The Count, surprised at the cessation of the music, looked at Gambara, who, with fixed gaze, in the attitude of a visionary, murmured the word: “God!”
Andrea waited till the composer had descended from the enchanted realm to which he had soared on the many-hued wings of inspiration, intending to show him the truth by the light he himself would bring down with him.
“Well,” said he, pouring him out another bumper of wine and clinking glasses with him, “this German has, you see, written a sublime opera without troubling himself with theories, while those musicians who write grammars of harmony may, like literary critics, be atrocious composers.”
“Then you do not like my music?”
“I do not say so. But if, instead of carrying musical principles to an extreme—which takes you too far—you would simply try to arouse our feelings, you would be better understood, unless indeed you have mistaken your vocation. You are a great poet.”
“What,” cried Gambara, “are twenty-five years of study in vain? Am I to learn the imperfect language of men when I have the key to the heavenly tongue? Oh, if you are right,—I should die.”
“No, no. You are great and strong; you would begin life again, and I would support you. We would show the world the noble and rare alliance of a rich man and an artist in perfect sympathy and understanding.”
“Do you mean it?” asked Gambara, struck with amazement.
“As I have told you, you are a poet more than a musician.”
“A poet, a poet! It is better than nothing. But tell me truly, which do you esteem most highly, Mozart or Homer?”