SINGING TO CONVICTS

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 760, 5 September 1929, Page 13

SINGING TO CONVICTS

FAMOUS ARTISTES’ STRANGE AUDIENCES -FAUST” IN ASYLUM Perhaps few singers have had such a strange audience as that which recently listened to Madame Maria Sandra. She good-naturedly accepted an invitation to sing to girls undergoing Borstal treatment at Aylesbury in England, and Miss Lilian Barber, the governor, allowed the “convicts” to be present also. Six murderesses sat with dull, strained faces hearing that beautiful voice, and the singer noticed that she brought tears to their eyes, but only wintry smiles re-warded songs which were gay and lively. The “gift of song” is one which appeals to most sad and burdened hearts, and it might be an experiment worth repeating in other prisons. Again and again I have heard amateur performers declare that they found their most appreciative audiences v in lunatic asylums. Sarcastic critics might suggest that this was scarcely remarkable; but, as a matter of fact, the power of music, and especially of the human voice, to soothe distraught brains has often been demonstrated, writes Fedden Tindall in the Glasgow “Herald.” Perhaps the most dramatic and also the most pathetic case on record is that of a world-famous tenor who lost his reason. On summer nights one of the greatest interpreters of Faust who ever enthralled an audience would pour forth the anguish of his tortured soul in the strains of his favourite opera. “O Margherita!” would echo in the darkness with a “pain that was like a living fire,” and windows would be opened silently as the straDge audience for which he had no thought listened rapt and spellbound. To the tenor it w*as an outlet and yet an agony; to the other poor souls with darkened intellects his voice had poAver to bring peace and consolation. The patients w T ere never so quiet as on the nights when the singer could not rest.

This strange scene Avas described in a series of stories published years ago, and now, I suppose, forgotten. Tho writer Avent on to tell hoAv a woman of noble and beautiful countenance came every week to the asylum. The tenor Avould greet her with the eager cry, “O Margherita,” and, kissing her on both cheeks, he Avould pet her and play with her as a happy child might have done. All the restless longing faded from his eyes which feasted on her face as they talked together of Italy. Afterward she Avould take his hand and lead him out to a spot among the pine trees, from Avlience the “two rarest voices in Europe” soon rang forth together, singing over again the duets Avliich had once thrilled tens of thousands. Years ago I read that story, and I believed it to be a singularly touching piece of fiction, the invention of its author’s brain. He Avas Dr. George

H. R. Dabbs, chiefly remembered as Tennyson’s doctor, the friend who closed his eyes in death. He gave me many of his books, which I still treasure, and pointing to that tragic tale of the asylum, he said, “That is absolutely true, though I have given no names. The woman was Titiens." It will not be difficult for music-lovers to guess the identity of the tenor. Many instances recur to one's mind when singers have bravely prevented panic in burning theatres, or heartened fellow-sufferers on wrecked vessels, or where concerts have been held amid stately ruins or in caves on the sea shore. My childish recollections include a fine soprano voice ringing out magnificently in the vast Cathedral Cave at Newquay, Cornwall. I have also heard it said that Jenny Lind once went to sing to a poor woman dying in a garret, though I cannot vouch for the truth of the story. But, among all these cases of strange audiences and surroundings in which singers have given comfort or pleasure, surely the prison or the asylum must always provide the most tragic setting. What a strain for a sensitive artist to face!