Daily evening star. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1852-1854, 1854-06-29
DAILY EVENING STAR.

DAILY EVENING STAR.
WRITTEN FoR THE sTAR.l
soNTAG AND HER coTEMP0RARIEs.
BY JULIE DE MARGUERirEs. r
1t was a cold frosty night in February
some fiye-and-twenty years ago. The
clear moon shone upon the gilded dome
of the Invalides and the cupolas of st.
Genevieve. The towers of Notre Dame
rose distinct in their elaborate detail in
the clear blue heavens and the stars, so
calm and silent above, -twinkled and
danced below in the rapid eddylng waves
of the Seine. The streets were deserted;
the cold nipping breeze swept round the
corners of the streets, on the broad quays
and boulevards, as though each gust had
been of SHARP and biting steel; the very
cochers de faoe, eschewing further
chances, had abandoned their posts and
slept in their warm stables beside their
jaded horses. The cafes alone were i'm.
mutually there-brilliant, coquettish, and
inviting, though their glass doors, most
carefully closed, revealed but few visi-
tors within. There were no fueurs, no
saunterers, no gay resounding laughter
echoed along the broad alleys of the
boulevards which were left to those
et enahlnns of passion and propriOty,
the haggard, moaning, lcahess trees
throwing up their skeleton branches at
every breeze, and the upright, firm, erect,
gilded gas lamp burning as bright as
ever, strong in itself, unchanged by any
gust or storm,
But there was one place in Paris on
this night, In which all the life, heat and
enthusiasm Of the capital seemed to have
concentrated. This was the Theatre
Favart, then the Italian opera of Paris.
The carriages were in close concentrated
rows on the place, in the centre of which
the theatre stood; and, tired by the un-
usual length Of the performance, the
coachmen had, as at st. Petersburgh,
lighted large bonfire, round which they
were all in their fur.covered and laced
liyeries, huddled, chattering vehemently
to each other, and sometimes with for
chile expletive, addressinga a remonstrance
to the restive and impatient horses.
1t was indeed long performance
heightened not by the actors, but by the
audience, the most aristocratic, the most
discriminating in all Europe. They
could not bear to lose their two fayorites,
who now stood side by side on the stage,
for the last time that season said the bills,
and thought the admirers and friends who
cheered them. But fate had decreed that
never again, side by side, together ming
ling their matchless voices, should Mali
bran and Sontag stand. Tancredi, with
the warriors helmet and the wild Arab
glance of the child of genius, whose Span
ish and Moorish blood the calm sunshine
of an English education and its depress-
ing climate could not tame; Henrietta
Sontag, so pure, so good, so gentle, with
her long fair hair and her serene blue
eyes-the very type of the wronged and
faithful Amenaide. There they stood
and there, having risen to do them honor,
stood the audience-dukes, Princes, min.
listers, artists, ambassadors, fair women -
all cheered their farewell, showering bou-
quets, rings and sonnets. And Sontag
blushed, and clasping Malibran's hand,
SIIII more Iov~ly Le--I. ~-I haEL..., -
lips quivered, and tears overflowed her
cleaning eyes.
At length-for all must end-the cur
tain falls. The coachmen without seek
their respective seats-the gems d armes
put the carriages in rank and file /; for
one half hour every aristocratic or cele.
brated name in Paris echoes through the
vestibule-until at length the last car
riase drives away, and the theatre Fa-
vart is left with the moon streaming on
it, to solitude and peace, like all the rest
of the city at that hour.
Though all the audience have departed,
there are still two solitary carriages lin
gering at the stage-door. Presently that
mysterious portal opens, aid forth come
two ladies, closely wrapged gedjip.lea, ip GIaftiD iDStd
young and handsome. There is a mo-
ment's parleying, then all get into one
carriage-tke other is ordered to follow
the footman cries "Rue de Clchy % and
off at quick pace they drive. Some
ten minutes later, and the carriage enters
the courtyard of a magnificent mansion,
from which the light is streaming. The
party descend, leaving their cloaks in
the warm ante-room, they proceed up the
marble stairs, thickly set with sweet
perfumed flowers. They pass through
suit of simple yet e1quisitely furnished
drawing-rooms, full of choice pictures,
statues, and blooming flowers, till they
reach the curtained door of the boudoir
Then the valet de chambre, making the
curtain slide on its golden rings, announ-
ces lie Compte ct la Comtesse Rossi,
Madame Malibran, Monsieur de Berriet.
At these words, a lady, long past the
prime of youth, but whose beautiful fea-
lures, shaded by softening lace, are lovely
still, advances towards them with ex-
tended hand and cordial smiles.
As there is none to introduce the
hostess, we must ourselves announce
her, and say that she, who, in her own
splendid mansion, now welcomed Sontag
and Malibran, was Angelica Catalani,
the greatest of all prima donnas, and the
not too happy wife of French officer,
NJ. v. The small round table,
with its snow white cloth, the hook and
champagne in the gilt and richly em.
bosse4 coolers, the choice viands, and
the luscious fruits, now invited the tired
and exhausted artists to that artist s
meal-supper-where the trammels Of
the world, the tolls, the heart-burnings