The Sun.
London, England, 1862-06-17 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

Thirty Years' Musical Recollections. By Henry F.
Chorley. Hurst and Blackett.
The position of Mr. Chorley, as a musical critic
of long standing, entitles his opinions to respect,and
although ho merely styles his work "recollections"
it may be considered, in reality, a history of the
opera in England for the last 30 years, whilst it
contains many curious details respecting the chief
operatic singers who have won " golden opinions"
and obtained golden rewards here during that period.
His judgment, he admits, may have individual bias,
but we have no reason to doubt its conscientious-
ness, and he has wisely avoided all topics of scandal.
" It has seemed best," he says, " to be silent on all
such tales of the green room as relate to the deal-
ings of manager with artist—to the character of the
one, or the grievances of the other. My chronicle
is written from before the curtain, and with no wish
to rake up old quarrels, or to pronounce on vexed
questions. The result is the thing to be dealt with.
The wisdom or the folly of this or the other line of
policy may be judged by the evidence offered as to
results—and such opinion of the trust-worthiness of
Oa witness as he may be able to inspire." These
recollections commence in the year 1830, when
lalibran ruled the operatic stage. Her qualifications
are thus summed up—

MALIBRAN.
Though creative as an executant, Malibran was not a
creative dramatic artist. Though the fertility and audacity
of her musical invention had no limits—though she had
the power and the science of a composer—she did not esta-
blish one new opera or character on the stage—hardly,
even, one first-class song in the concert-room. Though she
was received with, royal honours in Milan, Naples, Venice,
where she excited her audiences to frenzies of enthusiasm,
and where the soldiers presented arms as she passed—on
the Italian stage in London she was unable to possess her-
self of the succession to Madame Pasta—or to satisfy our
public as thoroughly as a far younger and less accomplished
artist—Madame Grisi—did shortly after her disappearance.
She is best remembered, perhaps, in Italian opera, as Des-
demona—especially in the incomparable third act of
it otdie ;" and no theatrical portrait of modern time could
be named surpassing that by M. Dubufe, of herself in the
chanber scene. On the whole, she was found unequal,
biza7re, and fatiguing, by many of our opera-loungers (a
pubic as apt to be scared as allured by original genius).
Her real stage triumphs in this country were when she
swig in English as Amine, as Leonora in " Fidelio ;" Iso-
liaa in Mr. Balfe's " Maid of Artois," being her third
character. In her English performances her exuberance,
not to say extravagance, of style, served the purpose of
concealing the mediocrity, and worse, of her playfellows.
To myself it always brought as much of wonder as of de.
light. Her vehemence in "La Sonnambula" too nearly
trenched on frenzy to be true ; in " Fidelio," it destroyed
that idea of faltering and fear which gives so much tender-
ness to the earlier scenes of the tale of woman's devotion.
She delivered Beethoven's music wondrously, considering
its unsuitability for, her voice—making changes and adap-
tations where they were inevitable with such musician-like
science, that not the protest of a solitary purist could be
raised against them ;—but the effect produced in the opera
by a singer incomparably inferior to her, Madame Schrader
Devrient, was far deeper, and more moving. The Spaniard
threw more horror into the scene in the vault than her pre-
decessor ; Laic ;., iu me in-
troduction to the Chorus of Prisoners, as they creep out of
their cells, she questioned one ghastly face after another,
with the heart-piercing wistfulness of hope long deferred.
Nothing comparable has since been seen on the musical
stage, till the other day, when the younger sister of Mali-
bran struck the same chords, by her admirable pantomime,
as Orpheus, in Gluck's opera, when he is shown as search-
ing for his Eurydice in the "yellow meads of asphodel."
As a woman, Malibran was ambitious, fond of gain, mu-
nificent in giving (and this when no chorus was at hand to
applaud the gift)—noble, careless—insatiable in her search
for excitement and effect. These facts have been so often
told by her personal friends and her old comrades, that
their story need not be returned on.
