No one can thoroughly understand Paganini without an educated
appreciation of melody and the art of giving life and expression to it.
Without a knowledge of the Italian art of singing, it is impossible to
properly appreciate his playing. Contemporary with Pasta, Pizzaroni,
Rubini, Malibran, Paganini rivaled them, singing on his violin melodies,
many of which had been sung by those artists, and astonishing even
_them_ more than the public. In fact, his style was so original, and the
means by which he produced his stirring effects was so varied and so
unexpected, his music so filled with ever new episodes of startling
beauty or original quaintness, that the violinists of the day stood
confounded.
Half the conceited virtuosos would not condescend to study the mysteries
of the violin and the soul of melody, or his principles of fingering and
manifold colors of tone and expression, but called all they could not
comprehend and themselves execute “tricks” and “playing for the
multitude.” Nothing has been produced equaling his twenty–four
“Studies,” either in beauty, originality, or difficulty of performance.
They stand unrivaled. Liszt has arranged many of them for the piano in a
most masterly manner. He became so inspired on hearing Paganini, that he
composed a fantasia on the main theme of his “Rondo Campanella.” In his
obituary notice of Paganini, published in Paris, he places him above all
virtuosos. As some of Paganini’s pieces required the violin to be tuned
higher than the normal pitch, it was necessary that his strings should
be thinner than ordinary to endure the increased strain and give a free
vibration. Tuned in this way, for some effects they possessed a peculiar
timbre and far–reaching tone, particularly the G string, which, for some
occasions, he tuned up to C natural. The violinists of that day used
thick strings. They seemed to consider the greatness and variety of the
tone to be a result of sheer muscular force, and thus loaded the string
with a weight which retarded its vibration. The heavy strings certainly
gave a louder tone, but it was much more gross, and, besides, required
such effort that often the disagreeable friction of the bow could be
distinguished mixed with the tone. The humidity and heat of the
concert–room often caused the E string to break in the midst of a
performance. After Paganini had been heard, the adoption of thinner
strings became general.
Paganini’s style of bowing and producing the tone was founded on
Tartini’s exquisite method. He held his upper arm close to his body,
using mainly his lower arm for the bow stroke, keeping the wrist
extremely flexible. From his peculiar build he could cross his elbows
readily. The elbow of his left arm he brought very much to the right in
playing. This singular flexibility greatly assisted him in his
incredible flights, and made easy for him passages impossible for
another. His hand was rather small and thin, and the little finger
peculiarly long. The strings of his violin were rather high from the
finger–board; this enabled him to give forte passages with great effect,
and without the rattling and false vibration always accompanying force
when applied to strings close to the finger–board. Owing to his narrow
chest and peculiar way of holding the violin, it was easy for him to
reach the upper notes. He manipulated the strings at the upper end of
the finger–board as easily as other violinists could in the first
position. His bow was made after the old Italian style, of a somewhat
later shape than that of Tartini’s. When strained to the proper tension,
the stick was nearly straight. Vuillaume, when he saw this bow, laughed
and inquired who could play with such a thing. When Paganini brought it
to him to be repaired (he had broken the upper end), Vuillaume offered
to make him another, but he was much displeased with the idea, and most
decidedly declined the gift, saying he could not think of using any
other bow. Paganini especially excelled in giving life to the simplest
melodies, in giving to his tone the quality of the human voice; in
contrasts of light and shade, and expression, now plaintive, now
brilliant and gay, now fantastic. He was unequaled in producing
pizzicatos with the left hand, arpeggio passages, the tremolo, and the
gettato. He was the first to establish the rules of artificial harmonic
playing, and his numerous passages in single and double harmonics attest
the wonderful skill with which he applied them.
In his time it was demanded of artists that they should not only play
the compositions of the masters with elegance and nobility of style, but
also should be equal to any emergency and ready to improvise
embellishments and harmonious variations. Before Rossini no composer
wrote out the cadenzas, rather leaving them to the talent of the artist.
The report, circulated in Vienna, that he was a mere charlatan, preceded
Paganini’s first appearance in that city. So unfavorable an impression
had been formed of him that his first concert was but poorly attended.
But at the end of the first part, the impression he made upon his few
listeners was so great that several of the musicians in the audience ran
out into the coffee–houses and hotels, exclaiming enthusiastically that
he was a perfect marvel, and that all must come to hear him. The result
was that at the performance of the second part the house was nearly
full. Afterwards, partly from wonder, and partly from jealousy, all
sorts of stories were told about him. It was said that when his mother
died, he made her breathe her last breath into his violin; that he was a
culprit who had spent years in imprisonment with only his violin for a
companion; that he had gradually worn out all the strings but the G,
hence his wonderful skill in playing anything on that one string. It
seemed of little avail that he procured and published official
testimonials from his native town to the effect that he had never been
in prison. Nor did he put an end to the story of his mother’s death, by
publishing a letter from her, showing that she was still living.
At a soirée given by Troupenas, the music publisher, in Paris, in 1830,
Paganini gave one of the most wonderful exhibitions of his skill.
Rossini, Tamburini, Lablache, Rubini, De Beriot, and Malibran were of
the party. Malibran, after singing one of her spirited arias, challenged
Paganini, who said “Madam, how could I dare, with all the advantages you
possess in beauty and your incomparable voice, take up your glove?” His
declining was of no avail; the whole company, aware that such an
opportunity might never occur again, urged him most strongly, and
finally persuaded him to send for his violin. After an introduction, in
which gleamed now and then the motive of Malibran’s song, he gave the
whole melody with additional _fiorituras_, so that the audience, amazed
and overwhelmed, could not help confessing that he was the master. I
heard this from several of the persons who were present, and Malibran
herself was the most emphatic of all in proclaiming him the victor.
