“Take your own way, my only beloved; I will do as you bid me. But, ah! I dread leaving you—I have a presentiment of evil.”
He flung himself on his knees before her; and they mingled sobs and tears. How long they remained thus, Evelyn never knew. She only felt him strain her for a moment to his breast, imprint a kiss on her brow, and then he was gone; the door closed on the manly form, and the light of the kind and loving face no longer beamed upon her.
They never met on earth again.
CHAPTER XVI.
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?”