Vincenzo Bellini (1801-1835)

Just one opera a year,no more,while the hacks
Are turning out three or four for the money
In frenetic rivalry,slaves to La Scala
And their lust for noble patrons’ largesse;
Fastidious in his ambitions, the young Sicilian,
Blue-eyed and fair-haired,hustles his way
In that foreign land, the condescending north,
As if born to the company of aristocrats,
Holding himself their natural equal,
Perfectly mannered and groomed.
Only for the highest fees will he work,
Determined to do nothing on others’ terms,
Refusing to be hurried,bullied or cajoled,
Or to settle for second-best.
Honour and pride demand no less
Than absolute victory over the also-rans,
The pack of crude vicious impostors at his heels,
Forever intriguing jealously against him
To bring him down in mid-flight.

The meandering improvised melodies,
The tension and attraction between drone and chanter
Of the bagpipers,the oscillations between major and minor,
All this he carried with him from Sicily;
To make people weep,gasp,laugh,sigh and suffer,
That alone justifies an artist’s labours:-
Recalling love and glory in the midst of sorrow,
Reaching for the heart’s inborn excess.
Grand form and majestic emotion!-
Almost-unbearable truth held straining
By subtle strictures,as an unforgettable melody
Threads the world together,realizing
That beauty and love are one.

Shunning bohemian company,
Fleeing casinos and brothels as a vampire
Runs from the crucifix and the rising sun,
Bellini walks with lordly air,his malacca cane
Held like a sceptre,announcing his nobility
And elegance to a vulgar world of fools.
Shy, discreet,he weighs the advantages
And disadvantages of every course of action,
Dreading an ill-advised marriage or hasty affair,
In case the inconvenience should outweigh
The profit,and nasty humanity devalue his repute.
Yet,nonetheless,there is this craving
To be suckled by a selfless maternal love...
Alone,he returns to simple rooms,
Frugal in habits,caring nothing for luxury
Except in his dandy’s attire;happily browsing
Through his wardrobe he selects an outfit
For every occasion,an essay in la bella figura.

Paris.To succeed there- would that not be
The crown of life! Frequenting the salons,
Bewildered amid the repartee,he fumbles
Clumsy French,all ludicrous malapropisms,
Unable to keep up with the conversation,
As he stumbles from one soiree to the next.
Surely there must be a wife for him here-
A pretty docile well-bred young girl
With a generous dowry to keep him in style,
Someone to adore him and aid his career?
At last-triumph and fame in the city of art!
The toast of Paris,young,hale and famous,
He bows,laughs and waves among fans,
Until a casual voice warns in his ear
That geniuses so seldom live long,
And,dread-stricken,he crosses himself
And makes the horn-sign with his fingers
To avert the evil eye.In vain.Shortly after,
It is all over,his cursed body half-shovelled
Into the ground already, the romantic idol
Swamped in his own shit,sweat and fear,
Murdered not by love but amoebic dysentery.
Writhing in the shrouds of a suburban room,
He clutches at melodies passing in the air,
Too miraculous and austere to be believed.