Chapter V: Discovery

Yet it is to be but a very little longer; for we now come to the year which was, to her, the epoch, the turning-point of her career. It had opened with an immense run, for twenty-two nights, all through January and February, of a French melodrama in two acts, _The American Monkey_, in which she played “Hyacinthe.” Then followed three performances of the serious tragedy, in verse, _The Sons of King Edward_. And then, on the night of March 7th, came the moment of moments. “I got up, that morning, one creature:” she herself often said; “I went to bed another creature. I had found my power!” And, all through her life, she kept the 7th of March with a religious solemnity; she would ask to have herself remembered on it with prayers; she treated it as a second birthday. And rightly; for, on that day, she woke to herself; she became artistically alive; she felt the inspiration, and won the sway, which she now knew it was given her to have and to hold.

She achieved this in the character of “Agatha” in Weber’s _Freischütz_.

She used often to tell how, in studying this part in preparation for her _début_, with Madame Erikson, one of the chief leaders and teachers in the school, of whom she was very fond, and who did much for her, she, one day when they two were alone, was seized with a desire to satisfy her teacher, and put her whole soul and power into her portrayal of the character—only to be met with dead silence. “Am I, then, so incapable and so stupid?” she thought, till she saw the tears trickling down her teacher’s face; and all Madame Erikson could say was, “My child, I have nothing to teach you; do as Nature tells you!”

The day of her _début_ was an agony; but, with her first note, she felt all fear and nervousness disappear. She had discovered herself; and, certainly, the discovery was absolute. The experience of that night was final. “She had found her power.” That is her own record of what happened on that evening. She who was perfectly accustomed to a public audience, and to the applause of a public audience, still felt that all this success had never shown her the real potency which it was in her to wield. Still, for her, that 7th of March was a disclosure, a revelation, a new thing. It was not so much a better edition of that which had preceded it. It was a step out into a new world of dominion. She knew, at last, where it was that she stood; and what she was to do on the earth. She learned something of her mission. For, to her religious mind, the discovery of a gift was the discovery of a mission. She saw the responsibility with which she was charged, through the mere possession of such a power over men. The singer, with the gift from God—that is what she became on that night. “She went to bed a new creature.”

The memory of that eventful moment remained permanently recorded in the shape of two silver candlesticks, presented to her by the Directors of the Royal Theatre, “in remembrance of March the 7th,” so the inscription ran. It was the first of the many tributes that were made her in her life; and it had, as such, a peculiar value which no after-gift could exceed. She held those silver candlesticks in special affection; and left them, at her death, to her daughter.

The _Freischütz_ was given nine times in the course of 1838; but, for most of the year, she returned to her old parts which she had already played, appearing in melodrama, comedy, and burlesque. In all, she had made, for her salary of £60, seventy-three appearances.

In 1839, her success bore its fruit in a rise of the salary to 900 R. D. Banco. She appeared, in the course of the year, only fifty-three times; but, perhaps, this is to be explained, by the growing importance of her operatic parts, and the gradual dropping of the light comedy characters in which she had figured hitherto. She sang the part of “Laura” in an opera called _Le Château de Montenero_, by Dalayrac. She repeated “Agatha” four times. She appeared in a character which she greatly enjoyed, and in after years frequently repeated—that of “Julia” in Spontini’s _Vestale_.

But the event of the year was her appearance in her traditional part of “Alice” in _Roberto_, by which she was destined to win her most memorable triumphs. It was a character in which her splendid dramatic power fused itself with her gifts of voice, so as to leave an indelible impression of force and of beauty on the imagination of those who saw and heard. It was a part which drew on her own vivid personality, with its intensity of faith, with its horror of sin, with its passionate and chivalrous purity.

She opened, in this part, on May 10th and, evidently, with overwhelming effect; for she has to play it for twenty-three times before the year is out, and to repeat it for twenty-three more, in the following year. It is on “Alice” that the interest is concentrated, in Stockholm drawing-rooms, when Jenny Lind’s name is announced as a guest. She will have to sing the part sixty times on those same boards before she has done, between the 10th of May on which she first sang it, and the 30th of December, 1843, when she will give her last performance of it in the Royal Theatre.

