Great Singers Volume I Part 3

When Sophie Arnould retired from the stage, she took a house near the Palais Royal, and extended as brilliant a hospitality as ever. She was as celebrated for her practical jokes as for her witticisms, of which the following freak is a good example: One evening in 1780 she gave a grand supper, to which, among others, she invited M. Barthe, author of "Les Fausses Infidelites," and many similar pieces. He was inflated with vanity, though he was totally ignorant of everything away from the theatre, and was, in fact, one of those individuals who actually seem to court mystification and practical jokes. Mlle. Arnould instructed her servant Jeannot, and had him announced pompously under the t.i.tle of the Chevalier de Medicis, giving M. Barthe to understand that the young man was an illegitimate son of the house of Medici. The pretended n.o.bleman appeared to be treated with respect and distinction by the company, and he spoke to the poet with much affability, professing great admiration for his works. M. Barthe was enchanted. He was in a flutter of gratified vanity, and, to show his delight at the condescension of the chevalier, he proposed to write an epic poem in honor of his house. This farce lasted during the evening. The a.s.sembled company were in convulsions of suppressed laughter, which broke out when, at the moment of M. Barthe's most ecstatic admiration and respect for his new patron, Sophie Arnould lifted her gla.s.s, and, looking at the chevalier, said, in a clear voice, "Your health, Jeannot!" The sensations of poor M. Barthe may readily be imagined. The incident became the story of the day in all circles, and the unlucky poet could not go anywhere for fear of being tormented about "Jeannot."

At length she withdrew completely from the follies, pa.s.sions, and cares of the world, and bought an ancient monastic building, formerly belonging to the monks of St. Francis, near Luzarches, eighteen or twenty miles from Paris. This grim residence she decorated luxuriously in its interior, and over the door inscribed the ecclesiastical motto, "Ite missa est." Here she remained during the earlier storms of the Revolution, though she occasionally went to Paris at the risk of her head to gratify her curiosity about the republican management of opera, which presented some very unique features. The reader will be interested in some brief pictures of the revolutionary opera.

It was directed by four distinguished _sans culottes_--Henriot, Chaumette, Le Rouxand, and Hebert. The nominal director, however, was Francoeur, the same who first brought out Sophie Arnould in Louis XV.'s time. Henriot, Danton, Hebert, and other chiefs of the Revolution would hardly take a turn in the _coulisses_ or _foyer_ before they would say to some actor or actress: "We are going to your room; see that we are received properly." This of course meant a superb collation; and, after emptying many bottles of the costliest wines, the virtuous republicans would retire without troubling themselves on the score of expense. As this was a nightly occurrence, and the poor actors had no money, the expense fell on the restaurateur, who was compelled to console himself by the reflection that it was in the cause of liberty. Oftentimes the executioner, the dreaded Sanson, who as public official had the right of entree, would stroll in and in a jocular tone emphasize his abilities as a critic by saying to the singers that his opinion on the _execution_ of the music ought to be respected.*

* So, too, the London hangman one night went into the pit of her Majesty's Theatre to hear Jenny Lind sing, and remarked with a sigh of professional longing, "Ah, what a throat to scrag!"

Operatic kings and queens were suppressed, and the t.i.tles of royalty were prohibited both on the stage and in the greenroom. It was necessary, indeed, to use the old monarchical repertoire; but kings were transformed into chiefs; princes and dukes became members of the Convention or representatives of the people; seigneurs became mayors, and subst.i.tutes were found for words like "crown," "scepter," "throne,"

etc. There was one great difficulty to overcome. This was met by placing the scenes of the new operas in Italy, Portugal, etc.--anywhere but in France, where it was indispensable from a political point of view, but impossible from the poetic and musical, to make lovers address each other as _citoyen, citoyenne_.

