It is doubtful whether any violinist ever lived concerning whom more fantastic stories were told. His gruesome aspect, his frequent disappearances from public life, his peculiar habits, all tended to make him an object of interest,—and interest is sometimes shown in eagerness to hear anything at all about the subject.

He enjoyed conversation when he was in the company of a small circle of friends. He was cheerful at evening parties,—if music was not mentioned. He had an excellent memory for features and names of persons whom he had met, but it is said that he never remembered the names of towns at which he had given concerts. He was very severe with orchestras, and any mistakes made by them would bring forth a tempest of rage, though satisfactory work would be rewarded with expressions of approval. When he came to a pause for the introduction of a cadenza, at rehearsal, the musicians would frequently rise, eager to watch his performance, but Paganini would merely play a few notes, and then stopping suddenly would smile and say, "Et cetera, messieurs!" and reserve his strength for the public performance.

His peculiarities were shown strongly in his arrangements for personal comfort while travelling, for his constant suffering precluded the enjoyment of the beauties of nature. He was always cold, and even in summer kept a large cloak wrapped around him, and the windows of the carriage carefully closed. Before starting he took merely a basin of soup or a cup of chocolate, and though he frequently remained nearly the whole day without further refreshment, he slept a great deal and thus escaped some of the pain which the jolting of the carriage caused him. His luggage consisted of a small dilapidated trunk, which contained his violin, his jewels, his money, and a few fine linen articles. Besides this he had only a hat-case and a carpet-bag, and frequently a napkin would contain his entire wardrobe. In a small red pocketbook he kept his accounts and his papers, which represented an immense value, and nobody but himself could decipher the hieroglyphics which indicated his expenses and receipts. He cared not whether his apartment, at the inns on the road, was elegantly furnished or a mere garret, but he always kept the windows open in order to get an "air-bath," contrary to his custom while in a carriage.

While the secret of Paganini's marvellous technique was incessant hard work, to which he was urged not less by his own ambition than by his father's cruelty, yet in later years he seldom practised, and his playing was chiefly confined to his concerts and rehearsals. There are several good stories dealing with this peculiarity. One man is said to have followed him around for months, taking the adjoining room at hotels, in order to find the secret of his success by hearing him practise. Once, when looking through the keyhole, he saw the virtuoso go to the violin case, take out the instrument, and after seeing that it was in tune,—put it back again.

Sir Charles Halle tells about seeing Paganini in Paris, where he used to spend an hour every day sitting in a publisher's shop, "a striking, awe-inspiring, ghostlike figure." Halle was introduced to him, but conversation was difficult, for Paganini sat there taciturn, rigid, hardly ever moving a muscle of his face. He made the young pianist play for him frequently, indicating his desire by pointing at the piano with his long, bony hand, without speaking. Halle was dying to hear the great violinist play, and one day, after they had enjoyed a long silence, Paganini rose and went to his violin case. He took the violin out, and began to tune it carefully with his fingers, without using the bow. Halle's agitation was becoming intolerable, for he thought that the moment had arrived at which his desire was to be gratified. But when Paganini had satisfied himself that his violin was all right, he carefully put it back in the case and shut it up.

Paganini was notoriously parsimonious, and it was related that one evening in Florence he left his hotel rather late, jumped into a coach and ordered the man to drive him to the theatre. The distance was short, but he felt that it would not do to keep the public waiting. He was to play the prayer from "Moses" on one string. On arrival at the theatre he asked the driver, "How much?" "For you," replied the Jehu, "ten francs." "What? Ten francs? You joke," replied the virtuoso. "It is only the price of a ticket to your concert," was the excuse. Paganini hesitated a moment, and then handed to the man what he considered to be a fair remuneration, saying, "I will pay you ten francs when you drive me on one wheel."

At one time Paganini astonished the world by making to Hector Berlioz the magnificent present of twenty thousand francs. Berlioz was at that time almost in a state of despair. His compositions were not appreciated, and he was at a loss to know which way to turn. He made a final effort and gave a last concert, at which Paganini was present and congratulated him.

Jules Janin, the celebrated critic and writer, went into ecstasies over the affair. Paganini, he said, who had been attacked for hard-heartedness and avarice, was present at the concert, and at the end prostrated himself before Berlioz, and shed tears. Hope returned and Berlioz went home in triumph, for he had satisfied one great musical critic. The next day he received a note from Paganini enclosing twenty thousand francs, to be devoted to three years of repose, study, liberty, and happiness.

In Sir Charles Halle's biography, however, this story receives important modifications. It appears that Armand Bertin, the wealthy proprietor of the Journal des Debates, had a high regard for Berlioz, who was on his staff, and knew of his struggles, which he was anxious to lighten. He resolved, therefore, to make him a present of twenty thousand francs, and to enhance the moral effect of this gift he persuaded Paganini to appear as the donor of the money. What would have appeared as a simple gratuity from a rich and powerful editor toward one of his staff, became a significant tribute from one genius to another. The secret was well kept and was never divulged to Berlioz. It was known only to two of Bertin's friends, and Halle learned it about seven years later, when he had become an intimate friend of Madame Bertin, and she had been for years one of his best pupils.

Paganini created the difficulties which he performed. He had a style of his own, and was most successful in playing his own compositions. In Paris, when, out of respect to the Parisians, he played a concerto by Rode, and one by Kreutzer, he scarcely rose above mediocrity, and he was well aware of his failure. He adopted the ideas of his predecessors, resuscitated forgotten effects and added to them, and the chief features of his performance were, the diversity of tones produced, the different methods of tuning his instrument, the frequent employment of double and single harmonics, the simultaneous use of pizzicato and bow passages, the use of double and triple notes, the various staccati, and a wonderful facility for executing wide intervals with unerring accuracy, together with a great variety of styles of bowing. The quality of tone which he produced was clear and pure, but not excessively full, and, according to Fetis, he was a master of technique and phrasing rather than a pathetic player,—there was no tenderness in his accents.

It is said that Baillot used to hide his face when Paganini played a pizzicato with the left hand, harmonics, or a passage in staccato. Dancla, in his recollections, says: "I had noticed in Paganini his large, dry hand, of an astonishing elasticity; his fingers long and pointed, which enabled him to make enormous stretches, and double and triple extensions, with the utmost facility. The double and triple harmonics, the successions of harmonics in thirds and sixths, so difficult for small hands, owing to the stretch they require, were to him as child's play. When playing an accentuated pizzicato with the left hand, while the melody was played by the hand of the bow, the fourth finger pinched the string with prodigious power even when the other three fingers were placed."

There are anecdotes told of Paganini's artistic contests with rival violinists, chief among whom were Lafont and Lipinski, both of whom he eclipsed, and of his playing a concerto in manuscript at sight, with the music upside down on the rack.

Of his appearance we are told, in an account of a concert in London: "A tall, haggard figure, with long, black hair, strangely falling down to his shoulders, slid forward like a spectral apparition. There was something awful, unearthly in that countenance; but his play! our pen seems involuntarily to evade the difficult task of giving utterance to sensations which are beyond the reach of language." After detailing the performance, the account continues: "These excellencies consist in the combination of absolute mechanical perfection of every imaginable kind, perfection hitherto unknown and unthought of, with the higher attributes of the human mind, inseparable from eminence in the fine arts, intellectual superiority, sensibility, deep feeling, poesy, genius."

In regard to this accomplishment of playing on one string, a critic said: "To effect so much on a single string is truly wonderful; nevertheless any good player can extract more from two than from one. If Paganini really produces so much effect on a single string, he would certainly obtain more from two. Then why not employ them? We answer, because he is waxing exceedingly wealthy by playing on one." Paganini seems to have reasoned from the opposite point, viz., that if the retention of two strings be regarded with such wonder, how much greater the marvel will be if only one is used.

To offset these suggestions of charlatanism, or perhaps rather to show that, with all his charlatanism, Paganini was a marvel, we may see what effect his playing had upon some men who were not likely to be caught by mere trickery. Rossini, upon being asked how he liked Paganini, replied: "I have wept but three times in my life; the first, on the failure of my earliest opera; the second time, when, in a boat with some friends, a turkey stuffed with truffles fell overboard; and thirdly, when I heard Paganini play for the first time."

Spohr, after hearing him play, in 1830, said: "Paganini came to Cassel and gave two concerts, which I heard with great interest. His left hand and his constantly pure intonation were, to me, astonishing; but in his compositions and his execution I found a strange mixture of the highly genial and the childishly tasteless, by which one felt alternately charmed and disappointed."

