With a pause she went on: "Bellini avoided both Maria and her husband after the marriage. If he saw M. Beriot, he went out of the way—very wisely; for in case of an encounter he might have been tempted—after the Sicilian fashion—you understand?" And with flashing eyes she swung her arm as one who gives a dagger-thrust.
"I understand the pantomime, my pretty Romeo! But your fancy carries the thing too far."
"No one knows what might have happened," she said, "in spite of Vincenzo's soft heart. It was well Malibran left Paris and went to Italy. Bellini never confided his secret to any one; but it became suspected among his friends. And Malibran must have heard of it; for she suddenly became reluctant to sang in any of Bellini's pieces. She continued, however, to represent Romeo; she could not give up that part. When the last representation of the Capuletti was given in Milan, it happened that, in the final act, when Romeo takes the poison, such a death-like shuddering seized Maria's frame, it was with great difficulty she could go through with the part. After the performance was over, she was greatly exhausted; and with emotion she declared that no power on earth should compel her to sing again the Romeo of Bellini. She adopted the part as composed by Vaccai. But she was not satisfied with that; and afterward she returned to poor Bellini's music so far as to retain the first acts of the opera. The last act she always sang as Vaccai wrote it."
"What said Vincenzo to this?"
"When he heard of it, he fell into the deepest despondency. He would neither write nor think anything more; he seemed at times to forget himself, and smiled and talked like a man who had lost his reason. All his friends noticed and lamented the change.
"One day, Lablache came to see him. He found Bellini lying listless on the sofa, pale, depressed, miserable, his eyes half-closed, indifferent to every one. The giant singer went up to him, opened his big mouth, and roared out: 'Halloa, Bellini! what are you lying there for, like an idle lout of a lazzaroni on the Molo, weary of doing nothing! Get up and go to work! Paris, France, all Europe is full of expectation as to what you are to give the world after your Norma, which your adversaries silenced. Up, I say! Do you hear me, Bellini?'
"'Indeed, I do hear you, my dear Lablache,' replied the composer in a lachrymose voice. 'I have good ears, and, if I had not, your brazen base pierces like a trumpet! Leave me, caro; leave me to myself. I am good for nothing, unless it be the dolce far niente! I have lost interest in everything!'
"'The mischief you have!' exclaimed Lablache, striking his hands together, with a tone that caused the walls to vibrate. And you—Bellini—talk thus? You, who have ever pressed on to the goal, and reached it in spite of obstacles! Are you an artist? Are you a man? Amico mio! will you be checked midway in your glorious career? Will you lose the prize fame holds out? Will you spend your life whining out loverlike complaints, like some silly Damon of his cruel Doris or Phillis? Shame on you! Such womanish pinings are unworthy of you!'
"Bellini interrupted him very gently. 'My good Lablache,' he said, 'you do me injustice! I make no complaints; I am not pining—'
"'Silence!' roared Lablache. 'You are a fool! Do you think I do not know where the shoe pinches?'