GLUCK IN PARIS.
In the street St. Honoré, opposite the principal entrance of the Palais Royal, on a clear evening in the autumn of the year 1779, stood two young officers engaged in a zealous dispute. Suddenly one of them sprang backward a few paces, and, after a pause of an instant, the swords of both flew from their scabbards, and flashed in the lamp-light as they crossed each other.
“Mort de ma vie!” cried another voice, and a powerful stroke forced asunder the weapons of the combatants; “a duel in the open streets, and at night, without seconds? Put up your swords, gentlemen, till to-morrow; then I will second you. My name is St. Val, Captain of Hussars in the Body-guard.”
“St. Val?” was the exclamation that burst from both the young men, and St. Val, recognising them, cried laughing—“How? Montespan! Arnaut? Orestes and Pylades fighting? By Jupiter! that is amazing. What may be your quarrel?”
“Ah!” replied the young Arnaut, “talk not of quarrels. My friend and I were only settling a small difference of opinion with regard to the composers of ‘Iphigenia in Tauris.’ My friend gives his voice for the Chevalier Gluck; I for the admirable Piccini;” and therewith the young men prepared to begin the fight anew.
“Put up your swords!” exclaimed St. Val, once more interfering; “Is that the whole cause of your duel?”
“Does it seem to you insignificant?” asked M. de Montespan.
“Why—not exactly”—replied the peacemaker; “I am aware that the citizens of Paris are at present divided into Gluckists and Piccinists; but Monsieur Arnaut, if you are going to fight theGluckists, you must first begin with your own uncle, and your idol Jean Jacques.—Follow my advice, Messieurs; put up your swords and come with me to the Palais Royal, where you can cool your blood with a few glasses of orangeade in the Café du Feu. This, by my life, is the first time I ever interfered to stop a duel. But in this case, it seems to me not the silliest thing I could do.”
During the captain’s speech, the rage for fighting had evaporated in the breasts of the young officers. They shook hands cordially, returned their swords to the sheath, and followed St. Val.
The brilliantly illuminated saloon of the Café du Feu was at that time the place of resort for the Parisianbel esprits; every evening they repaired thither, and with them many young gentlemen of the higher classes—amateurs, connoisseurs, and artists who had come to Paris to admire, or if possible to be admired.
Thus, when our friends entered, they found a various company. Many young men of the nobility resident in Paris, were to be seen there, scattered about the several tables, surrounded by a crowd of followers, admirers, critics, &c. From every group was heard a confused clamor of argument, declamation, and dispute; in short, there was a perfect war of tongues, and the battle cry here, as all over Paris, was ‘Gluck’ and ‘Piccini.’ Though true Parisians, and used to all this uproar of a café salon, the newly arrived thought it best to secure for the present a place rather more quiet. They caught one of the flying garçons, held him fast, questioned him, and were soon seated in a snug side room.
Three men, besides themselves, were occupants of the room. One, somewhat advanced in years, sat in a corner opposite the entrance, by a table furnished only for one person. He was deep in the shadow of a pillar, so that no one could discern his features; comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, he drummed lightly on the table with the fingers of his right hand; his head leaning back, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He seemed to take no notice of those who entered, and was to all appearance equally indifferent to what passed afterwards.
Nearer the door, and on the other side from the table at which our friends took their place, the other two were seated. The youngest was scarce twenty years of age; a handsome, animated Frenchman, well made, though not tall; the glance of his deep blue eyes, shaded by dark, heavy lashes, was free and unembarrassed. The outline of his features was expressive, his mouth and chin were classically formed, his complexion was of that rich brown which belongs to the native of Provence; his voice was agreeable, his manner easy and spirited without being assuming, and his dress poor, though decent and clean. His prepossessing exterior formed a strange contrast with that of his companion. The latter was a man of about twenty-nine; and answered tolerably to the description which Diderot drew of Rameau’s nephew, except that he was not so long and thin. There was something expressive of mental weakness in his movements; and the air of discontent and spite in his whole manner was not to be mistaken. A rough, bristling, unpowdered peruke, of a pale brown color, covered his head; his features were heavy and might have passed for unmeaning, but for a pair of keen, squinting eyes, and a peevish twist about his mouth, which showed at once the disposition of the man. His pronunciation of French was shocking, and betrayed him for a Saxon.
