“I hear, madame, that our Grassini is a favorite with the great Napoleon,” said Count Sommaglia to Josephine one morning.  “Yes,” answered the irate wife of the First Consul, hardly-able to disguise her spite, “the ridiculous vanity of the creature amuses us amazingly.  Since she has been made directress of the Italian Opera, there is more intriguing going on among these gentry than there is with the diplomats:  in the midst of a serious conversation, she will break out into a horse-laugh, throw herself on a sofa, and, fancying herself Semiramis on the throne of Nineveh, burst forth in a great style with ’Son Regina, e son amata!’” ("I am a queen, and I am beloved!”) “One day,” says Fouche, “Bonaparte observed that, considering my acknowledged ability, he was astonished I did not perform my functions better—­that there were several things of which I was ignorant.  ‘Yes,’ replied I, ’there certainly are things of which I was ignorant, but which I now know well enough.  For instance, a little man, muffled in a gray cloak, and accompanied by a single servant, often steals out on a dark evening from a secret door of the Tuileries, enters a closed carriage, and drives off to Signora G------.  This little man is yourself, and yet this fanciful songstress jilts you continually for Rode the fiddler.’  The Consul answered not a word; he turned his back, rang, and immediately withdrew.”

In 1804 Grassini was engaged to sing in London alternately with Mrs. Billington.  At her first benefit she sang in conjunction with the English diva in Winter’s new opera, “Il Ratto di Proserpina,” Billington as Ceres, and Grassini as Proserpina.  The respective voices of the two singers were admirably fitted for the music of the roles, each exquisite of its sort and inspired by the ambition of rivalry.  The deep tones of the one combined with the bird-like notes of the other to produce a most thrilling effect.  Lord Mount Edgcumbe, who had a prejudice for bravura singing, said:  “No doubt the deaf would have been charmed with Grassini, but the blind must have been delighted with Mrs. Billington”:  a malicious comment on the Italian singer, which this distinguished amateur, when in a less cynical mood, revoked by cordial admiration of Grassini’s remarkable gifts both as vocalist and actress.  Many interesting anecdotes are told of this singer while in London, one of which, related by Kelly, then stage-manager, illustrates the difficulties of operatic management.  Mrs. Billington was too sick to sing on one of her own nights, and Grassini was implored to take her place.  But she obstinately refused to make the change, until the cunning Irishman resorted to a trick.  He called on her in the morning, and began talking carelessly on the subject.  “My dear Grassini,” said he, in an off-hand way, “as manager I ought to prevail upon you to perform; but as a performer myself, I enter entirely into your feelings, and think you perfectly right not to sing