George T. Ferris - Great Singers, Second Series

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Jenny Lind has always regarded the character of _Agatha_ as the keystone
of her fame. From the night of this performance she was the declared
favorite of the Swedish public, and continued for a year and a half the
star of the opera of Stockholm, performing in "Euryanthe," "Robert
le Diable," "La Vestale," of Spontini, and other operas. She labored
meanwhile with indefatigable industry to remedy certain natural
deficiencies in her voice. Always pure and melodious in tone, it was
originally wanting in elasticity. She could neither hold her notes to
any considerable extent, nor increase nor diminish their volume with
sufficient effect; and she could scarcely utter the slightest cadence.
But, undaunted by difficulties, she persevered, and ultimately achieved
that brilliant and facile execution which, it is difficult to believe,
was partially denied her by nature.

Jenny Lind's tribulations, however, were not yet over. She had
overstrained an organ which had not gained its full strength, and it was
discovered that her tones were losing their freshness. The public began
to lose its interest, and the opera was nearly deserted, for Jenny Lind
had been the singer on whom main dependence was placed. She felt a deep
conviction that she had need of further teaching, and that of a quality
and method not to be attained in her native city. Manuel Garcia had
formed more famous prima donnas than any other master, and it was Jenny
Lind's dream by night and day to go to this magician of the schools,
whose genius and knowledge had been successfully imparted to so many
great singers. But to do this required no small amount of funds, and to
raise a sufficient sum was a grave problem. There were not in Stockholm
a large number of wealthy and generous connoisseurs, such as have
been found in richer capitals, eager to discover genius and lavish
in supplying the means of its cultivation. No! she must earn the
wherewithal herself. So, during the operatic recess, the plucky maiden
started out under the guardianship of her father, and gave concerts in
the principal towns of Sweden and Norway, through which she managed
to amass a considerable sum. She then bade farewell to her parents and
started for Paris, her heart again all aflame with hope and confidence.

II.

Manuel Garcia received Jenny Lind kindly, who was fluttered with
anxiety. The master's verdict was not very encouraging. When he had
heard her sing, "My good girl," he said, "you have no voice; or, I
should rather say, you had a voice, but are now on the verge of losing
it. Your organ is strained and worn out, and the only advice I can offer
you is to recommend you not to sing a note for three months. At the end
of that time come to me, and I'll see what I can do for you." This was
heart-breaking, but there was no appeal, and so, at the end of three
wearisome months, Jenny Lind returned to Garcia. He pronounced her voice
greatly strengthened by its rest. Under the Garcia method the young
Swedish singer's voice improved immensely, and, what is more, her
conception and grasp of musical method. The cadences and ornaments
composed by Jenny were in many cases considered worthy by the master of
being copied, and her progress in every way pleased Garcia, though he
never fancied she would achieve any great musical distinction. Another
pupil of Garcia's was a Mlle. Nissen, who, without much intellectuality,
had a robust, full-toned voice. Jenny Lind often said that it reduced
her to despair at times to hear the master hold up this lady as an
example, all the while she felt her own great superiority, the more
lofty quality of her ambition. Garcia would say: "If Jenny Lind had the
voice of Nissen, or the latter Lind's brains, one of them would become
the greatest singer in Europe. If Lind had more voice at her disposal,
nothing would prevent her from becoming the greatest of modern singers;
but, as it is, she must be content with singing second to many who will
not have half her genius." It is quite amusing to note how quickly this
dogmatic prophecy of the great maestro disproved itself.

After nearly a year under Garcia's tuition she was summoned home. The
Swedish musician who brought her the order to return to her duties
at the Stockholm Court Theatre, from which she had been absent by
permission, was a friend of Meyerbeer, and through him Jenny Lind
was introduced to the composer. Meyerbeer, unlike Garcia, promptly
recognized in her voice "one of the finest pearls in the world's chaplet
of song," and was determined to hear her under conditions which would
fully test the power and quality of so delicious an organ. He arranged
a full orchestral rehearsal, and Jenny Lind sang in the _salon_ of the
Grand Opera the three great scenes from "Robert le Diable," "Norma," and
"Der Freischutz." The experiment vindicated Meyerbeer's judgment, and
Jenny Lind could then and there have signed a contract with the manager,
whom Meyerbeer had taken care to have present, had it not been for the
spiteful opposition of a distinguished prima donna, who had an undue
influence over the managerial mind.

