Chapter III: At Clairville

Some little time before her first appearance, while the rehearsals were still in progress, Mademoiselle Lind quitted the residence of her friend, in Eccleston Street, to take possession of a detached cottage, pleasantly situated, in its own grounds, at Old Brompton. It will be remembered that, by the terms of her contract with Mr. Lumley, she was to be provided with a furnished residence, at the expense of the management; and, of all the houses she had seen, “Clairville Cottage,” as it was then called, was the only one that seemed to please her. Though small and unpretending, it was both comfortable, and convenient; it was within a moderate drive of the theatre; and the neighbourhood in which it stood—now absorbed in the new district of South Kensington—was sufficiently retired to ensure the privacy which, indeed, formed one of its principal attractions.

Nearly all the old houses in this part of Old Brompton have long since been pulled down; and the actual site of Clairville Cottage and its pretty suburban garden is now occupied by one of the more modern and much larger residences in Brechin Place, the ground on which it stood forming part of a quadrangle, bounded by Brechin Place on its northern and southern sides, by the Gloucester Road, on its eastern side, and on that towards the west, by Rosary Gardens.

But, though all trace of the cottage itself has vanished, its name is perpetuated, in somewhat dubious orthography, in Clareville Grove—a road leading northwards from a spot near its former site; and a relic of the garden still remains, in the form of a tall and handsome plane tree, overhanging the Old Brompton Road, in front of Brechin Place, and vigorously flourishing within two minutes’ walk of the house in which Madame Goldschmidt spent the last twelve years of her life. It was a less splendid tree, in 1847, than it is now, but she loved it all the more, for the birds sang there, undisturbed, among the branches from which the busy traffic of the road has now banished them.

Here, within full view of this well-beloved tree, and an equally-beloved magnolia, while all London was wild with curiosity to peer into the minutest details of her private life, the “Swedish Nightingale”—as all the world now delighted to call her—passed her time in almost monastic seclusion, diligently employed in the study of her new parts, and visited only by a select circle of intimate and sympathetic friends, whose society afforded her far greater and more genuine pleasure than she could ever have found in the gay and fashionable world that was vainly striving to intrude upon her solitude, and employing every cunning device that ingenuity could suggest to attract her within its vortex.

Never before had _prima donna_ created so profound a sensation among all classes of society.

In every mouth, the name of “The Swedish Nightingale” was “familiar as a household word.” It is not too much to say that all London was raving about her—and not all London only; for “the Jenny Lind fever,” as some of the more vulgar organs of the Press affected to call it, extended to the remotest corner of the Kingdom.

We have before us, as we write, a rough “broadside,” printed, on commonest paper, with worn-out type, by “F. Hodges, from Pitts, Wholesale Toy and Marbel Warehouse, 31 Dudley Street, Seven Dials,” and headed, in huge capitals:—

“THE JENNY LIND MANIA.”

At the top of a double column of verses is a rude woodcut, possibly
meant, on this occasion to represent a ballad-singer, though it had no
doubt done duty, many a time and oft, in bygone days, for something
else; and thus begin the rhymes:—

“Oh! is there not a pretty fuss
In London all around,
About the Swedish Nightingale,
The talk of all the town?
Each Square and Street, as through you pass,
Aloud with praises ring,
About this pretty singing bird,
The famous Jenny Lind.

CHORUS.

“For she turns each heart, and turns each head,
Of those who hear her sing,
And she is turning all her notes to gold
Is famous Jenny Lind.”

Eight stanzas of this execrable doggrell fill up the sheet, which we should not care to notice, were it not an historical fact that such sheets were sold, and such verses sung, in the by-streets of London, from morning till night.

Mr. Albert Smith, the well-known humourist and lecturer on Mont Blanc, has contributed to the literature of the period a chapter, describing the scenes at the pit-door, and illustrated by a series of sketches, depicting the adventures of “Mr. Straggles,” who, appearing first, in all the glories of irreproachable evening costume, passes, afterwards, through a succession of changes which cause him to figure, in the final _tableau_, with his dress coat torn open from top to bottom, the bow of his cravat protruding behind his neck, his _lorgnette_ crushed beneath a fellow-enthusiast’s foot, and his ‘_gibus_’—represented in six successive stages of deterioration—reduced to a wiry skeleton.

