Carmen the song and Sylva the wood,
Join them together, the wood-song is heard;
If in the woods I had not been born,
Ne’er should I sing a song night or morn.
I’ve often learnt from the melody
Of birds, and woods have whispered to me,
While my heart beat time within my breast,
And wood and song have sung me to rest.
Such, roughly rendered, is the explanation that the gifted and
distinguished authoress gives of the _nom de plume_ which she has
assumed. In the last line there is a reference to the woodland
castle—Mon Repos, or My Rest—where she passed her youth.
Her father was Hermann, Prince of Wied, a cultivated and thoughtful
man, fond of philosophical speculation, and a writer on topics
connected with his favourite studies. Her mother was Princess Maria
of Nassau, who is described as “a woman of great beauty and true
elevation of soul, of strong will, keen understanding, self-sacrificing
spirit and indefatigable activity, inexorably strict with reference to
herself, but overflowing with kindness and consideration towards all
with whom she is brought in contact.”[1]
Elizabeth, the subject of our sketch, now the Queen of Roumania, was
born on the 29th of December, 1843. As a child, she was impetuous in
temper, reserved and resolute in disposition, and unbending in will.
Her imagination was very lively. In her fourth year she was placed
under the charge of a governess to receive regular instruction. Up to
that time her mother had been her sole teacher. She was so lively that
she suffered physical torture if she had to sit quite quiet. Once,
when she was sitting for her portrait, along with her younger brother,
Prince William, she resolved to keep still. Hardly had she done so for
five minutes before she suddenly fell off her chair in a fainting fit.
Her mother’s former governess, Fraülein Lavater, who came to Mon Repos
for some months every year, was the only one who could tranquilise her.
Very early Princess Elizabeth displayed a charitable and sympathetic
disposition. She used to accompany her mother on visits to the poor,
and thus she became acquainted with their needs. She would give away
whatever she could dispense with; yet she was not destitute of sound
practical sense. One day her mother gave her a large piece of woollen
stuff. The little Princess was overjoyed, and exclaimed—
“Now I can give away all my clothes!”
“Had you not better give the woollen stuff to the poor children?” said
her mother; “your white clothes would be of less use to them than the
coarse stuff.” It was a new thought to the child, and she at once
perceived the reasonableness of the suggestion, and acted on it.
In November, 1850, her youngest brother Otto was born. He was
afflicted with an organic malady, and in order to procure the best
professional advice, the family went to Bonn in the spring of 1851.
Many distinguished men—artists and _savans_—gathered around the
princely family. Among others the patriot-poet, Ernst Moritz Arndt,
then eighty-two years old, was a daily visitor. He read his patriotic
songs to them. The Princess Elizabeth sat upon his knees while he did
so, and listened with rapt attention and flushed cheeks. Many a time
the venerable poet placed his hands upon her head and explained to her
the beautiful name which she bore. “Elizabeth,” he said, “signifies
‘God is rest.’”
The present Crown Prince of Germany, then a student of Bonn, was also a
frequent visitor.
It was at this time that the future Queen first saw Roumanians. They
were the brothers Stourdza, who were then studying at the University.
Princess Elizabeth for a long time cherished the wish to sit on the
form in the school with the village children. One morning, bursting
into the room where her mother was much occupied, she asked if she
might go with some farm children to the school. The Princess Maria
did not hear the question, but nodded kindly to the child. Princess
Elizabeth, taking this sign for permission, rushed off to the
neighbouring farmhouse. There she heard that the children had already
gone to school. She followed them quickly, and entered the schoolroom
while the singing lesson was going on. The teacher was highly flattered
when he saw the Princess standing at a form, and quite happily joining
with full voice in the singing. The farmers’ little daughters, who had
some notion of Court etiquette, regarded it as quite unseemly that
the daughter of a Prince should join with such a very loud voice in
singing with the village children! As soon as the Princess’s voice was
heard above the voices of the other children, the girl next her put her
hand on her mouth, and sought to impress upon her Serene Highness the
impropriety of her position.
