WHETHER in rapid memoir or in ponderous biography, the life-sketcher or
the chronicler must always fain behold the object before him as a model
endowed not only with surpassing moral and physical beauties, but with
that individuality of genius, and that peculiar destiny, which separate
the few from the crowd. To the readers remains the duty of acting as
those did who were wont to attend the triumphs of Roman conquerors, and
urge the deduction of their mistakes and misdeeds—or, as the "Satanic
advocate" in the process of canonization in the Pope's court, show how
much more of a sinner than of a saint was the mortal about to pass into
the heaven of human invention. Although, thus, well aware of how much
our trifling office here is prone to exaggeration, we feel that there is
no fear of transgressing in the present case, and that the readers will
rather feel how much below than above the truth we remain.
The Countess Rossi is as clearly fitted to be the heroine of a memoir of
real life, as she is of being the heroine of a lyrical drama on the
fictive scene. Those who will read this sketch will, we think, behold in
her all the characteristics of a special and elevated nature—one marked
amongst mankind, framed for its admiration and for its model. We have
the striking attributes of a special nature manifest and effulgent even
in infancy; we see them defying the obstacles of fortune, and constantly
rising in power. We behold them in their utmost effulgence—first on the
stage, and next in the highest regions of society, and, ultimately,
tried by adversity. From beginning to end, the power and the effulgence
remain ever the same, fitted for all positions: wherever it is placed,
it continues unsullied and undiminished.
Having set forth our claims to the attention of those to whom we address
ourselves, we shall now rapidly trace the outline of the singularly
eventful career of Countess Rossi. The interest its moving incidents, so
singularly varied, have always inspired, are now increased tenfold by new
features, totally unparalleled in the history of the lyrical stage. To
behold this distinguished lady return to the stage, after enjoying
undisturbed for many years, and in the most exalted rank, the love and
esteem of the greatest personages of Europe, is a truly singular and
affecting event; but to behold her return, after this lapse of time,
with all her powers not only unimpaired, but improved by taste, study,
and observation, is an event without an example. If, to take the exact
measure of this phenomenon by comparison, we turn to the very few who
were her contemporaries on the stage, what do we behold? If asked how so
extraordinary a fact happens to exist, those who have had the good
fortune to know the Countess Rossi will readily explain it. The first
reason and first cause are, that this lady possesses a remarkably well
regulated mind—gentle in all things, ever resigned, and possessed of
unruffled patience; and her feelings, controlled by the most virtuous
sense of right, have never been agitated by those passions which most of
all beset stages and courts, and are the most insidious and dangerous
assailants of those who are the constant objects of adoration.
To these might be added other aiding causes, but of no little potency.
For the sake of brevity, we shall only mention two: the first is, that
the Countess Rossi's voice is a pure and perfect soprano, of the highest
register, from the first settlement of her voices—it is "to the manner
born." Thus she has never been compelled to superadd to her studies of
vocal science those efforts by which most of the greatest vocalists have
been obliged to transmute their contralto or mezzo soprano tones, to
polish their guttural or husky tones, and—almost all of them—extend
artificially their register. On the other hand, during her long
secession from the stage, the love of musical art has always remained
predominant, and its science been constantly cultivated, without the
necessity of taxing her powers, without the exhausting exertions of
other singers; whilst her style of singing is that of the high classical
Italian school, the only one that nurses the voice, whilst it displays
all its melodic power. Had not the Countess Rossi yielded up the German
school—had she not resorted to the Italian school to modify her
singing—as her great countryman Mozart did, to modify the form his
inspirations assumed—her voice would no doubt have been injured, and
she would have lost that marvellous power of overflowing richness of
embellishment, requiring purity of tone, agility, and elegance, in which
she is unquestionably unrivalled.
HENRIETTE SONTAG was born of a respectable family of artists, of limited
means, at Coblentz, Kingdom of Prussia. The old saying of the poet,
"nascitur, non fit," is singularly applicable to this great vocalist.
The strong bent for music which pointed out her ultimate vocation, was
observable as early as five years of age. At seven years of age, betwixt
her exquisite beauty and her exquisite voice, she was known far and wide
in her neighborhood. To gratify the nobility of the district, the
authorities of the town, or their friendly neighbors, it was the
practice of Henriette Sontag's mother to place her child on the table,
and bid her sing.
A distinguished traveller, who afterwards beheld her in all the
effulgence of her triumphs, relates having seen her sing in this manner
the grand aria of "The Queen of Night," in the Zauberflöte—her arms
hanging beside her, her eye following a fly on the window, or a
butterfly sporting on the flowers without—her voice, so pure, so
penetrating, and of angelic tone, flowing as unconsciously, as
effortless, and as sportive as a limpid rill from the mountain side.
The circle of her fame spread gradually wider and wider, and the
Impresarii of Germany were not long in awakening to the importance of
securing the assistance of the infant wonder. The consequence was, that
at eleven years of age she appeared at Darmstadt, in a part written
purposely for her, entitled, The Little Daughter of the Danube. In
spite of her extraordinary success at Darmstadt, her wise and
conscientious parents, knowing the fate of infant prodigies when their
natural powers are allowed an untutored growth under the artificial
warmth of injudicious admiration and the heat of theatres, withdrew the
young prima donna from the first scene of her successes, and conveyed
her to a very distant spot, the Conservatoire of Prague.
At the Conservatoire of Prague, the little maiden and her relatives did
not cease to be tempted by managers or Impresarii. First attracted by
her beauty, they were soon astonished by her aptitude. She successively
won the prize of every class of this great school of music, until she
earned the highest position; and, placed at the head of the school, she
became one of the marvels of the city.
Scarce three years had elapsed since her matriculation at the
Conservatoire, and she had hardly attained the age of fourteen, when she
saved the fortunes of that great Imperial Opera of Prague, associated
with so many glorious memories of music, and which would be immortalized
by the fact alone of having been the stage where the Clemenza di Tito
and the Marriage of Figaro were first produced by Mozart. The favorite
prima donna of this noble theatre was suddenly taken ill, and so
seriously, that there was little hope left of her reappearing for some
time. The manager, in despair, and at a loss which way to turn, could
think of no other resource to retain his audiences than the appearance
of the young prodigy of the Conservatoire—little Henriette Sontag. Such
was her proficiency in her art, that her parents no longer saw the same
danger in allowing their offspring to tread the fictive scene.
If nothing were wanting in courage, natural gifts of voice, and
intellectual power on the part of the child, as regards the height of
her person there was a mancamento of several inches. As the French
proverb says, "le temps corrige cela;" but, in the meantime, the
stage-manager, a learned Hellenist, was not oblivious of the means by
which the Greeks gave altitudes to their scenic heroes and heroines, and
the little prima donna, to whom was assigned for her début the part
of the heroine in a translation of the favorite French opera, Jean de
Paris, was supplied with enormous cork heels. There was a time, at the
court of Louis XV., when an inch and a half of red heel was the
distinctive characteristic of a marquis, or of a lady of sufficient
quality to be allowed to sit in the presence of royalty. On the occasion
of the début of Henriette Sontag, four inches of vermillion-colored
cork foreshadowed the rank of the little lady, destined to become one of
the most absolute mimic queens of the lyrical world, and afterwards a
real and much respected countess. When the singer who enacted the
pompous seneschal in the opera of Jean de Paris came forward, and
announced, "It is no less a personage than the Princess of Navarre whose
arrival I announce!" the applause and laughter were universal. When the
little prodigy appeared on her cork pedestal, the house was filled with
cheers and acclamations. As the business of the stage proceeded, the
auditors found that there was no longer any indulgence necessary on the
score of age, but that there were claims on their admiration for a voice
which, for its purity, its peculiar flute-like tone, and its agility,
has never been surpassed. The celebrated tenor, Gerstener, who enacted
Jean de Paris, that night sang better than ever, finding that he had
to cope with the attraction of a new melodic power. Many nights
successively did she thus sing the Princess of Navarre with increasing
success to crowded houses. Her next part was one far more
difficult—that of the heroine in Paer's fine opera, Sargin.
