The date, February 5, 1880, is a very memorable one to many of us,
for in some sense then we heard the swan–song of the great
Norwegian.
It was one of those impromptu _fêtes_ which, when successful,
snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. Such occasions have the
freshness of a rose suddenly plucked, with the dew and the bloom
which disappear if kept waiting too long. It was the seventieth
birthday of Mr. Ole Bull, and soon after he left us for his
native land, never to return.
There was a little domestic conspiracy shared in somewhat by
outside friends to make this _fête_ a pleasant surprise to the
object of it. The nearest intimates of Mr. Ole Bull were summoned
secretly and in time to prepare their tributes of respect and
affection, and the scene of this gathering had memories of its
own, suitable, harmonious, and poetic. For Mr. Bull was then
living at Elmwood, the home of our present ambassador to London,
Mr. J. R. Lowell. In his drawing–room, where pictures of J. R.
Stillman, Christopher Cranch, and other friends hung upon the
paneled walls, there was an aroma of scholarship, of wit and
fancy, in keeping with the old mansion, which shares with the
residence of Mr. Longfellow an old–time dignity, a colonial pomp,
as if to emphasize the genius of the poets with the added charm of
antiquity. Communicating with the drawing–room is Mr. Lowell’s
study. It was those study–windows which gave the title of one of
his pleasantest books, and there indignation sharpened the shaft
of satire which made the humor of the “Biglow Papers” a national
event.
One by one in the fading twilight the friendly conspirators
arrived. Mr. Bull was detained by unsuspected constraint in a
neighboring family till the suitable moment for his appearance
arrived. He could hardly have forgotten the date of so important
an anniversary, yet in the fine simplicity of his nature one could
see how unconscious he was of the delightful plot in which he was
involved. When it broke upon him little by little it was
beautiful to witness the mild surprise, the questioning
astonishment, displaced by an affectionate ardor and cordial
recognition of its significance. As the world knows, there is
something fascinating, individual, and characteristic in the
countenance of the great artist. Geniuses often, while most
individual themselves, are yet the highest expression of national
characteristics. Mr. Bull looked the mystic land to which he owes
his birth. Seeing him, one better understood the Sagas which tell
of the heroes who launched, a thousand years ago, their galleys
over stormy seas to conquest. His smile, so sweet and genuine,
lingered round his mouth, as the sunshine sweetens the northern
valleys, while fancy could think it saw in his streaming locks of
silver the icy crests above or the flickering of the pale aurora
of the North. Among the presents of this birthday was a violin
wholly composed of flowers, their harmonies, though silent,
suggesting in a fresh way the melodies which lingered in the
memory of all. A disk, also of flowers, displayed at its centre
the word “skaal,” the proper word for the occasion. There were
aquarelles and heaped–up baskets of flowers, and whatever suitable
gift individual love prompted to bring. When the artist had
received our salutes and hand–shakings, and smiles had warmed all
with a common purpose, Ole Bull felt that he had but one thing to
do, to reply to the spoken and silent messages of good–will in the
language he loved best,—the one best suited to the occasion. And,
standing in our midst, his snowy locks falling forward across his
bent and sympathetic face, he bade his violin speak for him. He
played with his whole heart an answer, a swan–song of melody, on
which, as upon a great river, we were carried away into dreamland,
into the Valhalla and the halls of Odin. His skill, the vigor and
power of his bow arm, belied the seventy years they celebrated.
Time had left as iron that wonderful right arm which never could
grow old. A distinguished artist answered the violin with a voice
into which was gathered the responsive cordial enthusiasm of all,
and with these two musical expressions Mr. Ole Bull’s _fête_ was
accomplished. Supper and the tumult of chat, laughter, and content
took off pleasantly the acute edge of excitement. Then later we
were summoned away from the piano to the drawing–room, where a
huge cake in frosted sugar displayed the name and age of the great
artist. Amid much merriment it was cut and shared, each one
eagerly hunting for the symbolic tiny golden violin, somewhere hid
in its capacious flanks. When the little treasure was discovered
it was found to have most suitably fallen to one of the oldest and
dearest of friends, who was, perhaps, the nearest neighbor of them
all in Cambridge. After the cake had been divided and the golden
violin discovered, a venerable bottle of Tokay was produced, which
Professor Horsford had brought home from his Austrian sojourn:
this liqueur–like wine having been distributed in little glasses,
Mr. Longfellow proposed the health and happiness of Ole Bull,
which was drunk in a silence meaning more than words.
