Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

that famous little concert-room, at Sans-Souci, where Frederick was lying, in ill-health, and out of humour, on a sofa. He asked her, roughly, "They tell me you can sing; is it true?"

"If it please your Majesty, I can try." "Very well then, sing."

When Elizabeth had finished the piece assigned her, the king, without any token either of satisfaction or displeasure, took up a music-sheet, containing a very difficult bravoura of Graun, which he knew she could never have seen. "Sing this, if you can," again commanded the imperious monarch. The young singer obeyed, and then withdrew, the king only remarking, "Yes, you can sing." But this interview decided Elizabeth's fate. A proposal was made to her to become the king's private singer, with an annuity of three thousand dollars secured to her for life.

In 1772, Elizabeth's evil fate brought her into contact with one of the most fascinating and most unprincipled men of his time—Mara, the violoncellist to Prince Henry of Prussia. In vain did her friends warn her; in vain were anonymous letters sent from every part to expose the true character of her pretended lover ; she listened only to the protestations of her handsome fiancé. On her twenty-fourth birthday, Elizabeth laid a petition for the royal assent to her marriage before Frederick. The answer, which she found written in pencil upon the margin, was more characteristic than courteous; it was-" You are a fool, and must be more reasonable. You shall not make that fellow your husband." After repeated entreaties, and the delay of half a year, Frederick was brought to give a most unwilling permission. The marriage was solemnized, and now, in the midst of her success and honour, began the secret sorrows and shame of the unhappy Elizabeth Mara.

She soon discovered how fatal a step she had taken; her husband lavished her earnings on the lowest, both of his sex and her own; he was almost always in a disgraceful state of intoxication; and, not content with heaping every neglect on his patient wife, he openly reproached her with her want of beauty.

Now, too, she began to experience that her position at court was only a gilded slavery; for the king, who hated the worthless husband, made the innocent wife feel his anger. A request she made, to be allowed, on account of her health, to visit the Bohemian baths, was refused; and on the edge of a petition her husband compelled her to present for leave to accompany him on a tour, she found written in

pencil by the king:-"Let him go, but you shall remain."

Mara was furious against the king, and behaved most brutally to his wife, who persuaded him in vain to keep a prudent silence; he complained loudly of Frederick's tyranny, and even wrote ridiculous pamphlets upon his wrongs.

This was, perhaps, the most miserable period of Madame Mara's unhappy married life. The king showed his displeasure openly against her, and she shared the odium with which her husband was universally regarded; anxiety, grief, and distress, threw her into a dangerous fever. Just at this juncture, the Grand Duke Paul of Russia, a great admirer, almost a worshipper, of the "Colossus of the century," as he styled Frederick, arrived at Berlin. Among the festivities arranged for the occasion was a great opera, by Tomelli, in which Madame Mara was to sing the principal part. On the morning of the day on which it was to be performed, it was announced that Mara was very ill. The king sent her a message, to the effect that she could be well if she pleased, and it was his pleasure that she should be. She returned a respectful answer, saying, that she was really very ill. All Berlin was in commotion, and eagerly watched the result of a battle between Frederick the Great and his first singer. No other entertainment was arranged for the evening; the king commanded the preparations to be completed. Evening approached; the director, in despair, hastily donned his court dress, and repaired to the king, to whom he represented that he had seen Mara; that she was really ill, and could not be induced to leave her bed. Frederick, who either really thought, or affected to believe, the indisposition feigned, merely said, "Do not disturb yourself, she will be present;" and, half an hour afterwards, one of the royal carriages, accompanied by eight dragoons, stopped before Madame Mara's door, and the officer announced to the terrified servants, that he had orders to bring their sick mistress by force to the theatre. We will detail the story in Madame Mara's own words to Goethe. She says:

