Chapter IV: Career

We have seen that it was the child’s _musical_ talent that, first, evoked the wonder of her neighbours. The stupor of the grandmother at the baby’s fanfare on the piano; the amazement of the passers-by at the song which was being confided to the ears of the patient and appreciative cat; the tears that started to the eyes of Croelius—these are the earliest signals of her marvellous gifts. But we, now, have to recognise a new characteristic, which was almost more phenomenal than her singing. Indeed, it may well be doubted whether, during her first ten years at the Royal Theatre, it did not surpass her voice in witnessing to the presence in her of a unique genius. This was her _dramatic_ power. Precocious and extraordinary as her child-voice had been, both in versatility and in tenderness, yet her early woman’s voice did not, at first, exhibit or develop its after-gifts of high sonority. It was still thin, and veiled. Rather, at that time, the secret of her success lay in that intense and irresistible identification of herself, voice and all, with her part, which is the highest proof of dramatic genius.

In later years, those, who heard her sing in opera, would often say, that if she had not been the greatest singer in the world, she would have been the greatest actress. And we shall see the evidence for the truth of this anticipation, if we glance over the early records of her performance at the theatre; and we shall, also, understand through what years of actual experience it was that she had obtained that thorough mastery over all the detail and method of the stage, which made her acting so consummate.

The long list of her performances, kept in the records of the Royal Theatre, reveal to us that already, in the very first year of her admittance to the school, as a little child of ten years old, she made her appearance on the boards, on November 29th, 1830, in a play called _The Polish Mine_, described as a “Drama, with Dance”; and in which she played the part of “Angela.” “Angela” is a little girl of seven, who has been carried off to a wild castle in the hills by a tyrant lord, to amuse and cheer her mother, whom he had seized and shut up as his prisoner. The child is to amuse the company at a grand fête in the castle, and contrives, in an improvised dance, to convey to her mother comfort and affection. But, on recognising her father disguised among the guests, in pursuit of his wife, a cry of surprise escapes her; the father is detected, and all three, father, mother, and child, are thrown into prison in the Mine. There little Angela succeeds in getting hold of the warder’s key while he is speaking with her mother, and in opening the barrier without being discovered. The father and mother are thus enabled to meet, and to fly, with their child, from the Polish Mine; after a series of exciting adventures, they make good their escape; all is made right. It is a part full of occasions for the brilliant little dancer, whose ingenuity and skill are the key to the plot. The play was repeated five times in the December, and twice more in the January following. On March 18th, 1831, she made her first appearance in the play that is noticed in the newspaper quoted below; it was called ‘_Testamentet_, a Drama,’ in which her part was that of “Johanna.” She appeared, in this character, for the third time on April 14th, 1832, and on the 4th April, 1832, we have the following notice of her appearance in a periodical for literature and art, called _Heimdall_. The paper begins by an apology for not having, long ago, put on record the wonder that had already for some time been aroused. “We take this opportunity,” it writes, “of performing a long-neglected duty—that of calling attention to a young pupil of the theatre, Jenny Lind, only ten or eleven years of age, who has several times appeared in the play _Testamentet_ which preceded _Fidelio_. She shows, in her acting, a quick perception, a fire and feeling, far beyond her years, which seem to denote an uncommon disposition for the theatre.”

This play, _The Will_, is a charming piece by Kotzebue; and the part taken by Jenny is one which would give delicious opportunities to her arch and winning grace. It is impossible, as one reads the part, not to picture her every look and gesture, so admirably is it suited to qualities in her which were vividly present to the very last. We venture to extract a scene from it. The plot turns on an old Colonel wounded in the wars, who has been carried, unknown to himself, to the house of a daughter whom he had utterly cast off for a marriage of which he disapproved. He is full of gratitude for the care with which he has been nursed. His heart is stirred with a longing for home: he is longing to leave his fortune to his kind nurses; but the daughter, who has recognised him, keeps ever out of sight; and he only sees her two children, Henriette and Johanna. Henriette, the eldest, having been told by her mother who this old man is, has been singing him a song which he had loved in long-past days, “O sweet, and holy Nature!” He has broken down under the strain of bitter memories: and he has to beg her to cease singing, and to send him her little sister, for “the gracious child knows so well how to charm away all bitterness.” After a sad monologue, bewailing the loneliness in which he is drawing near to that last hour, when there will be no one ever to say over him, “Here lies a brave man in peace!” Johanna (Jenny) comes springing into the room, saying:—

“Good morning, dear old Colonel!—‘Mister Colonel,’ I ought to have
said! My mother scolds me, if I don’t!”

