Chapter I: Home: and After?

“Land of my birth! Oh, that I could one day show how dear thou art to me!” That had been the deep desire of Jenny Lind, as she toiled in Paris. And, indeed, it had seemed as if the Fates were set on fulfilling her desire. She was, after all, to return to her familiar boards—to put herself under the old yoke. That great Italian Opera, with its famous heroines of song, was to remain a vision of what was doing in the big world outside. She was not to enter, as yet, on that magnificent scene. Enough for her to carry out her bond with that theatre which had been her nursery and her home, in her beloved Stockholm, at the humble salary of 1800 r. d. banco, _i.e._ £150 a year. Very happily, so far as we can see, she set to work; though inwardly conscious of the immense increase of knowledge and power which had become hers since she had begun again with Garcia “at the beginning of the beginning,” and had learnt what “Art” meant. She arrived in August, 1842, and rented rooms for herself and Annette, her maid, on the upper floor of the same Bonde Palace, where the Lindblads still lived. With them she had the delight of feeling at home, and all the comfort of domestic affection; but, in the following year, she found it well to establish herself in an independent position, and she took rooms in another house, whither she invited her old friend, Louise Johansson, to come, and be her companion.

On October 10th she opened, at the theatre, with a performance of _Norma_—the very opera in which she had closed her appearances on June 19th, 1841. It must have been a direct challenge to the critical world of Stockholm, to recognise the change that had intervened between the two performances. What that change was, we learn from an estimate which has been kindly supplied us by a most competent and judicious critic, himself a musician, who sang with her often, both before and after her visit to Paris. We give his own words:—

“When, during the years 1838, 1839, and 1840, Jenny Lind enraptured
her audience, at Stockholm, by her interpretation of the parts of
‘Agathe,’ ‘Paulina,’ ‘Alice,’ ‘Norma,’ or ‘Lucia,’ she succeeded in
doing so solely through her innate capacity for investing her
performances, both musically and dramatically, with truthfulness,
warmth, and poetry.

“The voice, and its technical development, were not, however, in
sufficiently harmonious relation with her intentions.

“In proof of this, it was noticed that the Artist was not always able
to control sustained notes in the upper register—such, for instance,
as the A flat, above the stave, in Agathe’s cavatina, ‘_Und ob die
Wolke_’—without perceptible difficulty; and, that she frequently found
it necessary to simplify the _fioritura_ and _cadenze_, which abound
in florid parts like those of ‘Norma’ and ‘Lucia.’

“Nay!—there were not wanting some, who, though they had heard her in
parts no more trying than that of Emilia, in Weigl’s _Swiss Family_—a
_rôle_, which, in many respects, she rendered delightfully—went so far
as to doubt the possibility of training the veiled and weak-toned
voice in a wider sense.

“Yet, in spite of this, Jenny Lind, when resuming her sphere of action
at the Stockholm Theatre, proved to have not only acquired a soprano
voice of great sonority and compass, capable of adapting itself with
ease to every shade of expression, but to have gained, also, a
technical command over it, great enough to be regarded as unique in
the history of the musical world. Her _messa di voce_[25] stood alone—
unrivalled by any other singer.

“In like manner, in her shake, her scales, her _legato_ and _staccato_
passages, she evoked astonishment and admiration no less from
competent judges than from the general public: and the more so since
it was evident that, in the exercise of her wise discrimination, the
songstress made use of these ornaments, only in so far as they were in
perfect harmony with the inner meaning of the music.

“The incredibly rapid development of Jenny Lind’s voice and
_technique_ caused many people to question the value of the
instruction she had originally received. Such doubts must, however, be
dismissed as unjustifiable. The true reason why Jenny Lind’s singing,
before she went abroad, could not be said to flow in the track which
leads to perfection, is undoubtedly to be found in the fact that she
was a so-called _Theaterelev_—a pupil educated at the expense of the
Directors of the Theatre itself—and, as such, was unable to escape
from the necessity of appearing in public before her preparatory
education was completed—a proceeding no less disastrous to the pupil
than contrary to the good sense of the teacher.”

Such, then, was the transformation that had come over her rendering of _Norma_. No wonder that Stockholm was wild with enthusiasm.

She sang in seven performances of _Norma_, and in six of _Lucia_, besides giving some scenes from Rossini’s _Semiramide_, and in January, 1843, repeated her favourite “Alice” three or four times.

She took up several new characters—“Amazili,” in Spontini’s _Ferdinand Cortez_, the second act of which was given eight times during the spring; “Valentine,” in the _Huguenots_; “Minette,” in _La Gazza Ladra_; “La Contessa,” in Mozart’s _Nozze di Figaro_; above all, “Amina,” in the _Sonnambula_—one of her representations which was to become so famous in after years, and which she sang for the first time on March 1st, 1843. Altogether, before the nine months of the year’s engagement were out, she had made, between October 10th, 1842, and June 21st, 1843, one hundred and six appearances in thirteen different parts.

