It was at this time I first became acquainted with him; a tall,
somewhat overgrown, sickly–looking youth, with a splendidly
developed bust, but with a nervous irritability of temperament;
his open face was very pale, and the large, clear eyes were set
deeply under the brow. He liked to talk of what he was going to
write, and he actually did compose some bits, mere bagatelles,
puffs of smoke, with a few glittering gleams from that fire which
flamed behind the clouds. His ideas were as yet crude, but there
was creative imagination in them. His plans were as yet forced,
but they ran out into picturesque and grandly romantic effects.
His state of mind was still chaotic, but it was that kind of chaos
from which Schiller sent forth “The Robbers;” that kind of chaos
which forebodes a brilliant revelation. He also liked to talk of
politics and literature; but he was not always mindful of the
talent most persons have for catching the words and dropping the
thought. When gainsaid he might become provoked, not from egotism,
or pride, or sensitiveness, but simply from the exaltation of his
mood and the excitement of the moment.
There was that froth in him which belongs to all good and strong
wine, and when others cautiously retired a step or two, I was
tempted to throw myself on his neck, for I felt that he was a most
modest, unpretentious man, childlike, trusting, and true. As yet,
no memory of achieved triumphs had thrown its glare or its shadow
about him; he stood there in the pure light of his great and noble
hope. He was not, however, at rest in Christiania. His mind was in
a state of restless agitation. He was like a balloon straining and
tugging to get loose from its moorings and rise into the upper
air. At last he determined to go to Cassel, to Louis Spohr. He
wanted the verdict of a real master; he wanted the consecration of
the true high–priest; and May 18, 1829, he hurried off for the
land of promise. But he left behind his violin, and his friends
had to send it after him. This may perhaps be explained by the
fact that he left Norway when the excitement was at its height
concerning the interdiction of the observance of Independence Day,
the 17th of May, in which he had taken part.
This seems to be the best point at which to introduce a short sketch of
Norwegian history, enough to show the relation which Ole Bull bore to
his country and her men in his youth and manhood.
Norway had for four hundred and thirty–eight years, from 1376 to 1814,
been united to Denmark; but the example of America and France in the
second half of the 18th century had awakened the spirit of independence.
During the war between England and Denmark, all communication between
Norway and the latter country had been cut off, and the Norsemen were
learning to rely on themselves.
The Swedes had, during the time of this union, made repeated attempts
to conquer Norway, but without success. When, in 1809, they were
compelled to cede Finland to Russia, they again turned to Norway, with a
stronger determination than ever for the conquest of that country. This
would indemnify them for the loss of Finland, and circumstances seemed
to favor their ambition. The old king, Charles XIII., was a mere shadow
of power, and the Swedes had chosen Bernadotte, the successful French
general, to be the successor of their childless sovereign. England
favored the designs of Sweden.
In 1813, Napoleon was beaten by his united opponents, and Karl Johan
(Bernadotte) marched with a united Swedish and Russian army against
Denmark, to invade Holstein. The Danes fought bravely, but were obliged
to surrender. On the 14th of January, 1814, the union between Denmark
and Norway was dissolved. The treaty of Kiel, signed on that day,
provided that Sweden should have Norway, and in return should assume the
payment of a part of the debt of Norway and Denmark. Norway’s old
tributaries, Iceland, the Faroes, and Greenland, were to remain subject
to Denmark. In accordance with this treaty, King Frederic VI. issued a
proclamation to the Norwegians, and released them from the oath of
fealty to him.
The Norwegians would not submit to this bargain and sale. There was but
one sentiment among the people—the defense of their independence. All
Europe was against them, and they were poor and few in numbers; still
they dared to make resistance.
In 1814, the Danish Crown Prince, Christian Frederic, had been appointed
governor of Norway. He went to Drontheim, intending to have himself
proclaimed monarch, by virtue of his inherited right, but he found the
sentiment in favor of a free constitution, and some were in favor of
proclaiming a republic. Those who did not recognize his claims had
already made a draft of a constitution. This was the celebrated
Adler–Falsen constitution, from which many important paragraphs were
embodied in the present Norse constitution. At Eidsvold, thirty miles
north of Christiania, several of Norway’s most prominent men had
assembled on the 10th of February to discuss the fate of their country.
One of their number, Sverdrup, uncle of the present president of the
Storthing, succeeded in convincing the Prince and making him acknowledge
that the people had the right to frame their own constitution.
Meanwhile, Prince Christian was to govern the country with the title of
Prince Regent. A convention of delegates elected by the people was to
be called at Eidsvold, for the purpose of preparing the constitution. In
a letter dated the 19th of February, 1814, Christian Frederic agreed to
this.
A day of fasting and prayer was appointed. The people were instructed in
regard to the state of the country in their churches, and they were
sworn to defend with their lives and blood the independence of their
fatherland. Two men were to be chosen in each parish as delegates to the
national convention. All this was carried out.
On the 17th of May, 1814, the constitution was adopted by the
convention. It provided that the people should make the laws through
their chosen representatives; that the people alone could impose taxes;
that the press should be free, and that no hereditary rights should be
acknowledged. Prince Christian Frederic was chosen King of Norway.
Karl Johan of Sweden, with thirty thousand men sent him from Russia in
recognition of his services against Napoleon, and with the promised help
of England, Prussia, and Austria, invaded Norway. Utterly abandoned,
opposed by all the powers of Europe, the famished, poverty–stricken
country had only its just cause to depend upon for its success.
Delegates from Austria, Russia, Prussia, and England arrived in
Christiania, and all expressed the desire of their respective
governments that Norway should be united with Sweden. This was refused.
War was proclaimed on the 30th of June.
A few unimportant battles were fought, and the advantage was on the side
of the Norwegians with their small force of twenty thousand men, which
could not be increased on account of the scarcity of food.
