Chapter XII: Preface (12)

It was near sunset on a bright and warm day in September, 182-, that a gentleman and lady, dressed in travelling attire, might have been seen descending the steps of a palazzo fronting on one of the principal canals of Venice. They were followed by an attendant, another having gone before with their luggage, and deposited it in a plain looking gondola fastened at the foot of the steps. The travellers took their seats in this gondola, and as they pushed off, observed two gentlemen ascend the steps of the house they had just quitted, and ring at the door. While they were talking with the porter, a turn in the canal carried the gondola out of sight.

“Who knows what we have escaped, Marietta, _cara_?” said the male passenger. “If my eyes inform me rightly, one of yon cavaliers is Signor Bordoni, a friend of the Impressario here, come doubtless to tempt me with some new piece, and urge me to stay.”

“I should not regret an accident that kept us longer in Venice,” observed the lady. “You are, I know, well appreciated.”

“We will return; oh, yes! We are not bidding a long adieu to the sea-born city. But I must not disappoint our friends at Trieste.”

“How lovely a scene!” exclaimed the lady, after a pause of some length.

And in truth it was beautiful. The sun had set, but his beams yet lingered on the towers and cupolas of the palaces of Venice, and on the light clouds that overhung them like a canopy of gold. They had passed from the canal, where light boats were shooting to and fro in every direction, and the sound of footsteps and lively voices filled the air, into one of the lagunes, where a complete stillness prevailed, broken only by the plash of the water as the oars dipped, and the gentle ripple as the boat swept on, and the softened, distant murmur of human life and motion in a great city. The moon rose large, and round, and bright, in the east. There was a delicious mistiness in the atmosphere that mellowed every object; a dreamy and luxurious softening, like the languor that enhances the charms of an oriental beauty. At no great distance lay the vessel that was to convey the passengers to Trieste, waiting for them and the hour appointed to set sail.

“See that large gondola yonder!” said the lady, laying her hand suddenly on her husband’s arm. “How gracefully it glides over the waters; and it seems to follow straight on our course.”

It came onward, indeed, with almost incredible velocity; and was now near enough for them to observe that it was painted black, and moreover of a somewhat peculiar construction.

“It is a government boat,” said the man.

“She has armed men on board,” remarked their attendant. “She bears directly upon us.”

“Antonio!” exclaimed the lady, pressing close to her husband with an expression of apprehension.

“Be not alarmed, Marietta mia; they mean us no harm--though sooth to say, it is somewhat discourteous to follow us so closely. Hold there,” he cried to the gondolier; “let us rest a moment and see what they want with us.”

The gondolier backed water with his oars so dexterously, that the course of the light vessel was checked in an instant, and she quivered on the water without making a foot’s progress. At the same moment the other boat came along side, and also stopped. An officer wearing the imperial uniform stood up and signed to the gondolier as if forbidding him to proceed.

“May I ask, signore, what this means?” demanded the gentleman passenger. “We are in haste.”

“And we also,” replied the officer. “I am in search of a person called Antonio Tamburini.”

“I am he.”

“It is well. You will please accompany me.”

“That is impossible. I am about to sail for Trieste. We are on our way to the vessel.”

“You must return. I have an order for your arrest.” And he exhibited an order, signed by the proper authorities, and made out in due form, for the arrest of Antonio Tamburini.

The lady uttered a half shriek, and clung to her husband.

“Here is some mistake, signor. I am the singer Tamburini. I have never interfered in politics; I have nothing to do with the government. I am but a chance passenger through Venice.”

“My orders are positive,” said the officer, with some appearance of impatience. “Make way there;” and while his armed attendants moved so as to allow seats for the prisoners, he offered his hand to the lady to assist her into the other boat.

Our hero was sufficiently vexed at this unexpected delay, but saw that it was inevitable. Offering his arm to his wife, he helped her to change her place, and gave directions for the transfer of his luggage. In a few minutes they were retracing their course across the lagune.

Not a word was spoken by any of the party, except that once the officer inquired if the lady’s seat was commodious. Notwithstanding the silence, however, his manner and that of his men was respectful in the highest degree; and this circumstance somewhat encouraged the hopes of his prisoners that their unpleasant detention might be followed by no serious misfortune. But who could penetrate the mysteries of governmental policy, or the involutions of its suspicion?

Thus it was not without misgiving that Tamburini entered Venice on his compulsory return; and these apprehensions were strengthened when he saw it was not the intention of his guards to conduct him to his late residence. They passed the Palazzo di ----; the arcades of San Marco. They were not far from the ancient ducal palace. Thoughts of a prison, of secret denunciations, of unknown accusers, of trial and sentence, were busy in Antonio’s brain, and caused him to move uneasily. As for the lady, she was pale as death, and hardly able to support herself upright. The more inexplicable seemed the danger the greater was her dread. Once she leaned towards her husband and whispered, in a touching tone of distress--“My mother--how will she feel when she knows what has befallen us!”

