on
German music, "I take twice a week, Haydn four times, but Mozart I take
every day of the week. Beethoven, to be sure, is a Colossus, and one who
often gives you a tremendous dig in the ribs. Mozart is always adorable.
But then he had the good fortune to go to Italy at a time when singers
still knew how to sing."

In answer to my question what he thought of Weber, he said, "Oh, il a du
talent a revendre celui la!" ("He has talent enough and to spare"). And
then he went on to tell me that when the part of Tancred was sung in
Berlin by a bass voice, Weber had written some violent articles, not
only against the management, but against the composer, and that
consequently Weber, when he came to Paris, did not venture to call on
the Maestro; he, however, let him know that he bore him no grudge, and
that led to their soon becoming acquainted.

I asked if he had met Byron in Venice. "Only in a restaurant," he said,
"where I was introduced to him; our acquaintance, therefore, was very
slight; it seems he has spoken of me, but I don't know what he says." I
translated in a somewhat milder form Byron's words, which happened to be
fresh in my memory: "They have been crucifying 'Othello' into an opera;
the music good but lugubrious, but, as for the words, all the real
scenes with Iago cut out, and the greatest nonsense put in instead; the
handkerchief turned into a _billet doux_, and the first singer would not
black his face. Singing, music, and dresses very good."

The Maestro regretted his ignorance of the English language. He had been
in London in his early days, had given concerts there, and had even
taught aristocratic ladies, but nothing, he said, would ever induce him
to cross the Channel again, and, for the matter of that, to trust
himself to a railway. When he migrated from Italy to Paris, he made the
journey in his carriage. He told me he had given much time to the study
of Italian literature in his day. Dante was the man he owed most to; he
had taught him more music than all his music-masters put together; and
when he wrote his "Otello" he insisted on introducing the song of the
Gondolier. His librettist would have it that gondoliers never sang
Dante, but he would not give in.

"I know that better than you," he said, "for I have lived in Venice, and
you haven't. Dante I must and will have."

A companion picture to the crucified "Othello" was the performance of
"Fidelio," which all Paris was talking about at that ti