Meanwhile the greatest consternation was felt at the Castle on account
of the disappearance of the Princess Elizabeth. Servants were sent
out in all directions. For a long time they searched the neighbouring
beechwoods and surrounding villages in vain. At last they found the
little Princess, full of delight with her exploit, in the village
school of Rodenbach. The missing child was carried back to the Castle,
and confinement to her room for the rest of the day was the issue of
the morning’s exploit.
She was a born ruler of others. In playing with children of her own
age, whether of her own or of peasant rank, her ascendancy was at once
acknowledged and yielded to. She was the ringleader in the wildest
games. The fantastic ideas which came into her head, and on which she
acted, overmastered her for the time. They were realities to her.
Her literary genius was early developed. She composed occasional
pieces when she was nine and ten years old. At twelve years of age
she attempted to write a novel. At fourteen she had invented dramas
and tragedies. The more terrible the scenes were, the better was she
pleased. Morning and night she was devising stories. She was subject
to alternations of high spirits and depression, and total lack of
self-confidence. She would be tormented by the idea that she was
disagreeable and insupportable to everyone. “I could not help it,” she
confesses; “I could not be gentle, I could only be impetuous. I was
heartily thankful to all who had patience with me. I was better when
the safety-valve of writing poetry was opened to me.”
In order to moderate the exuberance of her feelings, her mother took
her at every opportunity to scenes where she might be deeply impressed
by the realities of life. She was present at many a sick and death
bed. Her brother’s case familiarised her with the sufferings that
many have to endure. The first deathbed at which she was present was
her grandmother’s, the Duchess of Nassau’s. It made an ineffaceable
impression upon her. The sight of the body excited no terror in her
mind. Her thoughts went beyond death. She hastened to the garden. The
roses were in full bloom. She gathered the most beautiful, and returned
with them to the chamber of death, and decorated the bed and the room
with them. Her conception of death was poetical. Her mother had taught
her to take a bright view of it.
Brought up by her mother in the fear of God, her first visit to church
was a memorable occasion to her. Henceforward the Sundays and holydays
were the bright spots in her life. With devout attention she followed
the course of the service, and was deeply impressed by the exposition
of Holy Scripture. She meditated on what she heard for days, and often
wrote down the sermons.
At the end of six years her governess, Miss Jossé, who discharged her
difficult duties with great fidelity and zeal, left Neuwied, and the
Princess was placed under the care of a tutor, Mr. Sauerwein. On his
arrival at the Castle the Princess Maria received him with the words:
“You are getting a little spirit of contradiction for your pupil. She
has no traditional faith. Her first questions always are, ‘why?’ and
‘is it true?’”
Mr. Sauerwein was a distinguished linguist; had resided a long time
in England, and was an enthusiast for that country, its history and
institutions. He gave all his lessons in the English language. Latin
and Italian were translated into English. The Princess read Ovid,
Horace, and parts of Cicero with him, and wrote Latin, English, and
Italian exercises. She also learnt arithmetic and geometry. Lessons
in physical science she took along with a companion and most intimate
friend, Maria von Bibra. She was taught French by a Parisian lady,
and in the evening after tea read the old chroniclers, as well as
the dramatists. Schiller and other German classics were studied. At
fifteen she took a keen interest in politics, and was a diligent reader
of newspapers. From a very early period she had a great fondness
for legends and folklore. “I would throw away,” she says, “the most
beautiful history, or even comparative grammar, to the study of which I
was passionately devoted, into a corner, for a little legend.”
Romances were forbidden till she was nineteen years of age. Then she
was permitted to read “Ivanhoe” and others. Everything that was likely
to excite her too lively imagination was purposely withheld from her.
At the beautifully situated Castle of Mon Repos, with its fine view
of the Rhine and its splendid beechwoods, the Princess Elizabeth was
in her element. She delighted to roam in the woods in the stormiest
weather, when it was raining in torrents or snowing heavily. The house
was too strait for her, and she would go forth, accompanied by three
dogs of St. Bernard, to enjoy the battle of the elements. In autumn,
when the yellow leaves lay in heaps on the ground, she would wander for
hours, listening to the rustling of the leaves. Every leaf, blade of
grass, bird, and flower—every sunbeam that lighted upon the landscape,
had a meaning for her. She would return home with her head full of
poetical ideas, which she would write down. These poetical effusions
tranquillised her mind. No one knew anything of them. She kept them a
profound secret. Her mother wisely concluded that the best thing to do
was to let her take her own way. The Prince used to say, when she was
determined to have her own way, “We must not compel people for their
own happiness; we must allow them to attain to insight.”
