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