The Augustinians carry on their missions among the Ilocans, the Tinguians, the Igorots, the Zambals, and the Negritos—this last having stations throughout the islands; also in Cebú and Panay, and in China. Mozo narrates the progress of these missions, but devotes much of his space to accounts of the wild tribes and their peculiar customs and beliefs; this is especially fortunate for our purpose in regard to the Negritos, about whom less has been known than about the other Philippine peoples, Mozo’s residence of three years among them rendering his observations extremely valuable. He also gave particular attention to the practices and medicines used by the natives in sickness, and to the plants which are useful therein. Among these missions the most arduous, according to [16]our writer, was that to the “apostates” and infidels who had taken refuge in a certain mountainous and densely-wooded district; these renegades and heathen dwelt together, each making the other worse. Among these people were preserved many of the ancient pagan customs which the missionaries had in most places been able to extirpate; and these are described by Mozo. Even in this hard field, “multitudes of infidels were baptized and hundreds of apostates reclaimed.” The Augustinians also conduct missions in the interior of Cebú and Panay, where not only are the mountains rugged and the forests dense, but there are wizards among the natives who “by conversing with the demon do things which cause terror;” some account of their practices is given, as also of the converts gained by missionaries among those people. He then describes some of the medicines that are used by the natives. Among these are the gall and fat of the python; a stone which, when applied to a woman’s thigh, would facilitate childbirth; and a plant which intoxicates and infuriates those who go into battle. Another plant temporarily paralyzes the muscular system. Mozo concludes with an account of the Augustinian missions in China, which does not concern our work.

One of these is the discrepancy that exists between various editions of the same work; and sometimes the confusion is complicated by different versions having been prepared by the composer himself. This is notably the case with Gluck’s Orphée, first written to an Italian libretto by Calzabigi and produced at Vienna. When Marie Antoinette called her former Viennese singing-master, Gluck, to Paris, she gave him an opportunity of displaying his genius by facilitating the production of his Iphigénie en Aulide at the Opéra, in 1774. Its[Pg 49] enthusiastic reception recalled to the composer the like success which had attended the production of his Orfeo at Vienna. He immediately set to work to revise it for the Paris Opéra, and fit it to a new French text, the latter supplied him by Moline.

But the title-rôle in the original Italian version was written for, and sung by, Guadagni, an artificial contralto (contralto musico). In its newer French dress the part was transposed and rearranged for the tenor Legros; who, judging from the extreme altitude of the tessitura employed, must have possessed either a haute-contre, or a very high light-tenor voice, and who may have employed the falsetto. This high tessitura, combined with the fact that the pitch has risen considerably since it was composed, renders the French version impracticable for tenors of the present day. Here are the concluding bars of the famous air as written in the original Italian version, and the same phrase as altered by Gluck, when produced in Paris.

Before closing this chapter on Intensity, I should advise singers whose voices possess great natural volume or power not to abuse this valuable quality by employing it too frequently. The ear of a listener tires sooner of extreme sonority than of any other effect. Talma, the great actor, wrought many reforms on the French dramatic stage, not only in costume—prior to his time Greek or Roman dress only was worn in tragedy—but also in the manner of delivering tragic verse. Against the custom, then prevalent, of always hurling forth long tirades at full voice, he inveighed in these terms: “Of all monotonous things, uproar is the most intolerable” (de toutes les monotonies, celle de la force est la plus insupportable). An artistic singer will use his most powerful tones, as a painter employs his most vivid colours, sparingly.

The words “Sun, moon and stars” should be given strongly accentuated, and the tempo gradually accelerated. The repetition of the phrase should be sung with still greater intensity; then, at the passage “are dark to me,” the colour of the voice changes to one of very sombre quality, and the original tempo is resumed. The first consonant in the word “dark” should receive a slight stress.

The crescendo has always been a favourite device of composers, particularly of those who write for the lyric theatre. It was an effect held in high esteem by Rossini, who introduced it constantly in his operas—witness his overtures and ensembles. All are familiar with the wonderful crescendo which precedes the appearance of the Knight of the Swan, in Lohengrin, where the sonorities are augmented by gradual additions of voices and instruments until the culminating point is reached. An instance more poignant still is found in the great “Liebestod” in Tristan und Isolde.

Although Hérold, the French composer, observed that in working up to a climax one should begin a long way[Pg 31] off, a singer must be careful not to reach his maximum of vocal sonority before the musical climax is attained. The tenor Duprez created a sensation that is historic, in the long crescendo passage in the fourth act of Guillaume Tell, by gradually increasing the volume of sound, as the phrase developed in power and grandeur, until the end, which he delivered with all the wealth of his exceptionally resonant voice.

