AT THE COURT OF BERLIN.
Notwithstanding the temporary interruption of her linguistic studies at
Dresden, Mdlle. Lind was far from being unprepared for her approaching
trial when the appointed time drew near.
Of the severity of that trial, and the gravity of its inevitable though
as yet wholly uncertain consequences, it would have been difficult to
form an exaggerated idea. The successes achieved by the young artist in
her own country counted as nothing when considered in connection with
the ordeal that awaited her in Germany. In so far as her European
reputation was concerned, she was really preparing to make, at Berlin,
her true _début_ in the great world of Art; though her arrival there had
been preceded by rumours which rendered it imperative that she should
appear, not in the character of an unknown _débutante_, but in that of a
finished artist, to be judged, not by the measure of her own merit, but
by the achievements of the greatest _prime donne_ who had appeared
before the world since the beginning of the century. For there were
critics in Berlin who were familiar with the performances of Mesdames
Malibran and Pasta, and Sontag and Schrœder-Devrient, and even of the
famous Madame Catalani herself, to say nothing of Mesdames Grisi and
Persiani and other brilliant stars in the contemporaneous operatic
firmament; and it was absolutely certain that with the performances of
these bright luminaries of past and present years would the performances
of Mdlle. Lind be mercilessly compared. Yet, for all that, she did not
shrink from the ordeal, and when the time of trial came she was ready to
meet it.
After her last performance at Stockholm, on the 9th of October, she made
instant preparation for her journey, and, accompanied by Mdlle. Louise
Johansson, arrived, in the third week of October, at Berlin, where she
made arrangements for residing, during the winter, in the house of
Madame Reyer, sister to the Baroness von Ridderstolpe, No. 43, in the
Französische Strasse.
While preparing for her first appearance on the stage, she passed her
time in complete retirement from public life, but her reception by the
circle of private friends to whom she was introduced was of the warmest
character. Meyerbeer was, of course, unremitting in his attentions. His
position towards her was, indeed, an almost painfully responsible one.
He alone was answerable for her presence in the Prussian capital; and
her success or failure were matters of scarcely less importance to him
than to her. His taste, his experience, his artistic judgment, were
staked upon her fitness to sustain the position to which he had
introduced her. Through him she was privately presented to the Royal
Family, the members of which, and especially Queen Elizabeth, received
her with a grace and courtesy which did much to render her visit more
than ordinarily agreeable. On one occasion—memorable as the first on
which she was called upon to display her talent in the presence of the
Court—she was invited to a reception given by the Princess of
Prussia[34] one evening during the last week in November. Concerning
this she thus wrote to her guardian, Judge Munthe:—
“Berlin, Dec. 2, 1844.
“I have sung at Court, and been so very fortunate as to please
greatly. This may sound somewhat conceited, but I do not mean it so.
The Countess Rossi (Sontag) was present, and my modesty prevents me
from telling you what she is reported to have said. I am meeting with
extraordinary success everywhere. I go out much into fashionable
society, because this gives the first entrance into the world of Art;
and—do you know?—I am already known by all Berlin, and people talk of
me with an interest so lively, and so flattering to me, that I begin
to think I must be in Stockholm!
“Forgive me! dear M. Munthe, for thus openly speaking of things as
they occur. I promise not to become proud or conceited; only glad and
happy when things go well.”
Among the guests present at the reception thus playfully described were
the late Earl and Countess of Westmorland. Lord Westmorland was at that
time the English Ambassador at the Court of Prussia; and, through the
kindness of a member of His Excellency’s family, we are able to present
our readers with a vivid picture of the impression made by Mdlle. Lind’s
singing upon the Countess of Westmorland, who, it must be remembered,
was no unenlightened or inexperienced listener; for Lord Westmorland was
himself an ardent student of music, an excellent violinist, the composer
of no less than one English and six Italian operas, and the founder of
the Royal Academy of Music in London. When released from his political
duties he lived in an atmosphere of Art; and Lady Westmorland’s
testimony is the more valuable since she was in the constant habit of
hearing at home the best music of the time. The lady to whose kindness
we are indebted for our information writes thus:—
“It was, I think, in 1844 that Meyerbeer brought Jenny Lind to Berlin,
to come out at the new Opera-House there in the part he had written
for her in his opera of _Das Feldlager in Schlesien_.
“He had told all his friends (amongst whom were my parents[35]) about
this wonderful voice, and predicted that she would be the greatest
singer-artist the century had produced. There was great curiosity
about her, and Meyerbeer talked of her as ‘_un vrai diamant de
génie_.’
“Before she appeared on the stage he was asked to bring her to sing at
a small musical party at the Princess of Prussia’s (the late Dowager
Empress Augusta) arranged for the purpose. For some reasons, my father
was prevented from going; my mother went alone. She went in, full of
curiosity, and saw sitting by the piano a thin, pale, plain-featured
girl, looking awkward and nervous, and like a very shy country
school-girl. She could not believe her eyes, and said that she and her
neighbours—among whom was Countess Rossi (Henriette Sontag), whose
fame as a singer and a beauty was then still recent—began to speculate
whether Meyerbeer was playing a practical joke on them, and when he
came up to speak to them my mother asked him if he was really serious
in meaning to bring that frightened child out in his Opera. His only
answer was ‘_Attendez, Miladi_.’
