George T. Ferris - Great Singers, Second Series

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Malibran's first appearance in the Grand Opera 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 Opera, 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
role, 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, Boieldieu 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'Orleans, where I received three hundred francs. They
belong to you. Take them."

III.

In April of the same year during which Mme. Malibran had established
herself so firmly in the admiration of the Parisian world, she accepted
an engagement for the summer months with La-porte of the King's Theatre
in London. She made her _debut_ in the character of _Desdemona_, a part
which had already been firmly fixed in the notions of the musical public
by the two differing conceptions of Pasta and Sontag. The opera had been
originally written for Mme. Colbran, Rossini's wife, and when it was
revived for Pasta that great lyric tragedienne had embodied in it a
grand, stormy, passionate style, suited to the _genre_ of her genius.
Mme. Sontag, on the other hand, fashioned her impersonation from the
side of delicate sentiment and tenderness, and Malibran had a difficult
task in shaping the conception after an ideal which should escape the
reproach of imitation. Her version was full of electric touches
and rapid alternations of feeling, but at times it bordered on the
sensational and extravagant. Her fiery vehemence was often felt to be
inconsistent with the tenderness of the heroine. The critics, while
admitting the varied and original beauties of her reading, were yet
severe in their condemnation of some of its features. Mme. Malibran,
however, urged that her action was what she would have manifested in the
actual situations. "I remember once," says the Countess De Merlin, "a
friend advised her not to make _Otello_ pursue her so long when he was
about to kill her. Her answer was: 'You are right; it is not elegant, I
admit; but, when once I fairly enter into my character, I never think of
effects, but imagine myself actually the person I represent. I can
assure you that in the last scene of Desdemona I often feel as if I were
really about to be murdered, and act accordingly.' Donzelli used to be
much annoyed by Mme. Malibran not determining beforehand how he was to
seize her; she often gave him a regular chase. Though he was one of the
best-tempered men in the world, I recollect him one evening being
seriously angry. Desdemona had, according to custom, repeatedly escaped
from his grasp; in pursuing her, he stumbled, and slightly wounded
himself with the dagger he brandished. It was the only time I ever saw
him in a passion."

She next appeared successively as _Rosina, Ni-netta, and Tancredi_,
winning fresh laurels in them all, not only by her superb skill in
vocalizing, but by her versatility of dramatic conception and the ease
with which she entered into the most opposite phases of feeling
and motive. She covered Rossini's elaborate fioriture with a fresh
profusion of ornament, but always with a dexterity which saved it from
the reproach of being overladen. She performed _Semiramide_ with Mme.
Pisaroni, and played Zerlina to Sontag's _Donna Anna_. Her habit of
treating such dramatic parts as _Ninetta, Zerlina_, and _Amina_ was the
occasion of keen controversy among the critics of the time. Entirely
averse to the conventional method of idealizing the character of the
country girl out of all semblance to nature, Malibran was essentially
realistic in preserving the rusticity, awkwardness, and _naivete_ of
peasant-life. One critic argued: "It is by no means rare to discover in
the humblest walk of life an inborn grace and delicacy of Nature's own
implanting; and such assuredly is the model from which characters like
_Ninetta_ and _Zerlina_ ought to be copied." But there were others who
saw in the vigor, breadth, and verisimilitude of Mme. Malibran's stage
portraits of the peasant wench the truest and finest dramatic justice.
A great singer of our own age, Mme. Pauline Lucca, seems to have modeled
her performances of the operatic rustic after the same method. In such
characters as __Susanna in the "Nozze di Figaro," and _Fidalma_
in Cimarosa's "Il Matrimonio Segreto," her talent for lyric comedy
impressed the _cognoscenti_ of London with irresistible power. She was
fascinated by the ludicrous, and was wont to say that she was anxious
to play the _Duenna_ in "Il Barbiere" for the sake of the grotesque
costume. In playing _Fidalma_ the drollery of her tone and manner, the
richness and originality of her comic humor, were incomparable. Her
daring, however, prompted her to do strange things, which would have
been condemned in any other singer. For example, while _Fidalma_ is in
the midst of the most ludicrous drollery of the part, Malibran suddenly
took up one word and gave an extended series of the most brilliant and
difficult roulades of her own improvisation, through the whole range
of her voice. Her hearers were transported at this musical feat, but it
entirely interrupted the continuity of the humor.

On Mme. Malibran's return to Paris, she found her father, who had
unexpectedly returned from his Mexican tour, thoroughly bankrupted in
purse, and more embittered than ever by his train of misfortunes. He
announced his intention of giving some representations at the Theatre
Italien. This resolution caused much vexation to his daughter, but she
did not oppose it. Garcia had lost a part of his voice; his tenor had
become a barytone, and he could no longer reach the notes which had in
former times been written for him. She knew how much her father's voice
had become injured, and knowing equally well his intrepid courage,
feared, not without reason, that he would tarnish his brilliant
reputation. Garcia displayed even more than ever the great artist. A
hoarseness seized him at the moment of appearing on the stage. "This
is nothing," said he: "I shall do very well"; and, by sheer strength of
talent and of will, he arranged the music of his part (_Almaviva_) to
suit the condition of his voice, changing the passages, transposing them
an octave lower, and taking up notes adroitly where he found his voice
available; and all this instantly, with an admirable confidence.

