‘DIE VESTALIN’ AND ‘DIE HUGENOTTEN.’
On Dec. 30—that is to say, a little more than three weeks after her
return from Leipzig—Mdlle. Lind appeared, for the first time at Berlin,
in a new and very arduous and important _rôle_—that of “Julia,” in
Spontini’s Opera, _Die Vestalin_—which she had previously impersonated
six times only, at Stockholm, during the whole of her long career—
probably because it was found unsuited to the Swedish popular taste.
_Die Vestalin_ had long been a very favourite Opera, in Berlin, where it
had been placed upon the stage with extraordinary magnificence, and
entirely under the composer’s own personal direction, when he was
invited to the Prussian capital, in the character of General Music
Director, by King Friedrich Wilhelm III., in the year 1820. The part of
“Julia” had then been sustained by Madame Milder-Hauptmann, and since
then most of the great German _prime donne_ had interpreted it in their
turn. It was therefore no easy task to satisfy a Prussian audience with
a new conception of the work, and as Mdlle. Lind had intimated in her
letter to Madame Erikson, her reading of the leading part was quite sure
to be judged by the measure of all the greatest singers who had
previously appeared in it.
The impression the performance produced upon the German critics
generally may be gathered from the notice which appeared in the
_Berlinische Zeitung_ three days after the first performance:—
“A joy,” says Herr Rellstab, “and more than a joy—a true elevation of
the spirit has fallen to the share of the writer at the close of his
year of critical activity, in that he is able to record an artistic
achievement, among the most memorable that he himself has ever
witnessed, and one which has deeply moved, not himself alone, but also
a large and varied section of the public.
“Jenny Lind in the part of ‘Julia.’
“Grand memories, rich in Art, revived themselves within us in
connection with the work and with past interpreters of the _rôle_ who
have attained the sublimest heights; but this time we will occupy
ourselves less with passing judgment than with giving a history of the
impressions produced upon us by the performance.
“The first act was over. From first to last the singer had, through
her womanly and noble bearing, excited the closest sympathy. Her
acting and singing were everywhere noble, but not with the victorious
effect we expected from her. We therefore awaited the second act with
an almost sorrowful depression of spirit.
“Sometimes, however—if we may be permitted to use the language of
metaphor—a battle which, whether by accident or design, may seem to
have begun unfavourably, recovers itself, to be crowned with the most
glorious and signal victory. And so it was in this case. From the very
beginning of the act certain passages breathed forth, as it were,
forecasts of the most fervid, the deepest, the grandest feelings that
could agitate a loving womanly breast.
“The strife between greatness of soul and holiest faith in the might
of Love on the one side, and on the other the overpowering recoil of
Nature from the fear of death in a form so terrible that it might well
have crushed the shrinking nerves of the boldest man; this strife, we
say, is set before us in such sort that the soul scarcely dares to
believe what the eye sees. It paints the last extremity of horror, and
yet the limit of the beautiful is never overpassed even by a
hair’s-breadth.
“Yet we stand here on the threshold only of the realm of wonder over
which our Artist exercises her sway. It seemed to us impossible that
such an achievement could have been surpassed. And yet the third act
supplies to our Artist a point of union with still higher dramatic
impressions.
“Half hidden beneath the black veil, with difficulty supported by two
veiled sisters, Julia glides, like a spirit, across the stage;
advancing, with faltering step, in the funeral-procession of the
Vestals, like a shadow from the depths below. It is but a memory of
life that moves in the procession there; the horror of death holds her
already in its freezing thrall. The sound of her voice trembles in
ghostly whispers upon her lips. Over her pallid face flits, from time
to time, a faint smile of love, like a dying sunbeam—a dream of the
long-since vanished past. How can one hope to paint, in words, a
picture embodying so profound a depth of tragic expression?”
We cannot but regard this elegant panegyric as the most just as well as
the most important expression of critical opinion that we have as yet
had occasion to transcribe from the journals of this eventful epoch in
Mdlle. Lind’s artistic career. Those who were familiar with her ideal
conceptions of the great operatic _rôles_ she interpreted, when at the
zenith of her fame, will find no difficulty in understanding Herr
Rellstab’s disappointment at the effect she produced in the first act.
It was her invariable custom to reserve her great effects, with true
artistic self-abnegation, for certain points which the unerring instinct
of her genius indicated as the fittest for the introduction of a logical
climax, and to the power and perfection of such a climax she
unhesitatingly sacrificed an indefinite number of those minor effects
upon which too many artists gifted with less creative power are only too
ready to seize for the purpose of securing a passing triumph at the
expense of the logical whole. She kept her dramatic power in reserve,
with a reticence which none but the greatest artists are ever known to
exercise, for the predetermined situations in which she felt that it
could be successfully exhibited with logical consistency and deepest
reverence for dramatic truth. And Herr Rellstab’s conversion only proves
how just was his judgment on this point with regard to Spontini’s
masterpiece.
And now, the long course of hard work was relieved by a little holiday—
all too brief.
We have more than once had occasion to speak of Mdlle. Lind’s intimacy
with Hans Christian Andersen, whom, in accordance with the old-world
Scandinavian usage, she was accustomed to address as her “brother.”