“COL. Good morning, little Jacky! Come, and be merry with me! Do some
of those funny tricks, that you are so fond of! And call me ‘Colonel,’
plain and simple, please!—Or, what do you think of calling me ‘Papa’?

“JOH. Papa? Oh! that I could never do! My papa is in the picture
upstairs, and he is so beautiful, and young, and kindly——

“COL. Well, I own I am not young and beautiful: but kindly!—_that_ I
am, indeed! Don’t you believe it?

“JOH. Oh yes! very often you are!

“COL. You must remember how ill I was: sick people cannot be very kind
to others: but now, you shall always find me bright and good, right
until I go away.

“JOH. What? Must you go away from us?

“COL. Certainly: in a few days.

“JOH. Are you in earnest?

“COL. I am, indeed.

“JOH. Oh! don’t go away from us! We all love you so dearly!

“COL. Do you love me?

“JOH. Oh! yes! At first, you know, I was very frightened of you; but
now—not a bit!

“COL. And how did you get over your fright?

“JOH. Why, because when you are as kind as you were, no one could help
being fond of you. And when you are dull, and cross, then I just take
myself off.

“COL. Ah! then, to-day, my Jacky will not take herself off, will she?

“JOH. Yes, I will, if you ever again call me ‘Jacky’! that is a
_dreadful_ name!

“COL. Why dreadful?

“JOH. I don’t know. But there are such _lovely_ names in the books
which my sister reads; and specially nice English names, like Liddy,
and Betty, and Arabella! Oh! if only they had asked _me_ before I was
baptized, I would have chosen the very loveliest of them all!

“COL. It was, really, a great shame that they did not ask you.

“JOH. My mother says, that she only had two names to give to her
daughters, because my grandfather had but two names, John, and Henry!

“COL. John Henry! Why, those are _my_ names, too!

“JOH. Once I cried over the stupid name, Jacky. But, then, my mother
began to cry, too, and she said: ‘Dearest child, you bear a name which
reminds me of a noble man!’ Now, I don’t know at all why I should
remind her of him. But then mother began to cry; so, you see, since
then, I don’t take any notice of it!

“COL. Well, let me try and teach you why you have the name. I am too
old, you say, to be your father, so will you try to think that I am
your dear old grandfather, John Henry?

“JOH. Yes! All right! But then, you know, you must never go away!

“COL. Or will you come with me, when I go?

“JOH. Away from mother? Oh! what a horrid thing to do!

“COL. Well, but, some day, you will have to leave her, when you go to
be married.

“JOH. Ah! yes! when I am married! I say! have you got a son?

“COL. Why?

“JOH. Why, because, if he is nice, I would marry him, and, then, we
might all stop together.

“COL. No, Jacky! I have no son—no child at all!

“JOH. Poor old man!

“COL. (_sighing_). Yes, indeed!

“JOH. It’s a shame! A horrible shame! I should have been so glad to
have married your son!

“COL. Why so glad?

“JOH. Why, because you are rich; and, then, I should be rich; and I
could help my sister!

“COL. What is there that she needs?

“JOH. I’ll tell you. Only, you must promise never to betray me!

“COL. I promise faithfully.

“JOH. Well, you know, she loves the head-ranger, and the head-ranger
loves her; and my mother says that it is all right: she often says,
‘It would be the joy of my old age!’ But he has nothing, and we have
nothing: so nothing can be done.

“COL. Dear me! Is that how it stands?

“JOH. Ah! if only I could manage that mother should be able to say to
me ‘You are the joy of my old age!’ That would be lovely! I declare
that if only I could do that, I would not mind calling all my own
children, ‘Jacky!’

“COL. Listen to me, dear child! I have an idea. If it was in your
power to make your sister rich enough to marry the head-ranger, would
you not do it?