“You must pardon me, sir,” said the young man, ingenuously, “if I trouble you with my numerous questions; but you are a German, and you must be assured that we French know how to value your great countryman, who has shown us new paths, hitherto undreamed of, to the temple of fame.[7]You are yourself a musician—a composer; you can feel what we owe to the illustrious master! Tell me, what know you of him? And would he not disdain to be the friend and guide of a youth who aspires after the best?”
His companion slowly passed his broad hand over his face, with an oblique glance at the enthusiastic speaker, twisted his mouthinto a tragical smile, and answered maliciously; “Hem! yes! would you have me speak of M. Gluck? Indeed, very willingly! I do not exactly understand what a people so accomplished, of so much judgment and taste as the French, find so grand and splendid in this man!”
“How, sir? Speak you of the creator of Armida, of Iphigenia, of Orpheus?”
“Hem, yes; the same. To say truth, he is not thought much of among us in Germany, for we know that of genuine art, I mean of the rules, he understands little or nothing; as the learned Herr Forkel in Gottingen, and many other distinguished critics have satisfactorily proved.”
The handsome youth looked astonished at the speaker for a moment, then answered modestly; “I am myself far from being so learned in the rules of art, as to be able to judge how correct may be the severe reproach his countrymen cast upon the Chevalier Gluck; but—” with rising warmth, “of one thing I am fully and firmly convinced, that his is a noble and powerful spirit. All I have ever heard of his music, awakens high feelings in me; no low or grovelling—nay,no commonthought, can come near me while I listen to it; and even when spiritless and dejected by untoward circumstances, my despondency takes instant flight before the lofty enjoyment I experience in Gluck’s creations.”
“And think you,” cried young Arnaut, who with his friend had drawn nearer, “think you, sir German, the celebrated Piccini would condescend to enter into a contest with the chevalier, were he not convinced that he was to strive with a worthy adversary?”
The other was visibly nettled at this question, asked in an animated tone. With a furtive look at the young man standing over him, he muttered in broken phrases,
“Hem! I suppose not! how could I presume to think so? I have all due respect for M. Gluck, even though I have no cause to boast of his friendship towards me;butit does not follow that he is the best composer. We have men very different, as thelearned Herr Forkel has clearly proved; and it is certain that M. Gluck, with regard to a church style—”
“Butma foi!” interrupted the brown youth, with vivacity, “we are not talking of church styles, but of a grand opera style! Would your German musical critics have Gluck’s Armida made a nun’s hymn, or his wild motets of Tauris sung in the style of Palestrina?”
“Not exactly,” replied the squinter; “but as the learned Forkel has proved, the Chevalier Gluck understands nothing of songs.”
All present, except the man in the corner, exclaimed in amazement at this—“Nothing of songs?”
“As I remarked,” he continued, “Gluck understands nothing of songs; for he cannot carry through an ordinary melody according to rule, and in the old established way; his song, so called, is nothing more than an extravagant declamation.”
The brown youth started up, his gentle kindliness changed into glowing indignation, and with vehemence replied—“Sir, you are not worthy to be a German, if what you say of your great countryman is said in earnest. That Gluck is really a mighty artist, we are all agreed in Paris; the dispute is only to whom the palm of superior greatness shall be yielded, to him or Piccini. We all acknowledge that Gluck, equally far from the cold constraint of rules, and from capricious innovation, seeks to convey the truest expression of feeling and passion; and sets himself the only true aim that exists for the opera-composer. Church and concert music present a different object for the master; whether Gluck could reach that—whether he attempts it—you—I—the multitude know not! He has set himselfonetask, pursuing that, however, with all his strength, according to the mission of the free-born spirit!”
“What is your name, young man?” asked a sonorous voice behind the speaker. All looked in that direction; the man in the corner stood up, the light of the candles shining full on his face.
“The Chevalier Gluck!” cried they all, in astonishment.
