His fervid nature and personal magnetism are as powerful as ever,
and he sways the audience of to–day pretty much as he did their
fathers and mothers, in spite of the fact that critical taste is
not always satisfied with his methods.
The “Violin Notes,” now first published, were written out that season,
during the holidays, and he was experimenting on and developing the
chin–rest.
The following characteristic anecdotes were related by a Brooklyn
gentleman who called on Mr. Colton to meet Ole Bull, and was shown to
the door of the model work–shop. He writes:—
I knocked, at first hesitatingly, lest I might disturb the quiet
that reigned within, broken only by the tones of Ole Bull’s
violin. Taking advantage of a pause, I knocked again, this time to
be admitted by Mr. Colton, who forthwith presented me to the
violinist. All my fear and embarrassment as to my reception were
at once expelled by the pleasant greeting. His countenance was lit
up by that same genial smile so well known to us all.... He
explained that Mr. Colton was at work upon his famous Gaspar da
Salo, while he was practicing on his beautiful Nicholas Amati. He
seemed in such capital spirits that I ventured to ply question
upon question, and all were answered with a perfect grace and
simplicity. On his asking whether I had attended his last concert
at the Academy of Music in Brooklyn, I replied, regretting my own
engagement to play at a _soirée musicale_ the same evening. “You
play? What did you play at the soirée?” “‘L’Elegie’ by Ernst.”
“What, do you play that? Here,” handing me his precious violin,
“you shall play what I could not hear that night, and I will play
for you what you could not hear.” With great caution and greater
reluctance I took the fine Amati, and the studded diamonds seemed
to laugh at me from the keys they adorned. I had not proceeded far
when he suggested a different interpretation of one of the weird
phrases of that composition. I yielded and tried to express his
idea, but, failing completely, handed him the instrument, and
with eagerness watched the movement and with better result. He
then took the violin, straightened himself, and played the
Paganini Concerto as I have never heard it played. He seemed
completely lost to the surroundings. The very notes ring in my
ears as I now think of that performance. Speaking of the German
school of violinists, he objected to their heavy and coarse style
of interpretation, saying, “The German plays his violin
conveniently; that is, he would not play the larghetto in _la_ of
Mozart on the D and A strings, but use the E for the A when
convenient and A for D, and thus spoil the most beautiful of
melodies.” When I asked who was his favorite composer, he quickly
exclaimed: “Mozart, yes, Mozart, and more, he is the most
difficult composer to interpret.” I remonstrating gently, saying
that I thought his melodies were easily written, as stated by
Mozart himself, and more easily understood than a Beethoven
composition, he replied warmly, “Just so; because so easy and
graceful, the more noticeable are the breaks of coarse
interpreters, as, for instance, in their poor modulation in
changing from one string to another.” I must confess, his
illustration on the violin corroborated his theories. Referring to
Paganini, he said that it was next to impossible to play any one
of his compositions as he played them; and apropos of the silly
stories circulated throughout Europe during Paganini’s time, they
were simply the products of the conspiring minds of Lafont and his
musical friends, who but too keenly felt the superiority of the
dark Italian. “I shall never forget,” he continued, “how
Habeneck, the musical director, told me of Paganini’s reception in
Paris. When Paganini went to rehearsal for the first concert, he
was received with great coolness by the orchestra who were to
accompany him. The first violins especially showed their contempt
for their rival by playing an _ensemble pizzicato_ movement for
the left hand, as much as to say, You are not the only man that
can do that. But Paganini’s quiet remark, ‘Gentlemen, you do not
play in tune; you had better practice scales before attempting
that,’ so completely upset them that they made no further efforts
to discommode him. One of the tympani, however, persisted in
beating out of time, which so exasperated Paganini that he
shouted, ‘Wait, I’ll come there and make you play right,’ and
started towards him; whereupon the fellow beat a hasty retreat, to
the amusement of all as well as of Paganini himself.”
Ole Bull once admiring the ability with which Malibran read music
at sight, she challenged him, saying, “You cannot play anything,
be it ever so intricate, but I can sing it after once hearing.”
Ole Bull played a caprice full of technical difficulties, but she
sang it correctly; and, said he, “I cannot, even at this day,
after forty–five or more years, understand how she did it.” He
played it and I confess it was a labyrinth of musical phrases to
me. And thus the afternoon glided away, telling one anecdote after
another. One which I am about to relate will show the goodness of
his heart: “I was announced to play at Hartford, Connecticut.
Arriving late in the afternoon I hurried to a barber–shop. While I
was getting shaved, the boot–black, a colored boy, rattled off
some lively tunes on a fiddle. When I praised him he seemed
pleased, saying, ‘Yes, Mister, I can beat any man in Hartford.’
