“Ha, maestro!” cried the merchant, “you have but shallow water for the war-ship with which you mean to manœuvre round this walled and fortified citadel of art! You will be aground presently.”
“On the contrary—I will make you a breach, so that the enemy shall march in with all his forces.”
“Triumph not too soon!” cried Louis—“for we shall fight to the last man in its defence.”
“Right, my young friend!” added Heissenheimer; and Ricco proceeded, after a digression or two, from which he was called back by his two challengers—
“Is it not true, friends, that in a drama each principal person should contribute substantially to the progress of the action? You assent; well—in Don Giovanni there are five—the Commendatore, Giovanni, Octavio, Donna Anna, and Elvira. I have nothing against the old man, nor Giovanni. Your Hoffmann has cunningly rescued Donna Anna from criticism; Octavio may be considered to have a sort of right to his place. He is, so to speak, the earthly hostage for the elevated Anna, or rather the stake to which she is bound. Now for Donna Elvira. Many have felt that this fifth person is the fifth wheel to the wagon; and in many ways they have sought to justify her appearance. But it has not succeeded. Your Hoffmann does best, who says as good as nothing of her.”
“I thought,” observed Louis, “she was to be regarded as an avenging goddess; at least, so the great composer conceived her, even if the poet assigned her a somewhat doubtful place.”
“Excellent!” cried the merchant. “What have you to say to that, Ricco?”
“That it is not true. An avenging goddess—who whimpers rather than implores for love, and at last would snatch from justice the object of her revenge!—The kneeling in the last finale, or ante-finale (for you would have a battle also about this double close) looks like revenge!—Look you, this Elvira could be borne, or not observed, if she did not so lower herself in the middle of the piece. And here the composer is even more in fault than the poet. The terzetto in A major I will let pass; I will believe she can forgive her repentant betrayer, and love him again. But the sestetto! Have you borne in mind what wickedness has been committed towards her? I am an Italian, and we look over some things more easily than you Germans. But a Chinese, or a barbarian, must revolt at this! The trusting, confiding, forgiving, loving Elvira is exposed to the deepest disgrace—the most crushing insult! Has she a spark of womanly pride or Castilian spirit in her breast, it must burst into a flame that will consume the guilty betrayer, or sweep the wretched victim to destruction. What has she suffered? The most horrible injury that can be inflicted on a woman! Why does she not snatch a dagger, to plunge it into the breast of the slave who has been employed against her—or that of the fiend Don Giovanni, the author of the outrage, or those who behold her dishonor—or, Lucretia-like, into her own? Go—you Germans, and boast of your passion for completeness! You feel not where a work of art strikes the heart. When Leporello’s mask is fallen, and Elvira, who should sink back in despair, or rise in the invincible might of revenge, sings so passionately with the other five voices—as if nothing more had happened to her than Zerlina,—I feel my blood boil! Would our Rossini have done the like? In his polonaises you feel the dolor of love: could you only understand the heavenly melodies as the maestro himself conceived them! The notes are not—indeed—but he dreamed of a singer such as your wooden German never thought of; a singer, the charm of whose expression could ennoble the most insignificant passages into a moving plaint of the heart! Have you never heard that the English Garrick could so repeat the alphabet as to move his audience to tears? So it is with Rossini’s music. He sacrifices himself; he wants not to shine; but that his performers should. But your German hears from paper; and thus writes tolerably. And you trouble not yourselves, if your singers misrepresent the best your master has furnished. The performance of to-night—but I am speaking only of Don Giovanni. What say you to my criticism on Elvira? why do I not hear reproaches?”
“You are a clever critic,” answered Louis; “I know you are wrong, and yet I cannot reply to your objections.”
“Yes—quite wrong—chapel-master!” added the merchant. “I will venture you do not believe yourself what you say. Swear that you do—in good faith!”