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 Göttingen, 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 Opéra 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 soirée given by the Duke of Riario, Italian chargé
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
Bériot and Malibran were to appear at one of the Philharmonic concerts.
By chance Malibran heard that De Bériot 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 Bériot 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 Bériot, 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 Opéra open to him, and
he gave several concerts there.
In 1836 he married Félicie 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 £800, 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 fêted.
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-besög." 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.