flesh since I was permitted to roam in these fresh pastures. This made him
laugh. After he had seen that I had "brains enough" to sing these songs
according to his august liking, he said, "Now we will try 'Voi che
sapete,' of Mozart."

Garcia has not the ghost of a voice; but he has the most enchanting way of
singing mezzo-voce, and occasionally says, "Sing this so," and sings the
phrase for me. It sounds delightfully when he does it; but I do not think
he would have liked me to "sing it so" and would probably swear a gentle
little Spanish swear under his garlicky breath, because (I say it, though
I hate to) the dear master eats garlic--pounds of it, I fear--and his
voice is highly scented when it cracks, which it often does.

He once said, "You may imitate my way of singing, but don't imitate my
crack."

"Oh," I said, "I love to hear you sing. I don't even hear the crack."

"Ah," he sighed, "if it had not been for that crack I should be in the
opera now."

"I am glad," I answered, "that you are not there; for then you would not
be here, teaching me." I think this pleased him.

Sometimes he is very nervous. Once, when I was singing "Voi che sapete,"
the tears rolled down his cheeks, and another time, when he was showing me
how to sing it "so," I burst into tears, and the poor man had to order his
servant to bring me some sherry to restore my nerves. There is one phrase
in this song which I never can hear sung, or never can sing myself,
without emotion.