expressed in the still unfamiliar German, the grammatical construction
of which bore traces, even here, of those idiomatic difficulties which
drive so many foreigners to despair. But, in the language of the heart,
peculiarities of idiom are unknown; and it was in this language that
Mdlle. Lind carried on her correspondence with her German friends.
To Madame Birch-Pfeiffer, she wrote thus:—
“Stuttgard, Nov. 12, 1846.
“I rank the Munich public quite certainly next to that of Vienna.
“The house is splendid; though the size of it caused me, at first, so
much anxiety, that I positively determined not to sing in it. The
orchestra is excellent.
“The Kaulbachs behave like parents to me. _Enfin_, all is well.”
To her guardian, Judge Munthe, she wrote, on the following day, in her
own native Swedish:—
“Stuttgard, Nov. 13, 1846.
“Munich is a splendid place, and I am going there again, before I go
on to Vienna.
“All my plans have been deranged by an engagement for the Italian
Opera in London; where I shall have no Grisi or other _prima donna_
star to contend with, but shall be chiefly supported by Signor
Lablache.
“The manager of the Opera followed me everywhere; so I wrote, for
advice, to Felix Mendelssohn, who, knowing London thoroughly, and me
too, told me that I ought by all means to go there, and that it would
be extremely unwise for me if I did not do so.
“Lumley, the manager, offered me, from the 1st of April, to the 21st
of August, 140,000 francs, besides lodgings, and a carriage, and this
does not seem very bad. No one has been offered half so much. My fate
has been greatly changed indeed. But, do not mention this to any one,
or people will talk about 1,400,000 millions!
“So, I shall not be much longer in Germany. I go to Vienna, most
probably, next month; and, in February, to Italy, for the sake of the
language. Do you approve? If I am successful in London, I shall be
honourably entitled to go home at Christmas, and live the life that my
soul is longing for, and be able to do good to those for whom I care.”
After fulfilling her engagement in Stuttgard, Mdlle. Lind proceeded to
Carlsruhe; where she sang three times.
From Carlsruhe, she proceeded to Heidelberg; where, on the 5th of
December, she gave a Concert, with such success, that, on reaching her
temporary lodgings, she was greeted with a serenade, accompanied by a
torch-light procession of students; and, when she quitted the
picturesque old town, on the following morning, its inhabitants
expressed their thanks by presenting her with a poetical address,
printed on a long narrow fillet of delicate sea-green satin, fringed, at
each end, with gold.
Proceeding thence to Mannheim, she sang, on the evening of the same day
(Dec. 6), in _La Figlia del Reggimento_; and assisted, on the 7th, at a
concert given by Mr. Kuhe.
From Mannheim, she travelled to Nuremberg, where she sang, on the 9th of
December, in _La Sonnambula_, and, on the 11th, in _La Figlia del
Reggimento_; and, that nothing might be wanting to render this
provincial tour a remarkable one, the worthy burghers of that most
quaint and beautiful of mediæval cities—the birthplace of Albert Dürer,
and Peter Vischer, and the cradle of those Arts of ornamental metal-work
and priceless _orfèverie_, for which Germany was so famous in the Middle
Ages—the worthy burghers of Nuremberg, descendants of the
Merchant-Princes of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and, in less
princely lineage, from the Meistersinger who flourished under the
leadership of the renowned Hans Sachs, commemorated her visit, by
striking a medal in her honour.
From Nuremberg to its Art-sister, Augsburg—the birthplace of the great
Fugger family, and the present home of many of its honourable
descendants—the distance is but eighty-nine English miles; and in
Augsburg, she gave, on the 13th of December, the last concert at which
she proposed to sing before her return to Munich.
For the second visit to Munich the Operas chosen were, _La Figlia del
Reggimento_, _Don Juan_, and _Le Nozze di Figaro_. In addition to these,
there was a Concert for the Orchestra; and a performance of the
_Creation_, (also for the benefit of the Orchestra), on the 25th of
December.
It was another Christmas Day spent far away from home. But, if it lacked
the blessing of home-associations and the simple pleasures of Swedish
national observances, it was consecrated, in a special manner, to the
highest interests of Art and the warmest sentiments of humanity.
CHAPTER II.
THE RETURN TO VIENNA.
Within a fortnight after her farewell performance of Haydn’s _Creation_,
at Munich, Mdlle. Lind was again hard at work in Vienna, where she
arrived on the last day of the year 1846.
Since her first visit a sad change had taken place. To her great sorrow—
for she had learned sincerely to respect her—Madame Vivanot, in whose
house she had lived so comfortably, was dead. She therefore chose for
her residence some apartments annexed to the _Theater an der Wien_, and
known as the _Theater Gebäude_. These she rented from Herr Pokorny; and
in these she remained until the end of her engagement.
But in the meantime she had formed a closer intimacy still with the
family of Herr Oberstabsarzt Professor Dr. von Jaeger, a physician of
high reputation, whose daughter was her chosen friend, and to whose
amiable wife she looked up as to a mother. With these dear friends, she
spent all her free days during the season of 1847; and she afterwards
spoke of this period as one of the happiest in her life.
Of her experiences in Vienna, she wrote thus, to Madame Birch-Pfeiffer:—
“I am living at Pokorny’s; for, only think! poor Madame Vivanot, with
whom I lived last year, is dead. It has grieved me terribly. I shall
only stay here for this month. Unhappily, the _Feldlager_ will be
given later than I expected, and I shall only be able to take part in
a few representations. I am the more sorry for this, because the Opera
has now been made so very different, and my _rôle_ has been greatly
improved!
“Meyerbeer behaves to me like an angel. I cannot help being fond of
him—and really am so. He takes an enormous amount of trouble with his
work, and I hope it will succeed.
“Things are going on better here at the theatre than they did last
spring. But I am not so happy, here, as at Munich. I dream of Munich.
I return there from here, direct, to study Italian very quietly at the
Kaulbachs; for I am not going to Italy. That would take me too far out
of my way; and I have an excellent opportunity of studying Italian,
with a true friend.”[87]
Meanwhile, Mdlle. Lind remained as great a favourite as ever with the
public. The Opera chosen for her re-appearance, on the 7th of January,
1847, was _La Figlia del Reggimento_, under its new German title,
_Marie, die Tochter des Regiments_.
The success of the new _rôle_ was indescribable. The Opera became so
popular, that, after the first few representations had taken place, a
portrait of Mdlle. Lind, in the character of “Marie,” published at
Munich, found its way at Vienna into the house of every music-lover in
the city. The print was so much superior, in every way, to the average
portraits of dramatic artists “in character,” that we have thought it
better to present our readers with a copy of it, at once, than to
reserve our illustration—as we had originally intended to do—until our
notice of the production of the Opera in England.
The _Wiener Zeitung_, which had always been more cautious in its
expressions of praise than the Berlin newspapers, entirely forgot its
reserve, on the present occasion.
“Her song is the audible expression of her inner life,” it said. “Her
acting and singing melt into one another, and the beauty of the
dramatic expression moves hand in hand with the nobility of the
declamatory vocalisation. A voice so ideal, and so full of soul, a
manner so earnest, such childlike _naïveté_, such deep poetry, such
perfect innocence of song, form a very rare manifestation in the world
of Art. We find in Fräulein Jenny Lind’s singing a fervour, a feeling,
a spiritual life; precious qualities, by means of which she ennobles
the most insignificant details, and raises them to the highest level
of æsthetic beauty. And it is precisely from her creative power of
conception, her inspiration, and her sympathetic character, that this
æsthetic beauty springs.”
But the triumphs at the _Theater an der Wien_ were not the only
agreeable events by which the opening of the new year was enlivened.
It happened that, at this time, Dr. Robert and Madame Clara Schumann
were staying at Vienna and giving concerts of deep artistic
significance. And it will be readily understood that Mdlle. Lind did not
neglect so happy an opportunity of practically expressing her thanks for
the kindness Madame Schumann had shown her, at her own concert in
Leipzig, in the previous spring.
[Illustration:
Printed by permission of J. Aibl Publisher, Munich.
_Jenny Lind in the character of “La Figlia del Reggimento.”_
]
The three first concerts were over. At the fourth, and last, announced
to take place on the 10th of January, Mdlle. Lind had offered to sing;
and the demand for tickets then so greatly increased the possible
supply, that the room was crowded to suffocation. The concert was most
successful. Madame Schumann played to perfection; and the songs received
additional lustre from her delightful accompaniments, with which those
of Mendelssohn alone could be worthily compared.
The reader cannot fail to be interested with the following extracts from
the Diary she kept at this time:—
“1847. _Saturday, Jan. 2._—Called early on Jenny Lind, who greeted me
with a request to sing at my last Concert, whereat I was greatly
delighted. She refused all thanks, telling me, over and over again,
that she looked upon it as an obligation; and that, besides that, she
esteemed it an honour to sing at my Concert.
“_Wednesday, Jan. 6._—Jenny Lind called on us for rehearsal. She came
earlier than was arranged; and, as she did not find us at home, she
entertained herself with my two children, whom we found upon her lap
when we returned. She is a dear creature, full of soul, whom I like
better and better, the more I see of her.
“_Sunday, Jan. 10._—Gave my fourth and last Concert, which was full to
crushing (_zum Erdrücken voll_), so that many people could get no
places at all. Jenny Lind sang wonderfully. One can never forget such
achievements.
“_Monday, Jan. 11._—We called on Jenny Lind, who, immediately upon our
entrance, called out, ‘Will you not give another Concert, and let me
sing at it?’ We stayed rather a long time with her; and I sat as if
rooted to my place. I am so fond of her. She is for me the warmest
noblest being that I have yet found among Artistes—and how can I ever
forget her? One must know her, and know her thoroughly, to love her as
I do. We talked about many things, including Stockholm, when she made
me promise that I would stay with her, when I came there, and that I
would not go unless she was there herself, so that she might take part
in my Concerts. It was very nice of her. I could have hugged her all
the time!”[88]
There were many other Concerts, during the winter. A private one, at the
house of the Russian Grand Duchess; a _soirée_, given by the Archduchess
Sophie, the mother of the present Emperor of Austria, and another, given
by the Empress, the Consort of the Emperor Ferdinand. The members of the
Imperial family had, from the first, shown all honour to the talented
“Guest,” and received her with marked attention; and they always heard
her sing with every sign of unaffected pleasure.
Besides assisting at the Court performances, Mdlle. Lind sang at a
concert given by the little Wilhelmina Neruda—now Lady Hallé—who,
though then little more than six-and-a-half years old, had already
made a great reputation, in Vienna, as a child-violinist; and at a
later performance, the entire receipts of which were distributed, in
equal shares, between the _Kinderspital_, or Children’s Hospital, and
the _Kleinkinderbewahranstalt_, or Home for Little Children, for both
of which the results were most fortunate.
While these events were in progress, Mendelssohn wrote to her thus:—
“Leipzig, Feb. 19, 1847.
“It is a long time since we have spoken to each other, my dear
Fräulein. Why I must begin my letter thus, and why my heart felt so
heavy, when Dr. Schumann brought me your letter—delayed since the 20th
of last month—I will some day tell you, in detail, by word of mouth.
“To-day I have before all things, a favour to ask of you. You will
think this a great bore: for which reason I come down upon it, like a
sledge-hammer—seeing that I can in no wise let you off it.
“When your journey to England was in question, you once showed me
confidence enough to ask my opinion; and, in connection with this, I
have now something on my mind.
“In your last letter but one, you say:—‘Lumley takes Bunn’s contract
wholly upon himself: _that I have in writing_.’ Is it asking too much,
if I beg you, as soon as you have a moment to spare, to tell me where
this stands written by Lumley? _i.e._ to send me a copy of the _words_
in which he pledges himself to take over the contract, and to let me
see whether these words stand in your engagement with Lumley, or
somewhere else?
“It seems to me, now, as if I saw you vexed at this request—but do not
be so. I feel as if I should not have done my duty properly, if I had
not asked you to send me this copy, and then, after knowing all about
it, given my opinion more amply. Beforehand, I cannot give it; and, if
you will allow yourself to be vexed at my importunity, I tell you that
you yourself are in fault, since, by telling me so much, you gave me
the right to enquire farther—made it, in fact, my duty to do so.
“A few days ago, Herr Arnemann was here, and we talked the whole thing
over; but no one understands these matters more exactly than myself,
for I have often had to do with the English, and, for that very
reason, I should not like, to say anything incorrectly or by halves;
and, for that very reason, _et cætera, et cætera_.
