A SURPRISE.

(Concluded.)

ABOUT nine o'clock the same evening I reached the Opera Comique, and quietly ensconced myself for awhile in a comfortable arm-chair in the orchestra. The second piece had just begun, and its metropolitan fame induced me to give it an attentive hearing. It was entitled Le Toreador; the scene was laid in Spain, and the characters were drawn from low life. The plot was simple enough, and in Spain, I dare say, common enough. It was the case of a very pretty young woman, married to quite an old man, and who, not content with his good luck, had the unpardonable presumption to be after making love to all the fair women he met. The discovery of this propensity by his wife, far from inflaming her jealousy, was hailed with secret pleasure, and by a shocking piece of casuistry, which, let us hope, only prevails in Spain, she considered herself perfectly justified in imitating her husband's bad example, and in giving her affections to one of an ardent host of admirers, the Toreador in question. After a number of diverting but highly improper incidents, the curtain fell on the consummation of her hopes in a cunningly planned liason with her lover. The author may have had a sound moral in view, for all I know, and perhaps only meant to intimidate erring husbands from similar sins, by holding up to their astonished gaze all the dreadful risks they incurred; but I must confess that it struck me, that the lyric stage of the French Republic still lagged considerably behind the moral progress of the age, and was hardly much in advance of the licentious days of the elder monarchy. The programme aside, the music of Le Toreador was delightful, and consisted of a series of those light and sparkling airs which are eminently French, and which differ so widely from the deep melody of the Italian, and the elaborate science of the German schools. The heroine of the piece was a Madame Ugalda, who sung delightfully. Her execution was wonderfully facile, and reminded me not unfrequently of the flexibility and incomparable finish of the matchless Persiani. She was vastly applauded, and I could not but admire the nice discrimination of the audience, for every skillfully executed feat was instantly detected, and rewarded. The tenor and baritone left nothing to be desired, and beside the excellence of their singing, their exquisite acting threw an additional charm over the performance. There is no such acting in the world as the French, and its highest merit is, that it is always natural and no less graceful.

At the end of the first act I looked round the house, and recognized, just opposite to me, in a loge premiere, my fair friend of the morning. Her tall, erect figure, her resolute but benevolent expression of face, and her air so full of English hauteur, caught my attention at once, and I then turned to contemplate the persons about her. Two ladies and a gentleman made up her company, but the distance was too considerable to scrutinize them minutely. Observing there was a fifth chair unoccupied, and doubtless meant for me, I picked up my hat and set off in quest of it. Adopting the pleasant usages of the French, my lady-friend allowed

VOL. XXVI.—NO. CXLIII.

4

me to take my seat without the formality of an introduction to her guests, and after exchanging a few remarks with her, I found myself at liberty to talk to my neighbors, or look round the salle, as best suited my taste. I was engaged in the latter, when the curtain rose for the last act of Le Toreador, and I turned all my attention to the denouement of the plot. I had plenty of opportunities, however, for glancing occasionally at the persons around me. There was nothing in the manners or appearance of the gentleman near me to attract my attention. He was rather elderly, dressed in black, and wore spectacles. His face was mild in expression, and I set him down as a good-for-nothing kind of a sort of man, and no more. The lady just before me seemed a very quiet, common-place dame, who sat very still, and behaved very nicely. Right before her, however, and by the side of my friend, was placed a lady whose person and manners had already drawn my attention. Her back was unluckily turned towards me, but this gave me a chance of seeing how well she was formed, and what a fine neck and fair skin she had. She was of good height, too, as far as I could make out. I did my best to get a glimpse of her face; but no-to my annoyance, she kept her eyes, to which she constantly held her lorgnette, intently fixed the whole time upon the stage. She seemed utterly wrapt up in the performance, and not a note of music, or a movement of the artistes, escaped her vigilant regard. She was evidently a connoisseur, for every now and then she would give low, but earnest expression of her delight. More than once she laid down her opera-glass, and applauded with a warmth that surprised me. This in itself enlivened my interest in her, for I liked the frank and hearty manner in which she gave expression to her feelings. I have a propensity of this sort myself when in a theatre, and have often sacrificed a sense of dignity, rather than forego the lively utterance of my admiration. always feel under a deep sentiment of obligation to an artiste who delights me, and it seems to me niggard and ungrateful to restrain its acknowledg ment. This lady seemed of my way of thinking; for whenever she was touched by some delicate stroke of art, she applauded unhesitatingly, and as if she was totally unconscious of there being a soul near to observe or criticise her. There was a clue in this, I thought, to her disposition, and I felt sure, at once, that she was of an independent and decided turn of character, such as would express its emotions whenever it might be properly done. I observed, also, that at any broad allusion in the play, when the men laughed, and the ladies showed consciousness, (which French ladies do so adroitly,) she sat perfectly unmoved, as though some unseemly missile had glanced past her; and this, I inferred, betokened chastity of mind, and crowned the symmetry of a beautiful feminine character. In this way I amused myself with all sorts of conceits about this charming unknown, whose face I was dying to see, but which no manoeuvring of mine could effect. I almost wished that somebody behind would cry "fire," that I might, at least, catch one look, to compare with the notions I had been weaving. At last, down went the curtain, and up rose the house, and I believe everybody turned round in it but my incognita, upon whom my longing eyes steadily rested. I half suspected she did it on purpose, for my vanity forbade my inferring that it was mere indifference as to who else might be in the box behind her. At last, in despair, I proposed going over to Tortoni's to take ices, as the night was warm, and, to my joy, it was accepted. I never moved, though, till she turned

