Chapter IX: In the Provinces

The business of the season was heavy and exacting, and its excitement fatiguing, even to the strong; but, like the music of a grand dramatic _scena_, it had its “points of repose,” interspersed among the _agitato_ passages which formed the basis of its general construction. Let us hear what our friend, Mrs. Grote, has to tell us about those welcome little _agrémens_.

“The summer of 1847 passed delightfully,” she says, in the MS.
_Memoir_ from which we have so frequently quoted, “divided, as it was,
between theatrical labours and triumphs, and passages of recreation.
Among the latter, the most agreeable to her were, repeated visits to
our own country home at Burnham, about three miles from Slough, where
she essayed riding on horseback; an exercise in which she afterwards
came to take so great delight, that she bought a couple of
saddle-horses of her own, and rode whenever opportunity permitted.

“When she could not spare time to go to Burnham, we often spent a long
summer day in Wimbledon Park, taking a cold collation there, in a kind
of _châlet_, placed at her disposal by Mr. Barber Beaumont, the
proprietor. On these occasions, my brother Edward, myself, and
sometimes Mr. Grote, would accompany her. We all rambled about,
enjoying the repose and unmolested retirement the place afforded. The
nightingales sang, in May and June, in the copse; and to these Jenny
always listened with interest and pleasure. On one fine evening, as we
were leaning over a gate, listening to one, the bird stopped.

“‘There!’ said Jenny, ‘he has seen us! Now, that is just like me. I
should have done the same, if I had caught anyone intruding on my
solitude. And, indeed, those who have compared me to the nightingale
were not far wrong; for I have a great deal of the nightingale in me.’

“When at Burnham, she used to study the music of her new _rôles_ among
the old beeches, where I have often found her, seated on the clubbed
root of one, with the book laid open upon her knee, and warbling, in a
low tone, the music of the score.

“Mr. Lumley gave a _fête champêtre_, in the course of the season, at
his villa near Putney; and Jenny consented to go there, provided I
would accompany her as _chaperone_. We duly made our appearance at the
_fête_; but Jenny was so disturbed and discomposed by the staring and
incessant curiosity displayed by the company with regard to her, that
she was anything but comfortable during the two or three hours of her
stay. Mr. Lumley did everything he possibly could to restore her good
humour, but she only desired ‘to get away’; and we accordingly
returned, towards nightfall, to Clairville. No sooner were we within
its walls, than Jenny appeared in a new phase. Instead of allowing me
to continue my road homewards, she said I ‘must stay to tea’; then,
‘to supper.’ My brother and I were placed in the seats of honour in
her little drawing-room. Lights were brought, in abundance. The
resources of the _ménage_ were strained to produce various
refreshments; Jenny doing the honours, and waiting upon us, with
infinite vivacity and grace, and in the highest spirits. I was beyond
measure diverted by her playful vagaries, which she finished, at last,
by sitting down to the piano, and singing her native melodies with
bewitching effect.

“The night was now wearing away, but still I was not allowed to
depart. A messenger was despatched, who returned, in an hour or so,
with my night-dresses; and I was installed in Jenny’s own room, which
was lighted up with numerous wax candles, while she retired to a small
bedroom adjoining it.

“This evening—one of many delightful ones, spent during the summer of
1847—rises to my memory, as exemplifying the humour of this singular
being, in a very remarkable light.”

No one enjoys a holiday so thoroughly as the artist, whose brain has been too long strained at abnormally high pressure. Mendelssohn enjoyed his holidays with the artless playfulness of a child, making no attempt whatever to conceal the depth of his innocent delight—and Mdlle. Lind did the same. But, the work of the “season” had not yet come to an end. Much had already been done; but, much more remained to be accomplished, before she could really take a prolonged and undivided rest.

By a singular anomaly, so frequently repeated that its omission, at this period of our history, would have seemed more strange than its recurrence, the brilliancy of her successes was invariably found to bear an inverse proportion to the depth of her previous despondency.

