Mademoiselle Sontag at Prague, Vienna, and Berlin. And, in one
respect, her triumph there was more important and complete than any
she had previously enjoyed--more important, not so much on account of
the superior critical acumen and taste of her hearers, as by reason
of the formidable rivals with whom she had to compete. We are far
from belonging to that class of persons--a class confined, as we
believe, almost exclusively to France--which holds the favourable
verdict of the Parisian musical world the most difficult to obtain,
and the most flattering to the artist, of any in Europe. This notion
has been diligently set abroad by the Parisians themselves, who,
with characteristic self-complacency, look upon their tribunal as
the court of last appeal in matters of art and music. The only solid
ground upon which such a presumption can plausibly be sustained, is
the fact that Paris (by its gaiety and central position the European
metropolis of pleasure) annually assembles,--or did assemble, before
recent disastrous follies closed its saloons and deterred foreign
visitors--a very large portion of the intellectual and art-loving
of all countries. Upon this basis rests the sole claim of Paris
to fastidiousness and infallibility of judgment. This only can
give superior value to the laurel wreaths bestowed in the Salle
Ventadour, or the Rue Lepelletier, over those that may be acquired
in half-a-dozen other European opera houses. As regards the worth
of the verdict of an exclusively French audience, we confess that,
when we see the crowds that are attracted, and the enthusiasm that
is excited, by the usually flimsy and second-rate music given at
the _Opera Comique_, (for many years past unquestionably the most
uniformly prosperous and popular of the Paris musical theatres,) we
incline to answer in the affirmative the question put by one of the
shrewdest and wittiest of Frenchmen, whether the French nation be not
rather song-loving than musical?[9] But if Mademoiselle Sontag, after
conquering the unbounded applause of Vienna and Berlin audiences,
and the suffrage of so keen a connoisseur as Barbaja, had no need
to dread the ordeal of Parisian criticism, on the other hand she
well might feel trepidation at thoughts of the competitors she was
about to encounter, foremost amongst whom were the great names of
Pasta, Pisaroni, and Malibran. In presence of such a trio, any but a
first-rate talent must have succumbed and fallen back into the rear
rank. Not so did the Sontag, but at once took and kept her place on
a level with those great singers. It was with Malibran, the ardent,
warm-hearted, passionate Spaniard, that she was brought into most
frequent comparison. But although many tales have been told of the
bitterness of their rivalry, these have been suggested by probability
or malice, not by fact; for, from a very early period of their
acquaintance, a sincere friendship existed between them. The Countess
de Merlin, in her memoir of Malibran, gives the following account of
its origin:--
"The presence of Mademoiselle Sontag at the Italian Theatre
was fresh stimulus for Maria's talent, and contributed to its
perfection. Each time that the former obtained a brilliant
triumph, Maria wept and exclaimed, '_Mon Dieu!_ why does she
sing so well?' Then from those tears sprang a beauty and
sublimity of harmony, of which the public had the benefit.
It was the ardent desire of amateurs to hear these two
charming artists sing together in the same opera; but they
mutually feared each other, and for some time the much-coveted
gratification was deferred. One night they met at a concert at
my house; a sort of plot had been laid, and towards the middle
of the concert they were asked to sing the duet in _Tancredi_.
For a few moments they showed fear, hesitation; but at last
they yielded, and approached the piano, amidst the acclamations
of all present. They both seemed agitated and disturbed, and
observant of each other; but presently the conclusion of
the symphony fixed their attention, and the duet begun. The
enthusiasm their singing excited was so vivid and so equally
divided, that at the end of the duet, and in the midst of the
applause, they gazed at each other, bewildered, delighted,
astonished; and by a spontaneous movement, an involuntary
attraction, their hands and lips met, and a kiss of peace was
given and received with all the vivacity and sincerity of youth.
The scene was charming, and has assuredly not been forgotten by
those who witnessed it."[10]
[9] Beaumarchais, in his admirable preface to the opera of _Tarare_.
[10] _Madame Malibran_, par la COMTESSE MERLIN. Paris: 1838.
