the piece to the end, and the effect which I had longed for was produced.  When, at the last words of the chorus, Habeneck saw that the ‘Tuba mirum’ was saved, he said, “What a cold perspiration I have been in!  Without you we should have been lost.”  “Yes, I know,” I answered, looking fixedly at him.  I did not add another word....  Had he done it on purpose? ...  Could it be possible that this man had dared to join my enemy, the Director, and Cherubini’s friends, in plotting and attempting such rascality?  I don’t wish to believe it ... but I cannot doubt it.  God forgive me if I am doing the man injustice!

ON GLUCK

From the Autobiography

Of all the ancient composers, Gluck has, I believe, the least to fear from the incessant revolutions of art.  He sacrificed nothing either to the caprices of singers, the exigencies of fashion, or the inveterate routine with which he had to contend on his arrival in France, after his protracted struggles with the Italian theatres.  Doubtless his conflicts at Milan, Naples, and Parma, instead of weakening him, had increased his strength by revealing its full extent to himself; for in spite of the fanaticism then prevalent in our artistic customs, he broke these miserable trammels and trod them underfoot with the greatest ease.  True, the clamor of the critics once succeeded in forcing him into a reply; but it was the only indiscretion with which he had to reproach himself, and thenceforth, as before, he went straight to his aim in silence.  We all know what that aim was; we also know that it was never given to any man to succeed more fully.  With less conviction or less firmness, it is probable that, notwithstanding his natural genius, his degenerate works would not have long survived those of his mediocre rivals now completely forgotten.  But truth of expression, purity of style, and grandeur of form belong to all time.  Gluck’s fine passages will always be fine.  Victor Hugo is right:  the heart never grows old.

ON BACH

From the Autobiography

You will not, my dear Demarest, expect an analysis from me of Bach’s great work:  such a task would quite exceed my prescribed limits.  Indeed, the movement performed at the Conservatoire three years ago may be considered the type of the author’s style throughout the work.  The Germans profess an unlimited admiration for Bach’s recitatives; but their peculiar characteristic necessarily escaped me, as I did not understand the language and was unable to appreciate their expression.  Whoever is familiar with our musical customs in Paris must witness, in order to believe, the attention, respect, and even reverence with which a German public listens to such a composition.  Every one follows the words on the book with his eyes; not a movement among the audience, not a murmur of praise or blame, not a sound of applause;