At sixteen years of age the Princess began to write all her poems
regularly in a book. She put all her thoughts and feelings into verse,
which from henceforward formed her diary. Until she was thirty years
of age she knew nothing of the technical part of the art of poetry. A
time came, however, when she thought she ought to despise poetry, and
when she threw herself with all her might into the study of music. She
got into such a nervous condition, however, that her mother had to
forbid her playing the piano for two years. Then she took to her pencil
and painting. This failed to satisfy her, and she despaired of her
abilities, and believed that she would never attain the ideal at which
she aimed.
All who knew the Princess at this time retain a vivid impression of
her vivacity and grace, of her slender figure, fresh complexion, her
luxuriant dark brown hair, and large blue eyes, which looked as if
they would penetrate and search the very soul. Without being exactly
beautiful, the intellectual refinement of her features made her
countenance very attractive. From her surroundings she was called
Princess Wood-rose.
When governesses and tutor had left the Castle, Pastor Harder, the
Mennonite Baptist preacher from Neuwied, came every day to teach the
Princess logic, history, and church history. She profited much from
her intercourse with him. She could open her heart freely to him on
subjects on which she exercised the strictest reserve with everyone
else. His preaching went to her heart. Her poetical diary contains many
entries written after the services.
In 1860 she was confirmed, after being prepared for the rite by the
Ecclesiastical Councillor Dilthey, in presence of all her sponsors, the
nearest relatives of the houses of Wied and Nassau, and the present
Empress of Germany, at that time Princess of Prussia.
Times of sore trial came to her. Her father was always ill. The
sufferings of her little invalid brother increased, and her mother was
absorbed by anxious duties. During her brother’s illness, to whom her
mother wholly devoted herself, the Princess was thrown much into the
society of her father. She worked with him, copied for him, and read
to him. He would discuss with her the questions on which he wrote.
The intelligence and receptivity of his daughter delighted him. The
house was, however, too quiet for the lively girl. It was therefore
decided that the invitation of Queen Augusta should be accepted, and
that Fraülein Lavater should accompany her to Berlin. She found it
difficult to keep within the bounds of Court etiquette, and converse in
a becoming manner. She felt most at home in the family of the Princess
of Hohenzollern, who passed the winter in Berlin.
It was at this time she first met her future husband, then Prince
Charles of Hohenzollern. The story is told that one day as she,
according to her custom, was bounding quickly down the stairs in the
Castle, she slipped on the last steps, and was prevented from falling
by Prince Charles, who caught her in his arms.
Soon after her return home the cases of her brother and father were
pronounced to be hopeless. Prince Otto’s sufferings increased from
month to month. His mother sought to prepare him for his end by
pointing him to Christ and heaven. In January, 1862, Prince Hermann
was unable to leave his bed. Princess Elizabeth nursed her father,
while her mother was incessant in her attendance on her beloved son.
On the 16th of February, 1862, Prince Otto died. “Thank God! thank God
for ever and ever!” was the exclamation of his bereaved mother, as she
stood by his body. His father, family, friends and connections from far
and near, all who loved and admired the boy, joined with his mother in
her thanksgiving.
After the funeral the family paid a visit to Baden-Baden. On their
return the young Princess threw herself with all the ardour of her
nature into the work of teaching. In the Castle there was a lame boy,
who had been received on account of his delicate health, and at a farm
in the neighbourhood of Mon Repos the Baroness von Bibra resided for
some time with two little nieces. With these three little children the
Princess set up a school. Her mother observed with quiet satisfaction
the patience, perseverance, and aptitude to teach displayed by her
daughter. The boy, Rudolf Wackernagel, made such progress that he was
able to enter the fifth class in the Gymnasium at Basle.
The winter of 1862-63 was passed with her parents at Baden-Baden on
account of her father’s health. Here she “came out.” From entries in
her diary it would appear that she had offers of marriage at this time.