Karl Johan knew that Sweden was as much in need of peace as Norway; that
the union was doubtful; that he would not be able to conquer Norway
without help from his allies, who had not yet sent their forces. Should
he delay, the monarchs might prefer to put a prince of the true
Oldenburg blood on the throne of Norway, and his own position might be
weakened by the re–instatement of the old monarchical families after the
fall of Napoleon. He determined on a _coup d’état_. After a two weeks’
war he abandoned his claims under the treaty of Kiel and acknowledged
Norway’s right to determine her own future. He suddenly proposed a
treaty on the basis of her independence, and agreed to accept the
constitution recently adopted at Eidsvold. In the course of a few months
a parliament met, accepted the resignation of Christian Frederic,
adopted the constitution of Eidsvold, organized the government, and
elected Karl Johan king on November 4, 1814.
Norway was thus united to Sweden, and had secured for herself one of the
most liberal constitutions in Europe; and the fruit of it was a new life
in her industries, her literature, and her art.
With Iceland, Norway had enjoyed a golden literary epoch from the 11th
to the middle of the 14th century. It was the epoch of the Eddas and
Sagas. During the four centuries of union with Denmark the country had
been more or less shrouded in intellectual darkness. The people
preserved their ballads, their popular melodies, their folk–lore and
legends, but the literary record of the period shows only here and there
a name of any note.
In the 18th century, Norway produced several distinguished poets, among
whom should be mentioned Holberg, the father of modern Danish
literature, who was born in Bergen in 1684; Wessel, Vihe, J. N. Brun,
Monrad, Fasting, the brothers Frimann, Zatlitz, Rein, and Edvard Storm.
Ole Bull was related to Holberg and Storm. The distinguished naval
officer Tordenskjöld was a Norwegian. Many of these men were members of
a Norse Society organized at the Copenhagen University, and they, with
their love for Norway and faith in her people, may be said to have laid
the foundations of her independence. Some of them lived to see this
independence accomplished.
With 1814 began a new epoch in the liberty of the country. It was soon
demonstrated that the national spirit was not dead. Men appeared who
were able to build up the literature, arts, and sciences of the country,
and later Ole Bull led the van among the artists, and inspired those who
came after him with courage. He convinced not only the outside world,
but the Norsemen themselves, that they could foster sons worthy of their
old renown.
The indirect influence of Ole Bull’s success upon the art and literature
of Norway was very great. The ambition of many a youth was kindled by
him, who afterward became widely known as musician, painter, sculptor,
or poet.
In 1828, Ole Bull became acquainted with two young men in Christiania
who were destined to wield a mighty influence on Norse literature and
politics. The one was Johan S. C. Welhaven, born in Bergen in 1807, the
other Henrik Arnold Wergeland, born in Christiansand in 1808. Both
became very eminent poets, and about 1832 both were leaders of
contending parties. Wergeland gave the first poetical expression to the
glowing patriotic enthusiasm for liberty and independence. He desired
to root out every vestige of Danish influence. Welhaven was the leader
of the conservatives, and aimed to build the Norse culture on the basis
of the Danish. The discussion, at first limited to the students of the
University, soon became a national issue in which every thoughtful man
and woman in the land took part.
Wergeland died at the age of thirty–six, but he lived long enough to see
his cause victorious, and the fruits of his labors are felt to–day.
In the celebration of Independence Day commemorative of the Norse
constitution, Wergeland saw a powerful means of waking the people from
their political sleep to a patriotic fervor. He used all his influence
to promote the celebration of this day, which was as unpopular as
possible with the king. The latter had more than once attempted to bring
about changes in the constitution, but the people had been true to it,
refusing to amend it even at royal request.
On the 17th of May, 1829, a peaceful gathering of people in the
Christiania market–place was attacked and dispersed by a troop of
cavalry. Ole Bull was with Wergeland, who was severely wounded by one of
the soldiers. This roused the people to preserve and defend their
rights. The 17th of May has been celebrated with increasing enthusiasm
ever since, and Wergeland’s name is never omitted from the orations of
the day.
The day following the battle of the market–place and the first
celebration of the 17th of May, Ole Bull, as we have said, left for
Cassel to visit Spohr. His reception there was a cold one. “I have come
more than five hundred miles to hear you,” Ole Bull said, politely, to
which Spohr replied: “Very well, you can now go to Nordhausen; I am to
attend a musical festival there.” To Nordhausen he accordingly went,
where he heard a quartette by Maurer, performed by the composer himself,
Spohr, Wiele, and the eldest of the brothers Müller. He was so
overwhelmed with disappointment at the manner in which the composition
was played by these four masters—a manner which differed so utterly from
his own conception—that he left the concert with the crushing conviction
that he was deceived in his aspirations, and had no true calling for
music. He determined at once to give up art and to return to his
academic studies.
Falling in with some lively Göttingen students, returning from a trip in
the Hartz Mountains, he joined them and went to Göttingen. He stayed
there some months, and a merry life his violin called forth. The
burgomaster of the neighboring town, Münden, heard of the foreign
student who played so marvelously well, and asked a friend to bring him
with some other musical acquaintances to Münden, to give a concert for
the poor. One fine summer morning, accordingly, eight young fellows set
out for Münden, four playing in one carriage, four singing in another.
In grand state the two carriages drew up before the door of the
burgomaster, who in full dress received his guests, and immediately led
them to the dinner–table. Ole Bull anxiously observed during the feast
how one after another of his assistants dropped off into dreamland. He
remonstrated, but was only laughed at; he was in despair, and at last
angry. The toasts still kept up: “Long life to the burgomaster—his
wife—his daughter—the good city of Münden,” etc., and when, at length,
they rose from the board, with shaky knees and dizzy heads, the
violinist knew not what to do. No rehearsal was held, and none was
possible. The last piece on the programme was to be an improvisation,
“The Storm,” in which the student Ziedler was to give the thunder on the
piano in accompaniment to the violin; but he was fast losing himself.
Ole Bull expostulated with him, and tried to rouse him, but in vain. At
last, losing his temper in his despair, he called him _Dummer junge_
(stupid fellow). This, as the reader familiar with the customs of the
German students knows, is an offense that blood alone can redress. Ole
Bull accepted the challenge which followed, practiced fencing for a
week, acted on the suggestion of tiring out his adversary by dexterous
parrying, and gave him at last a slight scratch. Then came a grand scene
of reconciliation, and eternal friendship was sworn; but the director of
the police gave the party a friendly hint to leave the town.[2]
[2] This is the sole foundation for the absurd story that has appeared
in certain encyclopædias, to the effect that Ole Bull had killed a
fellow–student in a duel.