Hebert would frequently display proscriptive lists in the green-room, including the names of many of the actors and other operatic employees, and say, "I shall have to send you all to the guillotine some day, but I have been prevented hitherto by the fact that you have conduced to my amus.e.m.e.nt." The stratagem which saved them was to get the ferocious Hebert drunk, for he loved wine as well as blood, and steal the fatal doc.u.ment. However, this operatic _dilettante_ always appeared with a fresh one next day. One bloodthirsty republican, Lefebvre, who was ambitious for musical fame, insisted on singing first characters. He appeared as _primo tenore_, and was hissed; he then tried his luck as first ba.s.s, and was again hissed by his friends the _sans culottes_.

Enraged by the _fiasco_, he attributed it to the machinations of a counter-revolution, and nearly persuaded Robespierre to give him a platoon of musketeers to fire on the infamous emissaries of "Pitt and Coburg." Yet, though the Reign of Terror was a fearful time for art and artists, there were sixty-three theatres open, and they were always crowded in spite of war, famine, and the guillotine.

It was fortunate for Sophie Arnould that her connection with the opera had closed prior to this dreadful period. As stated previously, she remained undisturbed during the early years of the Revolution. Only once a band of _sans culottes_ invaded her retreat. To their suspicious questions she answered by a.s.surances of loving the republic devotedly.

Her unconsciously satirical smile aroused distrust, and they were about hurrying her off to prison, when she pointed out a bust of Gluck, and inquired if she would keep a bust of Marat if she were not loyal to the republic. This satisfied her intelligent inquisitors, and they retreated, saying, "She is a good _citoyenne_, after all," as they saluted the marble. During this time she was still rich, having thirty thousand livres a year. But misfortunes thickened, and in two years she had lost nearly every franc. Obliged to go to Paris to try to save the wreck of her estate, she found her hosts of friends dissipated like the dew, all guillotined, shot, exiled, or imprisoned.

A gleam of suns.h.i.+ne came, however, in the kindness of Fouche, the Minister of Police, an old lover. One morning the Minister received the message of an unknown lady visitor. On receiving her he instantly recognized the still beautiful and sparkling lineaments of the woman he had once adored. Fouche, touched, heard her story, and by his powerful intercession secured for her a pension of twenty-four hundred livres and handsome apartments in the Hotel D'Angevil-liers. Here she speedily drew around her again the philosophers and fas.h.i.+onables, the poets and the artists of the age; and the Sophie Arnould of the golden days of old seemed resurrected in the vivacity and brilliancy of the talk from which time and misfortune had taken nothing of its pungent salt. In 1803 she died obscurely; and the same year there also pa.s.sed out of the world two other celebrated women, the great actress Clairon and the singer De Beaumesnil, once Sophie's rival.

Lord Mount Edgc.u.mbe, in his "Musical Reminiscences," speaks of Sophie Arnould, whom he heard in ante-revolutionary days, as a woman of entrancing beauty and very great dramatic genius. This connoisseur tells us too that her voice, though limited in range and not very flexible, was singularly rich, strong, and sweet, fitting her exceptionally for the performance of the simple and n.o.ble arias of Gluck, which were rather characterized by elevation and dramatic warmth than florid ornamentation. Her place in art is, therefore, as the finest contemporary interpreter of Wagner's greater predecessor.

ELIZABETH BILLINGTON AND HER CONTEMPORARIES.

Elizabeth Weichsel's Runaway Marriage.--_Debut_ at Covent Garden.--Lord Mount Edgc.u.mbe's Opinion of her Singing.--Her Rivalry with Mme.

Mara.--Mrs. Billington's Greatness in English Opera.--She sings in Italy in 1794-'99.--Her Great Power on the Italian Stage.--Marriage with Felican.--Reappearance in London in Italian and English Opera.--Sketch of Mme. Mara's Early Lite.--Her Great Triumphs on the English Stage.--Anecdotes of her Career and her Retirement from England.--Gra.s.sini and Napoleon.--The Italian Prima Donna disputes Sovereignty with Mrs. Billington.--Her Qualities as an Artist.--Mrs.

Billington's Retirement from the Stage and Declining Years.

I.

