LILLI ALM
In Lola Schaefer's studio in the Tower, Tea being served to painters, poets, singers, Herr Ludwig Haibt, a none too welcome guest, Of vital body, brisk, too loud of voice, And Lilli Alm crossed swords.
It came about When Ludwig Haibt said: "Have you read the papers About this Elenor Murray?" And then said: "I tried to train her voice--she was a failure." And Lilli Alm who taught the art of song Looked at him half contemptuous and said: "Why did she fail?" To which Herr Ludwig answered "She tried too hard. She made her throat too tense, And made its muscles stiff by too much thought, Anxiety for song, the vocal triumph."
"O, yes, I understand," said Lilli Aim. Then stabbing him she added, "since you dropped The Perfect Institute, and dropped the idea Which stresses training muscles of the tongue, And all that thing, be fair and shoulder half The failure of poor Elenor Murray on Your system's failure. For I chanced to know The girl myself. She started work with me, And I am sure that if I had been able-- With time enough I could have done it too-- To rid her mind of muscles and to fix The thought alone of music in her mind, She would have sung. Now listen, Ludwig Haibt, You've come around to see that song's the thing. I take a pupil and I say to her: The mind must fix itself on music, say I would make song, pure tones and beautiful; That comes from spirit, from the Plato rapture, Which gets the idea. It is well to know Some physiology, I grant, to know When, how to move the vocal organs, feel How they are moving, through the ear to place These organs in relation, and to know The soft palate is drawn against the hard; The tongue can take positions numerous, Can be used at the root, a throaty voice; Or with the tip, produce expressiveness. But what must we avoid?--rigidity. And if that girl was over-zealous, then So much the more her teaching should have kept Mind off the larynx and the tongue, and fixed Upon the spiritual matters, so to give The snake-like power of loosening, contracting The muscles used for singing. Ludwig Haibt, I can forgive your system, since abandoned, I can't forgive your words to-day who say This woman failed for trying over much, When I know that your system made her throw An energy truly wonderful on muscles; And when I think of your book where you said: The singing voice is the result, observe Of physical conditions, like the strings Or tubes of brass. While granting that it's well To know the art of tuning up the strings, And how to place them; after all the art Of tuning and of placing comes from mind, The idea, and the art of making song Is just the breathing of the perfect spirit Upon the strings. The throat is but the leaves, Let them be flexible, the mouth's the flower, The tone the perfume. And your olden way Of harping on the larynx--well, since you Turned from it, I'm ungenerous perhaps To scold you thus to-day.
But this I say, Let us be frank as teachers: Take the fetich Of breathing and see how you cripple talent, Or take that matter of the laryngyscope, Whereby you photograph a singer's throat, Caruso's, Galli Curci's at the moment Of greatest beauty in song, and thus preserve In photographs before you how the muscles Looked and were placed that moment. Then attempt To get the like effect by placing them In similar fashion. Oh, you know, Herr Ludwig, These fetiches go by. One thing remains: The idea in the soul of beauty, music, The hope to give it forth.
Alas! to think So many souls are wasted while we teach This thing or that. The strong survive, of course. But take this Elenor Murray--why, that girl Was just a flame, I never saw such hunger For self-development, and beauty, richness, In all experience in life--I knew her, That's why I say so--take her as I say, And put her to a practice--yours we'll say-- Where this great zeal she had is turned and pressed Upon the physical, just the very thing To make her throat constrict, and fill her up With over anxiety and make her fail. When had she come to me at first this passion Directed to the beauty, the idea Had put her soul at ease to ease her body, Which gradually and beautifully had answered That flame of hers.
Well, Ludwig Haibt, you're punished For wasting several years upon a system Since put away as half erroneous, If not quite worthless. But I must confess, Since I have censured you, to my own sin. This girl ran out of money, came to me And told me so. To which I said: "Too bad, You will have money later, when you do, Come back to me." She stood a silent moment, Her hand upon the knob, I saw her tears, Just little dim tears, then she said good-bye And vanished from me.
Well, I now repent. I who have thought of beauty all my life, And taught the art of sound made beautiful, Let slip a chance for beauty--why, I think, A beauty just as great as song! You see I had a chance to serve a hungering soul-- I could have said just let the money go, Or let it go until you get the money. I let that chance for beauty slip. Even now I see poor Elenor Murray at the door, Who paused, no doubt, in hope that I would say What I thought not to say.
So, Ludwig Haibt, We are a poor lot--let us have some tea! "We are a poor lot," Ludwig Haibt replied. "But since this is confessional, I absolve you, If you'll permit me, from your sin. Will you Absolve me, if I say I'm sorry too? I'll tell you something, it is really true:-- I changed my system more I think because Of what I learned from teaching Elenor Murray Than on account of any other person. She demonstrated better where my system Was lacking than all pupils that I had. And so I changed it; and of course I say The thing is music, just as poets say The thing is beauty, not the rhyme and words, With which they bring it, instruments that's all, And not the thing--but beauty."
So they talked, Forgave each other. And that very day Two priests were talking of confessionals A mile or so from the Tower, where Lilli Alm And Ludwig Haibt were having tea. You say The coroner was ignorant of this! What is the part it plays with Elenor Murray? Or with the inquest? Wait a little yet And see if Merival has told to him What thing of value touching Elenor Murray Is lodged in Father Whimsett's heart or words.