“Compare,” said he, “that sublime composer’s works with what by common consent is called Italian music.  What feebleness of ideas, what limpness of style!  That monotony of form, those commonplace cadenzas, those endless bravura passages introduced at haphazard irrespective of the dramatic situation, that recurrent crescendo that Rossini brought into vogue, are now an integral part of every composition; those vocal fireworks result in a sort of babbling, chattering, vaporous mucic, of which the sole merit depends on the greater or less fluency of the singer and his rapidity of vocalization.

“The Italian school has lost sight of the high mission of art.  Instead of elevating the crowd, it has condescended to the crowd; it has won its success only by accepting the suffrages of all comers, and appealing to the vulgar minds which constitute the majority.  Such a success is mere street juggling.

“In short, the compositions of Rossini, in whom this music is personified, with those of the writers who are more or less of his school, to me seem worthy at best to collect a crowd in the street round a grinding organ, as an accompaniment to the capers of a puppet show.  I even prefer French music, and I can say no more.  Long live German music!” cried he, “when it is tuneful,” he added to a low voice.

This sally was the upshot of a long preliminary discussion, in which, for more than a quarter of an hour, Andrea had divagated in the upper sphere of metaphysics, with the ease of a somnambulist walking over the roofs.

Gambara, keenly interested in all this transcendentalism, had not lost a word; he took up his parable as soon as Andrea seemed to have ended, and a little stir of revived attention was evident among the guests, of whom several had been about to leave.

“You attack the Italian school with much vigor,” said Gambara, somewhat warmed to his work by the champagne, “and, for my part, you are very welcome.  I, thank God, stand outside this more or less melodic frippery.  Still, as a man of the world, you are too ungrateful to the classic land whence Germany and France derived their first teaching.  While the compositions of Carissimi, Cavalli, Scarlatti, and Rossi were being played throughout Italy, the violin players of the Paris opera house enjoyed the singular privilege of being allowed to play in gloves.  Lulli, who extended the realm of harmony, and was the first to classify discords, on arriving in France found but two men —­a cook and a mason—­whose voice and intelligence were equal to performing his music; he made a tenor of the former, and transformed the latter into a bass.  At that time Germany had no musician excepting Sebastian Bach.—­But you, monsieur, though you are so young,” Gambara added, in the humble tone of a man who expects to find his remarks received with scorn or ill-nature, “must have given much time to the study of these high matters of art; you could not otherwise explain them so clearly.”