George Hogarth, the musical critic, writes about Paganini's "running up and down a single string, from the nut to the bridge, for ten minutes together, or playing with the bow and the fingers of his right hand, mingling pizzicato and arcato notes with the dexterity of an Indian juggler." It was not, however, by such tricks as these, but in spite of them, that he gained the suffrages of those who were charmed by his truly great qualities,—his soul of fire, his boundless fancy, his energy, tenderness, and passion; these are the qualities which give him a claim to a place among the greatest masters of the art.

Perhaps the finest description of Paganini is the one written by Leigh Hunt:

"So play'd of late to every passing thought With finest change (might I but half as well So write) the pale magician of the bow, Who brought from Italy the tales, made true, Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath;

"Of witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thin, And palsied nods—mirth, wicked, sad, and weak; And then with show of skill mechanical, Marvellous as witchcraft he would overthrow That vision with a show'r of notes like hail; Flashing the sharp tones now, In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine Into some utmost tip of minute sound, From whence he stepp'd into a higher and higher On viewless points, till laugh took leave of him.

"Then from one chord of his amazing shell Would he fetch out the voice of quires, and weight Of the built organ; or some twofold strain Moving before him like some sweet-going yoke, Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar; And ever and anon o'er these he'd throw Jets of small notes like pearl."



CHAPTER V.

1800 TO 1830.

Paganini was an epoch-making artist. He revolutionised the art of violin playing, and to his influence, or through his example, were developed the modern French and Belgian schools. While Paganini was a genius, a great musician, and a wonderful violinist, he combined with these qualities that of a trickster, and the exponents of the modern French school adopted some of the less commendable features of Paganini's playing, while the Belgian school followed the more serious lines, and became a much sounder school.

Alard, Dancla, and Maurin were exponents of the French school, while in that of Belgium we have De Beriot, Massart, Vieuxtemps, Leonard, Wieniawski.

Lambert Joseph Massart was born at Liege in 1811, and was first taught by an amateur named Delavau, who, delighted with the remarkable talent displayed by his young pupil, succeeded in securing for him, from the municipal authorities of Liege, a scholarship which enabled him to go to Paris.

On his arrival at the Conservatoire, Cherubini, who was splenetive and rash, refused him admission without assigning any reason for his decision, but Rudolph Kreutzer took upon his shoulders the task of forming the future artist.

Notwithstanding Massart's great talent and excellent capabilities as an artist, he never became a success as a concert player, because of his inordinate shyness, but as a teacher few have equalled him.

Sir Charles Halle, in his autobiography, tells a good anecdote concerning Massart's shyness and modesty. Massart was to play, with Franz Liszt, a program which included the Kreutzer sonata. Just as the sonata was begun a voice from the audience called out "Robert le Diable," referring to Liszt's brilliant fantasia on themes from that opera, which he had recently composed, and had played several times with immense success. The call was taken up by other voices, and the sonata was drowned. Liszt rose and bowed, and presently, in response to the continued applause, he said: "I am always the humble servant of the public. But do you wish to hear the fantasia before or after the sonata?"

Renewed cries of "Robert" were the only reply, upon which Liszt turned half around to Massart and dismissed him with a wave of the hand, but without a word of excuse or apology. Liszt's performance roused the audience to a perfect frenzy, but Massart nevertheless most dutifully returned and played the Kreutzer sonata, which fell entirely flat after the dazzling display of the great pianist.

Few teachers have formed as many distinguished pupils as Massart, for in 1843 he was appointed professor of violin at the Paris Conservatoire, where his energy, care, exactness, and thoroughness brought him an immense reputation. Lotto, Wieniawski, Teresina Tua, and a host of other distinguished violinists studied under him: among them also was Charles M. Loeffler, of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

Massart was also an excellent quartet player and gave many delightful chamber concerts, with his wife, who was a pianist. He died in Paris, February 13, 1892.

Charles Auguste de Beriot, who holds a position of great importance in the history of violin playing and composition, was born in 1802 at Louvain. He had the misfortune to be left an orphan at the age of nine. His parents were of noble extraction, but at their death he was left entirely without fortune, and was taken in charge by M. Tiby, a professor of music, who had noticed the little boy's love of the musical art, and had already taught him to such good purpose that he was able even at that time to play one of Viotti's concertos in public so skilfully that he received the hearty applause of the audience. He also took lessons of Roberrechts, one of Viotti's most noted pupils.

De Beriot was a youth of contemplative mind and of high moral character. He formed the acquaintance of the scholar and philosopher Jacotot, who imbued him with principles of self-reliance, and exerted an influence over him which lasted throughout his life.

De Beriot learned from his guide, philosopher, and friend that "perseverance triumphs over all obstacles," and that "we are not willing to do all that we are able to do."

At the age of nineteen De Beriot went to Paris, taking with him a letter of introduction to Viotti, who was then the director of music at the Opera, and he succeeded in gratifying his greatest ambition, which was to be heard by that illustrious violinist.

Viotti gave him the following advice: "You have a fine style. Give yourself up to the business of perfecting it. Hear all men of talent, profit by everything, but imitate nothing."

De Beriot applied himself assiduously to his studies, entering the Paris Conservatoire and taking lessons of Baillot. In a few months, however, he withdrew from the Conservatoire and relied upon his own resources. He soon began to appear in concerts, generally playing compositions of his own, which won him universal applause by their freshness and originality as much as by his finished execution and large style of cantabile.

In 1826 he went to London from Paris, his first appearance taking place on May 1st, before the Philharmonic Society. Wherever he appeared, either in London or the provinces, he was greeted with enthusiasm, and he established a lasting reputation.

His appearance in England antedated that of Paganini by about five years, and it has been questioned whether the impression which he made would have been less if he had appeared after instead of before the great Italian. It seems, however that De Beriot continued to meet with success even after the advent of Paganini. His playing was distinguished by unfailing accuracy of intonation, great neatness and facility of bowing, grace, elegance, and piquancy.

After travelling for some years he returned to Belgium, where he was appointed solo violin to the King of the Netherlands. He had held the position but a short time when the revolution of 1830 broke out and deprived him of it.

He returned to Paris, and now began the most romantic portion of his life. Madame Malibran, whose brilliant career was then at its height, was singing in opera, and De Beriot became acquainted with her. The acquaintance ripened into the most intimate friendship, and in 1832 a concert company was formed, consisting of Malibran, De Beriot, and Luigi Lablache, the celebrated and gigantic basso. They made a tour of Italy, meeting with the most extraordinary success.

De Beriot and the beautiful Madame Malibran were now inseparable. Malibran had for some years been living apart from her husband, an American merchant, who, with the view of supporting himself by her talents, had married her when on the brink of financial collapse. In 1835 she succeeded in securing a divorce from him, and then she married De Beriot.

A few months after their marriage Malibran was thrown from her horse and sustained internal injuries of such severity that she died after an illness of nine days, and De Beriot became frantic with grief.

More than a year elapsed before he could at all recover from the effects of his irreparable loss, and his first appearance in concert, after this tragic event, was when Pauline Garcia, the sister of Madame Malibran, made her first debut in a concert at Brussels given for the benefit of the poor.

In 1841 De Beriot married Mlle. Huber, daughter of a magistrate of Vienna. He returned to Brussels, and became director of the violin classes at the Conservatoire, after which he ceased giving concerts. He remained in this position until 1852, when failing eyesight caused him to retire, and he died at Louvain in 1870.

Before his acquaintance with Madame Malibran, De Beriot was a suitor for the hand of Mlle. Sontag, and her rejection of him threw him into a state of despondency, from which it required the brilliancy and wit of Malibran to rouse him.

De Beriot left a number of compositions which abound in pleasing melodies, have a certain easy, natural flow, and bring out the characteristic effects of the instrument in the most brilliant manner. There are seven concertos, eleven "airs variees," several books of studies, four trios and a number of duets for piano and violin. His "Violin School" has been published in many languages and used a great deal by students.

Delphin Jean Alard was at one time a favourite violinist in France. In 1842 he succeeded Baillot as professor of violin at the Conservatoire in Paris. He was first soloist in the royal band, to which post he was appointed in 1858, and he was presented with the Cross of the Legion of Honour.

Alard was born at Bayonne in March, 1815, and was well taught from his earliest youth. He appeared in concerts at the age of ten, and at twelve entered the Paris Conservatoire, where he became a pupil of Habeneck, while Fetis taught him composition. He was the winner of numerous prizes, and he also wrote a great deal of music for the violin. His greatest pupil was Sarasate.

Alard married the daughter of Vuillaume, one of the best violin makers of France, and through him became the owner of one of the most beautiful Stradivarius violins. Alard died in Paris, February 22, 1881.