“Lumley began to send me the _libretto_ for the Opera, barely three
weeks ago. It seems to me impossible to get the music for such a
subject ready for the stage, in time for this season—that is to say,
by May, at the latest—and I am in doubt as to whether I had better
begin it, and get on as far as I can, or not begin it at all, since,
as I said before, I feel that it will be impossible for me to finish
it. There has already been much vexation, in connection with this—but
I will tell you all about it, _vivâ voce_.
“To Madame Birch-Pfeiffer I have—as I had already resolved—written no
more. But she wrote to me, lately, quite unexpectedly, to say that,
for many reasons, to her _most bitter sorrow_, she could not entertain
the idea of writing a _libretto_ for me. To this, however, I have not
replied: and I think we are now of one mind.
“This letter is like a room in which people have been playing
practical jokes, and turned all the furniture upside down. It is a
great bore to have to set everything straight, and to put it into its
right place. But it must be done, all the same; and only after that
can one live comfortably there again. Do not weary yourself to make
this clearance.
“It is all well with us here at home, thank God! and we all think of
you every day. Breitkopf and Härtel have just sent me the first copy
of a new quartette, by Hermann Wichmann, that they are now publishing.
A few months ago I was staying in Wichmann’s house again, and was much
pleased with your portrait, by Magnus, which is now there, instead of
yourself.
“I have often and often thought over what you more than once said to
me about Leipzig, when we were on the Rhine. I believe you were right;
and, sooner or later, I shall have to follow your advice.
“My servant, to whom I was as much attached as you to your Annette,
has died in our house, after a long illness. I was called up in the
night; and, just as I came to him, he died. Since then, I have never
been able to get over the moment.
“Joachim played splendidly at the concert, yesterday. He is a
first-rate fellow. Apart from this, the music does not sound very well
here, this winter; it is a little rough.”
We shall, however, dismiss these subjects for the present, and proceed
to the description of a new triumph, which produced no small amount of
excitement at the _Theater an der Wien_.
CHAPTER III.
THE SHADOW.
As early as the 2nd of December, 1846, Meyerbeer had requested, and
obtained, from the King of Prussia, two months’ leave of absence, for
the purpose of bringing out a revised version of _Das Feldlager in
Schlesien_ in the Austrian capital; and on the 18th of February, 1847,
it was performed there for the first time, with certain changes in the
_libretto_ intended for the purpose of rendering it more acceptable to a
Viennese audience, and under the new title of _Vielka_. Its success was
triumphant. It had an immediate run of thirteen nights, interrupted only
by a performance of the _Creation_, for the benefit of the orchestra;
and the famous trio for _Vielka_ and the two flutes—afterwards
transferred to _L’Etoile du Nord_, of which it formed the chief
attraction—became at once extremely popular.
Yet, so dissatisfied was Mdlle. Lind, that, when the last flowers had
been strown, and the echo of the last burst of applause had died away,
she left the stage in despair at what she considered an ignoble failure,
and with the full conviction that Meyerbeer himself would reproach her
with having done injustice to his beautiful Opera.
We have already said, that, among her most intimate friends in Vienna,
during the season of 1847, were Professor von Jaeger, and his wife and
daughter, at whose house she was accustomed to spend most of her free
days, at this period.
The last-named lady, Fräulein Auguste von Jaeger, remembers the first
performance of _Vielka_ perfectly. At the fall of the curtain, she and
her mother hurried to Mdlle. Lind’s dressing-room to congratulate her on
her new triumph. They found her in the white robe in which, as a
purified spirit, she had just ascended to the skies; surrounded by the
flowers which had been thrown upon the stage and afterwards brought to
her room; and bathed in tears of penitence for her “imperfect singing,”
which had “spoiled the Opera.”
While they were endeavouring to console her, some one knocked at the
door which she had locked. It was Meyerbeer, begging for admittance. In
a voice broken by sobs, she cried through the closed door, “Oh! Herr
Director! forgive me for singing so badly, and spoiling your Opera!”
“But, you have sung divinely!” said Meyerbeer. “It was all splendid. I
have come to thank you! to thank you!”
But she refused to be comforted. Whatever Meyerbeer may have thought,
she had fallen short of her own ideal. She could neither satisfy
herself, nor endure the satisfaction of others.
On the evening of this memorable first performance, a high compliment
was paid to her, by the presentation of a beautiful medal, in the name
of the Art lovers of Vienna. This act of recognition, however, was not
the last of the season.
On the 28th of March, 1847, Mdlle. Lind was presented, by command of the
Emperor Ferdinand, with an official diploma, appointing her
_Kammersängerin_ to His Imperial Majesty. The document was signed by the
High Chamberlain, Count Moritz von Dietrichstein, and was couched in
terms which not only recognised the talents of the Artist, but made
special allusion to the “noble and philanthropic feeling” with which she
had dedicated those talents to “the promotion of benevolent designs.”
Simultaneously with these tokens of honour and respect _Vielka_
continued to maintain an uninterrupted run, at the _Theater an der
Wien_. The last performance of it was the last but one of the season;
and on the last night of all—April the 7th—Mdlle. Lind sang in _Norma_,
for her own benefit, with the brilliant success which has been so often
described that it is unnecessary to recapitulate the details on the
present occasion.
These events, however, are connected rather with the history of the
Vienna season of 1847, than with the more intimate life of the subject
of our present memoir.
With reference to the latter, we prefer leaving Mdlle. Lind to speak in
her own words. The following letter to Madame Wichmann will show that
Madame Schumann’s affection for her was warmly returned:—·
“Vienna, Jan. 20, 1847.
“I know so well your love and self-denying kindness for me, that I do
not for a moment fear that you will be vexed if I send someone to your
house. Is it not so? You will not be angry with me?
“I mean the Schumanns.
“You know, of course, that her talent is altogether splendid; for, of
course you have often heard of her as Clara Wieck. They are two such
excellent and noble, really noble persons, that they will give you
great pleasure. Please, dearly beloved, receive these two dear people
kindly, and as friends, for your own sake, and for mine. The wife is
very sensitive, and you will see that she is quite an exceptional
woman. He is a composer _plein d’esprit_, and modest to the last
degree. I asked them if they had any acquaintances in Berlin; and they
seemed to me to have no real ones. And then it was that I thought of
you; and you may well know how grateful I shall be.
“Ah, yes! When shall I see you again? _Mon Dieu!_ This longing for
rest grows upon me, almost beyond all measure; but time passes
quickly, and no mortal will be so glad as I, when I am but free.”
The next letter is written three weeks later:—
“Vienna, Feb. 13, 1847.
“What can you be thinking about! I, going to Paris! Who could have
told you that? And how could I have entertained such an idea, without
telling you of it!
“No, dearest Amalia. I am not only not going to Paris, but it seems as
if I shall not even go to London.
“Bunn will not give up the contract; and I cannot go there unless he
does so, for he actually threatens to put me in prison!!! I tell you,
Amalia, I should be wild with joy, if I had not to go there! _Mon
Dieu!_ Suppose it fell out so!
“They have made me all possible offers from Paris; but I did not need
a moment to think it over.
“The stage I will leave—and I shall then want nothing else in the
world.
“I am quite well; and it goes more than well with me here. _Das
Feldlager_ is not yet ready; but it is to be given next week, and it
goes very well. The Opera will certainly create a _furore_ here in
Vienna.
“I rejoice that it gives me so much pleasure to hear of Viardot
Garcia’s success in Berlin. I have never been envious for a moment.
Tell Taubert so: he thinks me rather weak on that point.”
Swiftly, yet stealthily, the shadow was drawing near: and a dark and
baleful shadow it must have seemed, to one who did not know how utterly
unreal it was.
Deliberate efforts were made to persuade Mdlle. Lind that, if she came
to England, she would be put in prison. There is strong evidence to
prove that she believed this. And the belief terrified her. To a letter
written by her about this time to Mendelssohn, he answered thus:—
“Leipzig, March 14, 1847.
“MY DEAR FRÄULEIN,
“You well know how glad I am, when I receive a letter from you. But,
your last contained certain things that make me feel very
uncomfortable, or rather, the whole letter does so. You say, in one
place, that you feel sad, and restless, and cannot sleep; and apart
from this, the letter seems to me agitated throughout: and this it is
that troubles me.
“I therefore write these few lines to you, to-day; though it is
difficult to converse, and give advice, at the distance of so many
miles, and with so many days’ journey between us. Who knows that you
may not have forgotten it all, and become quite cheerful again, by the
time that this reaches you? And it will be better, so. For you can
then leave it unread, and its purpose will be answered all the same.
“But if you are still restless, and out of tune, when this arrives,
and, if the English business is to blame for this, I entreat you, my
dear Fräulein, do not let your reasoning power, otherwise so clever
and natural, be troubled by the horrid outcry on this side and on
that, and all the tumults, and all the wretchedness of it. For, after
all, the great advantage of a good conscience here below is, that it
is the one thing of which no one can rob one; that, under its
guidance, one is led through all the quarrelling and fighting on the
way, and attains the goal unhurt; and others wonder at one’s courage,
and one’s wisdom, and Heaven knows what, while it is just the simple
and honest good conscience alone that works all the wonder; and so it
has always been with you, and will be, again and again.
“I confess that, after all you have told me, I would rather that you
had not promised Lumley to go to England; and, especially, I would
rather that you had not offered Bunn such a sum as you tell me, for
the contract. I am very sorry indeed that you have done this; but,
since you _have_ done it, the thing is settled. And here, again, it is
settled for the best, if only you do not let your rest and peace of
mind be destroyed through it; for you well know that you meant rightly
and nobly.
“Moreover, I know that you will have warmer friends, and a heartier
welcome, and a greater triumph, in England, than you have perhaps had
anywhere else, and that is saying a great deal. And I know that I
adhere to every word that I have ever said to you about it, in spite
of Bunn, and Covent Garden, and their letters, and the newspaper
articles that have at last become almost too laughable. But I hope
most sincerely that Bunn, and Covent Garden—for, for the moment, they
are one—will not have the face to accept your offer, and to redeem the
contract from you; for what is worth more to them than any amount of
money is, not that you should sing for them, but that you should _not_
sing for Lumley; and therein lies the whole turmoil.
“Still, I am quite sure that you will just simply do what is right;
and, resigning yourself to the consequences, be very glad indeed that
you have done right. Of what is politic, and clever, and exceedingly
astute, I know nothing; and you, also, will not care to know anything.
And, as to what could, or should have been done, that is really not
the question—if any question there be. And, apart from all this, what
it is that disquiets and frightens you I cannot imagine. You know
well, that you mean to do your duty; and you may trust me so far as
this, that it is very seldom indeed that the performance of a duty
leads to such happiness and such friends as are awaiting you in
England. You would, I am persuaded, behave just in the same way, if a
host of enemies were waiting for you; but, believe me, they will be
friends. You will be borne on the shoulders of a whole nation—which is
a nation indeed!—and, in the end, you yourself will rejoice in it.
“I am very unselfish in advising you thus; for it appears to me very
improbable that we shall meet in England. If I go there at all this
year—which is still uncertain—I shall go from here in the beginning of
April, and remain there only till the beginning of May. And you will
hardly be in London before the beginning of May?
“I had pictured it all to myself so nicely: to show you some of my
favourite places, and make you acquainted with two of my very
particular friends there. But, if this may not be, we shall meet again
soon, somewhere or other; and I am confident that we shall meet again
unaltered.”
In truth, Mdlle. Lind’s terror was utterly groundless. But for her it
had a fatal significance; and she could not be persuaded that she had,
in reality, nothing to fear, though she was ready to purchase her
immunity by an act of almost Quixotic generosity—an offer of no less
than £2000, for the revocation of the contract—which offer Mr. Bunn
refused to accept.
This, then, was the state of the controversy, when Mdlle. Lind sang her
last song, at Vienna.
While, on one side of the Channel, she was tormented with fears for her
own personal safety, Mr. Lumley, on the other, was racked with anxiety,
concerning the fate of Her Majesty’s Theatre, which was literally
hanging in the balance. Who shall say which of the two sufferers endured
the greatest amount of mental torture? Over which of them did the shadow
brood most darkly?
BOOK VII.
SUPREMACY.
CHAPTER I.
MANAGERIAL DIFFICULTIES.
Her Majesty’s Theatre opened for the season on Tuesday, the 16th of
February, 1847, amidst a sea of doubts and perplexities which might well
have appalled the most courageous _impresario_.