There are some lines in which she writes of the kind of love that alone
brings happiness, and she adds that a maiden rejects anyone who does
not really love her. “A maiden,” she says, “is happy in her parents’
house, from whence she casts modest looks into the world.”
In the autumn of 1863 she went with her aunt, the Grand Duchess Helena
of Russia, to Ouchy, on the Lake of Geneva, and for the winter to St.
Petersburg. On the way to the latter place she saw her father for the
last time at Wiesbaden. He did not expect ever to see his daughter
again. Everybody was charmed with her at the Russian Court. She did
not feel at ease, however, amid the grandeur which surrounded her.
Her imagination was excited by all that she saw and heard, but her
nerves suffered. The Grand Duchess sought to calm her mind by varied
but regular occupation. The day was filled with music, reading, study
of the Russian language, etc. Rubinstein first, and afterwards Clara
Schumann, taught her music. When she expected Rubinstein to come,
her excitement was so great that it almost took away her breath. She
regarded him with such veneration that she lost all heart, from a sense
of her own little talent. The climate and nervous excitement brought
on gastric fever. For weeks she was confined to bed. It was her first
illness. She had never tasted medicine before she was twenty. She could
hardly believe, therefore, that she was really ill. As soon as she
was able to do so, she buried herself in a philosophical work by her
father, a copy of which he had sent her, and wrote to him telling him
the pleasure it gave her. She enjoyed the seclusion from the gaieties
that were going on. “It is very strange,” she wrote to her father;
“yesterday I read ninety pages of philosophy, and was so rested that
everyone was astonished at my looking so well. But if only two or
three ladies come, and tell me the gossip of the town, and of all the
things that are going on, it makes me droop like a withered leaf.”
When she was well enough she resumed her social intercourse with the
Grand Duchess, but had a sudden relapse. It was an anxious time for
her mother: her husband dangerously ill, her daughter invalided at
a distance, and she not there to nurse her! “I know she is in God’s
hands,” she wrote, “and under the care of faithful and loving friends,
but that does not take the pain, the load of sorrow, from my heart.”
The Princess Elizabeth was able to venture into the open air again at
the beginning of March. It seemed as if her recovery would be rapid.
A few days later, however, she received the tidings of her father’s
death. She loved her father with enthusiastic tenderness. She owed
her intellectual development, for the most part, to him. Her grief
was heightened by the thought that she had not been with him in his
last days. But no murmur escaped her lips. She bore the blow with such
composure and resignation that everyone about her was deeply impressed
and touched. She sought to comfort and strengthen her mother. “We shall
fill the desolate void with our love,” she wrote, “and therein find our
happiness.” She regarded her father as a shining example, and sought
to think and act according to his ideas. In the judgments she formed,
she imitated his mildness and candour, which condemned nothing without
fully proving it.
At Easter she left St. Petersburg with the Grand Duchess Helena, and
visited Moscow, and in June returned to Germany. Her mother met her in
Leipzig. The meeting, as may be imagined, was very affecting. After
their return to Mon Repos a reaction from the recent excitement and
agitation which she had experienced set in, and the Princess Elizabeth
was overcome by apathy. Her mother, therefore, gladly consented to her
accompanying the Grand Duchess Helena to Ouchy.
During the years 1866, 1867, 1868, she paid visits with her aunt or
mother to Switzerland, Italy, France, and Sweden, meeting with much to
interest her.
Little did she think at the end of this time of the career on which
she was so soon to enter. She always wished to have “a calling” in
life. She did not wish to live a life of pleasure, or the life of an
intellectual _dilettante_, but one of real usefulness. She resolved
to devote herself to the work of education, and be the teacher of a
school. Her mother consented, on the condition that she should go
through a regular course of preparatory training for the purpose, and
pass an examination. But “man proposes and God disposes.” During the
spring of 1869, while she was with her mother in Bonn, they received
an invitation from the Prince of Hohenzollern to pay a visit to
Düsseldorf. The mother divined the purpose of the proposed visit, but
the daughter had no suspicion of it. She was delighted only with the
prospect of seeing the Princess of Hohenzollern and Princess Marie,
whom she had met in Berlin, and with whom she had corresponded ever
since.