We have seen her, at Berlin, reduced to the verge of despair, before the evening of her triumphant _début_ in the grand new Opera-House.

At Vienna, the appearance of the _salle_ of the Theater an der Wien so terrified her, that but for Herr Hauser’s remonstrances, she would have fled the city, and left her engagement with Herr Pokorny unfulfilled, in the firm belief that her voice was not powerful enough to enable her to carry out the task she had undertaken to perform.

And again, in London, she had gone so far as to entreat her friend Mrs. Grote to intercede with the manager for the reversal of a contract which, she thought, made a demand upon her powers to which they were wholly unequal.

Yet, at Berlin, she succeeded in convincing the most fastidious critics in the world of the reality of her genius, before the curtain fell upon the first act of her favourite _Norma_. At Vienna, the delighted Austrians unhorsed her carriage, in the hope that they might be permitted to drag her home in triumph. And in London, she won her way, in one single evening, to a position which no _prima donna_ had ever previously occupied.

But, when the London season came to a close, her successes in this country were only just beginning. Her fame had already penetrated to the remotest corners of the kingdom. The inhabitants of all the great towns were burning with impatience to hear her, that they might judge for themselves whether the rumours that had reached them were exaggerated, or not. And those who had already heard her at Her Majesty’s Theatre were longing to hear her again, in the distant counties to which they were returning after the excitement of the season was over. So a long and fatiguing provincial tour was organised without delay. To give a detailed account of the country performances, _seriatim_, however interesting they may have been at the time, could only be wearisome, after the innumerable triumphs we have already described; but, Mrs. Grote’s general account of the tour is too interesting to be omitted.

“At the end of an engagement of unparalleled success,” she says, in
her _Memoir_, “Jenny proceeded on a tour in the provinces, in which
she was accompanied by my brother, Mr. Edward Lewin, who acted as
manager of her affairs, and directed her relations with the
concert-speculators, and whose agency, on this occasion, was extremely
valuable to her. She knew nothing of the English language, in the
first place; so that she could do little in the way of transacting her
artistic business. Her attendant could speak only Swedish, which made
it the more essential that some friend should accompany the ladies, to
serve as interpreter on the journey, and at the inns. Now, Mr. Lewin
was perfectly at home in the Swedish language, from having resided for
many years at Stockholm; and he likewise spoke French well enough to
communicate with the foreign artists included in the company which
Jenny had associated with her for these provincial performances. Their
intimacy was one of great confidence, and warm admiration for Jenny’s
many great and engaging gifts doubtless filled the breast of my
brother Edward; while the sentiments she entertained towards him
partook of the early companion, the able and serviceable secretary,
the ‘go-between’ with tiresome applicants for her bounty, or with
servants. He was her playfellow, as it were, in the hours of
relaxation; her escort to and from the theatre, and the concert-room.
And, beyond all this, _he was my brother_—a title, which, loving me as
she came to do during our familiar intercourse, conferred an
additional charm upon her friendship with Edward.”[99]

And so it came to pass, that, aided by the business capacities and firm moral support of this trusty friend, Mdlle. Lind devoted the months of August and September to a series of provincial performances, undertaken on her own account, and everywhere successful. She had secured the assistance of Signor Gardoni, Signor F. Lablache and his talented wife, and a competent orchestra, conducted by Mr. Balfe; and, in company with these popular and thoroughly conscientious artists, she extended her journey to Scotland, and delighted her audiences, wherever she appeared. She was _fêted_ everywhere; and everywhere made friends. But, in one particular town, the reception she met with was so cordial, and the friendships she cemented were so true and lasting, that we cannot refrain from giving a circumstantial account of the events which there took place.

While still busily occupied, in London, with her performances at Her Majesty’s Theatre, she had received the following letter from Dr. Stanley, the Bishop of Norwich:—

“38, Lower Brook Street,
“July 10th, 1847.

