I have twice heard Ole Bull. I scarcely dare to tell the
impression his music made upon me. But, casting aside all fear of
ridicule for excessive enthusiasm, I will say that it expressed to
me more of the infinite than I ever saw, or heard, or dreamed of,
in the realms of Nature, Art, or Imagination.
They tell me his performance is wonderfully skillful; but I have
not enough of scientific knowledge to judge of the difficulties he
overcomes. I can readily believe of him, what Bettina says of
Beethoven, that “his spirit creates the inconceivable, and his
fingers perform the impossible.” He played on four strings at
once, and produced the rich harmony of four instruments. His bow
touched the strings as if in sport, and brought forth light leaps
of sound, with electric rapidity, yet clear in their distinctness.
He made his violin sing with flute–like voice, and accompany
itself with a guitar, which came in ever and anon like big drops
of musical rain. All this I felt as well as heard without the
slightest knowledge of _quartetto_ or _staccato_. How he did it, I
know as little as I know how the sun shines, or the spring brings
forth its blossoms. I only know that music came from his soul into
mine, and carried it upward to worship with the angels.
Oh, the exquisite delicacy of those notes! Now tripping and
fairy–like as the song of Ariel; now soft and low as the breath of
a sleeping babe, yet clear as a fine–toned bell; now high as a
lark soaring upward, till lost among the stars!
Noble families sometimes double their names, to distinguish
themselves from collateral branches of inferior rank. I have
doubled his, and in memory of the Persian nightingale have named
him Ole Bulbul....
When urged to join the throng who are following this star of the
North, I coolly replied: “I never like lions; moreover I am too
ignorant of musical science to appreciate his skill!” But when I
heard this man, I at once recognized a power that transcends
science, and which mere skill may toil after in vain. I had no
need of knowledge to feel this subtle influence, any more than I
needed to study optics to perceive the beauty of the rainbow. It
overcame me like a miracle, I felt that my soul was for the first
time baptized in music; that my spiritual relations were somehow
changed by it, and that I should henceforth be otherwise than I
had been. I was so oppressed with “the exceeding weight of glory”
that I drew my breath with difficulty.
As I came out of the building, the street sounds hurt me with
their harshness. The sight of ragged boys and importunate coachmen
jarred more than ever on my feelings. I wanted that the angels
that had ministered to my spirit should attune theirs also. It
seemed to me as if such music should bring all the world into the
harmonious beauty of divine order. I passed by my earthly home and
knew it not. My spirit seemed to be floating through infinite
space. The next day I felt like a person who had been in a trance,
seen heaven opened, and then returned to earth again.
This doubtless appears very excessive in one who has passed the
enthusiasm of youth, with a frame too healthy and substantial to
be conscious of nerves, and with a mind instinctively opposed to
lion–worship. In truth it seems wonderful to myself; but so it
was. Like a romantic girl of sixteen, I would pick up the broken
string of his violin and wear it as a relic, with a half
superstitious feeling that some mysterious magic of melody lay
hidden therein.
I know not whether others were as powerfully wrought upon as
myself; for my whole being passed into my ear, and the faces
around me were invisible. But the exceeding stillness showed that
the spirits of the multitude bowed down before the magician. While
he was playing, the rustling of a leaf might have been heard; and
when he closed, the tremendous bursts of applause told how the
hearts of thousands leaped up like one.
His personal appearance increases the charm. He looks pure,
natural, and vigorous, as I imagine Adam in Paradise. His
inspired soul dwells in a strong frame, of admirable proportions,
and looks out intensely from his earnest eyes. Whatever may be his
theological opinions, the religious _sentiment_ must be strong in
his nature; for Teutonic reverence, mingled with impassioned
inspiration, shines through his honest Northern face and runs
through all his music. I speak of him as he appears while he and
his violin converse together. When not playing there is nothing
observable in his appearance, except genuine health, the
unconscious calmness of strength in repose, and the most
unaffected simplicity in dress and in manner. But when he takes
his violin and holds it so caressingly to his ear to catch the
faint vibration of its strings, it seems as if “the angels were
whispering to him.” As his fingers sweep across the strings, the
angels pass into his soul, give him their tones, and look out from
his eyes, with the wondrous beauty of inspiration. His motions
sway to the music like a tree in the winds; for soul and body
chord. In fact “his soul is but a harp, which an infinite breath
modulates; his senses are but strings, which weave the passing air
into rhythm and cadence.”
If it be true, as has been said, that a person ignorant of the
rules of music, who gives himself up to its influence, without
knowing whence it comes or whither it goes, experiences, more than
the scientific, the passionate joy of the composer himself in his
moments of inspiration, then was I blest in my ignorance. While I
listened, music was to my soul what the atmosphere is to my body;
it was the breath of my inward life. I felt more deeply than ever
that music is the highest symbol of the infinite and holy. I
heard it moan plaintively over the discords of society, and the
dimmed beauty of humanity. It filled me with inexpressible longing
to see man at one with Nature and with God; and it thrilled me
with joyful prophecy that the hope would pass into glorious
fulfillment.