(_To be concluded._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Aus “Carmen Sylva’s Leben,” von Natalie, Freiin von Stachelberg—(From
“Carmen Sylva’s Life,” by Nathalie, Baroness of Stachelberg. Third
revised edition. Heidelberg. 1886).
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
A PASTORALE.
BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.
CHAPTER XVI.
Leaving the Priory on her right, Fairy went down the street in which
stands the pretty old wooden house in which Anne of Cleves is said to
have lived, and which goes by her name, from whence she turned up a
lane into the High-street, and going to the bottom of the hill on which
the High-street is built, she paused at a blacksmith’s shop.
The blacksmith was the father of the veterinary whom Fairy was
seeking, and both men were standing in the shed, the blacksmith in his
apron, with his hammer in his hand, scratching his head, and looking
exceedingly puzzled, the veterinary in his shirt-sleeves, which looked
like a protest against the heat which streamed from his father’s forge.
He, too, looked equally puzzled.
In the centre of the shed stood a third figure, a gentleman,
tall, thin, young, and dark—if not handsome, at least very
good-looking—with an aristocratic air about him which at once caught
Fairy’s fancy. She saw at a glance he was unlike anyone she had ever
met before, by the cut of his clothes and the dark moustache, in days
when moustaches were rarely seen in England; she half suspected he was
not English, and his first words, in a strong foreign accent, confirmed
this idea.
“I want to take it wif me, a horse’s iron, the iron of a horse.”
Fairy’s appearance in the shed caused the stranger to turn round, and
seeing a lady he took off his hat and bowed so profoundly, at the same
time stepping back, and gracefully hinting, by a wave of his hand,
that his business would wait till hers was concluded, removed any
lingering doubts in her mind as to his nationality. He was French, she
was sure, and for the first time in her life, to her knowledge, Fairy
found herself face to face with a Frenchman, as great a curiosity then
as a Japanese or Chinaman is now.
Fairy returned his elaborate bow with a pretty inclination of her
graceful head, and briefly stated her business to the veterinary,
who, however, seemed to hesitate at first to come at once, and Fairy
was obliged to resort to a little judicious flattery to induce him to
comply with her request.
While she was speaking the stranger had an opportunity of indulging
in a good look at her without her being aware of it. How pretty she
was! fresher and brighter and prettier than ever among the dark,
grimy surroundings of the blacksmith’s shop, which formed a striking
background for this brilliant little vision of youth and health and
beauty, the red glow of the furnace sending a rosy reflection over
her white dress, and kindling the soft golden lights in her hair into
a burning auburn. How simply she was dressed too! the first of her
countrywomen who understood the art of dressing herself who had yet
crossed the stranger’s path, he afterwards told her; and yet her boots
and gloves, about which Fairy was very particular, fitted her tiny
hands and feet to perfection.
Where did she come from, this blooming little creature, who looked as
if a puff of wind might blow her away, so small and slight and dainty
was she? And in default of wind the young Frenchman was by no means
sure that she would not suddenly spread out a pair of wings from among
the folds of her white drapery and fly away! At any rate he determined
to speak to her first and satisfy himself that she was flesh and blood,
and not a mere sprite or vision, so as she turned to leave, after
having prevailed upon the veterinary to do her bidding at once, he
stepped forward, and, with another grand bow and a smile, he said, in
his native tongue—
“Mademoiselle peut-elle parler Français?”
“Mais oui, monsieur,” answered Fairy.
“Pardon mille fois, mademoiselle est Française?” said the Frenchman,
with true French politeness.
“Mais non, monsieur,” laughed Fairy, in a half-reproachful,
half-deprecating tone.
“Mademoiselle speaks like a native, but will she have the kindness to
tell me what is the English for fer-de-cheval; I have forgotten?”
“A horseshoe,” said Fairy.
“A horseshoe,” lisped the Frenchman.
“A horseshoe, and he asked for a horse’s iron; no wonder I didn’t know
what he meant,” growled the blacksmith, proceeding to get the article
in question.
“A horseshoe—a horse’s iron,” laughed the veterinary, in an undertone
of scorn, as he went his way to look after John Shelley’s sheep.
