stage presence inevitably remind one of Mme. Pasta, took no chances
with fate. The friend of Alfred de Musset, the model for George Sand's
"Consuelo," the "creator" of Fides in _Le Prophete_, and the singer
who, in the revival of _Orphee_ at the Theatre Lyrique in 1859,
resuscitated Gluck's popularity in Paris, retired from the opera stage
in 1863 at the age of 43, shortly after she had appeared in _Alceste!_
(She sang in concert occasionally until 1870 or later.) Thereafter she
divided her time principally between Baden and Paris and became the
great friend of Turgeniev. His very delightful letters to her have
been published. Idleness was abhorrent to this fine woman and in her
middle and old age she gave lessons, while singers, composers, and
conductors alike came to her for help and advice. She died in 1910 at
the age of 89. Her less celebrated brother, Manuel Garcia (less
celebrated as a singer; as a teacher he is given the credit for having
restored Jenny Lind's voice. Among his other pupils Mathilde Marchesi
and Marie Tempest may be mentioned), had died in 1906 at the age of
101. Her sister, Mme. Malibran, died very young, in the early
Nineteenth Century, before, in fact, Mme. Viardot had made her debut.
Few singers have had the wisdom to follow Mme. Viardot's excellent
example. The great Jenny Lind, long after her voice had lost its
quality, continued to sing in oratorio and concert. So did Adelina
Patti. Muriel Starr once told me of a parrot she encountered in
Australia. The poor bird had arrived at the noble age of 117 and was
entirely bereft of feathers. Flapping his stumpy wings he cried
incessantly, "I'll fly, by God, I'll fly!" So, many singers, having
lost their voices, continue to croak, "I'll sing, by God, I'll sing!"
The Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, himself a man of considerable years when
he published his highly diverting "Musical Reminiscences," gives us
some extraordinary pictures of senility on the stage at the close of
the Eighteenth Century. There was, for example, the case of Cecilia
Davis, the first Englishwoman to sustain the part of prima donna and
in that situation was second only to Gabrielli, whom she even rivalled
in neatness of execution. Mount Edgcumbe found Miss Davies in
Florence, unengaged and poor. A concert was arranged at which she
appeared with her sister. Later she returned to England ... too old to
secure an engagement. "This unfortunate woman is now (in 1834) living
in London, in the extreme of old age, disease, and poverty," writes
the Earl. He also speaks of a Signora Galli, of large and masculine
figure and contralto voice, who frequently filled the part of second
man at the Opera. She had been a principal singer in Handel's
oratorios when conducted by himself. She afterwards fell into extreme
poverty, and at the age of about seventy (!!!!), was induced to come
forward to sing again at the oratorios. "I had the curiosity to go,
and heard her sing _He was despised and rejected of men_ in _The
Messiah_. Of course her voice was cracked and trembling, but it was
easy to see her school was good; and it was a pleasure to observe the
kindness with which she was received and listened to; and to mark the
animation and delight with which she seemed to hear again the music in
which she had formerly been a distinguished performer. The poor old
woman had been in the habit of coming to me annually for a trifling
present; and she told me on that occasion that nothing but the
severest distress should have compelled her so to expose herself,
which after all, did not answer to its end, as she was not paid
according to her agreement. She died shortly after." In 1783 the Earl
heard a singer named Allegranti in Dresden, then at the height of her
powers. Later she returned to England and reappeared in Cimarosa's
_Matrimonio Segreto_. "Never was there a more pitiable attempt: she
had scarcely a thread of voice remaining, nor the power to sing a note
in tune: her figure and acting were equally altered for the worse, and
after a few nights she was obliged to retire and quit the stage
altogether." The celebrated Madame Mara, after a long sojourn in
Russia, suddenly returned to England and was announced for a benefit
performance at the King's Theatre after everybody had forgotten her
existence. "She must have been at least seventy; but it was said that
her voice had miraculously returned, and was as good as ever. But when
she displayed those wonderfully revived powers, they proved, as might
have been expected, lamentably deficient, and the tones she produced
were compared to those of a _penny trumpet_. Curiosity was so little
excited that the concert was ill attended ... and Madame Mara was
heard no more. I was not so lucky (or so unlucky) as to hear these her
last notes, as it was early in the winter, and I was not in town. She
returned to Russia, and was a great sufferer by the burning of Moscow.