The words “Sun, moon and stars” should be given strongly accentuated, and the tempo gradually accelerated. The repetition of the phrase should be sung with still greater intensity; then, at the passage “are dark to me,” the colour of the voice changes to one of very sombre quality, and the original tempo is resumed. The first consonant in the word “dark” should receive a slight stress.

The crescendo has always been a favourite device of composers, particularly of those who write for the lyric theatre. It was an effect held in high esteem by Rossini, who introduced it constantly in his operas—witness his overtures and ensembles. All are familiar with the wonderful crescendo which precedes the appearance of the Knight of the Swan, in Lohengrin, where the sonorities are augmented by gradual additions of voices and instruments until the culminating point is reached. An instance more poignant still is found in the great “Liebestod” in Tristan und Isolde.

Although Hérold, the French composer, observed that in working up to a climax one should begin a long way[Pg 31] off, a singer must be careful not to reach his maximum of vocal sonority before the musical climax is attained. The tenor Duprez created a sensation that is historic, in the long crescendo passage in the fourth act of Guillaume Tell, by gradually increasing the volume of sound, as the phrase developed in power and grandeur, until the end, which he delivered with all the wealth of his exceptionally resonant voice.

Like the admirable paintings of Eugène Carrière, for instance his masterly portrait of Paul Verlaine, a song, sometimes an entire rôle, may be worked out in monochrome; though the gradations of tint are numerous, they are consistently kept within their preconceived colour-scheme. Some few exceptional singers, like Jean-Baptiste Faure or Maurice Renaud, have this gift of many shades of the one colour in their singing of certain rôles. The colour is determined by the psychological character of the personage portrayed; a gay, reckless Don Giovanni calls for a brighter colouring throughout than that necessitated by the music allotted to a gloomy Vanderdecken or an embittered and vengeful Rigoletto. One may, therefore, formulate the following rule: The general character of the composition will decide the tonal colour appropriate for its general interpretation; the colouring necessary for its component phrases will be determined by the particular sentiment embodied in them. Emotions like sorrow, fear, despair, will find fitting expression in the sombre quality of voice, graduated in accordance with the intensity of the emotion. The opposite sentiments of joy, love, courage, hope, are fittingly interpreted by gradations of the clear and brilliant timbre. The dark or sombre voice will be used in varying shades for the recitative from Samson (Handel), “Oh, loss of sight:”[Pg 20]

I do not ignore the fact that cases occur where artists, owing to some physiological peculiarity or personal idiosyncrasy, are unable to overcome certain special difficulties; where, indeed, the effort would produce but meagre results. But such instances are the exception, not the rule. The lyric artist who is gifted merely with a beautiful voice, over which he has acquired but imperfect control, is at the mercy of every slight indisposition that may temporarily affect the quality and sonority of his instrument. But he who is a “singer” in the real and artistic sense of the word, he who has acquired skill in the use of the voice, is armed at all points against such accidents. By his art, by clever devices of varied tone-colour and degrees of intensity, he can so screen the momentary loss of brilliance, etc., as to conceal that fact from his auditors, who imagine him to be in the possession of his normal physical powers. The technical or mechanical part of any art can be taught and learned, as I have said. It is only a case of well-guided effort. Patience and unceasing perseverance will in this, as in all other matters, achieve the desired result. Nature gives only the ability and aptitude to acquire; it is persistent study which enables their possessor to arrive at perfection. Serious and lasting results are obtained only by constant practice. It is a curious fact that many people more than usually gifted arrive only at mediocrity. Certain things, such as the trill or scales, come naturally easy to them. This being the case, they neglect to perfect their agilità, which remains defective. Others, although but moder[Pg 11]ately endowed, have arrived at eminence by sheer persistence and rightly directed study. It is simply a musical version of the Hare and the Tortoise.

The present mania for dragging voices up, and out of their legitimate tessitura, has become a very grave evil, the consequences of which, in many instances, have been most disastrous. Tolerable baritones have been transformed into very mediocre tenors, capable mezzo-soprani into very indifferent dramatic soprani, and so on. That this process may have answered in a few isolated cases, where the vocal organs were of such exceptional strength and resistance as to bear the strain, is by no means a guarantee that the same results may be obtained in every instance, and with less favoured subjects. The average compass in male voices is about two octaves minus one or two tones. I mean, of course, tones that are really available when the singer is on the stage and accompanied by an orchestra. Now, a baritone who strives to transform his voice into a tenor, simply loses the two lowest tones of his compass, possibly of good quality and resonance, and gains a minor or major third above the high G (sol) of a very poor, strained character. The compass of the voice remains exactly the same. He has merely exchanged several excellent tones below for some very poor ones above. I repeat, one who aspires to be a lyric artist requires the best possible teacher to guide his first steps; he may consult an inferior or incompetent professor, when so firmly established in the right path that he cannot possibly be led astray.