“Sire,” lisped Noverre in reply, “we, the Chevalier Gluck and I, are on the most friendly terms.” A deep sigh followed these 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 opposed to 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—”