the art. As you've observed, I'm a symphony man myself, and I believe the great music of the world has been written for fiddlers, not singers. But with McCormack I make an exception. Not because he's an Irishman, I give you my word on that. You were right about Herbert. If there's one thing an Irishman hates more than a landlord it's another Irishman. 'Tis because he makes me feel music I had previously been indifferent to. I don't speak of the ballads he sings, mush a man wouldn't spit into. But I have heard him sing Handel. I heard him sing a whole program of Handel at a private engagement in Boston."
"He can sing it, all right."
"Until then, I had not cared for Händel, but he revealed it to me. 'Tis something to be grateful for, the awakening to Handel. What is the reason for that? I've heard a million of your Wops, Frogs and Yankees sing Handel, aye and plenty of Englishmen, but not one of them can sing it the way that fellow can."
"Well, in the first place, he's good. That's something you can't quite cut up into pieces and measure off. And when a man's good, he's generally good all the way down the line. McCormack has music in him, so he no sooner opens his trap than there's a tingle to it, no matter what he sings. He has an instinct for style that never lets him down. He never drags an andante too slow, or hustles an allegro too fast. He never turns a dumb phrase, or forces, or misgauges a climax. When he does it, it's always right, with a big R. What he did for Handel was to bring it to life for you. Up to then, you probably thought it was pale, thin, tinkle-tankle stuff--"
"To my shame I did."
"And then he stepped into it, like a bugler at dawn--"
"That's it, that's it, like a bugler at dawn. You can't imagine what it was like, lad. He stood there, the most arrogant figure of a man I ever saw, with his chest thrown out and his head thrown back, and his thumbs in his little black book of words, like a cardinal starting the mass. And without a word, he began to sing. And the sun came up, and the sun came up."
"And in the second place--"
"Yes, lad, in the second place?"
"He had a great voice."
"He could have the Magic Flute in his throat and I'd never know it."
"Well, he goddam near had the Magic Flute in his throat, if somebody happened to ask you. And your ears knew it, even if your head didn't. He had a great voice, not just a good voice. I don't mean big. It was never big, though it was big enough. But what makes a great voice is beauty, not size, and beauty will get you, I don't care if it's in a man's throat or a woman's leg."
"You may be right. I hadn't thought of it."
"And in the third place--"
"Go on, 'tis instructive to me."
"--There's the language he was born to. John McCormack comes from Dublin."
"He does not. He comes from Athlone."
"Didn't he live in Dublin?"
"No matter. They speak a fine brogue in Athlone, almost as fine as in Belfast."
"It's a fine brogue, but it's not a brogue. It's the English language as it was spoken before all the other countries of the world forgot how to speak it. There's two things a singer can't buy, beg or steal, and that no teacher, coach or conductor can give him. One is his voice, the other is the language that was born in his mouth. When McCormack was singing Handel he was singing English, and he sings it as no American and no Englishman will ever sing English. But not like an Irishman. Not with all that warmth, color, and richness that McCormack puts into it."
"'Tis pleasant to hear you say that."
"You speak a fine brogue yourself."
"I try to say what I mean."
We were creeping past Ensenada, four or five miles out, and we smoked a while without saying anything. The sea was like glass, but you could see the hotel in the setting sun, and the white line of surf around the harbor. We smoked a while, but I'm a bit of a bug on that subject of language, and what a man brings on stage with him besides what he was taught. I started up again, and told him how
"He can sing it, all right."
"Until then, I had not cared for Händel, but he revealed it to me. 'Tis something to be grateful for, the awakening to Handel. What is the reason for that? I've heard a million of your Wops, Frogs and Yankees sing Handel, aye and plenty of Englishmen, but not one of them can sing it the way that fellow can."
"Well, in the first place, he's good. That's something you can't quite cut up into pieces and measure off. And when a man's good, he's generally good all the way down the line. McCormack has music in him, so he no sooner opens his trap than there's a tingle to it, no matter what he sings. He has an instinct for style that never lets him down. He never drags an andante too slow, or hustles an allegro too fast. He never turns a dumb phrase, or forces, or misgauges a climax. When he does it, it's always right, with a big R. What he did for Handel was to bring it to life for you. Up to then, you probably thought it was pale, thin, tinkle-tankle stuff--"
"To my shame I did."
"And then he stepped into it, like a bugler at dawn--"
"That's it, that's it, like a bugler at dawn. You can't imagine what it was like, lad. He stood there, the most arrogant figure of a man I ever saw, with his chest thrown out and his head thrown back, and his thumbs in his little black book of words, like a cardinal starting the mass. And without a word, he began to sing. And the sun came up, and the sun came up."
"And in the second place--"
"Yes, lad, in the second place?"
"He had a great voice."
"He could have the Magic Flute in his throat and I'd never know it."
"Well, he goddam near had the Magic Flute in his throat, if somebody happened to ask you. And your ears knew it, even if your head didn't. He had a great voice, not just a good voice. I don't mean big. It was never big, though it was big enough. But what makes a great voice is beauty, not size, and beauty will get you, I don't care if it's in a man's throat or a woman's leg."
"You may be right. I hadn't thought of it."
"And in the third place--"
"Go on, 'tis instructive to me."
"--There's the language he was born to. John McCormack comes from Dublin."
"He does not. He comes from Athlone."
"Didn't he live in Dublin?"
"No matter. They speak a fine brogue in Athlone, almost as fine as in Belfast."
"It's a fine brogue, but it's not a brogue. It's the English language as it was spoken before all the other countries of the world forgot how to speak it. There's two things a singer can't buy, beg or steal, and that no teacher, coach or conductor can give him. One is his voice, the other is the language that was born in his mouth. When McCormack was singing Handel he was singing English, and he sings it as no American and no Englishman will ever sing English. But not like an Irishman. Not with all that warmth, color, and richness that McCormack puts into it."
"'Tis pleasant to hear you say that."
"You speak a fine brogue yourself."
"I try to say what I mean."
We were creeping past Ensenada, four or five miles out, and we smoked a while without saying anything. The sea was like glass, but you could see the hotel in the setting sun, and the white line of surf around the harbor. We smoked a while, but I'm a bit of a bug on that subject of language, and what a man brings on stage with him besides what he was taught. I started up again, and told him how
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