University of Virginia Library

PASTA, TAGLIONI, ETC.

Who has not heard of Pasta? The “glorious Pasta”
—the “divine Pasta”—the “immortal Pasta”—the
Pasta whose fame has reached every part of Europe
where a musician lives or an opera-house exists;
and who, despite of professional rivalries and jealousies,
is allowed by universal acclamation—by
competent and incompetent judges—to have “touched
the topmost point of greatness” in her profession?
After an absence of three years from England,
she made her appearance at the King's theatre,
upon which occasion nearly all the beauty and
fashion of the metropolis assembled to welcome her
return; together with a few individuals, like your
humble servant, neither particularly beautiful nor
fashionable. I cannot say but that I attended rather
to appease my feelings of awakened curiosity than
from any sanguine anticipations of pleasure, because
I thought that my ignorance of the Italian language

would be a drawback, not to be counterbalanced by
the talents of the actress, or a bald English translation
of the opera; but, without any affectation, I
can safely say I came away as much gratified as
astonished, and as much astonished as a person of
an equable temperament can well be. Pasta is certainly
sui generis. There have been many good
actors and many good singers, but such an union
of musical excellence and Siddonian power, passion,
grace, and majesty does not, never did, and it may
be, never will exist again in the same person. She
stands alone: no comparison between her and any
other will hold good—though not so much on the
score of inferiority as dissimilarity. The piece selected
for her debut was Mayer's grand serious opera
of Medea, a part with which Madame Pasta has
become identified, and of which she holds undisputed
possession. All who have the slightest smattering
of classicality are familiar with the history
of Jason and the Golden Fleece: his desertion of
his lawful spouse Medea, his subsequent bigamious
conduct in espousing the Princess Creusa, and the
fearful retaliation of his ex-wife. The dramatist
has followed the old story or fable very closely; and
the predominating passions are consequently love,
jealousy, rage, and revenge, with a suitable climax
of horror. I have seen many fine performances,
but I never saw one in which the actor appeared
more terrifically in earnest than in this instance.
She was a complete whirlwind of the passions: a
southern vehemence pervaded every look and gesture;
yet, for all that, there was not any thing in
her acting in the slightest degree overstrained or
artificial, or which the most phlegmatic spectator
could point out as not justified by her situation in
the scene. In the first act, when endeavoring to
prevent Jason's marriage, she is merely a sublime
termagant; and it is only in the second, after all her
efforts prove fruitless, and she resolves upon revenge,
that her real triumph commences. Certainly nothing
could be finer or more touching than the irresolution
with which she regards her children when
meditating their murder—her alternate fierceness
and tenderness—her unavailing wish that she could
only kill the father's part in them—the deadly
hatred with which she regards them as Jason's offspring,
and the love and pity into which she relapses
as she feels that they are likewise her own.
Despair was never more truly or beautifully personified,
than, when about to strike the fatal blow,
she suddenly feels a mother's fondness tugging at
her heart-strings—her uplifted arm falls powerless
by her side, her head sinks upon her bosom, and
she stands a few seconds as in a trance—helpless
and desolate. The voice of Jason, heard in pursuit
of her, rouses and lashes her into fury, bordering on
insanity, and the unnatural murder is at length
consummated. I have somewhat of an Indian contempt
for gesticulation on ordinary occasions, holding
it to be Frenchified, frivolous, and ridiculous;
and all kinds of attitudinizing are my especial abhorrence.
If ever I be executed for murder, it will be
for discharging a pistol from the pit of the theatre
at some fellow who, at the sight of a ghost or an injured
friend, has thrown his legs and arms into
what he conceives a beautiful position, and loth to
give the audience too little of a good thing, continues
them in it, until the applause his evolution
has excited subsides, to the entire destruction of the
illusion of the scene. But action, when there is
heart and soul in it, and when every movement is
apparently the result of the feeling of the moment,
is an universal language; and it is extraordinary
what a sensation may at times be produced by the
sweeping of an arm or the pointing of a finger.
Pasta is continually in motion. I do not know
whether she wants repose in other parts—in Medea
the violence of the passions called into play will not
admit of it—but there is a grace, variety, and fiery
vehemence in her gestures and manner, the very
opposite of theatrical calculation and display. Some
of her attitudes are the very essence of the “sublime
and beautiful.” She appears to have something
else to think about than how the extremities of her
person are conducting themselves. The closing
scene, when, after the murder of her children, she
confronts Janson, throws the dagger reeking with
their blood towards him, exclaiming, as he turns
away with horror, “Ha! traitor—dost thou shun
me?” is perfectly appalling. Of Pasta's astonishing
voice it may be said that its claims to pre-eminence
rest rather upon its enormous power than its
quality—not that it is deficient in the latter respect,
but the former is its distinguishing characteristic;
the manner in which it fills and rings through
the immense opera-house is wonderful. It is, in
the lower tones, what is termed a “veiled” voice—
that is, in plain English, rather husky; but this,
which to others would be a serious disadvantage, is,
on many occasions, of signal service to Pasta, particularly
in depicting the stronger passions, such as
despair or horror; the upper tones are remarkably
full and clear, and all that can be desired. Upon
the whole, she is one of the wonders of the age,
whose merits have not been overrated; and, if ever
she cross the Atlantic, I am not afraid that what I
have ventured to say in her behalf, will appear at
all exaggerated.

London is certainly a pleasant place in many
respects—you can have the very best of every thing
if you desire it, and merely for paying extravagantly
for it. As soon as the first singer in the
world, in her line, had withdrawn her claims to
public attention for the evening, the first dancer in
the world, to wit, Taglioni, put in hers. Do not be
afraid! My enthusiasm about her was only transitory,
and I am not going to be eloquent or tedious
(as the discriminating or foolish reader may think
me) in her praise to any alarming extent. Besides,
there is nothing astonishing about Taglioni—at
least according to the common acceptation of the
word—nothing to gape and wonder at; and in any
of the minor theatres in London, or elsewhere, I
have no doubt she would be accounted immensely
inferior to Mademoiselles Celeste, Constance, Heloise,
and other spinners around on one leg, who unblushingly
call themselves dancers. Her style is
rather distinguished by ease, grace, and elegance,
than energy and spirit. She has not the fire or
nimbleness of Ronzi Vestris, but her manner is
more refined; and she has less of the trickery of
the art than even that polished danseuse. Perhaps
there are as many points of resemblance between
Taglioni and Mrs. Austin as can possibly exist between
two accomplished mistresses of such widely

different arts. (Every thing now-a-days, dancing,
tailoring, and cookery comes under the comprehensive
head of “arts and sciences.”) Both exhibit
the same heedlessness of mere effect, and appear to
have about an equal contempt for what the French
term a tour de force. A degree of languor, almost
amounting to indifference, seems to pervade both,
and both achieve the most difficult triumphs in their
art with so little effort that the uninitiated spectator
remains almost unconscious that any thing uncommon
has been accomplished. Both, in short, belong
to that scarce and valuable class of public characters
who seek rather to delight than astonish—who appeal
rather to the good sense and good taste of the
few than the “ignorant wonder” of the many.