any more than the colours of a picture. Tone-colour is a hybrid word partly borrowed from the sister art. It is impossible to say of any character or line in the above ballad that it is red, white or blue. The utmost the singer can do is to vitalise the breath and add to it the same colour when singing the words that he would give when speaking them in accordance with their dramatic significance. How that colour is -physically to. be attained is a matter for his teacher first and himself later. It can never be put on paper. Though physical in its process and actual in its acoustic effect, it makes in reahty a moral appeal to the listener. It is, as said above, the un- conscious response of the voice to the play of feeling. 28 INTERPRETATION IN SONG and is unconsciously assimilated by the sympathy of the hearer. It is only in the big dramatic changes that its physical side becomes apparent; in the rest it is too subtle, too psychological in its appeal to gain actual recognition. It is for this reason hard to imitate and inclined to be classed among the gifts. One thing is certain about it — it means power. It holds attention and is Interpretation's best friend. STYLE There is style in the doing of everything under the sun; in the wearing of clothes or the saiUng of a boat, in the swath of a scythe or the lilt of a song. It is the backbone of every great game, and the heart of all the arts. Style in singing is popularly associated with the finished performer. The public has never given it a name — only the expert does that — it has simply felt it, chuckled over it, and taken off its hat to the old hand and the "grand manner." The public is right, though the wrong way round ; it thinks the singer has made the style, whereas, in nine cases out of ten, the style, lovingly handled, has made the singer. Were style but the result of competent treatment of material, the obeying of rules and hard work, the world of song would be a world of beauty. Were it the exclusive property of the old hand, its place in this book would be at the end; but style is essentially part of "Equip- ment," though for definite reasons it has to be classed by itself. Some singers have no sense of style or anything remotely approaching it; they may recognise it in others dimly when they see it, but they invariably attribute its effect to some physical or technical feat of the performer. 29 so INTERPRETATION IN SONG Others have style and nothing else. Nature some- times has her tongue in her cheek and turns out freaks, and foremost among them is the sterilised stylist. In rare instances he has not even intelHgence ; but generally he fails in will-power. His prototype elsewhere is well known. He is a commonplace in cricket. He has been played again and again by his puzzled captain for his school or his club, and has never come off; dropped at last, he goes home sour and disappointed, a grumbler for life. He has not remembered the Parable of the Talents — he has not learned his business. He has lived on his capital, borrowed from his friends and ended in the work- house. Style is capital to invest, and style in singing is a fortune held in trust for music; the man who neglects it is not only a bad economist but a fraudulent trustee. The singer who has not got it to begin with can often by hard work and laborious imitation achieve a fair substitute for it, though it is quite distinguishable from the real thing. All honour to him when he does. If he is made of that fine stuff, let him see to it that his models are worthy of his will-power. Tradition is his best friend, and the man and the readings who have stood the test of time will be his stand-by. True style is bom, not made. Like magnetism, it is psychological. Why should one man have it and nothing else? Why should another have all the other gifts and have that left out? Why should one child the first time he takes a bat in his hand make the old cricketer's heart leap, and another leave him cold? Why should two men sing the same song STYLE 31 note for note alike, and one move his audience to tears, and the other to yawns? Is it style or magnetism, or both ? It is an extraordinary fact that style and magnetism are generally found together. They hunt in couples, but which leads and which follows none can tell. The magnetic singer is so re- sponsive to magnetism that instinctively his faculties may meet the call, and style may be the result; this may account for the quasi-success of the "style-alone" man, spoken of above, who has not learnt his business. But, on the other hand, style will not play second fiddle to anybody; so compelling is he in his very presence that when he is there the listener, be he amateur or expert, throws up his hands and begs him with a smile to rifle his pockets. Those who have had the privilege of hearing Sir Charles Santley sing, say, Gounod's "Maid of Athens," have felt its spell. A straightforward, simple, little song, but made into a masterpiece by the hand of the magician, word by word, phrase by phrase, line by line, perfect in balance, virile in appeal, with no cheap pauses, no sentimental cadences, it runs to its inevitable end. Born style, fostered in childhood, trained Uke a Spartan and delighting like a giant in its strength, takes song, singer and hearer in its arms, and tumbles them out together head over heels, hatless, coatless and rejoicing. No wonder the Maid of Athens was in no hurry to give the poet back his heart ! Every song has a style of its own suited to it; but this chapter treats of Style in its general sense comprising them all. How to define it is the difficulty. It is the treatment of the subject "in large," both in conception, phrasing and colour; the turning out 32 INTERPRETATION IN SONG of a work of art in which the component parts fit in ia proper proportion in the right places, and are forgotten in detail ; where no single phrase undesignedly attracts notice to the detriment of its neighbours; where commonness or smallness are as conspicuous by their absence as cheapness of effect; with a quasi- aristocratic air over all, leaving the listener with the feeling that the reading was as inevitable as it was true. This is naturally a counsel of perfection, something to be aimed at; but style is a powerful stimulant. In two things the master of style will never fail — he will treat his song as a whole, and rhythm will be in his very system. Rhythm is the heart of music, and lilt the lungs of style. If those two are sound he is ready for anything, from the 120 hurdles to a Marathon race. Style like Magnetism is surrounded by enemies. Some of these will be discussed in Part 11. , but the three most deadly may be treated here. § Its first great foe is cheap effect. Cheap effect is a poisonous germ carried in the blood, with which the friendly phagocyte of taste is ever at war; if ever it gets the upper hand, good-bye to the body politic ! So opposed is cheap effect to style, that the man who knows the one may be said to be ignorant of the other. There are some singers whose eyes are always on the audience, not as ambassadors of magnetism, but as conscious seekers for effect. Such singers can never have style or even achieve the singing of a song as a whole. Their attention is so concentrated on detail and its handling for cheap effect, that the song in .large is lost, and with it Atmosphere, Mood and Style. STYLE 83 The next is over-elaboration of detail. This comes far oftener from over-familiarity than from deliberate intention (vide p. 18 above). The mind and ear become so accustomed to the work that, if the performance is not to grow purely mechanical, new readings must be given to the detail; the individual phrases are over- emphasised or distorted, the natural proportions are lost, the work loses its balance and the sense of style disappears. The performer does it to satisfy himself not his audience, but its effect is the same — you cannot see the wood for the trees. It is a commonplace in all branches of executive music, conducting, pianoforte- playing or singing. The only remedy for imconscious over-elaboration is rest. The work should be given a holiday. Conscious, though involuntary, over-elabora- tion is generally the fault of the beginner, whose mind has been so obsessed with technique that it has not had time to grasp the song in large. If the beginner is made of the right stuff, it soon disappears. In some cases it is always present, but then style is always absent. Deliberate over-elaboration stands on a different footing. It is at daggers drawn with style, and with full knowledge jumbles up values and destroys per- spective. It is the mother of mannerism and the stock-in-trade of burlesque. The following quotation from a recent illuminating article in the Times on "Mannerisms" puts it in a nutshell : ' "It is when we look at the presentation alone that we find that, as the perfection of workmanship decreases, so does the obtrusion of mannerisms > By kind penniaaion of the writer of the article and the Editor of the Times. s 34 INTERPRETATION IN SONG increase; for perfect workmanship is workmanship become instinctive, and the insertion of mannerisms is the result of conscious manipulation. With the giant, style includes incidental mannerisms; with the pygmies, the mannerisms constitute the style. There are, of course, little turns that one expects to find, even with the giants. But our point is that, with the really great, idiosyncrasies have subconsciously become a vital characteristic of style, and we merely feel that the personality of the creator presupposes certain lines of action. The greater the man, the more diflEicult it becomes to place your finger on a square inch of his music and say, 'he was always working off this little trick' ; and it becomes diflBcult almost to the point of impossibiUty to say, 'he reverted consciously to this trick because his inspiration ran dry.' Consequently the great men are extraordinarily difficult to parody; for the parody either falls flat as mere reproduction, or it shows its hopelessness by becoming, under the inspiration of its model, something uncommonly like music. "But with the smaller men, those to whom technique has never become second nature, but whose charac- teristic mannerisms are self-consciously dragged in to conjure up the idea of personahty — with these even an unskilful parodist may acquire an easy reputation. They are exasperating for so many reasons; for they are in the first place flaws, and they are also sign- posts which the unwary recognise with joy and glad- ness, and they further create the suspicion that the composer has said in his laziness, 'This is sufficiently Uke me to do for that bar,' without considering whether that bar had any justifiable place in the STYLE 35 general scheme. But this last reason, amounting as it does to a charge of artistic dishonesty, opens up the whole question of inspiration, or continuity of thought, as opposed to manufacture, or conscious construction." This, of course, was written of the composer, but mutatis mutandis every word of it appUes to the singer and his methods. He does not need to be a giant or a great man; merely an individualist and master of his will. Whether the cause be artistic dishonesty or playing to the gallery or mere narrow- ness of vision, the effect is the same on Style. The third and the greatest enemy not only to Style but to Magnetism and every branch of Interpretation is Self-consciousness, unfortunately a commonplace of the English singer. Englishmen are noted for their reserve, but reserve in pubUc performance is two-sided. It may either, as the enemy of exaggeration, be the friend of style or in its self-conscious form go hand in hand with monotony. Metaphorically speaking, the average English singer sings in the high collar of caricature. Armoured in reserve to his ears he cannot look up for fear of hurting the back of his neck, and cannot look down for fear of seriously damaging his chin. With a magnificent spirit of compromise he looks straight ahead along the level road of mediocrity, breathing convention through either nostril. He can- not be altogether blamed. Angels in triplets and organ obbligatos do not demand a wide range of vision ; familiarity accepts the old friends blindfold, and though the top A on "Heav'n" may move the singer to apoplexy and the audience to hysteria, it leaves the collar intact. for a fire to cremate the starched 36 INTERPRETATION IN SONG collar, and a rude north wind to scatter the cheap conventions ! The self-conscious singer cannot forget his Technique; he cannot forget his details — his mind cannot travel far enough away. He cannot forget himself ; he cannot, therefore, give and receive Magnetism. He cannot visualise; he cannot let his imagination run; he cannot, therefore, feel AimospAere; he cannot find the Mood. His voice cannot unconsciously respond to the play of feeling ; he cannot, therefore, paint in Tone-colour. He cannot think of his song in large; he cannot, therefore, have Style. The singer has only two things to think of, his song and his audience, and of these the song comes first, and a long way behind — a very long way — comes the audience. That precedence is due not only to the song but to the audience as well, and well the audience knows it. The better the work of art, the better the value given, and the greater the respect paid to the buyer. The singers who assign precedence to song and audience respectively are wide as the poles apart. The cheap appeal to the audience is that most generally given at the expense of the art if not of the song. It is the friend of self-consciousness and the deadly enemy of style. Style and self-consciousness are like Jekyll and Hyde. When the one steps in, the other shuffles out ashamed. PART II RULES There are certain rules which apply to every song in existence. They must have been so assimilated into the singer's very being as to be forgotten in detail and to become imconscious in their application. Their observ- ance is not only due to the song as music, but is essential to successful performance, for they are in- timately associated with the knowledge that singer and audience sing, in reahty, together in sympathy. There are three main rules — few but comprehensive — and of these the first is musically far the most im- portant, for it is the mainspring of all singing, from a phrase to a song-cycle. MAIN RULE I NEVER STOP THE MARCH OF A SONG "Music do I hear? Ha I ha ! keep time : — How sour sweet music is, When time is broke, and no proportion kept I" King Richard II. Every song marches; it moves in companies of unit notes from point to point and marches in step to its appointed destination. It can march slower or quicker 87 38 INTEKPRETATION IN SONG or halt at command, but no unit may stop on his own account. The shoulder-swing of the marching regiment is the lilt of the song. There are various reasons for, and ways of, stopping the march of the song: over-elaboration of detail; pauses for cheap effect ; even deficiency in rhythmical sense, though the man without rhythm does not get very far in public. But in nine cases out of ten the reason is physical — want of breath. The average singer, when he finds himself at the end of his breath, adds an extra silent beat to the bar — in some glaring instances more than one — in order to refill his limgs with the least possible physical discomfort to himself. When this is done in every other bar, time-signatures become a farce, and rhjiihm, the beginning of all things, relapses into chaos. The man who has no sense of rhythm has no right to inflict himself upon the public. The man who has it and lets it go because he cannot hold it, has not learnt his technique ; he must go back to the beginning and learn the first essential of his business — how to breathe. The man who has it and deliberately destroys it, is guilty of murder in the first degree. It is the most heartless, sacrilegious, slipshod crime in music ; it is like strangling a child, for from rhythm music grows to manhood. This does not mean that music to be rhythmic must be foursquare. Heaven forbid ! The child must have playtime. Any phrase or set of phrases may be spread out or narrowed in, held back or hurried on, and the rhythm will be all the better for the change when it is brought back. The stride may lengthen or shorten, but the marcher must never get out of step. MAIN RULE I 39 The motor-driver knows the sensation of the recurrent missfire, the little kick which holds back the run of the car for a fraction of a second. That little kick gets on his nerves in time. The missfire in the song — due to some Uttle defect in the running of the engine — gets on the nerves of the audience; do not singer and audience sing or cease to sing together? As long as his singing is rhythmically continuous they stay with him on the level of his song. Let him stop that song to take breath, and the magnetic thread by which he holds them snaps and down they fall; that means starting again, and it must be a matter of many bars before even the most magnetic performer can wind them back to his level. Let him repeat this once or twice, and by the end of his song they will have been left hopelessly behind, having given up the struggle as a bad job. It is not a matter of aesthetic interpre- tation ; it is a primary physical response to the demand — positive though unexpressed — of the audience for fair play. If the singer halts, they halt; if the song flags, so does their interest; if the leader stops his march to rub his knee, the man immediately behind him jostles into him and, like the motorist, probably swears. This first rule is a law of the Medes and Persians. To keep it is the hardest thing, physically, in singing. It involves Spartan training, bodily strain and great courage, for it is for years one long struggle between mind and body. Nature cries aloud for rest, for breathing-time; but it should be a point of honour never to give in. If the singer realised the power of rhythm to sway his hearers, he would never leave it till he was its master. The rhythmic drumming of feet of the popular audience may sound cheap, but it 40 INTERPRETATION IN SONG] is music to the singer's ears; it is a tribute to his rhythmic sense; it means that the hit of his song has found his audience out. The people hungers for rhythm, but in this coimtry its caterers either leave it to starve or adulterate its cheap food. There are rhythmical and unrhythmical countries — those who have heard a waltz played in Vienna and London respectively, will appreciate the difference — nations in whose blood rhythm is bom, and others where it has no home, where, when it comes as a visitor, it is welcomed with delighted surprise. It is only within the last few years that rhythm has been recognised and taught in our elementary schools as the first essential of musical training; the effect is being widely felt already, but there is still a long way to go. The average Englishman, and even the average trained English musician, associates rhythm with primary and secondary accents alone, and lets the rest take care, more or less, of themselves (to the average singer f is the only compelling rhythmical time). If he reli- giously accentuates the first and third beat of the four- beat bar, he feels he has done his duty. If he had ever heard an Irish piper and fiddler play a dance-tune, or seen and heard a troupe of Spanish dancers, he would suddenly discover that there is an accent on every beat. Let him get some violinist blessed with a strong sense of rhythm to play him the following well- known Irish tunes : 'THE FLANNEL JACKET '! Vivace. (Petrie Collection.) A . A MAIN RULE I 41 i U A A A - A A A . A . . Bt^E ^ ^ A '^ A A fc^f:ff^ A A A » _ « ^^ A A ^^^^^ tfcr^ t^^ "WHO'LL COME FIGHT IN THE SNOW?«' Con^irito, (From Db. AiiFKBD Moffat's Collectiok.) ^ ^ :t a A A A #g^ ^ ^^ t or the "Zapateado" (Sarasate), with an accent on every beat, and he will find, not only that the primary and secondary accents are there as before, but that some extraordinary thing has happened to the tune and to him; that the rhythm has suddenly ceased to be vertical and has become horizontal, that the pendulum no longer swings up and down in the old 42 INTERPRETATION IN SONG gentlemanly way; that some great undiscovered ele- mental force has caught him in its mighty grip and is whirling him along in a straight line to the inevit- able end. True rhythm is inexorable; true rhythm is com- pelling; true rhythm is ever on the move and ever in a straight line. Nothing can stand before it; every- thing must clear out of its way. Its motto is "Push on !" No singer could, or should, sing such instrumental accents as these, but the feeling of their rhythm should be in his blood, and "Push on !" should be written in letters of fire in his brain, for it is the secret of the singing of every song, big or little, fast or slow; be it as harassed as the Erlking, or as lazy as Feldeinsamkeit, it pushes on in a straight line to its goal, inevitably. It is this principle of the straight line which makes fine phrasing, and the sense of inevitableness which gives the impression of style. To the singer — who is, as a rule, the least musical of musicians — accents are associated with down beats. He knows, of course, . that the third or secondary beat of a four-beat bar is horizontal in conducting, but none the less in his mind's eye all accents are descending hammers vertical in direction. If this were so a song would never move ; it would be a series of accented and luiaccented notes jogging up and down. But rhythm is like a piston; it may appar- ently work up and down in direction, but it drives the structure forward. Melody is horizontal, and melody is ever on the move and on the move forward; and melody is the singer's stock-in-trade; if the melody wants to move, he must move with it or for ever hold his peace. MAIN RULE I 43 A song must "push on" note by note, word by word, phrase by phrase, to its inevitable end. Phrasing. The musical phrase is like a wave. It may move in a continuous crescendo, gathering force as it goes, and dash itself against the rocks; it may recede diminuendo and disappear; it may join forces with its neighbour for the common good, or break away for its own ends ; or it may follow its leader in pure cantilena ripples to the shore. Occasionally it lands in some quiet pool and seems to die — such dead levels in song are used for special purposes of colour-illustration and contrast. The natural phrase has motion inherent in it, and whether its wave be salt or fresh, self- sufficing or subdivided, rising or receding, breaker, roller, or ripple, it moves in undulations irresistibly forward. The singer's technical mastery of phrasing has been taken for granted for the purposes of this book; its early stages have been taught him by his master and the latter he is supposed to have learned for himself. There are, however, certain facts about phrasing in general which are of supreme importance. As the strength of a chain is its weakest Unk, so the strength of a phrase is its weakest note (or absence of note) and the strength of a song is its weakest phrase. If the singer is physically in bad voice he will probably sing a bad note here and there in the course of a song; each bad note thus destroys the beauty and balance of the phrase to which it belongs; each phrase thus marred has in turn marred 44 INTERPRETATION IN SONG the song as a whole. This is a thing the singer cannot help, as it is probably out of his control. What lifetimes of misery has not the public singer lived through — perhaps producing a new work at some great musical festival — when his voice has played him false, and when in the fight with technique interpretation has been knocked over the ropes ! Let him, on the other hand, be in splendid voice and rejoicing in his strength; the temptation must occasionally be irresistible to make effects — with his voice, but at the expense of the phrase and con- sequently of the song. The mere joy of soimd is too much for him, and for the sake of it he stops the march. Or again, the conscious pause — that most dangerous of all the weapons in his armoury — may tempt him. It is generally better left alone. Its dangers will be pointed out later. The phrase is surrounded by enemies; it does not take a great amount of imagination to recognise our old friends, cheap effect, over-elaboration and self- consciousness, as directing the operations. The singer would do well to bear this in mind. In nine cases out of ten, where the music is good, the phrase in itself is far stronger than anything he can read into it. (In folk-songs in 99 cases out of 100.) Phrases and phrasing depend upon structure and balance. They rim horizontally along a straight line in a succession of curves {more Hibernico) and they are always moving. Phrase is balanced by phrase, like the wings of a bird. If the singer brings in false values or pauses, he makes the movement vertical or stops the march of the song; he puts a broken bone in one wing and up'sets the balance of the flight. MAIN RULE I 45 Alongside the great giants, Rhythm and Motion, human "effects" are pygmies. Thus in the "Erlking" as soon as the ErLking begins to speak there is an undeniable temptation to slacken the time. A new character is being acted and a new tone-colour used ; it is sung piano and with a certain grim oiliness directly opposed to the terror and furious heart-beating of what has gone before. The singer's first impulse is to make the change com- plete even to the matter of tempo, but, as said above (p. 20), through the whole song run haste and fear. The Erlking does not need to stop the horse to whisper in the child's ear; the singer does not need to stop the march of the song. This phrase or that may be slightly broadened (and brought back) — the horse may lengthen its stride — but song and horse push on at a gallop, in haste and fear, to the inevitable end — home. The bare idea of a singer's rubato ad lib. in the "Erlking" would make Schubert turn in his grave. All the great "moving" songs are full of these pitfalls ; Brahms's "Meine Liebe ist griin," Schubert's "Unge- duld," Schumann's "Widmung," and hosts of others, in which the rush of the song is its essential strength, are ruined by attempts to read "vocal effect" improve- ments into the rhythm. Take, again, Brahms's "Vergebliches Standchen." Here the composer's general directions are "Lebhaft und gut gelaunt," i.e. "Lively and good-humouredly." There is not one rit. or accel., or any direction as to change of pace, through- out the entire song, until just before the last verse, where it is marked "Lebhafter," i.e. "more lively." Yet the contralto has seldom been found who could 46 INTERPRETATION IN SONG resist the temptation, in her anxiety to stage the characters, of rolling the phrases round her tongue, juggling Avith the rhythm, reading in long notes and pauses, and stopping the forward movement of the song. As though anything she could drag into it from outside could approach the adorable fascina- tion of the little rhythmic tune and its bubbling accompaniment ! There is another point in this queistion of balance which is continually arising. Many phrases in the voice-part are balanced by repetitions or answers in the accompaniment. This form of musical dialogue is one of the most delightful things in song. If the singer reads in false effects, the accompanist in his answer must either do the same or spoil the balance. It is a choice of two evils; for though by imitating the singer he may preserve the temporary balance of the phrase, the overloaded phrase will in its turn upset the balance of the song. Schubert's "Morgengruss" ("Die schone Miillerin," No. 8) is a case in point. In the following passage the accompaniment repeats the singer's phrase : So =F=i= =t«=4 ■U \ f i m ioh wie - der ge - hen, uup-fn MAIN RULE I 47 $ ^ ^==i=f^ -fM*- muss ich wie-der ge hen, wie-der ge hen. J=iZ ^5 1 m^^ s Suppose that the singer for purposes of vocal effect puts a. fermata, or tenuto, on the word "muss"; there are then two alternatives. Either the accompanist can take no notice and play his repetition of the phrase as it is written, in which case the two phrases do not balance ; or he can imitate the singer by also putting a fermata on the E, in which case the singer will have to abnormally lengthen the word "gehen" in order to give him time. (If the singer forgets to do it, as is probable, the accompanist will have to make a wild scramble to catch him up.) He will probably choose the first; but either of the two is sufficient to reduce the rhythm to chaos. There are certain types of accompaniment which are positive danger-traps for casual rvbaio. They catch and hold the imrhythmic singer like bird-Hme, and it is a bedraggled object that struggles out at the end. Arpeggios, from their natural forward movement, cry out against being stopped. They shout "Come on !" in every note. There is no broader effect than the arpeggio broadened coUa voce, but. it must be 48 INTERPRETATION IN SONG broadened as a whole, not played one half a tempo and the other anyhow, and it should be rehearsed. The look in the eye of the accompanist, cut off in the middle of his arpeggio stride for a high note effect, is more expressive than a volume of sermons. Take the handling of Mendelssohn's " Auf Fliigeln des Gesanges" or Schumann's "Der Nussbaum." In the first of these the composer has not marked a single rallentando; the "wings" of song do not require it. The charm of the song lies in the pure legato singing in a continuous dreamy straight line, and does not require any outside effect. In the Schumann song the composer has marked his rallentandos where he wants them; any gratuitous interpolation of 'effects not only is superfluous, but sounds laboured, and stops the song. Accompaniments with a definite swinging lilt of their own are a danger, more from their own virtues than the singer's vices. In the following bars from Arthur Somervell's "Birds in the High Hall-Garden" ("Maud"), the impulse to call "Maud" on a series of lengthened note- values is strong; but the lilt of the accompaniment will not permit of it. There are many opportunities in the instrumental interludes of spreading out and bringing back the rhythm, but in the voice-part the composer has not marked a single change of tempo. The breeze playing round the cawing rooks gently swings the tree-tops ; it does not blow in gusts. The singer can convey the sense of distance and reminiscence by tone-colour. Here, as elsewhere, his imagination will initiate and his voice obey; it will respond unconsciously to the play of feehng. MAIN RULE I 49 i ^ ^ ory - ing and call - ing. ^ rffl -- ^ i ^ p¥^ «=3=t E^ ^ ^i5 f^P fe^: The same applies to accompaniments with a definite rhythmic meaning. In Schubert's "Das Wandem" the swishing of the waterwheel is the secret of the song; and it is in the accompaniment. The millwheel turns on and on at the same pace; a fermata, or a rallentando, or even a rubato any- where in the song would be an outrage. Take the following bars from Stanford's "Johneen" ("An Irish Idyll") : so INTERPRETATION IN SONG 1^ He'U =fs: f-A^^-fr; =fe^ ■•— — s- not -^ 4 — ituiz iat i fes sail a boat yet, if he A on-ly has his luck. 4- 3^ fcr ^^ ^t ^^? -^ m ^ ^^kS E.^ -^ 1 "1 - z3=ig=9 |-^' 1^ li J— ^^ ^ :Sf=fcJ=f5=|!sz -^ ^ S d Young Johneen, For he takes to the wa-ther like W^^^^^ t^ 1 — *!^ m^^ji^^ ^=^ -H— ^1— p- Ul -4 .^ hP^ ■ b ^ ^ ^ J- gj==3^ a-nj lit- tie duck. fcP ^- S ^b, r gZEi^ Boy John-een. =^^=^ -^ •- MAIN RULE I 51 Here the rhythmic figure in the accompaniment repre- sents the rowing of a boat. A pause on the D flat on "duck" would make Johneen catch a crab. When the composer wants a rallentando he gives it, a few bars later, on the words "but the ship she must wait a wee while yet I hope." Here there is not the smallest objection to a slight pause on the word "wait," for not only does the word justify it as illustration, but the accompaniment shows that the boat is slowing up to the bank. In the same composer's " Drake's Drum " the rhythmic figure is so obvious that the thought of juggling with it seems ridiculous. The old sea-captain is walking up and down his deck in Plymouth harbour and thinking of Drake. There is nothing in song or accompaniment to stop his walk, yet the amateur's tendency when he comes to the phrase, "Captain, art thou sleeping down below?" is invariably to sing the phrase twice as slow, •and to pause on the Cap of "Captain" (and probably again on down), as though he stopped in his stride and put his ear to the deck, or tried to call up Drake on the telephone. The old sailor never stops his stride (D minor) ; but as he thinks of Drake and all he did and all he stands for, he lengthens it (larga- mente) ; his hands come out of his pockets, his head goes up and his eye lights with the joy of battle (D major). In all such songs the accompaniment dominates the situation; the same applies to atmospheric songs, where the accompaniment has the illustration and the voice merely gives the mood. In all of these the singer's only effects are effects of colour; in matters of tempo he is subordinate. He must take his place in the scheme and march with it, even 52 INTERPRETATION IN SONG though the ascending phrase and the high note tempt him to look at the view when he gets to the top. For some unaccountable reason syncopated accom- paniments, which from their very rhythmic impatience cry out "Push on!" seem to invite dragging of the tempo. The singer's attention appears to wander from his own rhythm and to be absorbed in waiting for the other, and the tendency is to get slower and slower. Brahms's "Sapphische Ode" is a veritable contralto-trap. Here is an average contralto version of a bar or two : pi Ziemlich langscvm. ^- Ro - sen braoh loh l^^3Zp: -t- -t- - m » » »/= -» w S »- T— i — r-r P molto rail. MB ^ •cr rall. = long pause for breath. MAIN RULE I 53 $ rail, molto. . 