The capital of Bohemia was not destined long to retain its chief
ornament. Long before the conclusion of the season, the Imperial Court
had heard of her extraordinary success, and Henriette Sontag was
summoned to Vienna, where she appeared, the very next season, at the
German Opera.
In our times we have "Kings of Railways" and "Colossuses of Roads,"
indebted to good luck for their success. At the time Henriette Sontag
debutted at Vienna there existed in Italy also millionaire
Impresarii, only indebted for pre-eminence to the favors of chance.
That curious original, Barbaja, the lessee at the same time of the
largest German and Italian Theatres, was born under the luckiest of
stars. Since his day, his successors in Italy, having found talent
becoming daily rarer, have watched every young talent as it rose, taken
possession of it, and worked them until the death of their voices,
before they had a chance of the maturation of their powers, in singing
operas of composers, who strive to conceal their sterility under noise
and exaggerations both dramatic and instrumental. In our days, to be a
successful lessee, you must be possessed of indefatigable genius, as
well as industry; Barbaja, on the contrary, found musical genius of all
kinds at his command to speculate upon. Not only were there Catalanis,
Pastas, Malibrans, Garcias, Donzellis, Rubinis, Lablaches, &c., in ample
number, but all the operas that Paër, Winter, Paesiello, Cimarosa, and
Mozart had written, were fresh in the lyrical répertoire, and
composers of equal merit were living, and could be monopolized for
money. In the Villa Barbaja, the palace the fortunate impresario had
built for himself on the Possilipo, at Naples, you may, half way up the
hill, on the third story, see the room where, in the dog-days, Rossini
wrote his Otello, standing at a desk, in the costume of terrestrial
paradise, with a Chucharro boy fanning him behind with the back torn
from a large music-book. When managers had such slaves responding to
their behests, like the genius to the lamp of Aladdin, they might easily
live and rule like sultans, with a Mahomet's paradise upon earth. Thus
it was with Barbaja. With the assistance of the great alchymist Rossini,
who turned so readily "notes into gold," he thought he knew and mostly
had secured all the talent available to his theatre that existed in
Europe. In those days not only a northern cantatrice was not dreamt
of, but it was thought that the South alone could produce a great singer
for the Italian lyrical stage.
When he arrived at Vienna, such was, however, the report of the fame of
young Sontag, that the great sybarite of the day condescended at last to
visit the German opera, even at the sacrifice of having his ears,
accustomed to the melodious "lingua Toscana," torn by the guttural
discordance of the Teutonic tongue. On hearing Henriette Sontag sing,
Barbaja was overcome with astonishment. To this feeling succeeded
dismay, when, having immediately applied to her parents, he found in
them a polite but most unquestionable abhorrence for the Italian stage,
which they were afraid would lead their daughter to the land of moral
laxity, of Cicisbei and Patiti, of
"Pasteboard triumph, and the cavalcade,
Processions formed for piety and love,
A mistress and a saint in every grove."
In vain he tempted them with an El Dorado in perspective—the
conscientious Germans would not concede, at first, a single iota of his
wishes. The world, to whom she has imparted so much pure
enjoyment,—and, fortunately, will now impart so much more in time to
come—was near never hearing the great vocalist sing in an euphonious
language, in that which made her fame universal, and led her to visit
England and France.
At last, however, after repeated efforts, some concession was made,
although Barbaja's fate was like that of the hero of the classical
poet—the gods vouchsafed but half his prayer. Henriette Sontag was
allowed to appear at the Italian Opera at Vienna. But she alone, of all
the great singers of those days, never visited Italy. Many an evening
the good-natured Neapolitan Impresario, a still greater epicure in
gastronomy than in music, after enjoying a dinner such as Lucullus was
wont to degustate nearly on the same spot, as he walked on his Palace
terrace and looked down across the inlet to San Carlo, would grow moody
when he thought of what he lost by the rooted aversion of Sontag's
parents; and then he would anathematize the Maledetti Tedeschi, the
born enemies of his country, with an energy, if not with a poetry,
worthy of the patriotic Filicaja—for they, like all the other
invaders of Italy, "never gave her anything but blows and slavery, and
always took away everything they could, not leaving even an Iron Crown,
or a funeral urn to preserve the ashes of past greatness."
The important change for the musical world at large was, however,
effected. The next season Henriette Sontag was engaged to sing in
Italian at Vienna, and removed to the Carinthia, having for her
colleagues vocalists of such a calibre, that one of them, "il buon
Rubini," has never been surpassed; whilst all those who have enjoyed
the talents of the other, Lablache, feel that not only he has never
been, but cannot imagine that he ever will be equalled.
Amongst the company at the Carinthia, there was another exquisite
artist, who was destined, as a model of style, to exert a great
influence on the career of Sontag, who has now risen so much higher in
the world's estimation than her fair predecessor has ever attained,
eminent as she was. As soon as the young Sontag, the most conscientious
of artists (no slight portion of her success being due to her severity
of judgment on herself), had heard Madame Fodor, a new light broke upon
her; with tears in her eyes she threw her arms round her mother's neck,
conjured her to take her home, and give her a piano. Her wish
accomplished, she sat at her piano, working night and day at improving
herself, and never leaving her home but when there was a rehearsal for
Fodor, when she would hide herself in a corner of the house, and her
ears would drink up with enthusiasm every note that dropped from the
great prima donna, who has left a memory still enduring with the old
habitués of Her Majesty's Theatre. Madame Fodor, on the other hand,
hearing the young inexperienced prima donna sing for the first time,
exclaimed, "Had I her voice, I should hold the whole world at my feet!"
The Prussian dilettanti employed every means to bring Henriette Sontag
to their capital. At the end of the Italian Opera season at Vienna, she
was persuaded to come to Berlin, to support by her attraction the
Kœnigstadt Theatre, just opened. There she was joined by
distinguished German lyrists, such as Jäger, Wächter, Sager, and
Spitzeder. She was obliged to sing the translations of the operas of
Rossini and of the French répertoire, then all the fashion at Berlin.
Her success, however, was immense. Every seat in the house was taken, in
anticipation, long before the days of performance; and we remember well,
being there at the time, that the foreigners of rank who arrived in
Berlin, finding it impossible to purchase a seat at any price, were
obliged to apply to Count de Bruhl, the minister of the "Menus plaisirs
du roi," to obtain an obscure seat at the back of the Court, or of the
diplomatic box.