The young singer returned to Stockholm a new being, assured of her
powers, self-centered in her ambition, and with a right to expect a
successful career for herself. Her preparation had been accompanied with
much travail of spirit, disappointment, and suffering, but the harvest
was now ripening for the reaper. The people of Stockholm, though they
had let her depart with indifference, received her back right cordially,
and, when she made her first reappearance as _Alice_, in "Robert le
Diable," the welcome had all the fury of a great popular excitement. Her
voice had gained remarkable flexibility and power, the quality of it
was of a bell-like richness, purity, and clearness; her execution
was admirable, and her dramatic power excellent. The good people of
Stockholm discovered that they had been entertaining an angel unawares.
Though Jenny Lind was but little known out of Sweden, she soon received
an offer from the Copenhagen opera, but she dreaded to accept the offer
of the Danish manager. "I have never made my appearance out of Sweden,"
she observed; "everybody in mv native land is so affectionate and kind
to me, and if I made my appearance in Copenhagen and should be hissed!
I dare not venture on it!" However, the temptations held out to her, and
the entreaties of Burnonville, the ballet-master of Copenhagen, who had
married a Swedish friend of Jenny Lind's, at last prevailed over the
nervous apprehensions of the young singer, and Jenny made her first
appearance in Copenhagen as _Alice_, in "Robert le Diable." "It was
like a new revelation in the realms of art," says Andersen ("Story of my
Life"); "the youthful, fresh voice forced itself into every heart;
here reigned truth and nature, and everything was full of meaning and
intelligence. At one concert she sang her Swedish songs. There was
something so peculiar in this, so bewitching, people thought nothing
about the concert-room; the popular melodies uttered by a being so
purely feminine, and bearing the universal stamp of genius, exercised
the omnipotent sway--the whole of Copenhagen was in a rapture." Jenny
Lind was the first singer to whom the Danish students gave a serenade;
torches blazed around the hospitable villa where the serenade was
given, and she expressed her thanks by again singing some Swedish airs
impromptu. "I saw her hasten into a dark corner and weep for emotion,"
says Andersen. "'Yes, yes! said she, 'I will exert myself; I will
endeavor; I will be better qualified than I now am when I again come to
Copenhagen.'"

"On the stage," adds Andersen, "she was the great artist who rose above
all those around her; at home, in her own chamber, a sensitive young
girl with all the humility and piety of a child. Her appearance in
Copenhagen made an epoch in the history of our opera; it showed me art
in its sanctity: I had beheld one of its vestals."

Jenny Lind was one of the few who regard art as a sacred vocation.
"Speak to her of her art," says Frederika Bremer, "and you will wonder
at the expansion of her mind, and will see her countenance beaming
with inspiration. Converse then with her of God, and of the holiness of
religion, and you will see tears in those innocent eyes: she is great as
an artist, but she is still greater in her pure human existence!"

"She loves art with her whole soul," observes Andersen, "and feels her
vocation in it. A noble, pious disposition like hers can not be spoiled
by homage. On one occasion only did I hear her express her joy in her
talent and her self-consciousness. It was during her last residence in
Copenhagen. Almost every evening she appeared either in the opera or
at concerts; every hour was in requisition. She heard of a society, the
object of which was to assist unfortunate children, and to take them out
of the hands of their parents, by whom they were misused and compelled
either to beg or steal, and to place them in other and better
circumstances. Benevolent people subscribed annually a small sum each
for their support; nevertheless, the means for this excellent purpose
were very limited. 'But have I not still a disengaged evening?' said
she; 'let me give a night's performance for the benefit of those poor
children; but we will have double prices!' Such a performance was given,
and returned large proceeds. When she was informed of this, and that by
this means a number of poor people would be benefited for several years,
her countenance beamed, and the tears filled her eyes. 'It is, however,
beautiful,' she said, 'that I can sing so.'"

Every effort was made by Jenny Lind's friends and admirers to keep her
in Sweden, but her genius spoke to her with too clamorous and exacting
a voice to be pent up in such a provincial field. There had been some
correspondence with Meyerbeer on the subject of her securing a Berlin
engagement, and the composer showed his deep interest in the singer by
exerting his powerful influence with such good effect that she was
soon offered the position of second singer of the Royal Theatre. Her
departure from Stockholm was a most flattering and touching display of
the public admiration, for the streets were thronged with thousands of
people to bid her godspeed and a quick return.