September found Ole Bull again in Norway; and a friend wrote thus of his
return:—
Feeling as if the very soil of Europe had repelled him, he
returned to Christiania. It was a wet autumn evening, and he went
to the theatre, the musical direction of which he had given up.
While standing there in a dark corner, he was soon recognized, and
it was whispered through the house, “Ole Bull has returned;” then,
the whisper rising into a loud cry, the violinist was called to
the direction of the orchestra; and on his taking the bâton the
audience called for the national anthem, thus welcoming him as
with the heart of the nation.
To go to Paris, to hear De Beriot, Baillot, and Berlioz, now became his
absorbing plan. In the summer of 1830 he visited Trondhjem and Bergen,
and gave three concerts, from which he made five hundred dollars. In
August, 1831, he went by sea to Ostend, and thence directly to Paris.
Seven years passed before he saw Norway again, but good reports soon
came from him, and these grew in number and frequency. When he finally
came himself, his reputation was made.
His stay in Paris was a venture which brought him many hardships, but
which ended like a fairy–tale in a piece of good fortune. His
recommendations from home opened no serviceable doors to him, and to his
violin no one seemed willing to listen. A passer–by might stop for a
moment and ask, “Who lives here? He plays well.” A grisette might open
her window across the street, and look at “le pauvre jeune homme la.” A
melancholy acquaintance among the German musicians might sit down before
him in unavailing admiration. But no lessons from Baillot, no engagement
at the Grand Opéra, and every day the purse growing leaner and leaner.
The cholera was raging terribly in Paris during that winter of 1831. The
Revolution of the previous July was still a vivid memory, and under the
feverish excitement of danger and death the pulse of life beat with
double rapidity in the great city. Madame Malibran was singing at the
Opéra, and the house was crowded nightly by the enthusiastic Parisians.
In the topmost gallery, in one of the cheapest seats, might be seen a
tall young man with feverish eyes, drinking in those tones with his
whole soul.
He had still sufficient means to carry him through the winter; but an
elderly gentleman who lived in the same house, and who, with a shrewd
mingling of cordiality and dignity, played the part of a fatherly
friend, contrived to win his confidence, and persuaded him that, in the
disturbed state of financial affairs, his money was not safe where he
had deposited it. He therefore drew it from the bank. The following
morning found him robbed of everything but an old suit of clothes, and
his paternal friend gone. He was now reduced to extreme want; but an
acquaintance, accidentally meeting him, recommended him to Madame
Charon, with whom he himself boarded, and who kept a house patronized
chiefly by German music teachers and scholars. She offered to receive
Ole Bull until he could hear from home, his friend giving security for
sixty francs a month, which provided the young man with black bread for
breakfast, and, towards evening, with a dinner of two slices of meat,
the first course of soup being much like that which made the sailor boy
exclaim, “This is very good; I have found one pea!”
As time went on Madame began to look suspicious, and his friend’s
manner grew cold. One morning at breakfast, a stranger appeared, who at
once attracted his attention. He had black, rough hair, his complexion
was olive, his eyes black, large, and penetrating. His expression was
cynical, but refined; his conversation cold and ironical; his figure
thin and wasted; in short, he looked quite a Mephistopheles. He made a
bad impression on young Bull. When told by his friend that the man was a
detective, he said that he had suspected as much, which was overheard,
and at first made the stranger very angry, but when Ole replied in a
calm, manly way his bearing suddenly changed to one of kindly interest
in the violinist. “May I trouble you a moment, sir?” Mephistopheles
said; “I have something to tell you. Not far from here, in the Rue
Vaugirard, is an _estaminet_ where we shall be undisturbed;” and thither
they went. It was one of those public houses where the lamp is kept
burning all day, and young men, who look as if they had not slept at
night, move round the billiard–tables in their shirt–sleeves, pipes in
their mouths, and glasses filled with _eau de vie_ on the window–seats
and the chimney–pieces.
“Listen,” said the stranger. “I know you are in want; but follow my
advice; you must try your luck at play.” “But I have no money.” “You
must manage to get five francs; then go to–night, between ten and eleven
o’clock, not earlier, to Frascati’s, in the Boulevard Montmartre. Mount
the stairs, ring the bell, and give your hat boldly to the liveried
servant in attendance; enter the hall, go straight to the table, put
your five francs on the red, and let it remain there.”
The young man ran home, raised the five francs, and was on the spot at
the appointed hour. He made his way to the green table, surrounded by
ladies and gentlemen playing at _trente et quarante_. He placed his five
francs on the red, but through his awkwardness it rolled over to the
black, and was lost. He stood as if struck by lightning, without a
_sous_ in his pocket. He came to himself on hearing, “Messieurs, faites
vos jeux.” He called, “Cinq francs,” but his foreign accent made it
sound like “Cent francs,” and one hundred francs were shoved over to him
as his winnings. He stands pale for a moment, unable to speak or move;
then places his money on the red, and wins once, again, and yet again,
until, at last, eight hundred francs in gold lie in a heap before him.
“I was in a fever,” he said, when relating the adventure later; “I
acted as if possessed by a spirit not my own. No one can understand my
feelings who has not been so tried, left alone in the world, as if on
the extreme verge of existence, with the abyss yawning beneath, and at
the same time feeling something within that might merit a saving hand at
the last moment.” Suddenly, from amid the crowd surrounding the table, a
delicate hand, gleaming with diamonds, glided over the golden pile; but
the iron hand of the Norwegian grasped the little white one. A woman’s
shriek was heard; several voices called out, “À la porte! à la porte!”
But a man near Ole Bull, in a calm, clear voice that seemed to command
all in the room, said: “Madame, leave this gold alone;” and to Bull:
“Monsieur, take your money, if you please.” It was his strange friend,
who, as he afterwards learned, was none other than Vidocq, the famous
Parisian chief of police. All give way, the lady turns pale, and Ole
Bull mechanically seizes the gold, but, riveted to the spot, sees red
winning till the end of the _taille_. Had he had the courage, and left
his money there, he would that very night have won a small fortune.
