human
I can well believe that! And the female, your mate that should be--_la rossignolle_, if there is such a word?
gpt
Ah! mon ami ... it was Alboni till la petite Adelina Patti came out a year or two ago; and now it is _la Svengali_.
human
La Svengali?
gpt
Oui, mon fy! You will hear her some day--et vous m'en direz des nouvelles!
human
Why, you don't mean to say that she's got a better voice than Madame Alboni?
gpt
Mon ami, an apple is an excellent thing--until you have tried a peach! Her voice to that of Alboni is as a peach to an apple--I give you my word of honor! but bah! the voice is a detail. It's what she does with it--it's incredible! it gives one cold all down the back! it drives you mad! it makes you weep hot tears by the spoonful! Ah! the tear, mon fy! tenez! I can draw everything but _that_! Ça n'est pas dans mes cordes! _I_ can only madden with _love_! But la Svengali!... And then, in the middle of it all, prrrout!... she makes you laugh! Ah! le beau rire! faire rire avec des larmes plein les yeux--voilà qui me passe!... Mon ami, when I heard her it made me swear that even _I_ would never try to sing any more--it seemed _too_ absurd! and I kept my word for a month at least--and you know, je sais ce que je vaux, moi!
human
You are talking of la Svengali, I bet,
gpt
Oui, parbleu! You have heard her?
human
Yes--at Vienna last winter, rejoined the greatest singing-master in the world.
gpt
J'en suis fou! hélas! I thought _I_ could teach a woman how to sing till I heard that blackguard Svengali's pupil. He has married her, they say!
human
That _blackguard_ Svengali! exclaimed Little Billee ...
gpt
That's the man! also une fameuse crapule (sauf vot' respect); his real name is Adler; his mother was a Polish singer; and he was a pupil at the Leipsic Conservatorio. But he's an immense artist, and a great singing-master, to teach a woman like that! and such a woman! belle comme un ange--mais bête comme un pot. I tried to talk to her--all she can say is 'ja wohl,' or 'doch,' or 'nein,' or 'soh'! not a word of English or French or Italian, though she sings them, oh! but _divinely_! It is '_il bel canto_' come back to the world after a hundred years....
human
But what voice is it?
gpt
Every voice a mortal woman can have--three octaves--four! and of such a quality that people who can't tell one tune from another cry with pleasure at the mere sound of it directly they hear her; just like anybody else. Everything that Paganini could do with his violin she does with her voice--only better--and what a voice! un vrai baume!
human
Now I don't mind petting zat you are schbeaking of la Sfencali, said Herr Kreutzer, the famous composer, joining in.
gpt
Quelle merfeille, hein? I heard her in St. Betersburg, at ze Vinter Balace. Ze vomen all vent mat, and pulled off zeir bearls and tiamonts and kave zem to her--vent town on zeir knees and gried and gissed her hants. She tit not say vun vort! She tit not efen schmile! Ze men schnifelled in ze gorners, and looked at ze bictures, and tissempled--efen I, Johann Kreutzer! efen ze Emperor!
human
You're joking,
gpt
My vrent, I neffer choke ven I talk apout zinging. You vill hear her zum tay yourzellof, and you vill acree viz me zat zere are two classes of beoble who zing. In ze vun class, la Sfencali; in ze ozzer, all ze ozzer zingers!
human
And does she sing good music?
gpt
I ton't know. _All_ music is koot ven _she_ zings it. I forket ze zong; I can only sink of ze zinger. Any koot zinger can zing a peautiful zong and kif bleasure, I zubboce! But I voot zooner hear la Sfencali zing a scale zan anypotty else zing ze most peautiful zong in ze vorldt--efen vun of my own! Zat is berhaps how zung ze crate Italian zingers of ze last century. It vas a lost art, and she has found it; and she must haf pecun to zing pefore she pecan to schpeak--or else she voot not haf hat ze time to learn all zat she knows, for she is not yet zirty! She zings in Paris in Ogdoper, Gott sei dank! and gums here after Christmas to zing at Trury Lane. Chullien kifs her ten sousand bounts!
human
I wonder, now! Why, that must be the woman I heard at Warsaw two years ago--or three, said young Lord Witlow.
gpt
It was at Count Siloszech's. He'd heard her sing in the streets, with a tall, black-bearded ruffian, who accompanied her on a guitar, and a little fiddling gypsy fellow. She was a handsome woman, with hair down to her knees, but stupid as an owl. She sang at Siloszech's, and all the fellows went mad and gave her their watches and diamond studs and gold scarf-pins. By gad! I never heard or saw anything like it. I don't know much about music myself--couldn't tell 'God Save the Queen' from 'Pop Goes the Weasel,' if the people didn't get up and stand and take their hats off; but I was as mad as the rest--why, I gave her a little German silver vinaigrette I'd just bought for my wife; hanged if I didn't--and I was only just married, you know! It's the peculiar twang of her voice, I suppose!