STRESS
I have already stated that the thorax is the seat of the falling, the abdomen that of the rising, voice. This can be tested by a simple experiment, the result of which will be as startling as it is phenomenal. By simply pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will find that the fact of your doing so will prevent you from uttering any sound belonging to the rising voice, or the stress laid upon a word.
Take, for instance, the following:
"Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,"
and you will find that, upon pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will not be able to utter the words "say," "see," "dawn's," and "light." This will become more obvious in uttering these words slowly than in doing so rapidly. You will have no difficulty, on the other hand, in uttering the rest of the words, viz.: "Oh," "can you," "by the," "early."
Upon releasing the stomach and bringing a pressure to bear upon the chest, on the other hand, you will have no difficulty in uttering the first words mentioned, those of the rising, while you will be unable to utter the last, those of the falling voice. This rule holds good for all peoples and all languages.
There is this difference, however, as between English and German speech, that, for the former, the falling voice (identical with that of the thorax) precedes the rising (identical with that of the abdomen); while for the latter the reverse is the case;—Anglo-Saxons inspiring into the chest and then into the stomach; Germans into the stomach and then into the chest. Germans will have greater difficulty in making this experiment than Anglo-Saxons, as words of the falling voice, as a rule and in all languages, precede those of the rising. Germans, consequently, must think of the word of the rising voice, which, as a matter of fact, succeeds the words of the falling, before they can utter the latter. This difficulty is enhanced by the fact that while the rising voice is generally confined to a single word, the falling voice generally embraces several.
Hence the frequency of the use of the anapest (˘˘¯) and the dactylus (¯˘˘), and the relative rarity of the use of the bacchius (˘¯¯) and the antibacchius (¯¯˘); short always representing the falling voice, which embraces more than one word, while long represents the rising voice, which usually embraces but one single word; the definition requiring more words than the thing to be defined. Hence, for German diction, the "thought" of the word of the rising voice must precede the "utterance" of the words of the falling; while for English diction, the "thoughts" of the words of the falling voice must precede the "utterance" of the word of the rising.
A German may try and say the following:
"In einem Thal bei armen Hirten,
Erschien mit jedem jungen Jahr,"
in such a manner as not to think of the words which are italicized before uttering those which immediately precede them, and he will find that he will be unable to pronounce the latter.
An Anglo-Saxon may try and say the following:
"And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave,"
and he will find that in saying "in triumph doth wave," he must think of the words "doth wave" before he will be able to utter the word "triumph." Again, in saying "the home of the brave" he must think of the words "of the brave" before he will be able to utter the word "home."
A German, consequently, must think of the principal word before he can utter those which qualify it; an Anglo-Saxon must think of the latter before he can utter the former.
In place of using mechanical pressure, the same results can be obtained by making the respective parts rigid. Regarding this matter of making parts rigid, I want to make the following explanation, illustrating the physiological process going on in so doing.
While a part is rendered inactive, placed hors de combat, so to say, by the application of mechanical pressure, the same result can also be obtained by making such part rigid. To accomplish this, it is but necessary to positively think of such part, to associate your mind with it, which is equal to an act of expiration when it relates to the abdomen, and inspiration when it relates to the thorax. By positively thinking of the abdomen, which is equal to an expiration therefrom, you will be unable to utter the stress or rise of the voice, which is the product of an expiration from the stomach; by positively thinking of the thorax, which is equal to an inspiration into the same, you will be unable to utter the fall of the voice, which is the product of an inspiration into the chest. The reason is obvious: We cannot utter sound in the same direction in which we breathe; sound and respiration always following opposite directions.
For the purpose of making satisfactory experiments in this respect, as, in fact, in every other respect in connection with these investigations, it is necessary that inspiration or expiration, as the case may be, should be continuous, that is, that either the one or the other should be persisted in until a result is obtained; namely, until an apparent increase or decrease in the size of the part of the body under consideration, or an inflation or depletion of the same, will be perceptible. Though it may be difficult at first, a person will soon learn to distinguish between an increase or a swelling of a part, which means inspiration into the same, and a decrease or a shrinking or diminution thereof, which means expiration from the same.
[PHYSIOLOGY OF THE VOICE IN RELATION TO WORDS]
In the further pursuance of the questions heretofore under consideration, I shall now enter upon a theme of a still more subtle nature. The question of metre, rhythm, accent, etc., is one which is involved in much mystery; nor can I find that many persons entertain precisely the same ideas as being expressed by these terms.
Accepting as a fundamental principle the fact that our various spiritual conditions are based upon our ability to extract the necessary inspiration therefor from the air, which bears the same relation to our spiritual existence that the earth does to that of our body (in furnishing it with such elements as it requires for its maintenance), I contend that we breathe for speech in as many different modes as there are parts or elements in its composition. This proposition does not necessarily conflict with the fact that we also draw elements from the air, as analytical chemistry has proven, which serve for the construction of matter; such elements, however, instead of being strictly material, as they have every appearance of being, are, in reality, the spiritual complements of the matter they help to form; matter and spirit going hand in hand in our entire composition.
