The singular personality of Paganini displayed itself in his private no
less than in his artistic life, and a few out of the many anecdotes told
of him will be of interest, as throwing fresh light on the man. Paganini
was accused of being selfish and miserly, of caring little even for his
art, except as a means of accumulating money. While there is much in his
life to justify such an indictment, it is no less true that he on many
occasions displayed great generosity. He was always willing to give
concerts for the benefit of his fellow-artists and for other charitable
purposes, and on more than one occasion bestowed large sums of money for
the relief of distress. We may assume that he was niggardly by habit
and generous by impulse. Utterly ignorant of everything except the art
of music, bred under the most unfortunate and demoralizing conditions,
the fact that his character was, on the whole, so _naive_ and upright,
speaks eloquently for the native qualities of his disposition. His
eccentricities, perhaps, justified the unreasoning vulgar in believing
that he was slightly crazed. His appearance and manner on the platform
were fantastic in the extreme, and rarely failed to provoke ridicule,
till his magic bow turned all other emotions into one of breathless
admiration. He talked to himself continually when alone, a habit
which was partly responsible for the popular belief that he was always
attended by a familiar demon. When a stranger was introduced to him, his
corpse-like face became galvanized into a ghastly smile, which produced
a singular impression, half fascinating, half repulsive. He was taciturn
in society, except among his intimates, when his buoyant spirits bubbled
out in the most amusing jokes and anecdotes expressed in a polyglot
tongue, for he never knew any language well except his own. Naturally
irritable, his quick temper was inflamed by intestinal disease, which
racked him with a suffering that was aggravated by a nostrum, in the use
of which he indulged freely. Indeed, it was said by his friends that his
death was accelerated by his devotion to medical quackery, from a belief
in which no arguments could wean him.
To his fellow-artists he was always polite and attentive, though they
annoyed him by their persistent curiosity as to the means by which he
produced his unrivaled effects--effects which the established technique
of violin-playing could not explain. An Englishman named George Harris,
who was an _attache_ of the Hanoverian court, attended Paganini for a
year as his private secretary, and he asserts that Paganini was never
seen to practice a single note of music in private. His astonishing
dexterity was kept up to its pitch by the numerous concerts which he
gave, and by his exquisitely delicate organization. He was accustomed to
say that his whole early life had been one of prodigious and continual
study, and that he could afford to repose in after years. Paganini's
knowledge of music was profound and exact, and the most difficult music
was mere child's play to him. Pasini, a well-known painter, living at
Parma, did not believe the stories told of Paganini's ability to play
the most difficult music at sight. Being the possessor of a valuable
Stradiuarius violin, he challenged our artist to play, at first hand, a
manuscript concerto which he placed before him. "This instrument
shall be yours," he said, "if you can play, in a masterly manner, that
concerto at first sight." The Genoese took the violin in his hand,
saying, "In that case, my friend, you may bid adieu to it at once," and
he immediately threw Pasini into ecstatic admiration by his performance
of the piece. There is little doubt that this is the Stradiuarius
instrument left by Paganini to his son, and valued at about six hundred
pounds sterling.
Of Antonia Bianchi, the mother of his son Achille, Paganini tells us
that, after many years of a most devoted life, the lady's temper became
so violent that a separation was necessary. "Antonia was constantly
tormented," he says, "by the most fearful jealousy. One day she happened
to be behind my chair when I was writing some lines in the album of a
great pianiste, and, when she read the few amiable words I had composed
in honor of the artist to whom the book belonged, she tore it from my
hands, demolished it on the spot, and, so fearful was her rage, would
have assassinated me."
He was very fond of his little son Achille. A French gentleman tells
us that he called once to take Paganini to dine with him. He found the
artist's room in great disorder. A violin on the table with manuscript
music, another upon a chair, a snuff-box on the bed along with his
child's toys, music, money, letters, articles of dress--all _pêle-mêle_;
nor were the tables and chairs in their proper places. Everything was in
the most conspicuous confusion. The child was out of temper; something
had vexed him; he had been told to wash his hands; and, while the little
one gave vent to the most violent bursts of temper, the father stood
as calm and quiet as the most accomplished of nurses. He merely turned
quietly to his visitor, and said, in melancholy accents: "The poor child
is cross; I do not know what to do to amuse him; I have played with him
ever since morning, and I can not stand it any longer."
"It was rather amusing," says the same writer, "to see Paganini in his
slippers doing battle with his child, who came about up to his knees.
