Q was the pen name of Charles G. Rosenberg who wrote a book called 'You Have Heard of Them' published by Redfield of New York in 1854. One of the chapters is about Catherne Hayes whom he met in Paris in the autumn of 1843. It's actually quite important to anyone studying her life and so I'm re-publishing one chapter below from my own copy. This will be commented on
CATHERINE HAYES.
THE VOCALIST.
129
To one, who counts back time as carelessly as I have ever done, and am very likely always to do, it is generally a task of uncommon difficulty to identify a date--and this more especially when that date has any reference to the age of an unmarried lady- one of those floating and transitory calculations which are prone to vary, not alone upon her own lips, but all those of all who have known her. It may, however, here be sufficient to say, that in the year 1845, or 1846, for I am unable to remember which, although my politeness would induce me to believe that it was in the last named year, I was in Paris, doing duty there as a correspondent to one of the English daily papers. Amongst other acquaintances which were formed by me, one subsequently ripened into something more than mere acquaintanceship. This was with Bowes or Bowles, for bad as my memory is with regard to dates, I must plead guilty to an almost equal imperfection with regard to the spelling of the names of those, with whom, from time to time, I have come in contact, and this, even when I have become intimate with the individual, who owns one of these collections of the stray letters of the alphabet. Bowes was, like myself in those days, a literary man, connected with the press, and had at this period, been for several years the editor of Galignani. He was a native of "Wales, a smart and intelligent little fellow, who got through his work with as small an amount of labor as possible- had one sub-editor, and gave marvellously little original reading matter, in the journal which he had then the task of superintending and editing.
One evening- it was a splendid moonlight one, and I remember
130 CATHERINE HAYES.
our passing by the fountain, in the Place du Carrousel, and watching the rays of the orb of night, where they caught and glistened, like falling diamonds in the spray of the leaping water- as I walked home with him to his cottage in the Champs Elysees, we had been talking of music, and I had just confessed to him, how insupportably irksome, concerts and operas had become to me, after the long and passive habit of endurance which criticism had inured me to, when he turned around, looked in my face, and said-
" But you must like music."
This was uttered with an inquiring look, as if he expected an affirmative.
" And I do," was my answer. "But let me have it, in a cozy parlor or dining room- -sufficiently large of course, and without too large a mob of indifferent fashionables, standing round me. Then I confess I do like it, and prefer an air sung by Grisi, to hearing her in a whole opera, with a tolerable orchestra- an indifferent chorus-a basso, who has lost half, or possibly more than half of the notes in his register--a barytone, who has none remaining, and the best of tenors." For such was the state to which Italian opera was at this period reduced, in both London and Paris.
" Well" said Bowes, "come and take your coffee, and sup with me, on Sunday next, and I will promise you- not Grisi, but a Miss Hayes, who is at present one of Garcia's best pupils. She shall sing to you, and I guarantee that you will like her."
" But who or what, may Miss Hayes be ?" " A capital soprano, and one too, that is fresh from the Green Island. She shall sing you, ' Kathleen Mavourneen.' " " Is she good, bad, or indifferent? " "That, you are perfectly at liberty to decide upon, after hearing her. Will you come."
" Will Garcia be with you?" " Certainly"
" I will, then. I like Garcia, and shall at all events have the pleasure of passing the evening with him and yourself, however Miss Hayes may sing."
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And so, was the engagement formed, which was for the first time to place me in connection with the young vocalist. It was formed, it must be owned, without any very elevated ideas upon my part, of the capabilities of Miss Hayes as a songstress, for to tell the truth, until that evening, I had never before even heard her name mentioned, and was in a state of intense ignorance respecting her pretensions to take any place in the world of music.
