There was a fountain in my heart
Whose depths had not been stirred;
A thirst for music in my soul
My ear had never heard;
A feeling of the incomplete
To all bright things allied;
A sense of something beautiful,
Unfilled, unsatisfied.
But, waked beneath thy master–hand,
Those trembling chords have given
A foretaste of that deep, full life
That I shall know in heaven.
In that resistless spell, for once,
The vulture of unrest,
That whets its beak upon my heart,
Lies charmed within my breast.
Pale Memory and flushed Hope forget;
Ambition sinks to sleep;
And o’er my spirit falls a bliss
So perfect that I weep.
Oh, stranger! though the farewell notes
Now on the breeze may sigh,
Yet, treasured in our thrilling hearts,
Their echo shall not die.
Thou’st brought us from thy Northern home
Old Norway’s forest tones,
Wild melodies from ancient lands,
Of palaces and thrones.
Take back the “Prairie’s Solitude,”
The voice of that dry sea
Whose billowy breast is dyed with flowers,
Made audible by thee.
Take back with thee what ne’er before
To Music’s voice was given,
The anthem that “Niagara” chants
Unceasingly to heaven;
The spirit of a people waked
By Freedom’s battle cry;
The “Memory of their Washington,”
Their song of victory.
Take back with thee a loftier fame,
A prouder niche in art,
Fresh laurels from our virgin soil,
And take—a nation’s heart!
[Illustration]
The wife and children of Ole Bull awaited his coming in Paris. His
letters make frequent mention of his children, for whom he had many pet
names, and he delighted to tell his friends about them. In one of his
last letters from New York he said:—
I have dreamed of Alexander and Thorvald, and my soul is filled
with grief—for they would not recognize me.... I must play
to–morrow, and this kills one.[14] I shall soon come to you
myself, and you will hear more from my own lips than I will trust
to this cold paper.
[14] He had just heard of the death of their youngest son.
It is easy to imagine the pleasure of the meeting,—and also the pain,
since he could not yet feel that his independence was sufficiently
secured to justify him in giving up his professional tours. He had not
received the proportion of the returns from his two years’ work that was
fairly his due. He had left, as he habitually did, his business
settlements till the last moment, and often trusted his funds in what
proved to be unsafe hands. As a consequence, he was still obliged to
think of the pecuniary results of his work.
In the spring of 1846 he appeared several times in Paris, and on the
19th of April he gave a concert at the Italian Opera. The following is
an extract from an advance notice in the _Corsaire Satan_, of the 15th
of April:—
Each year public opinion, having fluttered about for a time, at
last settles upon an artist, who, to use an English phrase,
becomes the lion of the season. This happy advantage has been
accorded this year to Ole Bull. After the extraordinary success
which he had attained at Roger’s entertainments, he could not
leave Paris without giving a grand concert at the Théâtre
Italien. This is a custom made fashionable by Liszt, Thalberg,
Madame Pleyel,—in fact, by all great artists; a fashion which some
lesser stars with more boldness than success have followed. Ole
Bull was not too sanguine in regard to his strength, for all the
tickets are already sold. This part of the problem has been
solved; to solve the other half he only needs to play, as he has
done at the Grand Opéra, and the Opéra Comique, and his victory
will be both brilliant and complete.... Ole Bull’s violin does not
pipe and shriek like those of some of his confrères, who whine
when they pretend to sing; his bow really possesses something
magic and inspired. It is the human voice in its most exalted
expression.
The following criticism of the performance, by P. A. Fiorentino,
appeared in _Le Constitutionnel_ for the 22d of April:—
Ole Bull has given a grand concert at the Théâtre Italien. All the
Norse courage and daring was needed in venturing to offer the
public a very battle of five violin pieces. What fire and what
power! But a favorable result justifies the greatest rashness, and
Ole Bull, in the course of the evening, showed us that he was not
over–sanguine in regard to his powers. He first played variations
of a diabolic difficulty and originality on Bellini’s aria:
“L’amo, ah, l’amo, e m’è più cara.” It was as if the spirits of
hell, sunk in dark despair, must love and long for the light of
heaven. Paganini’s “Carnival,” which, as by magic, carries us to
_Via del Corso_, in the very midst of the ringing laughter and
joyful abandon of the Maccolettians, was repeated at the emphatic
demand of the audience. “A Mother’s Prayer,” composed by the
artist beneath the quiet arches of the cloister of Santa Maria, is
a great and severe piece, full of mystic tenderness and religious
warmth. Finally, the “Polacca Guerriera,” which we had twice heard
before, seemed to us more and more to merit the enthusiastic
reception the public is everywhere giving it. Ole Bull sang
splendidly last night. He was applauded and recalled so many
times, that he might have believed himself in Venice, Florence, or
Naples.
In May Ole Bull was playing in Bordeaux, to the rapturous applause of
that city. Before his departure, he gave a banquet at the Hotel de la
Paix, to which the _Courrier de la Gironde_ refers as follows:—
The apartments which Ibrahim Pacha had occupied a fortnight
previous were fitted up for the occasion, and were truly regal in
the elegance of their appointments. The large salon, especially,
was dazzling; and the brilliant toilets of the fairest ladies of
the city heightened the effect, as they clustered about the piano.