Thus ended a happy evening, a memorable birthday, sacred now as
the last communion of love and music, between the poet of the
North and that throng which could have been multiplied a hundred
times over if all those who have held in dear regard the great
artist could have found admittance to that little room.
In March and April Ole Bull appeared in a few concerts in the principal
Eastern cities with Miss Thursby. His last appearance but one in New
York was for the benefit of the _Herald_ Fund for the starving Irish, at
the request of Mr. Edwin Booth, who planned and carried out most
successfully a dramatic and musical entertainment. Good as was the
cause, it was more for the sake of the originator of the plan that Ole
Bull responded with pleasure. During that winter he had the opportunity
of giving the Boston Philharmonic Society his assistance; and he also
played for the Philharmonic Association in Cambridge, where he was
honored by an audience that might well inspire any artist to his best
efforts.
Late in June, with a pleasant party of friends, Ole Bull sailed the last
time for Europe. He had not been feeling well for a month before, but
the physicians consulted assured him that a sea–trip was all that he
needed to bring relief. The first days out revived him somewhat, and no
anxiety was felt; but later, what seemed a violent attack of
sea–sickness, the first he had ever suffered, reduced his strength. At
Liverpool he revived, and the physician thought a few days’ rest would
quite restore him, but more violent symptoms soon appeared, and great
concern was felt as to his being able to bear the journey to Norway, on
which he insisted when he found he was not improving. Dr. Moore, of
Liverpool, accompanied him. The trip across the North Sea was finally
accomplished, but at great risk, and when at last the little fjord
steamer came alongside to bear the invalid to his home, a prayer of
thanksgiving filled all hearts. As the steamer glided gently onward the
restful calm brought a sweet sleep, and all the surroundings seemed to
breathe a promise of health. As Ole Bull approached Lysö he wakened, and
how earnestly, how gratefully he gazed on his beloved mountains in their
calm majestic beauty at that early morning hour! After the first day of
exhaustion the sufferer seemed to gain steadily, until a complete
recovery was looked for. Those days were full of happiness and blessing.
Professor E. N. Horsford, a valued and dear friend of many years, made
his first and long–promised visit to Norway that summer. His description
of the island and of the artist’s home–coming was written shortly after.
He says:—
I first saw Lysö in the twilight of Norwegian mid–summer. It was
from the steamer Domino, on my voyage across the North Sea from
Hull, by way of Stavanger, to Bergen. The island may have been
seven or eight miles away. Its irregular domes of dusky green were
but dimly outlined upon the bank of wooded mountains beyond. It
was too late to see clearly. Distant objects had begun to look
weird, and the sky was shadowy. We were approaching the region of
long twilights—the kingdom of the midnight sun; besides, the eyes
were fatigued with the endless succession of unfamiliar forms. All
day we had been sailing along inhospitable shores, and among rocky
islands, scantily covered with vegetation. Now and then, in less
exposed situations, fishing hamlets with sunny red roofs had come
in sight; we had taken in review the openings into narrow fjords
with opposing cliffs, and repeated collections of runic columns,
with the commanding monument to Harold Haarfager, the first king
of Norway. All these were in the foreground, while in the distant
eastern horizon, spread upon the table–land and covering the lofty
mountain range, was the majestic glacier of the Folgefond. These
had challenged attention, and in their novelty, or
picturesqueness, or grandeur, had fascinated us; but the spot
about which the abiding interest centred only came into view when
it was too late to more than make out its general position in the
Björne Fjord at the foot of the Lyshorn. Soon after crossing the
Björne Fjord, we swept past a column of ships of the inward bound
Loffoden fishing fleet, stern and stately, with their antique
prows and huge single square sails; and entered the crowd of
countless lesser fishing vessels and iron steamers, and came to
anchor in the harbor of Bergen.