Meanwhile, he had the eight hundred francs in his pocket; but it was
only on reaching his room and drawing them out, and hearing the metallic
clink and seeing the glitter, that he convinced himself he was not
dreaming. “What a hideous joy I felt,” he said; “what a horrid pleasure
to hold in the hand one’s own soul saved by the spoil of others!”
Singularly enough, he never saw Vidocq again. He soon learned that a
man could not be true to his art or himself who yielded to the insane
excitement of the then polite recreation of gambling.
The artist’s note–book, written in pencil, tells us that a house to
which he removed through the aid of the Swedish ambassador, Count
Lovenhjelm, was soon after invaded by cholera, which was then epidemic
in Paris, and that he walked the deserted streets many a night,
listening to the moans of the dying in the infected houses, hastening
his steps past doors which opened for the egress of those bearing the
dead.
He was again reduced to want and almost hopeless. The waters of the
Seine had an alluring sound as they murmured between the stone piers of
the bridges, while the noise and glare of the Parisian streets, muffled
or diminished by the influence of the pest, seemed to him peculiarly
repulsive and disheartening. The idea of suicide, however, it was easy
to keep down; but how subdue the fever which, from the despair of the
moment and the natural excitement of his nervous system, began to affect
his brain?
One day, while roving about the streets, he stopped in front of No. 19
Rue des Martyrs. He could go no farther; he was exhausted. The house
seemed to look kindly on him, and on a little ticket in one of the
windows he read: “Furnished rooms to let.” The porter insisted that it
was a mistake, but remembered, at last, that on the second floor lived
an old lady who had recently lost her son, and who, perhaps, might have
a vacant room. The young man ascended the stairs, rang the bell, and was
received by an elderly and motherly–looking gentlewoman. But, no! there
was no vacant room. “Grandmamma, look at him!” cried a young girl. The
old lady put on her glasses, and as she looked at Ole Bull the tears
filled her eyes; he resembled so strikingly the son she had just lost.
He meantime stood with a questioning gaze. At last she said: “Very well,
Monsieur, if you please, return to–morrow at noon” (_à midi_). “Oui,
Madame, à douze heures.” A peal of laughter from the young girl greeted
his reply, which only a foreigner would have made. This beautiful maiden
was Alexandrine Félicie Villeminot, an orphan. She afterwards became the
wife of Ole Bull.
The following day found him established in Madame Villeminot’s house. He
was almost immediately attacked by brain fever. On regaining his
consciousness he found the old lady sitting by his bedside, and her
first words were of hope and encouragement. She assured him that he need
not worry about his means of payment, and he felt the soothing
influence of motherly care and affection.
He was attended by Dr. Dufours, a celebrated physician and an intimate
friend of Thiers. His name occurs frequently in Ole Bull’s letters, for
he was the friend and adviser of himself and his family for many years.
Shortly after the young man’s recovery, his friends in Christiania,
learning of his misfortunes, sent him three thousand francs from the
Musical Lyceum in that city. Matters now began to mend.
Paganini came to Paris the winter of 1831, and was heard for the first
time by the young Norwegian, whose notes show how carefully he studied
him.
About this time he tried again for a place in the orchestra of the Opéra
Comique, but in vain. Applicants for the position were obliged to
compete, and were given a piece of music to play at sight. To Ole Bull
the piece selected seemed so simple that, in the arrogance of youth, he
asked at which end he should begin. This offense caused him to be
rejected without a hearing.
One day as he was examining an instrument at a dealer’s, he made the
acquaintance of one Monsieur Lacour, who assured him that he had
discovered a certain varnish by the use of which an ordinary violin
would gain the sweetness and quality of a Cremona instrument. Ole Bull
found that violins thus treated had really a fine tone, while Monsieur
Lacour, on his side, amazed at the young man’s power, felt that he had
come across the right man to give his instruments a reputation. He
arranged with him to play on one of them at a soirée to be given by the
Duke of Riario, Italian chargé d’affaires in Paris. There he met a very
numerous and elegant company. He instinctively felt that Fortune was in
the room, if he could but catch her. But, because of the intense heat,
that mysterious varnish which Monsieur Lacour applied to his violins
gave forth such an intolerable smell from the assafœtida it contained
that he became first embarrassed, then excited, furious, wild,—and in
this state he played. When he had finished and awakened as from
a bad dream, Fortune stood before him with smiles, compliments,
congratulations, and, as is not always her wont, with more substantial
rewards.
The Duke of Montebello, Marshal Ney’s son, invited him to breakfast the
next day, and shortly after, April 18, 1832, he gave his first concert
under the duke’s patronage in the German Stoeppel’s Hall, Rue Neuve des
Augustins, with the assistance of Ernst, Chopin, and other great
artists. His share of the proceeds was fourteen hundred francs. He came
to know Chopin intimately, and they played often together in public and
private. George Sand, in her _Malgrétout_, has given a charming account
of the effect of Ole Bull’s playing at that period of his life.
As the Grand Opéra was still closed to him, he soon made a concert tour
through Switzerland and Italy. His first concert at Lausanne was a great
success, and he assisted at a religious festival in Morges on Lake
Geneva. From there he went to Milan, where he gave a concert in the
Scala Theatre which brought him both money and fame. A few days
afterwards he saw in one of the Milan journals a very severe criticism
upon his playing. What struck him, however, was not so much its severity
as its truth. It was to this effect:—
Monsieur 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.
The artist went to the publisher and asked who had written the
criticism. “If you want the responsible person, I am he,” was the
answer. “No,” said the musician, “I have not come to call the writer to
account, but to thank him. The man who wrote that article understands
music; but it is not enough to tell me my faults, he must tell me how to
rid myself of them.” “You have the spirit of a true artist,” replied the
journalist. “It is a singing–master to whom I shall introduce you. It is
in the art of song that you will find the key to the beauties of music
in general, and the hidden capacities of the violin in particular; for
the violin most resembles the human voice.” The same evening he took Ole
Bull to one of the most famous of the _repetitore_, a man over seventy
years of age, who knew the traditions of the great masters and artists.
Ole Bull used to say that never in his life had he been so impressed as
by this old singer whose voice was broken. He found in his delivery and
style the clue to the power which he had admired in the great artists.