But, besides her normal work, those nine months were chiefly memorable for two main incidents, one, personal and domestic; the other, national and dramatic.

The personal event formed the last crisis in her home-relations. These relations were still strained; for we must remember that she has never gone back on that first decision to leave her parents’ home, which landed her in the Lindblads’ household. She is still living apart from them; and this is all the more marked, now that she is independent of the Lindblads, and living in her own hired rooms, with the sole companionship of the faithful Louise. A woman, by Swedish law, at that time, was bound to be under guardianship until she married. Yet it must have been as difficult as ever for her to remain under the guardianship of parents, who cared, indeed, for her, and valued her highly, but who, yet, could not possibly enter into her motives and aims, which were beyond the range both of the easy-going conscience of her father, and of the embittered temperament of her mother. We have only to recall her deep and peculiar sense of the obligation she was under, to devote her art and its rewards to the service of God and man, to see how tough a difficulty this desire would prove to Herr Lind, who had never taken life very seriously, and to Fru Lind, who had fought her own way along, with sturdy resolution, under the ugly burden of poverty, and who had seen no good cause to be over-tender towards a world which had dealt hardly enough with her.

In view, then, of this radical difficulty, Jenny Lind took a step, which, with characteristic generosity, put an end to the long and tangled story. Out of her earnings, scanty though they were, she managed to secure a little home in the country, in which she established her father and mother. And, then, she won their consent to transfer a guardianship, which they could not well exercise at a distance, to an official guardian, duly appointed by law, to whom they would hand over all parental responsibilities. This they did; and the transference was a marked moment in her life. Not only did she thereby put a total end to all the domestic troubles which had so darkened her young days; not only did she set free her natural affection for her mother, by releasing it from all the aggravation of jarring wills; but also she did something towards securing for herself what she, always, most sorely needed— needed, indeed, with all the innermost necessities of her being—a strong and steady personal influence at the back of her life, to calm her agitations, to control her uncertainties, to abide constant throughout her reactions, to correct her self-mistrust, to dissipate her suspicions, to fix her emotions, to anchor her conscience. She had all the fervour and the lapses, the starts and the recoils, of a dramatic genius; and, firm and high as was her moral ideal, its very force brought it into confused collision with the bewilderment of circumstances, and it was as liable to perplex and distress her, as to cheer and impel. Some one ought to be near at hand from whom she could receive the profound assurance that “all was well”—that her belief in goodness had not played her false. This is what her home had sadly omitted to give her: and for this loss nothing could now compensate. But it was, at least, a profound relief, under such a strain, to have obtained a guardian whose presence abode with her, from then to his death in 1880, as a permanent pledge of all that was wise, and kindly, and excellent, and of good report. Herr Henric M. Munthe, Judge of the Court of Second Instance, the guardian chosen, was a man of high character and distinguished position; she could confide in his judgment with absolute confidence, while she could also rely on his appreciation of her art, as he was himself a cultivated musician, and took his part in the best amateur quartette in Stockholm. His portrait suggests a benignant and benevolent “Thackeray”—a face full of fatherly interest and mild good humour, yet with the discreet wisdom of one who knows the Law. And, indeed, with the shrewdness of a councillor, he combined true sympathy with all that was most deeply implanted in her heart. She wrote to him constantly and freely; and she found in him one who could understand her, even in those respects in which a legal trustee is most apt to fail. For it was he who directed and managed for her, so long as his guardianship lasted, those abundant charities which she showered upon her native Stockholm. About these she could pour out her mind to him, sure of intimate comprehension. And his open recognition of her ideas in all this is evidenced by the fact that he stored up her letters to him, and left them at his death inscribed with this description—“The mirror of a noble soul”; though, according to her own words to his son, these letters were almost entirely occupied with the distribution of her charitable gifts. She declares this, in a letter written, in June, 1880, to Carl H. Munthe, the son of the Judge, after she had learned from him of the existence of these letters, on the father’s death in April, 1880. Her letter throws so much light on her character that the main portion of it is printed here.

This letter to Carl Munthe has an interest, also, that belongs to the present memoir, for it will be noticed that she here mentions her intention of writing an autobiography; and, above all, of recording her artistic experience. Though this purpose was utterly abandoned (or, rather, was never put in action), yet her words lend a sanction to the effort made in this volume to give some record of her career as an artist. In her last years, she was prone to justify her abandonment of the autobiography by indignant remonstrances at the hopeless failure of the public to understand Carlyle’s ‘Reminiscences.’ Her experience of the cruel stupidity with which a mighty character like his could be maltreated and misinterpreted, made her put the thought utterly away. “If they could so treat him, who was so great, what respect would they pay me?” she said. “No! let the waves of oblivion pass over my poor little life!”

