Intrigue against me has exhausted itself; but he who endures
slavery deserves to live a slave. I have thus far been able to
turn circumstances that seemed against me to my advantage.
Ole Bull was deeply hurt and put to great inconvenience by the ill–will
of the musicians of Stockholm, and had been obliged to call in an
orchestra from a neighboring town; but in the end his vindication was
complete, and the weapons of his assailants recoiled upon themselves. He
gave a concert at the palace, arranged by the queen in honor of the
king’s birthday, and was received more warmly than ever. His detractors
had only helped to establish him more firmly in the esteem of the people
of the Swedish capital.
The twenty–fifth anniversary of Karl Johan’s accession to the throne was
also Ole Bull’s birthday, and he invited the Norwegians in Stockholm to
celebrate the royal festivities, and played the national melodies.
He soon received letters from Henrik Wergeland, in whose house Pratté
lived, and who was indignant to find that his name should have been used
against his friend. It was to destroy this vexatious fabrication that he
determined to write the sketch of Ole Bull’s life which is quoted so
often in the present memoir.
On his way from Upsala to Stockholm, Ole Bull met at Jönköping his old
teacher Lundholm, who, it will be remembered, had prophesied that his
pupil would in time become as good a fiddler as himself. It was at the
close of a snowy day, and the northern lights were shooting up the sky.
Lundholm, muffled in a bear skin, came along in a sleigh, and unwrapping
his face called out to Ole Bull’s driver to stop. Then he shouted to the
artist: “Now that you are a celebrated violinist remember that, when I
heard you play Paganini, I predicted your career would be a remarkable
one.” “You were mistaken,” cried Ole Bull, jumping up; “I did not read
Paganini at sight; I had played it before.” “It makes no
difference—good–by,” and Lundholm urged on his horse and in a moment was
out of sight.
We must pass by pleasant incidents at various cities and hurry on to
Copenhagen, where he gave three concerts to audiences numbering several
thousands. At the last concert he played his new composition, “Siciliano
e Tarantella,” which he was obliged to repeat, and then to acknowledge
the ringing plaudits by playing a Norse and Danish national song. He was
so happy in uniting these melodies, that the audience, when he had
finished, rose to their feet with cries of “Viva Ole Bull!” While in
Copenhagen he visited the Students’ Union, and on his entrance was
greeted by a song set to one of his own melodies:—
“Thanks for thy giving
Our spirits their freedom;
Thanks for thy greeting
From Sigtuna town.
Bend but thy bow and
Send forth thy arrows,
Bleeds not the bosom
With lovelier wound.”
Here too the students escorted him to his hotel; and the king gave him a
handsome ring in brilliants.
The celebrated violinist Ernst and the pianist Döhler were in Copenhagen
at this time, and all three artists were living at the same hotel. They
were old friends and heartily enjoyed the reunion. Ole Bull used to
relate an amusing story of his early acquaintance with Ernst in Paris in
1836. He had been engaged by the Princess Damerond to arrange and take
part in some quartette music at one of her soirées, and had secured the
aid of Ernst and the brothers Boucher. As the musicians descended the
stairs some white Polish dogs followed them, snarling and barking, to
the salon. Ernst, who had on silk stockings and low shoes, began to
retreat, thus encouraging one of the little brutes to bite him. The cur
then rushed at Ole Bull, who deliberately lifted it on his toe and sent
it up among the lights of the great chandelier. The attendant found on
picking it up that the fall had killed it. The princess, raised on a
sort of dais at the end of the apartment, had seen her pet’s mishap, and
in her agitation sent a messenger to request the musicians to leave
immediately. Ole Bull expressed his willingness to comply with the
gracious request, so soon as the compensation of the artists he had
engaged should be handed him. Her feelings were somewhat mollified at
this suggestion, but as three of the quartette had already left, there
was no other course but to pay him the twenty–five louis d’or, which the
four friends spent in a supper at the Palais–Royal.
In April Ole Bull left Copenhagen, and gave concerts in Kiel, Hamburg,
Bremen, and Oldenburg, returning to Hamburg. He there met Fanny Elssler,
who had just returned from the United States. She urged him to try a
season in that country, and he decided to make the trip at the earliest
moment possible. Just at this time, he saw a malicious attack upon
himself written by the secretary of Ernst and Döhler, but, as he
discovered, without their knowledge. To meet this attack, so far as it
denounced his compositions, he gave Schubert three of his pieces for
publication—the first and last he ever published. These were,
“Variazioni di Bravoura,” “La Preghiera d’una Madre” (Adagio Religioso),
and “Il Notturno.” They were all received with great favor by the
critics at the time.