Among the comparatively few great vocalists born in England, the traditions of Mrs. Elizabeth Billington's singing rank her as by far the greatest. Brought into compet.i.tion with many brilliant artists from other countries, she held her position unshaken by their rivalry. She came of musical stock. Her father, Charles Weichsel, was Saxon by birth, but spent most of his life as an orchestral player in London; and her mother was a charming vocalist of considerable repute. Born in 1770 in the English capital, she was most carefully trained in music from an early age, and her gifts displayed themselves so manifestly as to give a.s.surance of that brilliant future which made her the admiration of her times. Both she and her brother Charles were regarded as prodigies of youthful talent, the latter having attained some distinction on the violin at the age of six, though he failed in after-years, unlike his brilliant sister, to fulfill his juvenile promise. Elizabeth Weichsel when only eleven composed original pieces for the piano, and at the age of fourteen appeared in concert at Oxford. Her career was so long and eventful that we must hurry over its youthful stages. The young cantatrice at the age of fifteen was sought in marriage by Mr. Thomas Billington, who had been her music-master, and, as her father was bitterly opposed to the connection, the enamored couple eloped, and were married at Lambeth Church with great secrecy.

They soon found themselves at their wits' end. With no money, and without the established reputation which commands the attention of managers, Mrs. Billington found that in taking a husband she had a.s.sumed a fresh responsibility. Finally she secured an engagement at the Smock Alley Theatre in Dublin, when she appeared in Gluck's opera of "Orpheus and Eurydice," with the well-known tenor Tenducci, whose exquisite singing of the air, "Water parted from the Sea," in the opera of "Artaxerxes," had chiefly contributed to his celebrity. It was _a propos_ of this that the well-known Irish street-song of the day was composed:

"Tenducci was a piper's son, And he was in love when he was young; And all the tunes that he could play Was 'Water parted from the Say.'"

For about a year the young singer played provincial engagements, but it was good training for her. Her powers were becoming matured, and she was learning self-reliance in the bitter school of experience, which more and more a.s.sured her of coming triumph. At last she persuaded Lewis, the manager of Covent Garden, to give her a metropolitan hearing. Though her voice at this time had not attained the volume and power of after-years, its qualities were exceptional. Its compa.s.s was in the upper notes extraordinary, though in the lower register rather limited. She was well aware of this defect, and tried to remedy it by subst.i.tuting one octave for another; a license which pa.s.sed unnoticed by the undiscriminating mult.i.tude, while it was easily excused by cultivated ears, being, as one connoisseur remarked, "like the wild luxuriance of poetical imagery, which, though against the cold rules of the critic, const.i.tutes the true value of poetry." She had not the full tones of Banti, but rather resembled those of Allegranti, whom she closely imitated. Her voice, in its very high tones, was something of the quality of a flute or flageolet, or resembled a commixture of the finest sounds of the flute and violin, if such could be imagined. It was then "wild and wandering,"

but of singular sweetness. "Its agility," says Mount Edgc.u.mbe, "was very great, and everything she sang was executed in the neatest manner and with the utmost precision. Her knowledge of music enabled her to give great variety to her embellishments, which, as her taste was always good, were always judicious." In her cadenzas, however, she was obliged to trust to her memory, for she never could improvise an ornament. Her ear was so delicate that she could instantly detect any instrument out of tune in a large orchestra; and her intonation was perfect. In manner she was "peculiarly bewitching," and her att.i.tudes generally were good, with the exception of an ugly habit of pressing her hands against her bosom when executing difficult pa.s.sages. Her face and figure were beautiful, and her countenance was full of good humor, though not susceptible of varied expression; indeed, as an actress, she had comparatively little talent, depending chiefly on her voice for producing effect on the stage.

