room. Overhead were rows of lustrous shells such as covered the roof,
and strands of pearls interspersed with strings of bright feathers all
seemed to be floating in the air in a bewildering tapestry. Along the
upper sides of the four walls ran two rows of statues, figures of men
and women in natural size, each placed on a separate pedestal. The men
held various weapons, and each weapon was ornamented with a string of
pearls. The burial chests were placed on benches around the four sides
of the room, and in the centre, on the floor were also rows of caskets
placed one on top of the other. All the caskets were filled with pearls,
and the pearls were distributed according to size, the largest in the
large caskets, the smaller seed pearls in the smallest caskets. In all
there was such a quantity of pearls that the Spaniards confessed to the
truth of the statement of Cofachiqui, that if they loaded themselves
with as many as they could carry, and loaded their three hundred horses
with them, too, there would still be hundreds of bushels left. And, too,
there were in the room great heaps of handsome deerskins dyed in
different colours, and skins of other animals. Opening out of this great
room were eight small rooms filled with all sorts of weapons. In the
last room were mats of cane so finely woven that few of the Spanish
crossbowmen could have put a bolt through them.
The Spaniards were greatly elated with the discovery of such a store of
treasure, and it is said that De Soto dipped his joined hands, made into
a receptacle for the purpose, into the piles of pearls, and gave
handfuls to each cavalier, saying that they were to make rosaries of, to
say prayers on for their sins. For some strange reason, however, most of
the jewels were left undisturbed, perhaps in the same way that fortunes
are left in a bank, to be drawn on at will. Sure we are, from the true
account of the historian, that the Spaniards were fully aware of the
value of the pearls given to them by Cofachiqui, and sure it is also
that De Soto must have exulted with a passion of triumph at being the
lawful owner of such treasures. But his desire for gold, his greed for
gain, was insatiable. Having examined his newly acquired store house of
possessions he eagerly inquired of the Indians if they knew of any
still richer land farther west. This question gave Cofachiqui's chiefs
the chance they had been hoping for to rid themselves of him whom they
now knew as a treacherous guest, and they hastily assured De Soto that
farther on to the north was a more powerful chief ruling over a far
richer country, called Chiaha. The news delighted De Soto and he
determined to march on at once. In vain his men pleaded to remain where
they had found such treasure, had been shown such kindness--his reply
was that there were not enough provisions in the province to support
their army much longer, and that by continuing their march they might be
repaid by finding the longed-for gold. But he added, cannily, should
their quest be unsuccessful they could return, by which time the Indians
would have replanted their fields and there would be abundance of food.
As usual, he had his way, and the tidings were brought to the princess
that the foreigners were to take up their march for Chiaha, on the
fourth of May. Doubtless she was not sorry, for during the latter part
of their stay, their treachery and cruelty had been so evident, that
whatever feeling of comradeship with them she had before felt, must have
been rudely dissipated, and seeing evidence of her changed sentiments De
Soto was so uneasy lest like her mother she should flee from him, that
he appointed a guard who kept watch over her by day and by night, so she
could not by any possibility escape. To the cavalier who was appointed
to this task, no menial labour could have been more humiliating, and he
accepted it under protest, but the lady of Cofachiqui over whom he was
obliged to keep guard showed no signs of being disturbed at her
position, but with proud and haughty glances went calmly about her daily
tasks as though it was a common thing for her to have a keeper. Then
came the day of De Soto's leave-taking, and masking her joy at the
event, Cofachiqui stood proudly to receive his farewell, with as much
grace and dignity as on the day when she had received him and his men.
But suddenly her eyes flashed with anger, her throat parched with
humiliation, a frenzy of proud horror and rebellion filled her--she
heard the man who had before kissed her hand so chivalrously, who had so
fascinated her, give the stern command that she, _La Sanora_, Queen of
the realm, was to accompany the Spaniards on foot with her retinue of
women attendants!
"_And what is this for?_" she flung out the question with an imperious
challenge, but De Soto vouchsafed no answer, and the army took up its
march with the little band of Indian women safely guarded at the rear.
