University of Virginia Library

VINCENZO BELLINI.

In the narrow street of St. Christofero, in Catania,
and near the little church of the same name, in a
dwelling of the humblest order, now superseded by a
larger edifice, was born the most beautiful composer
of our times. To the imaginative mind of Isabel,
his name and memory were sacredly endeared. It
has been said, that no after maturity of judgment
can dissolve the spell, by which the first poet we
ever understood and enjoyed is hallowed in our
estimation. On the same principle, the composer
whose works are the means of awakening in our
hearts a new sense of the wonder and power of his
art, whose compositions sway our spirits as no others
have done, and address our associations with an eloquence,

compared with which all similar language is
unimpressive, holds a place in our estimation and
affections second to that of no intellectual benefactor.
He has opened to us a new world. He has brought
a hitherto untried influence to stir the ocean of
feeling. He has created yet another joy in the dim
circle of our experience; and woven a fresh and
perennial flower into the withered garland of life.
With the thought of Bellini embalmed in such a sentiment
of gratitude, Isabel, accompanied by the Count,
who had arranged the visit for her gratification,
went forth to view the memorials of the departed,
that were in the possession of his family.

“The young Vincenzo,” said Vittorio, “from his
earliest infancy, gave evidence of the genius of his
nature. His susceptibility to musical sounds was
remarkable. He could be moved, at any time, to
tears or laughter, to sadness or ecstacy, by the voice
of harmony. While a mere child, after hearing on
public occasions a new air, he would, on returning
home, from memory transcribe it. At eight years
old, his little hands ran over the keys of the organ at
the Benedictine Convent, with surprising facility. His
first compositions were occasional pieces of sacred
music. It was early discovered that he was a
proper object of patronage, and, soon after arriving
at manhood, he was sent at the expense of government,
to study at Naples and Rome. The result of an
acquaintance with what had been effected in his
art, was to make more clearly perceptible to his
mind the necessity of a new school. The history of

genius in every department is almost always a record
of conflicts—of struggles against what is dominant.
Thus the early efforts of Bellini were frequently
unappreciated and misunderstood. Still he
persevered in consulting the oracle of his own gifts,
and in developing the peculiar, and now universally
admired style, which marks his compositions. The
first of his successful operas was the Pirata, then the
Straniera, then the Sonnambula, and then Norma.[1]
In each successive work we can trace a decided
progression. The first is pretty, often beautiful; the
last is throughout beautiful, and frequently sublime.
It is a delightful thought, that in a country where
literary talent is repelled by the restrictions on the
press, musical genius is untrammeled, and human
sentiment may, through this medium, find free and
glorious development.”

“I have always regarded music,” said Isabel, “as
the perfection of language.”

“Undoubtedly it should so be considered, and although
the censors jealously guard the actual verbal
expressions attached to operas; to a true imagination
and just sensibility, the mere notes of masterpieces

are perfectly distinguishable, as expressive of
the thousand sentiments which sway the heart.
Bellini, it is believed, was one of that secret society,
which has for some time existed, under the title of
“Young Italy,” whose aim is the restoration of these
regions to independence; and we can read, or rather
feel, the depth and fervor of his liberal sentiments,
breathing in the glowing strains of his last opera—
the Puritani.”

Thus conversing, they arrived at the residence of
his family, where, with emotions of melancholy interest,
they viewed the tokens of his brief, but brilliant
career. There were little remembrancers
whose workmanship testified that they were wrought
by fair hands;—the order of the legion of honor, a
rich carpet worked by the ladies of Milan, with the
names of his operas tastefully interwoven; and
many fantasies and fragments written by his own
hand. There was something indescribably touching
in the sight of these trophies. Isabel felt, as she
gazed upon them, how empty and unavailing are the
tributes men pay to living genius, compared with
that heritage of fame which is its after-recompence.
What were these glittering orders to the breast they
once adorned—now mouldering in the grave? And
these indications of woman's regard, which, perhaps,
more than any other, pleased the heart of the young
Catanese—how like the deckings of vanity did they
seem now, when he for whom they were playfully
wrought, was enshrined among the sons of fame!
How sad, too, to behold the slight characters and

