Of the thousands of people who visit the opera during the season few
outside of the small proportion of the initiated realize how much the
performance of the singer whom they see and hear on the stage is
dependent on previous rehearsal, constant practice and watchfulness over
the physical conditions that preserve that most precious of our assets,
the voice.
Nor does this same great public in general know of what the singer often
suffers in the way of nervousness or stage fright before appearing in
front of the footlights, nor that his life, outwardly so fêted and
brilliant, is in private more or less of a retired, ascetic one and that
his social pleasures must be strictly limited.
These conditions, of course, vary greatly with the individual singer,
but I will try to tell in the following articles, as exemplified in my
own case, what a great responsibility a voice is when one considers that
it is the great God-given treasure which brings us our fame and
fortune.
I am perhaps more favored than many in the fact that my voice was always
"there," and that, with proper cultivation, of course, I have not had to
overstrain it in the attempt to reach vocal heights which have come to
some only after severe and long-continued effort. But, on the other
hand, the finer the natural voice the more sedulous the care required to
preserve it in its pristine freshness to bloom. This is the singer's
ever present problem--in my case, however, mostly a matter of common
sense living.
As regards eating--a rather important item, by the way--I have kept to
the light "continental" breakfast, which I do not take too early; then a
rather substantial luncheon toward two o'clock. My native macaroni,
specially prepared by my chef, who is engaged particularly for his
ability in this way, is often a feature in this midday meal. I incline
toward the simpler and more nourishing food, though my tastes are broad
in the matter, but lay particular stress on the excellence of the
cooking, for one cannot afford to risk one's health on indifferently
cooked food, no matter what its quality.
On the nights when I sing I take nothing after luncheon, except perhaps
a sandwich and a glass of Chianti, until after the performance, when I
have a supper of whatever I fancy within reasonable bounds. Being
blessed with a good digestion, I have not been obliged to take the
extraordinary precautions about what I eat that some singers do. Still,
I am careful never to indulge to excess in the pleasures of the table,
for the condition of our alimentary apparatus and that of the vocal
chords are very closely related, and the unhealthy state of the one
immediately reacts on the other.
My reason for abstaining from food for so long before singing may be
inquired. It is simply that when the large space required by the
diaphragm in expanding to take in breath is partly occupied by one's
dinner the result is that one cannot take as deep a breath as one would
like and consequently the tone suffers and the all-important ease of
breathing is interfered with. In addition a certain amount of bodily
energy is used in the process of digestion which would otherwise be
entirely given to the production of the voice.
These facts, seemingly so simple, are very vital ones to a singer,
particularly on an "opening night." A singer's life is such an active
one, with rehearsals and performances, that not much opportunity is
given for "exercise," and the time given to this must, of course, be
governed by individual needs. I find a few simple physical exercises in
the morning after rising, somewhat similar to those practiced in the
army, or the use for a few minutes of a pair of light dumbbells, very
beneficial. Otherwise I must content myself with an occasional
automobile ride. One must not forget, however, that the exercise of
singing, with its constant deep inhalation (and acting in itself is
considerable exercise also), tends much to keep one from acquiring an
over-supply of embonpoint.
A proper moderation in eating, however, as I have already said, will
contribute as much to the maintenance of correct proportion in one's
figure as any amount of voluntary exercise which one only goes through
with on principle.
As so many of you in a number of States of this great country are
feeling and expressing as well as voting opinions on the subject of
whether one should or should not drink intoxicants, you may inquire what
practice is most in consonance with a singer's well being, in my
opinion. Here, again, of course, customs vary with the individual. In
Italy we habitually drink the light wines of the country with our meals
and surely are never the worse for it. I have retained my fondness for
my native Chianti, which I have even made on my own Italian estate, but
believe and carry out the belief that moderation is the only possible
course. I am inclined to condemn the use of spirits, whisky in
particular, which is so prevalent in the Anglo-Saxon countries, for it
is sure to inflame the delicate little ribbons of tissue which produce
the singing tone and then--_addio_ to a clear and ringing high C!
Though I indulge occasionally in a cigarette, I advise all singers,
particularly young singers, against this practice, which can certainly
not fail to have a bad effect on the delicate lining of the throat, the
vocal chords and the lungs.
You will see by all the foregoing that even the gift of a good breath is
not to be abused or treated lightly, and that the "goose with the golden
egg" must be most carefully nurtured.
Outside of this, however, one of the great temptations that beset any
singer of considerable fame is the many social demands that crowd upon
him, usually unsought and largely undesired. Many of the invitations to
receptions, teas and dinners are from comparative strangers and cannot
be considered, but of those from one's friends which it would be a
pleasure to attend very few indeed can be accepted, for the singer's
first care, even if a selfish one, must be for his health and
consequently his voice, and the attraction of social intercourse must,
alas, be largely foregone.
The continual effort of loud talking in a throng would be extremely bad
for the sensitive musical instrument that the vocalist carries in his
throat, and the various beverages offered at one of your afternoon teas
it would be too difficult to refuse. So I confine myself to an
occasional quiet dinner with a few friends on an off night at the opera
or any evening at the play, where I can at least be silent during the
progress of the acts.
In common with most of the foreign singers who come to America, I have
suffered somewhat from the effects of your barbarous climate, with its
sudden changes of temperature, but perhaps have become more accustomed
to it in the years of my operatic work here. What has affected me most,
however, is the overheating of the houses and hotels with that dry steam
heat which is so trying to the throat. Even when I took a house for the
season I had difficulty in keeping the air moist. Now, however, in the
very modern and excellent hotel where I am quartered they have a new
system of ventilation by which the air is automatically rendered pure
and the heat controlled--a great blessing to the over-sensitive
vocalist.
After reading the above the casual person will perhaps believe that a
singer's life is really not a bit of a sinecure, even when he has
attained the measure of this world's approval and applause afforded by
the "great horseshoe."