After that she lived at Mitlau, or some other town near the Baltic,
where she died at a great age, not many years ago."
Here is Michael Kelly's account of the same event: "With all her great
skill and knowledge of the world, Madame Mara was induced, by the
advice of some of her mistaken friends, to give a public concert at
the King's Theatre, in her seventy-second year, when, in the course of
nature her powers had failed her. It was truly grievous to see such
transcendent talents as she once possessed, so sunk--so fallen. I used
every effort in my power to prevent her committing herself, but in
vain. Among other arguments to draw her from her purpose, I told her
what happened to Monbelli, one of the first tenors of his day, who
lost all his well-earned reputation and fame, by rashly performing the
part of a lover, at the Pergola Theatre, at Florence, in his
seventieth year, having totally lost his voice. On the stage, he was
hissed; and the following lines, lampooning his attempt, were chalked
on his house-door, as well as upon the walls of the city:--
_'All' eta di settanta
Non si ama, ne si canta.'"_
W. T. Parke, forty years principal oboe player at Covent Garden
Theatre, is kinder to Madame Mara in his "Musical Memoirs," but it
must be taken into account that he is kinder to every one else, too.
There is little of the acrimonious or the fault-finding note in his
pages. This is his version of the affair: "That extraordinary singer
of former days, Madame Mara, who had passed the last eighteen years in
Russia, and who had lately arrived in England, gave a concert at the
King's Theatre on the 6th of March (1820), which highly excited the
curiosity of the musical public. On that occasion she sang some of her
best airs; and though her powers were greatly inferior to what they
were in her zenith, yet the same pure taste pervaded her performance.
Whether vanity or interest stimulated Mara at her time of life to that
undertaking, it would be difficult to determine; but whichsoever had
the ascendency, her reign was short; for by singing one night
afterwards at the vocal concert, the veil which had obscured her
judgment was removed, and she retired to enjoy in private life those
comforts which her rare talent had procured for her."
Parke also speaks of a Mrs. Pinto, "the once celebrated Miss Brent,
the original Mandane in Arne's _Artaxerxes_," who appeared in 1785 at
the age of nearly seventy in Milton's _Mask of Comus_ at a benefit for
a Mr. Hull, "the respectable stage-manager of Covent Garden Theatre."
She was to sing the song of Sweet Echo and as Parke was to play the
responses to her voice on the oboe he repaired to her house for
rehearsal. "Although nearly seventy years old, her voice possessed the
remains of those qualities for which it had been so much
celebrated,--power, flexibility, and sweetness. On the night _Comus_
was performed she sung with an unexpected degree of excellence, and
was loudly applauded. This old lady, as a singer, gave me the idea of
a fine piece of ruins, which though considerably dilapidated, still
displayed some of its original beauties."
The celebrated Faustina, whose quarrel with Cuzzoni is as famous in
the history of music as the war between Gluck and Piccinni, was less
daring. Dr. Burney visited her when she was seventy-two years old and
asked her to sing. "Alas, I cannot," she replied, "I have lost all my
faculties."
La Camargo, the favourite dancer of Paris in the early Eighteenth
Century, the inventor, indeed of the short ballet skirt, and the
possessor of many lovers, retired from the stage in 1751 with a large
fortune, besides a pension of fifteen hundred francs. Thenceforth she
led a secluded life. She was an assiduous visitor to the poor of her
parish and she kept a dozen dogs and an angora cat which she
overwhelmed with affection. In that quaint book, "The Powder Puff," by
Franz Blei, you may find a most charming description of a call paid to
the lady in 1768 in her little old house in the Rue St. Thomas du
Louvre, by Duclos, Grimm, and Helvetius, who had come in bantering
mood to ask her whom, in her past life, she had loved best. Her reply
touched these men, who took their leave. "Helvetius told Camargo's
story to his wife; Grimm made a note of it for his Court Journal; and
as for Duclos, it suggested some moral reflections to him, for when,
two years later, Mlle. Marianne Camargo was carried to her grave, he
remarked: 'It is quite fitting to give her a white pall like a
virgin.'"