M. de Talleyrand used to boast, as one of the brightest diplomatic
tricks of his tricksy career, that in the settlement of limits of
respective dominions at the Congress of Vienna, he had procured that
Ferney should be included in the area of France, which made Voltaire a
Frenchman post mortem. On the same principle, the Prussians having
recently secured, at the same Congress, the forced allegiance of
Sontag's birth-place, Coblentz, added to the admiration which she
commanded wherever she went, a feeling of pride at her being their
countrywoman. Hence their enthusiasm knew no bounds.
The love as well as admiration excited by Mdlle. Sontag during her
residence at Berlin, gave rise to many singular incidents. Not allowed
to approach the object of their idolatry, her adorers had recourse to
the most eccentric expedients to express their devotion. It is related
that a young man of rank was so desperately enamored of her, as to
resort to the romantic expedient of hiring himself as a servant in her
family, to have the pleasure of constantly seeing her; nor was the
truth suspected by the object of his adoration, or any one else, until
the gentleman's own relations discovered him, and removed him from the
vicinity of the attraction.
That wise and excellent monarch, the late King of Prussia, heartily
joined in the enthusiasm of his subjects; and that he entertained as
much esteem as admiration for Madlle. Sontag will be proved in the most
signal manner by a circumstance we shall have presently to relate.
Whilst at the Berlin theatre, overtures were made to Mdlle. Sontag from
the Italian Opera in Paris—then belonging to the Crown, and under the
control of Vicomte Sosthene de la Rochefoucault, who for many years
ruled, under the Restoration, the theatres of France, and endeavored,
with rather dubious success, to apply the "Maxims" of his witty ancestor
to the government of stage affairs. As M. Sosthene had for negotiator in
this treaty the great Rossini, who had made Mdlle. Sontag's acquaintance
in Vienna, his wishes, amongst the offers made from all quarters,
prevailed. Madlle. Sontag made her first appearance in Paris at the
beginning of the season. She arrived in Paris at the close of the year
1827, after a triumphal "Progress" through Holland and the Rhenane
provinces, in which she gathered abundantly both those crowns which are
supposed always to be made of laurel, as well as those which bear the
effigies of monarchs. Paris was then the centre of taste and the
metropolis of art—the occupation of the whole population the enjoyment
of pleasures or the ministering to its desires and caprices. Madlle.
Sontag's voice and beauty produced a furore—each note produced a
murmur or an acclamation. No feature of hers escaped a sonnet, from her
eyebrow to her pretty foot. The ugliest women thought they became
handsome by imitating her costume; and venders of articles of luxury and
fancy goods found no easier way of getting rid of their wares than by
stamping them with her name or with her supposed resemblance.
In this, her first engagement at Paris, she made her début in
Desdemona. She also performed with great success La Donna del Lago,
Cenerentola, and other first characters in the first operas of the day.
The Italian Opera season ended, she was eagerly engaged for the next
season, and her support secured. She then returned to her engagement at
Berlin,—once more at the Kœnigstadt Theatre. Here she was destined
to receive, in a very novel form, the greatest compliment she had as yet
met with. The Berlinese, who justly deemed her the brightest living
ornament of their capital, and considered her as a Prussian, and thus,
for two reasons, their property, were indignant that she had left Berlin
for Paris, and still more, that she had taken another engagement, and
intended to leave them once more. When she appeared for the first time
after her return, in the Italiana in Algieri, from all parts of the
house there was an explosion of hisses and groans, interspersed with
exclamations—"What a shame to leave us!" "Give up your engagement with
the hateful French!" "Promise—swear you will remain with us!" &c., &c.
The alarm of the manager and of the vocalists engaged in the Italiana
was boundless. The jealous husband of the libretto, the favored
cicisbeo, even the erotic sultan and his janissaries fled from the
theatre, whilst for twenty minutes the fair vocalist remained alone on
the stage, mute and immovable as the statue of some nymph in a garden
abiding the pelting of a storm. Vain were the efforts of the audience:—
"Speret—sudet multum, frustraque laboret,"
they could extract no concession from the goddess of their idolatry;
their courage to persecute her further failed them; and they determined
to enjoy the present moment,—"advienne que pourra!" From that night
unto the end of the season, the applause and enthusiasm of the audiences
of the Kœnigstadt knew no bounds when the singer they had at first
regaled with their fiercest sibillations was on the stage.
Madlle. Sontag returned to Paris for the season. The Italian Opera was
then fallen under the rule of M. Laurent. There she found Malibran in
the plenitude of her fame and glory. The theatrical gossips, and the
Parisian gobemouches, either hoped or expected—all of them
predicted—that a war was about to arise betwixt the two stars now
forced to move in the same orbit—a war which would eclipse the
encounters of Juno and Venus in the days of Paris and the siege of Troy.
For once the Greeks of Paris, and the Trojans of the Salle Favart, were
disappointed. It is little to be doubted that the gentle and
affectionate nature of Madlle. Sontag, and the generosity which
characterized at all times the impetuous Malibran, would, under any
circumstances, have united the two great vocalists—and of this
supposition the more than probability is established by the fact that
all other cantatrici, of equal pretensions, have never failed to be
severed by jealousy the moment they have met on the same stage. But long
before Madlle. Sontag's arrival in Paris the second time, she had become
acquainted with Malibran. Those amongst our readers who have lived in
Paris when it was a centre of society, instead of a centre of
revolution, cannot fail to have heard, at least, of the Countess Merlin.
This Havanese lady, a gifted practical dilettante, with Countess de
Sparre (Madlle. Náldi) and her countryman Orfila (no less distinguished
as a vocalist than as Dean of the Faculty of Medicine of Paris, and the
greatest of toxicologists), were wont to give concerts which were
thronged by all the Melomanes of the French capital. Madame Merlin
thus naturally became the "arbiter elegantiarum" of Paris, at least as
far as regarded musical taste, and her house the rendezvous of all who
aspired to fame on the lyrical stage. Here Madlle. Sontag was frequently
invited on her first arrival in Paris. On one occasion, the Countess
introduced to her a fair Spaniard, a protégé of hers just arrived from
New York. This artist, who had spent some years performing in the
inglorious theatres of the New World, was afterwards the celebrated
Malibran. Madame Merlin begged Madlle. Sontag to encourage her friend,
who, she assured her, had the greatest gifts of voice, by singing with
her the duet in Tancredi. Madlle. Sontag cheerfully consented. So
astonished, delighted, and overcome were the two fair vocalists at their
respective talents, that at the close of the duet, they threw themselves
into one another's arms, and from that day began their friendship.
Still the theatrical scandal-mongers did not hesitate for a moment to
declare that the two queens of the lyrical stage were devoured by mutual
envy and jealousy, and they thought there could not be a doubt of it,
from a circumstance which occurred the night Madlle. Sontag sang the
Barbière for the first time since her return. Rossini came in the
interval betwixt the acts to tell the Rosina of the night, at that
moment surrounded by a crowd of admirers, that he had left Malibran in
tears in her box, in despair at ever attaining such a purity of tone and
such a perfection of execution as she had displayed. This was a sincere
tribute of admiration, and not of envy, on the part of that lamented
vocalist; whose real character, being impressed with the eccentricity
which too often besets genius, few could understand, and whose warmth of
heart and imagination made her too often the victim of cold-blooded
worldliness.