Hubert Leonard was born at Bellaire, near Liege, in 1819, but unlike the majority of violinists he did not appear in concerts at an early age, nor did he enter the Paris Conservatoire until he was seventeen. At this time the wife of a wealthy merchant in Brussels took interest in him and provided the means necessary for him to go to Paris. In 1844 he appeared at Leipzig, and created a deep impression by the beauty of his tone and his elegant performance. He travelled through Europe and played chiefly his own compositions, of which there are a great many, but his greatest fame was earned after he was appointed professor at the Brussels Conservatoire, where he had many pupils, of whom the most celebrated is, perhaps, Martin Marsick.

Concerning the merits of Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst there seems to be a wide difference of opinion between various commentators. He was a man of warm, impulsive nature, whose playing was distinguished by great boldness in the execution of technical difficulties of the most hazardous nature. His tone had a peculiar charm, and at the same time his fiery, impetuous nature and uneven disposition led to certain occasional errors in technique and faulty intonation. Nevertheless, he was one of the most welcome performers in the concert halls of Europe for a number of years. He was a thorough musician and a good composer, though his works are so full of technical difficulties as to be almost impossible of performance. Indeed it is said that some of them contained difficulties which even he could not always overcome.

Born in Moravia at the town of Bruenn in 1814, he entered the Vienna conservatory, and in 1830 made his first concert tour through Munich and Paris. Paganini was at that time travelling in Europe, and Ernst, in the desire to learn something from this great artist, followed him from town to town, and endeavoured to model his own playing upon the style of the Italian virtuoso, an effort which seems to have brought down upon him the censure of some critics, but which others have considered highly praiseworthy.

In 1832 he settled in Paris, where he studied hard under De Beriot, and played in concerts frequently. After 1844 he lived chiefly in England, where he was highly appreciated, until the approach of his fatal disease made it necessary for him to give up, first, public performances, and then violin playing of any kind. He died at Nice after eight years of intense suffering, in 1865.

When Ernst died the critic of the Atheneum compared him with other players of his day in the following words: "Less perfection in his polish, less unimpeachable in the diamond lustre and clearness of his tone, than De Beriot, Ernst had as much elegance as that exquisite violinist, with greater depth of feeling. Less audaciously inventive and extravagant than Paganini, he was sounder in taste, and, in his music, with no lack of fantasy, more scientific in construction.... The secret, however, of Ernst's success, whether as a composer or a virtuoso, lay in his expressive power and accent. There has been nothing to exceed these as exhibited by him in his best days. The passion was carried to its utmost point, but never torn to tatters, the freest use of tempo rubato permitted, but always within the limits of the most just regulation."

Among the violinists of this period (those who were born between 1800 and 1830) will be found those who first visited the United States. In 1843 Ole Bull found his way to these shores, and in the following year both Vieuxtemps and Artot were giving concerts in New York. A kind of triangular duel took place, for the admirers of Artot and Vieuxtemps, who were chiefly the French residents of the city, endeavoured to belittle the capabilities of Ole Bull, who nevertheless appears to have been very successful, and if anything, to have benefited by the competition. Musical culture was, at that time, in a very low state in America, and one may judge somewhat of its progress by the press criticisms of the artists who visited the country from time to time. It will be seen that those who, like Ole Bull, Sivori, and Remenyi, applied their talents to the elaboration of popular airs and operatic themes were able to elicit the warmest praise. Vieuxtemps appears to have appealed to the cultured minority and was understood and appreciated by very few.

Flowery language was used without stint, and was frequently misapplied in the most ludicrous manner, as will be seen by the following extract:

"Since the death of his great master, the weird Paganini, Ole Bull had been left without a rival in Europe. Herwig, Nagel, Wallace, Artot, and De Beriot can only 'play second fiddle' to this king of the violin. His entrance upon the stage is remarkably modest, and after the Parisian graces of Artot seems a little awkward; a tip of his bow brings a crash from the orchestra. He then lays his cheek caressingly on the instrument, which gradually awakes, and wails, and moans, like an infant broken of its slumber. Every tone seems fraught with human passion. At one time he introduces a dialogue, in which a sweet voice complains so sadly that it makes the heart ache with pity, which is answered from another string with imprecations so violent and threatening that one almost trembles with fear. We fancied that a young girl was pleading for the life of her lover, and receiving only curses in reply. At the close of the first piece, the 'Adagio Maestoso,' there was one universal shout of applause, which afforded an infinite relief to a most enthusiastic house that had held its breath for fifteen minutes. Ole Bull came before the curtain and bowed, with his hand upon his heart. There is something different in his performance from that of any other artist, and yet it is difficult to describe the peculiarity of his style, except that he touches all the strings at once, and plays a distinct accompaniment with the fingers of his right hand. But the charm is in the genius of the man and the grandeur of his compositions. He knows how to play upon the silver cord of the heart which binds us to a world of beauty, and vibrates only when touched by a master hand."

The sentiments and emotions aroused in the breast of this critic appear to have been those with which Paganini inspired his audience, when he played a duet on two strings, as related in an earlier chapter. Ole Bull was a child of nature, he gave his audience a description of the beauties of nature, and behold! it is interpreted as a story of human passions,—a high tribute to descriptive music.

The following criticism seems more in keeping with the ideas known to have been held by the violinist, and almost leads one to imagine that the critic was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with the virtuoso before writing his account:

"FEBRUARY, 1844.

"To what shall we compare Ole Bull's playing? Was it like some well-informed individual who has seen the world and who spices his tales of men and things with song and story—now describing the beauties of Swiss scenery, now repeating the air which he caught up one moonlight night on the Bosphorus, and anon relating a stirring joke which he gleaned on the Boulevard. Such a man would create an impression on any small tea-party, but that violin did more—the comparison fails. There might be to him who chose to give rein to his fancy a vision at one moment of the old ivy-covered church and the quiet graveyard, the evening sun streaming through the rich stained glass, the organ faintly heard through the long aisles and the deep chancel, and around and about the singing of some bird of late hours, and the hum of the bee as he flew by, well laden, to his storehouse of sweets.

"Then the clouds flew fearfully, and the wind moaned through the boughs of the old oak-tree in its winter dishabille, and so down to the seashore, when it rushed over cliffs and crags and knocked off the caps of the mad waves and sped on like a tyrant, crashing everything in its way and rejoicing in its might. And so we glided oddly but easily enough into the ballroom, where mirth and laughter, bright eyes, fairy feet, and all that was good and pleasant to behold flitted by. It was not all music that Ole Bull's violin gave out. There were old memories and pleasant ones, ideas which shaped themselves into all manners of queer visions; and the main difference between Ole Bull and those I have heard before him seemed to me to consist in this—that whereas many others may excite and hold by the button, as it were, the organ of hearing and the mind therewith immediately connected, Ole Bull awakens the other senses along with it and occupies them in the field of imagination."

In 1846 came Sivori, and in 1848 Remenyi, both artists whose desire to please their audiences took them far from the path of the highest musical standard. It may be said with truth that the country was hardly ready for musicianship of the highest quality, and even in 1872, when Wieniawski came with the great pianist and composer, Rubinstein, the two were accepted on their reputation rather than on their merits, which were understood by a comparatively small proportion of their audiences.

Although several violinists endeavoured to copy Paganini's style, or at least to learn as much as possible from hearing and seeing him play, there was only one, excepting Catarina Calcagno, who received direct instruction from him, and on whom his mantle was said, by his admirers, to have fallen. That one was Camillo Sivori, born at Genoa, June 6, 1817.



The connecting link between Sivori and Paganini began very early in the career of the former. Indeed it is said that the excitement of his mother, on hearing Paganini play at a concert, caused the premature birth of the future disciple of the great artist. Marvellous stories are told of Sivori's infancy. At the age of eighteen months, before he had ever seen or heard a violin player, he continually amused himself by using two pieces of stick after the manner of the violin and bow, and singing to himself. It is fair to say that similar precocity in other children has not always resulted in virtuosity. A case might be cited of a very young person who amused himself by inverting a small chair, and imagining that he was a street organist, but he grew to maturity without adopting that profession.

At two years of age, the account continues, he cried out lustily for a violin, and when his father, reduced to submission by the boy's importunity, bought him a child's violin, he at once began to apply himself, morning, noon, and night, to practising on this instrument, and without any aid he was able in a short time to play many airs he had heard his sisters play or sing. His renown spread through Genoa, and he was invited everywhere. At concerts and parties he was placed upon a table to play, and he was frequently called upon to perform before the king and the queen-dowager. He must have been a most wilful and embarrassing child, for the account goes on to say that he would not enter a church unless he heard music; but on the other hand, if he did hear music he insisted on going in, or else he would scream and make a terrible scene.

