‘DIE VESTALIN’ AND ‘DIE HUGENOTTEN.’

On Dec. 30—that is to say, a little more than three weeks after her return from Leipzig—Mdlle. Lind appeared, for the first time at Berlin, in a new and very arduous and important _rôle_—that of “Julia,” in Spontini’s Opera, _Die Vestalin_—which she had previously impersonated six times only, at Stockholm, during the whole of her long career— probably because it was found unsuited to the Swedish popular taste.

_Die Vestalin_ had long been a very favourite Opera, in Berlin, where it had been placed upon the stage with extraordinary magnificence, and entirely under the composer’s own personal direction, when he was invited to the Prussian capital, in the character of General Music Director, by King Friedrich Wilhelm III., in the year 1820. The part of “Julia” had then been sustained by Madame Milder-Hauptmann, and since then most of the great German _prime donne_ had interpreted it in their turn. It was therefore no easy task to satisfy a Prussian audience with a new conception of the work, and as Mdlle. Lind had intimated in her letter to Madame Erikson, her reading of the leading part was quite sure to be judged by the measure of all the greatest singers who had previously appeared in it.

The impression the performance produced upon the German critics generally may be gathered from the notice which appeared in the _Berlinische Zeitung_ three days after the first performance:—

“A joy,” says Herr Rellstab, “and more than a joy—a true elevation of the spirit has fallen to the share of the writer at the close of his year of critical activity, in that he is able to record an artistic achievement, among the most memorable that he himself has ever witnessed, and one which has deeply moved, not himself alone, but also a large and varied section of the public.

“Jenny Lind in the part of ‘Julia.’

“Grand memories, rich in Art, revived themselves within us in connection with the work and with past interpreters of the _rôle_ who have attained the sublimest heights; but this time we will occupy ourselves less with passing judgment than with giving a history of the impressions produced upon us by the performance.

“The first act was over. From first to last the singer had, through her womanly and noble bearing, excited the closest sympathy. Her acting and singing were everywhere noble, but not with the victorious effect we expected from her. We therefore awaited the second act with an almost sorrowful depression of spirit.

“Sometimes, however—if we may be permitted to use the language of metaphor—a battle which, whether by accident or design, may seem to have begun unfavourably, recovers itself, to be crowned with the most glorious and signal victory. And so it was in this case. From the very beginning of the act certain passages breathed forth, as it were, forecasts of the most fervid, the deepest, the grandest feelings that could agitate a loving womanly breast.

“The strife between greatness of soul and holiest faith in the might of Love on the one side, and on the other the overpowering recoil of Nature from the fear of death in a form so terrible that it might well have crushed the shrinking nerves of the boldest man; this strife, we say, is set before us in such sort that the soul scarcely dares to believe what the eye sees. It paints the last extremity of horror, and yet the limit of the beautiful is never overpassed even by a hair’s-breadth.

“Yet we stand here on the threshold only of the realm of wonder over which our Artist exercises her sway. It seemed to us impossible that such an achievement could have been surpassed. And yet the third act supplies to our Artist a point of union with still higher dramatic impressions.

“Half hidden beneath the black veil, with difficulty supported by two veiled sisters, Julia glides, like a spirit, across the stage; advancing, with faltering step, in the funeral-procession of the Vestals, like a shadow from the depths below. It is but a memory of life that moves in the procession there; the horror of death holds her already in its freezing thrall. The sound of her voice trembles in ghostly whispers upon her lips. Over her pallid face flits, from time to time, a faint smile of love, like a dying sunbeam—a dream of the long-since vanished past. How can one hope to paint, in words, a picture embodying so profound a depth of tragic expression?”

We cannot but regard this elegant panegyric as the most just as well as the most important expression of critical opinion that we have as yet had occasion to transcribe from the journals of this eventful epoch in Mdlle. Lind’s artistic career. Those who were familiar with her ideal conceptions of the great operatic _rôles_ she interpreted, when at the zenith of her fame, will find no difficulty in understanding Herr Rellstab’s disappointment at the effect she produced in the first act. It was her invariable custom to reserve her great effects, with true artistic self-abnegation, for certain points which the unerring instinct of her genius indicated as the fittest for the introduction of a logical climax, and to the power and perfection of such a climax she unhesitatingly sacrificed an indefinite number of those minor effects upon which too many artists gifted with less creative power are only too ready to seize for the purpose of securing a passing triumph at the expense of the logical whole. She kept her dramatic power in reserve, with a reticence which none but the greatest artists are ever known to exercise, for the predetermined situations in which she felt that it could be successfully exhibited with logical consistency and deepest reverence for dramatic truth. And Herr Rellstab’s conversion only proves how just was his judgment on this point with regard to Spontini’s masterpiece.

And now, the long course of hard work was relieved by a little holiday— all too brief.

We have more than once had occasion to speak of Mdlle. Lind’s intimacy with Hans Christian Andersen, whom, in accordance with the old-world Scandinavian usage, she was accustomed to address as her “brother.”