“JOH. Of course I should!

“COL. Well, then, you _can_ do it.

“JOH. You are only laughing at me?

“COL. No! I promise you! Come away with me; be my little daughter; and
I will give your mother enough money to buy this joy for her old age!

“JOH. Oh! that’s very hard! Where shall we have to go?

“COL. Far, far away from here.

“JOH. Oh dear! and shall I never see my mother again?

“COL. Oh yes! I shall let you have a beautiful carriage with four
beautiful horses, and you will jump into it, and cry ‘Coachman, drive
me quick to mamma!’

“JOH. Will you really give me that?

“COL. I promise it.

“JOH. And I shall, then, bring joy to my mother’s old age!

“COL. Yes, you alone! of your own self!

“JOH. Come along, you dear old Colonel; I will be your daughter.

“COL. Away we’ll go, my Jacky! Only wait a minute! I must go and
arrange things. (_Goes out._)

“JOH. (_alone_). Oh! How happy mother will be! and my dear sister! and
the head-ranger! And it shall be a splendid wedding! and we will have
the musicians to play! Oh yes! we must have musicians! My old man must
not refuse me that, or else I won’t go with him! Oh dear! I wish I was
not going! I shall cry so; and the others will cry too; for they all
love me!—Ah! but then just think what it will be when I come back in
the beautiful carriage with four horses; and say ‘Coachman, drive me
home!’ and away we go, over stock and stone, until we draw up here at
our own house, prr! prr; and mother will put out her head at the
window; and cry ‘Jacky is come! Jacky is come!’”

Such was the delightful part played by the tiny little girl of ten years old. Every word in it would suit her—the merry quickness of the child, the sudden turns from gaiety to tears, and back again to gaiety, the mysterious confidences, the prattling innocence, the brimming affection. No wonder that the _Heimdall_ was fascinated.

In the year preceding this notice, 1831, she had played, for three nights, in what is called by the serious name of “an historic drama”— _Johanna de Montfaucon_, in which she took the part of “Otto”; and, besides this, had appeared five times as “Jeannette,” in a “Comedy, with Dance,” called the _Pasha of Suresne_. During the following year, 1833, she appeared in twenty-two performances—her new characters being “Louise” in a bagatelle in one act, called _The Students of Småland_, and “Georgette,” in a drama of five acts, called _Thirty Years of a Gambler’s Life_, which ran for ten nights during November and December; and was constantly repeated in 1834. This early brilliancy was apparently at its very height in 1834—when, on June 24th of that year, a paper, _The Daily Allehanda_, seems quite bewildered by the child’s extraordinary power. “In the play known in its French form as _La fausse Agnès_” (so it writes) “there is a child’s part which is rendered with an almost incomprehensible, a really unnatural cleverness by Jenny Lind.” This cleverness must indeed have been almost incomprehensible: for it leads the critic to indulge in an anxious complaint that the little girl’s “temperament seems readily to lean to everything that is not of a serious character.” So absolutely had she disguised herself by the freedom with which she had thrown herself into her part! All that deep impressive seriousness, which was the innermost note of her being, had absolutely vanished out of sight; and the paper feared for her light-headed frivolity! Yet, in calling, as it does, upon Jenny’s instructors and guardians to see to it that the danger be averted, and that “her happy natural gifts, high-spirited as they are, should be carefully and judiciously dealt with,” the _Daily Allehanda_ was giving proof of a tender and noble solicitude for the good guidance of the child. And it did more. For it goes on to complain of the immoral character of this play, in which she was allowed to appear; it speaks strongly of the deep ethical corruption of the society which it portrayed, and of the responsibility incurred by those who permitted a child to put out her powers in a part so full of “coquetry, boldness, and heartlessness.” It does honour to the Press of Stockholm that it should have made this protest. As we read it, we shudder at the terrible perils which were swarming round the child. Here was a case in which her very innocence of evil, at that tender age, allowed her to revel in the fun and the audacity of such a character, without any of the checks which a knowledge of the villainy in it would have suggested to her pure mind. Her very innocence is used to encourage her to abandon herself to the fling and swing of the scandalous play. So perilous was her path! Yet along it she moves, untainted and unhurt, in the security of the pure in heart, with such sure feet as those with which, on Raphael’s canvas, St. Margaret passes, without an effort or a fear, in maiden gentleness, over the writhing Dragon and through the gate of Hell.