My next view of the island was from the little steamboat landing
near Lysekloster, the point on the mainland where one takes boat
for Lysö. The island is scarcely more than half a mile from the
wharf, and from other points on the mainland the distance is less.
We had driven from Bergen, some eighteen miles over a mountain
road. Near the end, the way led down past the ruins of
Lysekloster, a relic of the eleventh century, with its many
remains of halls, refectory, chapter–house, cloisters, rude stone
coffins, and ruder inscriptions; past the fine old mansion of the
Nicolaysons, whose estate shares the name of Lysekloster; past the
antique chapel, where the gathering peasant women still wear a
costume suggesting the monastery; down to the wharf where we were
to cross the narrow Lysefjord to the home of Ole Bull. On our
left, the high mainland stretched away in a southerly direction
for a mile or more, and then turned sharply to the west beyond the
island. On the right, the bare, rocky headlands jutted irregularly
out for many miles toward the broad entrance to the Björne Fjord.
In a little bay under the slope of the Lyshorn, and a few rods
from the wharf, giving a touch of surprising grace to the scene,
were two stately swans. This was, we learned, a favorite resort,
to which they made occasional excursions from their island home.
Immediately before us was Lysö, a series of granite domes of
unequal height, half covered with birch and evergreen above, half
carpeted with heather and moss below. No trees had been felled.
There was scarcely a trace of disturbed surface except in the
narrow foot–paths that led up from the shore. There were two
little wharves, one near the boat–house, and low, red tile–roofed
cottage of Haldor–Lysö, the family servant; the other under the
bluff on which stood the imposing mansion of the proprietor.
Of other structures there were none on the island. There were no
beaches; there was no gravel. The rocky cliffs of Norway, here as
elsewhere, and uniformly, rise almost with the sharpness of a wall
from the sea. If gravel there be at the foot of the precipices, it
must be far down in the water. Above, the pines and spruces and
feathery birches start from fissures in the rocks, and soar away
to great heights, giving to the island a fleecy air of
indescribable beauty, and to the inner fjord the soft seclusion of
an inland sea.
Across this sheet of water we were rowed by Haldor. In the
distance, the American and Norwegian flags were waving their
welcome. The deep green of the Norway pines gave the finest relief
to the Hall. It stands upon a shelf. The first story leans against
the mountain. The second story, and the Byzantine turret rising
above the roof at the corner nearest the brow of the bluff, are
clearly defined against the dark foliage.
A large, open tower, with winding stairs midway on the long side
of the Hall, and rising from the ground far above the eaves,
gives, with its richly–decorated panels, brilliant entrance to the
reception room below and the music hall above. The apartment
devoted to music, occupying the whole width of the house, with two
thirds of its length, and the entire height of the second story to
the roof, is finished throughout in unstained spruce. Rows of
slender clustered and twisted columns rise to support an
elaborate system of delicately and curiously wrought arches. The
two concert grand pianos, embodying the inventions to which so
much thought had been given, and from which the inventor hoped so
much of advancement to the art, were here.
Turkish and Persian carpets and rugs were spread upon the floor or
suspended between the columns. On one side, the whispers of the
mountain pines came in through the open windows. Through the
windows opposite you saw the fjord and the highlands beyond in
undisturbed natural beauty. How fitting! In what keeping with the
spirit that inspired the whole! Without and within, the perpetual
fragrance of the balsam and birch. Everywhere quiet; no rattle of
carts, no noise of hurrying trains, no hum of business. Everywhere
repose, only to be invaded by human voices or music, or the soft
lapping of the waves at the base of the cliff, or the soughing of
the south wind among the swaying pines.
The shelf of rock on which the Hall stands is about fifty feet
above the water, and some two or three hundred feet below the
highest point on the island. Immediately around the narrow plot
which spreads out on the sides and front is a dense border of
roses and flowering and decorative shrubbery; and along the
retreating slopes, here and there, room has been found for beds of
strawberries and small groups of fruit–trees. A quarter of a mile
northward is the cottage of the servant who cares for the grounds
and mans the yacht and row–boat. Of roadways, properly speaking,
there are none; but bridle and foot–paths penetrate every part of
the six hundred acres of the island, winding in and out, and up
and down, through the dells and glens, and by the caverns, for
twenty miles or more in all, from the shores to the summits of the
highest peaks. As there are no beaches, so there are no pebbles
for walks, and the surface, a coating of broken shells, is
gathered from below the sea, at some distant point, from which
they were brought in vessels. There are two little lakes nestling
among the hills, and there are two or three little meadows,
resting upon beds of peat, from which the product is annually
gathered.
