especially to dramatic singing and study for opera; only with
singing even more care should be taken. No singer realizes the
necessity of a quiet, absolutely free body for the best expression
of a high note, until having gained a certain physical freedom
without singing, she takes a high note and is made sensitive to the
superfluous tension all over the body, and later learns to reach the
same note with the repose which is natural; then the contrast
between the natural and the unnatural methods of singing becomes
most evident,--and not with high notes alone, but with all notes,
and all combinations of notes. I speak of the high note first,
because that is an extreme; for with the majority of singers there
is always more or less fear when a high note is coming lest it may
not be reached easily and with all the clearness that belongs to it.
This fear in itself is tension. For that reason one must learn to
relax to a high note. A free body relieves the singer immensely from
the mechanism of singing. So perfect is the unity of the body that a
voice will not obey perfectly unless the body, as a whole, be free.
Once secure in the freedom of voice and body to obey, the song can
burst forth with all the musical feeling, and all the deep
appreciation of the words of which the singer is capable. Now,
unfortunately, it is not unusual in listening to a public singer, to
feel keenly that he is entirely adsorbed in the mechanism of his
art.
If this freedom is so helpful, indeed so necessary, to reach one's
highest power in singing, it is absolutely essential on the operatic
stage. With it we should have less of the wooden motion so common to
singers in opera. When one is free, physically free, the music seems
to draw out the acting. With a great composer and an interpreter
free to respond, the music and the body of the actor are one in
their power of expressing the emotions. And the songs without words
of the interludes so affect the spirit of the singer that, whether
quiet or in motion, he seems, through being a living embodiment of
the music, to impress the sense of seeing so that it increases the
pleasure of hearing.
I am aware that this standard is ideal; but it is not impossible to
approach it,--to come at least much nearer to it than we do now,
when the physical movements on the stage are such, that one wants to
listen to most operas with closed eyes.
We have considered artistic expression when the human body alone is
the instrument. When the body is merely a means to the use of a
secondary instrument, a primary training of the body itself is
equally necessary.
A pianist practises for hours to command his fingers and gain a
touch which will bring the soul from his music, without in the least
realizing that so long as he is keeping other muscles in his body
tense, and allowing the nervous force to expend itself unnecessarily
in other directions, there never will be clear and open channels
from his brain to his fingers; and as he literally plays with his
brain, and not with his fingers, free channels for a magnetic touch
are indispensable.
To watch a body _give_ to the rhythm of the music in playing is most
fascinating. Although the motion is slight, the contrast between
that and a pianist stiff and rigid with superfluous tension is, very
marked, and the difference in touch when one relaxes to the music
with free channels has been very clearly proved. Beside this, the
freedom in mechanism which follows the exercises for arms and hands
is strikingly noticeable.
With the violin, the same physical equilibrium of motion must be
gained; in fact it is equally necessary in all musical performance,
as the perfect freedom of the body is always necessary before it can
reach its highest power in the use of any secondary instrument.
In painting, the freer a body is the more perfectly the mind can
direct it. How often we can see clearly in our minds a straight line
or a curve or a combination of both, but our hands will not obey the
brain, and the picture fails. It does not by any means follow that
with free bodies we can direct the hand at once to whatever the
brain desires, but simply that by making the body free, and so a
perfect servant of the mind, it can be brought to obey the mind in a
much shorter time and more directly, and so become a truer channel
for whatever the mind wishes to accomplish.
In the highest art, whatever form it may take, the law of simplicity
is perfectly illustrated.
It would be tiresome to go through a list of the various forms of
artistic expression; enough has been said to show the necessity for
a free body, sensitive to respond to, quick to obey, and open to
express the commands of its owner.
XVI.
TESTS
ADOPTING the phrase of our forefathers, with all its force and
brevity, we say, "The proof of the pudding is in the eating."
If the laws adduced in this book are Nature's laws, they should
preserve us in health and strength. And so they do just so far as we
truly and fully obey them.
