It is impossible in these chapters to make more than a passing sketch of many famous singers, and we must therefore be content with the mere mention of such as Fodor, Camporese, Pisaroni, and Damoreau, who all, in their day, attained high renown.

We now come to Giuditta Pasta, who must be placed in the very front rank, as an artist who could transform natural faults into the rarest beauties, who could make the world forgive the presence of many deficiencies, and who engraved deeper impressions on the memory of her hearers than any other, even in an age of great singers. Her voice at first was limited, husky, and weak, without charm, without flexibility. Though her countenance spoke, its features were cast in a coarse mould. Her figure was ungraceful, her movements were awkward, and, at the end of her first season, she found herself a dire failure. She suddenly withdrew from the operatic world and betook herself to study, and when she reappeared she made a great impression. By sheer industry she had increased the range of her voice to two octaves and a half. Her tones had become rich and sweet, her shake was most beautiful, but her genius as a tragedienne surpassed her talent as a singer.

Poetical and enthusiastic by temperament, the crowning excellence of her art was a grand simplicity. There was a sublimity in her expression of vehement passion which was the result of measured force, energy which was never wasted, exalted pathos that never overshot the limits of art. Vigorous without violence, graceful without artifice, she was always greatest when the greatest emergency taxed her powers.

No one could ever sing “Tancredi” like Pasta; “Desdemona” furnished the theme for the most lavish praises of the critics; “Medea” is said to have been the grandest lyric interpretation in the records of art. She had literally worked her way up to eminence, and, having attained the height, she stood on it firm and secure.

Madame Pasta was associated in many of her successes with the tenor Garcia, more celebrated as the father of Malibran and Viardot, and as one of the greatest vocal teachers of the century; with the baritone Bordogni, and the basso Levasseur.

Honors were showered upon her in all parts of Europe, and it is said that her operatic salary of L14,000 was nearly doubled by her income from other sources; but she lost nearly her entire fortune by the failure of a banker in Vienna, and, in the endeavor to retrieve her fortunes, she remained on the stage long after her vocal powers were on the wane.

Rossini, the celebrated composer, married an opera singer, Isabella Angela Colbran. She was born at Madrid, her father being court musician to the King of Spain. Among her teachers was the celebrated Crescentini, and her style and voice being formed by him, she was, from 1806 to 1815, considered one of the best singers in Europe. After that time her voice began to depart; but, as she was a great favorite with the King of Naples, she remained at that city till 1821, and all good, loyal Neapolitans were expected to enjoy her singing, which was sometimes excruciatingly out of tune. She was born in 1785, but it was not until 1822 that she married Rossini, who was seven years her junior. In 1824 she went with her husband to London, and they made a great pecuniary success, besides being greatly admired for artistic taste in private concerts.

Some four years after the appearance of Madame Pasta another star of the first magnitude appeared, Henrietta Sontag, a beautiful and fascinating woman, and, as some say, the greatest German singer of the century. Nature gave her a pure soprano voice of rare and delicate quality, united with incomparable sweetness. Essentially a singer and not a declamatory artist, the sentiment of grace was carried to such a height in her art that it became equivalent to the more robust passion and force which distinguished some of her great contemporaries.

She began singing minor parts at the theatre at the early age of eight, and her regular debut in opera took place when she was only fifteen. “She appeared to sing,” we are told, “with the volubility of a bird, and to experience the pleasure she imparted.” Her great art lay in rendering pleasing whatever she did. The ear was never disturbed by a harsh note.

The most romantic stories circulated about the adoration lavished upon her by men of rank and wealth, and it was reported that no singer ever had so many offers of marriage from people of exalted station. But she had met in Berlin a Piedmontese nobleman, Count Rossi, to whom she became affianced, and Mlle. Sontag refused all the flattering overtures made by her admirers. One of her most ardent lovers was De Beriot, the great violinist, who, on his rejection, fell into a deep state of despondency, from which the fascinations of the beautiful Malibran at length roused him. Sontag’s union with Rossi was for a long time kept secret on account of the objections of his family, but she retired from the stage and lived nearly twenty years of happy life in the various capitals of Europe, to which her husband, attached to the Sardinian legation, was accredited. At length, in 1848, her fortune was swept away in the political revolution, and she announced her intention of returning to the stage. She was at once offered L17,000 for the season at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London, and on her first appearance it was evident that time had but developed the artist. What little her voice had lost was more than compensated for by the deeper passion and feeling which permeated her efforts, and she was rapturously greeted. In 1852 she made a tour of the large cities of the United States, where she quickly established herself as one of the greatest favorites, in spite of the fact that Malibran and Jenny Lind had preceded her, and that the country had hardly recovered from the Lind mania. In New Orleans she entered into an engagement to sing in the City of Mexico; but while her agent was absent in Europe, gathering together an operatic company, she was seized with cholera and died in a few hours.