There is no need to relate minutely the tale of her
wretched American first marriage ; neither how, by break-
ing away from it, she flung herself into suspense and per-
plexity, from which one like herself could only find re-
fuge in excitement, and to which may be ascribed many of
the caprices and inequalities which, for some y ears of her
life, were supposed by her audiences to be only so many
whimsies of a violent and reckless woman. Calmer
days might have been in store for her after her second
marriage with M. De Beriot but for her prema-
ture decease, hurried on by her wilfulness in concealing the
consequences of an accident while she was riding (a favourite
pastime of hers). Nothing could possibly be more painful
than her agonising death, in the midst of the Manchester
Festival of 1836, only a few hours after one of those unex-
pected outbursts of inspiration in which she was unparal-
leled. Nothing could be more sad to English eyes than its
sequel. Of a woman so bright, so kindly, so ill-starred,
and thence (it may be), so unequal, as she, it is impossible
to think without a strange and affectionate regret. Of the
artist it must be recorded that, boundless as were Malibran's
resources, keen as was her intelligence, dazzling as was her
genius, she never produced a single type in opera for other
women to adopt. She passed over the stage like a meteor,
as an apparition of wonder
b, rather than as one who, on her
departure, left her manehind her for others to take up
and wear,
Greatest among tenors Mr. Chorley ranks Rnbini.
"As a singer," he says, " and nothing beyond a
singer, he is the only man of his class who deserves
to be named in these pages as an artist of genius.
No one in my experience, so merely and exclusively
a singer as he was, so entirely enchanted our public
so long as a shred of voice was left to him. No
one is more affectionately remembered." Yet even
this great tenor fell short of perfection.
RUBINI.
He was in no respect calculated to please the eye ; for the
openness of his countenance could not redeem the meanness
of features impaired by small-pox. His figure was awkward ;
he dressed as any one else pleased, without a thought of his
own as to taste, character, or picturesque effect (in this how
different to his successor I) He rarely tried to act, the
moment of the curse in the contract scene of "Lucia" being
the only attempt of the kind that I can call to mind. The
voice and the expression were with him to'do
it all.
Before, however, Rubini came to England his voice had
contracted that sort of thrilling or trembling habit, then new
here, which of late has been abused ad nauseam. It was
no longer ill its prime—hardly capable perhaps of being
produced mezzo -forte or piano; for which reason he had
adopted a style of extreme contrast betwixt soft and loud,
which many ears were uhable for a long period to relish.
After a time these vehemences (in themselves vicious) were
forgotten for the sake of the transcendent qualities by which
they were aecompanied, though in the last years of his reign
they were exaggerated into the alternation of a scarcely-
audible whisper and a shout; and it was said, not untruly,
that it would be hardly possible to form any idea of a new
tenor part were it presented for the first time by Rubini, so
largely did memory and knowledge of his intentions aid his
public. Further, he was to be easily surpassed by every
one in his declamation. Here and there (as in the garden
scene in "Othello" with Iago) he roused himself to give
point and passion to his recitative. But such an awakening
was exceptional, since for the most part he went through
this part of his task with correct accent, but without any
remarkable intelligence—in this respect an utter contrast to
M. Duprez. One remembers Rubini not by this or by the
other character, but by his songs. Yet more, his taste in
ornament was often questionable. His facility was apt to
tempt him into enormous roulade cadenzas which had little
variety. In Paolino's great song, " Pria the spunti" (" Il
Matrimonio"), he revelled in embroideries of the phrase in
retarded time which occurs just before the close, which,
however ingenious and wonderful as vocal displays, I al-
ways felt to be superabundant.
" First in the first rank of all who have appeared in
England during the last thirty years," Mr. Chorley
places Madame Pasta. Nevertheless in many
respects nature had been sparing to -her. " Her
voice was originally limited, husky and weak—
without charm, without flexibility—a mediocre
mezzo-soprano," whilst " her figure was short and
clumsy." Her charm lay in her' depth and reality
of expression," for which Mr. Chorley considers
she stood alone. He thus describes
PASTA'S LAST APPEARANCE.
There remains a strange scene to be spoken of—the last
appearance of this magnificent musical artist, when she
allowed herself, many years later, to be seduced into giving
one performance at Tier Majesty's Theatre, and to sing in
a concert for the Italian cause at the Royal Italian Opera.
Nothing more inadvised could have been dreamed of.
Madame Pasta had long ago thrown off the stage and all its