“When the time came for her song—I do not know what it was—my mother
used to say it was the most extraordinary experience she ever
remembered. The wonderful notes came ringing out, but over and above
that was the wonderful TRANSFIGURATION—no other word could apply—which
came over her entire face and figure, lighting them up with the whole
fire and dignity of her genius. The effect on the whole audience was
simply marvellous, and to the last day of her life my mother used to
recall it vividly, and its effect upon her.
“When she reached home, my father asked her—
“‘Well, what do you think of Meyerbeer’s wonder?’”
She answered—
“‘She is simply an angel.’
“‘Is she so very handsome?’
“‘I saw a plain girl when I went in; but when she began to sing, her
face simply and literally “shone like that of an angel.” I never _saw_
anything or _heard_ anything the least like it.’
“This first effect did not wear off when she appeared on the stage. My
mother used to say that she thought her dramatic power was quite as
great as her musical genius, and that if she had had no voice she
might still have been the greatest of living actresses. And there was
this peculiarity about her acting—that it was entirely part of
herself. It seemed not so much that she entered into the part as that
she became, for the moment, that which she had to express. For this
reason her acting was unequal. She could not render anything in which
there was a suggestion repugnant to her own higher nature. But in a
part that suited her—such as the _Sonnambula_—she expressed every
varying emotion of the character perfectly because she really felt it.
And, for the same reasons, she never acted the same scene twice
precisely alike, just as in real life no one does the same thing twice
precisely in the same way. In her gestures and tones there were little
unconscious variations, which the people who acted with her and went
through their own parts with mechanical precision often found
disconcerting.
“In these early days she was very careless of outward appearances—her
Art possessed her and left her no time to think of herself. She
disliked the artificial adjuncts of rouge, &c., which are a necessity
of the stage, and as a natural result was often unbecomingly dressed.
My mother herself and her friend Madame Wichmann remonstrated with her
about this and made her attend more to these details, and in the end
she learned to dress for her parts becomingly and gracefully, though
never conventionally.
“On looking back I cannot help being struck with one thing. My parents
lived a great deal in musical and theatrical society of all kinds, and
I recollect, from my earliest childhood, hearing musicians and actors
talked of and often praised. But even quite as a little girl, in
Berlin, long before I was old enough to know anything about it, or
even to be taken to the Opera, I can distinctly remember having the
impression that Jenny Lind was something quite different from the
ordinary people I heard discussed. And there has always been a sort of
reverence in the way they spoke of her—as they would have spoken of a
very beautiful and very sacred picture or poem. I suppose it was the
intense purity of her nature that made her very acting religious. I
cannot exactly express it, but I very distinctly recollect, as a
child, associating her name with a sort of mysterious reverence. And
even now the same childish feeling seems to come back to me, mixed
with the remembrance of my mother’s enthusiastic love for her.”[36]
These interesting recollections prove conclusively that even before her
first appearance in public Mdlle. Lind had completely won the hearts of
a brilliant and influential circle of private friends, many of whom
remained in affectionate intercourse with her to the last day of her
life. Their kind sympathy must have encouraged her to face the coming
trial with the resolution and fortitude it so imperatively demanded;
for, strong as was her determination when the crisis arrived, the time
of anticipation was always one of terror and depression.
At this period also an event took place which exercised a marked
influence on the artistic phase of her professional career, though less
perhaps in connection with the Stage than with the Concert-room.
She had been invited, on the 21st of October, to a _Soirée_ at the house
of Professor Wichmann in the Hasenheger Strasse. At the moment of
starting Meyerbeer called to pay her a visit; and having, no doubt, many
important matters to discuss with her, stayed so long that she arrived
at the evening party under the escort of Madame von Ridderstolpe some
hours after the appointed time. However, late as it was, she did arrive
there, and in a letter dated October the 22nd she thus describes the
great event of the evening:—
“Last night I was invited to a very pleasant and elegantly furnished
house, where I saw and spoke to Mendelssohn Bartholdy, and he was
incredibly friendly and polite, and spoke of my ‘great talent.’ I was
a little surprised, and asked him on what ground he spoke in this way.
‘Well!’ he said, ‘for this reason, that all who have heard you are of
one opinion only, and that is so rare a thing that it is quite
sufficient to prove to me what you are.’”
This first meeting between the two great artists was a memorable one for
both, and formed the foundation of a friendship which terminated only
with the death of the beloved composer in 1847.
That Mdlle. Lind stood in sorest need of all the help and consolation
that friendship could afford during the period of suspense that preceded
her introduction to the general public is evident from private letters,
in which she expresses herself in terms of almost hopeless despondency
with regard to her capacity for fulfilling the expectations that had
been formed of her. Her anxiety had, in fact, become almost intolerable—
so deep that it prompted her to write, in agonised insistence, to her
friends in Sweden, even before she had any decisive intelligence to
communicate to them, either of good or evil.
That the true nature of the intelligence she was really justified in
sending has long since been anticipated by our readers we cannot
reasonably doubt; but, though the coming triumph seemed assured, the
path to the Stage was not exactly strewn with roses.