“The Bishop of Norwich has just heard that Miss Jenny Lind has
consented to come to Norwich in September next. He and Mrs. Stanley
therefore lose no time in expressing the hope that she, during her
stay, will become their guest at the palace.

“The Bishop has only to add, that it will be a great gratification to
him to make acquaintance with one whose high character and principles,
from all he has heard, are on a par with her superior talents.

“Miss JENNY LIND,
“Clara Villa,
“Old Brompton.”

This invitation she accepted; and, on the evening of Tuesday, the 21st of September, she duly arrived at the Palace, where she was received with a welcome which she remembered with pleasure till the end of her life.

The leading local newspaper described the event, with the fervour that never fails to animate a provincial journal, put upon its mettle by the opportunity of making an unwonted announcement. She had been far from well, since her departure from Edinburgh; and was suffering from inordinate fatigue. The public had been informed of this, and great anxiety prevailed, even among the working classes, who curiously peered into every carriage, and thronged around the portal by which the great songstress was to enter.

The scheme for the week included two performances, over and above that originally announced: viz., an evening Concert, on Thursday, September the 23rd; and, on Saturday, the 25th, a supplementary morning performance, for the benefit of those who were unable to meet the high prices demanded for the original tickets. On the Thursday, the greatest effect seems to have been produced by _Dove sono_; and, on the Saturday, the Swedish songs threw the audience into a perfect _furore_.

It is pleasant to turn from these details to a charming little episode associated with the morning performance on Saturday.

At a service in the Cathedral, on the Friday afternoon, Mdlle. Lind had heard three of the Choristers sing the Trio _Jesus, Heavenly Master_, from Spohr’s _Crucifixion_, with a purity of expression which moved her to tears. So great, indeed, was the effect produced upon her by the fresh young voices, that she afterwards told the Præcentor that she “could never forget the boys’ singing,” and delighted Mr. Buck, the organist, by saying that she had “never heard children sing so well;” and, in return for the pleasure they had given her, she begged that places might be reserved for all the little Choristers, at the morning performance on the following day. On arriving at the Hall, her first care was, to ascertain that the places accorded to them were satisfactory, no slight privilege, at a time when numbers of the general public were thankful to pay for places from which seeing was impossible, and hearing extremely problematical. But this was not the only privilege the little Choristers enjoyed. They were more delighted still with another, which excited the envy of every one present: for when she came upon the platform, she greeted them with a smile of recognition, “which,” says the Norwich newspaper, “will not be readily forgotten, either by the boys, or those who saw the passing brightness.”

We have said enough to show that Mdlle. Lind’s reception at Norwich was no ordinary one; and the records we have quoted would alone be sufficient to prove the fact, if proof were necessary.

But, the most graphic account, by far, of this famous visit, is furnished by a very illustrious pen indeed—that of Mr. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, afterwards dear to so many as the Dean of Westminster.

In a letter, dated September 22, 1847, Dean (then Mr.) Stanley writes:—

“DEAR ——,

“You have perhaps seen in the papers that Jenny Lind has been ill; and
that, hence, her arrival here was delayed a day, and the interest
consequently enhanced.

“I should also, perhaps, add, that doubts had been entertained whether
she could be sufficiently recovered to sing at all.

“Well! the fatal Tuesday arrives, the 4.30 train arrives, bringing
guests of ours—but, no Jenny.

“All along the line, people had been standing at the stations, poking
their heads in at the windows.

“‘No—she’s not here.’ And so on, till the disappointment communicated
itself to the crowd of 100, 400, or 700, which reports, varying in
their degrees, represent as assembled at the Norwich terminus. And
similar agitations prevail, even within the Episcopal precincts, from
the humble inhabitants of the Lodge—who look, with inquisitive
glances, into any fly that drives through the ancient gates—up to the
circle in the Palace drawing-room, which runs to the window, at every
sound, and starts at every opening of the door.

“Dinner arrives—and still no Lind!