“The same!” replied Gluck, smiling; and then turning to the young enthusiast, he repeated his question. The youth trembled with delight, and bowing low to the master, answered—
“My name is Etienne Mehul, and I am a musician.”
“That I heard,” said Gluck; “I shall be glad if you will visit me; here is my address.” He handed it to him, then turned to the squinter, who sat without daring to look up, by turns red and pale. Gluck enjoyed his embarrassment a few moments, then addressed him with a mixture of indignation and contempt; “Mr. Elias Hegrin! I am rejoiced to meet you so unexpectedly in Paris, in order to tell you once more out of my honest heart, what a miserable rascal you are. So, sir! I understand nothing of music and of songs; and yet you went the whole year in Vienna in and out of my house at your pleasure, and received instruction from me how to correct your works, and took without a scruple of conscience what I gave you out of my own pocket, as well as what I procured you through patrons. Truly, your stupid arrogance must take umbrage, because I candidly told you, you can master only the lifeless form, not the spirit. You seek what you can never obtain, not for the sake of art, but for your own temporary advantage; and you would do better to be an honest tailor or shoemaker, than a mean musician.—Thatis what you could never forgive me; and so you go off and abuse me for money in Gottingen! You are pardoned, sir, for I bear no malice. Go hence in peace, and grow better, if you can; but that, I think, will be difficult; for he who blasphemes the pure and sacred maiden Art, because she repels his degrading embraces, will be likely to remain a rascal as long as he lives.—Adieu, Messieurs!”
And Gluck walked out of the room, nodding courteously once more to young Mehul.
A gay group was assembled in the apartment of the young queen Marie Antoinette. The Comte d’Artois, the favorite ofthe Parisian world of fashion, had just returned to the capital from his hunting-castle, and had come this morning in company with his brother, the Comte of Provence, to pay his homage to his lovely sister-in-law.
The queen received the youthful count with great kindness; Provence presenting him as Grand Master of the chase. D’Artois asked with vivacity, “What is there new in Paris? how many balls have they danced without me? how many flirtations have begun and ended without me? who has served my brother of Provence as accoucheur, at the birth of a new piece of wit? what is the newest spectacle? and what are the good Parisians quarrelling about?”
“A good many questions in a breath!” replied Antoinette, with a smile; “I will answer the last, since we are all warmly interested therein. The newest spectacle we are looking for, is the contest between Gluck and Piccini. Both have composed a piece on the same subject; and it is now to be decided which of the two shall keep the field. This is what the Parisians are disputing about.”
“I am for Gluck!” cried D’Artois, “for by my faith, madame, your countryman is a noble fellow!—He was on the chase with me, and made five shots one after the other. As to the Italians, they do not know how to hold a gun.”
“Despite that,” said Provence, “I like better the music of the Italian, than the German, which can only be recited, but to which one cannot well either sing or dance, as our Noverre very justly observes.”
“Oh! Noverre has been obliged to dance to it,” interrupted the queen; and began in her lively manner to tell how Noverre had gone one morning to the Chevalier Gluck, and told him his music was worth nothing, and that no dancer in the grand opera could dance to his Scythian dances: and how Gluck in a rage had seized the little man, and danced him through the whole house, upstairs and down stairs, singing the Scythian ballets the while;—and had asked him at last, “Well, sir! now think you, a dancerin the grand opera can dance to my music?” To which Noverre, panting and blowing, replied, “Excellent! sir, and the ballet corpsshalldance!”
All laughed, and thought such a dancing master just the thing for the gentlemen and ladies of the grand opera, who were all growing every day more arrogant and insufferable in their behavior.
A page announced the Chevalier Gluck, who came to give her Majesty a lesson on the piano.
“Let him come in”—said the queen, and Gluck entered.—“We were just speaking of you,” said the Princess Elizabeth to him; “and the queen praised you for a good dancing master.”
“And my brother bears witness to your expertness in the chase, for on that account he belongs to your party,” said Provence.
“Ah! let him alone,” cried the queen, “do not vex him with your idle talk. He will have enough to do, not to lose his patience with me.”
“Because you do not play half so well as queen, as when you were archduchess, Antoinette,” replied Gluck gravely, speaking in German.
