w
outside of the small proportion of the initiated realize how much the
performance of the singer whom they see and hear on the stage is
dependent on previous rehearsal, constant practice and watchfulness over
the physical conditions that preserve that most precious of our assets,
the voice.

Nor does this same great public in general know of what the singer often
suffers in the way of nervousness or stage fright before appearing in
front of the footlights, nor that his life, outwardly so feted and
brilliant, is in private more or less of a retired, ascetic one and that
his social pleasures must be strictly limited.

These conditions, of course, vary greatly with the individual singer,
but I will try to tell in the following articles, as exemplified in my
own case, what a great responsibility a voice is when one considers that
it is the great God-given treasure which brings us our fame and
fortune.

I am perhaps more favored than many in the fact that my voice was always
"there," and that, with proper cultivation, of course, I have not had to
overstrain it in the attempt to reach vocal heights which have come to
some only after severe and long-continued effort. But, on the other
hand, the finer the natural voice the more sedulous the care required to
preserve it in its pristine freshness to bloom. This is the singer's
ever present problem--in my case, however, mostly a matter of common
sense living.

As regards eating--a rather important item, by the way--I have kept to
the light "continental" breakfast, which I do not take too early; then a
rather substantial luncheon toward two o'clock. My native macaroni,
specially prepared by my chef, who is engaged particularly for his
ability in this way, is often a feature in this midday meal. I incline
toward the simpler and more nourishing food, though my tastes are broad
in the matter, but lay particular stress on the excellence of the
cooking, for one cannot afford to risk one's health on indifferently
cooked food, no matter what its quality.

On the nights when I sing I take nothing after luncheon, except perhaps
a sandwich and a glass of Chianti, until after the performance, when I
have a supper of whatever I fancy within reasonable bounds. Being
blessed with a good digestion, I have not been obliged to take the
extraordinary precautions about what I eat that some singers do. Still,
I am careful never to indulge to excess in the pleasures of the table,
for the condit