3=^3^ bU - Bser hauch-ten Duffc sie, als je m^ ^m^^ p^ ^ TJT^" sy m^ 1^ 0^ * %t 5-" Ta ge. l i^~ ^ '^ ?f^ 0= long pause for breath. Strange to say, with all its impatience, there is nothing more peaceful than the gentle syncopated accompaniment with its large possibilities of expressive colla-voce work. (Vaughan Williams's " Silent Noon " is a perfect example.) It is perhaps this very elasticity which betrays the contralto. There is one other type of accompaniment which from its primitive simplicity and obvious adaptability to anything, seems to iavite every fault in song. 54 INTERPRETATION IN SONG The old series of repeated chords, in the following style : forms the main accompaniment of three-quarters of all British so-called "ballads." It is the vade-mecum of the popular composer, and the old, old friend of the sloppy sentimentalist. No doorstep on a winter's night is complete without it. It has discovered more orphans than the combined force of the MetropoUtan Police; it has saved more children's lives than the whole of the Country Holiday Fund. In its extended triplet form MAIN RULE I 55 -•0» ««-«'< no-ri ■|* - J-J - J-«l- ^ ft ^^ - * s ^ Far and high the cranes give cry and spread their wings, ifcze i^ "m^ »— p- =s=^ zi: An - gry is my dar-Iing, for she no more sings. i =!*-^ -Si»- EE Do notaoorn my love, my darling, lift thy head; ^^^^^^^S * Thinelamandthinelshall be when I'm in the deep grave laid, and make up his mind to sing each of the four phrases in one breath ; each must be sung legato and with the crescendo and diminuendo carried in the rise and fall of the music. He will probably begin by taking a huge breath and holding on to it like grim death; three- quarters of the way through it will come out with a rush and blow the phrase to pieces. He will next manage it somehow at a tempo rather quicker than that marked, and without any great musical expression ; and in the course of a day or two that "somehow" will have become "comfortably" and the tempo will have broadened out. From then on the way is smooth — "comfortably" turns to "easily" and "easily" to MAIN RULE I 67 "naturally" — and before he knows where he is, he is revelling in the beauty of the melody and his own power to sing it in large. Such a royal progress could never have been physical; no man could double his lung capacity in a week. It was "dogged did it." Let him then move on to some big passage where not only is the singing of the phrase "in one" demanded by the music, but where actual illustration or appro- priate colour within the bounds of the phrase is demanded by the sense of the words. The following passage from Stanford's "Fairy Lough" (An Irish Idyll) will do admirably : Andante mollo trcmquillo. S =1= i: 3E to- sea - gulls all afc=1= E^ ^^ l^ ^- :^2P= TltZtZ 5i= g e - ther Float EEE ^fi»- ^1 roun' the one green is - land :itr 68 INTERPRETATION IN SONG i ^1^^ =(5zt --^ On the fair - y lough a ■ ^^^M w^^^- .t^i ~M I etc. ^^i^ rnfm ii ?= Here the singer must visualise the picture, and feel the eerie atmosphere of the little black lake which "lies so high among the heather." The wind never hlmBs up there — the fairies do not like it ; so the little waves move very slow, and in gentle little swells, and on them float the sea-gulls — asleep. The sea-gulls look as though they belonged there, as though they had once sailed in there from the sea years ago, and had settled on its bosom and stayed there ever since. Round and round the little green island they float and float, and as the little breeze dies down the little waves get slower and slower, and the sea-gulls fall faster and faster asleep. The two words "float" and "asleep" give us the atmosphere of the phrase. The little wave heaves gently up and down, and on it must float the voice getting slower and slower as it dies down with the breath of the breeze. The singer's first impulse is to take breath after "together" so as to give himself plenty of reserve to finish the phrase in large ; but if he breathes there, the sea-gulls will not be "all together" any more — some of them will have woken up and moved away. The singer with his voice MAIN RULE I 69 must tell you that they float round and round the little island all together all the time. To do this, not only must he sing the whole passage "in one," but — to give the feeling of peace — he must spread out the phrase from the word "float" and get gradually slower and slower down to the word "lough," and then — to show the utter absence of hurry and the human element — he should make a sUght pause (almost imperceptible and without breathing) before "asleep." This is of course no child's play, for merely to sing the notes -p-p and slow them down is not enough ; the passage has got to have the natural crescendo and diminuendo of the rise and fall of the musical phrase on "round the one green island," and the subsequent accent on the word "fairy," and yet must sound sleepy and very far away "so high among the heather." He will feel at first inclined to give it up ; he will think that the size of the effect is too small for the size of the effort; then he will feel ashamed, and, remembering "Far and high the cranes give cry," he will set his teeth and brace himself to it; then he will feel that gradually the necessity for that stiff jaw is fading away, that mind is getting the better of matter, that instead of hurrying over the hateful passage he is actually re- luctant to leave it for its very beauty and the joy of painting it with his voice. As he sings, suddenly it comes to him Uke a flash that hel canto has lost its terrors ; that the old herculean tasks are child's play ; that his wings have grown and he is ready to fly, and somewhere down in the depths of his inner conscious- ness, as in a glass darkly, he will see strugghng up a little thing called "style." Where has it been till 70 INTERPRETATION IN SONG now ? Was it too, like the sea-gulls, asleep ? Or was it there all the time, but, like Peter Pan, has it never grown up ? Or is it not there at all but only reflected in the glass? One thing is certain: if it was born with him and grew up with him inch for inch of his stature, he would have felt all this without the telling. Somehow all seems changed. He stands on the threshold of a new world. He looks for his old enemies "Keep off the grass!" and "Trespassers will be prosecuted ! " and lo ! they have vanished. Like the prince of fairy-tale he has found the key, the gates have swung back, and he has walked into the enchanted garden : ."He breathes the breath of morning pure and sweet And his eyes love the high eternal snows." He has grown suddenly from boy to man. His values have changed ; he has forgotten the singing in the joy of song, and song has opened wide to him her golden gates. The power to phrase in large exalts phrasing to a higher plane. The knowledge of its possession enables the singer to think in large, and therein automatically phrasing becomes interpretation — the means becomes the end. The thinker in large — the master of style — is inde- pendent of rules. Rules have been so absorbed into his inmost being that the very thought of doing hurt to a song by their transgression offends his sense of fair play. His sense of touch keeps his balance true, and his sense of values regulates his proportions. But doubling the size of the phrase has worked some MAIN RULE I 71 miracle with the detail. In the small phrase (and the small song) detail was everything ; attention was con- centrated on it for want of something bigger; singer and audience took each little sentence in turn, put on their spectacles, and hum-ed and ha-ed over the orthog- raphy. When the whole was finished they foimd that, in their anxiety to spell the words right, they had forgotten all about the story. Big phrasing and balance have changed all this. Voice effects and petty illustrations shrink into their shells at the sight of the big song. The succession of fortes and pianos and accelerandos and rallentandos which seemed to paint the scene so brilliantly just now, have dwindled somehow to a thing of shreds and patches. You can tell a master of style by his cadences alone. There is no greater test of style than the finish of a song. All singers have a tendency to sentimentalise their cadences, to spin out the closing scene in an orgy of rallentando. Not one song in a hundred, either in text or in music, justifies, far less demands, such dis- proportionate handling; yet "twice as slow" is a mild estimate of the latter-end degeneration of the British ballad. Like the long duck-roll to the indifferent sailor, its elongated postponement precipitates the inevitable nausea. It is the over-swing of the pen- dulum, the loss of balance, which does it. The master of style, blessed with the overmastering sense of that balance (prepared instinctively ,to tip up the scales if he transgress), has fairly and squarely earned the right to a free hand in interpretation. Saturated with rhythm as he is, he may (1) Spread out, or narrow in, any phrase, or any part of any phrase, anywhere, to any extent, at any time 72 INTERPRETATION IN SONG he likes. He is the sole judge. He knows that thereby he will not only heighten the emotional expression, but actually enhance the charm of the rhythm. Take, for example, the following passage from "Feldeinsamkeit" : XX i ^^^^^^^^^ und sen-de lan-ge mei-nenBlicknacho-ben, nacho - ben. If the whole phrase be sung in one up to X (the end of the first "nach oben"), then the subsequent "nach oben" can be, and should be, lengthened out with a distinct ritardando and diminuendo in order to give the feeling of laziness and absence of worry. Both words and music demand such a broadening or "lazening" of the phrase; the voice fades off into a sleepy whisper, while the accompanist plays as though his fingers could not keep their eyes open any longer ! The original rhythm, after its rest, starts then afresh with an even greater charm than it had before. Let, how- ever, a pause be made at XX (as is practically invariable) for breathing purposes. The familiar gulp destroys the illusion. The sleepy eye fights up with a horror of rain, or at the thought that a pipe is not much good when the matches have been left behind. After such a perceptible breaking of the sense of the phrase, the subsequent ritardando wiU mean not lazi- ness but boredom, and will convey that impression to the audience. Again, in "Die Mainacht," also by Brahms, if the main sentences such as MAIN RULE I 73 X , . fe It c/ i Wann der sil - ber-ne Mond durch die Ge-straii-clie blinkt, X ^^ J ^ aJ— •— * l i t *— ij=£^ ^ fair, Take, oh take me. take, oh takemetoyoui i &^ r=°= care, take me Pf^^^ m=^=^^^M = eto. m f cr knows not why, and thanks the singer for a master- piece. That style of singer has no wandering eye or collapsible lungs. Her eyes are on the ultimate goal and her lungs are keen to push on thither. There is no loitering by the way for her. She is ever ready for that rhythmic beat — almost to the extent of 98 INTERPRETATION IN SONG anticipating it — and to let it go by would hurt her to the quick. The conductor can be a great help if he will. He generally is, supposing he has not abandoned the effort in despair. If the singer plays her part, he may generally be trusted to play his. Of all slovenly faults, "waiting for the beat" is the most bedraggled. Let us now apply this Rule II. to the higher type of aesthetic work and see how it affects it. "Der Leiermann," by Schubert, is, as said eariier, an essentially atmospheric song and correspondingly in- teresting as a study. The voice here is subjective. There are two main points of vision in the song — the hurdy-gurdy man and his hurdy-gurdy. The piano part is the hurdy-gurdy; but the singer is not the hurdy-gurdy man. If he is anyone, he is the man who watches the hurdy-gurdy man from afar. Now the hurdy-gurdy is objectively illustrated in the actual music ; the man is not — he is simply spoken of. Hence, if the mentality of the singer is to absorb either one or the other, the hurdy-gurdy has the greater claim — and the hurdy-gurdy is in the accom- paniment. Therefore the singer cannot ignore the accompaniment and concentrate his mind upon the quasi-narrative vocal part without committing a grave injustice. As a matter of fact the use of the voice throughout is purely atmospheric, and in its actual words merely represents the musings of the onlooker. The singer colours those words to represent the im- pression made by the scene on the onlooker's mind. But the speaker (the onlooker) did not receive his first impression from the sight of the old man. He has ears as well as eyes. Long before — eight bars before — he saw him, he heard his hurdy-gurdy. The MAIN RULE II 99 latter gave him his first impression; its drone fasci- nated him; its wheezy old lilt made him search, to try and mark it down. He has eight bars in which to find it. Anywhere within those eight bars — let us say at the sixth — he sees the old man. You can actually feel him absorb the atmosphere of the scene, the dreary hopeless picture of the old automaton-man turning the handle of his old automaton-machine, grinding out the same monotonous old tune, ever at the same pace, the same to-day as yesterday, and to-morrow and every day until both are worn out and dead. To the singer who is a tone-colourist and who has the sense of atmosphere, the hurdy-gurdy has the prior claim. To him as a singer those first eight bars come first, and he will sing them first, as part of his picture, not physically, of course, but mentally. If he does not, then assuredly the song will be as dreary as its subject, though not precisely in the form he meant it. Superficially the singer has nothing to do with the singing of the song until he begins to sing; but the man he then begins to sing of has been turning the handle for eight bars already to the consciousness of the narrator. If he does not realise the meaning of the very first bar and its drone, he can never give to others that sense of dreary monotony epitomised and canonised by poet and composer. The above shows the importance of mentally realising the objective or directly illustrative instrumental sub- ject. The same holds good when the parts are reversed. There are songs in which the voice gives the illustration and the accompaniment the atmosphere. Here the singer, if he is to illustrate truly, must have mentally absorbed the instrumental atmosphere from the be- 100 INTERPRETATION IN SONG ginning in order to start in the right mood. Such an example is Charles Wood's "Ethiopia saluting the Colours" referred to earlier (p. 15). It is not until the second verse that the hearer is actually informed that the speaker is a soldier and his regiment on the march: but the first bar has told it to him and the interpreter by implication. To make himself into that soldier the singer must have sung those opening bars in step with his regiment, and throughout the song — half a ballad, half a contempla- tion as it is — the tramp of marching feet is ever in his ears. But the interest and incident of the song are focussed on the figure of the old woman; the accom- paniment is subjective. The song is the exact opposite of the "Leiermann" ; but in both cases, from the first note to the last the song is sung and played by singer and accompanist together as a whole. In Cornehus's "Ein Ton" would any singer contend that the musical interest is concentrated on his own five phrases simg on one note? Could he of himself assimilate and express the five colours of those five phrases without the stimulus of that simple and wonderful accompaniment? Is he prepared, when he has sung his last note, to call in his thoughts and let the instrumental end take care of itself? Or will he sing every note of that final symphony, and dwell on it and let it go reluctantly at last? If he will, he may be trusted — even with the "Dichterliebe." To the superficial singer Rule II. will not appeal. There is nothing to show for it, nothing tangible as reward for his trouble. Its effect is far below the surface, far too deep to handle consciously. Yet it is there. Let him wait until his audience is at rest MAIN RULE II 101 and their attention concentrated on what he is going to tell them, and let him begin then and not till then. If he will but sing those opening instrumental bars to himself, that attention will never leave him, for he has also sung them to his audience. Let him, on the other hand, experiment. Let him begin his "Leier- mann" or his "Ethiopia" at random, with audience and himself unprepared, and watch the result. He will notice that when he sings his first note the wandering eyes which have been criticising the cut of his coat, or silently sympathising with his figure, will drop of a sudden to the book of words to see what it is all about ; the skip from London to Bavaria or Georgia will be too big a hiatus to tackle in the time, and the song will be sung and over, dead and buried, before the singer and his audience have ever joined hands. The observance of the rule has its immediate effect in application ; its effect on the singer is far deeper, for it is not only a pledge to himself of sincerity — but it drives out self -consciousness with a pitchfork. Poise. The singer who obeys this rule is spoken of above (p. 96) as being "poised" mentally and physically in the line of the march of his song. Every song feels to the singer to be upon a certain level and to move forward in its st'-aight line upon that level. It runs, as it were, upon telegraph wires ; the poles may be long or short, and at varying distances, but the wires run in a straight line and at the same distance from the top. This poise, or keeping of the level, is a feature of style. It seems to have been taught or 102 INTERPRETATION IN SONG appreciated by the old Italian bel canto masters, for it is conspicuous in the work of the best exponents of that school. It is partly physical but chiefly mental, the physical application being probably consequent upon the mental attitude. Like the main part of Rule II. it is not visible on the surface, and the audience though conscious of its charm does not give it a name ; but one singer recognises it in another and takes off his hat to it. Songs have a mental as well as a vocal tessitura. These have nothing actually to do with one another, except that both indicate a region in which the song should lie. The key to the mental tessitura is generally one note, round which all the other notes seem to group. Through the whole song this one note seems to run (like the B in "Ein Ton"), and on this note the level of the song is poised. Thus in "Angels ever bright and fair" the mental tessitura seems to lie round the fifth (C) ; in Mendels- sohn's "Auf Fltigeln des Gesanges" in G, the note seems to be the third (B). In Korbay's "Moh5,c's Field" (in D) the note is imquestionably the tonic D, which dominates and sways the whole song. In "Der Leiermann" (in A minor) the note is again the tonic A unmistakably. The monotony of the drone on the tonic with the open fifth goes through the whole song like a pedal point. The natural selection of such "poise" notes must vary, no doubt, with the singer. Like the master-phrase in atmospheric songs he probably need not look for it ; it will come of itself. But if he can once get the insistent call of it into his ears, it will have a direct physical result in the actual singing. He will find that not only will the song seem to be wound up and running like clockwork on MAIN RULE II 103 its wires, but that the sounds themselves will seem to come from one particular point in the actual sounding- board of his head, the point to which his "poise" note called them. That means control, concentration, economy, "push on," and all the other friends of technique and interpretation, and puts an end to the type of work known as "all over the shop." Rests are as much a part of a song as notes; they are necessary to the singer physically, both as breath- ing-places and actual reUef from Vocal strain. But he must make up his mind to one thing — that from the moment the first note of his song is played there is not a rest of a fraction of a beat to his brain. Once started, he must go through with it to the bitter end. The singing of a song is a great responsibility and a great strain; on his ability to accept the one and stand the other depends his power to carry it through. The song-cycle is but the song in large. From the first note of the first bar of the "Dichterliebe" to the last note of its wonderful final symphony, the singer knows no rest — he is singing mentally through them all, as well as physically through all his phrases. Thirty-five minutes of constant strain, singing, visualis- ing, magnetising, driving, pushing on, and not one rest ! MAIN RULE III SING AS YOU SPEAK All the singer's gifts, all his perfection of technique, all his observance of rules go for little or nothing if his singing is not speech in song. For this he must have (a) Purity of Diction. (b) Sense of Prosody and Metre. (c) Identity of Texture in the sound of the spoken and the sung word. (a) PURITY OF DICTION The Anglo-Saxon race is the most good-natured in the world. It has a peculiar horror of wounding the feelings of the public performer, and out of sheer good fellowship it puts the telescope to its blind eye rather than hurt. This happy relationship between performer and audience has made public singing a pleasant life for the professional wherever the English language is spoken. But like every other form of laisser oiler it has worked for harm unconsciously. The "basta! basta!" of the Italians may be cruel in its immediate application, but it is cruel to be kind. It 104 PURITY OF DICTION 105 is a protest against the lowering of certain standards long accepted by the people as compulsory. The singer who has not trained himself to them knows what to expect. He makes no complaint and gener- ally tries to right himself; for he has had the inestimable benefit of directly realising where and why he falls short. The British singer (which may in greater or less degree be taken to mean the Anglo- Saxon) has suffered badly from the other extreme. For his faults^ of diction he is hardly to blame, seeing that his public has never remotely demanded a standard of him. That public has either never realised that it has a language of incomparable beauty of its own, or has from long acquiescence in bad habits learned to accept those bad habits as inevitably associated with the musical expression of words. It may have vaguely felt that its particular sweetheart, male or female, would have looked distrustfully at it had it spoken words of "lorve," but had it sung them instead, the sentiment would have been automatically exalted from vulgarity to poetry. In any case, if it has its sus- picions, it keeps them to itself, and out of sheer good- nature suffers singers gladly. What is the poor singer to do? He has no one to keep him up to the mark. When he stops the song to breathe, he is rapped over the knuckles by the accompanist and takes care con- sequently not to do it again ; but the fellow-countrymen of Shakespeare and Milton ask of him nothing, and, after all, he is not primarily a philanthropist. The old Italian school of singing was a pure joy of sound. In many cases they had not much to say, and the text of what they said was valueless ; yet every note was a gem of beauty and every word a model of elocution. 106 INTERPRETATION IN SONG But the rigid adoption of that school for the training of our singers was another evil of the Victorian period ■ — not vocally, but in the matter of language. The ItaUan language is very limited in the number of its vowel sounds, though each vowel is purity itself; the English language contains almost every possible modi- fication of every possible vowel. Itahan consonants have a liquid incisiveness (to be paradoxical) which is almost impossible to transplant into the solid mouth of the Anglo-Saxon. To the Italian singer these vowels and consonants come by nature as the direct transla- tion of his beautiful speech into beautiful song; the English singer, in his endeavour to assimilate them, has merely absorbed their limitations and missed their characteristics. He has remembered the "Voce, voce, voce" of Rossini, and in the desire to sing, he has for- gotten to speak. The consequence is that Enghsh singing is dominated by the hybrid vowel, the compro- mise between the Italian and the Anglo-Saxon; and by the carried-on consonant, the solid English version of the liquid Italian original. The public, as said above, has heard them so long, and looked upon them as so sanctioned by authority, that it has never felt even remotely entitled to anything better. Here is a typical version of a few Hnes of a popular song — Barnby's "When the flowing tide comes in" — as sung by the contralto and applauded by the public. It is terrible to look at and more terrible to hear, but it is not a caricature. "Mawther-a," he cry-eed-a, "gaw wortcli-a tha ty-eed-a, Arz it cawmeth-a arp-a too Lynn-a. For-a fou-url-a or-a fayr-a oi weel-a be they-ra When-a tha flaw-inga ty-eed-a cawms in-a." PURITY OF DICTION 107 What must the true Itahan think of such stuff as this? or the other purist, the Frenchman? With no knowledge of our language he could do it better himself by sheer virtue of discrimination and sense of refinement. He does not know that that particular type of British contralto, by far the worst offender in every branch of singing — rhythm, technique, intelligence and diction alike — has only one object — to make her voice sound. To do this she has to struggle, it is true, with unaccom- modating registers, and the telling portions of her voice are limited; but her proximity to the note on which she expects to make her most brilliant fog-horn effect can be gauged by the brightening of her eye. What is diction to her ? The trombone-like blare (often accom- panied by a double slur) in the penultimate bar amply atones for the jargon of the rest. It does not matter to her whether it was she or Brtinnhilde who was "seated one day at the organ," so long as her "Amen" sounds "grand." There are, of course, many excep- tions, and their power over audiences is correspond- ingly remarkable, but it must be confessed that for shortness of breath, incapacity of phrasing, slovenliness of diction and narrowness of perspective, this type of British contralto stands in a category by herself. The bass, alas ! is a dull dog as a rule. He suffers greatly from manliness and cathedral traditions. Anthea would have been unfavourably impressed with the effeminacy of the man who preferred to "die" rather than to "doy" for her on a broad manly vowel; while "Aw-mairn" and "hawly" are as much the accepted cathedral-bass pronunciation of "Amen" and "holy" as "saw-url" of "soul." The fifth verse of the "Te Deum" in the average church service would be 108 INTERPRETATION IN SONG laughable if it were not a travesty of great words — "amd crorse tar-r-rknaiss-a the peopurlla" may be heard any day in the Messiah. The baritone has much to be thankful for. Nature has allowed him to be born without any inherent predilection for long hair or butterfly ties, and has endowed him with more actual gifts of tone-colour, broadminded- ness and sense of words than his fellows; his super- fluity of numbers too (99 out of 100 male voices are baritone) has foimd him his level and trained him, by competition, with the thoroughness of a public school. Mutatis mutandis the same apphes to the mezzo-soprano. These two may be best trusted to rise to the level of their responsibiUties. Sopranos and tenors sin more by omission than commission. In diction they simply avoid diflBculties, and consequently their version of their own beautiful and varied lan- guage is more or less colourless. The higher registers in which their voices are most effective do not lend themselves so easily to vulgarity, and their mal-pro- nunciations are therefore not so offensive to the sensi- tive ear of the purist. (At the Crystal Palace a few years ago "aharrawarradedda" was once perpetrated by a well-known tenor, with complete confidence and entire success, as an equivalent for "rewarded" ! An eminent musician who was present noted it down phonetically for the benefit of posterity.) They have a tendency to shade, at the smallest provocation, all vowels to the open quahty, sacrificing thereby not only the charm of variety but the fascination of such pure deeply expressive closed vowels as the "ee" in "meet," the "oo" in "swoon" or the "u" in "pure." The soprano cannot, of course, sing the pure "ee" on a PURITY OF DICTION 109 top A — it would sound like a slate-pencil — any more than the bass can sing the pure "a" in "part" on his top E without not only making it sound ridiculous but actually damaging his voice. The shading of the one towards "ah" and the other to "awe" is automatic, and, being natural, is accepted by the hearer as right. But the cult of the open vowel has developed into a religion — the religion of the praying-wheel, of the line of least resistance; while language is disestablished and disendowed. The open tone is superficially the easiest and most natural for the human voice. The average voice has probably been trained principally on the open "ah" or hybrid (though most useful) "aw," and any deviation therefrom to the closed and modified vowels is regarded as a nuisance, to be avoided or compromised. Thus "meet" becomes "mairt," as a compromise between "meet" and "mart"; "soul" becomes "sawl" either as a compromise between "soul" and "sari," or as a direct avoidance of the "o" and adoption of the "aw" — and so on. Here are a few of the hybrid pronunciations of Anglo-Saxon singers. For reasons of space their numbers must be restricted here ; their name in reality is legion. man = mahn. best = baist swan = sworn. gay = gair. cat = cart. them = thurm. dog = dawg. neck = nurk. horse = horr-se. read = raird. (Like the 'o" in horror.) wheat = whirt. rack = rark. pin = peen. and = arnd or ur-yend. kiss = keess. men = main. his = hez. blest = blairst. if = eef . slate = slairt. wind = wa-eend 110 INTERPRETATION IN SONG smoke = smawk. slow = slaw. moan = morn, coat = caught, close = claws, snow = snaw. rose = rawz. moon ^murn. juice = jawce. coot = coat. Etc., etc. The "ee" and "oo" compromises are sounds almost impossible to express on paper. The above are about as near as one can get. (These two close vowels, being particularly effective with basses and baritones, are treated by them with respect.) When any of them are followed by "1," an additional curl of the tongue, involving an added vowel, is given, making the pure vowel into a horrible diphthong, such as all = aw-url. holy = haw-early, soul = saw-url. almost = aw-url-morst. dwell = dway-url. tell := tay-url. creel = cree-url. cool = coo-url. self = sair-lurf . (In musical comedy, say-url-urf-a.) fuU = foo-url. Ete.i In this basses and baritones are by far the worst offenders. As no British ballad is complete without either a "love" or a "rose" or a "soul" in it, the purist who listens to it is assured of at least one black eye, generally followed up by severe punishment all round; if he is wise he will leave the ring early. The singer who makes "glow" into "glaw" and "stow" into "staw" might presumably be trusted with "glory" and "story," but for some reason — apparently from sheer cussedness — she sings them as "glow-ree" and "stow-ree"; dislike to certain values in the right place seems to superinduce them in the wrong. Such PURITY OF DICTION 111 versions of "pleasure" and "treasure" as "play-joor-a" and "tray-joor-a" are to be heard any night in musical comedy ; but this particular form of performance is so saturated with plague bacilli that only the British constitution could stand it. Closely allied with the pure vowel sounds are the diphthongs. These, as everyone knows, are made up of two vowels, of which the first is related in import- ance to the second in the proportion of about nine to one. Diphthongs are of two kinds, actual and implied ; actual, as in the "oi" of "rejoice"; and impHed, as in the "i" of "mind." The treatment is the same for both. The first elementary rule of diphthong-singing is that the primary vowel should be given practically the whole time-value, and the secondary only so much as is inevitable in getting away from the first, either to the consonant following it, if there be one, or to the finish of the word. This secondary value should be so small that the hearer should never feel conscious of its demi-demi-semiquaver share having been taken from the note at all. Thus in "rejoice" the diphthong is composed of a primary rather bright "aw" followed by a secondary "ee." Should they be given anything like equal values the passage from "Rejoice greatly," in the Messiah, would not only sound dissyllabic instead of monosyllabic as follows, Be- jaw-eeoe, Re-jaw-eeoe, Re-jaw - eeoe greatly the crotchet being actually converted into two quavers, but the illustrative meaning of the word through the call of the open first vowel would be destroyed and 112 INTERPRETATION IN SONG vulgarised as well in the process. The "i" in "life" is made up of "ah" and "ee"; that of "wait" of "ay" and "ee," and all the others in the same way; all must be treated alike. Yet it is possible to hear /0\ ^7\ ■V rni • h 1 1 • f* r-" — h* Ti - — 'W h ' 1 1 1 I V 12... U u La-eefe for ev - er -more. (" Nazareth," Gounc )d) from a bass, and rrs r:s portamento. 