M. Sterling Mackinlay

CHAPTER VIII.
MALIBRAN'S TRIUMPHS.
(1830-1836.)

AND now let us take up the career of Maria Malibran, since the next six years of Manuel Garcia's life are chiefly concerned with the triumphs of this his first pupil. We have already seen how, shortly after her return from America in the early autumn of 1827, she had been joined in Paris by Manuel; how the two lived there together for some months, while he helped his sister with her singing and coached her in her operatic work, and how, after a brilliant dÉbut at Galli's benefit in the January of 1828, the youthful contralto was engaged for the Italian Opera season in Paris, commencing in the following April.

In 1829 Maria Malibran returned to London, where she had made her dÉbut at the King's Theatre four years previously. On this second visit she received from Laporte sixty-six pounds a performance for a three months' season, two appearances a-week (40,000 francs in all); while the principal parts which she undertook were Desdemona, Semiramide, Romeo, Tancredi, Ninetta, and Zerlina.

This was the scene of that rivalry with Mme. Sontag which wrung from her the words, "Pourquoi chante-t-elle si bien, mon Dieu?" During the London season they shared the success, which brought about such coldness between them that it took all the tact and diplomacy of the Countess Merlin to persuade them to sing the duet from "Tancredi" together in her drawing-room.

On January 3 of the following year the two stars again appeared together in Paris in "Il Matrimonio segreto," given at the benefit of Mme. Damoreau-Cinti. A few days later they took part in "Tancredi." Rarely had Sontag given so beautiful a performance as she did in this her last appearance in the part before retiring into private life. At the close of the evening, as if to beg her rival's forgiveness for her triumph, she offered to Malibran, with a charming gesture, the flowers which had been thrown at her feet on the stage.

On the 18th of the month Henriette Sontag made her last bow before the public, and retired from the operatic world upon her marriage to Count Rossi. Thus Maria Malibran found the field clear, and remained without a rival among the contralti of her time. After this she appeared regularly each season in Paris and London during that brief career in which she took the world by storm. Like a meteor she dazzled all by a brilliancy beside which other stars seemed dim, and like a meteor she was to pass away as suddenly as she had arrived, within nine years of her dÉbut in Paris.

The salary which the famous contralto used to receive was for those days almost unprecedented.

Maria F. Malibran (From an Old Engraving which belonged to Manuel Garcia.)
signature: Maria F. Malibran
(From an Old Engraving which belonged to Manuel Garcia.)

Having received in the operatic season of 1829 sixty-six pounds a performance, as already stated, the following year found her salary increased to £125 a-night, nearly double what she had had, while in the next one she was paid £2775 for twenty-four performances.

Her tours through Italy were a series of triumphs. In Rome she was overwhelmed with praise; at Bologna the enthusiasm was such that the public subscribed for a bust to be executed in marble and placed in the theatre; while at Naples, her grandest triumph of all was achieved on the night when she took leave of the audience in the character of Ninetta. Six times after the fall of the curtain was she called forward to receive the reiterated plaudits and adieus of a public which seemed unable to bear the idea of separation from its new idol. The singer, for her part, had only strength and spirits left to kiss her hand to the assembled multitude, and indicate by expressive gestures the degree to which she was overpowered by fatigue and emotion. Nor did the scene end within the theatre, for a crowd rushed to the stage-door from all parts of the house, and as soon as their favourite's sedan-chair came out they escorted it, with loud acclamations, to the Palazzo Barbaja, and renewed their salutations as the artist ascended the steps.

Of her first appearance in Milan SeÑor Garcia gave me a delightful account. At that time Pasta was a great favourite in the city, her most effective part being Norma. Such enormous success had she made in this rÔle, in fact, that the Milanese always used to allude to her as "Norma" instead of making use of her own name.

Upon her arrival Maria Malibran was asked by the director of the Opera House in what part she would like to make her first appearance. She at once replied, "Norma, signor."

"But, madame, do you forget Pasta?"

"Eh, bien? I am not afraid of Pasta. I will live or die as Norma." Bellini's opera was therefore announced.

At the opening night Pasta came to hear the newcomer, and took up her position in the middle box of the grand tier amidst loud applause from the populace. Maria Malibran made her first entrance without any sound of encouragement, and the aria was received in deliberate, stony silence. Her next number was the terzetto. After one of the passages which she had to render the audience suddenly forgot themselves and shouted out, "Bravo!" This was instantly followed by cries of "Hush!" "Silence!" The trio came to an end. Not a hand! Instead were heard sounds of dispute from all parts of the house: "She is great;" "She is nothing of the kind;" "She is better than Pasta;" "She is not;" and these remarks went on for the rest of the evening.

Upon the second night Pasta did not come to hear her new rival. This time, when Malibran entered and sang her aria, her rendering was greeted with immense applause, which continued throughout the evening in ever-increasing enthusiasm. At the close she was called before the curtain again and again, and when she left the Opera House to drive home, the populace took out the horses and themselves dragged her to the hotel. From that moment she was the pet of the Milanese public: Pasta's reign was over. SeÑor Garcia added that the latter was a most finished vocalist, but cold, whereas the singing of his sister was full of warmth and fire.

Strange to say, Maria Malibran soon found herself mixed up with the Italian Liberal politics. At Naples already her sympathy for the Carbonari had excited some talk. At Milan she was fÊted by all the aristocracy, who hated the Austrian rule. On the first night of Donizetti's "Marie Stuart," while taking the title-rÔle, she had to reproach Elizabeth with her irregular birth, calling her "vile bastard." The whole audience at once saw in this expression an allusion to the usurpation of Lombardy, and broke out into loud shouts. Next day the Austrian governor ordered the scene to be suppressed, and at the same time threatened Maria Malibran with prison if she did not submit. The singer, however, resisted, declaring that the composer alone could make alterations in his work; and in consequence of this action the opera was withdrawn from the bill. This only increased her popularity, and in all political manifestations the cry would be raised, "Vive Malibran," as in after years "Vive Verdi" became synonymous with "Vive Victor-Emmanuel."