Mrs. Billington's __debut__ in London was on February 13, 1786, in the presence of royalty and a great throng of n.o.bility and fas.h.i.+on, in the character of _Rosetta_ in "Love in a Village." Her success was beyond the most sanguine hopes, and her brilliant style, then an innovation in English singing, bewildered the pit and delighted the musical connoisseurs. The leader of the orchestra was so much absorbed in one of her beautiful cadenzas that he forgot to give the chord at its close. So much science, taste, birdlike sweetness, and brilliancy had never before been united in an English singer. So Mrs. Billington a.s.sumed undisputed sovereignty in the realm of song, for one night made her famous. The managers, who had haggled over the terms of thirteen pounds a week for her first brief engagement of twelve nights, were glad to give her a thousand pounds for the rest of the season. For her second part she chose _Polly Peachum_ in "The Beggars' Opera," to show her detractors that she could sing simple English ballad-music with no less taste and effect than the brilliant and ornate style with which she first took the town by storm. Mara, the great German singer, who until then had no rival, was distracted with rage and jealousy, which the sweet-tempered Billington treated with a careless smile. Though her success had been so brilliant, she relaxed no effort in self-improvement, and studied a.s.siduously both vocalism and the piano. Indeed, Salomon, Haydn's impressario, said of her with enthusiasm, "Sar, she sing equally well wid her troat and her fingers." At the close of this season, which was the opening of a great career, Mrs. Billington visited Paris, where she placed herself under the instruction of the composer Sacchini, who greatly aided her by his happy suggestions. To him she confesses herself to have been most indebted for what one of her admirers called "that pointed expression, neatness of execution, and nameless grace by which her performance was so happily distinguished."

Kelly, the Irish actor and singer, who made her acquaintance about this time, said he thought her an angel of beauty and the St. Cecilia of song. Her loveliness enchanted even more by the sweetness and amiability of its expression than by symmetry of feature, and everywhere she was the idol of an adoring public. Even her rivals, embittered by professional jealousy, soon melted in the suns.h.i.+ne of her sweet temper.

An amusing example of professional rivalry is related by John Bernard in his "Reminiscences," where Miss George, afterward Lady Oldmixon, managed to cloud the favorite's success by a cunning musical trick. "Mrs.

Billington, who was engaged on very high terms for a limited number of nights, made her first appearance on the Dublin stage in the character of _Polly_ in 'The Beggars' Opera,' surrounded by her halo of popularity. She was received with acclamations, and sang her songs delightfully; particularly 'Cease your Funning,' which was tumultuously encored. Miss George, who performed the part of _Lucy_ (an up-hill singing part), perceiving that she had little chance of dividing the applause with the great magnet of the night, had recourse to the following stratagem: When the dialogue duet in the second act, 'Why, how now, Madam Flirt?' came on, Mrs. Billing-ton having given her verse with exquisite sweetness, Miss George, setting propriety at defiance, sang the whole of her verse an octave higher, her tones having the effect of the high notes of a sweet and brilliant flute. The audience, taken by surprise, bestowed on her such loud applause as almost shook the walls of the theatre, and a unanimous encore was the result."

Haydn gave this opinion on her in his "Diary" in 1791: "On the 10th of December I went to see the opera of 'The Woodman' (by s.h.i.+eld). It was on the day when the provoking memoir of Mrs. Billington was published. She sang rather timidly, but yet well. She is a great genius. The tenor was Incledon. The common people in the gallery are very troublesome in every theatre, and take lead in uproar. The audience in the pit and boxes have often to clap a long time before they can get a fine part repeated. It was so this evening with the beautiful duet in the third act: nearly a quarter of an hour was spent in contention, but at length the pit and boxes gained the victory, and the duet was repeated. The two actors stood anxiously on the stage all the while." The great composer paid her one of the prettiest compliments she ever received. Reynolds was painting her portrait in the character of St. Cecilia, and one day Haydn called just as it was being finished. Haydn contemplated the picture very attentively, then said suddenly, "But you have made a great mistake." The painter started up aghast. "How! what?" "Why," said Haydn, "you have represented Mrs. Billington listening to the angels; you should have made the angels listening to her!" Mrs. Billington blushed with pleasure. "Oh, you dear man!" cried she, throwing her arms round his neck and kissing him.