Joseph Staudigl, who was born in 1807, at Wollersdorf, Austria, was one of the most distinguished and accomplished bassos of the first half of this century. He was a man of varied gifts and ardent temperament, frank, open, and amiable. In 1825 he entered upon his novitiate in the Benedictine monastery at Melk, but two years later he went to Vienna to study surgery. Here his funds gave out, and he was glad to sing in the chorus at the Kaernthnerthor Theatre. In due course the opportunity offered for him to take leading parts, and he soon gained a great reputation. He was also a great singer of church music and oratorio, for which branches of music he had an inborn love.

Staudigl’s last appearance took place in 1856, on Palm Sunday, for a few days later he became a victim to insanity, from which he never recovered. He made repeated tours abroad, and was much admired wherever he went. As a singer of Schubert’s Lieder he was without a rival, and his performances of the “Erlkoenig,” the “Wanderer,” and “Aufenthalt” were considered wonderful. His death occurred in 1861, and his funeral was the occasion of a great demonstration.

Manuel Garcia, the tenor, had two daughters who both achieved the highest distinction on the operatic stage. The eldest, Maria Felicien, became Madame Malibran, and she is mentioned to-day as one of the most wonderful operatic singers that the world has produced. Daring originality stamped her life as a woman and her career as an artist, and the brightness with which her star shone through a brief and stormy history had something akin in it to the dazzling but capricious passage of a meteor.

As a child she was delicate, sensitive, and self-willed, and she had a prodigious instinct for art. Nevertheless, her voice was peculiarly intractable, being thin in the upper notes, veiled in the middle tones, and her intonation very imperfect. On leaving school she was taken in hand by her father, who was more pitiless to her than to his other pupils. He understood her disposition thoroughly, and said that she could never become great except at the price of much suffering, for her proud and stubborn spirit required an iron hand to control it.

Soon after making her debut she went with her father to America, for he had conceived a project for establishing opera in the United States. His company consisted of himself, Madame Garcia, a son, and his daughter. Maria’s charming voice and personal fascination held the public spellbound, and raised the delight of opera-goers to a wild pitch of enthusiasm. While in New York, a French merchant, M. Francois Eugene Malibran, fell passionately in love with her, and she, being sick of her father’s brutality, and the supposed great fortune of Malibran dazzling her imagination, married him, though in opposition to her father’s will. A few weeks after the marriage M. Malibran was a bankrupt, and imprisoned for debt, and his bride discovered that she had been cheated by a cunning scoundrel, who had calculated on saving himself from poverty by dependence on the stage earnings of his wife. Garcia and the rest of his family went to Mexico, where he succeeded in losing his fortune. Madame Malibran remained in New York with her husband; but at the end of five months she wearied of her hard fate, and, leaving him, returned to Paris. Here she soon had the world at her feet, for the novelty and richness of her style of execution set her apart from all other singers as a woman of splendid and inventive genius.

Her voice was a mezzo-soprano, naturally full of defects, and, to the very last, she was obliged to go through her exercises every day to keep it flexible; but by the tremendously severe discipline to which her father’s teaching subjected her, its range extended so that it finally reached a compass of three octaves. Her high notes had an indescribable brilliancy, and her low tones were so soft, sweet, and heart-searching that they thrilled with every varying phase of her sensibilities.

Mr. Chorley writes: “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 a health of tint, with but a slight touch of the yellow rose in her complexion, a great mobility of expression in her features, an honest, direct brightness of the eye, a refinement in the form of her head, and the set of it on her shoulders.”

Malibran could speak and write in five languages, and sing in any school. She had the characteristic of being able to fire all her fellow artists with her genius, and she was a tremendous worker. She was also very fond of outdoor exercises, being a daring horse-woman and swimmer.

