Mdlle. Lind's course of study under Garcia lasted in all ten months, by which time she had learned all that it was possible for any master to teach her. After this period she had improved so wonderfully under his magical tuition that, as he himself picturesquely expressed it, she was able to look down on her former efforts as from a mountain to a plain. The result for which she had so ardently longed, so patiently waited, so perseveringly laboured, was attained at last. Her voice, no longer suffering from the effects of the cruel fatigue and the inordinate amount of over-exertion which had so lately endangered, not merely its wellbeing, but its very existence, had now far more than recovered its pristine vigour,—it had acquired a rich depth of tone, a sympathetic sweetness, a bird-like charm in the silvery clearness of its upper register, which at once impressed the listener with the feeling that he had never before heard anything in the least degree resembling it.
Few human organs are perfect. It is quite possible that other voices may have possessed qualities which this did not—for voices of exceptional beauty are nearly always characterised by an individuality of expression which forms by no means the least potent of their attractions. But the listener never stopped to analyse the qualities of Mdlle. Lind's voice, the marked individuality of which set analysis at defiance. By turns full, sympathetic, tender, sad or brilliant, it adapted itself so perfectly to the artistic conception of the song it was interpreting, that singer, voice, and song were one.
"With such rare power at command, she was able, without effort, to give expression to every phase of the conception which she had originally formed by the exercise of innate genius alone. Her acting had grown up with her from infancy, and formed part of her inmost being. She had found no one in Paris capable of teaching her anything that could improve that, though she thought it necessary to take lessons in deportment. The rest she had studied for herself, though she had naturally gained experience by observation of others.
"She had acted to herself the part of Norma, which had been the last rôle she had undertaken in Stockholm before setting out for Paris, and calmly passed judgment upon her own performance. That she was satisfied with it one cannot doubt, for she had studied the difficult character of her heroine to such good purpose that she had reconciled all its apparent incongruities, and elevated it into a consistent whole, dramatic and musical, breathing poetry and romance from beginning to end, yet as true to nature as she was herself, and no longer fettered by the fatal technical weakness which had so long stood between her ideal and its perfect realisation. There was no weakness now. The artist was complete."
When Jenny Lind was drawing near the close of her studies under Garcia, the crucial question arose, Should the finished artist make her début in Paris? Or should she return at once to Sweden, and reappear in all the glory of her newly acquired powers in her beloved Stockholm? There were arguments to be brought forward on both sides. The problem was no new one. It had been frequently discussed, but her own feeling on the subject was very strong indeed. She could not reconcile herself to Paris. From the very first she had suspected the hollowness of its social organisation. In the September of 1841 she writes—
"There might be much to say about Paris, but I put it off until I am better able to judge. This much, however, I will say at once, that if good is sometimes to be found, an immeasurable amount of evil is to be found also. But I believe it to be an excellent school for any one with discernment enough to separate the rubbish from that which is worth preserving—though this is no easy task. To my mind the worst feature of Paris is its dreadful selfishness, its greed for money. There is nothing to which the people will not submit for the sake of gain. Applause here is not always given to talent, but often enough to vice,—to any obscure person who can afford to pay for it. Ugh! It is too dreadful to see the claqueurs sitting at the theatre, night after night, deciding the fate of those who are compelled to appear,—a terrible manifestation of original sin."
Six weeks later she writes: "All idea of appearing in public here has vanished. To begin with—I myself never relied upon it; but people said so many silly things about just one performance, that at last I began to feel as if I were in duty bound to try. But monstrous and unconquerable difficulties are in the way. In any case I want to go home again. But if I can arrange to sing at a concert before leaving, I will do so, in order that I may not return home without having at least done something."
All through the ensuing months she was still tortured by doubts as to the best course to pursue. In the following May she received from the directors of the Royal Theatre at Stockholm the offer of a definite and official engagement at the Opera House in which her early triumphs had been made, but this was not at once accepted.
At the end of June her studies with Garcia came to an end.
During this month it happened that Meyerbeer was in Paris on business connected with the production of "Le Prophète." Of the first performance of this opera Garcia retained a vivid memory, and, in speaking of it to me one day, recalled how, during the preliminary rehearsals, the singers all grumbled at its great length. Yet for the memorising and rehearsing of this, previous to its being put on the stage, they were given only eighteen days,—the same period as for that other lengthy work, "William Tell."