THEATRES AND MUSIC.
The popularity of Jenny Lind stands as a thing per se. Two years ago, when almost every article of trade was named after her, and she thus re- ceived the same compliment which had been of old paid to the Reform Bill, there were some who predicted that the "mania" must soon pass away. But we have reached Jenny Lind's third London season, and do not find the enthusiasm one whit diminished. The scene that astonished the Metro- polis in 1847 is acted over again in 1849: we have the spectacle not only of the crowd who go to see Jenny Lind, but of the mob who go to see that crowd; we have the Haymarket crammed to the top with carriages; and lastly, it seems to be a point of principle with the Queen to patronize the Nightingale, for each of the three evenings on which she has appeared has been honoured by the Royal presence.
On these three evenings she has exhibited to a striking degree the ver- satility of her histrionic talent, by playing in quick succession three of her most celebrated and mcst various parts. The feminine innocence of Amino, with a nature instinctively shrinking from a suspicion of wrong, and crushed to the earth by an imputation of guilt—the sportive Maria, whose innocence is of a perter sort, resembling that of an amiable spoiled child—and Lucia, stirred to madness by disappointed love—have nothing in common with each other. Yet all these varieties Jenny Lind has seized with a sort of instinctive grasp; and neither the Swiss villager, nor the French sutler, nor the Scottish bride, loses a particle of her individuality. At the same time, the two characters (Amino and Lucia) in which she has been preceded by other performers have been endowed by her with pecu- liarities that distinguish them from all previous creations. The deep overwhelming distress of Amino in her finale, where she looks upon the flowers as a symbol of her own unhappy condition, and the tragical mad- ness of Lucia, are not like anything that had been done before. Indeed, in the latter case, a most placid and conventional form of insanity has in- variably been deemed sufficient to set forth the phrensy of the maiden who stabbed her bridegroom. In Jenny Lind's remarkable delineation of the part, all is prepared for the final climax. The mind seems first shaken by the reading of the letter; at the signing of the contract she has almost lost the sense of consciousness; and hence nothing is omitted which may ac- count for the terrific scene of phrensy which terminates with her death. In Maria, which may be called her "pet" character, it is wonderful to see how aptly the camp manners are assumed with a perfect avoidance of coarseness.
This talent of individual impersonation—by no means common on the lyrical stage—which has recently been displayed to the utmost, is one of the great causes of Jenny Lind's immense popularity with that hetero- geneous mass called the public. There is also a constant charm in the peculiarity of her voice; for, beautiful as may be the utterances of other organs, there is something distinct not only in degree, but in kind, in the melodious gush from the throat of the Nightingale, and in those sweet clear notes, which seem to hang in the air, with an independent existence, after the vocalist has sent them forth. But with all her vocal perfections, Jenny Lind evidently looks on the singing as only one of several means to a grand artistical end.
Mademoiselle Parodi appeared on Tuesday in the Leonora of Donizetti's La Favorita. This opera seemed well chosen for her debfit in a second part; for the piece itself has much merit, and the character of the heroine is chiefly made up of features similar to those which in her performance of Norma Mademoiselle Parodi had been most successful in embodying. Another reason for the selection of La Favorite may have been the means possessed by Mr. Lumley of presenting the opera with unprecedented strength of cast. But the result was not quite what was probably expected from the young debutante. A new part, which she had never seen, and which she had to create without the aid of example or tradition, seemed to load her with a weight of conscious responsibility. This gave a timid and uneasy air to her movements, restrained the freedom of her impulses, and impaired her physical powers. Hence, though her performance displayed many beauties, it was not what it might have been, nor what, we are con- vinced, it will be, under more favourable circumstances.
We have already had occasion to describe La Favorita as one of the latest and best works of Donizetti. The character of the heroine—the frail favourite of a Spanish King; bestowed in marriage by her royal para.. mour on the youth whom she secretly loves; prevented by the King, in a spirit of vengeance, from disclosing to her lover her real condition; spurned by her husband, when, too late, he discovers his disgrace; and dying at last of a broken heart—is full of tragic interest, and affords great scope for the powers of an actress. Leonora is noble and queenlike, but self-abased in the midst of her greatness. Conscious unworthiness embit- ters her intercourse with her lover, and prompts her to renounce her hopes of happiness when it seems within her reach. Her spirit is subdued and humble; she exhibits no violence, but bends meekly and unresistingly under the strokes of calamity by which her heart is crushed. Woman's love, strong as death, is her engrossing passion; and feminine softness is her characteristic in the height of her joy as in the depth of her despair. In conception, Mademoiselle Parodi entered, as it seemed to us, into the very soul of the woman: her passionate love, her tenderness, her quiet humility and uncomplaining submission, were all painted with truthful simplicity. But the execution fell short of her conceptions, owing, no doubt, to the causes already suggested. Though truth and beauty were visible in the design, the requisite strength of colouring was wanting; and the intonation was too often faulty.
Allowing, however, for the effects of depressing influences, which we regard as accidental and temporary, our first impression of Mademoiselle Parodi is rather strengthened than changed by her performance in La Fa- vorita. She is so decidedly a tragedian that her vocal powers become a secondary consideration. Her voice is not deficient in strength or com- pass, nor is there anything remarkable in its quality; though when not overstrained it is sweet and pleasing, and her style is that of a good musi- cian. In these respects she resembles her instructress, Pasta; whose vocal prOminence was derived from her dramatic genius, and inseparable from the representations of the stage. Pasta was never herself in the concert- room ; where, too, it is probable that Parodi will be excelled by persons of much smaller powers. She evidently looks upon song in -its true artistic light of a dramatic language, and voluntarily sacrifices mere beauty of sound to truth and force of expression. An instance of this was the wild scream given by Leonora in the last scene, when she recognizes her lost lover in the gloom of the cloister,—a sound without a place in the mu- sical scale, but which thrilled through the heart of every hearer.
We never before saw this opera performed with so strong a cast. Gar- doni, who had resumed his duties on the previous Saturday in Edgardo,. now appeared to greater advantage in Fernando, the character in which, two years ago, he made his debut in this country. Coletti's performance of the part of Alphonso gave a new effect to the whole opera. His persona- tion of the self-indulgent monarch, stung to the quick in the tenderest point, and concealing under a smooth and smiling exterior a tumult of vin- dictive passion, was a capital piece of acting; and he gave new beauty to the music by his fine voice and finished execution. But the most striking feature of the present cast was the appearance of Lablache in the character of the monk Baldassare: it combined the features of his Oroveso and of his Duke of Ferrara, but was pander than the one and more terrible than the other.
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