+ROSSINI+
THEY never met on earth again. In this world where all is uncertain, how
terrible are partings! Which of us can utter that fatal word, farewell,
and not feel a thrill through the heart of indistinct terror—a vague
_perhaps_, which will whisper, who knows but that mine eyes have
mirrored for the last time that familiar face, that loved form! that
mine ears have drank in for the last time the music of that gentle
voice! It is fearful on what “trifles light as air,” hang the destiny of
a life. A glance, a word misconstrued, may forever separate those who
till then, were fast friends; forever banish them from out of our life.
To those who have not the consoling hope of immortality in a brighter
sphere, what a tangled, hopeless wilderness, must this world appear. And
yet we live on; we dress, and smile, and mix with the crowd; we hide the
never satisfied yearnings of our hearts beneath the rich tissues of lace
and satin, and compress the sighs of the weary bosom with bands of
diamonds and pearls. Such is life.
We had now been some time in Paris—that city of fashion—where not to be
_bien habillé_ is a mortal sin. There neither beauty nor talent avail
with a woman unless her _chapeau_ be from Laure or Baudreant, and her
_robe_ modelled in the _atelier_ of Roger or Delphine. If in addition,
she be handsome and agreeable, so much the better; but even then, the
first salutation would certainly be from ladies, and very probably from
the sterner sex, “_Oh, Madame, que vous êtes élégante vous avez vraiment
une toilette délicieuse._”
Evelyn and myself, with Ella, who was now growing up, used occasionally
to spend our evenings in the _salon_ of Rossini, to whom we had been
presented in Florence, and who was now settled in a magnificent
apartment in the Chausseé d’Antin. Here we met, from time to time, all
the celebrities of the artistic world, whether of music, painting or the
dance; also the leading journalists and musical critics of the day, with
an occasional sprinkling of the _beau monde_.
Rossini, at first sight, does not impose upon the mind as the greatest
musical genius of his age, and one of the first of any era. You behold a
simple old man, somewhat portly, with a face remarkable for its
_bonhomie_. The features fine, forehead high and intellectual,
surmounted by, I regret to say, a very ugly wig of reddish brown;
withall, a fresh, but not red complexion, of which any much younger man
might be proud. He looks a dear, benevolent old man, who would greatly
enjoy a good dinner, and this, in fact, is the case. Such would be a
first sight judgment, but a better acquaintance would show that the
benign countenance could light up with the _sourire fin_ and the
_malice_ we should expect to find in the author of the first and best of
musical comedies—the ever fresh, the peerless, the immortal “Barbiere di
Seviglia.” Rossini has acquired the reputation of being very
satirical—ill-naturedly so. Yet it is not the case, for true modesty,
combined with real talent, could never meet with a kinder, more
generous, or more indulgent critic than in him. Unhappily, however, the
_salon_ of Rossini is besieged by a crowd of know-nothings who imagine
that to display their médiocre acquirements before this great man, is to
partake in some measure of his genius. Poor fools! if they had only
seen, as I have, the persecuted composer rubbing his head, (a habit with
him when annoyed), till his very wig was actually turned hind before,
from sheer nervous excitement, I think, I say, had they beheld this,
even shrill sopranos and roaring baritones, would have ceased in pity
from the remorseless murders they were perpetrating upon the dear
children of his brain. Once I remember, when a cruel lady had worried
him past bearing, and adding insult to injury, had changed almost every
note in his aria, and worse than all expected a compliment from her
victim, the _maestro_ advanced to the piano, and said in his mild, soft
voice, “Pray, madame, who is the composer of that music?”
On another occasion he observed to a prima donna, whose singing was more
remarkable for execution than expression, “Madame, you sing with
wonderful _agilité_; you are rapid as a railway train, but you know I am
afraid of railways.”
Here let me remark that Rossini’s cowardice is great as his genius. He
fears everything—railways, the sea, illness; more than all, death. The
idea of the latter appears to embitter all his life; it is the
“One shadow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o’er his joys and his woes.”
He has no religious belief—no hope which divests the grave of its
terrors. Rossini confesses to being a coward, and often turns the laugh
against himself. I remember with what humor he once recounted to us an
incident of his early youth. He was at Naples during one of its many
political convulsions, and was, much to his disgust, made a “garde
Nationale,” and, of course, expected to take turns of duty with the
others. The young musician excused himself on the plea of his well-known
want of courage. His excuse, however, was not accepted. Poor Gioacchino
was equipped _en militaire_, furnished with a musket, and ordered into
the sentry-box to keep guard.