Antoinette replied, laughing, in the same language, “Wait a little, Christophe; your ears shall ring presently.—Be quiet, ladies and gentlemen!” she added in French, and went to open the piano. In her haste she seemed to have made a mistake; for when she tried the key, she could not open the instrument. At length she started up impatiently, and cried—“Come hither, Gluck, and help me!”
Gluck tried his hand in vain; the others followed, but equally fruitless were their efforts.
“This is vexatious!” said the queen; and Gluck exclaimed—“What fool can have made such a lock?”
“Take care what you say, chevalier,” said Provence; “the king himself made the lock, and I believe it is of a new-fangled sort.”
D’Artois now went out and returned with the king. LouisXVI., in his short jacket, his head covered with an unsightly leathern cap, his face glowing, and begrimed with soot, with rough hands and a bundle of keys and picklocks at his girdle, looked, in truth, more like an industrious locksmith than a king of France.—He went and busied himself at the instrument; examined the lock with the earnest air of an artisan, and tried several keys in vain; shook his head dissatisfied, and tried others; at length he hit upon the right one. The lock yielded, and with a mien of triumph, as if he had won a battle, he cried—“Look there! it is open! Now madame, you can play.”
But the hour was over, and the queen had lost the inclination to play. Gluck waited for the sign of his dismissal; and the Princess Elizabeth begged that he would entertain them with something new from his Iphigenia. The master of sixty-five seated himself at the instrument and began the frenzy scene of Orestes. All were silent and attentive, particularly Louis, who, when the piece was ended, went up to Gluck, and said, with downcast eyes, in broken sentences—“Excellent, chevalier—most excellent! I am charmed—delighted; I will have your opera produced first—with all care—with all splendor—just as you please! and I hope the success will be such as to gratify you.”
The Chevalier Noverre and the Signor Piccini were here announced and admitted. They came in together. Noverre started when he saw Gluck, and it was evident that he was embarrassed at his presence, though his pride prevented him from betraying such a feeling more than an instant. Piccini was easy and unembarrassed; and when the king commanded him to salute his adversary, he did so with dignity and cordiality. Gluck returned the greeting in like manner.
“What do you bring us new, gentlemen?” asked Antoinette. Noverre answered, with solemn gravity, “Your Majesty was pleased to grant Signor Piccini permission to play you his last notes out of the opera of Iphigenia in Tauris.”
“Very well!” replied the queen; and turning to Piccini, she asked, graciously, “What selection have you made, Signor?”
Piccini bowed and replied—“The Chevalier Noverre wished that your Majesty would permit me to play before you the Scythian dance, number one.”
The Comte d’Artois burst into a peal of laughter; and even the other aristocratic personages, except the king, who shared the embarrassment of Piccini and Noverre, had some difficulty in restraining their mirth.
“You have my ready permission,” said Antoinette. Piccini seated himself at the piano, and began to play his Scythian dance, to which the Comte of Provence and Noverre kept time. The others confessed that Piccini’s dance was far more pleasing, melodious, and adapted to the grace of motion, than that of Gluck. But D’Artois whispered to the king, that he thought the dance, considered by itself, admirable; but beyond dispute, better fitted for a masqued ball, in the salon of the grand opera, than for a private abode in Tauris.
Louis did not reply; Gluck stood listening earnestly and attentively; his sense of the merit of his opponent was visible in his countenance, except that now and then a light curl played about his mouth, when Piccini indulged too much in his pretty quaverings and tinklings. Noverre responded with his foot, by a natural impulse, to the music.
Great applause rewarded Piccini when he ceased; and Noverre neglected not to explain, with an air of great importance, that in the music they had just heard, was displayed that inspiriting rhythmus, which alone had power to charm the dancer’s feet, so that he could give soul and expression to his pirouettes and entrechats.
“Very good, Monsieur Noverre,” said the king, interrupting the current of the dancing master’s speech; “I agree with you that the music of Signor Piccini is admirable, but I hope also, that you will make yourself acquainted with the music of the Chevalier Gluck.”