Then are students and teachers of these laws never ill, never run
down, "nervous," or prostrated? Yes, they are sometimes ill,
sometimes run down and overworked, and suffer the many evil effects
ensuing; but the work which has produced these results is much
greater and more laborious than would have been possible without the
practice of the principles. At the same time their states of illness
occur because they only partially obey the laws. In the degree which
they obey they will be preserved from the effects of tensity,
overstrung nerves, and generally worn-out bodies; and in sickness
coming from other causes--mechanical, hereditary, etc.--again,
according to their obedience, they will be held in all possible
physical and mental peace, so that the disease may wither and drop
like the decayed leaf of a plant.
As well might we ask of the wisest clergyman in the land, Do his
truths _never_ fail him? Is he _always_ held in harmony and nobility
by their power? However great and good the man may be, this state of
perfection will never be reached in this world.
In exact parallel to the spiritual laws upon which all universal
truth, of all religions, is founded, are the truths of this teaching
of physical peace and equilibrium. As religion applies to all the
needs of the soul, so this applies to all the needs of the body. As
a man may be continually progressing in nobility of thought and
action, and yet find himself under peculiar circumstances tried even
to the stumbling point,--so may the student of bodily quiet and
equilibrium, who appears even to a very careful observer to be in
surprising possession of his forces, under a similar test stumble
and fall into some form of the evil effects out of which he has had
power to lead others.
It is important that this parallelism should be recognized, that the
unity of these truths may be finally accomplished in the living;
therefore we repeat, Is this any more possible than that the full
control of the soul should be at once possessed?
Think of the marvellous construction of the human body,--the
exquisite adjustment of its economy. Could a power of control
sufficient to apply to its every detail be fully acquired at once,
or even in a life-time?
But when one does fall who has made himself even partially at one
with Nature's way of living, the power of patient waiting for relief
is very different. He separates himself from his ailments in a way
which without the preparation would be to him unknown. He has,
without drug or other external assistance, an anodyne always within
himself which he can use at pleasure. He positively experiences that
"underneath are the everlasting arms," and the power to experience
this gives him much respite from pain.
Pain is so often prolonged and accentuated _by dwelling in its
memory, _living in a self-pity of the time when it shall come again!
The patient who comes to his test with the bodily and mental repose
already acquired, cuts off each day from the last, each hour from
the last, one might almost say each breath from the last, so strong
is his confidence in the renewal of forces possible to those who
give themselves quite trustfully into Nature's hands.
It is not that they refuse external aid or precaution. No; indeed
the very quiet within makes them feel most keenly when it is orderly
to rest and seek the advice of others. Also it makes them faithful
in following every direction which will take them back into the
rhythm of a healthful life.
But while they do this they do not centre upon it. They take the
precautions as a means and not as an end. They centre upon that
which they have within themselves, and they know that that possible
power being in a state of disorder and chaos no one or all of the
outside measures are of any value.
As patients prepared by the work return into normal life, the false
exhilaration, which is a sure sign of another stumble, is seen and
avoided. They have learned a serious lesson in economy, and they
profit by it. Where they were free before, they become more so; and
where they were not, they quietly set themselves toward constant
gain. They work at lower pressure, steadily gaining in spreading the
freedom and quiet deeper into their systems, thus lessening the
danger of future falls.
Let us state some of the causes for "breaking down," even while
trying well to learn Nature's ways.
First, a trust in one's own capacity for freedom and quiet. "I can
do this, now that I know how to relax." When truly considered, the
thing is out of reason, and we should say, "Because I know how to
relax, I see that I must not do this."
The case is the same with the gymnast who greatly overtaxes his
muscle, having foolishly concluded that because he has had some
training he can successfully meet the test. There is nothing so
truly stupid as self-satisfaction; and these errors, with all others
of the same nature, re fruits of our stupidity, and unless shunned
surely lead us into trouble.