These anecdotes, told by an effusive admirer, seem rather ridiculous, but when Paganini visited Genoa, and Sivori was six years old, the virtuoso took a great deal of interest in the little fellow and gave him lessons. He also wrote a concerto for him, and six short sonatas with accompaniment for guitar, tenor, and 'cello, and these the young artist soon played in public. In six months Paganini left Genoa and desired to take his young pupil with him, but this was not allowed by the parents, and Sivori was placed under the tuition of Costa. Three years later Paganini returned to Genoa, and by his advice his protege was placed under M. Dellepaine, who taught him taste and expression, his lessons with Costa in technique continuing. In 1827 Sivori made a concert tour with M. Dellepaine, and visited Paris, where his playing at the Conservatoire won him great applause. He also appeared in England, after which he entered upon another serious course of study for several years, and perfected the tone which enraptured the world for so long, and at the same time he studied composition under Serra.

In 1839 his concert tours began again, and he visited Germany, Russia, Belgium, and Paris, where he played at the Conservatoire concerts and received the medal of honour.

Sivori now set out on extensive travels, and, after visiting England, proceeded, in 1846, to America, travelling through the United States, Mexico, and various parts of South America, spending eight years in these peregrinations, and amassing a considerable fortune. During this great tour he met with many adventures, frequently travelling on horseback, and at one time being at death's door with yellow fever. On his return to Europe he shared the fate of many musicians who have achieved financial success, and lost his money by unfortunate investment, which made it necessary for him to resume his travels. He therefore visited Great Britain, Switzerland, Germany, Spain, Portugal, etc.

He was, of course, compared to many of the great violinists of his time, who all had their special merits. One criticism, in which Sivori is compared with Spohr, may be interesting: "Spohr is of colossal stature, and looks more like an ancient Roman than a Brunswicker; Sivori is the antithesis of Spohr in stature. Spohr has the severe phlegmatic Teutonic aspect; Sivori has the flashing Italian eye and variability of feature. Spohr stands firm and still; Sivori's body is all on the swing, he tears the notes, as it were, from his instrument. Spohr's refinement and polish have been the characteristics of his playing; in Sivori it is wild energy—the soul in arms—the determination to be up and doing—the daring impulse of youthful genius. Spohr's playing is remarkable for its repose and finish; Sivori electrifies by the most powerful appeals to the affections."

Sivori was a man of generous impulses, and was seldom appealed to in vain to assist in a good cause. When his teacher, M. Dellepaine, was taken ill and was unable temporarily to fill his post of first violin at the theatre, and of director of the conservatoire at Genoa, Sivori replaced him in both and gave him the entire benefit of his services. After two years the teacher died, and Sivori still held the two places an entire year for the benefit of the widow, until a situation was procured for her which enabled her to live without further assistance.

At one time Sivori felt that the instrument which he played was not so perfect as to satisfy him. He asked Paganini to sell him one, and the reply was, "I will not sell you the violin, but I will present it to you in compliment to your high talents." Sivori travelled to Nice to receive the instrument from his master's own hands. Paganini was then—it was in 1840—in a deplorable condition, and could hardly speak. He signified a desire to hear his pupil play once more, and Sivori, withdrawing to a room a little way off, so that the sound of the instrument would not be too loud, played whatever Paganini called for. About two weeks later Paganini died.

In 1851 Halle wrote of him as follows:

"Sivori was here lately, but caused little furore; such rubbish as the man plays now I had never heard, and really, as an artist, felt ashamed of him."

Sivori continued to play in public until 1864, when he visited London and played at the Musical Union and elsewhere, but his triumph in Paris in 1862 must not be forgotten. On that occasion he executed Paganini's B minor concerto, and aroused immense enthusiasm, although he played immediately after Alard, who was at that time a prime favourite. During his later years Sivori lived in retirement, and he died February 18, 1894.

He was the first person allowed to play on the celebrated violin which Paganini bequeathed to the city of Genoa. He was also the first to play, with orchestra, Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in England. This performance was at the Philharmonic Society concert, June 29, 1846.

Henry Vieuxtemps was one of the greatest violinists of his time. He was born at Verviers, in Belgium, in 1820, and was brought up in a musical atmosphere. So early did his talent develop, that he played a concerto of Rode in public at the age of six, and the following year made a tour with his father and his teacher, Lecloux, during which he had the good fortune to meet De Beriot, before whom he played. During four years he remained a pupil of De Beriot, and when that artist left Paris, in 1831, Vieuxtemps went to Brussels, where he practised hard, but without a teacher, until 1833, when he again set out on a prolonged concert tour.

From this time on he seems to have spent the greater part of his time in travelling, for which he had a passion. He visited all parts of Europe and met most of the celebrated musicians of the day. Spohr, Molique, Schumann, Paganini, Henselt, and Richard Wagner were among the celebrities whom he met, and in his tours he was associated with Servais, Thalberg, and other well-known artists.

Not content with Europe as a field for conquest, he visited America in 1844, and again in 1857 and in 1870.

He was offered many excellent positions, some of which he held for a time and others he declined. In 1845 he married Josephine Eder, an eminent pianist of Vienna, and shortly after was appointed solo violinist to the Emperor of Russia, relinquishing that post six years later in order to travel again. He was professor at the Brussels conservatoire from 1871 to 1873, and in 1872 he was elected a member of the Academic Royale of Belgium, on which occasion he read a memoir of Etienne Jean Soubre.

In 1868 he suffered a double bereavement through the deaths, first of his father, and a short time later of his wife, and, to divert his mind from these troubles, he undertook a tour which lasted three years. During 1873 his active career was cut short by a stroke of paralysis which disabled his left side. He now travelled for health's sake, and went to Algiers, where he lived quietly for several years. His life was brought to an end by a drunken Arab, who threw a large stone at him while he was riding in his carriage one day, striking him on the head.

As a violinist Vieuxtemps possessed a wonderful staccato, both on the up and down bow. His intonation was perfect. He was fond of strong dramatic accents and contrasts. As a composer for the violin he had wider success than any one since Spohr, but while some of his works contain really fine ideas worked out with much skill, others are merely show pieces of no particular value.

As a man Vieuxtemps had a gay and restless disposition. He was not easily depressed by trifles, and he enjoyed the freedom of a life of constant change and travel, and it was during his travels that most of his best compositions were written.

During the last few years of his active life, after his paralytic stroke had prevented his playing, he suffered much from his inability to demonstrate to his pupils the way in which certain passages should be played. Frequent outbursts of rage ensued, of which his pupils were obliged to bear the brunt, even to being prodded with his iron-shod stick. Sometimes scenes more amusing would occur, as when some grandees would visit the class, and Vieuxtemps would change his manner from smiles and affability while addressing them, to scowls and grimaces while talking to his pupils, the latter, of course, being invisible to the visitors.

When Vieuxtemps visited America in 1857, he was associated with Thalberg, the pianist, and together they visited many towns and cities. Amongst the gems of American newspaper criticism they no doubt took with them several copies of the following, which appeared in the local paper of a town in Tennessee, and was headed "Thalberg and Vieuxtemps:"

"These distinguished individuals are now at Nashville, giving high pressure concerts, and selling tickets at two dollars apiece, when convenient. A stage-load and a half or two stage-loads of ladies and gentlemen went down from this place to hear them. Thalberg is said to be death, in its most horried shape, on the piano, and it is probably true; while Vieuxtemps is represented as a fiddler of considerable skill, considering his opportunities, which he no doubt is. We haven't heard either of them since they were quite small, and unless they come out here and reduce the price of their tickets to their value,—say about sixty-two and a half cents a dozen,—it is possible that we sha'n't hear them any more. When we ride forty miles, at an expense of at least ten dollars, extras not included, to hear a couple of itinerant Dutchmen torture a brace of unoffending instruments into fits, until the very spirit of music howls in sympathy, if some one will cave in our head with a brickbat, we will feel greatly obliged.

"But seriously, Thalberg and Vieuxtemps have never done us any harm that we know of, and we don't suppose they intend to. We wouldn't much mind hearing their music, for no doubt it is nearly, if not quite, as good as that of the average common run of Dutchmen, which, as the latter will tell you, is saying a good deal."

And yet musical culture was said to be in its infancy in America at that time!

In Boston, Vieuxtemps, after an absence of fourteen years, was criticised thus: "We cannot see in M. Vieuxtemps the spark of genius, but he is a complete musician, and the master of his instrument. Tone so rich, so pure, so admirably prolonged and nourished, so literally drawn from the instrument, we have scarcely heard before; nor such vigour, certainty, and precision, such nobility and truth in every motion and effect. We recognise the weakness for sterile difficulties of extreme harmonics."

Vieuxtemps was also subject to comparison with Sivori, rather to the former's disparagement. "The one plays the violin like a great musician, the other like a spoiled child of nature, who has endowed him with the most precious gifts. Intrepid wrestlers, both, and masters of their instrument, they each employ a different manner. M. Vieuxtemps never lets you forget that he plays the violin, that the wonders of mechanism which he accomplishes under your eye are of the greatest difficulty and have cost him immense pains, whereas M. Sivori has the air of being ignorant that he holds in his hands one of the most complicated instruments that exists, and he sings to you like Malibran. He sings, he weeps, he laughs on the violin like a very demon."

