“I, as musician and a Catholic, wanted another prayer like that in Mose.  I should have liked to see how Germany would contend with Italy, what Meyerbeer could do in rivalry with Rossini.

“However, in spite of this trifling blemish, the writer cannot say that after five hours of such solid music, a Parisian prefers a bit of ribbon to a musical masterpiece.  You heard how the work was applauded; it will go through five hundred performances!  If the French really understand that music——­”

“It is because it expresses ideas,” the Count put in.

“No; it is because it sets forth in a definite shape a picture of the struggle in which so many perish, and because every individual life is implicated in it through memory.  Ah!  I, hapless wretch, should have been too happy to hear the sound of those heavenly voices I have so often dreamed of.”

Hereupon Gambara fell into a musical day-dream, improvising the most lovely melodious and harmonious cavatina that Andrea would ever hear on earth; a divine strain divinely performed on a theme as exquisite as that of O filii et filioe, but graced with additions such as none but the loftiest musical genius could devise.

The Count sat lost in keen admiration; the clouds cleared away, the blue sky opened, figures of angels appeared lifting the veil that hid the sanctuary, and the light of heaven poured down.

There was a sudden silence.

The Count, surprised at the cessation of the music, looked at Gambara, who, with fixed gaze, in the attitude of a visionary, murmured the word:  “God!”

Andrea waited till the composer had descended from the enchanted realm to which he had soared on the many-hued wings of inspiration, intending to show him the truth by the light he himself would bring down with him.

“Well,” said he, pouring him out another bumper of wine and clinking glasses with him, “this German has, you see, written a sublime opera without troubling himself with theories, while those musicians who write grammars of harmony may, like literary critics, be atrocious composers.”

“Then you do not like my music?”

“I do not say so.  But if, instead of carrying musical principles to an extreme—­which takes you too far—­you would simply try to arouse our feelings, you would be better understood, unless indeed you have mistaken your vocation.  You are a great poet.”

“What,” cried Gambara, “are twenty-five years of study in vain?  Am I to learn the imperfect language of men when I have the key to the heavenly tongue?  Oh, if you are right,—­I should die.”

“No, no.  You are great and strong; you would begin life again, and I would support you.  We would show the world the noble and rare alliance of a rich man and an artist in perfect sympathy and understanding.”

“Do you mean it?” asked Gambara, struck with amazement.

“As I have told you, you are a poet more than a musician.”