114.—A PATIENT PUPIL.
The fine arts are, perhaps, in the matter of the time involved, the most difficult of all studies to conquer. One cannot master music or painting by mere force of will; one must, as it were, grow into the chosen art, not jump into it. The reason we have so much poor art, and art that is not art at all, is because there is so much of this jumping attempted.
The proper growth is brought by continuous application, day after day, for years. This is true in all departments of the musical life. Yet it is a truth that seems the most difficult of realization to all but about one-tenth of one per cent, of the people generally.
Every teacher finds that the majority of his pupils expect to play the piano or violin well in a year; and as to singing, why, Lord bless you, they expect to give concerts in half that time. All this is not so much the fault of the individual pupil as it is a general misapprehension of the depth of art and of the difficulties that beset the student's path. To express the whole matter in a few words, the public ideal is a low one. We do not aspire to play or sing well, i. e., artistically; we simply desire to sing or play; if it be in a very ordinary or slovenly manner, that does not matter.
Not all can have the talent, time, money, and health necessary to make a great artist. But all may do well what they set out to do, A simple thing well done is preferable to a complex one abominably done. Oh, that music pupils and their parents could recognize this!
Some schools realize that music is "a long road to travel," and insist that a student, upon entering, shall give evidence of his expectation of completing a course of study. For instance, we read that the conservatory at Milan, Italy, requires each pupil to declare his intention and ability to stay in the school until the seven years' course is completed. Not many half-prepared pupils are turned out of that school. That is one European standard. In America a fair damsel will unblushingly apply for a diploma before she should be allowed to leave a musical kindergarten.
In former times students were content to abide by the adage "festinate lente." Years were spent in technical drill. But the years so spent produced great singers. As an extreme example of this painstaking study, we may cite the method used by Porpora with his pupil, Caffarelli.
For five years this celebrated teacher (who perhaps gave instruction to more great singers than any teacher since has done) held his willing pupil to the practice of various scales and exercises which were written down one at a time. During the sixth year Caffarelli was drilled in articulation, pronunciation, and declamation, points in which many modern singers are sadly deficient.
Then, one day, when the patient pupil thought perhaps he might soon begin to sing something beyond scales and exercises, old Porpora turned to him, and handing him his music, said, in his curt fashion:—
"Now, young man, you may go. I can teach you no more. You are the greatest singer in the world!"
And so it was. This patient toil had brought its own reward. He was without a peer in his own time. Honors and reward and riches came to him, and at the end of his career he purchased a dukedom and retired to his castle to enjoy the large fortune his unrivaled singing had brought him. Had he rebelled against his old master's long course of training, these things and the applause of all Europe would have been lost to him, and his name would probably never have appeared in the list of the world's great singers.