The following paragraph is a good sample of New York musical journalism in the year 1844:

"Vieuxtemps's first concert on Monday night was a very stylish jam. He is a small, puny-built man, with gold rings in his ears, and a face of genteel ugliness, but touchingly lugubrious in its expression. With his violin at his shoulder, he has the air of a husband undergoing the nocturnal penance of walking the room with 'the child'—and performing it, too, with unaffected pity. He plays with the purest and coldest perfection of art, and is doubtless more learned on the violin than either of the rival performers [Ole Bull and Artot], but there is a vitreous clearness and precision in his notes that would make them more germane to the humour of before breakfast than to the warm abandon of vespertide. His sister travels with him (a pretty blonde, very unlike him), and accompanies him on the piano."

Vieuxtemps also visited America in 1870, with the celebrated singer Christine Nilsson.

Among the celebrated violinists of this period must be mentioned Bernhard Molique, of whom Sir Charles Halle says that he was a good executant, knowing no difficulties, but his style was polished and cold, and he never carried his public with him. "Ernst," he continues, "was all passion and fire, regulated by reverence for and clear understanding of the masterpieces he had to interpret. Sainton was extremely elegant and finished in his phrasing, but vastly inferior to the others. Vieuxtemps was an admirable violinist and a great musician, whose compositions deserve a much higher rank than it is the fashion to accord them."

Molique was the son of a town musician of Nuremberg, and became a composer whose works have stood the test of time. He was a pupil of Kreutzer and of Spohr, and held the position of director and first violinist of the royal band at Stuttgart. He had a number of excellent pupils, of whom John T. Carrodus was the best known. He died at Stuttgart in 1869.

Henry Gamble Blagrove was a musical prodigy, who began the study of the violin at the age of four, and appeared in public a year later. He was born at Nottingham in 1811, and at six years of age played at Drury Lane. He studied abroad with Spohr, and appeared in Vienna in 1836, but the greater part of his life was spent in England, where he was soloist in several of the best orchestras. He was a man of refreshing modesty, and was held in high esteem. He died in London in 1872.

Jacob Dont, of Vienna, and Jean Dancla, a French violinist, both belong to this period, and were teachers of reputation.



CHAPTER VI.

OLE BULL.

"A typical Norseman, erect of bearing, with a commanding presence and mobile, kindly face, from which the eyes shone clear and fearless as the spirits of old Norway hovering over his native mountains. He was a man to evoke respect and love under all conditions, and, when he stepped before an audience, roused an instantaneous throb of sympathy, of interest, before the sweep of his magical bow enthralled their souls with its melodious measures." Such is an excellent pen picture of Ole Bull, who during the middle of the nineteenth century was known far and wide as a great violinist.

Among the celebrated musicians of all nations, Ole Bull will always remain a striking figure. As a musician, none so eminent has been so essentially a self-made man, none has grown up with so little influence from outside, none with a technique so essentially self-discovered. As a son of his country, none has retained so sturdy a sense of patriotism; none has, amid the more brilliant surroundings of a life spent in the gayest cities of the world, refused to be weaned from the poor northern, half-dependent state from which he issued a penniless lad.

Olaus Borneman Bull was born at Bergen, in Norway, February 5, 1810, and was the eldest of ten children. His father was a physician and apothecary. He was musical, as were several other members of his family, and little Ole's love for music was fostered to a great degree at home by the Tuesday quartet meetings, at which his Uncle Jens played the 'cello.

In the early part of the century, the proverb, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," was regarded as the foundation of education in most countries, and few children were allowed to spoil. All childish desires which conflicted with parental ideas were promptly suppressed by "the rod," until by sheer strength they proved to be unsuppressible. Then they became great virtues. It was thus with Ole Bull. His first desire to hear the quartet music, which he gratified by hiding under sofas or behind curtains, was rewarded with the rod,—for he should have been in bed. After a time a concession was made through the intervention of Uncle Jens, and Ole was allowed to become familiar with the best music of the day.

Uncle Jens used to amuse himself with the small boy's susceptibility to music, and would sometimes shut him up in the 'cello case, promising him some candy if he would stay there while he (Uncle Jens) played. But Ole could never endure the ordeal for long. He had to come out where he could see and hear.

His first violin was given him by Uncle Jens when he was five years old, and he soon learned to play it well without any instructor. He was not allowed to practise music until his study hours were over, and occasional breaches of this rule kept "the rod" active.

Ole Bull's first instructor was a violinist named Paulsen, a man of convivial temperament, who used to come and enjoy the hospitality of Ole's father and play "as long as there was a drop in the decanter," with a view to educating the young artist, as he said. But Ole's parents were thinking of prohibiting the violin altogether on the plea that it interfered too much with his studies, when the tide of affairs was changed by the following incident.

One Tuesday evening, Paulsen, who played first violin in the quartet, had been so convivial that he was unable to continue. In this unfortunate dilemma Uncle Jens called upon Ole, saying, "Come, my boy, do your best, and you shall have a stick of candy." Ole quickly accepted the challenge, and as the quartet was one which he had several times heard, he played each movement correctly, much to the astonishment of all present.

This happened on his eighth birthday, and the event marked an epoch in his life, for he was elected an active member of the Tuesday club, and began to take lessons regularly of the convivial Paulsen.

There is a pathetic story of how Ole induced his father to buy a new violin for him, and, unable to restrain his desire to play it, he got up in the night, opened the case, and touched the strings. This furtive touch merely served to whet his appetite, and he tried the bow. Then he began to play very softly; then, carried away with enthusiasm, he played louder and louder, until suddenly he felt the sharp sting of his father's whip across his shoulders, and the little violin fell to the floor and was broken.

From 1819 to 1822 Ole Bull received no violin instruction, for Paulsen had left Bergen without explanation, though it has been hinted that Ole Bull had outgrown him, and on that account he thought it wise to depart.

In 1822 a Swedish violinist came to Bergen, and Ole took lessons of him. His name was Lundholm, and he was a pupil of Baillot. Lundholm was very strict and would admit of no departure from established rules. He quite failed to make the boy hold his instrument according to the accepted method, but his custom of making his pupil stand upright, with his head and back against the wall while playing, no doubt gave to him that repose and grace of bearing which was so noticeable in later years. Lundholm was, however, quite unable to control his precocious pupil and a coolness soon sprung up between them, which appears to have culminated in the following incident.

On a Tuesday evening, at one of the regular meetings, Lundholm played Baillot's "Caprizzi," but Ole Bull was much disappointed at the pedantic, phlegmatic manner in which he rendered the passionate phrases. When the company went to supper Ole found on the leader's music-rack a concerto of Spohr's, and began to try it over. Carried away with the music, he forgot himself, and was discovered by Lundholm on his return, and scolded for his presumption.

"What impudence!" said the violinist. "Perhaps you think you could play this at sight, boy?" "Yes," was the reply, "I think I could." His remark was heard by the rest of the company, who were now returning, and they all insisted that he should try it. He played the allegro, and all applauded except Lundholm, who looked angry. "You think you can play anything," he said, and, taking a caprice of Paganini's from the stand, he added, "Try this." It happened that this caprice was a favourite of the young violinist, who had learned it by heart. He therefore played it in fine style, and received the hearty applause of the little audience. Lundholm, however, instead of raving, was more polite and kind than he had ever been before, and told Ole that with practice he might hope to equal him (Lundholm) some day.

Years afterwards, when Ole Bull was making a concert tour through Norway, and was travelling in a sleigh over the snow-covered ground, he met another sleigh coming from the opposite direction, of which the occupant recognised him, and made signs to him to stop. It was Lundholm. "Well," shouted he, "now that you are a famous violinist, remember that when I heard you play Paganini I predicted that your career would be a remarkable one."

"Oh," exclaimed Ole Bull, "you were mistaken, for I did not read that piece, I knew it before." "It makes no difference," was the reply, as the sleighs parted.

As young Ole approached manhood, and developed in strength and stature, we find him asserting his independence. His father, who intended him to be a clergyman, engaged a private tutor named Musaeus, who, when he found that Ole's musical tastes conflicted with his studies, forbade him to play the violin, so that the boy could only indulge at night in an inclination which, under restraint, became a passion. Ole and his brothers had long and patiently borne both with cross words and blows from this worthy pedagogue, and at length decided to rebel. Accordingly when one morning at half-past four the tutor appeared and dragged out the youngest from his warm bed, Ole sprang upon him and a violent struggle ensued. The household was aroused, and in a few moments the parents appeared on the spot in time to see Musaeus prostrate upon the floor and suing for peace. Contrary to his expectations, Ole found himself taken more into his father's confidence, and as a result he became more desirous than ever of carrying out his father's wishes.

