Chapter III: Within Sight of the Goal

Mdlle. Lind’s course of study, under Signor Garcia, lasted ten months, from the 26th or 27th of August, 1841, to the end of June, 1842—by which time she had learned all that it was possible for any master to teach her.

The result for which she had so ardently longed, so patiently waited, so perseveringly laboured, was attained at last. Her voice, no longer suffering from the effect of the cruel fatigue, and the inordinate amount of over-exertion which had so lately endangered, not merely its well-being, but its very existence, had now far more than recovered its pristine vigour—it had acquired a rich depth of tone, a sympathetic sweetness, a birdlike charm in the silvery clearness of its upper register, which at once impressed the listener with the feeling that he had never before heard anything in the least degree resembling it.

No human organ is perfect. It is quite possible that other voices may have possessed qualities which this did not; for voices of exceptional beauty are nearly always characterised by an individuality of expression which forms by no means the least potent of their attractions. But, the listener never stopped to analyse the qualities of Mdlle. Lind’s voice, the marked individuality of which set analysis at defiance. By turns, full, sympathetic, tender, sad, or brilliant, it adapted itself so perfectly to the artistic conception of the song it was interpreting, that singer, voice, and song, were one.

With such rare power at command, Mdlle. Lind was able, without effort, to give expression to every phase of the conception which she had originally formed by the exercise of innate genius alone. Her acting, as we have seen, in former chapters, had grown up with her from her infancy, and formed part of her inmost being. She had found no one in Paris capable of teaching her anything that could improve that, though she thought it necessary to take lessons in deportment. The rest she had studied for herself, though she had naturally gained experience by observation of others. With fearless modesty, she had measured her own powers against those of Mdlle. Rachel, and dared to tell herself what she believed to be the truth, with regard to their comparative merits. She had acted the part of _Norma_ to herself, and calmly passed judgment upon her own performance. That she was satisfied with it we cannot doubt; for she had studied the difficult character of her heroine to such good purpose, that she had reconciled all its apparent incongruities, and elevated it into a consistent whole, dramatic and musical, breathing poetry and romance from beginning to end, yet, as true to nature as she was herself, and no longer fettered by the fatal technical weakness which had so long stood between her ideal and its perfect realisation. There was no weakness now. The Artist was complete.

And now arose the crucial question—should the finished Artist make her _début_ in Paris?—or, should she return, at once, to Sweden, and reappear, in all the glory of her newly-acquired powers, in her beloved Stockholm?

There were arguments to be brought forward on both sides. The problem was no new one. It had frequently been discussed; but her own feeling on the subject was very strong indeed. She could not reconcile herself to Paris. From the very first, she had suspected the hollowness of its social organisation. As early as the 10th of September, 1841, she had written to her friend, Fröken Marie Ruckman:—

“MY BEST FRIEND,—

“There might be much to say about Paris, but I put it off until I am
better able to judge. This much, however, I will say at once, that, if
good is sometimes to be found, an immeasurable amount of evil is to be
found also. But, I believe it to be an excellent school for any one
with discernment enough to separate the rubbish from that which is
worth preserving—though this is no easy task. To my mind, the worst
feature of Paris is, its dreadful selfishness, its greed for money.
There is nothing to which the people will not submit, for the sake of
gain. Applause, here, is not always given to talent; but, often
enough, to vice—to any obscure person who can afford to pay for it.
Ugh! It is too dreadful to see the _claqueurs_ sitting at the theatre,
night after night, deciding the fate of those who are compelled to
appear—a terrible manifestation of original sin!”

To Madame Lindblad, some six weeks later, she writes:—

“Paris, October 24, 1841.

“All idea of appearing here in public has vanished. To begin with—I
myself never relied upon it; but people said so many silly things
about ‘just one performance,’ that, at last, I began to feel as if I
were in duty bound to try. But, monstrous and unconquerable
difficulties are in the way. In any case, I want to go home again.
But, if I can arrange to sing at a concert, before leaving, I will do
so; in order that I may not return home without having at least done
something.”

Three months later, in a letter dated February the 1st, 1842, and addressed to Herr Expeditionschef Forsberg (who controlled the Dramatic School attached to the R. Theatre at Stockholm at the time at which Jenny was numbered among its pupils), we find her dwelling touchingly on her desire to consecrate her talents to her native country.

“I came hither,” she says, “because I felt my talent too
insignificant. I knew, indeed, that it was not really so. But, having
no one to consult but my dear Herr Berg—who was, miserable at his
inability to help me through with my incessant work—I resolved simply
to break off, and to take two years’ leave of absence.