Gentle and generous instinct of woman! Her first thought under the severest pressure of calamity is always for the dear ones whom the blow that crushes her perchance may bruise!

At length the gondola stopped. The moon was shining so brightly, that the marble steps seemed almost to radiate light. There was a hum of voices at a distance, and tones of music at intervals floated on the air; but all was still immediately around them. Two of the guard took their places on either side of the prisoners; two followed; the officer walked before and led the way up a dark flight of steps that terminated in a wide corridor. This, too, was only lighted by a torch carried in the hand of one of the attendants.

“Antonio, whither are we going?” asked Madame Tamburini, in a feeble voice, and leaning heavily on her husband’s arm, half fainting with affright.

“Courage, my beloved!” answered he, supporting her with his arm; “we shall soon know the worst.”

Crossing the corridor, they entered another long gallery, and walked its whole length in silence, stopping before a massive door at the lower end. The officer directed the door to be opened. It swung on its hinges with a most dungeon-like grating, and the prisoners were ushered into the next apartment.

The sudden light, combined with the effect of overpowering surprise, nearly completed the work of terror on the lady’s trembling frame; she would have fallen to the earth had not the officer supported her. Several persons came crowding round to offer their assistance. Tamburini thought himself fallen into a trance, and rubbed his eyes. They stood in the green-room of the opera house!

This, then, was their dungeon! And what meant this bold invasion of their liberty?--this marching them back as prisoners, under guard, and in fear of their lives? Was it the work of the Impressario? Apparently not--for he stood with open eyes and mouth, as much astonished as the rest at the unexpected apparition of the distinguished singer. He turned an inquiring look towards the officer.

“I know what you would ask, Signor Tamburini,” replied the cool official, “and will give you all the satisfaction in my power. I have the honor to announce to you the commands of His Majesty the Emperor. It is his imperial will that you perform this night in the Marriage of Figaro. The Emperor himself, with His Majesty the Emperor of Russia, will honor the performance with his presence.”

Who is there that had the happiness of being present on that memorable occasion, of witnessing the brilliant and graceful performance of Tamburini, that can forget it? The splendor of the scene, the countless number of spectators, comprising the beauty and aristocracy of the most aristocratic of Italian cities, assembled in the presence of two of the most powerful monarchs in Europe; the pomp of royalty; the enthusiasm of a people eager to do homage to genius; the gorgeous decorations of the theatre; the admirable aid of a well chosen orchestra--all these were but accessories to the triumph of the young and distinguished artist. It was for him this glorious pageant was devised--he was the power that set in motion this vast machinery! What wonder that human pride failed to withstand a tribute so splendid, and that Tamburini, as he trod the stage, and listened to the bursts of rapturous applause that shook the house like peals of thunder, and knew himself the cynosure of all eyes,--the idol of beauty, nobility and royalty,--felt within his breast an inspiration almost superhuman!

When the opera was over, he was called out to receive the bravos of the audience, and the wreaths that fell in showers at his feet. When, flushed with triumph, yet filled with gratitude, he returned behind the curtain, he was surprised to find himself still a prisoner. The guard was ready to conduct him accompanied by his wife to the lodging assigned them. They were treated, indeed, with courtesy and respect, like prisoners of state; but our hero felt uneasy under the restraint, of which he could obtain no explanation further than “he would know on the morrow.”

The next day, a little after noon, Tamburini was conducted to the imperial presence. Surrounded by his court, by foreign nobles and visitors of distinction, the emperor entertained his illustrious guest, the Emperor of Russia, who sat at his right hand. There was silence throughout the courtly assembly when the artist was led in. He made a suitable obeisance when his name was announced, and stood with a respectful air to await the monarch’s commands.

“Signor Tamburini,” said the Emperor of Austria, “you stand before us a prisoner, and, we understand, plead ignorance as to the cause of your arrest.”

“I am, indeed, ignorant, sire,” replied the artist, “in what respect I have been so unfortunate as to transgress the laws or offend your majesty.”

“We will tell you, then,” said the emperor, gravely. “It was your treasonous design to pass through this noble city without stopping to perform at the opera house. Your plan was detected--you were taken in the very act of departure.”

“Your majesty----,” began the artist.