"I rose from my sick-bed, and dressed, with the soldiers standing at the door of my apartment. Ill as I was, only thoughts of the direst revenge filled my soul. As I placed the dagger of Armida in my girdle, I wished with all my heart that I could slay my pitiless tyrant with it. 'Yes,' I said to myself, as the heavy diadem was pressed on my poor aching head, 'yes, I will obey the tyrant; I will sing, but in such accents as he has never heard before; he shall

sym

listen to the terrible reproaches I dare not utter in words.' In this mood I went to the opera: the common people showed their pathy, when they saw my guard of dragoons, my face wet with tears, and wan with sickness. Some even rushed forward to rescue me, but they were driven back by the soldiers. The officer had orders to accompany me to the sidescene, and stand there until I was called upon the stage to sing my part. I felt sick unto death as I stood waiting, and my physician, who accompanied me, has since said, that he feared the worst. I looked on the stage once, as the ballet-dancers swept past; it seemed to me as if they were dancing on my grave. Now, I had to appear; I sang the bravoura in a weak, trembling voice; but I felt very much vexed that I could only sing so feebly, for ambition awoke in me. When, in the second act, I had to sing the "Mi serame," I poured out the whole sorrow and oppression of my heart. I glanced at the king, and my looks and tones said, ‘Tyrant I am here to obey your will, but you shall listen only to the voice of my agony.' As the last piteous tones died on my lips, I looked round; all was still as death. Not a sound escaped the audience; they seemed as if they were witnessing some execution. I saw my power, even in my weakness; this gave me strength; I felt my illness yield for the time to the power of melody within me. Vanity, too, came to my assistance: she whispered that it would be an eternal disgrace if I allowed the grand duke, who had heard of my fame in a foreign land, to suppose that I was not equal to my renown. Then came that magnificent duet, in which I had to address Rinaldo, Dove corri, O Rinaldo ?' and then I raised my voice, but did not put forth all my power, until I had to sing those burning words, 'Vivi felice? Indegno, perfido, traditore!' My audience seemed overpowered; the grand duke leaned over his box, and testified his delight in the most evident manner. For some moments after I had finished, there was a breathless silence, and then came the full thunder of applause. I was sent for to appear again, and receive the plaudits; but no sooner had I got behind the scenes, than I fell into a fainting fit. I was carried home, and for many days my life was despaired of."

Such was Madame Mara's account of this singular act of despotism-one worthy of Nero himself. "The Colossus of the age" certainly behaved like a petty tyrant to his principal singer. In vain she pleaded ill-health, and begged to be allowed to resign her honourable post; the answer was always the same-" You

are to remain here." At length, urged by her husband, and heart-sick of her slavery, she attempted to fly with him; but the fugitives were discovered, and brought back as state prisoners.

Frederick, who desired nothing more than praise from the French press, had been rather mortified at the view taken by the Parisian journals of his barbarous violation of Mara's sick-room; they expressed, in the strongest terms, the deepest indignation at his conduct, and the most heartfelt pity for the sufferer. The voice of public opinion, added to a secret consciousness that he had gone too far, determined the king to inflict no punishment on Madame Mara herself; but he indemnified himself for this forbearance, by making her husband feel the whole weight of his anger. The luxurious, pampered, royal musician was forthwith ordered to repair to Kustrin, in the capacity of drummer to a fusilier regiment! Forgetful of her many wrongs, the faithful wife wished to throw herself at the king's feet, and beg that the sentence might be revoked. He would not see her; and sent her a large portfolio of music, with the following note:-"Study these, and forget your goodfor-nothing husband: that is the best thing you can do."

The unhappy drummer wrote the most piteous letters to his wife; touching her heart by complaints of absence from her, which he professed to find unspeakably bitter; and vowing that he had never felt his love for her till now, that absence taught him how dear she was. Poor Mara, unaccustomed to words of affection, and willing to be deceived, made the most urgent efforts to obtain his recal, and succeeded at last, when all appeals to Frederick's generosity, honour, and clemency had failed, by an appeal of a different nature, which was far more likely to weigh with the parsimonious monarch. She offered to purchase her hus band's freedom with the resignation of half her annual salary; and the great hero of the eighteenth century was nothing loth to comply

on these terms.

