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Updated: June 9, 2025
It was whispered afterward, by those who knew Malibran well, that she never forgave Henrietta Sontag for having been the first to be beloved by De Beriot. The voices of the two singers differed as much as their persons.
He had hoped to stave off bankruptcy by marrying the prosperous singer. He succeeded in getting neither her money nor her heart, for she left him within a year and returned to Paris. Here, then, we find her again, with her rival Sontag out of the way, and Sontag's lover to console.
When Sontag left the stage, and the hum of conversation was heard once more, Beulah looked up, with a long sigh of delight, and murmured: "Oh, sir! isn't she a glorious woman?" "Miss Graham is speaking to you," said he coolly. She raised her head, and saw the young lady's eyes riveted on her countenance. "Beulah, when did you hear from Eugene?" "About three weeks since, I believe."
"Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed to Malibran and Sontag, such singers as these don't make the same impression on you they perhaps do on others." "At least, you must admire Moriani's style and execution." "I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance singing with a voice like a woman's."
Ah, Ronzi de Begnis, thou lovely one! Ah, Caradori, thou smiling angel! Ah, Malibran! But what is most certain and lamentable is the decay of stage beauty since the days of George IV. Think of Sontag! I remember her in Otello and the Donna del Lago in `28. Young fellows have never seen beauty like that, heard such a voice, seen such hair, such eyes. Don't tell me!
Sontag never aspired to the higher walks of lyric tragedy, as she knew her own limitation, but in light and elegant comedy, the Mosinas and Susannas, she has never been excelled, whether as actress or singer.
Both acting and singing were governed by ripe judgment, profound sensibility and noble simplicity. She died at Lake Como in 1865. So many queens of song have reigned from the beginning of the nineteenth century to the present time that only a few brilliant names may here be mentioned. Among these Henrietta Sontag was the greatest German singer of the first half of the century.
She belonged to the same school as Sontag, not only in character of voice, but in all her sympathies and affinities; yet she was not incapable of a high order of tragic emotion, as her performance of the mad scene of "Lucia di Lammermoor" gave ample proof, but this form of artistic expression was not spontaneous and unforced. It was only well accomplished under high pressure.
He laid the latter before Beulah, and said: "I want you to go with me to-night to hear Sontag. The concert commences at eight o'clock, and you have no time to spare. Here are some flowers for your hair; arrange it as you have it now; and here, also, a pair of white gloves. When you are ready, come down and make my tea."
Her coming in effected all this to my mind. What a darling she looked, sitting there, with a pretty little scarlet and white sontag, of soft wool knitting, crossed over her bosom and clasped round her dainty, dainty waist; her busy fingers industriously weaving broad ivy garlands for the church columns, and her sweet, calm face bent earnestly over her task the surrounding foliage, scattered here, there, and everywhere, bringing out her well-formed figure in relief, just like a picture in some rustic portrait frame!
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