Now to him also was the secret revealed. He at once became a pupil,
devoting himself to continuous study and practice for six months under
the guidance of able masters, throwing his whole heart and soul into his
work.
From this ardent study, assisted by eminent teachers of Italian song,
came his command of melody, which enabled him to reproduce with their
true native character the most delicate and varied modifications of
foreign music that he met with—Italian, Spanish, Irish, Arabian,
Hungarian, as well as the national songs of his own country. But the
chief result of these studies was, that he found himself; he learned to
know the nature and limits of his own talent, and was able to give form
to his musical feelings.
In a letter to a friend, at this time, he mentions a kind of vision
which he had. Worn out and exhausted by the difficulties which he met in
the work of a new composition, his “Concerto in A major,” his father
seemed suddenly to stand before him as he was playing, and to speak,
with his eyes rather than his lips, this warning: “The more you overwork
the more wretched you make yourself; and the more wretched you are the
harder you will have to struggle.” Ever afterwards he avoided
over–practice, lest it should deaden the finer sensibilities which must
be relied upon for inspiration.
In studying Italian music, he discovered how great was his need of
schooling; but he found, too, that the rules taught for playing the
violin were not sufficient to help him in developing the capacity of the
instrument. He therefore kept up, at the same time, a course of
independent study. Here again we may quote from Mr. Goldschmidt, who
says of his studies at that time:—
We will endeavor to give an exposition of the musical principles
upon which he acted, and of the means by which he strove to bring
them into practice. What was his aim, and how did he endeavor to
reach it? We have heard of his marvelous dexterity, of wonderful
“tricks” he displayed on his violin, and of “stupendous effects”
which he produced,—and the question arises, Were these tricks and
effects the end, as some have fancied, or were they the means to
an end? I answer, they were the means to an end, and this end was
_to reproduce the Hulder_. You will ask me to give you an idea of
what the Hulder is, not only as a popular fancy, but as a poetic
symbol. In trying to do so, let me remind you that from the
mountains, forests, and valleys of the North proceeded that race
which has conquered half the world; from whose love, devotion, and
aspirations chivalry sprang into existence under a more Southern
sky; their yearning souls and powerful hands produced the wonders
of Gothic architecture; their blood throbs in the veins of your
proudest aristocracy; whilst the stern tribe, remaining at home,
struggling against a severe climate, against the wild beasts of
the forest, and in internal feuds among themselves, had no other
organs for their longings, hopes, aspirations, triumphs, and woes,
than song and music. As future purple–clad kings and emperors were
hidden in the “Odelsbonde,”[3] who sent out his sons as
“Vikings,” so an unspeakable majesty and delicacy is hidden in the
simplicity of Northern strains. But there is more. Amid the
subdued yet intense feeling of the glory and dignity of man,
suddenly enters the foreboding of death: there is almost always
beneath the highest mirth an under–current of melancholy,—the
pictures are golden, on a black ground. But, at the same time, the
foreboding of death augments the feeling of life. The waters, the
trees, the mountains, live a life of their own, tempting you with
the sweetest, the most potent and secret powers of nature, or
crushing you with their colossal strength; no blind powers, no
mere creations of superstitious terror, but always animated by a
higher spirit, as behooves the fairy beings created by a
big–brained race. And, amid all these sounds, terrible or
mysterious, is heard the innocent bell–shaped flower, accompanied
by the grass of the meadow. This may give you a faint idea of the
Hulder—the spirit of the North. Southern music generally consists
of sounds that please the ear, whilst Northern music strives to
tell you secret tales of your own soul.
[3] A freeborn owner and cultivator of inherited soil, more than
farmer and less than nobleman.
It was the Hulder which Ole Bull would reproduce on the violin;
but when he came to feel what really moved itself within him—what
musical soul it was that craved for a body, a frame, a voice—the
violin put into his hand and the received rules for its use were
but ill–fitted to assist him in solving the problem. Therefore,
descending from the heights of enthusiasm, he began to study the
rudiments, and, first of all, the principle on which the old
violins—the old master–makers’ violins—were constructed. It has
been said that those violins owe their excellence to their age
alone. Why is it, then, that the Cremonese instruments are almost
human in their temper and character of tone, while contemporary
instruments from the Tyrol, etc., are now worth nothing? Whether
the Italian masters worked with unconscious ingenuity, or acted
upon the principles well known to their great musical epoch,
certain it is that their violins, like the buried soul of the
legend, challenge a searching question for the betrayal of their
secret.
At the end of his six months’ study he went from Milan to Venice where
his performances created an excitement, and he was made a member of the
Philharmonic Society. There and in Trieste his improvisations awakened
the liveliest interest, and the extremely enthusiastic criticisms of Dr.
Jael made his name known in Vienna. But he could not then visit that
city, as his thoughts and longings turned toward the South. He went
first to Bologna, where, in the most extraordinary way, he won the great
celebrity which followed him ever afterwards, by one of those happenings
in human life, stranger than those which fancy creates, and making
visible, as it were, the hand of Providence. It was from Bologna that
his friends at home first received the news of his triumphs.
Bologna was, at that time, reputed the most musical city in Italy; and
its Philharmonic Society, under the direction of the Marquis Zampieri,
was recognized as one of the greatest authorities in the musical world.
Madame Malibran had been engaged by the directors of the theatre for a
series of nights; but she had made a condition which compelled them to
give the use of the theatre without charge to De Beriot, with whom she
was to appear in two concerts. Zampieri seized the opportunity of
persuading these artists to appear in a Philharmonic concert. All was
arranged and announced, when, by chance, Malibran heard that De Beriot
was to receive in recognition of his services a smaller sum than had
been stipulated for herself. Piqued at this, she sent word that she
could not appear on account of indisposition, and De Beriot himself
declared that he was suffering from a sprained thumb.