“Yes,” said the Frenchman, in French, to Fairy, “I want a horseshoe.
They tell me a horseshoe always brings good luck, so I am going to keep
one in my room.”
“Oh, but it is no use to buy a horseshoe; you must find it, pick it up
on the road, and keep it for it to bring good luck,” laughed Fairy,
speaking French.
“Is that it? Well, never mind, this horseshoe has brought me some
good luck at any rate already.” And then, fearing he was presuming
too much on his brief acquaintance to pay the compliment his last
speech implied, he added, apologetically, “I have not often the good
luck to meet a lady out of France who speaks French so fluently as
mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur is very kind to say so, but unless I can be of any further
use I must say good morning,” said Fairy, moving to the door.
The young Frenchman uttered a thousand thanks, bowed lower than ever,
and stood uncovered at the door of the shed, watching till Fairy’s
little figure and fluttering white skirts disappeared from view.
“Rum ways! Is Mr. Parlez-vous, with his outlandish talk, going to
stand there all day in the broiling sun? He’ll have a sunstroke if
he does. He is the queerest customer ever darkened my door,” growled
the blacksmith, as he hammered on his anvil to attract the stranger’s
attention.
The stranger had no intention of moving until Fairy had disappeared
from view, and then he put on his hat and walked up to the anvil.
“Who is that lady?” he asked.
“Nobody knows,” growled the surly old blacksmith.
“What is her name?”
“Can’t say; nobody knows,” answered the blacksmith, in a still surlier
tone, though to do him justice he thought this fine gentleman’s sudden
interest in the shepherd’s Fairy, as people called her, boded no good
to Fairy.
“How much is the horse-iron—shoe, I mean?”
“Sixpence, sir.”
The Frenchman laid down half-a-crown, and pushing it towards the
blacksmith, gave him a meaning look as he repeated the question.
“What is that lady’s name?”
The blacksmith understood well enough that if he gave a satisfactory
answer no change would be required, and soothing his conscience with
the thought that after all it was no business of his—he was only
answering a civil question, he said, “They call her the shepherd’s
Fairy.”
“But what is her real name?” and the Frenchman produced another
half-crown, and held it temptingly in his finger and thumb.
“I never heard tell of any name but that; she is John Shelley’s foster
daughter,” answered the man, glancing at the second half-crown, which
was now lying by the side of the first.
“And where does John Shelley live?”
“At Bournemer, about a mile and a half from here.”
“_Comment?_ How do you call it, Bonnemère? How can I get there?”
“Can’t say; it ain’t easy to find,” said the blacksmith, thinking the
Frenchman had had his five shillings’ worth, and, as was evident from
his manner, resolved not to enlighten him any further.
“Easy or difficult, I shall find it, my civil friend,” said the
young Frenchman, in French, and then, raising his hat, he wished
the blacksmith good-day, and left the forge, muttering to himself a
criticism on the manners of these English not over flattering to our
nation.
“Palavering jackanapes, talking a tongue that no one understands but
himself! What has the shepherd’s Fairy to do with him, I should like
to know? But there don’t appear to be any scarcity of half-crowns with
him; seems made up of them. A queer customer—a mighty queer customer;
I wonder where he hails from.” And so saying, the blacksmith went to
his door to look after the young Frenchman.
The stranger walked up the High-street to the Crown, where he had left
his horse, and when it was brought to him, innocently asked the ostler
if he could get back to Oafham, where he was staying, by Bournemer.
“Yes, sir; you can go across yonder meadows; there is a drift right
through them which will bring you out close upon John Shelley, the
shepherd’s, house; go past that and turn sharp to your right, that
will take you straight back to the park,” said the ostler, giving the
stranger all the information he required for nothing.
A few minutes later the blacksmith strolled casually up to the inn, and
inquired of the ostler who that foreign gentleman was.
“Dunnow; reckon he is some relation of Lady Oafham up at Oafham Park;
they say my lady’s sister is married to a French gentleman; anyhow, he
is staying there. I know the mare.”
“He is a rum customer, wherever he is staying. He didn’t happen to ask
you where John Shelley lived, did he now?” said the blacksmith.
“No, but I happened to tell him,” returned the ostler.