Similar difficulties arose in Venice. The governor was afraid of Liberal manifestations, and was for that reason opposed to the engagement of the contralto at the Fenice Theatre; indeed it was the intervention of the Emperor alone which made him waive his objection. A sumptuary law of the sixteenth century, which had never been repealed, enacted that all gondolas must be painted uniformly black. Maria Malibran wished to change this. "I have introduced a novelty here," she writes, "which will mark an epoch in my career: I have had the outside of my gondola painted grey with decorations in gold. The gondoliers wear scarlet jackets, hats of pale yellow, the edges bound round with black velvet, blue cloth breeches with red ribbon down the side, in the French style, sleeves and collar of black velvet. The awning over the boat is scarlet with blue curtains."

When she went out in this for the first time the police at once reminded her of the regulations, but she refused to yield, saying that, rather than do so, she would leave Venice. The governor was afraid of a public riot, such was her popularity, and he feared still more the observations of the Austrian Court, so determined to shut his eyes to the matter. But the singer had her revenge, for one day when he had gallantly conducted her to her gondola, she obliged him to take a seat in it, and then took him through all the canals, while they were met by the ironical cheers of all whom they passed.

In 1831 Maria Malibran built herself a handsome villa near Brussels, and from that time on made it a custom to retire to this home whenever she had a few weeks' rest.

Here in the summer of the following year she received a visit from Lablache, who was passing through the town on his way south. During conversation he suggested that they should make a tour in Italy: the idea pleased her, and without more ado they set off with an opera company, with the result that they made a perfect triumphal progress through the principal cities.

On June 2, 1832, Manuel Garcia's father passed away at the age of fifty-seven.

We have already seen what a prominent figure the elder Garcia was in the musical world of the early nineteenth century. No less gifted as an actor than as a singer, his greatest performances were given in such contrasting characters as Almaviva, Don Giovanni, and Otello. Again, as a composer he was responsible for over forty operas in Italian, French, and Spanish, many of which are still treasured among the municipal archives of Madrid. Lastly, as a teacher of singing he made his mark both in Paris and London, and a great many of the best qualities of the modern school of vocalists depend on the joint teaching of the elder Garcia and his son Manuel; for while the latter was the first to conduct vocal training on correct scientific principles, the former undoubtedly laid the foundation of the school from which sprung Grisi, Sontag, and Alboni. Truly a remarkable man, to whose abilities Rossini bore striking testimony when he said to Manuel, after the elder Garcia's death, "Si ton pÈre avait autant de savoir-faire que de savoir musical, il serait le premier musicien de l'Époque."

The spring of 1833 saw Maria Malibran at Drury Lane, receiving £3200 for forty appearances, in addition to two benefits, which brought an additional £2000; and on May 1, we read that she appeared in the first performance of an English version of "Somnambula," in which part "she drew the town in admiring crowds, tickling the ears of the groundlings with the felicity of her roulades."

In this opera she had already appeared in the Italian version with greater success even than Pasta, for whom Bellini had written the rÔle. Further, the old Italian musician found in her his ideal interpreter for one of his most beautiful works, "Norma," with which he had only made a moderate success at La Scala.

On the night of its production in London, as the composer advanced to thank her, Maria Malibran rushed towards him with open arms, and sang the words, "Ah, m'abbracia."

"Mon Émotion fut indescriptible," Bellini said afterwards in speaking of the incident. "Je me croyais en paradis. Je ne pus ajouter un mot, et je restai comme Étourdi."

After the London season of 1833 Mme. Malibran returned to Naples, remaining there till the May of 1834, when she went to Bologna and Milan till the end of June, while July was spent in London. The following August saw her reception at the Court of Lucca, and of this visit a charming description is given in a letter written by the violinist de BÉriot, to whom she had promised her hand as soon as her ill-fated marriage with Mons. Malibran should have been dissolved,—a lengthy process in those days.

"LUCCA, August 31, 1834.

"DEAR SISTER,—We arrived at the baths of Lucca yesterday, and have been spending two delightful days. It would be impossible to find a reigning prince with more geniality and amiability than the Duke of Lucca. The same might be said of the queen-mother of Naples.

"The evening which I told you about in my last letter took place at her house on Friday last, Mariette sang ten songs, among the number being the one by Coutiau, which sent everybody into fits of laughter,—not that fashionable affected sort of laugh such as is considered etiquette at the Court functions in France and Belgium, but the hearty gaiety of the people, for here you do not have to put a restraint on yourself at the Court. When you enter the room you make your bow to the Queen and the Duke: after that you put your hat in a corner of the 'salon' and do whatever you like. I should become a furious royalist if we were allowed as much freedom as this at other courts.

"The day after the 'soirÉe' the Queen sent by her secretary some splendid presents. Maria received a magnificent diamond cluster for her forehead, while I was given a single stone of great value, set in a ring for the little finger of my left hand; so in future I am always sure to have a brilliant cadenza. Then there was a very nice ornament in the shape of an eagle for Mariette's sister, Pauline. But that was not all, for there was a purse of gold, more than sufficient to cover all the expenses of the journey. That is what I call behaving really handsomely.

"The rest of the evening was spent at Prince Poniatowski's. The Duke was present. He had been very full of fun during the dinner, over which he presided, sitting at the middle of the table. In his hand he held a big ruler to kill the wasps, of which there are great numbers in this country. He never missed one of them.

"After dinner he gave himself up to dancing, singing, and romping, taking every one by the hand, as Labarre used to do when he was in good spirits. At last the Duke sat down at the piano and sang a buffo duet from the 'Mariage Secret' in piquant fashion.

"At this moment a little incident interrupted the music, but added considerable picturesqueness to the evening. A couple of bats flew in at the window, attracted by the light, and amused themselves by fluttering and sporting around our heads.

"The ladies all took to their heels and fled into the next room, but the rest of the party, including S.A.R., armed ourselves with sticks and whips, and after two hours' conflict succeeded in killing the bats.

"My letter, my dear Constance, has been interrupted by an excursion into the country, organised on the spur of the moment. We purpose spending two more days at Lucca, at Prince Poniatowski's, with S.A.R., who has made himself as charming as usual.

"When I was in Paris I bought a cane with a knob made of lead. It took the fancy of the Duke, and I have given it to him. He has given me his own in exchange, and as it has a knob of gold it has a double value.

CH. DE BÉRIOT."

