“It is thus that Beethoven composed his E minor symphony.  But his heroic work is purely instrumental, whereas here, my heroic phrase is worked out on a sextette of the finest human voices, and a chorus of the faithful on guard at the door of the sacred dwelling.  I have every resource of melody and harmony at my command, an orchestra and voices.  Listen to the utterance of all these phases of human life, rich and poor;—­battle, triumph, and exhaustion!

“Ali arrives, the Koran prevails in every province (duet in D minor).  Mahomet places himself in the hands of his two fathers-in-law; he will abdicate his rule and die in retirement to consolidate his work.  A magnificent sextette (B flat major).  He takes leave of all (solo in F natural).  His two fathers-in-law, constituted his vicars or Khalifs, appeal to the people.  A great triumphal march, and a prayer by all the Arabs kneeling before the sacred house, the Kasbah, from which a pigeon is seen to fly away (the same key).  This prayer, sung by sixty voices and led by the women (in B flat), crowns the stupendous work expressive of the life of nations and of man.  Here you have every emotion, human and divine.”

Andrea gazed at Gambara in blank amazement.  Though at first he had been struck by the terrible irony of the situation,—­this man expressing the feelings of Mahomet’s wife without discovering them in Marianna,—­the husband’s hallucination was as nothing compared with the composer’s.  There was no hint even of a poetical or musical idea in the hideous cacophony with which he had deluged their ears; the first principles of harmony, the most elementary rules of composition, were absolutely alien to this chaotic structure.  Instead of the scientifically compacted music which Gambara described, his fingers produced sequences of fifths, sevenths, and octaves, of major thirds, progressions of fourths with no supporting bass,—­a medley of discordant sounds struck out haphazard in such a way as to be excruciating to the least sensitive ear.  It is difficult to give any idea of the grotesque performance.  New words would be needed to describe this impossible music.

Andrea, painfully affected by this worthy man’s madness, colored, and stole a glance at Marianna; while she, turning pale and looking down, could not restrain her tears.  In the midst of this chaos of notes, Gambara had every now and then given vent to his rapture in exclamations of delight.  He had closed his eyes in ecstasy; had smiled at his piano; had looked at it with a frown; put out his tongue at it after the fashion of the inspired performer,—­in short, was quite intoxicated with the poetry that filled his brain, and that he had vainly striven to utter.  The strange discords that clashed under his fingers had obviously sounded in his ears like celestial harmonies.

A deaf man, seeing the inspired gaze of his blue eyes open on another world, the rosy glow that tinged his cheeks, and, above all, the heavenly serenity which ecstasy stamped on his proud and noble countenance, would have supposed that he was looking on at the improvisation of a really great artist.  The illusion would have been all the more natural because the performance of this mad music required immense executive skill to achieve such fingering.  Gambara must have worked at it for years.