Some natures, after practice, relax so easily that they are soon met
by the dangers of overrelaxation. Let them remember that it is
really equilibrium they are seeking, and by balancing their activity
and their relaxation, and relaxing only as a means to an end,--the
end of greater activity and use later,--they avoid any such ill
effect.
As the gymnast can mistake the purpose of his muscular development,
putting it in the place of greater things, regarding it as an end
instead of a means,--so can he who is training for a better use of
his nervous force. In the latter case, the signs of this error are a
slackened circulation, a loathing to activity, and various
evanescent sensations of peace and satisfaction which bear no test,
vanishing as soon as they are brought to the slightest trial.
Unless you take up your work with fresh interest and renewed vigor
each time after practice, you may know that all is not as it should
be.
To avoid all these mistakes, examine the work of each day and let
the next improve upon it.
If you are in great need of relaxing, take more exercise in the
fresh air. If unable to exercise, get your balance by using slow and
steady breaths, which push the blood vigorously over its path in the
body, and give one, to a degree, the effect of exercise.
Do not mistake the disorders which come at first, when turning away
from an unnatural and wasteful life of contractions, for the effects
of relaxing. Such disorders are no more caused by relaxing than are
the disorders which beset a drunkard or an opium-eater, upon
refusing to continue in the way of his error, primarily caused by
the abandonment of his evil habit, even though the appearance is
that he must return to it in order to re-establish his
pseudo-equilibrium.
One more cause of trouble, especially in working without a guide, is
the habit of going through the form of the exercises without really
doing them. The tests needed here have been spoken of before.
Do not separate your way of practising from your way of living, but
separate your life entirely from your practice while practising,
trying outside of this time always to accomplish the agreement of
the two,--that is, live the economy of force that you are
practising. You can be just as gay, just as vivacious, but without
the fatiguing after-effects.
As you work to gain the ideal equilibrium, if your test comes, do
not be staggered nor dismayed. Avoid its increase by at once giving
careful consideration to the causes, and dropping them. Keep your
life quietly to the form of its usual action, as far as you wisely
can. If you have gained even a little appreciation of equilibrium,
you will not easily mistake and overdo.
When you find yourself becoming bound to the dismal thought of your
test and its terrors, free yourself from it every time, by
concentrating upon the weight of your body, or the slowness of the
slowest breaths you can draw. Keep yourself truly free, and these
feelings of discouragement and all other mental distortions will
steadily lose power, until for you they are no more. If they last
longer than you think they should, persist in every endeavor,
knowing that the after-result, in increased capacity to help
yourself and others, will be in exact ratio to your power of
persistency without succumbing.
The only way to keep truly free, and therefore ready to profit by
the help Nature always has at hand, is to avoid thought of your form
of illness as far as possible. The man with indigestion gives the
stomach the first place in his mind; he is a mass of detailed and
subdued activity, revolving about a monstrous stomach,--his brain,
heart, lungs, and other organs, however orderly they may be, are of
no consideration, and are slowly made the degraded slaves of himself
and his stomach.
The man who does not sleep, worships sleep until all life seems
_sleep,_ and no life any importance without it. He fixes his mind on
not sleeping, rushes for his watch with feverish intensity if a nap
does come, to gloat over its brevity or duration, and then wonders
that each night brings him no more sleep.
There is nothing more contracting to mind and body than such
idol-worship. Neither blood nor nervous fluid can flow as it should.
Let us be sincere in our work, and having gained even one step
toward a true equilibrium, hold fast to it, never minding how
severely we are tempted.
We see the work of quiet and economy, the lack of strain and of
false purpose, in fine old Nature herself; let us constantly try to
do our part to make the picture as evident, as clear and distinct,
in God's greater creation,--Human Nature.
XVII
THE RATIONAL CARE OF SELF
A WOMAN who had had some weeks of especially difficult work for mind
and body, and who had finished it feeling fresh and well, when a
friend expressed surprise at her freedom from fatigue, said, with a
smiling face: "Oh! but I took great care of myself all through it: I
always went to bed early, and rested when it was possible. I was
careful to eat only nourishing food, and to have exercise and fresh
air when I could get them. You see I knew that the work must be
accomplished, and that if I were over-tired I could not do it well."
