for the last quarter of a century, is Louis Boerne, a man whose genius,
at once tender and sarcastic, and whose innate love for political
freedom, were fitly refined and adorned by the most severe and delicate
taste in art. In one of his happiest chapters, he describes a visit to
his native city of Frankfort, made by Madame Sontag, who was then
turning the heads of all Germany,--as she has done again within the past
year. As this charming and accomplished artist is soon to appear in
America, we know of no better means of satisfying the curiosity of our
readers as to what they may expect from her, than by translating this
article by so eminent and trustworthy a critic as Boerne. It is as
follows:
"A year ago Henriette Sontag, the gracious Muse of Melody, appeared at
Weimar, and it seemed as if they all went crazy. Like pious priests and
worshippers of stars, they celebrated her advent as that of some great
and glorious constellation, with music of harps and cymbals, in the
quaintest Spanish, Moorish, languishing, twilight strains, with
hyacinthine perfumes and incense. Instead of simply saying, 'M'lle
Sontag has supped with M. von Goethe,' they sang, 'The King of Poets has
cherished the Wondrous Child with food and drink!' Since then I have
gone mad at the foolish people, whose heads were turned in a night;
before that, they had used the flame of Prometheus to boil their
potatoes with, and now they had swallowed the fire itself; they had been
used to conceal their moderate capacity for enjoyment under hard and
bitter husks, but now, of a sudden, they began to grow sweet, and soft,
and uncertain, and shining as jelly.
"I had the bitterest sayings in my mind, and meant to print them all.
But it is well for me that I reflected and did it not. How people would
have mocked at the inflexible Rhadamanthus when at last, pen and all, he
became the vassal of a girl!
"In truth, since I have myself heard the enchantress, I am bewitched
like the others, and no longer know what I say. But as in the twilight
of a dream I remember, that before my soul's transmigration I was of the
opinion that we Germans, who are so hard to rouse to enthusiasm, who
begin to be intoxicated when others are getting over the headache,--it
was my opinion that we ought not to yield up our virgin hearts to the
first charming apparition. For though beautiful, it is not unfading;
though delightful, it does no solid good. I remember I held it to be
thoughtless extravagance. But now I think otherwise, and I say: It is
lovely; let us enjoy the moment, and why refuse to enjoy it? why
sacrifice it to the future? Who knows how long it will be before we are
again permitted thus loudly to utter our admiration and pay our homage
to a divinity of our own free choice, and not imposed on us by accident?
And now I desire to praise this enchantress, who has transformed an
entire nation; but where shall I find the words? Even the endless array
of mere paper words that we have created in Frankfort since our senses
were taken from us, even these are exhausted. One might offer a prize of
a hundred ducats for the invention of a new adjective, never before
employed, and nobody could gain the prize.
"They have called her the lovely, the incomparable, the heavenly, the
adorable, the celestial maiden, the darling Henriette, the gracious
child, the heroine of song, the daughter of the gods, the dear
songstress, the Pearl of the German Opera. To all these epithets, I say,
Yes, with all my heart. Even the severest judges have given their
verdict; her charming person, her playing, her singing can be compared
to everything that is lovely, for such a union of all these gifts of
Nature and Art was never found in any other singer. To this, also, I
assent, though the rareness of this union did not delude me; for with
all my efforts, I could not see and hear her at the same time, and I had
to think of her points of excellence one by one, together, in order to
arrive at the sum of her worth. But of one thing I am certain, and that
is that what could raise the whole of a German work-day city into such a
festal excitement, without the command of either the almanac or the
police, must be something admirable, something beautiful. To praise our
songstress then, let me speak of the excitement she has produced, for
such universal intoxication, even if not to the credit of the drinker,
is to the glory of the wine.
"With a little variation, Henriette Sontag could say with Caesar: 'I
came, they saw, I conquered.' But triumph went before her, and the
battle was only a game for the celebration of the victory.
"The first compliment paid to her in subjugated Frankfort was the
announcement in the published list of arrivals, 'M'lle Sontag, Singer to
his Majesty the King of Prussia, with her suite and attendants.'
