A letter from my brother Edward describes most touchingly my poor
father’s death! He says he spoke often of the anticipated delight
of his dear Ole’s return, after so many years of separation. He
read all the poems and criticisms, and knew that I was on my way
home, with my dear Félicie. He constantly heard divine music that
made him forget his sufferings. When dying, he spoke of me, and
his face was beautiful to behold.
I am so sad! Such fears! Ever the thought haunts me that I may not
see you and our child again....
To–morrow I play a quartette of Beethoven’s, a quartette of
Mozart’s, a quintette of Gebel’s, and a composition of my own....
God protect you both!
His grand concerts in St. Petersburg were given in a hall that would
seat five thousand people, and it was filled at every performance.
He now went through Finland, giving concerts in the chief towns, and
thence to Stockholm. Being in haste to reach home, he resolved not to
give any concert there. It was hoped, however, that he might be induced
to change his mind by inviting him to play for the benefit of the
sufferers from the fire in Wermeland, some of whom were then in
Stockholm collecting subscriptions. He presented five hundred dollars to
the sufferers, but declined to play. His presence at the palace was
requested, and the king, during the interview, asked him to remain and
play, saying that he made the request as King of Norway. He could not
well refuse to comply with a request so put, and, notwithstanding his
anxiety to hurry home, he consented to give five concerts, the last of
which netted five thousand dollars. He played at the palace twice. The
“Polacca Guerriera” so moved the old warrior king, to whose ears martial
music was ever the sweetest, that he rose from his seat, and remained
standing until the piece was finished.
The following incident occurred during Ole Bull’s first audience with
Bernadotte. The king remarked that he had written to the Emperor of
Russia, that he, too, had his Poles, the Norwegians; probably
forgetting, for the moment, the nationality of his listener. Ole Bull
replied with warmth: “Can your majesty mention a single instance in
which my countrymen have not proved themselves law–abiding and loyal
subjects?” “Your remark, sir, is out of place.” “If my remark is out of
place, your majesty, I myself am out of place, and will take my leave.”
“Remain, sir!” cried Bernadotte, extending his hand with a commanding
gesture. “No, sire! I will see if a _Norseman_ is free in the palace of
the King of Sweden!” and the artist bowed low as he retired. Instantly
the cloud lifted, and, with a winning smile and courteous words, the
king said, “I pray you, sir, to remain; it is the duty of a prince to
hear the opinions of all his people.”
Before Ole Bull left, Bernadotte offered him the Vasa order, which he
declined, saying that a handkerchief or a button from his majesty’s coat
would be a precious memento of this visit. When the king found that both
order and jewels were firmly declined, in parting with Ole Bull he told
him that at all times he would be admitted directly to his presence, and
concluded, “You will not refuse an old man’s blessing”—which the
violinist knelt to receive.
The order in brilliants was sent later to Ole Bull in Christiania,
through his friend, Count Wedel–Jarlsberg, with a message from the king
requesting the artist to accept the gift, that the world might know his
king appreciated and honored genius.
The artist arrived with his family in Christiania, the capital of
Norway, July 8, 1838, having gone directly there from Stockholm. The
people were impatient to hear him, but he felt it necessary to take a
fortnight’s rest after his long and fatiguing journey. The students
hastened meantime to greet him before his public appearance, and on the
19th of July a dinner was given him by the foremost men of the country.
Poems were written and read, his portrait was wreathed in flowers, and
he himself was at last crowned with laurel. Wergeland says of his
arrival and concert:—
Business even was dull while awaiting him. The talk was only of
Ole Bull. The people had evidently thought of him as walking about
with diamond buttons on his coat and surrounded by a sort of
triumphal halo; and it was a surprise when he at last stood before
us, exactly the same as of old, the same modest, unassuming man,
with the same kindly smile and the piercing glance. Before his
concert he made a visit to his old teacher, Paulsen, who had been
unfortunate and now lay upon a sick–bed. He played for him until
the old man was happy, and when he left he took care to insure his
permanent comfort.
Of the first concert it is enough to say that the great expectations of
the people were not disappointed. Wergeland continues:—
The greatest marvel of all was that he brought Norway home to the
Norsemen. Most people knew the folk–songs and dances, but were
ashamed to admire them. Lifted by him into their confidence and
love, these homely melodies suddenly began to gleam like stars,
and the people came to feel that they too had jewels of their own.
Ole Bull’s name was now known in every part of Norway. Among the
strangers who came to Christiania to hear him was the giant, the
engineer Engebret Soot. Wild and passionate as he was, music could
subdue him like a child, and his family used to resort to this means of
taming his Berserk nature. He had taken a short respite from his work
and gone as fast as possible by carriole to Christiania, but arrived
only at night after Ole Bull, weary from the first concert and its
triumphs, had fallen fast asleep.
