Melba, Calvé, and Arnoldson Tell Their Experiences: How They Developed Their Marvelous Voices: One Never Practices, While the Other Works Hard Every Day—The Trills of the Swedish Nightingale.

Melba, the greatest exponent of the art of bel canto living, the successor of Patti, with a voice as silvery, as true and spontaneous as Patti’s every was but more abundant in quality by far than Patti could ever boast, Melba, in a word, is the great singer, pure, and simple, living today.

Less of the atmosphere of “great artist” surrounds Melba off the stage than probably any other singer to me met. What strikes you first in this frank, English-speaking woman, is her buoyant simplicity, her freedom of expression, the entire absence of affectation and a fresh candor which is delightful. She grasps your hand says, “How d’ye do” in a sort of warm-hearted, homelike way, that makes you feel as if she had just from the making of a beefsteak-pie for luncheon, instead of holding an audience spell-bound the night before as Elizabeth in “Tannhauser.”

And when she tells you, with a rapid graveling of accent and a purposeful dramatic glint in her large, brown eyes, that of all her operas she thinks she loves “Tannhauser” most dearly, you begin to think that there is really here when called for a temperament and power which the critics thus far will not ally to her voice. Threadbare Lucias and Vioettas Melba may only care to “sing,” but when she talks of “Tannhauser” you feel somehow that she may care to “act” and when she cares she can.

She comes into her apartment at the Savoy in a dark-brown velvet walking-dress with bands of mink fur, a hat to match with mink tails. The yoke of the waist is of heavy cream guipure lace overlaid with bands of the fur. Her eyes match her dress. They are clear and shining and tell of almost boundless health and spirits. It is a decidedly handsome face: the features of regular, the expression truthful and refined. The suggestion of “rollick,” being “up for fun,” is simply dainty and bewitching. She is simply first of all a pretty, natural, delightful woman to get along with every day, and next to that a world-wonder in the shape of an artist.

What she says for herself bubbles forth as unrestrained as her song. “I always sang,” she says. “When a child at school the girls used to ask me to ‘make that funny noise in my throat.’ that didn’t pertain to music or art. Well, I was a good-for-nothing. But I could paint and they taught me, and I could play and I loved to go to do it, and I had the best teaching, but when it came to singing—well, I simply had to sing. I couldn’t help it and they wouldn’t let me study. My sisters were allowed to operas and concerts, but, except very rarely, when any quantity of begging and prayers were put in for me, I had to stay at home. Then I would play over the music on my piano or violin and imagine how it was going on at the theater. When I did go, I drank in every note; then I was wild to get home and sing it all myself. I used to say to my sisters (vain little thing I was,) ‘I know I could do it better than that; I’m positive I could.’ When I got home and tried it my sisters used to listen and applaud me, but my parents, if they heard, would stop me peremptorily and say that was the effect of allowing me to theaters, and I shouldn’t go again.

“When I came to Marchesi, I could sing my three octaves from F below the staff up, as fluently as I sing them today. She corrected my one mistake, and posed my voice accurately. I had been carrying my chest notes too high, and if I had gone on I should have lost my voice.

“About registers, I believe so firmly in the immense care necessary that I want to say to every young singer, ‘Be three times careful. Have your voice properly poised.’ If there is a weak spot in any of the register-changes, I think it absolutely destructive to force it. Many a fine voice has been ruined this way under a teacher’s direction, the singer being told to sing and sing and repeat to enlarge the tone until, through forcing, her voice is ruined. Better have a slight weakness, if must be, than a voice destroyed. I believe, however, that by varied and correct practice the voice may eventually become equal.

“I sing from F to F first on the staff from the chest. From F sharp to F natural I sing medium registers, and from F sharp to F in alt my head tones. Oh yes; I know singing masters will throw up their hands at carrying my middle so high. Never mind. I do it.

“I never practice, that’s positive. All my singing is done in public. Ten minutes on the morning of the day I sing I try my voice, just to make sure that it’s in order. Ten minutes before I go onstage I run a few scales and trill a little, just enough to warm my voice. That’s all. When I have a new role I practice it here (taping her forehead). Yes, for months, I don’t begin to wear my voice over it until my memory has mastered the score. When I begin to sing it I sing pianissimo. If you practice pianissimo the forte will come all right when it should, but if you practice forte it runs the pianissimo after. Always practice softly.

“I take many sacrifices for my art. On the night before I sing nothing would induce me to go anywhere. On the day I sing I dine lightly at 2, then keep perfectly quiet until I go to the theater. This, you know, is a huge sacrifice for me, for I would always be flying about and chatting if I could.

