"The first compliment paid to her in subjugated Frankfort was the announcement in the published list of arrivals, 'M'lle Sontag, Singer to his Majesty the King of Prussia, with her suite and attendants.' Princely personages travel 'with suite and attendants,' and by attributing the same to M'lle Sontag, she was raised to the very steps of the throne; and without rebellion, no higher honor could have been paid her.
"To this first compliment the last she received here was perfectly suited. The landlord at whose house she was lodged for a fortnight, at her departure refused all compensation, and thereby renewed and ennobled the old hotel of the Roman Emperor into a Prytaneum, where, in the name of the Fatherland, famous Germans are entertained. Between these two compliments extend a countless wilderness of others. Even the Jews experienced a slight dizziness, and when at the Exchange you heard them speak of Eighths and Quarters, you were doubtful whether they meant musical beats or per cents. The price of tickets to the theatre was doubled, a thing unheard of, for we Frankforters, rich as we are, regard every unusual expense as intolerable. Spectators poured along in vast crowds, not merely the inhabitants of the town, not merely the people of the neighboring cities; but from a distance, from Cologne and Hanover, came flocks of strangers. It was like the Olympian games. An Englishman, who could not get a place in the boxes, wanted to take the entire parquette, and when told it was impossible, gave loud vent to his astonishment at this strange Continental scrupulosity. A young man came on foot from Wiesbaden, a distance of sixteen miles, and arrived just as the house was opened; with great difficulty he procured a seat, but was good enough to give it up to a wearied lady; he stood up, fainted before the performance began, and, as there was no place for him to fall, he was carried lifeless in the fainting-fit, from hand to hand, to the door; he recovered just as the curtain fell on the last act, and walked back to Wiesbaden the same night. An inhabitant of the city was so exhausted by the closeness and the heat, that he had to go home, and died the same evening. We have heard of other injuries and maladies, and of persons who were obliged to keep their beds for many days. Through the whole time, the Intelligencer was filled with advertisements of lost chains, rings, bracelets, veils, and other articles which ladies lose in a crowd. On the first day of Sontag's appearance, I went to the optician's to get my opera glass, which had been left to be repaired, and he had to look for it among fifty others, left there for the same purpose. There was a universal arming of the eyes of the entire masculine gender in Frankfort, and under the gleam of the new chandelier, hundreds of glasses, directed at a weak girl, offered a terribly warlike aspect. But never was artillery so poorly served, for it was the unskilful artillerists who were injured and not the enemy.
"The house was opened two hours earlier than usual, but long before that, the great square in front was crowded and jammed with people. Expectation was raised to its highest apex; the excitement was intense and keen. Until I experienced the reality it seemed impossible that such extravagant anticipations could be satisfied. But all who were there confessed that M'lle Sontag far exceeded all they had looked for. And in such a case, where the appearance and the reality belong together, and are one and the same thing, what room was there for deception and illusion? A magical, indescribable grace accompanies all the movements of this singer, and we are in doubt whether to regard her acting or her singing as the lovely ornament of a perfect beauty. In comic parts she always preserves that womanly tact, which is so easily violated on the boards, and in serious ones a dignity which is at once touching and commanding. On that first night we forgot the senseless text of Rossini's Otello, we saw and heard the Desdemona of Shakspeare. In a simple ballad which speaks to the heart she is admirable, as in the most ornate Cavatina, which delights the ears. We saw old men weeping—something which no trick of artificiality, though never so unequalled and incomparable, could produce. Her low notes, her wonderful trills, runs, and cadenzas, resemble the charming, childlike ornaments on a Gothic edifice, which serve to moderate the solemnity of lofty arches and pillars, to combine the joy of the heavens with the joy of the earth, but never violate or degrade that solemnity. The inspiration produced by Henriette Sontag as Desdemona, resembles the Greek fire that could not be extinguished, and——. But let me cling to the rock of cool reflection and save myself. Perhaps it was the whirlpool that carried me away, perhaps it was not a mere figure of speech, when I said; 'I know not what I say.' If this be the case, if I have experienced a human weakness, why then I will not alive yield myself to mocking pity, but will mingle with my ship-wrecked companions in misfortune. All the critics and poets here and in Darmstadt have gone crazy also, and have done nothing but declaim, sing, and rave about Sontag. What poems, what fables, what flights of fancy! All Olympus was mustered into the service, and the children, grey-beards, and veterans of mythology had to come up and pay their tribute. Critical old women made declarations of passion to the songstress, and bloodless reviewers glowed with life in her praise. I am dizzy; I have seen Germans drunk, not with wine, but with enthusiasm. There has been no end to the prose and still less to the verse, expressive of their boundless delight. All seasons, all times, all emotions, all forms of expression, have been evoked to pay her honor. But I must end, lest I provoke some reader to exclaim:
"Not all are free, who dare to sport with chains."
PAST AND PRESENT.
BY
THEOPHILE GAUTIER.
SONTAG! A thousand delightful memories are associated with that name;—memories which it is ever pleasant to recall. Years, years ago we heard her delicious voice, and its beauty never left us. We were present at the few last performances of Sontag before she retired from a world that almost worshipped her, to the joys and honors of private life. We heard her, and we thought that nature had never before endowed a human soul with such exquisite musical organization, or a voice in which heart and melody were so beautifully and intimately blended. We were young then, and our admiration of the beautiful in art was, perhaps, stronger than our judgment; for, in youth, enthusiasm is but rarely under the control of reason; and in good truth the beauty of Mademoiselle Henriette Sontag was something so spirituelle, seemingly, to us, so far elevated above common mortality, that reason was the slave of sensation—a double entrancement of the eye and the ear.
The last part that we saw her in was Agathe in Der Freyschutz. Her singing of the Grand Aria was something perfectly unique, different in conception and execution from any artiste who had preceded her in that celebrated scena. It was a combination of purity and innocence, with earnest and holy love. The conception was full of dramatic force, and the execution was nature without exaggeration or counterfeit. In the Andante, which is a prayer for the safety of her lover, her impassioned, but innocent heartfelt earnestness, was as though a seraph was pleading for an erring mortal. We have seen nor heard anything like it since: it will be to us a life-long memory of delight.
We remember well how loud, indignant, and regretful were the universal exclamations at the presumption of any one man appropriating to himself one in whom the whole civilized world held so dear an interest. But the fiat had gone forth; Love pleaded and Hymen sanctioned the engagement; the world looked on wonderingly, scarcely realizing the extent of the loss. The star that but yesterday beamed in all its radiant effulgence, had suddenly set, and would appear no more. And so Sontag disappeared; a blaze of glory circling that young brow, o'er which scarce twenty summers had set their seal. She disappeared, and by and by a new star arose, and the many worshipped, and the past was, if not forgotten, but rarely remembered.
From time to time, however, the court gossips and the telltales of fashionable life vouchsafed us slight glimpses of the private life of the Countess Rossi—the peerless Sontag. Beloved and admired in that high circle to which her husband's position had called her, it was a theme of general remark with what modest womanly dignity she ornamented the society in which she moved. That same truthful earnestness which, aided by her supernatural gifts, rendered her the idol of the stage, secured her the love and esteem of all who met her in private life.