There is a knocking at his door, which, repeated, is at last answered:
“Who’s there?” The door is already opened. “Good evening, Ole Bull! It
is I—Engebret Soot. I am come too late for your concert, and I want you
to get up and play for me now.” “I am really too tired. I—it is
impossible,—besides”— But by the light of a candle which his unexpected
visitor has succeeded in finding and lighting, the violinist sees before
him a man of giant size grandly proportioned. “I have traveled ninety
miles to–day to hear you.” “Yes, but to–morrow”— “I must be in Aremark.
You _must_ play for me now, Ole Bull.”
They exchange looks; they are physically the two best developed men in
Norway; they understand each other, and Ole Bull takes his violin.
Sitting on the edge of the bed he plays and, in his turn, subdues and
controls his formidable friend, moving him at will to tears or laughter;
but he himself is not permitted to sleep until he has given his one
auditor more than the audience of the evening had heard.
One of the most beautiful of the Norwegian poems addressed to
Ole Bull was written by the famous poet Welhaven under the following
circumstances. Crushed by the death of his betrothed he was leading
a life of entire seclusion, and his friends were fearful that his
depression would seriously affect his mind. He was persuaded to hear Ole
Bull; the music brought him the relief of tears, and moved him to write
this grateful tribute to his friend.[7]
[7] This poem, with a translation, will be found in the Appendix.
At the request of deputations Ole Bull now gave concerts in the
principal towns along the coast and in Bergen. The people of his native
city received him warmly, and festivities in his honor were the order
of the day. During his visit there he composed “The Mountains of
Norway,” the last piece played by him at his last concert in 1880. He
received everywhere proofs of the fervent sympathy and affection of his
own people. At his farewell concert in Bergen he was greeted with a very
rain of flowers by the ladies, although the season was so far advanced
that these were grown in their houses and not in their gardens.
In October, 1838, he left Norway for his third continental tour. He gave
five concerts in Copenhagen, one of which was for the founding of a
pension fund for the chorus of the Royal Opera. He was presented at
court, and played for King Frederic, who gave him a gold snuff–box set
with diamonds, saying, “As you have won the hearts of my people, it is
fitting that I should present you the key to my kingdom.” On the cover
of the box was a picture in enamel of the fortress by which the harbor
of Copenhagen is defended.
The following letter from Hans Christian Andersen will be of interest
here:—
COPENHAGEN, _December 8, 1838_.
MY DEAR GOOD FRIEND,—At this moment you are in my birthplace! I
must bid you welcome there, and once more chat with you. It is
only some days since we first met, but there are natures that need
no longer time to become dear to each other, and ours, I think,
are of them.
Thanks for the lyric strains of your violin,—if they could be
rendered in words we should have a wonderful cycle of poems.
Although you played to the world at large, and many felt deeply
what a human heart spoke to them in melody, I was egotistic
enough—or perhaps you will give my feeling a nobler name—to
imagine and dream that it was singing for me alone; that I alone
heard you tell in fragments the story of your artist life through
your tones! Ah! long before I heard you, I had felt an interest in
your genial personality; but now that we have met face to face,
seen and understood each other, that sentiment has become
friendship. I feel it will be a pleasure to know that you have won
a soul; therefore I tell you, and am not ashamed. Every–day people
would not understand me, and they would smile at this epistle, but
I do not write to them in this strain—only to the friend Ole Bull.
One of these days I shall call on your uncle to see the dear
little Ole,[8] kiss him, and think of his father and mother. The
poor _bonne_, so suddenly dropped down in this corner of Europe,
must be lonely. I send your lovely wife a whole bouquet of
compliments. She cannot have forgotten me altogether—because of my
wretched French, if for no other reason. Yesterday I dined with
Thorwaldsen. We spoke of you, and when I told him that I should
write to you, he asked to be remembered. He had tried to find you
at the Hotel d’Angleterre, but they told him incorrectly, it
seems, that you had gone to Roskilde, and he did not succeed in
seeing you.
[8] The first baby, the darling child, whom Ole Bull mentioned in
his letters before and after his birth, with the greatest tenderness.
What an agreeable surprise would a few lines be from you! Ah, do
let me know how your own bodily self is thriving. You were not
well when we said good–by—write of yourself. But do so at once,
while the feeling is warm; later—well, I fear that if you do not,
others will absorb your time, and that you will _not_ write. Send
at least a few words—and now, God bless you! May you have all the
success and happiness you deserve! Your name has a pleasant sound
in Europe, your heart is known to your friends. I have many
greetings for you from the C.’s, where I make my home. The
_spirituelle_ daughters think a great deal of you; they said they
hardly knew you well enough to ask to be remembered, but why
should I not tell you what must always be dear to you? Much, much
love to you. Farewell! with fraternal heart. Yours,