Though it forms no part of our present purpose to record the disastrous
cabals and suicidal intrigues that seem, unhappily, inseparable from the
life of the theatrical manager “behind the scenes,” it is necessary, for
the clear understanding of our narrative, that the reader should be made
acquainted with the results, at least, of the long series of
disagreements which rendered the government of Her Majesty’s Theatre so
peculiarly difficult, at the eventful period of which we are now
treating.
For many years past, the Lyric Stage had been ruled with a rod of iron,
by a band of artists of world-wide reputation, who have been not inaptly
described as the _vieille garde_ of the Opera.
The names of Mesdames Grisi and Persiani, of Signori Rubini, Tamburini,
and Lablache, had become so justly celebrated, throughout the length and
breadth of Europe, and their influence had been so firmly established in
London, Paris, and St. Petersburg, that no manager, however despotic,
could resist their supreme will and pleasure with impunity.
Against this state of things, Mr. Lumley protested, with an energy that
did him infinite credit, though he had to pay dearly enough, in the long
run, for his determination.
A disagreement had long been impending, between the management, and
Signor (afterwards Sir Michael) Costa, who had held the responsible
office of Conductor, at Her Majesty’s Theatre, for fully sixteen years.
The dispute reached its climax in 1846; Signor Costa resigned his
appointment; and the vacant post was offered to, and duly accepted by
Mr. Balfe; whereupon the _vieille garde_, feeling themselves attacked in
the person of their _chef d’orchestre_, seceded in a body from the
company, and, with one notable exception, refused to renew their
engagements. Signor Lablache—no less distinguished for his high sense of
honour and integrity than for his magnificent voice and splendid
artistic intelligence and bearing—alone remained faithful to the theatre
which had been the scene of his most brilliant triumphs. Not only did he
refuse to join the coalition; but, from first to last, he did his best
to prevent a rupture between the manager and his company. His kind
offices, however, were thrown away. Signor Rubini had already retired
from the Stage, and was, therefore, in no wise concerned in the quarrel;
but, Mesdames Grisi and Persiani, and Signori Mario and Tamburini, threw
up all connection with the “old house”; and, on Tuesday, the 6th of
April, 1847, inaugurated the first season of the “Royal Italian Opera,”
at Covent Garden, with a magnificent performance of Rossini’s
_Semiramide_.
It must be confessed, that, for the manager of Her Majesty’s Theatre,
the situation was sufficiently embarrassing.
Happily for the season of 1847, Mr. Lumley’s energy was never so well
displayed as when he found himself in face of an apparently
insurmountable difficulty. The threatening cloud—sombre enough, in the
first instance, and growing daily darker and darker—was perhaps
necessary for the full display of his managerial capabilities. Still,
the prospect was very gloomy indeed.
The season had opened on the 16th of February, with Donizetti’s _La
Favorita_, in which the principal parts were sustained by Madame
Sanchioli, and Signori Gardoni, Superchi, and Bouché—the three last
entirely new to the audience at Her Majesty’s Theatre. But, these
attractions offered in competition with the brilliant performances at
Covent Garden were quite insufficient to meet the pressing need. The
only hope of the management lay in the first appearance of Jenny Lind.
Difficult as the situation was, no one for a moment doubted that the
appearance of the new _prima donna_, at this critical moment, would save
the theatre. Signor Lablache, whose judgment was not to be despised, had
strongly urged the management to engage her; and, some months
previously, had addressed the following letter on the subject to Mr.
Lumley.
“Naples, October 12, 1846.
“DEAR MR. LUMLEY,—I learn, with much regret, from your last letter,
that Mdlle. Lind finds some difficulty in coming to London. It is a
great misfortune that this excellent _artiste_ neither knows London,
nor the exceptional position of your theatre for the coming year; for,
she will never find a more favourable moment for her interests, or her
reputation. Try, then, to decide her; and make her understand that she
will find herself surrounded by brothers, and friends, and not by
intriguing _artistes_, as is, unfortunately, too often the case. Her
success is certain. I answer to you for it; and you, who know me, will
understand all that I am prepared to do, myself, to aid it. It is not
only her immense reputation as an _artiste_, that gives me this
conviction; but, the good that is said of her, as a woman. I tell you,
frankly, that I have been, as you know, the friend of Pasta, and the
friend of Malibran; and, that I shall be very proud to be able to say:
‘I am the friend of Lind.’ If you think it necessary, I will write a
letter to her, myself; and, if she knows me, she cannot fail to put
faith in my words. Forgive me, my dear Mr. Lumley, if I meddle with
your affairs; but, you know my device: ‘Art, before all things.’ Do
not forget me; and remember that you have ever in me,
“Your wholly devoted
“L. LABLACHE.”[89]
In the meantime, the position of the manager grew daily more and more
distressing; but, as was his wont, he proved himself equal to the
occasion. Leaving the actual government of the theatre in the hands of a
trusted subordinate, he secretly quitted his post, between the acts of
the Opera, on the last night before the theatre closed for the Easter
recess; hurried away, in his evening dress, to catch the train for
Calais, with barely half an hour to spare for all the preparations
needed for his long journey; travelled, night and day, until he found
himself face to face with the lady of whom he was in search, at Vienna;
and, while those most deeply interested in the success of the scheme
were driven almost to the verge of despair, he had the satisfaction, on
Friday, the 16th of April, of returning to his duties in London,
bringing with him the joyful intelligence that Mdlle. Lind was actually
on her way to England, and that her arrival might be confidently
expected on the following day.
While the subscribers to the Opera were anxiously awaiting her
appearance, another section of the musical world was thrown into equal
excitement by that of Mendelssohn, who, in response to an invitation
from the Sacred Harmonic Society, came to London, for the tenth and last
time, on the 12th of April, for the purpose of conducting four
performances of his new Oratorio, _Elijah_, at Exeter Hall.
On the afternoon of Saturday, the 17th of April, 1847, the great
composer, knowing nothing of the negotiations which had been pending
since the beginning of the week, called, by merest accident, on Mrs.
Grote, who had invited Mdlle. Lind to be her guest at her town residence
in Eccleston Street, until the house provided for her at the expense of
the management was ready for her occupation.
Delighted at the news he heard, Mendelssohn was easily persuaded to stay
until his friend arrived, though the delay seemed interminable, as he
and his hostess walked up and down the western side of Belgrave Square,
keeping the door of the house in Eccleston Street from time to time in
view, and eagerly watching for the appearance of the party. Their
patience was severely tried; but, after waiting three-quarters of an
hour, they were rewarded by the sight of two four-wheeled cabs, heavily
laden with luggage; and, hastening to the door, they lost no time in
welcoming their friend to the country in which she was destined, ere
long, to win a reputation more brilliant and lasting than that attained
by any other singer of the period.
Mdlle. Lind “looked scared and bewildered;” but brightened visibly under
the influence of the hearty welcome with which she was greeted. The
tired travellers were promptly refreshed. Mendelssohn reluctantly took
leave of the party, after a few minutes’ conversation; and, later in the
evening, after an hour or two of the rest she so sorely needed, the
honoured guest accompanied her host and hostess to their box at Her
Majesty’s Theatre—No. 48, on the Grand Tier.
A few minutes after the arrival of the party, Mr. Lumley visited the
box; and, later in the evening, Signor Lablache came to pay his respects
to the great _artiste_ whose friendship he had so earnestly desired to
gain. This naturally attracted attention; and, after a little time,
every inquisitive eye in the opposite boxes, every glance from the
stalls, every _lorgnette_ in the vast _auditorium_, was directed towards
the box in which Mdlle. Lind was seated. She seemed, at first, very much
disturbed. Moreover, the size of the _salle_—so much larger than that of
the Opera-Houses at Berlin and Vienna—alarmed her seriously, though the
manager assured her of the well-known fact, that its acoustic properties
were perfect. However, as the evening wore on, she seemed to gain
courage, and evidently took great interest in the performance, to which
she listened attentively throughout; once whispering to her hostess, “I
think I can do as well as that, and perhaps a little better.”[90]
A few days after this, Mr. and Mrs. Grote gave a dinner-party, for the
purpose of introducing their visitor to a few artistic friends who were
particularly desirous to meet her. Among the guests were Mendelssohn,
Lablache, and Mr. Lumley. In the evening, Mendelssohn sat down to the
piano, and, after improvising for a few minutes, asked Mdlle. Lind to
sing ‘_Auf Flügeln des Gesanges_,’ the song in which she had created so
profound a sensation in Leipzig. She willingly complied; but, from sheer
nervousness, broke down no less completely than she had done when
singing ‘_Perche non ho_’ to Garcia, in Paris. She afterwards explained,
that it was the presence of Lablache that terrified her; though he was
of course quite unconscious of this, and, with his never-failing
good-nature, endeavoured to bring back her courage by singing some of
the amusing Neapolitan ‘_Canzonette_’ in which his graceful humour was
inimitable. Mendelssohn then played again; and, afterwards, Mdlle. Lind,
recovering her confidence, sang one of her characteristic Swedish
melodies; displaying her peculiar talent with such success, that the
company were delighted, and Signor Lablache expressed his admiration
with a warmth which rendered all doubt as to its sincerity impossible.
This was followed by some other songs, sung with equal effect; and the
success of the “private hearing” was felt to be complete.
Still, the inexplicable dread of a public performance at the theatre
remained as great as ever. Though Mendelssohn called, almost daily, to
encourage his friend, she could neither be persuaded to make
arrangements for a rehearsal, nor to seek an interview with the
conductor—Mr. Balfe; and, at last, she confessed to her hostess that her
terrors were unconquerable, and begged her to intercede with Mr. Lumley
for a withdrawal of the contract. The blow fell heavily; but, the
manager wisely determined to wait; hoping that more mature consideration
would induce her to recognise the necessity for fulfilling her
engagement. And, the event proved that he was right.
One day, soon afterwards, when the ladies were driving together, Mdlle.
Lind asked how the Opera was getting on. “Not at all,” was the reply:
“it is completely at a standstill. No one will take either a box, or a
stall, in the present state of uncertainty. The public are waiting for
your appearance; and, in the meantime, the manager is losing money every
night.”
The directness of this answer, every word of which was strictly and
literally true, seemed to take her by surprise. She sat silent, until
the carriage stopped at her friend’s door; and then, before alighting,
said to her, “If you see Mr. Lumley to-night, please tell him that I
will attend at the theatre on Monday next.” It happened, however, that
she herself met Mr. Lumley, that evening, at a dinner-party at the house
of Baron Rehusen, the Swedish Minister, and was thus able to deliver her
own message to the delighted manager. The rehearsal took place on the
day appointed; and, from that moment, all hesitation was at an end. She
entered, with the deepest interest, into the arrangements made for her
approaching _début_. At the rehearsals, which she attended with
never-failing punctuality, she delighted the conductor, and excited the
admiration of all who were associated with her in the performance,
whether on the stage, or in the orchestra. She studied her part—quite
new to her in the Italian language—with untiring diligence. She had
chosen the part of “Alice,” in _Roberto il Diavolo_, for her first
appearance. It was one of her most successful _rôles_, and she felt that
the circumstances connected with her first entrance upon the crowded
stage, in the dress of a Pilgrim, with no important passages to sing
until after the gradual departure of the chorus, would give her time to
collect her energies, if she felt in any degree nervous. Indeed, it
would have been impossible for her to have chosen an Opera better fitted
for the occasion; and all was made ready for her appearance, on the 4th
of May.
CHAPTER II.
THE TRIUMPH.
The excitement of the public, when the fateful day arrived, exceeded
anything that had ever been witnessed by the oldest frequenter of Her
Majesty’s Theatre.
From an early hour in the afternoon, the colonnade in the Haymarket was
thronged by a crowd of ladies and gentlemen, in evening dress, waiting
patiently to secure good places in the pit. The file of carriages seemed
interminable. When the doors were opened, at half-past seven, the crush
was terrific. Ladies were fairly carried off their feet, and pressed
against the barriers with a force which neither they nor their
protectors had power to resist. Neither in the pit, nor even in the
“three-shilling gallery,” could “standing-room” be found, at any price,
for the disappointed applicants who continued to besiege the doors; and
many of those who had succeeded in effecting an entrance were wedged
into corners from which the stage was invisible. The Queen, the Prince
Consort, the Queen Dowager, and the Duchess of Kent, occupied the Royal
boxes, to the left of the stage. Mendelssohn sat in the stalls, with his
friend, Mr. Grote. And every corner of the house was crowded with the
most brilliant representatives of the talent, the fashion, and the
wealth of London.
