sician and have the
doctor show them by means of a laryngoscope just how tender and
delicate their vocal organs are. I call them my "little bits of
cotton"; they seem so frail and so tiny. Do you wonder that I guard them
carefully? This practice consists of the simplest imaginable
exercises--sustained scales, chromatic scales and trills. It is not so
much _what_ one practices, but _how_ one practices.

IS THE ART OF SINGING DYING OUT?

We continually hear critics complain that the art of singing is dying.
It is easy enough to be a pessimist, and I do not want to class myself
with the pessimists; but I can safely say that, unless more attention is
paid to the real art of singing, there must be a decadence in a short
time. By this I mean that the voice seems to demand a kind of exercise
leading to flexibility and fluent tone production that is not found in
the ultra-dramatic music of any of the modern composers. Young singers
begin with good voices and, after an altogether inadequate term of
preparation, they essay the works of Strauss and Wagner. In two years
the first sign of a breakup occurs. Their voices become rough,--the
velvet vanishes and note after note "breaks" disagreeably. The music of
the older Italian composers, from Scarlatti or Carissimi to Donizetti
and Bellini, despite the absurd libretti of their operas, demanded first
of all dulcet tones and limpid fluency. The singers who turned their
noses up at the florid arabesques of old Italy for the more rugged
pageantry of modern Germany are destined to suffer the consequences. Let
us have the masterpieces of the heroic Teutons, by all means, but let
them be sung by vocalists trained as vocalists and not merely by actors
who have only taken a few steps in vocal art.

The main point of all operatic work must be observed if opera is to
continue successfully. Delibes chose me to sing a performance of his
_Lakme_ at Brussels. It was to be my debut in French. I had not then
mastered the French pronunciation so that I could sing acceptably at the
Paris Grand Opera, the scene of my later triumphs. Consequently I was
permitted to sing in Brussels. There the directors objected to my
pronunciation, calling it "abominable." Delibes replied, "_Qu'elle
chante en chinois, si elle veut, mais qu'elle chante mon opera_" ("Even
if she sang in Chinese, I would be glad to have her sing my opera").

I am asked what has been my greatest incentive. I can think of nothing
greate