Garcia now conceived a project for establishing Italian opera in the
United States, and with characteristic daring he set sail for America
with a miserable company, of which the only talent consisted of his own
family, comprising himself, his son, daughter, and wife, Mme. Garcia
having been a fairly good artist in her youth. The first opera produced
was "Il Barbiere," on November 29, 1825, and this was speedily
followed by "Tancredi," "Otello," "Il Turco in Italia," "Don Giovanni,"
"Cenerentola," and two operas composed by Garcia himself--"L'Amante
Astuto," and "La Figlia dell' Aria," The young singer's success was of
extraordinary character, and New York, unaccustomed to Italian opera,
went into an ecstasy of admiration. Maria's charming voice and personal
fascination held the public spellbound, and her good nature in the
introduction of English songs, whenever called on by her admirers,
raised the delight of the opera-goers of the day to a wild enthusiasm.
The occurrence of the most unfortunate episode of her life at this time
was the fruitful source of much of the misery and eccentricity of her
after-career. M. François Eugène Malibran, a French merchant, engaged in
business in New York, fell passionately in love with the young singer,
and speedily laid his heart and fortune, which was supposed to be great,
at her feet. In spite of the fact that the suitor was fifty, and Maria
only seventeen, she was disposed to accept the offer, for she was sick
of her father's brutality, and the straits to which she was constantly
put by the exigencies of her dependent situation. Her heart had never
yet awakened to the sweetness of love, and the supposed great fortune
and lavish promises of M. Malibran dazzled her young imagination. Garcia
sternly refused his consent, and there were many violent scenes between
father and daughter. Such was the hostility of feeling between the two,
that Maria almost feared for her life. The following incident is an
expressive comment on the condition of her mind at this time: One
evening she was playing _Des-demona_ to her father's _Othello_, in
Rossini's opera. At the moment when _Othello_ approaches, his eyes
sparkling with rage, to stab _Desdemona_, Maria perceived that her
father's dagger was not a stage sham, but a genuine weapon. Frantic with
terror, she screamed "Papa, papa, for the love of God, do not kill me!"
Her terrors were groundless, for the substitution of the real for a
theatrical dagger was a mere accident. The audience knew no difference,
as they supposed Maria's Spanish exclamation to be good operatic
Italian, and they applauded at the fine dramatic point made by the young
artist!
At last the importunate suitor overcame Gar-cia's opposition by agreeing
to give him a hundred thousand francs in payment for the loss of his
daughter's services, and the sacrifice of the young and beautiful singer
was consummated on March 23, 1826. A few weeks later Malibran was a
bankrupt and imprisoned for debt, and his bride discovered how she had
been cheated and outraged by a cunning scoundrel, who had calculated
on saving himself from poverty by dependence on the stage-earnings of
a brilliant wife. The enraged Garcia, always a man of unbridled temper,
was only prevented from transforming one of those scenes of mimic
tragedy with which he was so familiar, into a criminal reality by
assassinating Malibran, through the resolute expostulations of his
friends. Mme. Malibran instantly resigned for the benefit of her
husband's creditors any claims which she might have made on the remnants
of his estate, and her New York admirers had as much occasion to applaud
the rectitude and honor of the woman as they had had the genius of the
artist. Garcia himself, hampered by pecuniary difficulties, set sail
for Mexico with his son and younger daughter, to retrieve his fortunes,
while Maria remained in New York, tied to a wretch whom she despised,
and who looked on her musical talents as the means of supplying him
with the luxuries of life. Mme. Malibran's energy soon found a vent in
English opera, and she made herself as popular on the vernacular as she
had on the Italian stage. But she soon wearied of her hard fate, which
compelled her to toil without ceasing for the support of the man who
had deceived her vilely, and for whom not one spark of love operated to
condone his faults. Five months utterly snapped her patience, and she
determined to return to Paris. She arrived there in September, 1826,
and took up her abode with M. Malibran's sister. Although she had become
isolated from all her old friends, she found in one of the companions of
her days of pupilage, the Countess Merlin, a most affectionate help and
counselor, who spared no effort to make her talents known to the musical
world of Paris, Mme. de Merlin sounded the praises of her friend so
successfully that she soon succeeded in evoking a great degree of public
curiosity, which finally resulted in an engagement.