Ole Bull had now been a fortnight in Bologna. He occupied an upper room
in a poor hotel, a sort of soldiers’ barracks, where he had been obliged
to take temporary refuge, because of the neglect of a friend to send him
a money–order. Secluded from society, he spent the days in writing on
his concerto; and when evening came, and the wonderful tones of his
violin sounded from the open windows, the people would assemble in the
street below to listen. One evening the celebrated Colbran (Rossini’s
first wife, and a native of Bologna) was passing Casa Soldati and heard
those strains. She paused. The sounds seemed to come from an instrument
she had never heard before. “It must be a violin,” she said, “but a
divine one, which will be a substitute for De Beriot and Malibran. I
must go and tell Zampieri.”
On the night of the concert, Ole Bull, having retired very early on
account of weariness, had already been in bed two hours, when he was
roused by a rap on the door, and the exclamation, “Cospetto di Bacco!
What stairs!” It was Zampieri, the most eminent musician of the Italian
nobility, a man known from Mont Cenis to Cape Spartivento. He asks Ole
Bull to improvise for him; and then cries, “Malibran may now have her
headaches!” He must off to the theatre at once with the young artist.
There is no time even for change of dress, and the violinist is hurried
before a disappointed but most distinguished audience. The Grand Duke of
Tuscany was there, and De Beriot with his hand in a sling. It seemed to
Ole Bull that he had been transported by magic, and at first that he
could not meet the cold, critical exactions of the people before him;
for he knew his appearance was against him, and his weariness had
almost unnerved him. He chose his own composition, and the very
desperation of the moment, which compelled him to shut his eyes and
forget his surroundings, made him play with an _abandon_, an ecstasy of
feeling, which charmed and captivated his audience. As the curtain fell
and he almost swooned from exhaustion, the house shook with reiterated
applause.
When, after taking food and wine, he appeared with renewed strength and
courage, he asked three ladies, whose cold, critical manner had chilled
him on his first entrance, for themes to improvise upon. The wife of
Prince Poniatowsky gave him one from “Norma,” and the ladies at her
side, one each from the “Siege of Corinth” and “Romeo and Juliet.” His
improvisation, in which it occurred to him to unite all these melodies,
renewed the excitement. The final piece was to be a violin solo. The
director was doubtful of Ole Bull’s strength, but he stepped forth
firmly, saying, “I will play! oh, you must let me play!” and again the
same unrestrained enthusiasm followed. When he finished there was a rain
of flowers, and he was congratulated by Zampieri, De Beriot, and the
principal musicians present. He was at once engaged for the following
concert, and the assistance of the society was offered for a concert of
his own. One gentleman asked for sixty tickets, another for one hundred,
and Emile Loup, the owner of a large theatre in Bologna, offered him his
house and orchestra free of expense.
The wheel of fortune was turning in his favor; the Norns were now
weaving bright threads in the web of his life. He played at both
concerts, was accompanied to his hotel by a torch–light procession, made
honorary member of the Philharmonic Society, and his carriage drawn home
by the populace. This was Ole Bull’s real _début_.
Malibran was at first angry, and would neither see nor hear him. He had
superseded the man she loved, and she possibly suspected some intrigue.
At last she allowed him to be introduced, and civilly asked him to play
something. After the first tones the blood rushed to her face, and when
he had finished she exclaimed: “Signor Ole Bull, it is indeed your own
fault that I did not treat you as you deserved. A man like you should
step forth with head erect in the full light of day, that we may
recognize his noble blood.” From that time she had for him not only a
friendly but an affectionate interest. Another day when he was playing
at her house, she said: “He has a much sweeter tone than you, De
Beriot.” The latter thought that the superiority lay in the instrument,
but failed on trial to satisfy her of this.
One night at the opera Ole Bull, who was standing at the side of the
stage, was so completely overcome by the dramatic power and the glorious
voice of the great artist, that, unconsciously to himself, the tears
were streaming down his face. Suddenly Malibran caught sight of him,
turned for a moment from the audience, and without interruption
perceptible to them made a most absurd grimace. The discovery of her
entire self–control while she moved others to the utmost was a
disappointment which he could not afterward disguise, but she laughingly
excused it by saying: “It would not do for both of us to blubber;” and
when he thought what a comic sight his face must have been he could not
help joining in the laugh.
Another evening, having invited him to supper after the performance,
Malibran insisted on hurrying him off in her carriage, and, running up
the stairs to her rooms before him, she threw over him as he entered a
large cape, tied on his head an old–fashioned bonnet, and, pulling down
a veil over his face, pushed him into a chair in the corner behind the
table just as the rest of the party were heard outside. Putting her
finger to her lips to warn him to be silent, she introduced each guest
in turn to her “aunt just arrived from the country;” but after they had
taken seats at the table a few cuts with her riding–whip sent bonnet and
cape flying from the head and shoulders of her respectable relative.
Among the strangers who came to Bologna to attend Ole Bull’s concerts
was Prince Carlo Poniatowsky, who invited the artist to visit Florence;
and on the 2d of May, 1834, he gave a concert there in the Cocomero
Theatre. His “Concerto in A major,” made the same sensation as in
Bologna. He used to say that from that concert in Florence dated his
confidence in his own powers.
He gave two more concerts there assisted by such artists as Duprez and
Madame Ronzi de Begnis. At this time he composed his “Quartetto a
Violino Solo,” and his “Adagio Religioso: Preghiera d’una Madre,”
written for the friars of Santa Maria Novello at Florence. The
circumstances attending its composition are pleasantly told by Mrs.
Child.
The monks wanted some new music for their church. Ole Bull had
promised it, but neglected from day to day to write it. At last,
they waited upon him early in the morning, and told him it must be
ready for rehearsal the next day. “I was in bed when they came,”
said he; “I had been up all night with the moon, sympathizing
with her. I had thought of Norway, of home, of many sad things. I
said to the Dominicans that they should have the music the next
morning. I took my violin, and it sang to me so sweetly the
thoughts of the night! I wrote down its voice, and as this brought
before me the image of a mother kneeling at the altar, entreating
for her child, I called it ‘The Mother’s Prayer.’ The Dominicans
complained that it was too plaintive. They said that they already
had so much sad, solemn music, they wanted something cheerful. So
I composed something in a more lively strain for them.” This was
the motive to the “Polacca Guerriera,” which had occurred to him
while looking at Vesuvius, and which he now wrote out for the
monks on the spot, giving it an introduction and accompaniment for
the organ.