Bournonville, a distinguished composer of operatic ballets, in Copenhagen, of whom we shall hear more later on, writes in his ‘Theatrical Life’ of this performance:—

“She was only eighteen when I first heard her, but had already so
eminent a talent, that her performance of ‘Alice’ could be compared to
the best I had seen and heard in Paris. Although her voice had not yet
reached the high development it afterwards attained, it already
possessed, even then, the same sympathy, the same electric power,
which now makes it so irresistible. She was worshipped.”

The year 1839 was marked by several appearances at concerts in the Royal Theatre; and on May 12th, she gave her first great concert on her own behalf. At this, she sang a recitative with aria, from _Anna Bolena_, and in a duet by Mercadante: besides giving a scena from the second act of the _Freischütz_.

Not only at Stockholm did she sing. We find her at Upsala on the 19th June, giving a concert in her own name, in connection with the great Whitsuntide festivities, of which that university town is, annually, the scene. Here, for the first time, she had the fascinating triumph of an escort home, accompanied by the Students’ Song. And here, too, is the first note of danger given, as to the strain that is being put on her voice. Evidently, her inner genius is already beating against the bars of her technical skill. In her “strivings after perfection” she is attempting more than her present knowledge and training enable her to express. She “surpasses the limits” which, according to the paper, “Nature has set”; though, indeed, it was not “Nature,” but the lack of knowledge, which had set the limits. It is just about this time, in May, 1840, that the famous Swedish historian Geijer, who was a most sympathetic admirer, notices “a certain inequality in her acting” in the part of “Lucia.” Something there was, which was, as yet, missing to her full development. Here is the interesting extract from the _Correspondenten_, a journal of politics and literature, in which the tone of warning or alarm is so gracefully struck.

“We could hardly name any musical treat, given in Upsala, which has
met with a more general appreciation than Fröken Jenny Lind’s concert,
last Sunday.... The modest bearing which is so noticeable in this
gifted singer contributes, in no mean measure, to enhance the
enthusiastic reception, with which she will always be greeted by an
impartial public. But she herself, and those who, in one way or
another, are disposing of her talents, ought to bear in mind that an
artist’s strivings after perfection can, in the case of a delicate
physique, easily become a devouring fire. May we err in our
conjecture, but there seems to be some foundation for the fear that
this enchanting voice not rarely surpasses the limits which Nature
itself has suggested. From here Fröken Lind, according to report, went
to Gothenburg, having, however, promised to visit us again, later on.”

At Gothenburg, Jenny Lind had a most delightful rest for the summer. She stayed there all July, singing indeed at a concert now and again, but without any serious work, and in hearty enjoyment of the delicious open-air country-life which was so near her heart. Her mother is with her, and writes to Mr. Lind on July 12th, 1839, a vivid account of the pleasant days, in which we can feel how the public excitement is working round Jenny, who “receives many visits every day from all possible artists and amateurs.”

“In my last letter I gave you an account of our pleasant journey, etc.
We have now settled down temporarily at the sweetest little spot,
called ‘Gubbero,’ belonging to the Russian Consul Lang, whose chief
property is separated only by a garden from our lodgings which consist
of three furnished rooms with ante-room. Our Jenny recruits herself
daily, now in the haystacks, now on the sea or in the swing, in
perfect tranquillity, while the town people are said to be longing for
her concert and greatly wondering when it will come off. Once or twice
she has been singing in rather good circles, the divine air of
‘Isabelle’ from _Robert le Diable_. Nearly everybody was crying—one
lady actually went into hysterics from sheer rapture; this has got
abroad already. Yes, _mon petit vieux_, she captivates all, all! It is
a great happiness to be a mother under such conditions. She sends
fondest love to her papa, wishing from all her heart to meet you in
quite good health. About the 20th, Jenny will give her first concert—
everyone says she ought to raise the usual price.”