With 1835 we come to an important advance of Manuel Garcia's position as a teacher, the first official recognition of his growing fame. When at the close of 1830, fresh from his anatomical studies at the hospital, he had joined his father in his work, he at once resolved to apply the knowledge thus gained. It was, therefore, his custom to insist that every pupil who presented himself should undergo a vocal and medical examination, while at the same time he made him submit to a special treatment, if the larynx appeared to him to demand it.

This scientific method of approaching singing made a great stir, and he soon found himself surrounded by an ever-increasing clientÈle. With his pupils, both amateur and professional, he gained such continuous success that at last, in 1835, he was appointed to a professorial chair at the Paris Conservatoire, and this naturally marked a very distinct step in his career.

It has always been stated that he was given the post by Auber, but investigation proves this to be incorrect. Auber was not appointed to the directorship of the Conservatoire until the year 1842. At the time SeÑor Garcia joined the staff Cherubini was at the head of affairs, having been made director in the year 1821 (after being professor of composition there for five years), and he remained in that position until the close of 1841, when he retired at the age of eighty-one, to be succeeded by the younger composer.

In the year of Manuel Garcia's appointment to the Conservatoire, his sister, Maria Malibran, was in London during May and June, having been engaged by the management of the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden for twenty-one performances at a fee of £2775.

How little did those who listened to her in London that summer foresee that with the close of the season they were to hear her in the capital no more, and that in little over a year her life was to be brought to a tragic end! Yet such was to be the case.

After the close of the London season the contralto retired to Brussels for a rest, and then in the early autumn set out for Naples.

Immediately on her arrival she received an urgent visit from Giovanni Gallo, the director of the little theatre of "St Jean ChrysostÔme." The interview led to a delightful episode.

The unhappy impresario was on the verge of bankruptcy, and came to beg her aid. Maria Malibran refused, but offered to sing for him at his theatre for a fee of three thousand francs.

The company and orchestra, who had already half dispersed, were hastily reassembled, and de BÉriot himself directed the rehearsals for "Somnambula." The announcement of the forthcoming performance created tremendous excitement,—seats fetched incredible prices; and on the night itself the hall was crammed to overflowing. The tenor was so affected that he suddenly stopped short, and for some minutes could not sing a note. The public began to murmur, and the whole success of the evening was in jeopardy, until Malibran came to the rescue. She at once commenced to sing the tenor music, and rendered it with such virility of accent and gesture that the public shouted with enthusiasm. What was more to the purpose, the tenor was able to recover himself after a few moments and take up his rÔle again. At the fall of the curtain the ovation was tremendous,—indeed it seemed as if the applause would never come to an end.

Her generous action had been noised abroad throughout Venice, and when she went out people fought over bits of her shawl, her gloves, even her handkerchief, while all the gondolas formed a guard of honour as far as the Barbarigo Palace where she was staying. Scarcely had she entered when the Syndic of the gondoliers was announced. On being shown in, he presented a golden cup filled with wine, and begged her to touch it with her lips. From her balcony she saw the cup passed from hand to hand down that long flotilla, stretching away down to the "Riva del Carbone." Each boatman took a sip, but so small a one, fearing lest the wine should be exhausted before it had circulated among all his comrades, that when it came back into the hands of the Syndic it was still half full: seeing which, he poured the rest of the wine into the Grand Canal as a libation.

The total receipts of the performance were 10,500 francs, but nothing less than 15,000 could save the unhappy Gallo from bankruptcy. When he presented himself next day with the 3000 francs, as arranged, the tender-hearted artist discovered his predicament, and not only let him off her fee, but provided him with the further sum necessary for the settlement of his debt. Perhaps Alfred de Musset was thinking of this act of generosity when he wrote the lines—

In remembrance of this memorable performance, the municipality of Venice decided that the Theatre of Saint Jean ChrysostÔme should be called henceforth the ThÉÂtre Malibran.

The ensuing winter the prima donna spent at Milan, where the Duke of Visconti, director of La Scala, had offered her a contract for 185 performances, spread over two and a half years, for which she was to receive 450,000 francs. This visit to Milan marked the zenith of her fame, and is still referred to as "the glorious year." Here she pursued still further the studies, which she had already commenced, with regard to the reform of costume and scenery. Towards the realisation of her dreams she was supported by the Duke of Visconti, who, besides his connection with the opera house, was superintendent of the Academy of Art and Science. Reviving the ideas of Talma, she wished to introduce in the theatre artistic and archÆological truth, and, with this aim in view, she had copies made of a quantity of costumes from the archives of Venice, and from the miniatures in some old manuscripts. From these designs dresses were made for many of the operas, notably "Otello." So great an interest did she take in the carrying out of this reform, that she always used to refer to it as "la grande affaire."

There are still extant not only a great number of the designs, which were copied by her orders, but several albums of sketches for which she was herself responsible, and these exhibit considerable dexterity, besides giving proof of the deep interest which she took in the scheme.

In the midst of all this work, and of numberless receptions at which she was ever the principal attraction, she made frequent appearances at the Scala in "Otello," "I Capuletti," "Norma," "Somnambula," and "Giovanna Grey." The enthusiasm of the public had never reached such a pitch before, and it is from this year that those stamps dated which bore her head, and were used to close letters: specimens of these are still to be seen, but they are extremely rare.

On the day of her departure her comrades at the theatre presented her with a finely executed medal of gold, in which she was depicted in the costume of "Norma"; while the governor expressed the hope of seeing her quickly back again. But it was never to be consummated.

On March 26, 1836, the contralto's marriage with Monsieur Malibran was finally annulled by the courts of Paris. This unworthy husband, soon after her return to Europe, had heard of her success in the French capital and followed her thither, demanding a share of her professional emoluments. With this claim she very properly refused to comply. He had obtained her hand by means of deception, and she had acquitted herself of any claim he might have had as her husband, by resigning in favour of his creditors the property which had been settled on her.

Three days after the marriage had been annulled, she was wedded to Charles de BÉriot, the violinist, and we read that "the Queen of France presented the bride with a costly agraffe, embellished with pearls."

Next day de BÉriot and his wife arrived at Brussels, and shortly afterwards were heard there for the first time together at a concert given for the benefit of the Polonais, and in another performance at the Theatre Royal.

