Life of Henriette Sontag, Countess de Rossi Part 4

Thus was Henriette Sontag, during the first period of her fame. From Berlin she came to London, where enthusiasm reached a height hitherto unknown, because it included, as well as admiration, respect for the virtues and conduct of the loveliest woman who had ever trod on the stage. Then she went to Paris, and Paris set its seal upon her artistic reputation, cla.s.sing her with all who had hitherto stood at the head of artistic celebrity. Yet she had powerful compet.i.tors to contend with, for she sang with Malibran and Pisaroni. Here it was her marriage (which she had been compelled to keep secret till the end of her engagement) was declared. Certainly few men have been so envied as Count Rossi, when he was known to be the husband of the world's idol. Society, which was as much attached to the woman as to the artist, seemed to think it an injustice, and felt for the first time inclined to quarrel with the actions of her it had proclaimed faultless in both mind and person.

Scribe founded the libretto of the Amba.s.sadress on this marriage, but he little thought he should be prophetic in the catastrophe he put to his opera, as he has been; for Henriette Sontag, like the Henriette in the play, _has_ returned to the stage.

The Countess Rossi, though she had no taste for the publicity of the stage, having gone uncorrupted and unscathed through all its glittering temptations, had an innate enthusiasm for her art. The young Countess, therefore, cultivated it as a.s.siduously as the young prima donna; and in Frankfort and in Berlin, where she princ.i.p.ally resided, in St.

Petersburg, which she visited, her saloon was the resort of all that was renowned in the artistic world. That wondrous voice sang on as admirably as before, following all the progress of musical science, and knowing all the _repertoire_ of the best masters, as their compositions appeared before the world. Her silvery tones now resounded in the halls of palaces; and, instead of a public, she had kings and princes for her guests. Yet she was the same simple-minded and unaffected woman, with a mind pure as in infancy, and a heart beating only with good and tender emotions. Often during these years did she sing for public charities, and her name was sure, as in former days, to fill the coffers of the inst.i.tution for which she sang.

But this bright destiny, which seemed placed beyond the reach of change, and which time seemed to have consolidated, was, during the revolution of 1848, from circ.u.mstances of an entirely private nature, completely destroyed.

Then, with her sweet temper unruffled, her calm, pure mind, undisturbed, the mother and the wife remembered the early days of the prima donna, and how that voice and those talents had achieved fortune and honor. The instant her determination was whispered, all the theatres of Europe were open to her. She chose the Queen's Theatre, in London, and Lumley offered her 7,000 sterling for the season. This she accepted; and once more, she stepped on to those boards, where, twenty years previously, she had stood, in all the freshness of her youth, but in the full maturity of her talent. To say how the house welcomed her would be impossible. It greeted her with shouts, with the waving of handkerchiefs, with tears--for she had many friends, who remembered her hospitality in her high estate. It rose to receive her. She stood before them, gentle, una.s.suming, as in former years, but lovelier, far lovelier. So youthful was she when she left the stage, that she had not attained her full stature; she had grown considerably now, her form was rounded with the full grace of womanhood. There were the same matchless arms and hands, the proverbially beautiful foot. That countenance had still the purity of outline of former years; but a life, however happy, will, in a high and sensitive nature, leave a thoughtful and pensive look upon the features.

Her beauty had gained what is almost a subst.i.tute for beauty--expression. The wavy ringlets which had floated in clouds around her girlish face were now braided over that deep, intellectual brow, on which no evil pa.s.sion or sordid calculation had ever set one wrinkle.

Those who had, in youth, witnessed her first appearance, looked at each other's careworn features with astonishment, and asked if that fair creature were not the daughter of the one enshrined in their memories.

But the voice, like which none had ever since been heard, soon proclaimed that it was _the_ Henriette Sontag. Yet that voice had gained in power, in expression, and in tone. What could the happy girl of former days, whose short life had been a series of triumphs, do but carol, like the lark, at the gates of Heaven? For _her_ sin, sorrow, shame, misfortune, were undreamed of. But since, the woman had shuddered at crime, felt and shared sorrow, often consoled shame, was now a.s.sailed by misfortune. Now feeling, pa.s.sion, and deep pathos hallowed every note, inspired each gesture. The Henriette Sontag had outlived her fame, and Madame Rossi Sontag, in her place, was recognised by perhaps the most critical, because the most travelled audience in the world, as the very greatest artist, both as an actress and a singer, ever heard or known.

IS IT THE MOTHER, OR THE DAUGHTER?

