JENNY LIND’S PROPITIATORY ACCEPTANCE OF ONE INVITATION FROM NEW
YORK FASHIONABLE SOCIETY—THE HISTORY OF THE DAY OF WHICH IT WAS
THE EVENING—HER MARTYRDOM BY CHARITY-SEEKERS AND OTHER WANTERS
OF MONEY AND GRATIFIERS OF THEIR OWN IMPERTINENT CURIOSITY—THE
CRITICISM OF HER MANNERS AT THE PARTY, AS GIVEN IN THE ‘COURIER
DES ETATS UNIS’—A COUNTER-PICTURE OF HER CONVERSATION AND
APPEARANCE—SINGULAR ACCIDENTAL ‘TABLEAU VIVANT,’ &C. &C.
The stars shine by the light their elevation still enables them to
receive from the day that has gone past; and—though there would be a
severity in limiting ordinary belles to shine in the evening only
according to the lofty position given them by their course through the
morning—it is but just that those whose mornings so lift them above us
that they would shine in heaven itself, should at least be looked up to
with that appreciating deference, which we give more to stars than to
lights we can trim and brighten. We have expressed, in this similitude,
why a late severe criticism of Jenny Lind’s manners and appearance at an
evening party in New York society, seems to us as inappreciative and
irreverent as it is inaccordant with our own observation of what it
describes. Our friend M. de Trobriand, who wrote it, has, in many
previous articles, expressed the same national pique and national want
of sympathy with the Northern Songstress and Benefactress. She has
refused to sing in Paris, it is true. She has openly avowed her distaste
for French customs and standards. She knew, doubtless, when our friend
was presented to her, that he was a Frenchman, and the editor of a
French paper which had invariably disparaged and ridiculed her; and,
when he spoke to her in three languages, (as he did,) and she answered
only in monosyllables, (as was the case,) he could (reasonably, we
think) have attributed it to something beside dullness. A fashionable
belle might have put aside a national prejudice, to be agreeable to an
elegant nobleman brought up at a Court—but it would have been very
unlike honest and simple Jenny Lind. For the monosyllables to our friend
it is easy to account, thus, without blame to her. For those she gave to
others, there is still a better apology, if one were needed—but, let us
precede what we wish to say of this, by translating the passage to which
we are replying:—
“Jenny Lind danced very little—but once, if I remember rightly,
and without evincing any of that ardor of movement which people
had pleased themselves by gratuitously according to her. She
talked as little, and, take it altogether, her celebrity would
not have been so great, if her singing had been as disappointing
as her personal appearance. We must be excused if we follow her,
with pen in hand, even into the drawing-rooms, where she found
herself in contact with a less numerous but more select, and if
we put upon their guard for the future, those who believe, upon
hearsay, in the brilliant sayings, the enchanting graces, the
affable reception of courtesies, etc. etc. of Miss Lind, as seen
by the naked eye, and without the illusion of an opera-glass.
When she ceases to sing, and begins to converse, the celebrated
Swede becomes extremely national again. She has, in her voice,
but two favorite notes, which she never varies, they say, but
for the privileged, and to which she adheres, with a persistence
which ordinary martyrs cannot break through—and these two notes
are _Yes_ and _No_.”
In all the countries where she has been, Miss Lind has invariably
avoided gay and fashionable society, dividing what leisure she could
command, between a few friends chosen with reference to nothing but
their qualities of heart, and the visits of charity to institutions or
individuals she could benefit. Pleasure, as pursued in “the first
society,” seems wholly distasteful to her. In New York, however, great
dissatisfaction had been expressed at her refusals of invitations, her
non-delivery of letters of introduction which were known to have been
given to her in England, and her inaccessibility by “the first people.”
This troubled her, for she feels grateful to our country for the love
poured forth to her, and is unwilling to offend any class of its
citizens, high or low. From a lady, therefore, with whom she had formed
a very intimate and confiding friendship, she accepted an invitation to
an evening party, to be given the day after her last concert in this
city. It was at this party that M. de Trobriand describes her, in the
article from which we have quoted above. The country villa at which it
was given is the most tasteful and sumptuous residence in the
neighborhood of New York, and a select company from the most refined
circles of society was there to meet her. Before giving our own
impression of how she appeared at this party, it may be, not only just
but instructive, to tell how she had passed the day of which this was
the evening.