On the death of her husband she married De Beriot, the violinist, to whom she had been passionately attached for some time, but shortly afterwards she was thrown from her horse, while attending a hunt in England. She sustained severe internal injury which eventually proved fatal, though not until she had made heroic efforts to continue her career, and fill all her engagements. Her death produced a painful shock throughout all Europe, for she had been as much admired and beloved as a woman, as she was worshipped as an artist.

The genius of the Garcia family shone not less in Madame Malibran’s younger sister, Pauline, than in herself. Pauline was thirteen years the junior of Maria, and did not become celebrated until after the death of her sister. In the meantime, Grisi and other great singers had appeared.

Pauline was the favorite child of Garcia. “Pauline,” he would say, “can be guided by a thread of silk, but Maria needs a hand of iron.”

At the age of six she could speak fluently in French, Spanish, Italian, and English, and to these she afterwards added German. She also learned to play the organ and piano as if by instinct. In her early days she went with her father to Mexico, where they met with many strange adventures, notably on one occasion, when they were seized by bandits, who plundered Garcia of his savings, bound him to a tree, and made him sing for his life.

Pauline was seven years old on her return to Europe, and three years later she became one of the pupils of Franz Liszt. When she was eleven her father died, and she began to study voice with Adolph Nourrit, the tenor, who had been one of her father’s favorite pupils.

Her first public appearance was made in Brussels, at the age of sixteen, and it was the first occasion on which De Beriot appeared after the death of Madame Malibran, his wife.

Pauline Garcia’s voice was like that of her sister in quality. It combined the two registers of contralto and soprano, from low F to C above the lines, but the upper part of an originally limited mezzo-soprano had been literally fabricated by an iron discipline, conducted by the girl herself with all the science of a master. Her singing was expressive, descriptive, thrilling, full, equal and just, brilliant and vibrating, especially in the medium and lower notes. Capable of every style of art, it was adapted to all the feelings of nature, but particularly to outbursts of grief, joy, or despair.

M. Viardot, the director of the Paris Opera, went to London to hear her, and was so delighted that he offered her the position of prima donna for the next season. She was then only eighteen, and by this engagement she was fairly embarked upon a brilliant career. M. Viardot fell deeply in love with her shortly after his introduction to her, and in 1840 they were married. Returning to the stage after a short retirement, Madame Viardot visited most of the great cities, and invariably received the most enthusiastic welcome. On some occasions the audience could scarcely be induced to leave the house at the end of the performance. Once she played, on account of the illness of another singer, the two parts of “Alice” and “Isabella” in “Robert le Diable,” changing her costume with each change of scene, and representing in one opera the opposite roles of princess and peasant.

After Madame Viardot’s retirement in 1862, she held for many years a professional chair at the Paris Conservatoire. In private life she has been always loved and admired, and she is to this day recognized as one of the great vocal teachers of Paris.

Adolf Nourrit, of whom the French stage is deservedly proud, was a pupil of Garcia, and for ten years was principal tenor at the Academie, creating all the leading tenor roles produced during that time. He was idolized by the public, and was a man of much influence in musical circles. He gave a distinct stamp and flavor to all his parts, and was as refined and pleasing in comedy as he was pathetic and commanding in tragedy. It was he who popularized the songs of Schubert, and otherwise softened the French prejudice against the German music of his time. In private life he was witty, genial, and refined, and was, therefore, a favorite guest at the most distinguished and exclusive “salons.” Nourrit was subject to alternate fits of excitement and depression, and was affected to such a degree by some articles praising his rival, Duprez, at his expense, that his friends feared for his sanity. Eventually, while filling an engagement in Italy, he threw himself out of his bedroom window and was instantly killed on the paved courtyard below.

Duprez, like Nourrit, was a student at the Paris Conservatoire, and for many years a leading figure at the Academie. At first he was not a success in opera, but, by dint of study and hard work, he achieved a high reputation. In person he was insignificant, but his tragic passion and splendid intelligence gave him a deserved prominence. He composed much music, including two masses and eight operas, and was the writer of a highly esteemed musical method. After finishing his operatic career he became a professor of singing at the Conservatoire.