Princely personages travel 'with suite and attendants,' and by
attributing the same to M'lle Sontag, she was raised to the very steps
of the throne; and without rebellion, no higher honor could have been
paid her.
"To this first compliment the last she received here was perfectly
suited. The landlord at whose house she was lodged for a fortnight, at
her departure refused all compensation, and thereby renewed and ennobled
the old hotel of the Roman Emperor into a Prytaneum, where, in the name
of the Fatherland, famous Germans are entertained. Between these two
compliments extend a countless wilderness of others. Even the Jews
experienced a slight dizziness, and when at the Exchange you heard them
speak of Eighths and Quarters, you were doubtful whether they meant
musical beats or per cents. The price of tickets to the theatre was
doubled, a thing unheard of, for we Frankforters, rich as we are, regard
every unusual expense as intolerable. Spectators poured along in vast
crowds, not merely the inhabitants of the town, not merely the people of
the neighboring cities; but from a distance, from Cologne and Hanover,
came flocks of strangers. It was like the Olympian games. An Englishman,
who could not get a place in the boxes, wanted to take the entire
parquette, and when told it was impossible, gave loud vent to his
astonishment at this strange Continental scrupulosity. A young man came
on foot from Wiesbaden, a distance of sixteen miles, and arrived just as
the house was opened; with great difficulty he procured a seat, but was
good enough to give it up to a wearied lady; he stood up, fainted before
the performance began, and, as there was no place for him to fall, he
was carried lifeless in the fainting-fit, from hand to hand, to the
door; he recovered just as the curtain fell on the last act, and walked
back to Wiesbaden the same night. An inhabitant of the city was so
exhausted by the closeness and the heat, that he had to go home, and
died the same evening. We have heard of other injuries and maladies, and
of persons who were obliged to keep their beds for many days. Through
the whole time, the _Intelligencer_ was filled with advertisements of
lost chains, rings, bracelets, veils, and other articles which ladies
lose in a crowd. On the first day of Sontag's appearance, I went to the
optician's to get my opera glass, which had been left to be repaired,
and he had to look for it among fifty others, left there for the same
purpose. There was a universal arming of the eyes of the entire
masculine gender in Frankfort, and under the gleam of the new
chandelier, hundreds of glasses, directed at a weak girl, offered a
terribly warlike aspect. But never was artillery so poorly served, for
it was the unskilful artillerists who were injured and not the enemy.
"The house was opened two hours earlier than usual, but long before
that, the great square in front was crowded and jammed with people.
Expectation was raised to its highest apex; the excitement was intense
and keen. Until I experienced the reality it seemed impossible that such
extravagant anticipations could be satisfied. But all who were there
confessed that M'lle Sontag far exceeded all they had looked for. And in
such a case, where the appearance and the reality belong together, and
are one and the same thing, what room was there for deception and
illusion? A magical, indescribable grace accompanies all the movements
of this singer, and we are in doubt whether to regard her acting or her
singing as the lovely ornament of a perfect beauty. In comic parts she
always preserves that womanly tact, which is so easily violated on the
boards, and in serious ones a dignity which is at once touching and
commanding. On that first night we forgot the senseless text of
Rossini's _Otello_, we saw and heard the Desdemona of Shakspeare. In a
simple ballad which speaks to the heart she is admirable, as in the most
ornate Cavatina, which delights the ears. We saw old men
weeping--something which no trick of artificiality, though never so
unequalled and incomparable, could produce. Her low notes, her wonderful
trills, runs, and cadenzas, resemble the charming, childlike ornaments
on a Gothic edifice, which serve to moderate the solemnity of lofty
arches and pillars, to combine the joy of the heavens with the joy of
the earth, but never violate or degrade that solemnity. The inspiration
produced by Henriette Sontag as Desdemona, resembles the Greek fire that
could not be extinguished, and----. But let me cling to the rock of cool
reflection and save myself. Perhaps it was the whirlpool that carried me
away, perhaps it was not a mere figure of speech, when I said; 'I know
not what I say.' If this be the case, if I have experienced a human
weakness, why then I will not alive yield myself to mocking pity, but
will mingle with my ship-wrecked companions in misfortune. All the
critics and poets here and in Darmstadt have gone crazy also, and have
done nothing but declaim, sing, and rave about Sontag. What poems, what
fables, what flights of fancy! All Olympus was mustered into the
service, and the children, grey-beards, and veterans of mythology had to
come up and pay their tribute. Critical old women made declarations of
passion to the songstress, and bloodless reviewers glowed with life in
her praise. I am dizzy; I have seen Germans drunk, not with wine, but
with enthusiasm. There has been no end to the prose and still less to
the verse, expressive of their boundless delight. All seasons, all
times, all emotions, all forms of expression, have been evoked to pay
her honor. But I must end, lest I provoke some reader to exclaim:
"Not all are free, who dare to sport with chains."
