GLUCK.
The sun had risen, flooding the earth with light, and the people of
Vienna had already begun their labors for the day. But the curtains had
not yet been drawn from a richly-furnished room, whose walls were lined
with books; and in whose centre stood a table covered with papers,
whereon the lights, not yet extinguished, were dropping their waxen
tears from two lofty silver candelabra. At this table sat a man, looking
earnestly at a paper covered with notes of music. He had sat there the
whole night long, and his countenance gave no indication of the
exhaustion that follows upon night-watching. His large, dark, gray eyes
flashed whenever he raised his head thoughtfully, as he frequently did;
and when music was born of his thoughts, a smile illuminated his
otherwise plain face, and a wonderful light played about his magnificent
forehead; the glory of that genius which had made it her dwelling-place.
The form of this man was as striking as his face. Tall and commanding in
stature, his wide shoulders seemed proudly to bear the weight of the
head that towered above them, and in his lofty bearing there was a
dignitv that betokened either rank or genius.
He had both; for this man was Christopher von Gluck, son of a huntsman
of Prince Eugene, who was born in 1714 in the village of Weidenwang.
This son of the poor huntsman was known throughout all Europe; and in
Italy, the nobles in their palaces and the people on the streets sang
the melodies of Phedra, Antigone, Semiramide, and Telemacco. In Germany
he was less known; and in Vienna alone, was he truly appreciated.
There he sat, unconscious of the daylight. On a chair at his side lay a
violin and a flute; near them, a violoncello leaned against the wall and
within reach of his hand stood one of those upright pianos just then
coming into fashion.
At one moment he wrote rapidly, at another he hummed a melody; again,
half declaiming, half singing, he read off a recitative; and then bent
over and wrote with all his might. The light began to smoke, and the wax
dropped over his music, but he saw none of it; neither saw he the
daylight that had replaced his candles. He was so absorbed in his work
as not to hear a knock at his door.
But now the knock was repeated; and this time so distinctly that it
waked him from his dream of harmony, and he frowned. He rose, and
striding to the door, withdrew the bolt.
The door opened, and a tall, elegant woman, in a tasteful morning-dress
came in. Her fine, regular features were disturbed, and her eyes were
red with weeping or watching. When she saw Gluck looking so fresh and
vigorous, she smiled, and said, "Heaven be praised, you are alive and
well! I have passed a night of anxious terror on your account."
"And why, Marianne?" asked he, his brow unbent, and his face beaming
with tenderness; for Gluck idolized his beautiful wife.
She looked at his quiet, inquiring face, and broke into a merry laugh.
"Oh, the barbarian," cried she, "not to know of what he has been guilty
of! Why, Christopher, look at those burnt-out wax lights--look at the
daylight wondering at you through your curtains. Last night, at ten
o'clock, I lit these candles, and you promised to work for only two
hours more. Look at them now, and see what you have been doing."
"Indeed, I do believe that I have been here all night," said Gluck, with
naive astonishment. "But I assure you, Marianne, that I fully intended
to go to bed at the end of two hours. Is it my fault if the night has
seemed so short? Twelve hours since we parted? Can it be?"
He went to the window and drew the curtains. "Day!" cried he, "and the
sun so bright!" He looked out with a smile; but suddenly his brow grew
thoughtful, and he said in a low voice:
"Oh, may the light of day shine upon me also!"
His wife laid her hand upon his arm. "And upon whom falls the light of
day, if not upon you?" asked she, reproachfully. "Look back upon your
twenty operas, and see each one bearing its laurel-wreath, and shouting
to the world your fame! And now look into the future, and see their
unborn sisters, whose lips one day will open to the harmony of your
music, and will teach all nations to love your memory! And I,
Christopher, I believe more in your future than in your past successes.
If I did not, think you that I would indulge you as I do in your
artistic eccentricities, and sit like a lovelorn maiden outside of this
door, my ear strained to listen for your breathing--dreading lest some
sudden stroke should have quenched the light of that genius which you
overtask--yet daring not to ask entrance, lest my presence should
affright your other loves, the Muses? Yes, my dear husband, I have faith
in the power of your genius; and for you this glorious sun has risen
to-day. Chase those clouds from the heaven of your brow. They are
ill-timed."
In the height of her enthusiasm she twined her arms around his neck, and
rested her head upon Gluck's bosom.
He bent down and kissed her forehead. "Then, my wife has faith, not in
what I have done, but in what I can do? Is it so, love?"
"It is, Christopher. I believe in the power of your genius."
Gluck's face wore an expression of triumph as she said this, and he
smiled. His smile was very beautiful, and ever, when she saw it, his
wife felt a thrill of happiness. Never had it seemed to her so full of
heavenly inspiration.
