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."