II.

Mrs. Billington seems to have entertained the notion in 1794 of quitting the stage, and went abroad to free herself from the protests and reproaches which she knew the announcement of her purpose would call forth if she remained in England. Accompanied by her husband and brother, she sauntered leisurely through Europe, for her professional exertions had already brought her a comfortable fortune. A trivial accident set her feet again in the path which she had designed to forsake, and which she was destined to adorn with a more brilliant distinction. The party had traveled _incognito_, but on arriving in Naples a babbling servant revealed the ident.i.ty of the great singer, which speedily became known to Lady Hamilton, Lord Nelson's friend, then domiciled in Naples as the favorite of the royal family. Lady Hamilton insisted on presenting Mrs. Billington to the Queen, and she was persuaded to sing in a private concert before their Majesties, which was swiftly succeeded by an invitation, so urgent as to take the color of command, to sing at the San Carlo. So the English prima donna made her _debut_ before the Neapolitans in "Inez di Castro," which had been specially arranged for her by Frances...o...b..anchi. The fervid Naples audience received her with pa.s.sionate acclamations, to which she had never been accustomed from the more impa.s.sive English. Hitherto her reputation had been mostly identified with English opera; thenceforward she was to be known chiefly as a brilliant exponent of the Italian school of music.

Paesiello's "Didone," Paer's "Ero e Leandro," and Guglielmi's "Deborah e Sisera" rapidly succeeded, each one confirming afresh the admiration of her hearers, who were all _cognoscenti_, as Italian audiences generally are. It became the vogue to patronize the beautiful cantatrice, and the large English colony, who were led by some of the n.o.blest gentlewomen of England, such as Lady Templeton, Lady Palmerston, Lady Gertrude Villiers, Lady Grandison, and others, made it a matter of national pride to give the singer an enthusiastic support. English influence was all-paramount at the court of Naples, from important political exigencies, and this cooperated with Mrs. Billington's extraordinary merits to raise her to a degree of consideration which had been rarely attained by any singer in that beautiful Italian capital, p.r.o.ne as its people are to indulge in exaggerated admiration of musical celebrities.

She sang for nearly two years at the San Carlo, and in 1796 we find her at Bologna before French military audiences, whom Napoleon's Italian victories had brought across the Alps. The conqueror confessed himself vanquished by the lovely Billington, and made her the guest of himself and Josephine, who admired the art no less than she dreaded the beauty of a possible rival.

The English singer pa.s.sed from city to city of Italy, everywhere arousing the liveliest admiration. Her _debut_ in Venice was to be in "Semiramide," written expressly for her by Nasolini, a young composer of great promise. Illness, however, confined her to her bed for six months, in spite of which the impressario paid her salary in full. She recovered, and showed her grat.i.tude by singing without recompense during the fair of the Ascension, when immense throngs flocked to Venice. The _corps diplomatique_ presented her on the first night with a jeweled necklace of immense value, as a testimonial of their esteem and pleasure at her recovery.

A singular evidence of the superst.i.tion of the Neapolitans was shown on her return to their city, which was then threatened by an eruption of Vesuvius and a dreadful earthquake, the cause of considerable damage.

The populace believed that it was a visitation of G.o.d in punishment for the permission granted to a heretic Englishwoman to sing at San Carlo.

Mrs. Billington's safety was for a time threatened, but her talents and popularity at last triumphed, and she rose higher in public regard than before. Her Neapolitan engagement was terminated very suddenly by the death of her husband, as he was in the act one evening of cloaking her prior to her stepping into her carriage to go to the theatre. A single gasp and a convulsion, and Thomas Billington was dead at his wife's feet. The consternation at this event was mixed with much scandal, and many whispered that he had died from poison or the dagger. It was known that the Neapolitan n.o.bles had paid Mrs. Billington warm attention, and hints of a.s.sa.s.sination were industriously circulated by those gossip-mongers who are always in quest of a fresh social sensation. Mrs.