The truth is, that on her arrival in Paris, Malibran received her fair
colleague with open arms. Their meeting produced friendly emulation,
instead of hostile pique and rivalry, and the two incomparable singers
agreed to perform, in turn, the same operas. Thus did they enact, on
alternate nights, Desdemona, Rosina, Cenerentola, &c., whilst they
performed together such operas as Tancredi, &c. This was the most
glorious—the culminating epoch of the Italiens in Paris. On one
occasion, Don Giovanni was given; Madlle. Sontag performing Donna Anna
(perhaps the greatest of her triumphs); Malibran, Zerlina; and
Heinfetter, Elvira. On this, one of the coldest nights on record,
amongst the most stirring, elbowing their way from without, in the rush
of the eager aspirants to seats in the house, were observed at the same
time, Rossini, Cherubini, Paër, Meyerbeer, and Auber! Well might the
journals of the day observe, that no better criterion was needed of the
merits of the performers. No doubt each great maestro went there
revolving in his mind how such voices might be turned to account in his
next composition; for then even the authors of Masaniello and the
Philtre, of Il Crociato and Robert le Diable, had not adopted that
style of overwrought harmony, of clamorous choral, and of deafening
instrumental combination, from which all pure voices of such quality
shrink—despairing to find melodic phrases to be uttered without
contention with ophicleides and double-drum.
Such was the sisterly love and confidence which existed betwixt the two
marvellous vocalists, then engaged at the Italiens, and which is so
powerfully recorded in the letters of the lamented Malibran, that the
latter was, for a time, in 1828, the only depositary of Sontag's secret,
that amongst the crowd of sighing and adoring swains who followed her
respectfully at a distance, tendering their offers of marriage, there
was one on whom she had bestowed her heart, and was about to bestow her
hand.
The fortunate object of Madlle. Sontag's choice—and time has proved how
well-founded was her judgment—was a member of the diplomatic body then
accredited at the Court of the Tuileries. Count de Rossi, although then
a very young man, was already, at that critical period of political
affairs, Conseiller d'Ambassade of the Sardinian mission—a sufficient
proof of his mental powers. He had the good looks, the elegant manners,
the tastes, and the gifts of conversation which distinguish the
travelled man and the real homme de qualité—qualities which no
adversity can diminish. Fearing the prejudices of his noble relatives
and of his royal master, until they could be assuaged, it was determined
to conceal the wedding for the time being. It consequently was
solemnized with all due form, but in secret, with only two or three
intimate friends as witnesses.
A highly interesting circumstance attended this marriage—one perhaps
unparalleled.
The late kind-hearted King of Prussia, apprised of the intended
marriage, was desirous on the one hand to show his estimation of his
fair subject, and on the other to prepare for the prejudices and
obstacles this marriage would meet with on the part of the Sardinian
Cabinet. Unsolicited, he spontaneously bestowed on Madlle. Sontag,
before her marriage, a Patent of Nobility, with every necessary details
of Coat of Arms, &c., together with a title, and the name of De
Launstein. So singular a circumstance cannot be contemplated without the
deepest interest. It appears to us to do as much credit to the feelings
of the lamented Sovereign, as it did honor to the character of Madlle.
Sontag.
But now the time was arrived when the Countess de Rossi must leave Paris
once more. The regret was universal; by this time she had endeared
herself to every one that approached her.
If at Paris Madlle. Sontag was admired by the public at large for her
talents and her beauty, her gentle and amiable character and her
generosity in private life gained her the esteem of all circles of
society. One trait, amongst many, may be cited, which adds glory to
her character as a woman as well as an artist.
The parents of Madlle. Sontag were, as we have stated, artists, with
very limited means. This she never forgot; and her short experience of
adversity in her earliest years was sufficient to awaken every sentiment
of charity. She was known by all the exiled Germans whom adversity had
driven from their native land to seek charity and sympathy in France.
One cold night, on leaving the theatre, after a performance of Don
Giovanni, Donna Anna, still full of emotion, observed on the step of a
door, as she passed, three young girls near their mother, singing
lieders of their Fatherland. Madlle. Sontag recognised the poor
mother, who was weeping: she was scarcely thirty years old. She
recollected that she had seen her at the theatre at Darmstadt, when she
herself had been taken there in the arms of her parents. The
Cantatrice approached the group with trembling steps, and in a voice
deeply moved by emotion, asked the mother where she lived—procured an
answer—dropped a gold coin—hurried to her carriage, and drove off.
On the same evening, a servant, attired in splendid livery, knocked at
the door of a garret of a house in the Fauxbourg du Temple. "Who is
there?" was asked by a voice, weakened by poverty and want. "A friend,
who brings you good news," was the immediate reply. The door opened.
"Here is a letter which I have been requested to deliver to you," said
the lacquey. "Read it." The letter was thus couched:—
"On presenting yourself to-morrow at No. 17 Chaussée d'Antin, at
Mr. M. B., the banker, you will find a sum of three thousand
francs, which I beg you to accept. Return to Darmstadt with your
three daughters, whose education I will look after."
"Pray tell me the name of the saviour of myself and children?" "I
cannot," was the reply of the messenger; "at Darmstadt only will it be
known to you."
The beggar dressed her children in their best attire, and the following
morning took the road to Germany. For seven years she regularly received
a pension, which enabled her to give her daughters a good education. One
of them entered the Conservatoire of Berlin, and has now become one of
the most brilliant stars of the German stage. Her name we of course must
refrain from mentioning. Only within the last two years has the poor
wanderer of those days discovered the secret author of a deed of such
noble charity.
This is but one instance of the many acts of signal charity of the
Countess Rossi recorded by the German writers, from whom we have
borrowed largely for the uses of this trifling sketch.
It will now be asked, what had the Direction of Her Majesty's Theatre in
London been doing during the several years that the great capitals of
the Continent had been enjoying the marvellous gifts of Countess Rossi?
The fact is, that as regards distant things, no great foresight or
vigilance could be expected from those who formerly directed this
institution. The engagement of Madlle. Sontag was too far-fetched an
effort: whilst she was at Vienna or Berlin, affairs at home absorbing
too much of the time and attention of the unfortunate lessee for the
time being. Her Majesty's Theatre—specially established by royalty, and
the chief amusement of the successive sovereigns and their illustrious
guests—liberally supported by the greatest aristocracy in the
world—for thirty years presented the most disorderly and disgraceful
aspect which ever characterized any theatre of such pretensions. Instead
of being governed by general principles of equity, and with a view to
general results, it was alternately subjected to the caprice of a
coterie, or to the passions of an artist. The stage was looked upon as a
resort of gallantry, enlivened by the envies, jealousies, and battles of
the prima donna; and the audience part of the theatre, where the
greatest personages of the land habitually appeared, headed by Royalty
itself, was frequently turned into a bear-garden, for uncouth
exhibitions of temper and unseemly rows. Needless to add what was the
fate of the successive lessees—at one moment compelled to live under
the foot of a favorite dancer, at another to be at the beck and call of
an imperious prima donna; to pay them whatever they asked, and
sacrifice to them whoever or whatever they pleased—"Stet pro ratione
voluntas!" was ever the order of the day. Not astonishing, that whoever
took the helm—a great and liberal nobleman, like the Earl of Middlesex
and other personages, whose mishaps Horace Walpole has so wittily
portrayed—a sublime composer, like Handel—a rich banker, like
Chambers—a librarian—an Italian impresario, or a clever actor—let
the theatre be governed by a single individual, or by a committee—ruin
was sure to ensue. To seek a prima donna of German extraction at
Berlin, might, at some moment, when an Italian "assolutissima" was
reigning, have been considered as high treason, and exposed the
perpetrator to the highest punishment her admirers could inflict.