PAST AND PRESENT.
BY
THEOPHILE GAUTIER.
SONTAG! A thousand delightful memories are associated with that
name;--memories which it is ever pleasant to recall. Years, years ago we
heard her delicious voice, and its beauty never left us. We were present
at the few last performances of Sontag before she retired from a world
that almost worshipped her, to the joys and honors of private life. We
heard her, and we thought that nature had never before endowed a human
soul with such exquisite musical organization, or a voice in which heart
and melody were so beautifully and intimately blended. We were young
then, and our admiration of the beautiful in art was, perhaps, stronger
than our judgment; for, in youth, enthusiasm is but rarely under the
control of reason; and in good truth the beauty of Mademoiselle
Henriette Sontag was something so _spirituelle_, seemingly, to us, so
far elevated above common mortality, that reason was the slave of
sensation--a double entrancement of the eye and the ear.
The last part that we saw her in was _Agathe_ in _Der Freyschutz_. Her
singing of the _Grand Aria_ was something perfectly unique, different in
conception and execution from any artiste who had preceded her in that
celebrated _scena_. It was a combination of purity and innocence, with
earnest and holy love. The conception was full of dramatic force, and
the execution was nature without exaggeration or counterfeit. In the
_Andante_, which is a prayer for the safety of her lover, her
impassioned, but innocent heartfelt earnestness, was as though a seraph
was pleading for an erring mortal. We have seen nor heard anything like
it since: it will be to us a life-long memory of delight.
We remember well how loud, indignant, and regretful were the universal
exclamations at the presumption of any one man appropriating to himself
one in whom the whole civilized world held so dear an interest. But the
fiat had gone forth; Love pleaded and Hymen sanctioned the engagement;
the world looked on wonderingly, scarcely realizing the extent of the
loss. The star that but yesterday beamed in all its radiant effulgence,
had suddenly set, and would appear no more. And so Sontag disappeared; a
blaze of glory circling that young brow, o'er which scarce twenty
summers had set their seal. She disappeared, and by and by a new star
arose, and the many worshipped, and the past was, if not forgotten, but
rarely remembered.
From time to time, however, the court gossips and the telltales of
fashionable life vouchsafed us slight glimpses of the private life of
the Countess Rossi--the peerless Sontag. Beloved and admired in that
high circle to which her husband's position had called her, it was a
theme of general remark with what modest womanly dignity she ornamented
the society in which she moved. That same truthful earnestness which,
aided by her supernatural gifts, rendered her the idol of the stage,
secured her the love and esteem of all who met her in private life.
After many years of undimmed happiness and prosperity, changes take
place, and by one of those extraordinary freaks of fortune by which the
highest and the lowest reverse their positions, we find the Countess
Rossi--the Sontag of our youth--compelled to have recourse to that
profession of which she had been so immaculate an ornament, to retrieve
a broken fortune and re-erect the altars of her home. No false scruples
troubled her; she had a duty to perform, and she set herself with bold
and hopeful spirit to the work. How entirely she has succeeded, her
career for the two past years bears witness. A few more years of labor
and her noble exertions will have procured for her a second large
fortune.
And how has time worked upon Sontag? To our mind it has but matured her
glorious powers, and added to her loveliness a charm, which is doubled
by our interest in and our sympathy for her present position.
