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.