On the 19th of May, he wrote his wife from Hamburg of his happiness
that a daughter had been born to them. He also referred to the attack
made upon him by Ernst’s secretary. “If artists will make light of and
ignore calumny and censure,” he said, “they are sure to repent it in the
end. They may keep their nobility of soul, but they will lose the
respect of the public, and confidence in their own merits will be
weakened. As I am about to go abroad I desire to leave behind some
remembrance of myself, and have given Schubert certain pieces to
publish.”
In June he returned again to Copenhagen, and the enthusiasm then was, if
possible, greater than ever. Ole Bull and his compositions became the
universal topic of the newspaper paragraphers and of the people. Before
the end of the month he went again to Christiania, and the illustrious
Danish poet, Adam Öhlenschläger, happened to be a fellow–passenger on
the steamer. In his “Reminiscences” the latter says:—
In 1843 I went with my youngest son, William, to Norway. One of
our fellow–travelers was the violinist, Ole Bull, who, because of
his own talent, has acquired not only a European but a world–wide
celebrity. He had often awakened my admiration as well as my
astonishment. His life is remarkable. He came as a poor unknown
musician to Paris, and had suffered the most extreme want, when he
was recognized, heard, appreciated, loved, married, and soon
acquired by his concerts a considerable fortune. His musical
performances were an expression of his own character, a peculiar
combination of a charming, childlike good–nature and tenderness,
often interrupted by a restless excitement. Thus the most
beautiful, ravishing tones and most genial fancies alternated with
sudden piercing shrieks. It seemed as if Ole Bull with capricious
fickleness delighted in destroying the tenderest and loftiest
sentiment which he had evoked, and in offending those whom he had
charmed, with oddities which did not control himself, but which he
in a proud mood called forth whenever he pleased. He frequently
appeared to me like a painter, who shows us a beautiful picture
which he has just finished, and just as we are about to examine it
more closely he draws his brush over it and blots it all out
again. Still, justice must be done him. We heard many a charming
piece that was not thus interrupted, and it is quite probable that
this manner of his has been entirely abandoned in his riper years.
No one ever played so charmingly as he an adagio of Mozart. In it
he was able to subdue completely those grating features of a too
violent individuality. I say he was precisely thus in his life. He
sometimes spoiled the good he had done, but, with a childlike
nature that was most becoming to the strong, fair young Norseman,
it cost him no effort, on the other hand, to make amends for the
harm he had done.
When he at one time, on board the steamer, had caused my
displeasure by a too severe criticism of the Swedes and I had
taken my seat on a bench, he came leaping toward me on his hands
and feet and barked at me like a dog. This was a no less original
than amiable manner of bringing about a reconciliation. He often
visited me in Copenhagen. In Christiania, where his young and
beautiful wife resided, who as a Parisian did not find life in the
North very agreeable, we dined with him, and on leaving he was
kind enough to offer us one of his carriages for the journey to
Bergen, his native town, whither he also soon was going. He was
very strong, his arms were like steel, and it is very possible
that it was his excessive physical strength which occasionally
interrupted the tender tones, while he shook his head so that his
hair fell down into his beautiful brown eyes.... When he played
for the king in Copenhagen, and Frederick VI. asked him who had
taught him to play, he answered “The Mountains of Norway, your
majesty.”
From Christiania Ole Bull went to Trondhjem, and at his concerts there,
and in all the Norse towns the enthusiasm was unbounded. On the 12th of
July, 1843, he writes:—
I have been on the Dovrefjeld since yesterday evening. It commands
a splendid view, being the highest mountain in Norway, eight
thousand feet above the level of the sea. As we ascended it began
to rain, then to snow and hail very hard. The thunder and
lightning had a weird effect. I was from the noon of one day until
four the next morning ascending and descending the mountain from
Jerkind. G., who was unused to mountain climbing, failed to reach
the summit; he was almost buried in the snow. Some Englishmen
were of the party. I outwalked the guide, and reached the top
before the others. A passing traveler does me the kindness to
forward this to you.