Madame Grisi, who made her debut in 1823, and held her place as one of the greatest singers for many years, was the daughter of an Italian officer of engineers, and her mother’s sister was the once celebrated Grassini, a contemporary of Mrs. Billington and Madame Mara.

Giulietta Grisi, as a child, was too delicate to receive any musical training; but her ambition caused her to learn the pianoforte by her own efforts, and her imitation of her sister Giuditta’s vocal exercises indicated to her family the bent of her tastes.

In due course she entered the conservatoire in her native town, and was later sent to her Uncle Ragani at Bologna, where, for three years, she was under the instruction of Giacomo Guglielmi. Gradually the beautiful quality of her voice began to manifest itself. She was remarkably apt and receptive, and profited by her masters to an extraordinary degree.

For three months she studied under Filippo Celli, and in 1828 she made her debut in Rossini’s “Elmira.” Rossini was delighted with her, and the director of the theatre immediately engaged her for the carnival season.

The career thus auspiciously commenced, continued for more than a quarter of a century, during which time Grisi delighted audiences throughout the whole of Europe, and made a tour, with Mario, of the United States.

The production of Bellini’s last opera, “I Puritani,” in 1834, was one of the greatest musical events of the age, not solely on account of the work, but because of the very remarkable quartet which embodied the principal characters, Grisi, Rubini, Tamburini, and Lablache. This quartet continued in its perfection for several years, with the substitution later of Mario for Rubini, and was one of the most notable and interesting in the history of operatic music.

Giulietta Grisi’s womanly fascinations made havoc among that large class who become easily enamored of the goddesses of the theatre, and she was the object of many passionate addresses. She married in 1836 a French gentleman of fortune, M. Auguste Gerard de Melcy, but she did not retire. This marriage was unhappy, and after her release from it by divorce she became the wife of Mario, the great tenor.

Grisi united much of the nobleness and tragic inspiration of Pasta, with something of the fire and energy of Malibran; but, in the minds of the most capable judges, she lacked the creative originality which stamped each of the former two artists. Her dramatic instincts were strong and vehement, lending something of her own personality to the copy of another’s creation, and her voice as nearly reached perfection as any ever bestowed on a singer.

Madame Grisi continued before the public until 1866, although her powers were failing rapidly. In 1869 she died of inflammation of the lungs.

From the year 1834, when she made her debut at the King’s Theatre, London, until 1861, when she retired from the Royal Italian Opera, Grisi missed only one season in London, that of 1842. It was a rare thing indeed that illness or any other cause prevented her from fulfilling her engagements. She seldom disappointed the public by her absence, and never by her singing. Altogether her artistic life lasted about thirty-five years. During sixteen successive years she sang, during the season, at the Theatre des Italiens in Paris, her engagements there beginning in 1832 with her appearance as Semiramide.

Both Grisi and her husband, Mario, were much admired by the Czar Nicholas of Russia, and it is said that the Czar, meeting Grisi one day walking with her children, stopped and said facetiously, “I see, these are the pretty Grisettes.” “No,” replied Grisi, “these are my Marionettes.” Mario, too, is said to have been asked by the Czar to cut his beard in order to the better look one of his parts. This he declined to do, even when the Czarina, fearing that he might become a victim of the Czar’s displeasure, added her request. But Mario declared that it was better to incur the displeasure of the Czar than to lose his voice, saying that if they did not like him with his beard, upon which he relied for the protection of his voice, they surely would not like him without his voice.

During the height of their prosperity, Grisi and Mario lived in princely extravagance. Their family consisted of six daughters, of whom three died quite young, and they were enthusiastically devoted to one another.

Giambattista Rubini, who was for years associated with Grisi, was a native of Bergamo, where he made his debut at the age of twelve in a woman’s part, sitting afterwards at the door of the theatre between two candles, and holding a plate into which the public deposited their offerings. During his early life he belonged to several wandering companies, in which he filled the position of second tenor; but in 1814, at the age of nineteen years, he was singing in Pavia for a salary of about nine dollars a month. Before the end of his career he was paid L20,000 a year for his services at the St. Petersburg Imperial Opera.