This sacrifice, for so unworthy an object, was the wonder and admiration of Berlin. It happened that the first time Mara appeared afterwards was in a little opera, called "The Galley Slave." The audience applied a scene, in which the singer, unbinding the chains of the galley slave, was addressed by him in these words:" Ame tendre et généreuse, tu brisas mes fers," to their favourite herself. In spite of the royal prohibition, garlands, bouquets, and even costly jewellery, fell at her feet, as

[ocr errors]

these words were pronounced. One of the fairest trophies of her public life was a fine engraving of this scene, from a sketch taken on the spot, by Chodowiecki. Madame Mara preserved it carefully, and loved to contemplate the picture even to her dying day.

At length, in 1779, after having resided at the Prussian court, as first singer, for nearly ten years, Elizabeth Mara obtained her most welcome dismissal. "Now," she wrote to her friends, "the imprisoned bird is let loose, and can fly everywhere." She went to Vienna, where an incident occurred, of which she always spoke as the most gratifying and exciting she had ever known. We will give the full particulars of an example of the power of harmony, only equalled by the story in Holy Writ, of that sweet singer of Israel, who charmed by his melody the gloomy demon from his royal master.

Count S, a powerful Hungarian noble, had lost, under the most distressing circumstances, his only child, a beautiful girl, who was on the eve of marriage. Although two years had elapsed since this bereavement, the unhappy father remained in the most melancholy condition. From the hour when he had looked his last on the dead body of his child, he had remained in the same room, shedding no tears, and uttering no complaints, but in a speechless melancholy and despair. The most celebrated physicians had been consulted, and every means which could be thought of used, to awaken Count S from his lethargy of grief; but all was in vain; and his medical attendants at length despaired of his recovery. Most fortunately, a member of the sufferer's family had heard Mara sing, and entertained a firm belief, that if any sound on earth could reach the heart which was already buried in his daughter's grave; that voice, which seemed more like that of an angel than a human being, would have power. The other relatives, though hoping little from the experiment, yielded to the solicitations of this sanguine friend, and every arrangement was made to give full effect to the singer. An ante-room, opening into that where the count sat, was prepared. The choir for an oratorio was placed in a concealed gallery; Mara alone stood in the foreground, yet in such a position that she could not be seen in the next room, which was hung with black, and a faint shadowy twilight only

admitted, excepting a few golden rays from a small lamp, which burned in a niche before a beautiful Madonna. Suddenly, upon the solitude and silence of that sick-room, there broke a wonderful harmony. Elizabeth had chosen Handel's "Messiah," and took her place, deeply moved with the singular circumstances under which she was to exert her talents. At first, the music and that heavenly voice all seemed to be unheeded; but, by degrees, the desolate parent raised himself on his couch, and glanced with earnest longing towards the spot whence those soul-moving sounds proceeded. At length, when Mara sang those words-" Look and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow," she appeared inspired by the sympathy she felt; and the relatives of the count, who listened with beating hearts, could not restrain their tears. Nor did these alone bear witness to the singer's power: heavy sighs escaped the sufferer-large tears stood in those eyes which the very extremity of grief itself had long forbidden to weep. Crossing the room with feeble steps, he prostrated himself before the image of that Heavenly One, who “bore all our griefs;" and when the full choir joined in the hallelujah chorus, his voice of praise and thanksgiving mingled with those strains. The recovery was not only complete, but lasting, and was at the time the marvel of Germany.

In 1784, she again visited England, where she had not been since, as an ugly sickly child, she was despised for her excessive plainness. Now, however, full justice was done her, and she was welcomed as the queen of song. George III. and his graceless son were at least agreed in their admiration of Mara's voice. During her stay in England, those bonds which she had, twelve years before so eagerly embraced, and found such galling fetters, were broken, and she separated from her worthless husband, pensioning him off so amply as to satisfy the selfish debauchee.