In 1828 he went to the university in Christiania, where, in spite of the best intentions, he soon found himself musical director of the Philharmonic and Dramatic Societies, a position which gave him independence, and somewhat consoled him for his failure to pass his entrance examinations for the university. His father reluctantly forgave him, and he was now, in spite of everything, fairly launched upon a musical career.

He was not long contented to remain in Christiania. His mind was in a state of restless agitation, and he determined to go to Cassel, and seek out Spohr, whose opinion he desired to secure. He accordingly left Christiania on May 18, 1829. His departure was so hurried that he left his violin behind, and it had to be forwarded to him by his friends. This suddenness was probably caused by the fact that he had taken part in the observance of Independence Day on May 17th, a celebration which had been interdicted by the government.

On reaching Cassel he went to Spohr, who accorded him a cold reception. "I have come more than five hundred miles to hear you," said Ole Bull, wishing to be polite. "Very well," was the reply, "you can now go to Nordhausen; I am to attend a musical festival there," Bull therefore went to Nordhausen, where he heard a quartet by Maurer, of which Spohr played the first violin part. He was so overwhelmed with disappointment at the manner in which the quartet was played by the four masters that he came to the conclusion that he was deceived in his aspirations, and had no true calling for music.

Spohr was a most methodical man, and had no appreciation for wild genius. He saw only the many faults of the self-taught youth, and coldly advised him to give up his idea of a musical career, declining to accept him as a pupil. Some five years later, Bull having in the meantime refused to accept this advice, which did not coincide with his own inclinations, Spohr heard him play, and wrote thus of him: "His wonderful playing and sureness of his left hand are worthy of the highest admiration, but, unfortunately, like Paganini, he sacrifices what is artistic to something that is not quite suitable to the noble instrument. His tone, too, is bad, and since he prefers a bridge that is quite plain, he can use A and D strings only in the lower positions, and even then pianissimo. This renders his playing (when he does not let himself loose with some of his own pieces) monotonous in the extreme. We noticed this particularly in two Mozart quartets he played at my house. Otherwise he plays with a good deal of feeling, but without refined taste."

After his discouraging interview with Spohr, Ole Bull returned to Norway, making, on the way, a short visit to Goettingen, where he became involved in a duel.

Feeling that his own capabilities were worth nothing, after what he had seen and heard in Germany, Ole Bull returned home in a despondent state of mind, but, on passing through a town where he had once led the theatre orchestra, he was recognised, welcomed, and compelled to direct a performance, and thus he once more fell under the influence of music, and began to apply himself vigorously to improvement.

In 1831 he went to Paris in order to hear Paganini, and if possible to find some opportunity to improve himself. He failed to enter the Conservatoire, but he succeeded in hearing Paganini, and this, according to his own account, was the turning-point of his life. Paganini's playing made an immense impression on him, and he threw himself with the greatest ardour into his technical studies, in order that he might emulate the feats performed by the great Italian.

His stay in Paris was full of adventure. He was hampered by poverty, and frequently in the depths of despair. At one time he is said to have attempted suicide by drowning in the Seine. There is also a story told to the effect that the notorious detective, Vidocq, who lived in the same house with him, and knew something of his circumstances, prevailed upon him to risk five francs in a gambling saloon. Vidocq stood by and watched the game, and Ole Bull came away the winner of eight hundred francs, presumably because the detective was known, and the proprietors of the saloon considered discretion to be the better part of valour. It was a delicate method of making the young man a present in a time of difficulty, but one of which the moral effect could hardly fail to be injurious.

At one time, when he was ill and homeless, he entered a house in the Rue des Martyrs in which there were rooms to let. He was received and treated kindly, and was nursed through a long illness by the landlady and her granddaughter.

He tried to secure a place in the orchestra of the Opera Comique, but his arrogance lost him the position, for when he was requested to play a piece at sight, it seemed to him so simple that he asked at which end he should begin. This offence caused him to be rejected without a hearing.

Fortune, however, began at last to smile upon him when he made the acquaintance of M. Lacour, a violin maker, who conceived the idea of engaging him to show off his violins. Ole Bull accordingly played on one of them at a soiree given by the Duke of Riario, Italian charge d'affaires in Paris. He was almost overcome by the smell of assafoetida which emanated from the varnish, and which was caused by the heat. Nevertheless, he played finely, and as a result was invited to breakfast the next morning by the Duke of Montebello, Marshal Ney's son. This brought him into contact with Chopin, and shortly afterwards he gave his first concert under the duke's patronage, and with the assistance of Ernst, Chopin, and other celebrated artists.

He now made a concert tour through Switzerland to Italy, and on reaching Milan he played at La Scala, where he made an immense popular success, but drew from one of the journals a scathing criticism, which, however humiliating it may have been, struck him by its truth.

"M. Bull played compositions by Spohr, Mayseder, and Paganini without understanding the true character of the music, which he marred by adding something of his own. It is quite obvious that what he adds comes from genuine and original talent, from his own musical individuality; but he is not master of himself; he has no style; he is an untrained musician. If he be a diamond, he is certainly in the rough and unpolished."

Ole Bull sought out the writer of this criticism, who gave him valuable advice, and for six months he devoted himself to ardent study under the guidance of able masters. In this way he learned to know himself, the nature and limitations of his own talent.

We now arrive at the point in Ole Bull's career at which he became celebrated, and this was due to accident. He was at Bologna, where De Beriot and Malibran were to appear at one of the Philharmonic concerts. By chance Malibran heard that De Beriot was to receive a smaller sum than that which had been agreed upon for her services, and in a moment of pique she sent word that she was unable to appear on account of indisposition. De Beriot also declared himself to be suffering from a sprained thumb.

It happened that Madame Colbran (Rossini's first wife) had one day heard Ole Bull practising as she passed his window, and now she remembered the fact, and advised the Marquis Zampieri, who was the director of the concerts, to hunt up the young violinist. Accordingly, Ole Bull, who had gone to bed very early, was roused by a tap on the door, and invited to improvise on the spot for Zampieri. Bull was then hurried off, without even time to dress himself suitably for the occasion, and placed before a most distinguished audience, which contained the Duke of Tuscany and other celebrities, besides De Beriot, with his arm in a sling.

His playing charmed and captivated the audience, although he was almost overcome with exhaustion. After taking some food and wine he appeared again, and this time he asked for a theme on which to improvise. He was given three, and, instead of making a selection, he took all three and interwove them in so brilliant a manner that he carried the audience by storm. He was at once engaged for the next concert, and made such success that he was accompanied to his hotel by a torchlight procession, and his carriage drawn home by the excited people.

Ole Bull continued his triumphant course through Italy. At Lucca he played at the duke's residence, where the queen-dowager met with a surprise, as Ole refused to begin playing until she stopped talking. At Naples he experienced the misfortune of having his violin stolen, and he was obliged to buy a Nicholas Amati, for which he paid a very high price. After playing and making a great success in Rome, he returned to Paris, where he now found the doors of the Grand Opera open to him, and he gave several concerts there.

In 1836 he married Felicie Villernot, the granddaughter of the lady in whose house he had met with so much kindness during his first stay in Paris.

Following the advice of Rossini, he went to London, where he made his usual success, notwithstanding the intrigues of certain musicians, who endeavoured to discredit him. Such was his popularity in England that he received for one concert, at Liverpool, the sum of L800, and in sixteen months' time he gave two hundred and seventy-four concerts in the United Kingdom.

He now decided to visit Germany, and on his way through Paris he made the acquaintance of Paganini, who greeted him with the utmost cordiality. He went through Germany giving many concerts, and visited Cassel, where he was now received by Spohr with every mark of distinction. He played in Berlin, where his success was great, notwithstanding some adverse criticism. He also played in Vienna and Buda-Pesth, and so on through Russia. At St. Petersburg he gave several concerts before audiences of five thousand people. He now went through Finland and so on to Sweden and Norway, where he was feted.

Although closely followed by Vieuxtemps and Artot, Ole Bull was the first celebrated violinist to visit America, and in 1843 he made his first trip, landing in Boston in November of that year and proceeding directly to New York, playing for the first time on Evacuation Day. "John Bull went out on this day," he said, "and Ole Bull comes in." He remained two years in the United States, during which time he played in two hundred concerts and met with many remarkable adventures. During his sojourn he wrote a piece called "Niagara," which he played for the first time in New York, and which became very popular. He also wrote "The Solitude of the Prairies," which won more immediate success.