But we must go back to our letter: here it is:—

_Extract of a Letter from Fru Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt to Hofrättsrådet
Carl Munthe._

“1 Moreton Gardens, June 15th, 1880.

“The letters from me, left in your charge, my dear brothers and my
sister Emma, can contain only dispositions for distribution of
pensions and purses to different people. What good would there be in
exhibiting these letters to the curiosity of the public long after
that the writer thereof is decayed and forgotten? To me, the most
acceptable course would be the burning of those letters after you all
are gone. There is nothing I have shunned more, during my life, than
praise for the assistance I have been fortunate enough, through the
grace of God, to render to my fellow-men as far as lay in me, and it
can never be a merit to give of that which has been given to us. These
are my views—and, if I am not much mistaken about you, brother Carl,
you will say I am right.

“Moreover, I intend to write an autobiography. My life—especially as
an artist—has furnished material for a biography in such abundance,
that I almost look upon it as a duty to produce something of the kind,
before leaving a world where I had been called upon to take so active
a part. That in such a biography, written by myself, my beloved
guardian should take his well-deserved place, is only natural; that
the help he gave me with the distribution of my little bounties in my
fatherland, was of the greatest importance for those who received
them, is a fact nobody can dispute, and, consequently, his part in
this page of my life must be clear and unmistakable. Alas! in my
letters to him, he does not by any means occupy the place to which he
is entitled, consequently they would be only interpreted to my
advantage; and still, had he remonstrated against my urgent
commissions—which he was much too noble and much too discreet ever to
do—I should most probably have listened to his objections.”

Such was the kind and fatherly guardianship which she won for herself, under a legal sanction obtained from His Majesty’s Lower Town Court on the 30th of January, 1843, under the chairmanship of the Sous-Préfet, Chamberlain, and Knight of the Order of the Royal North Star, M. Kuylenstjierna, when the following request was presented:—

“Having decided to leave Stockholm for good, and consequently being
unable to bestow due attention to the guardianship of my dear
daughter, the Court-singer, Jenny Lind, I hereby beg that I may be
relieved from this duty, and that Herr H. M. Munthe, Judge of the High
Court, may be appointed in my place to the guardianship.”

This is signed by N. J. Lind; and, after that Herr Munthe has formally signified his consent, the Royal Court agrees to the request, and Judge H. M. Munthe “is herewith appointed guardian of the Court-singer, Jenny Lind, in accordance with regulations provided by the law.”

So happily closes a long and chequered chapter of domestic history. The parents contentedly enjoy the fruits of their daughter’s generosity. Their discomforts and their anxieties are over. They seem to have been very fond of one another; and henceforward the days began of quiet and kindly peace in which the natural affections found free way.

The second great event of that spring was the National Jubilee, to celebrate the twenty-fifth year of the reign of King Carl Johan. The Royal Family of the Bernadottes, in spite of their abrupt introduction into the country, have succeeded in attracting about them the national associations; and the Jubilee was to be celebrated by appeals to everything that was native, and popular, and Swedish. The Royal Theatre set itself to the task by the production of a “Divertissement National,”—a medley of national scenes, with words and dances by Böttiger, Tegner’s son-in-law, and himself a poet; and with music by Berwald, the conductor at the Theatre Royal. In this, Jenny Lind sang, in the character of a peasant girl from Wermland. This piece ran for twenty-seven nights, all through February, and March, into April; and it was followed, in May, by another _Pièce d’ Occasion_, of the same type, with national melodies and dances, called _A May Day in Wärend_—full of Swedish customs, and melodies, and dresses; in which she sang the part of “Märtha,” the heroine, riding in, at one part, on horseback on to the stage, and singing as she rode. This ran for fifteen nights before June was over. She was capitally supported by the barytone, Belletti, in the character of an itinerant Italian. We can imagine how her Swedish blood would tingle, as she threw herself, with her whole heart, into the delight of rendering the native peasant life which was so dear to her, and which she so instinctively interpreted. She would pour her soul out in melodies which touched the very fibres of her being, as they spoke to her of the sounds and sights which make Sweden what it is to Swedish hearts. She must have felt that the opportunity was indeed come to put out all the new powers, which she had gained abroad, to prove to her own people how dear they were to her.

We find that, from this time on, the Court began to take delight in showing her both favour and friendship; and especially kind to her was the Queen, Desideria, wife of Bernadotte. We are allowed to use the interesting notes from the diary of a lady-in-waiting on Queen Desideria, which belong to this and the following years. This lady, Fröken Marie von Stedingk, had, in quite early days, predicted a great future for Jenny Lind, when she heard of her wonderful dramatic gifts, as a child of eleven or twelve. And, now, after the return from Paris, it was “her greatest treat” to witness the fulfilment of her prophecy, and to hear “Our nightingale, the charming Jenny Lind,” both in the _Divertissement National_, and in her great parts, “_Norma_,” “_La Sonnambula_,” etc. She had, also, “often the advantage of hearing her, through the winter, in private houses, where one and all treated her with distinction. Her behaviour and her reputation are faultless; her manners pleasant and modest. Without being pretty, she has an expression of purity and genius, which, combined with her youth and her charming figure, is exceedingly prepossessing.” We shall hear more of this diary in the years 1844 and 1845.

