Part 52 (1/2)
”The whole world now rises in arms against the reprobate. This _finale_ may be criticised for its resemblance to that of _Don Giovanni_; but there is this immense difference: in Isabella we have the expression of the n.o.blest faith, a true love that will save Robert, for he scornfully rejects the infernal powers bestowed on him, while Don Giovanni persists in his unbelief. Moreover, that particular fault is common to every composer who has written a _finale_ since Mozart. The _finale_ to _Don Giovanni_ is one of those cla.s.sic forms that are invented once for all.
”At last religion wins the day, uplifting the voice that governs worlds, that invites all sorrow to come for consolation, all repentance to be forgiven and helped.
”The whole house was stirred by the chorus:
”Malheureux ou coupables, Hatez-vous d'accourir!
”In the terrific tumult of raving pa.s.sions, the holy Voice would have been unheard; but at this critical moment it sounds like thunder; the divine Catholic Church rises glorious in light. And here I was amazed to find that after such lavish use of harmonic treasure, the composer had come upon a new vein with the splendid chorus: '_Gloire a la Providence_' in the manner of Handel.
”Robert rushes on with his heartrending cry: '_Si je pouvais prier!_' and Bertram, driven by the infernal decree, pursues his son, and makes a last effort. Alice has called up the vision of the Mother, and now comes the grand trio to which the whole opera has led up: the triumph of the soul over matter, of the Spirit of Good over the Spirit of Evil. The strains of piety prevail over the chorus of h.e.l.l, and happiness appears glorious; but here the music is weaker. I only saw a cathedral instead of hearing a concert of angels in bliss, and a divine prayer consecrating the union of Robert and Isabella. We ought not to have been left oppressed by the spells of h.e.l.l; we ought to emerge with hope in our heart.
”I, as musician and a Catholic, wanted another prayer like that in _Mose_.
I should have liked to see how Germany would contend with Italy, what Meyerbeer could do in rivalry with Rossini.
”However, in spite of this trifling blemish, the writer cannot say that after five hours of such solid music, a Parisian prefers a bit of ribbon to a musical masterpiece. You heard how the work was applauded; it will go through five hundred performances! If the French really understand that music----”
”It is because it expresses ideas,” the Count put in.
”No; it is because it sets forth in a definite shape a picture of the struggle in which so many perish, and because every individual life is implicated in it through memory. Ah! I, hapless wretch, should have been too happy to hear the sound of those heavenly voices I have so often dreamed of.”
Hereupon Gambara fell into a musical day-dream, improvising the most lovely melodious and harmonious _cavatina_ that Andrea would ever hear on earth; a divine strain divinely performed on a theme as exquisite as that of _O filii et filiae_, but graced with additions such as none but the loftiest musical genius could devise.
The Count sat lost in keen admiration; the clouds cleared away, the blue sky opened, figures of angels appeared lifting the veil that hid the sanctuary, and the light of heaven poured down.
There was a sudden silence.
The Count, surprised at the cessation of the music, looked at Gambara, who, with fixed gaze, in the att.i.tude of a visionary, murmured the word: ”G.o.d!”
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 b.u.mper of wine and clinking gla.s.ses 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 all 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 n.o.ble 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?”
”I admire them equally.”
”On your honor?”