Her voice has still that exquisite purity and _spirituelle_ quality
which make it a perfect luxury to listen. We have heard louder voices,
but never one that fell so soothingly upon the heart--nor one that left
us so perfectly satisfied while longing eagerly for more. She was always
a thorough and conscientious _artiste_, and she has not changed. To
describe her powers minutely would occupy too much space, but they are
all summed up in one short sentence. Sontag _sings_!
HOW SONTAG SINGS.
BY
HECTOR BERLIOZ.
IN these days, when music has become one of the _necessities_ of
civilized life, each party and each clique has its own particular
favorite, and denies even common justice to those artists, who are not
members of that _camaraderie_ which Mr. Scribe has so cleverly portrayed
in his witty play. In that respect Madame Sontag has been extremely
fortunate; criticism has handled her more tenderly, and she had to
suffer less than any other singer from the venom of party spirit, from
the simple reason, that she united all the qualities--although not in an
equal degree--all like to find in an artist: sweetness never surpassed,
agility almost fabulous, expression, and the most perfect intonation. On
she carols, higher and higher, like a lark at "heaven's gate," so soft,
so clear, so wonderfully distinct that, like the silver bell from the
altar, it is heard through the pealing organ. But her principal merit,
in our eyes, is the absence of 'rant'--the substitute of genius--in any
shape whatever. She always SINGS, and does not depend on mere strength
of lungs--erroneously called "power." She never strains her delicate
organ--that sweet instrument so susceptible of every shade of
expression. How fortunate for our young singers that, like the nuns in
Meyerbeer's _Robert le Diable_, she left the tomb of the seven
ancestors, bestowed by the King of Prussia upon the Countess de Rossi,
to teach them the wide difference between singing and screaming, and to
show how we all, during the last ten years, have been listening to and
adoring _false_ prophets.
THE
PRIMA DONNA AND THE COUNTESS.
OF all the artists there is none who so appeals to our hearts and our
imaginations as Henriette Sontag. Her romantic history, her recent and
great misfortunes, her far-famed beauty, her supreme talent, and her
untarnished reputation, make her certainly one of the most remarkable
women of the present century. Madame Sontag has had, as it were, two
lives; twice she has achieved--what so few are ever destined to achieve
at all--fame and fortune. When a mere girl, at eighteen, when others of
her age are just entering on the world and existence, Henriette Sontag
had already acquired European fame, seen the noblest and richest of many
lands at her feet, refused even a royal hand offered for her acceptance,
and, true to woman's nature, bestowed herself and her fortune (already
considerable) where she had given her heart. The Count Rossi, one of the
_attaches_ of the Sardinian embassy, in every way merited this
preference, and many years of uninterrupted happiness, during which time
he became the representative of Sardinia at various courts, giving to
the prima donna the rank of Ambassadress, which was never more
gracefully filled, have justified her choice. What Henriette Sontag was
when she first appeared, cannot be better described than by an extract
from a work of Travels to St. Petersburg, by the celebrated Dr.
Granville, which, at the time, was translated into French and German,
and extracted into all the public papers. Dr. Granville, an Italian by
birth, and an accomplished musician, was in every way qualified to judge
of a musical talent, and time has proved the correctness of his
criticism.
"* * * The orchestra (such an orchestra, composed of _premiers talens_
all playing as one) began the overture to Winter's 'Interrupted
Sacrifice,' _Das Unterbrechene-Orperfest_, and even though waiting in
feverish excitement for the appearance of that wonderful girl (for she
is no more) all had come to see, it was impossible not to be carried
away by the exquisite manner in which this orchestra (perhaps the finest
in the world) executed this fine composition. At length _Mirrha_
entered; the star, the comet, the attraction, the Henriette Sontag, of
whom sonnet-writers, poets, newspaper compilers, prose composers,
travellers, had raved so much, stood before us. She is slender, rather
_petite_ and _mignonne_. Her countenance, like that of Canova's nymphs,
belongs more to the ideal than to mortal reality. I should say that her
hands are the prettiest things I ever saw, if her feet were not prettier
still. She is faultless as to teeth, which the sweetest smile, for ever
playing round her mouth, sets off at every warble in all their glory.