At length the Sabbath, appointed by Bowes, who to tell the truth partook something largely of French notions with respect to the manner of the observance of the day, arrived. I remember it well. For who that has once lived in Paris, can forget any of the hours he has passed, in that delightful city. It was one of those glorious days in the French autumn, which seem to have been stolen from the Indian summer, upon this side of the Atlantic. The glad wind swept over the enameled turf, and played with the pliant and waving limbs of the young and already browning trees, as if it were at sport, and could never quicken into the sharp and icy gust of a chilly winter, or the tempestuous blast of an equinoctial storm. Almost did I feel inclined to linger on at Versailles, where I had been dining with a friend, and forget the engagement I had entered into. This was, however, precluded, by a degree of reverential observance due to my word, which was pledged for coffee and supper, with Garcia and his fair pupil - be it observed, that it was mere politeness which then induced me to conclude that she was fair, as I had never seen her- at the house or cottage, for in good truth, it was a sort of mixed breed of both, in which Bowes was at this time living. Accordingly placing myself in the Railway Train, at about six o'clock in the evening, the friend with whom I had been dining, was bidden adieu. In two minutes more I was on my way to Paris. After arriving there I repaired to my hotel, and after my ablutions, and a slight change in my dress- white neckcloths were then de rigueur for evening- found myself upon the way to the Rue ~but what the deuce is the name of the street, in which the editor of Galignani then lived? I forget it, but I know that it ran out of the Champs Elysees, on the left hand, as you were walking towards the Arc de Triomphe. Those who have a love for verifying an author,
132 CATHARINE HAYES
can ask after it, when they repair to Paris. The remainder of my readers may look over the incident, if they like, and then forget it, unless at some future day, they may discover it encircling half a dozen stray cigars, or doing duty to the valise-maker, or packing the articles dispensed by a grocer.
At length I arrived, and was installed in a corner of Bowes' drawing-room and sanctum, for it was both, having a pleasant chat with him and his wife, and enjoying a true and poco curante indifference, as to the probable advent of the young and blossoming soprano. However, she had not yet arrived at the period of her growth as a singer, in which such carelessness is advisable as the forgetting a promised visit, and the more especially when such a visit has been promised to an editor. Consequently, shortly after, she reached the door of the dwelling, accompanied by her mother and Garcia.
I know not why it was, but until this period, I had contrived almost invariably to associate my ideas of a great singer, with black hair and eyes, or at any rate, with eyes and hair whose color somewhat closely approximates to this. My present experience was very certainly the first which floored a pertinacious preconception, which it is to be presumed, arose from the tendency of almost all Italian prime donne towards a darker hue. For here the eyes in which the Irish maiden rejoiced, were of a soft, swimming and liquid blue. They were singularly touching and quiet in their expression, although their beauty was somewhat impaired by a redness around their lids, which I heard afterwards, arose from the weakness of sight, which Miss Hayes has always slightly suffered under. Her hair was of that shade, which we moderns have agreed to call auburn, At any rate, it was far richer in tone, than the "crines aurei" of the olden time, which would seem to have gone out of fashion with the dead languages, and might indeed have been called by a name, which would want euphony, in the ears of the fairer sex, did we venture to apply it here. Nevertheless, it must frankly be admitted, that at this time, Catherine Hayes was almost a beauty. She was indisputably a handsome girl, and would in all probability have been admitted to be much more than this, were it not for the quickness and
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vivacity of her intellect, which was occasionally apparent in the whole of the graceful and tranquil contour of her features. Nevertheless, as my pen is not at present taken up to discuss beauty, or its attributes, I may as well leave them to the variable and changing judgment of that public, which. has recently had the chance of hearing her. Its younger portion, will beyond a doubt, be much riper at a valuation of her claims to be considered beautiful, than I am. After shaking hands with Garcia, an old acquaintance, I was presented to her, and after a brief conversation, plunged into a discussion with the greatest master of vocalism, Ronconi* being excepted, and the best musical critic, now living, on the comparative merits of Duprez and Mario. He of course, gave the first rank to the Frenchman, and this, upon the score of the hard and immalleable organ, with which Duprez had originally to deal. I naturally enough, preferring, and telling him so, the rich and euphonious voice of the Italian.