1 ■^ ^— f^ 1 — * — -a -m 1 1-^ --l__t: — :: U^_| *z^~-^ ' = ^-. •—J LJ. " way-eet pa - tient-a-ly f or-a Him, (Elijah, Mendelssohn) from a contralto, both volunteered with complete and confident bona fides for "Enghsh as she is sung." The word "wind" is given a value all its own — probably a survival from the Italian methods of our fathers. Not only is its vowel generally not given the soimd as in "swim" or "spin," but it is actually converted into a diphthong, "wa-eend." (Its occasional rhyme in poetry with such a word as "mind" is purely a rhyme of eye not of ear.) The above diphthongs are pre-consonantal ; there are others which come at the end of words and melt into thin air, such as "toy" — in which the "o" sound (as in "lot") is followed by "ee." Here the secondary vowel must be given even less value than m the above words, if that be humanly possible. It must be treated almost as a parasite and flicked off with lightning speed. The treatment of the diphthong immediately before the final "r," as in "hour," will be dealt with presently. (N.B. — In all the above vowel-illustrations, the "r" PURITY OF DICTION 113 is used simply as a guide and is not meant to be sounded.) Aspirates speak for themselves ; there is no tempta- tion to handle them differently in song from speech. There is a subtle use of them which will be dealt with under "word-illustration" (p. 184). The uses and abuses of consonants are hard to put in writing. To find the happy medium between inci- siveness and demonstrativeness is the difficulty. The British singer, as a rule, is inclined to underdo his consonants, the German to overdo them. But the German is trained in a finer school. If Wagner had done nothing else, his achievements in musical elocution alone would have left his country for ever in his debt. Of all composers Wagner wrote the truest vocal music from the point of view of dramatic diction. The actual physical powers required to sing his operas are, no doubt, abnormal, but his works for purity and ease of declamation are never likely to be surpassed. The modem German school, with that before it, does not fail in distinction of utterance; it often errs on the other side and sacrifices beauty to declamatory strength. (There is a type of German singer known as "Kon- sonantensanger.") Those English singers who have had a German training can be trusted not to shirk their duty as elocutionists ; some even acquire a certain sledge-hammer brutality of diction which is not far removed from sheer vulgarity. To find the happy medium is, as said above, the difficulty. The master of style feels it, like most things, in his blood. Consonants are practically "embroidered" on the column of air of the sounded vowel. That column of air comes (or should come) out in a straight line which, I 114 INTERPRETATION IN SONG when composed of the right vowels and consonants made into words, constitutes the straight line of the phrase. To the singer whose diction is in the right place, namely, the region of the tip of the tongue and the hps, the initial and intermediate (or mid-word) consonants present little difficulty; his sense of touch will give them their right proportions in the word in its relation to the sentence and its dramatic significance — provided, always, that his native English dislike of demonstrativeness does not make him too shy to do so. It is the final consonants which give most trouble. The ending-off of the word without illegally carrying over to the next, and the preservation of the straight line and "push on" of the phrase, are so opposed to one another in practice that they seem almost incom- patible. The Italians have a liquid way of their own of doing it, which is so sanctioned by custom as to have become legal, and so refined in its handling as to be void of all offence. But it is a way which does not assimilate readily with the roast beef of old England (the Enghshman's ItaUan "carry-over" is about on a level with his Irish brogue), and the results are generally such indigestible solecisms as "Seated-a one-a day at the organ-a, I was weary and-a ill-a at ease-a," or the Barnby song quoted earlier. (Excess of zeal has appUed this even to mid-word consonants. The following delightful instance of trop de zele has been heard in our concert rooms : Allegro con brio. Caeissimi (?). [glga^,^. bT;^^^ ^^^J!J^Ja^ Vitt-it-tor-ia,vitt-it-tor-ia, vitt-it- tor-ia,vitt-it-tor-ia. PURITY OF DICTION 115 where the over-anxiety for incisiveness has converted Carissimi's original crotchet into two actual quavers !) The crux is, of course, the straight line and forward movement of the phrase. (The difficulty of reconciling this with the natural halt of diction has so frightened some singers that they have involuntarily turned those first I bars of the "Lost Chord" into the easier slow |, from sheer inabihty to face the monotony of their slow march.) The perfect union of the two depends primarily on command of the first branch of technique — breath control. Unless this is so firmly in hand that the actual body of vowel sound of the phrase can move forward in the straight line independently of con-, sonantal interruptions, the reconciliation can never take place. In singing the vowel is the predominant partner — as the very derivation of the other implies — and its work must never be stopped by petty inter- ferences of consonants. The English singer can put the consonant in the proper place if he will only sing it as he speaks it — as he speaks it in English not Italian. Consonants require no sledge-hammer to drive them home; the music does that better than the singer. All he has to remember is that the mumbled jargon of the ordinary English conversation is not spealdng in its true sense, and that the speech which he has to exalt into song must be as clear-cut and clean as the music it adorns. Finally there is the treatment of the letter r. There is no question that the r, wherever it comes in the word, ought by rights to be sounded. It was not originally put there for ornament, and, as a matter of fact, in Ireland and Scotland, where the best English is spoken, it is treated as an essential and almost 116 INTERPRETATION IN SONG invariably given its value. But having granted it its rights we have to see how far we can reconcile them with our own customs. If singing is to be speech in song, we must not, from any spirit of rigid purism, read into that speech effects which are foreign to the accepted use of its language, and there can be no doubt that for practical purposes many written r's have fallen into disuse in prommciation. The rolled r has been misused by both professional and amateur from time immemorial; by the first as a cloak to cover a multitude of sins, and by the second as a passport to professionalism. There is no sort of question as to its importance — the professional singer who cannot pronounce his r's is practically unknown — but it can, and should be, honoured almost as much in the breach as in the observance. It is a valuable asset in songs where the effect aimed at is virile, incisive, and strongly declamatory. The word proud seems to demand a certain roll of the r; this comes here at the beginning of the word and carries a certain strength with it. In practically all words in which it comes at the beginning, such as friend, priest, fresh, cruel, crash, cringe, branch, dread, etc., it should be strongly soimded. When it comes in the middle of a polysyllabic word it should be soimded or not at discretion, in accordance with the accepted spoken pronunciation. Thus in the very word "discretion" it should certainly be soimded, whereas in "incorporate" the sounding of the first r would be as gratuitous as that of the second is in- dispensable. Wherever it appears as the connecting consonant between two vowels, as is this second r, its sounding is imperative. (This applies to dissyllables, not to words like "cared," "feared," etc., in which its PURITY OF DICTION 117 sounding is not invariable. These are, of course, in reality dissyllables too, but have become monosyllabic in colloquial use.) In a word like "primrfise," both r's would be sounded, though the first would be far the stronger of the two ; this is not so much a question of comparative r values as a concession by the second r to the lilt of the Trochee — primrose. In Trochees where the r comes at the end of the short foot, as in eastern, homew&rd, etc., it may be shghtly sounded as a small compensation for the shortening of its preceding vowel; whereas in Iambics such as astern, rHwdrd, etc., rolling it would be, if not actually vulgar, at least uncalled for, and would detract from the pro- sodic strength of the foot. It will be seen from the above examples that, with the exception of the par- ticular type of Trochee quoted above, the most strongly- rolled r is the one which comes either after another consonant or between two vowels. The rolled r before another consonant is generally the reverse of pleasant ; the word "charm" loses all its charm if the r is rolled; likewise in "heart" it is unthinkable, but it is simg thus in public ad nauseam. Storm, horse, snort from their very strength seem to require it, and yet they are generally better without it. The rolling of the r in "horse" seems irresistibly to force the vowel from the (as in "corn") to the o (as in "lot"). The sub- sequent transition from "ho-rrrse" to "ho-rrrse" is short. The rolling of the r at the end of a word is, with one exception, impossible, and the carrying of it over to the next (though quite common) is as much a solecism as the interpolated r of "Emma-r-Ann." The exception is in the case of such words as our, here, poor, etc., in which there is always a danger of making 118 INTERPRETATION IN SONG the word dissyllabic or diphthongic. The slight roll at the end resolves the vowel without allowing it to drop from its level. Such words are, of course, theo- retically diphthongic, but so mono-coloured as to be practically monosyllables. Ow-ur, poo-ur, hee-ur would be terrible. This also appUes to such words as near, clear, cheer, etc. Here the purist frankly shies at speech. He never could, and never will, transplant into song such horrors as the ny-ur, cly-ur, chy-ur of conversation. He has compromised by treating them in the one case ("cheer") as a pure single vowel ("ee"), and in the other ("near," "clear") as a diphthong ("nee-ar") whose primary and secondary vowel values are left to the singer's taste and discretion — which, after all, govern and administrate the whole business in the end. It was no doubt the fear of such "con- versational" effects that drove our forefathers to the other extreme, and made them write Pow'r for Power. Where meant to rhyme with hour (as no doubt has been done) this eliminating process would be inevit- able, but Power is primarily a dissyllable, and the dangers of Pow-wur can be easily avoided by the singer, as the next portion (6) of this Rule will show. One concession has to be made by speech to song. Where a vowel is held for a long time — especially if sung forte — on one note, it assmnes an instrumental character; roundness and fulness of tone being here essential, a certain latitude of broad effect is allowed it, even at the expense of pure phonetics. Max Miiller in his Lectures on the Science of Language, makes the following trenchant remarks: "There is one class of phonetic dangers which take place in one and the same language, or in dialects of PUEITY OF DICTION 119 one family of speech, and which are neither more or less than the result of laziness. Every letter requires more or less muscular exertion. There is a manly, sharp, and definite articulation, and there is an effemin- ate, vague and indistinct utterance. The one requires a will, the other is a mere laisser aller. The principal cause of phonetic degeneracy in language is when people shrink from the effort of articulating each con- sonant and vowel; when they attempt to economise their breath and their muscular energy." That is a criticism which though written of speech applies in its entirety to song. Why should the con- tralto give us this ? • j i' Ly-eek arz the darmarsk rawse you see Or ly-eek arn ow-ur or ly-eek a spahn Or ly-eek the seengeeng orv a sworn E'en sorcli is mahn — wio leeves by braith Is hee-yur nee-jnir dairth — mahn's ly-eefe ees dawn." She would not speak it thus in the bosom of her family (except, possibly, to illustrate the Bogey-man for her children) ; why should she sing it thus in public ? It is sheer laziness — slovenliness, if you will. She and her colleagues have avoided the "effort of articulating" for so long that they have forgotten how to do it. For years they have followed the cult of the hybrid vowel and the shirked consonant — the line of least resistance — and the fine of least resistance is as far removed from true singing as the North Pole from the South. Singing is one long physical effort and mental strain, and the man who pretends to sing without them is an impostor. He is not wholly to be blamed. The public has encouraged such imposture 120 INTERPRETATION IN SONG by its own inertia. It has just sat there, heard, yawned maybe, and turned over the page to the next, but shown no active disapproval. We would not have it otherwise if we could. That inborn courtesy, that sympathy for the other fellow, that spirit of fair play is too great a national asset to lose. The singer must work out his salvation for himself, remembering that if one plays fair, so must the other. He has the finest language in the world, the language of his Bible and his forebear Shakespeare for his heritage, and music withal further to ennoble it; but he must rise to the level of his responsibilities. The detailed discussion of this section has naturally been confined to the English language, but it may safely be said that the contention "Sing as you speak" applies in the main to German or any other European tongue. (6) PROSODY AND METRE If singing is to be speech in song, it must primarily talk sense and talk that sense intelligibly. Here the singer is for the first time face to face with opposition from his friend music. So far, music has helped him. It has demanded hard work from him, but when he has worked it has backed him up. It has every wish to continue to pay its share of the expenses, but it cannot help itself; it has become, most unwillingly, a passive resister. To talk sense intelligibly, the talker, be he speaker or singer, must give to his words their right values according to the rules of prosody. In our language the variations of word-accentuation are very numerous; beyond the natural metrical tendency to throw the strong accents on the early part of the word, PROSODY AND METRE 121 there seems to be no settled rule to go by. To accom- modate the prosody of his language to the rhythm of his music is the singer's difl&culty, for music, with the best of good wills, is so hampered by the limitations of its own notation that it often acts as a positive drag on the wheel. In the old bel canto days, as ex- plained earlier, this did not so much matter; sense and prosody did not count against beauty of sound and finished execution, and consequently were not so much catered for. But in the true art-songs from Purcell through Schubert to the present day, where the poem has been the original inspiration and the music its resultant outward expression, the text has been treated with equal honour, and the lilt of its lan- guage followed faithfully by the composer so far as the restrictions of his medium have permitted him. These restrictions he will always have to face. For translating into song the countless inflexions of speech- quantities and accents he has a petty vocabulary of arbitrary semibreves, minims, crotchets and quavers with their subdivisions, and a mere handful of time- signatures with which to cope with metre. These he can» supplement to a certain extent by stage directions, as a help or corrective as the case may be, but the fact remains that the text can never count upon untram- melled assistance from music in all the aspects of its expression. The text too must always remember that the music's the thing; the music must always come first, even in song, where speech would appear to be the most important. Rhythm is the beginning of all things, and its call is so powerful that it masters all else; therefore even the music, which is the outcome of the poem, takes precedence of the very text which 122 INTERPRETATION IN SONG inspired it. Wherever the reverse has been attempted, and the music plastically fitted with inelastic deter- mination to the words, the result has been the same — the initial fascination of the experiment has palled ia time for want of the great elemental force rhythm. The reconciliation of the two, text and music, is the difiiculty. The modem musician has faced it squarely and risen to the occasion, as many of his predecessors did before him. Schubert seemed to have the power by nature. The siager can open any volume of his songs where he will and see it for himself. Let him take the first song in the first volume (Peters' edition), our old friend "Das Wandern," and read it through, text first, music afterwards. He will find that word by word, line by fine, in prosody and metre alike, the text has not only been followed faithfully, but strengthened and ennobled in the doing. Let him move on to "Der Neugierige," No. 6 in the same series. Here he will find what is practically perfection of speech in written song. Thence, if he will, to the greatest song in the world "Der Doppelganger." Could that most hmnan and most moving of all tragic songs have stirred men's hearts like nothing else for the better part of a century if its message had not been truly spoken? Go where he will among them all he will find that same truth of expression, the pure trans- lation of speech into song, which made that author" the greatest song-writer of all time. The romanticists too felt it in their blood. Schumann's songs are models of the treatment of prosody values. The "Dichterliebe" and the "Frauenliebe und Leben" are such spontaneous speech in song that manipulation or reconciliation is practically a negligible quantity to the trained singer. PROSODY AND METRE 123 Their sentences run from words to music and from music to words with such emotional truth that we cannot think of them apart. Here is no waiting for florid passages to spin themselves out, no dragged-in vocal effects, no false quantities to fit the note at the expense of the word. We feel that he read the words and, as he read them, sang them for us. The ultra- romanticists of our own day have felt this compelling sense of words, and to its emotional drive we owe such purely rhapsodical songs as Maude Valerie White's "Absent yet present," which as a model of accentua- tion could not be bettered ; or Hatton's "To Anthea," which in spite of its delightful viriUty and breeziness owes three-quarters of its charm to its faithful repro- duction of word-values. The modern composer, knowing the singer's diffi- culties, has done his best for him, and, be the metre what it may, has written his trochees, iambics, spondees and dactyls so that he who runs may read; that is to say, he has absorbed the metre of his poem and expressed it trochaically, iambically, or whatever it may be, to the best of his ability. But musical notation is limited. He has no means of insisting on, or even indicating, the longs and shorts of his prosody other than the natural accents of his rhythm, which he wants, as a matter of fact, for the modelling of his sentences, not for the scanning of his words. He can, it is true, convey the sense of his trochees by writing his song in | or | or ^- time; but supposing he feels his song in | or | or f, what then? If he writes in | time, he can dot his crotchets and give it that way. But supposing he does not want his crotchets dotted? Here we have arrived apparently 124 INTERPRETATION IN SONG at an impasse. His trochees (or iambics) are arbitrarily to be made into spondees, because musical notation only gives him two even crotchets to write them with. This is rather hard on the composer, not to speak of the poet. Surely it is about time for the singer to lend a hand. Why should those two crotchets, writ- ten of even value, be sung with even values? He does not speak them with even values. He may give them (though even that is not always necessary) equal 5t= and the sons of God w shout - - ed, -par: ^^ I and the sons of God shout • - ed, poco fit. tempo animato. shout • - ed ^^^A=^^=^dU± EE5 ^ ^ ^ — ed for joy. shout - - ed, shout . poco rit. =t4: T T^ itiit ^ ed, shout - - ed. shout - poco rit. ed for joy. 1^ u ^ r r shout - - ed, shout - - ed for joy. >l»- , '^^ poco rit. ^ j^ _ft. shout ■ ed. shout ed for joy. PROSODY AND METRE 135 The very meaning of the word shouted demands trochaic treatment. If each voice in turn sings it as "shouted," with equal syllabic values, not only does the word lose its spontaneity and joy, but the force of the penultimate bar, where such a spondaic broaden- ing is not only legitimate but essential to the climax, is anticipated and the climax itself weakened. The elastic and responsive chorus probably does it for itself by instinct. Whether it can be taught with safety depends upon the chorus and the chorus-master. There is no doubt that the EngUsh singer's — and in some cases composer's — indifference to prosody values is largely due to our cathedral traditions. The point- ing of our Psalters is positively laughable ; but custom has so "staled their infinite variety" that choir and congregation swallow the most ludicrous anachronisms verse after verse, in chant and psalms, and never wink an eyelash. Probably not one man in a himdred in our churches when he sings Wesley's famous hymn "The Church's one foundation" ("very slow" in tempo as, we know from Sir Hubert Parry, Wesley wished it to be), realises that in the word "Church's" he sings a whole long beat on an apostrophe ! or, worse still, later on interpolates a vowel between the schis and the ms of "schisms" — "by schis-tims rent a-sunder" — giving it a whole beat to itself and exalting thereby an appalling solecism into an accepted interpretation. Long usage has made him callous, and his ear no longer demands the verities of language; and the singer, being asked for nothing, gives it. But the singer has other active enemies in both music and language themselves. The first of these is the rising phrase. The rising phrase implies a natural 136 INTERPRETATION IN SONG crescendo (the diminuendo and the dead-level rising phrases are generally written merely for purposes of word-illustration), and that natural crescendo gives a natural importance to its point of climax. If that chmax happens to fall upon an insignificant word or short foot so much the worse for the word ! The music's the thing, and the crescendo has the first call; so prosody must go. This is so instinctively recognized that the most fanatical prosody-purist feels no resent- ment. It is to be found all through song of any period. A couple of examples will do. ESE^ ^P^ itttfci*; *— h-j/-*- mein Aug' und Herz, mein Aug' und Herz. from Schubert's "Du bist die Ruh" is a case in point. Here the rising phrase gives a false value — increased by the dot — to the entirely unimportant word "und." It is true that the real chmax is on the first beat of the next bar, but none the less the physical effect of the upward crescendo gives an anticipatory climax to the weak word even on the weak beat. The same is to be fovmd on the ner of "deiner," and "es," in the other two verses. To exchange the pure cantilena effect of the passage for the sake of the word-values would be a poor bargain. The crescendo in such a passage is not marked, firstly because it is implied, and secondly because Schubert, like all great composers, was sparing with his expression marks. The phrase quoted earher (p. 72) from Brahms's "Feldeinsamkeit" also illustrates it. Here the words "sende," "lange," "oben," can be, and should be, sung with their speech-values; but the nen of "meinen," PROSODY AND METRE 137 though quite short in itself, is by sheer force of the rising phrase promoted to an even more important position than its long-footed brother, that short step up of two notes in the social scale causing it to turn its back on its friends of trochaic days. When the singer is met by such glaring anachronisms of word- treatment as the same composer's "Die Mainacht," in which, as shown earUer (p. 73), most of the principal accents come upon unimportant words, and a whole throbbing bar with an inherent crescendo is given up to the word "und," i ^^^fe rx: ?^ und die ein - sa -me Thra . ne rinnt. he walks round it at first, like a dog round a cat, at a respectful distance, before finally "sailing in." He sails in at last because it is worth it. The beauty of that tune and the depth of its emotional power swallow up the defects. The composer must have known that they were inconsistent, but he let them go rather than disturb the lovely tune, and we must ever be grateful that he did. It might in passing be pointed out that in the matter of syllabic values the German language is very much like our own. The trochaic "kommen," "schonen," "saget," etc., rank practically like our "cometh," "lovely," "sayeth" — "saget" contracted often to "sagt" like our "sayeth" to "saith" or "says." It is no un- common thing to hear the first line of the "Dichter- liebe" sung Anglice as follows: ."Eem woonderschonaym Monaht Ma-ee." 138 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Here, to begin with, the word "Im" has not the ee sound at all but is far closer to the i in our word "dim"; the u of "wunder" is not "oo" but a rather broad version of the u in our "pull"; while syllabi- cally the der and nen of "wunderschonen" are equiva- lent in value to the der and ven of our "wonder" and "given" respectively, and the at of "Monat" to the ot of "pilot," allowing for the brighter sound of the' open vowel. The word "Im" is as unimportant as our "in." Here we have four words into which are generally crowded some five "howlers." The same applies to the definite and indefinite articles. The English singer, in spite of his natural self-consciousness, tackles his German with a delight- ful absence of shyness. The thought that a collo- quial knowledge of the language might help does not enter his brain. He sings his German song for his German audience with the same gusto that he sings his Irish song with a Brixton brogue in Dublin. ("Annie Laurie" is as inevitable an encore song for the Hampstead soprano in Glasgow as "Comin' thro the rye" in the Albert Hall in London.) The next enemy is the incidental high note. It need not necessarily be really high; any skip that causes a certain physical effort entails automatically a certain accentuation. The accent on with in "If with all your hearts" from Elijah is natural enough — the skip from the Bt' to the high G necessitates it ; but "Angels ever bright and fair," or "But the Lord is mindful of his own," are merely concessions to weakness ; there is only a rise of a single note in each case, yet the unimportant word and weak beat are invariably in- flated in value. "0 ruddier than the cherry" is more PROSODY AND METRE 139 excusable, for here there is a considerable skip to one of the higher notes of the bass voice; still it would be interesting to hear the song sung throughout with the face-values of the words and beats. In these cases the actual musical call is not so strong as in the rising phrase, but the physical demand for emphasis is even greater. It is better to give in to the demand, even at the expense of false emphasis, rather than cramp style; but there is no question that, as often as not, the note can be brought into line and given its right word-value with no loss to the power of the phrase. In all these cases, as in the whole application of this rule, the singer must use his common sense. Next comes the question of translations. The trained English singer may have a fair knowledge of, say, German, French and Italian, and will sing the songs of those languages by preference in their original versions. But there are many languages, such as Russian or Hungarian, each possessing a wonderful song literature of its own in a language which he has had no opportunity of studying. Here there is no option for him but to sing translations. The essence of good song-translation is the giving of the poetic equivalent. Literal translation can never be anything but cramped in style and clumsy in technique. The true singing translation is freedom itself ; it should be sound English, should be able to rank as a poem, and should follow, the lilt of the song. It should stand on its own feet and not be hampered by limitations of accurate significance of words, provided only that it gives the atmospheric idea of the original. The freer the hand, the better the chance for prosody and metre. Only a singer can fully appreciate this; and on the rare occasions when 140 INTERPRETATION IN SONG the translator is both singer and poet himself — "Schuhmacher und Poet dazu" — we get masterpieces to sing. In the case of a language like Hungarian there is no way out of the difficulty. Here we have the most marked rhythm that exists in music. We know from Mr. Francis Korbay that that rhythm in Hungarian music is the direct translation into sound of the same rhythm in the Hungarian language, the language being the causa causans of the music. The two are so interdependent as to be practically one. The Hungarian language and the English are as far apart rhythmically as the poles; no manipulation of our language, however free, could give an adequate equivalent for the other and at the same time preserve our own poetic prosody values. We have two alter- natives. We can stop the grand march of that metre and give the translator a chance — that would indeed be burning the house down to roast the pig, or we can frankly accept the situation, and agree that that incomparable rhythm is worth to song all the language values in the world. "Far and high the cranes give cry," "Moha,c's Field" and "Shepherd, see thy horse's foaming mane" decide it for us without even giving us time to think. Last, but not least, comes the singer's old friend and enemy — the straight line in phrasing. How is he to keep his poise, how is his song to run on telegraph wires without a stop, if, by altering his syllable-values for prosody purposes, he turns the continuous straight line into a series of dots and dashes? But dots and dashes are as much part of the message of the song as of the message of the wire. Both one and the other depend upon them for sense, and, strange as it may PROSODY AND METRE 141 sound, even singing can talk sense. In both cases that sense depends upon the skill of the operator. The singer who is not master of his technique can never reconcile the two — the straight line and the common sense. He may be born with style and anxious for the fight, but, if he has not learned his business, the word and its meaning will fall before the magic of the phrase. That "stylist" is well known. He may not know it coimted ; he may say to himself that the music's the thing, and the sense doesn't ever matter. That man is to be pitied; the public has never told him, and he will never learn. He may say to himself that the voice is the thing, and the sense may go to the wall. His career will be short and cheap. Ars longa, vita brevis. He may, more Anglo-Italiano, carry over and conjoin, and, having fulfilled his whole duty to both, bury his head in the sand. It is not so ostrich-hke a manoeuvre as it appears; it is the selling of a patch-work quilt for a Persian rug. Or he may have taken off his coat at the beginning and learned his business Hke a man. Learning your business is not a drag on the wheel of genius. Hans Sachs has told us that. If song makes the greatest emotional appeal from man to man, surely it is worth the singer's while to learn its language. To the master of style who is also the skilled workman, the dove- tailing of the two — phrasing and sense — is a labour of love. 142 INTERPRETATION IN SONG (c) IDENTITY OF TEXTURE Every song has an atmosphere of its own; it also has a texture running through the material of its composition. Such a texture in the written song is inherent and literary; its preservation in the outward and vocal interpretation is part of the singer's duty. To deliver it truly outwardly he must, naturally, first appreciate it inwardly. If he is a master of style, texture will be inseparable from the song as a whole, and patchiness equivalent to cheap workmanship ; but such inward knowledge must be supplemented by out- ward appUcation in order to make the song, when sung, a consistent whole. Identity of texture between the singing and the spealdng voice is essential to such a true expression of the literary text, and incompatible with patchiness in its musical interpretation. The singer who experiences difficulty in singing a certain song or phrase with pure diction, will find it an admirable plan to choose out some one note in his voice which gives him no effort to sing, and with whose quality he is satisfied, and on that note to intone the line or poem in question. The difficulties which bothered him before were probably'vocal, not concerned with diction, and the transference of the subject to another medium causes them to disappear temporarily. Worries of voice-production and uncontrolled breath- pressure have thrown him off the line in the song, and