Standing on one of the higher peaks of the island, you look
northward upon the Lyshorn, a bold, rocky cone, skirted with
evergreens, and lifting its bare summit twelve hundred feet from
the sea. At its foot are the undulating meadows and picturesque
group of Lysekloster. On the west, the eye, glancing down the
Björne Fjord, takes in the chain of lofty, dark islands beyond the
channel pursued by the steamers approaching Bergen from the south.
On the east the mainland half embraces the island, approaching at
the nearest point within a few rods of the bold cliffs that fall
sheer into the sea. On the south lies the broad entrance to the
Hardanger Fjord, the most extended, unique, and famed of the
Norwegian water highways.
A few days after our arrival at the island, the great musician and
sufferer was brought to his longed–for home. The tender care of
thoughtful kindred, and the ever busy, lifelong friend of the
family, Martha,[24] full of affectionate solicitude, had made
every needed preparation. Gentle hands bore him on his couch from
the steamer to the centre of the grand music hall. Faint and worn
and weak, he was at last under his own roof. How gratefully fell
on his waiting sense every familiar sound and form! Above and
around him were the vistas of arches and clustered columns he had
planned; a very Alhambra of fairy architecture. How often through
these galleries, in happier days, he remembered, had so sweetly
thrilled the strains of his favorite Gaspar da Salo! There was the
organ that later, at his wish, yielded from the touch of love and
anguish the sweet requiem of Mozart. The windows, distantly
screened by oriental hangings, were open to the sympathetic trees,
whose incense was so full of the associations of youth and the
days of strength. The moan of the burdened pines was hushed. Was
it too much to hope there might be, in this spontaneous
recognition and welcome, the breath of life to the prostrate
friend? What air could be more grateful than one’s native air,
washed with all the waves of the Atlantic, and surcharged with the
balm of the evergreens of Norway? Did the fevered invalid need
water to quench his thirst or to bathe his brow? The
freshly–fallen dew could not be purer or more clear than the water
that welled from Lysekilde, under the rock a few rods away.
[24] The housekeeper.
Was there a delicacy that affection or medical skill could suggest
or devise for a reluctant and fastidious palate? Devotion and
utmost culinary art had provided for its instant preparation.
Every attention that never–wearying love and forethought could
secure were bestowed upon the dear sufferer. A few days in this
restful home so far revived his strength that he was able to see
the friends who had come to visit him; but as the physician saw
ground for believing that, with absolute quiet, the lost health
might be regained, the stay was not prolonged.
During the visit a most touching incident occurred, illustrating
the tender affection felt for Ole Bull throughout Norway. The
annual encampment of militia troops at Ulven, a few miles from
Lysö, broke up. The regiments, embarked upon a fleet of steamers,
on their way to Bergen, the point for disbanding, necessarily
passed a short distance outside of Lysö. The fleet was conducted
through the inner fjord, that opportunity might be given to show
the sympathy and affection of the troops for the man whose music
had so often entranced them. The foremost vessel of the fleet,
with the military band, came slowly to rest immediately under the
windows of the music hall. Ole Bull, too feeble to present
himself, directed his great American flag with the Norwegian arms
in the escutcheon (the gift of the New York Philharmonic Society)
to be run out from the window overlooking the fjord. Immediately
the band played with infinite sweetness an original composition of
the master. This was followed by a superb ancient Norwegian air,
to which Björnson had written the words, and this was succeeded by
the proud national hymn. At the close, dipping its flag, the head
of the fleet silently moved away. The successive vessels slowly
following, dipped their flags in turn, and passed on around the
island to resume their course.
Alas! that this fleet should have been the herald of the convoy of
steamers that, a few weeks later, gave such mournful and
impressive dignity to the sorrow of Norway, when the mortal
remains of Ole Bull were borne by sea to their last resting–place
in Bergen, where he was born.