Then came that fatal day in April when the singer had a terrible fall from her horse, being dragged some distance along the road and receiving injuries to her head from which she never recovered, though her wonderful energy enabled her to disregard the results for a time. She retired to Brussels, and went thence to Aix-la-Chapelle, where she gave two concerts with de BÉriot.

In September they made a rapid journey from France, arriving at Manchester on Sunday the 11th, where she had been engaged as the principal attraction for the Festival. The same evening she sang no less than fourteen pieces in her room at the hotel to please some Italian friends. On the Monday she took part in the opening performance. Next day she was weak and ill, but nevertheless sang afternoon and evening. On the Wednesday her condition became still more critical, but she managed to render "Sing ye to the Lord" with thrilling effect; and this was the last sacred piece she ever sang, for that same evening brought her grand career to its tragic close.

The scene was one which none forgot who were present on that fatal night.

Before Maria Malibran had even reached the hall she had already fainted several times. Yet with an indomitable courage she nerved herself to go through the coming ordeal. With tears in their eyes, her friends begged her to return without attempting the strain for which she was so ill-prepared. But no; Maria Malibran refused to break faith with the public whom she had served so long, so gloriously. Even though her heart was chilled with presage of impending doom, she forced herself to enter on her self-appointed task, and carried it through with such success that when her final duet had been sung, "Vanno se alberghi in petto," none who had listened to that rich contralto voice guessed that they had been present at the closing scenes of their favourite's career.

Her task was over, she had fought in an unequal combat and prevailed. But still an enraptured audience clamoured to hear her yet again, and the noisy demand grew ever more insistent, until Maria Malibran came forward to repeat the closing movement.

As she sang, an agonised expression came over her face, her limbs trembled, her efforts became more and more painful. It was the struggle of a brave woman against sinking nature, the vivid glare of an expiring lamp. Higher and higher rose the voice, paler and paler grew the singer. Then came a last wild note of despair: the swan song was ended, and Maria Malibran staggered from the platform, to sink exhausted into the arms of loving comrades.

A grateful public vied each with the other in doing honour to their heroine, but, alas! those thunders of applause fell on ears that heard them not. Maria Malibran lay hovering 'twixt life and death.

But the end was not yet. She rallied, and was borne across to her room at the hotel, and here she lingered for nine days in a fever before the end came. On her deathbed her poor brain was in song-land, and almost with her last breath she sang snatches of her favourite airs.

On October 1, 1836, her burial took place at the south aisle of the Collegiate Church, Manchester, but the remains were afterwards removed to Brussels, where they were reinterred in a mausoleum erected by her husband. Here for many years, on each succeeding anniversary of her death, the musicians of Brussels were wont to deposit their visiting-cards at the grille of the now deserted mausoleum, the cupola of which still towers above the surrounding tombs. It was not long after the singer's death that "Tom Ingoldsby"—a stripling of seventeen in the year of Manuel Garcia's birth—put into the mouth of his Lord Tom Noddy the oft-quoted lines—

Of Maria Malibran's powers as an artist her brother could never speak too highly. She was richly endowed with the artistic genius of the family, and was possessed of a contralto of marvellous purity and richness, being at the same time gifted with great histrionic powers. Her singing, as has been already stated, was always full of fire and warmth, while, besides her passion, there was gentle pathos, which had great effect on the listener. As a girl she was petite and slight, with burning cheeks and flaming eyes. Though not a beautiful woman, she was extremely attractive. Her head was well shaped, her mouth rather large, but her smile very sweet, and she had the most perfect set of teeth, while her pretty figure was full of graceful curves.

Her versatility was shown not only in her extraordinary vocal and histrionic achievements and skill in vocal improvisation, but in her powers as a linguist, while as an artist her sketches were good, and sometimes amusing. Moreover, her vivacious temperament and ready wit found an outlet in a love of fun and mimicry. An instance of this is related by John Parry, the composer and singer of refined comic songs. The incident took place at an evening party in Naples.

"Such a merry-making, frolicsome sort of party I never witnessed," he says. "We had much good singing, as you may suppose; but Mazzinghi's comic duet of "When a little farm we keep"—which I had the honour of singing with Malibran—carried all before it, in consequence of the exquisite manner in which she sang the do re mi part of it; and when she repeated it she executed the florid divisions so delightfully, and so brilliantly, yet quite differently from the first time, that the company was enraptured.... The prima donna requested Lablache to sustain the low F, me to sing B flat, and others the harmonic intervals above, then to place the finger on the side of the nose, so as to form a drone, while she imitated the squeaking tones of the bagpipes in such a manner as to cause the loudest laughter, especially when we sank our voices very slowly together, as if the wind in the bellows was nearly exhausted."

Maria Malibran was, moreover, a veritable tomboy when she was in the company of children, being up to all sorts of tricks, and rested by painting beautiful pictures; would dress as a man, and drive the coach from place to place, and when she arrived, brown with the sun and dust of Italy, would sometimes jump into the sea. Then she would go straight to the opera and, having sung "Amina," "Norma," or "The Maid of Artois," as we shall perhaps never hear them sung again, return home to write or sing comic songs. At cock-crow she was out galloping her horse off its legs before a rehearsal in the morning, a concert in the afternoon, and the opera at night.

Such was Maria Malibran, untiring in energy, scarcely resting a moment. Little wonder that she did not live to the same age as the rest of her family, for she died at twenty-eight, whereas her mother lived to be eighty-three, and her sister Pauline is still living, approaching her ninetieth birthday, while Manuel entered on his 102nd year before the Reaper summoned him.

Well did Lablache say of Maria Malibran, "Son esprit est trop fort pour son petit corps."

Pauline Viardot
signature: Pauline Viardot

CHAPTER IX.
PAULINE VIARDOT-GARCIA.
(1837-1841.)

AFTER the death of Malibran in 1836, the ensuing years of Manuel Garcia's life were spent in steady progress of fame as a teacher. The next event of importance in his career took place four years later. These intervening years were, however, brightened by much reflected glory, for as the period between 1830 and 1836 saw the triumphs of his eldest sister and pupil, Maria Malibran, so this next one brought the success of his youngest sister, Pauline Viardot, also his pupil.

