Chapter VI: Character

There are artists, in whom their art is so predominant, that, like a despotism, it concentrates all efforts and capacities upon itself. The man is absorbed within his main interest. Through it alone does he find energetic vent. In it he verifies the attributes of genius: he gives evidence of something in him which is surpassingly excellent: but, outside its ring-fence, in all the other departments of life and character, he shows himself as ordinary, and unremarkable as the rest of us. His artistic genius does not flow over, and animate, his other sensibilities, and gifts: it abides in itself: and seems, even, to drain originality out of all rival channels; so that we might think the man commonplace, and dull, until we saw him transfigured and illuminated in the exercise of his own peculiar talent. This is a perfectly possible type of genius: and, because it exists, men are loud in asserting the proverbial disappointment often felt at meeting, in society, some one who has been, through his gift, the inspiration of their lives. In the ordinary affairs with which all are concerned, this glorious hero, this poet, this musician, with whose fame the world is ringing, shows no particular power, has no especial facility, may, indeed, prove himself inferior in judgment and in insight to many a man who prides himself on making no claim to be a genius. More especially, in the field of executive art, involving curious and special facilities of organization, we may expect to come across such surprises as this.

All the more noticeable then is it, that, in the case of Jenny Lind, the surprise is all the other way. There is a universal consent, in all who record her influence, that what they experienced was the effect of a character whose genius penetrated every corner of her being, so that her unique gift of song appeared but as an incidental illustration of the originality which was everywhere in her. Even those who felt her singing most profoundly, felt ever as she sang, that she was more than her singing: while those whose lack of musical perception made them impervious to her special talent, experienced as much as any the full fascination of her personality. This impression of her belongs to her early, as well as to her after, years; and it cannot be better given than in an expressive phrase, used long after our present date, indeed, but which vividly and exactly embodies what was already so characteristic of her. “After all, I would rather hear Jenny talk, than sing, wonderful as that is,” writes Mrs. Stanley, the wife of the Bishop of Norwich, to her sister, Mrs. Augustus Hare, in September, 1847, after a rapturous account of what her singing had been. Surely, a most striking remark to make. The phrase exactly embodies the feeling that Jenny Lind was, not less, but more, than her Art. What men saw, and found in her was, not that a common piece of the stuff of human nature had been caught up, by the artistic inspiration, into some unspeakable heaven, and been transfigured by some sudden and strange glory which carried the human spirit beyond itself. No! rather they felt that here was a character of supreme value, of unique excellence, which had contrived to find its way down into the world’s scenery, through the particular channel provided for it by song. Music gave it its chief opportunity for discovering itself to men; but it itself stood above the Art which it used as its finest medium of communication. Hence the intensity of spiritual interest, which greeted her singing. Men seemed to themselves not so much to be listening to a voice, as to be catching sight, through the door which music opened, of a high and pure soul, moving down to them, through the pathway of song, out of some far untainted home of purity and joy. It was this soul which they greeted with such amazement, such warmth; it was its felt presence which made the tears start, always, to their eyes as they listened. It was Jenny Lind herself, who, by means of her wonderful gift, was the revelation to them of the heights which it was still open to men to attain.

And, because this was so, we desire, both in the present chapter, and in chapters to come, to dwell, especially, on the _social_ impression produced by her, wherever she went. This book, it is true, is a memoir of Jenny Lind as the artist. But as she was one of those whose art reveals a character behind it, out of which its own excellence is drawn; so it would be impossible to represent the effect of Jenny Lind, as an artist, without making it continually clear what it was which Mrs. Stanley meant when she said in 1847, “After all, I would rather hear Jenny talk than sing,” or, as she wrote again in the same year: “Her singing is the least part of her charm; she has the simplicity of genius.”

We shall have frequent occasion, as our story proceeds, to call attention to this significant characteristic; as, for instance, to note that wherever she goes, over the cities of Europe, she is, somehow, always found to be staying in the house of someone who is of special, and even European, reputation. Men of this high stamp seem, always, to foregather with her; she has the entry; she finds her home with them. And, again, in her own city of Stockholm, where the circumstances of her life, with which we are familiar, might be expected to stand somewhat in her way, and where there was, necessarily, so much, in her bringing up, which would make it difficult for her to break down social barriers, nothing is more remarkable than her complete acceptance, before she has passed her girlhood, not only into those circles where details of birth and position are supposed to be of vital importance, but what is far more, into those high literary intimacies where nothing but character counts.