unconnected notes—the recorded inspiration of him,
who alone could rightly combine, and truly set forth
their meaning! How affecting to look upon these
characters—the pencilings of genius, and remember
that the hand which inscribed them was cold in the
tomb! But Isabel dwelt longest and most intently,
upon a miniature of Bellini, taken at the age of
twenty-three, after the representation of the Pirata.
It portrayed the youthful composer, with a pale,
intellectual countenance, an expansive and noble
brow, and hair of the lightest auburn. There was a
striking union of gentleness and intelligence, of lofty
capacity and kindly feeling in the portrait. “How
unlike the generality of his countrymen!” exclaimed
Isabel, who had looked for the dark eye and hair of
the nation. “Nature, in every respect,” replied Vittorio,
“marked him for a peculiar being. Yet the
softness and quiet repose of the countenance is like
his harmony. The mildness of the eye and the delicacy
of the complexion speak of refinement. The
whole physiognomy is indicative of taste and sentiment,
a susceptibility and grace almost womanly,
and, at the same time, a thoughtfulness and calm
beauty, which speak of intellectual labour and suffering.
The face of Bellini here depicted is like his
music—moving, expressive, and graceful. I have seen
portraits taken at a later age with less of youth, and,
perhaps, for that reason, less of interest in their
expression. During his lifetime, all he received for
his works, not absolutely requisite for his support, was
immediately sent to his family. And now his aged
father may be said, in a double sense, to live on the
fame of his son, since in consideration of that
son's arduous labours in the cause of music, which in
Southern Europe may be considered, perhaps, the
only truly national object of common interest, the
old man receives a pension from government, quite
adequate to his maintenance.”

“I think,” said Isabel, as the party were seated in
the opera-house, the same evening, “that the great
characteristic of Bellini, is what may be called his
metaphysical accuracy. There is an intimate correspondence
between the idea of the drama and the
notes of the music. What a perfect tone of disappointed
affection lurks in the strain, `Ah! perche
non posso odiarti?'—the favourite air in the Sonnambula;
and who that should unpreparedly hear
the last duet of the Norma, would not instantly feel
that it is the mingled expression of despair and fondness?
How warlike and rousing are the Druidical chorusses,
and what peace breathes in the Hymn to the
Moon! It is this delicate and earnest adaptation of
the music to the sentiment, this typifying of emotion
in melody, that seems to me to render Bellini's strains
so heart-stiring.”

“In other words,” said Vittorio, “he affects us
powerfully, for the same reason that Shakespeare, or
any other universally acknowledged genius, excites
our sympathy. His music is true. He has been
called the Petrarch of harmony; that poet being
deemed by the Italians the most perfect portrayer of
love.”

“And would that his fate had been more like that
bards'!” exclaimed Isabel. “How melancholy that
he should have died so young, in the very moment,
as it were, of success and honor! I shall never forget
the sorrow I felt when his death was announced to
me. I was in a ball-room. The scene was gay and
festive. The band had performed in succession the
most admired quadrilles from his operas. I was
standing in a circle which surrounded a party of
waltzers, and expressed the delight I had received
from the airs we had just heard. My companion
responded, and sighing, calmly said, `what a pity he
will compose no more!' When I thus learned the
fact of his death, and afterwards the particulars, a
gloom came over my spirits which, during the evening,
had been uncommonly buoyant. I retired to
the most solitary part of the room, and indulged the
reflections thus suddenly awakened, `how few,
thought I, of this gay throng, as they dance to the
enlivening measures of Bellini, will breathe a sigh
for his untimely end, or give a grateful thought to
his memory.' Some of the company passed me on
their way to the music room. I joined them. A
distinguished amateur, with a fine base voice, had
taken his seat at the instrument. For a moment he
turned over the book listlessly, and then, as if
inspired by a pleasing recollection, burst forth in that
mournfully beautiful cavatina, `Vi ravisso luoghi
ameni.' He sang it with much feeling. There was
silent and profound attention. The tears rose to my
eyes. To my excited imagination we seemed to be listening

to the dirge of Bellini; and, as the last lengthened
note died on the lips of the vocalist—thus,
thought I, he expired. Little did I then think I
should ever see the native city of the composer, or
sit in the opera-house which he doubtless frequented.”