These friars became very warmly attached to him, and tried hard to
persuade him to join their fraternity. “A tame finale,” as Mrs. Child
remarks, “this would have been to the life opera which began with
swinging to the winds in the tops of Norwegian pines.”
During the hot months he retired to Pierro a Silve, a small village
hanging high in the clefts of the Apennines. He carried a letter from
the prior of Santa Maria to the prior of the cloister there. While in
this mountain retreat he composed a trio, and wrote a “Grammar of the
Violin” for his own use.
In the course of that season, he visited the famous baths of Lucca.
Prince Poniatowsky was there, as also the Duke of Tuscany, the Duke of
Lucca, and the Queen Dowager of Naples. Malibran, De Beriot, and Döhler,
the pianist, had come all the way from Sinigaglia to hear him. The
morning before the concert he was to play at the Duke of Lucca’s. After
the introduction by the piano had been played, a buzz of conversation
was kept up, in which the Queen Dowager was taking a prominent part.
Döhler whispered to Ole Bull not to mind it, and begin his solo; but he
quietly placed his violin under his arm in the attitude of waiting. The
duke stepped forward and asked if he desired anything. “I am quite
ready, your Grace, but fear to interrupt the conversation. The Queen
Dowager has probably something of importance to impart, and I would not
disturb her.” Saying he would speak to her, the duke crossed the room,
and, after a whispered sentence, she lifted her eyeglass to scan the
spirited young artist; but he was not again annoyed by conversation. The
next morning, Ole Bull met on the promenade Mr. Schmucker, one of the
gentlemen in attendance on the Queen. He said he had come from her
Majesty, who desired to see him, and proposed that he should immediately
present him. The Queen opened the conversation by remarking that she
supposed they had a great many bears in Norway, to which Ole Bull
replied that he had himself had the good fortune to be nursed by one,
and that he should always hold in grateful remembrance its tender
devotion to him. “But why,” she asked, “would you not play last
evening?” “I did not wish to disturb your Majesty’s conversation.” “Oh!
I understood that you were offended; but you must overcome that
sensitiveness. In Neapolitan society, conversation always goes on during
music.” “I should not think of visiting a city so barbarous, where music
is considered a mere recreation to lighten the tedium of more important
occupations, your Majesty.” “But you must come! I sent for you to ask
you, and I assure you that you shall have none but silent listeners, for
you deserve them.” The Queen continued to show her kindly interest,
giving him most valuable letters of introduction, and she often used her
influence in his behalf, as he found out later.
By way of Pisa, Leghorn, and Lucca,—where he once more met with Prince
Poniatowsky,—he went in the autumn to Naples. The Neapolitans, like the
Bolognese, were reputed for their highly cultivated musical taste; but
in Naples it was vocal music which was especially appreciated, and the
city, when Ole Bull arrived, was ringing with shouts and plaudits for
Madame Malibran. He waited for the conclusion of her engagement, and
then played in the Theatre of San Carlo. After he had finished his
“Quartetto a Violino Solo,” and the audience were wild with enthusiasm,
De Beriot exclaimed: “What sorcery must a violin possess to electrify
the Neapolitans!” As Ole Bull left the stage after the last piece, De
Beriot met him, and asked that he would wait until Malibran could come
to him; he of course rushed to her box, where she received him with open
arms, embracing him amid the plaudits of the vast audience.
He gave several concerts in Naples, but during his stay he met with a
sad loss. His Santo Seraphino, his dear violin, which he had used in his
first concert at Paris, which Chopin had helped him to procure, and with
which he had won his first laurels, was stolen from him. He saw it
again, many years later, in Moscow, in the possession of a Russian
nobleman, to whom he told its history. To take its place, he bought in
Naples a Nicholas Amati.
February 5, 1835, Ole Bull went to Rome. He led a merry life among the
artists there during the Carnival. Several of these were Northmen, among
whom were the Norse landscape artist, Fearnley, “the best fellow in the
world,” and Thorwaldsen. It was at this time that Ole Bull completed
his “Polacca Guerriera.” The circumstances of its composition are given
as told by Mrs. Child.
The “Polacca Guerriera” was first conceived at Naples, alone at
midnight, gazing on Mount Vesuvius flaming through the darkness.
He went to Rome soon after, and carried the vague conception in
his mind, intending to arrange it there, and bring it out at his
last concert. At Rome, he shared the apartment of a talented young
artist, who became warmly attached to him. The intimate relation
between music and painting was a favorite theme with this young
man, and, to the musician, the sounds of an orchestra had always
suggested colors. When he slept late in the morning, the artist
would often rouse him by saying, “Come, Ole, get up and play to
me! I can’t paint unless you play to me.” Being urged and urged,
he would at last shake off his drowsiness, and, half dressed,
begin to play. The violin would soon absorb him, till an
exclamation from the painter broke in upon his reverie: “Ah, dear
Ole, give me that once more, it is such a brilliant red!” or,
“Play that again, dear Ole, it is such a heavenly blue!”
Thorwaldsen, who was then at Rome, loved Ole Bull with most
devoted affection, and delighted in his genius. These friends, of
course, felt a deep interest in his success. From day to day they
would ask whether he had done any thing toward completing the
Polacca. His answer always was, “No, but I _shall_ do it.” As the
time for the concert drew nigh, they remonstrated against such
dangerous delay. “How can you be so careless of your fame, Ole?”
said Thorwaldsen; “do try to have this new piece done in season;
if not for your own sake, at least for mine; for, independent of
my affection for you, you know I claim you as a countryman, and my
pride of country is at stake.”[4]
[4] Norway and Denmark, it will be remembered, were formerly
included under the same government.
The concert was advertised, and the Polacca was in the programme;
still it had no existence, except in the musician’s soul. “_Have_
you written that music?” said Thorwaldsen. “_Are_ you crazy?”
inquired the painter. But he would throw his arms around them, and
laugh and jest, as if his musical reputation concerned everybody
more than it did himself. The day before the concert his friends
were in despair when they saw him prepare to go out after
breakfast. “Have you written any of that music?” said they,
entreatingly. “No, my dear friends, but I have it all here,”
replied he, playfully touching his forehead. They urged that the
concert was to be the next day, and that the piece must be
rehearsed. “I will do it this evening,” said he. “You are an
imprudent man,” they replied; “the public of Rome will not bear
such treatment even from a favorite like yourself; you will make a
complete failure.” He laughed, and coaxed them caressingly not to
be troubled on his account. The evening was far spent when he
returned. The artist, in anxious tones, asked, “Dear Ole, _have_
you done anything about that music?” “No, I have not had time.”
