ew, and
before the _maestro_ himself appeared we looked at his photograph in a
circular porcelain frame, on the sides of which were inscribed the names
of his works. The ceiling is covered with pictures illustrating scenes
out of Palestrina's and Mozart's lives; in the middle of the room stands
a Pleyel piano. When Rossini came in he gave me the orthodox Italian
kiss, and was effusive of expressions of delight at my reappearance,
and very complimentary on the subject of Felix. In the course of our
conversation he was full of hard-hitting truths on the present study and
method of vocalization. 'I don't want to hear anything more of it,' he
said; 'they scream. All I want is a resonant, full-toned voice, not
a screeching voice. I care not whether it be for speaking or singing,
everything ought to sound melodious.'" So, too, Rossini assured
Moscheles that he hated the new school of piano-players, saying the
piano was horribly maltreated, for the performers thumped the keys as
if they had some vengeance to wreak on them. When the great player
improvised for Rossini, the latter says: "It is music that flows from
the fountain-head. There is reservoir water and spring water. The former
only runs when you turn the cock, and is always redolent of the vase;
the latter always gushes forth fresh and limpid. Nowadays people
confound the simple and the trivial; a _motif_ of Mozart they would call
trivial, if they dared."

On other occasions Moscheles plays to the _maestro_, who insists on
having discovered barriers in the "humoristic variations," so boldly do
they seem to raise the standard of musical revolution; his title of the
"Grand Valse" he finds too unassuming. "Surely a waltz with some angelic
creature must have inspired you, Moscheles, with this composition, and
_that_ the title ought to express. Titles, in fact, should pique the
curiosity of the public." "A view uncongenial to me," adds Moscheles;
"however, I did not discuss it.... A dinner at Rossini's is calculated
for the enjoyment of a 'gourmet,' and he himself proved to be the one,
for he went through the very select _menu_ as only a connoisseur would.
After dinner he looked through my album of musical autographs with the
greatest interest, and finally we became very merry, I producing my
musical jokes on the piano, and Felix and Clara figuring in the duet
which I had written for her voice and his imitation of the French
horn. Rossini cheered lustily, and so one joke fo