The work, instead of fatiguing, had evidently refreshed her.
If that same woman had insisted, as many have in similar cases, that
she had no time to think of herself; or if such care had seemed to
her selfish, her work could not have been done as well, she would
have ended it tired and jaded, and would have declared to
sympathizing friends that it was "impossible to do a work like that
without being all tired out," and the sympathizing friends would
have agreed and thought her a heroine.
A well-known author, who had to support his wife and family while
working for a start in his literary career, had a commercial
position that occupied him every day from nine to five. He came home
and dined at six, went to bed at seven, slept until three, when he
got up, made himself a cup of coffee, and wrote until he breakfasted
at eight. He got all the exercise he needed in walking to and from
his outside work and was able to keep up this regular routine, with
no loss of health, until he could support his family comfortably on
what he earned from his pen. Then he returned to ordinary hours.
A brain once roused will take a man much farther than his strength;
if this man had come home tired and allowed himself to write far
into the night, and then, after a short sleep, had gone to the
indispensable earning of his bread and butter, the chances are that
his intellectual power would have decreased, until both publishers
and author would have felt quite certain that he had no power at
all.
The complacent words, "I cannot think of myself," or, "It is out of
the question for me to care for myself," or any other of the various
forms in which the same idea is expressed, come often from those who
are steadily thinking of themselves, and, as a natural consequence,
are so blinded that they cannot see the radical difference between
unselfish care for one's self, as a means to an end, and the selfish
care for one's self which has no other object in view.
The wholesome care is necessary to the best of all good work. The
morbid care means steady decay for body and soul.
We should care for our bodies as a violinist cares for his
instrument. It is the music that comes from his violin which he has
in mind, and he is careful of his instrument because of its musical
power. So we, with some sense of the possible power of a healthy
body, should be careful to keep it fully supplied with fresh air; to
keep it exercised and rested; to supply it with the quality and
quantity of nourishment it needs; and to protect it from unnecessary
exposure. When, through mistake or for any other reason, our bodies
get out of order, instead of dwelling on our discomfort, we should
take immediate steps to bring them back to a normal state.
If we learned to do this as a matter of course, as we keep our hands
clean, even though we had to be conscious of our bodies for a short
time while we were gaining the power, the normal care would lead to
a happy unconsciousness. Carlyle says, and very truly, that we are
conscious of no part of our bodies until it is out of order, and it
certainly follows that the habit of keeping our bodies in order
would lead us eventually to a physical freedom which, since our
childhood, few of us have known. In the same way we can take care of
our minds with a wholesome spirit. We can see to it that they are
exercised to apply themselves well, that they are properly diverted,
and know how to change, easily, from one kind of work to another. We
can be careful not to attempt to sleep directly after severe mental
work, but first to refresh our minds by turning our attention into
entirely different channels in the way of exercise or amusement.
We must not allow our minds to be over-fatigued any more than our
bodies, and we must learn how to keep them in a state of quiet
readiness for whatever work or emergency may be before them.
There is also a kind of moral care which is quite in line with the
care of the mind and the body, and which is a very material aid to
these,--a way of refusing to be irritable, of gaining and
maintaining cheerfulness, kindness, and thoughtfulness for others.
It is well known how much the health of any one part of us depends
upon all the others. The theme of one of Howells's novels is the
steady mental, moral, and physical degeneration of a man from eating
a piece of cold mince-pie at midnight, and the sequence of steps by
which he is led down is a very natural process. Indeed, how much
irritability and unkindness might be traced to chronic indigestion,
which originally must have come from some careless disobedience of
simple physical laws.