It was the morning after her closing Concert, and among the business to
be attended to, (in the winding up of a visit to a city where she had
given away $30,000 in charity,) was the result certified to in the
following report:
“The undersigned, a Committee named by Miss Lind to divide the
appropriation of the sum of five thousand and seventy-three
dollars and twenty cents, [$5,073 20] the proceeds of the
Morning Concert recently given by that lady for charitable
purposes, have distributed the said fund as follows:
New York. Nov. 26, 1850.
C. S. WOODHULL,
R. BAIRD,
R. B. MINTURN,
WM. H. ASPINWALL,
JOHN JAY.”
To the society for improving the
condition of the poor, $1,000 00
To the society for relief of widows with
poor children, 300 00
To the Roman Catholic Orphan Asylum, 300 00
To the Female Assistance Society, 300 00
To the Eastern Dispensary, 250 00
To the Northern Dispensary, 250 00
To the Eye and Ear Infirmary, 250 00
To the Hebrew Benevolent Society, 200 00
To the Home Branch of the Prison
Association, 200 00
To the Home for destitute children of
Seamen 200 00
To the Institution for education and
care of homeless and destitute boys, 100 00
To the relief of poor Swedes and
Norwegians in the city of New York,
per the Rev. Mr. Hedstrom, 273 20
To the distribution of Swedish Bibles
and Testaments in New York 200 00
To the Brooklyn Orphan Asylum, 250 00
To the relief of the poor of
Williamsburgh, 100 00
To the relief of the poor of Newark, 100 00
To the relief of the poor of Jersey
City, 100 00
To the National Temperance Society,
$200; to the relief of the poor at the
Five Points, by the Temperance
Association, Rev. Mr. Pease,
President, $200; to the American
Temperance Union 500 00
To the St. George’s Society 500 00
————
Total, $5,073 20
There was also another matter which formed an item in the “squaring up”
of the New York accounts on that day. A paragraph had reached her,
making mention of a Swedish sailor who had perished in endeavoring to
save the lives of passengers, on the wreck of a vessel. Jenny Lind had
sent to the Swedish Consul to make inquiries whether he had left a
family. His widow and children were found by Mr. Habicht, and Jenny had
sent him five hundred dollars for their use. This was mentioned by the
Consul to a lady, who mentioned it to us, and by this chance alone it
becomes public.
But, while all these sufferers were receiving her bounty, and she was
settling with Banks and Managers for the payments—what else was her
life made up of, on that day?
It was half-past nine in the morning, and three servants of the hotel,
and two of her own servants, had been ordered to guard her rooms till
she could eat her breakfast. Well-dressed ladies cannot be stopped by
men servants, in this country, however, and her drawing-room was already
half full of visiters “on particular business,” who had crowded past,
insisting on entrance. Most of them were applicants for charities, some
for autographs, some to offer acquaintance, but none, of course, with
the least claim whatever on her pocket or her time. A lady-friend, who
was admitted by her servant, saw the onslaught of these intruders, as
she rose from her breakfast,—(fatigued and dispirited as she always is
after the effort and nervous excitement of a concert)—and this friend
was not a little astonished at her humble and submissive endurance.
