Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly by James M. Cain Page A
Authors: James M. Cain
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me. ’Tis something to be grateful for, the awakening to Händel. What is the reason for that? I’ve heard a million of your Wops, Frogs and Yankees sing Händel, 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 Händel 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 Händel 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 manbrings on stage with him besides what he was taught. I started up again, and told him how all the great Italian singers have come from the city of Naples, and gave him a few examples of singers with fine voices that never made the grade because they were bums, and people won’t listen to bums. About that, I knew plenty. Then I got off on Mexico, and about that, I guess you can realize I was pretty bitter. I began getting it off my chest. He listened, but pretty soon he stopped me. “Not so fast, lad, not so fast. ’Tis instructive that Caruso came from Naples, as McCormack came from Athlone, and that it was part of his gift, but when
“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 Händel 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 Händel 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 manbrings on stage with him besides what he was taught. I started up again, and told him how all the great Italian singers have come from the city of Naples, and gave him a few examples of singers with fine voices that never made the grade because they were bums, and people won’t listen to bums. About that, I knew plenty. Then I got off on Mexico, and about that, I guess you can realize I was pretty bitter. I began getting it off my chest. He listened, but pretty soon he stopped me. “Not so fast, lad, not so fast. ’Tis instructive that Caruso came from Naples, as McCormack came from Athlone, and that it was part of his gift, but when
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