with them purity of diction has suffered meantime. On the intoned note these fears are absent, and he has no long phrasing to disturb his thoughts; he consequently has time to think about his words, and pay attention to the common sense of their IDENTITY OF TEXTURE 143 sound and their texture after transplanting them into new surroundings. When, therefore, he intones at ease, he must see to it that every word he sings shall have exactly the same quality of sound or texture as in pure speech, speech as near the speech of ordinary conversation as is consistent with the rules of pure oratory. If he detects the sUghtest difference, let him first speak the line word by word, and then sing it, and repeat the process again and again until it is right. Then, when his ear is not only reconciled, but devoted to their agreement, let him transplant the words, texture and all, to the song and repeat it there till the new reading is his own, and he has not got to stop and think about it. The sense of power he thereby acquires will surprise him. Audiences which lazily applauded him from good- nature or for the beauty of his voice, will suddenly begin to attend to him, for he begins to talk to them in a language they understand. Speech in song is the most moving of human gifts. The singer who goes out to sing, and leaves his speech behind, is like the man who went out to shoot with powder, shot, wads and caps, and forgot the gun. The English singer is the most healthy minded and probably the most gifted vocally of any. If he would but appreciate his responsibilities and opportunities, if he would but widen his horizon, he might at any moment step out of provinciahsm and take his place in the world. The ability to paint a Christmas card or chocolate box with tolerable success and quick returns is no guarantee of the achievement of a masterpiece of portraiture. A beautiful voice is a beautiful voice and no more; the clapping of hands 144 INTERPRETATION IN SONG is but the clapping of hands. The one may meet the other of an evening and coo the language of suburban love ; but the offspring of that union does nothing for its country and is generally degenerate. Those who have followed the rules set forth in this Part II. will have noticed how interdependent those rules are, both in their working and their appeal. The appeal is temperamental to the hearer's primitive instincts and balanced reason ; the means are rhythm and language. If rhythm is horizontal in direction and has for its motto "Push on," then a song must never stop. If language is to be as intellectual in its appeal as rhythm is physical, that language must be the language of both singer and hearer, not a compromise of vulgar ana- chronisms and cowardly avoidances. If the song is to be treated intellectually as a whole, and if that song is ever on the move, then the in- tellectual singer must be ever on the move with it. Through every bar, simg or unsung, he and his language must sing, live, move and have their being. Let him finally remember that his physical applica- tion of these rules — the grip of Rule I.; the ready, aye ready of Rule II. ; and the fluency of Rule III. — depends upon his appreciation of the fact that what counts is not the large amount of breath which he takes in, but the small amount which he gives out. PART III MISCELLANEOUS POINTS STYLES OF TECHNIQUE Thebe are, roughly speaking, three styles of technique ; that is, three styles of physical application of the voice to the expression of the meaning of the song. (1) Bel canto, in which beauty of sovmd and pure singing are the first consideration, and words but the medium for conveying them in their most intelligible and sympathetic form to the human being. Under this head come about three-quarters of all songs and singing. This is as it should be, for the fundamental idea of song is beauty of sound and the ennobling of language. Bel canto technique has none of the limitations of the bel canto school of song referred to earlier, but embraces the whole world of song, from the most stereotyped florid aria to the most modern work of art. Whether it be Giordani's "Caro mio ben," Bach's "Todessehnsucht," Handel's "Rejoice greatly," Schubert's "Abschied" or Hugo Wolf's "Anakreon's Grab," pure singing and beauty of tone and phrasing are vital to the interpretation of one and all of them. Every song may be assumed to require bel canto technique unless it specifically demands one of the other styles. Li 145 146 INTERPRETATION IN SONG (2) Declamation, in which dramatic expression is of paramount importance, and the voice and its colours are used as the most dramatic means for that ex- pression ; where actual beauty of sound is subordinated to serve its purpose (mostly as a contrast) in the general scheme of the particular interpretation. One of the commonest illustrations of this is the declama- tory recitative followed by the bel canto aria, where the incisive materiaUsm, as it were, of the one serves to enhance the smooth ideaUsm of the other when it comes. The great dramatic songs are mostly declama- tory either in whole or in part, such as "Der Doppel- ganger," or "Der Erlkonig," of Schubert, in which, though there are bars of bel canto, yet the interpretation depends upon dramatic declamation; or Schumann's "Waldesgesprach"; or Korbay's "Moh^c's Field"; or such a frankly murderously-minded masterpiece as his "Shepherd, see thy Horse's foaming Mane." In such Songs strength and virility are the all-compelling forces, and their subordination to strict beauty of sound would not only convey an impression of effeminacy, but would actually damage the character of the song in the inter- pretation. Sung by a beautiful voice declamatory sing- ing should always be beautiful ; but strength, rhythm, incisiveness and dramatic illustration should be the singer's chief concern. (3) Diction, in which the words come first, and the music is but the medium of expressing them most effectively. To this style belong most of the songs en miniature referred to earlier (p. 77). They are generally quick in tempo, and do not convey any very deep emotion, except in its i-ather ecstatic form, such as "Die Rose, die Lilie" from Schumann's "Dichter- STYLES OF TECHNIQUE 147 liebe." They are, as a rule, happy or humorous or lively in sentiment. Schubert's "Haidenroslein," Schumann's "Ich kann's nicht fassen nicht glauben" (from the "Frauenliebe und Leben"), Brahms's "Dort in den Weiden" and " Vergebliches Standchen," Ernest Walker's "Corinna's going a-maying," Stanford's "Did you ever?" "The Crow" and "Daddy-Long-Legs" (from the song-cycle "Cushendall"), Hubert Parry's "Follow a Shadow," A. M. Goodhart's "Mary" and "The Bells of Clermont Town," are typical examples; while folk-song is full of them ; such as "Der Kukkuk," "Spinnerliedchen," "Ecoute d'Jeannette," "Trottin' to the Fair," "Quick ! we have but a Second," and hosts of others. In all these beauty of tone need not be absent, but tone as a first consideration would clog the wheels both of the movement and the sense, and defeat interpretation. Many songs contain more than one of these styles — ■ in the "Erlkonig," for instance, or "Waldesgesprach," mentioned above, we find, in juxtaposition to the declamatory, the pure bel canto of the "seducing" voice of the Erlking and the Lorelei respectively; in fact, the dramatic effect of each song depends upon that very intimate contrast. In "Der Neugierige" of Schubert we have three bars of diction ("Ja, heisst das eine Wortchen, das andre heisset Nein") in quasi- recitative, interpolated into the middle of a pure bel canto song with delightful effect ; while in such a song as Korbay's "Shepherd, see thy Horse's foaming Mane," the opening questions are as unmistakably diction as the answers are declamation. There is one other style of technique — perhaps the most interesting of all — that which combines bel canto 148 INTERPRETATION IN SONG and diction in one and the same sung phrase. This is used in such atmospheric songs as "Der Leiermann," where the tone must be as beautiful as is consistent with inconspicuousness ; and in those introspective deeply emotional moments where, in the anaesthesia of the tragedy, all consciousness of the outside world seems to be lost, such as "Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz gethan" from the "Frauenliebe und Leben," or the opening bars of "Der Doppelganger." The stunned impersonality of the one and the hypnotic trance of the other, when truly spoken by the emotional singer, are among the most affecting things in music. The aesthetic diagnosis of the song and the choice of its technical treatment are the privileges of the inter- preter. THE SINGING OF RECITATIVE Recitative starts handicapped by three popular mis- apprehensions. (1) That it is to be sung either entirely ad libitum or strictly foursquare; the choice depending upon the disposition, assertive or retiring, as the case may be, of the singer. (2) That its style of technique is always declama- tory. (3) That nothing is recitative that is not either specifically marked as such, or so plainly indi- cated as to be unmistakable. (1) In recitative the singer has the stage to him- self. That is the privilege which it confers upon him, and with it often goes stage-fright. With no accom- paniment to give him a lead, he either gets completely out of hand, or never lets go of his strict note-values. THE SINGING OF RECITATIVE 149 The one is as disturbing as the other is dull. Recita- tive is no more ad libitum rhythmically than a florid song; where the singer has freedom is in note-values. Recitative is written by the composer in those note- values in which he himself would sing it. In most cases the composer's version is the best; but many singers would not feel the declamation in exactly the same way, and they have a perfect right reasonably to adapt the written note-values to suit their own histri- onic ideas. But that privilege carries its responsibili- ties. They may do what they like in the bar, but the bar itself must preserve the rhythm of the song. The physical effect of recitative is to stop movement, but recitative, like the song, must never stop in its march, except for definite dramatic purposes. In recitativo secco this is hard to keep in mind, for the accompani- ment seems always to wait upon the voice, and how fatal to the singer's balance that is has been shown already. If the singer of the Evangelist in Bach's St. Matthew Passion forgot for an instant the inherent rhythm of his bars, the part, instead of being one of the most moving things in song, would sound intermin- able. Let us apply the license to the following short recitative from Schubert, "An die Leyer," and try to realise the responsibility : REOITAirVB. i tp=m ^ ' ■ 1 g £: ^EE loh will von A - treus' Soh - nen, von i KJ :'i\n ^m J^n f-nr Ead mus will ioh sing - en. 150 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Schubert's values are really sufficient unto themselves and cannot be improved upon, but there is no reason why a singer should not sing the passage as follows : etc. loh will von A - treus' Soh-nen. if that be his individual way of hurling his challenge at Eros. But though he may handle Schubert's note- values as he will, Schubert's time-signature must be a law to him ; the rhythm of the | bar must ring in his ears throughout. Looking at it superficially, he may say, "What about my contrasts? If you shackle my challenge with rhythm, you anticipate the submission implied in the rhythmic 6eZ cavio which follows." Schubert has seen to that for him. Every bar illus- trates the struggle of the harpist to stick to the heroic vein. Bar after bar it dominates the great rhythmic chords of his lyre. Bar by bar it fails him, softens down, halts in its stride and finally pauses — he can sing of Love alone ; the submission is complete. Then follows the beautiful rhjrthmical air, one of the most beautiful that even Schubert ever wrote. Had the recitative failed in its rhythm, it would have anticipated the very failure of the heroic mood which Schubert has portrayed in the accompaniment, while the diminu- endo and its histrionic illustration would have miserably "petered out" together. The melody then, when it came, would have started handicapped with anaemia and itself have perished ignominiously. In accom-panied recitative the singer has his rhythm provided for him. The wise conductor, though giving him every license in spreading out his phrases, will THE SINGING OP RECITATIVE 151 see to it that the phrases themselves "push on." Many of the Bach accompanied recitatives, such as the bass '"Twas in the cool of eventide" and the alto "Ah! Golgotha!" from the St. Matthew Passion, are practically Ariosos and can be treated as such; in fact, if the singer will look upon all accompanied recitative as a form of aria singing he cannot go far wrong. Such recitative is deeply emotional as a rule, and often more direct in its appeal than the florid air which follows. It carries with it the old liability to "foursquareness" in note-values and the consequent lifelessness inherent in the slow tempo. If he will (in pursuance of his Rule III., section b) give, whenever possible, the prosody values of his speech to the note- values of his music, the slowest recitative will live and move, and the appeal will be the nobler for the giving of understanding to the people. He does Bach more honour by translating him with the truth of the spirit than with the hyper-conscientiousness of the letter. Such phrases, for instance, as the following from "Ah I Golgotha!": Alto Solo. g^Sa^^ei^ i i^^^ Thee must per-ish from the earth. The ^^^3i ^- P " N the cattle home. call the cat -tie home, and call gives a verisimilitude to the cattle-call which the notes without the pause would not so strongly convey. Then, when in the last verse the same call is repeated in "ghost" voice, the effect is increased a hundred-fold. The composer did not write these pauses. Either he did not think of them, or possibly he trusted to the singer to make them for himself, or most probable of all, he wrote them, remembered the British "popular" singer and scratched them out again. Take, again, the pauses on the main accents in Korbay's "Moh^c's Field." Some are written, some are not; each one is illustra- tive of the mood of the song, of the defiance and virile fighting spirit which dominate the whole. With these may be classed such frankly illustrative sounds as "echoes," where the singer must be given law in order to achieve the effect. fe^The "question and answer" pause has been referred to earlier (p. 82) in Stanford's "Broken Song." The pause on the end of a question seems to be recognised as music's natural expression of the question mark, and the singer will find it in most cases written for him wherever it is appropriate to the spirit and tmi'po of the song, vide Schubert's "Der Wanderer" {immer Wof), which combines both question and PAUSES 163 echo in one. If he does not find it so written he is at perfect liberty to adopt it for himself, provided that thereby he enhances effect and does not stop the march. Wherever — as in some cases of question and answer — the song is built of detached dramatic sentences, he is entitled to handle it as he pleases. Songs of "reminiscence" have a natural tendency to pauses, inherent in the spirit of their atmosphere ; the voice, Uke the memory, loves to dwell upon the days that are no more. Lastly come the pauses on notes (1) immediately preceding a return to the original subject, which are but variations of the deferred tempo primo referred to above; (2) little pauses or rather "pushes" upon certain notes in a phrase, such as m Ruhig, zart (quiet, tender). ? e J: Ht/ -i^-V lob sen-deei - nenGruaswieDuftder Bo-aezi, m -zip-^Mn:}^^ f^^ ioh send'ihnan ein Bo-sen-an ge-sioht. from Schumann's "Ich sende einen Gruss," which are simply the little idiosyncrasies of style ; and (3) pauses for purposes of word-illustration, which will be referred to later. Pauses on rests. Rests are not pauses; the song marches, and the singer sings mentally, through them. Pauses on rests 164 INTERPRETATION IN SONG are made for a definite purpose ; to enhance one of the most telling effects in interpretation — dead silences. The composer knows their value well and their signifi- cance. Where the great composers have marked a rest-pause, its observance is practically compulsory. It has nothing to do with vocal effect, for the voice is silent ; it is evidently vital to the interpretation. Its meaning is generally psychological, its very negation of action limiting its illustrative possibilities. Like all dead silences it tightens the strings of attention, and on the mind thus attuned the master-hand can play as he will. Its best known form is probably the pause at the end of the opening symphony before the voice begins. Such pauses, marked and unmarked, are a commonplace in the "potboiler," being "thrown in" to give time to the singer to pull himself together, and the audience to look at their programmes. The emasculated prelude which generally does service for the opening is equally effective with or without them. In a song like Schubert's "Die Stadt," however, one feels the pause's full significance. The opening symphony is dramatically illustrative — of the rowing of a boat — and pregnant with tragedy. The composer has marked a long pause at the end of it. During that pause the audience, stirred by the opening, holds its breath. The dead silence holds it spell-bound as nothing else could. Then out of the middle of that silence the story begins. Such silences are of the very essence of drama ; they are well known on the stage, and, when they come, they hold attention in a vice. They are intimately associated with magnetism and corre- spondingly dangerous. Let them be held a second too long, and the audience given time to breathe — the PAUSES 165 thread snaps, the fixed eye wanders, and the song collapses like a house of cards. Where the song is strophic and the pause is written before each verse, the intention of the composer is generally the same throughout; but where such a pause first occurs (marked or unmarked) in the middle of a song, it generally imphes a change of sentiment and probably a corresponding change of colour. For instance, a pause before the last verse of Charles Wood's "Ethiopia saluting the Colours" is indispensa- ble. The regiments have gone by, the old woman has disappeared, the day is over and the story is done. The last verse is a meditation pure and simple, and the "narrative" has given place to the "far away" colour of reminiscence. In that pause the speaker must have seen the last soldier disappear, watched the old woman out of sight, turned back to his tent, eaten his dinner, and lit his pipe. The actual dramatic pause is well illustrated in the "mad" song — "Dead, long dead," from Arthur Somer- vell's "Maud." Here the pauses are inter-paroxysmal, and are used illustratively to separate the moods, the contrasts being thrown into relief by the silences be- tween. There is a pause known in German as the "Kunst- pause," or "artistic pause," which cannot be definitely counted as either a "note" or "rest" pause, because it can come on either. It is a pause, generally of infinitesi- mal duration, before a given word, made for piu-poses of emphasis (generally quite gentle) ; a miniature stopping of the rhythm to point a finger. (See the reference, on p. 69 above, to the word "asleep" in Stanford's "Fairy Lough.") It has as antithesis the infinitesimal 166 INTERPRETATION IN SONG anticipation of the beat in strongly rhythmical songs, used to push the rhythm on more strenuously, if possible, than before. Both are delightfully effective, but must be used sparingly, for they degenerate quickly into man- nerisms. The "dynamic" pause made for purely dis- play purposes, though legitimate enough in its place, is of no interest, and need not be discussed here. The "cadence" pause for the ending of songs has also been treated of earlier (p. 81). There is one other pause which, however, must not be practised by beginners. It might be called the "magnetic" pause, as its purpose is outside actual interpretation. It often happens that even the most magnetic singer may fail to hold the attention of his audience. If he has a pause in a legitimate place in the song — both text and music must justify it — let him convert that pause into a dead silence and hold it. As the silence makes itself conspicuous, all eyes will return in very curiosity to the platform, the indefinable fidget- ing will melt away, the same dead silence will com- municate itself to the room, and the singer with the reins of attention in his hand can start fair afresh. The danger of all pauses is that they stop move- ment. The great composers knew it and know it. Schubert wrote no pauses in "Du bist die Ruh" or "Das Wirthshaus," or in any other song where they were not essential. In the whole bel canto, florid and rhythmical school they are rare, and chiefly used to enhance rhythm by the temporary "hold up." When he can use, and how long he can hold, his pauses is known to the interpreter by his sense of touch. RUBATO 167 RUBATO In musical language rubato is another word for elasticity of phrasing, and, as such, appropriates most of the credit for elastic interpretation. As a matter of fact it has no merit of its own whatsoever; it is simply the agent provocateur of rhythm. The charm of the Chopin rubato is not due to any elaboration or elongation of any group of notes, but to the return to the tempo primo when the elaborating process is over. It may, as in singing, be helped by change of colour, but inherent virtues of its own it has none. The concert-goer has unconsciously experienced this many a time. Some famous pianist has played a famous Nocturne with his famous rubato and has left him cold. Why? Because the search after rubato carried the player so far away from his fundamental rhythm that when it was found again, both player and hstener had forgotten all about it. If the rubato had been sufficient unto itself, he could not have had too much of it: but rubato alone, as the listener knows to his cost, is Dead Sea fruit. Its misunderstanding has been responsible among other things for the degenera- tion of the Hungarian dance as played in England. Cause and effect have been jumbled up, rubato has been promoted and rhythm degraded, and the resultant hotch-potch swallowed wholesale everywhere to-day for "Hungarian as she is played." Perhaps the concert- goer is still sceptical and requires further proof ? Has it ever occurred to him to ask why the more subtle rhythms 'such 'as f and | are practically invariably played without rubato f It is not from any difficulty of execution; 4 is as easy to play or sing as |. It 168 INTERPRETATION IN SONG is simply because here rubato does not pay. Such rhythms to Anglo-Saxon ears (this does not apply to those nations which have quintuple rhythm in their blood) are not compelling. They owe their charm to their unconventionality not their strength; there is no insistent demand for return to the tempo primo, and rubato, therefore, is but a waste of time. Take, again, an old song like the sixteenth century "Ein schon' Tageweis" with its alternating f, f and f. Such a fascinating lilt laughs at rubato and txu'ns it out of doors. There is no room for it, because every other bar is either the rubato or the tempo primo of the one before. Rubato ("robbed") by its very name implies friendly spoliation ; its strength hes, however, not in the taking away but in the giving back. To the big predatory rubato family belong the rallentando, accelerando, fermata, 'tenuto and all the like individuals that have been spoken of earlier. No more bloodthirsty band of yoimg cut-throats ever waylaid their mother in the passages and rifled her pockets at the point of the sword ; yet as she tucks them up in bed at night, and stows away their lethal weapons for the morrow, she thanks Heaven for a happy day. What they robbed her of they gave her back a hundred-fold. The singer may take it as an axiom that the success or failure of his rubato is in inverse ratio to his distance from his fundamental rhythm. The closer he holds to that, and the smaller the radius of his rubato, the more effective will be his interpretation. He is in far more danger than the instrumentalist, for the latter has music alone for his medium and, if he will have ex- traneous help, must appeal to platform eccentricities; CARRYING-OVER 169 whereas the singer in addition to the music has the words with their potentialities for evil as well as good. Over-elaboration, over-dramatising, over-senti- mentalising and cheap effect hide in the dark places, and each one holds a pistol at the head of rhythm. To join that band is to embark on a life of sin, and ultimate degeneration is but a matter of time. Rhythm will always be his best friend. ."We fell out my wife and I, And kissed again witli tears." Let him stick by her for better or for worse, and when he leaves her let the parting be short. CARRYING-OVER Carrying-over, or the joining-on without a break of one subject to another, is a matter for the singer's discretion. It is a purely musical effect and has, as a rule, no direct bearing upon the text other than a sympathetic one ; he must choose for himself where he will employ it. It is chiefly associated with the return of the first subject, and is generally accompanied by a ritenuto followed by the tempo primo of that subject. In its rubato, therefore, it strictly conforms to the conditions spoken of above. The necessity for such strictness can be illustrated by the following two widely differing examples : i , ,rit. ~r=- a tempo. K| 7 (; J j ^=^=* J^fe:g Hon mal-heur - euz a ■ mour. Boia i - pais 170 INTERPRETATION IN SONG i poco rit. I /^ I a tempo. ^ ^^ ^^ Bound myhap-py heart co2ia parte. S d S ' Tilllaxedher, "mayl II cut6a pant gait r J7X3 J J F P I The first is from a song^C'Bois ^pais" by Lully) which is sung adagio to begin with. If, after the additional slowing down contained in the ritenuto, the resumption of the tempo primo is not strict, the whole song becomes debauched. The second (" Trottin' to the Fair," Old Irish, arranged by Stanford) is marked allegretto and derives its charm from its insistent rhythm (the trotting of the pony). Here the rubato is simply a "hold up" to render the rhythm more telling than ever when it returns. The strict return of tempo primo in the first was defensive, in the second offensive. In pvu-ely strophic songs where the return of the subject is in the form of a "tag," reiterating the same sentiment in each verse, that tag is certainly stronger when not joined on by a carry-over. The sentiment seems to gain strength by isolation. In Schubert's "Litanei," even though the preceding phrase ends on the fourth and has a natural progressive tendency downward, the final "tag" is stronger and less senti- mental if started afresh each time, and its importance as the motto of the song is emphasised. CARRYING-OVER 171 In the Rondeau where the first subject recurs at least twice, the musical feeling seems to demand variation of treatment even of the same sentiment. Here the singer would do well to keep his carry-over till the last recurrence of the subject. "Plaisir d'amour" by Martini is a case in point. If in the second verse he breathes after the words "un autre amant," and starts his "plaisir d'amour" afresh, then the carry-over from the "chang4 pourtant" to the "plaisir d'amour" in the final verse will round oflE the song. In Schumarm's "Du Ring an meinem Finger" the carry-over at the second re-entry of the subject conveys a directly illustrative meaning. One can see the speaker's ecstatic gaze into space gradually return to the ring upon her finger, and can follow its actual trajectory in the carry-over. This is, of course, read into it by the singer. The composer has given no indication of it, but has trusted to the return of the tempo primo (which, as usual, he has not marked) for his effect. The carry-over being essentially musical and bel canto, is dependent upon perfected technique. The singer cannot ride off on dramatic substitutes, for there are none. The carry-over, like all other rubato effects, has no inherent merits of its own, but depends upon the tempo primo for its livelihood. No singer should attempt to use it unless he has plenty of breath in reserve with which to tackle the tempo prima when he gets to it. 172 INTERPRETATION IN SONG THE MELISMA The Melisma, or quasi-florid cadenza, on the other hand, is directly illustrative, either of the immediate words or of the mood of the song. It gives the singer a purely vocal passage, in which by rubato and colour, used con discrezione, he can illustrate the sentiment without being trammelled by diction. Probably the greatest examples are in Bach. It is hard to say whether i :| l^fF^ i* -•--^ 3E^ =1 and he went out and wept bit - ter - ly. the passage from the St. Matthew Passion, or r^Adagio. and he went forth and wept i i^^^S f^^^=r= :i^ U Ui [P:: bit -ter - ly, and wept ^^^^^^m bit -ri- ter - ly. its counterpart from the St. John Passion, is the more beautiful, the more illustrative or the more moving ; while for sheer ferocity the famous passage from the latter work, THE MELISMA 173 :^I'^=M i^—f~^s m -# . . ft =W- f^ »- — «- Efe; #^ ^^^^ 1^^^^^ ed Him. -d-i '-.T-^ ^ 1-"^ w 174 INTERPRETATION IN SONG taken with its context, surpasses in realism anything of to-day. All three are extremely difficult vocally, but, when sung by one who appreciates his privileges, move the hearer profoundly. The second is probably more difficult than the first, for it is longer and has a rhythmic accompaniment, and is consequently less ad libitum, but both depend upon pure phrasing handled with emotional effect. They illustrate one of the most touching and human moments in the world's greatest fetory, and the singer should come to it well prepared. The third is so vivid in its illustration that it dictates its treatment. The rhythmical accents must fall like lashes, callous, relentless, regular, with no variation whatever. Here, if ever, the rhythm carries an accent on every beat. The passage must be so physically handled that it never pauses for a fraction of a beat, and, in addition, the natural and illustrative diminuendo of the descending phrase, and crescendo of the rising, must be given graphically. This entails considerable reserve power and dexterity of manipulation, and the singer will do well in this, as in the other two, to memorise the passage, so that he may have all his faculties free for concentration upon its delivery. The short melismn — so short as to be scarcely more than a highly-developed turn — at the end of the verses in Schubert's "Ungeduld" is simply illustrative of mood. ben I - wig e • wig blei . The sentiment, as the name implies, is "impatient," and the illustrative florid passage, being just aa THE MELISMA 175 expression of exuberant spirits, is rattled off with no appreciable rvbato; whereas in Hubert Parry's "A Lover's Garland" the melisma, though the same in each verse, expresses a different sentiment, and is handled differently, each time it occurs. poco rit. m p ^^^m I'm weav conveys the idea of weaving ; ing too. poco rit. _ Ji I I I I crei. i««,..^ f for He lio • do brow. the feeling of triumph at the completion of the wreath of flowers, and its offering to Heliodora ; and meno mosso. P dim. py they I In-to her bosom, O hap * Without taking breath, if the singer's sigh of admiration as he pictures it upon her brow and sees in imagination the petals fall into her bosom. (The composer is not responsible for these detailed expression marks; he left the interpretation to the singer.) 