However, when Madlle. Sontag came to the Italiens in Paris, the lessee
might venture, without risk of such dire punishment, to wish to vary and
increase the amusement of the public and his own receipts. Mr. Ebers,
who has recorded with unanswerable data the absurd caprices and
consequent losses of which, under this system, he was for seven years
the victim, was then the lessee of Her Majesty's Theatre. Mr. Ebers was
naturally anxious to make an engagement with a lady, the renown of whose
talents and beauty was the constant theme of conversation amongst the
travelled dilettanti. He wrote to her, and offered her an immense sum,
but she felt compelled to decline, owing to her engagements on the
continent.
Of course, when it was ascertained that Madlle. Sontag could not come,
the subscribers, and the public generally, were filled with a headlong
desire to behold her. On the principle of omne ignotum pro magnifico,
their imaginations were excited in the extreme; for, the "children of a
larger growth," like their juniors in petticoats, never cry violently
but after what is taken from them, or is beyond their reach. Well we
remember how every one inveighed against the want of liberality, or of
diplomacy, of the unfortunate lessee—who, after all, had only committed
one error, that of allowing the negotiation to be known before he was
certain it would succeed. He was, consequently, soon compelled to make
another appeal to Madlle. Sontag, and offer that, if she would come, he
would pay indemnity for her engagement. But Madlle. Sontag indignantly
repudiated the idea of breaking any contract accepted by her.
The successors of Mr. Ebers, Laurent and Laporte, were destined to reap
the benefit of these applications. The queens of the lyrical stage, like
the heroes and heroines of Shakespeare, come on with tenfold effect when
alarums and flourishes are previously sounded. These negotiations had
awakened and raised the expectations of the whole musical world of the
English metropolis, and, for once, their imaginations were not destined
in any respect to be disappointed in the contemplation of the reality.
The Duke of Devonshire, for so many years the liberal and tasteful
patron of every kind of art, was the first to make society enjoy the
talents of the wonderful artist.
Her début took place at a concert at Devonshire-house, in the Easter
week. Such was her reputation, not only for musical genius, but for
beauty, elegance, and fascination of every kind, that the crowds of
eager spectators in the streets equalled the throng of nobility, rank,
and fashion under the roof of the great dilettante and patron of art,
the Duke of Devonshire. A few days afterwards, she made her first
appearance at her Majesty's Theatre, when she more than realized the
high expectations which had been raised. Most of the great prime donne
of our times have been compelled, in soprano parts, to compensate by
their genius and science for the want of compass in their voices—as,
for example, in the case of Pasta, whose natural voice was a rugged
mezzo-soprano; and of Malibran, who was a real contralto. In Madame
Sontag, the public found a real soprano, "to the manner born," enabling
her to perform with certainty of tone, and with exquisite ease, purity,
and delicacy, the most intricate passages and original embellishments,
whether in full tone or mezzo voce. When she first appeared in
Rosina, she revelled and luxuriated in roulades, arpeggios, and
fanciful divisions; and, subsequently, in Donna Anna, she proved that
she could sing in the chastest classical style, and produce the same
effect by pure sentiment and expression, as she had done before by
fioriture and staccato passages.
Any further account of the performances of Madlle. Sontag at this period
would be supererogatory, that portion of her career being known to our
readers either from personal observation or from report. She found
herself again with Malibran, and we quote the following anecdote to give
another proof of the good understanding which prevailed between Madame
de Rossi and Malibran. One day Malibran accidentally met the great
tenor, Donzelli, and from his countenance she guessed he was in huge
dudgeon at some theatrical affair. "What is the matter with you?" said
Malibran. "It is near the end of the season," answered the great tenor,
"and I have not been able to fix on an attractive opera for my benefit."
"Have you thought of nothing?" "Yes." "Well, what is it?" "I had
thought of the Matrimonio, but Pisaroni says she is quite ugly enough
without playing Fidalma; and then you would not be included in the cast,
and I don't know what opera to choose in which you would not have the
second part to Madlle. Sontag's first—that would not please you, and
I'm in despair." "Well," said Malibran, "to please you, and to show you
I would play any part with dear Sontag, I'll play Fidalma." "What, old
Fidalma? You are joking!" "No, I'm not; and to prove that I'm in
earnest, announce it this very day." Donzelli, scarce believing his own
good luck, announced the opera. Malibran, dressed in most exquisite
caricature, was admirable in this part, and to her we owe the subsequent
appearance of great prime donne in the part. The only performer
beneath expectation in this opera was the great tenor himself;
accustomed to parts of sublime energy, he roared like a sucking dove.
From England the Countess Rossi went to Prussia. After having sung the
usual time at Berlin, she repaired to Warsaw. In the Polish capital she
was overtaken by a revolution—source of so many sanguinary conflicts in
that unfortunate kingdom. However, this convulsion, so unfortunate for
others, only led Madame de Rossi to new and increased triumphs. She
removed to St. Petersburg; and there her singing produced unparalleled
effect and the most lasting impression. The Emperor and Empress, from
that moment, conceived for her the greatest partiality, and she was the
object of even more than that delicate, as well as generous liberality,
for which the court of the Czar is so justly renowned.
In the mean time, the Count de Rossi had been compelled to separate
momentarily from his lady. The aspect of affairs in Belgium demanded
that a young and active diplomatist should immediately be dispatched to
the court of the King of the Netherlands. The Sardinian Cabinet chose
Count Rossi for this office, and he received orders in 1829 immediately
to repair to Brussels. There he was still in 1830, when the revolution
broke out—in truly lyrical style—after a performance of Masaniello!
From Brussels, like the other members of the diplomatic body accredited
at this Court, he went to the Hague, the residence of the King of
Holland, still considered as the legitimate King of Belgium as well as
Holland, until Talleyrand and his confederates in the Hollando-Belgian
Conference said, like the quack doctor in Molière, "nous avons changé
tout celà."
Here began a new phase in the life of the Countess Rossi. The King of
Sardinia, cognizant of all the amiable qualities, as well as virtues,
which fitted the great vocalist for the most exalted sphere of society,
at last authorized the Count Rossi openly to announce his marriage.