Cofachiqui soon found out why she had been carried on the expedition,
for De Soto obliged her to make use of her influence in controlling the
Indians along his line of march, so that his army not only was not
attacked, on account of the protecting presence of the gracious ruler
for whom her people had such a deep affection, but also at her command
they supplied De Soto with guides, as well as with men to carry baggage
and provisions, while travelling through her territory.
For a week, another and still a third, Cofachiqui was dragged in the
vanguard of the Spanish army, a prisoner, and with the passing of each
day in captivity to these traitorous white men on whom she had formerly
looked with such reverence, her heart grew faint with apprehension, deep
shadows came beneath her lustrous eyes, and there was never a sound of
her silvery laughter as of old.
But these were the only visible signs of the effect of her subjection.
To the Spaniards she was still courageous, calm and dignified, whatever
she may have felt.
Then came a wild night of storm in the forest, torrents of rain and
mighty wind that roared and thundered through the great trees, shaking
them as if they had been saplings. While the tempest was at its height
Cofachiqui, by a signal known only to her tribe, summoned one of her
faithful women to her side,--by signs told her what she had to
tell,--then the woman crept stealthily back to her forest bed, and there
was no sound in the encampment but the roar of the wind and rain.
The next day dawned cloudless, and at an early hour all the Spaniards
were busily at work, repairing the severe damage done by the storm. In
replacing a tent a woman's deft hand was needed, and Cofachiqui's name
echoed through the forest. No answer came, and an impatient cavalier
himself ran to summon her. At the door of her tent he stood as if turned
to marble. Cofachiqui was not there! Not a bead, an ornament, an article
of clothing, was to be found! No, nor the casket of wonderful pearls
entrusted to her care by De Soto. _La Sanora_, queen of many provinces,
lady of the land she had ruled over so wisely and so well, had fled, and
all her women with her!
Never again, despite De Soto's frenzied and persistent search, despite
the added efforts of the united Spanish army, did they discover any
trace of the brave, beautiful young girl who had received such
treacherous treatment in return for her gracious hospitality.
Clever Cofachiqui! Where she fled, or how she fled, or when she fled,
will always be a mystery, but her name has come down to us on the pages
of historic legend, not as fairy-tale but as fact, and she stands with
the lime-light of ages thrown on her clear-cut character as a girl
sweet, brave and loyal--the most precious relic bequeathed to the New
World by De Soto and his cavaliers.
JENNY LIND:
The Swedish Nightingale
IN the City of Stockholm there is one street leading up to the Church of
St. Jacob, on which in years gone by there was a constant succession of
pedestrians and vehicles. In fact in 1830, it was one of the most lively
streets in the city, and often a passer would stop to look up at a
window where every day a little girl sat, holding a big cat decorated
with a blue ribbon. To this pet the child sang constantly, sang bits of
operas or popular airs which she had heard, and the childish voice was
so clear and sweet and true even in very high notes, that it attracted
quite a crowd of listeners, and it became a regular habit with many
persons to pause for a moment and listen to the song poured out for the
benefit of pussy with the blue bow!
Among those who saw the pretty picture and heard the song was the maid
of a Mademoiselle Lundberg, a dancer at the Royal Opera House. She was
told such an ecstatic story of the child's beautiful voice, that she
became deeply interested, and having found out that the little singer's
name was Jenny Lind wrote a note asking the child's mother, Fru Lind, to
bring Jenny to her home that she might hear her sing.
Fru Lind acceded to the request and when she took Jenny to pay the
promised visit, and the child's voice had been tried, Mademoiselle
Lundberg clasped her hands in rapture, exclaiming:
"She is a genius. You must have her educated for the stage."
The words meant nothing to Jenny, but they struck terror to the heart of
the mother, to whose old-fashioned notions the stage was another name
for ruin. In vain the actress pleaded that it would be a sin to allow
such talent to be wasted,--still Fru Lind shook her head, and the
actress diplomatically argued no more, but by eager questions learned
the history of Jenny's family.