Andersen spent the closing weeks of the year 1845 and the beginning of 1846 at Berlin; and, in his well-known autobiography, the talented Dane tells an amusing little story connected with Mdlle. Lind’s performances at the Opera at this period.

“One morning,” he says, “as I looked out of my window, Unter den Linden, I saw, half hidden under the trees, a man, very poorly clad, who took a comb from his pocket, arranged his hair, smoothed his neck-tie, and dusted his coat with his hand. (I well know the shrinking poverty that feels oppressed by its shabby clothes.) A moment afterwards there was a knock at my door, and the man entered. It was the Nature-Poet, B——, who, though only a poor tailor, has the true poetical inspiration. Rellstab and others in Berlin have mentioned him with honour. There is something healthy in his poems, among which some breathe a true religious spirit. He had heard that I was in Berlin and had come to visit me. We sat side by side on the sofa, and his conversation betokened a contentedness so amiable, a spirit so pure and unsullied, that it truly grieved me that I was not rich enough to do something for him. I was ashamed to offer the little that lay in my power; but, in any case, I was anxious to put it in an acceptable form. I asked him, therefore, whether I might venture to invite him to hear Jenny Lind. ‘I have already heard her,’ he said, smiling. ‘I could not afford to buy a ticket; so I went to the man who provides the “supers” and asked him if I could not go on as a “super” one evening in _Norma_. To this he agreed. So I was dressed up as a Roman soldier, with a long sword at my side, and in that guise appeared upon the stage; and I heard her better than any one else, for I stood close beside her. Ah! how she sang! and how she acted! I could not stand it: it made me weep. But they were furious at that. The manager forbade it, and would never permit me to set foot upon the stage again—for one must not weep upon the stage.’”

Soon after this, Andersen took leave of his friends in Berlin and proceeded to Weimar on a visit to the Hereditary Grand Duke, with whom he was on terms of the most affectionate intimacy. And here, again, he spent some happy days in the company of Mdlle. Lind, who had also been invited to Weimar, and sang there on five evenings, three of which were occupied by Court Concerts and two by performances of _Norma_ and _La Sonnambula_ at the Court Theatre. Here, as in Berlin, her performances produced the most profound sensation. The Grand Duke and the various members of his Royal Highness’s family received her with demonstrations of the warmest welcome. In company with Andersen and his friends, the Chancellor Müller, the Court Chamberlain Beaulieu, and the Court Secretary Schöll, she visited some of the most interesting places in the neighbourhood, and more especially those consecrated by memories of Goethe and Schiller.

On Jan. 27—two days after her last performance at Court—the Chancellor Müller escorted her, in company with Andersen, to the Fürstengruft—the burial-vault in the Neue Kirch-hof, beyond the Frauenthor, in which, for many generations past, the remains of the departed Grand Dukes of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach and their families have been laid to rest—and there showed to the little party of friends the coffins in which Goethe and Schiller now sleep their last long sleep. The dimly-lighted burial-place, and the solemn associations connected with it, made a deep impression upon the friends; and amidst its ghostly shadows the Austrian poet, Hermann Rollet, who accidentally met the little party in the vault, wrote a poem, which Andersen has printed in his autobiography, and the original MS. of which was carefully preserved by Mdlle. Lind among her mementos of the past.

The visit to the funeral-vault affected Mdlle. Lind very deeply; and she was evidently glad to relieve the sad impression by more cheerful thoughts. In a letter to Madame Birch-Pfeiffer, she wrote:—

“Weimar, Jan. 27, 1846.

“I have just come out of the vault in which Goethe and Schiller lie entombed, and my whole heart is impressed and excited.

“On Friday afternoon I am going to Leipzig, where I have been most kindly invited to the Mendelssohns, for the evening, and on Saturday I return to Berlin.”

The memory of this pleasant holiday—for it really was a holiday, though not a time of idleness—was very dear to her. Soon after her return to Berlin she wrote thus to her friend Hans C. Andersen:—

“Berlin, Feb. 19, 1846.

“MY DEAR GOOD BROTHER!

“Thanks for our last meeting. I did so enjoy it! Do you agree with me that we have scarcely ever before spent a more charming pleasant time together?

“I thank you, ever so much, for your beautiful letter. I had a good cry over reading it.

“Yes, yes! Germany is a glorious country. I certainly do not long for any other except the very best—the last one.

“Oh! how I have wept over your story about the Grand Duchess and her little sweep! How lovely it is!

“In the meantime I am perfectly enchanted with her—and with the young Grand Duke and his wife also. Dear Andersen, when you write to our high-born friend, tell him—if you mention me—that, as long as I live, I shall remember those few days I spent in Weimar. I can conscientiously say that I have nowhere else, as yet, found such peace of mind and true joy; and yet I have been treated everywhere in the most friendly way. I love these high-born personages; and, just as you say, Brother, not for the stars and the diamonds they wear, but for their true and loyal hearts. I get quite enthusiastic when I think of these two people. May God preserve them and theirs!

