Chapter III: The Shadow

As early as the 2nd of December, 1846, Meyerbeer had requested, and obtained, from the King of Prussia, two months’ leave of absence, for the purpose of bringing out a revised version of _Das Feldlager in Schlesien_ in the Austrian capital; and on the 18th of February, 1847, it was performed there for the first time, with certain changes in the _libretto_ intended for the purpose of rendering it more acceptable to a Viennese audience, and under the new title of _Vielka_. Its success was triumphant. It had an immediate run of thirteen nights, interrupted only by a performance of the _Creation_, for the benefit of the orchestra; and the famous trio for _Vielka_ and the two flutes—afterwards transferred to _L’Etoile du Nord_, of which it formed the chief attraction—became at once extremely popular.

Yet, so dissatisfied was Mdlle. Lind, that, when the last flowers had been strown, and the echo of the last burst of applause had died away, she left the stage in despair at what she considered an ignoble failure, and with the full conviction that Meyerbeer himself would reproach her with having done injustice to his beautiful Opera.

We have already said, that, among her most intimate friends in Vienna, during the season of 1847, were Professor von Jaeger, and his wife and daughter, at whose house she was accustomed to spend most of her free days, at this period.

The last-named lady, Fräulein Auguste von Jaeger, remembers the first performance of _Vielka_ perfectly. At the fall of the curtain, she and her mother hurried to Mdlle. Lind’s dressing-room to congratulate her on her new triumph. They found her in the white robe in which, as a purified spirit, she had just ascended to the skies; surrounded by the flowers which had been thrown upon the stage and afterwards brought to her room; and bathed in tears of penitence for her “imperfect singing,” which had “spoiled the Opera.”

While they were endeavouring to console her, some one knocked at the door which she had locked. It was Meyerbeer, begging for admittance. In a voice broken by sobs, she cried through the closed door, “Oh! Herr Director! forgive me for singing so badly, and spoiling your Opera!”

“But, you have sung divinely!” said Meyerbeer. “It was all splendid. I have come to thank you! to thank you!”

But she refused to be comforted. Whatever Meyerbeer may have thought, she had fallen short of her own ideal. She could neither satisfy herself, nor endure the satisfaction of others.

On the evening of this memorable first performance, a high compliment was paid to her, by the presentation of a beautiful medal, in the name of the Art lovers of Vienna. This act of recognition, however, was not the last of the season.

On the 28th of March, 1847, Mdlle. Lind was presented, by command of the Emperor Ferdinand, with an official diploma, appointing her _Kammersängerin_ to His Imperial Majesty. The document was signed by the High Chamberlain, Count Moritz von Dietrichstein, and was couched in terms which not only recognised the talents of the Artist, but made special allusion to the “noble and philanthropic feeling” with which she had dedicated those talents to “the promotion of benevolent designs.”

Simultaneously with these tokens of honour and respect _Vielka_ continued to maintain an uninterrupted run, at the _Theater an der Wien_. The last performance of it was the last but one of the season; and on the last night of all—April the 7th—Mdlle. Lind sang in _Norma_, for her own benefit, with the brilliant success which has been so often described that it is unnecessary to recapitulate the details on the present occasion.

These events, however, are connected rather with the history of the Vienna season of 1847, than with the more intimate life of the subject of our present memoir.

With reference to the latter, we prefer leaving Mdlle. Lind to speak in her own words. The following letter to Madame Wichmann will show that Madame Schumann’s affection for her was warmly returned:—·

“Vienna, Jan. 20, 1847.

“I know so well your love and self-denying kindness for me, that I do
not for a moment fear that you will be vexed if I send someone to your
house. Is it not so? You will not be angry with me?

“I mean the Schumanns.

“You know, of course, that her talent is altogether splendid; for, of
course you have often heard of her as Clara Wieck. They are two such
excellent and noble, really noble persons, that they will give you
great pleasure. Please, dearly beloved, receive these two dear people
kindly, and as friends, for your own sake, and for mine. The wife is
very sensitive, and you will see that she is quite an exceptional
woman. He is a composer _plein d’esprit_, and modest to the last
degree. I asked them if they had any acquaintances in Berlin; and they
seemed to me to have no real ones. And then it was that I thought of
you; and you may well know how grateful I shall be.

“Ah, yes! When shall I see you again? _Mon Dieu!_ This longing for
rest grows upon me, almost beyond all measure; but time passes
quickly, and no mortal will be so glad as I, when I am but free.”

The next letter is written three weeks later:—

“Vienna, Feb. 13, 1847.

“What can you be thinking about! I, going to Paris! Who could have
told you that? And how could I have entertained such an idea, without
telling you of it!

“No, dearest Amalia. I am not only not going to Paris, but it seems as
if I shall not even go to London.

“Bunn will not give up the contract; and I cannot go there unless he
does so, for he actually threatens to put me in prison!!! I tell you,
Amalia, I should be wild with joy, if I had not to go there! _Mon
Dieu!_ Suppose it fell out so!

“They have made me all possible offers from Paris; but I did not need
a moment to think it over.

“The stage I will leave—and I shall then want nothing else in the
world.

