buted to Bertoni was written by Gluck in the first
place in 1764 for a soprano. He wove this into his opera _Aristo_ in
1769. This is also true of the trio, _Tendre Amour_, which precedes the
finale in the last act. A serious-minded analyst might be tempted to
admire the profound psychology of the author in mingling doleful accents
with expressions of joy, but he would have his labor for his pains. The
trio was taken from the opera _Elena e Paride_, where Gluck expressed
strongly wrought up emotions. Doret did not keep these two passages and
one can't blame him. On the other hand, he retained, by making it an
entr'acte, the _Ballet des Furies_. This was taken from a ballet, _Don
Giovanni o il convitato de pietra_, which was performed at Vienna in
1761. This passage was used as the accompaniment to Don Juan's descent
into Hell, surrounded by his band of demons.

Many of Gluck's compatriots came to Mezieres to see _Orphee_ and they
were loyal enough to recognize the superiority of the performance. Some
even had the courage to say, "We murder Gluck in Germany."

I discovered that fact a long time ago. In my youth I was indignant when
I saw Paris, where Gluck wrote his finest works, quite neglecting them,
whereas Germany continued to promote them. In those days I was
frequently called to the other side of the Rhine to play in concerts,
and I watched for a chance to see one of these masterpieces which had
been forgotten in France. So it was with the liveliest joy that one day
I entered one of the leading German theaters where they were giving
_Armide_. What a hollow mockery it was!

Madame Malten was Armide, and she was everything that could be wished in
voice, talent, style, beauty and charm. She spoke French without an
accent and was as remarkable as an actress as a singer, so she would
without doubt have had great success at the Opera in Paris. She was
Armide herself, an irresistible enchantress.

But the rest! Renaud was a raw boy, and his shaven chin brought out in
sharp relief enormous black moustaches with long waxed ends. He had a
voice, to be sure, but no style, and no understanding of the work he was
trying to interpret.

Hidradot is an old sorcerer tempered in the fires of Hell. He enters,
saying:

"I see hard by Death that threatens me,
And already old age, that has chilled my blood,
Is on me, bowing me beneath a crushing burden."

Imagine my surprise at seeing come on the stage a magnificent