MADAME CATALANI.

First published in the Knight’s Quarterly Magazine, January, 1824

AND now, said Lady Mary, reprenons le sujet des cantatrices. Let us take a more excursive range, and, leaving the warblers of our own isle, consider the exotic productions of a warmed climate; and first, “hail, foreign wonder,” thou vast Leviathan of song, stupendous Catalani!

ED. BR. I shall never forget the vague sensations of childish delight, which even the sound of that wonder-working name excited in me, when, having scarcely numbered eight summers, I was told one happy evening, that I should hear Catalani, then appearing for the first time in England, at the Opera House. O, blissful era; before we begin to define what gives us pleasure — before we learn to criticise, or blame — when all is warmth, rapture, and illusion! I cannot give any distinct account of what I thought, or felt on that (to me) memorable evening. In the first place, the Opera House — what a grandiloquent and mighty sound did that appellation carry with it to my inexperienced ears! What a multitude of strange, yet pleasing ideas, did it summon up, as by a spell! I had never been there before. Were I to dilate upon this subject, I fear that you would accuse me of covertly borrowing from the delightful Elia of the London Magazine, who describes so eloquently the sensations that accompanied his “ first play.”

I will, therefore boldly quote from him at once — for what other words than his own could supply so well,

 

“The shifts and turns,

Th’ expedients and inventions multiform,

To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms

Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win,

T’ arrest the fleeting images, that fill

The mirror of the mind?”

 

Thus, then.— “When we got in, and I beheld the green curtain that veiled a heaven to my imagination, which was soon to be disclosed — the breathless anticipations I endured! The boxes full of well-dressed women of quality, the pilasters adorned with a glittering substance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed) resembling — a homely fancy — but I judged it to be sugar-candy, — yet, to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy! The orchestra lights at length arose, those ‘fair Auroras!’ the bell sounded; the curtain drew up — and (to proceed in my own person) in rushed Catalani, with a musical shriek, which thrilled every nerve in my body. The opera was La Sèmiramide. She is flying from her husband’s ghost; — she entreats the perturbed spirit, to let her rest; — she exclaims with anguish, “Lascia mi, Lascia mi in pace.” The attitude, so wild, yet so graceful — the look of beautiful horror — the very words, though I have never seen, or heard them since, are all marvellously imprinted on my mind. The rest has faded from my recollection — except an indistinct and mysterious sort of image, which I have before my mental eyes, of a tomb scarcely discerned upon the darkened stage, and Catalani wandering near it with a dagger in her grasp. She plunges it in her bosom; — she sinks upon the steps of the tomb she breathes forth her soul, like the swan of Cayster, in dying harmony. To fall at once into the profound of Bathos, I own that I did (at the time) think it a little odd, that any one should sing while in the agonies of death, but I have no doubt that the oddity only increased the charm to my youthful imagination.

The next time that I heard Catalani was in Paris; I was then fifteen — an age at which all illusion has not yet left the mind; while the powers of judging, discriminating, and appreciating are fast unfolding themselves. Before I went to the theatre, I endeavoured to anticipate the pleasure I was about to enjoy, by recalling, as far as I was able, the impression which this wonderful performer had left upon my memory; but all was vague, and dim; I retained only a confused idea of tones, unlike those of the human voice — birdlike shakes; and, above all, of a peculiar vibration on a high note, like the undulating sound produced by running the finger round a water-glass. Thus was curiosity added to anticipation. The feeling was, “I am now about to know what it was I heard then.” I was at length so wrought up, that I could have jumped Out to push at the back of the old creeping fiacre, in which I was accompanying some ladies to the opera, as if I could have thus accelerated its motion. There are boxes in the French Opera House of singular construction; they are (as the French express it) “pratiqués” within the pillars that support the tiers, with openings for sight, invisible to those without, between the flutings of the column. They are only calculated to hold two, who, themselves unseen, can see all that is going forward. On an ordinary occasion, the situation for a female is by no means a reputable one — but on this, when every part of the theatre was occupied by the first company, when a hundred guineas had been even offered for a box, ladies thought themselves fortunate in being safely seated dans une loge de colonne. Here, then, I was placed, with one of the ladies of our party.

LADY M. She could not have been either remarkably young, or remarkably handsome, to submit to being thus hidden “from the garish day” of lamps and chandeliers; unless, indeed, she were in love with you, — but that your tender years forbade.

ED. BR. I have known such a miracle as a fair modest girl, who would really have answered to the idea conveyed in Mrs. Charlotte Smith’s beautiful lines; —

 

“Miranda, mark, where shrinking from the gale,

(Its modest leaves impearl’d with early dew)

That fair, faint flower, the lily of the vale,

Droops its meek head and looks methinks like you.”