Madame de Rossi, at St. Petersburg, bid adieu to the stage: and,
arriving at the Hague, the Count Rossi presented her to the whole
diplomatic body assembled and to the Court. If there had existed the
slightest hesitation as to the cordiality with which so bright a
character should be received, the first sight, and the first moments
spent with Madame de Rossi convinced the most stilted and hypercritical
personages that, in her, they beheld one destined to adorn every
position in life in which she might be placed, and who, fortunately for
them, was about to bring them, whether in their official réunions, or
in the private intimacy of life, a great accession of pleasure. Madame
de Rossi dropped as naturally into her position, amidst the votaries of
court and politics, as she had done into her parts on the stage, with
this difference, that here nothing was studied, not even the words she
uttered, but she found herself in the natural element of one whose mind
and tastes were plainly created for the enjoyment of everything that is
tasteful, refined, and truthful. If her reception at first was most
kindly courteous, in a very short time it was friendly in the extreme,
and she became the idol of the society of the Hague. Nothing could
exceed the delight with which the young Countess dropped into the calm
mode of life of the small town of the Hague, far removed from the
contentions and excitement of operatic life, but also from the turmoils
of politics, and the agitations of the great capitals of Europe. Unlike
so many other denizens of the stage, in her privacy there never was
observed in the manners of Madame de Rossi the slightest trace of her
habitual avocations. At the Hague, whether in the intercourse of the
courtly personages, or in the calm enjoyment of beautiful scenery and
rural diversions, no thought but of the present appeared ever to intrude
upon the memory of one, since her earliest years, accustomed to sway the
audiences of every capital, as if it were with the wand of an
enchanter—the crowds alternately hushed to dead silence—a moment later
excited to the loudest and most enthusiastic applause. But from the
moment that Madame de Rossi left the stage, up to the hour when she was
compelled to return to it, she ever appeared, like Thomson's
Patroness—only
——"fitted or to shine in Courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation joined
In soft assemblage."
The Dutch, who dearly love their household gods, are devoted to their
language and their country, and religiously cherish the thoughts and
habits of their ancestors. Although liberal and cordial in other
respects, they do not readily admit foreigners into their privacy. Many
an alien, misunderstanding the reason of their exclusion from Dutch
society, has left Holland in huge dudgeon, muttering, as Voltaire did,
"Canards! Canaux! Canaille!" Under the influence of Madame de Rossi, all
these barriers dissolved, and, alone, amongst the foreigners resident at
the Hague, she was sought after by the Dutch ladies and their burly
consorts, and, up to the hour of her departure, lived in their intimate
native circle.
In 1835, the Sardinian cabinet, to reward Count Rossi for his good
services, appointed him Envoy and Minister Plenipotentiary to the
Confederation of the Rhine, at Frankfort. Here the reputation of Madame
Rossi for beauty, goodness, and talent had preceded her. The great
diplomatic functionaries at Frankfort hastened to celebrate her arrival
with réunions, dinners, and balls. During her residence at Frankfort,
her life glided away cheerfully and rapidly amidst general esteem and
domestic happiness.
The only event which signalized her residence at Frankfort was a noble
act of charity. The overflowing of the Danube had produced desolation at
Pesth and Buda, and appeals had been made to all parts of Germany, and
particularly to the rich town of Frankfort, the commercial as well as
the political capital of the German confederation. Madame de Rossi,
amongst other distinguished persons, was appealed to. She at once
responded to the calls on her charity, and assembling all the amateur
musicians and singers, so numerous in every German capital, she gave an
oratorio with their assistance, at which she, of course, herself sung,
in the cathedral, the Dom, at Frankfort. The receipts of this truly
religious concert were even beyond all expectation in amount. The Prince
Metternich addressed to the Countess Rossi an autograph letter, thanking
her for this great act of charity to the Austrian emperor's subjects.
Whether the rumor was founded, we know not, but it may, perhaps, be
remembered, that towards the end of 1837, it was reported in the
newspapers that a coolness, arising from an accidental circumstance, had
arisen betwixt the Czar and the King of Sardinia. However this may be,
what is certain is, that that momentary cloud had blown over very
shortly afterwards; for the Sardinian cabinet had resolved to send to
St. Petersburg a diplomatic representative of a higher grade, and
furnished with ampler means of discharging one of the most agreeable
duties of diplomacy, and that which often contributes as much as
negotiation towards a good understanding—namely, hospitality. The
Sardinian cabinet deemed that the nomination of Count Rossi might be
agreeable to the Czar; and that this opinion was well founded was
immediately proved, for the Court of St. Petersburg being consulted,
according to usage, the Emperor of Russia condescended to express
himself in the most flattering terms both towards M. and Madame de
Rossi. The Czar has always maintained, and, moreover, proved
practically, his opinion, that the essence of the art of reigning, like
that of the art of eloquence, consists in action; habitually with his
Majesty, the deed immediately follows the word.
On the arrival of M. and Madame de Rossi at St. Petersburg, their
reception on the part of the Emperor and Empress was marked by every
circumstance which could be most gratifying to their feelings; and for
three years that they continued to reside in the imperial capital, they
enjoyed unalloyed happiness in a position of special favor.
Shortly after they arrived, that most amiable and august Princess, the
Emperor's Consort, became very solicitous to avail herself of Madame de
Rossi's admirable gifts at some concerts of sacred music, which her
Majesty was desirous to give at the Winter Palace, and likewise in some
operatic performances, with the assistance of the amateurs and
dilettanti of her Court. Madame de Rossi was naturally most anxious to
gratify the august lady, as much beloved as she is deeply respected by
all, and to whom she bore special gratitude. But that the wife of his
representative should never sing in public in any form, was the special
injunction of the king of Sardinia, when he consented to the official
acknowledgment of Madame de Rossi's marriage, and the latter did not
even dare to apply on the subject to head-quarters. Count Nesselrode,
the chancellor of the Russian empire, whose ruling occupations and
predilections, apart from diplomacy, are the culture of music and that
of flowers—the former with enthusiasm—undertook the treaty, and
entered into the negotiation with as much zeal as if the question was
the cession of a new province to the away of the Czar. The King of
Sardinia was too much of a chevalier not to feel he could refuse
nothing to such a negotiator, when the question was to oblige so
peerless a lady as the Empress. The whole Court was on the tip-toe of
expectation—the delay had added fuel to the general eagerness. Led by
Madame de Rossi, the performances at the Emperor's palace formed an
epoch in the enjoyments of the Court. This may be easily accounted for.
For here Madame de Rossi enacted chosen portions of operas, of which her
reading is, in a mere dramatic point of view, the most deeply affecting.
The more exalted the auditory, the more fully are its delicate traits
understood. The conception is natural, at the same time as refined in
the extreme. Not employing any of those outbursts, dramatic
over-coloring, and jeux de ficelle, to which most of the lyrical
actresses are addicted, there is a continuity and unity, a "oneness," in
the elaboration of her parts, which renders the illusion complete,
provided the spectator's education be proportioned to the performance. A
few years since, Italian singers, ever the models, were the most
listless and inanimate of actors; now most of these vocalists, having
undergone revolutionary and foreign influence, have gone to the other
extreme—their predecessors acted like telegraphs—they, like windmills.
Madame de Rossi gives the utmost value to the feeling of the part,
without forgetting that the first duty is to give also utmost value to
each note, and avoiding the gusty utterance, the spasmodic gesture, and
clap-traps "ad captandum vulgus," her marvellous tones are evolved in
all their purity, beauty of modulation, and all-surpassing agility. The
spectators do not suffer from the contemplation of those efforts, and
that suffusion of the face, that straining of the nerves, blood-vessels,
and muscles of the throat, which have degraded tragedy to melo-drama,
and which would make one believe the audience had come to behold an
execution, not a poetical performance. Such a style, we repeat, as that
of Madame de Rossi, is essentially made for the enjoyment of select
audiences, such as she found at St. Petersburg, within the precincts of
the palace. The impression made was immense, and the effects lasting. To
this cause is universally attributed the establishment on a noble scale
of the Italian Opera at St. Petersburg, now become, in consequence of
revolutions, which have destroyed elsewhere all art and refined
industry, the chief resource of Italian artists in the winter. Such was
the remembrance of the enjoyment, and such was the void left by the
departure of Madame de Rossi, that Rubini was summoned to St.