Sophie Arnould, one of the most celebrated actresses and singers of
the Eighteenth Century, died in poverty at the age of 63 and there is
no record of her burial place. She had been the friend of Voltaire,
Rousseau, d'Alembert, Diderot, Helvetius, and the Baron d'Holbach. She
had "created" Gluck's _Iphigenie en Aulide_ and the composer had said
of her, "If it had not been for the voice and elocution of Mlle.
Arnould, my _Iphigenie_ would never have been performed in France." In
her youth she had interested not only Marie Antoinette but also the
King, and she had been the object of Mme. de Pompadour's suspicion
and Mme. du Barry's rage. Garrick declared her a better actress than
Clairon. She was as famous for her wit as for her singing and acting.
When Mme. Laguerre appeared drunk in _Iphigenie en Tauride_ she
exclaimed, "Why this is _Iphigenie en Champagne_!" Indeed, she made so
many remarks worthy of preservation that shortly after her death in
1802, a book called "Arnoldiana," devoted to her epigrams, was
issued.... Nevertheless, this lady was hissed at the age of 36, when,
after a short absence from the stage she reappeared as Iphigenie in
1776. She was neither old nor ugly and if her voice may have lost
something her nineteen years of stage life in Paris might have weighed
against that. On one occasion, according to La Harpe, when she had the
line to sing, "You long for me to be gone," the audience applauded
vociferously. To protect Sophie, Marie Antoinette sat in a box on
several nights and stemmed the storm of disapproval, but in the end
even the presence of the queen herself was insufficient to quell the
hissing. One sad story completes the picture. In 1785, when her
financial troubles were beginning, her two sons, who bore her no love,
called for money. She had none to give them. "There are two horses
left in the stable," she said. "Take those." They rode away on the
horses.
Latin audiences are notoriously unfaithful to their stage favourites.
In "The Innocents Abroad" Mark Twain tells us of the bad manners of an
Italian audience. The singer he mentions is Erminia Frezzolini, born
at Orvieto in 1818. She sang both in England and America. Chorley said
of her: "She was an elegant, tall woman, born with a lovely voice, and
bred with great vocal skill (of a certain order); but she was the
first who arrived of the 'young Italians'--of those who fancy that
driving the voice to its extremities can stand in the stead of
passion. But she was, nevertheless, a real singer, and her art stood
her in stead for some years after nature broke down. When she had left
her scarce a note of her rich and real soprano voice to scream with,
Madame Frezzolini was still charming." She died in Paris, November 5,
1884. Now for Mark Twain:
"I said I knew nothing against the upper classes from personal
observation. I must recall it. I had forgotten. What I saw their
bravest and their fairest do last night, the lowest multitude that
could be scraped out of the purlieus of Christendom would blush to do,
I think. They assembled by hundreds, and even thousands, in the great
Theatre of San Carlo to do--what? Why simply to make fun of an old
woman--to deride, to hiss, to jeer at an actress they once worshipped,
but whose beauty is faded now, and whose voice has lost its former
richness. Everybody spoke of the rare sport there was to be. They said
the theatre would be crammed because Frezzolini was going to sing. It
was said she could not sing well now, but then the people liked to see
her, anyhow. And so we went. And every time the woman sang they hissed
and laughed--the whole magnificent house--and as soon as she left the
stage they called her on again with applause. Once or twice she was
encored five and six times in succession, and received with hisses
when she appeared, and discharged with hisses and laughter when she
had finished--then instantly encored and insulted again! And how the
high-born knaves enjoyed it! White-kidded gentlemen and ladies laughed
till the tears came, and clapped their hands in very ecstasy when that
unhappy old woman would come meekly out for the sixth time, with
uncomplaining patience, to meet a storm of hisses! It was the
cruellest exhibition--the most wanton, the most unfeeling. The singer
would have conquered an audience of American rowdies by her brave,
unflinching tranquillity (for she answered encore after encore, and
smiled and bowed pleasantly, and sang the best she possibly could, and
went bowing off, through all the jeers and hisses, without ever losing
countenance or temper); and surely in any other land than Italy her
sex and her helplessness must have been an ample protection for
her--she could have needed no other. Think what a multitude of small
souls were crowded into that theatre last night!"
English audiences, on the other hand, are notoriously friendly to
their old favourites. When Dr. Hanslick, the Viennese critic, visited
England and heard Sims Reeves singing before crowded houses as he had
been doing for forty or fifty years, he remarked, "It is not easy to
win the favour of the English public; to lose it is quite impossible."