Billington, after remaining for some time in retirement, fled from a scene which was fraught with painful memories, though there is no reason to believe that she deeply lamented the loss of a husband whose only attraction to this brilliant woman was the reflected light of her youth, which invested him with the a.s.sociation of her first girlish love. At all events, the widow succeeded in becoming desperately enamored in Milan, a short six months after, with an officer of the French commissariat, M. Felican. He was a remarkably handsome man, and his strong siege of the lovely Billington soon caused her to surrender at discretion. She declared "she was in love for the first time in her life," and her marriage took place in 1799 without delay. Her raptures, however, came to a swift conclusion; for among M. Felican's favorite methods of displaying marital devotion were beating her, and hurling dishes or other convenient movables at her head when in the least irritated. The novel character of her honeymoon soon became known to a curious and possibly envious public, and the brutal Felican was publicly flogged at the drum-head by order of General Serrurier, within two months of her marriage, for whipping her so cruelly that she could not appear in the opera of the evening.

The tenor, Braham, sang with Mrs. Billington at Milan during this period, in the opera "Il Trionfo de Claria," by Nasolini, and an amusing incident occurred in the rivalry of the two, each to surpa.s.s the other in popular estimation. The applause which Braham received at rehearsal enraged Felican, who intrigued till he persuaded the leader to omit the grand aria for the tenor voice, in which Braham's powers were advantageously displayed. This piece of spite and jealousy being noised about, the public openly testified their displeasure, and the next day it was announced by Gherardi, the manager, in the bills, that Braham's scena should be performed; and on the second night of the opera it was received with tumultuous applause. Braham, justly indignant, avenged himself in an ingenious manner, but his wrath descended on an innocent head. Mrs. Billington's embellishments were always elaborately studied, and, when once fixed on, seldom changed. The angry tenor, knowing this, caught her roulades, and on the first opportunity, his air coming first, he coolly appropriated all her fioriture. Poor Mrs. Billington listened in dismay at the wings. She could not improvise ornaments and graces; and, when she came on, the unusual meagerness of her style astonished the audience. She refused, in the next opera, to sing a duet with Braham; but, as she was good-natured, she forgave him, and they always remained excellent friends.

With that perverse devotion which characterizes the love of so many women, Mrs. Billington clung to her brutal husband in spite of his cruelty and callousness, and she did not separate from him till she feared for her life. Many times he threatened to kill her, and extorted from her by fear all the valuable jewels in her possession, as well as the larger share of the money received from professional exertion.

Despairing at last of any change, she fled with great secrecy to England, where she arrived in 1801, after an absence of seven years, during which time her name had become one of the most popular in Europe.

There was instantly a battle between Harris and Sheridan, the rival managers, as to which should secure this peerless attraction. She finally signed a contract with her old friend Harris, for three thousand guineas the season from October to April, and the guarantee of a free benefit of five hundred guineas. It was likewise arranged that she should sing for Sheridan at similar terms on alternate nights, as there was a bitter dispute between the managers over the priority of the offer accepted by the prima donna. Her reappearance before an English audience was made in Dr. Arne's "Artaxerxes," which the critics of the day praised as possessing "the beautiful melody of Ha.s.se, the mellifluous richness of Pergolese, the easy flow of Piccini, and the finished cantabile of Sacchini, with his own true and native simplicity." It is not only the criticism of to-day which has concealed the real form and quality of works of merely temporary interest under flowery phrases, that mean nothing.

It was speedily observed how greatly Mrs. Billington's style had improved in her absence. Lord Mount Edgc.u.mbe says she resembled Mara so much that the same observations would apply to both equally well. "Both were excellent musicians, thoroughly skilled in their profession; both had voices of uncommon sweetness and agility, particularly suited to the bravura style, and executed to perfection and with good taste everything they sang. But neither was Italian, and consequently both were deficient in recitative. Neither had much feeling, both were deficient in theatrical talents, and they were absolutely null as actresses; therefore they were more calculated to give pleasure in the concert-room than on the stage." It was noticed that her p.r.o.nunciation of the English language was not quite free from impurities, arising princ.i.p.ally from the introduction of vowels before consonants, a habit probably acquired from the Italian custom. "Her whole style of elocution," observes one writer, "may be described as sweet and persuasive rather than powerful and commanding. It naturally a.s.sumed the character of her mind and voice." She was considered the most accomplished singer that had ever been born in England.