The last touch is as eminently characteristic of Fru Lind as it is unlike her daughter. We find the same note again in an amusing bit of disappointed complaint with which she closes a most pretty account of a surprise which they had had, earlier in the year—an account which we insert here, not only as a graphic story of the way in which Jenny was responding to the buzz of popular enthusiasm which already began to besiege her, but also, as illustrating what Fru Lind here notices, of Jenny’s power to draw tears of joy, by her singing. Ever in her voice rang the sympathetic vibration, at which tears flow. As it had been at her earliest interview with old Croelius at nine years old, so it is now with this old Baron, when she is all but nineteen.

“Do you know,” writes the mother from Stockholm, on the evening of
Feb. 22, 1839, “the other day we had a curious visit, a certain Baron
de G——, an old _gentilhomme_, who had travelled all the way from his
country-seat, with the hope of seeing and hearing Jenny in the
_Freischütz_, but he was disappointed, through a change of
performance, owing to Almlöf’s indisposition. Randel[6] (whose patron
this man is) undertook to forward, in the most delicate way, his
request to me and to our Jenny, that he might call upon us and be
allowed to hear, ever so little, the voice of the adored one, so
highly spoken of in his own part of the country. Jenny agreed, and so
they came—Randel, Baron de G——, and his son. Little Jenny was liberal,
the noble aspect of the old man prepossessed her in his favour, she
sang both her grand airs. The old man was delighted, and this was
clearly visible, because he could not keep back his tears. Our little
home looked particularly neat, and chocolate was served, and they
parted with us, quite charmed. But probably it ends there! For who
rewards talent in our country; even when people are ever so rich?” And
“what,” she asks in this same letter, “has this good, this
incomparable Jenny for her increased labour? Not even the advantage of
providing for her indispensable wants, without incurring debt! But I
say, like you, ‘Come day, comes counsel’; we shall see.”

These characteristic passages, which we have quoted to illustrate the stir of fame that is moving about the daughter, will well serve to explain a domestic crisis which we are now approaching—a crisis which had, for its issue, an event that told deeply upon Jenny Lind’s artistic development. For, indeed, as we read them, we cannot but be conscious that this mother, proud as she is of her wonderful child, and delighting in the glow of her success, yet lets drop expressions which reveal the gulfs that gape between the two temperaments. Every one who reads can understand why it was that, in spite of the pleasant and affectionate intercourse of these summer holidays at Gothenburg, there was something which would make mother and child impossible companions for one another. This practical and determined mind which was bent on acquiring the just profits that were due from a public that talked so enthusiastically about “our incomparable Jenny”—how it must have offended the primary instincts of the artist herself! How was it conceivable that she should tolerate this insistent voice in her ear, suggesting always how easy it would be to raise the price of the tickets; while she was, on the other hand, shaping steadily, into clearer vision, her recognition of her gift as a charge from God, to be used in His service, for the help of mankind? There might be much affection, at heart, between the pair, but companionship, there could not be. They had antagonistic consciences: and neither of them had a nature that easily yields. This very letter from which we have been quoting contains a most characteristic instance of the temper of which we are speaking—a temper which was bound to fill a house with the noise of clash and quarrel, such as would be misery to one who needed in her home shelter, softness, refuge, ease, and peace. Here is the story:—

“I must tell you” (she writes) “that I have just returned from the
theatre with rather a long face to find that no seat is accorded to
Jenny’s mother, although there still were empty seats, and, besides,
the performance had already begun. M——, with his insinuating smile,
asked me to wait on the chance of there being room after the second
piece had begun. But I answered, ‘As no place is accorded me, I shall
go without altogether,’ and so I left. Z—— is always overbearing and
rude. This is the gratitude we get for our leniency with these people.
Jenny, on hearing of this misadventure, went straight up to Z——, and
gave him to understand her annoyance at my not having a seat. His
answer, that there could not be room for everybody’s mother, was just
like him; but Jenny’s remark on this took him a little down; a
messenger was despatched to offer me a seat on the first tier; but, to
Jenny’s surprise, mother was gone—and best so!”