When the curtain rose, the excitement was indescribable; and, a few
minutes afterwards, Mdlle. Lind—dragged on the stage, in her pilgrim’s
dress, by the attendants of Roberto—was received with the burst of
applause which, on the Continent, is usually delayed until the
_débutante_ has won her crown. She seemed both affected and surprised;
but soon recovered her self-possession.
Fortunately, for some little time after the entrance of “Alice,” the
action is chiefly carried on by “Roberto” and the chorus. This gave
Mdlle. Lind time to collect herself; and when, left alone with the
Prince, she told him that his mother was no more—‘_Concesso, ah! non ti
fia, nè udirla, nè più vederla. Ah! non più vive!_’ the expression of
ineffable sadness with which she invested the touching words produced,
from every part of the house, signs of admiration so genuine, that, it
was clear to all present that her reputation was already assured.
From this point, to the final descent of the curtain, the performance
was a succession of triumphs. The most experienced critics were taken by
surprise, by the new _prima donna’s_ conception of the part of “Alice,”
exceeding, in poetic beauty, no less than in genuine dramatic power, the
finest impersonation of the character that had hitherto been presented
on the stage. All the stronger emotions successively called forth by the
development of the varied situations, no less than the subordinate
traits needed to unite them into a consistent whole, were delineated
with a truthfulness that carried everything before it, reaching its
natural climax in the Terzetto which immediately precedes the Finale to
the Fifth Act—a scene which Mdlle. Lind made peculiarly her own. Many
years afterwards, the writer ventured to remind Madame Goldschmidt that
she had sung this passage with an expression with which he had never
heard it invested by any other artist. “How could I tell how I sang it?”
she said; “I stood at the man’s right hand, and the Fiend at his left,
and all I could think of was, how to save him.”
It was this marvellous power of forgetting herself in the character she
impersonated, that formed the basis of all her dramatic success. She
once told Mr. Nassau Senior, who had questioned her on the subject, that
it appeared to her a sort of fraud, if, when she was pretending to be
“Alice,” or “Lucia,” she was thinking of herself. “I scarcely ever think
of the effect I am producing,” she said; “and, if the thought does
sometimes come across me, it spoils my acting. It seems to me, when I
act, that I feel fully all the emotions of the character I represent. I
fancy myself—in fact, believe myself—to be in her situation; and never
think of the audience.”
It is interesting to compare these remarks with the story—told on page
49—of a sentimental chatterer who once asked Mdlle. Lind what she was
thinking about, while she clung to the wayside Cross, in the famous
scene illustrated in our woodcut. She did not even condescend to explain
how completely she had been absorbed by the fears of the terrified
maiden she was impersonating; but coldly answered, “I suppose I was
thinking of my old bonnet.” And it is doubtful, to this day, whether her
interlocutor did not entirely fail to perceive the withering scorn which
underlay the answer, and take it _au grand sérieux_.
[Illustration: An engraving of a bearded man in medieval attire pointing
accusingly at a woman kneeling and clinging to a stone cross.]
When the Opera was over, the Queen, who had repeatedly manifested her
extreme satisfaction during the evening, expressed her admiration to Mr.
Lumley, in a tone and manner that showed how deep an impression had been
made upon her. “What a beautiful singer!” “What an actress!” “How
charming!” “How delightful!” These were the exclamations that fell from
the lips of Her Majesty, “whom,” said the delighted manager, “I had
never before seen thus moved to enthusiasm.”[91]
In describing this interesting conversation with Her Majesty, we have
been careful to repeat the exact words used by Mr. Lumley himself. But
we have more to say.
From a source of the highest authority,[92] we are enabled to confirm
his account of the deep impression produced upon Her Majesty. The
qualities of Mdlle. Lind’s voice, at once delicate and powerful, round,
soft, flexible, the charm of her appearance, her touching natural
acting, and the grace of her movements, were all keenly appreciated by
this accomplished musician and sensitive critic. Every one was struck by
Mdlle. Lind’s acting of the scene with Bertram, where she clung to the
Cross as a Divine safeguard; but, the beautiful impulse, unnoticed by
many, under which she fell down on her knees, during the concluding
chorus, to give thanks for Roberto’s safety, did not escape the
observation of the Queen, and drew from Her Majesty an expression of
warm admiration.
The whole performance, indeed, called forth one long-sustained ovation.
Nothing was left to be desired. There could be no fear for the future,
now, whatever attractions the rival company might put forth. The
management was saved; for the triumph was as lasting as it was complete.
On the following day, the leading London newspaper criticised the
performance in terms which showed an intelligent and thoroughly artistic
appreciation of its merits.
“If our expectations were great, we must say that they were more than
realised. The delicious quality of the organ—the rich gushing tone—was
something entirely new and fresh. The auditors did not know what to
make of it. They had heard singers over and over again, but here, that
wondrous thing, a new sensation, was actually created. The sustained
notes, swelling with full richness, and fading down to the softest
_piano_,
without losing one iota of their quality, being delicious when loud,
delicious when whispered, dwelt in the public ear, and reposed in the
public heart. The shake, _mezzo voce_, with which she concluded the
pretty air, ‘_Quand je quittais la Normandie_,’ was perfectly wonderful
from its rapidity and equality. This air was rapturously encored, with
the most enthusiastic waving of hats and handkerchiefs. Even the way in
which she uttered the first two or three notes of her Romance, ‘_Va
dit-elle_,’ so completely took the audience by surprise, that they
interrupted her progress, and forced her to stop, by their tumultuous
applause.
“And the impression she made as an actress was no less profound. There
is no conventionality about her—no seizing the strong points of a
character, and letting the rest drop. She acts thoroughly, with a
perfect naturalness, and an infinite variety of gesture. All seems
dictated by the moment, and yet all is graceful. There is no stereotyped
form for love, or anger, or what not; but all has the impulse of
immediate inspiration. As striking points, we may mention the clinging
to the Cross when attacked by Bertram, and the expression of rapture,
just before the final descent of the curtain, when she feels that she
has saved Robert from perdition. Her whole conception of Alice is a fine
histrionic study, of which every feature is equally good.
“On the fall of the curtain, the burst of applause showed that the
anticipations of the audience had been more than satisfied. Three
distinct times was Mdlle. Lind called upon the stage; and it was with a
certain hearty ‘one cheer more’ sort of feeling which we have never seen
so strongly manifested.”[93]
CHAPTER III.
AT CLAIRVILLE.
Some little time before her first appearance, while the rehearsals were
still in progress, Mademoiselle Lind quitted the residence of her
friend, in Eccleston Street, to take possession of a detached cottage,
pleasantly situated, in its own grounds, at Old Brompton. It will be
remembered that, by the terms of her contract with Mr. Lumley, she was
to be provided with a furnished residence, at the expense of the
management; and, of all the houses she had seen, “Clairville Cottage,”
as it was then called, was the only one that seemed to please her.
Though small and unpretending, it was both comfortable, and convenient;
it was within a moderate drive of the theatre; and the neighbourhood in
which it stood—now absorbed in the new district of South Kensington—was
sufficiently retired to ensure the privacy which, indeed, formed one of
its principal attractions.
Nearly all the old houses in this part of Old Brompton have long since
been pulled down; and the actual site of Clairville Cottage and its
pretty suburban garden is now occupied by one of the more modern and
much larger residences in Brechin Place, the ground on which it stood
forming part of a quadrangle, bounded by Brechin Place on its northern
and southern sides, by the Gloucester Road, on its eastern side, and on
that towards the west, by Rosary Gardens.
But, though all trace of the cottage itself has vanished, its name is
perpetuated, in somewhat dubious orthography, in Clareville Grove—a road
leading northwards from a spot near its former site; and a relic of the
garden still remains, in the form of a tall and handsome plane tree,
overhanging the Old Brompton Road, in front of Brechin Place, and
vigorously flourishing within two minutes’ walk of the house in which
Madame Goldschmidt spent the last twelve years of her life. It was a
less splendid tree, in 1847, than it is now, but she loved it all the
more, for the birds sang there, undisturbed, among the branches from
which the busy traffic of the road has now banished them.
Here, within full view of this well-beloved tree, and an equally-beloved
magnolia, while all London was wild with curiosity to peer into the
minutest details of her private life, the “Swedish Nightingale”—as all
the world now delighted to call her—passed her time in almost monastic
seclusion, diligently employed in the study of her new parts, and
visited only by a select circle of intimate and sympathetic friends,
whose society afforded her far greater and more genuine pleasure than
she could ever have found in the gay and fashionable world that was
vainly striving to intrude upon her solitude, and employing every
cunning device that ingenuity could suggest to attract her within its
vortex.
Never before had _prima donna_ created so profound a sensation among all
classes of society.
In every mouth, the name of “The Swedish Nightingale” was “familiar as a
household word.” It is not too much to say that all London was raving
about her—and not all London only; for “the Jenny Lind fever,” as some
of the more vulgar organs of the Press affected to call it, extended to
the remotest corner of the Kingdom.
We have before us, as we write, a rough “broadside,” printed, on
commonest paper, with worn-out type, by “F. Hodges, from Pitts,
Wholesale Toy and Marbel Warehouse, 31 Dudley Street, Seven Dials,” and
headed, in huge capitals:—
“THE JENNY LIND MANIA.”
At the top of a double column of verses is a rude woodcut, possibly
meant, on this occasion to represent a ballad-singer, though it had no
doubt done duty, many a time and oft, in bygone days, for something
else; and thus begin the rhymes:—
“Oh! is there not a pretty fuss
In London all around,
About the Swedish Nightingale,
The talk of all the town?
Each Square and Street, as through you pass,
Aloud with praises ring,
About this pretty singing bird,
The famous Jenny Lind.
CHORUS.
“For she turns each heart, and turns each head,
Of those who hear her sing,
And she is turning all her notes to gold
Is famous Jenny Lind.”
Eight stanzas of this execrable doggrell fill up the sheet, which we
should not care to notice, were it not an historical fact that such
sheets were sold, and such verses sung, in the by-streets of London,
from morning till night.
Mr. Albert Smith, the well-known humourist and lecturer on Mont Blanc,
has contributed to the literature of the period a chapter, describing
the scenes at the pit-door, and illustrated by a series of sketches,
depicting the adventures of “Mr. Straggles,” who, appearing first, in
all the glories of irreproachable evening costume, passes, afterwards,
through a succession of changes which cause him to figure, in the final
_tableau_, with his dress coat torn open from top to bottom, the bow of
his cravat protruding behind his neck, his _lorgnette_ crushed beneath a
fellow-enthusiast’s foot, and his ‘_gibus_’—represented in six
successive stages of deterioration—reduced to a wiry skeleton.
Between nine and ten o’clock, on the morning after her _début_, Mdlle.
Lind appeared in Eccleston Street, before her friend had risen; and sat
by her bed-side, “with a radiant countenance,” discussing the events of
the previous evening.
“Are you content with last night?” asked Mrs. Grote.
“More than content,” she replied. “What a fine public!”
On the same day, she wrote to her friend, Frau von Jaeger, at Vienna:—
“London, 5th of May, 1847.
“DEAREST MOTHER,
“It is high time that I should send you a word; and, first of all,
that I should thank you for all that you have done for me, and for all
your good advice, and assure you that I shall never forget anything,
and that my sincere love for you, and for all of you, will remain,
through all the time to come, the only recompense that one can give to
another, in exchange for such sympathy and friendship as I have
received from you.
“You well know that I cannot express what I feel. If I could, then
many many words would follow. But, I feel my own weakness; and say,
only, ‘Thank you, beloved Mother, for the second most beautiful three
months in my life!’ The first were those I spent with the Wichmanns in
the previous winter. These six months have been the happiest for me,
and I can offer you no better word than ‘Thanks!’ But, I must thank my
dear sister also, for having always been so kind to me. That she was
never jealous is a proof of the goodness of her heart. My father was—
my father! I love him, too, as if I were really his daughter. And
Fritz can also say whether I have been as a sister to him, or not.
There, then, you have my confession of love: and, if we do not see
each other again, for fifty years, time can never change my feelings.
“Dear Mother! What else have I to tell you! Perhaps you expect to hear
that I have lost my personal freedom, or something of that sort? _Mon
Dieu! Mon Dieu!_ How splendidly has everything gone with me!—the
journey included!
