THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
still exceedingly pleasing, had become somewhat matronly. Her voice might, perhaps, not have retained all its original birdsong-like lightness of warble. But there was still that half veiled tone, as if there were something mysterious behind it; that velvety timbre, that strange, magnetic vibration, the mere sound of which could draw tears to the eyes of the listener. She was the nightingale still. To hear her was deep, pure, dreamy delight. Of all the great voices that I have heard—and I have heard many—none was so angelic and went so entrancingly, so caressingly to the heart as Jenny Lind's.
At last came the overture to “Tannhäuser.” Frau Kinkel, who in the most eloquent words had expressed her ecstasy over Jenny Lind's rendering of the “Freischütz” aria, became uneasy. “Now keep yourself well in hand,” she said, looking at me with an expression betraying some anxiety as to the outcome. The opening “Pilgrim's Chorus,” as it rose from the orchestra, pleased me much, without, however, impressing me as something overpowering. But when the violins set in with that weird and constantly growing tumult of passion, drowning the pious notes of the “Pilgrim's Chorus” under the wild outcries of an uncanny frenzy, then sinking into whining moans of exhaustion, I could hardly restrain myself. I felt as if I should jump up and shout. Frau Kinkel observed my emotion, put her hand upon my own as if to hold me down to my seat, and whispered: “Oh, oh, I see how it takes you, too. But do you not hear that it is all wrong?” I could not answer, but continued to listen with rapture. I did not hear that it was all wrong; and if I had noticed anything that was wrong under the accepted rules of thorough-bass, I should not have cared. I was fairly overwhelmed by those surging and rolling billows of harmony, by the breakers of passion rushing and tumbling over the rocks, those plaintive voices of sadness or despair,
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