He travelled during these two years more than one hundred thousand miles, and played in every city of importance. He is estimated to have netted by his trip over $80,000, besides which he contributed more than $20,000, by concerts, to charitable institutions. No artist ever visited the United States and received so many honours.

In 1852 he returned to America, and this time he was destined to meet with tribulation. It was his desire to aid the poor of his country by founding a colony. He therefore bought a tract of land of 125,000 acres in Potter County, Pennsylvania, on the inauguration of which he stated his purpose: "We are to found a New Norway, consecrated to liberty, baptised with independence, and protected by the Union's mighty flag." Some three hundred houses were built, with a store and a church, and a castle on a mountain, which was designed for his permanent home. Hundreds flocked to the new colony, and the scheme took nearly the whole of his fortune.

Ole Bull now started on a concert tour together with little Adelina Patti, her sister Amalia Patti Strakosch, and Mr. Maurice Strakosch. Patti was then only eight years old, and was already exciting the wonder of all who heard her.

When crossing the Isthmus of Panama his violin was stolen by a native porter, and Ole Bull was obliged to remain behind to find his instrument, while the company went on to California. He was now taken down with yellow fever, and owing to a riot in the town he was entirely neglected, and was obliged to creep off his bed on to the floor in order to escape the bullets which were flying about. On his recovery he set out for San Francisco, but the season was too late for successful concerts. He was miserably weak, and when he played his skin would break and bleed as he pressed the strings.

He now heard that there was some trouble in regard to his title to the land in Pennsylvania, and, hastening to Philadelphia, he was legally notified that he was trespassing.

It transpired that the man who had sold the land to Ole Bull had no claim to it whatever, and had perpetrated a barefaced swindle, and now, having the money, he dared his victim to do his worst. The actual owner of the land, who had come forward to assert his rights, became interested in the scheme, and was willing to sell the land at a low price, but Ole now had no money. He instituted legal proceedings against the swindler, who, in return, harassed the violinist as much as possible, trying to prevent his concerts by arrests, and bringing suits against him for services supposed to have been rendered. It is even stated that an attempt was made to poison him, which only failed because the state of excitement in which he was at the time prevented his desire for food.

Ole Bull now set to work to retrieve his fortunes, but ill luck still followed him, and he fell a victim to chills and fever, was abandoned by his manager, and taken to a farm-house on a prairie in Illinois, where he endured a long illness. For five years he continued his struggle against misfortune, and during that period he made hosts of friends who did much to help him in one way and another. Nevertheless, when he gave his last concerts in New York, in 1857, he was still so ill that he had to be helped on and off the stage.

He now returned to Bergen, where the air of his native land soon restored him to health. On his arrival, however, he found that the report had been circulated that he had been speculating at the expense of his countrymen, and that they were the only sufferers by his misfortunes.

For a short time he assumed control of the National Theatre, but before long he was again on the road, giving concerts in various parts of Europe. While he was in Paris, in 1862, his wife died.

The year 1867 found him again in the United States, and during this tour he met at Madison, Wis., Miss Sara C. Thorpe, the lady who was to become his second wife. He also took part in the Peace Jubilee in Boston, in 1869.

When he sailed for Norway, in April, 1870 (he was to be married on his arrival), the New York Philharmonic Society presented him with a beautiful silken flag. This flag—the Norwegian colours with the star-spangled banner inserted in the upper staff section—was always carried in the seventeenth of May processions in Bergen, and floated on the fourth of July.

The remaining years of Ole Bull's life were spent in comparative freedom from strife and struggle. He spent much of his time in Norway, but also found time for many concert tours. His sixty-sixth birthday was spent in Egypt, and he solemnised the occasion by ascending the Pyramid of Cheops and playing, on its pinnacle, his "Saeter-besoeg." This performance took place at the suggestion of the King of Sweden, to whom the account was duly telegraphed the next morning from Cairo.

In Boston Ole Bull was always a great favourite and had many friends. He felt much interest in the Norsemen's discovery of America, and took steps to bring the subject before the people of Boston. The result of his efforts is to be seen in the statue of Lief Ericsson, commemorative of the event, which adorns the Public Gardens.

In March and April, 1880, Ole Bull appeared at a few concerts in the Eastern cities, with Miss Thursby, and in June he sailed, for the last time, from America. He was in poor health, but, contrary to all hopes, the sea voyage did not improve his condition, and much anxiety was felt until his home was reached. A few weeks later he died, and, at the funeral, honours more than royal were shown. In the city of Bergen all business was suspended, and the whole population of the city stood waiting to pay their last respects to the celebrated musician and patriot.

Ole Bull was a man of remarkable character and an artist of undoubted genius. All who heard him, or came in contact with him, agree that he was far from being an ordinary man. Tall, of athletic build, with large blue eyes and rich flaxen hair, he was the very type of the Norseman, and there was something in his personal appearance and conversation which acted with almost magnetic power on those who approached him. He was a prince of story-tellers, and his fascination in this respect was irresistible to young and old alike, and its effect not unlike his violin playing.

In regard to his playing, his technical proficiency was such as very few violinists have ever attained to. His double stopping was perfect, his staccato, both upward and downward, of the utmost brilliancy, and though he cannot be considered a serious musician in the highest sense of the word, he played with warm and poetical, if somewhat sentimental, feeling. He has often been described as the "flaxen-haired Paganini," and his style was to a great extent influenced by Paganini, but only so far as technicalities are concerned. In every other respect there was a wide difference, for while Paganini's manner was such as to induce his hearers to believe that they were under the spell of a demon, Ole Bull took his hearers to the dreamy moonlit regions of the North. It is this power of conveying a highly poetic charm which enabled him to fascinate his audiences, and it is a power far beyond any mere trickster or charlatan. He was frequently condemned by the critics for playing popular airs, which indeed formed his greatest attraction for the masses of the people. He seldom played the most serious music, in fact, he confined himself almost entirely to his own compositions, most of which were of a nature to meet the demand of his American audiences.

When Ole Bull played in Boston in 1852, after having been absent for several years, during which time other violinists had been heard, John S. Dwight wrote of his performance thus: "We are wearied and confused by any music, however strongly tinged with any national or individual spirit, however expressive in detail, skilful in execution, and original or bold, or intense in feeling, if it does not at the same time impress us by its unity as a whole, by its development from first to last of one or more pregnant themes. As compositions, therefore, we do not feel reconciled to what Ole Bull seems fond of playing.... He cannot be judged by the usual standards, his genius is exceptional, intensely individual in all its forms and methods, belongs to the very extreme of the romantic as distinguished from the classical in art. He makes use of the violin and of the orchestra, in short of music, simply and mainly to impress his own personal moods, his own personal experience, upon the audiences. You go to hear Ole Bull, rather than to hear and feel his music. It is eminently a personal matter.... Considered simply as an executive power, he seems, after hearing so many good violinists for years past, to exceed them all—always excepting Henri Vieuxtemps."

It may be said with truth that Ole Bull achieved his reputation at a time when it was comparatively easy to do so. There was very little musical cultivation in this country when he first appeared here, as may be easily imagined by a glance at the extracts from criticisms, given here and there. By his strong personality, apparent mastery of his instrument, and by being practically the sole occupant of the field, he became famous and popular. He prided himself on the fact that his playing was addressed rather to the hearts than to the sensitive ears of his audiences, and during his later years he adopted certain mannerisms by way of distracting attention from his somewhat imperfect performances. He never made any pretension to being a musician of the modern school, nor of any regularly recognised school of music, but his concert pieces were his own compositions, of no great merit, and he still more delighted his audiences by playing national airs as no one had ever played them before. He was a minstrel rather than a musician in the broad sense of the word, but he held the hearts of the people as few, if any, minstrels had previously done.



CHAPTER VII.

1830 TO 1850.

One of the most noticeable features of the biography of the violin virtuoso is that he invariably displays great talent at an early age and plays in public at any time from eight to twelve years old. There are doubtless more who do this than are ever heard of at a later day, for the idea of the infant phenomenon is alluring. The way of the violinist is hard. He has many years of study and self-denial before him, if he is to excel as a musician. Therefore the infant who can be exploited in such a manner as to make money provides for his future education, unless hard work or flattery kill him physically or intellectually before he is ripe. Many prodigies sink into oblivion,—some few rise to celebrity. It will be noticed that the violinists who played in public while very young have invariably settled down afterward to serious study, and at a more mature age have thus been able to take their place in the musical world.

Year by year, too, the demands upon the violinist have been greater. A virtuoso is judged rather by the standard of Beethoven's concerto than by his ability to perform musical gymnastics with operatic selections. Nevertheless, it is a fact that many of the best known violinists were those who catered to the taste of the multitude, while many better musicians have been comparatively unknown.

