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 mouth into 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 common thought, 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,