An Artist—and a Gentleman
The artist should be large-souled and natural in attitude and gesture—a gentleman from head to heel in the best sense of the word—and the result will brace up and encourage him, for he will observe the faded city merchant laughing with the heart-whole abandon of the child.
It is not necessary, and it may become even monotonous, to pose forever as the comedian who sees fun in every incident around him. A great and versatile artist, now deceased, in the middle of his recital would sit down at the zither when the room was still ringing with laughter, provoked by his keen shafts of humor, and win tears by the exquisite pathos of the refrain: “The mill will never grind with the water that is past.”
Maudlin melodrama is not pathos any more than vulgar mockery is humor. A thin veil lies between tears and laughter, and both are nearer the surface than some artists realize. Both are noble and wholesome, and so should never be made puny by too little giving or rendered grotesque by too much.
A most effective means of self-accompaniment is the harp, and one moreover which adapts itself exquisitely to the subtle charm and changing qualities of the human voice, but only in the performer’s more serious moments. To twang at this instrument and pose above it in the attitude of the comedian, to pluck it banjo fashion, is to displease and jar the sensibilities of the most uninitiated of the audience.
The dual art is a stumbling-block to many a versatile artist, and its perfection needs a tremendous amount of persevering and diligent practice. There are some gifted performers to whom the art of pattering or reciting to music is inborn, and so extremely facile, but to the less fortunate it presents discouraging obstacles, and the power of improvising an accompaniment suitable to the anecdote or poem related is not given to the majority.
However, the student should remember and be encouraged by the fact that “steady effort attracts unknown powers to our aid,” and work on determinedly until the difficulty is mastered.
In studying the dual art, the beginner is apt to hammer the words to the accompaniment, or the accompaniment to the words, and it seems at first impossible to arrive at that perfect blending of voice and music which is essential to this kind of performance. Another extremely common fault is to emphasize the wrong word or the wrong note, with the result that the achievement becomes meaningless.
The ear should be trained to the rôle of an exacting critic, and when this power is developed it will demonstrate faithfully wherein the failure of co-operation lies.
Music should never be suffered to overburden the words of the poem or anecdote related. It is usually but a ground-work upon which the artist builds, “at most, an undercurrent of answering emotion.” The instant it flows through the floodgates of restraint it obliterates the meaning and the sense of the words as the waters of a burst dam obliterate the natural features of dry land.
Another serious fault to be found in the rendition of the inexperienced student is permitting the time of his accompaniment to swing into his voice. Against this he must be severely on his guard, or he will develop a wearisome habit of chanting in monotone.
While taking pains to blend his voice with his accompaniment, he must take equal care to keep both distinct and apart. This sounds paradoxical, but practice and self-criticism will prove that both are true and possible.