“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; but it does not follow that he is the best composer. We have men very different, as the learned Herr Forkel has clearly proved; and it is certain that M. Gluck, with regard to a church style—”
“But ma 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 himself one task, 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.”