Let us give illustrations of this. Here is a most graceful and brilliant picture of a soirée in Stockholm in 1839, which we cannot but give as a whole. It is perfectly trustworthy, being the record of a lady, still living, in whose old home the scene took place. Evidently, as all who read it must feel, the impression of that marked evening stamped itself upon the girl’s brain, so that every detail stood out sharp and clear, when, in 1887, nearly fifty years later, she wrote out the sketch. Here is the account:—

“It is a cold winter’s evening in the year 1839. In the house of 11
Regeringsgatan chandeliers and lustres are gradually being lit. Along
the street is stopping a row of closed carriages, which, each in its
turn, drive up to the entrance. Footmen in livery open the
carriage-doors and smart women, followed by men in uniform, get out
cautiously and disappear through the porch of the faintly illuminated
passage.

“In the first _salon_, where various musical instruments are seen,
they are received by the host, Baron L——, an elderly man, with noble
features, shaded by silver-grey hair, of dignified deportment, and an
air of kindliness and refinement about him generally. Passing through
a smaller ante-chamber, the guests now proceed to the great,
half-round _salon_, where the hostess is awaiting them. She is a tiny
little lady, about thirty, youthful in her movements, with expressive
eyes and a smile of great fun as well as of courtesy, round her lips.”
After describing the arrival of the guests, the account goes on.

“All of a sudden, the whispering becomes louder, changing tone
altogether, while every head is directed towards the ante-chamber.

“On the threshold stands the host and by his side, shaking hands with
him, a young girl, with an abundance of curls round the pale cheeks; a
gown in simple style softly clings round the maiden figure, and there
is a dreamy, half-absent, and fascinating look in the deep-set eyes.

“The hum is increasing still more when the old nobleman leads the
visitor into the midst of his guests; but he has not time to pronounce
her name, it is already on everybody’s lips, and is now flying round
the room with a subdued sound: _Jenny Lind! Jenny Lind!_

“The beauties of the season are forgotten, and, what is more, they
forget all about themselves.

“A singular liveliness is breathing through the hitherto rather formal
company. The hostess attracts both young and old to her animated
conversation with the honoured guest; and every one is gratified who
catches a word or a look from this Jenny Lind who, for the last few
weeks, has, as ‘Alice’ in _Robert le Diable_ and ‘Agatha’ in the
_Freischütz_, captivated and enchanted both themselves and the whole
Stockholm public.

“Somewhat monosyllabic, at the start, amongst all these strangers, the
guest begins, by-and-by, to shake off her reserve. She smiles an
incredulous smile when one of _la jeunesse dorée_ compares her to ‘la
divine Malibran,’ and laughs openly at some old general’s grotesque
flattery. To a sentimental inquiry as to what heavenly thoughts had
filled her mind when, the preceding evening, she had, as ‘Alice,’
embraced the cross, she answered, a little hesitatingly: ‘I believe I
was thinking of my old bonnet.’ But, wherever she encounters genuine
and deeper understanding in the compliments uttered, her answers are
sympathetic, almost humble.

“How the gay party went on, and how Jenny Lind sang the ‘Lieder’ of
Geijer and Lindblad as they never were, nor ever more will be sung—we
must here only glance at. And further how the host and hostess were
obliged to check the too eager wishes of their friends to hear more
and ever more—in order to show that the object of the invitation had
been the personal acquaintance of the charming artist, not only the
enjoyment of her song, lovely though it be. That Jenny Lind was
satisfied with her evening, and, in this _milieu_, found several of
her most enthusiastic and faithful admirers, is quite certain. And, as
she was the first operatic singer received in the best society of the
capital, in which she became a dear and honoured guest, it has seemed
of some interest to preserve a few details of her appearance in this
domain.

“In the memory of the writer of this paper, Jenny Lind stands out a
unique apparition, like no one else, simple, unpretending, but
dignified—penetrated by a sort of sacred responsibility for her
mission—the mission of Art in its lofty purity—which she felt that God
had confided to her.”