She appeared, altogether, twenty-two times in 1834, and twenty-six times in 1835—the principal new character being “Pierrette,” in a drama from the French in three acts, called _The Foster-Son_, which ran for thirteen nights in the course of the year; and “Leonora” in a vaudeville, with music by Berwald, called _The New Garrison_.

In several of these plays, there seems to have been music and dancing; possibly, too, some singing from Jenny. At any rate, she sang publicly at some concerts in the theatre, during these years; taking part in a duet from _La Straniera_ with her master Herr Berg, on November 24th, 1832; and in a trio, on November 28th, 1835. And long before this there appear to have been performances given, in private rooms, by Herr Berg, in which to exhibit her phenomenal talent, the news of which spread abroad: for, in the _Heimdall_, the periodical from which we have already quoted a description of her acting, there is the following record given, in its number for April 24th, 1832:—

“Her (_i.e._ Jenny’s) remarkable musical gift, and its precocious
development, have made quite a sensation in the circle in which she
has appeared, guided by her master, Herr Berg. Her memory is as
perfect as it is sure; her receptive powers as quick as they are
profound. Every one is, thus, both astonished, and moved, by her
singing. She can stand a trial, in the most difficult _solfeggi_ and
the most intricate phrases, without being bewildered; and whatever
turn the ‘improvisation’ of her master may take, she follows his
indications with the liveliest attention, as if they were her own.
Nothing can be more interesting than to listen to Herr Berg with this
little pupil by his side; and one is tempted to believe in a magnetic
‘rapport’ between them, so entirely do both seem to be one soul and
one heart.

“If this young genius does not ripen too prematurely, there is every
reason for expecting to find in her—although alas! not until the
distant future—an operatic artist of high rank.”

This is a fascinating little glimpse of the child of twelve, absorbed in her teacher, miraculously interpreting and reproducing his mind. Her innate originality of character did not at all stand in the way of her rapid assimilation as a pupil. Her musical genius carried her into the very heart of what was set before it, with extraordinary rapidity of insight. We shall find many instances of this. And, here, it leads us to dwell, for a few moments, on the name of this, her early master.

Berg had succeeded Croelius, as Head of the School of Singing, within a year, or so, after her entry at the theatre. Already, in April, ’32, he had made the child entirely his own, in the manner described in the periodical. Croelius had the merit of first believing in her; but it is Berg, who is to be credited with her entire training for the Swedish stage. He, evidently, took the most intense and devoted interest in her from the very first; and she became the intimate friend of his home. He was a clever and cultivated musician, confident, sanguine, and eager; well considered in Stockholm society. Her own feelings towards her first teacher cannot be better expressed than in the words which she wrote, long afterwards, to her guardian, Judge Munthe, in November, 1849. “Herr Berg arrived so unexpectedly! I was delighted to see him! Oh! God! those memories of childhood! At this unexpected meeting with him, remembrances of all kinds from my early years arose in my soul! We all, indeed, have our shortcomings, that is certain—therefore, let us cover them over! Herr Berg is one of my nearest friends; and gratitude is a feeling that I love, and desire to cultivate.... And old friend Berg is interwoven with the history of my whole life.”

Such, then, was her master; alert, talkative, confident, with a quick-eyed face, not unlike Schubert in type; too pressing, perhaps, in his zeal for his pupil, to estimate the overstrain on her powers—an overstrain, forced on, no doubt, by theatrical necessities behind him, but constantly noticed and feared by the Press of the day.

In 1836, there is no record of Jenny Lind appearing at any concert; but her dramatic engagements continue, and some of them, with music and singing. And, especially is to be noted her first attempt in an opera, during the month of February, when she played “Georgette,” for four nights, in a “grand opera,” by Lindblad, called _Frondörerne_.