“I am working on, now; have made progress; and—need I say it—if they
want to hear me again, in my Sweden, with what joy will I not hasten
thither! I have only made these sacrifices, in order that I may become
worthy of the public; and, if I do not succeed, I shall, at all
events, have satisfied my artist’s conscience.

“Therefore, Herr Expeditionschef, if I can only learn to sing, I shall
certainly return, in a year and a half; but, not if I meet with
coldness, or am regarded as altogether unnecessary. I am almost afraid
of that. I do not wish to stand in the way of any one. Rather than
that, I would settle down here to give singing-lessons; for Garcia’s
method is the best of our time, and every one, here, is striving to
follow it. But, in any case, I shall come home, in order that people
may hear what progress I have made—if I really have made any. Will
they accept me, and give me a suitable engagement? If so, I shall
remain. If not, I shall go abroad again.”

When the time for arriving at a decision began to draw near, she wrote to Madame Lindblad:—

“Paris, April 3, 1842.

“I dare not tell you how I long for home! I dare not tell you how far
from happy I feel, here! but, there is one thing in your letter that
really frightens me. You say, that, if I come back, without having
previously appeared in public, here, they will say that I was not fit
for it, however well I may sing. Ho! ho! what will happen, then? It
might, perhaps, be better for me to engage myself somewhere as
nursery-maid; for it is a very difficult thing to appear, here, in
public. On the stage it would be out of the question. It could only be
in the concert-room: and there I am at my weakest point, and shall
always remain so. What is wanted here is—‘admirers.’ Were I inclined
to receive them, all would be smooth sailing. But there I say—STOP!

“To sing, without a name, is difficult; for, here, everything depends
upon the accessories. It matters not how little talent there may be.
My position is, indeed, a hard one! If only I belonged to a country
having more self-confidence when passing judgment on its own artists,
then, all would be well. But, the misfortune is, that they never
believe in themselves. However, I have never said that I should appear
in public, though others have.”

A week later she wrote to her father:—

“Paris, April 10, 1842.

“GODE PAPPA!—

“So many thanks for your last letter. I see, from it, that you and
Mamma are well. It gives me no slight comfort to know this; and I
should be even better satisfied, if I were also to learn that you
prosper in your country home.

“As yet, my dear Pappa, I have not grown particularly stout; but, what
I shall be, when I grow old, I cannot tell. However, I trust the Lord
will save me from being obliged to sing on the stage, until my life’s
end; and then, I shall rest tranquil.

“Apropos of the Opera! I wonder when I shall next be allowed to show
myself ‘on the boards,’ as the term is. I clearly see—yes, I do see,
Pappa—that I am born to stand on them. God grant that I may always
stand ‘on firm feet,’ as Gelhaar said.[23] In one respect, Pappa knows
that I do. In the other, I am in God’s hands. Think only, if, when I
come home, I find no engagement!

“Yes, yes. ‘Comes time, comes counsel.’ Perhaps I may have to sit on
the Djurgårds Common, with a little money-box in front of me, to
gather in small contributions, and sing while the day lasts—for, says
the proverb, ‘There is no day so long that it has not its evening’—
and, after that, I go to my Father’s bosom, to awake in a better land.
And this is surely the highest aim. It does not matter how one gets
there, so that one only does get there, somehow, and, ‘he that
humbleth himself shall be exalted,’ says the Scripture.—But, be this
as it may!

“I was obliged to act as I did; otherwise, the whole thing would have
remained at a standstill with me. Perhaps I have not yet been quite
forgotten—though I have some doubt about it: and, in that case, and if
I have also made some progress, people may perhaps find pleasure in
listening to me, when I come back again. I wish for nothing better
than this.

“_Adieu, lille Fader._ Write, if occasion offers, to your

“AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER.”

A letter addressed, on the same day, to Madame Lindblad, announces still greater indecision with regard to the future:—

“Paris, April 10, 1842.

“I am really anxious to see how a life, begun like mine, will end. Oh!
what emptiness beyond description there is around me! An unwonted
amount of courage is necessary, for prolonging my stay here for
another year. But I need this, for several reasons. This journey has
altogether changed me. The foundation of the building was tolerably
safe, and needed no pulling down. But, the superstructure!—this has
crumbled away, through not having been better put together.”

The spirit which pervades these letters is unmistakable; and clearly shows Mdlle. Lind’s own feeling, with regard to the critical question, on the settlement of which her artistic destiny seemed now mainly to depend.

But, she was not, and could not possibly be, the only, or even the best judge, of what was best for her. From the very nature of the case, she was placed very much at the mercy of others, who, moved by feelings of friendship, or self-interest, as the case might be, took an active part in the discussion; and it was mainly through their intervention that the question was solved with the results which we propose to describe in our next chapter.