Project Gutenberg's Great Singers, First Series, by George T. Ferris

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Great Singers, First Series
       Faustina Bordoni To Henrietta Sontag

Author: George T. Ferris

Release Date: January 4, 2006 [EBook #17464]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT SINGERS, FIRST SERIES ***




Produced by David Widger





GREAT SINGERS

FAUSTINA BORDONI TO HENRIETTA SONTAG

FIRST SERIES

BY

GEORGE T. FERRIS


1891

Copyright, 1879, By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.




NOTE.

In compiling and arranging the material which enters into the following
sketches of distinguished singers, it is only honest to disclaim any
originality except such as may be involved in a picturesque presentation
of facts. The compiler has drawn freely from a great variety of sources,
and has been simply guided by the desire to give the reading public
such a digest of the more important incidents in the careers of
the celebrities treated of as should be at once compact, racy, and
accurate. To serve this purpose the opinions and descriptions of writers
and critics contemporary with the subjects have been used at length, and
no means overlooked to give the sketches that atmosphere of freshness
which is the outcome of personal observation. All that a compilation of
this kind can hope to effect is best gained in preserving this kind
of vividness, instead of revamping impressions and opinions into
second-hand forms. Pains have been taken to verify dates and facts, and
it is believed they will be found trustworthy.

It will be observed that many well-known singers have been omitted, or
treated only incidentally: among the earlier singers, such as Anas-tasia
Robinson, Mingotti, Anna Maria Crouch, and Anna Selina Storace; among
more recent ones, such as Mmes. Fodor, Cinti-Damoreau, Camperese,
Pisaroni, Miss Catherine Stephens, Mrs. Paton-Wood, Mme. Dorus-Gras, and
Cornelie Falcon. This omission has been indispensable in a work whose
purpose has been to cover only the lives of the very great names
in operatic art, as the question of limit has been inflexible. A
supplementary volume will give similar sketches of later celebrities.

The works from which material has been most freely drawn are as follows:
Bernard's "Retrospection of the Stage"; Dr. Burney's various histories
of music; Chorley's "Thirty Years' Musical Recollections"; Dibdin's
"Complete History of the English Stage"; Ebers's "Seven Years of the
King's Theatre"; Fetis's "Biographie des Musiciens"; Hogarth's "Musical
Drama"; Sutherland Edwards's "History of the Opera"; Arsene Houssaye's
"Galerie des Portraits"; Michael Kelly's "Reminiscences"; Lord Mount
Edgcumbe's "Musical Reminiscences"; Oxberry's "Dramatic Biography and
Histrionic Anecdotes"; Mrs. Clayton's "Queens of Song"; Arthur Simpson's
"Memoirs of Catalani"; and Grove's "Dictionary of Music and Musicians."




CONTENTS.

FAUSTINA BORDONI.

The Art-Battles of Handel's Time.--The Feud between Cuzzoni
and Faustina.--The Character of the Two Rivals as Women and
Artists.--Faustina's Career.--Her Marriage with Adolph Hasse, and
something about the Composer's Music.--Their Dresden Life.--Cuzzoni's
Latter Years.--Sketch of the Great Singer Farinelli.--The Old Age of
Hasse and Faustina


CATARINA GABRIELLI.

The Cardinal and the Daughter of the Cook.--The Young Prima Donna's
_Debut_ in Lucca.--Dr. Burney's Description of Gabrielli.--Her
Caprices, Extravagances, and Meeting with Metastasio.--Her Adventures
in Vienna.--Bry-done on Gabrielli.--Episodes of her Career in Sicily
and Parma.--She sings at the Court of Catharine of Russia.--Sketches
ol Caffarelli and Pacchierotti.--Gabrielli in London, and her Final
Retirement from Art


SOPHIE ARNOULD.

The French Stage as seen by Rousseau.--Intellectual Ferment of the
Period.--Sophie Arnould, the Queen of the most Brilliant of Paris
Salons.--Her Early Life and Connection with Comte de Lauraguais.--Her
Reputation as the Wittiest Woman of the Age.--Art Association with the
Great German Composer, Gluck.--The Rivalries and Dissensions of the
Period.--Sophie's Rivals and Contemporaries, Madame St. Huberty,
the Vestrises Father and Son, Madelaine Guimard.--Opera during the
Revolution.--The Closing Days of Sophie Arnould's Life.--Lord Mount
Edgcumbe's Opinion of her as an Artist


ELIZABETH BILLINGTON AND HER CONTEMPORARIES.

Elizabeth Weichsel's Runaway Marriage.--__Debut__ at Covent
Garden.--Lord Mount Edgcumbe'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 Life.--Her Great Triumphs on the English
Stage.--Anecdotes of her Career and her Retirement from
England.--Grassini 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


ANGELICA CATALANI.

The Girlhood of Catalani.--She makes her __Debut__ in Florence.
--Description of her Marvelous Vocalism.--The Romance of Love and
Marriage.--Her Preference for the Concert Stage.--She meets Napoleon in
Paris.--Her Escape from France and Appearance in London.--Opinions
of Lord Mount Edgcumbe and other Critics.--Anecdotes of herself and
Husband.--The Great Prima Donna's Character.--Her Gradual Divergence
from Good Taste in singing.--_Bon Mots_ of the Wits of the Day.--The
Opera-house Riot.--Her Husband's Avarice.--Grand Concert Tour through
Europe.--She meets Goethe.--Her Return to England and Brilliant
Reception.--She sings with the Tenor Braham.--John Braham's Artistic
Career.--The Davides.--Catalani's Last English Appearance, and the
Opinion of Critics.--Her Retirement and Death


GIUDITTA PASTA.

Greatness of Genius overcoming Disqualification.--The Characteristic
Lesson of Pasta's Life.--Her First Appearance and Failure.--Pasta
returns to Italy and devotes herself to Study.--Her First Great
Successes in 1819.--Characteristics of her Voice and Singing.--Chorley's
Review of the Impressions made on him by Pasta.--She makes her Triumphal
_Debut_ in Paris.--Talma on Pasta's Acting.--Her Performances of
"Giulietta" and "Tancredi."--Medea, Pasta's Grandest Impersonation, is
given to the World.--Description of the Performance.--Enthusiasm of the
Critics and the Public.--Introduction of Pasta to the English Public in
Rossini's "Otello."--The Impression made in England.--Recognized as
the Greatest Dramatic Prima Donna in the World.--Glances at the Salient
Facts of her English Career.--The Performance of "Il Crociato in
Egitto."--She plays the Male _Role_ "Otello."--Rivalry with Malibran
and Sontag.--The Founder of a New School of Singing.--Pasta creates the
Leading _Roles_ in Bellini's "Sonnambula" and "Norma" and Donizetti's
"Anna Bolena."--Decadence and Retirement


HENRIETTA SONTAG.

The Greatest German Singer of the Century.--Her Characteristics as an
Artist.--Her Childhood and Early Training.--Her Early Appearances in
Weimar, Berlin, and Leipsic.--She becomes the Idol of the Public.--Her
Charms as a Woman and Romantic Incidents of her Youth.--Becomes
affianced to Count Rossi.--Prejudice against her in Paris, and her
Victory over the Public Hostility.--She becomes the Pet of Aristocratic
_Salons_.--Rivalry with Malibran.--Her _Debut_ in London, where she
is welcomed with Great Enthusiasm.--Returns to Paris.--Anecdotes of her
Career in the French Capital.--She becomes reconciled with Malibran in
London.--Her Secret Marriage with Count Rossi.--She retires from the
Stage as the Wife of an Ambassador.--Return to her Profession after
Eighteen Years of Absence.--The Wonderful Success of her Youth
renewed.--Her American Tour.--Attacked with Cholera in Mexico and dies.




GREAT SINGERS, FROM FAUSTINA BORDONI TO HENRIETTA SONTAG.




FAUSTINA BORDONI.

The Art-Battles of Handel's Time.--The Feud between Cuzzoni
and Faustina.--The Character of the Two Rivals as Women and
Artists.--Faustina's Career.--Her Marriage with Adolph Hasse, and
something about the Composer's Music.--Their Dresden Life.--Cuzzoni's
Latter Years.--Sketch of the Great Singer Farinelli.--The Old Age of
hasse and Faustina.

I.

During the early portion of the eighteenth century the art of the stage
excited the interests and passions of the English public to a degree
never equaled since. Politics and religion hardly surpassed it in the
power of creating cabals and sects and in stirring up animosities. This
was specially marked in music. The great Handel, who had not then found
his true vocation as an oratorio composer, was in the culmination of
his power as manager of the opera, though he was irritated by hostile
factions. The musical quarrels of the time were almost as interesting as
the Gluck-Piccini war in Paris in the latter part of the same century,
and the _literati_ took part in it with a zest and wit not less piquant
and noticeable. Handel, serenely grand in his musical conceptions, was
personally passionate and fretful; and the contest of satire, scandal,
and witticism raged without intermission between him and his rivals,
supported on each hand by princes and nobles, and also by the great
dignitaries of the republic of letters. In this tumult the singers
(always a _genus irritabile_, like the race of poets) who belonged to
the opera companies took an active part.

Not the least noteworthy episode of this conflict was the feud between
two foremost sirens of the lyric stage, Francesca Cuzzoni and Faustina
Bordoni. When the brilliant Faustina appeared in London, as a fresh
importation of Handel, who was as indefatigable in purveying novelties
as any modern Mapleson or Strakosch, Cuzzoni was the idol of the public,
having succeeded to that honor after Anastasia Robinson retired from
the stage as Countess of Peterborough. Handel some years before had
introduced Cuzzoni to the English stage, and, though kept in constant
turmoil by her insolence and caprice, had taken great pains to display
her fine voice by the composition of airs specially suited to her. It is
recorded that one morning, after she had refused at rehearsal to sing a
song written for her by the master, such rage took possession of Handel
that he seized her fiercely, and threatened to hurl her from the window
unless she succumbed. One of the arias composed for this singer extorted
from Main-waring, a musician bitterly at odds with Handel, the remark,
"The great bear was certainly inspired when he wrote that song."

Cuzzoni's popularity with the public had so augmented her native conceit
and insolence as to make a rival unbearable. Though she was ugly and ill
made, of a turbulent and obstinate temper, ungrateful and capricious,
she deported herself as if she possessed all the graces of beauty, art,
and genius, and regarded the allegiance of the public as her native
right. London had indeed given her some claim to this arrogance, as
from the first it had treated her with brilliant distinction, so that
fashionable ladies had adopted the style of her stage dresses, and duels
were fought by the young "bucks" and "swells" of the time over the right
to escort her to her carriage. The bitterness with which Cuzzoni hated
Faustina was aggravated by the fact that the latter, in addition to her
great ability as a singer, was younger, far more beautiful, and of most
fascinating and amiable manner. Handel and the directors of the King's
theatre were in ecstasies that they had secured two such exquisite
singers; but their joy was destined to receive a sudden check in the
bitter squabbles which speedily arose. Indeed, the two singers did not
meet in battle for the first time, for seven years before they had
been rival candidates for favor in Italy. Faustina Bordoni possessed
remarkable beauty of figure and face, an expression full of fire and
intelligence, to which she united tact, amiability, and prudence. As
singers the rivals were nearly equal; for Faustina, while surpassing the
Cuzzoni in power of execution, had not the command of expression which
made the latter's art so pathetic and touching. Dr. Barney, the musical
historian, and father of Madame d'Arblay, describes Cuzzoni in these
words: "A native warble enabled her to execute divisions with such
facility as to conceal every appearance of difficulty; and so soft and
touching was the natural tone of her voice, that she rendered pathetic
whatever she sang, in which she had leisure to unfold its whole volume.
The art of conducting, sustaining, increasing, and diminishing her
tones by minute degrees, acquired for her among professors the title of
complete mistress of her art. In a canta-bile air, though the notes she
added were few, she never lost a favorable opportunity of enriching the
cantilena with all the refinements and embellishments of the time.
Her shake was perfect; she had a creative fancy, and the power of
occasionally accelerating and retarding the measure in the most
artificial manner by what the Italians call _tempo rubato_. Her high
notes were unrivaled in clearness and sweetness, and her intonations
were so just and fixed that it seemed as if it were not in her power
to sing out of tune." The celebrated flute-player Quantz, instructor of
Frederick II., also gave Dr. Burney the following account of Faustina's
artistic qualities: "Faustina had a mezzo-soprano voice, that was less
clear than penetrating. Her compass now was only from B flat to G in
alt; but after this time she extended its limits downward. She possessed
what the Italians call _un cantar granito_; her execution was articulate
and brilliant. She had a fluent tongue for pronouncing words rapidly
and distinctly, and a flexible throat for divisions, with so beautiful a
shake that she put it in motion upon short notice, just when she would.
The passages might be smooth, or by leaps, or consisting of iterations
of the same note; their execution was equally easy to her as to any
instrument whatever. She was, doubtless, the first who introduced with
success a swift repetition of the same note. She sang adagios with great
passion and expression, but was not equally successful if such deep
sorrow were to be impressed on the hearer as might require dragging,
sliding, or notes of syncopation and _tempo rubato_. She had a very
happy memory in arbitrary changes and embellishments, and a clear and
quick judgment in giving to words their full value and expression. In
her action she was very happy; and as her performance possessed that
flexibility of muscles and face-play which constitute expression, she
succeeded equally well in furious, tender, and amorous parts. In short,
she was born for singing and acting."