“Sire,” lisped Noverre in reply, “we, the Chevalier Gluck and I,areon the most friendly terms.” A deep sigh followedthese words, but Louis took no notice of it, and after a while permitted the artists to depart.
Going out of the Tuilleries, after Gluck and Piccini had taken a courteous, though cold leave of each other, Gluck said mischievously to the ballet-master—“Take care, chevalier, not to forget what the king commanded you. If you have complained of me to his majesty, because I made you dance against your will, I must take the liberty to assure you, that you have no cause to be ashamed of having gone through a dance with me; for granted I am not—and a pity it is!—such a proficient in the art of dancing as yourself, yet I am, as well as you, chevalier of the order de l’Esprit, in which character I have the honor to wish your worship a good morning.”
And stepping into his carriage, he drove homeward. Noverre looked after him much vexed. Piccini laughed.
The rehearsals and preparations for the representations of the two Iphigenias were nearly finished, and the day was already appointed when the masterpiece of Gluck was to receive the sentence of the Parisians. It was to be performed first, for the precedence was yielded to him as the oldest of the two champions.
“When kings build, cartmen have work;”—the truth of that saying was proved. Men who knew little or nothing of music wrote, for the advantage of their party, treatises, learned and superficial, upon Gluck and Piccini, upon the differences in their style, and upon the operas in question, in a tone as assured and confident as if they had diligently studied the compositions of the masters. The partisans of both received the treatises with satisfaction, reading all that were presented with as much edification as if they had been the productions of Rameau or Rousseau; perhaps with even more eagerness, as the zest of scandal was added.
There was also much dissension among the performers; and poor Piccini had not a little to do, by a thousand attentions, flatteries and favors, to propitiate those of them who were opposedto him, and induce them to promise not to spoil his work purposely. Gluck behaved differently; he resorted to threats, and compelled his enemies at least to conceal their ill designs, for they feared him. As for the rest, he trusted to the excellence of his work, and his motto—“Truth makes its way through all things;” and even in anticipation of the most unfavorable event, consoled himself by the reflection—“Well! the worst success does not make a good work a bad one!”[8]
He sat in his chamber the morning of the day before the representation of his Iphigenia, preparing for the final rehearsal, when the servant announced young Mehul.—“Come in, my dear friend!” cried Gluck cheerfully, as he rose and went to the door to meet his visitor. “I am rejoiced to see you, and have expected you before this.”
“I ventured not to disturb you before,” replied Mehul, “but to-day—”
“Well—to-day—”
“My anxiety brought me hither.”
“Anxiety!—and wherefore?”
“To-morrow your new opera is to be performed for the first time—you have so many enemies.—Ah! should the success of your noble creation not be answerable to its worth!”
“Then let it be so,” said Gluck, smiling.
“Can you say that with so much calmness?”
“Why not?—Do you think of devoting yourself to dramatic composition?”
“I wish with all my heart to do so, and should be very unhappy should I find my powers inadequate.”
“Prove them, young man! Go boldly to work: do not deliberate long; but what reveals itself to you lay hold on with glowing inspiration; plan and complete it with earnest heed. It will soon be shown, what you can do, now or in future. And if I judge you rightly, I think it will not go wrong withyou! Yes—that is the great matter, that we deviate not from the way. But it ishard in itself; and men and the world make it yet harder for the artist. Many, of whom better things might have been hoped, fall in the conflict.
“You remain victor!”