176 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Again, in the same composer's delightful "Laird of Cockpen," it is used to illustrate in turn (1) the length of the lady's pedigree, (2) the egregious pomposity of the Laird, (3) ^her curtsey of refusal ; and the singer consequently has splendid opportimities for illustrative tone-colour. Compare also his soprano song "The Maiden." The melisma in the Lied or Song, being free in its handling, demands strict resumption of the tempo primo the moment it is over. THE FINISH OF A SONG A song can be marred — if not made — by its finish. All its points, if the song has been sung as a whole, seem to gather together for that climax, and here, if ever, the singer's sense of touch should be true to him. As said before, you can tell a master of style by his cadences alone, and, as usual, those cadences are sur- rounded by enemies. The majority of songs end in a movement either down or up. The commonest way of emphasising a close is by the rallentando accom- panied by the portamento. The portamento, called more commonly and appropriately the slur, is the bosom friend of sentimentalism, cheap effect, and con- traltos. It is so dangerous, and has such a debauching effect upon sentiment when mishandled, that it is never allowed in pairs. This is not optional or a question of taste ; the laws of singing do not allow two consecutive slurs. The contralto with her arm round the first, looks at the other with a longing eye, hesitates, catches sight of the poUceman and passes THE FINISH OF A SONG 177 along in tears. If it were suggested to her that she might be better parted from the first as well, she would prefer suicide. Though she does not beheve it, the end of her beloved "Caro mio ben" would be infinitely stronger and cleaner without it, and more effective in the end. The slur, no doubt, does convey the physical impression of approaching climax or the end of a song, and where the style of the music or the innate sense of the text demands that outward form of expression it is both effective and legitimate; but it has been exalted out of its .proper sphere to such a giddy position that it has lost both its head and its manners. There is an innate vulgarity about it which will out whenever it is given a free hand. It is hard to say which is the more dangerous, the downward or the upward slur — to the contralto probably the down- ward, as giving more scope for fog-horn effects. The ear has provided for both to some extent by exacting the touching, or anticipatory sounding, of the final note as a toll to clean phrasing; but both have the disad- vantage, when occurring between the penultimate and final beats, of giving an inflated value to the un- important note, word, or syllable. The slur is the ally of small phrasing. To the salesman who has been dealing out snippets, the "work- off " of a roll of shoddy at the day's end is big business. The broad phraser, on the other hand, has plenty in re- serve and, from the very size of the whole, can afford, if he will, to end even in small. Would any master of style end the "Erlkonig" with a slur between the words "war todt," or even treat them as a climax? Would he defile the simplicity of Franz's intimate little masterpiece "Im Rhein im heiligen Strome" N 178 INTERPRETATION IN SONG with a slur on the final "genau"? Would he slur from "till" to "I die" in the last line of the old Irish "Gentle Maiden" ; or would he dare to slur down the last "leh groUe nicht" ? If the phrasing in each ease were big it would give the slur the lie. There are cases, on the other hand, where the slur is deeply expressive of the meaning; such as the end of Schubert's "Doppelganger," where the slur, almost dragged down i I* ■*=r— If rf=F^=g portamento. in al ter Zeit. gives the picture of the man's head sinking into his hands, and links up the tragedy of to-day with that of old times; or the final words of the "Dichterliebe" — "Schmerzjhinein" — where, after a Kunst-pause between the two words — to sum up all that has gone before — a definite slur takes all the singer's love and suffering, lays them in the great cofiBn, and sinks coflBn and all down in the depths of the Rhine. There is a species of half-slur of which the last two notes of Schumann's "Widmimg" furnish an example. The semi-portamento from the res of "bess'res" to the "ich" is a quasi-abandon to round off the abandon of the whole song and its sentiment, and as such is forgivable. But nine slurs out of ten are rank sentimentality. There are various legitimate helps to "ending" effects; such as the Kunst-pause, or "artistic" pause, referred to 'above; the emphasising of the initial con- sonant or aspirate, as the case may be, of the final word; and the appropriate use of the anti-climax. THE FINISH OF A SONG 179 An excellent example of the first two is the ending of Schumann's "Du bist wie eine Blume." ritard. Kunst-pauae, ^^^^^^1 So rein und schon und told. A sliu: from the leading-note to the tonic would be detestable, and, from the value allotted to the former by the composer, unjustifiable. Not only would it give an undeserved prominence to the conjunction und, but it would discount the majesty of the word hold ("noble") by tacking it on to its insignificant subject — a very disreputable morganatic marriage. It also discounts the strength of the aspirate in hold, which is vital to the nobility of the word. Un- questionably the way to end the song is by making a slight "Kunst-pause" (infinitesimal in duration, but definite) after und, and by slightly accentuating the following aspirate — both words sung pp and with absolute simplicity. (The leading-note from its nature is generally on an unimportant beat and equally unimportant word or syllable, and does not deserve slurs or prominence of any sort, except in a rising crescendo leading to a forte, when its inflated value is lost in the strength of its resolution on the tonic.) The anti-climax, in its right place can be the most effective of climaxes. Its effect, being unexpected, gives a thrill which the obvious can never give. The only thing to remember about it is that such effects must be true ; the dragged-in anti-climax is an abomi- nation. The last words of the " Erlkonig " — wartodt — 180 INTEEPEETATION IN SONG are a case in point. One could not make a climax out of them if one would. The Sturm und Drang which have gone before are far bigger dynamically than they. To make a physical climax of them, the singer would have to shout. But the father did not shout ; he was stunned. He did not even speak ; he saw. The more quietly the narrator tells you that the boy was dead, the more dramatic his climax. Take, again, the last words of "AUnachtlich im Traume" from the "Dichterliebe." m m^^^\ ^^m&^^ ^ lohwa-ohe auf, und der Strauss ist fort, und's M «i//- pmm :^=^ ^ 3tzi 5=3z Wort hab' ieh ver-ges - sen. Here, superficially, the despair of his awakening would imply an outburst on these very words ; but the out- burst is begun at "ich wache auf," and is over at the word "Wort." Then comes a rather long Kunst-pause, in which his head drops into his hands while he dumbly racks his memory, and then, quite quietly, the plain statement "hab' ich vergessen," more full of hopeless- ness than all that has gone before. In many songs such as these, anti-climaxes are another name for simplicity. The mere statement of a fact, the simple answer to a question, the expression of a quiet thought are the strongest in their effect. The last words of Walford Davies's "When Childher plays," and the answers to the questions throughout THE FINISH OF A SONG 181 Harold Darke's "Uphill," are models of the inherent strength of simpleness. But the greatest anti-climax in musical literature is probably the famous short recitative : Amo Solo. gia^^^ ^ ^'-=e — •-J — P It is fin - ish'd. tr. i &^ ^-^: Recitative — Evangelist. I^^^i^;^^ i g|^g: And He bow'd His head, and de-pai-ted, ES=3=£z -&- Eecitativb. gj^ p 33^E s^ -1^. ■ ^ 1 — from the St. John Passion. What drama or pathos could the singer put into those words that are not inherent in them already? Not only do they imme- diately follow one of the most touching airs that even Bach ever wrote, but they are in themselves the end of all things, the end of the greatest tragedy in the world. No human interpretation could add one jot 182 INTEEPRETATION IN SONG or tittle to their touching simplicity. One feels that with the "Man of Sorrows, despised and rejected of men," such a simplicity is in keeping; one leaves them unadorned, and says them, and no more. And yet if such an abstinence were forced, or sounded untrue, the narrator would do better to sing them with all the emotion of which he is capable, than risk any approach to artificiality. In the ending of most songs the governing element is pace. If the singer has absorbed his atmosphere) kept up the march, and sung mentally through his rests, then atmosphere, march and rests must be con- sistent to the end ; otherwise he will not have treated the song as a whole. Because the approach to home favours a slower stride that stride need not degenerate into a lounge. The end of a song, like its interpolated rubatos, grows weaker the farther it strays from its fundamental rhythm. The closer the singer holds, consistently with his climaxes, to that rhythm to the end, the stronger that end and the cleaner his style. The broader the treatment of his song, the less fuss he requires to end it. The last phrase of the "little" song is generally a Gulliver among the Lilliputians. CONSISTENCY This question of consistency is all-important to the song in large. The temptation to drop a song tempo- rarily from its level in order to illustrate a word or a sentence is overpowering. But the gain to the words is a poor compensation for the loss to the music ; and the music'g the thing. Instances could be quoted without number,, but one will do : CONSISTENCY 183 mf i ens. poco a poco alfine -t- WoUst end-lioh son-der Gram ■ en aus die • ser Welt und i =?«=^ zt 1 — I- neh - men durch rt ik ei - nen sanf-ten Tod; und 1 i/ ' 1 1 1 wenndu una ge • nom - men, lass una in Him-mel i 22Z f==Hf=f kom - men, da un - ser Herr und un • ser Gott I This is the beginning of the last verse of Schulz's (1790) famous " Abendlied." The two previous verses have been sung piano, and devotionally, like a vesper hymn. In the last verse — where the hymn is treated as a song — the singer works it up emotionally by a steady crescendo from the beginning to the end. If, in answer to the call for appropriate dynamic and colour treatment of the words "einen sanften Tod" ("a gentle death"), he drops from his level to illustrate them, his crescendo is no more, his consistency is gone and his song become a thing of shreds and patches. Such hyper-conscientious illustration, like its twin- sister over-elaboration, is fatal to interpretation, and wherever it shows its seductive charms must be spurned with the heroism of a St. Senanus. (Compare Hubert Parry's "When lovers meet again," in which the words "Peace rocks the world in calm" are marked crescendo.) WORD-ILLUSTRATION (N.B. — This should be read in connection with Main Rule III.) Many readers will remember the famous onomato- pceic 7ro\v OaXaa-atji ("the loud-roaring sea") of their schooldays. Its dynamic potentialities can be expressed in actual musical signs as follows : ■iro\v > > > > > > strong, crude, froat, 6nght, curse, blow, Aate, > > > > > &2ood, ring, sAame, stunned, 2augh, eto. Others gain pictorially by a distinct crescendo and diminuendo on the vowel following the accentuated consonant : <> <> <> <><_><> 6road, creed, proud, tall, sMne, Aate (where the < > < > sentiment is lasting or deep), /reeze, gueen, <><><> <> <> <> (2eep, cool, calm, raoan, mourn, scythe (to eon- < > < > vey the idea of its swath), graze, swoon (ex- < > < > pressing gradual unconsciousness), «)aft, c2osed, eto. 186 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Many of these gain enhanced effect by a distinct sounding of the final consonant or consonants as well : < > < > < > <.> < > < > < > ha,te, stunned, sha?ree, shine, round, swoon, gaze, <> <> <><> <> <> <:> dream, peace, flame, blush, fresh, freeze, sing, < > drone. " Still his hurdy-gurdy droTies and drojies away." The droned n here is far more expressive than any holding of the vowel sound. Some monosyllabic words are sung as though they were followed by an exclamation mark ( ! ) : struck ! pluck ! fife ! wept ! haste ! dip I drip ! shock ! shook I dance ! swift I quick I snap ! kissed 1 touch ! gnash ! etc. , The same accentuation of initial consonants applies here too; the finals, however, are shortened with a distinct "snap." Dissyllables have the double advantage of the use of the consonant and the contrasts between the long and the short foot in the word. A strong push, or gentle blow (as the case may be), on the long foot (accompanied by accentuation of the consonants), fol- lowed by a distinct shortening of the short foot, gives a pictorial value to such trochees as : ■ \J \j "sweetly." The sibilant and the crescendo and diminiiendo on the ee (a very pure ee) are expressive of the word. 192 INTERPRETATION IN SONG vy "strangely." A pure trochee with the short syl- lable hardly sounded. The sibilant and vowel must have the same value and colour as in "suddenly" to convey wonder. "hlxished." The colour stole to her face slowly. A lengthening of the sh can tell you so. The "Kunst-pause" after "met" implies a question. "By what?" Answer, "By my own." "By my own" must be stmg with extreme sim- plicity. It is a climax by anti-climax, far more powerful than any laboured air of triumph. The carry-over from "eyes" to "and suddenly" shows the concentration of his gaze. It almost implies a gesture as though when she lifted her eyes he un- consciously half rose from his knees. Strange to say, the "suddenly" sounds more unexpected (when sung with appropriate tone-colour) joined on than separated. Here we have in six bars of music not only five subtle examples of word-illustration, but a Kunst-pause, a carry-over and an anti-climax into the bargain ! To some people language has no pictorial value; to them it is but a ne'cessary means to commonplace ends. But even the slovens have their apologists. In every concert-room to-day, where sweet music is bedraggled in the teUing, one can hear the deprecatory remark that English is a poor language to sing — made by the possessors of the EUzabethans, of the "Blest Pair of Sirens," of the "sounding brass and the tinkling cfmhii," of the 104th Psalm and the Book of Job ! EXPRESSION MARKS 193 DISEEGARD OF WRITTEN EXPRESSION MARKS At first blush this looks like rank heresy. But were expression marks made for man or man for expression marks? One thing is certain, the greater the music intrinsically, the fewer the arbitrary ex- pression marks. Bach and Schubert were not afraid. It is only the cheap-jack who overloads his score with our old friends cheap effect and over-elaboration. The composer's expression marks are the expression marks of the individual composer and may not suit the individual singer. The strong composer knows this well, and if his music is strong enough to stand as music, hands over its interpretation to the individual, conscious that, if that individual is to be trusted, the great essentials will be treated with profound respect. Many a modern song the interpreter looks at with a shudder. Riddled with expression marks and even breathing marks, hedged in with arbitrary directions, radiating polyglot colloquialisms, it looks like a barbed wire entanglement. Singer and accompanist smile at one another, study the song as a whole, and sing it their own way. If this book preaches anything, it preaches indi- vidualism. Communism in music is another name for conventionality and reeks of stale beer. The skilled labourer is worthy of his hire, and the hand-made will ever be greater than the machine-made as a work of art. To the strong composer the strong interpreter is a man to be trusted. He knows that all his pianos and fortes, and affrettandos and con grazias, while necessary for the imitator, are superfluous or restrict- ing to the individual, and he leaves the individual 194 INTERPRETATION IN SONG untrammelled in their handling. A touch of enterprise is worth all the expression marks in his vocabulary. One singer has different gifts, vocal and tempera- mental, from another ; the rigid following of expression marks may spell success for this and failure for the next. But there is a broader aspect to it than this. A song may affect one singer emotionally in a quite different way from another. The actual sound of the music, quite apart from the singer's gifts or limitations, may move one man to tears and another to anger, and another even to laughter. Brahms's "Vergebliches Standchen" is treated by some singers in a spirit of semi-seriousness and coloured accordingly. Others it does not affect in the same way. To them it is a little cinematograph scene with subdued laughter (on one side at any rate) running all through it, played at a great pace and over in a minute. To ask either arbitrarily to adopt the other reading is to ask them to swallow their convictions. In his treatment of the well-known masterpieces, the singer is faced by Tradition. Tradition has its advantages and its drawbacks. There are some tradi- tions which no individualist will ever transgress. These are built on such solid foundations, and the structure is so beautiful architecturally, that to touch them would be vandalism. Some traditions again — in matters of tempo especially — have been handed down by the great interpreters and should not be departed from — for change for change's sake is fatuous. But tradition can be exalted into a fetish and may be just as futile in practice and dangerous to trust to in emergency. Traditions in singing have generally been established by some great singer. That singer has had vocal and CONCLUSION 195 mental gifts far above his fellows, and the standard of his traditions may be as far above other men's heads after his death as his interpretation was in his lifetime. Because Stockhausen sang a Schubert song like no one else in his individual way, it does not follow that every singing pupil of every Conservatoire should be fitted physically and intellectually to adopt the reading of the greatest individual master of Lieder-singing of our time. Tradition has been responsible for the smothering of many a talent, if not for actual physical damage to the singer. Tradition of the great inter- pretations is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. It should stand on a pedestal for all to see and compare with ; but it should never be made a table of commandments. Individuality and imagination are the greatest gifts of all; useless tradition cramps the one and kills the other. But individuality must be as responsible as imagination is spontaneous ; the singer who alters a composer's marks for originality's sake, or insults tradition from wantonness, is an impostor and a foe to progress. "Con discrezione in that and many other things." In conclusion, the interpreter should bear the following axioms in mind : Don't make too many cUmaxes in your song; they spoil one another. Don't hammer in your nails with a sledge-hammer ; the music does it for you. Don't forget that it requires as much trouble to sing "Die Rose die Lilie" as "Der Erlkonig," and that each is as perfect a work of art as the other. 196 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Don't forget that in most cases increase of effect is gained by broadening and slowing down rather than by quickening, provided always that such broadening is in keeping with the fundamental rhythm ; it is only in the quick song, as a rule, that climax is achieved by increase of pace. Don't forget that time-signatures imply a promise which must not be broken. Don't forget that rhythm has to be indemnified for the use of rubato. Don't paint your details at the expense of your picture. Don't forget that long phrasing has no intrinsic merits of its own. It is great as an enhancement of rhythm and the friend of the song in large, and therefore of style ; when it does not fit with these, it carries no weight. Don't "interpret" where interpretation is not wanted. Don't point out the joke in humorous songs. Don't forget that the music's the thing. To the Accompanist. Don't make a rallentando in the opening symphony immediately before the entrance of the voice, imless it is either specially marked in the score or agreed upon by both performers as advisable, and rehearsed. When unexpected it is liable to throw the singer who is observing Main Rule II. out of his stride. This applies particularly to rhsrthmical songs. Don't forget that it is easier for the singer to hold you back than to hurry you on. Don't make "pianistic" effects that have not been rehearsed. CONCLUSION 197 Don't wait for the singer, except as part of the rehearsed interpretation — if you can trust him. When all is said and done, there are many things that can never be put in black and white ; things that come from nowhere and make the singer change his whole reading even at the last moment on the very platform. Such are little private messengers from his brain to his tongue, intimate little spirits who whisper in his ear at the very last, or draw aside the curtain for an instant and show him a glimpse of fairyland, or lure him on to break the law or invent new laws for the nonce. He may trust them. They are the ambassadors of temperament, the little call-boys of imagination, and where they call him he may safely follow. The true interpreter will break every rule and conform to none of these standards when it suits him so to do. If he is a man of refinement, he will never break the unwritten law; if he is a man of honour, he will not betray the composer. But one thrill is worth a thousand orthodoxies. PART IV THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS In most branches of music England in the last forty years has advanced with giant strides ; in one she has stood still, if not actually gone back — England's "popular" song is utterly unworthy of her. Its "popularity" and its unworthiness are due to the work- ing of a certain commercial system, which there is no intention to discuss here further than to say that the system in itself has great possibilities, and if applied to the advancement of good instead of bad song would be of undoubted service to music. As it is, it must be confessed that the "popular" song of to-day in healthi- ness of sentiment and workmanship shows a marked decadence since the days of Hatton or even Virginia Gabriel. The song makes by far the widest musical appeal. It is bought and sung by thousands who have never heard an orchestral or chamber concert in their lives. Its power for good or evil is proportionately great; and there is no doubt that the low standard of the "popular" song by its very universality bars progress in what is probably the most musically-gifted country of to-day. So long as the public are satisfied with bad 198 \ THE CLASSIFICATION OP SONGS 199 stuff, so long they will be given it. The change must come from them. They think that they are supplied with what they demand ; in reaUty they are demand- ing what is supplied. If they will but realise that the average "popular" song at the average "popular" concert is not sung on its merits, but for commercial reasons, they may begin to see the light. The English- man has a natural and rational prejudice against the charlatan; let him once understand that the singing of a song in public by the professional singer is no guarantee of its intrinsic virtue, and the days of the bad song will be numbered. The step from realisation to discrimination will be a short one, and the barrier across the people's right-of-way will be demoUshed for good and all. The "cheap" song is the property of the cheap-jack composer, and it begets a line of slovens. So long as it holds the field, there will be no room for interpretation. Songs may be roughly classified as Folk-songs, Simple Strophic Songs, and Art-songs. Folk-songs. These are practically always in strophic or stanza form. Simple Strophic Songs. These are modelled on the idea of the folk-song and provided by the composer with an instrumental accompaniment. They are the polished and conscious editions by artistic composers of what in the folk-song was the result of imconscious, purely human, instinct — trying to explain itself and eventually doing so by means of melody. Art-songs. In these the music is not bound by the stanza form of poetry, but forms a ruiming commentary on its contents with a pictorial and 200 INTERPRETATION IN SONG emotional background provided by the accompani- ment.* There is no particular reason why songs should be gathered into groups except for convenience' sake. If they can be classified, the same main idea of inter- pretation, or, rather, the same attitude of mind, or mood, towards the individual song, will practically apply to all those which come under the same heading. Many songs belong to more than one group, but even in these one group indicates the mood while the others refer to secondary considerations. The classification of songs is governed by the question — What dominates the course or constitutes the atmosphere of the song as a whole ? In some songs the answer is written so that he who runs may read. They carry their meaning so openly on the surface that their interpretation is a merely physical matter. This applies, as said before, to the. bel canto, florid and (in a less degree) rhythmical groups, and even to those songs of reminiscence in which "the days that are no more" are actually and verbally made the subject of the poem and its musical setting. But the most interesting songs are psychological, and on the sensitiveness of the singer depends the individuality of his reading. One thing is sure — if he is individual and sensitive he will make that reading his own for good and all, and will let everything go that interferes with it. The song as a whole will so take possession of his mind that note-values and expression marks, and all other details which do not come into line with his imagination, will go down ' For the above admirable definitions the author is indebted to a lecture by Mr. Walter Ford. THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS 201 before the reading in large. But like most heretics he has to start by being sincere. In all essays upon attitudes of mind it is impossible to escape a certain air of priggishness which is even more annoying to the reader than the didacticism of rules ; but the sincerity of the heretic must be pleaded in mitigation of damages. To say, for instance, that in Atmospheric songs the voice-part is invariably subjective, that the greatest tribute the audience can pay a singer is to be only subconsciously aware of his share in the song, that the song, as a whole, if the singer has played fair, should have so absorbed the mind of the listener, that the singer's personality has been temporarily for- gotten, sounds highfalutin', but is none the less true. To say, too, that the mental treatments of Contemplative songs and Songs of Address are so strongly opposed, that the singer must feel his physical voice to sound in the one introspective and in the other telepathic, may sound a mixture of jargon, but it genuinely illustrates the intimate correlation of the mental and physical in the absorbing and interpreting of one song and another. It may be said of all songs that the more subtle the atmosphere and resultant mood, the more interesting the study of interpretation. The obvious always in- clines towards the merely physical. Songs may be roughly classified as : 1. Atmospheric. 2. Dramatic. 3. Narrative. 4. Songs of Characterisation. 5. Songs of Reminiscence. 6. Contemplative. 7. Songs of Address or Ode Songs. 202 INTERPRETATION IN SONG 8. Bel canto, Florid, and Rhythmical. 9. Ghost Songs. 10. Songs of Question and Answer. 11. Humorous and Quasi-humorous. 12. Folk-songs. (1) Atmospheric Songs, such as : Der Leiermann. | e. J Schubert. Branms. Gretohen am Spinnrade. Feldeinsamkeit. 1 Auf dem KireKhofe. J The Fairy Lough. Stanford. Nightfall in Winter. Parry. A Widow Bird. Luard Selby. and many of the most beautiful of Debussy's songs, and of the modem school in general. The word "atmospheric" does not necessarily imply anything to do with the weather, or that other songs have not atmosphere, but that these depend upon atmosphere as their dominating characteristic. Many, such as the two Schubert and the Luard Selby songs quoted above, have a definite insistent rhythmical accompaniment, which absorbs the attention and auto- matically renders the voice-part subjective. Atmos- pheric songs are rare, but by far the most subtle and interesting of all song-literature. (2) Dramatic Songs, such as : Der Erlkonig. Schubert. Waldesgesprach. Schumann. Vergebliches Standchen. Brahms. Ethiopia saluting the Colours. Charles Wood. La belle Dame sans Merei. Stanford. The twa Sisters o' Binnorie. Traditional. THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS in which the scene is acted in song and the characters differentiated by tone-colour. The last two are, of course, ballads, but so dramatic in treatment as to merge their narrative qualities in the action. "Ver- gebliches Standchen" is, as stated before, a little comedy played by two characters. (3) Narrative Songs, such as : Die beiden Grenadiere. Schumann. Die Porelle. Schubert. and the famous ballads of Loewe, and all ballads in which the story is the principal feature of the song. Many dramatic songs, such as "Der Erlkonig" and "Ethiopia saluting the Colours," assigned to the last group, overlap with Narrative songs. The last named, owing to its symbolical significance, almost overlaps with Atmospheric songs. (4) Songs of Characterisation, in which the singer assumes a character for the time being, and adopts its sentiments nominally as his or her own throughout. This applies to nearly all song-cycles, such as : Die schone Miillerin. Dichterliebe. Frauenliebe und Leben. , Maud. An Irish Idyll. Schubert. Schumann. Arthur Somervell. Stanford. or such songs as : Der Rattenfanger. Der Wanderer. The Vagabond. Hugo Wolf. Schubert. Vaughan Williams, These songs, and Narrative and Dramatic songs, are all closely associated. 204 INTERPRETATION IN SONG (5) Songs of Reminiscence: Der Doppelganger. Schubert. Es blinkt der Thau. Rubinstein. Silent Noon. Vaughan WiUiams. When Childher plays. Walford Davies. and the many settings of "Tears, Idle Tears" and other poems which deal with "the days that are no more." A vast number of songs belong to this group. It commends itself naturally to emotional composition and singing. Practically all songs written in the his- toric present — as moving in song as it is detestable in literature — are songs of reminiscence, and conse- quently extremely emotional. The scene described is pictured in the memory of the singer. "Feldeinsam- keit," written in the present tense, is purely atmos- pheric — just a dream-picture of blue skies and summer fields and drowsy happiness ; but in Vaughan Williams' setting of Rossetti's "Silent Noon" not only have we the blue skies and green fields and the dragon-flies and the hot summer day, but the whole song throbs with the love of a man for a woman on that day in the past, told us to-day. So in "Es blinkt der Thau" the very words doss es ewig so bliebe make us feel in our hearts that the day was long ago, and the speaker is living it through again in memory. The "days that are no more" must not be acted. The pictiu-e is too intimate, too sacred, to drag before the footlights. It is gone and dead and buried, but its memory is as green to-day as though it had ewig so geblieben. "Der Doppelganger" will be discussed later. The word "remember" is never necessary to the song of reminiscence. THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS 205 (6) Contemplative Songs. Another large field for the composer. In der Fremde (No. 1). ("Aus der Heimath.") Schumann. Die Mainacht. 1 Todessehnen. J Brahms. Auf dem Wasser zu singen. 1 Gesange des Harfners. J Schubert. Plaisir d'Amour. Martini. When Childher plays. Walford Davies. Corrymeela. 1 o* « j CushendaU. J Stanford. Such songs are mostly introspective. They are the musings of the poet's mind expressed in music; they may be inspired by reminiscence, as in "When Childher plays"; or by things seen conducive to reminiscence, such as the summer lightning in "In der Fremde"; or by the state of the poet's mind, as in "Die Mainacht ' ' ; or by the mental vision of some individual or place — "Plaisir d'Amour," "Corrymeela" and "Cushendall"; or they may be a frank homily on any given subject, such as the solitude of the "Harper's Songs." To be contemplative does not necessarily mean to be slow in tempo. Both Ernest Walker's and Battison Haynes's setting of the old words "Hey ! Nonny No," are vividness itself, yet both are contemplative; while Hubert Parry's "Love is a Bable" is as unquestionably contemplative as it is rough-and-tumble in its appro- priate treatment of the words. Many contemplative poems, such as "O loss of sight, of thee I most complain" from Milton's Samson Agonistes or Dekker's "Art thou poor? yet hast thou golden slumbers," are nominally addressed to some 206 INTERPRETATION IN SONG thing or condition of things or individual, but are in reality contemplative (in the first a contemplation on blindness, in the second on "sweet content"). In others the personality of a place may so overpower the speaker's consciousness that the contemplation becomes an ode. Such are Stanford's "Corrymeela" (an Irish Idyll), in which the longing for home lifts the man out of himself and projects his very being back to his glens of Antrim; and "Cushendall" (song- cycle Cushendall), where the thought of the little valley expands in its expression into a veritable worship. Such a worship of things temporal, when expressed in song (cf. Schumann's "Du bist wie eine Blume"), automatically divides this group from the next. (7) Songs of Address or Dedication, or "Ode" Songs, such as : An die Musik. An die Leyer. Schubert. Die AUmacht. Widmung. Schumann. Wie bist du, meine Konigin. Brahms. To Anthea. Hatton. To Lucasta. ' ToAlthea. Parry. The Roadside ] ^'ire. Vaughan Williams This is naturally another large group. The song need not necessarily be directly addressed to the individual; witness "Die AUmacht" which, though nominally a contemplation, is in reality an ode in praise of God. Most of these "Songs of Address" must presumably be semi-contemplative, and delivered to space. Their THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS 207 direct application to the victim is only imaginable on the stage ; even the most insatiable prima-donna would fidget in time under a four-or-five-page enumeration of her virtues when delivered in the Sahara or the privacy of her boudoir. They are thus both detached and telepathic. But the true telepathic song is of the type of "Now sleeps the crimson petal" by Roger Quilter, which carries the old troubadour idea of the singer's voice being meant primarily for someone else, and being mentally projected into that room within the castle. The songs of this group, however, generally carry their treatment on the surface. (8) Bel-canto Songs, such as : Caro mio ben. Giordani. Ombra mai fu. Handel. The Self-banished. Dr. Blow. Auf Fliigeln des Gesanges. Mendelssohn, and a vast proportion of the old school; all of which are not songs of interpretation at all, but depend upon being sung "instrumentally" with beautiful tone, phrasing and diction, and the following of technical rules — songs with a perfectly patent atmosphere. They include nearly all devotional songs, such as : Av^ Maria. } Schubert. Todessehnsucht. Bach. Abendlied. Schulz. Floodes of Tears. Traditional. Under bel canto come also florid songs which have no particular aesthetic value of their own, such as Bishop's "Bid me discourse" ; and the greater part of purely Rhythmical Songs. The latter are either : Schubert. 