So the first year of the home engagement ended—prosperous, happy, secure. But, after all, was it to be possible that this great gift of hers should be left to be the private possession and prize of her Swedish home? Could it be so hid? Was no rumour to creep about of this strange singing ’mid the northern seas? Was the “Nightingale” caught, and caged for ever?

It could not be; and we have, now, to follow her first flights outside the home-limits, and to watch her, as she discovers that her voice has that in it which can overleap all the barriers set up between people and people, and can speak to the souls of those whose tongue is unknown to her, and whose eyes have never seen the woods and waters of Sweden. There was a little experiment first, in Finland, in the summer of 1843, which met with overwhelming response. A graceful and pathetic record of the visit is given us in the verses of the aged poet of Finland, Topelius, written for a festival in 1888, on the news of Jenny Lind’s death. The old poet is carried back to recall the days when he first heard her sing so long ago; and we venture to give, in a free translation, a few of the opening verses, which describe, with delicate accuracy, the effect she then made on all—the effect of one, who, using all the subtlest resources given her by skill and training, still spoke straight home, from soul to soul, with the natural direct ease with which a bird sings its heart out, in sheer simplicity and joy:—

“I saw thee once, so young and fair,
In thy sweet spring-tide, long ago;
A myrtle wreath was in thy hair,
And, at thy breast, a rose did blow.

· · · · ·

“Poor was thy purse, yet gold thy gift;
All music’s golden boons were thine:
And yet, through all the wealth of Art,
It was thy _soul_ which sang to mine!

“Yea! sang, as no one else has sung,
So subtly skilled, so simply good!
So brilliant! yet as pure, and true
As birds that warble in the wood!”

So it went well in Finland.

But yet another step outward was to be made that summer—a step into a country, near enough to be familiar, yet remote enough to be almost foreign. Once before, she had just looked in at Copenhagen, in the middle of her provincial tour, in 1840; and, now, she visited it again. It was in connection, again, with a provincial tour which she made; and of which we have some happy records in the life of the musician, Jakob Axel Josephson.

This name is so closely linked with these years of Jenny Lind’s life, that we must pause upon it before going on with our story. Josephson was a Swedish composer—born in 1818, and died in 1880—whose songs have become widely famous in Sweden. The event of his life was a tour through Germany and Italy, for the study of Art; it was this which brought him under the full sway of classical culture in music; and it was with this tour, as we shall see, that Jenny Lind was so personally and deeply concerned. He returned from it in 1847, and was appointed Musical Director of Upsala University in 1849. He devoted himself with indefatigable perseverance to producing the great works of the great masters, especially the oratorios of Handel, Haydn, and Mendelssohn. Through these efforts, as well as through his lectures on the ‘History of Music,’ given at Upsala, he has done much to kindle and to purify, by the power of music, the minds of the present generation in Sweden.

Now, in 1843, Josephson was just at the critical point in his musical education; he was longing to get abroad; he had no sufficient funds. Here was a situation which Jenny Lind would thoroughly understand; for it had been her own. We shall soon see how she dealt with it. They met, in the August of this year, at this town, Linköping, whither Josephson had gone, on the occasion of an annual concert, to be given under the direction of Concert-Master Randel, in aid of the fund for the widows and orphans. It was a most pleasant surprise, as he tells us in his Diary,[26] to meet with a number of old acquaintances and friends, and among others Jenny Lind and Günther, who had come to give a concert of their own, and joined in this preliminary entertainment. Crowds were present from all parts of the country, partly owing to the presence of some of the royalties; and the heat and the crush in the church, where the concert was given, were intolerable, and he did not enjoy it so much as he expected—“even Jenny Lind was less successful than usual.” This was on the 18th August; but, at her own concert, in the evening of the following day, she was in excellent voice, and he was enraptured; “she sang in a manner unsurpassed. What brilliancy of delivery, side by side with that grandeur which is so characteristic of her! What energy and pathos, even in the very _fioriture_! What classical finish in her cadenzas!” In the evening she was serenaded. And on the following day, at the concert given by her and Herr Günther, he heard her sing, in costume, a scena from the _Freischütz_. “She is incomparable!” is his verdict. “The beautiful gentle calm during the first part of the scene; her fine attitudes, full of feeling, when listening for the horns; her rapture and glowing prayer at the supposed victory of her beloved—all this is so glorious, so true, so enchanting, that in reality, nothing can be said, while the full heart feels all the more from the lack of words.” She sang one of Josephson’s own songs, at this concert, “Believe not in Joy!” After this musical feast at Linköping, the friends separated. Josephson and Günther went on a tour of their own, giving musical soirées, while Jenny Lind took the opportunity of a run across to Copenhagen. Before the three meet again, we must see what happened to her there. She had intended only to make a visit; but there was in Copenhagen, an eager and enthusiastic friend who was not to be denied. This was Mr. A. A. Bournonville, of whom we have already spoken as being delighted with Jenny Lind’s operatic singing as far back as 1839, when he was indignant at the pittance at which she was rendering such magnificent service to the Royal Theatre. He was eminent, both at Copenhagen and at Stockholm, as a composer, and master of ballets; he was made knight of the Danebrog in Denmark, and of the Wasa in Sweden; he was greatly respected and beloved, and it was at his house that Jenny Lind usually stayed, on her visits to Copenhagen. He urgently pleaded that she should give them “her incomparable Alice” in _Roberto_; and suggested that she should sing her part in Swedish, while the rest sang in Danish, as the languages were so nearly akin.