Mme. Grisi made her last appearance in London in 1866 at the theatre
she had left twenty years previously, Her Majesty's. The opera was
_Lucrezia Borgia_. At the end of the first act she miscalculated the
depth of the apron and the descending curtain left her outside on her
knees. She had stiffness in her joints and was unable to rise without
assistance.... This situation must have been very embarassing to a
singer who previously had been an idol of the public. In the
passionate duet with the tenor she made an unsuccessful attempt to
reach the A natural. Notwithstanding the fact that she was well
received and that she got through with the greater part of the opera
with credit, her impressario, J. H. Mapleson, relates in his "Memoirs"
that after the final curtain had fallen she rushed to tell him that it
was all over and that she would never appear again. In "Student and
Singer" Charles Santley writes of the occasion: "I had been singing at
the Crystal Palace concert in the afternoon, and after dining there I
went up to the theatre to see a little of the performance. I felt very
sorry for Grisi that she had been induced to appear again; it was a
sad sight for any one who had known her in her prime, and even long
past it."
However, even English audiences can be cold. John E. Cox, in his
"Musical Recollections," recalls an earlier occasion when Grisi sang
at the Crystal Palace without much success (July 31, 1861): "On
retiring from the orchestra, after a peculiarly cold reception--as
unkind as it was inconsiderate, seeing what the career of this
remarkable woman had been--there was not a single person at the foot
of the orchestra to receive or to accompany her to her retiring room!
I could imagine what her feelings at that moment must have been--she
who had in former years been accustomed to be thronged, wherever she
appeared, and to be the recipient of adulation--often as exaggerated
as it was fulsome--but who was now literally deserted. With
Grisi--although I had been once or twice introduced to her--I never
had any personal acquaintance. I could not, however, resist the
impulse of preceding her, without obtruding myself on her notice, and
opening the door of the retiring room for her, which was situated at
some considerable distance from the orchestra. Her look as I did this,
and she passed out of sight, is amongst the most painful of my
'Recollections.'"
German audiences are usually kind to their favourites. In America we
adopt neither the attitude of the English and Germans, nor yet that of
the Italians and French. We simply stay away from the theatre. Mark
Twain has put it succinctly, "When a singer has lost his voice and a
jumper his legs, those parties fail to draw."
Benjamin Lumley in his "Reminiscences of the Opera," quoting an
anonymous friend, relates a touching story regarding Catalani, who was
born in 1779 and who retired from the stage in 1831. When Jenny Lind
visited Paris in the spring of 1849 she learned to her astonishment
that Catalani was in the French capital. The old singer, who resided
habitually in Florence, had come to Paris with her daughter who, as
the widow of a Frenchman, was obliged to go through certain legal
forms before taking possession of her share of her husband's property.
Through a friend of both ladies it was arranged that the two should
meet at a dinner at the home of the Marquis of Normansby, the English
ambassador to the Tuscan court, but the Swedish singer could not
restrain her impatience and before that event she set out one forenoon
for Mme. Catalani's apartment in the Rue de la Paix and sent in her
name by a servant. The old singer hastened out to greet her
distinguished visitor with obvious delight. She had known nothing of
Mlle. Lind's presence in Paris and had feared that such a chance would
never befall her, much as she had longed to see the celebrated singer
who had excited the English public in a way which recalled her own
past triumphs and who rivalled her in her purity and her charity. They
talked together for an hour.... At the dinner the Marchioness of
Normansby considerately refrained from asking Jenny Lind to sing,
because no one is allowed to refuse such an invitation made by a
representative of royalty. Catalani, however, had no such scruples.
She went up to the Nightingale and begged her to sing, adding,
"_C'est la vieille Catalini qui desire vous entendre chanter, avant de
mourir!_" This appeal was irresistible. Jenny Lind sat down to the
piano and sang _Non credea mirarti_ and one or two other airs,
including _Ah! non giunge_. Catalani is described as sitting on an
ottoman in the centre of the room, rocking her body to and fro with
delight and sympathy, murmuring, "_Ah la bella cosa che la musica,
quando si fa di quella maniera!_" and again "_Ah! la carissima! quanto
bellissima!_" A dinner at Catalani's apartment followed, but a few
days later it became known that the old singer was ill, an illness
which proved fatal. She had, however, heard the Swedish Nightingale
sing "_avant de mourir_."