“Yesterday, the 4th of May, I made my first appearance here, as
‘Alice,’ in _Robert_—and it went so, that, through the whole night, I
could not sleep, for joy! To my astonishment, I found the English
public in the highest degree sympathetic and intelligent; and
yesterday evening was grand. From the Queen, down to the
scene-shifters, all here have been good to me, and so friendly, that I
do not feel in the least like a stranger—and this says a great deal,
for I am ever thinking of Vienna. Everything has gone with me ten
thousand times better than I expected; and I have neither seen, nor
heard, anything about Mr. Bunn. I think he will institute a law-suit—
only, his position in the matter has taken such a comical turn, that I
am almost beginning to feel sorry for him.
“Lablache has been so good to me, that I feel quite moved. He behaves
as no one but a great Artist like himself could behave. Lumley’s
attention, and friendliness, are not to be doubted, and make me hope
that my mother, and many others, have been mistaken in him. I hear so
much about him—and it all pleases me. But, more about this in the
future, if he always acts as he is acting now.
“Louise was so frightened, yesterday, about my first appearance that
she has a headache which confines her to bed. But she sends you hearty
greetings. But, my calmness was quite wonderful! What a joy, to be
able so to conquer one’s five senses! How can I ever sufficiently
thank God for it, Mother!
“We live most delightfully, rather far from the city, where all is
still and restful, the air splendid, and a garden in which the birds
are singing the whole day long. And the trees are so fresh and green.
I have a house all to myself, and a first-rate man-servant, who speaks
German, and an Englishwoman who does the other work of the house—
Lennie, and his sister, and her husband, who are everything that is
good to me. Friendly faces, wherever I look. So, you see, mother, that
I want for nothing.
“I think so much of Vienna. I feel certain that it will not be long
before I once more visit the Imperial City. It is too dear to me; and
Germany is my second Fatherland, and Vienna, my favourite home.
“But I must leave off now; for I believe some people are coming to
congratulate me.
“I have one thing to beg of you, mother. Do you personally know the
Countess Schönborn? Ah! Go to her, and tell her, and her sister, the
Countess Ruenburg, that I send them my best remembrances, and have
ever the liveliest recollection of their kindness to me. And tell them
how well everything has gone with me. I know it will interest the two
Countesses, to hear this; and I will soon write to them, myself, about
it. Tell them this.
“And I beg my good Herr Julius Pechvill to call upon my good Signor
Battaglia, and to tell him that my Italian pronunciation has been so
successful, that Lablache was quite astonished at it.
“And now farewell! farewell! Remember me to all—all who are yours, and
all who are not yours. With joy, and thankful love, thinks of you all
“Your daughter,
“JENNY.
“Will my mother, or Augusta, soon write to me? I long so for news of
you all.”[94]
To Judge Munthe she wrote, five days later:—
“London, May 10th, 1847.
“It is always a pleasure to write to my good guardian and fatherlike
friend; but, this time, I write with a lighter heart than usual,
because I have succeeded so well in this my last undertaking, which
was, to make my way here in London, in spite of all the difficulties
and intrigues that people have tried to throw in my way.
“I appeared, as ‘Alice,’ in _Roberto il Diavolo_, on the 4th of this
month, and I cannot describe the sympathy and enthusiasm with which I
was received—and, to my astonishment, well understood!
“I am so happy, and find things so pleasant, that there is perhaps no
being under the sun so happy as I.”
It is pleasant to see, that, by this time, the dark shadow had so
completely lost its terrors that it could be mentioned even with
playfulness; and, that poor Mr. Bunn’s position had become so “comical”
as almost to inspire a feeling of sorrow for him. And it is pleasant,
too, to find that, notwithstanding the sinister influence exercised by
that dark shadow in Vienna, it had not been dark enough to cloud the
happiness, or sadden the memory of the bright sojourn in the Austrian
Capital.
A letter, written to Madame Birch-Pfeiffer, on Thursday, the 6th of May—
two days after the _début_—contains a still more touching allusion to
Vienna than that addressed to Frau von Jaeger, and speaks so pleasantly
of London, and its climate, and inhabitants, that its contents can
scarcely fail to interest the reader.
“London, the 6th of May, 1847.
“GOOD MOTHER,
“It is a long long time since I have heard anything from you; and I am
longing earnestly for news.
“You must not be angry with me for writing so little to you from
Vienna. For, my only excuse is, that I was simply torn to pieces,
there.
“But, you are ever in my heart, as of old, good mother and friend.
“The day before yesterday, I made my first appearance here, at the
Italian Opera, as ‘Alice’ in _Roberto_, and _never_, perhaps, have
things gone better with me, _in every way_, than here. What do you say
to that?
“I am so glad, so happy, so thankful, that I hardly know what I am
doing.
“The theatre is splendid, and I have never been in such good voice.
The climate is—for me, at least—very good; and, apart from all this, I
am so glad, because every one here is so friendly to me that I am
quite touched.
“Lablache is like a father to me; and Mr. Lumley, like a good and true
old friend.
“Are you going to Vienna? If so, remember me to Herr Pokorny and his
amiable wife, and my other friends; and tell them that I thank them,
from my heart, for all their kindness to me.
“And to the Imperial City, say, amidst the still silence, that there
lives a maiden, born in Sweden, who would gladly call Vienna the City
of Her Fathers. Oh! my Vienna! Oh! my Viennese! Oh! my heart swells,
when I think of all that happened to me, there!”
These delightful recollections of a past time did not, however, prevent
Mdlle. Lind from thinking tenderly for others, in the present.
In a letter written to her from Leipzig, soon after her engagement at
Her Majesty’s Theatre had been finally ratified, Mendelssohn had asked
her, when she visited London, to sing to a friend of his, who had long
been laid upon a bed of sickness. This lady was Mrs. Seth Thompson, the
daughter of the well-known Organist and Glee Composer, Mr. William
Horsley. Well knowing how dearly Mrs. Thompson would prize such an act
of kindness, Mendelssohn, as the time approached, sent her a letter,
announcing the pleasure that was in store for her; and the remembrance
of Mdlle. Lind’s visit to the invalid lady, and of the songs with which
she cheered and comforted her, is still affectionately cherished by her
family, and that of Mr. Horsley.
But what a change had passed over her life, within the last few weeks!
How different her thoughts, now, and at the moment at which she took
leave of her Austrian friends. She had conquered her fears, and was
already reaping the rich reward of her moral victory. The fate of Her
Majesty’s Theatre no longer hung in the balance. She had saved its
Manager from ruin. For the remainder of the season, the position of the
“Old Italian Opera” was impregnable; and she alone had made it so. All
doubts as to her reception by an English audience had been set at rest.
The dread, the suspense, the cruel threats that had caused her such
torments of anxiety, had vanished like a dream. For a time, at least,
the “sable cloud” had “turned forth its silver lining on the night”; and
all around was light, and joy, and peace, and hope for the happy future.
CHAPTER IV.
“LA SONNAMBULA.” “LA FIGLIA DEL REGGIMENTO.”
From this time forward Mdlle. Lind was greeted in London, by all classes
of society, with the most flattering marks of esteem and admiration. The
Queen received her with marked attention. The Queen-Dowager invited her
to visit Her Majesty in private. The Duke of Wellington was most
sedulous in his demonstrations of respect and admiration, and, on one
occasion, invited her to his country-seat, promising that music should
form no topic of the conversation. Invitations poured in, from every
side, in numbers which it would have been quite impossible for her to
have accepted, even had her time been entirely at her own disposal. But,
though compelled by her duties at the theatre to devote so many hours of
the day to study and rehearsal, she did not entirely shut herself out
from the pleasures of society. Mrs. Grote, who accompanied her one
evening to a private concert at Lansdowne House to which she had been
invited as an auditor, gives an interesting account, in her MS.
_Memoir_, of the excitement caused by her first appearance in the
reception-room, when, at the moment of her entrance, all other visitors
were forgotten, in the desire to meet her with a cordial welcome.
“I was not a little amused,” she says, “to observe the Duke of
Wellington approach, with the intention of making his bow to Lady
Lansdowne; but, finding it hopeless to catch her attention—so
engrossed was she with Mdlle. Lind—he quietly passed unnoticed into
the Sculpture Gallery, where a vocal concert was about to commence. I
at length proposed to Jenny that we should take our places there,
also; and we soon found ourselves in the middle of a brilliant
company, whose eyes were frequently bent in the direction of our
seats. Jenny, who was always very impatient under this kind of
scrutiny, felt vexed at it; but there was no escape. The concert
proceeded; the artists comprising all the ‘stars’ of the two rival
houses, herself only excepted. The first part over, I was besieged by
persons of my acquaintance, with requests to be introduced to Mdlle.
Lind: Lady Pembroke, and her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Sidney Herbert,
Lady Lincoln, with one or two other ladies obtained the privilege, and
continued to talk to her, until Jenny, impatient to escape, whispered
to me, ‘Let us go and look at the pictures.’ So we went into the rooms
through which we had entered, and looked at the pictures, which
interested her far more than the music. Meanwhile, the concert had
re-commenced, so that we could not resume our places conveniently;
accordingly Jenny begged me to go away, which we presently did. As we
drove home to Clairville, I expressed myself highly satisfied with the
flattering attentions of which she had been the object during the
evening. She rejoined: ‘Dear Madame, you are much more proud for me
than I am for myself. It certainly was a splendid sight; but I would
rather have been rambling with you among the Burnham beeches, after
all.’”
The rambles under the fine old Burnham beech trees, near Mr. Grote’s
country-house, furnished, indeed, a pleasant and highly needful relief
to the fatigues of the season, which were very trying to her.
_La Sonnambula_ was announced for performance for the first time, on
Tuesday, the 13th of May.
Never, perhaps, was Mdlle. Lind’s detestation of all that bore the stamp
of unreality more strongly marked than in this charming Opera. She could
not endure a sham—though, the temptation to do so, here, must have been
very great.
In the last act of _La Sonnambula_, Amina, walking in her sleep, crosses
a crazy wooden bridge, spanning a mill-stream, and hanging in the air,
directly over a revolving water-wheel. As she reaches the middle of this
frail structure, the worm-eaten planks give way—or rather, by an
ingenious stage-device, appear to give way—beneath her feet. She starts—
lets the lamp she holds in her hand fall into the stream—and then,
without awaking, calmly proceeds on her way, down a rude flight of
steps, to the front of the stage, where, taking from her bosom the faded
flowers that Elvino has given to her, she sings the beautiful air, ‘_Ah!
non credea mirarti_,’ which forms one of the most attractive movements
of the _Finale_.
The danger of crossing the mimic bridge is, perhaps, less real than
apparent, when proper precautions are taken to ensure the singer’s
safety. But, it is a dangerous walk, for a nervous _prima donna_; and
very few of our greatest singers have ever attempted it. The usual plan
is, to dress up a poor little “supernumerary” in clothes exactly like
those of the real representative of “Amina”; to let her perform the
perilous feat of crossing the bridge; and, after she has dropped her
lamp, and displaced some of the loose stones lying at the edge of her
path, to let her pass behind a projecting piece of rock, arranged for
the purpose, and there change places with the real _prima donna_, who
emerges on the opposite side of the cunningly-constructed screen, and is
supposed, by the audience, to have performed the entire journey in her
own proper person.
[Illustration: A circular engraving of a woman in a white dress holding
a lit candle and reaching toward a stone structure, with hills in the
background.]
But Mdlle. Lind would never consent to cheat her audience thus. She once
told the writer, when conversing with him on the events of that
memorable time, that she had never, in her life, let any one cross the
bridge for her—not because she was more courageous than other
representatives of the village somnambulist; for, she confessed to
having been horribly frightened, every time that she had to undergo the
trying ordeal—but because, she said, “I should have been ashamed to
stand before the audience, pretending that I had crossed the bridge, if
I had not really done it.”
So, the boards were marked with chalk, to show the exact lines between
which Amina was to walk; and a circle was drawn, at the spot at which
the bridge was to give way beneath her, so that she might not be taken
unprepared. But, these precautions formed a less efficient safeguard
than might have been imagined; for, she had heard that somnambulists
always walked straight forward, without looking at their feet, and she
risked a fall, night after night, in order that she might act her part
with perfect truth to nature.
But her nervous fears did not prevent her from singing her best; for,
during the course of the same conversation, she told the writer, that,
accidentally looking down at Mr. Balfe, while she was singing ‘_Ah! non
credea_,’ she saw that his face was bathed in tears. And he, we may be
sure, was not the only listener thus moved by her rendering of that most
lovely movement—one of the purest and most touchingly plaintive strains
of melody that the modern Italian School has produced.