“Silence, sir; it is in vain to defend yourself. You are proved guilty not only of a conspiracy to defraud our good Venetians of their rights in refusing them the privilege of hearing you, but of _lese majesté_ against ourself and our illustrious brother, the Emperor of Russia. You lie at our mercy; but you have many friends, and at their intercession we remit you other punishment than a few days’ imprisonment. Meanwhile, we have ordered a sum to be paid you, in testimony of our approval of your last night’s performance; and in addition, ask of us any favor you choose.”

“Sire, my gratitude--your gracious condescension----”

Tamburini’s voice faltered from emotion.

“Your boon, if you please!” cried the emperor, impatiently.

“Sire, it is simply this--permission to keep my word, pledged to my friends at Trieste, who are expecting me.”

There was a murmur of surprise among the spectators. The monarch, after a pause, replied, with a gracious smile--

“You are a noble fellow, Tamburini, and your request shall be granted. Only to-night we must have you in _Lucia di Lammermoor_. We are told you are inimitable in that last adagio. And now, come nearer.”

The artist knelt at the monarch’s feet.

“Receive from our hands this medal _di nostro Salvatore_,”[13] and the emperor flung the chain around his neck. “Learn thus how much we love to do honor to genius.”

Thus loaded with distinction, the artist was presented to the Russian emperor, and received the compliments and congratulations of the nobility present. He was destined ere long to receive in other lands honors almost equal to those bestowed in his own; and to show how boundless and how absolute is the dominion Heaven has given the true artist over the human heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Wellington was the only foreigner who had received this compliment previously to Tamburini.

BELLINI.

The hunting-castle of Moritzburg, in Saxony, a place noted as the locality of the tradition of the “Freischutzen,” is situated a few hours’ ride from Dresden. It was my custom to pass a week or two there in the harvesting season, with the worthy forester. He was always glad to see me, because I took pleasure in his pursuits; drew sketches of forest scenes, and composed hunting songs such as were sung in Saxony and Bohemia. There were jovial meetings, too, occasionally at the public house in the neighboring village of Eisenberg; where we had sometimes a dance with the merry country damsels, to the tunes played by the Bohemian fiddlers.

One afternoon in September of 1835, I was present at one of these gatherings, and had mingled freely in the sports. I was leading off my partner for a waltz, when the post-boy from Dresden came in, and distributed his letters among the guests. He recognized me at once, and coming forward with a “’Tis lucky, sir, I find you here,” handed me a letter.

I broke the seal; it ran as follows:

“_La Sonnambula_ is performed to-morrow night; and Francilla appears as Amina. She sends you her compliments. Come and see her!

“Your friend,
“J. P. PIXIS.”

I called one of the servants and ordered my horse saddled immediately. After the waltz was over, I took a hasty leave, threw myself on my horse, and rode with all speed towards Dresden.

I arrived in time for the opera; of which I was glad, for I had determined not to call upon Francilla till after the representation of La Sonnambula. The next morning I went to her lodgings in Castle-street, and was admitted. As I entered the parlor, she came to meet me, looking unusually pale, and with eyes red, as with weeping. She held out her hand in silence; I was startled; the cheerful welcome died on my lips. I looked anxiously at her, but did not venture to speak.

At length she asked, with a pensive smile, if I had been the preceding night at the opera.

“Indeed I was, Francilla,” I replied. “I saw you, and hardly know how I got home, so filled were head and heart with the music. I have much--so much to say to you! But I find you so altered--so----”

“Dejected, you would say,” interrupted the singer. “Ah yes! and well I may be so; and you too!”

“Why, Francilla! what has happened?”

“Alas! BELLINI is dead!” she cried, and began to weep bitterly.

I was amazed. “Bellini dead!” the great master, whose noble creations had enchanted me but a few hours before! Sad news, indeed! and grievous it was to think how early he had been called from us; he, so admirable as an artist--so honored and beloved as a man! I felt even disposed to murmur at the painful dispensation.

After a few moments’ indulgence of emotion, Francilla endeavored to compose herself. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, rose and went for her album, to show me the drawing I had sent her for the volume. The drawing was a sketch of herself as Romeo, in the moment that Juliet, awakening in the tomb, calls on his name, while he answers with uplifted eyes, thinking it the voice of an angel.

We turned over the leaves of the album, which she held on her lap, while I knelt beside her. It was a pleasure to observe the play of her expressive features, as this or that name presented itself, exhibiting different emotions in turn. When the bold, rude autograph of Judith Pasta was displayed, the soft and languishing eyes of Francilla kindled with a look of haughtiness; and Sontag herself never smiled more sweetly than she, pointing to the name of Countess Rossi.