I

round, and I only stood the more still for that, for a few minutes. Her face was not exactly handsome, and yet it was; for it had the beauty of expression. Her eyes were blue, and what a charm was in them! Heart and mind, sensibility and strength, all were there. She was a blonde-I remember that; but in trying to recall her, the eyes are the only features that come vividly back. I offered my arm to my lady of the box, who was joined by the quiet damsel on the other side. The gentleman in black, with spectacles, walked off quite complacently with the "blue eyes." How I envied him. After talking awhile about other matters, I asked my companion, in a tone of seeming unconcern-"Who are your friends?" "Oh, I will tell you that by-and-bye. What a hurry you are in!" was the provoking answer.

"Well, you might as well introduce me at once," I rejoined; "it is awkward talking familiarly together without knowing each other."

66

Why, one would hardly think so, for you seem very much at ease. But let me, without jesting, beg of you not to direct your attention to that lady," looking towards the blonde, "for she has a great repugnance to strangers, and if you talk much to her you will be sure to offend her." I was glad to find I had a lever to work with, so I replied immediately: "Unless you tell me who she is, I will talk to her out of pique, and take the risk of offending her."

"Then you will offend me."

"That is a more serious matter, I grant you; but then what's the use of this mystery," I said, appealingly. "I want to know who is yon person? Not that it is of any great consequence, to be sure; but-she is go like a friend of mine."

"It is very shrewd in you, affecting indifference, but it is only because your curiosity is so evident, that I begin to fear letting you know anything about her."

By this time we had reached Tortoni's, and began ascending to one of his beautiful saloons." Well, at least, you may tell me who the sedate individual in black is," I remarked, walking at her side.

"That is Meyerbeer, the celebrated composer."

"Bless me," I exclaimed, quite startled, "is that Meyerbeer? Well, for goodness sake, tell me who it is now resting on his arm. I promise not to address her a word if that is your condition?

"Promise, you will not speak to her first?"

"I do."

"Then it is Jenny Lind."

I was struck dumb with surprise, and I found it easy enough for a space therefore to keep my word. While the ices were coming I sat perfectly still alongside of Jenny, who was talking (in German) to Meyerbeer on the opposite side of the table. I don't know what the great composer said to her, some kind wish, doubtless; but with charming frankness she offered him, of a sudden, her hand, which he shook right warmly. I began to recover slowly from my stupefaction, and to feel that in spite of my pledges, introduced or not, I should certainly be tempted to speak to her. My distrustful friend kept her gaze steadily on me, as if divining my intentions. I was just meditating how I should begin, when Jenny Lind, as if pleased with my reserve, turned round to me and said, "do you see what a beautiful moon," pointing out of the window we were sitting by. "Oh yes, most beautiful," I answered, looking involuntarily in

her eyes, and thinking no more of the moon than if there had never been such a thing. Now what she said next, or what I replied, I have essayed in vain to remember, for I was so troubled, so spell-bound by the unexpectedness of this rencontre, that for a few moments my faculties were enchained, and I felt reduced to a somewhat mechanical state. But directly after this, Meyerbeer objected to the night air, and we changed our quarters to another part of the room, and this time I was seated opposite to the Syren, with a full view of her face, and farther from her eyes.— We then began talking of Paris.

"You must be delighted with this splendid capital, Mlle. Lind," I said, "at this fine season of the year."

"Yes, there are parts of it I like very well," she remarked; "the gar dens for instance, and the Place de la Concorde, and the Bois de Boulogne. These make all of Paris that I care anything about. I much prefer London."