Andersen spent the closing weeks of the year 1845 and the beginning of
1846 at Berlin; and, in his well-known autobiography, the talented Dane
tells an amusing little story connected with Mdlle. Lind’s performances
at the Opera at this period.
“One morning,” he says, “as I looked out of my window, Unter den
Linden, I saw, half hidden under the trees, a man, very poorly clad,
who took a comb from his pocket, arranged his hair, smoothed his
neck-tie, and dusted his coat with his hand. (I well know the
shrinking poverty that feels oppressed by its shabby clothes.) A
moment afterwards there was a knock at my door, and the man entered.
It was the Nature-Poet, B——, who, though only a poor tailor, has the
true poetical inspiration. Rellstab and others in Berlin have
mentioned him with honour. There is something healthy in his poems,
among which some breathe a true religious spirit. He had heard that I
was in Berlin and had come to visit me. We sat side by side on the
sofa, and his conversation betokened a contentedness so amiable, a
spirit so pure and unsullied, that it truly grieved me that I was not
rich enough to do something for him. I was ashamed to offer the little
that lay in my power; but, in any case, I was anxious to put it in an
acceptable form. I asked him, therefore, whether I might venture to
invite him to hear Jenny Lind. ‘I have already heard her,’ he said,
smiling. ‘I could not afford to buy a ticket; so I went to the man who
provides the “supers” and asked him if I could not go on as a “super”
one evening in _Norma_. To this he agreed. So I was dressed up as a
Roman soldier, with a long sword at my side, and in that guise
appeared upon the stage; and I heard her better than any one else, for
I stood close beside her. Ah! how she sang! and how she acted! I could
not stand it: it made me weep. But they were furious at that. The
manager forbade it, and would never permit me to set foot upon the
stage again—for one must not weep upon the stage.’”
Soon after this, Andersen took leave of his friends in Berlin and
proceeded to Weimar on a visit to the Hereditary Grand Duke, with whom
he was on terms of the most affectionate intimacy. And here, again, he
spent some happy days in the company of Mdlle. Lind, who had also been
invited to Weimar, and sang there on five evenings, three of which were
occupied by Court Concerts and two by performances of _Norma_ and _La
Sonnambula_ at the Court Theatre. Here, as in Berlin, her performances
produced the most profound sensation. The Grand Duke and the various
members of his Royal Highness’s family received her with demonstrations
of the warmest welcome. In company with Andersen and his friends, the
Chancellor Müller, the Court Chamberlain Beaulieu, and the Court
Secretary Schöll, she visited some of the most interesting places in the
neighbourhood, and more especially those consecrated by memories of
Goethe and Schiller.
On Jan. 27—two days after her last performance at Court—the Chancellor
Müller escorted her, in company with Andersen, to the Fürstengruft—the
burial-vault in the Neue Kirch-hof, beyond the Frauenthor, in which, for
many generations past, the remains of the departed Grand Dukes of
Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach and their families have been laid to rest—and there
showed to the little party of friends the coffins in which Goethe and
Schiller now sleep their last long sleep. The dimly-lighted
burial-place, and the solemn associations connected with it, made a deep
impression upon the friends; and amidst its ghostly shadows the Austrian
poet, Hermann Rollet, who accidentally met the little party in the
vault, wrote a poem, which Andersen has printed in his autobiography,
and the original MS. of which was carefully preserved by Mdlle. Lind
among her mementos of the past.
The visit to the funeral-vault affected Mdlle. Lind very deeply; and she
was evidently glad to relieve the sad impression by more cheerful
thoughts. In a letter to Madame Birch-Pfeiffer, she wrote:—
“Weimar, Jan. 27, 1846.
“I have just come out of the vault in which Goethe and Schiller lie
entombed, and my whole heart is impressed and excited.
“On Friday afternoon I am going to Leipzig, where I have been most
kindly invited to the Mendelssohns, for the evening, and on Saturday I
return to Berlin.”
The memory of this pleasant holiday—for it really was a holiday, though
not a time of idleness—was very dear to her. Soon after her return to
Berlin she wrote thus to her friend Hans C. Andersen:—
“Berlin, Feb. 19, 1846.
“MY DEAR GOOD BROTHER!
“Thanks for our last meeting. I did so enjoy it! Do you agree with me
that we have scarcely ever before spent a more charming pleasant time
together?
“I thank you, ever so much, for your beautiful letter. I had a good
cry over reading it.
“Yes, yes! Germany is a glorious country. I certainly do not long for
any other except the very best—the last one.
“Oh! how I have wept over your story about the Grand Duchess and her
little sweep! How lovely it is!
“In the meantime I am perfectly enchanted with her—and with the young
Grand Duke and his wife also. Dear Andersen, when you write to our
high-born friend, tell him—if you mention me—that, as long as I live,
I shall remember those few days I spent in Weimar. I can
conscientiously say that I have nowhere else, as yet, found such peace
of mind and true joy; and yet I have been treated everywhere in the
most friendly way. I love these high-born personages; and, just as you
say, Brother, not for the stars and the diamonds they wear, but for
their true and loyal hearts. I get quite enthusiastic when I think of
these two people. May God preserve them and theirs!