“Exercise! I take plenty of it. I have a horror of stoutness, and am always glad to dance, because, aside from my love of it, I know what an enemy it is to avoirdupois. Stout I will not become. When a singer becomes huge, you might forgive the public for half-forgetting a lovely voice in the presence of an unlovely personality. And stoutness is unlovely, and stands between many a fine artists and the gracious presentment of a score of parts.”

Melba’s figure is well-rounded at present, but slim-waisted and pliant. It is just such that a little more flesh for mar in outline.

“With breathing I had no trouble. You see, even without vocal teaching I knew what unbroken phrasing meant with other instruments and I had cultivated the sostenuto instinctively. As I played a passage I tried to sing it. ‘It comes to this’ said the greatest soprano of the age. ‘Good singers are made from first the natural voice and then a good ear, a mimetic power and a knowledge of music generally. With these, the aspirant needs little from professors. Without them, voices and styles are sometimes manufactured, but of what good are they, never reliable, always unsatisfactory. Don’t forget what I said about registers. Goodby.”

Calvé off the stage

Enter Calvé. She is going to sing tonight, and has been lying down. Her dusky black hair is tossed slightly and forms a soft, dark setting for her voice. The last time I saw her she looked like an odalisque in flaming red. Today she is symphony in black and white. A soft, clinging gown of white crinkled crepe cloth hangs on her figure in long, graceful folds, confined at the waist by a girdle of wide black velvet ribbon. Her reception-room at the Hotel Plaza is warm, but coming from room to room she has picked up a large black lace mantilla and thrown it about her shoulders. Her small, creamy-pale face, with its delicate features, is the color of her gown. Her large shining eyes, soft and deep, look as though they were cut out of the black velvet girdle. It is such a wonderfully spiritual, magnetic face, with only the startling contrast of its pale tint and midnight eyes broken by the small scarlet threat of her delicately-curved lips.

“Yes, I sang always,” she says. I did not waken up on day and discover I had a voice. Just was I always wanted to act everything I saw instead of describing it in words, I always sang. When I took my first lesson the emission of the voice up to G was naturally correct. I could produce tones above it, but my own ear and the effort I had to make told me it was not right. After a little I could easily run up to D in alt. Learning to do this, and to acquire the trill were my two chief tasks with teachers. The sostenuto never cost me effort. Lengthly respirators came to me easily, but I worked hard to acquire the trill, and I am fond or practicing it.”

Would all the artists were like this wonderful child of nature, this incomparable singing-actress! Everything by Calvé is done by inspiration. As she studied, she still sings. Never a slave to formula or regular compulsion or any sort she maintains her brilliant prestige on the stage, though living exactly as she pleases, eschewing regular practice of any kind, and imposing on her wonderful constitution few of the customary restraints.

“In studying I was never bound down to exercise alone; I sang notes at the same time. Now I have no regular practice. I sing—always—my note just when I find the impulse seizes me. A born singer, should not need regular mechanical practice. All that is needed to keep the voice flexible I do by singing when I really want to, and more.”

In the middle of the night Calvé sometimes arises and pursues her study. She leans over the score and softly hums phrase after phrase, until she is satisfied of the vocal and dramatic unity in her delivery. On the day she sings she breakfasts at 10. Underdone broiled meat and a little wine go to make up the repast. At 3 she dines again on underdone meat roasted and usually a glass of champagne. Wine she considered good for the voice in moderate quality. Nothing must touch her lips from the 3 o’clock dinner before she sings, unless, perhaps, a little beaten egg and wine just before going on. She may take a few sips of the same in the entre actes, but no solid food until her return from the opera. Then she enjoys really the fullest meal of the day, and denies herself nothing she cares for. Her tastes and appetite are limited, however, and she contends that for a singer a late solid supper is the best thing.

She always has her long morning walk. “If singers,” she says, “would exercise the general muscles of their bodies more and their voices less they would do better.” Enough air and excise she must have daily, and after it, on the day she sings, she insists on perfect quiet. Sometimes, she says, it is more of a trouble than a relief to lie down and refrain from talking, but her argument is, “I have taken the necessary outdoor exercise. I must now prepare to rest my muscles and my voice, to be ready for the strain which will be put upon both tonight. I may not feel now the benefit of this rest, but if I did not take it I would feel tonight the ill effects from the want of it.” So she rests.