Being the wife of an amiable and good-natured man who was unable to
support his family, Fru Lind was obliged to keep a small school in
Stockholm to eke out expenses, and as she had not time to take care of
Jenny as well as teach, the child had for three years been boarded out
with a church organist's family not far from the city, but had finally
been brought back, to become a pupil in her mother's school, being cared
for mainly by her grandmother, to whom Jenny was devotedly attached. All
this Mademoiselle Lundberg learned from answers to her questions, and
seeing her keen interest, the mother continued her narrative, "It was my
mother who first noticed Jenny's voice," she said. "Some street
musicians had been playing in front of the house and the child must have
heard them and listened closely, for as soon as they were gone, she went
to the piano and played and sang the air she had heard. My mother in the
next room, hearing the music, thought Jenny's half sister was at the
piano, and called out, 'Amalia, is that you?' Jenny, evidently fearing
she had done something to be punished for, crept under the piano, where
my mother found her and pulling her out, exclaimed, 'Why, child, was
that _you_?'" Jenny said that it was, and as soon as Fru Lind came in,
the grandmother gleefully told her daughter the incident, adding, "Mark
my words, that child will bring you help," and the mother, struggling
so hard to make ends meet, devoutly hoped that the prediction might come
true.
Soon after that as her school did not pay, Fru Lind became a governess,
and the grandmother went to the Widows' Home, taking Jenny with her. The
child, who was too young to realise what such a step meant, was as happy
as could be there; as she said afterwards, "I sang with every step I
took, and with every jump my feet made," and when she was not jumping or
stepping, she sat in the window singing to her big pet pussy cat. All
this the mother told Mademoiselle Lundberg, who again begged that Jenny
at least be taught to sing correctly, to which Fru Lind agreed, and the
actress at once wrote a letter of introduction to Herr Croelius, the
court Secretary, and singing master at the Royal Theatre, and gave it to
Fru Lind. Off went mother and daughter to present it, but when they
reached the Opera House and were about to mount its steps, Fru Lind
shook her head, and turned back--she could not launch her child on any
such career.
But here Jenny became insistent, for from all the conversation she had
heard between her mother and the actress, she had gathered that mounting
those steps would mean something new and interesting, and at last she
had her way. They sought and found the studio of Croelius, and Jenny
sang for him a bit from one of Winter's operas, and the teacher, deeply
moved by the purity and strength of the child's voice, at once set a
date for her first lesson with him.
After only a few lessons, Croelius became so proud of his pupil that he
took her to sing for Count Puecke, manager of the Court Theatre, hoping
that this powerful man might be so impressed with the child's voice that
he would do something to push her forward quickly into public notice.
One can picture the interview between Count Puecke, businesslike and
abrupt, and little Jenny, then plainly dressed and awkward, far from
pretty, and too bashful even to lift her eyes to meet the keen glance of
the Count. Looking coldly from her to Croelius, the Count asked:
"How old is she?"
"Nine years old," answered Croelius.
"Nine!" echoed the Count. "Why, this is not a nursery. It is the king's
theatre."
Then with another glance at Jenny he asked coldly, "What should we do
with such an ugly creature? See what feet she has, and then her face!
She will never be presentable. Certainly we can't take such a
scarecrow."
Croelius, indignant at such brutality, put a protecting arm around the
girl and said proudly, "If you will not take her, I, poor as I am, will
myself have her educated for the stage," and turning, was about to leave
the room when the Count commanded him to remain and let him hear what
the child could do.
Trembling with fear of the result, Jenny sang the simplest song she
knew, and when she finished the Count was silent, for the lovely quality
of the voice he had just heard, had deeply moved him. Rising, he shook
hands with both teacher and pupil, and as quick in his generosity as in
his brusqueness, he at once announced that she was to be admitted into
the theatrical school connected with the Royal Theatre, and to be placed
under the special instruction of the operatic director, Herr Berg, and
his assistant, the Swedish composer, Lindblad.
Small wonder that Jenny left the building in a flutter of excitement, or
that Croelius was as beaming now as he had been depressed before, and he
lost no time in seeing that his little pupil was placed according to
the instructions of the great Count Puecke.
It was the custom of the Royal Theatre to board its pupils out, and as
Jenny's mother was no longer a governess and had returned to Stockholm,
the girl lived at home, together with several other pupils of the Royal
Theatre, and for two years worked so hard and accomplished such wonders
in the development of her voice that she became known as a musical
prodigy.
During the year she entered the Royal Theatre she acted in a play called
"The Polish Mine," and the next year in another, and the press spoke of
her acting as showing fire and feeling far beyond her years. She also
sang in concerts, in that way helping to pay for her board and clothes.