Malibran's first appearance in the Grand Opéra at Paris was for the
benefit of Mme. Galli, in "Semiramide." It was a terrible ordeal, for
she had such great stars as Pasta and Sontag to compete with, and she
was treading a classic stage, with which the memories of all the great
names in the lyric art were connected. She felt that on the result of
that night all the future success of her life depended. Though her heart
was struck with such a chill that her knees quaked as she stepped on the
stage, her indomitable energy and courage came to her assistance, and
she produced an indescribable sensation. Her youth, beauty, and
noble air won the hearts of all. One difficult phrase proved such a
stumbling-block that, in the agitation of a first appearance, she failed
to surmount it, and there was an apprehension that the lovely singer was
about to fail. But in the grand aria, "Bel Raggio," she indicated such
resources of execution and daring of improvisation, and displayed such a
full and beautiful voice, that the house resounded with the most furious
applause. Mme. Malibran, encouraged by this warm reception, redoubled
the difficulties of her execution, and poured forth lavishness of
fioriture and brilliant cadenzas such as fairly dazzled her hearers.
Paris was conquered, and Mme. Malibran became the idol of the city, for
the novelty and richness of her style of execution set her apart from
all other singers as a woman of splendid inventive genius. She could
now make her own terms with the managers, and she finally gave the
preference to the Italiens over the Grand Opéra, at terms of eight
hundred francs per night, and a full benefit.
In voice, genius, and character Mme. Mali-bran was alike original.
Her organ was not naturally of first-rate quality. The voice was a
mezzo-soprano, naturally full of defects, especially in the middle
tones, which were hard and uneven, and to the very last she was obliged
to go through her exercises every day to keep it flexible. By the
tremendously severe discipline to which she had been subjected by her
father's teaching and method, the range of voice had been extended up
and down so that it finally reached a compass of three octaves from D
in alt to D on the third line in the base. Her high notes had an
indescribable sparkle and brilliancy, and her low tones were so soft,
sweet, and heart-searching that they thrilled with every varying phase
of her sensibilities. Her daring in the choice of ornaments was so great
that it was only justified by the success which invariably crowned her
flights of inventive fancy: To the facility and cultivation of voice,
which came from her father's training, she added a fertility of musical
inspiration which came from nature. A French critic wrote of her:
"Her passages were not only remarkable for extent, rapidity, and
complication, but were invariably marked by the most intense feeling and
sentiment. Her soul appeared in everything she did." Her extraordinary
flexibility enabled her to run with ease over passages of the most
difficult character. "In the tones of Malibran," says one of her English
admirers, "there would at times be developed a deep and trembling
pathos, that, rushing from the fountain of the heart, thrilled instantly
upon a responsive chord in the bosoms of all." She was the pupil of
nature. Her acting was full of genius, passion, and tenderness. She was
equally grand as _Semiramide_ and as _Arsace_, and sang the music of
both parts superbly. Touching, profoundly melancholy as _Desdemona_,
she was gay and graceful in _Rosina_; she drew tears as _Ninetta_, and,
throwing off the coquette, could produce roars of laughter as _Fidalma_.
She had never taken lessons in poses or in declamation, yet she was
essentially, innately graceful. Mme. Malibran was in person about
the middle height, and the contour of her figure was rounded to an
enchanting _embonpoint_, which yet preserved its youthful grace. Her
carriage was exceedingly noble, and the face more expressive than
handsome; her hair was black and glossy, and always worn in a simple
style. The eyes were dark and luminous, the teeth white and regular, and
the countenance, habitually pensive in expression, was mutable in the
extreme, and responsive to every emotion and feeling of the heart. To
quote from Mr. Chorley: "She may not have been beautiful, but she was
better than beautiful, insomuch as a speaking Spanish human countenance
is ten times more fascinating than many a faultless angel-face such as
Guido could paint. There was health of tint, with but a slight touch of
the yellow rose in her complexion; great mobility of expression in her
features; an honest, direct brightness of eye; a refinement in the form
of her head, and the set of it on her shoulders."