All persons in Bordeaux distinguished for talent, rank, or wealth,
participated in the reception. A quintette, by Mozart, was played
by the artist with our ablest amateurs, and a duet for piano and
violin, by Mayseder, was accompanied by a lady. Compositions and
improvisations of the violinist followed. As a host, Ole Bull was
a prince; one of the most distinguished ladies present remarked,
when she saw him receive with the exquisite courtesy and
aristocratic charm of manner peculiarly his own, that Ole Bull
seemed to her that evening a second Count of Monte Christo.... No
artist has ever been received with so much distinction and
enthusiasm in Bordeaux.
At the end of the month he filled a most successful engagement in
Toulouse, where a _fête lyrique_ was given in his honor by the residents
of that city at the Théâtre du Capitole. In Lyons he gave a concert for
the benefit of a poor actress, who, friendless, and unable to obtain an
engagement, had been driven in her despair to attempt suicide.
In July he appeared in Marseilles, where he had full houses, although he
complains in his letters that, as his concerts had not been well
announced or arranged in advance, his profits were less than they should
have been. His financial success could not always be measured by his
artistic triumphs. The Marseilles _Le Sud_ said of him:—
His place is between Paganini and Liszt. If we were asked what
distinction we would make between the young Norse artist and the
immortal Genoese virtuoso, we should answer, that, so far as
talent is concerned, the question is a difficult one. Who among us
remembers with sufficient distinctness the marvels performed by
Paganini’s bow in this place ten years ago, to be able to
determine with exactness whether Ole Bull overcomes equally great
difficulties? It is possible that at certain moments Paganini’s
manner was even more wonderful and powerful; but nothing is more
certain than that Ole Bull is his equal, if not his superior, in
beauty, warmth, tenderness, and variety. When, on the other hand,
we leave out of the account purely technical questions, which even
artists themselves cannot decide, it must be admitted that
admiration is more readily accorded to the frank, modest,
unselfish young man, who has given evidence, in many ways, of an
exalted nobility of character....
A no less electric enthusiasm broke forth again and again, when
the artist played the “Carnival of Venice,”—his own variations.
One can hardly imagine with what power of originality Ole Bull has
mastered this favorite theme of Paganini’s. He is especially
brilliant in the humorous part. If we remember right, Paganini did
not produce that natural and gushing sprightliness in the
conversation between Punchinello and the policeman. It is strange
enough, that the Northman has been able to put more sly cunning
and rollicking fun into the scene than the Italian Mephistopheles.
Ole Bull ends this composition with a bird–song, which is the most
surprising imitation one can imagine. Here his instrument is no
more a violin, but a gathering of the most charming song–birds.
Ole Bull here met frequently with his friend Hans Andersen, who was
visiting Marseilles.
In the autumn of 1847 he crossed the Mediterranean to Algiers, joining
his friend General Youssuf, and they had many an exciting adventure on
their journey across the desert. He had his violin with him and played
for the officers in the little town of Milianah. His audience was a
singularly mixed one, being composed of Europeans, Arabs, and negroes;
and the expressions of admiration or wide–mouthed astonishment which
followed his playing were in keeping. The violin case had been given by
General Youssuf, with strict instructions, to the keeping of two Arabs;
they regarded it with a holy awe, and handled it with the greatest care,
too proud of their trust to permit any one to come near it.
From Algiers the artist went to Spain. The melodies and songs of that
country charmed him, and he declared them to be the most beautiful in
the world. He was delighted too with the language, and often spoke of
its admirable adaptiveness to express the finest shadings of thought,
combined with strength and sonorousness.
During the festivities attending the marriage of Isabella II. with
Francisco d’Assiz, and Donna Fernanda with the Duc de Montpensier, he
gave concerts in Madrid. He composed by request “La Verbena de San
Juan,” which he dedicated to the Queen, who offered him a general’s
commission. She thought, no doubt, that the brilliant dress of a
staff–officer would become him, but he declined the honor. Her majesty
presented him a flower composed of one hundred and forty brilliants in
the form of a verbena, and the order of Charles III. in brilliants; also
the Portuguese order of Christus.
From a long notice in the _Español_ of the 15th of October the following
is taken:—
It is now fifteen years since we heard Ole Bull for the first time
in Paris. He was very young then, but gave promise of becoming
what he now is, a great violinist. We also knew Paganini, and can
assure our readers that of all the violinists we have heard, Ole
Bull nearest approaches him in his performance. Besides his
wonderful execution, only to be accomplished by an arm of iron
like his, he draws from his instrument a powerful and vigorous
tone; he plays the andante to perfection, and besides clearness
and precision he makes his instrument sing, a quality without
which all his other accomplishments would be colorless. This
violinist has created the greatest sensation ever known in Madrid;
and his triumph is all the greater for coming as he did unheralded
by the trumpets of fame. He has performed pieces of great length,
which were not fantasias or variations on known operas, of which
the Spanish are fond; and as instrumental concerts are not much
liked here, we feared that the efforts and skill of Ole Bull would
not be duly recompensed; but his immense talent very soon
commanded the sympathies of the public and compelled their
applause. The Norwegian artist deserves no less praise as a
composer than as a performer. His great “Concerto” has all the
severity and qualities of that form of composition....