“In the midst of dinner—a ring at the door. The dining-room door
opens—and, enter an electric telegraph, which is delivered to the
Prelate at the head of the table, and read to the listening guests—who
numbered, by the way, another Bishop, he of Tasmania—in the following
words:—

“‘Miss Lind, being detained, will not be at Norwich till 8.30.’

“The blank faces which appeared at the beginning of the sentence
revived at the close; and the only suspense now remained till the
actual hour had arrived.

“At that moment, the great bells of S. Peter’s Mancroft broke out into
their most joyous chimes. Some even say that guns were fired from the
surrounding heights. A few minutes more, and the expectant company
became aware that the head of the musical world had entered the house.

“Thus far I had written, on the morning after she came; and, as far as
the excitement is concerned, it might have been continued in the same
strain; how, when it was found that she could not appear that night,
from excessive fatigue; and, that she had said, ‘_J’espère que je
pourrai chanter demain; mais j’en doute_,’ blank horror overpowered
the party; how the Choristers were so affected, that one of them burst
into tears: how the bells rang till twelve at night, and ever and
anon, all day; how her portraits were selling in the streets, at a
penny a piece; how the whole town was in one great _Lind-Maelström_ of
excitement; how Miss Buckland was taken for her, when visiting a
factory, and followed by crowds, Sedgewick encouraging the delusion by
calling her ‘Jenny’; how, on one occasion, when she went into the town
with the Bishop, to visit two schools, the moment that her presence
became known, the streets were thronged, and windows thrown up, in
every direction, with people gazing from them, and turning after her,
till their necks were almost wrenched from their sockets; how, when
she went to the Cathedral, the whole of the North Transept, through
which lies the approach to the Palace, was so densely thronged, that,
as I led her—yes, I myself, S——! through the mass she had forced
asunder, as when Prince Albert led the Queen up the Senate House; all
this, and much more, I might relate; but I cannot; for, great as was
the wonder of seeing a whole population thus bewitched by one simple
Swedish girl, it sinks into nothing, before the wonder of herself.

“You have seen her, and therefore you can appreciate the grace, the
dignity, the joyousness, the touching pathos of her entrance; her
attitude, her curtsies, her voice. For, whatever much beside—as, I
doubt not, there is—may be seen in her acting, all _this_ is seen in
her singing.

“Twice did I go to the concert, merely for the sake of this. For the
music, so far as it could be separated from the charm of her manner,
and the wonder of her voice, which I, alas! could only admire as a
natural phenomenon, was to me wholly lost.

“But, now, you must conceive a character, corresponding to all this,
and transpiring through a thousand traits of humility, gentleness,
thoughtfulness, wisdom, piety. The manners of a Princess—as I have
written to Donkin—with the simplicity of a child, and the goodness of
an angel. She is very much plainer, and more homely, than you would
suppose from her countenance, as you see it when animated in public;
but her smile, at all times, is only equalled by Pusey’s.

“She came on Tuesday night, and is gone this evening; and it seems
quite a blank, as if a heavenly visitant had departed.

“The parting scene was so deeply affecting, that I prefer, for the
moment, to dwell upon her return from the third and final concert, in
which the two carriages drove off together from the door, one
containing the Episcopal party, with the exception of myself, who rode
on the outside of the second, in which sat the wonderful creature
herself—the crowd rushing after with enthusiastic cheers.

“I have already written a whole letter, and yet told you nothing, and
do not know whether I shall have time to do so till we meet. But,
there are numberless things to tell you, which may perhaps regale the
Common Room in the long winter evenings of next term.

“Ever yours,
“A. P. STANLEY.”

“P.S.—On reading over what I have said, I must begin again, lest you
should regard all this as idle raving. And yet, I hardly know where to
begin—not to mention that no details can give an adequate impression
of the whole.

“(1). I never saw any one so strongly impressed with the consciousness
that a natural faculty is _a gift_. ‘_Ce n’est pas un mérite; c’est un
don_’ was, in various ways, constantly expressing itself. She said she
never sang without reflecting that it might be for the last time; and,
that it was continued to her, from year to year, for the good of
others.

