I once knew a Jessica, a Polish Jessica, who - but
that was in Vienna, more than half a century ago.
Beninsky's orbs brightened visibly when I bade him break his
fast at my high tea. I ordered everything they had in the
house I think, - a cold Pomeranian GANSEBRUST, a garlicky
WURST, and GERAUCHERTE LACHS. I had a packet of my own
Fortnum and Mason's Souchong; and when the stove gave out its
glow, and the samovar its music, Beninsky's gratitude and his
hunger passed the limits of restraint. Late into the night
we smoked our meerschaums.
When I spoke of the Russians, he got up nervously to see the
door was shut, and whispered with bated breath. What a
relief it was to him to meet a man to whom he could pour out
his griefs, his double griefs, as Pole and Israelite. Before
we parted I made him put the remains of the sausage (!) and
the goose-breast under his petticoats. I bade him come to me
in the morning and show me all that was worth seeing in
Warsaw. When he left, with tears in his eyes, I was consoled
to think that for one night at any rate he and his GANSEBRUST
and sausage would rest peacefully in Abraham's bosom. What
Abraham would say to the sausage I did not ask; nor perhaps
did my poor Beninsky.
CHAPTER XV
THE remainder of the year '49 has left me nothing to tell.
For me, it was the inane life of that draff of Society - the
young man-about-town: the tailor's, the haberdasher's, the
bootmaker's, and trinket-maker's, young man; the dancing and
'hell'-frequenting young man; the young man of the 'Cider
Cellars' and Piccadilly saloons; the valiant dove-slayer, the
park-lounger, the young lady's young man - who puts his hat
into mourning, and turns up his trousers because - because
the other young man does ditto, ditto.
I had a share in the Guards' omnibus box at Covent Garden,
with the privilege attached of going behind the scenes. Ah!
that was a real pleasure. To listen night after night to
Grisi and Mario, Alboni and Lablache, Viardot and Ronconi,
Persiani and Tamburini, - and Jenny Lind too, though she was
at the other house. And what an orchestra was Costa's - with
Sainton leader, and Lindley and old Dragonetti, who together
but alone, accompanied the RECITATIVE with their harmonious
chords on 'cello and double-bass. Is singing a lost art? Or
is that but a TEMPORIS ACTI question? We who heard those now
silent voices fancy there are none to match them nowadays.
Certainly there are no dancers like Taglioni, and Cerito, and
Fanny Elsler, and Carlotta Grisi.
After the opera and the ball, one finished the night at
Vauxhall or Ranelagh; then as gay, and exactly the same, as
they were when Miss Becky Sharpe and fat Jos supped there
only five-and-thirty years before.
Except at the Opera, and the Philharmonic, and Exeter Hall,
one rarely heard good music. Monsieur Jullien, that prince
of musical mountebanks - the 'Prince of Waterloo,' as John
Ella called him, was the first to popularise classical music
at his promenade concerts, by tentatively introducing a
single movement of a symphony here and there in the programme
of his quadrilles and waltzes and music-hall songs.
Mr. Ella, too, furthered the movement with his Musical Union
and quartett parties at Willis's Rooms, where Sainton and
Cooper led alternately, and the incomparable Piatti and Hill
made up the four. Here Ernst, Sivori, Vieuxtemps, and
Bottesini, and Mesdames Schumann, Dulcken, Arabella Goddard,
and all the famous virtuosi played their solos.
Great was the stimulus thus given by Ella's energy and
enthusiasm. As a proof of what he had to contend with, and
what he triumphed over, Halle's 'Life' may be quoted, where
it says: 'When Mr. Ella asked me [this was in 1848] what I
wished to play, and heard that it was one of Beethoven's
pianoforte sonatas, he exclaimed "Impossible!" and
endeavoured to demonstrate that they were not works to be
played in public.' What seven-league boots the world has
stridden in within the memory of living men!
John Ella himself led the second violins in Costa's band, and
had begun life (so I have been told) as a pastry-cook. I
knew both him and the wonderful little Frenchman 'at home.'
According to both, in their different ways, Beethoven and
Mozart would have been lost to fame but for their heroic
efforts to save them.
I used occasionally to play with Ella at the house of a lady
who gave musical parties. He was always attuned to the
highest pitch, - most good-natured, but most excitable where
music was to the fore. We were rehearsing a quintett, the
pianoforte part of which was played by the young lady of the
house - a very pretty girl, and not a bad musician, but
nervous to the point of hysteria. Ella himself was in a
hypercritical state; nothing would go smoothly; and the piano
was always (according to him) the peccant instrument. Again
and again he made us restart the movement. There were a good
many friends of the family invited to this last rehearsal,
which made it worse for the poor girl, who was obviously on
the brink of a breakdown. Presently Ella again jumped off
his chair, and shouted: 'Not E flat! There's no E flat
there; E natural! E natural! I never in my life knew a
young lady so prolific of flats as you.' There was a pause,
then a giggle, then an explosion; and then the poor girl,
bursting into tears, rushed out of the room.