The last touches of this graphic record will serve to justify our insistence on this social aspect of Jenny Lind’s life; and to redeem our motives from the suspicion of any unworthy interest in these formalities of society. For it is just through this lofty sense of artistic mission that she took her place amid her fellows. As at Stockholm, so everywhere, it is this, her spiritual sense of responsibility, which gave her social distinction, and carried her, in dignified ease, through these surroundings. It was this, which secured her that aspect of independence, of detachment, which is so vital, if an artist is to preserve moral dignity, in face of a “society” which is too apt to flatter itself that it is doing a favour to those to whom it kindly permits an entry, and which is encouraged in this self-flattery, if the artist is obviously grateful for the attention. Nobody could see Mdlle. Lind for two seconds, and suspect her of any such flattery. She moved about “like an apparition”: like one “with a mission”: charged with a serious responsibility. That is her social character: that is her note, her charm, as this paper beautifully records: and this made all touch of over-deference to external position absolutely impossible to her. No one could mistake that free independence: that moral “detachment.” Indeed, criticism on her social qualities would turn on the very opposite defect to that at which we have been hinting. It might be said that this spiritual aloofness gave a sense of haughtiness to her manner in public, and with those who were not intimate. There was a “hold-off” look—a drawing away, a critical survey of a new-comer, which made many an introduction to her, in after years, a moment of supreme agony to those who had, perhaps, dreamed of that happiness for hours and days before, but who, now that it had come, and that she was looking them over with a cold and lofty gaze, could only pray that the earth might yawn and swallow them up, before things had gone any further. It was a severe ordeal: and, unquestionably, no worldly rank or position would have the slightest effect in modifying its severity.

Again, this spiritual attitude of one “charged with a mission,” made “Society” most distasteful to her. She hated its frivolous distractions, its social pettiness, its wearisome routine. She liked “intimates.” And “Society,” therefore, in admitting her, never felt that it had done her a great kindness, or that she hung on its favours. Rather, it knew that something was there in her, which made all social distinctions become very small matters indeed. For the standards, which her presence forced to the front, were not “social,” but moral and spiritual: and it was impossible to have intercourse with her, without becoming conscious of this: and, tried by those standards, it was she who brought the honour, not society which conferred it.

In this temper of moral independence, she passed up, out of the struggles and clouds of her childhood, into the full sunlight of success, with absolute ease, without a shadow of encumbering consciousness, without a breath of worldliness ever crossing her spirit. She retained, without even an effort, all her inherent and native simplicity, her freshness, her undaunted sincerity. Never did she slacken, for a moment, her demand that the worth of men should be estimated, wholly and utterly, according to their moral value. Never, for one instant, did the mists of conventionalism dim her vision, or confuse her insight. She had one set of balances; and one only. She never even seems to have been tempted to exchange them. Swept up, in the sudden rush of an overwhelming success, out of obscurity into the company and the friendship of princes and kings, this girl, in her simple-hearted virginity, kept a conscience as true and fine as steel. Failings of another type might be laid to her charge. She could be hasty and hard, sometimes, in her judgments. She was liable to misunderstand people. She had vehement impulses, and equally vehement reactions, which were apt to gain for her, from those who knew her little, the character of capricious fitfulness. She could magnify slight lapses into great sins. A certain spiritual haughtiness there was in her; a certain suspicion of the motives on which she, by bitter experience, learned that men too often act. All this might be said. But one thing it was for ever impossible, even for an enemy, to imagine: that Jenny Lind ever condescended to lower the steady standards by which she tested all human worth, high or low, rich or poor. Thus it was that she secured, as we shall hear, “a homage” from the best society in Stockholm, which was quite peculiar in its type. “Homage!” that is the very word to express what it was that was given her. One feels it, in the delightful refusal of the lady of the house, in the sketch just given, to ask her to sing again, lest she should seem to have been invited for her singing, and not for her personal qualities. It was this complete acceptance of her, in her own independent character, which worked a real and lasting change in the social respect given to actors and actresses in Stockholm, by which the difficulties that had stood hitherto in their way disappeared. And this absolute sincerity of character which won her this homage as a girl of nineteen, remained so entirely untouched to the last, that every gesture and every look, recorded in that graceful portrait of her behaviour on her earliest _début_, is familiar to those who only knew her in the latter years of her English life. That is the very lady whom they knew: every phrase recalls her. They can see her, as she stands there, at the entry of the _salon_, when the old nobleman is receiving her: rather monosyllabic, at first; and, then as she shakes off her reserve, responding, to any genuine speech, with a sympathy that is “almost humble.” They can feel her as she bends and smiles incredulously, at the pretty compliments paid her by the young men: they can positively hear her laugh as the old generals come up to fumble out their “grotesque flattery”: they can catch the very ring of her voice, and the very look in her arch eyes, as she puts off the inquiries as to the nature of her secret thoughts when clasping the cross in the scene from _Roberto_, with the mock-serious confession that “she was thinking of her old bonnet!” “A unique apparition, like no one else; simple, unpretending, dignified!” How much the words recall! How many a similar scene was embodied in them! To the very last hour of her life, they would have been the only possible description of her. Surely, a singular force of sincerity lay in her, which could make that early picture of her so speak to those who saw and loved her forty years after, as if it were alive with her very presence and instinct with her very tones!