Now up to the present moment, it may as well be said, I cared very little for hearing Miss Hayes sing.
1 had heard so many strugglers for a position, sing in the course of their schooling, that I had almost regretted having given myself the trouble of listening to them. My knowledge of Garcia, ought however to have led me to a better judgment, than a supposition, that he would entrust his reputation as a vocal teacher to an Irish singer, and the ears of two English journalists-Bowes was Welsh, however- unless he had himself valued her capacity very highly.
It was with something far more nearly approaching timidity, than I should have expected, that Miss Hayes complied with Garcia's wish, when, assuring me that he wished me to hear her, he placed himself at length at the piano.
The first thing which she sung, was the Aria, from the first act of the "Sonnnambula," that" Come per me sereno," which has been so well worn by every vocalist who has yet appeareel in the States. Scarcely did the first notes of the recitative fall from her lips, than I began to think she might possibly be well worth listening
* This is the brother of the barytone. If I am right in my memory, he resides at Florence.
134 CATHARINE HAYES.
to. Indifferent as I had previously been to her singing, I now began to weigh and value it. Everything was against her. The room was not very large, ·and the ceiling of it was exceedingly low- neither indeed, (for friendship to the master of the mansion, cannot induce me to seal my lips,) was the piano which Bowes owned, the ne plus ultra of musical instruments. Had Garcia, not been innately too polite, he would doubtless have consigned it to perdition, and have terminated the performance. Difficulties, however, are nothing to genius. They only serve as its tests. He, at any rate, apparently thought so, and was determined on not being subdued by this one. Consequently he continued, without even a murmur. At this time, the voice of Catherine Hayes was not nearly so powerful as it has since become, but it was always singularly sympathetic, and then lacked nothing which could be conferred upon it by labor, under one of the most skillful of modern masters. The air was deliciously rendered, and the warm applause with which I involuntarily followed its close, convinced Garcia, that he had gained a believer, and with a very pardonable and French self-complacency, he began to triumph in it.
" Well! What do you think of her now? She will do. So!
So! Is she not? Did you notice the last trill? “It was beautifully pure and even," said Bowes.
“ Only let her voice acquire sufficient strength," continued Garcia, "and it is daily gaining it now, we shall see what we shall see. Giulia Grisi will find her a thorn in her side." I do not know why, but it struck me at the moment, that Garcia owed Grisi a grudge. "All the paths of music are not strewn with innocent flowers."
" But will not Miss Hayes have the kindness to let me hear another air?" I asked.
"Certainly," replied Garcia. "Mademoiselle Hayes will be only too happy to oblige you. At present she sings for my reputation- hereafter it will be for her own."
Saying this, he again turned to the piano. " What shall it be “
"Choose yourself, and I will be contented."
This was a very unfortunate speech of mine. What did Garcia
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take but an air from the " Ernani" of Verdi. Now, if there is one opera I more dislike than any other, it is this one. If there is one composer I value less than any of the greater Italian masters, it is certainly Verdi. He is, of course, a fine musician; but music to be enjoyed -or at any rate to be enjoyed by me must have feeling, and Verdi has always appeared to me to have none. However, I was in for it, and had nothing to do but to sit and listen. It was, of course, delightfully rendered; but was far from vieing in sweetness with the luscious and melting air from the" Sonnambula." It came to an end. Bowes and myself were silent. Miss Hayes looked disconcerted. Applause is as necessary as food to a vocalist. Garcia looked round to us. He did not understand our silence.
"I abominate Verdi," I observed, brusquely enough, as I am ashamed to say.
"Then why in the name of Heaven did you not say so ?" answered Garcia. "Choose yourself what she shall sing."
"Miss Hayes is fatigued, perhaps," suggested Bowes.
