Chapter VII: The Last Opera

When Mr. Lumley began to make his arrangements for the season of 1849, he was much exercised by uncertainty as to Mdlle. Lind’s intentions for the future. No engagement had been made, at the close of the previous season: and in the meantime, rumours were rife as to her retirement from the Stage, which was said to be imminent.

It must be confessed that Mr. Lumley was in a difficult position. Unfortunately, his faith in Mdlle. Lind’s reliance upon the judgment of Mrs. Grote had led him to expect a great deal more from that lady’s influence upon the retiring Artist than was warranted by the true circumstances of the case. Mrs. Grote herself knew perfectly well how absolutely impregnable was the decision at which Mdlle. Lind had arrived. But it is evident that she did not succeed in making the unhappy manager understand, so clearly as he ought to have done, how matters then stood. He believed that there was still room for hope; and, harassed by anxiety, tormented by doubts of his own creation with regard to the unknown future, he followed the example of the public, and formed, on what he conceived to be “undoubted authority,” strange theories of his own, destitute of any sort of foundation in fact.

The Opera-House opened for the season, in 1849, amidst as rough a “sea of doubts and perplexities,” as that which had prevailed in 1847. The public would not be satisfied without the re-engagement of Mdlle. Lind; and, before long, it was authoritatively announced—and, this time, with perfect truth—that Mdlle. Lind had positively determined to appear no more upon the Stage. A hundred different reasons, all equally false, and equally unauthorised, were given for this determination—but, whatever the true reason might have been, the fact remained, that never again could the public hope to see its favourite upon the boards of Her Majesty’s Theatre.

Mr. Lumley was in despair. In face of the attractions offered at the rival establishment, this determination meant, for him, nothing short of irremediable disaster—of absolute ruin—unless he could stave off the evil day by a clever _coup de main_. As a matter of fact, he actually did effect this _coup de main_, not very long afterwards, by the engagement of the Contessa de’ Rossi, formerly Mdlle. Sontag. With that stroke of policy we are, however, in no wise concerned. It is enough for us to know that Mdlle. Lind continued inexorable; and that it was only after reiterated entreaties, that she consented to enter into an engagement for six “Grand Classical Performances,” in which the music of her favourite Operas was to be sung, at a series of concerts, without the attractions of the stage. It was at first proposed that these performances should take place in Exeter Hall. But the objections to this place were insuperable. This condition, therefore, was afterwards waived; and, in due time, it was announced in the managerial prospectus that Mdlle. Lind would sing in six concerts at Her Majesty’s Theatre.

It would have needed but a very little calm consideration, to convince all concerned that a compromise such as this could not by any possibility succeed—that its failure was assured, beforehand. The experiment was, however, tried, on Thursday, the 12th of April, with Mozart’s _Il Flauto Magico_; but it broke down so signally that no attempt was ever made to repeat it. All that could be done in the Concert-room Mdlle. Lind did; but, unhappily, that “all” was not enough. She sang the music magnificently; and the critics did her full justice in analysing her performance. She had sung so faultlessly that the critic of _The Times_ had been completely disarmed; so enthralled by the spell she cast over her audience, that, throughout the whole of his notice, he had not ventured to utter one single word of protest against the fatal mistake she had made. Yet, the signs of that mistake were patent to every one; and no one felt the bitterness of the position more keenly than Mdlle. Lind herself. For the first time, since her first great European triumph, she had failed to express her own ideal—not from lack of artistic power, but from lack of means external to it. How could the threatened ruin be averted? In one way only. She felt this, at once; and, with a depth of self-renunciation well worthy of her generous character, she sacrificed the freedom which had so long been the desire of her heart, and permitted Mr. Lumley to make an official announcement, to the effect, that, “Although Mdlle. Lind had intended to take leave of the subscribers to the Opera, and the public, in a series of concerts, yet, as it had been urged that concerts would not be regarded as equally satisfactory, she had generously consented to suspend her intention of retiring from the stage, and would therefore appear in a few more performances.”

