It appears, however,—­so at least I am assured,—­that the Italians do occasionally listen.  But at any rate, music to the Milanese, no less than to the Neapolitans, Romans, Florentines, and Genoese, means nothing but an air, a duet, or a trio, well sung.  For anything beyond this they feel simply aversion or indifference.  Perhaps these antipathies are mainly due to the wretched performance of their choruses and orchestras, which effectually prevents their knowing anything good outside the beaten track they have so long followed.  Possibly, too, they may to a certain extent understand the flights of men of genius, if these latter are careful not to give too rude a shock to their rooted predilections.  The great success of ‘Guillaume Tell’ at Florence supports this opinion, and even Spontini’s sublime ‘Vestale’ obtained a series of brilliant representations at Naples some twenty-five years ago.  Moreover, in those towns which are under the Austrian rule, you will see the people rush after a military band, and listen with avidity to the beautiful German melodies, so unlike their usual insipid cavatinas.  Nevertheless, in general it is impossible to disguise the fact that the Italians as a nation really appreciate only the material effects of music, and distinguish nothing but its exterior forms.

Indeed, I am much inclined to regard them as more inaccessible to the poetical side of art, and to any conceptions at all above the common, than any other European nation.  To the Italians music is a sensual pleasure, and nothing more.  For this most beautiful form of expression they have scarcely more respect than for the culinary art.  In fact, they like music which they can take in at first hearing, without reflection or attention, just as they would do with a plate of macaroni.

Now, we French, mean and contemptible musicians as we are, although we are no better than the Italians when we furiously applaud a trill or a chromatic scale by the last new singer, and miss altogether the beauty of some grand recitative or animated chorus, yet at least we can listen, and if we do not take in a composer’s ideas it is not our fault.  Beyond the Alps, on the contrary, people behave in a manner so humiliating both to art and to artists, whenever any representation is going on, that I confess I would as soon sell pepper and spice at a grocer’s in the Rue St. Denis as write an opera for the Italians—­nay, I would sooner do it.

Added to this, they are slaves to routine and to fanaticism to a degree one hardly sees nowadays, even at the Academy.  The slightest unforeseen innovation, whether in melody, harmony, rhythm, or instrumentation, puts them into a perfect fury; so much so, that the dilettanti of Rome, on the appearance of Rossini’s ‘Barbiere di Seviglia’ (which is Italian enough in all conscience), were ready to kill the young maestro for having the insolence to do anything unlike Paisiello.