write a good recitative. There is no beautiful aria out of which a
beautiful recitative could not be made; no beautiful recitative out of
which a clever man could not produce a beautiful aria. I will not
assert that one who recites well will also be able to sing well, but I
should be much surprised if a good singer could not recite well. And
you may believe all that I tell you now, for it is true.

(And then he walked up and down and began to hum a few arias from the
"Ile des Fons," etc., exclaiming from time to time, with upturned eyes
and hands upraised:--) "Isn't that beautiful, great heavens! isn't
that beautiful? Is it possible to have a pair of ears on one's head
and question its beauty?" Then as his enthusiasm rose he sang quite
softly, then more loudly as he became more impassioned, then with
gestures, grimaces, contortions of body. "Well," said I, "he is losing
his mind, and I may expect a new scene." And in fact, all at once he
burst out singing.... He passed from one aria to another, fully thirty
of them,--Italian, French, tragic, comic, of every sort. Now with a
deep bass he descended into hell; then, contracting his throat, he
split the upper air with a falsetto, and in gait, mien, and action he
imitated the different singers, by turns raving, commanding,
mollified, scoffing. There was a little girl that wept, and he hit off
all her pretty little ways. Then he was a priest, a king, a tyrant; he
threatened, commanded, stormed; then he was a slave and submissive. He
despaired, he grew tender, he lamented, he laughed, always in the
tone, the time, the sense of the words, of the character, of the
situation.

All the chess-players had left their boards and were gathered around
him; the windows of the cafe were crowded with passers-by, attracted
by the noise. There was laughter enough to bring down the ceiling. He
noticed nothing, but went on in such a rapt state of mind, in an
enthusiasm so close to madness, that I was uncertain whether he would
recover, or if he would be thrown into a cab and taken straight to the
mad-house; the while he sang the Lamentations of Jomelli.

With precision, fidelity, and incredible warmth, he rendered one of
the finest passages, the superb obligato recitative in which the
prophet paints the destruction of Jerusalem; he wept himself, and the
eyes of the listeners were moist. More could not be desired in
delicacy of vocalization, nor in the expression of overwhelming grief.
He d