208 INTERPRETATION IN SONG (a) Positively illustrative of some rhythmical motion, such as the trotting of the horse in Schubert's "Abschied" or in the old Irish "Trottin' to the Fair," or of the hammers in Brahms's "Der Schmied," or of the "rocking" in boat-songs and lullabies. Or are (6^ negatively representative of some indi- vidual or mood in which there is no particular variety of sentiment or colour, the rhythm by its strength obviating monotony. Such are : Gia il Sole dal Gange. Aless. Scarlatti. Dithyrambe. Das Lied im Griinen. Wohin? Das Wandem. Corinna's going a maying. Ernest Walker.' The Old Superb (Sea Songs, No. 5). Stanford. The Vagabond. Vaughan WiUiams. Der Rattenfanger. Hugo Wolf. Some of these belong also to other groups, but one and all are dependent for their effect on tmflinching rhythuL To apply the word "monotonous" to any one of them, even hypothetically, seems ridiculous; but rhythm was the means deliberately used by the composer for the artistic end, and the song if sung without it will collapse. Or (c) use rhythm augmentatively for enhancing emotional or dramatic effect, as in Schumann's "Ich groUe nicht," where the insistent rhythm beats in the emotion of the voice; or Schubert's "Ungeduld," in which the "hurry" is conveyed by the rhythmical figure, not by interpolated accelerando; or in the "Gruppe aus dem Tartarus" (Schubert), where the relentlessness of punishment is hanmiered relentlessly THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS 209 and rhythmically into the mind; or the same senti- ment in "Dead, long dead," from Somervell's Maud cycle, where the rhythm of my heart is a handful of dust pomids like a pulse in the disordered brain. All rhythmical songs make their effect by direct appeal to the senses. Let the accompanist keep the song ever "pushing on." I time (and in a lesser degree its kindred f and ^-^) has remarkable rhythmical characteristics. One and the same time-figure can by treatment be made to illustrate a dozen things from remorselessness or fresh air to dancing or cradle-rocking. Compare the tremendous accents of Schubert's "An Schwager Kronos" or "Dithyrambe" with the ecstasy of Schumann's "An meinen Herzen, an meiner Brust," or with the swaying of the tree in "Der Nussbaum," or again with the pastoral beauty (^) of Bach's "Begliickte Heerde" ; or the thunder and fresh air of Stanford's "Song of the Sou-Wester" (Songs of the Fleet, No. 2), or "How does the wind blow?" (Cushen- dall, No. 6) with the gentle rocking of the wave in his "Boat Song" (|) or "Fairy Lough" (|), or with the lullabies of any period — nearly all in | or | time. But it is the f with the dotted quaver which give the singer his opportunity. That dot has extraordinary potentialities for good or evil, and the wise composer, knowing its dangers, however he may use it in hia accompaniment, writes it sparingly for the voice. The singer, rightly or wrongly, dots the quaver in f time where he likes. If he does it knowingly, with alter- nating even-quaver bars or beats, it is not only legitimate but admirable ; if he does it merely to help himself along, he can turn a lullaby into a jig. Thus p 210 INTERPRETATION IN SONG in the beautiful old Irish melody, "The Gentle Maiden," the following passage, i i ^ ^ ^ a^^i^S^^^;^^^ li¥- w ■»-^ There's one that is pure as an an - gel, and fail aa the Sowi's of Maf . if sung with strong accents and hyper-dotted quavers would sound like an ordinary pretty dance-tune; whereas by smoothing-over and manipulation of the dot it can be promoted into one of the purest pieces of cantilena in existence. The quavers here in the first bar must be so little dotted as to be scarcely distinguishable from even notes, and the dot must be actually removed in the second bar; then when it comes in the third bar it swings the melody on with a gentle lilt all its own. ^^^^^m ^ SS^ '-'-^ Theie's one that is pnie as an an ■ gel, and fair as the flowt's of May. In nothing is the singer's sense of touch and natural style more conspicuous than in the handling of f time in the voice-part as such and in its relation to the accompaniment. The dotting or undotting of the quaver is never noticed in detail by an audience, but its use or abuse is vaguely felt and put to the credit or debit of style unconsciously. This hd canto rhythmical group includes also the greater part of folk-songs and all the old German school of MinneUeder, such as "Von edler Art," "All mein Gedanken," "Einschon'Tageweis," "Wachterlied,"etc. The interest of all songs belonging to this group is THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS 211 musical rather than interpretative and their singing proportionately more difficult. (Basses are strongly recommended to study Purcell's "Ye twice ten hundred deities," which probably contains in a short space more varieties of bel canto, recitative, and styles of technique, than any song in existence.) (9) Ghost Songs, in which the idea of the actual ghost or the supernatural is conveyed by the tone- colour. Such as : Die Lorelei. Schumann. Through the Ivory Gate. Hubert Parry. O, ye Dead. 1 r>i^ t ■ v. The Song of the^ Ghost. J ^^^ ^^^• Le Dfipart de I'Ame. Old Breton. The more obvious idea of illustrating ghostliness in the human voice is by giving an inhuman, imearthly sound to the ghost-voice, and this is right where the ghostly presence is sinister (as in the "Erlkonig" or " Waldesgesprach"), but there are many instances, such as the Parry song above, where such ghost-voices bring a message of tenderness or consolation to the mortal who is left on earth; or where, as in "0, ye Dead," the ghost speaks with a passionate longing to return to earth and the friends of life. In such songs the ghost must sound human, the man unearthly — that is, in colour. In a song like Schumann's "Auf das Trinkglas eines verstorbenen Freundes" the whole atmosphere must be saturated with the dead man's presence, though the dead man never appears or speaks. (10) Songs of Question and Answer. These, though nominally in this form, are generally deeply introspective and serious. Stanford's "Broken Song" has been spoken of earlier (p. 82). 212 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Harold Darke's "Uphill," a setting of Christina Rossetti's famous poem "Does the road wind uphill all the way?" and the old Breton "Le Depart de I'Ame" are variants in question-and-answer form of the conversation between the Body and the Soul or the Mortal and Immortal. In these also the first is frightened and "unearthly," the second comforting and human, in colour. Compare also Hubert Parry's "Proud Maisie." The ordinary serious Question and Answer song is rather rare. Folk-song is full of its lighter forms such as "Spinnerliedchen" (in which the question is implied) and all the variants of "Where are you going to, my pretty maid?" etc. (11) Humorous and Quasi-humorous. Humorous songs are, providentially, part of the singer's accepted repertoire, but woe betide him if he tries to be funny ! The daub of a brush or a dig in the ribs will turn a bit of humour into a caricature, and laughter to resentment. The music is painter and caricaturist in one, and wants no help from outside. Hammering in the joke with a "Sold again!" and a slap on the back is not appreciated any more on the concert platform than in the smoking-room of a club. The number of actually comic songs in legitimate music is small. On rare occasions an audience actually bursts out laughing, and then — it is to be hoped — at the words and music, not at the per- formance. The dehghtful exaggerations of the old English "Crocodile" or the Hibemianisms of the "Soliloquy" are furmy enough in all conscience by themselves. To drive the point home by further exaggeration of delivery is akin to bidding the audience laugh at the mouth of a blunderbuss. THE CLASSIFICATION OF SONGS 213 Dialect is a great asset in humorous songs, and here the English singer (or composer or poet) has no shame. The stereotyped three-verse English poem (?) about Pat and Molly and the Pig is turned out by the hundred yearly in this country, set in f jig-time by the English composer, and simg with roast-beef accent, unblushing effrontery and oleaginous self-satisfaction by the English singer. The following are excellent examples of hiunorous song: The Laird of Cockpen. Hubert Parry. The Bells of Clermont Town. Mary. A. M. Goodhart. The Sailor's Consolation. The Crow. 1 Daddy-Long-Legs. \ ("CushendaU.") C. V. Stanford. The Old Navy. and a large number of folk-songs. The Gilbert and Sullivan operas are, of course, full of them. Under this heading also comes that class of song, half-humorous, half -affectionate, such as : Johneen (an Irish IdyU). , ^_ ^_ ^^^^^^^^^ Did you ever? ("CushendaU •■,1' The little song-cycle referred to — Stanford's "Irish Idyll " — contains in its six numbers an example each of the Contemplative — Ode, Atmospheric, Reminiscence, Humorous — Affectionate, Question and Answer, and Dramatic — Contemplative groups. In the last song half the scene is played in Question and Answer form in Canada, the other half in the "silver waters of the Foyle" at hQme, SONG-<^YCLES SoNG-CTCLES at first blush would seem to demand a long chapter to themselves. To treat them in detail, which is the only way to discuss them adequately, is impossible in this particular volume for reasons of space. Song-cycles, as a matter of fact,- are but the song in large. As the song in large is permeated and governed by an atmosphere of its own to which all the detailed phrases are subordinate, and to which at the same time every detailed phrase contributes, so on the higher scale, mutatis mutandis, the song-cycle takes the place of the song and the song of the phrase. Song-cycles, for some reason, are almost invariably tragic. The siager of the "Dichterliebe" must be standing at attention before the first note is played, with his mind saturated with the tragedy of what is to come. He need not be afraid; the happiness of the opening will not be marred by the tragedy of his mood. His contrasts will be all the better for it. He must remember that if the audience does not know the course of that unhappy love-story, he does. He may act it, and paint every moment of every mood of every song with all the vividness he knows; he may shudder at the "dreadful hollow," call Maud from her dancing to the "woodbine spices" and 214, SONG-CYCLES 215 "musk of the rose" in the garden, or dash his head against the stones in "Dead, Long Dead"; yet he knows the tale of the "Dichterliebe" or of "Maud" by heart before ever he begins to sing it. To him, at least, there are no secrets there: the atmosphere of the whole wraps him round. Song-cycles are essentially the Song of Characteri- sation in large. The singer must assume the character for the time being, and act the story and its moods dramatically as it moves along. But no moment, no single song, must for purpose of passing effect be allowed to step out of the picture of the whole. Over- elaboration and cheap effect ruin the song-cycle as inevitably as the song ! Song-cycles are mostly written in the historic or dramatic present, and, as said above, must be acted. But however faithfully the acting be done, it is impossible to feel them as other than reminiscent. The music of the song gives a sacredness to the great human tragedies which the mind shrinks from violating. We see them on the stage, and are profoundly moved by them ; but ennoble them with music and we instinctively uncover our heads. We think of them as having been, and keep them from the limelight. THE SINGING OF FOLK-SONGS Folk-songs for the purpose of this book must be held to cover traditional tunes generally, whether they be genuine folk-songs, ballads, or old tunes to which modem words have been put. They are one and all governed by one rule of para- mount importance. Main Rule I. Never stop the march of a song. This is the key to folk-song singing. The folk-song, or traditional song, is generally very beautiful in form, and so dependent upon balance in structure — with long curving melodic phrases — that the shghtest break tilts the balance over and brings the whole structure to the ground. If you break the phrases in the middle to take breath — and even in places where in the ordinary song it would be legitimate — you break the lines of the song whose structural design depends upon unbroken continuity. The modem art-song is written and phrased by the composer to fit the words; but with the traditional song this is not necessarily so. Some have come down to us, words and music alike, as they stand; but a vast number (especially the greatest of all — the Irish) as tunes alone, and to these modem words have been 216 THE SINGING OF FOLK-SONGS 217 put with masterly dexterity by such men as Thomas Moore of old and Alfred Perceval Graves of our own time. In many cases the poet — especially in the case of fiddle-tunes — has had to dispense with the name-idea of the tune and write an entirely original poem. Thus, at the hands of one or other of the afore- mentioned : ."If the sea were ink" becomes "Lay his sword by his side." "O what shall I do with this silly old man?.',' becomes "Colonel Carty." ."She hung her petticoat up to dry" becomes "One at a time." ."Whish the cat from under the table'! becomes " Katey Neale." "The twisting of the rope" becomes "How dear to me the hour." "Leather-bags Donnell" becomes "The Alarm." ."Better let 'em alone" becomes (appropriately) "The Kil- kenny cats.'.' Many, such as "The little red Fox" which was originally a quick dance tune and altered by Moore to the splendid "Let Erin remember," have been com- pletely metamorphosised by the modern words and have consequently no textual characteristics to guide the singer. Processes have been reversed; words have been fitted to existing music, not music to words. Therefore by the music alone the singer must be influenced. He may use all his reserves of tone- colour and word-illustration to give point to the text, but the beginning and end of all things in the folk-song is the integrity of the musical phrase. Let the singer take the Stanford setting of the lovely old Irish tune "My love's an arbutus" (A. P. Graves), and experiment for himself. 218 INTERPRETATION IN SONG ^. XX te: »i-^^ ^sg=3 -t- My love's an ar - bu - tus By the bor-ders of ■^ X ' XX ^ x' i i^ S =!; E^ 1 — I- Lene, So slender and shapely In her gir-dle of green, And I X . i %s n XX ^H-p-prp^-* -1- n WtiiJ :id: mea-sure the plea-sure of her eye's aap-phire sheen By the -& ^ =C5 XX 5tS ^^ 1 — ir^ blue skies that spar-kle through that soft branohingscreen. Let him first sing it breathing only at X, and then breathing both at XX and X, and compare the two. The first will live; but no matter how dexterous the breathing, and infinitesimal the time taken to do it, the second will be dead. Simple as it appears, and simple as it should sound, no branch of singing is so difficult as accompanied folk- song. Woe betide the singer whose lungs fail or whose rhythm halts. In a modem song it can be forgotten ; in a folk-song never. The integrity of the phrase, however long, is its very essence, and before its march, words and prosody values and all else go down like ninepins. If, as in a fiddle-tune like "Quick! we have but a second," there is no time to breathe in the course of the tune, the whole tune must be sung THE SINGING OF FOLK-SONGS 219 in one, without breathing, or not sung at all. There can be little doubt that many of the unaccountable changes of time in folk-songs — the interpolation of a f bar into a | song, or a | bar into a | song or vice versd — were due to some physical difficulty in phrasing on the part of some exponent, past or pre- sent, most properly noted down by the present-day collector. They have either put in an extra beat when singing unaccompanied — as the true folk-song singer does — to give themselves time to breathe or to emphasise a certain syllable; or have left out a beat that was not syllabically provided for, thereby in either case altering the structure in a way that at once becomes remarkable when the song is given an accompaniment; as, for instance, in "Barbara Ellen" : ga^i^^ In Soot-land I was born and bred, In kk m I B?E ■t^ ±t Soot-land is my dwell-ing, A young man on his * ^ -m=i^ death -bed lay For the love of Bar-b'ra El - len. from Cecil Sharp's " Folk-songs from Somerset " (written in I time), where in the fourth bar the singer could evidently not be bothered with three beats on the second syllable of the word "dwelling" and simply left out one, thereby automatically converting the bar into an interpolated f . 220 INTERPRETATION IN SONG It is the addition of the instrumental accompaniment which makes Main Rule I. imperative to the modem singing of folk-songs, for, strange to say, to unaccomr panied folk-song singing it does not apply. Unaccompanied folk-song singing is one of the most remarkable things in music. It breaks every rule of the art. It is the most ad libitum type of performance it is possible to imagine. The true singer of the people is born not made. He will drop an obvious beat here and put it in there. He will hold back a phrase to superimpose an ornament (this applies far more to Ireland, where ornament is used with an Oriental freedom, rather than to England where it is rare). He will dwell upon unaccented notes in unaccountable places. He may so juggle with the time that it may be impossible to give it a time- signature. The time itself may be so peculiar that it may demand no arbitrary key-signature ! Witness the old North of Ireland tune "My Lagan Love" (arranged by H. Hamilton Harty, poem by Seosamh MacCathmhaoil) : Qvasi aenza tempo. $ =P=i=== ti ■P= '^ J-ei - - -d- "^ Where Lagan stream sings lull-a- by There blows a li - ly fair; :pj:!-^j-i;j_rp. The twi - light i ^ gleam is in her eye, The ^ T ^~ -^^ night her -&- hair. And like a THE SINGING OF FOLK-SONGS 221 ^m f-rn^^ ■ d\^i rJ «^ |5^P" love-sick len - an-shee She hath my heart in thrall ; :?2= ^^^^^ Nor life I owe, nor lib - er - ty, For Love is lord of all. (To the eye this looks almost like an improvisation. By the individual native singer it would probably be further ornamented ad libitum. In the setting it is treated hypothetically as C major, because it happens to end on C. What its time-signature is, goodness knows !) The singer may, in short, give himself a free hand, break every rule and just sing ; and yet he has a rhythm of his own so strong that it sets the heart of the trained singer leaping, so subtle that it defies imitation — wholly fascinating, wholly unleatoable. It is Nature as qpposed to Art. No man who has not got it in his blood, and who has not lived with it in his youth, can ever acquire it. The further he travels along the road of his art, the further he leaves that astounding sense behind. Unaccompanied folk-song singing at its best is only given to a few to hear. It does not, unfortunately, enter into the practical side of the public singer's hfe, and its rules, or absence of rules, are not for him. He has to do with the accompanied folk-song where the great rules of rhythm apply most rigorously of all, and not to one song but to all. Certain songs, such as dramatic ballads ("The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie") or ghost songs ("0, ye Dead") may be lent by folk-song to modem art just to show how well they knew long 222 INTERPRETATION IN SONG ago all there is to be said to-day ; but folk-songs they will always be and very proud of it. The accompanied folk-song is the hardest thing to sing in music — the hardest, and, from the point of view of study, the best to the man who is master of his technique. It depends upon the golden rule that except for exceptional reasons — the close of a song or some pecuUar contrast — you must never break the phrase in a folk-song, however long. If you cannot achieve that, like the Kilkenny cats — "Better let 'em alone." The same advice may be respectfully offered to the young composer. To him, judging by recent experiences, the folk-song merely represents a ready- made vehicle for meretricious harmonies and polyphonic colour-illustration. The setting of folk-songs is so difficult that it may be almost legally assigned to the old hand. The master of the art does not flaunt his technique in your face or bejewel his Madonnas. He knows that here "beauty when unadorned is adorned the most," and that the secrets of folk-song setting are enhancement of rhythm and economy of material. PART V THE MAKING OF PROGRAMMES (For reasons of space oijly Recital programmes will be discussed here. The greater includes the less.) In the making of programmes, the singer starts with one advantage. He and his audience have the same object in view — to give or receive the maximum amount of interest with the minimum amount of fatigue, mental and physical. How can this be done ? By constant change. The singer has only one voice. That voice may be many-coloured and of various degrees of power ; it may be inspired by a vivid imagination and backed by a strong will, yet it remains one and the same voice. The change must be supplemented in the programme. In the making of recital programmes, the singer must keep in mind the following ten essentials : (1) Variety of Language. (2) Change of Composer (except in the case of a group). (3) Chronological Order. (4) Change of Key. (5) Change of Time. (6) Classification of the Song. (7) Style of Technique. 223 224 INTERPRETATION IN SONG (8) Change of Tempo or Pace. (9) Crescendo and. Diminuendo of Emotion. (10) Atmosphere and Mood. (1) Change of Language is an undoubted relief to both parties. Apart from this, no translation, however good, can fulfil the conditions which inspired the com- poser. In the case of Hungarian songs and the like, where the language has dictated the rhythmic accentua- tion of the music, the language must be looked upon as Hungarian even though the words sung are English. (2) In the miscellaneous programme change of Com- poser is advisable for change's sake. This does not apply to groups of songs, deliberately made, or to song- cycles. (3) The value of Chronological Order is sentimental rather than real. It shows en miniature the progress of the Song. It should be considered here in conjunction with No. 9 (the Emotional Line). Songs have un- questionably progressed emotionally, and chronological order fits them into their places in the scheme of things. It bears somewhat the same relationship to Song in general as the Opu^ numbers to the individual composer, and helps to record development. (4) Change of Key is of supreme importance. There is nothing so tedious, so "filling," as a succession of songs in the same key. If by inadvertence the singer places three consecutive songs in the same key in his programme, let him get his accompanist to transpose the middle one. The loss in tone through transposition will be far less detrimental to effect than the monotony of key. A minor, however, can a,Iways be followed by the THE MAKING OF PROGRAMMES 225 major in the same key. It feels, in fact, the right thing. In the programme (p. 230) it will be seen that the "Doppelganger" is followed by "Dort in den Weiden." The former ends in G major, it is true, but the song throughout is so much in the minor and so steeped in tragic gloom that one thinks of it as in G minor. (5) Change of Time is also very important. It is difficult to ensure, for there are not many times to ring the changes with, and so many songs are written in f or f time that the field is narrowed. Happy is the man with a repertoire! Time changes are, however, not so all-essential to a programme as the changes of key. (6) The Classification of Songs was treated in the last chapter. It will be noted that, with the "over- lapping" songs, the singer has plenty of classes to choose from. (7) Styles of Technique have also been discussed earlier (p. 145). All songs that are sung are bel canto in technique; declamation applies mostly to dramatic effects ; diction to songs requiring purity and agility of pronunciation ; the latter are> naturally never deeply moving, their highest emotional sense, as a rule, being happiness. (8) Changes of Tempo are not only legitimate but essential. A sudden contrast of pace may startle an audience (in itself an excellent thing), but it will not hurt like violent contrasts of sentiment. This can be explained better by (9) The Emotional Line (so-called for want of a better word). The singer must not keep his hearers or himself too long on the stretch. They cannot stand it mentally, nor he mentally and physically. It is not 4 226 INTERPRETATION IN SONG the actual amount of voice used, or noise made, which counts for fatigue ; it is the want of reUef from mental strain. The three Harper's songs of Schubert, when sung consecutively, are (from their uniformity of senti- ment) far more tiring to both singer and audience than half a recital programme properly ordered. The principle of the Emotional Line is the arranging of the component songs in a series of emotional cre- scendos and decrescendos. In the first part of the programme (p. 230) it will be seen that the top of the emotional crescendos comes upon Der Doppelganger, Auf das Trinkglas, Silent Noon, and in a lesser degree on Tap o' th' HiU. "Mary," by Goodhart, a delightful little song in itself, would, if placed after the "Doppelganger," set every nerve ajar. No singer with any faculty of discrimina- tion could perpetrate such a sequence on the excuse of contrast. "Dort va. den Weiden," on the other hand, gives both singer and audience exactly the right tonic for the nerves shattered by the "Doppelganger." A simple little optimistic tune, the very antithesis of the other, it comes out Hke the sun after a month of London. Then Wolf's "Der Rattenf anger," though it makes a great noise, far greater than the deeply intimate "Auf das Trinkglas," which precedes it, has no emotional interest whatever, and provides a positive decrescendo of sentiment. The line then rises to "Silent Noon." " Mary " agaia THE MAKING OF PROGRAMMES 227 could not come after "Silent Noon" without a jar. It could not come after "Tap o' th' Hill," the deep feeling of whose close attunes it to "Silent Noon," were it not that the greater part of "Tap o' th' Hill" is just a happy quasi-humorous little story. In "Corinna's going a-Maying" there is no great emotion. It is, as it should be, all youth and high spirits. Its object in the programme in that par- ticular place is to leave both singer and audience in a good temper if they have got thus far without coming to blows. (10) Finally, Atmosphere. This has been fully treated already. It is closely associated with Main Rule II. It entails the singing of the song as a whole, in accordance with its classification. In the case of song-cycles like the "Dichterliebe" (16 songs) the singer has half his programme ready- made and stereotyped for him. Here the audience makes up its mind to the worst, and, with the singer, accepts it as a whole and looks for no change except in detail. After such a first part, the second part of a programme cannot possibly be too light. (It might be mentioned, in parenthesis, that it is well to provide for late-comers with a group of two or three songs before beginning the serious work of the song-cycle. One late-comer can destroy the mood both of singer and audience, and wreck not merely the individual song but the entire cycle. The singer would also be well-advised to ensure beforehand against the perambulations of programme boys ; and the audi- ence would pay the highest compliment to song and singer alike if it refrained from applause till the cycle as o whole is finished.) 228 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Short song-cycles, such as Stanford's "Irish Idyll" (6 songs), should come at the end of Part I., and their style should be borne in mind in the making of the preceding part of the programme. The above little cycle, though full of variety, is permeated with an atmosphere of deep affection either for the coimtry or the individual. The preceding songs should, there- fore, ( phasise'the declamatory, sinister, technical, rhyth- mical or some other alien style, so that the pure emotion of the song-cycle when it arrives may come with a breath of fresh air and have that particular field all to itself. In all programmes fatigue is the great enemy; therefore they should err on the side of lightness. This applies particularly to Part II., in which there should be a gradual diminuendo of mental strain. For this purpose folk-songs and traditional songs are ad- mirable. After a long first part made up of classical and art songs, ancient and modem, grave and gay, German, French, Italian or English, declamatory or bel canto, with, maybe, a song-cycle or two thrown in, something is required in the second part that will allow the singer to relax his strain, and the audience its intellectual vigilance. Folk-song fulfils the con- ditions. Simple, straightforward, essentially rhythmi- cal — melody piu-e and simple, with direct emotional appeal — it comes like the pipe after dinner at the end of a long day's work. There is no relaxation in them to the singer vocally — for they are the hardest things in music to sing well — but they act like magic on the tired brain; and to the public singer, possessed, as he invariably is, of physique, that is all that coimts. With folk-songs the same conditions of programme- THE MAKING OF PROGRAMMES 229 making apply as in Part I., but in a slightly less degree emotionally. It is not suggested that the second part of a recital programme should be arbitrarily devoted to folk-songs ; merely that folk-songs, of the many alternatives, "fill the bill" particularly well. The only real essential of such second parts is that they should be light. To the superficial observer all this may seem to smack of our old enemies over-elaboration and self- consciousness ; but it is not so. The old hand makes such programmes by instinct ! Any singer possessed of the means and the necessary experience could turn out half a dozen of them in the course of a morning. The fact also remains that for the want of such careful manipulation the ordinary programme does not "come off." In programme-making, the programme must be made first, and made naturally, and manipulated afterwards to conform with conditions. If the names of the songs in the programme overleaf were lost, it would perhaps be possible with infinite laboriousness to construct another programme to fit the analysis, but the result would be a triumph of artificiality. The programme must be made first without regard to any but the main conditions and "licked into shape" later. [The programme given here was written down (as a specimen short recital programme) exactly as it stands, except for two slight alterations in Part I. and one in Part II. It was a thoroughly natural progranune, and worked out into the analysis of itself. The altera- tions were in no way vital ; they were made solely to conform with the conditions specified in this chapter.] It must be obvious that the making of interesting 230 INTERPRETATION IN SONG SONQ. LANQUAOG. C0UP08EB. •' Les petits Oiseaux "... French Traditional **Gia il Soledal Gange" ■ . Italian Alesa. Scarlatti " Der Doppelganger " . . . , German Schubert " Dort in den Weiden "... German Brahms " Auf das Trinklas eines Te> German Schumann storbenen Freundes " "Der Rattenf anger" .... German Hugo Wolf ••Silent Noon" English R. V. Williams "Tape' th' Hill" English H. W. Davies "Mary" English A. M. Goodhart "Corinna's going a-Maying" English Ernest Walker Arranged by "DerKukkuk" German C.V.Stanford "Shepherd, see thy Horse's Hungarian F. Korbay foaming Mane" •• Will you float in my Boat ? " Irish C. V. Stanford "Remember the Poor" . . . Irish C.V.Stanford " 1 know where I'm goin' " . . Irish Herbert Hughes " A Ballynure Ballad" . . . Irish Herbert Hughes "Twankydillo" English Lucy Broad wood PROGRAMME DATE. KEY. 16th cent. E maj. 1659-1725 Fmai. 1797-1828 G min. -maj. 1833-1897 G maj. 1810-1856 Dma]. 1860-1903 FJ min. Present DmaJ. Present Dt>ma]. Present' CmaJ. Present Dma]. TRADITIONAL FmaJ. . Cmal. Dj^maJ. G maj. Gt?maJ. C min. Gt^maJ. THE MAKING OF PROGRAMMES 231 FEBRUARY 24th, 1911. TECHNIQUE. 4 4 a. 4 i 2 I 5. 4 I Contemplative (Ode) Rhythmical Reminiscence (Dramatic and Atmospheric) Contemplative (Narrative) Bel Canto Andante Bel Canto Allegro Declamatory Very slow (Bel Canto — Diction) Bel Canto Lively (Diction) I Ghost (Reminiscence Bel Canto (Atmospheiic) Bel Canto Characterisation Reminiscence (Atmospheric) Narrative (Contem- Bel Canto /\ Rather slow / n \. Very lively Bel Canto Andantino plativej 6 7 Humorous 4 4 (Diction) Diction Ode (Rhythmical) Diction Allegro leggiero Devotional Very bright Intensely tragic Happy Deep feelins Youth and happineea AIRS 2 Humorous Diction Allegretto f Dramatic Declamatory Allegretto (Diction) f Characterisation Bel Canto Allegretto grazioso 4 Devotional Bel Canto Andante 4 (Contemplative) Contemplative 5 4 Rhythmical f 4 Bel Canto Moderato Diction Allegro gioioso /^ / o Nursery Rhyme Barbaric and concen- trated Emotional and happy / Deeply Religioua Reverie ^ Characterisation Bet Canto Con apirito Humorous Jolly > The intensity of the various emotions is expressed by the actual size of the crescendo mark. The marlc n signifies absence of such emotional intensity. 