The enthusiasm for Sontag increased every night. Her gentle, unassuming 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 Devonshire 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.
C H A P. II.
SOME years ago an open carriage with four thorough-bred horses, mounted by postillions in black velvet jackets and silver-tasseled caps, was waiting at the door of a small, neat house in London, at the corner of Regent and Argyle streets. The sun was shining brilliantly, and though it was not later than ten o'clock in the morning, brilliant equipages were continually dashing 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 passed. Two gentlemen in the very plainest morning costume, passed up and down the pavement, looking anxiously each time they went by the open door into the small passage 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 Burghersh!" 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 Chargé 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 dickey, 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 passed 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 principal pleasure of Epsom, for those who are not members of the turf; the attentive footmen supplying clean glasses, 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 glasses 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. Nobody knew much about him; he had come from Berlin (which accounted for his intimacy with Nina), was a new attaché of the Sardinian embassy, 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 assisted 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 passion'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. Fashion 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 entitled "Tutti Frutti."
SHE came here as the wife of the Sardinian Minister to the Court of St. Petersburg, preceded by her fame as a singer. Courtly etiquette was dying of curiosity to hear the prima donna, yet refrained her stately steps under the imperial nod of the all-powerful Czar. Could she? would she? ought she to sing? These were the questions. If the Emperor thought right to ask her to sing, would the King of Sardinia think proper to allow her to sing? At length one point was decided. There was a grand fête at the winter palace, and the newly arrived ambassadress was invited; this was positive. Then from salon to salon flew the intelligence that the Czar had asked the Countess Rossi to sing—that Nesselrode had decided that, without infringing the dignity of the corps diplomatique, an ambassadress might sing; and, finally, that his majesty of Sardinia, being consulted, had graciously accorded permission; and, consequently, her Excellency Madame La Comtesse Rossi would prove to the whole court, assembled at the winter palace, that besides being the most lovely, graceful, and amiable of women, the Sardinian ambassadress was also the greatest artist of the day. And so it was, my dear ——, that the beautiful and melodious voice was revealed to us in all its showers and cascades of brilliant notes—taking the ear captive, until we all regretted the rank in which fate had placed such a wonder, condemning it to comparative silence. The emperor was entranced. After the concert, offering his arm to his lovely and gifted guest, he promenaded with her through the saloons, presenting her to all the great people; and the next day the empress invited the countess to join her private circle, and to dine with her en famille. It is said that the empress is even more charmed with the sweet and gentle manners of Madame Rossi, than she was with all her surpassing talents.
"THE MOST BRILLIANT PRODUCTION SINCE JANE EYRE."—Lit. Gazette.
Price 25 cents.