At the theatre she was taught all branches necessary to her profession,
and not only did she have an exquisite voice, but whatever role she
undertook was conceived with bold originality of style. Then when a
golden future of triumph seemed stretching out before her, came a
crushing disaster. All of a sudden her glorious voice was gone!
Whatever may have been the cause, the fact remained, and Jenny at twelve
showed her fineness of character by the way she faced the cruel
disappointment, and continued with her instrumental work, and with such
exercises as were fitted to the remnant of voice she still possessed.
Faithfully, persistently, she worked for four long years, only hoping
now for smaller rewards instead of the great operatic triumph which had
been her earlier ambition, trying to achieve results as conscientiously
as before.
Herr Berg was supervising a grand concert to be given at the Court
Theatre, and was in a dilemma. The fourth act of _Robert le Diable_ was
to be given, but all his singers refused to take the part of Alice,
because it included only one solo. The Herr Direktor was distracted, but
finally thought of his unlucky pupil, Jenny Lind, whose voice could be
trusted in such a minor part, and calling her to his room, he offered
her the part. Without demur she accepted it, and practised feverishly,
but on the night of the performance she was so nervous for fear her
voice would fail, that those near the stage could see her slender form
tremble with fright and excitement. Perhaps the tension and the passion
with which she was labouring wrought the miracle. At all events, she
sang the aria of her part with such wonderful beauty and richness of
tone that the audience were beside themselves with admiration. Jenny's
voice had come out fuller, finer than ever! The recently despised young
singer became instantly the heroine of the hour, while Herr Berg,
watching behind the scenes, was spell-bound with surprise and joy.
The next day he called her to his room and offered her the role of
Agatha in Weber's _Der Freischutz_.
Ever since Jenny first began to study and to hear operatic music, this
role had been in secret her highest ambition, and one can picture her
standing before the Direktor, her blue eyes flashing with excitement,
her mobile face expressing a dozen varying degrees of joy while her
slender girlish figure looked almost too slight for the task, as she
joyfully accepted the responsibility.
At once she began rehearsing, and one day when she put forth every
effort to express emotion in the way her dramatic teacher wished, the
effort was met with silence.
"Am I then so incapable," she thought. Then glancing at her teacher she
saw tears in the eyes of the older woman, who exclaimed:
"My child, I have nothing to teach you--do as nature tells you,"--and
Jenny knew that her supreme effort had not been wasted.
It is said that she studied the part of Agatha with all the intensity of
her enthusiastic nature and at the last rehearsal sang with such intense
feeling and fire that the orchestra, to a man, laid down their
instruments and applauded loudly. The next day, before the performance,
she was very nervous and worried, but the moment she appeared on the
stage every bit of apprehension vanished, and as Fredrika Bremer said,
"She was fresh, bright and serene as a morning in May, peculiarly
graceful and lovely in her whole appearance. She seemed to move, speak
and sing without effort or art. Her singing was distinguished especially
by its purity and the power of soul which seemed to swell in her tones."
Jenny herself said afterwards, "I got up that morning one creature. I
went to bed another creature. I had found my power."
During her entire after life she kept that anniversary, the seventh of
March, in grateful remembrance of her triumph, as a sort of second
birthday.
For the next year and a half she worked indefatigably, and her success
as an operatic singer seemed assured; she became the star of the
Stockholm opera, as well as the most popular singer in Sweden, and was
called the "Swedish Nightingale."
After singing without rest for months, she was able to take a short
holiday in the summer of 1839, and Fru Lind, who accompanied her, wrote
back to her husband, "Our Jenny recruits herself daily, now in the
hay-stacks, now on the sea, or in the swing, in perfect tranquillity,
while the town people are said to be longing for her concert, and
greatly wondering when it will come off. Once or twice she has been
singing the divine air of Isabella from _Robert le Diable_. Nearly
everybody was crying. One lady actually went into hysterics from sheer
rapture. Yes, she captivates all, all! It is a great happiness to be a
mother under such conditions!"
Poor Fru Lind was at last receiving her compensation for the hardships
of her life!