Among celebrated violinists few have led more romantic or adventurous lives than Edouard Remenyi, whose name is not yet forgotten in this country. Born at Hewes, in Hungary, in 1830, he possessed the restless spirit of his race, fought in the insurrection of 1848, escaped to the United States when the insurrection was crushed, but was received into favour again a few years later, on his return to his native land.

From his twelfth to his fifteenth year he studied the violin at the Vienna Conservatoire under Boehm, who was also the teacher of Joachim. In 1848 he became adjutant to the distinguished General Goergey, and fought under Kossuth and Klapka in the war with Austria. Then came the flight to America, where he made a tour as a virtuoso, but in 1853 he visited Weimar, and sought out Franz Liszt, who at once recognised his genius and became his friend and guide.

In 1854 he went to London and was appointed solo violinist in the queen's band, but when in 1860 he obtained his amnesty and returned to Hungary he was created solo violinist in the band of the Emperor of Austria.

His restless disposition would not allow him to remain long in one place, and in 1865 he once more began to travel. He visited Paris, where he created a perfect furore, and then continued his triumphant course through Germany, Holland, and Belgium. After settling in Paris for about two years, he returned in 1877 to London, where he repeated his Parisian successes, appearing, as in Paris, chiefly in the salons of wealthy patrons. During this visit to London he appeared in public only once, at Mapleson's benefit at the Crystal Palace, when he played a fantasia on themes from the "Huguenots." The following year he went once more to the United States, and on his way played at the promenade concerts in London. In America he remained for some years, and then proceeded in 1887 to the Cape of Good Hope and Madagascar. While on this voyage it was reported that his ship was wrecked and that he was drowned, and numerous obituary notices of him appeared in the newspapers throughout the world.

In 1891 he was once more in London, and played at the house of the late Colonel North, "the Nitrate King." He now returned to the United States, where he passed the remainder of his days. His powers were, however, failing, and other violinists had brought new and perhaps higher interest to American audiences.

When Remenyi visited the United States in 1878, he arrived a few weeks after Wilhelmj, and notwithstanding the fact that the two violinists were widely different in temperament, ideas, musicianship, in fact in every particular, they were frequently made the subjects of comparison. At this time Remenyi played an "Otello Fantaisie," "Suwanee River," "Grandfather's Clock," etc. He was well sketched in a journal of the time, which said:

"Remenyi is gifted with a vivacious, generous, rather mocking disposition which rebels against monotony, and whose originality shines through everything, and in spite of everything. He is fluent in five or six languages, and entertains with droll conceits, or with reminiscences of famous artists and composers.... In the wild rhythms of the gypsy dance, in the fierce splendour of the patriotic hymn, the player and audience alike are fired with excitement. The passion rises, the tumult waxes furious; a tremendous sweep of the bow brings the music to an end; and then we can say that we have heard Remenyi."

The gypsy dance and the patriotic hymn! And yet he was weighed in the balance with Wilhelmj, who played the grandest and best music in the most refined, musicianly manner, and whose tour in America marked an epoch in the musical life of the country.

In his prime Remenyi was the master of an enormous technique, and the possessor of a strongly pronounced poetic individuality. His whole soul was in his playing, and his impulse carried him away with it as he warmed to his task, and it carried the audience too. His greatest success was in the playing of Hungarian music, some of which he adapted for his instrument, but the stormier pieces of Chopin which he arranged for the violin were given by him with tremendous effect. In the more tender pieces, such as the nocturnes of Field and of Chopin, he played with the utmost dreaminess.

His individuality showed in his playing. He was impulsive and uncertain,—a wandering musician, who, when the whim took him, would disappear from public view altogether. When he made a success in any place his restless nature would not allow him to follow it up, so that when his prime was past, instead of having formed connections which should have lasted him for the rest of his life, he was still the wandering musician, but without the marvellous powers which he had wielded only a few years before.

During his long career he toured Australia and almost all the islands of the Pacific, also Java, China, and Japan; in fact, he went where few, if any, violinists of his ability had been before.

Once upon a time the representative of a London newspaper went to interview Remenyi, and was surprised to find that the violinist was not only willing to tell him much, but even proposed questions which he should answer. He said that he had played in the 60's before the natives of South Africa, and had been shipwrecked, after which he had the pleasure of reading some very fine obituary notices. In New Zealand he found the Maoris perfectly reckless in their demand for encores, and instead of playing six pieces, as announced on his programmes, he frequently had to play sixteen.

In South Africa he discovered thirty out of his collection of forty-seven old and valuable violins. Most of them were probably the property of the Huguenots, who after the edict of Nantes went to Holland and thence to South Africa, to which place they were banished by the Dutch government.

It was related by Remenyi that when he was a young man in Hamburg, in 1853, he was to appear at a fashionable soiree one night, but at the last moment his accompanist was too ill to play. Remenyi went to a music store and asked for an accompanist. The proprietor sent Johannes Brahms, then a lad of sixteen, who was struggling for existence and teaching for a very small sum. Remenyi and Brahms became so interested in each other that they forgot all about the soiree, and sat up till four the next morning chatting and playing together. Remenyi's negligence of his engagement resulted in the loss of any further business in Hamburg, and together with Brahms he set out for Hanover, giving concerts as they went, and thus earning sufficient funds to carry them on their way.

At Hanover they called upon Joachim, who arranged for them to play before the court. After this they proceeded to the Altenberg to see Liszt, who received them warmly, and offered them a home. During all this time Brahms received little or no recognition, in spite of Remenyi's enthusiasm in his cause, neither did he find very much favour with Liszt, although the latter recognised his talent. He therefore returned to Hanover, where Joachim gave him a letter to Schumann, and it was Schumann's enthusiastic welcome and declaration that a new genius had arisen that established Brahms's reputation in musical circles.

Remenyi said that Brahms, shortly after his arrival at the Altenberg, offended Liszt and his pupils by comfortably sleeping during one of the famous lessons, which were in the nature of a general class. This breach of manners Brahms justified on the score of being exhausted by his previous journey.

The death of Remenyi, which occurred on May 15, 1898, created a sensation throughout the country. He had, after many misgivings, consented to appear in "vaudeville." The financial inducement was large, and he soothed his artistic conscience with the argument that his music would tend to elevate the vaudeville rather than that the vaudeville would tend to degrade him. It was at the Orpheus Theatre in San Francisco, and it was his first appearance. He played one or two selections, and being tremendously applauded, and correspondingly gratified, he returned and answered the encore with the well-known "Old Glory." He was in his best vein, and played as one inspired. The audience literally rose with him, leaving their seats in their excitement, and the applause lasted several minutes. He came forward, and in response to another burst of applause commenced to play Delibes's "Fizzicati." He had played but a few measures when he leaned over as if to speak to one of the musicians in the orchestra. He paused a moment, and then fell slowly forward on his face. One of the musicians caught him before he touched the stage, and thus prevented his rolling off. All was over.

Remenyi left a widow, a son, and a daughter, who lived in New York. His health had been failing for some time, for in 1896, for the first time in thirty years, he had, while in Davenport, Iowa, been compelled to cancel all his engagements and rest. It is said that Remenyi's real name was Hoffmann.

The name of Miska Hauser is seldom mentioned in these days, and yet it was once known all over the world. No virtuoso of his time travelled more extensively, and few created more enthusiasm than did Hauser. He was born in Pressburg, Hungary, in 1822, and became a pupil of Boehm and of Mayseder at Vienna, also of Kreutzer and Sechter. He is said to have acquired more of Mayseder's elegant style and incisive tone than of the characteristics of his other teachers, but his talent was devoted to the acquisition of virtuoso effects, which appeal to the majority rather than to the most cultivated.

As a boy of twelve Hauser made an extensive and successful concert tour. In 1840 he toured Europe, and ten years later went to London, and thence to the West Indies and the United States, where he made quite a sensation, and was a member of Jenny Lind's company. He afterwards visited San Francisco, where he got himself into difficulties on account of Lola Montes. Then he went to South America, visiting Lima, where passionate creoles languished for him, Santiago, where a set of fanatics excited the mob against him, declaring that he was charmed by the devil, and Valparaiso, where he suffered shipwreck.

He then proceeded to the Sandwich Islands, where he played before the royal family and all the dusky nobles. They listened solemnly, but made no sign of approbation, and Hauser felt that he was sinking into a mere nothing in their esteem. In desperation he tore the strings from his violin and played, with all his power, several sentimental songs on the G string only. Then he gave them Paganini's witches' dance. This succeeded, and they gave a yell of joy and wanted more. They particularly delighted in harmonic effects, and before long were willing to do anything for the foreigner who could pipe on the wood as well as any bird. He became a hero at Otaheite, but was obliged to continue on his journey. He next visited Australia, and while in Sydney he made such a success that he was presented with the freedom of the city and thanked by the government for his playing.