IN 1850, when Madame Sontag reappeared as a vocalist in Paris, after a silence of twenty years, Adolphe Adam, the composer of "_Le Postillon de Lonjumeau_" and other popular music, wrote and published the following pleasant notice of her, in one of the Paris journals. It will be observed that it refers to Mr. Lumley, the once flouris.h.i.+ng, but now broken-down Operatic manager.

I thought proper to attack the privilege which has been granted to Mr.

Lumley--but since it has been granted, I will say no more about it, but proceed to examine the merits of the artists whom Mr. Lumley has brought us. I have said that Lumley was clever and energetic--cleverer, perhaps, than you thought him. He is a better manager than you would suspect. For the last month, we have been fancying he was going to let us hear the Countess Rossi. I too believed it--but to-day I am convinced he has taken us all in. No! The young girl, whom I heard last Tuesday at the Conservatoire, is not, cannot be, the Countess Rossi. Ten years ago, at St. Petersburg, I had the honor of both seeing and hearing the Countess Rossi. In that lady I perfectly recognised the _cantatrice_ whom I had formerly admired and applauded at the Theatre Italien. But the _cantatrice_ whom I heard the other night cannot be the same. In the first place, she is much younger, more beautiful than the other, and has a great deal more talent. Now these are three qualities which would diminish, rather than increase, in the s.p.a.ce of twenty years--unless we dated from the cradles of the prima donnas; and certainly the _cantatrice_, whom in 1830 we idolized in the _Barbiere_ and the _Cenerentola_, was already some years removed from infancy.

Here is the true history of all this mystery. The Countess Rossi has, as it is reported, lost her fortune; but she is still rich in the possession of a daughter--a lovely girl, the very counterpart of her mother--as lovely and as graceful--German by her complexion and waving golden hair; Italian by her voice; French by her inimitable grace and distinction. This charming young girl, notwithstanding the high rank to which she was born--notwithstanding her brilliant education--did not hesitate for an instant to sacrifice herself for her family. She went to Lumley, and entreated him to engage her at his theatre. Imagine her sorrow, when he refused her! Mr. Lumley judiciously thought that, though talent might be hereditary in this family, name and reputation were not.

Now what a manager cares most for, is a name--a name which fills at once his house and his money-drawers, and enables him to give (and pay) high salaries.

Overpowered by this unexpected refusal, the young girl sank into a chair--when suddenly, the face of the manager was illumined by a brilliant idea. "All may yet be well, my dear Mademoiselle--we can reconcile every thing. We will at once come to my own relief and that of your mother. I cannot engage _you_, but I will engage your mother; and I will give her two hundred thousand francs ($40,000) for the first season."

"But, sir," said the young girl, "my mother is now Countess Rossi. It is twenty-two years since she left the stage; and how do we know whether she still possesses the talents which made her once so celebrated?"

"As we cannot tell that, Mademoiselle, we will not ask her either to sing or to appear on the stage. Nominally, I will engage Madame Henriette Sontag; but it is you who will sing in her place."

The affair was at once arranged. All was signed and agreed upon, amidst tears of tenderness and admiration in which Mr. Lumley, though he was a manager, could not help joining. The Countess Rossi consented to the strictest retirement during the engagement of her daughter--or rather her own. The parties were bound to secresy by the most solemn oaths; and this secret has been so well kept that no one has suspected the subst.i.tution. My instincts, aided by memory, have enabled me to penetrate this mystery, which I shall perhaps be blamed for revealing.

But I confess that I am not a little proud of having found it out. And then I really felt it a matter of conscience not to reveal to the world such an unexampled and unheard of instance of filial devotion.

On her entrance at the _Conservatoire_, Mademoiselle Sontag imitated so well the manners and grace of her mother--her refinement and her elegance--that the illusion was complete. It was the same smile--the same winning courtesy to the public--the same undulating figure. Her very music books, like those of her mother, were bound in rich crimson velvet. Everybody, excepting myself, was taken in--and, like every one, I too applauded--to the utter destruction of my gloves; and I should certainly have split the skin of my hands as well, had it not been much more solid than kid.

The moment Mademoiselle Sontag began to sing, all doubt--if there ever had been any, that I had really guessed the secret--vanished. It was the same purity of voice--the same charm of style and execution, which I had so much applauded, and which still echoed both in my ears and in my heart. But the voice of _this_ Sontag had more power, more firmness, more body. The higher notes are just as soft and just as clear--but they have more roundness; and the middle register is infinitely better. In a word, this artist unites the qualities of youth and freshness to all the talents of the experienced and finished artist. _Rode's variations_ were a series of vocal wonders. It was impossible to imagine that art or talent could reach so high; and after all, I think we must set it down to one of those prodigies which nature alone can create.