Her first lessons had been received as a child at the hands of her father, but seeing that she was only eleven years old when he died, it may be certainly claimed that her brother was responsible for the greater part of her training.

It was in 1837, the year which saw the accession of Queen Victoria, that she made her dÉbut as a singer at Brussels. This was not, however, her first appearance on the platform, for she had already shown herself to be an admirable pianist. Her earliest lessons in pianoforte had been received in New York from Marcos Vega, being afterwards continued under Meyssenberg; but the most important part of her study was done under Liszt.

The German pianist had already made considerable success by the time his father died in 1827, when he himself was but sixteen years old. The event brought a great change in his circumstances, and made it necessary for him to keep himself by teaching. His services were at once in demand among the best families, and in due course Pauline was placed under him. Though she refers to her talent on the instrument as "passable," Liszt counted her one of his best pupils.

After studying for some time she made her appearance as a pianist at several concerts organised by her sister and de BÉriot in Belgium and Germany. Composition, too, she learned under Reicha, and it was to him that she owed that grasp of the technique of her art by which she was able to give full scope to the richness of her own inspiration.

In 1837, as we have already said, her dÉbut as a vocalist was made at Brussels. After this she went on a concert tour with de BÉriot, and sang at a concert in Paris in 1838 at the ThÉÂtre de la Renaissance, when her powers of execution were brilliantly displayed in a cadence du Diable.

After these preliminary appearances, which were designed to make her "feel her feet," Pauline Garcia, on May 9, 1839, made her London dÉbut at Her Majesty's Theatre, as Desdemona in "Otello." Her success was instantaneous: without hesitation the public favour which had been bestowed on her sister was given to her also, with almost greater enthusiasm. From the commencement it was conceded that she was a remarkable artist.

She was a mezzo-soprano, with fine clear upper notes, and a wonderful execution in bravura passages. Moreover, as an actress she was equally successful in tragedy or comedy, besides being a perfect musician. And yet, as SeÑor Garcia would remark, there was not in her case a "phenomenal voice," as there had been in that of the lamented Malibran. It was, according to her brother, by no means a great one, and the voice alone would in ordinary circumstances have been placed in the second class.

There is a well-known story of a certain painter being asked by one of his sitters: "Tell me, with what do you mix your paints to get these wonderful effects?" "Madame," was the reply, "I mix them with my brains." So, too, Pauline Garcia may be said to have sung with her brains.

It was indeed the triumph of mind over matter. With her it was another case which went to uphold the truth of the well-known dictum that "Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains." She possessed the will-power and determination to rise above all obstacles, as Demosthenes had possessed it centuries before, when he made up his mind to become a leading advocate, and, in order to attain greater clearness of enunciation, spent hour after hour by the seashore, where he would recite, his mouth filled with pebbles. With what a result! The Athenian ended by becoming one of the world's greatest orators: SeÑor Garcia's youngest sister became one of the world's greatest dramatic singers.

In the autumn of 1839 she went to Paris for a season at the ThÉÂtre Italien, for which she had been engaged by the impresario, Mons. Louis Viardot, a distinguished writer and critic, and founder of the 'Revue IndÉpendante.' Here she shared in the triumphs of Grisi, Persiani, Rubini, Tamburini, and Lablache; while her principal parts were three rÔles as different as they were characteristic—in the operas of "Otello," "Cenerentola," and "The Barber of Seville."

Many tributes were paid by those who heard her. Liszt, under whom she had studied the piano, wrote of her in these terms—

"In all that concerns method and execution, feeling and expression, it would be hard to find a name worthy to be mentioned with that of Maria Malibran's sister. In her, virtuosity serves only as a means of expressing the idea, the thought, the character of a work or a rÔle."

George Sand called her "the personification of poetry and music," and set down her impressions on listening to the singer thus: "The pale, still,—one might at the first glance say lustreless,—countenance, the suave and unconstrained movements, the astonishing freedom from every sort of affectation,—how transfigured all this appears, when she is carried away by her genius on the current of song!"

Her first appearance in Paris was greeted by Alfred de Musset, the poet of Romanticism and warm friend of Victor Hugo, in those well-known lines—

When de Musset wished to crystallise in prose his feelings on hearing her sing, he expressed himself in these words—

"Si Pauline Garcia a la voix de sa soeur, elle en a l'Âme en mÊme temps, et, sans la moindre imitation, c'est le mÊme gÉnie.... Elle chante comme elle respire.... Sa physionomie, pleine d'expression, change avec une rapiditÉ prodigieuse, avec une libertÉ extrÈme, non seulement selon le morceau, mais encore selon la phrase qu'elle exÉcute. Avant d'exprimer, elle sent."

Again, Richard Wagner pays a remarkable tribute to her powers in a letter to L. Uhl relating to his stay in Paris in 1859, and to the attempts to arrange for the production of "Tristan" there. In it the composer recounts how the same difficulty of reading the rÔles of this work was encountered in Germany, which militated much against its production. "Madame Viardot," he writes, "expressed to me one day her astonishment that in Germany people always spoke of this difficulty of reading the music of 'Tristan.' She asked me if in Germany the artists were not then musicians? I for my part hardly know how to enlighten her on this point; for this grand artiste sang through at sight, with the most perfect expression, a whole act of the rÔle of Isolda."

Such was the artiste whose dÉbut in London in 1839 was followed by so brilliant a career.

We now come to 1840—a year made noteworthy in the life of Garcia by another important advance in his career.

Since his appointment to a professorship at the Paris Conservatoire, his reputation had continued to be steadily consolidated, and his clientÈle included, besides those who were being trained for the musical profession, a great number of amateur pupils, among whom were to be found not only some of the most distinguished names in Paris, but many members of the royal family itself. Throughout this period he had been steadily working to increase his knowledge relative to the mechanism of the voice, and at last, in 1840, he found that his investigations had reached a point at which they might be found of interest to others.

Accordingly, in this year he set down the result of his studies in the classical paper which he submitted to the AcadÉmie des Sciences de France under the title, "MÉmoire sur la voix humaine," to which was added the rather odd-sounding subtitle, "Description des produits du phonateur humain." In it he embodied the various discoveries which he had made relating to the larynx.