William Gardiner visited Madame Catalani in 1846. "I was surprised at
the vigour of Madame Catalani," he says, "and how little she has
altered since I saw her in Derby in 1828. I paid her a compliment on
her good looks. 'Ah,' said she, 'I'm sixty-six!' She has lost none of
that commanding expression which gave her such dignity on the stage.
She is without a wrinkle, and appears to be no more than forty. Her
breadth of chest is still remarkable: it is this which endowed her
with the finest voice that ever sang. Her speaking voice and dramatic
air are still charming, and not in the least impaired."
Is Christine Nilsson still alive? I think so. She was born August 20,
1843. In Clara Louise Kellogg's very entertaining, but not always
trustworthy, "Memoirs" there is an interesting reference to this
singer in her later career. Dates, unfortunately, are not furnished.
"I was present," declares Mme. Kellogg, "on the night ... when she
practically murdered the high register of her voice. She had five
upper notes the quality of which was unlike any other I ever heard and
that possessed a peculiar charm. The tragedy happened during a
performance of _The Magic Flute_ in London.... Nilsson was the Queen
of the Night, one of her most successful early roles. The second aria
in _The Magic Flute_ is more famous and less difficult than the first
aria, and also, more effective. Nilsson knew well the ineffectiveness
of the ending of the first aria in the two weakest notes of a
soprano's voice, A natural and B flat. I never could understand why a
master like Mozart should have chosen to use them as he did. There is
no climax to the song. One has to climb up hard and fast and then stop
short in the middle. It is an appalling thing to do and that night
Nilsson took those two notes at the last in _chest tones_. 'Great
heavens!' I gasped, 'what is she doing? What is the woman thinking
of!' Of course I knew she was doing it to get volume and vibration and
to give that trying climax some character. But to say that it was a
fatal attempt is to put it mildly. She absolutely killed a certain
quality in her voice there and then and she _never recovered it_. Even
that night she had to cut out the second great aria. Her beautiful
high notes were gone forever." As I have said, the date of this
incident, which, so far as I know, is not recorded elsewhere, is not
mentioned, but Christine Nilsson sang in New York in the early
Eighties and continued to sing until 1891, the year of her final
appearance in London.
Adelina Patti, born the same year as Nilsson but six months before
(February 10, 1843; according to some records, which by no means go
undisputed, a quartet of famous singers came into the world this year.
The other two were Ilma de Murska and Pauline Lucca) made many
farewell tours of this country ... one too many in 1903-4, when she
displayed the _beaux restes_ of her voice. She is living at present in
retirement at Craig-y-Nos in Wales. Her greatest rival, Etelka
Gerster, too, is alive, I believe.
Lilli Lehmann, one of the oldest of the living great singers, was
born May 13, 1848. She was a member of the famous casts which
introduced many of the Wagner works to New York. Her last appearances
in opera here were made, I think, in the late Nineties, but she has
sung here since in concert and in Germany she has frequently assisted
at the performances of the Mozart festivals at Salzburg and has even
sung in _Norma_ and _Gotterdammerung_ within recent years! Her head is
now crowned with white hair and her noble appearance and magnificent
style in singing have doubtless stood her in good stead at these
belated performances, which probably were disappointing, judged as
vocal exhibitions.
Lillian Nordica had a long career. She was born May 12, 1859, and made
her operatic debut in Brescia in _La Traviata_ in 1879. She continued
to sing up to the time of her death in Batavia, Java, May 10, 1914.
Indeed she was then undertaking a concert tour of the world at the age
of 55! But the artist, who in the Nineties had held the Metropolitan
Opera House stage with honour in the great dramatic roles, had very
little to offer in her last years. Never a great musician, defects in
style began to make themselves evident as her vocal powers decreased.
Her season at the Manhattan Opera House in 1907-8 was quickly and
unpleasantly terminated. A subsequent single appearance as Isolde at
the Metropolitan in the winter of 1909-10 was even less successful.
The voice had lost its resonance, the singer her appeal. Her
magnificent courage and indomitable ambition urged her on to the end.