“My friends, the Arnemanns, from Altona, have been here. They left
yesterday. I wonder when we two shall meet again?
“I have now quite decided upon going to Vienna. Are you not going
there, Andersen? I suppose you go on to Italy direct?
“Do you know, Andersen, I appreciate your friend Beaulieu very highly
indeed. I have really begun to feel a great friendship for him. Give
him my kindest regards when you write.
“And now, _adieu_! I must start for the theatre presently, to sing in
_Das Feldlager in Schlesien_. God be with you! Do not forget your
sister. I shall remain here until the end of March. After that,
letters will find me at Vienna, from the middle of April until the
middle of May. Write, either _Poste restante_, or care of Herr
Pokorny—the manager of the theatre.
“May the blessing of God go with you! then you will have enough!
“I remain,
“Your true sister,
“JENNY.”
She was by this time once more hard at work in the dizzy whirl of the
Berlin winter season. She had reappeared, after her return from Weimar,
on Feb. 3, in several of her most popular parts; but in the meantime her
promised appearance in a new and very important _rôle_ was anxiously
awaited by the art-loving public—that of “Valentine,” in Meyerbeer’s
Opera, _Les Huguenots_—or, as it was called in German, _Die Hugenotten_.
To the uninitiated, it may seem strange that, taking into consideration
Meyerbeer’s all-powerful position and great popularity in Berlin at this
period, _Das Feldlager in Schlesien_ should have been the only one of
his Operas put upon the Stage. But the position will not be thought at
all strange by those who know how severely punctilious Meyerbeer was,
not only with regard to the principal parts, but with all that concerned
the perfection of every minutest detail of his works. It was not enough
for him that the _prima donna_ should be an artist of unapproachable
excellence. If all the other parts, great and small, were not
represented to his entire satisfaction he would not allow the piece to
be put upon the Stage at all.
Now, the demands upon the _personnel_ of the staff in _Les Huguenots_
are very heavy. The part of “Queen Marguerite of Navarre” is not written
for a _seconda donna_, but a second _prima donna_—a _Soprano leggiero_,
as opposed to the _Soprano dramatico_ of “Valentine.” That of “Urbain,”
the page, needs a Mezzo-soprano of high capability. The Tenor—“Raoul de
Nangis,” and the Basso and Baritono—“Marcel” and “Saint Bris”—need
representatives of the highest rank. And in face of these demands we can
scarcely wonder that a man so hard to satisfy as Meyerbeer was not too
ready to place his second great masterpiece upon the Stage.
It must be supposed, however, that he was satisfied at last, for on Feb.
26, _Die Hugenotten_ was announced for representation, with Mdlle. Lind,
as we have said, in the part of “Valentine”; and the performance was
thus criticised in the journal from which we have so frequently and so
freely quoted:—
“Our great Artist-visitor, Jenny Lind, has evolved from the character
of ‘Valentine,’ in _Die Hugenotten_—a part as rich in dramatic and
musical expression—a dramatic creation which, in noble individuality,
occupies quite as high a position in the domain of Lyric Tragedy—as
the earlier _rôles_ in which the artist enchained us with such
irresistible power.
“Before the time of Jenny Lind, the grandest reading of the part was
decidedly that of Wilhelmina Schrœder-Devrient. She threw more
brilliant lights upon it and invested certain passages with a more
satisfactory colouring; as, for instance, at the well-known words,
‘_Ich bin ein Mädchen das ihn liebt_,’ &c. And yet the shrinking
breath with which our artist lightly veiled this expression cast a
more delicate fragrance over the deep inward glow, and imparted to it
a charm wholly its own.
“But, as was only to be expected of an artist so rich in creative
power, Jenny Lind also struck out for herself an altogether original
conception of the impersonation, impressed it in the most marked
manner upon the character, and filled us with astonishment at the rich
variety of her resources. Her third act was a touching prayer to her
bitter fate; her fourth, a mighty battle waged against it; her fifth,
a splendid victory over it. She sang the last scene under truest
inspiration of faith.
“We have always found that the artist penetrates more and more deeply
into the heart of her task at every repetition, and fulfils it with
greater ease; we may therefore in this, as in other cases, look
forward to even increased perfection. Yet we may almost ask, ‘What
need of more?’ in presence of this noblest wealth of treasures.”
To sober-minded English readers the style of Herr Rellstab’s critiques
may seem exaggerated. It must be admitted that their tone differs
materially from that adopted in England at the present day; but they are
of great value to us, as records of a form of criticism now—in this
country, at least—quite obsolete. Moreover, in so far as our present
purpose is concerned, they distinctly reflect the feeling with which
Mdlle. Lind’s performances were listened to, at the time they were
written, by the crowded audiences who flocked, night after night, to the
Royal Opera-House to hear her. The performer concerning whom it was
simply possible to write in a strain so exalted can have belonged to no
common order in the Hierarchy of Art. And enough is known of the
character of Herr Rellstab, and of his position in Berlin, to establish
the certainty that he honestly meant every word he wrote.