The little one advanced boldly with his wooden sword, while the father
retired, crying out, 'Enough, enough! I am already wounded.' But it was
not enough; the young Achilles was never satisfied until his father,
completely vanquished, fell heavily on the bed."
In the early part of the present century the facilities for travel
were far less convenient than at the present time, and it was always an
arduous undertaking to one in Paganini's frail condition of health. He
was, however, generally cheerful while jolting along in the post-chaise,
and chatted incessantly as long as his voice held out. Harris tells us
that the artist was in the habit of getting out when the horses
were changed, to stretch his long limbs after the confinement of the
carriage. Often he extended his promenades when he became interested in
the town through which he was passing, and would not return till
long after the fresh horses had been harnessed, thereby causing much
annoyance to the driver. On one occasion Jehu swore, if it occurred
again, he would drive on, and leave his passenger behind, to get along
as best he could. The secretary, Harris, was enjoying a nap, and the
driver was true to his resolution at the next stopping-place, leaving
Paganini behind. This made much trouble, and a special coach had to be
sent for the enraged artist, who was found sputtering oaths in half a
dozen languages. Paganini refused to pay for the carriage, and it was
only by force of law that he reluctantly settled the bill.
His baggage was always of the plainest description; in fact, ludicrously
simple. A shabby box contained his precious Guarnerius fiddle, and
served also as a portmanteau wherein to pack his jewelry, his linen, and
sundry trifles. In addition to this he carried a small traveling-bag and
a hat-box. Mr. Harris tolls us that Paganini was in eating and drinking
exceedingly frugal. Table indulgence was forbidden him by the condition
of his health, as any deviation from the strictest diet resulted in
great suffering. He was a thorough Italian in all his habits and ideas.
Among other traits was a great disdain for the lower classes, though
he was by no means subservient to people of rank and wealth. It was
his habit, when an inferior addressed him, to inquire of his companion,
"What does this animal want with me?" If he was pleased with his
coachman, he would say, "That animal drives well." This seemed not so
much the vulgar arrogance of a small nature, elevated above the class in
life from which it sprang, as that pride of great gifts which made the
freemasonry of genius the measure by which he judged all others, noble
and simple. Like all men of highly nervous constitution, he was keenly
susceptible to both enjoyment and suffering. He was so sensitive
to atmospheric changes that his irritability was excessive during a
thunderstorm. He would then remain silent for hours together, while his
eyes rolled and his limbs twitched convulsively. Such fragile, nervous,
highly sensitive organizations are not unfrequently characteristic of
men of great genius, and in the great Italian violinist it was developed
in an abnormal degree.
The circumstances accompanying the last scenes of Paganini's life are
very interesting. He had been intimate with most of the great people
of Europe, among them Lord Byron, Sir Clifford Constable, Lord Holland,
Rossini, Ugo Fascolo, Monti, Prince Jerome, the Princess Eliza, and most
of the great painters, poets, and musicians of his age. For Lord Byron
he had a most ardent and exaggerated admiration. Paganini had stopped at
Nice on his way from Paris, detained by extreme debility, for his
last hours were drawing near. Under the blue sky and balmy air of
this Mediterranean paradise the great musician somewhat recovered his
strength at first. One night he sat by his bedroom window, surrounded by
a circle of intimate friends, watching the glories of the Italian sunset
that emblazoned earth, air, and sky, with the richest dyes of nature's
palette. A soft breeze swept into the room, heavy with the perfumes of
flowers, and the twittering of the birds in the green foliage mingled
with the hum of talk from the throngs of gay promenaders sauntering on
the beach. For a while Paganini sat silently absorbed in watching the
joyous scene, when suddenly his eyes turned on the picture of Lord Byron
that hung on the wall. A flash of enthusiasm lightened his face, as if
a great thought were struggling to the surface, and he seized his violin
to improvise. The listeners declared that this "swan song" was the
most remarkable production of his life. He illustrated the stormy and
romantic career of the English poet in music. The accents of doubt,
irony, and despair mingled with the cry of liberty and the tumult of
triumph. Paganini had scarcely finished this wonderful musical picture
when the bow fell from the icy fingers that refused any longer to
perform their function, and the player sank into a dead swoon.
The shock had been too great, and Paganini never quitted his bed
afterward. The day before his death he seemed a little better, and
directed his servant to buy a pigeon for him, as he had a slight return
of appetite. On the last evening of his life he seemed very tranquil,
and ordered the curtains to be drawn that he might look out of the
window at the beautiful night. The full moon was sailing through the
skies, flooding everything with splendor. Paganini gazed eagerly, gave a
long sigh of pleasure, and fell back on his pillow dead.