Article on Adelaide Phillips

“To be perfectly satisfactory in Art is to be extraordinary, and extraordinary artists are, in these days of spiritualism, rarer than angels’ visits. Ristori is satisfactory,—Dickens is satisfactory,—Adelaide Phillips is satisfactory,—and although as unlike one another as The Drama, The Reading Room and The Lyric Stage can make them, the intervening gulfs are readily spanned by the one attribute common to all. They might possibly be greater, and criticism of them does not always mean unstinted praise; but, as each stands unrivaled, as we are constantly assured, every beauty has its moles, and as there are spots upon the sun—that sun which the dying Mirabeau declared must be the cousin of God—we do not propose to throw any cold water upon our present comfortable satisfaction.When better articles appear, we shall be happy to make our most reverential salaams.

To say that Adelaide Phillips is the finest contralto in America, is to say nothing, for the reason that on this side of the Atlantic there are no competitors for her laurels. To say that Europe does not possess her equal, is to state a fact. We speak advisedly, and without forgetting Alboni for one moment. For wealth of voice and execution, Marietta Alboni is incomparable. Therein also stands without fear and without reproach; but marvelous vocalist as Alboni is, she is much better adapted to the concert-room than to the stage. Unwieldy in appearance, totally devoid of ability as an actress, and singularly deficient in dramatic passion, she delights the ear, leaves nothing to be desired in point of style, but never appeals to head or heart. Therefore, we award the palm to our own American contralto because though less wonderful as a simple vocalist, her unusual dramatic ability, her versatility, and her mastery of expression eminently fit her for the theater, and, consequently place her higher in the scale of art. Alboni in ‘The Barber of Seville’ as we remember her at the Italiens in Paris a few years ago, was a delightful voluminous musical box; and that was all. She made no effort whatever to personate the character, and looked about as much like the charming, coquettish Rosina as an elephant looks like a gazelle. The Rosina of Adeliade Phillips is the best we ever saw, and those who were fortunate enough to be present at Pike’s Opera House last Thursday evening, when she appeared in this rôle for the first time before a New York audience, are not likely to forget a memorable occasion. Her ‘Una voce poco fa’ would have wrung plaudits from Rossini himself, nor do we believe that the great maestro—the last of the divine melodists—would have objected to the introduction of brilliant fioriture, so consummately rendered as to extort bravas from the most critical. No less admirable was Miss Phillips in the charming duet, ‘Dunque io son.’ Her acting was quite as good as her singing and her ‘business’ prior to giving Figaro the note could not have been better. Still more of a revelation—for how many lyric actresses are there!—was Miss Philliops by-play during Doctor Bartolo’s scolding aria, ‘A un dottor della mia sorte.’ Laughing and poking fun at the Doctor behind his back, feigning tears and dismay before his face, her transitions from grave to gay so took the audience by storm that at the close of the scene she was recalled,—a tribute to by-play unaided by word or song that no previous Rosina of our acquaintance ever received. It was a triumph. In facial expression Miss Phillips is unique among prima donnas, and may be ranked with Ronconi.

With the close of the first act of ‘The Barber,’ Rosina’s occupation, if not gone, is shorn of opportunities for glory; yet in the music lesson, Miss Phillips achieved another signal success by introducing an insinuating, unctuous Cuban song with pizzicato violin accompaniment. Her abandon and thoroughly Cuban manner, is indispensable to Cuban songs as salt is necessary to soup, gained a most hearty encore from delighted hearers. Altogether Miss Phillips’s Rosina gave unalloyed pleasure, and we would respectfully suggest that ‘The Barber’ be repeated at a matinée in order to give the ladies of New-York an opportunity of witnessing so complete a work of art.

A Bostonian by birth, a danseuse and actress at he Boston Museum from earliest childhood, which accounts for her name having been so long before the public, Adelaide Phillips’s beautiful contralto voice attracteduniversdal attention, and aided by Jenny Lind, as well as by many of her friends, the young American girl was sent to London, where, under the insdtruction of Garcia (Malibran’s brother, and the teacher par excellence of Europe, she became thoroughly drilled in her profession.Her school, consequently, is the best; her excusion is fine, and her voice is he richest and roundest ever developed on this Continent. To listen to Miss Phillips, is to be imbued with the feeling of repose incident upon an abiding sense of security. One of her great virtues, too, is a perfectly clear enunciation. She is the only American who, to our knowledge, speaks pure Tuscan-Italian and is one of the very few artists who speaks in singing. Here, again, she resembles Ronconi. Most singers eat their words. With Miss Phillips every syllable is distinctly pronounced, and if any one happens to understand Italian, the pleasure she affords is increased twofold.

Charming in comedy, Miss Phillips is equally at home in tragedy. We need not here dilate upon her Azucena, for New-York allows that she has made the rôle her own. It must not be forgotten, however, that Paris, also, was excited to a furore when she made the debut in Trovatore at the Italiens several years ago, and, although friendless, held her ground by the side of Mario, Alboni, and their peers. She is the only American singer that has gone through this fiery ordeal and escaped unscathed, for Patti cannot properly be called American. Her success in Arsace (‘Semiramide’) and in La Favorita, at Amsterdam, was very great; while at Prague—for which critical city ‘Don Giovanni’ was written—her Zerlina received a most enthusiastic recognition. Having begun so successful a European career, it was most unfortunate that Miss Phillips should have been forced by family reasons to return to this country before fully establishing her reputation on the Continent where reputation means something. However, it is not too late to repair the error, and show the Old World that good can come out of Nazareth.

We never heard a real and irresistible laugh in music—a difficult and rare accomplishment—until we heard Miss Phillips sing Bendelari’s Laughing Song, a song that no one else dares to attempt. It moved the most stolid, and would excite even the very languid young man with the imperfect circulation, Rinaldo di Velasco alias Pickleson, who figures at length in Dicken’s Dr. Marigold. New-York does not know that miss Phillips also excels in sacred music, for New-York has never heard her in oratorio. Boston cannot give an oratorio without her. No one, saving Parepa-Rosa, interprets Handel, Haydn, and Mendelssohn as does this fine artist. Her ‘O Rest in the Lord,’ from ‘Elijah,’ is indeed most sacredly sung.

When we think of the many noble operas written for the contralto voice—when we recall the music of ‘Semiramide,’ of ‘Cenerentola,’ of the ‘Italiani in Algeri,’ of ‘Tancredi,’ of ‘La Donna del Lago,’ of Bellini’s ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ &c., &c., and when we know how artistically our American contralto would interpret these operas and many others, it seems incredible that the prophet among us should be allowed so little opportunity to display her ability, and that impressarios should subject long-suffering opera-goers to the third-rate signing of the last few years. Whenever Miss Phillips appears in a rôle worthy of her the public expresses its pleasure. May not the public be oftener allowed privilege of hearing satisfactory singing! Or must Miss Phillips go to Europe for her letters of credit, as Charlotte Cushman was forced to do!”