Great Singers, Second Series | Page 4

peculiarly intractable organ. The lower
notes of the voice were very imperfect, the upper tones thin,
disagreeable, and hard, the middle veiled, and her intonation so
doubtful that it almost indicated an imperfect ear. She would
sometimes sing so badly that her father would quit the piano
precipitately and retreat to the farthest corner of the house with his
fingers thrust into his ears. But Garcia was resolved that his daughter

should become what Nature seemingly had resolved she should not be,
a great vocalist, and he bent all the energies of his harsh and imperious
temper to further this result. "One evening I studied a duet with Maria,"
says the Countess Merlin, "in which Garcia had written a passage, and
he desired her to execute it. She tried, but became discouraged, and said,
'I can not.' In an instant the Andalu-sian blood of her father rose. He
fixed his flashing eyes upon her: 'What did you say?' Maria looked at
him, trembled, and, clasping her hands, murmured in a stifled voice, 'I
will do it, papa;' and she executed the passage perfectly. She told me
afterward that she could not conceive how she did it. 'Papa's glance,'
added she, 'has such an influence upon me that I am sure it would make
me fling myself from the roof into the street without doing myself any
harm.'"
Maria Felicia Garcia was a wayward and willful child, but so generous
and placable that her fierce outbursts of rage were followed by the most
fascinating and winning contrition. Irresistibly charming, frank, fearless,
and original, she gave promise, even in her early youth, of the
remarkable qualities which afterward bestowed such a unique and
brilliant cachet on her genius as an artist and her character as a woman.
Her father, with all his harshness, understood her truly, for she
inherited both her faults and her gifts from himself. "Her proud and
stubborn spirit requires an iron hand to control it," he said; "Maria can
never become great except at the price of much suffering." By the time
she had reached the age of fifteen her voice had greatly improved. Her
chest-notes had gained greatly in power, richness, and depth, though
the higher register of the vocal organ still remained crude and veiled.
Fetis says that it was on account of the sudden indisposition of Madame
Pasta that the first public appearance of Maria in opera was
unexpectedly made, but Lord Mount Edgcumbe and the impressario
Ebers both tell a different story. The former relates in his
"Reminiscences" that, shortly after the repair of the King's Theatre, "the
great favorite Pasta arrived for a limited number of nights. About the
same time Konzi fell ill and totally lost her voice, so that she was
obliged to throw up her engagement and return to Italy. Mme. Vestris
having seceded, and Caradori being for some time unable to perform, it
became necessary to engage a young singer, the daughter of the tenor

Garcia, who had sung here for several seasons.... Her extreme youth,
her prettiness, her pleasing voice, and sprightly, easy action as Rosina
in 'Il Barbiere,' in which part she made her _début_, gained her general
favor." Chor-ley recalls the impression she made on him at this time in
more precise and emphatic terms: "From the first hour when Maria
Garcia appeared on the stage, first in 'Il Barbiere' and subsequently in
'Il Crociato,' it was evident that a new artist, as original as extraordinary,
was come--one by nature fairly endowed, not merely with physical
powers, but also with that inventive, energetic, rapid genius, before
which obstacles become as nothing, and by the aid of which the
sharpest contradictions become reconciled." She made her _début_ on
June 7, 1825, and was immediately engaged for the remaining six
weeks of the season at five hundred pounds. Her first success was
followed by a second in Meyerber's 'Il Crociato,' in which she sang
with Velluti, the last of that extraordinary genre of artists, the male
sopranos. Garcia wrote several arias for her voice, which were
interpolated in the opera, much to Manager Ayrton's disgust, but much
also to the young singer's advantage, for the father knew every defect
and every beauty of his daughter's voice.
If her father was ambitious and daring, Maria was so likewise. She had
to sing with Velluti a duet in Zingarelli's "Romeo e Giulietta," and in
the morning they rehearsed it together, Velluti reserving his fioriture
for the evening, lest the young _débutante_ should endeavor to imitate
his ornaments. In the evening he sang his solo part, embroidering it
with the most florid decorations, and finishing with a new and beautiful
cadenza, which astonished and charmed the audience; Maria seized the
phrases, to which she imparted an additional grace, and crowned her
triumph with