232 INTERPRETATION IN SONG programmes, and the fulfilment of their conditions, demand not only versatility, but, above all things, a repertoire. A dozen "popular" songs about angels, or organs, or Oriental swamps, or Pat and the Pig, will not carry the singer far, while the stock florid aria moves the listener to yawns as automatically as the latest new story at his club. A ripertoire is not got without hard work, and hard work is the breath of life. Good programmes mean research and study, and intimate acquaintance with the masters of music. They are the true friends of interpretation, for they open the doors to individuality. No man can learn the whole of a great repertoire by imitation from anyone. There is no intention in this chapter to demand arbitrarily the fulfilment of the above rules. They are but the detailed statement of a "counsel of perfection" which experience has shown it to be useful to aim at. PART VI HOW TO STUDY A SONG To the old hand the studying of a song is mechanical ; he probably does not know how he does it, and can only arrive at it by a process of analysis. It is, how- ever, possible to simplify it for the new-comer. There are various rules to be recommended, which are given below in their proper order, but they all belong to two Main Rules, representing respectively the end and the means — interpretation and technique. Singing is the driving in double harness of the musical phrase and the literary sentence, and the pair must not only show off their paces but must keep within the posts. There is a natural antagonism between the two which endangers those posts at every step, and if the driver has not learned his business he will come to grief. We must presume that for the end — interpretation — he has at his disposal the means — technique. Main Rule I. (the end). Classify your song; in other words find out what it is all about. 233 234 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Main Rule II. (the means). Find your fundamental rhythm and absorb it. Of these the second, though placed there, is in reality the most important. It has been urged throughout this book that the music's the thing, and that the rhythm is the thing in the music. The aesthetic meaning of a song, to which Rule I. refers, and its interpretation are dependent upon that rhythm and own it as their master ; yet, though they have no separate existence without it, it is only a means to their ends, and must come second in study. The song must be classified first, because the treat- ment of the rhythm must be reconciled to its atmosphere and consequent mood. If, for instance, the song be classed as rhythmical, the rhythm takes sole charge, nfiaking use of any help it can get from outside in the way of tone-colour and occasional word- illustration ; whereas, if the song be classed as, say, atmospheric, the mood will dominate the situation, and the rhythm with its rubato satellites will come in as friendly, though indispensable, supporters of the scheme — a purely family affair in which the pater- familias supplies the funds and joins in the fun without directing the proceedings. . To recommend the singer to study his text first (Rule I.) would seem superfluous, if the call of the music were not so seductive. He rushes in and rattles off purely musical effects which will not bear juxta- position to the text; then in his disappointment he attributes the faults of his own "slap-dashness" to the shortcomings of the music. He has without knowing it made the song without words into a form HOW TO STUDY A SONG 235 of absolute music, with the name to give it a pro- gramme. ■ The composer may be trusted to be true to his text, but that will not primarily classify the song for the singer. Most songs classify themselves, but if he is in any doubt the master-phrase (p. 17) will soon come and show him the way. It is not enough to realise the rhythm ; it must be absorbed (Rule II.). It is not enough for the singer to feel it as a slow |, or quick f , or anything else ; it must so saturate his senses that all his effects and illustrations come under its spell and keep within its limits ; otherwise the song becomes a series of detached observations ornamented by the addition of music. It is not a question of avoidance of difficulties, but a deliberate policy. Subordinate Rules 1. Learn the song in rough. The singer need not trouble himself about effects at first. They will, of course, keep rushing into his mind as he learns. They are generally musical effects, and instinctive, and, if they are sound, will not be forgotten; they will turn up again at the right time. 2. Memorise it. There will be no senses to spare for effect, or lilt, or magnetism, or illustration or anything else, if the eye is on the printed page. Let him memorise the song in the rough first, and then proceed to polish it up. 236 INTERPRETATION IN SONG 3. Polish it musically first. The beginner who imagines that interpretation, when he gets to it, will be all dramatic illustration of his text, is doomed to disappointment. Half, if not more, of his effects will be purely musical. This applies not merely to the bel canto class, but to all songs. Let him take the memorised phrases in detail and see what each is capable of musically in the way of rubato, crescendo, diminuendo, etc. He must not be led away by any artificial translation of the text into the music (cf. Consistency, p. 182). The composer has probably done that best, if he knows his business, and consistent phrasing is more important to him and the song than petty illustration. 4. Reconcile the phrasing to the text. This is where the fun begins. In the great song there is no reconciliation to be made. They are joined together for better or for worse for all time, and the contemplation of that imion is one of the principal assets of musical education. It is his own phrasing which the singer has to reconcile to the words. The music carries its effects inherent in its lilt ; life begins for the singer when he begins to apply the results of his musical research for his own illus- trative purposes. This is where individuality comes in. He can now tell a story, paint a picture, adum- brate an atmosphere, portray a character, act a drama, or recall a scene, in the words of poetry ennobled by music — but one and all must be vdthin the limits] {between the posts) of the rhythm of the song. That is why the musical phrase has to be studied first. If HOW TO STUDY A SONG 237 the fundamental rhythm will not permit of an illus- tration musically, no vocal sleight-of-hand can juggle it into verisimilitude. The singer has means in plenty at his disposal! — tone-colour, word-illustration, crescendo and diminuendo, rubato, pauses, climax and anti-climax, and all the other helps to drama. Let him play the great game fairly and sing the song as a whole. A song is a little thing; it is over in a moment, and there is no time to atone for early faults. Stop it long enough anywhere and for any purpose, and the attention will wander from the song to the singer ; when that happens, the song is dead. Rules 3 and 4 must determine for him both his style or styles of technique and points of climax or anti-climax. 5. Absorb the accompaniment of the song. This is part of Main Rule II. (p. 92). The accompaniment is not merely the business of the man at the piano ; it is the singer's as well. To sing the song as a whole will be impossible if one-half is left out. Every effect should be agreed on and rehearsed with the accompanist ; and together, share and share alike, singer and accompanist must contribute to the whole. To sum up. Find the Atmosphere of the Song ; Sing the Song as a whole ; Sing it as you speak it. Let us now apply these rules to individual examples. For reasons of space they must be Umited in number, and for reasons of copyright they must, with one exception, be chosen from the classics. Two of them are contained in the specimen programme (p. 230). Ex uno disce omnes. 238 INTERPRETATION IN SONG DER DOPPELGANGER. F. Schubbet (In this and the following songs many expression marks have been inserted for which the composer is in no way responsible. These are simply guides to method, post hoc applications of the result of analysis, used to illustrate the author's individual reading. The student should on no account adopt any one of them as his own unless it fits in with his conception of the song as a whole. Any other advice would be con- trary to the very creed of this book, which has preached individuality as the great essential. This does not apply to word-illustration or the resumption of tempo primo,' which are part of interpretation in general and should be followed in every song.) "Der Doppelganger" is a triumph of economy. It is but a couple of pages of music in length ; it consists of a few simple phrases accompanied by simple chords. Yet in those few bars there is a dramatic crescendo of tragedy which has never been approached in music, and which fairly entitles it to be considered the greatest song in the world. Let us take our rules in turn and apply them. Main Rule I. Classify your song. Read it through and visualise the scene. The man is standing in front of the house where his sweetheart used to live. He watches, as though hypnotised, the window where he saw her night after night in the old days. The window is dark to-night; perhaps the house is empty ; who knows ? The agony of remembrance holds him in a vice. She has gone long ago, but there is the house, just HOW TO STUDY A SONG 239 as of old, and there stands a man staring up at it, just as of old, wringing his hands in misery, just as of old. The moon comes out ; he catches sight of the man's face ; he cries out in horror — the face is his own ! He breaks down, and with bitter taunts curses his own pitiful image for coming to mock him with the vision of all he suffered on that self-same spot in bygone days. Then, under the burden of remem- brance — of the tempo felice and miseria — at the words in alter Zeit his head drops into his hands, and he collapses like a house of cards. We hardly need to look for master-phrases here; but here they are : In diesem Hause wohnte mein Schatz. Here is the house where she used to dwell. and So manehe Nacht in alter Zeit. (literally) Night after night in those old times. Where could it belong but to Reminiscence f Yet it is saturated with the atmosphere of tragedy, and is hardly less Atmospheric. Like many other songs of reminiscence it is in the present tense, but it is the dramatic present, not the historic — tragedy staged and played by the singer as he sings. What a chance for him ! Reminiscence, atmosphere and drama, all in one, concentrated into two pages of music ! Main Rule II. Find your fundamental rhythm. The rhythm of the "Doppelganger" is felt not seen; there is no way of physically impressing it upon the senses. The simple chords are vertical and give a single down-beat. But that rhythm is like a tiger. 240 INTERPRETATION IN SONG For the first twenty-four bars it crouches motionless; at the words da steht audi ein Mensch it begins to move stealthily forward; twice, at the words vor Schmerzensgewalt and meine eig'ne Gestalt, it seems about to spring, but it is not till so manche Nacht that the end comes. From the first forward gliding move- ment to the final leap the rhsrthm presses forward gradually but inexorably. Both singer and accom- panist must have absorbed it into their very being. The dramatic effect of the whole depends upon the subconscious strictness of that rhythm in the first twenty-four bars and its subsequent gradual working to the climax. Let the words da steht auch ein Mensch be started a shade too fast or too slow ; there will either be no pace left in reserve for the climax, or the effort to move the song along will have brought the physical climax too soon. Subordinate Rules (Rules 1 and 2 apply to all songs alike.) 3. Polish it musically first. The pm-ely musical effects in this song are practi- cally nil. It is essentially a song of interpretation, and the musical effects are so closely wedded to the aesthetic and dramatic as to be one with them. For this reason we will take this rule and the next together. 4. Reconcile the phrasing to the text. The phrasing of the first twenty-four bars belongs to the "quiet pools" {vide p. 43). Whatever currents of rhythm there are, are below the surface ; the surface is glassy smooth. The dead-level of semi-consciousness HOW TO STUDY A SONG 241 must dominate those bars ; through them all the man stares fixedly. There is no room for rubato here. Once, in the eleventh bar, a diminutive tenuto, or push, sung TPTp, on mein suggests a throb of his heart, and this is followed, in the twenty-first bar, by a slightly longer similar push on demselben, which confirms the first musically (cf. p. 74) and links up the present and the past psychologically ; but otherwise not a sign of incident or emotion. From da stehf auch ein Mensch music and drama push on gradually with a feeling of impatience to see the man's face, through the horror of recognition, crescendo to the climax on so manche Nacht, where the pent-up waters of misery break the dam to pieces, and memory — in alter Zeit — floats down, drowned, upon the tide. The colour and style of technique also go hand in hand. The first twenty-four bars belong to that style referred to (p. 148) as the peculiar combination of bel canto and diction, "where in the anaesthesia of the tragedy all consciousness of the outside world seems to be lost." The words are half-spoken, half -sung, with dead-alive monotony. At da steht auch ein Mensch the technique turns to diction pure and simple — the man has woken to consciousness ; the action begins — they are almost hissed out under the breath. This turns iriimediately — und ringt die Hdnde — to declamation, the colour expressive of intense suffering. Then the same process again — diction to declamation from mir graust es to Gestalt, the colour beginning with a shudder and ending with a cry. Then from du Doppelgdnger a concentrated fury of pain (declamation, the colour sovmding physically con. centrated), leading to the physical climax — so manche B 242 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Nacht — where the barriers are swept away. Here the singer must sing the ¥tff, as loud as possible consistent with beauty of sound ; he must take special care that the two previous fortes on Schmerzensgewalt and Gestalt respectively are not overdone. He must leave a reserve for the final manche Nacht; otherwise he will have anticipated his climax. Then comes a distinct Kunst-pause. Then a com- plete change of everything, technique to pure bel canto, colour to pure pathos — the singer must be sorry for the actor's lonely figure — the rhythm to practically ad libitum with a portamento down from the E to the D (to show the sinking of his head into his hands) with a general diminuendo, a sense of futility, a f ading-away to nothing- ness to the end of the last note of the final symphony. The singer has many opportunities for word- illustration. These are indicated by italics. Sing the song as a whole. 5. If ever the singer should sing mentally through his rests it is here. Long before that opening "doomed" chord is played he should be ready watching the window, and through every sung note and every played chord of the song up to the climax he should stare. The "Doppelganger" should be rehearsed by singer and accompanist till both know 'the reading by heart. The accompanist should above all take care that the opening chords are played cleanly; even a suspicion of spreading will destroy the hidden rhythm. They should sound "doomed" with the tone of a deep bell, not of a harp. He too must regulate his crescendos and fortes so as to leave a reserve for his climax. The song is practically recitative throughout. HOW TO STUDY A SONG 243 DER DOPPELG ANGER Hqinb. F. SCHTJBEEE m ga^= m=F 3 m ^^^ a^-a >- ??? es lu-hendle Oai-sen, in die • gem JSau-! -<2.i- y=ih i*P s>-=~ -is»--=- s^ "-S^T ^-g^r fe; U4, INTERPRETATION IN SONG i Psv :^J=3 -rj- wohn - te mdn Schati; ^ ^^ ^^- ^ m- *s^ :Ki Eter* -fS: ^ #t « ^;^ I l=H^=ft^=^ 1^ 1 — rr J J 1 — =1^ 1^ ^- S 1 - ^j r 3t3t Jt=* lit hat schon Zangst dieS^adtver - lu-aen, lg= -P- * ^- ^ s li ^ ■ex i Bi; ^t= =!=F ^s -at^- ^tit at3t# dooliitelitiioclidaa Haus ai^dem-sel - ten Plate. ^1^ y:^ to m wt% m i HOW TO STUDY A SONG 245 fP ouxd. poeo (juass ^ar2ato.) Da steht asch ein ilfeiucA i m ^ 1=&: f^^ ^*=fe :^^==^ ^^ ^ S-v :^^ -c*-» poco ^^^^^^^Iffli imd itont in die HB-he, nndringrtdie HKn-da m^^^- m -12- ri=i poeo a poco ^% = S^ S! ii 7'/' occeZ. ^oco a l3S 4s=ft=t: ES3EE^ d.d*- -rt- m vmSchmei • zens-ge-Talt ; <> mil grautt es, a fcp^ ig= ^g i£* aT: decrete. -^-; 1 1^ 246 INTERPRETATION IN SONG ft ^°'^°' ^ ^ -J=c=w=w^ I V'^ S wenn ioh sein Ast-litz se-he derMondzeigtmir mei-ne a s 3T i 1^^ fM^ =^^ ^ I 1^ =^j — i-K eig' - ne Oe - atalt ^S 1=^. < - JP -- DniJop-pel - gan-jTor, P *- gj : J^: Jj/- decrese. paecehr ando. & *PC — — — — >, \J dn Uei-ohei Oe - seZ - 2e, ii*=:^ was ajfse dn nocA mein f-fcai- /z: %--%^ W HOW TO STUDY A SONG 247 i i#==3^ ^ 1^ -i=^- l^ ^=^ ^g i4^i^^ *f^- if tT ' ZrtebesZezi^ das miohgeguaZfaufdieser Stel-le S^= «^ fe ^te fe :zf: #/= i^f3^ is— - i'^ i^m ^ad lib. cres. poco. Kunst-pause. dim. molto. portamento. ^ zz; =i=^ man - ohe Naoht, in ter m% '^BrJL -cag: » £ j5y= "^ (^tUMt mWato.) |i Zeit? ^ l^= ;)p -2=1- M -^ 248 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Still is the night ; the streets are silent ; Here is the house where she used to dwell ; 'Tis long since my darling left the town, But the house stiU stands, that I knew so well. Who is the man there standing and staring, ' And wringing his hands in the torture of woe ? I tremble, as slowly he turns towards me — .'Tis my own pale face the moonbeams show. Thou ghostly double ! wan, sorrowful comrade ! — Why dost thou mock my sighs and tears, The throes of love so often suffer'd On this dear spot in bygone years ? Paul Enol&nd. ER DER HERRLICHSTE VON ALLEN. R. Schtoann (Frauenliebe und Leben. No. 2.) This song is entirely musical in its effects; it is in this respect the exact opposite to the "Doppelganger." The composer has used them with masterly cunning to express the meaning of the text, but none the less the interpretation is governed by purely musical effects which might apply to any other equally emotional words. (I.) It is a frankly ecstatic panegyric in the form of a contemplation; an unblushing Schwarmerei or HOW TO STUDY A SONG 249 hero-worship, touching in the pure unselfishness of its very abandon. It belongs therefore to the Contempla- tive and Ode groups. The poems of the little song- cycle from which it is taken give us an impression of a girl, very young, very emotional and very ecstatic in her outward expression; we can with justification picture her here walking up and down her room, clasping and unclasping her hands, pressing them to her heart, and every now and again in a moment of rapturous enthusiasm throwing her arms wide to the hero of her dreams. (II.) The rhythm is self-evident ; it is, in fact, itself the song's interpretation. The effects throughout are effects of rhythm, accent, rubato and tempo prima and nothing else. (3) and (4). This being so, Rule 3 is going to take charge and Rule 4 has got to make the best of it. Every effect of illustrative tone-colour, style of tech- nique, word-illustration, etc., must be subordinated to the lilt of the musical phrase. The strength of the rhythm and its lilt lies in its series of rvhatos and subsequent tempo primes. Many of these rubaios have been written by the composer in his usual form (by a ritardando with no instructions as to the return of the tempo primo) ; but the most powerful of all are the turns with the implied push or tenuto on the note immediately succeeding them. There are fast and slow turns in music of which the latter are almost somnolent in their peacefulness {vide Brahms's "Fel- deinsamkeit ") ; but the quick turn (which is the form used in this song) is one of the most potent forward-driving forces we know of. Its effect is one of stimulation, and, when combined with the tenuto 250 INTERPRETATION IN SONG on the succeeding note and the consequent holding-up of the rhythm, it can only be described as intoxi- cating. Such turns are sung in strict time, or even quicker than strict time (so as to anticipate the beat), giving an impression as though the singer dashed at her accents. The subsequent tenuti, or pauses, conform strictly in their treatment to those mentioned earlier (pp. 74 and 160) the second being always stronger in power, and longer in duration, than the first. (This will be shown overleaf.) It may be safely said that the interpretation of the song depends upon the treatment of the turns. The style of technique is bel canto; it is pure singing throughout. The colour is ecstatic, with little waves of humble-mindedness running through it, such humil- ity, with its colour, disappearing the moment the singer turns from introspection to speak of her hero. The word-illustration is practically done by strength of accentuation. The initial consonants of the words falling on the first accents must ring like steel ; where such words begin with a vowel the note must be struck in the very centre and on the instant of the down-beat, while the vowel must be purity itself. Er must be monosyllabic with a vengeance (not ay-ur), or the whole point of the song, the concentration on the worship of the hero, will be lost. The open a (ah) of Mares must be the true open ah. Klaw-res or klah-ures would be suggestive of the prize-ring or the Bier-kneipe. Wandle, wandle deine Bahnen is simg with a suspicion of tears in the voice. The w can, by pure pronun- ciation, carry a subtle emotional effect of the sort. Likewise the alliterative h in Er an meinem Himmel, hell und herrlich, hehr und fern gives a splendid HOW TO STUDY A SONG 251 chance to the word-painter. The strong accents throughout on words like Er, Auge, Tiefe, Stern, Herrlichkeit, etc., etc., and the pure singing of such vowels as in Er, Auge, wandle, Bahnen, traurig. Stern, Wahl, hohe, etc., are illustrations in themselves. The metre is trochaic, and many of the trochees are written on two even crotchets J J J J They Lip-pen, Au-ge, etc. must, of course, be given common-sense values, not equal pressure values, and sung as true trochees. There is no definite note of climax; the climax is the return to the original subject Er der Herrlichste. The leading up thereto is in the accompaniment. The interpretation of the song as a whole is again evenly divided between singer and accompanist. There are pitfalls at every step for both of them. Over-elabor- ation and cheap effect have bird-limed or poisoned every other bar to destroy the little interpreter. The composer has written three ritardandos to begin with. He has also written or implied ten turns; each of these carries a pause or tenuto, holding back the forward movement for an appreciable time. Not one of these must be held a fraction of a second too long, and not one must be taken out of the picture. As the singer sings each turn she may clasp her hands or clutch at her heart or throw her arms out to the beloved image, but here the music's the thing and the rhythm inexorable ; therefore through every ritardando and every turn the singer must be conscious of the push-on, of the drive, of the song as a whole. The accompanist is here all-powerful. He cannot, it is true, pull the singer down from her tenuto perch after the turns, but he can and must pick up the tempo prima 252 INTERPRETATION IN SONG when he gets it to himself, and swing it along with all the abandon of which he is capable. (The addition of the seventh to the chord in the main places of resump- tion carries the idea of forward swing inherent in it.) He must remember too that the effect of the final climax is in his hands. The words brich, Herz, was liegt daran ? have been sung sadly, almost -piano. He has three bars in which to rise from a -piano to a jorte, three bars in which to bring the singer back from introspection to ecstasy, and resolve the song as a whole. When he gets to his big octave C let him give it with a will ; its rhythmical effect will be far more important to the interpretation than anything the voice can do. Finally, if the spreading of the arms on the last turn {Jester) be prolonged with extra abandon, as is quite legitimate, the subsequent ritardando must be very slight. ER DER HERRLICHSTE VON ALLEN (Frauenliebe und Leben.) Chamisso. R. Shumann. Innig {with deep feeling), lebhafl {allegro). HOW TO STUDY A SONG 253 i !?=?»= ifsr)::;: m isi^ :45: 3i: =*=t =«=az =t^^ jll - len, wie so mil - de wie i ^fc / ^ ]5^Pi=i= / gut! flbl-de Lip - pen. klares -l^-j— 1-4-E *?Jpa(! ^^1^^ m^ ^— ^-7=1-- i • — • — \- =P=7t: E^] rtE t==i ■4tt - ge. Ael-ler Sinn nnd/e - ster ^^==3^^^^=^ =azs=a=s=i&S9t - *y*--*-- *-fe^:J::j::J: ""=^— --^ ~colla voce. 254 INTERPRETATION IN SONG i ^g^j^^pi ^ Jlfuth. So wie dort in blaaer i ^^ ESE -m-mr-m-»—m — m -m- P a tempo. g^ B fF^TT ^^^ :=rt:' E^ ^^fi i^E^ ^ 3^; Stem, al - so ^ an meinem ^^P^ ^^^ l^^ o tempo. m^ m =^= -J 1=*^ — U HOW TO STUDY A SONG 255 i m qs^F> > • W—W — ~r~ ^1 Him - mel, heW und Aerr - lioh, Aehr und -^ :1=±=t ■*- -i(- -*- -?*- -^-^t}*--*- -^ — « -; — I- , coZZa voce. m m^ ^:^ fern. s «:!^- i^ P -t- — •=- a tempo. i i t=pz s i=± =*i-*i- ^^■e^ rJt^JLJL Fed. Fed. 256 INTERPRETATION IN SONG fYlf molto legato. ^ V ^p: ^ =ftq :e^ ■-J — ^—m—M — I ig' Wand - le, tcomdle dei-ne Bah-nen, nur be ■ *:*=tt ■ »»V» al» g- g-g- =*=i=r ,:i33j::ffl]: i ^5^ BE # i SE =f2= ±:^^Ei =t trach - ten dei - nen Schein, 1]=:^ 9- \) ao -a* i»*T»»-g-y-g^g- =p-:^: nur in ■m=i =l=t48= i Ss^^^S B^a^ T SF i i?=i= n^ ^ \i/ fei X>6 - muthihu be - traoh - ten, -J-.. I I a^^ nr-i^ g it.. ifijj; S S 4 m. ^^^* *m HOW TO STUDY A SONG 257 ritard. n^ ^b=F= 4^^zit=t2= :fed: i 1^ se - lignurundtrau - rig sein. 1 .rrx s =»!=; -J— -I 1 — H 1— I 1 1 — t?^.i}ajiia|= :bi. . -^-^ -*--*■ J- J- i ^ S: ^ =*=t^3±± £b • renichtmein3 > > ^^ « — •—J -^—0- =^=^ ^ — "-si — iSiem der Jerr - lioh - keit. Nurdie m ii:t e 3^^ coKa voce. ^m ^- m-^ iSJ a tempo. m =i»Z3tZ*= r rr Ped. HOW TO STUDY A SONG 259 glii-ckeadei - ne Wahl, und ich ^m ^=P^-fz F-f ii^^^P ^^ liE ^ v/. :^ :ts=ft 3 1 will die Ho - he seg - nen vie-le ^m m^ ^^m —r-m — m — m —m- » m ^ 0l » mtF4f- 260 INTERPRETATION IN SONG i -^^—^ -tl?t: lig, se-lig binich dann. S^ soll-te > > > T^T-f—ptin^ I I I ^1^- «3 Sfe ^ ^3# l HOW TO STUDY A SONG 261 ^?^ m ^■■ -Td »- mir 6iasHeiz auch &re - chen, brich o i^^m ^iz ^_-a!=i|=^iSS T-r-t *^ '*^-i^-»- rUard. (nan troppo). i >P=BStetg -^ o5l &:- Si ^ P^ , tk-*^- ^ INTERPRETATION IN SONG -4 ^^^-^ ii ^m:rz -Jt—ljr- =t^Z mil - de, wie so jut ! Ho\-ds ^g Bl i — \j ^ \/ 5:53 HE -i 1 — -tip - pen, kla-res ./lu - ge, hel-ler fi^W fc=J-^T -i- S- -*- -|^ -ai- TP^ « 7^ -*--4^ -*- ^ HOW TO STUDY A SONG m tr-=pc =F=P^ =tz=t ^£t Sinn und fe • ster Math fc S S^^ T=t i¥#? ^s £fc -d- r»(. {rum troppo). ■^ $ ste i — a^-'-s*— mil - de, loie so gut ! Se Wterd. ^a m t^ a tempo. :3tzat k tr w Ij^^ a Fed. I f^S^ ^ J=j£ s^im m- SdOS V ^^ ritard. 264 INTERPRETATION IN SONG i Se A sn w z^rw^ -Ha ^^m- -b-.g£:=: i -JS^ i==i= S= =*^«: r r Fint. He's the noblest of the noble ! None so gracious, none so kind I Courtly greetings, fearless glances, lofty soul, and constant mind ! See, aloft in yonder heaven, clear and radiant shines a star ; So for me my hero shineth, calm and radiant, clear though far. Lonely, lonely as I watch thee on thy glorious journey go, StiU my humble heart shall bless thee, happy in my secret woe. Thou wilt never hear my pleading while for thee on heaven I call ; Not for me, the lowly maiden, shines the fairest star of all. Only one, the best, the noblest, wilt thou chooseto share thy way. And for her, the highly favoured, gladly, gladly wiU I pray. Whether joy be mine, or sorrow, blessed still I count my lot, Though this heart should break with anguish — Break, oh heart ! it matters not. Paul England. HOW TO STUDY A SONG 265 AUP DAS TRINKGLAS EINES VERSTORBENEN FREUNDBS R. Schumann. They told me, Heraolitus, they told me you were dead. They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept when I remembered how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. William Coby. This is essentially a Ghost song; it is filled with the presence of the dead man. That presence is Atmospheric, for the dead man does not appear. It is steeped in Reminiscence — unlike the "Doppel- ganger" — of happy days. It is Dramatic, for the picture is vivid; but the drama is played in silence. The very crescendos are mental. The words are thought, not sung. The whole scene is dominated by the waiting for, and coming of, the dead man. Those who have read the poems of the late T. E. Brown will remember the famous Epistola ad Dakyns, in which the poet asks his old friend, if he siu-vives him, to go back to the three places they both had loved best in life, and promises him, if it be allowed him, to return again and meet him there in spirit. So it is here. The singer is here by appointment. He and his friend had agreed in life that if one died the other should come back to the old spot, where together they "had tired the sun with talking," at midnight before the anniversary of his death, and as the hour sounded take down the dead friend's glass, fill it and drink to his memory; and then, so surely 266 INTERPRETATION IN SONG as they had stood together in life, so surely they should stand together in death. You see him come in and take down the glass. It is covered with cobwebs — it has stood there for a year. He fills it with the golden wine and waits. The starlight is all the hght in the room. The clock begins to strike. He stands up and drinks. As he drinks the moon comes out from the clouds. At the last stroke he puts the glass back on the table — empty. He stands quite still and listens. Far away in the bowl of the empty glass he hears the echo of the bell. He knows his friend is with him, that the friendship of life has survived even death itself. No friendsliip dieth with death of any day. Wie nichts den Freund vom Freund kann trennen. The song is written in a series of detached sentences, generally accompanied by a ritardando and pause at the end of each. These ritardandos give a sense of deliberateness — the scene is played thus at every anniversary. In the pauses the living man — the singer — gazes intently at the glass ; the watcher — the listener — holds his breath. The rhythm is simple and unadorned. There is not a rubato in the whole of it; the dramatic pauses, as in all songs of detached phrases, take charge of the movement. There is not a real forte or big note anywhere in the song. It must be sung throughout with pure bel canto, and with a colour of "reverence" up to the words in deinem theuren Blute! In the sentences immediately preceding, and leading up to, these words, there must be a gradual crescendo, emblematic of the faith that is in him. So far he has mentally spoken; he has addressed an HOW TO STUDY A SONG 267 invocation to the dead friend's glass. At this point he drinks; the rest happens. Therefore after the words in deinem theuren Blute! there must be a long pause — he slowly raises the glass to his lips. Then the accompaniment must start with a different colour — very far away and mysterious (the atmosphere is dominated now by the dead, not the living). That colour must be assimilated in its turn by the voice; it should sound remote, impersonal and very gentle. The moon sails out slowly from the clouds* midnight strikes. The strokes of the bell can be illustrated by infinitesimal, perfectly even, pushes on the notes. There should be a distinct ritardando in the bar before the words Leer steht das Glas, as he slowly puts the glass back empty; and a pause on Leer ("empty") to show that he has carried out his share of the compact. Then another pause in the accompaniment, followed by a silence — he listens. Then pp, with all the beauty of far-away colour the singer can command, the echo must die away to the end. The voice is but the echo of the bell, its message for him alone. Here again the accompanist must play his chords clean, not spread, throughout ; but it is impossible to tabulate this song according to dogmatic rules. The whole is so atmospheric, so intimate, so dependent upon mood, that singer and accompanist in their regard for the greater will give small heed to the less. For that very reason it has been chosen as an example. The nobility of the subject demands reverential treat- ment; coarse vowels, exaggerated consonants or final slurs would be sheer lese-majeste. 268 INTERPRETATION IN SONG AUF DAS TRINKGLAS EINES VER- STORBENEN FREUNDES J. Kekneb. E. ScHUMAira. i Ernst, ziemlich langsam {with deep feeling, rather slow). ± I I FjRT 3E d d :t Du herr - lich Glas, nun stehat du leer. I ^^j FTF i;:^ ^^i =g= mf i: ?li ^ 4 ^^Vh-J^ -p^^-i- E^ -JU«i— ^, I e: — ■-= — •— »l • — Glas, das er oft mit Lust 1^ ^ ^ -•-^ -J^ 1 1 — I 1- ^ — r -ho - ben; HOW TO STUDY A SONG 269 1^ ^^ =^ :*=3t ^^^^ die Spin - ne hat rings um dioh her in • ^ m WW^ T'r m m^it fe =^g*= _f- rr^*" i ritard. ^ ifii: E^3 den dus - tern Flor ge - wo - ben. '^'^ m =5i 1^=:?