“It but this moment occurred to me,” replied Vittorio,
“that, perhaps, in this very place, Bellini first
learned to appreciate the science he afterwards so
signally advanced; to realize the expressiveness of
the agency he afterwards so effectually wielded, to
feel the power of the art to whose advancement he
afterwards so nobly contributed. Perhaps here first
dawned on his young ambition the thought of being
a composer. Perhaps, as the breathings of love,
grief, fear, and triumph here stirred his youthful
breast, the bright hope of embodying them in thrilling
music, and thus living in his `land's language,' rose,
like the star of destiny, before his awakened fancy.”

There is a narrow but sequestered road leading
from Catania to Cifali just without the Porta D' Aci.
A low, plaster wall separates it on both sides from
extensive gardens — the site of an ancient burial
place where memorials of the dead have been frequently
disinterred. Over the top of these boundaries,
the orange and almond trees, in the season of
spring, refresh the pedestrian with their blossoms and
perfume. In the early mornings of summer, or at
the close of day, this road is often sought by the
meditative, being less frequented than most of the
other highways leading from the city. There one

can stroll along, and interest himself with the thought
of the now extinct people near whose ruined sepulchres
he is treading; or gaze upon the broad face
and swelling cone of Etna which rises before him.
At an agreeable distance from the commencement of
this path is an old monastery of Franciscans. The
floor of the venerable church is covered with the
deeply-carved tablets, beneath which are the remains
of the Catanese nobility, their arms elaborately
sculptured upon the cold slabs. Strangers sometimes
visit a chapel adjacent to see a well executed bust
which displays the features of the nobleman who lies
beneath, and is thought to be the capo d'opera of a
Roman sculptor. The adjoining chapel is assigned
as the last resting place of Vincenzo Bellini, whose
monument will soon exhibit its fresh-chiselled aspect
amid the time-worn emblems around. Thither, one
morning, Isabel and the Count wandered, and after
leaving the church sat upon a stone bench which
overlooked the scene, and to her enquiries as to the
funeral honors paid, in his native island, to the memory
of the composer, he replied, “You should have
witnessed in order to realize the universal grief of
the Catanese. Business was suspended. Every voice
faltered as it repeated the tidings; every eye was
moistened as it marked the badges of mourning. In
the Capital the same spirit prevailed. There but a
few months previous, the king entered the city and
no voice hailed him, because the professions made
at the outset of his reign were unfulfilled. The gifted
composer came, and acclamations welcomed him.
Every testimony of private regard and public honor
was displayed. His sojourn was a festival. So the
news of his death created universal grief. Here, in
the spirit of antiquity, an oration was pronounced in
the theatre, his favourite airs performed, and actors,
in the old Sicilian costume, represented the effect of
his death by an appropriate piece, with mournful
music. In the streets were processions, in the
churches masses, and in the heart of every citizen
profound regret.”

“And this,” said Isabel, glancing over the scene,
“is a fit place for his repose. He will sleep at the
foot of Etna, amid the nobles of his native city. The
ladies of this villa, as they wander through the garden
in the still summer evenings, will sing his most
soothing strains. The peasant as he rides by on his
mule, at the cool hour of dawn, will play upon his
reeds the gladdest notes, the choir in the church will
chant the anthems, and the blind violinist, as he rests
by the road side, cheer himself with the pleasant
music of the departed composer.”

They rose to depart. As Isabel looked back, and
began to lose sight of the ancient convent, she observed
a lofty cypress at the corner of the road. As its
dense foliage waved solemnly, and its spire-like cone
pointed heavenward, it appeared to her saddened
fancy, like a mournful sentinel standing to guard
from sacrilege, and point out for homage the last
resting place of Bellini.