“We cannot reach it to-night,” said Ricco, preparing to depart. “It is midnight, and I must go home. Some other time we will speak on the subject; and I will convince you that your conviction is incorrect. Now, fare you well.”
“Good night—incorrigible fellow!” cried Heissenheimer; and then put it to the choice of his young friend, whether they should empty another flask, or take a walk in the fresh air. Louis preferred a walk, for he was somewhat excited with the conversation.
CHAPTER III.
They walked for some time in the open air. The double row of old lindens that shaded the promenade, rustled in the summer breeze; the moon shone on the tall buildings; all was silent, as if the city were buried in slumber. As our friends passed the dwelling of the chapel-master, Louis stole a look upward at one of the windows, which he fancied might be that of the fair daughter of the heterodox musician. “She has a purer taste,” said he to himself, and turning to his companion—
“How is it possible that one can be so insensible to the beautiful as this Italian?”
The merchant glanced at the house of Master Ricco, and replied: “The heathenish churl! Yet there is something about him that inclines me to believe he does not express his real opinions. Did you not remark his contradictions? Now he slashed at Mozart, now at the subject of the piece; and, after all, only complained of the part of Elvira. What should he care for the subject, if he be really such an admirer of Rossini, and thinks music merely a science for the ear? His inconsistencies were palpable. Depend upon it, the man has not such wretched taste.”
“But why should he speak against his own convictions?”
“Because he is unwilling to confess that his countrymen are surpassed by the Germans in composition. Only one thing staggered me. He permits his daughter to play no music but Rossini’s, Mercadante’s, Caraffa’s, and the like.”
“But she sings it unwillingly, surely?” cried Louis, quickly.
“On the contrary; she knows nothing else.”