“All the theatre showed the greatest goodwill,” he writes in his
memoir of his theatrical life; “but the one obstacle was the fear of
Jenny Lind herself; she dreaded a foreign stage. And when she saw Fru
Heiberg act in the _Son of the Desert_ she felt such enthusiasm for
her, and, at the same time, such depression for herself, that she
begged me, with tears of anguish, to spare her the pain of exhibiting
her own insignificant person and talent, on a stage which had, at its
disposal, the genius and the beauty of Fru Heiberg. In addition to
this, my counter-arguments excited her to such a degree that she began
to reproach me for having laid a trap for her. This both frightened
and wounded me; and I promised to cancel all. But now the ‘woman’ came
to the front; for as I began to doubt, she waxed firm.”

An admirable episode, as amusing as it is natural! So long as it is only her _own_ doubt, it is only due to nervousness, however real its anguish; but if another doubt her powers, it constitutes an attack, a challenge; and “the artist,” as well as “the woman,” is up in arms to repel it. Bournonville seems to have seen how to reap the advantage of this mode of argument with her; he must have deepened his doubts to the point which secured complete conviction in her. For, certainly, he obtained her consent. She sang; and the success was tremendous, was overpowering. “Jenny Lind gained in Denmark a second Fatherland,” writes Bournonville. And, after deploring the slackness which failed to secure her services for the Danish Opera, he speaks, significantly enough, of the impression which the event made on her—of the discovery which she made for herself. “The ice was broken. Jenny Lind discovered that she could get her living out of Sweden; and also she learned that the Artist, in reality, should not settle down on the native-soil, but, like the bird of passage, should go there only in search of rest.” The words are those of the theatrical master, who has made the drama his world. They are singularly unlike what she would have used, at any time. But they may describe, in his language, an effect which did take place within her secret self. She must have experienced a sense that the doors were being flung open, and that she might pass out through them, if she would. There was a world, she now knew for certain, out and away beyond the range of home, where she would find that her powers would tell, her gifts be welcomed, her genius be met with the warmth of sympathy. This must have, indeed, been something like a revelation, to one who, as we have just seen in the scene with Bournonville, was terribly susceptible to self-mistrust. There can be no doubt that Copenhagen marked an eventful hour in her destiny.

She only sang twice in the theatre, on September 10th and 13th: and in one concert, in the large hall of the Hôtel d’Angleterre, on September 16th. The opera, on each occasion, was _Roberto_. The following words from a History of Danish Dramatic Art, by Th. Overskou, form an admirable comment:—

“It was said about Jenny Lind, that in her everything is combined to
make the perfect dramatic singer; a clear, full, sonorous voice of
large compass; an easy and charming method of singing, which she never
overburdens with inappropriate ornament; a style, in the highest
degree expressive and enchanting: and an extraordinary dramatic
talent. Added to this, there lies diffused throughout the whole
personality of this admirable artist, a peculiar charm, a naturalism
rare on the stage, which makes an immediate appeal to the goodwill of
the audience. And, after all, this eulogy, however detailed and true,
can only give but an imperfect account of the gifts by which, without
dazzling through beauty, she fascinates all by her appearance, her
singing, and her speech; for her power derives its origin and its life
from a loveliness altogether characteristic and individual, such as it
is impossible to describe, and which banishes all disturbing
influences, and collects all her rare and precious advantages, so as
to create an irresistible impression of grace and purity of soul.”