But Jenny's trials were not yet over. Her voice, though pure and clear,
was wanting in flexibility, and she could not easily hold a tone or sing
even a slight cadence. These defects she worked constantly to overcome,
but saw that she was not thrilling her audiences as before, and yet she
was conscious of possessing a God-given power of which she must make the
most. She felt sure that she needed teaching of a kind not to be gained
in Sweden. In Paris was Manuel Garcia, the greatest singing teacher in
the world, and to him she felt she must now go. But this could only be
achieved by her own effort, as the trip and the teaching would
necessitate spending a large sum of money.
At once, before her star had grown any less dim, the plucky girl
persuaded her father to go with her on a concert tour of cities in
Norway and Sweden. By this she earned the necessary amount, but the trip
was very exhausting, including as it did, so much travelling, in all
kinds of weather, and after singing twenty-three times in _Lucia_,
fourteen times in _Robert le Diable_, nine times in _Freischutz_, seven
times in _Norma_, not to mention other plays and concerts, also
appearing for the four hundred and forty-seventh time at the Royal
Theatre, where she had first played in the _Polish Mine_, as a child of
ten, she was pretty well tired out. Two weeks later, however, she went
to Paris and called on the great singing teacher, Signor Garcia. The
opera she sang was _Lucia_, and she broke down before she was half way
through the part, to her intense mortification. The great teacher,
approaching the trembling girl, put a hand on her shoulder, saying
brusquely, "It would be useless to teach you, Mademoiselle. You have no
voice left. You are worn out. I advise you not to sing a note for six
months. At the end of that time come to me and I will see what I can do
for you."
Poor Jenny! The words were a death knell to her, and she said afterwards
that what she suffered in that moment was beyond all the other agony of
her life.
But it was not like her to give way even under such a blow as this.
Leaving the great teacher she went to a quiet spot and spent the six
months of enforced rest studying French, and at the end of the time went
back to Garcia, who to her unspeakable relief said at once, "It is
better, far better! I have now something to work on. I will give you two
lessons a week!"
In rapture Jenny flew home that day, and in the following months
practised scales and exercises, four hours daily, gaining a great deal
from Garcia's method, but always conscious that her real power came from
another source, as she said years later, "The greater part of what I can
do in my art, I have myself acquired by incredible labour, in spite of
astonishing difficulties. By Garcia alone have I been taught some few
important things. God had so plainly written within me what I had to
study; my ideal was and is so high that I could find no mortal who could
in the least degree satisfy my demands. Therefore I sing after no one's
methods, only as far as I am able, after that of the birds, for their
Master was the only one who came up to my demands for truth, clearness,
and expression."
After a year under Garcia's tuition, Jenny went back to the Stockholm
Theatre, where she met Myerbeer, the composer, who at once declared her
voice was "one of the finest pearls in the world's chaplet of song," and
immediately arranged to hear her under conditions which would put her
voice to a severe test. He arranged a full orchestral rehearsal and
Jenny sang in the salon of the Grand Opera, the three great scenes from
_Robert le Diable_, _Norma_ and _Der Freischutz_ so successfully that
the young singer returned to her native city a new creature, at last
assured of her genius and of her ability to use it rightly, and thrilled
with joy at the knowledge of her power.
At her first appearance in _Robert le Diable_, the welcome was almost a
frenzy of enthusiasm as her clear rich voice rang out. At once she
received an offer from a Danish manager, but dreaded to accept it,
saying, "Everybody in my native land is so kind. I fear if I made my
appearance in Copenhagen, I should be hissed. I dare not venture it."
Her objection, however, was overruled. She went to Copenhagen and sang
Alice in _Robert le Diable_ so marvellously that the whole city was in a
state of rapture, and it is said the youthful, fresh voice forced itself
into every heart. At a later concert she sang Swedish songs and in her
manner of singing them there was something so peculiar, so bewitching
that the audience were swayed by intense emotion, the young singer was
at once so feminine and so great a genius. The Danish students for the
first time in their history, gave a serenade in her honour, torches
blazed around the villa where the serenade was sung, and Jenny responded
to it by singing some of her Swedish songs, for which she was famous,
then, overcome with emotion, she hurried to a dark room where no one
could see the tears with which her eyes were filled, and exclaimed
modestly, "Yes, yes, I will exert myself. I will endeavour. I will be
better qualified than I now am when I again come to Copenhagen!"