THE PRIMA DONNA AND THE COUNTESS.

OF all the artists there is none who so appeals to our hearts and our imaginations as Henriette Sontag. Her romantic history, her recent and great misfortunes, her far-famed beauty, her supreme talent, and her untarnished reputation, make her certainly one of the most remarkable women of the present century. Madame Sontag has had, as it were, two lives; twice she has achieved—what so few are ever destined to achieve at all—fame and fortune. When a mere girl, at eighteen, when others of her age are just entering on the world and existence, Henriette Sontag had already acquired European fame, seen the noblest and richest of many lands at her feet, refused even a royal hand offered for her acceptance, and, true to woman's nature, bestowed herself and her fortune (already considerable) where she had given her heart. The Count Rossi, one of the attachés of the Sardinian embassy, in every way merited this preference, and many years of uninterrupted happiness, during which time he became the representative of Sardinia at various courts, giving to the prima donna the rank of Ambassadress, which was never more gracefully filled, have justified her choice. What Henriette Sontag was when she first appeared, cannot be better described than by an extract from a work of Travels to St. Petersburg, by the celebrated Dr. Granville, which, at the time, was translated into French and German, and extracted into all the public papers. Dr. Granville, an Italian by birth, and an accomplished musician, was in every way qualified to judge of a musical talent, and time has proved the correctness of his criticism.

"* * * The orchestra (such an orchestra, composed of premiers talens all playing as one) began the overture to Winter's 'Interrupted Sacrifice,' Das Unterbrechene-Orperfest, and even though waiting in feverish excitement for the appearance of that wonderful girl (for she is no more) all had come to see, it was impossible not to be carried away by the exquisite manner in which this orchestra (perhaps the finest in the world) executed this fine composition. At length Mirrha entered; the star, the comet, the attraction, the Henriette Sontag, of whom sonnet-writers, poets, newspaper compilers, prose composers, travellers, had raved so much, stood before us. She is slender, rather petite and mignonne. Her countenance, like that of Canova's nymphs, belongs more to the ideal than to mortal reality. I should say that her hands are the prettiest things I ever saw, if her feet were not prettier still. She is faultless as to teeth, which the sweetest smile, for ever playing round her mouth, sets off at every warble in all their glory. Her chevelure, between auburn and blonde, is magnificent; and, to conclude with the essential part, the quality of her voice is beyond measure pleasing, and she possesses remarkable facility. M'lle Sontag's voice is a soprano of a sonorous, sweet, and clear timbre. She can reach the E above the lines without screaming. The flexibility of her organ has seduced her into that peculiar style of singing, which made Madame Catalani, for some few years, the musical wonder of Europe. It is this quality of voice, united to the personal gifts so profusely lavished by nature on one of her favorite daughters, that brought M'lle Sontag forward as a miracle, on the German stage, and at once, and without any premonitory step, made her a prima donna at the age of sixteen. But the first station at the opera cannot be had on such easy terms. The time necessary for acquiring declamation, expression, and pathos, has been spent by this prodigy in receiving unbounded applause for this one dazzling gift of nature, a flexible and brilliant voice, rendered irresistible by great personal beauty. The part of Mirrha is suited to Henriette Sontag in all but the last two scenes, where she is required to represent acute feeling and distress of mind. Her unalterably sweet and girlish face is ever the same, and the extent of the expression of her large, beautiful blue eyes consists in lowering them with the bashfulness of one of Carlo Dolce's madonnas, or raising them with the tenderness of a Cleopatra. The part of Rosina, in the Barbière, is one which exquisitely suits both the voice and person of M'lle Sontag. Never was there so fascinating a Rosina.

"Her sostenuto is firm, clear, and sonorous; the silver tone of her voice unsurpassed; her method excellent. She is daring, and launches at all hazards into a sea of flourishes, the result of which is always successful, particularly as she concludes them, by darting towards the audience one of those glances which have called down in Berlin, as they will in Paris and London, thunders of applause."

