I think that Gluck, that great genius, would have liked
it; and that is what I should have wished. Ah! how long ago it seems, that
time when I was ambitious! But you must excuse me, Monsieur! your good
company makes me garrulous. I must be at the theatre. If I am not in my
place at the half-hour, they fine me two shillings and sixpence, and that I
can ill afford, you know, Monsieur!'
In spite of his defeats, his long and ineffectual struggle with adversity,
M. Cristich, I discovered, as our acquaintance ripened, had none of the
spleen and little of the vanity of the unsuccessful artist. He seemed
in his forlorn old age to have accepted his discomfiture with touching
resignation, having acquired neither cynicism nor indifference. He was
simply an innocent old man, in love with his violin and with his art, who
had acquiesced in disappointment; and it was impossible to decide, whether
he even believed in his talent, or had not silently accredited the verdict
of musical Vienna, which had condemned his opera in those days when he was
ambitious. The precariousness of the London Opera was the one fact which
I ever knew to excite him to expressions of personal resentment. When
its doors were closed, his hard poverty (it was the only occasion when
he protested against it), drove him, with his dear instrument and his
accomplished fingers, into the orchestras of lighter houses, where he was
compelled to play music which he despised.
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