(TO THE LADY-READER IN THE COUNTRY.)
New York, Nov. —, 1850.
DEAR MADAM,—Your note, of some weeks since requesting “a more
particular account of Jenny Lind as a woman,” I threw aside, at first,
as one I was not likely to have the means of answering. Overrun as she
is, in her few leisure moments, by numberless visits of ceremony, as
well as of intrusion and impertinent curiosity, I felt unwilling to be
one of the unremembered particulars of a general complimentary
persecution, and had given up all idea of seeing Jenny Lind except over
the heads of an audience. Fortunate chance has enabled me to see a
little more of her than a ticket entitles one to, however, and, as this
“little more” rather confirms and explains to me the superiority of her
gifts, I may be excused for putting it into print as a debt due from
herself to her celebrity.
Jenny Lind’s reception, of the two or three intellectual men into the
wake of whose visit I had been accidentally invited to fall, was not
with such manners as would be learned in society. It was like a just
descended spirit, practising politeness for the first time, but with
perfect intelligence of what it was meant to express. The freshness and
sincerity of thoughts taken as they rise—the trustful deference due a
stranger, and yet the natural cordiality which self-respect could well
afford—the ease of one who had nothing to learn of courtesy, and yet
the impulsive eagerness to shape word and manner to the want of the
moment—these, which would seem to be the elements of a simple
politeness, were all there, but in Jenny Lind, notwithstanding, they
composed a manner that was altogether her own. A strict Lady of the
Court might have objected to the frank eagerness with which she seated
her company—like a school girl preparing her playfellows for a game of
forfeits—but it was charming to those who were made at home by it. In
the seating of herself, in the posture of attention and disposal of her
hands and dress—(small lore sometimes deeply studied, as the ladies
know!)—she evidently left all to nature—the thought of her own
personal appearance, apparently never once entering her mind. So
self-omitting a manner, indeed, for one in which none of the uses of
politeness were forgotten, I had not before seen.
In the conversation of this visit of an hour, and in the times that I
have subsequently observed Jenny Lind’s intercourse with other minds, I
was powerfully impressed with a quality that is perhaps the key to her
character and her success in life—a _singularly prompt and absolute
power of concentration_. No matter what the subject, the “burning-glass”
of her mind was instantly brought to a focus upon it, and her question
or comment, the moment after, sent the light through the matter, with a
clearness that a lawyer would admire. Although conversing in a foreign
language, she comprehended everything by the time it was half expressed,
and her occasional anticipation of the speaker’s meaning, though it had
a momentary look of abruptness, were invariably the mile-stones ahead at
which he was bound to arrive. In one or two instances, where the topics
were rather more abstract than is common in a morning call, and probably
altogether new to her, she summed up the scope and bearing of them with
a graphic suddenness that could receive its impulse from nothing but
genius. I have been startled, indeed, with this true swift-thoughtedness
whenever I have seen her, and have analyzed it afterwards, and I have no
hesitation in saying that the same faculty, exercised through a pen,
would be the inspiration of genius. Jenny Lind, I venture to believe, is
only not a brilliant writer, because circumstances have chained her to
the wheel of a lesser excellence. Perhaps a vague consciousness that the
perfection of this smaller gift was not the destiny of which she was
most worthy, prompted the devotion of its gains to the mission which
compensates to her self-respect. Her charities are given out, instead of
thoughts “the world would not willingly let die.” Blessings are
returned, instead of a fame to her. She moves those within reach of her
voice, instead of covering all distance with the magnetic net-work which
will electrify while the world lasts. The lesser service to mankind is
paid in gold, the higher in immortality—but, fated to choose the
lesser, she so uses the gold that the after-death profit will be made up
to her in heaven. Jenny Lind choosing between gold by her voice or fame
by her pen, has been a _tableau_ the angels have watched with
interest—I fancy the “knockers” would rap twice to affirm!
But I doubt, after all, whether Sweden has yet lost the poetess or
essayist that Song has thus misled or hindered. She says very frankly
that she shall not sing much longer—only till this mission of
benevolence is completed—and what then is to be the sphere of her
spirit of undying activity? There is no shelf for such a mind. There is
no exhaustion for the youth of such faculties. I am told she has a
wonderful memory, and—for one work alone—fancy what reminiscences she
might write of her unprecedented career! Having seen everything
truthfully—estimated persons of all ranks profoundly—been intimate
with every station in life, from the Queen’s to the cottager’s—studied
human allotment behind its closest curtains, and received more homage
than any living being of her time—what a book of Memories Jenny Lind
might give us! If she were to throw away such material, it seems to me,
she would rob the eye of more than she has given to the ear.
The more one sees of Jenny Lind, the more one is puzzled as to her
countenance. One’s sight, in her presence, does not seem to act with its
usual reliable discretion. Like the sinner who “went to scoff and
remained to pray,” the eye goes to find her plain, and comes back with a
report of her exceeding beauty. The expression, as she animates,
positively alters the lines; and there is an expansion of her irregular
features to a noble breadth of harmony, at times, which, had Michael
Angelo painted her, would have given to Art one of its richest types of
female loveliness. Having once seen this, the enchantment of her face
has thrown its chain over you, and you watch for its capricious
illuminations with an eagerness not excited by perpetual beauty. Of
course, she never sees this herself, and hence her evident conviction
that she is plain, and the careless willingness with which she lets
painters and Daguerreotypists make what they please of her. I noticed,
by the way, that the engraved likenesses, which stick in every
shop-window, had not made the public acquainted with her physiognomy,
for, in a walk of two or three miles in which I had the happiness of
bearing her company, on a Sunday, and when the streets were crowded with
the comers from church, there was no sign of a single recognition of
her. It seemed the more strange, as many passed who, I knew, were among
her worshippers, and any one of whom would confidently give a
description of her features. So do not be sure that you know how Jenny
Lind looks, even when you have seen her Daguerreotypes and heard her
sing.
In reading over what I have hastily written, I find it expresses what
has grown upon me with seeing and hearing the great Songstress—a
conviction that her present wonderful influence is but the forecast
shadow of a different and more inspired exercise of power hereafter. Her
magnetism is not all from a voice and a benevolent heart. The soul,
while it feels her pass, recognizes the step of a spirit of tall
stature, complete and unhalting in its proportions. We shall yet be
called upon to admire rarer gifts in her than her voice. Deference and
honor to her, meantime!
And with this invocation, I will close!