Among the principal points to which he drew attention were the following:—

The memoir on the human voice was duly reported on by Majendie, Savart, and Dutrochet at a public meeting which was held on April 12, 1841, the result being that this resolution was passed: "The thanks of the Academy are due to Professor Garcia for the skilful use which he has made of his opportunities as a teacher of singing to arrive at a satisfactory physical theory of the human voice." The circumstance gave occasion for a somewhat acrimonious discussion concerning certain points of priority as between Garcia and MM. Diday and PÉtrequin, two French scientists.

This was followed up by the publication of the 'Method of Teaching Singing,' in which Garcia cleared up the confusion which had hitherto existed between "timbre" and "register."

He defined the expression "register" as being a series of consecutive homogeneous sounds produced by one mechanism, differing essentially from another series of sounds equally homogeneous produced by another mechanism, whatever modifications of "timbre" and of strength they may offer. "Each of the registers," he added, "has its own extent and sonority, which varies according to the sex of the individual and the nature of the organ."

At this time he stated that there were two registers; but in later years, with the invention of the laryngoscope and the examination of the vocal cords which resulted from it, he altered the original division from two to three—chest, medium, and head-voice,—and this is accepted by all as scientifically correct according to the definition of "register" laid down by him.

The year which found Manuel Garcia presenting his paper to the AcadÉmie des Sciences saw his sister Pauline married to Monsieur Viardot, by whom she had been engaged for her first season at the Paris Opera House. Almost immediately after the wedding her husband resigned his position, so as to accompany her on her tours through Italy, Spain, Germany, Russia, and England.

At Berlin, such was her success, that after her performance as Rahel in HalÉvy's "La Juive," she was serenaded by the whole orchestra. Here, too, she astonished all by volunteering at a moment's notice to sing the part of Isabelle in "Robert le Diable" in addition to her own of Alice, when the artiste who had been engaged for the former rÔle was suddenly taken ill.

Her actual dÉbut in Germany was made at a State concert in Berlin,—an official ceremony, but still a private one. The first public appearance in the country was made at an evening concert at the Gewandhaus of Leipsic in 1843.

Pauline Viardot was twenty-two at the time. With a charming appearance, and already ablaze with the reflected glory of her sister, Maria Malibran, the dÉbutante quickly roused the sympathetic curiosity of her audience to enthusiasm. The entire press praised her virtuosity, artistic feeling, and nobility of countenance, but above all they expressed admiration for her gift of revealing the innermost beauty of the grand musical works in which she lived and felt so profoundly.

They admired, too, that unique talent which wrapped every phrase in the exquisite charm and grace which she brought to bear. For that reason the bravura air of Persiani's "InÈs de Castro," the final rondo from Rossini's "Cenerentola," and an unpublished air of Ch. de BÉriot, earned for her at this first concert as much applause as the great air from Handel's "Rinaldo" and the lighter French, Spanish, and German songs which she sang in the same programme. These last three varieties of song she gave with a national colour so characteristic that, as one of the critics said, "Elles parurent chantÉes par trois voix et par trois Âmes totalement diffÉrentes."

As was her usual custom, she accompanied herself on the piano to perfection. Clara Schumann, who took part in the concert, was dumfounded, and never forgot the occasion. Another musician who appeared that evening was a young violinist, an infant prodigy, twelve years old, who was to become in later years the great master, Joseph Joachim.

Between 1840 and 1843 Mme. Viardot added to her successes many fresh operas, principal among them being "Tancredi," the "Gazza Ladra," and "Semiramide," in which she took the part of Arsace. By the year 1845 her repertoire comprised, in addition to those already mentioned, "Somnambula" and "Norma," "I Capuletti" (in which she played Romeo), "L'Elisire d'Amore," "Lucia di Lammermoor," and "Don Pasquale"; as well as in German, "La Juive," "IphigÉnie en Tauride," "Les Huguenots," "Robert le Diable," and "Don Juan," in which she played sometimes the part of Zerlina, at others Donna Anna.

In 1848 she was in Paris again, and enraptured Meyerbeer with her rendering of Fides in "Le ProphÈte," a rÔle which she subsequently sustained on over two hundred occasions in all the chief opera houses in Europe, being—teste Moscheles—"the life and soul of the opera, which owed to her at least half of its great success."

Three years later came another triumph, when, at Gounod's request, she created the part of Sapho. In 1855 she added to her laurels "Le Mariage Secret." Then came the evenings at the ThÉÂtre Lyrique in 1859, with "Orpheo" and "Fidelio," and finally her season of opera in 1861, with "Alceste," "Favorita," and "Il Trovatore."

At the end of a career lasting over a period of twenty-five years, the artist retired, and in 1865 settled in Baden-Baden as a teacher, her principal pupils being DÉsirÉ Artot, Marianne Brandt, and Antoinette Sterling. Here in her own grounds she had a private theatre built, a small square building, capable of holding about a hundred people, in addition to a diminutive orchestra, stage, and anteroom. In this hall she was wont to give concerts, to which were invited celebrities from every land, representatives of the various branches of art and science, poets, painters, diplomats, and the like; while on more than one occasion the old Emperor of Germany himself honoured her with his presence.

At one of these, Mme. Viardot's pupils performed an operetta of her own composition, while Mme. Artot sang a scene from an opera, and several others from among the greatest German artists took part in the programme. These included Joseph Joachim and Ferdinand David, the latter of whom was at this time Concertmeister in Leipzig.

Antoinette Sterling, who was then studying with Mme. Viardot, sang an Italian aria, in addition to taking part in the operetta. Her hair was let down for the occasion, while she wore a costume in the Grecian style, surmounted by a red velvet cap. This was the only time my mother ever appeared in "stage costume," or suffered rouge to be applied to her face.

During this period Johannes Brahms was living in Baden-Baden, and Antoinette Sterling has left a description of an episode in connection with the friendship of the composer for Mme. Viardot:—

"Herr Brahms at this time looked almost a boy, rather short and thick, with a full round face and fair yellowish hair. In honour of Mme. Viardot's birthday"—(this was in the year 1869)—"he wrote a small chorus for women's voices, and came himself to conduct the rehearsals, all of which took place in my rooms. At five o'clock on the birthday morning, we walked with Herr Brahms through the grassy fields up to her house, and there, under her window, sang the morning serenade. When she came down from her room, her face wreathed in smiles, every student threw her a bouquet, a stipulated price being given for each of these bunches of flowers, so that none should be more gorgeous than the rest."

