Bellini Near Paris (1835)
Abstract
Vincenzo left us in an autumn rain that came to Puteaux with the equinox. It washed all blue from the season, even the skies of his eyes which closed as he rode the summer light home. They said his beauty was like a sigh. They said he was young as dawn, hair soft as song and the color of corn, his voice sweet as the angels. But Vincenzo only trusted the beauty of sound, notes in perfect order, without the adornment of words. Here we saw him, a year past thirty, ravaged by the loss of his...