The good understanding thus brought about was permanent, and many
proofs of it are on record. From that time forward Sontag and
Malibran frequently sang together, both in Paris and London, and
displayed an amiability very rare amongst operatic celebrities,
in respect to distribution of parts, and to other points which
often prove a prolific source of strife behind the scenes. In the
little English memoir already referred to, we find some anecdotes
illustrative of the kindly feeling between the blue-eyed soprano and
the dark-browed contralto. Towards the close of the London opera
season of 1829, Malibran one day met Donzelli, the celebrated tenor,
with discontent stamped upon his features. She asked the cause of his
vexation. The time was at hand for his benefit, he said, and he had
been unable to fix on an attractive opera.
"'Have you thought of nothing?' inquired Malibran.
"'Yes; I had thought of the _Matrimonio Segreto_; but Pisaroni
says she is quite ugly enough without playing Fidalma: and then
you would not be included in the cast; and I don't know what
opera to choose in which you would not have the second part to
Mademoiselle Sontag's first--that would not please you, and I am
in despair.'
"'Well,' said Malibran, 'to please you, and to show you I would
play any part with Sontag, I will play Fidalma.'
"'What, old Fidalma? You are joking!'
"'To prove that I am in earnest, announce it this very day.'"
The opera was announced; Malibran was as good as her word, and played
the old aunt admirably: not as Fidalma has since been sometimes
misrepresented by singers who sacrificed scenic truth to their own
coquetry, but with the due allowance of wrinkles and the antiquated
costume appropriate to the part.
Some time previously to the date of this last-recorded incident,
Mademoiselle Sontag had twice changed her name. The old King of
Prussia, informed of her projected marriage with a Sardinian nobleman
and diplomatist, to whose sovereign it was possible that her humble
birth might be objectionable, ennobled her under the name and title
of Mademoiselle de Launstein, which she soon afterwards abandoned for
that of Countess de Rossi. Her first visit to England was subsequent
to her marriage, then kept private, although pretty generally known.
She first sang in this country at a concert at Devonshire House,
her passage to which was through a throng of gazers, drawn together
by her reputation for grace, beauty, and musical genius. A few days
afterwards, on Tuesday the 15th April 1828, occurred her appearance
at the London Opera, in the character of Rosina, in the _Barbiere
di Seviglia_. For two seasons she sang in London; then in Berlin
and St Petersburg; and then, the King of Sardinia having authorised
her husband to declare his marriage, she left the stage--for ever,
as she doubtless thought. But in days when kings are discarded,
constitutions annulled, and empires turned upside down at a few
hours' notice, who shall presume to foretell his fate? For eighteen
years Madame de Rossi adorned the various courts to which her husband
was successively accredited as ambassador. The Hague, Frankfort,
St Petersburg, Berlin, each in turn welcomed and cherished her.
Then came the storm: her fortune was swallowed up; her husband's
diplomatic prospects were injured; she thought of her children,
and sacrificed herself--if sacrifice it is to be called, by which,
whilst fulfilling what she feels to be her duty to her family, she
may reckon on speedily retrieving the pecuniary losses consequent on
German and Sardinian revolutions.
"The position of an actress," says a clever French theatrical
critic, in a pamphlet already quoted, "is a very singular
one, even in these days, when prejudice is supposed to have
disappeared. She is a mark for applause and adulation, for gold
and flowers; she is intoxicated with incense and persecuted
by lovers; the gravest personages enact follies for her sake;
men unharness her horses, and carry her in triumph; the crowns
refused to great poets are thrown to her in profusion; the
homage that would be servile, done to a queen, seems quite
natural when offered to a prima donna. Only, she must not cross
the row of lamps which flame at her feet like a magic circle.
From the ivory or golden throne of her lyric empire she may
demand what she pleases; but let her attempt to overstep the
limit, to take her place in the drawing-room by the side of
one of those ladies who applaud her to the bursting of their
white gloves, and who pluck the bouquets from their bosoms to
throw to her, and what a change is there! How haughty now the
mien of those who so lately admired! What chilling reserve;
what insulting politeness; what a deep and sudden line of
demarcation! A polar breeze has succeeded to the warm breath of
enthusiasm; frost has replaced flowers; the idol is no longer
even a woman, but a _creature_.