We have seen the admiration which Pauline Viardot had aroused in many composers besides Brahms. One may add to the list the name of Robert Schumann, for he dedicated to her his beautiful Liederkreis, op. 24. Nor was SeÑor Garcia's sister unknown as a writer of music, for she has been responsible for many beautiful compositions.

After spending some five years in Baden-Baden, Mme. Viardot was forced to leave the town on the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War, owing to her husband being of French nationality. They made their way at once to London, where Manuel Garcia was residing, and of the months which they spent there I shall have something to say later, since Mme. Noufflard, the daughter of Lady HallÉ, has given some interesting reminiscences of that period. When things had become sufficiently quiet again Mme. Viardot decided to settle in Paris, and there she has resided ever since.

And what of her life in recent years, in her grand retirement? The year 1905, which saw her brother celebrating his centenary, found her in splendid old age after many years of widowhood, approaching her eighty-fifth birthday; living in a handsome house in the Boulevard St Germain; strong, tall, and of dignified bearing, her hazel eyes still retaining their true Spanish brilliance; her voice clear and well-sustained; herself full of vivacity, and with a memory no less remarkable than that of her brother; full of enthusiasm for music and art, a grandmother, with the most charming smile and magnetic gaiety, and still able to add to the number of her musical compositions.

A true Garcia.

One might well be tempted to dwell still further on that wonderful personality, laying stress on her care as a teacher, on her beneficent work among the artists whom she instructed, after they had journeyed from all directions, from the New World as well as the Old, to place themselves in her hands. One longs to paint her amid her home surroundings, in an atmosphere vibrating with music, bathed in art; one longs to show that lovable serenity, that wonderful gaiety and prodigious activity, which perhaps strike one most of all.

This little sketch of her career will be brought to an end by a quotation from a letter, in which one may appreciate the exquisite turn which she gives to every phrase and thought:—

" ...Mais oÙ trouver le temps de faire ce qu'on voudrait? C'est À peine si on arrive À faire ce qu'on doit! En vieillissant, le temps passe de plus en plus vite et vous entraÎne d'une course vertigineuse vers le Grand Inconnu! sans arrÊt, sans repos, sans pitiÉ. Il y aura peut-Être dans le ciel une immense bibliothÈque, oÙ les oeuvres du gÉnie seront rassemblÉes, et je me promets d'y faire de fameuses sÉances de lectures!..."

It is the letter of a moment, but the sentiments, which she expresses so beautifully, are those of an eternity.

Photo by W. & D. Downey. Yours sincerely Jenny Goldschmidt Photo by W. & D. Downey.
Yours sincerely Jenny Goldschmidt

CHAPTER X.
JENNY LIND.
(1841-1842.)

THE year 1841 may be looked on as the most important in Manuel Garcia's career as a teacher of singing, for it saw the arrival of the soprano who was to become the greatest of all his pupils—Jenny Lind. For this reason it is my intention to devote a chapter to the events which led up to her coming to him for lessons, to the period of study which she spent under his guidance, and to the success which followed on the completion of this training. For much of the material I am indebted to the interesting memoir of the prima donna's career written by Canon Scott Holland, through whose courtesy I have been enabled to quote from the volume in question.

Born in Stockholm in 1820 of humble parentage, Jenny Lind, at the age of nine, was admitted to the school of singing attached to the Royal Theatre. Of the incident which brought about her removal and fixed for ever the lines of her future career, it is possible for us to read in her own words, as they were taken down by her son, to whom she told the story at Cannes in the spring of 1887.

"As a child," writes Canon Holland, "she would sing with every step she took: one of the forms which the perpetual song assumed was addressed to a blue-ribboned cat, of which she was very fond. Here is the rest of the story as Jenny Lind related it:—

"'Her favourite seat was in the window of the steward's room, which looked out on the lively street leading up to the church of St Jacob. Here she sat and sang to the cat; and the people passing in the street used to hear and wonder. Amongst others was the maid of Mdlle. Lundberg, a dancer at the Royal Opera House, and this girl on her return told her mistress that she had never heard such beautiful singing as that of this little one when she sang to her pet.

"'Mdlle. Lundberg thereupon found out her name and sent a note to the mother, who was in Stockholm at the time, asking her to bring the child to sing to her; and when she heard her voice, she cried, "The girl is a genius! you must have her educated for the stage." But Jenny's mother, as well as her grandmother, had an old-fashioned prejudice against the stage, and would not hear of such a thing. "Then you must, at any rate, have her taught singing," said the dancer; and in this way the mother was persuaded to accept a letter of introduction to Herr Croelius, the Court secretary and Singing-master, at the Royal Theatre.

"'Off with the letter they started; but as they went up the broad steps of the Opera House, the parent was again troubled by her doubts and repugnance. She had, no doubt, all the inherited dislike of the burgher families for the dramatic life. But little Jenny eagerly urged her to go on; and so they entered the room where the teacher sat. The child sang him something out of an opera composed by Winter. When he heard her, Croelius was moved to tears, and said that he must take her in to the Count Puke, the head of the Royal Theatre, and tell him what a treasure he had found.

"'Having been admitted to the manager's sanctum, the first question asked was, "How old is she?" and Croelius answered "Nine years." "Nine!" exclaimed the Count; "but this is not a crÊche—it is the King's Theatre;" and he would not look at her, she being, moreover, at that time what she herself has called "a small, ugly, broad-nosed, shy, gauche, under-grown girl." "Well," said the other, "if you will not hear her, then I will teach her gratuitously myself, and she will astonish you one day." With that Count Puke consented to hear her sing; and when she sang he, too, was moved to tears. From that moment she was accepted, being taught to sing, educated, and brought up at the Government expense.'"

Thus did Jenny Lind tell the crucial event of her life in her own graphic manner.

