Then the Count Andrea proceeds to demolish the reputation of Rossini by comparing the “capering, musical chit-chat, gossipy, perfumed” school of the Italian master to Beethoven. “Long live German music!—when it can sing,” he adds _sotto voce_. Of course there is a lively row, the host having much to say. Later Gambara shows Andrea his Panharmonicon, an instrument which is to replace an entire orchestra. He plays upon it. They are all enchanted. Every instrument is represented. The total impression is overwhelming. Gambara sang to its accompaniment—in which the magic execution of Paganini and Liszt was revealed—the adieus of Khadijeh, Mahomet’s first wife. “Who could have dictated to you such chants?” demanded the count. “The spirit,” replied Gambara; “when he appears, everything seems to me on fire. I see melodies face to face, beautiful and fresh, colored like flowers; they radiate, they resound, and I listen, but an infinite time is required to reproduce them.” It is a pity this man drank so much. There follows an admirable exposition of Meyerbeer’s Robert le Diable too long for transcription. In the end comes ruin. Gambara’s wife, tiring of his habits, his slow progress toward fame, leaves him for Andrea. Abandoned, Gambara falls into disgrace, into dire poverty. The Panharmonicon is sold by the sheriff and his scores sold for waste paper. “On the day following the sale the scores had enveloped at the Halle butter, fish, and fruits. Thus three great operas of which this poor man spoke, but which a former Neapolitan cook, now a simple huckster, said were a heap of nonsense, had been disseminated in Paris, and devoured by the baskets of retailers.” Worse remained. After years Marianna, the runaway wife, returns, lean, dirty, old, and withered. Gambara receives her with tired, faithful arms. Together they sing duets, with guitar accompaniment, on dusty boulevards after dark. Marianna makes Gambara drink cheap brandy so that he will play well. He gives bits from his half-forgotten operas. A duchess asks: “Where do you get this music?” “From the opera of Mahomet,” replied Marianna; “Rossini has composed a Mahomet II,” and the other remarks:— “What a pity that they will not give us at the Italiens the operas of Rossini with which we are unacquainted! for this certainly is beautiful music.” Gambara smiled! Thus ends the career of a great composer. Gambara knew his failings. “We are victims of our own superiority. My music is fine; but, when music passes from sensation to thought, it can have for auditors only people of genius, for they alone have the power to develop it.” Here is consolation for Richard Strauss!