Nor was it only the possibility of a wider public, which opened upon her at Copenhagen. She also found that here, as at Stockholm, she won, in a peculiar manner, the admiration and the friendship of eminent men, such as the artists Jensen and Melbye, the poet Œhlenschläger, and, above all, of Hans Andersen, who was absolutely fascinated, and who for a long time after, paid her a devotion, which had in it all that delightful mingling of simplicity and childishness, which was so characteristic of him. In his ‘Story of my Life,’ he tells in beautiful words how he was called in by Bournonville, to take part in the work of persuading her to sing:—

“Except in Sweden,” she said, “I have never appeared in public. In my
own country all are so kind and gentle towards me; and if I were to
appear in Copenhagen, and be hissed! I cannot risk it!” “When she
appeared in _Alice_,” he writes, “it was like a new revelation in the
domain of Art. The fresh young voice went direct to the hearts of all.
Here was truth and nature. Everything had clearness and meaning. In
her concerts, Jenny Lind sang her Swedish songs. There was a peculiar,
and seductive charm about them: all recollection of the concert-room
vanished: the popular melodies exerted their spell, sung as they were
by a pure voice with the immortal accent of genius. All Copenhagen was
in raptures. Jenny Lind was the first artist to whom the students
offered a serenade: the torches flashed round the hospitable villa,
where the song was sung. She expressed her thanks by a few more of the
Swedish songs, and I then saw her hurry into the darkest corner, and
weep out her emotion. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, ‘I will exert myself; I
will strive; I shall be more efficient than I am now, when I come to
Copenhagen again!’”

This is the remarkable note of her character—so natural, yet so rare— that every triumph, instead of satisfying her with her skill, spurs her to further efforts to be more worthy of its joy. Hans Andersen goes on:—

“On the stage, she was the great artist, towering above all around
her; at home, in her chamber, she was a gentle young girl, with the
simple touch and piety of a child.... The spectator laughs and weeps,
as she acts: the sight does him good: he feels a better man for it: he
feels that there is something divine in Art. One feels, at her
appearance on the stage, that the holy draught is poured from a pure
vessel.”

We will close this visit to Copenhagen with the graceful and touching words in which Mr. Bournonville has clothed an incident which seemed to him to embody the secret of Jenny Lind’s significance at that time. In translating the words from their congenial French, we must, we fear, strip them of half their charm: but here they are:—

“Again and again have the delights of Nature, the glory of Art, the
enthusiasm for the true and the beautiful, inspired in me some
attempts at verse. How, then, is it that, to-day, the sweet singing of
Jenny Lind has left my lyre mute? How is it that I fail to find even
an echo within me which might pass on into the distance the sound of
that music which laid open to my soul a world as yet unknown? Alas! To
paint in words the tones of a voice steeped in all the uttermost
tenderness of the human heart, is as vain as to seek shadows in the
darkness! Moreover, the sound of my voice would be lost in the
thunders of a people’s praise. The little flower that alone I could
offer to the artist, in the midst of her triumphs, would be crushed
under the feet of the crowds that press round her. No! Rather let me
treasure up the memory of her gifts, and of her story within my home,
and let me leave, as a legacy to those that come after, one trait of
her life, which will serve to bring her honour in the day when the
loud applause will have died away, and when the poets will be singing
the praises of other, and newer names.

“I had a friend who enjoyed all the privileges of happy comfort, of
public esteem, of cultivated taste, of the affection of his family, of
the love of his fair, young wife. A cruel sickness brought him down to
the very edge of the grave; but by God’s mercy, he was saved. He was
lying, still weak and faint, in his bed, when the thrill of excitement
which Jenny Lind had kindled in Copenhagen, reached even to his
sick-room; and bitter were the regrets of the young wife, at the sick
man’s loss of that which would have been to him such a delight. Jenny
heard of her desire, and offered, at once, to sing to the invalid: and
so, in the very heart of her triumphs, when the Court and the Town
were anxiously craving to know whether they could yet keep her one day
more, she found time to charm, with her heavenly voice, the hearts of
the two young people. It was on a Sunday, the 16th of September, 1843,
at the hour when all the churches were filled with the praises of God,
that Jenny, without any strangers to observe her, without any public
notice, did this act of charity; and the tears of gratitude which
flowed from the eyes of Mozart and Mathilde Waage Petersen were the
waters in which they christened her with the name of ‘Angel.’ The
emotion and the pleasure of the visit served to help the recovery of
my friend.

“May God ever bless Jenny Lind!

“May she receive the reward of her charity, if, one day, she be wed!

“And if God grant her children, may it be given them to know of this,
their mother’s act.”

This kindness of hers was not forgotten, we shall find, when she returned to Copenhagen about two years later; for on the back of the picture then presented to her—a picture of white roses by Jensen—appear the names of this happy little couple, Mozart and Mathilde.

So ended the first flight outside the house, the first brief act of achievement beyond her native stage. She crossed back to Sweden, to continue her series of concerts; and on reaching Westerwik, about the 25th of September, by the steamer “Scandia,” she found herself once again in company with Günther and Josephson, who had lingered on in the town, after a successful musical soirée. The friends joined together at the hotel in the evening. “I greatly rejoiced,” writes Josephson, “to meet her again after the brilliant triumphs she has achieved at Copenhagen.”