Between nine and ten o’clock, on the morning after her _début_, Mdlle. Lind appeared in Eccleston Street, before her friend had risen; and sat by her bed-side, “with a radiant countenance,” discussing the events of the previous evening.

“Are you content with last night?” asked Mrs. Grote.

“More than content,” she replied. “What a fine public!”

On the same day, she wrote to her friend, Frau von Jaeger, at Vienna:—

“London, 5th of May, 1847.

“DEAREST MOTHER,

“It is high time that I should send you a word; and, first of all,
that I should thank you for all that you have done for me, and for all
your good advice, and assure you that I shall never forget anything,
and that my sincere love for you, and for all of you, will remain,
through all the time to come, the only recompense that one can give to
another, in exchange for such sympathy and friendship as I have
received from you.

“You well know that I cannot express what I feel. If I could, then
many many words would follow. But, I feel my own weakness; and say,
only, ‘Thank you, beloved Mother, for the second most beautiful three
months in my life!’ The first were those I spent with the Wichmanns in
the previous winter. These six months have been the happiest for me,
and I can offer you no better word than ‘Thanks!’ But, I must thank my
dear sister also, for having always been so kind to me. That she was
never jealous is a proof of the goodness of her heart. My father was—
my father! I love him, too, as if I were really his daughter. And
Fritz can also say whether I have been as a sister to him, or not.
There, then, you have my confession of love: and, if we do not see
each other again, for fifty years, time can never change my feelings.

“Dear Mother! What else have I to tell you! Perhaps you expect to hear
that I have lost my personal freedom, or something of that sort? _Mon
Dieu! Mon Dieu!_ How splendidly has everything gone with me!—the
journey included!

“Yesterday, the 4th of May, I made my first appearance here, as
‘Alice,’ in _Robert_—and it went so, that, through the whole night, I
could not sleep, for joy! To my astonishment, I found the English
public in the highest degree sympathetic and intelligent; and
yesterday evening was grand. From the Queen, down to the
scene-shifters, all here have been good to me, and so friendly, that I
do not feel in the least like a stranger—and this says a great deal,
for I am ever thinking of Vienna. Everything has gone with me ten
thousand times better than I expected; and I have neither seen, nor
heard, anything about Mr. Bunn. I think he will institute a law-suit—
only, his position in the matter has taken such a comical turn, that I
am almost beginning to feel sorry for him.

“Lablache has been so good to me, that I feel quite moved. He behaves
as no one but a great Artist like himself could behave. Lumley’s
attention, and friendliness, are not to be doubted, and make me hope
that my mother, and many others, have been mistaken in him. I hear so
much about him—and it all pleases me. But, more about this in the
future, if he always acts as he is acting now.

“Louise was so frightened, yesterday, about my first appearance that
she has a headache which confines her to bed. But she sends you hearty
greetings. But, my calmness was quite wonderful! What a joy, to be
able so to conquer one’s five senses! How can I ever sufficiently
thank God for it, Mother!

“We live most delightfully, rather far from the city, where all is
still and restful, the air splendid, and a garden in which the birds
are singing the whole day long. And the trees are so fresh and green.
I have a house all to myself, and a first-rate man-servant, who speaks
German, and an Englishwoman who does the other work of the house—
Lennie, and his sister, and her husband, who are everything that is
good to me. Friendly faces, wherever I look. So, you see, mother, that
I want for nothing.

“I think so much of Vienna. I feel certain that it will not be long
before I once more visit the Imperial City. It is too dear to me; and
Germany is my second Fatherland, and Vienna, my favourite home.

“But I must leave off now; for I believe some people are coming to
congratulate me.

“I have one thing to beg of you, mother. Do you personally know the
Countess Schönborn? Ah! Go to her, and tell her, and her sister, the
Countess Ruenburg, that I send them my best remembrances, and have
ever the liveliest recollection of their kindness to me. And tell them
how well everything has gone with me. I know it will interest the two
Countesses, to hear this; and I will soon write to them, myself, about
it. Tell them this.

“And I beg my good Herr Julius Pechvill to call upon my good Signor
Battaglia, and to tell him that my Italian pronunciation has been so
successful, that Lablache was quite astonished at it.

“And now farewell! farewell! Remember me to all—all who are yours, and
all who are not yours. With joy, and thankful love, thinks of you all

“Your daughter,
“JENNY.