No one witnessed Mdlle. Lind’s first performance of “Amina” with more
rapt attention than the Queen. She was there from the beginning. The
‘_Come per me sereno_,’ with its brilliant opportunities for showing off
the voice, was a little too full of ornament altogether to satisfy Her
Majesty’s taste; but she expressed unbounded admiration of all that
followed, dwelling strongly, according to our information, upon “the
exquisite shake, the wonderful clear, sweet _piano_ way of singing in
the very highest tones, without losing any of their fulness and
freshness.” The ‘_Son geloso_’ and ‘_Prendi l’anel_,’ were felt to be
full of a new beauty. But a charm, as exquisite, as it was novel, was
recognised by the Royal listener in the soft, touching, half-whispered
tones in which “Amina” sang in the scene where she enters the Count’s
apartment asleep. Again, the dignified way in which she delivered in the
subsequent scene the words, ‘_Rea non sono, no, la fui giammai_,’ giving
as it did the idea of complete innocence was noted as exceptionally
fine. In this, as indeed throughout the whole performance, the singer
was recognised by the Queen as speaking from the heart to the heart.
Of her singing of the Recitative and Adagio, ‘_Ah! non credea mirarti_,’
Signor Lablache said to the Queen, “_Je dois dire que je n’ai jamais
rien entendu comme cela_.” In this opinion, according to our
information, Her Majesty heartily concurred. She was present, along with
the Prince Consort, when _La Sonnambula_ was performed for the second
time on Saturday the 15th of May. All Her Majesty’s first impressions
were more than confirmed. She spoke with enthusiasm as Lablache had done
of the ‘_Ah, non credea_.’ “It was all _piano_,” she said, “and clear
and sweet, and like the sighing of a zephyr, yet all heard. Who could
describe those long notes, drawn out till they quite melt away, that
shake which becomes softer and softer, those very piano and flute-like
notes—and those round fresh tones which are so youthful?”[95]
To an English, no less than to a Continental audience, _La Sonnambula_
had ever been welcome; and the nameless charm with which that part was
now invested, the enchantment thrown over it by the perfection of Mdlle.
Lind’s ideal interpretation of each change and phase of sentiment that
rendered its impersonation more life-like and complete, seemed to make
the work a greater favourite than ever. The audience were never tired of
it. Throughout the season, it was given, again and again, with the
certainty of a crowded house, and a triumphant success; and it was not
until after its fourth performance, in alternation with four
performances of _Roberto il Diavolo_, that the management thought it
necessary to announce the production of another Opera.
The new Opera was one entirely unknown, at that time, in England; though
we have had occasion to mention it, more than once, in connection with
other countries, during the course of our narrative.
It will be remembered, that during Mdlle. Lind’s short but serious
illness, at Berlin, in February, 1845, _Die Regimentstochter_ had been
presented, with Fräulein Tuczec in the principal part.
Before that time, Mdlle. Lind herself had never undertaken the part of
“Marie”; but, as we have already seen, she appeared in it, at Stockholm,
on the 9th of June, 1845, with such success, that the Opera was
redemanded on every remaining night but one of the summer season—in all,
eight times. Since then, it had become a special favourite, in almost
every town she visited; and, though the critics of Berlin had not yet
had an opportunity of passing their verdict upon it, it had created an
absolute _furore_, both at Munich and Vienna. It remained now, to test
its capability of attracting the sympathies of an English audience,
already predisposed to regard it with favour; and, if it were possible
to invent a stronger word than _furore_ for the purpose of describing
the result of the experiment, such a word would certainly not be
misplaced.
It is not a great work—nor does it pose as one; it betrays no true
nobility of purpose; no trace of poetical inspiration, in any one of its
scenes, from first to last. How then, it may fairly be asked, did Mdlle.
Lind succeed in making it one of the most charming and deservedly
popular of her parts?
The question is a very natural one—and the answer equally so.
She breathed a living soul into the form that had left the laboratory of
its inventors without one; and substituted this for the jointed
lay-figure, the soulless automaton, embodied in the score. And, in her
impersonation of the bewitching little heroine into whom this guileless
soul had been breathed, the whole interest of the Opera was absorbed.
She did not—as the critics would have said—content herself with
“creating the _rôle_ of ‘Maria’;” she “created” the whole work. No one
gave a thought to the other members of the _dramatis personæ_. The piece
was absolutely devoid of attraction, when she was absent from the stage.
But, the moment she appeared she held her audience spell-bound.
Never, we may safely say, in the whole history of Art was so brilliant
and so legitimate a triumph produced, with such slender means for its
foundation. All that was beautiful and attractive, all that was natural
and touching in the part, was infused into it by the genius of its
interpreter—a genius imaginative enough to invent a _rôle_, full of
piquant prettinesses, and abounding in points of perfectly legitimate
interest, as a substitute for one that was absolutely colourless—and
bold enough to present this charming ideal to the public, with such
power of truthfulness, such variety of dramatic effect, such marked
individuality of character, that, from first to last, the audience never
felt the slightest temptation to wish that the plot of the story, or the
_libretto_ founded upon it, or the music adapted to the _libretto_, had
been in any respect other than they really were. And this manifestation
of dramatic truthfulness addressed itself to all the world; to the
ignorant, no less than to the learned; to gentle and simple; to rich and
poor; to each and all alike. So true to Nature was the enchanting
picture of Maria, that it had something to say to every one. And so it
came to pass, that, of all the Operas presented, during this eventful
season, _La Figlia del Reggimento_ was the one that spoke most plainly
to the general public, and became the greatest favourite with the outer
world.
We have heard the Germans speak of Mdlle. Lind, as the “Priestess of
Art.” It was as the “Priestess of Nature” that she won the hearts of
“the people.”
CHAPTER V.
THE QUEEN’S STATE VISIT TO THE OPERA.
The evening of Tuesday, the 15th of June, 1847, was a memorable one, in
the annals of Her Majesty’s Theatre.
On that night, the Queen and the Prince Consort honoured the old
historic Opera-House with a State visit; and, “by Royal command,” Mdlle.
Lind appeared, for the first time in England, in the part of “Norma.”
Every conceivable care had been taken, by the management, to prepare a
fitting reception for its august visitors. No expense had been spared,
and no artistic detail neglected, which could add to the convenience of
the Royal guests, or the magnificence of the entertainment.
As early as half-past three o’clock, several parties had assembled at
the various entrances of the theatre; and the doors were opened half an
hour earlier than usual. Crowds of Her Majesty’s loyal subjects thronged
Pall Mall, and greeted the Queen _en route_ to the theatre, where Her
Majesty was received with a flourish of trumpets, by the band of the
Guards, and with cheers, by those assembled at the doors.
Precisely at eight o’clock, the Queen entered the Royal box, with His
Royal Highness, Prince Albert, accompanied by their suite; when,
instantaneously, the band struck up “God save the Queen,” which was sung
by the leading members of the _troupe mélodieuse_, Madame Castellan
singing the last verse. The applause at the conclusion was genuine, and
enthusiastic. Her Majesty, having gracefully acknowledged the cheers and
plaudits of her loyal subjects inside the house, sat down: and the
performance began.
Mdlle. Lind’s interpretation of the part of the “Druid Priestess,” was
as remarkable for its superb vocalisation, as its beautifully impressive
reading of the _rôle_. On her _entrée_, she was received with the same
marks of genuine approbation as on other occasions, and these were
renewed, at every pause in the music, until, at the close of the Opera,
the applause became absolutely deafening.
Immediately after the _Divertissement_ which followed, the National
Anthem was again sung, when Her Majesty, her Royal Consort, and their
suite, left the theatre.
The performance was, in every way, a brilliant and successful one. But,
the London newspapers were divided in their opinion of the respective
merits of Mdlle. Lind’s conception of the part, and that with which
Madame Grisi had so long made them familiar. The fairest _critiques_
gave high meed of praise to both; but, though Mdlle. Lind’s “Norma” was
one of her most successful _rôles_ on the Continent, it is incontestable
that it was less popular in England than either that of “Amina” or
“Alice.” _The Times_, and _The Illustrated London News_, analysed the
new ideal of the character with keenest perception of its beauties, and
just discrimination between the merits of the two possible
interpretations of the _rôle_. _The Athenæum_, and _The Musical World_,
characterised the entire performance as an ignoble failure, and enforced
their own views in the strongest terms they could command.
Which of the two opposing verdicts may we venture to accept as the true
one?
Mons. Roger, the famous French tenor, in an autobiographical sketch,
published some years ago, in Paris,[96] leads us to believe that his
view of this particular case coincided with that of the critics of _The
Athenæum_ and _The Musical World_; though, with regard to other equally
important _rôles_, he finds no words too strong to express his unbounded
admiration for Mdlle. Lind’s genius and personality.
On the other hand, since the issue of our earlier Editions, we have
received a confirmation of the opposite opinion as gratifying as it was
unexpected, emanating from a very high authority indeed—the highest,
perhaps, that it would be possible to quote.
At an evening party given by Signor Mario, at S. Petersburg, in the year
1849, Madame Grisi, in the course of a conversation with His Excellency,
the Count de Bylandt, who was then attached as first Secretary to the
Netherlands Legation at S. Petersburg, expressed her opinion of Mdlle.
Lind’s impersonation of the _rôle_ of “Norma,” in the following
remarkable words:—
“I long thought there was only one ‘Norma’ in the world, and that was
myself! But, since I heard Jenny Lind sing the same part, I must
confess that there are two ‘Normas,’ quite different in conception,
but, equally true, equally genuine, equally perfect; and I now very
much hesitate to say which of the two I believe to be the best.”
It gives us unfeigned pleasure to be able to record these generous
words, uttered in self-evident artistic enthusiasm, by the great _prima
donna_, while her European reputation was still at its zenith, and at
the very time when, by a certain section of the press, she was made to
pose as Mdlle. Lind’s proudest and most implacable rival; and we owe our
best thanks to the Count de Bylandt for permitting us to reproduce them,
exactly as they were addressed to him by Madame Grisi herself.
CHAPTER VI.
“LA TEMPESTA.” “I MASNADIERI.”
Though Her Majesty’s State visit to the Opera-House may be fairly said
to have marked the culminating point of interest in Mdlle. Lind’s first
London season, it by no means represented the last, or even the greatest
of her triumphs.
But, before describing her later successes, it is necessary that we
should recur, for a moment, to a subject which continued to excite the
interest of the musical world, long after those whom it most intimately
concerned had given up all hope of bringing it to a satisfactory
conclusion.
When we last spoke of Mendelssohn’s promise to compose an Opera for Her
Majesty’s Theatre, with the principal part assigned to Mdlle. Lind, and
written expressly for her, it seemed just possible that the idea might
be carried out and the work completed in time for performance during the
season of 1847. But, as time went on, it became evident that the project
must be abandoned. The difficulty with regard to the choice of a
_libretto_ proved to be insurmountable. Many subjects were proposed—
among others, Shakespeare’s _Tempest_—but Mendelssohn was dissatisfied
with them all; and, as the season was now too far advanced to admit of
farther delay, the scheme fell to the ground.
The crisis was a serious one; for, a new Opera had been formally
promised to the subscribers. But, Mr. Lumley’s managerial talent never
showed itself to greater advantage, than when brought face to face with
some insurmountable difficulty; and the failure of his endeavours to
procure a new Opera from Mendelssohn, for the season of 1847, served
only to excite him to greater exertions than ever, in the cause of his
beloved theatre.
If Mendelssohn could not provide him with a finished work in time for
immediate production, some other composer must be found who could.
The composer fixed upon was Verdi; and the plot of Schiller’s well-known
play, _Die Räuber_, was selected for the substituted work. A _libretto_,
founded on this subject, had already been prepared, by the popular
Italian poet, Andrea Maffei; and Verdi had fortunately completed the
music in time to meet the manager’s great need of a new work—failing the
production of which, he would not have fulfilled the promise made to his
subscribers at the beginning of the season.
The new Opera was produced, on Thursday, the 22nd of July, under the
title of _I Masnadieri_.
“The Opera was highly successful,” says the _Illustrated London News_—
the most important, and the most impartial Art-journal of the day.
“The talented _Maestro_, on appearing in the orchestra to conduct his
clever work, was received with three rounds of applause. He was called
before the curtain, after the first and third acts, and at the
conclusion of the Opera, amidst the most vehement plaudits. The house
was crowded to excess, and was honoured by the presence of Her
Majesty, Prince Albert, the Queen Dowager, and the Duchess of
Cambridge.”