"Some of those singers who are adored amongst the most
celebrated and beautiful, imagine that they go into society,
because, on certain nights, when camelias deck the staircases
and lustres sparkle to the wax-lights, when a crowd throngs the
saloons and obstructs the entrance, they are allowed to present
themselves, between eleven and twelve o'clock, at everybody's
hour, at the hour of uncared-for acquaintances and friends one
does not know. But, on their appearance, how quickly is the
music-book opened, how speedily are they manœuvred towards
the piano or singing desk, how pitilessly is every possible note
extracted from these fine singers! If by chance, instead of
_roulades_, they venture upon conversation, and aspire to enjoy
the pleasures of elegant and polite society, how quickly comes
the cloud on the brow of the fair hostess! How evident is it
that, in admitting the singer, she excludes the woman! Let the
best received presume to have a cold, and she will soon see!
"A prima donna may obtain everything in the world except one
thing. For a smile, for a glance, for a single pearl from her
string of notes, for a single rose-leaf from her bouquet, she
shall have guineas, rubles, bundles of bank-notes, marble
palaces, equipages that kings might envy; the heirs of ancient
houses shall give her the castles of their ancestors, and efface
their fathers' scutcheon to substitute her cipher. But what she
shall not have, and what she never will have is a quarter of an
hour's conversation at the chimney corner, in a tone neither too
polite nor too familiar, on a footing of equality with a great
lady and an honest woman.
"The Countess de Rossi has attained this marvellous result;
and certainly, to those who know the invincible obstacles
she had to overcome, her talent as a singer will appear but
a secondary quality. None can tell all the judgment, tact,
reserve, sagacity, delicacy, intuition, the various qualities,
in short, that have been required to accomplish this most
difficult metamorphosis of the actress into the woman of good
society.... To behold the prima donna an ambassadress is strange
and striking; but still more so is it to see the ambassadress,
after twenty years passed in the highest spheres of life, on
an equality with all that is most brilliant and illustrious in
nobility and diplomacy, again become a prima donna, taking up
her success where she had left it, continuing in womanhood what
she had begun in early youth, resuming her part in that duet
where Malibran, alas! is now missing, and reconquering applause
greater perhaps than that of former days. Time has flown for all
of us, except for her. Europe has been revolutionised, a throne
has crumbled, a republic has replaced the monarchy; but that
one thing, so frail, so fleeting, so aërial, that a nothing can
annihilate it--that crystal bell which the slightest shock may
crack or shiver, the voice of a songstress--has preserved itself
unimpaired; in that pure organ still vibrate the silver notes of
youth."
M. Gautier is well known to be a man of wit and talent; in the
passages from his pen, whose spirit and letter we have here done our
best to render, he gives proof of keen observation and good feeling.
But whilst implying his sympathy with the musical artist, who, like
Tantalus, beholds but may not partake, and whose admittance to the
saloons of good society is as a show, not as a guest, he forgets
even to glance at the causes of such exclusion, necessary as a rule,
but doubtless admitting of exceptions. He omits reference to the
laxity of usages and morals which, although perhaps less so than
formerly, is still the frequent characteristic of theatrical and
musical professors, and which causes them to be, as he shows, kept
at arm's length in good French society. In this country--in such
matters the least facile and tolerant of any--there is still greater
scruple of admitting singers and actresses, however eminent their
talent, to the intercourse even of those classes into which, but for
their profession, they would have a right to admission. Exceptions
have occasionally, and with much propriety, been made, and royalty
itself has been known to set the example. But only under the peculiar
circumstances of Madame de Rossi's eventful career--only in presence
of a reputation which the breath of scandal has never dared assail,
and of social qualities and graces which render her an acquisition to
any circle--can it occur to a singer to pass from the boards of the
Opera to the most exclusive of London's saloons, to be welcomed as
an equal by those who, a few minutes previously, applauded her as an
actress.
With respect to Madame Sontag's voice and talent, it is unnecessary
to be diffuse. Few comprehend, and still fewer care for, the jargon
of contrapuntal criticism, whether applied to a singer or an
opera; and for those few, abundant food is continually supplied by
_dilettanti_ more profound and scientific than ourselves. Purity,
sweetness, flexibility, are the most prominent characteristics of
Madame Sontag's voice; her execution is extraordinarily brilliant,
correct and elegant, and supremely easy. No appearance of effort
ever distresses her audience; the most difficult passages are
achieved without the swelling of a vein, the strain of a muscle, or
the slightest contortion of her agreeable countenance. Although
excelling in those _tours-de-force_ which captivate the multitude,
and skilled to decorate the composer's theme with an embroidery of
sweet sounds as intricate as graceful, she also well knows how to
captivate the true connoisseur by her exquisite taste and sobriety
in rendering simple melodies, and such music as would be the worse
for adornment. We commenced this paper with a determination to avoid
comparisons, and we shall therefore make none: but assuredly Madame
Sontag need fear none. In her own style she is quite unrivalled.