“Will my mother, or Augusta, soon write to me? I long so for news of
you all.”[94]

To Judge Munthe she wrote, five days later:—

“London, May 10th, 1847.

“It is always a pleasure to write to my good guardian and fatherlike
friend; but, this time, I write with a lighter heart than usual,
because I have succeeded so well in this my last undertaking, which
was, to make my way here in London, in spite of all the difficulties
and intrigues that people have tried to throw in my way.

“I appeared, as ‘Alice,’ in _Roberto il Diavolo_, on the 4th of this
month, and I cannot describe the sympathy and enthusiasm with which I
was received—and, to my astonishment, well understood!

“I am so happy, and find things so pleasant, that there is perhaps no
being under the sun so happy as I.”

It is pleasant to see, that, by this time, the dark shadow had so completely lost its terrors that it could be mentioned even with playfulness; and, that poor Mr. Bunn’s position had become so “comical” as almost to inspire a feeling of sorrow for him. And it is pleasant, too, to find that, notwithstanding the sinister influence exercised by that dark shadow in Vienna, it had not been dark enough to cloud the happiness, or sadden the memory of the bright sojourn in the Austrian Capital.

A letter, written to Madame Birch-Pfeiffer, on Thursday, the 6th of May— two days after the _début_—contains a still more touching allusion to Vienna than that addressed to Frau von Jaeger, and speaks so pleasantly of London, and its climate, and inhabitants, that its contents can scarcely fail to interest the reader.

“London, the 6th of May, 1847.

“GOOD MOTHER,

“It is a long long time since I have heard anything from you; and I am
longing earnestly for news.

“You must not be angry with me for writing so little to you from
Vienna. For, my only excuse is, that I was simply torn to pieces,
there.

“But, you are ever in my heart, as of old, good mother and friend.

“The day before yesterday, I made my first appearance here, at the
Italian Opera, as ‘Alice’ in _Roberto_, and _never_, perhaps, have
things gone better with me, _in every way_, than here. What do you say
to that?

“I am so glad, so happy, so thankful, that I hardly know what I am
doing.

“The theatre is splendid, and I have never been in such good voice.
The climate is—for me, at least—very good; and, apart from all this, I
am so glad, because every one here is so friendly to me that I am
quite touched.

“Lablache is like a father to me; and Mr. Lumley, like a good and true
old friend.

“Are you going to Vienna? If so, remember me to Herr Pokorny and his
amiable wife, and my other friends; and tell them that I thank them,
from my heart, for all their kindness to me.

“And to the Imperial City, say, amidst the still silence, that there
lives a maiden, born in Sweden, who would gladly call Vienna the City
of Her Fathers. Oh! my Vienna! Oh! my Viennese! Oh! my heart swells,
when I think of all that happened to me, there!”

These delightful recollections of a past time did not, however, prevent Mdlle. Lind from thinking tenderly for others, in the present.

In a letter written to her from Leipzig, soon after her engagement at Her Majesty’s Theatre had been finally ratified, Mendelssohn had asked her, when she visited London, to sing to a friend of his, who had long been laid upon a bed of sickness. This lady was Mrs. Seth Thompson, the daughter of the well-known Organist and Glee Composer, Mr. William Horsley. Well knowing how dearly Mrs. Thompson would prize such an act of kindness, Mendelssohn, as the time approached, sent her a letter, announcing the pleasure that was in store for her; and the remembrance of Mdlle. Lind’s visit to the invalid lady, and of the songs with which she cheered and comforted her, is still affectionately cherished by her family, and that of Mr. Horsley.

But what a change had passed over her life, within the last few weeks! How different her thoughts, now, and at the moment at which she took leave of her Austrian friends. She had conquered her fears, and was already reaping the rich reward of her moral victory. The fate of Her Majesty’s Theatre no longer hung in the balance. She had saved its Manager from ruin. For the remainder of the season, the position of the “Old Italian Opera” was impregnable; and she alone had made it so. All doubts as to her reception by an English audience had been set at rest. The dread, the suspense, the cruel threats that had caused her such torments of anxiety, had vanished like a dream. For a time, at least, the “sable cloud” had “turned forth its silver lining on the night”; and all around was light, and joy, and peace, and hope for the happy future.