A month at the baths in Wiesbaden, where friends made the stay most
pleasant, and a summer in the Norse home, followed. That summer
home–coming was always a delight to Ole Bull.
The grand old mountains, weird and forbidding in the early spring storms
but glorified by the Northern summer, called him, and he heard. The
beloved Lysekloster valley, whose wooded slopes commanded the fjord, the
sea, the islands, and the great range of the Hardanger; the road his
childish steps had trod, winding its way down to the sea from the church
of the old ancestral home, at every turn giving a picturesque glimpse of
lake or cliff; the path shaded by birches and maples, and the fields
fragrant with wood violets and lilies–of–the–valley; the cottagers at
work, the red jackets of the women and caps of the men giving a dash of
color here and there; the workers shouting their respectful “welcome
back” as he hurries down to the boat waiting to carry him to his own
enchanted isle,—this was the picture which lured him every spring, and
when realized gave him the happiest moment of the year.
From his eighth year he had loved Lysekloster, and often said that he
would choose that of all places in the world for his home. In 1872 the
estate was divided on the death of the owner, and the mansion itself
came into the possession of a friend and schoolmate of Ole Bull, who, at
his suggestion, bought the island opposite and decided to make a new
home for himself there, thus fulfilling his boyish dream. The island had
hardly been explored or its rocky shores visited by those living on the
main land. Its tall pines had grown and rocked in the winds alone; its
sod, except in one little spot, had never been broken; its lakes
mirrored only the stars and clouds. From the foundation of the cloister
on the main land seven hundred years before, it had been noted only as
furnishing some of the largest and finest trees in the neighborhood for
building purposes; but fortunately it was still well wooded with pine.
A visitor would find Ole Bull while there interested chiefly in the
subject of drainage, the care of trees, and the grading of roads and
paths, which he had himself laid out; strewn with white sea–shells they
could be seen from a height circling the lakes and opening up the island
in every direction.
The little steamer gliding into the fjord at breakfast time seldom
failed to bring one or more guests from town. Old or young, they were
taken on walks of exploration about the island, and even the oldest were
sure to catch the enthusiasm of their host. If fretted by a guidance
which did not spare them a short cut over rough ground, down ravines and
along never–ending turns of paths, so confusing that it was impossible
to return alone, they forgave him later, when in his music they learned
what such a walk had been to him.
The autumn days were the days for study. The guests had then gone, and
sometimes a week of storm would succeed the brightest sunshine, and dark
nights suddenly replace the long twilight. The walks then were to the
farthest points out towards the sea, where the ocean symphony sounded
loudest; the paths must also be explored to protect them from the
miniature waterfalls overleaping their proper channels, or to save tree
or shrub from the flood which threatened its destruction; but the
fiercest storms could not disturb the tranquil lakes guarded by the
pine–clad cliffs which furnished a quiet retreat on those wild walks.
Then came the contrast of the cozy room brightly lighted, and the
tempting delicacy, or, better still, the old–fashioned dish reserved for
such times by the faithful Martha.[23] How he enjoyed it all! The
music–room cheerful with wood–fires and candles, while the storm without
promised seclusion, tempted him to do the best work, often far into the
night. When the fire and candles had burned low, and the shadows seemed
the intruding spirits of the storm, then the notes would be thrown
aside, and that wonderful instrument, a soul in the hand of its master,
would voice the tempest outside and the peace within. Never did the
picture of him drawn by Longfellow in the “Tales of the Wayside Inn”
seem more strikingly true than in that room and at that hour:—
[23] Ole Bull’s housekeeper for many years.
Before the blazing fire of wood
Erect the rapt Musician stood;
And ever and anon he bent
His head upon his instrument,
And seemed to listen, till he caught
Confessions of its secret thought,—
The joy, the triumph, the lament,
The exultation and the pain;
Then, by the magic of his art
He soothed the throbbings of its heart
And lulled it into peace again.
The exquisite pictures of the artist which appear later in the poem,
breathing the Northern tradition and spirit, follow naturally here:—
Last the Musician, as he stood
Illumined by that fire of wood;
Fair–haired, blue–eyed, his aspect blithe,
His figure tall and straight and lithe,
And every feature of his face
Revealing his Norwegian race;
A radiance, streaming from within,
Around his eyes and forehead beamed;
The angel with the violin,
Painted by Raphael, he seemed.
He lived in that ideal world
Whose language is not speech, but song;
Around him evermore the throng
Of elves and sprites their dances whirled;
The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled
Its headlong waters from the height;
And mingled in the wild delight
The scream of sea–birds in their flight,
The rumor of the forest trees,
The plunge of the implacable seas,
The tumult of the wind at night,
Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing,
Old ballads and wild melodies
Through mist and darkness pouring forth,
Like Elivagar’s river flowing
Out of the glaciers of the North.
The instrument on which he played
Was in Cremona’s workshops made,
By a great master of the past,
Ere yet was lost the art divine;
Fashioned of maple and of pine,
That in Tyrolian forests vast
Had rocked and wrestled with the blast;
Exquisite was it in design,
Perfect in each minutest part,
A marvel of the lutist’s art;
And in its hollow chamber, thus,
The maker from whose hands it came
Had written his unrivaled name,—
“Antonius Stradivarius.”
And when he played, the atmosphere
Was filled with magic, and the ear
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold,
Whose music had so weird a sound,
The hunted stag forgot to bound,
The leaping rivulet backward rolled,
The birds came down from bush and tree,
The dead came from beneath the sea,
The maiden to the harper’s knee!