And here, as we speak of her social effect, it is necessary to touch upon her personal appearance. Yet how useless it seems! No words can be used which will not convey a wrong or exaggerated impression to those who never saw her: and to those who have seen and known her, no words are necessary. Her features were strong, and homely: of a usual Swedish type, we believe: very pliable, and expressive, especially about the nose and the mouth; and it was this expressive pliability, which allowed such strange and delicious transformation to pass over her face, as it changed from repose to action. At the start, you would pronounce it plain; but, then, it lent itself to express, in a peculiar degree, the winning simplicity and freshness of girlhood. It was full of animation, and into it, moreover, there ever passed the singular grace of her “pose” and her movements. It was a face which it was delightful to watch. It could express everything with a graphic intensity that made one laugh from pure joy. It could brim over with fun: it had an irresistible archness, when she was amused: it was capable of an almost awful solemnity: and it could, when she was suspicious and on her guard, become absolutely stony. A transparent countenance, indeed, on which every emotion revealed itself with unqualified spontaneity. It was the ever-changing mirror of her soul, and therefore became charged with interest: a speaking face, which could captivate by its overflowing vitality, until it became delightful to observe, and to remember, for its own sake; and this illumination from within, combined as it was, with the buoyant movements which filled her whole body, gave her, both off and on the stage, whenever she was animated, that positive charm, that personal fascination, which is associated, generally, with beauty.

She was five feet three to four inches in height: but she held her head so erect and had trained herself so carefully in standing and walking that she appeared to be taller.

All the portraits taken of her, take notice of the fine mould of her arms, and especially, of their characteristic position, in repose, with her hands clasped on her lap. In the Stockholm days, she wore her hair in bunches of curls at each side of the forehead, as is the case in Södermark’s portrait of her, painted in 1843, which she had in her own possession. About the year 1844, she seems to have adopted for herself, that wavy droop of the hair, laid down low about her ears, which became so familiar and noticeable a mark of her appearance, that it alone sufficed to make a likeness resemble her.

The main elements of her character, as of her type of countenance, were radically national. She was a downright and typical Swede. She was fond of dwelling on the artistic capacities of her people, to whom she owed her own quick sensibilities, her alert and receptive imagination, her vivacity of temperament. She believed them to have all the artist’s possibilities in them, with all the attendant perils. And, in view of these perils to which all such gifted natures must be liable, it is remarkable that she should have included within this national groundwork of her character, a profound moral stability, a depth of seriousness, such as would be rare in any race; and, moreover, with this she had a persistence, a stubbornness, which, among Scandinavian races, is traditionally attributed to the Finn. And if she had the vivacity of her people, she inherited also from it the strong, passionate feelings, and affections, which make the home-relationships, in Sweden, so rooted and so deep; and, also, that undertone of melancholy, into which such artistic sensitiveness is prone to react,—an undertone, which seems to creep, like the sighing of a wounded spirit, out of the black heart of Swedish pine-woods, and to hover over the wide surfaces of her inland waters. Such notes of pathos underlie the songs of her people: and she was a true Swede when she wrote of herself, “When I am alone, you have no idea how different I am—so happy, yet so melancholy that tears are rolling down my cheeks unceasingly.”

This personal impression, which we have faintly suggested, told, as we have said, not only upon the higher social circles of Stockholm, but also upon the literary and cultured society, where, again, she formed affectionate intimacies with the few, and the best.

Of those two names must yet be mentioned, which embody a special interest in her life.

First, A. F. Lindblad, the famous song-writer. We have seen into what close contact they had been drawn. In his house she found a refuge, and a home, through which she was brought into constant contact with the higher culture of the Swedish capital. Lindblad was born in 1801, and studied music in Berlin, under Zelter: and also in Paris, between 1825–27, after which he returned to Stockholm and lived there until 1864, when he moved to near Linköping. His renown rests, chiefly, on his songs.