Rubini’s countenance was mean, his figure awkward, and he had no conception of taste, character, or picturesque effect; but his voice was so incomparable in range and quality, his musical equipment and skill so great, that his memory is one of the greatest traditions of lyric art. Like so many of the great singers of his time, Rubini first gained his reputation in the operas of Bellini and Donizetti, and many of the tenor parts of these works were composed expressly for him. The immense power, purity, and sweetness of his voice have probably never been surpassed, and its compass was of two octaves, from C in the bass clef. He could also sing in falsetto as high as treble F, and with such skill that no one could detect the change into the falsetto.

Rubini died in 1852, leaving one of the largest fortunes ever amassed on the stage.

Another member of the celebrated “Puritani” quartet was Antonio Tamburini, a native of Faenze. Without any single commanding trait of genius, he seems, with the exception of Lablache, to have combined more attractive qualities than any male singer who ever appeared. He was handsome and graceful, and a master of the art of stage costume. His voice, a baritone of over two octaves in extent, was full, round, sonorous, and perfectly equal throughout. His execution was unsurpassed and unsurpassable, of a kind which at the present day is well-nigh obsolete, and is associated in the public mind with sopranos and tenors only.

An amusing instance of Tamburini’s versatility was shown at Palermo during the carnival season of 1822, when the audience attended the theatre armed with drums, trumpets, shovels, and anything that would make a noise. Tamburini, being unable to make his basso heard, sang his music in falsetto, an accomplishment which so delighted the audience that they laid aside their instruments of torture, and applauded enthusiastically. The prima donna, however, was so enraged and frightened by the rough behavior of the audience that she fled from the theatre, and the manager was at his wit’s end. Tamburini donned the fugitive’s satin dress, clapped her bonnet over his wig, and appeared on the stage with a mincing step. He sang the soprano score so admirably, burlesquing the action of the prima donna, but showing far greater powers of execution than she possessed, that his hearers were captivated. He did not shirk even the duets, but sang the woman’s part in falsetto, and his own in his natural voice.

He retired in 1859, and died at Nice in 1876.

Luigi Lablache, the basso of the “Puritani” quartet, is considered by many authorities to have been the greatest artist among men that ever appeared in opera. In stature he was a giant, and we are told that one of his boots would make a good portmanteau or one of his gloves would clothe an infant. His strength was enormous, and his voice magnificent; the vibration thereof was so tremendous that it was dangerous for him to sing in a greenhouse, though why this particular danger is noted must be left to conjecture, for there is no record in history to show that it was customary or essential to sing in greenhouses.

Anecdotes of Lablache’s generosity and noble character are plentiful, and there are some also which show that he was a lover of good jokes. Of these, perhaps the following is the most amusing. Once when the “Puritani” quartet was in Paris, Lablache was quartered at the same hotel as General Tom Thumb, who was delighting audiences at a vaudeville. An English tourist, who was making strenuous efforts to meet Tom Thumb, burst into the great basso’s apartment, but seeing such a giant, hesitated, and apologized, saying that he was looking for Tom Thumb. “I am he,” said Lablache, in his deepest tones. The Englishman, taken flat aback, exclaimed: “But you were much smaller when I saw you on the stage yesterday.” “Yes,” replied Lablache; “that is how I have to appear, but when I get home to my own rooms I let myself out and enjoy myself,” and he proceeded to entertain his visitor.

In his student days Lablache was so dominated by the desire to appear on the stage that he ran away from the conservatorium no less than five times, each time being caught and brought back in disgrace. On one occasion he engaged himself to sing at Salerno for fifteen ducats a month, and received a month’s pay in advance. He lingered two days in Naples and spent his money, apparently also disposing of most of his clothes. As he could not well appear at Salerno without luggage, he filled his portmanteau with sand, and set forth. A couple of days later he was captured by the vice-president of the conservatorium, and taken back to Naples. The impresario hastened to make good his loss by seizing the portmanteau, which, however, proved to be very disappointing.

After Lablache made his first appearance in opera his fame grew rapidly, and in a few years had reached colossal proportions. Among the honors which fell to his lot was that of being music teacher to Queen Victoria. His death, which occurred in 1858, drew forth expressions of regret from all parts of Europe, for it was felt that in Lablache the world of song had lost one of its brightest lights.

