“Miscreant!” I growled between my teeth, “would that I might impale thee on a red-hot iron.”
Time has not changed my opinion, and though I think I can refrain from blowing up a theatre and impaling people on hot irons, I quite agree with our great painter, Ingres, who, speaking of some of Rossini’s work, said:
“It is the music of a vulgar-minded man.”
IX
A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
Here is a picture of one of my opera evenings.
It was a serious business for which I prepared by reading over and studying whatever was to be given.
My faithful pit friends and I had but one religion, with one god, Gluck, and I was his high priest. Our fanaticism for our favourites was only equalled by our frantic hatred of all composers whom we judged to be without the pale.
Did one of my fellow-worshippers tremble or waver in his faith, promptly would I drag him off to the opera to retract—even going so far sometimes as to pay for his ticket. On one special seat would I place my victim, saying, “Now for pity’s sake don’t move. Nowhere else can you hear so well—I know because I have tried the right place for every opera.”
Then I would begin to expound, reading and explaining obscure passages as I went along; we were always in very good time, first to get the places we wanted; next, so as not to miss the opening notes of the overture; lastly, in order to taste to the uttermost the exciting, thrilling expectation of a great pleasure of which one knows the realisation will exceed one’s hopes. The gradual filling of the orchestra—at first as dreary as a stringless harp; the distribution of the parts—an anxious moment this, for the opera might have been changed; the joy of reading the hoped-for title on the desks of the double-basses, which were nearest to us; or the horror of seeing it was replaced by some wretched little drivel like Rousseau’s Devin du Village—when we would rush out in a body, swearing at all and sundry.
Poor Rousseau! What would he have said if he could have heard our curses? He, who thought more of his feeble little opera than of all the masterpieces through which his name lives. How could he foresee that it would some day be extinguished for ever by a huge powdered periwig, thrown at the heroine’s feet by some irreverent scoffer. As it happened, I was present that very night and, naturally, kind friends credited me with this little unrehearsed effect. I am really quite innocent, I even remember being quite as angry about it as I was amused—so I do not think I should or could have done such a thing. Since that night of joyous memory the poor Devin has appeared no more.