This episode is amusing enough; and, moreover, no one who knew the daughter can resist the recognition of qualities in her which vividly recall the mother in this most characteristic scene. Certainly they bore likeness to one another. But, then, this would only make matters worse. We cannot be surprised if such an atmosphere became intolerable, and if explosions occurred.

So it was that, towards the end of 1839, Jenny took the decisive step which, finally, separated her from actual home-life. It came about with a certain touch of humour. She had, some time before this, pressed her old friend, Louise Johansson, now engaged in a _Magasin de Modes_, to take a spare room, which was to be let in the Linds’ house. This secured her a companionship which she greatly valued, and, through which, things were tolerable. After a year Fru Lind proposed to raise her terms: and, when Mdlle. Louise could not agree to this, she lost her temper, and declared that both Jenny and she were welcome to leave her roof.

This was told to a well-to-do relation, Mdlle. Apollonia Lindskog, known to Jenny as “Tante Lona,” living with a sister of Mr. Lind’s father, Fru Strömberg, who, having adopted Mr. Lind at his father’s death, was called by Jenny “Grandmother.” These two ladies agreed to receive the exiles: but how were they to manage the transfer? In this way. Jenny packed all her clothes into a large wash-basket on the plea that they were to go to the dressmaker. She, then, invited her parents to a performance of _Roberto_, in which she played “Alice”: during which time Louise put up her things, and sent them off to Mdlle. Lindskog. Next morning, at breakfast, Louise announced that she wished to leave her present lodgings. Fru Lind, with much heat, broke out into her old phrase, and declared that if so, she might take Jenny with her. Jenny, then, took her at her word; and left the house, going, first, to Herr Berg, and, then, joining Louise at Mdlle. Lindskog’s. Her parents appeared there, to claim her: but found themselves unable to force a girl of nineteen from the house of so near a relation. Yet Jenny, in fear that they might yet succeed, on a Sunday shortly after, left the house, escorted by her maid Annette, and turned her steps towards the Bonde Palace, close to the theatre, overlooking the Norrström, in which lived the famous musician, Adolf Frederik Lindblad, the chief of Swedish songwriters, her warm admirer, and friend. Into his family she was received: she found in Madame Lindblad a second mother: and from Herr Lindblad himself, and from the society into which he brought her, she inhaled an influence which affected her entire development, artistic, intellectual, and moral. Of this, we shall have more to say in the following chapter. In his house she remained until her final departure for Paris in July, 1841. Back to rooms in that house she came on her return to Stockholm in 1842. There was her home. There she could rest at peace. There she found the sympathy, the understanding, the inspiration, which her nature ardently needed. Though in some points endowed with a “Finnish” stubbornness, she was, in others, singularly self-distrustful, uncertain, easily unnerved. She greatly needed an atmosphere of affection to give her confidence and security. She was passionately domestic; she must have the assurance of love about her, to save her from the miseries of suspicion and of distrust, into which her lofty idealism was very apt to lapse. It was not that she did not have affection for her parents: on the contrary, she held them very deep in her heart. But it was impossible for them to enter into her motives and aims.