Faustina's amiability would have kept her on good terms with a rival;
but Cuzzoni's malice and envy ignored the fact that their respective
qualities were rather adapted to complement than to vie with each other.
Handel, who had a world of trouble with his singers, strove to keep them
on amicable terms, but without success. The town was divided into two
parties: the Cuzzoni faction was headed by the Countess of Pembroke, and
that of Faustina by the Countess of Burlington and Lady Delawar, while
the men most loudly declared for the Venetian beauty.

At last the feud came to a climax. On the 20th of June, 1727, a
brilliant gathering of rank and fashion filled the opera-house to hear
the two _prime donne_, who were to sing together. On their appearance
they were received with a storm of mingled hissing and clapping of
hands, which soon augmented into a hurricane of catcalls, shrieking,
and stamping. Even the presence of royalty could not restrain the
wild uproar, and accomplished women of the world took part in these
discordant sounds. Dr. Arbuthnot, in alluding to the disgraceful scene,
wrote in the "London Journal" this stinging rebuke: "AEsop's story of the
cat, who, at the petition of her lover, was changed into a fine woman,
is pretty well known; notwithstanding which alteration, we find that
upon the appearance of a mouse she could not resist the temptation of
springing out of his arms, though it was on the very wedding night.
Our English audience have been for some time returning to their cattish
nature, of which some particular sounds from the gallery have given us
sufficient warning. And since they have so openly declared themselves, I
must only desire that they must not think they can put on the fine woman
again just when they please, but content themselves with their skill in
caterwauling." The following epigram was called out by the proceedings
of the evening, which were mostly stimulated by the Pembroke party, who
supported Cuzzoni:

     "Old poets sing that beasts did dance
     Whenever Orpheus played:
     So to Faustina's charming voice
     Wise Pembroke's asses brayed."

The two fair cantatrices even forgot themselves so far as to come to
blows on several occasions, and the scandalous chronicle of the times
was enlivened with epigrams, lampoons, libels, and duels in rapid
succession. This amusing but disgraceful feud was burlesqued in a
farce called "Contretemps, or The Rival Queens," which was performed at
Heidigger's theatre. Faustina as the _Queen of Bologna_ and Cuzzoni
as _Princess of Modena_ were made to seize each other by the hair, and
lacerate each other's faces. Handel looks on with cynical attention, and
calmly orders that the antagonists be "left to fight it out, inasmuch as
the only way to calm their fury is to let them satisfy it."

The directors of the opera finally solved the difficulty in the
following manner: Cuzzoni had solemnly sworn never to accept a guinea
less than her rival. As Faustina was far more attractive and manageable,
she was offered just one guinea more than Cuzzoni, who learning the fact
broke her contract in a fury of indignation, and accepted a Viennese
engagement. The well-known Ambrose Philips addressed the following
farewell lines to the wrathful singer:

     "Little siren of the stage,
     Charmer of an idle age,
     Empty warbler, breathing lyre,
     Wanton gale of fond desire;
     Bane of every manly art,
     Sweet enfeebler of the heart;
     Oh! too pleasing is thy strain.
     Hence to southern climes again,
     Tuneful mischief, vocal spell;
     To this island bid farewell:
     Leave us as we ought to be--
     Leave the Britons rough and free."


II.

Faustina Bordoni, who from the time of her radiant _debut_ was known as
the "New Siren," was the daughter of a noble Venetian family, formerly
one of the governing families of the republic. Born in the year
1700, she began to study her art at an early age under Gasparoni, who
developed a beautiful and flexible voice to the greatest advantage.
She made her first appearance at the age of sixteen in Pollarolo's
"Ariodante," and her beauty, which was ravishing, her exquisite voice,
dramatic power, and artistic skill, gave her an immediate place as one
of the greatest ornaments of the lyric stage. She came into rivalry with
Cuzzoni even at this early period, but carried off the palm of victory
as she did in after-years. Venice, Naples, Florence, and Vienna were
successively the scenes of her triumphant reign as an artist, and she
became acknowledged as the most brilliant singer in Europe. At Vienna
she was appointed court singer at a salary of fifteen thousand thalers.
Here she was found by Handel, who carried her to London, where she made
her _debut_ May 5,1726, in that great composer's "Alessandro," very
appropriately singing _Statira_ to the _Roxana_ of Cuzzoni. Faustina's
amiable and unobtrusive character seems to have made her an unwilling
participant in the quarrels into which circumstances forced her, and
to have always deserved the eulogium pronounced by Apostolo Zeno on her
departure from Vienna: "But whatever good fortune she meets with, she
merits it all by her courteous and polite manners, as well as talents,
with which she has enchanted and gained the esteem and affection of the
whole court." Throughout life a sweet temper and unspotted purity of
character made her the idol of her friends as well as of the general
public. Faustina seems to have left London gladly, though her short
career of two years there was a brilliant artistic success. The
scandalous bickerings and feuds through which she passed made her
departure more of a pleasure to herself than to the lovers of music in
turbulent London.

She returned to Venice in 1728, where she met Adolph Hasse, who was
leader of the orchestra at the theatre in which she was engaged.
Faustina, in the full bloom of her loveliness, was more than ever the
object of popular adulation; and many of the wealthy young nobles of
Venice laid their names and fortunes at her feet. But the charming
singer had found her fate. She and Hasse had fallen in love with each
other at first sight, and Faustina was proof against the blandishments
of the gilded youth of Italy. Hasse was the most popular dramatic
composer of the age, and had so endeared himself to the Italian public
that he was known as "_il caro Sassone_," a title which had also been
previously given to Handel. Hasse had commenced life as a tenor singer,
but his talent for composition soon lifted him into a higher field of
effort. His first opera was produced at Brunswick, but its reception
showed that he must yet master more of the heights and depths of musical
science before attaining any deserved success. So he proceeded to Italy,
and studied under Porpora and Alessandro Scarlatti. In a few years he
became a celebrity, and the opera-houses of Italy eagerly vied with each
other in procuring new works from his fecund talent. Faustina, then
at the zenith of her powers and charms, and Hasse, the most admired
composer of the day, were congenial mates, and their marriage was not
long delayed.

Of this composer a few passing words of summary may be interesting. His
career was one long success, and he wrote more than a hundred operas,
besides a host of other compositions. Few composers have had during
their lifetime such world-wide celebrity, and of these few none are
so completely forgotten now. The facile powers of Hasse seem to have
reflected the most genial though not the deepest influences of his time.
He had nothing in common with the grand German school then rising into
notice, or with the simple majesty of the early Italian writers. Himself
originally a singer, and living in an age of brilliant singers, he was
one of the first representatives of that school of Italian opera which
was called into being by the worship of vocal art for its own sake. He
had an inexhaustible flow of tunefulness, and the few charming songs
of his now extant show great elegance of melodic structure, and such
sympathy with the needs of the voice as make them the most perfect
vehicle for expression and display on the part of the singer. For ten
years, that most wonderful of male singers, as musical historians unite
in calling Farinelli, charmed away the melancholy of Philip V. of Spain
by singing to him every evening the same two melodies of Hasse, taken
from the opera of "Artaserse."

In 1731 the celebrated couple accepted an offer from the brilliant Court
of Dresden, presided over by Augustus II., as great a lover of art and
literature as Goethe's Duke of Saxe-Weimar, or as the present Louis of
Bavaria. This aesthetic monarch squandered great sums on pictures and
music, and gave Hasse unlimited power and resources to place the Dresden
opera on such a footing as to make it foremost in Europe. His first
opera produced in Dresden was the masterpiece of his life, "Alessandro
dell' Indie," and its great success was perhaps owing in part to the
splendid singing and acting of Faustina, for whom indeed the music had
been carefully designed. As the husband of the most fascinating prima
donna of her age, Hasse had no easy time. His life was still further
embittered by the presence and intrigues of Porpora, his old master and
now rival, and jealousy of Porpora's pupil, Mingotti, who threatened to
dispute the sway of his wife. Hasse's musical spite was amusingly shown
in writing an air for Mingotti in his "Demofoonte." He composed the
music for what he thought was the defective part of her voice, while the
accompaniment was contrived to destroy all effect. Mingotti was nothing
daunted, but by hard study and ingenious adaptation so conquered the
difficulties of the air, that it became one of her greatest show-pieces.
A combination of various causes so dissatisfied the composer with
Dresden, that he divided his time between that city, Venice, Milan,
Naples, and London, though the Saxon capital remained his professed
home. One of his diversions was the establishment of opera in London in
opposition to Handel; but he became so ardent an admirer of that great
man's genius, that he refused to be a tool in the hands of the latter's
enemies, though several of his operas met with brilliant success in the
English capital.

Dresden life at last flowed more easily with Hasse and Faustina on the
advent of Augustus III., who possessed his father's connoisseurship
without his crotchets and favoritism. Here he remained, with the
exception of a short Venetian sojourn, till late in life. On the evening
of Frederick the Great's entrance into Dresden in 1745, after the battle
of Kesselsdorf, Hasse's opera of "Arminio" was performed by command of
the conqueror, who was so charmed with the work and Faustina's singing
that he invited the composer and wife to Berlin. During the Prussian
King's occupation he made Faustina many magnificent gifts, an
exceptional generosity in one who was one of the most penurious of
monarchs as well as one of the greatest of soldiers. Faustina continued
to sing for eight years longer, when, at the age of fifty-two, she
retired from the long art reign which she had enjoyed, having held her
position with unchanged success against all comers for nearly forty
years.


III.

In notable contrast to the career of Faustina was that of her old-time
rival, Cuzzoni. After the Venetian singer retired from London, Cuzzoni
again returned to fill an engagement with the opposition company formed
by Handel's opponents. With her sang Farinelli and Senesino, the former
of whom was the great tenor singer of the age--perhaps the greatest
who ever lived, if we take the judgment of the majority of the musical
historians. Cuzzoni was again overshadowed by the splendid singing of
Farinelli, who produced an enthusiasm in London almost without parallel.
Her haughty and arrogant temper could not brook such inferiority, and
she took the first opportunity to desert what she considered to be an
ungrateful public. We hear of her again as singing in different parts of
Europe, but always with declining prestige. In the London "Daily Post"
of September 7, 1741, appeared a paragraph which startled her old
admirers: "We hear from Italy that the famous singer, Mrs. C-z-ni, is
under sentence of death, to be beheaded for poisoning her husband." If
this was so, the sentence was never carried into execution, for she
sang seven years afterward in London at a benefit concert. She issued
a preliminary advertisement, avouching her "pressing debts" and her
"desire to pay them" as the reason for her asking the benefit, which,
she declared, should be the last she would ever trouble the public with.
Old, poor, and almost deprived of her voice by her infirmities,
her attempt to revive the interest of the public in her favor was a
miserable failure; her star was set for ever, and she was obliged
to return to Holland more wretched than she came. She had scarcely
reappeared there when she was again thrown into prison for debt; but,
by entering into an agreement to sing at the theatre every night, under
surveillance, she was enabled to obtain her release. Her recklessness
and improvidence had brought her to a pitiable condition; and in her
latter days, after a career of splendor, caprice, and extravagance,
she was obliged to subsist, it is said, by button-making. She died in
frightful indigence, the recipient of charity, at a hospital in Bologna,
in 1770.


IV.

Associated with the life and times of Faustina Bordoni, and the most
brilliant exponent of the music of her husband, Hasse, Carlo Broschi,
better known as Farinelli, stands out as one of the most remarkable
musical figures of his age. This great artist, born in Naples in 1705,
was the nephew of the composer Farinelli, whose name he adopted. He was
instructed by the celebrated singing-master Porpora, who trained nearly
all the great voices of Europe for over half a century; and at his first
appearance in Rome, in 1722, common report had already made him famous.
So wonderful was his execution, even at this early age, that he was
able to vie with a trumpet-player, then the admiration of Rome for his
remarkable powers. Porpora had written an obligato part to a song, in
which his pupil rivaled the instrument in holding and swelling a note of
extraordinary purity and volume. The virtuoso's execution was masterly,
but the young singer so surpassed him as to carry the enthusiasm of the
audience to the wildest pitch by the brilliance of his singing and the
difficult variations which he introduced. Farinelli left the guidance
of Porpora in 1724, and appeared in different European cities with a
success which made him in three years a European celebrity. In 1727,
while singing in Bologna, he met Bernacchi, at that time known as the
"king of singers." The rivals were matched against each other one night
in a grand duo, and Farinelli, freely admitting that the veteran artist
had vanquished him, begged some lessons from him. Bernacchi generously
accorded these, and took great pains with his young rival. Thus was
perfected the talent of Farinelli, who, to use the words of a modern
critic, was as "superior to the great singers of his own period as they
were to those of more recent times."

After brilliant triumphs at Vienna, Rome, Naples, and Parma, where he
surpassed the most formidable rivals and was heaped with riches and
honors, he appeared before the Emperor Charles VI. of Germany, a
momentous occasion in his art-career. "You have hitherto excited only
astonishment and admiration," said the imperial connoisseur, "but
you have never touched the heart. It would be easy for you to create
emotion, if you would but be more simple and natural." The singer
adopted this counsel, and became the most pathetic as he continued to be
the most brilliant of singers.

The interest of Farinelli's London career will be augmented for the
lovers of music by its connection with the contests carried on between
Handel and his rivals, with which we have seen Faustina and Cuzzoni also
to have been intimately associated. When Handel went on the Continent
to secure artists for the year 1734, some prejudice operated against his
negotiation with Farinelli, and the latter took service with Porpora,
who had been secured by the Pembroke faction to lead the rival opera.
Farinelli's singing turned the scale in favor of Handel's enemies, who
had previously hardly been able to keep the enterprise on its feet, and
had run in debt nineteen thousand pounds. He made his first appearance
at the Lincoln's Inn Opera in "Artaserse," one of Hasse's operas.
Several of the songs, however, were composed by Riccardo Broschi,
the singer's brother, especially for him, and these interpolations
illustrated the powers of Farinelli in the most effective manner. In one
of these the first note was taken with such delicacy, swelled by minute
degrees to such an amazing volume, and afterward diminished in the same
manner to a mere point, that it was applauded for full five minutes.
Afterward he set off with such brilliance and rapidity of execution that
the violins could not keep pace with him. An incident commemorated
in Hogarth's "Rake's Progress" occurred at this time, A lady of rank,
carried beyond herself by admiration of the great singer, leaned out of
her box and exclaimed, "One God and one Farinelli!" The great power of
this singer's art is also happily set forth in the following anecdote:
He was to appear for the first time with Senesino, another great singer,
who of course was jealous of Farinelli's unequaled renown. The former
had the part of a fierce tyrant, and Farinelli that of a hero in chains.
But in the course of the first song by his rival, Senesino forgot his
assumed part altogether. He was so moved and delighted that, in front of
an immense audience, he rushed forward, clasped Farinelli in his arms,
and burst into tears. Never had there been such a ferment among English
patrons of opera as was made by Farinelli's singing. The Prince of Wales
gave him a gold snuff-box set with diamonds and rubies, in which were
inclosed diamond knee-buckles, and a purse of one hundred guineas.
The courtiers and nobles followed in the wake of the Prince, and the
costliest offerings were lavished on this spoiled favorite of art. His
income during three years in London was five thousand pounds a year,
to which must be added quite as much more in gratuities and presents
of different kinds. On his return to Italy he built a splendid mansion,
which he christened the "English Folly."

Farinelli's Spanish life was the most important episode in his career,
if twenty-five years of experience may be called an episode. His purpose
in visiting Madrid in 1736 was to spend but a few months; but he arrived
in the Spanish capital at a critical moment, and Fate decreed that
he should take up a long residence here--a residence marked by
circumstances and honors without parallel in the life of any other
singer. Philip V. at this time was such a prey to depression that he
neglected all the affairs of his kingdom. "When Farinelli arrived,
the Queen arranged a concert at which the monarch could hear the great
singer without being seen. The effect was remarkable, and Farinelli
gained the respect, admiration, and favor of the whole court. When he
was asked by the grateful monarch to name his own reward, he answered
that his best recompense would be to know that the King was again
reconciled to performing the active duties of his state. Philip
considered that he owed his cure to the powers of Farinelli. The final
result was that the singer separated himself from the world of art for
ever, and accepted a salary of fifty thousand francs to sing for the
King, as David harped for the mad King Saul. Farinelli told Dr. Burney
that during ten years he sang four songs to the King every night without
any change." When Ferdinand VI., who was also a victim to his father's
malady, succeeded to the throne, the singer continued to perform his
minstrel cure, and acquired such enormous power and influence that
all court favor and office depended on his breath. Though never prime
minister, Farinelli's political advice had such weight with Ferdinand,
that generals, secretaries, ambassadors, and other high officials
consulted with him, and attended his levee, as being the power behind
the throne. Farinelli acquired great wealth, but no malicious pen has
ever ascribed to him any of the corrupt arts by which royal favorites
are wont to accumulate the spoils of office. In his prosperity he never
forgot prudence, modesty, and moderation. Hearing one day an old veteran
officer complain that the King ignored his thirty years of service while
he enriched "a miserable actor," Farinelli secured promotion for the
grumbler, and, giving the commission to the abashed soldier, mildly
taxed him for calling the King ungrateful. According to another
anecdote, he requested an embassy for one of the courtiers. "Do you not
know," said the King, "that this grandee is your deadly enemy?" "True,"
replied Farinelli; "and this is the way I propose to get revenge." Dr.
Burney also relates the following anecdote: A tailor, who brought him
a splendid court costume, refused any pay but a single song. After long
refusal Farinelli's good nature yielded, and he sang to the enraptured
man of the needle and shears, not one, but several songs. After
concluding he said: "I, too, am proud, and that is the reason perhaps of
my advantage over other singers. I have yielded to you; it is but just
that you should yield to me." Thereupon he forced on the tailor more
than double the price of the clothes.

Farinelli's influence as a politician was always cast on the side of
national honor and territorial integrity. When the new King,
Charles III., ascended the throne, being even then committed to the
Franco-Neapolitan imbroglio, which was such a dark spot in the Spanish
history of that time, Farinelli left Spain at the royal suggestion,
which amounted to a command. The remaining twenty years of his life he
resided in a splendid palace near Bologna, where he devoted his time and
attention to patronage of learning and the arts. He collected a noble
gallery of paintings from the hands of the principal Italian and
Spanish masters. Among them was one representing himself in a group with
Metastasio and Faustina Bordoni, for whose greatness as an artist and
beauty of character he always expressed the warmest admiration. Though
Farinelli was all his life an idol with the women, his appearance was
not prepossessing. Dibdin, speaking of him at the age of thirty, says
he "was tall as a giant and as thin as a shadow; therefore, if he
had grace, it could only be of a sort to be envied by a penguin or a
spider."

To his supreme merit as an artist we have, however, overwhelming
testimony. Out of the many enthusiastic descriptions of his singing,
that of Mancini, after Porpora the greatest singing-master of the age,
and the fellow pupil with Farinelli under Bernacchi, will serve: "His
voice was thought a marvel because it was so perfect, so powerful, so
sonorous, and so rich in its extent, both in the high and low parts of
the register, that its equal has never been heard. He was, moreover,
endowed with a creative genius which inspired him with embellishments so
new and so astonishing that no one was able to imitate them. The art
of taking and keeping the breath so softly and easily that no one could
perceive it, began and died with him. The qualities in which he excelled
were the evenness of his voice, the art of swelling its sound, the
portamento, the union of the registers, a surprising agility, a graceful
and pathetic style, and a shake as admirable as it was rare. There was
no branch of the art which he did not carry to the highest pitch of
perfection.... The successes of his youth did not prevent him from
continuing to study, and this great artist applied himself with so much
perseverance that he contrived to change in some measure his style, and
to acquire another and superior method, when his name was already famous
and his fortune brilliant."


V.

Let us return from the consideration of Faustina's most brilliant
contemporary to Hasse and his wife. We have already seen that this great
prima donna retired from the stage in 1753, at the age of fifty-two. The
life of the distinguished couple during this period is described with
much pictorial vividness in a musical novel, published several years
since, under the name of "Alcestis," which also gives an excellent idea
of German art and music generally. In 1760 Hasse suffered greatly from
the bombardment of Dresden by the Prussians, losing among other property
all his manuscripts in the destruction of the opera-house--a fact
which may partly account for the oblivion into which this once admired
composer has passed. The loss was peculiarly unfortunate, for the
publication of Hasse's works was then about to commence at the expense
of the King. He and his wife removed to Vienna, where they remained
till 1775, when they retired to Venice, Faustina's birthplace. Two
years before this Dr. Burney visited them at their handsome house in the
Landstrasse in Berlin, and found them a humdrum couple--Hasse groaning
with the gout, and the once lovely Faustina transformed into a jolly old
woman of seventy-two, with two charming daughters. As he approached the
house with the Abate Taruffi, Faustina, seeing them, came down to meet
them. Says the Doctor: "I was presented to her by my conductor, and
found her a short, brown, sensible, lively old lady, who expressed
herself much pleased to meet a _cavaliere Inglesi_, as she had been
honored with great marks of favor in England. Signor Hasse soon entered
the room. He is tall and rather large in size, but it is easy to imagine
that in his younger days he must have been a robust and fine figure;
great gentleness and goodness appear in his countenance and manners."

Going to see them a second time, the Doctor was received by the whole
family with much cordiality. He says Faustina was very intelligent,
animated, and curious concerning what was going on in the world. She had
a wonderful store of musical reminiscences, and showed remains of the
splendid beauty for which her youth was celebrated. But her voice was
all gone. Dr. Burney asked her to sing. "Ah! Non posso; ho perduto
tutte le mie facolta." ("Alas! I am no longer able; I have lost all
my faculty.") "I was extremely fascinated," said the Doctor, "with the
conversation of Signor Hasse. He was easy, communicative, and rational,
equally free from pedantry, pride, and prejudice. He spoke ill of
no one, but on the contrary did justice to the talents of several
composers, among them Porpora, who, though he was his first master, was
afterward his greatest rival." Though his fingers were gouty, he played
on the piano for his visitor, and his beautiful daughters sang. One was
a "sweet soprano," the other a "rich and powerful contralto, fit for
any church or theatre in Europe "; both girls "having good shakes," and
"such an expression, taste, and steadiness as it is natural to expect in
the daughters and scholars of Signor Hasse and Signora Faustina."