In reading poetry, or giving expression to the same in song (I repeat), we do so in a fourfold manner:
First: as to metre or time (the "measure" of time).
Second: as to the rhythm or the music pervading the voice, produced by its rise and fall, also called cadence, or the idiomatic expression of a language.
Third: as to accent.
Fourth: as to emphasis.
The metre is produced by an artistic mode of breathing (in addition to our ordinary and permanent mode), marked by regular repetitions of a given order of inspirations and expirations which can be "measured" as to the time consumed in their enunciation, and are therefore, not incorrectly, called "feet."
The metre is a product or outcome of the will, a force which presides over material-spiritual issues. It changes with our inclinations and moods, and is expressive thereof. We can pass from one metre to another at will, as the occasion may require. It is the material part of speech, as we can measure it and account for it as to time in space, supposing time to be incorporated. The metre expressive of joy, for instance, being quick, that of sorrow slow; the former, if incorporated, would take up less space than the latter, in the same proportion as it consumes less time in being uttered.
The rhythm is that characteristic quality which distinguishes one language from another, the basis upon which it is built and around which all its elementary words cluster; its fundamental principle, its idiomatic expression, the music pervading its every syllable; the inflection, the rise and fall, the cadence of the voice; the spirit of a language, which is permanent and unchangeable.
The rhythm is an outcome of the mind; an influence which presides over spiritual-material issues. As harmony is the first law of nature, so is that harmony which pervades our native tongue the law upon which our individual and national characteristic expressions and actions are based. We exercise it intuitively. It is innate in, and unalterably connected with, our native tongue. It cannot be eliminated therefrom, or put into it by a foreigner, except when acquired in childhood, or by the study of such principles as I have attempted to lay down in this book. It is inborn in every language as its spirit, and is as enduring as that language itself. It is not subject to change by the dictates of the will.
The accent represents that element which distinguishes between the character and meaning of words, and has no reference to parts thereof or their relation to other words; the same word being pronounced in as many different ways and with as many different accents as it denotes different senses or meanings; while different words, embodying the same idea, are uttered with precisely the same accent.
The accent or intonation is an outcome of the soul; an influence which dominates over our spiritual nature and over spiritual issues. "The rose by any other name would smell as sweet." It is equally true that any other name given to the rose would be pronounced by the same indefinable intonation as its present name, with that same embodiment of the mystery of the soul signifying the flower called "a rose." The word "rose," which is the same, or nearly the same, in so many different languages, though possessing the same spiritual elements in them all, varies as to measure and rhythm in every one of them.
If the influence of the soul, embodying an idea in a word, through the intonation we give it, were not the same for all languages, it would not be possible to translate poetry, and retain, to some extent at least, that which is commonly called "the rhythm" of the original; nor would it be possible to sing a song in another language, and retain, even approximately, the spiritual elements of the original. We would not be impressed with it, would not be thrilled by it.
The intonation of a word, expressive of the soul in the embodiment of an idea, is a bond which unites all humanity; not alone the human souls of any special day and generation, but of all days and all generations. But for the fact that the Greek soul is in us to-day, that the native intonation of their words is native with us and with all mankind, their dead tongue would be absolutely dead for us. We could find no meaning in it, no beauty, no spirit, no soul. Think of the melody pervading the soul of Homer and emanating from his lyre still living and finding an echo in our souls! Think of the harmony pervading the soul of Schiller or Tennyson continuing to live, and pervading the souls of the latest generations! Nor could Luther's famous translation of the Bible or its beautiful English version ever have been produced, and after production have made the same impression on the mind, or been read with the same expression of the voice, as the words of this same Bible made upon the minds, and were expressed by the voice, of its original composers, but for the fact that words of the same meaning, in every language (aside from metre and rhythm), are pronounced precisely the same. It is this universal comprehension of their beauty which gives immortality to the strains of great singers, whether they appear in their original form or are translated (that is, if well translated) into foreign languages, or are set to music and sung either in the one or the other.
If the performances of creating original compositions and their translations were of a mere mechanical order, or were explainable from a mechanical standpoint, no such soul effects could ever be produced. The word, as such, is a mechanical contrivance; but its intonation is of the soul, being an emanation of the idea it represents. If our ears were so schooled that by their "intonation" we could comprehend the meaning of words, we could understand every language upon simply hearing it spoken.
The people of all nations, through their eyesight, form the same conception of an object; the same being impressed upon all minds in the same manner. When a picture thus impressed upon the mind (brain) is reproduced by, or is translated into, vocal utterance, it continues to remain the same with all people. This does not refer to impressions made by material objects alone, but extends to immaterial subjects as well. Hence, knowing the meaning of a word in one language, we can at once conjure up the idea it represents in all languages.