That style we consider to be more particularly the genteel comedy
of opera--a combination of sentiment with gaiety and grace. In her
younger days she was considered less successful in more impassioned
parts, but this is no longer the case. None who have witnessed her
admirable personation of Amina, Linda, and Elvira, will tax her with
want of soul and of dramatic energy; and we scarcely know whether to
prefer her in those parts, or in the gayer ones of Rosina, Susanna,
and Norina--which last character, peculiarly adapted to her arch
and ladylike style of acting, she has made her own as completely
as Lablache has identified himself with that of her elderly and
disappointed wooer. To say the truth, when we first heard of Madame
Sontag's expected return to the stage, it was with no pleasurable
feeling. The reappearance of a singer after twenty years' absence can
in few instances be other than a melancholy sight. It is mournful to
listen to the efforts of a deteriorated voice that one has known in
its melodious freshness. But an agreeable disappointment awaited all
who ventured such unpleasant anticipations with respect to Madame
Sontag. Her early campaign had been so short that she was yet in her
vigorous prime when she returned, a veteran in fame but not in age
or voice. Amidst various statements of her age, the most favourable
give her forty-one years, whilst the least so add but two or three to
that number. The subject is a delicate one, and we are too happy to
give her the benefit of the doubt, which she is the more entitled to
that neither on nor off the stage does she look even the least of the
ages assigned to her. This would make her but three years older than
Madame Grisi, who first saw the light, if theatrical records tell
truth, in 1812, and in whose voice none, that we are aware of, have
as yet pretended to discover a falling off. Whether twenty years of
almost constant exercise, or the same period of comparative repose,
be most favourable to the preservation of the singing faculties, we
shall not decide. Madame Sontag, however, has never risked by disuse
the rusting of her fine organ. At the different courts at which she
resided, she invariably showed the utmost complaisance, and willingly
contributed, for the pleasure of her friends--and, on occasion, for
the purposes of charity--those treasures of song for which managers,
before and since, have been glad to pay a prince's ransom. This
season her voice is even fresher and more flexible than in 1849; and
there can be no reason why the opera-loving public should not, for
many years to come, applaud her as their chief favourite--unless,
indeed, the very high rate of remuneration her talent commands
should, by speedily realising her object in returning to the stage,
induce her soon to quit it. We believe it is no secret that her
present engagement secures her about fourteen thousand pounds for
twelve months' performances--about thrice the salary of a secretary
of state. The sum is a very satisfactory one; and, whatever the
fortune Madame Sontag has lost, she has evidently at her disposal the
means of rapidly amassing another of no mean amount. Who will give
the odds that we do not again see her an ambassadress?
A host in herself, Madame Sontag is powerfully seconded. The
management of the Opera House, aware of the danger of trusting for
success to any one singer, however eminent, to the neglect of that
general excellence essential to an effective operatic company, has
shown great activity, and has been exceedingly fortunate, in filling
those vacancies left by the defections already alluded to. Of first
appearances, the most remarkable this season has been that of a
young tenor, who has at once taken a very high place amongst that
rare class of singers. Since Mario made his debut, a dozen years
ago, on the boards of the _Académie Royale_, Beaucarde is the only
pure tenor who has come forward that can fairly be considered a
first-rate. Mario, although his debut was decidedly successful, was
little appreciated for some time after his first appearance, and,
when desirous to transfer himself to the Italian stage, the manager
of the French Opera readily cancelled his engagement on a nominal
forfeit. The world knows the excellence, both as actor and singer,
to which he has since attained. Beaucarde has come before the London
public with more experience of the stage than Mario possessed when
he first presented himself to the Parisians, and he has become
immediately highly and most deservedly popular. Could any doubt of
his excellence have existed in the minds of those who had heard him
in other parts, his singing and acting of _Arturo_ in the _Puritani_
must at once have dissipated them. Tenderness and elegance marked
his delivery of the whole of that graceful music, which displayed
his beautiful quality of voice to the utmost advantage. Beaucarde
is a very young man, and a very young singer. His father, a French
engineer officer, who had settled at Florence after Napoleon's
fall, intended him for a painter; but his own bias was for music,
the study of which he secretly and enthusiastically pursued. It is
not yet two years since his father's death left him at liberty to
follow his own inclinations. With great difficulty he obtained an
engagement at a second-rate theatre in his native city. There he was
so little appreciated that, after being several months before the
public, he was refused the very humble salary of two hundred pounds
a-year. He was not discouraged. Perhaps he thought of Rubini--how
that tenor of tenors, in his early days, could obtain no better
place wherein to warble than a squalid booth at a country festival.