Mrs. Billington displayed her talents in a variety of operatic characters, which taxed her versatility, but did not prove beyond her powers. Both English and Italian operas, serious and comic _roles_, seemed entirely within her scope; and those who admired her as _Mandane_ were not less fascinated by her _Rosetta_, when Ineledon shared the honors of the evening with herself. In spite of Lord Mount Edgc.u.mbe's somewhat severe judgment as given above, she appears to have pleased by her acting as well as singing, if we can judge from the wide diversity of characters in which she appeared so successfully. We are justified in this, especially from the character of the English opera, of which Mrs.

Billington was so brilliant an exponent; for this was rather musical drama than opera, and made strong demands on histrionic faculty.

As _Rosetta_, in "Love in a Village," a performance in which Mrs.

Billington was peculiarly charming, she drew such throngs that the price of admission was raised for the nights on which it was offered. The witticism of Jekyl, the great barrister, made the town laugh on one of these occasions. Being present with a country friend in the pit, the latter asked him, as Mrs. Billington appeared in the garden-scene, "Is that Rosetta?" The singer's portly form, which had increased largely in bulk during her Italian absence, made the answer peculiarly appropriate: "No, sir, it is not Rosetta, it is Grand Cairo."

Life was running smoothly for Mrs. Billington; never had her popularity reached so high a pitch; never had Fortune favored her with such lavish returns for her professional abilities. One night she was horrified with fear and disgust on returning home to see her brutal husband, Felican, lolling on the sofa. He had been heart-broken at separation from his beloved wife, and could endure it no longer. It was only left for her to bribe him to depart with a large sum of money, which she fortunately could afford. "I never," says Kelly, "saw a woman so much in awe of a man as poor Mrs. Billington was of him whom she had married for love."

On the 3d of July, 1802, she sang with Mme. Mara at the farewell benefit of that distinguished singer. Both rose to the utmost pitch of their skill, and, in their attempts to surpa.s.s each other, the theatre rang with thunders of applause. In our sketches of some of Mrs. Billington's rivals and contemporaries, Mme. Mara demands precedence.

III.

Frederick the Great loved war and music with equal fervor, and possessed talents for the one little inferior to his genius for the other. He played with remarkable skill on the flute, of which instrument he possessed a large collection, and composed original music with both science and facility. This royal connoisseur carried his despotism into his love of art, and ruled with an iron hand over those who catered for the amus.e.m.e.nt of himself and the good people of Berlin. Though the creator of that policy which, in the hands of Bismarck and the modern German nationalists, has wrought such wonderful results, and which has extended itself even to matters of aesthetic culture as a gospel of patriotic bigotry, the great Fritz thoroughly despised everything German except in matters of state, and was completely wedded to the literature of France and the art of Italy. When the talents of a young German vocalist, Mlle. Schmaling, were recommended to him, it was enough for him to hear the report, "She sings like a German," to make him sniff with disdain. "A German singer!" he said; "I should as soon expect to get pleasure from the neighing of my horse." Curiosity, however, at last so far overcame prejudice as to make him send for Mlle. Schmaling, who was enthusiastically praised by many of those whose opinions the King could not ignore, to come to Potsdam and sing for him. Her pride, which was high, had been wounded by the royal criticism, and she carried herself with as much _hauteur_ as could go with respect. The King regarded her with a cool stare, without any gesture of salutation, and Mile. Schmaling amused herself with looking at the pictures. "So you are going to sing me something?" at last said royalty with military abruptness.