First came a person who had sent a musical box for her to look at, and,
as “she had kept it,” he wanted the money immediately. Jenny knew
nothing of it, but the maid was called, who pointed to one which had
been left mysteriously in the room, and the man was at liberty to take
it away, but would not do it, of course, without remonstrance and
argument. Then advanced the lady-beggars, who, in so many instances,
have “put the screw to her” in the same way, that, without
particularizing, we must describe them as a class. To such unexamined
and unexpected applications, Miss Lind has usually offered twenty or
thirty dollars, as the shortest way to be left to herself. In almost
every instance, she has had this sum returned to her, with some
reproachful and disparaging remark, such as—“We did not expect this
pittance from _you_!” “We have been mistaken in your character, Madam,
for we had heard you were generous!” “This from Miss Lind, is too little
to accept, and not worthy of you!” “Excuse us, we came for a donation,
not for alms!”—these and similar speeches, of which, we are assured,
Jenny Lind has had one or more specimens, every day of her visit to New
York! With one or two such visiters on the morning we speak of, were
mingled applicants for musical employment; passionate female admirers
who had come to express their raptures to her; a dozen ladies with
albums; one or two with things they had worked for her, for which, by
unmistakable tokens, they expected diamond rings in return; one who had
come indignantly to know why a note containing a poem had not been
answered; and constant messages, meantime, from those who had
professional and other authorized errands requiring answers. Letters and
notes came in at the rate of one every other minute.
This sort of “audience” lasted, at Miss Lind’s rooms, _all day_. To use
her own expression, she was “torn in pieces”—and it was by those whom
nothing would keep out. A police force would have protected her, but,
while she habitually declined the calls and attentions of fashionable
society, she was in constant dread of driving more humble claimants from
her door. She submitted, _every day_, to the visits of strangers, as far
as strength, and her professional duties, would any way endure—but, as
her stay in a place drew to a close, the pressure became so pertinacious
and overwhelming as to exceed what may be borne by human powers of
attention, human spirits and human nerves. Her imperfect acquaintance
with our language, of course, very materially increased the fatigue—few
people speaking simply and distinctly enough for a foreigner, and the
annoyance of answering half-understood remarks from strangers, or of
requesting from them a repetition of a question, being a nervous
exercise, for six or eight hours together, which the reader will easily
allow to be “trying.”
But—though we have thus explained how there were excuse enough for ever
so monosyllabic a reception of introductions, by Jenny Lind, that
evening—our own impression of her address and manners was very
different from that of the gay Baron. Let us tell, in turn, what _we_
saw, though our discourse is getting long, and though our rule is never
to put private society into print except as hominy comes to market—the
kernel of the matter, with no clue to the stalk that bore it, or the
_field_ in which it grew.
The party was at a most lovely villa, ten miles from town on the bank of
the Hudson, and the invitations were to an “At Home, at five P. M.” We
were somewhat late, and were told, on reaching the drawing-room, that
Jenny Lind had just danced in a quadrille, and was receiving
introductions in a deep alcove of one of the many apartments opening
from the hall. The band was playing delightfully in a central passage
from which the principal rooms radiated; and, while the dance was still
going on beyond, and the guests were rambling about in the labyrinths of
apartments crowded with statuary, pictures, and exotic trees laden with
fruits and flowers, there was a smaller crowd continually renewed at the
entrance of the alcove which caged the beloved Nightingale.
Succeeding, after a while, in getting near her, we found her seated in
lively conversation with a circle of young ladies, and, (to balance M.
de Trobriand’s account of her monosyllabic incommunicativeness,) we may
venture to add, that she received us with a merry inquiry as to which
world we came from. This was _apropos_ of the “spirit-knockings” which
we had accompanied her to visit a few days before; and a remark of her
own, a moment or two after, was characteristic enough to be also worth
recording. We had made a call on the same “Spirit” since, and proceeded
to tell her of the interview, and of a question we asked them concerning
herself—her love of fun and ready wit commenting with droll
interruptions as the narrative went on. We named the question at
last:—“Has Jenny Lind any special talent which she would have developed
but for the chance possession of a remarkable voice; and if so what is
it?”
“And the spirit said it was making frocks for poor little children, I
suppose,” was her immediate anticipation of the reply—uttered with an
expression of arch earnestness, which confirmed us in the opinion we
have gradually formed, that the love of the comic and joyous is the
leading quality in her temperament.
Miss Lind complained repeatedly of great exhaustion and fatigue, during
the evening, and, (as a lady remarked who had seen her frequently in
private,) looked “as if she could hardly sustain herself upon her feet.”