At eighteen she came out as an opera singer, appearing as Agatha in "Der FreischÜtz," Alice in "Robert le Diable," and many other parts. During the two years that followed, she caused considerable damage to her voice, partly through overstrain, partly through ignorance of the true principles of voice-emission. As soon as she realised what had happened she determined to go to Paris, for she had been long convinced that there was one man alone from whom she could learn all those technicalities of the art of singing of which she knew so little and longed to know so much. And the name of that man was Manuel Garcia, whose fame as a teacher had, even at that early period of his career, already travelled to Sweden.

It was not long before her project was put into execution. On Thursday, July 1, 1841, Mdlle. Lind, now in her twenty-first year, embarked on the steamship Gauthiod for LÜbeck.

After a few days of rest and enjoyment she proceeded to HÂvre by steamboat and thence by diligence to Paris.

Here we can take up the narrative as it is told by Canon Holland:—

"On leaving Sweden she had brought with her a letter of introduction to the Duchesse de Dalmatie (Madame la MarÉchale Soult) from her relative, Queen Desideria, the wife of MarÉchal Bernadotte, who had become King of Sweden and Norway in the year 1818, under the title of Karl XIV. Johann.

"As a result of the letter she received an invitation, soon after her arrival, for a reception at Madame Soult's house. It was understood that she would be asked to sing, and Signor Garcia was specially requested by the Duchess to be present that he might hear the new arrival.

"She gave some Swedish songs, accompanying herself on the pianoforte, but either through nervousness or fatigue she does not appear to have done herself justice, and her singing did not produce a very favourable effect upon the assembled guests. Her voice was worn not only from over-exertion but from want of that careful management which can only be acquired by long training under a thoroughly competent master.

"Such training she had never had. She had formed her own ideal of the difficult rÔles that had been entrusted to her at the Royal Theatre in Stockholm, and had tried to reach that ideal by the only means she knew of—very pernicious means indeed. The result was that the voice had been very cruelly injured. The mischief had been seriously aggravated by the fatigue consequent upon a long and arduous provincial tour; and the effect was a chronic hoarseness, painful enough to produce marked symptoms of deterioration upon the fresh young voice which had never been taught either the proper method of singing or the cultivation of style necessary for the development of its natural charm.

"Manuel Garcia was not slow to perceive all this, and he afterwards told a lady who questioned him upon the subject that the Swedish soprano was at that time altogether wanting in the qualities needed for presentation before a highly cultivated audience.

"Soon after this Mademoiselle Lind called by appointment upon the maestro, who then occupied a pleasant deuxiÈme Étage in a large block of houses in the Square d'Orleans, near the Rue Saint Lazare. It was a handsome residence, built around a turfed courtyard, with a fountain in the centre and a large tree on each side.

"As on this occasion she formally requested the great teacher to receive her as a pupil, he examined her voice more carefully than he had been able to do at Madame Soult's party.

"After making her sing through the usual scales and forming his own opinion of the power and compass of her organ, he asked her for the well-known scena from 'Lucia di Lammermoor'—'PerchÈ non ho.' In this, unhappily, she broke down completely—in all probability through nervousness, for she had appeared in the part of Lucia at the Stockholm Theatre no less than thirty-nine times only the year before, and the music must therefore have been familiar to her. However, let the cause have been what it might, the failure was complete, and upon the strength of it the maestro pronounced his terrible verdict: 'It would be useless to teach you, mademoiselle; you have no voice left.'

"It is necessary that these words should be distinctly recorded, for their misquotation in the newspapers and elsewhere has led to a false impression, equally unjust to master and pupil. The exact words were—'Vous n'avez plus de voix,' not 'Vous n'avez pas de voix.' Jenny Lind had once possessed a voice, as Garcia realised perfectly clearly, but it had been so strained by over-exertion and a faulty method of emission that for the time being scarcely a shred of it remained.

"The effect of this sentence of hopeless condemnation upon an organisation so highly strung as hers may be readily conceived. But her courage was equal to the occasion, though she told Mendelssohn, years afterwards, that the anguish of that moment exceeded all that she had ever suffered in her whole life. Yet her faith in her own powers never wavered for an instant. There was a fire within her that no amount of discouragement could quench. Instead, therefore, of accepting his verdict as a final one, she asked, with tears in her eyes, what she was to do. Her trust in the maestro's judgment was no less firm than that which she felt in the reality of her own vocation. In the full conviction that if she could only persuade him to advise her, his counsel would prove invaluable, she did not hesitate to make the attempt, and the result fully justified the soundness of her conclusions.

"Moved by her evident distress, he recommended her to give her voice six weeks of perfect rest,—to abstain during the whole of that time from singing even so much as one single note, and to speak as little as possible. Upon condition that she strictly carried out these injunctions, he gave her permission to come to him again when the period of probation was ended, in order that he might see whether anything could be done for her. Intense indeed must have been the relief when these six weeks had at last expired.

"Once more Mdlle. Lind sought an interview with the master, and this time her hopes were crowned with success. Signor Garcia found the voice so far re-established by rest that he was able to give good hope of its complete restoration, provided that the faulty methods which had so nearly resulted in its destruction were abandoned. With the view of attaining this end he agreed to give her two lessons of an hour each regularly every week—an arrangement which set all her anxieties at rest.

"The delight of the artist at being once more permitted to sing may be readily imagined. Though discouraged sometimes by the immense amount she had to learn—and, with still greater difficulty, to unlearn—she never lost heart; and so rapidly did the vocal organs recover from the exhaustion from which they had been suffering, that before long she was able to practise her scales and exercises daily for the fullest length of time which a singer could manage without over-exerting the voice."

The lessons were commenced about the 25th of August, and were continued without a break from then until the month of July, 1842.

Jenny Lind thus describes her first introduction to the new system in a letter to her friend, FrÖken Marie Ruckman:—

"PARIS, Sept. 10, 1841.

"I have already had five lessons from Signor Garcia, the brother of Madame Malibran. I have to begin again from the beginning, to sing scales up and down slowly and with great care, then to practise the shake—awfully slowly, and to try to get rid of the hoarseness if possible. Moreover, he is very particular about the breathing. I trust I have made a happy choice. Anyhow, he is the best master, and expensive enough—twenty francs for an hour! But what does that signify if only he can teach me to sing?"