The life of Olaus Bull, or Ole Bull, as he is generally known to the
world, was not only of much interest in its relation to music, but
singularly full of vicissitude and adventure. He was born at Bergen,
Norway, February 5, 1810, of one of the leading families of that resort
of shippers, timber-dealers, and fishermen. His father, John Storm Bull,
was a pharmaceutist, and among his ancestors he numbered the Norwegian
poet Edward Storm, author of the "Sinclair Lay," an epic on the fate of
Colonel Sinclair, who with a thousand Hebridean and Scotch pirates, made
a descent on the Norwegian coast, thus emulating the Vikingr forefathers
of the Norwegians themselves. The peasants slew them to a man by rolling
rocks down on them from the fearful pass of the Gulbrands Dahl, and
the event has been celebrated both by the poet's lay and the painter's
brush. By the mother's side Ole Bull came of excellent Dutch stock,
three of his uncles being captains in the army and navy, and another a
journalist of repute. A passion for music was inherent in the family,
and the editor had occasional quartet parties at his house, where the
works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven were given, much to the delight of
young Ole, who was often present at these festive occasions.
The romantic and ardent imagination of the boy was fed by the weird
legends familiar to every Norwegian nursery. The Scheherezade of this
occasion was the boy's own grandmother, who told him with hushed breath
the fairy folk-lore of the mysterious Huldra and the Fossikal, or Spirit
of the Waterfall, and Ole Bull, with his passion for music, was wont
to fancy that the music of the rushing waters was the singing of the
violins played by fairy artists. From an early age this Greek passion
for personifying all the sights and sounds of nature manifested itself
noticeably, but always in some way connected with music. He would fancy
even that he could hear the bluebells and violets singing, and perfume
and color translated themselves into analogies of sound. This poetic
imagination grew with his years and widened with his experience,
becoming the cardinal motive of Ole Bull's art life. For a long time the
young boy had longed for a violin of his own, and finally his uncle who
gave the musical parties presented him with a violin. Ole worked so hard
in practicing on his new treasure that he was soon able to take part in
the little concerts.
There happened to be at this time in Bergen a professor of music named
Paulsen, who also played skillfully on the violin. Originally from
Denmark, he had come to Bergen on business, but, finding the brandy so
good and cheap, and his musical talent so much appreciated, he postponed
his departure so long that he became a resident. Paulsen, it was said,
would show his perseverance in playing as long as there remained a drop
in the brandy bottle before him, when his musical ambition came to a
sudden close. When the old man, for he was more than sixty when young
Ole Bull first knew him, had worn his clothes into a threadbare state,
his friends would supply him with a fresh suit, and at intervals he gave
concerts, which every one thought it a religious duty to attend. It
was to this Dominie Sampson that Ole Bull was indebted for his earliest
musical training; but it seems that the lad made such swift progress
that his master soon had nothing further to teach him. Poor old Paulsen
was in despair, for in his bright pupil he saw a successful rival, and,
fearing that his occupation was gone, he left Bergen for ever.
In spite of the boy's most manifest genius for music, his father was
bent on making him a clergyman, going almost to the length of forbidding
him to practice any longer on the dearly loved fiddle, which had now
become a part of himself; but Ole persevered, and played at night
softly, in constant fear that the sounds would be heard. But his mother
and grandmother sympathized with him, and encouraged his labors of love
in spite of the paternal frowns. The author of a recent article in an
American magazine relates an interview with Ole Bull, in which the aged
artist gave some interesting facts of that early period in his life.
His father's assistant, who was musical, occasionally received musical
catalogues from Copenhagen, and in one of these the boy first saw the
name of Paganini, and reference to his famous "Caprices." One evening
his father brought home some Italian musicians, and Ole Bull heard from
them all they knew of the great player, who was then turning the musical
world topsy-turvy with a fever of excitement. "I went to my grandmother.
'Dear grandmother,' I said, 'can't I get some of Paganini's music?'
'Don't tell any one,' said that dear old woman, 'but I will try and buy
a piece of his for you if you are a good child.' And she did try, and
I was wild when I got the Paganini music. How difficult it was, but oh,
how beautiful! That garden-house was my refuge. Maybe--I am not so sure
of it--the cats did not go quite so wild as some four years before. One
day--a memorable one--I went to a quartet party. The new leader of our
philharmonic was there, a very fine violinist, and he played for us a
concerto of Spohr's. I knew it, and was delighted with his reading of
it. We had porter to drink in another room, and we all drank it, but
before they had finished I went back to the music-room, and commenced
trying the Spohr. I was, I suppose, carried away with the music, forgot
myself, and they heard me.
"'This is impudence,' said the leader. 'And do you think, boy, that you
can play it?' 'Yes,' I said, quite honestly. I don't to this day see why
I should have told a story about it--do you? 'Now you shall play it,'
said somebody. 'Hear him! hear him!' cried my uncle and the rest of
them. I did try it, and played the allegro. All of them applauded save
the leader, who looked mad.
"'You think you can play anything, then?' asked the leader. He took a
caprice of Paganini's from a music stand. 'Now you try this,' he said,
in a rage. 'I will try it,' I said. 'All right; go ahead.'
"Now it just happened that this caprice was my favorite, as the cats
well knew. I could play it by memory, and I polished it off. When I did
that, they all shouted. The leader before had been so cross and savage,
I thought he would just rave now. But he did not say a word. He looked
very quiet and composed like. He took the other musicians aside, and I
saw that he was talking to them. Not long afterward this violinist left
Bergen. I never thought I would see him again. It was in 1840, when I
was traveling through Sweden on a concert tour, of a snowy day, that I
met a man in a sleigh. It was quite a picture: just near sunset, and
the northern lights were shooting in the sky; a man wrapped up in a
bear-skin a-tracking along the snow. As he drew up abreast of me and
unmuffled himself, he called out to my driver to stop. It was the
leader, and he said to me, 'Well, now that you are a celebrated
violinist, remember that, when I heard you play Paganini, I predicted
that your career would be a remarkable one.' 'You were mistaken,' I
cried, jumping up; 'I did not read that Paganini at sight; I had played
it before.' 'It makes no difference; good-by,' and he urged on his
horse, and in a minute the leader was gone."