Thus was Henriette Sontag, during the first period of her fame. From Berlin she came to London, where enthusiasm reached a height hitherto unknown, because it included, as well as admiration, respect for the virtues and conduct of the loveliest woman who had ever trod on the stage. Then she went to Paris, and Paris set its seal upon her artistic reputation, classing her with all who had hitherto stood at the head of artistic celebrity. Yet she had powerful competitors to contend with, for she sang with Malibran and Pisaroni. Here it was her marriage (which she had been compelled to keep secret till the end of her engagement) was declared. Certainly few men have been so envied as Count Rossi, when he was known to be the husband of the world's idol. Society, which was as much attached to the woman as to the artist, seemed to think it an injustice, and felt for the first time inclined to quarrel with the actions of her it had proclaimed faultless in both mind and person. Scribe founded the libretto of the Ambassadress on this marriage, but he little thought he should be prophetic in the catastrophe he put to his opera, as he has been; for Henriette Sontag, like the Henriette in the play, has returned to the stage.

The Countess Rossi, though she had no taste for the publicity of the stage, having gone uncorrupted and unscathed through all its glittering temptations, had an innate enthusiasm for her art. The young Countess, therefore, cultivated it as assiduously as the young prima donna; and in Frankfort and in Berlin, where she principally resided, in St. Petersburg, which she visited, her saloon was the resort of all that was renowned in the artistic world. That wondrous voice sang on as admirably as before, following all the progress of musical science, and knowing all the répertoire of the best masters, as their compositions appeared before the world. Her silvery tones now resounded in the halls of palaces; and, instead of a public, she had kings and princes for her guests. Yet she was the same simple-minded and unaffected woman, with a mind pure as in infancy, and a heart beating only with good and tender emotions. Often during these years did she sing for public charities, and her name was sure, as in former days, to fill the coffers of the institution for which she sang.

But this bright destiny, which seemed placed beyond the reach of change, and which time seemed to have consolidated, was, during the revolution of 1848, from circumstances of an entirely private nature, completely destroyed.

Then, with her sweet temper unruffled, her calm, pure mind, undisturbed, the mother and the wife remembered the early days of the prima donna, and how that voice and those talents had achieved fortune and honor. The instant her determination was whispered, all the theatres of Europe were open to her. She chose the Queen's Theatre, in London, and Lumley offered her £7,000 sterling for the season. This she accepted; and once more, she stepped on to those boards, where, twenty years previously, she had stood, in all the freshness of her youth, but in the full maturity of her talent. To say how the house welcomed her would be impossible. It greeted her with shouts, with the waving of handkerchiefs, with tears—for she had many friends, who remembered her hospitality in her high estate. It rose to receive her. She stood before them, gentle, unassuming, as in former years, but lovelier, far lovelier. So youthful was she when she left the stage, that she had not attained her full stature; she had grown considerably now, her form was rounded with the full grace of womanhood. There were the same matchless arms and hands, the proverbially beautiful foot. That countenance had still the purity of outline of former years; but a life, however happy, will, in a high and sensitive nature, leave a thoughtful and pensive look upon the features.

Her beauty had gained what is almost a substitute for beauty—expression. The wavy ringlets which had floated in clouds around her girlish face were now braided over that deep, intellectual brow, on which no evil passion or sordid calculation had ever set one wrinkle. Those who had, in youth, witnessed her first appearance, looked at each other's careworn features with astonishment, and asked if that fair creature were not the daughter of the one enshrined in their memories. But the voice, like which none had ever since been heard, soon proclaimed that it was the Henriette Sontag. Yet that voice had gained in power, in expression, and in tone. What could the happy girl of former days, whose short life had been a series of triumphs, do but carol, like the lark, at the gates of Heaven? For her sin, sorrow, shame, misfortune, were undreamed of. But since, the woman had shuddered at crime, felt and shared sorrow, often consoled shame, was now assailed by misfortune. Now feeling, passion, and deep pathos hallowed every note, inspired each gesture. The Henriette Sontag had outlived her fame, and Madame Rossi Sontag, in her place, was recognised by perhaps the most critical, because the most travelled audience in the world, as the very greatest artist, both as an actress and a singer, ever heard or known.