In January, 1824, Mme. Pasta gave to the world what by all concurrent
accounts must have been the grandest lyric impersonation in the
records of art, the character of _Medea_ in Simon May-er's opera.
This masterpiece was composed musically and dramatically by the artist
herself on the weak foundation of a wretched play and correct but
commonplace music. In a more literal and truthful sense than that in
which the term is so often travestied by operatic singers, the part
was _created_ by Pasta, reconstructed in form and meaning, as well as
inspired by a matchless executive genius. In the language of one writer,
whose enthusiasm seems not to have been excessive: "It was a triumph of
histrionic art, and afforded every opportunity for the display of all
the resources of her genius--the varied powers which had been called
forth and combined in _Medea_, the passionate tenderness of _Romeo_, the
spirit and animation of _Tancredi_, the majesty of _Semi-ramide_, the
mournful beauty of _Nina_, the dignity and sweetness of _Desdemona_.
It is difficult to conceive a character more highly dramatic or more
intensely impassioned than that of _Medea_; and in the successive scenes
Pasta appeared as if torn by the conflict of contending passions, until
at last her anguish rose to sublimity. The conflict of human affection
and supernatural power, the tenderness of the wife, the agonies of the
mother, and the rage of the woman scorned, were portrayed with a truth,
a power, a grandeur of effect unequaled before or since by any actress
or singer. Every attitude, each movement and look, became a study for a
painter; for in the storm of furious passion the grace and beauty of her
gestures were never marred by extravagance. Indeed, her impersonation
of _Medea_ was one of the finest illustrations of classic grandeur
the stage has ever presented. In the scene where _Medea_ murders her
children, the acting of Pasta rose to the sublime. Her self-abandonment,
her horror at the contemplation of the deed she is about to perpetrate,
the irrepressible affection which comes welling up in her breast, were
pictured with a magnificent power, yet with such natural pathos, that
the agony of the distracted mother was never lost sight of in the fury
of the priestess. Folding her arms across her bosom, she contracted her
form, as, cowering, she shrunk from the approach of her children; then
grief, love, despair, rage, madness, alternately wrung her heart, until
at last her soul seemed appalled at the crime she contemplated.
Starting forward, she pursued the innocent creatures, while the audience
involuntarily closed their eyes and recoiled before the harrowing
spectacle, which almost elicited a stifled cry of horror. But her fine
genius invested the character with that classic dignity and beauty
which, as in the Niobe group, veils the excess of human agony in the
drapery of ideal art."
Chorley, whose warmth of admiration is always tempered by accurate
art-knowledge and the keenest insight, recurs in later years to
Pas-ta's _Medea_ in these eloquent words: "The air of quiet concentrated
vengeance, seeming to fill every fiber of her frame--as though deadly
poison were flowing through her veins--with which she stood alone
wrapped in her scarlet mantle, as the bridal procession of _Jason_ and
_Creusa_ swept by, is never to be forgotten. It must have been hard
for those on the stage with her to pass that draped statue with folded
arms--that countenance lit up with awful fire, but as still as death and
inexorable as doom. Where again has ever been seen an exhibition of art
grander than her _Medea's_ struggle with herself ere she consents to
murder her children?--than her hiding the dagger with its fell purpose
in her bosom under the strings of her distracted hair?--than of her
steps to and fro as of one drunken with frenzy--torn with the agonies
of natural pity, yet still resolved on her awful triumph? These memories
are so many possessions to those who have seen them so long as reason
shall last; and their reality is all the more assured to me because I
have not yet fallen into the old man's habit of denying or doubting
new sensations." The Paris public, it need not be said, even more
susceptible to the charm of great acting than that of great singing,
were in a frenzy of admiration over this wonderful new picture added to
the portrait-gallery of art. In this performance Pasta had the advantage
of absorbing the whole interest of the opera; in her other great
Parisian successes she was obliged to share the admiration of the public
with the tenor Garcia (Malibran's father), the barytone Bordogni, and
Levasseur the basso, next to Lablache the greatest of his artistic kind.
A story is told of a distinguished critic that he persuaded himself
that, with such power of portraying _Medea's_ emotions, Pasta must
possess Medea's features. Having been told that the features of the
Colchian sorceress had been found in the ruins of Herculaneum cut on an
antique gem, his fantastic enthusiasm so overcame his judgment that
he took a journey to Italy expressly to inspect this visionary cameo,
which, it need not be said, existed only in the imagination of a
practical joker.
In 1824 Pasta made her first English appearance at the King's Theatre,
at which was engaged an extraordinary assemblage of talent, Mesdames
Colbran-Rossini, Catalani, Konzi di Begnis, "Vestris, Caradori, and
Pasta. The great tragedienne made her first appearance in _Desdemona_,
and, as all Europe was ringing with her fame, the curiosity to see and
hear her was almost unparalleled. Long before the beginning of the opera
the house was packed with an intensely expectant throng. For an English
audience, idolizing the memory of Shakespeare, even Rossini's fine
music, conducted by that great composer himself, could hardly under
ordinary circumstances condone the insult offered to a species of
literary religion by the wretched stuff pitchforked together and called
a libretto. But the genius of Pasta made them forget even this, and
London bowed at her feet with as devout a recognition as that offered
by the more fickle Parisians. Her chaste and noble style, untortured by
meretricious ornament, excited the deepest admiration. Count Stendhal,
the biographer of Rossini, seems to have heard her for the first time at
London, and writes of her in the following fashion:
"Moderate in the use of embellishments, Mme. Pasta never employs them
but to heighten the force of the expression; and, what is more, her
embellishments last only just so long as they are found to be useful."
In this respect her manner formed a very strong contrast with that of
the generality of Italian singers at the time, who were more desirous of
creating astonishment than of giving pleasure. It was not from any
lack of technical knowledge and vocal skill that Mme. Pasta avoided
extravagant ornamentation, for in many of the concerted pieces--in which
she chiefly shone--her execution united clearness and rapidity. "Mme.
Pasta is certainly less exuberant in point of ornament, and more
expressive in point of majesty and simplicity," observed one critic,
"than any of the first-class singers who have visited England for a long
period.... She is also a mistress of art," continues the same writer,
"and, being limited by nature, she makes no extravagant use of her
powers, but employs them with the tact and judgment that can proceed
only from an extraordinary mind. This constitutes her highest praise;
for never did intellect and industry become such perfect substitutes for
organic superiority. Notwithstanding her fine vein of imagination and
the beauty of her execution, she cultivates high and deep passions, and
is never so great as in the adaptation of art to the purest purposes of
expression."
The production of "Tancredi" and of Zingarelli's "Romeo e Giulietta"
followed as the vehicles of Pasta's genius for the pleasure of the
English public, and the season was closed with "Semiramide," in which
her regal majesty seemed to embody the ideal conception of the Assyrian
queen. The scene in the first act where the specter of her murdered
consort appears she made so thrilling and impressive that some of the
older opera-goers compared it to the wonderful acting of Garrick in the
"ghost-scene" of "Hamlet"; and those when she learns that _Arsace_ is
her son, and when she falls by his hand before the tomb of _Ninus_,
were recounted in after-years as among the most startling memories of
a lifetime. During her London season Mme. Pasta went much into society,
and her exalted fame, united with her amiable manners, made her
everywhere sought after. Immense sums were paid her at private concerts,
and her subscription concerts at Almack's were the rage of the town. Her
operatic salary of £14,000 was nearly doubled by her income from other
sources.