CHAPTER XVII

FAULTS

A few words on faults--and the correction of them. No, I am not going to attempt a catalogue of all the faults which are possible, but name just a few: faulty intonation; faulty phrasing; imperfectly attacking notes; “scooping” up to notes; “digging” or arriving at a note from a semitone beneath it; singing off the key or out of tune and tremolo. All of these faults are unforgivable, but the last two are crimes. And I could name numbers more. I have heard vocalists who have been horrified when I told them that they arrived at a note after attacking it from a fourth below, especially when singing _pianissimo_. Consequently I cannot over-emphasise the supreme need for the student to recognise his faults and follies if he hopes ever to make progress.

Nay, this is not putting it strongly enough. He should not merely be ready to recognise his faults, but eager to discover them. He should be ever on the lookout to realise his deficiencies and to regard as his best friends those who are kind enough to tell him of them.

This may sound self-obvious, but I am afraid that in practice the attitude of the average student--and not of the student only, but also of the experienced artist--is very different. A fatal self-satisfaction seems, for some reason or other, to be one of the commonest failings of the average singer. One fairly well-known singer invited my criticism of her voice, and when I obliged and told her what she must do to become a great artist she replied, “But I am a great artist.” At which I bowed and said, “I beg your pardon, madam.”

Yet it is hardly necessary to say--we can all realise it indeed in the case of others--that there is no form of weakness more absolutely fatal to artistic progress. Let the student beware, therefore, of this dangerous form of vanity and self-sufficiency, and learn from all who can teach him.

How often have I not heard of students--alike young and old--who have been foolish enough to throw over good teachers because they have been honest enough and courageous enough to tell them unpalatable truths! They think they know better. They are so supremely well pleased with themselves--so foolishly satisfied with their own achievements--that they regard it as an offence when their errors are pointed out.

Of course they do not put it--even to themselves--in this way. They prefer to persuade themselves that their teacher is at fault. They explain that they do not like his “method.” Or they say that he does not “understand” their particular voice. And so they come to the conclusion that they had better make a change and go to some other master instead.

It is all very human but very foolish, and I cannot impress this too strongly upon all who read this book. Your best friend is one who will tell you faithfully, not how beautifully you sing but how badly!

Some are, of course, wise enough to realise this. And you will generally find that they are the ones who get on. Such a one was Caruso, who, to the end of his day, never ceased to practise, to study, to reflect upon his art, and even to worry and agitate himself over his supposed deficiencies--deficiencies which were unperceived by his hearers but which he, with his fastidious and ultra-sensitive artistic conscience, persuaded himself were there.