“I will, then,” she continued. “Though Bellini might have been taken for a fool or a fop at the first glance, it needed but little penetration to discover that he was a genuine son of Sicily; and that in spite of his gentleness and his weakness, all the warmth of the south glowed in his bosom. I can hardly tell how, in a few words, to give you a just and lively picture of the wonderful nature of Bellini! It was not like the volcano of his country, where you pass through luxuriant meadows, thick and stately woods, and fields of snow, before you reach—beyond a fearful lava waste, the brink of the fiery abyss; nor was it like the Hecla of your land, where eternal fire burns under eternal ice. It resembled rather an English garden, laid out with sentimental taste, with pretty shady walks and quiet streams, ornamented with shrubs and flowers, with sloping hills and fountains, and temples of delicate architecture. Ah me! I see him bodily before me. Such a garden—half-charming—half wearisome—with the abyss of fire beneath—was Bellini! And the fire burning in his breast was the love of Art—and of Maria.”
“What do you mean, Francilla?”
“Yes—it is so; he loved Maria as he loved art. How could it be otherwise? Did she not surpass all others; did she not glorify sound? Was it not she who, herself inspired with a power that gave a charm irresistible to all she did—inspired the other singers who aided her in the representation of Bellini’s works! With Bellini himself—in producing anything—the question was always—‘What will Malibran say to it?’ She was his muse, his ideal, his queen of art. He could not live without her; were I Malibran, I think I should not long survive him.”
“Ah, a pretty romance, Amina! But you forget that Malibran married M. Beriot.”
“How can I forget that, remembering the effect produced by the information on the good Vincenzo? He turned pale, trembled and faltered, and quitted the company without saying a word. Yet he could not have dreamed that Maria would wed him, for she had always treated him as if he were ten years younger, though he was in reality a year her senior. But he thought not of the possibility of her marrying again, after her divorce from that hateful Malibran; and surely M. Beriot, who was once on the point of shooting himself for the sake of Sontag, but on reflection concluded to live a little longer, was the last person he would have imagined likely to be chosen.
“After that, poor Bellini avoided Malibran as much as possible. If he caught a distant glimpse of M. Beriot, he would go quickly out of the way; not from fear of his rival, but lest he might be tempted to follow him—and after the good Sicilian fashion”—here Francilla, her eyes flashing, swung her arm with the gesture of one who gives a blow with a dagger—“do you comprehend?”
“Aye, my pretty Romeo! The pantomime is expressive enough; but surely your fancy—”
“I know a certain somebody,” she interrupted, “who would have had no conscience in carrying the matter through, to be rid of a happy rival. May I be kept from such blood-thirsty lovers! But to my story. No one knows what might have happened, spite of the softness of heart of the good Bellini; but Malibran left Paris and went to Italy, accompanied by her husband.
“It is certain that Bellini never confided to any one the secret of his unhappy passion—thus I must call the feeling that swayed him at this time. Notwithstanding it became known ere long among his friends; and Maria must have guessed it; for from that hour she sang his pieces with reluctance. Still, she appeared in the part of Romeo; and it seemed as if she could not give it up. At the last representation of the Capuletti in Milan, it happened that, in the final act, when Romeo takes the poison, such a deathlike shuddering seized Maria’s frame, that she could scarcely command herself to go through with her part. When the play was over, she declared no power on earth should compel her to sing again the Romeo of Bellini. From this time she sang that of Vaccai; but she had counted too much on her own self-denial; and at a later period returned to poor Vincenzo’s music so far as to retain the first acts of his Capuletti, and to sing only the last act of Vaccai.
“When Vincenzo heard of this cruel conduct of his adored friend, he was so cast down that he would write nothing more—would think nothing more! He talked idle stuff, and would smile vacantly, if any one addressed him, or when he spoke; in short, he was quite insufferable.