Noticing how he worked and stretched to gain the high notes, I
asked him if there were no other means of obtaining them. He gave
me a look as much as to say, ‘What do you know about a fiddle any
how?’ adding that there was no other way. I took his fiddle, and
illustrated my suggestion by playing harmonics. The boy stood with
open–mouthed wonder, and I, returning the instrument, left the
shop. On reaching the street above, I could not refrain from
looking down through the window. There he sat scratching his head
and then the violin, the very picture of perplexity, trying to
solve the mystery of harmonics. I sent him a ticket to my concert.
After it was over I saw that negro boy standing in the aisle,
battling with himself whether to come forward or not. I beckoned
him, and with plaintive voice he said: ‘Mister, can’t you come
down to the shop to–morrow to get shaved and show me those tricks?
I feel powerful bad!’ I promised him I would, and I kept my word.”
The summer of 1879 was one of the happiest ever spent by the artist in
Norway. One memorable day was when a party of friends went down to the
little hamlet Lofthus in the Hardanger, to be immortalized, as Ole Bull
told the peasants, because the composer Grieg had chosen to stay there
for months and to write some of his best works. They had now come to
celebrate his birthday. No spot could be more enchanting, so wonderfully
blended were the beautiful and the sublime in nature. The little study
of one room, erected by the composer for perfect retirement, was perched
half way up a rock and near the fjord. In the field above, the
apple–trees were in bloom about an old farm–house, where the guests
assembled. From the summit of the beetling cliffs not far away fell a
beautiful waterfall, while the opposite mountain shore of the broad
fjord, clothed with heavy forests of pine above and the feathery birch
below, presented range after range of lofty peaks and domes, crowned by
the great Folgefond with its eternal snow. The day was as perfect as
friendship, music, and lovely surroundings could make it.
King Oscar and the young prince made a visit to Bergen that summer, and
Ole Bull was proud of the escort of steamers, the crowds of honest,
sturdy peasant faces, the refined but hearty welcome, and the imposing
pageant which Bergen presented in greeting their sovereign. While the
artist was standing on a height overlooking the harbor, the procession
and bands discovered his presence as they moved along to take their
position and welcome the ship on its entrance to the harbor with the
royal guests; and each division of the long line halted in front below,
the bands playing and the men cheering Ole Bull. This instant
recognition and spontaneous expression of regard was so constantly
given him by his countrymen that it deserves mention. He proudly said
that day that not another city in Europe could furnish so royal an
escort as the fleet of steamers selected from the shipping in the Bergen
harbor. Certainly, none could have given a more beautiful or loyal
welcome. On the king’s departure from Bergen, Ole Bull had, with the
city authorities, the honor of accompanying their guests for one day
along the coast. To the toast at dinner proposed by Ole Bull for the
royal princes, in which, according to those present, he eloquently
referred to the royal family and to the successive sovereigns whom he
had personally known, the king responded by singing the three verses of
Ole Bull’s “Saeterbesög.”
But only too soon came the time for departure from his home. On the last
day and evening every part of the island was visited. It was in truth a
farewell, and it now seems as if the last lingering looks rested with
more than wonted tenderness on the spot he so loved; for it was the last
time his foot pressed the soil, as on his next return he was borne in
the arms of others to his home. His feeling for that scene is best
expressed by himself. He once wrote:—
I have suffered so much,—no one knows how much, but He whose
everlasting, superhuman love you have to sustain you in
everything noble and elevated.... How I am longing for Norway, for
Lysö! If you only knew the beauty of the “Clostrûm vallis lucida,”
as it was called in the year 1146, you would pine for it. I have
never seen anything that attracts me so mysteriously; so grand, so
sweet, so sad, so joyous! I cannot account for it. The atmosphere
there has certainly a rare charm, and the woods, the ravines, and
the lakes are so varied in expression; but the grand views from
the mountains must be seen with caution, or they will overpower
you; they make me feel thankful to God and weep in prayer for all
enemies and friends.
On his return to the United States in the fall of 1879 it was decided to
spend the winter quietly with family friends, and a residence with them
was taken in Cambridge, Mass. It is pleasant to dwell upon the charming
intercourse that made the months pass so swiftly, and two occasions may
be mentioned here. The first was the celebration of Ole Bull’s
seventieth birthday, which has been so gracefully recalled by Mr.
Appleton; and the other, which came soon after, was the seventy–third
anniversary of Mr. Longfellow’s birth, when he invited the artist with a
few friends to dine and spend the evening with him. The beautiful
presence of the poet was a benediction to those about him; and this, the
last evening Ole Bull was with him, Mr. Longfellow, as it is now
pleasant to recall, seemed especially to enjoy. A friend of the poet,
who was present, sent to the violinist just as he was to leave Cambridge
this sonnet, which was written while his playing for Mr. Longfellow was
still fresh in her memory: