where she had ever witnessed a personal illustration of Æsop'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
"Orphée" and "Alceste" than in the first, and rose again to the topmost
wave of court favor. When "Orphée" 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, "Iphigénie 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 Cécile Saint Huberty, _née_ 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 Grétry, 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
Fouché, 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 Gaëtan Vestris * and Auguste,
his son. Gaétan 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
Académie fifty years after his _début_ 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 Gaëtan.
It is of Gaëtan that the story is told in connection with Gluck, when
the opera of "Orphée" 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!"
Gaëtan retired from the stage at the successful _début_ 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 _débutante_. 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 Gaëtan Vestris for a father, an advantage which nature
refused me." "If," said Gaëtan, 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 Gaëtan 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 Gaétan 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'araignée," 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 Infidélités," 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 Médicis, 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 Hébert. The nominal director, however, was
Francoeur, the same who first brought out Sophie Arnould in Louis XV.'s
time. Henriot, Danton, Hébert, 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 répertoire; 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_.
Hébert 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
Hébert 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 Fouché, 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. Fouché, touched, heard her story, and by his powerful
intercession secured for her a pension of twenty-four hundred livres and
handsome apartments in the Hôtel 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. - _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 _Ã
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