Her _chevelure_, between auburn and blonde, is magnificent; and, to
conclude with the essential part, the quality of her voice is beyond
measure pleasing, and she possesses remarkable facility. M'lle Sontag's
voice is a soprano of a sonorous, sweet, and clear _timbre_. She can
reach the E above the lines without screaming. The flexibility of her
organ has seduced her into that peculiar style of singing, which made
Madame Catalani, for some few years, the musical wonder of Europe. It is
this quality of voice, united to the personal gifts so profusely
lavished by nature on one of her favorite daughters, that brought M'lle
Sontag forward as a miracle, on the German stage, and at once, and
without any premonitory step, made her a prima donna at the age of
sixteen. But the first station at the opera cannot be had on such easy
terms. The time necessary for acquiring declamation, expression, and
pathos, has been spent by this prodigy in receiving unbounded applause
for this one dazzling gift of nature, a flexible and brilliant voice,
rendered irresistible by great personal beauty. The part of _Mirrha_ is
suited to Henriette Sontag in all but the last two scenes, where she is
required to represent acute feeling and distress of mind. Her
unalterably sweet and girlish face is ever the same, and the extent of
the expression of her large, beautiful blue eyes consists in lowering
them with the bashfulness of one of Carlo Dolce's madonnas, or raising
them with the tenderness of a Cleopatra. The part of Rosina, in the
_Barbiere_, is one which exquisitely suits both the voice and person of
M'lle Sontag. Never was there so fascinating a Rosina.
"Her _sostenuto_ is firm, clear, and sonorous; the silver tone of her
voice unsurpassed; her method excellent. She is daring, and launches at
all hazards into a sea of flourishes, the result of which is always
successful, particularly as she concludes them, by darting towards the
audience one of those glances which have called down in Berlin, as they
will in Paris and London, thunders of applause."
Thus was Henriette Sontag, during the first period of her fame. From
Berlin she came to London, where enthusiasm reached a height hitherto
unknown, because it included, as well as admiration, respect for the
virtues and conduct of the loveliest woman who had ever trod on the
stage. Then she went to Paris, and Paris set its seal upon her artistic
reputation, classing her with all who had hitherto stood at the head of
artistic celebrity. Yet she had powerful competitors to contend with,
for she sang with Malibran and Pisaroni. Here it was her marriage (which
she had been compelled to keep secret till the end of her engagement)
was declared. Certainly few men have been so envied as Count Rossi, when
he was known to be the husband of the world's idol. Society, which was
as much attached to the woman as to the artist, seemed to think it an
injustice, and felt for the first time inclined to quarrel with the
actions of her it had proclaimed faultless in both mind and person.
Scribe founded the libretto of the Ambassadress on this marriage, but he
little thought he should be prophetic in the catastrophe he put to his
opera, as he has been; for Henriette Sontag, like the Henriette in the
play, _has_ returned to the stage.
The Countess Rossi, though she had no taste for the publicity of the
stage, having gone uncorrupted and unscathed through all its glittering
temptations, had an innate enthusiasm for her art. The young Countess,
therefore, cultivated it as assiduously as the young prima donna; and in
Frankfort and in Berlin, where she principally resided, in St.
Petersburg, which she visited, her saloon was the resort of all that was
renowned in the artistic world. That wondrous voice sang on as admirably
as before, following all the progress of musical science, and knowing
all the _repertoire_ of the best masters, as their compositions appeared
before the world. Her silvery tones now resounded in the halls of
palaces; and, instead of a public, she had kings and princes for her
guests. Yet she was the same simple-minded and unaffected woman, with a
mind pure as in infancy, and a heart beating only with good and tender
emotions. Often during these years did she sing for public charities,
and her name was sure, as in former days, to fill the coffers of the
institution for which she sang.
But this bright destiny, which seemed placed beyond the reach of change,
and which time seemed to have consolidated, was, during the revolution
of 1848, from circumstances of an entirely private nature, completely
destroyed.