Florence Nightingale.

BROOKS PETERS tells the story of the legendary Florence Foster Jenkins, a soprano without peer

In the pantheon of unforgettable divas, there never has been a soprano to rival the legendary Florence Foster Jenkins. She stands alone, a true rara avis -- especially when she appeared onstage sporting a pair of gigantic angel-wings strapped to her back. At the height of her popularity in the 1940s, Lady Florence -- as she liked to be called and invariably signed her publicity stills -- was compared to Frank Sinatra for the contagious effect she had on audiences. High society stepped out in droves, bedecked in evening attire, jewels and furs -- and paying top dollar -- to hear her warble. Cole Porter composed a song for her and never missed a concert. Beatrice Lillie was an ardent fan. Thomas Beecham played her albums on British radio as examples of his favorite recordings. Fashion aficionados gasped at the extraordinary gowns she designed for herself and wore at the invitation-only soirees she gave in the grand ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Early on, Caruso was an enthusiastic friend. Lily Pons is said to have shed tears after hearing her sing.

For those poor unfortunates who have never heard of her, or sadly, never heard her, these accolades must seem perplexing. If such a superstar existed a mere half-century ago, why isn't she better-known today? Perhaps it's because the key to Madame Jenkins's everlasting allure is the overwhelming fact that she was perfectly awful. To put it bluntly, she couldn't sing at all. Well, that isn't really fair, since she definitely sang, and quite often, year after year, for decades, cooing with abandon for her ever-growing circle of sycophantic devotees. The issue is more precisely, why did she choose to sing? Ira Sift, of La Gran Scena Opera Company, which ingeniously skirts the nether regions between parody and performance art, dubs her "the anti-Callas." "Jenkins was exquisitely bad," he says -- "so bad that it added up to quite a good evening of theater, which is a major achievement unto itself. She would stray from the original music, and do insightful and instinctual things with her voice, but in a terribly distorted way. There was no end to the horribleness. It was infinite -- bless her." Like many budding opera buffs, Sift spent hours during his youth playing Jenkins's records. "I would collapse onto the floor and dissolve into laughter. They say Cole Porter had to bang his cane into his foot in order not to laugh out loud when she sang. She was that bad. And yet, think of all the mediocrity in the world. Florence was one of a kind. She was way off the mark. But she was not mediocre."

To describe her voice, one must rely on metaphor, since adjectives do not exist to capture its inherent je ne sais quoi. Imagine the shrill caw of an aging turkey buzzard. Or the wail of a wounded wolverine caught in a trap. Or the caterwaulings of Citizen Kane's hapless protegee, Susan Alexander. Even to the untrained ear, Florence Foster Jenkins sounds peculiar. A critic in the 1940s likened the kick one got listening to her albums to that of smoking pot. In the '60s, she was considered psychedelic; people dropped acid while playing her pieces with headphones on. Her coloratura, if analyzed electronically via sound waves, would look like the hemidemisemiquaverings of an incriminating lie-detector test. Her notorious high F, the lucky result, she confessed, of being jostled in a taxi during a traffic accident, was as faint as a dog whistle; but not even the most devoted mutt, his ear cocked to a Victrola, could have warmed to it as "his master's voice."

For all her flaws, Florence Foster Jenkins was immensely popular. A crowd of 2,000 unlucky ticket-seekers had to be turned away from her 1944 debut at Carnegie Hall. Today, her original 78s, recorded at Melotone, a little-known vanity studio, are highly cherished collectors' items. The two classic LPs, A Florence! Foster!! Jenkins!!! Recital!!!! and The Glory (????) of the Human Voice, released after her death, are increasingly hard to locate. But unlike many songbirds of yore, Jenkins can be found on CD, as fresh and astonishing as ever.

Did Florence Foster Jenkins truly believe she had talent? It's a question that may never be answered. "Florence didn't think she was pulling anyone's leg," says Albert Innaurato, playwright and opera-lore expert. "She was compos mentis, not a lunatic. She was a very proper, complex individual.... It was a different era, when there was still a distinction drawn between high- and lowbrow art. Florence represented the last gasp of that world."

She was born Florence Foster in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, sometime around 1868. Her father, Charles Dorrance Foster, was a banker and member of the Pennsylvania legislature who instilled in his daughter a passionate respect for music. Providing her with piano lessons, he discovered she was a child prodigy. At the age of eight, she gave a recital in Philadelphia. By the time she was seventeen, she yearned to study music overseas and make the grand tour. Her father, disapproving, refused to sponsor her. It was a background similar to that of the hopelessly plain debutante in the Henry James novel Washington Square. Perhaps to spite her father, Florence soon ran off with a doctor named Frank Thornton Jenkins. They quickly married and settled in Philadelphia. By 1902, however, they were divorced. Unable to rely on her father, Florence scraped by, giving music lessons and playing piano at ladies' luncheons. But in 1909 her father died, leaving her his fortune. At last she was free to move to New York and make a name for herself.