Many who knew him in his after period of unrivalled prosperity
and renown, will remember, in that room full of trophies, amidst
plate and jewels bestowed upon him by kings and emperors, where the
eye was dazzled with the glitter of gold and diamonds, a certain
picture frame which he was wont to turn round and exhibit to his
admiring visitors, who beheld with astonishment on its reverse
the announcement of his performance at a fair, admission a single
_soldo_--in English currency, a halfpenny. With such an instance
before his eyes, Beaucarde might well persevere. At Florence, Romani,
the celebrated musical professor, heard him sing, and insisted upon
giving him lessons--by which, however, he did not long profit,
having accepted an engagement at a Neapolitan minor opera. At Naples
he speedily ascended in the scale, and finally made his debut with
complete success at the San Carlo. Mercadante, struck by the beauty
of his voice, immediately offered his services as his instructor;
but, like Romani, he did not long retain his pupil. Perhaps it was
as well he did not; for, whatever Beaucarde might have gained in
modish art under his tuition, would have been at the expense of that
chaste simplicity which now characterises his style, constituting,
in our opinion, one of its greatest merits. How far the taste of his
present public will suffer that extreme refinement of style to be
compatible with his permanent and complete popularity, may be matter
of doubt. The London opera is indebted for his acquisition to the
veteran Lablache, who, whilst indulging in a vacation ramble through
his old haunts, heard him at the San Carlo, and brought news of his
excellence from the shores of the Mediterranean to the banks of the
Thames.
Calzolari, a remarkably sweet singer and graceful actor, and Sims
Reeves, complete such a trio of tenors as has not often been united
at one opera house. Mr Reeves' reception on the stage of the Italian
theatre has certainly not been the less favourable on account of his
being of home growth; and the same remark applies to Miss Catherine
Hayes, a delightful singer, who will do well to pay attention to her
acting. We make this remark in no unfriendly spirit: we are amongst
the warm admirers of Miss Hayes' voice and talent, but we have seen
her in parts whose dramatic requirements she seemed somewhat to
overlook. It may express our meaning to say that she at times reminds
us of the concert room. Upon the stage this should never be. We may
instance her performance of Cherubino. Her singing in that charming
part was excellent; her delivery of the thrilling and impassioned
air, _Voi che sapete_, left nothing to wish for, and elicited as
fervent an encore from a very crowded house as the most ambitious
could desire. But as to illusion, we are bound to confess there was
little enough--what with the ladylike calmness of her acting, and
the epicene costume in which she thought proper to appear. We beheld
before us a graceful young woman and an excellent singer--but of the
wilful and enamoured page we had but glimpses. A little more spirit,
and a little less satin, would have been a decided improvement. Of
course we are all cognisant of the "wild sweet-briery fence" which,
Mr Moore asserts, environs the beauties of Erin. But is it quite
necessary that Miss Hayes should interpret the metaphor into feminine
attire when she plays a male part?
We are unable, nor is it necessary, individually to criticise all
the members of the Italian company now performing at her Majesty's
Theatre, and which, in all respects, is excellent and most effective.
There is one other singer, however, who must have a word of mention,
were it only that he was the indirect means of making the English
public acquainted with Jenny Lind. Belletti was formerly engaged
at the opera at Stockholm, and was a great favourite with the late
king, Bernadotte. Jenny Lind heard him, and his admirable method and
acting at once revealed to her the treasures of the Italian school.
She saw that she had much to acquire, and departed for Paris to
study. But Belletti has a claim to other than second-hand gratitude.
His singing and acting are alike first-rate. Nothing can be better
than his Figaro; in less important characters he is equally careful
and efficient. His forte is in _buffo_ parts, where his rich mellow
voice and contagious merriment are greatly relished. He will probably
become--we will not say popular, for that he already is in the
highest degree, but an indispensable member of the London company. We
regret to learn that he is shortly to accompany Miss Lind to America,
and trust his absence will not be of long duration.