The figure of the Prussian King as he sat by the piano was anything but prepossessing. A little, crabbed, spare old man, attired with Spartan simplicity, in a faded blue coat, whose red facings were smudged brown with the Spanish snuff he so liberally took; thin lips, prominent jaws, receding forehead, and eyes of supernatural keenness glaring from under s.h.a.ggy brows; a battered c.o.c.ked hat, and a thick cane, which he used as a whip to belabor his horse, his courtiers, or his soldiers as occasion needed, on the table before him--all these made a grim picture.

Mlle. Schmaling answered his curt words with "As your Majesty pleases,"

and instantly sat down at the piano. As she sang, Frederick's face relaxed, and taking a huge pinch of snuff, he said, "Ha! can you sing at sight?" (then an extraordinary accomplishment). Picking out the most difficult bravura in his collection, he bade her try it, with the remark, "This, to be sure, is but poor stuff, but when well executed sounds pretty enough." The result of the royal examination convinced the King that Mlle. Schmaling had not only a magnificent voice, but was a thorough artist. So the daughter of the poor musician of Ca.s.sel, after many years of hard struggle and ill success (for she had sung in almost every German capital), was made Frederick's chief court singer at the age of twenty-two, and the road to fortune was fairly open to her. At the age of four years she had showed such apt.i.tude for music that she quickly learned the violin, though her baby fingers could hardly span the strings. She always retained her predilection for this instrument, and maintained that it was the best guide in learning to sing. "For,"

said she, "how can you best convey a just notion of slight vibrations in the pitch of a note? By a fixed instrument? No! By the voice? No! But, by sliding the finger on the string, you instantly make the most minute variation visibly as well as audibly perceptible." She owed her success entirely to the charm of her art.

Elizabeth Schmaling's personal appearance was far from striking. She was by no means handsome, being short and insignificant, with a rather agreeable, good-natured countenance, the leading feature of which was--terrible defect in a singer--a set of irregular teeth, which projected, in defiance of order, out of their proper places. Her manner, however, was prepossessing, though she was an indifferent actress.

But her voice atoned for everything: its compa.s.s was from G to E in altissimo, which she ran with the greatest ease and force, the tones being at once powerful and sweet. Both her _portamento di voce_ and her volubility were declared to be unrivaled. It was remarked that she seemed to take difficult music from choice, and she could sing fluently at sight--rather a rare accomplishment among vocalists of that day.

Nothing taxed her powers. Her execution was easy and neat; her shake was true, open, and liquid; and though she preferred brilliant, effective pieces, her refined taste was well known. "Her voice, clear, sweet, and distinct, was sufficiently powerful," remarked Lord Mount Edgc.u.mbe afterward, "though rather thin, and its agility and flexibility rendered her a most excellent bravura singer, in which style she was unrivaled."

"Mara's divisions," observes another critic, "always seemed to convey a meaning; they were vocal, not instrumental; they had light and shade, and variety of tone."

Frederick was highly pleased with his musical acquisition, but a more potent monarch than himself soon appeared to disturb his royal complacency. Mlle. Schmaling, placed in a new position of ease and luxury, found time to indulge her natural bent as a woman, and fell in love with a handsome violoncellist, Jean Mara, who was in the service of the King's brother. Mara was a showy, shallow, selfish man, and pushed his suit with vigor, for success meant fortune and a life of luxurious ease. The King forbade the match, so the enamored couple eloped, and, being arrested by the King's guards, they were punished by Fritz with solitary confinement for disobedience. At last the King relented, and sanctioned the marriage which he suspected opposition would only delay, probably fully aware that the lady would soon repent her infatuation.

Jean Mara did all in his power to effect this result, for the honeymoon had hardly ended before he began to beat his bride at small provocation with all the energy of a st.u.r.dy arm. Poor Mme. Mara had a hard life of it thenceforward, but she never ceased to love Mara to the last; and many years afterward, when a friend was severely reprobating his brutality, she said, with a sigh of loving regret, "Ah! but you must confess he was the handsomest man you ever saw."