"So he did," cried Gluck, convulsed with laughter. "I followed his advice. I sprinkled the choruses with trumpet and drum, and the second time the opera came out it was a complete success."
Marianne joined in the mirth of her husband.
"But now, if all this is true, why do you like the English?"
"Because my failure in England taught me the utter worthlessness of our present school of music, and inspired me with the desire to reform it."
He drew her arm within his, and seated her on the divan by his side.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE NEW OPERA.
"Now, Marianne," said he, putting his arm around her waist, "hear the secret history of my musical career. I will tell you of the misfortunes which my genius has encountered through life. I begin with England. It is of no use to go back to the privations of my boyhood, though they were many; for hunger and thirst are the tribute that man must pay to fate for the capital which genius gives to him, and which he must increase with all his might and all his strength. Even as a boy I craved less for bread than for fame; and I consecrated my life and soul to art. I thought that I was in the right way, for I had written eight operas, which the Italians lauded to the skies. But the 'Caduta de Giganti' was a failure, and 'Artamene' likewise. This double fiasco enraged me (you know my bad temper, Marianne). I could not bear to be so misconceived. I was determined to show the English that, in spite of them, I was an artiste. I longed to bring them to my feet, as Jupiter did the Titans. So I ordered from one of those poetasters to be found in every land, a sort of libretto called, in theatrical parlance, a lyric drama; and to the words of this monstrosity I arranged the very finest airs of my several operas. When I had completed this musical kaleidoscope I called it 'Pyramus and Thisbe.' I dished up my olla podrida, and set it before the hungry English; but they did not relish it. The public remained cold, and, what was far worse, I remained cold myself. I thought over this singular result, and wondered how it was that music which, as a part of the operas for which it was written, had seemed so full of soul, now faded into insipidity when transplanted to the soil of other dramatic situations. I found the answer in the question. It was because I had transplanted my music from its native soil, that its beauty had flown. Then it burst upon my mind that the libretto is the father of the opera, the music its mother; and so, if the father be not strong and lusty, the mother will bring forth a sickly offspring, which offspring cannot grow up to perfection. Now, my operas are sickly, for they are the children of an unsound father, who is no true poet."
"Still, still, rash man!" whispered Marianne, looking around as though she feared listeners. "Do you forget that the father of your operas is Metastasio?"
"I remember it too well; for many of my works have perished from their union with his weak and sentimental verses. Perished, in MY estimation, I mean; for to make my operas passable, I have often been obliged to write fiery music to insipid words; and introduce fioritures out of place, that the nightingales might compensate to the world for the shortcomings of the poet. Well, my heart has bled while I wrote such music, and I prayed to God to send me a true poet—one who could write of something else besides love; one, who could rise to the height of my own inspiration, and who could develop a genuine lyric drama, with characters, not personages, and a plot whose interest should increase unto its end."