There are two pictures of Faustina Bordoni in existence. One is in
Hawkins's "History," showing her in youth. Brilliant large black
eyes, splendid hair, regular features, and a fascinating sweetness of
expression, attest how lovely she must have been in the heyday of
her charms. The other represents her as an elderly person, handsomely
dressed, with an animated, intelligent countenance. Faustina died in
1793, at the age of ninety-two, and Hasse not long after, at the age of
ninety-four.




CATARINA GABRIELLI.

The Cardinal and the Daughter of the Cook.--The Young Prima Donna's
_Debut_ in Lucca.--Dr. Barney's Description of Gabrielli.--Her Caprices,
Extravagances, and Meeting with Metastasio.--Her Adventures in Vienna.--
Brydone on Gabrielli.--Episodes of her Career in Sicily and Parma.--She
sings at the Court of Catharine of Russia.--Sketches of Caffarelli and
Paochicrotti.--Gabrielli in London, and her Final Retirement from Art.


I.

One of the great dignitaries of the Papal Court during the middle of the
eighteenth century was the celebrated Cardinal Gabrielli. He was one day
walking in his garden, when a flood of delicious, untutored notes burst
on his ear, resolving itself finally into a brilliant _arietta_ by
Ga-luppi. The pretty little nymph who had poured out these wild-wood
notes proved to be the daughter of his favorite cook. Catarina's beauty
of person and voice had already excited the hopes of her father, and he
frequently took her to the Argentina Theatre, where her quick ear caught
all the tunes she heard; but the humble cook could not put the child
in the way of further instruction and training. When Cardinal Gabrielli
heard that enchanting but uncultivated voice, he called the little
Catarina and made her sing her whole stock of arias, a mandate she
willingly obeyed. He was delighted with her talent, and took on himself
the care of her musical education. She was first placed under the charge
of Garcia (Lo Spagnoletto), and afterward of Porpora. The Cardinal kept
a keen oversight of her instruction, and frequently organized concerts,
where her growing talents were shown, to the great delight of the
brilliant Roman society. Catarina's training was completed in the
conservatory of L'Ospidaletto at Venice, while it was under the
direction of Sacchini, who succeeded Galuppi.

"La Cuochettina," as she was called from her father's profession, made
her first appearance in Galuppi's "Sofonisba" in Lucca, after five
years of severe training. She was beautiful, intelligent, witty, full
of liveliness and grace, with an expression full of coquettish charm and
_espieglerie_. Her acting was excellent, and her singing already that of
a brilliant and finished vocalist. It is not a marvel that the excitable
Italian audience received her with the most passionate plaudits of
admiration. Her stature was low, but Dr. Burney describes her in the
following terms: "There was such grace and dignity in her gestures and
deportment as caught every unprejudiced eye; indeed, she filled the
stage, and occupied the attention of the spectators so much, that they
could look at nothing else while she was in view." No indication of
her mean origin betrayed itself in her face or figure, for she carried
herself with all the haughty grandeur of a Roman matron. Her voice,
though not powerful, was of exquisite quality and wonderful extent,
its compass being nearly two octaves and a half, and perfectly equable
throughout. Her facility in vocalization was extraordinary, and her
execution is described by Dr. Burney as rapid, but never so excessive as
to cease to be agreeable; but in slow movements her pathetic tones, as
is often the case with performers renowned for "dexterity," were not
sufficiently touching.

The young chevaliers of Lucca were wild over the new operatic star; for
her talent, beauty, and fascination made her a paragon of attraction,
and her capricious whims and coquetries riveted the chains in which she
held her admirers. Catarina, however she may have felt pleased at lordly
tributes of devotion, and willing to accept substantial proofs of
their sincerity, lavished her friendship for the most part on her own
comrades, and became specially devoted to the singer Guardagni, whose
rare artistic excellence made him a valuable mentor to the young prima
donna. Three years after her _debut_ her reputation had become national,
and we find her singing at Naples in the San Carlo. The aged poet
Metastasio, a name so imperishably connected with the development of the
Italian opera, became one of her bond slaves. Gabrielli was wont to use
her admirers for artistic advantage, and she learned certain invaluable
lessons in the delivery of recitative and the higher graces of her art
from one whose experience and knowledge were infinitely higher and more
suggestive than those of a mere singing-master. The courtly poet, the
pet of rank and beauty for nearly fifty years, sighed in vain at the
feet of this inexorable coquette, and shared his disappointment with a
host of other distinguished suitors, who showered costly gifts at the
shrine of beauty, and were compelled to content themselves with kissing
her hand as a reward.

Metastasio's interest, unchecked by the disdain of the capricious
beauty, succeeded in obtaining for her the position of court singer at
Vienna, where the Emperor, Francis I., was one of her admirers. She soon
created as great a furor among the gallants of the Austrian capital as
she had in Italy. Swords were drawn freely in the quarrels which she
delighted to foster, and dueling became a mania with those who aspired
to her favor. The passions she instigated sometimes took eccentric
courses. The French Ambassador, who loved her madly, suspected the
Portuguese Minister of being more successful than himself with the
lovely Gabrielli. His suspicions being confirmed at one of his visits,
he drew his sword in a transport of rage, and all that saved the
operatic stage one of its most brilliant lights was the whalebone
bodice, which broke the point of the furious Frenchman's rapier. The
sight of the bleeding beauty--for she received a slight scratch--brought
the diplomat to his senses. Falling on his knees, he poured forth his
remorse in passionate self-reproaches, but only received his pardon on
the most humiliating terms, namely, that he should present her with
the weapon which had so nearly pierced her heart, on which was to be
inscribed this memento of the jealous madness of its owner: "_Epee de
M------, qui osa frapper La Gabrielli_." Only Metastasio's persuasions
(for Gabrielli prized his friendship and advice as much as she trifled
with him in a different _role_) persuaded her to spare the Frenchman the
insufferable ridicule which her retention of the telltale sword would
have imposed on one whose rank and station could ill afford to be made
the laughing-stock of his times.

The siren's infinite caprices furnished the most interesting _chronique
scandaleuse_ of Vienna. Brydone in his "Tour" tells us that it was
fortunate for humanity that the fair cantatrice had so many faults; for,
had she been more perfect, "she must have made dreadful havoc in the
world; though, with all her deficiencies," he says, "she was supposed to
have achieved more conquests than any one woman breathing." Her caprice
was so stubborn, that neither interest, nor threats, nor punishment had
the least power over it; she herself declared that she could not command
it, but that it for the most part commanded her. The best expedient to
induce her to sing when she was in a bad humor was to prevail upon her
favorite lover to place himself in the principal seat of the pit, or the
front of a box, and, if they were on good terms--which was seldom the
case, however--she should address her tender airs to him, and exert
herself to the utmost. When Brydone was in Sicily, her lover promised
to give him an example of his power over her. "He took his seat
accordingly; but Gabrielli, probably suspecting the connivance, would
take no notice of him; so even this expedient does not always succeed."


II.

When Gabrielli left Vienna for Sicily in 1765, she was laden with
riches, for her manifold extravagances were generally incurred at
the expense of somebody else; and she continued at Palermo the same
eccentric, capricious, and flighty conduct which had made her name
synonymous with everything reckless and daring in contravening
propriety. She treated the highest dignitaries with the same insolence
which she displayed toward operatic managers. Even the Viceroy of
Sicily, standing in the very place of royalty, was made the victim of
wanton impertinence. The Viceroy gave a dinner in honor of La Gabrielli,
to which were invited the proudest nobles of the court; and, as she did
not appear at the appointed hour, a servant was sent to her apartments.
She was found _en deshabille_ dawdling over a book, and affected to
have forgotten the viceregal invitation--a studied insult, hardly to be
endured. This insolence, however, was overlooked by the representative
of royal authority, and it was not till the proud beauty's caprices
caused her to seriously neglect her artistic duties that she felt the
weight of his displeasure. When he sent a remonstrance against her
singing _sotto voce_ on the stage, she said she might be forced to
_cry_, but not to _sing_. The exasperated ruler ordered her to prison
for twelve days. Her caprice was here shown by giving the costliest
entertainments to her fellow prisoners, who were of all classes from
debtors to bandits, paying their debts, distributing great sums among
the indigent, and singing her most beautiful songs in an enchanting
manner. When she was released she was followed by the grateful tears
and blessings of those she had so lavishly benefited in jail. This
fascinating creature seems all through life to have been good on impulse
and bad on principle. Three years after this Gabrielli was singing in
Parma, where she made a speedy conquest of the Infante, Don Ferdinand.
His boundless wealth condoned the ugliness of his person in the eyes of
the singer, and the lavish income he placed at her disposal gratified
her boundless extravagances, while it did not prevent her from being
gracious to the Infante's many rivals and would-be successors.
Bitter quarrels and recriminations ensued, and the jealous ravings
of Catarina's princely admirer were more than matched by the fierce
sarcasms and shrill clamor of the beautiful virago. One day Don
Ferdinand, justly suspecting her of gross unfaithfulness, assailed
her with unusual fury, to which she replied by terming him a _gobbo
maladetto_ (accursed hunchback). On this the Prince, carried beyond
all control, had her imprisoned on some legal pretext, though Gabrielli
found proofs of love struggling with his anger in the magnificence of
the apartment and luxuriance of the service bestowed on her. But he
strove in vain to make his peace. The offended coquette was implacable,
and disdained alike his excuses and protestations of devotion. One night
she escaped from her prison, scaled the garden-wall, and fled, leaving
her weak and disconsolate lover to cool his sighs in tears of unavailing
regret.

The court of the Semiramis of the North, Catharine II. of Russia, who
strove to expunge the contempt felt for her as a woman by Europe through
the imperial munificence with which she played at patronizing art and
literature, was the next scene of the fair Italian's triumph. Gabrielli
was received with lavish favor, but the Empress frowned when she heard
the pecuniary demands of the singer. "Five thousand ducats!" she
said, in amazement. "Why, I don't give more than that to one of my
field-marshals." "Very well," replied the audacious Gabrielli; "your
Majesty may get your field-marshals to sing for you, then." Catharine,
who, however cruel and unscrupulous when need be, was in the main
good-natured, laughed at the impertinence, and instead of sending
Gabrielli to Siberia consented to her demands, adding special gratuities
to the nominal salary. Two countrymen of the beautiful cantatrice,
Pai-siello and Cimarosa, were afterward treated with equal honor and
consideration by the imperial _dilettante_. Catharine's favor lasted
unimpaired for several years, and it only abated when Gabrielli's lust
for conquest and the honor of rivalry with a sovereign tempted her to
coquet with Prince Po-temkin. An intimation from the court chamberlain
that St. Petersburg was too hot for one of her warm southern blood,
and that Siberia or some other place at her will would better suit
her temperament, sufficed when backed by an imperial endorsement. La
Gabrielli returned from Russia, loaded with, diamonds and wealth,
for Catharine did not dismiss her without substantial proofs of her
magnificence and generosity.

At this period Gabrielli was invited to England; and after considerable
haggling with the London manager, and compelling him to employ her
favorite of the hour, Signor Manzoletto, as principal tenor, the
negotiation was consummated. Gabrielli still preserved all her
excellence of voice and charm of execution; but her rare beauty, which
had been as great a factor in her success as artistic skill, was on the
wane. The English engagement had been made with some reluctance; for
the stern and uncompromising temper of the island nation had been widely
recognized with exaggerations in Continental Europe. "I should not be
mistress of my own will," she said, "and whenever I might have a fancy
not to sing, the people would insult, perhaps misuse me. It is better
to remain unmolested, were it even in prison." She, however, changed her
mind, and her experiences in London were such as to make her regret that
she had not stood firm to her first resolution.


III.

Among the remarkable male singers of Gabrielli's time was Caffarelli,
whom his friends indeed declared to be no less great than Farinelli.
Though never closely associated with La Cuochet-tina in her stage
triumphs (a fact perhaps fortunate for the cantatrice), he must be
regarded as one of the representative artists of the period when she was
in the full-blown and insolent prime of her beauty and reputation. Born
in 1703, of humble Neapolitan parentage, he became a pupil of Porpora at
an early age. The great singing-master is said to have taught him in a
peculiar fashion. For five years he permitted him to sing nothing
but scales and exercises. In the sixth year Porpora instructed him in
declamation, pronunciation, and articulation. Caffarelli, at the end of
the sixth year, supposing he had just mastered the rudiments, began to
murmur, when he was amazed by Porpora's answer: "Young man, you may now
leave me; you are the greatest singer in the world, and you have nothing
more to learn from me." Hogarth discredits this story, on the ground
that "none but a plodding drudge without a spark of genius could have
submitted to a process which would have been too much for the patient
endurance even of a Russian serf; or if a single spark had existed at
first, it must have been extinguished by so barbarous a treatment."
Caffarelli did not rise to the height of his fame rapidly, and, when
he went to London to supply the place of Farinelli in 1738, he entirely
failed to please the English public, who had gone wild with enthusiasm
over his predecessor. Farinelli's retirement from the artistic world
about this period removed from Caffarelli's way the only rival who could
have snatched from him the laurels he soon acquired as the leading
male singer of the age. After Caffarelli's return from England, his
engagements in Turin, Genoa, Milan, and Florence were a triumphal
progress. At Turin he sang before the Prince and Princess of Sardinia,
the latter of whom had been a pupil of Farinelli, as she was a Spanish
princess. Caffarelli, on being told that the royal lady had a prejudice
in favor of her old master, said haughtily, "To-night she shall hear
two Farinellis in one," and exerted his faculties so successfully as
to produce acclamations of delight and astonishment. He always seems
to have had great jealousy of the fame of Farinelli, and the latter
entertained much curiosity about his successor in public esteem.
Metas-tasio, the friend of the retired artist, wrote to him in 1749 from
Vienna about Caffarelli's reception: "You will be curious to know
how Caffarelli has been received. The wonders related of him by his
adherents had excited expectations of something above humanity." After
summing up the judgments of the critics who were severe on Caffarelli's
faults, that his voice was "false, screaming, and disobedient," that
his singing was full of "antique and stale flourishes," that "in his
recitative he was an old nun," and that in all that he sang there was
"a whimsical tone of lamentation sufficient to sour the gayest allegro,"
Metastasio says that in his happy moments he could please excessively,
but the caprices of his voice and temper made these happy moments very
uncertain.

Caffarelli's arrogant, vain, and turbulent nature seems to have been the
principal cause of his troubles. The numerous anecdotes current of him
turned mainly on this characteristic, so different from the modesty and
reticence of Fari-nelli. Metastasio, in a lively letter to the Princess
di Belmonte, describes an amusing fracas at the Viennese Opera-House.
The poet of the house, Migliavacca, who was also director of rehearsals,
became engaged in altercation with the singer, because the latter
neglected attendance. He rehearsed to Caffarelli in bitter language
the various terms of reproach and contempt which his enemies throughout
Europe had lavished on him. "But the hero of the panegyric, cutting the
thread of his own praise, called out to his eulogist, 'Follow me if
thou hast courage to a place where there is none to assist thee,' and,
moving toward the door, beckoned him to come out. The poet hesitated
a moment, then said with a smile: 'Truly, such an antagonist makes me
blush; but come along, since it is a Christian act to chastise a madman
or a fool,' and advanced to take the field." Suddenly the belligerents
drew blades on the very stage itself, and, while the bystanders were
expecting to see poetical or vocal blood besprinkle the harpsichords
and double basses, the Signora Tesi advanced toward the duelists. "Oh,
sovereign power of beauty!" writes Metastasio with sly sarcasm; "the
frantic Caffarelli, even in the fiercest paroxysms of his wrath,
captivated and appeased by this unexpected tenderness, runs with rapture
to meet her, lays his sword at her feet, begs pardon for his errors,
and, generously sacrificing to her his vengeance, seals, with a thousand
kisses on her hand, his protestations of obedience, respect, and
humility. The nymph signifies her forgiveness with a nod, the poet
sheathes his sword, the spectators begin to breathe again, and the
tumultuous assembly breaks up amid sounds of laughter. In collecting the
numbers of the wounded and slain, none was found but the poor copyist,
who, in trying to part the combatants, had received a small contusion
in the clavicula of the foot from an involuntary kick of the poet's
Pegasus."

Once, while Caffarelli was singing at Naples, he was told of the arrival
of Gizzielo, a possible rival, at Rome. Unable to check his anxiety, he
threw himself into a post-chaise and hastened to Rome, arriving in
time to hear his young rival sing the _aria d'entrata_. Delighted with
Gizzielo's singing, and giving vent to his emotion, he cried in a loud
voice: "_Bravo, bravissimo, Gizzielo! E Caffarelli che te lo dice_." So
saying, he rushed out and posted back to Naples, arriving barely in time
to dress for the opera. By invitation of the Dauphin, he went to Paris
in 1750, and sang at several concerts, where he pleased and astonished
the court by his splendid vocalism. Louis XV. sent him a snuff-box;
but Caffarelli, observing its plainness, said disdainfully, showing a
drawerful of splendid boxes, that the worst was finer than the French
King's present. "If he had only sent me his portrait in it," said the
vain' artist. "That is only given to ambassadors and princes," was
the reply of the King's gentleman. "Well," was the reply, "all the
ambassadors and princes in the world would not make one Caffarelli." The
King laughed heartily at this, but the Dauphin sent for the singer
and presented him with a passport, saying, "It is signed by the King
himself--for you a great honor; but lose no time in using it, for it is
only good for ten days." Caffarelli left in high dudgeon, saying he had
not made his expenses in France.

Mr. Garrick, the great actor, heard Caffarelli in Naples in 1764, when
he was turned of sixty, and thus writes to Dr. Burney: "Yesterday we
attended the ceremony of making a nun; she was the daughter of a duke,
and everything was conducted with great splendor and magnificence. The
consecration was performed with great solemnity, and I was very much
affected; and, to crown the whole, the principal part was sung by the
famous Caffarelli, who, though old, has pleased me more than all the
singers I ever heard. He _touched_ me, and it is the first time I
have been touched since I came to Italy." At this time Caffarelli had
accumulated a great fortune, purchased a dukedom, and built a splendid
palace at San Dorato, from which he derived his ducal title.

Over the gate he inscribed, with characteristic modesty, this
inscription: "_Amphion Thebas, ego domum._" * A wit of the period added,
"_Ille cum, sine tu_." ** Caffarelli died in 1783, leaving his title
and wealth to his nephew, some of whose descendants are still living in
enjoyment of the rank earned by the genius of the singer. By some of
the critics of his time Caffarelli was judged to be the superior of
Farinelli, though the suffrages were generally on the other side. He
excelled in slow and pathetic airs as well as in the bravura style; and
was unrivaled in the beauty of his voice, and in the perfection of his
shake and his chromatic scales, which latter embellishment in quick
movements he was the first to introduce.

     * "Amphion built Thebes, I a palace."

     ** "He with good reason, you without."


IV.

When Gabrielli was on her way to England in 1765, she sang for a few
nights in Venice with the celebrated Pacchierotti, a male soprano singer
who took the place of Caffarelli, even as the latter filled that vacated
by Farinelli. Gabrielli was inspired by the association to do her
utmost, and when she sang her first _aria di bravura_, Pacchierotti gave
himself up for lost. The astonishing swiftness, grace, and flexibility
of her execution seemed to him beyond comparison; and, tearing his hair
in his impetuous Italian way, he cried in despair, "_Povero me, povero
me! Vuesto e un portento!_" ("Unfortunate man that I am, here indeed is
a prodigy!") It was some time before he could be persuaded to sing; but,
when he did, he excited as much admiration in Gabrielli's breast as that
fair cantatrice had done in his own. Pac-chierotti is the third in the
great triad of the male soprano singers of the eighteenth century, and
the luster of his reputation does not shine dimly as compared with the
other two. He commenced his musical career at Palermo in 1770, at the
age of twenty, and when he went to England in 1778 expectations were
raised to the highest pitch by the accounts given of him by Brydone in
his "Tour through Sicily and Malta." His first English season was very
successful, and he returned again in 1780, to remain for four years and
become one of the greatest favorites the London public had ever known,
his last appearance being at the great Handel commemoration. The details
of Pacchierotti's life are rather scanty, for he was singularly modest
and retiring, and shrank from rather than courted public notice. We know
more of him from his various critics as an artist than as a man.

"Pacchierotti's voice," says Lord Mount Edgcumbe, who contributed so
richly to the literature of music, "was an extensive soprano, full and
sweet in the highest degree; his powers of execution were great, but he
had far too good taste and good sense to make a display of them where
it would have been misapplied, confining it to one bravura song in each
opera, conscious that the chief delight of singing and his own supreme
excellence lay in touching expression and exquisite pathos. Yet he was
so thorough a musician that nothing came amiss to him; every style was
to him equally easy, and he could sing at first sight all songs of the
most opposite characters, not merely with the facility and correctness
which a complete knowledge of music must give, but entering at once into
the views of the composer and giving them all the spirit and expression
he had designed. Such was his genius in his embellishments and cadences
that their variety was inexhaustible.... As an actor, with many
disadvantages of person--for he was tall and awkward in his figure, and
his features were plain--he was nevertheless forcible and impressive;
for he felt warmly, had excellent judgment, and was an enthusiast in his
profession. His recitative was inimitably fine, so that even those who
did not understand the language could not fail to comprehend from his
countenance, voice, and action every sentiment he expressed."

An anecdote illustrating Pacchierotti's pathos is given by the
best-informed musical authorities. When Metastasio's "Artaserse" was
given at Rome with the music of Bertoni, Pacchierotti performed the
part of Arbaces. In one place a touching song is followed by a short
instrumental symphony. When Pacchierotti had finished the air, he turned
to the orchestra, which remained silent, saying, "What are you about?"
The leader, awakened from a trance, answered with much simplicity in a
sobbing voice, "We are all crying." Not one of the band had thought
of the symphony, but sat with eyes full of tears, gazing at the great
singer.


V.

Gabrielli's career, which will now be resumed, had been full of romantic
adventures, _affaires d'amour_, and curious episodes, and her vanity
looked forward to the continuance in England of similar social
excitements. She had accepted the London engagement with some scruple
and hesitation, but her anticipation of brilliant conquests among
the _jeunesse doree_ of Britain overcame her fear that she would find
audiences less tolerant than those to which she had been accustomed in
her imperious course through Europe. But the beautiful Gabrielli was
then a little on the wane both in personal loveliness and charm of
voice; and, though her fame as a coquette and an artist had preceded
her, she met with an indifference that was almost languor. The young
Englishmen of the period, though quick to draw blade as any gallants in
Europe, did not feel inspired to fight for her smiles, as had been the
case with their compeers in the Continental cities, which rang with the
scandals, controversies, and duels engendered by her numerous conquests.
This sort of social stimulus had become necessary from long use as
an ally of professional effort; and, lacking it, Gabrielli became
insufferably indolent and careless. She would not take the least trouble
to please fastidious London audiences, then as now the most exacting in
Europe. She chose to remain sick on occasions which should have drawn
forth her finest efforts, and frequently sent her sister Francesca to
fill her great parts. One night her manager, mistrusting her excuses of
illness, proceeded to her apartments, and found them ablaze with light
and filled with a large company of gay and riotous revelers. Of course
this condition of affairs could not long be endured. Stung by the slight
appreciation of her talents in England, and not choosing to endure the
want of patience which made the public grumble when she chose to sing
badly or not at all, she quitted England after a very brief stay. Lord
Mount Edgcumbe saw her in the opera of "Didone," and avows bluntly that
he could see nothing more of her acting than that she took the greatest
possible care of her enormous hoop when she sidled out of the flames of
Carthage. Dr. Burney, on the other hand, is a more chivalrous critic, or
else he was unduly impressed with the lady's charms; for she appeared to
him "the most intelligent and best-bred _virtuoso_ with whom he had
ever conversed, not only on the subject of music, but on every subject
concerning which a well-educated female, who had seen the world, might
be expected to have information." Furthermore, he extols the precision
and accuracy of her execution and intonation, and the thrilling quality
of her voice.

Brydone, who appears to have been fascinated with this siren, has an
amusing apology for her carelessness of her duties in England, which he
insists was not caprice, but inability to sing. He says: "And this I can
readily believe, for that wonderful flexibility of voice, that runs
with such rapidity and neatness through the most minute divisions, and
produces almost instantaneously so great a variety of modulation, must
surely depend on the very nicest tones of the fibers; and if these are
in the smallest degree relaxed, or their elasticity diminished, how is
it possible that their contractions and expansions can so readily obey
the will as to produce these effects? The opening of the glottis which
forms the voice is so extremely small, and in every variety of tone its
diameter must suffer a sensible change; for the same diameter must ever
produce the same tone. So _wonderfully_ minute are its contractions and
dilatations, that Dr. Kiel, I think, computed that in some voices its
opening, not more than the tenth of an inch, is divided into upward
of twelve hundred parts, the different sound of every one of which is
perceptible to the exact ear. Now, what a nice tension of fibers must
this require! I should imagine even the most minute change in the air
causes a sensible difference, and that in our foggy climate fibers would
be in danger of losing this wonderful sensibility, or, at least, that
they would very often be put out of tune. It is not the same case with
an ordinary voice, where the variety of divisions run through and the
volubility with which they are executed bear no proportion to that of a
Gabrielli."

Gabrielli sang in various cities of Italy for several years more, still
retaining her hold on the hearts of her countrymen. In 1780 she finally
retired from the stage and began to live a regular and orderly life,
though still extravagant and lavish in her indulgence both of freaks of
luxury and generosity. During her residence at Rome the noblesse of
that city held her in high esteem, and her concerts gathered the most
distinguished and wealthy people. Her prodigality had considerably
reduced her income, and when she retired from her profession it amounted
to little more than twenty thousand francs. The state in which Gabrielli
had lived suited a princess of the blood rather than an operatic singer.
Her traveling retinue included a little army of servants and couriers,
and, both at home and at the theatre, she exacted the respect which was
rather the due of some royal personage. A Florentine nobleman paid her
a visit one day, and tore one of his ruffles by catching in some part of
her dress. Gabrielli the next day, to make amends, sent him six bottles
of Spanish wine, with the costliest rolls of Flanders lace stuffed into
the mouths of the bottles instead of corks. But, if she was extravagant
and luxurious, she was also generous; and, in spite of the cruel
caprices which had marked her life, she always gave tokens of a
naturally kind heart. She gave largely to charity, and provided
liberally for her parents, as also for her brother's education. Of this
brother, who appeared at the Teatro Argentina in Rome as a tenor,
but who sang as wretchedly as his sister did exquisitely, an amusing
anecdote is narrated. The audience began to hoot and hiss, and yells of
"Get out, you raven!" sounded through the house. With great _sang-froid_
the unlucky singer said: "You fancy you are mortifying me by hooting me;
you are grossly deceived; on the contrary, I applaud your judgment, for
I solemnly declare that I never appear on any stage without receiving
the same treatment, and sometimes worse."

Gabrielli's closing years were spent at Bologna, where she won the
esteem and admiration of all by her charities and steadiness of life, a
notable contrast to the license and extravagance of her earlier career.
She died in 1796, at the age of sixty-six.




SOPHIE ARNOULD.

The French Stage as seen by Rousseau.--Intellectual Ferment of the
Period.--Sophie Arnould, the Queen of the most Brilliant of Paris
Salons.--Her Early Life and Connection with Comte de Lauraguais.--Her
Reputation as the Wittiest Woman of the Age.--Art Association with the
Great German Composer, Gluck.--The Rivalries and Dissensions of the
Period.--Sophie's Rivals and Contemporaries, Madame St. Huberty,
the Vestrises Father and Son, Madelaine Guimard.--Opera during the
Revolution.--The Closing Days of Sophie Arnould's Life.--Lord Mount
Edgcumbe's Opinion of her as an Artist.


I.

Rousseau, a man of decidedly musical organization, and who wrote so
brilliantly on the subject of the art he loved (but who cared more for
music than he did for truth and honor, as he showed by stealing the
music of two operas, "Pygmalion" and "Le Devin du Village," and passing
it off for his own), has given us some very racy descriptions of French
opera in the latter part of the eighteenth century in his "Dictionnaire
Musicale," in his "Lettre sur la Musique Francaise," and, above all,
in the "Nouvelle Heloise." In the mouth of Saint Preux, the hero of the
latter novel, he puts some very animated sketches:

"The opera at Paris passes for the most pompous, the most voluptuous,
the most admirable spectacle that human art has ever invented. It is,
say its admirers, the most superb monument of the magnificence of Louis
XIV. Here you may dispute about anything except music and the opera; on
these topics alone it is dangerous not to dissemble. French music,
too, is defended by a very vigorous inquisition, and the first thing
indicated is a warning to strangers who visit this country that all
foreigners admit there is nothing so fine as the grand opera at Paris.
The fact is, discreet people hold their tongues and laugh in their
sleeves. It must, however, be conceded that not only all the marvels of
nature, but many other marvels much greater, which no one has ever seen,
are represented at great cost at this theatre; and certainly Pope must
have alluded to it when he describes a stage on which were seen gods,
hobgoblins, monsters, kings, shepherds, fairies, fury, joy, fire, a jig,
a battle, and a ball.*...

     * Addison gives some such description of the French opera in
     No. 29 of the "Spectator."

Having told you what others say of this brilliant spectacle, I will
now tell you what I have seen myself. Imagine an inclosure fifteen feet
broad and long in proportion; this inclosure is the theatre. On its two
sides are placed at intervals screens, on which are grossly painted
the objects which the scene is about to represent. At the back of the
inclosure hangs a great curtain painted in like manner, and nearly
always pierced and torn, that it may represent at a little distance
gulfs on the earth or holes in the sky. Every one who passes behind this
stage or touches the curtain produces a sort of earthquake, which has a
double effect. The sky is made from certain bluish rags suspended
from poles or from cords, as linen may be seen hung out to dry in any
washerwoman's yard. The sun (for it is seen here sometimes) is a lighted
torch in a lantern. The cars of the gods and goddesses are composed of
four rafters, squared and hung on a thick rope in the form of a swing or
seesaw; between the rafters is a cross-plank on which the god sits down,
and in front hangs a piece of coarse cloth well dirtied, which acts the
part of clouds for the magnificent car. One may see toward the bottom of
the machine two or three stinking candles, badly snuffed, which, while
the great personage dementedly presents himself, swinging in his seesaw,
fumigate him with an incense worthy of his dignity. The agitated sea
is composed of long lanterns of cloth and blue pasteboard, strung on
parallel spits which are turned by little blackguard boys. The thunder
is a heavy cart, rolled over an arch, and is not the least agreeable
instrument one hears. The flashes of lightning are made of pinches of
rosin thrown on a flame, and the thunder is a cracker at the end of
a fusee. The theatre is furnished, moreover, with little square
trap-doors, through which the demons issue from their cave. When they
have to rise into the air, little devils of stuffed brown cloth are
substituted, or perhaps live chimney-sweeps, who swing suspended and
smothered in rags. The accidents which happen are sometimes tragical,
sometimes farcical. When the ropes break, then infernal spirits and
immortal deities fall together, laming and sometimes killing each other.
Add to all this the monsters which render some scenes very pathetic,
such as dragons, lizards, tortoises, and large toads, which promenade
the theatre with a menacing air, and display at the opera all the
temptations of St. Anthony. Each of these figures is animated by a lout
of a Savoyard, who has not even intelligence enough to play the beast."
Saint Preux is also made to say of the singers: "One sees actresses
nearly in convulsions, tearing yelps and howls violently out of their
lungs, closed hands pressed on their breasts, heads thrown back, faces
inflamed, veins swollen, and stomach panting. I know not which of the
two, eye or ear, is more agreeably affected by this display.... For my
part, I am certain that people applaud the outcries of an actress at the
opera as they would the feats of a tumbler or rope-dancer at a fair....
Imagine this style of singing employed to express the delicate gallantry
and tenderness of Quinault. Imagine the Muses, the Graces, the Loves,
Venus herself, expressing themselves this way, and judge the effect. As
for devils, it might pass, for this music has something infernal in it,
and is not ill adapted to such beings."

From this and similar accounts it will be seen that opera in France
during the latter part of the eighteenth century had, notwithstanding
Jean Jacques's garrulous sarcasms, advanced a considerable way toward
that artificial perfection which characterizes it now. Music was a topic
of discussion, which absorbed the interest of the polite world far more
than the mutterings in the politi-cal horizon, which portended so fierce
a convulsion of the social _regime_. Wits, philosophers, courtiers, and
fine ladies joined in the acrimonious controversy, first between the
adherents of Lulli and Rameau, then between those of Gluck and Piccini.
The young gallants of the day were wont to occupy part of the stage
itself and criticise the performance of the opera; and often they
adjourned from the theatre to the dueling-ground to settle a difficulty
too hard for their wits to unravel. The intense interest appertaining to
all things connected with music and the theatre noticeable in the French
of to-day, was tenfold as eager a century ago. Passionate curiosity,
even extending to enthusiasm, with which that worn-out and utterly
corrupt society, by some subtile contradiction, threw itself into all
questions concerning philosophy, science, literature, and art, found
its most characteristic expression in its relation to the music of the
stage.

