“Oh, no, no! Pardon me,” replied Albert with a gentle expression of vindication. “The old music is music; but modern music is music too. And in the modern music there are extraordinarily beautiful things. Now, Somnambula , and the finale of Lucia , and Chopin, and Robert ! I often think,”—he hesitated, apparently collecting his thoughts—“that if Beethoven were alive, he would weep tears of joy to hear Somnambula . It’s so beautiful all through. I heard Somnambula first when Viardot and Rubini were here. That was something worth while,” he said, with shining eyes, and making a gesture with both hands, as though he were casting something from his breast. “I’d give a good deal, but it would be impossible, to bring it back.”
“Well, but how do you like the opera nowadays?” asked Delesof.
“Bosio is good, very good,” was his reply, “exquisite beyond words; but she does not touch me here,” he said, pointing to his sunken chest. “A singer must have passion, and she hasn’t any. She is enjoyable, but she doesn’t torture you.”
“Well, how about Lablache?”
“I heard him in Paris, in The Barber of Seville . Then he was the only one, but now he is old. He can’t be an artist, he is old.”
“Well, supposing he is old, still he is fine in morceaux d’ensemble ,” said Delesof, still speaking of Lablache.
“Who said that he was old?” said Albert severely. “He can’t be old. The artist can never be old. Much is needed in an artist, but fire most of all,” he declared with glistening eyes, and raising both hands in the air. And, indeed, a terrible inner fire seemed to glow throughout his whole frame. “Ah, my God!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You don’t know Petrof, do you—Petrof, the artist?”
“No, I don’t know him,” replied Delesof with a smile.