When the stomach is out of order, it needs more than its share of
vital force to do its work, and necessarily robs the brain; but when
it is in good condition this force may be used for mental work. Then
again, when we are in a condition of mental strain or unhealthy
concentration, this condition affects our circulation and consumes
force that should properly be doing its work elsewhere, and in this
way the normal balance of our bodies is disturbed.
The physical and mental degeneration that follows upon moral
wrong-doing is too well known to dwell upon. It is self-evident in
conspicuous cases, and very real in cases that are too slight to
attract general attention. We might almost say that little ways of
wrongdoing often produce a worse degeneration, for they are more
subtle in their effects, and more difficult to realize, and
therefore to eradicate.
The wise care for one's self is simply steering into the currents of
law and order,--mentally, morally, and physically. When we are once
established in that life and our forces are adjusted to its
currents, then we can forget ourselves, but not before: and no one
can find these currents of law and order and establish himself in
them, unless he is working for some purpose beyond his own health.
For a man may be out of order physically, mentally, or morally
simply for the want of an aim in life beyond his own personal
concerns. No care is to any purpose--indeed, it is injurious--unless
we are determined to work for an end which is not only useful in
itself, but is cultivating in us a living interest in
accomplishment, and leading us on to more usefulness and more
accomplishment. The physical, mental, and moral man are all three
mutually interdependent, but all the care in the world for each and
all of them can only lead to weakness instead of strength, unless
they are all three united in a definite purpose of useful life for
the benefit of others.
Even a hobby re-acts upon itself and eats up the man who follows it,
unless followed to some useful end. A man interested in a hobby for
selfish purposes alone first refuses to look at anything outside of
his hobby, and later turns his back on everything but his own idea
of his hobby. The possible mental contraction which may follow, is
almost unlimited, and such contraction affects the whole man.
It is just as certain a law for an individual that what he gives out
must have a definite relation to what he takes in, as it is for the
best strength of a country that its imports and exports should be in
proper balance. Indeed, this law is much more evident in the case of
the individual, if we look only a little below the surface. A man
can no more expect to live without giving out to others than a
shoemaker can expect to earn his bread and butter by making shoes
and leaving them piled in a closet.
To be sure, there are many men who are well and happy, and yet, so
far as appearances go, are living entirely for themselves, with not
only no thought of giving, but a decided unwillingness to give. But
their comfort and health are dependent on temporary conditions, and
the external well-being they have acquired would vanish, if a
serious demand were made upon their characters.
Happy the man or woman who, through illness of body or soul, or
through stress of circumstances, is aroused to appreciate the
strengthening power of useful work, and develops a wholesome sense
of the usefulness and necessity of a rational care of self!
Try to convince a man that it is better on all accounts that he
should keep his hands clean and he might answer, "Yes, I appreciate
that; but I have never thought of my hands, and to keep them clean
would make me conscious of them." Try to convince an
unselfishly-selfish or selfishly-unselfish person that the right
care for one's self means greater usefulness to others, and you will
have a most difficult task. The man with dirty hands is quite right
in his answer. To keep his hands clean would make him more conscious
of them, but he does not see that, after he had acquired the habit
of cleanliness, he would only be conscious of his hands when they
were dirty, and that this consciousness could be at any time
relieved by soap and water. The selfishly-unselfish person is right:
it is most pernicious to care for one's self in a self-centred
spirit; and if we cannot get a clear sense of wholesome care of
self, it is better not to care at all.
With a perception of the need for such wholesome care, would come a
growing realization of the morbidness of all self-centred care, and
a clearer, more definite standard of unselfishness. For the
self-centred care takes away life, closes the sympathies, and makes
useful service obnoxious to us; whereas the wholesome care, with
useful service as an end, gives renewed life, an open sympathy, and
growing power for further usefulness.
We do not need to study deeply into the laws of health, but simply
to obey those we know. This obedience will lead to our knowing more
laws and knowing them better, and it will in time become a very
simple matter to distinguish the right care from the wrong, and to
get a living sense of how power increases with the one, and
decreases with the other.
XVIII.
OUR RELATIONS WITH OTHERS