The prima donna of the Berlin opera was Mlle. Nissen, who had been with
herself under Garcia's instruction, and it was a little humiliating
that she should be obliged to sing second to one whom she knew to be her
inferior. But she could be patient, and bide her time. In the mean while
the sapient critics regarded her with good-natured indifference, and
threw her a few crumbs of praise from time to time to appease her
hunger. At last she had her revenge. One night at a charity concert,
the fourth act of "Robert le Diable" was given, and the solo of _Alice_
assigned to Jenny Lind. She had barely sung the first few bars when the
audience were electrified. The passion, fervor, novelty of treatment,
and glorious breadth of voice and style completely enthralled them.
They broke into a tempest of applause, and that was the beginning of
the "Lind madness," which, commencing in Berlin, ran through Europe with
such infectious enthusiasm. During the remaining three months of the
Berlin season, she was the musical idol of the Berlinese, and poor Mlle.
Nissen found herself hurled irretrievably from her throne. It was about
this time, near the close of 1843, that Mlle. Lind received her first
offer of an English engagement from Mr. Lumley, who had sent an agent to
Berlin to hear her sing, and make a report to him on this new prodigy.
No contract, however, was then entered into, Jenny Lind going to
Dresden instead, where her friend Meyerbeer was engaged in composing his
"Feldlager in Schliesen," the first part of which, _Vielka_, was offered
to her and accepted. She acquired the German language sufficiently
well in two months to sing in it, but it is rather a strange fact that,
though Mlle. Lind during her life learned not less than five languages
besides her own, she never spoke any of them with precision and purity,
not even Italian.

III.

After an operatic campaign in Dresden, in the highest degree pleasant to
herself and satisfactory to the public, in which she sang, in addition
to _Vielka_, the parts of _Norma, Amina_, and _Maria_ in "La Figlia
del Reggimento," Jenny Lind returned to Stockholm to take part in the
coronation of the King of Sweden. Her fame spread throughout the musical
world with signal swiftness, and offers came pouring in on her from
London, Paris, Florence, Milan, and Naples. This northern songstress was
becoming a world's wonder, not because people had heard, but because the
few carried far and wide such wonderful reports of her genius. Her tour
in the summer of 1844 through the cities of Scandinavia and Germany
was almost like the progress of a royal personage, to which events had
attached some special splendor. Costly gifts were lavished on her, her
journeys through the streets were besieged by thousands of admiring
followers, her society was sought by the most distinguished people in
the land. The Countess of Rossi (Henrietta Sontag) paid her the tribute
of calling her "the first singer of the world." After a five months'
engagement in Berlin, the Swedish singer made her _debut_ in "Norma," at
Vienna, on April 22, 1845. The Lind enthusiasm had been rising to
fever heat from the first announcement of her coming, and the prices of
admission had been doubled, much to the discomfort of poor Jenny Lind,
who feared that the over-wrought anticipation of the public would be
disappointed. But when she ascended the steps of the Druid altar and
began to sing, then the storm of applause which interrupted the opera
for several minutes decided the question unmistakably.

After a brief return to her native city, she reappeared in Berlin, which
had a special claim on her regard, for it was there that her genius
had been first fully recognized and trumpeted forth in tones which rang
through the civilized world. She again received a liberal offer from
England, this time from Mr. Bunn, of the Drury Lane Theatre, and an
agreement was signed, with the names of Lord Westmoreland, the British
minister, and Meyerbeer as witnesses. The singer, however, was not
altogether satisfied with the contract, a feeling which increased when
she again was approached by Mr. Lumley's agent. There were many strong
personal and professional reasons why she preferred to sing under Mr.
Lumley's management, and the result was that she wrote to Mr. Bunn,
asking to break the contract, and offering to pay two thousand
pounds forfeit. This was refused, and the matter went into the courts
afterward, resulting in twenty-five hundred pounds damages awarded to
the disappointed manager.

