Great Singers, First Series / Faustina Bordoni To Henrietta Sontag

by George T. Ferris

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."

IV.

Mme. Mara made such a brilliant hit in opera that the public clamor for her continuance on the stage overcame her old resolutions. The opera-house was reopened, and Sir John Gallini, with this popular favorite at the head of his enterprise, had a most prosperous season. Both as a lyric cantatrice and as the matchless singer of oratorio, she was the delight of the public for two years. In 1788 she went to Turin to sing at the Carnival, where it was the custom to open the gala season with a fresh artist, who supplied the place of the departing vocalist, whether a soprano or tenor. Her predecessor, a tenor, was piqued at his dismissal, and tried to prejudice the public against her by representing her as alike-ugly in person and faulty in art. Mara's shrewdness of resource turned the tables on the Italian. On her first appearance her manner was purposely full of gaucherie, her costume badly considered and all awry, her singing careless and out of time. The maligner was triumphant, and said to all, "Didn't I say so? See how ugly she is; and as for singing—did you ever hear such a vile jargon of sounds?" On the second night Mara appeared most charmingly dressed, and she sang like an angel—a surprise to the audience which drove the excitable Italians into the most passionate uproar of applause and delight. Mara was crowned on the stage, and was received by the King and Queen with the heartiest kindness and a profusion of costly gifts. A similar reception at Venice tempted her to prolong her Italian tour, but she preferred to return to London, where she sang under Wyatt at the Pantheon, which was transformed into a temporary opera-house. She now sang with Pacchierotti, the successor of Farinelli and Caffarelli, and the last inheritor of their grand large style. "His duettos with Mara were the most perfect pieces of execution I ever heard," said Lord Mount Edgcumbe. One of the most pathetic experiences of Mara's life was her passage through Paris in 1792 on her way to Germany, when she saw her former patroness Marie Antoinette, whom she remembered in all the glory of her youth, popularity, and loveliness, seated in an open chariot, pale, wan, and grief-stricken, surrounded by a guard of troopers with drawn swords and hooted at by a mob of howling sans-culottes. Better far to be a mimic queen than to be hurled from the most radiant and splendid place in European royalty, to be the scorn and plaything of the ragged ruffians of Paris, and to finish with the guillotine in the Place de la Grève! About this time she was freed from the bête noire of her life, her drunken worthless husband, who agreed to trouble her no more if she would settle an annuity on him. Thenceforward they never met, though she always spoke of him with affection.

Harris, of the Theatre Royal of Dublin, engaged Mara to sing in English opera in 1797. Despite the fact that her English was so faulty, that her person was unprepossessing, and that the part was associated with some of the most beautiful and accomplished singers on the stage, her performance of Polly Peachum in the "Beggars' Opera" was a masterpiece of delicious simplicity and archness. The perfection of her art vanquished all obstacles, and she was acknowledged the equal of Mrs. Crouch, and even of the resplendent Billington, in the part. Dr. Arnold records that, in spite of the dancing and violent action of the rôle, her tones were as free, smooth, and perfect as if she had been standing in the orchestra. Mrs. Billington, who was just to her professional rivals, said she regarded Mara's execution as superior to her own in genuine effect, though not in compass and complication. If the rapid vocalization of a singer was praised, Mara would significantly ask, "Can she sing six plain notes?"

As time passed, Mme. Mara's voice began to decline, and in 1802 she took advantage of an annoying controversy to bid farewell to the English public; for the artist who could sing solemn music with such thrilling effect had the temper of a shrew, though it was easily placated. Mrs. Billington generously offered her services to assist at her farewell concert; and Mara, bursting into tears, threw her arms about the neck of the greatest of her professional rivals. She did not sing again in England till 1820. Speaking of this event, Kelly says, "It was truly grievous to see such transcendent talents as she once possessed so sunk, so fallen. I used every effort in my power to prevent her committing herself, but in vain."

"When the incomparable Mme. Mara took leave of me on her return to the Continent," says Dr. Kitchener, "I could not help expressing my regret that she had not taken my advice to publish those songs of Handel (her matchless performance of which gained her that undisputed preeminence which she enjoyed), with the embellishments, etc., with which she enriched them. This inimitable singer replied, 'Indeed, my good friend, you attribute my success to a very different source than the real one. It was not what I did, but the manner in which I did it. I could sing six simple notes and produce every effect I could wish; another singer may sing those very same notes with very different effect. I am sure it was to my expression of the words that I owe everything. People have often said to me, "Madame Mara, why do you not introduce more pretty things, and passages, and graces in your singing?" I say, "These pretty things are very pretty, to be sure, but the proper expression of the words and the music is a great deal better."' This and her extraordinary industry were the secrets of her undisputed sovereignty. She told me that when she was encored in a song, which she very often was, on her return home she seldom retired to rest without first inventing a new cadence for the next performance of it. Here is an example for young singers!"