In reply to a question about breathing, she answered:
"Oh, yes; all singers must practice special exercises for the breath. What else did I do? Well, I hardly remember. I never had any trouble with my throat or my tongue,—no, I never thought much of these."
She was then asked, by way of suggestion:
"Did you ever hum in your practice?"
Now her face lighted up.
"Yes," she replied, all animation, "and, do you know, that is splendid! I do it a great deal even yet, especially for the high tones like this"——, and there and then, without moving a muscle, like a conjurer materializing a flock of birds, she showered upon us a bevy of humming-tones. They were soft, of course, but clear and perfect as tho made with full voice, and you wanted to wrap each one in cotton and take it home. But—they were gone!—and the singer went on speaking.
"With Mme. Marchese I used to hum a great deal. Yes, it is an excellent practice, for it brings the tone forward right here," and she touched the bridge of her nose.
Mme. Calvé is so genial and vivacious in conversation that you are led to forget her position and wonderful attainments. But now and then it flashes over you that this is the woman whose manifold art has astonished two continents; a singer who makes any rôle she undertakes so distinctly her own that other singers hardly dispute her right to monopolize it. Not only is her "Carmen" a creation; Ophelia, too, she has imbued with new interest, introducing many startling voice and breath effects. Throughout all the mad scene she calls into use an "eerie-tone" that is fearful in its pathos and terror.
"I love that rôle!" she exclaimed, as the subject came up. "The mad scene! Ah, it is superb."
Even in Faust, the very Ancient of Days among operas, Mme. Calvé has surprised us with original touches, altho it is a work that every musician of any description has performed in some way or other. The pianist flourishes with the waltz, or a general fantasia of the opera on every and all occasions. The organist delights in the church-scene music, while the violinist rhapsodizes with the love duo or a potpourri of all the arias. Concert sopranos never cease to exploit the Jewel-song, while the contralto's audience never tires of the famous Flower-song. "O Sancta Medaglia" is dear to the heart of the barytone, and the tenor has a choice of beautiful solos from the first act to the last. Bass singers can find nothing better as a medium for gaining public favor than Mephisto's song to the "God of Gold." Even flutist and clarinetist resort to "Faust," the Imperishable, when they want something sure to please. And last, but not least, the cornet:—ask any soloist on this instrument what piece he has played most often, and, I warrant you, he will answer, "My Faust fantaisie!" The opera singer who does not have in her scrap-book some account of her performance as Marguerite can hardly count herself a prima-donna. No other opera is so essentially a piece of common property as is this Gounod's "Faust."