It was at this strange and picturesque period, when everything in
politics, society, literature, and art was fermenting for the terrible
Hecate's brew which the French world was soon to drink to the dregs,
that there appeared on the stage one of the most remarkable figures
in its history, a woman of great beauty and brilliancy, as well as an
artist of unique genius--Sophie Arnould. Her name is lustrous in French
memoirs for the splendor of her wit and conversational talent; and
Arsene Houssaye has thought it worthy to preserve her _bon-mots_ in
a volume of table-talk, called "Arnouldiana," which will compare with
anything of its kind in the French language. For a dozen years prior to
the Revolution Sophie Arnould was a queen of society as well as of
art; and in her elegant _salon_, which was a museum of art _curios_
and bric-a-brac, she held a brilliant court, where men of the highest
distinction, both native and foreign, were proud to pay their homage
at the shrine of beauty and genius. There might be seen D'Alembert, the
learned and scholarly, rough and independent in manner, who deserted the
drawing-rooms of the great for saloons where he could move at his ease.
There, also, Diderot would often delight his circle of admirers by the
fluency and richness of his conversation, his friends extolling his
disinterestedness and honesty, his enemies whispering about his cunning
and selfishness. The novelist Duclos, with his keen power of penetrating
human character, would move leisurely through the throng, picking
up material for his romances; and Mably would talk politics and drop
ill-natured remarks. The learned metaphysician Helvetius, too, was
often there, seeking for compliments, his appetite for applause being
voracious; so insatiable, indeed, that he even danced one night at the
opera. It was said that he was led to study mathematics by seeing a
circle of beautiful ladies surrounding the ugly geometrician Maupertuis
in the gardens of the Tuileries. Dorat, who wasted his time in
writing bad tragedies, and his property in publishing them; the gay,
good-hearted Marmontel; Bernard--called by Voltaire _le gentil_--who
wrote the libretto of "Castor et Pollux," esteemed for years a
masterpiece of lyric poetry; Rameau, the popular composer, in whose
pieces Sophie always appeared; and Francoeur, the leader of the
orchestra, were also among her guests. J. J. Rousseau was the great
lion, courted and petted by all. When Benjamin Franklin arrived in
Paris, where he was received with unbounded hospitality by the most
distinguished of French society, he confessed that nowhere did he find
such pleasure, such wit, such brilliancy, as in the _salon_ of Mile.
Arnould. M. Andre de Murville was one of the more noteworthy men of wit
who attended her _soirees_, and he became so madly in love with her that
he offered her his hand; but she cared very little about him. One day
he told her that if he were not in the Academie within thirty years, he
would blow out his brains. She looked steadily at him, and then, smiling
sarcastically, said, "I thought you had done that long ago." Poets
sang her praises; painters eagerly desired to transfer her exquisite
lineaments to canvas. All this flattery intoxicated her. She wished
to be classed with Ninon, Lais, and Aspasia, and was proud to be the
subject of the verses of Dorat, Bernard, Rulhiere, Marmontel, and
Favart. Sophie's wit never hesitated to break a lance even on those she
liked. "What are you thinking of?" she said to Bernard, in one of his
abstracted moods. "I was talking to myself," he replied. "Be careful,"
she said archly; "you gossip with a flatterer." To a physician, whom she
met with a gun under his arm, she laughed aloud, "Ah, doctor, you are
afraid of your professional resources failing." Her racy repartees were
in every mouth from Paris to Versailles, and she was in all respects a
brilliant personage among the intellectual lights of the age.

In the Rue de Bethisy, Paris, stood a house, the Hotel de Chatillon,
from the window of one of whose rooms assassins flung the gory head of
the great Admiral de Coligni down to the Duke de Guise on the night of
Saint Bartholomew, 1572. In that same room was born, February 14, 1744,
Sophie Arnould, the daughter of the proprietor, who had transformed the
historic dwelling into a hostelry. She grew up a bright, lively, and
beautiful child, and was conscious from an early age of the value of her
talents. Anne, as she was then called (for the change to Sophie was made
afterward), would say with exultation: "We shall be as rich as princes.
A good fairy has given me a talisman to transform everything into gold
and diamonds at the sound of my voice."

Accident brought her talent to light. It was then the fashion for
ladies, after confessing their sins in Passion Week, to retire for some
days to a religious house, there to expiate by fasting the faults and
misdemeanors committed during the gayeties of the Carnival. It chanced
that when Anne was about twelve years old the Princess of Modena retired
to the convent of Val-de-Grace, and in attending vespers heard one voice
which, for power and purity, she thought had never been surpassed.
Fine voices were at a premium then in France, and the Princess at once
decided that she had discovered a treasure. She inquired who was the
owner of this exquisite organ, and was informed that it was little Anne
Arnould. The Princess sent for the child, who came readily, and was not
in the least abashed by the presence of the great lady, but sang like a
nightingale and chattered like a magpie. The wit and beauty of the girl
charmed the Princess, and she threw a costly necklace about her throat.
"Come, my lovely child," said she; "you sing like an angel, and you
have more wit than an angel. Your fortune is made." As a result of the
praises so loudly chanted by the Princess of Modena, the child was
sent for to sing in the King's Chapel, and, in spite of the aversion of
Anne's pious mother, who was afraid with good reason of the influences
of the dissipated court, she was placed thus in contact with power and
royalty. The beautiful Pompadour heard her charming voice, and remarked,
with that effusion of sentiment which veneered her cruel selfishness,
"Ah! with such a talent, she might become a princess." This opinion of
the imperious and all-powerful favorite decided the girl's fate; for it
was equivalent to a mandate for her _debut_. The precocious child knew
the danger of the path opened for her. To the remonstrances of her
mother she said with a shrug of her pretty shoulders: "To go to the
opera is to go to the devil. But what matters it? It is my destiny."
Poor Mme. Arnould scolded, shuddered, and prayed, and ended it, as she
thought, by shutting the girl up in a convent. But Louis XV. got wind
of this threatened checkmate, and a royal mandate took her out of the
convent walls which had threatened to immure her for life. Anne was
placed with Clairon, the great tragedienne, to learn acting, and with
Mlle. Fel to learn singing. As a consequence, while she had some
rivals in the beauty of her voice, her acting surpassed anything on the
operatic stage of that era.


II.

When Anne Arnould made her first appearance, she assumed the name of
Sophie on account of the softer sound of its syllables. Her _debut_,
September 15, 1757, was one of most brilliant success, and in a
night Paris was at her feet. Her genius, her beauty, her voice, her
magnificent eyes, her incomparable grace and fascinating witchery of
manner, were the talk of the city; and the opera was besieged every
night she sang. Freron, in speaking of the waiting crowds, said, "I
doubt if they would take such trouble to get into paradise." The young
and lovely _debutante_ accepted the homage of the time, which then as
now expressed itself in bouquets, letters, and jewels, without number,
with as much nonchalance as if she had been a stage goddess of twenty
years' standing.

Hosts of admirers fluttered around this new and brilliant light. Mme.
Arnould fretted and scolded, and watched her precious charge as well
as she could; for when the opera received a singer, neither father nor
mother could longer claim her. One of the besieging _roues_ said that
Sophie walked on roses. "Yes," was the mother's keen retort, "but see to
it that you do not plant thorns amid the roses." Sophie's fascinations
were the theme of universal talk among the gay and licentious idlers of
the court, and heavy bets were made as to who should be the victor in
his suit. Among the most distinguished of the court rufflers of the
period was the Comte de Lauraguais, noted for his personal beauty,
wit, and daring, and for having written some very bad plays, which were
instantly damned by the audience. He had run through a great fortune,
and the good-humored gayety with which he won money from his friends was
only equaled by the nonchalance with which he had squandered his own.
He was a member of the Academy of Sciences, and enjoyed lounging in
fashionable saloons and behind the scenes at the opera. Lauraguais
had the temerity to attempt to carry off the young beauty, but, the
enterprise failing, he had recourse to another expedient. One evening,
supping with some friends, the conversation turned naturally on the
star which had just risen, and there was much jesting over the maternal
anxiety of Arnould _mere_. Lauraguais, laughing, instantly offered to
lay an immense wager that within fifteen days Mme. Arnould would no
longer attend Sophie to the opera. The bet was taken, and the next day
a handsome but modest-looking young man, professing to be from the
country, applied at the Hotel de Chatillon for lodgings. The fascinating
tongue of young Duval (for he represented that he was a poet of that
name, who hoped to get a play taken by the managers) soon beguiled both
mother and daughter, and he began to make love to Sophie under the
very maternal eyes. The romantic girl listened with delight to the
protestations and vows of the young provincial poet, though she had
disdained the flatteries of the troops of court gallants who besieged
the opera-house stage when she sang. The _finale_ of this pretty
pastoral was a moonlight flitting one night. The couple eloped, and the
Comte de Lauraguais won his wager that Mme. Arnould would not longer
accompany her daughter to the opera, and with the wager the most
beautiful and fascinating woman of the time.

Sophie, finding herself freed from all conventional shackles, gave full
play to her tastes, both for luxury and intellectual society. Her house,
the Hotel Rambouillet, was transformed into a palace, and both at home
and in the green-room of the opera she was surrounded by a throng of
noblemen, diplomats, soldiers, poets, artists--in a word, all the most
brilliant men of Paris, who crowded her receptions and besieged her
footsteps. The attentions paid the brilliant Sophie caused terrible fits
of jealousy on the part of Lauraguais, and their life for several years,
though there appears to have been sincere attachment on both sides, was
embittered by quarrels and recriminations. Sophie seems to have been
faithful to her relation with Lauraguais, though she never took pains
to deprecate his anger or avert his suspicions. Discovering that he
was intriguing with an operatic fair one, she contrived that Lauraguais
should come on her _tete-a-tete_ with a Knight of Malta. To his
reproaches she answered, "This gentleman is only fulfilling his vows as
Knight of Malta in waging war upon an infidel" (infidele). At last she
tired of leading such a fretful existence, and took the occasion of the
Count's absence to break the bond. She filled her carriage with all of
his valuable gifts to herself--jewelry, laces, and two children--and
sent them to his hotel. The message was received by the Countess, who
gladly accepted the charge of the little ones, but returned the carriage
and its other contents. On Lauraguais's return he was thrown into the
deepest misery by Sophie's resolve; but, although she was touched by his
pleading and reproaches, she remained inflexible. She accepted, however,
a pension of two thousand crowns which his generosity settled on her. We
are told that the sentimental Countess joined with her husband in urging
Sophie, who at first refused to receive Lauraguais's bounty, to yield,
saying that her admiration of the lovely singer made her excuse his
fault in being unfaithful to herself, and that the children should be
always treated as her own. Such a scene as this would be impossible out
of the France of the eighteenth century.

The number of Sophie Arnould's _bon-mots_ is almost legion, and her
good nature could rarely resist the temptation of uttering a brilliant
epigram or a pungent repartee. Some one showed her a snuff-box, on which
were portraits of Sully and the Duke de Choiseul. She said with a wicked
smile, "Debit and credit." A Capuchin monk was reported to have been
eaten by wolves. "Poor beasts! hunger must be a dreadful thing,"
ejaculated she. A beautiful but silly woman complained to her of the
persistency of her lovers. "You have only to open your mouth and
speak, to get rid of their importunities," was the pungent answer. She
effectually silenced a coxcomb, who aimed to annoy her by saying, "Oh!
wit runs in the street nowadays," by the retort, "Too fast for fools to
catch it, however." Of Madeleine Guimard, the fascinating dancer, who
was exceedingly thin, Sophie said one night, after she had seen her
dance a _pas de trois_ in which she represented a nymph being contended
for by two satyrs, "It made her think of two dogs fighting for a bone."*

     * This _mot_ the Paris wits have revived at the expense of
     Mlle. Sara Bernhardt.

One day Voltaire said to her, "Ah! mademoiselle, I am eighty-four years
old, and I have committed eighty-four follies" (_sottises_). "A mere
trifle," responded Sophie; "I am not yet forty, and I have committed
more than a thousand."

For a time Mile. Arnould suffered under a loss of court favor, owing
to her having made Mme. Du Barry the butt of her pointed sarcasms. A
_lettre de cachet_ would have been the fate of another, but Sophie was
too much of a popular idol to be so summarily treated. She, however,
retired for a time from the theatre with a pension of two thousand
francs, having already accumulated a splendid fortune. Instantly that
it was known she was under a cloud, there were plenty to urge that she
never had any voice, and that her only good points were beauty and fine
acting. Abbe Galiani, a court parasite, remarked one night, "It's the
finest asthma I ever heard."

In 1774 the great composer Gluck, whose genius was destined to have such
a profound influence on French music, came to Paris with his "Iphigenie
en Aulide," by invitation of the Dauphiness Marie Antoinette, who had
formerly been his musical pupil. The stiff and stilted works of Sully
and Rameau had thus far ruled the French stage without any competition,
except from the Italian operettas performed by the company of Les
Bouffons, and the new school of French operatic comedy developed into
form by the lively genius of Gretry. When Gluck's magnificent opera,
constructed on new art principles, was given to the Paris public,
April 19, 1774, it created a deep excitement, and divided critics and
connoisseurs into opposing and embittered camps, in which the most
distinguished wits, poets, and philosophers ranged themselves, and
pelted each other with lampoons, pamphlets, and epigrams, which often
left wounds that had to be healed afterward by an application of cold
steel. In this contest Sophie Arnould, who had speedily emerged from her
retirement, took an active part, for Gluck had selected her to act the
part of his heroines. The dramatic intensity and breadth of the German
composer's conceptions admirably suited Sophie, whose genius for acting
was more marked than her skill in singing. The success of Gluck's
"Iphigenie" gave the finishing stroke to the antiquated operas of
Rameau, in which the singer had made her reputation, and offered her a
nobler vehicle for art-expression. On her association with Gluck's music
Sophie Arnould's fame in the history of art now chiefly rests.