SOUVENIRS OF THE OPERA IN EUROPE.

BY

JULIE DE MARGUERITTES.

CHAP. I.

THE opera was _Cenerentola_; the overture, chorus, introduction, &c., all were impatiently listened to. At length the scene opened and revealed _Cenerentola_ by her kitchen fire. She lays down her bellows, she advances; even in that a.s.semblage of beauty she was the most beautiful. Her dress is simply a grey merino with a black velvet ribbon round the waist. She is exactly the height of the Medicean Venus, what the moderns call the middle height: her figure, though slight, has the full proportion of womanhood: her skin glows with the soft tint of the China rose; her arms and hands are faultless; her ankle, revealed by the short petticoat, that of the "Danatrice;" the foot, one for which the gla.s.s slipper would be too large. Who can describe her face? the soft, pouting lips of infancy, the delicate features, the large melting blue eye, the finely turned oval face, enshrined in a cloud of golden curls.

So lovely was she that the audience appeared to forget that she was to do anything more than allow herself to be looked at. But she comes towards the footlights with the modest self-possession of an innocent child. "_Una olta c'era un re_," first reveals the sweet tone of her voice. From the first note to the last it is unmistakably a soprano. Her execution, as she advanced into the difficulties of the music, was perfectly supernatural; it resembled an instrument--no bird--but it was the perfection of the loveliest of all instruments, the human voice.

With the purity of a silver bell, she reached to the E above the lines; it was perfectly equal, both in the upper and middle registers; it was sweet, soft, and expressive in all its tones. When the public recovered from the first effect, they were obliged to acknowledge that it was wonderful, pleasing, and charming, like the fair creature before them, moving gracefully through her part as she would have done in a drawing-room. _Cencrentola_ (like the _Barbiere_) is an opera which is sung by sopranos and by contraltos; it was originally written for Emilia Bonini, a contralto, who quietly made her fortune in Italy, unknown to Parisian or Londonian fame. It bears transposition without injury, though it contains great difficulties of execution. Madame Albertazzi, an English woman of great beauty, who acquired great celebrity and died very young, was the first who ventured to appear in it after Sontag.

The enthusiasm for Sontag increased every night. Her gentle, una.s.suming manners, her youth--she was but twenty, and looked eighteen--her surprising beauty, the maidenly reserve of her conduct, brought to her feet the homage of all London; the princess's robe was more than once offered her for acceptance; a royal widower, allied with the English throne, though a countryman of her own and now a king, offered his hand at the risk of immense sacrifices; but she was never coquettish--never prudish--never vain, and never swerved from her allegiance to the one whose name she now bears, and to whom she was secretly engaged before coming to England. She went everywhere with her merry little sister, and her stately _dame de compagnie_; stepped from the stage to the saloons of Devons.h.i.+re House, where, amongst the most courted and honored guests, she waltzed with the joyousness of a German girl; but none ever presumed to pollute her ear with an impure word. There was at this time in London another remarkable cantatrice, the most wonderful contralto who had ever been heard since the days of Banti, of whom none but Italians ever heard, and whom they have now forgotten. Her style and voice were considered without equal; but nature had disdained to complete her work.

Pisaroni was little, crooked, awkward, and united in her features and complexion every species of ugliness--but all this was forgotten when from that large ungraceful mouth issued low mellifluous notes producing on her hearers the thrilling effect of a sudden burst from an organ in a still moonlight cathedral. At one morning concert, at the close of the season, Pisaroni, Malibran, and Sontag sang the trio (from Meyerbeer's _Crociato_) "_Giovinetto cavalier_;" and never was such music heard since.

SONTAG AND MALIBRAN

AT

EPSOM RACES.

BY

JULIE DE MARGUERITTE.

CHAP. II.

SOME years ago an open carriage with four thorough-bred horses, mounted by postillions in black velvet jackets and silver-ta.s.seled caps, was waiting at the door of a small, neat house in London, at the corner of Regent and Argyle streets. The sun was s.h.i.+ning brilliantly, and though it was not later than ten o'clock in the morning, brilliant equipages were continually das.h.i.+ng through the street. The horses of the carriage which was waiting, tossed their heads and pawed the ground impatiently, as the other horses galloped by; the postillions repeated to each other the names of the owners as each equipage pa.s.sed. Two gentlemen in the very plainest morning costume, pa.s.sed up and down the pavement, looking anxiously each time they went by the open door into the small pa.s.sage of the house. "Can anything have detained her?" said one of the gentlemen with a strong foreign accent. "We shall be late," said his companion with the purest English accent, looking at his watch. "Warrender and Burghers.h.!.+" shouted the groom on the leader to the groom on the wheeler, as an equipage as well appointed as their own new past them. "They are going for Malibran," said the foreigner, "we shall be last." "Coming out!" shouted the footman, opening the carriage door, while his fellow servant let down the steps, and escorted by a large and remarkably ugly man, of most courtly bearing, three ladies issued from the house. One was the Countess C----, the two others were Henriette and Nina Sontag.

