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.