So it happened: and Jenny, now, could at last bring together her life into a single whole. Her daily surroundings were no longer in collision with her artistic inspiration. Rather, they aided, fed, succoured it. Her spirit breathed an air that was congenial and bracing: her heart found warmth and nourishment in the cherishing kindliness of a family. The year must have been a happy one. It was full of success. It opened with a brilliant continuation of her “Alice,” in January, to be repeated in April, and all through November. She sang, again, in her former parts of “Agatha,” “Euryanthe,” “Pamina,” “Julia” (the _Vestale_), and “Marie,” in Herold’s operatic drama of that name. All is now opera: not a single one of her old comedy parts does she play. She adds to her score two important characters—“Donna Anna,” in _Don Juan_; and “Lucia,” in _Lucia di Lammermoor_. This last part, one of her famous _rôles_, had a furore. She introduced it into Stockholm on May 16th, and played it for twenty-eight nights in the year. It was after her thirteenth performance of “Lucia,” that, on June 19th, 1840, a number of the actors, together with members of the orchestra and chorus, gathered before her dressing-room and serenaded her; and, on her return home, she was presented with a silver tea and coffee service, which was ever highly valued by her, and was left, by specific direction in her will, to her eldest son. The donors appeared in gala costume, among them being his Excellency Count J. G. de la Gardie, Count Carl de Geer, Count Carl Axel Löwenhjelm, Count Gustaf Trolle Bonde, etc., etc. Lindblad’s eldest daughter, now Mme. Lotten von Feilitzen, remembers well how Jenny Lind had to go to the window, after receiving the present, to wave her handkerchief to the crowd that had collected below in the street. Altogether, she made sixty-nine appearances.

Two special events may be finally noticed. First, she goes again, at Whitsuntide, to Upsala; and we have a letter of Geijer, written at the time, which speaks of the intense interest of Lindblad in his charge.

“Lindblad, who in the general enchantment is particularly enchanted
with Mdlle. Lind, was also here and staying with us. He left this
morning, upon which Upsala may be likened to a barrel from which the
bottom has been taken out, so that the contents run away.”

And our old paper, the _Correspondenten_, has some graceful words which we cannot but insert, for, besides the warm and intelligent enthusiasm of its praise, it uses the symbol of the nightingale, which became afterwards her familiar patronymic.

“But, in addition to Nature’s beautiful singing-birds, there came,
flying thither on Whitsun eve, a nobler nightingale, the famous Jenny
Lind, whose arrival many a one has heartily looked forward to. For,
indeed, she has been the object of a homage such as, in its truest
form, can be given only in a city of culture and of youth. True, it is
in the first place a great, an extraordinary talent one admires in
her; but how infinitely is the value of this artistic power increased
by the unpretending, modest, charming manner, in which it presents
itself to an enraptured listener! With her all seems Nature, simple
and glorious, so as to make one forget what great influence Art has
also exercised on her development. It is by this harmonious
combination of a noble nature and art, that Fröken Jenny Lind in every
respect stands out as of exceptional and unalloyed worth.”

So goes the judgment of Sweden. It embodies exactly the constant impression which, year after year, in far lands abroad, she is to create. Somehow or other, wherever she is to go, and whatever her triumphs in Denmark, Germany, England, and America, no one can succeed in recording his experience without arriving at this very identical conclusion of the Upsala periodical. Always he finds himself saying, that “great and extraordinary as is the talent which one admires in her, how infinitely is the value of this artistic power increased by the modest and charming manner in which it offers itself to the enraptured listener!” That is it. That is what everyone feels, and what everyone tries to say. It is this especial interest of her singing to which we propose to devote the following chapter. Here we pause for a moment in our narrative of her early dramatic career, and take note of where we stand. We have followed her from the lowest rung of the ladder—a tiny mite in the theatre-school, performing its first miraculous feats—to the high platform on to which she has passed, in secure possession of unqualified supremacy on her native stage. Nothing has interrupted or broken this sure progress. It has been a steady upward movement towards its final bewildering triumph. As a child, she had fascinated by her acting; as a singer, her very first _début_ had been to her an immediate and unmistakable revelation of her supreme powers. Her nation have greeted her with acclamation. Their enthusiasm for her voice can only be outdone by their enthusiasm for herself. So it is, as we look back along the road she has travelled. Her troubles have all been domestic. As an artist, her career has been unchecked and unclouded. She might well think that she had, at twenty, already touched the summit. All the world about her was ready to assure her that it was so. How little she herself thought so, we shall soon see.

But, before doing so, we are bound to stop and review the personal character, which had developed under these conditions. What type of person was the Jenny Lind of whom all Sweden was now talking?