The sight, however, not only impresses our minds through the eye with a given picture, but, as there is a correlation existing between all our faculties, it also impresses the voice with a given inflection, expressive of such impression upon the mind, and of no other impression; any given sight or mental conception of any kind always producing an inflection of the voice corresponding therewith. The vocal expression of an idea might thus be called an audible "photographic" reproduction of the impression made by the original object upon the eyesight, and, respectively, upon the brain, or it might be called a phonographic reproduction thereof, supposing that the picture of an object could be impressed upon the wax and could thus become audible. How such a reproduction may be made from an immaterial subject would be more difficult to comprehend. Of the fact, however, that an impression from abstract subjects is made, and that an audible expression of such impression is produced through the voice, and that this is the case with all people alike, I expect to furnish positive proof in a future publication. The fact of our not being accustomed to distinguish in this manner between various expressions through inflections of the voice is no proof that they do not exist.
The soul impresses every word with a seal of its own, characteristic of the idea it embodies, there being as many accents or inflections of the voice as there are separate ideas, or, rather, groups of ideas. I beg leave to copy the following from the Saturday Evening Post of April 8, 1899:
"Mr. Kipling recently told an interviewer: 'We write, it is true, in letters of the alphabet; but, psychologically regarded, every printed page is a picture book; every word, concrete or abstract, is a picture. The picture itself may never come to the reader's consciousness, but deep down below, in the unconscious realms, the picture works and influences us.'"
The accent is not subject to the will any more than the rhythm. The will can do this, however: it can give greater weight, force, and expression, and a wider scope, to the correlated forces of metre, rhythm, and accent, through the
Emphasis which it infuses into them. Through the emphasis, inlet upon inlet is opened, an additional stream of fresh air is infused into them, flooding the spiritual system. Valve upon valve is then opened to let it out. Hence, emphasis is not an "element" of speech proper, but an amplification, an addition to existing elements, rather, impregnating them with the life of the heart, the feelings, the emotions.
In distinguishing in this manner, as I have in the above, between the will, the mind, and the soul, I consider them parts of a great spiritual system intimately connected with corresponding parts of our physical system, but lay no claim as to the correctness of the terms I have used. On the contrary, I feel that they are inadequate, and, at most, a makeshift for more fitting expressions. There is a dearth of expressional terms, and I am doing the best I can with such as are at my disposal.
In the same sense, also, I distinguish between material-spiritual, spiritual-material, and spiritual issues; and consider them the outcome, respectively, of the will, the mind, and the soul.
I wish it were in my power to at once fully explain, as far as I am able to offer any explanation at all, how it is mechanically possible to express these four elements of metre, rhythm, accent, and emphasis (so widely differing from each other) at one and the same time, by four different modes of breathing, carried on simultaneously, in addition to our regular mode of breathing. The perfection of elocution and of singing is to carry on all these various processes simultaneously in as perfect a manner as the subject and the occasion may demand.
I can explain the preceding, in part at least, as follows:
Verse is generally marked by the signs of long and short. While they denote time or metre in the first instance, they are also used to mark what is called "rhythm." Yet, while metre and rhythm are apparently of the same order, they are, as a matter of fact, invariably of an inverse order.
We cannot produce two distinctly different expressions while breathing in one and the same direction. While we breathe for metre in one direction, we breathe for rhythm in the opposite direction.
Regarding that mode of breathing expressive of the soul, and pertaining to words in conformity with their meaning, and which, in the absence of any more significant word, I have called the "accent," it is of an altogether different order and does not conflict with these other modes of breathing.
Having stated that rhythm and accent are involuntary productions, and that metre alone is subject to the will, we must look to the metre, measure, or time for our guide in our artistic vocal performances. To this, emphasis must be added, as being likewise subject to the will.
As every language has its own time, or tempo, and cannot be properly produced except in conformity therewith, it appears to me that it should be the first aim of vocal science to ascertain the exact nature of such tempo for every separate language. When the correct time is kept, all other component parts of speech fall into line correctly and involuntarily. Just what the proportionate tempo is for English as against German vocal utterance, I am unable to say, but it is much quicker for the latter than it is for the former.
There is a duality existing between metre and rhythm: the former is voluntary, the latter involuntary. Thus, also, is there a duality between emphasis and accent, of which the former is voluntary, the latter involuntary. Every voluntary factor, not only in vocal utterance, but every voluntary factor in any artistic performance of whatsoever nature, being sustained by an involuntary counter-factor; the same as voluntary and involuntary muscles complement and sustain each other.
Not only every artistic performance, but I dare say every act or action of any kind, is of a dual nature. Every separate duality, again, being sustained by a counter-duality, every performance is sustained by four different factors.
When an act is of a material nature and belongs to the hemisphere of the abdomen, it is sustained by four counter-factors belonging to the thorax. When it is of an immaterial nature and belongs to the hemisphere of the thorax, it is sustained by four counter-factors having their seat in the abdomen. Thus every act or action consists of eight movements, or an octave of movements.