“Hem—that is as one takes it. Nothing is perfect upon earth; and even if I have gone through life neither a fool nor a knave, still am I not without faults. Each, for good or evil, must be experienced before he can truly value the better part. To the generality, the All Benevolent has granted to know but little, till either what they have is irremediably wasted, or they are in danger of losing it. Happy he, who quickly apprehends, and holds it fast, nor lets it go, though his heart should be torn in the struggle. What will you say when I confess to you, that perception of the highest, theonlygood, came late, fearfully late, to me. When I look back on my earlier days, I am often astonished. Music was all to me from earliest youth. When a boy, in my home, in lovely Bohemia, I heard her voice, as a divine voice, in all that surrounded me—in the dense forest, in the gloomy ravine, the romantic valley—on the bold, stark cliff—in the cheerful hunter’s call, or the hoarse song of stream and torrent, her voice thrilled to my heart, like a sweet and glorious prophecy. All was clear to my youthful vision. Love commanded—and there was light! Then I thought there was nothing so great and god-like, that man, impotent man, could not achieve it. Too soon I learned that something was impossible. The royal eagle soars upward toward the sun; yet can he never reach the orb; and how soon are clipped the spirit’s wings! Then come harassing doubts, false ambition, thirst of gain, envy, disappointed vanity, worldly cares—the hateful gnomes of earth—that cling to you, and drag you downward, when you would soar like the eagle. So is it with the boy—the youth—with manhood—with old age. One perhaps redeems himself from folly; discerns and appreciates the right, and might create the beautiful. But with folly flies also youth, its ardor and its vigor; and there remains to him enthusiasm, passion for the sublime—and—a grave!”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Mehul, with emotion; “much more remains toyou!”
“Think you so?” asked Gluck, and after a pause continued; “Well—perhaps something better—it is true; for when I freed myself from the fetters of the unworthy and the base, there came to me a radiant and lovely vision, from the pure brightGrecian age. But, believe me, the work of holding it fast, and shaping it in the external world, is my last. And melancholy it is, that a whole vigorous, blooming lifetime could not be consecrated alone to such a theme. But I submit, for I could not do otherwise; and I will bear it, whether these Parisian bawlers adjudge me fame and wealth for my work, or hiss me down.”
The hour struck for the rehearsal; Gluck broke off the discourse, and accompanied by his young friend, went to the Royal Academy of music.
Meanwhile Nicolo Piccini, morose and out of humor, was walking up and down his chamber, from time to time casting a discontented look at the notes of his opera, that lay open on the desk. At times he would walk hastily to the desk as if a lucky thought had struck him, to insert something in the work; but he would let fall the pen before he had touched the paper, shake his head with a dissatisfied and melancholy air, and begin again to walk the room.
There was a knock at the door; Piccini heeded it not; there was a second—a third! At length he went to the door, opened it, and Elias Hegrin entered. Piccini seemed disturbed at sight of him, and asked ungraciously—“What do you want? Why are you here again?”
With his usual sullen smile Elias replied—“The Chevalier Noverre sent me; he said Signor Piccini wished to speak with me.”
Piccini remained a few moments in gloomy silence, as if struggling inwardly; at length he said with a sigh—“It is true; I wished to see you.”
“And in what can I serve my honored patron?”
“By speaking thetruth!” replied Piccini, regarding him sternly. “Confess it, Elias Hegrin, you uttered a falsehood, whenyou told me Gluck stirred up all his friends and acquaintances to make a party against me.”
Elias Hegrin changed color, but he collected himself, and answered—“I spoke the truth.”
“It isfalse, Elias! and you spoke a falsehood when you told me you had read the manuscript of my adversary, and that the work scarce deserved the honors of mediocrity!”
“It was the truth, Signor Piccini, and I can only repeat my opinion of the opera of the Chevalier Gluck.”
“So much the worse for your judgment of art, for now, after having heard five rehearsals, I must, aye, andwill, declare before all the world, that Gluck’s Iphigenia is the greatest of all operas I know, and that in its author I acknowledge my master.”
Elias stared.
“I believed I had accomplished something worthy in my own work,” continued Piccini, speaking half to himself; “and indeed, my design was pure;thatI can say; nor is what I have done altogether without merit;—but oh! how void and cold, how weak and insignificant does it seem to me, compared with Gluck’s gigantic creation! Yes—creation! mine is only a work! A human work, which will soon vanish without a trace—while Gluck’s Iphigenia will endure so long as feeling for the grand and the beautiful is not dead in the hearts of men.”
“But—Signor Piccini”—stammered Elias.