"Since such is your faith in me, my Egeria, you will then have courage
to hear what I have to tell. Tear away the laurel-wreaths from my past
works, Marianne--burn them to ashes. They are dust and to dust they will
surely return. Their mirth and their melody, their pomp and their
pathos, are all lies. They are not the true children of
inspiration--they are impostors. They are the offspring of our affected
and falsely sentimental times, and deserve not immortality. Away with
them! A new day shall begin for me, or I shall hide my head in bitter
solitude, despising my race, who applaud the juggler, and turn away in
coldness from the veritable artiste."
"What!" exclaimed Marianne, "those far-famed operas that delight the
world--are they nothing more than clever deceptions?"
"Nothing more," cried Gluck. "They did not gush from the holy fount of
inspiration; they were composed and arranged to suit the taste of the
public and the dexterity of the singers, who, if they trill and juggle
with their voices, think that they have reached the summit of musical
perfection. But this must no longer be. I have written for time, I shall
now work for immortality. Let me interpret what the angels have
whispered, and then you shall hear a language which nothing but music
can translate. What are the lame efforts of speech by the side of its
thrilling tones? Music is a divine revelation, but men have not yet
received it in their hearts. I have been made its messenger, and I shall
speak the message faithfully."
"Ah, Christopher," interposed Marianne, "I fear you will find no
followers. If the message be too lofty for the hearers, the messenger
will be driven away in disgrace."
"Hear the coward!" cried Gluck vehemently; "see the woman's nature
shrinking from the path of honor because it is beset with danger. I did
well not to let you know the nature of my last labors, for with your
sighs and croakings you would have turned me back again into the highway
of falsehood. But you are too late, poltroon. The work is done, and it
shall see light." Gluck looked at his wife's face, and the expression he
saw there made him pause. He was already sorry, and ready to atone. "No,
no! I wrong you, my Egeria: not only are you the wife of my love, but
the friend of my genius. Come, dearest, let us brave the world together;
and even if that fail us, let us never doubt the might of truth and the
glory of its interpreters."
So saying, Gluck reached out his hands; and his wife, with a trusting
smile laid both hers upon them. "How can you doubt me, Christopher?"
asked she. "Look back into the past, to the days of our courtship, and
say then who was faint-hearted, and who then declared that his little
weight of grief was too heavy for those broad shoulders to bear."
"I! I!" confessed Gluck; "but I was in love, and a man in love is always
a craven."
"And I suppose," laughed Marianne, "that I was not in love, which will
account for my energy and patience on that occasion. To think that my
rich father thought me too good for Gluck!--Heaven forgive me but I
could not mourn him as I might have done, had his death not left me free
to marry you, you ill-natured giant. Yes! and now that twelve years have
gone by, I love you twice as well as I did; and God, who knew there was
no room in my heart for other loves, has given me no children, for I
long for none. You are to me husband, lover, friend, and--you need not
shake your head, sir--you are child, too. Then why have you kept your
secrets from me--tell me, traitor, why?"
"Not because you were faint-hearted, my beloved," said Gluck with
emotion; "my violent temper wronged us both, when it provoked me to
utter a word so false. But genius must labor in secret and in silence;
its works are like those enchanted treasures of which we have
read--speak of their existence, and lo! they are ashes, Sometimes genius
holds an enchanted treasure before the eyes of the artiste, who in holy
meditation must earn it for himself. One word spoken breaketh the spell,
and therefore it was, Marianne, that I spoke not the word. But the
treasure is mine; I have earned it, and at my wife's feet I lay it,
perchance that she may stand by my side, while the world rejects it as
worthless, and heaps obloquy upon my head."
"His will be a bold hand that casts the first stone at the giant!" said
Marianne, looking proudly upon the tall and stalwart figure of her
husband.
"You call me giant, and that recalls to me a fact which bears upon the
subject of our conversation now," said Gluck, with a laugh. "It was the
fall of my 'Giant' that first showed me the precipice toward which I, my
works, and all my musical predecessors, were hastening."
"You mean your 'Cuduta de Giganti,' which you tried to exhibit before
those icy English people?"
"Do not speak against the English, Marianne; they are a good, upright
nation. It is not their fault if they are better versed in bookkeeping
than in music; and I do not know that they are far wrong when they
prefer the chink of gold to the strumming and piping which, until now,
the world, turning up the whites of its eyes, has called music. I, who
had been piping and strumming with the rest, suddenly rushed out of the
throng, and thrusting my masterpiece in their faces, told them that it
was music. Was it their fault if they turned their backs and would not
believe me? I think not."
"Oh I you need not excuse the English, Christopher. I know the history
of the 'Cuduta de Giganti,' although Master Gluck has never told it me.
I know that the young artist met with no favor at English hands; and I
know that because his works were not a lame repetition of Italian music
and water, the discerning Londoners voted it worthless. I know, too,
that Master Gluck, in his distress, took counsel with the great Handel,
and besought him to point out the opera's defects. Then said Handel--"
"How, dear prattler, you know what Handel said?"
"I do, Master Gluck. Handel said: 'You have given yourself too much
trouble, man. To please the English public you must make a great noise.
Give them plenty of brass and sheep-skin.'"
"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.