“Her genial modesty had lost nothing through her success. Her nature
wins more and more harmony; and in consequence there is more
equanimity in her disposition and in her friendliness, than before she
went abroad.”

Josephson was just parting with Günther, at the close of their tour; so, while Günther went straight home to Stockholm, Josephson decided to tack himself on to Jenny Lind and her companion, now on their way to give a concert at Norrköping, where he might be able to help. So, on the 28th, he started after her in a light cart, caught up her carriage at Vida, and, after that, took his seat alternately on his own trap or on the box of her carriage, while she read aloud to him some of Hans Andersen’s poems from a book presented to her by Hans himself. At the country inn they improvised a rough dinner, which they enriched with the music of an old barrel-organ, by chance discovered on the premises. They arrived at Norrköping that night; and spent the next day in arrangements and rehearsals, while, in the evening, Jenny was serenaded by singers from Upsala.

On the 30th of September she gave her concert, singing airs from _Figaro_, _Norma_, _Roberto_, and _Niobe_. At supper that evening at General Cronhjelm’s she was again serenaded, and next morning was off to Stockholm.

She returned, for another year’s work, at her old salary; in the course of which, between October 4, 1843, and July 5, 1844, she made sixty-six appearances, in sixteen different characters, six of them being wholly new. She reached her sixtieth performance of “Alice”; her forty-ninth of “Lucia”; her thirty-sixth of “Agatha”; her twenty-sixth of _Norma_; her eighteenth of the _Sonnambula_. The jubilee play, _A May Day in Wärend_, ran on to within a few days of the national mourning for the King Carl Johan, whose death closed the theatre from March 4 to May 2. Among her new parts was Gluck’s _Armida_, of which she wrote a characteristic note to Judge Munthe, on February 17, 1844:—

“I send you some seats for my ‘benefit’ on the 19th in Gluck’s
_Armida_. I trust that you will greatly enjoy the music. Both the
music, and the piece, are so grand, that my smallness will be shown
out, thereby, in its true light. But I am so thrilled by the sublime
spirit of the music that I am only too ready to risk my own
personality.”

During the opening of this year, 1844, she was, in concert with Günther, interesting herself greatly in the fortunes of Josephson. Günther had begun to scheme on behalf of his tour abroad, during their trip together in the autumn; and had already in November written to him about a proposal to give a concert to raise funds for this, in Stockholm. “Jenny Lind,” he had then reported, “knows all; and has besides received an anonymous letter from Upsala on the matter.” On the 12th of January, 1844, Josephson received, with rejoicing, a kind letter from Jenny Lind, confirming the news of the concert which she and Günther were to give for his benefit.[27] On the 6th of March, he spent the morning arranging with them the details; but, towards the close of April, the concert, to his great joy, was shifted from Stockholm to Upsala, and was fixed for Whit Monday. It succeeded beyond all expectations. “All have come forward in the most generous, spontaneous manner, and the result has, by God’s grace, turned out for the best. My journey is now guaranteed.” So he writes on the 30th of May: “If hitherto I have belonged to Art privately, I am now challenged to work more generally for the holy cause. This gift from my friends ought to bring with it a blessing on my way, for their sympathy has had the largest share in bringing it about. I am all round besieged with kindness. How remain faithful and grateful!”[28] So loyally and generously had she worked to fulfil the dream of another, who shared in her own profound aspiration after the highest ideal, and was beset by the same obstacles. For two long years, Josephson had been yearning for this opportunity, and now it was given him. It was a good work, which proved well rewarded.

As to the Season, it must have passed much as usual. She wrote to Hans Andersen, at the time of the national mourning:—

“Stockholm, 19th March, 1844.

“MY GOOD BROTHER,

“Mr. Bournonville mentioned in his last letter to me that you have
been shedding tears because of my silence. This, naturally, I take to
be nonsense, but as my conscience does reproach me in regard to you,
my good brother, I hasten to recall myself to your memory, and to ask
my friend and brother not to be angry with me, but rather to furnish
me soon with a proof that I have not forfeited my right to his
friendship and goodwill. A thousand, thousand thanks for the pretty
tales! I find them divinely beautiful to such a degree as to believe
them to be the grandest and loveliest that ever flowed from your pen.
I hardly know to which of them I should concede the palm, but, upon
reflection, I think _The Ugly Duckling_ the prettiest.—Oh, what a
glorious gift to be able to clothe in words one’s most lofty thoughts;
by means of a scrap of paper to make men see so clearly how the
noblest often lie most hidden and covered over by wretchedness and
rags, until the hour of transformation strikes and shows the figure in
a divine light! Thanks, from all my heart, thanks for all this—as
touching as it is instructive. I long now very much for the moment
when I shall be allowed to tell my good brother by word of mouth how
proud I am of this friendship, and with the help of my _Lieder_ to
express—if even in a trifling degree—my gratitude! only that you, my
brother, are surely better fit than any one to comprehend our Swedish
proverb: ‘Every bird sings according to his beak.’