The delight of the public surpassed all bounds. The subscribers forgot their late discontent, and appeared in crowds to welcome her on her re-appearance. The house was filled to overflowing. Every incident connected with the now-familiar “Jenny Lind crush” was renewed at the doors. And even Mr. Lumley himself was satisfied with the enthusiasm manifested both by the occupants of the subscription boxes and the general public.

Her Majesty and Prince Albert were among the first to welcome their favourite artist’s return to the stage from which, as we have seen, she had told the Queen it was her intention to retire. As she was felt by them to act and sing even more exquisitely than she had done the previous season, they hailed her appearance with deep satisfaction, not unmingled with sadness that the pleasure was one which could not often be repeated, as the singer’s resolution to quit the operatic stage was now well known. Only once were they able to see the _Figlia del Reggimento_—always a special favourite with the Queen. But they were present twice at the performance both of _La Sonnambula_ and _Lucia di Lammermoor_; and on the 10th of May, they saw her, with much regret, for the last time upon the stage, in _Roberto il Diavolo_, the piece in which her acting and singing had, as already shown, first laid a strong hold upon their admiration.[126]

The scene of the last farewell is thus feelingly described in the columns of _The Times_:—

“During the whole of Mdlle. Lind’s engagement this season there has
not been so extraordinary a spectacle as was exhibited last night,
when, as the bills stated, her ‘Last Operatic Performance’ was to take
place.

“The difference of her reception when she sang at the ‘Classical
Concert’ from that when she reappeared in _La Sonnambula_ must have
struck any one who witnessed the two scenes. Though the theatre was
the same, and the bulk of the audience nearly the same, on both
occasions, she was greeted in the character of ‘Amina’ just as if she
had been making her _début_, and the preceding concerts had never been
given. Hence, the public, who thought that they were witnessing, for
the last time, the combination of Jenny Lind the actress with Jenny
Lind the vocalist, were not so much mistaken in giving all the force
of a final interview to their visit last night.

“_Roberto il Diavolo_, which, on the Italian stage, has never been
very popular as a whole, but which has depended for its attraction on
the ‘Alice’ of Mdlle. Lind, was the Opera selected. The character in
which she first sang before a London audience was chosen as the one in
which she was to take her leave.

“_Quando lascia la Normandia_, with the immortal _sotto voce_ shake
which has so often astonished her hearers, drew down the accustomed
_encore_; and the clinging to the Cross, with terror in the shrink,
and faith in the countenance, seemed even more striking than usual, as
a display of histrionic power. The increased sweetness and fulness of
her voice, this year, has been a theme of universal remark; and never
was it more melodious than last night.

“The applause which she received at the conclusion of the Opera was
something remarkable. She was called three times, by an audience that
occupied even the obscurest nooks of the edifice, and that universally
rose when she appeared; and so continuous were the plaudits, that they
blended with each other into one roll of heavy sound. At the last
call, she appeared, particularly moved.

“During the early part of the Opera, there was a tumult in the house,
occasioned by the crowd.

“Her Majesty, Prince Albert, and the Duchess of Kent, honoured the
theatre with their presence.”

With what feelings did Mdlle. Lind see the curtain descend, for the last time, on that thrilling scene in _Roberto il Diavolo_, in which, as she herself narrated in after years, she “stood at the man’s right hand, and the Fiend at his left, and all she could think of was, how to save him”? Was it really a heavy trial through which she had elected to pass? Did she herself feel sad when the last note faded into silence, and Bertram sank through the trap-door into the fiery depths below? Who can tell? She never spoke of such a sadness, in after life. That the last round of applause, the last wild shout from pit and stalls and gallery and boxes, was absolutely nothing to her, we know well enough. It could not but be less than nothing. She was too well accustomed to it all. Since her first appearance in _The Polish Mine_, in 1830, the stage had won for her her daily bread. For her, the excitement, the romance, the glamour, the thousand enticing charms which fascinate so many _prime donne_ had no existence. Her “first appearance” was a dim memory of childhood, bearing no analogy whatever to the intoxicating _début_ for which most young artists long, as the Peri longed for Paradise, at the precious period during which their thoughts ought to be exclusively devoted to study. To her, the stage, with its cold _coulisses_, and its ceaseless round of monotonous hard work, was as prosaic as the routine of the school-room to a jaded governess. The simile strikes home, for the stage had really been her school-room ever since she was ten years old.