When she came to the handwriting of her uncle Pixis, in Prague, she stopped to tell me of his wife and mother, and their quiet domestic life; charging me, in case I went again to Prague, with many messages. While running on thus, and turning over the leaves of the album, she suddenly paused. Two names were recorded, opposite each other, those of Vincenzo Bellini and Maria Malibran. Maria had written a few words of friendship; Bellini a passage from the Capuletti,--the beginning of Romeo’s lamentation over Juliet, when he first discovers her death.

Without speaking, Francilla took from me a silver pencil she had sent me some time before, drew a cross under Bellini’s signature, and gave me back the pencil with a look I shall never forget.

Al length, to break the painful silence, I said, “Tell me, Francilla, why, in the last act of the Capuletti, do you make use of Vaccai’s music--not Bellini’s? No doubt, in detached portions, Vaccai is simpler and more expressive; but as a whole, Bellini’s composition is far superior, and the close infinitely more touching. The passage, ‘Padre crudel,’ etc., in particular, is so moving, and at the same time so calm, I wonder, and so do others, that you have changed it for Vaccai’s, which is so much tamer.”

Francilla did not answer immediately, but looked earnestly at me. When she spoke, it was in a strangely solemn tone. “Listen, and I will tell you a history, which is indeed a romance in itself. You will then see what our poor friend has suffered: and why Maria and I could not sing his last act.”

And with her eyes fixed upon the cross under Bellini’s name, she continued:

“You know, mon ami, that Vincenzo was born at the foot of Etna. He looked not like it, indeed, for he was fair and blue-eyed, like your pretty women of Dresden; and to say truth, was a little effeminate, and rather foppish sometimes in his manners. Poor Vincenzo! I used to laugh, when you, in old times, described him to me as you thought him. In short, he was like any ordinary young gentleman, both in appearance and behavior. I tell my story after a crooked fashion?” she asked, interrupting herself, with a smile.

“No, no! dear Francilla,” I cried, “go on, I pray you!”

“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.

“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.

“Vincenzo did as he promised. Before many weeks had passed, he gave ‘I Puritani’ complete into the hands of Lablache, who in great delight, promised that the work should be worthily represented.

“The opera was cast; the rehearsals began. After the first rehearsal, Bellini went to his country seat at Puteaux, not far from Paris. He could not be present at the second rehearsal, on account of indisposition. It was on the night of its first representation, just at the time when that famous duet was repeated amidst thunders of applause from the enraptured audience, that the news was spread through the theatre: ‘Bellini died an hour ago at his country seat.’”

Francilla closed the album, rose quickly, and went to the window. I thought it best to leave the room quietly; but she turned as I was going, and saying in a low tone: “Stay, mon ami, I have not sung you anything to-day!” seated herself at the piano. The song was a melancholy one, and might have been composed for the farewell of him who had so lately gone from earth. She sang with wonderful expression and feeling.

“The sun’s last beam has paled away--
The quiet night is near;
And stars far off and numberless
Are shining still and clear.
The flowers their leaves in odors steep,
Soft whispers on the breezes sleep.
So light my bosom’s throbbings--I,
Too blest, might deem mine angel nigh!

“He is--my spirit tells me so,
That soon shall quit this clay;
Freed from the load of earthly wo,
He bears my soul away.
The wo that pierces here my breast
In yonder world shall make me blest;
That for which here in vain I long,
In that pure sphere shall swell my song!

“Then, O thou Genius bright--draw near,
And bid me quickly come;
Give me the consecrating kiss--
I follow to thy home!
And she, to whom myself I gave,
Shall seek the singer’s lonely grave;
There let the flower that greets her, say--
‘He loves thee still--though passed away!’”

When she had ended, Pixis came into the room. “What is all this?” he cried, as he saw the traces of emotion on her countenance.

“Francilla,” I replied, “has been telling me of Bellini’s unhappy love for Malibran.”

“Do not believe a word of it!”[14] cried Pixis, laughing. “If you get her on that chapter, she will go on romancing like any poet in the world.”

The conversation was broken off by the entrance of the pretty Maschinka Schneider. Francilla welcomed her friend with joy; and the two ladies talked of the representation of the Capuletti, which was to be repeated in a few days. I was consulted respecting the arrangements in the burial vault, and had many thanks for my excellent advice about the Romeo of Francilla and the Giulietta of Maschinka.

When, in taking leave, I kissed the hand of my little friend, she whispered me earnestly that I must think of what she had told me. I did think of it when, a year afterwards, I read in the newspapers that Malibran had died on the 23d of September at Manchester; the same day on which, a year before, the death of Bellini had taken place.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] The reader is advised to follow the counsel of Pixis. Bellini was always in love, it is true; but we have no reason to believe Malibran was ever the object of his passion.--_Trans._

LOVE VERSUS TASTE.[15]