The Chevalier de Benkhausen, the Russian Charge d'Affaires, followed the ladies into the carriage, the two other gentlemen mounted the box, the postillions tightened the reins, the footmen shouting "All right!" got on the d.i.c.key, and off sped the carriage at full speed. They were going to Epsom, and this was the Derby day. In a few minutes, as they went down Conduit street into Bond street, they pa.s.sed a carriage in which were one lady and three gentlemen. The lady was Marie Malibran; her companions--Lord Burghersh, Sir George Warrender, and Charles de Beriot.

Men, grooms, and postillions shouted as they went by, and Malibran impetuously threw herself forward to see into the carriage; but the object of her curiosity was quietly talking to Lady C----, so that all she saw was the back of a very pretty satin bonnet with a blonde veil, and the outside of Nina Sontag's white parasol. Malibran threw herself pettishly back and pulled the fingers of her glove--how she longed to see the rival who had landed but two days before, and for whom all London was already raving! The two carriages continued their race until the crowd separated them, enveloping all in one cloud of dust. For hours later the Countess of C----'s carriage was the scene of the delicious scrambling which is the princ.i.p.al pleasure of Epsom, for those who are not members of the turf; the attentive footmen supplying clean gla.s.ses, fresh bottles of champagne, and saucers of Gunter's ice creams to all from a fourgon which had preceded them. There was literally a dense crowd round this carriage, each in turn taking his place on the steps and leaning on the open door. Lady C---- proclaimed almost every name in the English peerage, in the diplomatic corps, in the artistic and political world, as she introduced in succession every new comer to her distinguished guest. The Chevalier de Benkhausen, well known as a wit and a "bon vivant," absorbed all the good things, though saying brilliant ones at the same time. Lord C---- had descended from the box and stood on the other side, occasionally exchanging salutations with his friends, but without allowing his hand to quit the door of the carriage on the side nearest Sontag, on which he stood, and many eyes were ready to seize that envied position, but he maintained it in right of a previous acquaintance in Berlin, with the beautiful _prima donna_.

Nina Sontag, who was a pretty girl of fifteen, kept eating, drinking, bowing, and talking, but took particular care to hand up wings of chicken and gla.s.ses of champagne to the very handsome foreigner, who still retained his place on the box, having apparently taken literally the scene before him, and fancying that it was really his duty to look at the race, which every one else seemed to have forgotten. n.o.body knew much about him; he had come from Berlin (which accounted for his intimacy with Nina), was a new attache of the Sardinian emba.s.sy, and had been introduced to Lady C---- by M. de Benkhausen as le Comte Rossi.

Suddenly the crowd round the carriage gave way on each side before a tall fine man and a slight girlish woman enveloped in a large black lace mantilla, and wearing a simple Leghorn bonnet. M. de Benkhausen, on perceiving her, sprang from the carriage, took her hand, and a.s.sisted her into his place, saying, "Mademoiselle, j'ai l'honneur de vous presenter Madame Malibran." They gazed one instant at each other, another instant and their hands were clasped, and a tear glistened in the eye of the daughter of the South, who was pa.s.sion's essence, whilst a deeper tint mantled the cheek of the more reserved German. Nina's laugh abruptly stopped, even the phlegmatic Count Rossi turned quickly round, and Lord C---- reverently took off his hat. But few words were exchanged, and then they parted, Malibran taking the arm of De Beriot, and being followed by as numerous a train as the one they left behind.

Thus for the first time met the two greatest musical geniuses of the age. Two nights after was the eventful night. The King's Theatre, as it was then called, presented the most beautiful sight it is possible to imagine. Fas.h.i.+on for once had forgotten itself, and every box, which on ordinary nights it is voted vulgar to fill, was occupied by four or five ladies in full dress, a dress which it is the peculiar prerogative of English women to become, better than any other women in the world.

HENRIETTE SONTAG

AND THE

EMPEROR OF RUSSIA.

BY

PRINCE PUCKLER-MUSKAU.

From his celebrated work ent.i.tled "Tutti Frutti."