At this period the music-loving population of Paris was divided into partisans of the two rival composers, Gluck and Piccini. The merits of each were discussed in every circle, and comparisons were made, often with a confused war of tongues; the dispute being, to whom the palm of superior greatness should be awarded. Each had composed a piece on the same subject, which was shortly to be represented; the success deciding which of the two should keep the field.
Late the same evening a number of the Parisian connoisseurs and artists were assembled in the brilliantly illuminated salon of the Café du Feu. Many of the noblesse were to be seen, surrounded by critics, amateurs, etc., and the company was in a Babel of declamation and argument; the battle-cries all over Paris being "Gluck" and "Piccini." Three young men, who had just entered, secured a place in a quiet side-room, where three others were seated; one in a corner, deep in the shadow of a pillar. Comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, this man sat with head leaning back, drumming with the fingers of one hand on the table, and taking no notice of anything that passed. Another occupant of the room was a handsome young Frenchman, with deep blue eyes shaded with heavy brown lashes, and complexion of the rich brown of Provence; he was poorly dressed, but his manner was graceful and spirited. His companion at the table was a long, thin, middle-aged man, with an air of discontent and spite in his whole demeanor. He wore a rough brown peruke; his features were heavy, and he had a pair of keen, squinting eyes, with a peevish, sinister twist about the mouth. He spoke French badly, his accent betraying the Saxon. He was speaking of Gluck, and ended his remarks by saying: "I cannot understand what a people of so much judgment and taste as the French find so great in this man!"
"Are you speaking," cried the young Frenchman, "of the creator of Armida, of Orpheus, of Iphigenia?"
"Ahem! yes. He is not esteemed highly among us in Germany, for he knows little or nothing of art-rules, as the learned Herr Forhel in Göttingen and other distinguished critics have proved."
"And you, a musician, a composer, a German, speak thus!" exclaimed the young man. "I know little of art-rules; but one thing I know and feel, the Chevalier Gluck has a grand and noble spirit. His music awakens elevated feeling; no low or common thought can approach me while I listen to it; even when spiritless and dejected, my despondency takes flight before the lofty joy I feel in Gluck's creations."
"And think you," cried young Arnaut, who belonged to the other faction, "that the great Piccini would enter into a contest with your chevalier, did he not know he was to strive with a worthy adversary!"
The German, nettled at the question, shuffled a little as he answered, "Hem! I suppose not; I only maintain that M. Gluck is not the best composer, as the learned Herr Forhel has proved. With regard to a church style—"
"Who is talking of church styles!" interrupted the brown youth, with vivacity. "The point is, a grand opera style! Would your learned critics change Gluck's Armida into a nun's hymn, or have his wild motets of Tauris sung in the style of Palestrina?"
The squinting man moved in his seat, sipped his orangeade, and muttered: "The learned Herr Forhel has proved that the Chevalier Gluck understands nothing of songs."
"Nothing of songs!" echoed all the company, in surprise. The German continued: "He cannot carry through an ordinary melody according to rule; his song is but an extravagant declamation."