Malibran's second season in Paris confirmed the estimate which had been
placed on her genius, but the incessant labors of her professional life
and the ardor with which she pursued the social enjoyments of life were
commencing to undermine her health. She never hesitated to sacrifice
herself and her time for the benefit of her friends, in spite of her own
physical debility. One night she had promised to sing at the house of
her friend, Mme. Merlin, and was amazed at the refusal of her manager to
permit her absence from the theatre on a benefit-night. She said to him:
"It does not signify; I sing at the theatre because it is my duty, but
afterward I sing at Mme. Merlin's because it is my pleasure." And so
after one o'clock in the morning, wearied from the arduous performance
of "Semiramide," she appeared at her friend's and sang, supped, and
waltzed till daybreak. This excess in living every moment of her life
and utter indifference to the requirements of health were characteristic
of her whole career. One night she fainted in her dressing-room
before going on the stage. In the hurry of applying restoratives, a
_vinaigrette_ containing some caustic acid was emptied over her lips,
and her mouth was covered with blisters. The manager was in despair; but
Mme. Malibran, quietly stepping to the mirror, cut off the blisters with
a pair of scissors, and sang as usual. Such was the indomitable courage
of the woman that she was always faithful to her obligations, come what
might; a conscientiousness which was afterward the immediate cause of
her death.

IV.

It was in Paris, in 1830, that Mme. Malibran's romantic attachment to M.
Charles de Beriot, the famous Belgian violinist, had its beginning. M.
de Beriot had been warmly and hopelessly enamored of Malibran's rival,
Mdlle. Sontag, in spite of the fact that the latter lady was known to
be the _fiancee_ of Count Rossi. The sympathies of Malibran's warm and
affectionate heart were called out by her friend's disappointment, for
gossip in the musical circles of Paris discussed De Beriot's unfortunate
love-affair very freely. With her usual impulsive candor she expressed
her interest in the brilliant young violinist without reserve, and it
was not long before De Beriot made Malibran his confidante, and found
consolation for his troubles in her soothing companionship. The result
was what might have been expected. Malibran's beauty, tenderness, and
genius speedily displaced the former idol in the heart of the Belgian
artist, while she learned that it was but a short step between pity and
love. This mutual affection was the cause of a dispute between Maria and
her friend Mme. Naldi, whose austere morality disapproved the intimacy,
and there was a separation, our singer moving into lodgings of her own.

It was during her London engagement of the same year that Mme. Malibran
became acquainted with the greatest of bassos, Lablache, who made his
_debut_ before an English public in the role of _Geronimo_, in "Il
Matrimonio Segreto." The friendship between these two distinguished
artists became a very warm one, that only terminated with Malibran's
death. Lablache, who had sung with all the greatest artists of the age,
lamented her early taking off as one of the greatest misfortunes of the
lyric stage. One strong tie between them was their mutual benevolence.
On one occasion an unfortunate Italian importuned Lablache for
assistance to return to his native land. The next day, when all the
company were assembled for rehearsal, Lablache requested them to join
in succoring their unhappy compatriot; all responded to the call, Mme.
Lalande and Donzelli each contributing fifty francs. Malibran gave the
same as the others; but, the following day, seizing the opportunity of
being alone with Lablache, she desired him to add to her subscription of
fifty francs two hundred and fifty more; she had not liked to appear to
bestow more than her friends, so she had remained silent the preceding
day. Lablache hastened to seek his _protege_, who, however, profiting
by the help afforded him, had already embarked; but, not discouraged,
Lablache hurried after him, and arrived just as the steamer was leaving
the Thames. Entering a boat, however, he reached the vessel, went
on board, and gave the money to the _emigre_, whose expressions of
gratitude amply repaid the trouble of the kind-hearted basso. Another
time Malibran aided a poor Italian who was destitute, telling him to say
nothing about it. "Ah, madame," he cried, "you have saved me for ever!"
"Hush!" she interrupted; "do not say that; only the Almighty could do
so. Pray to him."

The feverish activity of Mme. Malibran was shown at this time in a
profusion of labors and an ardor in amusement which alarmed all her
friends. When not engaged in opera, she was incessant in concert-giving,
for which her terms were eighty guineas per night. She would fly to
Calais and sing there, hurry back to England, thence hasten to Brussels,
where she would give a concert, and then cross the Channel again, giving
herself no rest. Night after night she would dance and sing at private
parties till dawn, and thus waste the precious candle of her life at
both ends. She was haunted by a fancy that, when she ceased to live
thus, she would suddenly die, for she was full of the superstition
of her Spanish race. Mme. Malibran about this time essayed the same
experiment which Pasta had tried, that of singing the role of the Moor
in "Otello." It was not very successful, though she sang the music and
acted the part with fire. The delicate figure of a woman was not fitted
for the strong and masculine personality of the Moorish warrior, and
the charm of her expression was completely veiled by the swarthy mask
of paint. Her versatility was so daring that she wished even to out-leap
the limits of nature.

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