After this separation, her days were calm, if not happy. She retired early from public life, and settled at Reval, where, on her eightythird birthday, she received a copy of verses from Goethe, who, on the same day sixty years before, had, as a student at Leipsic, sung her praises as Mademoiselle Schmähling.

Madame Mara died at Reval, on the 20th of January, 1833, having nearly completed her eighty-fifth year.

THE EMIGRATION CRY.

EMIGRATION is not exactly a social evil, but it is the consequence of one, and that a great one-viz., our inability to keep our people at home. It is a medicine that may do a great deal of good, and which, at the same time, must be administered with as much caution as any drug which poisons by gradually debilitating. Our people are our life's blood, and yet we appear to be dangerously easy on the subject of losing them.

Does one son ever depart from the bosom of his family without leaving tears, hopes, and misgivings behind him? Does not even the marriage of a daughter inspire a thousand anxieties, not only as to her future welfare, but as to whether there is any remaining who will so well supply her place? Are not the people of England her sons and daughters?

Serious are the facts which these simple questions bring to light. What is the almost universal cry of the sons and daughters of England Emigration. What is the advice. that England gives to her distressed children? Emigrate. How does England apologise for her neglect of health, light, air, and wholesome food for body and soul? Let them emigrate, and they will fare better. What is England's recompense to the forlorn sister of her own shame, Ireland? Emigrate, again. That one word rings on the platforms of public assemblies, echoes through the walls of literary institutions, stares one in the face in colossal placards, thrusts itself into one's hand in the form of tailors' outfitting advertisements. It is the consolation of the idle, the refuge of the unhappy and industrious, the watchword alike of the agitator and the philanthropist. It takes away the father and the children—often, alas! from the children; it is a haven of refuge for the dissolute son, flying from the silent reproaches and outspoken tenderness of his too indulgent sire; it is our scapegoat for everything that vice, folly, or public mismanagement has brought upon us-an Alsatia for rogues of our own creation—a Slough of Despond, into which England may cast a little too much.

But no one is alarmed. Hundreds of thousands leave our shores, and Ireland is quietly approaching a state of depopulation, which will leave the priests and the pigs in calm and undisputed possession of the "ould country." Still, it is not violent enough to frighten us.

It does not touch our pockets at present; although, when we are driven to import labourers from the northern countries, we shall, perhaps, find that we might as well have kept a few at home, and that England's prosperity is as vitally connected with the well-being and home-association of her labouring classes, as the heart is with the life of the body.

No; we are not panic-stricken. We cannot perceive, and therefore cannot be frightened at a gradually increasing evil. If it could only take place all at once! What splendid efforts, what bursts of eloquence, what acute reasonings would be spent in accounting for the evil; one-tenth of all which might have prevented it!

Suppose, for the sake of illustration, the districts adjacent to the somewhat extensive parish of St. Pancras, were to awake one morning, and find the streets in a universal state of confusion, horror, and unpaid landlords running about in a state of frenzy? What can have happened? "Gone to California,""Off to Australia,"-is in everybody's mouth. Would the whole eight pages of the Times, with its supplement included, hold half the alarm of the people, or contain one-tenth of the remedies proposed by government, now that the evil was over?

But people don't make such violent moves; they decamp quietly and gradually. They don't empty St. Pancras; St. Pancras only sends its proportion. So does St. George's, so does St. Ann's, and so do all the parishes throughout the kingdom. They don't bleed the arm till it aches, nor the shoulder till the head drops listless; they quietly puncture the body all over, and draw little drops from all quarters, combining continual excitement with gradual depletion.

Such is, briefly to speak, the appearance of affairs at the present day. We are not an English people, for we may be all gone tomorrow. We have no right to say where we live, for our address may be changed for Port Philip, or Kangaroo Island, in the space of three months.

We are all in movement. Those who have not already started are grumbling at having to remain at home; but even at home the excitement is not wanting. Between neglect of work, in order to hunt up the means of leav ing, railing at home-employers, magnifying the liberality of wages abroad, and contrasting

t

the unpleasantness of a police system in England with the more enlarged license of a Lynch law in California, the mind of an intelligent working-man need not remain stagnant.

