“One day the giant, Lablache, entered his apartment. Vincenzo lay on the sofa, pale and listless, and only noticed his visitor by fixing upon him his half closed eyes. Lablache cried like a trumpet, opening his immense mouth: ‘Holloa! there! what are you lying here for, like an idle lout of a lazzaroni on the Molo, wearying yourself to death with doing nothing? Up, Bellini—up and to work! Paris, France, all Europe, is full of expectation of what you are to bring forth after your Norma, which your adversaries silenced. Bellini! do you hear me?’
“‘Indeed I do hear, my dear Lablache!’ answered the composer in a lachrymose voice; ‘you know my hearing is of the best; and if it were not, your excellent brazen bass pierces one through and through! But I pray, caro, think me not unkind, if I entreat you to leave me to myself; to tell the truth, I am really now fit for nothing better than the dolce far niente! I am indifferent to everything!’
“Lablache struck his hands together, and cried, in a tone that vibrated through the walls: ‘Is it you, Bellini—you—who speak thus? you, who till now have pressed on towards the noblest goal, nor relaxed your efforts till you reached it!—Man!—Master—Friend! will you suffer yourself to be checked in your career of fame—to lose the magnificent prize glittering before you? Will you demean yourself like some cooing Damon who whines forth complaints of the cruelty of his Doris or Phyllis? For shame! away with these womanish pinings! I tell you—’
“‘My good Lablache,’ interrupted Bellini, very gently, but visibly embarrassed; ‘you do me injustice. I know not why you suspect me of pining—I utter no complaints—’
“‘Hold your tongue!’ cried Lablache, much vexed. ‘Will you deny it? I know where the shoe pinches, very well!’
“Bellini looked down without speaking.
“‘And you look at this moment,’ continued Lablache, ‘like an apprehended schoolboy. Bellini! have you nothing to say?’
“‘Since you know all,’ said Vincenzo, with a deep sigh, ‘you know then that she sings nothing more of mine.’
“Lablache came up, laid his powerful grasp on the young master’s shoulders, lifted him from the soft cushions of the sofa to his feet, shook him well, and with flashing eyes, exclaimed: ‘I will sing something for you!’
“With stentorian voice, like a martial shout, he began the allegro to that famous duet from ‘I Puritani:’—‘Suoni la tromba e intrepido’. Bellini’s pale cheeks flushed; tears started from his eyes; at length, throwing himself into Lablache’s arms, he joined his voice in the song. When it was ended, he pledged his word to his friend that in a few weeks he would finish the composition of the whole opera.