Berlin enthusiasm ran so high that the manager was compelled to reengage
her at the rate of four thousand pounds per year, with two months'
_conge_. The difficulty of gaining admission into the theatre, even when
she had appeared upward of a hundred nights, was so great, that it was
found necessary, in order to prevent the practice of jobbing in tickets,
which was becoming very prevalent, to issue them according to the
following directions, which were put forth by the manager: "Tickets must
be applied for on the day preceding that for which they are required,
by letter, signed with the applicant's proper and Christian name,
profession, and place of abode, and sealed with wax, bearing the
writer's initials with his arms. No more than one ticket can be
granted to the same person; and no person is entitled to apply for two
consecutive nights of the enchantress's performance." Her reputation and
the public admiration swelled month by month. Mendelssohn engaged her
for the musical festival at Aix-La-Chapelle, where he was the conductor,
and was so delighted with her singing that he said, "There will not be
born in a whole century another being so largely gifted as Jenny Lind."
The Emperor of Russia offered her fifty-six thousand francs a month for
five months (fifty-six thousand dollars), a sum then rarely equaled in
musical annals.

The correspondent of the "London Athenaeum" gave an interesting sketch
of the feeling she created in Frankfort:

"Dine where you would, you heard of Jenny Lind, when she was coming,
what she would sing, how much she was to be paid, who had got places,
and the like; so that, what with the _exigeant_ English dilettanti
flying at puzzled German landlords with all manner of Babylonish
protestations of disappointment and uncertainty, and native High
Ponderosities ready to trot in the train of the enchantress where she
might please to lead, with here and there a dark-browed Italian prima
donna lowering, Medea-like, in the background, and looking daggers
whenever the name of 'Questa Linda!' was uttered--nothing, I repeat, can
be compared to the universal excitement, save certain passages ('green
spots' in the memory of many a dowager Berliner) when enthusiasts rushed
to drink Champagne out of Sontag's shoe.... In 'La Figlia del
Reggimento,' compared with the exhibitions of her sister songstresses
now on the German stage, Mlle. Lind's personation was like a piece of
porcelain beside tawdry daubings on crockery."

Jenny Lind's last appearance in Vienna before departing for England was
again a lighted match set to a mass of tinder, it raised such a
commotion in that music-loving city. The imperial family paid her the
most marked attention, and the people were inclined to go to any
extravagances to show their admiration. During these performances, the
stalls, which were ordinarily two florins, rose to fifty, and sometimes
there would be thousands of people unable to secure admission. On the
last night, after such a scene as had rarely been witnessed in any
opera-house, the audience joined the immense throng which escorted her
carriage home. Thirty times they summoned her to the window with cries
which would not be ignored, shouting, "Jenny Lind, say you will come
back again to us!" The tender heart of the Swedish singer was so
affected that she stood sobbing like a child at the window, and threw
flowers from the mass of bouquets piled on her table to her frenzied
admirers, who eagerly snatched them and carried them home as treasures.

On her departure from Stockholm for London, the demonstration was most
affecting, and showed how deep the love of their great singer was rooted
in the hearts of the Swedes. Twenty thousand people assembled on the
quay, military bands had been stationed at intervals on the route, and
her progress through the streets was like that of a queen. She embarked
amid cheers, music, and tears, and, as she sailed out of the harbor, the
rigging of the vessels was decorated with flags, and manned, while the
artillery from the war vessels thundered salutes. All this sounds like
exaggeration to us now, but those who remember the enthusiasm kindled
by Jenny Lind in America can well believe the accounts of the feeling
called out by the "Swedish Nightingale" everywhere she went in Europe.

When Mlle. Lind arrived in London, she was received by her friend Mrs.
Grote, wife of the great historian, and for several weeks was her guest,
the most distinguished men and women calling to pay their respects to
the gifted singer. She secluded herself, however, as much as possible
from general society, and it may be said, during the larger part of her
London engagement, lived in seclusion, much to the disgust of the social
celebrities who were eager to lionize her. Lablache, the basso, was one
of the first to hear Jenny sing. His pleasant criticism, "Every note was
like a perfect pearl," got to her ears. The _naive_ and charming jest by
which she made her acknowledgment is quite worth the repeating. Stepping
to the side of Lablache one morning at rehearsal, she made a courtesy,
and borrowed his hat from the smiling basso. She then placed her lips to
the edge and sang into its capacious depths a beautiful French romance.
At the conclusion of the song, she ordered Lablache, who was bewildered
by this fantastic performance, to kneel before her, as she had a
valuable present for him, declaring that on his own showing she was
giving him a hatful of "pearls." Lablache was so delighted by this
simple and innocent gayety that he avowed he could not be more pleased
if she had given him a hatful of diamonds.