During the time that we remained near her, there were constant
introductions, and she was constantly conversing freely—though, of
course, when three or four were listening at a time, there must have
been some who received only “monosyllables” of reply. We noticed one
thing, however, which we had noticed before, and which we safely record
as a peculiarity of Miss Lind’s—perhaps the one which has jarred upon
the Parisian perceptions of our courtly friend. She is a resolute
non-conformist to the flattering deceptions of polite society. She
bandies no compliments. If a remark is made which has no rebound to it,
she drops it with a “monosyllable,” and without gracing its downfall
with an insincere smile. She affects no interest which she does not
feel—puts an abrupt end to a conversation which could only be sustained
by mutual pretence of something to say—differs suddenly and
uncompromisingly when her sense of truth prompts her so to do—repels,
(instead of even listening silently to,) complimentary speeches—in fact
is, at all times, so courageously and pertinaciously honest and simple,
that “society,” as carried on in “the first circles,” is no atmosphere
for her. If she were an angel in disguise on a mission to this world,
(which we are by no means sure she is not,) we should expect the elegant
M. de Trobriand—_l’homme comme il faut_, belonging to a Court of Exiled
Royalty—to describe her precisely as he does.
But our friend has written one more sentence, against which he must put
a _tableau en vis-à-vis_. He says:—“Her celebrity would not have been
what it is, very certainly, if her singing had ever produced as much
disappointment as her personal appearance.” Let us conclude this very
long discourse, (which we hope our friends have Niblo-fied with a “half
hour for refreshment” at some convenient betweenity,) with a picture of
Jenny Lind, as we saw her, a few minutes before she took leave, on the
evening of the party:—
The dancing and drawing-rooms were deserted, and the company were at
supper. Miss Lind, too tired to stand up with the crowd, had been waited
on by one of the gentlemen of the family, and now sat, in one of the
deep alcoves of the saloon farthest removed from the gay scene, with one
of the trellised windows, which look out upon the park, forming a
background to her figure. We sought her to make our adieux, presuming we
should not see her again before her departure for the South, and chance
presented her to our eye with a combination of effect that we shall
remember, certainly, till the dawn of another light throws a twilight
over this. An intimate friend, with kind attentiveness, was rather
preserving her from interruption than talking with her, and she sat in a
posture of careless and graceful repose, with her head wearily bent on
one side, her eyes drooped, and her hands crossed before her in the
characteristic habit which has been seized by the painters who have
drawn her. There was an expression of dismissed care replaced by a kind
of child-like and innocent sadness, that struck us as inexpressibly
sweet—which we mentally treasured away, at the time, as another of the
phases of excessive beauty of which that strong face is capable—and, as
we looked at her, there suddenly appeared, through the window behind,
half concealed by her shoulder, the golden edge of the just risen moon.
It crept to her cheek, before she had changed the attitude in which she
indolently listened to her friend, and, for a moment, the tableau was
complete, (to our own eye as we stood motionless)—of a drooping head
pillowed on the bosom of the Queen of Night. It was so startling, and at
the same time so apt and so consistent, that, for an instant, it
confused our thoughts, as the wonders of fairy transitions confuse
realities in the perceptions of a child—but the taking of a step
forward disturbed the tableau, and we could, then, only call her own
attention and that of one or two gentlemen who had come up, to the
bright orb lifting behind her. The moment after, she had said
good-night, and was gone—little dreaming, in her weary brain, that she
had been made part, by Nature, at one of the fatigued instants just past
in a picture—than which an angel, thoughtfully reposing in heaven,
could scarce have been more beautiful.
Parts of the foregoing, of course, we should never have unlocked from
our casket of memories, but as a counter-balance to different
impressions of the same admired object, recorded by a pen we are fond
of. There is another purpose that portions of the article may serve,
however—the making the Public aware how pretended charity-seekers, and
intrusive visitors, persecute and weary the noble creature who is now
sojourning in the country, and the showing through how much difficulty
and hinderance she accomplishes her work. We would aid, if we could, in
having her rightly understood while she is among us.