Cornélie Falcon
She and the tenor Adolphe Nourrit are credited with being primarily responsible for raising artistic standards at the Opéra,[4] and the roles in which she excelled came to be known as "falcon soprano" parts.
[9] At the invitation of Nourrit she made her debut at the age of 18 at the Opéra as Alice in the 41st performance of Meyerbeer's Robert le diable (20 July 1832).
Other audience members included the painters Honoré Daumier and Ary Scheffer, the librettist Eugène Scribe, and the critics and writers Théophile Gautier, Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo, and Alfred de Musset.
[11] Although understandably suffering from stage fright, Falcon managed to sing her first aria without error, and finished her role with "ease and competence.
About Falcon I dare not reach any definite conclusion, ... only it is evident that she has a strong and beautiful voice, not without agility, at the same time that she is a vividly expressive (but somewhat overcharged) actress.
Ellen Creathorne Clayton has described the performance as follows: Unfortunately, the part of the Countess Amélie, with its powder and hoops, and pretty coquetry, was not suited to the dark and mystic style of Cornélie.
The premiere was on 22 July 1833, and, as Spire Pitou tells us, "his invitation was more flattering than substantial, because the part of Morgiana hardly constituted a real challenge to a young and ambitious singer".
[19] Berlioz was rather more frank in a letter in which he wrote "my position [as a critic] has not allowed me to admit that without exception all the singers, and Nourrit most of all, are a thousand miles below their roles.
The cast, besides Nourrit as Licinius, included Nicolas Levasseur as Cinna, Henri Dabadie as the High Priest, and Zulmé Leroux-Dabadie as the Grand Vestal.
The concert also featured the premiere of Berlioz's new symphony Harold en Italie, and the audience included the Duc d'Orléans, Chopin, Liszt, and Victor Hugo.
[23] However, La captive, and not Harold, was the hit of the show, with the Gazette Musicale (7 December 1834) calling it "a masterpiece of melodic skill and orchestration.
[29] Berlioz, who was present, describes "raucous sounds like those of a child with croup, guttural, whistling notes that quickly faded like those of a flute filled with water".
[5][33] Many explanations have been offered for Falcon's loss of voice, including the enormous demands of the music of Grand Opera, the "ill-effects of beginning to sing in a large opera house before her body was fully mature", Falcon's attempts to lift her range above its natural mezzo-soprano range, and nervous fatigue brought on by her personal life.
[35] Falcon married a financier, becoming Madame Falcon-Malançon and a grandmother,[36] and continued to live, reclusively, near the Opéra in the Chaussée d'Antin, until her death.
A silvery voice, with a brilliant timbre, incisive enough that even the weight of the chorus cannot overwhelm it; yet the sound emitted with such force never loses its charm or purity.
Though the seal of her race was upon her beauty, and it wore the expression of a Deborah or a Judith,[n 2] rather than of a Melpomene, I have never seen any actress, who in look and gesture so well deserved the style and title of the Muse of Modern Tragedy.
Large, dark, melancholy eyes, – finely cut features, – a form, though slight, not meagre, – and, above all, an expressiveness of tone rarely to be found in voices of her register, which was a legitimate soprano, – the power of engaging interest by mere glance and step when first she presented herself, and of exciting the strongest emotions of pity, or terror, or suspense, by the passion she could develope [sic] in action – such were her gifts.
Add to these the charms of her youth, the love borne to her by all her comrades; – and the loss of her voice, followed by the almost desperate efforts made by her to recover it, and her disastrous final appearance when no force of will could torture destroyed Nature into even a momentary resuscitation, – make up one of those tragedies into which a fearful sum of wrecked hope and despair and anguish enters.
Hers is a history, if all tales are true, too dark to be repeated, even with the honest purpose, not of pandering to an evil curiosity, but of pointing out the snares and pitfalls which lie in wait for the artiste, and of inquiring, for the sake of Art as well as of Humanity (the two are inseparable), if there be no protection against them, – no means for their avoidance?