Petersburgh with a company of his own choosing, and at an outlay no
other sovereign but the Czar could have borne.
The Russians of every class possess an ear for music; their performances
in chorus, their extraordinary morçeaux d'ensemble of single noted
wind instruments, sufficiently prove this assertion. Amongst the higher
classes art is a passion; and with such gifts as she possesses, Countess
Rossi naturally became the object of the utmost enthusiastic admiration.
In the summer season, when St. Petersburg is abandoned, parties were
made at country seats, purposely to secure her presence. It was at a
princely residence in the country, that the witty author of the popular
"Letters from the Baltic," met Countess Rossi, charming and attractive
as in the first burst of her popularity.
The following extracts from this gifted lady's account of her meeting
with Madame de Rossi, during a villegiatara at Revel, will be read
with interest:—
"And now let me revert more particularly to one of the fairest
ornaments, both in mind and person, which our party possesses, whose
never-clouded name is such favorite property with the public as to
justify me in naming it—I mean the Countess Rossi. The advantages which
her peculiar experience and knowledge of society have afforded her,
added to the happiest naturel that ever fell to human portion, render
her exquisite voice and talent, both still in undiminished perfection,
by no means her chief attraction in society. Madame Rossi could afford
to lose her voice to-morrow, and would be equally sought. True to her
nation, she has combined all the Liebenswürdigkeit of a German with
the witchery of every other land. Madame Rossi's biography is one of
great interest and instruction, and it is to be hoped will one day
appear before the public. It is not generally known that she was
ennobled by the King of Prussia, under the title of Mademoiselle de
Launstein; and since absolute will, it seems, can bestow the past as
well as present and future, with seven Ahnerrn, or forefathers—'or
eight,' said the Countess, laughing, 'but I can't quite remember;' and
though never disowning the popular name of Sontag, yet, in respect for
the donor, her visiting cards when she appears in Prussia are always
printed née de Launstein. We were greatly privileged in the enjoyment
of her rich and flexible notes in our private circle, and under her
auspices an amateur concert was now proposed for the benefit of the poor
in Revel.
"The rehearsals were merry meetings, and when our own bawling was over
Madame Rossi went through her songs as scrupulously as the rest. I shall
never forget the impression she excited one evening. We were all united
in the great ball-room at the Governor's castle in Revel, which was
partially illuminated for the occasion, and, having wound up our last
noisy 'Firmament,' we all retreated to distant parts of the salle,
leaving the Countess to rehearse the celebrated Scena from the
Freischütz with the instrumental parts. She was seated in the midst, and
completely hidden by the figures and desks around her. And now arose a
strain of melody and expression which thrills every nerve to
recall;—the interest and pathos creeping gradually on through every
division of this most noble and passionate of songs,—the gloomy
light,—the invisible songstress,—all combining to increase the effect,
till the feeling became almost too intense to bear. And then the horn in
the distance, and the husky voice of suppressed agony whilst doubt
possessed her soul, chilled the blood in our veins, and her final burst,
'Er ist's, Er ist's,' was one of agony to her audience. Tears, real
tears, ran down cheeks, both fair and rough, who knew not and cared not
that they were there; and not until the excitement had subsided did I
feel that my wrist had been clenched in so convulsive a grasp by my
neighbor as to retain marks long after the siren had ceased. I have
heard Schröder and Malibran, both grand and true in this composition,
but neither searched the depths of its passionate tones, and with it the
hearts of the audience, so completely as the matchless Madame Rossi."
Three years thus happily spent, in 1842, Count Rossi obtained leave of
absence to visit his family, then residing at Vienna, and the Countess
accompanied her husband. Those who visited Vienna before the late
revolution, cannot forget the state of society which prevailed in the
Austrian capital, the chief abode of taste and pleasure in that quarter
of the globe. The circles of society were defined as rigorously and
irrevocably as the boundaries of the little principalities on a German
map, and with this difference that there was no debatable land. Amidst
the nobility itself resident at Vienna, there was an exclusive circle
formed, whose exclusiveness was two-fold, being in the ratio not only of
rank, but of fashion. This circle, consisting of those who were once the
great feudal lords of the overgrown empire, of the mediatized princes,
of the nobles who had the highest rank and the greatest power, with a
sprinkling of those who had the greatest talent to amuse society—there
was formed a crême de la crême—a social oligarchy of exclusiveness,
without example in any other capital. Over this Olympus of gods and
demi-gods, the Prince Metternich, the greatest diplomatist of the age of
Napoleon, and a functionary with all the reality, although without the
title of imperial rule, together with his handsome and witty consort,
ruled supreme. The frost-work, which excluded so many persons of the
highest pretensions, whether travellers or residents, at once dissolved
under the gentle influence of Madame de Rossi, as soon as she arrived in
Vienna. In the sanctuary of princes and princesses, in the innermost
penetralia of the most mysterious rites of fashion, Madame de Rossi
spent the time of her short residence in Vienna, delighting those
assemblies she visited by occasional snatches of song, and giving
matinées musicales with amateurs, which were thronged by the highest
personages. By her amiability, her talents, and virtues, she laid at
Vienna the foundation of more than one enduring friendship.
Prussia having become the punctum saliens of diplomacy in the Northern
world, the Sardinian Cabinet removed Count Rossi, as its representative,
to Berlin, in 1843. At this dilettante Court, where she was considered
in the light of a countrywoman, and one of the boasts of the
"Faderland," and in that capital, where, a few years before, she had
exacted so often unbounded enthusiasm, Madame de Rossi was received with
the warmest welcome. The Berlinese contemplated her noble bearing in her
new position with the deepest interest.
From the Court she experienced the highest favor. The present King of
Prussia is a great lover of music. It is true that, like almost every
German melomane of the present day, he mistakes entirely the natural
boundaries which essentially separate and distinguish from each other
the different species of music; he places on the stage music only fitted
for cathedrals, where religious fervor upholds and vivifies the
ponderous form of massive harmony; and he does not discern that dramatic
lyrical music should speak directly to the feelings through the words,
the inspiration always melodical, the ruling themes and dramatic objects
ever distinct, and not overlaid by science nor drowned by noise, and
thus adapted to the enjoyment of the mass of educated men, and not made
alone for the few adepts and pedantic lovers of abstruse lore. Still is
the Prussian monarch a devoted lover of music; and in his répertoire
he occasionally admits the older composers, those whose strains, like
Mozart's and Glück's, required no reasoning, no scientific study, to be
felt, but were at once comprehended, and charmed the ear and touched the
heart. In the execution of these works, in the private circle of the
King and Queen, Madame de Rossi was an immense acquisition. Happy were
those who could obtain an entrance into the royal precincts when the
Iphigénie en Aulide of Glück was sung. Nothing can exceed the effect
of the noble strains of Piccini's conqueror when interpreted by our
great vocalist.