“Well, do set about it this moment.” “Oh, I cannot; I am so tired
that I must go directly to bed.” In vain the artist remonstrated
and entreated. A spirit of mischief had taken possession of the
wayward minstrel. He plunged into bed, and soon pretended to be
sound asleep. The young man had the habit of talking to himself;
and as he listened to the bass solo of the counterfeit sleeper, he
muttered, “How _can_ he go to sleep with nothing done about that
music? It is more than I can comprehend. I wish I could feel as
easy about it as he does.” He retired to rest early, and as soon
as he was fairly asleep, Ole sprang out of bed, lighted a candle,
and stepped softly into an adjoining room, where he began to write
down his music with prestissimo speed. The outline had long been
in his mind, and new thoughts for the filling up came with a rush
of inspiration. He wrote as fast as the pen could fly. At four
o’clock the score for all the orchestral parts was written out.
For his violin part he trusted entirely to his own wonderful
memory. Having arranged all, he crept quietly back into bed. The
artist, who was an early riser, soon began to stir. Ole breathed
sonorously, as if he were in a deep sleep. “Still asleep!”
murmured his friend: “as quietly as if the music were all ready
for the orchestra. I wish we were safely through this evening.” It
was not long before his anxiety took a more active form. He began
to shake the sleeper, saying, “Ole, do wake up, and try to do
something about that music.” But he obtained only the drowsy
answer, “Oh I cannot, I am so very sleepy.” Vexed and discouraged,
the painter went to his easel, and said no more. At breakfast, Ole
was full of fun and frolic; but Thorwaldsen and the artist were
somewhat impatient with what they deemed such thoughtless trifling
with public expectation. “You will come to my concert to–night,
will you not?” said the mischievous musician. In dismal tones,
they replied, “No, Ole, we love you too well to witness your
disgrace. Take it as lightly as you please; but you may be assured
the public of Rome will not bear such treatment.” “Oh, do come,”
pleaded the musician coaxingly, “just a little, _little_ within
the door; and then when I am disgraced, you can easily slip away.”
They would not promise, however, and he hurried off to keep his
appointment with the orchestra. He had an excellent band of
musicians, who could play the most difficult music with the
slightest preparation. The rehearsal went off to his complete
satisfaction, and he returned to his friends as gay as a lark. His
apparent recklessness made them still more sad. The dreaded
evening came. The house was crowded. Ole was full of that joyful
confidence which genius is so apt to feel in effusions that have
just burst freshly from its overflowing fountain. The orchestra
delighted in the composition and played it with their hearts. The
brilliancy of the theme and the uncommon beauty of the _cantabile_
took the audience by surprise. The novelty and marvelous
difficulty of the finale, in which the violin alone performs four
distinct parts and keeps up a continuous shake through fifteen
bars, completely electrified them. There was a perfect tempest of
applause. In the midst of his triumph, the composer, looking as
quiet and demure as possible, glanced toward the door. There stood
Thorwaldsen and the artist. The latter had a trick of moving
tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other when he was
excited and pleased. It was now flying from cheek to cheek almost
as rapidly as the violin bow through the continuous shake of
fifteen bars.
The moment he left the stage his friends rushed into his arms,
exclaiming, “When on earth did you do it? Only tell us that. Oh,
it was too beautiful!” “Don’t be so gay, my dear friends,” replied
he, with mock gravity; “you know the public of Rome won’t bear
such trifling. Why did you come to witness my disgrace?”
The next day all Rome was ringing with praises of the Norwegian
violinist. They knew not which to applaud most, his genius or his
superhuman strength in performing the four distinct parts on the
violin at once, and keeping up the motion of his bow with such
lightning swiftness, for so long a time. No person who has not
tried it can conceive of the extreme difficulty of playing at once
distinct parts on each of the strings. It requires muscles strong
as iron, and elastic as india–rubber. Paganini had sufficient
elasticity, but not sufficient strength. Ole Bull is the only man
in the world that ever did it. When the Parisians first heard him
produce this wonderful effect of four violins, it seemed so
incredible, that a story was circulated that it was all a
deception; that some other musician was playing two of the parts
behind the scenes. Thus originated the charge of “charlatanry,” so
often and so unjustly repeated.
The Polacca brought its composer a brilliant reputation at once;
and musical critics were obliged to content themselves with
saying that it was not written in the right measure for a Polacca.
In May he went from Rome directly to Paris. The doors of the Grand Opéra
were now open to him, and he gave several concerts there, making some
provincial tours in the intervals. From his second appearance at the
Grand Opéra dates Jules Janin’s criticism written for the _Journal des
Débats_. Wergeland says:—
In spite of the half ludicrous self–assertion of its author, and
the unnecessary prominence given to his own personality, it is a
very happy piece of art criticism. Jules Janin had a wonderful
power of making other people see, hear, and feel as he saw, heard,
and felt. His opinions became the opinions of the world. As if
with a wizard’s wand, he made a fame, and it was only when he
tried to unmake one that his own vulnerable points were exposed.
In the present case, he hit most happily upon just those features
in Ole Bull’s genius and character, which were sure to win
sympathy—the simplicity, the brightness, the sweet innocence,
which in his music suddenly rises from the chaos of tumultuous
passion, and the naïveté, generosity, and warm devotion, which in
his personal intercourse with men were so singularly blended with
his fierce hatred of all intrigue and malice.
In Norway we read this criticism with great delight. It was the
legal rite duly performed. The last anxiety disappeared. Ole Bull
was now in the eyes of all the world the great genius, the perfect
artist.
Jules Janin’s criticism (which would only be marred by translation) was
as follows:[5]—
[5] Ole Bull used to mention a personal grievance which Janin had
against Paganini: the latter was asked to play for the poor of Janin’s
native town and refused.