But she looked at him and shook her head, and smiled so agreeably, that I rose from my seat, and bending over the piano, asked her whether she would not oblige us by singing an Irish ballad. Unfortunately, I had managed to place my foot in it. Garcia's face became as black as a thunder-cloud. Miss Hayes whispered to him in Italian. He shrugged his shoulders, and quitted the piano. She sat down in his place, and sang "The harp that once through Tara's halls," with an evident delight that atoned to me for Garcia's ill-humor. Repeatedly as I have heard her sing that ballad since, I confess that it has never been enjoyed one-half so much. Malevolence had something to do with my pleasure, as it now seems to me. Garcia's visage contributed to heighten the effect of the ballad, and gave an edge to the compliments I addressed her. These, however, were cut short by his again approaching the piano ;-
" Now, Mademoiselle," he said, "you must sing something to restore the reputation I have lost by that pretty little trumpery bagatelle. You will do me the favor of trying something better."
His look of affronted dignity was as good as a comedy. I could scarcely refrain from audibly enjoying it.
136 CATHARINE HAYES.
He selected a song from the "Don Giovanni," without asking Bowes or myself what we might like to hear. Apparently its execution by his pupil, and the warmth of our acknowledgments to her of the delight which it had given us, restored his equanimity, for he smiled pleasantly as we adjourned to supper. A glass of Bordeaux craftily qualified with water, set him completely right, and we were soon in that mixed conversation which is one of the pleasant things known only to those who are not afraid of injuring their nights’ rest by an indulgence in that genial meal. I liked Miss Hayes much; but it must be confessed I liked Mrs. Hayes better. There was something so racy in the old lady's thorough ignorance of music-something so kind and motherly in everything she either said or did-that she, without knowing it, attracted me towards her; and a subsequent acquaintance with her in this country has by no means lessened the liking I then felt for her. I have heard her laughed at for her occasional ignorance of other things besides music, but this does not remove my strong prepossession in her favor; and it must be considered as one-of the highest claims to respect which her daughter possesses, that she has made her mother her constant companion since her first appearance in public. It argues that there is more family love in Ireland than in any other country, and has possibly done more in preserving the character of Catherine Hayes pure and intact up to the present time, than anything else which she could have done.
When we at length took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Bowes, I accompanied Miss Hayes and her mother home.
As I turned from the door, and with my lighted cigar in my lips, took Garcia's arm, we strolled past the Madeleine, and bent our way towards the Boulevards Italiens.
" Seriously, what do you think of your pupil was my first question to him.
" Nay! That is rather the question which I should ask you." "Why?"
"Men are always disposed to overrate the material on which they have been laboring. However, I will answer you. I can have very little doubt that she will be a great singer-most decidedly
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the first English singer- she is Irlandaise, though, is she not? of the present day."
And such is she now. Time has stolen on, and sown some grey hairs amongst the chestnut locks of beauty and strength the first harbingers of age and weakness. Young as I may still call myself, I have seen two generations of vocalists. Pasta and Malibran have departed. Persiani has died out from the modern world of song. Rubini has but lately quitted the land of life for another and better world. Duprez is but a ruin of the past. The first few notes are already betraying symptoms of decay in the voice of Giulia Grisi. Even the gigantic-throated Lablache has scarcely two left untouched in his massive register. Tamburini is effete and worthless, save for the memory of what he has been. Mario, however, more than replaces the tenor who used to sway the sceptre in the land of song. Jenny Lind has burst into a reputation as dazzling and wonderful as it is worldwide. Pischek, and Staudigl, and Alboni have grown upon or burst into knowledge, and Catherine Hayes has stolen upon the present, to convince us that there is feeling to be found in the notes which are given us by a pupil of Garcia's, in spite of the reproaches which have been showered upon him by many of our modern critics, of cultivating the voice at the expense of the soul. This alone might have made her a successful artist, but when linked with the exquisite quality of her middle notes, and her thorough and studious musical education, it does more for her. It makes her one of the most successful artists who have, as yet, visited this continent.