= =S 4t«t m^^ ritard. ^^ -J \ J ' ^m '^=^^^^ ^fe ^ ^ Jetzt BoUst du mir ge - fill - let sein, mond ■ ^ :is=t=t= ==:is;: ?im= ¥ip=P Ipt^aa 270 INTERPRETATION IN SONG ritard, -^ m * ^ :1==: l^^:, hell mit Gold der deut-sohen Ee - ben! i K^f- fe ^^ -a-=pi ^^^Sz fe ^ife: i^ 3<=^: tm ^' b b r ai — *l • a i ^ * l - In dei - ner Tie - fe heil' - genScheinsohau' i i^ ^ ^^ ^M*- 3?t*WSvl P^* ^^ ^i m^ $ ritard. m ^^ ich hin - ab mit frommem Be - ben. J '-r-^r-^ l^ ^i=l3F * It :S: - ij- ^m ^N^ HOW TO STUDY A SONG P 271 ^;feg^=}^^^^E^ -J Jzfe Was ioh er-sohau' in dei - nem Grund, isfc #>W=iJ=g^i d= =^ ^ d= w^ J^J=i i=^ S^ I I 1 = :^=f *-*-?* Ped. i fc niard. p/l fe^i^^^^S! =^ I*=C^ 3= — ^- nicht Ge-wohn-li-ohen zu nen - nen. Dooh i=^ Hi n'tord. ^ :iA^ ^- te^= ^^ Fed. i !i^i i=^.^-d^-d^ wird mir klar zu die - ser Stund', wie i^ ^ -i^= :t5=^ iiP^ ^5 ~»| a J ~ 272 INTERPRETATION IN SONG ritard. ... mf t^ ^ ^ ^ nichtsdenFreundvomFreundkanntren - nen. Auf ^m, 1m =^^ -^ 41; izir^ ^ ^' / ritard. --Xrw- ^ ^S^ itoc ^Efe^ ^ ^r-^-- Fed. :t=t Efc ^ 3tzt die - sen Glau-ben, Glas so hold ! triak' ich dich aus mit i S sa3 ^ — ^ — ei— -« « to*— ^,zft: fc:£ —1 M \- ^ ^ -•-#- ii I HOW TO STUDY A SONG ritard. — 273 ^^m 11^=^- m *=» :3t=Mz =t=t^ '¥-- 1- Ster-ne Gold, Po - kal, indei-nemtheu-renBlute! ^^^ - 1 — n~T ritard. -^-^. 95^ i^ t=?t S tf^? w ;#— •- ^ Ped. i Efc > ?miga pausa. I. > J ^fe^E W^^f^ m^ EE -J: r-:^^ i f P e moZto legato. & ■ d- 4 - Still geht de r Mond das Thai ent - 274 INTERPRETATION IN SONG i ^ =1 Jang. Emst tont die l^F=^ ^= ^g^ ■t ^-x-% 111 ^S=--S: » ^ r^t ^fe Efe -it_(t- ig ^ =tz=t mit - ter-naeht' - go Stun de. ^ *i r :^ ^^-a=: ¥^^ :M^ ^S^ wm ■m ^■t #•?? ritard. ^ ritorcZ. Leer steht Wtord. das ^ El^ ^J*: ^ -1 ^-T ! -3- : ^ W i , ^T- f •[ ^■ ^& HOW TO STUDY A SONG 275 ^7N PVP molto legato. -» — P= f ? -IS is> W- I I I r — I— Glaa ! Der heil' - ge Klang tont m^^ «: f iJig FV-M-J :a: ^ ^ 1^ ^ naoh indem kry stall' - nen Grun - i^ 1^ =t 2i: ^ rr 3- PS ■^jRv -a — = ^ I ia--^ V' \, p de. ^ i ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^efc ^^ ^ 276 INTERPRETATION IN SONG Now drear and empty dost thou stand. Brave glass, so often drained by him. The spider with ill-omened hand Weaves gloomy webs about thy rim. Yet thou to-night once more shalt glow With moonlight gold of Rhenish wine. While, gazing in thy depths below. My soul thy secret shall divine. The wondrous things that there I see, I dare not to the world deliver, — Yet now indeed 'tis plain to me That life nor death true friends can sever. Thus, noble glass, I drain thee dry. Strong in the faith these thoughts impart ; The gold of all the stars on high Shines clear from out thy glowing heart. The silent moon through heaven climbs, — Sternly the midnight hour is tolled, — Void stands the glass, — but solemn chimes Still linger in its crystal hold. Paul England. HOW TO STUDY A SONG 277 THE CROW C. V. Stanford. (From the Song-cycle, " Cushendall.") t This is a humorous song in the form of a contem- plative appreciation. It is a doffing of the hat to the successful rogue. The master-phrase (if one be required) is "My faith, the bird is sly" — not the slyness of Uriah Heep; there is nothing humble about him. He is the Richard Hardie of Hard Cash, with a little of Peck- sniff thrown in where diplomatically advisable. The mood is given in the words : "He cooks his head wi' knowia' look. And scans ye wi' his eye." You must sing the whole song with your head figuratively tilted N.E. or N.W., and with a cold glitter in your eye. There is not a laugh in the whole of it; it is a series of appreciatory chuckles. There is nothing consciously humorous about either of them.; both are out for business. The point of the song, psychologically, is, of course, the emphasising of the analogy; and musically the enforcement of that emphasis by the strict a tempo phrase. (This is indicated by italics throughout.) So vital is the return to this strict tempo prvno that judicious rvbato must be deliberately made throughout the song in order to emphasise the re-entry of the • Published here by kind permission of the composer. The poem, from Pal M'Carty his Rhymes, is printed by kind permission of the author and Mr. Edward Arnold. 278 INTERPRETATION IN SONG rhythm on the analogy. Not only so, but a short pause on the note immediately preceding it — even when on an unimportant word and beat, or even after a fermata — should invariably be made in order to "hold up" the rhythm and make it the more welcome when it comes. The style of technique is Diction throughout, and there are niunbers of points for word-illustration; but these and all the other points in the song must be subtle — "the bird is sly." There is not a real "effect" in it anywhere. It depends upon its alter- nating elasticity and rigidity of rhythm, on the pointed forefinger of its diction, and the suppressed humour of its tone-colour. It belongs rather to the "miniatures" of song, and is proportionately hard to sing. The opening symphony begins the illustration for us delightfully. Its alternating staccato and legato quavers puts us into the stride of the bird and the pose of the man — a series of "stalks" and hops. (He must be very careful where he puts his feet, and keep a strict look-out for traps — he is a great stickler for legal etiquette.) The accompanist should play them as though he meant to hop across the bar-line, peered over first, and then thought better of it. The success of the song depends as much upon the humour of his touch as on the colour in his colleague's voice. "He wears a blacii; coat a' the week.", Here you may dwell upon the picture a very little — just enough to suggest the sanctimoniousness of his pose and the deliberation of his investigations. This is done as much by diction and colour as by rubato. HOW TO STUDY A SONG 279 The ck and c of "blacfc coat" can be given acato/ caw!- like suggestion of sound. "A long attorney beak For poMn' into things.'' You can get a world of sarcasm into the accentua- tion and colouring of the italicised syllables. They should suggest a squint, or ocular concentration asso- ciated with some form of ugliness. The ea of "beak" should sound a thin — almost nasal — ee. "He takes some interest in lands, And talks a kind o' jaw.',' He rubs his chin here. Land is not really in his line at all, but if he can be of any service he will make it his business, etc., etc. He doesn't know how he happened to alight in that field. You can convey amused contempt into the j of "jaw," and by a pause on the word can suggest the length of the sermon. "He looks by or'nar stern and grim.'! The crotchets, sung / (the / is only comparative; there are no real fortes in the song ; the gentleman in question is a blackmailer not a highwayman), must be rigid in time-values, expressive of his rigid probity and Puritanism. "He's certain verra wise.'' You chuckle to yourself as you say it. You are the only person in the secret; as in the "Leiermann" you watch the drama from afar. The next few sentences up to the word "grab" are but explanatory amphfications of why you chuckled. 280 INTERPRETATION IN SONG There is nothing to stop for here, so they axe sung in strict time. "He eocks his head wi' knowin' look. And scans ye wi' his eye, As if to read ye like a book." You will find that, if you have been in the mood throughout, your head will probably (quite uncon- sciously) have assumed the necessary tilt physically ! The picture to those acquainted with the two proto- types is so vivid that the physical response is spon- taneous. I'My faith, the bird is sly.'! You chuckle out loud here. "Did you threaten him with the law ? my dear Sir, the law is his business ! " Admirable things scarecrows as resting-places and vantage-points from which to spy out the land ! !'He gives ye help mayhap some days.' J A certain grudging generosity of tone here; on the "some" an implied shrug of the shoulders — the days are few and far between, and only when it pays him to play your game. "And kills a slug or twa.'' Here is a chance for sarcasm. Killing is the type of his benefactions, a slug or two the limit of his subscriptions to the commonwealth. He has no objection to paying Paul by robbing Peter. "But costs ye dear in other ways, Just like the man o' law.'' This is the moral — the summing up — of the whole song. You can do what you like with it, provided HOW TO STUDY A SONG 281 you do not take its pi-d lento out of the rhjiihmical picture. The two last bars, with the a tempo crotchets (instead of quavers) and the end in the major, are a stroke of genius. You have shot at him and missed him; tried to poison him — he has "cocked his head wi' knowin' wink"; laid traps for him — he has "scanned them wi' his eye." You can see him returning thanks after dinner on his election as mayor of the town. With his hand in his breast he modestly disclaims all merit but patriotism. His comprehensive rascality, ready for anything from malingering to Spanish treasure, is known to every man in the hall. Every one of them has tried to get the better of him, but with the tricks of his trade — graft, blackmail, intimidation, and the rest — he has beaten them all in the end. THE CROW John Stevenson. Andante moderato. C. v. Stanford. ^ Strict a tempo. ^ 5^ »/P ^^ =3=E: m =3=S ztirt: d vjT-^fT S 4 'f ■ INTERPRETATION IN SONG V =^^ ^5^: iSz =i=^ ^•-ar If menhavegottlieiicoimterpaitB A. ■ w I I S^^^i^E r ii:fE3= =3i:£3 ^- ^»*»- sfoccato. S^-ES^-Ei: j^=5r ^^^fep S^ ^: mong the biidg, the craw Wi' a' his cateneas and his aits Is $ ±=. m i3=3: 3^ ?fT? 'm ^-^- "^^ T3 e/p ■*--*- &^ i^ ^ ^Ep ^s a ^697ZpO. we tAeman o' law. He's got the tmpndenoe and oheek That i got the tmpndenoe and oheek That ^ S^==tt=|: -^. 1^ ^^ ^_ i rTEF^^^ HOW TO STUDY A SONG 283 mf = ^j^ g=p ^ J" * ^ ^ A'> ^^ b V ' ], *-#! #-•- i skill in thieTin' Inings, Es wears a UacJ: coat a' tlieweek,He'8 &:^^ SEiEt i * 'T co22a voce. g£iJH^3=^:-=^ ja=g=E F^=g ^^ a — m. *. ' ^ ^ j — ^ ^ d i occeZerantJo poco o poco. gEgE^^pE^^ ^ itd lise. He'll nn-oon - eid-ered tri-fles nali, He i W ^ ■^- >H— fv - i~M t 3=:^ -*^ -*• T»»; M P S # i /:>/'-v r? {2= knowa what's twBindtwa, He loves the gentle game o'^1),JiiBt # ^ ^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^i^ eo2{a voce. ^i S^s;^ "Ur 286 INTERPRETATION IN SONG a tempo. ^ 1 ; t* ^ ^j^JVp3^^ cocks his head wi'knowin' look, And scans ye wi' his eye, As ■N N- i B^ m 3ES3Eaz:333 ffiS=3=>=az?=g:ii=^ a £em^o. ^^^^^^^^ 1 1 if to lead ye like a book, My faith, tkeliiidisaZj/. |fej j-1-^-^-S ^^jj:-^=q^= ^"^p"^ i=,^H HOW TO STUDY A SONG 287 pi ^^^flj-^ F=|5r -al ~i* — rz He gives ye help may - hap some days, And ^ colla voce. ^^^^^ ^ / » "pairce," "think" » "thairnk," "the" » "tha," "move" >y "murv" (or "m modified o), "of" 11 "arv"or"urv," "porch" 11 "parch," "day" 11 "dair," "death" 11 "durth," "cloud" 11 " clard," etc., etc, It will be seen that these pronunciations are one and all simply variants of, or modifications towards, the same single open "ah," the ground-vowel of singing. Nature's primary vocal sound — in short, they follow the line of least resistance. I have chosen the above words at random, simply as examples of different vowel-sounds. Let any reader of this article make up for himself a sentence containing these words and then intone it, following with his eye, mean- while, the values I have put to them, and let him ask himself if generally they are unjust. Let him then intone, say, the first three lines of "Paradise Lost." This is the way it would sound intoned by the average clergyman, the fact being borne in mind that in those vowels written down as representing the "ah" sound there is generally a THE CLERGY AND INTONING 297 supplementary "ur" tone quite impossible to express on paper: Arv mahn's farst desorbairdyurnce ahnd tha frurt Arv thaht furbeddern tray hurs martall tairste Brahrt durth entor tha warld ahnd ahl ahr war. This to the eye is a monstrous caricature, but intoned faithfully with the monotonous drawl which seems to be the only safe form of delivery, it will strike home. The same form of phonetic spelling applied to the opening prayers of the Church service would be even more con- vincing. Now, why should the clergyman feel compelled thus to abuse the beauties of his own language? He does not speak it so. There are cases within my own knowledge where the constant habit of "least resistance" intoning has superinduced the "least resistance" habit in the speaking voice, and has earned for the individual the undeserved reproach of priggishness — the speaking voice of the curate of the comic stage; but in most cases his voice in speech is pure and clear. Why should it be otherwise when that speech is put into song? Is not "God" a beautiful- sounding word in itself? If you call it "Guard" or "Gurd," its majesty drops from it like a rotten garment. What more beautiful word for mere sound than "holy"? If you call it " hauly," it might belong to a comic chanty in a nautical operetta. Or the word " peace " ? That pure, deep, closed vowel carries peace in the very sound of it. If you call it "pairce," you give it a sound of contempt, a curl of the lip like a snarl. "Of man's first disobedience." Why should "man" be "malm"? In the extremes of registers in singing, the various vowels automatically shade themselves to darker or lighter colours, or, when a note has to be sustained forte for a considerable time, the vowel has often to be broadened 298 INTERPRETATION IN SONG to give full tone; but this does not apply to the vowel when ihtoned. The intoner sings on a comfortable note in the middle of his voice. There is not the slightest excuse for altering the colour or texture of the spoken vowel. "Disobedience." The word is a little model in itself. Two closed vowels, one at either end, and two absolutely pure, strongly contrasted vowels in the middle. (Compare it with " desorbairdyurnce.") Let the intoner speak that one word over many times with absolute purity of vowel values. Let him then intone it on his own particular in- toning note. Let him then take the whole line and do the same, and so on with each line in succession, as far through the poem as he cares to go. Let him then take, say, the General Confession and treat it the same way, and each prayer in turn, and as he moves along, gradually the mists win lift, the sun come out, and the sky turn to blue. I win promise him that, the first time he sings the service thus, his magnetic sense will tell him that his congregation has suddenly begun to stand at "attention." The old familiar words which they have automatically assimilated, yawned over, or even slept through, have put on new life. There are fresh beauties in every line. The Collect for the day is at last audible and intelligible to them. They are awake, alert, listening not to the beautiful voice, not to the unicoloured, monotonous delivery, not to the man, but to what he says. That is the true object of interpretation, whether of Church service or of song. And the terrifying difficulties, what are they? What is the intoner afraid of? That the larger and more violent movements of the actual pronouncing organs of diction will throw the tone off its balance, spoil the pitch, disturb the poise, and divert the straight fine? They wiU do nothing of the sort. Pronunciation or diction is done practically entirely by fine closely associated movements of the lips THE CLERGY AND INTONING and tip of the tongue round the teeth. If diction takes place farther back in the mouth, it is wrong. If the intoner produces his voice properly so that it has what is teclmically called the "nasal ring" (which does not in the least imply a nasal sound), and will sing his vowels quite pure, and will concentrate his mind, meanwhile, on that forward point — the tip of the tongue, lips, and teeth — he will find that the consonants follow of themselves. They are not nearly such stern foes to him as to the singer. Let him then practise as above a speech from Shakespeare, or the various portions of the Church service, as easily and monotonously as he pleases, taking breath long before he really needs it, so as to avoid strain, but singing every word, vowel and consonant alike, exactly as he would speak it. The difficulties will vanish, the beauties of his language will stand out, the very mastery of it will fill him with pride, and the memory of the line of least resistance with shame. As the result of a fairly long experience of aU sorts and conditions of singing — opera, oratorio, concert and Church music — I confidently assert that the man who held his audience the closest has not been the possessor of the most beautiful voice, but the man who spoke to them in song. I have written all this with considerable diffidence. It may be said that it is none of my business. But intoning is very much part of every singer's business. We use it to study with and practise with, and as an invaluable thera- peutic for disordered technique. The words of any musi- cal passage which is difficult to sing should always be intoned first on a single note. Both singing and intoning should be speech in song. It is for this reason I trust our experience may be of some service. Finally, I should recommend all intoning clergymen to take a few lessons from some well-known teacher of singing, one whom he knows to be sound, and whose pupils are a 300 INTERPRETATION IN SONG testimony to his powers of turning out healthy voices and pure diction. Let him eschew the faddist and the purveyor of short cuts to technique (there are none), the patent "voice-producer" and the anatomical-jargon man. The less the pupil, clergjrman or singer knows of the anatomy of his voice the better. He wants to be taught how to intone or how to sing, not to think of his uvula or vocal cords and become self-conscious over their involuntary movements. In this connection I should, however, strongly emphasise one thing. The man who does not naturally and with absolute ease breathe through his nose can never either sing or intone. His nose is far more important to him than his throat, and on the free passage of air through his nose depends his tone, his pitch, his poise, and his straight hne. Ninety-nine cases out of a himdred of " clergjrman's sore throat" are due to the blocking of that passage, and the consequent throwing of the sound into the back of the throat, with all that that entails — loss of voice, physical fatigue and mental despondency. If the clergy- man is conscious of any stoppage or thickness there, let him go to any one of the well-known speciahsts and have it removed. It is generally a small matter surgically, but of supreme importance vocally.* Half a dozen singing lessons will do the rest. Then, with his diction pure and his in- toning speech in song, his life will begin afresh. The voice that was his enemy wiU suddenly be his friend; the voice that was beautiful before will take on new coloiu^; the big congregation that he could not hold will suddenly thrill his magnetic senses with its sympathy. Its every member wiU at last hear him, understand him, and respond to him. ' This applies even more strongly to singers . INDEX Abendlied (Schumann), 157; (Sohulz), 183, 207. Abschied, 145, 208. Absent, yet present, 123. Accent, 40. Accompaniment, 46, 47, 86, 93, 99, 196, 242, 251, 267, 278. Address, songs of, 201, 206. Ah! Golgotha! 151. Alarm, the, 217. Albert! bass, 87. Allmacht, die, 206. Allnachtlich im Traume, 180. An die Leyer, 149, 206. An die Musik, 56, 206. An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust, 209. An Schwager Kronos, 209. Anakreon's Grab, 145. And he journeyed with com- panions, 155. Angels ever bright and fair, 61, 97, 102, 138. Annie Laurie, 138. Anti-climaxes, 179, 192, 237. Appendix, 289. Aria, the, 146. Ariel, 61. Ariosos, 151. Arnold, Mr. Edward, 277. Arpeggio, the, 47. Art-song, the, 56, 80, 121, 199. Art thou poor ? 205. Articulation, 119. Artificiality, 16, 19, 182. Aspirates, 113. Atmosphere, 4, 13, 32, 36, 98, 200, 227, 237. Atmospheric songs, 201, 202, 234, 239, 265. Auf das Trinkglaa eines ver- storbenen Freundes, 211, 226, 230, 265. Auf dem Kirchhofe, 14, 18, 202. Auf dem Wasser. zu singen, 87, 205. Auf Fliigeln des Gesanges, 48, 102, 207. Ave Maria, 207. Axioms, 195. Baal recitatives, 154. Bach, xi, 57, 58, 62, 83, 133, 145, 149, 151, 165, 172, 181, 193, 207, 209. Balance, 46, 56, 71, 73. Ballad, the traditional, 21. Ballad, the accompanied atrophic, 26, 218. Ballynure ballad, a, 230. Barbara Ellen, 219. Baritone, the, 108. Barnby, Sir J., 106, 114. Bass, the, 107. Beethoven, 156. Begluckte Heerde, 84, 209. Beiden Grenadiere, Die, 95, 203. Bel Canto, 57, 60, 102, 121, 132, 145, 154, 166, 171, 200, 207. Belle Dame sans Merci, La, 27,202. Bells of Clermont Town, the, 147, 213. Bid me discourse, 207. Birds in the High Hall Garden, 48. Bishop, 207. Blest Pair.of Sirens, 159, 192. SOI 302 INDEX Blow, Dr., 207. Boat Song, 209. Bois 6pais, 169. Brahms, 14, 45, 52, 60, 72, 136, 152, 159, 194, 202, 205, 206, 208 230 Breathing, 6, 62, 65, 85, 142, 289. Broadwood, Miss Lucy, 230. Broken Song, the, 82, 162. Brown, Rev. T. E., 265. Brilnnhilde, 107. Billow, Hans von, 10. But the Lord is mindful of his own, 138. Cadenza, the, 172. Garissimi, 114. Caro mio ben, 60, 145, 177, 207. Carrying-over, 114, 169, 192. Cathedral traditions, 107, 135. Chamisso, 252. Characterisation, songs of, 203. Cheap effect, 32, 44, 77, 169, 193. Chopin, 88, 167. Chorda, 54. Choruses, 133. Chronological order, 224. Church Family Newspaper, 294. Church service, 297. Church's one foundation, the, 135. Classification of songs, the, 198, 225, 233. Clay, F., 161. Clergy and intoning, the, 294. Clergyman's sore throat, 300. Climaxes, 179, 237, 251. CoUa voce, 53. Colonel Carty, 217. Come, blessed Cross, 57. Comin' thro' the rye, 138. Composer, the, 3, 35, 131, 175, 222, 224. Consistency, 182. Consonants, 7, 106, 113, 184, 295. Contemplative songs, 201, 205, 249. Continuity, 92. Contralto, the, 45, 52, 60, 63, 106, 119, 176, 190. Conventions, 35. Corinna's going a maying, 85, 147; 208, 227, 230. Cornelius, 20, 87, 100. Corrymeela, 205. Cory, William, 265. Crocodile, the, 212. Crow, the, 147, 213, 277. Cushendall, 147, 205, 277. Dactyls, 123, 189. Daddy-Long-Legs, 147, 213. Dakyns, Epistola ad, 265. Danza, La, 61. Darke, Harold, 181, 212. Davies, H. Walford, 180, 204, 205, 230. Dead, long dead, 165, 209, 215. Debussy, 202. Declamation, 146, 154. Dekker, 205., Depart de I'Ame, le, 211. Detail, 71. Diagnosis, 148. Dialect, 213. Dichterliebe, 2, 78, 100, 103, 122, 137, 146, 156, 203, 214, 227. Diction, 146. Did you ever ? 147, 213. Diphthongs, 111. Dithyrambe, 208. Doppelganger, der, 122, 146, 148, 156„204, 225, 230, 238, 248, 265. Dort in den Weiden, 147, 225, 230. Drake's Drum, 51. Dramatic Songs, 202, 239, 265. Du bist die Ruh, 136, 166. Du bist wie eine Blume, 56, 179, 206 Du Hirte Israel, 83. Du Ring an meinem Finger, 171. Echoes, 162. Ecoute d'Jeannette, 147. Ein sohon' Tageweis, 168, 210. Ein Ton, 20, 87, 100, 102. Elasticity of phrasing, 77, 167. Elgar, Sir E., 160. Elijah, 112, 138, 154. Emotional line, the, 225. England, Paul, 125, 248, 264, 276. English singer, the,35, 138, 143,<289. INDEX 303 Equipment, 4. Er, der herrlichste von Allen, 248. Erlkonig, der, 2, 14, 20, 42, 45, 78, 87, 95, 146, 147, 177, 179, 195, 202, 211. Es blinkt der Thau, 204. Ethiopia saluting the Colours, 15, 100, 165, 202. Evangelist, the, 154. Expression-marks, 193. Facial expression, 16. Faddists, 6, 289, 300. Fairy Lough, the, 2, 67, 165, 202, 209. Far and high the cranes give cry, 66, 69, 140. Feldeinsamkeit, 12, 14, 18, 20, 42, 72, 136, 202, 204, 249. Fermata, the, 74, 81, 82, 158, 168, 278. Finish of a song, the, 71, 81, 176. Flannel Jacket, the, 40. Floodes of Tears, 207. Florid songs, 57, 59, 132, 166, 200, 207. Flowers that bloom in the spring, the, 78, 161. Folk-songs, 199, 216, 228. Folk-songs from Somerset, 219. Follow a Shadow, 147. Ford, Walter, 200. Forelle, die, 203. Franz, 177. Frauenliebe und Leben, 122, 147, 148, 156, 203, 252. Gabriel, Virginia, 198. Gentle Maiden, the, 178, 210. German language, the, 120, 137. Gesange, des Harfners, 205. Ghost Songs, 211, 265. Gi& il sole dal Gange, 61, 63, 208, 230. Gilbert, Sir W. S., 78. Giordani, 60, 145, 207. Give, O give me back my Lord, 67. Gluck, 157.. Goodhart, A. M., 147, 213, 226, 230. Gounod, 31, 112. Graves, Alfred Perceval, 132, 217. Greise Kopf, der, 156. Gretchen am Spinnrade, 202. Gruppe aus dem Tartarus, 14, 208. Haidenroslein, 147, 161. Handel, 59, 60, 96, 145, 207. Hans Sachs, 141. Harty, H. Hamilton, 220. Hatton, 123, 198, 206. Have mercy, O Lord, 57. Haynes, Battison, 205. Heine, 243. Henschel, Dr. Georg, 152. Hey ! Nonny No ! 205. How dear to me the hour, 217. How does the wind blow ? 209. How to breathe, 289. How to study a song, 233. How willing my paternal love, 61. Hughes, Herbert, 230. Humorous and quasi-humorous songs, 212. Hungarian, 140, 167, 224. Hurdy-gurdy man, the, 98, 125. Hymn-tunes, 133. I hate the dreadful hollow, 156. I know where I'm goin', 230. Iambics, 117, 123, 188. Ich groUe nicht, 178, 208. Ich hab' im Traum geweinet, 156. Ich kann's nicht fassen, 147. Ich sende einen Gruss, 163. Identity of Texture, 104, 142, 294. If with all your hearts, 138. Ihr Bild, 156. Illustration, 51, 67, 99. Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome, 177. Imagination, 13, 48. In der Fremde, 205. Incidental high note, the, 138. Individuality, 3. Instrumental subject, the, 85, 99. Interludes, instrumental, 88, 96. 804 INDEX Intoning, 142, 294. Introduction, ix. Irish Idyll, An, 67, 82, 203, 213,228. Italian language, the, 106. Jesus, Saviour, 57. Jewel Song, 91. Job, 134, 192. Johneen, 49, 213. Junge Nonne, die, 161. Katey Neale, 217. Kerner, J., 268. Key, change of, 224. Kilkenny Cats, the, 217, 222. Korbay, Francis, 15, 66, 102, 140, 146, 147, 162, 230. Kukkuk, der, 147, 230. Kunst-pause, die, 165, 178, 180, 192, 242. Laird of Cockpen, the, 16, 176, 213. Language, change of, 224. Large, treatment of song in, 31, 64. Lascia ch'io pianga, 60, 191. Late-comer, the, 10, 227. Lay his sword by his side, 217. Leading-note, the, 179. Legato, 48. Leiermann, der, 2, 16, 17, 98, 102, 125, 148, 156, 202, 279. Let Erin remember, 217. Lied im Griinen, das, 208. Lilt, 32, 38, 249. Line of least resistance, the, 109, 119, 295. Litanei, 170, 207. Little red Fox, the, 217. Little song, the, 77. Lorelei, die, 211. Lost Chord, the, 115. Love is a Bable, 205. Lover's Garland, A, 131, 175. LuUy, 170. MaoCathmhaoil, Seosamh, 220. Madam, will you walk ? 25. Magnetism, 4, 8, 31, 36, 94, 164, Maid. of Athens, 31. Maiden, the, 176. Main Rule I., 37, 216. Main Rule II., 92, 196, 237, 291. Main Rule III., 104, 184. Maiuacht, die, 72, 137,^ 205. Mannerisms, 33, 166. March, the, of a song, 37, 96, 101, 158. Marseillaise, the, 95. Martini, 171, 205. Mary, 147, 213, 226, 230. Masterphrase, the, 17, 102, 235. Maud, 48, 156, 165, 191, 203, 209, 214. Meine Liebe ist griin, 45. Meine Seele riihmt und preist, 58. Melisma, the, 59, 172. Melody, 42, 73. Memorising, 12, 235. Mendelssohn, 48, 60, 102, 112, 154, 155, 207. Messiah, the, 59, 108, 111, Metre, 56, 104, 120. Mezzo-soprano, the, 108. Mikado, the, 78, 80. Milton, 105, 205. Minnelieder, 210. Miscellaneous concert, 89, 94. Moffat, Dr. Alfred, 41. Moha,c's Field, 15, 20, 102, 140, 146, 162. Mood, 13, 32, 36, 51, 234. Moore, Thomas, 217. Morgengruss, 46, 161. Motion, 42, 43, 45. Moto perpetuo, 83. Mijller, Max, 118. Musical comedy. 111. Musical notation, 121, 123. My Lagan Love, 220. My love's an arbutus, 217. My name is John Wellington Wells, 78. Narrative songs, 203. Nasal ring, 299. Nazareth, 112. Neugierige, der, 122, 147. Nightfall in Winter, 202. INDEX 305 Now sleeps the crimson petal, 207. Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz gethan, 148, 156. Nussbaum, der, 48, 209. O rest in the liOrd, 60, 63. O ruddier than the cherry, 138. O, ye dead, 211, 221. Obbligato, Organ, x, 35, 55, 95. Ode Songs, 206, 249. Old Navy, the, 213. Old Superb, the, 208. Ombra mai fu, 207. One at a time, 217. Over-dramatising, 169. Over-elaboration, 18, 33, 44, 77, 128, 169, 193, 229. Over-sentimentalising, 169. Pace, 7, 182. Paradise Lost, 296. Parlato, 78. Parry, Sir C. H. H., 16, 131, 134, 135, 147, 159, 175, 183, 202, 205, 206, 211, 212, 213. Pat M'Carty his Rhymes, 277. Fatchinesa, 26. Pause, the, 44, 74, 77, 158. Personal recoUectionB of Johannes Brahms, 152. Petits oiseaux, les, 230, Petrie Collection, 40. Phonetics, 118. Phrasing, 7, 43, 57, 65, 92, 236, 240. Physique, 5, 228. Plaisir d'amour, 171, 205. Poise, 62, 101, 140. Polysyllables, 184, 188. Popular song, the, x, 198. Portamento, the, 176. Pressure-values, 124, 251. Prima donna, the, 91, 207. Programmes, the making of, 223. Prolongation of note-values, 77. Prosody, 56, 104, 120. Proud Maisie, 212. Psalm, the 104th, 192. Psalters, 135. Furcell, 121, 211. Purity of Diction, 104, 294. Quartet in A minor (Beethoven), 156. Question and Answer songs, 82, 162, 211. Quick ! we have but a second, 83, 147, 218. Quilter, Roger, 207. Quintuple time, 167. R, the letter, 115. Rallentando, the, 168, 176. Rattenfanger, Der, 88, 203, 208, 226, 230. Recitative, 83, 146, 148, 242. Rehearsal, 48, 74, 90, 237, 242. Rejoice greatly, 59, 111, 145. Remember the poor, 230. Reminiscence, Songs of, 204, 239, 265. Repertoire, 5, 232. Rests, 74, 77, 103, 163. Rhythm, x, 32, 38, 45, 56, 73, 12i; 144, 149, 167, 182, 234, 239, 249, 266. Rhythmical Songs, 57, 61, 132, 166, 200, 207, 234. Rising phrase, the, 135. Roadside Fire, the, 73, 160, 206. Romantic school, the, 122, Rondeau, the, 171. Rose, die Lille, die, 78, 146, 195. Rossetti, Christina, 212. Rossini, 61, 106. Rubato, 77, 80, 158, 167, 169, 171, 234, 277. Rubinstein, 204. Rules, 37. Sabbath morn at sea, 160. Sailor's Consolation, the, 213. St. John Passion, '172, 181. St. Matthew Passion, 57, 149, 151, 154, 155, 172. St. Paul, 155. Samson Agonistes, 205. Sands of Dee, the, 161. Santley, Sir Charles, 31. Sappbisohe Ode, 52, 60, 87. 306 INDEX Sarasate, 41. Scarlatti, Aless., 61, 63, 208, 230. Sehmied, der, 208. Schoue MuUerin, die, 46, 203. Schubert, 2, 15, 16, 17, 20, 45, 46, 49, 56, 75, 76, 80, 98, 122, 125, 136, 145, 146, 147, 149, 156, 161, 162, 164, 166, 170, 174, 178, 193, 195, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 226, 230, 238. Schulz, 183, 207. Schumann, 2, 16, 21, 45, 48, 56, 76, 78, 81, 95, 122, 146, 147, 157, 163, 171, 178, 179, 202, 203,205, 206, 208, 209, 211, 230, 248, 265. Selby, Luard, 80, 202. Self-banished, the, 207. Self-eonaciousness, 35, 44, 77, 101, 229. Shakespeare, 105, 120, 299. Sharp, Cecil, 219. She came to the village church, 191. Shepherd, see thy horse's foaming mane, 140, 146, 147, 230. Silences, 164. Silent Noon, 2, 14, 53, 227, 230. I time, 209. Slur, the, 107, 176. Soliloquy, the, 212. Somervell, Arthur, 21, 48, 156, 165, 191, 203, 209. Song-cycle, the, 92, 103, 214. Song of the Ghost, the, 211. Song of the Sou'-Wester, 209. Soprano, the, 59, 108. Sorcerer, the, 78. Sostenuto, 60. Spinnerliedchen, 147, 212. Spondees, 123, 187. Stadt, die, 164. Staleness, 18. Stanford, Sir C. V., 2, 18, 27, 49, 67, 82, 147, 162, 165, 170, 202, 203, 205, 208, 209, 211, 213, 217, 228, 230, 277. Stevenson, John, 281. Stockhausen, 195. Straight line in phrasing, the, 42, 62, 101, 114, 140, 295. Strophic songs, 81, 199. Study, 1. Style, X, 29, 36, 69, 95. Styles of Technique, 145, 225, 237, 241, 250, 278. Sullivan, Sir A., 78. Syncopations, 52. Tap o' th' Hill, 227, 230. Tears, idle Tears, 204. Technique, x, 4, 36, 57, 233. Temperament, 5, 95. Tempo, change of, 225. Tempo primo, 80, 159, 161, 169, 171, 176, 251, 277. Tenor, the, xi, 56", 58, 108. Tenuto, 74, 158, 168. Tessitura, 102. Texture, 62, 104, 142, 294. Thomas Kirche, xi, 58. Through the ivory gate, 211. Time, change of, 225. Time-signatures, 121, 196. To Althea, 206. To Anthea, 123, 206. To Lucasta, 206. Tod und das Madchen, der, 76. Todessehnen, 205. Todessehnsucht, 145, 207. Tone, 57. Tone-colour, 4, 19, 36, 48, 51, 83, 241, 250. Tradition, 30, 194. Traditional songs, 216. Translations, 139, 224. Tremolo, 290. Trillo di natura, 1 . " agility, J Trochees, 117, 123, 186, 251. Trottin' to the Fair, 147, 170, 208. Turn, the, 249. Twa Sisters o' Binnorie, the, 21, 161, 202, 221. Twankydillo, 230. 'Twas in the cool of eventide, 57, 151. Una voce pooo fa, 91. Ungeduld, 15, 45, 174, 208. Uphill, 181, 212. ^ 19. INDEX 307 Vagabond, the, 203, 208. Vergebliehes Standohen, 45, 147, 194, 202. Victorian period, 87, 106. Vittoria ! Vittoria ! 114. Voice-producer, the, 300. Voice-production, 7, 142. VoQ edler Art, 210. Vowels, 7, 106,'184, 250, 295. Wachterlied, 210. Wagner, 113, 157. Waldesgesprach, 16, 21, 146, 147, 202 211 Walker, Ernest, 85, 147, 205, 208, 230. Wanderer, der, 75, 156, 162, 203. Wandern, das, 49, 122, 208. Wenn ich in deine Augen eeh', 156. Wesley, S. S., 133, 135. When Childher plays, 180, 205. When lovers meet again, 183. When the flowing tide comes in, 108. Where the bee sucka, 61. White, Maude Valerie, Miss, 123. Who'll come fight in the snow? 41. Whole, treatment of song as a, 13, 26, 44, 237, 242. Widmung, 45, 178, 206. Widow Bird, A, 80, 202. Wie bist du, meine Konigin, 159, 206. Will you float in my boat? 230. Williams, R. Vaughan, 2, 53, 73, 160, 203, 204, 206, 208, 230. Wirthshaus, das, 156, 166. Wohin ? 208. Wolf, Hugo, 80, 145, 203, 208, 230. Wood, Charles, 15, 100, 165, 202. Word-illustration, 184, 242, 250. Ye twice ten hundred deities, 211. Zapateado, 41. "npHE following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan books on Music Standard Books on Singing, Singers, and Music The Art of Singing By Sir CHARLES SANTLEY Decorated cloth, gilt top, jBtno, $1.2^ net " In this attractive volume the veteran baritone gives his val- uable opinions upon singing and various matters connected therewith." — The Register. How to Sing (Meine Gesangskunst) By LILLI LEHMANN Translated from the German by R. 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