"Indeed!" I replied; somewhat surprised. "But there is no comparison between the two capitals in point of amusement. The French are so gay and the English so du!l."

"That may be, but I like the English character best; it is so true, so reliable." Her countenance, as she uttered these simple words, as well as her emphasis, showed how much her heart was in them.

"These traits are very desirable," I returned, "in our friends; but when countries are concerned, I am willing to accept a substitute. The wit and heaviness of the French have more charms for strangers than all the honesty and heaviness of the English; and they themselves seem much of the same opinion; for how many of them give the preference to France over their own homes." I could see that my remarks had no effect on Jenny Lind, for she shook her head, and clung evidently to her own opinions.

Changing the subject, I said-" You knew a countryman of mine, Mlle., I believe, in Sweden, Mr. C-H--?" "The American Minister; oh, yes, I remember him very well. Then you are an American?" she asked, looking at me with more interest. I bowed in reply,— "I hope you have quite made up your mind to pay us a visit one of those days, Mlle. Lind, and I need hardly assure you, that your welcome would almost throw English enthusiasm into the shade.”

What, have they heard of me all the way there?" she demanded, with no small incredulity.

"Heard of you," I repeated; "why, your portrait is to be seen in the window of every musical shop through the whole country, and the smallest anecdotes concerning you, professional or private, are copied at once from the English papers into ours, and are read everywhere with interest."

My language seemed to afford her great pleasure, for the color came to her cheek, and she cast frequent looks of mingled surprise and satisfaction at the taciturn lady next to her, who turned out to be her dame de compagnie.

"I have often felt a great desire," she rejoined, with some emotion, "to visit America; but, then, the distance is so great, and the result so uncertain. The very reputation, you say, I have got, would be a drawback, for they would expect so much more than I could perform. Besides, you must be, from all accounts," she added, smiling," a strange

kind of people. How do I know but I might do some foolish thing or other, and then you might drive me off as you did Macready the other day? Pray, what ought I to think of all I hear?"

"It is a grave question you put to me, Mlle. Lind," I returned, "and to which you can hardly expect impartial testimony. As a general remark, I would beg to caution you against the opinions of the upper classes of Europe. They look upon us naturally with prejudice, and are ready always to believe the worst. The Americans are not unlike the English in their serious traits, and resemble the French in their impulsive ones. But they are certainly superior in their acute judgment of men and things, and peculiar in the independent expression of their sentiments. As to the unfortunate affair of Macready, that merely grew out of the folly of one set of partisans in trying to force their favorite upon another

set, who had a different choice. But the worst might have been easily avoided, if the authorities had shown more vigor and sagacity."

"Yes, by closing the Theatre at once," she remarked, as is commonly done in Europe. To be candid, however, I have no fears of the kind, for I have heard what a scrupulous regard you have in America for our sex, and it is beyond question, one of the strongest features of your refinement, and clearest proof of high civilization."

"The panegyric is just, Mlle. Lind, for nowhere in Europe have I seen woman held in such chivalrous estimation, or treated with so much deference. There are reasons for this that belong to the different history and institutions of the two hemispheres. But to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion for yourself, Mlle. Lind, there is only one mode, which I recommend strongly; come and judge for yourself."

"Well, really, it is worth considering," she said, with her eyes full of rumination.

"What crowds would flock to the Theatre," I added.

"The Theatre," she repeated, abruptly; "Oh, I should not go near it. I would like to travel and see the country, and perhaps might sing now and then at a concert."

"But why not appear on the stage," I asked, in some wonder. "Because I have given it up," she replied with strong emphasis. "Given it up," I echoed, "why that is impossible. Now, when after years of toil and resolute struggle, you have reached the goal of your lovely art, to abandon it—to give up your mission, as it were, and rob the world of all the pure enjoyment it is in your power happily to afford it-why, this would be an abdication Mlle. Lind, without parallel, and you could hardly expect to be forgiven for it." The energy and involuntary earnestness of my remonstrances, had, I could perceive, no small effect. She attempted no reply, but her cheek flushed, her eye wandered, and she seemed a prey to conflicting doubts and conjectures.

We all rose at this moment to go. Whilst this conversation had gone on, my good natured friend gave me full swing, by chattering steadily with Meyerbeer. As I gave her my arm to descend, she said, "you are getting on very fast there sir; let you alone for that ?"

"Never fear," I answered; I remember the time when such a rencontre would have thrown me into a flutter; but I am all adamant now." "Well, how strangely the wheel has turned," rejoined my romanceloving friend. "How extraordinary the coincidences of to-night! You must remember well the last time we were at Tortoni's together, now some nine years since."