Yet, in spite of the favourable tone of this, and other critiques, _I
Masnadieri_, though it furnished Mdlle. Lind with the material for one
of her most brilliant triumphs, was, in itself, a _fiasco_. In _La
Figlia del Reggimento_, she triumphed so completely over the inherent
weakness of the _libretto_ and the commonplace character of the music,
that the piece retained its place on the stage as long as she herself
remained to sing in it. But, in _La Figlia del Reggimento_, she
represented the entire Opera. She was its life, and soul; the whole
interest of it was centred in her impersonation of the little
_Vivandière_; the other characters were merest puppets. The public
thronged the theatre, to hear Jenny Lind—not to see Donizetti’s Opera.
In the _Masnadieri_, the case was widely different. She could have saved
it, no doubt, if she could have absorbed the whole interest of the piece
in her own part. But this was impossible. In so far as the plot of _Die
Räuber_ is concerned, Schiller himself has invested his heroine with no
predominating traits of character which could raise her to a position of
all-absorbing interest in the development of his story—no
strongly-marked individuality which could enable even the genius of
Mademoiselle Lind to save the Opera, by clothing a comparatively
colourless part with a nobler conception than it was intrinsically
capable of assuming.
And so it was, that _I Masnadieri_ survived but the three
representations courteously accorded to a _succès d’estime_, and
furnished but a sorry substitute for the promised _Tempesta_ of
Mendelssohn.
CHAPTER VII.
“LE NOZZE DI FIGARO.”
The last new part in which Mdlle. Lind appeared, during the London
season of 1847, was that of “Susanna,” in Mozart’s ever-welcome _Nozze
di Figaro_.
The change, from the sombre gloom of Schiller’s ghastly tragedy, to the
airy brightness of the most perfect lyric comedy that the school of
Vienna had ever given to the world, was a startling one indeed. A more
convincing proof of the versatility of the singer’s genius could
scarcely have been given, had such a proof been needed.
The music of Mozart needs a special talent for its perfect
interpretation; and Mdlle. Lind sang it as she felt quite certain that
Mozart himself would have wished to hear it sung. She had studied it
profoundly, and frankly identified herself with its spirit, both in
connection with the stage, and with the concert-room. So great was her
admiration of the master, that she always spoke of him as “the divine
Mozart” (_der göttliche Mozart_).
A critic who carefully analysed _Le Nozze di Figaro_ some forty years
after its production, arrived at the conclusion, that Mozart had
“changed into real passion the trifling incidents which, in
Beaumarchais’ comedy, only amused the amiable inhabitants of the Castle
of Aguas Frescas.”
A later writer says: “In the comedy of Beaumarchais, we find the
adventures of the inmates of Aguas Frescas infinitely amusing, and we
are delighted with their lively manners, and the wit and satire of their
conversation; but we care as little for them as they seem to care for
one another. Mozart has given them _hearts_, and made them the objects
of our sympathy, by inspiring them with feeling, and passion.”
Whether we admit the truth of these hypotheses or not, it is certain
that Mozart has invested the characters with a tenderness of expression
to which it would be difficult to do full justice in the spoken dialogue
even of Beaumarchais. And it was upon this tenderness that Mdlle. Lind
seized, as the basis of her conception; bringing it prominently forward,
at every fitting opportunity, yet without entirely sacrificing to it
that lighter vein of feeling in the treatment of which Beaumarchais was
inimitable. And we cannot doubt that, in adopting this course, she
fulfilled Mozart’s intentions, both in the spirit, and the letter.
Neither as an actress, nor as a singer, did she deviate, in the
slightest detail, from the path indicated to her in the score. Every
mark of expression, every dynamic sign, every indication of _tempo_ was
a law to her. She thankfully accepted its guidance; she was as
submissive as a child; no thought of resistance to the written law ever
entered her heart. But, the service she yielded was a reasonable one.
She could not have submitted more willingly, if Mozart himself had been
there to claim her obedience. She could not have been less fettered, or
more original, if she herself had composed the Opera, which, with her
delicate interpretation of the principal part, achieved a success quite
unprecedented. Every scene in which she took part was accepted by the
audience, with tokens of unfeigned delight; and a passage of
unaccompanied _Recitativo secco à quattro voci_, sung, in the Second
Act, by Mdlle. Jenny Lind, Madame Grimaldi, Herr Staudigl, and Signor
Lablache, received a double _encore_, and was given three times, amidst
a perfect storm of applause.
As the _Recitativo secco_, in Mozart’s Operas, is rarely printed, save
in the full orchestral scores, and is therefore unlikely to be known to
the generality of our readers, we give the passage here, exactly as it
stands in the full score published by Messrs. Breitkopf and Härtel of
Leipzig, but, with the _soprano_ part transposed into the treble clef,
for the benefit of the general reader.[97]
[Illustration:
SUSANNA.
Chi al par di me contenta? Chi al par di me con-
]
[Illustration:
-tenta? I o! I o!
E schiatti il signor Conte, al gusto mio.
I o! E schiatti il signor Conte, al gusto mio.
E schiatti il signor Conte, al gusto mio.
E schiatti il signor Conte, al gusto mio.
]
This seems simple enough—and is simple enough. So simple, that, in the
mouths of four commonplace singers, it might very easily pass for a
graceful little harmonised cadence, at the close of a passage of
ordinary recitative. But, Mdlle. Lind did not regard it in that light.
Ably supported by her colleagues, she sang it in conscientious
accordance with the indications furnished by Mozart, in the score: that
is to say, with gradually increasing interest, from the beginning of the
_solo_ passage culminating in a pause of moderate length upon the dotted
quaver, F; in extreme _piano_, from the part at which the voices first
join in four-part harmony, with a _crescendo_ to the _forte_ indicated
at the word “Conte”; in extreme _piano_, again, from that part to the
end, with a long pause on the antepenultimate D; and, on the
penultimate, C, one of those wonderful shakes which she alone could
execute—prolonged, to a degree which made it seem as if the supply of
breath were simply inexhaustible—beginning _pianissimo_, yet ever
diminishing in tone, to the gentlest warble, which, nevertheless, was
heard, with perfect distinctness, to the remotest limits of the enormous
_salle_—no hazy _tremolo_, of uncertain intonation, but a rapid
alternation of C, and D, in perfect tune throughout, and growing ever
fainter and fainter, till it faded into the final B flat with a
ravishing charm too subtle for description.
The effect it produced was electrical. It lingers in our memory, as we
write of it, as clearly as if we had heard it, not five and forty years
ago, but yesterday. No one had ever heard the passage so interpreted
before—indeed, it was manifestly impossible that it could ever have been
so interpreted upon any previous occasion within the memory of man; for,
this was the first time that Mdlle. Lind had ever sung the part in
Italian, and the place of the _recitativo secco_ was supplied, on the
German stage, by spoken dialogue. No wonder, then, that the audience
were spell-bound! The burst of applause was overwhelming. Cries of
delight, of admiration, of astonishment, were heard on every side. Yet,
after all, what right had any one to feel surprised? The singer had
simply availed herself of the opportunity provided for her in the text.
But, what a genius was needed, for the creation of the opportunity, on
the one hand, and, on the other, for the intuitive perception which
enabled the interpreter to seize upon it!
CHAPTER VIII.
BY COMMAND OF THE QUEEN.
The clause in the Lumley contract which prevented Mdlle. Lind from
taking part in any public concerts, during the London season, proved to
be a very fortunate one; and the effect of Mendelssohn’s remonstrance,
and the explanation which followed, gave unalloyed satisfaction, in the
end, to all concerned.
To have added to the fatigue and excitement of the Opera season, even by
an occasional concert, would have been in the highest degree imprudent,
had an occasional concert been possible. But it was not. In the then
excited state of public feeling, a share in the programme of one single
concert would have raised a clamour for concerts everywhere; for
engagements of one kind or another for every day in the week; demands
which it would have been impossible to meet, and the refusal of which
would have led to infinite dissatisfaction and annoyance.
Happily, all this turmoil was saved, by the exhaustive ventilation of
the question which had already taken place, and its consequent
settlement before the season began. It was well known that all public
concerts were prohibited, by a stipulation duly signed, sealed, and
delivered, in the engagement at the Opera.
But Mendelssohn’s prudence had overcome another, and a more serious
phase of the difficulty, which, though it would beyond all doubt have
been removed, when the season for its consideration arrived, was far
better settled in advance. He had suggested, in his letter of October
31, 1846, that the prohibitive clause should not be understood to extend
to concerts given by the Queen’s command. Mr. Lumley had naturally
agreed to this, as a matter of course; and, between the 28th of May, and
the 9th of August, Mdlle. Lind sang twice, by command of Her Majesty, at
Buckingham Palace, and once at Osborne; besides taking part in a concert
given by Queen Adelaide, at Marlborough House, at which Her Majesty and
the Prince Consort were present.
At Buckingham Palace on the 28th of May Mdlle. Lind sang two of those
Swedish songs in which she was unrivalled, accompanying herself upon the
piano. They were new to her Royal audience, and by the spirit which
spoke through the exquisite softness and finish of the execution, they
went, there as well as elsewhere, home to every heart. The depth of the
impression she produced was shown by the profound silence while she
sang, a silence not accorded to the other singers, talented though they
were, and by the murmur of applause which followed, when she ceased.
Twelve days later, she sang at Marlborough House, at a concert given by
the Queen Dowager, at which the Queen and Prince Consort were present.
It was given in the Hall, in which her voice was heard to great
advantage. Here, as at the previous concert, Her Majesty conversed with
Mdlle. Lind for some time, and spoke with great warmth both of her
singing and her acting. Of Lablache, Mdlle. Lind spoke to the Queen in
the warmest terms. “_Er ist_,” she said, “_wie ein Vater für uns alle_.”
Again on the last day of June she had the honour of singing before Her
Majesty and the Prince at Buckingham Palace. On this occasion the
purity, the sweetness and softness of her voice were much dwelt upon by
the Queen, as well as the charming and unpretending grace of her
manners. Nor did the remarkable delicacy and expressiveness of her touch
on the piano escape notice. King Leopold and his Queen were present, and
shared in the fascination which the artist and the woman seem to have
excited in the Royal circle. King Leopold told her, she must not act
with too much feeling, lest she should over-fatigue herself. To this she
replied, “_Ich kann nicht anders thun als ich fühle_.” On the same
evening she said in reply to a hope expressed by Her Majesty, that she
would see her next year, “_Ich will die Bühne verlassen_”—what she
desired being, to go and work “_für die Wohlthätigkeit_,” as “_une
grande carrière_” had no interest for her.
On the 9th of August, along with Signor Lablache, Mdlle. Lind was
invited to sing before the Queen and Prince Consort at Osborne. On this
occasion she sang several Swedish songs; four songs by Mendelssohn,
‘_Ueber die Berge_,’ ‘_Frühlingslied_,’ ‘_Auf Wiedersehen_,’ and
‘_Sonntagslied_,’ and with Lablache two duets from _Le Nozze di Figaro_.