“(2). In speaking of her profession, generally, it was obvious that it
was not only her greatest object—as, indeed, one could not doubt, for
a moment—to keep herself unspotted; but, to elevate its whole tone,
and character. ‘_C’est ce que j’espère_,’ she said, with enthusiasm,
in answer to some suggestion that such might be the result of her
career.

“(3). On acting, she said that, on the one hand, she could not leave
her own character altogether behind, when she came on the stage; that,
to destroy her individuality would destroy all that was good in her;
and, that she made it a principle, never to represent such passions as
would awaken bad feelings. Hence, for example, her very different
conception of _Norma_ from that of Grisi. But, on the other hand,
whatever conception she did form of the character she acted, she threw
herself into it entirely. If, as once or twice had happened, she was
unable to do this, she felt she was acting, and telling lies, and then
_entirely failed_. One instance she gave of this complete
identification was, that the part of _La Sonnambula_ fatigued her
extremely, from the utter impossibility of moving her eyes, during the
sleepwalking.

“(4). The Bishop of Tasmania,[100] as I told you, being here at the
time, was so deeply impressed by her excellence, that, when he went
away, not being able to talk to her in French, he left her a letter
expressive of his approbation of her course, and of his hopes of the
good she might effect. This, combined with the great interest that she
herself took in his objects, so deeply affected her, that all her
practice for the coming concert had to be thrown aside; and it was
with great difficulty that she could sing, when she first began. All
this you can imagine as much more moving than I can describe.

“(5). Her attention to all the servants and inferiors was most
remarkable—of which let this suffice.

“At the last concert, when she appeared for the second time on the
platform, and just before the beginning of her song, the fixed look of
vacancy, seeing nothing, and looking at nobody, was suddenly exchanged
for one of those enchanting smiles which she cast below. It was the
little boys of the Cathedral Choir, whom she had seen at our house,
and whose upturned faces she caught sight of, at that moment, and she
looked upon them, with this delightful smile, till the song began.

“Last of all, you shall have her impression of _me_!

“On the last day, I told her that there was ‘_quelque chose
d’extraordinaire dans la voix_;’ but that, otherwise, her singing, in
itself, produced no impression whatever upon me. This, she said, was
by far the most amusing thing she had heard; and, that she should
never forget it.

“And now I must end.

“Ever yours,
“A. P. STANLEY.”[101]

Do not let us forget that it is no professional critic who is writing, here, but an independent witness, whose words are accepted with love and reverence, even by those who do not always agree with him, wherever the English language is spoken. And it is not too much to say, that, in this particular case, his opinion was shared by everyone who had enjoyed the privilege of hearing or conversing with the lady by whose personality he was so deeply impressed.

The day on which she took leave of them was a veritable day of mourning.

The events of the last few weeks in England, carried down to the actual moment of departure, are thus described by Mrs. Grote:—

“At the end of September, I joined Jenny at Bath, along with Mr.
Lumley. My brother was obliged to leave us on the first of October,
and I was induced, by her persuasions, to remain by her side for a few
days, first, at Clifton, where she sang, and afterwards at Exeter. Mr.
Grote joined us, at the last-named place, and escorted the party back
to London.

“On board the steamer, we took a most affectionate leave of her, the
sadness of which was relieved by the hope of meeting again within a
few months; Mr. Lumley having induced her to contract a second
engagement at Her Majesty’s Theatre.

“As we rowed away from the ship, we saw her white handkerchief waving
in the darkness, wafting to us her last _adieux_!

“She left behind her, in England, a splendid reputation, and the most
extensive personal interest and sympathy which it was possible for a
woman to create; and she also carried with her, as the fruit of five
months’ work, a considerable sum of money—such a sum as, till now, she
had not been mistress of.”[102]

And, here, as she sails away from England, on board the Hamburg packet, the _John Bull_, we too must take leave of her for a while, to meet her again, at the end of her journey, surrounded by the beloved friends she had left behind her in Berlin.