“I entered,” said Rossini, “and remained there about an hour, trembling
in every limb. At last I heard, or thought I heard, footsteps. I laid
down my musket gently, and slipped out of my _guérite_, and then I ran
as fast as my legs could carry me, and never stopped till I reached home
and was safe under the blankets in my bed. In the morning they put me
under arrest, and would have shot me.—But,” added Rossini, with evident
pride, “I escaped _because I was the author of ‘Il Barbiere.’_”
The father of the young genius was by no means remarkable for musical
talent. He used to play the horn in the orchestra conducted by his son.
One day Papa played too outrageously false to escape censure.
“Who is that bad horn?” said young Rossini, pretending ignorance.
“It is I, my son,” said Rossini _père_.
“Then, papa, I am sorry, but you must leave the orchestra.”
One more _bon mot_ I must mention. One evening, on our return from the
performance of “La Gazza Ladra,” at the Italian Opera, we went to pay a
visit to the _Maestro_. Rossini manifested the most perfect indifference
as regarded the vocalists, but made anxious enquiries as to the way in
which the magpie had performed her part. Many other anecdotes might be
recounted, but here we can give but a passing notice of this wonderful
man—wonderful in his greatness, and scarcely less so in his weaknesses.
Usually silent in general society, it is in a _tête-à-tête_ with a
sympathetic companion, that Rossini betrays the versatility of his
genius and the extent of his information. He appears conversant with all
subjects. Notwithstanding the rich vein of humor which sparkles in his
music and in his conversation, Rossini, like Byron, is a melancholy man.
Nor is this singular, for I have invariably found that the wittiest and
most _spirituel_ are ever the saddest; and those who press to their lips
with the keenest relish the cup of pleasure, when the moments of
excitement and intoxication are over, too frequently drain to the very
dregs the chalice of misery.
Rossini was much attached to Evelyn, her remarkable musical talents and
profound worship of his genius, made them a most happy pair of friends.
On her acquainting him with her possible marriage with the Duc di
Balzano, “My child,” replied the old man, “Never marry except for one of
three things: a great name, a great talent, or a large fortune.”
’Tis true for him matrimony had offered but few attractions. From his
first wife—Madame Colbran—a singer of undoubted talent, the _maestro_
was soon separated. As to the second, let us respect her name, she is
yet living, but I fear she conduces little to the domestic comfort of
her lord. It is remarkable how few celebrities of either sex have been
happy in their affections. Commencing with Socrates and his Xantippe, we
may cite Milton, Shakespeare, Byron, Dante, Tasso, Goethe, Mrs. Hemans,
Mrs. Norton, and a crowd of others, all mis-matched or crossed in love,
while Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Tom Smith and wife, with A and B, and
numerous other worthies, whose thoughts are centred in pounds or
dollars, as may be, and their multiplied progeny, are perfectly content.
Is it that they have bodies but no souls to satisfy? or doth God when he
confers on his children the divine gift of creative power, ever twine
with thorns the laurel wreath which encircles their noble brow,
baptizing them for His own with the drops of agony wrung from their
hearts? So thought and so feared our heroine, and Rossini confirmed her
in her resolve to preserve her liberty for the present.
Evelyn had continued to correspond with Balzano, but still repudiated
the idea of marriage on the plea that she could not at present
conscientiously change her belief. The latter, after some months,
became, very naturally, anxious that his ladye-love should come to some
decision, and to enable her to do so, he consented, he said, to her
remaining a Protestant, and would, on receiving her reply, at once exert
his interest to get a dispensation from the Pope. Thus was my fair
friend obliged at last either to accept the love of one to whom she felt
unable to give her whole heart, or to lose the friendship, perhaps
forever, of the man she esteemed most on earth—a common but not the less
an unpleasant dilemma. Well, what did she do? Why, she put off answering
the letter as long as she could; asked the advice of all her friends on
a point on which she alone could judge; and after having consulted every
one was as far from a decision as ever.
Evelyn, like all very impressionable people, was apt to be greatly
influenced by her surroundings; yet was she not inconstant. She would
forget, for the moment, and appear to be utterly free from all thought
of the absent; but the excitement past, she would return with deeper
passion to the memories of by-gone days. As yet, no one had approached
Balzano in her heart. He still reigned alone—manly, noble, tender, the
kind protector, the devoted friend; and yet she hesitated to make him
happy, and, I must add, to be happy herself—for what woman could be
otherwise with such a man?
Another letter, still more pressing, came from the now anxious lover.
Was his friend sick? in trouble? She was but to say one word. He would
fly to her—to her he must love till the pulses of life ceased to
beat—his bride, his soul, his delight.
I found Evelyn in tears, with the open letter in her hand. “I will
certainly write to-morrow,” she said.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------