IV.

Mr. Lumley had prepared the English public for the coming of Mlle. Lind
with consummate skill. The game of suspense was artfully managed to stir
curiosity to the uttermost. The provocations of doubt and disappointment
had been made to stimulate the musical appetite. There was a powerful
opposition to Lumley at the other theatre--Grisi, Persiani, Alboni,
Mario, and Tamburini--and the shrewd _impressario_ played all the cards
in his hand for their full value. It had been asserted that Mlle. Lind
would not come to England, and that no argument could prevail on her
to change her resolution, and this, too, after the contract was
signed, sealed, and delivered. The opera world was kept fevered by such
artifices as stories of broken pledges, long diplomatic _pour parlera_,
special messengers, hesitation, and vacillation, kept up during many
months. Lumley in his "Reminiscences" has described how no stone was
left unturned, not a trait of the young singer's character, public or
private, left un-_exploite_, by which sympathy and admiration could be
aroused. After appearing as the heroine of one of Miss Bremer's novels,
"The Home," the splendors of her succeeding career were glowingly set
forth. The panegyrics of the two great German composers, Mendelssohn and
Meyerbeer, were swollen into the most flowing language. All the secrets
of Jenny Land's life were made the subjects of innumerable puffs by the
paragraph makers, and her numerous deeds of charity were trumpeted in
clarion tones, as if she, a member of a profession famous for its deeds
of unostentatious kindness, were the only one who had the right to
wear the lovely crown of mercy and beneficence. All this machinery of
advertisement, though wofully opposed to all the instincts of Jenny
Lind's modest and timid nature, had the effect of fixing the popular
belief into a firm faith that what had cost so much trouble to secure
must indeed be unspeakably precious.

The interest and curiosity of the public were, therefore, wrought up
to an extraordinary pitch. Her first appearance was on May 4, 1847, as
_Alice_, in "Robert le Diable," a part so signally identified with
her great successes. "The curtain went up, the opera began, the cheers
resounded, deep silence followed," wrote the critic of the "Musical
World," "and the cause of all the excitement was before us. It opened
its mouth and emitted sound. The sounds it emitted were right pleasing,
honey-sweet, and silver-toned. With all this, there was, besides, a
quietude that we had not marked before, and a something that hovered
about the object, as an unseen grace that was attired in a robe of
innocence, transparent as the thin surface of a bubble, disclosing
all, and making itself rather felt than seen." Chorley tells us that
Mendelssohn, who was sitting by him, and whose attachment to Jenny
Lind's genius was unbounded, turned round, watched the audience as
the notes of the singer swelled and filled the house, and smiled
with delight as he saw how completely every one in the audience
was magnetized. The delicious sustained notes which began the first
cavatina died away into a faint whisper, and thunders of applause went
up as with one breath, the stentorian voice of Lablache, who was sitting
in his box, booming like a great bell amid the din. The excitement
of the audience at the close of the opera almost baffles description.
Lumley's hopes were not in vain. Jenny Lind was securely throned as the
operatic goddess of the town, and no rivalry had power to shake her from
her place.

The judgment of the musical critics, though not intemperate in praise,
had something more than a touch of the public enthusiasm. "It is wanting
in that roundness and mellowness which belongs to organs of the South,"
observed a very able musical connoisseur. "When forced, it has by no
means an agreeable sound, and falls hard and grating on the ears. It
is evident that, in the greater part of its range, acquired by much
perseverance and study, nature has not been bountiful to the Swedish
Nightingale in an extraordinary degree. But art and energy have supplied
the defects of nature. Perhaps no artist, if we except Pasta, ever
deserved more praise than Jenny Lind for what she has worked out of bad
materials. From an organ neither naturally sweet nor powerful, she has
elaborated a voice capable of producing the most vivid sensations.
In her mezzo-voce singing, scarcely any vocalist we ever heard can be
compared to her. The most delicate notes, given with the most perfect
intonation, captivate the hearers, and throw them into ecstasies of
delight. This is undoubtedly the great charm of Jenny Lind's singing,
and in this respect we subscribe ourselves among her most enthusiastic
admirers.... She sustains a C or D in alt with unerring intonation and
surprising power. These are attained without an effort, and constitute
another charm of the Nightingale's singing.

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