“Be silent!” interrupted Piccini, in displeasure. “Wherefore have you lied? wherefore have you slandered the noble master, and toiled to bring down his works and his character to your own level in the dust? Are you not ashamed of your pitiful behavior? I have never fully trusted you, spite of Noverre’s recommendation; for well I know that Noverre hates the great master for having wounded his ridiculous vanity; but I never thought you capable of such meanness as I now find you guilty of. Gluck stir up his friends, to make a party against me!—There! look at these letters in Gluck’s own hand, written to Arnaud, Rollet, Maurepas, wherein he judges my work thoroughly, dwelling upon the bestparts, and entreats them to listen to my opera impartially, as to his own, and to give an impartial judgment, for that he is anxious only for the truth. Through my patron, the Count of Provence, I obtained these letters from those gentlemen, whom he persuaded to send them to me, thereby to remove my groundless suspicions. How mortified am I now for having descended to make common cause with you! I have been deceived; but you—tell me, man, what has induced you to act in this dishonorable and malicious manner towards your benefactor?”
While Piccini was speaking, Elias had shrunk more and more into himself. Humbled, and in a lachrymose voice he replied, “Ah, my dearest patron, you misapprehend me. Yes—I will confess, I have spoken falsely—I have acted meanly—shamefully! But I am not so bad as you think me. If you but knew all! Ah! I am an unhappy man, and deserve not your anger, but rather your sympathy. When a boy, I heard it daily repeated by my parents and family, that I had extraordinary talent for music; that I should become a great composer, and one day acquire both wealth and reputation. In this hope I applied myself zealously to art, hard as it was to me. My first work of importance was looked on as a miracle in the town where I lived; this strengthened me in the opinion of my abilities, and I thought I had only to go to a great city, to reap renown and gold without measure. I went to Vienna; but gained neither.”
“I know it; but there Gluck took you by the hand, supported you, gave you instruction, corrected your works.”
“He did so, indeed; but he likewise told me I had no genius, and that I never could be a great composer.”
“And did he deceive you? what have you proved yourself? Can you for this, hate and maliciously slander him, because he honestly advised you to desist from useless efforts, to limit yourself to a small circle in our art, or rather to become an honest tailor or shoemaker?”
Elias shrugged his shoulders with vexation, squinted sullenly at the speaker, and answered in a fierce tone: “Yes—I hate him!I shall always hate him! what need was there of telling me so? Even if I was in error—I dreamed of fame and gold—and have had neither! Curse him! He has embittered my life; and I will embitter his, whenever it is in my power.”
“Go—wretch!” cried Piccini, full of horror. “Go, we have nothing more in common. The divinity of man is honor; your gods are selfishness—vanity—envy—cowardly malice! Such as you deserve no sympathy—away!” And gnashing his teeth with spite and impotent rage, Elias Hegrin left Piccini’s house.
Piccini’s opera was greatly admired, but that of his adversary obtained a complete victory, and awakened an enthusiasm till then unknown even in Paris.
Followed by the acclamations of the enraptured multitude, after the third representation of his work, Gluck left the opera-house on his way to his quiet home. He was accompanied only by his favorite Mehul, who was to be his guest for the evening, and aid him to celebrate his victory.—Arrived at Gluck’s house, they both entered the room where the collation was prepared, but started with surprise as they entered; for a man, wrapped in his mantle, stood at the window, looking out upon the clear starry night. At the rustling behind him he turned round.
“Signor Piccini!” cried Gluck, surprised.
“Not unwelcome, I hope?” said Piccini, smiling.
“Most welcome, by my troth!” answered Gluck, taking and cordially shaking the offered hand. “Yes, I honor so noble an adversary.”
“Talk no more of adversaries!” cried Piccini earnestly; “our strife is at an end; I acknowledge you for my master, and will be happy and proud to call you my friend! Let the Gluckists and the Piccinists dispute as long as they like; Gluck and Piccini understand each other!”
“And esteem each other!” exclaimed Gluck with vivacity; “Indeed, Piccini, it shall be so!”
FOOTNOTES:[7]Gluck has been called the Michael Angelo of music.[8]Gluck’s own words to Rousseau.
[7]Gluck has been called the Michael Angelo of music.
[7]Gluck has been called the Michael Angelo of music.
[8]Gluck’s own words to Rousseau.
[8]Gluck’s own words to Rousseau.