As this tenor primissimo has, in a professional regarde, disappeared from amongst us—as the last echoes of his voix magnifique have died away—as he has made a final exit from the public plafond to the coulisses of private life—we deem it due to future historians of the Italian Opera de Londres, to record our admiration, our opinions, and our regrets for this great artiste.
Signor Rubini is in stature what might be denominated juste milieu; his taille is graceful, his figure pleasing, his eyes full of expression, his hair bushy: his comport upon the stage, when not excited by passion, is full of verve and brusquerie, but in passages which the Maestro has marked “con passione” nothing can exceed the elegance of his attitudes, and the pleasing dignity of his gestures. After, par exemple, the recitativi, what a pretty empressement he gave (alas! that we must now speak in the past tense!) to the tonic or key-note, by locking his arms in each other over his poitrine—by that after expansion of them—that clever alto movement of the toes—that apparent embracing of the fumes des lampes—how touching! Then, while the sinfonia of the andante was in progress, how gracefully he turned son dos to the delighted auditors, and made an interesting promenade au fond, always contriving to get his finely-arched nose over the lumières at the precise point of time (we speak in a musical sense) where the word “voce” is marked in the score. His pantomime to the allegri was no less captivating; but it was in the stretta that his beauty of action was most exquisitely apparent; there, worked up by an elaborate crescendo (the motivo of which is always, in the Italian school, a simple progression of the diatonic scale), the furor with which this cantratice hurried his hands into the thick clumps of his picturesque perruque, and seemed to tear its cheveux out by the roots (without, however, disturbing the celebrated side-parting a single hair)—the vigour with which he beat his breast—his final expansion of arms, elevation of toes, and the impressive frappe of his right foot upon the stage immediately before disappearing behind the coulisses—must be fresh in the souvenir of our dilettanti readers.
But how shall we parle concerning his voix? That exquisite organ, whose falsetto emulated the sweetness of flutes, and reached to A flat in altissimo—the voce media of which possessed an unequalled aplomb, whose deep double G must still find a well-in-tune echo in the tympanum of every amateur of taste. That, we must confess, as critics and theoretical musicians, causes us considerable embarras for words to describe. Who that heard it on Saturday last, has yet recovered the ravishing sensation produced by the thrilling tremour with which Rubini gave the Notte d’Orrore, in Rossini’s “Marino Faliero?” Who can forget the recitativo con andante et allegro, in the last scene of “La Sonnambula;” or the burst of anguish con expressivissimo, when accused of treason, while personating his favourite rôle in “Lucia di Lammermoor?” Ah! those who suffered themselves to be detained from the opera on Saturday last by mere illness, or other light causes, will, to translate a forcible expression in the “Inferno” of Dante, “go down with sorrow to the grave.” To them we say, Rubini est parti—gone!—he has sent forth his last ut—concluded his last re—his ultimate note has sounded—his last billet de banque is pocketed—he has, to use an emphatic and heart-stirring mot, “coupé son bâton!”
It is due to the sentimens of the audience of Saturday, to notice the evident regret with which they received Rubini’s adieux; for, towards the close of the evening, the secret became known. Animated conversazioni resounded from almost every box during many of his most charming piano passages (and never will his sotto-voce be equalled)—the beaux esprits of the pit discussed his merits with audible goût; while the gallery and upper stalls remained in mute grief at the consciousness of that being the dernière fois they would ever be able to hear the sublime voce-di-testa of Italy’s prince of tenori.
Although this retirement will make the present clôture of the opera one of the most memorable événemens in les annales de l’opéra, yet some remarks are demanded of us upon the other artistes. In “Marino Faliero,” Lablache came the Dodge with remarkable success. Madlle. Loewe, far from deserving her bas nom, was the height of perfection, and gave her celebrated scena in the last-named opera avec une force superbe. Persiani looked remarkably well, and wore a most becoming robe in the rôle of Amina.
Of the danseuses we have hardly space to speak. Cerito exhibited the “poetry of motion” with her usual skill, particularly in a difficult pas with Albert. The ballet was “Le Diable Amoureux,” and the stage was watered between each act.
THE GREAT UNACTABLES.
It seems that the English Opera-house has been taken for twelve nights, to give “a free stage and fair play” to “EVERY ENGLISH LIVING DRAMATIST.” Considering that the Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre comprises at least half-a-dozen Shakspeares in their own conceit, to say nothing of one or two Rowes (soft ones of course), a sprinkling of Otways, with here and there a Massinger, we may calculate pretty correctly how far the stage they have taken possession of is likely to be free, or the play to be fair towards Every English living Dramatist.
It appears that a small knot of very great geniuses have been, for some time past, regularly sending certain bundles of paper, called Dramas, round to the different metropolitan theatres, and as regularly receiving them back again. Some of these geniuses, goaded to madness by this unceremonious treatment, have been guilty of the insanity of printing their plays; and, though the “Rejected Addresses” were a very good squib, the rejected Dramas are much too ponderous a joke for the public to take; so that, while in their manuscript form, they always produced speedy returns from the managers, they, in their printed shape, caused no returns to the publishers. It is true, that a personal acquaintance of some of the authors with Nokes of the North Eastern Independent, or some other equally-influential country print, may have gained for them, now and then, an egregious puff, wherein the writers are said to be equal to Goëthe, a cut above Sheridan Knowles, and the only successors of Shakspeare; but we suspect that “the mantle of the Elizabethan poets,” which is said to have descended on one of these gentry, would, if inspected, turn out to be something more like Fitzball’s Tagiioni or Dibdin Pitt’s Macintosh.