“It is false, 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, and will, 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; that I 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 best parts, 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.”