“I am quite well; and it goes more than well with me here. _Das
Feldlager_ is not yet ready; but it is to be given next week, and it
goes very well. The Opera will certainly create a _furore_ here in
Vienna.

“I rejoice that it gives me so much pleasure to hear of Viardot
Garcia’s success in Berlin. I have never been envious for a moment.
Tell Taubert so: he thinks me rather weak on that point.”

Swiftly, yet stealthily, the shadow was drawing near: and a dark and baleful shadow it must have seemed, to one who did not know how utterly unreal it was.

Deliberate efforts were made to persuade Mdlle. Lind that, if she came to England, she would be put in prison. There is strong evidence to prove that she believed this. And the belief terrified her. To a letter written by her about this time to Mendelssohn, he answered thus:—

“Leipzig, March 14, 1847.

“MY DEAR FRÄULEIN,

“You well know how glad I am, when I receive a letter from you. But,
your last contained certain things that make me feel very
uncomfortable, or rather, the whole letter does so. You say, in one
place, that you feel sad, and restless, and cannot sleep; and apart
from this, the letter seems to me agitated throughout: and this it is
that troubles me.

“I therefore write these few lines to you, to-day; though it is
difficult to converse, and give advice, at the distance of so many
miles, and with so many days’ journey between us. Who knows that you
may not have forgotten it all, and become quite cheerful again, by the
time that this reaches you? And it will be better, so. For you can
then leave it unread, and its purpose will be answered all the same.

“But if you are still restless, and out of tune, when this arrives,
and, if the English business is to blame for this, I entreat you, my
dear Fräulein, do not let your reasoning power, otherwise so clever
and natural, be troubled by the horrid outcry on this side and on
that, and all the tumults, and all the wretchedness of it. For, after
all, the great advantage of a good conscience here below is, that it
is the one thing of which no one can rob one; that, under its
guidance, one is led through all the quarrelling and fighting on the
way, and attains the goal unhurt; and others wonder at one’s courage,
and one’s wisdom, and Heaven knows what, while it is just the simple
and honest good conscience alone that works all the wonder; and so it
has always been with you, and will be, again and again.

“I confess that, after all you have told me, I would rather that you
had not promised Lumley to go to England; and, especially, I would
rather that you had not offered Bunn such a sum as you tell me, for
the contract. I am very sorry indeed that you have done this; but,
since you _have_ done it, the thing is settled. And here, again, it is
settled for the best, if only you do not let your rest and peace of
mind be destroyed through it; for you well know that you meant rightly
and nobly.

“Moreover, I know that you will have warmer friends, and a heartier
welcome, and a greater triumph, in England, than you have perhaps had
anywhere else, and that is saying a great deal. And I know that I
adhere to every word that I have ever said to you about it, in spite
of Bunn, and Covent Garden, and their letters, and the newspaper
articles that have at last become almost too laughable. But I hope
most sincerely that Bunn, and Covent Garden—for, for the moment, they
are one—will not have the face to accept your offer, and to redeem the
contract from you; for what is worth more to them than any amount of
money is, not that you should sing for them, but that you should _not_
sing for Lumley; and therein lies the whole turmoil.

“Still, I am quite sure that you will just simply do what is right;
and, resigning yourself to the consequences, be very glad indeed that
you have done right. Of what is politic, and clever, and exceedingly
astute, I know nothing; and you, also, will not care to know anything.
And, as to what could, or should have been done, that is really not
the question—if any question there be. And, apart from all this, what
it is that disquiets and frightens you I cannot imagine. You know
well, that you mean to do your duty; and you may trust me so far as
this, that it is very seldom indeed that the performance of a duty
leads to such happiness and such friends as are awaiting you in
England. You would, I am persuaded, behave just in the same way, if a
host of enemies were waiting for you; but, believe me, they will be
friends. You will be borne on the shoulders of a whole nation—which is
a nation indeed!—and, in the end, you yourself will rejoice in it.

“I am very unselfish in advising you thus; for it appears to me very
improbable that we shall meet in England. If I go there at all this
year—which is still uncertain—I shall go from here in the beginning of
April, and remain there only till the beginning of May. And you will
hardly be in London before the beginning of May?

“I had pictured it all to myself so nicely: to show you some of my
favourite places, and make you acquainted with two of my very
particular friends there. But, if this may not be, we shall meet again
soon, somewhere or other; and I am confident that we shall meet again
unaltered.”

In truth, Mdlle. Lind’s terror was utterly groundless. But for her it had a fatal significance; and she could not be persuaded that she had, in reality, nothing to fear, though she was ready to purchase her immunity by an act of almost Quixotic generosity—an offer of no less than £2000, for the revocation of the contract—which offer Mr. Bunn refused to accept.

This, then, was the state of the controversy, when Mdlle. Lind sang her last song, at Vienna.

While, on one side of the Channel, she was tormented with fears for her own personal safety, Mr. Lumley, on the other, was racked with anxiety, concerning the fate of Her Majesty’s Theatre, which was literally hanging in the balance. Who shall say which of the two sufferers endured the greatest amount of mental torture? Over which of them did the shadow brood most darkly?

BOOK VII.
SUPREMACY.