CHAPTER XVII.
THE NEW OPERA.
"Now, Marianne," said he, putting his arm around her waist, "hear the secret history of my musical career. I will tell you of the misfortunes which my genius has encountered through life. I begin with England. It is of no use to go back to the privations of my boyhood, though they were many; for hunger and thirst are the tribute that man must pay to fate for the capital which genius gives to him, and which he must increase with all his might and all his strength. Even as a boy I craved less for bread than for fame; and I consecrated my life and soul to art. I thought that I was in the right way, for I had written eight operas, which the Italians lauded to the skies. But the 'Caduta de Giganti' was a failure, and 'Artamene' likewise. This double fiasco enraged me (you know my bad temper, Marianne). I could not bear to be so misconceived. I was determined to show the English that, in spite of them, I was an artiste. I longed to bring them to my feet, as Jupiter did the Titans. So I ordered from one of those poetasters to be found in every land, a sort of libretto called, in theatrical parlance, a lyric drama; and to the words of this monstrosity I arranged the very finest airs of my several operas. When I had completed this musical kaleidoscope I called it 'Pyramus and Thisbe.' I dished up my olla podrida, and set it before the hungry English; but they did not relish it. The public remained cold, and, what was far worse, I remained cold myself. I thought over this singular result, and wondered how it was that music which, as a part of the operas for which it was written, had seemed so full of soul, now faded into insipidity when transplanted to the soil of other dramatic situations. I found the answer in the question. It was because I had transplanted my music from its native soil, that its beauty had flown. Then it burst upon my mind that the libretto is the father of the opera, the music its mother; and so, if the father be not strong and lusty, the mother will bring forth a sickly offspring, which offspring cannot grow up to perfection. Now, my operas are sickly, for they are the children of an unsound father, who is no true poet."
"Still, still, rash man!" whispered Marianne, looking around as though she feared listeners. "Do you forget that the father of your operas is Metastasio?"
"I remember it too well; for many of my works have perished from their union with his weak and sentimental verses. Perished, in MY estimation, I mean; for to make my operas passable, I have often been obliged to write fiery music to insipid words; and introduce fioritures out of place, that the nightingales might compensate to the world for the shortcomings of the poet. Well, my heart has bled while I wrote such music, and I prayed to God to send me a true poet—one who could write of something else besides love; one, who could rise to the height of my own inspiration, and who could develop a genuine lyric drama, with characters, not personages, and a plot whose interest should increase unto its end."
"And have you found him?" asked Marianne, with a meaning smile. "I have.
It is-"
"Calzabigi," interrupted she.
"How!" cried the fiery Gluck, "after promising secrecy, has he been unable to curb his tongue?"
"Nonsense, Christopher! he has not said a word to me. I guessed this long ago."
"And how comes it that you never hinted a word of it to ME?"
"I waited for the hour when you deemed it best to speak, my love; for I fully comprehend the reasons for your silence. I waited therefore until Minerva should come forth, full armed, to challenge Jove's opponents to the strife. Meanwhile I had faith in God and thee, Christopher, and I prayed for Heaven's blessing on thy genius."
"Heaven will hear thy prayer, my better self," cried Gluck, drawing his wife close to his heart. "Oh, how happy I feel to be permitted to speak with thee of my past labors! How gladly shall I listen to thy criticisms or thy approval! both, more to me than those of all the world beside. Come, Marianne, I will begin now."
He sprang up from the divan, and would have hurried to the piano, but Marianne held him back. "Maestro," said she, "before we sacrifice to Apollo, let us give to life and mortality their rights. Prose awaits us in the dining-room, and we shall give her audience before we open the pages of this nameless opera."
"You shall hear its name, Marianne. It is—"
Marianne put her arms around his neck, and whispered, "Hush, my Orpheus!"
"How! You know that also?"
She raised her hand, as if in menace. "Know, Christopher, that little Hymen tolerates no man who has secrets from his wife. You tried to be silent, but betrayed yourself in your sleep. You do not know how often during the night you have called Eurydice in tones of plaintive music. Nor do you know how, as you appealed to the deities of the infernal regions, I shuddered at the power of your weird notes!"
"You heard, then," cried Cluck, enchanted. "And you—"
"My friend Prose, Prose calls with angry voice. Away to the dining-room! A man who has revelled all night with the Muses, needs refreshment in the morning. Nay—you need not frown like Jupiter Tonans—you must go with me to eat earthly food, before I taste your nectar and ambrosia. Come, and to reward your industry you shall have a glass of Lacrimae Christi from the cellar of the Duke of Bologna."
She drew him from the room, and succeeded in landing him at the breakfast-table.
"Now, I will not hear a word about art," said Marianne, when the servants had brought in the breakfast. "I am the physician, both of body and mind, and condemn you to a silence of fifteen minutes. Then you may talk."
"Of my opera, carissima?"
"Heaven forbid! of the wind and weather—nothing else. Now hush, and drink your chocolate."
So Gluck, obedient, drank his chocolate, and ate his biscuit and partridge-wing in silence.
All at once, the comfortable stillness was broken by a loud ringing of the door-bell, and a servant announced Signor Calzabigi.
Gluck darted off from the table, but Marianne, laughing, brought him back again. "First, your glass of Lacrimae Christi," said she. "Calzabigi will be indulgent and wait for us a moment."
He took the glass, and inclining his head, drank her health.
"Marianne," said he cheerfully, "I have been amiable and tractable as a good child. Enough of Prose, then—give me my freedom now, will you?"
"Yes, maestro; you are free; your body is refreshed, and can bear the weight of that strong soul that has no infirmities to impede its flight. Fly, if you list—to Calzabigi!"