In Berlin, the home of the Countess Rossi was habitually the resort of
every personage exalted in rank, as well as of the famosi of science,
art, and literature, such as Humboldt, Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer, &c. The
Princess of Prussia, who holds so distinguished a position, by her
tastes and her virtues, amongst the princesses of the Continent, honored
Madame de Rossi with the most affectionate regard, whilst that
illustrious melomane and excellent prince, the Grand Duke of
Mecklenburgh Strelitz, finding so much goodness united with so much
talent, treated her almost as a daughter—the Count and Countess passing
three months every season at Strelitz.
No traveller distinguished by rank, or illustrious in art or literature,
passed through the Prussian capital, without visiting the salons of
the Countess Rossi.
The King of Bavaria, who had heard so much reported of the talents and
virtues of Madame de Rossi, visited Berlin in 1846. To gratify his
desire to behold and hear her, the Princess of Prussia assembled at her
house a réunion of the élite of society, and specially invited
Madame de Rossi. The King felt deeply the charm of her looks, her
manners, and conversation, whilst her singing wound him up to poetical
enthusiasm. Under its effect, he wrote the following stanzas, which
created an immense sensation at the time. They possess, apart their
object, the intrinsic attraction of the highest poetry; but,
unfortunately, the language is scarcely translatable, and still less can
we do justice in prose to the peculiar German spirit with which the poem
is fraught:—
I.
Hoch hat dich der Herr gesegnet,
Gab dir des Gesanges Macht!
Glücklich welcher dir begegnet
In des Zweifels banger Nacht.
II.
Deiner Stimme Silber Laute
Treffen Süss des Hörers Ohr
Dem, der ihnen sich vertraute
Offnest du des Himmels Thor.
III.
Ans der Cherubinen Chöre
Nahmst, du Hohe, deinen Sang;
Seinen Engel Giaubut zu hören
Jeder wohl zu dem er drang.
IV.
Aus der reinsten Seele Tiefe
Tönt ein solches Lied allein;
Ist's als wenn der Herr uns riefe
Heilig so wie Er zu Seyn.
V.
Wenn auch einst dein Lied verklungen
Bleibt sein Segen ewig doch,
Da's in uns den Feind bezwungen
Auferlegt der Liebe Joch.
VI.
Wenn ins Reich der Harmonien
Holde, du zurükgekehrt
Wenn der Kraft die dir verliehen
Keinen Erdenschranke wehrt.
VII.
Dann wirst in den Engel Schaaren
Singen du an Gottes Thron;
Selig wirst du es erfahren,
Was des Sängers höchster Lohn.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I.
High was the boon of Heaven, when he gave thee
the mastery of Song. Happy is he that hears it
and ascends to its source in the dreadful Night of Doubts.
II.
For the Argentine sounds of thy voice softly stealing
on the hearer's senses, to him that confides
in them open the portals of Heaven.
III.
Of the choirs sublime of the Cherubim
thou hast borrowed thy strains;
and as he listens, each auditor thinks
it is the voice of his Guardian Angel that speaks.
IV.
Only from the depth of the purest
of hearts can such tones arise;
it is as if Heaven summoned
us to partake of its own thoughts.
V.
If some day your voice resound no more,
the blessing will be resumed; and, wrapped in eternity,
it will have destroyed in us the enemy,
and we will remain subject to a power of love and charity.
VI.
For through thy beautiful lips Heaven speaks to its children,
and thy voice brings us news from those realms above,
which are the asylum of all.
VII.
When thou shalt have returned to the Kingdom of Harmonies,
and no mortal coil shall restrain thy power;
then, amidst the angelic choir, thou shalt sing to the throne supreme,
and blessed! thou shalt receive the highest reward of terrestrial singer!
We have traced here but very imperfectly what we have observed
ourselves, heard from travellers, or collected from the many journals
and reviews of Germany. What we have recorded is but a very small
portion of the sum of constant happiness, of constant triumph, which
attended Madame de Rossi since she left the theatrical career. But at
last came the fatal year 1848, when a political eruption, unprecedented
for magnitude and extent, fell upon the whole fabric of human happiness
on the Continent, as unforeseen and as destructive as the volcanic
outburst which, in a past age, buried Pompeii. Madame de Rossi's
fortune, when the revolution broke out at Berlin, was placed partly with
bankers, partly in commercial securities; commerce ceased, public credit
was shaken, and private credit lost, and with the latter the fortune of
Madame de Rossi. Shortly afterwards followed the events in Sardinia, in
its turn deeply affecting the fortunes of her husband, and threatening
the Count Rossi with the loss of that office which he had so long and so
honorably held. On the first news of the losses experienced by Madame de
Rossi, knowing how perfectly she had preserved her voice, the Direction
of Her Majesty's Theatre made, in the most delicate manner that could be
devised, ample offers to the unfortunate lady, in case she should deem
it necessary to return to the scene of her former triumphs. The Count
and Countess Rossi did not contemplate then the necessity of so great a
sacrifice. Later offers of unlimited temptation were made by other
parties, and emissaries sent to Berlin secretly to treat with the great
vocalist of the golden age of the opera. But they were at once refused.
As events assumed a darker complexion, Madame de Rossi, the most
affectionate of mothers, grew more and more anxious for her children,
and used every endeavor to prevail on her noble husband to sacrifice the
privileges and prejudices of rank, and the sweets of high office, to the
future welfare of their children. An artist of European fame, who not
only commands admiration by his talents, his conversational powers, his
elegant and amiable manners, and his noble and elevated character—M.
Thalberg, happened some months since to be in Berlin, and he is said to
have seconded Madame de Rossi's efforts to persuade her husband.
Communications were resumed with the Direction of Her Majesty's Theatre,
although still in a problematical and conditional form, and the Count
Rossi repaired to Turin to endeavor to release himself from his duties.
After some delay, the Count obtained permission from his sovereign to
retire for a time from his career. When it was known later at Turin what
was the cause of his retirement, and that it was definitive, letters
were written, by order of the sovereign, in the highest degree cordial
and flattering, both to M. and Madame de Rossi. From Turin the Count
returned to Berlin; there Mr. Lumley had suddenly arrived—every
arrangement was made, and a week after he had left Berlin, the Count and
Countess Rossi arrived in London in a manner totally unforeseen. In a
week more she appeared on the stage, and although, unlike other great
singers, she had not, owing to the necessity of secresy, been preceded
by those announcements which habitually long beforehand herald forth a
prima donna, and work upon public expectation, her reception was one
never surpassed in enthusiasm.
When the circumstances in which Madame Sontag has once more appeared on
the horizon with undiminished glory are considered, a feeling of
something more than admiration takes possession of the observer. To
behold beings, of which there are not one in so many millions, whose
existence has scarcely been thought of, come in a critical hour,
interpose their power, uphold a noble establishment, and at once defeat
all the workings of intrigue, envy, and ingratitude, partakes of that
providential character of events to which all others are secondary. This
is the second time that such an interposition has occurred as regards
the greatest theatrical institution of the country. If there existed in
reality such a random power as chance, such events could scarcely be
reckoned amongst its casualties.
If there could be any one so devoid of love for what is really good and
really great, as not to be inspired by interest in the eventful life we
have so very superficially sketched, they need only to repair to the
theatre where our heroine appears, for them to change their disposition.
Nothing ever could resist, off the stage or on it, the sterling merit
either of Countess Rossi, or of Madame Sontag.
