ELIZABETH BILLINGTON AND HER CONTEMPORARIES.
Elizabeth Weichsel's Runaway Marriage.—Début 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 à 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 __début__ 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, throwing her arms round his neck and kissing him.
II.
Mrs. Billington seems to have entertained the notion in 1794 of quitting the stage, and went abroad to free herself from the protests and reproaches which she knew the announcement of her purpose would call forth if she remained in England. Accompanied by her husband and brother, she sauntered leisurely through Europe, for her professional exertions had already brought her a comfortable fortune. A trivial accident set her feet again in the path which she had designed to forsake, and which she was destined to adorn with a more brilliant distinction. The party had traveled incognito, but on arriving in Naples a babbling servant revealed the identity of the great singer, which speedily became known to Lady Hamilton, Lord Nelson's friend, then domiciled in Naples as the favorite of the royal family. Lady Hamilton insisted on presenting Mrs. Billington to the Queen, and she was persuaded to sing in a private concert before their Majesties, which was swiftly succeeded by an invitation, so urgent as to take the color of command, to sing at the San Carlo. So the English prima donna made her début before the Neapolitans in "Inez di Castro," which had been specially arranged for her by Francesco Bianchi. The fervid Naples audience received her with passionate acclamations, to which she had never been accustomed from the more impassive English. Hitherto her reputation had been mostly identified with English opera; thenceforward she was to be known chiefly as a brilliant exponent of the Italian school of music.
Paesiello's "Didone," Paer's "Ero e Leandro," and Guglielmi's "Deborah e Sisera" rapidly succeeded, each one confirming afresh the admiration of her hearers, who were all cognoscenti, as Italian audiences generally are. It became the vogue to patronize the beautiful cantatrice, and the large English colony, who were led by some of the noblest gentlewomen of England, such as Lady Templeton, Lady Palmerston, Lady Gertrude Villiers, Lady Grandison, and others, made it a matter of national pride to give the singer an enthusiastic support. English influence was all-paramount at the court of Naples, from important political exigencies, and this cooperated with Mrs. Billington's extraordinary merits to raise her to a degree of consideration which had been rarely attained by any singer in that beautiful Italian capital, prone as its people are to indulge in exaggerated admiration of musical celebrities. She sang for nearly two years at the San Carlo, and in 1796 we find her at Bologna before French military audiences, whom Napoleon's Italian victories had brought across the Alps. The conqueror confessed himself vanquished by the lovely Billington, and made her the guest of himself and Josephine, who admired the art no less than she dreaded the beauty of a possible rival.
The English singer passed from city to city of Italy, everywhere arousing the liveliest admiration. Her début in Venice was to be in "Semiramide," written expressly for her by Nasolini, a young composer of great promise. Illness, however, confined her to her bed for six months, in spite of which the impressario paid her salary in full. She recovered, and showed her gratitude by singing without recompense during the fair of the Ascension, when immense throngs flocked to Venice. The corps diplomatique presented her on the first night with a jeweled necklace of immense value, as a testimonial of their esteem and pleasure at her recovery.
A singular evidence of the superstition of the Neapolitans was shown on her return to their city, which was then threatened by an eruption of Vesuvius and a dreadful earthquake, the cause of considerable damage. The populace believed that it was a visitation of God in punishment for the permission granted to a heretic Englishwoman to sing at San Carlo. Mrs. Billington's safety was for a time threatened, but her talents and popularity at last triumphed, and she rose higher in public regard than before. Her Neapolitan engagement was terminated very suddenly by the death of her husband, as he was in the act one evening of cloaking her prior to her stepping into her carriage to go to the theatre. A single gasp and a convulsion, and Thomas Billington was dead at his wife's feet. The consternation at this event was mixed with much scandal, and many whispered that he had died from poison or the dagger. It was known that the Neapolitan nobles had paid Mrs. Billington warm attention, and hints of assassination were industriously circulated by those gossip-mongers who are always in quest of a fresh social sensation. Mrs. Billington, after remaining for some time in retirement, fled from a scene which was fraught with painful memories, though there is no reason to believe that she deeply lamented the loss of a husband whose only attraction to this brilliant woman was the reflected light of her youth, which invested him with the association of her first girlish love. At all events, the widow succeeded in becoming desperately enamored in Milan, a short six months after, with an officer of the French commissariat, M. Felican. He was a remarkably handsome man, and his strong siege of the lovely Billington soon caused her to surrender at discretion. She declared "she was in love for the first time in her life," and her marriage took place in 1799 without delay. Her raptures, however, came to a swift conclusion; for among M. Felican's favorite methods of displaying marital devotion were beating her, and hurling dishes or other convenient movables at her head when in the least irritated. The novel character of her honeymoon soon became known to a curious and possibly envious public, and the brutal Felican was publicly flogged at the drum-head by order of General Serrurier, within two months of her marriage, for whipping her so cruelly that she could not appear in the opera of the evening.
The tenor, Braham, sang with Mrs. Billington at Milan during this period, in the opera "Il Trionfo de Claria," by Nasolini, and an amusing incident occurred in the rivalry of the two, each to surpass the other in popular estimation. The applause which Braham received at rehearsal enraged Felican, who intrigued till he persuaded the leader to omit the grand aria for the tenor voice, in which Braham's powers were advantageously displayed. This piece of spite and jealousy being noised about, the public openly testified their displeasure, and the next day it was announced by Gherardi, the manager, in the bills, that Braham's scena should be performed; and on the second night of the opera it was received with tumultuous applause. Braham, justly indignant, avenged himself in an ingenious manner, but his wrath descended on an innocent head. Mrs. Billington's embellishments were always elaborately studied, and, when once fixed on, seldom changed. The angry tenor, knowing this, caught her roulades, and on the first opportunity, his air coming first, he coolly appropriated all her fioriture. Poor Mrs. Billington listened in dismay at the wings. She could not improvise ornaments and graces; and, when she came on, the unusual meagerness of her style astonished the audience. She refused, in the next opera, to sing a duet with Braham; but, as she was good-natured, she forgave him, and they always remained excellent friends.
With that perverse devotion which characterizes the love of so many women, Mrs. Billington clung to her brutal husband in spite of his cruelty and callousness, and she did not separate from him till she feared for her life. Many times he threatened to kill her, and extorted from her by fear all the valuable jewels in her possession, as well as the larger share of the money received from professional exertion. Despairing at last of any change, she fled with great secrecy to England, where she arrived in 1801, after an absence of seven years, during which time her name had become one of the most popular in Europe. There was instantly a battle between Harris and Sheridan, the rival managers, as to which should secure this peerless attraction. She finally signed a contract with her old friend Harris, for three thousand guineas the season from October to April, and the guarantee of a free benefit of five hundred guineas. It was likewise arranged that she should sing for Sheridan at similar terms on alternate nights, as there was a bitter dispute between the managers over the priority of the offer accepted by the prima donna. Her reappearance before an English audience was made in Dr. Arne's "Artaxerxes," which the critics of the day praised as possessing "the beautiful melody of Hasse, the mellifluous richness of Pergolese, the easy flow of Piccini, and the finished cantabile of Sacchini, with his own true and native simplicity." It is not only the criticism of to-day which has concealed the real form and quality of works of merely temporary interest under flowery phrases, that mean nothing.
It was speedily observed how greatly Mrs. Billington's style had improved in her absence. Lord Mount Edgcumbe says she resembled Mara so much that the same observations would apply to both equally well. "Both were excellent musicians, thoroughly skilled in their profession; both had voices of uncommon sweetness and agility, particularly suited to the bravura style, and executed to perfection and with good taste everything they sang. But neither was Italian, and consequently both were deficient in recitative. Neither had much feeling, both were deficient in theatrical talents, and they were absolutely null as actresses; therefore they were more calculated to give pleasure in the concert-room than on the stage." It was noticed that her pronunciation of the English language was not quite free from impurities, arising principally from the introduction of vowels before consonants, a habit probably acquired from the Italian custom. "Her whole style of elocution," observes one writer, "may be described as sweet and persuasive rather than powerful and commanding. It naturally assumed the character of her mind and voice." She was considered the most accomplished singer that had ever been born in England.
Mrs. Billington displayed her talents in a variety of operatic characters, which taxed her versatility, but did not prove beyond her powers. Both English and Italian operas, serious and comic rôles, seemed entirely within her scope; and those who admired her as Mandane were not less fascinated by her Rosetta, when Ineledon shared the honors of the evening with herself. In spite of Lord Mount Edgcumbe's somewhat severe judgment as given above, she appears to have pleased by her acting as well as singing, if we can judge from the wide diversity of characters in which she appeared so successfully. We are justified in this, especially from the character of the English opera, of which Mrs. Billington was so brilliant an exponent; for this was rather musical drama than opera, and made strong demands on histrionic faculty. As Rosetta, in "Love in a Village," a performance in which Mrs. Billington was peculiarly charming, she drew such throngs that the price of admission was raised for the nights on which it was offered. The witticism of Jekyl, the great barrister, made the town laugh on one of these occasions. Being present with a country friend in the pit, the latter asked him, as Mrs. Billington appeared in the garden-scene, "Is that Rosetta?" The singer's portly form, which had increased largely in bulk during her Italian absence, made the answer peculiarly appropriate: "No, sir, it is not Rosetta, it is Grand Cairo."
Life was running smoothly for Mrs. Billington; never had her popularity reached so high a pitch; never had Fortune favored her with such lavish returns for her professional abilities. One night she was horrified with fear and disgust on returning home to see her brutal husband, Felican, lolling on the sofa. He had been heart-broken at separation from his beloved wife, and could endure it no longer. It was only left for her to bribe him to depart with a large sum of money, which she fortunately could afford. "I never," says Kelly, "saw a woman so much in awe of a man as poor Mrs. Billington was of him whom she had married for love." On the 3d of July, 1802, she sang with Mme. Mara at the farewell benefit of that distinguished singer. Both rose to the utmost pitch of their skill, and, in their attempts to surpass each other, the theatre rang with thunders of applause. In our sketches of some of Mrs. Billington's rivals and contemporaries, Mme. Mara demands precedence.
III.
Frederick the Great loved war and music with equal fervor, and possessed talents for the one little inferior to his genius for the other. He played with remarkable skill on the flute, of which instrument he possessed a large collection, and composed original music with both science and facility. This royal connoisseur carried his despotism into his love of art, and ruled with an iron hand over those who catered for the amusement of himself and the good people of Berlin. Though the creator of that policy which, in the hands of Bismarck and the modern German nationalists, has wrought such wonderful results, and which has extended itself even to matters of aesthetic culture as a gospel of patriotic bigotry, the great Fritz thoroughly despised everything German except in matters of state, and was completely wedded to the literature of France and the art of Italy. When the talents of a young German vocalist, Mlle. Schmäling, were recommended to him, it was enough for him to hear the report, "She sings like a German," to make him sniff with disdain. "A German singer!" he said; "I should as soon expect to get pleasure from the neighing of my horse." Curiosity, however, at last so far overcame prejudice as to make him send for Mlle. Schmäling, who was enthusiastically praised by many of those whose opinions the King could not ignore, to come to Potsdam and sing for him. Her pride, which was high, had been wounded by the royal criticism, and she carried herself with as much hauteur as could go with respect. The King regarded her with a cool stare, without any gesture of salutation, and Mile. Schmäling amused herself with looking at the pictures. "So you are going to sing me something?" at last said royalty with military abruptness.
The figure of the Prussian King as he sat by the piano was anything but prepossessing. A little, crabbed, spare old man, attired with Spartan simplicity, in a faded blue coat, whose red facings were smudged brown with the Spanish snuff he so liberally took; thin lips, prominent jaws, receding forehead, and eyes of supernatural keenness glaring from under shaggy brows; a battered cocked hat, and a thick cane, which he used as a whip to belabor his horse, his courtiers, or his soldiers as occasion needed, on the table before him—all these made a grim picture.
Mlle. Schmäling answered his curt words with "As your Majesty pleases," and instantly sat down at the piano. As she sang, Frederick's face relaxed, and taking a huge pinch of snuff, he said, "Ha! can you sing at sight?" (then an extraordinary accomplishment). Picking out the most difficult bravura in his collection, he bade her try it, with the remark, "This, to be sure, is but poor stuff, but when well executed sounds pretty enough." The result of the royal examination convinced the King that Mlle. Schmäling had not only a magnificent voice, but was a thorough artist. So the daughter of the poor musician of Cassel, after many years of hard struggle and ill success (for she had sung in almost every German capital), was made Frederick's chief court singer at the age of twenty-two, and the road to fortune was fairly open to her. At the age of four years she had showed such aptitude for music that she quickly learned the violin, though her baby fingers could hardly span the strings. She always retained her predilection for this instrument, and maintained that it was the best guide in learning to sing. "For," said she, "how can you best convey a just notion of slight vibrations in the pitch of a note? By a fixed instrument? No! By the voice? No! But, by sliding the finger on the string, you instantly make the most minute variation visibly as well as audibly perceptible." She owed her success entirely to the charm of her art.
Elizabeth Schmäling's personal appearance was far from striking. She was by no means handsome, being short and insignificant, with a rather agreeable, good-natured countenance, the leading feature of which was—terrible defect in a singer—a set of irregular teeth, which projected, in defiance of order, out of their proper places. Her manner, however, was prepossessing, though she was an indifferent actress. But her voice atoned for everything: its compass was from G to E in altissimo, which she ran with the greatest ease and force, the tones being at once powerful and sweet. Both her portamento di voce and her volubility were declared to be unrivaled. It was remarked that she seemed to take difficult music from choice, and she could sing fluently at sight—rather a rare accomplishment among vocalists of that day. Nothing taxed her powers. Her execution was easy and neat; her shake was true, open, and liquid; and though she preferred brilliant, effective pieces, her refined taste was well known. "Her voice, clear, sweet, and distinct, was sufficiently powerful," remarked Lord Mount Edgcumbe afterward, "though rather thin, and its agility and flexibility rendered her a most excellent bravura singer, in which style she was unrivaled." "Mara's divisions," observes another critic, "always seemed to convey a meaning; they were vocal, not instrumental; they had light and shade, and variety of tone."
Frederick was highly pleased with his musical acquisition, but a more potent monarch than himself soon appeared to disturb his royal complacency. Mlle. Schmäling, placed in a new position of ease and luxury, found time to indulge her natural bent as a woman, and fell in love with a handsome violoncellist, Jean Mara, who was in the service of the King's brother. Mara was a showy, shallow, selfish man, and pushed his suit with vigor, for success meant fortune and a life of luxurious ease. The King forbade the match, so the enamored couple eloped, and, being arrested by the King's guards, they were punished by Fritz with solitary confinement for disobedience. At last the King relented, and sanctioned the marriage which he suspected opposition would only delay, probably fully aware that the lady would soon repent her infatuation. Jean Mara did all in his power to effect this result, for the honeymoon had hardly ended before he began to beat his bride at small provocation with all the energy of a sturdy arm. Poor Mme. Mara had a hard life of it thenceforward, but she never ceased to love Mara to the last; and many years afterward, when a friend was severely reprobating his brutality, she said, with a sigh of loving regret, "Ah! but you must confess he was the handsomest man you ever saw."
The King frequently interposed to punish Mara for his harshness. On one occasion he gave him a public caning and on another he sent him to a field regiment, noted for the rigid severity of its discipline, to be enrolled as a drummer for three months, accompanying the order with the mot, "His propensity for beating shall have the fullest exercise on the drum." A ludicrous sentence of the royal despot was that which consigned him to the tender mercies of the body-guard, with strict orders for his correction. No particular mode of punishment was prescribed, so each soldier inflicted such chastisement as he considered most fitting. They began by rigging him out in an old uniform and a large pair of whiskers, loading him with the heaviest firelock they could find, and forced him to go through the manual exercise for two hours, accompanying their drill with the usual discipline of the cane. They then made him dance and sing for two hours longer, and ended this persecution by compelling the surgeon to take from him a large quantity of blood. In a miserable condition they restored him to his disconsolate wife, who had been essaying all her arts to persuade the officer of the guard to mitigate the poor wretch's punishment.
The King's method of carrying on the opera was characteristic. Performances were free, and commenced precisely at 6 p.m., when, prompt to the minute, the King appeared and took his seat just behind the conductor, where he could see the score, and notice every mistake, either instrumental or vocal. A royal caning often repaid any unlucky artist who made a blunder, much to the gratification of the audience. Such a patron as this, however generous, could not be considered highly desirable; and Mme. Mara, whose reputation had become world-wide, longed more and more to accept some of the brilliant offers which came to her from the great capitals of Europe. But Frederick would not let his favorite prima donna go, and the royal passport was necessary for getting beyond the limits of the kingdom. An example of Frederick's method of dealing with his subjects and servants is found in the following incident: The Grand Duke Paul of Russia was visiting Berlin, and on a gala night a grand performance of opera was to be given. Mme. Mara had sent an excuse that she was sick, but a laconic notice from her royal patron insisted that she was to get well and sing her best. So the prima donna took to her bed and grew worse and worse. Two hours before the opera commenced, a carriage escorted by eight soldiers drew up in front of the house, and the captain of the guard, unceremoniously entering her room, intimated that she must go to the theatre dead or alive.
"You can not take me," she said with tears of rage; "you see I am in bed."
"That's of little consequence," was the imperturbable response; "we'll take you bed and all."
Madame's eyes flashed fire, and she stormed with fury; but the obdurate captain could not be moved, and, to avoid the disgrace of being taken by force, she accepted an armistice. "I will go to the theatre," she said, mentally resolving to sing as badly as, with a magnificent voice and irreproachable taste, she could possibly manage. Resolutely she kept to this idea till the curtain was about to descend on the first act, when a thought suddenly seized her. Might she not be ruining herself in giving the Grand Duke of Russia a bad opinion of her powers? In a bravura she burst forth with all her power, distinguishing herself especially by a marvelous shake, which she executed with such wonderful art as to call down thunders of applause.
At last the Maras succeeded in effecting their escape by stratagem. In passing through one city they were stopped by an officer of gens d'armes, who demanded the requisite papers. Faltering with dread, yet with quick self-possession, Mme. Mara handed him a letter in the royal handwriting. The signature was enough, and the officer did not stop to read the body of the letter, but turned out the guard to honor travelers possessing such signal proofs of the King's favor. They had just gained the gates of Dresden when they found that the Prussian chargé d'affaires resided in the city. "No one can conceive my agitation and alarm," said Mme. Mara, "when, in one of the first streets we entered, we encountered the said charge d'affaires, who rode directly up to us. He had been apprised of our arrival, and the chaise was instantly stopped. As to what took place between him and my good man, and how the latter contrived to get out of the scrape, I was totally unconscious. I had fallen into a swoon, from which I did not recover till we had reached our inn." At length they reached the confines of Bohemia, and, for the first time, supped in freedom and security.
The Austrian Empress, Maria Theresa, would have found enough motive in patronizing Mara in the fact that her great Prussian rival had persecuted her; but love of art was a further inducement which drew out her kindliest feelings. The singer remained at the Viennese court for two years, and left it for Paris, with autograph letters to the ill-fated Marie Antoinette. She was most cordially welcomed both by court and public, and soon became such a rival to the distinguished Portuguese prima donna, Todi, then in the zenith of her fame, that the devotees of music divided themselves into fierce factions respectively named after the rival queens of song. Mara was honored with the title of première cantatrice de la reine, and left Paris with regret, to begin her English career under singularly favorable auspices, as she was invited to share a partnership with Linley and Dr. Arnold for the production of oratorios at Drury Lane.
She was fortunate in making her first appearance in the grand Handel commemoration at Westminster Abbey, given under the patronage of George III., who loved the memory of the great composer. Even in this day of magnificent musical festivals, that Westminster assemblage of musicians would have been a remarkable occasion. The following is an account of it from a contemporary source: "The orchestra was led by the Cramers; the conductors were Joah Bates, Dr. Arnold, and Dupuis. The band consisted of several hundreds of performers. The singers were, in addition to Mine. Mara, Signora Storace, Miss Abrams, Miss Poole (afterward Mrs. Dickons), Rubinelli, Harrison, Bartleman, Sale, Parry, Nor-ris, Kelly, etc.; and the chorus, collected from all parts of the kingdom, amounted to hundreds of voices. The Abbey was arranged for the accommodation of the public in a superb and commodious manner, and the tickets of admission were one guinea each. The first performance took place on May 20, 1784; and such was the anxiety to be in time, that ladies and gentlemen had their hair dressed over night, and slept in arm-chairs. The weather being very fine, eager crowds presented themselves at the several doors of the Abbey at nine o'clock, although the door-keepers were not at their posts, and the orchestra was not finished. At ten o'clock the scene became almost terrifying to the visitors, who, being in full dress, were every moment more incommoded and alarmed by the violence of the crowds pressing forward to get near the doors. Several of the ladies screamed; others fainted; and the general dismay increased to such an extent that fatal consequences were anticipated. Some of the more irascible among the gentlemen threatened to burst open the doors; 'a measure,' says Dr. Burney, 'which, if adopted, would probably have cost many of the more feeble and helpless their lives, as they must, in falling, have been thrown down and trampled on by the robust and impatient part of the crowd.' However, except that some went in with 'disheveled hair and torn garments,' no real mischief seems to have been done. The spectacle was gorgeous. The King, Queen, and all the royal family, were ushered to a superb box, opposite the orchestra, by the directors, wearing full court suits, the medal of Handel struck for the occasion, suspended by white-satin rosettes to their breasts, and having white wands in their hands. The body of the cathedral, the galleries, and every corner were crowded with beauty, rank, and fashion, listening with almost devout silence to the grand creations of the great composer, not the faintest token of applause disturbing the impressive ceremony."
The splendid and solemn tones of Mara's voice enraptured every heart, and her style was the theme of universal admiration. A few, however, resisted the charm of her singing. Miss Seward was breakfasting one morning with Mr. Joah Bates, one of the conductors, and delicately flattered his wife's singing of the Handelian music by saying that Mara put too much gold and fringe upon that solemn robe of melody, "I know that my Redeemer liveth." "Do not say gold, ma-dame," answered the tart musician; "it was despicable tinsel."
At one of these Westminster Abbey performances a striking coincidence occurred. The morning had been threatening a storm; but instantly the grand chorus "Let there be light, and light was over all" commenced, the sun burst forth and gilded every dark nook of the solemn old Abbey with a flood of splendor. On another occasion, while a chorus descriptive of a storm was being sung, a hurricane burst over the Abbey, and the fierce rattling of hailstones, accompanied by peals of thunder, kept time to the grand music of Handel. During the performance of the chorus "The Lord God Omnipotent Reigneth," the audience was so moved that King, Queen, royal family, and all present, rose by a common impulse to their feet—a practice which has been preserved in English audiences to this day during the singing of this mightiest of all musical choruses. Mme. Mara gave great offense by remaining seated.
Shortly afterward she sang at a musical festival of Oxford University, whither the report of her supposed bad temper and intractability had preceded her. The gownsmen were as riotous then as now; and as one or two things happened to irritate their lively temper, a row soon became imminent. Mara got angry and flung a book at the head of one of the orchestra, when Dr. Chapman, the Vice-Chancellor, arose and said that Mme. Mara had conducted herself too ill to be allowed to sing before such an audience. Instantly a wicked wag cried out, "A riot, by permission of the Vice-Chancellor!" A scene of the utmost confusion ensued, and the agitated cantatrice quitted the theatre, amid hisses and yells, in high dudgeon. A deputation of gentlemen waited upon her, and promised that she should do exactly as she pleased if she would only return. She did return, and sang the airs allotted to her, but remained seated as usual while the choruses were being sung. A cry arose of "Turn Mara out!" Not comprehending, she smiled, which provoked the audience still more; upon which the Vice-Chancellor said that it was always the rule for every vocalist to join in the choruses. Miss George, one of the singers, explained this to the prima donna, who, staring in bewilderment and vexation, exclaimed, "Oh! me does not know his rules; me vill go home"; which resolution she immediately carried into effect.
This great singer's numerous quarrels and controversies in England were very amusing. Yet, in spite of the personal bitterness growing out of her own irritable temper and professional rivalry, she remained a great artistic favorite with the public. Underneath the asperity and obstinacy of her character there was a vein of deep tenderness and generosity, which she showed in various cases, especially in forwarding the interests of struggling artists. Michael Kelly, the Irish composer, in his "Reminiscences," gives the following instance. He himself, then a young man, had aroused Mara's dislike by some inadvertent praise of a rival. Watching his opportunity, he brought into the greenroom one night, when she came off the stage fatigued and panting with her efforts, a pot of foaming porter, which she drank with a sigh of deepest pleasure. Touched by the young Irishman's thoughtfulness, she pledged herself to help him whenever the opportunity came, and soon after sang at his benefit. Mara had resolved not to sing again on the lyric stage, and her condescension was a godsend to Kelly, who was then very much out at elbows. Speaking of her proffer, he says: "I was thunderstruck at her kindness and liberality, and thankfully accepted. She fixed on Mandane in 'Artaxerxes,' and brought the greatest receipts ever known at that house, as the whole pit, with the exception of two benches, was railed into boxes. So much," he adds sententiously, "for a little German proficiency, a little common civility, and a pot of porter."
IV.
Mme. Mara made such a brilliant hit in opera that the public clamor for her continuance on the stage overcame her old resolutions. The opera-house was reopened, and Sir John Gallini, with this popular favorite at the head of his enterprise, had a most prosperous season. Both as a lyric cantatrice and as the matchless singer of oratorio, she was the delight of the public for two years. In 1788 she went to Turin to sing at the Carnival, where it was the custom to open the gala season with a fresh artist, who supplied the place of the departing vocalist, whether a soprano or tenor. Her predecessor, a tenor, was piqued at his dismissal, and tried to prejudice the public against her by representing her as alike-ugly in person and faulty in art. Mara's shrewdness of resource turned the tables on the Italian. On her first appearance her manner was purposely full of gaucherie, her costume badly considered and all awry, her singing careless and out of time. The maligner was triumphant, and said to all, "Didn't I say so? See how ugly she is; and as for singing—did you ever hear such a vile jargon of sounds?" On the second night Mara appeared most charmingly dressed, and she sang like an angel—a surprise to the audience which drove the excitable Italians into the most passionate uproar of applause and delight. Mara was crowned on the stage, and was received by the King and Queen with the heartiest kindness and a profusion of costly gifts. A similar reception at Venice tempted her to prolong her Italian tour, but she preferred to return to London, where she sang under Wyatt at the Pantheon, which was transformed into a temporary opera-house. She now sang with Pacchierotti, the successor of Farinelli and Caffarelli, and the last inheritor of their grand large style. "His duettos with Mara were the most perfect pieces of execution I ever heard," said Lord Mount Edgcumbe. One of the most pathetic experiences of Mara's life was her passage through Paris in 1792 on her way to Germany, when she saw her former patroness Marie Antoinette, whom she remembered in all the glory of her youth, popularity, and loveliness, seated in an open chariot, pale, wan, and grief-stricken, surrounded by a guard of troopers with drawn swords and hooted at by a mob of howling sans-culottes. Better far to be a mimic queen than to be hurled from the most radiant and splendid place in European royalty, to be the scorn and plaything of the ragged ruffians of Paris, and to finish with the guillotine in the Place de la Grève! About this time she was freed from the bête noire of her life, her drunken worthless husband, who agreed to trouble her no more if she would settle an annuity on him. Thenceforward they never met, though she always spoke of him with affection.
Harris, of the Theatre Royal of Dublin, engaged Mara to sing in English opera in 1797. Despite the fact that her English was so faulty, that her person was unprepossessing, and that the part was associated with some of the most beautiful and accomplished singers on the stage, her performance of Polly Peachum in the "Beggars' Opera" was a masterpiece of delicious simplicity and archness. The perfection of her art vanquished all obstacles, and she was acknowledged the equal of Mrs. Crouch, and even of the resplendent Billington, in the part. Dr. Arnold records that, in spite of the dancing and violent action of the rôle, her tones were as free, smooth, and perfect as if she had been standing in the orchestra. Mrs. Billington, who was just to her professional rivals, said she regarded Mara's execution as superior to her own in genuine effect, though not in compass and complication. If the rapid vocalization of a singer was praised, Mara would significantly ask, "Can she sing six plain notes?"
As time passed, Mme. Mara's voice began to decline, and in 1802 she took advantage of an annoying controversy to bid farewell to the English public; for the artist who could sing solemn music with such thrilling effect had the temper of a shrew, though it was easily placated. Mrs. Billington generously offered her services to assist at her farewell concert; and Mara, bursting into tears, threw her arms about the neck of the greatest of her professional rivals. She did not sing again in England till 1820. Speaking of this event, Kelly says, "It was truly grievous to see such transcendent talents as she once possessed so sunk, so fallen. I used every effort in my power to prevent her committing herself, but in vain."
"When the incomparable Mme. Mara took leave of me on her return to the Continent," says Dr. Kitchener, "I could not help expressing my regret that she had not taken my advice to publish those songs of Handel (her matchless performance of which gained her that undisputed preeminence which she enjoyed), with the embellishments, etc., with which she enriched them. This inimitable singer replied, 'Indeed, my good friend, you attribute my success to a very different source than the real one. It was not what I did, but the manner in which I did it. I could sing six simple notes and produce every effect I could wish; another singer may sing those very same notes with very different effect. I am sure it was to my expression of the words that I owe everything. People have often said to me, "Madame Mara, why do you not introduce more pretty things, and passages, and graces in your singing?" I say, "These pretty things are very pretty, to be sure, but the proper expression of the words and the music is a great deal better."' This and her extraordinary industry were the secrets of her undisputed sovereignty. She told me that when she was encored in a song, which she very often was, on her return home she seldom retired to rest without first inventing a new cadence for the next performance of it. Here is an example for young singers!"
Mme. Mara continued to sing for many years in different cities of Europe, though the recollections and traditions of her marvelous prime were more attractive than the then active powers of her voice. But her consummate art never deserted her, in spite of the fact that her voice became more and more a wreck. She appeared in public occasionally till her seventy-second year, when she retired to Cassel, her birthplace, where she died in 1833, at the age of eighty.
V.
Another of Mrs. Billington's most brilliant rivals and contemporaries was the lovely Giuseppa Grassini, a wayward, indolent, fascinating beauty, who had taken France and Italy by storm before she attempted to subdue the more obdurate and phlegmatic Britons. The daughter of a small farmer in Lombardy, the charm of her voice and appearance induced General Belgioso to pay the cost of her musical training, and at the age of nineteen she sprang into popularity at a bound with her début at La Scala in 1794. In spite of the fact that she was associated with two of the greatest Italian singers of the time—Crescentini, one of the last of the male sopranos, and Marchesi—she became the cynosure of public admiration. She was surrounded by homage and flattery sufficient to have turned a more sedate temperament and wiser head than her own, and her name became mixed with some of the most piquant scandals of the period.
In spite of ignorance, indolence, and a caprice which she never attempted to control, Grassini was an exquisite artist; and, though dull and shallow intellectually in all matters apart from her profession, she was a most beautiful and fascinating woman. She mastered all the graces of her art, but could never give an intelligent reason for what she did. Her voice, originally a soprano, became under training a contralto of delicious quality, as well as of great volume and power, though not remarkable for extent. She excelled in the cantabile style, and rarely attempted ornament, though what she did was always in perfect taste and proportion. Her dramatic instincts were remarkable, and as an interpreter of both heroic and the softer passions she speedily acquired a European reputation. Her figure was tall and commanding, her head noble, her hair and eyes of the deepest black, and her whole appearance a singular union of grace and majesty.
After the battle of Marengo, the presence of the youthful conqueror of Italy at Milan inspired that capital with a spasm of extraordinary gayety. The finest singers in Italy gathered to do honor to the rising sun of Napoleon's greatness. The French general was fascinated by the irresistible attractions of the prima donna, and asked for an introduction. Grassini's coquetry did not let the occasion slip. Las Cases has given a sketch of the interview, in which he tells us she reminded Napoleon that she "had made her début precisely during the early achievements of the General of the Army of Italy." "I was then," said she, "in the full luster of my beauty and talent. I fascinated every eye and inflamed every heart. The young general alone was insensible to my charms, and yet he alone was the object of my wishes. What caprice—what singularity! When I possessed some value, when all Italy was at my feet, and I heroically disdained its admiration for one glance from you, I was unable to obtain it; and now, how strange an alteration! You condescend to notice me now when I am not worth the trouble, and am no longer worthy of you." Las Cases has not proved himself the most veracious of chroniclers in more important matters, and we may be permitted to doubt the truth of this speech as coming from the mouth of a woman extraordinarily beautiful and not less vain. But at all events Grassini accompanied the French general to Paris, ambitious to play the rôle of Cleopatra to this modern Cæsar. Josephine's jealousy and dislike proved an obstacle difficult to meet, and this, in connection with the fact that the French opera did not prove suited to her style, made her first residence in Paris a short one, in spite of the brilliant success of her concerts. One of these was the crowning feature of the grand fête given at the Invalides Church in honor of the battle of Marengo; and as Grassini sang before the bronzed veterans of the Italian campaign she seemed inspired. Circumstances, however, obliged her to leave France, laden with magnificent presents from Napoleon.
In November, 1801, the Italian prima donna was in Berlin, where she announced concerts which seem never to have taken place. In 1802 she returned to France, and Napoleon made her directress of the Opera in 1804. At first Josephine had permitted her to appear at her private concerts at the Tuileries, but she did not detest the beautiful singer less cordially than heretofore. It was whispered that the cantatrice did in reality seek to attract the attention of Napoleon, and that she turned her eyes fixedly toward the throne of the Dictator.
"I hear, madame, that our Grassini is a favorite with the great Napoleon," said Count Sommaglia to Josephine one morning. "Yes," answered the irate wife of the First Consul, hardly-able to disguise her spite, "the ridiculous vanity of the creature amuses us amazingly. Since she has been made directress of the Italian Opera, there is more intriguing going on among these gentry than there is with the diplomats: in the midst of a serious conversation, she will break out into a horse-laugh, throw herself on a sofa, and, fancying herself Semiramis on the throne of Nineveh, burst forth in a great style with 'Son Regina, e son amata!'" ("I am a queen, and I am beloved!") "One day," says Fouché, "Bonaparte observed that, considering my acknowledged ability, he was astonished I did not perform my functions better—that there were several things of which I was ignorant. 'Yes,' replied I, 'there certainly are things of which I was ignorant, but which I now know well enough. For instance, a little man, muffled in a gray cloak, and accompanied by a single servant, often steals out on a dark evening from a secret door of the Tuileries, enters a closed carriage, and drives off to Signora G———. This little man is yourself, and yet this fanciful songstress jilts you continually for Rode the fiddler.' The Consul answered not a word; he turned his back, rang, and immediately withdrew."
In 1804 Grassini was engaged to sing in London alternately with Mrs. Billington. At her first benefit she sang in conjunction with the English diva in Winter's new opera, "Il Ratto di Proserpina," Billington as Ceres, and Grassini as Proserpina. The respective voices of the two singers were admirably fitted for the music of the rôles, each exquisite of its sort and inspired by the ambition of rivalry. The deep tones of the one combined with the bird-like notes of the other to produce a most thrilling effect. Lord Mount Edgcumbe, who had a prejudice for bravura singing, said: "No doubt the deaf would have been charmed with Grassini, but the blind must have been delighted with Mrs. Billington": a malicious comment on the Italian singer, which this distinguished amateur, when in a less cynical mood, revoked by cordial admiration of Grassini's remarkable gifts both as vocalist and actress. Many interesting anecdotes are told of this singer while in London, one of which, related by Kelly, then stage-manager, illustrates the difficulties of operatic management. Mrs. Billington was too sick to sing on one of her own nights, and Grassini was implored to take her place. But she obstinately refused to make the change, until the cunning Irishman resorted to a trick. He called on her in the morning, and began talking carelessly on the subject. "My dear Grassini," said he, in an off-hand way, "as manager I ought to prevail upon you to perform; but as a performer myself, I enter entirely into your feelings, and think you perfectly right not to sing out of your turn. The Saturday is yours; but what I say to you I trust you will not repeat to Mr. Goold, as it might be of serious injury to me." "Depend upon it, my dear Kelly," answered Grassini, "I will not; I look upon you, by what you have just said, to be my sincere friend." As he was leaving the room, he turned, as with a sudden thought. "To be sure, it is rather unlucky you do not sing to-night, for this morning a message came from the Lord Chamberlain's office to announce the Queen's intention to come incognita, accompanied by the princesses, purposely to see you perform; and a large grillée is actually ordered to be prepared for them, where they can perfectly see and hear without being seen by the audience; but I'll step myself to the Lord Chamberlain's office, say that you are confined to your bed, and express your mortification at disappointing the royal party." "Stop, Kelly," cried the cantatrice, all in a flutter; "what you now say alters the case. If her Majesty Queen Charlotte wishes to see 'La Vergine del Sole,' and to hear me, I am bound to obey her Majesty's commands. Go to Goold and say I will sing." "When I went into her dressing-room after the first act," says Kelly, "her Majesty not having arrived, Grassini, suspicious that I had made up a trick to cajole her, taxed me with it; and when I confessed, she took it good-naturedly and laughed at her own credulity." The popularity of Grassini in London remained unabated during several seasons; and when she reengaged for the French opera, in 1808, it was to the great regret of musical London. Talma was a warm admirer of her dramatic genius, and he used to say that no other actress, not even Mars, Darval, or Duchesnois, possessed so expressive and mutable a face. The Grecian outline of her face, her beautiful forehead, rich black hair and eyebrows, superb dark eyes, "now flashing with tragedy's fiery passions, then softly languishing with love," and finally "that astonishing ensemble of perfections which Nature had collected in her as if to review all her gifts in one woman—all these qualities together exercised on the spectator such a charm as none could resist. Pasta herself might have looked on and learned, when Grassini had to portray either indignation, grief, anger, or despair."
Her performance in "Romeo e Giulietta" was so fine that Napoleon sprang to his feet, forgetting his marble coldness, and shouted like a school-boy, while Talma's eyes streamed with tears; for, as the latter afterward confessed, he had never before been so deeply touched. Napoleon sent her a check for twenty thousand francs as a testimonial of his admiration, and to Crescentini he sent the order of the Iron Cross. Many years after, in St. Helena, the dethroned Cæsar alluded to this as an illustration of his policy. "In conformity with my system," observed he, "of amalgamating all kinds of merit, and of rendering one and the same reward universal, I had an idea of presenting the Cross of the Legion of Honor to Talma; but I refrained from doing this, in consideration of our capricious manners and absurd prejudices. I wished to make a first experiment in an affair that was out of date and unimportant, and I accordingly gave the Iron Crown to Crescentini. The decoration was foreign, and so was the individual on whom it was conferred. This circumstance was less likely to attract public notice or to render my conduct the subject of discussion; at worst, it could only give rise to a few malicious jokes. Such," continued the Emperor, "is the influence of public opinion. I distributed scepters at will, and thousands readily bowed beneath their sway; and yet I could not give away a ribbon without the chance of incurring disapprobation, for I believe my experiment with regard to Crescentini proved unsuccessful." "It did, sire," observed some one present. "The circumstance occasioned a great outcry in Paris; it drew forth a general anathema in all the drawing-rooms of the metropolis, and afforded full scope for the expression of malignant feeling. However, at one of the evening parties of the Faubourg St. Germain, a bon mot had the effect of completely stemming the current of indignation. A pompous orator was holding forth in an eloquent strain on the subject of the honor that had been conferred on Crescentini. He declared it to be a disgrace, a horror, a perfect profanation, and inquired by what right Crescentini was entitled to such a distinction. Mme. Grassini, who was present, rose majestically from her chair, with a theatrical tone and gesture exclaiming, 'Et sa blessure, monsieur?' This produced a general burst of laughter, amid which Grassini sat down, embarrassed by her own success."
Mme. Grassini remained on the stage till about 1823 when, having lost the beauty of her voice, she retired to private life with a comfortable fortune, spending her last years in Paris. She died in 1850, in her eighty-fifth year, preserving her beauty and freshness in a marvelous degree. The effect of Grassini's singing on people of refined taste was even greater than the impression made on regular musicians. Thomas De Quincey speaks of her in his "Autobiographical Sketches" as having a voice delightful beyond all that he had ever heard. Sir Charles Bell thought it was "only Grassini who conveyed the idea of the united power of music and action. She did not act only without being ridiculous, but with an effect equal to Mrs. Siddons. The 'O Dio' of Mrs. Billington was a bar of music, but in the strange, almost unnatural voice of Grassini, it went to the soul." Elsewhere he speaks of "her dignity, truth, and affecting simplicity."
VI.
About the time of Mara's departure from England Mrs. Billington was wonderfully popular. No fashionable concert was complete without her, and the constant demand for her services enabled her to fix her own price. Her income averaged fifteen thousand pounds a year, and at one time she was reckoned as worth nearly one hundred thousand pounds. She spent her large means with a judicious liberality, and the greatest people in the land were glad to be her guests. She settled a liberal annuity on her father. Having no children, she adopted two, one the daughter of an old friend named Madocks, who afterward became her principal legatee. Her hospitality crowded her house with the most brilliant men in art, literature, and politics; and it was said that the stranger who would see all the great people of the London world brought together should get a card to one of Billington's receptions. Her affability and kindness sometimes got her into scrapes. An eminent barrister who was at her house one night gave her some advice on a legal matter, and sent in a bill for services amounting to three hundred pounds. Mrs. Billington paid it promptly, but the lawyer ceased to be her guest. As a hostess she was said to have been irresistibly charming, alike from her personal beauty and the witchery of her manners.
Her kindness and good nature in dealing with her sister artists Avere proverbial. When Grassini, who at first was unpopular in England, was in despair as to how she should make an impression, Mrs. Billington proposed to sing with her in Winter's opera of "Il Ratto di Proserpina," from which time dated the success of the Italian singer. Toward Mara she had exerted similar good will, ignoring all professional jealousies. Miss Parke, a concert-singer, was once angry because Billington's name was in bigger type. The latter ordered her name to be printed in the smallest letters used; "and much Miss Parke gained by her corpulent type," says the narrator. Lord Mount Edgcumbe tells us that the operas in which she specially excelled were "La Clemenza di Scipione," composed for her by John Christian Bach; Paesiello's "Elfrida"; "Armida," "Castore e Polluce," and others by Winter; and Mozart's "Clemenza di Tito." For her farewell benefit, when she quitted the stage, March 30, 1806, she selected the last-named opera, which had never been given in England, and existed only in manuscript form. The Prince of Wales had the only copy, and she played through the whole score on the pianoforte at rehearsal, to give the orchestra an idea of the music. The final performance was immensely successful, and the departing diva sang so splendidly as to prove that it was not on account of failing powers that she withdrew from professional life. It is true that Mrs. Billington continued to appear frequently in concert for three years longer, but her dramatic career was ended. A curious instance of woman's infatuation was Mrs. Billington's longing to be reunited to her brutal husband; and so in 1817 she invited him to join her in England. Felican was too glad to gain fresh control over the victim of his conjugal tyranny, and persuaded her to leave England for a permanent residence in Italy. Mrs. Billington realized all her property, and with her jewels and plate, of which she possessed a great quantity, departed for the land of song, taking with her Miss Madocks. She paid a bitter penalty for her revived tenderness toward Felican, for the ruffian subjected her to such treatment that she died from the effects of it, August 25, 1818. In such an ignoble fashion one of the most brilliant and beautiful women in the history of song departed from this life.