Mario, who followed Rubini as tenor in the celebrated “Puritani” quartet, was more closely connected with the career of Madame Grisi than any other singer, for he became her husband. His proper title was Mario, Cavaliere di Candia; but, in order to soothe the family pride, he was known on the stage by his Christian name only. When he first went to Paris, in 1836, he held a commission in a Piedmontese regiment. The fascinating young Italian officer was welcomed in the highest circles, for his splendid physical beauty, and his art-talents as an amateur in music, painting, and sculpture, separated him from all others, even in a throng of brilliant and accomplished men. In Paris he fell into debt, and, having a beautiful voice, he accepted the proposition of Duponchel, the manager of the opera, and entered upon stage life. Though his singing was very imperfect and amateurish, his princely beauty and delicious, fresh voice took the musical public by storm.

Mario will live in the world’s memory as the best opera-lover ever seen. In such scenes as the fourth act of “Les Huguenots,” and the last act of “Favorita,” Mario’s singing and acting were never to be forgotten by those that witnessed them. Intense passion and highly finished vocal delicacy combined to make these pictures of melodious suffering indelible. As a singer of romances he has never been equalled; in those songs where music tells the story of passion, in broad, intelligible, ardent phrases, and presents itself primarily as the vehicle of violent emotion, Mario stood ahead of all others of his age. For a quarter of a century he remained before the public of Paris, London, and St. Petersburg, but he did not finally retire until 1867.

The story of Mario’s life reads like a romance. At times he was steeped in the depths of poverty; at others, he enjoyed great wealth and lived in princely style. Shortly after his first arrival in Paris, he found himself deeply in debt, and so poor that he was obliged to sleep in a very cheap lodging-house where several people occupied one room. One night he awoke and found a man kneeling over him, to rob him. “What do you want?” asked Mario. “Your money,” was the reply. “Take all you can find, my friend,” answered Mario, “but please let me continue my dreams and my sleep.”

Mario was as careless in regard to time as to money. It is related that once upon a time he arrived half an hour early, to keep an appointment. Nobody was more surprised than Mario himself, and, after investigation, he discovered that he had mistaken eleven o’clock for five minutes to twelve, and would have been the customary half hour late if his calculations had been correct.

Mario had a particular aversion to writing letters, and when he received an invitation from some person of high degree he would frequently say, “Oh, I will write to-morrow,” and Mario’s to-morrow was the proverbial one which never came. He was nevertheless kind and thoughtful for every one, and to his personal graces and charms he owes his reputation as much as to his art, for he was always more or less of an amateur. His wonderful gifts were not developed by study, like the equally wonderful voice of Rubini, who surpassed in this respect every tenor before or after.

As an instance of the admiration in which Mario was held by the fair sex, we are told that a certain lady followed him wherever he sang. She never spoke to him, never tried to press herself upon him, but never missed a performance in any part of the world in which he sang, except on three occasions when she was prevented by sickness. This continued for a period of forty years.

Like all men of similar disposition, Mario was subject to fits of wild, unreasoning jealousy, and his domestic life with Grisi was not always of the smoothest nature, though there was absolutely no cause for jealousy on either side. On one occasion, Mario is said to have worked himself up into such a state of excitement that he smashed everything in the room. Grisi, too, once reached so great a depth of despair that she rushed out to drown herself. A fleet-footed friend followed her, and reached her just as she was preparing to make the final plunge. All kinds of arguments were used to turn her from her purpose, but in vain, until her rescuer pictured to her how dirty and muddy she would look when taken out of the river. This argument prevailed, and the prima donna deferred her demise.

In spite of the large amount of money earned by Mario, he retired from the stage a poor man. His improvidence was magnificent. Twice the public subscribed for his needs, and once, the old unthriftiness about him still, he flung away his capital and was royally penniless again.

At Rome, in which city he spent his last days, he was given the post of curator of the Museum; but the glory of his past still adhered to him, and he was surrounded by a host of admirers, who enjoyed hearing the old man talk about his adventures. He died, in 1883, in the arms of Signor Augusto Rotoli. His life had been triumphant beyond the lot of all but the most fortunate, and the memory he left was singularly kind and beautiful.

A memorandum, published at the time of Mario’s retirement, states that during his career he gave, in London alone, 935 performances, of which 225 were in operas of Donizetti, 170 Meyerbeer, 143 Rossini, 112 Verdi, 82 Bellini, 70 Gounod, and 68 Mozart, the remaining 65 performances being operas of seven other composers.