Paganini’s last Parisian concert occurred in the year 1832, at the Grand
Opéra. He played three pieces. Habeneck, professor of music at the
Conservatoire, on this occasion wielded the bâton. He had been
instrumental in introducing the symphonies of Beethoven for the first
time, in opposition to the opinions of the other professors of the
Conservatoire. The orchestra was composed of the professors, and such
pupils as had taken the first prize; it was justly regarded as the
finest orchestra in Europe. Habeneck wished to introduce Beethoven, but
had hitherto failed in exciting an appreciation for his mighty works.
Finally he hit upon a strategem. It was his birthday, and he invited the
members of the orchestra to a collation to be given in the concert–hall
of the Conservatoire, and he begged them to bring their instruments.
When his health was proposed, he suggested in response that, if they
really wished to give him great joy, they would consent to play the
“Allegro in C minor” from the first symphony of Beethoven. He explained
to them beforehand how he would have them handle the principal motive.
Of course all agreed. He knew his success from the manner in which they
struck the first chords. Exclamations of admiration followed the close
of the Allegro, and the concluding movement of the symphony was played
with enthusiasm to the end. Now they requested that the symphony should
be played at the next concert, and after twenty rehearsals it was given
with immense success. Such was the man who conducted on this occasion.
He was a leader of great ability, and the players, the majority of them
graduates of the Conservatoire, were entirely under his command.
Paganini played, as far as I can remember, his “Concerto in B minor,”
with the “Rondo Campanella,” also two variations of Haydn’s famous
“Austrian National Hymn,” and concluded with his “Moto Perpetuo.” The
public were accustomed to applaud (I have the whole scene before me as
if it were to–day) when he appeared at the side. When his shadow was
seen approaching, the audience applauded as usual, but to their
astonishment Paganini did not appear, but instead a man in black, with a
music–stand, which he placed on the stage near the conductor. Again a
shadow was seen on the wall, and again the applause sounded. A man
appeared clad in livery; he bore two candles, which he placed on the
stand and lighted. He disappeared, amid the laughter of the audience.
Then came the first fellow in black, this time with a manuscript in his
hand. The house behaved as before, evidently confusing the black fellow.
Finally came another shadow, and this time it was Paganini, but the
applause was now withheld, and he was not recognized until he came
forward to the foot–lights. There he made a forced salutation,
accompanied with a contraction of the facial muscles, seeming much
puzzled at his silent reception. He had been in another room, and knew
nothing of the ludicrous scene which had preceded his appearance.
Immediately Habeneck raised his bâton, as if to give his order to the
orchestra, but Paganini shook his head. He took his bow in his left hand
together with his violin, and thrust his right into the recesses of the
pockets of his swallow–tailed coat, and brought out a pair of dark–green
gloves, which he transferred to his left hand. He shook his head again,
and, after a deeper plunge, produced a large white handkerchief, which
he also placed in his left hand, accompanying the action with an audible
expression of dissatisfaction. A still deeper thrust revealed a brown
box, which he regarded with a nod and a smile, and added to the other
things in his left hand. He now went through the same deliberate motions
in passing the handkerchief and gloves back to his pocket. He then
opened the box and took out a pair of spectacles, meditated a moment,
apparently considering the next move, and finally, taking the bow in his
right hand, and bending a little, put the spectacles on and looked about
in a complacent manner. But how changed he was! The glasses were dark
blue, giving a ghastly appearance to his emaciated face; they looked
like two large holes in his countenance. Raising his foot and bringing
it down promptly, he gave the signal to begin. It had been announced as
his last concert in Paris for the season, and a true foreboding seemed
to thrill through his listeners that they would not again see that lank,
angular figure, with its haggard face, or hear again the wondrous
witchery of his violin.
NOTE.—(Page 363). The oblique position of the bar has not been generally
adopted. The bar is ordinarily placed with its outer side on a line
parallel to the centre line or glue–joint of the top, and at a distance
from it about equal to one half the width of the bridge, measured from
the outer extremities of the feet. A slight spring is given to the ends
of the bar, so that when glued to the top it produces an upward pressure
at the centre, under the foot of the bridge. This pressure should equal
the downward thrust of the bridge, the force of which will depend upon
the angle of the strings over its top. Practice soon discovers a certain
modicum of spring which agrees fairly with a certain height of bridge.
An entirely successful result is not always insured, but a positive
failure is avoided. But in the case of the oblique bar, no such common
factor can be found to fit all cases even averagely well. Each
instrument presents its own particular problem. The spring at each end
must be accurately determined by mechanical means, which will take into
account both the resistance of the top, due to its comparative strength
of fibre, and the resistance due to the form of modeling. The same
degree of obliquity, and position relative to the foot of the bridge
which it supports, will not answer equally well in all cases. But when
the required conditions are fulfilled, the oblique bar does, beyond
doubt, very greatly increase the depth and volume of tone, particularly
of the lower strings. Mr. Bull spent many years in endeavoring to
formulate the rules which govern this most perplexing part of the
organism of the violin. His observations and experiments demonstrated to
him the correctness of the oblique position; and though, as was his
wont, he frankly owned to more failures than one, his instances of
success, illustrated by his Da Salo and many other instruments, bore
most convincing witness to the truth of his theory.