“This country is now in mourning—peace to those who are gone! After
all, one is happiest when once well out of the way. Our theatre is now
closed for about seven or eight weeks, and this is not pleasant, but
meanwhile, we are busy, studying new things. I must tell you, my good
brother, that I have here quite a cosy little home; cheerful, sunny
rooms, a nightingale and a greenfinch:—the latter, however, is greatly
superior as an artist to his celebrated colleague, for, while the
first remains on his bar grumpy and moody, the other jumps about in
his cage, looking so joyous and good-natured, as if, to begin with, he
was not in the least jealous, but, instead of that, supposes himself
created merely for the purpose of cheering his silent friend! And then
he sings a song, so high, so deep, so charming and so sonorous, that I
sit down beside him and, within, lift up my voice in a mute song of
praise to Him whose ‘strength is made perfect in weakness.’ Ah! it is
divine to feel really good. My dear friend! I do feel so happy now. It
seems to me I have come from a stormy sea into a peaceful cottage.
Many struggles have calmed down, many thoughts have become clearer,
many a star is gleaming forth again, and I bend my knee before the
Throne of Grace and exclaim: ‘Thy will be done.’ Farewell! God bless
and protect my brother is the sincere wish of his affectionate sister

“JENNY.”

This peace in the “cosy little home” is to be quickly broken up. A flight abroad is now to be taken, which will carry her further afield than Finland, or Copenhagen. It is no less a place than Berlin that has begun to take note of this wonderful singing, and is preparing to capture it for its own service and joy. Meyerbeer is there, engaged in bringing out a work, which is to celebrate all the glories of the Prussian kingdom: and he is anxious to secure all the talent open to him. He had heard her sing, as we know, in Paris, and had felt, then, that Berlin was her proper sphere: and, now, his memory and his zeal are kindled anew by the enthusiasm of an artist of no mean ability, who arrived at Berlin from Stockholm, with a fervent admiration for what he had seen and heard there. This artist was M. Paul Taglioni, a brother of the famous _danseuse_, a descendant, on the mother’s side, of the Swedish tragedian Karsten, and well known both in Paris and Berlin, not only as a graceful dancer, but, also, as a skilful composer of ballets, and a judicious and competent critic. It was to his report that Madame Goldschmidt always attributed Meyerbeer’s marked anxiety to engage her at Berlin in order that she might take the principal part in the new opera—_Das Feldlager in Schlesien_—which he was composing for the opening of the new Royal Opera-House in the Prussian capital.

The records of the proposals made by Meyerbeer are lost; but, some time in that summer, they reached sufficient definiteness to induce her to determine on a visit to Dresden in July, in order that she might work up her German to the level demanded by an appearance, on such an historic occasion, in the Opera-House at Berlin. Off to Dresden she resolutely went, as soon as her season was over, ending, as it did, on July 5, with eight performances of the _Turco in Italia_—an almost forgotten opera of Rossini’s—in which she played the part of Fiorilla. Mdlle. von Stedingk tells us how she stole off to the theatre, _incognita_, owing to the Court being still in mourning, and heard her in this Opera, in which, as she says, “she made even the unpleasant part of Fiorilla graceful and womanly. But I prefer _Norma_, which is her greatest triumph.”

Her enthusiasm breaks out in the record of a tea-party which she gave “in honour of Jenny Lind, previous to her departure for Germany; Carl and Charlotte[29] were the other guests. It was to me an indescribable enjoyment, when she sat down at my piano, and sang to us. From that moment, my little room became dearer to me, and more harmonious than ever.”

“The Queen Dowager was extremely kind to Jenny, at the farewell audience, presenting her with portrait medals of herself and the late King, and with a watch, which, she said, is ‘To remind you not to forget the time of your return to us.’”

Thus the time came for the new venture. She had thought herself escaped “into a peaceful cottage from out of a stormy sea.” So she had written to Hans Andersen in March. But a greater voyage into a wider sea is now before her. The wind is up: the sails are set: she must go. The first note that she sings in Berlin will have sealed her fate. There will be no withdrawal possible for her after that. Out into the deeper floods the strong currents will sweep her. The great European world, its peoples, its kings, its musicians, its heroes, will close in round her;— will claim her with irresistible insistence. Her returns to Stockholm— her “beloved Stockholm”—will become rarer, and rarer: at last, she will come back only to enrich it with endowments, and to bid it “Good-bye!”

BOOK IV.
MASTERY.