When she was reproached by Fetis for using _ad captandum_ effects too
lavishly in the admonition: "With the degree of elevation to which you
have attained, you should impose your opinion on the public, not submit
to theirs," she answered, with a laugh and a shrug of her charming
shoulders: "_Mon cher grognon_, there may perhaps be two or three
connoisseurs in the theatre, but it is not they who give success. When I
sing for you, I will sing very differently." Mme. Malibran, buoyed up
on the passionate enthusiasm of the French public, essayed the most
wonderful and daring flights in her song. She appeared as _Desdemona,
Rosina_, and as _Romeo_ in Zingarelli's opera--characters, of the most
opposing kind and two of them, indeed, among Pasta's masterpieces. It
was said that, "if Malibran must yield the palm to Pasta in point of
acting, yet she possessed a decided superiority in respect of song";
and, even in acting, Malibran's grace, originality, vivacity, piquancy,
spontaneity, feeling, and tenderness, won the heart of all spectators.
Such was her versatility, that the _Semi-ramide_ of one evening was the
_Cinderella_ of the next, the _Zerlina_ of another, and the _Desdemona_
of its successor; and in each the individuality of conception was
admirably preserved. On being asked by a friend which was her favorite
rôle, she answered, "The character I happen to be acting, whichever it
may be."
In spite, however, of the general testimony to her great dramatic
ability, so clever and capable a judge as Henry Chorley rated her
musical genius as far higher than that of dramatic conception. He
says: "Though creative as an executant, Malibran was not creative as
a dramatic artist. Though the fertility and audacity of her musical
invention had no limits, though she had the power and science of a
composer, she did not establish one new opera or character on the stage,
hardly even one first-class song in a concert-room." This criticism,
when closely examined, may perhaps indicate a high order of praise. Mme.
Malibran, as an artist, was so unique and original in her methods, so
incomparable in the invention and skill which required no master to
prompt or regulate her cadences, so complex in the ingenuity which
blended the resources of singing and acting, that other singers simply
despaired of imitating her effects, and what she did perished with her,
except as a brilliant tradition. In other words, her utter superiority
to the conventional made her artistic work phenomenal, and of a style
not to be perpetuated on the stage. The weight of testimony appears to
be that Mme. Malibran was, beyond all of her competitors, a singer of
most versatile and brilliant genius, in whom dramatic instincts reigned
with as dominant force as ability of musical expression. The fact,
however, that Mme. Malibran, with a voice weak and faulty in the extreme
in one whole octave of its range, and that the most important (between
F and F), was able by her matchless skill and audacity in the forms of
execution, modification, and ornament, to achieve the most brilliant
results, might well blind even a keen connoisseur by kindling his
admiration of her musical invention, at the expense of his recognition
of dramatic faculty.
It was characteristic of Mme. Malibran that she fired all her
fellow-artists with the ardor of her genius. Her resources and knowledge
were such that she could sing in any school and any language. The music
of Mozart and Cimarosa, Boïeldieu and Eossini, Cherubini and Bellini,
Donizetti and Meyerbeer, furnished in equal measure the mold into which
her great powers poured themselves with a sort of inspired fury, like
that of a Greek Pythoness. She had an artistic individuality powerful
to create types of its own, which were the despair of other singers, for
they were incapable of reproduction, inasmuch as they were partly forged
from her own defects, transformed by genius into beauties. In all those
accomplishments which have their root in the art temperament, she was a
sort of Admirable Crichton. She played the piano-forte with great skill,
and, with no special knowledge of drawing, possessed marked talent in
sketching caricatures, portraits, and scenes from nature. She composed
both the music and words of songs and romances with a felicitous ease.