Mdlle. Lind had always refused to take money for singing at the Royal
concerts. She was greatly moved when the Queen, calling her aside,
presented her with a bracelet, saying, as she did so, “I must again
express not only my admiration but my respect for you,” words more
precious far to her than the costliest present. In the course of the
conversation that ensued she again expressed her intention of quitting
the stage; but, in answer to Her Majesty’s expression of regret at the
loss this would be to art, she replied that she would certainly come
back again to England, whether she carried her intention into execution
or not.[98]
It is known to everybody; and we need not, therefore, fear to be accused
of anticipating later events by alluding to the circumstance here; that,
however brilliant her triumphs on the stage may have been—and they were
certainly as brilliant in England as at Berlin, or Vienna, if not even
more so—they did not represent the whole of her Art-life. However high
may have been the level to which she raised the ideal perfection of
dramatic singing—of that union of the most exquisite vocal _technique_
with the most finished expression of dramatic truth, which, bearing ever
in mind the necessary correlation of the twin Arts to one another,
embodied the truest and the most exalted conception of the mission of
the Opera that has ever yet been formed—however great may have been the
work she accomplished in this particular field—it was not here that she
won the _heart_ of all England. It is quite true that Her Majesty’s
Theatre was crowded night after night. Delicate ladies fought for their
places; and frenzied gentlemen pushed in front of them, touching the
very verge of loyalty and duty, in their eagerness to secure for
themselves the good position they ought to have offered to the ladies
who were as anxious to obtain it as themselves. The enthusiasm
manifested on the night of the _début_ was, certainly, no ephemeral
manifestation of spasmodic excitement, for it continued to the end of
the season. The admiration for the artist, the respect for the pure and
holy life she was known to be living, the reverence for her as a true
and noble-hearted woman, all these were won for her, on the night of her
first appearance before an English audience—and she never lost them,
till the day of her death. But, the LOVE that made the name of Jenny
Lind a “household word” in every English homestead, by every English
hearth, in every dwelling in which the English language was spoken—the
long-enduring LOVE was won at the concert-room, and at the Oratorio. Not
even ‘_Ah non credea_,’ or ‘_Deh vieni non tardar_,’ commanded, on the
stage, the depth of affection that was yielded, in an instant, to the
‘Swedish Songs,’ in the concert-room, or the still deeper feeling born
of ‘_I know that my Redeemer liveth_,’ and ‘_Holy, Holy, Holy_,’ in the
Cathedral. It was through _Elijah_ and _Messiah_, through the _Lieder_
of Mendelssohn and Lindblad, and the _Swedish Melodies_, and the
thousand treasures that appeared, later on, in the concert programmes—
that the beloved “Swedish Nightingale” sang her way into the great heart
of the British people; and it is therefore of peculiar interest that it
should be through the warm and glowing words of our Queen that we now
hear of the first concert at which she ever sang in the country in which
she was afterwards naturalised.
Truly, the privilege that has been so graciously accorded to us—and
without which this chapter in the life of the subject of the present
Memoir could never have been adequately written—is one for which the
most grateful thanks we can offer fall equally short of our duty, our
loyalty, and our heartfelt desire.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE PROVINCES.
The business of the season was heavy and exacting, and its excitement
fatiguing, even to the strong; but, like the music of a grand dramatic
_scena_, it had its “points of repose,” interspersed among the _agitato_
passages which formed the basis of its general construction. Let us hear
what our friend, Mrs. Grote, has to tell us about those welcome little
_agrémens_.
“The summer of 1847 passed delightfully,” she says, in the MS.
_Memoir_ from which we have so frequently quoted, “divided, as it was,
between theatrical labours and triumphs, and passages of recreation.
Among the latter, the most agreeable to her were, repeated visits to
our own country home at Burnham, about three miles from Slough, where
she essayed riding on horseback; an exercise in which she afterwards
came to take so great delight, that she bought a couple of
saddle-horses of her own, and rode whenever opportunity permitted.
“When she could not spare time to go to Burnham, we often spent a long
summer day in Wimbledon Park, taking a cold collation there, in a kind
of _châlet_, placed at her disposal by Mr. Barber Beaumont, the
proprietor. On these occasions, my brother Edward, myself, and
sometimes Mr. Grote, would accompany her. We all rambled about,
enjoying the repose and unmolested retirement the place afforded. The
nightingales sang, in May and June, in the copse; and to these Jenny
always listened with interest and pleasure. On one fine evening, as we
were leaning over a gate, listening to one, the bird stopped.
“‘There!’ said Jenny, ‘he has seen us! Now, that is just like me. I
should have done the same, if I had caught anyone intruding on my
solitude. And, indeed, those who have compared me to the nightingale
were not far wrong; for I have a great deal of the nightingale in me.’
“When at Burnham, she used to study the music of her new _rôles_ among
the old beeches, where I have often found her, seated on the clubbed
root of one, with the book laid open upon her knee, and warbling, in a
low tone, the music of the score.
“Mr. Lumley gave a _fête champêtre_, in the course of the season, at
his villa near Putney; and Jenny consented to go there, provided I
would accompany her as _chaperone_. We duly made our appearance at the
_fête_; but Jenny was so disturbed and discomposed by the staring and
incessant curiosity displayed by the company with regard to her, that
she was anything but comfortable during the two or three hours of her
stay. Mr. Lumley did everything he possibly could to restore her good
humour, but she only desired ‘to get away’; and we accordingly
returned, towards nightfall, to Clairville. No sooner were we within
its walls, than Jenny appeared in a new phase. Instead of allowing me
to continue my road homewards, she said I ‘must stay to tea’; then,
‘to supper.’ My brother and I were placed in the seats of honour in
her little drawing-room. Lights were brought, in abundance. The
resources of the _ménage_ were strained to produce various
refreshments; Jenny doing the honours, and waiting upon us, with
infinite vivacity and grace, and in the highest spirits. I was beyond
measure diverted by her playful vagaries, which she finished, at last,
by sitting down to the piano, and singing her native melodies with
bewitching effect.
“The night was now wearing away, but still I was not allowed to
depart. A messenger was despatched, who returned, in an hour or so,
with my night-dresses; and I was installed in Jenny’s own room, which
was lighted up with numerous wax candles, while she retired to a small
bedroom adjoining it.
“This evening—one of many delightful ones, spent during the summer of
1847—rises to my memory, as exemplifying the humour of this singular
being, in a very remarkable light.”
No one enjoys a holiday so thoroughly as the artist, whose brain has
been too long strained at abnormally high pressure. Mendelssohn enjoyed
his holidays with the artless playfulness of a child, making no attempt
whatever to conceal the depth of his innocent delight—and Mdlle. Lind
did the same. But, the work of the “season” had not yet come to an end.
Much had already been done; but, much more remained to be accomplished,
before she could really take a prolonged and undivided rest.
By a singular anomaly, so frequently repeated that its omission, at this
period of our history, would have seemed more strange than its
recurrence, the brilliancy of her successes was invariably found to bear
an inverse proportion to the depth of her previous despondency.
We have seen her, at Berlin, reduced to the verge of despair, before the
evening of her triumphant _début_ in the grand new Opera-House.
At Vienna, the appearance of the _salle_ of the Theater an der Wien so
terrified her, that but for Herr Hauser’s remonstrances, she would have
fled the city, and left her engagement with Herr Pokorny unfulfilled, in
the firm belief that her voice was not powerful enough to enable her to
carry out the task she had undertaken to perform.
And again, in London, she had gone so far as to entreat her friend Mrs.
Grote to intercede with the manager for the reversal of a contract
which, she thought, made a demand upon her powers to which they were
wholly unequal.
Yet, at Berlin, she succeeded in convincing the most fastidious critics
in the world of the reality of her genius, before the curtain fell upon
the first act of her favourite _Norma_. At Vienna, the delighted
Austrians unhorsed her carriage, in the hope that they might be
permitted to drag her home in triumph. And in London, she won her way,
in one single evening, to a position which no _prima donna_ had ever
previously occupied.
But, when the London season came to a close, her successes in this
country were only just beginning. Her fame had already penetrated to the
remotest corners of the kingdom. The inhabitants of all the great towns
were burning with impatience to hear her, that they might judge for
themselves whether the rumours that had reached them were exaggerated,
or not. And those who had already heard her at Her Majesty’s Theatre
were longing to hear her again, in the distant counties to which they
were returning after the excitement of the season was over. So a long
and fatiguing provincial tour was organised without delay. To give a
detailed account of the country performances, _seriatim_, however
interesting they may have been at the time, could only be wearisome,
after the innumerable triumphs we have already described; but, Mrs.
Grote’s general account of the tour is too interesting to be omitted.
“At the end of an engagement of unparalleled success,” she says, in
her _Memoir_, “Jenny proceeded on a tour in the provinces, in which
she was accompanied by my brother, Mr. Edward Lewin, who acted as
manager of her affairs, and directed her relations with the
concert-speculators, and whose agency, on this occasion, was extremely
valuable to her. She knew nothing of the English language, in the
first place; so that she could do little in the way of transacting her
artistic business. Her attendant could speak only Swedish, which made
it the more essential that some friend should accompany the ladies, to
serve as interpreter on the journey, and at the inns. Now, Mr. Lewin
was perfectly at home in the Swedish language, from having resided for
many years at Stockholm; and he likewise spoke French well enough to
communicate with the foreign artists included in the company which
Jenny had associated with her for these provincial performances. Their
intimacy was one of great confidence, and warm admiration for Jenny’s
many great and engaging gifts doubtless filled the breast of my
brother Edward; while the sentiments she entertained towards him
partook of the early companion, the able and serviceable secretary,
the ‘go-between’ with tiresome applicants for her bounty, or with
servants. He was her playfellow, as it were, in the hours of
relaxation; her escort to and from the theatre, and the concert-room.
And, beyond all this, _he was my brother_—a title, which, loving me as
she came to do during our familiar intercourse, conferred an
additional charm upon her friendship with Edward.”[99]
And so it came to pass, that, aided by the business capacities and firm
moral support of this trusty friend, Mdlle. Lind devoted the months of
August and September to a series of provincial performances, undertaken
on her own account, and everywhere successful. She had secured the
assistance of Signor Gardoni, Signor F. Lablache and his talented wife,
and a competent orchestra, conducted by Mr. Balfe; and, in company with
these popular and thoroughly conscientious artists, she extended her
journey to Scotland, and delighted her audiences, wherever she appeared.
She was _fêted_ everywhere; and everywhere made friends. But, in one
particular town, the reception she met with was so cordial, and the
friendships she cemented were so true and lasting, that we cannot
refrain from giving a circumstantial account of the events which there
took place.
While still busily occupied, in London, with her performances at Her
Majesty’s Theatre, she had received the following letter from Dr.
Stanley, the Bishop of Norwich:—
“38, Lower Brook Street,
“July 10th, 1847.
“The Bishop of Norwich has just heard that Miss Jenny Lind has
consented to come to Norwich in September next. He and Mrs. Stanley
therefore lose no time in expressing the hope that she, during her
stay, will become their guest at the palace.
“The Bishop has only to add, that it will be a great gratification to
him to make acquaintance with one whose high character and principles,
from all he has heard, are on a par with her superior talents.
“Miss JENNY LIND,
“Clara Villa,
“Old Brompton.”
This invitation she accepted; and, on the evening of Tuesday, the 21st
of September, she duly arrived at the Palace, where she was received
with a welcome which she remembered with pleasure till the end of her
life.
The leading local newspaper described the event, with the fervour that
never fails to animate a provincial journal, put upon its mettle by the
opportunity of making an unwonted announcement. She had been far from
well, since her departure from Edinburgh; and was suffering from
inordinate fatigue. The public had been informed of this, and great
anxiety prevailed, even among the working classes, who curiously peered
into every carriage, and thronged around the portal by which the great
songstress was to enter.
The scheme for the week included two performances, over and above that
originally announced: viz., an evening Concert, on Thursday, September
the 23rd; and, on Saturday, the 25th, a supplementary morning
performance, for the benefit of those who were unable to meet the high
prices demanded for the original tickets. On the Thursday, the greatest
effect seems to have been produced by _Dove sono_; and, on the Saturday,
the Swedish songs threw the audience into a perfect _furore_.
It is pleasant to turn from these details to a charming little episode
associated with the morning performance on Saturday.
At a service in the Cathedral, on the Friday afternoon, Mdlle. Lind had
heard three of the Choristers sing the Trio _Jesus, Heavenly Master_,
from Spohr’s _Crucifixion_, with a purity of expression which moved her
to tears. So great, indeed, was the effect produced upon her by the
fresh young voices, that she afterwards told the Præcentor that she
“could never forget the boys’ singing,” and delighted Mr. Buck, the
organist, by saying that she had “never heard children sing so well;”
and, in return for the pleasure they had given her, she begged that
places might be reserved for all the little Choristers, at the morning
performance on the following day. On arriving at the Hall, her first
care was, to ascertain that the places accorded to them were
satisfactory, no slight privilege, at a time when numbers of the general
public were thankful to pay for places from which seeing was impossible,
and hearing extremely problematical. But this was not the only privilege
the little Choristers enjoyed. They were more delighted still with
another, which excited the envy of every one present: for when she came
upon the platform, she greeted them with a smile of recognition,
“which,” says the Norwich newspaper, “will not be readily forgotten,
either by the boys, or those who saw the passing brightness.”
We have said enough to show that Mdlle. Lind’s reception at Norwich was
no ordinary one; and the records we have quoted would alone be
sufficient to prove the fact, if proof were necessary.
But, the most graphic account, by far, of this famous visit, is
furnished by a very illustrious pen indeed—that of Mr. Arthur Penrhyn
Stanley, afterwards dear to so many as the Dean of Westminster.
In a letter, dated September 22, 1847, Dean (then Mr.) Stanley writes:—
“DEAR ——,