So far as opera is concerned, I think that the blame rests largely with the managers. If they would adopt the practice of deputing some trustworthy representative at every rehearsal to sit in the topmost gallery and relentlessly pull up every singer whose words could not be clearly understood, the difficulty, I am convinced, would speedily disappear. And operatic directors, I am sure, would find it greatly to their advantage to adopt this course if only on account of the greater popularity which opera would enjoy if it could always be followed, as it should be, as easily as a spoken play.
I believe that in England especially, where opera in the native language is, as I am delighted to see, making such steady headway, its acceptance by the general public is hindered more on this account than by any other reason. Yet there is not the slightest necessity for the presentation of the drama, which is sung instead of being spoken, to be hampered and handicapped in this grievous fashion, and it only needs more vigorous action on the part of the directing powers, I am persuaded, to remedy matters.
So long, however, as singers are left to themselves in this respect, the difficulty will always remain, since their inevitable tendency is to sacrifice diction to tone quality—in other words, to achieve the best effects in the purely vocal sense and let the words look after themselves.
And this brings us at once to the root of the diction problem, namely, the undoubted difficulty which presents itself at times in reconciling the claims of good tone and clear enunciation. When a pupil is studying he practises upon the easiest vowel sounds and syllables which can be selected; and many singers, I am afraid, would like nothing better than to be allowed to continue singing upon these agreeable and grateful vocables to the end of their day.
Unfortunately, however, this is not quite possible, and so too many try to get over the difficulty by singing the words not in the way in which they should be pronounced, but in the manner most convenient to themselves. It is hardly necessary to say that this is all wrong and most inartistic, besides being quite unnecessary.
It may be said that it is easy for an Italian to speak thus, and it must certainly be agreed that we Italians are greatly favoured in having the most vocal and melodious of all languages to sing. With our open vowels we may be considered, indeed, to have every advantage in this respect, just as the Germans with their multiplicity of harsh and difficult and, to Italian ears, almost impossible consonants, have every disadvantage.
Yet the principle remains unaffected that every singer, in whatever language, who wishes to be considered a master of his art must contrive to reconcile the claims of good tone with those of accurate and intelligible diction, and the student cannot pay too much attention to this matter from the very moment that he begins to clothe his tones in words.
“Sing as you speak,” is a saying which I have heard ascribed to that great master, Jean de Reszke, and though the advice cannot, perhaps, be taken quite literally, it certainly indicates the ideal to be kept in view. It is not feasible to obey the injunction quite literally because it is almost physically impossible to sing certain sounds on certain notes. On this account many teachers—Lamperti himself was one of them—sanction the deliberate modification of the proper vowel sounds or, preferably, the substitution of a more convenient word. But the object should certainly be to keep as near as may be practicable to the correct, natural pronunciation, whereas some seem to make it their aim almost to depart from this as far as possible.
One of the worst examples of execrable enunciation was given by one singer when giving an otherwise creditable rendering of Maude Valerie White’s “Devout Lover.” The words intended were “Burn at her altar,” which were given “Burnateralter.”
Some English singers have the habit of putting a vowel after a consonant, as in the word “Good-bye,” which becomes “Goodabye” and which is absurd.