“You are leaving the subject—Signor Ricco,” said Louis; “you were to complain of Don Giovanni as a German. I confess, I am curious to hear you.”
“I also,” added the merchant. “But it will come to nothing; for I see he is treating us to one of his accustomed jokes.”
“Nay—it is my ardor that leads me to digression. To return to Don Giovanni. At first—and then the Germans were reasonable, for they had in their theatres chiefly the works of Italian composers or their pupils—at first, I say—the thing was not popular, and with reason.”
“Stupid slanderer!” exclaimed Heissenheimer.
“There were in it a few good musical touches, and the Germans thought it a pity the work should be lost. They fitted on a skilful theory; they found that Don Giovanni stabs the commendatore, and commits other crimes, and is finally carried off by the devil: the thing is complete, and has a capital moral! Why should it not please? So its nonsense and folly are passed over. A single wise head has seen through it, who really understands more of the opera than your thirty millions of Germans besides. This was your late Hoffmann. He marked well where the thing halted: but he admired the music, and put a good face on it for his countrymen, quieting the last murmurs of their consciences. How he must have laughed over their fond delusion!”
“As well as I can gather your meaning,” said the young artist, “you seem to think there is a want of unity of idea in the action and music of Don Giovanni?”
“I should be blind and deaf if I thought otherwise.”
“And thus, as a German, you would find fault with the work?”
“Exactly.”
“I entreat you, then, to dispense with your oracular ambiguity, and passing by a few improbabilities and other trifling defects—to show us where is the vulnerable heel of this Achilles.”