All this Calvé tells you, with her immense dark eyes dilated with earnestness; her tiny, plump hand grasping your shoulder and gripping it until she feels a little comprehending responsive movement. She cannot be said to talk. She simply pours forth a rushing torrent of speech, vivid, intense, convincing. She means every little word with her whole heart and soul. Just as when behind the footlights, that marvelous power and passion of hers compel her coldest audience into sympathy and belief, so when she talks to you the intense pressure brought to bear in looks and speech carry a conviction of deep sincerity and earnestness. She feels that it is all the very truth, and she wants you to believe it, too.

Calvé eschews society all she can without giving offense. Everything that is regular, elaborate or conventionally planned wearies her. So that her appearance at formal functions may be accepted as a particular concession to a very particular hostess. When Calvé can drop in to an afternoon tea in ordinary visiting dress, she likes it, and is seen at her best. She herself—brilliant, spontaneous, varying and magnetic. She talks, she sings if the spirit moves her, and people beg and clamor, as they always do. She is the same unrestrained being she is to be found at home—a nature so rich, so exquisitely colored, so brilliant in its dramatic texture, so gloriously lovable in its susceptibility and glow, that the cloak of convention should never for a second conceal its rare and magnetic variety.

“Au revoir. A bientôt,” she waves buoyantly (Calvé won’t even try to speak English,) “and above all do say to to the young singers to take more open air exercise generally and try their voices less. I do hope you will hear me soon in something bedsides ‘Santuzza’ and ‘Carmen’. I am genuinely tired of ‘Carmen.” Voila!

The swedish nightingale

Mme. Sigrid Arnoldson, the prima donna leggatura of the company, the owner of the limpid voice with its coloratura power in roulades and shakes and its flexible lyric quality, is a dainty little bit of femininity. Gowned in a pretty house frock of dark navy, her pretty slender figure looked to advantage in her easy chair at the Hotel Normandie yesterday. In contrast with her piquant brunette face with its finely cut features and her crown of naturally wavy, dark hair, the blonde personality of her husband, Mr. Fischof, stands forth prominently.

“Now how do I keep up brilliancy? I practice daily—scales always—I believe in them; not solfeggi any longer. I run scales on the open A for the full extend of my compass which is from B below to E in alt easily. When studying I sang solfeggi until I began roles. I dropped it then and practiced my roles with the text and for all other practice simply vocalized scales and my own roulades and trills.”

Mme. Arnoldson’s trill is brilliant.

“I had not a natural trill. I began on my two note slowly and developed it by gentle degrees. I am witness that it is possible to do this with a voice of my quality,” she says.

“From B to F natural I sing void poitrine. From F sharp to E I sing medium. From F to E are my head tones. For dramatic effect I sometimes raise my chest tones to F sharp, but only in a strong situation. I am entirely conscious of the change of registers and worked hard to blend mine smoothly.

“All the same I never sang incorrectly, though I began at six. My father was a Swedish tenor and an excellent musician. When I would sometimes force my voice at a break he corrected me and I learned not to do it. After a time, and before I began serious study, my voice got into a naturally smooth and even condition.

“The best thing for a singer to take before and during a piece is, I think, an egg beaten with a good deal of salt. The salt takes away the nervous dryness in the throat. I am very careful in every way and avoid everything rich or stimulating in food. I really do believe that the texture of one’s voice should re regarded in one’s living. The dramatic soprano, of instance, should be prepared to eat a much more solid supper after the opera than a soprano lyrique like me. Fortunately I don’t desire heavy foods much. If I did I imagine my voice might become thick and unmanageable.

“I take moderate exercise. I do not need very much. Were I growing stout—and the dainty little Verlina of the ‘Don” and the charming piquant page Cherubino of the ‘Nozze di Figaro’ clasped her hands—well, I should simply take all the exercise necessary to keep me thin, that’s all.

“I can sing live opera in seven days without a feeling of undue taxation. When the voice is properly posed and no forcing resorted to the fatigue is no more than a natural and healthful for it. Of course, I would not keep this up, but I think three operas a week anyway during a season are no more than good for a properly-placed voice. I sing entirely without effort. It bubbles out. When I hear an accompaniment I feel that is it has to; I love it.”

—”How They Sing: Three Great Singers and Their Methods—Melba, Calvé, Arnoldson,” The Los Angeles Times, February 25, 1894, page 17.

What can we glean from the article above? Several things I think: the first being that all three singers concerned themselves with ‘posing’ the voice (a matter of voice placement) and navigating the registers. The second thing? They all sang scales before they began repertoire study. Third? They all trilled!

I ask you, dear reader: how many singers learn to trill today? Heck. I am a lower voice and learned to do it. And if I can do it, so can you. All it takes is carefully applied technique and practice.

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