But there was another side to the question. However little she may have cared for fame, she cared very much indeed for the Art to which she had devoted the best of all she possessed. And, for Art, in one of its purest and most perfect manifestations, the evening of the 10th of May was a very sad one. For, that last fall of the curtain put an end, for ever, to the operatic triumphs of the most gifted actress-singer the nineteenth century had produced—put an end to them, beyond all hope of renewal; with the absolute certainty, impressed upon the minds of all who were present, that no subsequent change of circumstances would ever induce the Arch-Priestess of Song, whose genius had enthralled them as they had never been enthralled before, to reverse the decision at which she had then arrived. She had written, in her engagement-book, at Brighton, “My last Opera-Representation”—“_min sista Opera-Representation_”—and she had meant it. There were to be no more “last nights,” after the manner to which the “Opera-going public” were only too well accustomed; no supplementary performances, “by special desire,” to be succeeded, in the following year, by “twelve more last appearances,” culminating in a “grand farewell,” in which she would perform “positively for the last time.” She had already appeared upon the stage “for the last time;” and all who had seen her knew it.

Truly, this last farewell performance was impressed with a double significance, not easy to describe in words. For the great World of Art, no day so sad as this 10th of May, in 1849, had passed since the 4th of November, in 1847. She knew this well—and she must have sympathised with those who so deeply and sincerely regretted her retirement. Yet, for her, it brought the freedom, the rest, the peace, that she had longed for, year after year, from the moment of her first triumphs in Art-loving Germany.

How welcome that peace and freedom were, we can divine from the early letters in which she told her friends how ardently she looked forward to her emancipation from the trammels of the stage. And a circumstance which happened on this last night must have gladdened her heart, so full of sympathy for her humblest fellow-workers.

A little more than two months before her retirement, while she was still on her provincial tour, she had written to Mrs. Stanley:—

Wakefield, March 6, 1849.

“I want to give concerts, here in the provinces, for Lumley’s people,
which I could do very quietly, and when I have got the sum I wish for,
then place the money in the hands of my banker in London, to give to
the choristers and most needy people at Her Majesty’s Theatre, which
they (Lumley and his friends) say that I have thrown out of
employment.

“I suppose Lumley’s vanity will not be satisfied with this proposal—
but that is not my care. My wish is, to help the poor—_voilà tout_. To
sing religious words on the stage I can and will not.”

There is no record, in Mdlle. Lind’s “Engagement-book,” of any special concerts given, in the provinces, for “Lumley’s people”; but it is more than probable that a portion of the receipts of some of the general performances were applied to their benefit. Be this as it may, they possessed Mdlle. Lind’s sympathy, in the warmest degree; and returned it, with all their hearts. So devoted were they to her, that, on that last evening, when all was over, the members of the chorus presented her with a gold bracelet, on the inside of which was engraved:—

PRESENTED TO
MDLLE. JENNY LIND
BY THE MEMBERS OF THE
CHORAL DEPARTMENT OF
HER MAJESTY’S THEATRE
AS A TOKEN OF THEIR
ESTEEM AND ADMIRATION.
MAY 10TH, 1849.

And so the last farewell was accompanied by a touching incident quite apart from the demonstration in which the outer world took a share; and we may be very sure that Mdlle. Lind remembered it, long after the sound of the last round of applause had been forgotten; and that she prized the simple jewel—now in the possession of her daughter—not a whit less dearly than the costly gems presented to her by the great ones of the earth.

With the presentation of this most delicate memorial, the fateful evening came to an end; and with it, the operatic career of one whose name will live, in connection with the Musical Drama, as long as the Musical Drama itself exists.