“My friends, the Arnemanns, from Altona, have been here. They left yesterday. I wonder when we two shall meet again?

“I have now quite decided upon going to Vienna. Are you not going there, Andersen? I suppose you go on to Italy direct?

“Do you know, Andersen, I appreciate your friend Beaulieu very highly indeed. I have really begun to feel a great friendship for him. Give him my kindest regards when you write.

“And now, _adieu_! I must start for the theatre presently, to sing in _Das Feldlager in Schlesien_. God be with you! Do not forget your sister. I shall remain here until the end of March. After that, letters will find me at Vienna, from the middle of April until the middle of May. Write, either _Poste restante_, or care of Herr Pokorny—the manager of the theatre.

“May the blessing of God go with you! then you will have enough!

“I remain, “Your true sister, “JENNY.”

She was by this time once more hard at work in the dizzy whirl of the Berlin winter season. She had reappeared, after her return from Weimar, on Feb. 3, in several of her most popular parts; but in the meantime her promised appearance in a new and very important _rôle_ was anxiously awaited by the art-loving public—that of “Valentine,” in Meyerbeer’s Opera, _Les Huguenots_—or, as it was called in German, _Die Hugenotten_.

To the uninitiated, it may seem strange that, taking into consideration Meyerbeer’s all-powerful position and great popularity in Berlin at this period, _Das Feldlager in Schlesien_ should have been the only one of his Operas put upon the Stage. But the position will not be thought at all strange by those who know how severely punctilious Meyerbeer was, not only with regard to the principal parts, but with all that concerned the perfection of every minutest detail of his works. It was not enough for him that the _prima donna_ should be an artist of unapproachable excellence. If all the other parts, great and small, were not represented to his entire satisfaction he would not allow the piece to be put upon the Stage at all.

Now, the demands upon the _personnel_ of the staff in _Les Huguenots_ are very heavy. The part of “Queen Marguerite of Navarre” is not written for a _seconda donna_, but a second _prima donna_—a _Soprano leggiero_, as opposed to the _Soprano dramatico_ of “Valentine.” That of “Urbain,” the page, needs a Mezzo-soprano of high capability. The Tenor—“Raoul de Nangis,” and the Basso and Baritono—“Marcel” and “Saint Bris”—need representatives of the highest rank. And in face of these demands we can scarcely wonder that a man so hard to satisfy as Meyerbeer was not too ready to place his second great masterpiece upon the Stage.

It must be supposed, however, that he was satisfied at last, for on Feb. 26, _Die Hugenotten_ was announced for representation, with Mdlle. Lind, as we have said, in the part of “Valentine”; and the performance was thus criticised in the journal from which we have so frequently and so freely quoted:—

“Our great Artist-visitor, Jenny Lind, has evolved from the character of ‘Valentine,’ in _Die Hugenotten_—a part as rich in dramatic and musical expression—a dramatic creation which, in noble individuality, occupies quite as high a position in the domain of Lyric Tragedy—as the earlier _rôles_ in which the artist enchained us with such irresistible power.

“Before the time of Jenny Lind, the grandest reading of the part was decidedly that of Wilhelmina Schrœder-Devrient. She threw more brilliant lights upon it and invested certain passages with a more satisfactory colouring; as, for instance, at the well-known words, ‘_Ich bin ein Mädchen das ihn liebt_,’ &c. And yet the shrinking breath with which our artist lightly veiled this expression cast a more delicate fragrance over the deep inward glow, and imparted to it a charm wholly its own.

“But, as was only to be expected of an artist so rich in creative power, Jenny Lind also struck out for herself an altogether original conception of the impersonation, impressed it in the most marked manner upon the character, and filled us with astonishment at the rich variety of her resources. Her third act was a touching prayer to her bitter fate; her fourth, a mighty battle waged against it; her fifth, a splendid victory over it. She sang the last scene under truest inspiration of faith.

“We have always found that the artist penetrates more and more deeply into the heart of her task at every repetition, and fulfils it with greater ease; we may therefore in this, as in other cases, look forward to even increased perfection. Yet we may almost ask, ‘What need of more?’ in presence of this noblest wealth of treasures.”

To sober-minded English readers the style of Herr Rellstab’s critiques may seem exaggerated. It must be admitted that their tone differs materially from that adopted in England at the present day; but they are of great value to us, as records of a form of criticism now—in this country, at least—quite obsolete. Moreover, in so far as our present purpose is concerned, they distinctly reflect the feeling with which Mdlle. Lind’s performances were listened to, at the time they were written, by the crowded audiences who flocked, night after night, to the Royal Opera-House to hear her. The performer concerning whom it was simply possible to write in a strain so exalted can have belonged to no common order in the Hierarchy of Art. And enough is known of the character of Herr Rellstab, and of his position in Berlin, to establish the certainty that he honestly meant every word he wrote.