Gluck, like all others, yielded to the magic charm of the beautiful and
witty singer, and went so far as to permit rehearsals to be held at her
own house. On one occasion the Prince de Hennin, one of the haughtiest
of the grand seigneurs of the period, intruded himself, and, finding
himself unnoticed, interrupted the rehearsal with the remark, "I
believe it is the custom in France to rise when any one enters the
room, especially if it be a person of some consideration." Gluck's eyes
flashed with rage, as he sprang threateningly to his feet. "The custom
in Germany, sir, is to rise only for those whom we esteem!" he said;
then turning to Sophie, who had been stopped in the middle of an air, "I
perceive, madame, that you are not mistress in your own house. I leave
you, and shall never set foot here again." Sophie is credited with
having commented on this scene with the remark that it was the only case
where she had ever witnessed a personal illustration of AEsop's fable of
the lion put to flight by an ass.*

     * An English wit some years afterward perpetrated the same
     witticism on the occasion of Edmund Burke's leaving the
     House of Commons in a rage, because he was interrupted in
     one of his great speeches by a thick-witted country member.

It is pleasant to know that the Prince de Hennin was obliged to make a
humble apology to Gluck, by order of Marie Antoinette.

Sophie Arnould appeared with no less success in Gluck's operas of
"Orphee" and "Alceste" than in the first, and rose again to the topmost
wave of court favor. When "Orphee" was at rehearsal at the opera-house,
it became the fashion of the great court dignitaries and the young
chevaliers of the period to attend. Gluck instantly, when he entered the
theatre, threw off his coat and wig, and conducted in shirt-sleeves
and cotton nightcap. When the rehearsal was over, prince and marquis
contended as to who should act the part of _valet de chambre_. The
composer at this time was the subject of almost idolatrous admiration,
for it was at a later period that the old quarrels were resumed again
with even more acrid personalities, and Piccini was imported from Italy
by the Du Barry faction to be pitted against the German. Gluck returned
from Germany, whither he had gone on a visit, to find the opposition
cabal in full force, and the merits of the Italian composer lauded
to the skies by the fickle public of Paris. But the former's greatest
opera, "Iphigenie en Tauride," was produced, and gave a fatal blow
to Piccini's ascendancy, though his own opera on the same subject was
afterward given with great care. On the latter occasion Mile. Laguerre,
the principal singer, appeared on the stage intoxicated, and was unable
to get through the music successfully. "This is not 'Iphigenia in
Tauris,'" said witty Sophie Arnould, "but Iphigenia in Champagne."
Through some intrigue Gluck was persuaded to substitute Mile. Levasseur
for Mile. Arnould in the interpretation of his last great operas;
so Sophie, enraged and disheartened, but to the gratification of the
myriads of people whom she had offended by her cutting witticisms, which
had been showered alike on friends and enemies, retired to private life,
and thenceforward rarely appeared on the stage.


III.

Interest will be felt in some of Sophie Arnould's more distinguished
art contemporaries. Among these, the highest place must be given to Mme.
Antoinette Cecile Saint Huberty, _nee_ Gavel. Born in Germany of French
descent, she made her first appearance in Paris in a small part in
Gluck's "Armide." Small, thin, and unprepossessing in person, her power
of expression and artistic vocal-ism won more and more on the public,
till the retirement of Sophie Arnould and Mile. Levasseur, and the
death of Laguerre, left her in undisputed possession of the stage. When
Piccini's "Didon," his greatest opera,* was produced, she sang the part
of the _Queen of Carthage_.

     * "Didon," differing widely from the other operas of
     Piccini, was modeled after the new operatic principles of
     Gluck, and was a magnificent homage on the part of his old
     rival to the genius of the German. Indeed, although the
     adherents of the two musicians waged so fierce a conflict,
     they themselves were full of respect and admiration for each
     other. Gluck always warmly expressed his appreciation of
     Piccini's "felicitous and charming melodies, the clearness
     of his style, the elegance and truth of his expression."
     What Piccini's opinion of Gluck was is best shown in his
     proposition after Gluck's death to raise a subscription, not
     for the erection of a statue, but for the establishment of
     an annual concert to take place on the anniversary of
     Gluck's death, to consist entirely of his compositions--"in
     order to transmit to posterity the spirit and character of
     his magnificent works, that they may serve as a model to
     future artists of the true style of dramatic music."

Marmontel, the poet of the opera, had already said at rehearsal, "She
expressed it so well that I imagined myself at the theatre," and Piccini
congratulated her on having been largely instrumental in its success.
As _Didon_ she made one of her greatest successes. "Never," says Grimm,
"has there been united acting more captivating, a sensibility more
perfect, singing more exquisite, happier by-play, and more noble
_abandon_." She was crowned on the stage--an honor hitherto unknown,
and since so much abused. The secret of her marvelous gift lay in her
extreme sensibility. Others might sing an air better, but no one could
give to either airs or recitatives accentuation more pure or more
impassioned, action more dramatic, and by-play more eloquent. Some one
complimenting her on the vivid truth with which she embodied her part,
"I really experience it," she said; "in a death-scene I actually feel as
if I were dead."

It has been said that Talma was the first to discard the absurd costumes
of the theatre, but this credit really belongs to Mme. Saint Huberty.
She studied the Greek and Roman statues, and wore robes in keeping with
the antique characters, especially suppressing hoops and powder. This
singer remained queen of the French stage until 1790, when she retired.
During the time of her art reign she appeared in many of the principal
operas of Piccini, Salieri, Sacchini, and Gretry, showing but little
less talent for comedy than for tragedy. She retired from public life
to become the wife of the Count d'Entraignes. Her tragic fate many years
afterward is one of the celebrated political assassinations of the age.
Count d'Entraignes at this time was residing at Barnes, England, having
recently left the diplomatic service of Russia, in which he had shown
himself one of the most dangerous enemies of the Napoleonic government
in France. The Count's Piedmontese valet had been bribed by a spy of
Fouche, the French Minister of Police, to purloin certain papers. The
valet was discovered by his master, and instantly stabbed him, and, as
the Countess entered the room a moment afterward, he also pierced her
heart with the stiletto recking with her husband's blood, finishing the
shocking tragedy by blowing out his own brains. Thus died, in 1812, one
who had been among the most brilliant ornaments of the French stage.

No record of Sophie Arnould's artistic associates is complete without
some allusion to the celebrated dancers Gaetan Vestris * and Auguste,
his son. Gaetan was accustomed to say that there were three great men
in Europe--Voltaire, Frederick the Great, and himself. In his old age
he preserved all his skill, and M. Castel Blaze, who saw him at the
Academie fifty years after his _debut_ in 1748, declares that he still
danced with inimitable grace.

     * Mme. Vestris, the last of the family, and the first wife
     of the English comedian Charles Mathews, was the
     granddaughter of Gaetan.

It is of Gaetan that the story is told in connection with Gluck, when
the opera of "Orphee" was put in rehearsal. The dancer wished for a
ballet in the opera.

"Write me the music of a chacone, Monsieur Gluck," said the god of
dancing.

"A chacone!" ejaculated the astonished composer; "do you think the
Greeks, whose manners we are endeavoring to depict, knew what a chacone
was?"

"Did they not?" said Vestris, amazed at the information; then, in a tone
of compassion, "How much they are to be pitied!"

Gaetan retired from the stage at the successful _debut_ of Auguste, but
appeared again from time to time to show his invulnerability to time. On
the occasion of his son's first appearance, the veteran, in full court
dress, sword, and ruffles, and hat in hand, stepped to the front by
the side of the _debutante_. After a short address to the public on the
importance of the choreographic art and his hopes of his son, he turned
to Auguste and said: "Now, my son, exhibit your talent. Your father is
looking at you." He was accustomed to say: "Auguste is a better dancer
than I am; he had Gaetan Vestris for a father, an advantage which nature
refused me." "If," said Gaetan, on another occasion, "le dieu de la
danse" (a title which he had given himself) "touches the ground from
time to time, he does so in order not to humiliate his comrades."

     * This boast of Gaetan Vestris seems to have inspired the
     lines which Moore afterward addressed to a celebrated
     _danseuse_:

     ".... You'd swear, When her delicate feet in the dance
     twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is
     the air, And she only _par complaisance_ touches the
     ground."

The son inherited the paternal arrogance. To the director of the opera,
De Vismes, who, enraged at some want of respect, said to him, "Do you
know who I am?" he drawled, "Yes! you are the farmer of my talent." On
one occasion Auguste refused to obey the royal mandate, and Gaetan said
to him with some reproof in his tones: "What! the Queen of France does
her duty by requesting you to dance before the King of Sweden, and
you do not do yours! You shall no longer bear my name. I will have no
misunderstanding between the house of Vestris and the house of Bourbon;
they have hitherto always lived on good terms." It nearly broke
Auguste's heart when one day during the French Revolution he was seized
by a howling band of _sans culottes_ and made to exhibit his finest
skill on the top of a barrel before this ragged mob of liberty-loving
citizens!

The fascinating sylph, Madeleine Guimard, broke almost as many hearts
and inspired as many duels as the charming Sophie Arnould herself.
Plain even to ugliness, and excessively thin, her exquisite dancing and
splendid eyes made great havoc among her numerous admirers. Lord Byron
said that thin women when young reminded him of dried butterflies,
when old of spiders. The stage associates of Mile. Guimard called her
"L'araignee," and Sophie Arnould christened her "the little silkworm,"
for the sake of the joke about "la feuille." But such spiteful raillery
did not prevent her charming men to her feet whom greater beauties had
failed to captivate. Houdon the sculptor molded her foot, and the great
painters vied for the privilege of decorating the walls of her hotel.
When she broke her arm, mass was said in church for her recovery,
and she was one of the reigning toasts of Paris. Among the numerous
_liaisons_ of Mile. Guimard, that with the Prince de Soubise is most
noted. After this she eloped with a German prince, and the Prince de
Soubise pursued them, wounded his rival, killed three of his servants,
and brought her back to Paris in triumph. After a great variety of
adventures of this nature, she married in 1787 a humble professor of
dancing named Despriaux. Lord Mount Edgcumbe saw her in 1789 at the
King's Theatre in London. "Among them," he writes, referring to a troupe
of new performers, "came the famous Mile. Guimard, then nearly sixty
years old, but still full of grace and gentility, and she had never
possessed more."


IV.

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 title 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 nobleman
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 assembled 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 glass, 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, passions, 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 titles 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 substitutes 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 amusement." The stratagem which saved them was to get the ferocious
Hebert drunk, for he loved wine as well as blood, and steal the fatal
document. 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 bass, 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 assurances 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 sunshine 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 fashionables, 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 passed out of the world
two other celebrated women, the great actress Clairon and the singer De
Beaumesnil, once Sophie's rival.

Lord Mount Edgcumbe, 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 noble 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 Edgcumbe'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.--Grassini 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 competition 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
assurance 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 assumed
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 assured 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 compass 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 substituting one octave
for another; a license which passed unnoticed by the undiscriminating
multitude, 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, constitutes 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 Edgcumbe, "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 attitudes generally were good,
with the exception of an ugly habit of pressing her hands against
her bosom when executing difficult passages. 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 nobility and fashion, 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 assumed 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
assiduously 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 sunshine 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 Shield). 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