Ole Bull gave his third, announced also as his last, concert
yesterday evening; but it was so good and so highly successful,
that we are quite sure that more concerts will be called for, and
that they must be granted. A more perfect performance can scarcely
be imagined. To the confidence which, from the first, Ole Bull
possessed in his own resources is now added a confidence also in
the public—a persuasion that he is thoroughly understood and
estimated, and that conviction has evidently enabled him to
surpass all he hitherto has done. All pieces which he played last
night were of his own composition, and have been heard before in
public. They were his “Concerto,” in which he introduces his
inimitable arpeggios; his “Adagio Religioso,” with the movement
describing the “Lamentation of a Mother for the loss of her
Child;” his “Polacca Guerriera,” a most stirring movement, which
he played at the Philharmonic Society; and his “Fantasia Solo.”
The great charm, perhaps, consisted in the purity of style with
which the whole was given. It was all his own—new, and consistent,
and beautiful; not an atom of charlatanism in it; nor was there
any imitation of any other great master to be detected....
Ole Bull now went to Paris, married, as stated above, and returned with
his bride to London. The little Alexandrine Félicie Villeminot had
developed into a woman of rare beauty. Her oval face and fine features
were thoroughly Parisian, while the sparkling brilliancy of her large
black eyes betrayed her Spanish blood.
In September a series of musical festivals was to be given in the cities
of York, Manchester, Birmingham, and Liverpool. The managers wished to
engage Ole Bull, but his demand for £800 was thought too high. They
therefore opened negotiations with Mesdames Malibran and Grisi, who
asked £2,000. Falling back on Ole Bull, they came an hour too late. In
connection with Bochsa, the celebrated harpist, he had engaged a company
for a tour in the United Kingdom.
Nothing remained but to engage Malibran for the festival. She was not
well, but one night in Manchester she determined to surpass herself.
Singing a duet by Mercadante with Caradori Allan, a soprano who held a
high trill for a long time with great effect, Malibran forced a tone two
notes higher, holding it with so much strength and for so long a time
that the audience were astonished. The desperate effort proved fatal to
the great vocalist. Hemorrhage followed, and resulted in death a few
days later.
The manager had called upon her the day after the concert, and expressed
the hope that she would soon be well enough to sing again, to which she
replied: “Do you think me like one of your English boxers, only to be
put on my feet and go on again with my blows and knocks? Bête!” She once
said to Ole Bull when he tried to persuade her to guard her health and
strength: “The public will kill you, either by their neglect or their
exactions.”
Feeling, as he did, an admiration approaching idolatry for Malibran, her
death was a most painful shock to him. He writes:—
Yesterday the papers announced the death of Malibran. Poor woman!
After having worked so hard for the public, which was often
ungrateful, she dies the victim of her own success.... I cannot
realize it. A woman gifted with a soul of fire, full of the
highest passion, a ravishing singer, her dramatic talent and
declamation—ah! I remember how I wept in Bologna when I saw her as
Desdemona in “Othello.”
But the festival must go on, and the management sent for Ole Bull to
fill Malibran’s place. His own concerts had to be postponed, and in
consideration of this and their desire for his services he was offered
£800 for one night in Liverpool, which he accepted.
But, as Wergeland says, it seemed as if Malibran had asked a chevalier
to cross with her the river Styx, for he came near sharing her fate. The
hall was large, the orchestral accompaniment too strong, and his violin
could be heard only when he played _fortissimo_. In performing the
“Polacca,” his exertion was so great that he burst a blood–vessel, and
his coat had to be cut from him. The Duke of Devonshire, hearing of his
illness, sent his carriage to fetch him to Chatsworth, where he spent
some quiet days, and recovered sufficiently to continue his concert
tour.