With renewed force I felt what I have often said, that the secret
of creation lay in music. “A _voice_ to light gave being.” Sound
led the stars into their places and taught chemical affinities to
waltz into each others’ arms.
“By one pervading spirit
Of tones and numbers all things are controlled;
As sages taught, where faith was found, to merit
Initiation in that mystery old.”
Some who never like to admit that the greatest stands before them
say that Paganini played the “Carnival of Venice” better than his
Norwegian rival. I know not. But if ever laughter ran along the
chords of musical instrument with a wilder joy, if ever tones
quarreled with more delightful dissonance, if ever violin
frolicked with more capricious grace than Ole Bulbul’s in that
fantastic whirl of melody, I envy the ears that heard it....
His reception in New York has exceeded all preceding stars. His
first audience were beside themselves with delight, and the
orchestra threw down their instruments in ecstatic wonder.
Familiarity with his performance brings less excitement, but I
think more pleasure.
From Richmond Ole Bull went to Charleston, and thence to New Orleans. He
gave five concerts in that city at the same time that Vieuxtemps and
Madame Damoreau were giving a series of soireés. The Spanish, English,
and German papers rivaled the American in their friendly criticisms of
his performances. After three concerts in Mobile, he returned again to
New Orleans for two final concerts there.
An anecdote of one of his first Southern visits, told by the late Mr.
Thomas R. Gould, the sculptor, is illustrative of his many curious
adventures at that time. A large diamond in his violin bow, which had
been given him by the Duke of Devonshire with the request that he should
use it, had attracted the attention of a man, who came to him and told
him that he wanted the stone. The violinist replied, that, as it was a
gift, it had associations, and he could neither give it away nor sell
it. “But I am going to have that stone!” said the man, as he began to
draw his bowie knife from the collar of his coat; but the movement was
parried by the musician’s muscular arm, and the fellow was felled to the
floor by a blow with the edge of the hand across his throat. “The next
time I would kill you,” said Ole Bull, with his foot on the man’s chest,
“but you may go now.” On his release the fellow expressed his admiration
for Ole Bull’s dexterity and muscle, and asked him to accept the bowie
knife, which he had meant to use against him. This was not the only
present of the kind he received—as five knives, four given him in the
Southern States, and one in Spain, were kept among his curiosities at
home, and sometimes drew from him a story of his adventures. He was
often obliged, while in the South, to take the cash box, after his
concerts, from one place to another, the banks being few and far
between, and was finally warned by detectives of a gang of men who were
following him for the sake of plunder. He had several encounters with
them, and was more than once in serious danger. He writes at this time:—
My brave servant Henry watches over me as a father over a son. He
always fears that I may be attacked by villains; but I do not
think I am in danger from any weaponed hand.
One more story will sufficiently illustrate his Southern and Western
adventures. Going down the Mississippi, he met on the steamboat a party
of half–savage men, colonists from the far West. While reading his
newspaper he was accosted by one of the men, who had been sent as
spokesman by his companions, with the request that the fiddler would
take a drink with them, offering him a whiskey flask at the same time.
“I thank you,” said Ole Bull politely, “but I never drink whiskey.”
With a curse, the fellow asked if he was a teetotaler. “No, but whiskey
is like poison to me.” “If you can’t drink, come and fight then!” The
man’s comrades had gathered round him meantime, and they all cried, “If
you won’t drink, you must fight. You look d‑‑n strong; show us what you
are good for.” “A Norseman can fight as well as anybody when his blood
is up, but I can’t fight when my blood is cold, and why should I?” “You
look like a strong fellow, and d‑‑n it, you shall fight.” Seeing no way
of escape, Ole Bull quietly said, “Since you insist on testing my
strength and there is no reason for fighting, I will tell you what I
will do. Let any one of you take hold of me in any way he likes, and
I’ll wager that in half a minute he shall lie on his back at my feet.” A
big fellow was chosen, who stepped forward and grasped the violinist
round the waist, but was instantly thrown over his head by a sudden
wrench and lay senseless on the deck. Ole Bull now felt himself in a
very uncomfortable position, for he saw one of the man’s comrades draw
his bowie knife, but was relieved when it was used only to open a flask.
A good dose of its contents poured down his throat soon revived the
fainting man, and his first question, “How the devil was I thrown down
here?” was answered by a shout of laughter from his companions, in which
he himself joined. He sprang to his feet, and after vainly trying to
persuade Ole Bull to show him how he had thrown him, he said: “Take this
knife home with you; you fight d—d well; you are as quick as lightning!”
The artist heard of the same fellow later as having gone to an editor to
call him to account for an adverse criticism on his playing, ready to
fight for “the strongest fiddler he had ever seen, anyhow!”
Ole Bull now decided to visit Cuba, and landed in Havana. He there wrote
two compositions on Cuban motives: “Agiaco Cubano,” and “Recuerdos de la
Habana,” which he played at his last concert.