Apart from this, the year was not specially signalised; she made rather fewer appearances, only eighteen during the year, her new parts being “Emilie” in a comedy with song from the German, called _The New Blue-Beard_—and “Carolina” in a big drama in five acts of Kotzebue’s, called _The Unknown Son_; and just at the close of December, she took the part of a girl in Sacchini’s opera _Œdipus in Athens_.

The 1st of January, 1837, marks a new departure. According to the contract of 1833, with the mother, the Directors were to decide at what date Jenny Lind should be given a fixed salary, as actress at the Royal Theatre. Hitherto the money paid her by the Directors has been simply an arrangement for her keep; she has performed, on their behalf, under this arrangement one hundred and eleven times, besides her appearances at concerts. It is now considered time to give her a fixed and salaried position, after which she is still bound, by the original contract, to be in the service of the Directors for ten years, if they require it of her. Her salary is fixed at 700 R. D. Banco; about £60 a year.[5] And, certainly, she was to do a lot of work, in the course of the year, in discharge of her obligations under the bond. She appeared ninety-two times on the boards; in twelve new characters. Four of the pieces were produced for the first time in Stockholm. The parts varied greatly in character: “Betty,” in a drama, with music, chorus and dancing, called _Jenny Mortimer_; “Zoe,” in a comedy of that name, by Scribe; and “Marie,” in another of his comedies called _Adèle de Sénanges_; “Justine,” in a verse-comedy of five acts, from the French, called _The Jealous Wife_; “Louise,” in a burlesque comedy, with song, by Nicolo Isouard, called the _The Ludicrous Encounter_; “Rosa,” in a two-act comedy by the Princess Amelia of Saxony, called _The Bride of the Capital_; “Erik,” a boy’s part in a drama, with music and dancing, called _The Fisherman_; “Laura,” in _The Sentinel_, a comic opera by Rifaut; “Fanny,” in _Marie de Sivry_, a drama in three acts. Here was a great deal of bright and light business; and besides this, there was work of a more serious kind: “Emma,” in a three-act tragedy in verse, by Delavigne, called _The Sons of King Edward_; “Clara,” in _The Bride of the Tomb_, an historical drama in five acts, which ran for eight nights on end; “Dafne,” in Victor Hugo’s _Angelo Malipieri_; and “Fräulein Neubrunn,” in _The Death of Wallenstein_. Two performances were given of Mozart’s _Zauberflöte_, in which she sang as “Second Genius.”

Evidently, she had a wide range of characters; and she must have accumulated a mass of dramatic experience. It will be noticed that this is all in her sixteenth and seventeenth years; and this disposes of a familiar rumour that, at that period, her voice entirely failed, and that she had to lie by. There was no positive pause in her work. The year 1836 was, no doubt, one in which she did least; but, then, it was the very year in which she first used her voice in a grand opera. The year 1837 was, as we see, a time of growing, and incessant work, and is the first year of her _official_ engagement. The rumour arose from her own pronounced opinion that it is a time at which a girl’s voice absolutely requires rest; to which opinion she had been brought by her bitter experience of the damage done to her own vocal organs by the absence of this needful relaxation. She ought to have had the repose for quiet and orderly growth, which all need, and which she was not allowed.

Before 1837 quite closed, a noticeable event took place, full of prophetic meaning to our heroine. A new name is becoming important in the operatic world,—the name of Meyerbeer; his fame stands high in Berlin and Paris; and the Royal Theatre is anxious to test the prospects of his popularity in Stockholm. So a concert is arranged, in which a part of the fourth act of _Robert de Normandie_ should be tentatively given. Oddly enough the part of the opera selected for the experiment was one that is not generally given when the work is performed as a whole. It is the scene in which, after a chorus of women, the Princess Isabella recognises the face of the girl, Alice, as she enters; and learns from her what she bears to Roberto from his mother. Four performances of this excerpt were given in the course of that December; and Jenny Lind was chosen to sing the short passage in which “Alice” appears. There is a melodious phrase, twice repeated, in the recitative, and a pathetic cadence at its close. The tradition still lives of the instantaneous effect produced by her on those who heard it. It was a short flight; she just felt her wings; she was to hear much more of Meyerbeer, and of “Alice.” For the moment all is still again. It is but a passing trial. We must wait a little longer.