On this occasion the spectacle was excellent. It was the middle of the carnival; all the royal family, even those members who had moved into other parts of Germany, was collected in Berlin. The Titus of Metastasio and Hasse was being performed, and the two leading members of the Italian troupe, Porporina and Porporino, were cast in the principal parts.
If our readers will make a slight exertion of memory they will recall that these two dramatic personages were not husband and wife as their names might seem to indicate. The first was Signor Uberti, an excellent contralto. The second was the zingarella Consuelo, like the first a pupil of the Professor Porpora, who, according to the Italian custom in vogue at that time, had permitted them to assume his glorious name.
It must be confessed, that Porporina did not sing in Prussia with the power she had in other places exhibited. While the limpid contralto of the male singer swelled without any indication of delay, and protected by the consciousness of success and power—that too fortified by the possession of an invariable salary of fifteen thousand livres for two months' labor—the poor zingarella, more romantic and perhaps more disinterested, and certainly less used to the northern ices and a public of Prussian corporals was under the influence of an excitement and sang with that perfect and conscious method which affords criticism no hold, but which is altogether insufficient to excite enthusiasm.
The fervor of the dramatic artist and of the audience, cannot dispense with each other. Now, under the glorious reign of Frederick, there was no enthusiasm at Berlin. Regularity, obedience, and what in the eighteenth century—at Frederick's court especially—was known as Reason, were the only virtues recognized in this atmosphere, measured and weighed in the hand of the king. In every assembly over which he presided, no one hissed or sighed, without his permission. Amid all the crowd, there was but one spectator able to give vent to his impressions, and that was the king. He constituted the public; and though a good musician and fond of music, all his tastes were subjected to so cold a logic, that when his opera-glass was attached to every gesture, the vocal inflections of the singer's voice, far from being stimulated, were entirely paralyzed.
The singer was forced to submit to this painful fascination. The slightest inspiration, the slightest portion of enthusiasm, would probably have offended both the king and court, while artistic and difficult passages, executed with irreproachable mechanism, delighted the king, the court, and Voltaire. Voltaire said, as all know, "Italian music is far better than French, because it is more ornate, and a difficulty overcome is something at least." This was Voltaire's idea of art. He might have answered, had he been asked if he liked music, as a certain fop of our own days did—"It does not exactly annoy me."
All went off perfectly well, and the finale was being reached. The king was satisfied, and turned to his chapel-master from time to time, to express his approbation by a nod. He was preparing even to applaud Porporina, at the conclusion of the cavatina which he always did in person and judiciously, when, by some strange caprice, Porporina, in the midst of a brilliant rondeau, which she had never failed, stopped short, turned her haggard eyes towards a corner of the hall, clasped her hands, and crying "Oh my God!" fell at full length on the stage. Porporino bore her behind the stage, and a tempest of questions, thoughts, commentaries, swept through the house. In the interim the king spoke to the tenor, amid the noise which drowned his voice, "Well, what is this?" said he, in a brief, imperious tone. "Conciolini, hasten to find out." After a few seconds the latter returned, and bowing respectfully before the top of the railing on which the king leaned his elbow, replied, "Sire, the Signora Porporina is senseless, and they are afraid she will he unable to continue the opera."
"Ah!" said he, shrugging his shoulders. "Give her a glass of water. Get her some essence, and finish as soon as possible."
The tenor, who had no disposition to offend the king and expose himself to his bad humor in public, went again behind the scenes quietly, and the king began to talk quickly to the leader of the orchestra and musicians; the public being much more interested in what the king said and did than in poor Porporina, made rare efforts to catch the words that fell from the monarch's lips.
The Baron von Poelnitz, grand chamberlain and director of amusements, soon came to tell the king of Consuelo's condition. In Berlin nothing passed off with the solemnity imposed by an independent and powerful public. The king was everything, and the spectacle was his and for him. No one was surprised to see him thus become the principal actor of this unforeseen interlude.
"Well, let us see, baron," said he, loud enough to be heard by a part of the orchestra; "will this soon be over? Have you no doctor behind there? You should have one always."