“They are eminently national, and full of grace and originality,
tinged, with the melancholy which is characteristic of Swedish music.
In short songs, in which extreme simplicity is of the essence of their
charm, his success has been most conspicuous.”[7]

There can be no doubt that Jenny Lind’s intimacy with Lindblad had an immense influence on her musical development. Besides the vital effect of his personality, she heard at his house all the best instrumental music of the great composers then flourishing: it was there that she was first introduced to the music of Mendelssohn,—especially to the _Songs without Words_, which had, just at that time, taken Europe by storm. She wrote herself, in 1882, after having read, a biography of Lindblad, by Professor Nyblom:—

“I have to thank him (Lindblad) for that fine comprehension of art
which was implanted by his idealistic, pure, and unsensual nature into
me, his ready pupil. Subsequently Christianity stepped in, to satisfy
the moral needs, and to teach me to look well into my own soul. Thus
it became to me, both as an artist and as a woman, a higher
chastener.”

So she described her spiritual progress, looking back to the influence of Lindblad as anticipatory of that yet deeper hold of the meaning of Art which was given her under the later dominance of the full Christian ideal. Not only did she repay, in counterinfluence, all the attention that Lindblad concentrated upon her, but also, she by her singing, carried the fame of his songs all over Europe. And still, in long after years, in England, in hours of lonely quiet, or at times when she was depressed and needed comfort, she would sit at the piano and “croon” over to herself those songs of Lindblad’s, which had in them so many memories—memories that had passed into her very being, of far days in the old country, when those sounds, so saturated with the inspiration of her home, were first in her ears, and she was tasting the spring sweetness of her fresh young powers.

And, secondly, we must mention the great name of Erik Gustaf Geijer, a man at the very summit of Swedish literature. Born in 1783, he became Professor of History at the University of Upsala in 1816, where his lectures had unexampled popularity. In spite of the offer of a bishopric, Professor he still remained, planning the great history of Sweden, of which his introduction was a masterpiece of skill and knowledge: and producing various historical works. He was much occupied with political and economical speculations; and for thirty years continued to be one of the chiefs of the Swedish literary world. He died on April 23, 1847. Besides his historical and political work, he had a real talent for music; and published a volume of songs, of which Lindblad wrote a famous account.[8] Through music, he crossed the path of Jenny Lind; and in her he took a most warm interest.

“Jenny and I have become very good friends,” he writes in January,
1840. “I call her ‘Thou,’ and she calls me ‘Uncle.’ She is a simple
attractive being. Lindblad and Madame Lindblad both stand to her in
almost fatherly and motherly relation, which becomes both parties very
well. All the same, I am afraid she is a kind of ‘comet’ which may
interfere with their domestic peace, for comets have tails; and their
house is besieged by Jenny’s admirers, who now may be said to consist
of the whole public.”

Again, in March, he writes: “Jenny Lind sang two of my songs, _i.e._
‘_The Drawing-Room or the Wood_,’ and ‘_Spring, will it come?_’ It was
quite excellent. I went behind the curtain to thank her, and
accompanied her home to her door. I do not think lightly of the good
graces in which I believe myself to stand with her.”

For her he wrote songs, both words and music; and it is in one of these songs that we discover the record both of his estimation of her character, and also of the profound effect which such an estimate, coming from such a man, had upon her to whom it was addressed. And, indeed, we cannot wonder at this effect: for the author of the song is not afraid to acknowledge, in this fresh young girl, the signs and omens of that supreme genius, which is the highest born of Heaven, and which, yet, because it is highest, is also as a “consuming flame,” to which the devoted and sacrificial Will must yield itself, as a victim, offered on an altar. The deep and serious import of such momentous words, addressed to her by the highest intellectual authority of her native land, and ranking her, the young opera-singer from the Theatre School, with that rare band of spiritual heroes whose lives are as a torch lit by divine fire, must have been as a revelation; and the traces of this remain on a copy of these verses, in her own handwriting, found among her papers, across the bottom of which she has written, “On these words I was launched into the open sea.” To her they marked the date at which she felt herself a public, an historic, character. For her they contained the secret of her mission, of her expectations, of her future. She was to move out into the open day of her fame, not to win a reputation, not to enjoy, not to taste triumph, not to satisfy her own craving for expression, not to find a world of honour, and wealth, and ease. Nay! She was to be clad about with prophetic solemnity. She was to yield herself to the stern necessities of genius: she was to consume, in giving: the steps up which she was ever to be passing were to be the steps of an altar: and she was the sacrifice. Such were the words that were behind her when she found herself “launched into the open sea.”[9]

We give them in a free and rough translation:—

“Oh! if from yon Eternal Fire,
Which slays the souls that it sets free—
Consuming them, as they aspire—
One burning spark have fallen on thee!

“Fear not! Though upward still it haste,
That living fire, that tongue of flame!
_Thy_ days it turns to bitter waste;
But ah! from heaven—from heaven it came!”