There is a certain secret charm which unforfortunately enlists our sympathies with certain matters to wit, our knowing nothing about them. Of the utter uselessness of knowledge in ripening or expanding the imaginative faculties we have long been convinced, and, had we needed any further evidence on the subject, the present rage for emigration would have been proof paramount.

There are a number of married people, who, if asked their reasons for entering the matrimonial state, would be at an utter loss to give any other reason than that they were single. In like manner, too, many who emigrate do so, because they have hitherto staid at home; they have lived in England, but have suddenly discovered that they cannot live there any longer.

If the reader has known half-a-dozen families in middle life, he has probably known one in which there was a wayward, never-do-well, never-take-to-anything boy, whom no entreaties, no anxiety of parents or friends could ever persuade to stick to his books. They have known that boy grow up, and, as manhood began to come upon him, and as he found himself unfit for anything, they have heard him talk about "going to sea.' They have remonstrated. All the precarious uncertainty of the profession, its dangers, its slender chances of reward or remuneration, its utter incompatibility with a settled state of life and prospects, have been described with all the warmth and clearness that parental tenderness, experience, and understanding can develope. But our young gentleman has made up his mind; the sea is the grand solution of the riddle of what is to become of him; he is tired of a home for which he has rendered himself unfit; and, without calculating whether he is a whit better calculated for the "life on the ocean wave," he either runs heroically away from home, and vagabondizes in the lowest capacity, or, if his friends have means or interest, gets a position one or two steps higher. The sea is the haven of hope for the idle and the dissolute; there is something heroically independent in the idea of being no longer bored with the advice or anxiety of those around one; it is an idle life, but replete with the excitement of a storm or shipwreck, or with the milder enjoyments of chewing tobacco and talking ribaldry. God forbid that we should seek to depreciate the character of the British tar, or that we should

VOL. I. N. S.

deny our hearty sympathy with his rough simplicity and open-heartedness; but take the motives which send half the boys to sea-those, at least, who have enjoyed some opportunities of education-and a love of idleness, or a taste for a spurious kind of adventure, will be found the main motive that led to their choice of life.

Emigration is open to the same evil. Discontent with one's present circumstances, and an ill-feeling towards employers, are fomented in all directions by exaggerated, or, at all events, highly-coloured descriptions of the El Dorados of the New World. To jump at fortune at a single spring is constantly the aim of the idle and profligate; to find a royal road to wealth is a temptation hung before the greedy eyes of those who have neither energy nor will to work steadily onward. In a word, the story of Dick Whittington's good fortune is eagerly read and appreciated by thousands who have not one spark of Dick Whittington's honesty and perseverance. Thousands yearly start out in search of the gold-paved streets, without troubling themselves as to whether they possess a single qualification to deserve

success.

It would be madness to attempt to deny the advantages with which emigration is fraught; and Quixotism itself would scarcely venture upon attempting to prove that many have not found means of support or comfort, if not of wealth and independency, in the New World, which they might have looked for at home in vain. But the old saying-"exceptio probat regulam"-must not be urged too far. Many who have done well in our colonies might have done fairly at home, had their dispositions been sufficiently energetic to meet the competition around them. Much of the enterprise displayed at the "diggings," and elsewhere, is rather due to the exciting stimulus of novelty than to the healthy and temperate industry, which alone can make its way in England. There is—although it may seem a paradox to say so a certain kind of lazy industry-a spirit to work under strong excitement, and to perform prodigies of labour, and brave almost incredible adventures, but which, if required to be exercised in the quiet, ordinary course of things, is dull and inefficient. It is true, that the stronger the motive the greater the exertions made to achieve its purpose; but motives may be very different in their character, though nearly equal in their influence for the time. Both the speculatist and the plodding trader have the same motives-sustenance for the time, and future independence; both may be equally urgent in the pursuit of those

A A

« НазадПродовжити »