A few days only after Mr. Horsford left came the sudden change,—the loss
of strength, and the fear, on the part of those in charge of the case,
that the illness would prove fatal. Never had a patient kinder
physicians; Dr. Moore being in constant attendance, and Dr. Wiesener, of
Bergen, in daily consultation. The sick one bravely fought the disease
at every step, and calmly awaited the issue. It has been said of
another: “A devoted lover of religious liberty, he was an equal lover of
religion itself, not in any precise dogmatic form, but in its
righteousness, reverence, and charity.” This was true of Ole Bull. As
his body weakened, his soul seemed the stronger, “and full of endearment
and hope for humanity,” as Mr. Fields wrote of him. He gave the sweet
assurance that life had been precious to him, and the dear smile lighted
the way for all, as he passed beyond. One who was present wrote of that
hour:—
Everything made the change remarkably free from the dark and
terrible in death. The day was a beautiful, quiet one, full of
sunshine and gladness, and the fragrance of flowers. You know how
lovely the surroundings are. I hope death may always seem to me as
here, a happy, peaceful ending of suffering, and a quiet passing
away into something nobler and better.
Another quotation from a letter written only for the eyes of friends
will give the public feeling of the time and its expression:—
All honor is being paid our beloved by king and people. The king
sent a telegram of condolence to Mrs. Bull, expressing his
personal as well as the national loss. The city is in mourning,
with hundreds of flags at half–mast, among them the royal
standard. The common council of Bergen at once met, and offered a
spot in the very centre of the old cemetery for the place of
burial. It is a beautiful location. The newspapers are enclosed
with broad lines of black, as never before, except for members of
the royal family, and contain many tributes and accounts of his
life.
On Friday last the Kong Sverre, one of the largest of the coast
steamers, came out with friends to see the remains as they lay in
state in the music room. On Monday the funeral ceremonies took
place, and honors more than royal were indeed shown to our dear
one. It seemed that all the patriotism, all the love of people and
country, which have so characterized and distinguished his nature
during all his long life, wherever he might have been, were now
returned to him in this spontaneous outpouring of respect and
love. On the morning of the day of burial the Kong Sverre came
again, bringing the family and intimate friends to attend the
services here, which were held in the hall, and were very
impressive, especially so to us, for whom the place has so many
beautiful associations connected with his life and music. After a
prelude on the organ played by his friend, Edward Grieg, there was
prayer by the pastor, and singing of a poem written for the
service; then followed an address, eloquent with feeling, by Mr.
Konow (the grandson of Öhlenschläger), a neighbor and warm friend
of Ole Bull. After music again, the casket, covered deep with most
beautiful flowers, the gifts of friends, was borne by peasants
down to the steamer, followed by the family and friends, leaving
desolate the island which he had made a home, and so much loved.
The sad ride to Bergen was happily brightened by the sun. The
steamer, on entering the large fjord which lies outside the
harbor, was met by a convoy of sixteen steamers, ranged on either
side—a wonderfully impressive escort. As the fleet approached the
harbor slowly, guns fired from the fort and answered by the
steamers echoed and reëchoed among the mountains. The harbor and
shipping were covered with flags of all nations, at half–mast, the
whole world paying its last tribute to a genius which the whole
world had learned to know and love. The quay was covered thick
with green juniper, and festoons of green draped its whole front
to the water’s edge. Every shop and place of business was shut;
the whole population of the city stood waiting silent, reverent.
As the boat touched the quay, and while the casket was being borne
to the high catafalque, one of the artist’s own melodies was
played.
Young girls, dressed in black, bore the trophies of his foreign
success; his gold crown and orders were carried by distinguished
men of Bergen. As the procession passed slowly along the streets
strewn with green, flowers were showered on the coffin, and tears
were seen on many faces; but the silence was unbroken save by the
tones of Chopin’s funeral march, and the tolling of the church
bells. At the house where Ole Bull was born, the procession halted
while a verse of a poem written by a friend was sung. At the
grave, pastor Wallum read the service, and spoke with feeling of
the work and life of the departed, and the gratitude of his
country.