 

But, leaving you to the delights of conjecture, I will only affirm that for my own part, I was abundantly satisfied with my place in the pillar. Indeed, it was the very idéal of the sort of situation, in which I always desire to hear music. How does the pressure and presence of a mob destroy the feeling and passion of harmony! One is not ashamed to weep at a tragedy where tears are drawn down many an iron cheek, but there are so few who feel music intensely, that “the melting mood” seems out of place at a concert, and, in a man, unmanly; — yet, I own, that I am so often obliged to resort to every artifice of coughing, hemming, and stealing my pocket-handkerchief to my eyes, under pretence of carrying it no farther than my nose, that I continually wish for Prince Darling’s ring to make myself invisible, and have a good cry outright. For this reason, I could often exclaim, in the emphatic language of Coleridge: —

 

“Nor cold, nor stern my soul; Yet I detest

These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,

Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast

In intricacies of laborious song.

“They feel not Music’s genuine power, nor deign

To melt at Nature’s passion-warbled plaint;

But, when the long-breathed singers uptrill’d strain

Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment.”

 

And, when I think how I have sate listening, in all the luxury of unrestraint, to the voice of the gentle — , the country curate’s wife, I am disposed to apostrophize her in the words of the same poet; —

 

“But oh —— when midnight wind careers,

And the gust, pelting on the out-house shed,

Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,

Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead,

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands;

Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures

Whatever tones, and melancholy pleasures

The things of nature utter.”

 

LADY M. Let me remind you that you have wandered from your box at the Opera, to the fire-side of our happy friend, who writes such pretty tales; and from Catalani, to his fascinating dark-eyed wife.

ED. BR. Je reprends le fil de mon discours. Never did I behold so magnificent a spectacle, as the Parisian Opera House on that night presented. It was, perhaps, rendered more striking by its contrast to the usual habits of the French theatres, where, as your ladyship knows, the faint light of a few miserable candles gleams dimly over the slouching bonnets, and dowdy shawls of the belles, who shroud their charms in a melancholy undress. But there, and then, all was light, and glitter, and bright diamonds, and brighter eyes, and waving plumes, and jewel-hilted swords, and multi-coloured regimentals. The stage was converted into a splendid orchestra; the musicians ranged in a semicircle, tier above tier, leaving a space in the centre for the enchantress of the evening; she is surely about to make her appearance, for all the theatre rise up with one impulse. No! it is only the homage paid by Parisian gallantry to a celebrated beauty, who has just entered her box. Alas! poor England, nothing short of royalty can exact such a tribute from thee! Now, the first stealing note of the orchestra begins; they are playing Haydn’s Surprise Movement.

I have always thought (for to me all music is a succession of mental images) that this composition resembles the stealing of some trembling wretch, through a midnight brake, to elude pursuers, who, at an unexpected moment, all burst in upon him at once. Never did I hear this illusion so well kept up, as then: the pit-a-pat notes scarcely more audible than the throbbing of that trembler’s heart, now here, now there, coming from one knew not what part of the orchestra, groping their way, as it were, through all the intricacies of innumerable vidlins, — and then the sudden, universal, short burst of kettle-drums, serpents, trumpets, haut-boys, double-basses, &c. &c., like the explosion of a bomb, or the sort of thunderclap that immediately follows its flash, producing upon the mind all the reality of surprise, and exacting from the stoutest nerves an involuntary start;— “all this I never heard, before, or since, so perfectly and faultlessly effected. The last note of the symphony died away — all was silence, except that sort of intense murmur, which seems to exist without a voice, a breath, a movement, and to be the disembodied spirit of expectation. At length —

 

“Some saw a hand, and some an arm,

And some the waving of a gown,”

 from behind the side columns; and immediately the reins were thrown upon the neck of enthusiasm — hand and lip broke their fetters — all was tumult, rapture, and applause. Like the princess of a fairy tale, preceded by her dwarf, with dignified elegance, admirably contrasted by the little squat figure of her Pacolet of a husband, Monsieur Vallebreque, who led her in. Catalani appeared, simply drest in white satin, with a plume of white feathers nodding above her animated countenance.

I was disappointed in the first tones of her voice — merely because they were human. Nothing short of the music of the spheres, or a seraph’s song could have satisfied me just at that moment; but soon every faculty was absorbed in wonder and admiration; there is a passionate earnestness in Catalani’s singing, which carries all before it, aided by

“The mind, the music, breathing from her face—”

 that face of such surpassing beauty with all the warmth of an Italian climate sparkling in her eyes, and glowing on her cheek — the true Corinne of the Capitol. I describe her as she was then, yet unspoiled by foreign trickery; when the delicacy of her singing was as remarkable as its power; when every note won its easy way from undistorted lips, graced by a winning smile; when not a look or gesture “o’erstepped the modesty of nature.” Never was there such perfect fascination.

I waited eagerly for the extraordinary undulating tone, which I mentioned before, so like a musical glass. Catalani made use of it twice, in the course of the evening. The note, oh which the vibration is produced, is said to be higher than the highest key on the piano; the Italians call it “la voce di testa” because the voice is thrown up into the head, instead of being drawn from the chest; and the English amateurs give it the name of “double falsetto” For myself, I never heard any one employ it but Catalani. She appeared to make a sort of preparation previous to its utterance, and never approached it by the regular scale. It began with an inconceivably fine thin tone, which gradually swelled both in volume and power, till it

 

“Made the ears vibrate and the heart-strings thrill.”

 

It particularly resembles the highest note of the nightingale, which is reiterated each time more intensely, and which, with a sort of ventriloquism, seems scarcely to proceed from the same bird that the moment before poured her low delicious warblings at an interval so disjoined. Another phenomenon of voice, peculiar to Catalani, was the scintillating rapidity with which she ascended and descended the scale by semitones. The ascent I have heard, though rarely, accomplished by other singers; but she alone could descend with the same playful ease and apparent absence of all effort, as correctly and gracefully as the flute of Drouet, or the violin of Mori. This has always been considered as a feat the most difficult of achievement, when carried to perfection, of any in the executive part of music, even upon an instrument. What then must it be for the human voice, the precision of which depends on the minutest variations of the larynx!

I will not run the risk of tiring your ladyship by dwelling any longer on the delights of that evening. Suffice it to say, that whether Catalani displayed, in the impassioned Scéna, or the brilliant Aria, her depth and feeling, or her light, airy gracefulness, her performance was the triumph of genius, and the masterpiece of art. The French were astonished. They, whose style of music is so coldly correct, and so correctly feeble, knew not what to think of such daring flights, Such overwhelming force, such volcanic light and heat. The newspapers were full of panegyric — but in this case it was difficult even for Gallic eloquence to exaggerate such transcendent powers. Here extravagance was congruity, and hyperbole was truth. Nay, I am even disposed to concede to the most startling encomium bestowed upon Madame Catalani by the Parisian journals; which was, “that she combined in her unrivalled throat the power and compass of at least a dozen voices blended into one.”

LADY M. Vraiment cela est un pen de trop! But have you heard Catalani since that rapturous evening?

ED. BR. About two years ago, after her first return from the Continent.

LADY M. Well, what think you? Do you concur in the general voice that her powers have been only matured during her absence from England?

ED. BR. Alas, I must be content to appear quite an unfashionable in your ladyship’s eyes! Though every body that is any body says, that Catalani is as great as ever, I, who am nobody cannot help thinking that she is grown too great, that she has swelled out of all measure, and has lost the Attic proportion, and loveliness of her style of singing. Alas, there are graces, which may be too full blown; and I pity the taste which could prefer the staring expansion of a cabbage rose to the fresh unfolding beauties of its bud. It is said, that Queen Charlotte being asked her opinion of Catalani’s singing, said, with German emphasis, “I was wishing for a little cotton in ray ears all the time.” Now this was precisely the feeling; with which I last heard this once enchanting singer. I had a young relation with me, a simple-hearted boy, and I asked him what he thought of Madame Catalani. He replied, “I never heard a woman with so loud a voice.” This was really the one predominating impression on the mind — the overpowering, the terrific loudness. When rushing up the scale, every note seemed to increase in force, till all melody was lost, and the ear positively pained by the stress upon its auditory nerves. There is no term in the vocabulary of music to convey an adequate idea of the excess of loudness. “Fortissimo” is faint. Nothing but a reiterated superlative will do—” Fortissimo — issimo — issimo.” From Edinburgh, methinks, her voice would sound endurably in London; as, it is reported, a wit replied, when asked if he were not going to York to hear Madame Catalani, “I shall hear her better where L am.” In vain I listened for that sweet nightingale note, which was to the rest of Catalani’s singing as “the crowning rose of the whole wreath.” Her upper tones are entirely perished. But (say her admirers)

“she has gained more than a compensation of low ones.” Oh, at the expense of how much sweetness has she acquired that masculine depth of voice — those “coups de canon,” which, in the witty language of Phil. Fudge, are”, doubtless, “the music of the spears,” because they “run through one.” The truth is, that “Time, who pilfers as he goes,” from every one, on the wrong side of —

LADY M. Beware how you fix the era of

 

        — — “the certain age

Which yet the most uncertain age appears.” —

 

ED. BR. I am sure that your ladyship has no cause for alarm. But lest any of the fair readers of the Quarterly Magazine should take offence, I will merely say, that time, which has had no power upon the beauty” of Madame Catalani, has nevertheless “sucked the honey of her breath.” Perhaps, like Braham, she is partly obliged to substitute force for sweetness, and, conscious that she can no longer charm by delicacy of execution, to aim at astonishing by its power. But, oh, that I had never taken my place in the Bath coach, when I heard that she was triumphing there! — Then might I have ‘retained uninjured upon my mind the impression of her unabated excellence, and spared adding to my melancholy mementos another trophy of that omnipotent spoiler — Time!

LADY M. Well ranted, and extremely pathetic. Had you not better apostrophize the Bath coach for being so cruet as to carry you safely to the fatal spot of your disenchantment?

ED. BR. That were, indeed, a theme “unattempted yet in prose or rhyme but I must hasten to the conclusion of my observations. Catalani’s former simplicity of deportment is not less changed than the style of her singing, Her chaste action is become redundant, her expression exaggerated; her whole manner is grown into a caricature of its former self. When she begins one of those interminable roulades up the scale, she gradually raises her body, which she had before stooped to almost a level with the ground, until having won her way, with quivering lip, and chattering chin, to the very topmost note, she tosses back her head, and all its nodding feathers, with an air of triumph; then suddenly falls to a note two octaves and a half lower, with incredible aplomb; and smiles like a victorious Amazon over a conquered enemy.

LADY M. Would that great singers knew how to spare those eternal flourishes! I have often thought that it would be a good plan if they could be persuaded to come forward at the beginning of a concert, and shew us all they could do in the way of ornament imprimis, and then sing simply for the rest of the evening.

ED. BR. In such a case, I should beg to be admitted at half-price. But singers never will correct their faults as long as they get applause by them from the multitude, and are upheld by the flattery of their minor satellites. No sooner does Catalani quit the orchestra, than she is beset by a host of foreign sycophants, who load her with exaggerated praise. I was present at a scene of this kind in the refreshment-room at Bath, and heard reiterated on all sides, “Ah, Madame! la derniere fois toujours la meilleure!” Thus is poor Madame Catalani led to strive to excel herself, every time she sings, until she exposes herself to the ridicule, most probably, of those very flatterers; for I have heard that on the Continent she is mimicked by a man, dressed in female attire, who represents, by extravagant tones and gestures, Madame Catalani surpassing herself. Nor can the voice of truth reach the poor lady even in the recesses of her own home, for there is that conceited coxcomb, Vallebrêque, offering incense to the idol of the crowd. I was introduced to that puppy, and began to say something, in praise of his wife’s singing — a very unnecessary compliment indeed; for, seating himself gravely, with an oratorical air, he pronounced the following eulogium, doubtless for the 999th time:—” Madame Catalani certainly is the first singer in the world. She has sentiment for those who delight in sentimentality. She has bravura for those who are fond of ornament. She has taste, feeling, depth, facility, imagination!!!”

Lest I should seem to conclude in a style of too much severity, I must do Catalani the justice to say, that she is still occasionally all herself. Her Luther’s hymn is a masterpiece. She admits into this grandly-simple composition no ornament whatever, but a pure shake at the conclusion. The majesty of her sustained tones, so rich, so ample, as not only to fill but overflow the cathedral, where I heard her, — the solemnity of her manner, and the St. Cecilia-like expression of her raised eyes, and rapt countenance, produce a thrilling effect through the united medium of sight and hearing. When she says,

“The trumpet sounds — the graves restore

The dead, which they contained before,”

 

One half expects that her voice will indeed “burst the marble fetters of the tomb.” Whoever has heard Catalani sing this, accompanied by Schmidt on the trumpet, has heard the utmost that music can do. Then, in the succeeding chorus, when the same awful words are repeated by the whole choral strength, how her voice pierces through the clang of instruments, and the burst of other voices, heard as distinctly as if it were alone! During the encore, I found my way to the top of a tower on the outside of the cathedral, and could still distinguish her wonderful voice.

LADY M.I was amused by a letter, which I received the other day from a young enthusiastic girl, who had just heard Catalani sing, and who had never heard any thing like good music before. “I love music, and Madame Catalani; I felt quite mad with pleasure. Her voice seems too wonderful to be comprehended. Her whole body seems to sing.”

ED. BR. Well, “take her, all in all, we ne’er shall look upon her like again.” But I fear that I have detained your ladyship by rather a long-winded discussion. Parlons d’autres choses.

E. B.