“More fool you, then. Ah! he is a queer customer.” And muttering to
himself all the way down the street, the blacksmith returned to his
forge.
Meanwhile the French gentleman rode slowly off in the direction
indicated by the ostler, keeping his horse to a walking pace for fear
he should overtake Fairy, who, after a little while, he discerned as
a little speck of white some way in front of him. He paid no heed to
the ostler’s directions now; where that speck of white led he would
follow, but at a safe distance, lest he should frighten or annoy her if
discovered. Keeping well in the rear, he saw Fairy finally turn into
the field in which the shepherd’s cottage stood, and as soon as she was
out of sight he put his horse into a canter, and rode past, taking a
good survey, as he passed, of the house of the shepherd’s Fairy, whom
he had traced to her home.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
HINTS ON PRACTISING SINGING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE.
BY AN EXPERIENCED TEACHER.
[Illustration]
PART I.
WHAT TO AVOID.
It will most likely surprise my readers that I should begin this
article by telling them when _not to practise_. I think this a very
essential point, although not often spoken of by teachers.
I heard, a short time ago, of a young lady desirous of having singing
lessons, whose instructor said it would be best for her to practise
three times a day for ten minutes. The girl, being engaged in teaching
most of the day, found it difficult to manage her time, but contrived,
by having the first ten minutes before breakfast, to fit in the three
intervals. No wonder her throat got bad and her health suffered!
If, among my readers, there should be one similarly occupied, believe
me, it is not wise to take lessons during the term, as talking for so
long a time is sufficient exercise for the throat and chest. Wait till
the holidays, and then begin.
If you tire the vocal chords and the surrounding parts, you weaken
instead of strengthening them, and injure the purity of tone.
We will suppose you have had your first lesson, say, of forty-five
minutes; and on reaching home feel inclined to practise, to impress
on your mind your teacher’s corrections. Yet you must not do so; as
you have already sung enough. By all means, look over the music you
have used and mark anything you may be likely to forget; also start a
note-book, and make memoranda of the hints received from time to time.
Say that your lesson takes place in the morning; probably in the
afternoon you will be able to take a quarter of an hour in which to
practise. In this way, you will have done far more good than if you sat
straightway down to the piano when you were excited and heated after
your first lesson, when you might have been tempted to try over your
songs, to settle which to take the next time, and have gone from one
thing to another, till, to your great surprise, it is lunch time, and,
it may chance, instead of your usual good appetite you have none. An
artistic temperament is often very excitable, and if this is your case
you will perceive how much you would have taken out of yourself in that
one morning.
Should you be out of health, do not practise; you may sing a little,
going through one song or two (no more) will cheer you; but do not try
exercises, for your voice will not be in its usual state, consequently
you will be likely to force it.
Again, if it ever happens that you are cross, or vexed, do not choose
that time either. Do not sing your exercises after a long walk, or
after a hearty meal, nor after bending for any length of time over
needlework, writing, or any occupations causing stooping.
On many of these occasions you could practise the pianoforte; singers
should well study their accompaniments.
All these “don’ts” are especially addressed to the zealous student,
whose very enthusiasm may do much harm.
The dilatory one may say, “If I am to practise at none of these times,
when, then, shall I do so?”
There are plenty of opportunities still, but it depends greatly on home
duties how the time should be apportioned.
We will imagine the first thing after breakfast some domestic task
calls your attention. When you are at liberty, go then to your
piano (this should be scrupulously kept in tune), but first spend
five minutes in practising breathing—of which I shall speak later
on—then sing for five minutes sustained notes, _without crescendo_,
the “mezza di voce” < > being a finishing study which must not be
attempted till the voice is fully under control; then give five to
slow scale passages, and five more to simple distances of thirds,
or what particular exercise your teacher may have given. Before the
mid-day meal you may be able to give a few minutes again to sustained
notes; but mind, only use your middle ones. These should have the chief
attention for quite a month or more before either the upper or lower
ones are tried.
Another interval can well be given some time after noon; and in the
evening practise your songs—as at that time you might annoy other
persons with your exercises. They are not calculated to cheer the heart
of the listener, especially when imperfectly done, as they will be at
first.