She excelled in feminine works, such as embroidery, tapestry, and
dressmaking, and always modeled her own costumes. It was a saying with
her friends that she was as much the artist with her needle as with
her voice. She wrote and spoke five languages, and often used them with
different interlocutors with such readiness and accuracy that she
rarely confused them. Her wit and vivacity as a conversationalist were
celebrated, and her _mots_ had the point as well as the flash of the
diamond. Her retorts and sarcasms often wounded, but she was quick to
heal the stroke by a sweet and childlike contrition that made her doubly
fascinating.
Impassioned, ardent, the prey of an endless excitement, her restless
nature would quickly return from its flights to the every-day duties
and responsibilities of life, and her instincts were so strong and
noble that she was eager to repair any errors into which she might be
betrayed. Lavish in her generosity to others, she was personally frugal,
even penurious. A certain brusque and original frankness, and the
ingenuousness with which she betrayed every impression, often involved
her in compromising positions, which would have been fatal to a woman
in her position less pure and upright in her essential nature. Fond of
dolls, toys, and trifles, she was also devoted to athletic sports and
pastimes, riding, swimming, skating, shooting, and fencing. Sometimes
her return from a fatiguing night at the opera would be marked by an
exuberance of animal spirits, which would lead her to jump over chairs
and tables like a schoolboy. She was wont to say, "When I try to
restrain my flow of spirits, I feel as if I should be suffocated." Her
reckless gayety and unconventional manners led to strange rumors. She
would wander over the country attired in boy's clothes, and without an
escort, and a great variety of innocent escapades led a carping world to
believe that she indulged excessively in stimulants, but the truth was
that she never drank anything but a little wine-and-water.
Maria could not long endure the frowning tutelage of M. Malibran's
sister, whom she at first selected as her chaperon, and so one day she
decamped without warning, in a coach, and established her "household
gods" with Mme. Naldi, an old friend of her father, and a woman of
austere manners, whom she obeyed like a child. Her protector had charge
of all her money, and opened all her letters before Maria saw them.
When her fortune was at his height, Mme. Mali-bran showed her friend and
biographer, Countess do Merlin, a much-worn Cashmere shawl, saying: "I
use this in preference to any that I have. It was the first Cashmere
shawl I ever owned, and I have pleasure in remembering how hard I found
it to coax Mme. Naldi to let me buy it."
In 1828 the principal members of the operatic company at the Italiens
were Malibran, Sontag, Donzelli, Zuchelli, and Graziani. Malibran sang
in "Otello," "Matilda di Shabran," "La Cenerentola," and "La Gazza
Ladra." Jealous as she was by temperament, she always wept when
Madamoiselle Sontag achieved a great success, saying, naively, "Why does
she sing so divinely?" The coldness between the two great singers was
fomented by the malice of others, but at last a touching reconciliation
occurred, and the two rivals remained ever afterward sincere friends and
admirers of each other's talents. There are many charming anecdotes of
Madame Malibran's generosity and quick sympathy. At the house of one of
her friends she often met an aged widow, poor and unhappy, and strongly
desired to assist her; but the position and character of the lady
required delicate management. "Madame," she said at last, "I know that
your son makes very pretty verses." "Yes, madame, he sometimes amuses
himself in that way. But he is so young!" "No matter. Do you know that
I could propose a little partnership affair? Troupenas [the music
publisher] has asked me for a new set of romances. I have no words
ready. If your son will give them to me, we could share the profits."
Mme. Malibran received the verses, and gave in exchange six hundred
francs. The romances were never finished.
She performed all such acts of charity with so much refined delicacy,
such true generosity, that the kindness was doubled. Thus, at the end
of this season, a young female chorister, engaged for the opening of the
King's Theatre, found herself unable to quit Paris for want of funds.
Mme. Malibran promised to sing at a concert which some of the leading
vocalists gave for her benefit. The name of Malibran of course drew a
crowd, and the room was filled; but she did not appear, and at last they
were obliged to commence the concert. The entertainment was half over
when she came, and approached the young girl, saying to her in a low
voice: "I am a little late, my dear, but the public will lose nothing,
for I will sing all the pieces announced. In addition, as I promised you
all my evening, I will keep my word. I went to sing in a concert at the
house of the Duc d'Orléans, where I received three hundred francs. They
belong to you. Take them."